The Golden Day (12 page)

I must look miserable, thought Cubby, surprised, because she didn’t feel it. She wanted to, she tried to, but somehow all the dense sadness around her filled up the space, and she found that she had no feelings left.

‘Thought I’d come along, you know,’ said Mrs Ellerman.

‘Show a bit of support. Dear me.’

The organ played softly as they filed up the stairs, notes spilling into the open hallways, out from the doors of the chapel. Amanda-fit-to-be-loved, glorious and golden and so very far from death, stood at the entrance as part of her duties as a prefect, passing out hymnbooks. Her hair was tied back and her jewellery hidden or removed. The judge took a book from her and went and sat down, Icara beside him.

Cubby found herself shepherded along by Mrs Ellerman to the same pew. She hoped Icara didn’t mind her sitting with them. Icara had hardly spoken a word to her, or anyone, really, since that afternoon on the boat. She was always reading, or looking in the other direction. As though she was angry. Cubby tried to catch her eye, but Icara turned her head away.

‘You tell me what to do, darling,’ whispered Mrs Ellerman, digging Cubby in the ribs as they sat down. ‘I wouldn’t have a clue.’

Cubby did not have a clue herself. She had never been to a memorial service before. She had never known anyone that had died, except for Agamemnon, and you don’t have memorial services for guinea pigs.

‘These are nice,’ said Mrs Ellerman, pointing to the row of little cushions hung on hooks on the back of the pew in front of them.

They were kneelers, embroidered by Old Girls of the school. Some were very modest, with simply a cross, or an emblem of one of the school houses. But others were more lavish and Mrs Ellerman-like, showing mysterious biblical animals in strangely bright colours.

‘Very nice work,’ said Mrs Ellerman, impressed. ‘What are they for?’

‘They’re to kneel on,’ said Cubby, as embarrassed as if Mrs Ellerman was her own mother. ‘You know, when you pray, so you don’t hurt your knees.’

But Mrs Ellerman drew the line at kneeling.

‘With my sciatica? Are you crazy?’

Amanda-fit-to-be-loved, having finished handing out the hymnbooks, took her place in the pew just in front of them. The music of the organ suddenly changed tempo and became very loud. The Reverend Broome swept into the chapel in his robes, followed by Miss Baskerville and Mrs Arnold. Everyone stood.

‘Hymn number 228 in the hymn book,’ said Mr Broome in his usual rousing voice. ‘Let us join together and sing.’

Jerusalem the golden

With milk and honey blest,

Beneath thy contemplation

Sink heart and voice opprest.

Cubby sang along as best she could, but it was funny hearing the judge’s deep voice singing next to her. In any case, Mrs Ellerman soon lost concentration, and dug her in the ribs again.

‘I like those windows!’

Obediently, Cubby looked up at the subdued stained-glass image of Jesus surrounded by children, their translucent grey-glass faces and hair the colour of honey, like the amber bead that hung around Miss Renshaw’s neck.

I know not, oh, I know not

What joys await me there!

What radiancy of glory

What bliss beyond compare!

‘Please be seated,’ said the Reverend Broome, when the hymn had finished, and they sat, Miss Baskerville and Mrs Arnold on special seats at the front where everyone could see them and their serious, sad faces.

Mr Broome stepped over to the lectern. It was in the shape of a wooden eagle with glittering eyes and a curved beak. The big black-and-gold Bible was spread across its wings. Mr Broome read aloud, almost shouting:

‘Lo! I tell you a mystery.We shall not all sleep, but we shall all
be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the
last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be
raised imperishable.’

He looked up from the Bible, and calmly surveyed the room. Then he left the eagle and strode onto the red carpet at the front, swirling across the floor in his white robes like an ancient Roman senator.

‘Girls, parents, teachers. I want to speak to you today about Miss Renshaw.’

‘About time!’ whispered Mrs Ellerman.

‘Miss Renshaw was born in Wangaratta.’

‘Ah, a Victorian lass,’ Mrs Ellerman nodded.

Was Mrs Ellerman going to keep speaking through the entire sermon? wondered Cubby in desperation.

‘Miss Renshaw loved her work,’ continued the Reverend Broome. ‘She was a passionate and committed teacher.’

