Winter by John Marsden

  Jess offered to come with me, but I refused. With my hand pressed to my heart, as she threw cushions at me, I said: ‘There are some things a girl has to do on her own, before she can call herself a man.’

  Jessica just threw more cushions.

  The day of my audition for the College of the Arts was the day I decided to go to Bannockburn. I thought I might as well make it the day from hell and be done with it. I was so nervous about the audition, because it had been more than two months since my last lesson with Mrs Scanelli. I had a couple of warm-up lessons with a nice old man in Christie, who had been in some operas with Joan Sutherland. His name was Gregory O’Mara. He was a very funny guy, the most openly gay man I’d ever met. He spent more time talking about his boyfriends than teaching me singing, but he knew his stuff, and I thought if I didn’t get into the college I might see if I could do regular lessons with him.

  The audition was at ten o’clock in the morning, which isn’t a good time for anyone’s voice, especially mine. I thought they should have known that, and not had any early-morning auditions, but I don’t know, maybe they made allowances. I did a piece of my choice, ‘Unforgettable’, and a compulsory one, a Bach song called ‘Bist du bei mir’, and the usual scales and stuff. I messed up a bit of the middle section of the Bach, and got one of the scales wrong, but otherwise it seemed to go OK.

  The two teachers were like the good-cop, bad-cop: one was all sweet and nice and smiling and the other sat there frowning like she thought the college already had enough students and I should go back to Christie before I totally destroyed their reputation and made them the laughing stock of the music world.

  It was a relief to get outside, back into the fresh air. Jess had classes so I had to go off and get the train to Christie on my own. I deliberately didn’t let myself think about Great-aunt Rita, because I was still recovering from the audition. In fact, every time I pictured going up that awful big driveway, nasty scary thoughts started to sneak into my mind. So I told myself: You don’t have to go there, you can just go straight home.

  I figured if I kept saying that I could put off any decision until I was standing in front of the gates of Bannockburn.

  Feeling extravagant, and too tired to get the bus, I caught the Christie taxi from the station. There are only a couple of taxis in Christie, but I hadn’t seen this driver before. It was a pretty quiet trip, after he made a comment in the first few minutes about Vietnamese drivers. ‘Don’t know how those bloody slopies get their licences’ were his actual words.

  What a prick, I thought, too tired to argue with him, or to point out where he rated on the scale of losers. Some days you just can’t be bothered. I paid him off at the entrance to Bannockburn and even gave him a tip, of nearly two bucks, which shows how tired and not in the mood I was.

  I waited till he’d done his U-turn and gone, then I walked through the gates again.

  The driveway seemed longer than ever. The house seemed bigger, and the whole place colder. It felt like no-one young had been in there for a hundred years. Forgetting the promise I’d made, the let-off I’d offered myself when I was leaving the college, I walked up the driveway, my feet crunching on the white gravel. With that kind of gravel I got a strong impression I was going nowhere. Somehow it slowed me down, rolling as I walked in it, so I seemed to be slipping backwards.

  Even the front door was impressive. Big dark red wood, with a solid brass knocker. I cowered in the shadow of the door for a minute, but I knew that having come this far, if I didn’t go through with it I’d never return. Quickly, before I could change my mind, I gave a sharp rat-a-tat-tat with the knocker.

  God, it was the loudest noise I’d ever heard. It echoed through the house like a thunderclap. I could hear it dying slowly as it went from room to room. I began to seriously doubt whether anyone lived here at all. Maybe the old lady had died. Maybe she’d moved to Majorca. Maybe she was down in the old grannies’ home. Was there a home for great-aunts?

  It seemed like half an hour before anything happened. Lucky it did. I knew I wasn’t game to give the knocker a second go. It was all or nothing. But eventually I heard slow footsteps crossing an uncovered floor. It seemed another ten minutes before the door actually opened. It was hard to see the woman’s face, because it was so dark. I peered in, wondering if I would recognise her. She stared back. I didn’t recognise her, but I knew she’d recognised me.

