Pearl in a Cage (64 page)

Maybe she put in more stitches than necessary. Maybe Vern took more pleasure than he ought in holding him down, but they got him stitched, they got that bleeding stopped, got wound and stitches doused with iodine, and hoped it stung.

Denham's wife brought out a basin of water for Gertrude to wash in. She left it with soap and towel on the verandah. Gertrude stood soaping too long, her hands shaking hard now that their work was done. She soaped and allowed them their time to shake. Her legs shook in sympathy. She let them sit her down on the front steps while Vern soaped his own hands. She was no leaner, but tonight, when Vern sat beside her, she leaned.
He slid an arm around her and they sat in silence, sat listening to Denham's kids playing a wall away.

‘Are you going to tell Denham?'

‘What would that do to Amber? She's just coming back to herself.'

‘Stop letting that girl dictate your life, Trude.'

‘He's Albert Forester, Vern,' she said. ‘That's what I'm saying. The name is even starting to sound familiar.'

 

They charged Albert Forester with the murder of Barbara Dobson and Nelly Abbot, and with the lesser charge of molestation of a minor. The city police took him back to the city and Woody Creek breathed a sigh of relief. They'd got him.

Old Betty and one of her granddaughters got an all-expenses-paid trip to Melbourne, accommodation supplied by the Salvation Army, along with new outfits and haircuts. But you can't make a kid glove out of well-worn buffalo hide. They looked what they were, and when they opened their mouths, the jurors knew what they were.

The newspapers liked Betty. She livened up the proceedings, determined to tell how that bastard had ‘ruint' her as a fourteen-year-old girl. She wanted him hanged. She said so several times.

The defence appreciated Sophie, who admitted she wasn't too certain of her lodger's movements on the day Barbie Dobson died, that he could have been out at the time, though she couldn't say for sure that he wasn't napping in his room, which wasn't really attached to her house, which was why she hadn't seen what he was getting up to with young Maryanne.

Maryanne, the victim, who had made a lucky escape, wasn't called on to give evidence. The examining doctor was. He stated that the child was intact, that she'd admitted getting pennies from old Noah if she played rude games with him.

Denham stated that Albert Forester had been in town at the time Nelly Abbot was murdered, that he was sharing a hut fifty yards from where she had last been seen swimming with her brothers. He had photographic evidence to prove it—John
McPherson dated every photograph he developed. Denham stated that the hut was situated seventy-five yards from Dobson's wood paddock, where Barbie had last been seen. He said too that in his opinion, Albert Forester was capable of carrying a finely built eight-year-old child a mile through heavily timbered country, that he'd seen him lifting crates around in the grocer's yard where he did a few hours' work from time to time. He said that Albert Forester had spent much of his time down by the creek or in the park, places where the town children congregated.

‘Since the defendant's arrest, I have spoken to Maryanne Duffy and to two of her female cousins, Teresa and Cristobel. All three mentioned playing ice-cream games with the defendant for pennies. To use the girls' own words: “Like, I don't scream and then I get a penny for an ice-cream.” '

Denham was a good witness. The jury believed him.

Albert Forester took the stand late on the second day, making hard work of his climb up to it, requiring a supporting arm until he was seated. His right arm had been weakened by stroke, he said. He used his walking cane with his left hand. The defence council made much of his weakened state, of his great age, covering and re-covering the same ground until Betty took offence and was threatened with removal from the courtroom.

The jury listened intently to Albert Forester when he said the girls came to him asking for money, that he had not put a hand on any one of them, that Maryanne had wanted to show him a game, taught to her by her mother's boyfriend, that she had named it the ice-cream game.

Betty was removed from the courtroom at that point, and the timing was perfect. Place a well-dressed, courtly old gentleman beside a foul-mouthed old slut and see who the jury wants to believe.

They deliberated for two hours, between lunch and afternoon tea on the Friday.

