GENIE
IN THE LAMP:
Julie McGregor
hid under the house for three days. There was nowhere else to go. Where does
one escape to when living in the wilds of Tasmania? Escape and live that is –
not become another lost skeleton hidden in a sodden valley only moments from
water. Bleached bones claimed by
the severity of the subtropical rainforest where its sheer vibrancy overwhelmed
a person and caused despair to ruin any hope of survival. Bones picked clean,
never to be found though the town might be only three miles distant. Julie
wanted to escape the house and its occupants although she had no idea where she
wanted to escape to.
She fled the house via the wire door at
the back, letting the door bang behind her for the first time in her life. The
men always let it slam shut, never once bothering to put out a hand to halt it
before it banged. Even as children her boys had failed to heed her screams and
always let the wire door bang behind them as they raced outside to play.
Outside, the sunshine blinded her. She
felt caught, like a rabbit trapped by the bright lights of a Ute filled with
hunters, shotguns, alcohol and bloody laughter. Julie wanted to find somewhere
dark: Dark, moist and cool. She felt hot and flustered, a simmering anger
sapping her energy. She was tired of the house, of its loudness and the harsh
demands its residents placed upon her.
She fled the house and headed for the
wire gate that led onto the footpath. At the gate she stopped. She could not go
out into the street. Where could she go? Who did she know? She knew their names
and they knew hers but she did not know them. Had never really wanted to. Julie
was originally from Hobart, ‘the city’, the antithesis of their existence.
Besides, did she want to run down the street, shouting? For what? What could
they do? The women all shared her look in their eyes when they were certain no
men were watching. The men would not do anything, unless one of them shot her
like a wild dog that had strayed too near the town.
She wandered back up the path and stood in the
backyard beside the three cement steps that led down to the small footpath. The
old weathered footpath led to the clothesline. How many times had she tread
that path? How many baskets of washing carried back and forth like a flower
opening and closing? As she stood frozen beside the house not knowing what to
do she heard the sheets flapping on the Hill’s hoist, snickering at her like a
self-satisfied mother-in law offering judgment on her apple pie.
She turned and looked back at her house. She hated
it. Then her eyes saw the dark between the runners that hid the space between
the earth and the floorboards. A large space with deep shadows and a heavy,
earthen silence. Julie moved
close. The shadows that lived under the weatherboard house whispered to her.
Her right hand reached out and touched the gap between two of the wooden
boards. She felt the cool air lurking beneath and sensed the immobility, the
absence of expectation.
It was an easy thing for her to slide
open the latch, push the small door ajar and then slip under the house. She
slid herself deep into its underbelly, the dry, earth and moist air comforting
her, raising up the ghosts of her composed, self-sufficient childhood. She bent
low and slipped into the darkness, heading deeper and deeper under the house.
The further she moved the lower to the ground she had to push herself until she
was slithering like a snake, heedless of the dirt that smudged across her dress
and discoloured her face and hair. Finally she reached as far as she could go
and curled herself up in the small gap at the front of the house. Curled
herself up into a tight ball, her hands gripping her knees as if she needed to
hold something in. She closed her eyes and wrestled with the shakes that made
her whole body quiver like a wet, lost pup.
Fighting her battle with her rebellious
body, Julie was unaware when the weather turned; turned like a black cat and
spat at the small town until everything was drenched by the cold, hard rain
that fell just scant weeks after it would have done the most good. Fell just in
time to ensure everyone stayed on the land and tried for another year. Stayed
and dug out new ruts in the belief that surely this year must produce enough
surplus to lift their heads clear. Perhaps the weather changed in sympathy.
Maybe the fluffy, dry, white clouds sensed her need and gathered to themselves
turning dark and grey and full of tears. The rain fell hard and angry like a
father’s unforgiving words. It was a biblical rain. It lasted almost three days
and nights without a pause for breath.
Jammed under the house, Julie kept her
eyes closed as the rain released a thousand and one scents. She smelt the
conifers she had planted because she liked their soft colours and easy order.
She smelt the wet grass of her lawn that for twenty years had fought a
rearguard action against the weeds bought across on shoes careless as they
scattered the seeds across the hot dry mainland. Seeds that guffawed when they
touched upon Van Dieman’s Land with its cool, wet climate and dark, fertile
soil. She smelt the rotting dog
smell from where Hector, her husband’s Great Dane, lay buried in a shallow
grave beside the fence.
