Short Fiction

Melbourne, June 15th 2024

Charlotte wasn’t really listening to Kelly because she was fighting with a French knot that refused to sit neatly on the linen she was working. This new floss she had bought was slippery and seemed to get caught with every stitch she made. The hum of the other ladies chatting and the warmth from the gas fireplace at her back was making her sleepy. Charlotte looked up from her labours to peek at what all the other ladies were doing. This crafting circle was her saviour. After two years of rolling COVID lockdowns and the blanket of isolation that spread itself across Melbourne, she was so grateful to come out the other side. These women and the connection they shared had sewn her back together. Being part-time at work meant that she could be here on a Wednesday morning. It still surprised her how much she loved embroidery. The sense of achievement of making something beautiful combined with the patience it cultivated had helped her, mentally. Small stitches, colour combinations, building slowly bit by bit something whole. 

She had engaged in a futile dance with the sheets last night. Her husband Tom, ever the patient man, had eventually padded out to the lounge and settled on the couch to give her space. It was the second phone call that had done it. Amelie’s school had rung her to discuss her daughter’s truancy for the second time in as many days. When she confronted Amelie all she got was acerbic, one-word responses and resentful eyes.

‘Anyway, I told her she should go see her GP about it. That is not something you want to leave unchecked at our age.’ Kelly’s voice found its way through her thoughts, bringing Charlotte back to the present. 

‘Uhuh, yeah definitely,’ she replied, unsure what she was agreeing to. There was a break in the chatter and Charlotte looked up as Eileen arrived in her usual bluster.

‘Morning all’ she greeted. ‘I would like you to meet my cousin’s daughter, Rose. She just moved here from Ballarat.’ A small, fine face beneath a thick dark fringe appeared from behind the larger woman.‘

Hi,’ she said timidly, looking not around the circle, but directly at Charlotte.  

Charlotte froze. Her insides clenched and her tongue felt thick inside her mouth. The edges of her vision blurred. She was eighteen again. Her lungs burned, the coldness of the water shocking but also paralysing, her brain thick with vodka cruisers. Everything she had packed carefully way into little boxes in the back of her memory burst forth chaotic and raw. 

‘Welcome Rose!’ Kelly said, shifting the hefty blanket she was knitting to one side to make room for the two women. She introduced the rest of the circle, ‘I’ll test you later,’ she joked. 

‘I am sure I won’t get it right,’ Rose replied. Her voice was different from the one Charlotte remembered, less bolshie. 

A strangled sound escaped Charlotte’s throat. ‘Uh, I just remembered, I have an appointment,’ she croaked. Standing abruptly clutching at her hoop, she sent a shower of rainbow floss across the carpet. As she knelt, scrabbling, she smelt her. Rose still smelt of lavender and citrus.

‘Don’t leave.’ Rose said softly as she kneeled to help Charlotte retrieve her dignity. ‘I didn’t know you would be here, but I don’t want you to go.’ 

Charlotte couldn’t stay. She needed to breathe. ‘Sorry everyone!’ she exclaimed, ramming all her belongings into her bag. ‘See you next week!’ And she scurried away from her past and into the cold bright morning. 

***

Ballarat, March 23rd 1996

The late afternoon was hot and buzzing with insects. Rose stomped up the front steps, flung her school bag in the hallway and went in search of cold cordial and chips. The air in the kitchen was cloying. Taking her snack down the back steps, she headed toward the stables. 

School had pissed her off today. Ever since they had merged with the boys’ campus everything had changed. It had made the girls mental. Suddenly everyone had a little clique and they were all caking on the make-up. The Nuns made them wash it off. There was one girl in her form room who only ate apples. That’s it. She and Charlotte hadn’t changed. Rose was grateful for that. But it did mean they were often on the social fringes, not quite cool enough, not vapid and superficial enough. Pulling Gertie’s saddle into place she ran her hand along the soft, warm flank gently attaching the bit and reins. Riding was her happy place, where she could be herself and shake off the day. 

