by Meg Mason
30.
One up from dead
Stu had forgotten. When he emerged from the bedroom on Saturday morning shortly before ten, naked except for a pair of football shorts, Abi was kneeling on the living room floor, taking Jude’s things out of the bag she’d packed the night before. Beside her, Jude lay on his tummy lifting his head for seconds at a time, then resting back on a cheek when the effort became too much.
Stu gave her a vague nod. ‘I’m a bit dusty this morning. It got huge last night after we closed. Some of the uni boys turned up. Have we got any Gatorade?’
As Abi looked up at him, the plastic rattle in her hand began vibrating with its own desire to be flung at him. ‘Our budget doesn’t really run to hangover aids.’
Stu went to step over a zip pouch of spare nappies, then paused. ‘Where have you guys been? Do something fun?’
‘We’ve been here, waiting. We were supposed to have a family day, remember?’
‘Oh right.’ Stu rubbed his stubbled chin. ‘I thought you’d already gone out. I didn’t hear him.’
‘That’s because when you woke us both up coming in at 5 a.m. you asked me to move out to the sofa with him so you could have a sleep-in, which I did. By letting him feed, non-stop all morning.’
‘Simmer down, babe. I don’t even remember saying that. But then I have just worked ten days straight, and I’ve got a massive set of drawings I’ve got to finish for Monday.’
‘I’ve just done ten days straight too, though, if you think about it. With him. I am so tired, Stu. Yesterday I had to look up bone cancer on the computer. I took my pulse and it was one up from dead. I hardly ever ask you to do stuff for us but I just had something I wanted to show you.’ With that, she burst into tears.
Stu looked briefly sympathetic, before appearing to remember his own, worse predicament. ‘You knew I wouldn’t be around much because of uni. I was totally upfront about that. I’m freaking out, babe. You have no idea how much pressure I’m under. I’m twenty for fuck’s sake and I’m a dad and a breadwinner. Full time at school and every spare minute pulling beers for people my age who have zero responsibilities.’
‘But you said we’d have a day all together,’ she said, adding with a self-destructive flourish, ‘I suppose if you don’t want to, there’s nothing I can do about it. I just wish you’d said so is all, so I could have gone into town with Phil.’
Stu’s face took on a hardness she had not seen before as he opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again.
Abi’s stomach flopped. ‘What were you going to say?’
‘Nothing. I need some food.’
‘No, you were going to say something.’
‘I didn’t realise you were still hanging out with the fake granny, that’s all. I guess that explains why Mum can’t get a look-in. I should let her know. Explains everything.’ He walked into the kitchen with a pace of defiant leisure and stayed there.
Abi swept everything back into the bag, picked up Jude and left without closing the front door. She dragged the folded buggy behind her, letting it bounce off each stair.
It had looked fine all morning, but now as Abi stamped towards the pool a bank of white cloud drew over like a hood and the heat of the watery sun disappeared. She thought about knocking on Phil’s door, but could tell that no one was home from Domenica, exiled to the garden and yapping at her through the crack beneath the gate. Slowly, she walked on, willing the temperature not to drop any further.
The pool was empty. There was no shade or sun, only a flat grey pall hanging over the entire area. She left Jude in the pram, and after sitting for so long on the edge that her buttocks began to ache, Abi slipped into the water and let herself drop down and down and down, staying under for as long as she could. When she burst up, she laughed a mean bark of a thing, realising of course Stu wouldn’t care about seeing her swim. She’d never told him that she didn’t know how.
Shivering even before she was out, and worried at the bluish tips of Jude’s toes and fingers and a pale purple shadow around his mouth, she tucked her towel in around him and ran all the way home. Babies feel the cold more than you, whispered the imperious voice of First Year with Baby. Always be prepared with a variety of warmer layers.
Stu had scrawled a note on the back of an unfinished sketch. Couldn’t find you. Gone up to Mum and Dads. Will prob stay over. Sorry about everything. She brushed it into the sink and ran the tap over it, watching the paper soften and dissolve, and wondering how far back his everything went.
To get warm, she climbed into bed with Jude and they dozed, until sometime later she woke with a heaviness pressing on her chest like a sack of sand. With effort, she fed Jude, who kneaded her with his hand, pulled off, grizzled to go back on only to pull off again.
