Old Cremorne - by Rune Woodman
July 14th 2007 02:25
She sat on the wharf under the sign, “Old Cremorne”. Her feet would be under water if the tide came in. A ferry slipped into place - everyone got on and got off – then it chugged away. No one saw her.
She sat on the wharf alone and neat, with a black handbag to her side, a silver bun of hair counter weighting her head and a black trouser suit that carried no wrinkles.
A misty girl arrived and got the old woman’s attention, “Why are we here?”
Betraying her years the woman quickly turned, stepped-up and smiled at the girl. “I want you to see where I died.”
The girl paused. “Did you drown?”
“Not quite,” the old woman returned to her seat on the step and beckoned the girl to join her. Looking out at the water she began her story.
“It was New Year’s Eve, about 50 years ago, I was in my early twenties. There was a party just up the hill there,” she gestured to a hidden house. “My best friend was the host. A lot of my friends were there, most of her family was there and her cousin, from out of town, was also there. He was beautiful, tall and had an elegant manner.
“We talked all night. Midnight came and went. Most of the guests left. Then there was just him and me. We wanted to continue talking but feared we’d wake up the rest of the house. ‘Why don’t we go down to the wharf and wait for the sun to come up?’ he suggested. I agreed. We sat here, on this step and got bitten by mosquitoes and talked for another hour or so. Then he kissed me. Everything stopped, the water was silent, the mozzies didn’t buzz and my heart didn’t beat. When the kiss ended everything started again with a roar of thumping and buzzing and splashing. We kissed some more.”
The girl interrupted, “Did he hurt you?”
The old woman looked at her hands; they showed the sadness of every fallen tear. “Not intentionally. We moved to the shelter for greater privacy. He removed his jacket and spread it on the ground. I settled against it with him on top of me. We continued to kiss, and made love. It was wonderful – he was wonderful. I wanted to hold my breath and freeze time. We lay there until the sun came up then he returned me to the house.
“I asked him, ‘What do we do now?’ He said, ‘I have to return home today.’ - ‘Can I visit?’ - ‘No.’ He left. I never saw him again.”
The girl was confused, “But you said you died.”
“Yes,” the old woman nodded. “Death comes in stages. Days passed and I couldn’t forget him. I asked my friend – where did he live; did he come to Sydney often? She said he ran a small property with his wife. And the first stage of dying was complete.”
“What a bastard!” exclaimed the girl.
“You should mind your language,” the old woman admonished.
They sat and contemplated things for a moment.
“So you’re not really dead?” asked the girl.
“No, not yet,” came the answer.
“What’s the next stage?”
“Of death?”
“Yes.”
“A couple of months later I learnt I was pregnant.” The girl gasped and the woman continued, “He was the father. Those things didn’t happen to good girls back then so when the baby was born, a beautiful girl with his eyes, my parents arranged for her to be adopted out. They though I didn’t know where she’d been sent, but my friend, who suspicious of her cousin, managed to locate the new parents and gave me their name and address.
“It was harder to give her up than to give her life, and with it the second stage of death was complete. There was only one more stage to go and I attempted to put it off for as long as possible.”
“How did you put it off?”
“I did the right thing. I did what my family wanted. I put it all behind me and moved on. I married a man I didn’t love and we had two sons. I don’t love them either. My parents were happy and I knew that somewhere my baby was being cared for by someone.
“One night I had terrible, horrible dreams that she was dead. At the time she would have been four. For days and weeks I worried. I knew where the family lived - should I go and see her? Should I risk of exposing my past? The world fell silent again and as days passed I couldn’t work out what to do. Eventually I sent a letter - to her adoptive mother. I explained that I didn’t want my daughter back and that I didn’t want to cause trouble. I asked her to send me a postcard if anything should happen to the girl. I’d rented a post box so my family would never know.
“With the world still silent I checked the box once a week. A month passed and there was an envelope, not a postcard. There was a photo of my daughter, on the back it said, ‘All is well’.
The following October, just after my daughter’s birthday, there was another envelope, all was well. This one contained a lock of her hair. It was blonde, like mine used to be. Then every year for the next nine years there was an envelope and always, all was well.”
The girl interrupted, “What a lovely lady … to do that for you.”
“Yes.”
“So what happened on the 10th year?”
“There was no letter and I began to worry. I checked the post box daily. The more time passed the more I worried and the more my husband wondered if I was going crazy. I stopped cooking meals, I didn’t clean the house. The boys were forgotten. My husband sent me to a doctor but I couldn’t tell anyone what was wrong. Then one day I checked the box and it wasn’t empty. There was a card. My daughter had been in an accident. She was in hospital for weeks before she died.
“I didn’t stop crying. I tried to rip my hair out because when I saw it I was reminded of her. I couldn’t rip it out so I shaved it off. I feared sleeping and at night paced up and down the living room to keep myself awake. Again my husband sent me to a doctor, this time I was hospitalised. I was drugged to make me sleep and the doctors tried to get me to speak to them, to tell them what was wrong, but I had stopped talking so no one would find out my shame. I should never have given the baby away!
