The Unexpected Education of Emily Dean Page 9

  Perhaps it was being on the cart with Lydia that had turned her thoughts to her mother, for Lydia was the one who had said those fateful words: loony bin. Sitting there now, she began to see a pattern to things. The way her visits to Mount Prospect had so often been preceded by her mother’s increasingly erratic behaviour. Had there been other breakdowns? Other stays in the loony bin?

  ‘Penny for your thoughts.’ Lydia poked her on the arm with the knobbly end of the whip handle.

  This was the moment she’d longed for, she had to say something – but not about her mother. Not that. She scrambled for inspiration.

  ‘I was just thinking …’

  ‘Go on,’ Lydia said encouragingly.

  ‘… of Harry.’

  It was the first thing that came to her, and Lydia glanced across with a quizzical look.

  ‘What about him?’

  Exactly. What about him?

  ‘I suppose you’ll have an enormous wedding when the war ends. It’ll be a society event. And a honeymoon abroad … or Sydney. I’ve never been to Sydney … actually I’ve never been abroad. Why do people say abroad anyway? Abroad what?’

  If only she could stop her nonsensical chatter but, having begun, she felt compelled to continue, hoping that Lydia would say something in the pauses. Unfortunately, her aunt did not pick up the conversation’s thread so she had to burble on, increasingly stricken with remorse. How could she have been so stupid, talking about weddings when Harry was away at the war and might never return. Poor Lydia, alone and lonely.

  ‘You must miss him terribly.’

  Lydia still did not respond, staring straight ahead. But, with a secret thrill, Emily saw a tear slide down her aunt’s cheek. She felt a surge of empathy, followed by admiration for the way Lydia maintained her poise, and even for her refusal to seek comfort from her despite the fact that she was keen to offer it.

  Lydia wiped away the errant tear. She flicked the whip lightly over Dapple’s back and a cloud of bush flies rose up and shimmered in the air over his haunches.

  Emily understood that she should say nothing more, and sent out sympathetic emanations, feeling that a great step forwards had been taken in her quest for friendship.

  At the far side of the swamp they stopped in the shade of a wattle. Mrs Flynn jumped from the tray, yapping with excitement. Emily stood by as Lydia strapped the leather and wire contraption around her waist. It was familiar from the first excursion, and she knew that soon there would be dead rabbits dangling by their necks from the wire. A metallic taste filled her mouth, and she swallowed hard. Her resolve began to weaken when Lydia slid a skinning knife into the leather sheath on the belt, and she had to focus on how much she wanted her aunt’s friendship.

  They’re only rabbits, pests that are destroying the countryside, she told herself, watching Lydia pick up a bundle of the iron traps from the cart tray.

  ‘Waterbag,’ Lydia barked.

  Emily startled and unhooked the waterbag from the back of the cart.

  ‘Shovel.’

  She grabbed the shovel that lay on the cart tray.

  Lydia nodded to her. ‘Right. Off we go.’

  Lydia strode ahead like a bold young brigand, with Emily stumbling along behind, carrying the waterbag and shovel. Mrs Flynn ran between them, darting off now and then, her nose to the ground, following irresistible animal scents. If Emily squinted and let things go a little blurry, it was possible to imagine Lydia as D’Artagnan – possibly her favourite fictional character.

  The swamp lay to their right and on the left the land rose in a gentle slope covered in dry grasses. Many of the trees had died of waterlogging yet, inexplicably, others continued to thrive and had grown huge despite repeated flooding. Leaf litter and small dry branches crunched and cracked underfoot and here and there she saw massive branches lying where they’d been ripped from the trees. Some were old and grey and must have been lying there for decades, while others still had their leathery green leaves attached.

  Lydia was setting a cracking pace, and Emily was struggling to catch up. ‘Gosh, the storms must have been terrible,’ she puffed, as they approached a tree where a branch had recently fallen.

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ Lydia laughed. ‘Sit under a redgum on a hot still day at your peril. They drop their limbs to save water.’

  Emily skittered nervously around the tree, hoping she was out of range.

