Paper Daisies (15 page)

‘Happy New Year, gentlemen.' A constable nods, plodding wearily past, truncheon clasped at his back. ‘Must be time for nighty-night bedtime, ay?'

Must be.

Berylda

G
ret is wiping tears from her eyes as I climb in under the covers beside her, the best tears of laughter, fuzzy-brained, as I am, in some state above and beyond fatigue; past fear. Hysterical: ‘Poor Mr Wilberry. He very nearly didn't leave here alive, did he!' Gret can very nearly not speak, recalling the tomato canapé debacle.

I lie beside her and tremble helplessly with it too. ‘Poor Mr Wilberry indeed. What has he got himself into with us?'

‘Trouble!' Greta squeaks. ‘I can't believe you …' She can't get the words out but I know what she means. She can't believe the poor man nearly choked; she can't believe I then practically demanded he escort us to the Hill. She can't believe I challenged Uncle Alec as I did.

I can't believe it, either. It's half-past one. God, but I don't know how I will sleep I am so far gone and fidgety inside. What a night. I thought the Dunnings would never leave, J.C. Bullfrog very nearly putting us into a standing coma on the verandah with all his overpickled blabbering about the
hard line we liberals must take with conservative values if we're going to win this thing.
Blurb, blurb, blurb. I tremble and snort some more at that: liberal conservatism, modern conservatism – isn't it all oxymoronic blabbering? If it wasn't so serious. So dreadful.

‘And Mr Thompson.' Greta gets that far before squeaking and weeping again. ‘Oh Mr Thompson.'

‘Isn't he the worst?'

‘No! He's the best!'

‘You're only saying that because he flattered you,' I tease her.

‘I am not. He's wonderful.'

‘What if he turns out to be as depraved as he is outrageous?' I tease her again.

‘He's not depraved.' Greta reaches for my hand to assure me, all silly giggling suddenly stopped. She stops my heart: for she knows what depravity is, even if she won't say what has happened to her. She squeezes my hand, and now she snuggles towards me and whispers: ‘Thank you.'

‘What for?' Leaving you to suffer alone as I do, all the long weeks I am in Sydney? I'm so sorry, Gret, for all you have endured.

‘For our little trip away.' She pokes me in the centre of my shoulder: ‘Thank you, Ryl. We're going to have a lovely time, I know it. Do you remember, when we went there before, and I wrecked my gloves with chocolate ice cream at that fair? Mother was so cross with me.'

‘Hm.' We smile together at the memory, at the streaks of sweet sticky mud ruining new ivory silk. Careless. We smile together that Mother was never cross. I don't remember ever being truly scolded for anything, except for straying beyond the fence at Echo Point, too near the cliff edge.

Greta takes a strand of hair escaped from my plait and curls it back around my ear. ‘Mother and Libby would have liked Mr Wilberry. He's a prince, a real one – that's why Prince likes him. And that's how I know Mr Thompson is a good sort of fellow, too. Mr Wilberry wouldn't have any friends about him he didn't really like.'

‘That's inarguably true of Prince.' I grin and we dissolve into spluttering gusts of hilarity again. Oh how our Prince bailed up Reverend Liversidge just as Mr Wilberry and Mr Thompson left, went straight for the clergyman, springing up onto the verandah out of the blackness, nearly frightening the man out of his skin before Buckley caught him by the collar, just in the nick of time. Don't know how he got off the chain; perhaps Buckley slipped it accidentally when he was locking up after the fireworks. ‘Our trusty hound saves his best for hypocrites, doesn't he?'

‘The look on Reverend Liversidge's face …'

‘Berylda.' Uncle Alec wraps on the bedroom door,
bang bang bang
. ‘Return to your room – now.'

Gret stiffens beside me and I call back: ‘No. I am sleeping here tonight.'

‘You will return to your room now.'

I dare: ‘I will not leave my sister tonight.'
You will not touch my sister again.

The door flies open. Alec Howell's face is made of stone. He says nothing. He drags me off the bed by my plait and onto the floor before I can take a breath. My scalp screams.

‘No!' I try to scream with my voice but the sound that comes from me is too small. It is trapped inside this dream. It cannot reach Buckley in his room at the rear of the stables; it cannot reach Mary and Lucy in the cottage beyond. But still I scream and scream.

Alec Howell drags me across the floor by my hair to the door that adjoins my room with Gret's.

‘You will never touch my sister again!' I wail with everything I have, my bare feet slipping on the boards, slipping on the edge of my nightdress as I try to stop him from dragging me.

Prince yowls outside; he cries for all that I can't.

Alec Howell barks into me: ‘I decide what I do. You will do as you are told.'

