Being Here (9 page)

‘Of course not. And as for fairies, we have sworn off each other's company. For a time at least. It's difficult at my age to resist their allure. I'm drawn to their light.'

She sits next to me and takes my hand in hers. Most times I'm embarrassed by the texture of mine. Old, cracked leather. Today, though, the sun is shining and it's good to be alive. I squeeze her hand. It's warm with life.

‘I've got news,' she says, and I know what it is. I can feel it in the pulse of blood through her skin. But I almost don't want to hear it.

‘You're pregnant,' I say.

‘Yes!' Her excitement lights her from within. It shines from every pore. ‘And you're the first person to know. After Alan, naturally. But even my mother doesn't know yet.'

It's shameful to admit it, but my first reaction is dismay. I see again the drumming of impatient fingers on metal, the sidelong glances at other women's legs and a sneer that oozes lust. I am too judgemental. The day is too beautiful. I smile.

‘That's wonderful Jane. Congratulations.'

Maybe if she wasn't so wrapped in warmth, she might see the transparent insincerity of my words. But new life is so demanding. It refuses to give up its spotlight. I have seen this in other women.

‘Thanks, Leah. I knew you'd be excited for me.'

‘How does your husband feel about it? It's a big responsibility being a parent.'

‘Alan's thrilled. We've already discussed names.'

But will he be so thrilled with the thickening of his wife's figure, the sleepless nights, the soft chains that bind? I think not. Already he flutters around a range of different lamps. And when the glow of the marital lamp changes direction, when it shines upon another helpless being exclusively, will the pull of the different be too great to resist? People's lives are infused with small, familiar dramas that run continually. I see only a small portion, but even that is too much sometimes. I wonder briefly why I am so concerned with images of light. Perhaps it's because of the sun's blessing.

‘We were thinking of Leah,' says Jane. Her eyes are cast downwards. It suits her.

‘A problem if it's a boy,' I remark.

She tilts her head and offers a reproachful look.

‘Such an old-fashioned name,' I continue. ‘She might grow up to resent it.'

‘It's not so old-fashioned anymore,' says Jane. ‘Biblical names have been popular for years. I like it. Really. And not just because it's your name, though I'm glad it is, but because it feels right. Solid. Anyway, at this stage it's just an option. Mind you, we're struggling for boys' names.'

‘Adam,' I say. Jane laughs.

‘And that's not old-fashioned?'

‘Someone told me – I can't recall who it was now – that biblical names are popular nowadays.'

She looks at me and a cloud of worry sweeps across her face. It is a face ill-suited to wear that emotion and I am both touched and guilty to be the cause.

‘I'm joking, dear.'

She smiles and it wipes her face clean.

‘Adam?' She rolls the name around her mouth, experimenting with its taste. ‘Adam. I like it. Maybe. Why Adam, Leah? Is that someone you knew?'

I gaze out of the window for a few heartbeats. There are so many responses I could make, but none of them are satisfactory. Each choice burns with inadequacy. And layers and layers of memories … ‘Adam was someone I loved,' I reply. It's true, but it does not say enough.

‘That's so sweet,' says Jane. She grips my hand tighter. ‘What happened to him?'

‘He left me,' I reply. ‘I made him leave.'

She doesn't say anything else, but sits holding my hand as if it's a lifeline. I watch clouds scud across a powder-blue sky.

‘A deal is a deal,' I say. ‘A story for a story.'

The girl isn't wearing make-up. I don't know whether to be pleased or disappointed. If she can't stand up to an old woman, albeit a forceful one, what chance does she have with other, more personal pressures? Then again, her eyebrow stud is still there. Conformity and rebellion. An interesting mix. The nakedness of her face is vaguely embarrassing. She seems younger even than her sixteen years. I wonder what I have exposed.

‘I don't have one. Seriously,' she says.

‘Then I will start,' I reply. ‘But you owe me and I will demand payment. Where was I?'

‘The barn.'

‘Ah. The barn. Yes. I have spent too long there. I have always spent too long there. We must move forward in time. Love awaits us. And murder.'

CHAPTER 7

M
R CAMERON WAS OUR
closest neighbour. He owned a large farm about three miles away. It bordered ours. He was the visitor the day I tried to read my mother's book. The one who invited me over to play with his son.

About a year after the barn incident, mother and I took him up on that invitation, though mother's motives had nothing to do with finding me a companion. I wasn't aware of it at the time, but I think she only went to sign some documents transferring a portion of our land into our neighbour's possession. We didn't do social visits. I don't know why she took me along. Perhaps she didn't trust me to resist the call of the strong box and the story buried within.

We walked. It must have been an odd procession. I was in my long dress, the one reserved for special occasions, like church. It was shapeless and old-fashioned, even for those times. But I wasn't aware of such things. I had very little contact with anyone my own age, so I had no standards by which I could judge myself. Actually, I had very little contact with anyone by then. Mother taught me at home. She considered school a threat to our cocooned existence. I had read of such places – playgrounds washed with laughter, orderly desks with heads bent over slates, the smell of chalk and youth. But for me they remained a bright, inaccessible fiction.

