Three Summers (16 page)

Merle nudged her husband's Sunday jacket. ‘He's on a roll!'

‘Teachers, they call themselves?
I
say beguilers! Beguilers who would sully the purity of the young!' His gaze swept down on Ruth; she stared back at him defiantly. He paused and then said almost casually, ‘The Abortion Car.'

There was another gasp, and from somewhere in the middle of the congregation, a small muffled scream.

‘Oh yes, you've heard of it, I see! That big black car that leaves the doctors' surgeries of our big city on Mondays and Thursdays, carrying its freight to butchery and Hell! And who are these poor damned souls who ride in it? Who?' He leaned over the edge of the pulpit and the congregation held their breath. The silence was so complete that you could hear, from that other church way down the bottom of the hill, a hymn flowing out into the innocent morning air:

All things bright and beautiful,
all creatures great and small,
all things wise and wonderful,
The Lord God made them all.

Someone hastened to close the door.

‘And who
are
those poor girls?' repeated Father Joseph.

Now the silence bristled with anticipation and something which was almost like greed: Ruth could feel the eyes hovering at her back like blowflies feasting on infection.

‘
I'll
tell you who they are!' roared the priest. ‘They're bright girls, girls with ambition, girls who imagined, who were
told
, that the university would give them a chance for a better life!' He banged his fist on the pulpit's rim. ‘Though what better life can there be for a young woman than to be the centre of her own home and family? What better life?' His fist thumped relentlessly, again and again, so that the small church resounded with its violence and a child cried out, ‘I want to go ho-ome!'

He paused while the child was carried outside and the doors closed once more, then the fist banged down again. ‘And who is to blame?'

Heads that had turned to watch the child being carried out of church now swivelled back to Margaret May. They all knew how the old woman had defied him; the tale was all around the town. Their eyes drove in, examining Margaret May minutely: the way she sat, the expression on her face, her hat, her dress – and every little thing seemed wrong. The colour of her lipstick was too bright, surely, for a woman of her age.

‘Who then is to blame?' Father Joseph asked them again, and another child called out, ‘The Devil!'

‘The Devil, yes,' the old man agreed. ‘The Devil entering into a heart!' He looked down at the place where Margaret May was sitting and caught her fierce bright eyes. He trembled. The
look
she gave him, piercing as an angel's sword – it brought the memories crowding: the first time he'd seen her, the tiny solid weight of the baby the nurse had put into his arms, the great glowing eyes of the little creature turned up to his face! The young Margaret May climbing down from the sulky on that morning he'd driven her to
Fortuna
; catching her stocking on a rough piece of wood, tearing a big jagged hole and crying out, ‘Oh! The nuns'll kill me!' And him saying, ‘Those nuns are back where we left 'em, Maidie, far, far away!' And the smile she'd given him! Like the sun in all its splendour! The old man swallowed, and for a moment his resolve faltered, but then he thought of the girl and the fate that would surely be hers down in Sydney, and so he took a quick breath and went on again.

‘What would you say to a mother, a grandmother! who allowed – no! encouraged! the young girl left in her care to go down to this Sodom, this Gomorrah?'

‘Aa-aah!' the congregation breathed. They shook their heads, and drew their lips in tight and frowned seriously at each other.

The priest raised a hand and scratched at the rim of his left ear. Merle nudged Len excitedly. ‘Vinny Gower used to do that, remember? Scratch his ear like that, in school, when the teachers asked him a question?'

‘Shh,' Len urged her, for in her excitement Merle was speaking quite loudly.

‘
I
say that such a woman has betrayed God's sacred trust,' Father Joseph pronounced. ‘
I
say she has endangered her soul and the soul placed in her care!
I
say that such a woman has committed a kind of – a kind of
murder
—'

The moment the word was out of his mouth a forest of whispers sprang up: everyone knew the old rumours about Don Gower's drowning: how some people said Margaret May had pushed him in the dam and others said Father Joseph had helped her and still more believed the bloke had fallen in himself, dragging out a calf—

The church buzzed.

