by Joy Dettman
A ewe identifies her lamb by its scent. In the darkest cellar on the blackest night, Amber could have identified the scent of Cecelia; by September she could no longer breathe unless Cecelia was near. Kept her from school. Kept her from play.
Cecelia had spent three months at her mother’s side, had sat beside her at her uncle’s table, slept beside her, shopped with her, visited elderly aunts and uncles with her. At Amber’s side, she’d been the centre of attention, a Duckworth through and through, they said. She’d been appreciated in Melbourne. In Woody Creek there were no aunties and uncles, no Cousin Reggie, only her mother — and Jenny, who stank of evil.
‘You stink of evil. You stay away from me or you’ll make me stink too, Mummy said.’
‘What’s ebil, Sissy?’
Sissy wasn’t too certain. ‘Deliver us from evil,’ she said. ‘From church.’
She hoped Cousin Reggie would soon deliver her and her mother from evil. She wanted to go back to where there was gas so she could have curls, where there was a proper lavatory with water in it instead of stink.
Her grandmother was evil too and Maisy wasn’t much better. Both women came to the house sometimes but they didn’t come inside.
Nancy Bryant knocked on Norman’s door on a Friday when Sissy was almost missing being at school. She opened the door. Amber didn’t invite her visitor inside. She took the offered jar of cream, took the doll Nancy’s granddaughter no longer wanted.
‘Hasn’t she turned into the prettiest little pet you ever did see, and wasn’t that hair a surprise?’ Nancy said.
Cecelia preened for an instant, smiled.
‘It’s like spun gold,’ Nancy said.
Gold was yellow. Cecelia’s hair was the darkest of browns. She stopped smiling and Amber closed the door.
Poor, plain, pudgy Cecelia, years behind her age group at school and falling further behind each day Amber kept her at home. Poor lumpy Cecelia, head and shoulders taller than most in her grade and two or three stone heavier. She’d eaten well in Melbourne. That’s what Duckworths did. Even Aunty Jane, a slim in-law, had assisted with the weight increase. She’d made toffee on her stove so Cecelia would be good while Amber went to the theatre with Cousin Reggie.
By October there was an unbridgeable gulch between the two halves of Norman’s family, which neither side attempted to cross.
To a large degree, Norman lived as he had prior to Amber’s return. On Sundays, he rose early, packed a picnic lunch and off he rode on his bicycle, Jenny strapped on behind.
Sissy sat with her mother in the parlour, listening to strange stories about evil people. She wanted to ride on that bike. She wanted to have a picnic lunch.
‘Jenny drawed a bum, Daddy.’
‘I drawed a apwicot.’
‘She’s showing you the wrong way round, Daddy. She had it the other way when she drawed it . . . and she said . . . and she said it was Granny’s bum, doing number —’
‘Enough!’ Norman howled. ‘It is a very fine apricot, Jennifer.’
‘It’s a bum,’ Sissy yelled. ‘She said it’s Granny’s bum doing —’
‘Go to your room.’
‘Bum. Bum. Bum.’
Norman manhandled her into the nursery where she spent an hour screaming and causing what havoc she could. She remembered his locked doors. She didn’t like his locked doors.
He took Jenny riding on a Sunday in late October and when they returned, Cecelia was waiting alone at the gate. And he threw a lifeline across the gulch.
‘Perhaps you might like to go for a short ride, my dear.’
She liked, but not a short one. They rode for half an hour, but when they returned, Jenny was waiting at the gate, weeping. She was not a crying child. He saw immediately the cause of her tears. Her tiny leg was red from thigh to knee. He carried her indoors.
‘You will keep your hands off this child,’ he warned Amber.
‘What about you, Duddy?’ Amber said. ‘Do you keep your hands off her, Duddy?’
There were no more bicycle rides. He had two daughters and a wife who had lost her reason.
‘Shall we walk down to the bridge to visit the birds?’ he offered.
Sissy’s thighs rubbed when she walked. She wanted to ride. Norman had something to offer and she wanted it, wanted all of it.
