The Innocents (4 page)

6

For weeks after the funeral Missie never once stepped in the place at the bottom of the stairs, slightly to the right of the corner of the flared final step, where Judith Mae had finally stopped. One week drifted to another, all of them unremarkable and unmistakable from the previous except, perhaps, for the colder days and naked trees.

It was some weeks before she could even bring herself to walk along the wall side of the stairs. There was a mark, she was sure of it, that wasn't there before and her blood ran cold when she thought what might have hit against there to leave a stain like that. Her mother didn't need to remind her now to keep her hands off the walls. There was not a chance in hell that she'd let any part of her touch them.

There were twenty-six stairs. She counted them to keep her mind off other things. Same number as the alphabet.

And then, when she reached the bottom step, she'd list all the ways she was truly sorry about Judith. Once or twice in the beginning small waves of panic filled her belly making her hiccup when she couldn't quite remember actually liking Judith. Now, though, she knew all the reasons off by heart and it took no time at all. She could even tick them off on her fingers.

She didn't really like Judith but then she didn't hate her either.

That was good.

She had wanted to paint with her and had only painted one page without her.

That was good.

And she hadn't actually given her a shake when she was the one who dobbed on them for taking all the jelly beans and that must count for something.

And she was the one who gave in and went to fetch her when they'd hidden around the side of Scott's shop and were going to leave her behind. She was a bit sorry about leaving her there long enough to really, truly cry. Not just crocodile tears.

She was sorriest of all about the secret that she shared with Max. That was definitely not good. It prickled at her whenever she thought about it, and that was every time she saw him.

No matter which way she looked at it, it had finished up being her fault and the very thought of that started her off chanting again, just in case the ghost that was Judith Mae was thinking about paying her back.

It was hard to be truly happy with the fear of a ghost hanging over you. At night the fear kept her awake and in the daytime it seemed wrong to do too much smiling and laughing. Not that there was anything much to smile and laugh about.

It would have been nice if someone had taken notice and sat her down, like they did in the Lassie pictures when someone was looking glum, but nobody did. Her mother suggested she buck up and get moving. The girls at school didn't bother about her anyway and Miss Martin gave her a star because she was the quietest in the class. She might as well have been invisible so it was a surprise then that the new girl at school chose to sit beside her.

Girls like Zilla Trumble didn't usually choose quiet girls who were ordinary.

Zilla Trumble was beautiful. She had blonde hair. Proper blonde hair that wasn't just light brown. And it was long and she wore it in two fluffy pigtails that curled right down over her shoulders and her front. And she had true blue eyes with lashes as thick as paintbrushes.

Zilla Trumble could have chosen anyone.

‘Funny name,' she'd said as soon as she'd organised herself at her desk. ‘D'they call yer anything else? Or just Missie?'

It fair took the wind out of her sails, as Dotty Evans would say. ‘Just Missie.'

‘I get called Zilla.' She took the book that Miss Martin put on her table. ‘I never knew anyone called Missie before. Funny, eh?'

For a few seconds the amazing new girl was busy finding the right page but, once found, she immediately lost interest.

‘Where d'you live then?' she'd asked next. ‘I'm living out near the mill. Mum's new bloke's working out there. Where's your dad work?'

‘He never came back after the war.' The words were shocked out of her mouth before she could even think about them.

‘Bad luck,' Zilla said while she peered forward to check the ink in the inkwell. She rubbed her fingers around the top and examined their black tips and then tasted them. ‘Wish my new dad'd drop dead. Me mum'd be a whole lot better off.'

Missie knew her eyes were wide and she thought straight away that this wasn't the sort of girl that mothers liked. This was the sort of girl that mothers warned about and said should change their ways if they didn't want to finish up in a whole mess of trouble. What that trouble was exactly was a bit of a mystery, but she suspected it had something to do with men and hanging around outside the pub and being called common.

Dotty Evans said the Baxter girls were common, as common as cat shit was the way she put it, because they hung around the Commercial and took on all comers. Missie never found out what all comers were because her mother sent her, lickety-split, up the stairs as soon as Dotty Evans said it. The Baxter girls were pretty grubby-looking, though. And they had hanging-down petticoats and shoes with bent-over heels.

Zilla looked perfect but there was a tempting wickedness about her just the same. She was the sort of girl that you could tell, out loud, all the things that you longed to test out but weren't quite game.

‘I know someone who died,' Missie said.

‘Oh yeah?' Zilla stopped rubbing at the ink blots at the end of her fingers. ‘Who's that then? A grandpa or somethin'?'

Missie shook her head. Now that she'd said it she couldn't quite bring herself to say Judith's name out loud. Not just to claim a new friend. An old person, a really old person would have been all right. But Judith Mae was just little.

Zilla's eyes opened wide. Eyebrows up. Her mouth, a lovely mouth, all red and plump, formed a delightful little ‘O' and she leaned closer. Her long curling pigtails were trapped beneath her chest as she leaned forward and she straightened to flip them back across her shoulder. A breath of sour pillows drifted across Missie and she saw, although she was sorry she'd noticed, a bird's nest of unbrushed hair tight up beneath the pigtail's hair bands.

