by Joy Dettman
Ellie sighed. Still no sign of Sam. She’d been expecting him all day, and it wouldn’t have hurt him to put off his overseas trip for his only brother. She glanced at the priest, and for once wished he’d stop praying. Jack would have hated this. After weeks of planning and three days of baking, the night wasn’t turning out the way she’d imagined it would. She looked towards the corner table, flinched.
It wasn’t as if the engagement had been announced tonight. Benjie wouldn’t do a thing like that! Still, a stranger walking in on this party wouldn’t know it. Everyone seemed to be crowded around their table, shaking Benjie’s hand and kissing Kerrie. Everyone was laughing. Annie and Bron too. And Father Fogarty still droning on.
‘How am I supposed to get all that way to Bega for their wedding, Bob?’
‘It will be a nice drive in autumn, Ellie.’ And maybe just what the doctor ordered, Bob thought. Two days in the car, no Bessy in the back seat. He’d make sure of that.
Then Father Fogarty closed his mouth and Joe Willis was up there, edging him away.
‘Jack always did my tax returns in the early years. Always got me a bloody good refund too, until the bloody tax man decided to audit me one year – ’
Ellie knew all about audits. She turned her back, offered the cream puffs around. ‘Jack used to love these,’ she said, taking up a cake, biting into it.
But was it Jack or her father who had loved her cream puffs? Jack had loved her pumpkin cake. Johnny loved her Christmas cake. Annie loved her pastry.
‘It’s . . . it’s like people say, isn’t it, Bob? When people go, we start to forget the little things, don’t we?’
Bronwyn was pointing to the drip of cream on Ellie’s chin. Bob wiped it away with his handkerchief, then he touched her short wash-and-wear waves.
‘We go on, love. That’s what we do – and you look like a new woman tonight with all that hair cut off.’
‘It still feels a bit funny. Sort of . . . sort of like I’m light-headed. I’m glad I did it, though. You know, the hardest part of doing anything is letting yourself do it. Like with getting over Jack. I tried to hold on to him by remembering all the good parts.’
‘Where there any bloody good parts?’ Bessy said.
‘Bessy! Remember where you are and why you’re here. And you know there were. Jack mightn’t have always been an easy man to live with, but we’ve all got our faults.’ Ellie’s head and voice lifted.
Loyal Ellie. Not an intentional mean bone in her body, Bob thought, but he’d had about enough of Jack for one night. ‘Young Annie turned up, I see.’
Ellie looked across to the far corner, to the girl who was Jack in woman’s clothing. ‘I had a feeling that she’d come. She used to love Jack, you know. Used to sit with him for hours when she was little, and talk to him with her little hands. He could understand her too. I couldn’t . . . or not more than a few words. I should have tried harder with her.’
‘It’s never too late to start, Ellie.’ Bob poured another beer. ‘Why don’t you go over and give her a kiss? Tell her how pleased you are that she came down.’
Ellie took two steps forward, but Granny Bourke was making her way towards the corner table, so Ellie stepped back.
A walking frame used as a battering ram before her, Gran cleared a pathway through. Not that she needed a bleeding walking frame. They’d stuck her ankle together with a metal plate and screws when they realised she had no intention of dying.
‘I say. I say, weddings and wakes. That’s the way it ought to be. As long as it’s not my wake, eh?’
‘You just plan to be the last one standing, Gran,’ Bronwyn said.
‘Too right I do. They’re running a book in the bar, you know. Two to one odds that your mother won’t hold out more than three months.’
‘Jesus! That’s a bit rough!’
‘Her and Bob Johnson,’ Gran said, aiming a slap at Bronwyn’s arm. ‘You knew what I meant.’
‘We did not. We thought you were offering us odds on our own mother’s funeral, didn’t we, Annie?’
Ann nodded, but her attention was on Bill Dooley, now having his say about the deceased. She was tempted to toss her wineglass at him, or its contents at the old dame. Shouldn’t have come. It was a farce. Shouldn’t have come.
