Plane Tree Drive

by Lynette Washington

  PLANE

  TREE

  DRIVE

  First published 2017 by MidnightSun Publishing Pty Ltd

  PO Box 3647, Rundle Mall, SA 5000, Australia.

  www.midnightsunpublishing.com

  Copyright © Lynette Washington 2017

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers (including, but not restricted to, Google and Amazon), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of MidnightSun Publishing.

  Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia.

  http://catalogue.nla.gov.au

  Cover design by Kim Lock

  Cover art by Joanne Knott

  Internal design by Zena Shapter

  Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press. The papers used by MidnightSun in the manufacture of this book are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable plantation forests.

  ‘Yet high over the city our line of yellow windows must have contributed their share of human secrecy to the casual watcher in the darkening streets, and I was him too, looking up and wondering. I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.’

  The Great Gatsby

  F. Scott Fitzgerald

  For my family and friends, who are everything

  THE MOST IMPORTANT PEOPLE

  Maurice

  Muso, father of Amily, Jacqui’s husband, founder of The Shed Dogs

  Jacqui

  Maurice’s wife, mother of Amily

  Amily

  Maurice’s estranged teenage daughter

  Aria

  Friends with Suzie, has a fling with Tim

  Tim

  Singer/songwriter, womaniser, addict and father of Annabelle and Jacob, Alice’s ex, no fixed address

  Suzie

  Friends with Aria, marrying Joaquin, lives in the same apartment block as Faraj

  Jennifer

  Filmmaker, married to Dan, mother of Ava, Alexander’s childhood sweetheart

  Dan

  Married to Jennifer, father of Ava

  Ava

  18-month-old daughter of Jennifer and Dan

  Alexander

  Childhood sweetheart and unrequited love of Jennifer

  Hunni

  Department store worker, friend of hermit crabs

  Poppy

  Teenager with a nosy brother

  Lia

  Has an open marriage with Amos

  Amos

  Has an open marriage with Lia

  Pete

  Long-term friend of Lia

  Riley and Ethan

  Lia and Amos’ children

  Donna

  Dating Damien, owns a dog called Jesus

  Damien

  Dating Donna

  Jimmy

  Part-time community radio host, part-time porn-watcher

  Andy

  Jimmy’s mysterious co-host

  Alice

  Tim’s ex, mother of Annabelle and Jacob, dating Sundance

  Annabelle and Jacob

  Tim and Alice’s teenage children

  Sundance

  Ponytail-sporting hippie, dating Alice

  Faraj

  Young Afghani asylum seeker with no fixed address

  Coralie

  Housing officer who is managing Faraj’s case

  Ruby

  Travel agent, the woman Faraj meets on the train

  Kerry

  Teenage Alexander’s girlfriend

  Colette, Mike and Simon

  Jennifer and Alexander’s childhood friends

  Stevo

  Martha’s travel agent

  Leyton

  Demolition site manager at The Theatre

  Florence

  Elderly wife of Doug

  Doug

  Trumpet player, Florence’s husband

  Eldon

  Florence and Doug’s adult son

  Gloria

  Florence’s friend

  Neville

  Gloria’s husband

  Brock

  Painter on retreat with Jennifer

  Bruce

  Grumpy middle-aged gambler

  Hal

  Lonely old man with a roof in need of repair

  Gladys

  Jennifer’s confidant at her PTSD Support Group

  Scarlett

  Owner of the ‘shed for sale’

