Mercy Street

by Tess Evans

  Shirl isn’t happy. She hates being put in the wrong and George’s rebuke (for that’s what it was) continues to sting. She has no idea why she used the word ‘loser’. She has often enough reprimanded her daughters for using that very expression. The truth is, she finds herself increasingly disturbed by the girl’s casual incursion into her brother’s household. She, his older sister, has always been his protector, and now her influence is slipping away as George becomes further entangled in the lives of Angie and that scruffy child of hers.

  Needing some outlet for her frustration, she toots at the car in front. The driver responds with a two-finger salute, then roars off as the lights turn amber, leaving her to wait for another set of lights. Once through the intersection, she pulls over. Her heart is beating unnaturally fast and she feels like she might pass out, right there in the car. She recognises that it’s not a heart attack. Shirl is inclined to frustration, annoyance, irritation, even indignation. But this is anger, something she rarely feels – an anger born of the responsibility, and yes, the love she has for her brother. She breathes her way through to comparative calm. She’ll just have to be extra vigilant and speak her mind to both George and this Angie person whenever the need arises.

  After breakfast, Angie dresses Rory and tells George they’re off to Bree’s. It seems that Ming thought that Daz might know a chick whose cousin’s mother has a spare room.

  ‘I’m doing a load of washing,’ George says before they go. ‘Do you want to put anything in?’

  Angie disappears into the guest room and returns with a small bundle. ‘We’ll need these for tomorrow.’

  George hangs out the tatty bra and two pairs of knickers – one small and greyish and a larger red pair in a bikini style with ragged lace edging. He’s uncomfortable handling these intimate garments and makes sure they are on the middle wire of the rotary clothesline. Not that he cares what the neighbours think of him, but Angie’s poverty isn’t a thing to put on display for the whole world to see. The small white tights have runs and there’s an intractable stain on the T-shirt. He remembers the cornflakes on the pyjamas and wonders if he should have washed those as well. Then he wonders that he wondered. It seems that the more carelessness his guests display, the more fastidious he becomes. He washes the breakfast dishes and goes to put them away. What is he doing? Since Pen’s death, he’s never put the dishes away – he just washes them and lets them drain on the sink for next time. Of course, it’s different when there’s more than one set. So he stacks them on the shelf, sweeps the floor and looks at the clock. Angie and Rory have been a long time at Bree’s. What time should he expect them back?

  Once at Bree’s, Angie discovers that the chick Daz knew had a fight with her cousin so the room at the end of the complicated chain is no longer an option. This doesn’t surprise her. She’s more than happy, in fact, although she doesn’t admit this to Bree. Better to keep all options open.

  Angie slouches in a chair while Bree produces some picture books from the kitchen drawer.

  ‘How about you have a look at these while Mummy and I have a talk?’

  Rory accepts them with a limp hand. ‘Seen these before.’

  ‘There’s a new one about a giant.’

  ‘Say thank you to Aunty Bree.’

  ‘Thank you, Aunty Bree.’ The child looks thoughtful. ‘I don’t mind giants.’

  ‘You’re lucky to have an aunty.’ Angie means it, too. Bree isn’t her sister but she’s the closest they have to family.

  The two women settle down to coffee and a fag. ‘What’s he like, this George bloke?’

  ‘All right, I guess. Ancient.’

  ‘You sleeping with him?’

  Angie snorts into her coffee. ‘You gotta be gagging.’

  ‘Just ripping him off, then?’

  Angie chooses to be offended. ‘Yeah, like I’d rip off an old man.’ She uses her finger to corral some spilled sugar. It takes some time to shape it all into a miniature volcano. ‘Well, I might be. But not in a mean way. He needs company. I need a place to stay. Simple.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  Angie looks at her friend with something like gratitude. Bree has a live and let live attitude that suits Angie’s slippery moral landscape. She’s good with Rory, too.

  As mother and daughter walk back to the tram, Angie tries but fails to imagine George hitting on her. He’s just not that sort of bloke. She’s seen the wedding photo on top of the telly, and though she’s not sure what he saw in his wife, they’re looking at each other all lovey-dovey. It’s a real downer, thinking of it. All those years looking at each other like that then wham – one of them is dead.