For three days Bill, her husband, and her
three boys, Stan, Johnny and Peter the youngest, searched for her. There was no
danger that she would be discovered. Searching, for Bill and the boys,
consisted of bellowing out across the yard from the back door or telephoning
around town to see if anyone had seen her. Once or twice they set off together to do the rounds of the
town and even a little venturing into the neighbouring forest. They never
thought to actually conduct an organised search. The boys assumed she would
return while Bill feared she had finally done a runner on him. Something he had
half expected since early on in their marriage. He had always been surprised
that she had agreed to marry him in the first place.
Even if they had searched for her, Julie
knew there was still no danger of being found. They were all very hefty men
with large bellies that shook when they hollered a greeting to another
big-bellied male who hollered just as loudly back. She could not imagine them
actually getting down on their hands and knees and peering between the boards
to see her let alone actually crawl under the house. ‘Not that they would fit,’
she thought, ‘more likely one of them would become jammed and then I’d have to
rescue him.’
Julie wondered why it was that a man
could not sense the end of his stomach. She often found herself pushed out of
the way by a stomach as it passed by her in the house. She’d be bent over a
stove or reaching up to clasp a bottle when suddenly she’d be thrown forward by
a stomach, like a landlubber on a lurching ship. So many years with their
stomachs and still she had not gained her sea legs. The stomachs gave her no
heed and the men gave their stomachs no thought. She dreaded a meeting with one
of her men in the house’s hallways and doorways. She carried with her a fear of
being squashed under their fleshy fat.
She was a small woman: Five foot five in
the old measure. Five foot five and seven stone. ‘Get some fat on yer luv,’ her
husband often snorted at her from the end of the table where he sat sucking the
marrow out of bones left over from the roast. ‘Get some fat on yer or one day
you’ll vanish and no one’d be the wiser,’ he’d say. Her boys would all nod
their big, blunt heads and agree, each feeling the spot in their stomachs where
her meals usually resided quake in fear.
It puzzled her that all three of her boys
were large like their father. ‘Not one of ‘em small and quiet. Not one of ‘em a
babe or child to hold in your arms and hug for comfort. All big and brash and
eager to be off doing the manly things leaving me alone in the house while they
grew and spread and filled the neighbourhood with their comings and goings.’
She sometimes woke in a sweat, dreaming
the memory of their births. Their large heads pushing adamantly, the small of
her back attacked by a jackhammer; her whole being stretched and threatening to
spilt apart like an old cotton dress.
She’d lie there in the dark listening to
her heart until her husband’s hand flopped like a dead fish across her chest
and she’d be forced to move or scream for fear of suffocation.
It had been hard to birth them in the
wilds. In the Tasmanian wilderness
there were only degrees of dirt poor all with their own stories of hard luck.
The bog Irish had settled the town and surrounding countryside. Their shared
descent seemed to snare everyone into a perpetual war between needs, the land’s
unconcern and the warbling of radio and television that showed lives so
different as to be unreal.
There was no means for her to get to a
hospital. There was no local doctor on call only the local midwife and they
were hardly on talking terms since a misunderstanding that happened when she
first arrived to the town as a red cheeked, small bosomed newlywed. No drugs to
ease the agony. And he was no help of course. While she screamed he sat in a
corner of the room drinking gin tonics and smoking camel no tips: Two bottles
of gin and three packets of cigarettes per child. Then as she lay in the stench
of her sweat and blood, gathering her strength for the babe’s onslaught, he’d
sit, slumped in his chair, snoring in time to the cries of the hungry babe.
They were all born hungry, their fat lips sucking hard for the ensuing months,
never a thought for her cracked nipples or aching bones as they clutched and
tugged and demanded with their loud voices and clasping hands to be fed. ‘Its
seems,’ she sometimes thought at night when she sat staring into the darkness
through the window, ‘that they’ve done nothing but eat since I birthed them.’
It was not one particular thing that led
her under the house. Rather it was a culmination, a stoking up of pressure.
What could you expect living with four giants who had little regard for her
petite frame, her tender ears, and her delicate hands. It was a fear that had
been building for years, beginning with a tiny tick in her left hand, moving
into a habit of stretching her neck whenever they called for her, merging into
a tension displayed in the severity with which she stretched the bed sheets, a
savagery in the way she wiped down the table and benches after mealtimes.
A fear that forced her to flee the house
because it had finally grown so large she could no longer contain it (A fear
that made her seek refuge in the dirt and shadow beneath the floorboards,
floorboards she swept to cleanse the house of the dirt and dust dragged in by
the men’s’ work boots). A fear that took hold and kept her mouth shut while
their booming voices cried out her name. She ignored their calls, ignored the
panic in their voices as they hours and then days drifted by without a sign of
her. Ignored the various neighbours who came to see if they could unravel the
puzzle, and then leave scratching their heads.
