The Watchful Wife

Part one

1

THAT DAY—THE DAY THE POLICE first came to our door—was the day Miss Habler died. At the time I knew nothing of this. At the time, I knew only one thing: my husband was in trouble. I could hardly have managed much more.

Miss Habler had been my Sabbath School teacher. And so committed had she been to this task that, in all the years she taught me, not once did she miss a lesson.

Neither did I.

Like Miss Habler, my parents were godly people. Very godly. Indeed, had my father’s position in the public service not been quite so secure, he might even have entered the ministry. He became an elder instead; an elder of the Free Church of Kirkton—the church we attended, my parents and me. On the Sabbath, we’d leave the house at 7.30 am, when the ungodly of Kirkton were still asleep and would not witness the sight of us setting out down the footpath: my father in his polyester suit—no matter the weather—my mother and me in one of our long-sleeved, ankle-length frocks.

To cover my head—in winter as well as in summer—I wore a wide-brimmed hat secured with elastic looped under my chin, which pulled too tight and made my skin itchy. On my feet were the laced school shoes my mother insisted I wear because they were sturdy and good for walking. Loudly they’d slap on the footpath—more loudly, it seemed, the closer we came to Tracy Cameron’s house—as I prayed she wouldn’t yet be out of bed. I always disliked my loud clumping shoes—purchased two sizes too big so they might last—but on those Sabbath walks I despised them the most.

Just before I turned ten, however, something miraculous happened: my feet grew so fast that, within a month, my new school shoes no longer fit me. So together my mother and I went to the shoe shop to buy me some more.

‘Can I help you?’ the manager enquired.

My mother pointed to a heavy black shoe. ‘A pair like that.’

Turning to me, the manager gave me a wink and smile. Her hair, cut shockingly short, was soft and honey-coloured. ‘Mum’s getting you sorted for school, is she, love?’

‘And for church,’ I added, unable to hide my dismay.

‘Oh love,’ said the woman, her smile disappearing, ‘they’re not really the sort of shoes you’d want to be wearing for good, are they?’

‘One pair of good walking shoes, that’s all she needs,’ my mother replied, voice clipped, lips tight. An imposing figure, in my head she was twice the size of my father even though there was less than a head between them. Broad-faced, her long brown hair kept back in a very tight bun, hers was a moist, fair complexion that quickly turned red whenever she felt displeased: a timely warning to keep myself quiet. And, in the shoe shop that day, I watched in alarm as her face began to darken.

To my surprise, the manager did not fall silent, but simply pressed on. ‘How about something with a buckle then? We’ve got buckled school shoes for girls, which would be dressy enough for good.’

My mother’s eyes, narrowing now, flashed with irritation. Would she erupt? Right here in the shop? Her hands white and clenched, I honestly feared she might. Stop talking, I silently warned the manager.

But although her voice dipped, the manager would not stay quiet. ‘They’re going on sale next week,’ she said. ‘The girls’ school shoes, I mean, and only the ones with a buckle. Fifty per cent off.’ She gave my mother a wink. ‘Look, I shouldn’t be doing it, but I’ll bring the sale forward. Just for you, mind,’ she added, her voice becoming a whisper, ‘so please don’t tell anyone else.’

My mother’s large head gave a tilt to the right as she sucked in her bottom lip. ‘Half price?’ she murmured.

Smile widening, the manager tapped the side of her nose with a finger. ‘But just for you. Why don’t we go slightly larger, so they’ll last a bit longer?’

And keeping her lips pressed tightly together, finally my mother had nodded.

2

I TURNED TEN ON THE day of the Sabbath. It’s the eighteenth, I wanted to exclaim to my parents, the eighteenth of August and I am ten. Ten years old! And what an effort it was to say nothing at all; the only way to avoid a scolding. For in my family and in the Free Church, birthdays were not to be mentioned and never to be celebrated.

So as we walked to church on that cool winter’s morning, I did not speak of my birthday. Nor did my parents. Wistfulness might well have swelled in me then—at the thought of my schoolmates, showered in presents and laden with cake for us all to share—yet it did not. For when my head dipped down, I glimpsed my new shoes. And the sight of them, so shiny and new and dressy, restored the smile to my face.

It was a long walk to church—well over an hour—and the sight of the spire filled me, as always, with something close to relief. Built on what had been a peaceful street—before Woolworths moved in—our church was on a corner block, covered in well-mown grass. Scraggly limbs of unruly eucalypts hung over the fence that divided the church from our neighbours. Other than that, our church and its grounds presented a picture of perfect order. More than that, really, for made as it was of sandstone and boasting a very tall spire, our church was impressive. From the outside, I mean. Inside it was much more subdued.

A wide sandstone arch framed our church doors: so thick they seemed made for a fortress. The doors were both kept locked, except on the Sabbath when the one on the right was propped open.

