In a Fishbone Church Page 10

  Sometimes Etta hears Christina pointing out particular family resemblances to Bridget.

  ‘You’ve got Aunty Theresa’s legs,’ she says. ‘She hasn’t got any ankles either. Dad said she’s as wide as she is high.’

  Etta tells Shirley she’s never regretted adopting. ‘Not for a moment,’ she says.

  ‘And such an attractive child,’ says Shirley. ‘So many people have said that to me.’

  Social Welfare lied, Etta knows. Documents were altered, falsified. She suspected it at the time of the adoption, but, after fourteen years of miscarriage, she chose not to question the information she and Gene were given. Christina’s real parents were not university academics; they were not engaged; they did not marry. They were not Catholics who were in their late twenties. It was a time of lies; Etta realises this. Unmarried mothers were kept hidden, as if they were not real people. As if they did not exist. Christina’s birth certificate names Henrietta Eileen Stilton (née Moynihan) as her mother and Gene Roland Stilton (Project Supervisor) as her father.

  Etta has kept track of the birth mother, in case Christina ever wants to contact her. She dreads to think of her trying to find her one day, and discovering there is no such person. She has kept the Cadbury’s chocolate box covered with pink paper that Christina’s mother made. The sisters at the Home of Compassion gave it to Etta when she and Gene picked Christina up. In it are a pair of booties and a matching bonnet, also made by Christina’s mother, which are in remarkably good condition. As if they have never been worn. Etta keeps everything.

  Joanne Susan Fairfield now lives in Sydney. She is twenty-eight years old. She works as a secretary for a legal practice, and is not married. She has had no other children. Etta is old enough to be her mother.

  Sometimes Etta does wonder if she made the right choice. When the girls fight, especially, she thinks things would have been easier with just one. The drive to the lake each year is particularly unpleasant, with Bridget and Christina arguing about who will sleep on the top bunk, who will have first go on the trampoline, who will be able to stay in the cold lake longer, who will go in deeper. Saint Christopher swings from the mirror, lurching to the side when the road twists. Gene hangs his best suit for Midnight Mass from the handle above the passenger window – the bar you are supposed to hang on to for support – and the dark sleeves flap at Etta as they drive through the hills. She is not a good traveller. Gene tells her she should take some Sea Legs, but Etta doesn’t like to. They’re not on a ship, after all.

  What puzzles her is why the girls still insist on sharing a room at home, even though there is a spare one. She’s told them they can have their own rooms if they want; she thinks it might stop them from fighting so much. But they don’t want. When she goes in at night to check they are still alive, they are breathing in time. Once, they were having a conversation in their sleep.

  ‘I’m the Incredible Hulk,’ said Christina.

  ‘I’m frightened,’ said Bridget.

  It’s not as if they fight all the time. Just recently, in a doctor’s waiting room, Etta read that keeping your eyes on one spot in the distance is helpful for travel sickness. Mrs Dorothy Bowles of Hamilton got ten dollars for that, so Etta supposed there must be some truth in it, and she tried it on their last trip to the lake. It was such a strange sensation; she hardly heard what was going on in the car, she was concentrating so hard on the horizon. It didn’t help much with the travel sickness, unfortunately, but Etta did notice quite a few things about perspective; how points of reference can shift.

  She considers this as she finishes mixing the stuffing with her fingers and lifts open the trout’s belly.

  Eventually, she says to the trout, she was caught by a man who had to give her a violent blow on the leg to do it, and it was thought her leg was broken. She was therefore taken to the house of a surgeon, who put splints on the limb and chained her to a pillar for safety. She escaped in the night.

  Etta is beginning to feel dizzy. She looks out the window, searching for a point in the distance she can focus on. Perhaps it is just the flu, she thinks, but she’s never felt like this with the flu before. She finds a familiar cluster of trees on the hill and stares at them.

  Christina went into the forest. For days at a time she fasted and prayed. To sustain herself she drank the oily milk that flowed from her own virgin breasts. Returning home, suffering strange hysterical fits, she spread this liquid on bread and ate it. Its curative powers are recorded, and she performed many miracles using this unguent.

