by John Clanchy
‘She became sicker and sicker. One night she could not go out. The drunk man came to the door: ‘‘Where is your sister?’’ ‘‘She is sick,’’ I said. He looked at me. ‘‘And you?’’ he said. ‘‘You look pretty, you are strong.’’ ‘‘No,’’ Savitri said. She had got up. She spat at him. ‘‘Old fool,’’ she cried. ‘‘She is a girl, she is just a girl – can’t you see?’’ The drunk man looked at me again. ‘‘I will come,’’ Savitri said. ‘‘I am better now.’’
‘ ‘‘If only we could leave,’’ Savitri would say. ‘‘Europe, or Australia.’’ Savitri went to the officials, to UNHCR. ‘‘Put it in writing,’’ they said. A scribe wrote for us. Forms came back, but the letter said any process would be long. We had no family, and there were thousands in the queue before us. ‘‘I will die before that,’’ Savitri said. ‘‘And what will happen to you?’’
‘More and more, as the sickness took her, I would find her watching me. ‘‘Shamila,’’ she would begin. And then cough, and say nothing further.
‘One morning in the market, as I shopped, the drunk man stopped me. ‘‘Well,’’ he said, ‘‘has your sister made up her mind?’’ ‘‘About what?’’ I said. ‘‘She has not told you?’’ he said. ‘‘No,’’ I said. I was more frightened than ever. ‘‘People will pay huge prices,’’ he said, ‘‘lakhs and lakhs of dollars, a king’s ransom. To them it is nothing.’’
‘ ‘‘But we have nothing to sell,’’ I said. ‘‘Oh, not to me,’’ he laughed, ‘‘I am nearly as poor as you are.’’ Still I did not understand. When I got home, I asked Savitri. ‘‘He is mad,’’ she said, ‘‘he drinks. Take no notice.’’ But she was lying, I could tell from her voice.
‘Next time I went to the market, I deliberately looked for the drunk man. ‘‘My sister is dying,’’ I told him. ‘‘We have nothing to sell.’’ ‘‘You have one thing,’’ he said, ‘‘that people will pay for. Foreigners, Europeans, in the big hotels,’’ he said. And then I understood. ‘‘But Savitri only makes enough money to pay for the room, our food,’’ I said – but I guessed already what he would answer. ‘‘Savitri is a woman,’’ he said. ‘‘She is not unbroken.’’ He looked at me. ‘‘Three thousand dollars for one night, maybe more,’’ he said. ‘‘One night. Savitri will prepare you,’’ he said. ‘‘I will arrange for the clothes.’’ ‘‘Did Savitri say that?’’ I said. ‘‘I do not believe you.’’ ‘‘You have only one ruby,’’ he said. ‘‘You can waste it on some achhoot jati of a husband, or you can sell it. And leave. You and Savitri. You can survive.’’
‘ ‘‘They would pay that much?’’
‘ ‘‘Yes,’’ he said. ‘‘Because they can only buy it once. From you. And you can only sell it once.’’
‘Aah –
‘ ‘‘The sari should be red?’’ the drunk man came to us and said, and Savitri whispered, ‘‘ Yes.’’ She could hardly hold up her head by then. ‘‘No,’’ I said, and this was the first time I had ever contradicted her. ‘‘White,’’ I said. ‘‘I will go in white.’’ And I did …’
After a minute’s silence, the clapping and reaching out begins. It is slow, almost uncertain at first, while they absorb the last part of her story. Which Shamila has rushed.
‘Thank you, Shamila,’ I say. ‘Does anyone have any questions?’
As usual, I have a question of my own, but I cannot ask. Why white, I want to ask her – and why today, I wonder. What is she telling us? I cannot bring myself to ask this, but I feel trivial and stupid not knowing the answer. And I wonder again what I have released here, with these stories.
‘Is it true?’ I hear Maria say to Shamila as they leave together at the end of the class. It is not a question, though it is in the form of a question. It is the way something is said that makes the difference. That, at least, I know. Now.
Grandma Vera
Fatso’s back. Like Louie the Fly. Old Bloodbath’s back.
‘Nobody’s going to steal the cat from you,’ Bloodbath says.
‘Cat?’ I say.
