Candelo

by Georgia Blain

  Sitting by the side of the road with the flowers that he had bought for Mitchell wilting at his feet, Simon buried his head in his hands.

  It was some suburban back street, any street in any of these suburbs. The indicator was still clicking, the engine was still on, and the sun was warm through the windscreen.

  We were lost.

  And as I tried to trace where we were, my finger running aimlessly down the map, Simon spoke.

  Can’t you see? he said. It wasn’t Mitchell driving. It was me.

  thirty-six

  I am not so surprised by the fact that Anton and Louise are moving as I am by the fact that I did not know. That they did not tell me.

  Which shouldn’t be so unexpected, Lizzie tells me and she is right.

  I have avoided Anton, and he has avoided me. He leaves whispered messages on my machine with less and less frequency as he has come to realise that I have no intention of returning his calls. We rarely pass each other on the path, but when we do, we talk politely. Any attempts made by him to vaguely allude to what has happened are so general that it is not difficult to avoid them.

  And as for Louise – we do not speak. We have not said a word. Not since the afternoon of the funeral, not since I found her, there on my front step, when I came home. Sitting in the late afternoon sun, watching me as I walked down the path towards her.

  When it began with Anton, I never thought about how it would affect her. I never let myself see her as a person. Not really. She would knock on my door and I would open it to find her standing there, her hair falling into her face, her eyes refusing to meet mine as I would let her in, wanting to hear what she had to say, wanting to know, but not through any genuine concern.

  But it was not just her that I failed to see. It was also him. I did not want to know. He would shrug his shoulders and sigh as he told me about each of his impossible love affairs: nights in the Siberian snowfields pining with love for a Russian interpreter, trekking through Sri Lanka with a beautiful married woman, stranded in a castle in Ireland with his best friend’s girlfriend. I would hear his tales but I would not hear them. I refused to see myself as the next in line.

  And that was not all I refused to see. Because I did not want to see, I did not want to know, that perhaps it was not just boredom that had made me turn towards him. That perhaps I had fallen, tumbled, headlong, into more than I realised.

  That perhaps I had fallen in love.

  And as I walked towards Louise waiting for me, there, outside my flat, I knew that she knew. Not everything. But enough.

  How could you have done it? she asked.

  The cool breeze from off the ocean cut through the warmth of the sun.

  I looked at my feet, at the cigarette butt Simon had left there that morning, at the weeds growing through the cracks of what was left of the cement, at the dirt and sand that had swallowed most of the path and the garden, at all of this and not at her.

  I just don’t understand.

  As I unlocked the door to my flat, she was there behind me, following me in, wanting me to explain.

  I opened the windows wide and let the breeze rush in, lifting my curtains, sending papers scattering across the floor, the leaves of an open book flip-flapping backwards and forwards.

  My bed was still unmade, my clothes were thrown across the chair, the sink was piled high with dishes; it was all there, everything that I owned open and on show.

  I cleared a space for her to sit, but she did not move. She stayed where she was, leaning against the doorframe, watching me and waiting for an answer.

  Did you love him?

  No, I told her, still uncertain as to whether I was telling a lie.

  Then why did you do it?

  I sat down and looked out the window. Out near the horizon, a flock of gulls had circled and alighted, a white flurry on the flat sea. I turned back to face Louise. I could see she had been crying. Her face was white and drawn. Her arms were folded across her chest but despite the defiance in her pose, she was nervous.

  I am sorry, I told her. This is a bad time.

  She was staring at me and I did not go on. She did not want to know. All that had happened, all that I had just learnt from Simon, was no concern of hers. She wanted me to explain, despite knowing that any explanation I gave her would do little to alter what had passed.

  I told her I didn’t know why I had done it. I hadn’t thought. I should have thought. But I hadn’t.

  I told her there was no excuse.

  I told her that he hadn’t loved me.

  I told her that it had just been one of those things.

  And I told her I was sorry.

  She stayed where she was, one foot in the door and one foot out, listening to the inanity of my words, trying to dig out some truth, some thread that would make sense to her, or, better still, that would wipe it all away.

  What hurts most, she said, and because there was a quaver in her voice, she stopped for a moment. I could hear the intake of her breath, and I waited. What hurts most is all those times I came to you.

  I remembered. The knock on my door late at night. Telling me she thought he was seeing someone else, but maybe she was just paranoid, maybe she was being ridiculous, maybe she was a little mad; me listening without ever speaking.

  Not lying but not telling the truth.

  But how could I have told you? I asked her.

  She looked at me and she looked away. She was silent.

  I could hear Mouse in the bathroom next door. I waited for her to speak.

  I guess I knew, she said. I guess that’s why I kept coming to you.

  I didn’t understand.

  I guess I thought that if I kept coming to you, it would stop you from saying anything. It would stop it from becoming a reality.

  And she looked down at her feet.

  I got up slowly to close the window and she turned to the door.

  Don’t, she said, misinterpreting my move, thinking that I was coming to comfort her.

