As Sadie opened the front door she half regretted her rash decision to invite her new friends home before she’d had a chance to clean up. Luckily, despite the usual morning rush to get Betty off to school, the place was fairly tidy.
‘I’ve been in here a few times over the years,’ Maria said as she peeked into the formal dining room. ‘Oh Sadie, it’s lovely. You’ve made it a home already, you clever thing! The floorboards are perfect. Baltic, aren’t they? And the leadlights are gorgeous. Look at the original fireplace! The tiles are to die for!’
‘I didn’t have to do too much; there was a lot already here. I’m still unpacking our things. We have a lot in storage so please forgive any mess.’
Gracie was examining a photograph of Pearl that was perched on a side table. ‘She really was beautiful. What a sad ending for the poor woman. The gods may have gifted her with beauty but they demanded a price for Aphrodite’s blessing. That beauty must have awoken some primordial fury in somebody’s heart. There are some advantages to being plain, fat and unloved.’
‘Quit feeling sorry for yourself, Gracie,’ Maria huffed, examining a large porcelain statue of a young girl holding a bowl of fruit. ‘Isn’t this lovely. Did it come with the house as well? Wow! How fantastic to inherit the place with virtually all the original furnishings! I must have seen fruit girl before, but I can’t recall her.’
Sadie led them into the kitchen. She noticed with relief that there were only a few unwashed dishes in the sink. Maria began exclaiming over the icebox and, turning to look, Sadie noticed that the cellar door was open. She paused; surely it had been shut when she went out? She always preferred to keep it closed, as if keeping it locked would contain whatever dark energy might linger.
‘It happened down there, didn’t it?’ Gracie said as she moved towards the open door.
Don’t go down there! For a moment Sadie thought she had spoken the words out loud.
‘Sadie, are you alright?’ Maria stared at her. ‘You look as if you’re going to pass out.’
A wave of giddiness went through Sadie and she dropped into a chair and put her head in her hands. ‘I feel a bit faint,’ she admitted. ‘Just seeing the cellar door open upset me for some reason. I thought I’d left it shut.’
‘Perhaps you have a ghost?’ Gracie said, eyes huge with excitement. ‘It could be Pearl herself, seeking vengeance for her murder. There might be something hidden in the cellar we need to find! A dead body bricked into the wall? A document revealing the killer’s identity!’
‘Rest a moment, Sadie,’ Maria urged. ‘Gracie, will you stop acting like an overexcited bloodhound?’
‘It’s alright.’ Sadie stood up and forced herself to smile. ‘I must have been mistaken.’ Except she knew she hadn’t been mistaken. The door had been locked. Taking a torch from the pantry shelf, she walked towards the stairs. So the door was open. Get a grip. Maybe Betty had been down there? Except that Betty avoided the cellar, and anyway, she’d been at school all morning. Perhaps the door was faulty?
Sadie couldn’t help picturing an assailant hiding in the darkness of the cellar, his nerves as frayed as hers and blade in hand as he waited for her to descend. And then the weapon, thrusting again and again into her vulnerable flesh.
Maria and Gracie were both looking at her with odd expressions. ‘Sadie? Are you sure you’re alright?’ asked Maria.
Without replying, Sadie pushed the door open further and shone the torch down the wooden steps. For a moment she thought she saw marks on the walls, like bloodstains, but no – it was just her imagination and shadows.
The three women descended the winding steps into the small brick room which smelled sharply of damp and old mouse droppings. A pile of ancient newspapers and Post magazines were heaped near a dilapidated wooden cupboard and a few rusty cans of dried-up paint.
Maria sniffed the air with distaste. ‘You should get this room looked at, Sadie. You might have damp that could spread. It’d make a wonderful storage area, but it’s just dead space right now.’ Sadie grimaced at that. ‘You’re not keen because of what happened to your grandmother?’ Maria circled the room, taking it in. ‘You’d be better off clearing out this space if you’re going to live in Poet’s Cottage. It’s like a horror movie set down here. Get it painted. A coat of white paint cures all! You could make it lovely with some shelving – line them with vintage wallpaper and use it to store all your bibs and bobs. I’m getting excited thinking about it! I could help you, love. I enjoy that sort of thing.’
‘My psychic should come and read here,’ Gracie said.
