The Unexpected Education of Emily Dean Page 2

  In the days before her departure to Mount Prospect, when everything was unravelling, her mother had insisted she take it with her. ‘Just the thing for dinner at the Mount,’ she’d declared.

  Emily knew that it was not suitable and that she would look ridiculous. She stuffed it back into the suitcase and closed the lid before throwing herself onto the bed. Five weeks. How could she possibly endure it? She felt her eyelids begin to droop from ennui.

  2

  SHE DIDN’T NAP FOR LONG, and when she emerged from the white room she found Grandmother, Uncle Cec and Cousin Eunice sitting in wicker chairs on the front verandah, catching the start of the cool change that Uncle Cec had predicted earlier. She refused Grandmother’s offer of a chair in their immediate circle, preferring instead the canvas swinging seat. From there she could vaguely hear their voices although she could not have said what they were talking about – in any case, it was sure to be dull. She suppressed a sigh and slumped back on the seat, determined to feel utterly bored, when Lydia suddenly appeared from the other end of the verandah wearing a yellow silk dress, a shotgun slung casually over her shoulder. She passed Emily without so much as a glance in her direction, heading across the lawn towards the orchard.

  Lydia was her aunt – the baby whose birth had led to the arrival of Cousin Eunice – and only twenty-two. Everyone said it was a miracle, Grandmother having two more children so late in life. It was all because of the ones in between who had never been born. Three miscarriages, her mother had told Emily when she’d wondered how it could be that her father was so much older than William and Lydia. The unborn babies were between her father, who was the eldest, and William who came next. Lydia was the youngest. That was why Lydia and William – but especially Lydia – were more like cousins. Although she didn’t mean cousins in the sense that Eunice was a cousin. She wasn’t even sure what that sense was and suspected that Eunice wasn’t actually related at all. She meant cousins in the sense of confidantes. Perhaps even sisters. Despite not wanting to be at Mount Prospect, she had always yearned for Lydia’s friendship. But Lydia seemed determined to withhold it. At least Emily hoped that was the case. It was too crushing to think that the word withhold might be wrong and that her aunt had simply never considered the possibility of friendship at all.

  Once out of sight, Lydia began to sing, and the sound drifted through the evening air.

  ‘O hear us when we cry to thee for those in peril on the sea …’

  ‘I don’t know why she’s singing about peril at sea,’ Grandmother said with a hint of irritation. ‘Harry’s in the jungles of New Guinea.’

  Now that the conversation had turned to Lydia, Emily’s hearing sharpened.

  ‘Quite,’ Eunice added.

  ‘Blasted Japs,’ Uncle Cec said, giving vent to his outrage by aiming a kick at the fox terrier, Mrs Flynn, who was sniffing about nearby.

  Grandmother frowned at her brother. ‘There’s no need for that sort of language, Cecil, even if they are barbarians. And there’s no need to kick the dog either.’

  Emily rose from the swinging seat and began to walk across the green expanse of the lawn and into the orchard that encircled the house. She wasn’t following Lydia; she was just stretching her legs. If they happened to meet it would be quite by accident. A flash of yellow silk between the fruit trees was enough to set her in the right direction, and soon after she saw Flea, the tabby cat, winding his way through the layered straps of a row of agapanthus. Fat buds swayed at the top of their long green stems. The agapanthus flower heads were ready to burst and the shape of the buds, the way they bulged against the green skin that enclosed them, gave her a tingling sort of feeling. She pressed her legs together and felt her thighs touch. Her skin was hot and damp despite the fitful arrival of the cool change.

  Pausing beside a cherry plum tree, she contemplated the possibility of joining Lydia, who was loading her shotgun some distance away. Divine evening. She repeated the phrase a few times, hoping to perfect a suitably casual intonation. She was still practising when she saw that Flea had stopped and was crouching down, his tail stretched out straight, just the tip of it vibrating. She watched as Lydia raised the shotgun to her shoulder in line with Flea’s tail. There was a hollow boom followed by an echoing crack, and the strappy green skirts of the agapanthus flapped wildly. When the leaves settled, something in the hidden centre of the plant went on thrashing. Lydia moved towards it, and now Emily noticed she was carrying a lengthy piece of wire with a hooked end. Lydia poked it into the agapanthus and lifted out a long brown snake, still twisting in its death throes.

