Authors: Louise Moulin
Angie had not been in town for nearly seven years and the
place was different. It was cleaner and brighter; the buildings
were more substantial and more structures erected. More
natives roamed the streets in their incongruous costumes
of feathers, flax and tweed, the odd one in trousers, which
gave them a superior air. Although Angie knew nothing of
it, just upriver a tribal war was raging.
Grace clung to her mother's neck and Angie swanned
into the township with head held high and a jaunty swing to
her hips. Past the Rusty Rose, past the Chinese man selling
his wares and past the Qualm's Arms, where wolf whistles
flew out the windows and made her laugh. Attention! How
she had missed herself.
Angelo was in the Qualm's Arms when the dark
molasses head and décolletage framed in violet walked past
the window. He choked on his beer. He stood suddenly
and the barrel he was sitting on rocked and toppled over.
He wiped beer from his face and stared at the figure, and
the red-haired child in its arms.
Why does she have Faith? he worried.
Angie swung her head around to acknowledge the
whistles and their eyes locked. Grace looked too, and Angelo
saw that it was not Faith. A sharp twang of recognition
grabbed at his groin and rushed his blood. He yelped and
made madly out the door, the other men rushing to the
window to see what would happen.
Angie felt his burning gaze on the sway of her hips, she
felt him move up behind her like a descending shadow. The
sky seemed so incredibly blue to her. Grace made a grab at
her mother's pretty face and Angie twinkled down at her
with the expression of a woman finally being noticed.
Angelo grabbed her by the arm and swung her
around.
'Let me see,' he growled.
'See what?' said Angie flatly.
Angelo put his hands under the child's arms and
wrenched her from Angie's hold and up in the air. He
studied her face. The beauty spot, the too-large eyes, the
wide slack mouth, the freakishness of the child. He pressed
the moon head of Grace into his neck and he doubled over
the child. Kneeling in the dirt, he suppressed a bellow but
his whole body shook.
Angie knelt beside him and, with certainty, with
purpose, stroked his transformed hair. He slowly raised his
head. His expression contorted, he looked into her amber
eyes and tried to speak. He tried to say he was sorry, tried
to express compassion, tried to put words to his remorse.
She is the mother of my other child, he thought. This is
my other child. Grace squirmed in his grip to get a better
look at the man who held her so tight.
'Oh, Angelo,' whispered Angie.
Angelo slowly reached and touched her face, stroking
her chin with his thumb. A mother! With his forefinger he
traced the line of her mouth; his groin tightened and felt
as if it were pushing into his gut. Angie opened her mouth
slightly to speak, and Angelo's finger slipped inside. He was
shattered by the heat of her mouth, so appallingly warm
compared to the fishy coldness of Eve's. Angie's quim-like
heat was a ruinous inferno that radiated through his veins,
flushing his face, mesmerising him. He was helpless.
Angie sucked his finger.
Slowly, like the dreadful dragging time of an accident, Angelo
was drawn irresistibly to Angie, and suddenly hungry to feel her heat in his
mouth, to lick the hotness of it. He clasped the back of her head and drew
her face to his and, as their lips met, his heart shocked in his chest. Angie's
mouth softened, opened, their tongues slid together and they kissed, ardently,
drowningly. Their daughter Grace's little fat palms were on the cheek of the
mother and the cheek of the father.
Eve was on the sand when a calamitous, crippling pain
began eating up her legs like acid, bubbling and broiling
her flesh. Her limbs buckled under her and she collapsed,
gasping and grasping, as if her heart were being torn
asunder.
Tom ran across the snowy sand and into the ocean. His
gout was splinters of glass in his joints but he pushed
himself on until he had Gilda under the arms, and dragged
her with a young man's strength onto the shore, shouting
at her, shaking her. He checked her pulse, put his ear to
her heart and to her lips and heard the breath of her, slow
and faint.
He staggered into the kitchen of the homestead with
the fainted Gilda in his arms, water streaming from them
both. Maggie rushed to them and saw the slippers. She
wrenched them off Gilda's feet and stuffed them in the
fire, slamming the grate after them, shutting a door on
the past. They hissed, spat and crackled like chicken skin.
She glared at Tom accusingly. 'Where did she get them?
I threw them away.'
'They were in Mrs Stone's estate.'
'You planned this?' Maggie accused him, pulling him
urgently towards the stairs.
'It just happened. I can't get her up those stairs.'
'We'll put her by the hearth, then.'
'It might matter to her,' said Tom, his breath laboured.
He was soaked through. He frowned, the sparse hairs of his
eyebrows halting the drips.
Maggie hastily threw cushions on the floor and they
laid Gilda on top. Tom turned away as Maggie stripped
off her niece's clothes and covered her with a crocheted
blanket. She put more wood on the fire, then sat back on
her heels. 'Have you learnt nothing? Those blasted shoes
were what set Mary off!'
'Gilda should know the truth.'
