by Meg Mason
Irritated, Phil moistened a fingertip and turned to the stock prices.
‘B-b-but, I had another funny thought,’ Noel stammered. ‘What would you say to getting a bit of dinner out one night? You and I. We could give that new one up at the junction a test run. I understand it’s Asian fusion.’ He looked at her helplessly for a moment, and then as her face set in an expression of concentrated neutrality, he dived for his coffee with such unusual vigour, Phil was forced to lean back to avoid him.
‘Ah. Indeed.’
‘I only thought, I’ve lost my Wilma and you’ve lost your Frederick and it can’t hurt us to give each other company. Or, even companionship.’
Phil felt ill. ‘Noel, you’ll forgive me, but Frederick’s passing was rather more recent and I would hate to . . . because there could be no question of any . . . perhaps it’s best not to set out on that road.’
‘Well, no, you’re probably right,’ Noel said, looking very hard at a near-passing skiff. ‘You’re right and I couldn’t be any use to you in a, ah, connubial sense,’ his eyes fell to his lap, ‘owing to my prostate.’
Phi’s flat white threatened to repeat on her and she pressed her fingertips to her lips. ‘No, well, none of us are quite the specimens we once were. Oh look, is that really the time? I’m so sorry Noel, forgive me, I must get back to my charges.’
Noel rose as Phil did and for a split second, she feared he was planning a more intimate farewell.
‘All right, well, good morning,’ she said, scuttling up the ramp towards her home.
It was too much. How was one meant to move elegantly and privately through one’s own grief journey when others kept inserting themselves into it? All the way home, Phil tried to force the distressing episode into an anecdote at least. She could recount it to Abigail, if they became short of talk at their next table supper. Phil could picture her though so clearly, it shocked when she looked ahead and saw Abigail running towards her from the other direction, clutching Jude who wore only a nappy.
68.
Brigga’s Box of Sad Things
Abi tried her hardest not to get in Phil’s way or knock into the skirtings with the Hoover, eat too much from Phil’s cupboards, or let Jude cry. The pressure to be invisible was exhausting but better than the prospect of returning to the flat. And anyway, Abi told herself, she was good at waiting. Most of her life had been waiting although it was more difficult with nothing specific to wait for. Perhaps only the vague and unlikely possibility that someone would tell her what she was supposed to do next.
She learned every inch of Brigitta’s room like an inmate learns his cell. One day while Jude napped on his stretcher, Abi looked through the contents of the wardrobe. Folded winter blankets, tennis racquets, a carton of old school blazers and then at the very back of the top shelf, she found a small Clarks shoebox with a square of paper sticky-taped to the lid. BRIGGA’S BOX OF SAD THINGS. DEFFINATELY NO LOOKING. There was nothing inside except an ancient tube of eczema cream with its lid crusted on. Abi held the box in her hands, feeling she could fill it without effort. Beginning with the small tragedy, which passed unnoticed by anyone except her and Jude, of having to stop feeding him because her supply failed after his first weekend away. Thawed milk administered by Elaine would be the last he ever had. Abi couldn’t even turn to First Year with Baby for condolence. It hadn’t made it into Noel’s delivery of essentials, although she could recall the section on weaning that described it as the end of a unique symbiotic relationship, which could also bring late-onset PND and for further information turn to Chapter 12.
Next in would go the fact that Stu never called her or replied to any of her text messages. Elaine was her only point of contact with the family now. Abi had also discovered, almost immediately after arriving at the big house, that Stu had suspended the weekly payment he had been making to her bank account since his first retreat to Gordon. Did Elaine and Roger know that their son had cut her off? Worse, had they encouraged him in it? Either way, it seemed nobody at Gordon was giving concentrated thought to what she and Jude might be living on.
She had said nothing about it to Phil, but just as her balance sank into single figures, Phil emerged one morning from Frederick’s study with a cheque and pressed it into her reluctant hand.