  Etta needs to open the window. As she stands on tiptoe to reach for the latch, her foot slips and she falls to the floor, sending the tray with the trout on it flying.

  She lies on the floor and looks at the trout. The trout looks at her. Its mouth is wide open. All its insides have been removed – it has been cleaned – and Etta can see right in to where there is nothing. She wishes she could get up. She has to fill the trout with herbs and onions and lemon juice and butter and breadcrumbs. And then she has to have a rest.

  ‘Go on,’ says the trout, ‘up you get. You haven’t got all day, you know.’

  Etta smiles. Yes. She will get up and finish getting everything ready. And then she might play a few tricks on Gene and the girls, for a laugh. They’d enjoy that. Nothing too extreme, just some harmless little jokes, like putting salt in the sugar bowl, hiding the bath plug, leaving a hollowed loaf in the bread bin. Nothing dangerous. Then she will go away on holiday, by herself. Just leave the children with Gene for a fortnight. A week, even a weekend would do. She will jump in the light blue Torana and drive, without dark suits flapping in her face, and without Bridget and Christina fighting in the back seat. She will stop when she finds somewhere nice. She will walk into the forest, sit down in the pine needles, pour herself a cup of tea from her thermos, unwrap her sandwiches.

  At home, Gene and the girls will be having to fend for themselves. They will find taps turned off too hard, blunted knives, hollowed loaves of bread. They might panic. They might start looking for goodbye notes.

  ‘You’re pathetic,’ says the trout. ‘What will they say about you? Made a delightful baked cheesecake? Folded dinner napkins with flair?’

  As it speaks, the trout grows bigger and bigger, until it covers the whole floor, and it’s still growing as Etta walks into its mouth where pointed fish teeth rise around her like mountains. She can see through the cloudy fish eyes to her kitchen, where things look swollen and silver, the way they do in a curved mirror, or the back of a spoon. Through the gill slits she feels a cool rush of air, and she walks on, touching the pink walls, surprised to find they are warm. Fishbones arch above her, as if she is in a fishbone church, and she wonders where fish hearts are kept; if she is standing where this one used to be.

  ‘You were very lucky,’ Gene is saying. He is stroking Etta’s hair and looking into her face, right up close.

  ‘It was just lucky Mrs Davis called by when she did,’ says a nurse who is standing on the other side of the bed.

  ‘Pleasure,’ says Shirley from a chair by the window. She comes over to the bed too, and takes Etta’s hand. ‘You passed out,’ she says. ‘I came by to collect the girls’ teddy bears and you were lying on the kitchen floor. I had to get Peter Fitzroy to help lift you into the car.’

  An allergic reaction to your flu antibiotics, Mrs Stilton,’ says the nurse. ‘The heart slowed down. Nothing serious. You’ll soon be right as rain.’

  Shirley leans down and whispers into Etta’s ear, ‘Your skirt was hitched right up around your hips.’

  The next day, Gene helps Etta into the car to drive her home.

  ‘This isn’t our car,’ she says, scanning the light blue Torana. She peers in through the passenger window. ‘What have you done with Saint Christopher? Where’s the Viva?’

  Of course, after she’s had a sleep in her own bed, Etta remembers that they sold the old cream Viva last year, just after their trip to the lake. It had become too temperamental, playing dead
in cold weather, sometimes sputtering back to life only on the last try. The Torana was a reliable car, the dealer assured them. It ran smoothly. They’d made a good choice. As she lies in bed now, Etta decides they haven’t made a good choice at all. The girls had cried for days when they’d sold the Viva.

  ‘It’s not a person, chickies,’ she’d told them, stroking their damp hair into curls.

  But she wants it back herself, she can’t help it. She thinks maybe she could track it down, get in touch with the dealers they sold it to and trace the buyer through them. There must be records.

