Magpie Hall (14 page)

Rosemary

I listened until the engine of Hugh’s car was indiscernible from the noise of the rain and the distant roar of the river. I hadn’t left the house in two days, and much as I loved it, with Hugh gone its spaces and dark rooms — the relentless cold — were unsettling me. Hugh was right: I had been immersing myself in my material too much, thinking about Henry and Dora, the family ghosts, and now the face at the window, straight out of a horror story.

Even though the rain was still falling, I needed to get out. I wrestled my feet into the gumboots by the back door and put on Grandpa’s big oilskin raincoat, which reached almost to my knees.

I’d forgotten about the possum and nearly tripped over it when I opened the door. I couldn’t deal with it right then, so I left it there and went out into the stormy afternoon. I ran through mud and puddles,
nearly tripping over knotty tufts of grass that had risen in the sludge. I didn’t really think about where I was going, but ended up on one of my well-worn paths — over the paddock to the Magpie Pool, from where a path wended its way alongside the river for a good kilometre. We used to ride the horses that way and in the summer always ended by pulling the saddles off and swimming in the pool.

The river had risen, fat and swollen, fed by the torrential rain. I could see how easy it would be to slip and be swept away. One minute you’d be there, the next carried, tumbling, to who knew where. I pictured Dora, an icy hand stretched out, then gone.

I walked upriver, skidding on the slick grass. The rain on my face invigorated me, just as I’d hoped. In the paddocks, sheep huddled under trees, and a crowd of magpies strutted about. A murder of black and white crows. And they looked murderous, fixing me with their shiny eyes. I counted them: seven. As I got closer, they became agitated, walking back and forth, stopping as if to confer with each other, and then breaking apart. Several of them lifted their wings and rose into the air.

I stopped, feeling uneasy. I turned back the way I had come, but it was too late: the magpies made their move. My hood had come down and I felt the wind from their wings on the back of my neck, heard their ugly cackle as they swooped towards me and away. I slipped again on the grass and this time I went down. My arm was an ineffectual shield as one bird became bold and dived at me. A sharp pain on my head drove me to get up and to try and run, but the magpie’s claws had become tangled in my sodden hair, and scratched at my scalp. I screamed, more from fright than from pain, but I managed to push at the creature with my hands and it came free. As it prepared to come back for another attack, I heard a loud bang nearby, which echoed in the valley before being absorbed by the sound of the river.

The magpies retreated. I stood up and wiped my face with a muddied hand. I looked around for the source of the noise and saw Sam walking over the paddocks towards me, a shotgun in his hand.

I didn’t run to him, just turned my back and waited for him to get to me, feeling idiotic.

‘Are you okay?’ I felt a hand on my arm as he pulled me around to face him.

‘I’m fine. Thanks.’ We had to shout over the roar of the river. I looked down at his hand gripping me and he dropped it.

‘They can get mean, those buggers. Oh shit.’

He was looking at my hair, so I put my hands up to feel it and they came away smeared with watery blood.

‘You’ve got a bit there.’ He pointed at my forehead and I wiped at it ineffectually.

‘You’re just smearing it around now. Let’s get you back to the house and take a look at it. It might not be too bad — heads bleed a lot, that’s all. But we should take a look just to make sure.’

I couldn’t argue with him. It would be impossible for me to look at my own head. I needed him.

‘What are you doing out here with a gun anyway? Jesus, did you try and shoot them while they were attacking me?’

He snorted. ‘Of course not. I’m not that stupid. I just fired a warning shot. Punched a hole in the clouds, as my old man used to say. Good for making it rain.’

Despite myself, my stinging scalp, I smiled.

‘So what have you been shooting? Possums?’

‘Rabbits. They come out when the rain stops. Little bastards. You want some? You could make a rabbit army. Guard you from the magpies.’

I didn’t know why I had worried about him being menacing.
He was the picture of joviality. I wouldn’t go so far as to say he was my hero, but there was no denying that he had rescued me.

‘Thanks for this,’ I said.

