Aunt Jean had told her the name of the suburb where Prue lived as a young child. But there were things she didn’t know anymore, like the name of the street, or where the house stood. Jean had moved to Sydney and lost contact with her sister, Rose. But perhaps not with her brother-in-law, Dick. Jean had never married, and Prue could not remember her mother talking about a sister. She’d met her auntie—‘Call me Jean’—at the time of the funeral. ‘You’ll be one of the lucky ones, Prue. Men are only interested in pretty girls.’
Prue walked to the top of the hill; in the distance she could see the blue of the ocean, different from the blue of the sky. She knew this was the place but couldn’t find the house. As she walked back to her car, she noticed an old picket fence running down one side of a house. On the other side the fence had been replaced with some brushwood. In the backyard was a large jacaranda tree.
Twenty
They had drifted from their room to the long blackbutt table in the kitchen. There were questions they wanted answered.
‘Your mother,’ said Tinny, looking at his two boys, all eyes and quietness, ‘had to find herself. She was like a lot of people in those days.’
‘Is it different now?’ said Rock, interrupting.
‘No, I think it’s back again, after a pause. It’s a bit different now. Counsellors, therapy, all that stuff for unhappy people. Peaches, she discovered that in the process of finding herself, she found things that made her unhappy, things she needed to suss out and cut out. To become a counsellor herself, she needed to be counselled, to have some therapy sessions—and they opened up a whole box of tricks. Took the lid off. She discovered things about herself, her parents, grandparents, the people next door, that she knew nothing about. Even her school, her teachers. Lots of problems were discovered that she’s now working through. That’s what she’s told me. So now you know as much as I do.’
‘But what sort of things did she discover?’ asked Rock. ‘Were they bad things?’
‘I dunno. Not really bad, I think. Just about how she would react to things. Before she left, she used to say how she was never sure of herself, so she’d put up with things and try to calm everyone down if there were any arguments, or people fighting. She was the peacemaker. And for some reason this wasn’t good for her. She needed to talk about it, to professional people, who listened to her and told her what she needed to do, to take control of her life, not always take a back seat. Now, though, maybe there’s more things she’s found out about, stuff that I don’t know.’
‘Can we see her again?’ asked Skel.
‘Of course, of course you can. It will depend on her, when she’s got time—and when you have time. Not when school’s on.’
‘So you mean the school holidays?’ Rock asked.
‘Probably that’s the best time, but then I’m not sure when your mum gets her holidays.’
‘What about you, Dad?’ asked Rock. ‘Do you think counsellors are a good idea?’
‘I think counsellors are a very good idea. There’s not enough of them to meet the needs of all the desperate people in the world—all those who top themselves jumping off cliffs, taking overdoses, driving into trees, shooting themselves, hanging themselves in the garage, sucking in the exhaust fumes locked in their cars—’
‘Dad …’
‘Walking into the sea, jumping overboard from boats, falling out of aeroplanes, walking into the desert. I could go on.’
‘If you’re not going to be serious, then forget it.’
‘But I am serious, dear Rock of my life. There are a lot of unhappy people around who need help—and your mum was one of them.’
‘Yeah. But I asked you about yourself, not other people.’
‘What do you think?’ asked Tinny. ‘Do you think I need a counsellor?’
Rock raised his eyebrows and threw back his head. ‘Just listen to you. You need something, always going on.’
‘All I know is that I feel happy living here with you boys. Maybe I have problems that I don’t know about. But if I don’t know, then that’s okay—they’re not problems. You see, Peaches was okay too, until she discovered she had problems. Then she wasn’t okay and needed counselling and therapy and support groups and a special diet and some happy pills just to make her feel like she used to feel, before she found herself. Doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it?’
‘Maybe not, dunno, but she said she left here, left us, because life here wasn’t enough for her—so she already knew she wasn’t happy before she found herself,’ said Rock.