  Bridget and Christina come into the bedroom. ‘We made some sandwiches and a cup of tea, Mummy,’ they say. They climb on her bed, pulling the sheets tight around her with their weight.

  ‘Tell us a story.’ They wriggle closer to her.

  They always want to hear stories. They grab Etta’s arms at night and beg her to tell them one, about when she was little, and she lies down on the edge of one of their beds and makes something up.

  Now, she sits up in bed and balances the tray on her lap.

  ‘A girl goes into the forest,’ she says. ‘She sits down under the trees and cries because her parents have both died, and she and her sister have to look after themselves. She curls up in a ball, and wild animals come and sniff at her, but they don’t harm her. And they don’t talk to her. The girl suffers from strange fits, where her whole body shakes. People think she is very odd. Then one day she has such a bad fit that she appears to die, and she is taken in an open coffin to the church. During the Mass, though, she comes back to life and flies up to the beams in the roof of the church. Everyone is terribly afraid and runs away, except her sister, who knows that the girl has always been unusual. After this, people are frightened of the girl, and she seems to have miraculous powers. She finds she is able to cure the sick, and she travels the country making people well. Although she doesn’t know how to read or write, people listen to her. She lives alone, and is very happy.’

  ‘Does she get on TV?’ asks Bridget. ‘She could get on TV if she wanted.’

  ‘No,’ says Etta. ‘This was a long time ago, before they had

  TV.’

  ‘She couldn’t really fly, then,’ says Christina. ‘She must have jumped or climbed or something.’

  ‘She might have flown,’ says Bridget, playing with the bedspread fringe. ‘It might have been magic.’

  Christina snorts. ‘It might have been magic,’ she mimics, flapping her arms. Some tea slops on to the sandwiches.

  ‘Careful now,’ says Etta.

  ‘It wasn’t even me!’ says Bridget.

  ‘Anyway,’ Christina says, ‘if she was so great why did she live on her own? Didn’t she have any friends?’

  ‘Just like you,’ says Bridget, running for the door, giggling.

  Christina just watches her, lets her go. Etta is relieved; for once, Christina’s not biting.

  ‘So what happened to the trout?’ Etta asks her.

  ‘I think Mrs Davis took it. She said she was having someone round that night, so it wouldn’t go to waste.’

  ‘And what about you and Dad, and Bridget?’

  Christina rolls her eyes. ‘We can cope on our own, Mum,’ she says. She sounds just like her father. ‘We didn’t go to church today. Dad said we wouldn’t go to Hell if we missed one Sunday, because you were sick.’

  ‘No,’ Etta says, ‘you won’t go to Hell.’ She smiles; she thought Christina had decided that Hell, like Father Christmas, did not exist.

  ‘I saw you,’ Christina says quietly. ‘When you were lying on the floor. I came in when Mrs Davis was ringing the ambulance.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Bridget was still outside. You were so white. I went and got her and we waited in Mrs Davis’ car to go to the hospital. I didn’t bring her inside.’ She is sobbing now, softly, into the pillow. ‘We weren’t supposed to tell you. Dad said you’d worry.’

  She rolls over and cuddles into Etta’s chest. After a while her crying fades, and Etta thinks she must be falling asleep, but she looks up again for a moment.

  ‘Mrs Davis’ car,’ she says. ‘It was full of toys. There was hardly any room for us to squeeze in. Bridget sat on a plastic truck and it broke, and we hid it under the seat.’

  Christina closes her eyes and puts her hot face against Etta’s chest again. ‘She didn’t take our toys,’ she says sleepily. ‘No room anyway. The other ones were all squashed up against the back window. Looking out when we drove away.’ Her voice sounds distant; on the verge of sleep. Etta imagines the dreams that might be forming behind her warm forehead: rushing to church in a plastic truck, a view of wild animals from the beams of a roof, trying to breathe in a car full of toys without eyes, twin sisters who swim in a cold lake and turn into fish, dead mothers lying in the forest.

