Heart's Promise

HEART’S PROMISE

by Jeanette Hornby

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2011 Jeanette Hornby

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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CHAPTER ONE

Reaching into the folds of her yellow cotton skirt-pocket, Milly’s fingers traced over the pocketknife hidden there. It was cool to touch but she felt her skin grow warm with anticipation.

Did you get it? Patty’s familiar voice resonated across the empty block and Milly turned to face her. With eyes as blue as a midday sky, Patty’s straight blonde hair shifted in the breeze. Did you? Patty asked, moving by her side.

Nodding, Milly nudged closer to the tall white gum tree in the middle of the block before taking the knife from her pocket. Patty clenched a fist and held up her thumb. The smooth, crescent-shape of her nail in sharp contrast to Milly’s ragged and chewed nails. I’m ready, Patty said, and Milly quickly pulled out the small blade. The silver metal glistened in the sun and Milly knew she needed to hurry before anyone saw them.

Holding Patty’s hand steady, Milly nicked the skin of Patty’s thumb and watched as a bubble of blood formed. Ouch! Patty said, pulling her hand away.

Milly pierced the skin of her own thumb and grabbed Patty’s hand, pressing their thumbs together. She watched as their deep red blood intermingled. Blood sisters! she said and smiled despite the stinging of her thumb. She looked at Patty and expected to see her grinning but Patty’s expression was solemn.

I wish you could come and live with me, Patty told her.

I wouldn’t fit in your house, Milly replied with a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood.

Patty’s eyes darkened and she flopped cross-legged onto a clump of dandelions covering the sandy ground.

With the pocketknife safely tucked away in her pocket, Milly sat on a small patch of grass and put her thumb to her mouth to stem the blood-flow. ‘The knife was sharper than I thought,’ she mused.

A sigh escaped Patty’s lips and she looked towards the sun’s orange glare. I just want my real mum back, she said in a voice thick with anguish.

Milly saw the tears in Patty’s eyes and moved her hand to cover her friend’s, her thumb throbbing against Patty’s skin.

Sitting in the warm afternoon sun, the silence was broken by the squawking birds as they perched on the TV antenna by Patty’s house. Milly looked away from her friend’s face. It was hard to look at Patty’s pain, even harder to look away.

Patricia! A voice shrieked in the distance.

Patty looked at Milly and hunched her shoulders as if she carried a heavy weight on them. Milly gave her a weak smile of understanding; it may be invisible but Milly knew the weight was definitely there.

Patricia! The voice of the dreaded stepmother called louder.

I’ve got to go, Patty said as she pushed herself up from the ground and dusted off her skirt.

A lump formed in Milly’s throat as she watched Patty trudge through the sandy block, her head down, shoulders slumped forward, bare feet kicking at the clumps of yellow flowers.

Milly chewed her nails as she looked over the Brennan’s large mish-mash of a house on the corner of McLarty Street. There were bits added on here and there from asbestos cut-outs to accommodate the ever-growing family. She had heard it said that the Brennans were a true, Irish-Catholic family, whatever that meant. It must have something to do with the amount of kids they have, she muttered.

She picked a dandelion and brought it to her nose. It smelled as only a dandelion could in the expiring heat of the day. With a quick twirl of the stem, she appreciated the symmetry of the yellow flower and then plucked the petals one by one, until only a stem remained. She flicked it away from her; loathing to see Patty so unhappy.

Patty and Milly were five years of age when Patty’s mother died, six years before. Milly could only vaguely recall her but she remembered Mrs Brennan’s wide smile, kind green eyes and shining red hair. Patty looked more like her dad as did her younger brothers, Sean and Rory, only Flynn, the oldest brother, resembled his mother.

It was a sad day in the neighbourhood when Mrs Brennan died, Milly sighing at the memory. But it wasn’t long before the new Mrs Brennan moved in. Milly had heard some people saying it was too soon but she had been glad the kids had a new mother to look after them. ‘Funny how things can change so quickly,’ she decided.

In the ensuing years with the arrival of the four children, Fiona, Aileen, Bridget and Hugh, Milly noticed that Mrs Brennan had become increasingly cranky. Even from here, she could hear the wailing from Patty’s house. Sometimes it came from the stepmother herself.

With the sun dipping low in the sky, its rays blood-red, Milly pushed herself up from the ground. ‘Red sunset at night, a shepherd’s delight,’ she had heard Mr Brennan say. He was a big man and looked quite scary but he always had a smile for her. ‘It’s a shame he’s a truck driver,’ she thought, knowing that the stepmother usually went on a rampage when he was away. She shuddered and said a quick prayer for Patty before running through the empty block and home.

