She calmed her cat as the vet pinched the fold of skin between Mopoke’s shoulders and slid a long hypodermic into it.
‘This’ll do the trick.’ He was a small neat man who favoured pink shirts and bowties. He lifted Mopoke up in front of him, saying, ‘There you are, Moey!’ then kissed her on the top of the head and handed her back to Marie.
‘Will she be able to walk properly now?’
‘She’ll have as much movement as we can give her. I’m going to prescribe some pills for her blood pressure as well. The senility could be caused by that.’
Senility. A fate worse than death. Marie drove home contemplating this, one hand on Mopoke stretched along the passenger seat, head drooping over the edge. Could she herself be going senile? Was that the explanation for these bewildering compulsions? But she had never had high blood pressure, she knew where the toilet was. She felt as lucid as a pane of glass. Well, we all gained from the stockmarket, said the announcer on Radio National. Of course I use the royal We.
Marie flicked the dial and found a station playing The Animals. She turned it up and sang along, holding the image of the flames against her belly close and warm like a secret.
Marie always tried to give Fatima a cup of tea when she had finished cleaning, but Fatima always refused. She finished exactly five hours after she began and was always punctual, arriving at exactly nine o’clock in the morning. She was a reluctant conversationalist and of that floating age — late twenties to early forties. At midday she took her packed lunch onto the patio with a glass of water and ate staring into the branches of the scribbly gum that Marie had planted for Clark.
She was gone when Blanche arrived. Marie was just in from the garden, with an armful of birds of paradise. She put them in a vase on the coffee table. ‘It looks good in here, doesn’t it?’
‘Fatima is the best.’
‘She told me she’s a physiotherapist. She must hate cleaning.’
‘She loves Australia though. She might be able to qualify here eventually.’
‘I don’t think she can afford to study. Poor thing. It must be awful.’
Blanche stopped on her way to the kitchen. ‘Mum, it’s not awful, it’s fantastic! Her kids are in school, she’s got a house.’
‘She drives all the way here from Macquarie Fields, Blanche. She cleans six days a week. She’s been trying to get her husband into Australia for more than two years.’
‘Half of Sydney drives two hours a day to work, and works six days, even seven. And Fatima’s not alone, she’s got an aunt here or something.’
‘I’m just saying it’s hard.’
‘Could be harder,’ Blanche said, striding into the kitchen.
Blanche was busy in the kitchen, moving the kettle over the burn mark, and the bread basket in front of the corroding grout. She had come straight from work and, in her pointy boots and jacket with asymmetrical seams, looked incongruous undertaking domestic tasks. Her thick brown hair was pulled back in a tortoiseshell clip that sat on the nape of her neck. She looked more like agent than occupier, Marie thought. She tried to imagine Blanche pregnant, and a satisfyingly frumpy and exhausted image surfaced. Not the sort of thing they’d go for in Huston Alwick, oh no.
‘How do you like the new furniture?’
‘Yeah, it’s alright. I think you should get rid of the old couch, but that’s just me. Which agent is coming today?’
‘The one with all the aftershave. The nice woman is coming as well.’
‘Both at once?’
‘Yes.’ Marie smiled slyly. ‘I thought I’d let them at each other. Aftershave is coming with a prospective buyer. It should be quite an interesting mix.’
‘Buyers already? Are you that deep into negotiations with him?’
‘Blanche, it’s an experiment.’
Blanche looked around the living room forlornly. ‘It feels weird. Where’s Mopoke?’
‘I don’t know. She’s got a sixth sense. She disappeared for hours when the Nice Woman came.’
‘I’m not the Nice Woman.’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘Let’s have a Campari and soda.’
‘It’s three o’clock in the afternoon.’
‘You always have a Campari after working in the garden.’
‘Not before sunset,’ Marie lied. ‘Anyway’ — she motioned to the liquor cabinet — ‘I haven’t got any, I haven’t been restocking.’
‘Wow.’ Blanche’s face creased. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t notice that.’
