Henry’s Daughter (36 page)

The dress falls straight from the shoulders, hangs straight over Mavis's stomach. It's longish and the material is classy, good enough for a wedding – or a funeral. Lori wishes now that she'd bought shoes for her hope chest, but shoes are harder; shoes have to be walked in, they have to fit. Mavis looks at
her flattened filthy slippers, walks away from them, barefoot.

There is only a small mirror in the bathroom, a shaving mirror, but it's fogged up. Mavis catches a glimpse of face and dripping hair, of the maroon collar. Stares.

‘Want to have a look in the bedroom mirror? You look good.'

No. A shake of her head, and they walk back to the kitchen where Mavis sits again at the table. Mick makes
more tea, he makes Mavis three diet crackers with Vegemite. Mavis eats one while Lori towels and combs the long red hair.

‘I could cut a bit off for you. I cut the little ones' hair. Only if you like.'

‘Ta.' Mavis nods, eats another cracker. Slowly. She never used to like Vegemite but she seems to like it okay now.

A dry towel around her shoulders and Henry's haircutting scissors snip-snip.
Twenty centimetres of red hair fall to the tiles, then Lori combs the hair, combing it up instead of down. It wants to lift, to stand tall again; it's trying to come alive. It's looking hard for a life. There is some new grey at the temples, but not much. She cuts a fringe clump to hide the new grey, cuts it like she cuts her own fringe clump. Mavis's curls up, like her own curls up.

It's vibrant
hair. It wants to curl, to stand tall. Every strand is in there fighting to curl, so Lori cuts a bit more at the top, keeps cutting, keeping each cut level with the last. She cuts it all the way down, layering it like Henry did, cuts a bit more off the length. Maybe it's not as good as Henry's cuts, but curly hair is kind to amateur hairdressers. The curls spring up, spring back, cover any faults.

They are all watching that hair come alive. They got used to it daggy, draggy, dull and dead, but most of them can remember when Henry used to wash it and cut that red hair, just like Lori is doing. Henry used to get that hair curling and standing tall.

There is a pile of red growing on the floor and still Lori keeps snipping and talking, like the hairdressers on television always talk, just
any words so there won't be that awful silence.

‘That colour suits you. I bought it a while back at the op shop, but I could buy you a black dress for the funeral – if you like. We've got plenty of money again. Haven't had to buy anything for ages . . . except food. I saw a really nice dress in Kmart the other day. It was black, and it had a white trim on the front and the sleeves. It would be
slimming and good for the funeral. I could get it and some new shoes and pantihose. That's if you like.' Then the comb is on the table and her fingers are lifting that hair. And it's bouncing, it's turning into wildfire beneath the light.

‘What size shoes did you used to wear?'

‘Nine, or nine and a half.'

‘Do you reckon you could wear heels? Not big ones. I saw a pair of black sandals in that
little shop beside the restaurant – not too strappy. They had heels, not tall ones, just sort of square, a bit blocky.'

‘I used to wear four-inch stilettos.'

‘They've come back into fashion again, but they look seriously excruciating.' She finger-combs, doesn't want to stop. Maybe she should stop, but it's beautiful hair; it feels good and it smells good, and she's trying to get some life force
flowing between them, trying to push some of her life force directly into those strands of hair.

It's been a long time. The wall has been up a long time and the life force has been hitting it hard and bouncing back hard for even longer. Still, they've taken a lot of the old Mavis away. Maybe they have to try to replace what they took away.

Everyone is looking at Lori. Looking at those hands
playing the comb, the fingers lifting curls, scrunching them. Lori isn't a bit scared of Mavis; it's like she's petting her. Like they put a bear with a sore head in a cage and she's come out a kitten who Lori has got almost purring with each stroke.

Hypnotising, the rhythm of those hands. The kitchen is so quiet. Everyone is too quiet. Then Alan puts the little ones in the bath and Eddy starts
unwrapping the meat for the stew. Jamesy goes out for onions.

