Paper Daisies (33 page)

Berylda

G
lances of the sentinel turrets guide me through the bush. I glance at my watch, only twenty-one minutes gone and I am almost there. My lungs are scorched with every breath, the muscles in my legs wail as the hill climbs more steeply now, and my left shin stings from the lashing of blackberry thorns that snagged up under my skirt, but I don't stop. Not until I see the tin sheds of the dairy at West Street do I stop. I place my basket on the ground for a moment, smooth and pin my hair, check to see there are no tears in my stockings, as if anyone might see them if there were; there are a few burrs caught in the edges of my skirt, though, and I pick them off. I am tidy. I tidy the tea towel that covers my basket too, tuck in the red and green stripes all around to make them straight, and then I walk up the lane by the dairy and into the grounds of the hospital.

Along the sweep of the drive, I close my eyes, afternoon sun blasting over my shoulders, steadying my breath and the pounding of my heart. When I open my eyes again, the arched colonnades that run top and bottom from sentinel to sentinel are gaping mouths condemning my every step. I walk past them. I turn their iron to marzipan. I turn into the passageway between the east wing and the central building, to take the rear staircase to Alec Howell's private consulting room.

‘May I help you?' A nurse stops me on the stairs. Her voice is low, reverent, and poised to deter me, a small wall of starched white pinafore. I am approaching a doctors-only quarter here, not that I have visited these halls very many times myself to know them with any great familiarity; only on a handful of occasions, at his command, have I been summoned here for tea with his colleagues, for him to boast of my academic results as so many reflections of himself. I barely know these steps I take, and I don't recognise this nurse at all.

I inform her: ‘I am Berylda Jones. I am Mr Howell's niece. I must see him immediately, on an urgent medical matter. There is an illness in the family.' And you will not block my path.

‘Oh?' she replies and looks up the deserted corridor behind her and back to me. ‘Mr Howell is not in his private room at present.' As if she might have eyes that see around corners and through walls. Admiring and protective of him, as his handmaidens invariably are, she adds: ‘He has many matters of importance to attend to.'

‘Where is he?' I demand. ‘On rounds?'

‘No. Er.' I have her as swiftly ruffled. ‘Mr Howell is still downstairs, in the operating theatre, I imagine. It's been a – hm. A difficult afternoon.'

I manage not to smile: how excellent. He will be ruffled then, and therefore more easily suggestible, more vulnerable to my manipulations. My game. This final game between us. I inform the nurse: ‘I will wait for him in his consulting room. Please make him aware that I am there.'

Her forehead twitches a little in dismay but she does not stop me.

A detail missed almost stops my heart, however: Neddy, our workhorse – Alec would almost certainly have ridden him here – he can't be left uncared for overnight; he's old, and I don't want him to be out in the paddock alone. I look back down at the nurse upon the stair and inform her further: ‘Oh, and should we leave together by cab, as I suppose we might, please see to it that Mr Howell's horse is stabled and brought out to Bellevue tomorrow – yes?'

She says, ‘Hm. Yes,' and continues on her way down the stairs, as I continue upwards.

I open the door to his room. I take the cake tin from my basket and set it on his desk, remove the cover: four pastries here in all, and I set one in the very centre of a plate, in the very centre of the desk, for him; and an empty plate near the cake tin for me, with napkins placed upon it, as if I have been interrupted at the arrangement. I take the bottle of poison next, from its snug wadding of tea towels in the bottom of the basket, unstop it gently, carefully, with my handkerchief around the rubber seal, and I inject whatever is in the dropper into the centre of the custard puff. It will be more than the three drops Ah Ling instructed; it will do what is required. I open the door to the balcony and tip the remainder of the bottle into the potted palm there; it's half dead anyway. Its withered fronds shiver in the warm breeze; it will be wholly dead soon, I suppose. I drop the bottle over the edge of the balcony rail, and it vanishes into the dense hedge below, just an empty, carelessly discarded phial amongst hundreds, thousands, should it ever be found at all. One shot. One shot I have, here inside a pastry on a picnic plate, a surprise afternoon tea treat for the one I am promised to. Let it find its mark.

Beyond the desk, the bookshelves stare down at me from the case against the wall opposite. The key to this case will be mine tomorrow. No one will deny me his books when I ask; who would deny a grieving medical student all this knowledge? This is almost too-sweet a revenge, that I should steal his books as I steal back my sister's life. As I wait for him, I smile amongst the titles, amongst the jumble of gold lettering along the spines, searching for the one that will tell me how to safely and efficiently induce an abortion. I will find it. A German text swims out at me immediately,
Medizinische Gynäkologie
, and another
The Obstetric Armamentarium
. I will find it quickly. Tomorrow. One step at a time. Today there is only one task that must be completed.

