Spinning Around

by Catherine Jinks

  He mumbled something that I couldn’t hear.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You could’ve asked me,’ he repeated.

  ‘And you’d have told me what? That she was your daughter? Then why didn’t you? Why wait until now?’

  ‘Oh Christ.’ He broke away from me. He dragged out a kitchen chair and cast himself into it, covering his face with his hands. He looked so big, hunched in that little chair, but he kept snuffling and gulping and wiping his eyes.

  I sat down next to him.

  I waited.

  ‘You’d better tell me,’ I said at last. ‘Who’s her mother?’

  ‘You don’t know her,’ Matt replied. He gave a deep, shuddering sigh and leaned back, his arms dangling. ‘Her name’s Megan Molesdale. We used to hang out when I first came to Sydney.’

  ‘Oh.’ That was a blow I hadn’t anticipated. It left me breathless.

  ‘I didn’t even know,’ he went on, despairingly. ‘She never told me. She disappeared—went to Indonesia—must have come back, but I never saw her again. Not until . . .’ He made a weary gesture.

  ‘So you . . .’

  ‘She was okay. She was a bit of a flake. We were pissed when we did it the first time, then we got together once or twice after that. I dunno. I dunno why she didn’t tell me.’ He scratched his head furiously with both hands. ‘She should have told me!’

  ‘Well at least you know now,’ I said, in a tone that was astonishingly tranquil. Inside, though, there was magma oozing from my heart. All this, and he had never dropped so much as a hint. He had cut me off.

  ‘She must have hated me,’ Matthew suddenly announced. ‘She must have, because she made Jo think that this Cleary bloke she married was her father. Jo’s father. Then when the marriage broke up, she got the shits with Cleary, and didn’t want Jo seeing him. She told Jo the truth, then, but she wouldn’t tell the poor kid who her real father was. Can you believe it? No wonder she’s so fucked up.’

  ‘Who? You mean Josephine?’

  ‘Oh yeah.’ Another deep sigh, as his head fell back. ‘Oh yeah.’

  For a while he stared at the ceiling. The clock ticked. Rain thrummed against our roof. Finally I had to prompt him.

  ‘Go on,’ I said.

  ‘Well, shit. She’s a fuckin’ junkie, you know? My own daughter. She’s turned tricks, she’s done B and Es, you name it. She left home when she was fifteen, she was on the streets for over a year—’

  ‘How old is she now?’

  ‘Nineteen. She just turned nineteen.’

  I scratched my wrist thoughtfully. No comment.

  ‘A few months ago, she suddenly realised—I dunno, maybe someone told her—she suddenly realised that she could legally find out who her father was. It’s on the birth certificate, right? So she tracked me down, got hold of me. We met.’

  He threw himself forward and covered his face again.

  ‘God, Matthew.’

  ‘I felt so bad,’ he squeaked.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ he wailed. ‘I was so . . . it was so hard! I felt so bad! Everything was so tough for you, and now this. A stepdaughter? A fuckin’ junkie? You didn’t deserve it.’

  ‘But I was going to have to find out sooner or later.’

  ‘Yeah, but it was always such a bad time. We were all getting gastro, and then your sister was in hospital, and then they had to pull those floorboards up—’

  ‘But Matt, this was important ! Really important!’

  ‘But you were losin’ it, Helen! Do you think I can’t tell? Your nerves were shot. And you were always mad at me . . . I felt so useless . . . ’

  ‘Well Jesus, Matt, I mean—’ ‘Fuck it, I am useless! I’m fuckin’ useless! Breaking the mower, and everything—fuck, I thought you’d given up on me! I thought you were involved with that detective!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I saw you with him. I saw him kiss your hand.’

  Talk about a leveller. Talk about out of the blue. I nearly choked.

  ‘You’re not, are you?’ he whispered, lifting his face. ‘You’re not foolin’ around with that guy?’

  The tone of his voice was heartbreaking. My tears began to flow.

  ‘Of course not!’ I whimpered.

  ‘Then why did he kiss your hand?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ Sob, sob. ‘He just did it!’ More sobs. ‘It freaked me out, it totally freaked me out!’

  ‘Oh, darlin’.’

  He got out of his chair, kneeled down, and put his arms around me. They were still damp. His hair was still damp. His shoulder was damp under my cheek.

