One Sunday (39 page)

And Arthur making that terrible black liquorice smile.

His blue-ringed bowl on the table, bread broken into small pieces, but not too small, Helen called the eggs good enough. She lifted the frying pan from the stove, took it to the table and placed it down so she could spoon the eggs into Arthur's bowl.

‘Cackleberry mush all done, Artie,' Rachael said, standing, kissing the top of his head. ‘Now I've got to go, but I'll write long letters and Heli will read them to you.'

‘You're not going anywhere. Running around in the dead of night in your condition. You will consider the child you are carrying and you'll go to your bed now. We'll discuss this situation in the morning.'

Then Helen said it, and she shouldn't have said it. Her head was so full of so many things she wasn't supposed to say that sometimes they just came out and sort of said themselves.

‘If you want a grandchild so much, Father, why don't you claim Ruby's? No one else will want it.'

Then everything went still and that kitchen sort of looked like one of those old masters' paintings she'd seen in the city with Aunt Bertha. An old lamp, the rough plank table, a small man in shirt sleeves and a midnight blue vest, cheap tumbler of wine held to his lips, Frankenstein's monster in brown striped pyjamas, woman in a dusty pink wrapper, half in shadow, girl in a beaded white dress –

She turned her head fast, saw the bridge railing. Mustn't think about that painting. Tomorrow at Aunt Bertha's, perhaps she'd paint it, get it out of her head and onto canvas.

She put the case down and shook her hand, her smallest finger numb. She couldn't feel it at all and could barely straighten her other fingers, but she'd passed Green's place while she'd been thinking, and the dogs hadn't barked. She hadn't even noticed she was walking on wood, the rustling, whispering river flowing beneath her.
Crossing over to safety, Heli Squire
, it whispered – or Rachael whispered.
You've gone and been and done it, Heli Squire.

‘I did it for you, Rae,' she said. ‘I did it for you.'

She glanced over her shoulder, at the wood paddock and she saw him, a lumpy figure moving fast – running, or someone riding a bike. Nicholas had looked in her room! He'd sent the Johnsons out to get her.

She was almost off the bridge, or off the part of it that was over the water, but she was still locked onto it because of the steep sides. With nowhere to run she picked up her case and flattened herself against the bridge railing, the case held before her, prepared to defend her right to run if whoever was on that bike didn't ride by.

He didn't. He stopped his bike and placed one foot on the ground, balancing a heavy load tied to his pack rack. ‘Going somewhere?' he asked.

Only Mike Murphy, who she wasn't scared of in the least, and who she had no intention of speaking to. She picked up her case and continued walking.

‘Going far?'

She walked on and he followed her, walking his bike behind her past the dairy and into Railway Road.

‘Catching the train to Willama?'

She needed to put the case down, so she did, then turned to him. ‘Where I'm going is none of your business, Michael Murphy.'

‘That's a moot point,' he said, and he snatched her case, propped it on his pack rack and walked on ahead, singing the song she'd heard someone whistling down near the river:

Sunday, 9.55 pm

Tom woke with a start, leaving a dream incomplete, and just as he'd got to a good part. Something had woken him. He listened, raised his head from the twisted pillow and rubbed his neck, near seized in the position it had been forced into on that pillow. He rolled his feet onto the floor, slipped his arms into his vest, got his legs beneath him and walked down to the kitchen, yawning. The clock on his mantelpiece told him it was five past ten, which probably meant it was five minutes to ten. Still a good half an hour to train time. The kettle boiling and heat enough in the stove to keep it boiling, he vacated his kitchen and crept by Rosie's bedroom door.

Something was wrong in there. That snore sounded too civilised. He eased the door open and stood peering at the bed. There was enough moonlight to show one head snoring on one pillow where there should have been two. Rosie was up, and he'd left the doors open! That's what had woken him!

He ran barefoot to the lavatory and got a bindi-eye in the heel for his trouble, and got one of its killer thorns in his finger while pulling it out of his foot, getting two injuries for the price of one and letting go with a couple of expletives. Paling fences gave the illusion of privacy.

No Rosie in the lavatory, nor in the washhouse. Gingerly he walked back to the kitchen where he checked out his heel. It was bleeding, which probably meant he'd got the thorn out intact. He gave it a bit of a squeeze and his finger a bit of a suck before continuing his search. That woman chose her times to try him, and that was a fact.

‘Rosie! Where are you, love?' he called low. ‘Rosie.'

He was hopping, pulling on his socks, pulling his boots on. He couldn't creep in his boots, but he returned to Rosie's room, had a bit of a feel under her bed. Dangerous occupation, that; her chamber pot was under there and he knocked it over, and thank Christ it had been emptied. Say what they liked about young Jeanne Johnson, she was efficient.

