The Darkening

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An old image appeared. ‘Sedgely Confectionery shop, Myrtle Street, c. 1905’. A solitary, timber-clad shop with a deep awning sat alone on the corner of unpaved Myrtle Street. Words painted in its windows proclaimed ‘Boiled sweets’, ‘Choicest Fruits of the Season’ and ‘Teas, Light Refreshments and Ices’. Nicholas peered. It was in the same place where the group of shops stood today — the convenience store, Rowena’s health food store, the computer repairer. In front of the confectionery store stood a woman in a white dress. She must have turned away from the camera as the photograph was taken because her head and face were smoky and blurred. The caption read: ‘Possibly proprietress Victoria Sedgely’.

Nicholas’s mouth went dry as a crypt.

The woman in the photograph held in her arms a small, white terrier.

Katharine swore as the spinning clay collapsed in on itself and what was to have been a tureen folded into a damp, malformed thing that brought suddenly to mind a birthing film a nurse had shown her when she was pregnant with Nicholas — the folded, exhausted clay lips looked horribly like that film’s mother’s bloody vulva. Katharine ground the spinning wheel to a halt with the heel of her hand, scooped the aborted pot off and pounded it into a ball that she slapped onto the block of clay at her feet.

Why am I angry? she asked herself. Normally, a few hours in her under-house studio was distracting enough to wick away any vexed thoughts. Not today. She switched off the wheel with her toe. In the new quiet she could hear the steady patter of rain on the bushes outside the window. The day was dark. She rose and went to the tubs to wash the already drying patina of pale clay from her hands.

Her anger confused her. She’d returned from seeing poor Pam Ferguson feeling detached from herself, like those patients one reads about who observe themselves from the high corners of operating rooms while undergoing surgery. Quill. Katharine hadn’t thought about the woman in twenty years, and then, suddenly, she couldn’t get the sight of the wizened old thing out of her mind.

Pamela’s words had disturbed her, and she’d slept poorly last night. Stuff and nonsense, she’d told herself while she lay in bed, stiff as a corpse, fruitlessly willing sleep to come. Stuff and nonsense; Pamela was a superstitious old Scot. So what if Katharine had heard that Quill moved to Ballina but Pamela Ferguson thought she moved to Hobart? Christ, the old seamstress must have been dead at least fifteen years, what did it matter? What had she called her? White woman of the hills? Osteoarthritic woman of the overlocker, more like it. Stuff and nonsense.

What would Don have said?

Katharine shut off the tap with an irritated twist. What would Don have said? ‘Can you make that a double, love?’ she thought bitterly.

Ah. But the drinking came afterwards. What did he say about Quill before all that?

Katharine dried her hands. She didn’t need to think about that. Don was long dead; dead, in a way, even before he died. Quill was long gone, too. Life was for the living.

‘Stuff and nonsense,’ she repeated to herself, and reached to switch off the light. The warm yellow of the tungsten bulb clicked off, leaving the room a dull aquarium slate; light swimming in through the window fell on the distorted lump of clay under clear plastic. It looked horribly like a broken head, and in Katharine’s mind appeared a vivid memory of Gavin Boye’s shattered face as a white plastic bag was zipped up around him. Yes, life was for the living, but the living were dying again. She closed the door and hurried upstairs.

The house was quiet. Even a week ago, returning to this silence would have been welcoming, a cocooning balm for her to luxuriate in, a private hush in which she could curl up, read a book, doodle designs on a sketchpad, stare idly out the window at the hibiscus. . But today, the silence was eerie. The furtive whisper of the rain on the roof made it even more unnerving.

‘Suzette?’ she called. For a moment, she had the terrible thrill that her daughter was down at Myrtle Street with Pamela Ferguson and something bad was about to happen. Then she remembered Suzette was a grown woman now. She was in no danger.

‘In here, Mum!’ Suzette’s voice came from her old bedroom up the hall.

Katharine walked up and looked through the doorway. Suzette was leaning over an open suitcase that was half-packed. It was a sign of how effectively the Close women had been avoiding one another; Katharine had no idea her daughter was returning to Sydney today.

‘Almost done?’ she asked lightly.

‘Almost,’ agreed Suzette. ‘I’ll have to ring a cab. Black and White or Yellow?’

‘Stork or Flora?’ replied Katharine. ‘They’re much of a muchness.’

Suzette nodded; she’d figured as much.

‘Your brother all right?’ asked Katharine.

‘I think so. A bit. .’ Suzette stopped folding clothes and thought for a moment. ‘I don’t think it’s good for him here. I’ll go home, and maybe talk him into moving down.’ She fixed Katharine with a look. ‘Then I’ll get you down.’

‘I’d have to sell both kidneys to afford to live in Sydney, and then where would I be?’

Suzette shrugged. ‘I could help.’

Katharine bristled, and fought back the stubborn urge to bite. ‘Thank you, love, but I own this place and it’s fine.’

Suzette smiled thinly, as if hearing a safe bet won.

‘Listen,’ began Katharine. ‘The other morning, over breakfast. .’

‘It was fine, Mum, I just don’t like porridge-’

‘No, no. You asked me about. . about Mrs Quill.’

Katharine saw her daughter’s hands freeze for a moment in midair, before they continued their busy packing.

‘Yep,’ agreed Suzette.

‘Why?’ asked Katharine, still trying to keep her voice as airy as possible. ‘What made you think about her?’

Suzette cocked her head. ‘I thought you couldn’t remember her?’

Katharine shrugged. ‘Since you mentioned her. . bits and bobs. Little old thing. Pleasant enough. Hardly saw her outside her shop. I don’t know where she lived, but it couldn’t have been far.’

Suzette was looking at her hard. ‘What makes you think that?’

Katharine thought. What did make her think that?

‘I never saw her drive. And on the odd evening I saw her walking with her silly little dog-’

Katharine fell silent as Suzette’s face became a hard mask.

‘Little dog?’ she repeated.

‘Yes, I think. . a little — I don’t know — Maltese or something. .’

Suzette was staring at her. ‘What colour was it?’

Katharine frowned. ‘Honestly, it’s so long-’

‘Mum?’

‘White. But why. .?’

Suzette didn’t answer. She dropped the clothes she was folding and hurried out past Katharine.

A moment later, Katharine heard the fluff of an umbrella opening, the door slamming and her daughter’s footsteps hurrying down the road.

14

Rain on the windows turned the world into a smear, making car headlights larger but stealing their form, fusing blues and greens, killing reds and yellows. It was sometime after four in the afternoon, but low-throated winter rain clouds conspired to induce evening early.

Steam rose as Nicholas poured tea.