The First Week (2 page)

Jeb nuzzled at her leg, wagging his whole stiff hindquarters, cloudy eyes beseeching. She bent down and scratched behind his ears.

But Charlie wasn't a boy, not any more. That was the thing.

The back of her mouth felt strange, as though bending over might make her vomit, or faint.

She must check the guns. Brian had the semi-automatic. Surely to God he kept it locked up. Then there was the old twenty-two. It was a year or more since she'd last seen that.

When she came here, after she and Mac were married, she hated the guns, the sudden shattering of the quiet. But Mac made her learn to shoot, said she had to know how to look after herself, stuck out on a farm. What if he was away? He was tense and impatient, she couldn't ask him anything. That wasn't his way of teaching. It was business, nothing relaxed about it.
Guns are not toys.
His whole body would be strung tight until the gun was cleaned and put away again. At first she thought it was her, her reluctance and clumsiness. But later she watched him do the same thing with the boys.
It's the army
, she wanted to tell them.
He doesn't like guns. It's not you he's angry with.
But it would have been wrong to talk about Mac behind his back.

Gradually Marian realised the need for guns, saw what a fox could do, or an eagle … half-eaten chooks, lambs with their eyes pecked out, a ewe, still alive, with its udder chewed. And then there were the snakes. She made herself practice, endless beer cans on a fence post.

In her second year at the farm there was a spate of deformed lambs. Mac found her nursing one, a big male, alive and perfectly formed except for the bones of its skull. Its brain was hanging out the back of its head in a soft sac. The mother was nuzzling worriedly and Marian, pregnant herself, was horrified. Mac took the lamb in his arms and went behind the shed to shoot it.

‘I'm sorry, Marian,' he said when he came back, and he was gentle with the distressed ewe. But Marian had gone numb.

She found herself now at the woodheap and swung the axe. The block of wood split sweetly, but the violence of the impact shocked her, and the sound of the blow.

Too loud.

The feeling was an old one. Don't draw attention to yourself. A childhood hide-and-seek feeling. If you were hidden, then you couldn't tell how close the finder was and you had to keep very still. It was the waiting she hated, knowing that something would soon be expected of her, that she would have to leave the safety of her hidey hole, make a break.

Being the finder was worse though, being the only one in the open, knowing that you were watched, that unseen enemies were working to outwit you. Then the silence was terrible and she would get flustered, double back to places she'd already searched, turn away just as someone was sneaking home.

The hiding places themselves, the secret places, she liked.

The axe hung in her hand. She couldn't bring herself to swing it again. Putting it neatly back in the drum she went to the kitchen and laid the two bits of wood end to end in the box.

The draining board was piled high with the best china. Cups and saucers, hideous wedding-present vases, casserole dishes too big for one person. There were mice in the cupboard, droppings everywhere, and she'd hauled everything out the night before.

Well it would give her something to do. She ran water into the sink and pushed four cups under the suds.

On top of the pile was a cake dish covered in tiny blue forget-me-nots, one of her mother's few treasures. Not for everyday.

The rhythm of washing and drying was soothing. The pile of clean crockery on the table grew. She dried a vase and started on the wine glasses.

Just an ordinary morning, like so many others. The boys, young again, playing outside …

A thought swam up into her mind. An old dark thought, unused to the light, a thought about her unreadable baby.
Charlie needs watching.

She turned the radio on.
Warehouse overload. All stock must go.
An ad for carpets. Who needed carpets? But when she turned it off the silence weighed on her. The numbers flickered on the tiny screen as she twiddled to get music.
The green green grass of home.
Better.

That girl, the one who'd rung, sounded very young. Probably she'd got confused and rung by mistake. It was some other Marian with a son called Charlie.

The trilling of the phone cut across Tom Jones.

Marian was gripped by a tight band around her chest, a sudden absence of breath. Her jaw trembled.

It was the girl again.

We think you should come … can you get here by tomorrow morning?

So that was it. There was no mistake.