  ‘Well done, Flea, good puss.’

  The cat rubbed himself proudly against the legs of his mistress.

  The sight of the writhing reptile had instantly obliterated all thoughts of the divine evening and, if her legs had not felt so suddenly weak, Emily knew she would have hurried back to the verandah. Instead she leaned against the trunk of the cherry plum for support, as Lydia carried the snake to the fence that marked the boundary of the orchard. She witnessed her aunt hang the snake over the top rail of the fence beside a row of similar carcasses. Some had dried out and were fluttering like crepe streamers in the evening breeze while, from more recent additions, she caught the odour of rotting flesh as it mingled with the sweeter scent of windfall cherry plums. She watched as Lydia slid her fingers over the sleek, scaly body of the newly dead snake, before running the same fingers over her cheek, as if, for some mysterious reason, she was comparing the texture of the two surfaces.

  Then the bell rang out calling them to dinner, as it always did just before seven. Lydia picked up the gun where she’d rested it against the fence and began walking towards the house. Too late, Emily saw that her aunt was veering towards her.

  ‘Hello, Emily.’

  ‘Oh, hello.’ She smiled, pretending to be surprised, as if she had been absorbed in a moment of solitary contemplation and had not noticed Lydia’s approach. ‘Divine –’ But she got no further, for Lydia continued on without breaking stride.

  At seven o’clock on the dot everyone was gathered in the dining room. They sat down in their usual seats: Grandmother at the head, with Lydia to her left, then Eunice beside Lydia; Uncle Cec at the opposite end, with Emily on his left. Between Emily and Grandmother was William’s spot.

  As Emily pulled out her chair to sit, she noticed the place setting beside her. ‘Is William here?’ she asked with surprise.

  She expected Grandmother to answer, but it was Lydia who spoke first. ‘I don’t know why you keep setting his place,’ she said, addressing Grandmother. ‘He’ll let us know when he’s discharged from hospital.’ She sounded irritated, and Emily felt sure they’d had this conversation before.

  Grandmother did not respond, but Emily saw her flinch. Neither Uncle Cec nor Eunice spoke. It seemed the mention of William elicited only silence.

  The door between the dining room and kitchen flew open, and Della came in carrying a leg of mutton on a large serving platter, her arrival saving everyone from the awkward hush that had befallen the room.

  Emily couldn’t help staring. The cook was even more enormous than last time. Was there a point at which she would simply explode? Della put the platter down on the sideboard with a bang and retreated to the kitchen. Seconds later, she returned with two covered silver serving dishes.

  Uncle Cec rose to do the honours with the meat. On a ledge on top of the sideboard sat a row of pewter beer mugs, and the effect of his vigorous carving made the mugs jiggle against one another. A small clinking sound echoed through the otherwise still-silent room. Emily counted the mugs. Sixteen, the same as always. The clinking continued as her thoughts drifted, and she recalled hiding under the sideboard. It was years and years before, and all to do with the crumbed brains that she would not eat. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ Eunice had scolded, giving her a good shake. That’s when she’d bitten Eunice on the wrist to make her let go, and then Eunice had become hysterical and Grandmother had to s
lap her cheek. In the kerfuffle Emily had scuttled under the sideboard and refused to come out. It was quiet down there, with just the occasional sighting of shoes passing by. When hunger finally drove her out, Della gave her a slice of lemon cake and there was no further mention of the brains.

  Now Uncle Cec had finished carving, and Della began to serve everyone, moving round the table like a ship of state, her plain cotton dress straining at the seams. ‘I will love thee, O Lord, my strength,’ she intoned, setting down a plate with a slice of dark mutton, boiled onions in white sauce, and a small mound of peas in front of Grandmother. ‘The lord is my rock and my fortress, and my deliverer,’ came next as Eunice was served. ‘My God, my strength, in whom I will trust.’ A plate for Lydia. ‘My buckler, and the horn of my salvation. And my high tower.’ The plate slid onto the placemat in front of Emily. Della tapped her on the head and gave her a nod in greeting before moving on. She delivered the last plate to Uncle Cec just as he sat down. ‘I will call upon the Lord, who is worthy to be praised: so shall I be saved from mine enemies.’ Della paused, surveying the room as if daring someone to speak. Nobody did. ‘Psalm 18, verses 1 and 2.’ With that, she sailed off, back to the kitchen.

