After She Left

by Penelope Hanley

  He led the way, turning on lights as he went, up a flight of stairs with a landing with bedroom and bathroom to the left, and up three steps to the right, which led to the dining room, kitchen and living room. Alan ushered her into the living room.

  ‘Please,’ he said, indicating a navy leather sofa. ‘Sit. White wine?’

  Keira nodded. He disappeared into the kitchen. She sank back into the cold leather, weak with nerves and excitement.

  Orange and white Marimekko blinds covered the glass panels of the French doors opposite that opened to an enclosed balcony facing Darling Street. The small fireplace near her had been set with a neat nest of straw-coloured wood.

  When he returned he handed her a glass, icy on her fingers. He set his own glass on the pine coffee table, took a box of Redheads from the mantelpiece, and bent down. The penetrating smell of a struck match was a sharp pleasure. He lit the crumpled paper underneath the slivers of kindling, which caught immediately. His blond curls shone in the light, a mixture of fair and fawn; and she noticed again what long fingers he had, elegant hands, eloquent they looked, and capable. In good hands, she thought. Tout va bien.

  ‘Pine off-cuts,’ said Alan, standing and putting the Redheads box on the mantelpiece. ‘I get them free from the timber mill down the road.’

  The flames put Keira into a dreamy state. Putting her glass down, she held out her hands to the crackling yellow-orange warmth.

  ‘It doesn’t get very cold in Sydney,’ she said, ‘and there’s no real need for a fireplace, but fires are lovely.’

  Her voice sounded too loud in the small space, her words stilted, like a bicycle stuttering along with the brakes half on, and not a bicycle built for two like in the old song.

  The town bike, they used to call a girl who slept around a lot. No one would have said that about her, although her father would have a different opinion if he knew half of what she’d been up to. But no, she was merely a rusty bicycle with faulty brakes and soon she’d come to the bottom of a hill and halt, unable to go up, stuck in her own ineptitude, awkward, unappealing, unwanted. She knew hardly anything about Marxism, didn’t know who Breckt or Brecked was, and was ignorant of half the things this beautiful man knew about.

  Her hands felt useless. Her mouth was dry. She lifted the glass to her parched lips and gulped the icy wine, not tasting it.

  Alan was taking the glass from her hand and sliding his other hand behind the nape of her neck under her hair.

  ‘Heavy hair,’ he said, smiling. ‘You’re so beautiful. You’ve got amazing eyes – like Julie Christie’s, with that grey ring surrounding the blue.’

  He put his arms around her ribs, easing her against the sofa, and kissing her, long and getting longer, deep and going deeper.

  His hands were gentle. The exciting contrast of his rough after-five shadow and his soft, soft lips dissolved her nerves and melted her fear. He smelt of lime aftershave.

  She felt as if the two of them were ethereal beings, not flesh at all but two spirits mingling their souls, and she hardly noticed him taking her clothes off, almost surprised to discover she was naked. So arousing, with her completely nude and him with all his clothes on, and her hands went under his jumper to feel the warmth of his back through a fine cotton shirt. His rough wool jumper chaffed her nipples, as if she were in a romantic novel her friends would laugh at.

  But she wasn’t laughing. She was sighing, rapt, oblivious of anything but Alan’s skilful fingers and questing tongue. Her skin was hypersensitive to his touch.

  After an aeon of bliss, he stood and brought her body up to lean against his. Instead of landing on the floorboards, her bare feet hit the tops of his leather shoes and he walked her backwards in a dreamy waltz towards the room, the closed-in balcony. The streetlight filtered in through louvered windows.

  He gently eased her onto the little bed, and she felt the fine Indian cotton bedspread soft under her back.

  ‘I do have a double bed,’ he said. ‘But it seems a long way away.’

  ‘I’m happy here,’ said Keira.

  She watched him undress, the shirt off over his head instead of unbuttoning it, shoes kicked off, and the fine corduroy jeans unzipped until he stood in his underpants in the dim light. Her gaze took in the slender torso and finely modelled muscles of his arms and chest. His legs were long and pale. The socks were off in a flash, he was moving towards her and she could see the lovely hardness pressing against his close-fitting, soft cotton underpants.

  ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Wait!’

  He stood above her. ‘I assume you’re on the pill?’

  ‘No. It’s been a while. Do you have a condom?’

  A shadow of reluctance passed over his face.

  He turned and padded lightly, graceful as a cat, over to a chest of drawers. He grasped the two wooden handles and smoothly slid the top drawer out, took out a cardboard packet of condoms, turned around and walked towards her, smiling.

  He stood beside the little narrow bed and put the condoms on the wooden bedhead railing. Then he took his undies off quickly and lay beside her. She felt the glorious hot hardness of him against her hip and turned towards him, sighing happily. His fingers went gently over her face, tracing forehead and cheekbones, chin and neck, then up again to her brow. She grinned and pulled his hand down to kiss his forefinger, took it into her mouth and flicked up and down with her tongue for a few moments.

  He trailed his fingers down past her chin, her neck, her collarbone, past her ribs, her waist, to just above the bikini line, teasing, then up again, delaying and prolonging, stopping himself from doing what they were both ready for. He leant up on an elbow and kissed her, long and deeply, and her hands were in his soft, curly hair, drawing his head even closer. On and on they kissed, in timeless ecstasy.

  When finally they stopped, Keira whispered, ‘This is agony!’

  ‘If this is agony,’ he said, ‘what do you do for fun?’

  She laughed and pulled his hand down past her waist, past the dip of hip towards where she wanted him to touch her. He resisted, teasing her, teasing himself, until she said, ‘I can’t wait a second longer!’

  ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Wait!’ He took the condom from the bedhead railing and put it on with preternatural speed. But then he waited some more, restraining himself and kissing her again until their panting grew even faster. He caressed her slender body, fingers lingering on the hard little pebbles of her nipples, his face somehow conveying both tenderness and urgency.

  She urged her body closer, clinging to him with frantic intent and finally flipped her body with the ease of a dolphin on top of his, to do what they both needed, building and building up to the rhythm she wanted.

  It didn’t take too many more desperately blissful minutes to finish. She cried out again and again and then he let out a low moan. They collapsed against each other.

  After a little they gently shifted apart and lay close together, damp limbs entwined and his nose in her hair. He pulled the covers over them and they quickly sank into the deep sleep of the exhausted.

  13

  DEIRDRE

  August 1934

  The dining room’s eastern window was letting in some golden light as Deirdre entered carrying the pine tray of tea things and a plate of hot buttered toast.

  ‘Smells good,’ said Charles, looking up from his newspaper. He coughed into his handkerchief.

  ‘Still got that cough,’ said Deirdre. ‘That’s no good. And you’re losing weight. Please go to the doctor.’

  ‘Soon,’ said Charles, ‘I will.’

  ‘You always say that and you don’t go.’

  Charles folded up the newspaper and helped take the plates and cups off the tray onto the table. ‘Deirdre, I’ve been thinking: we need to talk about something.’

  ‘What about?’ said Deirdre, pouring tea into the cups.

  ‘I don’t like secrets. I think it would be a good idea if we were to tell Mo that I’m not her real father.’

 
; Deirdre sipped her tea. ‘But you’re the only father she’s ever known. That is who her “real” father is – the one who has looked after her and loved her.’

  ‘Secrets are never a good thing. She might find out another way and it’s better if she hears the truth from us before that can happen. Pass me the honey, honey?’

  Deirdre smiled at the old joke and passed it to him. ‘She probably wouldn’t ever find out,’ said Deirdre, sawing her toast in half.

  ‘It will be on her birth certificate. It’s important for everything to be out in the open.’

  ‘Isn’t six too young?’

  ‘She’s very mature. And next birthday she’ll be seven – the age of reason.’ Charles tucked into his toast.

  Deirdre considered. ‘But she will ask about her original father. What shall I tell her?’

  ‘Tell her the truth – as much or as little as you like.’

