Scars Can't Tell: Scars, #1

By Philip J Bradbury

Christine, abused wife of Norm the Storm, quietly makes a careful plan to escape. Edward, kind and often fearful, wants to be her white knight and ride to Christine's rescue. But Norm has other ideas, most of them violent.

 

Running scared, they head off separately from the Red Centre.

 

Edward and Christine are guided by Aboriginal guardian angels, as each seek to help those who mean the most to them, despite their own pain.

 

Then they come across abducted children, scared and abused, with the bullies knocking down the door. This is 1981 and it's a free-for-all for the criminals they know, and ones they don't, but is this even their fight?

 

Will Edward find his inner dragon-slayer to help these strangers in trouble? Will Christine ever get her sister away from her demons and her captor? And will they both be able to escape all this and make a simple, good and peaceful life?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Philip J Bradbury
• Release date: Sep 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9780648502197

Philip J Bradbury

In New Zealand I experienced life as an accountant, credit manager, company director, shepherd, scrub-cutter, tree pruner, freezing worker, plastics factory worker, saxophonist, army driver, tour bus driver, stage and television actor and singer, builder, lecturer, facilitator for men’s groups, reporter, columnist, magazine editor, publisher, writer … In South Africa as an AIDS workshop co-facilitator … In the Australian bush as a barman, horse and camel trekker and stock-whip teacher … In England as a contract accountant, corporate trainer, estate manager, lecturer, singer/songwriter, website editor/writer and freelance writer … Back in Australia, house renovating, teaching, writing and website building. My constant is A Course in Miracles, a psychological life-style course in forgiveness. Through it I have found the peace I had always been searching for – the journey to where we have always been.

Book preview

Norm’s Arrival

A

s our chairs scraped back and we lurched into each other’s arms, I heard the door squeak. My heart chilled. Our bodies froze in near-clinch and I looked around. All my new hopes dropped and shattered on the dusty floor.

Weren’t expectin’ me so soon, huh? sneered Norm, his blood-flushed eyes glaring triumphantly out from under the battered brim of his Akubra hat, like a cop catching a thief after tedious weeks of staking him out. His stubble did nothing to disguise his snarl and he did nothing to disguise the double-barrelled shotgun casually dangling from his arm, as if he might soon look down and wonder how it got there.

Youse thought ya safe, huh? My bloody wife with the post boy. he said, his quiet menace more threatening than any wild rage was.

Postmaster, said Edward, correcting him, as if that mattered.

Snoopin’ round our meetings, spying at night, Mister Know Nothing Postman? Yeah, we bin snoopin’ on you, see. Communist lover, red under our beds, Aboriginal rights. A bloody stirrer come snoopin’ in our town and now you wanna’ take our women.

Oh, Norm, he’s not like that, I said with a sigh. I just can’t live chained up here like this. I can’t do it.

Well ya bloody have to, now, Norn snarled. Ya know what’s goin’ on and ya don’t get out.

I don’t know anything at all, said Edward, pushing his glasses back and fumbling with my hand. Then I realised he was pushing keys into it as he sneezed, a quick diversion. I grasped them knowing, somehow, they were a clue to my escape. To our escape, to our survival. Yes. I’ve seen these secret meetings, secret beatings, the bus at night. Other stuff. But I have no idea what it’s about. I’d love to but I don’t. I really don’t.

Maybe, maybe not, but we can’t take chances, said Norm, shifting the shotgun up a little.

Actually, I bet you know nothing either, Norm, I said, knowing he couldn’t resist a challenge. The bully boy following orders.

You think I know nuttin’ …

You know nothing, I said as I slipped the keys into my pocket.

Look, bitch, if you knew what I knew, you’d shit ya self.

See, you can’t tell me anything because you know nothing.