  ‘How do you know if a branch is about to fall?’

  ‘You don’t,’ Lydia replied in her customary matter-of-fact tone. ‘Not until it hits you over the head.’ She stopped and dropped the traps on the ground. ‘This should do. Now watch so that you know how to do it.’

  With those innocuous words striking fear into her heart, she tried to concentrate as Lydia demonstrated the business of trap setting, positioning the first one with care, scraping away leaves and bark, smoothing the sandy soil before plunging the long iron pin deep into the ground. With the trap in place, Lydia pressed the toe of her boot down on the metal plate. The iron jaws opened and she set the catch before hiding the whole thing from view with a delicately drizzled handful of sandy soil and some leaf litter.

  ‘You need to be careful and remember where they are. You don’t want to lose a foot,’ Lydia said, and picking up a sturdy stick, tapped it gently on the centre of the hidden iron plate. The jaws sprang shut and the stick snapped, the top half spinning away, so that Emily was forced to duck as it whizzed past her head.

  ‘Your turn,’ Lydia said, handing over three traps.

  There was nothing to be done but try to copy the steps she’d just been shown. She knew she had no hope, but luck was with her, for Lydia went on ahead. When it seemed that a suitable time had elapsed, she covered the first unset trap with a pile of leaves and then repeated the process twice more. By the time she caught up to Lydia, the rest were already set and she gave a secret sigh of relief. Too soon. There were still yesterday’s traps to be checked.

  ‘With any luck there’ll be a dozen or more,’ Lydia announced cheerfully. ‘Not bad with the price of skins the way they are.’

  She felt her stomach contract. The memory of coming face to face with Lydia in the scrub, laden with rabbit corpses, flashed through her mind and even the hope of a friendship where secrets would be shared – and her aunt’s knowledge of all the important things would be revealed to her – had no effect on the vice-like grip that was twisting her innards. It was not propitious.

  At the first trap, a quivering bundle of fur awaited them. Lydia grabbed the rabbit by the scruff of its neck and pressed firmly on the metal side plate with the toe of her boot. The iron teeth parted and she lifted the animal up. Emily found herself staring into the rabbit’s terrified eyes. She locked her knees in an effort to remain steady as Lydia gripped the squealing rabbit around the neck and, with practised ease, twisted its head sharply. There was a dull crunching sound and it went limp.

  She pressed her lips together, but it was not enough to prevent a high-pitched squeak from escaping.

  ‘You see,’ Lydia said, ignoring or oblivious to the squeak, ‘it’s not hard once you get the hang of it’, and she pulled the skinning knife from its leather sheath on her belt. Lydia was soon peeling off the pelt, which was accompanied by an awful tearing sound as it pulled away from the flesh, leaving the rabbit pink and naked. For a split second Emily imagined Eunice’s skinny flank. Then Lydia sliced off its head. It bounced onto the ground where Mrs Flynn pounced, sinking her sharp teeth into the bony skull with a crunch, before darting off with her prize. Lydia flung the pelt over a nearby log and plunged the knife into the rabbit’s pale belly. Blood welled out of the slit and dark slippery coils slurped onto the ground.

  Emily swayed, the guts glistened and she thought she saw them writhing as if, having escaped from the inside of the rabbit, they’d taken on new life as a tangled ball of wriggling snakes. She tightened her grip on the shovel, using it to keep herself upright. A hot clotted smell rose from the pile of viscera
. Flies were already swarming. She wanted to look away but was sure that any movement, no matter how small, would be enough to make her lose her balance.

  ‘Well done.’

  She looked up to see Lydia smiling at her.

  ‘I thought you might have been too squeamish.’

  She managed a sort of shrug without letting go of the shovel, knowing if she did she’d fall over.

  ‘Betty was completely hopeless. Fainted. As if weakness is a badge of womanly honour,’ Lydia added scornfully.

  Emily had no idea who Betty was but despised her instantly. She began to feel Lydia’s praise stiffening her spine, returning muscle and bone to her legs.