‘No!' I grab at the door frame and as I do I see Greta watching, silent in her terror and her pain, her face removed of all expression, as if collapsed, drained of life. I see the flowers on her night stand. Mr Wilberry's paper daisies, untidy featherheads shadowed large upon the wall. I whisper to them as if they might truly hear: ‘Help us, please. Help us. Someone, please help us.'

Alec Howell kicks my hand from the door, pulls me up by the wrist and throws me into my room. Blue spurt of a match now as he lights the lamp on my table, then he slams the door closed behind him and stares at me. Steady. Cold. Dead-hearted.

He says: ‘I have no need of Greta – not tonight.' As a matter of fact.
Not tonight?
How many nights do you need her? He says: ‘Tonight I need you.'

And I don't believe he means he needs to thrash me. What does he mean then? What does he need from me? Oh –
this
is my punishment? He means to rape me too? Whatever it is, whatever he does, I am steel. Let me be colder and more dead-hearted than him. I will take his violence and I will show him nothing for it. No fear. No hurt. I will not cower or flinch. Whatever happens now, he cannot harm me more than he already does by terrorising my sister.

He continues to hold me in his stare. He can do whatever he wishes, and he will.

I hiss back at him: ‘Well? What are you waiting for?'

He chuckles, brushes a piece of fluff from the lapel of his dressing-gown, and says, ‘Hm. Right.' And now he smiles, and I gasp with the chill of it as he says: ‘Berylda, you are capital.'

What? He is playing with me. His smile is one of such pleasure I am caught in its horror, caught suspended in anticipation of what is to come. What violence will it be? What will he do to me? How does it happen between a man and a woman? I have read the book, but I do not know. I am bracing, bracing, bracing.

He fondles the cord of his dressing-gown.

What?

He steps towards me. He brushes the side of my face with the back of his hand. And I immediately betray myself, recoiling under his touch. An almost gentle touch, I feel the scrub of his coarse hair against my cheek. I don't understand. He has bested me, I know this even now, but my mind is a leaf lost in a storm.

His right hand reaches around my neck, thumb caressing my throat, the tenderest threat: he can kill me if he likes. He leans towards me, his left hand at my back as he presses himself against me, closer and closer, his breath stale, rancid with wine, and he kisses my cheek, my ear, my neck. His beard flays my face; my whole body wails. Paralysed.

And then he stops. He releases me and smiles again. ‘That's right,' he says. ‘Good girl.'

‘Good girl?' I hear myself ask him, my voice so far from me, so far from here. What cruelty is this? What does he do now?

He smiles, ever more pleased with himself. ‘You mean you haven't guessed?'

What?

He chuckles again. ‘Such a clever girl and yet so naïve. Of course you are the one I need, Berylda. You have always been the one I need. And now it's time these needs were met.'

‘Do it then!' I snarl. ‘Do it.'

‘Patience.' He laughs. ‘Marriage mustn't be entered into too hastily now, must it?'

‘Marriage? What are you talking about?'

What?

What?

What?

‘Our marriage. Yes, that's right,' he says mundanely, seriously – impossibly. ‘I will announce the engagement when you are back in Sydney, give you a few weeks to come to terms with the idea. Put a smile on your sour little face, and you
will
put a smile on that face.'

‘But you can't –' You are insane.

‘Oh, but I can.' The wolf smile is a world of certainty, the reptile mind is made up, his words soft, slow and deliberate. ‘There is no need to be so alarmed, Berylda. You will be permitted to begin your studies in Medicine – that's what you want, isn't it?'

‘Yes, but –'

‘Yes. Right.' He nods and rolls his right hand as if leading the dullest student. ‘And when you do resume your studies, you will return from Sydney each Friday afternoon to be at Bellevue every weekend, such is your devotion to me, and to prepare for your wedding, which will be held at All Saints on the ninth of March; Liversidge will perform the ceremony – I'll speak with him about it next week. It is of the utmost importance, you see, that we do hurry things a little, as we must be married before the candidature for the party is decided. I want you with child preferably before these New South Wales elections are held, which I expect will be sometime mid-year. I must be seen to be more of a traditional family man; this is the element missing from my appeal to the public and to the party, I believe. After the child is born you may resume your studies once more. You will still receive your degree, of course – and this way I will be seen to be the modern family man as well, a supporter of women, women who will encourage their husbands to support me. You will be permitted to practise; you may even specialise, in either gynaecology or pharmacology; you may choose which, as you may choose rooms in town, on William Street or Durham Street. As you may choose to remain a good girl. Or not.'

He nods and gestures for me to answer him. For me to be pleased at this plan. I cannot even blink.