  Maybe they stopped, she thinks. Stopped looking at each other like that. Most people do. That’s one thing she knows for sure. Even so, it’s nicer to think that maybe they looked at each other like that right up until the end. It’s nice to think that some people might.

  ‘No luck,’ Angie says. ‘It was more like a cupboard.’ She seems quite cheerful about this and gestures towards George’s spare room. ‘At least here we got two beds.’

  At least? There’s gratitude for you. ‘No one’s forcing you to stay,’ George replies in a fair imitation of Shirl.

  He sees her stiffen. Calculate. ‘Don’t get me wrong. It’s a great room. Me ’n’ Rory love it, don’t we?’ She nudges her daughter, who frowns before climbing onto the couch with the TV remote. ‘Rugrats is on. You said I could watch Rugrats.’

  Angie, aware of her slip, chooses to be placatory. ‘How about I make us some tea while the kid watches telly,’ she says.

  They go out to the kitchen and Angie makes a great show of pouring the tea. (Pen always used a pot and George tries to keep up these fragile markers of their lives together.) He’s inclined to nurse his resentment but thaws when she brings his tea over, passing him the sugar as nice as pie.

  ‘Need to talk about a coupla things,’ she says in an offhand ‘just thought I’d mention it by the way’ sort of tone.

  ‘Fire away.’ George bites into his biscuit.

  She ticks off item one on her finger. ‘First. Can you mind Rory on Wednesday? I got another job interview. Dunno why I bother, but they make you go or you lose your Newstart allowance.’

  Why should he make things easy? ‘Wednesday,’ he says, drawing out the word as though he has a diary cluttered with Wednesday engagements. ‘I’m fairly sure . . . Let’s see . . . Tuesday’s no good. Yes. Wednesday should be okay.’

  ‘Great.’ She approaches the next item warily, an eye on George’s reaction. ‘The other thing. The holidays are nearly over. Rory starts school in two weeks.’

  ‘School?’ Surely she’s too young for school.

  ‘It’s just that every so often I’m going to need someone to pick her up. You know, if I get a job and Bree’s got other things on.’ She leans back in her chair. ‘Thought we could say you were her grandpa or something and I could give permission for you to get her after school.’

  Half listening, George is processing the information that Rory is old enough to go to school. Angie taps her foot and fiddles with her hair. ‘Why not?’ he says, after a full minute has passed. Then, ‘Poppy. I’d rather be her Poppy.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  Grandpa, his dad’s dad, was a surly drunk; but he’d loved his Poppy – trusted him. Poppy’s calm and security were as much a part of him as the soft flannel shirts he wore summer or winter. George can still feel the worn fabric on his cheek. The large hand cupping his head.

  When things were really bad, his mum would take him and Shirl around to Nanna and Poppy’s for a few days. The two children had decided that they wanted to live with Nanna and Poppy and had asked him more than once. ‘Can’t take you away from your mother,’ he’d say. ‘You’re all she’s got.’ Poppy’s eyes were a faded blue and always kind of troubled when he saw them off at the gate.

  Those bright, rare spots that punctuated his childhood – so vivid yet so long ago. His life with Pen – not s
o long ago in the scheme of things – has to his bewilderment, lost some of its clarity. Worse, when he tries to recall the last three years, he can see people and movement, but they’re sifted and blurred like a television with a badly adjusted aerial. Now, apparently, it’s a new school year and George no longer feels grounded in time.

  What was she asking? He must look like a dithering old fool.

  Angie is summing up in her own abbreviated way. ‘Poppy, Grandpa – whatever.’

  Mission accomplished, she stands up. ‘Need a ciggie.’

  And to George’s chagrin, he’s left to rinse the tea things.

  When Shirl hears about Angie’s next job interview, she arrives with an assortment of clothes, blustering but gratified. ‘Well, I’m here. It’s nice to be needed once in a while, I suppose. The sooner she gets a job, the better,’ she continues before George can draw breath. ‘Then she won’t be here sponging off you. This bag’ – she indicates a large green rubbish bag – ‘has some things Peta has grown out of. They might do for the child. These’ – she indicates several wire hangers, the garments shrouded in plastic – ‘are for madam to wear to her interview.’

