The Innocents

by Nette Hilton

  ‘Got it?’ Zilla said and led off across the road. ‘You gotta watch out for blokes like that. Just as well I was with you. Gawd knows what he mighta done.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have done anything.’

  ‘Get out. What d’you know anyway?’

  ‘It was Mr Mykola.’ It wasn’t like it was a secret. ‘Oleks Mykola.’

  Now it was Zilla’s turn to gape. ‘He’s a bloody wog as well! D’you know him?’

  ‘He lives in my house,’ Missie said. ‘He’s not ... one of them...’ She couldn’t say the ‘pervert’ word yet. It wouldn’t trip over her tongue and she figured she might have to practise it a bit to get it right.

  ‘He looks like one,’ Zilla said. ‘And anyway, what’s he doing down there like that? You’re not supposed to hang around down there. Everybody knows that.’

  ‘He was drawing,’ she said. ‘He’s an artist.’

  Of course he was an artist. He did that drawing for her, didn’t he? But he never did other things like go to the pub or play footy or go fishing like all the other dads and hubbies around town. She knew what they did; the other women were always going mad about it at the kitchen table.

  But what if she was wrong? What if he was something that she didn’t know about yet?

  She wasn’t even sure if he was a proper artist.

  ‘He draws all the time,’ Missie announced. ‘Lots of things. And he’s good at it.’

  Zilla chewed this over. ‘He’s a pervert,’ she said finally. ‘Doing drawings like that just goes to prove it. Bet he draws them ladies with no clothes on as well.’

  Surely that would never happen.

  ‘You better watch out,’ Zilla stated firmly. ‘Sounds like a pervert to me.’

  ‘He’s not,’ Missie repeated. ‘He’s my friend.’

  Zilla shrugged.

  ‘You’ll see,’ Missie went on. ‘When you come to my house, you’ll see.’

  ‘And we’ll get that Lawrence to come over too.’

  It was nice leaving troubled thoughts of artists and naked ladies behind. It was nice to be headed home. The little swan added an extra buzz. It’d be great to watch her mother upwrap it.

  There was just one small cloud hanging about outside her head. It flashed out warnings of hellfire that would follow if Mr Oleks Mykola dobbed on her. Hanging out down by the river, on the wharf, wasn’t allowed. Never. Ever.

  It was Aunt Belle’s rule as well.

  And that made it worse.

  13

  SATURDAY EVENING

  ‘CHARMAINE’

  She hadn’t been spotted down by the river. It was nice to know she’d got away with it but it wasn’t making her feel all that good. It hung about a bit like the smell that Macey’s dog left on your fingers when you forgot and ruffled his fur too much. It got you for ages after, even when you didn’t have your fingers that close to your nose.

  Her mother had loved the little vase.

  ‘Will you look at that?’ she’d said. ‘Fancy you finding something like that! And it’s a proper vase too.’

  She’d tested it out straight away to make sure the water didn’t dribble out and make a mess all over the place. And then she’d gone out, although it was getting dark, and found some red and yellow nasturtiums. They’d closed for the night but it didn’t seem to bother her. ‘Be lovely in the morning,’ she said, and then, after facing the swan one way and then another, found an old mirror in the cupboard upstairs and sat it under the swan.

  ‘Looks like it’s on a lake. It’s even looking at its own reflection.’ She’d sat down to admire it. ‘It’s a bit like having our own puddle in the middle of the table.’

  The more her mother enjoyed it, the worse Missie felt. It was one thing to give someone a present, but it was another when you’d cheated on them at the same time. And for sure and certain, if she found out about the river she’d reckon the swan was just to sweeten her up. It made it into something sneaky.

  When Mr Mykola came home and stuck his head around the door to check how long he had until dinnertime, she’d nearly died. She didn’t want to look at him. Not directly. He’d probably remember where he’d seen it last. Oh gosh, didn’t I see you down by the river?

