Howl Down the Moon (Pt 3)

She stepped gingerly off the Number 8 tram onto icy Toorak Road pulling her oversized dun coloured topcoat tightly around her frail body. Whipped by the biting winter wind as it swirled up and down this part of South Yarra she braced herself for the walk to her room at the YWCA. Readjusting the cane handles of her tapestry bag to gain a firmer grip she dipped her head into the buffeting wind and carefully picked her way along the street.

A sudden gust blew her against the window of Verlaine’s Millinery. She thrust out a hand to steady herself on the window frame, looked hurriedly into the shop, waved at the two women inside, smiled wanly, and forged onward.

Inside Lillian Verlaine, shocked by the sudden blow on the window, adjusted the fire opal brooch on the lapel of her delphinium blue silk jacket, although it was unnecessary. Madame Verlaine gasped to her junior assistant “What an ugly coat. Poor thing looks like a sick little sparrow blown off-course.”

“Yes Ma’am,” replied the junior assistant. “She’s not well. Got sent away to the country by her parents. Hoped to get her nerves back but really, I think she’s come back worse. She has a room at the Young Women’s, same floor as me but keeps pretty much to herself.”

Regathering Madame Verlaine uttered, “The coat not withstanding there is such pain behind those eyes of hers. Poor haunted creature. Bronwyn, go after her and make sure she at least makes it to her room safely.”

Outside another sharp blast hurried her into the Y’s imposing portico. She gripped the turned brass handles and pushed against the panelled beaten copper doors to slip inside. Once inside she always felt warmed by the sombre and dimly lit interior. It had a smell about it that made her feel safe from everything outside. Quickly she darted a glance left and right, before slipping off her heels so she could feel the carpet on her stockinged feet. She faced the staircase and started the climb up to the third floor. On the first floor landing she paused as she heard a bronchial huffing and puffing catching her from behind. She was caught up to by Bronwyn who held her arm to restrain her from taking on the second-floor stairway.

“Madame gave me the rest of the afternoon off to make sure you were ok,” wheezed Bronwyn.

“That’s very generous of her but really Bronwyn as you can see I am quite alright. Two more floors and I’m there.”

“Well I don’t care I’m coming anyway coz I sure as hell am not going back to work today.” Bronwyn laughed and linked arms with her and together they worked their way up the well-trod stairs to their rooms on the top floor.

“Tell you what, come on into my room and I’ll make us a cup of hot cocoa. Made with real milk,” Bronwyn offered, secretively patting her bag. “Don’t look so surprised. I often nick some from Madame Verlaine. She has so much of everything I don’t think she misses the odd quart of milk.”

She hesitated at first, a little shocked at such flagrant behaviour. In that moment Bronwyn did think she looked like a timid little bird. Finally, she acquiesced and followed Bronwyn through the door into her room. She stood and looked about. It was evident to her that a quart of milk wasn’t the only think Bronwyn had been helping herself to.

Bronwyn saw immediately what was written all over her face. “Well bugger it I’m trying to live on shop girl wages,” Bronwyn giggled. “A girl’s got to make her own way through life as best she can. I always had quick hands.”

“Then you should have been a typist.”

Bronwyn was thrown off guard by the quickness of her retort but catching a glimpse of laughter behind her sad eyes let out a big bellowing country girl’s laugh.

“You wicked thing, where have you been hiding that sense of humour? Wonder what other secrets you’ve been keeping so well. C’mon spill.”

Warmed by Bronwyn’s company and cheered by the hot milk cocoa she slid into the old rattan chair and felt more at ease than she’d done in months.

“I could tell you stories Bronwyn that would make your hair curl.”

“I knew it,” squealed the delighted shop girl. “It’s a man isn’t it?”

“Well yes, and no. Mostly no.”

Slowly she began to unwind her time away from Melbourne. That time between, which Bronwyn had earlier referred to as, having been sent to the country to recuperate.

She recounted her arrival by train amid heat and dust, the sweep and grandeur of the homestead overlooking a valley. She recalled the sounds and smells of an unrelenting summer in the bush, the screech of birds, the dull hum of insects, the aroma of ripening apricots in the orchard. Bronwyn was amused by the town’s quaint shopkeepers and swooned with delight at the thought of her mystery man, the tall rugged young man in the Sundowner hat, but it was the legend of the mad woman she grabbed hold of and begged and pressed for more detail.

