by Joanna Baker
She could not indulge this. She said the old words again, trying to invoke her own mother and the sewing teacher who had hated her: You will have to do the crying later, Veronica. Right now we need to get on.
Roland had come to the door. Her boy. Her big, big boy. She pressed her fists into her stomach, trying to loosen the muscles and feel some blood flowing, wriggled some movement into her back. Then, carefully, she swung both legs out of the car and went to meet him.
As always, she was surprised at how tall he was. He was dressed in his usual way – a threadbare jumper and op-shop jeans in a pale lilac colour, fading to apricot at the knees, droopy at the waistband, with checked boxers showing. There was a leather thong around his throat, holding three white beads, tied at the back. His face, broad across the cheekbones, with sunken cheeks, looked older than his twenty-four years, bright-eyed with exhaustion.
The expression would never change. She wondered, as she came towards him, if everyone had this, an instinctive expression reserved for their mother, something that came to them in the seconds before they put up their defences and their justifications. In Roland’s case it was amusement, a light, finely tuned almost-smile, which managed to recognise everything around and between them, to feel the importance of it, and then to laugh. It was weak today, struggling to find the humour, but it was still there.
She made sure she walked evenly, with no sign of injury. He glanced at the green bag she had. She waved it. ‘I brought food.’
There was a second in which they looked at each other, shared the ridiculousness of a bag of groceries, and smiled. He smelt of marijuana, a familiar herbal smell, deceptively wholesome. She put the groceries down but their hug was still awkward, in the way it had been awkward for ten years, because he was too tall to cuddle protectively and she refused to allow him to protect her.
She took one brief second to study his face, squeezing his upper arms. After all the searching and the worry, amid all the dangers, real and imagined, after everything that had happened, here was Roland. Despite the ageing and the exhaustion, and everything she had learned about him, he was still exactly the same. It was as if he had never left.
‘Oh, my boy.’
Roland was looking beyond her at the driveway. ‘You weren’t followed, were you?’
‘Who by? The police?’
He moved his head, trying to see further up the road. They could hear wind rattling the lomandra at the side of the house, and black cockatoos in the trees making their rasping cry.
‘It’s an empty road,’ said Veronica. ‘I would’ve seen if there was anyone behind me.’ But she might not have. She had been distracted on the way out, not seeing much at all. ‘Roland, there was no-one there.’ She edged past him and led the way inside.
They stood in the kitchen beside the old blue table. Veronica put the bag down and looked at him.
He said, ‘I just wanted to keep you out of it. I just wanted it to be OK. I wanted it to be a piece of OK news when I told you.’
‘I know.’
‘Because you know I’ve got a son.’
‘I know. It is OK.’
‘Oh, it so isn’t.’
‘No.’
‘Is it?’
‘No.’
He had Alan’s eyes: a light golden colour, with flecks of silver that were almost blue, or sometimes green. A mineral kind of beauty.
He said, ‘Belle texted. She said you’ve been to her house. Don’t go near them.’
‘I had to.’
‘Not anymore. Did he hurt you?’
‘It was nothing.’
Unfair that this beauty was given randomly to some men, to do with as they chose. So many girls in love with him, her Roland. But today his long mouth was shapeless, almost ugly.
He said, ‘Well, you can stay out of it now. I know Belle asked you to take Mayson away, but it isn’t safe. I’m dealing with it. I found a place for them to go, where Dane won’t find them.’
‘All right.’ Veronica looked around. There was so much that needed to be talked through. Carefully. ‘Let’s sit down.’ She went to a tweedy armchair.
He turned a kitchen chair around to face her and sat on it. ‘I didn’t want to bring them here in case he followed. I want to keep this place secret. I’ve got another place. Gordon’s in charge of some old buildings and I borrowed one of his keys.’
‘Let’s just take a sec –’
‘I had to find somewhere to take them. They’re going there tomorrow.’
She struggled to keep up. ‘How –’
‘Just before I came here I met Belle in the back of the Chemist Warehouse and gave her a key.’