'And what is the truth, Tom, as you see it?' Maggie
hissed. She stood slowly, an inch at a time, feeling the
chase was over and age had finally caught her, climbed
on her back with its strangling arms about her neck. She
reached into a cupboard and took down a jar. 'Make a pot
of tea, Tom,' she said, placing her hand on his arm in a
gesture — appeasing but not forgiving — before unscrewing
the lid of the jar.
A spicy fragrance wafted from the bronze ointment
inside. Maggie scooped a blob of it, warming it in her
palms, and massaged Gilda's feet one at a time with long,
sure strokes and firm circles of her thumb and fingers,
making their flesh shine greasy in the firelight. She knew
all they could do was wait; that in a way the worst was
over.
'Mary's feet were webbed like Gilda's,' Maggie said
quietly.
'Were they?'
Maggie sighed and lifted her face to the ceiling,
remembering. 'Well, they used to be, but the midwife
cut them at birth. I was twelve when she was born. A big
spark spat from the fire. There is still a burn mark in the
floor.' She put her finger over the mark and went on. 'Mrs
Stone shooed me away but I hid behind the door. She
was panicking, as if it were her own hanging, as she made
tourniquets on Mary's ankles and sterilised a knife in the
fire. Our mother — all I can remember is her silence. Why
she didn't stop her I don't know. The midwife cut between
Mary's toes like she was cutting out the devil. Blood
trickled down her soles, and the next toe and the next,
and Mary cried and kicked and Mrs Stone held her firmer
and when she let go there were white marks where her grip
had been, which I still remember. So when Gilda was born
with the exact same webbing I think Mary summoned up a
little of her own cutting, like a circumcision in a way, and
forbade anyone to touch Gilda's feet. The knife is still in
the drawer.'
Tom glanced at the drawer, said nothing. He handed
her a teacup and they sipped their tea.
Maggie heaved a sigh that rattled in her lungs. 'I miss
my sister — the old Mary, when we were young, before
Gilda's father. She was full of hope.'
'Hope can devastate.'
They exchanged a look, held it. Maggie squeezed Tom's
knee but she would not be drawn further. 'When you push
a man he just pushes back. There is nothing worse than a
woman with illusions, eh, but Mary made a meal of them,
a life of them. There you go. What's done is done.'
Martha entered and quickly took in the scene. Tom
poured her a tea, making himself busy as though at a
funeral, his knees cracking and embarrassing him.
Martha sat down slowly. 'I knew a turn was coming.
Gilda had that zealous look about her.'
'We all knew,' Maggie said.
The sound of Sophia's motorbike skidding in the slush
of the driveway made everyone look expectantly at the
door. When it opened, Cecil stood there, his hair rakishly
dishevelled from the ride.
Maggie and Tom stood, their whole bodies tense with
expectation.
Martha coughed. 'I'm Martha Page. I've heard so much
about you.'
'Oh yes, this is my daughter,' said Maggie. 'She's been
keen to meet you. She'll be pleased you don't have centaur
hind legs — I'm afraid she's not as convinced as the rest of
us.' Cecil's presence did not seem unusual to Maggie. A
troupe of elephants could not have swayed her attention
from her sister's child.
'I am, Mum. I am.' Martha smiled at her mother, and
in that moment Maggie realised that children were what
made life worthwhile. Then her attention went back to
Gilda lying there so helpless, like a small child. Her hair
was drying in ringlets and slightly steaming with the fire.
She knelt again.
'It's a pleasure to meet you,' said Cecil kindly. 'Sophia
lent me her bike,' he said unnecessarily. 'Will she be all
right?' He nodded towards Gilda.
'I must phone Sophia and tell her what's happened,'
Maggie said distractedly.
'I'll do it, Mum.' Martha went into the hall and they
listened to her speak.
Tom quietly poured tea for Cecil and offered him a
chair. Cecil accepted thankfully and with great care, so as
not to disturb the intimacy of the room. He had the sense
he was too large for the space.
Martha returned. 'Sophia's coming as soon as she can.
I spoke to Joel and he said he'd look after the bar, said
Val was there and would help.' She sat cross-legged near
Gilda's head.
It began to snow heavily — the thud of it was audible —
and Cecil and Tom went outside. Chopping sounds could
be heard and they returned with armloads of wood; it was
clear no one would attempt to sleep that night.
Gilda didn't stir, except for the flickering of her eye
sockets sending frissons along her blue-veined lids, and the
pulse of her neck. She had an ethereal, otherworldly air,
lying there.
When Cecil and Tom returned there was an edge to
them, Maggie noticed. Tom stepped forward with words
poised, but he turned when Sophia arrived. She was greeted
with wan smiles.
Martha needed to escape the laden atmosphere of the
kitchen. She felt heavy with dread and something she could
not explain, as if Gilda had already passed into spirit. She
went upstairs to get the quilt off Gilda's bed. As she began
to pull the cover she saw the shell box resting in a pool of
light shining in from the night sky. Martha looked over
her shoulder, as though she were being watched, faltered,
then gently lifted the lid. She fancied it glowed within, and
inside was the prettiest mirror she had ever seen, its glass
black, bottomless.
