I’ve still not heard about the funding and I’m convinced I’ve missed out. Already I’m thinking about the cancellations, the let-down; that I’ll invite everyone here for a barbecue so we can regroup. All that practice and no opening night – well, not one it deserves. The play deserves a proper theatre, so I won’t produce it for an audience in a dull community hall with crap seats. One benefit is there’ll be no need for Chester to make the sets now: he can bury his wife in peace.
Pointing the hose at a camellia, I think maybe next year I’ll try again for the funding, take my time so I have a better chance. Perhaps it’s natural after disappointment to start thinking negatively, but I wonder if the Yellow Box Players is up for discussion; does the group want to keep going? Although, Felicity is keen for us to do Patricia Cornelius’s play Do Not Go Gentle.
Parrots have been nibbling the succulents; their edges look like chipped green glass. There’s yellow spot on the roses, yet the blooms keep coming. At the end of the path, the branches of a pink crepe myrtle and bright orange rosebush entwine. I move to a rhododendron; its leaves are yellowing. I count to fifty, guessing that’s enough time to be standing there, but the watering meditation is entering my body and my mind drifts to I Did My Best – the actors on stage, Felicity and Owen doing their lines, Amber strutting with her hands on her hips, Noah getting the timing of his jokes right, the violin being the perfect segue to the next scene.
The grapevine surrounding the pergola is turning to autumn. This is one of my favourite places to watch the leaves change, to follow the seasons. I move around and point the hose onto a bed of daphne and gardenia. I see Margie’s walker at the bottom of the pergola steps. She’s inside, her head down, reading. This is a nice place to sit; it’s warm and sheltered. I twist the nozzle shut, drop the hose and go to her.
There are dried red and brown leaves on the floor; the breeze tickles them along, like they’re being pulled by an invisible thread. Pieces of a pink plastic tea set are scattered in a corner, an undressed Barbie doll close by.
Margie looks up. Alicia helped her in the shower this morning; her silver hair is soft, probably due for a trim. She’s wearing her new clothes and I think she looks very nice. An image of a younger Margie comes to mind – if only she’d smile.
Then I see. It’s my play she’s reading.
She knows I’ve seen it, yet closes it and puts it on the seat beside her, then pushes it along like it suddenly belongs to someone else.
‘What do you think?’ I ask, pointing.
‘I don’t know about plays. It’s interesting, the way the people are told exactly what to do and say. I thought they’d make it up, at least some of it.’
‘No,’ I say, ‘it’s very controlled, that’s the thing. The actors have to memorise all their lines.’
‘I would prefer to read a book,’ she says.
I’m a bit over Margie and what she’d like. Sure, she’s made some effort, but it’s too little, too late. Her lack of gratitude and warmth now irritates me; it’s annoying that she seems unwilling to cooperate, smile or show me any appreciation. She didn’t eat the porridge with the figs that I delivered to her room this morning. She’s contrary and stubborn – and I think perhaps people don’t change, that Margie is a difficult woman and I should leave her to herself, back in Bishop Street. Meals can be arranged. There are home services for the elderly.
Then the words are coming out of my mouth. ‘You seem to be doing pretty well. I think next week when we see the surgeon, I’ll discuss with him when you can return to Bishop Street.’
In her sad brown eyes, a silent pleading as if she’s asking for something but can’t speak. I can’t bear to look into her face.
I turn to continue the watering. Then I remember. ‘Something’s happened to Chester.’
She stares at me.
‘Ross had a call this morning. Yesterday his wife, Laura, died. Apparently it was her heart.’
I don’t expect Margie’s reaction. She drains white and turns away, pressing her hand to her mouth.
Chapter 20
Margie
LAURA is dead and I can’t imagine a world without her presence. There were times I was obsessed with her, the woman Chester shared the intimate parts of his life with: bed, bathroom, meals. Just a simple thing like drinking a cup of tea together, something we never did. I know they sometimes went to the movies, and on holidays to visit her sister and brother-in-law in Cottesloe. Once in the local paper I saw a photo of them dancing together at an arts fundraising event, both laughing. It really is too complicated to sort out – being the third person in their marriage, secretly sharing her husband’s body, and his mind. Chester was like a drug I needed to survive. Of course, it was wrong. I did try to feel guilt and shame, but I loved him too much to ever regret it.