  Marg

  Woman who talks to animals

  Denise

  Owner of Jeremiah the cat, Marg’s neighbour

  Martha

  Charles’ wife, adventure seeker

  Charles

  Martha’s husband

  Gary

  Married to the late Molly, father of Sarah, works in the carpark

  Sarah

  Daughter of Gary and Molly, fond of her Oma, fruitcake and flowcharts

  Abdul

  Works with Gary in the carpark

  Stella

  Graham’s wife

  Graham

  Stella’s husband, on a brave quest

  Dalton, Rowena, David and Miranda

  The Shed Dogs

  MAURICE, JACQUI AND AMILY

  Secrets and Plane Trees

  Jacqui hated the house on Plane Tree Drive. She moved in with me because she was pregnant with Amily. But the trees’ bark peeled in flaky patches that used to make her frown and scratch. Old and high-branching, their elaborate forked leaves were phosphorescently green in summer, camp orange in autumn and then absent in winter. In spring, they scattered fibrous pollen. There wasn’t a season she liked or even tolerated. She used to look up at the branches, reaching over the road towards each other, and mutter under her breath, ‘monstrous’ or, ‘it’ll be the death of me’. She said the trees made her feel like she was in prison. She was convinced the street was shadowy, secretive. Something about the gnarled fingers of the branches especially made her skin crawl. Of course, it was nothing to do with the trees at all.

  We were in the middle of the street, in a dreadfully boring cream brick family home. To the east were the flats and subsidised housing and to the west, the old stone cottages that had been extended and renovated into ostentatious upper-middle class homes. It was comfortable, a place I enjoyed coming back to. But we were the in between and we never did quite make it work.

  TIM, ARIA AND SUZIE

  How to Disappear Incompletely

  So we’re on the tram and it’s 9am and standing room only. Tim’s arm is raised to hold the leather strap so that he doesn’t stagger and he’s wearing last night’s black tank top and I can see his armpit hair, the pale underside of his skinny arm, and his ribs poking through translucent skin. Pale blue veins run undisturbed by scars, parallel to his bones. Seemed so rock’n’roll a few hours ago.

  I’m trying to be polite, travelling back to the city with him, and he’s tracing the tattoo on my forearm. Fingertips on my ink. Way too intimate, man. I flinch and he looks up, mascaraed black semi-circles under bloodshot eyes. Those eyes say, ‘after what we did last night?’ and I look out the window and tuck my arm away.

  ‘So I don’t think I can come to the gig tonight,’ I say to the blue sky outside.

  ‘That’s cool. Come by after? I’ll get you a plus one for the after-party.’

  ‘It’s just that I’ve got this thing on and I don’t know when it will finish
,’ I say.

  ‘Aria, babe, just come, we had a good time last night, didn’t we?’

  I can’t figure out a way to say it nicely and there’s a glint of despair hiding under his casual tone.

  ‘Alright, I’ll try.’

  The eavesdropping commuters on the tram all know I’m lying. When we get off and I point to his hotel it will be the last time I see him. Except maybe on Rage.

  The tram slides into the city square and people spill off in a swarm. We – in last night’s clothes, bed-hair, pale skin and tattoos – let them pass in a puff of aftershave and perfume.

  ‘Coffee?’ he says.

  He’ll be leaving town tomorrow. It’s just coffee. And I need coffee.

  ‘Okay.’

  We head to the markets where I know a great little café. Old wire seats with paint scratched off by anxious fingernails and pink Formica-topped tables that wobble with nerves. It’s as if the furniture itself is caffeinated. But the coffee’s good.

  He buys me a short black double shot and we sit at our fretful table. We hold our cups with two hands and take our first hot sip simultaneously. Strange, awkward symmetry. Then a fleeting moment when I see a shadow skittering across the floor – a rat? No, it’s too big, but I follow the shape and find nothing there – a shadow that has no solid form.

  The coffee makes its way down my throat. My chest constricts and my heart thumps, a racehorse is galloping its way down my oesophagus wearing hot iron shoes. I put my hand to my throat, and he’s doing the same thing.

  ‘Strong coffee…’ I say. But I’ve sucked down Turkish short blacks like they were air and never had this happen.

  ‘Do you feel it in your throat?’ he asks.

  I nod. ‘And my stomach. It’s moving down.’

  He puts his hands over his ears like a comic book character blocking out a painful sound.

