Mercy Street

by Tess Evans

  3

  The Sticky Wicket isn’t what it used to be. Now it isn’t even The Sticky Wicket. It’s The White Clipper Bar and Bistro and there isn’t a sticky glass stain or a flake of sawdust in sight. A few old-timers huddle in the darkest corner, providing authenticity, while the thirty-somethings sit at dinky chrome tables and sip wine or that foreign beer.

  Redgum, already on his second drink, is leaning against the bar when George limps in, an unusual fifteen minutes late.

  It’s been ten days since George was roughed up, but he looks buggered, crossing his arms around his ribs as he eases himself onto the bar stool before taking a deep draught of the beer Redgum has ordered. ‘That hits the spot.’

  ‘Any more visits from Wonder Woman?’ Redgum wipes some froth from his upper lip and surveys the fancy-schmancy artworks more in sorrow than in anger.

  ‘Yeah. She came yesterday and asked if I could look after the kid while she goes to a job interview.’

  ‘What’d you say?’

  ‘Nothing much I could say, except I would.’

  ‘Shirl’s not gonna be too happy.’ Redgum and Shirl had discussed the situation and he had to agree that his mate was too soft. You could take advantage of a bloke like George.

  As though controlled by a single string, the two men tip back their heads and drain their glasses.

  ‘Same again,’ says George to the barman hovering by the tap.

  Without a beer, Redgum isn’t sure what to do with his hands so he wipes them on his pants. ‘When?’

  ‘When what?’

  ‘When’s she bringing the kid?’

  ‘This arvo. Two o’clock. Interview’s at three.’

  ‘Yeah. Well, make sure . . . you know . . .’

  ‘No worries.’ They talk desultorily of this and that before George swigs the last of his beer and puts down the glass. ‘Best be going. It’ll take a while to get back home. I still can’t drive.’

  Redgum acknowledges this with a fractional movement of his glass. He knows better than to ask if he can help.

  ‘What sort of job did you say it was?’ George, doubtful, frowns at his young rescuer enveloped in a jumble-sale of mismatched clothing.

  ‘Office,’ she says. ‘Some plumbing-supply place.’

  George had been a boiler-maker all his life, but Penny had worked in an office and she always went off looking smart. High heels, makeup, one of those nice skirts that showed off her good legs and neat little bum. It isn’t for him to say, but even in these casual times, surely you have to look a bit neater working in an office. He wishes Pen or even Shirl were here. They’d put the girl right.

  ‘You can type, then?’ he asks.

  She grins. ‘They call it keyboarding now – computers and stuff. They made me do a course.’

  ‘Good luck.’ He hopes he sounds more confident than he feels.

  The girl totters along the path on those big wooden-heeled shoes, pulling at her skirt, which rides up over her thighs. George looks down at the unappealing child in the stained pink T-shirt. She fixes him with a ferocious glare but doesn’t wail like last time. That’s a blessing, at least.

  ‘What’s your mum’s name, then?’ he asks as she climbs up onto the couch. (He’d prepared for this, covering the cushions with an old blanket.)

  The child gawps at him, an Are you for real? expression on her face. ‘Mum,’ she says. ‘Her name’s Mum. You got any more ice-cream?’

  George unwraps a Choc Wedge. He’s sure the young woman hasn’t told him her name, but it seems too late to ask and he’d hoped her daughter could tell him. ‘My name’s George,’ he says, handing her the ice-cream. ‘And yours is Aurora-Jane. That’s what other people call us. What do other people call your mum?’

  The child takes a large bite, sending a shower of chocolate flakes over the blanket. ‘Pete used to call her Babe.’

  ‘What do other people . . .’ George suddenly remembers. ‘What does Aunty Bree call her?’

  ‘Angie – Girlfriend, sometimes.’

  Angie – Angela? Angelina? Angel? She doesn’t look like an Angel, that’s for sure.

  They stare at the television until the mother returns, responding to George’s inquiry about the interview with a brief expletive. She bends over Rory, fussing with the zip on her jacket. ‘They said they’d contact me but I could tell as soon as I walked in that they didn’t want me.’

  George is surprised to detect the panic underlying her bravado.

