Ripples on a Pond

by Joy Dettman

  *

  Beth and John were planning to drive down to Melbourne on Monday. They hadn’t heard a word from Cara in two weeks, not since she’d called briefly to let them know that Robert had been released from hospital.

  They were stocking the fridge for Pete when Cara called on Friday. Pete, currently unemployed, took the call.

  ‘Cara wants me to meet a removalist at Amberley next Wednesday with the keys. She said she’d spoken to Uncle Bob’s agent about renting out the two ground-floor units.’

  ‘Are they putting the furniture into storage?’

  ‘She didn’t say. She’s given notice at school. She said she finishes up before the Easter break.’

  ‘Is Robert well?’

  ‘She didn’t say,’ Pete said.

  ‘How did she sound?’

  ‘Businesslike – and in a hurry.’

  ‘Any reason why she’s leaving her job?’

  ‘I asked her,’ Pete said. ‘She said that she was altering her career path to full-time carer.’

  *

  John and Beth changed their minds about the trip south, but on the Wednesday, Pete hitched a ride down with a truckie. The day was almost done before he found Cara’s unit, a bedlam of boxes, Robert sitting like a lost soul between the boxes.

  ‘What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at Amberley,’ Cara greeted him.

  ‘Mum and Dad are there – or they were. What are you doing?’

  ‘Moving,’ she said. ‘In the morning. If the removalist gets here.’

  Pete offered a hand to Robert, who shook it, but had nothing to say. He’d been in hospital for ten days and been out for at least two weeks, and he looked sick, looked ten years older than he had at Myrtle’s funeral, and he needed a haircut.

  ‘You trying to grow a ponytail, Uncle Bob?’

  ‘I haven’t been well,’ Robert said.

  ‘He’s lost without his couch,’ Cara said. ‘The Salvation Army picked it up an hour ago. What’s left is going with us tomorrow.’

  ‘Going where?’

  ‘Doncaster. Robbie and I were about to race out for fish and chips. Do you eat flake?’

  ‘When was I fussy?’ Pete asked.

  Left alone with Robert, a silent Robert, Pete attempted to find out what he could.

  ‘You had a decent stint in hospital.’

  ‘I haven’t been well,’ Robert repeated.

  ‘Where’s the new house?’

  Robert shook his head, and Pete gave up and turned on the television. It made a noise, which was more than Robert did.

  *

  Two ate on their feet at the bench that night, Robin ate on the bench. Robert was offered his share on a plate at the desk. He ate little.

  ‘Terrible pain,’ he said. He needed a pill.

  ‘Eat you meal and you can have one,’ Cara said.

  Robert ate a segment of his battered fish, Robin eyeing him, eyeing Cara, who ate with her fingers from paper.

  Something was going on down here.

  They watched the flashing screen until the news broadcast ended, when Cara walked between boxes to turn the dial to a sitcom. Robin found a space between the boxes and sat down to watch. Pete found another spot. Cara continued her packing, Robert continued to sit before his now cold meal, obviously in pain.

  Not until eight thirty did Cara replace the plate with a glass of water and a pill. She turned the television off. ‘Bathroom, Robbie.’

  He skedaddled. Robert rose and shuffled off to bed.

  ‘Night, Uncle Bob,’ Pete called after him. Robert’s grunt may have been a reply, or a grunt of pain.

  ‘What’s gone wrong with him?’ Pete asked.

  ‘Whatever it is it’s genetic. I’m safe from it but you’re not,’ she said.

  ‘He looks like Gran.’

  ‘He is Gran – with a silencer.’

  ‘What are his pills for?’

  ‘They’re not for pain.’

  But Robin was back and clean hands and teeth had to be inspected.

  He was excited about his new house. He’d seen it, and relieved of the numbing presence of his grandfather, Robin wanted to tell Pete all about their new house that was a proper house, not like this one. It had proper bedrooms for everyone and one even left over for Mummy’s typewriter.

  He’d given up his folding bed to Robert tonight, and at nine, Cara tucked him into her own. With nowhere else to sit, they sat on the bed, allowing Robin to lead the conversation.

  ‘Mummy said we can get a puppy.’

  ‘I bet you’ll call him Bowser,’ Pete said.