‘She was passionate all right,’ said Mrs Ellerman dryly.

‘Hers is a tragedy that has touched our whole school community. A life so rich and promising…’ ‘Promises, promises,’ said Mrs Ellerman to Cubby.

‘Sucked down into the bowels of the earth.’

The judge coughed slightly.

‘Bit fruity,’ agreed Mrs Ellerman.

‘She was greatly loved by the girls...’

Bethany began to sob. Mrs Arnold and Miss Baskerville exchanged glances.

‘…and greatly appreciated by the staff for her original mind.’

Mrs Arnold made a sign. Somebody took Bethany out, she was sobbing just too loudly.

‘Thank heavens,’ said Mrs Ellerman.

Miss Baskerville coughed, and moved in her seat. The Reverend Broome subsided. Spent, he returned to his seat and knelt down on his own special kneeler.

‘Let us pray,’ said the Reverend Broome.

Cubby and Icara knelt and bent their heads, but the judge and Mrs Ellerman stayed firmly seated. Prayer followed prayer followed prayer. The Reverend Broome prayed for the girls and for the school and for the government and for the Queen and for anyone else he could think of, it seemed to Cubby, and they knelt together with their eyes closed and listened to Mr Broome’s purring tones until finally it was over.

The organ started again, almost imperceptibly, like breathing. Everyone stood up. Miss Baskerville and Mrs Arnold went first, out the side entrance, pursued rapidly by Mr Broome.

‘Well, as my old dad used to say,’ remarked Mrs Ellerman as they made their way down the aisle to the front entrance, ‘if you’ve read the Bible, nothing in life can possibly surprise you.’

There was a delay leaving the chapel, as the door was narrow and everyone tried to leave at once. As Cubby squeezed herself into the hallway, Icara sidled up to her.

‘Do you want to come with us?’ she said. ‘My dad’s taking us out to lunch.’

‘Oh.’ Cubby looked down at her shoes, not sure what to say. After all, Icara had not spoken to her, or even looked at her since they had been out in the boat together.

‘In a restaurant,’ said Icara. ‘Do you want to come?’

‘Am I allowed?’ asked Cubby.

‘Mrs Ellerman will tell Miss Summers,’ said Icara. ‘We’ll drop you back at school afterwards.’

It was decided, then.

‘All right,’ said Cubby.

Icara reached out and took Cubby’s surprised hand. She held it in her own, all the way down the stairs, into the playground, and out beyond the yellow gate. She held it so tightly, as though she was afraid that if she let go, Cubby might turn around and run away.

SEVENTEEN
Mythological Fish

T
HE JUDGE WAS ALREADY
outside the school, waiting for them in his green car, with Mrs Ellerman sitting on the front seat next to him. He had one hand on the steering wheel and with the other he was shielding his eyes from the sun. He was looking upwards, at a fire staircase that clung to the outer wall of the school. Right at the top of the stairs stood Amanda-fit-to-be-loved, watching them, like a sentinel on a tower as the car pulled away.

They drove into the city and parked at the back of a restaurant that was down a laneway of shops. Cubby had never been to such a place before. The walls were hung with paintings of people with no clothes on and there was a fish tank, lit up and bubbling, with crabs inside it, and another tank with long-finned goldfish swirling like dancers in and out of a craggy plastic castle. Waiters stood about in bow ties, white shirts and black jackets.

‘What would you like to drink, Cubby?’ asked the judge as they sat at a round table laid with sparkling cutlery and glasses and napkins folded in the shape of peaked hats.

‘Coca-Cola,’ said Mrs Ellerman confidently. ‘That’s what the young ones like.’

A waiter came up behind her and helped Cubby push her chair under the table. Then he whisked up her napkin and stretched it out across her lap. The judge nodded at the waiter, who almost instantly brought two enormous glasses for Icara and Cubby, and a bottle of white wine which he poured out for the judge and Mrs Ellerman.

‘Dear oh dear, poor lady,’ said Mrs Ellerman, raising her glass, in tribute to Miss Renshaw.

Cubby and Icara drank. There were so many bubbles that Cubby was afraid she was going to sneeze, so she held her breath. The judge took off his jacket. Underneath he wore a pink striped shirt and cufflinks made of round black stones. He tapped the menu, which was cased in leather like an expensive book.

