The Quilt (6 page)

The farm l
androver sat where it had been routinely parked that morning.  Allan put his hand on the bonnet; it was cold to the touch.  An unfamiliar feeling of mortality and isolation surrounded him like a stranger. A shudder travelled down his spine.   He needed a drink to calm his nerves but that would have to wait.  What the hell had that bastard done? Where was the bulldozer?

“James?
” the words were snatched by a gust of wind and thrown back from the rocky cliff face beyond.

Allan carefully turned the
strong beam of the torch focusing at the edge of the cliff.    The beam settled on a new area of crushed scrub and a jagged subsided rocky scar. 

James’ broken body lay on the rocks half way down the steep decline.  He had been thrown from the cab as the bulldozer careened like a crazed child’s toy to its resting place at the bottom of the ravine.

Hours had passed and
he thought he must have drifted in and out of consciousness. He was vaguely aware that he should stay awake.  He had to focus on living and the people whose very life depended on him.    He didn’t seem to have any sensation.  There was white all around him.  Falling lightly from the sky and settling like angels around his body.  It must be snow, but it wasn’t cold.  Was this death?

He imagined
strong lights throwing rays of hope from the cliff above, he imagined sensation in his legs and warmth in his arms. 

Thro
ugh dreamlike eyes he imagined the tall broad figure of a man, perhaps it was Allan, who stood high above him, holding a torch and silhouetted by a strong headlight shining from behind.  The light settled on his broken body, lying on the snow covered rocks.   James tried to wave but his arms would not move.  He tried to call but his voice was silent. The figures arms folded as it stood wavering, fighting with itself and fighting with its demons.  Finally, he imagined the sound of a motorbike as it was kicked into life.  He imagined the noise of its engine fading into the distance.  James then lapsed into unconsciousness.

Mary and Anne were startled awake by the raucous scream of a chainsaw.  Bleary eyed they stood in front of the blank window watching in disbelief.  At the end of the driveway stood Allan, bottle in his hand towering unsteadily over the darkened shape of a felled redwood tree.

James’ body was retrieved
from the ridge the following morning.  To this day the bulldozer remains at the foot of a cliff too steep to allow recovery.

Mary placed a hand on Anne’s shoulder.  She smiled sadly.

“You must make sure you and your child stay safe.”

Anne nodded
and looked at the fallen tree.  It had been planted as a symbol of stability, life and the future. They both knew the hope of such things had died for them along with James and his felled Redwood.

Local gossip will tell you both Mary and Charles died of a broken heart.  The reality is far less romantic.

Shortly after James’s
funeral Charles passed suddenly after a massive coronary attack. 

Mary lived to
welcome her new grandchild, Sean, into the world. Six months later the cancer she had fought so long to ignore won its battle. 

Sometimes the road you travel is of your choosing.  Sometimes only the fork you take is your choice.

Chapter 4

“
Anne and Allan Clarke”

Despite Allan’s growing hunger for alcohol he was still coherent enough to possess an eye for a good business opportunity.

The rural boom
was brought about by a growing trend that saw many city dwellers seek their small slice of the country.  This had escalated the price of land, in particular, land situated close to towns, infrastructure and employment. 

Allan sold off the small blocks
that held separate titles and ran along the main state highway.  The sale had no significant effect on the farms economic viability and the capital could be utilised to complete the development of the remaining land.

James death seemed to hold no real sense of loss to his older brother.  For the remainder of his years Allan never spoke of James, he never outwardly grieved and as far as anyone was aware he never visited the ridge or the gravesite. He certainly didn’t discuss the bitterly cold night he had discovered the accident and had felled the tree that held James’ memory in its mighty trunk.

Without any family to help
him Allan was forced to employ outside workers to assist with the development and running of Twin Pines.  He considered this a personal failure and the staff an intrusion.  He treated his employee’s with contempt and drove good workers away despite the shortage of available employment.

Anne watched a steady flow of men arrive and leave within a few days, no one stayed at Twin Pines very long.
The constant verbal abuse and Allan’s unpredictable temper made the personal cost too high.

Unfortunately
, what was left of the capital received after selling the small lifestyle blocks went to fund Allan’s increasing consumption of bourbon.  Allan was a nasty drunk.  It fuelled a temper that always seemed to lurk just below the surface. Paranoia, alarming and dangerous, soon began to work its way into the flawed and unpredictable personality of Allan Clarke.

