by Mairi Wilson
She reached the old wooden bench at the front of the house and sat down, reluctant to go into the dim, damp kitchen, enjoying the calm of the early morning, the blank canvas of another day, waiting to begin. A few moments of tranquillity and she would go in, get Ross up and breakfasted, ready for another day of routines and rituals. She sighed. Tranquillity was not, it seemed, to be hers today. Too many memories pushing to be replayed.
27
Upper Shire River, 1963
Helen heard the Mission car wheeze up the slope over the brow of the hill in front of the house. It must have been at least an hour since Cameron had left. But still she sat huddled like a foetus on the rumpled bed, the shutters filtering the fading light of the afternoon, which lay like whip lashes across bare skin and ripped clothes, criss-crossing with the streaks tears had carved on her pale cheeks.
Izzie.
Whispering the word to herself like a mantra, Helen forced herself to move, pushed her limbs away and straightened. With tremendous effort she pushed herself off the bed and into a standing position, only to have her legs collapse under her and land her with a jolt back onto the bed. She should be thankful this room was the first off the corridor from the hallway. If he’d gone further and seen Izzie’s room—
Izzie.
The whining of the car was louder now; they’d have started on the downward track. She had to move quickly. Still sitting, she stripped the remnants of the clothes from her, dropped them on the floor and kicked them under the bed. Searching around, her eyes lit on her silk dressing gown, draped casually over the ladder-back chair where she’d dropped it this morning. Was it really only this morning?
She stretched out to reach it, but it was just beyond her grasp. Once again she tried to stand; once again she fell back. Sobbing now, she dropped down to the floor, pushed herself forward onto all fours and crawled over to the waterfall of silk cascading from the edge of the chair. She hugged it to her gratefully, its cool smoothness soothing the fires of pain still burning in her body. Shrugging it on, she moaned, swallowed tears, straightened her shoulders. She gasped as she heard the car doors slam, a child’s laugh joined by an older woman’s and something else. A yelp? A bark? And then the clattering of the screen door.
“Mama! Mama! Come and see who Sister Agnes has brought to meet you. Mama!”
Helen opened her mouth to call out to Izzie, to tell her she’d be right with her, but no words came, just a hoarse, rasping, choking sound as she felt again the pain of Cameron’s hands around her neck squeezing, squeez—
“Mama! Where are you?” The little voice was more strident now, the child not used to being ignored. “Mama!”
“Shh, child. No need to shout.” Helen heard the measured tones of Sister Agnes as the screen door clattered once again, less violently this time. “Go outside, Isobel, and watch Rusty. He’s very keen to dig up your mother’s vegetables.”
“But I want Mama to meet him!”
“She will, child. In a moment. Now go play with Rusty. I need to talk to your mama.”
“But where is she?”
Before Sister Agnes could answer the impatient child, Izzie was distracted by a sharp bark from outside, followed by a yelp.
“Rusty!”
“I think you better go and see what he’s up to. Run along, child.”
The screen door clattered once again and Helen released her breath, unaware that she’d been holding it. Izzie must not see her mother like this. Helen had to pull herself together, put on a smile, behave normally. She heard Sister Agnes moving around the house, a brief squeal of furniture scraping across the floor as it was righted, then soft footsteps in the hallway outside.
“Helen? Helen, where are you? It’s Sister Agnes.”
The footsteps stopped outside the door and there was a faint knock. Helen’s eyes filled with tears. Still she could not speak.
“Helen? Are you in there? I’m coming in.”
The door opened slowly and Helen looked up through her tears to see the shape of the nun fill the doorway, block out the hall, the outside world, then come closer. Helen leant against the solid frame of the older woman as Sister Agnes bent down and put her arms around the shaking woman. Saying nothing, Sister Agnes helped her up and onto the chair, placing Helen’s trailing hands into her lap with a gentle squeeze before going back to the door and closing it softly. She stood and looked around her, quietly taking in the crumpled bedclothes, the upturned lamp on the bedside table, the strip of ripped calico Helen in her haste had missed.
