Thursday's Child

by Sonya Hartnett

  And then sometimes, between black fits of thunder, I would curl into Mam’s lap and she would tell a tale or sing a lullaby and I would feel nothing but tranquil, like a child, and loved.

  I felt the weight of the daylit hours like a millstone dragging after me, especially once school finished for the year. I had never been a good student, being a chatterer, a notorious distracterer, and lazy. My knuckles were tough from the times the whiplash cane had striped them and the very sight of my lesson books never failed to disquieten my stomach. But those lonely days wanted more filling than mooching alone could provide and I started reluctantly to read. I rifled through the cast-offs given me by Georgina Robertson, swiping past the drawings of the ocean until I found the improving tales of sterling boys and virtuous girls. I did not like the virtuous girls, thinking them embarrassingly wet and holy. The sterling boys were smug as goats. Devon had said I was brave: I was a brave girl, and I wanted to read stories about a brave girl who could possibly be mistaken for me. I searched through all the books without finding her but I was not discouraged, I simply took up a pencil myself. In my heart I understood that only I had the expertise to record the adventures of this particular girl.

  I had no paper so I wrote my first story over the blank endpages of the books. In that story the heroine could fly, and I came to envy and soon resent her. Mrs Murphy gave me a sheaf of butcher’s wrapping and on this I grounded my next creation, plucking wings with pleasure; I liked this girl much better. All summer I populated the house with one valiant young lady after another, sheets of paper spilling from beneath my lead-stained hands.

  But between each painstakingly handwritten tale and in between milking the cow and sweeping the floor and scrubbing the pots and wringing the clothes and between the sleepy evenings snuggled awkwardly across my mother’s lap, I whiled away the days moping and brewing discontent. It makes me sad now, to know I let so much time pass by unappreciated. I wasn’t going to stay there, in that place I’d lived a lifetime, for very much longer. I try to forgive myself because I didn’t know about it, then. If I had known, I would have tried to inscribe things more deeply in my memory. And I would have made myself be cheerful, too, because you can always make the effort to savour the final moments of anything.

  Audrey crashed through the door while I was at the table bent over a book, waving away a wasp with one hand and, with the other, feeding myself from a plate of honey pikelets. Blasts of morning air were gusting through the unglassed window and the pages were crimping with the heat of it, and when the door swung back for Audrey the whole book went jagging across the table. She stumbled forward and stood reeling, her face ashen, her eyes raw. ‘Audrey,’ I muttered, and, sensing the problem was bigger than me, began yelping for my Mam

  She came charging from the shelter and Da came too, hearing from off in the paddock. I sprang to the window but couldn’t see a dust cloud raised by any vanishing jinker. If Audrey had walked home it would have taken her hours, especially in the treachery of night. Audrey had collapsed at the table by now, her hair damp and stringy and her hands flat to her eyes. Mam had knelt beside her and Da stood patting her back ungainedly. ‘What’s happened?’ he kept asking. ‘Audrey, Audrey, what’s wrong?’

  She suddenly started crying, as if Da were jolting tears out each time he patted her. Mam waved him aside and he and I stood by the wall, hacking at our fingernails. Mam reached to Audrey and lifted up her chin. Until that moment everything had been unfathomable and I’d been hopping with excitement, my kneecaps positively quivering. But when I saw the swollen eyes that turned to meet Mam’s and the dull glaze of a blow across my sister’s cheek the whole room tilted, I felt woozy with the horror. When Audrey saw Mam, whose tired lovely face was creased with concern, a sob came from her as if everything inside had been slashed brutally through.

  ‘Audrey,’ Mam murmured, steady and serene, ‘tell me.’

  She shook her head violently, hiding her face with her arms. Mam glanced at Da, whose eyes were round and huge. To Audrey she said, ‘Please. I can’t bear to see you weeping.’

  Audrey hunched tighter, her fists caught cruelly in her hair. She pounded her feet on the boards as though she hoped to smash them through. She gasped for air and struggled and stamped, having a fit of hysteria. But Mam calmed her gradually, cradling Audrey to her and saying downy, soothing words. By the time Audrey uncovered her eyes both Da and I had turned white as sheets. ‘Make Harper go,’ she sighed, and though her words were slow and sodden I heard them and went, carefully closing the door.

