by Steve Hawke
But so what if it does still come? The flash. Now he will doubt it, which he never did before. He fears that the drive, the confidence to convince and corral the others to its purpose, is beyond him. And now he is terrified of the loops and the lapses, and the humiliation if any but Anne bears witness to them.
For a long minute he lets the tears flow, mourning, before he turns the key and heads back to Bassendean. By the time he turns off Guildford Road it has become her fault, for pushing him to go in for the meeting.
She just doesn’t get it.
Luckily he catches himself, realising it won’t pay to arrive home in this mood, and detours down to the river flats. He walks the anger out, but is left wondering whether the melancholy is possibly worse.
STILL TOO EARLY
‘There is another way of dealing with all this you know,’ Anne suggests that night.
‘And what might that be?’
‘Stop treating it as a shameful secret. Gird your bloody loins, and tell the people that matter.’
‘Claire. How many times do we have to go there.’
‘Until you see sense. I can’t keep the lie going much longer, Joe. Nor am I willing to. But I wasn’t actually thinking about her just now.’
‘Who else matters?’
‘Johnson, for instance.’
‘Good plan!’
‘I’m serious. What if you were to sit him down and tell him what’s going on?’ She holds up a hand to stop his retort. ‘Think about it. You could lay your cards on the table. Tell him you don’t want to do the meetings and the face-to-face stuff any more, but you can still be on the team. Work through young Tony.’
‘There’s no way he’d buy it.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘You want me to tell Johnson I’m demented?’
‘I want you to get past this “poor me” thing. I’m not talking rose-coloured glasses. You’ve been hit by a tram; I get that, truly I do. But if you do nothing but wallow and surrender, we’re buggered. I’m not saying you should speak to Johnson, but you should think about it. Think about how you—how we—are going to deal with this damned thing.’
‘The doc said it’s still too early to say.’
‘I remind myself of that fifteen times a day. But you’ve come home today and told me your career is over, you’re throwing in the towel.’
‘That’s not what I said.’
‘Not in so many words maybe. But I know subtext when I hear it. I’m an English teacher remember.’
‘And I’m getting an F hey.’
‘You are doing my head in.’
They look at each other. Smile. Relieved that somehow they can find a joke of sorts to release the pressure. But she is not prepared to let it go. ‘I meant what I said about Claire. I can’t live a lie with my daughter. I honestly don’t know how you can, but I’m telling you, I can’t keep it up. Something’s got to give.’
She gets up with a sigh. ‘I’ve got essays to mark.’ She kisses his pate, and heads up to her desk. But she only gets as far as the second stair.
‘Can you hold out six weeks?’ he asks.
She turns. Watches him from the foot of the stairs.
‘When they come down. I’ll find a way to talk to Claire, I promise. I can’t do it on the phone.’
‘No backing out?’
‘No backing out.’
She puts a finger to her lips, blows him a soft kiss. He is bound.
She puts one foot on the bottom stair, but then pauses. He is still watching her. Something she has said has touched a nerve. She dares to ask, ‘Johnson?’
‘I’m not saying you’re wrong, but I can’t bring myself to do that. Imagine the look on his face. There’s a couple of renovation gigs’ll keep me going for now.’
She nods what might be assent.
‘Duty calls.’
This time she does climb the stairs.
TIME SHARING
Anne’s reports on the negotiations between herself, Claire and Geoffrey and the in-laws over the Christmas and New Year’s arrangements almost do Joe’s head in. ‘Whatever’ is all he can contribute. ‘As long as we get some time with Claire and James.’
‘Thanks for your help dear,’ Anne replies, with a sour look.
He is privately grateful that no all-in get-togethers are on the menu. It is a matter of how, when and where the young folk and the golden grandson share their favours amongst the two camps of oldies. Claire wants a New Year at Dongara. The tradeoff is Christmas at the Patersons’, with Anne and Joe getting Christmas Eve, and the possibility of Boxing Day or the day after—see how it’s going. They’ll head up to Dongara for the New Year. Geoffrey’s not keen on the shack though; they’ll book into a chalet. Even Claire concedes it will probably be easier that way.