  Grandmother gave a great sigh. ‘What a blunder.’

  Eunice sighed in sympathy.

  Emily waited. ‘What blunder?’ she asked when nothing more was forthcoming.

  ‘The King James Bible,’ Grandmother said. ‘I should never have given it to her. Quoting it day and night as if …’ She shook her head, unable to find the right words.

  ‘As if it’s the Bible,’ Lydia added with an ironic smile.

  Grandmother frowned. ‘Don’t be snide, Lydia. The Catholic Church thrives on keeping its flock ignorant. All that Latin nonsense. The priests have far too much power.’

  ‘Damn right they do,’ Uncle Cec said from the other end of the table.

  ‘Then I don’t see why you’re complaining,’ Lydia said. ‘It’s been a raging success. Della’s become quite the biblical scholar.’

  Emily wasn’t sure she was following. She knew that Grandmother couldn’t abide Catholics. For one thing, they were mostly Irish, or at least their parents or grandparents were; being Irish was forever – like being Scots except that the Scots were superior of course. Della was a Catholic and Irish too. But she had also heard Grandmother describe Della as a treasure. And formidable.

  ‘One believes, but in moderation.’ Grandmother’s voice rose a notch. ‘Della’s taking it all far too literally.’

  ‘Quite so.’ Eunice nodded with approval.

  ‘Moderation. Like your father, Emily,’ Grandmother went on. ‘It was a shock when he decided to enter the church, however Protestants don’t prey on the gullibility of the poor and uneducated.’

  This, she knew, was a reference to the Catholic practice of confession, which Grandmother saw as both immoral and theologically wrong. There were so many things wrong with the Catholic Church: the power of the priests, confession, the Pope, and an irrational and unpatriotic refusal to eat meat on Fridays. In Grandmother’s opinion, the Catholics showed far too much enthusiasm for religious behaviour outside of the church walls. It was all quite unnecessary.

  And deadly dull. She fiddled with her serviette ring. Were they ever going to eat? Fortunately, Grandmother must have read her mind and announced that grace should be said before the meal was stone cold.

  Everyone mumbled, ‘For what we are about to receive may the lord make us truly grateful, Amen.’

  She looked up to catch Uncle Cec winking at her. ‘Eat away, chew away, munch and bolt and guzzle. Never leave the table till you’re full up to the muzzle.’

  The words belonged to Albert, the magic pudding. It was a book her mother had often read to her, and she remembered how shocked she’d felt at Albert’s desire to be eaten. It seemed wrong, like wanting to be smacked, although of course he was a pudding and not a person. Albert’s words popped and fizzed in such a pleasurable way, it was almost as if they were food to be eaten too, and she smiled back at Uncle Cec.

  ‘Really, Cecil,’ Grandmother scolded.

  ‘I see we’re to have the pleasure of your company for the rest of summer, Emily,’ Eunice said, surprising everyone by introducing a new topic.

  Emily felt a jolt of alarm. ‘Only for a week.’ Father had said just until things got back to normal, and she’d managed to convince herself that it would be no more than a week. She could not endure the thought that it might be longer.

  A glance slid between Eunice and Grandmother, followed by Eunice’s treacherous little smile. ‘Of course, dear. It’s important to keep your hopes up.’

  A hot hard lump got stuck in Emily’s throat, and she wished something terrible would happen to the fake cousin. Tears pricked in her eyes. As an emergency measure, she began to count the peas and, on reaching twenty-five, was able to lift her head again. A fleeting yet sympathetic look from her grandmother surprised her, knowing that Grandmother believed feelings of any sort were an extravagance. But then she wondered if she had imagined it, for Grandmother was already addressing Lydia.

  ‘Lydia, dear, I see you had a letter yesterday from Harry.’ She turned to Emily. ‘Did you know that Lydia and Harry are engaged?’

  Emily nodded.

  ‘The war effect,’ her mother had commented on hearing the news. ‘A rush of blood to the head – and other regions. Let’s hope she doesn’t rue the day.’

  ‘Why would she?’ Emily had asked, but her mother simply laughed and raised her eyebrows at her father as if he knew what she meant.