November was worse than October. On Friday, Gertrude’s trading day, she’d delivered Joey to the station to play a while with his only friend and was on her way back to collect him when Maisy, who had been watching out for her, called as she crossed over the road.
‘She says she’s got a growth in her womb, Mrs Foote, and he’s not doing anything about it. I’m worried sick about her.’
‘I can’t get near her, love. She won’t open the door to me.’
‘Someone has to do something.’
Gertrude left Joey to play a while longer and followed Maisy to Norman’s front door. They knocked, Maisy called at the bedroom window.
‘I’m not leaving, Amber. I want to talk to you.’
Amber opened the door, saw her mother and tried to close it, but Maisy was a heavy girl. Gertrude followed her inside.
She saw the growth, recognised it for what it was, and without a word turned and strode across to the station.
‘You fool of a man!’ she said.
Norman knew he was a fool, but this afternoon he required some clarification. His jowls shook as they lifted in question.
‘She can’t go through that again.’
Then he knew. ‘Your fears are baseless —’
‘She’s expecting. The doctor told you she couldn’t go through that again.’
‘There may be no cause for concern —’
‘Of course there’s cause for concern. She’s half out of her mind now.’
‘My meaning . . .’ He coughed, turned to the children, then he lowered his voice. ‘She has been home since late August, Mother F — Gertrude,’ he said, watching her face closely, hoping to see understanding dawn in her eyes. It did not. He looked away to his house and to Maisy, now heading across the station yard. ‘August,’ he repeated. ‘It is now November. As you see, there may be no cause for concern.’ Again he coughed. ‘The incompatibility factor will not apply . . . in this case . . . if I am . . . at fault.’
And he saw light begin to dawn. ‘You’re saying . . .’
‘I am saying that no more need be said on the subject — and will not be said by me . . .’ He turned to the children, squatting on the platform, building a long train from ABC blocks, and he smiled at their lisping conversation.
‘Altogether far too much is made of blood. See what treasure we find when we discount it, Gertrude.’
PAPER PETALS
December came, and Miss Rose received an offer of marriage from John McPherson, now a twenty-year-old, sweet and gentle boy. Of course she couldn’t wed him. She was years his senior. A tempting offer though, and made more so when Cecelia Morrison was returned to her classroom.
It came to a head on a Friday two weeks before the annual school concert. Miss Rose heard a bellow, saw Ray King spring from his seat and back away from Cecelia. In size he was a fair match for the girl, but he was a stutterer, a silent lump of a lad who, when upset, could not get out a word of accusation.
Others spoke for him. ‘Sissy Morrison stabbed him in the leg with her pencil, Miss Rose.’
The pencil was sharp. It had gone deep.
‘You will not be in the concert, Cecelia.’
‘I am so in the concert.’
‘Badly behaved children do not wear flower costumes.’
At two, the costume ladies arrived: Miss Blunt, spindly, bespectacled spinster daughter of the town draper, seamstress of renown; and her assistant, Mrs Fulton, large, motherly wife of Robert Fulton, proprietor of the feed and grain store. They had nothing in common other than their ability to make magic with their hands. Give them wire, mosquito net and tinsel and they handed back a pair of fairy’s wings; give them a few rolls
of crepe paper and they could turn a group of dusty children into dancing flowers.
When Cecelia realised Miss Rose intended standing by her threat, she did what she usually did — screamed blue murder, stamped her feet, and her bladder released its load. She was a big girl with a large bladder. They left her screaming in the classroom and moved into the utility room next door where one by one the children were fitted.
At three thirty, when the bell rang to end the school day and the costumes were packed away, one remained, large, very pink, its skirt a series of paper petals. Miss Blunt had minimal experience with urine-soaked children. Mrs Fulton was a mother of nine. She approached the girl, the pink frock over her arm. Sissy eyed it and kicked in its direction.
‘It’s a pity you won’t be in the concert,’ Mrs Fulton said. ‘You have such a strong voice. We need strong voices on stage, don’t we, Miss Rose?’
Sissy sniffed hope. She wanted to be a flower on the stage. She wanted to wear that pink costume too. She wriggled up to her bottom, glanced at Miss Rose who may not be the boss of the concert.