‘You’re going to take them to a squat? Is that what I’m hearing? In an old building that Gordon is in charge of? Does Gordon know?’
‘Of course not.’
‘So you stole his keys?’
‘Borrowed. Copied. It’s just for one or two nights. No-one will know they’re there. And we have to get them away from Dane. They’re not safe with him.’
That was true. ‘Well, I suppose Gordon might understand.’ Roland rushed on. ‘After we get them away, when Dane’s looking in other places, I’ll bring them here. Tomorrow night, or maybe the next day … some time when I know he isn’t watching.’
He looked uncomfortable on the hard chair. His limbs, normally so loose, were stiff, tucked into his body. Usually he had an unconscious grace that cut through the dreadful clothes.
‘They’re going to sneak away and I’m going to meet them in the empty building at half past three tomorrow. Paul’s coming to help. I’ll give you the address.’ He took her phone and started punching keys. ‘I’d really like you to come, too. If I’m taking charge of the kid I’m going to need you. He’s a little bastard.’
‘I’m sure he’s –’
‘You wait and see. I know it’s not his fault but … What was that?’
Roland raised himself in his chair, looking towards the window.
‘What?’
‘Something moving out there.’
It was a horrible reminder of Belle, lifting herself to look out her kitchen window, anticipating the arrival of Dane. Veronica stood up, pressing her stomach as she lifted, and went to the window. The garden was soft and grey – lavender, lamb’s ear, scraps of jasmine on lattice. Over on the right, past the water tank, the cliff path was hidden by black cypresses and eucalypts and thin heath.
‘What is it? What do you see?’
On the left there was thick grass, then a wire fence and the road, the Hugheses’ old place, and, rising behind that, wet bush. ‘There’s a dog on the road, a young pointer of some kind. It might have been in here and jumped the fence.’ She sat down again.
Roland said, ‘Sorry. I’m a bit … I just keep thinking I can hear cars.’ There were new wrinkles between his eyes.
‘Roland, let’s just –’
‘I’m still going to look after Mayson. I was going to make some kind of life. For Treen and him. I mean, not with me. Not together. But something.’ He was jumping from thought to thought, over-whelmed. How could he be planning carefully in this mood? ‘I was going to work out what to do. Then I found her. On the rock.’
‘I know.’
‘There wasn’t anyone else I could ask. It had to be you.’
‘I’m the mum.’
The word was fat and familiar and old and sad. He turned away. Roland had dropped the Honda at Lesley’s yesterday and taken Lesley’s car. He had been here since yesterday evening. There was no TV, and he was always short of mobile data. Beside a full ashtray on the coffee table, there were some ragged holiday-house paperbacks: East of Eden, Death of a River Guide and Tess of the D’Urbevilles. He’d also been looking through photographs. There was an open album – family shots from the Sopels’ early days, Paul’s childhood.
Veronica wanted to slow him down, to get him into a frame of mind where they could plan things. She touched the album. ‘Found some happy memories?’
There was one photo loose on top of the album page. He picked it up and held it out to her. It was taken here, down on the beach, a photo from a holiday years ago: Paul and Gordon and Roland, all sitting on an upturned dinghy.
‘Remember that boat they had? Gordon taught us to row, and we used to dive off it, and we caught flathead.’
‘Yes.’
‘He taught us to gut them too. Paul hated all of it. He hated sand. See the feet? Paul’s feet are clean. He wiped them with his hands. But Gordon’s feet are covered in sand.’ He wiped the photo with his finger, as if trying to remove some of the sand. ‘I’ve been looking for this. I thought it would show me something. I have to get back and ask some questions.’
‘What? About a photo of the beach?’
‘It doesn’t matter. It can’t be right.’ He closed the album and put it under the table. Then he sat on the armchair opposite her.
Veronica said, ‘There’s so much that needs to be talked through.’ ‘Well, obviously.’