Reaching the verandah, Milly caught the aroma of her mother’s cooking and sighed. ‘Not spaghetti again,’ she thought. With a quick glance at Patty’s house, she wondered what the Brennan’s were eating tonight. ‘The last time I turned up at their house at dinner time, Patty was emptying a can of beans into a saucepan,’ she reflected.

Shrugging, Milly entered the kitchen. The heat from the wood-stove was stifling on a warm day, but the fire was needed to heat the water. She tiptoed over the clean lino to the bathroom before her mother could admonish her for having dirty feet. Leaning over, she put the plug in the bath and turned on the taps.

Don’t use all the hot water, her mother called.

I won’t, Milly replied, knowing she would have to wait until tomorrow night, Sunday, to have a real bath.

She washed quickly, the water turning a murky grey. Grabbing a towel, she dried herself, careful with her thumb because it stung, reminding her of the initiation into ‘sisterhood’ with Patty. ‘What a shame Patty had been so sad,’ she mused.

Entering the bathroom, her sister, Silvana, wrinkled her nose. Yuck, I’m not washing in that, she grumbled. Milly poked her tongue out at her younger sister and pulled the plug.

Nadia, the youngest of the four sisters, walked in the room sucking her thumb, followed closely by Mary, the oldest. Her sisters had hair in various shades of brown and Milly had been told that they all looked alike.

Before Mary could say a word, Milly moved towards the door. I’m going, Milly told her. ‘Mary’s such a bossy-boots,’ she decided, knowing Mary was only thirteen but sometimes thought she was the mother. At least Silvana is easier to get along with, she muttered. Silvana was nine and Nadia had only just turned two. Recalling that her mother had said Nadia was a miracle, Milly thought, ‘Patty told me how babies are really made. The part about asking God for a baby when you wanted one was bullshit.’ Stifling a grin with her hand, Milly knew she wasn’t allowed to say such words, even in her mind, but her father said it often enough. But he said ‘bull-a-shit’ in his strong Italian accent.

Remembering the pocketknife in her pocket, Milly quietly returned it to her father’s sock drawer, and walked to the room she shared with Silvana. She changed into the nightdress her Aunty Ava had given her last Christmas. ‘We don’t get many presents,’ she reflected, ‘Not like the Brennans; so many kids but they all got bikes for Christmas, and they get to go away every Christmas holidays.’

‘We’re going to Sharks Bay,’ Patty had told her, but Milly didn’t have a clue where that was.

‘Up north’, Patty had explained.

Milly sighed. Her family, the Garcias, never went anywhere. School holidays always mean working on the farm, picking vegies, she mumbled, I hate summer, hate tomatoes, hate beans, hate being hot and tired.

Dinner’s ready, her mother called out, interrupting her bleak thoughts.

She took a long breath, walked to the kitchen and sat down clumsily on a chair, her legs dangling. The aroma of the spaghetti and meatballs made her stomach rumble, and she realised how hungry she was.

I’m starving, Silvana stated as she walked into room.

Me, too, Mary added, attempting to smooth down her curly hair. Nadia trailed behind.

Here we go, their mother said, cutting up the spaghetti in Nadia’s bowl. Nadia giggled when she was handed a spoon and Milly smiled, Nadia loved food. ‘She’s gonna end up chubby like Mary,’ she thought.

Their mother waved her hands towards their steaming bowls of pasta. Eat, she said.

Milly blew gently over her bowl, twirled spaghetti around her fork and took a bite before it all unravelled. The rich tomato sauce splattered her chin as she slurped the long strands of pasta.

Where’s dad? Mary asked with a glance at their mother.

At the farm, their mother replied, scooping Nadia’s spaghetti from the tablecloth with her fork and placing it back into Nadia’s bowl, adding, He’ll be home soon.

Milly took another mouthful of spaghetti. She had grown accustomed to her father’s absence at meal times. He worked at the Yarloop timber mill but would stop at their Wagerup farm, just out of town, to tend to the vegetables. He only came home when it was dark. She thought back to when the family lived in Yarloop, in one of the mill houses near the hospital. It had been a quick walk to mass on Sundays because St Joseph’s church was nearby. Mum, how come we moved to Waroona? she asked.

So you kids could go to the Catholic school, her mother replied, taking a mouthful of spaghetti.

Why? Silvana asked.

Because, we’re Catholics, their mother explained. Yarloop doesn’t have a Catholic school.

Oh, Silvana contemplated. But Mary doesn’t go to a Catholic school.