  Outside the sun was searing and the dogs nowhere to be seen. I put my ear to the door at once but the house had many deficiencies in regard to eavesdropping, the golden wood being thick and strong. I ducked instead to where the wadding had crumbled and left a slivery gap, which gave me the narrowest view. Mam and Audrey had their backs to me, and Da was keeping his head bowed.

  Audrey choked out her story. I could only hear the odd word. Cable. Drinking. Dinner. Dress. Mam held Audrey’s wrist, as if to stop her escaping. That Godwin boy’s a nancy, a queer, he’s never marrying you. Think of the good you could do for your family. No one needs to know.

  Mam covered her mouth with her apron; Da put a hand to his heart. I crushed my ear against the house, straining to catch the words.

  I can’t – I won’t – let me go!

  My skin was prickling, stinging in the sun.

  Stop. Floor. Noise. Ran. What will people say? What will people say?

  Audrey’s forehead hit the table, making Mam and me flinch. Da crossed the room in an instant, snatching up the gun. ‘Put the rifle down, Court,’ Mam snapped at him. ‘That is not the way.’

  I heard the rifle click neatly as Da checked the slug that had waited unused so long in the barrel. ‘I’m sorry, Thora,’ he answered, ‘but something has to be done.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Court –’

  ‘Da, don’t, stay here –’

  ‘No!’ he barked and I wish I could have seen him truly for I believe he stood taller than he’d ever stood before, tall and straight and dignified. ‘That man needs to be taught respect.’

  ‘You’ll make everything worse!’

  ‘Da, he has a rifle too!’

  ‘Audrey,’ he said, calm and firmly, ‘something must be done.’

  He made for the door and I rushed to be there when he opened it, grappling for his arm. He swept past me, the rifle lashing in his hand, striding for the road. Mam dashed a distance after him, and I after her. ‘Court,’ she was begging, ‘please!’

  He didn’t look at her, didn’t slow himself down. Mam stopped with a choking cry, her hands out to the air. She spun back toward the house, in anguish over Audrey. She saw me then, and yanked me to her. ‘Go with your father,’ she hissed. ‘Don’t let him lose his head.’

  I obeyed instantly, sprinting after my Da. He was marching swiftly, the old war wound that had lamed him for years suddenly seeming healed. I stayed some paces behind him, wary of making a sound. My mind was swimming, uncertain what to do. I didn’t understand what Audrey had meant, in the kitchen, I wasn’t sure what Da intended to do with the gun. I knew we were walking to Cable’s and that was miles away. I had the ghastly creeping feeling that my Da was going to die.

  He knew I was trailing him but never slowed or threw a word. Now and then he muttered to himself but said not a word to me. We weren’t walking on the road but through the scrub that scribbled along it, and no one looking for us would have seen. Da pushed aside whippy branches and they sprang away after him, catching me in the chin; my bare legs were soon scratched bloody. Bush-flies darted around us, diving for our mouths and eyes; stray locusts leapt from the bracken, startling me each time. I kept my sights on Da though, on the sweat bathing his slim brown neck, on the blackness soaking his shirt.

  It was late afternoon when we reached the boundary of Cable’s property and I was staggering with exhaustion. Da squatted behind a tree and studied the homestead intently, the rifle
rearing over his shoulder. Now was the time to say something eloquent but my throat was parched as a skeleton and my brain was sputtering with fatigue. ‘Dadda,’ I mumbled, ‘please come home.’

  After all those hours of following him, he finally looked at me. I was kneeling beside him and he smiled and tapped my nose. His thin face was grimy, his brow was torn and seeping, and there was a leaf caught up in his wispy hair. ‘Chicken,’ he said. ‘You’ve always been my chicken.’

  I nodded dumbly, my eyes sizzling in my skull. ‘It’s not safe here, Da. Come home to Mam and me.’

  ‘I can’t, chicken.’

  ‘But I’m afraid.’

  ‘There’s nothing to fear. Mr Cable and I just mean to exchange a word or two.’

