The Innocents

by Nette Hilton

  Jimmy nodded.

  He lifted the heel of his hand and ran it up across the end of his nose. More tears spilled over and his face was as bleak and as worn out as one of the old men who sat on the benches in the pub park.

  He rested his hands back on his hips.

  ‘She’s dead,’ he said.

  Dead was forever. Dead was never coming back and Missie knew this. Of course she knew it but somehow it didn’t seem to attach itself to Deirdre. How could Deirdre be dead? It was only three days ago, for heaven’s sake, that they were standing at the gate squabbling about going down the river. How could she be dead? You’d reckon someone’d be gone for longer than three days before they turned up dead.

  ‘She can’t be dead,’ she heard herself say. ‘And it’s not nice, Jimmy Johnson, to go around saying that she is.’

  ‘I seen her!’ He pointed in the direction of the river and raised his voice. ‘I seen them drag her out. And it was her. Her dress’s all muddy and her face is all...’ He pointed again. ‘She was flopping all over the place and it was her!’

  His eyes looked like they were standing out on sticks and he had to stop to take in deep gulps of air. His mouth opened as if he had more to say but no words came out.

  ‘You’re mad, Jimmy Johnson. How could it be Deirdre? We saw her the other day. You saw her, too. You did. I know you did!’

  Jimmy looked at her and for a second the pain written across his face faded as if he could see the mistake that he must have made. Then, as quickly as it passed, it returned, hitting him breathless so he was forced to take great gulps in like he was drinking from the steam around him.

  She felt her mother’s hand gently tugging her back to a chair. ‘Shush, Missie. Just sit quietly for a second while I get a warm drink for Jimmy. Here love...’ She wrapped a blanket around him. She didn’t even take off his wet, steamy old-smelling jumper. ‘Sit down at the table and we’ll get something to warm you up.’

  ‘She was dead,’ he said to her mother. ‘She really was.’ His teeth were chattering which didn’t make sense either, especially since he’d been wrapped up in a blanket. You’d reckon he’d be shivering before, not now. ‘I seen her, Missie.’

  Missie looked at her mother. She wanted to see that little expression in her eyes that said this-is-all-a-bit-silly-and- we’ll-get-it-sorted-out- in-no-time but there was nothing of the sort to be seen. Her mother, when she finally looked up from wrapping Jimmy’s hands around a cup, quickly glanced away and Missie wondered if it was because this time nothing could make this go away.

  ‘Mum?’

  Her mother put another drink down in front of Missie. ‘I’ll be right back. I need to...’ She was taking her apron off and hanging it on the peg behind the door. ‘I need to go and...’

  She didn’t finish but Missie heard her footsteps pick up as she got to the end of the hall. She heard the front door open and her mother’s footsteps on the tiled porch as she hurried out. She was going to find out, Missie knew. She was going to find one of those men who were out there searching and find out.

  She’d probably find out Jimmy got it wrong. He was always getting stuff wrong. All the time.

  ‘It’s all right, Jimmy,’ Missie said. ‘She’ll get it sorted out and nobody’ll be mad at you.’

  Jimmy didn’t answer. He bent forward to sip his tea so it made slurping noises. If he’d picked it up like he was supposed to that wouldn’t happen. Missie was about to tell him when the back door opened and Dotty Evans burst in. She brought a gust of cold air and some wayward raindrops.

  ‘Where’s your mother, Missie?’

  Jimmy put his cup down and sat up straight as Dot Evans, without pausing, sailed past the table and out through the kitchen door.

  ‘It’s just Dotty Evans,’ Missie said. ‘She’s here all the time. You know her. Finish your cuppa. Mum’ll get us another one when she comes back.’

  Jimmy was really acting strange. He was still shivering when he should have warmed up. And he kept ducking his head down and wiping his eyes like mad.

  ‘Do you know what I think?’ Missie said. It was hard sitting with someone who was busy crying all the time. And he’d be all right just as soon as he saw he’d made a big mistake. ‘I reckon it’s probably another kid. That’s what. It’s probably someone who got taken by one of them kidnappers and fell in the river while they were escaping. That’s what I reckon. It’s not Deirdre at all.’