‘Yogi,’ she says. ‘If you keep hiding him under your cardy all the time like that, he’s going to scratch you. Eventually,’ she says. She chews her gums. Well, that’s all she’ll be chewing here, if I can help it. House and home, otherwise. Fancy anyone. Fancy, Old Bloodgum.
I watch her moving her arms. I could do that, move my arms like that. I used to do that. Move my arms like that. With the long, bone things.
‘Did you ever knit, Mrs Harcourt?’ she says.
‘No,’ I say.
‘It’s very relaxing,’ she says. Moving her arms.
‘How’s the grandson?’ I say then. This comes from Em’s notes. I’ve learnt all Em’s notes by heart. ‘It was a grandson, wasn’t it?’ I say again to Fatso. Because she hasn’t answered.
‘You can be very cruel,’ she says.
‘And the car?’ I say on impulse. ‘That was a write-off as well, wasn’t it?’
‘Ohh –’ she says, and rushes out to the clawroom.
Something about a grandson, I’ve hooked into. A car, something about a car. A car and a grandson. I’m like Miriam when I’m like this. If I ever want to hurt, my mind is so clear. A gift of mercury. Some days it shines, my brain, like it’s coated with silver. Like today. I could run Parliament.
Miriam’s sad, she’s sad, sad. She’s not happy. She had the picture thing out again, the picture thing with the covers. And the writing in it.
‘Do you remember this one, Mother?’ she says, pointing to one of the picture things. But it’s not like she’s really asking. More like when we played school, and she was the teacher, and expected me to fail.
I shake my head.
‘What about this? Who’s in this photo?’
‘Is it a game?’ I say.
‘Look,’ she says, ‘it’s Dad.’
‘Dad?’
‘Bill,’ she says, ‘it’s you and Bill. On your wedding day.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ I say. To encourage her. Since she’s so keen on this game. But then I can see she’s getting upset again, and I realize she must be losing. She’s sad. She’s not happy. Sad. Miriam’s sad. Living with Greeks like this. She should be in a home. But what if you were too small for a home? What if you went to a home, and couldn’t see over the mat? That’s what’d frighten me. Or you had to share with a mouse? Or a rabbit?
‘I’d like you, Mrs Harcourt,’ Bloodstock once said, ‘to think of me as a special friend.’ And poor Mrs Johanson, I thought then. Having no one of her own, and having to make friends with the prisoner. But it was too late. Because I already had a special friend – I’ve got Emily. Em still writes. After all these years. Em still does, Em does … Miriam doesn’t know about Em. If she did, she’d be jealous. She’d try to stop her. Bloodstock should get someone like Em. She tells me everything, Em does. She leaves messages for me, notes in my room, Em does. Letters, notes.
Miriam used to leave notes. Take this, Take that, Don’t forget your pills with lunch. Now she’s taken all the medicine away, and hands it to me pill by pill herself. She says I can’t read the notes properly, when I can. So Emily leaves the notes now, but in secret places where no one but me will find them, inside clothes in the drawers, in the tea tin, under the cushion on my chair, once in the soap box where it got so wet I could hardly read it. Ask Bloodstock about the grandson, it said. Keep asking, it said. That’s how I remembered this morning – is it morning? To ask. Some of the notes have answers written underneath, so there’s someone else who knows, who writes as well. Like, The car was a write-off, too, under the one about the grandson. Sometimes I don’t understand them. They’re too short. Like, Watch the Greek. But which Greek? The place is full of them. Or they’re about people I don’t know. Like, The one with the moustache is Bill, or If it’s a woman in white, it’s you. I wondered at first if it was Miriam who was writing these answers – clues for the game, or something – but it wasn’t. I tried them out on her. ‘Who’s this?�
�� she said, pointing to the picture things. Pointing to a woman in white. ‘It’s you,’ I said, remembering the note. ‘No, it’s not me, Mother,’ she said. ‘It’s you.’ ‘That’s what I just said,’ I shouted. She shut it then, the picture book thing. ‘If you’re only going to get upset,’ she said. When she’s the one who gets upset. Especially if she’s losing. She’s always hated to lose.
