‘One of our volunteers is off grey-nomadding and another broke her hip, so we’ll take whoever we can get.’
‘I’ve never had anything to do with an art gallery before,’ I said. ‘Or art, for that matter.’
‘Neither had I. Louise, my daughter, talked me into volunteering there when I was down in the dumps a few years ago. The doc would have had me popping pills.’
‘I suppose I could help out in the garden, and I know my way around a kitchen. Although it’s been years since I’ve done anything more than prepare basic meals—for Mum when she was alive, and then Grace on the odd occasion.’
Carol opened her car door. ‘Why don’t you come down to the gallery this arvo. Fridays are my day to be there from one to four. I can show you around, and you can make up your mind after that.’
‘All right,’ I said, before I could change my mind. ‘I’ll come at two. How does that sound?’
Carol gave me the thumbs up. ‘See you then.’
Becoming a gallery volunteer proved to be easy. There were no police checks to undergo or anything formal; it was simply a matter of filling out a form and paying a small membership subscription. My application needed to be approved by the committee and then Carol said she’d put me to work.
Fed up with the confines of the small house, and frustrated by Faith’s intransigence when it came to Liam and Amelia, I needed somewhere to direct my energy.
Saturday I woke to another bitterly cold and overcast day, but without any rain as compensation. An electric blow heater was the only heating I had, and because I didn’t want a crippling electricity bill I kept warm by keeping active. Needless to say, by the end of the day the house was spotless. No bathroom had ever been this clean.
Most evenings, I’d snuggle up in bed with a book and the two hot water bottles I’d bought at the supermarket. Deciding whether to scramble a couple of eggs or settle for a marmalade sandwich for tea, I was surprised when Tim’s ute pulled into the driveway. He’d dropped off the vases and a box of cookbooks the day after my birthday. The Green and Gold Cookery Book had been Mum’s and it had been wonderful to flip through its yellowing pages.
I opened the front door before he had time to knock.
‘Everything okay?’ I said, taking in his tired, dishevelled appearance.
‘No, not really,’ he said, throwing himself into the armchair. ‘Got anything to drink?’
‘Nothing open. I’ll make you coffee.’ He smelled of stale alcohol.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back and that’s when I noticed the bruise.
‘Your eye—’ I started, but he held up his hand.
‘Don’t ask,’ he said without opening his eyes.
‘Do you want something cold to put on it?’
He shook his head. I went to the kitchen, turned on the kettle and spooned coffee and sugar into the largest mug I had.
‘Have you eaten?’ I called.
‘Not hungry,’ he answered. My eyes prickled at the hollow sound of his voice. Despair. A tone I was familiar with.
Setting the drink down on the coffee table, I tried again.
‘I can make you a sandwich, scramble you a couple of eggs.’
He opened his eyes. They were bloodshot, the left one slightly swollen. ‘Mum, I’m not hungry, but you go ahead.’
‘All right,’ I said and made myself a marmalade sandwich. The bread was fresh, the marmalade homemade and I’d treated myself to real butter. But I could have been eating cardboard, I was so worried.
Taking the first sip of coffee, Tim grimaced and it was then I noticed the cut on his lip. I wanted to ask again what had happened. How often did he drink too much and get into fights? But I waited until he was ready to talk.
‘Is it okay if I crash here tonight?’ he said, when the mug was empty.
‘Of course it is. You’re always welcome here.’
He rubbed his face, carefully avoiding the injuries. ‘Thanks. I don’t think I’m ready yet to go another round with the old man.’
‘Tim, did your father do this to you?’
I heard the scepticism in my voice, and I’m sure he did. I’d never known Doug to raise his hand to anyone. But what did I know? He’d always had a long fuse, but when an explosion came it was short and intense.
‘Nah, it wasn’t Dad, he just pissed me off. It was some moron at the hotel last night. We’d had a few too many and he pushed the wrong buttons. If it hadn’t been for Aaron, Sonya would have locked us up.’
‘Sonya?’
‘The local cop.’
‘Oh, that Sonya,’ I said. I’d never told a soul she’d pulled me over for speeding. What a family!
