Gifts of the Peramangk

by Dean Mayes

  Gingerly, Virginia gathered up the bucket and mop and slowly made her way through the doorway. A long hall greeted her and she was immediately struck by the grandness of it. Plush carpets under foot, large paintings hanging from the walls on either side of her, large and imposing items of furniture standing silent, their contents visible through shining glass. She imagined that this was what a castle might be like.

  Her work began again but, this time, Virginia felt strangely calm and protected in the confines of the homestead. She mopped and scrubbed the tile work and the floors of the laundry and bathroom, removing every trace of mould and dirt from the grout in the spaces between each tile. She buffed and polished the brass taps and fittings until she could glimpse her own reflection. She took special care with the tile work in the bathroom which had pretty patterns and shapes that Virginia found herself drawn to.

  Time blurred once more and Virginia became lost in her tasks.

  That was until the bathroom door swung open abruptly and the housekeeper appeared just as Virginia was making one final pass of the bath tub.

  The housekeeper glared at Virginia kneeling before the tub. The child fairly jumped out of her skin and froze where she knelt.

  The housekeeper inspected the bathroom with a keen eye and opened her mouth as if to point out some flaw in Virginia’s work. But she held her tongue. She couldn’t say anything. The child had done her job well…very well.

  “Come with me,” she snapped, turning on her heel from the doorway, forcing Virginia to clumsily gather up her things and follow hastily.

  She caught up to the housekeeper just as she disappeared into a large dining room, the centrepiece of which was a long, shining, mahogany table with seating for twelve. It was quite possibly the largest table Virginia had ever seen.

  The housekeeper turned to Virginia and snatched the bucket and mop from her grasp, replacing them with a feather duster, a bottle of furniture polish.

  “Every surface needs to be dusted and polished until it shines,” the housekeeper instructed. “There will be not one speck of dust on them when I return.”

  She swept from the room leaving Virginia to marvel at the beauty of the formal dining room. A huge clock stood in the corner immediately to her left and she approached it serenely, gazing at the shining brass pendulum that swung back and forth inside it.

  Adjacent to the clock stood an imposing display cabinet which housed the most beautiful collection of crockery and glassware Virginia had ever seen. Hesitantly, she knelt before the glass doors of the cabinet and cast her eyes over the wondrous treasures inside.

  All at once, Virginia felt panicky and she stood bolt upright, flicking her head in one direction then the other. She couldn’t understand why she was here after the brutal punishment she had received from the Pastoralist. Why had she been assigned to such a privileged position in the homestead when surely the older girls—Deliah and Marjorie—were more entitled than she?

  The need to work to distract her thoughts from anxiety flooded her and she rushed over to the entrance, picked up her equipment and furiously began dusting the furniture in an effort to calm herself. The clock behind her suddenly came to life, its internal mechanism clicking and whirring until the chime inside sounded noisily in her ears.

  Virginia yelped, scrambling underneath the table where she cowered until the clock finished chiming, loudly and methodically, eleven times. Then, the quiet tick-tock returned to the dining room.

  Virginia hesitated as she scanned the room, looking for any sign of somebody coming to punish her for making such a racket. After several minutes, with no sign of anyone, Virginia cautiously crawled out from underneath the table.

  From somewhere nearby—another room in the house—Virginia heard the sound of a curious crackling issue forth. She cocked her ear to listen. The crackling lasted mere seconds before it was replaced by the tinny sound of a piano being played. A lovely melody filtered through into the dining room.

  It was the music.

  Setting her feather duster down, Virginia carefully tiptoed across to the doorway and peeked around the frame of the entrance. The music was coming from directly across the hall, from the parlour—the very parlour that she knew from lingering outside on the verandah. Virginia positioned herself so that she could watch without being seen. A woman was visible through the doorway, sitting on a soft high backed chair, holding a violin in her hands.

  It was her.