  It was easy to sink in closer to the dresser and look like she was doing something else. Then, when he’d turned to leave she’d shot up the back stairs and was in her room before he’d even made it to the front foyer.

  There were lots of things to do in her room. Things that usually kept her busy. Now, though, it didn’t seem to matter what she started, pretty soon she finished up thinking about being in the wrong place. And not being caught. It was like un finished business. Like doing a test when you didn’t get time to check it and see if you’d really done it all. Or going out and finding out that you left the bit you needed back inside.

  Thoughts, like marbles in a bag, tumbled about. One bumped into another and bundled it out into the light. One of the worst was Aunt Belle. Going to the river was bad. Lying about it was worse. Max had been hanging around down there too and if she got wind of that, it’d be Zill and her that would cop it. Max’d blame them as quick as a wink.

  She could almost see it. Her and her mother. On the street with their bags and nowhere to go. Another marble. The children’s home. Bad children were sent there. Reform schools. That’d be her.

  It had been a huge mistake. Going to the river. She wasn’t doing it again and, if this lot could just be forgotten, she’d never do anything at all bad.

  Ever.

  Out tumbled a few more marbles.

  It’d be nice if there was some way she could check on Oleks Mykola. Make sure he wasn’t thinking about dobbing on her. There was a fair chance going down the hall and saying g’day would backfire.

  But she had to do something. It had to be something that would make him think about another time. Or place. Maybe a letter. Or drawing.

  A picture then.

  It could be a picture to say thank you for the swap cards. It’d been a while since they’d arrived but, never mind, she’d write a note. He’d probably be so pleased he’d forget he’d seen her down at the river. He’d probably just think what a nice little girl she was. And it probably wasn’t her down there today anyway.

  A drawing, a good one would do it. And a letter with flowers around the edges.

  She set to work.

  The first few drawings didn’t look too good. Trying to make a picture of her with Zilla was hard. Zill’s hands didn’t seem to fit with her arms. By the time she’d rubbed it out and fixed it up, Zill was looking like an octopus. One that had lots and lots of fingers.

  She found mountains easier. And she knew how to snake a river along so it looked like it disappeared into the distance. She coloured it by rubbing lots of lead on a piece of scrap paper and then smearing it across the sky. Mary did that at school and had hissed at her and called her ‘copycat’ when she tried it in her poetry book, but it didn’t matter at home. Mary wasn’t going to see it here.

  It was a lovely drawing. She added a cloud. It looked good so she added another. She tried a grey cloud on the left. And then another on the right.

  That just looked like she’d folded it in half and blotted it together. She’d wrecked it. Another cloud went in but it didn’t help.

  And she’d drawn a river. A river! The whole idea was to get him to forget about rivers.

  The plan was dribbling away, leaving a big empty gap in the place where she’d been so happy. It was a good plan, though. Bits of it were excellent and she fought hard to find a new way to use it.

  Her brain wasn’t helping. It blanked out all the things she could have drawn and her pencils sat in front of her waiting for her to decide which one to start with. She pushed them to the floor and then had to bend down and pick them all up. Her mother’d be on her if she left them there.

  That was when she remembered it.

  The magic book.

  An awful wave heaved across her stomach as all the
memories galloped around in her head. She hadn’t touched that book since that day but she could almost smell the evening cold of autumn and was surprised when she looked up to find the warm ripples of summer still in the air.

  There was no way she wanted to go near that book. Judith’s ghost had rested more quietly as the cold nights moved away.

  She realised she was holding her breath. Touching that book would bring it all back again. Already the cold menace of Judith was behind her.

  And the darkness in the hall was waiting for her to open the door.

  She made herself breathe deeply. In. Out. In. Out.

  The drawing wasn’t going to happen but there was a painting already done in that book. All she had to do was reach in, grab it and tear it out.

  Don’t think about it. Or Judith. Or ghosts. Or the night that would bring them all out to punish her. Just shove your hand in and get it. There. Torn out and flattened and the book shoved back.

