Winter (10 page)

‘You stubborn pig-headed little fool! How dare you invade my house! Get out! You're as bad as your rotten no-good mother. No wonder she killed herself.'

I was almost disappointed when one of these daydreams was interrupted by Mrs Stone.

‘Winter,' she said, coming towards me and looking genuinely distressed. ‘You really must go. Mrs Harrison is becoming most upset.'

‘Not as upset as I am,' I said, without getting up.

‘I don't understand,' she said. ‘What is it you want?'

‘I want to see my great-aunt,' I said. ‘Is that so unusual? What's wrong with that?'

‘But she . . . I'm sure you can understand she has very strong feelings . . . about what happened. She still has them. She doesn't want to be reminded . . . ' After a pause she added: ‘She's an old woman. Why can't you leave her in peace?'

‘I won't. I can't. I have to see her. And if she won't see me now I'll go home and get a tent and come back and camp on the front lawn for however long it takes. Months if I have to.'

With a shake of her head Mrs Stone turned away. As she re-crossed the parquet, I yelled after her, ‘And I'll take that portrait of my mother with me.'

‘That's not your mother,' a voice said. ‘It's me.'

I looked up. Standing on the first landing was an old lady dressed in a heavy gold and white dressing gown. She looked magnificent, like a Chinese empress or something. In her hand was a walking stick, so my daydream was right in that detail.

The walking stick made her look fierce. I half expected her to throw it at me. I bet she wouldn't have missed, either.

I stood, and stared at her. She stared back. She didn't look fierce really, just strong. She could have stared at me all day without blinking or looking away. She was like a wedge-tailed eagle.

‘You've got what you came for,' she said. ‘You've seen me. Now you can go.'

But we both knew I wouldn't be doing that.

‘That's not what I came for,' I said.

‘What then?'

‘I want to ask you a question.'

I'd surprised her. At the foot of the stairs Mrs Stone turned towards me, an expression on her face that I couldn't identify from the quick glance I gave her. Mrs Harrison came slowly down the staircase, looking occasionally at where she should put her feet, but most of the time still staring hard at me.

She got to the bottom of the stairs and walked towards me. Her steps sounded firm and steady on the floor, despite the walking stick. She stopped when she was two metres away.

‘What is it you want to know?' she asked.

‘How did my mother die?'

I heard a gasp from behind her. Mrs Stone's footsteps came quickly across the floor towards me too, but they sounded light and kind of temporary compared to Mrs Harrison's.

I didn't look at Mrs Stone.

‘Do you mean to tell me you really don't know? You don't remember?'

‘No.'

I shook my head. I was getting scared. Something was wrong.

Mrs Stone's face appeared beside Mrs Harrison's. Suddenly they were both there, staring at me. Two old faces, screwed up with horror. Two faces that seemed to be cracking, falling apart, disintegrating, as they stared into what I had done. Yes, me, Winter De Salis.

And with a great terrible rush of discovery I found I did know. And realised I had always known. I gave a cry, a terrible cry, and ran out of the house with my hands over my eyes. I didn't want to look any more, didn't want to see the terrible sight. I ran and ran and ran, down the long tormenting white drive of my memory, down the long black bitumen road of terror, and at last, as I reached Warriewood, between the stone gateposts of my childhood.

‘A
re you all right now?' Jessica asked.

I nodded.

‘You were hysterical. I've never seen anyone so upset. At first I thought you must have done the worst audition in the history of the college.'

I grinned and nodded and hiccupped.

‘I think it went OK,' I said.

‘Do you want another coffee?'

‘No. Is there any more of that carrot cake?'

‘That sounds promising. You must be getting better.'

‘I haven't eaten anything much since last night. Too nervous.'

‘Well, my carrot cake'll either fill you or kill you.'

When she came back with the cake she said, ‘God I'm sorry about that last crack. I can't believe I was so insensitive. I've been trying to find a knife to slash my wrists, but there's not much in the kitchen.'

‘What last crack?' I searched in my memory then worked out what she'd said.

‘Oh. Oh yes. I guess that was a poor choice of words.'

She watched as I ate, then said, ‘Will you keep living here?'

‘I don't know. At first, as I was coming up the drive, I was thinking: I just want to pack my bags and get out. But I don't know. I do love Warriewood. It's the only place that feels like home. And I've always felt I belong here. I don't know if places really can have memories.'

‘It's so amazing. I can hardly believe it. How old were you?'

‘Um, four.'

‘Amazing. Do you really think a four-year-old could do that?'

