Skylarking (9 page)

EIGHTEEN

T
HEN
C
HRISTMAS WAS UPON US
. H
ARRIET AND
I
LOVED
the occasion and always made each other a special gift. When we were younger, it might have been a tiny doll created from shells, or a picture we'd drawn, framed in some old fencing. Once I gave Harriet a story I'd written about two princesses who had been secretly stowed away on an isolated cape when they were babies so that they would not be harmed before they could take their rightful place as Queens of their lands.

That morning I had given Harriet a handkerchief I had stitched with our initials intertwined in vivid indigo cotton on one corner. It had taken me an age to get the tiny stitches right, and Mother had helped me with the design, a green vine curling around the straight lines, dotted with tiny yellow flowers, like those that spotted our cape come the spring.

‘So you don't forget us while you are away,' I said as she unwrapped it.

‘Never,' Harriet said. ‘I love it.' She examined the needlework and ran her finger across the monogram. ‘I will keep it forever.'

I could not help blushing with pleasure, her approval and delight the best presents I would receive that day.

We often had guests come Christmas time, and we always invited the men from Bennett's River who worked for us periodically, and more often than not others showed up who knew they would not be turned away on such a day. Father would be jolly and benevolent, a gracious host, though in truth it was Mother who did all the work.

I was in the hot and bustling kitchen, worrying about how the pudding would turn out, when I heard a cough at the back kitchen door. It was McPhail. He carried a long sack, clutched in both hands. I took my handkerchief from my apron pocket and pressed it against my forehead.

‘I've brought your mother a salmon. She's probably got enough but this one's a beauty. I pulled her in this morning.'

I took the bag from him and peered into it. The silvery snout of the fish pointed up, one glossy eye appearing to fix on me.

‘Mother will appreciate it.' I held the bag out in front of me, not wanting the fishy wetness of it to seep into my apron and skirt, but not wanting to appear rude.

‘Go and find yourself a seat,' Mother called to him from behind me. ‘You're just in time.'

McPhail dipped his head and moved away.

‘Kate! The potatoes! And that gravy'll need a stir.'

I turned back to the flurry of the kitchen, the air thick with the smell of roasting meat and the rich undernote of the pudding, boiling away in readiness for its unveiling.

‘Put it away over there by the sink, Kate. We'll do it for supper.' Under her breath Mother added, ‘As if I've got time to deal with salmon now …' She continued her mumbling as she sliced the enormous hunk of beef in front of her.

I tried to smooth my hair back before I went out to take my place at the long table we'd set on the verandah, with the younger children crowded around one end. I noticed that McPhail sat next to Jackson, down and across from Harriet and me, while Albert slid in beside me.

‘Merry Christmas, Kate,' he said.

‘And to you, Albert.' I smiled, tapping my glass of lemonade against his.

‘You've done a fine job of the dinner.'

‘Wait till you see the pudding. Mother let me do it myself.'

‘Then I'll look forwards to it all the more. You're quite the cook, I hear.' Albert ducked his head down as he paid the compliment.

A quiet warmth spread through me.

We were all dressed up for the occasion, buttoned up and laced in. Harriet was wearing a teal-and-white-striped taffeta dress with a cameo brooch at her throat. Her hair fell in golden curls around her face, and she did not look as if she belonged to this outpost, but as though she were already in Melbourne.

In the middle of our feast a great piece of honeycomb oozed, dark and sticky, onto a green china plate. James and Will had risked stings and broken limbs climbing to a fork of a big tree to steal the piece for Mother to add to the Christmas table. Now the plate took pride of place next to her willow-pattern platter piled high with the meat.

Harriet asked me to pass her some honeycomb, and I cut us both a piece. The knife cracked and stuck in the sticky hexagonal vessels, but I managed to carve out two wedges. I slid one piece onto my plate and passed the dish to Harriet.

She giggled as she picked up her piece, cupping one hand beneath the other as she attempted to move the sticky mess across to her plate. Honey dripped down her wrist and into the ruffle of her sleeve. McPhail was talking in earnest with Jackson, but I noticed him look up at the sound of Harriet's laugh. He carried on his conversation, but his eyes shifted from Jackson to Harriet and back again.