For three days she sat huddled in the
darkness. During the day she listened to their stomping feet as they pounded
her floorboards into submission. At night she listened to the insects pinging
their lives against the light bulb on the back porch and the bedsprings
creaking under the weight of her boy’s and husband as they tossed in their
sleep (each caught in a dream of crazy solutions to her disappearance). In the
dark she listened while her hands constantly brushed at her skin to flick away
the creepy-crawlies, both real and imagined.
By the second night her mind had slipped
into old memories of childhood. She remembered a game her brother (dead these
fifteen years – drunk and driving to see an estranged lover) and she once
played with sticks. The sticks were lined up close together, enough space for
the feet to tippy-toe between, no more. As the game unravelled, the space
between the sticks grew further and further apart. As a girl she loved the
game, could almost imagine she was flying between the gaps, a comet between the
planets.
She remembered a cousin called Bill who
had once slid her beneath an old single bed while she was pretending to be
asleep. It was a hot summer and they had decided to sleep on the floor’s cool
lino. She was thirteen and very curious as to what he was up to so she kept her
eyes shut and waited, her flesh tingling as his gentle hands slowly pulled her
under the bed’s shadow. Then he had stopped and waited for what seemed like
half the night before his hands had reached out and slid under her pyjama top.
She lay still, feigning sleep, her small heart thumping furiously. He had
reached up and felt her beginning breasts. She had felt a weird pulsation flowing
in her body, down her spine and between her legs. Still she feigned sleep while
his hand had slid down her stomach and beneath her waistband.
Then she had pretended to come awake,
making sure she gave him enough warning to remove his hands. She had gotten up
to go to the toilet, her face flushed, her heart beating with a wildness that
recalled to her mind the time she had stood on the edge of the ocean during a
thunderstorm, the wild waves crashing madly, the air filled with water though
the rain had not started to fall, while all about her lightning and thunder had
raged a war of wills.
For months afterwards she had wondered
about the events of that hot summer’s night. She had heard rumours of ‘things’
to do with adults but she had no idea what ‘things’. She thought about Bill’s
hand. About the funny feeling she felt in her stomach. Even now, after so many
years Julie lay in the shadows and felt a flush spread throughout her body as
she remembered Bill’s gentle hands as he slid her across the lino.
‘Bill,’ she whispered quietly, ‘gentle
Bill.’ She wondered what his hands might have been like instead of her
husband’s thick, calloused blocks that seemed to push her flesh out of the way
and reach in to bend her bones and cause her a discomfort that she held back
only by keeping her mouth firmly clamped shut leading to a series of tight
wrinkles that ruined her smile and made her appear to be in an eternal grimace.
She pictured Bill as she had seen him
several years ago when they had both attended a childhood friend’s
funeral. Bill had grown into a
small, slight man with large, bright eyes and white hands that looked like they
could caress the ivory off a piano. They spoke together briefly about their
gardens. ‘Imagine,’ she thought in the darkness, ‘a man knowing about flowers
and plants and things.’ And again she thought about his hands stroking the
petals of soft flowers, using the secateurs like a surgical instrument,
displaying a patience that was needed to be a successful gardener.
Tears rolled down her cheeks. She
remembered her magnolia tree. A tree she grew from a friend’s cutting. Nursed
and nurtured and protected until it spread its roots deep into the pot and grew
strong enough to plant in the yard. She dared plant it one fine spring day in
the back yard only to have him stumble over it one day while playing cricket
with the boys. Stumble and fall like a fool, snapping the tree at its base.
‘Don’t worry darlin’, me an’ the boy’s ‘ll get another one for yer,’ he’d
promised, tears threatening to spill, a slight quiver to his hands, as he stood
in the middle of the yard holding out the broken tree like a peace offering.
Of course there had never been another
magnolia although he did buy her a lilac tree, ‘cos it reminds me of the way
you smell luv’ after you’ve had a scrub and come to bed.’ She had grown to hate that lilac, its
thick smell, its frolicsome flowers and its spring gaiety. She often wondered
what it might have been like to stand at her kitchen sink and stare out at the
magnolia flowers that clung to bare branches like tears to a child’s face.
On the third day, at six o’clock in the
evening, just as the rain ceased to fall and the sun broke clear to shatter the
horizon into a brilliant pink and the rabble of birds called the night to bring
the house down, Julie rolled herself onto her back, a groan escaping past her
cracked and dirtied lips. She stretched out the kinks and blinked in the light
that filled the gaps between the running boards. ‘Its now or never,’ she said
to herself.