‘I guess.'

There was a knock on the front door. We hadn't even heard a car. But a few moments later Jessica returned with someone unexpected.

Mrs Stone.

‘Your aunt sent me to see if you were all right,' she said.

‘Yes, thanks. I'm OK.'

‘Can I get you a cup of tea?' Jessica asked.

After a moment she said, ‘Thank you, perhaps I will.'

‘Winter, you still don't want another coffee?'

‘No, I'm fine.'

When Jess had gone off to the kitchen, Mrs Stone said to me: ‘This is the first time I've been here since it happened really. A week after the funeral I took the job with Mrs Harrison.'

‘I'm sorry it looks so shabby,' I said. ‘The renovations are about to start. This room'll have a soft lemony sort of ceiling, and the same down to the dado, then quite a dark yellow for the rest. And the floors'll be polished.'

‘I'm sure you'll do a wonderful job.'

There was a bit of silence, then I said, ‘I'm sorry, but I told Jess. I imagine you and my aunt don't want anyone to know. I mean, it could get you in trouble, couldn't it? Interfering with evidence or something.'

It was like I'd unblocked a valve then, because she started talking. For the first time in twelve years probably.

‘I think it is better to keep it quiet still. Although perhaps no-one would care much any more. It's such a long time ago. The policeman, Detective Sergeant Bruxton his name was, we'd known him for a long time. Perhaps he did wonder if there was something else . . . but not what . . . what actually happened. He dropped a couple of hints, as though he thought she might have ended her own life, I mean deliberately, and we'd fixed it to make it look like an accident. If he suspected anything he suspected that.'

‘That's what I thought had happened,' I said, as Jessica came back into the room, with a tea for Mrs Stone and a coffee for herself. Somehow she'd found a couple of Wagon Wheels and cut them into little shapes and arranged them on a plate. I guess I'd just eaten the last slice of carrot cake. It didn't look as elegant as the afternoon teas that I imagine Mrs Stone would serve up to Great-aunt Rita, or Great-aunt Rita's friends, if she had any.

But I'm a Wagon Wheel addict, so I grabbed a piece, and Mrs Stone took one without even noticing what she was doing. I think she was too engrossed in her story.

She looked shocked by my reference to suicide though. ‘Phyllis take her own life? Good heavens no. That's the last thing Phyllis would have done. Phyllis was a fighter. Nothing would have stopped . . . '

Then she looked embarrassed as she realised that something had stopped Phyllis. Something as powerful as a bullet.

‘But people told me she got more and more depressed after my father died,' I said, switching the subject, giving her a chance to get back on track.

The last thing I wanted was for her to stop talking. I was listening avidly to every word. This was my history. The gap in my life was slowly being filled, brick by brick, word by word.

‘Yes, I think that's true,' Mrs Stone said. ‘But they had been so deeply in love. Phyllis attracted love. People who'd only met her once or twice spoke of her as though they loved her, as though she were their best friend. Mrs Harrison was utterly devoted to her. She thought of Phyllis as the daughter she'd never had. That's why she was so devastated . . . that's why she didn't want to see you. Do you know, she's never spoken of Phyllis, or the . . . the day of the accident, from that moment on?'

‘How did it actually happen?' I asked, as gently as I could.

This was the critical moment. If I could get her to tell me this bit, I thought I might be satisfied.

She hesitated, looking at Jessica.

‘Uh, is this where I leave?' Jess asked, getting up.

‘No it's fine,' I said, too quickly, as I realised when I saw Mrs Stone hesitate again.

One thing about Jess, she was perceptive. She picked up on little clues. Just like her father. Or else she wouldn't have moved in the first place.

‘I'll go,' she said. ‘Would you like another cup of tea?'

‘No, no thanks, that was very nice.'

Jessica did her exit. I wanted her to stay, for moral support, but I don't think Mrs Stone would have talked freely with anyone else there.

Even with Jess out of the room, Mrs Stone had trouble getting started. I tried a few prompts.

‘So how did it happen?' I said again.

Her head dropped and I thought I saw a little tear fall onto her knee.

‘Was she going shooting? Was it over by that paddock with the mulberry trees?'

She nodded, and sniffed. ‘So you do remember?' she said.

‘No, I don't. But I got the weirdest vibes when I was in that paddock. After that I was sure it must have been the place where she died. I don't know if it's memory or what.'

‘That was her rifle range,' she said. ‘It wasn't a long one, but she liked it because you get such variable wind patterns in that paddock, and she thought it was good for training. Every day the conditions were different.'

