by Emily Brewin
She wishes he’d make some human friends. Kids he can kick a footy with or talk telly shows with. But he finds it hard to socialise, a trait she half thinks might actually come from her.
‘Biscuit, love?’ Mr Granthall shuffles over in his slippers. They’ve seen better days. Their rubber soles are falling away at the seams. She makes a mental note to pick him up some new ones from Kmart.
‘Ta.’ Rosie takes one from the pack and sits back in the chair, nibbling it slowly.
He throws Churchill a chocolate cream and the dog snuffles it off the carpet.
His flat reminds her a bit of her nana’s, Vera’s mother, the only adult besides Maureen who paid her any healthy attention as a kid.
When Vera ran out of cash and couldn’t buy groceries, they’d turn up on Nana’s doorstep for a feed. She was ancient, with wispy grey hair and a ciggy habit that would put Keith Richards to shame. Best of all, her love was big and unwavering, and she swore like a trooper at Vera for not bringing Rosie around more. When she died, Rosie cried her eyes out until Vera told her to give it a rest. Nana hadn’t been a proper mum when she needed one.
Mr Granthall’s has the same odd mix of furniture that Nana’s house had, making it look a bit like an op shop. Most of it is made from wood and is too big, leftovers from his house. She knows he misses his garden and his wife. There’s a portrait of her above the heater, a pencil sketch that highlights her cheekbones. She’s young and attractive in that English kind of way.
‘That was done just after we got married.’ He points a bent finger at the portrait. ‘I’ve got a smaller one too. For me wallet.’
Rosie brushes crumbs off her jacket. ‘She’s pretty.’
Churchill flops onto his back so Petey can scratch his tummy.
‘Too pretty for the likes of me.’
Petey squeals when the dog props his head up to lick his hand.
‘She was a flower too.’
Rosie raises an eyebrow.
‘Violet. Like Rose,’ he says in a way that makes her name sound old-fashioned and delicate. ‘I was a lucky man for a while.’
Someone yells ‘fuck off ’ out on the landing and Mr Granthall examines his hands. The chair seems to eat him, leaving his legs and arms short and his neck craning. She’s never asked his age but reckons he’s about the same as Nana would be now. She pokes Churchill with her toe and says ‘silly bugger’ to stop her eyes watering.
‘That’s rude, Mum.’
Petey rolls around the stained carpet with the dog and Rosie wonders how much longer Mr Granthall will be able to help her out with him. He’s growing up while the old man is growing down. She tucks her cold hands under her legs. She’ll get him a dressing-gown too.
‘I think about her every day,’ Mr Granthall continues, glancing out the window. ‘Talk to her too, sometimes.’
Rosie thinks about the long line of men that marched in and out of Vera’s front door over the years. If they were nice, Rosie could relax for a while. If they were bad, she’d hide in her bedroom and hope to hell they didn’t find her there.
She doubts any of them miss Vera. But maybe her dad does, wherever he is. All Vera ever told her about him was that he carved tombstones for a living and liked chicken parmas. It wasn’t much to go on.
Mr Granthall gazes at the portrait, his grey hair flat where his hat usually sits. Churchill farts.
‘Jesus,’ she scrunches up her nose while Petey laughs.
Her phone rings in the bag by her feet and she pulls it out, shaking her head at him, smiling. It rings again and she takes a look at the number. Unknown. Its vibration runs the length of her arm until she drops it in her lap. Then it shakes against her thighs.
‘Again, Churchill,’ Petey shouts. ‘Again,’ while Mr Granthall takes a sip of tea.
The phone stops, the screen goes blank and she realises she’s holding her breath.
‘Shhh,’ she hisses at Petey, suddenly overwhelmed by the noise he’s making.
She thought Joel had given up. There hadn’t been a call all week. She’d started to relax again. He knows what he’s doing though, and she reckons he’s enjoying himself.
