Falling into Place

by Pamela Mc Casker

  Today, he’s after numbness, not companionship. He hopes by rubbing shoulders with the multitude, he’ll salve the pain of singularity. Forget how utterly Claire is lost to him.

  Before he’d met her, Alex was ignorant of love’s power to sap ones will, to turn one into a sap. But this was aeons ago. BC, Before Claire. Before, life was about work and friends. He’d felt content when his life was content-free. Now he wonders, Does contentment even rate a position on the happiness spectrum?

  In Melbourne, he renovates, mixes with furniture restorer mates, dates tepidly, feels sanguine about his aloneness. He must donate ‘sanguine’ to Claire for her list. It might cheer her up. It means cool-blooded, which she’s not.

  Everything changed for him that day on the beach with Claire. He’d never met anyone he wanted so much it hurt. She, with her crutches, her pain, seemed a stick puppet from a Hindu shadow play. But even as a broken tern, she was more alive than all the squalling seagulls on the shore.

  “G’day, mate. Did I see ya in a red ute buying in feed from Jackson’s yest’d’y?”

  “Yeah, mate, I’m Alex.” He offers his hand.

  “From ’round ’ere then?” the bloke says, shaking Alex’s hand forcefully. “Todd.”

  “You’re Todd and I’m on my Todd.” The bloke fails to respond to this witticism; Alex continues, “Melbourne these days.”

  “Not on the land?” Todd asks, slow-witted.

  “On it – sort of – the olds are past it. Mainly agistment now. You?” Alex asks.

  “I’m at Dookie. On a break. Workin’ on the folks’ place. Dairy.”

  “Hard yacka!”

  “Yep. Looking into oenology!”

  “Great! Drink, mate?” Alex offers, longing to be alone with his non-thoughts.

  “Yeah. Ta!”

  “Another VB. And…”

  “Same.”

  While Alex pays, his friend yells at someone who’s downwind of them, judging by a waft of chemicals.

  “D’ya wash that stuff off a youse?” Todd asks. “We been spraying Roberts’ joint with somethin’ shit awful,” he explains.

  “No kidding! D’ya get a permit?” Alex asks.

  Todd shrugs. “Comes in ten gallon drums from Cow Chemicals. Big firm. Must be kosher.”

  “They’re the bastards that made agent orange!” Alex says. “Dioxins. Hope you’ve got protective gear? Where you spraying?”

  “Around the creek flats,” Todd admits.

  “Great, so that’s the fishing stuffed for the season!” Alex says.

  “Excuse me, mate.” Todd heads off, keen to escape Alex’s misery. It seeps from his pores.

  The barman tries to weasel conversation out of Alex. Fended off by Alex’s surliness, he gravitates towards heartier patrons.

  Why can’t I be normal? Alex wonders. If only I had the litany off-pat. If only I could grumble drolly about drought, iniquitous land-tax, crop yields, paspalum infestation, poor carrying capacity, fisheries and wildlife scum, I’d be accepted, because ‘Life’s a bitch but we’re all in it together’.

  But Alex suffers discreetly and discretely. That’s bloody public school for you!

  Encourages spelling puns, gives you a posh accent. Turns you into a diamond in a cowpat.

  He grabs his glass and heads for a table. Shit! The chairs are bentwood, his bête noir. Men built like boab trunks should never squat on bendy sticks, their glutes tensed tight against collapse. It’s obscene. Makes him want to laugh and cry at once!

  He leans on the window ledge farthest from the bar, so he won’t be drawn into the swirl of recycled jokes. He’ll watch others coping. See them slap each other on the back, hit on the barmaid, shout the next round.

  He lets the camaraderie wash around him.

  Holy Shit! He slaps his forehead. Mary’s train will be in by now.

  Chapter 56

  Mary and Boys

  Alex meets Mary at the bus depot. “Welcome,” he says. “Big changes today.” He pecks her cheek.

  She narrows her eyes at him. She’s wondering, Why does Alex smell so beery?

  He comes clean. “Sorry, Mare. Dropped into the pub. Time got away from me.”

  “Didn’t pick you for a lunch-time boozer.”

  “Rough day.” He tightens the rubber band on his ponytail. “Claire thinks she’s pregnant.”

  “Then she should be drinking. Gin.”

  “She’s crying into her artichoke soup. No test yet.”

