Martha’s heart didn’t stop thumping until she had unpicked and reknitted the row. And then she proceeded with great care and concentration, not allowing herself to get distracted by reading patterns. She was too close to the end to take such silly risks.
But as she knitted, slowly and carefully now, she did spare a thought for that woman who had helped, the short woman with the trendy haircut and the diamond ring like a hard, sharp rock. It had caught on Martha’s hand as they turned the man over, and scratched her. She must be very rich. But she had a sad blank face that didn’t give much away.
SANDRA shocked herself by sleeping in on Sunday until nearly midday. It was a long time since she had relaxed enough to sleep more than five hours at once. At one o’clock the phone rang. When she answered it there was silence, followed by the clatter of coins in a public telephone. Did people still use coins? She didn’t recognize the voice.
“Hello? Hello? Is that Sandra Fildes?”
“Speaking.” How raspy her voice was. The other person hesitated.
“My name is Martha. You helped me yesterday when that poor bloke fell over in the mall. I just wanted to say thank you.” Sandra was still groggy with sleep and struggled to respond.
“You’re welcome.”
“He’s getting better. I went this morning. They’re keeping him in for tests and stuff, but he’s likely to walk out. Strikes me as one of those who hates being cooped up.”
“Do they know what happened?”
“No. Epilepsy, maybe. Had a cousin with epilepsy, and it was a bit like that.”
“Are you going back to see him?”
“Yes.”
“Well, give him my best wishes.” There was a rumble of traffic at Martha’s end. Sandra had to repeat her best wishes.
“Don’t think he’ll remember you,” shouted Martha. “He was out of it.”
“Well, tell him anyway. Thank you for ringing.”
“Wait!” Silence. What was the woman doing—fossicking in one of her bags? How to politely close this call?
“Would you mind if I came round?”
“Came round? Here?”
“Yes. To see you.”
“Oh, it’s not necessary. You’ve thanked me already.”
“I’ve got something for you.”
“I didn’t really do anything. I was just there at the time. Truly, there’s no need.”
“There were lots of other people, but you were the only one who helped. It’s OK, no trouble. I won’t stay long. See you soon.” Martha hung up.
Sandra was not happy. She was private about her personal space. She didn’t really want anyone, especially a stranger, possibly weirdo, giving her unwanted gifts. She had given the woman her card, with her home address on it. Why on earth had she done that?
She plumped the cushions by the phone, washed her lunch dishes, and waited, increasingly irritable, for Martha to show. She wanted to get it over with. Soon, Martha had said. So why didn’t she come? Where was she coming from? And how? The buses ran infrequently—she looked like a bus person. Perhaps she’d changed her mind. Maybe Sandra had sounded unfriendly and put her off. The woman only wanted to express some thanks. She should have made more of an effort—Jack always said she was prickly with strangers. Sandra went back to the biography sent to her for review, but it had soured; the end wasn’t as good as the beginning.
BY seven o’clock Sandra decided that Martha wasn’t coming after all and made herself a toasted cheese sandwich for tea. It was getting dark and cold. She sat in the half light of the window to eat. As she took the first bite the bell rang.
Sandra opened the door reluctantly. The woman stood there hesitantly, not looking her entirely in the face.
“I’m Martha. I’m a bit late.” No apology.
“Come in.” Sandra was hardly effusive. The woman turned sideways to carry a small suitcase and two large bags over the threshold, then stood there waiting. She was wearing a denim skirt and another hand knit, an old-fashioned pale pink sweater in a complex pattern. Her shoes were flat walkers. She sighed a hefty sigh and said, “Smells nice.”
“It’s not much. Just a toasted sandwich.”
Martha stood, holding her bags. Sandra could hear Jack’s voice in her head. Come on, Sandra, be kind.
“Come in.” Sandra turned on the light in the cold living room. She sat on the edge of her chair and invited Martha to sit down. Martha positioned her three bags carefully in a row and sank heavily into the leather. Sandra waited.
“I was at the hospital. Cliff says thanks.”
“You say you never met him?”
