Living on Hope Street

by Demet Divaroren

  I wanted to tell her about going over to Grandma’s yesterday, about how old she looked, but Mum’s frown was getting bigger and bigger. ‘You always say that you’re not like the old-minded Turks, you don’t care about honour and shame, but you freaked out when you saw me kissing a guy. You’re just like Grandma.’

  ‘Don’t ever say that to me again!’ Her eyes welled up and her hands shook. ‘I didn’t freak out because it’s shameful. You were with an older guy. What if he tried to hurt you? Huh? To make you do something you didn’t want to do?’ She wiped sweat from her forehead, sculled the rest of her wine. ‘You didn’t do anything wrong. From now on you’re allowed to date, okay? But only if he’s your age. Not older.’

  The last bit killed the excitement that made me fly out of my seat. Guys my age were pathetic, but this was major improvement so I kept my mouth shut.

  ‘And I have to meet him first.’

  ‘Ugh.’ I sat back down and lay my head on the dining table. ‘Guys don’t find that sexy, you know.’

  ‘Do you want to be sexy?’

  ‘You mean I’m not sexy?’ I pretended to have a pain in my heart.

  ‘You’re fifteen!’

  ‘You know who thinks he’s sexy? Dad. Have you seen his latest hairstyle? I don’t know how people take him seriously enough to let him build their houses.’

  ‘It’s awful. Like a fluffy dog. He’s going through a mid-life crisis—’

  ‘I knew it! You’ve been stalking his Facebook!’

  ‘Why would I?’ She shook her head and chewed her lip. She was trying not to smile. ‘I missed you.’ She got up and hugged me. She smelled like perfume and wine.

  ‘Okay, enough, get off me, Mum!’

  She laughed and started clearing the table.

  ‘So what about curfews?’ I said, stacking the dishwasher.

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Ten pm is really early. There’s a party on Saturday night. A friend from school. She’s Italian, and her parents own a restaurant chain. Seren is going too. We’ll be back by eleven—’

  ‘Ten pm. No later.’

  ‘I thought you trusted me …’ I held my breath.

  She flicked a tea towel against the sink to get rid of the crumbs. ‘Eleven pm. Only if you have your mobile with you at all times, okay? I want to be able to reach you. And if I can’t—’

  ‘Yes, ma’am!’

  ‘I’ll drop you off and pick you up not a minute after eleven.’

  I gave her a salute and rushed to my room. The best way to forget about Dimitri was to find a new one.

  The first tea of the afternoon loosened Mr Bailey’s bones.

  His wife sipped from a gold-rimmed, rose-patterned china cup. The set was a present from her late mother and was as old as their marriage. Fifty years. No marriage lasted that long these days, he thought, not with all the technology that made adultering so easy that people did it with a few clicks from their fancy phones! The newspapers printed stories about divorce every second day and if it wasn’t that Facebook site on the internet causing problems, it was money. Mr Bailey had always stayed true to his vows, and he and Judy stuck together in sickness and in health, in good times and bad.

  Mr Bailey drank his tea from a mug twice the size of the dainty cup his wife saved for special occasions. ‘What are we celebrating, love?’ he said. ‘The china’s out.’ He bit into a scone and the sticky sweetness of the apple sauce burst on his tongue like his wife’s kisses.

  ‘You,’ she said. She gave Mr Bailey an A4 piece of paper, her eyes shining. ‘Katie popped in on the way to work and dropped it off. It’s a rough draft.’

  ‘You don’t think Katie’s still mad at me for my blunder about Angie at dinner the other night …’

  ‘No, dear. I had a chat with Angie this morning when I was sweeping the front deck. She was on her way to the courthouse with Kane to get … what was the word … oh dear, I’m not so sure … an order of some kind against her husband.’

  Mr Bailey’s eyes lit up. ‘Good! That should bring a smile to Katie’s face! Wait till I tell her!’ But his daughter’s accusing eyes popped into his head and he moved the paper up to his nose to shoo it away. He made out the heading: The Life of my Grandpa Gary Bailey by Anita Kapoor. ‘Oh! She wrote it already, Judy!’ Anita had interviewed him for her assignment after the dinner that went pear-shaped despite Mr Bailey’s efforts. Pride rippled through him and he moved the paper around to get better light. The words were printed but Mr Bailey had to squint to adjust his eyes to the small text.

