by Joy Dettman
‘It’s been a good night, babe,’ he said. The tools, a donkey’s carrot held before his too-long nose, she walked him to the door. Dragged it open. He moved behind her. ‘Like to go out some night?’ he asked, taking the tools.
‘Love to.’ It got him through the door.
‘There’s this Karaoke bar down at St Kilda –’
‘We’ll talk about it at work.’
Matt phoned again on Wednesday. She hung up again. Didn’t need someone else’s husband. She had Sue, and Lyn from downstairs. Carol Rigg had called twice. Deb had called. Ross rang on Sundays. She had plenty of friends. Maybe she’d go out with the pipsqueak too. Why not? No more Monday–Wednesday-waiting-for-Matt existence. There was a world out there.
The phone rang again. ‘Don’t hang up on me, Sall.’
She did, but he called back and she sighed, knowing she’d have to talk to him.
‘It’s over, Matt.’ Maybe a twinge of old pain. She took the phone to the sink, holding it to her with her shoulder as she broke one of her don’t-care pills in half, swallowed the half, just to keep her resolve strong. She lit a cigarette and blew smoke in the face of the phone. Blew it right down the holes and along the wires and into his ear, mentally watching him prod at his ear, force smoke from the other ear. Little puffs of it. Smoke signals. The image, or the pill, raised a giggle.
‘Stop your games. I’m coming around.’
‘Wrong. I don’t play games any more. Look on the bright side, Matt. You even get to keep custody of your phone number.’
‘Is this over a phone number? Get a pencil and write it down.’
‘It’s not over a phone number. It’s . . . it’s over dark pubs and holding hands on the Esplanade. It’s . . . it’s just over. Stop ringing me.’
‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
‘You won’t be here in ten minutes. You’re not around when I need you, so don’t come around.’
‘I’m spread thin, Sall.’
‘You’re not spread at all. You hoard yourself for yourself. I know nothing about you. Matt Marsden, doles out financial advice, wife in Hallam. Well, I took your advice, Matt, and I found myself a new adviser and he hasn’t got the wife in Hallam. Goodbye.’
‘Sall. I need you.’
‘You need my bed. Or table. Fridge. Go and . . . go and buy the wife a new dining room suite or something. My furniture is worn out.’ She liked that line, and she giggled, blowing smoke down the wires, seeing the white puffs popping out the other end. Dear little don’t-care pills. How did people survive without them?
‘Have you got someone with you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who?’
‘Mummy.’
‘How long is she staying?’
‘Ask her yourself. Mummy,’ she called, ‘want to talk to Matt? The married guy.’
‘We’ll go to a motel.’
‘Us? You mean you and Sally from Phone a Pro in a motel room? My God, he’s getting desperate, Mummy. He’ll be offering to take me home to meet his family soon.’ Silence then at the other end of the phone. ‘A motel tonight, Matt, and dinner with the parents on Sunday?’ Silence. ‘Should I buy a new dress for Sunday, or will jeans do?’
‘Don’t do this, Sall. Don’t spoil what we’ve got.’
‘What we’ve got? You can’t spoil nothing. Give me a call when you get your divorce and I’ll see if I’m free.’
She hung up, and hoped he wouldn’t drive around, but she watched at the window anyway, listened for that knock on her door.
A married man. You’re like your grandfather, you little slut.
Sally bowed to her resident ghost. ‘Go home and haunt Carol Rigg,’ she replied. ‘She’s the one who lives in my house.’
It was after seven when she heard him. Just a little knock. A not-so-confident Matt tonight.
She hadn’t eaten, so she would let him take her out for dinner. She wouldn’t sleep with him, couldn’t sleep with him, even if she wanted to, which she didn’t. She’d swapped her contraceptives for don’t-care pills, and they worked well too, turning off both care and desire, turning off guilt and fear, turning off everything.
No hurry to open the door. She combed her hair, added lipstick, selected her shoes, but didn’t put them on. She’d creep to the door barefoot, finger to her lips. Shush, she’d say. Mummy doesn’t approve of you, and she’s in the bathroom. Just give me a minute to grab my shoes.
