‘Give me a break,’ I said, waving at the swaying crocodile. ‘I shall dedicate myself to the mystery of my father’s paternity and maintain a dignified hold on my emotions.’ I looked at her very solemnly.
‘Wanker,’ she said.
That was obviously post-exam, post-revelation euphoria. By the time Finn’s holidays began the true dimensions of my summer had revealed themselves. Brenna was busy at the café all week; Gretchen had a job at New World; our other friend Peta Marie was in Nelson staying with cousins. Sonny was twenty thousand ks away. My days were confined to Gran, Finn and Jess Morton next door.
‘So,’ said Finn, a few days into his holidays. He tipped his shades. On the first day of his holidays he’d bought the full Jake-and-Elwood regalia from the City Mission store, an oversized jacket, cheap black shades and a black felt pork pie that smelt of coconut hair oil. ‘It’s a beautiful day. I’ve got the gear. I’ve got the attitude.’ He struck a Blues Brothers pose. ‘I’m ready for action. Hold-ups. Car chases. I am haaaart ta traaaart.’
I sighed weightily. It was a beautiful day. Classic December. The sunlight played through the heavy-leafed trees, the greens in our garden dazzled the eyes. Jess’s cat squatted in our geranium patch, her glossy black coat soaking up the heat. From the verandah, where I sat in my new black retro togs, I could see over the front fence to the river, fat and luxurious at full tide, its surface winking. The willows’ tips licked the water.
‘Everybody, needs somebody,’ sang Finn tentatively.
I sighed again.
‘What?’ His face fell. ‘Look, your exams are over, you’re on paid holiday, you’re young, you’ve got a boyfriend and a new pair of togs, what more could you want?’
I looked at him derisively.
‘Well shit, you’ve been sitting in those togs for two days. You’re not doing the thing?’
I closed my eyes.
‘Are you?’
‘I am. It’s just that …’ I opened my eyes and rolled them expressively.
The truth was that the daily routine of being more or less confined to the house with Gran was so crushingly boring that a gloomy inertia had set in. The truth was, my zeal for Mission Gran had leaked away about as quickly as it had flooded in. In the dull light of each dull day the likelihood of her revealing her secret past seemed very, very remote.
And, speak of the devil, here she came, suitcases in hand, twinset and pearls, grubby gloves and the ubiquitous pom-pom hat. She looked meaningfully at Finn and he vacated her chair.
‘Any sign of a cab?’ she said.
‘Not as yet,’ I said, adopting Dad’s dead, ironic tone.
‘Lovely day,’ she said for the fiftieth time that morning.
Perfect summer weather, Finn and I mouthed at each other.
‘Perfect summer weather,’ said Gran.
Can’t remember the last time we had rain.
‘Can’t remember the last time we had rain.’
‘So, what’ll you spend your pay on?’ said Finn, obviously consoling himself.
‘One way ticket to Split.’ Of course he was the only thirteen-year-old in the country who knew were Split was.
‘Love among the ruins.’
‘They go on leave there.’
‘Better check the post,’ said Gran, off down the path.
‘We haven’t made any progress,’ said Finn. ‘I try a bit of subtle questioning here and there. Hopeless. And every ten minutes she turns and peers at me and says, “And you are?”’
I squinted into the perfect summer day, deeply regretting my inability to do all the usual perfect summer things: go to the pool, slope round the Gardens, bus out to Brighton or Taylor’s Mistake and lie round in the sand, or merely hang round the house listening to loud music, eating, talking on the phone, doing nothing in particular.
‘You reckoned she wouldn’t need much attention,’ I said.
‘Not my fault her brain’s shrinking faster than the speed of light.’
Things were definitely going downhill in Gran’s brain department. She’d even forgotten the way to the toilet.
Dear Sonny, I had written, Gran has lost the dunny — Hey, that rhymes. Dad suggested a bathchair but Mum has bad memories of her grandmother’s bathchair. Personally, I could do without the house smelling like an unwashed bum. Imagine Gran as mad as you ever saw her and multiply it by five and you’ll get a fair idea of her current state. Helpful hints gratefully received. Love, Charlie Mike.
‘More signs?’ said Finn.
Dear CM, said Sonny’s card, What about more signs? ‘This way to the dunny,’ etc.
