by Wendy James
‘Well, thank you, ma’am.’ He offered a sweeping bow.
‘I still wouldn’t fuck you, though. Not if you paid me.’
Mary turned and floated back inside, slamming the screen door after her.
I cringed, but Chip was grinning. ‘Well, that’s me told. Good to know where I stand. Your mother?’
‘Yep. My mother.’
‘She looks too young to have dementia.’
‘It’s a long story.’
He looked at me thoughtfully. ‘Maybe you can tell me sometime. I like long stories.’
He called me that afternoon.
‘Have you seen much of the town?’
‘I’ve had a bit of a drive about.’ We’d been here for months, and it was embarrassing to admit how little I’d explored. I’d been too busy getting the house sorted, settling into my new job, looking after Mary.
‘I take it you can leave your mother for a bit?’
‘I can. I just have to prepare food. Hide the matches. Make sure she’s settled.’
‘She won’t wander off?’
‘I can barely get her to leave the house.’
‘I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning, then. About eight. If we get an early start it won’t be too hot. You can tell me that story.’
I should have been affronted by the fact that he’d left no space for me to disagree, but it felt good to have someone else take charge, make the decisions.
‘It sounds like fun.’
‘It will be. Oh, and bring your togs.’
‘Togs?’
‘Cossies. Swimmers. Bathers. Whatever you call them. There are a few spots on the river that’re good for a swim.’
He picked me up as promised, early on the Sunday morning, in his battered, but surprisingly comfortable ute. He drove us into town first. His driving was far too fast, but somehow it felt safe, as well as exhilarating. He was calm, intent, didn’t chat. He was so focused he didn’t notice me watching. I could imagine him in a different time, with his battered Akubra, a fag dangling from the corner of his mouth. He wasn’t quite Chips Rafferty, but there was something so quintessentially Australian about him. He was nothing like most of the men I’d known, and a long way from being my type.
We stopped for coffee and wood-fired sourdough croissants at a little hipster cafe that had recently opened in a former garage in the centre of town. The cafe’s industrial chic aesthetic was identical to its city counterparts: the walls had been stripped back to expose the raw brick; the cement floor was polished; every beam was exposed. The baristas were tattooed and pierced and friendly. It was noisy, busy, full of life. The coffee was good, the buttery croissants even better.
Chip drove me around the streets of the town, pointing out areas of interest beyond the main tourist route. Initially there didn’t seem much to distinguish it from any other Australian country town. The main street was long and wide, the buildings a hodgepodge of architectural styles; the grand nineteenth-century churches outnumbered by the even grander verandah-wrapped pubs that seemed to have been built on every corner. But Chip managed to bring Enfield Wash to life. He didn’t tell me the history of the town itself, but every place he took me was rendered significant by some story or other – usually funny, and frequently involving females – from his own life. He drove past the nineteenth-century brick primary school, pointing out the fifth grade classroom where Miss Von Beelan – a certifiable psychopath, who’d taken a strong dislike to him on account of some argument she’d had with his mother when they were children – had pulled down his trousers in front of the entire class to spank him with the ruler, and to his shame Chip hadn’t been wearing underpants. The teacher had been suspended from teaching after his parents complained, but he hadn’t gone back to school anyway. His parents had decided that it was time for boarding school and he’d been sent away to Sydney the following term.
‘Looking back, it might have helped my reputation if they’d let me come back for a bit,’ he told me, his voice dry. ‘The fact that I didn’t come back after the Von Beelan incident made it stick in everyone’s memories. I think I was known as the kid who couldn’t afford undies for years. And it confirmed my old man’s reputation as a lousy bastard too.’
The Anglican church, a small but imposing Gothic revival building, was the place where he’d first kissed a girl.
‘I was doing confirmation classes.’
‘Were your parents religious?’
‘Not really – I mean, we went to church for Easter and Christmas. But my mother got it into her head that being confirmed was important. I think one of her friends was related to the minister, and they were trying to increase numbers, or get recruits. The Cathos were always ahead of us there.’
