by Joy Dettman
Charlie’s phone rang on a Monday in early December. Georgie recognised Florence Keating’s ‘Georgina’. Most had learned that she didn’t reply to it. Not Florence.
‘What’s your problem, Florence?’
‘Raelene went to the shops on Saturday and she hasn’t come home. I thought she might be up there with you.’
‘She’s not.’
‘When is Jenny due back?’
‘The sixteenth. Have you reported her missing?’
‘No, and I’m worried sick about her.’
‘Call that court-appointed mob in Melbourne.’
‘She’s on her last chance with them. I don’t want to get her into more trouble.’
There are times when there’s not enough air in the world to fill the lungs, when you keep sucking it in but it won’t get to the places where it’s needed. Georgie was panting it in that morning.
‘I can’t control her, Georgina.’
‘I have to go, Florence. I’ve got a customer.’ Another phantom, but the phone was down. Now all she needed was for Raelene to walk through that door.
*
The tourists returned as they’d left, on the bus. Elsie went home to mince steak and make custards. Margot took pleasure in displaying her vampire fangs. Harry spent his weekends at Teddy’s house. Then three days before Christmas, Raelene turned up, her black hair bleached a brassy orange blonde.
Jenny didn’t recognise her at first glance, and when she did, she didn’t want to, didn’t want the hangover glow from their trip erased, not yet. Didn’t want the fight, the futility of the fight. But she fought her around to Maisy, the local backyard hairdresser. Maisy cut that orange hair near to the bone, then dyed what was left of it black, a dead flat black.
Always pixie-faced, the new hairstyle suited her, made her mouth wider, her teeth whiter, her black eyes darker.
‘You’ve got it all, Raelie. You’re a beautiful-looking kid. Don’t waste what you’ve got.’
Along with her bleached hair, she’d brought a zip-up bag stuffed full of clothing Jenny hadn’t supplied, that Florence certainly hadn’t supplied – with four little kids and Clarrie on the basic wage, they had trouble making ends meet.
The contents of that bag brought back memories of Jenny’s own return from Melbourne, Georgie in her belly.
‘Who have you been with, Raelene?’
‘I was working.’
‘Where?’
‘In a shop.’
Like a replay. Is that what life was? The same game, played over and over again?
‘We have to persevere with her, Jim. We have to try to get her through to eighteen. It’s all we can do.’
That was all Christmas was that year, the tree, the tinsel, the pretty baubles, the presents – a getting through it.
*
Georgie was in the newsagents, picking up Charlie’s newspaper, when a Christmas card caught her eye, a photograph of a jolly Father Christmas with two little girls on his lap, a pigtailed redhead, and a curly-headed blonde.
It hit one of her nerve endings, the one attached to the what might have been nerve. She’d posted no cards, bought none, but she bought that one, and when she got back to the shop and Charlie started on his Yankee dollar lecture, she picked up a biro and addressed the envelope to Cara Norris, care of Armadale Primary School. Sealed it, used one of the shop’s stamps on it, then walked away from Charlie’s ongoing monologue, walked up to the post office and dropped the envelope into the postbox.
And what harm was there in sending a Christmas card? Every year Sissy Morrison sent a Christmas card to Maisy.
It was too late though. School had broken up for the holidays.
ENGAGEMENT RINGS
They hanged Ronald Ryan on 3 February 1967. He’d killed a warder in a failed jailbreak, but no one had believed they’d actually hang him. This was Australia, and how could a man be paid enough to murder another in cold blood? How could he sleep at night knowing that he’d taken a life?
‘They fry them with electricity in America,’ Raelene said. ‘Their eyes pop out.’
‘Raelene!’ Jim said.
Christmas was over. Watch-dog Jenny was back on guard duty, Jim’s rules were new. Raelene had never liked Jim and didn’t tolerate his rules well.
‘Who are you to dictate to me?’
‘This is my house, Raelene. I supply the food on the table.’
‘Yeah, and you got her pregnant when she wasn’t much older than me too.’
