calling.
But this was different. This was saying her final goodbye to her cherished mother. The one whoâd loved her absolutely, unconditionally.
Her mother. So lovely. Her mother had always called her âmy angel.â Her long mane of curly blond hair, Sarahsupposed, plus sheâd never been a moody, rebellious child. She and her mother had been too crucially interdependent to allow disharmony into their lives. Theyâd been mutually supportive and caring. Her mother had continued to call her âmy angelâ even when sheâd had to confess in floods of tears that she was pregnant.
My Rose. I, too, wouldâve had a girl. I wouldâve had a wonderful, meaningful relationship. Little more than a child sheâd been, but she had really wanted her baby. The child in Kyallâs image. Rose Red. Just like in the old fairy tales. She had since learned that everyone had to cope with dreadful losses over a lifetime, but it was something that shouldnât have happened to her at fifteen.
Joe had tried to talk her out of attending her motherâs cremation. He and Sister Bradley would act as witnesses. But she intended to be with her mother to the very end. Afterward she would borrow Joeâs vehicle to drive out into the desert to scatter her motherâs ashes. She knew where. Around a particularly beautiful ghost gum that had held some special message for her mother. Sarah never knew what.
She wouldâve given anything to be talked out of the wake, but she knew she had to go. Her mother had many, many good friends in the town. Attending the wake was expected. Harriet, that eternal tower of strength, had arranged it at her place. âHarrietâs Villa,â the town had always called it. A building considerably grander than those usually allotted to an outback townâs schoolteacher. Convincing evidence of Harriet Cromptonâs regal, no-nonsense presence. The villa was really a classic old Queenslander with the usual enveloping verandas, lacework balustrades and valances. As a child Sarah had loved it. What made the villa truly extraordinary was Miss Cromptonâs remarkable collection of native artifacts. Sheâd gathered them fromall overâthe Australian outback, New Guinea, where sheâd been reared by her English parents on a coffee plantation, New Zealand and the Pacific Islands, which sheâd visited in her youth. There was hardly a field of learning Harriet didnât know about or couldnât talk intelligently about. She was an inveterate reader with an insatiable appetite for knowledge. Miss Cromptonâshe hadnât become Harriet until a few years agoâhad sensed the day after Sarah and Kyall had made love that something new had taken over her favorite studentâs life. Sarah had sometimes thought Miss Crompton had sensed the very day she knew she was pregnant. Certainly Miss Crompton had said Sarah could come to her at any time if she needed help.
âMy door is always open to you, Sarah. Whatever problems we experience in life, we can get through them with friends.â
She was two and a half months pregnant, her body as slim and supple as ever, showing no outward changes, when Ruth McQueen put a name to her condition and in so doing put a name to her.
âYou little slut! What were you thinking of? What were you and your mother thinking of? That youâd trap my grandson? As though Iâd allow it for one minute! Itâs unthinkable. Youâll go away and youâll stay away. You have no future here.â
What did it concern her that the baby was someone she and Ruth McQueenâs adored grandson had created together?
âIâll protect my grandson in any way I have to. Understand me. Iâm a powerful woman. Do you think Iâll listen to your stupid prattle about loving Kyall? This will ruin him, bring him and my family down. It will never happen. Youâll go away if I have to drag you off myself.
Learning to Kill: Stories