The question obviously surprises her because she sits up properly and looks at him.‘Goodness!’ she laughs, a little defensively. ‘That might be a little extreme, don’t you think?’
‘Has he asked you?’
‘Well, yes, but . . .’ Tom can tell by her eyes that she is being evasive, ‘I’m just not sure if I want . . . to marry again.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well . . . been there, done that. We’re going to Europe and that’s going to be soooo very lovely!’ she suddenly says enthusiastically. ‘I haven’t been since I was in my twenties! I’m so looking forward to it!’ She links her arm through Tom’s, smiles again and then pushes her face back up into the sun. ‘He’s terrific.’ She sounds as though she is trying to convince herself. ‘A very nice man.’
‘Do you love him, Mum?’ Tom knows he shouldn’t ask his mother such intrusive questions, but he’s thinking, What the hell. He suddenly wants to know the score. What is love? Is what I feel about Alice Wishart love or . . . something else?
‘Ah, what’s love?’ Anna murmurs quietly.
‘So you don’t love him?’ The thing Tom has for Alice feels more like an illness than love. It’s a physical condition that won’t leave him alone. It doesn’t seem to matter what he should feel about her. He can sometimes forget for a little while. The family lunch was fine: He got stuck into what was happening for a couple of hours, but then wham! It’s back. I want to see her. Alice Wishart. No one else will do. The feeling, the yearning, the wanting invades without warning. Not pleasant at all.
‘I didn’t say that!’
‘Okay then . . . what are you saying?’
She gives a deep sigh, but Tom is buggered if he’ll let her off the hook so easily. Some stuff you’ve got to know.
‘Look, we get on,’ she explains, not meeting his eyes. ‘We are great friends. We like doing things together. Concerts and plays. He’s considerate and kind and absolutely understanding and very . . . undemanding. If I go to his place after work there is a meal ready for me.’ She turns to Tom with an apologetic smile. ‘What I’m saying is that I have a good life with him.’
‘So why don’t you live with him?’
‘There are Nellie and Ned to consider.’ She is defensive now. ‘And yes, I need my space sometimes. I do like having my own place.’
‘So you don’t love him?’ Tom continues ruthlessly.
His mother has clearly had enough. She jumps up, grabs Tom by both shoulders and looks into his eyes.
‘I loved your father, Tom,’ she says, ‘and look where that got me!’
‘What are you saying?’
‘That love is overrated.’
Tom doesn’t say anything to that. But he’s surprised by her vehemence after all this time. He owes it to the old man to at least try to put another point of view. ‘Dad is sorry about all that stuff, Mum,’ he says eventually.
‘All that stuff?’ Anna repeats incredulously. ‘Listen, Tom, once trust has been broken it’s gone, okay? There is no getting away from that!’
‘But do you still love Dad?’ Tom cuts in.
She hesitates a moment, open-mouthed at the suggestion.
‘We’re divorced, Tom!’ she says sharply. ‘Have been for nearly three years. I thought you understood that?’
‘Of course I understand it, but—’
‘You don’t love people who betray you!’
‘Don’t you?’
‘No, you don’t, Tom. You don’t.’
Do you have any choice? he wants to ask. Tom never did get his parents’ split. Everyone makes mistakes, why should all trust be obliterated by his dad’s one big blunder? Then again, everyone is different. His mother has always been tough. Maybe it’s her job: always being the one in charge, telling everyone what the score is. No one messes with her.
Luke, Nellie and Ned stay out for over two hours. They come in full of excitement, the bucket full of two quite large bream. They put the boat back onto the trailer and head for home. In the car, Anna takes a look at her watch. ‘Should really be on the road,’ she says worriedly from the back seat. It’s a four-hour drive.’
‘I made up the back room for you in case you wanted to stay,’ his dad says lightly, but Anna doesn’t answer. Tom takes a glance at her serious profile. She is frowning. He reckons the idea might be attractive to her but that she doesn’t want to admit it. He also knows that his father is probably hanging on her response.
‘Be a lot of traffic on the roads tonight,’ Luke adds casually.
