Michael had not taken a single step up the stairs at Waterloo Street until that Christmas Eve, and it felt strange to Helena, exposing her childhood bedroom to her husband for the first time. He scanned every aspect of it, absorbing its richness and unable to hide an invidious comparison with his veranda at Park Lane.
The elongated upper story had three large bedrooms and an alcove, all in a row down the eastern side of the house. The master bedroom at the back was next to the sole bathroom. The alcove between the other two bedrooms, where three Wallin children had once congregated after school for homework with strawberry milk and freshly baked cookies, was still hallowed ground. Robert’s desk overlooked the manicured side gardens through a window that fell from the ceiling to the floor. Helena and Grace had desks facing the only two internal walls, which now served as a gallery. Michael studied the photos intently, one at a time, with the same level of vex that had accompanied his survey of Helena’s bedroom. It occurred to Helena then, that she had never seen a family photo at Park Lane—not a single photo of Michael, any of his brothers or Alice. The sole image on display was an austere black and white of Dorothy and John Baden Senior on their wedding day.
“Who’s this?” Michael asked, pointing at a young boy with fine blond hair and blue eyes rimmed by incongruous dark-framed glasses.
“Robert,” Helena replied. “You haven’t seen his picture before?”
“No,” Michael whispered. “He has blond hair…and blue eyes, like Matthew.”
“Wallin ancestry. Dad’s father came from Sweden before the First World War. Here’s an old picture of dad.” She handed Michael a yellowed portrait of a fair-haired youth. “You can see the similarities. Matthew looks just like him.”
“Your family is Swedish?”
She stared at him. “I thought you knew that.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“And you’ve never seen a photo of Robert before? Not even in the newspaper back when he disappeared?”
Michael shook his head.
Grace interrupted the apocalyptic silence with Millie traipsing behind her hauling a bulging suitcase up the staircase.
“A family reunion,” said Grace, “How lovely!”
Helena smiled at the pirating of Millie’s favorite acclaim. She took Grace’s suitcase from Millie, dragging it the rest of the way to the front bedroom while Michael and Grace chatted, and it was not long before the two proposed a night out. Helena declined, happy to be back home, and wanting to stay there for every minute. She had her own plan for the holidays: to generate an abundance of fresh memories to relive in the loneliest hours back at the base. The pain of leaving again shot to the forefront of her thoughts and threatened to overwhelm then Millie suggested a banana mocha tart before dinner, and that single-handedly restored joy.
Michael and Grace returned to Waterloo Street in what was by then, Christmas Day. The Royal had closed at 10PM, but a moonlit lake beckoned, and the hanging willows on its shore had shielded them from its glow.
A moth-ridden bulb guided them through the armada of pots on the front porch. Once inside, Michael clipped his hands around Grace’s waist for guidance through the shadows. They passed through the living room, up the darkened stairs, and past the master bedroom toward the front of the house. The procession lacked stealth due to the blocks of cork that were Grace’s shoes. She attempted to tread more softly as they crept past the alcove where four children slept on camp beds, but had to stifle a groan when lips kissed the back of her ear. The bedroom door closed behind them.
Michael untied a loose knot from around her neck, which fell to reveal bare skin to the waist. He admired the simplicity of her halter dress as a zip allowed the remaining yellow Georgette to fall to the floor to envelop the cork platforms. He lifted her, and placed her on the bed beneath him.
As the first sign of daylight filtered through the gap between the drawn curtains, Michael sifted through the pile on the floor for his clothes. He dressed in part, leaving his torso unclad, then bent to kiss Grace once more. With his shirt flung across a shoulder, and socks and shoes in hand, he crept toward the middle room, and slid beside his wife onto fresh sheets.
At the end of the hall, a black silhouette watched the morning activity.
Chapter Twenty
Christmas Day 1973
CHRISTMAS Day in 1973 was an exceptional one as it rose to greet a house at full capacity with three generations under the same roof for the first time.