‘Prick.’ She puts the phone back. She’s a bag of nerves but part of her dares it to ring again so she can show him what she’s made of. It’s her lucky day. It rings and this time she takes it; fucked if she’s going to let him get away with intimidating her. He lost that power long ago. At least that’s what she tells herself.
She walks into Mr Granthall’s tiny kitchenette, with its grimy stovetop and the threadbare sponge on the sink, and puts the phone carefully to her ear.
Nothing.
She listens harder, pushing a finger into her other ear to block out the sound of Churchill whining.
‘Leave—me—alone,’ she says finally, very slowly, so there’s no mistaking her.
‘Rosie?’
And she’s on the mattress again, flat on her back, watching Joel take his pants off. He grins, and it fills her with fear.
‘Rosie.’ This time it isn’t a question.
‘Another biccy, love?’ Mr Granthall calls from the lounge. ‘Better get in quick before these two eat the whole pack.’
The sound of the old man’s voice brings her back to the room. She can hear Petey asking for a Monte Carlo and realises Joel is safely on the other end of the line.
She could abuse him. Show him she’s not the scared little halfwit she was last time he saw her. But maybe he’s tracking her like they do in the movies. Maybe he’s watching the flat. She hangs up then holds onto the kitchen sink.
Her head’s spinning. It’s only a matter of time before he finds them. He always got what he wanted. It was part of his appeal. In the beginning he gave her presents. Usually little things he nicked from the shops, a Pearl Jam CD or a box of chocolates. Once, though, he stole a car to pick her up in. A hotted-up Torana he’d jacked from an underground car park.
‘Got yourself a fancy man,’ Vera said with a touch of hurt as Rosie ran out the door, happy her time had finally come.
Later the tables turned and he started taking from her instead. At first it was money and drugs, then her body, and finally her self-esteem. He stripped her back until she knew she was nothing. Payback. He must think she still owes him.
She turns on the tap and splashes water on her face over the kitchen sink, then walks shakily back to the lounge room and sits down. Mr Granthall has left another chocolate cream on the arm of her chair. He knows they’re her favourites. She can’t eat it. She switches the phone off and zips it tight into the front pocket of her bag then leans back. How much does Joel know?
At the refuge, she made the decision to start again. She was clean and alive and having a baby, and she wasn’t going to fuck it up this time. Apart from Bea, who she spoke to on the phone now and then, Vera and Maureen were the only ones from her old life who knew where she was and where she was going. She wants it to stay that way.
Isobel
MARCUS IS WEEDING THE GARDEN with a ferocity that confounds her. She wishes he’d channel some of his enthusiasm into other household duties. She notices the mess more since being on leave, dark chest hairs on the bathroom floor and coffee rings on the kitchen counter. Ly comes once a week but it’s never enough. Some days it feels like the house is working against her with its dusty skirting boards and cobwebby corners. It’s surprising how many things there are to clean and how they’ve gone unnoticed for so long.
She brews a pot of green tea and takes a delicate Moroccan glass of it out to Marcus.
‘No, thanks,’ he says, tugging at a small shrub in the back corner she’s sure is supposed to be part of the garden.
She reels off the healing properties of green tea until he stands up tall and asks her to stop.
A lawnmower drones across a yard a few doors down.
‘Maybe you should leave that to Bob,’ she says, shielding her eyes with a hand. ‘He’s the professional gardener.’
‘I’m quite c
apable.’ He bends down again and rips the shrub free with a grunt.
His sudden interest in horticulture is disturbing, as is the way he’s punishing the plants. She wishes he’d come inside and sit with her for a while, so they could read the paper together like they used to, or talk even, about the baby.
Yesterday she bought the most beautiful blanket from a boutique on High Street. The woman behind the counter beamed at her when she said she was expecting and offered her a VIP store card, which she left on the bench for Marcus to see. It’s still there. He hasn’t mentioned it.
She walks to the back step and sits down, blowing her tea cool. ‘Have you thought of names? Any family ones you like?’ She takes a sip. ‘Wasn’t your grandfather Sebastian? That’s nice.’
