by Steve Hawke
The dinner was excruciating from the start. Geoffrey insisted on saying grace, taking Claire’s hand, and then Anne’s. She gave Joe a startled look as Geoffrey bowed his head, but acquiesced. Not Joe, he withdrew his hand when Claire reached for it.
Geoffrey was witty, polite, engaged. He and Claire touched hands or stroked a forearm at any excuse, laughed too much at each other’s jokes, and generally emanated young love. But it seemed that whatever turn the conversation took ‘the Church’ or ‘our Lord’ or ‘the scriptures’ were soon invoked.
The young man may have been superficially playing the role of respectful new boyfriend. But Joe got the feeling that there was a subtle role reversal going on. That he was the one being tested, almost baited; that the young man was just waiting for the chance to defend the faith, or evangelise, or whatever it was he did. So Joe uncharacteristically bit his tongue, and watched his daughter through a veil of unfamiliarity.
And at some point Geoffrey charmingly enquired of Anne where they had found the beautiful earrings, had they had a holiday in Broome? Anne nodded, unable to speak a lie out loud. ‘Oh I loved Broome. Dad went up there to preach one time, and we stayed on for some missionary work for a couple of weeks. Which shop did you get the earrings at?’
Anne goldfished for a moment or two then managed. ‘Oh I can’t remember now. Do you Joe?’
‘No,’ he said curtly. He couldn’t quite decipher the meaning of the flickered glance from Geoffrey, but it felt like ‘gotcha’.
TAKE OFF
The river flats, her park, her roof glimpsed ever so briefly as the suburbs recede and shrink. Anne pulls a book from her bag. The novel she’ll be teaching in third term. Three pages in she is bored. God help the kids. She glances out the window again. Already the suburbs have given way to a patchwork of forest and fields dotted with farmhouses and sheds, and she feels better for it.
She thinks back to last night with a smile. Once upon a time it was common, but she can’t actually remember when the last time was that Joe showed her a set of his drawings with that air of excitement, and such a sparkle in his eyes. If this project goes well for him … What exactly? A renaissance? A vindication? For Joe maybe, and the thought thrills her. But for them? She is not so sure. Peaks inevitably are accompanied by troughs, and she has enjoyed what she thinks of as their ‘levelling out’ of recent times.
And what was that thing about the cantilevered something or other? The detail is gone; Joe’s architectural jargon has always gone in one ear and out the other. But he repeated it, word for word, twice in the space of five minutes as he was explaining the drawings to her. He’s done that sort of thing three or four times in the last couple of months. Weird.
He’s just working too hard, she tells herself, as she puts the novel back in her bag. Nothing to worry about. She takes out her well-thumbed field guide instead, and passes the time by checking out some of the birds she hopes she’ll sight if she can get some time out bush. She touches a fingertip to the illustration of her favourite, the topknot—or the crested pigeon as the book dubs it—and feels a thrill of expectation.
THE FLATHEAD
‘What the!’
The parking rates go up every time he’s at Perth Airport, he’s sure of it. He scrabbles through his pockets for extra coins and jams them in one by one, banging the machine with the heel of his hand each time—harder than is needed to make the coins drop—until it spits his ticket back out.
He takes a deep breath, shakes his arms, trying to slough the tension off. He can’t afford to wallow like this; too much to do this week.
Three and a half hours before he has to pick up Auntie Betty, and the day still has that early morning feel. He’s glad of the impulse to throw the rod and tackle bag in the back seat.
It may be a city of philistines, but you’ve gotta love Perth, Joe thinks as he picks his way across the Ashfield Flats to the river. That could even be Anne’s plane, it’s less than ten minutes since he left the airport. He knows the ugliness of the casino is only three bends down, but apart from the dog-walkers and the joggers, few people come to this stretch of the river. It’s not the best fishing spot on the Swan, but it is one of the quieter ones, if your measure is lack of people rather than lack of noise.
