The Burial by Courtney Collins Read Free Book Online Page B

bone and scraped her skin. It felt to her like a handcuff.
    She sat up and pressed her feet into the floor and her head felt light and the floor looked to be a long way away. She examined her feet. Her toenails had been clipped too and she had never seen her feet so clean.
    She was dressed in a nightgown. Lace fringed her neck and scratched her skin. It was cold out of bed. There was no window in the room but a draught streamed up between the floorboards. A dog barked outside and she could hear the voice of an old man. She remembered the barking and the voice and then the face of the old man leaning over her.
    She searched the room for her clothes but could not find them. Aside from under the bed there was nowhere to look. There was nothing in the room except the bed, a kerosene lamp and a chair. She wrapped herself in one of the knitted blankets and opened the door.
    She was standing in a sunlit kitchen. The wall facing her was made entirely of window frames, jigsawed together. They rattled in the wind. Outside a stick flew through the air and the dog ran after it. She could see a cleared yard; from the rise of it and the way it was littered with bush rock she guessed she was very near the base of the mountains.
    The dog reappeared with the stick in its mouth and the old man walked into view. My mother’s first instinct was to hide from him so she crouched beneath the window. But she realised immediately that hiding was a foolish thing because here she was, already in his house, dressed in his wife’s nightgown, which meant she had already been found. She stood up slowly and hoped he had not seen her attempt to hide. She tugged the blanket around her shoulders and tied it in a knot at the small of her back so it looked like a shawl. She stood tall, hoping her fear would not reveal itself to the man or the dog.
    The old man did see her. Ducking down and rising up and then standing at the window. He took the stick from the dog and pointed it and walked towards her. Look here , he said, tapping the stick on the glass. She’s risen from the dead.
    His voice warbled in her ear and the sound of it chilled her.
    She was standing there, arms folded across her chest, wondering what to do next, when the old woman burst through the door.
    Oh, child!
    The old woman pushed her back against the door to shut it, and held on to her hair which was twining around her.
    Where are my clothes? said my mother.
    With that old blanket around you, you looked like a harpy at the window. The old woman chuckled. Only harpies belong outside.
    My mother was not amused. Where are my trousers, my shirt, my boots?
    You weren’t wearing no boots, child , said the old woman. Not when we found you. And you’d made a mess of your clothes. You’d lost your pants and that shirt you had on was no better than a rag.
    Where is it? said my mother . I’ll wear it anyway .
    Enough of that , said the old woman. We’ll deck you out with new kit, no problems there. But first things first. Hungry is surely what you are. We’ll give you a feed and get some flesh back on those bones of yours.
    My mother was hungry. She did not know what to make of the old woman but her hunger was sure.
    What is there to eat around here?
    The old woman patted her on the shoulder and moved towards the stove. She lifted the lid on a pot which gave way to the thick smell of gravied meat. It made my mother’s mouth water and she felt faint. She held on to a chair.
    The old woman buzzed around the kitchen, setting the table, and then she said, Sit down, dear . That’s what guests are supposed to do.
    Is that what I am? said my mother, and she sat down. She didn’t have the energy to pursue the question What am I doing here?
    The old woman poked at the coals within the stove and then tasted the contents of the pot with her finger. Ooh yes , she said . That friend of yours does taste good.
    My mother reared up from the table and knocked back her chair.