Directly inside was a foyer so dark that, even with lighting, it stayed dim. So why didn’t someone open both doors to let the day in?

This, I’d decided, was a question for Reverend Burnett, by then our minister for over twenty-five years, and for whom, that day, I had some personal news. Because Sabbath School began before the morning service, our church would be empty upon our arrival; apart from Reverend Burnett, who would already be there. On that day, the day of my tenth birthday, he was in the front pew, his eyes on the notes on his lap, the Bible open beside him.

To get to my Sabbath School class—in a room annexed to the church—my mother and I walked straight down the aisle towards Reverend Burnett. To get his attention, I spoke very loudly. ‘When I grow up, I’m going to be an elder.’

My mother had caught my hand in hers, and as my words spilled out, her hold on me tightened, squashing and tangling my fingers together.

When Reverend Burnett glanced up, he was frowning. ‘Ellen Wells,’ he admonished, ‘remember the words of the scriptures. Let your women keep silence in the churches: for it is not permitted unto them to speak. And if they will learn anything, let them ask their husbands at home.’

‘But—’ I began to protest, until, rendered mute by the force of mother’s painful grip, I lowered my head instead. But I have no husband, was what I’d wanted to say.

My teacher, Miss Habler, had no husband either. She did have a cousin, and that—believe it or not—was Reverend Burnett himself. This so confused me, I’d often catch myself staring from one to the other in search of the family resemblance. But if it was there, I never quite managed to find it. They were both old, of course, but this, it seemed, was all they had in common. While Reverend Burnett’s light skin had a yellowish hue that made him look ill, Miss Habler’s complexion was rosy. And where his eyes were navy and stern, her eyes were lighter and sparkling. He had a burr from a childhood in Scotland while Miss Habler had been raised right here in Kirkton. In our manse, no less, for she was the child of our previous minister, now long departed.

If Miss Habler felt the shame of being unmarried, she never let anyone know. Alone and unapologetic, she’d enter the church, head held high, steps quick and firm on the carpetless floor.

In this, our Free Church—with its bare walls and hard wooden pews—mirth was never encouraged. But in its separate space, our Sabbath School room was slightly more festive. For although our classes never rang with laughter, Miss Habler could always bring the Bible to life and did, on occasion, make me smile. Under Miss Habler’s direction, the Bible became a world not only of men but also of women. Like Mary Magdalene, so loved by the Lord that, even in death, he came to her. Or the widowed Ruth who, ever devoted, refused to leave her dead husband’s mother. Or Martha who cooked and cleaned to distraction.

Unlike the empty walls of our church, those in our Sabbath School room were adorned with the prophets: Moses stuck in the wilderness; Abraham, holding a knife to the throat of his son; and David fighting the monstrous Goliath. But of all the prophets stuck to the wall, John the Baptist was my favourite. And when he had to come down because Hester Boyce screamed at the sight of his head on a platter, I missed him. I really did.

The passing of John the Baptist was, of course, a sober reminder of the problem with birthdays. After all, hadn’t Pharaoh marked his by killing his baker, and King Herod by beheading my favourite prophet? Tangible proof of how much God disapproves of birthdays. Perhaps even more than He hates Christmas and Easter.

So on the day I turned ten, having slipped through the door to my Sabbath School class, I was more than surprised—I was shocked—when Miss Habler wished me a happy tenth birthday and gave me a package wrapped up in brown paper. Holding it in my hands, I felt my heart race. With excitement, oh yes, but mostly with fear. For what if my parents walked in? What if they witnessed Miss Habler’s transgression? Or worse, what if God had been silently watching us all along?

If Miss Habler shared my disquiet, she didn’t reveal it, even though she glanced at the door more than once. But when I turned over the package, my fingers pressing into its thick paper wrapping, she nodded. Go ahead, said her nod. Open it. So I did. I opened my illicit birthday package. It had the weight of a pocket-sized book and that’s what it was: a hardback book called Anne of Green Gables, with a girl on its cover. A girl who might be ten, just like me.

‘I think it’s time you met Anne Shirley,’ said Miss Habler, quite softly, her eyes, round and grey, looking straight at me. Under her navy felt hat, her hair—also grey—was pulled tightly back, although one wisp had made an escape. Like all the women at our Free Church, Miss Habler wore long-sleeved, high-necked dresses, which fell below the knee. In contrast to my mother, however, who wore more shapeless frocks, Miss Habler favoured those with a belt.

Clasping my new book, I was speechless. I liked to read—no, I loved to read—but in my house there was only the Bible.

‘But my parents—’ I began, my heart battering hard.

Cutting across me, Miss Habler’s voice was soothing. ‘I will speak to them,’ she said, her eyes on the door once more. ‘I will assure them that Anne Shirley is a God-fearing girl, whose story I’ve asked you to read.’