  ‘Winter?’

  ‘Yes. Are you . . . ?’

  ‘No, I’m not her. I’m the housekeeper.’

  ‘Mrs Stone?’

  ‘Yes. Fancy you remembering.’

  ‘I didn’t really. But a few people have told me your name, and that you live here.’

  There was a pause, neither of us knowing what to say.

  ‘Do you want me to ask if she’ll see you?’

  ‘Uh, yes please.’

  I was a bit disconcerted by the ‘if she’ll see you’. Why wouldn’t she see me? I was her great-niece, and I planned on trying hard to be a really great great-niece. How many relatives did she have? Surely not so many that she could afford to be choosy.

  I had lost all sense of the relativity of time, but I know I waited a lot longer for Mrs Stone to return from the trip upstairs than I had for her to open the door. I reckon it could have been fifteen minutes. By then I was sitting on the steps outside, leaning against a little brick wall. When I heard her coming I jumped up, embarrassed to have her catch me being so casual. This didn’t seem like a casual house.

  Something, maybe the way she dragged her feet, told me that Mrs Stone had failed. When she did get back to the door she said simply: ‘She won’t see you.’

  ‘She won’t see me,’ I repeated, stupidly.

  ‘She’s not very well.’

  But the way she said that, like it was just a token excuse, made it obvious that health wasn’t the big issue here.

  I felt wounded, like a bird shot in the breast. I felt the arrow penetrate my skin and touch my heart.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, pushing my hair away from my eyes. I’d never seriously imagined this would happen, and now it had I didn’t know how to deal with it. My eyes were stinging.

  Somehow though I couldn’t bring myself to turn away and walk down that long lonely driveway. I started getting angry that I’d come so far, and for nothing.

  I didn’t think it through, but in my mind was something like: She should see me, she can’t have many relatives, she should be especially nice to the few she’s got. And then: I don’t have many relatives. I need the ones I’ve got. I can’t afford to lose any more.

  Like a three-year-old throwing a tantrum, I said to Mrs Stone: ‘I’m not going. I’ll stay here until she sees me.’

  Mrs Stone lived up to her name. Without a flicker of expression she said, ‘It’s no good. I’m sorry. Once she makes up her mind she never changes it.’

  Suddenly the casual comment I’d made became a definite commitment. I sat on the doorstep, in a position that made it impossible for her to close the door, and said, ‘I’ll stay here for as long as it takes.’

  Now she was flustered. She changed from being solid and steady and cool, to nervous and uncertain.

  ‘Winter, please, don’t be unreasonable about this. Mrs Harrison isn’t going to see you today. Maybe another day. Why don’t you write her a letter? I’ll make sure she gets it.’

  I folded my arms, set my mouth in a line about as thin and straight as the slot on an ATM machine, and said, ‘This is a sit-in. I’ll stay here for a week if I have to.’

  ‘My God,’ she said. ‘You’re as stubborn as she is.’

  But there was a note of something—excitement even?—in her voice. I guess if nothing much had happened in this house for a long time, a sit-in would count as reasonably spectacular.

  She hurried away, her heels clicking on the parquet floor.

  I sat there and gazed around. The front door opened into a room where you could have parked a couple of semi-trailers. Not that G
reat-aunt Rita would be heavily into semi-trailers. It was a beautiful room. It was just an entrance hall, but on the left-hand side was a huge marble fireplace, which looked like it had never been used, and on the right-hand side a statue of a naked goddess, with a panther or something beside her. There was one of those things on the ceiling, like a big round flower, made of plaster I think, and painted in brown and yellow and blue. It must have taken about three weeks just to paint it. Great-aunt Rita obviously had a heap of money. Maybe she was worried I wanted to get some off her. But I didn’t care about that. I had enough of my own, despite the huge amount Mr Carruthers took from me every year in management fees.

  At the end of the entrance hall was a staircase that looked like marble too. It was hard to tell, because the light down that end was dim, but I figured there wouldn’t be anything fake in this house. If it looked like marble it probably was marble. Two curved handrails, one on each side, made the whole thing seem graceful and female.

