by Tess Evans
When they arrive, George fills in a membership form and the librarian directs them to the children’s section. Rory and George look greedily at the shelves crammed with books of all sizes. Some are facing cover out, offering an enticing glimpse of what to expect inside. So many books. So many stories.
They choose seven. ‘One for each night of the week,’ George says. ‘Then we can come back for more.’ He hands her the books. ‘Now I need to get a couple for me.’ His eyes slide around the older children’s section and there they are. New editions of Biggles. Without even looking at the titles, he slips two of them in among the picture books. In the adult section he finds an interesting-looking account of life on an Antarctic station and a Wilbur Smith he hasn’t read.
He puts the pile of books on the check-out desk and the librarian raises her eyebrows. ‘I’m not sure that Biggles is the right book for your granddaughter.’ George ducks his head and she grins. ‘Oh, I see. Enjoy.’
Spaghetti finished, it’s time for a Choc Wedge and a story. Rory riffles through her pile of books and finally chooses Orville: The Owl Who Was Scared of the Dark. George calls on the spirit of Penny and reads with as much expression as he can muster. He does rather well, too, because Rory chuckles in all the right spots and then demands a repeat. Gratified, George obliges.
‘. . . and Orville looked up at his friend the moon and knew he would never, ever be scared again.’
‘One more time.’
George closes the book. ‘Not yet. I’ve got something to tell you first.’ He puts a tentative arm around her shoulder and she snuggles into his chest. It seems as though she belongs there. (Don’t get all sentimental, George.) Swallowing, then clearing his throat, he begins. ‘Now listen to me carefully, sweetheart. Mummy had to go away for a little while.’
‘Will she be back tomorrow?’
‘A bit longer than that. But,’ he adds, as her lip begins to tremble, ‘she’s going to get some money so you can have a nice house to live in when she comes back.’
‘We live here. This is nice. I don’t want to go to another house.’ She pulls away and he recognises the signs of an impending storm. Red face, clenched fists, green eyes smouldering to black.
Don’t set her off, he pleads with himself as he launches into his spiel. ‘Another house is a long way off,’ he blathers, ‘but while Mummy’s gone, I’ll look after you and we’ll have a great time. We can go to the library every week and . . . and you can ride your bike in the park everyday.’
She withdraws into her own world then. George has noticed this happens when something really affects her. When she screams and cries there is always an element of artifice. To a greater or lesser degree, it’s a performance. But when she goes quiet, it means she’s troubled, a reaction George fully understands. He’s alert to the sound of her breathing and has her puffer to hand, just in case.
Patting her shoulder, he reassures her. ‘Mummy loves you and she’ll be back before you know it. In the meantime . . . Do you know how to keep a secret?’
Big-eyed, she nods.
‘We won’t tell anyone Mummy has gone. It’ll be our secret.’ George lowers his voice for effect and Rory looks impressed.
‘Can I just tell Maryam and Kirsty?’ she whispers.
‘No one,’ George says. ‘Except maybe Slipper Dog and Elephant. Because they can’t tell anyone else.’
To his surprise, this makes sense to Rory, who runs off to prepare for bed, shouting, ‘If you’re good, I’ll tell you a secret, Slipper Dog. And Elephant, too, if you’re extra-good.’ She turns to George, who has followed her. ‘Elephants have nice big ears for secrets.’
But George is trembling and it takes some time before he can go in and kiss her goodnight. She’s lying on her back, eyes wide open. ‘Mummy will be back soon, won’t she, George?’
‘Before you know it,’ he assures her. Not believing it for a minute.
When he’s certain Rory is asleep, he tries Angie’s mobile again. (He has tried all day without success.)
This is Ange. Sorreee. You’ll have to ring back.
George’s body is rigid with anger and he grinds out his message through clenched jaws. ‘This is George. Talk to me, you . . .’ He pauses. There’s no point in abusing her. She might never ring back. ‘Think of Rory,’ he says, sounding weaker than he wants to be. ‘She . . .’ The phone cuts out. ‘Shit!’ He swears; he paces the kitchen; he sets upon a futile search for a cigarette. All because there is no other way to release his feelings.
