Page 74 of Darling Girls

She held her hand across her eyes to block the glare from the afternoon sun. They followed her gaze. As they reached the top of the driveway they could clearly see a person in the water, and two beach towels on the grass nearby. Itwasweird. No one had used the pool in years, not since Alicia had arrived at Wild Meadows. And it wasn’t even a particularly warm day.

‘Why is she in the pool?’ Alicia said out loud.

That was when they noticed that Jessica was running. Jessica had never been particularly athletic, but now she was flying down the driveway, red dust rising up from her heels.

Alicia felt the alarm ring through her even before she understood what was happening. As Norah took off after Jessica, Alicia scanned their surrounds. In the lower paddock, a tractor rolled by. The horses were having a run while Dirk looked on. Everything seemed normal. But when Alicia looked back at the pool, she realised. There weretwotowels by the pool.

So where was Amy?

By the time Alicia started running, Jessica was diving into the pool fully dressed. Miss Fairchild waved and yelled uselessly as Norah dived in right behind her.

Alicia reached the pool as Jessica emerged with Amy in her arms, coughing and spluttering.

‘You were drowning her?’ Norah screamed at Miss Fairchild.

Their foster mother scoffed. ‘I was teaching her to swim.’

The timing, Alicia realised, was interesting. She knew they’d be arriving home at this time. This performance wasn’t for Amy – it was for them.

Dirk must have heard the commotion because when Alicia glanced towards the horse paddock he was looking right at them.

‘Like you taught me to swim?’ Jessica cried.

‘Well . . .’ Miss Fairchild looked amused. ‘You learned, didn’t you?’

The woman wasn’t even trying to deny it. She found itfunny.

Amy coughed, then began to vomit water. Jessica carried her to the side of the pool, patting her back as she clung to Jessica’s neck. She was so little, so vulnerable.

They couldn’t just hope that things would turn out okay, Alicia realised. Not anymore. The stakes were too high.

They would have to act.

THE OFFICE OF DR WARREN, PSYCHIATRIST

When I arrive for our next session, Dr Warrensmilesat me. It is concerning, considering where we left off our last conversation, and where he suggests this session should begin, but it isn’t for me to judge.

‘So he let you out of the basement. What happened then?’

‘Home life became a game of trying to figure out how to exist without upsetting John. I’d clean, go to church and not talk back. Most of the time, I didn’t talk at all. I tried to stay out of John’s way, but there were days when, even without saying a word, I could invoke John’s wrath.’ I re-create these moments in my mind, watching them play out like scenes in a film. ‘It might have been that he decided I hadn’t cleaned something properly, or I’d used the wrong tone when speaking to him. On a few occasions it was simply because I needed to understand who was in charge. When it happened there was no discussion, no opportunity to defend myself – he just grabbed my ear and dragged me to the basement.’

I think about what Dr Warren said last time, about how I’d blamed my mother when John mistreated me. It brings furious tears to my eyes. ‘My motheralwaysstood by silently. The fact that she didn’t eventryto intervene was worse than being locked in the basement. After a while, my hatred of her became an outlet for my pain. A focus. A place to channel it.’

‘How did you channel it?’ Dr Warren asks quietly.

I shrug. ‘It was pretty easy. Every morning, while John was sleeping, my mother ironed him a shirt and left it hanging from a hook in the bathroom. Naturally, John was as fastidious about his shirts as he was about everything else. Before my mother married John, I doubt she’d ever ironed a shirt in her life. She certainly never ironed one for my father. So she’d had to learn quickly. Oftentimes, while he ate breakfast, John would scold her because his collar wasn’t starched enough or his sleeves were rumpled. Criticising her homemaking skills was a favourite pastime for John. At first, I’d been indignant on her behalf, but after a while I came to enjoy it.

‘One day, while my mother and I were preparing breakfast, John stormed into the kitchen and flung a shirt onto the table with such force it knocked over a water glass. He shouted at my mother: “Look what you’ve done, you stupid woman!”

‘My mother stared at him in confusion. Then she reached for the shirt and held it up. A large, iron-shaped burn mark could be seen on the lower back.

‘Mum was so flummoxed. “I . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t realise . . .”

‘I busied myself with cleaning up the spilled water.

‘“You didn’t realise because you’re lazy and you don’t pay attention. That’s why you never do anything properly.”

‘John was positively wild with fury. I hadn’t heard him shout at Mum before. I wondered if he was going to take her by the ear and throw her in the basement.