Mid-morning shadows dappled the headstones, gravel crunched as they walked. Aida was quiet, morose and lost in thought. Wanting to lighten her heart, Elsie maintained short bursts of conversation. Aida laughed softly at Elsie admitting her disenchantment at the invitation she had received to afternoon tea at Mrs Brown’s tomorrow and the face the ladies would make over the dryness of Elsie’s tea cake; Aida smiled as Elsie described the breakfast she prepared for Thomas every morning, without fail: two rashers of bacon and two fried eggs, one slice of buttered toast, sweetened black coffee.
‘And he always praises me when I set it in front of him,’ Elsie said. ‘“Boy oh boy, what do we have here?” as though it’s something new and wonderful every morning.’
‘As though compliments negate you having to do it every single day.’ Aida paused to set a wilted bunch of flowers that had blown astray back onto a grave. Elsie let her comment sink in, and was unsettled to find it struck as strangely accurate. It wasn’t for praise that she cooked her husband breakfast every day – it was simply her responsibility now. Her assumed role. Did she feel obligated? Surely not. Elsie pushed away the discomfiting line of thought.
They walked on further, to the base of the hill and the ancient pine tree. Beneath their feet the sappy scent of pine stirred. As they rounded the base of the tree the old headstone revealed itself, listing towards the tree trunk.
Here he lies.
Fear not, dry your tears.
Aida tilted her head and her eyebrows drew together. There was a loveliness in her expression and the way a thick lock of hair fell across her cheek that reminded Elsie of oil paintings in an art gallery. All romance and timelessness and sentiment. A strange, disconcerting stir shot up her insides and she asked, too brightly, ‘Do you know who this is?’
‘I have no idea,’ Aida replied. ‘You say no one else knows, either?’
‘I’ve asked around and no one can tell me. Plenty of rumours though.’
A cool breeze stole down the hill and Aida pulled her cardigan tighter.
‘Rumours,’ she murmured. ‘How people like to talk about other people.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Elsie said.
‘Don’t be.’ Aida gave her a brief smile. ‘I’d never come to Gawler much, before moving here,’ she said. ‘So I’d never heard anything about this mysterious grave. My dad might know.’ For a long time she stared at the gravestone, her chest rising and falling softly. She knelt and twisted a sow-thistle from the base of the stone, shook the dirt from its roots and tossed it aside. A drop of waxy white latex beaded on the tip of her finger and she wiped it on her skirt. ‘Not that I’ll be speaking to him ever again.’
The question rose up in Elsie’s chest and she struggled against it, worried it might burst rudely from her. Why didn’t your parents keep the baby, when they said they would? She hoped Aida might offer more, but Aida’s eyes fixed on something over Elsie’s shoulder.
‘Hey,’ Aida said, ‘over there, beyond the hedge. Is that crown land?’
Elsie looked over and shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It looks pretty unowned to me.’
‘Lovely big old fig tree.’
Aida moved off, towards a narrow gap in the hedge. Elsie hurried after her and slid through, spiked stems clutching at her clothes.
They emerged into a verdant space, bordered on one side by the cemetery hedge and on the other by a thick, curving copse of eucalypts. Grass bent about their knees, insects sprung from the disturbed stalks and Elsie swatted their winged bodies from her arms. Beyond the gum trees, farm land rolled into the horizon.
‘Shouldn’t we be careful of snakes?’ Elsie asked, wary.
Picking up a stick, Aida thrashed it about the weeds and thumped her feet on the ground. ‘There,’ she said. ‘Now we’re safe. Come on.’ She pushed through the grass, carving a path towards a large leafy tree stretching its limbs over the ground.
The weeds reached the lowermost branches of the tree, and Aida bent over and scrambled through. Elsie followed, flinching at the feel of a sticky cobweb that stretched and broke across her forehead. She tried not to imagine its owner, infuriated at the intrusion, crawling beneath her collar.
‘There isn’t anything in here that’s going to sting or bite, or otherwise maim us?’
From somewhere inside the tangle of branches Aida said, ‘I promise you’re safe. And when we’re eating baked figs with ice cream, you won’t regret it.’
Elsie brightened. ‘That does sound good.’
At the base of the trunk, Aida was pulling off her cardigan and looking up into the branches. Handing her cardigan to Elsie, she tucked her shirt into her waistband, hitched up her skirt and began to tuck it into her underwear.
‘Stop,’ Elsie said, suddenly woozy at the thought. ‘You can’t climb it!’
Aida paused. ‘The figs aren’t going to come down by us standing here and asking them.’
Elsie looked up into the branches. She felt dizzy. ‘I’ll go,’ she said, unconvincingly. Aida had stopped wearing a bandage on her right hand, but Elsie had seen her wince with pain if she gripped anything tightly. Plus, she had recently given birth, for heaven’s sake. What if she fainted? What if she fell? With more conviction Elsie repeated, ‘I’ll go.’
Elsie imitated the way Aida had tucked in her blouse and skirt, giggling nervously. She assessed the trunk, trying to ascertain the most elegant way to ascend, but after deciding there was nothing else for it, she grabbed the nearest branch and hauled herself up.
‘A little higher,’ Aida called up to her. ‘There, stop there. Now sit on that branch and slide across it.’
‘Simply slide across it?’ Elsie glanced down, saw the way Aida’s head was tipped right back to watch her, and her vision swam. ‘Don’t look down,’ she muttered. At the end of the branch she could see fat clusters of fruit. Carefully she edged along, placing her hands one after the other while her skirt screwed itself tight around her hips.
Reaching the fruit, she called, ‘Catch,’ and let one fig drop. It landed with a soft plop into the grass at Aida’s feet. She plucked more, stuffing each soft morsel down the front of her blouse and filling it like a sack. She tried not to contemplate how far she was from the ground. When her blouse was full, she climbed down. On the lowermost branch her foot slipped, and she winced as a twig carved a stinging weal up her shin. Finally, her feet touched the ground. The front of her blouse sagged with fruit. When she looked down, her body went still at the way it ballooned out at her front, soft and rounded and ripe.
Aida took a step towards her, picked up the fig that Elsie had dropped to the grass and handed it to her.
The skin was velvety and purple-black. Elsie took a bite, exposing a fleshy pink interior stippled with seeds. The burst of sweetness drew along her jaw like a sharp fingernail and syrup slid down her chin. With the back of her hand she wiped her face, and offered the remaining fruit to Aida.