by Tess Evans
She handed him an envelope with a name and phone number scribbled on the front. ‘This is from Doctor Parsons. He said there’s no reason why I can’t have a baby.’ She stressed the I – he remembered that later, but it hardly registered at the time. ‘He said you should have some tests. There might be something wrong with your . . . sperm . . .’
That’s when he hit her. A backhander to the side of her head that sent her spinning against the door. Clinging to the handle, barely managing to stay upright, she regarded him with a look that seared him to the marrow.
‘Pen.’ He took a step forward and she flinched. ‘Pen.’ But she’d gone, closing the door with care. George would have preferred her to slam it. Yell at him. He became aware of their bedroom door closing with the faintest of clicks. He had never felt so alone.
He tried to focus, but the kitchen began to shift shape, dipping and weaving, refusing the fact of its everyday solidity. The oven, the green-painted cupboards, the teapot with its knitted cosy floated before his eyes. The cupboard handles – hadn’t they chosen those flash handles only weeks ago at the local hardware? He centred his thoughts on the handles, and leaving the kettle on the bench, managed to sit down with his beer. He shouldn’t have hit her. That goes without saying. The way she flinched – he felt like a brute. His mother. She had flinched, too. More times than he could count. He wasn’t like his dad, though – was he? But whatever way you looked at it, this situation was extreme. His manhood was in question. You had to admit that any bloke would have the same reaction. It was one thing for that quack to suggest a problem with his wedding tackle, but for Pen to even give it a second thought . . . Size wasn’t an issue – he was sure of that. And he’d never once failed her. Not once. And here she was telling him there was something wrong with his sperm. His sperm, for Christ’s sake. Using a word like that made her sound like a whore.
Another beer, a couple of shots of whisky. All the while, stoking his indignation. The envelope lay at his feet, and with savage satisfaction, he kicked it under the table as he drained his glass. Unlike his father, George was a brooding, maudlin drunk. Who knows with women? he mourned. He had worshipped the ground she walked on and this is the thanks he gets. Tears of self-pity welled in his eyes and he brushed them away with a childish gesture. ‘Not much point anymore,’ he mumbled, wrestling with the can opener. ‘A man can’t do one bloody thing right.’ He lurched into the lounge room and flopped onto the couch. It was cold, but the cold reinforced his grievance and pandered to his sense of injury. Time passed, the righteous anger wilted, and he began to snore, the still unopened can clutched to his chest.
He awoke to find Pen standing over him, dressed for work. Dragging himself into a semblance of consciousness, he squinted at the clock. Six-thirty. Why was she going to work at six-thirty? Bloody hell! Memory of the night before trickled into his sleep-fuddled brain. ‘Pen?’
She picked up her suitcase and swung around with sharp finality. Moving, as always, with such precision, such graceful economy of movement that he, slow and leaden, was humbled into silence.
‘I’ll be staying at Susan’s until we can sort out something more permanent.’ High heels tapped their way down the passage; the front door opened and closed; and George, frozen in a half-sitting position on the couch, was left with his new reality.
Sliding back down, he pulled the blanket over his head, then stopped. Surely there hadn’t been a blanket when he lay down. Had Pen . . . ? The effects of last night’s binge prevented him from following that thought. A hammer pounded in his skull. His mouth was rancid, foul. With any luck he’d die right here on the couch.
Work! He sat up to meet the hammer that thwacked him between the eyes. Putting on the kettle, he lit a cigarette before going out to urinate in the backyard. Pen would never allow that, but she wasn’t here anymore, was she? He watched the stream with grim satisfaction before going inside for his tea. He was already late and decided to take a sickie. He’d go back to bed, then clean up a bit and have things looking nice for when Pen came home.
He stood outside with his tea and cigarette, squinting against the sun that seemed exceptionally bright for the time of morning. A magpie trill rippled through the pain in his head. He was trying to rationalise, but knew in a visceral way that there wasn’t any point in cleaning up for Pen. She was a strong woman, his wife. Her stern face swam up through the sun glare and he understood that she wasn’t coming home. Filled with dread, he realised that he no longer knew how to live without her.