But I’ve got to learn these notes, I’ve got to remember them – I know this – for her sake. So she won’t get angry – won’t get red with me – and send me away. Bloodstock’s the problem, Bloodstock and her grandson. Miriam doesn’t like them hanging around all the time the way they do. I have to get rid of them. It’s up to me. If I wasn’t here, they wouldn’t come at all. I’m sure of that. They have no right. Miriam doesn’t really know how often they’re here. They only come round when she’s out. When she gets back, and finds them, she sends them packing soon enough. She doesn’t put up with them. But she’s got to give them money, I’ve seen that, to get rid of them. She hands them money. They won’t go otherwise. It’s disgusting. Why should she have to throw good money away on people like these? She’ll get sick of it soon, and send us all packing – me as well. It’s not right, she shouldn’t have to put up with it. Maybe I should try the police again. They won’t come any more when I just phone. I’ll have to go out and find them myself. Tell them the whole story, this time.
Philip
‘Jesus,’ Tony Ryle says. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Mmm?’ I say. I’m trying to get a letter finished before lunch. Tony’s drawn stumps early and has spent the last ten minutes roaming around my office, flinging himself in and out of chairs, going to the window and back, picking up files and bits and pieces from my desk and tossing them down again, and generally behaving like a blue-arsed fly. Normally none of this would bother me.
‘Miriam doesn’t mind?’ he says.
‘What? Mind what?’ I say. I keep my eyes locked on my screen, hoping Tony will finally get the message.
‘Thi – ss,’ he says. And he says it with such emphasis that I have no choice but to turn from the screen and look up. He’s holding one of the three small framed photos that I keep on my desk. ‘You’re actually telling me,’ he says, ‘that Miriam’s happy about sharing top billing on your desk with young loveboat here? What are you in – an open marriage or something?’
Tony always wants to know about these things. He’s always pressing for details, and not just about the present. ‘You and Miriam,’ he’ll start. ‘Did you do it first night? Second? When, then?’
‘And what about now?’ he’s just as likely to say, under the cover of jocularity, of mateship. ‘You and Miriam …’ he’ll say. ‘You still faithful to one another?’
This last question, I’ve always suspected he’s taken a special interest in. Miriam tolerates him, she sometimes finds him funny. ‘But he’s a bit …’ she always ends up saying and leaving it to me to fill in the blanks. I know what she means. I take the photo from him now and put it back in its place on my desk before he drops it.
‘That’s Laura, you idiot.’
‘Well, I didn’t think it was Petrarch,’ he says.
Mostly, I suspect, he adopts this smart alec approach because he’s anxious about forgetting his origins, his roots – rural, small farm, battling – and he doesn’t want to get sucked in by all this ‘Big Town, Bourgeois Lawyer Bullshit’, as he puts it. His taste in ties alone has won him reprimands from the Bench. All of which tells you just how tempted he is, and how much he wants.
‘The point is,’ he’s saying, ‘who the hell is Laura? And what’s her phone number?’
‘It’s the same as mine,’ I tell him.
‘You, what?’
‘Laura,’ I spell it out, ‘is my daughter. Okay? Now if you just let me finish this letter, we can get out to lunch.’
‘Your daughter?’
‘Laura,’ I say. ‘See?’
‘Jesus –’ he says, looking again. He’s actually met her at the house, once, maybe twice. ‘She looks –’
‘She’s wearing her hair differently, that’s all.’
‘When was it taken?’
‘A week or so back, that’s why you haven’t seen it before. She’s just turned fifteen. Now if you’ll please –’
‘But, fuck, Philip, I mean.’
‘What?’
‘Well, she’s not really your daughter, is she? She’s Miriam’s.’ ‘Step-daughter, then. So?’
‘Well, fuck –’
‘Tony, what are you trying to say?’ I look at the photo again. It’s the new Laura, her hair swept back, up. She has Miriam’s bones, though the eyes are her own. Stavros’ presumably. And looking at them – their black, moody irises – I suddenly see why Miriam was so attracted to Stavros. I look at Miriam in one of the other photos, and I see how alike and how different she and Laura are. And I realize, too, how Miriam always arranges us in a photo so that she and Katie are on one side of me, balancing Laura, but away from her, so that they’re not competing. Mother and daughter.
‘I’m just pointing out, that’s all,’ he says.
‘Pointing out what?’