“Oh, this is perfect spooky story weather. Don’t stop now,” Bronwyn pleaded.

“I don’t know if I should tell you this. I haven’t told another living soul what really happened up there. Promise you won’t think me crazy?”

She had paled and sunk back into the chair; her voice almost inaudible. It sent a shiver through Bronwyn, but she urged her on.

“I promise I won’t.” Bronwyn made the sign of the cross. Conspiratorially she leaned forward whispering. “Tell me.”

She recalled her last moon lit midnight encounter in the old woman’s cottage drawn by the sounds, not like a human at all, yet too awful to ignore. The crazed laughter cut, cut with a knife you could say, followed by the hiss of pain. Sounds she’s never heard carry up through the orchard to the country house.

“I swear, in my ears, as clearly as I hear you speak and as close, I heard that woman’s groans. It was awful, moaning and sobbing, and frightful gasps. No one could survive that. She was at the point of death. I tell you I heard her broken, choking cries right in my ears.”

“What was it? What did you see?” Bronwyn wheezed as she herself was choked with fear and now found breathing difficult.

“Nothing. The room was empty.”

After this incident she moved back into the house and into the front bedroom. Foolish to stay out there on the back porch, the weather had turned cooler anyway she said to herself. Anything to distance herself from that night.

It was exactly four weeks later, at about two in the morning she was woken again by the madwoman’s chuckling. It was inside now, almost at her bedside.

“I don’t mind telling you my nerves were pretty shot by now. So next time I figured she’d be due to have an attack, next time the moon was full I mean, I faked some pretense to ask my country lad hero to come and share the night with me. I didn’t tell him anything. I kept him up playing cards till two in the morning. Then I heard it again. I asked him if he heard anything.”

“Nothing,” he said.

“Don’t you hear it? There’s someone laughing.”

“You’ve been drinking too much,” he said and began laughing at her.

“Shut up,” she yelled at him and she tried to silence the noise covering both ears with her hands but to no avail. She heard it and heard the screams of pain. He thought she was going mad and excused himself saying he would go and sleep on the couch.

In the morning she found him gone, the couch had not been slept on. He’d taken himself off when he left her.

“After that I knew I couldn’t stay at the homestead any longer and by now my parents had virtually given up on me. They won’t hear a word of what truly happened. That’s when I came back to Melbourne and made the Y my home again. I’ve always felt myself safe here, but as the time came near I began to get scared. Of course, I told myself not to be a damned fool, but, you know, I couldn’t help myself. I was afraid the sounds had followed me, and I knew if I heard them here, that she had indeed made the journey back with me, I’d never rid myself of her and would hear her for the rest of my life. I’ve got as much courage as the next person but there are limits to just how much flesh and blood can stand. I knew I’d go stark raving mad. I got into such a state I would stay out late after work drinking at the Australia Hotel, then in a tiny café upstairs at the top end of Collins Street. The suspense was horrid. I’d lie awake at night counting the days. And at last I knew it’d come. And it came. I heard those same sounds here one hundred and twenty miles from where I first encountered them.

What on earth do you mean?” Bronwyn, fearful, was barely audible.

“She has followed me here.”

Bronwyn didn’t know what to say. She was silent for a while. “When did you last hear her?” she finally managed to ask.

“Four weeks ago.”

Looking up quickly she could see Bronwyn was startled and struggling for words.

“What do you mean by that? It’s not a full moon tonight?” Bronwyn finally managed.

She rewarded Bronwyn with a dark, angry look. She opened her mouth to speak then stopped as if she couldn’t. It was as if her vocal cords were paralyzed and it was with a strange croak that at last she answered.

“Yes, it is.”

She stared at Bronwyn trembling on the bed, her pale blue eyes seemed to shine red. Bronwyn had never seen such terror in a woman’s face. Quickly she raised herself from the chair tugged the old brown coat tight, grabbed the cane handles of her tapestry bag and slid from the room silently closing the door behind her.

It must be admitted, Bronwyn didn’t sleep any too well that night either.