Rain

by Leigh K. Cunningham

  Chapter Eleven

  February 1968

  THE house in Orchard Road followed the prevailing design of its time: economical in size and layout, high-set, with three bedrooms at one end, and a kitchen, living room, and dining room at the other. A tiny strip of a bathroom separated the kitchen and one of the back bedrooms. The ground floor was so in name and nature: bare earth sprinkled with construction debris. With the first rain, a muddy river would dislodge most of it. Two rows of asymmetrical posts shaped an informal car space for the new, second-hand station wagon, and a dual concrete washing tub constituted the rest of the underbelly of the timber house.

  The furniture, although pre-owned, still exhausted their savings long before Helena was able to contemplate window furnishings and floor coverings. Dorothy donated the threadbare, once-white sheets for the glass panes, but the floorboards would remain uncovered for an age.

  Dorothy did not move from Park Lane to Orchard Road, which was not a startling revelation for Helena, but Michael was stunned, and amazed his sphere of influence did not even extend as far as his own mother. The new home, in any event, exuded a level of relative happiness in spite of its scant surrounds.

  Helena savored proprietorship of her new kitchen, and added cabbage to her forbidden foods list along with potatoes in any form. Recipes inherited from Dorothy and Millie, and ripped from unattended magazines, ignited a love affair in earnest.

  She had not yet divested herself of the weight gained with William, and at four months pregnant, was already comfortably into maternity wear and nothing else. Michael did not object when she insisted on darkness before a naked body revealed itself, and his easy agreement caused some disquiet: with a dark blank canvas, her physical presence could manifest easily into a more covetable someone else. That was unlikely though, she believed, for Michael was many things, but not an adulterer. It was unlikely also since Michael was too tired at the end of every workday to do anything around the home or with the children, let alone muster the creative energy required for the design of a fantasy woman.

  The cumulative effect of night school proceeding day work, and a colicky baby, did not warrant the level of asperity Michael dispensed, but it seemed to authorize his solution: time spent at The Royal every Saturday afternoon was ‘palliative’. The number of hours of ‘care’ The Royal rendered was indeterminate since he spent Saturday mornings at Park Lane with Dorothy supposedly until lunch, and only then ventured its way. The impact on the floor-covering budget was similarly indeterminate because Helena received Friday’s orange pay packet with all evidence documenting the quantum of its contents removed. She said nothing to avoid the drama that would follow. Michael had already threatened to quit night school if she persisted with queries about his palliative care as if his continued education had been her idea when in fact it was a decision taken unilaterally for the realization of his dream of becoming a defense force pilot.

  Not all was lost to those delinquent Saturday mornings: James, and sometimes Millie too, chose to visit at that time, but unlike Helena, Millie was not yet accustomed to the pervading eau de cabbage.

  Helena prepared tea and pikelets while William bounced on James’ good knee, and squealed and clapped.

  “He likes to sit at the table with everyone else,” she said, “center of attention.”

  “He won’t like having another baby in the house,” said James with a laugh.

  “He’ll have to get used to it,” said Helena, pouring tea with disregard for Millie’s ritual pot turning.

  “Where’s Mum?” she asked.

  “Ladies Auxiliary meeting. They’re planning to take control of the canteen at the oval, to serve ‘decent’ food. Problem is, most people I know, me included, would rather have a pie and chips or a sausage roll than an egg and lettuce sandwich.”

  “That could only happen in Maine,” said Helena, sipping her tea. “What’s in the shoebox? I do need new shoes.”

  “No, sorry, no shoes.”

  “What is it?”

  James pushed the box across the laminated table to Helena. She removed the battered lid and peered inside.

  “Letters?” she asked.

  “Take a closer look at the envelopes,” he said, sharing more of his pikelet with William.

  Helena flicked through the familiar stationary then stopped at one addressed to the Phoenix Insurance Company. She did not need to open the envelope to know its origins. “It wasn’t my fault,” she whispered.

  James shook his head. “No one ever blamed you, Helena.”

  “All these letters…she never posted them?”

  “Maybe she didn’t know what to do with them so she just put them in the box and tucked them away with her gardening things. It was just after Christmas, and you know, it’s a difficult time for her…” James sipped his tea.

  “It’s been hard on you too, Dad.”

  “I still miss him…and it seems worse now that I’m not working. Your mind decides for itself what you’ll waste hours thinking about.”

  “What about starting a new business?”

  “I’ve thought about it, but couldn’t come up with anything I wanted to do, and your mother needs me…more than I realized.”

  “I’d be happy to offer you a full-time job here, without pay of course.”

  “I could just imagine Michael’s response. He would accuse me of trying to take over his family.”

  Helena nodded. “Shame really.”

  “Yes, shame, all right,” said James. William bounced his head to encourage James to do more with his knee and released a shrill when James responded. “You’re a funny little fellow,” said James with a laugh.