James woke in a mood, clearly not filled with the good will of Christmas. He started the day with a shot of rum, adding milk to the dark elixir to give the pre-10AM beverage some pretense of acceptability, but this did nothing to avert Millie’s gaze.
When Michael entered the kitchen with an outstretched hand, James ignored him, committed as he was to the hypocritical oath, and on this of all days. The rebuff had witnesses. Helena shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and Millie added an open mouth and raised brow to her stare. Michael was unperturbed.
The rest of the morning proceeded without incident, with the traditional over-consumption of food generating a calmer scene, but if James had thought he had escaped the early morning snub of his son-in-law, he was mistaken.
Millie’s tone was one he recognized although its occurrence was as rare as the day itself. His un-Christian-like behavior would ruin Christmas for everyone, she said, when in reality, he was saving the day by concealing the truth. He could not imagine how she might handle details of the morning’s early hours, and much more than a day would collapse. James thought twice about perjuring himself on the Lord’s birthday, but resorted to a lie claiming he was unwell. The lameness of his alibi went unnoticed as Millie’s concern for his well-being relegated the admonishment, but only an amputation of his right hand could justify the absent greeting, for no matter how ill one might be a hand shaking was still possible.
Grace emerged at midday just in time for the lunchtime gorge that would continue until the regular bean shape of their stomachs had morphed into an over-inflated balloon. The only cure post-lunch was to lie down on one’s back to relax a distressed abdomen.
James retired to his outdoor recliner, shaded by the house and passed sun, to monitor alcohol-induced consorting while Millie and Helena sweltered in a kitchen bearing the heat of a 180-degree oven active since sunrise.
Michael and Grace stretched out on the trimmed Paspalum with a respectable distance between them as they watched the children with new toys, and chatted intermittently. James unwound sufficiently at the state of play before him, and laughed at Brian who was busy consigning vegetables from his pockets to the garden bed. For as long as positions remained as they were, peace would reign for the rest of the day. James sipped on his milk-free rum.
Grace returned to the kitchen for another beer for Michael and champagne for herself, repeating the journey several times during the afternoon. On each occasion, the divide between the two narrowed, and James sipped more rapidly as he watched the grassy barrier disappear from view. To the uninitiated, the scene may have appeared harmless: a brushing of a hand or rubbing of arms, but James saw faithless betrayal, impudence, and disrespect on a multitude of levels. When Michael placed a hand on Grace’s knee to whisper in her ear, James launched from his recliner. He pushed Michael onto his back then dragged him by the shirt collar away from his daughter, age, wisdom, and intoxication not evident in the maneuver.
The charge sheet, although not drafted, yet, would signal the end of Michael’s military career. He was sorry for all of it, and wished he could banish the new memory of the old man’s furrowed face pasted in blood, saliva, and grass, still conscious, but eerily detached. Michael had bruising around his neck and his voice was hoarse from the sergeant’s headlock, but it would not console anyone to know of his injuries, which, in relative terms, were insignificant.
The cell was the same as it had been for his previous visits although the purpose had changed. His first stay in 1965 had been for rest and recovery following an altercation with
an immovable object: the dressing shed at the Wallin oval, and the second had been more for reflection following a confrontation with four footballers. This stay was for his safety: the Maine telegraph was merciless with every day a workday, and James Wallin, the town’s unofficial patriarch, was not someone a prudent man would beat in such a way.
It was not Michael’s fault entirely: the old man had started it by ripping his new shirt, but in truth, it was not so much the shirt, but a familiar look of scorn that accompanied the move. Michael had no control when he saw it, etched into his memory as it had been since school days. He conceded though, that the viciousness of his response was not proportional, and he had not heard the screaming of women and children, which might otherwise have caused him to pause.
Grace arrived at the police station some hours later, close to midnight. Michael could not see her from his cell, but heard her voice through the concrete wall as she spoke with Sergeant Mackelroth.