“Just as I’d accepted the idea that I’d be in that place forever you came to visit. You saved me. It was on the date of her 16th birthday.”
The girl looked at the woman, “On her 16th birthday? But that’s not possible. If she was conceived 50 years ago, her 16th birthday would have been long before I was born. I’ve only known you for a few months.”
“You must realise that’s not true,” the old woman was adamant. “You have been visiting me on her birthday for more than thirty years.” Concern crossed her face, should she continue? Was it right to tell the girl?
“I think you’re confused. I’m not yet 16 myself.”
The old woman’s concern became stern. “Listen to me; you are my daughter. You are dead. I can prove it!” She opened her handbag and took out a small gun. The girl quickly stood and stepped away from the crazy woman.
“You came to me in hospital, you were looking for me. You were lost. Your visit cured me! With you at my side I was well again. They let me go home and I carried on like any normal person with the exception that in October each year, on your birthday, you come to visit. Until now I couldn’t tell you who you are. I feared it would change you, that you might not be able to return."
The girl shook her head, not believing a word of it, and turned to leave the wharf.
“DON’T MOVE!” the old woman shouted in echoes around the bay.
The girl stopped and looked at the woman, at the gun, “What are you going to do?”
“The final stage. Each time you visited, I was in a different place. I travelled the world and took you with me. Do you remember Paris and New York; the buildings and the food?”
The girl’s fear turned into confusion as she considered the past. “No. All I remember is you.”
The woman stepped closer to the girl, “You followed me all everywhere. And every year, between visits, I considered and contemplated how I could have you with me all the time. Finally it came to me and I brought you here, the place where my life ended, where you were conceived. It doesn’t matter any more if you leave and don’t come back. Today when you leave I will go with you.”
The old woman cocked the gun and held it under her chin.
“Please don’t do this,” sobbed the girl. “You should go back to the hospital, you’re not well yet! The doctors will make sense of it.”
The old woman pulled the trigger of the gun and the explosion roared through the air, ricocheting back and forth across the bay long after her body fell to the deck.
Screaming, the girl tried to run away but could not leave the wharf. It was impossible to get away from the dead body. She stopped running and stood with her eyes closed, tears crossing her cheeks. Arms came to embrace her. A comforting voice circled her ear. The old woman, her mother, held her tight. They touched for the first time since the womb.
Eventually, police came and removed the old woman’s body, her handbag and the gun. Ferries were diverted to the next stop until the blood was cleared away.
The girl and woman never left the wharf. On a particular day in October they can be heard, whispering stories to each other, filling in the detail of the years they had lost.
She sat on the wharf alone and neat, with a black handbag to her side, a silver bun of hair counter weighting her head and a black trouser suit that carried no wrinkles.
A misty girl arrived and got the old woman’s attention, “Why are we here?”
Betraying her years the woman quickly turned, stepped-up and smiled at the girl. “I want you to see where I died.”
The girl paused. “Did you drown?”
“Not quite,” the old woman returned to her seat on the step and beckoned the girl to join her. Looking out at the water she began her story.
“It was New Year’s Eve, about 50 years ago, I was in my early twenties. There was a party just up the hill there,” she gestured to a hidden house. “My best friend was the host. A lot of my friends were there, most of her family was there and her cousin, from out of town, was also there. He was beautiful, tall and had an elegant manner.
“We talked all night. Midnight came and went. Most of the guests left. Then there was just him and me. We wanted to continue talking but feared we’d wake up the rest of the house. ‘Why don’t we go down to the wharf and wait for the sun to come up?’ he suggested. I agreed. We sat here, on this step and got bitten by mosquitoes and talked for another hour or so. Then he kissed me. Everything stopped, the water was silent, the mozzies didn’t buzz and my heart didn’t beat. When the kiss ended everything started again with a roar of thumping and buzzing and splashing. We kissed some more.”
The girl interrupted, “Did he hurt you?”
The old woman looked at her hands; they showed the sadness of every fallen tear. “Not intentionally. We moved to the shelter for greater privacy. He removed his jacket and spread it on the ground. I settled against it with him on top of me. We continued to kiss, and made love. It was wonderful – he was wonderful. I wanted to hold my breath and freeze time. We lay there until the sun came up then he returned me to the house.
“I asked him, ‘What do we do now?’ He said, ‘I have to return home today.’ - ‘Can I visit?’ - ‘No.’ He left. I never saw him again.”
The girl was confused, “But you said you died.”
“Yes,” the old woman nodded. “Death comes in stages. Days passed and I couldn’t forget him. I asked my friend – where did he live; did he come to Sydney often? She said he ran a small property with his wife. And the first stage of dying was complete.”
“What a bastard!” exclaimed the girl.
“You should mind your language,” the old woman admonished.
They sat and contemplated things for a moment.
“So you’re not really dead?” asked the girl.
“No, not yet,” came the answer.
“What’s the next stage?”
“Of death?”
“Yes.”