Julie rolled back onto her stomach and
inched her way out from under the house, crawling backwards so that her feet
first appeared out from the small door, then her body and lastly her head, like
an insect emerging from a cocoon. She stood up and moved her hands, as if
drying them in the evening air.Peter, her youngest, discovered her when his
emerging sense of pain forced him outside.
‘Mum! Where have you been?’ he shouted so
that half the island of Tasmania knew she had been found. He strode down the
sideway towards her then stopped. She saw him register the dirt on her clothes,
the grime on her cheeks from shed tears. She watched his eyes flick across t0
the small door that was still open and then back to her, confusion filling his
open, innocent eyes. The blood drained from his face.
‘Dad! Dad! I’ve found her!’ He cried so
that the other half of the island now knew as well.
Julie stood before her youngest, watching
the way his eyes flittered from her hair to her hands to her dress to her face
to her feet and back to her hair. They all came running towards her, bumping
and pushing against each other. They all couldn’t fit in the sideway at the
same time.
‘Julie, what’s been goin’ on luv?’ asked
Bill.
‘Shoosh dad!’ called Peter, ‘take a
geezer at her, will ya.’
Julie felt
herself thinning out again, becoming transparent, insubstantial: An object
misplaced in their clumsiness. Not a person, not someone able to act
independently.
‘Stop it!’ she
cried out, causing them to jump back. Bill’s mouth hung open like a broken gate.
‘I’m standing right here. I’m able to hear what you say. Talk to me! To me, not
each other, or there’ll be hell to pay!’
‘You heard yer
mum, boys, talk to her. Ask her ‘ow she is.’
‘You okay mum?’
asked Johnny, his hand brushing the hair out of his eyes.
‘That lock of
hair has been there since the day he was born,’ she thought to herself. ‘I’m
fine Johnny, and I wish you’d get a hair cut,’ she said.
‘I will mum, I
promise,’ he said backing away.
‘Mum,’ said
Stan, his foot digging into the earth.
‘Its all right
Stan, I’m not contagious or anything,’ she said, holding her hands out. ‘Or are
you too big to hug your mum?’
‘Its not that
mum,’ said Stan as he moved close, ‘its just I know you hate the size of us.’
That shocked her. She would never have guessed he was so perceptive. She moved
to him and they hugged lightly. She felt Peter touch her hair and Johnny rub
her back. She smiled at their timidness. ‘I must shout at them more often,’ she
thought.
Later she lay, unchanged, resting on her bed, not caring
about the dirt she was displacing everywhere. She heard Bill telephone Marion
Flanagan, the local expert on all things feminine, and ask her to come around
and ‘have a look and talking to with Julie, ‘cos she’s actin’ a bit strange.’ A
pause and then, ‘Just come over, if yer can Marion, see for yourself, talk with
her, see what’s up. Can you do that?’
As Julie lay in bed staring up at the
ceiling her husband popped his head in and whispered ‘Everythin’ ’ll be okay
now luv’ I’ve rung for Marion and she’ll be over in a jiffy.’
Bill pulled his head away and closed the
door. Julie realised she must invent a story or Marion Flanagan would badger
her for hours with her questions. ‘Why did you go under the house Mrs
McGregor?’ or ‘Did you bang your head and fall unconscious?’ Or worst of all,
‘is there some problem between you and Bill?’ This last one asked while she
pressed her hands to her breasts, as if trying to keep a deep hope in check.
Then she’d leave Julie alone and run out to spread the news of the strange
behaviour of Julie McGregor and how unfortunate for that man and those three
boys to have such a frail minded woman.
‘Frail in body, frail in mind,’ Marion
Flanagan would declare, ‘that’s what my mother always said, and never has there
been a woman who knows more about human nature than my mother.’ And of course
her listeners would argue, gently but firmly, that Marion knew perhaps even
more than her mother. Marion would deny it of course, and in the denying only
confirm their suspicions that she did know more than Old Judith Kearney,
Marion’s mother.
In the end Julie
told her husband, her sons and Marion Flanagan that she thought she had seen a
small child, one of the neighbour’s sprawling brood, crawl under the house. She
had simply gone under the house to check but had knocked herself unconscious.
No one believed her of course, but that was not the point. She needed to give
them a reason to pretend all was okay. Nothing more. Marion sighed with relief,
stared at Julie’s husband wistfully for a moment then asked if she might be
able to have a cup of tea. Marion sipped her tea with Bill while the boys stood
around their mother’s bed wondering if she was mad or something and when dinner
might be expected.
