Gifts of the Peramangk

by Dean Mayes

  The rain sounded so different here in the city.

  Despite her relative youth, one could be forgiven for mistaking Virginia for someone much older. As she sat quietly, her body was hunched over, her shoulders were slumped, her head hung down. There was a weariness to her presence, as though she were subject to a constant, crushing weight.

  Virginia gazed into the rain with her one remaining eye, an eye which had also been robbed of life, of vigour. Her young face, though still pretty despite its stark deformity, was a visage without expressiveness or vitality. Instead, it was a face that had carried the burden of decades of suffering and pain, rather than the carefree joy of childhood and adolescence. It was barren, lifeless—devoid of emotion. Her smile had been lost long ago.

  The years Virginia had spent in the orphanage had completed the destruction of the child she had been. Rather than prepare her for the life she was now expected to assimilate into, it had instead robbed Virginia of her soul and left her empty.

  Since coming here, she had endured years of cruelty, humiliation and pain. Years of being treated as less than a person. And now those perpetrators were showing her the door—discarding her as if she had never been.

  It was never meant to be like this.

  Virginia never returned to the farm. Upon being told that the eye could not be salvaged, the Pastoralist had refused to take Virginia back. In his mind she was an invalid—unfit for work; unfit to be productive. And, just like that he had gotten rid of her, as if she had never been.

  In an instant, Virginia had been dispatched by train to Adelaide and taken to this place, where she had suffered at the hands of the Sisters who meted out even more misery than the Pastoralist had.

  In the beginning, as she had when she had been first taken from her mother, Virginia had railed against her internment and escaped numerous times only to be brought back by the police and caned for her infractions. The Sisters punished her by working Virginia harder than she had ever worked before until her fingers bled and she was asleep on her feet from exhaustion. And then, in those situations—if she was caught napping—the Sisters would punish her even further by the hand of the cane, the revoking of privileges, anything to compound her misery.

  They succeeded. They broke her. Virginia’s resistance to them collapsed. She withdrew and did their bidding without protest. Once more she became silent and in time, no one could reach her—not even those few who offered her kindness or empathy. It was just how Virginia preferred it.

  And now, after five long years, it was done. Virginia was released from the custody of this place and expected to make her own way in the world—a world that still rejected her kind as less than human.

  Where she was supposed to go, she did not know. The case upon which she sat contained all that she owned. She had little money and no one to go to.

  The sound of a bus tooting its horn shook Virginia from her reverie and she looked out across the gardens to see it standing in front of the bus shelter.

  It was leaving.

  Virginia stood, grabbed the handle of her case and fumbled with her sunglasses but, by the time she was ready to brave the weather and traverse the path toward the gate, the bus had pulled out and away and was disappearing into the flow of traffic.

  Virginia cursed silently as she watched it go.

  What am I going to do now?

  She didn’t know when another bus would be coming, if there would be one at all. They were notoriously erratic around here, or so she’d been told.

  Virginia looked out at the sky once more and saw a couple of breaks in the weather approaching.

  Perhaps, I could walk in the rain, she thought.

  Just as she was about to step out from the arch, a voice called out from behind her.

  “Virginia!”

  Virginia turned to see a young nun running toward her from the entrance, waving with one arm, whilst holding a rectangular object in the other.

  It was a case—a violin case.

  The nun skidded to a stop underneath the arch, a few feet away from Virginia. She was out of breath and took a moment to catch it once more before holding the case out toward Virginia.

  Virginia blinked at the young nun, who was only a couple of years older than her. Sister Joyce was one of the few nuns at the orphanage who’d treated Virginia with any sort of compassion, though she had never broken through Virginia’s shell.

  “I almost forgot to sign this out for you,” the nun wheezed breathlessly. “I remembered it at the last moment. Thank goodness I caught you before you left.”

  Virginia looked down at the case in the nun’s hand as though it were some foreign object she’d never seen before. She made no move to take it—she couldn’t.

  Inside, Virginia felt her emotions cascade at the sight of the violin case and the memories that it triggered.

  She hadn’t seen the case in years—not since she had arrived at the orphanage and it was snatched from her by the Sisters, to be locked away until she was released from their care.

  Subsequently, Virginia hadn’t played her instrument nor heard its sound in what felt like an eternity.

  Sister Joyce gestured to Virginia to take it and was puzzled by her reluctance to do so.

  “Take it,” she said encouragingly. “It belongs to you. I made sure it was kept safe.”

  Slowly, Virginia extended her hands toward the case, allowing the Sister to place it onto them. For a long moment, Virginia could only look down at it. She didn’t move or speak. She ran a single hand over the leather surface.

  As she did so, Sister Joyce noticed a single tear well up in Virginia’s eye which trickled down over her cheek.

  “Oh, my dear,” Sister Joyce stepped forth and placed a gentle hand on Virginia’s arm. “Are you alright?”

  Memories bubbled from a place where she thought she had buried them deep and they threatened to overwhelm Virginia. The discovery of Agatha’s music, the beauty of the violin, the lessons in the parlour they had shared and nurtured each other with. And with those memories came the pain—a deep, emotional pain.