I nodded, my throat so tight with gratitude I was unable to say a word.

‘A book of religious instruction,’ Miss Habler continued, ‘unrelated to this particular day.’

There was a noise at the door as the others began to arrive, so quickly I slipped the book into my pocket before taking my place at the desk.

That day we were four: Gerard and Stewart Campbell, Hester Boyce and me. Gerard and Stewart were brothers who looked so similar they might have been twins, but weren’t. Rather, Gerard was one year my senior and Stewart almost two years my junior. Hester Boyce was, like me, an only child and also in Year 4. She was a thin, sallow girl with a high, scratchy voice that made my own sound like honey. At her school, she once confided, they called her Fester Voice.

Change your school and change your name, I’d urged but she hadn’t. Instead, she’d sought comfort from Job, whose trials were greater than hers. And while I loved to hear about Job’s shockingly difficult life, his camels—his three thousand camels—most intrigued me.

On the day of my tenth birthday, however, it was time to learn about somebody else: a woman whose name was Jael.

‘The Canaanites were a wicked people,’ Miss Habler told us that morning, ‘living on land meant by God for the Israelites. Now, King Jabin, the Canaanite king, had a general, Sisera, who fled to the home of a man called Heber, an ally of the king. There he was welcomed by Heber’s wife, Jael. Unbeknownst to Sisera, however, Jael was not his ally at all. Come in, my lord, she falsely encouraged, leading him into her tent to drink, eat and rest. But the moment he slept, she crept towards him, carrying a tent peg and mallet.’

Captivated, I drew in my breath as a spike of excitement ran through me.

Miss Habler’s eyes twinkled as, one by one, she surveyed us. ‘Do you know what happened next?’ she asked with a smile, pausing as we all shook our heads.

‘Well,’ she said, her voice rising a little, ‘she placed the point of the tent peg on Sisera’s temple and hit the peg with the mallet.’

When I felt myself flinch, Miss Habler laughed, raising her voice until she was almost shouting. ‘Then Jael, she drove that peg through Sisera’s temple. And so hard did she drive that peg, it stuck right through him and into the ground below. This,’ she announced, her voice triumphant, ‘was how the great General Sisera died: at the hands of a woman.’

And, then with the most enormous smile, Miss Habler opened her Bible. ‘Most blessed of women be Jael,’ she read, her voice lilting and cheerful. ‘She put her hand to the nail, and her right hand to the workmen’s hammer; and with the hammer she smote Sisera, she smote off his head, when she had pierced and stricken through his temples. At her feet he bowed, he fell, he lay down: where he bowed, there he fell down—dead. And that,’ she said with a chuckle, ‘is the story of Jael.’ Closing the Bible with a bit of a bang, her expression turned serious. ‘What then,’ she asked the class, ‘is the lesson Jael teaches us?’

Frowning, I set myself to thinking, while Stewart and Hester also stayed silent. Only Gerard raised his hand. ‘If you want to hammer a peg into someone’s head,’ he said, the words coming out in a rush, ‘make sure you hammer it hard. Because if you don’t and that person wakes up, he’ll be very angry with you.’

Miss Habler nodded. ‘Thank you, Gerard,’ she said before her head turned towards me. ‘And you, Ellen,’ she said, ‘what do you think about it?’

‘Well,’ I began, trying hard to gather my thoughts, ‘I think Jael was clever for making Sisera trust her so much that he fell asleep in her tent. For that was the only way she could kill him.’

‘Exactly!’ said Miss Habler, smacking her lips together. ‘And in this way, God reveals how the gifts of ordinary people can be used to show his glory. For Jael was an ordinary woman, with ordinary skills. It was, for example, her job to set up the tents that sheltered her community. She was good at hammering tent pegs into the ground, so when it came to pounding the skull of General Sisera, she had all the skills she needed, didn’t she?’

‘Yes,’ we all murmured, ‘she did.’

After the Sabbath School hour was over, Miss Habler led us back to church in time for the ten o’clock service. I joined my parents in our usual pew, five rows from the front: my mother on my right, my father beside her, an empty space to my left. Silently, we waited for Reverend Burnett to rise to the pulpit and begin the morning prayers. Eyes to the front and keeping very still, I slipped my hand in my pocket and let it rest on the book I’d been gifted. Curiosity burned inside me, my fingers itching to draw it out, fold back the opening page and learn what I could about that girl called Anne Shirley.

But I did not draw out the book, I did not fold back the opening page and I did not begin to read it. Instead, my back very straight, I waited for Reverend Burnett to tell us to pray and, once he had, I rose to my feet.

In the Free Church of Kirkton we stood to pray but stayed seated to sing. The music of our church was that of the Psalter—the Book of Psalms set to music—the only accompaniment the sound of our voices, tuned to the fork struck by our Cantor—Gerard and Stewart’s father—who gave us the opening note.