The gold spines blur and swirl around the pastries reflected in the glass. The blue hills roll and roll away beyond the balcony door. I unbutton my blouse to the top of the yoke, turn out the collar like the little slut I am, revealing just a hint of my camisole lace, and I am ready for him. I am ready to end him.

At this moment, so calm and so fixed upon this singular resolve, I frighten myself.

Ben

‘
M
r Wilberry, isn't it?'

Is it? I'm not sure I know that, either. But it's that German fellow from the dinner the other night, the chemist, asking me, here in this hallway, or wherever I am in this impenetrable warren of a place.

‘Gebhardt, we met at Mr Howell's abode, on New Year's Eve, you remember.' He is extending his hand.

‘Yes. Mr Gebhardt.' Of course you are, I shake his hand, looking over his shoulder for some sign to direct me to the District Medical Officer's secretary, of whom I've been told I might best enquire after Mr Howell's whereabouts.

‘Doctor, I am a doctor. I am a pharmacist, actually,' the German corrects me. ‘What brings you here this afternoon?'

‘Ah, I'm looking for …' And now I see him, Howell, making his way across the landing at the top of this staircase, right above us. ‘Um – Howell. I'm here to see Mr –' I point up the staircase.

The German is not letting go of the handshake; he is saying: ‘It was a wonderful evening, don't you think so? The fireworks were magnificent. Our Mr Howell puts on a jolly good show, ja!'

‘Ja – yes. But I really must –'

‘Oh? You are in a hurry to find him today? What is the reason? A happy reason, I hope.' The twit lets go of my hand but he does not stand aside to allow me to take the stairs. He is looking me over from head to toe, the way only a German can. I am filthy from the road and ill-attired, yes, and unquestionably mad: what I am going to do when I confront Howell, when I confront Berylda, I have not the slightest idea. I should not be here at all. The fathomless intricacies of Berylda's deceit – a deceit that I am beginning to suspect has in no small part brought me precisely here – should turn any sensible man away, but I can't turn away. I can't turn away from her suffering, whatever her suffering at his hands might be; nor her sister's. And I can't let her kill him, either.

Unaccustomed to deceit myself, though, I let the German have the first garbled load that comes out of my mouth: ‘I have made a discovery – a new plant. I really must – ah. Share the good news with – My apologies –'

I push past his next exclamation of, ‘Well, well – congratulations to you!' and belt up the stairs.

Into an empty hallway. But the door is easy enough to find, with
Mr A. M. Howell, District Surgeon
stencilled on it.

My knuckles meet the polished surface of the timber, but I hesitate before I knock.

I hear Berylda's laughter, those cascading stars of her laughter: ‘Oh, Alec, my darling Alec – can't a clever girl change her mind? Come to her senses? Of course I'll marry you.'

Berylda

‘
R
ight then.' He is so pleased, beyond all my hopes and expectations. So very pleased that I am here, perched upon his desk, giving him the smile he demanded I find for him. Giving him everything. He folds his arms, regarding me with triumph. His wolf grin glimmers. ‘This is a fine way to end a long day, I'll say. I should let you traipse around the countryside more often, I suppose.'

‘I suppose you should.' I nod, lowering my face to look up at him with some sort of coquettish admonishment and I gesture at the pastries: ‘I've called for tea.' I've done no such thing. ‘A little afternoon toast, to us.' I beckon him: ‘Come here, come to me. Let me practise, let me be wifely. Tell me, why has your day been so long?'

The wolf and his grin steps back to snib the lock on the door, and he begins loosening his tie, unbuttoning his collar, preparing to take whatever he wants; and still, I know no fear of him. Not now. ‘Yes,' he says. ‘It has been a long three days, without you, thinking about you and what our life will be. How I've been hoping you'd come around to the idea. Just as you are. Aren't you capital, girl. Just capital.'

‘But you've been so busy, Alec, I'm sure. You haven't been thinking only about me all that while.' I pout; I moisten my lips, a promise that I will surely let him kiss me now without resistance. Or maybe not. ‘How did your Federation speech go? I'll bet it was outstanding. How was the town hall ceremony?'

‘Ridiculous,' he groans and I laugh, playing with him: winning. ‘Anyone of note was in Sydney, of course. The rest, you know, intellectual midgets round here. Oh God, Berylda. Insufferable bunch, I can't begin to tell you. I need you by my side at these things … Together we will be the shining pair.' His face edges ever close to mine. ‘Confined to Bathurst for a time, perhaps four, five years. And then it's Sydney for us. Macquarie Street – consulting rooms there and a seat on the Legislative Council. Then who knows? The world is ours.'

‘Oh dear, what plans you have.' I turn my face from his abruptly, shocked at the breadth of his ambition. What will he crave next: the prime ministership? My eyes fall straight upon the pastries, though, steering me back on course as surely. ‘I think we should eat something first, before we embark on conquering the world, don't you?' I say: ‘Look what Mary made. Mm. I think they might even be your favourite?'