‘Well, yeah, but that’s when she’d lost her way. You see, if she’d just waited it out she would have got through that time; she would have come out the other end and still be here, living happy families with us. That’s what you’d like, isn’t it?’
‘I think she likes being in the city,’ said Skel.
‘Yeah,’ agreed Rock. ‘She does. And she likes doing the stuff she does, which she couldn’t do down here.’
‘Of course she could do it down here,’ said Tinny. ‘You see, what counsellors do, they create a need for counselling. They talk to people about being fulfilled, how they’re not as happy as they could be, how they have problems they didn’t know about, and they talk to their friends and neighbours, and they talk to other people and soon everyone thinks they have these problems that they need to see a counsellor about and so the counsellor has lots of work. It spreads like smoke through the bush—you can see and smell it even if the fire’s a hundred kilometres away. It starts somewhere and then keeps going, depending on the wind. Stories about what you need get carried along, like the smoke does.’
‘That’s what happens on Facebook,’ said Skel.
‘Facebook? What—’
‘Don’t worry, Dad, it’s something Mum showed us. On her computer.’
‘Yeah, forget that. I want to know why doesn’t she work down here?’ said Rock.
‘Because she has a boyfriend in the city,’ said Skel.
‘That’s right, my boys, she has a different life now, a city life, and if she’s happy then that’s good. She probably won’t shoot herself, or hang herself from a tree. We should be grateful about that, because it’s not easy finding yourself after you’ve lost yourself, which is probably a careless thing to do, if you think about it.’
‘I think I’d like to see her again, soon,’ said Skel.
‘Sure thing. When you’re in town, give her a ring and see if you can arrange it,’ said Tinny, pushing his chair back and rising from the table. ‘I’ve got things to do, people to see, places to go—like the woodheap, Rock, because there’s no wood here for the fire tonight. How will we keep warm, eh? Perhaps we could hug each other, like a family.’
The screen door banged behind him as he left the room. The two boys looked at each other.
Twenty-one
Clive sat by the bank of the river, wondering about his soul. He was not too sure what a soul looked like, or even what it was—his, or anyone else’s. He felt embarrassed to admit, even to himself, that he envisaged his soul a bit like the way ghosts are drawn in comic books. It had an irregular, elongated shape, roughly the outline of his body, but of course no face, or eyes. Sometimes he thought of it being like a cloud, but not entirely white. Because his soul was stained, as if black ink had been spilled on it. Anyone could see it—anyone would know he was no longer pure. Now he wanted the disfigurement—like an ugly birthmark—removed. He thought the only way to do this was to ask forgiveness of the person he had so offended. He must go to Greta and explain himself. Two years was a long time to feel guilty.
He knew where she lived. He would drive part of the way, then walk to her house, to her shed, which was like Tinny’s, who lived next door with his boys. He stood up; his bum felt numb from sitting too long on the damp earth. After the third try, his four-wheel drive started, billowing black smoke. Must be the injectors, he thought.
He walked along the dirt track that led to Greta’s place. Maybe he should have driven a
ll the way. It would take him at least an hour and the sun was unseasonably hot, but he wanted time to think about what he would say, how to say it. I strangled you. He wasn’t wearing a hat because it had been cooler when he set out. He had a dull headache, which he thought would get worse with the heat and the walking. He had sorted out in his mind what went wrong before, when he planned his revenge on Greta. When God speaks of vengeance, He does so from motives that are perfect and pure. Clive’s own motives were not that. At the time he wanted revenge, impure and simple. He could see his beloved Maia, and poor little Harry, bodies crushed and scarcely breathing. He put his hand to his head and rubbed the back of it. He felt the too-smooth skin of his neck. It was almost ticklish. His headache was getting worse.
