Mansfield with Monsters (18 page)

The Kelvey girls saw the shining malice in Lena's eyes, her savage gaze warning them to flee. They scampered away like terrified wild rabbits.

The sight of their escape sent the other girls into fits of laughter. They laughed as a single body, deeply, deeply excited, wild with joy. Someone found a long rope, and they began skipping. And never did they skip so high, run in and out so fast, or do such daring things as on that morning.

There were only a few town elders left alive. The lamp had almost finished its work.

In the afternoon Pat called for the Burnell children with the buggy and they drove home. Their parents had been missing for days, and now there were visitors. Isabel and Lottie, who liked visitors, went upstairs to change their pinafores. But Kezia thieved out at the back. Nobody was about; she began to swing on the big white gates of the courtyard. Presently, looking along the road, she saw two little dots. They grew bigger, they were coming towards her. Now she could see that one was in front and one close behind. Now she could see that they were the Kelveys. Behind them, coming closer, was another swarm of dots. The other girls of the town, some brandishing sticks, were stalking the Kelveys. Kezia stopped swinging. She slipped off the gate as if she was going to run away. Then she hesitated. The Kelveys came nearer, and beside them walked their shadows, very long, stretching right across the road with their heads in the buttercups. Kezia clambered back on the gate; she was close to the lamp, it whispered to her. She swung out.

“Hullo,” she said to the passing Kelveys.

They were so astounded that they stopped. Lil gave her silly smile. Our Else stared. The other girls marched closer.

“You can come and see our doll's house if you want to,” said Kezia, and she dragged one toe on the ground. But at that Lil turned red and shook her head quickly.

“Why not?” asked Kezia. “They'll leave you alone if you see the lamp. It wants us to see it.”

Lil gasped, then she said, “Your ma told our ma you wasn't to speak to us. And our ma said the doll's house was not for us.”

At this the lamp flickered in Kezia's mind. Maybe it didn't want the Kelveys to see it? “Oh, well,” said Kezia. She didn't know what to reply. If they waited any longer then Lena and Emmie and Jessie May and the others would tear the Kelveys into tatters and leave their bloodied corpses in the ditch at the side of the road. It was what everyone in town would come to, sooner or later. Everyone who hadn't seen the lamp. “It doesn't matter. You can come and see our doll's house all the same. Come on. Quickly.”

But Lil shook her head still harder.

“Don't you want to see the lamp?” asked Kezia.

Suddenly there was a twitch, a tug at Lil's skirt. She turned round. Our Else was looking at her with big, imploring eyes; she was frowning; she wanted to go. She looked back at the throng of girls who had almost reached them. For a moment Lil looked at our Else very doubtfully. But then our Else twitched her skirt again. She started forward. Kezia led the way. Like two little stray cats they followed across the courtyard to where the doll's house stood.

“There it is,” said Kezia.

There was a pause. Lil breathed loudly, almost snorted; our Else was still as a stone.

“I'll open it for you,” said Kezia kindly. She undid the hook and they looked inside.

“There's the drawing-room and the dining-room, and that's the—”

“Kezia!”

Oh, what a start they gave!

“Kezia!”

It was Aunt Beryl's voice. They turned round. At the back door stood Aunt Beryl, staring as if she couldn't believe what she saw.

“How dare you ask the little Kelveys into the courtyard?” said her cold, furious voice. “You know as well as I do, you're not allowed to talk to them. Run away, children, run away at once. And don't come back again,” said Aunt Beryl. And she stepped into the yard and shooed them out as if they were chickens.

“Off you go immediately!” she called, cold and proud.

They did not need telling twice. Burning with shame, shrinking together, Lil huddling along like her mother, our Else dazed, somehow they crossed the big courtyard and reached the white gate. But at the gate they ran into Lena and the others.

“Wicked, disobedient little girl!” said Aunt Beryl bitterly to Kezia, and she slammed the doll's house closed, hiding the little lamp from view.

“You can't deny the lamp,” Kezia said.

“Lamp? What are you talking about?” Aunt Beryl's sour words were like whip lashes on Kezia's back. The lamp flared up inside her. At the gate, it flared up in all the girls.

“We have seen the lamp,” Kezia said softly, turning to face her aunt. The other girls swarmed into the courtyard, surrounded Aunt Beryl.

“We have seen the lamp,” they said in unison, beginning to circle around Aunt Beryl.

“You shouldn't have closed the doll's house, Aunt. You shouldn't have stopped them looking at the lamp.”

