Mercy Street

by Tess Evans

  The doormat offers a frayed ‘Welcome’, but none is forthcoming from Bree, who continues to glare at some point over George’s shoulder. He coughs. ‘Do you mind if I come in?’

  ‘All right.’ She steps aside. ‘I’m having a coffee. Want one?’

  Inside, the house has the same duality as the exterior. Following her down the passage, George passes open doors then averts his eyes, but not before he sees the chaotic bedroom and the dark hole of a bathroom that smells of mould, stale perfume and wet towels. In contrast, the kitchen is shabby but light-filled and clean(ish), with an array of herbs growing in colourful pots on the windowsill. The sugar has hardened in the bowl, and not wanting to offend, George drinks the bitter coffee unsweetened.

  ‘Do you know where she is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Would you tell me if you did?’

  She hesitates. Pushes at her hair with an angry gesture. Plucks at a thread on her cuff. ‘Yeah. Yeah – I would. I thought she cared about her – Rory, I mean. She’s a good kid when you get her on-side.’

  ‘She is that.’

  ‘So what’re you going to do?’ Alarmed all at once, she bangs her mug down on the table. ‘Not social services. You’re never dobbing her in to social services.’

  George is hurt. He’d put that thought away almost as soon as it entered his head. ‘Of course not. I’m just going to struggle along for a bit and hope no one finds out.’

  Anyone else (except Redgum, that is) would warn him of the consequences of concealing the desertion of a child, but Bree is all approval. ‘Good for you, mate. I can give you a hand. You know, if you need one.’

  The bitter coffee isn’t all to blame for George’s grimace. ‘Take a good look at me, love. I’m a 77-year-old bloke who’s never had a kid of his own. Reckon I might just need a bit of help now and then.’

  The sweetness of her smile catches him off-guard.

  ‘What about you come over Friday after school? I could give you a bit of a feed.’ He refrains from adding that it looks as though a good feed is just what she needs.

  ‘Done.’ She shakes his hand like a man and sees him to the door.

  His next problem is Shirl and her infernal popping in. He had managed all right when she came on the Monday after the party to pick up her cake tin. That was just a pop-in-pop-out kind of thing – he can handle those. The few times after that were during the day when she wouldn’t expect Rory or Angie to be home. But his luck runs out when she arrives shortly before dinnertime on the Friday he’s expecting Bree. (‘Only popping in for a mo’. I found this nice jumper for Rory.’) She stays long enough to accept a grudgingly offered cup of tea.

  ‘So how’s Angie’s saving going?’ A constant theme for Shirl – when would he be rid of the interlopers?

  Lying is not George’s strong suit and his sister has always been alert to the signs. ‘Your eyes go all shifty,’ she’d told him once. ‘And there’s something with the tip of your nose.’

  George does his best with his eyes, but what can you do with the tip of your nose? He pulls out his handkerchief. (He’s never held with tissues – girly things, tissues.) ‘She’s working extra hours.’ A moment of inspiration. ‘That’s why she’s late tonight.’ He looks at his sister over his hanky. She seems satisfied, but with effortless transition turns her questing eyes to the fresh tablecloth and ‘good’ china.

  ‘Expecting company?’ She sniffs the air. ‘Roast lamb, if I’m not mistaken. And all your own sister gets is a cup of tea.’

  The doorbell. George is spared a reply, but when he comes back with Bree, Shirl does that thing with her eyebrows.

  ‘Yes. We met at the party,’ Shirl says in response to George’s clumsy introduction. She dumps a plastic shopping bag on the table, with reckless disregard for the good china. ‘I hope the jumper fits,’ she says, frowning. ‘I got it yesterday at the sales. Where is Rory, by the way?’

  ‘Kirsty’s mum’s dropping her off later. They call it a playdate,’ he explains, tossing off this new word with studied nonchalance.

  Suddenly aware of the time, George almost pushes his sister down the hall, but not before she does her eyebrow thing again. This time it’s accompanied by lips of string.

  ‘A bit of a cow, your sister.’

  George bristles. ‘Shirl’s all the family I got. You can say all you want about me, but Shirl’s off limits.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Surprised at his own outburst, George fusses with the roast. ‘That’ll be Rory. Let her in, will you?’

