Mallawindy (7 page)

How she loved that little mud-brick house on the highway.

Her eyes looked off into the distance and a smile crept across her features, erasing the outlines of Mallawindy summers. For an instant, she was her father's golden girl again. Her childhood in that house hadn't equipped her for life with Jack.

His handsome face, his smile – he was only twenty when he'd stopped to lean his bike against the split-rail fence that first day. ‘Could you spare a mug of milk for a thirsty stranger, Miss?' he'd said.

She had been milking the house cow, and she'd looked up to see this handsome prince standing there. He'd sounded like a prince too. ‘How old are you, Miss?' he'd asked.

She wasn't quite sixteen. Her age frightened him. He'd drunk his milk, then reached for his bike and straddled it. ‘Are you going to tell me your name?'

Her blushing face turned to the old cow, she'd remembered late her father's warning. ‘I'm not allowed to talk to strangers,' she'd said.

‘I'm no stranger. I'm Prince Charming and by God, you're
Sleeping Beauty. I'll be back this way after your birthday, and I'll wake you with a kiss. Remember me, Beauty,' he'd called over his shoulder as he pushed off through the dust. ‘I'm drunk on milk and dreams, so you'd better remember me.'

He'd returned to Mallawindy six months later. All the girls in town thought he looked like a movie star, but Jack only had eyes for her. She'd been in love with him since that first moment. His family was rich, and he was educated. He'd spent six months at univ
ersity, and twelve months with a theatre company, and he was in love with her.

She could still remember his first kiss, remember drowning in his arms. He'd been so gentle, but so impatient. Ellie felt the blood creeping to her brow at the memory. She glanced quickly at her children. Their hands danced beneath the bright white electric light, their eyes on each other, only the rhythmic tap-tapping of finger against finger, the occasional slapping of a hand, broke the silence. She was safe to dream a while, remember the good times.

The upstairs bedroom of her father's farmhouse had always been her room. Bessy slept downstairs. When Jack discovered she slept alone up there, he'd climbed the oak tree and like a high-wire act, walked across the high-pitched roof to her window. She wouldn't let him in, though. He'd perched there, quoting Shakespeare for hours, his shoes tied by their laces, dangling over his shoulders, and he vowed he'd sit on her roof until he turned to stone.

For five nights he'd made that climb. It had seemed so romantic to a sixteen-year-old. She was Juliet courted by her own handsome Romeo – until the night Jack climbed through her window and romance went out the door.

Her father had built them a house on the far corner of his land, and close enough to the footbridge. ‘I'm not one to hold a grudge, son,' he'd said the day they married. ‘The deed is done. Now we all have to make the best of it.'

Ellie was three months pregnant, and so sick, but Jack was
good those first years. He drank a bit, and he had a temper, but he was interested in Johnny. It would have been all right if she hadn't got pregnant with Ben. Jack wanted her, not crying babies. She wanted kisses and poetry and romance, not the bed. The verbal abuse began before Ben was twelve months; by the time he was three, and she pregnant with Liza, Jack was running around with other women. He had such a wicked temper – like the night he had burnt the footbridge, which was cutting off his own nose to spite his face. He couldn't swim. Ellie could, and she made certain the children swam well.

Ellie looked up at Annie, remembering again the fragile mite in the hospital. The doctors hadn't expected her to make it through that first night, or the next day. Ellie was still in shock and too worn out to argue when Jack wanted to baptise her C of E. It had been like baptising a stranger's child; her baby had died under the willow tree. Any one of the other babies in the hospital looked more like her own than that little stick insect with legs as thin as Jack's fingers. Ellie kept turning to the other babies, looking for her own, certain the nurse had made a mistake.

Johnny knew which one was his though. ‘You killed her, and I made her alive,' he'd said to Jack that day in the hospital. People heard him too. ‘It's your fault she came out too soon,' he said.

Jack didn't deny it. His face had coloured up and he'd left the hospital without a word. Ellie went home to the farmhouse that night with Johnny and her father, leaving the little stick insect to God and the doctors.

