Goodbye Sweetheart

by Marion Halligan

Oh, said Barbara, pressing her hand to her chest, and slid to the floor in a faint.

  She woke up with her head on a cushion and a rug over her. There were people standing around talking about a doctor. No, an ambulance, someone said. She sat up, feeling dizzy, but then it passed. She put her hand on the seat of a chair and stood up, holding on to its back. She looked at the worried faces regarding her. The girl had gone. Her handbag had been put on the table. She took it up.

  Excuse me . . . excuse me. I’m sorry. I can’t stay. No, no, she said, when people tried to stop her, begged her to sit down. But if it’s your heart, someone said.

  No. I need to walk. The air, that’s what I need. Goodbye. Thank you so much.

  What for? she wondered, as the young man walked with her to the door, let her out with questioning eyes and murmured words.

  The air was cold and the walk downhill to Manuka was bracing. She sat in a cafe and drank a glass of red wine. She thought it would be the wrong thing but didn’t care. She knew that girl couldn’t be Chloe, even though she looked just as Chloe could have looked after the years passed. As though there had been some elaborate trick, and her daughter had been stolen away and brought up by someone else. But she’d seen Chloe in her coffin, pale, without breath, her lips and eyelids shadowed blue, had seen the coffin closed and slid into the flames. The trick wasn’t in that past stealing but in this present sending of a double to make her mother believe she was here, alive. And maybe not a double, not really; if only she’d looked at this girl as herself she’d certainly have seen all sorts of ways in which she could not be Chloe. It was cruel of these people to play this trick on her, her heart had gone all sick and bruised again, any healing that had happened all undone.

  Who were the people, the girl, the young man? Cecil’s children? Lynette’s? She knew nothing about them, he had told her nothing, she just knew the fact of his wife. Their affair was perfect and separate, not part of his family world at all. In its own iridescent bubble, like the ones Chloe had blown with detergent and a little ringed pipe. So beautiful. And popping so soon after they were made. You could not ever touch a bubble. They died as soon as blown.

  She drank another glass of wine. Of course she knew this wasn’t true, the plotting, the tricking, that there wasn’t any ill intent on anybody’s part. She should have stayed and said what she had gone to say. Yes, of course she should have done that. But she couldn’t: even looking back and knowing she should have done it, she also knew it had been impossible.

  She paid, and went and waited for the bus that would take her home. It was dark now. When it came there were quite a lot of people in it. She could see herself reflected in the bus’s windows, herself and all the other passengers like dim ghosts in a rattling chariot. Home would be bright and warm. Solitary. She and Cecil had agreed, it was a series of occasions of mutual pleasure, not a love affair. But what you said wasn’t always true. It was what you wanted, or thought you should want, not what was, not even what you truly desired. Not a love affair, maybe. But she had truly loved him, in their way, and she missed him.

  Seeing his house, his wife, the forking brick-paved drive that he would have driven along every night, it threatened to rob her of her Cecil, to turn him into their William. She felt a choking in her chest, hot, bitter-flavoured. The light in the bus was darkly yellow. The ghosts all looked as though they had died of jaundice. She thought, this is the bus of the jealous dead, and I am one of them, and we are driving in limbo. On our way to hell, yes. At least that was a Cecil sort of thought, a fantasy thought, a quotation kind of thought; maybe she still had something of him.

  On the seat by the baggage rack, side on to the others, sat Chloe. She’d managed to stop seeing her small lost daughter everywhere, but now this Cecil girl had opened the door to an older, taller Chloe, a child still but promising adulthood. She stood up with the kind of whisking motion that Barbara recognised, and her pleated school skirt flared in a fan around her legs. She heaved a giant pack on to her back and got off into a dark suburb. The jaundiced figures slipped and wavered in the wash of tears in Barbara’s eyes. You weep for yourself, she told herself. You weep for your loss, of Chloe, of Cecil. I need to grieve, she argued. You need to find another lover, the hard voice said.

