by Tess Evans
‘So, Ms Wilson The principal’s voice cuts through his reverie and he jumps like a guilty child. (Wool-gathering, his teachers used to call it. More interested in what’s going on outside than what I’m saying. Isn’t that so? No Sir/Miss.) But in his experience, teachers have a sixth sense when it comes to lies.
Angie, introducing him as her granddad, has no such fear. George listens half in dread, half in admiration as she goes on to say that Poppy George has permission to collect Rory after school.
Ms Fontana sits back in her chair. Her voice is crisp. ‘We have to be very clear that Rory may not be ready for school. As I told you in the interview, she’ll be one of the youngest in her year and without the benefit of preschool—’
Alarmed, Angie becomes unusually articulate. ‘Me case manager, Karen Something – she wrote you a letter – told me she spoke to you on the phone and everything. Rory’s a special case, she said, because we got no real home.’
George bridles at this, but says nothing. Who is he to question the assessment of a case worker?
Ms Fontana looks at the young mother as though she’s a naughty and not very bright child. ‘I understand that. But you have to do your bit. Make sure that her attendance is regular and that she has a good breakfast before school. And a good night’s sleep.’ She turns to Rory. ‘Not too much television.’
Ostensibly, she addresses Angie and Rory, but George feels the message is for him.
Ms Fontana continues in her cool, impersonal tone. ‘Her assessment was borderline. Home support is essential if she’s not to fall further behind.’
Further behind? George is outraged. Young Rory might not be the most lovable kid, but she’s smart as a whip. Perhaps your teachers aren’t up to scratch, he wants to say. I’ll bet they’re not all like Miss Walsh. Not by a long shot. Instead, he hears himself saying, ‘I’ll make sure she comes.’ He sounds so mealy-mouthed. He hates being that way but recognises that sometimes it’s necessary.
George’s life moves to a new rhythm. He gets up at six-thirty, has breakfast and wakes Angie at seven. More often than not, this requires a good deal of exasperated cajoling. Doesn’t she care about being late? After the first morning, she stays in bed as long as possible, cutting her margins finer and finer. So George supervises Rory’s breakfast, makes her lunch and ensures she is dressed properly. (This is rarely a problem. Rory’s quite proud to be wearing a real school uniform.) He got into trouble about the lunch, though. After his first effort, Rory brought home a note to say that lunches needed to be healthy. Apparently white bread, Twisties and a chocolate frog are not acceptable fare for a growing child. They even had the cheek to send home a list of suggestions. He, George, has eaten white bread all his life and anyone can see he’s as fit as a fiddle. Nevertheless, he quietly replaces white bread with wholemeal and adds apples to his shopping list.
In this new regime there’s a bit more cleaning and laundry, but that’s okay – he likes to be busy. He still meets Redgum at the pub but earlier, so he can be back in time to collect Rory from school. Although he’s impatient to see her, he notices with concern that she’s never part of that bubbling, brimming entity that flows down the steps like lava – an entity that on closer inspection comprises myriad groups and pairs. On the contrary, Rory walks quietly, alone, looking around for him with an anxiety he finds both touching and troubling.
George’s favourite time is the few hours before Angie comes home. He gives Rory lemonade and a biscuit (chocolate Teddies are firm favourites for both of them). They have their snack at the kitchen table, not saying anything much, but sort of . . . cosy.
George sees how the other children meeting their mothers all talk nineteen to the dozen, as Shirl would say. He does try. ‘What happened at school today?’
‘Nothing much.’
She trots along beside him, meeting every overture with a monosyllable at best. George remembers his own childhood. Uncles, aunts, even Poppy would ask about school. What sort of reply did they expect? He’d been an obliging child and several times tried to answer. Four times tables. Spelling. Mr Green read us a story about Simpson and his donkey. But he had soon realised the inquirers weren’t all that interested. It was just what you said to kids when you didn’t know what else to say. So after a few attempts with Rory he chooses silence in preference to empty questions. He’s not exactly garrulous himself.