  An awful shudder shook Jimmy’s shoulders so his head was snapped to one side so suddenly Missie thought she heard it crick.

  She was about to tell him about the time she cricked her neck playing with a pair of old crutches that she’d found in the stairs cupboard when her mother arrived back.

  So did Dot Evans. And Aunt Belle.

  She turned, ready to say ‘look, see, I told you so’ but the words died in her throat.

  It was without a sound, not one word from her mother or anybody else, that she learned about Deirdre.

  Just a simple nod.

  Just one.

  It was enough to crack something deep inside her. She felt it and her hand moved to protect the rest of her body from falling apart. She thought she might have sighed but wasn’t sure. It was hard to hold together while she was being torn open by pain that must have been building up down there ever since Jimmy arrived.

  It wasn’t going to help to cry, either. If you hurt your leg and you cry it gets better. Or if you get roused on and you cry pretty soon it’s over.

  She didn’t really even know why she wanted to cry but whenever she let her mind get too close to the river and its brown sucking fingers and Deirdre, and the way Deirdre laughed and teased and fell off her bike and pointed her finger and dobbed and did all the things that everyone did, a great horrible lump swelled into her throat and she was afraid to cry. If she cried it might go away and then there’d be nothing to stop that dreadful, awful well of sadness from spilling over.

  It would swamp her, that pain, and she didn’t think she’d be able to stand it.

  She thought she heard her mother crying.

  And Belle.

  And Dot Evans clattering around, swearing at the towels that were in her way while she tried to get the kettle filled. She tried to scrub her tears away with the corner of a towel as she bustled about but every now and then she’d have to stop. She’d just stand there as if she was unsure of what she was doing then she’d wipe her tears and get going again. She told Jimmy to take his jumper off for goodness sake so she could get it dry and then forgot and left it on the table. She wrapped Jimmy in his blanket and held onto him and patted and patted and patted his back while she rocked backwards and forwards. ‘You poor little bloke,’ she kept saying.

  Jimmy didn’t even look as if he heard her. He just sat there.

  ‘It’s a very sad day,’ Aunt Belle finally said. ‘But now we’re going to stop crying and have hot drinks. Have you got that water boiled yet, Dot? And then you two are going to get rugged up and go for a walk to the shop.’ She opened her purse and took out two sixpences, one for each of them. ‘Go and buy yourself a comic each while your mother and I try to see what’s to be done now.’

  Missie looked at her mother. She didn’t really want to go out and get a comic. She wanted to sit on her mother’s knee in the warm kitchen and let the awful thoughts that were hovering like black birds swoop away. She had an awful feeling that they would linger otherwise, dreadful little eyes glittering while they waited for night-time to wave their wings and fill her with all the things that they knew she didn’t want to think about.

  ‘It’s for the best,’ her mother said quietly as she bent to place a quick kiss into her hair. ‘It’s not a good place for children to be at the minute.’

  ‘It really isn’t!’ Dot Evans ran her fingers through Jimmy’s hair, spiking it all up so it would dry. ‘It’s hard to know what to do for the best at a time like this. I can’t seem to think straight.’

  Missie felt her mother pressi
ng her towards the door.

  ‘Off you go now.’ She hugged jackets around them and buttoned them in and then sent them off down the back steps. She watched them walk all the way to the verandah rise before she let the door click shut.

  Suddenly there was just the two of them.

  And a grey day.

  A cold breeze.

  And a dreadful silence that held Deirdre’s name at its centre.

  34

  AUGUST

  ‘CHARMAINE’

  There was a funeral.

  There had to be. Missie knew that and she knew it by sitting on the bottom step and listening. Aunt Belle had asked her mother if she wanted to go but her mother had said she’d be better off going up to the house and making sure there was enough food for afterwards.

  Missie wasn’t sure what the afterwards was about. The only times her mother baked cakes and made plates of sandwiches full of mock chicken and eggs with mayonnaise mixed in them was when they went to the dance out at the community hall. Somehow she didn’t expect anyone would be dancing when they got back home.