‘I’m sure you know I don’t go in for money talk,’ Phil said before Abi could speak. ‘However, I assume Stuart and his blasted parents are no longer of help to you fiscally. Let this tide you over until all the mess is cleared up. Although Abigail,’ she added sternly, ‘I can’t promise funds of an ongoing nature.’ With no other choice, Abi accepted it, waiting three days to push the pram up to the bank and deposit the inconceivable sum of one thousand dollars.
There would be no more university study, of course, now that Phil was housing her, feeding her and funding her. Accepting another round of fees would be unthinkable, if it was even offered, and she could not spend her own scant funds on anything indulgent. Besides which, Abi knew Elaine would no longer be willing to look after Jude.
As she sat cross-legged on the carpet beside Jude’s stretcher, stroking his head and listening to his gentle breathing, Abi imagined pressing it all into the Box of Sad Things and closing the lid.
* * *
Phil went out a lot and it was only then that Abi let herself wander more freely through the house, sometimes taking Jude out to the garden, sometimes standing in front of the fridge and shovelling in as many spoonfuls of cold leftovers as she could without making a visible dent in the container’s contents. Occasionally the phone would ring. Phil did not have an answering machine because she believed they were apt to encourage waffling, and Abi would stand rooted to the spot until it rang out.
One morning, after she heard Phil leave, she took Jude and his plastic bowl of breakfast out to the garden. A feeling of reprieve came with feeding him on grass rather than over Phil’s floor.
It was warmer that day than it had been in months, and the new tropical scent that filled the air carried her back to her first days in Sydney. So as not to prevail on Phil’s top loader, Abi removed his little T-shirt and shorts and began spooning Weetabix and banana into his open mouth.
Jude held his arms above his head and bounced excitedly up and down between mouthfuls. Abi knew she should talk to him, but cheerful commentary was beyond her at the minute. Instead she sang a few tuneless bars of something made up. There was the pool, she thought idly, as she waited for Jude to receive the next mouthful. But without the prospect of finding Phil there, the effort involved did not seem worth it. As she scraped around the edges of the bowl, she heard the phone ring from the kitchen. After a time, the ringing ceased but seconds later began again. The pattern repeated itself again and again. ‘Should we get that, Jude? Do you think?’ She stroked his thickening mop of hair out of his eyes.
When another cycle began, Abi got up and walked slowly to the back door, hoping she would miss it. But as she entered the dark kitchen, the cordless was still vibrating in its cradle and warily, she picked it up. ‘Hello? Um. Woolnough residence?’
‘Who’s this?’ said a woman whose voice hovered on the edge of hysteria. ‘Where is Phil?’
‘It’s Abi. From next door? She isn’t here. Can I take a message?’ Abi shifted Jude to her other side and began looking around for a pen.
‘Where is she? This is her daughter. I need her right away. It’s an emergency.’
‘Oh, is that you Brigitta?’ There was a red ballpoint in the fruit bowl, and Abi yanked the lid off with her teeth.
‘What? No, it’s Polly. It’s extremely urgent. Extremely urgent!’
Abi spat the lid out. ‘I think she might be on a walk. I could go and find her for you and she could ring back.’
‘There’s been an accident,’ Polly said with an emphasis that seemed to imply Abi was being purposely obstructive. ‘A bad accident. Go. Go and find her, now please. Get her to call me straight away. Now.’
Abi said a hasty goodbye, threw the phone o
n the table and ran as fast as she could in the direction of the kiosk, Jude bouncing on her hip.
As she came around a bend, she saw Phil ambling beneath a tree that had exploded with purple blooms and rained its petals down on her, so that she appeared like some sort of religious vision. Abi quickened her pace until she was within hearing and started calling out, ‘Phil, Phil! Something’s happened.’
‘Settle down, I can’t understand a word you’re saying.’ It was obvious Phil was expecting an emergency in the order of mashed banana on one of her Persians.
‘There’s been an accident, Phil. The phone kept ringing and I answered it and it was Polly. She sounded a bit hysterical.’
‘What is it? What did she say?’
‘She didn’t. She just said you have to phone her straight away.’
Phil hastened towards the house, basket battering her side. She puffed and heaved and demanded details from Abi, who ran beside her, crab-wise, struggling with Jude and insisting she knew nothing.