  The promise Agatha Penschey had made to Virginia—to find her mother and her father, never materialised.

  Virginia never heard from Agatha Penschey again. That one and only friendship, that which had sustained Virginia throughout her years as a domestic servant on the farm had been destroyed in an instant.

  The Sisters had refused to allow Virginia to make contact with Agatha, telling her that Mrs. Penschey had been made aware that Virginia had repeatedly fraternised with the farm hands, thus disgracing herself. Agatha Penschey did not wish to see or hear from Virginia ever again.

  Virginia had cried herself to sleep every night, refusing to believe that horrible revelation. She remembered the last words that Agatha had said to her on the truck, reciting them over and over in her mind, until those words too faded from her memory, crushed by the oppressiveness of this place.

  They became too painful.

  Virginia held the case in her hands now, weeping softly, shaking uncontrollably.

  The young nun continued to hold Virginia’s arm with a look of concern.

  “Miss Crammond?” she ventured once more. “Please. Will you be alright?”

  Virginia slowly collected herself and looked up at Sister Joyce, wiping away the tears with her hand.

  She nodded and set the violin case down on top of her suitcase.

  Looking out at the rain, Virginia’s brow furrowed with worry.

  “What am I supposed to do now?” Virginia said, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “Well—you have the address of the boarding house, yes?” Sister Joyce replied.

  Virginia nodded, patting the pocket of her jacket.

  “Start there then. Get yourself settled. You’ll be on your way in no time.”

  For the first time, Virginia looked up at the nun. Her frown was unmistakable.

  “Do you honestly believe that?” Virginia challenged her. “Look at me.”


  Sister Joyce looked at Virginia’s face. The colour of her skin alone was an impediment in itself but to add the visible scars that Virginia bore—both of them knew that the obstacles she faced were considerable.

  The young nun tried to avoid looking at Virginia’s eye until Virginia caught herself and quickly put her sunglasses back on. Sister Joyce hesitated, then glanced furtively over her shoulder, as though to ensure that no one was watching.

  Reaching into her robes she took out a small rectangle of card and held it out to Virginia.

  “Take it,” she urged in a whisper.

  Virginia took the card from Sister Joyce and studied it cautiously.

  ‘E.J. Delfey & Son’

  “It’s a carpentry business,” Sister Joyce said. “On the northern side of town. I know for a fact that they are in need of assistance with their bookkeeping. You can read and write and are good with numbers.”

  Virginia considered the card for a long moment, then deposited it into her jacket pocket.

  She heaved a sigh and turned around to her suitcase and the violin case, picking them up in each hand then she faced Sister Joyce once more.

  “Good luck,” Sister Joyce offered sadly.

  Virginia simply nodded.

  The rain hadn’t eased but Virginia no longer cared. She stepped out into the weather, armed with everything she owned and crossed the gardens to the gate.

  Sister Joyce watched her go, feeling a sadness settle in her heart. She would pray for Virginia, as she did for all the children who came and went from this place. But the seeds of doubt for the welfare of Virginia Crammond were undeniable. She could only hope that her prayers were answered in some small way.

  Turning toward the entrance of the orphanage, Sister Joyce climbed the steps. She looked back one final time to see Virginia’s small form disappear into the mist of the rain until she was gone from view.

  Chapter 24

  Rain fell outside, pattering softly on the roof of the granny flat—a soothing sound that brought Virginia comfort. Closing her eyes, she listened, smiling inwardly at the subtle music the rain made.

  The rain sounds so different here…

  Closing and locking the sliding door, Virginia peered out through the curtain one last time then drew it over. A distant siren wailed and she chuckled bitterly under her breath. It seemed as though there were always sirens here.

  In the solitude of her little flat, Virginia shuffled slowly through to her bedroom and gingerly sat down on the edge of her bed, placing her hands on her knees.

  In the soft glow from her bedside lamp, her eye glistened with the moistness of tears. She held onto them though, refusing to let them go as the weight of grief threatened to bear down. She felt a weariness unlike anything she had ever felt before—the energy she had expended in breaking up the terrible confrontation between her son and Asher had sapped her of her strength. A maelstrom of thought rushed through her mind and with it, strong emotions that fed into her despair; the dysfunction of her family, the violence of her son, her struggle to protect the children to ensure they were safe.

  So much violence. So much damage. Virginia carried the guilt of it all. She herself had failed just as much as her late husband and her son. She was so tired of it. She shook her head in a vain effort to rid herself of the guilt.

  An old and familiar pain throbbed at the back of her ruined eye and she lifted her hand, resting the pads of her finger tips against her left brow, cupping her hand like a shield over that side of her face. The warmth from her hand soothed the ache for a moment and she sighed, allowing the tension in her shoulders to release.

  Looking up and letting her good eye drift across the room, Virginia noticed the violin case sitting on her dresser. She regarded it with a curious frown.

  “What are you doing there?” she asked audibly of the case.

