Plane Tree Drive

by Lynette Washington

  ‘I found this.’

  He is shy now. His offering in his large, rough hands, held out to me.

  ‘I don’t know what it is, but it looked beautiful. I wanted… to save it.’

  He holds a small brass fixture, newly polished. I don’t know exactly what it is either, or where it came from. I take it and its chill shivers through me.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. It is an unknown piece of me, given back to me by this unknown man, and I am overwhelmed.

  ‘I didn’t want it to end up in a salvage shop. Don’t ask me why,’ he laughs nervously.

  I smile at him and notice something different about his face that I can’t quite register.

  Leyton and I talk every day; he tells me what they’ve done. It seems peculiar to me that so much care is taken to destroy something. They could have just put a bomb under it. But as it turned out, the theatre is still a valuable commodity. In pieces anyway. Famous light fittings and rows of seats are to be sold at auction. Apparently there are people, past performers and patrons, who want to hold onto it more in its demise than its life.

  One day Leyton comes to the fence with a look of sadness I’ve never seen before. Normally he is so invigorated by his work.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask.

  ‘Coralie, tomorrow they blast whatever’s left. I’ve grown quite attached to the place,’ he laughs his nervous laugh. ‘Do you want to come in? One last time?’

  I do, I do. But. It will make it harder to walk away.

  ‘No.’ I say.

  He looks like I’ve slapped him.

  ‘Please come in. I want to show you something.’

  I sigh and follow him in. As we pick our way through the rubble I say, ‘We’re all growing old, after all. I guess this will be your fate eventually, too.’

  I’m talking to his back, but I see his steps slow. He doesn’t speak ‘til we reach the stalls.

  ‘I’m supposed to have disconnected this by now… Wait here.’

  He runs off to the back of the room and flicks a switch.

  The darkness is obliterated and the theatre is washed in the crystal glow of the chandelier. Shadows are cast in patches but it is impossible not to see the place has been gutted and tortured.

  Still, with the graceful light of the chandelier it seems almost unspoilt.

  ‘They can’t get it down. We’ve had experts come in from all over. They want to save it of course, it’s worth a mint. Tomorrow we’ll take it down with the crane and hope for the best. Weighs a tonne.’

  The songs return to me like an echo. ‘The Good Ship Lollypop’ when I was just five. ‘Thriller’ when my daughter was twelve – her last performance before puberty got the better of her. Dozens in between. They course through me, wave upon wave. Applause. The acrid smell of Leg Tan and hairspray. Cheeks sore from smiling. Mum’s perfume when she hugged me, forgetting or not caring that I was covered in orange goo. Dad mimicking the steps in a hilarious melange, laughing as he tripped and stumbled. My senses drown me.

  ‘I know it sounds crazy but I like it in here at night. I hear things I can’t explain. Like it’s alive. That’s why I’m always here when you come by,’ he says.

  ‘It was never alive, it was the people that made it come to life.’

  He walks back and stands next to me.

  I reach out and take his rough, young hand.

  JENNIFER AND AVA

  Milk Cup

  ‘Ava, when you ask for something, use your Mighty Girl Voice, not your Mouse Voice,’ I say.

  Ava is talking lots now, but when she asks for something it is in such a quiet voice that I have to strain and lean in to hear her.

  ‘Milk please, Mumma,’ she repeats. Her voice is still so small that I can barely understand.

  ‘I can’t hear you, darling. Speak up. Remember, Mighty Girl Voice. You are a Mighty Girl!’ I put one hand on my hip and the other, fist clenched, I raise to the ceiling.

  She looks at me like I’m a bit mad.

  I sigh and pass her the milk cup.

  FLORENCE, DOUG, GLORIA AND NEVILLE

  Kind of Blue

  A large rectangular leather box is beside me. The yellowed stitching is fraying and it reminds me of Florence’s dress. Birds the colour of an overcast sky swoop at my car windshield. People in small swimming clothes sit under colourful rain sticks on the sand.

