‘Mrs Egan lent it to me.’
‘Why?’
‘She likes to talk about books. I suppose it’s a better discussion if I’ve actually read it.’ He saw his mother’s face and quickly added, ‘But I don’t much like this one. I’m not sure I’ll finish it.’
His mother ran her fingers through the pages, as if checking its suitability by the feel of the paper. She put the book down. ‘Don’t be beholden. Read what you want to read, tell her what you like or don’t like. You’ve precious little free time as it is. Don’t spend it all doing things to please others.’ At the door she turned to ask, ‘How old is she?’
‘I don’t know.’ Younger than his mother, older than him. He punted for an average. ‘Around thirty?’
His mother sniffed. ‘Young enough,’ she said.
Mrs Egan was disappointed to hear his Gatsby review. ‘But isn’t the writing beautiful? Those magnificent parties, the descriptions of that oppressive heat. Didn’t it just make you want to take a long cold drink of water?’ He couldn’t answer, thinking only of the Campaspe: doing bombs from the big tree branch near the Leggetts bridge, and the rope swing that he and Fairless strung up last Christmas holidays. Why didn’t they ever swim in the sea, those bored rich Gatsby people, if they were so damned hot? They had money and privilege and all the time in the world: how could they possibly be so uniformly unhappy?
‘I’m going to travel to America,’ Mrs Egan told him, ‘when my ship comes in. Who knows? If I like it as much as I think I will, I might stay.’ She had relatives in New York City, in a place called Brooklyn. He imagined her there, working in a library and climbing a giant ladder past tiers of books that stretched three stories high — wasn’t everything huge in America? — and standing at the stove of an evening while the steak she was cooking burned to a cinder right under her book-buried nose.
Nuala Egan’s ship comes in the following week. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ she says to Dom when he arrives for work on Monday morning. She holds up the winning ticket. ‘Ten thousand pounds. And it’s only my third lottery ever.’ She puts it on the counter, then picks it up again directly. ‘Ten thousand pounds, Dominic. What do you think of that?’
He takes the ticket: she’s insistent that he hold it. He’s shaking as much as she is. ‘Congratulations. It’s incredible, wonderful.’ Only superlatives come to mind. What does he think, beyond disbelief and excitement? That somewhere in the universe, something has been righted. Is it God’s doing? Mrs Egan seems to think so. He’s not so sure. He wonders if other forces are at work, forces that have more to do with ordinary people than with God. In a Papuan jungle Bernie Egan was shot down in the mud, fighting for his country, and now his widow wins a princely sum. Might Tattersalls and Legacy be secretly connected?
Mrs Egan has to go to Melbourne to collect the money from the Tattersalls office. ‘It’ll be a cheque, thank goodness. Imagine me walking around with that much money in my handbag.’ She laughs at the thought, and her cheeks turn pink. Today she looks years younger. ‘I’m going down early on Saturday morning. The office will be open until noon.’
‘When will you go to America?’ he asks Mrs Egan at the end of the day.
She looks up from the ledger, her eyes bright. ‘America! Soon, I hope.’ She leaves the counter and walks with him to his bicycle, propped against the outside wall. He thinks she wants to say some-thing so he stands for a while, fiddling with the strap of his satchel. ‘America,’ she repeats. She looks at him. ‘Yes, plenty to think about.’
‘Ten thousand pounds,’ he tells his mother as soon as he gets home. It’s become a magical number, all those beautiful zeros. ‘She’s going to America.’
‘Who’ll take her place, I wonder,’ his mother says. ‘It’s a decent job. There’s sure to be many who’ll want it.’ She pauses. ‘Do you think I could do it?’
He swallows hard. His mother, working alongside him? His mother with a job? Before he can answer — and God knows what he’ll say — his mother dismisses the idea. ‘As if they’d take me, with no training or experience. And how would I get to Romsey each day?’ She smiles at him, seemingly relieved. ‘I wouldn’t be able to ride a bike all that way. Thank God you can.’
The following Thursday he asks Mrs Egan, ‘Have you booked your passage to New York?’
‘Not yet,’ she says. ‘It’ll be too hot there now. They say summer in New York City is unbearable. So humid. Remember Gatsby?’ She laughs. ‘No, I’ll wait until it gets cooler.’
