Read Online Silver Wattle by Belinda Alexandra - Free Book Online
Authors: Belinda Alexandra
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Lightning flashed and I saw Klara’s tear-filled eyes. I was thankful that she was handling Mother’s death so courageously.
‘When our mourning period is over we will celebrate your birthday,’ I promised her.
Early in the morning I was awoken by screams and the sound of glass breaking. Marie rushed into the room. ‘Slechna Ruzickova!’ she cried, addressing me formally. ‘Your sister!’
I leaped out of bed so quickly that the room turned white and I had to grip onto the wall. I ran after Marie down the stairs to the kitchen. My breath caught in my throat. Klara was standing barefoot on the black and white tiles surrounded by broken glass. Her nightdress and hands were stained red. I imagined Mother discovering Emilie in the sewing room after she had cut off her fingers, but then I realised that the stains had clumps of seeds in them. They were not blood but raspberry jam. Across the benches and floor were strewn the smashed jars of jam Klara had made with Mother the previous month.
Klara snatched another jar from the shelf and raised her arm, intending to throw it to the floor.
‘Don’t,’ I pleaded. I had not had time to put on slippers and I stepped gingerly towards her through the broken glass.
She stared at me, her mouth twisted into a muted cry of rage. Tears filled her eyes and she began to sob. ‘Why?’ she cried. ‘Why?’
Her voice had such a beseeching tone that it snapped my heart. I reached her without cutting myself and threw my arms around her. Her thin frame trembled in my grasp.
‘I don’t know,’ I said, burying my face in her neck. ‘I don’t know.’
Even more disturbing than Klara’s violent outpouring of grief was the arrival of Doctor Soucek the day after Mother’s funeral. Marie had no idea what to make of his request to see Mother, so she asked him to wait in the drawing room and called me.
‘I came as soon as I heard,’ he said, rising from his chair, still wheezing from having run up the stairs to our front door. ‘I was away visiting my daughter.’
‘We buried Mother yesterday,’ I told him, bewildered by his presence. I asked Marie to call Aunt Josephine, who was still staying with us. I could not understand why Doctor Soucek had come. He had misdiagnosed Mother’s appendicitis as anxiety pains. If he had recognised the true cause of her discomfort, she would have gone to hospital in plenty of time and she would be sitting in the room with us now.
Doctor Soucek’s face fell and he lowered himself into the chair again. ‘No chance of an autopsy then,’ he said.
His words hit me with such force that I was on the verge of being sick. Of course there would be no autopsy on Mother. We knew why she died.
Doctor Soucek rushed towards Aunt Josephine when she entered the room. ‘Paní Valentova was a robust woman,’ he said, using Mother’s maiden name. ‘She should have outlived all of us. What sort of infection was she supposed to have died of?’
Aunt Josephine glanced at me. I had managed to compose myself enough that morning to start some sewing, and now Doctor Soucek had arrived and was saying terrible things. The tears I had tried to hold back flowed down my cheeks. Aunt Josephine drew herself up as if preparing for battle.
‘She died of appendicitis, Doctor Soucek. When the doctor operated he saw that the infection had spread to her other organs. There was nothing he could do.’
Aunt Josephine said the words matter-of-factly but the undertone of blame was there. Doctor Soucek studied her with his rheumy eyes.
‘You had better get her exhumed,’ he said quietly.
I reeled back in horror at the suggestion. Mother? Exhumed after we had just buried her in holy ground?
‘Let the dead have their peace,’ I said, my voice rising in agitation.
‘Doctor Soucek,’ said Aunt Josephine. ‘You are not making any sense and you are upsetting my niece who has already had a terrible shock.’
Milosh passed the drawing room and saw Doctor Soucek with
‘When our mourning period is over we will celebrate your birthday,’ I promised her.
Early in the morning I was awoken by screams and the sound of glass breaking. Marie rushed into the room. ‘Slechna Ruzickova!’ she cried, addressing me formally. ‘Your sister!’
I leaped out of bed so quickly that the room turned white and I had to grip onto the wall. I ran after Marie down the stairs to the kitchen. My breath caught in my throat. Klara was standing barefoot on the black and white tiles surrounded by broken glass. Her nightdress and hands were stained red. I imagined Mother discovering Emilie in the sewing room after she had cut off her fingers, but then I realised that the stains had clumps of seeds in them. They were not blood but raspberry jam. Across the benches and floor were strewn the smashed jars of jam Klara had made with Mother the previous month.
Klara snatched another jar from the shelf and raised her arm, intending to throw it to the floor.
‘Don’t,’ I pleaded. I had not had time to put on slippers and I stepped gingerly towards her through the broken glass.
She stared at me, her mouth twisted into a muted cry of rage. Tears filled her eyes and she began to sob. ‘Why?’ she cried. ‘Why?’
Her voice had such a beseeching tone that it snapped my heart. I reached her without cutting myself and threw my arms around her. Her thin frame trembled in my grasp.
‘I don’t know,’ I said, burying my face in her neck. ‘I don’t know.’
Even more disturbing than Klara’s violent outpouring of grief was the arrival of Doctor Soucek the day after Mother’s funeral. Marie had no idea what to make of his request to see Mother, so she asked him to wait in the drawing room and called me.
‘I came as soon as I heard,’ he said, rising from his chair, still wheezing from having run up the stairs to our front door. ‘I was away visiting my daughter.’
‘We buried Mother yesterday,’ I told him, bewildered by his presence. I asked Marie to call Aunt Josephine, who was still staying with us. I could not understand why Doctor Soucek had come. He had misdiagnosed Mother’s appendicitis as anxiety pains. If he had recognised the true cause of her discomfort, she would have gone to hospital in plenty of time and she would be sitting in the room with us now.
Doctor Soucek’s face fell and he lowered himself into the chair again. ‘No chance of an autopsy then,’ he said.
His words hit me with such force that I was on the verge of being sick. Of course there would be no autopsy on Mother. We knew why she died.
Doctor Soucek rushed towards Aunt Josephine when she entered the room. ‘Paní Valentova was a robust woman,’ he said, using Mother’s maiden name. ‘She should have outlived all of us. What sort of infection was she supposed to have died of?’
Aunt Josephine glanced at me. I had managed to compose myself enough that morning to start some sewing, and now Doctor Soucek had arrived and was saying terrible things. The tears I had tried to hold back flowed down my cheeks. Aunt Josephine drew herself up as if preparing for battle.
‘She died of appendicitis, Doctor Soucek. When the doctor operated he saw that the infection had spread to her other organs. There was nothing he could do.’
Aunt Josephine said the words matter-of-factly but the undertone of blame was there. Doctor Soucek studied her with his rheumy eyes.
‘You had better get her exhumed,’ he said quietly.
I reeled back in horror at the suggestion. Mother? Exhumed after we had just buried her in holy ground?
‘Let the dead have their peace,’ I said, my voice rising in agitation.
‘Doctor Soucek,’ said Aunt Josephine. ‘You are not making any sense and you are upsetting my niece who has already had a terrible shock.’
Milosh passed the drawing room and saw Doctor Soucek with
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