At the Christmas Eve gathering James, still short of his second birthday, gets overexcited by the abundance of attention and presents and, of course, throws a tantrum early on. Joe can’t help a twinge of disappointment when his meticulously crafted, garishly painted puzzle blocks do not hold James’ attention for more than a moment. Claire seems distracted, and Geoffrey barely more than perfunctory in his engagement with them. When Anne and Joe dissect the event that evening they are agreed that there’s something going on between those two.
‘They travelled all yesterday, and there was that delay with their flight. Maybe they’re just tired.’ But Joe can tell from the way she says it that Anne is not convinced by her own hypothesis.
‘The seven-year itch?’ he wonders.
‘It can’t be that long, surely?’
They both do the mental maths, and look at each other, astonished. It is indeed seven years, or will be next year, since Claire and Geoffrey got together.
DRIVING SOUTH AGAIN
Boxing Day morning brings a call from Claire to say they are all still recovering. The next morning there’s another call, and another excuse, but an assurance that they’ll be driving up to Dongara on New Year’s Eve. Anne takes the calls. Her unease is growing.
They head up two days ahead of Claire and co. Joe had negotiated permission for a couple of hours out on the boat before he pitches in with the clean-up and preparations. He arrives back invigorated by the ocean, singing out that he’s got a feed, only to find Anne with the bags all repacked, and impatient for him to unhook the trailer and boat. ‘We’re heading back Joe. Claire called.’
Heart catching. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Good question. They’re safe, but she didn’t want to talk. She just said she and James were in a taxi, and asked if the key will be in the usual place.’
‘Oh god.’
‘I told her we’d be on our way down as soon as you got back.’
Time, circumstances and locations may all be entirely different, but a four-hour drive south, wondering what the hell has gone wrong for his daughter, is eerily reminiscent for Joe of Margaret River all those years ago. At least this time it is not entirely out of the blue.
Anne’s phone beeps. She reads the text to him as they push south, with the westerly whipping the peppermint trees that line the highway. Sorry about that Mum. We’re ok, promise. I just need a break. I need to see you and Dad. I’ve found the key and let myself in. Kettle’s on. Love C.
‘Any theories?’ he asks.
‘Too many, but I don’t want to go there. I just want to give her a hug and find out.’
‘Good call my love. Question I’ve got to ask though.’
‘I know.’
‘So what are my orders? I promised you.’
‘Don’t say a word unless I tell you to. Priority goes to Claire. Claire and James.’
‘Gotcha. Couldn’t agree more.’
He leans out to see if it’s clear to overtake the minibus.
Go.
He’s always loved that rush as he puts the foot down and surges past a slowcoach on his left. He’s happy to be driving. There’s a serenity about the monotony of the road, the wind in his hair, Anne bes
ide him, staring out her window absorbed in her own thoughts. Sometimes he can lose himself in it entirely, not returning to the world until he comes to a stop. That’s the space he’s yearning for now, but zen driving is elusive; too many externals nibble at him.
Joe startles at the overloud rumble of a Harley that rears up beside him and zooms past, followed by another four. He glances across at Anne, but she hasn’t noticed. She’s fixed on a far horizon.
SCONES
Claire wants familiarity, comfort food and small talk, not heart-to-hearts. From what she does say, it seems to have been a squabble rather than a major rupture. A spat with her mother-in-law, and then fury at Geoffrey for taking his mother’s side. ‘I just couldn’t stand the thought of two more nights in that house, with them judging every little thing that I do, or James does! I don’t think Geoffrey even realises that he’s doing it, but it feels like it’s three against one all the time. I’m going to tell him next time we’re booking into a B&B.’
When they try to draw her out, she says she’d rather not talk about it. ‘Not yet, anyway.’ The murkiness leaves them both uneasy. There are things being left unsaid. But they do not press.
