Compulsively, unpredictably, she was at the altar rail. She knelt. Who to pray for? For herself? Self? In the knowledge of others’ agony? Pray for the people mown down in her own country. For the family of the murderer, or for the madman? For children. Pray for the children who lived with terror, for children hardened by unrelenting images of violence, wounded children, abused…pray for South Africa’s children, Australia’s children.
She didn’t know how to pray. Not true! Not true. She’d known how to pray, childhood prayers learned by rote. The autumn walk that had set her on this new path, she’d prayed then. Her prayers had not been answered. Her prayers had not been answered. A second time and a third. Her prayers had not been…
Pray Tess
Quickly she scanned the small building. She was alone.
Pray Tess
The voice was gentle – and not imagined. To the right, the painted eyes of the blue-robed statue were veiled. She moved towards it. A statue. A trick of light? Of acoustics? Of despair.
How had this mother endured her son’s crucifixion? How to endure such personal suffering? How to endure the universal pain of suffering petitioners, suffering children? The blue robe was stiff and uncompromising. But the heart? The Mother? The Spirit.
How dare she – born and reared and cosseted and pampered and loved in safety – complain? She prayed for the murdered priests, for the raped nuns, for abused children and bereaved mothers and fathers, for the innocents slaughtered on the altars of egomaniacs and power brokers. She prayed to Joseph’s beloved Son – for the church that had lost its way.
Then, quickly, she left the altar rail. She’d come back to help with the cleaning on Friday.
Spring. Busy birds, budding flowers, magpies feeding screeching young, kookaburras laughing at anticipated rain, leaves uncurling, misty mornings, lethargic afternoons, awakening life.
She wheeled the barrow of weeds to the compost heap, emptied it, left barrow, fork, watering can in the shed, climbed the back steps, stripped off gardening gloves and sun hat, showered, ate, prepared for her afternoon rest.
She turned back the quilt, the blankets, stroked the cool sheets. Tomorrow she’d get out into the garden again; maybe there she would find her answer. Her answer? To what? She didn’t even know the question. Was there a question?
Catching the high sun through the window the mirror captured her image, not yet cruelly affected by the rugged climate that too often prematurely aged. She leaned close. Light tan skin preserved in lotions and under sun hats, faded freckles, fine lines, hair greying at the temples, body trim and taut from the bicycling and the bush walking. Menopause a problem, but without undue drama.
Over fifty? She felt a hundred. She felt twenty.
She sat on the edge of the bed, studied her face in the mirror; pointed chin rounded with the years, full mouth yet dour, eyes as dark as ever but enigmatic; or cold?
Fifty years’ experience – and none. The only battles she’d fought were the battles she’d fought for Sean, the only challenges she’d accepted were those she’d accepted for Sean. The only successes she’d celebrated were those she’d celebrated for Sean and Beth. None for herself. Not true. There’d been deeper battles, hidden battles, repressed battles. Sleep…tomorrow she’d get into the garden again. Tomorrow. Why bother? No one ever saw the garden, not even the new spring flowers, not even the budding roses and the dancing butterflies. No one came here. Rory wasn’t interested. Sean wasn’t interested.
She slept and woke. The job was done. The only remaining restrictions were self imposed. Habitual. Imagined. Safe. Sean had survived childhood infections, school-ground bullying, teenage teasing, had learned to cope with infrequent wet dreams, learned to accept his difference, to live. Sean was strong and secure and steady and happy.
Quickly, she showered, applied light make-up, brushed her hair into loose curls around her face, dressed in her Sunday-best pale blue linen frock and matching hat, grabbed her Sunday-best handbag and matching high-heeled shoes, scribbled a note for Rory and locked the house. Hurrying to the highway corner, she changed from sandals into the high heels and threw the sandals under a tree for the return walk home.