Beside me my mother would sing very loudly, certain of her own range. Turning her shoulders towards me while her head still somehow faced forward, she’d sing in admonishment whenever my notes fell flat.

Reverend Burnett walked with a stoop but when he mounted the pulpit to pray and to preach, he stood tall, his yellow skin reddening as he looked down from the lectern.

‘Once the heathen nations of Canaan had been subdued,’ he began on that day I turned ten, ‘Israel had no real leader, and her people began to follow false gods, disobeying the laws of the Lord. At this time, Israel was oppressed by Jabin the King of the Canaanites and his ruthless captain, Sisera who fled to save himself. Sisera ran and ran until he came to the tent of Heber the Kenite, where, instead of Heber, he found his wife, Jael.’

At the sound of her name I straightened, my heart beating faster, for I knew full well what awaited that ruthless captain. As Reverend Burnett’s voice rose, I caught the hint of a smile on his face. I, too, felt my lips twitch, as my body buzzed with excitement.

‘Now Heber was an ally of Jabin and his general Sisera,’ said Reverend Burnett. ‘So Sisera would have been relieved to be welcomed by Heber’s wife, Jael, who gave him milk and invited him in to rest.

‘But when General Sisera was sleeping,’ continued Reverend Burnett, a curl in his voice as once more it softened, ‘did Jael simply leave him to repose?’ Pausing, his eyes drilled into mine, I was sure of it. ‘Well,’ he asked, ‘did he?’

Transfixed by his stare, slowly I shook my head.

Blinking once—a satisfied blink—his face became more animated. ‘No, no,’ he said, his voice booming now, ‘she did not leave him alone now, did she? Instead, she found herself a tent spike, a large one. She took that spike—that great heavy spike—and with a hammer, she pound it right through his temple. Yes, she did. She pound so hard she smashed that general’s head.’

My skin was tingling now, my eyes squeezing tight—both horrified and thrilled by our minister’s words.

‘A gruesome act,’ he conceded, ‘but a righteous one, too: an act to protect God’s chosen people.’ Leaning into the lectern, he tapped a finger into the wood. ‘Now some might decry Jael’s deceptive behaviour in luring Sisera to his death. To those people,’ he said, his eyes moving from pew to pew, ‘I say you are wrong. Yes, she was deceptive, but there was a battle to be fought. There was a war to be won. And on the battleground, Jael’s deception was needed to secure a victory and, with it, the freedom of God’s people.’

Fired by my minister’s words, I was nodding now. I was not the only one: beside me my mother was bobbing her head, and beside her, my father was, too.

‘For in Jael,’ said Reverend Burnett, ‘we see true faith and courage.’

That’s right, I thought. And so, on that day—the day I turned ten—I learned two important lessons, one from Miss Habler and one from our Reverend Burnett: that God might be found in those who deceive; in ordinary people whose ordinary skills might be put to good use.

Later, much later, these were lessons I would well remember.

3

OURS WAS NOT A CHURCH for loitering after the service was over. Instead, we’d join the queue to shake hands with Reverend Burnett to thank him for his sermon.

Once my parents had finished their greetings, Miss Habler made her approach. ‘Mrs Wells,’ she said, her eyes not quite meeting my mother’s, ‘I wanted to let you know about the homework I’ve set for Ellen. It’s a book—she has it with her—and I’d like her to read it this week.’

Was it my imagination or did I catch a slight waver in Miss Habler’s usually steady voice?

My mother’s face reddened, her eyes flashed and, waiting for her reply, I felt myself flinch. Then, to my surprise, she nodded.

That evening, I took to my room straight after tea and settling down in my bed, opened Miss Habler’s gift to read about Anne Shirley, who, I smiled to discover, wore her clothes long and her hair in plaits, just like me.

Of course, Anne Shirley and I were still quite different. I was no orphan nor did I live on a farm. My hair was not red and my skin didn’t freckle. Yet, so much did I enjoy the tales of her life that, whenever I could, I’d slip into the pages to join her. And as I devoured the words in front of me, there were times—many times—when I swear I became Anne Shirley herself, with Diana as my best friend.

Beyond the pages of Anne of Green Gables, however, the truth was this: I did not have such a friend. But if I could have chosen one, it would have been Yvette Sanderson. Not because we were kindred spirits—we weren’t—but because if Yvette was your friend, everyone else would be, too.

Yvette was, it was generally agreed, the prettiest girl in our class. Her skin, unlike mine, tanned easily and she wore earrings to school every day. She had long blonde hair she mostly left loose, which, I knew, was an act of vanity. This was why my hair—which reached past my shoulders and right down my back—had to stay plaited.

In Year 5, Yvette was again our class captain. To captain our class—even just for one term—was something I yearned to do. But to be