‘Wha . . . who?' Jeanne muttered. Tom made a fast escape and closed her door, not too concerned. Rosie wouldn't have gone far. She was probably on the veranda, pitching saucepans out on the road.

Taking the lamp with him, he made a thorough search of the other rooms and checked out his office. He left the lamp there before heading outside where no artificial light was necessary, the moon having turned night into silvery day.

She wasn't on the veranda. He circled the house, the lock-up – no snoring going on in there – and he was back where he'd started and shaking his head.

‘Where the hell would she go?' He walked around the town tree, walked the circle, checked the shop verandas, double-checked the post office lane. ‘Rosie!' he hissed into every shadow. ‘Rosie!'

No Rosie anywhere and time was moving on. A few kids were skylarking in the memorial gardens. ‘Have any of you seen Mrs Thompson about?'

‘No.'

A hot, airless night after a hot, airless day, and more heat coming tomorrow. No lights showing through the hospital residence windows. Tom didn't knock, but as he completed his circle of the hospital grounds, Rob's screen door complained and he stepped outside.

‘Are you after my beer or my missus?' he yawned.

‘I'm looking for mine, Robbie. I thought she might have wandered over here again. Go back to bed. I'll find her in a tick.'

Rob disappeared but was back two minutes later, having retrieved his hurricane lantern from its hook on the rafter while Tom completed a circumnavigation of the Catholic church. He'd found her there one night, found her on Rob's veranda twice. Until he'd got into the habit of locking his doors, she'd taken off frequently in the night.

As the two men walked back to the tree, a few screen doors started slamming and folk came wandering out towards the apologetic glow of Rob's lantern.

‘Rosie's gone sleepwalking again,' Tom lied to one and all. ‘If you don't mind checking your verandas and back yards for me…'

‘When did you last see her, Constable?'

‘Half an hour or so back, Miss Martin. She was sleeping. Rosie! Rosie!' No use trying to keep his voice low, not now. ‘Why the hell she had to go and do it tonight with those Russell Street boys coming in on the train, I don't know.'

‘It's the heat,' Rob said. ‘We all go a bit mad in this heat. Throw a full moon into the equation, and hell breaks loose.'

‘Did you hear if they found those missing children, Constable?'

‘Not by sundown, they hadn't, and not a lot to gain searching at night. Those poor little tykes will be exhausted – if they're still alive.'

‘They reckon someone took 'em.' Bill Morrison from the garage was out and hitching up his braces.

‘I hope to Christ someone took them,' Rob said.

‘We tracked down that old hawker bloke early this evening,' Bill added, tying his bootlaces. ‘He reckoned he had nothing to do with it but we took him in anyway. This must have been around seven, but when we got him in there, the coppers told us those kiddies don't belong to that farmer chap they're living with. He took up with a city woman who'd cleared off from her husband taking their kids. They reckon that the husband could have tracked them down, and taken those kiddies back – and I'm not lifting one finger to find him. A woman's got no right to take a man's kiddies away from him.'

Tom and Rob left the group talking and walked to Merton Road, looking down the hill towards the school. He'd found her down there once, sleeping on the school house veranda. He walked a few yards more, then bellowed, ‘Rosie, will you answer me, girl?'

‘How did she get out?' Rob asked.

‘She was sound asleep, Jeanne beside her, so I left the front door open to let a bit of air through. I never leave that door open. I lie in bed and fry at night, and tonight I decide it's safe to leave it open, and she decides to go out wandering.'

‘She's probably curled up on someone's back veranda,' Rob said, turning to the gathering group. ‘If you had your doors open, check inside your houses. She's likely to be curled up asleep somewhere.'

Bill walked off to search his open work shed. Tom waited. There was a lot of junk in there, but no Rosie. He looked towards the station, not knowing where to head for next.

‘I was going to get a ride back with the Russell Street chaps, take her down to that private place for a week or two, but their motor died so they're coming in on the train – which is getting closer by the minute. I might take a wander down to the station.'

Mary Murphy, followed by her troops, wandered out to the tree, their gramophone left playing. With a bit of luck they'd bugger that record tonight.

‘She's not in our back yard. She's done no walking in weeks,' Mary said. ‘She couldn't have got far on those pins.'

‘I hope she hasn't gone towards the river,' Miss Jessie said.

‘I suppose we ought to get a bit of organisation into this,' Tom said. ‘If someone could have a look down by the station and the bridge, I'll check down at the school. She got down there two months back.' He wasn't too concerned, other than wanting her back in bed before that train got in.

