by Tess Evans
While waving aside this embellishment of her skills, Shirl preens at her unexpected promotion to Aunty. ‘I’m glad you like it, dear,’ she says, smoothing her skirt with an embarrassed smile. She leans over to George. ‘Just fancy – Aunty Shirl! She’s really quite a sweet child when you get to know her.’ She claps her hands for attention. ‘Time to light the candles now. You can do the honours, Redgum.’
‘Happy birthday,’ they sing. ‘Happy birthday, dear Rory.’
George, singing along with tuneless gusto, feels his chest expand with goodwill. All the parties he never had. All those gifts ungiven. All those unsung ‘Happy Birthdays’. His own sense of deprivation melts away in the all-engulfing blaze of Rory’s joy. He looks across at Angie, who gives him a delighted thumbs-up.
Mrs Nguyen wraps pieces of cake in paper napkins for Rory to give to her guests, then helps Shirl with the dishes, while Mr Nguyen takes charge of the rubbish. George sees Redgum to the door, picking his way through wrapping paper and balloons.
‘You did good, mate,’ the big man says. ‘She won’t forget today.’
‘Me neither.’ They’re both a bit misty. ‘Have you got your cake and lolly bag?’
‘Yep. And Shirl gave me some leftover sausage rolls.’
‘See ya, then. And thanks.’
‘No worries.’
When George returns, Angie and Bree are smoking in the backyard. They’re certainly animated. He watches the emphatic gestures and thrusting shoulders, amused when Mr Nguyen, rubbish bag in hand, sidles past them, looking alarmed. When Bree has clearly had enough, she throws down her cigarette and grinds it under her heel. Swinging around, she spots George and tosses her head, lips tight. Leaving Angie sulking, she says her goodbyes and gives Rory a swift hug. ‘Happy birthday, sweetie.’ Then she vanishes, trailing storm-clouds neither she nor Angie see fit to explain.
By bedtime, the birthday girl is tired and cranky and Angie is subdued. ‘Bath time,’ she says. And for once, brooks no argument.
By the time George goes in to say goodnight, Rory is curled up in her sleep position, her doggie slipper joined by the shaggy purple elephant Maryam gave her.
‘There you are, birthday girl.’
‘Goodnight, George.’
‘Goodnight, love. Did you like your party?’
‘It was the best party ever in the whole world.’
‘Can’t say fairer than that.’
George switches off the overhead light. The fairy night-light, a present from the Nguyens, suffuses the area with a benign glow. Angie, on velvet feet, steps into the room, and he lingers to watch her kiss her daughter goodnight, to listen to her murmur as she strokes the little girl’s head. They make a pretty picture, mother and child. For a fleeting moment, the woman in the shadows is Pen, the small figure in the bed, their Annie. George swallows hard. It’s his fault that there’s no Annie or Eddie or Jeff. He should have let Pen go. Left her to become the mother she was meant to be.
Penny! Having entrusted his shame to Redgum that night in the pub, George was mortified by his mate’s reaction. True, Redgum wasn’t married. But surely he could understand that Penny’s request was not only unreasonable, but deeply hurtful?
So George felt twice-abandoned and, as he left the pub, the words ‘a good woman, your missus’ took on an annoying rhythm in his head, like the first song of the morning that embeds itself for the day. He even felt his steps adjust to the beat as he turned off into the park. Good woman, your missus – tum TUM tum tum te tum. He tried to distract himself with ‘Waltzing Matilda’, but somehow each note curled around the words he wanted to ignore.
Good woman, your missus.
Good woman, your missus.
So why has she left you,
You undeserving cur?
Where did that come from? George, head down against the wind, hands in pockets, strode beyond the beat, beyond the melody, beyond the meaning, until he reached his front door. Stepping inside, he felt the indifference of an empty house. No cooking smells. No music playing. And the underlying reek of dirty dishes. When he awoke the next morning, the thrum-thrum of the beat with its accusatory refrain continued to march through his head. He sat up. ‘Okay. Give a man a break.’
