Mallawindy (33 page)

‘Be assured that nothing you might say to me will go further than this room – if that is your desire.' He drew a chair towards her.

Her next words were long in coming. Her fingers combed her hair back from her face, then she said softly. ‘Can we go back to the beginning; back where you came in?' She picked up the writing pad, looked at the words she'd written there.

‘Start wherever you'd like to start. Stop if you begin to feel uncomfortable.'

Silent again, her fingers fiddled, her mouth worked, attempting to create the right words. She swallowed several times, then it came in a non-stoppable torrent. ‘I know this will convince you that I am stark raving mad, and you are probably the last person in the world I should tell, but I don't write those poems. I might hold the pen, but I swear to you that I don't even know what I've written half the time. I fold them up and poke them away. Later when I pick one up, it's like . . . like something from a book. Author unknown.'

‘But you know the author, Mrs Taylor.'

‘What is the educated opinion of dual personalities these days, Doctor James?'

‘They make good movie shows. What age were you when you first started finding these poems?'

Perhaps she was relieved by his flippancy. She glanced at him,
then away. ‘Little Annie was writing poems before she could write. I am the interloper. Me. Aunty May created me in a looking-glass when Annie was already six years old. She took little Annie back to Narrawee and she brushed her hair with a golden brush, and made it into long sausage curls. She dressed her in a beautiful blue dress with a white lace collar then she showed her, her reflection in a looking-glass. I was born. Annie named me Annie Blue Dress.

‘Annie Blue Dress was special in Narrawee. Aunty May was the boss, even the boss of Uncle Sam. She'd say jump. He'd say, how high. May liked Annie Blue Dress better than Liza. L
ittle Annie was happy, content to move behind the mirror image Aunty May had created. She'd never been special to anyone except Johnny. Aunty May was such an important lady. What she said was the law. She had beautiful clothes and a big car and lots of money, yet she preferred the girl in the looking-glass to Liza, competition winner, Daddy's Shirley Temple. Annie Blue Dress was strong too. The only thing that can cut glass is a diamond. Aunty May said so.'

Doctor James waited for her to restart, but when no words came, he prompted. ‘Can you continue?'

‘I was a Narrawee thing. It had to be put away when Annie went back to Mallawindy. We lived together, Annie and me, in a half-real world. For years, we were locked in some place . . . like . . . like paralysed spiders in a hornet's nest.' She looked away from him to her hands. ‘Then Dad killed our dog when we were thirteen and something happened inside our head.' She shook her head. ‘This sounds crazy.'

‘Not at all. Continue.'

‘Little Annie sort of backed off the night Mickey died. She loved Dad because he learned her sign language, and he used to explain things to her, say poetry to her, and tell her things about the world. Everyone would run away from him when he went crazy, but little Annie never ran, and sometimes it paid off. When his mad bull was gone, then the other one would come out of his
eyes and want to talk, so she stayed, and she waited, and she talked to him with her hands, and he understood her.

‘Mum couldn't understand the signing. It was alien. Devil worship. Annie was some demon, sent to try Mum. Anyway.' She swallowed, licked her lips. ‘Anyway, the night Mickey died, something crazy happened. It was like . . . like walking out of a dark room into light. Everything was bright. The moon was orange and the land was cold, white, and the stars, and the tin roof – . Everything was light.

‘He had murdered my dog. He'd killed him, shot him with his gun and left him in the moonlight, lying there in a pool of black blood. I hated him that night. Hated him. Hated him, but Annie made excuses, like Mum. The dog was dead on his fee
t. He was half crippled. But he was my dog. My dog.' She slammed a fist into her breast. ‘A few days later I discovered I could talk, so Annie wouldn't be outdone. She started talking too, but inside my bloody head.'

‘Where is she now?'

‘She's me. I'm just . . . just her reflection. The façade she shows to the world.'

‘You're the one speaking to me, so what is she doing?' he asked with a smile.

‘She doesn't do. She talks, makes pictures, writes poems. But it feels different now. Somehow, it feels different.'

‘Tell me how it feels different.'

‘It's like I've been half blind. Now when she makes a picture, I can trace it to its end. I can see what she can see.'

‘What can you see?'

