Beyond the crushing wave.., p.31
Beyond the Crushing Waves, page 31
Lottie wandered onto the verandah and slumped down beside Mary. “I’m bored.”
“You could learn to sew and mend your own clothes,” mumbled Mary.
Lottie grimaced. “No, thanks.”
It wasn’t like Lottie to complain. But the rain had fallen for three straight days and everyone was sick of it. It was a different kind of rain to the drizzle that dampened the British landscape day after day. This was a downpour. Each drop was fat and heavy. It landed hard and eroded the dirt away until there was only mud, puddles, roaring creeks and swollen rivers. Sheep huddled beneath tree branches in clusters, tucked in as close to each other as they could manage, heads down and backs to the driving rain. Birds were hidden away out of sight, no doubt tucked into hollow tree trunks or roosting under eaves and gutters. The horses had barely left the stables in days, and the chooks had taken refuge in their pen.
“Don’t you wanna run in the rain?” Lottie sighed as she watched the children shrieking and kicking water over one another.
“Not really.”
“Come on, it’ll be fun. You’ve done nothing but mope about the place for weeks.”
“I’m too old to behave like a child.”
“You didn’t say that when I lobbed pieces of bread across the room and you caught them in your mouth last night.” Lottie smiled.
Mary grinned as she pulled the needle through the fabric for one final stitch, then tied it in a knot and bit off the end. “I suppose it doesn’t hurt to get a little muddy every now and then.”
She carried the sewing inside and put it away. Then she tied back her hair into a stubby ponytail. With a shout, she and Lottie leapt from the verandah into the pummelling rain. The chill of the water down her back stole her breath for a moment, but she continued to run side by side with her sister, arms outstretched and face tipped skyward. Rain slapped against her skin. It soaked through her clothes. The other girls from the cottage watched them go, then jumped down to the muddy ground to follow them.
They found a hill just outside the village, and someone pulled a piece of torn old canvas tarpaulin from the garden shed. Before long, they were taking turns sliding down the tarp and landing in a mud bog at the bottom. By the time they trekked back up the hill to the top of the slide, the rain had washed the mud from their faces and eyes, and they could see enough to slide all the way back down again.
They ran in the rain, kicked water at each other, and slid down the slide into the bog over and over until they were each exhausted. When the sun blinked against the horizon and Mary’s teeth chattered together, it was time to go inside. They washed themselves mostly clean in a rushing creek that’d jumped over its banks with eddies of cold, brown water hurrying loudly between swirling round ponds. They laughed as they washed, catching the strongest current from one pond to the next on a few quick kicks.
“Look at this frog,” said Lottie, emerging from one of the ponds.
She held up a green frog that blinked in the rain, then leapt from Lottie’s outstretched hand back into the creek, disappearing beneath the swift waters in a moment.
“Oh, no,” complained Lottie, her brow pulled into a furrow.
“Never mind. I’m sure you’ll find another in no time at all,” said Mary.
She left the rest of the group there and wandered back to the cottage, where she took a hot shower and rinsed out her wet clothes. At least she’d managed to beat the rest of them back and the water heater was operating. The last girls would land a frigid shower, but it was far worse in winter.
When she returned to her bunk and flung herself down on it, a towel wrapped around her still-damp hair, something crinkled beneath her. She turned over and found a letter under the rags she’d sewn into the shape of a pillow for her head. It was a letter from Harry.
She sat up in a hurry and carefully tore open the envelope, her heart lifting at the sight of his neat, loping hand etched in black ink across the cream paper.
* * *
Dearest Mary,
I’m writing to you from my room in the city. My very own room, and no one to tell me what to do or how to live in it. It’s in an old boarding house on the edge of town. An elderly couple owns the boarding house and wanted someone to let a room who could help them in the garden every now and then. Which I’m perfectly suited to, as you know. Haven’t we spent hundreds of hours doing just that?
The first thing I did when I arrived was secure the room, thanks to Mr Forrest’s help. He’s not so bad at times. Although I really do think he could give the kids a break now and then.
The second thing was for me to find work. I found a job as a foot courier. All it means is that I carry documents between businesses around Brisbane. It’s fine work. I have a trolley, and I can walk for hours without getting bored. There’s so much to see and so many people to watch. Besides that, I practice reciting legal precedents in my head while I’m walking and when I ride the bus to university. So, you see, I’m already on my way.
I hope you and Lottie are well. I haven’t heard from Max since he left, although I have his address so will write to him next. You can reach me at the enclosed address. Please do—I’m anxious to hear from you, as I don’t know a single soul here. It’s very strange to be all alone yet surrounded by people. Still, I’m excited for this new life. If only you were here with me. I know you’re safe there now though. I wouldn’t have left you if I thought otherwise. So, don’t fret my darling, I will see you again soon.
I look forward to receiving your letter.
With all my love and some more besides.