Don’t beg, Dad! Tom pleads under his breath. Luke has caught on that she doesn’t seem keen on going back that night and is trying to push her buttons without it seeming so. Hasn’t he learnt by now that his mother hates being manipulated?
‘Why is that?’
‘Racing in Dunkeld.’
‘Right.’
But, amazingly, against all Tom’s previous assumptions she does decide to stay. Luke orders in pizzas for tea and the five of them sit in front of the television to eat. Tom hasn’t seen his father so cheery for years. He’s in his element, cracking jokes, telling stories and making everyone laugh. Tom ends up ringing his mate Josh. He comes along with a good DVD and Craig, a guy Tom knew at high school. After the movie, Craig and Josh, Tom and Luke sit around playing cards till about two in the morning. All in all, it turns into a good night.
His mother leaves after lunch the next day. She gives everyone a hug, including a circumspect one for Luke. Tom, Nellie, Ned and Luke head out onto the verandah, to wave her goodbye. She unlocks the car, gets in and backs quickly out of the driveway into the street. Everyone is yelling the usual crap, ‘See you, Mum’ and ‘Safe trip!’ She waves back. She’s smiling but her mouth is tight. She’s feeling it. Tom doesn’t dare turn to see if his dad has noticed. Tom hopes, in a way, that he hasn’t. It is Ned who sees her anorak lying on the verandah. She has only gone a few metres, so everyone screams out for her to stop. Luckily she hears and Tom runs over to the car with it. Anna winds down the window to take it from him, and that’s when he sees his mother’s eyes are glassy with tears. He waits there, shielding her from the others, as a few escape and roll down her cheeks. Not knowing what to say, he hands her the coat and waits.
‘It’s okay, Tom,’ she mutters, tucking the coat onto the seat along side her and fumbling in her handbag for tissues. She blows her nose loudly, clears her throat and squeezes his hand briefly.
‘You sure, Mum?’ Tom puts his other hand on her shoulder. His mother doesn’t cry often or easily.
‘Sure.’ She clears her throat and smiles. ‘Just feeling a bit thingo about leaving everyone.’ She laughs at herself and rams the stick into gear. ‘You know how it is.’
‘Okay, Mum.’ Tom watches as she shoots off. He walks back to the others wondering what the hell thingo means. But he knows.
His father’s mood remains buoyant for the rest of the evening, until poor old Nanette gets back the next day, in fact. Tom wants to caution him. Mum left for a good reason, at least as far as she was concerned. And Tom has seen up close the way she is with Heath. They do get on very well. But Tom doesn’t say anything.
On Sunday night after the big family weekend, Tom is in bed by eleven, but once he’s there he can’t sleep. He tosses and turns, thinking about what he is doing with his life. As thirty minutes turns into an hour and then two, his outlook gets bleaker . . . and more desperate.
His father is having a relationship with a woman he doesn’t even like much and he doesn’t want to talk about ideas any more. His mother is sticking with a guy because it’s convenient and they have a good life together. Shit! What does all that amount to? Not much of fuck all. No passion for anything except for a comfortable life.
Tom sits up, suddenly angry, and switches the light on. Is this what happens to everyone when they hit thirty or forty or fifty? He’s not suggesting everyone should be saving the world. But what about living with a smidgeon of integrity?
He stares up at
the ceiling, then at the cobwebs in the corner and his old schoolboy stuff. He is almost twenty-two years old and what is he doing that is any different? Nothing. He has his old Minolta and his comfy little job at the local rag. He has his neat, lefty opinions and his secret ambitions. Is that what it’s all about?
He gets up and opens the window, letting the gusty wind blast in. Freezing. A smattering of tiny rain bullets come straight at him, but he doesn’t flinch. He leans out further into the night and watches his hands go blue with the cold.
She asked for his help not long ago, and he refused her. Okay they’d met up again, but that time in the café he was playing it safe, too. He didn’t give away much. And he dismissed her one suggestion without coming up with anything himself. What did he offer her? Nothing. Same as always! His gut reaction has always been to look after number one. And now? There is something about that girl! Something about her that makes him sick of himself. Sick of who he is and how he operates in the world. Crap. He can’t stand the idea of being just another wimpy shit who ducks the hard stuff. He wants to show her. Yeah, he wants to show that he’ll put himself out on a limb for her. Do whatever has to be done. He’ll go the whole way. Whatever it entails.
