Authors: Maris Morton
Clio’s stony expression wavered. Tears shone in her eyes and she looked down at the floor where the puddle of water reflected the overhead light. ‘I hurt myself,’ she said.
Mary softened. ‘Did you, Clio? Show me.’ If Clio was going to behave like a child, then Mary could have a try at being motherly.
Clio was holding out a trembling hand. ‘I scalded it.’
Mary took the hand in hers and turned it about, examining it. There was an angry red stain along the thumb to the wrist, and the skin was hot to her touch. ‘How did you do it?’
‘I wanted a cup of tea and you weren’t here.’ Her voice was tremulous with accusation. ‘So I went to make it for myself. But the kettle’s too heavy.’ Her lip quivered and the tears reached critical mass and spilt over her lower lids to trickle down her cheeks. ‘It never used to be so heavy.’
Mary led Clio to Ellen’s armchair. ‘I’ll get some ice for it. Hold on.’
While Mary was finding ice and a towel, Clio kept talking.
‘Such a stupid thing. I can’t even make a cup of tea. I feel such a … helpless …’ Mary ministered to the burn. When she laid the icy towel on the reddened skin, Clio flinched.
‘I know,’ Mary soothed. ‘It hurts. But you mustn’t expect too much of yourself. Have you got any painkillers?’
Clio nodded, clasping her towel-wrapped wrist in her other hand in her lap. ‘Oh yes, Mary. I’ve got plenty of painkillers.’
‘Can I get some for you? The sooner you take something the sooner you’ll start to feel better.’
‘No, I’ll be all right now. You’re very kind.’ The tears had left snail-trails on her cheeks.
‘It’s a shock, isn’t it, when you hurt yourself. When I came to remind you I was going over to Gloria’s you were asleep. Then Garth took me out to the garden and the time slipped away. The good news is that I’ve brought all these fresh vegies back.’ Her chattering seemed to be helping Clio to relax. ‘If you give me a couple of minutes to get into something dry, I’ll make you a cup of tea.’
Feeling a good deal more comfortable in dry clothes, Mary made tea and began sorting the vegetables. At first Clio sat in silence, then, when at last she began to speak, it was as if the scene just past had never happened.
‘What did you think of the Downe employees?’
Mary wasn’t keen to get into personalities; after all, she’d only just met these people. ‘Cec seems a nice man, and I liked Gloria. Gayleen’s a well-behaved young lady. How old is she, do you know?’
‘She’s sixteen. Not the brightest girl around, but she should get by, especially with those looks. She’ll get a job somewhere then get married, I expect. Their eldest boy, Gary, is bright. I have an idea one of the younger ones might be clever, too.’
‘What’s Gloria’s background?’
‘She’s a local. Did more or less what she’s planning for Gayleen: finished school, got a job locally, worked for a few years, got married.’
‘They seem a happy family.’
‘I think they are. Gloria was lucky: Garth can turn his hand to just about anything, especially if it’s mechanical.’
Clio went on, after a pause. ‘Janet’s all right. She came here as a bride not long after I did, so there’s a bit of shared history. If she’d known how to cook I would have asked her to teach me, but she didn’t, so apart from basic things like roast mutton, I had to teach myself.’
Thinking of the ranks of jars of preserves in the pantry, Mary was surprised.
Clio caught her look. ‘Yes, I know. Going by that pantry you’d think Mrs Beeton lived here.’ Clio made a bitter face. ‘Not a frustrated musician.’
Mary didn’t know what to say. Clio a frustrated musician? It seemed unlikely. To avoid having to comment, Mary started washing lettuce and spinach. The sound of gushing water made conversation impossible, and by the time she’d finished Clio was lost in her own thoughts, and not happy ones from her face. Mary made a bid to cheer her up. ‘I found a piece of pike in the freezer and thought we could have it for tea with a lemon and dill sauce, potato straws and a salad. Does that sound okay?’
Clio looked at her blankly for a moment while the words sank in. She prodded at the ice-filled towel on her wrist — the ice was melting and her gown was getting wet — and Mary moved to her side to make a readjustment.
‘It’s lovely having someone cook for me. Not hospital food, that’s factory food. I can’t imagine that it does anyone any real good. Having you make things specially for me … I can’t tell you how nice it is.’