‘Grab a bit of silverbeet, Jamesy,' Mick says. ‘Give the bugs a good hose off before you pick it.'

‘Yum-yum, bug stew,' Vinnie says.

Mavis watches. Watches everything, her eyes distant things, but not scared and shaky any more. Lori keeps combing while the boys go about the normal business of doing things and looking occasionally
at the new presence being cared for, but better than being cared for, being cared about.

Lori cares about her and they know it.

And Mavis knows it. She's just sitting, statue still, having her hair done.

A shudder travels down Mick's spine. He's scared of how he's feeling. He's scared Mavis will scream, ‘That's a-bloody-nough,' and Lori's face will get that old hard, hurt look she used to wear,
that she doesn't wear any more. But he's feeling hope too, he's feeling the life force working in him and his eyes are stinging.

Lori sees the shudder. She has been away in her dreams, combing her mother's hair. Okay, so her mother isn't wearing tight jeans and dangling earrings like Wendy Johnson's mother, but she . . . she looks like a mother. She's sitting here at the table and she's real,
not some photo, not some middle-aged twit trying to look sixteen. She's big but she's real, and she's got beautiful hair and beautiful eyes and that's a fact.

Then the life force starts flowing. It starts jolting Lori's stomach. It jolts so hard that she steps away.

Mavis's shoulders shiver. She turns her head, as if something wonderful has been taken from her. Then a powerful thump of Mavis's
life force hits Lori like a wave from the speedboats hits the bank. It nearly swallows her, sort of draws her back to the red hair. She touches it, lifts it up from the collar of the maroon dress, runs her fingers through it again, lifting it high.

‘It's just gorgeous hair. It always was.'

‘Everything has changed,' Mavis says. ‘Everything has changed, Lorraine. Everything.'

‘You just wait till
you see our posh lounge room. Just wait till you see what we did to the outside. We look as good as Nelly, over the road. You just wait, Mum.'

Mavis stands up, so easily, so fast. Alan thinks she's going to head for the chook-house and hang herself like Henry did when he called him Dad. He jumps up too, his heart racing like their new second-hand lawn mower. ‘Do you want to see the lounge room,
Mum?' he says. ‘We've got the classiest fireplace in Willama.'

Hit her with it solid. Hit her with it hard. Make the real go in. Make her accept change. Mavis was a total failure, so make her be Mum.

Mavis looks at him, looks around her, then she shakes her head and howls. ‘You mob of silly little buggers. You're just like your father.' And she walks out to her brick room bawling, and she closes
the green door.

Mick's worried. ‘What made her suddenly do that?'

‘She'll be better tomorrow. We have to let her do it slow,' Alan says. ‘We hit her with too much, all at once. She's in shock. She'll be better tomorrow.' Eddy is saying nothing; he's standing quiet, stirring the spitting meat.

‘Did you see how she didn't even want that sweet biscuit? She wants to be on a diet. I bet we can get
her down to fourteen,' Jamesy says.

‘If she goes to the funeral, we could all go,' Alan says.

‘All of us? You mean we'll go too?' Jamesy says, looks from one twin to the other. He can't remember ever being further than Willama West.

‘If Mave goes,' Eddy says. He adds curry, stirs. ‘It would let her get used to seeing strangers before she has to front all the neighbours. Take her to her father's
grave and let her work her way through it slow.'

Lori nods. She knows what it's like to have family trust broken. Like with Greg that night. Okay, she knew he was pretty rotten, but she hadn't known he was pure depraved rotten. Like, what might have happened to her if she hadn't had Martin and Donny to run to? Poor little Mavis – and maybe poor little Eva too. She had no one to run to, whether
she was running from her father or someone else.

‘I'm not staying at that house,' Alan says. ‘We'll stay at a motel.'

‘It's probably rented out, anyway,' Eddy says.

‘I suppose Mr Watts will sell it.'

Eddy looks off into space, stirs the meat. ‘One day we might . . . some of us might feel like living in Melbourne.'