  ‘Give it to me, dear, I’ll read it to you.’ Mrs Bailey put her glasses on and moved her chair away from the table to sit under the kitchen light. She peered at him over the rims with a sexy grin.

  He laughed out loud; bits of apple sauce stained the paper. It had been a while since he’d seen that kind of grin. ‘Keep that up and there’ll be no reading till later.’

  She snatched the paper and cleared her throat. ‘“Gary Thomas Bailey is my grandpa. He is a rascal …”’

  ‘She wrote that?!’

  Mrs Bailey laughed and reached over to kiss his hand.

  ‘Be serious, love,’ he said, ‘or I’ll show you rascal!’

  She winked and continued. ‘“He is sixty-nine years old. He was born in Melbourne when it was full of farms and grass. He has two sisters and when he was small he played with hay and tyres on the big, empty land—”’

  ‘Good. Good. She’s talented, our Anita!’ Mr Bailey had gotten emotional when he was speaking to her about the good old days when the land was populated with proper migrants, the European kind and not the Arabs who tinkered with cars and junk. He sighed with satisfaction thinking about the lad’s face when he’d hung up the two Australian flags in the front yard.

  Mrs Bailey gave him a look that used to silence schoolchildren instantly. He put his hands up. ‘Okay, okay, I won’t interrupt. Keep going.’

  She tried to hide a smile. ‘“He walked to school and his favourite treat was aniseed balls which was a hard lolly that took a long time to eat. Grandpa’s pop lost his arm at war in Gallipoli, a far away place near the water. When Grandpa grew up he fought in the Vietnam War.”’ Mr Bailey sucked in his breath. ‘What happens at war, Grandpa?’ Anita had said and the sound of gunfire and screaming blared through the house until he had to cover his ears. ‘“He saw lots of bad things,”’ Mrs Bailey continued, ‘“but Grandpa said the best thing he ever saw was Grandma.”’ She paused, placed a hand on her heart. ‘Oh, Gary.’

  He held her hand. ‘Nothing’s come close in all these years.’

  Mrs Bailey wiped away a tear and continued, her voice shaky. ‘“Grandma is the love of his life. He has one daughter, my mum Katie, and two grandkids, me (Anita) and my brother Daniel who he loves very much. I love Grandpa because he is funny and sneaks me ice creams.”’ She folded the paper and sipped her tea. ‘She loves you very much.’

  Mr Bailey was so moved by Anita’s piece, the words couldn’t push past the lump in his throat.

  ‘Though your secret’s out, dear. No more sneaking ice creams,’ said Mrs Bailey, collecting the plates.

  ‘I’ll do it, love. You sit.’ Mr Bailey took the dishes to the sink and rinsed the scone crumbs with water. ‘Who says I can’t spoil my grandkids?’ He placed the plates on the dish rack and watered the pot plant on the windowsill. The sun was kissing their garden bed, painting the flowers yellow and gold. ‘My pop used to sneak me hard-boiled sweets when I was a boy until my teeth rotted in three places! Never mind, I’ll find a new way.’ He was reluctant to wash Mrs Bailey’s china cup in case he damaged it and left it on the bench top. ‘Judy, love, I’ll leave the china to you.’

  Mr Bailey heard the dog flap swish and he quickly rinsed the spoons that chinked in his hands. ‘Good afternoon, Sunshine!’ he said. He turned to greet his dog and his elbow sent the china cup crashing to the floor. Sunshine barked and Mr Bailey gawked at the shattered pieces, unable to move. ‘Judy, I’m sorry, lo
ve.’

  She was asleep; her head bent forward, her chin cushioned against her throat. He walked towards her, rehearsing ways to apologise for destroying an heirloom. He was careful not to step on the shards of rose. He wished he could clean it up but he didn’t have the right bones to bend. Sunshine was whimpering at Mrs Bailey’s feet. She often fell asleep like this but would wake up at the drop of a pin. She must be really tired today—

  Sunshine howled and it tore at Mr Bailey’s heart. ‘Quiet, Sunshine. Judy,’ he said, tapping her shoulder. ‘Love, get up, I’m really sorry. I broke the china. Didn’t you hear it?’

  She didn’t move.

  Maybe she was losing her hearing, he thought. She had been complaining of a buzzing in her ears in the past few weeks.