  ‘Mine’s going up. What the fuck?’ he says too loudly and people eyeball us then go back to their coffees.

  I grab his hand and we run, lock ourselves into the disabled cubicle and stare at each other.

  ‘What the hell kinda coffee was that?’

  I look down at the place where I feel the warm liquid, slower now, like it’s settled in my belly. Lifting my Dead Kennedys t-shirt, I expect to find all sorts of nothing strange, but instead I can see a giant gaping hole where my gut used to be.

  ‘Hell…’ he says and reaches his hand out and pushes it through me. His arm is a warm breeze.

  ‘Sweet Jesus!’ I yell. But it doesn’t hurt.

  He pulls up his sweat-stained tank top to show me his stomach. It’s all there, it’s not happening to him and that makes it worse. But then I look up and there is a hole there now, where his face used to be. Like that rat-shadow: something, then nothing. No more black-ringed eyes, stained teeth and stubble. All I can see is his hair; his trademark black fop which used to cover an eye now looks like a curtain opening onto an empty stage. I lift my hand up to see if I can push it through his face and he shrieks.

  ‘No! Don’t do it!’

  He has no mouth. Where is his voice coming from? The sound of it resonates inside my skull. I don’t stop anyway and my hand goes all the way through, and I can feel a sort of throbbing inside his skull and I hear – or maybe feel – his sharp intake of breath as my hand goes all the way to the wall behind him. His breath flows over my fist before it gets to his lungs, which seems romantic and makes me think of my heart. Is it still beating in there under the Kennedys?

  Pulling my t-shirt down from the collar, I don’t know what I want to find, but I have to know what’s there. I see my bra and my cleavage moving up and down too fast, I’m gasping like a smoker on a treadmill. There is no hole there, my heart is intact. My gut might be blasted away, and his brains may be blown out, but my heart is there. Maybe that’s why this somehow feels like falling in love. Is this how Suzie feels? Is that why she’s doing it?

  Everything’s Turning to White

  In my white dress, I am a ghost. Pale skin, blonde hair, white silk-covered shoulders. Invisible, without even putting on the veil. Imagine that.

  Aria is white too, but hers is the kind of white that comes from living nocturnally. Her tatts poke angrily out of the emerald green satin dress that she would never choose to wear but accepted with a smile out of sheer friendship.

  Across town the church is decorated with large ribbons of white, the same fabric as my dress. There are white roses in bouquets on the pews. I am holding a small posy of white daisies. I painted my nails nude, but there isn’t much pink there – it looks white to me.

  ‘Oh, Suzie you look divine,’ Aria says.

  She is inspecting me, fussing. Dress gets smoothed, hair gets smoothed, cheeks get smoothed. Veil is puffed over my back like a billowing benevolent cloud.

  I try to smile at Aria.

  ‘This is the happiest day of my life,’ I say, trying not to cry.

  ‘Suzie, you’re daft. You’re not letting yourself enjoy this. You don’t know how to be happy.’

  She is wrong. I do. I did.

  She reapplies my lipstick for the fifteenth time this hour and pronounces me ready.

  ‘But we can’t go yet. You have to be late.’

  This is the final straw. These stupid traditions, absurd rules about how to be a bride. I am setting myself up for a life of unlivable rules, beginning now. For Aria, life is lived late, so much so that it’s the norm. Late nights. Late mornings. Late texts. Late periods.

  I pick up my train, my ridiculous train that my mother talked me into, and walk out the door.

  ‘Suze! What the hell are you doing?’

  I climb the stairs to Joaquin’s apartment on the floor above. I knock loudly on his door.

  I can hear Aria running after me, struggling to make it up the stairs in her stupid satin fishtail gown.

  I knock again.

  ‘He’s at the church already, Suz,’ Aria says.

  Of course he is. He’s never late for anything.

  I want to sit down but the corridor floor is filthy and it will ruin my dress. I am enough of a bride to stop myself from doing that at least. I lean against Joaquin’s door. Footsteps come from the floor below and my heartbeat stops. Maybe he changed his mind and is coming back?

