The House on the Hill

by Susan Duncan

  ‘Remember Amassine?’ I said. ‘Even twigs were precious.’ I held out my arms for Bob to load me up. ‘We’ll never go short, eh?’

  We were surprised to find nine dams nestled secretively in deep hollows. Surprised, because in our smitten state we’d completely overlooked the need for water. Most were utilitarian holes scooped out of gullies. One or two were shaded sylvan glades with deep blue spring-fed ponds thick with tiny white waterlilies. Pretty spots to throw a rug on long pasture for a picnic on a hot summer’s day, we thought, naively. One afternoon, tired from a long walk, I sprawled out on the soft grass and quickly jumped up. Too damp. Too smelly. Possibly a cow-poo health hazard. Once I wouldn’t have cared. Once I’d walked barefoot in the rain along greasy New York sidewalks. Happy afterwards, to spend an hour scrubbing sticky black grime from the soles of my feet.

  Before the sun went down, we sat around the campfire, moving our chairs whenever a gentle shift in the air wafted plumes of smoke in our faces, making our eyes water. Bob grilled loin lamb chops until the heavily salted fatty tails crunched like pork crackling. I added a simple salad – mixed leaves, red capsicum, red onion, avocado – tossed in a fine olive oil and red wine vinegar that I’d brought from Pittwater. The old cast-iron grill, also from our honeymoon days (when I carted exotic spices, condiments, sauces and even cheeses from one end of Queensland to the other, until I realised nothing beat the simplicity of fresh local produce bought from roadside stalls), leaned triumphantly against a gum tree. Age and rust may have wearied it, but it was not yet defunct. Like us, I thought.

  When a sliver of moon appeared, Bob asked me, as he does as a joke occasionally because he knows my memory for dates is appalling, how long we’ve been married.

  ‘A lifetime and a minute,’ I replied, reaching for his hand. He stood and refilled my wine glass. The sky was thick with stars, the night air clean and sharp.

  ‘Ten years,’ he said. ‘Any regrets?’

  I laughed. ‘Ask me in the morning when the wine’s worn off.’

  ‘What about this?’ He made a sweeping motion circling the dark abyss with his arm. ‘Any regrets?’

  ‘Honestly?’ Bob nodded. Firelight danced across his face. It was so quiet we might have been the last two people on earth. ‘I swing wildly between euphoria and terror.’ And then it came to me, from way down deep in my undeserving little soul. ‘We’re already so privileged, I wonder if this, this … wanting more, is somehow … obscene.’

  We were both silent for a long time. Flames died down. The orange glow of coals shone through the perforations of the fire drum like windows, so it resembled a model apartment building. The wine in our glasses emptied, leaving only a grainy red residue. I thought about doing the dishes. Decided they’d wait until morning. It was too late to boil a billy and, anyway, we needed to conserve water. The dams were a long, long way down in the valleys and no doubt polluted by the cattle. Unless we wanted to make daily treks to the brickworks to refill the jerry cans, washing up would have to be a once-a-day event. Every moment has an upside if you look hard enough.

  ‘Ready for bed?’ I asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t want to be one of those old blokes who sit around doing nothing day after day. You’ve got to have a job. Any job. Hours feel like weeks otherwise. Unless you give up completely and watch television. Not much of a life, that. Around here, there’ll be a bit to do.’

  ‘Here? If you want to, you’ll be flat out until the day you drop dead, hopefully at the age of one hundred and ten. Let’s hit the sack, eh? And we need to think of a name for this place. One we can pronounce and spell. Not like Tarrangaua. What about High Point?’

  ‘Sounds like a shopping centre.’

  ‘Ok, Einstein. You come up with one. Where’s the dog? Have you seen the dog?’ I said, holding down a note of panic.

  ‘She put herself to bed hours ago. Do you want to use the bathroom first or shall I?’

  ‘Hah! Very funny. I’ll go left. You go right. Watch out for cow dung. We already smell like refugees from a smokehouse.’ I paused on my way to somewhere private: ‘My mother told me that when she was a kid, when there was just a single rung of water left in the tank after a shocker drought, she was allowed a mug a day to brush her teeth and have a wash. One mug. That was it until it rained. If she could do it, so can we.’

  ‘Did she drink it then, so it wasn’t wasted?’

  ‘Smart arse.’ I marched off into the darkness, looking for a decent log to hang my backside over. Going down was bearable, getting up wreaked havoc. Bloody knees. Bloody body refusing to ride to orders. Who gave it permission to turn rogue? The horrible knowledge too that, as a rule, after a certain age joints like knees don’t improve.

  At god-knows-what time, Chippy growled. I woke instantly. Froze. Listened, lying motionless, my hand on her neck to keep her quiet. A whooshing sound, like dry grass swaying in the wind. But it was a still night. Cattle, maybe? Not wallabies. They thump. Scratching sounds on the other side of the window flap. Too close for cattle. Bandicoots. I’d put money on it. I soothed the dog by pulling her on to the camp stretcher and settling her in the bend of my knees.