  ‘Judy …’ Mr Bailey’s heart raced with his breathing. His wife looked pale, without the milky tinge that made her skin glow. Her hands were in her lap as if cupping a treasure. Her shoulders were stooped and she looked like she would topple forward any minute. ‘Judy!’ He checked her chest for a heartbeat but his hands shook and he couldn’t tell. ‘Judy, wake up!’

  She was as still as a shell.

  ‘An ambulance … Sunshine … Judy!’ His thoughts were tangled and he couldn’t separate them or his words when he dialled the ambulance service.

  ‘Help! Please. My wife … please … come now. No … no … I don’t know. My address is twenty-seven Hope Street. I don’t know if she’s breathing, I couldn’t tell … no she’s not responding!’ Sobs shook Mr Bailey and his words until Sunshine rested his head on his feet and he took a deep breath. ‘They’re on their way? Good! Please hurry! No, she was fine, we were talking, drinking tea, then … just like that … yes, she made no sound, nothing … no, just diabetes … okay, okay …’

  Mr Bailey put the phone down to do as the operator said. He went to Judy, held his left hand with the right to still the shaking and trailed a finger along her neck to find a pulse. His Judy was warm to touch; her rose oil cologne glistened on the base of her neck, seeping through his skin. He knew where to look. He’d kissed her pulse many times when his mouth trailed her neck and it would beat against his lips. All he felt now was stillness.

  Mr Bailey picked up the phone, speaking through sobs. ‘There’s no pulse … she’s in a chair, sitting, yes, no not supported … I can’t … not … alone … okay … yes, but please come now.’

  He hung up, careful not to touch his wife in case she fell. He had to move her, that’s what the operator said. Get help and put your wife in a stable position. He shuffled down the hall to the front door, the walls swimming in his tears.

  The sun was so bright it shrunk his eyes. He hurried down the driveway and onto the quiet street. Mr Bailey didn’t know which way to go. He stood in the middle of the street in his black and red striped cotton pants and sobbed. ‘Help,’ he whimpered. ‘Please someone help me.’

  There was movement across the road but he couldn’t be sure who it was with the afternoon sun blurring his eyes.

  ‘You okay?’

  Mr Bailey turned towards the voice, flapping his hands. ‘No, please, help me!’

  ‘What’s wrong, bro?’ The man jogged towards Mr Bailey.

  It was the Arab lad with the tattoos.

  ‘Please, please help me,’ said Mr Bailey, grabbing the boy’s arm. ‘My wife … please come.’

  ‘Alright.’

  Mr Bailey led the way home weeping quietly, the young man’s sneakers squeaking against the footpath.

  The house smelled like scones and butter and Mr Bailey thought that perhaps it was a misunderstanding, that his Judy was just in a deep sleep. He quickened his steps, hope propelling him forward. But she was there, exactly how he’d left her.

  ‘Oh.’ The lad breathed deep and put his hands on his head. ‘Is she …’

  Mr Bailey nodded.

  ‘I’m sorry, bro.’

  ‘Please, can you help me move her to our room?’

  The boy wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘I’ll do it, you show me where to go.’

  Mr Bailey watched the boy cradle his wife like a doll. He had carried her that way on their wedding night and in his heart every day after that. ‘Through that door. Please be careful.’

  The boy placed her on the bed and Mr Bailey kneeled on the floor beside her, kissing her hands. ‘Judy … my Judy …’

  ‘Allah yerhama,’ said the boy, touching Mr Bailey’s shoulder. ‘May she rest in peace.’ He walked towards the door. ‘I … ah, I’ll just wait in the kitchen until the ambulance comes. In case you need something …’

  ‘Thank you,’ whispered Mr Bailey. ‘Thank you.’

  The boy walked out, leaving Mr Bailey alone with his love and a loss too heavy to carry.

  The waiting area outside the courtroom was packed with people. There was one spare seat next to a bloke wearing a blue shirt. He was so skinny the shirt looked like an art smock.

  ‘Sit down, Mum,’ I said.

  ‘No, I’ll stand. You sit.’ She pointed to the seat.

  The skinny bloke looked up from his phone and stood. His cheek was bruised the colour of grapes. He took a car key out of his pocket and whispered something to a girl of around my age. She nodded but her shoulders shrank.

  ‘Keep an eye on her,’ he said to me and Mum. ‘Please.’ His eyes jumped around the room as if looking for someone. ‘I won’t be long. Doesn’t look like we’ll be called for ages.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, ‘no worries.’