  ‘I don’t actually know much about Carlo Trimble,’ she said, staring out the window at the glossy green photinia hedge. ‘A talented artist and gifted teacher, with the wrong religion and the wrong marital status. But what a lovely man.’ She turned her dreamy face to Charles. ‘I have a talent for picking lovely married, non-Catholic men!’

  ‘Tell her that her father was a lovely chap who, sadly, already had another family. When she’s older she’ll appreciate that we told her the truth about her origins.’

  Deirdre sipped her tea in silence, considering.

  Charles looked at her and said, ‘Tell her.’

  ‘Tell me what?’ said Maureen, walking into the room in her white cotton nightie, holding Merlin, the large white cat, in her arms.

  ‘Darling, come and sit up here,’ said Charles. ‘Put that animal down and listen. Your mother has something she wants to say to you.’

  Maureen set Merlin on the floor with a pat of his head and climbed up on the chair next to her mother.

  Deirdre smoothed a strand of escaped black hair back from Maureen’s pale face. ‘You know I came from Ireland?’

  Maureen nodded. ‘Yes. Could I have a glass of milk, please?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Charles. ‘I’ll get it.’ And he walked to the kitchen.

  ‘Well, your Irish daddy already had a family and he could not afford to raise two families...’

  ‘But I was born in Sydney.’

  ‘Yes, you were. In The Rocks. Oh, dear, I’m probably not explaining this very well. You were born here but in fact Charles is not your original father. Your original father came from Dublin in Ireland. I was pregnant with you when I left on the boat to come here.’ Deirdre drained her teacup.

  Charles came in again with a glass of milk and put it in front of Maureen.

  ‘Thank you, Daddy,’ she said, and turned to Deirdre. ‘Charles is my daddy now.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When I met you,’ said Charles, ‘you were a baby – the most wonderful little baby, always smiling.’

  Maureen said, ‘Was I a baby when you got married?’

  ‘No. You know the photograph on the mantelpiece?’ said Charles, getting up and putting it on the table in front of Maureen. ‘You were three. See, there you are in your lovely frock with us after the ceremony. It was at the Registry Office near Hyde Park.’

  Maureen examined the photograph then put it down. ‘May I have some toast and honey, please?’ she said.

  *

  The day after Maureen had gone back to school after the holidays, Charles and Deirdre, hand in hand, walked to Clovelly Bay while Sir Dudley de Chair ran ahead. The morning was calm, the water grey-blue and still. In the distance, two small fishing boats floated.

  ‘Deirdre,’ said Charles, ‘when I went to town to look at those Baxter prints I also went to see Dr Jamieson again to talk about the X-rays I had at the Chest Clinic in Albion Street.

  ‘Oh, yes?’ said Deirdre, suddenly feeling a chilly breeze.

  They were both looking at Sir Dudley some distance ahead chasing a small flock of seagulls on the sand. The birds flew up, squawking and scattering against the clear blue sky.

  She turned to Charles. ‘So what was it?’

  He sighed. ‘I’m afraid there’s no way round it – it’s pulmonary tuberculosis, on the right lung.’

  She gasped, turned to him and squeezed his hand.

  ‘I must go to the Waterfall Sanitarium to protect you and Maureen from contracting it, as well as to get myself better.’

  The dog ran up and dropped a bit of wood at their feet. He looked at them expectantly. Sir Dudley picked up the stick and trotted away a small distance then turned and dropped it at their feet again.

  ‘He said that it has been diagnosed late but there’s a better chance of improvement if I’m there. It’s near Helensburgh. There are orange orchards and dairies nearby – I’ll have the ideal diet, he said.’ Charles picked up the stick and threw it for the dog.

  Deirdre leant against his chest, tears rolling down her pale cheeks.

  ‘Shh-h-h-h. Let’s sit down,’ said Charles, helping her onto the sand. ‘We must be optimistic. And miracles sometimes happen.’

  ‘That’s funny, coming from an atheist.’

  Charles threw the stick again and in no time the dog was back with it. Deirdre picked up the stick, leant back and flung it with all her might. It sailed in a powerful arc and landed some distance from the shore with a splash.

