Mercy Street

by Tess Evans

  She grins. ‘Yeah. I’d have to wait in line with all your other girlfriends.’

  He recognises bullshit when he hears it. All the same, he straightens his shoulders and stands somewhat taller.

  As Christmas approaches, Redgum suggests a project that engages them for weeks. (‘Them’ includes Mr Nguyen. It seems only right.) They are building a cubbyhouse in the Nguyens’ backyard, to be assembled at George’s place when it’s finished. Bickering amicably over materials and design, the three men hammer and saw and drill while Mrs Nguyen and Shirl choose material for curtains, and cushions for the table and chair set that Peta has outgrown. The cubby isn’t finished yet and George is torn between wanting to see Rory’s enjoyment and the long unfamiliar sense of belonging and purpose that the project has nurtured.

  Despite the unseasonal wind that snaps and tears at his jacket, that numbs his nose and cheeks, George is cocooned in warmth that no mere weather can dispel. And wrapped up with him, generating and maintaining that warmth, is Rory.

  Angie is unusually reflective. They’ve been gone for quite a while now – five, six, months? Time blurs by like the towns, the petrol stations, the railway sidings she sees from the back of Amp’s bike. She’s not quite sure how this happened, having told herself she was just getting away for a bit of a break. She deserves a break, she reminds herself. Five years bringing up a kid on her own. Trapped, that’s what she’d been – trapped in the life of a single mother. No money. No help. No fun.

  Now she’s in Bunbury, on the other side of the continent, the Nullarbor Plain, that great, desolate wilderness, stretching wide between her and her child. She hasn’t forgotten Rory. Not exactly. But she’s a creature who has learned to live in the moment. And at the moment, she’s experiencing life on the road – new places, the visceral freedom of the speeding bike and a man to provide sex and money. There is no lack of money and Angie doesn’t inquire into its source. Amp knows some shady people. There are often packages stowed under the seat or elsewhere on the bike. Sometimes he even asks her to put a package in her bra. She’s not so sure about this, but is reluctant to test their relationship by refusing his request. If it is a request, she thinks sulkily. An order, more like. There’s plenty of cash, too. Used notes folded in a rubber band.

  He’s careless with money, is Amp, always rolling off a few notes when he wants some time to himself – ‘Get yourself some boots’ or ‘a dress’ or once, memorably, ‘a tattoo’. Angie has never had a tattoo, and with much sentimentality and little emotion she decides to have Rory’s name on a scroll surrounded by roses on her plump upper arm. She shows Amp when it’s done.

  ‘You stupid bitch. You want me to look like an idiot?’

  She’s puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘For all anyone knows, “Rory” could be a bloke.’ He gives her a backhander for good measure before stomping out to get drunk.

  Angie has several hours to fret before he returns. She clutches at his arm. ‘I’m sorry, babe. Didn’t think.’ She tries unsuccessfully to twine her body around his, wishing she were a better shape for twining. ‘I can keep it covered. I will. Promise.’

  Amp grunts some sort of assent before falling on the bed, fully clothed. Angie pulls off his boots and switches out the light. Snores like small explosions assail the darkness.

  It’s a couple of days before Angie can gather the courage to go out and buy Rory a Christmas present. The Toy Shed has just opened in Bunbury and she stands, mouth agape, intimidated by the racks laden with more toys than she could ever have imagined. A young woman is approaching her, and though she hasn’t shoplifted anything, Angie is spurred into action, grabbing the first doll that comes to hand and fleeing to the register. Later, she wishes she’d bought a Barbie.

  Christmas Eve. Over a year since George walked down that lane to be menaced by his young assailants. He hasn’t seen them since, but if he had, he might have thanked them. It’s an ill wind that blows no good. His mother used to say that, although God knows in her life, the ill wind seemed to blow without relief.

  Rory takes a long time to get to sleep and it’s after ten before he’s able to call on Redgum and Mr Nguyen to help him assemble the cubbyhouse, supervised (unnecessarily, the men think) by Shirl and Mrs Nguyen. Looks a treat, they all agree, and it’s after midnight before they sit down to enjoy a drink and some of Shirl’s famous Christmas cake. George is ready to resume his relationship with fruitcake. Nothing like it, really – who can resist the smell of brandy-soaked fruit as the knife releases its fragrance?