  An

  erratic

  heart

  Adelaide, South Australia 5001

  November 27, 1984

  Mr Clifford Stilton

  138 King Street

  Christchurch

  New Zealand

  Dear Mr Stilton,

  I have received your letter of November 20 and I accept it as evidence of your interest and ‘keenness’ in having your finds identified promptly. I can assure you we are taking the utmost care in our preparation of your specimens, and do not wish to compromise this level of attention by rushing. Your technical comments on a preliminary reconstruction will certainly be taken into consideration. When the description of the fossils is published you will appreciate that they have undergone considerable preparation with modern equipment, revealing features which may not be obvious on other specimens in your possession. If on the other hand those other specimens show characters not visible in the material which is on loan to us, we cannot be blamed for resulting discrepancies.

  I can assure you that I regret the delay as much as you do. The general situation is that it takes many years to have material examined and described by experts free of cost, i.e. in their spare time, as they have other duties to perform in their paid jobs. In the British Museum (Natural History) in London it might take up to 25 years to have material described, although the officers there have no teaching duties to perform.

  Your material has been described by one of my research students, Mr R. M. Andrews, and as soon as I can find time to draw the necessary conclusions and complete the paper I will forward it to the Canterbury Museum, along with the two crab specimens, as promised.

  Yours sincerely

  P. W. Maple

  (Professor)

  138 King Street

  Christchurch

  New Zealand

  5.12.84

  Dear Professor Maple,

  I was very pleased to hear that my spider crabs are now receiving your attention. I am a little surprised that a student is playing so vital a part in the process of identification – I was under the impression that you personally would be tending to all stages of the procedure. However, I am no expert in these matters, and am confident my specimens will be handled with the utmost care.

  Yours sincerely

  Clifford Stilton

  Canterbury Museum

  Canterbury

  15.3.85

  Dear Mr Stilton

  As you are no doubt aware, Professor Maple of the University of Adelaide has arranged for one of his students, Mr R. M. Andrews, to describe for publication the spider crabs from Glenavrick. It was Mr Andrews who prepared the drawing of the reconstructed animal sent to you earlier this year.

  Mr Andrews has decided that the fossils belong to a new genus and species and intends to call it Atinotocarcinius stiltoni.

  The two specimens which I borrowed from you last year and which were forwarded to the University of Adelaide have been returned to me. They are regarded as of particular importance by Professor Maple and Mr Andrews. Mr Andrews has studied them carefully and worked out that one is a male and one is a female. These appear to be the best specimens available
and he is designating them type specimens of the species. The female specimen has been selected as the holotype which is the all important specimen and represents the species. The male specimen has been selected as allotype and is the type representing the males of the species.

  Type specimens are of great scientific importance as they are the basis of the naming of plants and animals both living and fossil. It is highly desirable that such specimens be preserved forever so that they can be referred to by scientists studying these animals in the future. For this reason I would be grateful if you would consider either presenting the specimens to the Canterbury Museum or leaving them with the Museum on loan.

  Yours sincerely

  Roger Park

  Keeper of Geology

  ‘The trouble with the Indians,’ Clifford tells the local reporter, ‘is that they wont help themselves. If they’re prepared to starve rather than eat their cows,’ he says, ‘then I have no sympathy for them.’

  Clifford has been expounding his socioeconomic theories for more than an hour, despite the fact that the reporter has come to do an interview about fossils.

  ‘And so you found the stones at Glenavrick, is that right Mr Stilton?’ she says now, cutting Clifford off in mid-sentence.

  ‘That’s correct, yes,’ says Clifford. He then begins outlining the reasons why divorce statistics are so high these days.

  When the article is printed, Clifford sends four copies to Gene with a note that reads, ‘One each!’

  Etta tucks hers away, for future generations of Stiltons she says, although it is not sighted again.

  Bridget uses hers as a bookmark (Revelations 4:11) until it slips out on the bus and is never missed.

  At a party, Christina writes Donald Musgrove’s phone number along the white edge of hers and puts it back in her jeans pocket. It does not survive the spin cycle.