What she did notice was a fresh bottle of Campari in the pantry, and she was dying for a drink. She rarely drank during the day, but this house or her mother had a parching effect, just as she craved a cat fix when she was here but at home barely thought about them. Blanche didn’t know if she needed to be here in order to drink or if she needed to drink in order to be here. Two months ago she would have assumed the pantry bottle was deliberately hidden but now she wasn’t so sure. Her mother looked sharpened, knowing, fragile. There was the usual mint waft but without its fumey undertone. She was definitely sober. Blanche realised that she couldn’t imagine Marie in any other environment but this, and that she didn’t in fact want her to sell. She wanted the house to be here always. Just in case.
She was dying for a drink. ‘You know you’ve got a bottle of Campari in the pantry.’
‘Where?’
‘With the lime juice and all that stuff.’
‘God. No flies on you.’
‘So. One last toast for the house?’
Marie walked into the pantry. ‘I suppose I’d better steel myself.’
‘You have to act from a position of strength, Mum. You have to name a price. I think you should start at six and a half million.’
‘Hugh suggested six.’
Blanche was stunned.
The phone rang and Marie picked it up, said a few words, then returned to her task at the bench. ‘That was the Nice Woman cancelling. So there will be just one agent after all.’
‘Why not try higher? You can always come down.’
‘We’ll see.’
In a deft and elegant trio of motions, Marie jabbed the ice pick into the bucket, dislodged cubes and sledged them into two tall glasses. Blanche had always loved watching her mother mix drinks. As a child she had been fascinated by the sleight of hand, the fabulously shaped and coloured bottles like so many potions wielded with shamanistic familiarity. She loved seeing her mother in charge of so potent a ritual, this gateway to adulthood with all its dangers and privileges. Later, when Marie became so undone, the ritual remained as the last moment of governance, the keys turned in the ignition before the crash. But beneath Blanche’s desire for her mother to re-occupy this authoritative position were contempt and scepticism. Blanche knew that in suggesting a drink she was throwing down a gauntlet. Could Marie handle it? She couldn’t bear the thought of her mother humiliating herself in front of a real-estate agent, especially if she was present. Then again, such a scenario would reinforce her mother’s intrinsic inability to take control, giving Blanche an excuse to. And to think that Marie and Hugh had started talking without her knowing.
Marie poked a flamingo swizzle into each drink and handed Blanche hers. ‘You can take the Campari home with you. In fact, you can take the whole liquor cabinet.’
‘I’ll take the Campari, but the liquor cabinet won’t go at our place. You’ve got dirt on your trousers, Mum. From the garden or something.’
‘Bloody hell. I only put them on a couple of hours ago.’
A cuckoo crowed across the room, and Marie went to her handbag. She extracted a slim red phone and looked at the screen with satisfaction. ‘Good.’
‘So you did get a mobile, after all that.’
‘Yes, I succumbed. What should I put on?’
‘The ochre pants.’
‘Which?’
‘The linen ones. The shirt and sandals are good. Leave them,’ Blanche said encouragingly, watching her mother ascend the stai
rs.
‘What are those things on your ankles?’ she asked when Marie came back down.
Marie fetched her drink and took a big mouthful. ‘Tattoos.’
‘Yeah, right. Are they those wire things? That sit flat against your skin?’
‘They’re tattoos, Blanche. Let’s go onto the deck. It’s a lovely day.’
Outside, Blanche looked more closely and was surprised by the delicacy of her mother’s feet. In an unusual flourish, her toenails had been painted. It was true that the thick ankles, which were also Blanche’s resented inheritance, had never looked finer, but the bracelets that encircled them were unmistakably tattooed on. ‘God, Mum, are they real? Where did you get them? Were you drunk or something?’
‘At a place on William Street. They were a birthday present to myself. I got one here as well.’ Marie patted her shoulder blade.
‘God. I mean the real-estate agent’s coming. With a buyer.’
‘Well, I’m afraid I can’t take them off.’
‘Why don’t you put on shoes and socks instead of those sandals?’
‘Let’s be rational, Blanche. What do my ankles have to do with selling property?’
‘There’s nothing rational about selling property, Mum.’
