by Liz Byrski
Independence demanded things she hadn’t got. Everything they had both earned in their lifetime was in shared accounts and investments. It had been Colin’s planning but she had not objected. When Kim was born, Sylvia, by then a departmental manager at David Jones, had given up her job, slowly taking on more of the parish responsibilities, and so the church acquired two employees for the price of one. Knowledge of her skills as a needlewoman had spread and she had been in regular demand organising costumes for school plays, parish pantomimes, and confirmation dresses for the children whose mothers paled at the sight of a needle. Slowly and inexorably the work of maintaining and restoring the fabrics for the diocese had found its way to her, and while she was paid a small fee for reworking the gold thread on the stoles, or the crimson embroidery on the bishop’s cloak and the antique lace on the altar cloths, it all went into the shared income.
‘Take up thy sewing machine and walk, Sylvia,’ she murmured grimly into the silent kitchen, ‘because that’s about what you’ll have if you just walk away.’
The phone rang suddenly, startling her, and she swung around to answer it and then stopped herself. Let the answering machine pick it up. There was something else she needed to know before she faced Colin, and she got up from the table, let herself out through the kitchen door and made her way through the garden and behind the vestry into the quiet cul-de-sac of Church Close and knocked on the door of number three.
‘Sylvia! This is a nice surprise,’ Veronica said, stepping back to open the door wider. ‘Do come in. Did you enjoy your picnic?’ She was wearing a pale grey velour tracksuit piped with white and her black-framed glasses were perched on top of her head. ‘Would you like some coffee or perhaps you’d prefer tea?’
It was a small townhouse with a galley-style kitchen overlooking a sunlit living room. Timber-framed French windows opened to a small paved backyard crammed with well-tended pot plants and hanging baskets. Sylvia suddenly saw it through new eyes: this was what it was like for a woman living alone; it looked peaceful, pleasant, remarkably desirable.
‘You do have milk, don’t you?’ Veronica asked, bringing in a tray of coffee. ‘This is delightful. I was just writing a little note about the children’s art exhibition for the local paper. It all went very well but we did miss you …’ She faltered seeing Sylvia’s face as she handed her the cup. ‘Oh dear,’ she said, ‘is something … ?’
‘You know, don’t you?’ Sylvia said. ‘You know about what’s going on with Colin.’
Veronica paused and put down the cup. ‘Yes, dear, I do know. Not formally, not sort of officially, you understand, but I’ve heard, and clearly now you’ve heard too.’
‘I saw them together,’ Sylvia said. ‘Twice. Do you know her?’
‘No.’ Veronica shook her head. ‘I only know that she’s a social worker and a lot younger than Colin.’
Sylvia swallowed hard. ‘Does everyone know? Are they all talking about it?’
‘Not everyone, Sylvia, a few.’
‘They say the wife is always the last to know?’
‘Well, you’re not the last, but you’re not the first either. And, of course, when a few people know that means a few more soon will.’
Sylvia bit her lip, wishing that she could have controlled the tears that were sliding down her face. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
Veronica reached across the table and took her hand. ‘Sylvia dear, I like and respect you very much, but we are hardly close friends. I didn’t want to be the nosy old neighbour spying on the vicar. When I saw you in the church last week I felt so bad I almost said something, but then you said you were going through a rough patch, and I thought that meant you knew and were dealing with it.’
Sylvia brushed the tears away and took a gulp of her coffee. ‘Do you know how long it’s been going on?’
‘I heard about it a few weeks ago,’ Veronica said, ‘but the person who told me said it was a longish time, a year or more. Apparently, the Dean knows and spoke to Colin about it … some time ago. That’s … that’s all I really know.’
Ice entered Sylvia’s veins, freezing her blood and arresting the tears. So there was not just Colin’s infidelity and deception to cope with, there was the public side – even the Dean knew. She remembered lunches and sundowners at the Deanery, and Bill, his kindly hand on her arm, steering her into a quiet corner to chat about how hard it must be to have her only daughter and grandchildren far away in England; complimenting her on the exquisite embroidery repairs to the cathedral tapestry. Pity! Pity for her blindness, her stupid inability to see what was going on around her, her total ignorance of something that everyone there knew but her. How pitiful she must seem.