  ‘Now,’ said Charles, ‘I’ve made an appointment with Stephen Field, an excellent young solicitor. Remember how we talked about Maureen going to boarding school if she has no objection? I’m leaving money to send her to Saint Vincent’s from next year, if that’s what you both want.’

  ‘Oh, Charles,’ said Deirdre. ‘You’re always so organised. But isn’t this a rush?’

  ‘It’s good to be prepared for whatever happens. And I’ll put the house in your name for now, but in the future, if anything happened to you, we’d want Maureen to have the house.’ He looked into Deirdre’s eyes. ‘If she owns property she’ll be all right. As any Irish person should understand, property is the difference between surviving and not. With bricks and mortar, one is safe and life not so hand-to-mouth.’

  Deirdre squeezed his hand. ‘But nothing’s going to happen to me.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, squeezing back. ‘That’s what I thought about myself.’

  Sir Dudley leapt up to them, dropped the stick in Deirdre’s lap and shook, spraying sandy saltwater all over them. They screamed, scrambled to their feet and brushed off their clothes.

  *

  Deirdre hoped Charles was genuinely feeling as upbeat as his letters were. He wrote that he was leading ‘the life of a log’ – doing as the doctor ordered and getting complete rest. He read, he slept, he breathed deeply of the clean country air and ate a lot of oranges. He felt as if he had been there for years.

  He wrote that the staff were competent and kind and the other patients convivial. In fact, with all the laughing that he did with them, he was sure he must be on the mend. He was breathing easier, coughing less, and had made friends with an antiques dealer called Cedric Banister who shared his enthusiasm for English prints.

  Deirdre was buoyed by Charles’s letters, reading and re-reading them. She shared some of the funny descriptions of the staff and other patients with Maureen. They missed him terribly but visiting was not encouraged.

  Three weeks after he had been admitted, he wrote to say that he had managed to contract chickenpox. ‘From the sublime to the ridiculous – or it invites some such comparison,’ he wrote, ‘and, much as I miss you, we don’t want you and Maureen catching it from me!’

  Only ten days after Deirdre received that letter, the doctor telephoned Deirdre at seven o’clock in the morning.

  Charles had been reading after dinner the night before when he began coughing badly. The bouts of coughing continued through the night but he was able to rest for decent intervals and the staff believed he was over the worst.

  But just as dawn was breaking, he again
went into paroxysms of coughing. Dr Samuelson regretted to tell her that Charles had passed away from a haemorrhage.

  *

  ‘Colour is good for the soul,’ Deirdre used to say.

  But colour faded from her work in the desolate, frozen time after she would never see Charles again. Weeks and months went by when she hardly painted at all, only walked along the beach, wearing herself out so she could sleep at night.

  Probably good to have the beach to walk along – it was the only thing that stopped her from staying in Charles’s woollen dressing gown all day. At other times she read, or if she had the energy she caught a tram to town and lost herself in whatever was on at the cinema.

  The nuns assured Maureen that her father was in Heaven, looking over her and her mother and keeping them safe. Deirdre’s dreams were often swirls of disjointed scenes that left her with a welter of emotions – anger, unhappiness, longing and grief – when she woke.

  But just occasionally she woke from the pure, golden gift of Charles walking with her up and down the beach, talking and talking, hour after hour, holding hands and laughing, looking at the waves and seabirds, with the conviction that this was real radiating through her entire being.

  She would wake expecting to find her feet sandy, her hair damp from the sea breeze. And she was left feeling not despair but a pure, enduring peace after these glorious nights. The love that Charles showered on her during these precious nights made her glow for days after.

  She dwelt as much as she could in these dreams, which felt more real than real life. She thought much about reincarnation, hoping it was true and wishing there were proof.

  Sometimes Deirdre did charcoal sketches of seabirds and the shapes of clouds and waves, spent hours capturing the texture of honeycomb-weathered sandstone rock formations and driftwood, or obsessively sketched the dead cormorants strewn over the sand after a severe storm. She kept her hand in and survived, she looked after Maureen during school holidays and she did the necessary domestic tasks.