Closed for Winter

by Georgia Blain

  I cannot explain what those words meant to me.

  Outside it is cold and clear. There is a full moon, heavy and yellow, and it hangs low in the sky. So low that it is possible to see each pebble bordering the beds I marked out today, smooth and distinct.

  Down the street, the face of John Mills’s wife glitters back at the stars.

  And somewhere, miles away, Martin sleeps.

  33

  Doing a bit of gardening? The next-door neighbour looks at me from across the fence. Like me, she is on the top of the back steps, but unlike the steps I stand on, hers are not cracked cement and they are not covered in newspapers.

  I smile at her and turn quickly in the hope this will stop her from talking.

  But it doesn’t.

  How is she? She nods her head in the direction of the house, and I tell her that Dorothy is fine. On the mend.

  If there’s anything I can do, she offers, and I thank her, one foot already inside the door.

  She shrugs her shoulders and goes back to what she was doing, on her hands and knees, scrubbing the grouting between the already pristine tiles.

  She’s mad, Dorothy once said to me. I have never seen a woman clean like she cleans.

  I resisted the temptation to tell her that she probably uses the same word to describe her. Mad. Although I doubt she would call my mother a fanatic cleaner.

  This morning I do not open Dorothy’s curtains. I put the papers by the side of her bed, the pile already mounting to an unmanageable height, and leave her in the darkness she prefers. She does not speak to me and I do not speak to her. Today I do not have the heart to try.

  This silence is not new. I have lived it before and I know she can last beyond the point where most people would turn back.

  She is not talking, Frances would say, loudly and clearly, and right in front of her.

  Dorothy would not flinch.

  Often the silence was directed at Frances alone, but sometimes I, too, would find myself caught within it, smothered by it. It would descend upon us and I would retreat, unable to fight it, while Frances kept on talking.

  Fuck it, Frances would say, relishing the word, and she would reach for one of Dorothy’s cigarettes and light it, slowly, purposefully, right in front of her. Want one? She would push the pack towards me and I would shake my head, giggling nervously at how far Frances was prepared to go.

  Dorothy would not even look at us.

  Well, I’m off, and Frances would slam the back door behind her. Don’t know when I’ll be back, and she would be gone, leaving the two of us alone. Silent in this house.

  But not all the silences were directed at us. Some were more general. They were not a punishment. They were a complete retreat.

  When Franco died, Dorothy did not speak for a fortnight, not to us, not to anyone.

  I remember going to the parklands for Frances’s birthday, five days after we had been told the news. We sat by the banks of the river that twists green and murky through this city, where the paddleboats are tied up ready to be hired. I stayed on the grass with Dorothy, watching Frances and her friends paddle up and down, screaming at each other, trying to drive their boats into each other, Frances eventually jumping over the side of hers and into the water below. When the man came and asked Dorothy to keep an eye on them, when he suggested they were making a nuisance of themselves and that someone could get hurt, she did not respond. She just glanced up at him, squinting in the bright sunlight, and smiled vaguely.

  Eventually, he gave up, looking at me with a concern that filled me with shame. I could not explain that it was not him, it did not have anything to do with what he had said, it was just the way things were. It was just the way she was.

  But that silence was different. It was not like this one.

  This one has a purpose. I know what she wants from me and I do not know how long I can hold out. I do not know if I have the strength. Because there is not just her, and there is not just Martin and me; now there is him, too. John Mills. He will be here soon and I do not want to see him. I do not want to see him, knowing that he has seen. My photograph. Left on the kitchen table.

  I do not even tell her I am going for a walk. I close the gate behind me and I head towards the beach, past the rows of dilapidated bungalows, eaten away by the salt air that slowly peels back paint, leaving walls and verandah posts naked and raw. I can smell the freshness of the sea before I even come over the rise at the end of the street and see it stretching for miles, flat and still under the crispness of this blue sky.

  This is the best time of year.

  The last breath of winter in the air and the promise of summer ahead.

  Jim Hunt is out the front of the kiosk, sweeping the cement that surrounds the shop. The roller door is pulled up and the signs are out. Ice-creams, hot pies, fish, chips. He looks up at me and nods as I pass.

  I look away.

  Jim Cunt, the older boys used to call him.

  A bloody perve, Frances used to say.

  The plastic ribbons would swing in the afternoon sea breeze, multi-coloured, flicking back and forth, flick flack flick, and I would hold my bottle of Woodies up high over the counter and push the money across to him, pulling my hand back so that I did not have to touch him, not those fingers, long and yellow with dirt under the nails.

  He would give me extra change. For your pretty green eyes.

  I would leave the money behind. Always.

  Jim Cunt.

  An ice-cream for a quick grope. You know what I mean?

  Two little girls run past. Long blonde hair in ponytails that swing like a streak of light in the brilliance of the morning. A flash of legs and a swish of tartan skirts as they head towards the path down to the beach.

  Wait, the shorter one calls out, but her friend does not stop and she runs, stumbling across the cracked bitumen to catch up.

  You can’t get me, and she can’t. She falls, her skirt flipping up, a shocked howl as she slams down hard on the pavement outside the kiosk.