‘I’m so sorry, Sylvia,’ Veronica began. ‘Perhaps I should have said something earlier …’
Sylvia shook her head. ‘No, you did what you thought was right. I can’t believe I didn’t know. He’s always been very detached, you see – distant, really – and more so over the years. I just thought … I hardly know what I thought.’ She shook her head. ‘You know, Veronica, I would never have credited Colin with the imagination to do something like this.’
‘Huh!’ Veronica said, pouring her own coffee. ‘Imagination? In my experience, most men’s imagination is located between their legs. And since I heard what Colin was up to I can tell you that there have been many occasions when I have come close to kicking him right in his imagination.’
David walked up the street from the tram stop to the house, his backpack over his shoulder, wishing he had never given up smoking. The last four hours had been peppered with moments of intense longing for a habit he’d abandoned three years earlier. He should have been ecstatic, and he should still have been in Sydney, meeting up with old friends. He’d planned an evening of celebration, envisaging himself walking through the streets of Kyoto to work, occupying his office, meeting the staff of teachers for whom, as director of studies, he’d be responsible. He’d got the job, he’d even managed to push up the salary and get them to pay for business-class travel. They were delighted with him and wanted him there by the end of June.
‘Just one thing,’ the director had said, ‘merely a formality, but we need you to have a medical.’
David’s eyes had glazed over as the man went on about how the contract would be mailed to him as soon as the medical clearance was received. He was framing a question about the appropriateness, even the legality, of the request but the director had foreseen it and was explaining that it was a requirement not of this school, but of the Japanese company itself for whom they were merely managing the recruitment. Better to get it done here than have to go through all the palaver once he got there – after all, the director had said, smiling again, he was obviously fit so there shouldn’t be any problems.
The irony was sickening. He’d worked in seven different countries over the last twelve years and never before had his contract been subject to a medical. In the early days as a rookie teacher he’d just turn up at the door of a language school and pick up a few classes the same day. But now he was really good, good enough to be a director of studies in a school that taught English to Japanese executives, and his medical condition was going to stuff up absolutely everything. He had left the interview, wandered out into Oxford Street in a daze and stood briefly contemplating the possibilities.
He could probably get away with postponing the medical until his arrival, in the hope that it would simply be forgotten. The risk was that if it wasn’t forgotten and he was sent home on medical grounds, they might refuse to pay his fare, and want him to repay the cost of the outbound trip as well. Stupid ideas raced through his mind: getting someone else to attend the medical in his place, bribing a doctor to lie for him, asking Mike to fill out the form for him. It would be a waste of time, though; he’d got the job, but there was no way he’d be going to Japan.
He was suddenly overwhelmed with loneliness and the threat of the depression that had haunted his last weeks in Qatar hovered just behind his
shoulder. He wanted to be home, just as he had wanted to be home once he’d got the diagnosis; suddenly, stupidly perhaps, anywhere else seemed threatening and hostile. He pulled out his mobile and cancelled his arrangements for the rest of the day, then he flagged down a taxi and headed out to the airport, hoping he could pick up a seat on the next flight back to Melbourne. A few hours later he was home again.
‘But you don’t know for sure that they would knock you back on the strength of the medical,’ Fran said, moving a pile of files off the couch, where she had been looking for her last tax return. ‘I mean, if the employer was worried about medical costs you could have your own insurance.’
David smiled, sipping the cup of tea she’d given him.
‘And who do you think would insure me, Mum? An insurer would only give me coverage from which the existing condition would be exempt.’
‘Would you two like me to leave?’ Bonnie asked from her seat at the computer where she was working on Fran’s tax. ‘I can come back at a better time if you need to discuss this more.’
