Treading Air (26 page)

She sketches human eyes onto the walls, using a pink pencil for pattern making that she stole from the bitch up at needlework. She runs the brush at the end of the pencil over her own face, tickles her eyelashes with it. Her body aches for sex; she's used to so much of it. The eyes she draws, with their delicate lashes and light irises, are McWilliams'.

When Joe visits that week, Lizzie asks him if he's heard from Bea. He tells her that she doesn't need to work there anymore – he's earning enough now. Lizzie still wants him to ask Bea if she can come back. ‘You never looked happy at that place,' he says. Lizzie always thought she looked beautiful, but she can't remember clearly. The black parts in her mind gnaw at her. Then, after a week, she forgets that too.

She obsesses over her sheets, tells off a girl in her ward who spilled bean juice from a stolen tin on her bed. ‘Tomato doesn't come out.' Lizzie spreads the sheet between her fingers, holds it to the girl's face.

‘Jesus, don't rub it in.' The girl, with a face coned into the point of her nose, seems ready to cry. ‘I was really enjoying that.'

‘Lick it off then.'

And the girl does, picking up the sheet and sucking the stain, the rest of the cotton coming out of her mouth like a spirit manifestation Lizzie once saw in a book, the ghost of a loved one pouring from the medium in a white cloud.

‘You're barmy,' Lizzie says. The girl laughs through the cloth.

Lizzie's eye sketches are deemed obscene; she and two of the girls in the ward are told to repaint the walls. ‘Why?' she asks the wardress, a woman who constantly scrapes the inside of her nostrils with a handkerchief-wrapped forefinger.

‘You draw this?'

‘'Course not, just askin'.'

‘Don't.'

But Lizzie is really confused. One of the women on painting whispers, ‘They look like cunts,' and swipes her brush over the middle of an eye. Lizzie drew them sideways as she lay in bed, so they seemed alright to her. But now, standing upright, she sees that the woman has a point.

Another woman calls out, ‘Touch me like that,' and the painter tickles her brush across the eye-cunt. They all moan.

Soon they discover they can get off on paint fumes. They dollop some into the stolen baked-bean tin, hang their heads over it with a towel around their faces, just like Lizzie's dad used to when he was sick, but with herbs and hot water. Lizzie inhales, rises from the tin red-faced and squinting, the towel draped on her head.

‘Madam Elizabeth,' she writes on the wall, but she only has white paint. When they finish the job, the words are only visible to her because she knows where they are. If she was kept alive for something, this is where she's headed: owning a brothel of her own, maybe helping some of these girls out. She could do that. Knows the business well enough now. McWilliams would let her.

At night she tells all the girls about the place she's going to set up, how they can come and work for her. A couple of them tell her that she's vile, that they wouldn't want nothing to do with money made that way. But they're in gaol for something, so their holier-than-thou attitude doesn't worry Lizzie. Prudish bitches.

She spends the rest of her sentence building the place in her mind. She lays its chamferboard verandahs and trelliswork around her to keep the stuck-up women out, and gathers those to her who are her friends, who have suffered like her. She wants to be like the god that priest fella talks about – to love them without them having to earn it.

Brisbane, 1945

A
t four in the morning, Nurse Roberts washes Dolly, stretching her limbs out and sliding the cloth over them.

‘Why'd she do that?' Dolly asks Lizzie when the nurse has gone off again.

‘Reckon they'll operate. Take out what you swallowed.'

‘They can't put me under.' Her voice high-pitched.

Lizzie doesn't mind the ether. A Yank told her that back home they put ether in their soft drinks when the booze was banned, for a bit of spark. He said this before sliding his hand to the back of her head, pulling her in to kiss him. She remembers too, more vaguely, the larrikins in the Valley, offering her a sniff.

Dolly cries with her face pressed into her pillow. ‘I don't want to be alive no more,' she sobs.