  “There is no test to prove it’s artichoke soup. Depends how bad she feels. Sorry. Bad joke. Let’s buy a kit.”

  “Okay.”

  At Arcadia Mary hurries in, hello-ing everyone, assuming all are pleased to see her. Bypassing Cynthia, who’s angling her cheek for a peck, she hurries to Claire’s side. “I missed you heaps, girl,” she says, embracing her friend enthusiastically. Claire manages a wan smile.

  The room’s quiet. Either Ma’s plans have flopped flatter than the placemats, or Maureen has run out of edifying patter. Alex makes introductions. Pulls out a chair for Mary across from the CCs.

  “A party!” Mary exclaims. “Only true originals have such spur of the moment parties, Cynthia.”

  “Thank you, dear,” says Mama gratified. “When one decides to meet one’s neighbours, there’s no time like the present.”

  “Pity we didn’t get the urge earlier,” says Beppe. “The urge to be neighbourly, I mean,” he adds, giving Cynthia a wicked leer.

  Cynthia’s unused to teasing of this sort; she twists her mouth into impossible grimaces until it looks like she has a serious nerve disease.

  Until now the Italian stallions have been subdued, slumped in their chairs as if nothing could jolt them out of their torpor, but with the irresistible Mary, their egos inflate faster than camp mattresses.

  What is it about her? Alex wonders. Is it her tartan skirts that flip wildly, unveiling shapely legs beneath red leggings? Whatever, Carlo and Cristoforo seem to cue into her mood.

  Alex pours himself another wine. He studies the bottle. “Burgundy from your real actual Fraance?” he asks, to the amusement of the CCs.

  “We’ve a well-stocked cellar,” says Beppe. “We’ll have you for tasting soon. Don’t worry, we won’t be tasting you, Cynthia, but you’ll be drinking our wine from Umbria. Beyoudiful.”

  “First time I breached your boundaries was when the fence broke last week. Your cellar-opening invite must be travelling via Umbria,” Alex says rudely. Cynthia glares. It’s his worry about Claire, amidst this epidemic of neighbourliness that is making him act a bit unhinged.

  “Don’t be impertinent,” says Cynthia.

  So, we do need the Maccas to save our necks, Alex decides.

  “This funny boy you got, Hal. Real Aussie sents of youmour!”

  “He’s priceless, if you mean worth no price at all,” says Cynthia, tight-lipped.

  “Both boys are wags,” says Hal, in oil pouring mode. “Clive works at St V’s with young Mary here.”

  “So, Mary, you are doc’s fiancée,” says Beppe, having earlier misunderstood Claire’s role in the family.

  “No, Clive is engaged to the beauteous Claire.” Mary turns to Claire, who attempts a smile but her facial muscles won’t cooperate and her dark rings can’t be wished away.

  There’s a murmur of surprise at this. The stallions lean forward; they take an active interest in Mary now they know she’s on the market.

  Most girls would find this scrutiny awkward, Mary waves, “Hi guys! I’m available for genuine matrimonial offers from good-hearted men.”

  “My boys have heart of gold…”

  “And gold Amex cards?” Alex asks. All titter politely.

  “I’m no gold digger!” Mary squinches her eyes at Alex.

  Carlo produces an American Express card and lays it on the table. “A token,” he says.

  Mary raises her hand, warding off evil. “No, I’m not for buying; I’m looking for a hero. Someone who’s making the world a be
tter place,” says Mary. “Sorry, Carlo.”

  Alex wonders at her supreme confidence. To have taken over a dinner party this fast…she could be PM if she wanted. The room is full of strong women, he thinks, though Claire’s not one of them today.

  “So, no interview?” asks Carlo petulantly.

  “Sorry. What about you, Cristoforo?”

  “I’m with Fisheries and Wildlife. We conserve the beauty and diversity of Australia.”

  “Wow! You’re only saving the whole country!” says Mary.

  “With help from my workmates.”

  She gives him a wide-mouthed smile that shows her dimples to advantage.

  “I need to check the creek later,” he says, “water-weed levels. You want to come?” He raises his eyebrows, queryingly.

  “You take your dates to work?” Alex asks.

  “We’ll all come,” says Cynthia, peevishly, her luncheon having derailed.

  “I can’t press my suit in public, Mrs Sin.”