It was all a long way from my own very suburban upbringing.
‘Anyway, I was doing the confirmation classes . . . this was in fifth grade too, just before the pants incident—’
‘A big year.’
‘And there was this girl I fancied, Tania Brigstock. She works in the school office. Tania Jones now. You probably know her.’
‘I do.’
‘She was a couple of years older than me. A stunner. Long blonde hair, tall. She used to walk, and even run, on her toes. She was brilliant at sports – tennis, netball, swimming. Anyway, I was smitten. All the boys were smitten. She ended up married to Darren Jones – he was a jockey. You couldn’t meet a nastier, more dishonest little fucker. But Tania, back in the day . . . we were all after her.’
It was impossible to imagine Chip’s version in the Tania I knew, although I had noticed her odd manner of walking.
‘Anyway, she was a smart cookie. She knew I liked her, and said if I gave her five bucks I could kiss her.’
‘And did you?’
‘Well, I only had three bucks, so we negotiated. No tongues. I didn’t even know about tongues, so that wasn’t a big deal.’
‘Was it worth it?’
‘I thought so. We did it there.’ He pointed to the hedge between the church and the manse. ‘You can actually crawl inside that hedge. There’s a sort of hollow. There was back then, anyway.’
‘And how was it? The kissing.’
‘A little bit too much of a good thing. She offered to let me touch her tits for another five dollars. It took me a month to get the money together. That blew my mind.’
‘I can imagine. Isn’t ten a bit young?’
‘Way too young. I didn’t go near girls for years.’
I was sceptical. ‘Not because you were sent away to a boarding school – I’m guessing it was a boys’ school?’
‘Well, yeah. That’s true.’ He laughed. ‘But I was definitely traumatised.’
We continued through the residential area, driving past the beautiful old brick homes on Parliament Hill. He pulled over in front of the grandest one. It had been built by his mother’s family, the Summervilles, in the late nineteenth century and had still belonged to the family during his childhood. It was a mansion really, some sort of art nouveau concoction – three storeys, gabled and turreted, with long sash windows and generous wrought-iron balconies. I could imagine the black and white tiles in the foyer, the cedar panelling, the wide sweep of the staircase. We could just glimpse a tennis court, clay, lined, clearly still used.
‘I didn’t really think much about it when I was a kid, how big it was, how rich they were. They were just my grandparents. The money didn’t mean anything. It didn’t make things any better. Actually, what I remember most about that house was the fucking cold. You couldn’t get warm.’
He drove me down through the housing commission, a settlement of run-down fibro homes that skirted the town, then out to the new estate, big brick homes out along the river. The homes were oversized, squeezed onto mean and usually treeless blocks, even though there was plenty of room to spare.
Chip turned back on to the highway, then drove down a bumpy dirt road until we reached a clearing where a handprinted sign nailed to a gumtree told us we had reache
d The Wash.
‘Is a wash some kind of geographical thing?’ I asked.
‘It means a place that floods – or that’s what they told us at school.’
‘And does it?’
‘Not more than any other river in Australia. More likely to dry up at the moment. It was named after the place that the bloke who founded the town came from. There’s no particular geographical significance as far as I know. It was just that he was from Enfield Wash, which is somewhere near London. Not all that unusual. Half the names around here have been taken from there too. There’s Turkey Brook just over the highway; The Lock, which is the reservoir at the other end of town, and then where I’m taking you now – another swimming spot called Freezywater.’
‘And is it?’
‘Is it what?’
‘Freezy water.’
‘Depends on how much water’s coming from the dam.’
The road petered out and Chip pulled up under a tree. Ahead was a willow-tangled turn of the river. It was a pretty spot, perfect for swimming and camping. There was no real bank on our side, and the river looked deep and clear, the water running fast. There was evidence of recent campfires, despite the total fire ban, along with the usual party litter – empty bottles, chip packets, pizza boxes, a few empty condom packets.