  ‘What are they for?’ she asked as if she’d never heard anything that Aunt Belle had said.

  ‘For Deirdre’s mum and dad...’

  Missie opened her mouth to say Deirdre didn’t have a dad. She had uncles and the one that they did have had left town but her mother silenced her.

  ‘She does have a dad, Missie. He doesn’t live here any more but Deirdre was his little girl and he’s here now...’

  ‘How come he’s never been before?’ It seemed an awful waste to come now that she wasn’t here. ‘It’s not much good now, is it?’ Missie wasn’t sure where the words were coming from but she felt prickly and cross and heard Deirdre’s voice complaining about the last uncle she’d had.

  ‘Listen...’ Her mother sat on one of the kitchen chairs and patted the space she’d made on her knee. ‘Listen, now. I know you’re sad. I know that and you know what else?’

  Missie shook her head. She pulled at a loose thread in her cardigan.

  ‘I know there’s nothing that’s going to make you feel better for a while. It’s not going to help, though, if you go around being cross and sulky, is it?’

  Again Missie shook her head.

  ‘It’s just going to make other people cross as well. Deirdre did have a dad who loved her...’

  Again Missie opened her mouth to try and explain the awful waste of his visit.

  ‘...who loved her. And a mum who loved her. You should be trying to think about them now. Think how awful her dad must feel...’

  Missie felt tears burning the backs of her eyes. She let her head drop further forward so they’d spill over. It hurt too much to keep them cooped up in there.

  ‘...And her poor mum. And Zill...’

  She felt her mother’s hands gently easing her closer and turned her face into the warmth of her hair. She could smell Velvet soap and lemon somewhere else. And mixed in with all of it was a whiff of onion and Missie hoped it hadn’t got caught up in the sandwiches. She hated sandwiches that had a smell of onion in the butter.

  She rested there and let her tears wet her face and soak a patch between her cheek and her mother’s neck. She let her mind coat the awfulness of Deirdre’s dad and mum and Zill and their empty place with onion smells and sandwiches.

  ‘Zill won’t have anyone to play with.’ Her mother’s voice so close to her ear. Bringing her back. Making her face it. ‘Now she’ll really need you. That’s why you have to try and be strong and not be grumpy and say cross things. Poor old Zill’s going to have a hard run for a little while.’

  Missie thought about Zill and Zill’s house and tried to imagine what it would be like to have to sleep in a room by yourself if you’d never been by yourself before.

  ‘Her bed will be empty,’ she said. ‘Deirdre’s bed...’ And her cupboard and what about all the things that were hers. What about her bike?

  Above her she felt her mother nod her head as her fingers continued to smooth her hair away from the dampness of her cheeks.

  ‘Where is she now?’

  Was she waiting at the church? In a coffin? All by herself and it was already night-time.

  ‘In heaven,’ her mother said. ‘She’s probably looking down at us from way up high. There’s probably a star up there for her right now.’

  Missie tried to pitch her mind up there, trying to imagine Deirdre as a star or an angel but the horrible image of Deirdre all alone in a black church in a coffin was too strong and she couldn’t stop herself shuddering.

  ‘Right then. Let’s get back to making these sandwiches for tomorrow.’ She turned Missie’s face to meet her own and straightened her hair and fished around in her pocket for a hanky. ‘Here. Blow your nose now and see if you can think of something special that you can do with Zilla when she comes back to school. What d’you think?’

  Missie thought if she sat for a month she’d have no idea what to say to Zilla let alone think of something to do with her.

  Everything they did had Deirdre connected.

  The bike rides.

  The playground.

  The Queen’s visit. It had been Deirdre that had ridden really fast to let them know Zill had chickenpox. ‘Pops’, that what Deirdre called them. It seemed, as she remembered this, that Deirdre had been a lot smaller then. Just a little kid.

  Lately she’d been a bit better.

  Sometimes they’d even gone to find her to get her to come and make up numbers when they needed one more.