Crouching down beside Helen, Sister Agnes took her hands in hers, held them firm to stop their shaking.
“You’re safe now, Helen. No one will harm you now I’m here.”
Helen looked up into the warm brown eyes. Tears were flowing freely now and she struggled to make out the placid features of the nun’s homely face. She nodded, trusting the calm words of the steady voice. Helen tried again to speak but choked on the words.
“Shh, Helen. Don’t speak. Just sit quietly now. Breathe deeply, slowly. That’s it. Just concentrate on that. Time enough for talking later.”
Helen’s panic began to subside; the nun’s presence, her gentle voice, soothed her. The thudding of her heartbeat quietened, the trembling in her limbs lessened.
“Izzie,” Helen managed to croak. “She mustn’t see me …”
“She won’t. She’s outside playing with one of the Mission puppies we brought over to show you. Rusty will keep her occupied. Don’t worry about Izzie for now. Let’s see about you.”
Helen felt the firm, cool touch of a work-hardened palm on her forehead, then under her chin as Sister Agnes turned her face to the thin light from the shuttered window.
“Hmm. Some bruising to that cheek I expect. But nothing—Oh, Helen, child, your neck!” Already the lividity of bruising was clear, fingerprints imprinted on white skin like the red petals of a winter rose dropped on snow. Without a word, Helen let the silk fall from one shoulder to reveal the angry scratches across her breast, blood all but dried, yet still red and raised.
Without a word, Sister Agnes pulled the robe back up again, sat back on her heels and looked down at her hands for a moment as if in silent prayer. Much good that will do, Helen thought, surprising herself by the sting of bitterness she felt. Prayers were no protection against that man. That evil.
She flicked her eyes open and found Sister Agnes looking at her, deep into her soul. Helen blushed with shame, both at her blasphemous thoughts and the certainty that the nun knew exactly what had happened here, what Cameron had done to her, forced her to do. What she’d let him do. She felt a wave of anger, clung to it, needed it to make herself strong again.
“You poor child,” Sister Agnes murmured. “I’ll bring water, we’ll clean you up, and tea.”
“Tea?” Helen spluttered as anger, unfocused rage, erupted from deep within her. Tea? Had this woman no idea? Helen felt a calming hand on her arm. “Tea?” she screamed again. “Get your hand off me. What damned good will tea do, you stup—”
“Quiet, Helen.” The voice was firm. “Izzie will hear you.” The nun’s admonition stopped the words in Helen’s throat; her steady hands stilled the arms that were flailing, lashing out, wanting to fight back, but the person they wanted to strike was long gone. The nun held her with surprising strength until reason returned to Helen’s distraught mind.
Sister Agnes was right, Helen realised a short while later, as she sipped tea and rested back against fresh pillows. She’d sat in the chair dazed and distant as Sister Agnes had gently washed her, found fresh clothes and bed linens, stripped and remade the bed. Then the sister had brought her the tea, and told her to rest and stay calm. Sister Agnes would see to Izzie’s supper. Izzie understood Mama was ill and had promised to keep Rusty quiet. When Helen felt calmer, the Sister had said, she would bring Izzie, and Rusty, to see her before putting the child to bed.
Helen had gratefully acquiesced to the nun’s plans, thankful to abdicate responsibility
for her gregarious daughter for a few precious hours while she regained her strength, her composure. Even now she was playing happily with the Mission puppy, working up, Helen knew, to finding a way to convince her mother and the nun that Rusty should be allowed to stay with her, to become her friend and companion.
It was lonely for her daughter. Brief visits to the Mission afforded scant opportunity to make friends, although Izzie always managed to come home with tales of playing with this child or that, promises to meet again next time Izzie visited. Then disappointments when she found her new friends had moved on and forged other, deeper connections between themselves that Izzie was no part of when finally she did return or, worse still, found that her friends had left the Mission. Helen had worried that her daughter would lose the ability to connect with others, yet worried too that her pixie-like pale face, her blonde curls and sky-blue eyes would set her apart, make her the focus of too much attention, the subject of tales told out of school. That the story given in passing of being a missionary’s daughter would not stand the test of deeper friendships.