‘Bob will make a good catch for your mother; he’s not after her for her money or her land; he’s got his cop pension.’ She eyed Jim Watson, who was eyeing Bessy, who also had good river frontage. ‘Still, there’s more ways of killing a cat than choking him with cream. They’d make a fine pair, they would. Ugly as a bag full of rats.’
‘You’re evil, Gran.’
‘Yeah, I am, aren’t I?’ The old dame prodded Bronwyn’s stomach with a gnarled finger. ‘You look as if you’re going to pop out of your britches any minute. How long have you been married?’
‘It’s quads. They’re not due for another five months.’
‘Pull the other one, it’s made out of rubber – or on second thoughts, you’d better not. It’s got more metal in it than rubber these days. I say, did I ever tell you about old Jimmy Willis, Joe’s father? Well he come back from the war with a bleedin’ metal plate in his head. It fried his brain every time he went out in the sun. Took fits, he did, and one day . . .’
Bill Dooley was out of words, or beer. He wandered off and Father Fogarty started in again.
‘It’s a fiasco,’ Ann said, and she stood.
‘If you’re going to the loo, I’ll come with you, Annie.’
‘Give me two minutes, Bron.’
She walked to Father Fogarty, interrupting his discourse on the hereafter, then from her pocket took a page of printed text. She’d planned to read it, but decided against it. Maybe it was right for him. Maybe it was wrong for Ellie. She didn’t know, but somehow it suddenly felt right for her.
She drew a deep breath and found her mother’s eyes, held them as she drew a second deeper breath. Then her chin lifted.
Her voice was low, but strong. It silenced the drinkers. They’d known her as a mute, seen her on television, but rarely saw her in Mallawindy.
Old knight, the lonely wanderer, is restless with unrest.
A shadow amid shadows, hiding secrets, guarding fears,
And cold, the dank mist clinging to his ageless breast,
Like frozen tears.
On feet of clay he stands outside the circle of pure light,
Never asked to come within, unwanted by new day,
Yet ever hoping for reward and what should be his right,
To watch her play.
She bathes the grass with dewdrops and paints the sky at dawn,
She makes the birds awaken; he’s listened to their call.
He’s seen her golden beauty, and felt her chill of scorn.
And that is all.
Lost to him the children of his cold and barren earth,
The cloak he wears is held too close, his dark hand offered not.
None will greet him from their beds. None can see his worth.
He’s best forgot.
Old knight, old weary warrior, go shed your cloak of black,
That covers, yet can not disguise, the lost one hid beneath.
Step now into morning, and walk ahead, not back.
Forget your grief.
Ellie was weeping and she didn’t know why, but Bob’s arm was around her, and he was guiding her forward, towards that tall daughter. Such a crowd here tonight, and all of them wanting to talk. Maybe with Bob beside her she’d make it to the other side.
Ambulance siren in the distance. Outside the Grand Central Hotel, King Billy’s dogs lifted their heads. No circular hole in the black blanket sky for a full moon tonight, no reason to howl, but they howled anyway. Didn’t like that siren. Bad day when the siren came to town.
They killed its noise then, their work done, great heads dropped back to paws and they dreamed on.
But Granny Bourke’s reptilian eyes had turned to the road. ‘I say. I say, they
only turn the siren off if they’re already dead.’ Her walking frame left standing, she hobbled off towards the bar for a stout and the latest news. So the river crept onward, twisting, turning, fighting the will of the Dreamtime gods, who had charted its course west towards the arid centre. It crept into billabongs, seeped underground, until the gods washed their hands of this matter and let it flow where it would, while it still could.
And in the gum trees beside the river a night bird swooped, and a small possum tumbled from its mother’s back to the mulch below. The feral cat pounced, licked warm blood, while the lone frog swallowed a few sopranos, just to keep the mosquito chorus in balance, then with a clap-clap, he frog-kicked downstream in search of a mate.
And on the sand dunes out Dead Man’s Lane, the rabbits played.
