Fine

by Michelle Wright

  ‘Happy birthday, mon amour,’ he says.

  ‘Lovely,’ she exclaims and rubs her neck.

  He slides two little Lemon Curd Puddings into the fridge to cool and sings:

  ‘Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, Faye

  Kiss my troubles clear away.’

  Faye takes his head in her hands and kisses his bald patch. Their son’s bringing the grandkids for a birthday lunch and she wants to get to the shops early, before it gets too hot.

  ‘She who must be obeyed,’ says Alby with a shrug.

  * * *

  Once Faye’s picked up a bottle of soft drink for the grandkids, Alby says he’ll help them bake some special birthday cupcakes.

  ‘Get some little sugar things for them to decorate with,’ says Faye. ‘And candles.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ says Alby as he heads off in search of the confectionery aisle.

  They’re almost at the checkout, walking side by side, wondering if they should borrow a DVD for the boys, when Alby pauses mid-step, sways slightly and holds a packet of Hundreds and Thousands out to Faye.

  She frowns. ‘Alby?’ she says. ‘What is it?’

  He stares at the small plastic packet squeezed tight in his outstretched left hand. He stares and squeezes without a word, until suddenly it explodes.

  ‘Oh,’ whispers Alby as he slumps soundlessly to the floor.

  The Hundreds and Thousands sprinkle down like tiny confetti and catch in the soft folds around his eyes and neck, and in his just-trimmed hair.

  Faye lists and buckles and finds herself sitting on the ground.

  And suddenly there are people all around. A young woman in denim shorts and a yellow t-shirt says, ‘I’m a nurse,’ and asks, ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Albert Fowler,’ replies Faye, and struggles to breathe in.

  ‘Albert!’ says the nurse. ‘Can you hear me, Albert?’

  Teenagers on trolleys cruise down the aisle.

  ‘Shit!’ they say as they skid to a stop.

  Faye blinks rapidly, trying to clear away the black spots, and leans back against a stack of large red baskets.

  The nurse is on her knees, pushing up and down on Alby’s chest. A young employee, with black trousers slipping down, announces that the ambulance is on its way. Someone fetches a pillow from aisle nine. A mother with a pram and snot-grubby kids stops and gapes, handing out grapes to keep the peace. An orange-haired woman rubs Faye’s arm and tuts.

  The ambulance men arrive and take over from the nurse. A young woman brings a bottle of water and wine gums for Faye.

  ‘You look pale,’ she says. ‘Eat these.’

  Faye nods, but her gaze is fixed on the nurse’s bare legs as she stands back up. Her knees look like fairy bread, all freckled with Hundreds and Thousands.

  Alby is on a stretcher with a plastic mask over his mouth and his shirt wide open. A little girl on the footpath picks her nose and looks concerned. The ambulance men slide the stretcher in with a clank. Faye rides up front to leave more room behind.

  * * *

  When they arrive at the hospital, the doctors try their best, but there’s nothing they can do. They’re very sorry. They’ll call her son.

  ‘It’s my birthday today,’ says Faye, staring at the doctor’s green bow tie.

  ‘Happy birthday,’ he automatically replies.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says and holds on to the doorframe as they wheel Alby away.

  * * *

  Sunday. Faye’s son and daughter-in-law arrive at the unit at nine. They let the others in and make cups of tea. First it’s Alby’s closest friend, Stan, from parents’ committee days. His wife brings a lasagne. Then come his old workmates, with quiches and cakes. His U3A classmates follow. Then volunteering colleagues, four casseroles, bridge-club friends and three containers of homemade soup.

  It’s late afternoon when they leave. Faye sends her son and daughter-in-law away, puts the food in the freezer and closes the blinds. The phone rings several times. Someone knocks, waits, knocks again, then leaves. Faye takes the receiver off the hook and stands in the quiet of the kitchen. She’s sure she can still smell the Courgette Fritters Alby had tried his hand at the night before that morning. She closes her eyes and rests her cheek against the cool of the refrigerator door. In the courtyard below, the neighbours’ kids count to ten and run off to hide.

  * * *

  Monday. In the viewing room of the funeral home, after her son leaves her to bring the car around, Faye leans over the coffin and lays her hand on Alby’s. It’s much colder than she’d expected.

