Wind in the Wires (28 page)

Not a long conversation.

‘She wants to see you. I suggested she doesn’t go to the pub. Half the town will be there tonight and it’s bad enough you going there. I told her I’d take you down to the old place for dinner. I hope you eat fish and chips?’

D
INNER
F
OR
T
HREE

D
riven in an ancient ute through a wind-whipped forest. Led across a muddy yard, down a rattling wind tunnel, through a washhouse, a bedroom, then hit in the eye by an all-white kitchen, where she was introduced to Margot, the second half-sister, and whatever she’d been expecting, Margot wasn’t it. Saw a rotund white-headed woman clad in a white uniform and grey cardigan, white ankle socks and fluffy boot-style slippers; she was seated on a kitchen chair, near on top of an old wood stove. Cara offered her hand. Margot ignored it.

‘What’th th’e doing here?’

She had no teeth, or few. She spat when she spoke.

Sister?

And Georgie lying to her? ‘She’s one of Itchy-foot’s relatives.’

An ancient black kettle lifted over the central hotplate, the firebox opened, then Georgie disappeared out the way they’d come in as Margot rose from her chair to unwrap the parcel of fish and chips while wind buffeted the house, threatening to blow it from its foundations – if it had any.

Georgie came back with an armload of wood she dropped with a clatter to the hearth tray. She jammed a lump into the firebox, closed it with her boot, brushed woodchips from her windcheater, then removed it.

The kitchen was warm. Cara unbuttoned her overcoat, hung it with her scarf over the back of a chair, with Georgie’s jacket.

‘That’s Donny,’ Georgie said. Cara had been staring at a photograph of an oversized baby-faced youth, hung at an angle on the wall. ‘He’s in a home for the retarded – in Melbourne.’

‘Your brother.’

‘Step. Jenny’s first husband’s son. He’s got a sister, Raelene. She’s with Jenny – or she is at the moment. Their father was killed in a mill accident and their mother is doing what she can to populate Australia. Sit down.’

Chairs surrounding a big old wooden table, but Margot had ripped off a section of the wrapping paper, placed a slab of battered fish on it, with a handful of chips, and taken it back to her chair beside the stove.

Georgie gathered salt, pepper, cut a lemon, took one plate, one knife and fork from cupboard and drawer.

‘Path me the thalt,’ Margot spat.

Georgie passed the salt, waited while it was shaken. ‘Jenny’s coming down later.’

‘Th’e knowth better than to come near me.’

She had not addressed a word to Cara, and since her initial evil-eyed stare, hadn’t looked at her.

‘Tea or coffee?’ Georgie asked.

‘Coffee would be good.’

‘Sit down and eat while it’s hot.’

Cara sat, her hands on her lap, until the coffee was made, one mug placed on the stove hob for Margot, one on either side of the table, then Georgie sat down to a slab of fish, squeezed lemon, shook salt and pepper over. Cara mimicked her actions.

‘Feel free to use the plate. I’m into labour-saving devices,’ Georgie said.

She broke the slab into two. Cara broke off what appeared to be the tail end. Uncertain if her stomach would accept or reject it, she bit. It was a nice piece of fish. She ate a chip, which killed her need to find something to say.

Knew she should say something. Stunned by this place, concussed by her half-sisters, by her too-easy finding of Jenny Hooper/Morrison – and by fear of meeting her.

For years and more years she’d been writing their meeting, in this town, though this town wasn’t the one she’d written. No one could have imagined Woody Creek, or those sisters. It was ridiculous. Margot was half as wide as she was tall. Georgie had to be five foot ten, and slim.

And Margot back at the table for more chips, clawing up a handful, Georgie eyeing her, eyeing her guest.

‘You’re a nurse, Margot?’ Cara tried.

Margot gave her another dose of the evil eye and returned to her chair.

‘She’s on an invalid pension,’ Georgie said.

Cara ate the last of her fish; then, like her hostess, wiped her greasy fingers on the wrapping paper. Margot clawed up the last of the chips, then the paper was wrapped, a hotplate lifted and the parcel poked into the flames.

‘Go over to Elsie’s. Jenny will be here in half an hour,’ Georgie said.

‘It’th raining. Take her over there.’

Windows rattling, a door banging, Cara looked up, expecting the roof to go.

‘We get a bit of protection from the worst of the wind from Joe Flanagan’s wood paddock. Elsie’s place will be rocking. They built it three feet off the ground and the wind gets in beneath it. The land down here is flood-prone.’

