The Heaven I Swallowed (6 page)

‘Do I have to keep standing, Auntie Grace?' Mary was in the doorway, her tone stronger than I had heard it before, as if the punishment had had the opposite effect than my ­intention.

‘Why did I make you stand, Mary?' I asked her, trying to get myself back on firmer ground.

‘Because I didn't throw the penny in the water, Auntie Grace.'

‘And why didn't you?'

She paused, obviously weighing up the best possible answer.

‘I didn't want to wish.'

‘It was not up to you, Mary. I gave you the penny for that reason. Not for you to hide away. Not for you to lie to me about. Do you have anything to say to me?'

She was still standing in the doorway, her hands behind her back in a stance that should have been submissive. ‘I didn't want to wish,' she repeated.

I was stuck between anger and admiration. She held her shoulders back, aware this would give her credence.

‘Go and make me tea,' I ordered her. I had already finished hanging out the clothes.

‘Yes, Auntie Grace.'

She spun away and disappeared into the kitchen. A moment later, I heard the sound of her filling the kettle.

†

I dreamt that night I was a girl once more trying to find my way through the dark dormitory to the outhouse. I was no one's pet, no older girl was taking my hand and shushing me, telling me not to be afraid, leading me through the darkness. There was only someone hissing at me to be quiet as the floorboards squeaked beneath my feet. I walked down the chilled corridor alone and when I found my way outside I was in the field of arum lilies, their flower heads taller than me, and their pollen making my skin itch. Instead of the path ahead, I saw Auntie Iris's sandstone wall. I ran to it and began rubbing my palm against the wall as if it was Aladdin's lamp, wishing it to take me down to the beach beyond, to the soft sand of Shelley's beach where families would sit for hours on end, in the sun, laughing. I rubbed and rubbed and rubbed the wall and still no genie appeared.

†

‘Auntie Grace?'

I opened my eyes and found I was standing at the bottom of the back concrete steps with bare feet, shivering in my nightgown, my hands clenched in a ball, my fingers sore. I could not remember getting out of bed or walking through the house. My hair was loose, my hair net slipped off.

I turned around to see the girl in the doorway, holding open the screen door.

‘You're cold,' she said simply.

Her face seemed to have caught the moonlight, it streamed down on her, turning her eyes into tubs of knowing. But what did she know?

‘What are you, Mary?' I asked, for perhaps I had conjured her up and this was still part of the dream.

‘Come inside,' she said, as if I were the child.

I could not move and found myself staring at her, at her skin.

‘Corpus Domini nostri Jesu, Christi custodiat animam tuam in vitam aeternam.
May the Body of Our Lord Jesus Christ keep your soul unto life everlasting.
'

A pure, white body, hanging on the cross.

‘May Thy Body, O Lord, which I have received, and Thy Blood, which I have drunk, cleave to mine inmost parts: and do Thou grant that no stain of sin remain in me.'

She stood. An abo, a nigger, a darky.

‘Grant that no stain of skin remain in me.'

The girl seemed about to move towards me. I could not stand it.

‘Get away,' I spoke softly. ‘Go back to bed.'

She let go of the screen door and it slammed shut, echoing in the quiet. For a moment I could only see her eyes, separate from the rest of her. They held something, something long lost to me. She dissolved into the darkness and I stood alone on the concrete, flexing my hands. Abo, nigger, darky. Abo, nigger, darky.

Did she know I had seen right through to her bones? Did she know what she had brought to me? This … darkness.

The next morning when I went to wake her, her blanket was lying crumpled on the floor, her old blue dress was missing and the front door was unlocked. She had gone.

4

I decided I would find Mary by myself. She could not have gone far, I reasoned, for she had no one to go to; she would be wandering out there, with no clear plan as to what to do. I didn't want to involve Father Benjamin. He wouldn't think I was such a good person if, after only three weeks, I had driven her away. Nor did I want the Church to bring in the police who would, no doubt, label her a fugitive and try to track her down.