  Chapter Twelve

  December 1970

  THE first three years at Orchard Road had its highs, and even more lows. Brian arrived 14 August 1968 and Carla, 6 May 1970. She would be the last born since Michael was well and truly over the novelty of fatherhood, the third child having failed to generate the same exuberance as the first two. The pressure of responsibility, of being the sole breadwinner, husband, father, student, man with a dream, and everything else, was taking a toll. He also found the extortionate level of infant noise oppressing. Yet in spite of the centrifugal forces, he continued with his schooling, and marveled at his previously untested capacity for perseverance. One more year would yield a Higher School Certificate (HSC), an essential requirement for entry into the Royal Australian Air Force (RAAF). Michael had already sent his application expecting, and hoping to conclude the recruitment process for military pilots before receiving his HSC in January of 1971. He would enlist the next day.

  In the midst of the births, Dorothy passed in June of 1969 in circumstances branded tragic by the informal judgment system in Maine. When Michael left Park Lane for Orchard Road in February 1968, he had set aside every Saturday morning until lunch to spend with Dorothy. Then, without consciousness, the mornings became a couple of distracted hours, then every second Saturday then a random event. On one such irregular act of devotion, Michael discovered her body, the woman he had loved like a mother.

  The house was a fortress against the winter, keeping the pure air out and the rancid air within. Even the natural heaviness of chilled air could not repress the insurgent reek that contaminated every oxygen molecule. Michael could not breathe: the stench was far worse than a mountain of potato cakes with a cabbage coulis. He spewed his breakfast over the linoleum, and knelt to pray for the first time since he was three when he learned the uselessness of the practice. For the longest while after the funeral parlor claimed her fragile frame, the smell lingered to remind Michael of his failure. He hoped she had passed in her sleep, comfortable in a flannelette nightgown, albeit all alone.

  Michael had gone to The Royal to douse his sorrow and shame until they no longer consumed his mind and body. He failed at that task as well, and was able to hear the newsreader report the lead story on the midday news.

  “The decomposed body of an elderly woman was found in Park Lan
e today after lying undiscovered for six days. Her son who raised the alarm found the sixty two-year-old on her bed. It does not appear she had contact with anyone in the past week.”

  Chief Inspector Brock appeared on the television monitor to add a commentary.

  “From what we can tell, she did not have any medical problems. The frail pensioner just slipped under the radar. It is a very sad situation when someone gets to the end of their life and no one knows they died and no one seems to care. It’s tragic.”

  For the six months following Dorothy’s death, a perpetually dolorous expression covered Michael’s face, but with night school over, and with Grace’s return to Maine, he found reason to set aside his bereavement.

  He parked the family station wagon in Waterloo Street, three houses up from the Wallin residence, to wait for Grace. Their planned lakeside rendezvous bore no resemblance to a “poker game with the lads from work”, and Helena’s gullibility continued to surprise him: he had never shown an inclination for cards nor played a single game of poker before. There seemed to be no limit to the possibilities for deception.

  Grace raced down the stairs to the living room, compounding the pulsation in her chest.

  “Where are you going, Grace?” James asked.

  She laughed. “You cannot be serious,” and continued in the direction of the front door.

  “Have you forgotten something?”

  “What?”

  “The rest of your outfit? What are you wearing?”

  “A dress, and there’s nothing missing, thanks, Dad.”

  “Looks like the top half and you forgot the skirt.”

  She shook her head. “I’m twenty-six, and I run my own business. When are you going to stop with all of this?”

  “All of what?”

  “Telling me what to do as if I’m still a child.”

  James returned to his newspaper, and the front door closed behind his back.

  Grace lit a cigarette, and hurried in the direction of the station wagon. She slid across the vinyl bench seat to sit beside the driver.

  “No problem getting away?” Michael asked.

  She shook her head. “Not really.”

  Michael laughed then checked the rear vision mirror before driving off. He did not see James Wallin coiled behind the deep red flower spikes of the Bottle Brush, even though his presence had scattered an artillery of screeching Rainbow Parrots.

  Chapter Thirteen

  February 1971

  THREE times pregnant, so Helena knew the signs. Michael’s reaction was also predictable, and this she anticipated with fluttering nerves and a further dose of nausea. She could hide it for months under her natural bulkiness and free-flowing dresses, which already bore the brunt of Michael’s endless gibes as if her size was a choice rather than an outcome. Beneath it all, she was a mere skeleton of a woman with a backbone that could not support the plague of torment.

  “I think I might be pregnant,” she said, and watched her father’s eyes grow round while he continued to calmly chew a pumpkin scone.

  “I thought you’d been…you know, fixed,” he replied.

  “I’m not a cat, Dad, but yes, that was supposed to happen after Carla was born.”

  James sat back in his chair and sighed. “What a relief. You can’t be pregnant then.”

  “Why is it a relief?”

  James sipped his tea several times. “I thought you didn’t want more children.”

  “Michael doesn’t want more children, but I do, even though I can’t manage with the three I have. I love babies.”

  “You’re probably just imagining it. Must be one of those phantom pregnancies, common in cats, I believe.” He smiled.

  “And Mary the first, Queen of England, she had a phantom pregnancy.” Helena reached for another scone and covered it with cream. “You’re right, Dad, and it is a relief. Michael would not be pleased.”

