I feel suddenly too visible, exposed. Should I go over there, check everything’s okay? Wrapping my arms across my chest against the sudden gust of cold air, I hesitate. Dee looks defeated. She stands, jiggling the baby mechanically, and lets Erica’s tirade crash over her, and I feel a rush of protectiveness. Leave her alone! She’s holding a baby, for fuck’s sake.
It’s then I realise who Dee reminds me of. My stomach clenches just as I feel the familiar pang of guilt. And when the baby begins to wail, I clap my hand over my mouth, closing my eyes against an unwanted image.
The urge to intervene has vanished. I walk fast, pulling my hood up around my face, hurrying along the narrow end of Cockle Street which tapers to the creek’s entrance. I’m not looking forward to crossing that bridge again, to the trek through the bush, but I do want to get warm and pour myself a glass of wine. As I pass the final house there’s a rustling in the bushes to my left. I lose my footing, tripping over a crack in the path as a tall shadow enters my peripheral vision.
My breath catches as I take in the tangled beard, tattered beanie and fierce eyes. The irises are piercing, electric blue against deeply tanned skin. The man makes a sound like a growl and I give an involuntary yelp, side-step him and run like hell.
***
8:48pm
Adam’s still not back. I spoke to him earlier; he was sorry I’d had a shock but explained there are plenty of fishermen about town. ‘He was most likely heading over to collect oysters,’ he told me. ‘There are oyster beds along our side of the creek. I’m so sorry, darling, I should have warned you.’
‘Yes, you should have,’ I grumbled, feeling foolish. I allow the familiar sound of his voice to soothe away my fears at being left alone in this house, especially after the campsite I spotted earlier. But since ending the call they’ve crept back in, whispering that ‘someone’s out there’, even though I know I’m just shaken from my earlier scare. Was the man I saw the one who’s been camping over here? Or was he just a local fisherman, like Adam said?
I check the lock on the bathroom door twice before I shower, startling at every sound as I stand beneath the spray.
I knew Adam would be late, but it’s disappointing all the same. It’s a two-hour commute one-way to Sydney and that’s excluding the short boat ride across the creek. I don’t know how anyone could live here permanently. And they don’t, really. Not on this side of the water. People eventually figured out that a nice view wasn’t adequate compensation for the damp and the mould, the proximity to tangled bushland and marshy swamp, the boat-only access. Everyone except Tim Dawson, who apparently thought there was nowhere better on earth.
I was trying to be positive for Adam when I told him the buyers that have paid the deposit will come through with the settlement, but the possibility they won’t does worry me. I won’t be able to rest until it’s finalised; the thought of living here indefinitely terrifies me. I think I’d go mad.
But no matter how I feel, I have to try to be strong for Adam. He’s been through enough, and I know he worries about me as it is. This is a partnership, the first real one I’ve had in truth. Men used to be just for fun, for distraction, but Adam’s changed all that. I’m married now. I have to be prepared to pull my weight.
I pull the musty blanket up to my chin, glass of red in hand, watching through the loft window as the lights flicker on across the water. People arriving home after a day’s work, no doubt exhausted after the long commute, happy to be home. Since there isn’t even a bloody television here, it seems they’re all I have for company.
Adam says the houses on this side of the creek are old fisherman’s cottages, and that back in the thirties when this town was established the wealthy lived on the main land and the fishermen lived over here, in the boat-access only part of town. Now Oyster Creek is more of a suburban commuter town, and all but this house across the water have been abandoned. There are still fishermen, apparently, but every sensible one has chosen to live on the ‘good side’ of town. The man on the left – it’s definitely a young man, not a boy – appears, passing across the upstairs window and through a door, emerging a minute later with a towel around his waist. He’s attractive in a generic, athletic sort of way. Probably an Aussie, born and raised with a surfboard under one arm.
It appears that the top floor of the house is self-contained: kitchenette, bathroom, lounge chair, wardrobe. I don’t see a bed, but perhaps there’s one on the left, out of sight. Is he travelling? Renting? Living alone? He looks like someone who’d park himself, if temporarily, in a generic seaside town somewhere on the Australian coast. The towel begins to slip from his hips and I quickly look away.