‘I camped at Aaron’s last night and helped him lay some concrete today. I give him a hand every now and then with heavy stuff and he flings me a few bucks.’
There were a whole lot more questions on the tip of my tongue but I held them back. ‘Why don’t you have a shower?’ I suggested. ‘I can run your clothes through the wash if you like.’
‘Okay,’ he said, and winced when the cut on his lip re-opened. ‘Thanks Mum, but I always have a duffel bag with the swag in the ute, because one of these days I know I’ll leave that damn place, and I’ll never go back.’
‘Oh, Tim,’ I said, feeling as if I’d had the stuffing kicked out of me as well. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘I dunno, Mum.’ He stood up and stretched. ‘I’ll grab my gear out of the ute, and a shower would be awesome.’
I fetched him a clean towel and while he was in the bathroom I rolled out his swag on the floor of the second bedroom. The least I could offer was a pillow and fresh sheets.
Last time I’d looked at the noticeboard outside the supermarket there’d been a queen-sized bed for sale. I was after two singles, or a double bunk. Yes, I was planning for the time when Liam and Amelia would stay over. New sheets and doonas were already stacked in the linen press. I could be just as stubborn as Faith.
In the end Tim ate an omelette and three pieces of toast. As the evening progressed, he became more withdrawn and I wasn’t surprised when at eight-thirty he took himself off to bed. I offered to share my hot water bottles. ‘I can make do with one,’ I said.
‘Thanks, Mum, but I’m good,’ he said.
Surprising us both, I caught his hand as he passed on the way to the bedroom. His skin was rough, hardened, the fingernails blunt and broken—a man’s hand. Linking my fingers with his I squeezed, hard, and after a moment he returned the pressure.
‘I love you, son,’ I said. ‘And we will work something out. I promise.’
I heard the rough hiss of his indrawn breath, but then all he said was, ‘Goodnight, Mum, and thanks.’
28
Grace
Grace decided to treat herself to a work-free weekend. On Saturday she shopped for food, did her laundry and cleaned the tiny apartment so that come Sunday, she had the day off from everything.
She slept in, ate a late and leisurely breakfast at a riverside cafe, and walked along the Thames as far as the Greenwich Yacht Club. The day was mild and she discovered there were lots of other Londoners with the same idea in mind.
Wanting to phone home before it was bedtime in Australia, Grace found a secluded park bench and dialled Grant first. It was close on two weeks since he’d flown back to Sydney and to date there’d been little improvement in his son’s condition.
Her call went unanswered. Grace glanced at the time: ten-thirty pm in Sydney. She left a brief message.
Aaron answered immediately, as if he’d been waiting for her phone call. Since their first phone conversation, they’d been talking every few days and Grace didn’t pretend to herself that she didn’t look forward to hearing his voice.
‘I can hear seagulls,’ Aaron said.
‘I’m by the river, watching the barges and the odd sailing boat. There’s a brisk breeze, and as much as they tart up the riverside they’ll never get rid of the muddy smell of the Thames.’
&n
bsp; ‘Why aren’t you breakfasting on the Champs Élysées?’
‘Maybe the next weekend I give myself off.’
‘So what have you been up to?’ She told him. ‘Sounds like it’d be more fun with company,’ he said.
‘You have anyone in mind?’ she replied, and he laughed. ‘What have you been doing?’
‘Laying a concrete floor in a mate’s garage. Back-breaking work. Tim helped us yesterday.’
‘What, Doug gave him a day pass?’
‘Nah, I reckon he just took one. And it was either my place Friday night or the holding cell at the cop shop.’
‘Holding cell? You’re kidding me?’
‘I’m not, Grace.’ The laughter had disappeared from Aaron’s voice and Grace closed her eyes. ‘He drank too much, got into a fight and Sonya would have locked him up if I hadn’t stepped in.’
‘Oh, dear. Dad’ll pop a vessel if he finds out.’
‘Hopefully he won’t find out. I saw Tim’s ute parked at your mum’s last night, so my guess is he stayed there. Hate to say this Grace, but his drinking’s getting out of control.’