‘Does she know the flower song, Miss Rose?’
‘I know everything,’ Sissy said. Wanted to try on that costume. It looked just like a flower. ‘I won’t . . . do things,’ she said.
‘What things won’t you do, Cecelia?’ Miss Rose said.
‘Stab him again.’
‘Or pull the girls’ hair, or scratch, or misbehave with the twins.’
Sissy eyed that pink. ‘I won’t.’
They tried it on her. There was a lot of her and the frock made more of it. She wouldn’t be missed on stage. They walked her to the utility room to admire herself in the mirror. She was docile. She allowed them to tie on her flower hat.
‘My word, don’t you look gorgeous,’ Mrs Fulton said.
Poor Sissy Morrison. She’d never look gorgeous, but that lolly pink costume and a little psychological blackmail allowed Miss Rose to gain a modicum of control. On Mrs Fulton’s advice, for the week preceding the concert, the flower frock hung in the classroom beside the blackboard, a pair of scissors dangling on a length of string beside it.
‘Each time you misbehave, Cecelia, each time you refuse to do what I ask when I ask, I will cut off one of your frock’s petals with my very sharp scissors.’
Of course Sissy tested the threat. Three times she tested it. And watched the petals fall.
If not for the annual school concert, Sissy Morrison may never have learnt to use a pencil for its intended purpose.
If not for the annual school concert, Amber Morrison may not have gone stark raving mad.
The venue for all entertainment was the Woody Creek town hall. Balls were held there, dances, meetings, wakes, parties and concerts. All were well attended.
Sissy wanted her mother to see her on stage in her beautiful costume. Amber was six months pregnant. She never left the house. But she was losing that girl to the other side, and Sissy was all she had. On the night of the concert, she laced on her corset, laced it tight. Couldn’t do up the waistband of her beige suit skirt but the jacket covered the gap. She walked with Norman to the hall, sat at his side, in silence through the early items, sat stiff as a board, eyes forward — until the dance of the flowers, when she rose to her feet.
Cecelia’s costume was a cruel farce and Norman was in on the joke. Amber wanted to snatch her girl from the stage, hide her away. Wanted to rip the wand from the dancing fairy’s hand and with it make her daughter beautiful, wanted —
Had to get out. They’d blocked her in. A couple behind asked her to sit. Norman asked her to sit, but Amber stood staring at the stray seated on Norman’s lap, and she could see her future, see that pretty little golden bitch on that stage, a dainty flower, a dancing fairy —
Couldn’t breathe for the stench of her. Raised her hands to snatch her, throw her, but Norman moved, then others moved. They let her out, and while the audience applauded, while children took their bows, Amber ran from the hall.
‘What’s wrong with that woman?’
‘It’s the first time I’ve seen her out in months.’
‘Someone told me she had a growth.’
‘Joanne Hooper died of a growth.’
‘It can’t be serious. Her husband’s not going out with her.’
The concert continued without Amber.
She didn’t go home. She walked through the memorial park, a narrow area between the town hall and Maisy’s house. It went through to a back street where homes had been built facing the sports oval. She crossed the road, walked diagonally across the oval to the cemetery fence, then along it to the road. The large cemetery gates were locked, the smaller gate was never locked.
She entered the place of the dead, a dark place tonight, but she knew the way to her dead children, her beautiful children, who would have danced on stage in fairy wings, who would have sung sweet songs. She lost time with them.
The concert ended at ten thirty. Norman took the girls home, Sissy happier than he’d seen her in years. He got them into bed, then walked the midnight streets searching for his wife. He walked for an hour but didn’t find her.
She was not a well woman, but with a living child in her arms, he was convinced she would again be his happy, laughing wife. He had not fathered her child and thus was convinced it would be born alive. He would raise it. Perhaps a son this time. Every man needs a son.
Amber returned at dawn. She slept through the day but rose when he put Cecelia into bed. She slept through the following day, and that night he moved Cecelia into the small bed in Jennifer’s room.