  She runs her fingers back and forth along the pale buffed nails. She can’t recall the last time she’d actually told him, ‘I love you.’ It might have been years. But he knew she did. He knew she did.

  She stands for several minutes and studies his face. She thinks they’ve put rouge on one of his cheeks, and she wonders if she’s allowed to rub it off. She realises that it’s just the sunlight coming through the stained-glass window.

  ‘Alby, I’m scared,’ she whispers, though she knows he can’t help her. ‘So many people have been calling,’ she says. ‘And I don’t know how to be with them.’ She holds her breath, then gasps. ‘I don’t know how to be a widow.’ She stares at his stone-still lips and at his smooth-shaved cheeks. ‘What now?’

  * * *

  Tuesday. They arrive at the crematorium chapel just as the gusty northerly starts up. There are hundreds of people that Faye isn’t sure she knows at all. She’s worn her peacock blue dress, Alby’s favourite, even though it hangs too loose on her now. The ceremony feels like it’s happening underwater. Stan, Mario and Bob speak—of Alby’s dedication to Faye, his decades of volunteering, his cooking skills, his generosity, how much he still had to contribute. Faye keeps her eyes on her lap and twists and twists her tissue till it tears. Louis Armstrong sings as their life together goes by in photos on a screen.

  I’m so tired, she thinks. She smoothes down her hair and picks at a dry patch of skin on her forearm. And I’m not presentable enough for all this staring. She closes her eyes and pictures herself disappearing from view with the coffin behind the red velvet curtains.

  After the ceremony, in the crowded vestibule, the mourners kiss her cheeks and clutch at her elbows. Who would’ve thought he’d go before you, they’re thinking. She catches her son staring at her, looking so very like Alby of late. He’d been such a support to Alby during her illness. He’d always been her boy, but now she feels that there’s a distance. He drives her home and offers to stay. She sends him away, but says she’ll put the phone back on the hook.

  * * *

  The unit, which had seemed so confined and airless when they first moved in, is suddenly comforting in its dark stillness. As she drifts limply from front door to back, flickers of Alby catch Faye off guard. From the spare room seep turps and oil-based paint from Alby’s half-finished skirting boards. On the bedside table, his reading glasses sit on top of a book that’ll need to go back to the library next week. In the living room, the single dusky pink rosebud he’d bought for her birthday has come unhinged and is tumbling petal by petal onto a still-folded newspaper on the coffee table.

  * * *

  Wednesday. Faye wakes late and doesn’t open the drapes. Her mind is an overcast sky. She sits up and gazes at the framed photo of Alby from the funeral, now lying on the pillow on his side of the bed. She leans over and pulls the patchwork bedspread up to his chin.

  She goes to the kitchen, opens the freezer compartment and takes out one of the casseroles. She pulls off the foil and leaves it to thaw in the sink.

  In the bathroom, she opens the cabinet above the washbasin and takes out Alby’s brush and comb set. They smell of Brylcreem and the stiff bristles of the brush are greasy when she rubs them against her palm. She places them neatly back on the shelf next to Alby’s electric shaver.

  In the shower, the water is too hot, but she doesn’t bother adjusting it. The drumming on the plastic shower cap is s
o loud that she has to scream to hear herself think. Alby’s zucchini bucket overflows but she lets the water gurgle down the drain.

  After her shower, she returns to the kitchen to check the progress of the casserole in the sink, and takes a packet of Chocolate Royals from the pantry. She boils the kettle and pours a cup of green tea. Lying back on Alby’s recliner, she works her way through the packet of biscuits while her tea goes cold. She pushes her cheek against the smooth brown velvet of the headrest. It smells of Alby’s aftershave. She closes her eyes and counts her breaths until she falls asleep.

  When she wakes, she has pins and needles in her arm. With one finger she gently rubs it in small circles, like Alby used to do, until the numbness has passed. She turns on the telly and watches the cricket till stumps. She microwaves half the tuna casserole and eats it over the evening news.

  * * *

  Thursday. Faye wakes at midday and slumps to the kitchen. She opens the fridge and gazes at a plastic-wrapped pair of salmon fillets, grey and sweating under their plastic shroud. They were to be for her birthday dinner, after the grandkids left, with brown rice and steamed greens and a glass of pinot noir. On the top shelf are Alby’s Lemon Curd Puddings—he knew they were her favourite—for their after-dinner treat. A wrinkled skin has formed on the soft yellow glaze. Faye drags the pedal bin over to the fridge, slides the puddings to the front of the shelf and pushes them over the edge. She picks up the polystyrene tray of salmon fillets, drops it in on top of the broken puddings and lets the lid of the bin thud down.