"Heh, ya think I know nuttin’ about the Abos getting’ uppity about their rights and wantin’ to stop mining on their land, he said, leaning back against the door frame; the master of information about to give his captive audience a lecture. Their land? Their bloody land? Christ, they’ve never done nuttin’ with it and there’s money to be made out of it. Millions. Billions. Mor’n you can ever dream. Shit, an’ the farmers think they own their land. Jeez, they’ll be squeezed off it when the big boys make their move. Mark my bloody words, there’ll be fires and stuff. You got no idea.¹"

Fires? asked Edward. What’s that … when?

I squeezed his hand, knowing dares worked better with Norm than questions.

He knows nothing about these big boys, Edward, I said, sitting down. Edward sat too and I squeezed his shaking hand again, glaring at Norm. Just little boys playing grown up boys.

I know nothing? demanded Norm, fishing tobacco and lighter from his pocket and rolling a smoke with one hand, never letting the shotgun slip. Jeez girl, an’ it’s not even the Aussie government runnin’ things. The Yanks got all our politicians wrapped up. Pay ‘em to shut up, lotsa’ benefits to go along with the shit. Shares in mining and drug companies then force everyone to take the drugs and immunisations and shit. So there’s more sales of drugs, good profits, good pay-outs and the population goes quiet, dumbed down. Drugged stupid. Street kids disappear. No one notices.

Street kids? asked Edward, confused by the array of unconnected subjects.

Yeah, well, mebe said enough, said Norm, sucking on his cigarette.

You’re making this up, Norm, I taunted, desperate to learn more as the sickening reality sank in. Desperate, too, to delay while I thought of a way out.

Norm puffed out, wreathing his weathered face in smoke, like he was the Professor Norm, Knower-Of-All, about to educate the stupid masses. I looked quickly at Edward, putting my finger to my mouth to quieten him while Norm looked down to put his tobacco tin back in his pocket. My crooked smile was meant to reassure Edward but he still looked like he’d been spooked by a ghost.

Makin’ this up? You think I’m makin’ this up, ya silly bitch! he said, spitting the words out like they were acid on his tongue. You think I know nothing about the black beer …

Black beer? spluttered Edward. What’s that?

You don’t know about that? Norm asked, obviously surprised. Hell, everyone knows about that.

I don’t, said Edward, meekly.

Maybe you don’t know as much as we thought but, hell, it’s the stuff they sell to Abos, the beer they fill with fluoride. You know, the stuff the Russians fed their prisoners of war on, in the water, to keep them placid. Compliant.

Fluoride? asked Edward, looking quickly at me as I squeezed hard on his hand. I wished I could silence him but his naivety was his undoing. In beer?

Just the black beer. Not the stuff we drink. So, when they stop bein’ pissed from alcohol they stay placid. Useless buggers layin’ about in the Todd River and other places, botherin’ no one with whingeing ‘bout their land rights an’ shit.

But you can’t do that …

Too latey matey, said Norm, smiling smugly while drawing on his smoke.

But you don’t know anything about the Yanks, really, do you? I challenged.

Na, sister, I know nuttin’ about weird poisons they bringing in and the machines like hovercraft things to poison the water an’ the cattle. Some even say they spray the sky … whataya call them … chemical trails, yeah, chem trails, tryin’ out on controllin’ the weather, make droughts so the farmers all piss off an’ sprayin’ above towns and cities with all sorts of poisons like fluoride and stuff. It just goes on …

But you don’t really know any of this, Norm, not really, I challenged. Just overheard conversations.

Look, bitch, I know enough to be dangerous and you’re both getting’ that way, too, he said, straightening up, squeezing the cigarette butt between his fingers and tossing it out the door. Anyway, I got a job to do with Mister La-de-da Edward Postman so up ya get, we got stuff to do.

Edward stared at Norm as if he was nailed to the chair; paralysed and wide-eyed.

Get moving I said! shouted Norm, turning to red.