Stella is dragging the hose to the salvia and hellebores near the laundry. And how dare she? The way she just stood before me, wearing those shorts, announcing that when we go to the surgeon next week for my check-up she’s going to discuss with him when I will return to Bishop Street. ‘Meals can be arranged and other support.’
I’m nothing. Something to be discarded when I’m no longer wanted.
In my heart there’s a wrenching ache, a feeling of grief, and I can’t quite put anything in its right place. Is it Laura dying, the absence of her, my nemesis? Or is it the prospect of leaving my old home again? I think they are entwined and that somehow my chance for happiness is here. I stare into my hands, the spots and veins, thickened joints. My wedding ring is as smooth as a stone found in an ancient river.
Not long after Norman and I married, we were on a Melbourne tram headed to an eye specialist appointment. An elderly couple sat opposite us holding hands, fingers with arthritic joints and wedding rings, comfortably linked together. I’ve never forgotten the natural affection between them – I wasn’t yet thirty years old and already craved what they had. Beside me, Norman had his arms folded, awkward in himself but staring out the tram window, excited, as though he’d discovered some missing thing and, if he had another life, he might like to discover this city. I knew then that I didn’t understand my husband and he probably didn’t know himself. But the elderly couple opposite knew exactly who they were.
I have some difficulty wiggling my wedding ring over my knuckle. It eventually slips off. I study it, the dull gold, and the illegible smudge on the inside that was once the jeweller’s insignia. And without a thought I lift my arm and throw it backwards, behind me somewhere in the garden. I don’t turn to see where it’s landed, but it’ll be somewhere in the agapanthus – and very fitting because I never liked them, either. They’re too common.
And so. I’m no longer a respectable widow. That grand gesture has set me free. I stare at my left hand and waggle my fingers like I’m Isobel playing the piano. Fifty-five years that ring circled my finger and it’s left a deep indent. Here I am sitting in the pergola, looking down at the hem of my silky cream blouse, knees together, the tips of my black shoes. I don’t know what this means now, Laura dying and Stella wanting me to return to Bishop Street.
The laundry door slaps. Ross and Jemima step onto the path. She’s carrying a filled calf-feeding bottle. They’re going to feed the abandoned twin: a bull calf named Justin after a Canadian singer. She showed me a video of him on her iPad, a nice-looking young lad. How does Ross know how to be a good father? I’m too old to understand things and it feels exhausting to try. All I know is he didn’t have a happy childhood. But I don’t feel great remorse because I did what I could manage. What more could anyone have asked of me? I’ve thought more than once I should feel resentment towards Freddie and Evelyn for their knowing intention to marry their only son off to a naive young woman who was for certain going to have a difficult life.
I splay my hands before me and see the vacancy where my wedding ring was for so long. For more than half a century it was a burden to me. And from somewhere inside, this upwards feeling of happiness flows over and
I give into it and lift my arms as high as I can, clench my teeth, and smile. Actually, I would prefer to have a good howl.
Chapter 21
Stella
I’M breaking a cooked chicken apart. The salad is already made; canned chickpeas and sweet corn have bulked it out. As I work, I’m making plans. The phone calls I’ll make to relocate Margie back to Bishop Street. The aged-care services. Her doctor. She’ll need a cleaner and gardener. Her mail will have to be redirected. Perhaps by now new neighbours have moved into Dot’s old place; I’ll introduce myself. I find the wishbone and set it aside for the girls. Margie’s tray is ready; a tea towel is a tiny tablecloth. A glass of water for her to take her tablets. I remove the crystal vase. It’s taken almost three weeks, but I’ve had enough of Margie. She won’t be getting a fresh rose tonight.