Lizzie turns away from the sound – she doesn't want to hear it. She wonders if Lee lied to her all those years ago, and that boxy-looking sign on her fan-tan tile actually was a curse of some kind. Because that's what has been following her. Turned up in the bed right next to her. Dolly asked about Joe, and now Lizzie needs to ask about Lee's place.

Moaning, Dolly picks at the slivers in her lips, starts the blood again.

‘You still got those rooms?' Lizzie asks.

‘What?' Dolly's voice is foggy.

‘The ones you won off Lee. By the river.'

Dolly says nothing. Lizzie wonders if she even remembers them. ‘Why?' she asks finally.

‘I want to buy 'em.' Lizzie didn't plan on saying this, but she knows why she did. The rooms mean something to her, her luck returning. She can picture that night so clearly, her desire so strong it made her sick. The kick in the guts of losing. Now she's the one with power, gazing down at Dolly wheezing in the bed with her mouth all bloody. No chance the woman is a threat to her. And even though she hasn't got the means to buy them, she has to see where the waters lie.

Dolly sighs. ‘Place got flooded last year, haven't had the energy to clean it. The chow's sister was in there for a good while, renting. Left after the flood, reckoned she couldn't stand it no more.'

‘You never thought to do anything with the rooms?'

‘Was living with Stanley. He was mostly keeping me. I wanted the rooms empty in case something happened and I needed a place to disappear.'

‘He good to you, Stanley?' Lizzie asks.

Dolly's whole body gets caught up in a dry retching. Lizzie sucks in her breath and looks out for Nurse Roberts. Her coughing dies among the beds, and the nurse doesn't come.

‘Good as any,' Dolly says in the end. Lizzie knows what that means. If he's anything like Colin, he'd have told her he loved her, then used it as an excuse to fold her up so tiny she couldn't recognise herself.

‘Will you sell the place to me?' Lizzie pushes on.

‘It's all I have of me own.' Dolly's words are so close to Lizzie's longing that she's pulled up short. ‘Stanley's taken everything else. He'd big dreams for us, but he's got no luck. Makes him cross as a cut snake.' She sobs around the ridiculous phrase. Lizzie flinches at the sound coming to her in the dark.

Nurse Roberts walks back in, torch flashing, and Lizzie climbs back in bed, not able to sleep properly thinking about the possibility of the rooms.

She wakes fully, sits up and looks out the window, glowing with the steel body of dawn. The light hits Dolly. Lizzie can't see the girl from Townsville in this woman, twisted up with pain and battered down. Dolly's hands move like spiders on the covers.

A nurse knits in the corner, needles striking each other, the clacks carrying across the ward. Lizzie wouldn't want a jumper made by that woman. Might choke you. She pictures the tangled wool like some form of plant life, wavy fronds moving to the windows in search of sunlight, climbing over the sleeping women's beds, over hers and Dolly's, that will keep them in their place, keep them invisible, the threads a dense canopy above their heads, each breathing in her own humid cocoon. Maybe some explorer will find them, wonder at the sounds of their shrouded rainforest, the voices of plants that speak in a language so muffled it can't be decoded. From where they stand outside the plant masses, men will write books about the women, peering in through the threads, maybe finding an ear that hasn't quite been covered, an eye glinting at them. They'll guess at a rich interior life and linger on the details of the women's sex lives, the places where they took the men – laneways, terraced houses, tents on the goldfields made waterproof with lime. Speculate on what kind of men they were – politicians, coppers, sailors, soldiers, grocers, adventurers. This they'll know already; Lizzie knows the newspapers write about her still.

The clack of needles like rain. Dolly groans, and the threads unravel.

Townsville, 1924

T
hey let Lizzie out in November. Joe takes her back to the house. The whole place is coated in a fine dust, and she pretends to snort it. ‘Leaving some for later?'

Joe scowls at her. Not in the mood for jokes.

She dumps her bags in the bedroom and lies on the bed in her own stockings, proper silk, glad she doesn't have to feel that some other woman's legs might have been in them, even though she knows well enough they were washed – she herself did it most of the time. The dress isn't as beautiful as she remembers.