  The Pastoralist’s wife was tall and stately, even when seated. Her hair was a rich chestnut, swept up on one side and clipped into place with an ornate hair pin. Her skin was as fine as porcelain. Virginia had never seen skin so soft. Her large eyes were a deep, jade green. Curiously, Virginia sensed something in those eyes—a hint of sadness—although she couldn’t be sure. The woman’s fingers were long and delicate, yet they held the instrument confidently. She wore moleskins, leather riding boots and a checked shirt.

  Just in front of the woman, Virginia could see the conical brass shape of a gramophone’s horn—the source of the music. As the piano accompaniment lilted toward a pause, the Pastoralist’s wife lifted the violin to her neck and began to play, drawing the strange bow across the long end of the instrument and harmonising beautifully with the piano.

  Virginia was mesmerised.

  Each stroke of the bow made the violin sing in long, languid notes and rapid stanzas like a stone skipping across a pond.

  Unconsciously, Virginia moved further into view until her head was now visible in the doorway. So engrossed in the music was she, she had failed to notice that the woman had detected Virginia out of the corner of her eye. One corner of her ruby red lips turned upward but she gave no hint that she had seen Virginia.

  The sonata continued and though the gramophone record featured both the piano and the violin, the Pastoralist’s wife played so expertly that Virginia could hear only her violin as she played it.

  It was more beautiful here and now, at such close quarters, than she could have imagined.

  Standing in full view in the doorway now, Virginia remained unaware that the woman’s playing had drawn her out from her hiding spot.

  The sonata rose to its finish and the woman lifted the bow away from the instrument with a theatrical flourish. Then, she looked directly at Virginia. The woman’s deep green eyes drilled into Virginia’s own and Virginia shivered.

  She was paralysed where she stood.

  The Pastoralist’s wife rested the violin on her lap and regarded Virginia with a flat expression. Then, she tilted her head to one side.

  “Come,” she said softly, beckoning with a gesture of her hand.

  Virginia shook her head reflexively.

  The woman’s expression coalesced into an unexpected smile.

  “It’s alright. I won’t bite. Come and let me see you.”

  Something in the woman’s voice relaxed Virginia and her fear melted away all at once. Slowly, she stepped forward, through the entrance and across the hall into the parlour until she was mere feet from the woman.

  Once there, the Pastoralist’s wife leaned forward and rested her elbows on her crossed legs, still balancing the violin in her lap.

  “I’ve been watching you,” she said. “I know you’ve been listening to my music.”

  Virginia held her hands behind her back and tried to look everywhere but at the Pastoralist’s wife, unsure as to whether the woman was about to be angry or otherwise. Her demeanour didn’t suggest anger but Virginia nonetheless remained guarded.

  “What’s your name?” the woman queried with an intrigued lilt to her voice.

  Virginia hesitated, trying to quell the noise of her heartbeat in her ears. She opened her mouth to speak but she bit her lip at the last moment, as though trying to prevent her voice from escaping.

  “V…Virginia,” she whispered scratchily.

  “Virginia,” the Pastoralist’s wife echoed softly, smiling warmly. “That is a pretty name. My name is Mrs. Penschey.”

&nbs
p; “Pen…” Virginia began, struggling to pronounce the name. “…shay?”

  “That’s right,” the woman praised brightly. “You do have a good voice.”

  Virginia fidgeted nervously and stifled a wince when she arched one of her shoulders back causing a dagger of pain to knife through her.

  Through a gap in the neck of her dress, Mrs. Penschey could see the top edge of a dressing that covered the wounds on Virginia’s chest. A small spot of fresh blood was visible. Mrs. Penschey’s expression quickly melted into concern and, quite unexpectedly, her eyes registered guilt. She reached out toward Virginia and placed a gentle hand upon her shoulder.

  “They still hurt, yes?” she observed quietly.

  This time, Virginia nodded. She did not pull away.

  Shame flashed across Mrs. Penschey’s eyes and as she looked away from Virginia fleetingly, her bottom lip quivered.

  Virginia’s eyes fell across the instrument in Mrs. Penschey’s lap.

  Mrs. Penschey’s own gaze return to Virginia’s face—then to the violin. She sat back in her chair, placed her hands on it and lifted the instrument toward Virginia.