‘Your what, Gracie?’ Maria shook her head in amusement. ‘Don’t tell me you have your own personal psychic?’
‘Of course I do,’ Gracie said. ‘As if I’d buy a house without consulting her!’
‘As if . . .’ Maria winked at Sadie. ‘I’ve always consulted pest and building inspectors myself. Perhaps that’s what I’m doing wrong.’
‘Perhaps,’ Gracie murmured, looking about her. ‘I could introduce you to her, if you like. Her name is Kittani. She’s often booked out, but I could try if you’re serious. It’s so creepy here, isn’t it? I wonder what Pearl was doing down here on that day? What did she use this room for? All these questions locked away in the vault of time! Kittani might be able to answer them for us. Hello! What’s this?’
‘This’ was a thick leather collar, cobwebbed, green-tinged and worn with age, attached to the wall by a fraying leather strap. Maria bent down to examine it. ‘Check out the size of it! Looks like it could restrain a tiger.’
Sadie felt chilled at the sight of the collar. ‘Or a Tasmanian devil?’ she said.
‘A devil?’ Maria turned to look at her. ‘No way! Like in Webweaver? Pearl couldn’t have kept a devil in her cellar. They’re not like dogs; they’re too wild. Poor old devils. So sad their numbers have dwindled so much.’
The three women regarded the collar in silence. Sadie remembered the reference in Webweaver to Pearl’s Tasmanian devil – she had always dismissed it as pure fiction. Like the Sandman or Mrs Do The Same To You, the devil had seemed like something straight out of a storybook, a bogey to frighten children into behaving themselves.
I didn’t believe Pearl when she first told me about the devil she was rearing in the cellar, Birdie had written. I mistook it for another of her stories. Considering that she refused to even let me see it, I believed it to be part of her ‘condition’ – by now there was no longer any doubt in my mind that Pearl suffered from some mental illness. I was afraid of her at times. Her mood could change so quickly. Maxwell was fearful too, and her own poor little daughters also suffered under her. I saw them both in tears over Pearl threatening to feed them to her devil if they were noisy when she was writing. I’ll always feel guilty that I dismissed the creature as just another symptom of her mind’s steady deterioration.
Sadie could visualise Pearl’s devil waiting in the darkness for the cellar door to open. The ray of light and the woman’s feet approaching. The woman who imprisoned and fed it. Where was the animal now? Buried under their feet? Removed by an unknown third person? Or was it after all just a fabrication to scare the children?
Sadie caught the expressions on her friends’ faces and realised they both felt as spooked as she did by the strange atmosphere in the cellar. ‘I think I could do with a cup of tea. It’s freezing down here,’ she said. ‘And Gracie, perhaps I’ll think about contacting your Kittani.’
Bradley’s Cave
Pencubitt, November 1935
‘That woman is here to see you.’ There was no need to ask who Mother meant: the tone of voice could only signify one person. Mother would not forgive a casual caller’s lack of etiquette. Home visits were by appointment only, when Mother had time to set her good tablecloth with a selection of home-baked scones and cakes and the best silver teapot. Pearl unexpectedly dropping in was yet more evidence of her sinful ways.
‘Here?’ I stared at her. Pearl Tatlow, here in Seagull Cottage with
Mother’s biblical pictures, fussy china ornaments and lace doilies? We’d been making jam and I was attired suitably. There were stains on my apron and my hair was a mess. Flustered, I went to pull off the apron only to be restrained by Mother.
‘Leave it,’ she ordered. ‘There’s no dishonour in a good woman’s uniform. Let the harlot see how a woman of the Lord dresses.’
‘Please, Mother! She’ll hear,’ I hissed, wishing I could disappear down a mousehole.
‘Let her ears be opened to the voice of the Lord. The serpent herself is at the door seeking entrance. Don’t be tempted, my foolish daughter.’ She waved a jammy spoon at me.
‘Mother! Please lower your voice and calm down!’ I had to push her away from me to get free.