Grace stood up, paced the length of the bench and back again. ‘I’m not sure what I can do from here. I can talk to Mum, I suppose. As if she hasn’t got enough to worry about.’
‘Grace, there you go, straight into rescue mode. The way I see it, Tim needs to sort this out for himself. He was at your Mum’s, which is a good step. He’ll work it out.’
‘Then why are you telling me?’
‘Do you not want me to tell you?’
Grace huffed and paced. A passerby stared; she turned and faced the other way.
‘Grace? Are you still there?’
‘Yes, I’m still here. And of course I want you to tell me what’s going on. They won’t tell me, and how will I know if they need me, I mean really need me, not in your so-called rescuing sense, if you know what I mean.’
‘I do know what you mean. And as far as I can tell, your mum is here and that’s been a big step in the right direction. I know it means the world to Tim, and I’m sure it does to Faith, although she never says much.’
‘Do you talk to Faith often?’
‘I do their garden, mow the lawns, so Ben doesn’t have to work the whole time he’s home.’
‘I see. Faith’s always been hard to get close to. Luke always managed to jolly her along. It’s a pity she’s sometimes so damn prickly and stubborn. I’ve often wondered how Ben gets through to her when she’s like that.’
‘Dunno. I don’t know him well. When he’s home he keeps to himself. Doesn’t play any sport, you never see him at the pub. He’s not from here, is he?’
‘No, he grew up on a station property near Broken Hill. Faith met him at a B&S ball. He’s worked away the whole time they’ve been together. You reckon you don’t know him—I could count on my fingers the number of times I’ve spent any time with him.’ Grace heard Aaron yawn. ‘Are you in bed?’
‘I am. It’s late, and remember I’ve been laying concrete.’ He yawned again. ‘I wasn’t asleep. I was hoping you’d ring.’
Grace sat down on the bench. The breeze had picked up. Clouds were rolling in and the day had dulled. Modern technology meant she could hear Aaron’s voice clearly, but it didn’t make him any closer.
‘Grace?’
‘I’m here,’ she said.
‘I wish I was there, or you were here.’
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘So are you laying more concrete tomorrow?’
‘That job’s done and things are pretty quiet this time of the year. Tomorrow afternoon I’ll be measuring up a pergola I’m quoting for on a property just out of town. If they decide to go ahead I’ll order the timber.’ He sighed. ‘And there’s always a ton of paperwork to do. Invoicing, bills to pay. I hate all that crap and I’m always behind, even when I have plenty of spare time.’
‘Why don’t you hire someone to do it? Might take a bit to sort it all out but then it’d probably only take a couple of hours a week, or less.’
‘You make it sound so easy. It’s a pity you’re not closer because I reckon you could do it with one hand tied behind your back.’
‘I could. Hey, what about Mum? She used to do the books for the farm. I imagine your business finances wouldn’t be complicated. She might appreciate a few hours’ work.’
‘Mmm,’ he said, and Grace could almost hear him thinking. ‘I’ll ask her tomorrow. You know, you’re not just a pretty face.’
‘No, I didn’t get where I am on good looks alone,’ she said.
‘I’d never thought for a moment that you did. It’d be a pretty tough line of work, more so for a woman.’
‘I manage. I’ve learned to play the games, or not.’
‘Did you always want to be a career woman? I bet deep down you thought you’d get married and have a family someday.’
‘I didn’t think you’d be a sexist, Aaron. Why is it people assume that if a woman hasn’t had any children she must be secretly dying inside, that something must have gone disastrously wrong, not simply because she chose not to?’
‘Whoa! I wasn’t being sexist, Grace. In my experience most women want to have children, some of them desperately. It’s not too late. You could still have a child if you wanted to.’
‘It wouldn’t matter if it was too late. I don’t want to have any children, never did.’ Grace took the phone away from her ear briefly, confounded by the turn the conversation had taken. ‘Are you having second thoughts, Aaron?’ she said when he didn’t speak.
‘No, I’m most definitely not,’ he said. ‘Just a bit surprised we’re having this conversation right now.’
