by Wendy James
‘I rang Jo when I heard that you were back,’ Aunty Di says. ‘She was just so excited. And she’d love to see you again. She teaches primary school, has just had her first kiddie, Jason. Six months to the day, now isn’t that a marvellous thing? D’you remember what a time she had getting pregnant, Susan? You were a sensible girl, to have them so young. But poor Jo – she waited too long – ten years it took them, poor old Jo was having injections, she was so miserable – and it cost them an arm and a leg. And now when finally they’ve got their beloved baby, all of a sudden the whole thing’s falling apart. Her hubby says he can’t handle the responsibility, that he didn’t really know what he was getting into. He’s always seemed a nice enough fellow, he’s something in computers, don’t ask me what, it’s all a bit beyond me; but you never know, do you – what people are really like – not when push comes to shove?’ She wipes at her eyes again. ‘Deary me. It’s a hard life for you young things. Having to work so hard just to have a roof over your head – and then it’s all just as likely to go up in smoke anyway. Never getting time to have any kiddies, let alone see them.’
Her round face is suddenly grim. ‘It was a terrible thing, you know, Karen,’ she goes on, her voice serious now, all the earlier lightness completely gone, ‘a dreadful thing that you did. It didn’t just affect your immediate family you know. All the girls in your class were questioned by the police. Awful it was. They had my poor Joanne in tears, something about some man she’d seen you with. They made her go down to the station, sign a statement. I can’t quite recall the details, but I’m sure it was something about some fellow in a red car. She had nightmares for weeks after, you know. It was a dreadful time. We all thought you’d been abducted. Murdered.’ She shudders as if even the memory is too much. ‘You know that, don’t you?’
Carly murmurs something unintelligible, looks away.
‘And what it did to your mother.’ Aunty Di sighs, shakes her head. ‘That poor, poor woman. Losing a child like that. And then her husband. Not that you could really blame him, I suppose. She just never recovered. How could you do it to her?’ Di doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘It was a terrible, terrible thing that you did. The worst thing that could happen to a mother.’
They are silent. All three women look down, away. Di is the first to move. She clears her throat, then smiles as if to lessen the effect of her words, reaches for another biscuit, gestures to Susan to refill her cup.
‘Anyway,’ Di’s voice is determinedly cheery, ‘that’s all in the past isn’t it? No point in going over it, is there? Crying over spilt milk. Can’t change a damned thing. Now tell me, lovey,’ this to Susan, ‘how’s that handsome husband of yours? Funny fellow isn’t he?’ she says to Carly, eyes twinkling. ‘So serious. So intense. But nice looking. Reminds me a little of that English chappie, what’s his name? It’s not his looks exactly, but there’s just something about him. His chin, perhaps.’
‘Richard Burton?’ Susan offers, mindful of Di’s vintage, ‘Laurence Olivier?’
‘Oh, no, no, no,’ she is giggling girlishly, her cheeks quivering, ‘much younger than that. He was in all the papers and on the telly – in trouble for doing something unmentionable with a prostitute in a taxi.’
Carly and Susan look at one another. Laugh. Hugh Grant? Ed?
When her taxi comes they both offer to walk Aunty Di to the car. ‘Dear me,’ she says, ‘I don’t need you both to hold me up. I’m not that old.’
She turns to Carly, gives her a hug, pats her cheek. ‘Now, I’m sure you’ve got better things to do, Karen. I’ll see you soon, I hope, and I’ll get Jo to give you a ring. It’d be lovely for you girls to catch up. You were such good friends.’ Her dismissal is obvious, but kindly.
Susan and Di make their way slowly down the footpath, through the gate. Di struggles to lower herself into the taxi, huffs and puffs as she fumbles with her seatbelt, while Susan pushes the door shut, steps back onto the footpath.
The window winds down and Di leans out. ‘I’m glad you’ve got your sister back,’ she wheezes. ‘It’s good – to have family. Can’t live with em, can’t live without em, I always think. But Susy,’ she reaches out and grasps Susan’s wrist, her plump face anxious, ‘don’t trust her. She seems nice enough – and much livelier than I recall. Good fun. I remember your sister as a nice girl, a good girl, but she couldn’t have been, could she? No good person could do what she did to your mother. Dreadful. Just dreadful. That poor woman. You should be careful. Don’t get too – attached.’