Mary felt gratified. ‘It’s a pleasure, Clio. Any cook likes an appreciative audience. I like to make good food for myself, too, and you give me an excuse. So, how do you feel about the pike?’ ‘It sounds lovely.’ Clio let her shoulders relax into the chair. ‘I’ll just sit here and watch you, can I?’
She was silent while Mary sorted and stowed her booty into the crispers. When Clio spoke again, her voice was low, as if she were talking to herself. ‘They’ll be back tomorrow.’
Mary looked over at her, wondering what she meant. Then she remembered that Paul and Martin would be flying back from Perth. ‘Yes.’
For a moment Clio’s face wore the look of a mortally wounded animal. ‘You mustn’t mind me,’ she said with an effort for brightness. ‘I get a bit down sometimes. I’m a long way from well. I don’t want to have to see them, though.’
‘Paul and Martin?’
‘My husband and my son. I had another son, once.’ She lowered her head and retreated again into her private world.
Mary got on with her work. She was no therapist, and nor was her curiosity an excuse for prying.
Suddenly, Clio shuddered. ‘I’ll never feel up to seeing Paul,’ she said in a small, quiet voice.
Mary regarded her with interest, but Clio wasn’t going to elaborate. Why didn’t she leave, then, if she felt like that, Mary wondered. Not your business, she told herself. These people are far too complicated for you. Give me Garth and Gloria any day. And their kids. Thus reminded, she moved the conversation in a new direction.
‘The Graysons are lending me one of the boy’s bikes so I can get about and explore a bit.’ She hoped this piece of news would take Clio’s mind off her miseries.
‘Really? I was just thinking: Paul leaves a vehicle in the hangar while they’re away. If you need to go somewhere I suppose you could always retrieve that … especially if you’ve got the bike. The hangar’s a bit too far to walk.’
‘Do you think?’ Mary was pleased that Clio had thought to make the offer. ‘But that’s only at the weekends, isn’t it, when they’re in Perth. I’d feel mean leaving you here all day on your own. When you’re properly on your feet again, then maybe I’ll take you up on that.’
N
EXT MORNING
there was a knock at the back door and there stood Gayleen, eager to get Mary equipped with a bike.
‘Mum’s back from the run,’ she said, ‘so I can come with you. You’ll have time before they get back — we’ll hear the plane come over. Dad said to show you Beelyup Pool.’
Having cleared it with Clio, Mary went with Gayleen to the Grayson house, then around the side to where Gloria’s school bus was parked in a lean-to shed. Heat was radiating from the engine, and there was the ticking of cooling metal. A row of bikes was lined up along the wall.
Gayleen wheeled out her own and straddled it, leaning her elbows on the handlebars and drawing patterns in the damp ground with the toe of her sneaker. ‘Gary’s is the purple BMX,’ she said. ‘Dad pumped up the tyres. The seat should be about right for you, he reckons.’
Mary found the bike and pushed it out into the cold sunshine. She’d never ridden a BMX before, but after wobbling for a few nervous minutes she had the hang of it.
Gayleen watched her cautious circling, nodded approval, and took off, pedalling energetically. ‘Just follow me!’ she called over her shoulder.
Away from the buildings it was very quiet, with only the murmur of sheep, the song of a bird and the friction of their tyres over the sandy ground to fill the vast, crystalline silence. Mary had never ridden over rough ground like this. She’d always been in a town or a city, on bitumen or concrete, with traffic the main hazard. Here she was more likely to bump into a burnt-out tree stump, or bog in a patch of soft sand. The exercise was making her toasty warm, the cold air tingling on cheeks and nose, her breath vanishing behind her.
With a start of surprise, Mary realised that they were passing the airstrip, the hangar doors gaping and, somewhere inside, the vehicle that she might find herself driving some time when Paul and Martin were away. But Gayleen was getting too far ahead, and Mary had to race to catch up, panting with the effort. They were heading obliquely for a belt of trees to their right. They followed a sheep track that meandered through the bush until it became too narrowly hemmed in by the trees. There they left the bicycles propped and walked on.
Gayleen stopped at the edge of a clearing. ‘This was the first house,’ she whispered, as if some vagrant spirit might be listening. ‘Before the Hazlitts came.’
Almost hidden among the trees was part of a stone-built chimney. Gayleen paced around the clearing with the confidence of familiarity. ‘Me and Gary used to play archaeologists here. We watched them on TV, saw how they did it. I’ll show you.’ She led the way around the site, explaining, ‘This would’ve been the verandah, see? The walls were slabs of sheoak, with the bark still on and mud in the cracks to keep the wind out. Some of the iron from the roof ’s still here … pretty rusty, but. And over here’s a heap of broken glass where the window must’ve fallen out. You have to be a bit careful where you walk.’