Joe has different modes of fishing.
With Eric, and once upon a time with Jason, there is his dinghy, and a selection of reaches and snags and weed banks where there is always a fair to good chance of catching a few bream, but no imperative; failure is acceptable.
There are the serious excursions to Dongara and beaches up and down the coast where there is the expectation of a catch.
And there is this solitary pursuit, prowling the handful of quiet stretches of river between Maylands and Guildford with his fly rod, where a catch is an unexpected bonus. If he has a country this is it. Three miles upstream and downstream from his home. Half-a-dozen little patches of water that he has come to know.
The hordes may walk their dogs along the banks. The water folk may throw curious glances as they paddle or motor past. He studiously ignores the waves and greetings from the wine-soaked ferries full of tourists and revellers. They are all going from A to B. He is here.
As he stalks the shallows with his fly rod, working the water shadows, he is eventually able to let the Geoffrey angst recede, and approach the state of mind drift that these hours on the river induce.
This morning the light easterly is perfect. Casting against the sea breeze that comes in of an afternoon can be hard work, and the branches of the she-oaks that dot the shore are prone to snatch at and catch his fly as he works the line.
He lands the fly on the spot he has chosen, but just as he’s about to start working it, a cormorant glides in to land amongst the needle-like leaves of a stubby she-oak. He is always entranced by its shiver shake to shed the water, and then the slow stretch to hang its wings out like a feathery scarecrow.
Suddenly there is a strike.
Lost in his contemplation of the bird, he is slow to react, but recovers just in time to set the hook. All focus now, he is thinking undersized bream from the lack of fight; but there is a weight to it. He is momentarily puzzled, until the first glimpse. A flattie! A rarity this far upriver. And a good one, a sleek elongated kite in sandy tones, almost invisible against the riverbed, but betrayed by its desperate movements.
Joe is not a fan of catch and return. He has always figured that it is more respectful to the animal he has just tortured to despatch it swiftly and savour its flesh. But nor is he a fan of the freezer—a fish should be eaten the day it is caught, by preference—and now he has a dilemma. This single flathead will not feed both him and Eric this evening. With the flattie safely landed and gently unhooked, he decides that this one can go back to the river, until:
Auntie Betty!
A smile as he quickly breaks the flathead’s spine and stows it in his tackle bag.
There’ll be plenty of time after we’ve seen George to cook it up for her.
He still uses her batter recipe. And he still ties his hooks with the knot that Uncle George taught him.
Joe fishes on, hoping he might land another one, or even two, to make a proper meal; but no such luck. On the way home he stops in at the deli to get eggs and flour for the batter, and the makings for a salad, feeling pleased with himself.
I wonder how long since Betty’s had a feed of proper fresh fish?
He bustles through a shower, and the preparation of the sauce for tonight’s spag bol with Eric, which goes on a slow simmer. He double-checks that he has packed everything for a lunch of fish and salad; the thought of cheering Betty up is making him feel better about the day ahead. He throws a bottle of dressing in the esky and is on his way to Betty’s.
Fish dinner at Dongara was always accompanied by beer. Even as a youngster he was given a shandy, poured with great ceremony from the Emu Bitter that George favoured—always and only the longneck bottles. But does Betty still drink? She can always say no,
he thinks as he pulls into the bottlo three blocks from her place.
He buys a bottle, and a lemonade in case a shandy’s a better bet for Betty. The young feller at the till laughs as he pings them with the price gun.
‘What?’
‘Not much call for longnecks these days. That’s two singles in two days but.’
‘There’s still a few of us around’ve got taste,’ Joe grins.
ARCADIA GLEN
Joe can’t help the mental shudder as he passes through the gates of the Arcadia Glen Retirement Village. It’s not just the awful name. It was the same visiting the Prof. These places depress him.
It’s better than bloody Wanslea at least.
