‘Almost.’
‘They make me sick,’ Greta says.
‘It’s not them.’
‘It’s not?’
‘No,’ Molly says. ‘It’s the curse.’
‘Oh, of course, I forgot,’ Greta says. ‘The great curse of Longcoat Bob’s lost gold! You still gettin’ worked up by all that bush hocus-pocus, Molly Hook?’
‘Don’t you wonder about all the bad things that have happened to my family?’ Molly asks.
‘Hate to break it to you, Molly, but bad things sometimes happen around bad people. That’s a fact of life. Got nuthin’ to do with blackfeller magic.’
‘You think I’m a bad person?’
‘No, Mol’,’ Greta says. ‘You’re not bad. You’re not bad at all.’ Greta lies back on the tray now and raises her knees, as though sunbaking. ‘That gold wasn’t cursed, kid,’ she says. ‘If I knew where that gold was today I’d be grabbing your mate Bert there and I’d be diggin’ for my fortune, safe in the knowledge there are no kinds of magic in this world, black or otherwise. There’s only people, Molly. There are good ones and there are bad ones and then there’s all of us nuts stuck in the middle.’
Greta’s eyes study the script she holds up now to block the full sun from her face. She hasn’t noticed, but Molly has, that her summer dress has fallen between her legs, and bruising – scarlet and violet and blue bruising – can be seen on her inner thighs. Finger-shaped bruises. Stains on the skin that won’t wash out.
‘Do you love Uncle Aubrey?’ Molly asks.
Greta takes another shot from the flask, winces on the burn of the spirits.
‘Yeah, I love him,’ she says. ‘But I hate him, too.’
‘He’s a bad one,’ Molly says, matter-of-factly.
Greta pockets the flask. Looks at Molly’s face, expressionless.
With the toe of her right boot, Molly traces a circle, a moon, in the gravel driveway beneath her. ‘How do you love someone and hate them at the same time?’ she asks.
‘You’ll understand when you find a man of your own.’
‘What if I already have found a man of my own?’
Greta turns to Molly, beams a smile. ‘Good for you, gravedigger girl! He handsome this boy?’
‘Very much so,’ Molly says, certain of it. ‘He looks like Tyrone Power, except if only Tyrone Power was a blackfeller from out past Mataranka.’
‘And what might this boy’s name be?’
‘His name’s Sam, and he’s not a boy, he’s a man. He’s sixteen and he’s got a job shooting buffalo with Johnston Traders. He makes good money.’
‘Then why are you still here in this shithole cemetery? Why don’t you run away with Sam the sixteen-year-old man who makes good money?’
‘Dad would never let me leave.’
‘Who said you have to ask for his permission?’
Molly’s never thought of it that way. Maybe she could just leave. She turns to the front gate of the cemetery house. It’s open. It’s only thirty or so yards to the front gate. Maybe five more miles into town. Maybe three thousand more miles to Brisbane, Queensland. Maybe ten thousand more miles to Hollywood, California.
Molly grips the side of the tray, swings her body back and forth, bending her knees as she does.
‘Why are you still here?’ Molly asks.
‘Huh,’ Greta says.
‘You should be on stage in London,’ Molly says. ‘You should be starring in films in Hollywood. Then I could see your name in lights at the Star. “Humphrey Bogart, Vivien Leigh, and introducing . . . the toast of Darwin, Australia . . . Greta Maze”.’
Greta smiles. Full lips; a top lip that curls when it feels like it. She likes the thought of those lights. ‘Can’t,’ she says. ‘Got too much on my plate, right here.’
Molly’s still looking at Greta’s thighs, but not just the bruising now. It’s the shape of her legs, her femininity, the silver screen in them.
‘Greta?’
‘Yeah, kid?’
‘Is it true that Maze isn’t your real last name?’
‘It’s true.’
‘What’s your real name?’
‘Baumgarten. Greta Waltraud Baumgarten.’
‘Why’d you change your name?’
‘Nobody wants to see a Kraut name like that up in lights beside “John Wayne”.’
‘I like Maze,’ Molly says.
Greta smiles.
‘It makes you seem mysterious, like it’s hard to work you out. There are twists and turns all through you.’
Greta nods. ‘You can find your way into Greta Maze, but you may never find your way back out,’ she says.
Molly smiles. She pictures Greta in silver screen black and white. That perfect face in black and white, emerging from a cloud of Humphrey Bogart’s cigarette smoke. Bogie and Baumgarten. Bogie and Maze. Those porcelain pins in black and white. The bruising wouldn’t look so harsh in black and white. And the big film studios have make-up artists to cover up that sort of thing. Dottie Drake from the Fannie Bay hair salon told Molly all about the make-up artists in Hollywood, how they could cover up anything, from the bags under Joan Crawford’s eyes to Errol Flynn’s split lip.
‘Do you think I could ever change my name?’ Molly asks.
‘Of course you could. Anyone can. What’s your new name gonna be?’
Molly thinks for a long moment, tilts her head upwards.
‘Sky,’ she says.
Greta looks up, too.
‘I like that,’ Greta says. ‘You could jazz up that first name, though’ – she thinks for a moment – ‘give it a splash of Dietrich,’ she says.
Molly beams. Gasps the name, whispers it like it’s sacred: ‘Marlene Sky.’
Greta nods, eyes still up in the sky. ‘Well, would you look at that!’ she says.
‘What?’ asks Molly.
‘Up there. It’s your name up in lights.’
Molly laughs. And they both stare into the sky for a moment, the sky that’s so far away from their dark caves and their silly fire-traced doors leading to dark places. Molly looks again at Greta’s bruises.
‘Greta?’ Molly begins.
‘Yeah, kid.’
‘I heard my dad talking about you to his limestone supplier,’ Molly says.
Greta turns to Molly, follows her eyes to the leg bruising. She sits up self-consciously, pulls the dress back over her knees.
‘And what did your father say about me?’
‘He said you take your clothes off for money in the Edinburgh Arms pub.’
Greta sucks on another cigarette, pulls her sunglasses down over
