‘Whoa, look at the Lady from the hill.’ Simon turned on his bar stool a second after Sam, and saw Elizabeth across the road, in front of the store, carrying a load of items that were reflecting the afternoon sun.
‘When the cat’s away…,’
added Sam. He then turned back, hunching over the bar, covering his beer as though scared that the Lady would take it. Simon however, stayed looking out the window.
‘It could be her own stuff,’ Simon suggested, he voice trembling slightly, but Sam didn’t seem to notice.
‘Sure. A late night game show hostess is bound to have invested in gold and antiques,’ came a snort from the left stool.
‘You think Jeff would’ve changed his locks by now. She’s deserted him after all. It’s been about three months, hasn’t it?’ asked Barbara, bringing a new jug of Carlton Draught over with a tut, and pushing her fringe of grey hair out of her eyes. Unlike her husband, she could find endless entertainment in celebrity spotting. It wasn’t difficult to guess who’s
were the glossy magazines Simon had seen on their coffee table. The stained sports section was the only reading material Sam touched. Both however, had promised to buy Simon’s book whenever it came out.
‘I’m talking to him about it when he gets back. It might be too much for Jeff to get his head around,’ Sam said. ‘It was a huge job putting them all in. The windows in that place…’
‘He’s probably still hoping she’ll come back,’ interrupted Barbara, as she always did when Sam threatened to talk shop. ‘Poor guy, he doesn’t realise he’s better off. Gold-digger.’
Simon knew the uselessness of contradicting Barbara, and what would he say? ‘I just have a feeling you’re wrong,’ was not a strong argument, so he said nothing. He took his glasses off and wiped them. He studied the figure through the pub window, as best he could. The pane was a little uneven, and it skewed the edges of his view slightly. The pub must have wound up with the end of the window maker’s stock.
Elizabeth was wrapped in an elegant brown wool coat, lined with silver buttons, with the
collar turned up. He hadn’t seen her in six months, and not since his recent move to Grosvenor, although she had been his foremost thought when he’d arrived here.
She came out of the pawn shop with an empty basket.
‘Well if she’s stealing, shouldn’t someone call the police?’ Simon asked, trying to hide his
annoyance with his friends.
As though a whistle had been blown, Barbara immediately turned back around to the bar and the couple started playing with their half-filled glasses. After a moment, Barbara
said, ‘We really don’t want to get involved.’
****
Three weeks later Simon had an excuse to go inside the house. Sam drove him up the hill,
his tool box jingling over every bump. Simon had examined the contents, but they had been as foreign to him as a box of religious relics, which was unfortunate because of what they were planning.
‘He’s moved back permanently this week. Remember to say you’re my assistant.’ Sam had
suggested assistant rather than apprentice, as even an eccentric millionaire would notice Simon was a fair amount over seventeen. ‘You hand me the tools while I do the job.’
‘You’re not a surgeon.’
‘Hey, you’re the one who wanted to come, mate. I’m doing you and your book a favour.’
He was right, so Simon kept quiet the rest of the journey.
Simon had previously seen the house in Vogue Living, an episode of Country House Australia, and several watercolours in Regional Rotary art shows, but only once before in person. He reran frame by frame the single visit he had been permitted, and his first sight of Elizabeth Radcliffe, who appeared to be a natural extension of the house.
She had ditched the bleached blonde hair and strutting cleavage she displayed on Channel 8. Her game show had made his insomnia viewing list, at the time when he was alone in his Spartan furnished apartment after Anna left.
The program came out of the same crappy mould as the sequence of shows before and after it, but there was something about Lizzie that was compelling compared to the others who filled out spangled evening gowns. Beauty was the least of it. There was an internal strength, a sharp intelligence behind the eyes. She was headed for better things.
****
Simon remembered
it had been a particularly stifling summer. Elizabeth had stood on the landing
suspended over the entrance hall. She had surveyed the guests as though they were
entering to fight in the coliseum for her amusement. Simon had guessed neither
the heat, nor animal rights worried her, as she sported a silver mink jacket.
