The Silence

by Susan Allott

  She waited for the hiss to stop. In the kitchen her mum was telling Grandma something about hair. He cut his hair, she was saying. Cut it all off, like a soldier. Isla thought of Daddy’s soft skin and his hard bones.

  “You still there?”

  She nodded and pulled the flex tighter. It left white, curling marks on her arm. “Are you still my dad?”

  “Of course.” There was a pause. “Of course I’m your dad, love.”

  “Are you coming to get me?”

  “Oh, Isla.” He was quiet for a long time, although the hiss had stopped. “I don’t think I can.”

  Isla unwound the flex slowly from her arm. Her hand had puffed up pink and her arm was circled with curled indents.

  “I don’t like England,” she said.

  “That makes two of us.”

  “Why do people want to live in England?”

  “That is a very good question. I have no idea.”

  She ran her finger over the deepest indents, near her wrist, which were pleasingly ridged and slightly sore. From the kitchen she could smell sausages.

  “You okay?”

  Isla nodded.

  “You’re not crying, are you?”

  “No,” Isla said, although she thought she might.

  “Good girl.”

  Grandma was calling her name from the kitchen. Her tea was ready, she was saying. Come and eat. Isla wasn’t sure she was hungry. She’d been hungry when the phone rang, looking forward to the sausages. She couldn’t think of anything she wanted now.

  “I’d come and get you if I could,” Daddy said. “Do you know that?”

  Isla nodded again, because she did know this.

  The kitchen door opened and Grandma was shouting down the hall. Isla stood and leaned around the bannister with the receiver behind her back. “Coming,” she said.

  Grandma didn’t move. She wanted her to come right away, please, because the food is on the table. Isla turned and carefully, quietly, put the receiver down in its cradle.

  40

  Sydney, 1967

  “No need to get dressed up on my account.”

  Joe Green stood on Mandy’s veranda, looking like an unmade bed. His shirt was buttoned up wrong and his hair had grown. Curls were forming near his ears.

  “Is he out?” He glanced down at the patch of oil in the street where Steve’s truck had been.

  She nodded.

  “Can I come in?”

  No, she thought. He was unshaven and his eyes were off. Something not quite right about him.

  “I spoke to Isla on the phone.” He looked imploringly at her. “I rang the house yesterday and she answered.”

  She opened the door and stepped back to let him in. “Come through,” she said, leading him into the lounge room. Too much history in the kitchen. “I just made coffee if you want one?”

  “Anything stronger?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “It’s ten-thirty.”

  “I’m not keeping regular hours, Mandy. I’m not sleeping too well.”

  She went to the kitchen and found a beer at the back of the fridge, one of the stubbies Steve used to drink. She opened the bottle and stood there a minute with the fridge door open, leaning into the cool air. She had a nervous feeling, like she’d made a mistake and it was going to bite her. Joe cleared his throat in the lounge room and she tensed, nearly dropping the beer.

  He was sitting on the arm of the couch when she went back in, his ankle resting on his knee. He took the beer wordlessly, closed his eyes, and drank most of it down.

  “You look like a truck hit you.”

  He ran his hand through the thick hair at the back of his head. “It’s knocked me, Mandy. Talking to Isla knocked me back.”

  “How is she? What did she say?”

  “She asked me to come and get her.” He looked at her, incredulous. “That’s what she said. She wants me to bring her back home. She doesn’t want to be in England.”

  “What did you say to that?”

  “I said I don’t think I can.”

  “Was she all right? Did she understand?”

  “Don’t think so. She hung up the phone on me.”

  “Did she?” Mandy almost smiled for the first time in days. “Maybe the line cut out,” she said, seeing Joe’s face.

  “She must think I’ve let her down.” He drained the rest of his beer, holding the bottle to his mouth a while after the last drop was gone.

  “She’s too young to understand,” Mandy said.

  He played restlessly with the beer bottle, picking at the label. “Louisa changed her mind about coming back here. You might have guessed.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “Second thoughts. Doubts. Maybe she wants to play with my head.”

  Mandy thought of the phone call she’d overheard. It won’t happen again. “She’ll come ’round,” she said. “You might need to give her a bit of time.”

  “She’s got me by the balls, Mandy. I’ll have to sell up and go to England if I want to see my kids.”

  There was a slur in his voice. A delay between brain and mouth. “Joe, are you—?”

  “You stopped wearing it,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  He reached for her arm, circled her wrist with his hand, and moved his thumb over the pale strip of skin. His hand was cool. She felt the desire in him and it unsettled her. She’d started this and she didn’t want it now that she had it. There were names for women like her.

  “Your watch,” he said.

  “It wouldn’t start again after I wore it in the water.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “Should’ve taken more care of it.”

  He kissed the inside of her wrist. “You were beautiful in the water that day,” he said. “You know how to lift a man when he’s down.”

  She let her arm hang heavy and he dropped it. “You sure you don’t want coffee?”

  “Not right now.” He pulled her closer against him. “How can I go back to England, when you’re here?”

  He kissed her. He tasted metallic, of beer and cigarettes. She stood rigidly before him as he lifted her blouse.

