Oh, it’s cold. I force on against the wind and open the gate, totter up to the door. It only opens so far against that lump in the hall, the armchair that won’t fit anywhere else. I shut myself out of the racket, into the gloom. Practically in the dark, I shrug off my basket, lay it on the chair and put the two coats on top.
This place gives me the shudders, packed so tight with furniture and trinkets. All mine now. What the blazes should I do with it all?
I sidle upstairs, catching on this box-corner and that chair-leg, picking my way slower and slower as the walking-way narrows to the front bedroom. There is a bed in here, said Miss, the time she brought me, though she was hazy as to its whereabouts.
She was clear enough on what she wanted to show me, though. See that big cupboard, with the mirror?
Oh my, I said, at the mountain between us and the cupboard.
No, no, I have made a path. Here, look. And she showed me the line of boxes I could move. Into this slot here under the window, all of these will fit. We won’t do it now. Sometimes I do, though, come up here and admire it. Right behind the mirror, it is, with the shoes below. You cannot mistake them. And then…
I wanted to be away, I remember, from all this talk of death, all this clutter. I was big with Ha’penny then; the place had made me breathless and sick-feeling. I wanted air. And then? I said, panting.
In the top drawer, she said, and her gaze was on it though door and drawer-front hid it. There’s something there, too. Put it in the ground with me. No one’s to know.
I take the first box and begin the to and fro, slowly excavate the path to the cupboard. The bottom boxes are heavy, and must be slid along the floorboards — what can be in them?
At last I’m through. Look at that scrag-worn witch in the mirror. Doesn’t she look flustered, though? Rude, too, poking out her tongue. I open the door to hide her ugly face.
The dress hangs inside; the shoes wait empty below.
You will think it old-fashioned.
It’s a large dress and dark, high necked, well made, the most dignified dress I’ve ever seen. I lift the heavy skirt, the better to see the trim around the hem, flat panels with points folded out of them — no silly ruffles for our Miss. The shoes — I turn one over, admiring the make, the buckle and kinked-in heel, the lace tied in a perky bow — they are almost little animals. It’s all bespoke, she said, and then she had to tell me what bespoke was. She went to Cordlin for these, had a dressmaker measure and sew. A town cobbler, trained in London, shaped the shoes. She chose the leather herself, and the cloth, so heavy and rich — such a shame to bury it!
I take out the dress; it falls beautifully into the folds I choose for it. There is a parcel of underthings, very nice ones, tied up with twine. Yes, pushed to the back there is, and I fetch it out.
I open the other door, the one with no mirror, and pull out the drawer. (Put it in the ground with me, she said. And then Penny bumbled in and grizzled at my knee, and I never did ask what the something was.)
Whatever it is, it’s wrapped in tissue paper, crinkled from being opened and shut many, many times.
‘It will be a gift,’ I whisper, pressing on the soft parcel, ‘from some unexpected man, someone respectable. Scandal would come of it, if I showed the town.’
I untie the faded ribbon and draw apart the tissue.
The tiniest of nightgowns lies there — for a doll, you would think. None of my babs was as small as that, even the boy, even fresh-born. To the chest, pinned with a silver pin, is a scrap of paper: Ean.
‘Ean?’ I breathe. Slowly, as if the thing will turn to dust if I’m not careful, I lift the little garment into the better light. I can spread it on a single hand.
Then, ‘Ah!’ I snatch it to my chest. Under a smaller leaf of tissue in the parcel, blurred by it, lies another nightgown, like a ghost of the one on my hand. I lift off the tissue-leaf. This gown’s not as old, not as yellowed. Froman, says the paper pinned to it.
‘Froman!’
Wiser now to the old woman, I bend and slide the Froman gown aside: another leaf, another ghost-dress, the last.
I rustle the tissue away. Outside, the wind hurls itself about. This third gown is mainland work, finer, softer. Silk-embroidered cornflowers wander out from under the pinned paper.