Mother’s fanatical sermonising worried and saddened me. She had taken to chastising me for not attending daily mass. Father Kelly always seemed to be at our house, stoking Mother’s outrage with parish gossip. At first I thought he would be good company for Mother and alleviate some of the loneliness she’d felt since Father’s death, but there was something revolting about the portly little man with his pale blue eyes and fleshy lips. I knew Pearl obtained great amusement from provoking him – and from trying to shock him with her nudity. Father Kelly claimed that his frequent visits to Poet’s Cottage were intended to save Pearl’s soul. I did wonder privately if his motives were less holy. Perhaps the pale and prissy priest found Pearl as seductive as some of his parishioners did.
When I finally emerged, my hair hastily brushed back, Pearl was leaning against the front door, smoking a cigarette. One of her daughters sat on the step, facing away from the door. Was it Marguerite or Thomasina? From the back it was difficult to tell them apart. The child wore thick-ribbed green stockings below a red coat and beret. She turned to reveal a sullen, tear-soaked face. My heart sank; it was Thomasina.
‘Your mother doesn’t like me, I think.’ Pearl greeted me with a smile. She ground the cigarette into the step with her heel. ‘Can we come in? A serpent is freezing out here. This bloody weather is ridiculous!’ She looked as if she had been crying as well. A wild, nervous energy surrounded her.
I glanced behind me. Mother would be furious if I left in the middle of jam-making but the thought of entertaining Pearl with her hovering, simmering with self-righteous biblical resentment, made me reckless. Besides, I’d die of shame if Pearl saw our shabby cottage.
‘Not here,’ I said, undoing my apron. ‘Mother’s not feeling well. We can walk on the beach and talk.’ The sky was grey. It was about to rain but I didn’t care and I knew Pearl loved to walk in all weathers.
‘Birdie!’ Mother’s voice was sharp as a magpie’s beak. I would pay for this later. ‘Where are you going with that woman? Birdie! I’m talking to you. Come back, Birdie. It’s going to rain, you wicked girl. You’ll catch cold!’
Curtains rustled in the row of cottages as we walked past.
‘Look at them,’ Pearl muttered. She shook her fist and poked out her tongue at my neighbours. The wind blew her hair and whipped colour into her pale face. Although I thought she was magnificent for daring what I had secretly longed to do for years, I was still disturbed by her extreme behaviour. What was wrong with the woman? ‘Dried-up scarecrows with nothing better to do than watch and condemn others!’ she shouted at the cottages.
She took my hand as we approached the beach. I could feel the bones in her tiny childlike hand; I could have crushed it easily in mine. ‘Why does your mother hate me so much?’ she asked suddenly. ‘What the hell have I ever done to her? She hasn’t spoken ten words to me and she hates me. Why?’
The hurt in her voice took me by surprise. ‘You represent everything she despises and fears,’ I said. ‘She tries to live by the Ten Commandments.’
‘Well, what happened to “Do not bear false witness against thy neighbour”? Will you please try to keep up, Thomasina!’ she snapped at her daughter, who had paused to look at a group of children playing on the road. ‘She does this deliberately!’ she hissed at me. ‘She either dawdles like a snail on crutches or runs so I can’t keep up. She does it because she knows it drives me crazy!’ She closed her eyes and took some deep breaths. A vein pulsed in her temples. ‘Thomasina can always bring on one of my heads. She’s a sly, wicked, vile child!’
I almost felt sorry for Thomasina at Pearl’s harsh words. Yes, the child was surly – but did she deserve this constant, wounding criticism?
From where we stood we could see Poet’s Cottage, and in the other direction the railway station. Now a steam train pulled away in a cloud of smoke and with a loud toot. It was a sound familiar to all in Pencubitt, and it never failed to remind me pleasurably of travel, opportunity, and a different life elsewhere. I always loved to see the train depart with its occupants waving from its windows farewelling their families on the platform. Mother used to enjoy the sight too, before she decided trains were ungodly.
‘I wish I was on that train.’ Pearl let go of my hand and grabbed Thomasina by the arm, dragging her along the sand. ‘I’d do anything to escape this town. Even returning to Hobart would be better than this. I’m so sick of all their petty small-minded gossip behind my back. I could pull out my own eyes. All anybody here cares about is what’s for dinner, sago or potatoes? Oh, my dear, the cost of butter, a shocking sixpence, and bread tuppence a loaf – hold the butter, pass the dripping, and guess who’s tupping who!’
‘Please watch your language in front of Thomasina!’ I said, disgusted.