‘Now, then, what would you like to eat?’

‘Can I have an omelette and chips?’ said Icara.

‘You may,’ replied the judge. ‘Cubby?’

‘Oh, just the same,’ said Cubby, looking down at her reflection in the surface of a large spoon.

‘Let’s all have an omelette, then,’ said the judge. ‘What do you say, Mrs Ellerman?’

‘Lovely,’ said Mrs Ellerman, beaming.

The waiter brought them bread and butter and bowls of salad. Nobody spoke much. The judge occasionally murmured something to Mrs Ellerman, who gestured in reply. Icara didn’t say a word, and Cubby didn’t know how to. The whole time, people arrived at the restaurant laughing and chatting, and plates and glasses clinked and clattered. It sounded like music, like violins tuning up before a concert.

The omelette and chips were delicious.When they finished eating, the waiter took away their empty plates. The judge wiped his mouth neatly with his napkin.

‘Well, well,’ he said.

‘Well, indeed,’ said Mrs Ellerman. ‘Did you enjoy that, Cubby?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ replied Cubby politely, although she wished there had been more chips.

‘Now, I’m sure you girls would like some icecream.’ Mrs Ellerman widened her eyes at them. ‘Or a cake. Come on, Icky, you come with me, let’s go over to the trolley and pick something lovely for Cubby.’

Icara stood up and followed Mrs Ellerman to the desserts trolley in the middle of the room. It was laden with wonderful-looking cakes, layers of chocolate and cream in bowls, coloured jellies and glass dishes of meringues and fruit. Cubby wished she could have gone with them. She didn’t want to be sitting alone with the judge. She had the feeling the judge was going to say something to her, something she didn’t want to hear.

The judge reached into the top pocket of his beautiful shirt and took out a cigarette packet with a camel on it. He carefully removed a slim cigarette and lit it with a match from a book of matches on the table.

‘I’m so glad, Cubby,’ said the judge, breathing out a mouthful of smoke, ‘that you are Icara’s friend.’

The cigarette crackled and the end of it grew bright and hot.

‘I worry about Icara, naturally,’ said the judge.

Cubby nervously licked her lips, which tasted of salt. She supposed it was natural. Fathers worried about lots of things.

‘It’s been very hard for her, I know,’ said the judge.

‘Um, you mean, because of Miss Renshaw?’ said Cubby, as he seemed to expect her to say something.

‘Ah, Miss Renshaw, yes, well poor Miss Renshaw.’ The judge shook his head. ‘That was a terrible business, of course. But it’s not Miss Renshaw I’m referring to.’

If only Icara and Mrs Ellerman would return with the desserts. Why were they taking so long?

‘You mean, um, her mother?’ said Cubby. Was that what he wanted her to say?

‘Her mother,’ said the judge, nodding at once. So that was it. ‘Yes, her mother. Now tell me, Cubby, does she talk much about her mother?’

‘Well, um,’ said Cubby. ‘Not really. Um.’

The judge ashed his cigarette in the round metal ashtray.

‘Just, you know, that she lives in Los Angeles and everything,’ said Cubby.

She didn’t want to say the word ‘divorce’. That wasn’t the sort of thing you could say out loud, especially not to an adult.

‘In Los Angeles,’ repeated the judge.

There was a quiet bubbling of water from the fish tank. The judge stubbed out his cigarette. He picked up an apple from a plate of fruit that had been placed by a waiter in the centre of the table. With a curved little silver knife, he began to cut the apple into thin half-moons. He looked very sad, quite suddenly, as if sadness had fallen like a curtain across his face.

‘But she doesn’t live in Los Angeles,’ said the judge.

Away swam a fish, into the sunken castle.

‘She’s dead.’

Swish swish.

‘She died when Icara was six.’

Swish.

‘Perhaps you misunderstood,’ said the judge.

Cubby realised now that, of course, she had misunderstood. Icara might have told her that her mother lived in Los Angeles, but really, how could anyone live in Los Angeles? This was a mythical city, a city that existed only in films and newspapers. People like them couldn’t live there. Any more than they could live in Fairyland…