There isn’t a Catholic high school near here, stupid, Mary added, shaking her head arrogantly. Silvana poked out her sauce-covered tongue.

Stop it, their mother ordered, and eat your dinner.

Mary glared at Silvana before moving her eyes to her bowl.

Milly sighed at her sisters’ argument. ‘If we all sat here without fighting, it would be a miracle,’ she thought. ‘I can only imagine what it’s like over at the Brennan’s house with all those kids.’

Help me. Help me please! an agonised voice shouted from outside and footsteps pounded on the cement verandah towards the kitchen.

Standing quickly, their mother ran outside, the flywire door slamming behind her. Without a word, Milly and her sisters abandoned their dinner and followed their mother outside.

Peering around the wash house wall, Milly could not believe it. Mrs Brennan’s face was wet with tears, her eyes red and filled with fear. She clung to baby Hugh, limp, still and blue.

With a gasp, Milly’s mother grabbed him, tipped him upside down and slapped his back several times before a small plastic object dropped from his mouth. He flung out his arms, took a deep breath and let out a lusty cry, his face turning red.

Mrs Brennan sobbed with relief. Thank you, she croaked, looking ready to collapse. Lucy, I was so scared! I didn’t know what to do.

Milly’s heart was thudding in her chest as she looked at baby Hugh and then at Patty’s stepmother. ‘She actually cares,’ Milly thought.

He’s all right now, Cathleen, her mother replied, hugging Hugh to her chest despite his wailing. Won’t you come in and sit down for a while?

Before Mrs Brennan could answer, Patty called out from the corner of the house, Is he okay, Mum? Milly turned to see Patty and all the Brennan children, looking like they had just got out of the bath, walking in procession towards them.

Mrs Brennan ran her hands over her tear-streaked face before she turned to look at her children and nodded. Yes, she replied, shakily. Hugh’s okay.

Taking a moment to breathe, Mrs Brennan turned to Milly’s mother, adding, Perhaps I should go.

Don’t be silly, Cathleen, her mother replied, frowning. You’ve had a shock.

In a cluster, the Brennan children made their way closer, Flynn holding three-year-old, Aileen, and Patty clutching two-year-old, Bridget. Seeing the fear on their faces, Milly put on a smile for them and Patty smiled back weakly.

Come along, Milly’s mother said and ushered the Brennans inside, all nine of them. Milly and her sisters followed the visitors into the cramped little kitchen and noticed the Brennan children looking longingly at their dinner on the table. It might be better if you kids take your dinner and eat it on the verandah, Milly’s mother decided, adding, I’ve got plenty to spare. She handed Hugh over to Mrs Brennan who still looked stunned. Sit down, Cathleen, she ordered gently, putting a pot of water on the stove. Mrs Brennan clung onto Hugh, her hair a tangle of waves, and sat on a chair. You kids go wait outside and I’ll bring out your dinner when it’s ready, Milly’s mother told the Brennans.

Milly watched as they all marched back outside then followed her sisters, clutching her bowl of pasta in her hands. Sitting on the edge of the cool verandah, Patty by her side, Milly looked out at the darkening sky and shivered.

I thought Hugh was dead, Patty whispered hoarsely.

Me too, Milly admitted, noticing the intensity of her friend’s stare, like a rabbit caught in headlights.

Where’s your dad? Flynn asked and Milly looked at him in surprise because Flynn rarely spoke unless he was teasing. Shirtless, wearing striped pyjama bottoms, Flynn was tall like his father.

‘But he looks so much like his mum, the first Mrs Brennan, especially with his bright green eyes,’ she realised, staring. His hair was blonde, strawberry blonde, she had heard it called, and it was thick and wavy like his mother’s had been. There was a spattering of freckles across his nose and a show of fine hair on his upper lip, and Milly felt a strange sensation in her chest because she had never really looked at him before. He was Patty’s older brother, almost fourteen, and an annoying practical joker.

He’s at the farm, Mary answered and Flynn nodded in response, a damp curl bouncing on his forehead. Aileen, who was sitting in Flynn’s lap, reached out a chubby hand and touched her brother’s face and he looked down at her, warmly.

Milly was speechless. The tenderness in Flynn’s eyes was like a magnet and she struggled to look away. With a mighty effort, she tore her gaze away from Flynn Brennan and looked down at her dinner, her appetite completely gone.

The back light went on, there was a rustle at the kitchen door and Milly’s mother walked out carrying two bowls of pasta and some forks that she gave to the older Brennan children. You’ll have to help feed the little ones, she stated and they nodded their understanding. Mary, Milly, come and help me, their mother added.

