Saltskin (11 page)

And yet like a blind person whose other senses gain
more power, she realised there were many ways of
communicating. It got so that all Gilda needed to do was
think it, or concentrate just a little, as though adjusting
the dial of a radio, and she could hear the thoughts of
anyone. Just like a stage play with soliloquies that only the
audience is privy to. And what she heard most was the gap
of separation. And her aunt would watch as the girl grasped
at the air as if she were catching invisible butterflies.

Martha liked to play with Gilda's hair, pretending she
had a life-size doll. She considered Gilda's grey streak to
have been created by the stroke of a fairy's wand and she
would pin it up with twigs and flowers. They topped and
tailed when the wind was spooky in the eaves of the house.
Martha would hold her hand whenever they went anywhere
there were other people and, being a year older, she knew
herself to be the protector. 'She won't say anything to you
so don't bother,' she would say like a grown-up. 'She's
catatonic — she can't hear you.' And she would brush away
their curious hands.

After Martha made her first Holy Communion she said
to Gilda, 'I know what it is. You're a saint and they will
canon you afterwards. You're in rapture, that's all,' and put
a Vanilla Wine biscuit to Gilda's lips until she opened her
mouth.

It was Martha who invented their sign language. In the
spring they perfected it and in the process learnt to curl
their tongues, plait the fingers of one hand and the other,
and make their foreheads wiggle back and forth.

It was Martha who waited in the waiting rooms of
psychiatrists and tarot readers and priests and counsellors.
Inside herself, Gilda waited too.

There are photos of them:

In the bath.

In their Sunday best.

In matching coats in the snow.

With the first boy they ever liked.

Beside their new bikes.

Hostesses at a party with a tiny tea-set and Sophia and
Maggie.

With the cat in doll's clothes.

Playing guitar on the tennis racket.

And later, when Gilda talked again, and gave up waiting,
there are photos of them:

At the school ball in pink taffeta with gypsophila,
laughing.

In the back seat of a VW, laughing.

Studying for School Cert exams, laughing.

Fishing in the river, laughing.

On tartan rugs at picnics, laughing.

At the airport, crying.

Standing at the window in the tower, Gilda pressed her
forehead to the coldness. The old panes, fat at the bottom,
distorted the overcast sky. Frost gathered in the corners
like icing, even though it was late afternoon. Her headache
was back, reminding her to hurry, and she felt compelled
to hunt around for clues to the past, to hurry along the
blackout she knew was coming. She didn't leave a nice life
in London for nothing.

She pulled off her nightie, dressed hurriedly and went
down to the kitchen. She passed her aunt in the hallway,
speaking on the phone — shouting the way old people
do when talking long distance. Maggie got a fright when
she saw Gilda, who kissed her on the cheek as she swung
past into the kitchen and was pleased to see Martha sitting
reading a book under a lamp. She still had her uniform on
from the rest home.

'Nice smock,' Gilda teased, and her cousin jumped
in her seat and covered the book with her arms, the way
children shield their schoolwork so no one can copy.

'What you reading?'

'Oh nothing. Mills & Boon,' Martha said with brisk
finality as she pushed the book off the table and into her
bag. The book was way too big for a penny dreadful; it
looked more like an encyclopaedia. 'I thought I should
broaden my horizons,' she added defensively, even though
Gilda had not attacked.

Gilda shrugged and gave her a look. Was it wacky
Wednesday? She fetched the key to the attic: heavy, solid
like a promise in her hand. She squeezed it and slipped
it into the back pocket of her jeans, then grinned at her
cousin in a defiant, victorious way.

'You're up early,' Martha said cautiously, her eyes
narrowing. 'What are you up to?' She noted the heightened
colour of Gilda's cheeks and the contrasting darkness, like
bruised fruit, under her eyes.

Gilda faltered and Martha said, with a sideways turn as
if she might leap on her, 'You're not too big I can't make
you pee yourself. Tell me what's up.'

'I'm going to the attic.' The statement surprised and
excited her. Yes, she was going to the attic. She rested her
buttock against the table.

'The attic where no one has been for ages, for ever?'
Martha opened her mouth in shock. 'Why?'

'Because I'm not scared any more. I'm thirty. I have to
grow up sometime and I'm looking for something.'

'What?'

It all became clear to Gilda. 'A shell box that belonged
to Mum.' She put her finger over her lips to indicate
secrecy. Martha pulled her shoulders to her ears to show
conspiracy.

