by Wendy James
She is pleased by Ed’s almost immediate capitulation to Carly. ( She’s a great girl, Susy, he whispers to her in the kitchen later, a terrific girl!) After his initial brief meeting with her he’d seemed doubtful (for some reason she reminds me of my kindy teacher, he’d confessed, a bit stitched up, slightly scary) and it seems to her utterly right – both desirable and appropriate – that Ed should be so charmed. After all, Susan observes in her suddenly sentimental state, there’s no doubt that her sister has set out to be, and is, remarkably charming. Oh, it’s not the sort of charm that manifests in the painfully obsequious and ingratiating behaviour that Susan remembers thinking constituted womanly good manners (oh, what a wonderful room/baby/lunch; do let me help you make that/carry those/clean this) and that she now knows is gush, though she occasionally (and somewhat shamefully) succumbs involuntarily to her early instincts. No, Carly’s is a far more sophisticated appeal. Ever-so-slightly offhand; subtle and insinuating.
Susan has always considered herself reasonably attractive (a pretty enough girl, and she’s worked hard, hasn’t let herself go), but she feels herself dowdy, almost matronly beside Carly. Everything Carly does – the clothes she’s wearing (she’s less conservative today: not quite the same look as their first disastrous meeting at the restaurant – though it’s a similar style. Today she’s dressed all in black: jeans, t-shirt, boots, everything’s tight and vaguely worn, it’s probably op shop, and not at all the sort of thing that Susan would ever wear, but on her, on Carly, it’s right); the way she walks (head down, all her movements unhurried, loose, graceful); the way her streaky hair, fashionably untidy, falls across her face (only to be ignored); the way she involves herself physically when she listens – stretching her long neck forward – all this seems to Susan to be just right. And somehow enviable.
Then there’s her talent for conversation or, to be more precise, her flair for encouraging conversation, for asking the right questions – though none of this, Susan notices, is directed at her. She had hoped for some moments alone with her sister, had imagined another cosy tete-a-tete in the kitchen, or some comfortably banal chitchat about this and that, would even have been satisfied with time spent in companionable silence, but Carly seems to be avoiding all such contact. Instead she has played totem tennis with Stella and Mitchell – who are immediately won over by her unexpected clumsiness – and then acted as Ed’s barbecue assistant, standing by his side, ready with the tongs, taking charge of the caramelised onions, the mussels. When they finally eat – and it’s past four by that time – Susan finds herself sitting at one end of the rectangular table, leaving Carly and Ed opposite one another in the middle, the children having willingly agreed to eat inside, in front of the television. Susan, who is well into her second bottle now, pleasantly sozzled and really beyond playing the good hostess, is also beyond conversation, is content to listen as she eats. She feels weepy, uncharacteristically sentimental, feels strangely privileged to witness her husband and new sister’s undeniable rapport.
Says Carly (her plate pushed to one side now, her chin propped casually on clasped hands):
‘So you have your own business, Ed? The kitchen industry? It’s always appealed to me – the thought of having my own business, but then I guess it appeals to most people. Not being beholden, not relying on others. Being your own master, more or less. But I guess it’s like any job – the glamour eventually wears off?’
Says Ed (leaning forward, mirroring her posture, his expression earnest, thoughtful):
‘Well no, actually. Personally, well for me anyway, the glamour – the excitement – never wears off. I don’t think it’s the job, necessarily, I know that plenty of blokes who’re in a similar situation get pretty fed up and bored with the whole thing. But I don’t really ever get bored: my gran always used to say that only boring people get bored, and I reckon there’s some truth in that. That’s my attitude to life in general. Sometimes, when things get too easy, you might have to create your own challenges. You’ve got to always set goals for yourself, to try to extend your possibilities, to reach for something that’s slightly beyond your capacity ... It’s like exercise, isn’t it? When it stops hurting you have to go further, harder, faster...
