by Tess Evans
Where had he heard the name ‘Amp’ before? Something to do with Bree – didn’t he have a cousin or someone who knew someone else? He takes the gamble, hoping his voice sounds normal. ‘You found Angie a place, then?’
Amp’s voice is lighter than he might have expected and quite well modulated. ‘Nothing yet,’ he says. ‘How about a beer?’
George nods and Amp hands him a bottle of Jürgen’s Pale Ale – one of those boutique beers that poofs drink. At least he hasn’t raided the fridge. George takes a swig. ‘Not bad,’ he has to admit. ‘Never had one of these before.’ Now the threat is diminished, he appraises Amp more closely, his eyes making swift sorties to the other man’s face, retreating when in danger of catching his eye. So this was Amp – bulky, but with arresting dark-blue eyes that were both shrewd and remote; a straight, almost delicate nose; and, half hidden by the beard, a mouth (George recoils from the thought), a mouth that can only be described as sensual. He would have been good-looking as a young man, but his features have coarsened and the folds and lines on his face and neck suggest that he’s well on the wrong side of forty. It can’t be what it looks like. Angie’s only nineteen.
‘I’ll leave the rest of the grog in the fridge,’ Amp says amiably enough. ‘Time to go.’ He wraps one leather-clad arm around Angie’s head and kisses her long and hard. It’s an act of possession, a marking of territory, and is as much for George as for Angie. Rory slinks closer to George, who responds with an arm around her shoulders. Barely acknowledging their presence, Amp saunters off down the passageway, Angie trotting after him. ‘See you, babe.’
‘Yeah. Stay cool.’
‘What? What?’ Angie is on the offensive.
‘For a start,’ George says, anger splintering through his natural diffidence, ‘this is my home. I don’t expect to come back and find strangers sitting in my kitchen.’
Angie rolls her eyes. ‘A stranger? He’s Amp.’ She stresses the name as if this will legitimise his credentials.
Rory burrows even closer and this makes George more articulate than he might otherwise have been. ‘It’s not only me. What about . . . ?’ He inclines his head towards the small figure at his side. ‘I found her out on the front step. She didn’t want to come inside without me.’ She’s scared of him, he wants to say, but as the child is within earshot, he chooses to be more diplomatic and mouths, ‘I don’t think she likes him.’
‘She didn’t like you either, at first.’
True enough. But does everything have to be a battle? ‘Well I certainly don’t like him,’ George says. ‘He must be – what? Twenty, thirty years older than you? It’s not right.’
Angie executes a long-suffering sigh. ‘When did they make you me dad?’
‘I mightn’t be your dad,’ he says. ‘But you’re Rory’s mum.’
Rory abandons George and runs over to her mother. ‘Don’t go, Mummy.’
‘Course I won’t go. We’re happy here with George, aren’t we?’
Wrapping her arms around one denim-clad leg, Rory grins up at her mother. George has to turn away. This demonstration of the child’s trust, restored so easily, invokes a kind of dread.
‘George was telling me a story,’ Rory says. ‘Can you finish the story now, George?’
‘I’ve got to start dinner soon. Let’s wait until bedtime.’ By then, he hopes, he’ll know how it ends.
‘So,’ George continues, ‘the little mermaid put the feathers in her purse and swam back down to the castle under the sea.’
‘To her mum?’
‘To her mum. They had a delicious seaweed pizza for tea and after they did the dishes together . . .’ (It’s his fairytale and the dishes are still a sore point.) ‘. . . Annie went to the palace next door. It was a creepy palace because a witch lived there.’
‘I don’t like witches. Was she scared?’
‘Uh – this was a good witch, just a bit old and ugly like me so she wasn’t scared a bit.’
‘You’re not ugly. Your face is just a bit funny.’ Rory giggles and squirms down further in her bed.
George grins. ‘That’s what they all say. Anyway, the witch took the feathers and made her a pair of beautiful wings, all white and soft as . . . froth on . . .’ (He can’t say on a beer, can he? Not in a children’s story.) ‘. . . As soft as a cloud.’
‘How do you know how soft a cloud is? You can’t touch them. They’re too high.’
