The Party Line (27 page)

Something else niggled at Joy. She lay still and searched for the source of the unease.

Nickie and Gabrielle, in the hallway on the night Jack’s body had been found. They’d listened in as Eugene and Ian Baxter talked about life and death and right and wrong. She’d chased the girls away without a thought as to what they might have heard or not heard, understood or misunderstood about the protocols regarding a violent man taking his own life.

Audrey did make it to Jack’s burial. She took her place behind the coffin as Eugene, Tony Jackson and Robbie Lind and a man Joy didn’t know carried it up the aisle of the church. Audrey wore a plain black cotton dress with long sleeves, black pantyhose and flat shoes scuffed at the toes. No skin, bruised, broken or otherwise, on display.

Joy hadn’t realised Jack had been a Catholic. She couldn’t remember ever seeing him at church. Yet here they were, farewelling him as though he’d stood and knelt and sung his heart out every Sunday of his life. She glanced to her left — Hans and Josephine Janssen had slipped into the pew next to her. Josephine reached across and squeezed her hand. Hans nodded to her then opened his Mass book, head bowed.

Father Brindle welcomed the congregation. Joy wondered what he would say about a man who had never graced the doorway of the church.

A tragedy. The sadness of the loss. The words tumbled out of the mouth of the priest with such integrity. Joy closed her eyes, unable to bear the charade. When the word
accident
was uttered, she felt Eugene shift in his seat beside her, and glanced at him. His eyes were cast down and he nodded, ever so slightly, as though endorsing Father Brindle’s words.

‘Jack came to see me not long before he passed away,’ the priest said.

The words startled Joy back to attention.

‘He spoke of his regret at neglecting his faith. We talked for a long time about forgiveness and God’s unconditional, eternal love for all.’

Father Brindle paused, looking down at the pulpit. Joy held her breath, waiting to hear what would come next. There was much for
God to forgive in this big room alone. Mostly, for things people hadn’t done, hadn’t said. Mostly, but not entirely.

The priest’s eyes roamed the congregation. Was it Joy’s imagination, or did they rest on her for just a second or two longer than anywhere else? She held his gaze, daring him to look away first.

There was no wake. No one had expected Audrey to organise one. Others might have stepped forward and made arrangements but, somehow, the collective desire to celebrate the life of Jack Gilbert had fallen short.

Outside the church, the women gathered in the drizzling rain around Audrey and patted her on the shoulder. No one stepped forward to hug her. This was the closest many of them had ever been to Jack’s wife. It was as if they were frightened of what they might see. The men walked by and nodded respectfully in her direction. Joy looked up, searching for a blue patch of sky, and found none. She sensed the presence of Jack somewhere above her, a puppeteer idly twitching strings attached to his wife and neighbours.

Eugene came over to say there was talk among the men of going to the pub, toasting Jack with a beer after the burial.

‘Will you ask Ian to go, too?’ Joy nodded in the direction of Ian, who was standing awkwardly on his own near the steps of the church.

‘May do,’ said Eugene.

Which, Joy knew, meant no.

‘What are you holding against that man?’ They were no better than catty girls. ‘He’s worked bloody hard for Jack. It’s not his fault what’s happened, remember? That’s what you told me this morning—’

Eugene was holding her by the elbow. She felt his hand tighten — not hurting her, but firm. ‘I said, we’ll see. It’s not up to just me.’

Ian lifted his sleeve and looked at his watch, then looked around, as though searching for someone. Joy thought it might be Audrey, but Ian’s gaze fixed on Father Brindle, who was making his way towards the hearse. Ian followed the priest. Joy and Eugene watched as Ian whispered something in Father Brindle’s ear. The priest frowned and
searched the crowd for Audrey before turning his attention back to Ian’s quiet words. The next time Father Brindle looked around, his gaze settled on Eugene. Joy’s heart soared as the hand on her elbow loosened and dropped away.

‘I never really understood,’ says Nicola, ‘why I wasn’t allowed to go to Jack Gilbert’s funeral. You never explained.’

The indicator ticks as she waits to turn right, towards the church. The traffic’s busy for a Wednesday, a constant stream of cars travelling west to east, inland to coast. The students have all crossed the road. With her window down, she can smell cigarette smoke drifting from behind the bottle. Weed, too. She breathes in deeply, grateful for the second-hand smoke seeing as her mother’s not sharing.

