The History of Mischief

by Rebecca Higgie

  I nodded again. I smiled.

  Robert and Elliot fought. Their arguments shook the house. Neighbours noted their concern to me. I told them Elliot was unstable, an eccentric troubled sort. They developed a mixture of suspicion and pity for him. ‘What a good man, your husband,’ they’d say, ‘caring for his disturbed brother.’

  Elliot wouldn’t be in the same room as me, would scream through walls at you whenever you cried. Eventually, though, something changed. He grew quiet, brooding but accepting of what we had. Both men, I realised, were tired. They never spoke about their past, about life in England.

  Years into the arrangement, we forgot we’d once lived different lives. Robert was the model husband. Always kind. Upon seeing me admiring the roses in the church courtyard, he planted an array of them in the front yard. Though Elliot never came to like me, he came to like you. You were naughty and loud. He enjoyed getting you worked up and creating more trouble for me and Robert.

  Every Saturday afternoon in the summer, as soon as you could walk, Robert and Elliot whisked you away to the ocean. I was rarely welcome at these outings, though for your seventh birthday, we all went together. That was the day that opened a door I could never close again.

  Elliot kept giving you swigs from his hipflask. It only contained cordial, but fellow beachgoers looked on disapprovingly. You ran around, sugar high. I grabbed you as you were about to do a bellyflop on another child’s sandcastle. We’d already been in the sun for an hour, and were all looking pink. Robert let out a long sigh.

  ‘Hot today, isn’t it?’ he said.

  I let you go. You decided to make your own sandcastle to destroy.

  ‘I read it’s snowing in London. Back home, some of the lochs have frozen,’ Robert continued. ‘I bet Harry would love the Christmas fairs, you know, the ice rink and the gingerbread.’

  ‘Harry’s fine,’ Elliot said. ‘He has the whole ocean. Little thing’s a fish.’

  You decided, as if you agreed, that the sandcastle was boring, and went running off towards the waves. I chased after you and brought you back to our picnic blanket.

  As we sat down, I heard Elliot say to Robert, ‘I would freeze all the rivers and oceans if it would please you.’

  ‘With what divinity would you freeze the oceans?’ Robert asked.

  Elliot shrugged. ‘Some sort of devilish mischief.’

  Mischief.

  Elliot snatched you from me and tickled you. You roared with laughter. ‘But maybe I’ll freeze you instead!’ he said. He chased you across the beach, and then, when you didn’t want to be chased anymore, you turned around and roared at him, ‘You can’t freeze me, I’m a dragon!’

  I smiled. That night, mischief crept into your bedtime story. I told you about the Dragon of Wawel and a magical boy who went down the salt mines and became a ghost. The next day, you asked me how the boy got down the mine. I thought of Serafin, the sad baker who lost his family. I gave him a sad end, but one where he could save others, escape the guilt I knew lingered in the real man’s heart.

  You said, ‘How did he become magic?’

  I made it up on the spot. ‘He found a book.’

  ‘A book?’

  ‘A magical book. A book that held the stories of every other person who had those powers.’

  ‘What was it called?’

  ‘It was called … The History of Mischief.’

  ‘There were more like him? More mischiefs?’

  Mischiefs. Like me and Chloe. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you have the book, Mum?’

  ‘No, it’s hidden somewhere. But I read it once. I can tell you the stories. But you can’t tell anyone. It’s secret.’

  ‘I promise I won’t tell anyone, not even Dad,’ you said.

  ‘Not even Uncle Elliot?’

  ‘Not even!’

  I tucked you into bed. As I went to turn out the light, you said, ‘Who was the first mischief, Mum?’

  Who was the first? I thought of Chloe, of course, but pushed her away. I went for Alexander.

  ‘A boy. A boy without a name. I’ll tell you about him tomorrow.’

  And so, the History was born. I took the people, stories and books I loved, and added magic. I tried to share with you the things I cherished in a life that otherwise filled me with shame.

  You became obsessed with the book. Where was it? How did I know about it? You knew it wasn’t real, but you liked to pretend. Years passed. I invented a few mischiefs off the top of my head, not drawing from anyone in my life. You always found these boring.

