Pearl in a Cage (2 page)

She removed her turban, tossed the stained towel over the foot of her bed, found a comb amid the general clutter on her dressing table and proceeded to do what she could with two foot of copper-brown hair. Without fail, she gave her hair a hot olive oil treatment once the dye was rinsed out. No time for that this morning. Maybe tonight.

A centre part and she combed it over her ears, pinned it so it would stay there, then plaited what was left, coiled it and reached for a pair of ivory pins, bought in Japan thirty years ago. They held the plait in place, the pins crossed like a pair of knitting needles, which didn't sit well with her working trousers and boots, but folk were accustomed to the way she dressed — or most of them were.

She peered into a mottled looking glass, shrugged, then as a concession to her daughter, or her daughter's dead mother-in-law, she swapped her faded shirt for another, swapped her working boots for light Indian sandals, then returned to the kitchen.

A tall woman, she hadn't put on more than a pound in the past thirty years. Height and slimness ran in the Hooper family. Gertrude and Vern were cousins, or half-cousins. There was something of the Hooper line in the strong bone structure of her face, though she'd avoided the large features. Her mother had sworn that one of her forefathers was a Spanish pirate who'd captured his wife from Tahiti. There could have been some fact
in that tale; Gertrude had the dark eyes and olive complexion; they gave lie to her fifty-four years, most of which she'd spent out of doors working like a navvy.

Vern watched her walk to the bottom end of the kitchen where she leaned down and spoke to someone he hadn't known was there.

‘I have to go into town for a while, love. We'll get you comfortable before I go.'

Vern squinted to gain a better view. Still seeing nothing, he walked down to where a ten- or twelve-year-old darkie was lying on a mattress against the back wall, half-hidden by a chest of drawers.

‘You're at it again, you flamin' halfwit!' he said.

‘I brought her in the day before Christmas and didn't give her a snowflake's chance in hell, but you're coming good, aren't you, love?'

The kid didn't look too good to Vern — she looked to be made of matchsticks, and one had snapped. There was a splint on her left leg.

‘She's not one of old Wadi's,' he said.

‘I doubt it. He's got two new women out there with him now.'

‘Where's he got them?'

‘About eight mile out. They're in that old trapper's hut. Mini, the one who came in looking for me, is one of the mission girls.'

‘Why didn't she go to them?'

‘Wadi done like mission,' Gertrude said, doing a fair impression of Mini's accent.

Old Wadi, a half-breed black who had inherited the worst of both races, had been hanging around Woody Creek's perimeter for years, helping himself to what he needed at the time, be it mutton, beef or girls from the mission.

‘You'll get folks' backs up again, encouraging him into town.'

‘I'm not in town, and when did you know me to give a tinker's curse what the good folk of Woody Creek have to say about me?'

‘Not often.' He grinned.

He watched her carry that kid out to the lavatory and back in, watched her wash a pair of narrow little hands not a lot darker than her own.

‘She's light-skinned,' he said as she placed the girl back on her mattress.

‘She's damn near white. Those mission folk need their backsides kicked for leaving kids like that out there,' Gertrude said, cutting bread, spreading it with treacle and dripping, filling a mug with goat's milk then stirring in a heaped spoonful of sugar. ‘I counted six kids and they all looked half-starved.'

She offered the bread and milk to the girl. ‘You drink the lot now. You eat every crumb.'

Wood poked into the firebox, its door closed with a slam, the flue closed, kettle moved to the hob, and she reached for a black wide-brimmed felt hat she'd owned ten years or more, not a feminine hat, and well worn.

‘If we're going, we'd better get going,' she said.

 

It wasn't the first time she'd ridden in Vern's car, though she still didn't trust it. It stank of petroleum, and the knowledge that she was sitting on a tank full of stuff likely to explode didn't instil her with confidence. It saved the saddling of her horse, and that's about all she'd say for motoring, except that it got her the two miles into town in the time it would have taken her to bring Nugget down from his paddock.