‘You little vixen.' He laughs, shaking his head once more at my change of heart, of mind. ‘I'll never know quite what you're up to, will I?'

‘Possibly not.' I smile for him again. ‘That's why you adore me, is it not?'

He laughs again. He is a handsome man, it's true, when he smiles naturally like this. Smiling at a custard puff, smiling at a witty to and fro. A mirage of the future he offers shimmers through my mind: the surgeon's wife, the parliamentarian's wife, the captain's wife, the mother of four or five, a doctor in her own right. What a picture. Who wouldn't want that picture? But that I don't exist inside it. It is not me he sees when he looks at me; it is something else altogether. A cipher, perhaps, for what he thinks a woman is. A little China girl to have, to hold, to break. I do not ever care to know how his mind has constructed me; or any of us.

‘Can't say I'm very hungry myself.' He rubs his temples now over a weary yawn. ‘Really, the past few days have been hellish here.'

‘Oh? Do tell me.' What is hell for you? And then let me stuff that cake into your mouth by all and any force I might muster. He is not leaving this room until he has eaten it.

‘Hm.' He grunts, bored to speak of his tribulations. ‘Mining accident yesterday, dead on the table, blast wound to the neck, couldn't stop the bleeding, hours at it – stop, start, miserable thing couldn't decide whether to stay or go. And today a boy under a timber dray out at Kelso, waste of a day altogether.'

As if the miner and the boy besmirch his reputation. The impudence of them.

‘Well, you can let it all go now,' I say. I pick up the plate and hand it to him: ‘Eat. Restore your strength. I want to watch you eat your pastry. And then …' I dare to play my highest card: ‘Then I want to begin our congress now. Here. I want you to take me for your own on this desk.'

‘Do you now?' He grunts again, with rather more vitality, and bites into the pastry. ‘Mm. That is good.'

‘Good.' My voice quavers under a flooding of disgust as he chews and swallows. That it is done, and I have done it. A sprinkling of tiny pastry flakes in his beard as he takes another bite, and a tremor in my hand as I take a cake for myself. The black curtain billows across my eyes. I move to the balcony door and stare through the shifting shrouds and shrouds of black. Stare until the world reappears. The hills. The white clouds that streak the sky. The coal cart coming up the drive. A nurse wheeling a patient into the sun. And a horse tethered in the shade of a tree: it looks like Rebel. Fear throttles at this close whispering of the familiar: this world is real. This act is real. What do I do now? Tonight. Tomorrow. I will be a murderess for all time, from this moment forward. How do I return to the world? Return to Gret this afternoon, return to my studies in a matter of weeks, return to Flo at Women's, as if nothing more remarkable has happened but a summer holiday? How do I become a murderess in the world? How do I clean vengeance from me? It is now tattooed.

‘You're not watching me eat.' Alec Howell pretends a complaint, but it is in fact a demand: ‘I'm finished. Now I want to watch you eat. On your knees.'

‘On my knees?' What does he want me to do? Pray to him?

‘Yes.' The wolf nods. ‘That's how we begin our congress.'

‘I'm sure I don't know what you mean.' And I don't, except that I know it will be a humiliation. I can hear it in his voice: that twist of sadism. A twist of power that confuses and erodes confidence, saps all defences and forces one into bondage; as he has done to my sister, so he shall do to me. Carry every second of her pain with me now, against fear, and against guilt.

‘I know you don't know what I mean,' he says. ‘But you will learn. You are a clever girl, my clever girl.'

He takes off his jacket and waistcoat; hangs them on the back of the door, brushing a piece of lint from a sleeve. And now he steps towards me again, shaking off his suspenders, undoing his fly buttons.

Whatever will be, will be, I steel myself for what comes next. I must hold my nerve. Take whatever it is that comes, and regardless know that I will never have to do again. I babble as he nears: ‘Wonder where our tea's got to. Hm?'

He ignores me; he says: ‘I will test your obedience to me now.'

‘Test me?' He must hear my fraud, surely. He must hear my heart begin to crash and crash. He grasps the front of my blouse in his fist and I think he will throw me to my knees. I scramble and scramble to regather the game. ‘But you have our whole life together to test me. Love me now. Please. Love me sweetly.'

That seems to stop him: he lets go of my blouse and looks at me curiously for a moment. He sighs, heavily, and moves away from me, looking down at the desk, and now he rests against its edge with both hands splayed, and he does look weary. He says: ‘You are quite right. I had intended to wait those few weeks longer, and so we must. Keep with the correct order of things.'

‘Must we?'