‘I remember. I had my best brown pinafore out, all ready to go. It was the closest thing I had to black. Gabrielle said we had to wear black. Then you came in and said no.’

Joy’s leaning back against the headrest. Her eyes are closed. Nicola wonders whether she’s fallen asleep.

‘Mum?’

‘It was your father who said no. He wanted to keep you away from it all. The both of you girls. You can understand why.’

‘Not really …’

‘I think he was frightened.’

Nicola laughs. ‘Dad frightened? I don’t think so Mum—’

‘He was frightened
for
you and he was frightened
of
Gabrielle Baxter. They were all frightened of that wee girl. Not that he’d ever admit it. Not even to me. Especially not to me.’

Nicola slows down as she approaches the church. It’s on a slope on the left-hand side. Pale, modern brick with its stark concrete cross facing the road, a series of sweeping driveways encircling the building. She swallows a lump in her throat. The last time she was at this church, it was Joy’s funeral.

She remembers how it used to be hard finding a park there, when she was a kid, how everyone arrived at Mass early to avoid having to clamber up the hillside. Now she wonders whether she’s got the day right. There are only half a dozen cars there and it’s close to eleven. Panic flutters inside her. What if there’s just her — her and a couple of other people? Who will carry the coffin?

She glances at Joy, who’s awake and smiling.

‘Never mind about that Jack Gilbert. He was a no-good bugger. I know you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but it’s okay if you’re dead, too.’ Joy’s voice is fading. ‘You’ve done the right thing, coming today, Nicola.’

Ian felt the curiosity burn into his back as he turned away from Father Brindle outside the church and walked towards the ute. Each step, though, felt lighter than the last. He didn’t care what happened, as a consequence of telling the priest about the rocks in Jack’s pockets. He had cleared his conscience.

Later, after milking, he watched cars coming and going from Audrey’s house. He imagined the stews and cakes piling high in the kitchen; that was, he recalled, the way grief played itself out.

Two days after the funeral, Ian went to see Audrey. Jack’s dogs barked and lunged at him as he got out of the ute. He called to them and they settled.

It was the first time he’d been inside the house. The starkness didn’t surprise him. It wasn’t so different to the way he and Gabrielle lived; there was a comfort in the familiarity. No clutter.

Audrey led him silently through to the kitchen and they sat at the table.

Ian allowed himself to look at her. It was the first time since he’d tried, and failed, to reach out to her during haymaking. She’d brushed him away then, but Jack had been there. Now Jack was gone.

He searched her face for grief, found it in the dark shadows under her red eyes. Her hair was lank, oily, pulled back from her face in a rubber band. Her hand crept constantly, nervously to the back of her neck. She touched, withdrew, touched again, like a doctor gently feeling for a broken bone beneath a child’s skin.

Ian wondered whether she was trying to hide the injury — the last of Jack’s brandings. She’d surely let her hair down to cover it? The third time, he saw the look that passed across her face as she touched the yellow bruising. Her eyelids closed, fluttered, like someone caught between sleep and wakefulness. She was inside a memory.

For a time before coming to the house, he’d thought about sharing his story with Audrey. His deceit in applying for the job, the trauma
of blinking, one clear, cool dawn, and finding himself in his car, ready to drive off and abandon his child. He was going to tell her about the viciousness of Bridie before she died, the violence of the slashing and cutting and his silent suffering — not only of the pain from the glass shards, but of understanding that Bridie was fighting death until the very end. Until her body gave out.

Ian had been ready to share all of this, if it meant reaching Audrey Gilbert, pulling her back from the dark pit Jack had kicked her into. But now, watching her finger her injuries, Ian understood. The place was a strange, distant nirvana.

Ian turned his mind to practical things. He could continue working the farm on his own. He’d learned much of what he needed to know about the rhythms of the seasons, the giving and taking of Nature, the needs of the stock. But he did need to know who, if anyone, would pay him.

‘I’m sorry for your loss, Audrey.’

Audrey didn’t speak. Nothing about her changed. Ian waited a little longer, thought about asking her to put the kettle on, then decided against prolonging the visit unnecessarily.

‘I know what you’re going through.’

Audrey smiled and blinked slowly again.

‘I’m wondering … I know it’s early days … but do you want me to keep going? I mean … just carry on with the farm, for the time being?’

Ian watched her chest rise, then fall, the barest sign she was living and breathing.

