The Burial (7 page)

Where is it?
said my mother
. I'll wear it anyway
.

Enough of that
, said the old woman.
We'll deck you out with new kit, no problems there. But first things first. Hungry is surely what you are. We'll give you a feed and get some flesh back on those bones of yours.

My mother was hungry. She did not know what to make of the old woman but her hunger was sure.

What is there to eat around here?

The old woman patted her on the shoulder and moved towards the stove. She lifted the lid on a pot which gave way to the thick smell of gravied meat. It made my mother's mouth water and she felt faint. She held on to a chair.

The old woman buzzed around the kitchen, setting the table, and then she said,
Sit down, dear
.
That's what guests are supposed to do.

Is that what I am?
said my mother, and she sat down. She didn't have the energy to pursue the question
What am I doing here?

The old woman poked at the coals within the stove and then tasted the contents of the pot with her finger.
Ooh yes
, she said
. That friend of yours does taste good.

My mother reared up from the table and knocked back her chair.
You fucking killed Houdini?
she spluttered.

The old woman spun around. She was holding a spoon out in front of her.
I'll not have your foul language here. I've heard enough of your mouth in your fever. And what are you talking about now? Who's Houdini?

My horse!
said my mother.
Have you butchered my horse for your dinner?

Oh, child,
said the old woman, turning back to the pot
. It's the lamb I'm talking about, that lamb in the back of the cart—the one you were clinging on to like it was your own beloved.

My mother sat down again, feeling nauseous at the thought.

And I don't know if it's no Houdini, but we found a horse loitering by you on the bank of the river.

Where is he?

He's in the stable. So everything is as it should be, dear. Every single thing on earth is in its place.

The old woman ladled out the contents of the pot.

You'll take me to him?

Only after you eat
, said the old woman. She set a bowl in front of my mother. The stew was dark and glossy with fat and hunks of lamb.

How long have I been here?
asked my mother.

You spent a good couple of days in a fever cussing at the ceiling and a couple more just sleeping it off. I don't know, dear—almost a week.

What did I say in my fever?

Oh, a whole lot of gibberish and nonsense. You copped the old man a spit in the eye and a punch in the chops, though, so who knows if you were actually sleeping?
The old woman laughed again.

I'm sorry for that
, said my mother and she began to eat heartily.

No mind
, said the old woman.
We all have our ways.

My mother put her head down and ate so close to the bowl she nearly scalded her chin. The stew was salty and good and she did not lift her eyes until the bowl was empty. The old woman did not eat but sat opposite her, watching her intently.

My mother only noticed her staring when she had finished eating.
Not hungry?
she asked.

The old woman reached across the table and covered my mother's hand with her own.
Only for your company, dear
, she said. She lifted her eyes skyward.
You see, God has finally answered my prayers.

My mother snatched back her hand.
What is this?
she said, raising up her wrist with the bracelet.

It's a gift
, said the old woman
.

I don't want it.

Why?

It hurts my hand.

The old woman snapped the bracelet open and pulled it off my mother's wrist.

I thought you would appreciate it.

I've got no interest in such things.

You know how to hurt an old woman's feelings.

The old woman's presence began to oppress my mother.

I'm not feeling well
, she said.
Can you take me to Houdini? And then I should go back to bed.

You can rest all you need to, dear
, said the old woman.
And your horse is right there. But first you must bathe.

Soap and water irritate me
, said my mother and she was not lying. It was one of her defences against Fitz, to bathe not very often or not at all.

They may well, dear. But this is my house and there are certain rules and you must wash that fever from you or else catch it from yourself again and your insides turn septic.

Alright, I will bathe
, said my mother,
but first I need to see my horse.

The old woman tut-tutted but she cleared Jessie's plate then led her outside.

Houdini was in a stable that had been cobbled together out of found things but it had a roof and a dirt floor and there was hay scattered within it. There was feed and fresh water. Jessie did not understand the motives of the old man or the old woman but she was glad that at least they knew how to take care of creatures.

And there he was, Houdini, seventeen hands high, her dappled grey stallion, bowing his head over the stable gate when she walked in. At the sight of him, she felt her heart tear. Houdini, more than anyone or anything, was her witness to it all.

Houdini scooped her chin with the bridge of his nose and my mother touched her nose to his. She found a brush inside the stable and brushed him down—though she only managed to brush one flank and a hindquarter before all of her energy was gone.

From outside the stable, the old man kept an eye on her while he cleaned and polished a saddle. Jessie recognised it to be hers. There were blood stains on the seat and she was embarrassed by the very sight of it.

Where is she?
she asked.

The old man gestured to a tin shed on the far side of the yard.
Preparing your ablutions
.

Jessie walked towards the tin shed, feeling the old man's eyes on her all the way.

The bathhouse was built around a water tank. There were three walls with a roof but one side was completely exposed to the weather.

Get undressed, dear
, said the old woman.

My mother looked towards the opening.

Don't worry, dear
.
He won't bother you. I'll make sure of that.

The old woman disappeared. My mother peered around the tin wall, then pulled the nightgown up and over her head. It felt good to be out of it. She stepped into the tub. The water was warm and came to just above her ankles.

The old woman returned with pots of hot water and poured them into the bath.

Go on
, she said.
Keep the tap running and lie down in it while it's warm.
She perched on the edge of the bath while my mother sat down in the water and stretched her legs out.