  All over.

  It wasn’t as flat as she would have liked but it would have to do. Nothing in the world was going to make her reach down and open up another page and actually paint water on it. Her fingers ached at the very thought.

  She wrote her note. She knew exactly what she was going to say. Composition was one of the subjects she was best at in school. Which was just as well because trying to write while her heart was thumping like a threshing machine wasn’t easy.

  I hope you like my painting. A good beginning.

  Thank you for the present. I didn’t tell anyone. Lots of love from Missie. She was going to put kisses on the bottom but then thought she shouldn’t.

  She’d never written a letter to a man before. Not even an uncle. She wrote to Gran and Grumpa but they were always ‘Dear Gran and Grump’. Not just Grump by himself. It didn’t seem right to put kisses on a letter to a man.

  She folded it up. It was a good letter and the bit in there about not telling anyone was like a secret message. Maybe he’d be reminded not to tell anyone that he saw her today. That was if he decided it was her that he saw. And he mightn’t.

  For a few seconds she hesitated. The more she thought about it the harder it got to make up her mind about what he might do.

  ‘Missie! Go and wash your hands! Dinner’s on the table!’

  The note and the painting were in her hand. They were getting soggy and the painting would leak colours all over her if she wasn’t careful.

  She waited until she heard the kitchen door close and then took off.

  She dashed down the hallway and around the corner. It was darker along here. There wasn’t even any light coming in from the French windows.

  She almost crept right across the opening when she saw the glow of the cigarette.

  ‘Good evening, Missie.’

  A quiet voice.

  ‘Hello, Oleks Mykola.’

  14

  SATURDAY EVENING

  THE UPSTAIRS HALL

  She is worried, this little one.

  Oleksander sensed it, saw it in the way she slowed and lingered on the far edge of his presence. She was waiting to see which direction this would take.

  And he was fighting the urge to reach out and hold tight to her.

  To shake her even. To yell at her to stay away from this river that surges and tears and pulls tiny things to its belly.

  He didn’t move.

  His heart was squeezed tight. Paralysed him. He was powerless against the old memories. They surfaced so suddenly the summer breeze did little to move them.

  His drawing, the long stems of grass, the river and the bank opposite had soothed him and let him forget other riverbanks and bridges. But then it had been darker, and the river not so well lit by bright sunlight. There was a yellow tinge to the other river, a golden softer light to the day.

  And boys running.

  ‘You must hide quietly!’ They called as they ran through waist-high crops. ‘Quick. Quick!’

  They were leaping, legs like bent sticks and arms waving and pointing further back up the road. ‘Get down to the river.’

  ‘Mr Mykola?’

  Her voice sent quivers into his hands and he found that he trembled as he raised his cigarette to his lips.

  She was holding something out for him. An envelope. An offering for his silence.

  ‘I see you today.’ His own voice surprised him.

  She nodded. The shine on her hair shifted but her face stayed hidden.

  ‘Your mother is not knowing this, eh?’

  The soldiers were coming.

  The child, Missie, little Missie was speaking to him. Her voice filtered through that other time of tall grasses and flowing river.

  And Chaim’s mother who hauled Danya along so fast her feet could not touch properly to the ground. Chaim, too. And him. All of them dragged, pushed, running.

  He tripped, the ground beneath his feet uneven. ‘You hold my skirt, Oleks.’ Chaim’s mother had grabbed him to his feet. ‘Hold tight and run with us.’

  There was no time to waste.

  ‘This is very dangerous, Missie,’ he heard himself say. He was speaking and watching the old movie play in front of him. ‘The river, she is very deep here. And fast like a train. You fall in ... pah!’ He waved his fingers away as if they were being bothered by a bug. ‘...She take you.’

  She pushed him. Chaim’s mother. He had baulked at the side of the river.