  “Would you like to hold it?”

  Virginia blinked and hesitated a moment, looking over her shoulder.

  “Oh, don’t worry about Mrs. Finchner,” Mrs. Penschey assured her softly, holding the violin out closer. “Here.”

  Slowly, Virginia held out both her hands and allowed Mrs. Penschey to place the violin gently into them.

  Virginia was immediately struck by just how light the instrument felt. It was as if it were hardly there at all. But, more than that, she was transfixed by its beauty—its richly grained wood surface, its intricately scrolled neck.

  “What do you think?” Mrs. Penschey asked.

  Virginia’s expression was one of reverence and unbeknownst to her, she bore a fascinated half smile.

  “It’s…b-beautiful Missus.”

  Gently, she raised the violin up and turned it over in her hands, nestling it gently into the crook of her neck in an attempt to replicate the way she had observed Mrs. Penschey hold it. Instinctively, she rested her chin onto the rest at the foot of the violin and held it there.

  When she looked up at Mrs. Penschey, she was met with an approving smile and a nod.

  “It feels natural…doesn’t it?” Mrs. Penschey questioned.

  Virginia nodded.

  Mrs. Penschey picked up the bow and placed it into Virginia’s free hand. Then she gently manipulated Virginia’s fingers into position on the fretboard of the violin.

  “Now…see if you can produce a note.”

  Virginia looked up at Mrs. Penschey nervously.

  “Go on. You can do it.”

  Slowly, Virginia raised the bow, trying to keep the fingers of her other hand in position on the fret board. She adjusted her grip and closed her eyes, lowering it toward the centre of the violin’s strings. As she touched the surface, Virginia instinctively drew the bow across the strings, eliciting a perfect note that lingered softly until she halted her stroke at the end of the bow’s length.

  Snapping them open, she glanced across at Mrs. Penschey who sat there nodding slowly.

  “That was beautiful,” she praised. “How did that feel?”

  Virginia stood with a curious smile, holding the violin in position. She felt a reluctance to let go. It felt comfortable in her grasp. Standing there in the parlour of the homestead, Virginia felt something inside of her that she had not felt in many months.

  It was hope.

  Chapter 10

  Ruby approached the bathroom door and attempted to open it, but she found it locked. Annoyed, she rapped loudly on the door.

  “Asher! Are you in there? C’mon—we’re gonna be late.”

  Receiving no response, Ruby put her ear up to the door and heard the sound of water running from the basin tap. Someone was definitely in there. Her eyes narrowed and her annoyance grew.

  “Come on Asher! I need to brush my teeth.”

  Abruptly the door unlatched and swung open revealing Jeremy standing there, wearing only his pyjama bottoms and an angry look on his face. Instantly, Ruby was struck by how pale and sweaty he looked but she was given little opportunity to react because Jeremy reached out with his hand, grabbed her and yanked her into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind them.

  An angry Ruby was about to retaliate when she noticed Jeremy’s traumatised left hand as he immersed it under the running water.

  Her eyes went wide.

  “What did you do?” Ruby whispered breathlessly. She stepped up to the sink so she could get a better look and she gasped.

  The deep, ragged gash crossed over nearly half the width of Jeremy’s palm. The skin surrounding it was pale and raised and it looked awful.

  “I just hurt myself on—the back fence—last night,” Jeremy responded.

  Ruby rolled her eyes at his pathetic explanation.

  “Jeremy,” she chided. “The back fence is wooden. There is no way that happened on a wooden fence.”

  Jeremy scowled, turning off the tap and holding his hand over the sink, letting the bloodied water drip away from his skin.

  He was clearly in a great deal of pain.

  “You’ve gotta go to the hospital,” Ruby urged him. “That looks like it needs stitches.”

  Jeremy shook his head and lifted his arm up. His hand was throbbing; the pain threatened to overwhelm him.

  “I can’t go to the hospital,” he said through gritted teeth. “They’ll ask questions.”

  Ruby stepped back, took a blood-stained towel from the edge of the bath tub and handed it gingerly to Jeremy.