  It is then that I see him watching. Jim Hunt, watching as her friend runs back and bends down, hand outstretched to where the other lies. He does not move, still as the brick pillar behind him.

  The friend also sees him, sees his eyes on the flipped-up skirt and the small blue cotton underpants underneath, and she brushes the skirt down quickly before pulling her up.

  Come on, and she yanks at her hand, looking nervously back at him. Quick, and she pulls her away from the direction in which they had been heading, putting distance between them and the dirty old man.

  I, too, no longer want to go to the beach.

  I, too, turn my back on him and head towards the road, no longer wanting to walk, suddenly wanting to go home.

  When I get back to Dorothy’s house, John Mills is, as I had expected, already there.

  I can hear him from in the kitchen. He is in her room and he is reading to her. Just the headlines and the first few paragraphs, punctuated by her voice telling him to stop, Yes, that one, and the slice of the scissors as he clips the article for her.

  I do not want to know.

  No planting today? he asks when he comes out and finds me reading on the back steps.

  I shake my head, but I do not look at him. I do not want to give him an opportunity to speak.

  He lowers himself carefully onto the step above mine and stretches his legs out in front of him.

  But no going back to work? he asks.

  I tell him I need a bit of time. To think about things, I say.

  He nods and we are silent.

  She seems a little better. He tries to open up the conversation again. She is not in so much pain.

  Still staring out at the garden we have begun to make, I tell him she is not speaking to me. Hasn’t for a couple of days. In my fingers, I have a leaf of the mint I bought yesterday and I am rolling it into a tiny ball. I flick it out across the remaining pebbles and watch to see where it lands.

  He does not know what to
say.

  She’s not well. He knows as well as I do that that is not the reason but he says it anyway.

  Can I get you a cup of tea? and he leans forward to touch me, lightly, on the shoulder.

  I wish he wouldn’t.

  I shake my head and tell him I am fine.

  He seems about to say something else and then decides against it.

  I know I should speak. I know I should say something of the photograph he must have seen but I can’t.

  Together we stare out across the yard and I think of those little girls.

  The two of them, running across the car park and down towards the beach.

  34

  Dorothy drives badly. She drives without looking where she is going. She drives without thinking about whether she should accelerate or brake but lets her feet just move on the pedals of their own accord. She turns corners without indicating. She does not say a word.

  I sit in the back, holding the door handle, fighting an irresistible urge to let my body fling from side to side with the movement of the car, because I know Dorothy would turn around and slap me. I do not really know why I want to do this, it just feels like the right response to this high-speed drama. Racing through the night-time streets to the police station with the windows open and the wind rushing, rushing through the car.

  It is not far, only a few blocks, but when we pull up at the front, I feel ill. Carsick with a steady nausea that thickens at the bottom of my stomach and threatens to slowly rise, but I push it back down, deep down, knowing that this is not the time or the place to cry out, I want to be sick.

  It is Dorothy who leads the way, the heels of her sandals click-clacking on the four tiled steps that lead up to the front door and into a small and dingy corridor that is plastered with notices, Wanted and Missing. I scan them all in the one brief instant before we turn into the reception area, and I cannot help but imagine Frances’s face on all of them. Wanted and Missing. Both.

  There is a man at the reception desk. He has come to pick up his wallet, but he does not have his identification number with him, and the policewoman is irritated.

  I cannot give it back to you, she says, her voice clipped and sharp, without the number.

  Jesus, and the man slams his fist down. I have to go all the way home, get it and then come all the way back again?

  Yes, and the policewoman does not flinch, but turns slowly, purposefully, to where Dorothy waits, fidgeting with her car keys at the other end of the counter.

  Can I help you? she asks, her voice polite but crisp.

  I am holding my breath, waiting for my mother to speak. I do not know what she is going to say, and suddenly the way in which she intends to define the situation is important. The policewoman also leans forward, waiting to hear.

  Is there something wrong? she asks, because Dorothy is silent. There is a slight sheen of sweat across her forehead because it is hot in here, hot and stuffy, the only relief coming from a single electric fan that rickets around overhead. Slowly.

  It is my daughter, Dorothy says, and both the policewoman and I lean closer. She hasn’t come home.

  You want to report her missing?

  Dorothy hesitates: No, and then changes her mind. I mean, yes, and I let myself breathe again. So that is what it is. Missing. I can see the poster already. I want to take my mother’s hand, but Dorothy has both hands up on the counter. Still playing with her keys. Running them round and round the metal ring.

  When did you last see her?

  This morning, and Dorothy brushes her hair back from her face, where it falls, tangled and thick in her eyes.

  And she hasn’t gone to a friend’s?

  I don’t know. I don’t think so.

  Perhaps we have made a mistake, been overanxious, and I glance at Dorothy and see that she, too, is doubting.

  If you’ll come this way, and the policewoman lifts up the counter and leads us into a small room just off the reception area, I’ll call the sergeant.

  We wait, seated side by side.

  Don’t. Dorothy glares at me.