She still watches television, but that gives him a chance to get the tea on. When Angie comes home, he asks how work went. ‘All right.’ She’s as bad as Rory. But he persists with Angie. An adult (and she is an adult, despite her many immaturities) should be able to take part in a civilised exchange. Besides, he’s genuinely curious. She’s so lazy around the house. Has no idea of time. Is she late back from lunch every day? Does she work at a reasonable pace? He finds it difficult to imagine that during working hours she’s capable of overcoming her customary inertia.
‘For you.’ Angie plonks a plastic bag on the table in front of George. ‘It’s a coffee mug,’ she explains, as though an explanation is required. ‘I got it at the two-dollar shop.’
‘For me?’
‘Yeah. To say thanks and stuff.’
George takes off his glasses, wipes the lenses, puts them on again and reads the caption. ‘“I am the Walrus”. That’s . . . interesting.’
‘I dunno what it means either, but it was in the bargain bin.’
George is not sure whether to laugh or cry. Angie isn’t used to giving gifts. That much is obvious. Nor does she want him to see it as a sign of weakness. Fair enough. He’s never been very good at receiving gifts. Pen always had to nudge him into enthusiasm every time Shirl arrived with his birthday present.
He notices that Angie is making for the door. ‘Hey. Thanks, love. It’s just what I needed.’
‘Yeah, well . . .’
Should he have hugged her? In his limited experience, that seems to be what people do. He’s never been much of a one for hugging. Nor has Redgum. It’s a woman thing, he decides. To make up for the lack of hugging, he’ll have his tea in the mug from now on, even though he prefers a cup.
Angie has fled to the bathroom. Bree was right. No harm in sucking up occasionally. George seemed pleased. And she was pleased, too. Unaccountably, if truth be told. But Angie found herself to be pleased, nonetheless.
5
Angie works until four on Fridays and for the first three weeks comes straight home. But on the fourth Friday, she rings. ‘A few of us from work are goin’ for a drink,’ she says. ‘Might be a bit late.’
George doesn’t mind. Young people should have friends, and apart from the shadowy Bree, Angie seems to be a bit of a loner. Like George himself, when he comes to think of it. But he understands the importance of socialising with workmates. You all have to get along together hour after hour, day after day, and Friday-night drinks or an occasional counter-lunch help to smooth things along. So he doesn’t mind looking after Rory. It isn’t as if he has anywhere else to go.
‘I could be late. You might have to put her to bed. Bye.’ And she’s gone before George can demur.
When he agreed, he expected her home about six, seven at the latest; at least in time for a late dinner. But when it comes time to eat, there is no sign of her. George and the child eat together and he’s too tired to argue over the vegetables. As soon as the meal is over, she wanders off to watch television. George looks at his watch. Angie has always been here at bedtime. What about the kid’s bath? The idea of giving her a bath makes him deeply uncomfortable. It isn’t as though he’s her father, or even her real Poppy. George has a natural sense of propriety. It just doesn’t seem right.
So when the time comes, he washes her face and hands and scabby knees with a soapy washcloth. ‘We can skip the bath tonight,’ he says. ‘Now, into your pyjamas.’ He’ll be glad to have her settled and is looking forward to a beer. ‘G’night, then, sweetheart.’
‘Where’s Mummy? Mummy always puts me to bed. I want Mummy.’ Rory
stands at the bedroom door, fists clenched, face red and mutinous.
‘Mummy’s running a bit late,’ George tells her. ‘She wants you asleep when she gets home.’ He tries to pick her up, but she flings herself onto the floor and curls up in a ball. ‘No! No! No!’ She’s screaming like she’s being murdered and George throws a worried glance through the window at the house next door. No lights, thank goodness.
It’s awkward picking up the little bundle, and her wriggling hurts his ribs, but in the midst of it all George is moved by her lightness, her sharp-boned fragility. He puts her into the bed and pulls up the covers.
‘Mummy’s gone away,’ she sobs. ‘I don’t like going to bed by myself.’
George is alarmed to hear the beginnings of a wheeze. Angie had mentioned that Rory was asthmatic, but it seemed to be under control. ‘Your puffer,’ he says. ‘Where is it?’