She’d left school midway through form two, had learnt a lot of history on the school bus. Wily as a fox, street smart, not well equipped for life but full up to the ears with useful information.
It was Raelene who came home with the news that Teddy Hall had bought Vonnie Boyle an engagement ring. Not a surprise to many. They might have been married by now, had Mick Boyle and his wife approved of their daughter’s choice. They hadn’t, but by January ’67 they’d learnt to live with it.
Mick and Val Boyle invite you to celebrate with them the engagement of their only daughter, Yvonne, to Edward, son of Elsie and Harry Hall.
Maisy didn’t receive an invitation. She offered to sit with Margot, who had burnt the invitation with her name and Georgie’s written on it.
Jen and Jim were going. Harry and Elsie’s mob were coming home for the party, even Joey, who hadn’t been home in five years.
They’d booked the town hall, and it was like one of the old-time parties. Few left the hall before midnight and the diehards didn’t leave until two. Georgie and Jenny stayed until the end, then continued the reunion at Elsie’s, where the kids were carried to any available bed, two or three to each, and adults sat where they could, on chair, floor or doorstep.
Georgie didn’t walk back across the goat paddock until dawn, didn’t notice Margot was missing until she reached for the sugar basin at eleven on the Sunday morning.
Maisy had left her a note.
Georgie. Bernie is driving me and Margot down to the hospital. She’s gone right out of her mind. I’ve got a lump on my head the size of an egg. Maisy
*
Margot spent the night in Willama, but by the time Jenny called the hospital, she’d been transferred to the city.
They were all at Jenny’s that morning, Elsie, Harry, Georgie, Maisy and Joey, who lived in Bundaberg, Queensland. He had a wife and three kids up there on a cane farm. He’d flown down alone and would fly north tomorrow.
No one realised it was Georgie’s twenty-seventh birthday. She didn’t realise it until midafternoon, until she went home.
Harry and Elsie were arguing. ‘I raised her from a newborn baby,’ Elsie said. ‘She’s like one of my own.’
‘She’s not one of your own, and I miss my own,’ Harry said. ‘And the only reason I miss them is because every time they come home here you’ve got that lump of a girl stuck to your neck like a limpet.’
‘She doesn’t deserve to be down there in a house full of crazy people.’
‘It’s exactly what she deserves. She’s turning this place into a madhouse. And I’ve had enough of it, Else, and if you’d admit it, you have too. Young Georgie has had enough of it.’
‘Someone has to care about her.’
‘Who did she last care about, Else?’
‘She was in love with Teddy.’
‘She’s in love with herself. All she’s ever cared about is herself. If you dropped dead tomorrow, she’d miss your cooking but somebody else would pick up the slack. Our kids would miss you.’
Georgie listened. She couldn’t do much else. The house was only a small paddock away. They weren’t family but something a whole lot like family, and they never argued, and she wasn’t listening to any more of it.
Elsie saw her coming and went to her kitchen, Harry rolled a smoke. ‘I’m with Harry on this, Elsie. Margot is staying exactly where she is until they decide to let her out.’
‘She doesn’t need to be with crazy people, lovey.’
‘She doesn
’t need you to treat her like a five-year-old retard either. Now, say “Happy birthday, Georgie,” and stop your arguing.’
She might have been Gertrude laying down the law on her land. She had her voice. She had her command.
They said happy birthday. Harry told her he hadn’t realised how much he missed his kids until last night.
‘Me too, Harry. It was the best night I’ve had in years.’
She didn’t miss Margot. Wrapped her partial denture that night, slid it into an empty cigarette packet, and addressed it. Some city head-shrinker might get it into her mouth. Fried herself an egg, and left Charlie to feed himself. He could open a can of peaches, which was about all he’d eaten for days.
*
Found his opened peaches, found him in his storeroom at nine on Monday morning, sprawled on his stomach beside the rear door. She thought he was gone. She knelt beside him, rolled him over. He was breathing, shallow breathing, there was a weak pulse in his throat, fluttery. She ran to the phone to call the ambulance, then changed her mind and ran for the post-office kid.