Jean got up from her desk and wiped her clammy brow.  She imagined her mother in law, Anne, a trapped, lonely and battered wife. Why hadn’t she left while she could?  Taken Sean and gone to the safety of her family. If she had, they may have met.  Jean was sure they would have liked each other. 

She looked over to the quilt.  If Anne had left while she had the chance I
wouldn’t have to write this chapter. I wouldn’t have to write this chapter on behalf of the unknown woman that gave life to the man I married. All I have are pieces of a story with no known ending, snatches of a tragedy that taunts those I love as they progress through their lives with questions that have no answers.  Jean shuddered.    She thought James lying dying on a lonely grey slab of rock.  Of his parents too afraid to grieve for their dead son.  She thought of Sean, young and vulnerable, watching his mother suffer as he listened to the ranting of a mad man swigging liquor straight from the bottle. 

She thought of Sean
, her husband, the man who lived life with so many unanswered questions, harbouring guilt about a situation he as a child could not control. Would there ever be closure? She sighed deeply and looked down at her vein lined hands, they held no answers.  

Feeling slig
htly foolish she spoke softly to the deep folds of the quilt.

“Anne
, I hope you agree that what I write represents you and your life well.  I only have scraps to lead me, given by people reluctant to dredge through the pain of the past.  Before your story can truly be told, these pages need the answers that no one knows how to find.”

Sean had slipped silently in
to the chair behind his wife.  He listened to her words which were spoken barely above a whisper.  He was an imposter, unwilling to contribute to his own story.  He cleared his throat as Jean turned and looked into eyes that glazed as the memories flooded out of locked doors that for so long had fought to hold them back. 

Hesitantly
, Sean began to tell his story.

Sean learnt at an early age to stay out of his father’s way when he reeked of liquor.  Although, even as a toddler, he would try to protect Anne from the constant barrage of abuse.  He would place himself between his parents or distract the enraged Allan with a show of tantrum or humour. 

Despite being the product of a
dysfunctional environment Sean matured into a well-adjusted, popular and outgoing teenager with a dry sense of humour and a special, close bond with his mother. Anne provided the security and balance normally given by two parents. 

She
struggled to show Sean the tense and unhealthy environment of his home life was not the only way to function. Not the only example he had to follow.  She prayed her grandchildren would never inherit the hell her own child had lived through. She prayed the lessons of parenthood taught by Allan would never be absorbed so deeply that they would be inflicted on future generations.

Anne’s parents
, the Saunders, were living their own version of hell.  They watched the daughter they loved and nurtured grow distant as she withdrew into the thin shell that had become her body.  They watched as the isolation engulfed her, as the monster dominated her.  They stood by helplessly as all contact with the outside world was taken away from her. 

They treasured the few moments they spent with
Anne and their grandson Sean.  They tried desperately to overlook the heavy make-up that fought to hide yellowing bruises and the haunted shadows under Anne’s once vivid eyes. They had learnt quickly that Anne would close down, flee inwards to somewhere they couldn’t follow if they spoke of her personal misery.

They desperately looked for help, a road out and
a hand to guide Anne and Sean away from the toxic place they called home.  No agency existed; no authority could intervene without a formal complaint initiated by the victim.  They offered protection and safety.   Unfortunately, it took years for Anne to realize that Allan was capable of violence far beyond what she could ever have imagined. 

By this time he had had the telephone  disconnected
, the vehicle keys lay in places only known to him and as the paranoia increased so did the isolation, not only for Allan but also for Anne. The sustained heavy drinking had taken its toll.   With fatherhood, his consumption had become heavier and his abuse more regular. 

By the time Sean was fifteen Allan’s cirrhosis
was severe.  He was constantly fatigued and an increasing appetite for a drink was slowly replacing his appetite for food.  He developed a waxy yellow hue on his skin and bruises appeared where he couldn’t remember injury.

He had
grotesque swelling in his limbs.  The once good physique had turned to soft unhealthy pockets of putrid flesh and his bloated stomach protruded from above his work trousers.  Allan continued to drink. 

The day started out like any other winter’s day, cold and wet, another miserable Wednesday.  The Rural Delivery van stopped briefly at the Clarke’s bright red letterbox.  With Allan working at the back of the farm Anne had a rare chance to collect the mail.  Twice her family had written and twice Allan had opened and destroyed their letters before she could read them.  Perhaps there would be something today, news from the outside world and a promise of something beyond the misery of the Shearers Cottage walls.

Anne turned an
innocent white envelope over in her hand.  It was addressed simply to A. Clarke.  Without thinking she slid the back open and had a brief look at the contents. Nothing of importance, a letter received by all of the land owners in the area giving information that would be of no use whatsoever. Anne thought nothing further about the mail.