You’ve got to go, Edward, I whispered, knowing there was no reasoning with Norm – knowing that resistance was worse than compliance – now that he had the belching fire in his eyes and the shotgun pointed steadily at us. I scrabbled round in my mussed-up mind for a delaying tactic, a diversion, and found none. I stared at Edward, willing him to look back and see me mouthing go slow, go slow.

Norm stormed across the kitchen floor and belted Edward in the face. Edward collapsed to the floor, blood oozing from his nose or mouth or both. I screeched and felt a back-hander across the side of my head. I flew from my seat and slammed against the wall, immobile.

As she woke and blinked, Norm was disappearing out the door, Edward’s thick blonde hair in his hands as Edward stumbled then fell down the three steps, grasping at his dislodged glasses. As she groped her way up the wall she heard a thump and a curse. Probably Edward being kicked upright again, just as she had been on countless times before.

Get in ya fuckin’ car! yelled Norm and Christine realised he was out of control, again. The only way to stop him was to drop him. She rushed into the spare bedroom and saw his two rifles were gone from the gun rack. He must have been planning this, she thought, and wondered how long she’d been watched. She looked out the window and Edward was on the ground, again, with Norm rifling through his pockets.

I don’t know where the keys are, Edward pleaded. They must have fallen out somewhere …

Ya useless shit! yelled Norm, dragging Edward up by the shirt front and hauling him over to Norm’s utility vehicle. As his victim stumbled into the vehicle, Norm stomped round to the passenger seat, yelling. Edward stalled twice and puttered off indecisively.

Christine’s ice-cold logic cut in and she threw everything from the freezer and fridge into bags. She rushed to the bedroom to pack the two cases she’d done dozens of times in her mind over the last two months. Her checklist ticked itself off in no particular order – passport, panties, purse, shoes, address book, Post Office bankbook, hat, dresses, pants – until the list was smaller than her fear. As she rushed out the door with the first of her bags, she saw the distant dust plume of Norm’s vehicle disappearing over the brow of the hill. She didn’t know if she was looking after herself, after Edward or what she was doing, really. She just knew she had to get out and wouldn’t be back. Edward’s green Zephyr Six looked like it’d stand a longer trip than her rusty old crate. She assumed one of the keys was for his car and loaded it without checking. She hopped in and then remembered the two petrol cans she’d been storing away. God knows how much petrol was in Edward’s car and only He knew how long she’d be driving for. She risked the extra few minutes of backing to the shed and loading the petrol, hoping she wouldn’t see a returning plume of dust. Ever again.

As she crested the rise, big splots of water landed on the windscreen. Then they stopped. The wipers hadn’t needed to work for eight years and she couldn’t find the lever for them, immediately, so focussed was she on the red road ahead.

As she sped and rattled up the dusty track she glanced down the valley to the right, to the dried-up river that drew its arid, snaking line along its distant crease. In the distance was Norm’s ute and two men. Norm must have made Edward drive off the road, through the scattered bush, to the small clearing below. Tempting fate and losing precious time, she screeched to a halt and the universe closed its vicious jaws around her heart as she saw what was happening. Edward was digging and Norm was standing guard; a bizarre and surreal Western movie she couldn’t believe. She couldn’t take her eyes off the two men – one probably gloating and the other terrified – too far away to see their faces. Through the fog of disbelief, she watched in paralysed horror as her one chance of freedom, of gentleness and, who knows, of love, dug itself to death.

¹ HAARP (High-Frequency Active Auroral Research Program) is a weather manipulation program created by the U.S. Air Force and Naval Research. Some claim it can cause earthquakes and tsunamis. Major aspects of the program are a secret. HAARP uses electromagnetic frequencies to manipulate the ionosphere, which is the upper layer of our atmosphere. It ranges from about 30 miles (50 km) to 600 miles (1,000 km) above the surface of the earth. Some researchers believe that HAARP may have caused natural disasters like hurricane Katrina. Tell-tale signs of an earthquake created by HAARP is coloured lights on the sky. This technique can cause devastating weather and floods, which affect small farmers.