‘Charlie’s down. I need a lift with him.’
Never a big man, Charlie, shrunken now by his ninety-four years of life; Georgie and the kid carried him out to the ute then she locked the door behind her, gave the kid Margot’s denture and fifty cents for stamps, then drove Charlie away from his town, not wanting it to be for the last time but knowing in her heart that it was.
A male orderly took him away. She filled in the admittance papers. His date of birth, his next of kin. Hilda Timms, daughter. She added the shop’s telephone number and his granddaughter’s number. Hilda lived with her daughter and son-in-law, and in the years Georgie had been working for Charlie, she’d never set eye on any one of them. She’d spoken to all three on the phone, back when Charlie had broken his arm, back when he’d been knocked off his bike by a hit-and-run driver, but they hadn’t been near him.
She’d been his carer these last years. He’d been her grandfather, tutor and her last link to Granny. Only last Friday she’d promised him a wild party at the town hall for his hundredth birthday. It wasn’t so far away.
Hadn’t been able to tell the doctor how long he’d been unconscious. Hadn’t seen him since Saturday. Should have checked on him yesterday. Could have.
She hung around the hospital until the doctor and nurses finished with him. Aware they may not allow an employee into the ward at that time of day, she told them she was his adopted granddaughter.
Sat with him, smoothed his white hair back from his brow, found his knobbly old arthritic hand and kissed it, and wanted to do more, so she did. Like a granddaughter, she reached low and kissed his brow – and if she didn’t have a right to, then no one had the right to. He offered no response. Should have kissed him on Saturday.
Left him then and drove back to the shop, three customers accusing her as she unlocked the door.
‘Charlie is in hospital,’ she said.
‘What’s wrong with him this time?’
‘Old age.’
One, a stranger, stood back until she switched on the lights, unlocked the cash drawer.
‘Who’s first?’
Whether he was or not, he went first, a stranger, a male who might have been fifty. And he didn’t want a packet of fags. He was the health inspector for the area.
‘Do your worst,’ she said and turned to deal with Grace Dobson.
And the coot headed straight for Charlie’s storeroom.
Two customers at the counter when the kid from the post office came in to give her the change from Margot’s denture, and a brown-paper-wrapped parcel.
‘How’s the old boy?’
‘They didn’t say,’ Georgie said, tossing the parcel to the counter, wishing the health inspector had chosen another day.
She walked down to the storeroom once the shop cleared, saw him standing over Charlie’s unmade bed, saw him pick up the opened can of preserved peaches, look at a bottle of rum, and at the table, sticky with spilt peach syrup and more. She’d wiped it down on Friday. Would have wiped it down today. Sighed and walked back to her place behind the counter.
The inspector poked around for an hour or more, then presented her with a pink copy of his findings, which he proceeded to go through, item by item.
Fire danger. Mouse faeces.
‘One of the conditions of my employment was an ability to read bad handwriting,’ Georgie said and filed his pink report in the cash drawer.
‘I’ll be back today week,’ he said.
Saluted him, Hitler fashion. Followed him out. Liked the car he drove. Didn’t like him. Lit a smoke and watched him disappear to the west.
Should phone Charlie’s family. The hospital might.
Do it later.
At five she rang the hospital. No change. At ten past, she decided it was probably late enough for Charlie’s grandson-in-law to be home. On the phone, he sounded more human than his women.
No such luck. Hilda took the call.
‘Charlie is in hospital,’ she said. Stood, then, allowing his daughter to hammer holes through her eardrum while she lit a cigarette and looked around a shop little altered in the years she’d been standing behind the counter. She gave that screechy-voiced battleaxe one cigarette of her time, and when it burned away, she thought about dropping the butt into the cash drawer. Not enough paper money in it to burn. Plastic melted.
Dropped it on the floor, ground it out with the heel of her shoe, then reached for the forgotten parcel the post-office kid had delivered.
She hadn’t looked at it, and when she did, she saw her own name on it.