  “I think I could make you happy,” he said. “We could make each other happy.”

  “Let’s take things slowly,” she said, but he didn’t seem to hear her. He held one hand between her legs, moved his fingers over the seam of her jeans. She tried to want him, to go with it, but she didn’t like the smell coming off him. Alcohol and stale sweat. She’d liked the buzz cut and the suit.

  “Let’s go to bed.” He kissed her neck.

  “Joe, I—” She twisted away from him, involuntarily. “Steve might come home.”

  “What?” His hand was inside her bra.

  “He’s only gone down to Bridge Street. He’ll be back soon.”

  He pulled back. “Why didn’t you say?”

  “I thought you wanted to talk. About Isla.”

  She pulled her blouse down and he freed his hand, after a pause. “You should have said earlier.”

  “Sorry.”

  He stood, and his balance almost went. He was drunk, then. Maybe half drunk, half hungover. Her eldest brother had gone this way with the grog: drinking in the mornings to stop the shakes. There’d been no helping him.

  “Why isn’t he at work?”

  “He quit.” She took a step back from him. “He got to the end of the road with the job. Stuck at it longer than he should have.”

  “Sounds like a good decision.”

  “You should go.” She took a step toward the door.

  His eyes moved over her. The ceiling fan droned overhead.

  “I don’t want him to find you here, Joe.”

  “I’ve been thinking. Since my hand’s so much better, I might like to have another word with your husband. Might be a fairer fight this time ’round.”

  She forced a small laugh. “Don’t be an idiot.”

  He looked at her. “You reckon I’m an idiot,” he
said.

  “I didn’t mean that.”

  “My wife thinks I’m an idiot. And now you think so too.”

  “Joe, all I meant was—”

  “You want to get rid of me. I can see that. I remember a time when you didn’t want that. I remember when you wanted me to stay.”

  He stepped around the coffee table toward her. Through the open window she heard Andrea’s bicycle bell.

  “Do you remember that, Mandy?”

  “’Course I do.”

  “I fell for you. D’you know that?” He smiled, a strange, loose smile. “I did. That makes me an idiot, doesn’t it?”

  “No. Not at all. I—”

  “You don’t feel the same. Of course you don’t. What was it you said?”

  She shook her head.

  “A port in a storm.” The smile fell from his face. “A port in a storm. Nothing serious. That’s what you said.”

  She stared back at him. She didn’t dare move. He had a detached look to him, like his mind had snapped.

  “Look, Joe. I think maybe you’re cut up over Isla and you had a bit to drink. We all do it.” She kept talking, afraid of the silence behind her voice. “Maybe you should go and sleep it off. Come back when you’ve sobered up and I’ll make you a coffee. We can talk.”

  “That’s a good idea.” He looked around the room, slowly, considering. “Let’s do that. Let’s drink coffee and talk. A port in a fucking storm.”

  Still he stayed where he was. She tried to smile and his eyes hardened. Fear crept up her back.

  “Where is he, then?” he said.

  “He went for milk. I think you should head home.”

  “Maybe I’ll wait for him.”

  “Look, Joe—”

  “I think I’ll wait here with you.” He met her at the door, standing close, not quite touching. He tipped her chin back with his finger. “Nothing serious. Right?”

  “Steve’s going to blow his stack,” she said.

  “I’m ready for him.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  “Joe, please—”

  “I can handle him.” He shouted it and she shrank back against the door. “Did you hear me, Mandy? I can handle him. I’ll be ready this time and he’ll—”

  He turned his head from her, hearing something, a noise out on the veranda. A knock at the door.

  “Let me get that.” She pulled away and went to the door, lightheaded with relief. She hoped to God it was Doug, needing a lend of her rake.

  “D’you want to come to a party at our place?” Andrea Walker stood on the veranda, smiling, half her teeth missing. “It’s for my birthday, next week.”

  “A party?”

  “I’m going to be ten,” Andrea said. “The party’s on Saturday.”

  Mandy felt Joe behind her, moving into the hall. The door to the lounge room clicked shut. “You’ll be ten? How fantastic. I’d love to come to the party.”

  Andrea scratched at her thigh, hitching her dress up. “What about Steve?”

  “Steve?” She widened her eyes at the girl. “What about him?”

  “Can he come to the party?”

  “Sure. I’ll let him know.”

  “Mum said he shot through,” Andrea said. She poked her tongue through the gap where her left canine had been. “He packed up all his gear and drove off.”

  Mandy stood wordlessly, hot and panicked, her mind racing. Andrea’s bike lay sideways on the footpath and the street was quiet, bright with roses, azaleas, bottlebrush.

  “I don’t know where your mum got that idea.”

  “She saw him packing his truck. And he took that black baby and all,” Andrea said.

  Mandy heard Joe shift his feet behind her. She stepped out onto the veranda into the dense heat. “Maybe I’ll come and have a word with your mum. Is she home?”

  “She’s at the doctor’s. The baby’s got colic.” Andrea looked up at Mandy. “You got a lemonade?”

  Mandy shook her head. She felt tears coming and she blinked them back. “Not today, sweetheart.”