Aunt Beryl's screams were cut short by dozens of little hands smothering her. Her eyes and tongue were torn out before she died, and her blood splattered the roof of the doll's house. It didn't matter. The lamp was sheltered safe inside. Inside the house and inside all their little hearts.

 

 

When the Kelveys were well out of sight of the Burnells', they sat down to rest on a big red drain-pipe by the side of the road. Lil's cheeks were still burning, her hands were bloody though she couldn't remember why; she took off the hat with the quill and held it on her knee. Dreamily they looked over the hay paddocks, past the creek, to the group of wattles where Logan's cows stood waiting to be milked. What were their thoughts?

Presently our Else nudged up close to her sister. But now she had forgotten the cross lady. She put out a finger and stroked her sister's skirt; she smiled her rare smile, her eyes shining with happiness.

Their mother came along the road, a bundle of cast-off curtains under one arm. She saw her daughters and stopped, an icy emptiness flowing into her core, extinguishing the warm glow of revenge that had been growing there over the past weeks.

“Else, Lil, what has happened?” she asked, though she feared she already knew the answer.

“I seen the little lamp,” our Else said, softly, twisting a finger in a bloodied strand of hair.

They looked up at their mother, and smiled.

The Voyage

The picton boat was due to leave at half-past eleven. It was a beautiful night, mild, starry, only when they got out of the cab and started to walk down the Old Wharf that jutted out into the harbour, a faint wind blowing off the water ruffled under Fenella's hat, and she put up her hand to keep it on. It was dark on the Old Wharf, very dark; the wool sheds, the cattle trucks, the cranes standing up so high, the canon and harpoon stations bristling at the water's edge, the little squat railway engine, all seemed carved out of solid darkness. Here and there on a rounded wood-pile, that was like the stalk of a huge black mushroom, there hung a lantern, but it seemed afraid to unfurl its timid, quivering light in all that blackness; it burned softly, as if for itself.

Fenella's father pushed on with quick, nervous strides. Beside him her grandma bustled along in her crackling black ulster; they went so fast that she had now and again to give an undignified little skip to keep up with them. As well as her luggage strapped into a neat sausage, Fenella carried clasped to her her grandma's umbrella, and the handle, which was a swan's head, kept giving her shoulder a sharp little peck as if it too wanted her to hurry… Men, their caps pulled down, their collars turned up, swords or axes or great hooks on poles slung over their shoulders, swung by; a few women all muffled scurried along; and one tiny boy, only his little black arms and legs showing out of a white woolly shawl, was jerked along angrily between his father and mother; he looked like a baby fly that had fallen into the cream.

Then suddenly, so suddenly that Fenella and her grandma both leapt, there sounded from behind the largest wool shed, that had a trail of smoke hanging over it, “Mia-oo-oo-O-O!”

“Not a sighting. Just the first whistle,” said her father briefly, and at that moment they came around a corner and saw the Picton boat. Lying beside the dark wharf, all strung, all beaded with round golden lights, the Picton boat looked as if she was more ready to sail among stars than out into the cold sea. The reinforced hull glittered darkly, its surface a forest of tiny edges and blades. People pressed along the gangway. First went her grandma, then her father, then Fenella. There was a high step down on to the deck, and an old sailor in a jersey standing by gave her his dry, hard hand. They were there; they stepped out of the way of the hurrying people, and standing under a little iron stairway that led to the upper deck they began to say good-bye.

“There, Mother, there's your luggage!” said Fenella's father, giving Grandma another strapped-up sausage.

“Thank you, Frank.”

“And you've got your cabin tickets safe?”

“Yes, dear.”

“And your Kraken-bane?”

Grandma slipped her hand up her sleeve and slid the slender spike down enough to show him the glass-covered tip.

“That's right.”

He sounded stern, but Fenella, eagerly watching him, saw that he looked tired and sad. “Mia-oo-oo-O-O!” The second whistle blared just above their heads, and a voice like a cry shouted, “Any more for the gangway?”

“You'll give my love to Father,” Fenella saw her father's lips say. And her grandma, very agitated, answered, “Of course I will, dear. Go now. You'll be left. Go now, Frank. We'll be fine.”

“It's all right, Mother. I've got another three minutes.” To her surprise Fenella saw her father take off his hat. He clasped Grandma in his arms and pressed her to him. “God bless you, Mother!” she heard him say.

And Grandma put her hand, with the black thread glove that was worn through on her ring-finger, against his cheek, and she sobbed, “God bless you, my own brave son!”