  ‘Maybe next time,’ he says.

  ‘Bullshit. But thanks for minding the kid.’

  ‘Any time,’ George hears himself saying.

  George is right in his intimation of Angie’s real feelings. Despite past experience, she had thought that this time her luck may have changed. How many jobs can you go for without getting at least one? She is superstitious in the way of the luckless, and believes that because of her good deed with George, she is now entitled. But the woman who did the interview had looked at her like she was a dead cat. Angie had glared back. Gave as good as she got. The old bloke was nice about it, though. Bullshitted her and that, but he was trying to be nice. And he gave Rory an ice-cream. She grabs her daughter’s hand and pulls her away from the fish shop. ‘Baked beans tonight.’ She nearly says ‘on toast’ but remembers in time that there’s no bread.

  It bothers him, the fact that the girl (Angie – he has trouble thinking of her as Angie) has no idea about how to get a job. Going off in that weird get-up with the spiky hair. And he’s almost certain that you wouldn’t find black lipstick in your average office.

  He puts this to Shirl when she ‘pops in’ (Shirl’s vernacular for ‘visit uninvited’) on the way to her ‘Save the Children’ charity shop roster.

  ‘Don’t tell me she dumped that child on you again. You’re a fool, George Johnson. Always were. Always will be.’

  George waits. It won’t be long. His sister likes nothing better than a project – especially when that project involves the personal improvement of someone who is (it always seems so obvious to Shirl) incapable of self-improvement. She clears her throat.

  ‘If she comes again, maybe I could give her a few pointers. Even find something suitable for her to wear at the shop.’ She pauses and all but wags her finger. ‘But you mustn’t let her take advantage. That sort always know which side their bread is buttered on. The sooner she has a proper job, the better.’

  George sees Shirl (still talking) to the door. He notes her nicely fitting grey trousers and pale-pink shirt. (Not something he’d normally notice, but the contrast to Angie couldn’t be more marked.) He understands that Shirl, despite the extra weight she’s gained over the years, knows how to look smart. (A fine figure of a woman, Redgum always says.) To George’s relief, the responsibility he’s been carting around all week is now tucked away in one of the many compartments of his sister’s formidable handbag.

  But when all is said and done, it’s unlikely that Angie will return, George thinks as he closes the front door. Although he had said ‘any time’. But the young woman must know that ‘any time’ is just an expression. The whole thing is unsettling and he doesn’t like being unsettled. At his age, he values routine. It’s only natural. And things like babysitting are certainly not on his daily to-do list. Of course he isn’t averse to minor deviations. He just needs advance warning. All she has to do is ring and ask. She’s sure to have one of those mobile phones. Perhaps he should give her his number. He can hardly expect her to ring when she doesn’t know his number.

  Who does he think he’s kidding? Suddenly forlorn, he looks at his mostly silent phone and sits down to a solitary lunch.

  Shirl heads straight for the charity shop and flicks through the racks. She’s annoyed to find that she’s rostered on with that Isobel woman, who for some reason thinks she runs the whole show. Undeterred, Shirl makes virtue of necessity, and explains to Isobel that she’s looking for an outfit for a ‘young single mother’ who needs it for a job interview.

 
; ‘What size is she?’ Isobel asks.

  ‘Hmm, she’s quite plump. Not tall. Fourteen? Sixteen? Do you know Fran who works here on Mondays? A bit like her, I’d say.’

  They become quite chummy, do Isobel and Shirl, as they examine the possibilities, and Shirl has to admit that Isobel, being younger, has some very useful suggestions, selecting smart but loose-fitting clothes, suitable for a job interview.

  ‘Not that I expect her to be grateful,’ Shirl confides as they fold and bag the chosen garments. ‘They never are.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’re right, Shirl. Still, “There but for the grace of God . . .’”

  ‘True enough.’ Shirl begins to sort a new bag of donations without further comment. She doesn’t want to go into all that.

  So she takes the clothes home and bides her time. She has contended with two teenage daughters of her own (though blessedly neither of them is at all like that slovenly young woman), but even the best teenage daughters in the world don’t welcome interference in their lives. Especially when it comes to clothes. Better to wait until there’s some urgency.