There was no sign of her in the school grounds. He considered taking a walk around the oval, but couldn't see how she would have been able to climb the fence, so he wandered back to the road, walking slowly, peering over every fence, checking verandas while continuing on downhill, which was more or less in a direct line from his front door and would be easier on her legs than walking up it.

‘Rosie! Rosie, love. Where are you? Answer me, Rosie.'

Her rag of nightgown sweeping the road, that floral teapot held like a baby in her arms, Rosie shuffled on, unaware of where she was, where she was going, or why. Nothing was what it should have been, so she walked on, hoping to find . . . why she was walking. Dream and reality melding the past and the present into confusion, she knew only that her arms had been empty and her house had been empty. Then he'd come to her, and her house hadn't been empty.

Her old slippers not made for walking, she lost one, though was unaware of it, unaware too of the clods of sharp clay bruising her foot. Perhaps she heard Tom's distant call behind her. Her feet moved faster. Faster wasn't good, faster confused her feet. They trod on her gown and her remaining slipper became tangled in her gown, hobbling her, holding her back from finding…

Always holding her back. Him. All of them. She'd told him, told them all that the Germans had him. He'd said so today. He'd come to her empty house and it hadn't been empty anymore and he'd told her. She pointed, stood immobile, remembering. Used to steal roses from over fences. Used to bring her roses.

‘A rose for Mummy Rose,' she muttered. ‘A rose for Mummy Rose.' Years and years of his stolen roses. All here. Down here. He'd left them down here. Left her a sign, so she could find him.

The Germans had him. She stepped closer to his roses. He'd built her a mountain of roses.

‘A rose for Mummy Rose,' she mumbled, her scrawny arms reaching out to embrace that tepee of roses, her teapot forgotten, falling.

Years and years of his roses. Couldn't carry all of them, but for too long her arms and her house had been empty, so she grasped all.

‘Rosie! Are you down there?'

Head turning to the hill, jaws moving. He knew. She'd told him. Always told him the Germans had him. Prisoner of war. His fault. He'd sent them away. Hated him for sending them away.

‘His fault. His fault.'

She snatched at one flower but the head came off in her hand. Desperate now, she grabbed with two hands and a huge bouquet came loose.

‘All lies. All of them. Lies, Ronnie,' she said. ‘Jealous of Mummy Rose, Ronnie.' The flowers grasped to her breast, she turned in a circle to face her pursuer, stepped on her nightgown and stumbled, nearly fell, and she dropped Ronnie's bouquet.

Trapped again. Phantom arms holding her, but tonight she fought those phantom arms, fought them for her boy, fought until a button popped free, and the gown slid from one bony shoulder, releasing her arm. She withdrew it, a skeletal arm, but it reached for her bouquet and she clutched it to her breast as her second arm was drawn free. The nightgown slid down, entangled her feet, followed her feet for a yard or two as she tottered on. Then her feet stepped away from it, and she was free.

Nothing much left of poor Rosie Thompson. Stick-thin legs and shrivelled breasts, ear-length grey hair and a large bouquet of wilting roses, grey roses, black roses, stripped of their colour by the moonlight but dusted with its silver. Moonlight glinting on that china teapot, left in the dust.

 

Moonlight glinting on the barrel of Lieutenant Kennedy's rifle, and that glinting could give the game away when you were hunting. You had to creep up on them, taking what cover you could while keeping your gun at the ready.

He'd put their light out tonight. Put their lights out too. One more dead German was one less he had to kill, and when they were all dead, he could go home. That's what he wanted, just to go home and get some sleep.

He was near the road now, and there'd be no cover once he left the trees. Open land on the other side, but more cover further down.

‘Make your way downhill, chaps. We'll go at them from the east side.'

Dodging from tree to tree, following no track, he worked east until he had cover on the opposite side of the road, then, at a crouching run, he crossed over.

 

Great moon eye watching over her, showing her the way. Moon showing her where she had to go. No German fence, no German gate would keep her away from her Ronnie. He was her boy, her fine handsome boy.

‘Rosie!'

His fault. He made them go away. He'd done it. All his fault.

‘Rosie!'

‘Make him pay, Ronnie. Pay,' she muttered, fighting that gate open, pushing it wide, then shuffling on down the drive towards the light.

‘Rosie! Are you down here?'

Faster. He wouldn't stop her. Not this time.

‘He'll pay.'

‘Rosie!'

She swiped at her head. Voices in there, confusing her again.

‘Answer me, girl!'

Too much noise of him in there. All of that him in there making the why and the where and the what twist together – disappear.

His fault.
Close your eyes, Mummy Rose, and he won't see us.

And there she stood in the moonlight, silhouetted against the bright light of Elsa's parlour window, clutching her wilting black and grey bouquet, her eyes closed, her wasted flesh like a ghostly white statue.