The following months had been the happiest of Ellie's life. She'd put the baby out of her mind, expecting it to die. A terrible mother. Terrible. But how Liza and the boys thrived at Grandpa's house. The mud bricks seemed to keep it warm in winter, and cool in summer. Benjie's asthma even improved, and he started putting on weight. The boys loved their Grandpa, and he loved them. Annie was three months old, and still at the hospital when he died of a heart attack at the dinner table.

The house and all the land on the town side of the river had been willed to Bessy. Already well established in her own house, she sold Mr Mack the house on the highway, plus thirty acres of land, then used part of the money to rebuild Ellie's fire-damaged kitchen.

It was as if Jack had some contact in town, because two days after Ellie and the children moved back to their side of the river, he had turned up.

They picked Annie up a week later. She was still underweight. To Ellie, in those first weeks, it had been like baby-sitting someone else's child. It hadn't felt permanent – like the baby would be going back in a week or two to its own mother. She never got close to her. Independent little thing that she was. Jack had
no interest in her, but he couldn't get over the change in Liza. He'd left a bald, bawling baby, and returned to a golden-haired doll. Liza was sixteen months old, and the most beautiful little girl. Jack spoiled her, wanted to dress her up like a doll. He started taking her with him when he went to Narrawee to see Sam and May. ‘My little Shirley Temple,' he used to call Liza.

The Miss Tiny Tot competition came up in the newspaper when Liza was almost four and Jack knew she'd win it. He knew it before he had the photograph taken. And she did. Thousands of entries from all over Australia, and their beautiful Liza won the prize. They'd been so proud. Jack was happy for a while. It was as if he were important at last, as if he finally had something special that was his. Sam and May might own the property, but they didn't have Liza.

May couldn't have children, and Ellie knew her sister-in-law envied their fine family. She and Sam were always offering to have the boys to Narrawee for holidays. It would have been good for the boys to see how the other half lived, but Jack wouldn't let them go. Then, when they got Annie and Liza down there for that month, Liza had disappeared. For a long time after, Ellie believed May had stolen her, had her hidden away somewhere.
Perhaps she was in some school under another name.

If only, Ellie thought. If only. If only I hadn't got pregnant with Bronwyn. If only Jack had been at home when I had to go into hospital. If only Sam and May hadn't turned up and offered to take the girls. If only Johnny hadn't let them go. If only. If. If. If.

Until Liza disappeared, Sam and May used to come to Mallawindy once or twice a year. They hadn't been back since. Sam couldn't forgive himself, May wrote. Couldn't stand to be at Narrawee either. He lived in Melbourne now, in Toorak, and employed a couple to work the property at Narrawee.

It wasn't poor Sam's fault. He had nothing to feel guilty about. It was all May's fault. Ellie had never blamed Sam. He'd flown to Brisbane the day before Liza disappeared, then driven non-stop, night and day, all the way home. He was the one who'd found Annie, buried alive in the Narrawee cellar. It hadn'
t been Sam's fault. Poor Sam. He'd been over-generous with money since then. It probably helped ease his guilt.

Sam was the image of Jack, in looks, but so different. A true gentleman. He never touched the drink. Melbourne seemed so far away – like another country. Maybe they did have Liza. Had her in some private school down there.

Ellie shook her head and breathed deeply, attempting to still her memories, still her doubts. The police would have found out. Bob would have found out. She'd told him of her doubts. He was such a good kind man, and so handy around the farm, too. He'd helped Ben put up some new chook pens. He'd put new glass in a broken window. He'd even taken the lounge room door off and planed the bottom so it didn't stick. Such a help.

Jack never lifted a finger to help. Even in the first years he'd been worse than useless around the cows. The car accident might have frightened him. Maybe he'd changed. His hand hadn't been raised against her in the first years of their marriage. Perhaps he could change. He probably wouldn't come home anyway.

Both Johnny and Annie took after Jack's side, where Ben was pure Vevers. It had taken a long time for the blood of the two families to mix, but mix they had in Bronwyn, a wild urchin. At seven, she was an odd little mixture.

‘Poor Jack,' she said, only realising she had spoken her thoughts aloud when her children turned to her. ‘Just thinking out loud, loves,' she explained. ‘Just thinking how much Annie is like her Dad, like he was that first time I saw him. Prince Charming on an old pushbike.'