  Grandmother continued, ‘Do tell us Harry’s news.’

  Lydia’s eyes were glittery, and there was a spot of red on each cheek. ‘Harry’s news?’ she said in a strained voice. ‘Oh, he’s having a wonderful time, Ma, living the jungle high life and waiting for a Jap to stick a knife –’

  But that was as far as she got before Uncle Cec banged his fist on the table.

  ‘This damn war,’ he boomed. ‘Everyone knows the Boche are a treacherous lot, but the bloody Japs are even worse. Ruthless bloody murderers. They haven’t evolved like us. One thing’s for certain, if the worst comes to the worst, I’ll do what has to be done. They won’t get their filthy paws on any of you, I’ll make sure of that.’

  Emily tried to control a rising sense of panic.

  Across the table Lydia caught her eye. ‘Uncle Cec plans to kill us. The women, that is. Mercy killing.’

  ‘Mercy is right, Lydia,’ Uncle Cec replied, pointing his knife at her, a transgression of table manners almost as serious as the topic under discussion. ‘Better that than let the Nips get hold of you. Mark my words.’

  Emily’s eyes flicked nervously from Lydia to Uncle Cec. She had never met a real Japanese person but she had seen the official posters warning of their imminent invasion. They looked quite terrifying. On the other hand, the thought of Uncle Cec carrying out mercy killings was hardly comforting.

  ‘How?’ The word popped out before she could stop it.

  Lydia smiled. ‘I expect he’ll shoot us.’

  Grandmother could contain herself no longer. ‘Enough! What on earth has got into you, Cecil? And you too, Lydia. Is there to be no civilised conversation at this table?’

  Uncle Cec lowered his head in a suitably chastened way, while Lydia shrugged as if she couldn’t care less. Dinner proceeded in silence until Della came in to gather up the empty plates and bring in the pudding, a lemon meringue pie that she placed in front of Grandmother for her to serve. Emily heard something about the lilies of the field before Grandmother artfully interrupted Della’s recitation with praise for the perfect swirls of snowy white meringue and the delicate aroma of lemon wafting from the pie.

  The conversation was able to restart with a discussion of the merits of Della’s puddings. Grandmother took the lead, closely seconded by Eunice, with grunts of affirmation from Uncle Cec. It was not in the first rank of dinner conversations, but at least it had Grandmother�
�s ‘civilised’ seal of approval. Emily was just relieved that there was no further talk about the duration of her stay or of Uncle Cec’s plans to eliminate them in the event of the Japanese invasion.

  3

  AFTER DINNER EVERYONE GATHERED IN the sitting room to listen to the eight o’clock BBC news on the wireless. Emily lingered in the doorway, reluctant to enter. She did not want to hear any more about the war. Far more pressing was her desire to ring home and establish how soon she could return. She simply could not stay for the rest of the summer. But to use the telephone she needed permission. Trunk calls were expensive and only to be made on special occasions or in the event of an emergency. The telephone was on a party line. Grandmother had gone over it with her on earlier visits: an incoming call for Mount Prospect was signalled by two long rings followed by one short ring; Pleasant Springs, a nearby property, was two short and one long; and the next-door neighbours at Rose Park, by three short rings. If one made a mistake and picked up the wrong call, one was duty-bound to indicate the error and hang up immediately. Continuing to listen to the conversations of others was quite beyond the pale. Everyone agreed on the rule, although the speed with which private information spread through the district was an indication that agreement did not mean adherence.

  ‘Come in, don’t dally in the doorway,’ Grandmother said, now settled into her armchair.

  ‘I thought I’d just ring home and let my father know I’ve arrived.’ She heard herself say ‘my father’ as if she was talking to a stranger.

  ‘I’m sure he knows,’ Grandmother replied with a smile. ‘There’s nothing so urgent that it can’t be conveyed in a letter.’

  ‘It’s hardly an emergency,’ Eunice said, fanning Emily’s desire for Eunice to meet a violent and untimely end.

  ‘The good news grows by keeping, and you’re spared the pain of weeping over bad news when the mailman drops the letters in the creek,’ Uncle Cec recited, tamping a plug of tobacco into his pipe. ‘Banjo,’ he added, in case she had not recognised the signature style of the Bard of the Bush.