The couple on the right, Erica and Samir, are in the kitchen, sitting at an island, bathed in red-gold light from an overhead lamp. Erica stands and runs fingers through her short, light-coloured hair. There’s something about her stance, her movements, that makes her seem tense. What was she shouting at Dee for earlier? She picks up a wine glass and tips her head back to drink. The man sits with his head in his hands. I wonder if they’re fighting, and if so, what about?
I kneel on the window seat and press my nose to the glass. I’ve left the light on downstairs but up here it’s dark, rendering me invisible. I feel like a voyeur – and I suppose I am in this moment – and it gives me a guilty thrill. As I lean forward, my fingers touch something cold and hard. I pick up the thing, half buried in dusty cushions, and it’s heavy and black. Binoculars.
I snort and put them aside. Tim Dawson and his birdwatching. I always thought it was such a strange, isolating hobby. But then, as Adam says, he was a fairly isolated man. Just like this house.
Erica has put down her glass and is stirring something on the stove now. The man stands behind her, puts his arms around her but she tenses and pulls away. She turns to face him and points an accusing finger to her left. A light blinks on in that direction, as if her pointing triggered it.
It’s the upstairs light in the middle house. There she is, the Botticelli woman with long hair. Dee. She opens the sliding door to the balcony and walks slowly outside, as if trying to be silent. She looks from side to side then squats in the darkest corner. A small flame appears, lighting her face briefly, and then there’s the unmistakeable small, red glow of a cigarette.
I take a long sip of wine, an unpleasant tightness in my chest. I can’t help it; even as I pity her, I wonder about the baby. Where is it? Has she left it alone? Or is Rob there somewhere?
As if on cue, the wailing begins. It’s fever-pitched, loud even from here. My heartbeat speeds up. That sound can still get to me.
The woman doesn’t move. It’s a good minute before the red glow disappears and then she rises, slowly as if it’s a great effort, and half limps inside. Is she injured? Recovering from something? There’s something familiar about her gait, but I can’t put my finger on it. Despite the chill, she’s in a thin slip of a nightgown, her cascade of hair spilling everywhere, her engorged breasts low-hung and stark white as she bends, lifts her child from its cot and slides the straps from her shoulders.
Silence. The infant suckles, little legs kicking, and my heart thumps. There’s something world-weary, defeated, about the woman as she stands, motionless against the incessant wriggling of the baby, and turns to stare out of the window.
There’s something different about her face – a darkness surrounding one of her eyes. Without thinking what I’m doing I grab the binoculars and aim them at the window. I have a clear shot of her face, and there’s no doubting what I’m seeing. Dee is sporting a black eye: purple and blue and tinged with yellow. I feel a twinge of empathy and something else. Something deep in my muscle memory triggers a sense of panic. Did she have this when I saw her last, or is it new?
As if in slow motion, Dee bends and places the baby down, out of sight. Then she swings wildly to the right, grasps the stem of a floor lamp and throws it, like a javelin, to the floor. There’s the distant sound of splintering glass, and the scene goes black.
Chapter 7
Liz
June, 2017
Tuesday, 7pm
Adam will be late again tonight, so instead of being miserable and hiding in the attic like a crazy voyeur, I’ve taken his advice and crossed the creek to have a meal at the pub. Never mind about the money, he said, your sanity’s far more important. I didn’t miss the jibe, albeit well-intended, so just to prove him wrong, here I am, having made sure I crossed the creek in daylight. At least Adam will be here soon to escort me home, and we can take the boat.
It seems I’ve inadvertently arrived on locals’ night. There are at least fifty people here, unlike when Adam and I were last here and there were maybe two or three people at the bar. There are specials on the chalkboard, half-price drinks, and I’m fairly sure I recognise most of the faces from my walks about town.
I order a glass of white wine and stand by the fireplace, warming my hands over the flames. It really is a lovely old pub – or what counts for old in this country. Roughly cut stone walls, polished wooden counter tops, a fireplace taking up almost an entire wall. I smile as the wine starts to take effect, pleased I took Adam’s advice to come. Beats sitting alone in that draughty old house.