  ‘Onwards then.’ Lydia flashed her a comradely grin as she attached the skinned rabbit to the wire part of her belt. ‘Let’s see how many we’ve caught.’

  12

  ON THE WAY HOME THEY took a different route and arrived at a gate to find Claudio digging holes for new fence posts. Nearby, a grey gelding was tied up under a tree, a saddle slung over a branch. Emily went to climb down from the cart to open the gate, but Lydia stopped her with a restraining hand.

  ‘Claudio,’ she called.

  He put down his shovel and walked over, touching his hat in greeting. The bruise under his eye had turned purple.

  ‘Does it still hurt?’ Lydia asked.

  Claudio shrugged. It could have meant yes or no.

  ‘What were you fighting about?’ Lydia enquired.

  ‘Politica.’

  ‘I hear you’re a Red.’

  ‘Red?’ he queried.

  ‘Communist.’

  Emily felt guilty for having revealed this information in the car, as if she’d dobbed Claudio in and hoped that now, at least, he would clear up the misconception.

  ‘Ah.’ He nodded that he understood. ‘Boss say this all belonging to you?’

  Lydia smiled. ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘This way, there. There.’ He pointed in various directions.

  ‘As far as the eye can see,’ Lydia said with a satisfied expression, sitting even straighter, and lifting her chin.

  ‘Very rich – molto grande.’

  ‘Oh, well, a little,’ she demurred.

  ‘All for one famiglia.’

  This time Lydia heard the mocking undertone and looked taken aback. ‘What’s wrong with that?’ Claudio shrugged, his eyes on her. ‘There’s nothing wrong with being well off,’ she added tartly.

  ‘Is nothing wrong,’ he agreed, but Emily could see that Lydia was no longer sure whether he meant what he said, or the opposite.

  ‘This is Australia,’ Lydia added firmly. Nevertheless, her confident tone was belied by the way she shifted a little uneasily in her seat. And when it was clear that Claudio was not going to answer, she affected a haughty tone. ‘You might open the gate.’

  Claudio scratched his cheek. Emily wondered what Lydia would do if he refused. He hesitated then walked across, unhooked the chain and jumped on the gate, riding it as it swung open. Lydia gave Dapple a whack with the reins and the horse plunged forwards through the opening. As they passed him, Emily thought she saw a look travel between Claudio and her aunt. Or did she imagine it? Something so fleeting that she couldn’t be sure.

  The cart continued on, rattling and bouncing over the rough ground.

  ‘He should be grateful,’ Lydia burst out. ‘He could be locked up with nothing to eat but potato peelings.’

  ‘I don’t think we’re allowed to lock them up,’ she replied, surprised by Lydia’s vehemence, and she launched helpfully into the little she knew about the rules governing POW employees, and the fact that Italy, since its surrender, was now on the same side as the Allies, something she knew from discussions with her father.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Emily. Shut up!’ Lydia interjected, giving Dapple a sharp whack with the whip.

  There was no time to feel offended for immediately they were flying over the bumpy paddock, the dead rabbits leaping up and down and Mrs Flynn barking non-stop.

  ‘Home, James, and don’t spare the horses,’ Lydia yelled, laughing and whooping.

  Emily clung onto the edge of the cart – she was quite sure they were going to die.

  When they reached the yard, she climbed down from the cart on wobbly legs. She was determined not to reveal her fragile state given Lydia’s view of feminine weakness, and somehow managed to help unhitch Dapple and put away the harness. But there were still two dozen rabbits to skin. She had tried to ignore the implications of Lydia’s earlier demonstration of how it should be done. No matter how strong her desire for friendship, skinning rabbits was an impossibility and it seemed as if the progress she’d made in forging a bond with her aunt was in danger of being undone.

  Returning to the cart from the stables where she’d hung up the harness, she was still trying to think of a reason for having to excuse herself. Would an urgent need to use the bathroom suffice?

  Lydia was tying a bit of twine around the neck of a hessian bag. She held it out. ‘Shearers’ quarters. You don’t mind, do you?’

  Although phrased like a question, Emily knew it was really an order, but she did not mind at all and took the bag eagerly.