  After Redgum and the Nguyens leave, George and Shirl pack presents in the Santa sack. ‘A bit more than we got as kids, eh?’ No bitterness in this statement, just delight that it’s different for Rory.

  ‘Did she send a present?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nice to see a tree.’

  ‘Yeah. When there’s a kid . . .’ The tree is the first he’s had since Pen died. And how she would have loved sharing Christmas with a child. It’s a scrawny sort of tree, sitting there in its tub. The bright baubles wink and mock and glisten like tears.

  Rory is awake the next morning at five-thirty, running barefoot into George’s room with her pillow-slip of toys and books. The look on her face is priceless. Kids are so knowing nowadays and he hopes Rory can have another couple of Christmases believing in Santa. He hopes he’ll be there to keep faith with her. He glances down at his hands. They’re okay. Brushing these misgivings aside, he sits back and admires her treasures.

  ‘Now,’ he says as she munches on a chocolate frog found in the toe of her stocking, ‘I believe Santa mentioned that there’s something outside as well.’

  Stopping only to put her shoes on, she runs out into the backyard. ‘Ooooh. It’s a cubby! Is it really mine?’

  ‘Certainly is. Santa said so.’

  ‘It’s got chairs and a table. And a cupboard with drawers. I can put my new tea set on the shelf.’ She pauses. ‘What’s my address?’

  George is now a good improviser when it comes to children’s questions. ‘Seven-A Mercy Street,’ he says.

  Another present comes for Rory just before the New Year. ‘From Mummy,’ George says.

  Rory tears off the paper. ‘A doll.’

  George tries to foster some enthusiasm, but he knows what her mother doesn’t. As it turns out, her daughter isn’t a dolly sort of girl.

  12

  Rory sets off for the new school year swearing she will hate the new teacher. ‘I loved Ms Hamilton,’ she mourned. ‘Ms Bongiorno is going to be horrible.’

  George is inclined to sympathise – he was comfortable with Ms Hamilton. In a few days, however, they are both reconciled when Ms Bongiorno is judged by the perfidious children to be ‘totally awesome’.

  In April, Rory meets George with the news that Grade 1 is having a footy-tipping competition. ‘The prize is going to be a footy jumper. If you win you can pick what team.’ Rory pauses mid-flight. ‘Who do I barrack for, Poppy?’

  George’s own Poppy used to take him to Princes Park most Saturdays and his loyalty has always been with the Blues. ‘I barrack for Carlton,’ he tells her, ‘but you can choose.’

  She decides upon Richmond. ‘It sounds like Richie,’ she says.

  That football season the two of them pore over the fixture every Thursday to work out who they’ll tip for the week. It becomes their favourite time together, debating the likely winners. Back and forth they go.

  ‘West Coast beat Sydney last time.’

  ‘But that was in Perth.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  ‘Luke Hodge might be carrying an injury. Don’t forget that.’

  Rory is ruthless in her assessment of each team’s chances. But despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, she always tips Richmond.

  ‘Loyal to the bootstraps,’ George tells Redgum.

  A few weeks later, when Richmond plays Carlton, he takes her to the match. ‘Now hold my hand,’ he says as they’re disgorged fr
om Jolimont station. George worries that he might lose her in the cheerful, roiling crowd and reminds her of his instructions to find a policeman.

  ‘You told me that.’ She’s becoming impatient with all this fussing. ‘I’m nearly six.’

  The crowd is dense so she does clutch his hand, but every few steps she executes an excited little skip.

  At a yellow-and-black kiosk outside the ground, he buys her a beanie and scarf in Richmond colours.

  ‘You’d better buy blue-and-white ones for you,’ she says as she winds the scarf around her neck. ‘It’s only fair.’

  The day is crisp but sunny and they rub their hands together in the breeze that blows cold across the oval. Foraging seagulls take flight as the umpires run on to the field.

  ‘Booooo!’ Rory cups her hands around her mouth and joins the crowd in this weekly demonstration of contempt. The siren is a call to arms, players and spectators merged in one great will to win.

  They eat hot jam doughnuts at half-time. Like most Richmond fans, Rory idolises Matthew Richardson. ‘Richo’s best of all,’ she says, jam dripping onto her scarf. ‘I’m going to have his number on my jumper. Do you think Aunty Shirl would sew it on for me?’ (They’ve become as thick as thieves, George thinks.)