‘Like, if Mavis chucks a killing, eating fit,' Vinnie says. They stare at him,
like, don't you dare even think that.

‘I don't think she will. She's stir-crazy, that's all. I was too when I first came home. Didn't know who I was, what I was supposed to be.' Eddy shrugs. ‘I found out, and if she doesn't, then we've got a place to go – if we don't sell the house.'

‘All of us? All of us would go to live there?' Jamesy asks. He wouldn't mind leaving on the morning bus.

‘You
mean you'd give up on her,' Alan asks, ‘just like that?'

‘If she starts stuffing again,' Jamesy says.

‘She won't,' Alan says. ‘Her eyes look different. She'll be better tomorrow. We won't take any more meals in so she'll have to come out and – '

‘Mmm,' Jamesy says, just like the social worker says ‘mmm' when she doesn't yet believe, but doesn't want to not believe either.

Adrenalin is flooding
them, flooding the room. They don't know where they're going, but they're all going somewhere, and they'll all go together, because they are a family. They're heading into something over the horizon, but they're not ready for it yet. Maybe in a year they'll be ready. Maybe it has to grow on them. This last year has been crazy stuff and they've all grown so fast. Growing up is better when it's
done slow.

But there is a future out there for them now, even if they can't quite see it. It's out there and they know it and it's something bigger than they have ever known before, and it's something far, far better than they have ever dreamed of.

It's the
more
! It's Henry's
more
!

Lori hasn't said a word. She's thinking of the feel of that hair, and the smell of it, and being close to Mavis.
She's thinking of that black dress in Kmart and the nine and a half shoes. And she's thinking of the sandals the op shop lady brought that night in her box. They are too big for Lori. Maybe they'll do Mavis until tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

She's looking at the photograph on the wall and thinking, tomorrow. Now, just maybe it was the way the late afternoon light caught the glass of Henry's photograph,
but she knows it wasn't, because she saw Henry sort of turn his head, smile right at her.

‘Good girl,' he said in her head. He did.

She gets tears in her eyes as she stands looking hard at the photograph, trying to make it do it again. It doesn't, but she knows he's come home to her. He's here. He's in this kitchen. He's in all of them. Not a lot of root, but a whole heap of healthy cabbage.

She walks to the stove and opens the firebox, prods in wood, giving her eyes an excuse to water. The smoke rushes out, and for a moment she is wrapped in a cocoon of smoke and late sunlight.

She is fourteen and three months and she's got a bit of an ache in her tummy – it's a sort of weighty ache. Different. Probably women's business – and it's probably about time. Maybe fate was waiting until
she had a mother – not that Lori hasn't known all about that women's stuff since she was six years old.

‘So what?' she says and she wipes at her eyes. ‘So what?'

The brothers look at her, don't understand.

A pretty girl, their sister. They know that she made them a family, kept them a family. She is of them, but not one of them, female, unknown, but well known.

She is the air of this room,
the life of this room. She is in all of the odours of the room. She is in the woodsmoke and in the onions Jamesy is cutting up to toss into the stew. She is everywhere.

She is woman, Henry's daughter, who makes the world for them a not too bad place.

Joy Dettman

Mallawindy

Ann Burton was born on a river bank the night her father tried to burn their house down.

Six years later her sister Liza disappears while they are staying at their uncle's property. What Ann sees that day robs her of her memory and her speech.

A stroke of unexpected humanity releases Ann from her world of silence,
and she escapes her anguished childhood, finding love and a new life away from Mallawindy.

But there is no escape from the Burton family and its dark secrets. Ann must return to Mallawindy and confront the past if she is ever to be set free.

‘We ride the crests and troughs of the Burtons' 30-year history with open mouths and saucer eyes . . . Dettman is an adept storyteller'

THE AGE

‘A
highly competent and confident debut novel'

SUNDAY TELEGRAPH

‘A compelling story, well told . . . it holds promise of further enthralling fiction from its author'

CANBERRA TIMES

‘A stunning debut; a rich and engrossing read; a tale of page-turning suspense and mystery; a postmortem of family ties; all this and more,
Mallawindy
will grab you hook, line and sinker'

QUEENSLAND TIMES

Joy Dettman

Jacaranda Blue

From the best-selling author of
Mallawindy
, comes a tale of dark secrets, shameful lies and unexpected salvation.