George switched on the kettle and rolled up his sleeves before running hot water into the sink. Arms plunged into the fresh suds, he scrubbed at the caked-on food, dried and put away the dishes, then took out the broom.
Sweeping up the crumbs and fluff, he was forced to face the fact of the letter, still lying under the table. It was grimy, but the phone number was just legible. George picked it up as though it might explode. He held it away from his body, between two fingers, this scrap of paper that had come between him and his wife. It was the hardest thing he had ever done, but he went out to the hall, lifted the receiver and dialled the number.
‘Doctor Fraser’s office.’
‘An appointment,’ he said. ‘I need an appointment.’
Despite the orthopaedic mattress and feather doona, George’s bed had exuded a chill, an unyielding negation that blew in with the cold wind of Penny’s death. Without her warm, sleepy presence, neither his mind nor his body could truly rest. The night after the party, however, he falls asleep as one might fall into a mass of sweet, powdery marshmallows. He experiences a liberating lightness – not flying, but he is no longer subject to gravity. And all around, the cloud-like sweetness, enfolding and protecting him. On Rory’s birthday, he had ventured beyond his own pain and bent all his energies to making her happy. Rewarded with a good night’s sleep, he wakes up refreshed and full of zest for the coming day.
He makes his way to the kitchen and is surprised to find an envelope on the table. His name is written across the front in large, childish handwriting that he recognises right away. Why would Angie leave him a note? A sense of foreboding prevents him from opening it and he puts it back down again. I’ll make a cuppa, then read it.
His morning cup of tea is like a warm-up for the day’s activities, and George shakes his head and even smiles at the complete unfoundedness of his fears. Probably a thank you for the party. Ignoring the improbability of this explanation, he takes out his reading glasses and tears open the letter.
Hi George Forgot to tell you I got the sack. Amp and me are of to do some fruit picking the pay is good and well come back for Rory in a coupple of months. You got my mobile if you have to ring. Awsome party. Tell Rory Ill see her soon. Thanx Angie xxxx
It can’t possibly say what I think it says. George reads and rereads the letter. It’s clear enough. Angie has sailed off for God knows how long and left Rory in his care. What on earth will he tell the kid? For some reason (one he can’t fathom for the life of him), Rory loves her mother. He recalls the extravagant present, the party, the extra-tender goodnight. Angie knew she was going days, maybe weeks ago. Yesterday was a salve to her conscience. The argument with Bree – he’d bet his life’s savings on the reason. Bree was trying to talk Angie into staying.
The clock strikes seven and George, elbows on the table, puts his head in his hands. Rory will be awake any minute. What on earth should he tell her?
‘Mummy had to go to work early today,’ he improvises as she gives him a sleepy smile. ‘She might have to work late tonight, too,’ he adds. ‘They’re very busy at her work.’
Rory accepts the news without comment. ‘It’s time to get dressed,’ she says. ‘I want to get to school early and play with my friends.’
Angie is drinking coffee in a roadhouse a hundred kilometres down the highway. Last night, as she packed her things, she almost weakened. It had nothing to do with Bree and all that garbage she went on with after the party. No. It was the party itself. She and George had never had a birthday party and it was like they were sharing something special. Something nice and normal. Almost like she was living in somebody else’s luckier life.
Despite this, she’d left Mercy Street before dawn and crept around the corner to meet an impatient Amp revving up
his bike. Climbing on behind him, she felt daring and romantic – like on a TV show. No regrets. In her own way, she’d said goodbye to Rory last night and as for George, well, he had the note. When someone as cool as Amp wants you to be with him, you have to jump at the chance. Angie has no illusions about her attractiveness and wonders what he sees in her. Must be the sex. She’s good at that.
She loves Rory. Of course she does. But the kid has been around forever, or so it seems. I just need a bit of time to have some fun, a plaintive voice bleats in her head. I’m owed.
8
It’s been a difficult morning, what with Angie’s letter and all, but George notes with pleasure that Kirsty and Maryam are waiting for Rory at the school gate.
‘Goodbye, sweetheart.’