Marian had the strange sensation, physical, of willing her brain to work, winding it up like an old clock.

She bit at the torn quick of her thumbnail and the sudden pain made her wince. Think, damn it.

What did she need to take?

Someone was mumbling, a monotonous drone. A moment passed before she realised that the sound came from her own mouth. Go to the city. Drive to Perth. Charlie's dead.

No. There was something wrong about that.

Her lungs squeezed shut.

Not Charlie. Someone else.

She should ring Brian. He'd be home for his lunch by now. With her hand poised over the number pad she stopped. Brian and Michelle. A number that she rang every day, more familiar than her own.

Nine two seven …

She jiggled the button and tried again.

Nine two seven …

No use. The rest was gone from her mind.

That frightened her more than anything. Shaking, she fumbled the contents of her handbag onto the bench. Pressing the address book open with one hand she dialled with the other.

‘Brian?'

Her voice sounded tight. Clipped, no emotion. She had to hold herself together.

After she'd hung up she felt her way along the bench to the sink, picked up the tea towel and dried a wineglass, seeing as though for the first time the object in her hands. A beautifully shaped glass from the set that her bridesmaid had given her.

Evie.

If only she was here.

Evie always knew what to do.

Marian pulled out a chair and sat down, still holding the tea towel in one hand.

There were footsteps on the verandah, and voices. Marian jumped. How long had she been sitting there? There were things to do.

‘Marian?'

Damn. Michelle and Tara. There'd been no sound of a car. They must have walked. Michelle would want to go over and over it, a family conference. She was a great one for talking things over, always dragging Brian off to classes and marriage guidance sessions. Relationship skills.

‘I'm in the kitchen.'

The screen door squeaked.

Michelle's hair was ruffled, her face streaky from crying.

Marian was irritated and turned away. Making a fuss. It was better to keep quiet and wait. There might still be some explanation. Perhaps it wasn't as serious as it seemed.

Tara shuffled up to the table, eyes big in her wide soft face. ‘Gramma?'

Marian swallowed and tried to speak. ‘Hello …'

She cleared her throat and tried again. ‘Hello, darling.'

Michelle pushed the little girl gently towards the door. ‘Go and play outside, sweetie. I need to talk to Grandma.'

Tara backed out of the door, then stood with her face against the fly wire as her mother spoke to Marian.

‘Brian told me. But it must be a mistake. Mustn't it?'

‘I don't know.' Marian shifted wearily. ‘Maybe.' It's not a mistake. It's true.

‘Jesus. I can't believe it. I heard it on the news you know, after I dropped Todd off. But I didn't take any notice. I didn't think … well you don't.' She perched on a chair. ‘What are we going to do?'

Marian shrugged.

‘Brian says you're going up to the city?'

‘Yes.' Marian ran her hands over her hair. Had she brushed it that morning?

‘Will you be all right?'

‘I suppose so.' She must clean her hairbrush before she packed it.

‘Maybe Brian should go? Haynes rang him to do that job, but he could finish early if you want. He said to ask you again.'

‘No. Someone has to stay here.'

‘It's unreal.' Michelle picked up a vase in the shape of a log with a woodpecker at one end. She frowned and put it down. ‘What's everybody going to say?'

‘Who's everybody?'

‘Like at work. What am I going to tell them at work?'

Marian stared at her. Michelle's face reddened. ‘Well it matters,' she said. ‘And what am I going to tell Mum and Dad?'

‘Oh don't be ridiculous,' said Marian. ‘Is that all you can think about?'

‘It's okay for you. You don't care what people say.'

Marian took a breath to speak. But what was the point?

Michelle was crying again. ‘Mum was right. I should have thought twice before I married Brian.'

‘What do you mean?' A needle of anger disturbed Marian's lethargy.

Michelle paled but was carried into speech by her tears. ‘Well, you know.'

‘No.'

‘Everything that's gone wrong. Not just this. Money. The farm … always struggling. And Tara. Being like she is.'

‘Are you saying that's Brian's fault?'

‘Mum says there's never been anything like that in our family.'

