Helen tugged at the leash again, and again, sending the sound of the bell ringing across the twenty acres of scrubland. She watched as a flock of black cockatoos rose up into the air. Silhouetted against the pink sky in their chaotic rush before sorting themselves into a distinct pattern and flying off.
*
Helen didn’t want to go to her old home to see Arnold so she decided to phone him. He answered immediately.
‘Hello Arnold. It’s me, Helen.’ She tried to suppress her eagerness.
Arnold, with a lifetime’s suspicion of telephones as harbingers of grim news, grunted. ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’
‘Huh?’
‘Arnold, how would you like to run Razoo’s book recycling plant. And live there, too, if you want to. It’s on twenty acres of lovely bush.’
‘Razoo’s?’ How could Helen offer him Razoo’s place?
Helen sensed his confusion. ‘He left it to me in his will.’
‘That was good of him,’ Arnold said a little uneasily.
‘Yes. Yes it was,’ she said rapidly. She didn’t want to get bogged down talking about Razoo. ‘Well, what do you think?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Razoo would have wanted you there.’
Arnold went quiet. It was beyond him. Like wearing the dead man’s clothing. More morbid thoughts started to erupt until it hit him like a thunderbolt that he’d been handling dead people’s stuff for the last twenty years.
‘You’ll love it.’ Helen was almost begging for him to love it, for her sake, for his sake. ‘Be a great job. And you’ll be working with the boys.’
Arnold was overwhelmed. Helen sounded happy, bubbly and positive. And above all, her words were kind. He hadn’t heard her speak like this for a long time.
‘Really?’ he stammered.
‘Of course. You’ll be their supplier.’
‘Yeah.’
‘And it’s sitting on twenty acres of bush.’
‘Twenty acres.’ Arnold’s heart began to race; Helen was throwing him Plan B.
‘Why don’t you go and have a look at it. And if you decide you like it, you can live and work there for as long as you want.’
Arnold put down the telephone receiver, dazed by Helen’s tone of voice, her excitement. And of course, her offer. He repeated the words, twenty acres of bushland. It danced before him. If ever there was a lure this was it.
*
Arnold burned the blood-stained carpet in the incinerator at the back of the book plant. Next, he looked through the plant, careful not to be too thorough; this had been Razoo’s life. He felt like an impostor but he could see a life for himself here. He liked the craziness of the building. The way it didn’t properly fit together made it feel like a home. It seemed like he was back on familiar ground. Even the books seemed like old friends by virtue of his not being that fussed about them.
More than anything he was overjoyed that this project gave him a strong connection with his sons and Helen. And Razoo. He saw it as a privilege to carry on Razoo’s work.
Arnold would continue to supply the Book Maze. He’d see Gabriel and Vivian on a regular and meaningful basis. They’d be doing business together. They would need each other for survival. And that was the nub of it. Arnold felt needed by his family again.
44
Ella took Paloma to Vivian at his father’s house where he was now living. She behaved with a shyness Vivian had never seen before.
He now understood that it had been the burden of pregnancy that had altered her character so dramatically, and he desperately wanted to made amends. He had failed her. Throughout all the fears of her pregnancy he hadn’t been there for her. Tangled up in his own needs, he hadn’t picked up on hers.
Sure, she had problems, but no more than the people who surrounded him. And his emotional history was nothing to brag about.
Ella sat on the edge of her seat, holding Paloma. ‘I thought you might want to see her. I know she’ll be happy to see you.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I’ve got some of her gear in the car. She can stay overnight if you like.’
*
Vivian found Astrid in the kitchen, slotting a cake into the oven. She looked up when he came in and asked, ‘And how is your little family?’
‘In need of help,’ he shot out, and then retreated.
‘Ja,’ answered Astrid hopefully, rolling her apron around in her hands.
Vivian shuffled awkwardly, unable to speak.
Astrid prompted him. ‘I am good at many things Vivian, but not mind reading.’
‘It’s a big ask,’ he replied embarrassed.
‘Ja, ja,’ said Astrid encouragingly. ‘Go on, ask me.’
Vivian took a deep breath and let out a rush of words, ‘Ella is unable to bond with her baby. That is, our baby, Paloma.’
Astrid suddenly felt her eyes fill with tears and her throat constrict. ‘Oh poor Ella, it must be terrible for her. She must feel like such a bad person when she isn’t. But this can all change around. I have heard of women who don’t bond with their babies at first, but then with time, they do. She is going through a difficult time, we will help her.’
Vivian knew this was the moment to speak. ‘Can you look after Paloma three days a week? I’ll take care of her on Mondays and Fridays, if you do Tuesday, Wednesdays and Thursdays. And we’re more than happy to pay you. Ella will be working full time, more than full time I suspect. If you’d like some time to think about —’
‘I never ever thought the day would come Vivian when I have to tell you to shut up!’ The tears that Astrid had struggled not to shed had escaped and formed soft wet streaks down her face. She swiped at them with her hand, as in a tremulous voice she gave her answer. ‘Oh, Vivian, I would love to. Of course. When do I start?’ She was already taking off her apron.
‘A week’s time.’