DAREE GAZETTE 30TH DECEMBER
Hero Sam Saves Author on Dark Road
Malcolm Fletcher, the 76-year-old author of nine best sellers, was clinically dead when Samuel Burton, in town for the celebration of his twin brother, Jack’s, life, came upon the old man, collapsed on the side of a dark road, two kilometres west of Mallawindy on Christmas Eve. The quick actions of Samuel saved the life of the elderly man.
Having ascertained there was no heartbeat and that breathing had ceased, Samuel Burton commenced mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and heart massage.
John Burton, son of the deceased Jack, and Mallawindy primary school teacher, saw the stationary headlights of his uncle’s car. ‘I walked up to the road to investigate,’ he said.
Believing Malcolm Fletcher to be beyond the help of man, John called the local police station, and when Jeff Rowan could not be raised, he called for an ambulance, before returning to the scene where he found his uncle still on his knees, working over the old author.
‘There was definitely no heartbeat, John told reporters. ‘He was clinically dead.’
But Samuel, who had recently lost his wife of over forty years, refused to give up. He and John then continued the resuscitation.
By the time the Daree ambulance arrived, half an hour later, Malcolm Fletcher was propped against the car, breathing without assistance. Samuel Burton, his work done, helped lift the 200 kilogram Malcolm Fletcher into the ambulance, then quietly returned to his car and drove away from the scene.
It was Constable Jeff Rowan who discovered the secret identity of Malcolm Fletcher, a retired schoolteacher, who has lived in Mallawindy since the 1960s.
Having gone to his house after learning that the old author had been in possession of an illegal handgun he had owned since the war of 1945, Constable Rowan found bookshelves filled with copies of the author’s novels and also several letters addressed to Coll M Chef-Marlet.
‘I’m his Number 1 fan. It didn’t take long for me to deduce that the name was an anagram,’ Constable Rowan said. ‘We had a celebrity living in town and nobody knew it.’
Mr Fletcher, from his hospital bed, said yesterday that he had come upon the old gun in a drawer, and that he hadn’t sighted it in over thirty years. He said he had no idea that there had been a bullet in it, or why he had taken it with him when he’d walked outside.
‘I was not thinking logically at the time. Having previously suffered three heart attacks, I recognised the pain and thought to walk across the road to my neighbour’s house. I recall little else.’
It is assumed that when he fell, the handgun, a piece of German memorabilia Mr Fletcher had brought with him from England, exploded in his hands.
Doctors operated on the damaged hands yesterday. A portion of the right index finger was removed, but when asked this morning if this would affect his writing, the old author said, ‘I’m a two finger typist.’
‘How much longer are you going to make your readers wait for Number 10?’ a reporter asked.
‘Coming soon,’ Chef-Marlet replied. ‘Coming soon.’
MORE BESTSELLING FICTION AVAILABLE FROM PAN MACMILLAN
Joy Dettman
Mallawindy
Ann Burton was born on a river bank the night her father tried to burn their house down.
Six years later her sister Liza disappears while they are staying at their uncle’s property. What Ann sees that day robs her of her memory and her speech.
A stroke of unexpected humanity releases Ann from her world of silence, and she escapes her anguished childhood, finding love and a new life away from Mallawindy.
But there is no escape from the Burton family and its dark secrets. Ann must return to Mallawindy and confront the past if she is ever to be set free.
‘We ride the crests and troughs of the Burtons’ 30-year history with open mouths and saucer eyes . . . Dettman is an adept storyteller’
THE AGE
‘A highly competent and confident debut novel’
SUNDAY TELEGRAPH
‘A compelling story, well told . . . it holds promise of further enthralling fiction from its author’
CANBERRA TIMES
‘A stunning debut; a rich and engrossing read; a tale of page- turning suspense and mystery; a postmortem of family ties; all this and more, Mallawindy will grab you hook, line and sinker’
QUEENSLAND TIMES
Joy Dettman
Jacaranda Blue
From the best-selling author of Mallawindy, comes a tale of dark secrets, shameful lies and unexpected salvation.