  I open the leather box. Inside is an instrument I can play but not name. I take it out and put it to my lips. My fingers twitch in patterns, up and down, up and down. There is something old in them. I perfect my embouchure and blow. Fingers go up and down, up and down. The overcast birds stop attacking my car and fly away. Tasteless critters don’t like jazz.

  Every note from Kind of Blue comes to me like a gift but I can’t remember how to get home. I throw the useless instrument onto the passenger seat. My empty hands are blotchy, papery and crumpled. Nails yellow, too long and brittle. These hands have their own knowledge aside from my pitiful brain; of jazz and blues and a woman called Florence.

  I get out of the car and walk to the sand. It’s hot and there are people everywhere. I go from towel to towel, looking under the rain sticks.

  ‘Florence! Flossy!’ I yell.

  Children see me and cry.

  We got married on a day like this. Florence wore blue and looked like the sky. We danced for hours to Miles Davis.

  She is not here.

  In 1959 Florence’s blue dress had tiny fabric-covered buttons from her neck to the floor. My fat but nimble fingers undid each of them: she became my symphony. An azure butterfly, her dress floated to the floor. I imagined her naked belly swelling with the babies we wanted and time stopped.

  So much has been taken.

  Stitches

  I’ve cut up Doug’s sausages, mashed his potato with butter and dried chives, and cooked the peas and carrots until they are too soft. Our little dining room is dark now; the mottled pink Formica table is half in shadow.

  As always, when Doug is late, I fret. Why didn’t I put my foot down about the driving? The problem’s not the forgetting, it’s how the forgetting makes him feel.

  Car wheels crunch the gravel in the driveway and my skin tightens.

  He curses as he fumbles with his keys. I scuttle to the door as fast as these old legs will go and let him in.

  ‘Hello, dear. How did it go?’

  ‘Do you think I can’t open my own front door, woman?’

  He slings his trumpet to the floor. It hits the side table and dents the wall. I follow him to the bedroom.

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘I let them down again. A three-piece with two players.’

  ‘Doug, they understand.’

  His face constricts and releases like a contorted heart at the word ‘understand’ and his eyes burn at me.

  Of all the changes, the carelessness with which he treats his trumpet surprises me the most. It had been his third arm, his great love, not to mention his income, for over fifty years. There was a time when he treated it as though it was as delicate as fairy floss. There was a time he treated me that way too. He used to call me My Fragile Flossy, and I let him do it because we both knew it was ironic.

  I pick up the instrument and put it in the cupboard. On the carpet there’s a small chip of paint from the wall. Another fracture, another token to collect.

  Back at the bedroom, the door is closed.

  ‘Shall I put your dinner in the microwave?’ I ask through the door.

  Doug pulls the door open, pushes me aside and strides to the kitchen. He picks up the plate and throws it at the wall. Mash splatters and sausage slides. Peas roll and carrots drop. The plate is melamine. I’ve learned not to use china.

  He shoves me against the wall too, my scapulas press and feet slip. He pushes his forearm across my throat, the skin-sheathed bone of his arm juts into my windpipe. He stares at me like he doesn’t know who I am, then releases me and walks away.

  Shaking, I clean up his mess.
/>   In bed, sleep doesn’t come for a long time. Then Doug is on top of me and his weight forces the air from my lungs.

  ‘Doug, stop, please,’ I beg.

  Doug’s body is old and frail, his muscles long depleted, but so are mine. He grabs my shoulders and violence contorts his face. I don’t like to use the word rape, but there is no other word for it, even though he is my husband and he is so very unwell.

  When Doug is finished with me he sits on the edge of the bed. He takes the glass of water from the bedside table, has a sip, then smashes the glass on the bedhead. This is new and my heart gives a jagged flutter. His hand is cut and droplets of blood fall onto the quilt cover, mixing to pink in the spilt water.

  He studies the broken glass in his hand and even his blood seems slow to come, melancholy. Sitting up, a piece of glass pierces the palm of my hand.

  Doug’s bleeding doesn’t stop so I find the antiseptic and bandaids. When I get back, he hasn’t moved. I gently dab his cuts. He flinches, but remains impassive. The bandaids will rupture his old skin when they have to be peeled off, but those cuts won’t heal on their own.