  ‘I didn’t know what to do!’ I cried, then quickly lowered my voice as I remembered the kids. ‘I didn’t know what to do. I thought if Miriam was wrong, then you’d never find out— you’d never know that I was even wondering . . .’

  ‘But he was following me around! He was trailing me!’

  ‘I’m sorry . . .’

  ‘When I saw him, I nearly decked him. I was off my skull. Jesus, I just spent two hours talking about the guy, and he suddenly shows up in the bar!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I was deriving some comfort from Matt’s body heat, and the rumble of his voice as it reverberated through the bones of his chest into my ear. But I had to raise my head. I had to lift my eyes so I could look at his face. ‘Do you mean tonight?’ I sniffed. ‘You were talking about him tonight? With Ray?’

  ‘Of course I was. I just told you—I thought you were foolin’ around. I was goin’ bloody spare.’

  ‘Because you saw him kiss my hand?’

  ‘And other things.’

  ‘Wait a minute.’ I had to get something straight. ‘You saw me at the Al Fresco? You were there at lunchtime?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘How—how did you know where to find me?’

  ‘I didn’t. I wasn’t looking for you there. I was heading for your office. I always pass that place, when I head for your office.’ Close up, I could see every crow’s-foot and cavernous pore and broken capillary on his face, but it didn’t matter. On the contrary, it made me feel good. Like me, he was human. Like me, he had suffered. Like me, he had skin problems and pouches under his eyes. ‘I was walkin’ by,’ he added, ‘and I looked in, because—well, you know. The prawn cocktail.’

  ‘But why were you coming to see me?’ I wanted to know. ‘Why didn’t you warn me?’

  ‘Well, think about it,’ he said. Then, as I stared at him blankly, he climbed to his feet again (knees cracking) and collapsed back into his chair. ‘I’ve been out of my mind,’ he growled. ‘Goin’ spare. All these phone calls. You’ve been makin’ ’em and gettin’ ’em and I didn’t know what to think. Some guy calls up—won’t leave his name. You shut yourself in the bedroom and jump a foot when I come in.’

  ‘Oh, but—’

  ‘And then this morning!’ he exclaimed, before my frantic gestures made him clap a hand over his mouth. (The kids! Of course!) ‘This morning I got the mail,’ he said quietly. ‘What was I supposed to think about that?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Didn’t you see?’

  ‘See what?’ I was genuinely bewildered.

  ‘It was here on the table.’ He looked around, his forehead puckering. ‘I’m sure I left it here. That postcard—and the stuff from the real estate agent. Wasn’t it here?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Then where . . .?’ He rose. He cast about for the missing items. ‘Hang on a second,’ he muttered, and disappeared into the living room. I listened to him shuffling through magazines, his footsteps heavy and deliberate. I was getting a headache.

  Then he came back, looking embarrassed.

  ‘I put ’em in me bag,’ he muttered. ‘I was gunna talk about ’em at lunchtime.’

  Matt’s bag is a kind of floppy, brown suede facsimile of a briefcase. A briefcase but not a briefcase, if you follow me. It perfectly suits Matt, who’s a corporate cog but not
a corporate cog.

  From its scuffed and battered depths he produced a postcard and some papers. The papers had been sent by a local real estate agent. There was a letter, addressed to me, explaining that I had requested the enclosed details about rental accommodation in the area. There was also a collection of listings: units for rent, houses for rent, townhouses for rent. It took me a moment to recall that I had, indeed, asked for this material. So much had happened since.

  ‘Oh. Right,’ I said.

  ‘So what the hell was that all about?’

  ‘Oh . . .’ I put the papers on the table. ‘It was . . . I was in a bit of a panic. I thought that if you were going to . . . you know . . .’ I could hardly force the words out. ‘If you were going to leave, we might have to sell the house.’

  ‘For Chrissake, Helen.’

  ‘I freaked. What do you expect?’

  ‘And that? What’s that?’

  The postcard depicted Sydney Opera House on the front.

  On the back, I recognised Miriam’s handwriting, and my heart skipped a beat. Helen—please don’t be angry, it said. Will call. Lots and lots of love, x x x

  The postmark was a local one. The date was Tuesday.