  She jumped up. The bus was pulling away from the stop. Please, she said, I need to get off. Next stop, said the driver wearily, putting his foot down so the bus trundled heavily into the road. Couldn’t you let me off, she began. He repeated, Next stop. She pressed the button, in case he pretended to think nobody wanted it, and got out. Sometimes bus stops are very far apart. When she got back there was no sign of the girl. She walked further along the street. There was a right of way, with a gloomy street lamp; she looked down it but could see nothing. She walked to the next cross street. It was deeply treed, and there was no sign of a figure in it. In the time it had taken Barbara to walk back, of course the girl would be well out of sight. She might have gone into any of these houses. This strange girl, who was not Chloe. Barbara walked along trying to look in the lighted windows but they had their curtains drawn against the cold night.

  Buses weren’t frequent at this hour. Anyway it was too cold to stand and wait. She walked home; it wasn’t such a long way and she was fit.

  The flat was bright, and despite its warmth it felt chilly. So bare, so spare as it was. As she had chosen. She stood at the window looking down at the street. The restaurants were busy. Cars double-parked at the video shop and people ran in, coming out with handfuls of DVDs. She felt a choking desire to live that kind of life, to be running into the video shop and coming out with movies to watch in a calm and banal manner, it would be so peaceful, so unhurtful. With friends, a partner, ordinary. She thought, the thing about adulterous lovers is they don’t watch DVDs with you.

  She could just walk down and borrow some. Get one of the old movies she sometimes watched. She couldn’t imagine doing so now. She wondered if she would go down to the noodle house and order a bowl of laksa. The pork was good, or the vegetarian. You had to suppose the prawns would have been frozen. Was she hungry?

  She hadn’t taken off her coat or gloves. She called a taxi and watched until she saw it come, and went downstairs. The same young man opened the door at the Forest house and stood back for her to come in, smiling in a sweet way.

  Are you William’s son? she asked; he nodded, and she saw his father fleeting in the turn of his head. She almost put out her hand to touch his cheek, but stopped herself. Lynette was sitting with lists at the kitchen table, a glass of wine in front of her, some bread and some cheese on a plate. There was most of a camembert on the dark green platter, and bunches of purple grapes. There was another young woman in the room, not young like a child, standing by the fridge pouring out a glass of sparkling water.

  I’m sorry, said Barbara, I shouldn’t have run away in that ignominious . . . She stopped. She wondered if ignominious was the word she meant. Tears overflowed her eyes.

  Do sit down, said Lynette, her voice wary but her words those of a good hostess. Have a glass of wine. And some cheese. Ferdie . . .

  He was already getting one of the tall-stemmed glasses out of the cupboard.

  Do you like red wine? said Lynette.

  Yes. Thank you.

  Ferdie poured it, and Barbara took several small sips. She was wondering if she could put the glass down and run from the room again. Lynette drank some wine too. She had already had a number of glasses and was feeling remote and calm, sitting in a comfortable small space of grief. Ferdie passed the plate of camembert to Barbara, who remembered that she’d had no dinner and cut a large wedge. The young woman said, Camembert. I must buy some hard cheese. Gruyere would be good. The doorbell rang.

  Ferdie answered again. They heard a movement of voices in the hall, and then a large man came into the room. He was a rather beautiful elderly man, lean, his skin brown and his hair a white stubble across his head which gave him a salty look. Barbara thought of fishermen on Greek islands
, looking like the gods their forebears had carved. The old gods, the fathers, the husbands, who still chased after young mortals. She’d never had such a thought about Cecil, though this man quite resembled him. Cecil had been a man of the world, not a fisher god.

  He kissed Lynette. I was out for a walk, he said. I saw the light on, so I thought . . . I hope it’s not too late?

  Lynette shook her head. It’s good to see you. She took his hand and held it.

  Ferdie got another glass and offered wine. Would you have a beer? said the man. He looked at Barbara. Jack Cecil, he said. Bill’s brother. William’s.

  Oh, said Barbara. William’s brother. I didn’t even know he had a brother. The tears fell out of her eyes.

  I live at the coast, he said. In Eden.

  In Eden, she said. There’s fishing there, isn’t there?

  Petals fell off one of the lilies in the singing cup. They landed on the table with a loud plop.

  We should cut off the stamens, said Ferdie. Then we wouldn’t get that yellow pollen staining everything.