Tuesday 10th February 1981

Christine

The Prodigal Daughter

A

s I drove off the main road, from Ipswich, and down the drive, twenty minutes later, something seemed eerily different. Was the grass verge longer, less maintained than before? Were there more vehicles randomly parked about where, before, they’d been put away – a rightful place for everything? Was the house … how could I put it … sadder? Neglected? Not the pristine sparkle it always had – the red corrugated iron roof, the white weatherboard and forest green trim. The roof now was faded. Rusty. The walls were grimy. Paint peeling. I stopped with fifty yards to go to my old home. I felt a worm of unease crawl through my stomach. Was this such a good idea, coming back? Was I remembering it all wrong? I was sure not.

An unease gripped my gut, stopped my heartbeat and promised pandemonium. Every nerve was stretched and it hurt my skin to think. Fighting my paralysis, I knew I needed to make a decision. A critical decision. A decision I couldn’t get right for I knew there were no good outcomes, whatever I chose.

I’d left my sister coping with our fiercely demanding father. For three years I had barely communicated while I was in Adelaide and didn’t correspond during eight years up in Alice Springs. Anything could have happened over that time and, by the look of the decay in our once-pristine home, the happenings had not been good.

I had two options: go forward and brave the mess or spin round and chicken out. Toward or Coward. The difference of one letter is the difference of one life or another. My Inner Coward spoke first and loudly but was soon drowned out by the silence of the Inner Toward. How could I run from the only person I could trust? The only one I owed? I hadn’t come all this way to chicken out.

My car crept forward as if on instructions from some other being while my mind looked for escape routes and hidden trouble like a blind soldier prodding around for hidden mines.

I circled the oval in front of the house and parked beside a rusty ute – not behind it to ensure a quicker getaway if I needed it.

And the silence. The chillingly empty silence. Not a whisper. Not a sniffle or a groan from a dog. Not a kookaburra’s or a cockatoo’s call. Not the usual radio our father had to listen to when he came in for meals. Yes, midday, lunch time, and not a sniffle. Just a sneaky rustle of an undecided breeze. It just wasn’t right.

People thought the country was a quiet place but there were always animals and birds barking, mooing, baaing, cawing, chattering and squawking. There was usually some kind of machinery going – tractors, harvesters, chainsaws, hand tools and diesel motors. And, if not for that, there’s always people clomping about, talking, yelling and giving instructions.

But not a peep from any of them; an apocalyptic scene with the life sucked out of it. Then I heard it. The shy sound I could have missed. A quietly squeaking door. The massive front door, built from a ship’s decking, calling plaintively to me. As I walked across the gravel, now spotted with shoots of grass (as never before) I wished there was something to confront, something to battle. The silence, the void, held more menace than a herd of angry bulls. At the step I saw the top hinge was loose and the door was partly open, creaking in the dusty breeze. I climbed the six steps, crossed the wooden verandah and looked back. Apart from the farm of my memories there was litter, rust, rot and untidiness. And stillness. Silence. Apart from the creaking door which annoyed me.

I knocked on the door, feeling stupid as I knew no one was there to hear me. I called out, not expecting a return call. I got none. I peered up the hallway, the jarrah timber floor, dusty and sun-bleached, not gleaming as our mother used to keep it. I took a breath, squeezed through the opening and took the first door to the left; the huge kitchen, the room of constant family banter and activity. That was way back then. Now there was silence.

There were dirty dishes piled in the sink and scattered along the benches. Newspapers, crumpled papers, assorted cutlery, an open jam jar and a butter dish – melted butter spotted with struggling flies – covered the massive old table. Dirty pots sat huddled in the corner of the wood-fired stove. My hand snapped at annoying flies and all my senses were on full alert, like a burglar without a backup plan.

I felt like a burglar, though it was my home … had been my home for seventeen years, before I left.