  * * *

  Friday. Faye answers a knock at the door.

  ‘Good evening,’ says an African teenager. She assumes he is from the family next door. He has delicate features and is not very tall, with skin the colour of chocolate milk.

  ‘Can I help you?’ asks Faye.

  ‘Excuse me, is Mr Albert home?’ asks the boy.

  Faye hesitates. ‘No, he isn’t.’ She waits for him to go on, but the boy keeps his eyes lowered. ‘What do you want?’ asks Faye.

  ‘Mrs Albert, excuse me,’ says the boy, looking down. ‘Can I ask for your help?’

  The boy takes a school permission form from his back pocket, unfolds it carefully and hands it to Faye.

  ‘Please can you sign this?’ asks the boy.

  ‘No, I’m sorry,’ replies Faye. ‘Your parents have to sign.’

  ‘My mother cannot read English,’ says the boy.

  ‘Well, what about your father?’ asks Faye.

  ‘He is dead,’ replies the boy.

  Faye nods. ‘My husband is too.’

  ‘Mr Albert is dead?’ says the boy, rubbing his forehead.

  ‘He died a week ago,’ says Faye. ‘I’m sorry you weren’t told. I didn’t know you knew him.’

  The boy doesn’t reply. His hand is still on his forehead and she can’t see his eyes. She wonders if he’s crying.

  She asks softly, ‘So, how did your mother enrol you in school? She must have signed other forms.’

  ‘Mr Albert signed them,’ explains the boy.

  ‘Oh,’ says Faye and frowns. ‘Well, I don’t know. Can’t you just tell your teacher that your mother can’t read?’

  ‘Yes, okay. Thank you. I will tell her,’ says the boy and he is gone.

  Faye backs up to the recliner and lowers herself in.

  ‘Mr Albert,’ she whispers and closes her eyes.

  * * *

  Sunday. The newsreader warns it’ll be the hottest February night on record. At midnight Faye opens the back door and drags a kitchen chair out onto the bricks below the clothesline.

  There’s a light on in the back bedroom of the neighbours’ unit. The curtains are half drawn, but Faye glimpses the young boy as he passes the window and sits at a desk. She watches for a few minutes as he reads a book, then turns her head away to gaze up at the stars.

  A damp towel on the clothesline is caught by a current and flaps heavily, fanning her legs. Softly she hums a few bars of ‘Summertime’, then sits awhile in silence.

  ‘Ni-night, Alby,’ she whispers and rises to go back inside.

  * * *

  Monday. Faye is fetching the mail when the young boy arrives home from school.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Albert. It was hot last night. It is hard to get to sleep.’

  ‘Yes.’ Faye frowns.

  ‘Mr Albert said you have a sewing machine.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Faye.

  ‘He said maybe I can use it,’ continues the boy.

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Yes, but it is okay if not.’

  Faye nods. ‘What’s your name?’ she asks.

  ‘Bahdoon,’ replies the boy.

  Faye nods again. ‘Does it mean something?’

  ‘Yes,’ replies the boy. ‘It is because I was born far from my home.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘In a refugee camp,’ adds Bahdoon.

  ‘Right,’ repeats Faye. She shuffles the envelopes in her hands.

  ‘I worked for a tailor,’ says Bahdoon.

  ‘Oh,’ says Faye. ‘I was a seamstress when I was younger.’

  She sees that he doesn’t understand. ‘I sewed clothes,’ explains Faye. ‘I ran a small business.’

  ‘That is like the tailor I worked for.’ Bahdoon smiles.

  ‘My eyes get too tired now.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ says Bahdoon.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ says Faye. She nods to the boy and goes inside.

  * * *

  Wednesday. Faye sits in the recliner and stares out the open front door. The zucchini plants have escaped the brick boundary of the front patch and are snaking towards the unit opposite. She takes an empty envelope from the telephone table and writes HELP YOURSELF on it in block letters. She descends the two steps and props the sign up against a swollen zucchini.