‘There’s Mopoke,’ said Marie.
Marie picked up the cat and began to drag a brush through her fur. ‘We’re going to make you beautiful for Aftershave, aren’t we?’ she crooned. ‘Not that he’ll notice.’ She pressed her cheek against the rumbling purr for brief sanctuary. Aftershave was an unctuous man whose odour lingered in the passages of house and head for hours afterwards. It’s a strong house, it’s a wonderful house, and you’ve just got to believe in it. Those agents got, what, two percent? Objectively, Marie could imagine Hugh earnt his commissions but the thought of him pocketing tens of thousands of dollars from the sale of her house made her feel ill. The thought of Aftershave doing the same made her feel suicidal. Anger rose in her like a hot geyser, and she drank down a large mouthful of Campari. She wasn’t going to let her daughter make her feel bad. She was going through one of the greatest traumas of her life, and as far as she was concerned she had a right to do anything she liked. How stupid to worry about some little squiggles when there was a war going on, people were being tortured, and children were dying of hunger.
Marie knew she should make friends with the real-estate agents: partners in profit was the logical approach. But she couldn’t separate her soul from the place. So many years here, so many memories, the shift was so much more than corporeal. And it seemed as well that the more valuable the body, the more evil its undertaker.
‘Where is Macquarie Fields anyway?’ she asked Blanche out of the blue.
‘I don’t know,’ Blanche said sulkily. ‘Why?’
‘I just wondered. And what are you working on now, Blanchie?’
God help us, Blanche thought, she must be getting pissed. Never asks about my work otherwise. ‘Miele. Domestic appliances with industrial features.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘It’s fun. Loads of animation ... I don’t suppose you’d want a washing machine and dryer set would you? Can’t get rid of them. Everybody in the office has one.’
Blanche was looking at the cat on Marie’s lap with longing. Marie rubbed her hand over Mopoke’s face; Mopoke shut her eyes and returned the pressure.
‘Is she well?’ Blanche asked.
‘She’s picked up a bit, yes.’
‘What time does Aftershave get here?’
Marie checked her phone. ‘He’s due right now.’
‘So. Are you going to give me your mobile number?’ Blanche spoke in a constricted voice, and looking into her daughter’s eyes Marie realised with shock that she had hurt her.
‘Of course I am,’ she said light-heartedly, trying to make it all go away.
‘It’s a funky little phone.’
‘Really?’ Marie looked pleased. She tilted her glass to her mouth. Go away, she thought. Go away.
Appearance was everything. Aftershave alighted from his Prussian blue Audi with a pip of the remote car lock, his violently white shirt screaming down the path at them. He entered the house with topographical ease, as though all its dimensions from the one previous visit had been physically imprinted upon his senses. Marie introduced him to Blanche and he shook her hand with a politician’s fervour.
His trousers, Blanche noticed, were Armani. Or, more likely, a copy. She didn’t care about copies anymore. Let whatever charlatan who wanted to wear them wear them and be damned by their own crassness. It was true you couldn’t necessarily tell these days without looking at the tag (though tags could be faked as well), so in a way it had become a question of conscience. Good. The other problem was with people like Aftershave — legion — whose real suits may as well have been fake for the lack of style with which they wore them. Blanche hated that Australian casualness — the entire country sometimes seemed a gross replica of her little nouveau riche family. She imagined with disapproval Aftershave’s suit jacket crumpled on the passenger seat of his car. Sure it was a hot day, but why get an Armani (even a fake) when you weren’t prepared to wear the whole thing. There was nothing intrinsically wrong with the man’s looks — he was tall, broad-shouldered and evenly proportioned — but something about his soft, barely whiskered face or floppy blonde fringe belied authority. The cologne was Calvin Klein, pure Oxford Street kitsch, an excess of cinnamon like a grandmother’s kitchen. His eyes were evasive, watery. In a minute Blanche took all this in and measured it, seated at the table on the deck in a casual posture, leaning to one side, chin propped on hand. Yes. There were the men who were Armani through to their marrow, and the men who weren’t. It was that simple.