  ‘Then leave the gun here, and I’ll take care of it.’

  ‘I’ll need the gun, chicken. Folk like Mr Cable haven’t much respect for words. He doesn’t respect people, so why would he respect their words?’

  I shook my head wretchedly. Tears were dribbling down my cheeks. Da used his cuff to smear them away. ‘You head off home,’ he told me. ‘Go and take care of your sister and Mam. In the morning you’ll wake up proud of your Da.’

  ‘I don’t want to – Da, don’t go! Stay, Da, don’t go, don’t, Da – Da!’

  But he was going, cleaving through the grass, angling for the homestead. I watched him moving further and further away from me. I scanned, desperately, for help: one of the neighbours should have been there, to wrestle the rifle away. But everything was silent and the only living things nearby were the birds and the gnats that hopped onto my skin, and Da and the rumble of Cable’s hogs.

  He was at the door now, hammering. I couldn’t sit useless a moment longer – I pounced up and ran, bounding over the grass tussocks, hollering his name and anything else I could think of, bellowing at the power of my voice. I don’t know what I thought I was doing, except maybe aiming for confusion.

  But Da was still at the door when I got to him, and nobody had opened it. I flung my arms around his waist but he paid no attention to me. He shuffled to the window and peered inside. He swore then, frustrated. He prised me off and started for the rear of the house and I scrambled, once more, after him.

  As soon as we rounded the building Da stopped in his tracks. There was a drizzle of blood on the courtyard stones. It was dry blood, a string of tawny drops. The back door of the house was open and Da hoisted the rifle. The noise of the pigs, their scoffs and shattering squeals, could be heard much louder from here, though their pens were far away. ‘Cable,’ Da called, lifting his voice above the din. ‘Vandery Cable, are you there? I want a word with you.’

  When there was no answer after a moment or two he stepped over the threshold, and I glided after him. He pivoted, all of a sudden, and pushed me roughly outside. ‘Damn, Harper,’ he snarled, ‘I told you to go. Get home, I’m telling you.’

  I cowered, watching fretfully as he hedged into the unlit room and then turned a corner and out of my sight. I gripped the doorframe and chewed my lip, waiting and listening. I couldn’t hear Da moving about anywhere. The sun had lanked my hair and strands were sticking to my throat. I stared down at the droplets, the cobblestones like mirrors reflecting the setting sunlight. There was more blood than I had first noticed, a spray of ruby speckles as if someone had shaken their dripping hands. The yard was enclosed by whitewashed shacks that were flaring brightly, and I tracked the drops curiously to the door of one of them. There was no wind but the door was wavering on its hinges. I pushed it back and looked inside. What I saw startled me, but not enough to make me yell.

  From beams in the ceiling dangled hooks and from each hook hung the hefty carcass of a pig, three of them in all. The carcasses were caught by the tendons in their legs, and their sloped heads, their furrowed snouts and fringed pink ears, were pointed at the ground. Each pig had been slit down the belly and the insides were scooped-out caverns; globules of creamy fat were oozing from the wounds. The flesh of the pigs was blue and pallid and the tails flopped over the chunky buttocks, having lost their twirl. The eyes were the strangest thing, little white balls bulging between the eyelids as if, at any moment, they would pop clear away. I stepped into the room and stood among them, daring myself to touch one. The air was rancid and there was blood splashed everywhere, over the walls and on the pigs themselves. This wasn’t ancient blood, from hogs slain in the past; these three hogs had been alive this morning, and this blood was clotted and fresh. A matting of flies was sipping at it and did not stir on seeing me, stupid with the pleasure.

  I heard the smallest noise and glanced at my feet. The floor of the shack was strewn with bloody sawdust and beneath this was wood. Silly, I wanted to tell Cable, to have a wood floor in a hanging-room. Dirt would have been better, although not so fancy. Blood is wet and surely ruins wood: in time he’d find his fine floor all buckled up and useless. Already it felt spongy and weak beneath my weight.

