by Tess Evans
He looks so crestfallen that George begins to laugh and Mrs Nguyen stops her attack and joins in with a harsh, high-pitched cackle.
Even her laugh sounds foreign, George thinks.
‘Go. Go,’ she says, exasperated. ‘Help at swing.’
The swing erected, they test it for stability and with folded arms survey their work. Mrs Nguyen comes over with green tea, and although Redgum and George would have preferred a beer, they drink the tea cheerfully enough, with much nodding to express a general goodwill.
‘Time to pick Rory up,’ George says, looking at his watch. ‘Why don’t you stay here until she comes home?’
He sees the Nguyens straining for comprehension. ‘Stay and see Rory,’ he says, his hand approximating her height. ‘Little girl.’
‘Yes. Yes. We stay.’
The school is only two blocks away and George always walks. Those women in their four-wheel drives are capable of intimidating the strongest man as George discovered the day he tried to park Penny’s old Corolla. It was a particularly nasty encounter. He had no idea that women could be so aggressive. So after that he walks, and enjoys the feeling of Rory by his side as they make their way back home. They still don’t talk much, but George hopes that will come in time.
Today though, he’s fair bursting with his news. ‘Got a surprise for you.’
‘Tell me. Tell me.’
‘Wouldn’t be a surprise, then, would it?’
She’s such a serious kid. ‘No,’ she says with a judicious pursing of her lips. ‘So we’d better hurry.’
When they arrive home, George pauses at the back door. ‘Cover your eyes. No peeking.’ He leads Rory the few steps around the trellis. ‘Now.’
Rory takes her hands from her eyes. ‘A swing. A real swing. In our own backyard.’ She looks up at George, her face alight. ‘Can I have a go right now?’
Redgum and the Nguyens smile at each other as she clambers onto the seat and George begins to push.
‘Higher. Higher.’ Rory is squealing with delight and only consents to stop when George pretends to be more tired than he is.
‘Now say thank you to Mr and Mrs Noo-win.’
For one awful moment, George fears that the kid might turn all sullen. It wouldn’t be the first time. But no. He’s proud to see how nicely she thanks them.
‘And say thank you to Uncle Redgum for helping.’
She looks at the big man with awe. ‘You’re the cloud man.’
Redgum is puzzled. ‘Cloud man?’
‘Long story. I told her you’re a scientist.’
‘Got to go, little lady,’ Redgum says, ruffling her hair. ‘Got some sciencin’ to do.’
Redgum has been won over, but George is yet to tackle Shirl. She’ll have to know of his offer to Angie sooner or later. Nevertheless, he is grateful for the breathing space that occurs when Marianne’s eldest comes down with bronchitis, keeping Shirl occupied with extra child-minding. But knowing his sister, George is not surprised to see her at the door on her grandchild’s first day back at school.
‘Cuppa?’
Shirl looks at her watch as she steps inside. She always seems to have somewhere to go, but on this occasion, she’s carrying a banana cake. George’s heart sinks. Banana cake means an extra-long visit.
Shirl makes the tea. George always regresses when a woman is around to do women’s work. (Except Angie, of course. Her cooking skills range from the burning of toast to the heating of baked beans, so he has to make an exception there.)
‘They’re still here?’ Shirl’s gaze takes in the undies airing on the clothes horse, the furry slippers on the floor and the quantity of breakfast dishes waiting to be washed.
Best get it over with. ‘I’ve asked them to stay. Just till they get back on their feet.’
As he expects, Shirl lets fly. ‘I can’t imagine that they were ever on their feet. Or ever will be. You’ll be stuck with them, George. They’ll bleed you of every penny and move on without so much as a thank you. Don’t look at me in that manner. That’s exactly what they’ll do. Marianne works with people like that every day. It’s her job. And for every success there are a hundred failures.’ Shirl bangs down her cup, rattling it in the saucer. ‘Take them to the Salvos and let them deal with it. They need professionals.’
‘Finished?’ George, usually so obliging, pushes out his jaw, and for the first time in his life, really stands up to her. ‘Whatever you say, it’s my house and my money. Don’t worry. There’ll be plenty left for your kids when I die.’