He tries to picture the journey she’ll take, the bow of the ship slicing through water, and feels a little unsteady. He thinks he prefers the land under his feet. ‘You’ll go to New Zealand and Samoa, and then through the Panama Canal to Florida.’ He’s looked it up in the atlas.
She sighs. ‘The Panama Canal. How exotic that sounds. I’ll be sunning myself on deck the whole way.’ She looks at him with a smile. ‘Me, with all my freckles.’
A traveller sailing the Panama Canal sees toucans, and white-hooded capuchin monkeys swinging in the treetops. Crocodiles swim right past the ship, so expertly camouflaged that one must be suspicious of every floating log. Indian tribes dressed in leopard skins live in the jungles traversed by the canal, and paddle the Chagres River in dugout canoes. Another world awaits her. Another life.
On Friday during lunch, Mrs Egan says, ‘I’d like to talk to your mother about something. Face to face would be better, I think. Do you think this evening would suit?’
‘I suppose so.’ Dom puts down his sandwich. ‘Is it something to do with me?’
Mrs Egan smiles. ‘Of course it is. But nothing bad, mind you. I’m not going to complain about your work or anything. You know I’d never do that.’
All afternoon it nags at him. If it’s nothing bad then it must be good. A raise, perhaps, though he’s fairly sure his rate of pay is set by the PMG. A proper uniform — something more soldierly than his blue dungarees and jumper? Or a new bike, as light and fast on the hills as any in the Tour de France: now that would be something.
‘I’ve telephoned your mother and she’s agreeable,’ Mrs Egan tells him when he returns. ‘Grab your coat now and I’ll drive you home.’
She’s brought old Mr Egan’s utility truck and parked it out the back. He eases his bike into the tray, jumpy with curiosity, and sits beside her in the cabin.
How quick the drive home seems, how trivial the hills! Quick, even though Mrs Egan drives sedately. She leans forward into the wheel, squinting as if suddenly short-sighted, though he’s never seen her wearing glasses at work. The occasional crunch of the gearbox brings forth a sigh and a vigorous shake of her head. ‘Only a few more miles,’ he says encouragingly after Woodend.
‘Grand,’ she says. She leans back a little. Her shoulders drop and she begins to sing ‘Forever and Ever’ under her breath. She smiles at him. ‘I’m just mad about Perry Como.’ She sings more loudly. She has a nice voice. It reminds him of Mary’s: clear and sweet. Before he knows it he’s singing along with her. By the time they reach Kyneton they’ve sung it twice through, both laughing as she swung into the harmony.
His mother comes out onto the verandah as they arrive. ‘So that’s her?’ Mrs Egan asks.
‘Yes.’ He waves from the cabin. His mother waves back.
‘And she likes to be called Mrs Quinn? Not her first name?’
‘Yes.’ Ellen. He never hears her name spoken now. Only his father called her that.
His mother’s made pikelets and set out jam in a dish. He makes the tea while the two women talk in the sitting room. When he returns with the tray, the room is silent. They both turn to look at him. The matter has not yet been broached, he can tell. They are waiting for him.
‘I have a proposition,’ Mrs Egan begins after he has handed out the cups. ‘I hope you’ll both accept it.’ She smiles. ‘Goodness me, I sound like a lawyer or something. I don’t wa
nt to come across too formal. It’s just that I’m serious about this idea.’
His mother folds her hands in her lap. ‘Please go on.’
‘These lottery winnings of mine. I’ve been wondering what I should do with them. Praying for guidance —’
‘Property,’ his mother cuts in. ‘Buy a house or two, and bank the rest. That’s my advice.’
‘Yes, of course. I’m going to buy that little flat in Tamarama, aren’t I, Dom?’ She’s never called him Dom before. He nods dumbly, aware of his mother’s eyes upon him. ‘But I’d like to do something for someone else, too.’
His mother grows taller in her chair.
‘And I’m not talking charity either, Mrs Quinn,’ says Mrs Egan. ‘I’m sure you’d want none of that.’ Touché, thinks Dominic. She’s read his mother like a book.
