Broken (51 page)

‘Thanks, Doug,' she said lightly, standing just inside the bus terminal and looking around.

‘Humph,' replied Doug, still glowering.

Jean blithely ignored his bad mood knowing, with the experience of forty married years, that it wouldn't last long. He was only cross because they were so early, and he'd wanted to spend another three-quarters of an hour at home, in his favourite armchair in front of the television, before leaving. But Jean had been so excited, and nervous the traffic might be heavy or the bus early, that she'd badgered him until he finally gave in. And he'd been sulking ever since.

The bus terminal was a huge, plain building with lots of glass and chrome and functional furniture. Banks of black vinyl seating lined the walls, with some clustered in the centre around low formica tables. In one corner was an enquiry counter with nobody behind it and, to its right, a large board with expected arrivals, departures and estimated schedules. Doug headed over there immediately.

At the far end of this first section, with the seating and the counter, were three steps that led up to a second, more rectangular room. To the immediate left up the stairs was a well-stocked snack bar painted the colour of percolated coffee and hung gaily with advertisements for
chocolate bars, ice-creams and decadent drinks like triple chocolate mint delight. Opposite the snack bar were small islands of tables and chairs, some set up along the balustrade that divided the two rooms. Then, past the snack bar and the tables was another counter with a luggage carousel next to it. The far wall, behind the counter, was made completely of glass and through it several buses could be seen, either having just arrived or waiting to depart.

Lip service had been paid to the fact that Christmas was just around the corner, and standing next to the downstairs counter was a small artificial tree decorated with a couple of red baubles. The upper level was slightly more festive, with a plastic Santa Claus cut-out stuck to one wall surrounded by gold tinsel, and a large red and green cardboard banner was suspended from the ceiling with fishing line. It read:
Merry Christmas to all our Valued Customers! Enjoy your Trip!

While Doug checked the arrivals board, Jean scanned the people waiting in the terminal just in case their daughter had arrived early. There were not terribly many. In the first room there was only an elderly man, who sat leaning forward on his walking stick near the counter, a middle-aged woman with a multitude of shopping bags, and someone who looked like a businessman, a newspaper spread out in front of his face. There were more in the upper area, sitting opposite the snack bar. From where she stood, Jean could see two families, one with a very young baby that still had that piteous newborn wail, a young couple who were draped over each other, several boisterous teenagers, and a young mother with two children.

Doug came back looking grim. ‘Not only are we ridiculously early anyway, but the damn thing is running ten minutes late.'

‘Oh, well.' Jean smiled at him brightly, not letting his mood touch her. ‘You never know, do you? I mean, it
could
have been early, or the traffic worse than it was, or something. Let's find a seat.'

‘Not up there.' Doug nodded his head towards the upper section. ‘If I have to listen to that bloody baby crying for an hour I'm going to throttle you.'

‘If it makes you feel better, go ahead. At least I wouldn't have to listen to you sook.'

‘And look at those teenagers.' Doug glared at the upper section. ‘I reckon they've got alcohol with them in those paper bags. Now when
I
was on the force –'

‘Nobody under eighteen
ever
drank,' finished Jean sarcastically. ‘Goodness, Doug, you've only been retired for five years, not fifty.' She pointed at the seats against the far wall. ‘How about over there? It's away from all human contact. That should suit you.'

‘Humph,' said Doug, mellowing enough to roll his eyes at her. Jean smiled at him sweetly and they walked over to the seats, settling themselves down comfortably.

‘Quite snug, aren't they?' Jean wiggled approvingly.

‘They'd better be.'

‘You really are turning into an old grump, aren't you?' Jean shook her head at him. ‘I hope you're going to lighten up when Rebecca gets here.'

‘Course I will.' Doug's face lightened at the thought of his only daughter.

‘And treat David nicely, and don't get irritated when the girls get a bit excited.'

‘Would you like to write all these instructions down?' grumbled Doug, taking off his glasses and polishing them with a corner of his cardigan. ‘Just in case I forget how to behave?'

‘Perhaps I'd better.'

‘Humph.'

Jean looked over at the snack bar. ‘I know, let's have a cup of tea. It'll help pass the time. And maybe a muffin.'

‘Want me to get it?'

‘No, that's okay. I'll stretch my legs.' Jean got up out of the chair and smoothed her skirt down. Then she walked across the room, past the middle-aged woman and towards the stairs. Once up those, she stood back to look at the menu and see what was on offer. The prices, she noticed immediately, were exorbitant. One of the women at the tables had risen as well, and she stood behind Jean politely.

‘You go ahead.' Jean took a step back. ‘I'm still thinking.'

‘Thanks.'

As the woman passed, Jean glanced at her face and only just stopped herself from gasping out loud. Because she was a pretty girl, with a cloud of dark brown hair and lovely brown eyes, but she had a long and livid bruise running down her cheek, which had swelled up the corner of one eye so that her face looked lopsided. While the woman moved up to the counter and ordered a chocolate milkshake, Jean stared at her surreptitiously. Apart from the bruise, one of her hands was bandaged tightly with only the fingers showing. And it was obviously painful as, while she paid for and then took the milkshake, she only used her right hand, with the other tucked against her waist as if for protection.

‘Can I help you?'

Jean dragged her eyes away from the young woman and looked at the pimpled teenager behind the counter. ‘Um. Oh, two cups of tea please. And one of those banana muffins.'

While he prepared her order, Jean glanced over towards the young woman again. She sat back down next to her two children, a boy of about eight or nine and a girl a few years younger, and handed them the milkshake which they shared, silently. It was an unnatural silence, Jean decided, that made them seem rather odd next to the children of the two larger families, who were running around and climbing over chairs, quite out of control.