  Not any more though.

  ‘Why not take some scissors and see if you can find some pictures for a scrapbook. Aunt Belle put a stack of old papers under the cupboard for sorting. Off you go. See what you can find.’

  Missie went.

  She didn’t stop at the cupboard under the stairs. She drifted straight up to her room, not sure what she was going to do when she got there but knowing pictures cut from newspapers weren’t going to help.

  She didn’t put the light on this time. Instead she decided to sit on her bed with the door open in the dark for as long as she could. She’d lifted her feet up onto the bed because under the bed was very dark and something might be there and ready to lean out and grab her ankles. The fear disappeared as soon as all of her was safely out of reach and she just sat, running her fingers along the hairs on her legs and arms. They were ugly and she didn’t like them but they were ugly enough to keep her occupied until it was time to sit up and start to have to think again.

  She heard the crying then.

  Just a quiet sigh and a nose being blown. And then another quick sigh as if the tears that should have been finished with had backed up again.

  Missie leaned forward.

  It wasn’t Max. She knew that. Max had gone to Cubs with Lawrence and then they were going back to listen to Hop Harrigan at Lawrence’s house.

  Hop Harrigan was hopeless. Why anyone liked listening to him and his dopey adventures was beyond her.

  She heard another nose blow then.

  Quietly she crept to the door and flashed the light on. Whoever was there wasn’t going to get her in the dark. ‘Mum,’ she called. ‘Is that you?’

  Her mother’s footsteps downstairs in the hallway told her it wasn’t.

  The crying settled into the unsteady silence as if it hadn’t really finished with itself yet, but was holding back as long as it could.

  With her hand trailing the wall Missie crept into the hallway. She glanced behind her, making sure her back and neck were as protected as they could be by the wall at her side.

  She ran a few steps, quickly on tiptoe and paused when she got close to the corner and then, almost as if she knew it would happen, she heard a sudden gasp as if the backed-up sadness had caught itself in a rush to escape.

  She smelt the sweet scent of tobacco and saw the flare of a match against the darkness of the hall beyond the corner.

  ‘Oleksander?’ She hadn’t expected to say his name, his real name, bu
t there it was. ‘Hello?’

  She hadn’t moved far, just around the corner so that half of her was still ready to move back if she had to. She saw him, the glow of his cigarette and the shadows it made on his face. He stood, a tall slim outline against the night-time light from downstairs. She saw his hand move to his face and knew he was trying to wipe away the wetness of tears.

  ‘You should not be here, little miss.’

  Missie crept closer. His sadness seemed to fill the air around them, making her own sorrow feel lesser and unimportant somehow. Perhaps, she caught herself thinking as she braced herself and stepped out into the hall, perhaps it was because her sadness had only itself to know. Oleksander’s sadness knew another.

  ‘Is it because of your mum and dad?’

  Oleksander sank down onto the day bed. He let his cigarette smoulder in front of him then took a long, long pull on it.

  He shook his head. ‘Ah, this place. There is nothing in this place that is not known. So, everybody knows about my life then?’

  ‘I was listening on the back stairs...’

  Missie stood close. She wanted to touch him so he’d know she hadn’t meant to say the wrong thing.

  ‘My mum gets mad when I do it. I didn’t mean to...’

  He stopped her with one finger against his nose. ‘Bob’s your uncle.’

  Missie squatted down in front of him. She felt a bit uncomfortable with her hands tucked in between her belly and her chest but she could see his face better down here with him.

  ‘It’s very sad about Deirdre,’ she said, trying to sound as grown-up as Dot Evans did and then found herself nodding as if in agreement with her own voice. A vision, quick and awful and cold, swept over her as she thought again of the cold night outside and the complete darkness of a lonely, locked church. Her breath caught in her throat. ‘I don’t know where she is, you see...’

  ‘Miy bidnyy lyubyy... ah.’ She felt his hand reach out and touch her lightly on her head. ‘She is feeling no pain and she is not cold now. Do you know,’ he said quietly, ‘that it is very hard to be good enough to go to God?’