  I stopped where I was.

  I don’t want to make up. I don’t want to forgive and forget.

  And she did not look back as she stepped out into the last of the day. She did not look back as she turned towards her own flat, and then, changing her mind, headed to the path, leaving me on the doorstep as she made her way past the oleanders and up towards the road.

  Standing out there in the cool of the late afternoon, I watched her disappear from sight and I wondered for a moment whether I should go after her.

  There was no point.

  There was nothing I could say.

  From above, I could hear Anton closing the windows. From next door, I could hear Mouse talking to someone.

  It was cold but I did not move. I leant against the wall and I closed my eyes. But it was not Louise who occupied my thoughts. Not then. Maybe sometime later. But not then.

  It was Simon.

  I could not stop thinking about what he had told me. The enormity of it flooding me, overwhelming me.

  I needed to speak to my father. I needed him to tell me what he knew.

  I heard my phone ring and I heard the click of my answering machine. It was Anton asking me if I was all right.

  And I just let him talk.

  thirty-seven

  It was Bernard who came and picked us up.

  Driving to Candelo through the night, keeping himself awake by turning up his stereo another notch and then another, Bach and Dvoák filling the darkness, the palm of his hand beating the steering wheel in time to the ebbs and flows of the music, finally arriving at the house as streaks of dawn threaded through the sky.

  I woke early. As I opened the front door, it was his car that I saw first, the new black Porsche sleek and incongruous in the long grass, and I made my way towards it, the freshness of the dew damp through my sandshoes.

  He was asleep in the front seat, his mouth open, his face tired and grey.

  I tapped on the window, hesitant at first, then loud enough
for him to wake.

  Honey bunny. It was the name he used to call me when I was little, when he still lived with us, and yet his use of it did not seem out of place, not on that morning.

  As he opened the passenger side for me, as I got in next to him, I was crying, and he reached across the seat and pulled me close, soothing me as he stroked my hair off my face. And that was how I wanted to stay but he gently manoeuvred me back into my own seat. I guess we’d better go in, he said, and as I nodded my head in agreement, he took my hand, and we walked slowly, in silence, back towards that house.

  We were sent to pack. Simon and I, each in our own rooms, the dividing door closed between us.

  Most of Evie’s clothes were still in her bag.

  Most of Mitchell’s were spread across the floor.

  Our things and theirs.

  And we could see each other through the glass doors as we closed zips on bags that neither of us wanted to touch.

  In the kitchen, Bernard and Vi sat across from each other, the low hush of their voices occasionally discernible in the quiet that had descended. Bernard wanting to know what had happened, Vi trying to tell him, agitated, tense, irritated with his questions. Was she sure it was Mitchell driving? Was he drunk? Were they both drunk? Where was Mitchell now? Were the police pressing charges? Against whom? Until finally she got up, and, slamming the door behind her, she walked out across the overgrown garden at the back of the house, out towards the orchard, and beyond that towards the paddocks, to where the hills began to roll gently upwards to the windswept mountain country beyond.

  My father was only doing what he knew how to do best. Trying to lay out the facts, one by one, trying to assess what practical action, if any, was needed.

  And trying to protect your brother. He leant forward and looked at me. There, in his apartment, the day after the funeral, his face almost silhouetted against the flat grey sky.

  What you have to understand is that that was my first priority, and he did not take his gaze from mine as he poured himself another wine, before offering the bottle to me.

  I shook my head.

  Besides, he added, I really didn’t know what to believe. Your brother was distressed. Very distressed.

  And I listened as he tried to explain what had happened and why.

  It was Bernard who went to the police, taking Mitchell’s bag with him.

  We watched him starting the car, Vi and I, and as the engine turned over, we heard the door swing open behind us; we heard Simon’s footsteps.

  Where’s he going? Simon asked.

  It was, I think, the first words he had spoken since he had come back with Vi the night before, and I was startled by his voice.

  Vi told him he was taking Mitchell’s things. To the police.

  I watched as the impact of the words hit him, as he leapt down the stairs and ran out across the garden, through the grass, chasing our father’s car, his arms waving above his head.

  And Bernard stopped, one half of the Porsche still in the grass, the other on the dirt road, as he wound his window down, as Simon leant forward, his head almost completely inside, talking, agitated, anxious, pulling at the doorhandle, the window rapidly wound up, the sound of the engine revving and the cloud of dirt as Bernard disappeared up the road, leaving Simon, standing there. Alone.

  He wanted to come with me, and as Bernard continued explaining, I could see he was uncomfortable. He was holding his wine glass between the palms of his hands, rolling the stem backwards, forwards, and backwards again.

  We were silent for a moment, neither of us sure what to say, and as I began to ask, I could not bring myself to look at him. Did he tell you? Did he tell you then?

  I was staring at the table between us, at the mark his glass had left, and I could sense him looking at me, my question there between us.

  Yes he did.

  And I raised my eyes and met my father’s gaze.