  It’s a close match and George finds himself hoping for a Richmond victory. A mighty roar lifts the crowd to its feet at each scoring shot, and Rory, red-faced and passionate, shouts herself hoarse, finding just enough voice to boo ferociously when Carlton wins by a point.

  We are the navy Blues, sing the victors.

  ‘I wanted to sing the Tigers’ song – we only needed one more goal.’ Eyes wide and tragic, she clutches at her Footy Record.

  One lousy point. ‘Never mind, love. Maybe next time.’

  She’s so despondent that they stop at a fast-food restaurant on the way home. It’s a rare indulgence nowadays, but George feels personally responsible (and consequently, guilty) for his team’s win.

  Rory’s sixth birthday comes and goes. A party, a cake and a late present from Angie – twenty dollars in a card. ‘Happy birthday, Rory,’ Angie has written. ‘Ask George to buy you something nice with this.’

  This is better than the doll, Rory tells him, but George isn’t so sure. All the possibilities open to Angie and she chose to send money. Little wonder that within the year she’s become a receding influence in her daughter’s life. Rory no longer asks for the mermaid story, no longer speculates about when her mother might come home, no longer wheezes her distress.

  ‘I don’t know what to make of it,’ George says to Redgum. ‘It’s like she’s cut her mother out of her thoughts. Good in one way, I suppose. I just hope she’s not, you know, pining inside.’ Like Shirl and I did when we were in care.

  Redgum shifts his bulk on the bar stool and thinks for a bit. ‘A mother’s a mother,’ he says. ‘I don’t reckon a kid forgets its mother all that easy.’

  George understands Redgum only too well, but it isn’t what he wants to hear. After his initial anger at Angie’s desertion, he’s become more and more convinced that Rory’s best interests will be served if her mother never comes back. He is Rory’s family – all the family she needs, as far as he’s concerned. So he ignores Redgum, buries his own childhood memories, and tries to be the best Poppy George that he can be.

  Out of the blue, Angie rings George. ‘Just thought I’d catch up,’ she says.

  ‘It’s been a while.’

  ‘Yeah. Well, things’ve been happening.’

  ‘I suppose they have.’

  ‘You know. Stuff.’

  ‘Yep. Stuff happens.’

  ‘How’s Rory?’

  ‘Good. Happy.’

  ‘Does she . . . ?’

  ‘Does she what?’

  ‘I miss her, you know.’

  ‘Ah well . . .’

  Angie says a hasty goodbye and stares at her phone. George wasn’t very talkative. And she wanted to talk to him. Amp is dealing speed – she knows that now for sure. Dealing’s not so bad, but he’s using, too. He’s becoming more violent, but she knows it’s just the speed. He does love her. She didn’t get the opportunity to tell George all this. She rang him because she just wanted normal for a bit. She almost told him she wanted to come home. She would have, if he’d asked her. But this time he didn’t ask, so she was left staring at the phone.

  13

  George’s days have shape and weight. Rory is growing taller, her skin pink and healthy, her hair shiny, and the troubled little pucker between her eyebrows has given way to a smooth, high forehead. In her second year of school, she’s flourishing. Her reading is improving by the day, and she’s progressed to the Kookaburras. ‘The top group,’ George boasts to Shirl and Redgum. When they go to the library, Richie books are spurned for more prestigious ‘chapter books’. Bedtime has become a war of attrition and George tells Shirl that he sometimes has to put his foot down. Rory still sleeps with Slipper Dog and Elephant, and when George goes in to kiss her goodnight, he feels like the luckiest man in the world.

  In this second year, George is a more confident parent. He allows himself to feel frustrated at times and this no longer makes him feel guilty or ungrateful.

  The Blues and Tigers clash for a second time. (The Blues win again. What’s wrong with the Tigers?) It’s then that George has a great idea for Rory’s next birthday. He’ll buy them season tickets for Richmond and take her to all the home matches. He almost blurts this out, so pleased is he with the idea, but decides to keep it as a surprise. The future, George believes, is looking better and better.

  As the year passes, George begins preparations for their second Christmas.