Saturday's edition of Melbourne's favourite newspaper, which now claimed to sell 240,000 copies each day, carried the
verdict and a photograph of Betty Duffy. ‘
FORESTER INNOCENT ON MURDER CHARGE. FOUND GUILTY ON LESSER CHARGE OF CORRUPTION OF A MINOR.
'

Betty and her granddaughter arrived home on the train that brought those papers to Woody Creek. Betty took her city shoes off for the long walk home. Two hours later, minus her city underwear, her feet comfortably shod in old boots, she was back and belting on Denham's door.

‘What have you done with me bloody dogs?'

Denham and Tom Vevers had shot her bloody dogs, every last diseased mongrel. He told her what he'd done with them, then stood back and waited for her to ask what he'd done with her grandkids. He wasn't guilty on that charge. The state had stepped in and removed eight Duffy kids ranging in age from two months to twelve years. The city orphanages left a lot to be desired but a few of those kids might learn something more useful than how to drop their pants for a penny.

‘Those dogs kept an eye on my Henry. He's wandered off somewhere.'

‘He needs to be in a home, Mrs Duffy.'

‘You keep your bloody hands off that boy. He never done no harm to no one. Now you get out there and find him before he does himself a harm.'

Gertrude didn't get her hands on that newspaper until Sunday, when she read every word of the report. Vern sat with her, sharing her paper and the afternoon sun.

‘I thought they'd hang him,' Vern said.

‘They probably got it right,' Gertrude said. ‘There's not much I'd say for him, but I never believed he'd killed those little girls.'

‘He'll get a few years for the other.'

‘I'll guarantee the jury got that right,' she said. ‘He'd charm the pants off a nun and have the choirboys' off for seconds.'

‘Who knows what he's progressed to since you knew him.'

‘You didn't see what I saw, Vern. Those little girls' faces were cut to shreds, their little bodies mutilated. Rape of a child, I'd believe that, murder maybe, if he was pushed into a corner, but the mutilation of a pretty little girl's face? That wasn't in the man. It wasn't in him. Some things you know.'

Some things you know and you face them, like it or not. Some things you damn near know and you turn your back on them, close your mind to them, shake your head so hard it damn near flies off whenever those thoughts attempt to rise. There's certain things you have to deny or you'd lose your mind.

 

Norman's Aunty Lizzie had lost her mind these past twelve months. Thankfully, she died in June. Norman hadn't seen her since 1932, but he caught the train down to Melbourne for the funeral, caught up with his relatives and arrived home smiling. Aunty Lizzie had left him four hundred pounds.

The money came through in July, a week before Jim was to pick up his new false teeth. Norman, on the Church of England ball committee for the past ten years, always attended, and this year Amber had agreed to accompany him. She hadn't worn a ballgown in fifteen years, and the only one she owned was mouldy and moth-eaten. Sissy owned three ballgowns, but Margaret Hooper owned a dozen and she was buying a new one in Willama, so Sissy and Amber were going with her to buy gowns.

Jenny had gone to the ball with Norman last year and the year before. A lot of kids went with their parents. They danced in the supper room or ran wild in the park. Last year, Jenny and Dora had run wild in the park. This year, she was fourteen and a half, and Dora, who had already turned fifteen, was allowed to wear Irene's lemon ballgown. No chance of Jenny wearing one of Sissy's old gowns. No mention either of her getting a new dress from Norman's inheritance. If she'd moved back home, she might have. Norman said from time to time that he wanted her home, but not for a new dress, not for a king's ransom, was she living with Sissy and Amber again. Maisy's house was paradise again and would stay paradise while the twins remained in Melbourne.

On the night before the Willama trip, Jenny was visiting in Norman's parlour, listening to a radio play George Macdonald couldn't stand but Norman enjoyed, when the broadcaster cut into the play to praise the merits of Pears Soap.

‘Would you care to accompany your mother and sister tomorrow, Jennifer?'

‘She's got school,' said Amber.

‘I've finished all of my leaflets. I could miss one day.'

‘Jennifer has an unworn frock in her wardrobe,' Amber said, and said it so nicely.

She looked . . . looked almost nice these days, looked almost motherly, sitting at her embroidery, the light shining on her hair. Jenny watched the embroidery needle drawing the silk thread through, watched it for minutes. That needle was as sharp as it had ever been.