He picked up my hand and squeezed it, and I let him hold it all the way back to the house, although it felt awkward. We walked around to the back door, where the possum still lay. I said nothing, waiting for Sam to react in some way. He just opened the door and stepped right over it, casually saying, ‘Another one of your projects?’

I stopped in the kitchen and studied his face. ‘You didn’t leave that there?’ I asked.

‘No,’ he said.

‘And that wasn’t you at the window earlier?’

‘Window? What, spying on you?’

I said nothing and my jaw went tight.

He laughed, but it was mirthless. ‘Shit, you’re serious. What do you think I am? Why would I spy on you when you give it away freely?’

‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘Can you look at my head now?’

He pushed me into a chair at the kitchen table and turned on the light.

‘Let’s see …’ His fingers parted my wet hair. ‘It doesn’t look too bad … a few scratches —’

‘Ow!’ I jerked my head away.

‘Sorry. There’s a bit of a bigger gash here. Looks like you’ve been pecked. I don’t think it needs a stitch. I’ll give it a good clean, though. You never know what nasties they might carry.’

He left me sitting there while he rummaged in the downstairs bathroom. He seemed comfortable in the house, almost as if he’d grown up here. He emerged shortly with cotton wool and disinfectant.

After he had washed the wound, he looked satisfied. He had
taken off his raincoat and without asking went and lit the fire. I said nothing as I watched him, not sure whether to ask him to stay or go.

‘Jesus, this house is freezing,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you ever light the fire?’

I shrugged. ‘Too much work. Lazy.’

‘Your grandfather always had it lit. At least, when he was well. I suppose he didn’t need to at the end.’

‘Did you visit him here?’

‘Sure, sometimes.’ He hung his coat over the back of a chair and pushed it towards the fire. I was still wearing mine. The dress looked ruined, smeared with mud and a few drops of pink — blood mixed with rain. What an idiot I was, so anxious to get out I’d probably ruined a family heirloom. I was shivering.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘I’ve got to go and get changed out of these wet things.’

He looked at my dress. ‘I’d say that’s wise. What have you got on there? You do wear the strangest things. Is this a city girl thing? You’re on a farm now, love. Your wedding dress isn’t really going to cut it.’

I didn’t answer, just stood there waiting for him to take the hint and go, but he didn’t move either, just rocked on his heels, warming his hands by the fire.

‘So …’ I said.

‘Got anything to drink?’ he asked. ‘Any more of that whisky? That’ll warm us up.’

I folded my arms. I wanted to take the wet raincoat off but I didn’t want him to see the full effect of my outfit. ‘I’ve got work to do. Reading. Thanks anyway. For helping me.’

‘What are you reading?’ Stalling.

I sighed. ‘
Jane Eyre
, okay?’

‘Mad woman in the attic, eh? That’s you, I reckon. Especially with that dress.’

He was pleased at having another chance to impress me but I was becoming bored with the game. I also didn’t like the implication that he knew I’d been in the attic. I ignored his question. My silence unsettled him. He shifted from foot to foot in his socks.

‘Just go, okay? I can’t deal with this right now.’

He grabbed my hand and I wrenched it away.

‘Is your boyfriend still here?’ he asked. ‘Is that what the problem is?’ He stood close to me and I finally placed the smell that had been coming off him. Under the stale tobacco, he smelled of clay after rain.

‘So you
did
see me with someone. That
was
you, looking in the window. What about the possum? Was that your little gift?’ I felt a surge of adrenaline.

‘I told you it wasn’t. I saw his car pull up. Some guy in a fancy suit. Dressed up for you, did he?’

I didn’t like his tone and started to back away.

‘Two guys in one day, is that your style? One soft, one rough?’ His eyes were red, and I wondered if he’d got stoned before going out to shoot rabbits. I folded my arms and stared at him.

‘I’m sorry, okay.’ He didn’t sound sorry, but at least the threat had gone from his voice. ‘I’ll go. You don’t have to worry about me any more. Have fun with the magpies.’ He spun around and marched out the kitchen door, then turned back, holding the possum by the scruff of its neck.