  Redgum has been wondering about a chemistry set. ‘Seems like a good present from a scientist,’ he says, obviously tickled that Rory still believes this. ‘Trouble is, the box says not for children under twelve. I said she was nearly seven and as sharp as a tack, but the toyshop woman said, “It’s too dangerous” and “What about an ant farm?” But I said I didn’t like that idea and I wanted something with a bit of whizz-bangery. That’s what I told her. I mean, what sort of scientist would give a kid an ant farm?’

  ‘I’m thinking of getting her some fishing tackle,’ George says. ‘To take on our holiday.’ They are going away on Boxing Day. To the beach, he tells the delighted Rory.

  So many things to look forward to, so they make a calendar to mark off the days. George buys a big square of cardboard from the art shop and rules a grid. ‘All ready, sweetheart. Go for your life.’ So Rory is let loose with coloured markers, glitter glue (Shirl had put him on to this) and stickers. Tongue curled over her upper lip, Rory spends the rest of her Saturday labelling and colouring and decorating. She has a wonderful capacity to lose herself in a project. Barely stopping to eat, she fills each square with colour and sparkle, finishing with their holidays, where she draws shells and boats and sandcastles. (All from books or television. She’s never been to the beach.)

  ‘When I was a kid,’ George tells her, ‘I had a beach holiday with my Nanna and Poppy. We had a cabin just over from the water and it was sunny every day.’ At least that’s how he remembers it. Mornings holding a secret heat that was gradually released as the sun rose higher. The haze off the eucalypts. The smell of the sea, the shrieking of gulls and the frozen bliss of an icy-pole at lunchtime. Those two weeks were the best of his childhood and he and Shirl came back from the beach each day with sunglow on their brown bodies and that wonderful tiredness unique to a life of sun, salt and sea. Often, after their evening meal, they played Snakes and Ladders and Ludo and a card game called Twenty-one. Poppy helped him along, but Nanna played to win. (George makes a mental note to pack a couple of board games and a deck of cards – a new one. He had worn out the old pack playing Patience after Pen died.)

  So he shares the anticipation of this holiday with Rory but keeps the fishing to himself. He doesn’t want to spoil the surprise, which he hugs to his chest with the same faith and love Rory still
lavishes on Slipper Dog and Elephant. Fishing with his Poppy had been the best thing of all. They sat on the pier, not saying much, but together. Like that was where he belonged. If it got cold, Poppy gave him an old jumper, so old it was hard to distinguish its original colour and shape. It smelled of sea and fish and Poppy’s pipe tobacco, and when George took it off for bed, the smell lingered on his own body.

  Rory marks off the eighth day before Christmas, which she has decorated with a bauble-laden tree. That afternoon, they had gone out in Redgum’s ute and bought a tree from the Scouts, fussing and fretting the finer points of height and shape until they found one just right.

  George, to his sister’s surprise, organises a tree-decorating party and their friends all come with food and drink to watch and admire Rory as she decorates the tree to oblivion. She sings ‘Away in a Manger’ and the adults wipe their eyes and go all soft-in-the-middle, recalling Christmases past. Even the Nguyens, who are Buddhist, exchange delighted smiles.

  In the next few days, George shops for presents, attends a thank-you afternoon tea for the school volunteers, checks what he needs for the holiday, and with some instructions from Shirl, makes a chocolate ripple cake for Rory’s class party. He licks cream and stray biscuit crumbs from his fingers. ‘Pretty impressive, Pen, eh?’

  Shopping is the hardest task. Pen had always shopped for gifts. She seemed to have the knack of knowing exactly what everyone might want. For the first Christmases after she died, he had bought a bottle of Scotch for Redgum, cinema tickets for Shirl and Bill and put twenty dollars in envelopes for his great nieces and nephews. Until last year, Shirl had helped him, but this year he’s on his own. So he acted on the advice of the reading mums. After much earnest discussion, they agreed more or less unanimously, that the best present for Shirl would be a Diamond Deluxe Pamper Pack from the exclusive Orchid Beauty Salon.

  ‘Old Shirl has been there for me all these years,’ he tells Redgum. ‘So she deserves something a bit special, that’s for sure.’ But he isn’t quite comfortable with the whole thing. ‘I suppose they know what they’re talking about, but it seems a funny sort of present – like telling someone they’re not beautiful enough. She’s never been a beauty, our Shirl, but you got to give it to her, she does her best and always looks nice.’