  ‘There is a girl I know. A very lovely girl. Little. The mother says always “You not go to this...” How you say...’ His arms made a flat shape as he tried to find the word for a boat mooring.

  Danya. Wide-eyed. Holding on to her mother. So tight her fingers were claws that had to be peeled open. ‘Hold Oleksander.’ Her hands, arms around his neck. Choking him. Chaim’s mother had pushed and he felt the river drag at his feet. ‘You go there.’

  She had pushed them both towards the landing. ‘Hide beneath it ... hide.’

  ‘Like the rowing club pontoon?’

  ‘Like where the boats go in, yes.’

  His cigarette was hot on his fingers and he put it out. And lit another.

  ‘And do not come out.’

  Chaim. Standing by his mother. Holding her. ‘We will be with you. Move on, move on quickly.’ She pushed them, shoving them down to the river, pushing them lower along the bank so they would not be seen.

  The water grabbed at his legs and Danya pulled away. She cried for her mama.

  ‘Hist!’ he’d told her. ‘Your mama will not let us go.’

  The soldiers now were close. Their voices lit across the fields, bouncing across the tall grasses and lapping at his ears.

  Chaim and his mother could not fit under the landing.

  It was so low. Oleks stopped. He did not want to put his face under this water. Chaim’s mother grabbed them and then, without warning, shoved them. Their faces, their noses, their mouths filled. Still her hand gripped little Danya, forcing her, with him, up into the blackness beneath the mooring. His arm, her hand and the soldiers’ voices.

  And then, with Chaim, she was gone.

  ‘What happened to the little girl?’

  He had forgotten her, this child Missie who was safe in her country and who does not know soldiers. Who was so full of life she thinks nothing of its value. He dragged on his cigarette, feeling it burn his tongue and scorch the back of his nose.

  ‘Did she go there?’

  ‘She went there, to this place and did as her mama had said...’ There was a harshness in his voice and it surprised him. The child was surprised too, but puzzled enough to ask her questions.

  ‘But her mother said not to go there...’

  ‘She can swim,’ he said. But it was not swimming she needed to do. Swimming is open and splashing and hot days. Swimming was not what you did in the darkest places in black water with mud grabbing at your toes and fear forcing the strength of men into thin arms.

  ‘You can swim, Missie?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

 
He could see she was lying. He could see the small awakening that said she was beginning to know a river can be a fearful place.

  ‘She can swim,’ he said again. ‘Sometimes she is putting her foot on the ground but she is pretty good for a little kid.’

  Missie had moved forward. She had forgotten her envelope. Her head was bent towards him as she waited for the ending of his story.

  ‘She fell in, didn’t she?’

  It took a moment. He did not want to remember this any further. It had waited though, there, on the other side of the shadows dancing on the wall. He wished it hadn’t. It let him look too long to where he was going. Now it paused, as if to give him time to prepare.

  There were not enough hours in a lifetime ... and tears don’t blur visions.

  His words were lost and his throat was too swollen to allow him to voice them even if they’d been found.

  ‘Did she get out?’

  He was quiet for a little while. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, she did not get out.’

  Those soldiers. They had seen Chaim’s mother. She had run up the bank and he could hear their feet pounding after her.

  They had seen Chaim.

  And then the gunfire.

  And then Danya struggling. And her face in the water as she tore away from him up, up into the air.

  And another gun was waiting.

  ‘I didn’t mean to...’ Missie said. She had moved closer to him, needing him to come back to her.

  It wasn’t time yet. His hand reached out and settled her. Assured her. Wait a moment...

  He had stayed until it was night. He had stayed until eels bit his legs. Then he had gone home.

  Safe.

  And the body of little Danya had not been there. The river had taken it and so he had pushed the mother from the bank and into the water. She was heavy but he pushed her so she could go too. And Chaim. Down the river.

  Grown women are heavy when they’re dead. But it was not intended that children would need to discover this ... it should never be intended.