‘That’s a good idea,’ she said. ‘For now.’

How was he going to bring it up? The money?

‘My brother’s looking after the accounts. Your money’ll go in as usual.’ As if she could read his mind.

Ian nodded. He could leave now, but it didn’t feel right. So he sat in the silence and tried to remember what people had said to him after Bridie’s death.

‘If there’s anything you need, Audrey. Anything that needs doing around the house … you only have to ask.’ Yes. That was how it went.

The dogs kicked off again, the barking becoming more frantic,
then vicious. Ian could hear the creak of the fence as it strained under the pulling of their chains.

Audrey sighed.

‘I’ll get going now … looks as though you’ve more company.’ Ian pushed his chair back, grateful for the release. ‘They mean well, Audrey.’

He wasn’t sure whether that was true or not. He still hadn’t fathomed the meaning of the rituals around Bridie’s death. If he was honest, he struggled to remember the details of it all anyway.

He was nearly at the door when she spoke.

‘I’ll be selling the farm, Ian. If you’re interested.’

Ian didn’t turn around. ‘I wouldn’t have the money, Audrey. I’ve got a bit saved, but not enough. Nowhere near it.’

‘We could work something out.’

Ian brought the cows into the yard for afternoon milking. As he worked the shed pit, flicking the cups on and off, he tried to rationalise the last few days. There was an order in which events needed to be processed. Where was Bridie? She’d been so good at this.

The business of the stones and the suicide no longer ate away at his soul. He’d watched silently as Eugene had wrenched the rocks out of Jack’s pockets, muttering under his breath
Bloody stupid bugger
as he’d pitched the stones hard into the centre of the river.

Suicide, unforgiveable in the Church … Ian had not known then that Jack was a Catholic, but even so …

You know why, Ian Baxter. You know why you can live with it. Stop the bullshit.

‘There you are.’ Ian smiled, released a row of cows from the bales, clambered up the steps of the pit and herded eight more in.

He killed himself because of Gabrielle. Because she’d spoken out loud about the thing everyone ignored. He knew she wouldn’t give in.

‘He killed himself because of the drought, because the farm’s a mess.’

That’s crap and you know it.

‘Actually, I don’t know it. No one knows. He never left a note.’

Shame on you.

Ian felt the anger swell inside him, grow like a war drum in time to the
hiss-suck
rhythm of the milking machine.

‘No.’ He said it out loud. ‘Shame on you, Bridie. You’re not here … I’m not throwing Gabrielle to the dogs. Shame on you.’

A cow, startled at the outburst, kicked backwards close to Ian’s head. He moved away just in time.

That night he dreamed. He was a pallbearer. There were four of them, all farmers from the district. He was at the back, on the left. The coffin sat on his right shoulder. His grip was firm. He stumbled, lost hold of the box. It tilted sharply. From the floor where he lay, he watched the coffin fall towards him. Just in time, the hands of the man in front of him spread wide, catching the coffin, righting it.

The men waited while he picked himself up, dusted himself down. It was important to dust himself down. He could not proceed unless he looked the part. Unless he looked like the other three men.

Down the aisle, outside — not into rain, but into bright, warm sunshine. Ian remembered. It wasn’t Jack Gilbert in the box. This coffin was pink and small and light. Inside it was Gabrielle.

It was mid-morning on a school day and Ian was folding the clothes he’d taken off the line. Gabrielle’s school uniform was still damp. He hung it over the back of a chair in front of the heater.

He remembered where the dress had come from. Joy Walker had bought it for Gabrielle, that’s what she’d said, wasn’t it? Just a few days ago, but so much had happened since — and he hadn’t thanked Joy for it. Or paid her.

Ian picked up the telephone and tried to recall the Walkers’ number. He’d never rung it himself, but surely he must know it, having overheard Gabrielle ring and ask for it nearly every day since they’d arrived. Now that he needed to recite it, his mind was blank.

He dialled one long ring and waited for the operator.

‘Number please.’

‘I need the Walkers’ number … Joy. And Eugene.’

Elsie Shanks chuckled. ‘Hard to believe you don’t know that one. Six two C.’

Ian laughed too. ‘I know. But Gabrielle’s at school.’

‘I guess she probably is.’

Ian found that odd.

‘Putting you through.’