For forty-four years Stella Templeton has been a dutiful daughter and a good citizen, living in Maidenville, population 2,800, a town where nothing happens. Until one hot summer afternoon . . .
An ugly act has lifted the respectable skirts of Maidenville and mystery starts to surround the daughter of the local minister. Then the disappearance of a sixteen-year-old boy adds to the neighbourhood’s confusion. Does something sinister lurk behind the neatly trimmed hedges and white picket fences that divide this sleepy town?
No one comes close to knowing the horrifying truth – but after forty-four years of self denial and duty, Stella Templeton is finally beginning to blossom.
‘. . . a gripping small-town mystery . . . Dettman is brilliant at depicting the seemingly inconsequential murmurs of small-town life . . .’
SUN HERALD
‘. . . a pleasure to read . . .’
CANBERRA TIMES
‘The only disappointment in this book is reaching the end.’
HERALD SUN
Joy Dettman
Goose Girl
Sally De Rooze is almost thirty. She has survived the accident that killed her father and brothers. Her mother never forgave her for that. But she survived her mother too. Surviving is what she does best.
Farmer Ross Bertram, who offers her his acres and safety, is the answer for a while. Until he starts pushing for a wedding. Sally wants . . . wants more. Wants to know great love. Wants to find herself. One year. That’s what she wants. One year of freedom in the big, bad city.
Her survival skills are tested in the urban sprawl and she discovers more about herself than she had ever dared to imagine.
From the bestselling author of Mallawindy and Jacaranda Blue, comes a moving story about being set free.
‘. . . a can’t-put-it down story’
NW
‘Goose Girl is not just a story to read about – it’s one to think about’
THE EXAMINER
‘Dettman knows how to tell a story’
THE SUNDAY AGE
Katherine Scholes
The Rain Queen
Tighten your heart.
The phrase came to Kate in Swahili – with the voice of the African housemother who had led her away from the School Office, after she had been told. Told. Just like that. A man’s mouth moving, words coming out. ‘Something terrible has happened . . .’
Kate has forgotten Africa. She no longer recalls stories about black witches and sloped-back hyenas nor wants to know what happened at Langali Mission almost twenty years before. Her past is buried along with her missionary parents and the desire to know the truth is as distant t
o her as the sound of the village drums.
For Annah Mason, Africa is a land of contradictions. Her extraordinary life has taken her from a missionary hospital to the company of rainmakers, and deep into the heart of the Waganga. But Annah’s past contains a tragic secret. To find peace she must tell her story to the one woman who needs to listen. Who waits to be set free . . .
Two women, one terrible event, and a vast and beautiful country pulling them always back . . .
‘Moving and inspiring’
AUSTRALIAN GOOD TASTE
‘a fantastic and gripping read . . . a must-have’
THE EXAMINER
‘the natural and engaging style . . . and abundance of stirring imagery soon make it hard to put down’
THE ADVOCATE
Catherine Jinks
The Notary
‘I told you,’ said Gaillard, upon being pressed once more for information, ‘all I know is that he was slain and found by his scribe. And that his genitals were gone.’
‘Gone!’ I exclaimed.
‘Not there. Vanished.’
‘Somebody stole them?’
‘A nun,’ Othon remarked, unleashing a shout of laughter.
Raymond Maillot is a lustful young notary who prefers wine, women and song to the pursuit of professional renown. But when he’s employed by Father Amiel, a sober Dominican monk charged with investigating a particularly shocking murder, his life begins to change.
Now Raymond is torn between his taste for irresponsible pleasures and his desire to find refuge in the church. His journey of self-discovery, however, begins with a severed penis.
The Notary by award-winning writer Catherine Jinks is a tantalisingly cryptic tale of dismemberment, debauchery and demonic visitation in fourteenth-century France.
Praise for Catherine Jinks
‘. . . queen of the narrative drive’
THE SUNDAY AGE
‘Jinks . . . deserves cult status’
VOGUE