Before Pen left, if you had asked George was he a bad person, he would admit that he wasn’t particularly good or bad – that he was good enough in his own way (which was as much, he believed, as the general run of people could claim). He would have professed to being an honourable man, but after Pen left, he’d behaved dishonourably. Despicably.
What to tell Shirl and Redgum, not to mention his workmates? That his wife had cast aspersions on his virility and as a consequence he’d hit her? That she left because she was afraid of him? Because he was too proud to undertake the tests?
‘Pen’s gone off with a bloke from her work,’ he told Shirl, who had, even in those days, often popped in, just for a minute.
‘I knew right from the beginning. She was a bit too much of a glamourpuss for my liking. Poor old George. After all you’ve done for her. A lovely house. Holidays. Clothes. What more could she want?’
‘The thing is,’ said George, ‘I don’t know what to tell the blokes at work. Don’t want them thinking I can’t hang on to me wife.’
‘Tell them nothing,’ she said. ‘It’s none of their business and how often do they see her anyway?’
Not at all, when George came to think about it. Work was work and home was home.
So he said nothing at work.
That left Redgum. George had a need to confess, or at least explain, and Redgum was not a man quick to judge. The Sticky Wicket was a real pub in those days, and not long after Pen left, the two men breasted the bar.
It had taken two weeks, but it was better to say it short and sharp. ‘Pen’s left me,’ George said. ‘My fault.’ Shamefaced and miserable, he twisted his glass in shaking hands and refused to look his mate in the eye.
Redgum took a long, slow draught, replacing his glass with care in its own sticky ring. He didn’t look up. ‘That’s no good, mate. Reckon she’ll come back?’
George didn’t know. He couldn’t forgive himself for hitting her, so how could he expect her to forgive him? Unlike Shirl, Redgum didn’t ask why she left and George wasn’t sure he could answer the question. Like competing weeds, shame and pride struggled for ascendancy, and like weeds each grew strong because that was its nature.
Redgum, eyes kind and mild, was waiting for a reply.
‘Come back? No. Why should she?’ George looked deeper into his beer. ‘Fact is, I hit her.’ Fearing Redgum’s response, he didn’t dare raise his eyes, and despite the pub noises, felt as though they were alone, just the two of them, the judge and the accused.
Redgum cleared his throat but said nothing and signalled for another round.
George, compelled to fill the silence, began to plead his case. ‘She wanted me to go to the quack to see . . . to see if . . . We’ve been tryin’ to have a kid . . . She was talkin’ about tests.’ Help me here, mate. He ventured a look at Redgum and saw perplexity, concern, and at the periphery of his consciousness – censure. That’s when George panicked. Even his best mate condemned him.
‘You have to see my point of view. It was like she was sayin’ I’m not man enough for her. Not man enough to father a kid.’
‘Tests, you say?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Just tests?’
‘Not just any test.’
Redgum downed his beer. ‘It’s up to you, mate. Gotta go.’ He hesitated. ‘She’s a good woman, your missus.’
George bristled. ‘Whose side are you on, anyway?’
‘Your side, mate. Never a doubt.’
George watched Redgum all the way to the door, where a sudden shaft of sunlight pierced the bar gloom. A few minutes later, he too left.
Two months have passed since his ultimatum to Angie, and George’s plan is humming along nicely. Having managed to save just over a hundred dollars, she’s proud to show George her bank receipts. True, he wonders if she might have managed just a bit more, but he has no idea what she earns. She seems to go out a lot, but George is more than happy to have Rory to himself.
Nevertheless, events overtake him before he can arrange a visit to Rory’s school. The following payday, Angie tells him, in that wanna-make-something-of-it way she has, that she’s spent most of her savings. She leans against the doorway, watching as George peels the potatoes. Despite her casual posture, she seems poised for flight.
‘Thirty dollars left,’ she tells him. Daring him to complain.
Shirl had warned him. ‘People like her have no idea how to handle money.’ George’s anger is tinged with panic. Angie has broken their agreement. There is no choice but to ask them to leave – but how can he bring himself to send a little kid out onto the street?