Ross is sitting on the couch listening to Jemima read. Diva is cruising around looking for a place of interest. I can’t hear from this distance, but Isobel is in her third hour at the piano. Another thing to worry about; her dedication isn’t enthusiastic.
And there. Margie is at the kitchen door. She smiles; her lips quiver. ‘Perhaps I’ll join you for dinner,’ she says.
She looks diminished standing there, trying to please me. I can’t bear to see her hand tremble on the walker. Pleading eyes. That’s all it takes.
I am kind. ‘Margie,’ I say, ‘it’s great you’re eating with us. Take a seat, I won’t be long.’ I glance at Ross, wanting him to help me with her.
He is pointing into Jemima’s book, helping her sound out a word. ‘Un-scrup-ul-ous.’
It’s strange not taking a run down the hall with Margie’s tray. She sits in Isobel’s chair, and when Isobel arrives I wink at her, saying she can sit on the other side of the table.
There is no pretending this gathering over our evening meal is easy, that we are a functioning, happy family. Margie is an unwelcome guest. Ross eats silently. The girls answer questions with minimal words.
It seems Margie is suddenly aware of all this. She puts down her knife and fork. ‘I’d like to apologise,’ she says, wiping the sides of her mouth with a tissue. ‘For the trouble I’ve caused. And thank you for having me. I appreciate it very much.’
We stare at her.
She looks at Isobel. ‘Tell me, dear, what are you playing at the moment? I do enjoy listening to you.’
Isobel chews and stares at Margie. We’re all silent, watching, waiting, and I think she won’t answer. Then she swallows and says, quietly, ‘Mozart, Concerto No. 21.’
‘You seem very devoted. What do you want to do when you grow up?’
Isobel stares at me, wanting to know how to answer this impossible question. Her glasses have slipped a little way down her nose, and I resist reaching out and pushing them up.
‘Who knows, Margie?’ I say. ‘There’s a long time for her to decide.’
‘But all this piano playing. It’s lovely’ – she looks at Isobel, smiles – ‘but do you have any friends?’
‘Of course,’ Isobel says.
As if relieved to hear it, Margie gives a little chuckle and smiles across the table. Then, looking back to her food, she chases a chickpea around the plate with her fork.
Nothing further is said. Ross digs into his food, staring down at the table like it’s a deep unfathomable pool. The girls are themselves. But I can’t bear the tension, or Margie’s floundering helplessness trying to fit in. I want to say something to her, to everyone, but no words come.
I let it be, but it kills me, and I’m angrier with Ross than ever because he doesn’t try.
Later, in Margie’s room as she settles in bed, I fluff her pillows and offer to bring a cup of tea. She isn’t looking at me, yet she’s softer, smoother in her movements. Isobel is back at the piano, Mozart.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
Now Margie looks up. ‘Why are you thanking me?’
‘Because you helped me. You made an effort. It’s a step.’
She looks away again; her hands shake. I revert to being her nurse, straightening the bedding, pretending to tuck her in. Tears leak from her eyes and she dabs them away with a white hankie. I put my hand on her shoulder, lean down and kiss her cheek. She doesn’t move or acknowledge my gesture until I’m about to step away – then she reaches up and pats my hand, as if it’s me who needs comforting. Her mouth is slack with mute crying.
I see her wedding ring is gone and I lightly brush the naked spot with my thumb. ‘Margie?’ I whisper.
She shakes her head and flicks her hand to the door, telling me to leave her.
There’s a terrible ache in my chest, like I’m separating from a distressed child. But I close the door anyway because she wants me to go and I need to spend some time with Isobel, to see what’s going on with her. And there’s Jemima’s recycled instrument project. Plus, I want to look at my emails and think more about what I’ll do when we’re told we’ve missed out on the funding. And of course, there’s Ross.
I grind beans and froth milk to make Ross coffee. It’s not a gift: tonight I’m performing a function because it’s a habit. He’s emotionally deficient, and while the espresso is flowing into the cup, I question if he’s on the autism spectrum and wonder why I’ve never thought this before. But I’m sick of the ratty conversation I’m having with myself, so I pretend everything is normal and take him the latte. He’s in his study and I place it on a ceramic coaster on his desk.