  Another Christmas arrives, his third without Penny. Waking alone on Christmas morning, George remembers his first Christmas in their new house. They had decorated the tree the week before, but Pen liked to leave wrapping the presents until Christmas Eve. Her eyes sparkled as she looked up from her struggle with the odd-shaped bowl she had chosen for Shirl. ‘Who knows, next year we could be playing Father Christmas right about now.’

  ‘Fair go. Even if we started a baby tonight, it’d be a bit young for all that.’

  Pen ignored him. ‘A teddy. There’d have to be a teddy, although someone’s sure to give us one when it’s born. Never mind. A child can never have too many teddies.’ She tied a triumphant bow and the recalcitrant parcel was secured. ‘There. I hope Shirl likes it.’ She sat back on her heels. ‘That’s the last one.’

  ‘About time.’ He helped her up from the floor. ‘If we’re going to play Father Christmas next year, we’d better get a move on.’

  She giggled. ‘And there was me worrying about what to get you for Christmas. I should’ve just tied myself up in red-and-green paper.’

  There’s a painful lump in his throat. Even later, when there was no child to anticipate, Pen always had a tree.

  So, for the third year, there is none of the bustle, the present wrapping, the traditional ‘get-togethers’ with friends – none of this happens. For the last two Christmases he has refused all invitations except lunch at Shirl’s. This year there are no other invitations. He always knew their friends were just being kind. He always knew that it was Penny they wanted. So he goes to Shirl’s and eats his turkey and plum pudding, opens his present (a new shirt) and distributes his own to Shirl and his nieces’ children. Thank goodness the kids are old enough to appreciate a gift of money. The thought of shopping was more than he could bear. He leaves early and spends the long afternoon and evening watching a M*A*S*H marathon.

  For several weeks now, a packet of Choc Wedges has remained unopened in the freezer, a sight that depresses George for some reason he can’t explain. Then, a few days after Christmas, the doorbell signals the young woman’s next appearance. He gets to the door before the visitor has time for a second ring. ‘G’day,’ he says. ‘Um, Angie.’

  She’s holding the child’s hand. Neither of them looks any cleaner or tidier than before, and there are dark smudges around the young woman’s eyes where that mascara stuff leaves her looking like a tragic panda. Pen had worn mascara, so he knows what those smudges mean – Angie has been crying.

  George can’t quite get his head around this. She seems so tough. In control, in her own anarchic way. Perhaps she has a cold. Runny eyes and nose. Probably just as damaging to mascara as tears, he decides. Waiting for her to speak, he notices a supermarket trolley behind her on his front path, loaded with – stuff.

  ‘Got chucked out of our room, didn’t we?’ She indicates the trolley. ‘Our bags weren’t big enough.’ Next to the trolley are a battered purple suitcase and a bulging backpack.

  George doesn’t know what to say. He looks from mother to child to trolley and back to the mother. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Needed that job at the plumbers. Owed too much rent so they chucked us out. Waited until after Christmas. Said they were like, doing me a favour.’

  Fair enough – she wants money. No real harm, he thinks, creating a channel to the tender voice of Penny’s ghost and a mental bulwark against the prospect of a very real Shirl. Things like this need a balanced perspective. He never spends all of his pension, and there’s still a tidy nest egg from his and Pen’s superannuation. A bloke’d have to be some sort of bastard to let them sleep rough. ‘How much do you need for the rent?’

  She looks at him sideways, not quite meeting his eye. ‘Not much point. They won’t let me back.’ With some effort she dredges up a smile with just enough pathos. ‘Thought me ’n’ Rory might doss here for a coupla nights. Just till we find something else. Bree thinks she knows a bloke . . .’ She peers around him into the hallway. ‘You got a big house here.’

  Three bedrooms. Hardly a palace. George feels cornered. They can’t stay here.

  Aurora-Jane – Rory – begins to sniffle. ‘You said he’d give us a Choc Wedge.’ She wipes her nose on her sleeve. ‘I want a Choc Wedge.’

  ‘Please,’ George says. ‘Little girls should say please if they want something.’ Bloody hell. I’m starting to sound like Shirl.