But it wasn’t Matt standing in the passage. She frowned. Pills could cause hallucinations. She’d seen that on television once. Head to the side, she squinted her eyes at the hallucination, striving to make it go away.
‘Sally. Good evening.’
‘You?’ Still not understanding why he was there, stepping out so he wouldn’t step in. ‘You?’ she said.
‘In town for the night. Thought I’d . . . look in on you. See how you were handling your loss,’ Sleiman the sleaze said, and the wind or Mummy slammed her door, locked her out.
She looked at it, pushed at the door, then she turned on a stockinged heel and walked down to Number 4, where she knocked on Lyn’s door. He was two steps behind her.
‘I’m going out,’ she said, but her shoeless feet gave up her lie. He smiled at her feet, looked at the long legs and short skirt, sucking seed as she knocked again.
Lyn wasn’t answering her door and the sleaze wasn’t moving. Too close, she could smell him, smell the hospital on him. ‘Lyn. Lyn, are you there?’
‘Altered plans?’ His teeth escaped for a moment. ‘You wouldn’t take pity on a . . . a hometown guy stuck in the city for the night. A drink? A show?’
‘What do you think?’ she said and she ran upstairs, checking over her shoulder to see if he had followed.
How did he know where I live? Lived. Look, no keys, Sall old gal. She waited at the top of the stairs for five minutes, then she knocked on the bikie’s door. He wasn’t home, or he wasn’t opening his door. She knocked on Numbers 15 and 13, knowing the Asian woman was in there. She could hear the machine. Twelve was vacant, but she gave it a quick rap, then she walked down and tried the old gay guy in 6, the flat beneath her own – any port in a storm. Closed port. ‘God!’
Out on the street, she searched for the maroon Volvo, but the sleaze had given up and gone. She glanced up at her window, wide open, and out of reach except via the drainpipe. It ran up the wall a bare half-metre from her window. In jeans she could have done it but she wasn’t wearing jeans. Head back, she measured the distance. She’d been able to climb like a monkey once, been able to scale a lamppost. There were struts holding the pipe and two windowsills below her own. She could do it, but not with cars driving by. Have to wait until dark.
Can’t stand out here for two hours. Can’t go for a walk in pantihose either. Sit on the stairs, wait for someone to come home, she thought.
A glance behind then. Leafy trees hid her from the houses on the other side of Bollinger Street and car drivers didn’t look up. Only walkers to see her. She placed her foot on a strut and climbed, got a foot on the first windowsill, then reached higher. Her knees gripping the drainpipe, she dragged herself up. Couldn’t reach the gay guy’s sill, though; she was out of climbing condition.
Have to find a pay phone, ring a locksmith. Look, no money, Sall old gal. The thought gained her an extra half-metre, and at full stretch she got the fingers of her left hand on the windowsill.
‘I can. I must, and I will,’ she said.
‘You’re not dressed for it, De Rooster. You need a catsuit and balaclava.’
She didn’t need to look down to identify that voice. ‘Nick off.’
‘I know the guy in 6. Nothing worth knocking off in his flat. His last boyfriend took the lot when he cleared out.’
She tried to slide down slowly, decently, but her knees lost their grip and she slipped, ripping her pantihose from knee to toe and landing in a heap at his feet. Up fast, her skirt slapped down, shirt pulled down, she explained. ‘My door blew shut.’<
br />
‘Yeah? That’s what we all say.’
‘Stop being a smartarse for five minutes. Can you pick a lock?’
He slapped his pockets. ‘I haven’t got my skeleton keys on me. I was planning to spend the night in, De Rooster.’
‘Can I use your mobile phone then, to call a locksmith? Please. I’ll pay for the call when I get inside.’
But he was looking at the pipe, then climbing it, and making it look easy. Tall people in trousers had an unfair advantage. She watched him hit her flyscreen, knock it in. And he was in. She wouldn’t be sleeping with that window open again.
Upstairs, he waited at her door. ‘Step into my parlour, said the spider to the fly.’
‘You’ve done that before,’ she accused, pushing by him.