‘It's that little kid, isn't it? That girl ... what's her name?'

‘Judith Mae,' Missie said quietly.

‘You never.' Zilla leaned over and placed one arm snugly around Missie's shoulders. ‘The old girl down the road told us all about it. One of the posh kids, wasn't it? She reckons it's why you don't live in them upstairs-downstairs houses.' She gave a motherly pat with her inky wet fingers. ‘You poor little thing.'

Zilla smelt a bit. A tight, choky smell that drifted up from her jumper. Missie angled her head enough so her hair wasn't too close to the blonde bird's nest Her mother'd have a fit if she went home with nits.

‘My little cousin died,' Zilla was saying. ‘Got real crook and just died. Me poor mum nearly had a conniption. Me auntie dressed him in the jumper Mum had given him and he got buried in it. Bit of a waste if you ask me...'

‘Sit up straight, Priscilla.' Miss Martin was waiting. ‘Lips sealed now.'

Zilla sat up straight but not before she angled her head so Missie could see her grin. And read her lips.

‘Playtime,' she mouthed. ‘Out there.' And she pointed to the end of the building, the same end where kids who had friends hung out together to gossip and pull sweet grasses from their stems and dangle them from their lips while they talked.

Missie knew that if Judith wasn't dead she mightn't have got Zilla Trumble.

It was lucky that it was swap card time and that meant there were other things to do besides talk about Judith Mae. Missie suspected her cards weren't up to much but they were a whole lot better than Zilla's.

‘We could really use some fresh ones,' Zilla declared one day when they were sitting on the verandah at ‘Charmaine'.

Missie knew where this was leading. She didn't answer.

‘What we need's someone who plays cards a lot,' Zill said as if she hadn't seen, with her own eyes, all the cards that Aunt Belle had for her bridge group.

‘We're not allowed,' Missie said. Those cards were out of the question.

‘How come?'

‘Because I already thought of it and we can't have any.'

‘Who said?'

‘I didn't even ask.' There'd be no point. Her mother would say no, they belonged to Aunt Belle. And there was no way Aunt Belle was going to cough up. ‘They use them for games. They don't just take them to play swaps with.'

‘You could have the jokers. Nobody uses them for anything,' Zilla said. ‘They'll never even miss them.'

It all made sense on the verandah. Even as they said goodbye it was still an easy thing to consider.

‘Just wait until your mum's busy doing something else. They always say yes then.'

‘Don't suppose there's any old cards that nobody wants?' She had curved herself around the end of the kitchen table to see how far she could reach without falling. Her mother was preoccupied with dinner.

‘What sort of cards?'

‘Swap cards ... you know, like the ones I have for school.'

‘What would I be doing with swap cards? God love us, Missie, what's got into you – and stop swinging around the table like that. You'll knock something over.'

Missie straightened up. ‘They don't have to be proper swap cards. They could be from a deck of cards...'

‘And where would I get a deck of cards at seven o'clock at night? Just tell me that!'

‘Aunt Belle's got stacks.' Missie had gone on and was pleased with the way she sounded a little like Zilla. ‘I seen 'em.'

‘You
saw
them...'

‘They're in the drawer ... and I only want a couple.'

‘They belong to Aunt Belle. And they're playing cards. And before you say it again, no you can't have any.' She'd jostled around Missie with the casserole, nudging the oven door shut with her foot. ‘Out of the way, Miss! Scoot!'

Missie had scooted.

But she'd dallied along the sideboard that stood in the hallway against the back wall. This was where the playing cards lived. In the drawer on the right-hand side.

They were beautiful. Lovely cards with hunting scenes and horses leaping over fences and men in red jackets with foxes in the foreground. She hadn't been too thrilled when her mother told her what was going to happen to the fox but the cards were beautiful just the same.

From the kitchen further along the hall, she could hear the clatter of dishes and
Twilight Ranger
rattling away on the wireless.

Behind her the front door was shut against the night air and the front light burned chilly patterns into the leadlight window. It would be easy to hear footsteps coming up the path – it was gravel and made a
crunch-crunch-crunch
no matter how hard you tried to be silent.

Aunt Belle always wore shoes with hard high heels, so you could hear her coming from a long way off.

And Max was nowhere to be seen.

But it sure as hell felt like something was watching her. Her heart was beating so hard it was making her stomach cramp up and her eyes were standing out like they do in comics.

Too late now.

Both hands firmly, gently, drew the drawer along its runners. One, two, three, four, five stacks of three, finger-smoothed glossy decks of cards.

She took two. Only two and had the drawer shut and the cards tucked away under her cardie so quick it was a surprise to find it done.

There was no time to check around. It was too late to feel bad. She'd think about that when she got up into her room and it would only take a minute anyway to find the jokers.

They didn't count. According to Zill, and she knew most things.

‘Missie!' Her mother's voice came from the bottom of the stairs. ‘Missie! Find me a fresh apron from the top drawer, please.'

God, her heart stopped, frozen in her chest. She could have died right then. And would have only her mother was on the way. There'd be hell to pay if she got caught and Aunt Belle would be none too happy either.