Marcus wipes a neat hand across his brow. She hasn’t seen him exert himself like this in a long time. It’s pleasing to watch, the father of her child getting hot and bothered.
She pats the spot beside her on the step with a pleasant sense of open-heartedness. It might be the baby but she’s had an overwhelming desire to be around others. It’s new and strange and a little unnerving.
At work functions she cringed at colleagues who dragged their partners along, as if they couldn’t stand on their own two feet. She rarely invited Marcus to anything. She takes another quick sip of tea. Although things would have been different if he’d been there the night she got carried away with Bernard. There’s a flash of guilt, knife sharp.
He would have come too, if she’d asked him. He would have done anything to please her then.
Marcus strides across the yard, another plant in sight.
‘Names?’ she tries again.
He uses a hand trowel this time to loosen the shrub’s roots, finally stabbing it into the earth.
She waits some more. Imagines the green tea slipping down her throat to soothe her nerves. Maybe he hasn’t heard. The neighbour’s cat climbs the back fence.
‘Or your mother’s name? She’d be so flattered.’
The trowel sticks and Marcus’s biceps flex as he tries to leverage it out of the ground. There’s a damp patch spreading across the back of his t-shirt. She can almost taste the salt from it. Since the pregnancy she’s craved him. But he avoids her.
‘Marcus!’
He looks up.
‘I’m talking to you.’ Since when has she had to beg him for attention? Beg anyone? People listen to her. She knows what she’s talking about. There’s real value in what she has to say. That’s why she’s held in such high regard at work. She puts the cup down and realises work isn’t a currency here. Home is a different marketplace.
Marcus releases the trowel, his face flushed and his hands filthy.
‘I didn’t think my opinion counted for much.’
The cat noses around the bottom of the trellis against the fence, its big green eyes blinking at the spike in Marcus’s voice.
‘You seem to be pretty happy doing exactly what you want, despite what I think.’
She almost rolls her eyes. How many times do they need to have this conversation and why does it matter now? She’s pregnant. The IVF worked, end of story. It’s time to let go of the past, the regrets. She softens. ‘You agreed to do it.’
He looks at her but doesn’t say a word. The conversation stops here, just like it always does. He agreed to IVF for reasons she’s unsure of. At the time she was too desperate then too grateful to probe any further, and now she’s not sure she wants to know. It’s easier just to focus on what is. Once the baby’s born he’ll drop the resentment, or whatever it is he has against her.
He shakes his head and watches the cat. It stops, paw raised in contemplation before disappearing behind the trellis. Surely he knows how fortunate they are. He’s the one who’s been so hung up on the percentages. And now they’ve beaten the odds.
The silence is nauseating.
‘Marcus, we’re so lucky.’
He swings around, shocking her with the dark expression on his face. ‘Lucky?’ he hisses. ‘You call being a father at my age lucky? Jesus.’
The cat rustles around.
‘It should have happened years ago.’
She glares back, her voice dropping to deadpan. ‘If I hadn’t taken the promotion we might not have had the money to do IVF.’
‘If you hadn’t taken the goddamn promotion we wouldn’t have needed to do IVF.’
She hangs her head so he doesn’t see what’s going through her mind. The cheap city hotel, the pink bedspread, Bernard’s sea-grey eyes, his hair, his legs, his body moving with hers, away from Marcus and his terrifying expectations. She had bigger fish to fry at thirty-seven.
Marcus runs a hand through his hair before the breeze whips it out of shape again. ‘We agreed,’ he says in a small voice.
She tries to swallow the anger rising from her gut. Suddenly she hates the way his t-shirt sits skew-whiff around his neck and the tanned crescent on his chest. ‘Things change.’
He blinks. ‘They do …’ And regains his composure.
She picks up her tea again. It’s cool and flecks of black leaf float on the surface. She tips the rest out and puts the glass back on the step. The cat springs out suddenly from behind the trellis with a fierce hiss and she knocks the glass. It teeters for a moment on the edge, then falls over and smashes into a thousand pieces on the paving stones. Marcus hardly bats an eyelid.
