Dancing on Knives

  But one day could be a long time away. And now, this day, was so close, was pressing upon her with its terrible truth, death, blood, storm, so she could hardly breathe with pain and doubt. Always the breathlessness the knowledge of time pouring away from her time outpacing her to be caught to be out-run leaning into the abyss. Her heart beat faster and faster pulses beat in her throat in her temples. The roof was far above her she was fixed on the bed motionless watching breathing listening to her life pour out of her waiting for the dream.

  Sara’s dreams frightened her. They seemed to speak to her in a language she no longer knew. Many times there was darkness, tree branches flashing white, a car racing forward. Many times there was fire. Once she dreamt she gave birth to a fiery child, its eyeballs shimmering with heat. She dreamt birds beat around her head, gouging at her eyes. She dreamt she woke to find all her family had disappeared and Towradgi was empty, its rooms echoing, cobwebs draping from the staircase.

  Sometimes Sara’s dreams were so vivid, they came back to her in waking hours and haunted her with their indecipherable hieroglyphics. It seemed as if ghosts swarmed in the darkness around her bed. Her mother often came, incandescent. A man hanging from a rope with his neck askew and his face black. A grim-faced man with a stick that he would bang on the floor, a young girl with dripping red hair and a white face.

  ‘A stick of cinnamon is the secret,’ said a little old woman dressed all in black. ‘It must be hot and sweet and salty, the zarzuela, like the summer sea, like pasión.’

  Or she would whisper, ‘Have you lost courage?’ Sometimes, then, the ghost of Sara’s grandmother would go on telling the story as she had done so many times when Sara was a little girl and scared of the dark. The sibilant voice would whisper in the darkness, ‘Put out your little tongue and I will cut it off.’ So the little mermaid put out her tongue and the witch cut it off so she was dumb, and could neither sing nor speak. And then the witch gave her the potion, which looked like the clearest of sparkling water.

  Other times, though, the voice would ask, ‘Have you lost courage?’ and it would not be the cruel jibe of the sea-witch, but a true question, asked with tenderness. Then she would say, ‘It’s thyme you need, thyme is best for courage.’ Or maybe she meant time. Time heals all wounds. Time and tide waits for no man. How was Sara to know? For in the shadowy subterranean world of dreams, everything is changed, distorted, transfigured. Time itself is fluid, and memory.

  Dreams were the dark undertow of Sara’s life, they dragged her under to drown.

  That night, floating on waves of gin, Sara dreamt she heard her father calling her name. ‘Sara, Sara, where are you, princess? Sara?’

  She tried to call back but she was suddenly and strangely mute. No matter how hard she tried, she could make no sound. She began to run, looking for her father, following his voice. She ran down the stairs, looking in all the rooms. As she came down the stairs to the landing, she caught a glimpse of her father in the mirror. He was standing at the door, his face turned away from her. In art, this position was called profil perdu, or the lost profile. She tried to call out again, but her vocal cords were strangled. She tried to run faster but it was as if she was running through quicksand. As she stumbled down on to the landing and swung herself by the banister on to the last flight of stairs, she saw her father walking out the front door. Desperately she called to him, her silent scream futile. He shut the door behind him. Sara threw herself down the stairs and across the entrance hall. Her hand was on the knob, she turned it and flung open the door. Outside it was sunset, the whole hillside blazing with orange light. The leafless poplars looked as if they were on fire, the sea was molten lava. She could see for miles and miles and miles, across winter-sere paddocks, across the effulgent sea, into the great sunset-coloured sky. There was no sign of her father.

  He was gone.

  Sea-Change

  low tide – 0.5 m

  6.23 am, Easter Sunday

  high tide – 1.1 m

  12.20 pm, Easter Sunday

  The shrill peal of the front doorbell woke her.

  Sara swam up through thick veils of nightmares, hearing the doorbell ring again and again. The closer she came to consciousness, the more aware she was of the desperate dryness of her mouth, the pounding of her pulse in her temple. She half-fell out of bed and stumbled to her door, hardly able to see past the waves of multi-coloured lights beating against her retinas. All the way down the stairs she banged from wall to banister, one hand holding her head, the other groping for obstacles she could not see with her eyes blinded with dizziness.