I dressed quickly, in hat and gloves. It was hot out there, at the end of March, with strange mixed-up days, one clouded and windy, the next still and clear, as if God kept changing His mind. I thought about going in the car but decided it would be too conspicuous, a slow drive down the street would arouse more comments than a quick walk around the block. I would take my shopping basket for the excuse of a longer, more winding route. How hard would it be to look for her without looking as if I was looking? Had Mary's presence been so noted they would wonder about my solitude?

Sure enough, as I walked past my neighbour at number 22, watering with the hose at a suggestive level of his hips, he called out, ‘Left the little darky at home today, have we?'

I replied with a nod and a smile and walked on, heading toward the park and the little beach. It was a Saturday so the children were out on bicycles and scooters. I spotted the Thompson boy playing marbles with a group of lads near the broken bayonet statue. On the corner, still with the street between us, I hesitated. Could I walk over and ask him if he had seen Mary, if he knew where she was? Such a question would spread the news of her disappearance, the whispers shooting off like a cat's eyes or an oxblood. As I watched them play, a little girl trotted up with two ice-cream cones in her hands, a splash of white on her front. She licked one of the cones around the edges, holding the other out to avoid more drips. I saw her deliver the cone to one of the boys. She received no thanks. Her brother turned back to the game immediately, devouring the top half of the ice-cream in one gulp.

I strode on. Down at the beach Mary was nowhere to be seen so I took the path away from the water into the hilly, leafy suburbs. The houses I passed were on double blocks, sprawling with numerous possible hiding places, large empty back gardens with sheds, chicken coops and vegetable patches kept since the war. In my mind's eye, Mary was so small she could lie under a pumpkin leaf and I would not spot her.

My head started to itch from the heat pounding down onto my hat. My feet, trapped in stockings and jammed into navy-blue pumps, felt as if they were on fire, flames in the arches and heels. How much I wanted to sit down and throw my shoes off. How weak I was to already feel this way, after less than an hour's wandering.

I tried not to believe in Fate—it seems sacrilegious—but it did seem to be Fate when I realised I was outside Mr Roper's house. The neat brown-brick fence with a green wire gate lower than my knees; an overwhelming smell of sweetness from the gardenia bushes lined along the path up to the door, their white petals only just beginning to brown and drop; the verandah front with a couple of wicker chairs I had not seen him use, detached ends of cane sticking out from their edges. All familiar enough from my occasional visits over the years, after-church lunches, with another couple of women invited along from the Widows' Group to make it proper.

Knocking on the door aroused Will, Mr Roper's cockatoo, kept in a cage in the back garden. The squawking overtook all other sounds so I could not hear whether Mr Roper was coming to the door or not. His abrupt appearance caught me off guard.

‘Well … Mrs Smith …'

He wore a pair of beige trousers with no belt, a white short-sleeved shirt and, most disconcerting of all, no shoes or socks. Who had he expected me to be? I had taken my hat off, could feel my hair flattened against my head. I still had the shopping basket in the crook of my arm, sticking out from my side like a third appendage.

‘Mr Roper, I need some help.' I had rehearsed what I was going to say on the way up the front path. ‘Mary … the little girl … my ward … seems to have gone … missing … seems to have left the house … last night.' This part of the narrative was not going quite as I had planned. How to describe the previous night? I certainly could not tell him of my transportation to the back steps, nor the words that flared up in my head at the sight of Mary. He was a gentle man, I was sure, his conscience clear of blame.

‘Come on in, Mrs Smith.' He moved back to let me through into the corridor that ran all the way to the back of the house, the cream walls peppered with landscapes of snow-covered forests and icy ponds. I had never asked why he had such pictures. I did not ask him on this occasion either.

‘Perhaps a cup of tea?' Mr Roper offered as we made our way to the kitchen.

