by Joanna Baker
Veronica looked for Dane and Belle. Things went quiet for a while and then I heard Dane stomping around. I think he was coming up the stairs from the basement. I didn’t really know where anyone was.
Soon after that, Belle came back upstairs to find me.
At this point she was completely out of control, angry and afraid. She was trying to be playful but she was completely careless. She was running around playing silly games and she had chosen a dangerous place to do it. Careless. A stupid girl.
Paul half-turned and took a step as if he wanted to leave. But Gordon didn’t move, and they both stayed.
I didn’t push her out. I lunged at her a few times, but only to get my shawl back. At one point she tried to attack me. I ran away. I stopped near the open door, but she ran on.
Veronica realised she was shaking her head. The story just wasn’t plausible. She wondered if Lesley would stick to it, or change it as she was interviewed.
I concede that her death was made possible by the open door, and the person who opened the door was me. But Belle ran through it. I stood helplessly nearby.
Paul lifted his hands and pressed them into his eyes. Veronica wanted to go to him, but his father was there. Gordon put an arm around him.
Treen and Belle made Mayson miserable and they would have continued to do so. They have been removed from his life now, and if I have been sacrificed in the process then that is a grandmother’s duty. But it’s best he never knows. It’s best he never knows about them. Or me.
‘Lel,’ said Gordon.
Out on the driveway there was the sound of tyres on gravel. Veronica lifted herself to her feet and saw a police car pulling into the driveway. There were two more in the street, slowing to turn right.
Roland said, ‘Nearly finished.’ Veronica sat again. Roland read:
Roland has drawn girls that nobody cares about. They don’t care about themselves. They don’t belong in their own worlds.
I’ve always thought that by the time I was in my fifties it would be different. I was expecting cohesion, less banality, less wanting things. But instead, I still feel that I am not living my real life. The world seems indifferent. I look outside and the wind moves the leaves and one of the leaves falls down and I feel as if it had nothing to do with me. I’m waiting for that moment when my life will begin.
There were people sitting in the car in the driveway. The other two must have done U-turns in Weld Street. They were pulling up outside the house.
The old drunk said one thing that sounded right. It was an uncanny accident, but it was one of those things that is so true that it becomes seared into your mind. She said there was something coming which could never arrive. That thought keeps repeating. Roland told me it is about death. But that is how life feels to me. It’s an experience I must and cannot have. It is always about to take place, but it never does.
Doors slamming. Voices. Veronica looked around the room. Paul stared at the floor. Gordon lifted his hands and then dropped them.
Roland straightened in his chair and read to the end:
I don’t suppose that explains anything, really, but it is the best I can do. People will ask me what I did and why. But the more I search for an answer, the more it escapes me. There was no action, only a series of moments that led on, one to the next. If there was a moment of intention, something which could be portrayed as a choice, a decision point, then it is infinitely small. Terrifyingly, vanishingly small.
Chapter 31
______
Veronica folded the last of the tarpaulins and stacked it on the others in a corner of the hall. It was her job to sweep the dining room floor and dig out the three old Persian rugs to put them back into place.
Four nights had passed since Roland read Lesley’s confession. The police had found her at the gallery and she had gone with them to be interviewed. According to Gordon, she was still undergoing psychological assessment. Gordon had the pages Roland had read, and a digital file of the confession on Lesley’s computer. Early on he had said he didn’t know whether to destroy them or not. Some time later he said he was going to leave that up to the lawyers. Someone had to work out whether they would help Lesley’s case or not.
On each of the past four nights, in varying stages of shock, Veronica, Georgie, Paul, John, Vicky and Mayson had all eaten their evening meal together around Veronica’s kitchen table. Well, five of them had eaten. They had tried different arrangements of furniture and humans, searching for a way to persuade, or coerce, or trap, Mayson into eating something, or at least into sitting with them while they ate. But the meals had been long trials of jumping up and down, and the kitchen was too cramped for that sort of physical struggle.
This morning Vicky had suggested they resurrect the dining room. Veronica had taken that as a confirmation of her own idea, that the party of six would be eating together for the foresee-able future. It was hard to imagine John and Paul coping with Mayson alone.
Veronica had made no attempt to hide her pleasure at the idea. Vicky had arranged for some young men to come and move the sideboard and the trolleys back in out of the hall and Veronica had rehung the curtains. The room could be painted another day.
They all agreed that Mayson’s evening meal was important. Family eating was going to be a cornerstone of his upbringing.
Upbringing. It was scarcely a word that applied at this stage. Healing, maybe. Or civilising. Taming.
So far, over a period of several days, it had taken the five adults, all working full-time, to make even a small amount of progress. They had taken it in turns to sleep. Mayson had been checked over by the Cruikshanks’ family GP and Malcolm Reidy, and they had follow-up appointments. Georgie and John had bought clothes and equipment, Paul had found and borrowed picture books and made children’s playlists on Spotify. Veronica had begun the long search for suitable behavioural and psychological help. In between, working as a team, they had managed to keep Mayson fed, after a fashion – vegetable training would have to wait – and to stop him from getting too distressed.
Five of them, working full-time.