Who the hell are you … came a familiar voice from up the hall. Familiar but louder. More hoarse. Like the rest of the property – unkempt, if a voice can be unkempt. "Jeez, is that you, Chris? What are you doing here?"

I spun around to see my sister … well, a vagabond parading as my sister. In ripped men’s pyjamas, her once-beautiful cascade of red hair now an old haystack, the face gaunt and red, as if rubbed by sandpaper.

Kathryn! I said, as dismay invaded my voice. The years galloped by me, backwards, as I tried to fit pieces of the jigsaw, old images to this one, together. Nothing quite fitted. This was my older sister, yes. But not my graceful, coping older sister.

We weren’t expecting you, said Kathryn, stepping forward and stopping as if the floor was glue. As if wanting something forbidden. Hell, your hair … you look like Liza Minelli.

"We? Where’s Dad?"

Dad? That old bastard? sneered Kathryn as if spitting out a red-back spider. Long gone. Four years ago.

He’s dead? I asked, saying words i couldn’t touch.

As a door nail. I didn’t know where you were. You up and went and, I don’t know, just had to get on with it.

He’s dead? I asked, again, trying to reach the words I was muttering. They were there, through the window, but I just couldn’t reach them. He’s dead? I asked, again, unable to fit that with the loud, demanding perfectionist I’d grown up with, the one I’d escaped from across states after our frail mother had died. Without our mother’s calming influence, I’d known I couldn’t cope with his moods. I’d run, leaving him to Kathryn.

Sorry, I’m so sorry, Kathryn, I said, just allowing whatever words that wanted to, out.

Sorry for what? The old man dying? Kathryn took another tentative step through the glue that wasn’t there.

No, sorry for leaving you to it. With him, I said as my thoughts crystallised. I was a coward. I ran. I’m sorry. What can I say …

I was suddenly engulfed in a man’s pyjamas, the smell of sweat and unkempt hair in her eyes. I grabbed Kathryn like she was a gumtree in a flood. We clung to each other, drowning rats with nothing but the other to grab for. We held on as our lives swirled past, down the plug hole. We were two little girls again; teasing, helping, singing, playing. Two little girls in an untidy, dirty world too big and ugly for us. If we let go we’d have to face that world again. But we had to let go.

It was too early for tears, it seemed, as we smiled our uncertain smiles. The mind and body were like the red dirt outside; only able to absorb so much at a time. We’d take the water later but, just now, it was … well, fact finding. Keeping balance. Staying level.

Wanna cup of tea? asked Kathryn, straightening as she held Christine’s shoulders.

I nodded, not trusting my voice. If I uttered anything the flood would start. I knew that. I followed Kathryn to the sink, an obedient dog. I blinked and turned back to the table, screwing on the jam jar lid, carrying everything to the bench and tossing the butter (with butter dish) in the overloaded bin.

Yeah, bit of a mess, huh, I suppose, said Kathryn, hauling plates out of the sink to get the jug under the tap.

You think?

Hey, don’t get smart! It’s been tough …

Sorry, didn’t mean to … you know … trying out humour.

Yeah, right, well keep it to yourself, okay?

Right, I said, quietly, realising there were a thousand invisible buttons floating in the room, all waiting to be touched, to set off the bomb. To set off the many bombs, probably.

Ah shit, Christine, didn’t mean to snap, said the elder sister from long ago as she fumbled to plug the jug in. But just leave it alone. It hasn’t been easy.

Okay, I said, tight lipped, not knowing whether to cry, scream, abuse or console. Everything was out of place and whirled through my mind like a train of ghosts through the house, a hundred miles an hour. Which one did I focus on? Got a cloth to wipe the table with?