  Angie’s response is brisk. ‘In you go. And say please.’ Rory slips past him and runs down to the kitchen shouting, ‘Please, please, please, please.’ Distracted, George steps back, and before he can protest, his hallway is invaded by a resolute young woman armed with luggage. ‘We’re used to sharing.’ She makes it sound as though the concession is all hers. ‘Where can I put our stuff?’ She looks back at him over her shoulder. ‘You can help us with the trolley after I stow these.’

  Long ago, each bedroom in George’s house was allocated a purpose. There is their room, of course. His and Pen’s. Then there’s what Pen used to call ‘the guest room’, although no guest has stayed there since she died. It has two nice single beds with patchwork quilts, a white dressing table and a two-door wardrobe. There’s a mat beside the bed, and a reading lamp and crystal vase on the dressing table. The third room, next to theirs (his) was going to be the nursery. It had never been furnished and over the years became a storeroom of sorts. George hardly ever goes in there. Only when he can’t find something. Even then, he tries all other possibilities before stepping over the threshold and rummaging through the boxes and shelves and the old chest of drawers that slouches by the window. He hates that room. Full to overflowing it may be, but he senses the emptiness at its heart.

  Ushering Angie down the passage, he opens the door to the guest room. ‘Here,’ he says. ‘But only for a couple of days, mind.’

  ‘Awesome.’

  Despite himself, George preens a bit at the admiration in her voice. ‘I’ll get Rory that Choc Wedge,’ he says. ‘While you get organised.’

  ‘Thanks, George.’ She grins. ‘Betcha that sister of yours’ll be surprised.’

  Shirl! He’s managing his injuries much better now and she’s stopped coming every day. That being the case . . . He does a rapid mental calculation. She came yesterday, and on current indications, he has three, maybe four days. And Angie had said that Bree would have something organised in a couple of days. It all depends then on what ‘a couple of days’ might turn out to be.

  Meanwhile, there’s only a bit of mince in the fridge. Not enough for an extra two servings. ‘I’m just heading down to the supermarket,’ he tells her. ‘Do you want me to return the trolley?’

  ‘You gotta be kidding.’ She calls out after his retreating figure. ‘I’m outta smokes.’

  It takes George three-quarters of an hour to do his shopping and it never once occurs to him that he might return to a house stripped of his few valuab
le possessions.

  In the event, he’s not quite as lucky as that. On his way to the kitchen, he looks into the lounge to see Rory glued to the television and her mother sprawled on the couch with a cup of tea. ‘Kettle’s boiled,’ she tells him, as though it’s her house and he the interloper. ‘I used the last of the milk.’

  George grunts and packs away his shopping. He’ll do chops and veg for their dinner. And he bought a tub of ice-cream. Choc Wedges aren’t cheap and Rory seems to devour them at an alarming rate.

  He puts his head around the door. ‘I’m getting dinner ready,’ he announces.

  ‘Cool.’

  Cool? No offer of help. He fancies his ribs are extra painful after carrying the shopping, and aggrieved, bangs a few pots and slams the cupboard doors. But the twinges in his ribs remind him that he’s repaying a debt. When Angie intervened in his mugging, he knew she had seen the knife. What would have happened to the kid if she’d been wounded, or even killed? It doesn’t bear thinking about. He’ll have to explain to her (tactfully, of course), that she should have left him to his fate. You can’t do things like that when there’s a kid relying on you.

  He isn’t sure how much his guests will eat, and adds another carrot and an extra handful of peas to the saucepan, just in case. He’d eaten enough meals at Shirl’s in the old days to know that kids don’t much like vegetables, so he bought a treat – frozen chips that you just put in the oven. No chips until you eat your veggies, he imagines himself saying. Pen and Shirl, had they been there, would probably have given him a lecture on healthy eating and the evils of bribery, but surely a kid like Annie deserves a treat once in a while.

  He passes a bewildered hand over his eyes. Rory. He means Rory.

  Mealtime is a shambles. His guests both tuck into the chips and while Angie gnaws on a chop, Rory pushes hers aside. ‘Want fish fingers,’ she says.