‘I don't know. I feel I should be searching.' Even as I said this, I lowered myself into one of his kitchen chairs, feeling the relief of getting off my feet. I would have liked to slip off my shoes but Mr Roper's own lack of footwear made the thought of it impossible.

‘I'll just go and umm …' he said after putting the kettle onto the stovetop and disappeared up the corridor again. While he was gone, I took my feet out of my shoes, wiggling my toes as if I was a baby discovering them for the first time. I put my elbows on the table, breathing out the fatigue in loud, unpleasant exhalations.

I could hear Mr Roper, now in shoes, returning and quickly made myself presentable again.

‘So, what is to be done?' he asked. He had put on a black leather belt and a pair of black shoes, both looked harsh and blunt against the muted colours of his pants and shirt.

‘I was hoping you could help me look.'

‘But she could be anywhere. Gone on, what do they call it? “Walkabout”?'

‘Dear Lord.'

‘What did the police say?'

I hated the way he stared at me, as if he knew my answer would not be to his liking.

‘I didn't think it was necessary to tell them, as yet.'

He turned away from me to check the kettle which had started a faint whistling, the beginning of the boil. I had expected him to show more exasperation, to berate me for my pride.

‘We can take my car,' he said and it was settled.

‘So nice to not have petrol rations,' I said and drank my tea without really tasting it.

†

Mr Roper's FJ Holden smelt of the thin brown cigars, or cigarillos, I often saw him smoking after church. His house seemed to have avoided the stale stench and it had compensated by ingraining itself into the upholstery of the car. I tried not to let it remind me of Fred, concentrating on the solid chin of Mr Roper beside me.

We began driving slowly through the back streets, retreading ground I had already walked along although I did not point this out to Mr Roper. A man's search needed to be self-directed and any comments from me would sound like nagging. The boys were still playing marbles near the statue although they had moved along the path to catch the shade cast by a hydrangea bush. I was struck by the absurdity of expecting Mary to be out here. She would be much further away by now. Could I really expect to see her strolling benignly past the sprinkler-dotted lawns, the rose beds, the concrete effigies of her tribesmen, those plaster savages who stood on one leg in front gardens for eternity?

‘That one is in good shape.' Mr Roper nodded over to one of these blackman–gnomes as we crawled past. Its red loincloth was perfectly vermilion and even the tip of its spear was intact.

‘We could take him home,' Mr Roper said. ‘I'm sure no one would notice the difference.'

He laughed at his joke. I could only manage to raise a smile.

†

At first I was not even aware my subtle directions were manipulating us towards Hyde Park. Perhaps there was also a part of Mr Roper that was naturally drawn to the city. I had often seen his face animated with descriptions of the centre—‘all that hustle and bustle'—his voice longing for a life he could not find in the suburbs.

Whatever it was, we soon found ourselves driving down William Street, following the tram down the hill. I felt the sensation of being completely out of control as we dipped and then rose again along the avenue, so much so that I wanted to grab at the wheel just to have something to hold onto. To prevent this, I clung to the inside door handle. I saw Mr Roper glance over and see my grip. He did not say anything, nor did he reduce his acceleration. I could not determine if his thin smile was one of amusement or annoyance. How little I knew about this man, our lives travelling next to each other these past five years without ever truly joining.

‘Where in the city, do you think?' he asked, as if in reply to an unvoiced question. I told him to park on Elizabeth Street.

We walked along the footpath towards the southern entrance of the park. We did not hurry. Our pace was similar, we moved side by side. The ride in the car had revived my legs and feet, yet it was not just this that created the odd feeling of being there but somehow above it all. I was holding myself tall, at ease. At the kiosk families recovered from the heat with glasses of lemonade. With a strange awareness, I saw a slender mother leaning into a pram to check her baby's temperature, knowing I would appear to be a wife too, out with my husband for an afternoon stroll. To have a man by my side again. That was it. What did it matter if he was not actually my spouse? What did it matter if this wasn't the absolute truth?