‘For something important?’ Please make it for something important.
‘A bike for Rory. I got it at the Target sale. I’m leaving it at Bree’s until her birthday.’
A bike for Rory’s birthday. Foolish, but surely understandable. ‘Her birthday. When’s that?’
‘The fifteenth of May.’
‘Right, we’ve got a couple of weeks, then. Let’s give her a party.’
‘Never had one meself.’
‘Me neither.’
They become conspirators. A surprise, they agree. We’ll make a list.
Birthday cake, George writes. Balloons. He clicks his pen, hesitant. ‘Lollies?’ He fears lollies are frowned on nowadays.
But Angie appears to be unaware of the finer points of the modern child’s diet. ‘Yeah. Bags of lollies.’
What else? ‘Shirl used to have party pies and sausage rolls for her kids. And bread with hundreds and thousands.’ He adds these to the list. ‘I’ll ask Shirl if she has any other ideas.’
‘Hmm,’ Angie says. ‘Shirl. I dunno about Shirl.’
To George’s relief, she is reconciled, but only when he points out that neither he nor Angie knows how to make a cake.
They continue their planning, then, mid-list, he stops. There’s something more important than food. ‘She doesn’t seem to have any friends,’ he says. ‘Who do we invite?’
Angie crumples. ‘No friends. How can we have a party if she’s got no friends?’ She rubs and smudges black-streaked tears with the heel of her hand, looking at him with the face of a disappointed child. ‘It’s not fair. She’s a good kid.’
She is a good kid. With awkward kindness, George pats her arm. ‘I’ll have a word to her teacher tomorrow. See if she knows some kids who might come. Then we’ll invite Shirl. And maybe Redgum and Mr and Mrs Noo-win from next door.’
‘And Bree.’
‘And Bree.’ With some excitement, George envisages his kitchen table with a nice cloth, a birthday cake and balloons. Party hats! He’s forgotten party hats. And those whistle things. ‘Don’t you worry. She’ll have her party all right.’
Ms Hamilton takes some time to respond to George’s question. ‘Aurora . . .’ (He corrects her.) ‘Sorry. She never told me she’s called Rory at home. Well, Rory seems to have difficulty making friends,’ she says, smoothing her sleeve. ‘She can be a wee bit . . . aggressive.’ Her hand moves to her necklace, telling each bead like a rosary. ‘It might be the making of her though. I’d suggest maybe two children. There’s Kirsty – a mature child – she has a disabled brother and had to grow up quickly.’
‘The other?’
‘Maryam. She’s very shy. A lovely child, she and Aurora – sorry, Rory – should be good for each other.’
George writes the names down and thanks the teacher before going off to Station Street, where he spends a pleasant hour shopping for the party. He also buys a pink safety helmet with sparkly stars – glad that Angie hadn’t thought to buy one. It’s a nice present and George is impressed with his forethought when he remembers to buy a gift bag to put it in – Pen had always wrapped their presents, but George, aware of his limitations, is satisfied that a bag is easier than wrapping paper and sticky tape.
The bike and (by association) the helmet are a great success. The bike has training wheels and Rory wobbles up and down the back path, a huge grin on her face.
Angie is equally delighted. ‘I’ll take you to the park to practise some more,’ she says, winking at George. ‘As soon as we put on some birthday clothes. Have to look nice on your birthday.’ It’s to be a lunch party, and Angie’s job is to keep Rory out of the way while George and Shirl prepare the food.
George waves them off and scurries back inside to phone his sister. ‘All clear,’ he says and minutes later Shirl arrives laden with boxes and bags. You have to give it to the old Shirl, he concedes. She could organise a Coronation feast if asked, and love every minute.
‘I’ll start the balloons,’ he tells her as she ties on her apron. It’s not long before the huffing and blowing make George so breathless that she suggests he take a break. Set to work on the fairy bread (who could possibly fail fairy bread?), George gloats as he dips the buttered bread in the bowl of sprinkles as he’s been shown. By the time he’s finished the bread and balloons, Shirl has prepared the oven, set the table with an assortment of goodies, and put the lolly bags aside for later. There are candles for the cake, and paper cups, plates, party hats and whistles at each setting.