Tom goes out to the kitchen. He picks up the phone. He must commit himself before the temptation to stay cool and comfortable takes over. He dials three numbers and then . . . stops.
It’s after midnight and he doesn’t have her mobile number. What if he wakes the old lady? No one calls anyone at midnight! Tom puts the phone down again. Maybe he should get his clothes on, walk out into the wet cold night and simply knock on the door. But what if she’s out? Maybe she’ll come home late again in a taxi. His mind jumps from one improbable scenario to another.
Suddenly the phone rings. Startled, Tom stares at it stupidly. Who would call the house at this time on a Sunday night? His father is in bed. Anyway, clients always ring his mobile. No one would ring this house at this time . . . except Jonty. Jonty has seen the article in the paper. He probably needs to ease whatever is going on in that sick head of his by talking about it. Tom feels himself being dragged the other way. Isn’t it enough to have rejected Jonty? Do I have to orchestrate his ruin as well?
Tom tries to steady himself and picks up the phone. ‘Hello.’
‘Tom?’
‘Yeah. That you, Mum?’
‘It’s Alice Wishart.’
What? Tom grips the receiver harder and presses his other hand up against the wall. He watches the knuckles go white as he clenches his fist.
‘Alice Wishart,’ she says again.
‘Oh, yeah,’ Tom keeps his voice flat as a pancake. ‘G’day, Alice.’
‘Sorry to ring at this time,’ she mutters in this hoarse, semi-whisper, ‘but I thought you should know.’
‘That’s okay.’ Know what? Tom’s heart is pounding. There is silence for a while. Tom fancies that he can hear her heartbeat.
‘Tom?’
‘Yeah.’
But she doesn’t say anything. He can picture her lovely face frowning. Maybe she’s biting her lip. Maybe she is twisting a lock of dark hair around one of her long white fingers.
‘Sorry,’ she whispers at last.
‘Don’t worry, Alice,’ Tom stammers and then mouths off the standard counsellor/cop line. ‘Just . . . take your time.’ He hates himself for doing it.
‘Okay,’ she whispers.
When she does pick up courage the words come rolling out like heavy bowling balls, one after another, knocking everything down in their path. ‘You should know that Jed van der Weihl has come home and admitted guilt for my mother’s murder,’ Alice says, her voice a monotone. ‘He has given himself up to police and is now in custody.’
‘Whoa, hang on!’ Tom breaks in with a sharp laugh. ‘Sorry, Alice, I didn’t hear you properly. What did you say?’
‘Jed murdered my mother!’
‘What?’
‘Jed not Jonty!’ she cries loudly and angrily, then her voice breaks and he can hear that she is sobbing. ‘You were wrong Tom! Everybody was wrong. They all thought it was Jonty, but it wasn’t. It was . . . his father.’
‘His father?’
‘Yes.’
Shock hits Tom like a sudden gust of icy wind.
‘How do you know this?’
‘I’ve been with the police . . . for hours.’ Her voice breaks again. ‘He came in and they’ve been questioning him for days and now he’s made a sworn statement. Everyone was accusing my cousin, including you and . . . I believed it,’ she gasps through tears. ‘But Jonty had nothing to do with it. My uncle Jed was the one and now he’s come clean. Everyone thought he was out of the country but he came back early to talk my mother into convincing Grandma to change the will and . . . anyhow that’s how it happened. The police have checked out his story. There is evidence,’ she gasps, ‘that he did it and let his son take the blame.’
Tom gulps and tries to think. ‘But he’s been away for over a year.’
‘He came back last week,’ Alice says bluntly. ‘He didn’t tell anybody. He snuck back and went straight to the police in Melbourne, and then they brought him down here. He’s been here for days.’
‘But Alice, I . . .’ Tom stops. Panic and dismay are driving through him like sharp nails, each one hitting its mark. ‘Jed was away in South Africa when your mother was killed. He left well before—’
‘No’ she snaps.