We pushed on through the humidity. As we got closer to the ANZAC memorial I was tempted to take Mr Roper's arm, to maintain the illusion for a little longer. By this point, however, there was no one around to see. The steps up to the cenotaph were deserted, their pink stone absorbing heat and throwing up an unwelcoming glare. I had to shade my eyes with my hand, negotiating the ascent through the slits of my fingers as Mr Roper barrelled on ahead of me. I had told him Mary might have wanted to see inside the memorial, see what I had not shown her. This was my only, rather weak, explanation for coming here.

A young couple stood in the circular Hall of Memory, both their heads tilted reverently downwards into the Well of Contemplation, a circle cut into the floor with a wreath-like, waist-high balustrade surrounding it. I knew what they would see below them. The statue of the spread-eagled figure of a fallen soldier lying on his shield and sword, an emaciated body with not a skerrick of clothing, not even the loincloth given to Christ on the cross. From this level you could see only the boy, not the women who carried him.

Mr Roper headed over to the winding stairs leading to the Hall of Silence below. I didn't follow him. Down there he would see the figures of the mother, wife and sister draped in Romanesque clothing, as if to atone for their soldier's nakedness. Around their feet, a burst sun spread out in brass waves across the floor.

I walked quietly over to the round balustrade, now wondering if I had brought Mr Roper to the wrong place. Surely, if a young girl were curled up beside the statue—for some reason I imagined her asleep on the sun—the couple would not be looking so placid. Yet if Mr Roper had found her, he would not be able to call out, unable to ignore the plea written in the floor entrance: ‘Let silent contemplation be your offering.' In all my visits here, I had never heard a word spoken in the chamber below, nor many uttered in this hall. There was something that erased the ability to talk, the weight of death pushing down the air, making it difficult to breathe, let alone speak. I had often found myself staring at the domed ceiling above—120,000 stars spotted it, one for each WWI volunteer, crowding together so that in the middle it looked like a blanket—only to realise I was holding my breath. The eternal flame wafting gas throughout the edifice did not help either.

Re-entering had reminded me of the eerie quality of the place. Surely a twelve-year-old girl would not seek this? I loved the way the building was imbued with reverence, stateliness, the supremeness of the sacrifice. Taken up in glory. Here, in stone and bronze, lives made immortal and meaningful, the lives of their women transformed from the ­ordinary into the godly. Mary would not be able to see this. It was a magnificence some did not seek.

‘She's not here,' Mr Roper whispered into my ear. I had not heard him return.

‘We'll look in the park,' I whispered back. The young couple looked over at us disapprovingly as if we were talking sweet nothings to one another. To be silently reprimanded by them! It was almost more than I could bear. I turned away from Mr Roper, laying my hands on the top of the marble ledge. Mr Roper coughed to signal his impatience and strode away, disappearing down the stairs that lead to the park.

When I gazed down into the Well of Contemplation again, a shadow moved. A black shape scurried into the space under my feet, out of view. I heard a small hissing sound. Was it a rat? I crossed my arms tightly and leaned over further to catch another glimpse. Over to my right, I could feel the girl of the couple watching me. Had she seen it too? For a moment, leaning over the barrier, I was too scared to move, in case the creature scrambled up over the marble and found its way to me. I tried to breathe slowly, to listen for another sound. I stared now at the gold floor below, at the lines engraved in the flames, which appeared to be rippling. I held myself still, becoming one of the statues below—a wife, a sister or a mother? None of these.

The girl had left her partner and was standing next to me. She put her hand on my shoulder and gently pulled me back from the edge. I sighed.

‘You need to be careful,' the girl said. Her boyfriend now hovered behind her shoulder, bouncing from foot to foot, not comfortable with this touching of a stranger.

‘Thank you.' I spoke too loudly. Two red-breasted starlings flew out from the alcove holding the eternal flame. The three of us watched as the birds spiralled up into the dome for a moment then shot out the archway to join the ibises and seagulls on the reflection pool.