‘Aunty Di,’ Susan starts, ‘I’m sure Carly had...’
‘And that stuff about the red dress. Rot. Utter rot. Never wore red in my life, was always told it would clash with my hair.’ She frowns, gives her stiff, grey curls an absent pat.
‘But Aunty Di...’ She tries again.
‘No, no, enough of that.’ She’s beaming again. ‘You enjoy having your sister back deary.’ She lets go of Susan’s wrist and taps the driver on the shoulder. ‘But don’t trust her. Not as far as you can throw her.’
Ed
It is remarkable to him, a thing of wonder and mystery, genetics.
Ed marvels at the way his daughter’s tiny hand carries the shape of his own – larger, coarser, certainly, but still recognisable. Or his son’s eyes which seem (somewhat dauntingly) to contain Ed’s own mother’s expression at certain moments. Lately, Ed has caught glimpses of his father (whose face is plumper, less defined than his own – or so he’d always thought) staring back at him from the bathroom mirror.
He likes to imagine the endless chains of DNA connecting him backwards and forwards in time and, on bad nights (when he wakes up, heart pounding and soaked from some black dream of death), this image of connection never fails to give him some comfort. Now Ed is certain that he can see similarities between the two sisters.
‘There’s a sort of family resemblance,’ he says, looking from one to the other during dinner. ‘Nothing specific – not eyes, or nose, or mouth, or hair or bodies. It’s hard to say what exactly. But there’s something. And I can see Carly in Stell, too,’ he says.
‘In Stella?’ Susan looks dubious, and he knows that she’s only thinking of the most obvious elements of their daughter’s appearance. Stella is dark-haired, dark-skinned. Short but round, sturdy. A cherub. Her features are small and contained and solemn.
But Carly takes him seriously, the way she always does, pauses in her eating, looks over at Stella thoughtfully. Stella slurps her spaghetti, heedless of their regard. ‘I guess,’ Carly says, ‘I was little and stocky like that as a kid, but that’s the only thing I can see.’
Ed is disappointed that Carly doesn’t recognise – and he was so sure she would – the body part that she shares with his daughter. With their hair pushed back it seems unmistakable. Both his daughter and his new sister-in-law have funny little close-set ears. He cannot point it out himself, it seems too intimate, suddenly, that whorled and curling part, that soft pale space above, tender skin behind. He shrugs, agrees.
‘Yeah, that must be it.’ Carly smiles, resumes eating, but Susan is gazing at him, frowning, and he blushes, though he doesn’t know why.
‘No you weren’t.’ It takes Ed a moment to realise that Susan is addressing Carly, not him. ‘You weren’t at all stocky as a kid,’ she says. ‘Neither of us were. I’ve got photos of you and you were like me. Skinny. Bony. The kids are both like Ed physically. Nothing like us.’
Carly shrugs. ‘Memory’s a strange thing,’ she says casually. ‘Especially mine.’ She laughs suddenly (oh how he enjoys her sudden bursts of merriment). ‘And people’s ideas about resemblances can be vee-rrry strange. Like today, what Aunt Di said about Ed and Hugh Grant. Will you tell him or should I, Suse?’
Both women are chuckling now, look first at one another and then at him, laugh again. The children are smiling expectantly, only too willing to join in.
‘W
hat is it? What’s so amusing?’
Now, with the full force of their combined humour directed at him he can feel their similarity strongly, even if he can’t see it. He enjoys the sensation, feels warmed by their affection for one another, for him, waits for them to share the joke, laughs along with them without knowing why.
Later, Ed studies a photograph of Hugh Grant taken from a magazine, inspects his own face in the bathroom mirror, searches for the resemblance. After all, Susan’s Aunt Di has recognised it – has thought it worth commenting on. And, though both Susan and Carly clearly regard it as a hilarious comparison, completely undeserved, he cannot get it out of his head that there must be something significant in his appearance, something – a look, an attitude – that he shares with the infamous philanderer.