Her loneliness was total. Abi began to feel that if she did not speak to someone, anyone, at this moment, she might never speak again. As though so much isolation could leave her mute. There was nothing but to call her mother.
But reaching for her phone, she saw a message waiting. ‘Couldn’t be faffed with DJs. Noel holding court at kiosk, w.suspected basal cell,’ it read. ‘Pop down when finished with fam. duties.’
Abi tore around the flat collecting her things, deciding there wasn’t time to shower. She pulled on leggings and a jumper and skeltered down the stairs, Jude in her arms and dragging the pram behind her with one hand.
31.
Quite the motley crew
Minutes later, Abi came down the ramp and saw the group sitting around on the milk crates. Phil waved her over and shuffled back to make room. Abi left Jude against her chest and sat down, still panting.
‘Goodness, you’re looking a touch peaky, Abigail. Have you got something coming on?’
‘No, I’m fine. Busy morning, that’s all.’
Phil turned to Noel, who was explaining to the others exactly what they could expect to see under the square of gauze he was about to peel off his mottled shin. ‘Hush for a moment would you. All, this is Abigail. Abigail, Valentina,’ Phil said, gesturing towards a coffee-skinned older lady with a deep cleavage, into which a diamond-studded crucifix had become sacrilegiously wedged. ‘Finally you come to our little club.’
‘And Barb. And her good friend Sandy.’
Barb smiled to reveal a row of child-size teeth and a glistening strip of upper gum. Sandy nodded and continued to stroke Domenica, who was lying at her feet. Sandy wore a sort of PE teacher’s outfit, only missing the whistle. The pair had similarly close-cropped salt and pepper hair, asexual in style, which suggested a possible two-for-one at a reasonably priced salon.
‘And Noel, you’ll remember from our brief encounter at the pool.’ Phil sucked in her cheeks. ‘He was just telling us about a recent biopsy.’ Phil shot Abi a wicked look.
‘Well,’ he said, revealing the fishtail of black stitches below the gauze. ‘You can see the size of the bugger. They’ve done my bloods so now we wait.’
The group gave knowing assent. ‘Entire life in the sun,’ he went on. ‘You watch the little fella won’t you, Abi. The Australian sun is a silent killer.’
‘We found something very similar on my back last Christmas,’ Barb said, ‘Didn’t we Sandy? It came back clear.’ Then, sensing the lack of drama in her contribution, she added, ‘But you never know.’
Everyone stared gravely into their coffees.
‘How old the baby?’ Valentina said, breaking the silence.
‘He’ll be fifteen weeks on Thursday? I suppose I should probably stop counting in weeks, shouldn’t I?’ Carefully, Abi turned him around so he sat facing outwards.
‘They’re like campfires, aren’t they?’ Barb said, gazing at him wistfully. ‘You can just sit and stare.’
Sandy lifted Domenica into her lap. The dog gave her a lick on the mouth and Phil looked away, mildly repulsed.
‘I have one child, Abigail. My son,’ Valentina said. ‘And I tell you, he suck my blood. He twenty now. He still live at home. I ask, wh
y he at home? Why he there all day, no working? I give him education, I give him everythings.’ Valentina circled her arms outwards in a violent gesture of constant giving. ‘I come home, my apartment, issa pig sty. I say, “Alejandro, why so many tissues?”’
Barb listened with an expression of intense sympathy, then looked back at Abi. Her face sprang into the gummy smile. ‘Don’t listen to any of it, Abi! All children are lovely. I’ve got two grown-up daughters. They’ve both moved away, unfortunately. One to Wollongong.’
‘How are you liking Point life, Abi?’ Noel asked. ‘It’s a good spot we’ve got here, isn’t it?’
‘I love it. Especially the pool, and the walk.’ Abi meant it, although the memory of her argument with Stu lingered like a bad dream.
‘Speaking of,’ Phil interrupted. ‘I ought to be getting back. Wander back with me, will you, Abigail? I’ve got a small something for you.’
As Abi clipped Jude into the pram, Phil scooped Domenica off Sandy’s lap and released her to the ground a fraction early, causing the dog to squeal and Sandy to flinch.