But now, little of this mattered. Cameron had been here. He would come again, to bring Ross, he had said, “one of these days”. He’d do more than that, Helen knew. He’d joked about conjugal rights, a wife’s marital duty, a husband’s entitlement. Today had shown her what he was capable of, the extent of his depravity and his pleasure in the pain of another, of the power he could wield over another life. If he knew Izzie lived, Helen could only begin to imagine how he might use that to torment her, to keep his wife where he wanted her. Worse was the thought of what he might do to protect David’s position as only heir to the Buchanan fortune. To protect his own, as that heir’s natural father.
Izzie was in danger. That much was clear. How her mother could protect her, less so. Could they run? But what would happen to Ross then? Her stomach lurched as she thought of her timid, gentle son, of the last time she’d seen him, lying on the bedroom floor, blood spreading out behind his dark head like a witch doctor’s headdress, a darkly shining halo. Cameron had told her he was dead. Dead. She would never have left her son if she’d thought there was still breath in that tiny body. And now, she was torn. She could have Ross back, but it meant exposing Izzie to risk of discovery. Helen’s head spun as she tried to work out a way forward. A way to let her have both her children with her, to keep them safe and out of Cameron’s reach.
Helen didn’t hear the door open, or the tiptoeing feet cross the polished floor, but felt first the lurch of the mattress as Izzie pulled herself up onto the bed, the splash of cold tea on the back of her hand as the cup tipped in response.
“Izzie, you startled me, sweetheart.” Helen was amazed to hear the calm normality of her voice, and smiled at her daughter as much in relief as with the overwhelming love she’d always felt for this, her favourite child, from the moment she’d first held the wriggling bundle in her arms.
“Are you better now, Mama?” The little face was serious. “Sister Agnes said you were ill. I was ill once, wasn’t I? But then I got better. You will too.” The head nodded wisely.
“Nearly better, darling. Very nearly.”
“I played outside so you could sleep. Sister Agnes said I could keep Rusty for tonight. He’s a dog. I know you’ll like him, too.”
Helen smiled. “I’m sure I will.”
“Mama, will you be better in the morning?”
“Oh yes. Why do you ask?”
“Only Sister Agnes said she’ll go back to the Mission tomorrow.”
“Yes, I expect she will. What’s wrong with that?”
“Well, she might take … You haven’t met Rusty yet and if she takes him you might not be able to.” There was a dramatic sigh out of all proportion to the size of the slight-framed child who’d snuggled in under her mother’s arm and was leaning against her chest, head rolling restlessly from one side to the other as she let her sentence trail away. “Sister said I wasn’t to ask you yet. Not till you’re better.”
“Ask me what, little one?”
“If I can—” The little body twisted round to face her and laughter broke around them. “No! Naughty Mama! You’re trying to trick me into asking you! I promised Sister I wouldn’t. But please get better fast. Before she goes tomorrow.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Helen smiled and pulled the child to her in a hug, kissed the top of her head, thanked God she was still safe. “Where is Sister Agnes? I need to talk to her.”
“She’s making supper,” Izzie said, and wrinkled her nose. “It doesn’t smell very good, though, Mama. Not like yours. I don’t think we’ll like it.”
“Nonsense, I’m sure we will.” With every word her daughter spoke, Helen felt the steel grip the memory of the afternoon had on her lessen. Cameron would not make her a victim; he would not harm her daughter. Helen would fight back with every breath, with every drop of strength she had. She would find a way to match his cunning, outdo him. Her daughter deserved at least that.
And her son Ross, her boy, her true firstborn, even more so.
Izzie had been right about supper. Helen could only surmise that someone else was responsible for kitchen matters at the Mission. But she’d forced herself to eat a little of the plate the good woman had prepared and brought to her on a tray so Helen could eat still propped up against the pillows on her bed. Helen hoped Izzie had managed to do the same, knew hunger had a way of persuading her daughter to eat most things; and if not, perhaps Rusty would have helped her out.