Seeing the shock on his sister’s face, he regrets the harshness and (he has to admit) the total injustice of his outburst. ‘Shirl. Please. That was a terrible thing to say.’
Shirl stands up, knocking over her chair, and blinded by tears, fumbles for her handbag. ‘That’s the cruellest thing anyone has ever said to me.’
Stricken, he leads her, weeping, to the couch, and sits beside her, a cushion’s width away. If only he could take it back. He can’t look at her and stares instead at the blank screen of the television.
His voice comes out as a low mutter, and eventually Shirl leans in slightly in order to hear. ‘You’ve always stuck by me, Shirl. You and the girls are the only family I’ve got. Marianne and young Claire – they’re special. No one could ever take their place. That’s what I wanted to say, but it came out all wrong.’
She’s calmer and the tears have all but abated so he continues, gathering diffuse thoughts that have been long hovering on the brink of his consciousness, shaping them into words.
‘At first I was just paying back a favour. But when I heard Angie’s story – I know it’s against all logic, but I thought, this is something I can do. Give them a chance.’ Desperate, he dares to reference a subject they have never broached. Not once in all these years. ‘You know, Shirl, if Bill hadn’t done the right thing by you, I reckon Dad would’ve kicked you out – just like Angie’s stepdad did.’
She flinches but acknowledges the truth of what he says with a brief nod.
‘You were lucky enough or smart enough to pick a good bloke.’ He is a good bloke, teetotaller or not, George thinks, surprised. ‘I understand that you don’t like Angie, but you can’t take it out on the kid. I know it sounds barmy, but I think it’s fate. I’m meant to help Annie.’
‘Annie? I thought her name was Angie.’
Confused, George has to pause before answering. ‘Rory. I’m meant to help Rory.’ He puts his arm around his sister, an uncharacteristic gesture that surprises them both. ‘You do good stuff all the time, Shirl. Pen did, too. Is it so bad for me to want to do this one thing?’
Dry-eyed at last, Shirl puts her hand over his. ‘Not so bad, I guess. I just don’t want to see you exploi– hurt.’
George looks at his sister with affection. Shirl can be bossy, even overbearing, but she has lots of good qualities and he has never told her how much he admires her. He’d said a hurtful thing today and he needs to make amends. ‘You ’n’ me,’ he says, ‘we had a totally crap family life. But you’ve been a terrific mother – me and Pen always said that. I’ve often wondered, though’ – he’s genuinely puzzled – ‘how did you know what to do?’
Shirl takes a long while to respond. She smiles. ‘I suppose I had a baby brother to practise on – and my kids had a good dad. Now you have Rory. But you have to remember she’s not yours. I’m serious, George. Love her enough, but not too much.’
George is surprised. Who said anything about love? Women, he decides. They just can’t help themselves. ‘No worries there. Now let’s go back and tuck into some of that banana cake.’
They finish their tea and Shirl prepares to go. ‘I’ll help where I can.’ She turns back at the door, diffident. ‘Thanks for saying I was a good mum. All we can do is our best.’
The day after setting up the swing, George meets Rory after school as usual. ‘Poppy George,’ she says. ‘I got a gold star today.’
‘A gold star!’ This is more than she has ever t
old him about school and he’s aware that his response is inadequate. ‘Um – amazing.’
‘Don’t you want to know what I got it for?’
‘Of course I do.’ Pen would have asked that straight away.
‘It was for Show and Tell, about my new swing. And I got a surprise for you.’
‘I don’t get many surprises.’
‘Me neither. But here . . .’ She dives into her bag. ‘I drew a picture of you pushing me on the swing and this is the shed and that’s a bird. And that’s the star. It’s in the sky but it’s daytime!’ She giggles as George admires the picture and chuckles along with her. ‘And it’s for you.’
George looks down at the animated face, listens to the artless chatter and realises that they have become comfortable together. At this moment, they look like all the other parents and children. He’s unpractised in this adult–child communication, but he’ll do better as time goes by.
He grins down at her and the grin is returned. ‘We’ll put it on the wall,’ he says. ‘Right next to the calendar.’
