Tide of Stone

by Kaaron Warren

  The baby farmer (baby farming bitch) called out to me.

  I stood and stared at her. I’d felt disturbed by the 1919 report, with its simple listing. I didn’t know what it meant, but understood that there was something secretive about it. Private. Simple listing, then the description. “Baby farming bitch.”

  The woman begged me. “Please–as–a–woman.–Men–make–it–worse.”

  The woman hitched her skirt up. Her knees were apart.

  “Give–us–a–look,” one of the men said, and I took his gift away on the spot.

  The stench was terrible. I have never smelled anything like it. Like the rubbish tip, but far, far worse.

  “Whatever–they–liked,–it’s–shoved–in.”

  I gagged. Had to cover my mouth and nose. It stank.

  “I–got–some–out–but–not–most.”

  She said, “Help–me,–woman.–Girls–together.”

  But I had work to do. I took up the broom and swept around them, the smell of waste rising. It was old, awful, and I needed to go downstairs, outside, when I was finished.

  We weren’t supposed to help, or show any acts of kindness.

  I was told, if you ever feel sorry for them, read their files. I’d been ambivalent about doing this. I knew parts of what they’d done; the basics of the crimes. We all knew that. Did I want to know the details? Would it make me judge them at a personal level? I’d been told, “Once it’s there, it stays. Like cancer. Like a sleeping ball of death at the base of your skull. It doesn’t seem to do anything, but it is so near you can almost smell it.” But I wanted to know about this woman. What she did. So I could stop myself from helping her.

  She’d suffered plenty, I knew, but I didn’t understand the reality until I saw the woman. The reports were mostly vague, and misleading, except for the one that graphically described the “sexual encounter” as he’d called it, with the inmates chanting, “Good man, give her one, good man, give her one.”

  He was going in time with them, he said, and he wondered if sex would ever work again without that chant.

  The keeper of 1950 wondered who are good men and women? It gave me pause, as well. Being called a good man by this lot? That’s not something you’d boast to your mother about.

  My mother. She never wanted kids; she was terrified of the idea. I don’t want to think about how we happened. Did Dad trick her? How? Get her drunk? She’s so disconnected most of the time, but she loves us. She really does. More than he does. Sometimes I think he only had us so he could send us out to the tower.

  So I did it. I read her file.

  In our family, we talked about the monsters all the time. Around the dinner table, on long drives, all the time. So really, I knew. But there were details in here no one ever told me.

  She had been here since 1901. A baby farmer, a woman who had taken orphan babies, and children unwanted, taken large fees for them, and, if she couldn’t easily find new (paying) homes for them, killed them. None of this was disputed.

  It was far too tempting not to read the rest of the files. The cover on them read, “These are the nastiest arseholes of their time. Think Stalin. Think genocidal maniacs. Think baby-biting freaks. And worse. Read the files, but remember, you’ll never be able to wipe them from your mind.”

  I glanced at them to begin with, trying to reconcile the husks I saw with the representations of the worst human beings in the world in the files.

  I helped the baby-farmer, coming back with gloves and some tongs from the kitchen.

  Pencil knife fork rolled up paper stick stone fingernail clipping toenail clipping no bacon rind for fear of stench wool straps, seagull feather egg shell cigarette butt match stick dried tea leaves china doll arm washed up at shore, same piece of shoe, suitcase handle fishing net fishing line tin label hair ribbon with strap, some watch fittings, rusted nail pennies cigarette lighter. I found all of these. I found a carved chicken bone: 1932.

  I thought of the portrait of 1932. A big man with a face something like a pig’s. I could see what his family might have teased him about.

  His signature was tight, small, easily readable and I thought perhaps he was the same.

  I threw them out the window when I was done, all the things I found and the tongs as well. I pulled her dress back down, tucked it under her. Modesty far too late.

  I took some photos of the items before I threw them out. Just for the record. Mostly, my photos are of things. If they’re of people, I’ve usually objectified them. It’s my way.