‘Great minds,’ said Finn, typing out instructions in the largest font on the computer.
TURN LEFT FOR THE TOILET, said the notice in the hall immediately outside Gran’s bedroom. TURN RIGHT FOR THE TOILET, said the notice on the bathroom door at the end of the hall. THIS IS THE TOILET, said the notice on the toilet door.
‘Lavatory, please,’ said Gran, without fail, every time she read them.
‘This bloody sign’s mucking up my volleying!’ shouted Dad.
BANG BANG BANG. Plop. The ball struck the edge of the cardboard and pinged off at an angle.
‘Good,’ I shouted from bed.
‘Listen, Buttercup.’ He stood in the doorway, whacking the air with his racquet. ‘Not only am I holding down a full-time job, but I am also preparing for Interclub doubles. I don’t need this sort of hassle.’
‘You think I need the hassle of a crazy grandmother?’
‘Good money.’
‘These are my only moments alone in twenty-four hours!’
‘Baaaarn-yah Luke-ah! Baaaarn-yah Luke-ah!’ he sang, retreating. In keeping with the pre-Christmas spirit he was now singing it to the tune of the Hallelujah Chorus, and every time he opened his throat I wanted to slit it.
While Dad executed his punishing morning routine and Finn shovelled Weet-Bix and Gran piled on layers of inappropriate clothes and prepared for a long day of mania, I lay in bed and tried to organise my thoughts on what Brenna was now pleased to call The Bastard Line. I was determined to prise the answers out of Gran: who, what, when, why and all the rest. We had to find a way. Uncurdle her braincells. Straighten out the loops and coils of her memory. Had to. I tried not to think about how thoroughly unsettling it was to have an unnamed grandfather and a whole branch lopped off the family tree. And I tried not to think about the fact that I hadn’t told Sonny anything; it made me feel secretive and guilty. People who loved each other shouldn’t have secrets. So they said. But I couldn’t begin to think how to tell him. I didn’t want to risk it changing things between us.
‘Baaaarn-yah Luke-ah, Baaaarn-yah Luke-ah! Baaaarnyahlukeah, Baaaarnyahlukeah, Bunya-hah, Lukeah!’
Slam! He was gone, off to another dreary day at the council design offices where his body sat for hours in front of a draughting easel but his mind roamed the astroturf surface of the Riverside courts, the flexi-pave of Wilding Park.
And thinking of tennis, I knew one thing for sure. We had the answer to When Did They Find Out? It had hit me with all the conviction of a pure truth when I lay one morning listening to Dad thwack hell out of the bathroom door. They had known exactly twenty-two months, since Pops had become sick and hospitalised. I was certain.
‘How can you be certain?’ said Finn.
‘It fits,’ I said. ‘It figures perfectly.’
‘How?’
‘You think about it,’ I said. ‘Remember when Pops got sick and he goes into Mary Potter and next second, out of the blue, Dad drops everything and he’s buying up tennis gear and joins Riverside and he’s playing like it’s him who’s got the death sentence. Remember? And whenever we went to see Pops he’d go on and on about his backhand and his second service and his effing net play. You must remember?’
‘Yeah, yeah, I remember. But so what?’
‘So, Mr High IQ—’
‘So?’
‘So, I reckon that’s when he found out Pops
wasn’t his Dad.’
‘But why?’
‘Because, that’s when he changed. He took up tennis! And that’s when his office became a home gym, that’s when he grew that beard; and that’s when he really started losing it with Gran. In other words that’s when our house became a loony bin.’ I knew I was right. ‘Call it feminine intuition,’ I said. ‘Call it what you like. I know I’m right.’
In the few quiet minutes after Dad left every morning I restated this certainty to myself and promised myself all over again to get to the bottom of the mystery. Find out how they knew Pops wasn’t Dad’s father. Find out who was. Easy.
I slid out of bed, showered and swallowed some breakfast. I made Gran the first of three thousand nice cups of tea and chattered to her about the weather. I reminded Finn frequently that we had to get scientific about how we talked to her. Guide the conversation. Engineer some openings.
‘We have to concentrate on the winter of ’46,’ said Finn. He lowered his voice. ‘That’s when the deed would have been done.’