Up there above them Father Joseph had fallen silent, and an expression of dull shock was gathering on his heavy features. Murder! Why had he gone and said that word? He hadn't meant to. He knew the rumours, of course, and to tell the truth he'd never been entirely sure himself, there'd been those bruises, and Maidie had never come to confession since that night. For weeks after the drowning he'd lain awake at night, tossing and turning, staring into the dark.

But still, he hadn't meant to say the word murder. Writing the sermon last night he'd used a different one – what had it been now? Father Joseph pulled at his ear. What had it been? He couldn't remember, and now his eyes had gone foggy, the faces of the congregation blurred before him. For a second he thought he saw his mother standing by the door, in her blue dress and old cracked boots, one hand up to her hair. Then she was gone again.

What was the word? The one he'd used instead of murder?

Then he had it. Destruction, that was it. ‘A kind of destruction' – that's what he'd meant to say. ‘A kind of destruction,' he said aloud into the whispering, ‘not – not a kind of murder.'

They didn't seem to hear him.

‘In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost,' he said quickly, and made the sign of the cross over them all.

Margaret May sat unmoving, while the mass continued and communicants passing up the aisle sneaked quick sidelong glances in her direction. The night that Don had died was coming back to her again: the cold and the rain, the black water of the dam: how Don had gone down and then come up and then gone down again and how then there'd been nothing, an utter silence, except for the pattering of the rain. ‘They'll never believe me,' she'd sobbed at the presbytery door. ‘They'll say I pushed him in.'

Then there'd been the warmth of his big solid arm around her cold shoulders, and his strong voice saying, ‘They'll believe
me,
Maidie.'

She would never speak to him again, vowed Margaret May now. She would never come back to this place.

The church was empty. Ruth was pulling at her sleeve. ‘Are you all right, Nan?' she was saying.

‘Yes,' she answered, keeping her voice steady. ‘Are you?'

Ruth nodded. ‘Course I am. But—' She frowned, studying Margaret May's pale face. ‘I can still go, can't I, Nan? Down to Sydney? You aren't going to listen to
him
?'

‘Of course I'm not.' Margaret May's voice grew hard. ‘There's no way I'd stop you doing anything on that old fool's say-so.'

‘Though he's your friend,' Ruth said uneasily.

‘Was,' said Margaret May. ‘Was my friend.'

There was a little silence. Margaret May looked up at the vaulted ceiling, and then at the radiant windows, at the graceful stone font, the statues of Saint Michael with his great wings and shining sword and Christ with his arms outspread – and last of all at the little Virgin in her corner. The Virgin's face was unperturbable as always. Here I stand, that calm face seemed to say, here I stand, and they rain down on me: prayers for the sick and dying; prayers for the dead and grieving, for the poor and the weak, the wicked, the lost and the mad. Here I stand and their rain falls down on me and still I go on staying.

Ruth glanced out through the open door at the little groups of people buzzing on the lawn. ‘No one'll talk to you now, Nan,' she whispered.

‘Oh, they will, they will,' replied Margaret May. ‘Eventually. The talk'll die down, like it did before, when something else comes along for them to wag their tongues about.' She patted Ruth's hand. ‘And there's always good people, Ruthie, don't forget that. Even in a little place like Barinjii – people with kindness, people with good sense, people they can't fool.' Margaret May thought of little Milly Lachlan and smiled.

She got to her feet and tucked the girl's arm in hers. ‘Come on, let's go.'

fifteen

‘I wish your dad could have come with us to the station,' sighed Fee, ‘to see you off on the train.'

‘Well, you know how he is,' said Ruth. ‘Ever since the accident he's been afraid to go in a car. And we said goodbye at home.'

Fee squeezed her hand. They were standing on the platform, waiting for the 7.20 down. Fee looked up towards the stationmaster's office where Margaret May had gone to check that Ruth's big luggage was ready for the train. ‘Mattie and me, we want you to know we'll keep an eye on your nan while you're away, okay? Me and Mattie and Mum and Dad and Mattie's mum and dad. And Grandma too – Grandma Milly, she loves your nan.'