A woman is standing by the window, looking out into the darkness. She stands out not only because of her petite stature and pale gold hair but for the simple fact that she’s one of the very few women here. Then a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark skin and hair appears at her side holding a beer and a glass of red wine. She turns and gives him a small smile and I realise who they are – Erica and Samir.
I’m about to raise my hand to wave before catching myself. How ridiculous! Just because I’ve got nothing better to do than spy on my neighbours doesn’t mean they’ve been doing the same. I shake my head at my own stupidity and head to the bar for another drink. It’s a funny sort of feeling, seeing people in the flesh you’ve only watched from a distance. Almost like spotting a celebrity in the wild. I wonder whether the young man from the house on the left will come too, whether Dee will be here with Rob and their baby.
As if on cue, a woman with long red hair bustles through the door with a baby on her hip, bringing with her a gust of icy wind. I recognise her immediately, but she is so much more striking close-up. Her deep, dark auburn hair, while a bit wild and unruly, gleams in the low light, her vivid dress hugs her generous curves and contrasts sharply with her pale, almost translucent skin. She smiles at someone behind me, revealing straight, ever so slightly too large, white teeth.
Dee spots Erica and Samir and makes her way over to their table, bending to kiss Erica on the cheek and then handing her the baby.
I frown, thinking of the row I witnessed between them yesterday. Has it all been forgiven and forgotten then? As soon as the baby is in Erica’s arms, Dee turns and strides towards the bar until she is standing right beside me, so close I can detect the scent of perfume; it’s sharp and citrusy.
The barman appears in an instant, all smiles, filling a wine glass almost to the brim with white wine when Dee asks for ‘the usual’.
The breath I hadn’t realised I was holding comes out in a rush. I must make a sound because Dee turns towards me, and all of a sudden that dazzling smile is directed at me.
‘Bless you,’ she says, and I don’t correct her. Instead, I smile back and tell the barman, ‘I’ll have the same, thank you.’
‘Good choice,’ Dee nods in approval, taking a sip from her glass. There’s only the faintest hint of blue beneath her eye now; she must have covered the bruise with make-up. ‘It’s the only thing I’ll drink in this place. They mainly cater for the beer drinkers around here.’ She rolls her eyes.
‘Thanks for the tip. The one I was drinking earlier wasn’t particularly nice.’
‘What did you have?’
‘Erm … the sauvignon blanc?’
Dee makes a face. ‘Ugh. No, that one’s no good. This one’s the pinot grigio. Notice the use of the word the. As in they only serve one of each type here. Ha!’
Not knowing how to respond, I smile and take a sip of my own wine. My cheeks have grown warm and my pulse has quickened. Am I nervous? Embarrassed? I’ve been watching this woman without her knowledge, have witnessed vulnerable moments when she thought she was alone, when until now we hadn’t exchanged a single word.
‘You’re not local, are you?’ Dee squints at me, not bothering to hide her curiosity. ‘I’d have noticed you if you were. Not many young women in this town.’ She guffaws. ‘Not many women, period!’
‘I’m not local, no. We’re just passing through.’
‘Right. So is that a British accent?’
I can’t help but smile at her directness. Distinctly un-British. ‘You got it in one.’
Unable to help being nosy, and with Dee seeming so open, I nod in Erica’s direction and ask, ‘Is your friend okay? She looks a bit upset.’ I refrain from mentioning that I’ve seen her crying through the window on one occasion, and raging at Dee on another. There is definitely something a little odd about Erica.
Dee follows my gaze and gives a little shrug. ‘Yeah, she’s as fine as she can be, I guess. She’s just like that – a bit up and down. I guess you could say she’s been a bit … unwell lately. Which is understandable. She’s been through a lot.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’
Across the room the baby starts wailing and Dee groans. She catches my eye and rolls hers as she tips back the last of her wine and gestures for another. ‘Sorry, I’d better go see to her. My Ruby’s due a feed.’ She shrugs apologetically and takes her new drink with her. ‘Nice meeting you.’
‘Yes, you too.’ I smile and wave as she leaves. It’s a shame, I think, to have the conversation end when it was just beginning. I’m about to order a glass of mineral water when a pair of arms slide around my waist and a warm, wet kiss greets my neck.