‘You’re just a younger version of your mother!’ Pearl retorted. ‘Spider’s right when he says nobody could ever get their hands near your knickers to warm you up. I bet you pray to your loving Jesus to forgive your lustful thoughts towards my husband. Oh, if you knew how many times Spider and I have laughed ourselves sick over your little crush on him.’
The thought that Maxwell and Pearl had been aware all the time of my feelings and found them amusing made me cringe with shame. But I knew that Pearl in one of her moods was capable of saying anything. I could never imagine Maxwell taunting me with the coarse words she had put into his mouth. I seethed inside but I kept my face as neutral as possible whilst my mind tried to work out what had happened to put Pearl in such a black mood.
We had reached the beach. A few drops fell from the heavy grey sky.
‘Rain,’ I said, holding out my hand. I wondered if Pearl had gone insane. I was determined to ignore her taunts.
‘So what if it pours down?’ she sneered as I knew she would. She lit another cigarette without offering me one. ‘We’re not made of sugar. Thomasina! Don’t wander off!’ Her daughter was walking away in the opposite direction, head lowered. ‘She’s filthy with me today,’ Pearl said. ‘I walloped her earlier for saying stupid things to Spider. Foul things. Then I cut her hair. I’ll teach the little bitch to tell tales on me to her father.’
‘What things?’ I asked, not sure I really wanted to know. I clutched my cardigan around myself tightly, wishing I’d worn a coat. It was freezing by the sea, but Pearl didn’t seem to notice, even as the wind whipped her skirt.
‘That she saw me naked with a man in our kitchen cellar, rubbing our bodies together. Oh, don’t give me that shocked, dried-up spinster look!’ she cried. ‘You haven’t even bothered to ask me if it’s true. She’s a sly little lying bitch at the best of times. She’s always trying to make trouble between me and Spider!’
‘Was she lying?’ I asked, watching Thomasina throwing stones at seagulls. I tried not to show it but I was shocked to my core that a child would even think of two people together in such a way – let alone repeat it to an adult.
‘No, she did catch me,’ Pearl admitted. ‘That’s what she got belted for. Sneaking around and spying on me so she could tell tales to Spider!’
‘Who were you with?’ I asked. My chest was heavy with suspicion. I saw again the triumphant expression on her face when she’d returned downstairs at the murder night, leaving Victor upstairs.
&nb
sp; ‘Does it matter?’
I stared into her peculiar tiger’s eyes. She was laughing at me, I realised. Playing with me like a cat with a mouse. ‘Was it Victor?’ I kept my tone even. I refused to let her see how upset I was. She rolled her eyes upwards. I looked away, trying not to cry. ‘I thought we were friends.’ My voice shook with anger. ‘I admired you so much, but I can’t stand by and watch you betray Maxwell. The entire town is talking about you, saying that you carry on with any man who looks twice at you!’
‘Why do you care so much what other people think?’ She grabbed my arm and held it so tightly that I gasped in pain. ‘You think you know everything, Tricky – but you’re like your mother, judging on superficial appearances and feeling yourself so superior.’ She pulled me closer to her. ‘Who am I? Do you really know? I’m a stranger to you! And there you are, Tricky, panting after my husband like a dog on heat, tongue hanging out of your mouth. You think Spider is so perfect and wronged. What would you know? You’ve no idea of what I have to endure. None! To be in my head, to have the thoughts I do! I sometimes long for death to end this torture.’ She struck herself on the head a few times. I felt afraid of her vile temper and wild statements. She seemed totally irrational, capable of anything.
‘Mummy? Can we go now? I’m cold.’ The child had grown tired of tormenting the seagulls and was standing there watching us.
‘No, we can’t,’ Pearl snapped. ‘Stay here while I go to Bradley’s Cave to think. I won’t be long. Aunty Birdie will look after you.’ Pearl looked at me sharply as if challenging me to disagree.
Like everyone who grew up in Pencubitt, as a child I had played in the line of caves along the shore. The largest was named after the Tasmanian bushranger Larry Bradley. He was rumoured to have lived there for months, hiding from the constables. Bradley’s had always been a favourite haunt for children.
‘Bradley’s Cave? What are you going to do there?’ I dared to ask. Thomasina and I exchanged sour expressions, neither of us pleased at the thought of enduring the other’s company.
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