Cara had seen lights from a second house when they’d driven in. Elsie? Another relative? She didn’t want any more. She wanted Morrie. She wanted Myrtle and Robert. Tomorrow she’d be back in Melbourne. All she had to do was get through the night to tomorrow.

‘You’ve always lived down here?’ she asked.

‘Except for two years when Jenny was married to Ray – Ray King.’

‘What are you telling her everything for?’ Margot whined.

‘She’s a relative.’

‘How?’

‘Itchy-foot’s sister was her grandmother,’ Georgie improvised.

Pandora’s box, Robert had named this place. A good place to stay away from, he’d said when at fifteen she’d asked him to drive her there. And she’d opened it. If she lived through to morning, if she ever got out of this town, she’d close that lid. She’d bury it beneath a ton of bricks.

Georgie lit a cigarette then slid the pack across the table. ‘More coffee?’

‘Thank you, no.’ She accepted a cigarette and her fingers smelled fishy. Glanced at the sink, wanting to wash her hands. Looked at her watch, at Georgie, who was occupied in untangling a rubber band from her ponytail.

Like flame that hair, the darks, the lights of it when she scratched and shook it free of its bonds. She’d been gorgeous with her hair pulled back from her face. With it free, she was so far beyond gorgeous, words were superfluous. She had magnificent eyes and a complexion to kill for. Regal was the word that came to mind. In this place? She should have been on the cover of some glossy magazine.

Cara rose and went to the sink. Soap in a saucer. She used it, washed her hands and shook them dry enough, Margot staring at her back, and not fast enough to look away when Cara turned.

God help her, growing to adulthood in Georgie’s shadow.
The Three Sisters
. . .
The Half-Sisters
by C.J. Norris or maybe Norris J. Cara.

And pseudonym or not, she wasn’t writing it. She’d retired from the literary world, defeated by a postman. If she got out of this place alive she’d buy herself a television set and spend the rest of her days staring at it.

‘Car’s coming,’ Georgie said. ‘If you don’t want to see her, go over to Elsie’s, Margot.’

‘It’th too cold, I thaid.’

Too cold, too windy and too dark, or Cara may have led the way over to Elsie’s, whoever she was. Twin eyes were bumping down the track, the wind gusting the sound of a motor against the window.

The motor died. A car door slammed.

Then voices.

‘Th’e’th brought thoth kidth down here,’ Margot wailed.

‘Go over to Elsie’s.’

‘Harry hateth me.’

‘Then go bed – and if you turn your heater on, make sure there’s nothing near it to burn.’

How did she stand it? Why did she stand it? Watched Margot waddle out the way Cara had come in. Georgie followed her to the door, watched her go, then turned and walked back to the table.

‘Raelene doesn’t need any more ammunition. Your grandmother was Itchy-foot’s sister, Archie Foote’s – Granny’s husband. I don’t know if his sister had grandkids or not, but nor does Raelene. Sit down.’

Footsteps approaching, preceded by a blast of cold wind. Doors slamming, then a petite, dark-headed, dark-eyed gypsy of a girl burst in to commandeer the stove, a smaller girl behind her.

And Jenny, faceless no more.

‘You’re very much like Jenny. Look in a mirror, pet,’ Myrtle had once said. Cara was looking in that mirror – at hair, shorter at the sides than her own, but the same. As slim, not so tall; apprehensive eyes, perhaps they were as blue.

There stands the ghost who for years has haunted the edge of my vision, Cara thought as she stood unmoving, staring, mouth parted but nothing to say. An hour passed, or an instant, and for that hour, that instant, the wind died, the windows stopped rattling, the door stopped banging and Cara’s heart stopped beating. Perhaps the world stopped turning while that instant stretched.

‘As they entered,’ Georgie said, ‘Raelene, Trudy and Jenny – meet Cara, our thirty-second cousin.’

Her introduction forced time to begin again, forced the hands of the old marble mantelpiece clock to jerk forward. It donged once for the half-hour and Jenny closed the door and stepped forward to offer her hand.

Cara took it, shook it. Since she’d turned fifteen, she’d tried to kid herself that she was a woman of words. Couldn’t find one. Only the hands communicated, identical hands. Where did one end and the other begin?

‘How come she looks like you?’ the gypsy asked.

‘Itchy-foot’s sister looked like him,’ Georgie said, and the hands released their grip and identical eyes, guilty eyes, turned to Raelene.

I wanted this, Cara thought. I dreamed and wrote this. Say something. Heart, mouth, mind shaking, she returned to her chair, and sat. And Jenny sat beside her on the long side of the table, Georgie opposite.

‘Is Myrtle well?’