  Then came that tiny sound again, so meek it should have meant nothing and only got my attention because I was just then looking at the floor. What happened next must have happened in a flicker but to me things moved so slowly I saw everything in its separate moment, as frozen as those sketches of the sea. A hole opened in the floor directly beneath me, opened downward like a lid leading into the earth, and I dropped through and tumbled, knowing as I went that I was falling into Tin’s tunnels and that the trapdoor in the floor of Cable’s hanging-room had been cut there by my brother, that feral thief.

  I rolled and thumped and then I was just flying, feeling nothing above or below or to the sides of me and seeing nothing either, not even the square of light from the open trapdoor. I knew I was falling a long way and that each somersault and slithering was taking me further from where I ever wanted to be. I started a desperate yowling, more panicked than in pain. Standing knock-kneed in Cable’s glaring yard was a preferable place to be.

  And then I was sprawled to a stopstill on a pile of cushioning dirt, the air walloped out of me and my wails instantly silenced. I fought to get my breath back, gasping and gathering myself in a ball. The darkness of the place petrified me; I couldn’t see a thing, not even a hand in front of my face. I made to stand and my head hit the ceiling and dropped me promptly down again, where I sat gripping my ankles and grizzling. I didn’t know which way I had come and the walls, when I put a hand to them, seemed sheer on every side. I didn’t know which direction would lead me to the trapdoor; disoriented and blinded, I could not sense which way was up and, for all that I knew, I might be standing on my head. I was knocked and bruised all over and my dress and arms were damp. It made me think there must be water leaking in and the thought of drowning in the tunnels galvanised me with fear. I lifted my chin and roared. ‘Da! Dadda!’ And clutched my ears because my voice became mammoth in the narrow confines of the tunnel and boomed around me, not like an echo but like a circling, screeching, ridiculing wraith. It didn’t travel anywhere but stayed close, mockingly. I hugged my knees tightly, my chin hunkered to my chest. My situation was dire. If Da could not hear me, he wouldn’t know what had happened; if he couldn’t see me, he would not trouble to look for me. Not seeing or hearing me, he would think I had gone home, just as he had told me. I might sit in the tunnel forever if I didn’t get myself out.

  I don’t know for how long I huddled there: I remember it seemed an age before I had the courage to shuffle forward warily. Tin had a labyrinth of tunnels, everyone knew. He could appear anywhere, and disappear. If he could do that there must be many entrances and exits to this underground jungle and if I searched for them, with a bit of luck I would find one. I squinted once more for light shining past the trapdoor but the tunnel must have kinked or corkscrewed because I was crouched in pitchness as heavy as a wet woollen coat. I felt the walls around me, gauging the space I was in, sliding my fingers along the slick floor of the tunnel and wincing at the touch of tickling roots and fibres. Clods of earth plipped onto my head and made my heart leap every time, bu
t I told myself to stay calm. I’m brave, I reminded myself: I’m a brave girl. It’s dark and I’m lost but worse could have happened, this isn’t very bad.

  Dogs, wandering freely, go uphill, and that’s a thing that makes sense. I had fallen down and the way out would be to go up. I slunk to my belly and tried to fathom which was higher, my chin or my toes. Neither felt different from the other. Both felt exactly the same. The place where I was lying seemed perfectly flat. ‘Da,’ I moaned despairingly, pressing my cheek to the earth and sobbing with the tragedy.

  But soon I lifted my head again, wiping away my tears. I thought of the exits and how many there must be. I shook myself and drew a deep breath and began crawling, in the direction I was facing, forward on my hands and knees.

  I KEPT MY EYES open, I don’t know why. Tin’s eyes had grown huge from his years in the darkness but mine were accustomed to daylight and I couldn’t see a thing. I fought against the blackness every moment, but I stayed as sightless as if I’d been born without eyes. I trundled forward, my fingers furled into fists, my knees and knuckles thickening with wet cold earth that clung. My teeth were closed so tight they ached and I hissed through them tunelessly, to keep myself company. Like finches hearing gunshot all thoughts fled my head as soon as I was moving, leaving behind them a rustling, empty space. Maybe, if my mind had chattered and cartwheeled, I would still be down there. But there was a saving brainlessness inside me: I had arms and legs and all my effort went into using them. I was moving, I was clawing, I was not sitting rigid and waiting to die.