David shook his head. ‘It’s fine, Bonnie. Don’t leave because of me. It’s not as if you didn’t already know. If I can borrow the car, Mum, I think I’ll go and face the music with Dad and Lee. It’s got to be done sometime and today can’t get much worse.’
Fran followed him out to the car, concern forming creases between her eyebrows. ‘Are you sure you want to do this now? Another day or two won’t hurt.’
He shook his head. ‘Might as well get it done with, then it won’t be hanging over me.’ He paused at the car door. ‘Can I stay on a bit longer with you?’
‘Of course, as long as you like.’
‘I’m thinking it might be time to settle down here for a bit. See how I go, stick with the treatment, and there’s always plenty of language teaching jobs. I’ll buy a car, find somewhere to live – ’
‘You can live here,’ Fran cut in.
‘Just till I find somewhere,’ he smiled. ‘I’m too old to live with my mum. Besides, I don’t want you knowing what I’m up to all the time.’
She nodded. ‘Whatever. But it’s a good idea, staying in Melbourne …’
David saw the relief in her face. It was the same look she’d had when he’d walked away unharmed from a horrible car accident, and when the police constable searching his room hadn’t found the expected stash of marijuana. The look almost made him want to cry again and he gave her a quick hug before climbing into the car, wondering briefly how it really felt to be a parent and to care so desperately about what happened to someone whom you could no longer pop into a highchair for safety.
‘He says he’s going to stay on in Melbourne,’ Fran said, resuming her place amid the files on the couch. ‘So at least I’ll be able to keep an eye on him.’
‘That’s good,’ Bonnie said somewhat distractedly, her eyes still on the screen. ‘You won’t worry so much if he’s nearby. Fran, what have you actually done with all the GST you’ve collected over the last two years?’
‘I haven’t done anything with it because I couldn’t work out the stupid forms,’ Fran said. ‘I just paid it into the account with the other money until I could sort it out.’
‘And the receipts for things you’ve bought for your work?’
Fran waved a file tray in the air. ‘Yes, I’ve got some of those. Haven’t kept all of them, of course.’
‘So, you haven’t got all the receipts and you haven’t filed an income tax or a GST return, or paid any tax, for the last two years?’
‘No, but I’ve put a bit aside to cover it.’
‘How much exactly?’ Bonnie asked, jotting some figures on a pad beside her.
‘Just over three thousand – it’s in my savings account.’
‘I see,’ Bonnie said, taking off her glasses and rubbing the bridge of her nose.
‘I could probably rustle up another five hundred if necessary,’ Fran said, feeling the stirrings of unease. ‘I used to just whiz everything over to the accountant but he retired and I haven’t got around to finding a new one. I’m not really sure how much I’ve earned over the last couple of years, but it’s always a struggle so it’s probably around the same as the preceding years. I just haven’t been very good at keeping records.’
‘You haven’t actually kept any records,’ Bonnie said, clearing her throat. ‘Just a few receipts and, fortunately, your invoices.’
Fran pulled a face. ‘I know, I know. For a self-employed person I’m useless at it but he always did it for me, you see, and there’s always so much else to do. I just sort of, well … ignored it.’
‘Yes,’ said Bonnie warily, ‘I can see that. The thing is, Fran, what you owe is a good bit more than you’ve got saved.’
‘How much is a good bit more?’ Fran asked, her heart suddenly starting to beat very much faster.
‘Quite a lot, actually.’ Bonnie glanced down at the figures and then looked up at her again. ‘Your income tax and GST together come to over fourteen thousand, and there’ll also be some interest charged on top of that.’
Caro was on her way back to her desk from the toilets when she tripped up two steps and staggered, steadying herself against the wall. She stood there a moment, heart pounding furiously, fear flooding her body and making her head spin. She had just vomited for the fifth time that day and was already weak and light-headed; now the fear made her feel as though she was trembling inside. She couldn’t have hurt the baby, could she? After all, she hadn’t really fallen, just tripped and staggered. People did all sorts of things when they were pregnant, rode horses, played netball, and this was really nothing.