“James Wallin is in a coma,” Sergeant Mackelroth said unlocking the cell door. “I’m releasing you, for now, but only because your wife and sister-in-law have chosen not to press charges. That could change if…when James recovers, but if his condition worsens, it worsens for you too, Michael.”
Michael nodded then left with Grace through the front door of the station.
“Michael?” Sergeant Mackelroth called out.
He turned to face the sergeant, but kept his gaze downward.
“You’ve had all your chances. It’s all square now, between you and life. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Michael nodded.
All was quiet between them as he and Grace returned to the scene to pack, and as he waited for the only train out of Maine at first light Boxing Day, Michael stared at the iron tracks. He had crossed a line: the one that separated justifiable wrong and unforgivable sin. He would never return.
Helena was baffled. Her father was a peaceful man, and as far as she knew, had never before come close to any form of aggression. He was a talker, incessantly so at times, but definitely not a fighter, and not one to ignite an issue, not even one for cause. She did not see the initial act, the push that so inflamed her husband, but Grace had seen it, and was no wiser. Only James knew what had possessed him to do what he did, and he was not talking.
Chapter Twenty-one
January 1974
WHILE James Wallin lay in a coma at Maine Memorial Hospital, the white piano at Waterloo Street, not played since 1953 when Robert disappeared, was alive again with ragtime. The trauma of Christmas Day had taken Millie inside to the place she had occupied back then, but strangely, this time she played.
She still believed Robert would return when he realized that he was the boy in the faded posters wrapped around lampposts. For seven years, the posters went up around Sydney on the anniversary of that last piano lesson, until Millie finally gave way to James and tried to heal, but did not surrender her belief.
She was the one who had insisted that Robert attend Scots College in Sydney, a place most suited for their eldest child, only son, and heir to the Wallin sawmilling dynasty. Robert resisted for the duration of his two-year stay, crying for several nights before he had to return each term, until 14 July 1953 when the wasted tears no longer flowed.
While boarding school was a primary point of contention between mother and son, the piano lessons with Miss Czerny exacerbated the conflict. Robert wanted to play football, as his father had, and with “Liberace” and “sissy” as his nicknames, boarding school became even more of a trial.
The lessons also required travel outside of school, and although Robert enjoyed those moments of freedom, he did not enjoy a second of the time spent with Miss Czerny, who felt likewise since it was clear Robert’s heart was not in it.
Miss Czerny was to wait with Robert at the bus stop following each lesson, and her fee reflected this additional irritation, but on the day in question, she left Robert to find his own way so her faltering schedule could return to normal. The 5PM bus did not stop since its congested interior could not accommodate another.
Witnesses were vague about what happened next, with mention only of a young boy seen at the bus stop talking to a man, and a blue sedan parked nearby. The winter sun had disappeared along with its gentle warmth, and Robert.
Millie was with Helena and Grace when the doctors came to deliver the prognosis for James. She showed no sign of emotion, but went home and trimmed her prize-winning garden leaving behind a spiky green mass. While shocking, the scene did not disturb Helena when she pulled into the driveway: she expected the interior was wall-to-ceiling with flowers to brighten the gloom, and that made sense, but there were no floral arrangements on display. The garbage can however, overflowed with a rainbow of blooms.
James had moved his hand on the fifth day of his coma, but it was not a sign of his awakening, the doctor said, for spontaneous movement was common with coma patients. Doctor Pell was concerned though about its duration, and the next nine days were critical with regard to recovery.
Helena spent the most part of every day with her father, until Grace arrived in the evenings. Millie stayed away, and that was for her own good: the holes drilled into her husband’s swollen, blood-filled skull left him unrecognizable in any event. The skull itself, though, had inflicted the main damage on the delicate mass within. Jagged, menacing bones at its front had shredded the frontal cortex as it jolted back and forth during the skirmish. Doctor Pell had seen worse damage from car accidents, he said, but still the fate of James Wallin was set to fall anywhere between full recovery and death. It was all dependent on the extent of the damage and type of damage. Age was also a critical factor with survival and a full recovery more likely in someone younger, and Doctor Pell stressed that the true nature of James’ condition might not disclose itself for many months.