Joe has James out in the shed, doing bad card tricks and a stream of other entertainments way over the boy’s head that delight them both.
Anne is elbow deep in scone dough, talking Claire through the intricacies of the process, when apropos of nothing Claire cuts across her. ‘He hates Dad.’
Anne keeps kneading. Waits.
Claire looks up at her, eyes brimming.
‘Hates?’ asks Anne.
A nod.
‘Not just dislikes? That would make it mutual.’
Not a smile, but a slight twitch of the lips. ‘Any descriptors on the dial in between? It might be short of hate, but it’s a sight more than dislike. There’s something visceral in there. And it’s got me beat Mum.
‘It was such a drama getting him to agree to come up to Dongara. And then he did nothing but whinge about the prospect. With all these snide comments thrown in. It was better to just bail on the whole thing. But once I came to that conclusion …’
The distraught face on her daughter makes Anne ache.
‘What am I supposed to do Mum? I mean Dad drives me nuts sometimes. But he’s Dad. Look at him with James! Geoffrey’s dad doesn’t even like to pick him up, let alone give him a cuddle. He’s like some bloody robot.’
‘Are you going to fill your father in?’
‘Should I?’
‘Now that … is a good question.’
To which Anne does not know the answer. She busies herself with getting the scones in the oven. Claire intuits the answer from her silence. She waits for Anne to finish bustling and get her hands washed, gets up from the kitchen table, and gives her mother a long hug that turns fierce. Whispers in Anne’s ear, ‘I better go out to the shed and see what those two are up to.’
NEW YEAR’S EVE
Claire comes downstairs from putting James to bed to find her parents on the sofa, glasses in hand, the TV on mute with images of fireworks exploding over the Sydney Harbour Bridge.
‘Countdown’s on over east,’ Joe says.
‘When’s the last time you guys made it through to midnight?’ Claire asks.
‘I think she’s trying to insinuate that we are becoming aged,’ Joe ripostes.
‘Don’t worry, I’ve missed the last two. Pregnancy then breastfeeding. Partying feels like ancient history.’
‘Wait till James is a teenager,’ Joe grins. ‘Then you’ll stay up. Worrying what he’s up to.’
‘I never!’
‘I remember one or two,’ Anne smiles. She gestures at the TV. ‘Shall we pretend we’re over there, raise a glass at nine p.m., then call it a night?’
They’ve already poured a wine for Claire. Joe goes to pass it across, but she holds up a hand to stop him. ‘I’m not drinking at the moment Dad.’
‘Not even a toast to the New Year!’
‘Not even a toast to the New Year.’
Anne looks at her quizzically.
Claire meets her look with a smile, enjoying the moment.
‘You’re not, are you?’
‘I am.’
Anne whoops with joy and jumps up to give her daughter a hug.
KEEPING IT LIGHT
Claire paces the backyard for what seems an eternity, mobile held to her ear, talking to Geoffrey. Joe and Anne keep James busy, and try not to be too obvious with their glances her way, trying to interpret expressions and body language.
‘Truce called,’ is the extent of her report when she comes inside. ‘I’ve got the rest of this week with you guys, so let’s enjoy it. What’s say we take James to the zoo?’ She gathers him up, whirls him round, all abuzz. ‘Let’s go and see the orangutans bub!’
The thought occurs to Joe whilst the women are getting organised that this means he will have to keep his promise. A discussion with his daughter that he is not looking forward to. But he’ll check in with Anne first.
‘Hold James while I put this on, Dad,’ Claire asks when she emerges.
‘Nice brooch,’ he says when she’s finished pinning it.
‘Geoffrey’s Christmas present. Nice hey.’ She adjusts it slightly, takes James back and announces, ‘Come on, let’s have a day out, Grandma and Grandpa.’
She is determinedly, and—as far as Joe and Anne can tell—genuinely cheerful, as they indulge in the pleasures of a Perth summer’s day. Her rules are unspoken but clear; let’s keep it light.