‘Only a couple of nights a week these days. I’ve cut my habit down since I met you, De Rooster. You’ve been a great influence on me. An exercise in self-control.’ He left her flat and walked across to his own door.
‘Thanks.’
‘Just call me the White Knight,’ he said, and he laughed.
Best Friends
Ross drove to Melbourne on the last Saturday in February. He’d sold the stored furniture at an auction, most of it. The rest he had on his ute tray.
‘I tried bidding up the dining room setting and ended up with it.’
‘I don’t want it!’ Her eyes were wide, her voice high as they looked around the flat.
‘No. No. I’ve got used to having it around,’ he said.
She made coffee and toasted sandwiches for lunch, no home baking, no lemon meringue pies. ‘How much did they offer, Ross?’
‘Nowhere near its value. I got seventy-five for that old fridge, though, and a hundred and twenty for the dryer. A hundred and seventy for the washing machine. Should have got more for that. It was hardly used.’ He was walking the small space, a giant bear on a chain. ‘I decided to keep the television and microwave; got used to having them in the kitchen. Them and the dining room suite will cover the funeral costs.’
‘It’s me you’re talking to. The television is five years old and that suite is fifty-year-old junk and it’s cluttering up your lounge room. Sell it for what you can get.’
‘It’s an antique. I like it.’
‘It’s just old.’
He’d cleaned out her mother’s pension account, told the banking Sleiman he needed it for the funeral; he’d closed the insurance account at the National Bank before her mother had died. There had been three hundred and seventy dollars left in that one. His eyes watching her for reaction, he handed her a cheque for the total.
She glanced at it then waved it away. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said.
‘It’s yours. Most of it is from her pension. She was in hospital for months.’
‘What did you pay for the funeral?’ He shook his head and she looked again at the figures written on the cheque: $3500. Ross’s signature was there too. So it was in his account. It was just another piece of paper – unless she cashed it. Plenty more paper in the bottom of her bag.
He was wearing the maroon shirt she’d bought him for Christmas and it suited him, as she’d known it would. Maybe he’d lost a bit of weight in the six weeks since the funeral, or bought a larger size in jeans. Farmer Bertram, all dressed up for his day in the city. He had good eyes, Mrs Bertram’s, soft and brown. Every time she looked at his eyes she could see Mrs Bertram. Those eyes watched her every mouthful. She knew he was still hoping to fatten her up, still wanting to get her home where he thought she belonged. His hand kept touching. Touching, then pulling away. He touched her hair that now sat on her shoulders.
‘I like your hair better like that. You look more like you used to,’ he said. ‘You’ve put on a bit of weight too, haven’t you?’
‘I’m still taking Sleiman’s pills when I need them. They turn off my brain and make me hungry.’
‘You should have been on them years ago. You look better than you’ve looked in months.’
Ross had parked out front. She helped unload the carton of ornaments, the photographs, the white chest of drawers he’d refused to let go for four dollars, the battered bookshelf that had raised a two-dollar bid.
‘I thought it wasn’t worth selling them. We’ll make room, love.’
And he did. He moved the bed, placed the drawers on its left and the bookshelf on its right; they fitted perfectly and were supported by the window wall, which was to the good; those old shelves had always needed any support they could get.
‘Okay.’ He rubbed his hands, pleased with his labour.
‘I liked it bare,’ she said, lining the ornaments up on the sink, giving them a fast spray with Mr Muscle. A scrub then with a toothbrush and a dunk into hot water made sudsy with dishwashing detergent, and years of dust and grime dissolved away like magic.
The ornaments looked new. Some of them looked new. The goose girl was placed on the bookshelf beside the Shane boy and his dog. They knew they belonged together. She put china mummy and daddy on the chest of drawers, allowing them a brief kiss first. Have to buy some pale-pink nail polish and touch up china mummy’s neck, she thought. The glue had gone brown. It looked as if she’d tried to cut her throat.
I never marked my throat. My throat was my fortune.
It was clear. In her head it was as clear as day.
‘Only thing you didn’t mark,’ she replied, and Ross looked up from the bookshelf he was hammering with the heel of her boot because she didn’t own a hammer.
‘What?’
