Getting Hitched Fiction - Dust to Water

By Myra King

I stand near the old pier, looking out over Lake Wendouree. There has been enough rain to make a difference - the lake is filling slowly and soon it will cover Edith Delaney’s secret forever or for at least another lifetime. After all, the last time the lake dried up like this was in 1869 - fifty years before Edith was born.

My Aunt Beattie passed away early this year and she and Edith Delaney had been childhood friends, but I hadn’t even known Edith existed until she phoned me soon after I posted the funeral notice. She couldn’t make the service but when I told her I would be scattering Aunt Beattie’s ashes on Lake Wendouree in several weeks time, she insisted on coming along. She’d heard about the Walk of a Lifetime event and how a safe path had been made across the lake. She agreed it would be a great time to carry out Beattie’s last wish.   

"We used to swim in the lake, you know, Andrea."

I lift my eyebrows. "Really?"

Edith takes a hanky from her sleeve and wipes her eyes.

"It was a lot cleaner then…" She surveys the ‘Rocky Road’ lake-scape around us. "I mean that was seventy years ago. Everything was cleaner then."

I smile and nod.

The lake bed looks like Edith’s face on a grand scale. Sunburned. Crosshatched dry from long years of drought. Crow's feet track the clotted mud, their owners with white wise eyes looking for easy pickings.

"Your Aunt Beattie was a great swimmer, lots better than I was." Edith’s hand trembles as she replaces her handkerchief. "She could swim the length of the lake and stay underwater for ages. I could never do that. She would really scare me at times. I thought she had drowned."

Instantly I have an image of Edith pacing the lake’s shore like a trapped animal. Sunlight gilds the ripples made by paddle steamers and bric-a-brac boats into knife edges of light. I hear the whistle sounds of the steamers and of people laughing.

The vibrancy of youth.

I open my eyes to the present.

"Do you want to stop and have a rest before we start across, Edith?" The bus had been late and instead of waiting we had walked to the starting area.

I take her arm and lead her to the nearest bench.

"Everything changes doesn’t it?’ she says.

We aren’t looking at each other, our eyes are following the lines of people meandering across the lake like errant ants.

I know what she means. As you get older mortality smacks you in the face with the number of people you have known who’ve died before their time. Before your time. Even those who die at ninety, like my Aunt Beattie, make you long for sameness or some sort of continuity.

She had lived a couple of blocks away and we’d been close all my life. I miss her terribly and it is only four weeks since she’s been gone.  

"Age is the great leveller, Andrea," she had once said. "Young people think we oldies were born old. But they find out. We all do." And then, laughing, she’d added "It’s just a matter of time."

That’s what I had loved most about her, her candidness. I guess that’s why I was so surprised she hadn’t told me about Edith Delaney.

We head out across the lake, people passing us quickly so those in front and those behind are never the same for more than a few moments.

"Did she ever marry, Andrea?"

I shake my head and look at the urn nestled in the crook of my arm. On my back I have a rucksack with bottles of water and a small foldaway stool just in case Edith needs another rest. It is two kilometres across and the going is not easy.

Edith stumbles on the soft turf and instinctively I grab her arm and hold her up.

"No one special then?" she says.

"No. She was in love with someone when she was young but she only told me his name. Eddie Montignac. And I only remember that because I asked her if it the name was French. Montignac that is, not Eddie."

Edith breathes heavily. I stop, sling forward my rucksack, undo the zip and unfold the chair. With my bended elbow for support, Edith lowers herself onto it.

There is no break in the flow of people. We haven’t reached the halfway point yet where a cameraman is taking photos. After that it is intermittent groups and stragglers.

I take the urn in both hands. Edith shakes her head. "No," she mouths, "not here." Her voice is barely a whisper and I am worried. I take out the water instead. Someone asks if everything is okay. My smile is twisted as I say yes.

"Let’s head back."

Edith straightens. "No," she says, her voice much stronger. "I want to see it just one more time." She gets up from the stool and stands looking ahead.

"See what?"

She doesn’t answer but keeps staring into the distance. I can see the other side more clearly now. Someone is handing out certificates. For no real reason I want one. A quote comes to mind: awards are like haemorrhoids, eventually every arsehole gets one. Strangely, I don’t feel like laughing.

"Are you sure you’ll be all right?" But already she is walking and by the time I pack away the stool and water bottles I have to run to catch up.

"You’ve been married, though Edith, haven’t you? You said you had a daughter."

"Yes, she lives in Queensland. I go up every year to see her. Get away from the cold."

We pass a discarded sandal. We both glance at it. Post-drought. Dropped there when the strap broke. No more use to its wearer. No historic worth. Funny how we value antique things but not antique people.

We reach the end. Stewards are giving out papers, they congratulate us. I look at Edith but she is not smiling. And I still have not done what I came for.

Irritation flickers a frown and Edith looks at me worriedly.

Now it is she who takes me by the arm and we stroll along the path until we are away from the throng.

"I want to show you something." The sun glances her face, smoothing the lines with light or perhaps the brightness blinds me as just for a moment she looks young.

"I know where Beattie would want to be. It’s still here, I saw it the other day."

Now she strides ahead. She climbs down a small embankment. Willow trees encircle us. We can see no one through their low hanging branches.

"Be careful. The ground is slippery," I say as I skid down to join her.

She is pointing to a single pylon.

"The old pier. This is where your Aunt Beattie and I would go swimming. I was always too scared to put my head under water. I think that’s why she was faster."

"Look." She points, grim reaper like. I follow the line of her thin finger and see, etched in the wood below the water line, a faint heart with initials. I move closer. "I never got to see it until the other day," she says. "Beattie scratched that there seventy years ago. Before I left for college. Before our friendship ended." Tears stream down her face. "The water kept it hidden. I mean it was unheard of in those days. Beattie was older than me. She was the one who ended it. I was only eighteen. And she knew I wanted to have children."

Edith slides forward. I grab for her and drop the urn. Some of Beattie’s ashes mix with the small trickle of water flowing there. I pour out the rest and we watch as they float on the surface and swirl, as gentle as a fingertip caress, around the bottom of the pylon.

"Edith…?"

"Some people call me Eddie," she says.

***

© Myra King 2008

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