Hugh. I mouth the name, but no sound comes out. Three babs. Three boys. No one is to know.
I’m so astonished, I cannot think. I sit on a box awhile, whispering the names over and over.
I remember asking her, when I started to swell with Pennylope. Should I find me a midwife? I said.
You have one, she said.
Why, who else’s babs have you delivered? Seal-wives’? Are they made the same below?
Not seal-wives’.
Whose, then?
She must have been laughing to herself, the answer right there before me. People’s, she said. You’ve no need to worry.
Ean, Froman, Hugh. Where do I begin, with the questions I cannot ask her?
I spread the nightgown in my lap, little Ean’s. ‘Perhaps you were too small to live. All of you,’ I add towards the others in the drawer, ‘perhaps were small, or sickly. There are plenty of women that’s babs don’t thrive.’
They don’t answer, curse it. They lie as they’ve lain forever, all innocent and silent.
‘But whose?’ I say. ‘Whose are you? What man of this isle got you on our Miss?’
I will ask about, I vow. When I give the news of her death, I will look in their eyes. I will pry and prod, without telling what I know, until he coughs up the truth himself, this father — or these three, if three different dads there be. I will find out, if only to put my own mind at rest. She shall not have the better of me, the old coot. Who does she think she is, not saying, for all these years? The laughs we might have had at their expense, the fathers’, just as we laughed at my girls’ dads! When we could tell which was whose, that is, of the old codgers pining for good red loving, or the skinny boys not rich enough yet for a water-wife. Why would old Missk deny me that fun?
I lay the nightgowns back together, wrap them in the tissue, take them out and close the drawer. I gather up what I’ve found, sidle back to the stair-head, down to the door. I pack the shoes, the funeral dress and the parcels into the basket; I manage the coats on and the scarf. One sniff of Miss’s collar and there she is, biting the head off my Farthing, scowling out over the sea. I strap on the basket and let myself out into the snow-streaked gale.
And the wind bustles me back down the slippery streets of Potshead town. All the way it wrenches and worries the basket on my back, as if it would love to tear it open, and snatch out the three little secrets Miss wants buried with her. Toss them high, it would, if I only let it, dance them awhile in the storm, in the snow. And then it would drop them far out to sea, maybe, or inland among the crags beyond Windaway Peak — or perhaps nearby, on dune, in field, on cottage roof, in cobbled street, not caring who saw them, not caring a jot who knew.
Acknowledgements
I thank Keith Stevenson for inviting me to write a story for his novellanthology, X6 (coeur de lion, 2009). ‘Sea-Hearts’ the novella was the result.
Dani Napton and Jill Grinberg, thank you for initial encouragement to extend the story, and Jodie Webster, Rosalind Price, Bella Pearson, Nancy Siscoe, Simon Mason and Linda Sargent, thank you for advice during the writing, which helped the novel find its final form.
MARGO LANAGANis an internationally acclaimed writer of novels and short stories which have garnered many awards, nominations and shortlistings. Black Juice was a Michael L. Printz Honor Book, won two World Fantasy Awards and the Victorian Premier’s Award for Young Adult Fiction. Red Spikes won the CBCA Book of the Year: Older Readers, was a Publishers Weekly Best Book of the Year, a Horn Book Fanfare title, was shortlisted for the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize and longlisted for the Frank O’Connor International Short Story Award. Her novel Tender Morsels won the World Fantasy Award for Best Novel and was a Micha
el L. Printz Honor Book for Excellence in Young Adult Literature.
Margo lives in Sydney. She maintains a blog atwww.amongamidwhile.blogspot.com, and can be found on Twitter as @margolanagan.
Table of Contents
COVER PAGE
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT PAGE
CONTENTS
DANIEL MALLETT
MISSKAELLA PROUT
BET WINCH
DOMINIC MALLETT
DANIEL MALLETT
LORY SEVERNER
TRUDLE CALLISHER
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Margo Lanagan, Sea Hearts
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