Mallawindy (18 page)

The last box of books hurriedly tossed to passenger side floor, she drove away from Collingwood and slept the night at a motel in Parkville. The next week she spent at a hotel in St Kilda, her loaded vehicle parked all week in the street. What she needed was a flat, with a carpark. She was ready for a bathroom and a front door she could call her own, and maybe a beach not too far away, and she found what she wanted in St Kilda, a short walk from the hotel.

It was her twelfth city address, and there would be no thirteenth. Thirteen was unlucky. Thirteen was when the questions began. Thirteen was when she placed Mickey's blood-stained collar in her golden syrup tin and found the mouse nest of papers hidden there. Thirteen was when she first read those scraps of paper. She didn't like thirteen.

A tiny kitchen off the lounge room, tiny bedroom, miniature bathroom. A carpet near new, fresh painted walls and a private letter box. It was a rear flat, on the second floor, its lounge room window looked down on the parking bays, where one neglected tree had managed to survive. Tenacious thing, it clung to its small circle of earth, and in the week since she'd first seen the flat, and
named the tree some sort of plum, its dirty limbs had become a haze of pink. Nature was erupting even in Melbourne, eroding the concrete and allowing the grey earth to produce.

She wound her window wide and popped her head out, attempting to catch a brief scent of the plum tree in Mallawindy, but the breeze was from the wrong direction. Car fumes, and the slight scent of the sea. A heady mixture, but no Mallawindy.

Today she'd buy a bed, bookshelves, a couple of chairs, get some food in, then go down and claim the beach. Almost out the door when the phone rang, she cursed it. Only one person had her new number.

‘It's Saturday, Michael. You may own me body and soul all week, but today is Saturday.'

‘I've just been speaking to Roger the Red. He flew in last night and saw the ads. He's rapt.'

‘I'm glad someone is.' There was a long silence that she waited for him to fill.

‘He wants you to fly up to Sydney tonight.'

She changed the phone to her left hand, and drew her hair back from her face. ‘I'm not going. I've done enough.'

‘He's our bread and butter. Appease him. It's just for two nights, you can fly home on Monday night. He's picking up the tab. He's got some big party on tonight and a meeting on Monday afternoon, and he wants you there.'

‘Tell him to hire a call girl.'

‘His parents are over. He just wants to introduce his Mermaid girl.'

‘I'm not his Mermaid girl. It's Saturday. I have to buy myself some furniture. All I've got is a television, a table and a telephone. I haven't even unpacked my cases.'

‘It's fate. Just pick up a case and go.'

‘I've been sleeping on the floor since Wednesday, and my back is killing me. Today is mine, and I'm going shopping for a bed.'

‘I'll get one for you.'

‘I'll get my own. Tell him I've got a slipped disc'

‘Do it for me. This is the last time I'll ask.'

‘I did his stupid ads for you. Now everywhere I go, little old ladies smile at me.'

Michael laughed, but Ann wasn't laughing. ‘I thought you got on well with him.'

‘I'd probably get on well with a rabid corgi too, but it wouldn't mean I wanted to sleep with it.'

‘I'd say mat's the last thing on his particular mind. I think he prefers guys.'

She looked at her cases, stacked against the wall, and to the kitchen bench, buried beneath boxes. For eight years she'd
lived by impulse, moving on when the spirit took her, packing her cases and running to another suburb. Free. No strings. No-one making demands. That was before the crazy Yank walked through the office door.

She was good with words, legacy of Malcolm Fletcher, and a life spent in books. She wrote jingles for television commercials, and catchy ads for magazines, and it had all been a glorious game she was paid to play, until Roger bloody Wilkenson the Third.

He was forty if he was a day, and ugly as a red-headed bag of monkeys. He'd breezed in that day with an idea for a TV commercial. A vision, he'd called it, and he wanted them to make his vision live.

‘Picture a cute kid, coming apart at the seams. Picture a gorgeous Mommy, struggling with an antiquated sewing-machine.' He spoke to her, ignoring Michael, and for the next hour his eyes had been on her every time she lifted her head, so she kept her head down, picked up a pen and began doodling.