The old woman wrapped a cloth around a brick of soap and began to rub my mother's back.

I'll do that
, said my mother.
I do know how to wash myself.

I thought you said you didn't.

I'll do it when you are gone.

The old woman's eyes narrowed and she scanned my mother's body.

Have you never seen a naked woman before?

And then a look came over the old woman's face and her forehead flattened, as if she was unveiling herself at last.

Child, I know it's not long ago you gave birth
.
You are all bones except out in front.

My mother shook out the brick of soap and covered herself with the cloth.
You don't know anything about me.

I know your name is Jessie
, said the old woman.
It was written on your shirt, as if you'd come from a prison or some dormitory. Is that where you have come from?

My mother did not answer.

And there is no hiding that you were not long ago with child. Your milk is all over the bed sheets and it is seeping from your nipples now.

Jessie brought her knees up to her chest and raised her eyes to the top of the water tank.

Where is it?
said the old woman.

What?

The child.

Buried.

Was it stillborn?

No. It was born live. But too soon.

Oh, child.

I'm not a child.

I know.
The old woman's chin began to tremble and tears filled her eyes. She started to sob.

Please stop
, said Jessie. She could hardly breathe in the old woman's presence.

The old woman wiped her face with her skirt.

Can you leave me alone?

The old woman left the bathhouse without protest. Jessie could hear her sobbing as she walked around the water tank. And then she was gone.

My mother leant back against the end of the bath and watched her body rising and falling with her breathing. She held her breath for a long time and wondered how long it would take to drown if she rolled over.

She did not roll over. She splashed herself with water and the water pooled in the creases of her body and for a moment she imagined that I was still inside her and that my father was not Fitz but Jack Brown and it was Jack Brown, not the old man, on the other side of the bathhouse cleaning her saddle.

BY DAY, THE forest was flushed with the smell of wattle and the smell of honey. Jack Brown veered off the track and pushed into the dense mesh of trees and bright yellow flowers that exploded into dust when he passed them. Soon he was covered in their pollen and their scent masked the stench that he carried in the sack behind him. As he rode, he could see new life poking up from the earth, the forest seeding itself in anticipation.

He nudged his horse forward until the bush was too thick to ride any further and then he dismounted and tied his horse to a branch. He walked in, carrying the sack, counting tree by tree until he found the tree he was looking for. The hollow tree was his hiding place. Whenever he was paid by Fitz, which was not often, he rolled up his money like cigars and rode into the forest and deposited it in a tin he had lodged within the tree. When he first discovered the tree he thought to himself that the hollow was big enough for a body. But it was only a term of measure; he did not imagine he would ever hide a body within it.

He knelt down and took out his knife and used it to pry back the shield of bark that covered it, just far enough so he could get his fingers beneath it and dislodge it. The bark came away and he felt inside the tree for his money tin, which was wedged above a knot. The tin had grown rusty and would not easily open so he forced it with the edge of his knife. He took out a wad of notes and stuffed it into his top pocket, then he set the tin back in its place and heaved the sack into the hollow. But the sack was unevenly weighted and fell out of the opening of the tree. Jack Brown pushed it with his boot and then he pressed the bark into place, tapping it with the handle of his knife until it was all perfectly sealed.

Jack Brown did not know the intricacies of the law, but he did know that if there was no body, there could be no murder.

He collected his horse and found his way back onto the track. He rode recklessly, craving the sharp and certain guilt of murdering Fitz himself rather than the blunt feeling that he had failed himself and worse, he had failed Jessie.

When the river was in sight he cleared the fence that bordered the forest and the riverbank. His horse slid down to level ground and he clung to it while it regained its feet and then he rode it into the swell of the river, pushing it further and further against the current until he felt himself pummelled by the force and the coldness of it, and he wished that one day he might be cleansed of every old and acrid thought that clung to him.

I heard him charging around the river. His horse was brimming with sound and he was talking anxiously to it, as if he was trying to calm his horse and himself at once. My own heart leapt. There I was, waiting for my mother, and though he was not my mother, he surely could have been my father. And I thought anything she loved or longed for would do. Together, we could find her.

I called,
Jack Brown, I am not dead!

I did not scream it else I be confused with those white-breasted birds that caw all day. I just called it as clear as I could:
I am not dead.

As Jack Brown grew nearer, I wormed my fingers into the dirt above me. I knew my arms would not reach the surface but I thought at least I could fright his horse and then his horse might shy or, better, buck him right off, and Jack Brown would have to face the wonder of the earth moving beneath him.

With the weight of them upon me, I pushed harder into the dirt.

But both horse and man moved over me and neither were at all disturbed by my calling out or pushing at the ground above me.

THE DOG'S BARKING woke my mother early and when it stopped she heard the old man and the old woman arguing and then the old man call the dog, mount his horse and gallop off.

She took her time getting out of bed, to avoid the old woman. She dressed in clothes the old woman had given her and for some time she just sat on the bed. The small, windowless room reminded her very much of prison and she wondered if she would always feel that every room, regardless of how small or bare or not, was designed to punish her.

She opened the door. The old woman was sitting at the kitchen table with her back to her.

Morning
, said Jessie, and she filled the kettle with water, acting as if things were somehow normal and she was a guest after all.

The old woman acknowledged her with a nod, though her eyes remained fixed on the window. She was peeling apples with a small paring knife and the peel curled into her lap in a long, unbroken twist.

You're good at that
, said Jessie.