The front glass door of the terminal banged shut as someone else entered and Jean was rather surprised to see the young mother and both children tense visibly and stare towards the door with what seemed to be fear. As soon as they saw who had entered, they visibly relaxed and the mother smiled down at her two children reassuringly.

‘Here you go then.'

Jean turned around as the attendant put the muffin and two cups of tea on the counter. She was pleased to see they at least used china cups and not those dreadful polystyrene things that always made the tea taste of cardboard. Jean paid with a ten-dollar note out of which she got very little change and picked up two of the sugar sachets and a plastic stirrer for her husband. Then she put the muffin in her handbag and carried the two cups carefully. On her way to the stairs, she couldn't
resist one more glance at the trio and saw that the little girl had crawled into her mother's lap and wrapped her arms around her.

Jean concentrated on the steps and took the cups over to her husband. She passed him one and settled herself back into her chair.

‘Thanks.' Doug tore open the two sachets and poured them in simultaneously. Then he stirred it, took a sip and sighed. ‘What they need here is a telly. Or at least a radio.'

‘Look,' Jean hissed loudly, pointing covertly towards the upper section. ‘See that young brunette with the two children?'

Doug craned his neck. ‘Where?'

‘By the balustrade. For god's sake, don't be so obvious.'

‘The one with the little girl on her lap?' Doug frowned. ‘What about them?'

‘They're running away,' announced Jean firmly.

‘Oh my lord. How do you know that, woman?'

‘It's perfectly obvious. Look at her face – she's been beaten up. And her hand is bandaged too. I'd say it was the husband.'

‘It's always the husband with you.' Doug stopped looking and took another sip of tea.

‘I'm serious, Doug. When that last person came through the door there, you should have seen them all jump. They're worried the husband'll find them before they can get the bus. And they won't be able to escape.'

‘You watch too many movies.'

‘You're
the one who's always in front of the telly,' snapped Jean crossly. ‘Now use your eyes, Doug, that young woman is in trouble.'

‘Even if you're right, what are we supposed to do?'

For the first time, Jean looked doubtful. ‘I'm not quite sure.'

‘There you go then.' Doug gestured at her cup. ‘Drink your tea before it goes cold.'

‘We should do
something.'

‘It's none of our business.' Doug bit into the muffin, chewed with a frown and then looked down at it disdainfully. ‘What's this supposed to be? Boiled cardboard?'

‘Banana.' Jean was still gazing at the upper level. ‘Don't eat it if you don't like it.'

‘I'm hungry,' muttered Doug, taking another bite.

‘What if I went up there and asked her if she needed any help?'

‘You can't stop yourself, can you, woman?' Doug rolled his eyes again. ‘If you do that, she'll probably just tell you to get lost. And she'd be right.'

‘But what if she doesn't? Shouldn't I at least try?'

‘No,' replied Doug shortly, taking another bite.

Jean glowered at him. ‘And what if it was Rebecca? All alone somewhere with the girls. Wouldn't you hope some stranger reached out?'

‘Rebecca?' repeated Doug slowly, finally taking his eyes off the muffin and looking back up towards the young woman. He saw that the little girl had now closed her eyes against her mother's chest while the woman patted her with her good hand. And the boy had pulled his chair so close that there was barely any space between them. He sat swinging his legs and staring at the floor. Every now and again he would glance towards the front door with clear apprehension, and then down again.

Doug cleared his throat noisily and passed the rest of the muffin to his wife. ‘There you go. Your half.'

‘Half?' Jean held it up and raised her eyebrows. ‘You call
this
half?'

‘Get another one if you like,' said Doug gruffly, taking his glasses off again and examining them.

‘I'm right, aren't I?'

‘Probably,' admitted Doug reluctantly, blowing on his glasses and then polishing them with his cardigan once more.

‘So what should we do?'

Doug sighed. ‘Ask if she needs help, I suppose.'

‘I agree.' Jean nodded firmly. ‘If more people did that, we wouldn't have the problems with this sort of thing that we do now. Everybody always crawls under that old excuse “it's none of our business”, and that's why these brutes get away with it.'

‘Are you just going to lecture me, woman?' Doug slid his glasses on and looked at his wife with his eyebrows raised. ‘Or are you going to do something?'

‘Do
something.' Jean got up and waited patiently for Doug to rise also. Then she turned, ready to lead the way up the steps. But that was
when she noticed that the table the young woman had been sitting at was now deserted. She and the children were no longer there. By her side, Doug also paused. They both looked over towards the snack bar and then back to the table. But the little family were gone. And it was too late.

The main character in this book, Mattie Hampton, is wholly fictional and yet wholly real. She lives alongside the rest of us with nothing particular to make her stand out. She might be the woman who just stood behind you at the supermarket checkout, or the one whose child plays basketball alongside yours, or the old friend from high school who was always thought of as the most likely to succeed. She might be your next-door neighbour, your best friend, your sister, your mother – or she might even be you. Or me.

She is our past, our present and – unfortunately – our future. She is all the women who have ever been abused, and those who reach out with their experiences in the hopes that by doing so they might be able to help another woman somehow, somewhere, someday. She is the lesson we try to teach our daughters, and the person they never believe they might become. She is a tapestry – not just of pain but also of endurance, and resilience and the incredible capacity of female love. She is a hundred, a thousand, a million women around the world – and yet she is also just one. Standing alone because she does not realise she is many.

And it is the voices of all of these women, whether they are whispering a message that can barely be heard or screaming so loud it seems impossible that so many can tune them out, that have given birth to Mattie. She exists because of them.

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