‘Anything I want to see. I can even see that last day. Liza's red overalls and her frilly white blouse. A bib shaped like a heart on the overalls. Metal buckles that Liza wouldn't even try to do up. I . . . I tried to teach her. It was easy. I couldn't understand how it could be hard for someone bigger than me. She was nearly eleven months older, but every day I had to help her do up her
shoes, do up her buckles, like Mum used to in Mallawindy. She'd grizzle, “I can't do it,” so Mum would do it for her. “I can't reach the tap. I want a drink.” Mum would jump up, get her a drink. Not for me though. Never for me. In Mallawindy, Liza had a grip on everything that should have been mine. Like the doll I won in a raffle when I was four. We both had tickets, but my ticket won. I had to walk up to the stage and take the doll from Mrs Norris.

‘Dad . . . he wanted me to give the ticket to Liza that night, let her go up to the stage and collect the prize. She was the pretty one, the important one. She was Miss Tiny Tot 1963. But I knew my ticket had won. It was number 48. I was four, and two times four is eight. Johnny said so. He said when we bought it that it was my lucky number. And it was. He took my hand and he walked me up to the stage, and Dad couldn't do a thing about it because
the whole town was watching him. Mrs Norris gave me the doll. It was so beautiful.

‘I only had it for two days. No-one was watching him at home. He made me give the doll to Liza, but all she wanted to do was strip it and bite its finger off. I snatched it from her, and he ... Dad, knocked its brains out on the wall so neither one of us could have it.' She stopped, looked at him. ‘Its sleeping eyes were flip-flopping orbs. I kept them. I've still got them.'

They sat in silence while the ash grew long and grey on cigarettes and was flicked off into the ashtray.

‘I used to believe I hated Liza enough to have smashed her head open, picked up her eyes, put them in my golden syrup tin too. Since I was sixteen, I've lived with the fear that I killed her, pushed her down the stairs.' She covered her mouth, with her hand, shook her head. ‘I didn't kill her Doctor James. I did not kill her, and do you know, that is all I care about. I don't care that she's dead, but I didn't kill her.'

‘But you know who did. Continue if you can.'

‘Where do I start? Where can I start? My head is like a tornado, and I can't get out of its way any more. May went shopping. She
left Liza and me with him. We were supposed to be watching television, but as soon as May left, he came in. “The black cat has had her kittens in the cellar,” he said. Liza followed him out, but I stayed inside. I tried to stop her going into the cellar when we first got to Narrawee. I'd stand at the door yelling Liza, Liza, Liza, but she'd never take any notice of me. I wouldn't go in the cellar with him.

‘Anyway, that day, I think I can hear a car coming. I have to get Liza out of the cellar or there is going to be trouble. I've seen them before in there . . . with . . . He does things to her now. He used to just get her to touch him, but now he . . . he does his things. I know, but I don't want to know, so I don't know. I just stay away.'

She took a sharp short breath. ‘They're in the cellar. He's – ' Her hands now sought for words, sought the right word. ‘She's got her pants off. She's on his knee. He's . . . his face is – .'

‘Go past it, Mrs Taylor. Go past it.'

‘Aunty May is going to catch you, this time, you bad man.'

Her face hidden by her hands, she sucked air through the fan of her fingers, rocking, rocking backwards and forwards on her chair. ‘It's my fault. Always my fault. I should watch her better. I shoul
d – '

He took her hand. ‘Go past it, Mrs Taylor.'

‘I can't. I can't. I can't.'

‘I have the picture, Mrs Taylor. You witnessed the rape of your sister. Try to go past it.' She looked at him with empty eyes. ‘Can you speak of what you saw?'

‘Saw. Saw. What I saw. She gets her overalls on, but two legs in one leg. Brainless. Can't even dress herself. Stupid. Greedy.' Ann's fingers were in her hair, massaging her scalp, her elbows covering her face. ‘It gets mad then. It gets terrible. He's yelling, crazy. He picks up a piece of old pipe . . . water pipe. He
hits out. Swings it at – . He hits her. Hits her head. I can hear it. Hear the smash. Terrible. Smash. Apple on concrete smash. It's like . . . itvs
gone mad. It was – . There's blood. Noise and blood. I – '

He interrupted. ‘Have a sip of water for me, and take it very slowly.' He filled the glass, held it for her, and when she was done and the glass was back on the table, her words tumbled out, eager to be free.

‘He picked her up. She flopped in his arms. He was – . My back is . . . at the wall . . . near the door. Stone wall. Cold through my dress. Cold.' Then her hands began signing, and James called time out.