Helena and Grace continued to talk to him. Sometimes a reward came with a faint sigh or his chest would rise, suspending hope with it, until it fell once more to its lifeless state.
“I’m coming home for good, Dad,” Helena said. “I know what you would say if you could talk right now, so lucky for me that you can’t, I guess. No one likes to hear ‘I told you so’. The kids will miss Michael, and the base. They do love him you know, and he’s been a different father since we’ve been away.” She paused. “I wish I knew what happened that day…what you were thinking, why.
“It’s daunting though, the thought of being a single mother, and Brian starts school this month.” Helena glanced around the white room, listening to the mechanical confirmation of life.
“If that’s not enough, I have other issues to overcome, like for example, I am fat, F-A-T, fat. No point calling that kettle anything else, it is black. I mean, I barely fit into this chair!” She grabbed her thighs and wobbled the surplus. “Look, Dad, I’m oozing out of it.” She paused. “How did I end up like this?
“I’m not thinking of another relationship,” she continued. “Probably won’t divorce either, unless Michael asks for one. I mean, be serious, Dad, no one sees me. I am invisible. It’s funny how people used to say, ‘oh, you’re not fat, Helena’ or ‘you’re just strong and healthy,’ but now, when I mention my weight, they just nod.” She took a green apple from her handbag and bit into it, chewing with a bitter expression.
“I hate apples. Probably because of that diet I went on, the Israeli Army Diet. For two whole days, I ate nothing but apples. Actually, it ended up more than two days. I’d get to the third day, which was the first of two cheese days then I’d break, and binge for a few days. I’d cook up a house-full of cakes and biscuits telling myself it was for the kids, but the kids would barely eat any of it, and I’d eat the rest. You’d be surprised at how much I can eat and for how long.” She paused. “I don’t stop when I’m full. I keep going and going until bedtime, and sometimes I get up during the night and eat some more and I don’t know why. Anyway, then I’d have to start the diet again, from day one, back at the apples. I probably ate jus
t apples for the most part of a month with the odd cheese day here and there, and a few binges in between. I must say, it is a good thing you can’t talk right now.” She placed the half-eaten apple in a brown paper bag. “It was great back in the mill days, Dad, when we worked together in the office.” She sighed. “They were the best days of my life, just the two of us. I loved the mill.”
She searched inside her handbag for a Cherry Ripe. “Grace Hand-me-down,” she said, holding the Crown Lewis black chenille bag up on display. “Not sure I like the green and red stripes, and these gold handles look a bit silly in the daytime, but beggars can’t be choosers. Anyway, as I was saying, my problem is, I have a relationship with food, a love affair actually, and we need to break up, become friends instead, not enemies though—that would make me anorexic, and I love food too much to cut it from my life altogether.” Helena stared into the ventilator and took comfort in its steady flow. “How do you end a relationship with something that has comforted you, and been there for you through all the hard times, and brings so much pleasure even though it doesn’t last forever, unless you eat all day and all night.” She smiled at the self-portrait. “It won’t be easy, but I have to try.
“Caramello Koala,” she announced after another excursion into her handbag. “Now there’s a good, old friend. Where was I? How do you like my black tent, Dad?” she asked, standing to swirl. “It’s comfortable. Goes with the bag I suppose. Michael’s not a bad person, you know, he just has a lot of baggage. I wonder what his life might have been like if he had grown up in another family. What do you think, Dad? Does poverty make you who you become? I suppose there are rich kids with issues too, like Christina Onassis, so maybe it has nothing to do with rich or poor. Maybe it has everything to do with who your parents are.
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