‘So was she practising that day?' I asked. ‘Did she take me with her?'

‘You were so young,' she said. ‘No-one had the slightest idea you could operate a firearm. No-one. Phyllis had never taught you. You were just too intelligent for your own good. You must have only seen her operate the safety a couple of times. She had just started training for the national titles, and Mrs Harrison and I took you over to the paddock, for a little walk, and to see your mummy. It was all so quick. We got there, and Phyllis had two or three guns standing against the back of the ute, as well as the one she was using. You picked one of them up—you could barely hold it—and before anyone registered what you were doing, you slid the action forward and fired. I've got an idea you even said “bang bang” as you pulled the trigger. I thought I saw your mouth forming the words.'

She started shaking. ‘It was just a game to you. Phyllis fell without a word. We tried to stop the bleeding, we tried to revive her, but there was never a chance. She died instantly. When we finally realised there was nothing to be done we just looked at each other. Mrs Harrison took charge. She didn't have to say anything but I knew what she was thinking. If the press got hold of it, of you, they'd have had a field day. Your aunt, I mean your great-aunt, hated anything like that. She took the gun and put it on the ground behind the ute, as though it had fallen. Then she got the dog and locked him in the cab of the ute. It wasn't easy—the dog was very distressed. He knew something was wrong. But your aunt is such a forceful lady. She lifted the dog and more or less threw him in there. Then she told me to take you to the homestead, here, and call the police, and the doctor. “Don't bring Winter back with you,” she said. “You stay in the homestead with her. Just point the police and Dr Couples in the right direction when they come. Then leave the rest to me.”

‘“Yes, all right,” I said. She's so clever, I knew I could trust her to work it out, to fix everything. Sergeant Bruxton did come to the house to talk to me, but I just said I hadn't been there, hadn't seen anything. And like I said, he accepted that. He didn't even ask whether you'd been there, just assumed you hadn't.'

‘And you never told anyone?'

‘I never did,' she said. ‘I have an idea Mrs Harrison told those people you went to live with, in Canberra, Phyllis's half sister.'

‘Thank you for telling me now,' I said. ‘And thanks for coming here, to see if I was OK.'

‘It's nice to see you home at last,' she said. ‘I hear you're doing a fine job, bringing the old place to life again. I hope you're back for good. I'm sure Mrs Harrison will want to see you, but maybe not for a few days. She was very distressed after you left.'

‘I'd like to see her again,' I said. ‘I think we might have a bit in common.'

I
t wasn't easy to return to the graves. The first time I'd gone I'd never thought that my mother was there because of me.

I'd planned for my second visit that I'd come with flowers and gardening tools, to make it beautiful. But I came empty-handed.

I'm not sure what I wanted or expected. Maybe I was looking for forgiveness. But I don't really think so. Daughters kill their mothers in all kinds of ways. If not when they're giving birth, then later. Some of my friends in Canberra were killing their mothers slowly, one day at a time, death by a million cuts.

What I had done was weird, one of the freakish things that happen in life, like an iceberg scraping along the side of a ship and cutting it open as if it was made of aluminium. I knew I couldn't be blamed for what happened when I was four years old.

But I did wonder whether some strange force was at work that day. How innocent was I when I pulled the trigger? Surely even at four I had some understanding of what a gun meant, and what it could do. Was I angry at my mother that afternoon? Had I been angry at her for some time? Maybe for six months. Maybe for always.

I sat by the grave, picking at the burrs that had started to cover it again. I could never make my peace with my mother now. I could not ask for her understanding. I had to trust to her heart, her spirit. I thought about
Seven Little Australians
, where Judy lies in the hut, shaking with fear to know she's dying at the age of thirteen, and Meg tells her, ‘You won't be lonely', because their mother, who died four years earlier, would be waiting for her.

Would my mother be waiting for me sometime down the road? Would she have a speech prepared? I had cost her maybe forty years. She was entitled to be angry. God, I would be.

Or would she be pleased, that we were together again?

I pulled at one weed and realised too late that it was a stinging nettle. Wow, did it sting. My fingers went red and hard and hot and swollen. I sat there sucking them, feeling this was a bad omen. Then suddenly it struck me as funny. I'd shot my mother and this was her revenge? To sting my hand for a couple of hours?

I started laughing. People had told me about my mother's sense of humour. Well, the hell with it. I wasn't going to be beaten that easily. I ignored my burning fingers and began weeding the graves.