  “Sin Gin, dear. Spell it how you will. The double meanings afforded by my names are legend. But as to dating Mary on my property, I insist…”

  “But what if it weren’t your property?” says Chris, stilling the chatter. Cynthia’s mouth hinges open but she maintains her silence.

  “Which area of ecology are you in?” Alex asks, filling the shocked silence.

  “I’m developing a model that takes individual floral or faunal species and excludes one at a time from the model to predict which plants and animals will thrive within various time frames, according to climatic variations. See, if all the vegetation along the Great Ocean Road died in a savage fire, after a decent season of regrowth, you could predict the make-up of the regrowth over time.”

  “Wow!” Alex is impressed.

  “Down here, we’ve every right to fear fire. Some species lose ground to big bullies; they take over. A single blue gum might overgrow to billy-oh, causing loss of diversity. Certain species of flora die off altogether…to our great loss. The habitat might then become inhospitable to certain fauna.”

  “There’s always bullies exploiting new circumstances,” Cynthia agrees. “Poor Felicity. No end to the suitors queuing up since she was orphaned with a decent spread.”

  “Don’t talk about her bottom, like that,” says Alex. His mother glares.

  “You mean the pretty blonde with the riding school?” asks Carlo. “I’ve tried being friendly, but she always gives me a dismissive wave – a push-off signal I’d say.”

  They laugh at Fliss’ expense but it’s good-natured laughter.

  “Felicity mightn’t like your looks,” says Maureen, angling for a compliment for her sons.

  It arrives on cue. Maureen seems pleased.

  “Yes,” says Cyn, “Fliss had a sad break-up. As she’s a life-long friend of Clive, we don’t go introducing her to just anyone.”

  Maureen recoils. “Are we not good enough for your friends?” Her offence seems genuine.

  Alex tunes out while Cynthia heals her rift with the neighbours she’s meant to be cosying up to; she mumbles something bland about strength in diversity and all mucking in together.

  “Don’t worry, Cyn,” says Beppe. “Once a dago, always a dago. Never bothered me.”

  It’s odd, Alex thinks, how much he’s enjoyed the Maccas’ company after years of Ma’s prejudice. There’s always something to learn from others. Then Alex remembers what’s been niggling at him. “Excuse me, Beppe, he says. I’ve a question for Chris. In town today, I met a bloke; he was talking about spraying Johnson’s creek flats with a dioxin-based product. Is the council spraying just now?”

  “Shoot! D’you get their names?” asks Chris.

  “Todd. Studying at Dookie. His folks are dairying.”

  “Good start. I’ll get onto their student lists. Sorry, Hal and Mrs Sin. Got to go. Sorry, Mary.”

  “How about dusk? Meet you at the stables?” She smiles winningly.

  “Okay,” Chris says. “You’re on!”

  Chapter 57

  Walk

  “Maureen, how soon do you think I should start treating Claire respectfully?”

  Maureen and Cynthia pick their careful way along the river flats, trying to keep up with Hal and Beppe but falling behind the ‘boys’, who seem to be getting along like a house on fire.

  Cynthia’s carrying a much-loathed walking stick but the ground is soggy and uneven and given her multitudinous ailments the last thing needed is a fall.

  “Immediately of course,” Maureen replies once she’s on solid ground.

  “Do you enjoy getting even?” Cynthia asks, hoping she’s found a kindred soul in Maureen.

  Maureen throws her head back, whoops. “Everyone enjoys seeing enemies get their come-uppance. But do befriend Claire if you’re sure she’s pregnant – leave it to fate to punish her. Too much humiliation grows enemies,” she says, stopping in her tracks.

  Cynthia is stuck behind her on the damp and narrow track. “Let me get ahead of you, Maureen, I know the way,” Cyn says, moving past her guest. “I’m not vengeful, but Claire is toying with my sons!”

  “Perhaps she loves them both. Are you certain she’s pregnant?”

  “She left her diary open for me to read. Marks her menses with asterisks! None in two months.”

  Cynthia gives a loud whoop. Already she feels transformed by proximity to Maureen’s confidence. All this hooting and whooping is invigorating, she decides. Maureen brings out her bawdy side.

  “Mind your step. The path looks solider than it is. The silly gel believes herself in love with Alex.”

  “Love’s a powerful motivator.”

  “And money isn’t?”

  “Not so much in the young.”