Over the last two days, Vicky had been chatting to Georgie about the gallery. She was hoping to open it again next Tuesday, but with Lesley gone and Paul and John preoccupied with their son, they needed new staff, and Vicky asked if Georgie would be interested in joining her. To Veronica that seemed a perfect solution. Georgie and Vicky had found some kind of instant rapport.
Then, this morning, with no sign of regret, Georgie announced that she had resigned from her event management job and she and Vicky immediately had begun discussing a revisualised – Georgie’s word – opening for the gallery’s upper floor.
Now they were in the kitchen together, preparing lunch. Veronica opened the double doors between the kitchen and dining rooms. Ridley came in and collapsed in his favourite corner. His tail went through Veronica’s pile of dust. She swept it all up again, into a pan, thinking of the styrofoam Mayson had crumbled on Miriam’s carpet.
Georgie said, ‘Not the Ashbolt. That’s for dipping bread. The Serenata.’
Vicky said, ‘You have three levels of olive oil?’
‘Four.’
‘And this cheese. Are you sure it’s right, just torn up like that?’
‘Yes, but put the basil on the side. Gordon hates it.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘I know. But he’s got enough to deal with, hasn’t he? Without adding basil to the list.’
They laughed grimly but with a kind of contentment.
Veronica had been taking meals to Gordon twice a day. He was spending long days at the police station, or in waiting rooms, sitting anxiously while Lesley talked with detectives and psychiatrists. Or else he was discussing her case with solicitors, trying to determine what she was likely to be charged with and to what degree she would be considered competent to stand trial, and how she could best be defended. Today Gordon was coming to eat lunch at Veronica’s, with all of them. With his grandson.
And Lesley’s grandson. They were all avoiding talking about Lesley. But she was present in every room, every conversation. Present as an absence. In a way they were all waiting for a time when they could begin to understand her, and help. No. Not help. And not understand, either. But … well, that’s all, really. As far as Lesley was concerned, they were all waiting for something, and they didn’t know what.
Veronica went to Alan’s study to retrieve an old tablecloth she had spread out and scotchguarded. On the way back across the hall, she picked up a plastic train and a beach ball. She put them in the laundry basket that held Mayson’s toys. On each of the four nights, with expressions of surprise every time, Paul and John had stayed the night. They had slept in the downstairs spare room, with Mayson on the little trundle. Mayson’s sleep patterns were erratic, possibly due to a lifetime of ingesting adult sleeping medications. Really, Veronica was surprised how little harm that seemed to have done him, although his true level of impairment wouldn’t become clear for a few years. All night she could hear them moving around, from the bedroom to the kitchen, and she had got up and done some shifts with Mayson, to enable the young men to get some sleep. As with the evening meal, Veronica couldn’t imagine how they would cope if it was just the three of them.
Georgie had moved back into her old room upstairs. And last night she had made up Libby’s room for Vicky. So that meant they were all sleeping here together, a strangely interconnected group. Up until today, the sleeping arrangements had been made at the last minute and presented as a temporary solution, something to help them cope while they all struggled with the unpredictable, passionate, destructive, exhausted little boy. But after four nights it was starting to look like a pattern.
Veronica picked up a pair of Mayson’s socks and took them to the laundry. Before she dropped them into the hamper she stopped. A pair of dirty socks, screwed into damp balls. So familiar. Something from the deep past. A family thing.
She went back to the dining room and spread the cloth over the table. It would probably be ruined, but that hardly mattered. She wanted the table to look inviting, for Gordon and also for Mayson. She didn’t know if nicely set tables would turn out to be important in the long run, in settling Mayson into a home, but it felt important now. And she could only guess and try things.
There was a sound from the garden. Looking out across the old verandah she could see John with Mayson, down on the big lawn. Mayson was running around, swinging a piece of lurid pink foam piping that Georgie had bought – an object meant for swimming pools. John was holding a piece too, down by his side, following Mayson around, staying just out of fighting range.
‘He’s got no idea.’ Paul had come in behind her and joined her at the window.
‘He’s trying hard.’
‘Yeah.’ He laughed, watching the two on the lawn. ‘He really is.’ Paul looked surprisingly well, considering the lack of sleep. He managed a smile for her and it contained almost no trace of tragedy.
She said, ‘Hopefully the running will take the edge off Mayson for the big meeting.’
This afternoon, Veronica, Gordon and Paul were taking Mayson to meet his other family, Treen’s father and two sisters. Georgie and Vicky had accompanied her on a previous visit and Veronica had told them everything she could about Treen. In the absence of Roland, she felt it was her duty to pass on anything she had learned. Mr McShane had a farmer’s thick hands and a red face. He was scrupulously neat. He had talked with her about vegie gardening, looking bereft, his mind clearly elsewhere. Georgie had offered to help with the funeral and arranged to speak with Treen’s sisters again. Veronica hadn’t felt the need to become involved in that. She was learning to let Georgie take over some things.
And Georgie was doing that, taking responsibility. Not Roland. Roland was gone.