‘A couple of deep breaths for me, that's the girl,' he encouraged. She did as she was bid. ‘Another one now and hold it in your lungs. That's the girl. Hold it while we count to ten.' He spoke on, of inconsequential things, until her breathing returned to near normal. ‘I think we'll give that day a rest, Mrs Taylor. Tell me about Johnny. David said you still advertise for information.'

‘I have to find him. He left . . . left when I was nearly eight. I searched. If I saw the name, Burton – If I saw a birth notice. Engagement notice . . . in the newspaper, I'
d send a card. Some wrote back. Not Johnny. Never Johnny. I searched Melbourne ... made a thousand phone calls. In Darwin, in Sydney. I still search. Never hear.'

‘How will you handle returning to the house where your child died?'

‘I don't know. I feel ... like Dorothy and Toto, picked up and tossed out of all they knew as reality, into a new reality. I don't want it.'

‘This is a very pleasant room, a pleasant view of the garden. Stay a while. Give yourself time to come to terms with Mandy's death.'

‘If I go home in two days, or in two years, it won't alter the new reality. I'm not Dorothy. I can't go back to the old. Mandy is gone. She's not going to be there in two days or ten years.' He nodded. ‘Can I go now?'

‘I'll want to see you again.'

‘You've got what you wanted. There is no more.'

‘I believe there is. I believe you suffered an almost total amnesia at six, and your little Annie voice, her poems are segments of memory from a time you chose to forget, a time that you now remember in total. I'm in Albury on Thursday. Could you – '

‘Later.'

He flipped through the pages of a small diary. ‘Christmas, then I have a conference. I'll be away for two weeks in January. I'd like to see you before I leave.'

‘I just want to – . I need time to – . Later.'

‘February, February the second. How does that sound?'

‘Like six weeks.' She shrugged. ‘Mum believes that God created the whole world in six days, Doctor James. Dad used to tell her that if he'd stuck around for six weeks he would have blown the whole bloody thing up again. But I like the look of the second, of the second, 1991. Almost a mirror image.' She stood and began checking empty drawers.

‘Do you think it might be wise to wait long enough to have your pregnancy confirmed? Also, the authorities should be informed regarding Liza's death. You don't know where . . . where he took her?'

She shrugged. ‘He buried her. I watched him. He buried her in the rose garden. She's somewhere near the middle. Under a rose. I think it was the Peace Rose. He dug it out, then planted it on top of her. There should be the remains of the water pipe down there too. He hammered it in with the back of his shovel, and I wondered if it was going through her heart. I didn't care. She was gone, and I didn't care. I must have been a delightful kid.'

‘How did you evade him?'

She shook her head.

‘Would you be prepared to give the police a statement? We could get an officer to come here, speak to you while you're waiting for that pregnancy to be confirmed. The gardener was in his forties. I dare say he may still be living.'

She turned back to the window. ‘English,' she said. ‘Sandy hair, about forty.'

He frowned, looked again at his diary.

the telephones

The day was almost over when Ann escaped the hospital. She knew she had to tell David of the pregnancy, but there was no joy in this telling. A child so wanted, a planned brother or sister for Mandy, had now become a painful link between the now and that better time.

‘Mum called just before I left the office,' David spoke before her own words were ready. ‘Dad had another stroke this morning. He's very low. They don't expect him to survive.'

‘You'll have to go to him.' Then her words came, cold, lonely words. ‘They did a pregnancy test this morning, David. It was positive.' His eyes filled. He slowed the car, glanced at her. ‘Watch the road,' she said.

He parked in the garage, and they walked to the back door, and into the family room, once a place of a chuckling child. But it was empty now. The house was empty. Silent. It smelt empty. Ann couldn't settle. No dishes to wash, no toys to pick up. She walked upstairs to the bathroom and stood beneath a hot shower, washing the hospital from her, out of her hair, filling the room with fog. It offered no place to hide. There could be no more hiding now. She had set the wheels in motion, and they would keep turning until they reached the end.

Quickly she slipped into her dressing-gown and hurried back to his side. He was all there was. She found him stripping off his tie, his business shirt, and her hands reached out to him.

‘You've been living in this place, David. You stood and faced it all, while I ran. I thought my lack of tears made me strong, but you are the strong one. I'm nothing without you.' He took her
hands, gathering her into his arms. ‘What have I given back, David? Look what I've done to your life.'