  ‘I don’t think you’ll need stitches,’ I say. ‘Let’s go back to sleep. We’re going to the Barossa tomorrow, remember?’

  The word ‘remember’ is a mistake.

  Flossy

  It was an invitation we couldn’t turn down; there was a need in Gloria’s phone call. That’s the irony of old age: it brings back the urgency of youth. Gloria is dying.

  When we were young, Doug would drive with one hand resting casually on the wheel, his elbow poking out of the open window. The other hand would rest not so casually on my thigh. Country drives – the silences that didn’t need to be filled, and the depth of the land that defied explanation – used to be a comfortable part of our lives. Now they’re another lost thing.

  Doug looked out the window as I drove.

  ‘Not far now,’ I said.

  Doug grunted in reply and a few more kilometres went by quietly until he finally spoke.

  ‘Look at that water-nest,’ he said. ‘Hasn’t seen the rain for a while.’

  I looked at the dam Doug was pointing to, a muddy indent in the rolling green hills, and thought, what a pretty thing to call it.

  Back home after our trip to the Barossa, I change the quilt cover. The dry blood looks like impressionist blossoms before I rip the sheets off the bed.

  That night I dream a distant memory.

  I am cuddling Eldon, our youngest child, on my knee. He has his fingers in his ears. The girls are built for this life, but Eldon doesn’t like the noise and bustle of his dad’s gigs. He is the black sheep in a way, a loner in a family of gregarious people. But Doug, the girls and I adore him for it; we love him excessively and almost competitively.

  The girls are dancing in front. I smile as I watch them. In the dream, with Eldon on my knee, I’m conscious of wondering what will become of them all.

  Doug is watching the girls dance as he plays. It’s hard to smile and play the trumpet, but it sneaks up to his eyes.

  The set is over, not soon enough for Eldon, and Doug tucks his girls under his arms and walks over to the table where Eldon and I sit. He waves to the barman – lemonade all round. Doug takes Eldon onto his lap so that I can get the circulation back in my legs. Eldon smiles at his father, a man he loves but doesn’t understand.

  ‘How about we go to the beach tomorrow?’ Doug asks us all.

  ‘Yay!’ sing the kids. The girls do a little jig.

  Tomorrow is a school day, and bursting the bubble will make me the bad guy. The idea will be forgotten by morning anyway.

  I wake to the phone ringing and the dream is gone.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mum, it’s me.’

  ‘Oh, hi Eldon.’

  ‘You sound shaky. Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes I’m fine, just woke up. How are you?’ I make an effort to control my voice.

  ‘Sorry, Mum, I forget you don’t have a 6am live-in alarm clock. How’s Dad?’

  ‘Not good, Eldon. I think,’ I lower my voice, ‘I think we need to contact the nursing home.’

  ‘Mum, come on. He just forgets, you can’t lock him up for that.’

  ‘It’s not locking him up, Eldon. They can care for him better than I can.’

  ‘Can’t we just let him enjoy the time he has left?’

  I recognise my granddaughter’s mournful wail in the background. Mia, who is just learning to walk, probably fell over.

  ‘You go look after Mia, Eldon. I’ll speak to you later.’

  I hang up the phone and close my eyes. I am still protecting my children.

  ‘Flossy? Flossy? Are you there?’ Doug calls from the bedroom.

  My skin tightens.

  He finds me and puts his arms around my waist, nuzzling me like a kitten.

  ‘There you are,’ he says.

  Gloria

  In ‘55, all we wanted was freedom in love. Do you remember what we said, darling Florence? ‘Freedom in love is the condition for all other freedoms.’ We weren’t free to love more than one man. A black man? Forget it! A woman, of any colour? No way. We weren’t free to join the blokes in the public house. How dull life was! Corsets and curlers. No wonder we did what we did. You and I were never meant to be Women’s Weekly housewives, but anarchy didn’t suit us either. ‘The desire for security and sufficiency is the very mark of the servile mentality.’ Boy. Fighting words! And fight we did.