Outside the weather was turning, the temperature
dropping, darkening the room. Lightning and thunder
zapped and boomed and it began to rain — flood-like rain.
The radio crackled and stopped and the lights went out.

'Oh, this is perfect,' whispered Martha, and fetched two
old-fashioned candelabras from the pantry. 'I'm coming
too.'

Gilda found matches and lit the candles, six in each
holder. She put the box of matches in her pocket.

The front door slammed and a second later the ute's
engine started up.

'Where's Aunt Maggie going?'

'To see a man about a dog.'

'What man?'

'Do you want an apple?' Maggie chucked her one from
the fruit bowl.

'Who was she talking to on the phone — was it
international?'

'Who cares? We have our own adventure.' Maggie bit
her apple and hurried her cousin along with a jerk of the
head.

Gilda grabbed a shawl off the chair by the coal range
and wrapped herself in it, thinking on what secret her aunt
and cousin were keeping. But she was glad she wasn't going
up to the attic alone because she was scared.

They headed towards the stairs. Martha ducked into her
room and changed out of her uniform into a black jersey
and black jeans.

'You look like a burglar,' said Gilda.

'I'm a sleuth.'

'You're mad.'

'Fine, you can be all grown up but I'm going to be a
detective.'

Gilda smiled, for Martha had a way of making everything
fun.

The wind whistled and howled through the gaps of the
homestead. Curtains fluttered as rain turned to hail and
lashed the windows like flung gravel.

Martha crashed through a cobweb and shrieked, clawing
at her face. The two clung to each other, as nervous as ewes
at lambing. They continued with creaking steps. Gilda's
heart thudded in time with her headache and she winced.
Martha sensed it and turned. Her face, lit from beneath by
the candle, cast haunting shadows, making her appear like
a stranger.

'You look like a ghost — are you all right?' Martha
asked.

'I'm fine. Just hyper,' replied Gilda, and pushed past
Martha along the length of a passage so narrow their
shoulders touched the walls on either side. At the attic
door Gilda pushed the key in the lock. It clicked with ease,
which she had not expected, and she pushed the door
open.

Lightning illuminated the attic through the skylight,
which streamed with water like a river. In the seconds of
the lightning they took in the expanse of the room, which
ran the entire length of the house, unstopped by internal
walls. The space was packed with iron chests and old gloryboxes
filled with generations of stuff. As well, there were
wooden wardrobes, cardboard and wooden boxes. Rolls of
fabric filled one corner and open racks of clothing were
scattered about. It was a treasure trove.

Martha saw a kerosene lamp and made her way to
it. 'Chuck us the matches,' she said, abandoning her
candelabra. 'Cor, Gilda, we could open a boutique with all
this stuff!' She blew dust off the lamp and lit it and an arc
of light shed around them. Picking up the lamp she began
snooping in earnest. 'Look at all this loot!'

'We need another one of those lamps,' said Gilda,
stepping forward with her candelabra. The candles wobbled
and wax dripped on her hand.

'You look beautiful in this light, Gilda. Like you have
a halo. You should be wearing one of these gossamer
gowns. She held up a coat-hanger on which hung a dress
of diaphanous material the colour of whisky.

Gilda glanced at it and smiled. Her searching eyes
skipped over things. There was only one thing she wanted
and yet she didn't even know if it was here.

Martha put the dress to one side as the start of her nickit-
and-keep-it pile. 'These dresses are stunning. Wouldn't
you have loved to live in the olden days?'

'Yeah, I miss them,' said Gilda absently.

Martha threw her a look. 'Take off your clothes and try
this on — it's smashing. And about your size. She held up
a dress of emerald satin with a low bodice and a full skirt
with a flip lining of scarlet red, the sleeves long and cut on
the bias so they swept to the thigh.

Gilda touched the fabric, which was soft, almost slimy
under her touch. 'I've seen this before somewhere,' she
murmured, pulling the skirt wide to see the expanse of it.
The hem was embroidered with little shells.

'Yeah, right. In your dreams!' quipped Martha, and
they laughed. 'Quick — get your gears off.'

Gilda, enchanted with the dress, placed the candelabra
on the floor and peeled off her clothes to her white undies,
goosebumps on her skin. Martha wolf-whistled and slipped
the gown over Gilda's head. It tugged on her ponytail.
'Probably need a corset with this,' said Gilda, muffled by
the fabric, cool against her skin.