Busy with her friends, Rory offers a brief wave, then disappears into the muddle of children, leaving her ‘Poppy’ in turmoil.
Sooner or later (probably sooner, if he faces it squarely), Rory will have to know that her mother has gone. ‘A couple of months,’ he mutters, feeling his stomach lurch at the thought. Angie’s promises are slippery and her sense of time hazy at best. A couple of months could mean anything. Forever, even. Angie’s a good enough kid, but she has no sense of responsibility, so it’s quite possible that she would mean to come back, but weeks, months, even years might pass before she got around to it.
His agitation is such that he walks past his house and on to the park. His heart begins to thump in a way that seems ominous. What if he has a heart attack? He brightens at the prospect. Someone else will have to sort it all out – not such a bad thing. Lets him off the hook. He tries to conjure up central chest pain but salvation-by-coronary eludes him.
Sitting on a bench, he watches some Indian mynahs fighting over a half-eaten hamburger, and a man and woman in green overalls trimming the shrubbery. A bus rumbles by behind him and a plane flies almost directly overhead. People, birds, buses, planes – all with somewhere to go and something to do. Busy. Busy. And here he is, wishing for a heart attack to escape even thinking about what he must do. The mynahs fly away as a woman comes down the path with a dog straining at its leash. George checks his watch. Maybe he should call in on Redgum, despite the fact that after so many years of friendship he has been to his mate’s house only twice. The pub is their natural habitat, but he can’t wait for their normal meeting time. Redgum has a way of seeing through all his bluster and palaver, his ego and his fears. He doesn’t say much, but the big man provides a compass that never fails to point in a direction that’s straight and true.
Redgum’s house, built sometime in the seventies, is an ugly cream-brick. The lawn is mown but patchy and the garden comprises a single gum tree. The hallway, when Redgum answers the door, is bare of pictures, the only furniture being a chair which seems to serve as a hall table. You would have guessed easily enough that this was the house of a man who has always lived alone.
‘Is everything okay, mate?’ Redgum is startled and stares at George as though he can’t quite decide who he is and what he’s doing there. Discomposed, he shuffles aside and the two of them stand in the hallway, unsure how to proceed.
‘How about an early start?’ George suggests. ‘I could do with a drink.’
Relieved, Redgum grabs his wallet from the lonely chair. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ he says, as he locks the door.
They walk to the pub talking desultorily of this and that. There’s a protocol to these things – no questions and no confidences until after their first beer. George drags his feet. This is big. Not as big as when he told Redgum that Pen had left him. Not as big as when he shared the news of her cancer. But it’s easily the next biggest. Major issue number three in decades of small confidences.
They drink their first beer in silence and wait for the second. George stares moodily into his glass, looking like he needs a nudge to get things going.
‘Somethin’ on your mind, mate?’ Redgum asks.
George is grateful for the opening. ‘It’s bloody Angie. She’s gone off fruit picking. Up and left without so much as a by-your-leave.’ He snaps his fingers. ‘Just like that.’
‘But Rory’s just settlin’ in. She even started calling me “uncle” after I helped put up the swing.’
‘You don’t get it, mate. It was Angie who left. Rory’s still with me.’
Redgum gives a long, low whistle. ‘Wotcha gonna do?’
George doesn’t know. That’s why he’s talking to Redgum. ‘I suppose I should take her to social services, or the police, or even the Salvos.’ He shakes his head. ‘Then it’ll be foster care for sure. They’ll send her to complete strangers when I . . .’
Redgum waits for him to complete the sentence but George remains tongue-tied. ‘When you . . . ?’
‘When I’m practically family. She calls me “Poppy George”.’ (Only at school-times, but that’s a technicality George chooses to ignore.)
‘You’re attached to the kid,’ Redgum tells him.
‘Am a bit.’
‘Let me get this straight. Her mum left her with you. Not social services or the cops?’
‘No. She left her with me, all right.’
‘Well, then.’
They finish their beers and walk down the street together, kicking idly at the autumn leaves until their paths diverge.