Says Carly (with an admiring shake of the head, a respectful tilt to her lips):
‘I can’t imagine how you’ve managed to do all that and have kids as well. It’s not that I don’t like kids, but how do you find time to have any sort of life? ’
Says Ed (leaning back, stretching, smiling benignly):
‘Quality time. That’s our secret, isn’t it Suse? (Susan smiles, nods, pours herself more champagne, breaks open the last mussel.) My father, for instance, was real old-school. You know, home from work at five-thirty, sit down and read the paper, leave your father alone boys, he’s had a hard day. He gave us the odd belting, made us help him out in the garden on the weekend, cleaning bricks, burning off. Then we were working at the factory when we got older: cleaning, edging, stacking. I grew up not knowing him, and him not knowing me. Not as a person. We didn’t have a real relationship, couldn’t communicate, could never really talk about the things that matter. Our relationship’s only really improved since I joined the business – he’s been more or less forced to communicate in a meaningful way – we’ve had to talk, had to get to know one another. But it’s taken more than thirty years to get here...
‘Now, me and my kids, my family, it’s different. Susy’s home most days and the one day that she works I leave work early, so the kids are always straight home after school, and always one parent available. And then most other days I’m home early enough to help Mitchell with his homework, to read to them before bed, tell them about my day, explain that I’m working hard for them as well. For their future. The weekends are their time. I take them both to the beach on Saturday mornings, when it’s warm enough. They paddle, play in the sand. Then maybe we’ll see a movie, go out to lunch – McDonald’s, Pizza Hut, a cafe down in Manly, wherever. Have a quiet sit down and a good talk. Find out how they really feel about things – it’s important, you know, to get below the surface of things. That’s what parenting’s all about. It’s not just about being there, is it Suse? It’s about making that time count, every minute of it, making it really count. Establishing a close relationship ... Quality time. That’s what makes a strong family unit.’
Another aspect of Carly’s charm, it appears, is patience.
Ed doesn’t hog the conversation, however, he’s a better host than that; and he’s curious, intrigued by this woman, wants to know a few things. ‘So, where do you live?’ he asks her, ‘What do you do?’
All the questions that are in urgent need of an answer. Susan had planned to gently interrogate her sister herself during the afternoon. She’d intended to question Carly about their shared past, to perhaps discover the reasons for her departure, at the very least to find out where she’s been, what she’s been doing since. But now she leaves the questions to Ed, and they’re not quite the right questions, of course, or at least he doesn’t phrase them the way Susan, the way a sister, would. But even so, Susan’s slightly disconcerted by the fact that at the end of the meal she still can’t quite piece together even a rough chronology of Carly’s life. However hard she tries to make some sort of a story, some sort of cohesive narrative, there are more gaps than facts, and she is left with more questions than answers. From the bits and pieces that Carly lets slip (and they are slips, Susan feels sure of this, her sister has an almost uncanny ability to slide away from any direct examination – even the most innocent enquiries about her past are expertly deflected) all Susan can be certain of is that Carly’s life has been difficult.
To Susan this ability to remain somehow mysterious, a little opaque, is the most potent of all Carly’s charms. Potent, and it occurs to her momentarily – though it’s a thought that dissipates just as quickly as it materialises – maybe just a little dangerous.
At five-thirty, just as Susan’s finishing washing the good glassware (she answers the door pink-gloved and dishclothed, her face damp and shiny with steam), Howard Hamilton arrives. He seems curiously unfamiliar on this Sunday afternoon – dressed in civvies: Levis and joggers and an old black t-shirt, his dark hair untidy, curling wildly. She offers him beer, wine, but no, he says, he’d prefer coffee, really, and he sits on a stool at the island bench while Susan pulls off her gloves, prepares the coffee. Ed and the kids have taken Karen (it’s so hard to remember!) have taken Carly for a walk down to the beach, she tells Howard when he asks where everyone is. And yes, it has been a successful day, she adds before he can ask.
‘My sister (she giggles a bit over the word) arrived a bit late, but she’s certainly made up for it – she’s fitting in really well. We’re all – we’re all over the moon, it couldn’t be better.’
