The Book of Secrets (27 page)

She hesitated, knowing that she was about to lose something, to capitulate to something from which she might never recover.

‘Go into your room, Maria.’

‘Mother, I am not a child.’

‘You are still my child.’

‘I will not.’

‘She is like our mother,’ said Hector, turning to Annie. His voice was regretful.

‘If I do not?’ asked Maria.

‘You will be put there.’

‘For what?’

‘To think about your wicked ways. And to put you out of reach of the beast that stalks you.’

‘Mother.’ She was entreating her now.

‘After a time, and when you have said your catechism for a month or so, we will think about what’s to be done with you.’

Looking at Annie, Maria could see with terrible clarity what she had never truly divined in her mother before: a sense of outrage at the ways of the world, and how personally she took them.

Her mother and Hector could not contain her if she resisted them. But if she were to run, there was only the bush and the river to which she might flee. Who, of the riverboat men, would take her aboard? And she was without clothing or money or supplies. A departure must be on her own terms. The vision of her uncle and his sons advancing upon her in a paddock, or as she cowered like an animal behind a tree, rose up before her.

Her voice sounded like a child’s in her ears. ‘I’ll go to my room now, mother,’ she said. ‘We can talk about this when my uncle has gone.’

It was a long walk, from where she stood to the doorway, but she hoped to achieve it with dignity.

Then blackness overwhelmed her, and when she woke she was lying in her bed with the door closed. Through the window, stars held steady in the darkness beyond. Soon it would be light, she thought, soon this blackness will go away. But even as she raised herself on her elbow her head swam. It was next day before she woke.

From the kitchen she smelt sour skimmed milk which her mother placed near the fire to warm until the curds were formed. There would be a cheese at lunchtime. The bread had been baked too. All was well. She strained her ears for the sound of her mother’s movements. When she heard nothing, she got out of bed and put on her robe, keeping her own movements stealthy although unsure exactly why she should. Still there was no sound from beyond the door. She took the handle but when she tried to turn it she found it locked.

On the other side of the timber dividing them, her mother’s voice raged.

‘That’s where you’ll stay,’ Annie shouted, ‘and your uncle’s coming with bars to seal the window, and you’ll read your Bible and think it
through. There now, kicking’ll do you no good, nor screaming. Oh Maria, Maria,’ and her voice turned to keening, full of grief. ‘It’ll do you no good, I can’t relent now, and it’s all for your own good, my darling girl, now there, no more, I know what is good for you, I do, I do. I know.’

T
he bird beats
itself
against
the
window,
again
and
again
with
terrible
force.
Something
has frightened
it.
Maria
does
not
know
what
it
is,
or
what
she
has
done.
She
thinks
that
the
source
of
terror
is
outside
the
house.
She
understands
this
and
feels
helpless,
unable
to
reassure
the
bird.
Now
it
flies
up
to
the
rafters
and
dashes
itself
there,
falling
stunned
to
the
ground.
Maria
moves
to
pick
it
up,
but
it
opens
a
bleary
eye,
shakes
itself,
hops
up
on
one
foot,
and
takes
off
again,
its
beak
extended
in
a
silent
shriek.

There
is
a
ledge
between
the
end
of
the
rafter
and
the
top
of
the
wall.
The
sparrow
takes
refuge
here,
and
sits
with
its
wings
half
extended,
quivering
all
over.
He
holds
his
leg
in
such
a
way
that
Maria
wonders
if
it
is
damaged.

‘You’ll
do
yourself
a
mischief,
little
bird,’
she
whispers.
‘It’s
no
good
going
on
like
this,
there’s
no
way
you’ll
escape.
We
have
to
work
at
it
together.
Why
don’t
you
just
sit
quietly
there
while
I
find
you
a
seed
or
two,
something
to
keep
your
strength
up.
’

The
bird
sits
still
on
its
perch,
utters
a
cheep.
She
thinks
she
is
getting
through
to
it.

‘I’m
a
witch,
you
know,
witches
don’t
hurt
wild
creatures,
they’re
wild
creatures
themselves,
yes
that’s
what
we
are.
Don’t
you
know
that,
little
bird?
Eh?
There,
there,
you’re
settling.
There,
you’re
not
so
frightened.
I’ll
just
sit
here
quietly
and
see
what
you
do,
wild
one.
No,
I
know
you’re
not
ready
to
come
down
yet,
I
won’t
move,
you’re
safe
here.
’

For
a
moment
she
thinks
she
can
walk
over
to
the
bird
and
kneel
beside
it,
before
she
remembers
that
she
is
on
the
floor
and
he
is
in
the
ceiling.
This
is
an
old
dream,
where
she
walks
around
the
room
at
the
level
of
the
mantelpiece,
or
higher.
Many
times
when
half
awake
she
has
believed
that
she
is
walking
across
the
world,
above
rooftops,
her
feet
slicing
cleanly
along,
the
air
holding
her
up.
In
dreams
like
this
it
has
always
taken
her
a
long
time
to
wake
up.