  James nodded.

  Carla cried out from her playpen in the living room.

  “William!” Helena yelled.

  “Whoa,” said James. “It’s not his fault whenever she cries.”

  “He pinches her, and she has the marks to prove it. I don’t think he’s too happy with the invasion of siblings,” said Helena. “I really must make more time for him.”

  “Come here, little man,” said James, and lifted his grandson on to his lap. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you?”

  William smiled, and Helena thought she saw a glint of knowing behind the innocence that filled the hazel.

  Still spooked by the phantom baby’s relentless kicking, Helena revisited Dr. Lange who confirmed that, on or around 16 July 1971, Helena should expect to deliver a fourth child: the growing mass in her abdomen was not an apparition or mere expansion. There had been an administrative oversight, he explained, as he scribbled a script for Helena’s high blood pressure, and as a result, the tubal ligation he was supposed to perform following Carla’s birth, did not occur. He did not waste time apologizing, but offered to complete the procedure in July without charging the difference in cost, which now arose due to a 1 January price increase. Helena thanked him for his consideration then drove on automatic pilot to Waterloo Street to collect her first three children.

  There was no judgment from her father, and only a soulful look that spoke of a heart breaking. She understood how deeply he cared, especially now she had her own, but it was painful for her in both directions: looking upward into her father’s eyes, and down at the tiny lives that depended on her capabilities as a mother, which had yet to reach any potential.

  Millie did what she did best, lifting wilted spirits with a three-course, home-cooked meal. The effect was instantaneous, with thoughts turned away from the perceived doom toward a belief in the will of God, and a reason that would only become clear over time. No one mentioned the real issues: time was already in short supply, as was money, and the marriage was still problematic, as was the husband.

  Helena was rosy-cheeked when she returned home to Orchard Road, high on a regime of comfort foods and parental support, and her cheeks glowed brighter when she checked the mail.

  A letter had arrived from the Royal Australian Air Force, and Helena hoped its contents would deliver the news Michael had been waiting for, over-powering any natural inclination to explode when she announced the due date of their fourth child. She opened the envelope, careful not to tear any part of it.

  To further his application to join the RAAF, Michael had to attend two days of testing at the RAAF Recruitment Centre in York Street, Sydney. The medical component of the tests required a full medical by a civilian defense doctor followed by eyesight, hearing, and cardiology examinations undertaken by external specialists in Sydney. On the second day, he had to undergo a psychological assessment. Helena shuddered: an inquisition into Michael’s mind could not go well, but was likely to be a matter of much interest to the professionals involved. She decided to hold off on the baby news to enjoy the amenable mood the letter would generate, and tell Michael by phone while he was in Sydney, after the assay into his psyche, but before the outcome. She re-folded the letter, added glue to the flap, and placed it on the kitchen bench where Michael would see it the minute he came through the back door.

  In the years since James Wallin had asked his good friend Peter McMurtrie to employ his son-in-law, James had endured a constant disquiet. Peter had never mentioned Michael during any of their regular encounters, and for the most part, that was both desirable and pleasant. However, the absence of feedback had also fuelled James’ growing unrest, culminating in an urgent need for information because his daughter was expecting another child.

  They met at The Royal in a dimly lit back booth, and James hurried Peter through the usual conversation: golf, the share market, politics, and the shocking nature of all news out of the city. Then turning to the issue of Michael Baden, and feeling confident his son-in-law’s absent moral values would correlate with his employable worth, James sculled his whiskey in ant
icipation of what he was about to hear: cunning, lascivious, and undependable. He ordered another round of drinks before asking Peter to repeat the unfamiliar terms: intelligent, indefatigable, and trustworthy, and James inquired further to be sure the subject under discussion was the same for both. It was, but the report card did not fill James with any sense of pride, just relief, and they had moved on to other more convivial topics when the subject arrived to occupy a stool at the bar.

  James watched as Michael ordered a beer then turned to survey the clientele at The Royal. Despite the muted lighting, he spotted James and gestured in his direction. James nodded in response, and checked his watch to record the time of Michael’s first drink. He added a second to the count within minutes. “Must be hot out,” James mumbled to Peter, but did not explain.

  James slowed his whiskey consumption, determined to outstay his son-in-law, and with a keen eye and a temperate glass, he would monitor the hands of man and father time.

  Hours passed and James could not continue the exercise, but the conclusion was clear: Helena, William, Brian, and Carla lived an existence more miserly than what a council wage could otherwise afford.

  James left with Peter and made no contact with Michael whose posture over the bar was much less upright. The friends chatted a while in the car park before heading for their respective vehicles.

  “Can I talk to you?” Michael called out after James.

  James stopped mid-stride. He dropped his head and shoulders, and reluctantly turned to face his son-in-law.

  “What was that about?” Michael asked.

  “What was what about?”

  “You, with my boss. You were talking about me, weren’t you?”

  James shook his head and sighed. “Go home to your wife and children, Michael. You’ve been here long enough.”