Yours,
Harry
* * *
Mary jumped to her feet and pressed the letter to her heart as it hammered against her rib cage. He sounded well, and it brought her so much joy to know he was happy and that he hadn’t forgotten her. She’d missed him every single day since he left, but didn’t realise quite how much until that very moment, when she’d spied the envelope bearing his handwriting. It hit her with such a force that she worried her heart might leap from her chest.
Hope furrowed a way through the darkness she felt in her heart. Perhaps they would all be together again. It didn’t seem quite so impossible now that she’d heard from him. He’d promised they’d be married, that they would find a way to make it all work. She didn’t know about marriage, hadn’t ever seen a marriage other than Mr and Mrs Forrest, and she didn’t want what they had. All she knew of those kinds of relationships were the ones Mam shared with the men who careened into and out of her life and her bed. And the violent way Crew cornered and mistreated her.
She knew that wasn’t for her, had never considered that she might marry one day. Her entire goal for most of her life had been simple: as soon as she was able, she’d find work and pay for herself and Lottie to have a place of their own where no one could hurt them again. But Harry was different. A life with him could be good. He was kind, thoughtful, gentle, and loving. Maybe marriage to Harry would not be so bad. In fact, it might be wonderful.
With the letter safely ensconced between the pages of her journal, and the book hidden away again beneath her mattress, she stepped onto the verandah to see whether the rest of the girls from the cottage had returned. She plucked the towel from her hair and rubbed it dry as she wandered to the railing, then leaned against it to look beyond the stables. But she couldn’t see them. They were hidden from view and clearly weren’t on their way back to the cottage yet.
A deep voice startled her and drew her back to the present in a flash.
“All alone?” asked Crew, leaning on a long stick in the pouring rain just beyond the cottage steps.
His wide-brimmed hat funnelled rain down his back. His sodden clothes clung to his lithe frame. His piggish eyes squinted through the rain at her.
“No,” she lied, lifting her chin.
He grinned. “Yes, you are. Guess you didn’t know I was back.”
“What do you want?” She ached to walk away. Everything in her screamed she should run. But she knew if she moved, he would pounce.
“What makes you think I want something?”
She shook her head. “Leave me alone, Crew.”
“Or what?”
“Or nothing. Just leave me be.”
He shrugged and crossed his arms over his chest, letting the stick drop to his side. “Maybe I will, but if I do, I might have to go see your sister. She’s turning into quite the little beauty.”
Anger flooded through Mary, the hair on her neck stood on end and she clenched both fists at her sides. “Don’t you dare go near her.”
“What are you gonna do about it? I’ll do what I like. I always do.”
He laughed, then uncrossed his arms, twirled the stick in the air and sauntered off towards the stables through the pouring rain.
Mary watched him go, adrenaline pumping from her heart through every nerve ending. She hated him. Hated him with every cell in her body. She quivered with it as he strode into the fading light. He’d hurt her too many times to count. But she’d fought back and given him plenty to be wary of. But Lottie was different. She was sweet, gentle, and naive. She didn’t know how to fight, not like Mary. If he ever touched Lottie, she’d kill him.
37
Current Day
Mia
Gammy is a neat freak. Her house is always perfectly put together. I didn’t inherit that trait from her, although I wish I had. She doesn’t own fancy or expensive things. All her furniture is well loved. That’s what she says — better to buy something sturdy and love it well than cheap and plastic. The world has adopted a throwaway culture, Gammy rants whenever the subject comes up. It’s better to fix things and keep them than to replace them.
She takes good care of her furniture, pots, pans, glasses and china, making sure everything in her home is put away in its proper place. She still has the same Tupperware she used when her kids were little, and the china plates she and Gramps bought for their ten-year wedding anniversary.
Throughout my life, from what I recall, very little at Gammy and Gramps’ house has changed. Even though he moved to assisted living three years ago, his favourite rocking chair still sits in the living room right next to the kitchen and posed to look at the television set. Its brown patterned fabric is worn, and there’s a knitted brown-and-cream throw rug folded neatly over the back. He likes to sit in his chair, watching cricket, with the rug over his knees. He still does it when he comes to visit Gammy on the weekend sometimes.
I’m sitting in his chair now, the rug behind my head, as I rock it back and forth and gaze around the empty living room. Gammy is visiting Gramps, and she’s tasked me with helping her get the paperwork together for the Medicare office so she can be reimbursed for her medical expenses. But since Ben has Brody with him, it’s the first moment I’ve had alone in weeks, and I’m taking the opportunity to pause and breathe. It won’t last long because there are things to get done and I have to be home to feed Brody in an hour. But for now, I’m breathing. In and out, in and out. Looking around and remembering the childhood hours spent playing and colouring in this room, the time I fell and hit my lip on the coffee table. It split open and there was blood everywhere. There’s probably still a small stain on the Turkish rug that Gammy couldn’t get out even after all her scrubbing with bicarb soda and vinegar.