  “Professional Time Ball Tower keepers need to rise above it. Not be affected by what they see and hear, not pass judgment.” That’s what I’d been told.

  But of course, we do pass judgment. It was impossible not to, once I’d read the files and seen the inmates. The keepers inflicted damage. They left notes filled with hatred and fury for the prisoners.

  “Thank–you.–Thank–you,” the Baby Farmer whispered.

  “It’s not because I like you,” I said. “I despise you. How do you do that to children?”

  “Are–you–a–mother?–Mothers–are–always–the–tenderest.–Did–you–leave–children–behind?”

  “This is my job.”

  “You–left–them–behind?–Poor–mites–need–their–mother.”

  “You’d all know, right? Every last one of you brought up in a loving home.”

  I felt in control. They would only know what I let them know.

  “Every–last–fucker–here–was–abandoned–by–a–mother.”

  The Ball dropped.

  I ate the last of the chocolates Max gave me. Started a list of things I wanted delivered. Chocolate. Oranges. More coffee.

  I breathed the salt air deep, watched seagulls, daydreamed Max and me together.

  The prisoners

  all showed symptoms of scurvy, but I was loath to donate any of my lemons to them. They were lethargic, had spots on their legs. They had spongy gums. They were pale (though of course they had been without direct sun for decades), yellowish, and their teeth were mostly gone.

  One seemed even weaker than the others. Even less human. He groaned constantly.

  “Are you in pain?”

  “Why,–you–got–painkillers?”

  “Not for you.”

  “My–head–aches.–It’s–a–terrible–burden–to–me.”

  “He never stops,” another said.

  This was Grayson Alexander, the youngest of them all, who was only fifteen years old when he was locked up. His teeth were sharp, like the victim of untreated syphilis, the only one of them with any real teeth left.

  “I’m–only–here–because–people–want–“youth”–locked–up.–But–I’m–nearly–the–same–age–you–are.–I–was–fifteen–when–they–did–the–thing–to–me–and–I–stopped–living–the–moment–they–did.–I’m–still–that–age.–They–stole–my–life–away.”

  I remembered my younger brother at that age. I couldn’t imagine my brother having the…maturity to commit the crimes this boy had committed. His file said he was born in 1907. He came to the Time Ball Tower in 1925.

  His crime was the long-term, horrendous mutilation of children.

  He said, “Do–you–want–to–know–this?–You–have–kids–yourself.–Don’t–judge–me–on–that.”

  “I don’t have kids,” I said. Shit. He got me. I’d have to be more careful.

  “Don’t—believe—the—files.”

  “So you’re saying the files lie?”

  “The—files—are—full—of—nightmares—from—which—you—will—never—recover.”

  I read out his charges to him, hoping to disgust him, but he liked it, got a kick out of it. The rest of them, too.

  “That’s—me!” Grayson said. Delighted. “I’ve—suffered—the—greatest—loss—of—all—of—them.—Not—much—life—lived—before—being—in—here,—so—my—only—memories—are—of—childhood.—They—all—got—to—live—a—lif
e.—I—was—only—trying—to—beautify—those—children.—Beauty—is—Power.”

  “I must be powerless, then. You are not a good man,” I said. “Doesn’t matter how old you were.”

  “I’m—innocent,—I—am,—I—never—did—it.”

  I knew the motto.

  Heinous, unrepentant, undeniably guilty.

  “Your file says you were caught. Pants down. In the hole you’d made in the girls…”

  I stopped, distraught. It was too much. The image of it broke me.

  “Her—stomach!—You—ever—fucked—a—stomach?”

  I wanted to break his neck, but that was it, wasn’t it? No end to their suffering. Instead, I lifted him up. His mouth came close to my hair and I felt him trying to suck it.

  I carried him upstairs. “No,” he said. “Not—the—box.”

  The box was on the top floor. Long enough for a tall man, wide enough so that if you were capable of movement you could turn from side to side, it had three drilled air holes.