‘Better dead than demented’ was the quip he’d made to Anne and Eric, after one of his early visits to Uncle George in the dementia facility. Since he’s assumed the task of taking Auntie Betty out there regularly in the last few months, the quip has become a conviction, and the capacity to find any humour in the situation has long since disappeared.
He swings past the village office and the carefully manicured gardens to Betty’s unit round the back. Stows the beer in the esky and gets out the fish. Two good size fillets on display in the Tupperware container.
No answer. That’s unusual. She’s expecting him, and the bell’s loud. Nothing wrong with Betty’s hearing.
Tries again. Still nothing.
Calls … bangs on the door … calls. Tries to peer through the window, but impossible with the frosted glass. Rings the bell again, starting to worry now.
Goes back to the car for his mobile, but the number rings out.
Tries the next-door unit. No answer.
Tries the other side. After a long wait the door opens four inches, the extent the chain will allow. He can see the outline of a bent-over old woman. ‘Hello? … Hello? It’s Joe, Joe Warton. Have you seen Betty? … Mrs Warton? Next door.’
‘No.’ The door shuts in his face.
He tries once more before getting into his car and driving back to the office.
He is just about to press the counter bell for the third time when the ‘duty resident liaison officer’ appears. ‘Sorry sir, I was just attending to—’
He cuts her off. ‘Mrs Warton—my auntie—has she been taken to hospital or something?’
‘Mrs …?’
‘Warton.’ He spells it out. ‘Unit forty-three.’
She heads towards a filing cabinet. ‘Certainly not today sir. But I only do Saturdays. Let me check if there’s anything on her file. Are you her registered next of kin?’
‘Fucked if I know. Maybe. Probably. What’s it matter? Just tell me will you.’
‘Language please sir. I’m just following the protocols.’
Joe can hardly contain himself as she flicks pages. Pauses. ‘And you are, sir?’
‘Joe Warton! I’m her bl–, I’m her nephew.’
She nods. ‘You are an authorised person, Mr Warton. There are no incident reports on file in the last two weeks. Are you sure she’s not in her unit?’
‘YES I AM SURE! … I mean … She’s not answering her door.’
‘The residents are free to come and go, Mr Warton. Maybe she’s gone for a walk.’
He takes a deep breath. Looks at her name badge. ‘Zoe. She’s expecting me. I’m taking her to see her husband over at Wanslea.’
For the first time she looks him in the eye. The empathy calms him down.
‘Do you have a key?’ he asks.
THE BATH
The cat sniffing around the Tupperware he has left on the doorstep dodges his kick. Zoe insisted on coming separately in the Village’s vehicle. He assumes it must have medical gear. The wait is almost unbearable.
When did I speak to her? Wednesday? Three days. Oh my god. I hope she died peacefully. Or maybe …
He is starting to imagine worst-case scenarios of Betty clinging to life on the floor, struck down by whatever, but unable to reach the phone, or …
Come on, come on.
Zoe seems to take an age getting herself organised and out of the car, then fumbling through a huge set of keys until she finds the one. Eventually she unlocks the door and steps aside for him.
Nothing in the kitchen cum living room. The bedroom door is open. Fearfully he peers in. Nothing. That only leaves the bathroom. That door is open too.
For an instant he is relieved. She has fallen asleep in the bath.
George’s filleting knife on the tiles. A splatter of blood.
He steps into the room.
The bathwater is blood red.
The next thing he registers is Zoe getting up from beside the bath and pulling a mobile from her pocket. ‘There’s no pulse, Mr Warton. I have to call an ambulance.’
‘What for?’
‘That’s what we do. That’s what I have to do.’
There is a terrible silence as they look at each other. She carefully steps around and over him, slumped in the doorway. From the other side she asks as gently as she can, ‘Is there anything I can do, Mr …?’
He can feel her stumble on the inappropriate formality.
‘Joe.’
‘Is there anything I can do, Joe?’
‘No.’
He hears her step outside.
He forces himself to his knees.