Diamonds sparkled at her throat and two exquisite matching gold bracelets
wrapped tightly around each wrist. He had stood staring while she made
conversation with anyone who approached her, although Simon could tell by the
way her eyes travelled over their shoulders, continuing to search the room, that
she found it trying. She hadn’t been that way with him however. When she had
finally looked down directly at him, she had appraised him with some interest.
A small smile appeared on her lips and she looked quickly over her shoulder
then made a small beckoning motion towards him, but then she was suddenly drawn
away.
In contrast, her husband had never stood still, running back and forth constantly, always in motion, though never going far. Jeffrey Radcliffe had stayed in her orbit like
he was looking for a pat on the head or a possible treat, coming to her rescue
whenever the squawking party of seagulls approached too closely.
The monarchy on the hill, a Labrador puppy and a glacier.
****
When Simon had started looking for a place in Grosvenor, the party had been over for a month. His real estate agent lamented the very recent drop in prices, reminiscing how
before, on designated weekends, convoys of foreign two-doored cars travelled through Main Street, towards the Hill Road. In between the property’s social activities, the visitors would sometimes be seen walking around the town in designer labels, going to the general store, buying “souvenirs,” and adding substantially to the town’s bottom line. ‘The milk bar imported a state-of-the-art espresso machine, ‘not at the request of the locals you know’.
And freshly minted labels and prices had appeared on items, redefined as “handcrafted”, and “organic”.’ A brief blissful expression appeared on the agent’s face.
As it was, Simon didn’t really care where he ended up laying his head in Grosvenor. It had been Anna who’d been obsessed with “location” in the city and she’d obviously not liked theirs in the end. An unimpressive place, but the full rental bill had been a lot more remarkable, one of the few things she left with him. Grosvenor had the double advantage of possessing cheap accommodation and no trace of Anna. His battered books, including his well-thumbed copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets, could finally take pride of place on the book shelf. He told himself it was not because of Elizabeth that he had chosen this town.
It was true that businesses did not seem to be thriving now that the party plug had been pulled. Not everyone had given up however. The Newsagent’s enterprising son Toby, had
set up a stall on the Hill house’s street corner, selling selfie sticks and drinks for the drive-bys. Visitors to the town still came and gawked, but rarely got out of their cars and usually brought their meals from fast food outlets on the highway.
‘Bloody bogan day-trippers,’ the owner of the pub had spat.
Toby told people that there was a piece of the high barbed-wire fence that had a recently
repaired hole. He offered to show Simon the spot for twenty bucks.
****
The day Sam and Simon went to the house, it was like a thick blanket had been thrown over it and been tucked in with tight hospital corners. It swallowed sound and slowed
movement.
A semi-mute staff member showed them upstairs.
‘The window lock has been jimmied here,’ Sam said. ‘Hard to do with a dead bolt.’
Simon looked at the sparsely decorated bedroom. There was nothing that shouted it was
Elizabeth’s. No stray silk shawl left on a chair, no bottle of celebrity perfume, no silver hairbrush used to style her hair. All these she had held in one of the “at home” photos he’d found in Google images.
He did notice two large brass hooks in the wall. ‘Elizabeth must have taken the drawings,’ he said. ‘What was it the media said, an Ernst and a William Blake?’.
‘Yeah,’ said Sam, vaguely, ‘the ones he gave her for her birthday. They were a bit too
creepy looking for me, but I’m not an expert.’ Then his tone perked up. ‘This lock is shot. The rain keeps getting in. Look at the carpet.’ The cream shag had a small dirty stain, shaped like a cloud.
****
The living room’s sculpted fireplace was black and empty. Jeffrey Radcliffe was sitting in a wrought iron armchair, so still that it looked as though the carved ivy on the arm rests had pinned him down. He’d been staring out the window at the garden, but with a sigh he came to life and faced them.
‘Hello Sam.’