  ‘How did you know? Mummy, how did Pete know?’ Robin asked, wide-eyed.

  ‘He’s a good guesser,’ Cara said.

  ‘Can he guess our baby’s name too?’

  ‘We have to get up very early, Robbie, or the moving man will pick up our bed and we’ll still be in it,’ Cara said. Kissed him four times. He kissed her four times, and they turned out the light.

  ‘You’re pregnant?’ Pete accused when the door was closed. ‘That’s why you’re leaving your job. There’s a bloke attached to the Doncaster deal.’

  ‘I wish he’d been around to help me pack up this place,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realise until I started filling boxes that I’d accumulated so much.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘I’m an impregnable island, Pete. More coffee?’

  They took their coffee mugs out to the balcony, where Cara spread a blanket. They sat on it and lit cigarettes, Cara’s outdoor ashtray between them.

  The neighbour’s light was burning, and two minutes later, she hammered on glass.

  ‘She’s allergic to smoke,’ Cara said. ‘And to single women raising kids, and to Dad’s car, permanently parked in the visitors’ parking bay – have you still got a licence to drive, Pete?’

  ‘You’re insinuating that I shouldn’t?’

  ‘Hoping you have. I’ve been worrying about how to get both cars out to Doncaster.’

  ‘Where’s Doncaster?’ he asked.

  ‘North-east of here. No trains go there, no trams. The house is in a dead-end street. I love it.’

  ‘Are you pregnant?’ Pete asked.

  ‘Not in the way you think.’

  ‘Is there any other way?’

  ‘Maybe.’ She blew smoke into the dark.

  ‘Talk to me.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Robin’s baby’s name.’

  ‘Dad requires a full-time pill dispenser. Robin doesn’t like crèche. I want to write a book – and, possibly, almost probably, I’ll be a foster mother to a six-month-old baby girl this time next week.’

  ‘You’re mad!’

  ‘Robin has seen her. He wants her.’

  ‘You’re a stark raving mad woman. You’ve got enough on your plate!’

  ‘Have you ever wondered if a mad woman knows that she’s mad, or if she thinks that everyone else is mad and that she’s the only sane person left on earth?’

  ‘You’re not sane. Why go and do a thing like that?’

  ‘Her mother is in jail – and I owe her. Incidentally, the baby’s name is Tracy – if Robin asks you to guess again.’

  ‘Are they paying you to do it?’

  ‘There’ll be an allowance. I won’t get rich on it.’

  They’d been friends since infancy, had chuckled together at their private infant jokes, had hidden in bushes behind John’s house smoking stolen cigarettes at twelve and thirteen. At fifteen, behind those bushes, she’d told him about Dino Collins.

  She spoke about him then, and about Raelene King. ‘My half-sister’s stepsister. She’s a drug addict-cum-prostitute who conceived Tracy during a business transaction. She didn’t get the client’s name. But somehow, Pete, she managed to produce a dear, smiling little mop-top of a baby who deserves a damn sight better than a life sentence of that feral bitch.’ She shrugged. ‘I plan to give it to her.’

  In England she’d mentioned a Raelene who had conned he
r way into her flat, and who, if not for a faulty safety chain, would have let Dino Collins inside to rape or murder her.

  ‘You can’t get yourself mixed up with people like that,’ he said.

  ‘Because of him, I’ve lived scared for half of my life. Since I turned fifteen, I haven’t gone to bed without checking that every window in the house was locked. See if you can find one window that isn’t wide open tonight, Pete.’

  ‘Why rent down here when you could live free at Amberley? You’ve got us, up there.’

  ‘Because they know about Amberley. They saw Robin playing in the garden there one day – and if I get Tracy, I won’t be allowed to take her out of the state. And Melbourne is my city.’ She drew the last from her cigarette.

  ‘What happened with Morrie? I thought you were back with him in England.’

  ‘It’s complicated,’ she said, taking a new cigarette from her packet and lighting it from the butt of the finished one.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Just . . . complicated – or it was then. The way I feel right now, it wouldn’t have been.’ She sighed out smoke. ‘I’ve spent my life fighting against who I am inside, determined to be what Mum and Dad expected me to be. And they abandoned me, Pete, first Mum, then Dad tried to. He swallowed two-thirds of a bottle of Valium pills,’ she said. ‘That’s why he was in hospital.’