  * * *

  The following Saturday morning, Faye puts on outside clothes and climbs the steps to the neighbours’ front porch. The front door is open and through the flywire screen she sees Bahdoon seated at the kitchen bench, reading.

  ‘Hello?’ she calls out.

  Bahdoon lifts his head, smiles and rushes to open the door.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Albert. Please come in.’

  Faye steps into the living room. ‘Is your mother home?’ she asks.

  ‘She has gone shopping with my sisters,’ says Bahdoon as he offers her a glass of water.

  ‘Oh. Well, if you like, I was thinking you could borrow my sewing machine.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Albert,’ replies Bahdoon.

  As they walk back to her unit together, Faye asks, ‘When did your father die?’

  ‘When I was nine years old. My sisters were little.’

  ‘That must have been hard for your mother,’ says Faye.

  Bahdoon nods. “You are fortunate. Mr Albert was old.’

  ‘He was seventy-nine,’ answers Faye.

  ‘Oh. That is very old,’ says Bahdoon.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  They pause by the front door to Faye’s unit.

  ‘In my country, when a very old person dies, we have a feast to celebrate,’ Bahdoon tells her. ‘Did you have a feast after Mr Albert died?’

  ‘No,’ replies Faye. ‘No, I didn’t.’

  * * *

  Later the next week Faye puts on Alby’s Louis Armstrong tape and pulls on his paint-splattered blue overalls. She works all morning to finish painting the skirting boards and leaves the paintbrushes to soak in turps in the laundry tub. She makes a cup of tea and stands in the sun by the back door. Over the side fence, she hears Bahdoon speaking to his little sisters. She drags Alby’s black vinyl gardening stool over to the fence and climbs up on it. Bahdoon is kneeling on the ground, tying the smallest sister’s shoelace. The little girl points up at Faye and Bahdoon raises his head.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Albert,’ he calls, getting up.

  ‘Hello, Bahdoon. How are you?’

  ‘I am very well, thank you, Mrs Albert. I am using your se
wing machine a lot. It’s very good. I have made three skirts for my sisters. You see?’

  ‘Oh. Very good. Very pretty.’

  ‘They don’t like them,’ says Bahdoon, grinning. ‘They want store-bought.’

  Faye laughs. ‘Ha. Yes. My son was the same.’ She pauses and clears her throat. ‘I was wondering, Bahdoon, if you would do some alterations for me.’

  ‘Alterations?’ asks Bahdoon.

  ‘Some of my clothes are too big. I need to make them smaller.’

  ‘Oh yes. I can do that.’

  ‘I’ll pay you,’ says Faye.

  ‘Oh no, it is not necessary,’ says Bahdoon.

  ‘No, no, I insist,’ says Faye. ‘I’ll be your first customer.’

  Bahdoon smiles. ‘Thank you, Mrs Albert.’

  * * *

  Two weeks later, on what would have been Alby’s eightieth birthday, Faye calls her son to invite him over to afternoon tea. He asks whether she’s up to having the kids there as well.

  ‘Yes, bring them,’ she says.

  She hangs up the phone and takes Alby’s Nigella cookbook down from the shelf. She turns the pages slowly, studying each recipe in turn, and stops at Birthday Custard Sponge.

  Nigella proclaims: A basic and heartlifting birthday cake is necessary in your repertoire.

  ‘Alright,’ concedes Faye as she copies down the ingredients. The instructions feel slightly thrilling.

  Let the chocolate dribble down the sides, and then sprinkle generously with hundreds and thousands.

  She’s suddenly not sure that it’ll turn out right or that she’ll be able to talk about him without crying. More than anything, she wants to be strong in front of the grandkids. She looks back at the recipe and reads the final instruction:

  Prong with candles, light them and sing.

  Faye closes her eyes and inhales. ‘Alright.’ She nods. ‘Alright.’

  Stupid

  What with the milking, they hardly ever get away. Mick says it’s stupid keeping three cows. Waste of bloody time. As if they don’t have enough work. Jules doesn’t care. They’re her girls.

  When the warning comes, she wants to bring them in, but Mick says he’s not going out in that wind. Besides, he says, animals always survive. Jules isn’t so sure. Kangaroos, maybe. But cows, with their shambling hips and dumbstruck eyes?