Mother's dress was dark and plain, her hair swept back into a tight bun peppered with grey. The severity with which she kept it brushed back tightened the skin on her face so that she looked faintly yet constantly alarmed. I remember her sharp nose and her firm chin. She was angular and formidable. It was difficult to track changes over time, but I suspect she had become much thinner since my father's death. What happened to the people we once were? Where did that young woman go, the one who smiled from a church pew when a sad soldier told her she was beautiful and that she would marry him? When I think of mother now, I see only her sharp nose, her firm chin, her eyes gleaming with inner resolve, her long, dark clothes that hung like a statement of gloom.

Mother was consumed by her own notion of love, but nothing in her appearance betrayed it.

Pagan shuffled at my side. The years had taken their toll on him. He must have been about twelve or thirteen and had long since ceased to be a working dog. By this time there was scarcely a farm and therefore no work for him to do. He was a border collie and bred for action. I suspect inaction dried him. Or made him transfer his thwarted needs onto me. Every time I stepped out the front door in the morning, he lurched to his feet, tail wagging. From that moment until I went back into the house he was constantly at my side. Even at night he slept as close to my bedroom window as he could. I fell asleep to the sound of his tail beating gently against the verandah.

Adam was the fourth member of our group. He skipped in front, often walking backwards so he could see my face or I could see his. Since the time in the barn he had been like Pagan, an almost constant companion. I never really knew what he would wear from day to day. Sometimes he would be a character from the book I was reading at Mrs Hilson's, particularly if it was a book of which he approved. This day he was resplendent in Lincoln green. I was halfway through a book about Robin Hood and he liked it. We spent happy times in Sherwood Forest. I have said my world was small, and though that is physically true, in my imagination I have travelled through this world and countless others. Adam was by my side every step of the way.

That day he was trying to make me laugh. He would sometimes get a step in front of my mother and make faces at her. There was something absurd in the way her gaze remained fixed on the horizon while Adam put his fingers into the corners of his mouth and made gargoyle faces. I tried to keep a neutral expression, but it was difficult. Then he withdrew an arrow from the quiver on his right shoulder, nocked it and aimed the arrowhead straight at mother's face. I burst out laughing.

Mother stopped and gave me a look one-third curious and two-thirds pained.

‘What in the name of God is the matter with you, Leah?' she said.

‘Sorry, Mamma,' I replied. It crossed my mind to find a reason for my outburst; perhaps that I had remembered something funny I'd read in a book. But I resisted. Since we had made our pact not to lie to each other, it had assumed the status of a sacred vow. I couldn't lie to mother. I believed what she'd told me, that love and lies could not co-exist. I believe that still.

But that didn't mean I had to give her an explanation for my outburst. If she'd asked me, it would have been a different matter. But she didn't. I was convinced by the logic that says withholding the truth is not the same as lying.

‘When we arrive at Mr Cameron's, I want you to be on your best behaviour,' she said. ‘You cannot go around giggling like some kind of retarded child. Do you understand?'

‘Yes, Mamma,' I said, casting my eyes downward in what I knew was the appropriate expression of contrition. When we started walking again, I gave Adam a vicious stare, but he winked at me. He didn't try to make me laugh again, though.

It was not difficult to know when the boundary of our farm gave way to the boundary of Mr Cameron's. Everywhere on our side were signs of neglect. I remembered a time when father had employed a full-time hand. Then there had been a procession of casual workers, not just fruit pickers, but also shearers and stockmen. But all that changed under my mother's control. The full-time worker was dismissed, the stock sold off, casual workers turned away when they came looking for work. We concentrated on the orchards and the chickens and let the rest revert to nature. We would have starved if mother hadn't sliced up the farm and sold it, paddock by paddock, acre by acre.

Mr Cameron's farm was in good shape. The fences were neat and well-maintained, the paddocks ploughed and tended. His was an oasis that nibbled at the edges of our dust bowl and gradually devoured it.

‘Welcome, neighbours,' he said as we approached his house, which was much grander than our humble shack. A woman stood beside him. She was plump and jolly, a caricature of the earthy farmer's wife. There was flour on her hands. Or maybe there wasn't. Sometimes the line between fact and fiction is finely drawn in memory. Or blurred entirely.

The son was also there. I remember him because he appeared exotic. I had seen him before – a number of times in church – but he'd never seemed real. No more than the pews or the lectern or the gold-coloured cross or the cut-out figures mopping perspiration above neckties. They were simply fixtures, pinned to one particular scene. Now? Now he was solid. He had an existence outside of one circumscribed place. I felt embarrassed by the blonde hair that fell in ragged lines over his eyes. I was intimidated by the glow of his skin, rich with the sun.