For forty-four years Stella Templeton has been a dutiful daughter and a good citizen, living in Maidenville, population 2,800, a town where nothing happens. Until one hot summer afternoon . . .

An ugly act has lifted the respectable skirts of Maidenville
and mystery starts to surround the daughter of the local minister. Then the disappearance of a sixteen-year-old boy adds to the neighbourhood's confusion. Does something sinister lurk behind the neatly trimmed hedges and white picket fences that divide this sleepy town?

No one comes close to knowing the horrifying truth – but after forty-four years of self denial and duty, Stella Templeton is
finally beginning to blossom.

‘ . . . a gripping small-town mystery . . . Dettman is brilliant at depicting the seemingly inconsequential murmurs of small-town life . . . '

SUN-HERALD

‘ . . . a pleasure to read . . . '

CANBERRA TIMES

‘The only disappointment in this book is reaching the end.'

HERALD SUN

Joy Dettman

Goose Girl

Sally De Rooze is almost thirty. She has survived the
accident that killed her father and brothers. Her mother never forgave her for that. But she survived her mother too. Surviving is what she does best.

Farmer Ross Bertram, who offers her his acres and safety, is the answer for a while. Until he starts pushing for a wedding. Sally wants . . . wants more. Wants to know great love. Wants to find herself. One year. That's what she wants. One year
of freedom in the big, bad city.

Her survival skills are tested in the urban sprawl and she discovers more about herself than she had ever dared to imagine.

From the bestselling author of
Mallawindy
and
Jacaranda Blue
, comes a moving story about being set free.

‘ . . . a can't-put-it down story'

NW

‘
Goose Girl
is not just a story to read about – it's one to think about'

THE EXAMINER

‘Dettman knows how to tell a story'

THE SUNDAY AGE

Joy Dettman

Yesterday's Dust

Only the strong survive Mallawindy. Some get away, but even they fight to escape the town's dark legacy.

Jack Burton escaped. For six years he has been missing, presumed dead. Still, memories of him continue to dominate the lives of his family.

His wife, Ellie, stands at the gate each night, waiting for
him to return – until a man's body is found.

Once again, the Burtons' turbulent history will be unearthed . . .

‘At the heart of this absorbing tale . . . is the writer's ability to interweave the country-town propensity for rumour and allegation into a gothic narrative . . .
Yesterday's Dust
is lightened by its pinpoint descriptions of people and places, as well as the occasional touch of
humour, some of it with a country flavour and some delightfully black'

AUSTRALIAN BOOKSELLER
&
PUBLISHER

‘Is there such a thing as winter beach reading? If so, Joy Dettman's
Yesterday's Dust
fits the bill nicely . . . an author who's well in tune with her subject and audience'

WEEKEND AUSTRALIAN

Joy Dettman

The Seventh Day

The world as it was has been all but destroyed. Those few who
survived the Great Ending are now ruled by an all-powerful group known as the Chosen, whose walled city encloses a diminishing population riddled with plague and threatened with extinction. Desperate to repopulate, the Chosen send searchers to capture every surviving female still living in the wild lands beyond the city for their new breeding stations.

There is a girl with a name neither of
her companions can remember, who is found by the Chosen's searchers living on a remote property. Since then, she has known little more than the life they enforce – a life dominated by their breeding program and genetic experimentation – while they immunise her and prepare to take her to their city.

Then one afternoon a son of one of the Chosen arrives at the girl's farm, a boy who has fled from
a life that he has come to find unbearable. His arrival sets in motion a chain of events which change the girl's life in ways she could not possibly have imagined – offering her a chance to regain the unthinkable – freedom.