He didn’t hear the operator’s click after Joy answered. But you didn’t always hear it. Sometimes it was so soft you missed it completely.

‘Joy, it’s Ian Baxter.’

‘Oh … hello. Hello Ian. Is everything alright?’

‘Yes. Thank you. I’m ringing to say thanks for sorting out Gabrielle’s uniform. And sorry for taking so long to get the money to you. What with everything …’

‘Heavens, don’t worry about
that
. No problem. How’s she doing? At high school, I mean … Is she enjoying it? Good teachers?’

Ian blushed as he realised he couldn’t answer any of these questions.

‘She’s very happy. Happiest she’s ever been.’ This much he could say with certainty.

‘It’s nice for her to be settled.’

‘It makes all the difference.’

‘Well … look, I’ll just go and find that receipt, the one for her uniform. Hang on, will you Ian?’

Ian scuffed the toe of his shoe. He could hear rustling down the line, the muffled click of a purse being opened, then snapped shut.

‘Are you there, Ian?’

‘Still here.’

‘It was $35, all up. Blouses too. I got her big sizes, they should last her through ’til Sixth Form, when they change the uniform.’

‘Thanks very much for that, Joy. I’ll send the money over with Gabrielle after school. It was good of you.’

‘Ian … sorry … I didn’t mean to assume anything. When I said about Sixth Form. With Jack gone now, I mean. I suppose everything’s up in the air?’

Months earlier, even weeks, Ian would have been on his guard, suspicious at such prying.

‘Might not be, Joy. Audrey wants me to buy the farm off her.’ As the words came out, Ian’s heart skipped. It was a warm feeling, he thought it might be pride. ‘It would be the best thing I could do. For Gabrielle.’

He heard a slight gasp down the line.

‘I’m not sure I can get the money together, though.’

‘I reckon if Audrey wants to sell it to you, things will sort themselves out, somehow.’

‘I hope so, I really do.’

The rain was sporadic — perfect for filling the troughs without saturating the ground too quickly and turning it to mud. Ian worked harder than ever. He sowed crops and mended more fences and watched as the milk production soared.

The land spoke to him often now. He remembered the day he discovered the peat fire, when he had lain down on the ground and felt the heat rising from its core. So much had happened after that, but Ian understood the essence of what the Earth was trying to tell him.
Look after me. I’ll look after you.

Now this — the possibility of owning this land. The notion would have brought on panic only a year earlier. But now it simmered constantly just below the surface of his consciousness, like the promise of Christmas in a child.

Bridie no longer shadow-danced with him, day in, day out. He could summon her at will, but on his own terms. It was enough, most of the time, to know that was possible. He didn’t dream about her either. He didn’t dream at all. This suited him. At night, physically exhausted, he crawled early into bed with a book and let the cooling autumn air take him into uninterrupted slumber.

It was a simple manoeuvre, letting go of her guilt over Neville’s death. Like the shrugging off of a heavy hand on tired shoulders. All those years, waiting for absolution. It had come with Jack Gilbert’s passing. Although she knew there was no rationale connecting the two events, she was grateful for the easing.

Joy did not know what Ian Baxter had whispered to the priest at Jack’s funeral. Perhaps he had spat the word
suicide
into the ear of the clergyman. Perhaps not. Joy was no longer convinced about the value of knowing and not knowing something.

And so she did not feel an obligation to tell Eugene about her telephone conversation with Ian Baxter, about the hope in Ian’s voice as he confided Audrey’s wish to sell him the farm. She, too, had heard the sharp intake of breath as he spoke — Ian had probably assumed it was her. He was not to know that Joy had received his news with a smile, that the gasp belonged to an unknown eavesdropper.

If it was Elsie Shanks, Ian’s plans would already be relayed around the district. But it might — just might — have been Audrey herself listening in. Joy hoped with all her heart that that was the case. In the meantime, she could see no reason to share Ian’s private conversation, with Eugene or anyone else.

It was a fragile time. Joy wanted a good thing, the good right thing, to happen.

April brought ceaseless rain and a fierce rush of pasture. Mushrooms sprouted from refreshed soil, and Joy set off on frequent expeditions to gather them.

In spite of her vigour, she sensed the presence of migraines somewhere just beyond her consciousness. The air pressure had plummeted on the barometer at the back door. She knew where the energy had gone; the black dog had been gorging on it. But she also
knew the menace was hollow. She would not give in to it.