“Nup. Never. Poor old bugger was just lying there rattling his teeth and nobody did anything. Except you and me.”
Sandra felt ashamed.
“Would you like a snack?”
“Wouldn’t say no.”
“Come out and talk to me while I make it.” She didn’t want to leave this woman where she couldn’t see her. Who knows what she might stuff in her bags? Martha followed her obediently, bringing her luggage. Sandra re-oiled the sandwich grill.
“Pretty fancy kitchen you’ve got.”
“Yes. Don’t really use it enough these days.”
“You live here by yourself?”
Was it idle curiosity, or was Martha sussing out territory?
“On and off.”
“Married?”
“Yes.” What was she supposed to say? “No”? She still felt married. Widowed. That was the correct and ugly word. Black widow.
Martha nodded. “Thought so. Seen your wedding ring.”
Sandra prided herself on being honest but felt she was slipping. Still, what did it matter? History had little to do with facts. And you don’t owe this woman anything.
“Coffee?”
“Do you have tea?”
“Certainly.” She made a pot and set tea and mugs on the place mat in the middle of the table. “And here’s your sandwich.” Golden triangles on a white plate, a sprig of parsley.
“Very pretty. Thank you.” Martha took a big bite. The steaming mouthful came out as fast as it went in.
“Ouch. Sorry. Too hot!” Martha was fanning her face with her mouth open, trying to cool her tongue.
“Would you like some water?”
“No, no, it’s all right. Serves me right for being greedy. Bit hungry. Haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
“How is that?”
“Well, I went to the hospital this morning, and there’s the poor old bugger in one of those gowns with his bum hanging out because he didn’t have any undies or jarmies.”
“What did you say his name was?”
Martha laughed. “I don’t know, really. It’s either Clifford or Cliff Ford, which sounds silly. He talks funny sometimes. But he wasn’t saying. Some people don’t like to be pinned down. Anyway, I went and bought him this gear, but it used up all my cash. Then after I took it to him, I went home for a while, but I didn’t have time to eat because I wanted to finish something for you.”
Sandra did not know how to respond to such a comment, so she asked a question.
“How did you get here, with no money?”
“Multitrip ticket. You get ten bus trips. It’s cheaper that way. But I must stop magging—I have to get the bus back. Just came to give you this.” She unzipped the top of the large red, white, and blue plastic bag and took out a cotton shopping bag with a supermarket brand emblazoned on one side. Whatever was in it was light and insubstantial.
“To say thank you for helping yesterday. I didn’t know what to do next, and you came along like an angel in disguise.”
Sandra peered into the bag. It looked like a mass of silver fairy floss. Martha opened her sandwich and blew on it.
“Take it out. It’s bigger than it looks.”
It was a scarf—no, a shawl, light as air, but warm. “It’s beautiful!” The fabric was soft and springy, resilient.
“Wool and cashmere blend. Fits through a wedding ring.”
<
br /> Sandra caught the shawl in a tight circle between thumb and forefinger, and saw that it would.
“But there’s no need. I didn’t do anything. You’re the one who looked after him. You’re the one who should be getting gifts.”
“Couldn’t do it on my own, sweet pea. You had the mobile. It’s OK. I want you to have it. Didn’t cost much. Made it myself.” Martha looked around. “It’s a pretty house here, but it’s cold. I reckon you need it.”
Martha looked at her watch, stood with the last bite of the sandwich in her hand, and went to her line of luggage.
“Sorry. Got to run. Don’t want to miss the bus back.”
CLIFF left the hospital, walked down the long mile of Pulteney Street to South Terrace, and crossed over into the South Parklands. The doctors hadn’t finished the tests, but he was leaving, he was out of there. All that air conditioning was enough to make you sick. He took his clasp knife from his pocket, cut the plastic name band from his wrist, and dropped it into the trash bin.