Hamilton nods his head thoughtfully. ‘That’s good.’
‘Yes, it’s very good. Perfect in fact. The kids, Ed, me. Everyone’s happy.’
Like Ed, she remembers to reciprocate. It’s possible that this man has his own life, isn’t just concerned with her own. ‘And you,’ she asks brightly, as she passes him his coffee, ‘have you had a pleasant Sunday?’
‘We-ell – yes,’ he stirs in a teaspoon of sugar, frowning. ‘We-ll no, not really. I’ve just been visiting my old man. He’s in a hospital near here. Actually, it’s a hospice. I take my mother over twice a week to visit him. The whole thing’s pretty harrowing, really, but you’d probably know all about that. There’s not much left of him, he’s doped up with morphine, can barely speak. I don’t think he’s got long to go.’
‘Oh, that’s so sad ... so hard. And your Mum? Is she coping alright? Does she have someone staying with her?’
‘My youngest sister’s living at home. She takes her when she can. Then there’s my eldest brother, he lives nearby...’
‘And you live nearby, too?’
‘Oh, no. I grew up here, but I live in Woolloomooloo, Brougham Street. Haven’t managed the move back since uni – and probably won’t now. Though I still miss the surf...’
‘And you’re married? Kids?’ Susan’s genuinely interested now, not just making polite conversation. She wonders how it is that despite so much contact with professionals – doctors, lawyers, accountants, dentists – she so frequently regards them as being somehow untouched by the everyday world, never really imagines them as having families, a life, an existence beyond the office. Wonders whether it’s her or the professionals, or both: perhaps it’s necessary to maintain a certain distance when such an intimate knowledge is required – from both confider and confidante.
‘I’m divorced. I’ve a six-year-old daughter, Maisy, but she’s with her mother, in Melbourne. I see her in the school holidays. You know how it works.’
‘Oh, God. That must be bloody hard.’
He shrugs. ‘They’ve been gone for five years now, my ex has since had another two kids. You get over it, I guess.’
‘Not really.’
‘No, of course not really’. He smiles, stands up. ‘So, how about I help you finish the dishes while I’m here.’ He grabs a tea towel.
They stand companionably at the sink, their only conversation to do with what goes where. She knows that it is probably the effect of too much champagne too early in the day, but suddenly Susan finds herself mesmerised by the efficient elegance of his movements; he dries the dishes expertly – in contrast to her own clumsy, indifferent washing. She stops and watches, fascinated.
‘What?’ He pauses. ‘Are you alright?’
She wonders whether she is actually alright. ‘I’m not sure. It’s all a bit bewildering, all a bit much, I guess...’
One end of the kitchen window curtain has come loose, has fallen off its track. It billows out in the breeze, and the fabric brushes over her face, sticking to Susan’s damp skin. She pushes it back, ineffectually, with her damp rubber-clad fingers. She grapples with the glove, while Howard moves closer, peels the gossamer-light fabric away almost absently. ‘It must be difficult,’ he says slowly, ‘I hadn’t really thought too much about it. How do you become sisters again – after twenty years?’
‘Yes, how do you? I’ve had all this time to think about it. Years really. It’s not like I’ve never imagined it. But I just don’t know – what to do. How to handle it.’ She sighs, relieved that she’s said it, but amazed that she’s admitted her doubts to a virtual stranger.
‘I don’t think there are any guidelines – it’s not a very usual situation is it? There are probably counselling services – people who help with adoption reunions. Maybe that’s as close as you’ll get – I can find out ... if you like.’ He sounds doubtful, and as if he’s making conversation, babbling.
‘I suppose...’ Susan stops mid-sentence, can’t recall what she was going to say, has unaccountably lost track of the conversation.