  The girl’s eyes followed him down the corridor as we sat in our seats. Mum put the green folder the registrar gave us on her lap. She wore black pants and a white shirt. She smiled at the girl, who held her own green folder in her hands. They were shaking.

  I leaned back, one eye on the entrance. Dad hadn’t turned up yet but blokes with the same bulky arms paced the corridor like restless animals. Two protective services officers in yellow fluoro vests scanned the room every ten minutes. They had batons and bulky guns. Dad wouldn’t have the balls to try something, not when there were bullets around.

  ‘Remember what the police lawyer said,’ Mum whispered. ‘No talking unless you’re asked a question, okay?’

  ‘Relax, Ma.’ Her good hand was white; she’d squeezed it into a fist. I undid her fingers, tapped her hand.

  ‘Your hands are sweating.’

  ‘I’m good,’ I said, but wiped my hands on my jeans when she turned away. I didn’t give a shit about what the lawyer said. If Dad tried even one wrong move, he was going to taste my left hook.

  Across from me, an old lady ate a sausage roll out of a brown paper bag. Pastry was stuck to her chin. The smell made me hungry. The lawyer said we could be here half a day and things might drag on if Dad didn’t turn up. Where the hell was he?

  The skinny bloke came back and the girl looked relieved. He was leaning against the wall next to me when Dad walked in.

  I straightened in my seat, my back stiff. He wore a grey suit with a crooked blue tie and stood a few feet away from us. Mum’s breathing became short and sharp and I squeezed her hand, not taking my eye off Dad. He didn’t move until a PSO told him he was in everyone’s way. He stood near the wall opposite us, a smile slicing his face. I didn’t look away until Mum’s shaking hands tugged at my arm.

  ‘Don’t give in to him, Kane. Remember why we’re here.’

  I kicked the blue carpet with my foot, imagining it was Dad’s face.

  ‘Did you hear me?’ Mum’s voice was ice.

  I nodded but didn’t stop the kicking. Time dragged on as people coughed and muttered. One lady wailed at the end of the corridor until someone led her away. Dad’s eyes made holes in my skin but I didn’t look at him. Not until our name was called two hours later and we walked in with our lawyer.

  ‘Angie, Kane,’ Dad said, all professional when he walked past us.

  The room was bright with orange-patterned walls. It looked like some Aboriginal artwork. There were other people
in the room sitting up the back. Me and Mum were up the front behind our lawyer who sat at a long table. Dad sat at the far end of the same table and smirked at us before turning away.

  We stood up when the magistrate came in. She looked Indian, with a tight bun and a black suit. She waved for us to sit. Dad’s face didn’t change as Mum’s lawyer did the talking and explained to the magistrate what the IVO application was about.

  Dad got up. His suit was creased, his face red.

  ‘You are representing yourself, Mr White?’

  ‘Yes, your honour.’

  ‘Have the two parties come to an agreement?’

  ‘I’m agreeing to the order but I don’t accept the allegations, your honour.’

  Her eyebrows shot up.

  Dad looked at Mum.

  Mum stared back, lifted her chin.

  The judge read out the conditions of the order and Dad turned to stone. He didn’t even swallow.

  ‘Mr White, you are not permitted near your wife or children, the Protected Persons, sober or drunk, for two years. You must stay at least two hundred metres away from where the Protected Persons live, work or attend school. You must stay at least two hundred metres away from the Protected Persons in any public place. If you breach these conditions, you could be charged with a criminal offence, be imprisoned or both. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, your honour,’ Dad said.

  When the magistrate dismissed us, Mum hugged me, her back turned to Dad. He walked past us, his face creased into a grin as if he’d won.

  Angie walked carrying a tub of Cherry Ripe ice cream in a shopping bag. The plastic rubbed against her skin. The air was warm and she took a deep breath for the first time since the magistrate’s ruling today. It was a small victory but her excitement dimmed when she thought of Dean’s arrogant face. It sent a chill up her spine and she walked faster, eager to get home.

  She entered her street. The blue and red lights of an ambulance flashed in front of her house, its double doors gaping open. Her legs buckled. ‘I’ll kill them both,’ Dean had said, so many times. ‘If you leave me again …’ She ran down the street, the grocery bag thumping her thigh.