Martha did not hear the footsteps on the stairs, only
the rush of impatience that came into the room, and soon
Maggie was standing behind her daughter. Maggie gasped
when she saw the opened shell box and positioned herself
protectively between it and Martha, her face alarmed. She
took Martha by the shoulders, forcing her to look at her,
and searched the young woman's face.
Martha went to speak — to ask all the unknowns that
now bubbled up from childhood, all the questions she had
not asked of the adults, for she had sensed the taboo. There
were too many secrets. They stared at each other, frozen
and gagged, and then Martha closed her eyes, bowed her
head obediently and left the room.
Alone, Maggie half reached towards the box before
snatching her hand back and holding it close to her chest,
crossed over the other hand. Oh, mother of God, she
silently prayed. Then she quickly picked up the box as
if it were a bomb, the shell edges like sharks' teeth, and
furtively glanced about the room. She hurriedly put it
down again, wiping her hand on her clothes, and sat on
the bed in indecision. Then it occurred to her that Gilda
was not Mary.
There was a shout from downstairs. Maggie slammed
down the lid and ran down to the kitchen.
Gilda was awake. She lay supporting herself on her elbow,
her shoulders impossibly white and fragile-looking. Her
expression confused, her hair messed and her eyes wild.
'There was a man on the beach and he was searching
and he fell — I made him fall.' Her voice was husky, as
though she had not used it for a hundred years. She
frantically pulled up the covers to look at her feet. 'I didn't
dream the slippers, did I — Tom?' Then she began to giggle,
mildly hysterical, and the rest of them laughed too, jerky
and unnerved. And then Gilda stopped, her eyes squinting
at the old man.
'Cecil?'
Cecil half stood and enquired after Gilda's health, but
before she could reply, Sophia slammed her hand on the
table, making everyone jump.
'There'll be plenty of time to ask how it's going later. We
may as well get on with the show.' She stood up, hands on
hips. 'It's here, ladies and gentlemen, and now is as good
a time as any.' Sophia was determined not to brook any
objections, especially from Maggie, who made fluttering
movements as if attempting to put out a fire. 'You can't
protect her forever,' Sophia added gravely.
Maggie tore her eyes away from her friend's and looked
at Cecil. 'Where is it?'
'Had it delivered to the Qualm's Arms — came off the
container early evening. I came to tell you but it didn't
seem like the right time.' Cecil stood as he spoke, touching
the brim of an imaginary hat to Gilda.
'Hang on a minute . . .' said Gilda, but no one was
listening.
'We can show it in the drawing room.' Maggie made a
resolution in her mind and this conviction gave her voice
authority.
'Righto, well, I'll get the truck, shall I?' said Tom.
'The truck for what?' said Gilda, standing with the
bedclothes wrapped around her, panicking slightly.
'Yes, get the truck — grand idea,' said Maggie, opening
the door. The outside light came on and, with French
Resistance nods and promises of a quick return, they left.
There was the sound of the V8 ute and of the old Harley
sparking up, and both vehicles tore down the road.
Half an hour later Gilda and Martha were sitting together
in the kitchen of the homestead, listening to the noises of
pulled ropes and clanging of metal and heavy dragging,
accompanied by plenty of 'Steady on!' and 'You take that
side'. Gilda heard Joel and Val. Why had they come? She
felt the whole town was in on something, and butterflies
leapt in her belly and way up behind her ribs.
Gilda noticed that Martha looked extremely pale, and
the idea that her cousin was on edge sent anxiety unfurling
in her gut like a wriggling eel. Her hands clammy, her
breathing short, she wanted to cry out, to run. There was
an event planned and she did not know if it was welcome
or not, and she knew they would not answer any of her
questions so she didn't ask.
Then there was a collective gasp from the other room
that stilled the heartbeat of the house. Gilda made a sharp
movement, as if making to bolt, but Martha held up her
hand.
'Remember: if you trust you won't fall,' Martha said.
The tapestry hung in the near-empty drawing room, on the
far wall. Its wide expanse covered the door underneath and
the length of it spooled on the floor. It depicted a mermaid
reclined on a rock, set in an azure sea. Its colours barely
faded by time, the work gave off a sheen, a sparkle, and the
light, grey and eerie, hit off the curves of the mermaid's
face. She seemed to have just woken to the world; her eyes
did not look made of thread but real, with a soul shining
out from within, as if a person had been woven alive into
the weave.
The others stood on the lawn under a moon so queer
it was like the light of an eclipse where darkness comes
to day. The silver shadows fell as in a silent movie and
the sea mists rolled. Some half turned away, for it seemed
too intimate, too profound. Some watched expectantly
through the window, and all felt they were in the right
place at the right time: that an occasion foretold, destined,
was taking place, and all would be changed forever after.
Maggie led Gilda into the drawing room as though
she were blind. Unbiddden, Gilda had her eyes squeezed
closed, for she was apprehensive, and she trembled and
leant back as if to erase each step as soon as it had fallen.
'Here,' Martha said, and folded Gilda's hands around
the shell box.