Harriet was well versed in table manners and etiquette and would often chastise me for my slovenly ways around guests or for my unladylike behaviour in general. I was surprised, then, when she lifted her hand to her mouth and her pink tongue darted out to lick the honey from the inside of her wrist. She only did it once, her lips and teeth resting softly on her skin while her tongue moved over the slick of honey. Across the table, McPhail picked up his glass and took a long swig of ale.

Harriet dropped her arm to her lap and exclaimed, ‘Isn't it heavenly?'

‘Delicious.'

‘I wonder if they have it every day in Melbourne?' she said.

I wanted to say,
It's Christmas Day, Harriet. Can we not have one day where we do not speak of your Melbourne?
But I swallowed my bitterness and smiled. ‘You will find out, no doubt.'

The eating and drinking rolled on with much toasting and laughter until everyone began to lean back in their chairs.

‘Kate,' my mother said. ‘Time to prepare the pudding.'

I rose importantly, enjoying the murmurs and gladness that spread around the table, and hurried into the kitchen.

Mother and Mrs Walker and Mrs Jackson bustled in and out, stacking plates and piling dishes. Harriet and Emmaline helped, too, ferrying jugs of custard and cream to the cleared table, as the din from the verandah grew louder.

There were sounds of scraping chairs as everyone moved away from the table, free to wander and talk before the dessert was brought out.

With Mother beside me, I grasped the long ends of calico that cradled the pudding bowl in the boiling water of the pot. Mother lifted the lid and clouds of steam billowed up.

‘Watch your face, Kate. Slowly now.'

She took hold of the loose ends of the crossed calico, and we carefully lifted the pudding from its boiling bath. The scent of it, all brandy and fruit and butter, hung in those clouds of steam, and I knew my face was sweaty and red but I couldn't have been more pleased. I could prove myself in the domestic sphere, too. All the complaints of my wildness, my untameable nature; well, see here, everyone: Kate Gilbert – pudding maker.

I upended the pudding bowl onto a dish, and Mother and I held our breath as I tap, tap, tapped the bottom of the bowl, relishing the heavy thud of the pudding as it came loose. I lifted the bowl, and there it was, studded with glistening fruit, and the deep brown of butter, sugar and eggs cooked lovingly.

Mother put her arm around my waist and pulled me close. ‘Well done, Kate. It's perfect.' I straightened my shoulders. ‘Ready?' she asked.

I picked up the dish and followed her.

‘Let's all take a seat now,' I heard her call from in front of me, followed by laughter and a few cheers as everyone returned to their seats.

The dish was heavy in my hands. As I came through the door, I saw Harriet smiling and clasping her hands together, then Albert's eyes, so clearly on me and not on the pudding; my father standing and proudly clapping. When I looked for McPhail, I found that he was not turned to me, as all the rest were, but faced across the table towards Harriet.

The afternoon light, so bright, blazed behind them all, catching the ends of their hair, Harriet's a golden halo around her face.
Like honey,
I was thinking, as my toe caught on an uneven board, as I tried desperately to shift the weight of the dish back in towards me, as I saw Mother reaching out for me.

I lurched forwards, the pudding sliding, sliding over the lip of the dish and smashing across the floor, the dish flipping after it and cracking in two as it hit the boards. I landed hard on my knees, one hand out in front of me, and I stayed there, staring at the mess of pudding and china before me.

There was a hush and then Father, my dear father, trying to salvage my honour with a joke, ‘That's just how I like mine, Kate. Come on, everyone, serve yourself!'

‘Oh, Tom,' my mother said softly.

My tears arrived then, stinging and unstoppable. There was a searing heat in my throat. I scrambled up and ran back into the kitchen, redolent with the smell of my broken pudding, and out the back door. Out and away to where I could hide and nurse my shame.

I couldn't bear the thought of seeing a single one of those faces ever again.

NINETEEN

I
T WAS
A
LBERT WHO FOUND ME
. H
ARRIET KNEW WELL
enough to leave me alone with my hurt until I was good and ready to be seen again. She knew that I would be like a wounded animal, growling at anyone who was silly enough to come close, and that to intrude on my private humiliation was to make it more real – pity would only make it all the more profound.