‘I’ll come now. I will prepare for the baby. The house must be perfect.’
Then Astrid stopped short. ‘What about your mother, doesn’t she want to look after Paloma?’
‘Ella asked specifically for you to look after her baby.’
‘She did? Especially for me? You are not cooking this up Vivian.’
‘Have I ever lied to you?’
Astrid bit her lip as she studied Vivian, then with a glimmer of a smile replied, ‘No.’
Astrid paid no further heed to Vivian; she’d heard the starter’s gun and dashed into her room, leaving Vivian standing there. A few moments later she stuck her head out the door. ‘Vivian, you please watch the cake. I have a million things to do.’ She packed her things and bade everyone in the shop a quick farewell before flying out the door to her true purpose in life: looking after a baby.
*
On Ella’s next visit, Vivian insisted that she stay longer, he wanted to speak with her. She sat quietly at the kitchen table holding Paloma in her arms. With a pang of sadness Vivian watched Ella with her baby daughter. There was an awkwardness in the way she held Paloma. Her hold was feeble, just firm enough to stop Paloma from falling but not enough for comfort. Mother and daughter looked as though they didn’t quite belong, as if Ella was holding some inert object. Vivian felt responsible for this sorry portrait.
‘I got a plan,’ he started off tentatively.
Ella stared cautiously at her husband.
‘First, how about I come home?’
‘Yes,’ Ella answered, but uneasily, as she waited for the stipulations; the ties to bind and make her behave like a married woman with a young baby.
‘You keep doing your work. Be the main breadwinner. Build up your career. I mean, for Chrissake you’re already a Doctor of Dental Science. You gotta keep going. I’d never hold you back, Ella. Your career is too important. I’ll go back to work at the bookshop four days a week. Astrid’s fine about looking after Paloma three days a week for us, here. And I can take care of her on the weekends if you need to work, or study.’
Ell
a was astonished. Instead of the anticipated telling off he had come up with a solution that gave her everything she wanted. No sermons, accusations or threats; he had only her and Paloma’s interests at heart. Ella was even more astonished that she hadn’t thought of all this herself. But perhaps her mental state had not allowed for commonsense or insight. Or the thought that she could have all that her heart desired.
Ella studied her wedding ring, turning it around and around.
‘Let’s give it a go,’ she answered.
*
Helen didn’t want to go back to the old family home, even with Astrid living there. It didn’t belong to her anymore, not emotionally anyway.
Astrid though would have none of it and dragged her back to the house, telling her she owed Arnold at least this, to see her old home restored.
Helen sat in Astrid’s car looking at the house, a mixture of disbelief and sadness washing over her. Arnold had done it, cleared away every skerrick of junk to reveal a beautiful house. It was as though for twenty years it had been in hiding but was now out in the open for the entire world to see and admire.
Astrid babbled on excitedly. ‘See Helen, he even painted it. I think the yellow is a good colour. Bright and happy.’
Helen’s heart thumped. Yes, it was as Astrid described, but why couldn’t it have been like this all those years of her marriage.
Astrid cried out, ‘Look, it even has a garden! The grass is growing, and flowers. And there is not one scrap of junk. And it has a new roof too!’
Helen sat quiet for a while, till Astrid led her out of the car and towards the house. She shook her head at the empty spaces, at the memory of all the white goods that had caused her such misery.
Arnold stood waiting restlessly by the front door; he had come from the plant, wanting to be here when Helen came to see the house. He was nervous about her response. He longed to rejoice in a positive reaction from her.
‘It’s amazing,’ she said truthfully. She wanted to say it was like, or even better than, the house they had first moved in to as a young married couple, but she didn’t trust herself. She didn’t want to end up blubbering. She needed to restrain herself, and so kept on saying, ‘It is amazing. It is truly amazing,’ alternating with, ‘This is great Arnold. You’ve done such an incredible job.’
Arnold stood back exalting in her look of wonder at the transformation. He felt happy that he’d done the right thing by her.
‘Where did it all go?’ she asked, spinning around to face him.
‘Sold it mainly. That reminds me. Got your share here.’ He dug deep into his trouser pocket and bought out a roll of notes and handed it to her.
She tried hard not to cry. Tried so hard her face began to ache. She accepted the money without a word because words would bring tears. Arnold seemed to understand. ‘Got a few quid for the tambourines and the ashtrays. Soap did well too. Donated a lot of stuff to charities. Gabriel kept on me about the reading glasses …’
Arnold rambled on while she tried to think of more to say in the way of praise. What was the best accolade she could give him? It came easily: ‘This is a great house to bring up a granddaughter in,’ she managed to blurt out, and then turned to go and see the kitchen.
Here she gave a shriek of delight. Utterly and totally devoid of junk, it gleamed in freshly painted pastel colours. To Helen’s surprise she felt a sudden pang of envy. She wanted this kitchen back. In fact she realised with a shock that she wanted the whole house back. Why couldn’t she live here with Astrid? Arnold had the recycling plant to live and work in. Gabriel and Penny and Vivian had the bookshop.
Astrid was right on cue. ‘This house is big now Helen. Why don’t you come and live with me here. Arnold now lives in that book plant and I only have Paloma with me during the day, weekends off.’