As she rode through the gate a tickle of anxiety fluttered in her guts. This stretch of the Reserve was where she and Sam had been riding when the unmistakable sound of dirt bikes had headed them off. Chrome colours glimmered through the trees as four bikes had advanced toward them making the horses skitter They weren’t allowed on Brown Hill Reserve but that didn’t stop them. 

Today the heat wouldn’t let up, and even as she pushed Gertie to a quick trot through the silvery gums, the breeze was sticky. She dismounted, looping the reins over a dead stump. Lying on a fallen log she watched a group of native bees threading loops between the branches above. She could see her horse was suffering in the heat, so she dusted herself off and headed back. After brushing Gertie down, Rose headed toward the house. The faint call of her brother carried across the backyard. Quickening her pace, she banged the fly screen door open and entered the shadow of the hall. 

‘Rose, phone!!!’ Sam called again. 

‘Quit yelling, I’m right here,’ she laughed, entering the front room. Her brother, two years older, still held himself in that lanky teenage way. But on a horse, his body found its stride - all those limbs came together in synchronicity. It was a beautiful thing to watch.  

‘It’s Charlotte,’ he said.

‘Ooh and she doesn’t want to talk to you, Loverboy !??’ Rose teased.  Sam’s cheeks bloomed pink as he shoved the phone at her. 

“We already talked!’ He replied. Rose had been surprised when Charlotte and Sam had become a thing six months ago. They had grown up together. But watching them as a couple Rose decided they complimented each other.

Charlotte’s voice frothed down the line. ‘Friday night, your folks are going to be away right?  There is a thing happening down at the Dam.’ 

‘Yeah.’ Rose grinned into the mouthpiece. 

‘I’ll tell Mum and Dad I’m having a sleepover at yours!’, came Charlotte’s reply, fizzing with excitement.

***

Melbourne, June 22nd 2024

Purl and knit, purl and knit, purl and knit, Rose was losing herself in the rhythm. Why did her sons have to be Hawthorn supporters, brown and yellow was such an ugly combination to knit! When her husband Dave announced his job was changing and this meant a relocation to Melbourne, both kids went spare. The one calling card of the move was the allure of live footy matches. Rose had never been into the game, but Dave and the boys lived for it, and brown and yellow now dominated their living room like a weird, 1970’s alternate reality.

Rose tried to still her tapping foot. The shame and regret she had stowed away had bubbled to the surface the moment she had seen Charlotte’s shocked face the week before. And now she wasn’t here, and Rose felt like a loose thread, sprung free from its woven nexus, flapping about, disconnected and bereft. 

To her right, Kelly was talking as fast as she was knitting. ‘So Rose your boys are at Loyola’ Click, click. ‘Both my girls went there. It’s such a lovely school.’ Click, click. ‘My Amy is in her second year of Law at Melbourne now and Sophie is taking a gap year to travel.’ Click, click. ‘Do you think Charlie will want to go straight to uni?’ Click, click. Rose was about to give a vague and non-committal answer when Kelly squealed. 

‘Charlotte! We thought we’d lost you,’ Kelly clucked. Rose took a breath as all the ladies shifted their chairs out to give Charlotte space. 

‘Sorry, I’m late.’ Charlotte avoided Rose’s glare. As she pulled out her hoop and started arranging needles and floss, Rose caught a glimpse of what she was working on. It was a vista, thick clumps of silvery gums surrounding a lake. It was beautiful and nearly finished. There was something familiar about it. How many times over the years had Rose wanted to track Charlotte down? How many times had she wanted to ask for forgiveness and explain that she was a different person - different from that hot-headed, grieving teenager? At one point, after a bit of internet stalking, Rose had found Charlotte now Crane, not Warden, on Facebook. But her profile was set to private, so she hadn’t been able to piece much together. 

‘What do you do for work Charlotte?’ Rose plucked up her courage to ask. Charlotte met her gaze. 