As soon as they were inside, Phil snatched up the phone and Abi found herself dithering by the back door, unsure whether to pass through or stay or disappear back out it, as Phil began a frantic exchange with her daughter. Abi could hear rapid speech on the other end, and watched confusion and fear and horror and pain pass across Phil’s face.
‘Oh,’ she said at one point, staggering backwards towards a kitchen chair. As fast as she could, Abi set Jude down where she stood and dashed over to steady the chair.
‘Oh Polly. Polly, no,’ Phil could barely breathe. ‘Polly, no. What do they say, what are the doctors saying? How soon until someone can get there?’
For a second, Abi considered putting a hand on Phil’s shoulder, but she didn’t dare. Instead, she picked Jude up off the floor and retreated upstairs. The pitch of Phil’s voice could be heard from below, and Abi listened for any clue as she arranged Jude on the camp stretcher for an early sleep, patting him until his eyelids drooped and he let his face turn to the side.
In the absence of detail, Abi’s imagination threw up one terrible scenario after another. One of the grandchildren had been killed. Brigitta had been hit by a black cab. They were all dead and only Polly was left. Even as she worried for Phil, a small, terrible part of her sensed opportunity, and she punished herself for the thought with a painful bite down on her thumb.
When the voice below died away, Abi snuck downstairs and found Phil still in the kitchen chair, with the cordless in one hand and a disintegrating tissue in the other. Somehow, the top button of her blouse had come undone, exposing a wedge of flesh-coloured lace, and one side of her hair was standing up. ‘What’s happened?’
Phil did not turn to look at her but explained in a wavering voice that Freddie had been in a motorbike accident. ‘He’s in Goa. The hospital only just tracked us down and he is already in surgery.’
Abi couldn’t think where Goa was. The last envelope she had posted on Phil’s behalf was addressed to some sort of hostel in Laos.
‘No one is able to say if he was riding it or got hit by it. Briggy’s trying to get a flight out but she’s a day away at the very least. Polly is demanding I stay put until we know more. She’s got Mark phoning the hospital but no one is giving proper information. He was responsive when they brought him in,’ Phil’s voice shredded, ‘but what does that mean, Abigail? I must know what that means!’
Abruptly, she got up, and before leaving the room with phone in hand, she fixed Abi with a fierce stare. ‘I will not lose another child, Abigail. Do you understand that? I will not.’
* * *
The phone continued to ring throughout the day, and Abi heard Phil speaking as she went about minding Jude, tidying up a bit and letting Domenica in and out. Occasionally Phil would appear in the doorway, looking anxious or grave, and share whatever new piece of information she had received.
‘He’s coming around from the anaesthetic, but we won’t know the outcome of the surgery for hours more. But he is talking. Apparently,’ Phil wrapped a hand around her throat. ‘It’s impossible to get good information.’
‘Well that’s good,’ Abi said, weakly. ‘I mean, not good about the information. But good he’s out of the operation. Can I get you anything? To eat, or anything?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’ Phil disappeared to the front room but called out again after a moment. ‘Actually Abigail, two of the fizzy aspirin, would you please.’
Abi found them in the knife drawer and dissolved two in a big glass of tap water.
‘Oh,’ Phil said, accepting the heavy tumbler. ‘You’ve made quite a summer drink out of it.’ And then more kindly, ‘I realise I’m glad not to be alone at this moment, Abigail. Brigitta will be on the ground by the morning and then I shall make preparations to fly out as soon as I can.’
69.
Is she a wreck?
Phil spent the next day in a whirl of useless activity, willing the phone to ring and waiting to hear if Brigitta had landed. By late afternoon, her inability to sit even for a moment had worn her out and she took herself upstairs for a rest. ‘Afterwards, I will start packing. You must come and fetch me if the phone rings.’
Abi set Jude up on the kitchen floor with a set of plastic measuring cups and sat with him while he put them all in a bowl and tipped them out again. When the phone rang, she leaped up to answer it.
‘Is that you, Abi? It’s Brigitta. Can you put Mum on?’ There was an echo on the line and Abi could hear her own voice come back with a delay.