  I am kicking at the leg of the chair without realising what I am doing. Thump, thump, thump. I stop and sit perfectly still, hands in my lap. I have never been in a police station before. Once, about a year ago, when Frances got caught shoplifting, Dorothy came down to pick her up. I had to wait at home until they both returned, stony-faced and silent.

  The sergeant closes the door behind him and sits down heavily in the large chair on the other side of the desk. He introduces himself and starts with the preliminary questions: Frances’s name, age and our address. I listen as Dorothy answers. There is a poster above the desk. Road safety week, a cartoon cat at a crossing, bright-coloured stripes.

  Right, and the sergeant leans back in his chair and crosses his arms behind his head. The preliminaries are over. So when did you last see, and he looks at his notes, Frances?

  This morning. Dorothy lights a cigarette. But Elise, and she jerks her head in my direction, saw her after that.

  The sergeant has blue eyes. Brilliant blue. And thick black hair. He leans closer and smiles. And when did you last see your sister? His voice is cigarette husky and slow. He is coaxing me. He can see I am nervous and do not know where the words are.

  This morning.

  Can you tell me a little bit about where you were and what you were doing?

  Hot crimson in my cheeks, I try to tell him: walking to the beach, the usual way, stopping near the path through the dunes, the usual spot, making arrangements, and then waiting.

  Waiting.

  In the rock pool, under the fierce blue sky.

  I do not know what else to say.

  Did you go and look for her anywhere?

  The jetty. I forgot about the jetty.

  That’s all right, and the sergeant smiles kindly, encouragingly, at me.

  Dorothy butts out her cigarette. She, too, waits for me to speak.

  The boys. Long skinny legs in tight black jeans, and Johnno grins at me but I just don’t know what type of grin it is. Backed up against the railing. Thrusting the skinny boy’s jeans into his hands and not being able to bear to look at him and see that gratitude. Have any of you seen my sister Frances? Did I ask or was I too shy to speak? I cannot remember.

  That’s all right, the sergeant says again. If we need to we’ll go and chat to them ourselves. He takes down a few more notes.

  Dorothy lights another cigarette.

  Was there anything at all unusual you noticed about Frances this morning?

  Dorothy shakes her head.

  The sergeant turns to me.

  Nothing.

  Was she taking extra things with her when you left? Did she seem nervous? Anxious? Was there anything you noticed that struck you as being different?

  I am searching, pick pick picking through everything I can remember, wanting to find it, something, anything to hang on to. Frances in her new bikini that she nicked from Grace Brothers last week, her shorts, her towel, no bag; but I cannot really remember because I had seen no need to notice. That is the problem. If only I had known.

  Dorothy is agitated. One leg jiggling up and down, she puts her cigarette out and interrupts. Can I just call home? she asks. She may be back by now.

  The sergeant pushes the phone towards her, and we both watch as Dorothy dials, as Dorothy waits, hand gripping the receiver, for an answer. Nothing.

  Okay, the sergeant says. The best thing would be for you both to go home and wait. If she hasn’t returned by morning, I want you to call the duty sergeant first thing.

  We nod our heads in agreement and when he stands to leave, we do too. There does not seem to be anything else to do. But just as we are pushing our chairs back into place, side by side, he stops us.

  One more question.

  I’m sorry to have to ask this, Mrs Silverton, and Dorothy looks up at him, eyes wide and startled, but has there been any kind of trouble at home? Anything that could have made her want to run awa
y?

  Has there been?

  Nothing. No. She shakes her head vehemently in response. Never, she adds. She’s my little girl. My baby.

  Don’t start. Please don’t start.

  What about her father? Do he and Frances get along?

  They love each other.

  I look up at Dorothy in surprise.

  She corrects herself. Franco, I mean, her father, is dead. He has been for some time.

  I’m sorry, the sergeant says, very sorry. It must be difficult for you on your own.

  Dorothy does not answer and he is awkward, unsure as to whether he should comfort her or let her be. He looks anxiously out to the other room, wanting to catch the policewoman’s eye. Shall we get you a cup of tea before you leave?

  Dorothy shakes her head and turns to the door.

  Call us, he says, if you hear anything, if she comes back, and he sees us out to the reception area.

  Dorothy is walking quickly and I am struggling to keep up with her. I look back to say goodbye but he has already gone and I have to run down the stairs and across the car park to catch up with Dorothy, who is already in the car, key in the ignition.

  She does not turn to look at me as I get into the back seat.

  Will they find her? I ask, but she does not answer.

  And as we drive home in silence, I stare out the window and I go through the policeman’s questions.

  And I wonder, just for a moment, about that last one. About the trouble at home.

  35

  In the late afternoon, the telephone rings.

  John Mills has gone, and the sound of the ringing is sharp and harsh in the quiet of this house.

  I answer, hoping it will be Martin, but it is not his voice that speaks to me. It is Jocelyn’s.

  She is calling to find out how I am. She is calling to see if there is anything she can do. And she is calling to remind me that tonight is her exhibition opening and I had promised I would come.

  It will do you good, she tells me, to get out. Even if it is only for a short while.

  I do not want to go. I put the phone down and wish I had managed to be more forceful. But each time I had tried to make an excuse, she had stopped me.