  ‘And get my handkerchief while you’re there.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My handkerchief,’ Lydia repeated. ‘From Sunday.’

  13

  FLIES BUZZED AROUND THE BOTTOM of the hessian bag as she trudged up the slope towards the woolshed and the shearers’ quarters where Claudio had a room. The bag was heavy, and she had to keep swapping it from hand to hand, trying not to think of the dead rabbits, pretending instead that she was carrying something else. Perhaps books, but then who carries books in an old and very smelly hessian bag? And why would she be taking books to Claudio – and could he even read English? She wondered what time he finished work and whether he might have ridden back by now. Not that it mattered of course. The sun, having dazzled its way across the sky, was now sinking in the west but she could still feel it burning the back of her neck.

  She rounded the corner of the shearers’ quarters and paused to catch her breath beside a sprawling woodpile.

  Nearby a windmill clanked in the light breeze, pumping water into a tank on a high wooden stand. A rusty overflow pipe stuck out from the top of the tank and, as the windmill turned, water spurted from it, splashing into a muddy puddle at the bottom of the tank-stand.

  She swapped the bag to her left hand. For once, the crows, magpies, cockatoos and willy-wagtails had fallen silent together. Standing in the shadow of the building she felt a peculiar sense of dislocation, as if the rest of the world had slipped away and all that remained was this place. She gave a shiver, wondering if it was the rabbiting that had turned her thoughts in such a morbid direction.

  She forced herself to move. The six doors along the length of the building were closed. Her legs were stiff and heavy, and she almost stumbled on the rough wooden step that led to the first door. If her memory was correct, this was the shearers’ kitchen. There was no answer to her knock, and so she turned the handle and pushed it open.

  ‘Hello,’ she called, feeling annoyed by the quavery sound of her voice. There was no reply.

  In the room was a long wooden table with benches on either side where the shearers sat to eat their meals. A large open fireplace dominated one wall. A few clinkers and a small pile of soot had fallen from the chimney since the hearth had last been swept. Crossing the room, she peered through the open doorway into the adjoining kitchen where a black cast-iron stove squatted in an alcove. A cleansing astringent smell perfumed the air, puzzling her until she saw the bunch of dried sage leaves hanging upside down on a nail over the kitchen bench. She crossed the worn linoleum and placed the hessian sack on the bench beside the sink. It was a relief to be rid of it.

  Outside again, she hurried along the length of the building past the row of shearers’ bedrooms and had almost reached the last door in the row when it opened, and Claudio st
epped out. He was dressed in a pair of dark serge pants and a white singlet, and she could not help feeling a twinge of dismay. In her world, men never wore singlets without a shirt. It was terribly déclassé. On the other hand, Claudio was Italian, and a prisoner of war. Perhaps he was exempt from the usual standards. His hair was wet, and he had slicked it down. Already black curls were springing up in an unruly way.

  ‘Oh, there you are,’ she said and, without waiting for him to respond, rushed on. ‘I thought you weren’t here so I left them on the kitchen bench. From Lydia. Rabbits. Dead.’

  She could hear the disjointed way she was revealing the information, and the bit about the rabbits being dead was unnecessary. ‘I’ll be going then.’ She waved as if to indicate the direction of her going, but her feet did not respond. The only thing that had moved was her arm. ‘Good-o,’ she said cheerily, as if she were turning into Uncle Cec who was fond of the expression. What was the matter with her?

  ‘You like te?’

  ‘Te?’ The word was unfamiliar.

  ‘Te,’ he repeated with an affirming nod. He pointed back towards the shearers’ dining quarters. ‘For drinking.’

  ‘Oh, you mean tea?’

  She knew that Grandmother would not approve and understood that having tea with Claudio was not the same as delivering the rabbits. She swallowed uncomfortably, making an unpleasant squishing sound that she hoped he had not heard. On the other hand, people drank tea together every day. And her throat was terribly dry.

  Claudio stepped around her. She turned and watched him walk towards the dining quarters. At the door, he called to her.

  ‘Emilia, how you liking? Sugar?’