“A couple of months later I learnt I was pregnant.” The girl gasped and the woman continued, “He was the father. Those things didn’t happen to good girls back then so when the baby was born, a beautiful girl with his eyes, my parents arranged for her to be adopted out. They though I didn’t know where she’d been sent, but my friend, who suspicious of her cousin, managed to locate the new parents and gave me their name and address.
“It was harder to give her up than to give her life, and with it the second stage of death was complete. There was only one more stage to go and I attempted to put it off for as long as possible.”
“How did you put it off?”
“I did the right thing. I did what my family wanted. I put it all behind me and moved on. I married a man I didn’t love and we had two sons. I don’t love them either. My parents were happy and I knew that somewhere my baby was being cared for by someone.
“One night I had terrible, horrible dreams that she was dead. At the time she would have been four. For days and weeks I worried. I knew where the family lived - should I go and see her? Should I risk of exposing my past? The world fell silent again and as days passed I couldn’t work out what to do. Eventually I sent a letter - to her adoptive mother. I explained that I didn’t want my daughter back and that I didn’t want to cause trouble. I asked her to send me a postcard if anything should happen to the girl. I’d rented a post box so my family would never know.
“With the world still silent I checked the box once a week. A month passed and there was an envelope, not a postcard. There was a photo of my daughter, on the back it said, ‘All is well’.
The following October, just after my daughter’s birthday, there was another envelope, all was well. This one contained a lock of her hair. It was blonde, like mine used to be. Then every year for the next nine years there was an envelope and always, all was well.”
The girl interrupted, “What a lovely lady … to do that for you.”
“Yes.”
“So what happened on the 10th year?”
“There was no letter and I began to worry. I checked the post box daily. The more time passed the more I worried and the more my husband wondered if I was going crazy. I stopped cooking meals, I didn’t clean the house. The boys were forgotten. My husband sent me to a doctor but I couldn’t tell anyone what was wrong. Then one day I checked the box and it wasn’t empty. There was a card. My daughter had been in an accident. She was in hospital for weeks before she died.
“I didn’t stop crying. I tried to rip my hair out because when I saw it I was reminded of her. I couldn’t rip it out so I shaved it off. I feared sleeping and at night paced up and down the living room to keep myself awake. Again my husband sent me to a doctor, this time I was hospitalised. I was drugged to make me sleep and the doctors tried to get me to speak to them, to tell them what was wrong, but I had stopped talking so no one would find out my shame. I should never have given the baby away!
“Just as I’d accepted the idea that I’d be in that place forever you came to visit. You saved me. It was on the date of her 16th birthday.”
The girl looked at the woman, “On her 16th birthday? But that’s not possible. If she was conceived 50 years ago, her 16th birthday would have been long before I was born. I’ve only known you for a few months.”
“You must realise that’s not true,” the old woman was adamant. “You have been visiting me on her birthday for more than thirty years.” Concern crossed her face, should she continue? Was it right to tell the girl?
“I think you’re confused. I’m not yet 16 myself.”
The old woman’s concern became stern. “Listen to me; you are my daughter. You are dead. I can prove it!” She opened her handbag and took out a small gun. The girl quickly stood and stepped away from the crazy woman.
“You came to me in hospital, you were looking for me. You were lost. Your visit cured me! With you at my side I was well again. They let me go home and I carried on like any normal person with the exception that in October each year, on your birthday, you come to visit. Until now I couldn’t tell you who you are. I feared it would change you, that you might not be able to return."
The girl shook her head, not believing a word of it, and turned to leave the wharf.
“DON’T MOVE!” the old woman shouted in echoes around the bay.
The girl stopped and looked at the woman, at the gun, “What are you going to do?”
“The final stage. Each time you visited, I was in a different place. I travelled the world and took you with me. Do you remember Paris and New York; the buildings and the food?”
The girl’s fear turned into confusion as she considered the past. “No. All I remember is you.”
The woman stepped closer to the girl, “You followed me all everywhere. And every year, between visits, I considered and contemplated how I could have you with me all the time. Finally it came to me and I brought you here, the place where my life ended, where you were conceived. It doesn’t matter any more if you leave and don’t come back. Today when you leave I will go with you.”
The old woman cocked the gun and held it under her chin.
“Please don’t do this,” sobbed the girl. “You should go back to the hospital, you’re not well yet! The doctors will make sense of it.”
The old woman pulled the trigger of the gun and the explosion roared through the air, ricocheting back and forth across the bay long after her body fell to the deck.
Screaming, the girl tried to run away but could not leave the wharf. It was impossible to get away from the dead body. She stopped running and stood with her eyes closed, tears crossing her cheeks. Arms came to embrace her. A comforting voice circled her ear. The old woman, her mother, held her tight. They touched for the first time since the womb.
Eventually, police came and removed the old woman’s body, her handbag and the gun. Ferries were diverted to the next stop until the blood was cleared away.
The girl and woman never left the wharf. On a particular day in October they can be heard, whispering stories to each other, filling in the detail of the years they had lost.
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Comment by Mountain Fog
Infognito
thanks
fog