Should’ve stuck with the beer. He improvises. ‘Because a scientist told me. They know all sorts of stuff.’
‘What’s his name – the scientist?’
‘Redgum.’ He’s becoming impatient. ‘Now let’s get on with the story. But the witch warned Annie. “Be careful. These wings will only fly once.”’
‘I’d like some wings.’ Rory’s eyelids are heavy.
George bends down, hesitates, then pulls back and ruffles her hair. The gesture is tentative and clumsily executed. ‘You think about that and we’ll save the rest for tomorrow night. Okay?’
That was the easy bit. The hard bit is to lay down the law with Angie. But fair’s fair – he has every right to say who can and can’t come into his home. He heads for the lounge room and turns off the television.
‘Hey. I’m watching that.’
Shoving the remote into his shirt pocket, he swallows. ‘Not until we have a proper talk.’
Arms folded, foot tapping her impatience, Angie is the very model of long-suffering. ‘Spit it out, then.’
Keep calm, George tells himself. Be logical – she’s an adult, after all. He clears his throat and she smiles faintly. ‘It’s like this, Angie. You saved me from serious injury and I’m grateful for that. Always will be. You came here for help, and because I owe you, I’m helping as best I can.’ Angie frowns and he blinks behind his old-fashioned glasses, feeling as pathetic as he sounds. ‘The truth is, I’m not getting any younger and I can only take so much. Amp is your business, but I don’t want him in the house.’ She starts to speak but he raises his hand. ‘No. I want to finish. If I find him here again, you’ll . . .’ How can he say it? The ultimatum – you’ll have to go. Knowing she’ll take Annie – Rory – with her. Apart from the odd bet on Redgum’s tips, George isn’t a gambler. But he gambles now, mindful all the while that he risks losing the child. (Why does he see this as a risk? he wonders. It’s not like she’s his real granddaughter.) No. He can’t say he finds her lovable, but he feels sorry for her, and in a funny sort of way, admires her. The kid’s had a lot to put up with, one way and another. But she’s not broken.
Now he’s aware of Angie, looking at him with fear. The fear of homelessness – it’s a powerful weapon.
‘You can stay,’ George continues. ‘I’m inviting you to stay, but you must promise never to bring Amp here again. And that goes for any other men.’ He hands back the remote. ‘You have a daughter,’ he says more gently. ‘Men like Amp – they’re not good for little girls like Rory. I’m going to make some tea. Think about what I said.’
When he comes back with the tea, the television is still switched off.
‘Did you mean it?’ she asks. ‘About staying here?’ Teeth tearing at her already ravaged nails.
‘I do mean it. But I need that promise. You mustn’t bring strange men here again.’
She gives him a wry smile. ‘Most men I know are strange, but I promise.’
Cleared the air. That’s what he’s done. And now, as they sip their tea, he feels comfortable enough to ask the question. ‘Rory’s dad. Do you ever see him?’
‘Nah. Hardly knew him.’ She responds to George’s raised eyebrows. ‘You’re shocked? It’s all changed since your day. I was fourteen then and I was fat, with pimples and crap clothes.’ She gestures, arms wide, to indicate the extent of her unattractiveness. ‘I was the ugliest girl in my class and when a boy wanted to do it with me, I wasn’t going to miss the chance.’
She bites hard into her biscuit, sending crumbs all over the couch. ‘Turned out it was all for a bet,’ she murmurs
, hurt and humiliation evident in her flushed cheeks and unnaturally bright eyes. She gnaws at her lip and picks at the biscuit crumbs. ‘We only did it a few times and then I found out he laughed about it with his mates later. When I knew for sure I was knocked up, me stepdad wouldn’t have anything to do with me. Said he didn’t want another brat to feed. Mum had four other kids and she was scared of him but scareder of being left by herself. She was an ad–She wasn’t well and couldn’t work.’ Angie shrugs but can’t look him in the eye. ‘She gave me twenty bucks and said I’d have to go – wouldn’t admit it had anything to do with me stepdad. Just said she was sorry but they had to keep me sisters safe from a slut like me. What a joke! Me big sister, Shiloh, was having it off with half the school, but Mum thought the sun shone out of her bum.’