It came, as Annie's poems always came, complete. It came while her concentration was far, far away. Then, like Malcolm before him, Roger snatched the paper from beneath her hand, and he read the silly little ditty aloud, in an infant voice.

‘My Mummy can't make button holes, she press-studs all my dresses,

but press-studs are embarrassing. I get in lots of messes.

If she had a Mermaid sewing machine, that button holes so fast.

I wouldn't show my knickers to the neighbours walking past.'

‘Faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to make quantum leaps in a single bound,' sp
outed Roger bloody Wilkenson the Third. ‘Is this a girl? Is this a gem? Is she married?'

Michael had put aside the afternoon for him, prepared to court him, prostitute himself to get the account. The company had been struggling to hang on in ‘83. The Wilkenson empire was huge in America and growing daily in Australia, and the weird little guy who controlled it had a reputation for demanding perfection. Now he thought he'd found it.

‘Where did you come from? Did someone give birth to you, or did you evolve from the ocean waves and the night wind, my lovely?'

‘My name is Ann.'

‘Too plain Jane and no nonsense. I like nonsense.' He spoke then of a second vision – a mermaid rising from out of the waves. He was like a little boy who still believed in magic, and if the world refused him his magic, then he was prepared to make his own. And he had the money to buy the right ingredients.

He took them out for dinner that night, and he plied them with wine. Ann saw its price on the wine list. She was drinking liquid gold. ‘You were my inspiration for the mermaid. You have her eyes. Dragged from the ocean, overawed by the enormity of the vast city. I want you for it,' he said.

‘I'll write your ditties, and drink your wine, but that's it.'

He started talking money and he ordered more liquid gold.

‘I'm not a member of Actors Equity,' she said.

‘I'll get around those details, my lovely.'

‘My name is Ann.'

‘We've been through that,' he said.

The next day Michael began twisting her arm. ‘We need him, Ann, or we're both going to be out of a job. Give him what he wants.'

Two days and two dinners later, she gave in, proving once more to the little maniac that his money could buy him anything. He'd flown over again when they shot the ad, and he'd bought
her a watch for Christmas. ‘It's got your name on it, pretty lady, and I don't know any other Ann.'

She wouldn't accept it.

‘They are only zircons. I picked it up in Bangkok.' He'd lied.

And now he was back in Australia, trying to buy a date for a party.

‘He's booked you on the six o'clock flight. He said he'd pick you up at the airport.'

‘And what did you say?'

‘I said you'd be there.'

‘Then ring him back,' she said.

‘I can't. I don't know where he's staying.'

She hung up, but the phone rang immediately.

‘I'll buy you a bed. I'll get it delivered before you get back. I'll get Jan to fill your fridge. Do it for me, Ann, and I promise I won't ask you again.'

‘Promise. Spit your death and hope to die.' She heard him spitting on the other end of the phone. ‘I spat,' he said, and she laughed. ‘What sort of a bed do you want? Think I should buy a queen size?'

‘Manipulating swine,' she said, and she placed the phone down. But why knock it. A weekend in Sydney. There were things she wanted to do in Sydney. She'd been planning to take a week off and go there. Fate.

A small red case unzipped, revealed a small black briefcase, identical to her father's. It was tossed to the floor while she unpacked a larger case, transferring items to the red.

Crazy. Crazy world, crazy life, but it left her little time to think. The weekend wouldn't cost a cent; she'd have her own room, with a bed, and a telephone. She probably wouldn't have to spend more than a few hours with the Wilkensons, so she could hole up with a telephone book, and work her way through the Sydney Burtons.

Jeans. Shirts. A frock to wear to the dinner, a suit for the meeting. A few pieces for emergencies, and shoes, all with heels. She liked high heels and made no concession to her height.

The red case closed, placed beside the door, she took up the briefcase she'd found seven years ago in the window of an opportunity shop. Like Mary's lamb, it followed her wherever she went. Its key was on her keyring, now she turned it in the lock and up-ended the briefcase on the table. The litter of many years tumbled free.