  No, it’s only the boy who lives on and off in the flat above. I smile at him. His head is down, looking at his shoes, where the blinding whiteness of my ludicrous dress draws his eyes. They trace the white up up up to my face and he looks at me with his empty brown eyes and I can tell that he’s hardly seeing me.

  ‘Hi Faraj,’ I say.

  He nods and keeps walking up to number 6.

  For a mad moment I consider asking him what’s wrong – just to delay what I really have to do.

  Aria takes my hands and draws me back into the moment.

  ‘Suze, shall we head off to the church now?’

  ‘I thought you said we had to be late?’

  ‘Better early than never.’

  She’s panicking. Her job is to get the bride to the church and she knows I’m on the verge. She can see herself walking up the aisle – alone – delivering a message to the hapless groom. The scene plays out in my mind, complete with silent, dry weeping from Joaquin and wet, messy hysterics from my mum. I let my imagination continue to play out the scenario. I go home to Plane Tree Drive. Joaquin and I stop looking for a bigger place to share. I come home from work at night to sit in front of the telly with wine and microwaved food. I avoid Joaquin in the corridor.

  Any way I look at my life, it’s a cliché.

  Raised voices sink down from number 6 and Faraj comes back down the stairs. This time he stops and speaks. Slowly, thinking through each word.

  ‘Today you marry Joaquin?’

  I hesitate before I answer, ‘Yes.’

  ‘He is your home now. You always have someone, Suzie.’ Faraj says.

  Joaquin is my home. I suppose it’s true.

  I want to hug Faraj, but he looks
like he would break if I touched him.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  Faraj nods and walks down the steps.

  JENNIFER AND AVA

  Smoke and Broccoli

  The lean-to sunroom is small but bright. I’ve finally managed to put brush strokes on the canvas, but they are infantile and amateurish, broad and clumsy. It’s yet another horizon, an open sweeping vista in the pastel light of dusk. I never paint people, houses or streets. Never trees with crooked fingers leaning over each other, grasping and locking themselves together.

  After an hour or so I wash out the brushes, skol a cold cup of tea, then scrub mould from the toilet bowl. These jobs leave a more indelible imprint than anything on canvas or paper. The steam from the kettle creates a soon-to-be pus-filled scorch on my wrist, the skin in the valleys between my fingers cracks inside my rubber gloves, my back aches from bending over the bowl. All these things are real and deep. No matter how much colour I layer onto the canvas, it remains shallow and detached.

  As I peel off the rubber gloves, Ava cries and the idea that I was allowing to fester in my mind as I scrubbed the toilet bowl – the idea of a different life – is smoke. Gone, in the face of immediate demand.

  I pop a rusk in her mouth and pile her into the car. We drive to the local supermarket, her satisfaction with the slimy breadstick waning with each intersection.

  My hopes of a quick trip to the veggie isle are thwarted when she spies the bright plastic toys on a spinner. Her hunger is forgotten for a while, replaced by a bigger need – an oversized pink bubble wand. I park her pram in front of the spinner, stomp on the brakes and race to the next isle, grab broccoli, potatoes and carrots and race back to her.

  My heart is thumping.

  I shouldn’t have left her there, even for a moment. I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t.

  I let her take the bubble wand because of the guilt and I can’t deal with a tantrum right now.

  Back home, dinner eaten, bath taken, the bed routine hangs over me like a railway sleeper, waiting to crush me for any mistake or omission. I can’t miss a step, every movement is critical to ensure a good night’s sleep.

  Finally, she’s down.

  ‘How was your day?’ Dan asks as he makes himself a toasted sandwich for dinner.

  I shrug. ‘Same old, same old.’ But I’m thinking about scrubbing the toilet bowl, imagining something else. I shut my eyes and am haunted again by Alexander, his eyes like secrets his face is trying to hide.