‘It’s been like a flood,’ he tells Redgum later in the week. ‘She’s become a real chatterbox.’ But the talk is all about classroom activities. There’s no mention of friends.
Annie the mermaid becomes part of their nightly ritual and George is chuffed to find he’s never short of ideas. On the way, Annie becomes a hybrid of Mother Teresa and Supergirl as George seeks to instil in Rory some of the values he holds dear.
After a while, the child becomes bored with all this goodness and self-sacrifice. There’s something else, too. ‘Isn’t Annie ever naughty?’ she asks one night.
‘No.’ George sets her mind to rest. ‘Never ever.’
‘Then I don’t want any more Annie stories.’ Rory turns on her side and refuses to look at him.
‘Come on, love. What’s the matter?’ He has begun to read her moods and understands the extent of her distress. What can possibly be wrong with Annie stories? She used to enjoy them.
‘You only like good girls,’ Rory responds, her back still turned. Muttering. ‘Not bad girls like me.’
‘Don’t be such a silly.’ George has become as distressed as she is. ‘My very favourite girls are a lot good and just a bit naughty. Not bad. Naughty. So they’re just like you.’ He pauses. ‘And you’re my very favourite girl of all.’ This, with a silent apology to his Annie who, without question, would have been his very, very favourite.
Mollified, she turns back to him. ‘Ms Hamilton thinks I’m bad.’
‘Your teacher? Why would that be?’
‘’Cos I am. I hate school.’
George stays up late to report this conversation to Angie. She clatters in after midnight and isn’t inclined to talk, but George is adamant. ‘It’s important,’ he says.
Angie listens to him with barely concealed impatience. He sees her fingers twitching for a fag. ‘You’re always fussing, George. Nobody likes school.’ She stretches and yawns. ‘Gotta get up early in the morning.’
But George isn’t about to let her get away with this. Usually in bed by ten, he is tired himself and she owes him (and Rory) a hearing. ‘I think you ought to have a word with the teacher.’
Angie is horrified. ‘Most kids get into trouble at school. It’s just the way things are. And it’s not as though Rory’s the worst kid on the planet. That stuck-up principal was enough for me. I’d rather pull out me eyelashes than front up to another teacher. Anyway,’ she adds, as George looks at her in disbelief, ‘gotta go to work, don’t I? If you think it’s so important, you do it.’
‘Someone has to,’ George says to her disappearing back. He finds it difficult to contain his fury. Some people don’t deserve to have children. Life can be so unfair.
7
If any couple deserved children, George and Pen did. Especially Pen.
They had tried from the moment they were married. ‘A honeymoon baby,’ they joked. ‘That’ll have them all counting.’
In post-war Australia, everyone was having babies. How difficult could it be? George and Pen enjoyed a vigorous sex life so the odds should have been well in their favour. One, two, three years passed, the sly comments ceased and they became aware that they didn’t quite fit in anymore. Pen’s peers were pushing prams or discussing teething, or rubbing satisfied hands over burgeoning bellies. And all the while, Pen’s figure remained as slender and flat as a girl’s. Friends and family were not sure how to react. Was this a deliberate avoidance of parenthood and thus a reproach to their own parental status? Did poor Pen have, you know, a woman’s problem? Or (snigger) was nothing much happening between the sheets? Pen went to baby showers, admired nurseries and knitted bootees, bonnets and lacy woollen jackets. They were godparents to Shirl’s Marianne and one of Pen’s sister’s children. It seemed that they attended christenings every other week. It was raining babies, but none landed in the neat blue-and-white weatherboard house in Mercy Street.
‘Doctor Donoghue is sending me to a specialist,’ Pen said. ‘There might be some blockage in my tubes.’
‘Fair enough, love.’ George enjoyed Pen’s body but was embarrassed by detail. He wasn’t sure what tubes she was talking about and if he were honest, he’d admit he didn’t want to know. Women’s bodies were beautiful and desirable but ultimately a mystery. That was how it was and how it ought to be. It never occurred to him to offer to go to the gynaecologist with her.
She had to have tests. Wait for results. And it was three months before all the results were in.