A yellowing handkerchief, the initials AEB were embroidered on its corner. A tiny white comb, on its handle were two blue birds in flight. A wind-up mouse that one time had danced, she held in her palm a while, turning the key. Its spring was broken. Long broken. A dog collar, still stained with old Mickey's blood. A bubble pipe, made by Johnny's hands from a reed and a large gumnut. The staring eyes of a broken doll. Blue eyes. Liza's eyes. And beneath these things, and amongst these things, were scraps of paper – pages and pages of randomly folded paper, each one covered by script that had altered through the years.

She read some and refolded them. Others were placed to one side. A yellowing scrap, she smoothed and worried over, its faded, pencilled words, written by a childish hand, were almost gone.
The Crow swi –
...
tomato ... fishes fl – ... wing –
There were many in similar condition.
Daddy went
...
ar – we
... –
Liza and ...
Impossible. Tatters carried through time from a previous life. Some were typewritten pages, their ink new.

Dear Miss Burton,

Further to your inquiry re John Lawrence Burton. We have no record of a marriage.

Dear Madam,

Enclosed, a cheque for the sale of the size teN, beaded wedding gown. We have a customer eager to order the same style in a size sixteen, in the cream silk.

She was an accomplished seamstress, but these days she named her creations, therapy. It was something to do with her hands when her mind refused to lie down and rest. Sewing was amindless occupation, but lucrative. She received more for one wedding dress than she'd paid for her car. Some good lessons had been learned in Mallawindy. Sell your merchandise too cheap and people think it's no good, Bert Norris once said. It was true. Put two thousand dollars on the price tag, and a dress caught the eye of exclusive buyers who had no idea the fabric was picked up cheap at the markets.

The bridalwear shop in Chapel Street took thirty percent, and sent her the cheques when the frock sold. She'd seen one of her creations in a women's magazine. Some footballer's bride had bought it. That photograph was also squirrelled away in her briefcase.

Her hands continued to search the litter, for what, she was unsure. A trigger that might force a memory. Something. Maybe she'd find something.

Dear Madam, We are unable to supply a copy of death certificate, as requested. John Lawrence Burton – .

She knew Johnny wasn't dead, but it had taken her a long time to raise sufficient nerve to write that particular letter. A small square of white butcher's paper almost fell apart in her hands. She spread it on the table, carefully.

–
Sam was a – a very – ad – call for – wife – and he – 1-2-3

That one was almost gone too. Maybe it was better to bury the past. Bury Johnny with his secrets. Maybe he ran away because he knew the secret. Had to stay away so she couldn't find out.

Push me Johnny, push me high. I'm a bird and I can fly.

High up to the clear blue sky. I made Liza
Burton – .

Had he seen that one? It was still strong, written on a page ripped from a colouring book, the paper stif
f, the words clear. Red crayon did not fade. Had the word she had written last been die? Had he tried to protect her, rubbed at the word until his finger wore that hole, wore the word away, or had she rubbed it out?

She didn't know, and it haunted her. She knew Liza was dead. She knew it. Did Johnny know too? She had to find him, and she would find him. Even two grains of sand moving through a giant sandpit must eventually come together in the same sandcastle. It was only a matter of time before the letter came, or the voice on the end of the line replied, ‘Just a moment. I'll put you through.' But eight years of time had gone. Disappeared into the big anonymous Melbourne. Big sandpit, growing bigger every year.

Carefully she returned the papers to the case, placing Mickey's collar on top. The handkerchief she held to her nose, expecting it to have retained some scent of Narrawee. Nothing. Old. Stale. She placed it with the dog collar, and closed the lid, locked it.

The sun was coming out, the light breeze had blown the early cloud away. Today the world outside the city would be green with spring. She didn't need to be holed up here. No use ordering a bed if she wouldn't be here to take delivery. Next week.

She had a car now. Her petrol tank was full, and her engine sound. ‘Old Holdens never die, they just rust away,' she said, and for a moment saw the face of the man who had said it. Sergeant Johnson. The words spoken during that year of laughter. Year of happiness. Ben's new second-hand utility. Ellie? Almost a mother, that year. A person, not his punching bag.