‘You gave to me too much content. Shared with me my greatest sorrow, bore me a child who was perfection, and will bear me another.'

‘I don't want to have it, David.'

‘We will make it different this time, my love. We were too brave, too certain of our happiness.' He kissed her as they stood beside the bed, and she clung to him, his kiss kindling life in limbs too long dead. ‘You're exhausted. For a moment I wasn't thinking. For the first time since – . I wasn't thinking, Ann.'

‘Don't think any more,' she said, holding his face to her own. ‘Take the thinking all away.'

Bronwyn had been to the house. She'd moved little dresses from wardrobes, taken away tiny shoes and dolls and prams. Too thorough, there was nothing left to show that Mandy had lived, but while David was at work, Ann found the photographs hidden away in the wardrobe. Golden curls, soft baby limbs and a smile that broke her heart. She had lived. And she would not be hidden away.

Christmas songs on the radio. Christmas everywhere. Ann faced each dawn of each new day, determined just to make it through to night. She placed the photographs back in the lounge room, returned the fretting cat to the laundry, and she waited for the telephone to ring.

So much to say, if she knew where to begin. But not now, not yet. Let the wheels turn slowly. Let them find Liza, then she
would tell him. He didn't need more on his mind. His father was moving closer towards death hundreds of miles away across the ocean. She had to be strong. Keep it inside. She had to prove to him she was strong enough or he wouldn't go if that call came from New Zealand to fly.

And it did.

‘Your mother said they don't expect him to make it through the night. You are going to him, David.'

‘You come with me.'

‘I can't. Not yet.'

‘And I can't leave you alone. We'll go together, Ann.'

‘He's your father. Go, or you'll never forgive yourself, or me.'

‘Come with me.'

‘Don't make me into a ball and chain around your neck. I've got a doctor living next door. I've got Ben, I've got Fletch, I've got Branny. Anyhow, I can't go, even if I wanted to. I've already booked you through, left your return open, and you've got the last seat on tonight's plane to Sydney.'

‘Ring Branny and ask her to stay with you.'

‘I will. Just hurry. The plane leaves in half an hour. I've packed your bag. Check it's all there before the taxi gets here.'

It tooted its horn minutes later, and Ann walked David to the gate. ‘Ring Branny straight away,' he said. ‘I'll call you in the morning. You've got Mum's number. Call her. Tell her what time my plane gets in so she can pick me up at the airport.' Then he was in the taxi, waving from the taxi window, and too far away now to call more instructions.

Her arm fell to her side. She could feel his physical energy pulling away, her strength, her resolve, going with him. She stood on the footpath watching the taxi until it turned the corner, became lost to her view. Still she stood on, mentally travelling the bitumen road with the taxi, seeing it in her mind's eye turn onto the highway. She counted seconds, saw it drive into the airport gate, and she waited, too fearful to return to the house looming empty there.

‘I'll be fine,' she whispered, ‘I will be fine.' Slowly she walked back through the gate. She stopped beside a rose, her hand reaching to touch a weighty bloom, and a late bee settled on her wrist. ‘Mandy,' she moaned. ‘Mandy,' and she ran.

The chicken, she'd been cooking with care when her mother-in-law rang, was now black. She pulled off a drumstick and offered it to the cat who came to rub at her leg.

‘You're just a selfish ball of fluff who doesn't know any better. You eat and sleep just the same. You don'
t know the old world has ended. Even your feeder has flown away. I can't function rationally for ten minutes. How can I live for a day?'

She turned away, switched on the radio, stood twisting the selector up and down the band. Christmas songs. ‘ – just like the ones we used to know, where the tree tops glisten and children listen, to hear – ' Again she twisted the dial. ‘Talk to me, radio. Or you, Annie. Say something. Anything. Someone, talk to me. I can't stand this. I have to get out of here.'

The cat, bored with the conversation, walked away, stepping daintily over a dress-making pin in its pathway. Ann pounced on the pin. ‘Careless fool of a woman,' she scolded, then a shiver travelling the length of her spine, she let the pin drop back to the floor. ‘Doesn't matter any more, old pin. You can all come out and live on the floor. She's gone. Move your relatives out too. Tell them there's a whole world outside the sewing room for you to populate.'

She stood staring at the pin. Glittering pin, black bead head. Black onyx ring, worn on the smallest finger, sized for a much slimmer hand – .