Energy expended, he slumps on the couch with a beer. In some ways, he has to acknowledge that he doesn’t want Angie to return anytime soon. He and Rory are capable of getting on perfectly well without her. He takes a swig from his can and jiggles his leg, absent-mindedly patting his shirt pocket. He hasn’t felt such a need for a cigarette since Penny was diagnosed.
So does he want Rory to himself, and if so, why is he so angry with her mother? He has calmed down sufficiently to look at it straight. His anger is not on his own behalf, but Rory’s. Abandoned on her fifth birthday. Kids and parents belong together. He, George, is one better than a foster parent, but her mother is her mother and that’s the truth of it.
He’s so weary. It’s been a big day. Perhaps Angie will ring tomorrow and he can explain that Rory is her responsibility. He’s more than happy to help, but (the argument just goes round and round) he isn’t her parent.
On the way to bed, he picks up Biggles Secret Agent but puts it down again. He isn’t in the right frame of mind to revisit his boyhood hero, so he spends some time in the Antarctic wastes before settling down to sleep. If Angie doesn’t contact him tomorrow . . . what? What if she never contacts him? All at once he’s wide awake, twitching and turning as he wrestles with an elusive Plan B. He feels his wheeze coming on and reaches for his puffer. Outside, an owl hoots a long, sorrowful note that stretches all the way to the newly sliced moon.
Returning home after taking Rory to school the next day, George sees the light flashing on his answering machine.
‘You have one new message,’ the robotic voice informs him. ‘Message received today at eight-fifty-one.’
Of course it’s Angie. ‘Hi, George. Sorry I missed you. Catch you later. Love to Rory. By-eee.’
George clicks his tongue in disbelief. She rang at eight-fifty-one – perfect timing as she knows damn well. He returns her call and isn’t surprised to find the phone switched off. But she won’t get away with that. Tomorrow he’ll be home between eight and nine-thirty. He’ll ask someone else to take Rory to school. Redgum? No. A strange bloke is likely to cause alarm and unnecessary prying. Shirl? He baulks at that, concluding nevertheless that he needs a respectable grandmotherly type, like his sister, but less nosy.
When he goes outside, Mrs Nguyen is checking the mail. ‘Morning, Mrs Noo-win.’
‘Hello. Very nice,’ she smiles, waving at the blue sky.
Mr Nguyen wanders out, and between the three of them, George’s request is understood.
‘Yes. Yes.’ Mrs Nguyen’s tiny, wrinkled face beams up at him. She’s delighted with the idea of taking the little girl to school. ‘Tomorrow we go.’
Pressed, George accepts a cup of green tea. (It’s the least he can do in the circumstances.) They sit on the back verandah, a mirror image of his own, and instead of straining to make conversation, look out at the veggie patch and the trees beyond, their skin tingling with the frost that is soon diffused by a pale, wintry sun. There’s a stillness in his companions that George absorbs without effort. He’s never been any good at small talk – at keeping the conversational ball in play. Never got the hang of conviviality, animated discussion, or the easy exchange of confidences. Since Pen’s death, he has kept himself to himself and, with the exception of a beer with Redgum and Shirl’s popping in, he has all but forgotten the consolation of simple companionship.
He takes his leave with reluctance, accepting a small bag of apples straight from the tree. ‘Tomorrow school,’ his neigh
bours promise. ‘Not late. Early.’
Gotcha! George picks up the phone at exactly eight-fifty-three.
‘Oh.’ Angie sounds startled. ‘Hello, George.’
‘Hello? Is that all you’ve got to say? Where the hell are you?’
She’s all sulky and droopy. He can hear it in her voice. ‘Just rang to see how Rory is.’
‘Strange time to choose.’
‘Yeah. No. Anyway, how is she?’
‘Missing her mother, if you must know.’
‘Yeah. Well. I’ll be home in a few weeks.’
‘A few . . .’
The phone goes dead. George stares into the receiver as though, like an evil genie, the young woman might suddenly emerge. The immensity of her cheek! The breath-taking negligence! It’s true what he told Angie. Rory is missing her, but as yet the kid has no idea of the seriousness of her plight. She went to bed last night believing that when she woke up, she’d find her mother flopped in an untidy sprawl in the bed opposite hers. How many nights before she realises she’s been all but abandoned? For Rory’s sake, he needs to find Angie but guesses that there’ll be no more phone calls. Not on his terms, anyway.