Yeah, probably one here, said Kathryn, moving crockery out of the sink again, holding it in mid-air, seeing there was nowhere else to put it and dumping it back down. Aah shit, I don’t know. She stood over the sink, her red hands on the rim and I realised Kathryn was crying. Or looking like she was. Do you let someone cry themselves out or do you hug them because you feel uncomfortable? Locked in indecision, I searched for something to do, to say, to think. So many buttons wanting to be touched I faltered, a coward again. Then I wasn’t.

I stalked over to Kathryn, grabbed her by the shoulders, spun her round and hugged her. You get yourself in the shower, put on some clean clothes and I’ll clean up here.

You think this is a mess? demanded Kathryn, stiffening in the embrace.

It’s a bloody pig stye and you know it! Now bugger off and we’ll clean up one tiny part of it.

Bossy bitch! said Kathryn as she sauntered off, her pyjama hems scuffing up dust from the polished hallway flooring. Can you tell if someone is smiling from behind? I was certain I could. I transferred the dishes to the dirty, massive table and, an hour later, had used three sink-fulls to wash, dry and put away the dishes. The Royal Daulton set was depleted and many were chipped and ingrained with dirt, I noticed. A cheaper set had been added. I was putting them away in dusty cupboards but Rome wasn’t cleaned in a day. One brick at a time. Plates today, cupboards another day.

The once-pristinely polished table, with room and chairs for ten people, was now scratched and scarred, like both of us, I thought sadly. But now it was clean, clear and much of it shined. Most of it shined.

Kathryn returned with her hair scratched straighter. Not quite as in times gone by but better. She wore baggy jeans and an oversized tee-shirt with long sleeves.

Had a bit of a clean up in the bathroom, said Kathryn, as if explaining her long absence.

You got no women’s clothes? I asked, dismay sneaking back in my voice.

He’s not keen on spending money on clothes. Not for me, anyway.

"He? Who’s he?" I asked as the ghost of Norm crept up my spine.

Kathryn stopped and stared round the room, ignoring Christine’s jibe at her clothes (thank goodness) and stared and stared, her mouth open like clowns at the showgrounds, heads back and forth with mouths gaping for balls. She seemed lost for words.

You okay, sis? I asked, wondering what I’d done wrong.

I … you … kitchen looks like Mum used to have it. Like I had it a few years ago, she said, quietly. I’d forgotten …

Yes, change sneaks up when we least expect it.

Hell, the mess must have grown and I didn’t notice it.

You didn’t notice it all? I asked, astonished.

Yeah well, I knew it was there but I didn’t … I don’t know … didn’t think it was as bad as it was.

Or didn’t want to see it? I felt a prick of anger wanting to burst out.

Hey, enough! I’m doing my best and you don’t know the half of it. Lay off, will you!

Sorry but I was talking to myself as well, with relationships.

Relationships? Kathryn asked, quietening down.

The pain creeps in and you don’t notice. Or don’t want to.

Only when the mess is gone do you see the mess, Kathryn said, stalking over to hug Christine. Thanks, Christine. Thanks. I feel so clean. Kind of free.

And ready for that cup of tea?

Aah, hell, can’t remember the last time someone did something for me, she said, standing back, her eyes leaking.

Our father thought children should be brought up like dogs – treat them hard and mean, keep them keen. And a good hiding once in a while does no harm. None at all. That’s what he’d say and that’s what he did. I had lost buckets of tears – and way too many, as I recalled – and our sweet mother was always there to gather them up and put them back. Then when the breast cancer enticed her away from us, it was Kathryn picking up my tears and putting them back. Then, in Adelaide, there was no one; no one reliable, anyway.

A woman in the 1970s, in Australia, wasn’t supposed to work as a truck driver, shearer, fencer, shepherd or welder; the jobs I’d learned on the farm. Yes, Women’s Lib, the Feminist Movement and all that was shouted from the rooftops but it took Australia longer than other countries to accept the rhetoric. Girls were only allowed the measly-paid jobs of teachers, nurses and secretaries, jobs I had no training or aptitude for. So I was working for a pittance as waitress and cleaner, day and evening, and was more knackered than I’d ever been on the farm where I had school and working both sides of that on the farm, mornings, evenings and weekends. I’d needed the sporadic socialising to keep herself sane, in Adelaide.