The two o’clock bus into Roland picked her up, slipped smoothly back into the thin line of highway traffic and occasionally paused for additional passengers; middle-aged women with shopping baskets and friendly smiles; preoccupied young mothers with babies or fractious toddlers – or both. One with twins and a toddler, a screaming toddler. No men. No teenagers. No schoolchildren.
At the Roland terminus, after the women and the children and the babies and the screaming toddler had left, she asked the driver, “Is there a return bus about five?”
“Five-thirty, missus.”
“Not before?”
“There’s one in an hour. After that, the school bus. Kids only. Five-thirty’s next.”
Five-thirty! Late. Too bad. She’d be late. She was already in Roland, her bridges already burnt. An hour was long enough for routine shopping, but not for freedom. Descending the steep narrow steps into the hot afternoon, she walked to the shops, stocked for Christmas. She hadn’t been here for years and she’d never been alone.
The high heels, an uncomfortable extravagance she refused to regret, tap-tapped across the central mall. She picked delicately through the crowds – toddlers running free, young mothers in thin sun frocks, elderly pensioners dozing on bright benches, a candy stall, a doughnut stand, a newsagent, a Tatts lotto outlet, a huge emporium, a craft shop selling handmade goods. Old shops, weathered and prized, rubbing shoulders with glittering new glass walls rich with new fashion.
Wandering without purpose, she stopped outside the craft shop, stepped aside for a motorised wheelchair, smiled at the preoccupied driver, turned into the maze of the huge emporium – looked, touched, smelled, admired, basked in bursting life, anonymity, release and freedom.
A hurrying mother jostled her, the pusher jabbed her ankle. Teetering perilously, she maintained her balance.
“Oops! Sorry!” The woman threw back as she passed. “You okay?”
She laughed and waved the young mother on. “It’s the high heels.”
Following the displayed store guide, she ascended the escalator to the shoe department, inspected the fashionable low-heeled sandals.
“May I help you?” Blue-grey hair piled high, the sales woman was mercilessly squashed into her lavender-grey uniform. Her painted face was tired, her eyes, heavily coated in mascara, impersonal.
“I was looking for something for walking.”
“Do you see anything you particularly fancy?” The starched face frowned on her high-heeled feet.
“You’re right,” she laughed. “These aren’t exactly made for shopping on a day like this.”
“Do you see something?” The painted lips pursed; practiced courtesy did not extend to unnecessary conversation.
“The…er…” Cowed, she stammered indecisively. “The…I’m really only looking.”
“I’ll leave you to look.” The squashed uniform turned away, retreated to the central counter and superciliously surveyed her domain.
She inspected the low-heeled sandals, slipped her reading glasses from the handbag, read the exorbitant price. Where had she been? Red-faced, she returned the shoe to its place and started for the down escalator.
Suddenly, disturbingly, under the supercilious eye of the starched saleswoman, the Sunday-best blue linen and the matching hat and the high heels and the formal handbag had become satirical; Dame Edna in the bush. Exiting into the mall, she reassessed the young mothers and their more elderly companions; cool thin frocks, sandals, large carry bags, no hats.
Illogically angry, taunted by the mocking tap-tap of the senseless high heels, she ripped the hat from her head and ran nervous fingers through her hair. She should never have come here. If only she hadn’t missed the next bus, the shopper’s bus, home. Hours to go until the five-thirty bus and safety. To the house beside the mountains.
Is that what she wanted? In Roland she was an alien in an alien world, unprepared and uncomfortable. How often, when she’d lived in Melbourne, had she ridiculed the country bumpkins come to town for the day? How often had she and Katherine laughed at their awkwardness, their clumsiness, their outdated fashions? How often had she been thankful for early escape to sophistication?
Yet today the tight grey shop assistant had disdained her as one of the rural bumpkins, had wordlessly ridiculed her to a crossroad she must negotiate. She was free. She had a choice – back to the safe prison of the isolated house or forward to whatever liberation might bring. To the unknown.