Shaken, he stands by the bench, phone dangling at his side. Somewhere, in the soft jumble of his thoughts, is a hard core of understanding that he can touch only briefly before recoiling from its heat. He enjoys playing ‘Poppy’, but this isn’t a game. A little girl is without a mother. He’s not sure of his legal position, but the moral imperative is undeniable.
He begins to wipe down the bench, absently catching the toast crumbs in his hand. Then something familiar – a burgeoning dread that clutches at his stomach and sets it roiling in that alarming way it has in times of stress. Miserable as all hell, he sits hunched on the lavatory seat and a thought comes from out of the blue (or maybe from a god kinder than the one he had experienced so far). Bree. She is the one person he can think of who might know Angie’s whereabouts. But he has no idea where she lives. Perhaps Rory will remember. It’s unlikely, but he reels in hope on a slender thread and feels his stomach begin to settle.
Happy to have a plan, he goes outside to cut some of Pen’s camellias for Mrs Nguyen. Funny how he still refers to Pen’s roses, Pen’s camellias. He probably always will. He soon has a nice bunch of just-opened buds. As Shirl is fond of saying, a small thank-you gesture never hurt anyone.
High on speed and freedom, Angie clings to Amp’s broad back as trees and houses and pylons flash by. The fruit-picking didn’t work out. Nothing much needs picking in May. Not that it matters. In a couple of weeks she’ll be eligible for Newstart Allowance again – and anyway, Amp seems to have plenty of cash. That motel they stayed in last night must’ve cost a packet.
‘Love you, babe.’ She mutters this in his ear, knowing he can’t hear her. Of course she doesn’t really love him – and Amp isn’t the sort to appreciate the sentiment. She just likes to be able to say it.
George had said that Rory misses her. Well, maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe she’ll appreciate her mother a bit more. It won’t be always George does this and George says that. All the time George. It really pisses her off, that does.
9
In the three weeks since her mother left, Rory has been subdued. The after-school chatter all but dries up. She creeps around the house, eats her veggies without protest and it seems that every time George turns around, there’s a small, anxious figure hovering nearby. She even waits for him outside the toilet, a habit he finds disconcerting, to put it mildly. Her upturned face looks as it had when he first met her. Eyes strained and mistrustful. Mouth tight with worry. The face of a forty-year-old, George thinks with real pain.
The situation has him on edge. If only she’d let him alone for a bit. Of course the kid is scared that he’ll go away just like her mother – even he can see that. But what can he do about it? And why should it be his problem, anyway? The novelty of sole parenthood is beginning to lose its lustre.
One Friday, last to come down the school steps, Rory looks so miserable that George is alarmed. Recognising the inadequacy of his response, he can do no more than take her hand and remind her that there’s a new packet of Choc Wedges at home.
She scuffs the dust with her shoe. ‘Not hungry.’
She does look a bit feverish. ‘Aren’t you feeling well?’
‘I’m all right.’
George takes her hand. ‘Let’s go, then.’
When they get home, she goes into her bedroom, leaving George to fret in the kitchen. He waits a jittery half hour, then knocks on the door. ‘Can I come in?’
She’s curled up on the bed with Slipper Dog and Elephant. ‘Is Mummy coming back tonight?’ She remains facing the wall and her voice is tentative, so soft it’s almost as though she doesn’t want him to hear.
Poor little bugger. She knows well enough. ‘Mummy rang this morning,’ he tells her. ‘She was sorry she missed you.’ He extemporises. ‘She sent you a big cuddle and a kiss and said she was missing you lots and . . . um, lots.’ George is silent a moment, listening. There it is. The asthmatic wheeze, sawing away in her chest. ‘Where’s your puffer?’
George strokes her back as she inhales the Ventolin. ‘Take it easy, love. There we go. I’m here.’ Thank God he was with her when it started. You hear of children needing hospitalisation when it goes on for too long. Never been that bad himself, but he understands how close you come to panic when each breath is a prize so hard-won. And she’s just a kid. A five-year-old kid that he’s now responsible for.