‘I’m a high school teacher - English and Art.’ Her voice was soft and hesitant. Rose felt a sting; Sam had applied to do teaching. It was all he had ever wanted to do. 

‘I was a journalist originally, but it wasn’t for me, but I love teaching.’ It unravelled in a rush. An explanation. She too had made the connection. 

‘Kids?’ Rose probed. 

‘Two girls, Amelie is 16 and Samantha is 13,’ She replied. 

Samantha. Sam. 

***

Ballarat, September 4th 1995

The heady stench of perfume, deodorant and sweat threatened to unhinge Charlotte. She closed her eyes as she swayed to the music, feeling the bodies press in close on the tiny dance floor. Their drink of choice - tequila shots. You couldn’t bring your drink onto the dance floor, Hot Gossip house rules. So, she and Rose downed the golden liquid letting its fire course through their limbs turning them to honey – lick, sip, suck. This was their second time out with their newly minted fake IDs. As Charlotte watched Rose grind hips with a much older guy she thought idly -This club used to be the old Chapter House of our church. As a little girl, she had walked past it every Sunday in her starched white collar. She turned away from the music and ran smack into a black T-shirt. She looked up, straight into Sam’s laughing eyes. 

‘Fancy seeing you here,’ he grinned. They hadn’t told him they were going to gatecrash his weekend haunt. He wasn’t crazy about Rose having a fake ID but he didn’t look mad, just amused. Charlotte felt hot and suddenly self-conscious. 

‘Want to dance?’ He yelled into her ear.

‘No,’ she squirmed. Why did she care what Sam thought? They had known each other forever. ‘I think I’ll get some air.’ She motioned in the direction of the courtyard. 

‘I’ll come with you; Rose looks a little busy.’ She followed his gaze to see that grinding had progressed to face-sucking. Gross! As they pushed their way out into the smoky courtyard, she felt Sam’s hand on the small of her back, guiding her. A crackle of electricity licked at her spine. 

***

Melbourne, June 22nd 2024

Charlotte tried to concentrate but the migraine she had been fighting for days was still sitting there, dull but unrelenting, behind her right eye. She could feel Rose’s gaze burning a hole in her. After she had taken flight from the circle last week, she had returned home feeling guilty and frustrated. She had wandered the house with no motivation to undertake any domestic tasks and found herself standing in the hallway surveying the fruits of her labour. Embroidery hoops covered the wall. Each one, a sibling to the next, depicted the bush of her childhood. There were different trees or times of day, and some had bodies of water, some didn’t. A collection of memories all trying to find something, something she had lost. She had burrowed under the covers and masturbated frantically both to shake off her shame and in an attempt to expend her restless energy.  But every time she closed her eyes she was met with grizzly snippets of that night: Rose and her shouting drunkenly at the boys. The boys daring each other to jump off the highest tower into the inky depths below. The faded red of Sam’s beloved ute. The sheer weight of the water pressing down on her as she struggled to get free of the cabin. 

And now she was sitting across from Rose being prodded and poked about her life. The other women chatted obliviously around them. She and Rose were suspended together yet disconnected in their grief. Why did she feel so angry? Had she skipped that stage of grief thirty years ago or was this new anger? The kind of anger that comes with time and too much reflection. 

Charlotte had stood there on the banks of St Georges Dam in the grey light of that Saturday morning, watching in horror as the divers searched for the ute and Sam’s body. She felt nothing but pain. Raw, coarse and unrelenting pain. In the days that followed the crash she had tried in vain to remember the minutes before it happened. Sam had been sober, the designated driver. She had been drunkenly fumbling with the cassettes trying to find their song. But no matter how many times she went over it she could not remember what had caused Sam to lose control. 

Rose had refused to talk to Charlotte after. The press was relentless, journalists camping out in their vans at the front of the house. People would stop talking when Charlotte entered a room. She felt numb and exposed. Her parents, after wringing their hands, had become obsessed with maintaining a complete media blackout. As if forcing her to block it out would protect her. But after a while, listening at doors and collecting scraps of news became far worse. She blocked out the noise, cut herself off, no longer wanting to know the answer to the question that had plagued her. 