‘Can we go over everything? Slowly?’ He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Tonight, for instance: Mayson and Belle are with Dane. You’re confident they’ll be all right?’
‘Confident?’ He grunted. ‘I can’t do much about it. It’ll just have to wait until tomorrow. But no, I’m not confident at all. You know what it’s like. I mean, he scared you. And he can be a lot worse than that.’
Belle had told him about Veronica’s visit, but might not have described exactly what Dane had done. It was possible Belle didn’t know. There was no need to go into it. Veronica waited a moment, and then said, ‘There’s a lot we need to talk about. Problems that will last a lot longer than a bit of trouble …’
He picked up the ashtray as if he was about to stand up, then stopped.
‘You’re a father.’
He put the ashtray down. ‘Shit.’
The light in here was soft, reflections of the grey sky and the grey water, soaking the room in silver.
She said, ‘It’ll be all right. We’ll make it work.’
‘You haven’t seen him.’ At the thought of his son, his energy left him. He leaned back in his chair and looked at her from under lowered lids. ‘He’s a very …’ He searched for words. ‘Am I supposed to love him? Because I can’t stand him. Have you seen him? He’s mad and rough and he doesn’t listen to what you say. It’s like there’s nothing …’ He waved a hand in front of his face. ‘He bashes everything around. I don’t know what they’re feeding him. He wouldn’t eat for me. I took him for a few outings to get to know him. But God. I took him to Macca’s and bought chips but we had to go outside. I got him to eat some in the car, Paul’s car, but they went everywhere. So we went to the park. And he was just running around swinging things.’ He raised a hand towards one of the armchairs. ‘He moved a chair at Lesley’s. It was as big as that one, and on carpet. He pushed it – he threw himself at it and it moved. I mean, he’s tiny!’ He sat forwards, elbows on knees, big hands hanging down. ‘Then he got on the couch and he’d been running through all the dirt in her garden.’ He smiled at that. ‘I didn’t have any clean clothes for him. I couldn’t change him if I’d wanted to. He fights you. Lesley got his shoes off and took him to the loo.’
‘She told me.’
‘I tried to help. But God.’ He looked at the window. ‘He’s mine and I don’t like him.’
There was a silence. ‘’He’s definitely yours?’
He groaned and closed his eyes.
‘It is at least possible?’
‘I slept with her if that’s what you mean.’ That sudden sting, a child defending himself.
‘Are you sure?’
‘What?!’
There was no room for delicacy. The best way was for her to demonstrate that, keep this factual and unemotional. ‘Just tell me what happened.’
He lurched around in his chair, swinging his legs from one side to the other. ‘Fuck.’
‘Belle and Treen. You knew them at school.’
‘Don’t you remember? You might never’ve met them. Belle went to Fawkner but Treen was from Clarence High. I don’t know how they were friends. They were really weird. They always seemed angry or something. Not in the usual way. There was something about them. I don’t know. But they made each other worse and they would do anything.’ He sighed and, looking as if this was being imposed upon him, started explaining. ‘Three years ago … nearly four years ago, Paul and I were in Hobart and we ran into Treen at a party. There was a lot of stuff there and yeah, I mean, I was into it, too. It wasn’t Treen’s fault. I’m not perfect.’
Out of habit, he had slipped into that adolescent tone, exaggerated precision, mocking the words as he said them. ‘And Treen was crazy and sad and lost and she just needed someone to pull it back together for her. She wanted me to –’
‘You’re not going to tell me you thought you were helping her?’
‘All right. We don’t always do the right thing. I don’t. I’m not saying that. But I know why I did it.’
‘You meant well.’
They were both smiling now, sadly, at the hopelessness of it. They’d had this conversation after all of his mistakes – buying Cruisers for young girls, lending Thick Nick the car, lying to a girl’s parents about where she was. I meant well. I was only trying to help.
‘Roland Roland Widdershins.’
‘I’m not perfect, Mum. I’m not pure. I was disgusted by Treen. I slept with her and then I couldn’t stand her. And I can’t stand Belle. I try not to be like that …’
Another silence.