‘Hello Jeff.’ Sam started fiddling with the tape measure at his belt.
‘You’ve been up to Elizabeth’s room?’
‘Ah yeah. Needs a new lock. Probably a whole new window frame.’
‘Do you think you could do it in some sort of metal?’ the rich man asked. ‘It would
be stronger, wouldn’t it?’
‘Ah yeah, I’ll look into it.’
Jeffrey sighed. ‘I’m considering replacing all the windows. However the priority is Elizabeth’s room, we need to get that done while we can.’
‘While we can?’
‘Before Elizabeth gets back. No one else ever goes into her room, she even cleans it herself.’
‘Gets back…?’ Simon blurted out.
Sam quickly covered, ‘Do you want me to call or email the quote?’
Jeffrey was looking out at the garden again, but he turned back to Sam. ‘Sorry, either will
be fine.’ His head drooped and Simon had to strain to hear him. ‘Things are a bit of a mess at the moment. They’ll be better when Elizabeth is back.’ He turned again to the window.
‘Poor bastard,’ murmured Sam, shaking his head after the front door shut behind them.
****
Simon no longer had any doubts about moving to Grosvenor. It had led him to the broken millionaire in the hollow house and to her. He created the outline on As pieces of paper he stuck to his wall. Like the Great Gatsby, Radcliffe was sitting on the hill worshiping an idol that was as different and disappointing in reality as she could possibly be. From Lizzy Lile to Elizabeth Radcliffe. From a woman who danced on table tops, to one who sipped tea with ladies who wore hats. All Jeff’s metaphoric slobbering,
and dropping little gifts at her feet had wo n thin. The romantic fool had thought that if he picked her up out of obscurity, gave her everything that glittered and shone, her appreciation would be only a few steps away from love.
She milked him and then struck out on her own. Lizzie/ Elizabeth, in Simon’s fair-minded assessment, wasn’t a Gold Digger or even a bitch, as the locals called her, just determined, independent, and the natural companion of both of these traits, cold. Well, to most people at least.
Last year when Anna had struck out on her own, she had planned and packed everything in less than a week, with colour coded labels on the furniture and boxes. The few things that were to remain with him, she had assigned a muddy brown colour.
****
For a few weeks he hit a good streak, spending most of his time at his new home writing. The pub crowd told him off for his unsociability.
‘You’re trying to get out of your shout,’ said Sam. He gave a good natured laugh under
which lay a note of admonishment. The regulars nodded in assent. Barbara and Sam shared a few words that Simon didn’t catch, which she accompanied by a reproachful look in his direction that only women know how to give, but none of this was enough to tear him away from the keyboard for any length of time.
****
Elizabeth didn’t reappear in town after the group viewing at the pub.
Simon had decided she was now only a phantom, like one of those girls who disappeared in Picnic at Hanging Rock. People would turn to his book to find her. Not an unhappy
thought.
****
Simon had a short but not very sweet visit to the city. He’d run into Anna at a mutual
friend’s get-together. She looked different. Simon thought she looked designed within an inch of her life. Nothing was out of place in her suit or her now red hair. She conveyed clearly, at least for guys like him, a message of ‘do not touch’. He found his Grandma’s words regarding politeness coming into his head and attempted some conversation
‘Well you’re looking good.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Far too good for the likes of me.’
‘Oh Simon,’ she shook her head slightly, making a sound between a giggle and a sigh, and moved off to the other end of the room.
At the Wynham 24 hour service station on the highway back to Grosvenor, he slammed the petrol nozzle into his car, imitating Anna’s head toss and little giggle/sigh. Then he
looked up, and Elizabeth was there. She sat on a plastic chair in the café area, sipping a coffee in a Styrofoam cup. What little he saw of her face, which she kept buried in a book, didn’t immediately call to mind Elizabeth Radcliffe. She seemed blank, almost as
though she needed to be coloured in a bit more. In fact if he hadn’t seen the wool and silver buttons over the neighbouring chair, he wouldn’t have given her a second glance. But he had already described the folds of that covering in his novel, including the tiny lint balls that escaped its woollen weave.