Milly followed her mother inside with Mary behind her. Returning to the verandah, carrying the steaming bowls of pasta to her neighbours, Milly felt a surge of satisfaction flow through her and the grins on their faces brought a smile to her lips.

The Brennans ate heartily and Mary and Milly helped feed the younger children. Shortly afterwards, Mrs Brennan, holding Hugh, and Milly’s mother walked outside. Thank you again, Lucy, Mrs Brennan said, and ushered her children towards the empty block.

I’m glad I could help, Milly’s mother responded.

Milly waved to the family as they walked home and looked up into the dark cloudless sky that was now dotted with twinkling stars. The moon was big and round and cast an eerie glow around them that made Milly think, ‘perhaps the Garcias and the Brennans are now connected in some way.’ Looking at the cut on her thumb, she wondered if it could be so.

Her mother and sisters made their way into the house and Milly’s thoughts were scattered as headlights beamed up the driveway. ‘Dad’s home’, she realised, waiting for him to climb out of the battered Holden.

What are you doing out here? he asked, walking to the wash house. He pulled off his work boots and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, washing his hands in the large cement trough.

Milly could smell the soil on him and thought, ‘the smell of hard work.’ Taking a breath, she began the long tale describing what had happened that evening while her father listened and nodded in response. They stayed for dinner and everything, she finished.

A damp hand reached out and ruffled her hair. I hope there’s some left for me, he said and winked at her, wiping his hands on a towel.

Oh, mum cooked more pasta, she assured him.

Good, I’m hungry, he replied.

The clanging in the kitchen stopped for a few minutes while her mother and father talked, and then continued as her mother served up a big bowl of pasta. Milly’s father didn’t hesitate, he wound the steaming spaghetti around his fork and took a mouthful, then, grabbing the loaf of bread, tore off a piece with his hands, mopped up some of the pasta sauce and plopped it in his mouth.

Milly smiled. Her father always ate with gusto as if he knew hunger, and remembering the stories she had been told, she understood that he knew it well. She recalled her Nonna Maria telling stories about the war years, before the family came out to Australia.

Pulling out a chair, Milly’s gaze took in the lines around her father’s brown eyes before sitting down. Dad, tell me Nonna’s stories of the war, she said, hopefully. Her father looked up at her while he chewed. Please, she begged, leaning towards him in expectation.

The war years were bad, her father replied, pensively. Mussolini brought Italy into the war with Hitler. He shook his head before pouring himself a glass of wine. No one wanted the war, we were poor enough and the men had to go and fight. Luckily, my brothers and I were too young but some of my cousins and neighbours went to war. Some of them didn’t come back.

Milly heard the waver in her father’s voice and noted the sombre look in his eyes. She took a deep breath and sat, silent, waiting for him to continue.

Every family had to give part of what they had to the Italian army. The army would just come and take it, and without our food or animals, it was hard to feed the family, he explained. We used to hide the wheat because we needed it to make bread; if we had given it away we would have starved. He took a mouthful of food and chewed slowly before swallowing. It was a hard time, he continued, Even more so after the war. My brothers were getting older and would have to go into the army so your grandfather, Nonno Bruno, decided we would come out to Australia.

Is that when you came out, Dad? Milly asked, enthusiastically.

Her father shook his head and took another drink. No, Nonno and your uncles, John and Robert, came out first. They worked hard and saved to buy the house in Yarloop. It was seven years later, in 1952 that I came out with your nonna and uncles, Peter and Dominic.

Seven years? she asked astounded. That was a long time. Nodding in silence, her father chewed the day-old bread steadily with his nicotine-stained teeth. Catching his gaze, Milly could see her own eyes in her father’s. Dad, she began. Tell me the story of how you met mum.

Her mother laughed and Milly grinned, looking at her mother’s large brown eyes and wide smile.

Grinning, her father said, I was working on your Nonno Rocco’s farm in Wagerup. I was fourteen-years-old and had only been in Australia for a few months. Taking a drink from his glass, he licked the remnants of red wine from his lips.

I was only eleven, her mother added, eyes sparkling at the memory. This tall, skinny kid, Alfredo, comes to stay on the farm to dig potatoes.

You were only eleven? Milly shrieked. She had heard the story told many times, but only just realised the significance. Flynn Brennan’s face appeared in her mind and she quickly shook it away. Her shrieking had brought the other girls into the room and gritting her teeth, Milly waited while her father greeted them. He sat Nadia on his lap while Mary and Silvana plonked themselves on chairs.

That young girl, Lucia, was very cheeky, her father went on. "I was trying to work and