  ‘Aunty Bree.’ Rory bursts into the kitchen, dragging Bree behind her. ‘Aunty Bree’s here.’ She stops. ‘Where’s Mummy?’

  George shuts the oven door, wincing as he straightens his back. ‘I told you, sweetheart. Mummy had to go away to work for a while.’

  ‘But Aunty Bree’s here.’ Turning to Bree, the child repeats her question, this time with a perilous quaver in her voice. ‘Where’s Mummy?’

  ‘She’s had to go away for a bit.’ Bree looks to George for guidance. It’s not forthcoming.

  ‘But you’re here.’ Rory grabs Bree’s hand. ‘So why isn’t Mummy with you?’

  George can’t believe his stupidity. As far as Rory is concerned, Bree and Angie are a pair. He had thought a familiar face would cheer the kid up, but all he has done is emphasise her mother’s absence. He rubs his chin. This is serious. The kid has gone all quiet and because there’s nothing more to say, because he himself needs comforting, he squats down to give her an awkward hug.

  ‘I want Mummy. I don’t want to be here anymore.’

  ‘Sweetheart.’ But she melts from his grasp, and ignoring Bree, disappears into her bedroom. The small house overflows with the misery of her muted sobs.

  Someone has to go to her. George looks at Bree, who looks back at him, eyebrows raised. ‘I’ll go,’ she offers when he doesn’t move. ‘I suppose you’ve had a lot of this.’

  George is grateful. ‘If she starts to wheeze, her puffer’s in her schoolbag.’

  ‘No worries.’

  Half an hour later, they appear at the table in time for the meal.

  With the resilience George has come to admire, Rory tucks into her roast lamb, nattering all the while about Kirsty and Maryam, Ms Hamilton and a boy called Justin who pushes smaller kids off the monkey bars. ‘I bit him,’ Rory explains. ‘He tried to push Maryam.’

  ‘’Atta girl.’ Rory and Bree high-five and George whoops his approval before remembering that he’s now in loco parentis and in all likelihood is breaking some parenting rule or other.

  ‘Ms Hamilton mightn’t like kids biting other kids.’

  Rory’s small teeth go to work on a piece of lamb. ‘She doesn’t know.’

  Bree leaves without offering to help with the dishes. What’s wrong with young women nowadays? In his day, if they went to someone’s house for a meal, Pen always offered to help with the dishes. Even so, he’s far from unhappy. After the initial kerfuffle, the visit went off pretty well and Rory was more cheerful than he’d seen her in weeks.

  He clears the table, wondering if Angie will get in touch with Bree. Or if she already has, and Bree isn’t letting on. He believed her when she said she would tell him if she heard anything. And she seemed sincere when she said that she’d contact a bloke she knew who was going out with Amp’s sister’s best friend. Good grief! He’s falling into the trap of trusting Bree’s contacts. It’s all too much. George decides to soak the baking dish and have an early night. He’s not getting any younger.

  It was inevitable that Shirl would find out. ‘Like a bloody ferret,’ George tells Redgum. ‘Nothing gets past her.’

  As expected, her first response is to berate him. ‘What on earth . . . ? Why ever did you . . . ? You can’t possibly . . .’ Culminating in a self-righteous, ‘I told you so.’

  ‘Finished?’

  Shirl is taken aback. ‘What? What did you say?’

  ‘I asked if you’d finished,’ he says. ‘You’ve made it
clear what you think, but I need to know what you’ll do.’

  ‘Do?’

  ‘I can’t do this without help. Angie might never come back. What if social services find out? They’ll take her. We both know that.’ Their eyes lock. ‘You said you’d help earlier on, but this is different. I’m not even sure it’s legal.’

  Shirl looks frightened then. ‘I can’t be party to this. You’ll have to tell them. You could end up in jail.’

  ‘And Rory could end up in foster care.’

  A shadow passes over her face. Then the practical. ‘I hope you kept the letter she wrote.’

  George scrabbles around in Pen’s bits-and-pieces drawer. ‘Yeah.’ He’s both relieved and surprised to find it. It hadn’t occurred to him that the letter could be important.