But by mid-morning the effort of distracting Gran from her suitcase repackings, the frustration of a dozen dead-end exploratory conversations had squashed my resolve flat. August 1946 may as well be the Bronze Age for all the hope of steering her back there.
‘How’re we going to last the summer?’ I said to Finn as we watched Gran at the gate, accosting the postie. ‘How’re we going to last to Christmas?’
‘We need a new angle or something.’
‘Like what?’
Here she came, up the path waving mail at us. It was twenty-four degrees and she had her coat on.
‘Like …’
‘Christmas cards!’ shouted Gran. ‘Season’s Greetings! Happy New Year! Mrs P. M. Callaghan. C’est moi!’ She tore open an envelope and read the card. To dearest Patty, May the blessings of the Holy Family be with you and your family in this special season. Love always, Nell, Ted and Family. ‘Very nice,’ she said. I knew she didn’t have a clue who Nell, Ted and Family were. ‘Here’s a white Christmas.’ She held up a card with snow, red-breasted robins. ‘What a lovely scene. That’d be a change, wouldn’t it? Snow and church bells and ice-skating. We used to ice-skate when I was a girl. At Lake Ida. Not at Christmas of course. Our Christmas is in the summer,’ she said, as if reciting.
‘Change of scene,’ murmured Finn.
I was looking at a card from Sonny. It was brief, as usual, but my heart always got going when I saw his scrawly writing.
‘Change of scene,’ said Finn, again. ‘That’s what we need to do.’ He punched my arm. ‘Change her scene.’ He nodded towards Gran who was reading cards aloud with childish pleasure.
Dear Charlie Mike, This place is getting to me. Had an argument with a Pom soldier, racist prick. High point of this week — a lolly scramble for local kids — Mackintosh’s. They even ate the coconut—
‘Concentrate, Christy,’ said Finn.
‘What?’
‘We’ve got to get her away from here, take her out. Jog her memory that way. It doesn’t work just talking to her, but we could take her places — old places, you know, places where she lived with Pops or something, make something go ping.’
‘Oh yeah, how? In the wheelbarrow?’
‘Mr Robert Callaghan,’ read Gran, holding up a Southpower envelope. ‘Fancy that. I have a son called Robert Callaghan.’
‘That is your son.’
‘Is it? Why are they sending his mail here?’
How’s the Nannying going? I wish I could describe this place properly to you. It’s beautiful, but wrecked.
I tried to picture beautiful, wrecked Bosnia, the ancient buildings, the smashed masonry, the stony hills and cratered roadways. I imagined Sonny standing in the middle of it all, big, brown and khakied, wearing his blue UN beret, his sunglasses, a heavy rifle. I wished he was here in the middle of our cultivated Dallington garden instead. Safe.
‘Mum’s car,’ said Finn, who’d evidently been pondering the problem of transport for the last few minutes. ‘Now that she’s biking to work.’
‘Sure, with Gran driving? Yay.’ Gran’s licence had been revoked just before she came to live with us.
‘You can drive,’ said Finn. ‘Who cares about the licence? Who’s gonna ask?’
‘I can’t believe you’re for breaking the law!’
‘Who’s breaking the law?’ said Gran, picking up her suitcases. ‘We’ll have none of that round here.’ She frowned at Finn. ‘I hope your mother knows where you are, young man.’ She hurried inside for another bout of packing.
We’re organising haka for the Christmas concert. Feels a hell of a lot more useful than road patrols. Too bad it’s a war dance and we’re peacekeepers. Reminds me there’s saner places. Send me a photo of you in your new togs. Your faithful, lustful cousin, S. Say gidday to my other cousins.
I stared at that word cousins, shutting out the sound of Sonny’s voice in the card, his frustration, his anger.
‘The beauty of it is,’ said Finn, pressing on, ‘she probably won’t remember if we take her anywhere. So the folks’ll never know. Or if she does say anything they’ll just think she’s making it up.’
I turned Sonny’s card over and looked at the picture, though I knew it by heart now. I looked at my watch: only 12.30.
‘Oh, hell, why not?’ I said loudly, making Finn jump.
‘Anything to relieve the glacial pace round here.’
Sonny had taught me to drive. We’d taken his car through Marshlands to the long empty back roads of Styx and Burwood.