Dinner is long finished, and James well asleep. Anne is back and forth to the kitchen clearing the table. A big yawn from Claire. A smile as she settles back into the sofa. Joe watches her quietly, speculatively, hopefully.
There’s something about you girl. Composure?
He is reminded of her emergence ready to embrace a new world, like a butterfly from its chrysalis, in the aftermath of Jason.
Another yawn and a dreamy murmur. ‘Maybe you guys could take James for a walk in the morning, I can’t remember the last time I slept in.’
‘Love to,’ he says.
Keep it light, he thinks, let her get off to bed.
‘Nice brooch, Claire Bear. Present from himself was it?’
Her follow-up yawn stops in its tracks. She turns to him, mouth still open. ‘What?’
‘I was just asking about the br–’ But even as he speaks, the puzzled startlement on her face makes him realise.
‘Loop.’ He doesn’t realise he’s said it aloud.
Claire’s alarmed ‘Dad?! You–’ is simultaneous. Then she says, ‘Loop? What’s going on?’
The waves of shame and despair and guilt and grief that engulf him feel like an almost physical dissolution. Then Anne is in the room, taking in the sight of both of them. Sagging for a moment, then running to Claire as she seethes, and sobs. ‘Joe! I told you! I begged you.’
TESTING TIMES
‘It’s all happening!’ The decidedly undulcet tones of Bill Lawry ring out as Joe stumbles down the stairs. Another wicket down. Midmorning in Bassendean, but over at the SCG the Poms are already seven for a hundred and thirty-three halfway through day one of the Test. Claire is red-eyed and haggard, hands clutching a coffee at the kitchen bench. She mutes the TV when she hears him coming down.
‘Cricket?’ He is genuinely bemused. She glares at him.
‘James still asleep?’
‘He woke up hours ago, Dad. He’s down at the park with Mum.’
Joe blathers his lips, trying to wake up. Flips the tap up and splashes himself.
‘Under the weather are we?’ she asks.
‘Just trying to wake up.’
‘I haven’t slept.’
‘Oh hell, I’m in the dock am I?’ He turns round to look at her.
‘Yes. You bastard.’
‘Language girl.’ He wags a finger, but only for a mini moment. He thrusts his hand into his pocket at the look she gives him.
‘How
much do you remember from last night, Dad?’
‘Oh, here we go! Wrong question Claire.’
She holds up a hand, placating, or trying to. ‘Steady Dad. I’m not talking about … about you know what. You were drunk. Drunk as a monkey by the time you went to bed.’
‘Fair call.’ He sets about making coffee, asking by sign if she wants one, but she shakes her head. ‘I remember. Most of it. All of it by the time the hangover clears. Except for the loops of course. Was there just the one?’
‘As far as I know.’
‘I’m sorry my darling. Abjectly. Your mother, as usual, was right. And she warned me.’
Pouring his coffee he realises that he can’t actually remember very much. But Claire is right, it is an alcohol-induced amnesia. He does know that none of it was good, and that they seemed glad to see him stumble off to bed half a bottle of whisky later.
‘Has Anne had any sleep, or was she up all night with you?’
‘An hour or two I think. But she’s not real flash.’ She yawns deeply. ‘I hope I can trust her with James.’
‘You can trust her, Bear. Absolutely and implicitly.’
That gets a wan smile.
‘She tried to explain it to me last night. Why you—why this—this stupid bloody—this secrecy bullshit Dad. That you couldn’t talk to me. Couldn’t tell me. Hello! It’s me! Your one and only. And you did the same to her.’ It’s not exactly revulsion in her voice. But nor is it a long way short of disgust.
‘I’ve been a bad boy.’
‘Please don’t do jokes Dad.’
‘It’s only half a joke. I have been, and I know it. But it’s a bugger of a thing. Look at me, Claire.’
Their eyes meet across the kitchen bench. Both pairs are glinting with tears.
‘I just wanted to be your Dad. Not your Dad with Alzheimer’s. And that’s what I am from now on. We can’t pretend this away once it’s out there.