But Ann was on her feet, her chair fallen over, her eyes angry as her hands signed, close to her mother's eyes. ‘No! Not like him. You said like you. Yes, I am like you. Not like him. I will not be like him.'

‘Shush, love. Shush.' Ellie's hands reached out to still the flying fingers. ‘Let me just listen to the night. Do you know what it sounds like to me? Like a tired old boxer, waiting in his corner for the bell to ring for the next round.'

Two days later Jack arrived home on the midday bus. He had to walk from town and he was hot and sore. He dodged around the dog, who sniffed at his shoes, recalling with difficulty the scent of this man.

‘Shit!' he screamed, stubbing his perennial corn on the splaying metal foot of the sewing machine. He hopped and he cursed and he tossed a basket of laundry into the yard. ‘Shit on this bloody taxiless hole.' He pulled his shoe from his foot. It followed the laundry basket into the yard.

‘Jack! For goodness sake. You've just got in the door, love.'

It was enough. Any excuse would have been enough. Tossed from the car like so much garbage. Cops treating him like shit. Stuck in a ward with the dregs of humanity and fed on hospital slops, and now he was back in this shit hole with her kids and her whining bloody voice. ‘The bloody mongrel should have been put down. He's dead on his bloody feet.' He limped into the kitchen.

‘Sit down, love, and I'll get you a Bandaid.'

‘It's a wonder you haven't got corns on your guts. Why haven't you got the gumption to tell me to go to buggery?'

‘Don't be silly, Jack. We were married in the church, and it's lovely to have you home.' She lied, and he knew she lied.

‘Dishonest bitch. You wish I'd died. Freed you from your vows. Come on. Say it. Tell me to piss off. Tell me to go. Just say it. Say piss off you bad bastard. Get out of my life, and stay out of it. It's what I want to hear. Say it.'

‘I didn't know if you were alive or dead for twelve months, Jack. What do you think that did to me and your children?'

‘Made you all bloody happy for a while. Tell me to go. I want you to tell me to go.'

‘You should have contacted us, let us know you were all right.'

‘As if you cared, you gutless crawling bitch, with your little blameless face and your cold bloody bed.' His voice was tired, bored already. He needed a drink – or her.

‘Not in front of the children, Jack.'

‘Not in front of the children, Jack,' he mimicked. ‘Why not? Let them know you keep a bloody cold bed, or did your tame copper warm it up while I was gone?'

‘Bob has been a good friend to me, and that's all.'

‘Then your tongue must be hanging out for it. Get down on the floor and play dead.' His right hand reached for her, black stitches half-circling his wrist like a many-legged caterpillar, but Ellie was out the door and heading for the river.

Jack stood in the centre of the room, his eyes filling with tears. He had a block of chocolate in his pocket for her. Fruit and nut. He'd thought there would be someone in town to drive him home. He didn't want to walk home, fall over the mongrel dog and kick his bloody corn. He didn't. ‘Come back!' he screamed. ‘Come back to me. Come back here.'

Empty house. Empty. Only a cake left to burn in the oven, only pots left to boil dry on the stove. Only the kettle spitting its ire at
him, and the dog sniffing at his feet. He took a small bottle of whisky from one pocket and the melted block of chocolate from another, and he sipped his whisky, and he fed the chocolate to the dog.

‘King Jack of Chook-Shit County,' he said, ‘and you, you crippled bastard, my only loyal subject.'

Unannounced, Ellie and her dripping entourage entered Bessy's back door. No need for questions, nor answers. The trail of water told its own story. Bessy reached for towels first, and telephone second.

A gunshot blast cut her dialling short. It echoed and re-echoed along the river, then a long unnatural silence followed. Birds were silenced. The room was silenced. ‘With a bit of luck he's shot his bloody self,' Bessy commented. She hung up the phone. ‘Get your clothes off and toss them in the drier.'

They stayed at Bessy's house, wearing borrowed clothes, they stayed until the sun went down, and God took to the heavens with his paint-box. They stayed on, listening to the night birds across the river, mourning Jack's return. They stayed until
their clothes were dry and Ellie's cows lowed out their message of discomfort, until the hens went to their roosts unfed. They stayed until Ellie could stay away no longer. No worthy beast should suffer because of her choice of husband.