He sat down on the prickly bushes at the edge of the track and dug his scarred hands into the black dirt. All he wanted to do was to talk to her, to explain himself and how he’d been deceived by Steve, but he knew that even if she had been there, nearby, and ignored the accident, what he’d done was wrong. It was not the action itself, hurting her—that did not matter. People couldn’t avoid getting hurt; it happened all the time. What mattered was the feeling in his heart when he’d sought her out down at the coast. His heart was one thing and his body another. Then, with the roar of the surf in his ears, his hands were shaking, his knees trembling, and he’d thought he might piss himself, or worse.
In that moment there had been a force bigger than her, bigger than him, bigger than everything in the world, and he was part of it. There was an imbalance in the world and he had to fix it. An agent—that’s how you’d think about it. He was not God, who alone could seek revenge. But justice would bring joy, and terror. Justice would roll on like a river.
Thinking about it, his heart beat faster; he could feel the warmth and the bones, the softness. He’d thought they might crack, and then she’d passed out. Now, he needed to say sorry, but he did not know what would happen next. Would she go to the police and have him charged with … what? He didn’t know. Grievous bodily harm? Attempted murder? His heart was dark, and he knew that day he could have killed her. Again the day it all started leapt up at him.
Maia wanted to go again to see her mother, and to take Harry with her. ‘He needs to know this side of the family,’ she’d said. ‘My side.’
‘Your side? What is your side? You don’t know yourself. You never see your mother, or her people.’
‘That’s right, and that’s why we have to visit her. She’ll never come down here.’
He reached for her, but she stepped away. He took her hand and pulled her to him. She had tears in her eyes. ‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘It’s hard for you. But you can’t make your mother into something she’s not.’
Maia said, ‘She didn’t leave us. She couldn’t live down here. She didn’t belong. It’s up to me to see her, to take Harry, so she gets to know him, a little.’
‘I think you’re wasting your time and you will suffer more because of it. You’ll go there and she won’t be what you want. It can never be. It’s too late—you need to face up to that. She doesn’t want to see you.’
Maia, angry, had said to him, ‘You just don’t want to know about her, do you? Or any of them. You don’t like to think that your wife’s mother is a lot darker than she is. She’s unmistakably black, and you can’t ignore her, pretend she’s not different. Not like me. And she’s your son’s grandmother and you don’t like it.’
He got into the car and revved the motor. ‘Hurry up, you two, get in.’
He could see her and hear her, every word of that conversation. He stood up, out of the dirt, swayed for a moment as if he was going to faint, then recovered enough to keep walking. He’d heard different things; people talk. He would ask Greta about Steve. Why had he made up the story about her being close to the accident and doing nothing to help? She could have saved their lives—that’s what he’d thought. But then, if she wasn’t there, how was that possible? Maybe it was Steve who was there. It was all very confusing. A puzzle. Clive knew that Steve was attracted to this woman, Greta. He fancied himself. There was some story he told about how he’d met her in a coffee shop. And that she was a stuck-up bitch. Probably she’d rejected him—that’s what it would be, that’s why Steve wanted revenge, but he couldn’t do it himself. Yes, that made sense. He’d used Clive for his own ends. Had made him do a terrible thing.
He remembered the day Steve had approached him in the bar at the tavern in town. He had a way of getting at you, Steve. He would ask questions as if you didn’t know what he really meant, but of course you did. He would say things as if you were already talking about them. ‘Why do you think that woman Greta drove straight by the accident? Your accident? Do you think she looks down on us locals? Too up herself to stop and check what had happened. You know, just rednecks killing themselves. Except it wasn’t like that, was it, Clive?’
He was shocked by what Steve said. From nowhere, all those feelings back on top of him. His hand had begun to shake; he took it off the bar.
Steve kept talking in that quiet, menacing way. ‘It’s the Germans, you know. Think about what they did to the Jews. So … bloody … superior. Dangerous.’