But Rory has already brought it out from under her pillow. Her breathing improves almost immediately but those are real tears running down her cheeks. ‘I want Mummy. Where is she?’
George looks around for a doll or a teddy – something to keep her company. Surely she has one toy. There’s nothing. ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ he says. There are some chocolate frogs left in the packet and any lingering qualms regarding bribery are far outweighed by necessity. Just as he opens the fridge, the phone rings. No. He doesn’t need a new roof. Not even if it’s a special deal for pensioners.
By the time he returns to the bedroom, Rory is asleep. He tiptoes over to straighten the covers. Her face has begun to relax, although her forehead is puckered and her cheeks streaked with recent tears. She’s breathing evenly and cradles a strangely familiar shape on the pillow close to her cheek. A bit worse for wear but recognisable – it’s one of her fluffy dog slippers.
‘It’s not good enough.’ George is determined to be firm about last night. ‘Rory was very upset. It brought on an asthma attack. I had trouble getting her to sleep.’
Angie is sulky and probably hung-over – she didn’t get up until after eleven. Black-rimmed eyes challenge him over her teacup. ‘At least I came home. Coulda stayed at Bree’s.’
‘Bree’s? Wasn’t this a work thing?’
‘Hooked up with Bree later.’ She puts her arm around Rory. ‘George is mad at Mummy. Look! His face is all growly.’ They both snigger. ‘You’re not mad at Mummy, are you?’
George wrestles with his jacket. ‘Make your own lunch. I’m off to the pub.’
Angie grabs two pieces of bread, adds butter and Vegemite and slaps the slices together. She cuts the sandwich into rough halves. ‘Here.’
Rory shoves the plate back at her mother. ‘George makes triangles.’
‘Well I don’t.’ Angie is getting tired of being told how George does things. They’ve managed without him well enough until now.
George finds Redgum at the pub, watching the telly above the bar. ‘Might put a bet on later,’ he says. ‘Got a tip in the second from Phil.’
Smarting from the scene in his kitchen, George isn’t ready to discuss horse racing. ‘It was like they ganged up on me,’ he says. ‘After all I’ve done for them.’
Redgum is busy with the form guide, but there must be something in George’s tone because he looks up from his calculations. ‘Watch it, mate. You’re startin’ to sound like Shirl.’
George grunts. Surely a bit of gratitude isn’t too much to expect? The way they’d looked at him – a gang of two. All at once he was Short-Arse George, the small, skinny kid the other boys picked on. He is aware of that same scooped-out hollow in his gut. For once he thinks of his father with a wry gratitude. The only gift his old man had ever given him was to teach him how to defend himself. How to fight dirty, if necessary.
Frank Johnson had found his son crying in the lane behind their house with a swollen lip and bloody nose. ‘What’s happened to you?’ No sympathy in that voice, thick with alcohol and contempt.
‘Mark Hamble and his gang. They pick on me.’
‘Pick on you? Pick on you? Christ Almighty, I might as well have had two girls.’ He put up his fists and George winced. ‘I’m not gonna hit you, Mary. Just teachin’ you how to fight. Come on. Watch me.’ He took a balanced stance, then danced, light and graceful as an autumn leaf, feinting with his left hand. ‘The jab and the hook. Work on those and you’ll be sweet. Let’s go. Fists in guard position. Like this. That’s right. Okay. We’re aiming for the nose.’ They persisted for a week, every night in the back lane. Like his father, George was small and light on his feet. Quick with his fists, too. Even after so many years he’s never forgotten the look in his father’s eyes when he displayed some aptitude for boxing. His jaw had relaxed for an instant and it was as close to paternal pride as George was ever likely to see.
‘That’ll fix them,’ his father said. ‘If they’re too big, fight dirty. Kick their kneecaps. Grab ’em by the balls. Bang their heads into the wall if there is one.’ He demonstrated his last point by slamming George’s head into the fence, which fortunately had some give. Then he turned away. ‘No more nancy-boy snivelling. Give as good as you get. End of lesson.’ George’s father left then, throwing a strange look back over his shoulder. ‘Better not try any of this on your old man.’