‘You should really get this in the freezer before the flies come around.’ He tossed it and it landed with a thud in front of me, eyes bulging. He shoved his feet into his gumboots and must have kicked something over when he got outside, which clattered down the steps.

I locked the back door and hung my raincoat on its hook, then paced around the ground floor, making sure all the curtains were drawn shut and the other doors locked. Only when I heard Sam’s quad bike start up and roar back up the hill did I sit down and cry. What a fuck-up, I told myself. I never should have invited him over in the first place. I thought about calling Josh, but I didn’t want the fact that I’d slept with Sam to get back to my parents, or to have Josh ask me too many questions. Truth was, I was avoiding him too. I hadn’t talked to him in years, and I didn’t want to have to be the spokesperson for the family, to have him glare at me, judge me, when it wasn’t my decision to sell up. I had lasted this long without seeing him, and wanted to keep it that way.

The intense sunsets that had punctuated the last few evenings had retreated under the dreary clouds and night fell suddenly. I sat in the murky kitchen, lit only by the glow of the stove, gathering myself. When the fire began to dim, I stirred my stiff body, dropped another log through the stove door and went upstairs to change into something warm and dry.

Back at my desk I wrote for hours, gripped by a renewed vigour for my writing. I worked wrapped in a heavy blanket to stave off the cold. My hands on the keyboard were freezing. About two in the morning I got up and made myself a sandwich and a cup of tea, as much to warm my stiff fingers as to have a drink. The window above the sink had no blind on it and I tried to stare out into the blackness but saw only myself reflected back, hair wild, with a hobo’s rug around my shoulders. I was my own madwoman in the attic. Even in the middle of the night the idea that someone was watching me from outside grew in my head, and as I strained to listen for any tell-tale noises over the hum of the kettle, I flicked off the light to stand in the dark.

Later, when I was spent, and my fingers on the keyboard had locked up uncomfortably, I piled the blankets on the bed and went to sleep with the sound of the rain hammering the windows and roof. Somewhere, the walnut tree tapped against the side of the house. Behind it all, I heard the rush of the river.

All these sounds invaded my dreams, which swirled and spun with images and colours that I couldn’t catch onto. I lay in bed listening to the walnut branch, and yet I knew I was still dreaming because the room was filled with outlandish shapes and shadows cast by a light I knew didn’t exist. The tapping advanced and receded, and finally came closer, until it reached my window. I thought the sound would drive me mad, so I went to find some way to stop it. The clasp wouldn’t budge but, seized by the need to silence the tree, I knocked my elbow through the glass and reached out into the night to grab the branch. Instead, my fingers closed over an ice-cold hand. I tried to draw my arm back, but the hand clung on. A girl’s face swam into view before me, but before she spoke, I knew what she was going to say, for I had read this scene many times.

‘Let me in, let me in!’ the girl sobbed. Her face was pale and her dark eyes squinted against the rain.

‘Who are you?’ I asked, even though I knew what she was going to answer — Cathy Earnshaw.

‘Why, Rosie,’ she said, and her grip on my hand tightened, ‘don’t you remember me? Have you forgotten already?’

I stared at the girl, floating there in her nightdress, and it seemed impossible after all these years. I wrestled with her, trying to make her let go, and then I did the only thing I could: I pulled her towards me and rubbed her wrist across the broken window pane, so that the glass sliced through her skin and the blood ran down into the room, washed by rain.

The girl didn’t cry out. She merely pleaded again: ‘Let me in, Rosie, it’s freezing out here.’

I screamed. I had never felt such intense fear and frustration. I hated myself for what I was doing to her, and as I dragged her wrist back and forth I felt and heard the sawing of bone. ‘Let me go! Please!’ I cried. Finally the fingers unlocked and she was gone, as if the wind had picked her up and whipped her away. And yet still, when I returned to my bed, I could hear her calling, ‘Let me in!’