Volcano Street (17 page)

Still the telephone rang and rang.

‘Marlo and
I
– Mar-
leen
and I.’ Noreen Puce, risen now, lunged towards Skip. A fat hand clutched a skinny shoulder; fat fingers prised, gouged. Skip pressed the letter tighter against her chest. ‘I
am
sorry about this, Valmai,’ Auntie Noreen was saying. ‘You know how girls get. If it’s not Johnny Farnham, it’s some other nonsense they’ve got themselves worked up about.’

‘And the other one seems so quiet,’ mused Mrs Lumsden.

‘Different dads. Still, even that one’s going the way of her mother. Some of the things I found in her room! That Greer Garson book full of smut, for a start. That woman’s poor mum must be so ashamed.’

Sagely, the permed head nodded. ‘This one on the rag yet?’

‘Not long now, I reckon. Can tell, can’t you?’

Horrified, Skip kicked Auntie Noreen in the shin, wrenched her shoulder free, and plunged off down the hall, as her aunt, all pretence of gentility lost, screeched, ‘Helen Wells! Come back here this instant, you fucking little bitch!’

Auntie Noreen, when she had to, could move with fearful speed. Footsteps boomed and floorboards squelched, almost snapping, as her huge rubbery legs juddered after her niece. ‘You give me that letter, Helen Wells, or I’ll beat you black and blue!’

Skip flung herself into the bathroom, just in time. ‘Shut up!’ she yelled. ‘Shut up, shut up!’ She clunked the bathroom lock in place and leaned against the door, slithering down, feeling the remorseless blows through her spine as the fist pounded and pounded.

‘It’s nonsense, Helen! You don’t really reckon yous’re going to America? That mad cow couldn’t get you to Gepps Cross Abattoir. She’s got no money, no job, and no one’s going to give her one. She’s off in Cloud Cuckoo Land, like she always was. I didn’t want yous to see that, lovey!’

Skip blocked her ears. Let words rain around her: she refused to listen. The telephone, which had briefly ceased its clamour, started up again: let it ring itself off its cradle, let it dance across the hall table and drop and smash to the floor. Hateful phrases stabbed in her mind like daggers:
Helen Wells, you fucking little bitch … This one on the rag yet? … Different dads …
She hated Auntie Noreen. Hated Valmai Lumsden. Hated everything and everyone. The chill of the bathroom floor seeped like wetness through the back of her skirt.

The pounding had stopped. Auntie Noreen was on the telephone. Dry-eyed, face burning, Skip uncrumpled the envelope. It had been
opened crudely, with a finger under the flap, and the letter hastily stuffed back. She drew it forth and smoothed it over her knees. Twice, three times, her eyes slithered over Karen Jane’s girlish rounded handwriting, trying to take it in.

Skip let the letter fall. If there were parts of it she didn’t understand, she didn’t care. With Karen Jane, there were always parts you didn’t understand. But the main point was clear. They were letting her out.

Skip’s heart soared. Could it be? No more Crater Lakes!

In the hall, the telephone crashed into its cradle and Auntie Noreen
stomped back, thunder in her thighs, screaming, ‘You little liar!’ and ‘What do you think you’re playing at?’ and ‘Both you bitches, you’re crazy as Kazza!’

Bam! Bam!
came the doom knell through the door (‘Just wait till my Dougie gets home! He’ll rip this door off its hinges’); then Valmai Lumsden was there too, urging
Nor, Nor
– horrible how she said it – to calm down, let me make you a fresh pot, nothing some silly brat did could be worth this fuss; while Skip, cold on the bathroom floor, silvered in the light from the window slats, thought only of her old life with Karen Jane, picturing it as paradise, one from which she had been expelled, but one that soon would receive her again.

Yet what could Skip know? What could she believe? Caper, the draft dodger, had been captured at last, Karen Jane was in the funny farm, Marlo sat at a desk in Puce Hardware, and Auntie Noreen filled the sky, omnipresent as God. They would never make it to San Fran. They would never make it to Gepps Cross. Skip held on to Glenelg Beach: the Norfolk pines, the sand like spangled stars, St Vincent’s Gulf promising that everything, for all the cleavings of time, was connected after all. Look at this place, this provincial hellhole they’ve stuck you in. The same moon shines in America as here. Walk on a beach in South Australia, arsehole of the world, and stick your fingers in the tide: the great pulsing field of the sea touches every shore in the world. I’m touching India. I’m touching Egypt. I’m touching Antarctic ice and the green mouth of the Amazon.