I was tired and Norm took me in. I had whole days to myself to do nothing. Absolutely bloody nothing. No pressure. It was bliss … at first. He was happy to have me out helping with fencing and other casual farm work but my interest waned after a while. And, I imagined, he breathed a sigh of relief when I offered to stay at home more and more frequently.

All I wanted was no more pain, no more tears, no more judgement. Norm was so sweet for a while. He was funny. Silly. The joker. He didn’t care if things weren’t perfect. The opposite of what I’d had from Dad. The turning of the screw was so slow I didn’t notice. Not at first. Actually it took me a few years to realise he wasn’t the man I’d married. Maybe it was wishful thinking, choosing not to see the Red Ogre in the room, the Red Ogre that invaded my father’s brain and moods most weeks. The Red Ogre I wished I’d never see again. Pretending it really wasn’t happening. I’d escaped the Red Ogre, across states, and there he was again, right before me. Belief colours reality and I didn’t want to believe I hadn’t escaped. If I’d had friends they might have noticed before I did but all I had were the galahs, kookaburras and Port Lincoln parakeets.

I soon missed my home, my family, and the more distance there was, the more wonderful they seemed. Norm tolerated my little outbursts but a man of the bush isn’t built for crying women. He wasn’t built for softness, for just shutting up and listening. He had to fix everything – rotten steps, cranky vehicles, prowling dingoes, disobedient dogs, crying wife. He just had to have an answer, a fix, for everything. Everything else he could fix. But not me. Not a sobbing woman, once a month. He tried giving advice. Walking out. Telling me to pull herself together. Patting me on the back and muttering. But, mostly, he tried yelling and then hitting.

My family was the reason for my dumb behaviour, according to Norm, and so he drew a line in the hot sand. No family. Bloody get over it. Then I discovered another of his reasons to keep my family away. But that’s another story.

So there was no one. Norm’s rages and hidings produced more tears than I ever knew existed and they washed the dusty floors for a year or so. Then, somewhere in that absorbent desert, my tears dried up. I forgot to cry. I forgot how to cry.

How is it that the most enticing things turn into exactly what we’re running away from? It had me beat. The dream husband, the dream life … well, nightmares all of them. We get what we most fear.

Well, after years of having my tears picked up, by mum and then Kathryn, here I was doing my bit, picking up Kathryn’s. I never knew tears were so heavy, the tears of others. Kathryn had carried hers for years and, now, I felt the weight. God, it’s so exhausting being there to catch and hold, I didn’t know how Kathryn did it. I didn’t know how Mum did it, for both of them and for herself. I already felt tired and knew – just knew – Kathryn had so many more to go.

Well, shut up, sit down and I’ll serve you, I said, looking in the cupboards for biscuits.

Sunday 8th February 1981

Edward

The Prodigal Son

F

rom Alice Springs to Adelaide, on the run, and there I was at Gareth’s door, seven in the morning, at the address I’d found in the motel’s phone book. I had no idea what he did on Sunday mornings but I’d soon find out.

I hoped the right words would come when I faced him.

But that never happened.

The door opened but it was not Gareth. Instead, it was a fiftyish woman, about Gareth’s age, thick black hair streaked with grey, unbrushed and unready for the day. The smooth swarthy skin told me of the Middle East and I then remembered Gareth telling me about his new wife coming from Iran or Iraq or one of those countries. The sunglasses confused me, at this hour and in this place, as did the woman’s open mouth as if it was about to speak but had forgotten words.

The floral dressing gown over what might have been a curvaceous body, now sliding into heaviness, told me she was just out of bed. I noticed a red welt on the side of her neck and her nervous hands betrayed the same on one wrist. She looked scared, as if she regretted opening the door, her vulnerability now exposed.