  Shirl clicks her tongue. ‘Evidence.’ (For what? he wonders.) ‘I’ll take it. Really, George. You can’t be trusted to look after a piece of paper, let alone a child. Now.’ She sits down, plonking a territorial handbag on the table. ‘Make me a cup of tea while I think.’

  So Shirl, model of integrity and good citizenship, agrees to aid (and abet) her brother, just as he knew she would. Bossy and scolding she may be, but George has known her longer than anyone else alive, and has never lost faith in her good heart. It’s a lot to ask – he understands that only too well. Shirl has always hated muddle. You can see that in her grooming, her neat-as-a-pin house, her passion for organisation. But as always, when he needs her, she steps (albeit gingerly) beyond the right angles of her carefully ordered world into this new one of ambiguity and uncertain horizons.

  Shirl picks up her handbag and, after presenting her cheek for a kiss, takes her leave.

  George watches her retreating figure with renewed affection. Shirl has always been there for him. When he told her of Pen’s diagnosis, he cried – it was only with his sister that he could reveal the full extent of his terror. ‘Six months, Shirl. Maybe twelve with chemo.’

  Shirl cried along with him. It had been many years since their awkward first meeting, but Shirl had come to love Pen. True, she could get a bit stroppy with her at times, but only as you would a younger sister. ‘Penny’s been good to the girls and to me,’ she told her brother. ‘And you, too. Let me take my turn.’

  George didn’t know what she meant but soon understood. Of course she cooked and baked and shopped for them, but so did Pen’s sister and many of their friends. Shirl, however, went one step further. He remembers her wrapped in a large apron, cleaning away vomit and body waste as Pen became weaker and weaker. ‘Go away,’ Shirl would say. ‘This is women’s business.’

  ‘You can come in now. I’m making her pretty for you.’ With a lump in his throat, he watched the tenderness with which his sister took Pen’s thin limbs and washed them down with lavender water. Then she’d wrap the sick woman’s poor naked head in a bright scarf and add a bit of lipstick. Sometimes he’d see the two women laughing together. It did them all good to hear Pen laugh.

  He’d never have managed by himself. Thanks to Shirl, Pen was able to die in her own home. George rinses the teacups, chastened as he always is when reminded of his sister’s gift to them.

  On the day of the parent–teacher interviews, Shirl agrees to mind Rory and briefs him on what to expect. ‘Now don’t forget your reading glasses,’ she says. ‘And remember – don’t get all hot under the collar if she has anything negative to say about Rory. Although . . .’ Shirl sounds almost affectionate. ‘. . . I must say the child has greatly improved since I first met her.’

  ‘I was hoping to see Rory’s mother.’ Ms Hamilton, petite and pretty, stands up as George sidles into the room.

  ‘Her mother had to go away for a bit. Her gran’s not too good and she’s got no one else.’ Would this smart young woman swallow that? He and Shirl had colluded to devise the story and it seemed good enough at the time. But to George’s hyper-sensitive ears, it has a very dodgy ring to it.

  Murmuring vague sympathy, the young teacher sits down, indicating another chair for George. So he sits, hands dangling between his knees as though he’s about to be punished for not doing his homework. It’s not my fault, he hears his young self say. Dad was shouting all night and Mum made us go to our room. My books were in the kitchen. It’s not my fault.

  But no. The young woman (surely too young to be a teacher) is talking about Rory. ‘She was becoming more settled in recent times. Then she seemed to regress. That must have been around the time her mother had to go away.’

  George nods. A dumb show. What’s he expected to say?

  ‘I’ll be sending home her first real reader soon. I believe you’ve been taking her to the library, too. I wish more parents would do that. A love of books is so important when a child is learning to read.’

  Praise. From a teacher. George grins in a lunatic sort of way and nods again.

  ‘So,’ Ms Hamilton persists. ‘Please make sure she reads the marked pages when she comes home from school. Every night without fail. More than once, if you have the time. I can’t stress this enough.’

  Another burst of nodding.

  ‘I was wondering . . .’ She pauses, uncertain whether to proceed. ‘Mr Johnson, we’re starting a parent-reading program – where parents come to the school to hear the children read. So many of them work that it’s difficult to find enough volunteers.’ Another pause. ‘I understand you’re retired.’ This on a rising cadence.

  Is she asking me to help with the reading? ‘You need volunteers?’