Skip remained in the bathroom long enough for Auntie Noreen to retire, led away by Valmai Lumsden with many a soothing
Nor, Nor
. Long enough for her left side (curled against the door) to go numb. Long enough for the frosted slats to glimmer less brightly, the matching bath, sink and toilet darkening from pinky-mauve to deep purple. From down the hall, beneath the orchestral swoonings of the movie matinee starring Dana Andrews and Susan Hayward, came Noreen Puce’s anguished sobs, Valmai Lumsden’s caramel cooings.

Finally stirring, Skip felt as if she were waking from a dream. She swayed upright, grabbed the side of the bath, and sat down quickly on the purple ledge, nursing pins and needles. If only she could escape! But maybe she could. She eyed the window above the sink. When she could stand again, she quickly removed several window slats from their metal frames, laying them on the cistern tank. Behind the slats was a flyscreen; she was fumbling for the catches that held it in place when Auntie Noreen renewed her assault, shouldering the bathroom door and crying out execrations at her evil, crazed niece.

Suddenly all was chaos. The door throbbed like a drum skin; then, with a crack, a crunch, a clatter, the lock was on the floor. Skip tore at the flyscreen; it fell from the frame, and she jumped up on the sink and hurled herself into the gap just as Auntie Noreen crashed through the door. Wild words – ‘You little bitch!’ and ‘Come back here!’ and ‘No, you don’t!’ – splattered from the raging mouth; a hand grabbed Skip’s ankle. She bucked, writhed. Slats shattered, cascading glassily on porcelain and tiles. With a kick, Skip was free and dropped to the grass outside.

But where could she run? There was nowhere to go.

Still, she pelted into the road just as Honza Novak came spinning by on his bike and almost knocked her down. She gripped his handlebars and he grinned at her, delighted. ‘You’re crazy.’ He shook his head. ‘Crazy.’

‘We’re doing it.’

‘Doing what?’ he said.

‘The wishing well. Every last cent.’

‘Helen!’ Noreen shrilled from the porch. ‘Back here this instant – this instant, I say!’

Skip’s mouth curved up in a smile. She hummed, twirled a little, even waved at her red-faced aunt. Now that she knew she would soon be escaping, she felt invincible. Why be afraid? Let Noreen Puce do her worst. Skip was almost sorry for the pathetic old cow.
Soon, thought Skip, we’ll be gone, gone. Me and Marlo. Whether they would head for Adelaide, South Australia, or San Francisco, California, she didn’t yet know. She hadn’t thought that far ahead. But she knew they would never stay in Crater Lakes. Never, never.

Tossing her head, Skip sauntered back to the house.

Chapter Eight

‘Nah. Never make it.’

‘Why not? I’m going.’

‘Yair? A kid on your own?’

‘I won’t be. Marlo, she’ll come.’

‘And leave Brooker? You’ll be back first day. What about that bloke that drives the bus? Won’t he tell your auntie?’

‘We’ll hitch!’ Skip’s voice rose. She should have said nothing. Let Honza think the raid was for fun, just another game. But her plan was hazy even to her. The money, that was what mattered. The money, and then, somehow, escape.

Night pressed around them like dark velvet. Sporadically, streetlamps made glowing pools. Already Skip knew they had chosen badly. Saturday night had slipped into that hinterland when it is Sunday morning by the clock but Saturday refuses to end. They had made their way down side streets, keeping to shadows; they shot across Volcano Street, then down the path beside the town hall. Horns and faded revelling sounded from the street, but in Crater Gardens all was still. They rested their bikes against the sandstone wall.

‘Can’t see,’ said Skip. ‘Where’s the torch?’

Honza pressed it into her hand. ‘Just a flash or two. When we need it.’