With a sigh, I get to my feet. There’s work to be done and no one to do it but me. Mum and Dad are packing at the hotel, as their flight leaves in the morning. They don’t have time for things like this. And besides, Gammy wants me to do it. I’m the only one she trusts completely to poke around her house and find the things I need to make it happen. Sometimes I wish it was Dad, though, since I’ve got my hands full with Ben and Brody. But I’ll do anything for Gammy and Gramps, so I set my resolve and head into the guest bedroom Gammy also uses as an office.
The desk is tidy, with only the unpaid bills lying in an open and neat stack on one side. It’s a timber desk that looks like it might be fifty years old. There are scratches and grooves in various places all over it. The sides have a lovely wave shape to them, and there’s an old lid that slides down into place—or at least it did once, but it no longer works. There’s also a groove along the top for pens, and I reach for one of them, turning it over between my fingers, then set it back in its place. Gammy said the Medicare paperwork was on top of the desk, and the receipts in one of the drawers where she stores the items ready for filing.
I find the Medicare paperwork quickly enough, but when I look through the drawers, I can’t locate the medical receipts right away. The first drawer contains a sheaf of stationery with Gammy’s name and address across the top, surrounded by tiny butterflies and swirly flowers.
Virginia Evans
I’ve always loved Gammy’s name. When I was a kid, I used to wish I’d been named after her. Then I could be Ginny or Gina just like her. Instead, I got Mia, and it pained me to no end that I couldn’t shorten it. Of course, the kids at school found ways to lengthen it instead, to things like Mia-bo-bia, or Mia-Pia. There are really no good options for a nickname that rhymes with my given name. At least, no one thought of any when I was going through my prime teasing years.
Next to the personalised stationery is a stack of letters in envelopes held together with an elastic band. I pull out the letters to look through them. A flash of guilt holds me back for a moment, but curiosity gets the better of me. The envelopes are faded and with old-fashioned handwriting across the front. They’re addressed to a Mary Roberts, and when I turn them over, the same handwriting lopes across the back of the envelope, announcing that the sender’s name is Sylvia Roberts, and that she’s from London.
I can’t help questioning why Gammy has a stack of someone else’s letters in the top drawer of her neatly laid-out desk. She’s not the kind of person who hordes random old letters. They’re in with her best stationery, a roll of the latest Australian animal-themed postage stamps, and the stickers I bought her to put on the back of envelopes with her name and address typed over a serene beach scene.
I’m about to put them back when I shake my head and wrest one of the envelopes free of the stack. I’m gentle, being careful not to tear the paper, since they seem as though they were written a long time ago. The paper is tinged yellow, and the ink is faded.
The letter is one single sheet, all written in that same difficult-to-read handwriting. The kind of handwriting people used years ago, back before I was born. This writing clearly comes from a different time.
* * *
Dearest Mary,
* * *
Thank you for your letter. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you since no one seemed to know where you’d gotten to.
I hope you and Lottie are well. I miss you both more every day. I’ve got some kind of illness now. The doctor talked to me about it, but I can’t say I really understood what he told me. Something to do with my stomach and throat, and it’s bad I believe.
I want to tell you I’m sorry. I broke my promise to come, and I know you probably won’t ever forgive me for that.
All I can hope for is that you and your sister are well and happy. That you have a better life now than I could’ve given you. I always was a hopeless case. But you know that better than anyone.
If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, and maybe even visit sometime, I would love to see you both.
* * *
With love,
Mam
* * *
I’m still confused as to why this letter is in Gammy’s desk. I know she’s from England, and it seems this person is as well. Is it possible they’re from the mother Gammy and Auntie Char left behind in England? And if they are, why are they addressed to Mary?
Because I’ve already snooped, and I’m dying to find out more, I look through the other letters as well. They’re all from the same person, and all express similar sentiments — I miss you, I’m sorry, won’t you please call or visit…
They also have dates scrawled on the top right-hand side of each. The first was written on the second of February, 1971, the last on the third of December, 1972. They stop suddenly, although the last letter seems to indicate they’d spoken several times over the phone and tells the reader thank you. So, whoever they are, I hope they received the forgiveness they were looking for. It makes my throat ache to think about someone all that long distance away, hoping and begging for forgiveness from a loved one only to be turned away at the end. So, I’m choosing to believe there was a reconciliation, if only to stop my own tears from consuming me when I’m supposed to be looking for receipts and getting back home to my baby.
The elastic band goes back around the envelopes easily, and I tuck them into their place in the drawer. There are so many questions rushing through my thoughts. I wish Gammy was here so I could ask her. But how do I ask those questions without explaining my snooping?
A magpie hops along the back of the brick barbecue. It watches me slinging snags onto the hot grill. They sizzle as they hit the steel, and I step back, pleased with my work, wiping my hands dry on a paper towel. The bird takes to the air with a flap of wings and roosts above me in the branches of an enormous gum tree. It warbles, its song answered by another magpie who flies in to greet the first, sharing the branch.
I finish loading sausages beside rows of thinly sliced sizzling potatoes. “There you go. The rest is up to you,” I say.