‘Thanks, mate.’ As usual, Redgum has articulated, in that abridged way of his, what George has known all along. It will be his job to look after Rory until her mum comes back. She’ll be a burden in some ways, but he remembers an old text, one of Reverend Thomas’s favourites. My yoke is sweet and my burden light. He experiences a disconcerting hotchpotch of inadequacy, excitement and trepidation. And an overwhelming need to protect. He feels, in fact, all those things he may have felt as a young father had he been able to look into the soft, baby face of his never-born Annie.
He returns to his house with a lot of thinking left to do. True, the major decision has been made, but how will it work in the real world of snoopy teachers and social workers – his own sister for that matter? He makes a sandwich and a pot of tea and takes them out to the table in the small courtyard he had made for Pen. Frowning at the flower pots, he makes a mental note to water them. There are so many things that just happened when Pen was alive.
As he puts down his plate and mug, he notices the flaking paint. He’d promised to do that for her. She was going to choose a colour. He chips a bit of paint with his thumbnail. Towards the end, she lost interest in things like that, but he can remember when she was always out in the garden, snipping and weeding and watering. This is the place where he feels closest to his dead wife.
He looks up at the scudding clouds. ‘Could be in for a bit of rain.’ He speaks aloud, but there’s no reply. She’d be pleased, though. There’s nothing like rain for a garden. That’s what she would have said. He can almost see her there, in that old checked shirt, hands on hips, admiring her camellias.
Am I doing the right thing? Will I be able to cope? He nearly says without you but stops himself. What would you do, Pen? Deep down, of course, he knows. Knows exactly what his Pen would do. ‘Okay, love,’ he says. ‘Okay.’
That’s ‘the what’. Shaking himself back to the specific, George picks up his sandwich. The ‘how’ requires more tactical thinking. He has to get things straight in his head. So what next, Just-Penny?
Write it down.
Always the organised one, he thinks with affection. Leaving his half-eaten sandwich, he goes back inside for a notebook and pen. First the heading – ‘Rory’. He underlines the word and writes the figure one. After some thought, he lists the questions that have been worrying him the most.
1. When should I tell Rory?
2. Should I tell her the truth?
3. What about the snoopy do-gooders?
4. How to tell Shirl?
If her mother was only going to be gone a few days, he might get away with the busy-at-work thing. There’s a treat he’d been planning but has
n’t got around to – he’s going to join Rory up at the local library. Tell her after that, he decides, drawing a frame around the first question and underscoring the key word with two heavy black lines. So that’s ‘the when’, but ‘the what’ is a lot harder. He imagines them sitting on the couch with one of those nice picture books and a Choc Wedge. Mummy had to go away for a while. Not away with Amp. He won’t mention Amp. She’s going to get some money so you can have a nice place to live when she comes back. While she’s gone, I’ll look after you and we’ll have a great time going to the library and riding your bike in the park. Once he gets started, the words come easily.
So far, so good. His next problem (a more difficult one, in practical terms) is social services and the school. We won’t tell anyone that Mummy had to go away for a bit. We’ll tell them . . . What could he tell them? Not the truth, that’s for sure. Her mum’s run off with a bikie. He might as well send her to a foster home as let that cat out of the bag. Social services had taken him and Shirl a couple of times. What’s more, they’d split them up. His foster parents were good people, but he’d missed his own home, his mother and sister, and even in some strange way, his father. He had been a boy who disliked change and fretted himself ragged until they decided it was safe enough to send him home.
No foster care for our little girl, he promises the figure by the camellias. The rain, which has been threatening all day, begins to patter on the iron roof. Thanks, Pen. He takes a last look at her garden. Although he still has no strategy, he goes inside confident in his determination to keep Rory safe with him.
‘Why are we going this way?’ Rory (she’s sharp all right) sees they’re taking an unexpected turn.
‘When I was a schoolboy,’ George tells her, ‘one of my favourite places was the library. So I thought we might go and borrow some books.’
‘Silly old George. The library’s at school.’
‘Ah, but there’s one even bigger than the one at your school,’ George says, ‘with more books than you’ve ever seen.’