She shrugged, climbed onto a chair and lifted the elephant and his turbanned rider up to the top of her kitchen cupboard where they could roam with the black wolf and the eagle. She placed the boy with the hiatus elbow on the window ledge. Maybe she’d make him a new elbow with modelling clay, let the poor kid finally eat his apple.
Slowly the room filled with ornaments and the bare beige walls no longer looked so bare. Her books had been tossed into the bottom of her wardrobe. Stacked neatly on a lower shelf, many books became few.
The bare hook over her bed had claimed the framed wedding photograph of her mother, and Grandma found a hook in the bathroom, positioned so she could stare down at Sally every time she sat on the loo.
I hope you are ashamed of yourself.
‘Look on her as a laxative, Mummy. She’s got a face like a prune.’
‘Are you talking to me, love?’
‘No.’ Back in the main room she found Ross looking at the photograph of her father. She took it from his hands, wanting to place it face down in a drawer. Instead she wiped the dust away with a damp cloth and for once looked at his face. Memory of her father was a dark shape against orange fire. But his hair, and that jaw. The shape of his face –
She stood staring at it until Ross took it from her and placed it on the second shelf. Slowly she unwrapped the boys. Beautiful little boys, all three dressed in navy and white sailor suits, even Nicky. Fat little Nicky with his wide eyes. It must have been taken just before the accident because that was how she remembered him, those eyes, his clinging little arms, his hands that had grasped at her pigtails. And Robby, the serious. And Shane, the silly sausage, dark and fine like Daddy. Tears prickled as she stood her brothers safe beside Daddy.
Why could she look at them now, when she had been unable to for twenty years? Had she forgiven them at last?
Or forgiven herself?
Bits and pieces everywhere, and all gleaming clean. The flat looked different, it smelt different. It smelt of Mr Muscle and dishwashing detergent.
‘It looks like someone might live here, love.’
‘Sally De Rooze, almost thirty, still hauling around Grandma’s worthless junk.’ She sat on the bed, looking at her possessions. The boy and his dog, bought at the Queen Vic market, had gone over to the other side to become number thirteen. She’d have to buy another one, make it fourteen. She loved fourteen, that first year of sweet sanity.
‘I’m going out tonight to a kar
aoke bar,’ she said.
‘That’s okay.’ He stood too quickly, bumping the bookshelves. They rocked and the goose girl rocked, but his big hands grabbed, saved.
Pity overwhelmed her. In the past she believed he had felt pity for her, but she’d never pitied him – except when his mother had died. Pity for him had trapped her once.
He looked down at the voluptuous china lady with the cat, chip off the old cat’s nose. ‘I thought . . . I thought, while I was down here I might have a look around the Sunday markets, love.’
‘Stay if you like. We’re family, Ross.’
‘Right. Righto, love.’ He glanced at the bed and thought of the other guy. She wouldn’t be bringing him home tonight. He’d damn near driven himself mad these last months imagining her sleeping with another bloke. Maybe she didn’t sleep with him. He took a deep breath, let it out slow. It had been a long time since they’d spent the night together and he’d planned his night in town. He’d asked old Charlie to feed his dogs and chooks, and he’d bought his pyjamas and a clean shirt. Left them in the ute, though.
He walked downstairs fast, his smile growing. He put on his steering lock, picked up his old sports bag and ran back, taking the stairs two at a time. They were family, all right. She was his wife, just going through the eleven-year itch, and she only had one bed, and tonight he’d be in it.
It was near eight, Sally in the bathroom dressing for her date, Ross attempting to tune the television to pick up Channel 2, when they heard the door. Ross downed his tools, eager to get a look at the opposition.
‘Tell him I won’t be a minute, but for God’s sake, don’t let him in. We’ll never get him out,’ Sally called.
We’ll never get him out? Ross drew himself up to his full height, sucked his chest back where it ought to be and opened the door. He looked out, then down, and he smiled.
‘Oh, there you are, mate. She won’t be a tick.’ A second glance and he turned away fast, left the kid standing at the open door and returned to the television. His smile grew wide, wider. What the hell had he been worrying about? It was just a bit of a kid out there.