Surprise parcels in the post may have been commonplace to some. Georgie had never opened one. Granny used to send food parcels when they lived in Armadale. She’d enjoyed watching them opened. She swapped the telephone to her left hand, allowing her left ear to take its share of the screech, and with her right hand eased off the string, picked off sticky tape, thought about telling Hilda about the health inspector’s pink list. No space to say it in.
There was something soft beneath the brown paper, something as light as a feather . . . like the presents of dresses and pants Jenny used to send from Sydney, way, way back during the war.
‘God Almighty,’ she breathed, exposing a slit of emerald green. ‘I’ve got a customer,’ she lied, and the phone back on the receiver, she lifted a top free of its paper.
It was a superfine knit, silky, a rich emerald green with a silver lurex pattern woven around the low-cut neckline. As she held it high, a card fell to the floor and slid beneath the counter. She dived to retrieve it.
A birthday card, a woman in profile, head down, with hair as red as Georgie’s.
Dear Georgie,
Thanks so much for your Christmas card. I hope you have a wonderful birthday. Cara
*
Georgie never cried. She could sit through a tear-jerker movie and not shed a tear. Okay, so the world had ended the day Granny died. That was different, and she’d been a kid anyway, but there she was, standing behind the counter, blubbering over a birthday card and a gorgeous green top, just standing there, struck dumb by her tears or by that top, or by that have a wonderful birthday.
How had she known?
Her mother must have known.
Loved that green, absolutely adored it, and more than adoring the top, the colour and the knowing that her half-sister had known her well enough to choose a top she loved. It broke her up, or released floodgates she’d been controlling since she’d found Charlie on the floor.
And Bernie Macdonald came in for two packets of Marlboro and he caught her.
She turned her back, wiping her eyes with fingers, and taking her time in finding his brand of smokes. Slid them down the counter towards him, then hid her face behind her hair while writing his docket.
‘The old bloke gone?’ Bernie asked. News travelled like wildfire through this town.
‘Unconscious,’ Georgie said, allowing him to blame Charlie
for her tears.
‘He had a good innings.’ Bernie pocketed his smokes, his docket, but didn’t leave. ‘Heard anything new about your sister?’
Georgie shook her head, shook some sense into it. Jenny had said she’d ring Melbourne today. She hadn’t seen Jenny.
‘Mum couldn’t do anything with her. We didn’t know they’d send her down to their nuthouse.’
Nuthouse. As a kid she’d known that Amber was in a madhouse, or at a funny farm. These days they were psychiatric hospitals.
What’s in a name?
‘Mum is going down next week with Macka,’ he said. ‘I suppose you know that your grandmother has disappeared off the planet.’
Georgie didn’t have a grandmother, didn’t know if Amber was missing or not and didn’t care. Wanted him to go and he wouldn’t. She ripped a length from a toilet roll she kept beneath the counter, blew her nose while he gave her the details of Margot’s attack on Maisy.
Margot liked brooms and broomsticks. Jenny had been on the wrong end of one. Georgie had wrestled a few brooms from Margot’s hands.
She removed the notes from the cash drawer, didn’t count them, just stuffed them into a calico bag she pushed deep beneath the counter, then reached for the light switch. And Bernie took the hint. She followed him out. He lit a smoke while she padlocked the door.
‘Take it easy then,’ he said and he got into his brand-new ute, and Georgie wanted his ute. She got into Charlie’s and drove to Jenny’s house.
Found her at the sink preparing vegetables. Trudy at the table, drawing fairies with colourful wings. As Jenny took the green top into her hands, Raelene took it from her.
‘How did she know it was your birthday?’ she asked.
‘Her mother?’ Georgie said.
‘Myrtle didn’t know,’ Jenny said.
‘She might be your fairy godmother,’ Trudy said.
‘More like a lesbo girlfriend she’s pretending is some long-lost cousin,’ Raelene said.
‘Watch your mouth or I’ll wash it out for you,’ Jenny said and turned back to the sink, to place a lid on a pot, add salt to another.
Georgie reclaimed her top. She wrapped it and picked up her bunch of keys.