He continued to stare. He willed her to look up and recognise him, until he felt a sudden
dampness on his shoe and realised that he’d pulled the nozzle out of his car while still holding the pump handle down. He spent a minute cleaning himself up, and when he looked back, she was gone. The coat however, was still on the chair.
****
Simon thought at first he must have been given the wrong directions, although there weren’t a lot of directions you could go in Wynham. He looked at the concrete blocks,
stroking some rough stitching in wrong-coloured cotton, in the left hand corner of the coat. Number 6 had a new sticker with the name ‘Jane Echapper.’ It wasn’t until then that he realised Elizabeth was probably not using the name she’d worked so hard to get. If it really was the former great lady of Grosvenor, she was hiding.
It was her,although looking different. Her hair was darker now, and the frizz had found
its way back. She didn’t hold herself in her former graceful, prima-donna pose.
As she leant against the partially opening door, she looked like everyone else.
Jane?’ Simon nblurted out.
Her eyes widened, and her body tensed. He saw her search his face trying to place him.
He realised he must look a little different now from their meeting at the party.
‘Yes?’
He forgot all the words he’d rehearsed and just held out the coat.
‘Oh,’ Elizabeth’s face relaxed.
‘The people at the café told me it was yours….’ He felt twelve years old. ‘Sorry, maybe I
shouldn’t have just come over like this.’ He felt his knees shake and began to sway.
Behind her he saw what a real estate agent might try to get away with calling a “studio”. A
kitchenette was in one corner, and what resembled a bathroom was in the other, complete with a tattered accordion style screen that could be pulled across it.
The last scene of his novel did not end in a place like this. He worried he might pass out.
‘Glass of water, please?’ He managed to blurt out.
‘Are you alright?’ she opened the door wide.
They made basic introductions. Simon managed to mumble something about getting over the flu, and he sunk into the only armchair in the flat.
She handed him a glass of water. ‘I don’t recognise you. Are you just passing through?’
He managed to nod and say ‘yes.’
‘Yeah me too, for the last four months.’ She laughed, filling up the kettle, clumsily. ‘Would
you like a coffee?’
Simon murmured ascent then looked down. He realised he was still holding the coat and touching the stitching.
Suddenly she was behind him. She stroked the clumsy repair and smiled. ‘It’s because of this that I can’t sell it. Not a bad thing really, lovely coat otherwise. Keeps me warm.’ She noticed his puzzled expression. ‘I was hurrying and it got caught on a fence.’
Then he caught his breath. He perceived an indent going up her arm to the shoulder, almost like a small trench of skin. This contrasted sharply with the more recent and
darker scars on the base of her neck, visible when she turned to the sink.
‘Here you go,’ she handed him a factory-ugly mug, one hand on the handle and the
other balancing the bottom. Around each of her wrists, were bands of dark, red
raw skin that seemed to have never properly healed. It was like they were in
mourning for the two tight gold bangles that he’d seen covering them at the
party.
****
He ran. He jumped into his car and set it in the direction of the highway. He worried he
might bring up his lunch. Ignoring road laws, he reached the outskirts of the town in five minutes flat, but the tearing off of his blinders impaired his view of the road. He pulled over at the faded “Welcome to Wynham; The Wonderland of Victoria” sign.
He now knew Elizabeth didn’t float when she walked. He also knew why Elizabeth was in Wynham, and why she used another name. He knew that when she went out she put the coat on whether hot or cold, and turned the collar up.. He knew she would flinch whenever someone raised their hand, even to wave. He knew she would make sure her sleeves always reached down to her palms, covering her wrists. Simon had noticed similar markings once. They came from rope burns. He had seen them on the front limbs of pigs’ carcases that had been trussed up from hooks hanging from the wall of the abattoir that was on the road to Grosvenor. Ready to be broken in any of the hundreds of different ways the butcher desired.