And so it unfolds, Mrs Egan’s idea, flowering, bursting forth, echoing around their sitting room until the walls glow as if painted with gold. ‘He’s practical and diligent and so capable, Mrs Quinn, though you’d know that already. He’s fixed the kitchen tap, he mows the grass for me, and I’ve never heard anything but praise for him from people in Romsey. But a career in the post office … Dom deserves more.’ She turns to him. ‘Wouldn’t you like to go back to school?’
He avoids looking at his mother. ‘Yes. And then to university. I want to study the natural world,’ he hears himself say. Not medicine, like Robbie, or teaching, like his father. He thinks of the muted harmony of the bush, seen from his bicycle as he climbs the Newham hill, and the transience of weather, and the hopeful green of new wheat rippling in the wind. ‘Plants, mostly,’ he continues. ‘Crops, really. I might like to own a farm one day.’ If this is a dream, let him say what he wants.
‘Dominic,’ his mother begins, but this time Mrs Egan interrupts. ‘Good for you,’ she says. ‘That’s what I thought, too.’
She wants to set up an endowment for his education: money for school fees and a living allowance. ‘As much as you’re earning at the post office, perhaps a bit more. And then, when you go on to university, there’ll be money for board and fees.’
Dominic sits and gazes while she talks. His ministering angel. Never before has he felt so light of body, so soaring in spirits. It’s only now, with a possible end in sight, that he can admit to how much it’s dragged him down — not just the work itself, but also the gnawing sense of things moving away, out of reach. He never told her about the way the force of his life has been sapping away since that day he ran down Mollison Street in search of Dr Cameron, the day his father died. He never told her, but she’d guessed it anyway. She knew how it felt.
‘Well, Mrs Quinn. What do you say?’
‘It’s a very generous offer. Very kind indeed, though I’ll need to think about it.’
‘And you’ll want to discuss it with Dominic, I expect.’ Mrs Egan stands to go. ‘You have my telephone number. I’ll look forward to your call.’
He walks Mrs Egan out to the truck. ‘Thank you,’ he says. He wants to throw his arms around her neck, but he knows his mother will be watching. ‘I couldn’t have asked for anything better.’
‘Work on your mother,’ she says. ‘I think she’ll come around. She wants what’s best for you.’
‘Will you go to New York?’ he asks. ‘Soon?’
She laughs. ‘We’ll see.’
7
The hazy sweetness of Friday afternoon. Mary waits on Domain Road, on the gardens side of the street, as Robbie’s told her to. It’s almost half-past three and the school grounds are quiet as a tomb: not even a squeak from the gardener’s barrow as he wheels it across the lawn. Still, she can feel the stirring, the restlessness of five hundred boys itching to bolt from their desks to drink in the outside world. Yes, it’s true, the outside world is wonderful! The gardens beckon — the dappled shade, the cool, velvety grass.
The bell rings, and thirty seconds later the exodus begins. ‘Don’t look as if you’re waiting,’ Robbie’s said. ‘I’ll look for you and if you’re there I’ll come out.’ This is their arrangement, though she can never be sure of it. Several times she’s waited, sitting in the shade in the King’s Domain for an hour or more, pretending to read the magazine she’s brought so that she doesn’t appear idle, and still he hasn’t come. The next week he’ll explain: ‘I was at cricket practice,’ or ‘We had to stay back for an extra class.’ She wishes there was some way they could speak to each other during the week so he could tell her yes or no. (A coloured flag, hoisted from the highest tower in the school: black, the colour of mourning, means no; red — glorious, orange-tinged, sunrise red — means yes!) She misses him terribly when he doesn’t come. It’s so awful to be close yet not able to see him that she’d rather be back at the hostel scrubbing floors. Anything other than that sickening, empty heartache.
When she sees him at the gate, she jumps to her feet. He’s told her not to wave to him, but she can’t stop herself from rising to tiptoe. Robbie has come! He loves her. No other moment of her week means as much as this first sighting of him. She’ll soon kiss him and feel his hand in hers — and if there’s time and privacy enough, they might do a little more — but it’s this materialisation of him back into her world that holds the most sway.