He looks at the magazine image again, and then at himself. Surely not. Ed imagines that he can actually see the weakness in Grant, that he can read it in his face – the way he has sometimes imagined a sign of approaching mortality in photographs of those who died tragically young. The actor’s mouth is soft, loose, slightly petulant, his expression vaguely shifty, his chin lacking definition. Ed’s jaw is square, his lips full and firm, his hair thick and springy, his eyes clear, set well apart. There is no resemblance, none at all. She’s confused him with somebody else, surely.
III
Carly
You say you want to know about my life? About what I’ve done, where I’ve been, who I am? I say you don’t. I say you don’t need to know. I say you can’t know.
Look at this – look at you – at your world. It’s a world I know about. A world we all know about. Tree-lined streets, picket fences, happy children riding their bicycles up and down well-kept footpaths. Wall-to-wall carpets. Air-conditioned cars. Summer holidays. Happy marriages. Baked dinners. Stories before bed. Flowerbeds and cocker spaniels. Wholesome breakfasts. Burglar alarms. Nutritious packed lunches. Ensuites and built-ins. Please and thank you. The smell of jasmine. The buzz of lawnmowers on long weekends. Piano lessons. Remote-controlled garage doors. Fire insurance, car insurance, life insurance, insurance insurance. Chats over the back fence. Library books. A glass of red with dinner. The whites washed separately. Plastic bag–lined garbage bins.
That’s the main thing, isn’t it? – all the garbage is put in plastic bags here – that way you can’t see it, can’t smell it, don’t have to think about it. All that mucky stuff. Just seal it up and someone else will take it away.
But you don’t know, do you? You don’t actually know where the garbage goes.
That’s the difference, you see. The difference between us. I know. I know what happens to the garbage after you tidy it away.
Susan
The young real estate agent rings to let her know that he has an interested client. That a young couple have taken a contract and he’s confident they’ll be collecting the deposit in the next few days. Susan comments on the speed of the sale – the house has been on the market for less than a month.
‘I reckon you could’ve asked for more, Mrs Middleton. For another, say, sixty-five grand, and you’d still have sold it, no worries. It was a bit of a bargain, y’know. And then if you’d sold it at auction...’ he adds regretfully.
He tells her he can organise the rest of the business with their solicitor. There’ll probably be some documents to sign, the contracts and so on, but he’s pretty sure that the lawyer has power of attorney anyway.
‘That’s right,’ says Susan. ‘I probably don’t have to really be involved.’
‘Yeah. I probably should have rung him first, but I just thought you’d like to know...’
‘I’m grateful. Thank you.’
There’s a lengthy pause.
‘Well, thanks.’ She wonders what he’s waiting for. ‘You’ve done a great job. We’re really pleased...’
‘Look,’ he interrupts, ‘it’s probably none of my business, but you said that was your sister, right? That woman who was with you when you went through the house?’
‘Ye-es...’
‘Well, you know how you said she’s just moved here from Melbourne?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’m certain that I saw her in Sydney, not so long ago. Maybe – oh – around three months ago.’
‘Well, perhaps she was here ... She just hasn’t mentioned it. I’ll ask her if you like. Where did you see her?’
‘No, no. I don’t want you to tell her.’ He sounds panicked. ‘Look, this is kind of awkward.’
‘What is?’ Susan is nonplussed, has no idea where the conversation is heading.
‘Well, it was at this bucks night. We’d organised this – um – this girl for my mate.’ He clears his throat. ‘A girl for the night. You know what I mean.’ His extreme embarrassment is obvious, even over the phone.
‘A girl?’ Suddenly she understands. ‘Oh. That sort of girl.’
‘It was a high class kind of escort agency. Expensive.’
‘What’s that got to do with my sister?’ Susan is in a hurry, is getting ready for work, and is really not in the mood for confidences from total strangers.