Maria woke to hear her mother’s voice behind the door, as she had each morning since her incarceration. She had almost lost count of the days. It was a splendid year; the sun shone continuously and corn and tomatoes were ripening faster than they could be gathered. The people shook their heads and spoke of an Indian summer, and how it looked like there would be no winter at all, the rate they were going.

From her room, Maria watched the blue sky through the bars that Hector McIssac had placed over her window.

She did not scan the ground below, as those beyond the room might have expected, waiting for her lover to appear. She supposed, now, that she would never know what had become of him. This mattered to her, because he was someone who had been prepared to take risks for her. Too late she had realised that she didn’t care.

In the end it was she who had taken the greater risk. Though they had turned over his hut, they would not touch him. Now he was gone and she did not expect to see him again. What mattered was the passage of this month. Then, maybe, she would be allowed to live her life unhindered again. And sooner or later she would go away, however painful and difficult that might prove.

Her term in the room must almost be over. She had counted four Sundays, days when a door banged, a carriage called, and the house had gone quiet as her mother went to church. Even now, she would keep up appearances. She could see Annie walking up the aisle with her head held high beside her brother and his wife, taking her seat in the usual pew, following the prayers for the faithful, and walking out again with a ‘good morning’ here and there.

In that way, Maria guessed, she would leave a path which her daughter might follow after a suitable time had passed.

And now the fourth Monday morning. She had woken earlier than usual, for lately she had had great trouble waking up. At first she thought her mother was speaking to her, but Annie was talking to someone downstairs. A man’s voice, just after dawn. Maria listened. It was Hector. Now his voice grew indistinct. She was not certain whether he was still in the house or had gone outside.

‘Maria,’ called Annie.

An exchange took place between them each morning; Annie would pass food to her and in exchange Maria had passed out the chamber pot. She had considered the idea of escape, but by now she knew
that Hector or one of the boys lurked nearby for most of the time. It was between her and her mother, she had concluded, and nothing was to be gained, no dignity or power for her cause, from
ill-considered
breakouts. She would see it through, pursuing her own plan. As the days passed she stitched her clothes and put her wardrobe in order. When the time came to leave, she would be prepared. At least this was what she told herself, although some days she was so sleepy that she would nod off over her needlework.

Although she had been expecting a change in her routine, now that it had come she was unprepared for it. Something more than she had expected was afoot.

‘What is it, mother?’

The door swung open and Annie stood there, dressed in the black mourning clothes she had worn when Isabella died. She made no effort to stop Maria walking past her.

‘So where is my bodyguard, my precious uncle? Aren’t you afraid I’ll escape?’

‘I wish you would. I wish I had never set eyes on you.’ Her mother’s voice sounded like mud sliding along a riverbank, full of disaster.

‘Mother, when will this ever end?’ asked Maria. ‘What’s happened is over. I’ve sat here, and sewed, and made no complaint to you. I’ve accepted your will. What is it now?’

‘A month. A whole month you’ve sat in there. Yes.’

‘It was a month you suggested. I can’t stay in there forever. Can I?’

‘Come out here to the kitchen, I have something to say to you. Your uncle is waiting.’

‘Can I not speak to my own mother without that man listening to us? Mother, this is crazy.’

Yet she followed her. She saw the room as it always was, except that this morning there was no fire burning and it was cold. An unusual and early frost lay outside on the grass. Through the window she could see again the garden she and Annie had planted. She felt as if she had crossed from one world into another, rather than from one room into the next.

Her uncle stood by the window, looking out with his hands folded over each other behind his back. He did not turn when she entered the room.

‘Good morning, uncle,’ she said although she would have preferred not to speak to him.

‘A month, Maria,’ said Annie again, in the same dead heavy voice.

‘I do not understand this at all. What are you trying to say to me?’ Maria searched first her mother’s putty-coloured face, and next her uncle’s unrelenting back.

I did not know when I sent you there …’ Annie faltered. ‘It did not occur to me at first. A thought so dreadful that even as the weeks passed it seemed impossible … Do you know what that month means, Maria?’

‘A week, a month, it could be a year, mother. Time’s lost its meaning. Perhaps you’ve destroyed time.’

‘There was no bleeding in that room, Maria.’

Silence then, and the unlikely frost outside. Her bare feet, cold on the floor.

‘Did you hear what I said? No blood.’

‘I heard.’

‘No bleeding at all.’

‘Would you have me cut my veins then?’ whispered Maria. ‘I’ve felt like it.’

She was playing for time, avoiding the moment when she would have to tell herself that it was true, that some half-known secret about the life of women would become hers.

‘You are with child, Maria McClure,’ said Black Hector, from where he stood at the window.

Their faces, both of them, then the whole procession swimming before her, of people who lived good lives and did not toy with fortune, with straight mouths and eyes like the frost. Outside.