  Angie was out, attending a mock interview with her case manager. ‘Waste of time,’ she’d asserted before she left.

  They take the clothes in to Rory, who is clean for once – George has seen to that. (It’s so much better when his sister rings first instead of popping in.) As Shirl opens the door, Rory hops down from the couch and disappears for a moment, returning with a washcloth.

  Nonplussed, Shirl looks at her brother while Rory stands, head tipped back, waiting.

  ‘She calls you the washcloth lady.’

  ‘Little monkey. If I thought you were being cheeky . . .’ But Rory’s expression is so solemn that Shirl has to laugh.

  That’s the second time in a week George has seen his sister laugh and he joins in as much from surprise as amusement. Three years older, she has always been bossy, but they’d had good times as kids. One benefit of their fractured home was that no one seemed to miss them when they went off for hours at a time. Young George had no real mates of his own and Shirl and her friends alternately tolerated and petted him, but for years he was always allowed to tag along. He resented it when she reached her teens and no longer wanted his company. And when she married, he felt abandoned. In some ways she had taken on the role their mother couldn’t seem to manage.

  Rory suffers the red cardigan, the denim pinafore and the pink-striped top with the zip. Now she’s had enough and stands her ground, arms rigid, as Shirl tries to coax her into the dark-blue dress. ‘I’m thirsty,’ she decides. George goes to the fridge and takes out the milk. Shirl and Rory follow. ‘Not milk. I hate milk.’

  ‘How about some lemonade?’ George bought some especially for her. All kids like lemonade.

  ‘Milk, water or nothing.’ Shirl throws a warning look at her brother and a steely glare at the recalcitrant child, who saves face by declaring that she isn’t thirsty anymore before escaping to her room.

  Shirl has to give up on the dress. ‘I think we can say that most of these will fit.’ She holds up a red parka with white snowflakes and a fur-trimmed hood. ‘Peta used to look gorgeous in this. They grow up so quickly.’ Her voice is tinged with regret. Shirl’s granddaughter, Peta, is now an independent nine-year-old. ‘Lucky Marianne didn’t toss it all out.’

  George is grateful. ‘Thanks.’ He gestures at the bag of clothing. ‘Fact is, they don’t seem to have much at all. Couldn’t let the kid go off to school in rags.’

  ‘Doesn’t the school have a uniform?’

  ‘Never thought of that. Do they wear uniforms nowadays?’

  Brother and sister look at each other. They both well know that schoolyard hierarchy is implacable, and clean, well-dressed children can be merciless.

  ‘Find out,’ Shirl says. ‘If she’s the only one in civvies . . .’

  ‘Maybe you could come with us to buy one.’ George isn’t at all happy at the prospect of a shopping trip. ‘Or even take her yourself.’

  ‘I suppose I can make the time.’ Shirl sounds put-upon but can’t hide her satisfied smirk.

  So Shirl waits for Angie to come home then marches her off to the bedroom. George can hear their raised voices.

  ‘Do you want a job or not?’

  ‘Not if I have to look like a dork.’

  ‘Better than looking like a scarecrow.’

  ‘Scarecrow! You old cow!’

  George is alarmed to hear scuffling noises, but continues to stare at his newspaper. Recalling his own childhood, he is saddened to see Rory taking it all in with blank equanimity. He endures the kerfuffle a while longer, then Rory jumps up and shouts at the bedroom door. ‘Hurry up, Mum. I got new clothes, too.’

  George is surprised then when Angie, meek as you like, comes out in a pair of black pants and a black top trimmed with red and orange. Her wayward hair is confined in a short ponytail and her makeup is, well, less obvious. She primps a bit, then scowls. ‘So?’

  Rory takes her hand. ‘You look lovely and beautiful, Mummy.’

  George smiles. ‘Very nice, love – a real office girl.’

  Shirl, tousled but triumphant, passes her own judgement. ‘You’ll do.’

  George, on Shirl’s advice, drives Angie to her interview.

  ‘Don’t wait for me,’ she says, getting out of the car. ‘I’ll drop in on Bree afterwards.’

  ‘She still trying to find you a place?’ George wonders why all Angie’s house-hunting eggs seemed to be stowed in Bree’s basket.