‘Do you come here often?’ Adam whispers in my ear before he appears beside me, grinning.
I roll my eyes and slap at his shoulder. ‘God, you are so cheesy. How did I end up with such an old man?’
Adam gasps, mock-offended. ‘Can this old man buy you a drink?’
I tap a finger to my lips, pretending to consider his offer. ‘I suppose so. If he’s paying.’
As Adam buys drinks I let my gaze wander to the table in the far corner. It seems Ruby has had her feed and is now sleeping peacefully in Dee’s arms. She catches my eye and winks and I feel myself smile. Maybe Adam’s right and there’s a chance I could enjoy myself in this place. It’s not for long, but maybe Dee could be someone fun to spend time with while we’re here.
Samir bends and murmurs something to Erica, who still seems intent on staring out of the window, and heads towards the bathroom. Dee taps Erica on the shoulder and holds Ruby towards her. Erica’s face lights up as she accepts the tiny bundle and holds the baby close to her chest.
Dee makes her way to the other side of the bar, closest to the bathrooms, and I feel a pang of disappointment. She’s served straight away, and as she stands sipping her drink, Samir comes out of the bathrooms and with a glance in the direction of the corner table, approaches Dee. She turns her body to face him so that her back is to me, and even as Adam returns with the drinks, I find I’m craning my neck to see.
There’s a familiarity in the way Dee greets Samir, her hand on his shoulder as she leans in to kiss his cheek. She lingers – is she whispering something in his ear? Samir nods, his expression stern, and then Dee heads back to the table and Samir orders more drinks for him and his wife.
As Dee approaches the table, I see Erica looking at her, baby Ruby clutched to her chest. And for a second I could swear I see a flash of emotion cross her face before she’s quick enough to hide it.
Anger.
Chapter 8
Erica
May, 2017
Monday, 2pm
She’s calm now, nestled to my chest, her tiny body comforted by the warmth of mine, the gentle rocking motion of my arms. Her skin is as soft as the petals of the roses I tend to in my garden, her fine hair barely covering the pink skin of her small, perfectly round head. She smells so sweet and new; a scent I will never tire of.
‘Your silly mother is sleeping when she should be feeding you,’ I whisper to her, watching as she suckles greedily. I stroke her cheek, encouraging her, but nothing is coming. She’s starting to grow frustrated; she grizzles and beats her tiny hands against my chest, searching with her infant instincts for the sustenance she craves.
There’s a shriek from down the hall, and I look up to see the silly girl in her dressing gown, hair in an unwashed cloud, milk stains on the front of her night-dress. So she’s finally woken up then, I think, turning my back to the girl as she rushes at me at such a speed you’d think I was murdering the baby.
‘What are you doing!’ she shouts, her mouth agape, eyes blazing. She looks down at the infant sucking at my breast. ‘What the hell are you doing to my baby?’
Chapter 9
Dee
February, 2017
Tuesday, 5:09pm
Ruby’s dark lashes rest against her soft, round cheeks as she sleeps. She’s so fragile. Not as delicate as she was at birth – she was such a scrawny, twitchy thing, all skin and bone, a side effect of the placenta depleting early due to my gestational diabetes. But she is soft in all the ways a person can be soft. Her duckling-down fuzz of ginger hair, her tender ivory skin, her dewy eyes like a blue galaxy.
Despite it all, she’s healthy. I’ve fed her well, my supply plentiful in spite of my vices, and she’s filling out in all the right places. She’s a round, wriggly pudding, the picture of health when things could have – should have – gone so wrong. I’ve tempted fate, yet Ruby wasn’t punished. I couldn’t have forgiven myself if she was. It’s me who must pay the price.
You hear these names – gestational diabetes, mastitis, colic, croup – but no one can ever prepare you for what they actually are, the fact that they are not just innocuous words floating around in the ether but actual and, frankly, bloody horrible things that humans are occasionally forced to endure. I have new respect for people who have diabetes (it is relentless, and I can’t tell you how many times I nearly passed out from a hypo) and am pretty impressed whenever someone whose child has colic hasn’t killed them – or themselves – yet.