‘That’s the thing, you see. I don’t know why I’m telling you this, it’s probably not important. None of my business. But the girl ... we took a few photos, just so he would remember, you know, the experience. And I checked them after I met you both that day.’
‘And?’
‘Well, it’s her. Your sister.’
‘Who is? I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me...’
She can hear him take a breath. ‘The girl we hired for the night. It was her. It was your sister.’
‘My sister? I think you must be mistaken ... People can look so different in an photo, you know. My sister’s never...’ she trails off, can’t finish the sentence.
‘No look, I’m sorry. It wasn’t just the photo. I recognised her, and I’m pretty sure she recognised me too. You see I’m certain of it – I couldn’t really get it wrong if you know what I mean...’ he clears his throat again.
‘Well, no I don’t know. I’m sure you could ... get it wrong. After all the – the girl was for your mate ... I don’t suppose you really saw her for that long?’ Susan’s voice is tiny, the frightened squeak of a hunted mouse.
‘The thing is ... I did. I mean my mate, the groom, he didn’t want to, he wouldn’t ... Anyway, we’d paid for her, couldn’t get our money back.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘So, in the end we drew straws. And it was me. I won. Look, I don’t want you to think badly of me – I don’t have a girlfriend or a wife or anything. I wasn’t cheating on anyone, and we’d paid our dough, it was only fair...’
He pauses, obviously waiting for Susan to say something, to excuse him, perhaps, but there’s nothing she can say.
‘So I couldn’t really mistake her could I? It’d be hard to mistake someone you’ve been so – so intimate with.’ His voice seems a little louder, more confident, slightly belligerent, she can imagine his chest swelling a little. ‘In fact, you could say I know your sister pretty intimately.’ He adds darkly, ‘Better’n some, anyway.’
‘Well, um. I guess I should thank you for that information.’ She’s polite as she can manage, ‘So thanks very much.’
‘Yeah, but that’s not the only thing. There’s more.’
‘More?’
‘The thing is – she took off with my wallet. I’d just had a big win on the pokies, and there was more than a thousand bucks cash in it ... and all my credit cards. I rang the agency when I realised, but she’d done a runner that night. She’d been using a false name anyway, so there was no way of catching up with her.’ He sounds almost apologetic.
Susan can think of no way of answering this, ponders hanging up.
‘Anyway,’ he says briskly, ‘the whole thing’s pretty seedy, I guess, and I’m not going
to rake things up, go to the police or anything, but I thought you probably ought to know, having kids and all that. Just thought I ought to warn you. You never know, with people like that, do you? Where they’ll take you? What they’ll do.’
Susan’s not sure what to do with this information. One minute she thinks it could be true, the whole squalid scenario, the next that it’s impossible, the most outrageous libel, that she should contact someone – the man’s boss, the real estate commission or whatever organisation keeps these people under control; even the police. But then, what if it is true, what then? So she keeps it to herself, doesn’t mention it to Ed, certainly doesn’t mention it to Carly. But she tells them about the possible sale, later that evening. Watches Carly’s face carefully when she passes on the young real estate agent’s certainty that they could have got a little more.
‘I wouldn’t listen to that little sleaze,’ she says dismissively, ‘Doubt he knows what day of the week it is. He doesn’t have a clue.’
‘Oh,’ Susan keeps her voice even, casual, her expression deadpan. ‘I thought he seemed pretty smart. And cute. I don’t know why you think he’s a sleaze...’
Her sister snorts. ‘No. I guess you wouldn’t, Susan. Why would you?’
Ed
Moira puts a call through to him. ‘It’s your sister-in-law,’ she says.
He wonders why Cathy is ringing him, worries that something may have happened to Derek, or perhaps his parents, then wonders how she would know before him anyway.
‘Ed.’ It takes him a moment to realise that it’s Carly – they’ve never spoken over the phone – but her voice is unmistakable, that husky burr. His own voice deepens in response.
‘Carly. Hi. How’re...’
‘Ed, look I’m really sorry, but Stella’s broken her arm. She fell off a slippery slide at the park. We’re at the hospital – Manly. In Casualty.’ She’s suddenly breathy, anxious.