  I folded him into the storage box and shut the lid. Let him feel buried alive. It was a punishment they all hated.

  I lifted the lid. “Just hope nothing happens to me. No one would ever find you in there. You’ll be there until the world turns into a black hole.”

  “Make—a—note—where—I—am.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  It was cruel, but I couldn’t bear to hear him talk. To know that, given the chance, he’d do the same again, made me feel vicious and full of the need to punish.

  I was glad I’d read the files. I needed to feel this hatred.

  Taking this action made me feel more powerful than I would have liked. No matter what they said, I was stronger. More alive. There was something tempting that the other keepers hadn’t resisted. I would.

  At the same time, I wished I hadn’t read the files. The images gave me nightmares and I found it hard to think of anything else.

  I focused on food. Keepers are great fans of slow food. All in the pot, cook it for hours. Our Keeper’s Recipe Book said, “You don’t want to be running up the stairs to check on anything. Make and forget, that’s the way.”

  I put up a beef stew, starting with a tinned soup base. I opened cans of beef, poured dried herbs, tipped in some chili, and set the slow cooker going. We are the experts at turning canned food gourmet.

  I walked back past the gallery. My portrait was a photograph, not the first. I hung it next to 2013, my friend-with-benefits Max, who showed no signs in the portrait of the paranoia he now displayed. None of them did. I thought I’d like to see before and after photos, but no one had ever made it happen.

  There was other artwork, too, like the entire series by my great grandfather, Rossiter. Theirs was such a beautiful love story. He became obsessed with “capturing” his wife Ruby, my great-grandmother. Painted her portrait a hundred times or more. On teapots and teacups. Everywhere. He’d drawn her on walls, even the toilet wall. Along the stairs. Everywhere, she peered at you. I wasn’t sure if this was romantic or creepy, but I leant towards creepy. Obsessive.

  I admired Rossiter’s dedication, to keep trying, to persist in getting to the tower over a number of years. There was a teenager, when I was young, who had failed his physical, or his mental, or something. Some said he had a relative imprisoned out on the rock and that’s why he wasn’t allowed. He committed suicide because of his failure. I always thought that was the worst thing. If Rossiter had given up like that, maybe he wouldn’t have married Ruby. Maybe I wouldn’t even exist.

  I wondered about myself. Would I change? I couldn’t imagine being any different from the way I was now. Not in a year, anyway. I could see myself well in the future, a real adult, settled. But now?

  There was one titled, “The Stones of Little Cormoran.” It was signed Eugene. I’d seen some of his art in Burnett’s room, and it all had this same naivety about it. Almost outsider art. On the back of the painting, someone had drawn a family tree. He was my ancestor Harriet’s brother.

  Burnett spoke about him in his True and Honest History of the Time Ball Tower. That book had been part of my life for a long time.

  Burnett Barton’s True and Honest History of the Time Ball Tower is a thousand pages long and growing. He’s had a long time to write it. He doesn’t mind moving slowly, although sometimes it makes him cry because he knows he’ll never be done. That he’ll never again see the places he’s chronicling.

  And that, perhaps, the pages will turn to dust while he still lives, a husk, a living skeleton, an almost inanimate object.

  Much of the text was written in the early days of Tempuston with the more recent works, of fifty years or so ago, mostly consisting of “I Wish” and “I want” with nothing else. Sometimes, “Tired.” I’d transcribed a lot of it. You could see the progression of my handwriting, from the large, round, careful letters of an eight-year-old to the drawn-out, rather beautiful scrawl I used now.

  We started on the day I’d fallen and hurt both knees. My mother didn’t care less; she didn’t even notice. So (and I’d already learned this), I went to the old people’s home for sympathy.

  They handed out peppermints and marshmallows and you gained a lot of brownie points just for walking in the door.

  Our living cautionary tale Burnett Barton’s room was at the end of the corridor. I hadn’t met him at that stage.