She stopped outside a shoe shop, inspected the display and the prices. Still expensive, but not exorbitant. She went in. The young assistant was bored and hot but pleasantly helpful. They settled on low-heeled Brazilian leather sandals, smart and beautiful and comfortable. She left the shop on air.
The shoes were symbolic. She’d chosen new life. Whatever happened would happen. And she’d cope. Somehow. Because that was what she’d learned to do.
Next, there was a new frock, cool, fashionable. She chose to wear it. Stopping at a St Vincent de Paul bin, she discarded the blue linen dress, the high-heeled shoes and the outdated hat.
The week’s food allowance was almost gone. What would Rory say? What would he do? Did it matter? She’d stepped onto a rollercoaster that demanded action.
Crossing the mall to the newsagent/bookstore, she inspected the rows of new books. Dependence on the helpful library assistant and the limited library must also end. New life demanded she find and keep her own books. The conventionally furnished safe haven at the end of McKenzie’s Track had seriously restricted stimulation. She needed books on shelves, walls of books. She needed her own library, she needed to have books readily at hand and she needed to read them at leisure, to refer to them at will. There must be no more ‘return by’ dates.
Though the Roland Store offered little and certainly almost nothing other than popular reading, it did stock catalogues and a few authors she’d never heard of but wanted to get to know.
She was studying a catalogue when distracted by a familiar voice. “I see you’re a reader, Tess.” Book in hand, John Lane smiled. “I thought it was you.”
Thank God for the new dress and sensible shoes.
“How are you, Tess? How’s Sean?”
“I’ve been meaning to phone you,” she pocketed the catalogue. “Sean’s working full time.”
“I heard. And you? How are you?”
She flushed. “I guess I’m retired.”
“My goodness!” he laughed. “We’re in the same boat.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Doctor’s orders.” He seemed unconcerned. “The last few years at school were taxing. They took their toll. Times are changing and I’m too disillusioned to want to keep up. They’ve put me out to pasture early.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Not to worry.” He displayed the book. “I’ve been wanting to catch up on Vonnegut for years. You haven’t read him? No? An acquired taste…”
A few minutes later, after discussing books read and to be read, she moved on. The intrusion had been unsettling. She wasn’t prepared for prolonged time-consuming discussion, or for renewal of their once necessarily close relationship. Those days, both the bad and the good, were the days she was leaving behind.
In the crowded coffee shop, she located an empty table and waited for the busy waitress. She was in a crowd and alone. Anonymous. A rare experience, and welcome. Time to enjoy – the colour, the humour, the children and the babies and the chattering mothers and the play of sun and shadows and the warm perfumes of spring and coffee and spices – time to bask.
John Lane’s cough was a distraction. “I’m sorry,” he indicated the empty chair opposite. “I’m actually not following you. It’s the only vacancy. Do you mind?”
“I don’t mind.”
He remained standing. “Though you’d rather be left alone.”
She blushed. “Please – sit down.”
“Thank you. I’ve been browsing for hours. I do need the break.” The cotton of his shirtsleeve brushed lightly against her bare skin.
She was being unforgivably selfish. “No, really, I don’t mind.” She was frank. “I hadn’t expected company. I’m relishing the freedom from pressure. I’m not used to it. I’ve always had to watch the clock.”
“I know that feeling,” he commiserated. “Though I’m not sure I enjoy unfettered freedom quite as much as I’d expected to.”
She was surprised. “You’d rather be working?”
“Let’s say I think I understand your confusion. The release from kids leaves a void. Don’t most mothers feel it?” His laugh was self-deprecating. “If you get my meaning. There’s got to be a happy medium. For me, I hope I find it.”
The waitress arrived. She ordered coffee, white.
“Cappuccino?” Pen poised, the waitress waited.
She was bewildered.
“Two cappuccinos – thanks.” John Lane, answering for her, waited until the waitress left. “This place probably doesn’t have just plain coffee any more.”
“I didn’t realise.”
“You have been out of circulation a long time.”
“I’d rather have straight coffee.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sure they can manage it. Would you like me to arrange it?” He started up.