  ‘Who sent this, if it wasn’t some bloke?’ Matt inquired.

  ‘Miriam, of course.’ I spoke dully. ‘Didn’t you recognise the writing?’ I wondered if I should be passing this piece of correspondence on to the people at the Pacific Commercial Bank, then dismissed the idea. Miriam’s message had obviously been mailed at Sydney airport, or somewhere close by. It offered no clues as to Miriam’s whereabouts. ‘Maybe she didn’t sign it because she was trying to cover her tracks. In case someone was monitoring my post, or something.’ I could no longer guess what Miriam’s motives might have been. I didn’t know what was going on inside her head, any more. ‘I wonder why she sent it?’

  We both fell silent. After a while, Matt got up and filled the electric kettle.

  ‘What will you do if she does call?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Frankly, I had other things on my mind.

  ‘At least she seems to care what you think about her,’ Matt remarked. ‘I guess that’s something.’

  ‘I guess.’ The postcard went on the table. ‘Are you making tea?’

  ‘Do you want some?’

  ‘I’d love some.’

  Down came the mugs—his and mine. Out came the sugar bowl. The milk. The tea bags. I watched Matt as he performed those familiar tasks, fumbling a little over actions that should have been smooth and fluid. His hands shook. He dropped a teaspoon.

  The beer, I thought, is getting in his way.

  ‘So you thought this postcard was from Jim McRae?’ I eventually queried.

  Matt grunted.

  ‘Why, though? You hadn’t even seen Jim when the post came . . .’

  ‘Nick turned up this morning about ten.’ Matt folded his arms and propped his hip against a cupboard, waiting for the water to boil. He confessed that Nick had appeared at the house, briefly, to pick up some equipment. ‘Something about an inside job at Marrickville. Under cover,’ Matt continued. ‘But he had to stop for a yak, and he told me about your visitor yesterday. Your friend Jim.’ Matt lowered his eyes. ‘I didn’t even know you had a friend called Jim,’ he added.

  ‘Oh, Matt.’ I was truly sorry. ‘It was the first thing that came into my head. I couldn’t tell Nick that he was a private detective— can you imagine?’ Even as I spoke, I could feel the hot blood rushing to my cheeks. ‘Anyway, what business is it of Nick’s, for God’s sake?’

  ‘He was just shootin’ his mouth off. Said he felt sorry for you yesterday, with people traipsing in and out. Him and Mike and the guys from the bank and “your friend Jim”. I think he was more interested in the guys from the bank than anyone else. Maybe he’s worried that we’re defaulting on the renovation loan, or something.’

  ‘But how did he know that they were from a bank? It’s not like they went out back and introduced themselves!’

  Matt shrugged. ‘Well, you’ve said it before,’ he pointed out. ‘They hear things, those builders.’

  ‘Bloody stickybeaks!’

  ‘Will I have a word with ’em?’

  ‘No, no.’ I was too tired to maintain the rage. ‘Don’t piss them off. We can’t afford to do that.’

  ‘They’re not gunna sabotage the work, Helen.’

  ‘I know. But I have to live with them. I couldn’t do it, if there was an atmosphere. Here—let me do that. You’re spilling it everywhere.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘I’m a little bit rooted.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘That’s why I caught the cab home. I didn’t know if I could drive.’

  ‘Sit down, Matt.’

  He sat down, and I gave him his tea. Then I sat down opposite him. He was drying off, I noticed; his chest hair was no longer visible through the fabric of his shirt.

  ‘So what happened tonight, exactly?’ Despite my fatigue, I knew that everything would have to be thrashed out before we went to bed. While the kids were still asleep. ‘You went to a bar with Ray, and Jim followed you there?’

  ‘I freaked,’ Matthew admitted, not looking at me. ‘First Nick mentions this “Jim” character, then I get the mail, then I see you with a bloke who’s all over you, and then when I ring you, all I get is a lie about lunch with some woman—’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘—so I completely lose it, I can’t even face going home without a drink, and Ray comes with me, and we talk, and next thing I know there’s your friend the hand-kisser, hangin’ around near the loos.’

  ‘I can’t believe you saw him.’

  ‘I saw him, all right.’

  ‘But Stuart said he was good. He can’t be very good if you saw him.’