  The young woman said, I’m Aurora.

  Hello, said Barbara.

  Out for a walk, said Lynette.

  From the motel down the road, said Jack. I drove up, the sarvo.

  You should be staying here, said Lynette.

  Oh, you’ve got enough on your plate. It’s cheap, and handy. Just give us a shout when you want something.

  Lynette took his hand again. Barbara ate the piece of cheese. Why doesn’t Lynette say something? she wondered. Why doesn’t she ask me who I am, what I’m doing here, what I want? She ticked the three questions off on her fingers, curled in her lap under the table. I don’t know the answer to any of them, she said to herself.

  Jack said, Did I tell you, I nearly drowned the night Bill died?

  Yes, said Lynette. Of course William didn’t exactly drown, he had a heart attack.

  No, said Ferdie to Jack. What happened?

  So Jack told the story of the storm and the engine failing and the sea anchor pulling out and the American game fishermen rescuing him. He even mentioned the man who had walked up the hill with him and told him the story of being swallowed by the whale and that people called him Jonah.

  Did you believe him? asked Ferdie.

  When he was telling me I did, said Jack. Afterwards I got a bit uneasy.

  Quarantine Bay, said Lynette. Toxic silk. I suppose it killed people too.

  I thought Bill might have come fishing with me, said Jack. Slowed down a bit in his old age.

  He wasn’t that old, said Lynette.

  Old enough to slow down, said Jack.

  Every time he said the name Bill, Barbara had to remember who he was. The idea of her William—well, of course he was her Cecil, even further removed from Bill—going fishing was so funny she gave a gulp of laughter. She hoped it sounded like a sob. She gulped again, just as she was swallowing a mouthful of wine. Jack reached out a heavy hand and smacked her on the back. Breathe, he said. A trickle of red wine ran out of the corner of her mouth. Ferdie passed her a napkin.

  You’re upset, said Jack. He finished his beer and stood up. Well, he said, I’d best be going. You’ll be wanting to go to bed. Just thought I’d let you know I was here. Call on me, anything. I’d be glad to help.

  I’ll give you a ring, said Ferdie, keep you in the loop.

  Ferdie’s my PA, said Lynette, just what I’ve always wanted. Efficient, and beautiful.

  What’s a PA? asked Jack.

  A kind of dogsbody, said Aurora.

  Not at all, said Lynette. A personal assistant, a high-class private secretary person.

  Oh, said Jack, a right-hand man. Just what you need, in these moments.

  For a man of few words he says a lot, said Lynette when he’d gone.

  You are angry, said Barbara, that Jack is alive and his brother is dead. She looked nervous, she hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

  Lynette looked at her out of heavy eyes.

  Barbara said, You’re wondering why I’m here.

  Yes, said Lynette.

  It’s hard to tell you. That’s why I’m failing.

  You were William’s mistress.

  Did you know?

  Lynette shrugged.

  I wanted to say . . . I loved him. He loved me. You were his wife. That was different.

  It always is.

  So you knew . . . about me.

  Oh, not you. Lynette sighed. I was his third wife. The love of his life, oh yes, he said that. But a third wife, she’s an idiot if she has illusions. Being faithful wasn’t William’s thing. Well, I did have illusions. But when I saw you . . . She rubbed her fingers round the rim of her glass so it squealed. Do you want anything?

  Barbara shook her head. Just honesty, I think. That I exist. He told me it was a game, I knew it was. But now, I’m bereft.

  Yes, said Lynette.

  I want to come to the funeral.

  Sit in the front row, Lynette said.

  Barbara shook her head.

  You could have come. Anyone can come to a funeral.

  Barbara put her empty glass on the table. She stood up. I think I’ll go now. Could you ring a taxi? she asked Ferdie. I’m not sure I understand myself. Death . . . she paused. I know about death. Except you never do, of course. But I know it clears everything, you have to face it, and not hide.

  It makes me tired, said Lynette.

  Yes, said Barbara, it does that. She stood for about a minute with her head bent. William said we shouldn’t lie.

  Lynette laughed. He was a dab hand at lies. Lies of omission.