When Sister Agnes returned to take the tray, Izzie was with her.
“Are you better yet?” she asked.
“Shush,” Sister Agnes had intervened before Helen could answer. “Not now, Isobel. It can wait till morning.”
Izzie’s face had shown her struggle, but obedience won the day.
“Goodnight, Mama.” She’d clambered up onto the bed again to kiss Helen and hug her. “Get better soon.”
“Goodnight, darling.” Helen squeezed her daughter tight.
“Rusty’s going to sleep outside my door, Sister Agnes said.”
“Better that than in her bed.” The Sister smiled. “Come on, let’s get you off then.”
“Sister, I—”
“Later, Helen. I’ll get this one to bed and then we’ll talk.”
“Is she sleeping?”
The nun smiled. “Barely finished her prayers before her eyes closed and I had to lift her into bed. Rusty, too. Sound asleep, the pair of them. She’s worn them both out. Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought her the puppy, but I’d thought it might be some small protection for you both, living alone here …”
Sister Agnes looked down as her voice trailed off. Helen knew they were both thinking the same thing. Too late for protection.
“She’ll want to keep the dog anyway, I imagine,” Helen said. “But I’m not sure we can. I’m not even sure we can stay here. We’re not safe here any longer. Izzie isn’t safe. He was here. This afternoon. He did this. He’ll be back.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know how he found me. But he thinks it’s just me. If there’s anything to be thankful for in all of this, it’s that Izzie was with you. He doesn’t know she’s still alive.”
“Are you sure?”
Helen hesitated. How could she be sure? She’d spent the morning tidying after Sister Agnes had taken Izzie, so there had been no toys or traces of her in the sitting room. She’d hidden the shirt she’d been mending out on the verandah, picked up the tiny knitted doll’s shoe that had lain on the floor and stuffed it into her pock—
“My clothes. Where are they?”
“My dear, they’re not fit for—”
“Where, Sister? I need to check the pockets.” Helen struggled to throw back the sheet, pushed herself to her feet, clutching at the Sister in her effort to stand.
“Now, now, Helen. I’ll fetch them. You stay in bed.”
“No. Let me see them. It’s important.” Helen lurched to the door, leant again
st the frame until she found her balance, then pushed herself off towards the kitchen, feet thudding heavily on the bare wooden floor.
“Shh, Helen. You’ll wake—”
“In here?”
“No, I’ve put them out the back. I was going to burn them later, when Izzie was asleep. Sit, Helen. I’ll fetch them.” Sister Agnes turned to push the kitchen door shut behind them, but not before the clack of claws on wood announced the arrival of Rusty. The puppy sat at Helen’s feet, looked up at her expectantly.
“Oh, that dog. Keep him here. We’ll lose him in the darkness if he gets out.” Sister Agnes disappeared into the night.
Helen and the puppy looked at each other. Then the dog whimpered, ears rising then falling again, flat against its head. The tail wagged once then stopped. Another whimper and it ducked its head forward and down, nudging Helen’s leg, before starting back and up onto all fours. Rusty danced back a step or two, then forward again.
“He wants to play.”
Helen hadn’t heard the door open, looked up to see a sleepy Izzie rubbing one eye and yawning, her doll, minus one shoe, tucked trailing from her free hand.
“Izzie. It’s late. You should be sleeping.”
“I heard you talking to Sister Agnes. Then Rusty wasn’t there so I came to find him.”
“Take him then, Izzie, and go back to bed.”
“But he wants to play—”
“Izzie. Just do as you’re told.”
The young girl’s eyes widened at the sharpness in Helen’s voice.
“Oh darling, I’m sorry. I— Come here.” Helen reached her arms out to her daughter, lifted her onto her lap and pulled her close, inhaled the soapy smell of her, the mint from recently brushed teeth still lingering on the ragged breath.