‘Thank you,' whispered Ruth, and her eyes filled with tears, and then Fee's eyes began to fill with tears, and ‘Yeah, well,' said Mattie, ‘I think I'll just go and sit in the car for a bit, leave you two girls to say goodbye and stuff—'

‘Mattie! You're not going anywhere! And haven't you forgotten something?'

‘What?'

Fee rolled her eyes at him.

‘Oh yeah.' Mattie turned towards Ruth. He stood awkwardly before her like a shy boy with a bunch of flowers for the teacher. He cleared his throat. ‘Ruth! I just want to wish you all the best in Sydney! Hope it's good down there and—' He was blushing now, a fierce red blush, all the way up his neck to his chin and cheeks and broad forehead and into his straw-coloured hair.

‘Oh Mattie, thank you!' said Ruth, and he leaned closer and planted a kiss on her cheek. ‘Hope all your dreams come true,' he mumbled, and then Fee cried out excitedly, ‘Here's your nan! And look! The train's coming!'

Further up the platform Fred Wheeler had emerged from his office and Margaret May was hurrying towards them. Behind her, still a long way off, they could see a tiny black engine trailing a short row of dusty wooden carriages down the single narrow track.

‘It doesn't look big enough to take you all those miles and miles away,' said Fee, holding tight to Ruth's hand. But close up the train seemed huge, the black sides of the engine sheer as cliffs of shining coal.

‘It's a little early,' Margaret May told them. ‘Fred says we've got five more minutes to say our goodbyes.'

‘Right!' Mattie grabbed Ruth's small suitcase. ‘I'll put your bag in your compartment then. Car D, isn't it?'

Ruth nodded. ‘Compartment seven.'

Fee ran after him. ‘I'm coming too!'

Margaret May and Ruth were left alone.

Ruth couldn't look at the train that stood waiting, or even at her nan. Instead, she stared out beyond the station at the way they'd come, where the late sun lay heavy and gold on the paddocks and you could see the cluster of roofs and treetops that was Barinjii, far off at the end of the road.

Margaret May took both Ruth's hands in hers. ‘Well,' she said. ‘Well, Ruthie, here you go.'

Ruth's throat felt swollen, almost closed. ‘Oh, Nan,' she said at last, swallowing hard and then leaning forward to kiss the old lady's cheek, and Margaret May brushed the damp hair from the girl's forehead, smoothing it gently back over the crown of her head, in long strokes, like a blessing, over and over and over. ‘Be happy,' she said softly. ‘Be happy, Ruthie.'

Ruth nodded dumbly. ‘I'll try,' was all she could find to say.

Fee and Mattie came hurtling from the train. ‘Oh, it's so lovely, your cabin!' cried Fee. ‘It's got a little sink, with a tiny cake of soap, like you'd find in a doll's house – and cupboards, and a seat that turns into a bed, with sheets and a blanket and pillows—' She was laughing with delight, and all three of them smiled and gazed at her with love, and Ruth thought how Fee was the kind of person you just hoped and hoped would always be happy and that nothing bad would ever happen to her.

The delight drained suddenly from Fee's lovely face. ‘Oh Ruthie, you'll forget me! You'll have other friends, Sydney friends, and you'll change, you'll be all different, you won't want me! You'll think, How could I ever have been best friends with that dumb little crybaby Fee?'

‘Fiona Lachlan!' said Ruth sternly.

‘Oh!' Fee jumped back, startled at the sound of her full name, and the fierce expression on Ruth's face. ‘What? What?'

Ruth rushed forward and held her close. ‘I'll always be your friend, Fee! Always and always and forever!'

Fee gave a great happy sigh. ‘Promise?'

‘Promise.'

A whistle blew. ‘Time's up!' Fred Wheeler yelled from down the platform.

Ruth flung her arms round Margaret May. ‘I want to stay with you!' she whispered.

‘Of course you don't,' said Margaret May. And she released Ruth's arms and gently turned her round again towards the train. ‘There!' she said, and Ruth felt a firm little push, just beneath her shoulderblades. ‘In you go,' said Margaret May.