But Albert knew none of this, only that he wanted to comfort me, his friend, his imagined sweetheart.

I had hidden away under a rocky overhang, on a narrow ledge that perched over the cliff to the side of the lighthouse. It wasn't far, but it was out of sight of anyone on land. I thought only the seabirds and the sailors could see me hunkering down there.

When I heard my name being called, I stayed silent as I didn't want him finding me there, hiding from everyone like the sulking child I was. Not long ago I had thought myself so grown up, so important, and now I had shamed myself in front of so many.

Albert was persistent and, before long, I heard him sliding nearby, a stream of pebbles and dust dislodging and clinking down the cliff face until they disappeared from view.

‘There you are,' he said.

‘Go away.'

I turned my head as far from him as possible, but he made no move to leave. He shuffled into a sitting position and stayed quiet.

In fact, he remained so quiet that eventually I looked sideways to check that he was still there.

He had his knees pulled up against his chest and his wrists locked loosely in front of his shins. His eyes were fixed out to sea. I let my chin sink back into my hands, cupped on my knees, and stared out across the brilliant blue myself.

There was a breeze, and white caps peaked up here and there, white on blue. Thin streamers of cloud stretched across the sky. The sound of the sea was constant, but I never noticed it unless I really looked at the waves. Then I would hear the pulsing rhythm of it, a quiet roar, as familiar as my blood pumping through my veins.

I resented Albert for having found my hiding place yet his presence was somewhat comforting. Knowing that he wanted nothing from me, no outburst or tears or thanks, I could just sit and let the humiliation find its place amongst all the rest of me.

It would take many weeks before I stopped burning red in the face when I thought about the trip, the moment before it all smashed to pieces, and my grin, so pleased with myself. But, sitting on that ledge with Albert, I realised that the waves would keep pounding in, and no matter what I did, no matter how small or how great I thought my actions to be, they hardly mattered at all.

Albert's voice broke into our quiet. ‘Two summers back I was playing with Harry down there on the rocks, and he slipped and fell.'

I shifted a little but said nothing.

‘His foot hit a patch of seaweed and his legs went from under him. He fell straight down into the water. The tide was low, but the hole we were playing in was deep and waves were coming in against the rocks. In a second he was in and under, and I just stood there, frozen – I couldn't move. I thought he was gone.'

I waited for him to go on. When he did, his voice was quiet and tight.

‘Finally I did go to the edge and looked down and there he was, drenched through, gripping on to the rock face for dear life. Not crying. I reached out to him and he held my arm as he climbed back up the rock. He would have made it on his own though, I reckon. He was so determined. I felt sick as we walked back up to the cottage; I knew the lashing that Mother would give me for not protecting one of her boys. I was such a coward, not jumping in after him. When we returned she was hanging sheets on the line and, as we got closer, she saw that Harry was soaked through. She said, “What the devil …” and rushed towards us and demanded to know what had happened. And I went to tell, but it was Harry who spoke first.

‘“I slipped and fell in. Albert pulled me out,” he said, and I was silent and let him tell it that way. She hugged Harry and reached out her other hand to squeeze my arm.

‘Harry never said anything to me about it. Maybe he didn't even mean to save my skin. Maybe that's how he remembers it. That was his story. It didn't seem to affect him and the next day he was dancing about the rocks again as if nothing ever happened. But me, well, I felt I'd been tested and found out – found to be a coward. I still think about it.' He stopped.

I'd never heard him speak for so long and wasn't sure why he'd told me all this. But if he'd intended to make me feel a little less awful, then it worked. My mind had been distracted from my own troubles by his story and, when I returned to my shame, I found it not as acute as I'd left it.

‘I'm going to head back. They said there'd be beef sandwiches and a fish for tea. Will you come?' Albert said, and stood up.

I realised there was no reason not to slide along the ledge after him. He offered his hand to help me scramble up and, although I absolutely did not need it, I thought of his story and that stretched sound in his voice and took it. It was warm and rough and so much bigger than mine, and I clambered up after him. When I pulled my hand away and walked beside him back to the lighthouse, I could still feel the shape of it on my palm.