‘Stop it. Stop it,' she yelled. ‘Ring Branny. Or Ben. Yes. Call Ben.' She started towards the telephone in the hall, but stopped at the door. ‘How can I ring Ben? His eyes will break me. Soft moss on a ring-barked gum tree. Green, oozing moisture. How can I ever see him again? I'll drown in your eyes, Benjie Burton.

‘Jesus! Don't let me do this. Please God, don't let me do this.
Let's . . . let's ring up the Mallawindy pub, Annie. Tell Jack Burton the cops are digging for Fool's gold in Narrawee. I wonder how Sam's taking it?' She laughed then. She stood at the table and laughed. She laughed because she couldn't cry. She laughed until her stomach cramped and she became afraid, and ran for the lifeline of telephone.

‘Be there,' she prayed. ‘Be there, my strong Branny. I need you now.'

‘Hello?' a male answered.

‘Nick. Is Branny there please?'

‘I'll get her.'

Ann sucked air.

‘That you, Annie?'

‘David had to go. I'm losing it. Can you come? Quick.' It tumbled out. The bare untarnished truth. She gasped air as she leaned against the wall, her heartbeat slowing to a steady thump, thump, thump.

‘See you in five, Annie. Stay on the phone and talk to Nick until I get there. He wants to ask you how David went about buying those shares.'

Just a ploy, Branny's ploy, but she talked shares to Nick until Bronwyn walked in her back door.

They spoke that night of many things, and of Narrawee. ‘I think they are digging down there, Annie. Did you see tonight's news? Police told reporters today they had received information on the disappearance of a seven-year-old girl who went missing in 1967. It's got to be Liza.'

‘I sent them there. Told them where to look.' The truth. Clean. Cleansing.

‘You remembered?'

‘I think I did, but I've gone past the stage of knowing what's real, and what's not any more. If they find her, I'll tell you a fine story.'

‘Tell me tonight.'

‘Tomorrow. I'm pregnant, Bron. That's real. I knew before Mandy died. I was going to scream it from the roof tops. Now it's too late. I don't want it.' The truth.

‘I know this sounds like the usual platitude, but things will look better in time.'

‘Not in this house. I see her everywhere. I see her shadow on every wall, but the rooms echo with emptiness when I walk into them.'

‘I love this place. It's the nearest thing to a home I know.'

‘I thought I was building my own safe fortress. It turned into a nightmare too.'

‘You look exhausted. Go to bed.'

‘I'll sleep better once I know David is with his father.'

‘Is he going to phone when he gets in?'

‘No. He'll go straight to the hospital. He'll phone in the morning.'

‘Then it's not much use sitting up is it? I'll climb into bed with you. You can kick me if you dream, and I'll wake you up. That's my best offer.'

The telephone woke them at 7 a.m. David's distant voice sounded so near. ‘He's gone, my love,' he said.

‘You saw him?'

‘I've been with him all night. I stayed with him. He died before daybreak. I told him about the baby. He couldn't talk, but I felt him squeeze my hand. He knew I was there. I think I'll be able to get a seat out in the morning.'

‘When is the funeral?'

‘At ten – tomorrow morning. It's what Dad wanted. Fast. No frills.'

‘How is your Mum coping?'

‘She's strong. She says . . . says he's gone to look after Mandy. I tried to book on a flight tonight, but they are booked out.'

‘Don't worry about me. Stay with your Mum for Christmas. It will be hard on her.'

‘I'll leave straight after the funeral. Don't go near Mallawindy.'

‘Why should I?'

‘Promise me. I've got a bad feeling. God, I wish you were with me.'

‘I'll be here when you come, David. I promise.'

‘Okay my love. I'll probably see you late tomorrow.'

‘There's a plane to Daree tomorrow night. It leaves Sydney at about six. I could drive down to Daree and meet you?'

‘No. It's too far.'

‘It's something to do, David – '

‘I'll look at a timetable. I'll call you tomorrow before I leave.'

At seven-thirty that night, the phone moved the sisters away from the television. Bronwyn picked it up, then called to her sister. ‘STD. It's some cop, Annie. They want to speak to you.'

Minutes later, Ann placed the phone down. Her hand was shaking.

‘They've found her. Found Liza,' she said. ‘It was no dream, Branny. Now it starts, and it won't end until it's ended.'