  I’m not. Thank you, Barbara said, you have been good.

  A good woman.

  Yes. I’ll wait outside for the taxi.

  The camellias by the path were pale in the darkness, pale and luminous; moths would come to their glimmer. Would they, when there was no scent? Barbara hadn’t done any gardening since Chloe died.

  I’ll wait with you, said Ferdie, and walked with her along the paved driveway to the gates, which were open still.

  Do you ever shut them? she asked.

  I don’t know. I don’t live here, you know, I live in England.

  But you are William’s son.

  My mother was wife number two. He broke her heart.

  Some men are good at that.

  Aurora is the daughter of wife number one. I don’t think he broke her heart.

  The street was deserted. The houses were quiet behind their high dense hedges. Old plantings of pyracantha, frowned upon these days because birds eat the berries and drop them in the wild, where they become noxious weeds. Nobody thought of pulling these out, though. There were no people, no cars, the street lights seemed dim and muted in this secretive neighbourhood. The taxi came slowly round the corner; Ferdie stepped out and waved to it.

  Goodnight, she said.

  The young man bent forward and kissed her cheek. Go well, he said. He opened the car door, then closed it behind her. Barbara sank back into the seat. Lynette was right, about tiredness. She felt exhausted. She wanted to go to bed and sleep for a week. Sleep and never wake up? No, you always wake up.

  FERDIE FINDS SATYRS

  Cold, said Ferdie, waving his arms and stamping into the kitchen. Lynette was pouring more wine into her glass.

  Aurora was saying, Can’t decide whether she’s cheeky or brave or stupid or a bitch.

  Honesty, Lynette said. Her words were vehement, but her voice was without emotion. The most dishonest thing in the world, that kind of honesty. I’m sure your mother would agree.

  Yes, said Ferdie, not knowing if she would or not.

  Aurora said carefully, What kind of honesty is it, exactly?

  Oh, the kind that goes around saying, Let us be honest with one another, let’s never tell one another any lies, and maybe that’s the case, maybe they don’t actually lie through their teeth, whatever that means, but their lives are one big huge lie, they’re living the lie but not telling you about it.
And yes I know he’d say things were better like that, what you don’t know can’t hurt you, and I suppose I went along with that.

  Not knowing, said Ferdie.

  Yes, not knowing. Somehow choosing not to know. Or at least allowing myself not to. I knew he’d never leave me, I thought I did, that he loved the life we lived together, he loved me, he loved Erin, he would never walk away from that. If he had other recreations, well, no skin off my nose, I thought. He’d never leave me: that’s a good joke, now he’s gone and left the lot of us.

  He didn’t choose to, said Aurora. Given a choice, he’d still have been here with you.

  If he hadn’t been off fucking that woman, Lynette said in her calm voice, I think we can safely say he’d be here now. That’s what kills people, you know, mad sex; did you take a good look at her? It’s a wonder he didn’t die on the job.

  Ferdie held her hand. Lynette drank more wine.

  Aurora said, But you had no idea of this woman, this Barbara.

  Not a clue. Not the slightest. I’d have liked to keep it like that. Why did she have to come here, telling me?

  It’s the role of the mistress to know, the role of the wife not to know. I know, I’ve been there. Cezary’s marriage was over, but he still had a wife. It’s a kind of paradox, isn’t it. A horrible thing. The mistress knows all about the other, has all sorts of evil imaginings, while the wife remains serene. Until of course she finds out.

  So you reckon Barbara wanted me to know what she knew? So I’d be in the same boat as her? That’s why she came here to destroy my past, my safety, my comfort. What a monstrous thing to do.

  The right bitch role, said Aurora.

  It does look like it, said Ferdie, wondering how to comfort her and not lie, or not exactly. But maybe she was looking for comfort for herself, he went on, and thinking that if you knew, it would help her. She wasn’t trying to hurt you, she just didn’t think of you, only of herself.

  I think you fancy her, Ferdie; she’s more your age than William’s, that’s for sure. But if that’s the case, well, it’s a pity. For me. I doubt it did her much good, either. Maybe she thought we’d become bosom buddies, having so much in common.