Rosie
THE BRIGHT YELLOW LIGHTS and warm soup smell of the staffroom feel like home after the police station. She should have known they’d be fucking useless. When have the cops ever done her any favours?
When she reported Joel’s handiwork all those years ago they took some notes and asked some questions then left her where she started.
‘They’ll find him,’ Bea had said, patting her knee.
But Rosie knew she was just another junkie wasting their time. They did find him in the end, but it had nothing to do with her. He’d just run out of luck.
Rosie puts the rusty-coloured apron over her head and chucks her backpack in the locker, unsure why she bothers. The lockers don’t have locks and her purse is empty anyway.
She’d reported the calls before going in to the station. When she got there the policewoman was sympathetic enough, with grunts of disapproval and fast-typing fingers, but there wasn’t much she could do. The calls were made from public phone booths. Joel had never trusted mobiles.
‘Piece of work,’ the policewoman murmured, pulling his file up on the computer.
Rosie didn’t tell the woman that was an understatement.
‘If you see him, steer clear and call us straight away.’ She looked up and Rosie realised how young she was. The police she’d encountered over the years were gnarly old blokes with coffee breath and dinged-up faces. She glanced at the clock on the wall behind the policewoman’s head. She had to get to work. Dulcy wanted her in early. She picked up her pack and walked away.
Dulcy strides into the staffroom and tells her to get a move on. There’s a line the size of the Great Wall of China at register nine and Mitchell’s having a breakdown.
Rosie sighs but doesn’t complain. She needs to stay in Dulcy’s good books so she can get leave at the end of the year. Dulcy’s a stubborn bitch. Pissing her off just makes things worse.
Rosie walks down the confectionary aisle with its racks of shiny sugary treats to the registers at the front of the store. She goes to register four, ignoring Mitchell’s wide-eyed appeals for help, and punches in her password. Calm descends.
Despite the pre-dinner rush, the routine feels safe. The greetings and idle chatter that come with the customers are never around long enough to make her nervous. The confidence she has in packing their plastic bags, cold goods together, soft stuff on top. She smiles. No one can beat her at bag packing. If only it was an Olympic sport. The customers know she’s good too. Some have become regulars, hurrying out of Mitchell’s line into hers, happy in the knowledge their groceries will make it home safe.
Janet, a mother of cheeky twin boys, smiles at her. ‘You look pleased with yourself.’
The twins jump up and down in the trolley and Rosie plants a ‘happy shopper’ sticker on the backs of their chubby hands. They remind her of Petey when he was small, their feathery hair and sticky round faces.
‘I’m taking my son on a holiday.’ She surprises herself. Usually she doesn’t give much away but the thought of escaping their dingy flat and work and the endless round of assignments is making her mouthy. It feels good too. ‘To the Gold Coast.’
‘Some people have all the luck.’ Janet shakes her head and puts a hand between the boys to stop them fighting.
Rosie shuts the register, a warm glow in her chest, and waves goodbye.
Most customers have gone home, for dinner or to bath their kids or to go wherever they go when they’re not in the store. She reties her apron.
‘Did you see that bloke who came through my register? The one in the smacky dacks?’ Mitchell asks. She turns around to face him. ‘He nearly pushed Mrs Kenny over. I would have said something but he gave me this look, plus I was really busy.’ He blinks hard. ‘What a bozo.’
She nods; it’s best not to respond too eagerly or she’ll never hear the end of it. ‘You right if I do some restocking …’ It’s not a question. She walks out from behind her register before Mitchell can answer.
In the drinks aisle she uses a Stanley knife to slit open the cardboard box and pulls out a large bottle of energy drink. She tips it sideways, watching as the fluorescent blue liquid inside catches the light before sliding it onto the shelf. She unpacks the rest, rearranging them so their labels face out. An elderly couple stroll past, arm in arm, heading towards the registers. Nothing Mitchell can’t handle. She’ll go get another box from the storeroom.