Ooh, aah, I said, unhelpfully. Aah, I was looking for Gareth.

Right, she said, quietly. Nothing more was said and we stared through each other.

Aah, is he here? I asked, breaking the awkward silence.

Oh, Gareth, no, he just gone to golf.

Oh. Silence.

Sorry, I was thinking someone else is here. From the Centre, she said quietly.

The Centre?

The Women’s Centre.

Oh.

Who are you?

Oh, I’m sorry, I said, remembering I’d missed yet another social cue. I’m Edward. Edward Jackson. I used to work with Gareth and then moved to Alice Springs.

Yes, of course, he told me about you. Told me lot about you, she said. The wrinkles round her eyes, round her sunglasses, moved as if her eyes were smiling a little. They scanned my face and body as if trying to compute a level of safety. I am Esther. She nodded. I suspected I shouldn’t shake her hand.

I’d hoped to speak to him today.

You come down from Alice Springs, then? she asked, seeming to relax a little.

Yes, I said. It’s been quite a trip but now I’m here …

Look … Edward, yes? she asked as if her mind was fading in and out of focus. I nodded and smiled. Look, Edward, come in. You look shattered like me. Come in and have some breakfast with me. Hokay?

As she opened the door and stepped back for me, she tripped on a mat, dislodging her sunglasses. I was shaken and quickly looked away, embarrassed. I wasn’t expecting black eyes.

Yek lahzeh lotfan²… oh, one moment please! she said, grabbing the sunglasses off her face. No hiding now, is there! I stood there, nailed to the wooden step, feeling like an intruder in someone else’s story. Come on, get in here so I shut the door.

Uh, yes, I said uncertainly, feeling uncomfortable backing off and uncomfortable moving inside. I stepped forward and felt slightly less awkward when the door was shut.

Hokay, not stop in no man land, she said with a forced cheeriness, leading me into the kitchen and waving me to the bar stools behind the kitchen bench. You have breakfast?

Uh, no, not yet, I said, looking round at a very ordinary Australian house. No broken furniture. No splashes of blood. No dangerous implements. Just another ordinary day in suburbia.

You want to know about my black eyes, yes? she asked after she had boiled water, put on toast and was frying eggs and bacon.

Mmm, well … I said, unsure if I wanted to know or not.

So, this man you look up to, who praises you to a roof, this man I married to … well, he kind enough to others and to me, usually. And that the confusing part. He so nice most of the time, right?

Well, yes, he was very kind and encouraging to me.

Yes, then all that kindness disappears. Poof! Sometimes this other him takes over. Like a monster inside him that wakes up when I not expect it. Maybe when he not expect it, too.

And he did this to you? I dared to ask. Aah, thanks, I said as she placed two cups of tea in front of me, her sad face just inches from mine, momentarily.

Yes he did, Edward. Yes he did, she said with a sigh. She turned to fetch plates and cutlery and, at her faltering back I saw a sad song looking for a singer. I felt like I was the first person she’d told and that there was so much more she needed to release from her kind mouth. I sipped uneasily at my tea, knowing I was the wrong person to be told these things. I was inept at dealing with other peoples’ problems.

You might not believe me, Edward, she said as she placed toast and butter before me.

Well, yes, aah …

Of course you surprised. He was good to you, I know.

He was … I couldn’t think of the right things to say so shut up.

No one will believe me. I tried police and they laugh at me. Then said it was nothing to do with them. Domestic dispute, not criminal matter, they say.

What! I exclaimed, a horrible truth sneaking up, unbidden. I could hit you and be jailed. Your husband could hit you and it’s fine … I shook my head as if to shake the illogic out of it.

Yes, that what I think, she said, handing me a plate of fried eggs and bacon, the pungent smells of distantly-remembered cooking filling my nostrils. I smiled as