‘Right, goodbye all.’
Abi followed her, waving back as Noel farewelled them with a mock salute, Valentina gave a deep bow, and Sandy sat with her hands folded into the Domenica-less lap of her teacher shorts.
‘See you again, Abi,’ Barb called. ‘Lovely to meet you finally. Having a young person around, so nice for a change, isn’t it, Sandy?’
‘Well. There you’ve had them,’ Phil said as they fell into step along the path. ‘Quite the motley crew.’
‘They’re all so nice, aren’t they?’
‘They suffice. I shouldn’t say that. I simply mean they’re not kindreds, per se.’
‘I wonder how long Barb and Sandy have been together.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ Phil looked at her sharply.
‘Oh, well, you know, in terms of – I thought they lived together?’
‘They do. Barb has adult children, as you heard.’
‘Right, it’s just that –’
‘And Sandy is a very useful tennis player,’ Phil said as though to settle it. Abi said nothing and a minute later, Phil spoke again in clipped tones. ‘Abigail. I know what you’re thinking and I’m hardly an innocent. I simply doubt we’ve homosexuals on the Point.’
She went on considering, then burst out laughing. ‘Goodness, are they, do you think? Lord, I suppose they must be. What a thought. Barb and Sandy, you-know-what-bians as our dear Mitfords would say. How terribly cosmopolitan for the Shore. Our own little Bloomsbury group.’
‘But with more sensible shorts.’
‘Sandy loves a short! Year round!’ Phil said, as though fitting the final piece together. ‘She’s always loved a short.’ It was decided as they came to Phil’s gate. ‘Ah, now, here we are. Wait here will you and I’ll just fetch you out my little offering.’
When Abi got upstairs with the parcel Phil hadn’t wanted her to open on the doorstep – ‘too mortifying, you’ll see’ – and peeled off the brown paper without tearing it, she found a small unframed canvas. Thick oils made a jar of orange and yellow flowers, their papery petals beginning to drop. A glint of light on the jar made it look so real, although when Abi examined it more closely, the paint used to do it was actually green and grey. Daubed messily in one corner, ‘P. Woolnough, ’86’. There was no point to it at all, except for being beautiful, and it was. Riveting, extraordinary, and the first time, Abi thought, an Egan had owned something truly beautiful. Its only job to be looked at. She lay on her bed, with her face turned towards it and only stopped staring at it late that night, after Jude had fed to sleep and it was too dark to make it out anymore. The plain white card that had been stuck to the back, ‘For the swimmer. Much love, P,’ was still in her hand as she drifted off beside him.
32.
Artisanal condiment
Phil had never called Abi’s phone before, only texted choice bits of whatever she was reading and spottily capitalised lists of things she might need if Abi was passing what Phil called the Milson Road Inconvenience, because it sold very little at a fiendish mark-up, during opening hours that varied capriciously. ‘I think the owner may have a depression,’ Phil had said, by way of explanation.
Occasionally, she would chime in first thing to find out if Abi was expecting to walk past a post box, and if so, perhaps she would come and collect a thing that really needed to go out today. They were always pale blue envelopes, addressed to Freddie Woolnough, at a constantly changing poste restante office somewhere in Asia. They felt so thin Abi couldn’t believe there was really a letter inside but held up to the sun, she thought she could make out the slim rectangle of a cheque.
It was odd, then, when Phil’s name flashed up on the screen the following day, a slow, grey Sunday that was dragging itself along like a child tired of walking. Abi was lying on the living room carpet, presiding over a period of tummy time as mandated by First Year with Baby, and wondering if the fried rice she had made three days earlier with a packet of instant basmati and a can of diced veg would be safe-ish to eat, provided she blasted it for ten whole minutes on high. Stu had not come back from staying overnight at Gordon.
‘Hello?’ Abi said, lunging for her phone.
‘Ah. Abigail. Thank heavens.’ Phil’s voice sounded weak on the line. ‘I’m terribly sorry to interrupt you.’
‘No, no, it’s fine. I’m not busy.’
