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Authors: Joanne Horniman
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mother, aged sixteen, walked across the paddocks till she was within sight of the sea.
The sun was not quite up. The grass was moist, and it wet her feet and the bottom of her dress. She walked, avoiding cowpats, ducking under barbed wire fences, looking at the marvel of dewdrops on spider webs until, breathless, over an hour later, she came upon the argent ribbon of the sea stretched out on the horizon.
Argent was the word she used to describe it to herself. It was a word with overtones of heraldry and mediaeval heroism, a colour you might find on a shield, or a coat of arms. The sea was a crumpled silver, as if someone had screwed it up and then straightened it out again and laid it in that space where the sea meets the sky. Then, having sighted the sea, she stopped to catch her breath, and turned round and walked back, âtrailing clouds of glory', she told herself (a line she'd got from a poem). It was an easier walk, being mostly downhill, but this time the sun was hotter and higher. She paused to pick bits of grass to chew on, and flowers she liked the look of - weeds, mostly - so that by the time she reached Em's house she was trailing not only glory but various bits of vegetation as well.
The house was silent. Emma went to the kitchen and put on the electric jug for tea. When it was made (and this was the first time she'd made tea for Em, who usually got up first) she took a cup to Em's room. Em was lying in bed, with her hands folded neatly across the white cotton sheet. It was the way she slept on her afternoon naps: neat, spare, contained within her body as though it were a box. But now there was something different about her. Em was dead.
Emma sat the cup down on the bedside table (it shook, and spilled into the saucer) and touched Em gently on the hand. Em's skin was the texture and colour of a dried leaf that Emma had collected on her walk: papery, mottled, delicately veined. When Emma had held the leaf up to the light, the paler patches proved to have almost worn away; the light showed right through them. Emma lifted Em's hand and laid it gently down again. Then she left the room, not knowing what to do.
She went to the foot of the stairs and paused, her hand on the banister. Then decisively (though she didn't decide; she didn't even think), she went up the stairs two at a time till she reached the top.
There was no locked room. There was no nursery left exactly as it had been when Em's twin sister died over eighty years before. There was, in fact, very little furniture and a lot of dust and dirt. The skeleton of a bird lay in a fireplace, a few tattered black feathers still intact.
Emma pushed up a window. It was stiff and difficult to shift and made a noise she wanted at once to stifle, it was so loud in the stillness of the house. Fresh air flowed in, and she stood with the breeze on her face. From her vantage point she could see right over to Flora's house. She saw Flora and Stella come out of the house together, and the chooks come crowding around them. She thought she could hear their voices. In a little while she would go across the paddock and tell Flora that Aunt Em was dead, but for now she would just stand at the window and look out.
Em is dead and she is a child having her photograph taken with her mother on the verandah. The light falls through a slatted blind onto their faces. She is a young woman about to cook breakfast for her nephew who says, âDon't you use my mother's saucepans.â He is a child planting a forest around the central core of a vast, maternal fig. He is lacing his boots and setting out on a plant-hunting expedition and his body will never be found. His widow sits in resignation and knits in front of the television. His daughter stands at the top of his childhood home and thinks how all time is simultaneous; everything is happening at the same time and forever.
âWhose legs?â demands Stella. âAnd anyway, they aren't part of anyone, they're just
The sun was not quite up. The grass was moist, and it wet her feet and the bottom of her dress. She walked, avoiding cowpats, ducking under barbed wire fences, looking at the marvel of dewdrops on spider webs until, breathless, over an hour later, she came upon the argent ribbon of the sea stretched out on the horizon.
Argent was the word she used to describe it to herself. It was a word with overtones of heraldry and mediaeval heroism, a colour you might find on a shield, or a coat of arms. The sea was a crumpled silver, as if someone had screwed it up and then straightened it out again and laid it in that space where the sea meets the sky. Then, having sighted the sea, she stopped to catch her breath, and turned round and walked back, âtrailing clouds of glory', she told herself (a line she'd got from a poem). It was an easier walk, being mostly downhill, but this time the sun was hotter and higher. She paused to pick bits of grass to chew on, and flowers she liked the look of - weeds, mostly - so that by the time she reached Em's house she was trailing not only glory but various bits of vegetation as well.
The house was silent. Emma went to the kitchen and put on the electric jug for tea. When it was made (and this was the first time she'd made tea for Em, who usually got up first) she took a cup to Em's room. Em was lying in bed, with her hands folded neatly across the white cotton sheet. It was the way she slept on her afternoon naps: neat, spare, contained within her body as though it were a box. But now there was something different about her. Em was dead.
Emma sat the cup down on the bedside table (it shook, and spilled into the saucer) and touched Em gently on the hand. Em's skin was the texture and colour of a dried leaf that Emma had collected on her walk: papery, mottled, delicately veined. When Emma had held the leaf up to the light, the paler patches proved to have almost worn away; the light showed right through them. Emma lifted Em's hand and laid it gently down again. Then she left the room, not knowing what to do.
She went to the foot of the stairs and paused, her hand on the banister. Then decisively (though she didn't decide; she didn't even think), she went up the stairs two at a time till she reached the top.
There was no locked room. There was no nursery left exactly as it had been when Em's twin sister died over eighty years before. There was, in fact, very little furniture and a lot of dust and dirt. The skeleton of a bird lay in a fireplace, a few tattered black feathers still intact.
Emma pushed up a window. It was stiff and difficult to shift and made a noise she wanted at once to stifle, it was so loud in the stillness of the house. Fresh air flowed in, and she stood with the breeze on her face. From her vantage point she could see right over to Flora's house. She saw Flora and Stella come out of the house together, and the chooks come crowding around them. She thought she could hear their voices. In a little while she would go across the paddock and tell Flora that Aunt Em was dead, but for now she would just stand at the window and look out.
Em is dead and she is a child having her photograph taken with her mother on the verandah. The light falls through a slatted blind onto their faces. She is a young woman about to cook breakfast for her nephew who says, âDon't you use my mother's saucepans.â He is a child planting a forest around the central core of a vast, maternal fig. He is lacing his boots and setting out on a plant-hunting expedition and his body will never be found. His widow sits in resignation and knits in front of the television. His daughter stands at the top of his childhood home and thinks how all time is simultaneous; everything is happening at the same time and forever.
âWhose legs?â demands Stella. âAnd anyway, they aren't part of anyone, they're just
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