On his laptop screen are satellite images like unravelling white cartwheels.
‘Storms are building on the South Australian border,’ he says. ‘We might get some rain overnight.’
He seems light and cheerful about this – of course he is – but more than is warranted given how things are between us.
‘I’ve got washing on the line,’ I say.
I leave him, pacing down the hall, out of the house to the clothesline. It’s been flapping in the heat for two days and now it’s an emergency. The air is muggy; the sky is pink, grey and low. I imagine I hear faraway thunder, yet there is no sense of rain yet; it’s still not reached Victoria. At the magnolia, a baby rabbit watches me unpeg and yank sheets off the line, and without folding I push them into the cane washing basket like they’re garbage.
Then Ross is there, unpegging, taking his time, folding before he places anything in the basket.
‘What’d you make of your mum over dinner?’ I ask.
‘Not much.’
I’m throwing the girls’ shorts and t-shirts in the basket, and it’s not because of pending rain, more like I’m just wired and anxious.
‘There’s no hurry for her to leave here,’ I say. ‘She’s making an effort and she’s very upset.’
‘Since when don’t I get a say?’
‘Since you let me down and became a complete bastard.’
With the clothesline still half-full, he drops my folded jeans in the basket and says he’s going to the shed to sharpen chainsaw blades.
I watch him walk away, the familiar shape of his body, shoulders, the line of his back, jeans resting low. I have the thought to call out, to apologise, but I don’t because I’ve just told him the truth.
If you can measure the loves we have in our life, Ross is by far my biggest. But he’s not the only man I’ve loved. There was someone else when I was seventeen, after I quit home and uni, and sat at a table in the old bakery on Robinson Street that soon became a theatre.
Erik Kozlov was thirty-three, bloody gorgeous with his scary blue eyes, and had a creative energy that was so powerful it sucked me inside him – until four years later when he spat me out, saying I was ‘too trusting’. It took some time to understand that he actually meant I was naive and immature.
He left me for an Italian sculptor, chain-smoking Marie, and a gig with the Sydney Theatre Company. From there he moved into experimental theatre in London. Sometimes I sneak a look on Facebook. He’s now in New York directing The Moment. The reviews have been very good. And he’s still with Mar
ie. They did me a favour, though I didn’t think that at the time.
I’ll give him this: he taught me a lot about theatre – directing mostly and being courageous enough to own my creative concept. He often wore white clothes like a messiah, and that’s how the theatre group saw him – a man walking with an outstretched arm, telling us what to do, laughing.
Around 10 pm, I’m in my dining room filling in time until Ross comes inside. The not knowing about the play’s funding makes me feel insecure. And I’m thinking that if the money doesn’t come through, that’s all right. I feel a strange detachment.
For years I’ve been thrashing this story to death and I’m sick of it. I’m troubled by the scene where Ruby and Jack accuse Grace of leaving them for three days and nights when she went to a work conference and didn’t leave a note or any money: ‘and hardly any food. We were orphans.’ It’s not true. It was only one night. Tommy was eleven, I was thirteen, and we got ourselves to school, and home, and nothing went wrong. And Grace says, ‘Your father was supposed to be home. He forgot you, not me. So go and accuse him!’ The story isn’t mine anymore; it’s taken on a life of its own and should be renamed. It’s the production that interests me, the creative process, the actors, not my story. It’s fake.
I’m depressed. I miss Ross and want to talk to him about all this junk swirling in my head.
The back door opens. Boots off and he pads in his socks through the family room, up the hall, and goes straight to bed without coming to say goodnight to me. That’s something to take notice of, his rejection, and I’m unsettled that he’s avoiding me. Ross never does that.
I consider possible responses. Perhaps I’ll sleep in here on the chaise lounge. Maybe I’ll grab my handbag, drive away and spend a couple of days in a small motel eating chips and watching TV. Or slam our bedroom door open, flick on the light and start yelling. All the options feel good. A small voice tells me to settle down, that I’m tired and should go to bed.
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