Young George stood in the lane, with love and hate in his heart. One day, when he was big enough, he might just do that. But he hung on to that look of pride in his father’s eyes as though it were a lifebuoy.
Redgum continues to ramble on about this horse, so George fishes for his wallet. ‘Put a tenner on for me,’ he says. ‘I gotta get going.’
George arrives home to find a motorbike parked at the kerb and Rory sitting on the front step. What’s the matter with her? She never plays like other kids. Like Annie would, for instance. Just sits around doing nothing or watching television.
‘What you up to?’ he asks, easing himself down beside her.
‘Nothing.’
That’s true enough. ‘Where’s your mum?’
‘Inside with Amp.’
‘That Amp’s motorbike?’
Rory nods. ‘I don’t want to go inside,’ she mutters.
‘That’s okay. Sometimes it’s best to be outdoors. Let’s sit on the seat; it’s a bit hard for Poppy down here.’ They sit for a while, side by side, on the small garden seat and George shuffles and harrumphs with the uncomfortable feeling that he needs to say something. Along the front fence Pen’s rose bushes are jostling each other in summer’s final, extravagant display. They’ll be due for a prune soon. You can never cut them back too hard. That’s what Pen used to say. Then she’d worry that he’d pruned too deep. It drove me crazy, he thinks with affection.
George scans the sky, feathered with high, cirrus clouds. He looks at the veins, knotted and grey, on the back of his hands. (Steady as a rock.) He looks at the house and its closed blue door. ‘What if I tell you a story?’
She fixes those strange, green eyes on his. ‘You only have stories at school.’
‘Not true. You can have stories anywhere.’ He racks his brain, trying to remember a children’s story – one Pen had read to their nieces. (It’s a worry how his mind goes blank sometimes.) Rory begins to look sceptical so he’s forced to start, not at all sure where he’s going.
‘Once upon a time, there was a young . . . mermaid called Annie who lived in the sea with her mother and father and six brothers and three sisters.’ Should he have said that? The kid has no father or brothers or sisters. He glances at her but she’s watching him, waiting for the story to continue. ‘They lived in a castle made of sand and seashells and shiny pearls and Annie was very happy except for one thing . . .’ The solemn little face looks up at him as he scrambles for inspiration. ‘Except . . . except . . . that she wanted to fly!’
‘Why?’
‘Well, she was sitting on a rock one day and she saw a seagull and she wanted to fly just like him.’ George reckons he’s getting the hang of this now.
‘It was a boy seag
ull.’
‘That’s right. So when everyone else was busy, she swam to the surface – that’s the top of the sea – and she found some feathers on the rocks. And . . . and . . .’
‘There you are.’ Angie sways in the doorway, looking even more dishevelled than she had earlier. ‘Oh. Hi, George. You wanna beer?’
She sounds conciliatory so George creaks to his feet. ‘Come on, Rory.’ As they walk down the passage, George feels a timid hand slip into his. The palm is surprisingly rough. He’d always imagined Annie’s hand to be soft.
‘Will you finish the story later?’
‘Course I will, love.’
‘This is Amp,’ Angie says. ‘Amp, this is George.’
The introduction is courteous enough but the leather-clad brute, sprawling at George’s table, does no more than raise a finger from his beer. ‘Yo,’ he says. The beard, the tatts, the chain-draped leather – it’s all there. As if one of his imaginary bikies has materialised in his own kitchen.
George feels his stomach lurch and Rory’s grip tightens – the bikie story has suddenly become a menacing possibility. What is this – this Amp – doing in his house? Drinking George’s beer, too, by the looks of it. An arrogant bastard – the way he’s sitting, for instance, slumped but alert, pelvis thrust forward to the edge of the seat. Amp has positioned himself sideways, arms and legs spread as though a mere kitchen chair is too small to contain his bulk. He’s a big bugger, that’s for sure – and George is sensible (and scared) enough to see that there’s no way to get rid of Amp unless he wants to go.