‘No?’
‘That is what everyone thought! But he sneaked back into the country. Hung out in Melbourne a while and then came back here secretly. He went around that night to try to persuade her to . . . A fight broke out and he . . . he is saying he didn’t mean to do it. It was an accident, but he killed her!’ She begins to sob again.
‘But . . . do you believe that?’
‘Yes!’ she says hoarsely.
‘Well!’ Tom’s whole mouth has gone dry. His throat feels jammed with some kind of foreign material.
‘Anyway, I thought you should know. It will be . . . all over the papers tomorrow.’
‘Alice.’ He can feel that he will lose her any minute and it will be the end of him and her and everything else besides. He takes a breath, about to suggest that he come around to see her immediately. They could talk things through, try to understand it together, comprehend what it means for everyone, all the ramifications. But the line has gone dead. Alice has hung up. Jed van der Weihl. Tom stands numb as a statue in the kitchen, still holding the phone, trying to gather his thoughts into one coherent picture.
But not so unbelievable. Jed was the first person Tom thought of when he heard about the murder. Then when he found out that Jed had left for South Africa two weeks before, well . . . what a relief. It meant he didn’t have to tell the police of his suspicions. He didn’t have to come clean about all the rest of that personal stuff.
Eventually, Tom goes outside into the cold, sits on the back step and lights a cigarette. Jonty. The way he flew in to help that night of the concert. What’s mine is yours, mate! Always. His bright eyes and generous grin.
Tom leans his back against the verandah post and lights another cigarette. Jonno did three months inside that detention centre with a great fucking murder charge strung around his neck! Not knowing what was going to happen to him or where he’d end up. Three months on a hard little bed, locked up at eight each night, one phone call a week and visitors once a month.
This very night Tom had been preparing to betray him in order to win the affection of some girl that he didn’t even know! Tom is freezing now but he doesn’t care. He stays out on the back step for a long time, smokes another cigarette and then another. By the time he’s ready to come back inside he can hardly stand. His limbs are like blocks of ice.
Midyear exams were over. Instead of heading off down to the oval with the others in his class, Tom went by the Pitt Street house. Lillian had finished her exams the week before and he hadn’t seen her since. She opened the door with a smile and ask
ed him in, but Tom could tell she’d been crying. Her eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, her face swollen.
‘We’ll have a drink while you tell me about the maths exam!’ she declared, pushing him onto a kitchen chair and going over to fill the kettle. He could see she was determined to act as if everything was fine, but her manner was forced, overly animated and bright. Something was up.
It was while they were sipping their coffees at opposite sides of the table that she broke down again. She just turned away, slumped down in her chair, buried her face in her hands and started sobbing. Tom got up and went around to the other side of the table. He knelt beside her and put both arms around her shuddering shoulders.
‘What’s wrong, Lillian?’
‘Oh, Tom,’ she said, ‘you don’t want to know.’
‘I do. Tell me.’
‘It’s my sister,’ she blew her nose and wiped her eyes, trying to pull herself together. ‘Her life is just too awful. Too sad! That man is getting worse. She might as well be chained up like a dog. I have got to do something for her!’ She pulled away and looked into Tom’s face. ‘I have to help her!’
‘What can you do?’ Tom was holding her with one arm and kneading her shoulder with the other, concerned but enjoying the physical proximity. After a few stiff moments she seemed to melt into his embrace as though it was the most natural thing in the world.
‘Why don’t you get your sister to see my old man?’ Tom suggested, still caressing her shoulder. ‘He deals with people splitting up all the time,’ he smiled. ‘Divorce is his bread and butter.’
She pulled away a little, wiped her tears away with the back of her hand and shook her head. ‘That is the sensible solution, of course,’ she said, ‘but it wouldn’t work in this case, because my sister hasn’t the confidence to leave and, well . . . there is all the money.’
‘What money?’
‘My mother’s money,’ Lillian sighed. ‘While he’s around, my sister won’t get any of it and . . . she needs it. Oh boy does she need it! If she is going to have any kind of life then she needs money.’
‘What if they’re divorced?’
Somebody's Crying Page 21