Chip sat for a moment, gazing out. ‘In summer we used to float on airbeds all the way from The Lock. It’d take half the day. And then we’d walk back to my place – almost ten Ks along the road, but we’d cut through a few paddocks as well. I can’t imagine anyone letting their kids do it these days. Skin cancer, drowning. Cars. Snakes. Paedophiles.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Twelve, maybe.’
‘Pretty tame stuff, really.’
‘Oh, we progressed.’
‘In what way?’
‘You know. Here for instance . . . When we got older it was the go-to place for parties. Drinks, drugs, loud music. Sex.’
I pointed to the beer bottles, the condom packets. ‘Still is.’
‘Yeah. I guess it’s all the same. Young love. All that bullshit.’ He sounded regretful.
‘Are you going to tell me more stories of your teenage conquests?’
‘Nah. Not just yet.’ He opened the door. ‘Don’t want you to get the wrong idea about me. I’ll leave those for the second date.’ He grinned, tossing me my bag from the back.
‘This is a date, is it?’
‘Actually, this is a test of your capacity to withstand low temperatures. So why don’t you get your togs on, Gypsy, and we’ll go take a dip in the freezy water and see if you go purple.’
HONOR: APRIL 2018
SHE WAS PLEASANTLY SURPRISED AT HOW MUCH SHE’D ENJOYED Suzannah’s company.
It wasn’t usually Honor’s scene, the whole female friendship thing. She’d never really got it – not as a little girl, and not as a teenager. She’d always been part of a group, was never a loner exactly, but had preferred to maintain a certain distance from her peers. There’d never been any of that bosom-buddy shit, no crying on anyone’s shoulders, no being there for any significant female other. She’d never had any loyalty issues, simply because she’d never really had anyone to betray.
As an adult, she’d been too busy working hard to do anything more than establish alliances and allegiances, and these were always subject to change, depending on what – or who – was useful at any particular moment. She was ambitious, sure, and focused, but it wasn’t actually a conscious decision; she’d just never felt the need for friendship.
A few weeks after the trivia night she’d met up with Suzannah a second time. Honor had come alone on the Friday – Dougal was at a business dinner in Melbourne. She bumped into Suzannah at the local supermarket in the late afternoon, both of them stocking up on food for the weekend. They laughed at their similarly wholesome trolley loads. ‘Hope you’re going to balance that with some booze.’
Suzannah held up a bag bulging with bottles. ‘It might be the other way round, in my case.’
On an impulse Honor asked if Suzannah wanted to duck into the pub for a quick drink. Honor’s other arrangements for the night – the real reason for the trip – had been cancelled at the last minute, and she knew she’d only be bored and slightly resentful once home.
‘Oh, God. I’d love to, but I have to get back.’ Suzannah’s disappointment seemed genuine.
‘I thought you didn’t have kids?’
‘I don’t – but I’ve got my mother living with me, and I don’t like to leave her for too long.’ She sounded harried.
‘Your mother?’ It came back to her now. ‘Oh, that’s right. Dementia.’
‘More or less.’
She gave a sympathetic grimace. ‘I know all about that. But at least my dad’s in a home and not living with me. It must be a nightmare.’
‘It’s not that bad. Not all the time.’ Honor could practically hear the gritted teeth behind the smile. ‘But nights can be a bit difficult.’
She made a snap decision. It wasn’t the sort of thing she usually did, but why not? After all, she had nothing better to do. ‘I’ll tell you what, why don’t I come over to yours? I’ve just got to go and look in on Dad first. And I’ll bring another bottle.’
‘Oh, I’m not—’
‘And what if I bring dinner, too? You look like you need a break. I’ve done nothing all day.’ She realised she sounded like someone’s middle-aged mother: bossy, maddeningly competent, compulsively helpful.
Honor could see the other woman wavering.
‘Actually, that sounds fantastic.’
‘It won’t be anything fancy, though. I’m a pretty hopeless cook. Does your mother like pasta?’
Suzannah laughed and shook her head. ‘God knows what Mary likes. Other than sugary cereal, it changes every other day, so there’s no point worrying. This is really kind of you.’
Honor waved a casual hand. ‘It’s nothing. What are neighbours for?’