‘Got holes,' she said, when she put it on back at the gaol. ‘Didn't even put in mothballs?'

‘This isn't the bloody Ritz,' the wardress said and shoved the rest of her things at her. Lizzie doesn't think the Ritz has mothballs either.

Joe bangs a pan around in the kitchen, swears loudly and returns later with horse's eye. He plonks the plate on the bedside table, and its edge shivers. Lizzie startles. ‘Very gracious,' she says, stuffy-nosed. ‘The lid's not on straight.' She adjusts the little circle of toast rested on top of the egg, cut with the rim of a cup from the bread so the egg looks out at the face that'll eat it.

‘Cook it your bloody self, then,' he says, picking his toast up with one hand and shoving it in his mouth.

‘Cripes, sorry, I was only joking.'

They eat in silence at opposite ends of the bed. She collects the dishes. Has to tug his plate out of his hand. She stands in the doorway and drops the plates onto the floor. ‘Why are you angry at me? I'm the one who's been locked up being reformed by fucking do-gooders and sadists for twelve months.'

‘You got yourself there.'

‘That bitch bloody stole Thelma's money.'

‘Couldn't think of a better way? Jesus, I would've fixed it for you. Know what, peach? Fuck you.'

‘I was defending Thelma.'

‘Fuck her too.'

‘Hope you bloody haven't.'

‘Being clever doesn't suit you.'

‘Guess what, you're stuck with it.'

Lizzie gathers up the pieces of plate, holds them in her hand, but they keep slipping back onto the floor. She swears every time they fall, picks the pieces up again, balancing them on her palm. Another piece tips from the bottom. Joe watches her, shakes his head and brings a bin. ‘Thought they taught you housekeeping in there.'

‘Didn't let us loose on dishes.' She picks up a shard, grips the bottom like a knife and waves it around.

Joe takes her wrist and squeezes. She uncurls her fingers. The shard drops to the floor. ‘It's not fucking funny,' he says. ‘When I seen you in that hospital with your throat all sliced up – ah hell, peach.'

The hurt in his voice knocks her. She's flattened by guilt. In prison, she hardly thought about him at all, was caught in her fantasies about starting her own place, McWilliams with her. But now she's here, Joe makes her feel the impossibilities of these plans. How could she leave him? She cries, reality sinking her. It's strange she should cry now, no bars around her, when she hasn't cried for months in gaol.

She tells Joe she's sorry, she doesn't know what's going on. Feels so bloody weak, can't sort anything out in her head. In the gaol she was certain, knew what she wanted. In his presence she doubts herself. He strokes her back, and she sniffs up snot. ‘Feels nice when you touch me.'

‘I want you back,' he says.

He fucks her among the broken dishes. She worries because she expects to be cut, can't feel anything because of this. But her wetness on his hand reassures her she's functioning at least. She'll just have to wait a bit to feel again.

She finds a note in the letterbox, knows it's from McWilliams:
Tomorrow, six at fan-tan
. Her body shakes with her own heartbeat. All morning she's absent, can't follow what Joe says. In the middle of the day, she thinks, I won't see him, I can't. She wants to make it right between her and Joe.

But by the afternoon, she just wants Joe to leave. She hasn't answered him so many times that he put his mouth to her ear and yelled into it. She yelled back at him, her hand over her ringing ear.

He fiddles under the house till after six, while she prickles in the kitchen, watching the clock. She's wound tight by the time she hears him open the gate and walk away. She puts on shoes and stockings, doesn't want to think about it too much. When she does, she promises herself she'll see McWilliams just this once.

She keeps her eyes on the gravel of Roberts Street and doesn't look up until she's on Charters Towers Road, when someone calls her name. ‘Miss Betty?' It's Lee, stopping on a bicycle beside her.

‘Hello,' she says. ‘You off to fan-tan?'

He nods and swings his leg over the bike so he can walk beside her.

‘Me too,' she says, but she doesn't want him hanging around. She just wants to get to McWilliams.

‘There's a fella following you.'

‘What?'