George’s lips twitch.
‘By the time they knew, it was too late for an abortion, so in the end I went to me gran’s.’
‘She looked after you, your gran?’
Angie’s tone softens. ‘She was brilliant, but she wanted me to give up the baby for adoption. I was goin’ to do it an’ all – I didn’t want a baby. Not for a million bucks. But when I saw her, so tiny and all squishy . . .’ Her voice is shaking and George senses resentment behind her admission. It’s as though she doesn’t want to expose her weakness in the face of her baby’s need. ‘I guess I like, ended up with her after all.’ She shrugs. ‘Well, you know . . .’
George doesn’t know. He can only imagine. ‘So you kept her.’
‘Yeah. Gran tried to help out, but Rory cried all the time. In the end, it was better to go. Gran’s got this heart thing and she wasn’t getting any sleep, so we snuck off when she went to Outpatients.’
‘And you were what? – fifteen?’
‘Goin’ on sixteen by the time I left.’
George hasn’t thought before of what it would be like to be sixteen and homeless, with a baby to care for. How on earth had she managed? He regards her with new respect. Whatever the sad and sordid details of Rory’s conception, this young woman (girl), has been resourceful enough and brave enough to persevere and raise the child as best she could. She isn’t what you would call a good mother in the general way of things, but she’s good enough and deserves a break.
‘Here’s the plan,’ George finds himself saying. ‘Stay here with me until you get on your feet and you can afford to rent a nice place. Have you got a bank account? Yes? If I see you’re putting away a bit each week, you can stay here for nothing – but you buy your own smokes. And remember your promise about not bringing blokes here. Fair enough?’
‘Fair enough. And George . . .’ A twinkle supplants the usual wariness in her eyes. ‘I’m almost glad those bikies didn’t kill you in the lane.’
‘Cheeky young bugger.’ He stands up and stretches his back. ‘Bedtime, I’d say. It’s late and we both need our beauty sleep.’
Surprisingly docile, she says goodnight and goes off to bed, leaving George feeling like a real dad. There had been a connection – an exchange of jokes had created a connection. He sleeps well that night. The sleep of the just, their minister used to say. Drifting off, he addresses the red jowly face that had so terrified him the few times he attended Sunday School. You might find me in heaven after all, Reverend Thomas.
We’ll see, the face replies. This is only day one.
For her part, Angie sleeps the sleep of the young. It’s not just that she’s hung-over, but her immediate problems have melted away. She has no doubt that she can keep to George’s conditions. The world seems to be a good place when you’re sleeping between clean sheets in a situation that has magically stabilised. At last, here is the good luck she’d earned. He’ll come around when he knows Amp better, is her last, hopeful thought before falling asleep.
George finishes his story the next night. ‘So Annie took the wonderful white wings and swam up to her rock. First she planned to fly over the land to see all the things that she had heard about in stories – mountains and cities and cows and elephants. Then she was going to swoop and dive and somersault in the clouds before coming back home to her rock.’
‘And her mum.’
‘And her mum. But when she reached her rock, what did she see? A little girl crying as though her heart would break.’
‘What was her name?’
‘Her name was – Rory, and she was sad because when she was at the beach a big wave had taken her out to sea and now she was stuck on the rock all alone.’ Rory’s eyes are fixed on his face and she looks so worried that he decides to cut the story short. ‘So Annie gave her wings to the little girl.’
‘To Rory.’
‘To Rory. Annie was sad that she’d never get to see an elephant or a cow or a city or a mountain, but she was sadder for Rory and told the wings to take her home to her mum. So Rory waved goodbye and flew off into the clouds, while Annie went back to her palace under the sea.’
‘And they all lived happily ever after?’
‘That’s right, sweetheart.’
George pauses at the door, struck by a new anxiety. If only he could be sure that Rory would live happily ever after. He heads for the fridge. No point in worrying. She’ll be gone in a few months.
George has no illusions about Angie. Accepting that she’ll continue to come home late whenever she pleases, he seeks the help of his sister. Not with any great enthusiasm. Ask Shirl for advice about how long to boil potatoes and she’ll have you cooking a five-course banquet.