This was so awful that Fenella quickly turned her back on them, swallowed once, twice, and frowned terribly at a little green star on a mast head. But she had to turn round again; her father was going.

“Good-bye, Fenella. Be a good girl.” His cold, wet moustache brushed her cheek. But Fenella caught hold of the lapels of his coat.

“How long am I going to stay?” she whispered anxiously. He wouldn't look at her. He shook her off gently, and gently said, “We'll see about that. Here! Where's your hand?” He pressed something into her palm. “Here's a shilling in case you should need it.”

A shilling! She must be going away for ever! “Father!” cried Fenella. But he was gone. He was the last off the ship. The sailors put their shoulders to the gangway. A huge coil of dark rope went flying through the air and fell ‘thump' on the wharf. A bell rang; a whistle shrilled. Silently the dark wharf began to slip, to slide, to edge away from them. Now there was a rush of water between. Fenella strained to see with all her might. “Was that father turning round?”—or waving?—or standing alone?—or walking off toward the great hunting ship? The strip of water grew broader, darker. Now the Picton boat began to swing round steady, its huge main guns pointing out to sea. It was no good looking any longer. There was nothing to be seen but a few lights, the face of the town clock hanging in the air, and more lights, little patches of them, on the dark hills.

The freshening wind tugged at Fenella's skirts; she went back to her grandma. To her relief Grandma seemed no longer sad. She had put the two sausages of luggage one on top of the other, and she was sitting on them, her hands folded, her head a little on one side. There was an intent, bright look on her face. Then Fenella saw that her lips were moving and guessed that she was praying. But the old woman gave her a bright nod as if to say the prayer was nearly over. She unclasped her hands, sighed, clasped them again, bent forward, and at last gave herself a soft shake.

“And now, child,” she said, fingering the bow of her bonnet-strings, “I think we ought to see about our cabins. Keep close to me, and mind you don't slip.”

“Yes, Grandma!”

“And be careful the umbrellas aren't caught in the stair rail. I saw a beautiful umbrella broken in half like that on my way over.”

“Yes, Grandma.”

Dark figures of men lounged against the rails, eyeing the water. In the glow of their pipes a nose shone out, or the point of a spear, or a pair of surprised-looking eyebrows. Fenella glanced up. High in the air, a little figure, his hands thrust in his short jacket pockets, stood staring out to sea. The ship rocked ever so little, and she thought the stars rocked too. And now a pale steward in a linen coat, holding a tray high in the palm of his hand, stepped out of a lighted doorway and skimmed past them. They went through that doorway. Carefully over the high brass-bound step on to the rubber mat and then down such a terribly steep flight of stairs that Grandma had to put both feet on each step, and Fenella clutched the clammy brass rail and forgot all about the swan-necked umbrella.

At the bottom Grandma stopped; Fenella was rather afraid she was going to pray again. But no, it was only to get out the cabin tickets. They were in the saloon. It was glaring bright and stifling; the air smelt of paint and burnt chop-bones and indiarubber. Fenella wished her grandma would go on, but the old woman was not to be hurried. An immense basket of ham sandwiches caught her eye. She went up to them and touched the top one delicately with her finger.

“How much are the sandwiches?” she asked.

“Tuppence!” bawled a rude steward, slamming down a barbed hunting knife and fork.

Grandma could hardly believe it.

“Twopence each?” she asked.

“That's right, could be your last meal,” said the steward, and he winked at his companion.

Grandma made a small, astonished face. Then she whispered primly to Fenella. “What wickedness!” And they sailed out at the further door and along a passage that had cabins on either side. Such a very nice stewardess came to meet them. She was dressed all in blue, and her collar and cuffs were fastened with large brass buttons. The butt of a dull, grey pistol bumped at her hip. She seemed to know Grandma well.

“Well, Mrs Crane,” said she, unlocking their washstand. “We've got you back again. It's not often you give yourself a cabin.”

“No,” said Grandma. “But this time my dear son's thoughtfulness—”

“I hope—” began the stewardess. Then she turned round and took a long, mournful look at Grandma's blackness and at Fenella's black coat and skirt, black blouse, and hat with a crape rose.

Grandma nodded. “It was God's will,” said she.

The stewardess shut her lips and, taking a deep breath, she seemed to expand.

“What I always say is,” she said, as though it was her own discovery, “sooner or later each of us has to go, and that's a certingty. By sea or shore, the Kraken's reach is long.” She paused. “Now, can I bring you anything, Mrs Crane? A cup of tea? I know it's no good offering you a little something to keep the cold out.”