‘I saw him, just for a second, when I was closing up the store. He turned the same corner you did.'

‘Know him?'

Lee shakes his head. ‘Couldn't see his face under his hat, across the street. But a big bloke. Reckon you should go home.'

Her breath comes hard. ‘Reckon I should.'

‘You want me to walk you back?'

‘No, no.' She doesn't want to be seen with Lee, wonders if he has other reasons for telling her she's being followed. But she can't risk it, having anyone catch her going to meet McWilliams. She stops abruptly.

Lee pulls up a couple of paces ahead. He looks at her.

‘I'm right,' she says and waves him away. He might try to escort her home right there in the open. But he turns the bike to the city and the fan-tan parlour. She watches him ride away. Something wound-up and athletic about his movements, the thrust of his thighs on the pedals. She stands on the side of the road, her hands shaking. She doesn't know which way to go, or if anyone is really following her. Could be someone from the prison or one of their friends come to get her. She was so boarded up, those last few months, she barely noticed if she angered anyone or not.

She peaks her hands over her forehead to shade her eyes against the sun. A figure comes at her from the glare, a giant it seems, some runaway from the circus. No – Joe. She's undone by the double image of her husband and a giant, both strange and familiar to her. She can't move. She's been inside for too long.

He says, ‘Didn't know you were going anywhere.'

Lizzie doesn't know what to say. How long will McWilliams wait? ‘I just want to play fan-tan again.'

‘Gone downhill since you left,' Joe says. ‘Too many chows there now. Maybe you won't mind, but. Saw you talking to one just before.'

‘Yeah?'

‘I remember him. Tried to visit you once, in the house.'

‘Don't know.' Lizzie looks back down Roberts Street. Wants to go home.

‘I remember all the men who visit you, peach.'

‘I try to forget them,' she says.

‘You going then? To fan-tan?'

‘Oh no, Joe, not if there's so many chows.'

‘That chow – he wanted you real bad. Never saw one in heat for a white girl like that. Makes you sick.'

Lizzie doesn't want to hear any more. And she can't go to McWilliams. She imagines him sitting in the fan-tan parlour, waiting for her. Distress clouds her vision. She won't come for him tonight.

Thelma drops by with a longneck. ‘For old time's sake,' she says, taking a slug. Bea has another girl in Lizzie's place. ‘Thought I should tell you,' Thelma says. She runs her hands over her arms. ‘I'm getting out soon too. After the thing with Dolly, coppers didn't give a shit about finding me money. Joe tell you what he did? He went and got it for me, off that bitch. He's a good man, Betty.'

‘Joe talked to Dolly?'

‘Reckon he did more than that. She disappeared after. Bea said she sent her to Ingham, but I don't know.'

Lizzie thinks of the Italian girl who was with her in the cell. Thinks of the Black Hand. She reckons Ingham is the right kind of place for Dolly.

‘Joe didn't tell me that. He say anything more? Dolly say anything to him?'

‘Don't think he was listening, love.'

Lizzie has to be calm about this; she can't afford to give herself away. Dolly didn't really see much, just her sitting with a man out the back. Lizzie can't even remember if they touched. More than a year ago. The memory is almost dark to her.

Thelma's still talking. ‘I'll be able to keep me boy safe.' She didn't bring her boy. Afterwards, Lizzie wonders about this, if she's one of the things he's being kept safe from.

On the water's edge, their bodies holding down a picnic blanket, the debris of their meal scattered around them, Lizzie asks Joe to put in a good word for her with Bea. He stares across the water to the island. Scummed foam marks the opening of the Ross River into the sea. He swears, shaking his head. His voice is flat, but there's an edge underneath.

She needs to be careful. ‘I just want to help out, like before. Both of us earning, we can start saving again. Joe –'

‘Fuck is wrong with you?' His voice carries across the sea. ‘You want to go back to that filthy hole, have every man in town's hands on you? Every night, when I let one of them in, was like I was fucking stabbed.' He presses his finger to his chest.