  At last she reached the front door and opened it, leaning against it for support. It took a moment for her vision to clear enough for her to see her aunt, Maureen.

  Sara stared in bewilderment. ‘Maureen. What are you doing here?’ It was hard to talk with her mouth so dry, and she tried to swallow, to bring saliva to moisten her throat.

  Maureen spread her hands helplessly. She was wearing no makeup. Sara had never seen her aunt without makeup. Her skin looked like an old, dried chamois. Her eyelashes were short, red and stubby, her mouth completely colourless. Even her throat under her chin was freckled. She had dyed her hair blonde since the last time Sara had seen her. Sara tried to remember when that had been. After Bridget’s death. Maureen had come to the house after the memorial service Augusto would not allow any of the children to attend. She had stood on the verandah, just where she was standing now, and said to Augusto with the hiss of contempt in her voice, ‘You mean you’ve had a bastard on the side all these years?’

  ‘What’s happened? What’s wrong?’ Sara glanced out at the dim sky. A kookaburra was jeering maliciously out in the bush. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘I just need to know … how is he? No-one will tell me.’

  ‘Dad?’ Sara asked.

  Her aunt nodded.

  ‘He … it’s not good.’ Sara pressed her fingers against her temples. Her headache was so severe she thought she might pass out. ‘But … he’s stabilised.’

  ‘Thank God.’ Maureen put out one hand to steady herself on the doorjamb.

  Sara stared at her. On one cheek she saw the shadow of a bruise. Bile rose in her throat.

  ‘Why do you care?’ she asked. ‘I thought you Hallorans all hated Dad.’

  Maureen looked away. ‘I never hated him.’

  ‘And why come here? Why not ask Alex for news? He’s been here practically all weekend, making plans for what he’ll do with the place once it’s his. Why not ask him how Dad is?’

  Ugly colour rose in her aunt’s cheeks. She did not answer.

  ‘Have you been screwing my dad?’ Sara asked.

  ‘Sara! What kind of question is that?’

  ‘A fair one, I think. Dad was having an affair with someone … and your loving husband and brother were here on Friday, shouting at him. Did they find out? They must’ve been so angry.’

  Tears welled up in Maureen’s eyes. She scrubbed at her face with her hands. ‘No. I … I’m just concerned. I wondered how you were all getting along.’

  ‘So kind of you to come and inquire,’ Sara said.

  Maureen’s cheeks flushed even redder.

  ‘When did it start?’ Sara said. ‘Let me guess. New Year’s Eve?’

  Her aunt’s eyes flew up to meet hers. ‘How … how do you know?’

  ‘Dad started painting again. He cooked for us. He … he was happy.’

  Maureen’s lips curved. ‘He was?’

  ‘For a little while.’

  Maureen drooped again. ‘He was happy,’ she whispered. ‘We were both so happy.’

  Sara could not speak. She felt sick and giddy.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Maureen hurried on. ‘We didn’t want anyone to find out. I know what you must think. But it wasn’t like that, we loved each other, we couldn’t help it, it just happened.’

  ‘Nothing just happens,’ Sara said.

  ‘But … it was greater than both of us.’


  ‘That’s always the excuse, isn’t it?’ Sara hated this woman with her lined, freckled face and dyed hair. How could her wild and moody father, her great and fantastical father, have loved such an ordinary woman?

  ‘You don’t understand …’ Maureen said.

  Sara remembered barbecues on Sunday afternoons, with Maureen helping Bridget make the salad, the two of them drinking gin and tonics as the shadows crept across the lawn. She remembered Maureen standing on the step the day after Bridget’s memorial service, with great red pouches under her eyes, accusing her father.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ she answered, through the pounding of her head.

  Maureen grasped Sara’s arm. ‘I loved him,’ she said. ‘God, I left my husband for him.’

  More than three months, Sara thought. And I never knew.

  ‘It wasn’t like that,’ Maureen said, misunderstanding the recoil on Sara’s face. ‘We never meant it to happen like this. I’ve always … we used to talk all the time, you know, we’ve always been friends. I never thought … I never blamed him, y’know, for Bridgie’s death.’ Sara jerked her arm out of Maureen’s grasp, but her aunt went on talking. ‘We hadn’t seen each other for such a long while, after the accident and the trouble over the farm. I … often wanted to. And then we met, quite by chance, at a party in Batemans. We went swimming together in the bay.’