Marian was filled with such rage that she could barely see Michelle. ‘How dare you. How dare you blame Brian!'

Michelle flinched, but Marian's anger ebbed as quickly as it had come and she turned away, not caring.

Before Michelle could speak there was a howl from outside. Both women ran.

Tara had fallen into the dusty sword ferns at the edge of the verandah and was holding her head in both hands and making a high pitched drone. ‘Nananananana.'

‘What happened,' Michelle demanded, grabbing at her.

‘Bit me,' the child cried.

Michelle whirled around. ‘The dog,' she said, ‘that bloody dog.'

Jeb cowered behind Marian, tail down.

‘Bullshit,' Marian said.

She squatted down by Tara. ‘He was only trying to lick you. Remember? Like last time.'

He wants to make friends, she thought of adding, but speaking seemed such an effort. For a moment panic seized her. Was she having a stroke? But even that thought sank away as she stood up, steadying herself with one hand on the verandah post.

Michelle checked Tara over and pulled her to her feet.

‘We'll go,' she said, mouth tight. ‘No point trying to help here.'

‘No,' Marian said. She knew she shouldn't let them go like that, but she couldn't find the energy. All she wanted was sleep.

How could this happen? Why hadn't she known something was wrong?

Charlie hadn't rung for … how long? Weeks. A month or more.

When he first went to the city Marian rang him every week, making conversation, telling him news, asking how he was getting on. Her own first time away from home was vivid in her memory, how lost she'd been.

If Charlie felt like that, he wasn't letting on.
Okay
, he'd say.
Yeah.
Or sometimes, in a burst of words,
Mum, stop worry­ing! I'm fine.

He started out boarding with a sister of Evie's, did well in his exams, came home and helped with the harvest, and announced that he'd found his own place.

In the long midnight hours Marian told herself he'd be all right. He was a clever boy and he'd manage.

Brian was bracing.
Don't hassle him. What can happen? He's too busy with his head in a book to get into trouble.

Marian bit back the list of dangers. Drugs, drink, cars.

Lucky Brian had fixed the ute. It meant she could take the Astra and be comfortable.

Maybe she should get Brian to come after all. But there was the farm. One of them had to stay, him or her. And these days it was Brian who did the bulk of the work.

Anyway he wouldn't care about seeing Charlie, wouldn't have anything to say.

They were friends when they were little.

Michelle disliked Charlie. That didn't help.

Marian stood at the gate of the chook yard. What was she doing?

That's right. Fill the hopper. Check the water.

The second gate, into the veggie garden, scraped against the soil. The hinge needed fixing. But not now. Now there was only time for watering. If she gave everything a good soak, it would be all right for a day or so. The lettuces might suffer though. She knelt down, knees straining, and touched the leaves. The green against the brown soil, rich with compost, gave her no pleasure today. Pushing herself upright she hung on to the tap while a wave of humming darkness engulfed her. She breathed in and out slowly and turned on the tap.

The house. What did she need to do about the house? The kitchen?

The sink was still piled high with the good china. She slid a stack of plates into the lukewarm water, then thought of something else. Tins of meat so that Brian could feed Jeb. Forgetting about the dishes Marian wandered over to the table and started a note to Brian.

Jeb. Chooks. Lettuce seedlings.
What else? The point of the pencil pressed into the paper, but her hand was paralysed. There must be other things.
If it doesn't rain
, she wrote carefully. They always said that, for luck, to try and outwit fate.

Oh God! The tap was still running on the veggies. She ran outside and wrenched it off, heart pounding.

Back in the house she pulled a bag down from the wardrobe and put it on the bed. Pack a warm jumper. Which pyjamas should she take?

Would they let her stay there with him? But even as the thought formed she knew it was stupid. Not a hospital. It'd be … where was he?

Her hand was shaking.

She pushed the bag shut and pulled the zip across. Then, realising that she still hadn't put any pyjamas in, she opened it a crack and pushed in an old tee shirt from the chair next to the bed.