It must have rained; the new grass looked fresh. There was a chill in the air, although the day was sunny. The buds were swelling on the trees. A few more nights in that hospital would have killed him. All the same, he was getting too old to sleep out, and in the next year or two he’d have to find a place that offered a little more comfort, somewhere dry, where the rain didn’t run down his neck. But he’d be all right until next winter at least. Just now he needed some fresh air, a night or two under the starry bright, to get the thick hospital breath out of his lungs. Too many walls, too many bodies too close, and nothing to look at except concrete and bricks or the ugly old bloke opposite.
The hospitals did their best for you, same as the Salvation Army. He had a lot of time for the Salvos. It was good to wake up in a dry bed.
Cliff kept clear of the playground. He knew that the young mothers perceived him wrongly, an old scruff, maybe a pedophile, lurking around their children. He kept his clothes fairly clean, but he didn’t shave too often. He liked to watch the kids playing, listen to their shouts and laughter, see how they overcame their little fears to go down the high slide. He liked kids, enjoyed their freedom and spontaneity. But he knew that to parents he looked dangerous; he had seen the distaste, the caution, on their faces. The older women talked to him sometimes, grandmothers who had lived long enough not to be afraid, but some of the young ones were aggressively fearful, like bitches with pups.
Cliff crossed the parklands, then the six lanes of Greenhill Road, and made his way down Porter Street, past the corner of Muggs Hill Road, where the church had free coffee on Sunday mornings. Near the end of Porter Street he turned left into the grassy path at the edge of the deep culvert. Not too many people walked along the culvert path, although it was a useful shortcut between two main roads. Most people preferred the open street. Every now and then the path was punctuated by yapping dogs stuck behind the high fences of their boring backyards, but for the most part it was quiet, and the dogs minded their own business. Wattlebirds nested in the bottlebrush, and in summer bright green parrots did regular checks for fruit and almonds.
He was going back to a spot he’d used before. It was between two sheds, well screened by a banana passion fruit vine gone berserk. You had to cross the culvert to get to it, six feet down and six feet up again. Once, a couple of years ago, there had been a storm upstream, and when Cliff woke up, the water was racing fast, ten feet from where he slept. It was as high as his neck, too dangerous to cross, so he had to stay holed up in his cubby. He didn’t fancy being swept into the tunnel where the culvert swung under the road. It was five or six hours before the flood subsided, and all he’d had to eat was a couple of oranges, filched earlier from a tree hanging over a fence.
It was a summer hideout, but it could take the occasional rain. He even had a roof now, a few sheets of galvanized iron that he inspected regularly for redback spiders. The area was full of orderly Greek and Italian gardens and well-oiled gates. A few people had put locks on their gates, but Cliff knew the friendly gardeners, who let him pick a tomato or two. The locals knew where he camped and left him alone. He used his sister’s address for things like Medicare, though he rarely slept at her house. He had no real need to forage, but it was more fun to rely on whatever life and goodness handed out. And if he did get stuck, the automatic teller had new money in it every fortnight, like eggs in a hen’s nest. His wants were simple: he could buy clothes at thrift shops, day-old bread half price from the baker, a bottle of cheap port at the pub, and still have enough left over for a scratch ticket or two.
Cliff swung down into the culvert, using his familiar footholds, and up the other side, feeling stiff from too long in bed. His legs still worked, at any rate, though he was tired after the long walk, and he still had a scab on the side of his face after his fall in the mall. His cubby was as good as ever. The last large-trash day had provided a decent carpet, an armchair, and a mattress. A piece of canvas had flapped loose. He rested for a while, then set about making repairs.
The following afternoon he walked down the culvert a mile or so and pressed the doorbell of his sister’s house. A short, stout woman opened it and smiled.
“Hullo, Joyce.”
“Hullo, little brother,” she said, giving him a hug. “Haven’t seen you for a while. What have you been up to?”
“Hospital.”
“Hospital! Why didn’t you let me know?”
“Didn’t want to worry you. It was only a few days. How’s your ticker, anyway?”
“No trouble. A bit tight sometimes.”
“That lad of yours behaving himself?”
Joyce pursed her lips in mock disapproval.
“No. Too much like his uncle. He’s hitched up to Sydney to see the sights. Says he’ll get work up there. Giving me a breather, at any rate. You should have told me you were sick.”