She can't stand his screwed-up face. Wants to drown his voice with her own. Screeching over him, she doesn't know what she's saying, just making noise. Pulls up when she hears herself say, ‘I can't.' She wants to say she can't be with him doing nothing again, nothing bigger than herself beyond him. He stands with his arms held away from his body, coiled, yelling at her to tell him what the fuck that means. She's not ready for this and backs down – she doesn't know, she's not sure. He softens and puts his hands on her shoulders. ‘Let me look after you, peach.' She presses her head into his chest. His heart pounds against her ear. The pale cotton of his shirt is the horizon in her vision, the blur of the sea beyond. His hand rests on the back of her head. ‘You don't want to go back there. Bea's fucked with your head.'

Lizzie shoves away. ‘I knew what I was doing.'

Joe shouts into her face. ‘Like hell you did.' He keeps shouting about how badly she's fucked up, a din that she tries to block out. Finally he stops.

She can't hold on to any shape of herself with enough conviction to answer him. She squeezes her toes in the sand. A polyp of coral, like innards, floats in on a wave, so subtle that its movement could be an accident. She grips it between her fingers and squeezes. Up close, it seems to be made of thousands of tiny green bubbles bundled together, but the surface is hard and sheened with salt water. Unrecognisable and repulsive. This is the kind of thing she's been getting delivered since she got out of Stewart's Creek – she can't make sense of the way her life has twisted from her, taken on an aspect she never thought to see and can't identify. She can't recognise herself here. She tricked herself in the gaol, thinking she could get a place to run herself. Can't even get her old work back.

Into the silence, the expanse of sand, Joe says, ‘Thought about it a lot while you were away, peach. I'll forgive anything you did before. Come back to me.'

‘I haven't done anything wrong!' She's thinking of the whoring when she says this. She had to do it. It's not fair for him to blame her.

He makes a sharp shout of frustration. ‘Let's just fucking go.' He snatches up the picnic basket, pulls the blanket from the ground, sand flying off its edges. Lizzie follows him down Boundary Street, mangroves on either side. She can't see beyond.

When they get home, McWilliams is sleeping on the bed on their verandah – Joe found an old mattress, dragged it onto the springs, for nights when McWilliams is too tired or drunk to ride home. She holds the railing for support, Joe's heavy weight behind her. On the wooden boards is a bottle of stout, the lid off and rolled away. Almost all of it gone. Joe pulls on McWilliams' boot. He shudders awake, sits up, squints his eyes and shakes his head. ‘Lizzie,' he says, voice stuffy.

‘We have a job tonight?' Joe's still gripping the picnic basket.

‘That's why I'm waitin' here. Bea sent a message.' McWilliams holds himself with the stillness of a man trying to sober up.

‘Was out all day,' Joe says. ‘Wanted to treat Lizzie. She hasn't seen the sea since she was out.' He says this like a man who's rehearsed it too many times.

McWilliams combs his fringe with his fingers, shakes his head again with the hair still caught in his hands.

Joe disappears inside the house. ‘Back soon,' he yells from the hallway.

Lizzie's on the top step, her heart beating so it hurts. Her throat seems shrunk to the size of a straw. The old bedsprings shudder. McWilliams' mouth on hers. He smells of beer, and his hands shake. She stares into his eyes to see if he means it. They're red with booze. The paleness of sleep still on him. Will she ever be able to know this man? ‘A bag of chemicals,' her dad used to say, when he went through a science phase and bought up big on children's encyclopaedias because they were written in a way he could understand. ‘Humans are just a big bag of chemicals.' It rendered Lizzie shapeless when he said it, made others that way too. Easier to cheat them, she thought, although her dad behaved as if this fact was a marvel.

Her hands on McWilliams. She remembers her dad saying that underneath their skins were particles that flew around one another. It seemed to Lizzie so wonderful that their bodies could have something like that hidden away, as though she was inhabited by a power greater than herself. She wanted there and then to touch another person, to see if she could feel that movement. Hadn't dared touch her dad. That longing stayed with her and now concentrates on McWilliams, the links connecting them.