  ‘Could have something. She says Amp might know someone.’

  George tries to imagine Bree. He sees a magnetic young woman around whom swirls a whole cast of characters with improbable names and dubious possibilities. She is a wheeler-dealer, an organiser of the less able, keeping all her contacts in a fine balance of usefulness to her and to each other. Except that, in Angie’s case, the usefulness has been questionable, to say the least.

  So thanks to George, Angie arrives five minutes early for her interview. She hovers at the entrance and checks her letter – Trenerry Imports Pty Ltd. Calling on her meagre store of confidence, she steps inside.

  The office is light and modern-looking, decorated in shades of grey and white. On the wall over the desk there’s one of those baffling pictures that are all splotches and streaks. Nice colours, though.

  The woman at reception smiles. ‘Call me Dina,’ she says.

  Caught off-guard, Angie almost smiles back. Once the interview starts, however, she answers in monosyllables and can’t look her interviewer in the eye. ‘Show some enthusiasm,’ her case manager had advised, but who can be enthusiastic about sitting at a computer all day?

  After stumbling over the questions about experience, Angie is given a data-input test.

  ‘Finished already?’ Dina looks surprised. ‘I hope your accuracy matches your speed.’

  ‘Dunno.’ Angie leaves, none the wiser about how she went.

  As the bus winds its way through lookalike streets, she yanks the elastic from her ponytail. All that fuss about what to wear. A lot of good it did her.

  She calls in on Bree for coffee and a whinge and leaves still feeling hard done by. Bree is in one of her moods and doesn’t even see her to the door. On top of that, she has to wait twenty minutes for the next bus.

  Walking down Mercy Street, Angie is struck by the unfamiliar notion that she’s coming home. The thought is far from comforting. In fact, it terrifies her. To Angie, ‘home’ is a place that beguiles you, that whispers promises and endearments, before discarding you like so much rubbish. By the time she’s closed the front door behind her, she is so despondent that she barely looks up when Rory, despite the summer heat, comes dancing out in her new parka.

  ‘The washcloth lady gave it to me,’ she chirps.

  ‘Yeah, nice, love.’ It’s the best response Angie can muster.

  She is similarly abrupt when George asks about t
he interview. ‘Said they’d ring. I’m not, like, holding me breath.’

  A few days later, they do ring.

  ‘Got the job,’ she tells George in that off-hand way she has. But he can see that she’s struggling to hide her delight. ‘They said I did real good on the computer test. Start Monday.’

  George wonders at the quality of the other applicants but is more than happy for her. For himself, too. A job means she can find other accommodation more easily and his life will return to normal.

  He says as much to Redgum when they meet at the pub that afternoon. ‘She doesn’t contribute a cent,’ he complains. ‘And I do all the cooking and cleaning. I mean, bugger it – I’m too old for all this.’

  Redgum looks at him over his beer. ‘It’ll be quiet when they go.’

  On Friday, the staff are back at school and the three of them set off to introduce George to the principal. A careful woman, Ms Fontana. The school community is small, and as far as possible, she likes to meet all those who will have regular contact with her pupils.

  ‘You do remember what to call him?’

  Rory gives her mother a withering look.

  They’ve been coaching her to call him Poppy. ‘But his name’s George,’ she pointed out. ‘I call him George.’ She thrust out her chin in that stubborn way she has. Staring pointedly at the television.

  Angie shrugged. Her method of disciplining the kid leaves a lot to be desired. Ask her to do something. Yell when she refuses. When she continues to refuse, give up.

  ‘I have an idea,’ George said. ‘What about Poppy George?’

  Rory, less inclined to buckle than her mother, assessed the proposal and decided it involved minimum concession. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘But only at school.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ George tried not to look smug. Maybe he had a way with kids after all. He just hasn’t had the practice.

  George finds Ms Fontana daunting. It isn’t that she’s unpleasant, but her military posture, her confident manner and appraising eye send George straight back to his own school days. Here he is in the principal’s office, and she’ll know he’s lying. He shuffles and coughs and stares out the window where a bloke with a dog ambles across the oval. The grass is littered with those little yellow daisies; Shirl and her friends used to make them into long chains to loop around their necks and hair.