‘She’s just gone upstairs for a rest. Do you want me to go and get her?’
‘No, don’t. Let her kip. Is she a wreck?’
‘Um, she’s quite restless. She really wants to get her ticket booked.’
‘I’m sure. But, Abi, listen, it’s not a good idea. I’ve just arrived and Freddie’s out of danger, apparently, but he looks incredibly rough, and I don’t think we should let her put herself through it. Not this soon after Dad. He’s got a tonne of stitches and this hospital is incredibly hectic. Not the cleanest you’ve ever seen either. She’d hate it, and if she goes to bits, which let’s be honest is a fairly sure thing, her being here won’t help Freddie at all.’
Brigitta went on to explain that now that his internal injuries had been seen to, the shattered leg would be dealt to with an assortment rods and pins. ‘And they haven’t fixed his front teeth yet,’ she added as an afterthought. Abi heard a heavy sigh. ‘He’ll be all right,’ Brigitta went on, ‘but for now he’s a mess. Not to put you on the spot or anything, but since you’re the one with her, it would be great if you steered her away from the idea of coming. To reinforce what Polly and I will tell her.’
‘Yes, I can try, definitely.’
‘You’re such a good one, Abi. Mum can be bloody hard work. We Woolnoughs are lucky to have you on the team.’
Without wanting to sound pleased, Abi thanked her and hung up, writing down the key pieces of information on a notepad. If Phil was cross she hadn’t been woken as asked, Abi would say Brigitta told her not to.
In the week that followed, Abi began to feel indispensable. She made up trays and took them through to the front room where Phil had set up her headquarters. She removed untouched cups of tea, plumped sofas, spritzed the cymbidiums in the courtyard, minding not to wet the leaves as per instructions.
Whenever it came up, Abi tried to temper any talk of Phil’s flying out to see Freddie, until Phil frogmarched her to Frederick’s study and stood behind her while she looked up flights. Feeling it would be what Brigitta wanted, Abi said the system wouldn’t accept her booking. ‘Well then, I will have to get Mark to arrange it with an old-fashioned travel agent. It’s maddening, Abigail! I feel as though I’m losing my mind.’
When the weekend came, Abi walked Jude to the kiosk and dutifully handed him off to Elaine, who was waiting at the top of the ramp. On the way back, as always, Abi let herself weep for the loss of him until she got to the sandstone escarpment that signalled halfway, then wiped
her eyes and walked more briskly to the house. As she let herself in the side gate, she saw Phil standing outside the kitchen door, shaking so violently that the phone she’d been holding had dropped to the ground and lay there now with its batteries scattered across the brickwork.
70.
A dead-set waste of time
There was nothing to do with a baby in Gordon. The one playground within walking distance was a depressing seventies situation with a tin slide that you could fry an egg on by 10 a.m.
Summer wasn’t even in full swing, but whenever Stu tried to take Jude for a walk in the crappy pram Elaine had been thrilled to find at Bubs on a Budget behind Turramurra station, he would forget the hat and suncream and within minutes, Jude would start to look a bit scorched and they’d have to turn back.
Stu struggled with it being just the two of them. Elaine handled the bulk of the baby care for the fortnight after he moved back to Gordon for good, having been fucked over by the girl he thought he loved. At the time, it was hard enough just getting out of bed. There was no reason to once he’d resigned from the pub via text message and Roger had taken it onto himself to phone the Dean of Architecture and arrange compassionate leave. Stu didn’t care about uni anymore. Sitting around drawing a bunch of buildings that would never get built felt like a dead-set waste of time now, all things considered.
And all the time Elaine shadowed him around the house, checking, suggesting, trying to press devon sandwiches upon him. Even when she wasn’t home, Stu felt her presence in every rearrangement of his Lynx bottles and appearance of a pamphlet about a local counselling service on his desk, even though until then, he’d been led to believe Kelletts didn’t go in for ‘new age mumbo jumbo’.
Then as the first shock of discovering Abi had hid her pregnancy began to subside, Stu noticed that Jude would reach for Elaine instead of him whenever he had the choice. Against every instinct to go back to bed for the rest of his life, he decided to raise his game.