  “I’ll tell Mum you’re coming on Saturday.” Andrea ran down the steps and picked up her bike. “I’m getting a kitten,” she yelled, throwing her leg over the crossbar. “You can see it at the party.”

  Mandy watched Andrea go. She kept her back to Joe and looked up and down Bay Street, the flat normality of it. The tiles were hot under her house shoes. She waved at Doug, out on his front lawn with a watering can. He raised a hand and turned his back.

  “Thought he went to get milk,” Joe said from inside the house.

  She didn’t look at him. “He left me. I didn’t want to say.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? When did he go?”

  “About a week ago.”

  He pushed the door open wider. “Come back inside. You look hot.”

  She shook her head.

  “I think you should tell me what happened.”

  “He packed his truck and left. What else is there to say?”

  “You can’t stand out there all day,” he said.

  She turned to face him then. His eyes were red-rimmed. “Why don’t you just go home, Joe?”

  “I want to know where Steve went.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m interested.” He moved back slightly, out of the light. “I’m disappointed I won’t get to see him today. You got my hopes up.”

  “It’s a place called Marlo, in Victoria. His family owns a cabin down there.” She wiped sweat from her face and the tears came unexpectedly. She cried into her hands.

  “What about the baby?”

  “What about him?”

  “Has he taken him down to—where was it?”

  “Marlo.” She wiped her nose on her wrist.

  “That’s it,” he said. “So nobody knows where the kid came from. Fewer questions. Is that the idea?”

  “Think so.” The street was perfectly still, the sun close overhead. She couldn’t stand here much longer. “Will you go now?”

  “That’s not very friendly.”

  “You’ve outstayed your welcome, Joe. Can’t you see that?”

  From the corner of her eye she saw Doug turn toward her. The red of his watering can, the blue of his sun hat. She waved at him, smiling and crying. She hated the thought of Doug seeing her like this. The mess she’d gotten herself in. But she was running out of ideas.

  “I’ll scream,” she said, still waving. “If you don’t get out of my house, I’ll scream.”

  He stayed where he was. She drew in a deep breath.

  “All right. Jesus.” He stepped into the sun beside her and stooped down to speak into her ear. She heard him swallow, the muscles tensing in his throat. “I don’t like being lied to,” he said.

  “Go away, Joe.”

  His lips brushed her ear. “I’ll see you soon.”

  He straightened up, unsteadily, and walked down the steps to the gate.

  She fell into the house, shut the door behind her, and put the safety catch on. Her hands were slow and clumsy. She stood with her back to the door, tried to get her breathing steady. She could still smell him: sour skin, stale smoke. Jesus, he was only next door. Yards away.

  In the kitchen she took the back door key from its hook. She locked the door, put the key on the kitchen table, and sat down. Could he force the door? Would he do that? The pane was cracked anyway, it was hardly secure. She sat where she was, facing the door, and cried. The sky outside was cloudless, the trees lush and green, the vine heavy with fruit for the first time in years. She watched a lizard run along the windowsill. If she turned her head she’d see Joe’s yard, the edge of his deck, his shrubs.

  She went to the sink, turned the tap on full, and put her head and shoulders under the cold water. She filled a glass and drank it down. It occurred to her to call the police. She could speak to Ray direct and te
ll him—what? The bloke next door was blotto, he’d refused to leave, and he’d scared her. She knew she wouldn’t do it. Not because Ray wouldn’t listen but because she was to blame.

  The envelope of cash Steve left her was still on the table. It was heavy looking, full of bills. She counted it twice, sorting it into tens and twenties. The house was quiet, just the rattle of the fan, a dripping tap in the bathroom. Three flies circled the room, trapped and stupid, throwing themselves at the windows.

  41

  Sydney, 1997

  Isla knocks on Douglas Blunt’s front door. She stands up straight, runs her fingers through her hair and smooths it down. She cups her hands around her mouth to test her breath. Today she is holding on to the wagon by her fingernails. A part of her sits in a bar with a whisky on ice, waiting.

  “Isla?”

  Doug is standing in his front yard, wearing his low-brimmed sun hat, despite the chill in the air. His shorts bulge at the hips where he’s tucked his shirt in.

  “Thought I heard you,” he says.

  She walks back down the steps to meet him. “I need to know what you told the police,” she says.

  “If you’re going to lay into me again—”

  “I’m not. I won’t.” She holds her hands up. “I need to know what happened.”

  “I think you should ask your dad.”

  “That’s not as easy as it sounds.”

  He hitches his shorts at the back. “You won’t like it.”

  She nods. “Tell me anyway.”

  “I remember that summer better than you might think,” he says. “First year on me own since Elena passed. I was between jobs. I didn’t know how to fill the time.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” she says.

  “It was bloody hot. No rain for months. I was out here a lot, keeping myself busy with the plants and the veggies. I saw all the comings and goings.” He nods at his veggie patch, the trowel and gardening gloves set down on the grass. “Your mother took you back to England for a long while. Your dad was here on his own. A man gets lonely. I can understand that.” He pauses. “I know it’s not easy to hear this kind of thing.”

  “I know my dad’s no angel, Doug.”