‘Well, let’s not forget, he might not be yours.’
‘Dane was away for a long time. Apparently if he could do the maths he’d know Mayson wasn’t his. And anyway, Treen said he was mine and that’s enough really.’
‘Hardly.’
‘No. Just don’t do that, all right?’
‘Do what?’
‘You know. What you do.’ He stood up and went to the window.
He stood with his back to her, looking out, from the silver to the white afternoon.
Veronica said, ‘Treen had a lot to gain by claiming you’re the father. It hasn’t been verified.’
‘But it doesn’t matter.’
‘How can you say that?’
He turned and sat back on the windowsill, framed in light. From the angle of his neck she could tell that he had his earnest expression, the one he assumed when he was trying to explain a complicated and subtle moral point, and had no confidence that she’d understand. ‘The thing is, he might be mine. It’s possible. So if he isn’t mine then all I’ve been is lucky.’
It was as if he was the first person ever to deal with these difficulties. He was starting from first principles. That was her fault too. They had given him no background for life’s problems, no frame-work to fit things into, no moral shorthand.
He came back and threw himself into an armchair. He was smiling again, the raggedy smile, wide but crooked in the upper lip, weak at the corners. Raggedy boy. Raggedy thinking.
‘So if it’s just dumb luck then morally I’m still responsible for it, aren’t I? On a universal scale. And, anyway, it’s not about that. The actual blood ties aren’t the most important thing, are they?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mum.’
This is what she wanted him to see. ‘You can’t fix everything. You draw a line around things. You decide what’s yours.’
‘Mum.’
So there they were. She was selfish and simplistic. And Roland was a purist, with the easy idealism of one who had never had children. For a moment she was desperately sad for him. Her boy, for whom nothing had ever been simple, who used to talk about trees and rocks as if they had feelings, who had seen meaning everywhere, was now an adult who struggled to fix everything and wondered why he couldn’t
and spent hours pontificating, arguing, ranting, chasing around after hopeless cases, drawing pictures that couldn’t change the world.
He stood up. ‘Do you want a drink or something?’
‘Yes. All right.’
He made tea, dug in the bag she had brought and assembled a plate of bread, cheddar, butter, chutney and tomatoes. She waited on the couch, put her head back, thought nothing.
When he sat down, she said, ‘All right. We’ll deal with the parenting when we can. But let’s finish the story. Treen now has a two-year-old child. A few weeks ago she rang you, claiming Mayson was yours. And she said her partner, Dane, was violent.’ She stopped. How much did he really know about the violence? Had he seen the photographs?
‘I didn’t want you dragged in. I wanted to get them away from Dane first. I thought he’d be dangerous. He is dangerous.’
‘Yes, he is.’
‘So I came down. Belle and Treen and Dane and Mayson were all living in that tiny place in Macquarie Street. I didn’t know what to do. I had to get them away and Treen was getting really …’ He put his head down, rubbed at his forehead. ‘Aaah. She gets crazy and sad and lost. So they were both drinking a lot, taking stuff.’
‘What happened to Mayson?’
‘He was around. I took him out a few times and Paul helped me. Paul came with us to Bellerive Beach. I was trying to get to know Mayson and work out what to do. Treen kept asking me to take them all up to Kandina but she and Belle were just … There was no way.
‘They were doing all this stuff and the whole time they were going on about these bloody creams. They thought they were going to start a stall at a market somewhere. But they were both out of it a lot of the time, and they were being really … stupid.
‘I tried to talk to Dane and he belted me and told me not to come back. So I didn’t know what to do. And then, on Tuesday, I got this text from Treen. It said, “Guess where I am. The Slipping Place.” I thought she was joking. It was pretty late in the afternoon.’ He picked up some bread, pulled a crust off and dropped it again. ‘But then I didn’t do anything about it. I’d tried to talk to them and got belted so I thought fuck it. Then two days later Belle rang me and said Treen was missing. I didn’t know.’