‘Me too, but better for us to be upfront about it right from the beginning, don’t you think?’
‘I do,’ he said, and Grace heard the smothered yawn. As much as she wanted to keep talking, she decided to wrap it up.
‘Goodnight, Aaron. Sweet dreams.’
‘Yeah, sorry. I’m knackered. Talk soon. Enjoy the rest of your day off.’ His words were beginning to slur and Grace chuckled when they’d disconnected. A weekend spent laying a concrete floor would be enough to bugger anyone.
She gazed pensively out across the water, and wondered who the mate was. There was so much she didn’t know about Aaron and his life. Truthfully, there wasn’t a lot she did know. It wasn’t the easiest thing, getting to know someone over the phone. Strangely two-dimensional at times.
And what did Aaron know about women desperate to have babies? Grace suspected that that particular conversation might need revisiting face-to-face, whenever that might be.
Grace slipped the phone into her shoulder bag, retracing her steps along the Thames Path to home. Somehow there wasn’t the same spring in her step on the return journey as there had been on the way out.
29
Sarah
On Sunday morning Tim left my place after a shower and breakfast. He’d hardly eaten anything over breakfast and had been quietly apologetic. His shirt was fresh but crumpled from being rolled up in his duffel bag. He refused my offer to iron it.
All day I stewed on Tim’s predicament. It didn’t matter how rational and logical my internal arguments were, I couldn’t help but blame myself to some degree for the situation he was in. How it could have been different had I stayed eight years ago, I had no idea. I just knew it would have been.
Although my nursing assessment skills were rusty, I’d had a close enough brush with depression myself to recognise the signs in my son. I was afraid for him. He was in an untenable situation, one he felt powerless to change. Using alcohol to dull the despair and then behaving recklessly wasn’t the answer. He needed help. He needed hope.
But did I have the courage to do what I knew needed to be done?
That night my sleep was shallow. I tossed and turned, hot and cold, and woke every hour or so. On Monday morning my body was sluggish, every joint ached and my eyes were gritty, but my mind was made up.
By nine I’d showe
red and dressed in black woollen slacks and my favourite lemon-yellow cashmere jumper. I even took time to blow-dry my hair and apply lipstick. Tea was all my churning stomach would allow.
The drive out to the farm was painfully familiar. I’d driven that stretch of road at all hours of the day and the night. Every mile held a memory. The last time I’d driven it I’d been speeding in the opposite direction, seeing the landscape through a veil of tears and despair.
While I drove I sweated and rehearsed what I’d say when I arrived. According to Tim, his father rarely left the farm so I expected him to be there. I’d find him, even if he was in the furthest paddock.
There was something cold and grim about the old homestead, even on a sunny day. I’d always felt that Joylene’s dour disposition and perpetual disappointment had permeated the wood and stone. It was as if the house still disapproved of me.
Taking in the hundred-year-old dwelling, it struck me that in the thirty-five years I’d lived there I’d never felt as if I belonged.
Tim’s 4WD was nowhere to be seen and I felt light-headed with relief. Like an old woman I climbed stiffly out of Grace’s SUV, stretched and made my way around the house to the back door. Doug’s clapped-out ute was parked under the carport.
I’d often wondered how I’d feel if I ever came back, and now I knew: I felt a strange sense of detachment, as if I were visiting a place I knew, but had no emotional connection to that place.
An uneven cement path ran along the back of the house, discoloured and cracked in more places than I remembered. The verandah had been enclosed years before my time. I noticed a few more of the louvres were missing. A patch of drying, dying lawn extended from the house to a corrugated iron fence that separated the house from the chook yard, dog pen and sheds beyond. The Hills hoist stood in the middle of the lawn, listing to one side. A pair of washed-out overalls were pegged haphazardly to the wire line.
When there was no answer to my knock, I waited and knocked again. And then without conscious control I opened the unlocked door and walked in. I walked across the verandah, past the laundry and into the kitchen. The cloying smell of concrete floors and salt damp came at me like a punch. My eyes watered, adjusting to the gloom.
When Grace Went Away Page 18