  “Don’t pull back the sheets. Underneath he’s just a skeleton with some bits hanging off it. The only thing left is his head and his bones.” That’s what we’d been told.

  I followed my favorite nurse down there, wanting more care, my tears now forced and starting to annoy me.

  “Look who I’ve brought. It’s Phillipa. She’s dying of a scratched knee!”

  “Two!” I said, my voice a whisper as I stared at the horrifying sight. I’m used to it now, but I still remember thinking, how is he even alive?

  “You never sank into the ground while sitting on a church pew,” Burnett said. “You never drowned in your own church. It was an act of the devil, drawing us down to hell because he couldn’t get us any other way. No matter what the temptation, we resisted.”

  This page appeared to be tear-stained, but Burnett’s sweat was very salty so it could be that. Burnett would never see Little Cormoran’s stones again.

  There was nothing left of his village, as far as he knew. It found no mention in the history books. There was no record of the town’s demise. No memory beyond his own. That is all he has left to trust.

  I had a lot of questions about his history, now. As a kid, I accepted it all. But now, I know more. Now, I have questions.

  I asked the prisoners. They said they knew everything.

  “So tell me about Edna.”

  “He—killed—her.”

  “Mercy—killing.”

  I imagined corners of his mouth twitching. A smile.

  His father’s promise.

  “How can Burnett say people were not sorry that Harriet disappeared?” I didn’t see how this could possibly be true. She was a loving mother and grandmother, a loving wife, and from all I’d heard, all I’d read, she was greatly missed. Why would she leave them? Why would she leave the town she’d helped to create?

  I was most curious about Harriet. She sounded like an amazing woman, like my grandmother. I wanted to be like them, not like my mother. Harriet was full of anger and determination to make change, have an effect on the world. That was clear. And that was good. If you’re not angry sometimes, you’re not being honest with yourself.

  Did Burnett love Grace or Harriet? Or both?

  They didn’t answer any of that.

  Something crackled, as if glass was heating, or plastic shifting. I’d been away from them for long enough. I’d done all the chores expected of me, but if this year was going to mean anything, I had to engage. No matter how sympathetic I felt. How much pity.

  The files helped a lot. They didn’t help my headache, though, so I swallowed some painkillers. />
  The smell of meat cooking reached me, making me hungry. Slow-cooked tinned beef, done to perfection.

  Already I craved a bowl of steamed broccoli. A green salad with fresh tomatoes. Stir-fried beans with garlic and spring onions. It made me think of home, and the family meals we’d shared, all of us around the table laughing, eating wonderful food, and our dad telling his stories, and our mum loving us so very much. She’s telling us stories of her world travels and we talk about our adventures, our travels, and what a great family we are.

  Did I?

  Did we?

  What is it about this place? I’d noticed it in the reports. Some delusions. Some forgetfulness.

  “Can you smell that?” I asked the prisoners.

  There was an exhalation of air, those sighs they expelled when filled with regret.

  “A—mouthful—each.—A—taste—for—us.”

  “It’ll make you sick.”

  “Is—your—cooking—that—bad?”

  In the end, I did give them all a spoonful, if only to prove I wasn’t greedy. I wasn’t bullied or tricked into it. I believed it was the right thing to do.

  I waited three days, though, when there were still leftovers and I couldn’t face them anymore.

  I spooned a mouthful for each of them. When I went back a day later, half of them still had food in their mouths.

  “Saving—it,” they said, “savoring.” I yawned. I wasn’t sleeping well. It was a mistake to let them see that. I wouldn’t tell them about the dreams, the constant dreams of my teeth falling out.

  “You—got—sleeping—tablets?—Take—’em.—Share—’em.—I’ll—take—a—baker’s—dozen.”

  Me too, me too, they all said, until I threatened to lock them in solitary. That shut them up.

  Burnett was in solitary, effectively. But he could hear everything that went on in the rest home. Catch glimpses of the pathetic real world going on outside his door.

  The Ball dropped.