‘Mr Curry has suggested you sit for the bursary this year,' Norman said.

‘When the leaflets are done . . .' Jenny started, but what was the use of explaining. She left before the play was over. It didn't matter. What mattered was getting out of that house.

The following morning, she waved as they drove by, waved to Jim. Sissy in the front seat with him, Margaret and Amber in the back seat. Norman's house would be empty all day.

The few students who continued on at school after grade six were allowed to work at their own pace. Jenny liked finishing things. If she went to school she'd spend the day helping Miss Rose with the little kids, and today she didn't feel like listening to five year olds lisping through their first primers. She felt like having Norman and his house to herself, having the wireless to herself.

Someone had hung that brown rag in her wardrobe, and it looked no better than the last time she'd seen it. If it had been a darker brown or a lighter brown, something might have been done with it, but it was muddy. And the style was an old lady's. It had square floppy sleeves, a floppy collar and a boring gored skirt, which was half a mile too long. It looked worse than she remembered it, because of Dawn's hand-me-downs, which fitted—with the hems let down.

Jenny spread the brown frock on her bed, considering trims, considering embroidering it all over with white daisies, considering the sleeves, making a decent belt for it. Cancelled that out. She couldn't make a belt out of the hem of a gored skirt that had been cut from eight pieces. Wished she was brave enough to burn it, or stuff it into the relief bag so some desperate old lady could wear it.

At nine o'clock, she went over to the station. ‘I've got nothing to do at school, Daddy.'

‘It's a great pity you have no access to a secondary education,' he said.

‘Gloria Bull stays with her aunty and uncle in Melbourne . . .'

‘Had your Aunt Lizzie been alive . . .'

Had Aunty Lizzie been alive, Sissy and Amber wouldn't have been spending her money on new ballgowns.

‘I'll make you some dinner,' she said.

Loved owning that house for a day, loved being able to try on Sissy's green ballgown . . . which looked ridiculous. Six inches of skirt drooped around her feet, and Dora could have got into it with her.

Amber's moth-eaten cream was in the relief bag. She dug it out and tried it on. It fitted her. It must have been nice years ago. It had big puffy sleeves and a pintucked bodice, but it was stained and the moths had been picnicking on the skirt. She stuffed it back, found an old book and took it out to the kitchen, where she stoked up the stove then sat before it reading. Good to sit on that familiar chair. Good light for reading in Norman's kitchen. Good too, when Norman came home for lunch. She fried cheese sandwiches while he spoke of many things—or it was good until he progressed to the brown dress.

‘Your mother chose it for you,' he said.

She buttered bread and bit her tongue.

‘That frock has become a stumbling block between you. It would please her to see you wearing it.'

‘I'd rather wear the stumbling block, Daddy.'

‘That is a reply worthy of the Macdonald girls.'

Maybe it was. Live with people long enough and their ways rub off—better ways.

‘It's past time you came home.'

‘Maisy doesn't mind me living there.'

‘This antagonism between you and your mother must end. She has your best interests at heart, Jennifer.'

‘She didn't want me to go with them today.'

He wasn't good at arguing. ‘You will bring your belongings home today and be here when she returns,' he said, and he emptied his teacup, rose from the table and left the room.

‘I'd rather wear that brown dress to the ball,' she told a sandwich as she placed it into the pan. That's what Jessie would have said.

And he heard her. He came back to the doorway. ‘Then wear it you will,' he said. And he left her frying her sandwich.

She ate it in Maisy's kitchen. She was poking around Maisy's washhouse later when she found the dye, two bottles, both half-full, very old bottles, most of their labels were missing, but one had surely held green. Some had dripped onto what was left of the label. The lids were rusted on. She ran with them across the road to get Norman's pliers. One lid came off and took a part of the bottle's neck with it; it contained an evil blackish-green liquid. The second one screwed off. It was blue, blue-bag blue, gruesome blue. But not as gruesome as that brown frock, which supposedly was a good-quality cotton. You could dye cotton. Mrs Palmer did it all the time. She'd dyed a bedspread and two faded frocks one day and when they were dry they'd looked almost new.