‘Get out with
you all,’ she said to her boys after Peter’s stomach had grumbled for the third
time. The boys all shuffled towards the door. Johnny was last to leave, he
paused as at the doorway and turned back to look at Julie.
‘Mum?’
‘Yes? She
replied waiting for the demand.
‘We’re all sorry
you know,’ he said quietly and then left the room and shut the door behind him.
‘Sorry,’ she
thought as she lay in bed. ‘We’re all sorry.’ Tears threatened at the corners
of her eyes. ‘Sorry, sorry for what? That they think I’m mad? That Peter’s
stomach makes such a racket?’ Julie was certain they did not mean anything more
than that. They couldn’t mean that they were aware how she felt and were sorry
for that. ‘No, no never.’
When she heard Marion finally leave Julie
rose out of bed and padded quietly into the bathroom to have a shower. As she
stood drying herself after the shower Bill knocked on the door and entered.
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ he said and
smiled as he saw her hair, shiny as the day he had first laid eyes upon her.
‘Feeling better then luv?’ he asked.
‘Hmm,’ replied Julie as she averted her
eyes and concentrated on drying her hair.
‘I’m glad that Marion woman’s gone,’ said
Bill.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked as she took
up the brush and began battling three days worth of tangles.
‘Oh I know how she looks at me,’ he said.
Something in his voice made her forget the mirror and turn to look at him. ‘She
can’t hold a candle to you luv, leastways not to me. You’re the only way for
me, only one there’s ever been, though what you see in an old woodchopper like
meself I’ll never know.’ He finished as he rubbed his right hand against his
thinning, grey hair.
Seeing his hand brush across his hair
like that she remembered when the hair had been a thick, rich brown and he had
stood in his pants and singlet, axe cupped under his armpit and resting on his
arm, the wood chips scattered all around and he grinning at her because he’d
won the Marysville final and they’d be going to Burney for the state
championships.
‘Remember that week in Burney?’ he asked
as if reading her mind.
Julie looked into his eyes and saw more
there than she ever expected to see. Saw all he wanted to say but never could.
She even saw the gentle spirit that lay deep within, hidden in the folds of his
fat and muscle, a genie in the lamp. A potential trapped by the unexpected
change of circumstances never expecting to escape.
Standing there looking at him she thought
about his life, his struggle with a changing world threatening to leave him
behind. ‘That’s why he’s so loud,’ she thought, ‘it’s a battle that he’s losing
but refuses to give in.’ She saw the man he could have been if things had been
different. She saw a straight backed , quiet man strong in his sense of
belonging. ‘Its sad,’ she thought, ‘when we find ourselves in a place different
from our choosing, or from what we expected when we chose.’
‘Can’t a lady have a bit of privacy,’ she
said.
‘Sorry luv’,’ replied Bill, ‘thought you
might need a bit of company after yer ordeal.’
‘Ordeal! Ordeal is that what you’re
calling it now?’ Said Julie as she waved her hairbrush beneath his nose. ‘If
you want to know the ordeal Bill McGregor, ‘tis the ordeal of living with you
and the three boys. The four of you cramming me for space. All of you so loud I
wonder the house hasn’t fallen down. That’s the real ordeal Bill and don’t you
go forgetting it.’
Bill stared down at the brush waved
beneath his nose. ‘Um, yes I see,’ he foolishly said.
‘No you don’t. Not ever. Guess you thinks
its easy for me, cleaning, cooking and the like while you strut about with your
axe tucked under your warm for all the world lie you was apart of the lorded
gentry.’
‘Ah,’ mumbled Bill as he backed towards
the door.
‘Now get out Bill and let me finish, is
that too much to ask of you.’
Bill fled the bathroom. He went to fetch the three boys.
‘Come on lads’ he cried out loud enough to shake the house, ‘let’s give yer mum
a treat and head in for some Chinese. I might even buy a bottle of that plonk
she likes, whadya say?’
Julie finished brushing and applied some
lipstick. She wondered about the Bill she had seen in that moment in the
bathroom. A man she hadn’t seen for too many years to count. ‘Still there
though,’ she thought. ‘Still there beneath it all, waiting, shivering, anxious
that I’ll say no. Even after all these years, still fretting about my answer,’
She snorted out loud and found it difficult to keep the smile off her face as
she thought about Bill and the boys. She listened to them recklessly whooping
around the house getting ready to take her out.
‘It might not be everything,’ she thought as she
clipped her bra into place, ‘but it’ll do me.’ Which, if she had only
remembered, were the exact words she had used with her mother twenty-nine years
ago when describing how she felt about Bill.
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