“No!” She blushed. “Thank you. It’s all right.”
“As you wish.” He resettled, concerned and thoughtful but quiet. He was making no demands, expecting nothing, not even conversation. He seemed, as she was, content to enjoy the manifold sensations of the crowded cafe.
She relaxed. The coffee was hot but did not quench her thirst. She should have ordered tea. Would they have had tea brewed in a pot? Or teabags? Teabags for sure. Welcome to new life.
She insisted on paying her own way. He complied without protest.
Outside, blinking against the abrupt glare, he shielded his eyes with sunglasses, thanked her for a pleasant interlude and strolled off towards the emporium.
Ten years. She’d seen him five days a week for forty weeks a year for ten years, sometimes in the distance, sometimes for prolonged meetings, generally for a quick ‘good morning’ and ‘goodbye’ only. How many days did that add up to? How many hours? More weekly hours than she’d spent in the same ten years with Rory except when he’d come home to sleep in the same bed and they didn’t count.
Yet she knew very little more of John Lane than she had at their first meeting, the day he’d accepted Sean into his school as naturally and as readily as he’d accepted every student before or since. She knew he’d watched over Sean’s progress with particular interest, guided Miss Dixon and later Miss Clayton, stood up for Sean against belligerent parents, held his ground against the psychologist. He’d even attempted to salvage poor Bernie Cooper.
She knew he’d taken his wife’s death badly. But no more. Where did he live? Did he have a family? Had he chosen retirement in Heatherfield because of family ties? Because he liked it? Had he not progressed up the educational ladder from choice? Or had the department rejected his applications for promotion?
Was he unambitious? What had tied him to the regional backwater? Or even – did he still live in Heatherfield? Perhaps he’d moved house. Perhaps he lived here in Roland. Or was contemplating moving to the seaboard. Until today in the bookstore, where she’d learned he had an uncommon taste in reading, she’d known not a whit about him except what she’d learned at Sean’s school.
She wondered about his wife. The Mothers’ Club had talked about ‘the invalid’. Perhaps it explained his actions today. Could he be experiencing a more severe confusion of release than she was? Was he feeling guilty because of relief from the pressures of constant care of his wife? Guilt for freedom? Fear of freedom?
She watched his slim almost delicate frame turn into the large store. Earl
y retirement. Illness. He’d never looked physically strong. His strength was of the spirit, in the serenity that underpinned his gentle humour.
She was startled. How did she know that? How could she be sure that the man she’d observed at the school was the same man in the home? In the bedroom? Yet she was sure.
The bus was at the terminus, empty. No sign of driver or passengers; she was too early. She climbed the steps, settled into a seat on the shady side and closed her eyes.
A sharp tap on the window woke her. John Lane, pointing to his car parked across the road, was beckoning.
She shook her head, held up her return ticket.
He ascended the bus steps. “There’s another quarter hour before this leaves. I’m on my way now. You’re welcome.”
So he did still live in Heatherfield. She could be home before Rory and Sean. She followed him to his waiting car, a sedate grey Toyota, immaculately clean and highly polished.
“You’ll have to learn to drive.” He started the motor.
“I do drive,” she admitted. “But we’ve only got the one car.”
“Do you mind…?” He turned up the radio. Conversation was not required.
He drove fast, but with care, negotiating the late afternoon frenzy with confident ease, listening to the five o’clock news with intensity – but making no comment. Mayhem and violence preceded weather warnings. Did he think she was interested? Or wasn’t he listening? He hadn’t sought another channel. Perhaps he was listening and interested.
Reaching the familiar main road junction with the dirt track, she stirred, “Thanks for the ride.”
“You’re not there yet.” He was surprised. “I’ll drop you at your house.”
“No need.” She shook her head. “I enjoy the walk – really.”
He pulled into the kerb. “If you’re sure?”
“I’m early.” Parcels in hand, she stepped out. “I’ll be well home before them.”
Autumn Music Page 23