Amber was in the kitchen with Ernie Ogden, the local constable, a stocky, freckle-faced bloke in his late forties, a likable bloke who Gertrude had known long enough, had had dealings enough with, to call by name. Norman and Moe Kelly, the undertaker, were in the parlour, a wall away from where the mound of poor old Cecelia Morrison lay on her bed, covered by a sheet Gertrude had no desire to lift. She'd spent the past four years dodging that woman when she could.

Ogden lifted the sheet. ‘Constipation can bring on a stroke,' he said. ‘I've seen them go like that before.'

‘A normal-sized heart in that sized body can't be expected to keep on pumping, Ernie.'

‘She was sixty — so your daughter says. She must have had Norman young,' Ogden said.

‘He's not forty yet.'

‘Is that right! I would have thought he was my age. So, what do we write down?'

‘Heart stroke,' she said. ‘Cover both options.'

A doctor may have made a more accurate diagnosis. If they were prepared to put him up for the night, they could bring one in on the train. In an emergency, if the emergency wasn't too acute, they took the injured party down to Willama, thirty-nine miles of rutted road away. There were three doctors and a hospital down there. Gertrude handled the minor emergencies.

‘It is not an option, Mr Kelly!'

Norman was a wall away but there was no mistaking his voice. He didn't sound like Woody Creek, didn't sound like a stationmaster either; he might have made a good parson. Gertrude flipped the sheet back into place while Ogden opened the door. He wasn't above eavesdropping. Nor was Gertrude. They stood side by side listening.

Cecelia's demise had traumatised her son; the place in which she'd chosen to do it had embarrassed him; the weight of responsibilities fallen to his rounded shoulders confused him.

His mother had not encouraged him to make decisions. He'd grown to adulthood doing what she'd told him he should do. Moe Kelly was now telling him what he should do, but it was not what his mother would have wanted him to do. This much he knew.

The shock of seeing her so seated, the stress of the past hour, the brandy Amber had poured for him, had drained his strength — and drained it straight into his bladder. Desperate to urinate, but unable to consider returning to the place from which they had so recently removed his mother, Norman's mind was in turmoil.

‘All I'm saying, Mr Morrison, is we'll peak at around a hundred today and tomorrow will be hotter. We have to bring a bit of logic to this.'

Moe Kelly's voice was nasal — too many years of taking sawdust up the nose. It was hard to tell if he was male or
female by his voice. He had the height of a woman, hair a woman might have killed for, a deep auburn, thick and wavy, but the muscle and sinew of a man. He could saw and hammer from dawn to dusk, then take his wife out to a ball and dance her off her feet.

‘As you are aware, Mr Kelly, there is no train until Monday evening.'

‘Forget your trains for a minute, Mr Morrison. What I'm trying to tell you decently here is that a woman of your mother's size can't wait until tomorrow, let alone Monday.'

Norman grasped the mantelpiece for support as his blood drained down to his ankles, threatening to release his bladder on the way. He'd been an unattractive child who had grown into an ugly man. Now in his fortieth year, the family curse of fat settling on him, his face was being absorbed, his small features forced into its centre. When he'd possessed hair, when he'd stood shoulders straight, head high, he'd brushed the six foot marker, but his hair was gone, his shoulders, permanently rounded; they had rounded more since seeing his mother slumped against the lavatory wall. He was much smaller now. He felt smaller than Moe.

‘You must understand, Mr Kelly, Mother's relatives are spread far and wide. Her senior sister lives on a vast property in central New South Wales, her senior brother resides in Portsea. There is another in western Victoria. The Reverend Duckworth's parish is, I believe, a good hour from the city.'

‘Duckworth?' Moe asked.

‘Mother was a Duckworth. Her brother, the youngest of the family, will wish to read the service.'

Moe released a nasal sigh. ‘Then what I'd suggest, Mr Morrison, is that you get in contact with your Reverend Duckworth and you explain to him that we've got none of the city's fancy storage facilities up here. He'll no doubt advise you to move things along.'

‘It will be done on Tuesday, with dignity, Mr Kelly,' Norman said. ‘With dignity.'

‘It's your funeral,' Moe said, and he took off out the front door mouthing ‘Duckworth'.