‘You will see the sense, my dear.' He nods again, sure. ‘I have considered this for some time, obviously, and now the time has come. Enjoy your frolic to the Hill, for it is the last you will be permitted. It is time for you to grow up and accept your responsibilities. When you return to Bathurst you will begin nightly congress with me. Indeed, you need not bother with your corset from now on, unless some strain upon your back might make you desire it. Optimally, I want you visibly gravid by election day.' He claps his hands and rubs them together; satisfied: ‘Right. Understood?'

‘Right,' I reply. I spit it through my teeth. ‘Understood.'

He says at the door to the hall: ‘Our children will be perfect, Berylda. I would like a minimum of four. Five would be ideal. It is all achievable and manageable – your sister will help raise the family, so that you may otherwise do as you wish in your …
career
.'

And I promise silently at his back:
I wish to see you dead.

I will see him dead.

I will see him dead before this week is out.

My mind rages round and round and round this lead-sealed trap. My hand begins to throb where he kicked me. My shoulder hurts where he wrenched my arm.

I go to the window for air. I lean on the sill. I breathe. In. Out. It is moonless now, so black I cannot see a thing. No river, no hills. Nothing but black space.

And I am sure now.

Pharmacology?
Be careful what you wish for.

I will find the perfect way. To end this.

He has left me no choice.

‘Ryldy – Ryl, are you all right?' Gret is pressed against the door for me now.

‘Yes, yes.' I rush past her, dash under the bedcovers. Cold, so cold; trembling.

‘What did he do? What did he say?' she asks me through the dark, curling around me.

‘Nothing of consequence,' I say to her. ‘Just reading the riot act on my behaviour, laying down the law. You know what he's like. Don't worry about it.'

Because I will kill Alec Howell, and my darling sister will never know a thing about it. No one will.

The Track

Man is a rope, tied between beast and superman—

a rope over an abyss.

Thus Spake Zarathustra

Ben

‘
W
ilber, steady on – your legs are longer than mine.' Cos is puffing along the road, where the milkman's just deposited us, on his run home, a little way past the hospital – no cabs this hour on New Year's Day. I don't know why he's insisted on coming, but insist he has:
You can't go running off after a girl without witness – who would ever believe you?
Reaching for his tobacco before he was even awake.
And someone's got to make sure you don't hurt yourself in the pursuit.

‘It's not a matter of leg length,' I say, already leaving him behind. ‘It's that pipe you have to have before getting out of bed.' Not to mention that generous gut he's been cultivating the past few years.

The sun is about to rise over the hills; the sky is bronzing with it. And it is cloudless, promising good weather today. I begin to run, as though she might not wait for me. My head pounds with last night's wine and worry at displeasing her. Displeasing her? I dreamed of her frown, all night long, falling into her frown, falling into a field of nettles. But still I'm running, for her.

Almost at the gate, just past the drive, I see the verandah is lit up by the lamp at the door, cutting out the iron lace below the roof in silhouette. I see her now, Berylda Jones: pacing round from the western side of the house, that sparrow-swift stride both dainty and belting the boards. I can hear her footsteps from here, a good thirty yards away, and the contradiction makes me smile, quite stupidly. Until I see him, following. Howell. They are in silhouette too, black shapes in the yellow kerosene light. He is pointing at her back, beseeching, insisting, urgent words spat through clenched teeth, trying not to shout; something that sounds like ‘stop it'. She keeps striding across the front of the house. He catches up to her, grabs her by the wrist; I feel the pinch at my own from last night, the slug trail it left, just as the dog barks and bounds up the front steps. Howell lets her go then, with a dismissive wave she does not see. He disappears inside the house with angry slamming of the door, and a strange rush of desire comes to me, to grab him in return, to break his fingers, crush him.

I jump the fence, like Galahad storming the white pickets, and put a giant boot into the flowerbed.
Ranunculus asiaticus
,
white and double-bloomed, now scattered across the lawn, and the dog bounds for me, paws on my shoulders, almost pulling me to the ground with the forward momentum.

‘Is that you, Mr Wilberry?'

Who else might it be? I look up, following the audible frown to the corner of the verandah; the movement of her skirt there.

She is already turning away: ‘Come straight around to the stables, please.'

The dog gives me a grunt and nudges my hand with his snout:
Come on.

I come on. ‘Good morning, Miss Jones,' and it's only a few paces to catch up to her.

‘It is.' She turns her head to glance at me, just as the sun flares above the ranges, and I see her more clearly now, striding into the day. I see the blush of her cheek as she turns away again. Energetic and confident, with her straw boater and that shortened style of skirt that shows her boots, she could be captain of the ladies tennis team. Pale grey skirt and black boots, charging across the crest of this hill. I am tied to the black band at her waist as she goes, somehow remaining ahead of me, though my stride must be twice hers. I imagine she would beat me at a game of tennis, soundly. And yet she is so small.
Petite is always the better adjective, Ben
,
Mama would correct me whenever I referred to her as small
.
And I am smiling stupidly again.