She stopped eating. 

***

Ballarat, April 1st 1996

Rose struggled to breathe. The walls of the church were closing in on her and the polyester of her black dress clawed at her throat. She stood beside her Mum and Dad, unable to cry. After days of constant weeping her tear ducts were refusing to cooperate. What kind of person doesn’t cry at their brother’s funeral? She thought, disgusted with herself. Looking over her shoulder she could make out the hunched figure of Charlotte standing with her Mum and Dad. The rest of the mourners had given them a wide birth and so they stood alone in their pew, judged and cut off. That was small-town grief for you. They all wanted someone to blame. She had made it out and he hadn’t. Why hadn’t she gone back for him?  

A week after the funeral her parents had coaxed Rose back to school. Charlotte’s desk stayed empty. She fueled her anger by bitching to the other girls. ‘Too afraid to show her face!’ she had hissed, the words bitter on her tongue. Two weeks later Rose sat in the window of L’Espresso with girls from her form. As they gossiped, sipping from identical coffee cups, she watched Autumn jostle leaves down the main street.  A truck pulled up, idling at the lights. It had a faded cartoon of a jolly fat man lifting a sofa – Derek’s Removals – Helping families move since 1980! As the truck moved off, she glimpsed the pale face of Charlotte through the window sitting rigidly beside her mother and the burly driver. 

***

Melbourne, June 22nd 2024

Looking down Rose realised she had knitted two yellow stripes in a row. Huffing she unravelled the stitching. Across from her Kelly was talking animatedly to Charlotte about her weekend in Sorrento. Apart from her monosyllabic answers when questioned, Charlotte had expertly avoided Rose. 

In the months after the accident, they had all struggled to come to terms with Sam’s death. Accidental death was the coroner’s ruling but the why of the accident remained unanswered. There had been no skid marks to indicate Sam had tried to stop, and no clear obstacles in the way. The toxicology report had come back clean. So why had he crashed into the Dam and why hadn’t he swum to safety, like Charlotte?  These questions made her family’s sorrow deeper and their anger messy, and the fabric of their lives irreparably torn into pieces. Last night Dave had chided Rose about the crafting circle. ‘Not really your scene, is it?’ he joked as they cleared away the dishes. 

‘I’m going to give it a chance,’ Rose retorted. She hadn’t told him about Charlotte, not yet.  She had to mend what was broken. But sitting here, now, she felt uncertain. She had spent years locking that part of her life away. Convincing herself that she had done nothing wrong and even if she had, it was too late, and she was too old, too tired. Around her, the women stirred, packing their balls of thread into bags, stretching their legs and rolling their shoulders. Rose put her hand into her pocket feeling the smooth edges of the worn paper, folded and refolded, familiar and terrible. As they all trooped towards the library entrance Rose caught Charlotte’s arm. 

‘Can I talk to you?’ Her words were halting. ‘It will only take a minute.’ Charlotte looked down at her, her eyes flat. She had forgotten their height difference. 

‘Okay.’ Charlotte replied, a hint of anger in her voice. ‘I don’t think there is a lot to say.’ Rose reached into her pocket and pulled out the paper, shoving it toward Charlotte. ‘

'Here. This is for you.’ The autopsy report was her way of saying sorry. Her way of admitting she had been wrong back in the school days, in those fragmented moments of pain and retribution. Surely Charlotte knew about it, the outcome of the coronial inquest had been in the news, but this was an original copy. She needed her to have it. Charlottes’ eyes widened as she read. When she looked up, they were wet. 

‘I didn’t know.’ The words were choked. ‘His heart. A heart attack…’ Her words trailed off. They stood there looking at each other, not sure what to say. 

‘I went back for him you know.’ Her words were tight with tears. 

Rose exhaled. ‘Do you want to get a coffee?’

‘Okay,’ Charlotte replied, wiping away snot with the cuff of her sleeve.