  ‘They’re not real,’ you’d say, as if you knew which mischiefs were based on something true, and those that weren’t.

  The last few histories – of your father and me – I resisted telling for years. But you kept asking, kept playing. I watched you in the garden, tossing up sand as if you were the boy casting ghosts. I thought you’d grow out of it, but you played with sand ghosts until you were eleven.

  Eventually, I gave in. I said I found another history, hidden inside Uncle Elliot’s old book Frostiana. The story was patchy back then. I only had a few fragments about a man who froze the Thames. Much later, when I felt brave, I added myself, the French girl Louise, who came between the two men and stole the History.

  Then Robert’s father finally died. You were twelve. Arguments sprung up between Robert and Elliot, fights about the funeral, the family, and ‘the way things were’.

  Robert booked three tickets to London. The arguments stopped. You were thrilled initially. Your first overseas trip, and to the land of Archie and Will. But your excitement was dashed by the resentment that emanated from your uncle. Elliot wouldn’t eat with us, wouldn’t talk to us.

  ‘Why is Uncle Elliot so angry?’ you asked Robert. ‘Why isn’t he coming with us?’

  Robert sighed. ‘Uncle Elliot and the family don’t get on. You can’t talk about him to anyone, alright? Otherwise you’ll upset a lot of people.’

  You nodded but seemed confused. ‘What did he do that was so bad?’

  ‘He just … wasn’t very nice.’

  You didn’t understand, but you didn’t question it.

  London was everything we expected from the books. Black cabs. Old buildings. We drove by the Thames and exchanged a secret smile.

  We stayed with your father’s old university friend. On the cab ride there, Robert issued you a warning.

  ‘George’s wife is Ethiopian. Her name is Adanech. Please don’t call her Mrs Campbell. Ethiopian women don’t take their husband’s name when they marry. Just stick to Adanech. Please be polite.’

  My boy, you were not polite. When this beautiful dark-skinned woman opened the door and exclaimed ‘Welcome! Come in!’ you just stared at her. I realised then you’d never met anyone who didn’t look like you. You were afraid.

  But Adanech took us to the Tower Bridge. She took us to the British Museum. You kept pointing at the great dome that was the Reading Room, forgetting your apprehension and begging to go inside.

  ‘Sure, but we might have to be a little mischievous.’

  You lit up.

  We went to the clerk’s desk. She told us to wait back, but we still heard her hushed lie. She spoke in a friendly tone, like she knew the man well.

  ‘Rich, I’m doing some translations for David again, but the old man’s lumped me with the wife and kid of the Australian ambassador. Let me give them a quick tour. The Mrs is a librarian and would love to see the Pantheon.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Just tell Percy it’s Foreign Office business.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She ushered us along a corridor. It ended so suddenly, in such an expansive space, we gasped. We stood transfixed by the dome and its windows, streaming with light. Adanech asked a clerk to give us the ‘Foreign Office tour’. He showed us the stacks with a great many sighs.

  Later that night, you declared, ‘That’s where the History must be hiding!’

  So I gave Archie the British Museum. For the first
time, you saw me stealing from our surroundings to make the histories. You pretended not to notice.

  The next day, we met Robert’s only sister Edith. The first thing you said to her was, ‘You look like Dad!’

  And she did, right down to the curly mess of black hair.

  ‘Aye. All us Stewarts look alike,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Lucky you take after your mama.’

  ‘Uncle Elliot doesn’t look the same.’

  Silence. At realising you’d mentioned your uncle, you glanced at Robert, your glassy eyes begging forgiveness. Bless Robert. He gave you a small, reassuring smile.

  ‘I don’t know who you mean, dear,’ Edith said.

  Edith was a creature of sighs. Her body swelled with those long releases of breath, and she deflated with every sentence. Her Scottish accent was deep and dreary.

  ‘You know, you could’ve stayed with me,’ she said to Robert. Sigh.

  ‘I didn’t want to bother you,’ he said.

  She looked at me, staring a little too long. ‘It’s good to meet you finally, Elizabeth. We never thought Robbie would find anyone.’ Sigh.