  She drew again on her cigarette, releasing the smoke slowly into the dark. ‘While I was on my knees cleaning up his vomit, I think the me who I’ve been denying forever crawled out of her hole. She’s tough, Pete, and growing tougher every day. How long are you staying, anyway?’

  ‘Until you’re settled in.’

  ‘Give me a timeframe I can work with. A week? A month? A year? I’ve signed a twelve-month lease in Doncaster. We’ve got a fourth bedroom.’

  ‘That’s a dangerous invitation to toss out to an itinerant,’ he said.

  ‘I need you,’ she said.

  GOODBYE

  Morrie’s plane touched down in Melbourne on a wintry June morning. Cathy and Gerry had offered their spare room for the ten days he would be in Australia, but he was in no mood to deal with multiple little boys. He’d left the details of his accommodation to Roland Atkinson, his accountant and trusted adviser.

  He knew from Gerry and Cathy that Cara’s mother had died, that she was now living with her father and son at Doncaster; that she’d retired from teaching to foster the baby of a prisoner. He knew, too, that his MG was still on the road, but that was all he knew.

  Leticia was gone. She’d tossed in the towel the day they’d buried Bernard. Morrie was back in Australia to make a few decisions and to see the land he’d inherited before he made those decisions. Roland had offered to travel with him.

  At twelve forty, behind the wheel of a hire car, Morrie wended his way out of the airport to the freeway, intent on a shower, a shave, a change of clothing and a better frame of mind before his lunch appointment with Roland. Or that had been his plan until he saw a sign directing him to Brunswick Road. Why battle his way into the city then back out to Brunswick when he was a bare ten minutes away from his accountant’s house?

  Roland Atkinson had been Vern Hooper’s accountant for a time, then Margaret’s. Well beyond retirement age, he’d given up his city office, but continued to look after the interests of a few long-term clients, working from his home – a long narrow house built wall to wall with its neighbours. Inside, he’d built himself into a corner with the contents of his office: filing cabinets, shelves, bookshelves, and piles of paper covering the surface of a too-large desk. There was space in his kitchen for a table he’d set for two, complete with wine glasses. Roland enjoyed a good red wine.

  He knew to the last cent the balance in the Hooper estate’s account, the current value of the shares; could offer an approximate valuation of the Woody Creek property and of Morrie’s rental properties. The farm manager had made a profit last year. Lorna and her Kew house were constant drains on the estate. Along with free rent, the payment of rates and utilities, she received a quarterly cheque. At their every meeting, Roland raised the subject of Lorna, a major thorn in his side.

  ‘The Kew house is one of your better properties,’ he said, topping up the two glasses.

  ‘The terms of my grandfather’s will state that she is to be given a home for life. You might look into the legalities of paying her out.’

  ‘She has a housekeeper,’ Roland said. ‘I have not been able to ascertain any details of the financial arrangements between them, but they are both of pension age. My suggestion would be to purchase a unit in your aunt’s name, and offer her a cash settlement. She may not be pleased with the altered arrangements but would have no legal recourse.’

  ‘I hear from her solicitor regularly,’ Morrie said.

  ‘I receive my share of correspondence,’ Roland said.

  The last time Morrie had flown over, he’d attempted to speak to Lorna. Her Miss Duckworth, a civil little woman, had offered him tea. Her civility hadn’t rubbed off on Lorna, who had withdrawn the offer. He’d keep his distance this trip.

  Before leaving Brunswick, Morrie phoned Cara’s Doncaster number. He hadn’t seen her since that day in Sydney.

  A male replied.

  Morrie identified himself and asked to speak to Cara.

  ‘She’s not in. If you’re calling in connection with your MG–’

  ‘I’m calling in connection with my son,’ Morrie said, unreasonably angered by that male voice. ‘I’ll be in Melbourne for ten days and want to see him while I’m here.’

  ‘I’ll tell her you called.’

  The voice wasn’t elderly. Cathy had spoken to Cara’s father who she’d described as antique, but had made no mention of a new man in Cara’s life.