  Clear waves and ripples ran across her face. Sara saw the luminance of the moon-lit bay in her eyes, the sound of the waves falling in darkness and the great dark underswell, concealing, concealing.

  ‘Didn’t you realise Dad only slept with you for revenge?’ Sara did not want to hear about him and her, did not want to imagine their bodies gliding together through the moon-chiffon water.

  Maureen fell back a step, searched her face for some expression, then said, ‘No, you don’t understand. He loved me too, can’t you accept that?’

  Sara felt like slapping her.

  Oblivious, Maureen continued: ‘I came to the headland nearly every day, I couldn’t keep away. He’s painting me, you know. He said it’ll be his greatest work.’ A child-like pride rang in her voice. Sara could barely contain her contempt. ‘He’d paint, we’d eat, and drink up there in the sun. I always brought the most wonderful picnics: smoked salmon, chicken salad, pâté, caviar. He loved food like that, he loved to be indulged.’

  He’s my father, Sara thought. I know what he likes!

  ‘Please believe me,’ Maureen was saying. ‘I love your father. I’d have gone anywhere, done anything.’

  ‘Your brother-in-law?’ The intensity of her hatred surprised Sara, who had always liked Maureen the best of all the Hallorans. ‘Your only sister’s husband?’

  Maureen sat on the old cane chair against the wall, dabbing away her tears with a tissue. She lifted her splotched face to Sara, saying distractedly, ‘Yes, yes. It didn’t matter, don’t you see? Bridgie was dead, what did it matter to her? She’d want me to be happy, she’d want me to look after him, he needs me …’

  ‘Oh, bullshit! Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit!’ Sara did not know whether to sob or rage, whether to hit her aunt with her fists or run away. ‘I should have known – why didn’t I guess? You’ve always lusted after him, haven’t you? I bet you were sleeping together when Mum was still alive. Your own sister! It’s dirty. I can’t believe it.’ Maureen tried to speak over the top of her but Sara was in a sort of rhythm, suspicions scrambling over and over in her mind. ‘So he was painting you, was he? Is that what he told you? Did he ever show you what he was painting?’

  Her father’s mistress shook her head, and opened her mouth as if to say something. But Sara’s question of ‘Would you like to?’ cut across her, and so she just nodded.

  Sara took her into her father’s dark studio, switching on the light, blinking in its cruel brightness. Her headache was so powerful it was like a pneumatic drill inside her skull.

  Together they stared at the painting swimming in the darkness at the unlit end of the room. The voluptuous lavender body sprawled carelessly across the canvas, the languid hand with its round palm, the slitted eyes reflecting fire, the long coiling snakes of hair dissolving into smoke. And above, the great, dark, brooding profile of Towradgi Headland staring out to sea.

  ‘It’s a portrait of Mum,’ Sara said. ‘He wasn’t painting you – he was painting Mum. He only used you ’cause you looked like her. He didn’t want you really, he just wanted a model for his painting. I bet he broke up with you yesterday. You saw him in the morning, didn’t you? When he came home for lunch, he was all worked up, he was all edgy and excited. He said it was rage the painting was missing, rage and despair. That’s what you were feeling, isn’t it? Rage and despair.’

  Her aunt slowly moved towards the painting, through the wall of light and into the shadows beyond. Sara again felt as if time was being stretched, so that she could not tell if many minutes passed or only a heartbeat. Maureen stared at the painting, seemed to stare deep into the dying embers of her sister’s eyes. There was no mistake. Augusto had painted the scene of his wife’s death, the uncoiling column of smoke, the broken shards of her car, her flame-encased body finally surrendering at the foot of Towradgi Headland, which stared out to sea like a man turned to stone by grief.

  ‘He loved me,’ Maureen said, but her voice was broken.