‘I’ve gone over in a puddle of something in the ruddy DJs food hall and done something rather bleak to my foot. They brought me to St Vincent’s – the hospital – and now they won’t release me without anyone to shepherd me into a taxi. I’m suitably insulted, never you mind. I was about to try Noel but no doubt he’d consider it a proposal of marriage, do you see?’
‘Of course.’ Abi leaped up. ‘Jude and I can come get you. Stu’s out so it’s no bother. I’ll look up buses and ring you when we’re nearly there. Where is that hospital roughly?’
‘Actually dear, I took a liberty and there should be a taxi outside yours shortly. I’ll fix it when you get here. You’re a lamb, really Abigail, a lamb. I’m tempted to phone Polly but I wonder how pleased she’d be with a ringing phone at three in the morning.’
‘Yes, she might panic,’ Abi said, elated by the thought of being the only one on the ground. Deciding it would be easier to manage without the pram, she strapped Jude into the carrier.
Phil looked disconcertingly smaller when Abi found her in a corner of Accident and Emergency. One foot was on the floor, pigeoned inwards inside her leather driving shoe, the injured one propped up on another chair, bare toes sticking out beyond messy plaster, a tight, boiling purple. That she was still dressed smartly for town, in a soft linen blazer with a large abstract brooch of the sort Abi had seen in art gallery gift shops, made her feel teary for a minute. Abi crinkled her nose and sniffed, careful not to show sympathy to someone who had more than once described herself as a ‘hater of soppiness’.
‘Nice pedicure,’ Abi said. She bounced up and down and patted Jude in the pack.
Phil looked relieved. ‘Yes, I went with purple as you can see. Rather a lurid shade though,’ she continued wryly, ‘and it seems they’ve gone over the lines. I shan’t be coming here again.’
Once the paperwork was dealt with – ‘Cause of injury. Abigail, will I write artisanal condiment/puddle of?’ – and Phil finally agreed to take a geriatric-looking crutch the doctor pressed on her, Abi offered an elbow for the steps at the exit.
‘Thank you, Abigail, but you needn’t treat me like I’m decrepit. I’m quite capable of walking unaided.’
A middle-aged couple were making their way up the stairs and looked sympathetically at Abi, standing with her unwanted arm still outstretched. An aged mother and a little one too, their faces seemed to say.
Abi forced her arm under Phil’s. ‘All right Mrs Woolnough? Mind these stairs.’
‘That’s right. One at a time. Can you tell me where we are? We’ll get
you a nice cup of tea in a minute.’
‘Abigail, stop it,’ Phil hissed.
‘Lovely to get out, isn’t it Mrs Woolnough? There we are, careful as you go.’ When the couple disappeared inside, Abi broke into giggles that did not abate until they were in the back of the taxi that Phil had told Abi to have wait for them outside, since the ones with baby-seats could be so hard to snag.
As the got in, Abi saw the meter tick up by another 20 cents to $64.90, and prayed Phil would remember what she’d said about fixing it up.
Abi buckled Jude in and although Phil refused to look at her, her reflection in the window showed a smile at the corners of her mouth.
‘Now, Abigail, if you can stop being so beastly, shall we hunker down and watch a film this evening? I’m feeling rather useless, suddenly. And you’re husbandless, aren’t you? Partnerless, I should say.’
‘I am. Although I did tell them I’d have you back at the home for your tea by four. It’s fish pie on Sundays.’
‘Awful girl,’ Phil muttered as she leaned back and they watched the streets of Darlinghurst slip by the windows.
33.
A toothbrush for Kentish Town
‘Thank you actors,’ Guy shouted from his seat in the empty front row. He dismissed the company with a brisk clap. ‘Lovely work everyone. And thanks again for your Sunday. Understudies off book by our next meeting please.’
As the company waited to walk single file down the rolling staircase drawn up to the edge of the stage, he called over at Brigitta. ‘Could you hang back for a moment, please?’
To her disappointment, none of the others seemed to have heard and they continued noisily down the hollow stairs. Brigitta left the line and took up a spot on the edge of the stage, letting her legs dangle like she was sitting on a jetty. After the rabble had collected their satchels and duffel coats and straggled out the stage door, Guy came over and slotted himself between her knees. Her thighs filled the space under his arms, and he clutched her bottom with both hands. Brigitta shivered.