“You have enough on your plate.”
“I’d like to know if my own brother’s in hospital, all the same. What was it?”
“Had a fit. Seizure. Fell over in the mall. Only a couple of nice ladies picked me up and looked after me, and now I’ve got a girlfriend.”
“No!”
“She’s not really my girlfriend. But she’s nice, Joyce. Real clever. Knits amazing patterns. She came to the hospital a couple of times and sat by my bed. Brought me pa jamas and undies and all.” Cliff suddenly remembered he had left the pajamas at the hospital. “So she must like me a bit.”
“Don’t get your hopes up. Where are you living now?”
“Back of Porter Street.” He was always vague with Joyce. “Sort of a sleep-out.”
“Cup of tea?”
“Won’t say no.” Joyce put the kettle on, took down the cake tin, got out cups and saucers. Cliff saw that her hands were knobbier than ever. She made real tea, in a teapot, and set it on the table between them.
“What’s this about seizures, Cliff?”
“Epilepsy, maybe.”
“What happened?”
“Just blacked out. I was looking in a shop window, and that’s all I remember. Hit my face, see? Then this Martha comes along and tries to help, but she was all on her own, no one else would do anything. Then this other bird—I haven’t met her, but Martha said her name’s Sahndra.” Cliff made a face. “Rather posh—comes along and has a mobile and calls an ambulance. Nobody else wanted to help. Probably thought I was drunk.”
“It does happen.”
“Not to me, at any rate. Haven’t had a drink for a long time. Can’t get a port in hospital! Now, while I’m here, got anything you need done?”
Joyce had a big daisy root to grub out. It took Cliff quite a while, and he needed a couple of rests, but it gave him great satisfaction to tear it out of the earth at last.
Before Cliff left, Joyce loaded him up with a cake, a bag of apples, and a loaf of homemade bread. He’d be right for a couple of days with that lot.
UNDER the framed feathers, Sandra was sleeping. She could hear a cell
o. She knew this music, the introduction to Weber’s Invitation to the Dance, orchestrated by Berlioz, 1841. She felt the ribbon laces of her pink shoes firmly around her ankles, the stiffened net of the tutu brushing at her elbows. There were feathers in her hair. She was ready and waiting, poised in the wings for her grand entrance, but she couldn’t remember the story. Was it a wedding or a funeral? Jack was out there, dancing his solo, strong calf muscles filling out his white tights, arms in a graceful hoop above his head. He thrust a hand toward her in a gesture of longing: only a few more bars and it would be her moment. Jack would take her hand.
There was a story she couldn’t remember, but it would come, she knew, with the first point of her toe, the first step. The invitation was so tender, so courteous. In a moment the music would course through her, strong and inevitable. She would lift her body to it and be carried along until—how did it end? She couldn’t remember. She would have to give herself to the music to find out. The waltz began, and here came Jack, whirling faster and faster, smiling at her, young and handsome, leaner than she remembered, looking at her, Sandra, the fixed point for every spin. He flew away and circled back again, always looking for her. Now he was beckoning.
No, this was wrong. He was supposed to come and get her, take her hand and lead her out. He was calling her but not touching her; he wasn’t helping her through the transition. When he took her hand she would remember the steps—she needed his strong fingers and that firm, steadying hand on her back. And the waltz was way too fast. She went cold with panic.
Jack danced farther and farther away, the stage grew bigger and bigger. She was still in the wings. Her tutu was white china, her shoes were little glass slippers. She was frozen, an ice sculpture.
Jack was far, far away on the other side, getting smaller and smaller, disappearing into the opposite wings. The music and the panic swelled together in a grand crescendo, then cut to sudden silence.
It was getting light. Sandra got up with a dry throat and, feeling slightly dizzy, made her way to the bathroom. On the way back she saw Martha’s shawl hanging on the back of the chair. She drew the shawl over her upper body and cocooned herself under the bedclothes. It was warm and soft against her skin, just right.
Knitting Page 3