  Morrie left the name of his city hotel, then placed the phone down. He emptied his wine glass, shook Roland’s hand and walked out to the car. He carried the photograph of his son beside his own bill of sale, in a plastic envelope he’d picked up somewhere. It always travelled with him, in the breast pocket of his jacket. He removed it now to study the curly-headed boy, barely more than a baby when that shot had been taken. He’d be a four year old now. Cathy had seen him a few months ago. Taller than Timothy, she’d said. She hadn’t yet seen the fostered baby.

  He started the motor, his mind sifting voices as he attempted to identify the male on the line, the male who knew his son. Chris Marino, who had at one time owned a block of land in Doncaster?

  Two plus two usually added up to four. Morrie glanced at his watch, considering a change of plan, a night at Ballarat with Cathy. She’d know who Cara was living with. Or would she?

  Secretive, Cathy said of her friend.

  As was he. Maybe it was in the genes.

  He was heading in the direction of Ballarat when he changed his plans again and made the turn towards the Calder Highway. He did a lot of mind-changing these days.

  Letty’s house, which had supplied the foundations for seventeen-year-old Morrie Langdon to stand on, was crumbling. Wood rot had eaten into the older section of Langdon Hall, its mortar was crumbling, its roof leaking. Like the house, Morrie had been suffering his own decay since Letty’s funeral – or since his wedding day. Propping up Bernard had kept him standing, but his last prop had gone with Letty’s death and he was in danger of toppling.

  He’d inherited Langdon Hall and its debts by default, by double default. Old Henry Langdon, who Morrie had never met, had named Bernard’s firstborn son heir to the property. Morrie, adopted by Bernard as a ten year old, was his only legal issue.

  He knew the whole story now. Since Leticia’s death, every document and receipt, every personal letter addressed to a Langdon in the last hundred years and more, had come into his possession. He’d read a letter penned by Lorna to her uncle back in ’51.

  My dear Uncle Henry,

  I hope this letter finds you and Aunt Leticia in good health as it leaves me. I cannot say the same of my father. Being confident in
the knowledge that the following will be seen by your eyes only, I now agree with statements made by you during my sojourn in Thames Ditton: that it would be in my better interests if I were to wed. Thus I make this appeal to you, my only male relative, to choose for me an Englishman of refinement and good breeding with a view to matrimony.

  Taking into consideration my father’s age and current health issues, this request should be met at your earliest convenience.

  Your loving niece, Lorna Hooper

  Morrie had read letters from Lorna’s mother, packed off to the colonies to find the husband she’d refused to find in England. He’d read Vern Hooper’s letter to his brother-in-law informing him of his sister’s passing, and of the then unnamed female infant cut from her dead mother. He had a copy of Henry’s last will and testament, signed while Bernard had been in transit to the colonies to wed serious-minded, responsible Lorna.

  Poor old Henry, so confident that a union between Bernard and his only blood niece would produce an heir for Langdon Hall.

  Bernard had not tied himself to serious, responsible Lorna, but to sweet-natured, dithering Margaret. Their son, born a bastard in Woody Creek, purchased as a six year old for two thousand pounds, was the new master of a crumbling old mansion, eighty acres of land and a crushing pile of debts.

  The new master of Langdon Hall yawned and looked at his watch. Crossing too many time zones disrupted the sleep rhythms, and two glasses of wine with lunch hadn’t helped.

  Change your mind again, he advised. Turn around and check into the hotel, have a few more glasses of wine and sleep.

  And wake at midnight, your bones ready to go?

  Or drive until you drop?

  The Calder Highway, a familiar road, led to Bendigo, a large inland city he’d called home between the ages of twelve and seventeen.

  There was much he recalled of his early life that he had no recollection of learning. He’d once had a granny who had worn men’s boots, ridden a black horse and milked pretty-faced goats. He remembered her white hens and baskets full of eggs, and that’s all he knew about his granny. He had a thousand recollections of his grandfather. He’d lived with Vern from the age of six to eleven. He’d retained one image of his father: that of a tall skeleton man who had leant on wooden crutches – because he had a wooden leg. Knew a lot about Jim Hooper from Margaret. Knew he’d lost that leg in the war. He could remember only the words of war: enemy lines, counterattacks, atom bombs. Hiroshima.