  “At 7.00 a.m. this morning,” Cyn says, “Claire hobbled into the kitchen to phone, ‘Mum,’ she blurted – ‘it’s Clive’s’. If true, Clive’s fatherhood will put an end to our financial woes!”

  “I thought in buying the creek flats, we’d be shoring up your finances. So, you mayn’t need to sell land, after all,” Maureen says, her formerly high energy seeming to run down.

  “Ah.” Cyn says, needing both hands and feet for stepping over a mossy boulder. “You’re our back-up.”

  “Back-up?” Maureen is sounding sniffy.

  “If Claire aborts, then you and Beppe will be the custodians of our creek flats.”

  “We’d be the new owners, surely?” says Maureen.

  “Of course. But if our deal falls through, Clive will put his ‘inheritance’ into Arcadia provided he’s married with a son.”

  “You could’ve been a politician, Cyn.”

  Cynthia’s not keen on the pejorative slant Maureen gives the word ‘politician’. “No,” she says, “I’m merely encouraging Clive to do what’s right. Claire will be a good mother with her practical genes. Practicality was bred out of the Sins by intermarriage within the Bunyip Aristocracy.”

  “Must be hard being born into money!” Maureen says.

  Is she teasing me? Cynthia wonders. But she’s unable to twist her head around to scrutinise Maureen’s face. "In earlier times the Sins needed servants to tell them the time of day. Even now the twins’ cousins rarely raise a sweat, except from polo. My bourgeois bloodlines saved our boys from utter uselessness.

  “A pity you’re wearing such nice shoes,” she says, eyeing off Maureen’s snakeskin courts, "or we could’ve taken the track into the wattle clearing. They’re blooming just now. Hal used to bring me here.

  “My fears about Alex being gay were eased during the storm,” Cyn says, “when my meanderings took me to the very bed he shared with Claire.” She launches into the story. Clever of me, Cyn thinks, to tell Maureen in confidence what she already suspects so she’s honour-bound not to blab! I could have been Machiavelli in another life.

  “If Claire is pregnant Clive might disown the child,” says Maureen quick as a whip.

  “Every silver lining has its cloud…”

  Maur
een wipes an insistent glob of mud off her shoe. The plank she’s standing on wobbles.

  Cynthia would steady her but Hal says that the ‘survival of the fittest’ should work itself out unassisted by us humans. So, she’s duty-bound to leave Maureen be.

  “Brother Cedric’s fond of Alex, but he’d prefer Clive to inherit,” she continues.

  “Why?” asks Maureen.

  Oh, she’s a sharp one, Cyn thinks. “Oh, primogeniture. Ced’s fortune’s not for anyone who organises their life around money.”

  “Then his money may remain unclaimed forever!”

  “You’ve a satirical bent, Maureen.”

  “No. I meant it seriously,” Cyn’s new friend insists.

  “No wonder Claire’s infatuated, Alex is a beguiling man.”

  “And so is Clive…”

  “But there’s something about Alex…When Gwen and I saw the two together in the ute, we were reminded of our sparky youths.”

  “I didn’t know Gwen had had a sparky youth. She’s something of a ‘yes’ person these days.”

  “Gwen gives one time and space to vent freely, she’s a listener,” says Maureen quite perceptively, Cyn thinks.

  “Yes, Gwen’s a dear lady, well-educated, but she lacks your intellect, Maureen.”

  “You’re flattering me, Cynthia. Could we go back? I’d love to dry my feet and have a cuppa.”

  “I should have thought to get you gum boots,” Cyn says. Why hadn’t she, she wonders. Did I want her at a disadvantage? Unsteady on the boards that Hal laid to access the creek flats in winter? Did I want to condescend to her? Deign to hold her up if things got difficult? For metaphorically speaking, that is what the Maccas will do for us if our deal goes ahead. “Yes, Maureen,” Cyn says. “The boys don’t want us tagging along.”

  Arriving at Arcadia, they’re panting, Maureen a bit more than her Cyn thinks, though she appears fitter.

  “Pop your jacket on a coat-hook and make yourself comfy. Bonnie’s back from her latest emergency. She will set a fire for us,” Cyn says ringing the bell and waking Bas.

  Maureen removes her coat and makes a fuss of the old Basset Hound. The dog seems to like her. He’s not snarling as he does with Cyn.