“It’s cosy.”
“The lounge is a bit formal. We didn’t use it much.”
“You must miss her a lot.”
“Lou? Of course.”
What was she doing here? “I love your house.” The kitchen, too, smelled of fresh paint.
“As you see, I’ve been renovating. Old houses need constant maintenance. It keeps me busy.”
“You never thought of moving? Since you’ve retired?”
“Sometimes. Not often.”
Small talk. Wise talk. Safe. She sipped at the hot tea, fiddled with one of the biscuits he’d set on a small plate at her side.
“It’s okay, Tess.” He spoke softly.
She looked up.
“It’s okay.” He took her hand in his. “I invited you. Remember?”
“I do.” She removed her hand. “That’s why I came.”
He waited a moment and quietly said, “May I ask a question?”
“Go ahead,” she nodded.
“Is this visit about Sean? Or – is it about you and me?”
She gasped.
“You know how I feel, Tess.”
Her heart quickened.
“Do we have to keep pretending? It’s been a very long time.”
“You’re right.” This had to be why she’d turned back, why she’d waited, why she was here. “No more pretending.”
“Then answer my question.”
She replaced her hand in his, gentle and comfortable and reassuring and uncomplicated. John Lane would spring no unwelcome surprises, would not be weighed down with guilt-ridden memories. He would be as he’d always been, thoughtful and courteous and wise – and reliable.
“You feel as I do, Tess. Let me hear you say it.”
Say it. After so long not saying it. After so long pretending, she didn’t feel it. Not knowing she felt it. This was the moment the stranger in Sydney had prepared her for. John was waiting.
Careful.
She loved him, yes. In what way did she love him? The words he wanted to hear were not so simply said.
“Don’t cry, Tess.” He held her, the masculine smells of pipe and aftershave and worn leather; rising need. “Don’t cry. Be happy. Be happy.”
His hands moved to her frock, to the buttons across her breast.
She looked into his eyes and the promise of all she’d ever needed. Was it too late?
“What is it, Tess?” Reacting immediately, empathising as he always had done, he steadily re-buttoned the frock.
She stepped back.
“Tess…?”
“Please – don’t make it harder.”
“No pretence. No games,” he reminded her.
“This is no game.” She sat down, waited for him to resume his place on the other side of the table. “How I feel about you – and you about me. It will have to wait.”
“So you came about Sean.”
She’d come to talk about Sean, to ask his help. She’d returned and waited, for herself. She’d refused him because of Sean and probably herself. She no longer really knew. Caution was warning she needed time. “I came to talk to you about Sean,” she admitted. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he sighed. “It’s always about Sean.”
“I never thought I’d hear bitterness from you.”
“Not bitterness,” he corrected. “It’s a fact. So long as you have Sean to worry about, you’ll never come to me.”
“This isn’t going to work.” She started up.
“Tess! Forgive me. I should know better.”
She hesitated.
“I’m sorry,” he apologised. “I can’t do any better.”
She resettled. “He wants to get married. He and Cathie…”
He listened attentively, professionally, as he always had done, until she finally asked, “What do you think?”
“Does it matter?” He spoke without apparent emotion.
“What you think matters to me,” she insisted. “You know it does. It’s why I came to you. I need to know what you think.”
“Then I think you have no choice. You have to let go. You asked for Sean to realise his potential. You asked for it, you got it.”
“That’s what Rory said.”
“Did he now?” He crossed to the dresser, opened a pack of cigarettes, a box of matches and returned to the table. “Do you mind?”
She shrugged.
“You know, you’re different. Somehow.” He inspected her through curling smoke. “When you were away, did your daughter say anything?”
“Not especially. Why?”
Smoke drifted to the immaculate ceiling. The silence hung. Of course the town gossips would have been eager to talk to him about Rory’s affair. Yet it was out of character for him to bring it up.
“You’ve heard the gossip,” she grimaced.