The stream of boys from the gate has already slowed, and a great mass of them have boarded the tram down Domain Road. At last Robbie crosses, head down, hands in blazer pockets. Mary knows not to touch him until they are out of sight of the school. She chants his name, just loudly enough for him to hear: ‘Robbie, Robbie, I’m so pleased to see you.’ He heads into the King’s Domain, striding fast, and she follows. He cuts across the grass and into the stand of trees that line Birdswood Avenue, where he leans against a tree trunk and waits for her to reach him. She runs the last few steps towards him and puts her finger against the cleft in his chin. It’s her talisman, the thing about him that most softens her heart. She’s glad it hasn’t filled out as he’s grown. She kisses his cheek: not his lips, not yet. She’s learned to go slow with him, understands that he needs to be cajoled and warmed up to love. Are all men like this?
‘I almost didn’t come,’ Robbie says. ‘Mid-term tests next week. There’s a hell of a lot to swot up on.’
Mary understands this too. He’s telling her he doesn’t need her, but of course he does. She lifts his arm and snuggles against his chest, feeling the scrape of his blazer, the rub of his shirt against her cheek, and picturing the skin beneath. ‘I’ve missed you.’
She can always feel the moment of softening, the instant his guard goes down and he lets himself love her. She never doubts it will happen, though some days she has to wait longer and work harder to draw it from him. She wonders if she’s good at it, this sweetening. She sometimes wonders, too, where she learned how to do it. Not from her mother, she’s sure of that. Her mother has no sweetness, not a skerrick, but she’s going to cherish hers. Just as she rubs lanoline into her hands after bleaching all those sheets, she’s going to protect and nurture that part of herself that can sweeten a man. She holds his hand and they walk on through the gate into the gardens.
‘Will we go to the lake?’ she asks him.
‘I’m on dinner duty. Have to be back by half-past four.’
Less than an hour. Her heart sinks, but she tries not to show it. ‘The fern gully then?’
‘Jeez, you don’t beat about the bush, do you?’
She blinks backs tears. ‘Don’t you want to? I thought because we had such little time —’
‘All right then. It just doesn’t seem right that you ask me, that’s all.’
At the branch in the path they turn right, past the camellia garden. The calluses on Robbie’s palm press against her own. He hasn’t softened, not yet. She asks him about school, not that she cares two figs about it. She’s outgrown all that now, but she lets him talk, as much for her sake as his. She’s learned that their lovema
king is better when she’s drawn him out, listened to him as he gets things off his chest. He has to talk the schoolboy out of him before he can properly turn his mind to her.
At the little bandstand Robbie checks that there’s no one around and steps from the path and into the fern grove, pulling Mary behind him. She laughs as the fronds tickle her face. ‘Quiet,’ Robbie hisses. ‘Don’t you know there’s a law against what we’re doing? Probably a few, actually. I can’t get caught. You too, Mares. What would your mother say if she heard you were in a lock-up for public indecency?’
She doesn’t want to think about her mother. ‘Please, Robbie, don’t. You’re making it seem wrong.’
It’s always cooler in the fern gully, especially in their hidden place at the bottom of the slope, where giant fronds weave and overlap so that the light can barely find its way in. There she stops, waiting until he turns to her. She puts her hands around his neck, looking into his eyes until he bends to kiss her on the lips. Yes, he’s her Robbie now: all his baiting and gruffness have fallen away. In her bag she carries a torn sheet she’s taken from the hostel. She folds it in two and spreads it on the ground, over the dead fronds and cool, damp earth. Robbie hangs his blazer on a branch, and they lie down together. She’s always ready and never quite ready enough. She wonders if it’s the scraping of the fronds against her back, or the patch of sky that seems to sprout from Robbie’s head, that distracts her from something she thinks might be different if only she could concentrate more fully. She arches her back, but Robbie tells her to lie flat again.
‘I love you,’ she whispers as he comes. She’d like him to stay inside her, just resting, but he pulls away and removes the condom, tying a knot in the end and digging with a stick in the soft soil to bury it. She straightens her dress, dries her eyes, looks up at the ragged patch of sky. He loves her too. The evidence is irrefutable.
Later she tells Jo, ‘When Robbie finishes school he and I will find a place to live together. A little flat, maybe somewhere near here. I’ll find a job, and Robbie can finish his studies. He’s going to be a doctor.’
The Science of Appearances Page 8