  Despite all that, I did love just one man, as did you. It was enough, wasn’t it? But we needed to know that it would be, didn’t we? We needed to choose. Anarchy turned out to be overrated, but I’m glad I gave it a darn good shot.

  Nearly sixty years later, my dear friend, and I still love Neville, and you Doug. But here we are, in the ‘twilight of our lives’, as my silly daughter says. Twilight? Twilight implies a gentle setting sun, softening everything. What could be more wrong? There is nothing soft about dying. No light can hide the wrinkles on my skin. And cancer is like a stubborn bastard of a boulder, not a setting sun. There is nothing subtle about the way our bodies and minds fail us, one creak or crack at a time.

  On your visit last week, my dear, you looked worse than me. You are not dying, you’re strong as an ox and always were. So what is it, Florence? You wouldn’t talk to me on Sunday. I wish we were twenty again and nothing in our lives was secret from the other. I wish I could pretend we were still sharing that flat we had in teacher’s college and it was the end of a long night with our fellas and we were sitting on our lumpy beds gossiping about men.

  But we don’t have to do that, really. I can guess.

  From: Gloria West

  To: Florence Freedman

  Subject: Libertarianism

  Dear Florence

  Doug is getting worse and you can no longer manage it. I know we don’t talk about this, especially not in front of Douglas, but I might be dead next week.

  My dear, don’t wait ‘til it’s too late. You are too utterly precious. Go back to 1955 and remember what it felt like to value yourself more than you valued society’s rules, and bugger anyone to hell if they stand in your way.

  Neville is growling at me to stop on the computer. He wants me to lie down and die but I refuse.

  Gloria

  From: Florence Freedman

  To: Gloria West

  Subject: Libertarianism

  Dear Gloria

  It turns out I did love two men, but not the way we imagined back then. This disease has split Doug in half and somehow I do love them both because I can see them meeting in the middle from time to time. There is a glimpse of one always in the other. How can I send one away, knowing he takes the other with him?

  Lie down, but don’t die. I’m coming to see you. On my own this time.

  Florence

  Morphine

  Eldon arrives to look after Doug and I get in the car and drive like a bat out of hell. I hope Doug will have a bad day so that
Eldon will see what I can’t tell him. I refuse to feel bad about having that thought.

  It’s lovely in the Barossa today. The sun reflects off the golden hills on one side of the road, and lights up the iridescent green of the vines on the other. The earth is brittle and plush, all at once.

  Neville answers the door, his face bleak.

  ‘I didn’t give her the full dose of morphine, Florence. She wanted to be able to talk to you. But she won’t last long like that.’

  I thank him and go to Gloria’s room.

  In just a week she has stepped closer to the edge of life than seems possible. I hold her hand and she opens her eyes. She is a skeleton held together by skin-coloured tissue paper. I do not cry when she tries to squeeze my hand, but I can no longer remember how I got here. It doesn’t matter. We look at each other and that’s all.

  Neville comes into the room and takes Gloria’s other hand. It is a silent vigil and with Doug missing it is incomplete, as my life will always be from now on.

  Then Gloria is gone.

  There is no drama. Her breath is there, and then it’s not.

  I say a small prayer to a god I don’t believe in, begging for her to be looked after.

  ‘Most of all, I will miss her wickedness,’ Neville says trying to smile through his tears.

  ‘Me too,’ I say. But it’s not quite true. Most of all I will miss her counsel when the time comes, soon, and I must be braver than I feel.

  JENNIFER AND BROCK

  Retreat

  I dreamt about Alexander and woke feeling peaceful, but when Ava cries from her cot, hungry and wet, my peace ruptures. I am falling into the gaps in my life and the gaps are getting bigger.

  I have signed up to go away with fifteen strangers for three days and do nothing but paint. I told Dan that I need to rebuild my sense of self, that I am lost in nappies and sleep deprivation and I need to be away from it all for a while, and to focus on something challenging, something creative. With something that I took for understanding in his eyes, Dan agreed without hesitation. He cares enough to want me to be better. He said, ‘Whatever you need, darling,’ and took the Friday off work to be home with Ava. I’m sure I detect relief that I’ll be gone.