He shuffles to the edge of the bath.
She is wearing bathers. The garish one-piece with the dolphin motif. In the bath? An inkling of the thought she has put into this.
He closes his eyes. Feels for her forehead with his fingertips. Bends and places a kiss.
A deep breath.
Eyes still closed he plunges his arms into the coldness, feels for the crook beneath her knees, works the other arm under her back, beneath her armpits. Braces to lift her.
‘Joe. You have to leave her. You can’t disturb the … the scene.’
‘What? The ambos have to lift her out?’
‘I’ve called the police too … That’s the rules.’
‘Tell them what you saw.’
He stands, taking the weight, feeling, hearing the rush of water draining from her. Turns.
He has to open his eyes to manoeuvre through the door, but he keeps them raised to the ceiling, working his way through to the bedroom, where he can lower her down on the bed. He tries not to see it again as he disentangles himself, but the limp left hand dangling unnaturally below the deep gash in her wrist will not hide itself.
BOTTOMS UP
No coppers available in Subiaco on a Saturday afternoon. The ambos have done what they need to do. Zoe hovers. ‘I need to get back to the office, Mr Warton.’
‘Yep.’
She backs out. He sits. Looks sideways at the table.
A CD case. Frank Sinatra’s greatest hits. An empty longneck and glass. A capless pill bottle turned upside down. Some jewellery in a saucer. An open packet of Timtams sitting atop two envelopes.
I don’t want to do this.
He moves the Timtams aside. The bottom envelope is a yellow brown A4, sealed, unlabelled. The top one is standard white, with his name in Betty’s handwriting.
Dear Joe,
I’m sorry.
Sorry for involving you. But who else is there?
If you are the first on the scene, sorry for putting you through that.
Forgive me. You’ve been such a comfort these last few months.
Sorry for the lack of warning. But you may have tried to stop me.
As you know I have never been squeamish, but I am not looking forward to this.
I am not taking this step lightly, or without deep thought. I have no qualms and no doubts; only regrets.
If I could still do anything useful for George of course I would stay. Happily. No, not happily, but willingly. But I can’t even get out there under my own steam any more. And to find my dearest man in nappies was too much. They didn’t even ask me Joe.
If I felt that sense of connection—at any level—I would stay. That grip of his on my h
and is not connection. You have felt it. But so do the carers. It is not between my Georgie and me. It is a desperate clinging to—to something. And I can’t bear it any more.
Sorry. I mustn’t start down that track. I’ve got business to do.
I presume you remember agreeing to be our executor.
Practicalities.
Our wills are in the envelope. Nothing happens until George passes, may it be sooner rather than later. But we managed to hang on to the shack, and that will be yours. That makes me smile, even now Joe.
George’s nursing home bond when it gets returned will cover the debt on this palace. The managers here and at the nursing home can talk you through it—they’re both decent enough in their own way.
The funeral’s paid for, and they’ve got my instructions.
My rings and the brooch are Claire’s if she wants them. The rest is junk Joe, quite frankly, old people’s junk. The memories are in the mind, not the stuff. Don’t bother going through it, that’s my advice.
That’s the practicalities done.
Oh bugger, I’m starting to cry now.
Sun’s over the yard arm. About time to crack a longneck Georgie boy.
(The walk to the bottle shop and back nearly killed me! That would have saved us some trouble hey.)
You’re going to have to be his guardian now Joe. Sorry. I’m not asking you to visit him. There’s really no point any more.
Just the once though please. Tell him I’m sorry, I should have listened. I didn’t realise it was going to be this awful.
I got you some Timtams darling. I’ve only pinched two. You always were my favourite nephew.
Bottoms up.
Your Auntie Betty
WANSLEA
It is almost dark by the time he pulls up at Wanslea and presses the buzzer.
No walking in the front door here; the inmates might escape.
Sorry, wander off.
He manages a thin smile for the carer who answers, clearly not expecting visitors at this time of day.