They both stand quite still, saying nothing. The curtain billows out again and Howard’s fingers brush hers as they both move to push it away. Their fingers tangle (hers red, a little puffy with heat) and stay together for a long moment. Then, inexplicably, it is more than just their fingers intertwined, it’s arms, legs, lips, tongues. Susan is the first to pull away. She turns back to the sink, plunges her hands into the greasy lukewarm suds. Says briskly: ‘I wonder if you wouldn’t mind clipping that curtain back into its runner, Howard? It’s annoying – and I can’t quite reach.’
Ed
He likes Carly from the first.
It could be said that Ed is inclined to like everyone. It’s only fair, he feels, to take people at face value, to take them at their own estimation – and though this has brought him unstuck occasionally over the years (particularly in his line of work, where face value is generally worthless), in Ed’s personal, in his intimate relationships, it is an attitude that has always proven useful, beneficial.
Still, he likes this woman. Carly. His new sister-in-law. He likes – well it’s hard to locate precisely what it is that he finds so appealing. Carly possesses, despite being thin, a certain voluptuousness, a sensuality that’s absent from her sister, a sensuality that he finds intriguing, enticing, though she couldn’t, in all honesty, be called good-looking – or at least they’re not the sort of looks Ed generally admires. Usually he’s attracted to well-groomed women, fashionably (but not flamboyantly) dressed, wearing sufficient (but not excessive) make-up. And given a choice he would have to say that he prefers women’s hair long; long and tied back. He’s a sucker for an elegant low slung ponytail, or even a librarian’s demure chignon. But Carly displays none of his customary preferences. She’s about forty and still dresses like a student: worn jeans, t-shirts, big clumpy boots. Her hair is cut to her shoulders, badly styled, and is streaked blonde at the tips with darker roots. Her ears are pierced not once, but three, maybe four times, and she sports a small silver stud in her nose. He can see no trace of make-up. No trace of a bra either. It’s not that he’s looking, not exactly, he’s never really been a tit man (he has grown to love Susan’s little mounds, not quite a handful, drooping slightly from pregnancy and breastfeeding, but round, soft), nonetheless he can’t help noticing that her breasts sit freely under her thin shirt – without any evidence of swing or sag. It’s not a style Ed generally approves of (geriatric rock star, a kind of down-at-heel Paula Yates) – it’s untidy, with the mildly disreputable shabbiness he associates with the inner city, and on anyone else her age he’d call it affected, pretentious, mutton-dressed- up-as-slightly- spoilt-lamb, but Carly – well somehow Carly can carry it off. He reckons that Carly has earned the right – after all (from the little he can gather, anyway), she’s lived a life that’s almost impossible for him to imagine, and her appearance is perhaps a natural, a physical manifestation of her experience.
He likes her voice. Low, breathy, slightly gravelly. A smoker’s voic
e, as Susan has pointed out, and even that’s okay, though generally he abhors cigarette smoking. Especially in women. But Carly rolls her own, and suddenly (though he’s seen it done countless times before) he finds the whole process strangely fascinating. The way she rolls the tobacco quickly, expertly, between two fingers, without even thinking about it. The flicker of her pink tongue – efficient, but sensual – along the thin paper.
He likes her eyes. Blue. Changeable. One minute pale, opaque; the next translucent, full of light, the colour of the sky or the ocean.
He likes her calm. Susan is calm too, but hers is such a practical calm – she is matter-of-fact, efficient. And she’s quick, reactive. Carly does nothing, says nothing in a hurry. She occasionally pauses mid-sentence – as if she’s reflecting, reconsidering, even as she speaks. Her smiles break slowly, are careful, measured. He’d noticed a similar ponderousness in various of his friends during their pot-smoking days, but Carly’s eyes are bright, focused. All her movements are, he thinks, graceful, and they’re certainly not the awkward twitches and blunderings that come from being stoned.
He likes the way she is with the children. She’s not at all how he remembers any of his aunts – kind, but distant, not quite approachable, except in an emergency. Carly talks to Mitchell and Stella as if they’re adults – there’s no patronising here, no adult superiority, and though he really doesn’t approve of bad language around kids, they don’t seem to notice with their new aunt. He can’t see that she’ll be a negative influence in any way.