  “Questions about what?” she pressed cautiously.

  Jeremy glared at Ruby, a flash of knowing passed between them, but neither of them were willing to acknowledge it aloud.

  He snatched the towel from her and wrapped his hand in it, patting it dry, hissing through clenched teeth as he did so. He sat down on the edge of the bath and cradled his hand in his lap, rocking back and forth.

  “Well. W-what are you going to do?” Ruby asked with increasing worry. “You can’t just leave it like that.”

  Jeremy looked up at the window sill above the basin where he had placed several first aid items he’d raided from a supply that Belle kept in the house.

  Ruby immediately gathered up the items there, placing them down on a clean towel on the floor. Rummaging through the dressings, Ruby glanced up at Jeremy, signalling wordlessly to him for what to use. He pointed to a packet of small butterfly tapes and she picked them out, tore open the packaging and carefully peeled back the individual tapes.

  Jeremy unwrapped his hand and gently presented it to Ruby. With as much care as she could, Ruby secured the tapes to his hand, one by one until she had covered the entire length of the wound. She plucked out a combine pad and placed that over his palm. Then she slowly and securely wrapped his hand in a bandage until the wound was completely concealed.

  For the first time, Jeremy managed a wan smile.

  “You should be a nurse like Mum,” he observed softly.

  Ruby scowled at her cousin.

  “Yeah—well…” she said grumpily. “You’ve gotta stop running around with that gang. You’re gonna get caught out.”

  Jeremy stiffened.

  “Don’t you say a word,” he whispered harshly, leaning in close. “To anyone.”

  “But…”

  “I mean it, Rube. If you breathe a word to anyone – especially Mum…I’ll do you in. I’ll tell them where you go every Tuesday.”

  Ruby retreated from him then and she registered a flash of panic.

  “Y…you wouldn’t,” she stammered.

  Jeremy stood up, balling the blood-stained towel in his uninjured hand then proceeded to the bathroom door. Looking back at Ruby, his shoulders relaxed slightly and the tension went out of his jaw.

  “Come on,” he hurried her. “We’re gonna be late for school.”
/>   Ruby followed him hesitantly out of the bathroom and down the hall to his bedroom.

  “Jeremy?” she began hopefully. “You’re still gonna come into town with me today, aren’t you? You did promise.”

  Jeremy fished a T-shirt out of a pile of clothing on the floor of his room and turned toward Ruby. The expression on his face was utterly blank and gave nothing away.

  Jeremy sat with Miss Glasson in the empty classroom, quietly working away on a maths problem. Having been banished from Mr. Baxter’s class, Jeremy had narrowly avoided suspension on the proviso that he work one on one with Miss Glasson, who was the special needs teacher at the high school.

  Of all his teachers, Jeremy liked Miss Glasson the best, though he would never openly admit it. Louisa Glasson was popular among many of the students; regarded as a friend and mentor to even the most hardened of troubled teens. She never lost her patience or got angry. Miss Glasson worked with a number of struggling students, offering them an educational program that assisted them in areas where they were falling down. Jeremy wasn’t enrolled in it currently, although she had been gently encouraging him to consider it. So far, he’d baulked at it.

  Right now, despite her best efforts, Jeremy was struggling to understand the current algebra problem they were working on. She could tell his frustration was building. Discreetly checking the clock on the wall above the white board at the front of the classroom, Miss Glasson noted that they’d been at it nearly thirty minutes.

  Jeremy scribbled on the notepad beside him angrily, destroying a mosaic of numbers and figures that represented his working out so far. He gritted his teeth.

  “Look,” Miss Glasson said gently, placing her hand over his and taking the pencil from his fingers. “Why don’t we take a break—before you stab me in the eye with that pencil.”

  Jeremy looked up and blinked, seeing her lopsided smile. He managed a sheepish grin in return, then slumped back in his chair.

  Suddenly, his mobile phone vibrated in his pocket, loud enough that Miss Glasson could hear it. She levelled her eyes at him.

  Jeremy felt for the bulk of his phone, then stopped himself short, realising he’d been caught out.