‘I’m sure you’re fine. You don’t need me here.’
‘No. Please live here,’ begged Astrid. ‘This is not the old house. There are no nightmares here anymore. Please Helen for my sake. And Paloma’s. Why, she even has her own room!’
‘I don’t think Ella wants me near Paloma.’
‘Oh Helen, give her a chance. She is going through a very bad time. You of all people must understand what it is like to struggle with life.’
Helen brought her hands to her cheeks, ashamed of her lack of compassion.
Astrid continued, ‘I’m sure, with time, Ella will love for Paloma’s grandmother to be near her, and look after her too.’
Helen weighed Astrid words. It was good to have her insight and encouragement.
Astrid changed tack, ‘And you can write here too. You can have a whole room as your study. Oh Helen, what do you say?’
‘I’ll …’
Helen had been going to say, ‘I’ll think about it,’ or ‘I’ll give it some thought,’ when she stopped herself short. What sort of idiot was she? Pompous and proud to the bitter end! She looked squarely at Arnold and Astrid. ‘Yes, I will come back and live here Astrid. And write.’
‘Oh Helen I am so excited. Life is wonderful in that it does give you second chances — doesn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ replied Helen as she pulled a bankcard from the pocket of her coat and held it front of Astrid. ‘And this is for you, something I’ve been meaning to give you. Just been waiting for the right moment. It’s all the money you loaned me. Three hundred and eighty thousand dollars.’
Astrid stood for some moments before stating adamantly, ‘No.’
‘Yes.’
For a good twenty minutes, their not unpleasant chimes of yes no yes no yes no yes no yes no pealed across the table until exhausted, Astrid relented and took the bankcard and scoured the kitchen for a suitable hidey hole.
*
Gabriel and Vivian visited their dad at the Book Recycling Plant in the early evening. They walked around quickly, inspecting the premises, then stopped to talk.
‘Got any beer?’ said Gabriel.
‘Sure, in the kitchen.’
‘We came to check out the place, and it’s just as I expected — a dump. You’ll be right at home.’
‘Gimme a break.’
‘Nothing wrong with a dump,’ Vivian said consolingly.
‘We need another five thousand of your worst books, old man,’ Gabriel asked. ‘Can do?’
‘Business booming, is it?’
‘Could say that,’ said Vivian.
‘You know I’ve been thinking,’ said Arnold.
‘That’d be the day,’ shot back Gabriel.
‘Seriously, I’ve been thinking that I ought to take a photograph of the whole family. You know, a group photo. Be nice. Now we got Paloma, Ella and Penny. Thought I’d take it at the family home.’
Vivian and Gabriel looked at one another and then at their father. Gabriel folded his arms, ‘Yeah, that’s a good idea, a photograph of the whole family. That’d be something.’
45
Helen woke up as usual at five in the morning, without the aid of an alarm clock. She sat bolt upright for a few seconds before remembering where she was and sinking back into the pillows. She was back in the old family home, though her old bedroom was still unfamiliar without all the layers of junk. Arnold had bought her a brand new queen-sized bed. And she had bought new sheets, blanket and a doona. It was early spring and still cold, and she luxuriated in the warmth of the fresh new bedding. She surveyed the room from her cushioned envelope. It had been painted lilac. There was a chest of drawers and a wardrobe, her bedside table with its lamp and a book. That was all. She looked out the window through its lacy curtain. It was still dark outside.
She mused on her life and wondered where the years had gone. And marvelled at how, as the author of her own life, she’d written good and bad chapters and not necessarily in a sequential order. It was as though she had been writing blindfolded, because her life up until now had its fair share of mess. But then, she reflected, unlike writing a book, life didn’t allow for rewrites.
*
In the end, at the end, whatever the ending of each day, the heroine could say, as she put herself into her bed, ‘I tried.’ And as she lay there in the fast forward minutes before sleep she could whisper to herself, ‘Today I did the best I could,’ before a night’s sleep would take her into another day, another chance, another page, another chapter of her life.
Acknowledgements
Writing my novel was like a self-imposed solitary confinement. However my sentence of four years was made considerably less gruelling by the support and encouragement given to me by a number of admirable souls whose collective voices never wavered in saying keep on going, you can do it. To them all I owe a debt of gratitude. I would like to thank John Harman, Gabrielle Metcalf, Desiree Goodchild, Moira McKinnon, Denise Young, Karen Leers, Sabrina Hahn, Ellen Oliver, Bronwyn Stewart and Glynis Pow.
A debt of gratitude is also owed to Peter Bishop at Varuna Writers’ Centre for welcoming my writing style and believing that my voice would one day find a place.
More thanks than I can imagine to Clive Newman at Fremantle Press for releasing my book from solitary into the wider community. And to my editor extraordinaire, Janet Blagg, who brought my novel home. And to Lyn Tranter, my agent, for picking up The Bookshop of Jacaranda Street and running with it, and whose strong belief in it kept me going.
Finally to Dawn Murray, whose steadfast support and guidance was a constant light through the bars of my cell.
The Bookshop on Jacaranda Street Page 26