  Forgetting her eye, Virginia dropped her hand and gazed at the case. Recalling the events from earlier, she remembered picking the case up off the ground after everyone had cleared the back yard.

  Slowly, she rose to her feet and shuffled across to the dresser, picking it up and returning to the bed with it.

  Virginia’s mind was flooded with a procession of new images; memories from another time and place.

  Rolling bald hills stretching away to a distant horizon. A parlour room, filled with sumptuous furniture, warm timbers. A woman’s hands—fine and delicate, gently placing her own small fingers onto the bridge of a violin. The woman’s smile—warm and comforting and full of encouragement.

  They visited Virginia from time to time but she usually pushed them away before they could linger and churn her emotions. This time however, Virginia allowed them to stay and push the trauma of the evening here and now away.

  Resting it in her lap, Virginia slowly ran her hands over the leather case and smiled, feeling the rough surface with its many scratches, ripples and indentations that had accumulated over the years. She felt the tarnished locks, neglected but still functional. The stitching in the seams on the edges, frayed and hanging in places, had allowed the leather veneer to lift and separate.

  Old and tired, Virginia mused to herself with a wan smile.

  Virginia felt a long forgotten pull toward it, which startled her and she prepared to return the case to her dresser.

  Virginia took a step forward, but she hesitated and she sat herself down. Turning the case around to face her, she frowned as one would frown at a recalcitrant child.

  Still it beckoned to her.

  Virginia pressed her thumbs to each of the mechanisms and released the latches with a satisfying snap.

  Gently, she opened the case to reveal the violin inside—still intact, despite the reprehensible actions of her son, earlier.

  The instrument, as always, was pristine. She had taught her granddaughter well in the care and handling of such a violin. There was a shine to the surface that almost reflected Virginia’s features and she smiled.

  She lifted the violin out along with the bow and set the case to one side.

  Virginia instinctively began leaning her head from side to side, loosening the muscles in her neck. Holding the violin by the neck in her right hand, she flexed her arthritic fingers around it, managing to execute a progression of silent fingerings, then drew the violin up. She nodded to herself, almost surprised by the familiar feel of the violin under her chin.

  She lifted the bow and extended and retracted her forearm a few times, loosening her limb as best she could.

  Virginia closed her eyes and began to breathe. She focused on the sound of her breathing, excluding everything else. Then she lowered the bow onto the bridge of the violin and drew out a long note.

  It was a ballad called Prayer for the Children, a hymn that Virginia’s late husband introduced to her many years ago, when she had briefly flirted with taking up the instrument again.

  Her husband.

  Her dear companion who had salvaged so much of her life and dignity after leaving the orphanage. They’d met after she had gained employment in his father’s cabinet-making business. Despite his best efforts, Virginia’s fragile mental health would not permit her to return to the instrument she had once loved so much. But the hymn had remained with her, throughout her life—right up until Anders Delfey’s death. Aggy had sung it in tribute to him at his funeral when she was still a young girl—before her descent into darkness.

  The beginnings of a tune filled the flat with a soft refrain that was vital and pure, despite her advancing years and her tired fingers.

  Can you hear the prayer of the children

  on bended knee, in the shadow of an unknown room?

  Empty eyes with no more tears to cry

  turning heavenward toward the light.

  Crying, “Jesus, help me

  to see the morning light of one more day,

  but if I should die before I wake,

  I pray my soul to take.”

  The hymn often visited her, just before Vi
rginia drifted off to sleep and it had become a sort of prayer of her own that she said for Jeremy, Asher, Ruby and Minty each night. Here and now, Virginia negotiated the tune with hands that shook ever so slightly as her fingers traversed the strings. Her concentration, her focus was finely attuned to the music and though the effort was supreme, Virginia did not falter.

  Can you feel the hearts of the children

  aching for home, for something of their very own.

  Reaching hands with nothing to hold onto

  but hope for a better day, a better day.

  Crying, “Jesus, help me

  to feel the love again in my own land,

  but if unknown roads lead away from home,

  give me loving arms, away from harm.”

  Tears trickled from her closed eye and though she wept, Virginia held her poise, maintaining her performance as she progressed toward the finale, refusing to allow the pall of grief to assail her.

  Can you hear the voice of the children

  softly pleading for silence in their shattered world?

  Angry guns preach a gospel full of hate,

  blood of the innocent on their hands.

  Crying, “Jesus, help me

  to feel the sun again upon my face?

  For when darkness clears, I know you’re near,

  bringing peace again.”

  And then it ended. Virginia sat on the edge of the bed as the silence returned, holding the violin, breathing softly. Then, slowly, Virginia lowered it and the bow and held them in her hands.

  Too moved to think. Too moved to act, Virginia just sat with her eyes closed and lingered.

  Chapter 25

  The school’s athletics field was abuzz with students and teachers who had descended on it for the school athletics trials—a precursor to the annual event that was to be held in a week’s time. Traditional field events were taking place inside the white lines of the running track, while qualifying races were being conducted for the track events. Presently, a group of boys from the younger year levels of the high school were being put through their paces as they competed for a spot in the intermediate 100 metre sprint events.