Barren House
It was the Winter wind
that woke her, not the hammering of her heart against her chest like a
frightened bird clamouring to be free. Suzanne waited for the panic to pass as
the sea-wind sobbed and moaned around the old house. Breathe Suzanne, breathe. It’s
just the wind. Slow. In at the diaphragm, out through the mouth. Slow. Breathe
in calm, breathe out fear.
The dreams were
getting worse. No, not the dreams, that dream. The dream in which she fled down
dark corridors while the canvas man chased her. She never saw his face, only
ever the sound of his uneven boots thumping on the cold wooden floorboards. Ker
thump – ka thump. Closer, always closer. She ran, and her fear ran with her
pushing her through the viscous air thick like water, slow to part and cold, so
cold.
The house breathed
its tired life through the walls, creaking and rattling in the wind. Suzanne
wrapped the doona tighter around her scrawny frame. Mamma was always telling
her to get more meat on her bones.
Sleep did not come.
She lay there until morning crept into the room, cold and slow like the sea at
the end of the yard. Suzanne stretched and went in search of coffee, her bare
feet cold on the rough wooden floor boards. The kitchen faced East, the poor side
of the house. The side for servants and
tradesmen, not the glorious West view of Sydney for the last century rich.
Dark trees crowded
the window. Suzanne felt rather than saw a commotion in the branches. A bird or
something.
She hugged herself feeling
the shivers through her frail slip. Look at this place. Mamma would be so
proud. Suzanne had been so lucky to get the place on the cheap. An old house in
an older suburb. So what if it had a graveyard next door? Waverley graveyard
was famous. The suburb seemed nice, even if the neighbours didn’t speak to her yet.
The house was a treasure, with its columns and the upper deck she hadn’t
explored yet. A rich Jewish businessman had built it, and it had been all kinds
of things in its day. A brothel, a drugstore, an orphanage for young girls. She
couldn’t quite remember its name. Maybe Mamma would know.
The sun called her
out as it warmed the garden. Outside, the morning helped to evaporate her
anxiety. Doctor Arvenkian said gardening was good for her. He was encouraging
when Suzanne said she had found the old house. She had felt so sure in his office,
on the warm, soft couch.
She wandered the
yard, touching old trees, their bark blackened with the sooty mould of coastal
air. In a decrepit tree near the wall she saw a rainbow lorikeet, its feathers a
bright splash against the black branches. Poor thing, it was waiting for the
Spring, for lush green to fill the old garden with new life.
Warmth rose beneath
her bare feet. Her toes spread out on the worn flagstones reading a century of
walks down the garden path. Happy families lived here and old contented lives.
She stood arms akimbo looking at the ruin of the garden. Yes. She could be happy
here. She would make the garden over, plan it now so green shoots would flood
the yard in Spring. Suzanne pottered from bed to bed imagining a garden of life
and colour.
The day burned and
too soon the sea fell into darkness. Suzanne watched Sydney’s lights push back
the velvet dark. Behind her the sea reflected nothing. She should eat
something. Mamma would be cross, but Mamma wasn’t watching now, so she took
herself to bed.
The wind was worse
tonight. Shaking the eroded tin on the roof. Whistling around the bare frame of
the house. It wormed its way into Suzanne’s bones leaving her cold and
breathless in the dark.
Below the keening wind
a persistent low dragging thump echoed, almost like someone walking across the
floorboards.
Midnight came and
still no sleep. She rose. Outside the
room, moonlight cast pools of shadow down the corridor. Just the dark, Suzanne,
nothing to be afraid of. The thump came again from the end of the corridor. She
peered into the shadows and they rewarded her with imagined terrors. Looming,
ominous shapes, perhaps even the shape of a man in the alcove at the end.
Not that way then. To
the other side the stairs hung pale in the moonlight. Upstairs, she should go upstairs.
Dr Arvenkian said the stairs would help her overcome her fear, it wasn’t so far
up the stairs. No! Not tonight. She chose the safety of the kitchen.
Shadows clothed the
kitchen. The dark branches outside cast skeletal fingers across the floor. In
the corner near the door, the shadows held the shape of a man. The thump came
again. She fled back towards her room. The footsteps followed.
Get hold of yourself,
it’s just shadows. She turned to face her fear. The canvas man stood in the
corridor. He dragged heavy boots towards her.
I’m dreaming, she
told herself. She turned to run. The canvas man thumped after her. She ran to her room and his boots followed. The
room held no salvation. She knew that when she looked back and saw him standing
in the doorway, dull moonlight reflecting off the worn brass of his helmet. Suzanne
fell backwards onto the bed. She shuddered as wrinkled canvas arms scooped her up
in a delicate embrace.
He walked into the
yard holding her face tight to his chest. Suzanne fluttered, weak against the
iron of his arms. She smelled salt, and man, and under it all the bitter tang
of things long dead. Moonlight broke through the scudding cloud casting pale
light onto the grey waves crashing onto the rock. Suzanne fought to be free and
looked down, so far down. She clung to the bony thing inside the canvas,
desperate to be away from the cliff at the end of the yard.
A dull voice echoed
from the helmet. “You are mine as I am yours. Together we will return to the
sea.”
Suzanne forgot to
scream as one lead-lined boot took the next step into vacant air.
#
Pete Jones parked the
patrol car at the edge of the cliff and picked up the steaming cappuccino. Giordino’s
made the best coffee. The long night of wrestling druggies around the Cross was
over. Waverley was the final stop before he knocked off. Some random nutter had
been walking around the ruins of the old house next to the graveyard. Concerned
neighbours reported seeing an old woman in her nightie. She wasn’t here now.
He sat sipping the coffee
as the sun rose through storm-wracked clouds. The wind rose pouring salt-cold air over
Officer Jones. He shrugged and drove away.
Behind him, high on the clifftop an old scrap of canvas fluttered in the
breeze.