I can’t stop thinking of all the roads that led to here, which path I could have chosen to end up somewhere different. Somewhere far from here, an alternate reality where Rob and Ruby and I could be happy. How far back does it go? Which moment in time would I have to go back to in order to change things, make things right?
I’m worried, restless. I’ve got myself into a mess bigger than anyone else knows – well, anyone other than Samir – and now I have this beautiful creature I’m responsible for and she’s going to be dragged into it too.
Nobody listened when I told them I didn’t want a baby. Nobody believed me when I said I’d be a bad mother. And now it’s too late. There’s no going back.
‘Don’t you worry,’ they told me. ‘You’ll want kids by the time you’re thirty.’ And they’d laugh as though the thought of anything different was impossible. But thirty came and went and my biological clock seemed to have missed the memo.
They told me when I found the right man I’d start craving a family. But Robert came along, showed me the right kind of love, the sort that’s supposed to change you, and still …
They didn’t believe me – didn’t hear me – when I suggested that motherhood might just not be for me. ‘When will you be making a little friend for Johnny?’ my friends would ask, as though it was as simple as that, no question of it. As though I were a machine designed to produce playmates for their bratty kids.
Rob thinks the reason I didn’t want children is because of what happened with Mum’s boyfriend when I was younger. He wants to talk about it even though I beg him to leave it alone. He thinks it’s the source of all my problems, that everything will miraculously resolve itself if I can make my peace with it. What’s to make peace with? It happened. Talking about it isn’t going to change that.
Besides, does there have to be something wrong with me? Why does not wanting children require justification, whereas wanting them is natural … even admirable? It didn’t seem enough that I simply would have preferred to do other things than to take care of a screaming infant who would quickly become a tantrum-throwing toddler, who would all too soon become a sullen teenager. No, my decision had to mean something. Something bad.
They meant well, I know that. But they just didn’t get it. It’s not that I looked down on mothers – though, honestly, there was some of that. The whole idea of instantly becoming this sort of slave has just never appealed to me. I simply couldn’t understand the desire for children. It seemed I was a biological anomaly – a woman who didn’t have the urge to push out kids. It was lonely, shameful. I was tired of fighting what the world seemed to think was my duty.
When I fell pregnant, I cried for a week. I knew that the deep, burning terror wouldn’t go away until I did something about it. So I called a clinic and made an appointment, my cheeks hot with shame. But when it came to the day, I couldn’t go through with it. The look on Rob’s face when I’d told him he was going to be a father … How could I bear to take that away from him?
That was the second of many stupid decisions I made. I doomed myself to learn the hard way that you shouldn’t have a child for any reason other than the desire to do so.
And yet, biology took over, the pregnancy progressed, and I lived in denial of what was coming. People were full of helpful advice, shamelessly lying about how brilliant it was all going to be. How much love and joy motherhood would bring. And yes, it does, but that’s not fucking all it brings, is it? When I couldn’t generate the appropriate amount of enthusiasm, they were so helpful and positive. The first ultrasound will change things, they said. You’ll ‘feel it’ then. And when I couldn’t connect to the fuzzy black and white image on the screen, those twitching, wriggling parts they told me were arms and legs, those black holes where the eyes were meant to be, it was, ‘Oh, it will happen when you feel the baby moving.’
But I felt those tiny flutters like butterfly wings, the ‘quickening’ as they call it, and was sickened. There was this thing inside me, stretching my womb, nudging at my organs, sucking the blood and nourishment from my body like a parasite. A being who would come out screaming and needy, utterly dependent, wanting things from me I didn’t want – or know how – to give.
It was like watching it happen to someone else; it never quite felt real. And because it never felt real, I suppose I never truly thought anything would come of it. Totally stupid, I know. I’m not sure what I thought would happen – an accident, a miscarriage, something. Everyone knows plenty can go wrong during pregnancy. But somehow it all spiralled away from me until it was too late. Even when I thought something was wrong during the labour, and there was – the cord was wrapped around her little neck and I needed an emergency C-section to get her out safely – it still all turned out ‘just fine’.