‘Good news,’ Pen told George, who was waiting outside the doctor’s surgery. ‘Doctor Parsons says there’s no blockage, and no other medical reason as far as he can see.’
George took her arm as they walked back to the tram. ‘So what do we do next?’
She grinned. ‘Could be worse. He said we should relax, maybe take a holiday. That sometimes it just happens out of the blue.’
So they decided on a holiday. Having two jobs and no children meant more disposable income, and their friends were envious when they decided to go to Mermaid Beach on the Gold Coast. They had never been interstate before. Never been on a plane. In a taxi on the way to the airport, they held hands and smiled in anticipation.
Anxious to impress, George confided in the taxi driver. ‘Off to the Gold Coast,’ he said. ‘Two weeks at Blue Waters Motel.’
A grunt. That was all George got in response. ‘Surly bugger,’ he muttered as the driver flung their cases from the boot. But his elation was such that he wasn’t going to dwell on the snub. He grabbed their luggage. ‘Come on, Just-Penny. Let’s begin our holiday.’
It was March, and the sun’s rays were warm and benign. In those days the Gold Coast was just that – a wide stretch of white-gold sand where the breakers rolled in with a rhythm that threaded through your days. No bloody high-rises then – just modest holiday shacks dotted along the esplanade, with tropical-looking gardens and windows shaded from the sun. George sometimes wished that they’d stayed in one of those houses. But he’d wanted to make it special, so he’d booked them into the best motel he could afford.
They enjoyed their days on the beach. Fair-skinned Pen covered up when she wasn’t in the water, but George tanned easily and lay in the full sun, as relaxed as a flounder on a slab. They walked along the water’s edge and ventured (not too far) into the white-capped waves. The roll of the surf, the blue of the sky, the improbably large and impossibly bright tropical plants all served to intoxicate them, and they roamed together through sun-soaked days in a kind of oblivion. But as time went by, George (and, he suspected, Penny) came to dread the nights.
Four or five days into their holiday, they remembered they were on a mission. After time on the beach, they usually showered and changed and went for a walk along the sand or around the Point, where they talked or they didn’t. It was all good. Now they were suddenly grateful for the falling dark that shrouded their faces.
‘No real twilight up here,’ Pen said. ‘Blink and yo
u miss it.’
‘Yeah . . . not like home.’
‘It’s like the sun is swallowed up in one big gulp.’
‘Yeah . . . Well . . .’
Pen struggled on. ‘We’ve been lucky with the weather.’
‘Too right.’
Poor Pen. She tried, but soon all conversation dried up.
‘Better have a bite to eat, then,’ he said, and with this small reprieve, they went back to their motel, where they ate in its half-empty restaurant, spending a good deal of time discussing the food.
‘The water’s nice and cold.’
‘Lamb’s a bit tough.’
‘I wonder what this green thing is?’
The waiter was hovering, and realising that they were the last customers left, they had no option but to go back to their room.
Up to this point, their lovemaking had been – it probably sounded sissy, but the only word that would do was joyful. Sometimes playful, sometimes tender, but always passionate and with that element of joy. Now it became clinical, tinged with desperation. Pen’s body, once supple and responsive, became tense and ungenerous. Fearing the effects of his reciprocal tension, George didn’t dare to linger over foreplay and was relieved when the act was completed. Afterwards, instead of snuggling into his shoulder as she used to, Pen lay on her back, legs elevated and closed her eyes as though she, too, was relieved to have done with it.
Two days after they arrived home, Pen’s period started. Neither of them commented, but George inhaled his wife’s pervading sadness with every breath.
That’s why what he did was unforgivable.
Pen had come back from an appointment with the gynaecologist weary and subdued. Nothing unusual in that. Perhaps he should have spoken before he had his beers, he thought later. Although he wasn’t drunk. He did his best to be meticulous in his appraisal of the incident and in the end found he couldn’t blame the beer. It had been his own fault, pure and simple.
He was in the kitchen making tea, when Pen appeared out of nowhere. ‘We need to talk,’ she said. He turned to face her and when he saw her expression – tentative, a bit fearful – he swallowed his jokey response and stood, teapot half raised like a plea.