‘Do you know who lived here?’
‘Their name was Brown,’ Gayleen said. ‘Like in Browns Creek. It was just Mr Brown and his wife, but she died and then it was just him. He had sheep and a couple of dogs. He died in there, but I’ve never heard any ghosts.’
Gayleen headed off through the trees, beckoning Mary to follow. Her hair was decorated with flecks of bark and casuarina needles, her eyes bright. ‘This is the pool,’ she announced, and Mary found herself standing on the bank of a wide pond, almost a little lake, its still surface offering a perfect, inverted image of the trees on the other side. Near the water the trees changed to melaleucas, and Mary stroked the layered papery bark. On the water two wild ducks were riding on their own reflections, and over on the far side, a great egret was standing motionless, luminous against the dark foliage.
‘It’s lovely,’ Mary said softly.
‘That’s why they put the house there, so they had water. It’s part of Browns Creek; we come here to catch marron in summer. The first farm was called Beelyup, after this pool. That’s what the Noongahs called it. The Hazlitts changed the name.’
‘You know a lot about it.’
‘Gary and me did a project. Mrs Melrose told us how to find things out from council and that. Gary wants to be an archaeologist. I’ll show you the garden now.’
She set off again with Mary trailing after and stopped near a group of trees, gnarled and patched with lichen. ‘Those are apricot, mulberry and quince trees.’ She nudged Mary before whispering in her ear, ‘And over here’s the secret garden.’
Where the land sloped down to the water, someone had marked out a circular bed with evenly matched stones. Within the circle, fighting their way up through the rough grass, were the spears of bulbs — Mary couldn’t tell what they might be — hundreds of them, crowded together. Some woman had made this garden, planted these things, years and years ago, and they’d long outlived her, blooming every year in solitude.
‘It’s real pretty when they’re out,’ Gayleen said, perhaps gauging Mary’s feelings. ‘They smell nice.’ She turned away and headed along parallel to the water’s edge, pushing aside branches to clear a path. Fallen melaleuca leaves lay mixed with the soft needles from the casuarinas to form a textured carpet.
Gayleen stopped. ‘Here. This is the good bit.’ She bent down and picked up a smooth rock, big as a flattened football. There was a hand-sized hollow in the top. ‘It’s for grinding nardoo. That’s a native fern that grows in the water. The Noongahs used to eat it. There’s a few of these and the little ones, too, that they used.’ She rolled her fist over the stone’s hollow to indicate the action of grinding. ‘Mr Melrose says the stones don’t come from here — the Noongahs must have carried them from somewhere else. The coast, most likely.’
Mary took the stone and almost dropped it. She couldn’t imagine carrying something as heavy as this for any distance without a good reason.
‘He says they left the stones here so they could grind the nardoo when they came back every summer. They would’ve feasted on the marron, too, and quandongs … there’s a patch of them over that way.’ She indicated with a tilt of her head.
Mary had heard of these Aboriginal artefacts but never held one in her hands. It didn’t take a huge leap of the imagination to picture the bush alive with the dark figures of Aborigines, firelight flickering through the trees, the women crouched over their nardoo stones, grinding whatever food the nardoo plants yielded, the men perhaps away hunting kangaroos or goannas, or making a fish trap somewhere in the creek; the children laughing and playing at hunting and gathering.
A breeze whispered through the casuarinas, and the two ducks took off with a clatter of wings, leaving the egret standing, shining white against the water, its reflection rippling from the ducks’ departure.
C
LIO WAS LYING AMONG HER PILLOWS
, wide awake. This morning she wasn’t listening to music; instead she was waiting with something near dread for the sound of the Piper’s engine.
She could remember, with an effort, a time when the sight of Paul would have brought a blush to her cheek and a flutter to her heart.
Looking back, marrying Paul when they’d spent so little time together had been a risk. Marriage was a gamble at the best of times, but she’d been vulnerable then, rejected by everyone she cared about, or so it had seemed to her. Her mother, the prop and mainstay of her childhood, had died slowly of cancer when she was just sixteen. Of course, that couldn’t fairly be rated as a personal rejection, but at sixteen it had felt that way.