In the end Alice was surprised by how easily she could do something she was always told she should not. She just had to take a step. First one. Then another.
Alice walked so far and for so long that she started to wonder if she might walk out of the cane fields to find herself in a different country. Maybe she’d emerge in Europe, and catch one of her mother’s trains through a snowy world. But when she came to the end of the fields, the discovery she made was almost better: she was at a crossroad in the middle of town.
She shielded her eyes from the sun. So much colour and movement, noise and clatter. Cars and farming trucks coming and going through the intersection, horns beeping, farmers with their tanned elbows hanging out of windows, raising tired hands to each other as they drove past. Alice spotted a shop with a wide window full of fresh bread and iced cakes. It was a bakery, she realised, remembering one of her picture books. This one had a beaded curtain over its entrance. Outside, under a striped awning, was a higgledy-piggledy of chairs and tables, with a brightly coloured flower in a vase on top of each checked tablecloth. Alice’s mouth watered. She wished her mother was beside her.
On either side of the bakery, shop windows promised farmers’ wives a whiff of cosmopolitan life: new tea dresses with narrow waists, large floppy hats, tasselled handbags and kitten heels. Alice wriggled her toes in her sandals. She’d never seen her mother wear anything like the clothes on the mannequins in the windows. Her mother only had one outfit for trips to town: a long-sleeved burgundy polyester dress and tan leather flats. The rest of the time her mother wore loose cotton dresses she made herself, and, like Alice, went mostly barefoot.
Alice’s gaze drifted to the intersection ahead of her, where a young woman and girl were waiting to cross at a set of lights. The woman held the girl’s hand, carrying her pink backpack for her. The girl’s shoes were black and shiny, with frilly white socks at her ankles. Her hair was in two neat pigtails with matching ribbons. Alice couldn’t look away. When the light changed they crossed the road and pushed through the beaded curtain into the bakery. A little while later they came out with creamy milkshakes and thick wedges of cake. They sat at the table that Alice would have chosen, the one with the painfully happy yellow gerbera, and they drank from their glasses, smiling milk-moustache smiles at each other.
The sun beat down on Alice. Her eyes hurt in the glare. Just as she was about to give up and spin around to run all the way home, Alice noticed a word on the ornate stone front of a building across the road.
She gasped and ran for the traffic lights. Jabbed the button repeatedly as she’d seen the girl do, until the light turned green and the intersection was clear. She sprinted across the road and through the heavy doors of the library.
In the foyer, she doubled over, panting. The cool air settled her hot, sweaty skin. Her pulse slowed in her ears. She pushed the hair away from her sunburnt forehead, and with it the thought of the woman and girl and their happy yellow gerbera. As she went to straighten her dress, Alice realised she wasn’t wearing one; she was still in her nightie. She hadn’t remembered to change before she left home. Unsure of what to do or where to go, Alice stayed where she was, pinching her wrists until the skin turned raw; pain on the outside softened the sharp feelings inside she couldn’t reach. It wasn’t until moving beams of coloured light fell in her eyes that she stopped.
Alice tiptoed through the foyer and entered the main library room, which opened around and above her. Her eyes were drawn upwards by sunlight streaming through stained-glass windows: a girl in a red hood walked through a forest of trees; a girl in a carriage sped away from a lone glass slipper; a little mermaid stared longingly from the sea at a man on shore. Excitement shot through Alice.
‘Can I help you?’
Alice looked down from the windows, in the direction of the question. A young woman with big hair and a wide smile sat at an octagonal desk. Alice tiptoed towards her.
‘Oh, you don’t have to tiptoe,’ the woman said, chuckling. She snorted when she laughed. ‘I wouldn’t last a day here if I had to be that quiet. My name’s Sally. I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.’ Sally’s eyes reminded Alice of the sea on a sunny day. ‘Have I?’ she asked.
Alice shook her head.
‘Oh, well now, how wonderful. A new friend!’ Sally clasped her hands together. Her fingernails were painted seashell pink. There was a pause.
‘And you are?’ Sally asked. Alice peeked at her from under her eyelashes. ‘Oh, don’t be shy. Libraries are friendly places. Everyone’s welcome here.’
‘I’m Alice,’ she mumbled.
‘Alice?’
‘Alice Hart.’
Something strange flickered over Sally’s face. She cleared her throat.
‘Well, Alice Hart,’ she exclaimed. ‘What a magical name! Welcome. It’ll be my pleasure to show you around.’ Her eyes darted to Alice’s nightie then back to her face. ‘Are you here with Mum or Dad today?’
Alice shook her head.
‘I see. Tell me, how old are you, Alice?’
Alice’s cheeks were hot. Eventually, she held up five splayed fingers on one hand and her thumb and index finger on the other.
‘Fancy that, Alice. Seven just happens to be the right age for you to have your own library card.’
Alice snapped her head up.
‘Ah, look at that. Sunbeams are coming out of your face.’ Sally winked. Alice touched her fingertips to her hot cheeks. Sunbeams.
‘Let me get you a form and we’ll fill it out together.’ Sally reached over and squeezed Alice’s arm. ‘Do you have any questions first?’
Alice thought about it then nodded.
‘Yes. Can you please show me the garden where the books grow?’ Alice smiled with relief; her voice had found its way around the seedpod.
Sally studied Alice’s face for a moment before erupting in hushed giggles. ‘Alice! You crack me up. We’re going to get along like a house on fire, you and me.’
In her confusion, Alice just smiled.
For the next half-hour Sally took Alice on a tour of the library, explaining that books lived on shelves, not in a garden. Row upon row of stories called to Alice. So many books. After a while Sally left Alice to herself to sit in a big, cushiony chair by one of the shelves.
‘Browse about and pick out some books you like. I’m just over there if you need anything.’ Sally pointed in the direction of her desk. Alice, already with a book in her lap, nodded.
Sally’s hands trembled as she picked up the phone. While she dialled the station, she leant forward to make sure Alice hadn’t followed her, but she was still sitting on the chair, the worn soles of her sandals poking out from under the grimy hem of her nightie. Sally fiddled with Alice’s library form, gasping when the paper sliced into her fingertip. Her eyes filled as she sucked the blood from her finger. Alice was Clem Hart’s daughter. She pushed his name out of her mind and pressed the phone hard against her ear. Pick up. Pick up. Pick up. Finally, her husband answered.
‘John? It’s me. No, I’m not, not really. No, listen, Clem Hart’s girl is here. Something’s wrong. She’s in her nightie, John.’ Sally struggled to keep her composure. ‘It’s filthy.’ She gulped. ‘And John, her little arms are bruised to buggery.’
Sally nodded along with her husband’s steadying voice and wiped the tears from her eyes.