‘It’s like this, Shirl.’ He chooses the phone – a form of communication over which he has a modicum of control. ‘Angie has to . . . work late sometimes, and I have to put Rory to bed.’ He allows time for the ‘tsking’ before continuing. (He’s seen the word in books, but his sister is the only person he knows who actually ‘tsks’.) ‘I don’t feel – you know – right, giving the kid a bath. Is she old enough to leave alone?’
Shirl is not sure. She tries to think back to her own children and finally decides to err on the side of caution. ‘She’s a bit young, yet, I think. Why don’t I come over and teach her how to have a shower? You can’t drown in a shower.’
So Shirl arrives at seven o’clock and whisks Rory away to the bathroom. ‘You’re a schoolgirl now,’ she says. ‘Schoolgirls don’t have baths. They have showers.’
‘That’s the way.’ Shirl adjusts the height and temperature of the shower and suffers a drenching as Rory clings to both her hands. ‘Come on, schoolgirl. Use the soap.’
George, lurking in the kitchen, hears a good deal of squealing, which to his relief, turns into smothered giggles.
For all the fuss, Rory emerges pink and dry in her yellow butterfly pyjamas. Shirl, wet but triumphant, tells George that all is well. ‘I’ll help out for another day or two, but she’ll manage by herself in no time. When she does, I promised I’d bring her some animal soap.’
‘Not above a bribe, then?’ Despite his gratitude, George can’t resist the opportunity.
‘Not a bribe, George. A reward.’
6
The Asian bloke from next door stops George on the way to the pub. The Nguyens are an elderly couple who keep to themselves. George has never had much to do with them, but Pen used to say hello to the woman over the fence and they’d exchanged a few home-grown vegetables from time to time. They seem decent enough – even came to the funeral, solemn and awkward in black, unable to converse properly with the other mourners. Afterwards, they’d brought in some of their Chinky food and he’d said thanks, of course, but didn’t eat it. You can’t be too careful with foreign food.
Now Mr Nguyen is tugging at George’s sleeve as he walks past. ‘You have granddaughter stay your house?’
What’s it to you? ‘Yeah,’ he says, moving off. He can hardly deny it, but he wasn’t going to blab all his business to some foreign bloke
‘Like swing?’
George stops. What’s he saying? Something to do with singing. Couldn’t possibly be right. ‘What?’ George stares back at hi
m. Squints into the sun.
‘Swing.’ The man sways his body back and forth and gestures towards his backyard. ‘Swing. For granddaughter.’
‘Swing? You want to give Rory your swing?’
‘Yes. Yes. You come and take. Need friend help us maybe?’
The Nguyens have three children and any number of grandchildren, but even the grandchildren are all too big now to play on the swing. George is touched and shakes his neighbour’s hand. Like his own, it’s calloused – a worker’s hand – or maybe it’s all that gardening. ‘Ta, mate. Good of you. Tomorrow?’ His own hand describes a loop that is supposed to represent tomorrow.
Fortunately the gesture isn’t necessary. ‘Tomorrow. Yes. Very happy for little girl . . . mate.’
George finds himself smiling as he walks the block to the pub. ‘You never can tell with people,’ he observes to Redgum, who’s agreed to help with the swing.
‘Take people as you find them. That’s what I always say.’
‘Live and let live.’
‘Too right.’
The two philosophers stare into their ale. If only everyone thought as they did. The world would be a better place, that’s for sure.
Hands on hips, the three men stare at the swing. They’d managed to pull out the hoops anchoring it to the ground; now they have to work out how to get it next door.
‘Over the fence?’ Redgum suggests. ‘That side gate’s a bit narrow.’
‘’S’all right for a big bugger like you,’ George points out. ‘The fence must be six-foot high.’
Nevertheless, George and Mr Nguyen go around to the other side, and Redgum, despite his dicky heart, heaves the swing to the top of the fence and over.
‘Hey. Fair go, lady. No need to hit me.’
George looks over the fence to see the tiny woman swiping at his big friend, who is kneeling in the middle of her veggie patch.
‘I’m sorry, missus.’ Redgum is trying to dodge her blows while scrabbling about in a futile attempt to repair the damage.