‘That she’s not … bloodline. Okay, okay, she’s your stepdaughter, but it’s not as though she’s really your daughter.’
‘Look, Tony, I’ve told you –’
‘No offence.’
‘No offence taken,’ I say. ‘Yet. But you’re getting into strange water, Tony. It’s Laura, and to all intents and purposes, she’s my daughter. So, let’s drop it, huh?’
‘Sure, sure,’ he said, hands up, palms open towards me. ‘Word to the wise.’
‘Now piss off to your own office while I finish this letter, and I’ll pick you up on the way out.’
‘Sure, Phil, sure.’ He pauses at the door. ‘You’re not –?’
‘No.’
‘I didn’t mean anything. I was just –’
‘Yes, I know.’
After he leaves, I pull back into the screen to finish the letter, but can’t for the life of me re-discover my train of thought. The words stream like coloured fish within the glass screen, and just as meaninglessly. I push my chair away again and sit for a few minutes looking at the photos. Then take my jacket from the cupboard and head out to lunch.
‘What were they going?’ Tony asks as soon as we sit.
‘Four million, plus costs.’
‘Jesus. No wonder you’re the golden-haired lad at the moment. You want a beer?’
‘I’m working this afternoon.’
‘Very funny.’
The restaurant is deserted. It’s Monday, and I’m surprised they even bother to open at all. Mondays, people just tend to grab a sandwich and work through lunch. The fact that we’re here at all means Tony’s got something on his mind. Something else, for once. I think I know what it is. But we chat while waiting for soup. Chat with Soup, deal with Mains. Is the general rule round here.
‘So what line did you take?’
I’m being buttered up with all this pretend interest – Tony knows the case as well as I do – but I don’t mind it. If I’m honest, I like it. And it was the biggest public case the firm’s had in years. Lots of media, because it involved the media. Defamation, Supreme Court, a politician, corruption, a wife who’d been labelled promiscuous – all the high notes – QC prosecuting, with a hand that should have been a misère. Especially in front of Frank Fletcher, who likes to be seen. Society parties, galleries, opening nights. And all I had was a tabloid newspaper mogul with attitude, greyhounds, and a taste in ties that matched Tony’s. He should have gone for four million at least. Plus costs. On style alone.
‘Did the paper actually say she was a tart?’ Tony asks.
‘It didn’t say she was professional.’
‘Big difference. What about the politics, the corruption, what’d you submit?’
‘Qualified privilege.’
‘Ah,’ he says. ‘Sinclair VBjelke-Petersen, 198
4.’
Tony’s smart. Not entirely pleasant, but smart. Defamation’s not his bag, but he’ll out-cite you case for case across a whole range of fields: criminal, commercial, administrative, trusts, tax. He brings the same curiosity to this as he does to sex. Which is one of the reasons I never tell him much. Much personal, that is. Ten years from now, I suspect, it could be cited against me.
‘And the wife?’ he says. ‘What’d you argue on her?’
‘Fair Comment.’
‘And they went Malice?’
‘Yes.’
‘So?’
‘So we’d lined up a succession of previous ‘‘boyfriends’’.’
‘And the Prosecution had no idea?’
‘They took one look at the witness sheet and they realized – to say nothing of hubby and his career in Parliament …’
‘Christ, you mean she hadn’t told him? He didn’t know either?’
‘If he had, do you think they’d have brought the suit in the first place? Anyway they realized they were on a hiding to nothing if we ever got any of these guys into the box. So they folded. Said they’d exposed the paper’s gutter tactics, and that’s all they ever wanted. Fletcher was really pissed off at the time, but he had no choice. He found no case, gave us costs. He was okay later. He was at the party, remember?’
‘And the wife? Was she really promiscuous?’
‘No idea.’
‘Now whose was the onion soup?’ a waiter says.
‘So, what did the firm make out of it all?’ Tony opens the dealing as soon as the Mains come. He’s ordered the veal, I’ve chosen entrecôte of lamb. Both with frites, though mine look more like chips. And a Hunter shiraz. It’s Monday, but it already feels like Friday. ‘Two?’ Tony says. ‘Three hundred thou.?’
‘About three,’ I say.
‘And Philip Trent? What piece did he get of all this?’