  He tries to sound casual when he tells Shirl, but can’t wipe the smirk from his face.

  ‘It turns out they need someone to help with the reading. I’m doing Tuesday mornings.’

  Shirl is warm in her approval. ‘Good for you.’

  Even more gratifying, Rory is so excited that, as soon as she gets to school, she shouts her news across the schoolyard. ‘Kirsty. Maryam. My Poppy George is going to be a reading mum.’

  George climbs into bed feeling pretty pleased with himself. Shirl is more or less on-side, Ms Hamilton seems to believe his story and Rory has been more settled and not so clingy in the last few days. Angie has been gone over four weeks and he feels that he’s handled things remarkably well. He switches on his lamp, deciding to reward himself by starting his Biggles book. It’s an easier read than he remembers and he’s well into chapter eight when he hears a shriek from Rory’s room.

  ‘Marmee! George!’

  ‘I’m coming, love.’ Still wearing his reading glasses, George stumbles on the rug as he rushes into her room and switches on the light. Rory is sitting up in bed, eyes huge, clutching at Slipper Dog, her skinny chest heaving with great, almost soundless sobs.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ George, who had been prepared (if necessary) to fight off an intruder, looks around the room.

  ‘The wolves. They want to get in the window.’ She flings herself at George. ‘They’ve got red eyes and . . .’

  George is relieved. ‘There are no wolves in Australia,’ he says. ‘It’s just a bad dream. Come on. I’ll show you.’ He moves towards the window, but she buries her face in his chest. ‘No. No. Not the window. They’re waiting to get me.’

  He puts her down on the bed. ‘I’ll have a look,’ he says, pulling back the curtain. ‘No wolves.’

  ‘Stay with me. I’m scared.’

  ‘I’ll just go and get my dressing-gown.’

  It’s after midnight before George is satisfied that he can leave her. Poor kid. When he had nightmares as a child (his involved bats, he remembers), his father scoffed and called him ‘Mary’ and told his mother not to pamper him. So when he was scared, he’d climb into Shirl’s bed. She was older and stronger and, she assured him, not the least bit afraid of bats. With these thoughts, George switches off his lamp and settles down to a sleep in which some part of him understands he must remain vigilant.

  Night after night, the wolves appear in Rory’s dreams and George’s problems compound. By seven o’clock, he’s already
tired and dreads facing the battle now required to get her to sleep.

  Rory mounts a go-slow strategy, taking longer and longer to finish her evening meal. After several nights of cajoling, George issues an ultimatum. ‘No Choc Wedge unless you finish your dinner in half an hour.’ He places the clock in front of her. ‘You have to be finished when the big hand is on six.’

  Rory is nothing if not resourceful. She earns her Choc Wedge then disappears into the bathroom for another half hour. When no more delay is possible she insists that George wait in her room until she goes to sleep.

  ‘It’s eight-thirty, even nine-thirty, before I get some time to myself,’ he complains to Redgum. ‘Then she wakes up with the nightmares maybe twice a night. I tell you, mate; a bloke is completely buggered by lunchtime.’

  ‘Wolves, you say?’

  ‘With red eyes.’

  ‘Can’t blame the kid for being scared.’

  ‘I’m not.’ George is hurt that Redgum would even suggest such a thing.

  ‘Shirl’d know what to do, I reckon.’

  Redgum is right on the money. But does George want Shirl to know he’s not coping? After two weeks of broken sleep, he realises that he no longer cares.

  ‘It’s becoming harder and harder to get her to go to bed.’ George is in Shirl’s kitchen red-eyed and haggard, his voice whiny and aggrieved. ‘I mean I try to understand. I used to have nightmares myself when I was a kid. Well, you know that. It’s just that I’m not sure how much longer I can cope. I even yelled at her the other night.’

  Shirl looks up sharply. ‘That’s not like you. What did she do?’

  ‘She cried, Shirl. I made a scared little girl cry.’

  ‘Most children have nightmares. Mine did.’

  ‘I bet you didn’t yell at them.’

  Shirl grimaces. ‘Sometimes I wanted to.’ She changes her posture from sympathetic to practical. ‘In the end, we made them dream-catchers.’

  George has no idea what a dream-catcher might be, but the more important question is, did they work?