“I didn’t know if you’d heard.”
“I honestly thought he was faithful. He’s a devout Catholic. I never thought he’d do that. Not Rory.”
“It’s not possible to remain Catholic and at the same time have an affair?”
She dared not answer.
“I’m not going to propose an affair, Tess. You have grounds for divorce. I want to marry you.”
Too much. Too soon.
“I’ve shocked you.”
“I’m so sorry,” she blushed. “I told you…first…has to be Sean.”
“And the church? Do you have to think about your church?”
He was too perceptive.
“You’ve been a good little Catholic girl all your life, Tess. What I propose won’t be easy.”
“A little girl, maybe. I’m trying to grow up.”
“There’s surely room for grown-ups in your church, Tess.”
“Can we talk about Sean?”
“What happened to your legs?” Rory was watching her undress.
“The shower. I burned them in the shower,” she lied. “I got in before the water was right.”
“They don’t look too good.”
“They look worse than they are.”
“Why did you take the car today?”
“I had to see Fran.”
“Honestly, Tess. It’s our livelihood. If you must do it, at least warn me.”
“Like you warned me?” She pulled the nightgown over her head, not to directly confront him.
“Why should I warn you? Beth needed you. Sean didn’t.”
“Leave Sean out of this.”
“You’re blaming Fran?”
“It’s got nothing to do with Fran.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
She lowered the nightgown. Direct confrontation had become essential. “What’s her name, Rory?”
Halfway into his pyjama top, his pale grey-haired chest heaved. The pulse in his neck throbbed. He yanked the top into place, started to button it.
Leaving him no recovery time, she asked again, “What’s her name, Rory?”
He buttoned the last button and patted the material into place.
Should she attack once more? She’d lose. Best to wait, as ever.
“What’s whose name, Tess?”
Resolutely, she quashed familiar fear. “Who is she, Rory? Everybody knows. Sean knows!”
He turned away, started for the door.
“Don’t you dare leave! Talk to me!”
“For God’s sake, Tess. Act your age.”
“How could you? How could you do that to us?”
“Jesus Christ! What do you think I am? I can’t even touch you!”
“Don’t you dare bring up the past! You’ll lose!”
“Damn you, Tess!” He grabbed her arms, threw her to the bed. “Damn you!”
She covered her head, not daring to move, heard the sound of fists beating the bed-head, the crash of splintering timber. Five minutes – ten. Until at last there was no sound and no movement and, seconds later, the sound of sobbing.
She dared not move. The sobbing ceased. Tentatively,
she raised her head.
He stood in the corner of the room, his fists bloody. “Get up, Tess.” His voice hoarse, but without emotion. “I won’t hurt you.”
“I’m so sorry. I never…”
“Don’t!” He steadily interrupted. “Wait in the kitchen.”
Stumbling past the splintered bed-head and the congealing blood, she collected dressing-gown and slippers and left the bedroom.
She turned on the light, boiled the kettle, made a pot of tea, sat at the kitchen table, already set for tomorrow’s breakfast. The house was chill, the sounds, as always, night sounds, eerie late-night sounds. She poured tea, gagged and pushed it aside. Five minutes, ten, half an hour, an hour…
He came in from the bathroom, hands awkwardly bandaged, eyes bleak and set two glasses and the bottle of port wine on the table. Hampered by the rough bandages, he filled the glasses and placed one in front of her.
“No.” She shoved the glass away. Dark red droplets spilled onto the white cloth.
“Suit yourself.” He drained his glass, reached for hers.
“I’ll drink it.” She retrieved the glass, sticky with dark red overflow.
He poured himself another.
The wine settled uncomfortably on her queasy stomach. She didn’t want to be here. She wanted to shower and change and pack and get in the car and go – anywhere. She wanted to apologise and accuse and forget and go – to John Lane.
“Sorry about that, Tess.” He spoke quietly, as though he’d never broken down.
