Pearl in a Cage (51 page)

‘This was my room until she took yours.'

‘The hour is late. No arguing.'

‘Can I please change that dress, Daddy?'

He sighed, stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. His hand knew were to find the light cord. The room flooded with white light, blinding her for an instant. Then she remembered the vase and what it contained and she moved to pick it up, and with two hands hold it to her breast.

He reached to claim it, to place it back where it belonged. She shook her head and he frowned, confused by her attachment to it.

‘Does a beautiful rose require a colourful vase, or does it show a truer beauty when placed alone in clear glass?'

She knew what he meant. ‘You wouldn't poke it into a rusty old jam tin, though.'

His hand reached to brush back her bed-tumbled hair. ‘You will look well enough in your rusty jam tin. Now please depart. I require my bed.'

‘I'm not wearing it, Daddy. Never. I promise you.'

‘You have the world at your feet, Jennifer. What more do you require?'

‘The blue dress I asked Miss Blunt to put away.'

‘Go to your bed.'

‘It's Sissy's bed, and she hates me.'

She moved towards the door, the vase still cradled in her arms. ‘Why do they hate me, Daddy?'

He sighed, waved her to be gone.

‘You know they do.'

‘You are a colourful singing bird, Jenny-wren, hatched into a nest of grey sparrows; a classical picture framed in gold and hung in a gallery of fools, and I the greatest fool of all. What is your attraction to that vase?'

‘I have to empty it.'

‘Empty . . .' he began, then waved his hand again for her to go.

But he followed her out to the rear verandah where he sat on the old cane chair and lit a final cigarette. She emptied the vase
on the garden, rinsed it at the garden tap and returned to stand before him.

‘May I please sleep on the couch tonight?'

‘If man could foresee his future, little Jenny-wren, he may well choose to die in the womb. Use my room,' he said.

 

He was feeling his way to the couch when he saw Amber's open door. It was rarely left open at night—or not while she was sleeping. She walked on moonlit nights. No moon tonight. He peered into the dark of her bedroom, renewing his acquaintance with his beloved wide bed. And perhaps she was in it, her door left open tonight to gain a breath of air. On stockinged feet, he stepped closer to listen, and he heard her breathing. He backed away. But she was deeply, heavily asleep. For minutes he stood looking at the slight shape of her, barely enough to lift that sheet. So little woman, he thought. So much bed.

During his manhandling of her on the night of the argument, her lack of weight had surprised him. Her heavy sleep did not surprise him. She swallowed pills each night, pills he now procured for her, paid for and controlled, supplying her each day with three, placed each morning in a medicine glass on the top shelf in the bathroom.

He had promised himself nil involvement with her when she'd returned. Involvement had been forced on him when he'd caught her feeding her pills to Cecelia. That girl had problems enough—and a wide bed. He stood recalling a dawn of years ago when he'd come upon mother and daughter in that bed. He recalled the taking of Amber on this bedroom floor, between the bed and dressing table. She had fought that day to return to her daughter's bed. Perhaps she may learn to like it again.

She offered only a drugged murmur of protest as he lifted her, flung an arm at her disturber as he carried her into Sissy's room. No sheet covering the large hump of his daughter spread across that bed. Perhaps she thought Jennifer had come. She moaned, but made enough space. His burden down, he dusted his hands and walked to his reclaimed bed where he bounced
a little, enjoying the firmness of the springs. He removed his winnings from his pocket. They played for small silver coins. He'd won a handful. And had drunk three glasses of ale—or was it four. Had followed them with a small brandy, then a second. He smiled, stripped off his shirt and flung it merrily over his shoulder, blessing the ale and the brandy and the child who had wanted her room. If not for child, ale and brandy, he would not have found the courage to reclaim his wide bed.

But he had. And he was in it, and could feel the heat of where she'd lain. How many years since he'd slept in this bed? How many years since she'd shared this bed with him?

Fingers counting on his pillow, but too weary tonight for mental arithmetic, he closed his eyes and slept, slept very well.