She made her way carefully back to her desk and sank into her chair, hoping that no one would notice the greenish pallor she had just seen in the mirror. How could she know that it was all right? The whole pregnancy thing was terrifying. She’d thought it would be a breeze, that was what Mike had promised. She was young, healthy, ate well, didn’t smoke and only had an occasional glass of wine. But it was the responsibility. It hadn’t really hit her until she’d started telling people, her mother, David, her Gran, then the phone call to Mike’s parents in Singapore. Suddenly it was all terrifyingly real: she was responsible for getting this whole other person into the world, a baby, a child, when she actually still felt like a child herself.
Caro felt the nausea rising again. It was ironic that just a week after she had boasted to Fran that she had graduated into the vomit-free zone, she actually started throwing up every day, and not just in the mornings but, like her mother had said, on and off all day, every day, relentlessly. She took a deep breath and sipped some water and then she felt a slight twinge around the area of her disappearing waist. Was it a serious twinge? What did it mean?
She picked up the phone to call Mike and then put it down. She couldn’t call him at work again. Last time she’d had a twinge she’d called him and he had been in the middle of deciding if an elderly man with impacted faecal matter was at risk of a burst bowel. He’d been lovely, of course, very patient, that was Mike – but he’d told her firmly that twinges were perfectly normal, her body was going through dramatic changes and there would be lots of strange twinges and other things over the coming months.
‘Ring Fran,’ he told her. ‘You need to talk to a woman. Your mother’s had two kids, for heaven’s sake, ring her now.’
But Caro couldn’t. She just couldn’t let her mother see how vulnerable and scared she felt. For the last seventeen years starting with the divorce, Caro had fashioned herself into the iron woman, tough, sassy and together. While David had traversed the war zone between Fran and Tony, calming them down, relaying messages the language of which he invariably tempered, Caro had remained aloof. She had always been a bright child, not intellectual but street smart, and she had wrapped herself in that bright, hard smartness and built a snazzy little wall around herself so none of the gross, embarrassing drama or intense pain of it all could penetrate. She’d actually drawn a picture of it at the time. On
e night, lying on her bed with her radio turned up to drown the sound of the raised voices, she’d drawn herself surrounded by this neat cerise wall with ramparts along the top. It had fixed in her mind that night and she could still see it firmly in place, the neatly drawn black portcullis designed to resist marauding invaders, keeping everyone out and her safe inside. Caro had never quite worked out how Mike had made it over the ramparts; from time to time she had pushed him out and raised the drawbridge, but he always knew the way back in and somehow, she thought, now that she was having their baby, she would be keeping Mike locked firmly inside.
Caro drummed her fingers on her desk and then picked up the phone and dialled her grandmother’s number.
‘You weren’t at the picnic, Caro dear,’ Lila said. ‘That wasn’t nice, you know. I think you could have been there for your mother.’
Caro rolled her eyes at the telephone and wondered why it was that her grandmother forgot so much but was always on the ball over things that would be best forgotten or ignored.
‘And how’s Nick?’
‘Mike, Gran, his name is Mike.’
‘Ah yes, he’s a lovely boy, Caro, you’re very lucky. Did I tell you I got my best chair reupholstered? Purple, you know, very nice deep purple velvet. It cost me rather a lot but it was worth it. When can you pop round and see it?’
‘I’ll come at the weekend, Gran,’ Caro said. ‘Sunday, Mike and I’ll come and take you out for afternoon tea. But I just wanted to ask you something.’
‘I’m writing it down,’ Lila said. ‘Sunday, that’ll be nice. I have to write things down these days. I don’t suppose you’ve noticed but I’m getting a bit forgetful.’
‘Really, Gran?’ Caro’s face softened to a smile. Sometimes she felt Lila brought out the best in her. ‘No, I hadn’t noticed. But I wanted to ask you … well, you remember about me being pregnant?’
‘Of course, dear, now I wouldn’t forget that – my first great grandchild. I hope you’re taking care.’
‘Yes, yes, I am but … do you remember – did you get funny sort of twinges when you were pregnant?’