Allan returned from
work in a particularly dark mood.  He downed his first drink for the evening and replaced his boots with lambskin slippers.  He eased his bulk into a chair and poured himself a second drink.

A few minutes later a blood curdling yell rung out.  Both Sean and Anne ran to the lounge room where red faced in fury Allan held the opened envelope in his shaking hand.
  His face was contorted in rage; his eyes were bulging and barely focused.

A
nne had committed the worst type of crime. She had opened his mail.  The bitch had violated his privacy.  She was nothing.

The following day Sean was working in the yard after school.  Allan had delegated him numerous chores to build what he liked to describe as a good work ethic.  It was years before Sean grew to understand relaxation could be achieved without the aid of exhaustion.

Deep in thought h
e had hardly heard his mother come up behind him.  Anne looked nervous and frequently glanced behind.  She spoke in a careful and measured, almost conspiring, voice.

“
I am thinking of spending a couple of weeks with my family.  I need to work through a few things.”

Sean
sensed his mothers tension and her need to talk without interruption.  Perhaps if he had spoken she would have reconsidered the decision to leave.  He remained silent.

“You know Twin Pines will one day be yo
urs don’t you?”

S
he continued without waiting for his reply.

“If you ever feel things with Allan hav
e got out of hand you must run.  If you did go, and you feel you are in danger, don’t ever come back, no matter what.  You are old enough and strong enough now to look after yourself, but never underestimate that man.” 

Sean
listened to her story her words flowing over him like a gentle tide.

“What I’ve told you must
stay between us.  Remember son, if I...”

S
he trailed off without finishing her sentence.  She looked up at Sean as though she wanted to commit every detail of him to memory. He remembered her eyes had sparkled with unshed tears.  If only he had spoken up.

He remembered
her eyes had held no fear and for the first time he had realized that was the emotion he normally saw in their depths.  This change had sent every nerve in his body a primitive warning.  What wasn’t she saying in the many words that she had spoken? He had drawn a deep breath.

“You need to get the hell away from here for good.  You are right
, I can look after myself, but I’m not sure that I can look after you at the same time.”

He had hesitated and then
, for a reason Sean could never explain, he had held his mother close.

“I l
ove you.”

As an old man he realized
this simple message if left unspoken, would have haunted him to his grave. 

These we
re the last words Sean would ever say to his mother.

Allan stood watching the exchange from the cover of the large tree.  He was too far away to hear their actual words but their body language had told him enough.  His eyes narrowed to form dangerous slits. 

He rubbed
his face furiously with the back of his hand.  Those stupid little people appeared at the corner of his vision, why did they choose now when I need to concentrate?  He rubbed again impatient to stop them running and dancing around the corners of his eyes.  It was distracting they needed to stop. They needed to stop now!!!  That bitch and her bastard son, what were they up to?

He stopped the frantic rubbing and suddenly looked down. 
A familiar warm sensation had made the people stop running around on his eyes.  He watched the dark wet patch slowly spread around his crotch, yellow liquid ran in rivets down his legs and pooled at his feet.   The sting of his urine running over his tender burnt skin snapped Allan back to reality.  He silently moved away.  He had seen enough.

Anne left in the dead of night.  She was nursing a blackening eye and broken fingers, blue and swollen. She was leaving Shearers Cottage and a life of hell before it killed her.

Sean woke to the sound of torrential rain.  It cascaded from the roof and fell in muddy puddles on the dusty driveway.  Small waterfalls had formed on the hillsides and ran in lacy veils on their way to join the swollen streams and rivers.  Allan sat at the table.   His head had fallen forward and was resting in a puddle of rank smelling saliva.    Beside him lay several almost empty bottles.

The washing machine was spinning furiou
sly shaking the old wooden structure to its core.  Sean looked at the wasted figure in disgust.  He imagined his mother, safe and warm, miles from the disgusting man that was slumped in front of him.

He left Allan where he was and walked to
the lonely Redwood Pine at the end of the drive to catch the rural bus to school. 

Sean was under no illusion that when drunk Allan was dangerous. Even in the rare moments of sobriety Allan was fast slipping into a world of wild accusations and imagined conspiracies.

After Anne had left
, Allan’s mood darkened even further as the threads of sanity began to break completely.  He rubbed frantically at the skin around his eyes until it was nothing more than a raw sticky mass of scabs.  He seldom left the cottage and Sean often woke to the sound of Allan upturning furniture or conversing with his unseen demons.