They would go and see Belle’s people too. Veronica hadn’t quite found a moment for that, or the energy. She was haunted by memories of that poor girl, broken on oily ground behind derelict buildings. Vivid memories. Dreams. About both girls. But soon she would muster the strength to visit Belle’s family. With the help of George and Vicky. They would come with her.
John and Mayson had sat down on the lawn. John demonstrated a roly poly down the slope and Mayson copied him, hurtling into John with elbows and knees.
Paul said quietly, ‘More bruises.’
‘We’ll get there.’
‘Yes, but in how many pieces?’
She said, ‘What did Roland say?’
Paul had been Skyping. Roland had gone back to Kandina. He had rung her to explain. One of the residents of his backpackers’ lodge was in trouble with the police and Roland was the only one who could help. Judith had gone with him, for reasons that had not been made clear. From time to time, during the past days, Veronica had allowed herself a small thought of him, of the empty space he left. She thought about his affinity with that absurd woman, of his affinity with all those absurd people, of his affinity with almost everyone. Everyone else. But the hollow feeling, the frustration and humiliating jealousies that came with thoughts of Roland, her longing to fix him – they were all faint now, nebulous, more memories than present emotions.
Paul said, ‘He’s all right. He asked how Mayson was.’
They both laughed. It would be impossible to describe how Mayson was. They didn’t know themselves. And Roland would not have wanted a long answer.
Paul said, ‘He recommended someone in West Hobart. A counsellor.’ They laughed again. The idiocy of him. Roland would consider that he had discharged his duty towards them all. He had been momentarily concerned and he had done his best. He had thought he had a son. He had found a dead body. In response, he’d made ineffectual efforts to help and he’d made art. And now he had gone back to his other world, moved on to another cause. Roland, the one Veronica was going to lose. She realised now, she had already lost him. Years ago. She had no idea why. And she hadn’t noticed it happening.
She was deeply, deeply bone tired.
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Paul turned away from the window. He looked around the room. ‘This is going to be much better.’
For a moment she didn’t trust her voice. She managed a smile. ‘Is Ridley going to be OK?’
‘He’s traumatised.’
She looked at him, the thinning curls, the floppy lips and ears, the deep sleep. As Paul had known, the word, and the sight of him, made her smile.
He said, ‘I want to talk to you.’ He laced his fingers in front of him.
She thought she knew what this was. ‘About moving in?’
‘Oh.’ His eyes darkened. ‘Ha ha. I wasn’t going to put it like that. But yes, I wanted to talk … ask if we could stay for a while.’ He put his fingertips on the tablecloth and they both looked down at it, the soft folds of light falling on linen. ‘I don’t want to take him back to the flat. He got a fright there, with Dane coming in like that. And it’s not …’
‘It’s not even remotely suitable.’
He looked relieved. ‘Vicky said she’ll organise your stuff. She’s got those young friends and they will carry it all back into the right rooms. And you said the painting could wait.’ For the first time Veronica saw how much Paul relied on Vicky to organise things. They all did. ‘Vicky can call your builder and get him to tidy up around the scaffolding, make it safer. And she’ll arrange more permanent gates for the stairs. All that can be worked out.’
‘Where would we be without Vicky?’ Normally she would say that ironically, but this time she meant it.
Paul agreed. He was teary with gratitude. Paulie. She put a hand on his arm.
He said, ‘Just until we find somewhere. I know you’re not his family.’
‘No. But we could try to operate as one, just for the time being. It’s no different from any other combined family.’
He laughed.
‘OK,’ she said, ‘it’s a bit different, but I can’t see why it’s not possible. The Sopels, with new members and han
gers on, and the Cruikshanks. What’s left of the Cruikshanks.’
‘We’ll only stay while we all agree it’s working.’
‘It’s an experiment.’
She heard a car in the driveway. She realised she’d been listening for the sound. Alan was coming this morning to pick up his boxes.
Veronica and Paul met him in the hall. He looked thin and tanned and sleek, and he looked foreign – completely familiar and also like someone she had never known. He hadn’t changed at all, she reminded herself. Maybe that’s why he looked so alien.
They exchanged a few comments about what he called the difficult situation. He looked around with the expression he had always had when contemplating their home. He found the large house and garden cumbersome, a burden. The family too, most of the time.
He asked her how they were managing, but it was hard to know how to put any of it into words.
Hearing the voices, Georgie came out of the kitchen carrying a carton labelled Trophies. She put it on top of his other two boxes. Alan smiled at her but she averted her eyes. He looked at Veronica with the old weak expression. She thought he was going to say, ‘This is hard for me too, you know.’ She felt it so clearly that she couldn’t be sure whether he had spoken it aloud. There was another pause, and he might have been thinking about composing a clever comment, something that would demonstrate his troubled mind, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he picked up a box and took it out to the car. Georgie, Paul and Veronica watched and made no move to help. A small insult.
Vicky called from the kitchen, saying John needed help. She and Paul went out the back door.
When Alan came back for the second box, he said, ‘George. I want you to come and see me.’
‘I’m busy here at the moment.’ Her voice was high with childish outrage.
‘I know you don’t understand –’
‘Hah!’ Childish outrage, childish pain.
‘I’ve had long talks with Libby and Tom.’