  So you knew?

  He nodded his head. And then, moments later, he shook it. He was telling me that he did it, that it was his fault, that he wanted to tell the police, and I just didn’t know. He was so upset. His sister, your sister, had just died, and of course he felt responsible.

  My father’s words trailed off.

  Outside, I could see day slowly fading into late afternoon, the shadows of the high-rises lengthening and crossing each other, bringing darkness earlier than it was due.

  But you ignored him?

  Do you blame me? and he looked at me, directly, challenging me to answer.

  I didn’t know. It was impossible to know what I would have done in the circumstances. All I knew was that Bernard did what he did.

  He went to the police station, with Mitchell’s one bag on the back seat behind him. He was gone for close to three hours.

  It was, he told me on that afternoon in his apartment, not easy.

  Mitchell had been taken away. He was back in the care of the State. He was awaiting trial. He had, apparently, been protesting his innocence. Over and over again.

  Your son told one of the officers that it was ‘all his fault’. The sergeant in charge would have looked at my father and my father would not have hesitated in his answer.

  Shaking his head sadly, he would have said that Simon was very upset. He has been blaming himself for having let Evie go with them.

  The policeman would have looked at my father’s card. Bernard Rafters, QC. He would have turned it over in his hands. He would have put it back on the desk between them.

  It’s a terrible business, my father would have said. You know the boy’s, and he would have hesitated as he searched for Mitchell’s name, Jenkins’, history. My wife, my ex-wife, does some foolish things. Taking him away with them was probably the most regrettable of them all. And Bernard would have shaken his head once more in dismay.

  There is no question that my father is a consummate performer. If he had any doubts as to Mitchell’s guilt, he would not have let on, not for a moment. The question is whether he did have doubts.

  As he talked to me that afternoon, I did not know whether he was, once again, performing. Telling me that he believed Simon was simply distraught and confused, when in fact he knew that Mitchell was innocent.

  Bernard asked the police whether they needed to see Simon again. He did not ask directly, of course. He referred to the fact that he wanted to take his family home. That evening, in fact. He assumed there would be no problem.

  If the sergeant had hesitated at all, my father would have looked confused. He would have said that they all needed to get back to their lives. They all needed to come to terms with this terrible tragedy, and as he spoke he would have begun to make his way towards the door. Surely there could be nothing further?

  And the sergeant would also have stood up. Obviously, if we need your son for questioning?

  Of course, my father would have said, one foot already in the corridor, one hand grasping the sergeant’s. Of course.

  And as Bernard thanked him for his time, he would have told the sergeant to call him. If you need anything further. You have my card.

  In the intense heat of the afternoon, the main street would have been deserted. The few people who were out would have been down by the river, sitting listless on park benches underneath the shade of the elms. Old people. People passing time.

  My father’s car was parked outside the police station. A city car. Out of place. Obvious. The fine film of dust coating the black duco doing little to alter the fact that it did not belong on these streets.

  And as Bernard unlocked the driver’s side, he was aware that the sergeant was watching him from the window of the station. He turned around and waved, briefly, as he let himself into the car. Just once. Friendly. Casual. And then he drove back along the dirt roads, his windows up, the airconditioning on high, the speedometer just over the speed limit, taking the bends without slowing down, driving back to where we waited for him.

  Our bags packed and ready for him to take us home.
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br />   As he finished speaking, he put his wine glass down on the table between us. He had drunk two-thirds of the bottle, but it did not appear to have had any effect on him.

  And there were no further questions? I asked him.

  He shook his head.

  I looked down at the fine Persian carpet, crimsons and blues twisting in and out of each other, and I did not know what to say.

  We did the wrong thing, I muttered, my words so low that they were barely discernible.

  But he heard.

  And as he leant forward to speak, there was anger in his voice and impatience. Tell me, he asked, what it is that you would have done in the circumstances. Even if you did have doubts. What would you have done?

  The full resonance of his voice filled the room, silencing me.

  No matter what kind of father I may have been, he is my son, and she was my daughter, and there was no pleading in his tone, no asking for understanding, just an angry statement of fact. What on earth do you expect?

  Outside, a light rain had begun to fall, uncertain, a fine mist balanced on the edge of either abating or building. I could hear the elevator clanking as it slowly made its way up the shaft. People coming home for the evening. I had not brought an umbrella. If I was going to leave, this was the time when I should go.

  But my father stretched across the table and held out his hand towards me.

  I had, he said, and I could not bring myself to look at him, no choice, and he let his hand fall back onto his knee, his eyes still resting on my face.

  thirty-eight

  Simon and I used to pick flowers for a woman who lived down the road from us.

  Coming home from school in the early afternoon, we would stop on our street corner and play handball with the boys who lived next door, hitting the ball back and forth, back and forth, until they were called in for afternoon tea. Bored and restless, knowing that Vi would probably not be home, and if she were, she would be working, we would continue to hit the ball dispiritedly to each other for a little longer.