‘Yes.' He terrifies me even as he sighs again, squinting contemplatively as he informs the blue hills: ‘There is something I must tell you. Something that must be attended to before we commence our own relations. I had hoped to have it dealt with once you were back at the university, but now – well, your sister, I believe, may be pregnant, you might as well know. Don't be alarmed by this, however.' He raises a hand to quash any concern. ‘It will be taken care of, regardless of whether she has in fact conceived in this instance or not. I will perform the sterilisation myself. Removal of the uterus will be best for her, so that the problem is resolved completely.'

I can hardly hear my voice over my terror: ‘Sterilisation?'

‘Naturally.' He nods, as if we might be discussing the fate of a cow, and now he looks directly at me, into my eyes. ‘This can't be allowed to happen again.'

My mind races against my blood. ‘
Again?
But you will not need Greta any more. We will be married. You will not –'

‘Berylda.' He rubs his eyes at the absurdity of my suggestion. ‘Is this what your visit here today is about? Is
this
why you come to me with your professed change of heart? Your deviousness is so transparent, it always is. You want me to keep away from Greta? What do you expect me to do when you are at the university? Or when you are with child?'

‘I expect you to control yourself,' I say, but not to him. How long has he preyed upon my sister in this way? Weeks? Months? Years? How many times has he raped her? When did he begin? Only one thing I know: he will never stop.

He is as vicious and as calculating as he is insane, this animal whose every desire is his entitlement. He says: ‘You do not make demands upon me, girl.' Shaking his head at the ceiling lamp, a disbelieving chuckle. ‘You are as stubborn as Libby ever was. It's the yellow tramp in you, I suppose.'

It can only be the long habit of terror that restrains me from attacking him with the rage of all the yellow tramps he's violated. How many? How many of us have you destroyed? And Aunt Libby the best of them, the gentlest; she bent to whomever asked her to bend; stubborn she was not. She sacrificed her own happiness to look after our grandfather; she would have done anything for us, for those she loved; her smile so warm I feel it still. And I will be terrified no longer. I let my hatred cry out at him with my grief: ‘She worshipped you.'

‘But not enough.' He presses his lips into a dubious sneer, and he's pleased that he has me upset. He is so pleased that he wins his game again, and again, and again. ‘Will
you
worship me enough, Berylda?'

‘We'll have to see about that, won't we,' I reply. I am the blade today; not you. ‘I am yet to learn how much adoration a man might need, aren't I. Tell me, Alec, darling, what did Aunt Libby ever deny you?'

‘She denied my will,' he says, still smiling inside his sneer, measuring me inside his squint. Always measuring. ‘She denied my authority.'

‘What? How?' He must be lying; he is lying.

‘Libby was not the saintly angel you imagine, Berylda,' he says, dispassionate, regretful. ‘She sought to cheat and manipulate me, too. She was ungrateful, conniving.'

‘
How?
' I demand.

‘There is much you don't know, isn't there? You really are little more than a child.' He is all revolted condescension. ‘You don't know what your aunt did after I took you and your sister into my home, do you? You don't know how she repaid my kindness. Well, let me tell you. She took it upon herself to consult with a solicitor, to ask that your parents' estate be held in trust until your majority. That is what she did.'

I blink at this; uncomprehending. ‘And how is that unreasonable?'

‘Let me count the ways,' he says, counting them out on his fingers: ‘She did not ask my permission. She spoke of my business to another man. She sought to deny me the estate that the law makes rightfully mine.' He holds three fingers in front of my face, shaking them at me, threatening to strike me.

I tell them: ‘My parents' estate is rightfully Greta's and mine – it is not yours.'

‘Ah, now doesn't that sound familiar.' He scoffs: ‘That's just what Libby said to me. And she would not relent. As if you were not going to be looked after adequately by me. She was so ungrateful.'

‘And so …?' My blood is dead cold as I delve now, all my senses dulling as I move closer and closer to the truth. ‘What did you do to Libby?'

The sneer falls away and he is cruelty pure and plain. Remorseless. ‘Never push me too far, Berylda,' he warns. ‘Libby pushed me too far. Be a good girl and you will be looked after. Well looked after. If you are not a good girl, then …' He grabs at my left breast through my camisole; he pinches and twists my nipple.

I stand rigid inside this screeching stab of pain. ‘Tell me some more,' I say. ‘What poison did you use to kill my aunt?'

‘Poison?' His reptile eyes don't move from mine, but his hand is cast from me as if he touches the lightning I have become. He licks his lips; I have him unnerved. I am so close, this may as well be his confession. He takes a step back, rubs his sternum with his fist, masking the action as consideration of his next words, but I hope with all the ragged hope left to me that some acid burns there, snaking its way through his body. He says: ‘Typhoid was Libby's punishment, you know that. She was punished by God.'

‘And so shall you be,' I tell him, I promise him, as I move past him, as I unsnib the lock and leave.