‘This is how much I love you,’ he said, holding the driver’s door open for me. ‘I’m handing over my prize possession.’ It was a Holden Commodore SS. Major grunt, he said.
‘What if this is bad for our relationship?’ I said, putting my hands experimentally on the wheel. ‘Dad gave me two driving lessons and that was extremely bad for our relationship.’
‘Yeah, the old man tried to give me tennis advice and I ended up smacking it to his balls.’
‘I must try that.’
We spent an hour going up and down Prestons Road the first time, getting my footwork right.
‘Just an easy see-saw,’ said Sonny, ‘eaas-eey, into second, and up up, yip, yip, then as your revs increase, you can hear them, right?, into third, down, easy, and change, and up with your foot.’ I loved him teaching me. I loved the sound of his voice, his patience, his low laugh.
‘Poor visibility, coach,’ I said, hunching over the wheel, bringing my face closer to the windscreen. It was raining hard and I found the windscreen wipers distracting.
‘Relax,’ said Sonny, putting his hand on my neck, easing me back. I loved that hand, warm on my skin, making goosebumps rise.
‘But this is the best part,’ he said in my ear, later, when we were kissing in the front seat. I sat on his knee, my arms round his neck. ‘Parking.’
‘You’ve done this before,’ I said, disliking the thought.
‘I only got this in April.’
‘Other cars.’
He grinned. ‘Couldn’t say, Miss.’
I looked at his handsome face and tried not to think of the long line of girlfriends he must have had. Suddenly he dropped his hand down, pulled a lever and sent the seat back horizontal.
‘See, you’re an expert.’
‘Shut up, beautiful,’ he said, lying back and pulling me towards him. He lifted my hair from my face and stroked my cheek, looking and looking at me. ‘You are beautiful.’
‘I’m not,’ I said, feeling the lovely twist in my stomach.
‘You are.’ We kissed again.
I could stay in this warm incubator car for ever, I thought, listening to the rain and the occasional car swishing past, losing myself in our kisses and hot breath and sweet bodily smells.
‘I like them blonde,’ said Sonny, pulling his hand down my hair, ‘and with tiny freckles over the nose.’ He kissed my freckles. ‘And winter skin.’ He kissed my cheek and along
my jawline. ‘And soft round breasts.’ He put a hand on my breast and I felt my nipple strain and tighten. I was silent, mesmerised by his whispering, his intent stare. I gazed at his smooth brown forehead and short bristly black hair, his severe cheekbones and slightly slanted eyes, the curly black lashes. A very pleasant sensation began in my groin and travelled down my legs. I lay down on his chest, pressing my stomach against his hard belly, feeling the hardness between his legs. I kissed all round his lips; then, for a long time, I tasted the salt and sweet of his mouth with my tongue.
‘Charlie,’ he said, moaning and laughing. ‘I have to … we’ve got … where … oh shit!’ He hugged me tight. ‘I need to sleep with you.’
‘Yes,’ I said, my throat strained, desire pouring through me. ‘Soon.’
After that, at home, we didn’t say much to each other, but we touched, swift, sparking brushes past, and we stared lengthily, across the dinner table, across the room, smiling, then looking away, hot and cold, breathy, imperceptibly agitated.
I was on a strange autopilot, hearing all the talk but not listening, watching TV but hardly seeing it, talking but not really saying anything; I wanted to move time forward quickly, but I wanted to prolong it too; I wanted to draw out the moments before that final intimacy just as surely as I wanted to run headlong, crowing, into Sonny’s arms.
‘No sweat,’ said Finn. ‘Not a problem.’ He was imitating Gavin, Dad’s doubles partner.
‘I heard that,’ said Dad. He was in the sunroom, doing stretching exercises and listening to The Messiah on his Walkman. While Finn and I planned a jaunt round the city in Mum’s car we watched him through the glass doors, pushing with one arm against the wall, holding his leg halfway up his back or, occasionally, standing for whole minutes at a time on his head.
‘What a fuckwit.’ He wore blood-red, stretch-cotton exercise trousers.
‘Give him a break,’ said Finn, ‘he doesn’t know who his father was.’
‘No reason for him to make a spectacle of his gonads.’
‘So,’ he said, trying not to laugh, ‘we do Ferry Road, Clyde Road—’
Love, Charlie Mike Page 6