'Not with your waist you don't,' said Martha admiringly,
tugging the gown down. 'Oh my,' she murmured, her hazel
eyes large at the sight. Martha reached out and tugged the
hair-tie from Gilda's red hair so it fell to the small of her
back, thick as golden syrup, the grey streak luminous like a
slash of white paint. She tightened the lacing and appraised
Gilda from the front. 'Could there be anything finer?' she
whispered.

Gilda blushed and took a few tentative steps in the
gown, feeling the fabric swirl about her body, heavy and
swinging. She felt regal, but also a little as though she were
playing dress-ups: a dress like this belonged to a woman.
And in that moment it occurred to Gilda that she
was
a
woman — no longer a girl. The gown seemed to melt with
her the way perfume is absorbed by the skin.

She noticed a vescis-shaped mirror and walked over to
it. Martha followed and stood behind her with the lamp.
The gown shaped Gilda's body perfectly; her bosom,
cupped by the seam, overflowed.

The storm rose a notch and the windows rattled.
Lightning flooded the room, but Gilda didn't notice. A
shiver went through her as she stared at her reflection. She
felt a whoop in her chest as if she had her finger on the
moving glass of a ouija board.

'Déjà vu?' said Martha.

'Exactly. And I knew you were going to say that . . .
Now it's vanished.'

'It'll come back. Are you okay? Shall we go?' Martha
asked, although she wanted to stay longer.

'I'm fine.'

'Great. Then I'm going to put on a dress too.' Martha
picked up a pair of turn-of-the-century French knickers,
all lacy and embroidered and ironed before being stored,
and a matching white cotton lace chemise. Then a pair of
cream woollen socks that reached over her knees. Gilda sat
on an old divan as Martha ran her fingers along the rack
and selected a purple dress with pearl buttons.

'Not that one,' said Gilda and leapt up to grab the
gown. In the process she knocked over the candelabra and
there was a whoosh of flames. The two girls shrieked and
made a dash at the fire, but hesitated over what to use
— everything was too precious. The fire leapt high into the
air and a peal of it, finding a fringe of carpet, sped off in
two different directions. Gilda stamped on it but the fire
was seconds quicker than her.

Martha, in panic, bundled up the purple dress and, on
her knees, used it to try to smother the flames. But the
dress caught on fire and in the flames Gilda saw a woman's
freckled face with dark, terrible eyes. Martha threw Gilda's
jeans and shawl onto the burning dress and rolled them
up in a bundle until she had smothered the flames. Then
she pushed past Gilda and rolled up the rug, whacking the
sparks of fire until it had all gone out.

Gilda stood with one hand against her throat.

'Let's make a deal not to tell anyone,' Martha whispered.
'We'd be in so much trouble.'

'Virgin's honour,' pledged Gilda, and made the fingers
sign against the bridge of her nose.

Martha nodded and made the sign back. Under no
circumstances could the secret be betrayed. For a moment
they were the conspirators of old.

'Sorry about your jeans,' said Martha, poking the
smouldering mess. 'And the dress.' She looked up at her
cousin.

'I hate that dress,' murmured Gilda, lifting the hem of
her skirt well clear of the embers and standing on them.
She could feel little beads under her feet and got down on
her knees. Feeling with her fingers, she lifted the scorched
and partly burnt purple dress out of the fire and motioned
to Martha. They peered at the beads, like tiny pearls, pulled
one off and held it up to the light.

'Oh my God,' said Martha. 'Let's see.' She rolled it
between finger and thumb and pushed it around the palm
of her hand. It was blunt at one end, and at the other rose
to a sharp edge. 'Is this what I think it is? Are these little
teeth?' She stared in horror.

Gilda examined the dress. There were dozens of the
little beads. 'Imagine if they were!'

'They are, you know. A row of bloody children's teeth.
My God, they were super macabre back then, eh?'

'Maybe the gown belonged to the tooth fairy . . .'
Gilda's voice wobbled.

'More like Minnie Dean!'

The two women looked at each other in horror.

'Now I'm spooked,' said Martha. 'What kind of person
would have real human teeth on their dress?'

'It must have meant something. Like a rabbit's foot, or
necklaces of garlic.'

The cousins were quiet for a moment. The sound of the
storm raged about the house and in the distance the waves
heaved thrice as high and crashed on the rocks and shore,
spewing up tree stumps and great tangles of seaweed. Blue
smoke hung in the air.

Gilda shivered and hugged herself. The lantern
spluttered, flared and went out. And in the last pulse of
light Gilda saw the shell box, right by the door, as obvious
as daylight.

'Or black magic,' said Martha into the gloom.

'God, it's Friday. I have to go to work.' Gilda swept up
the shell box as she left.