After a time, her breathing returns to normal, but George is shaken more than he cares to admit. The awful ‘what if?’ never really leaves him after that.
Colour (such as it is) returns to her cheeks but she still needs to rest. How better than with a story? So he reads her Richie Finds a Bone, watching her face as the story unfolds. That dreamy concentration, that living-in-the-pages sort of look – a visible manifestation of his own experience of reading. ‘So the museum gave Richie a gold medal and twelve packets of Doggie Treats because it was the biggest dinosaur bone they had ever seen.’
He closes the book. ‘Maybe we can go to the museum one day and have a look at the dinosaur bones. Would you like that?’
‘Can Mummy come?’
‘It can be a surprise.’
After dinner, she prepares for bed then comes to sit beside him with her backpack. ‘George?’
Such a troubled whisper. ‘Yes, love?’ He hopes he sounds reassuring.
‘Ms Hamilton gave me a letter for Mummy and I don’t know what to do.’
So that’s what she’s been fretting about. With an uncertain gesture, she produces a crumpled piece of paper and gives it to him.
‘Dear Parent,’ he reads. ‘Because of parent–teacher interviews, there will be no classes on Thursday, 14 June. Please complete the attached form and you will be allocated one of your preferred times. If possible, please leave the evening timeslots for working parents. Kind regards, Jessica Hamilton.’
‘I’ll take care of this. Off you go and I’ll come and read you another story.’ His reading aloud is beginning to rival Pen’s. While Rory scampers off, he fills in the form. If Angie’s not back, I guess I’ll have to be Mother for a day. He finds a fresh envelope for the form and puts it in Rory’s bag.
‘Okay now?’ he says, as he goes in to check that she’s settled. ‘Good-oh. What say we have that Richie story again? And—’ He so wants to make her happy. ‘This is due back at the library soon. What if I buy you your own Richie Finds a Bone book?’
Finding Bree’s address is so easy, George nearly cries with relief. On the way to school the next day, he asks Rory if she can remember where Bree lives.
‘In my pocket,’ she says. ‘Aunty Bree wrote her house for me in case I get lost.’ She takes out a piece of cardboard with an address written in bold black letters. ‘Bree Roberts, 25 Mill St Northcote’. Not far at all. George slips the small square into his own pocket.
‘Give it back. It’s mine.’ Her voice is shrill with panic. ‘What if I get lost?’
Startled, he takes in the stricken face, the brimming tears. ‘Here,’ he says, tucking it back in her pocket. ‘So you always remember to take this? Every single day?’
She looks at him as though he’s stupid. ‘It’s in case I get lost. Aunty Bree said I had to.’
Twenty-five Mill Street. The fence is sagging, the gate needs oiling, but a valiant azalea thrusts its way through compacted soil, defying, in its soft, curling blooms, all known laws of horticulture. The porch has been swept, and despite the dirty glass panels, the front door shows signs of recently applied paint. Sporadic, effortful effort.
As he steps up to the door, his tradesman’s eye spots blisters and bristles in its bruised surface. A bit like my face after a big night out. Not that he has big nights out anymore. To be honest, he’d never had many of those at all. When he first started work, he gave his mother as much of his wages as he could. Then he married young, and Pen put an end to that sort of thing. He wonders, in a rush of self-pity, what he has missed in such an abbreviated youth, but shrugs off the thought. He had entered his teens ill-educated, directionless and fearful. Would nights out on the booze have corrected any of that? A dash of Dutch courage, maybe, but all the more reason to be fearful. He could have done a lot worse than let Pen shape his life. But now he has lived seventy-seven years, and without warning, he has to not only reshape his own life, but that of a vulnerable child.
Slovenly in pyjama pants and a grey hoodie, Bree squints at her visitor. ‘So she did it.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
Without makeup, she appears even older. Hands in her pockets, shoulders hunched against the morning chill, she regards him with weary eyes. ‘I couldn’t dob her in. She’s a mate. Besides, I never thought she’d really go.’ Her mouth becomes ugly with disgust. ‘Amp’s a fucking bastard. I swear I’ll kill him if he ever comes back.’