  ‘He didn’t love you! You were convenient. Dad didn’t like to paint from memory or photographs, he said it never looked real. He always painted from life, and he couldn’t, could he? Mummy was dead, and so you thought you could have him for your own. How long have you been trying to seduce him? Did you sleep together when Mummy was still alive?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What did he do, tell you it was over? Were you up there yesterday? Did Dad tell you he’d finished the painting? Did he tell you he never wanted to see you again? You could have done it! You could have pushed him over that cliff.’

  ‘No, no, I loved him,’ Maureen said. ‘I loved him more than life itself. I’d never harm him.’

  ‘You sound like something out of a trashy novel,’ Sara said cruelly. Maureen came towards her again, crossing through the beam of light. She hardly glanced at Sara, putting out one hand as if to push her away as she moved into the hallway towards the front door. ‘I loved him,’ she said. ‘I would never have hurt him. Can’t you see? I’d kill myself before I’d kill him.’

  ‘Did you see him yesterday? Were you up at the headland?’

  Maureen nodded her tousled head. ‘I met him there in the morning. He was cruel. He said it was no use, the painting wasn’t working, it was a waste of time. You were right. He said it was over, that it was no good, that he didn’t want to see me anymore.’

  ‘I knew it!’ Sara said.

  Her aunt went on quickly, ‘But I said I knew he didn’t mean it. He said some awful things, he even hit me in the face when I said I’d never let him go. I told him I’d given up everything for him, that I’d thrown Harry out …’

  ‘So Harry did know about your affair.’

  ‘Not from me! You must be joking! How could I tell Harry about Gus? He would have told Alex and you know how Alex feels about your father … he would have killed me! No, I’d only told Harry I needed some space …’

  ‘So how did Alex and Harry know about it?’ Sara wondered.

  ‘I don’t know. I’d never have told them.’

  ‘So what happened after Dad broke up with you?’

  ‘But he didn’t, not really. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I was really angry, I was screaming at him, and suddenly he just changed. He laughed and kissed me, and said he loved it when I got angry, that it was all right, he knew what had been wrong. I was too happy, he said. I looked too contented. He didn’t want contentment. We made love after that, hard, angry love, and then he went for a swim …’

  Sara remembered how her father had come singing up the path, his pony-tail plastered to his back. Just a little orange pointillism …

  She felt sick an
d angry. She wanted to smash something. Dad had been up on Towradgi Headland with her, all that time …

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘I stayed at Towradgi Headland, like he’d told me to. He said he’d come back after lunch and bring his easel. He said he had to go home, so he could finish his painting, but he’d be back, and would sketch me some more. I was his muse, he said. I was so happy. I thought about the future – I thought we could get married, maybe.’

  Sara closed her eyes.

  Her aunt talked on. ‘But after a couple of hours Gus came back. He was angry. He accused me of telling Harry. He told me that Alex had threatened to throw you all out of the farm. I said it didn’t matter, we could still be together. He laughed at me and told me that would never happen. He was finished with me. It was getting all dark and stormy. I could hear the thunder. Then it began to rain. He wouldn’t come away, though.’

  Maureen paused, pressing both hands to her face. She went on, her voice muffled, ‘I was upset … I ran away, got in my car, drove home. I almost had a crash, practically drove into that old truck of yours. It was raining so hard and I was crying so much I could hardly see the road. I remember wondering if that was how Bridgie came to drive off the road. Maybe he made her cry that much too.’

  Sara did not want her mother to be mentioned. Her head felt hot and so full of blood it was as if something was about to burst. ‘You almost ran into the truck?’ she said. Maureen nodded. ‘Who was driving?’ she asked.

  Maureen shrugged a shoulder. ‘Couldn’t see. It was raining and I was crying. I didn’t really look.’

  ‘And Dad?’ Sara managed to say. ‘Where was Dad?’

  ‘That’s the last time I saw him. I swear he was alive and unhurt then! I wouldn’t have done anything to hurt your father, you must believe me. I love him and he loves me! He said he’s never felt that way about anyone before …’

  ‘And you believed him?’

  Tears welled up in Maureen’s eyes. She hurried out of the studio. Sara followed her, wanting to say something, wanting to say she was sorry. But Maureen had run to her car and got in, slamming the door behind her. Her car started with a jerk, and skidded away, and Sara was left alone by the front door.