  Mrs Stone had gone up those stairs, so Great-aunt Rita was on the top floor somewhere. I considered for a moment whether I should just charge up and find her, but that didn’t seem like a good idea. I had the feeling that Great-aunt Rita would value good manners, and I was already so far over the line on that one that I thought I’d better not go any further.

  I sat gazing at the marble staircase, waiting for Mrs Stone to return.

  She didn’t.

  It wasn’t very comfortable on the floor, but I was determined not to move. I just kept shifting my position, every time my bum got numb.

  On the wall on the left-hand side, above the fireplace, was a painting of a woman who was unmistakably my mother. Dressed in old farm clothes, holding a dog that looked like a Border terrier, she stared out at me with a direct and clear gaze. I wondered if I’d be as strong as I was now if she hadn’t died. She was so obviously a powerful personality, and I knew from watching my school friends that sometimes a mother like that can overrun you. I’d seen quite a few families with powerful parents and passive kids. Like, there was only so much room in the family, and the parents took most of it.

  Maybe my mother, by dying, had given me the space to become strong.

  I wasn’t sure whether what I was doing now was strong or pathetic. What could they do? Throw me out? I knew I was physically stronger than Mrs Stone, and she’d know it too. And Mrs Harrison didn’t sound like she was in any shape to manhandle me. Get someone else to throw me out? The police? I was willing to bet Mrs Harrison wouldn’t bring shame on the family name, and embarrassment on herself, by doing that. Imagine if word went round the district—‘refused to see her niece . . . called the police . . . had her thrown out of the house . . . wouldn’t give her the time of day . . . after twelve years!’ Even if Mrs Harrison was a recluse, I didn’t think she’d risk her reputation to that extent.

  So maybe she’d starve me out. The whole thing could become a big joke. Seriously, what would happen if three days later I was still camped on the doorstep? What would I do for food and water? And, most importantly, how would I go to the toilet?

  As soon as I thought of that I immediately felt the urge to go. It’s so annoying how that happens. I tried to drive the idea out of my head and think of something else. The word ‘camped’ had reminded me of something. Oh yes. The Aboriginal Tent Embassy, in Canberra. I’d seen it often enough. Maybe I could copy them. If I got to the point where I was desperate for food and water, I would go home, get a good supply, come back with a tent, and literally camp on Great-aunt Rita’s front lawn. That’d give her something to think about. It didn’t solve the toilet problem, but it was a nice idea.

  After twenty minutes, when there was still no sign of Mrs Stone, I sneaked out to the front garden and peed behind a box hedge, then scuttled back, hoping that she hadn’t noticed me missing. I was worried she might have run downstairs the moment my back was turned and slammed the door.

  But nothing had changed.

  Three hours later there still wasn’t much change. Twice I’d seen Mrs Stone come halfway down the stairs, peer at me, then go back up—to report, I suppose.

  I could imagine the conversation:

  ‘She’s still there.’

  ‘All right, unchain the dogs.’

  A couple of times I heard footsteps on the floor above, and once I thought I heard voices, but in a big house like that it’s hard to work out all the sounds.

  I was almost enjoying myself, in a weird kind of way. I think never in my life have I felt so in the right. I really thought I was justified in being there, that my great-aunt had to see me. She simply couldn’t turn me away.

  My main short-term concern was whether Jess would get home and start to worry about me. It would soon be dark outside, and although Jess and I were pretty casual about each other’s movements, she might worry, especially knowing I’d had the big audition that morning.

  I amused myself by imagining how it would go if I finally did get to meet Great-aunt Rita.

  ‘Lovely house,’ I would say. ‘I do so admire your roses. Wonderful how you keep them flowering at this time of year.’

  ‘Well, my dear, of course it’s the three gardeners who do the actual work. Along with their assistants. And apprentices. And the groundsmen. But it’s so hard to find good help these days.’

  ‘Oh I know. Isn’t it just awful?’