  The funeral was the next day. The sermon was dull. Kind words were said unconvincingly in flat tones. At the wake, some distant relative demanded to know where Robert’s accent had gone. You asked why no one cried.

  We saw little of Robert after that. He spent his days with lawyers, in discussions over the Stewart estate. A week passed before George insisted that he find some time to ‘have a day with the lads’. They took you to the ice rink by the Thames (which I heard endless stories about) and, I suspect, the pub (of which I heard nothing). The night before, Adanech promised to counter the boys. After I expressed some interest in visiting Windsor Castle, she promised we’d make a day of it.

  Our trip to Windsor took some time. I apologised, saying I didn’t realise it was so far away.

  ‘No one does,’ she said. ‘But it’s worth it.’

  ‘Do you have many places like Windsor in Ethiopia?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yes, Gondar is very impressive if you want castles.’

  ‘Do you go home often?’

  She smiled sadly. ‘No.’

  ‘Do you miss it?’

  ‘Every day.’

  We arrived around midday. Adanech insisted we have lunch first, at a sweet cafe that served high tea. She went straight for a scone and piled it with clotted cream, ignoring the finger sandwiches.

  I saw it as an opportunity to pry. ‘What’s Ethiopian food like?’

  ‘Wonderful,’ she said. ‘But you can’t go past an English scone. Have one.’

  Adanech, I realised, was very good at avoiding talk about herself. This made me want to pry even more. As one in possession of many secrets, I was curious what other people were hiding.

  I reached for a scone. ‘They must be good to keep you here,’ I joked.

  She smiled. ‘George is rather lovely too. And my work. But yes, clotted cream makes up for these ghastly winters.’

  ‘Why don’t you go back? Would they not accept George?’

  Her eyebrows raised a little, a flicker of annoyance. ‘Not at all. My family were close friends with Hakim Workneh, the first Ethiopian to be trained as a doctor. Mother thought it wonderful my husband shared the same profession. It was George’s family who were less than accepting.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘We don’t see them anymore.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s alright. Love’s worth it.’

  Was it? Was it really? I couldn’t help but think of Henry.

  ‘We all make sacrifices,’ she continued.

  ‘You’d never go home?’

  ‘I can’t. The Emperor was assassinated a few years ago. The country is under military dictatorship.’

  ‘Oh … I’m sorry. Is your family okay?’

  ‘I don’t know. My father was an engineer under Haile Selassie. I’m sure he was killed long ago.’

  ‘My God. That’s awful.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But don’t let that colour how you see us. Ethiopia is a beautiful country. We had Christianity before Europe. We were never colonised. We were never your slaves.’

  Your slaves. I turned red.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean … it’s just … people like to make assumptions.’

  I nodded. ‘I’d love to learn more than the assumptions.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Let me introduce you to Alemayehu.’

  Our tour of the castle was leisurely. Adanech opened up, sharing how her father had once been to Windsor long ago. As a child, she spent days going through his notebooks. She vividly remembered the drawings of the castle, maps with sprawling rooms and speculative tunnels. There were funny notations about the people who gave him information or gossip, alongside technical specifications.

  As we came towards St George’s Chapel, she told me the story of Alemayehu. I saw the plaque that commemorated his death.

  ‘I’m sure one day he’ll go home,’ I said.

  She smiled. ‘That’s a nice idea.’

  ‘Perhaps … we could steal them.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘His bones.’

  She laughed. ‘What a marvellous adventure that would be.’

  Adanech became my first real friend since leaving the bookshop.

  The following week, snow fell suddenly. Flights were cancelled, our trip home pushed back. Robert felt bad about all the time he spent dealing with his father’s estate, and spent the rest of the trip with you and George. I was always invited out on these excursions, but by then, I had other plans. I asked Adanech if she could spare some paper. I started to write The History of Mischief.

  It took months. As I wrote, back at home in Guildford, my own history lingered with me. Chloe sat on one shoulder, Henry on the other. When you went to school, when Robert and Elliot went to work, I wrote. I hid it in a shoebox. Robert suspected something. Dishes were left in the sink, dinner was late. At church, the newsagent asked Robert what we needed all the paper for.