She was supposed to be sorry too. She said nothing.
“You’re different.” He remained at a studied distance, by the open cupboard.
“I’m so tired of everyone saying that.”
“What happened in Sydney, Tess?”
“I wasn’t raped,” she blurted. Either he would comprehend – or not.
His eyes widened. But the moment was brief. He seemed bewildered. “What a peculiar thing to say.”
Was it pretence? She’d anticipated he’d comprehend the reference to her long-ago introduction to the sexual act and therefore conclude she’d had an affair in Sydney.
Stupid. He wasn’t so subtle. He didn’t comprehend. Or had he actually blotted out the honeymoon memory? Was it possible he didn’t even know what he’d done? He’d been drunk then too. And she’d been naïve. Had she over-reacted? Imagined? Impossible. The bloodied shreds of the nightgown hadn’t lied. Unless – virgin bride blood? Impossible. That had not been sex; that had been assault.
Tonight was different in degree only, his frustration the same. He’d hurt her then. He’d wanted to hurt her tonight.
He drained his drink, poured another, refilled hers. Though he’d emptied more than half the bottle, he seemed totally sober; he couldn’t be. Impossible that he didn’t remember. He’d seen her bruises then and the broken timber tonight. He had to know his guilt. She let the statement stand, unexplained. They were strangers. He knew as little of her as she of him.
“What the hell did you expect me to do?” He moved to the opposite chair. “I’m no celibate, Tess.”
“I’m sorry, Rory.” Sorry for everything. For the stranger who was her husband and the man he could have been and wasn’t. “I really am sorry.”
“Sorry?” He was bitter. “Only sorry?”
“What do you want me to be?”
“Right now, Tess, I don’t want you to be anything. If you weren’t here, it would be the same.”
“I’d rather not be here.” The strong wine was easing the way.
“I’d rather not be here either,” he agreed. “For us it’s over, Tess. I’ll make arrangements.”
That’s it? Done? Furious, she drained the glass. “You can’t do that! What about the wedding! What about Sean!”
Circling the table, he took the glass from her hand. “You’ve had enough.”
“I’m sorry…”
“It’s too late, Tess.”
“I think I’m drunk.” She leaned against him. Masculine smells, leather, wool, aftershave. “We could try again, Rory.”
“It’s the drink talking, Tess.”
“Last night. I’ll tell you about last night.”
“Not now, Tess.” He helped her from the chair into the bedroom, removed the gown and slippers.
Falling onto the bed, she reached up to him.
“Tess…don’t. Please don’t…”
“I’m different, Rory.” Taking his hands, she placed them on her breasts. “I know what I’m doing.”
He lifted the nightgown over her head. “Shhh, Tess…quiet…”
“Rory…”
“Don’t talk…”
She moved into him, moved with him. Surging need reawakened, rekindled. If only…
He straddled her.
She arched upwards.
He fell away.
The room spinning, she struggled to sit up. “What’s wrong?”
He retreated to the door. “I can’t do this.”
“Please…” Her body ached. “I don’t understand.”
“I wish I did.” He left the room.
Chapter Eighteen
They were in uncharted territory. People with Down Syndrome could not learn, could not be independent, could not live to middle age. Limitations defined their lives. Shelter, protection and dependency were inevitable. The lucky ones were cocooned in kindness and goodwill. Too many were not. Others with intellectual disability, whatever its cause, were seldom better off. Not infrequently the victims of rape or seduction, they sometimes bore children. But marriage? Planned and celebrated marriage? Never!
They’d agreed. Though they must let Sean go, they must also make sure this new step on the road he’d taken would be a successful step. Therefore, all their efforts should be concentrated on that. Until the matter of the marriage was resolved, there’d be a truce. The resolve was taken. There would be a marriage. When the four parents sat down and talked it through and thought it through and sometimes fought it through, they eventually concluded: ‘Why not?’