Vern's car would carry six in comfort. Jim was picking the Morrisons up at six o'clock. Contestants in the talent quest had been told to present themselves at the Willama theatre by six forty-five, that the concert would begin at seven sharp. Sissy's item was listed at number nine, so they couldn't afford to get there late. Jenny was on at number twenty-two. Margaret, who was having second thoughts, was number thirty.

Sissy slept badly the night before the quest. Her hair in rags didn't encourage a good night's sleep, and she couldn't blame her bedmate for keeping her awake either. Once her mother's head was down, she didn't move. Her deep sleep annoyed Sissy, or the pills she took to get that sleep, pills denied to Sissy, annoyed her. She'd pleaded for one last night, Norman had ignored her plea. She'd been pleading with her mother to go with her to Willama, just in case she stumbled on the third verse. She knew the first and second, knew the last, but that third verse always sent her mind blank.

Norman and Jenny, pleased with the new sleeping arrangements, had slept soundly. Amber hadn't complained; she'd won the war of the dress. At breakfast on the morning after the epic battle, Norman had asked Jenny to hang up the frock and she'd hung it in Sissy's wardrobe, which didn't count as hanging it up now that Norman's wardrobe was once again her own. Winning that bedroom back was a huge victory.

She'd be wearing her pink dress to the quest, which Maisy had repaired. She'd taken the side seams in, which had got rid
of a part of the rip and a portion of the sweat-faded circles, then she'd reinforced both armpits with the material cut from the sleeves. It was a nice pink, and with her stockings and Dora's sandals it looked good enough. She didn't take it home, had no intention of taking it home.

Sissy was in a foul mood. She'd gone beyond demanding Amber go with her to Willama to sulking and throwing things because she wouldn't. Around midday, Amber capitulated and went in search of her beige suit, unworn in years. She sponged it, hung it on the line to air, polished her best shoes. She was ironing when Jenny came home at three to bathe and wash her hair. Sissy's green frock had miles of fabric in the skirt, fabric, Amber was attempting to explain to her, that would not travel well.

‘Wear your floral. It doesn't crush, and if it is a little creased, it won't be so obvious.'

‘I told you, I'm wearing the green,' Sissy said.

They were still arguing when Jenny emerged half an hour later, her hair dripping. The iron had been put away. Cecelia was now seated between sink and table, Amber working around her, untying strips of sheeting, freeing thirty corkscrew curls and not doing it gently. Jenny stood in the doorway combing her hair and watching them, listening to a pair of cats snarling.

‘Stop pulling it!'

‘The rag is knotted. Sit still.'

‘Cut it then.'

‘If you sit still, I'll get it undone.'

‘Get her the scissors,' Sissy said.

Jenny got them; didn't offer them but placed them on the table. No ‘thank you', not from Sissy nor Amber, but they were used, the knot cut, the rag removed and the process continued. One after the other those curls were released. Amber would brush them later, let them fall just a little, then fiddle them into whatever style Sissy demanded.

How many times have I watched this? Once, twice a week since I was ten, Jenny thought. Maybe a hundred times a year for four years. How many times have I stood watching her powder Sissy's freckles, shape her eyebrows, paint her mouth, dress her,
pin on her hat? She's like a kid dressing her doll, Jenny thought, but maybe she's growing out of dolls, or maybe it's just today. Her hands were shaking.

She had small hands. Granny's hands were as big as a man's and looked as hard-working as a man's. Jenny looked at her own hand. Maisy had always said that she resembled Amber. Her hand didn't. Jenny's hand was larger; her fingertips were square, as were her fingernails.

Sissy's fingers came to a point. Jenny had big hands, like Granny's, but her fingernails were small, like Norman's. She had Granny's hair. Studying people up close was as interesting as studying fleas under the microscope.

She bit at a ragged fingernail. Biting it only made it more ragged. They weren't using the scissors. She reached for them, snipped and watched a nail fly.

‘Pick that up,' Amber snapped.

‘Where did it land?'

‘Probably in my hair,' Sissy said, shaking her head as Amber untied another rag.

‘Sit still!'

‘You're pulling it on purpose,' Sissy said.

‘Get your hair permed and it will stay curly,' Jenny said.

‘And end up like Mrs Bull with a head of wire,' Sissy said.

‘Will you hold your head still, Cecelia!'