A car passed, radio loud. Skip wished they had waited. On any other night, Volcano Street would be dead by now. But the preparations had all been made: that morning she had stolen the hacksaw from Puce Hardware; Honza, dropping by Crater Gardens at dusk, had turned on the hidden tap. All through dinner (chops, mashed swede, Birds Eye peas), all through an evening hunkered in the sleepout, Skip thought of water sinking tremulously in the well. When Honza hissed his summons – ‘Night stalker, come … Night stalker, quick!’ – she was wide awake and waiting.

Her punishment, at least, had finally come to an end. Chores, chores and more chores, straight in after school, early to bed – how the days had dragged! Auntie Noreen’s reproachful looks had been bad enough. Worse was her relentless braying. ‘Don’t think you’re having any telly tonight, missy!’ – as if Skip wanted to watch
Division 4
. ‘Done that vacuuming yet, missy?’ – as if Skip were a slave who deserved to be whipped. Uncle Doug had been useless, glancing shame-faced at her when he thought she wasn’t looking; all this embarrassed him, his manner seemed to say, but he could do nothing to stop it. Even Marlo treated her coldly, disgusted, it seemed, that her sister could squander so heedlessly the blessing of schooling. Skip tried to explain: ‘It’s Rigby, he’s a bastard, he’s …’ But Marlo wouldn’t listen. Never had Skip felt so alone.

She flashed the torch. Purple leaves, branches: the foliage wall. A grey gleam: the path. Crazy paving, vertical: the well’s stone-clad side. They peered over the edge. She exulted. Empty! The water had all drained out. The torchlight, cut by shadows of the obstructing grille, played across the well’s curving sides of blackish oily green, and flashed up glitterings from silver-copper depths. The Treasure of the Sierra Madre dazzled their eyes.

Honza nudged Skip and she flipped off the torch. ‘Hacksaw.’ He might have been a surgeon.
Scalpel. Forceps
.

‘Let me.’ Skip drew the saw from her Qantas bag. Leaning into the well, she gripped the grille, which was at once rough with rust and soft with slime. Back and forth she zigzagged the blade. The metallic raspings were deafening in the night.

Honza, beside her, could barely keep still. He sighed loudly, wrung his hands, bounced up and down on the balls of his feet. He didn’t care why Skip wanted the treasure. He didn’t believe she would leave the Lakes. The adventure was all that mattered. ‘You’ll break the blade! Give me a go.’

Skip resisted as he grappled for the saw. She gasped as it fell from her hand; fortunately, it didn’t fall through the grille. Light, just a little, flickered over the dark scene; the clouds were shifting above them, like a curtain drawing back to reveal the moon.

Skip let Honza grab the saw. All right, she decided. Let the boy be the boy. He sawed, sawed. Here. And here. And here. He worked his way round the well, while Skip crossed her arms and tapped a foot impatiently.

‘Bugger.’ The blade broke. But Honza thought he had done enough. Determined, he threaded his fingers through the grille. He tugged hard. Cords strained in his neck and he hunched forward, breathless. ‘Help me.’

Their fingers mingled. There was a series of rapid clicks, then a loud snap, and they collapsed backwards, the grille falling over them like a cage. Skip gasped, winded. Disgusted, she pushed away the grille. It stank. Honza sprang up and punched her arm. ‘Your bit.’

‘Bit?’ she said.

He gestured to the well. ‘Six foot deep. Whoever goes down is going to need a hand up. You’re lightest.’

Sometimes Skip wished she were as big as a mountain. Reluctantly she scrambled up to sit on the stony brim. Darkness pressed between
her dangling legs. Uneasily she looked below and questions flashed into her mind: ‘You won’t leave me?’ and ‘This isn’t a setup?’ and ‘You’ll help me get back out?’ But she knew enough not to ask them aloud.

‘Bombs away.’ She pinched her nose as if the well still brimmed with water, plummeted forward, and landed with a crunch on the coins. She slipped and grabbed for the wall, then snatched away her hand as oozing soft blackness sank coldly beneath her palm.

‘Stinks down here.’ Her voice sounded hollow.

‘Stinks up here.’ Honza shifted darkly in a circle of moonlight. He raised an arm. ‘Watch out.’