  ‘I guess he didn’t know I’d recognise him. Neither of you saw me at lunchtime.’

  ‘That’s true.’ All the same, I wasn’t impressed. ‘So then what happened? Nothing bad, I hope.’

  ‘Oh, I bailed him up.’ Matt began to scratch at the tabletop with his fingernail. ‘I lost it, a bit.’

  ‘Oh, Matt.’

  ‘I didn’t hit him, don’t worry.’ He flashed me a dark and complicated look, which I ignored. ‘He didn’t get hurt.’

  ‘It’s you I’m worried about. You can get arrested for brawling in pubs.’

  ‘Well I didn’t. I didn’t brawl. I told him to leave my wife alone, or else.’

  ‘You’re kidding!’

  A giggle escaped him. ‘It was the beer talkin’,’ he observed, and I eyed him doubtfully. This was the side of Matt that I wasn’t very familiar with—the tattooed, pub-crawling, pig-shooting side—and it made me anxious.

  ‘He used to be a copper, Matt.’

  ‘He’s still smaller than I am.’

  ‘So what did he say?’

  ‘He told me who he was, and why he was there.’ Matt fixed me with another intent look over the rim of his teacup. ‘He said you should probably call him.’

  ‘Mmph.’

  ‘Don’t you want to call him?’

  ‘Not particularly.’ I sipped my tea and cleared my throat, avoiding my husband’s eye. ‘I think he’s a bit of a creep. He was all right at first, but then that hand-kissing business . . . I don’t know.’

  ‘Do you want me to call him?’

  ‘Please,’ I said, before adding: ‘If you can be civil.’

  ‘I can be civil.’

  ‘Just tell him that we don’t need his services any more.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Matt agreed softly. ‘And I’ll tell him that we never did.’

  We never did. I gazed at Matt, sitting there in his clammy clothes, and realised suddenly that he was, indeed, mine. That slick black hair, curling damply at the ends; those big, bony hands with their reddened knuckles and hairy wrists; that lopsided, gap-toothed grin—all mine. Those tatts were mine, as was the history beh
ind them. I still had first dibs on his spicy pork chops, his old flannelette pyjamas, his encyclopaedic knowledge of popular music, his first-class driving skills, his stories about culling kamikaze roosters, his effortless ability to make the kids laugh—his past ten years, in fact. And his immediate future? It too belonged to me.

  Well, perhaps not entirely to me.

  ‘So what’s the deal with Josephine?’ I asked, and he groaned.

  ‘I dunno.’ He shook his head. ‘God, Helen, I just—I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Is she working? Is she still an addict? Does she need help? What do we have to do?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He set his cup down. ‘I mean, you don’t have to do anything. It’s my problem.’

  ‘If it’s your problem, Matt, then it’s my problem too.’

  ‘No,’ he said firmly, shaking his head. ‘No, see—that’s the thing. I didn’t want you to have to cope with this girl. This girl . . .’ He faltered, lost for words. ‘She’s trouble,’ he finished.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Oh . . .’ More furious head-scratching. ‘Look, she reckons she’s gettin’ it together—she’s got a job in a tobacco shop, some bloke she’s livin’ with—but I dunno. I dunno.’ Tentatively, Matt tried to express his feelings on the subject of his daughter’s character. Jo worried him, he said. Her mother was a head case; there was no doubt about that. A bit scatty, a bit paranoid. Given to unreasonable and somewhat obsessive behaviour. At the same time, though, you could see why she’d pretty much given up on Josephine.

  ‘Jo’s robbed her. Jo’s attacked her. I mean, they must set each other off, big time. Megan might have fucked the poor kid over, once or twice, but not . . . I mean, not deliberately.’ Though Matt has never been much good at articulating his perception of social contracts or personal relationships, I could see what he was getting at. ‘It’s just the way she sees the world,’ Matt went on, his brow furrowed. ‘It’s all a pitched battle for her, you know? She should never have had a kid. And Jo—she’s a bloody terror with Megan.’

  ‘Which doesn’t necessarily mean she’ll be a terror with you,’ I pointed out.

  ‘N-n-o-o . . .’ Matt sounded unconvinced. ‘But she’s got it all worked out, Hel. She reckons I owe her. Well, I guess I do, in a way. She wants money. She wants support—’