Suzannah’s mother answered the door when Honor arrived with her hands full of groceries, a bottle of chilled bubbly tucked under one arm. She was already half-regretting her impulse. This kind of old-fashioned neighbourly do-goodery wasn’t really her thing, and after a disastrous late afternoon visit to see her father, a hot bath and a couple of gins seemed far more appealing.
‘Are you her?’ The woman peered out from behind the screen for a long moment, her face in darkness.
‘Well, I can’t be sure, but I think I might be. I’ve brought your dinner, so I certainly hope so.’ Honor affected a jaunty tone.
‘What are we having? Is it something I like?’
‘I’ve brought pasta, and I thought I’d make a creamy sort of sauce to go with it. Do you like bacon? Mushrooms.’
‘It’s called Boscaiola.’ The woman gave a haughty sniff, unlocked the screen and opened it a few inches. ‘I’m not an idiot, you know. And I actually lived in Italy for a number of years, Puttana.’
Honor ignored the insult. ‘My apologies. Do you think you could open the door properly so I can come in? I don’t have any hands—’
‘Suzannah didn’t tell me you were an amputee.’
She gave a hoarse cackle and opened the door just enough for her guest to push through, but then stayed put so Honor had to edge past her in the doorway. For a moment the two women were forced together, only a few inches apart, standing practically head to head. The older woman didn’t even try to hide her belligerent curiosity as she looked Honor up and down.
Honor tried to stay relaxed and cheerful under her scrutiny, but it was an effort. The other woman seemed far too young to be the mother of Suzannah, only just middle-aged herself. She was frail, all angles, her face lined, but some remnant of beauty was still evident in the wide eyes, high cheekbones, full lips. Her long silvery mane was thick and shiny.
Eventually their eyes met in the gloom. The older woman was all hard glare, and Honor was primed for some sort of verbal attack. But even as she readied hersel
f, the woman’s expression transformed: the fierceness suddenly gone, replaced by a dull heaviness.
‘Mary, what the hell are you up to?’
Honor blinked as the hall light came on, and turned to greet Suzannah.
‘Oh, Honor. I’m so sorry, I didn’t hear the door.’ Suzannah hurried up the hall and took her mother’s arm gently. ‘It looks like you and Mary have already met.’
‘We have. I was just telling her that I’ve brought the ingredients for Boscaiola.’
Mary looked up, her eyes alight again. ‘Did you bring the peppermint ice cream? The one with chocolate chips? And cones?’
Now she sounded as chirpy as a three year old, but in the light she seemed to have aged – her shoulders sagging, face lined, even her hair had lost its lustre. She could be seventy, even eighty.
‘Oh, Suzannah, tell her she can’t come in if she hasn’t brought any ice cream.’
‘Oh. My. God.’ Honor topped up Suzannah’s glass first, then her own, generously, and raised hers in a toast. ‘Here’s to bedtime.’
Suzannah half-sighed, half-laughed as they clinked glasses. ‘Some nights are worse than others. This was a bad one.’
It was an understatement. Suzannah’s mother had been more demanding than any tired toddler, and it was eight o’clock before the two women were able to relax. Cooking the meal itself hadn’t been too challenging: Mary had been fully occupied with the television, thank God. But then she’d complained all through the meal – the bacon was too chewy, the garlic made her sick, the pasta was slimy – until Suzannah gave up and made her a peanut butter sandwich. Happily, the peppermint ice cream had been forgotten. But then there’d been a half-hour game of Trouble, which Honor had considered the most boring game even as a child, with a clearly engineered win for Mary. Initially, the older woman had left the room for bed quite willingly, but then returned a half-dozen times with various requests and complaints – she was thirsty, the bed had sand in it, the blinds were rattling, she wanted Suzannah to read her a story – but finally she was out to it. Honor had to stop herself from suggesting that Suzannah add a sleeping pill to the warm milk – maybe a few more than strictly necessary. Mary had given her a keen look before her ultimate goodnight. ‘I like you,’ she said. ‘You’re pretty.’