Christmas came and went unheralded in Norman’s house. Dust fell and remained where it fell, the house and Cecelia neglected while Amber slept by day and walked by night.
Maisy found Sissy’s infestation. She had eight daughters and had fought many a good fight against head lice. Eradication began with a pair of scissors. Sissy’s rat-tail hair fell in clumps to the floor. The process continued. A thorough wetting with a combination of kerosene and olive oil was followed by a combing with her small-toothed comb. The head then wrapped in brown paper and a towel was left an hour, so any living louse might suffocate. A good wash with a strong soap, a little vinegar added to the final rinsing water, and if anything had lived through that, Maisy would get them when she repeated her treatment the following week. Cecelia lived through it and tolerated it well enough. It was attention. She craved attention.
She had the Duckworth, dead straight hair. Maisy had cut her a long fringe; it covered much of the Duckworth brow. She’d given her an ear-length bob. Sissy liked it, liked standing in front of the mirror combing it. It was her mother’s fault for laughing. Nancy Bryant’s fault too, for meeting them in the newspaper shop on that Saturday morning in February and talking about Jenny’s hair and not even noticing Sissy’s haircut.
It was Norman’s fault too. If he hadn’t left the scissors on the little verandah table when he’d cut something from the newspaper, Sissy wouldn’t have known where to find them. And it was Miss Rose’s fault, because those scissors reminded Sissy of the ones she’d used to cut those pink paper petals.
Norman was at the station sending his train on its way, the girls left playing on the verandah, where Sissy found the scissors and decided to play hairdressers. Jenny accepted her haircut as she accepted most of Sissy’s games. A fair percentage of her hair had fallen before Amber opened the back door.
She was nightgown clad, soiled nightgown clad, her own hair uncombed in days, unwashed in more, her belly big with child. She stood in the doorway, staring at the small springs of gold littering the verandah.
Sissy offered the scissors. ‘Her head was itchy like my head, Mummy.’
Amber ignored her. She stood looking at Jenny who sat amid her fallen curls like a shorn angel.
‘Daddy said my hair will grow again, Mummy.’
Sissy blamed her haircut for her mother’s neglect. It had to be her haircut. A month away from her eighth birthday, her m
ind filled with much that should not have been there, but lacking in much that should, Sissy floundered. Her world was not as it had been and she didn’t like it. Then her mother, who had only cuddled and kissed and whispered secrets, pushed her. Sissy landed hard and the scissors slid.
Amber watched their slide and felt her last control sliding with them, over the edge, over the edge and gone. Saw that lump of a girl scrambling backwards away from her, saw the stray sitting, staring.
There was relief in the release of rage. There was bliss in that first connection, that sharp whack! of celebration. It sent that pretty little bitch spinning. Amber’s foot joined the party, but her balance was not good enough. Almost went down. Saved herself though, against the wall, got hold of an arm and swung that pretty little bitch. Grabbed what was left of her hair, smashed her face into the floor. Kill it. Get rid of the thing. And the noise.
‘Shut up. Shut up, I said. Shut up!’
Mr Foster, the new postmaster, was making a pot of tea when he heard the noise. He went to his semi-enclosed verandah, glanced over the fence and saw too much. He ran.
Mr Foster couldn’t run — he had a club foot and a twisted spine; he used a walking stick — but he ran anyway, through to the post office, out the door, across the few feet to Norman’s front gate, and around to the back of the house in time to see his neighbour hammering a senseless infant’s head into the floor, the other girl pulling at her own hair, screaming.
Mr Foster used his walking stick, and not for its intended purpose. He hit that woman, if woman she was; he snatched up the infant and, at a limping run, returned the way he’d come.
He was a city man of thirty-odd, unwed and unlikely to wed. He’d been in town over a month and not a soul, not his neighbour, nor his neighbour’s wife, had welcomed him there. And surely he had done the wrong thing. A man could not walk into a neighbour’s house, attack his wife, snatch his child.
He looked towards the constable’s residence, was limping across the road with his senseless bundle, when he saw Jean White walk from the grocery store. He’d had dealings with her across their respective counters. He turned, went to her, pushed the baby into her arms.