  Or would she come down the staircase waving a walking stick like a wand and shouting curses:

  ‘You stubborn pig-headed little fool! How dare you invade my house! Get out! You’re as bad as your rotten no-good mother. No wonder she killed herself.’

  I was almost disappointed when one of these daydreams was interrupted by Mrs Stone.

  ‘Winter,’ she said, coming towards me and looking genuinely distressed. ‘You really must go. Mrs Harrison is becoming most upset.’

  ‘Not as upset as I am,’ I said, without getting up.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘I want to see my great-aunt,’ I said. ‘Is that so unusual? What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘But she . . . I’m sure you can understand she has very strong feelings . . . about what happened. She still has them. She doesn’t want to be reminded . . . ’ After a pause she added: ‘She’s an old woman. Why can’t you leave her in peace?’

  ‘I won’t. I can’t. I have to see her. And if she won’t see me now I’ll go home and get a tent and come back and camp on the front lawn for however long it takes. Months if I have to.’

  With a shake of her head Mrs Stone turned away. As she re-crossed the parquet, I yelled after her, ‘And I’ll take that portrait of my mother with me.’

  ‘That’s not your mother,’ a voice said. ‘It’s me.’

  I looked up. Standing on the first landing was an old lady dressed in a heavy gold and white dressing gown. She looked magnificent, like a Chinese empress or something. In her hand was a walking stick, so my daydream was right in that detail.

  The walking stick made her look fierce. I half expected her to throw it at me. I bet she wouldn’t have missed, either.

  I stood, and stared at her. She stared back. She didn’t look fierce really, just strong. She could have stared at me all day without blinking or looking away. She was like a wedge-tailed eagle.

  ‘You’ve got what you came for,’ she said. ‘You’ve seen me. Now you can go.’

  But we both knew I wouldn’t be doing that.

  ‘That’s not what I came for,’ I said.

  ‘What then?’

  ‘I want to ask you a question.’

  I’d surprised her. At the foot of the stairs Mrs Stone turned towards me, an expression on her face that I couldn’t identify from the quick glance I gave her. Mrs Harrison came slowly down the staircase, looking occasionally at where she should put her feet, but most of the time still staring hard at me.

  She got to the bottom of the stairs and walked towards me. Her steps sounded firm and steady on the floor, despite
the walking stick. She stopped when she was two metres away.

  ‘What is it you want to know?’ she asked.

  ‘How did my mother die?’

  I heard a gasp from behind her. Mrs Stone’s footsteps came quickly across the floor towards me too, but they sounded light and kind of temporary compared to Mrs Harrison’s.

  I didn’t look at Mrs Stone.

  ‘Do you mean to tell me you really don’t know? You don’t remember?’

  ‘No.’

  I shook my head. I was getting scared. Something was wrong.

  Mrs Stone’s face appeared beside Mrs Harrison’s. Suddenly they were both there, staring at me. Two old faces, screwed up with horror. Two faces that seemed to be cracking, falling apart, disintegrating, as they stared into what I had done. Yes, me, Winter De Salis.

  And with a great terrible rush of discovery I found I did know. And realised I had always known. I gave a cry, a terrible cry, and ran out of the house with my hands over my eyes. I didn’t want to look any more, didn’t want to see the terrible sight. I ran and ran and ran, down the long tormenting white drive of my memory, down the long black bitumen road of terror, and at last, as I reached Warriewood, between the stone gateposts of my childhood.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ‘Are you all right now?’ Jessica asked.

  I nodded.

  ‘You were hysterical. I’ve never seen anyone so upset. At first I thought you must have done the worst audition in the history of the college.’

  I grinned and nodded and hiccupped.

  ‘I think it went OK,’ I said.

  ‘Do you want another coffee?’

  ‘No. Is there any more of that carrot cake?’

  ‘That sounds promising. You must be getting better.’

  ‘I haven’t eaten anything much since last night. Too nervous.’

  ‘Well, my carrot cake’ll either fill you or kill you.’