‘I'm holding it still.'

‘If my hair was straight I wouldn't want it curled,' Jenny said.

‘You say that because it's not straight!'

Jenny snipped another fingernail, watching where it fell, wondering if it had landed beside its mate. Somewhere near the hearth. She walked around the table to find it, reached down to retrieve it, and Amber grabbed a handful of her hair.

‘You told me to pick it up!'

‘You bitch of a girl. I don't need your agitation today!'

‘I don't need you pulling my hair either. Let me go.'

She tried to pull her hair free. It was wet, it might have slipped free had Amber not wound a hank around her hand.
If Amber hadn't whacked her across the head, Jenny might not have done it, but the scissors were still in her hand and it seemed that she had three choices: drop them, stab Amber's hand with them—or use them to free herself.

They were sharp. Close to her ear, they made a grinding noise—and Amber was left holding a hank of hair, more hair than Jenny had thought. She stood staring at it. Amber stared at it. Sissy's eyes almost looked big.

You can't take back the bite of scissors—like the sleeves she'd cut from that pink frock. You might like to take it back, but you can't.

She tossed the scissors down and ran. Halfway across to the station, she found the bunch of blunt ends behind her left ear. She wheeled around, looked at the house, wanting to run back. Couldn't go back and get that hair. Couldn't even hide there. Looked at the station, pulled her remaining hair forward. She'd have enough to cover the gap when it dried. Could never tie it back again though.

‘Hell,' she swore. ‘Hell and double hell and damn too,' and she ran down the fence and across the railway lines, hoping Norman wouldn't see her. In beneath the peppercorn tree to feel the damage. Should have run to Maisy—except the twins would kill themselves laughing if they were at home. Couldn't go to the Palmers'. They were too sensible to ever do anything without thinking about it for two weeks. Over the road, running then, running down past the hotel. There was only one place she could go. Past old Noah, busy raking the dirt beneath the hotel verandah. They'd pay him with a meal, or maybe a drink. She didn't speak to him, just kept running.

Norman would hate her. She'd never had her hair cut in her life. And she couldn't go to the talent quest. And she couldn't win the twenty pounds and buy that blue dress for herself. She'd done a stupid thing. She'd done the most stupid thing she'd ever done in her life.

Down past Hooper's corner, past Macdonald's mill, then out along the bush road to Granny. She'd have to hide down there until her hair grew back, that's all.

Hide down there until her hair grew back. Cover up. Cover it up.

Her feet slowed. She glanced at the trees hugging each side of the road. There was something about haircuts and staying at Granny's, something long, long ago. She'd . . . she'd cut her hair before. Once before.

Before what?

Before Amber went away.

Amber in her big white dress. Amber the monster. Mr Foster's clunking boot.

‘Charlie's jar of humbugs . . .'

Forgot the trees. Forgot their trunks were hiding murderers, their prison bars were locking her into the road, forgot everything except . . . hiding . . . hiding at Granny's at the end of the road.

 

Gertrude saw her coming. She walked up the track to meet her, and Jenny was over the gate, howling now that she was safe, now that Gertrude's big safe hard-working hands were holding her, patting her shoulder, smoothing back that tangle of drying curls—and finding those blunt ends and not believing the evidence of her eyes.

‘Did she do that to you?'

Jenny's hand reached to cover what Gertrude had exposed. ‘I did it.'

‘Whatever would possess you to go and do a thing like that?'

‘I didn't know I was cutting so much.'

‘You're singing tonight.'

‘I can't now,' she howled.

Gertrude led her inside. She poured her a mug of water, offered a damp cloth to cool her face, while Jenny sobbed out the whole sorry tale of Amber not wanting to go tonight and Sissy snarly because she wouldn't go. She bawled harder when she reached the chapter on Sissy's green dress that was made of spider's web.

‘And she bought me a brown prison dress, which no one would make the worst murderer in the world wear—even if she
was being hanged. And he let her do it, Granny. And I told him Miss Blunt let me try on the blue dress. I told him she'd hung it in the back room for me, and he let her get away with buying me a brown thing that . . . that Mrs Duffy wouldn't wear to a funeral.'