‘One more thing.’ He had almost forgotten. (Again. A worry he sets aside for later.) ‘Help me with this.’ ‘This’ he unfurls with a flourish. ‘Happy Birthday’ the sign says, all spelled out with pink and silver glitter. He’s glad he paid the extra couple of dollars for the nicest sign. It isn’t every day he gives a party. If only Pen could see him now.
The Nguyens and Redgum arrive together at exactly eleven forty-five, followed a few minutes later by Kirsty and Maryam, whose mother, to George’s surprise, is wearing a hijab. ‘She’ll be fine,’ Shirl assures each of the mothers, as she ushers the children inside.
Once more George finds himself watching his sister with amused admiration. Thank goodness it isn’t down to him – the welcoming, the reassuring. He fiddles with the lolly bags, straightens the chairs and looks at his watch. Rory should be back in a few minutes. His stomach churns and rumbles. What if it turns out badly? What if the children fight, or one of them falls off the swing, or hates the food? Do Muslims eat fairy bread? What if Rory becomes aggressive – as Ms Hamilton said she could be? What if she falls off her bike and ends up in hospital?
He’s distracted by the sight of Redgum drinking a paper cup of lemonade. George catches Shirl’s eye and indicates his friend with a jerk of his head. ‘That’s something I never expected to see.’
‘More’s the pity.’ Shirl leavens her remark with a smile. ‘Don’t be nervous, now – it’ll be fine.’
It is fine. The finest thing to happen in a very long time. ‘Surprise!’ they all shout as the birthday girl, like a sudden flame, comes rocketing down the passage. It isn’t just the red pants and orange top Shirl has given her – under the flying hair, her face is alight in a way George has never seen before.
The other two children rush over with their presents and they all whisper and giggle as little girls are supposed to do. They take turns on the swing, the bike and Redgum’s broad back as he gallops and snorts his way around the yard. Giddyup, they call. Giddyup ol’ horse.
Shirl is checking the oven when Bree arrives. George answers the door to a woman older than he had imagined, dressed in black with complicated earrings and a panther tattooed on her left breast, most of which is visible, along with its unadorned mate, above the deep and unnerving vee of her T-shirt. ‘Bree?’ George steps aside and is rewarded with a distracted smile.
She’s closer to forty than thirty, he surmises, taking in the small face, with fine, regular features that have become brittle with time and circumstance. Bree is the sort of woman, he thinks, who inevitably invites the opinion that she ‘must have been quite pretty when she was young’. Now, her thick black hair scraped up in a ponytail, she flaunts a shabby sort of glitter that touches him. There’s something gallant, even courageous, in her demeanour, and George, recognising a lack in himself, has always admired those qualities in others.
Directed to the backyard, Bree hands Rory her present, a set of flavoured lipsticks and false fingernails of various hues. They are clearly designed as toys, but Shirl purses her lips and Mrs Nguyen frowns. Unaware of elderly disapproval, the children fall upon these treasures, squealing with delight.
‘There’s enough nails for everyone,’ Angie says as she and Bree apply the lipstick. The fingernails, Shirl tells them with obvious relief, are attached via a plastic sleeve and not glue. Redgum, and Mr Nguyen, who had been in charge of the swing, look crestfallen at the children’s defection and hang about, hands in pockets, shuffling their feet in the pine-bark.
‘Party time. Come and wash your hands.’ Shirl’s tone is so authoritative that Redgum scurries along to the bathroom with the children, who, divested of their nails, are soon tucking into the party food.
‘Haven’t had this since I was a kid.’ Redgum is on his fourth slice of fairy bread.
‘Made it meself,’ George replies. ‘Not hard if you got the knack. You don’t sprinkle it on the bread, you just spread them on a plate and . . .’
But Redgum has moved on to the party pies.
‘Ooh!’ The cake appears, shaped like a butterfly, with pink-and-white wings.
Rory glows. ‘My Aunty Shirl made the cake,’ she tells her friends. ‘She can make any cake you like. For shops and rich people and everything.’