‘How capable are you on horseback?' She glances back at me once more. Was that a smile? Too quick to see.

‘What?' What did she ask me? I am suddenly caught up again in wonder at her. Wonder what sports clubs she might actually belong to at Sydney, at the university. Strike me, again and again, she's a medical student, or about to be. I wonder if she's at all interested in botany, from a medicinal point of view; she was discussing something about chemistry with that Dr Weston last night, wasn't she? Not that I have ever been taken much by the chemical nature of things myself, but – that could be something to talk about with her today, couldn't it? A point of interest? What would I know? I've never spoken to a female university student before, except to say ‘excuse me' in a corridor; they don't seem to enrol in botany past first year at Melbourne. At Adelaide there are loads of girls, but Melbourne, the sky would fall in if women began –

‘Mr Wilberry?' Her tone is impatient. ‘I said, do you ride well?'

Do I ride well? ‘Yes, I suppose so,' I reply, although riding is one thing I can safely say I do well enough. Not that I have had a decent ride since – that last with Mama, out at Jericho, out to the billabongs, at the edge of Eleonora. Last June. Her absence catches me again, and I can't think. For a moment I can only see my mother belting up the trail ahead of me, her straw-coloured hair falling down her back. She was too young to die; too young to be gone. And I am small again; alone with Pater for some forgotten reason, and he's throwing me on the back of that massive bay stallion we had once, to get to church:
You'll keep with me, son, or you'll go to hell.

‘Good,' the girl says, pulling me back from all that. ‘You can take Caesar then – he's a little headstrong and more than keen to be out.' She glances behind her yet again, and again only for a second, not long enough for me to see her face at all before she asks: ‘Where's your friend? Mr Thompson, is he not joining us? Sore head, has he?'

‘Yes. No. Yes – ah. He's on his way.' The gate creaks; it's him, shambling in up the path now.

‘He can have Jupiter.'

‘Jupiter? He doesn't sound much less headstrong,' I say, thinking of Cos, who is not much of a horseman, not by any measure.

But she laughs, that soaring chime of a laugh. Should I suppose she is laughing at my joke? I don't know, it wasn't much of a joke, but she looks at me now, directly, under an arched eyebrow. ‘Our dear Uncle Alec – he does so love a tyrant. Loves nothing more than to keep these ones trapped in the top paddock too. They're mostly just for show, poor things.'

I have no trouble believing her; everything about Alec Howell seems false. But I don't answer her. The old workman is leading a pair of stallions from the stables. Alec Howell is fond of a good show, there is no doubt. These horses are nothing less than majestic. Arabians, one black, one roan. Hardly poor things.

‘Which one is Caesar?' I ask her.

‘The black one. My sister and I call him Jack, though. We had a stallion very like him once … some time ago.'

I laugh, for he is the one I would pick if I could choose. ‘Jack. He's beautiful.'

‘Isn't he just. And Jupiter is Rebel, to us – he's a little silly sometimes, something of a show-off himself. But we won't leave Uncle Alec entirely steedless – he'll have Neddy, our doddery old workhorse, to ride into town with.' She laughs again: into me. As though she is seeing me, recognising me only now. Her blue eyes are the sky awakening in this soft golden sunrise light. Beautiful is not the adjective, not the right adjective at all. ‘Buckley – Buckley,' she says, turning away from me again, ‘Jack is for Mr Wilberry, please.'

I take the reins from the old man and place my right hand on the top of the stallion's shoulder as he comes round to me. He seems steady enough as I look into his great dark eye, steadier than me as I sense Miss Jones touch the crook of my elbow, only for a second, but she is so close I catch the breath of her perfume, that fragrance of rosemary and something else; a glimpse of a bruise across the back of her hand that charges into me with the pain of whatever accident caused it.

‘Test him,' she says. ‘Make your adjustments, please, and then we'll be off.' She is in a hurry to be away, that is all her touch implies; her eyes imply it too –
come on –
and I will not waste time about it. My hand is reaching for the pommel already as she says: ‘My sister and I will travel in the buggy with Buckley. You and Mr Thompson will travel ahead – north over the bridge first, then straight on to Duramana for the Track – from there, you'll need to keep well ahead, see that the road is passable as we go.'

‘Yes. Passable,' I manage to reply.

I will see that the road is passable. I will mend the road should it need mending; I will be the road, for Berylda Jones.