Norman made a beeline for the back door, along the verandah and out to a tall wooden gate in his eastern side fence, which gave him access to the railway yard and to the station's tin-shed lavatory. He ran the last fifty yards.

Gertrude and Ogden watched him go. Cecelia's bedroom window looked east.

‘He's not going to make her wait until Tuesday, is he?' Ogden said.

‘It won't be done with much dignity if he does,' Gertrude said.

They closed the door on their way out. Ernie returned to the kitchen to have another word with Amber, while Gertrude had a look around Cecelia's parlour — while she wasn't in it.

There was a display of peacock feathers used to screen the fireplace. Beautiful things set in a large blue-green vase. It, and the feathers, matched the heavy window drapes. It was a fancy room, or the furniture was fancy, designed for better than a railway house — as was Cecelia. The house, built by the railway department to a proven design, looked like a thousand others. Passage leading from front door to rear, giving access to six rooms: the main bedroom, bathroom and kitchen on the west side; the parlour, Cecelia's bedroom and the nursery on the east side. It had verandahs front and back. Gertrude coveted its verandahs, but she wouldn't have given a brass farthing for the kitchen. It was a good size, but with the stove always burning and windows on both north and west walls, it was hellishly hot during the summer months.

Ogden left via the rear door. Gertrude waved goodbye then took his place in the kitchen where Amber stood at the north window, looking for Norman.

‘How are you feeling, darlin'?' Gertrude said.

‘How should I be feeling?' Amber replied. She was in the eighth month of her third pregnancy. Her firstborn, a girl, named for old Cecelia, was near school age; her last born, a son, Clarence, had died at birth.

‘Vern said you found her.'

‘I didn't know she was dead. I thought she'd passed out,' Amber said, placing bread on the table, a wedge of cheese, a little butter melting in a butter dish. She glanced again through the window.
‘I tried to rouse her, then yelled for Norman. He knew she was dead. He went red. He went white. He started shaking like a jelly. I had to run over and get Ogden.' She set two cups on the table.

Gertrude, eager for crumbs, sat down to listen. Amber was more talkative than usual, or for once had something to talk about. Her eyes were brighter, her face more animated. She wasn't mourning her mother-in-law.

There were few in town who would, which may have been why Norman was determined to bring his relatives up here. There was nothing more lonely than a funeral no one attended.

‘He's been over to the station lavatory,' Amber said, taking down an extra cup, pouring three cups of tea. In the past four years Gertrude could count on one hand the times she'd been offered tea in Norman's house.

He was surprised to see her in his kitchen. He stood in the doorway eyeing her — or eyeing his mother's chair, which she'd had the temerity to sit on.

She nodded her greeting while searching for words she might say. Gertrude wasn't often lost for something to say. ‘A sad time for you, Norman.'

He nodded.

Accustomed to seeing him wearing spectacles, she stared at a face that looked unclothed — his eyes caught with their pants down. They were the big sad eyes of a bloodhound, one who had misplaced his mistress and couldn't sniff out her trail. Gertrude felt what might have been a wash of pity for her son-in-law. He was chinless, jawless, his cheeks melting into jowls; his snub nose, set too close to his upper lip, looked lost in the bulk of his face. About the only positive thing Gertrude had ever had to say about Norman Morrison was he didn't look like his beak-nosed mother — though she'd had more character in her face.

She glanced at Amber, and for the umpteen-dozenth time wondered what that girl had ever seen in him. Amber had been cut from a fine fabric, which may not wear well but was too pretty to pass by without a second glance. She'd never reached her mother's height, had never reached higher than five foot five. She had the build of her father's family, had taken after them in
colouring too. She had their curly hair, blonde once, still blonde where the sun bleached it, but darkening at the root.

‘Are you eating today, Norman?' Amber called.

He'd disappeared into the bathroom, a small room a wall away from the kitchen. They could hear him in there, but he didn't reply.

‘Where's the little one?' Gertrude never used her granddaughter's given name. She called her little one, Sissy, pet, darlin', anything bar Cecelia. Loathed that name — or the woman who had previously worn it had given her an allergy to it.