Marriage – civil or religious ceremony? They opted for a religious ceremony in St Joseph’s, the church Sean knew as well as he knew his own home. Rory would consider nothing less. Nor, she discovered, would Fran and Bert. Since there was to be a marriage, though lapsed Roman Catholics, they wanted their daughter to be married in the faith she’d been born into.
Both Cathie and Sean agreed, within their limitations. A significant number of the functioning adults in the world, many by reason of starvation and poverty, could probably be assessed as being to some degree below average intelligence. On the restricted scale of intelligence, their limitations need not preclude marriage. So where might they be found wanting? Responsibility. Sean had nothing to prove. Accountability, he’d learn that too. Managing finance and house and cleaning and food – both Sean and Cathie had been well taught. And there was abundant assistance.
The final hurdle. Because the ceremony was to be religious, consider faith. Who could begin to assess levels of faith? Who dared even try? Who dared question the faith of Cathie and Sean? The church was happy to bless their union. So said Father Pat, the new priest.
A modern man, Father Pat had spent a decade in the Third World ministering to victims of injustice, cruelty and abominations the average Australian citizen could not begin to imagine. For reasons no one knew, but enjoyed guessing at, Father Pat had been relegated to duties in the no-man’s land parish whose home base was Roland. From Saturday evening through to late afternoon Sunday, he toured outlying churches whose dwindling numbers, both of cleric and laity, had robbed them of their own priest.
Despite the fact that personal contact with him was rare, Sunday Mass had become a time to eagerly anticipate. Passionate and articulate, Father Pat had the increasingly rare ability to stir even the most closed mind. Sometimes to anger, when an irate parishioner stormed from the building, sometimes to weeping when he touched the heart; sometimes, even, to applause when the dust of a century fe
ll from the shocked old timbers.
This morning, Father Pat’s homily was inspirational. “If Jesus came to Earth today, where would you expect to find Him? The Pharisees asked Him – Why do you keep company with publicans and sinners? To which our Lord answered: ‘They who are in health need not a physician.’”
After pausing for dramatic effect, Father Pat went on, “The healthy don’t need a physician! Think about it. Publicans and sinners. Prostitutes and lepers. They were the people of the Third World of their time. The bad world. The unclean world. His mission was to serve the poor and the destitute, the sinner. So in His name our missions work in the Third World of our time, with the poor who need food and medicine and practical assistance, with the perceived pagan who may be converted to charity and love. Sometimes in very dangerous situations. Sometimes at the cost of life itself.”
He smiled, as he sometimes did, a cynical grin that held them fast in their seats. “We travel into outer darkness to herald God’s word! Great! Good stuff! Most of the time.”
“But hey!” He confronted the dwindling numbers of his congregation and stepped down from the altar. “Are we, ourselves, healthy? Are we so healthy we don’t need a doctor? Read your papers. Listen to your news. Greed is rampant. Violence is endemic.”
A shuffle of unease whispered along the sparse pews. This morning he was inspiring discomfort.
Soberly, he finally concluded. “On our streets – where is charity and love? Where is safety? Where, indeed, is hope? The physician is needed here too!”
She met him after he’d changed and was leaving the building. “I know you’re on a tight schedule, Father. Can you spare a minute?”
He looked at his watch. “How about you walk with me to the car?”
Rory was pleased. Times had changed. Today’s overworked priests seldom had time for dinners with other than close friends and they were neither. After listening to her hurried plea for an interview, Father Pat had suggested conversation over an unhurried meal might be more appropriate – if she didn’t mind.
Memories haunted the preparations. Memories of her mother and her sisters spending hours cleaning and cooking in preparation for the priest’s once-a-month visit; of peeling potatoes and shelling peas and making gravies and sauces; of the rich aromas of roasting lamb and steaming puddings. Memories of setting the table, knives and forks and spoons and silverware and napkins in precise positions, a bowl of short-stemmed flowers in the middle; Father Doherty had needed to see every face.
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