But now he knew. Steve was the dangerous one. That’s where he should be: confronting Steve. He could ask for his head, all bleeding, to be delivered on a platter. Like John the Baptist. That’s what the girl had done, in the Bible, and her mother. They’d asked the king, infatuated by her dancing, for the head of the enemy—well, not really the girl’s enemy, so she’d been used as well, by her mother. Just like he’d been used. Steve’s head, on a platter. He could see it. But who could he ask, really? God? Not likely. And where was Steve? No one seemed to know, after a new investigation into the fire. He should talk to the woman about this.
He had loved the brown softness of Maia’s skin, the dark eyes that would lose him. Often he did not know what she was thinking, and he did not want that to change. She was a mystery to him. In her he saw the muddled history of this place, the white and black coming together, the suffering, the lack, all things he did not fully understand. She went about her day with a purposefulness he could not fathom. Always intent, absorbed in the moment, it did not seem to matter what it was she was doing. Going off to work, coming home again, planting flowers or vegetables in the garden, cleaning the house, snuggling up in bed. And then Harry arrived, first in her belly, and then the world. Her love expanded.
‘What are you thinking about?’
And she would pause a long time.
‘They are not really thoughts—they’re pictures. I know they’re mine, but also I’m outside, watching.’
He ran his hand down the slope of her hips, over the roundness, down her long flanks, her knee, her calf. He took her toes in his fingers, one after the other. She stared, unblinking.
‘What are you thinking? What pictures do you see?’ he asked.
‘I see my mother, held in my father’s arms. So black and white.’
And he held her to him, so tightly, his beautiful wife. Now she belonged.
‘You’re squeezing the life out of me,’ she said.
In the car they did not speak. He could feel the tight waves between them. Harry made strange talking, singing noises in his seat. She would not sit next to him; he felt like the chauffeur. Queenly Maia. She would go to her mother and take the boy with her. For a day or two it would be alright, slowly they would talk, make sense of things. Then her mother would lose interest—they all would. She was something different, visiting with her baby, then she would become the same, no different from the rest of them. Did she bring presents for her mother? And for her mother’s husband, another one? That’s what happened when you left—you could never come back, not really.
And then, later, she would come back to him, silent, sad, unsure. This was not what he wanted.
Twenty-two
Prue’s old analogue clock was not so good on the half-hours when you set the alarm, so she was out of be
d earlier than she’d intended. Not by much, but enough to give her time to think over her morning cup of tea. To think about herself, and where she was at in her life. By now such a familiar review should not have revealed anything new, but there were always alleyways—corners?—that were worth probing.
Following a lengthy period of study and many sessions with her therapist (not always the same person; there had been progress and development on that front too), Prue was still not sure who she was. It was evident in the question of her name. She had to admit that, most of the time, she thought of herself as Prudence Peaches, although sometimes the terms were reversed. She did not know whether to be unhappy, disconsolate, at this divided state of affairs or to celebrate the complexity of her sense of self, her identity. For some years she had, in fact, moved resolutely towards being Prue, but then Peaches began to re-emerge, and it was then that she realised she needed help, again. On the one hand she was this professional woman, in charge of her life, with a good income, a nice apartment and a respectable, if somewhat unexciting, boyfriend—or partner, depending on who she was talking to. She was Prue Browne. She had never married Tinny, and didn’t think Thompson was much of an improvement on Browne anyway. But when she saw Skel and Rock she couldn’t help becoming Peaches some of the time. She now recognised it as an infantilising name that she should never have allowed to come into play; she should never have responded to it, like a pet donkey or a duck, she thought, coming to its master to be fed. Or, worse, something to be eaten with cream. It was a ridiculous name—and yet she felt an attachment to it. It was a reminder of the good times with Tinny, of his boundless affection, if not love, for her. The Tinny who would be the first to get up in the morning and light the fire, who whistled, not too loudly, as he went about his morning ritual of bringing her a cup of tea in bed, and thick toast with too much butter on—one slice with vegemite and the other with marmalade. She was reminded of a younger, more playful self, which was not one that she was ready to forgo. So she guessed that she was either stuck with Prudence Peaches—or blessed with it, depending on how you looked at it.
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