  ‘What was he talking about?’

  ‘I think he mixes up his customers. Sometimes he calls me Rachel,’ I lied.

  I finished and let it sit, curled up in that shoebox for another month. I was frightened, really, of what I’d written, of what it really meant. I debated removing the Henry story altogether. I kept thinking about him. Every day. Seeing George and Adanech together made me wonder: what if?

  I bit the bullet. I took it to a bookshop that did repairs and binding. A fortnight later, I received a book bound in leather. All those pages were stitched seamlessly into the spine, like they’d never known life as single sheets. It felt so heavy. I hugged it all the way home.

  Two nights later, Robert and Elliot took you to Alfred’s for dinner. I feigned a headache, then hid the book under your pillow. You all came back smelling of smoke from the firepit. It only took you ten minutes to find the book and come running into my room. You threw yourself on the bed.

  ‘Thank you, Mum!’

  ‘I told you I’d find it.’

  ‘There are histories in here you’ve never told me!’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Can we read them together?’

  ‘Of course.’

  It took us weeks to read the whole thing. You said it was scarier and sadder than the stories I’d told you. I felt terrible, but then you said you liked it better, that it felt alive and true and magical. Like the people were real.

  Just as the History tormented Lou, it started to torment me too. I missed Chloe. I missed Henry. I stared at myself in the mirror every day, noting how I’d changed myself. Cut and curled my hair to match the older ladies at church. Picked out clothes for a woman twice my age. Glasses. More to age me than anything. Would anyone even recognise me back home?

  I told myself, maybe I’d just go down and see. Maybe, I’d just find Chloe. No one else would recognise me. I’d just go to see my sister. You and me, we packed our bags. Just a little trip. While Da
d was away. We’d be back.

  We took the train to East Perth Station, found a bus going to Augusta. I told you the truth, in a way. I said, ‘We’re going to the place where I found the mischief.’

  We made it to a stop just outside Margaret River. You were hungry. We had a twenty-minute stop. We went into a roadhouse with tables festooned with dusty plastic flowers. I forgot my wallet, and told you to order while I went back to the bus to get my bag.

  Elliot was there. Waiting. His car parked right beside the bus. He had a handful of papers that swished in the breeze as he came towards me. He slapped me so hard, he knocked me to the ground. He threw his stack of photocopies and cut-out newspaper articles at me.

  ‘How could you do this?’ he shouted. ‘After everything Robert’s done for you?’

  I looked up at him, not daring to get up. ‘I just … Harry and I were just taking a trip.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me, Louise. I know who you are. I read your stupid book. You even gave your bastard lover the same bloody name. Look at those papers. Go on, look at them!’

  I glanced at the scattered newspaper cut-outs. Black-and-white photos of myself stared back at me. Then a few of my sister. My father. Henry.

  LOCAL GIRL AND BOY MISSING

  SEARCH-AND-RESCUE CALL OFF HUNT

  FOR MISSING TEENS

  FAMILY’S HEARTBREAK: BRING BACK LOU

  BOY, 17, ARRESTED IN MISSING GIRL CASE

  ‘ABO BOY STALKED MY GIRL!’

  MOTHER’S CLAIM IN MISSING GIRL CASE

  HANGING SUICIDE AT JAIL:

  STILL NO ANSWERS FOR THE FAMILY

  Suicide. I lingered on that. Held the brittle, yellowed paper in my shaking hands.

  ‘Suicide?’ Elliot mocked. ‘A black boy arrested for killing a sweet little white girl?’

  I cried, staring at the pictures of Henry, looking so frightened in handcuffs. Chloe, crying, pleading with the newspaper’s readers for any information.

  ‘I know all your secrets,’ Elliot spat. ‘Your son’s a bastard. His father’s dead. You tortured your family.’

  You saw everything from the roadhouse. You came running.

  ‘Are you going to tell Harry?’ Elliot shouted. ‘Or are you coming home?’

  ‘Mum?’ your little voice dared.