‘This is my daughter Blanche,’ said Marie.
‘Oh yes, I could tell straightaway. She looks so much like you.’ Aftershave looked from Blanche to Marie. ‘Yes, it’s in the mouth.’
‘The King women are renowned for their mouths,’ said Marie.
Blanche sat there smiling.
‘So you grew up here?’ Aftershave asked her.
‘Yes, the family’s been here more than thirty years.’
‘Well, if everybody was like you, people like me wouldn’t have a job. What a fabulous childhood you must have had!’
‘Yes.’
Aftershave leant up against the railing with his back to the view. ‘Well, we thought we had a buyer, but unfortunately they’ve gone over to the eastern suburbs.’
‘It’s early days yet.’ Blanche smiled.
‘Can I get you anything to drink?’ said Marie, finishing hers.
‘No, thank you. Christmas is in a month. It is a slightly awkward time.’
‘I think it’s the perfect time for a house to go on the market,’ Marie said. ‘People come and look now, then they have their holidays to think about it. I can wait.’
‘You’re right.’ Aftershave nodded. ‘You’re absolutely right.’
‘What about that cabbage tree palm? Have you factored that into the price? It’s older than the house by decades.’
‘We’ve factored in everything, Mrs King.’
For a while Blanche watched this routine of indulgence, caution and coercion. It was the oldest pantomime in history — the whole world was a marketplace — but again a feeling of unease moved through her. This transaction in the temple of her childhood was absurd, even obscene, and her mother was being predictably hopeless. The cabbage tree palm! Yeah, right. Blanche assumed a warrior attitude. ‘I imagine people would be clamouring to buy here.’
‘We’re doing our best, but I have to be honest. Interest rates may rise any day and we won’t get the sort of price we might have twelve months ago.’
‘This is harbourside property. This market’s never going to fail.’
‘Of course it won’t fail. It’s a unique house, a wonderful house!’
‘My daughter knows all about the market. Her husband works for Coustas and Stevens.’
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br /> ‘Really?’ Aftershave’s eyes lit up, then retreated. He stepped away from the rail. ‘I brought a camera with me today. I thought I’d take some photographs if that’s alright.’
Blanche needed to move before she strangled her mother. ‘I have some ideas. I’ll show you around.’
‘One last piece of advice, if I may?’ Aftershave said to Marie. ‘You might consider installing surveillance cameras to monitor the front gate. There’s absolutely no security here. I came right in. I could have been anyone.’
‘But you’re just Roger. And we left the gate open for you on purpose.’
‘The bottom of the property is also very open. National Park down there, isn’t it. Public access? You know how picky buyers in this market can be.’
‘Shall we?’ Blanche led Aftershave into the living room.
‘Photograph the garden,’ Marie called from her seat, swirling the ice around her glass, thinking she should take Aftershave through but a lassitude pressed her to the chair: it would be so much easier just to sit here and watch the trees and water.
Like blood flowing into her benumbed body, the Campari inflamed Marie. When they had gone upstairs, she plucked Blanche’s drink from its little pool of sweat. The indigestion she expected from her first dose of alcohol hadn’t come: energised, she went into the kitchen to mix more drinks. Just as she was beginning her second (third really, counting Blanche’s), the little teeth in her belly began to nip. That old chestnut: the indigestion got worse when she drank, but if she drank a certain amount, she ceased feeling it. She ceased feeling anything. That certain amount was about ten more drinks: almost total obliteration.
She had to stop drinking.
Aftershave followed Blanche through the house, scattering pleasantries. He photographed the living room and view from an angle that Blanche hadn’t considered but saw at once would be striking. Was it to her that Terry’s rant about innovation at today’s meeting had been directed? Blanche worried her vision had succumbed to cliché as she followed Aftershave through the rooms now, not the other way around. You could get complacent about the beauty of this place. From your position of comfort all you had to do was lazily lift the frame and something dazzling would be captured. Had Aftershave thought of the bedrooms? Probably not. Blanche waited for him at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Come up,’ she said, then took off, aware of her arse moving at his eye level.
Indelible Ink Page 6