Grandma shook her head. “Nothing, thank you. We've got a few wine biscuits, and Fenella has a very nice banana.”

“Then I'll give you a look later on,” said the stewardess, and she went out, shutting the door.

What a very small cabin it was! It was like being shut up in a box with Grandma. The dark round eye, lidded with bars above the washstand, gleamed at them dully. Fenella felt shy. She stood against the door, still clasping her luggage and the umbrella. Were they going to get undressed in here? Already her grandma had taken off her bonnet, and, rolling up the strings, she fixed each with a pin to the lining before she hung the bonnet up. Her white hair shone like silk; the little bun at the back was covered with a black net. Fenella hardly ever saw her grandma with her head uncovered; she looked strange.

“I shall put on the woollen fascinator your dear mother crocheted for me,” said Grandma, and, unstrapping the sausage, she took it out and wound it round her head; the fringe of grey bobbles danced at her eyebrows as she smiled tenderly and mournfully at Fenella. Then she undid her bodice, and something under that, and something else underneath that. Then there seemed a short, sharp tussle, and Grandma flushed faintly. Snip! Snap! She had undone her stays. She breathed a sigh of relief, and sitting on the plush couch, she slowly and carefully pulled off her elastic-sided boots and stood them side by side.

By the time Fenella had taken off her coat and skirt and put on her flannel dressing-gown Grandma was quite ready.

“Must I take off my boots, Grandma? They're lace.”

Grandma gave them a moment's deep consideration. “You'd feel a great deal more comfortable if you did, child,” said she. She kissed Fenella. “Don't forget to say your prayers. Our dear Lord is with us when we are at sea even more than when we are on dry land. And because I am an experienced traveller,” said grandma briskly, “I shall take the upper berth.”

“But, Grandma, however will you get up there?”

Three little spider-like steps were all Fenella saw. The old woman gave a small silent laugh before she mounted them nimbly, and she peered over the high bunk at the astonished Fenella.

“You didn't think your grandma could do that, did you?” said she. And as she sank back Fenella heard her light laugh again.

The hard square of brown soap would not lather, and the water in the bottle was like a kind of blue jelly. How hard it was, too, to turn down those stiff sheets; you simply had to tear your way in. If everything had been different, Fenella might have got the giggles… At last she was inside, and while she lay there panting, there sounded from above a long, soft whispering, as though someone was gently, gently rustling among tissue paper to find something. It was Grandma saying her prayers…

A long time passed. Then the stewardess came in; she trod softly and leant her hand on Grandma's bunk.

“We're just entering the Straits,” she said.

“Oh!”

“It's a fine night, but we're rather empty. We may pitch a little. No sign yet of the Deep One.”

And indeed at that moment the Picton boat rose and rose and hung in the air just long enough to give a shiver before she swung down again, and there was the sound of heavy water slapping against her sides. Fenella remembered she had left the swan-necked umbrella standing up on the little couch. If it fell over, would it break? But Grandma remembered too, at the same time.

“I wonder if you'd mind, stewardess, laying down my umbrella,” she whispered.

“Not at all, Mrs Crane.” And the stewardess, coming back to Grandma, breathed, “Your little granddaughter's in such a beautiful sleep.”

“God be praised for that!” said Grandma.

“Poor little motherless mite!” said the stewardess. And Grandma was still telling the stewardess all about the Kraken's attack on the pier at New Brighton when Fenella fell asleep.

But she hadn't been asleep long enough to dream before she woke up again to see something waving in the air above her head. What was it? What could it be? It was a small grey foot. Now another joined it. They seemed to be feeling about for something; there came a tight sigh.

“I'm awake, Grandma,” said Fenella.

“Oh, dear, am I near the ladder?” asked Grandma. “I thought it was this end.”

“No, Grandma, it's the other. I'll put your foot on it. Are we there?” asked Fenella.

“Not yet, dear. Not yet,” said Grandma. “We must get up, child. It has been seen.”

Fenella felt a little shiver run up her arm as she helped her grandmother's foot to the step. With a sudden jolt the ship rocked, first pitching one way and then the other, hanging impossibly at the top of its arc. Grandma slid forward, one hand gripping the edge of the top bunk. Fenella tumbled from her bed and found herself pressed against the door, looking up at her grandma's dangling form.

Somewhere above them the ship's guns roared.

“Oh, dear, hold on tight!” yelled Grandma.

Fenella thought it funny that the ship was pitched so far over but not righting itself. She found herself imagining all the men on the deck, their thick coats and heavy blades. Would their cigarettes and pipes all be falling into the dark waters? Would they?