Myrtle, their only common link; Cara grasped at that link; ‘Yes.’ More was required. She nodded, cleared her throat. ‘They’re still living at Amberley.’

‘I loved that place,’ Jenny said.

‘They’ve . . . they renovated recently.’ Again she cleared her throat. ‘They’ve turned it into units . . . four two-bedroom units.’

‘You sound like her.’

‘She speaks of you . . . fondly. And of Jimmy.’

Jenny’s turn to nod, and Cara glanced by her at the smaller girl, wide brown eyes, long plaits, quiet as a mouse. A third half-sister. She hadn’t written her in. Georgie hadn’t mentioned her.

‘Is your father well?’

‘He retired at the end of ’64.’

Cara knew Jenny’s age. She’d been almost twenty-one when she’d given birth to her. She looked to be in her thirties. Long blue sweater, black stretch slacks, pierced ears, small gold baubles swinging from her lobes. A few crinkles around her eyes, a crease in her brow.

Is there a crease in mine tonight? Cara’s hand rose to smooth that crease.

Look in the mirror, pet.

Identical noses, brows, the spacing between their eyes, and their hairline, eyebrows. Different mouths, different teeth, different chins. I’m Billy-Bob from the nose down. I have his height.

Can’t ask her his height, where he came from, his family name. Tonight I’m Archie Foote’s relative. Can’t ask her why she kept the other three and gave me away. Nothing I can ask her, so nothing to say.

Georgie left the kitchen, and Cara’s reflexes lifted her from the chair, needing to stay close to the one who had brought her to this place. Forced her feet to remain where they were, and Georgie returned with a bottle.

‘I don’t know much about this stuff, but it seems like the right time to open it.’

She had trouble opening it. It was somewhere to look while she struggled, while she forced the last of the cork into the bottle, while she found three unmatched glasses, ex-Vegemite, one honey, a portion of the label still attached to the honey glass. She filled them with something red and Cara’s throat, desperate for lubrication, welcomed the wine – until her tongue picked up the taste of a vicious hard brew. But it matched this night, this house, this town, so she drank an inch while Georgie poured cordial for the girls.

Jenny took one sip then pushed her glass back. ‘I’m not much of a wine drinker,’ she said.

Cara drank another inch, desperate for alcohol to take the edge off near panic. Hard rain out there now, or hail belting against the window.

‘You could have chosen a better day,’ Jenny said.

‘Yes.’ Like never.

‘You’re still living at Amberley?’

‘I work in Melbourne.’

‘Amberley?’ Raelene asked.

‘It was a boarding house when I knew Cara’s mother.’

‘Are you still at school, Raelene?’ Cara asked.

‘Like hell,’ Raelene said.

She turned to Trudy. ‘How old are you, Trudy?’

‘Seven.’

Dead end. Again she sipped the wine, if wine it was. I’ve seen her, she thought. I didn’t come up here to find a mother. I’ve got one. I’m pleased she left me at Amberley. I wouldn’t have survived in this place.

Georgie had. Georgie, sitting quietly, reading the wine label before topping up Cara’s glass.

‘I worked at a factory during the war. Myrt looked after Jimmy for me.’

‘I’ve seen photographs of him,’ Cara said. An inch of wine went down. Morrie had drunk five glasses of beer the night he’d told her about his mother’s lump. He’d said he missed Aussie beer. She’d tasted it. It was no worse than this stuff. Burgundy, according to the label. She’d add that to her list of things never to buy, along with smoked salmon, caviar, brussels sprouts – and typing paper.

Glanced again at Trudy, attempting to see something of herself in her. Nothing. She must have taken after the new husband. Georgie must have taken after her father – and Margot couldn’t have had the same father. Raelene was about Jenny’s size, pretty, she had curly hair, and she wasn’t Jenny’s. She looked seventeen, eighteen, had a unique face and a large bust for her small frame.

‘What is your teacher’s name, Trudy?’

‘Mrs McPherson.’ A shy kid, she stood close to her mother.

More wine went down.

‘There were two teachers living at Amberley when I lived there,’ Jenny said. ‘A Mrs Collins and a Miss Robertson.’

‘They’re still there. They share the rear ground-floor unit.’

‘Give them my regards next time you see them – and Myrtle.’

Cara nodded. She wouldn’t be giving her regards to anyone, wouldn’t be telling anyone she’d been up here. She’d get on that bus tomorrow and never pass this way again.

‘The first day I saw Amberley, I didn’t believe it was a rooming house. Jimmy used to love Myrtie’s leadlight window. One of the first words he said was “pretty”.’