  ‘Who’s the best little doggie in the whole wide world?’ I whispered. She huffed and snuffed and spun until she faced the opening. Then stared into the night, my brave old dog, with a low growl. Not bandicoots then. After a while, she dropped her head, sighed heavily and started to snore. My husband’s steady breathing never faltered. Whatever it was, it was gone. Slowly, my heartbeat returned to normal. I lay awake for a long time in the stale fug of the honeymoon tent. Seesawing between dread and gameness for what lay ahead. Listening to every slight rustle in the grass. The delicate movement of air whispering through the tall gums of our campsite.

  In the morning, we found fresh scats not far from the camp. ‘Wild dogs,’ Bob said, flatly. ‘Better keep a close eye on Chippy after the sun goes down.’

  12

  ON OUR RETURN TO PITTWATER, I called Esther: ‘How about a picnic at the beach?’

  ‘You’re on,’ she said, sounding bright and cheerful. ‘See you at noon in reception.’

  ‘Done!’

  The last time I’d collected her from her room, I’d decided to change our routine. Her unit had taken on the glitter and disarray of a backstage dressing-room. Multitudes of necklaces hung from a dusty black velvet mannequin, a collection of watches were heaped in a pile in a ceramic dish. Another dish was filled with rings. Lipsticks lay discarded. Her hairbrush sat on a pile of Village notices and mail-order catalogues. The sofa was piled with blankets: those ubiquitous afghans, the faux fur used to keep her boyfriend warm at the birthday bash, a couple of doonas, a patchwork blanket I’d knitted one winter to avoid reaching for a glass of wine too often. The television blared. The sink was full of dirty dishes. The rubbish bin overflowing.

  For a long while I’d tidied up while she checked her hair and lipstick. Then I’d rebelled. If she preferred to sit in a mess instead of making the smallest effort to wash her breakfast mug or plates, it was her choice. So instead of fetching her and feeling captive and claustrophobic in her room, I insisted she wait at reception. Displeased with the new arrangement, she invariably attacked me on my arrival. But I’d become more skillful at fending her off.

  ‘Are you putting on weight?’ she asked.

  ‘Heaps.’

  ‘Your face is very red. Have you been drinking?’

  ‘Heaps. Ready? Ok. Let’s go.’

  Within moments of greeting her, no matter how many times I promised myself that this time it would be different, we got off on the wrong foot.

  ‘Bum first,’ I said, as I always did, helping her into the car. I had meant to tell her about the new property, our camping trip, how I’d recounted the story to Bob about her bathing with a cup of water, but I was afraid I might say something irreversible, so I said nothing. At the beach, the wind was strong enough to buffet the car. I reached into the back seat for our food. Placed a tray of oysters on
her lap. Her face softened with pleasure. She slid a finger under the milky-grey globule and severed the muscle. Tipped the shell so the meat fell neatly into her mouth.

  ‘How’s Stefan?’ I asked, deciding to begin again.

  ‘Very, very ill. I don’t see him anymore.’

  ‘Oh, that’s sad. So hard for his daughter. She’s devoted to him.’

  My mother gave me a hard look. I wanted to stitch my lips together.

  One day, I flicked through Esther’s bank statements, wondering how she managed to go through so much cash each week when she was unable to get out and about much anymore.

  ‘How much?’ Bob asked when I mentioned it.

  ‘Three, often four hundred dollars.’

  ‘Have you made a list of her outgoings?’

  ‘Yep. Far as I can tell, they add up to about one hundred and sixty dollars. That includes hair appointments, the extra money for the monthly Village dinner party and personal items the carer buys for her. Oh, and the cost of the carer.’ If she needed anything beyond the carer’s reach, I filled the gap.

  ‘Doesn’t make sense,’ he said. ‘Might pay to find out what’s going on.’

  ‘You’d better come with me,’ I said. ‘She loses her manners completely when we have conversations about money.’

  We found her lying on the sofa as usual.

  ‘To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?’ she asked, sensing a hard note in the atmosphere. She battled into a sitting position. Bob remained in the doorway. I pushed aside debris to clear a seat. ‘We’re just a little worried, Esther, about the amount of money you’re spending.’

  She reared up, snake-like: ‘It’s mine. I’ll do what I like with it. Don’t worry, you’ll get your half-million when I die.’

  I felt a ping, like a rubber band snapping somewhere inside my chest. And I lost control.

  ‘First of all,’ I said, my voice clipped, ‘you don’t have half a million. Not even close to that amount. Secondly, throw your money away, if that’s what you want, but don’t expect me to step in when everything explodes. Those days are over. If you have to move into high-care – and the day will come, because you intend to hang on until everyone around you has died of frustration or fury – I’d have to sell my house to pay the bond, and I bloody well won’t do that so you can buy more cheap trinkets to satisfy some greedy little urge. You are ninety-years-old. No necklace is going to cure that.’ I know I am shouting. ‘You are a selfish, egotistical old woman with delusions of grandeur. Grow up. For god’s sake. Grow up.’ I stood. Tired. Fed up. ‘If you end up in the gutter, so be it. I’ll drive right past you without even looking.’

  Esther reached under the sofa. Found a long, yellow plastic shoehorn. Held it up like a club. Her eyes were black with fury. She bounced backwards and forwards, trying to get off the sofa.

  ‘If you hit me with that I will hit you so hard you will never get up,’ I said, absolutely enraged. A lifetime of letting her snide remarks go through to the keeper and, suddenly, a step too far. Fury boiled over. I wanted her to hit me. Hoped she would strike out. It would be the excuse I needed to walk away and never return.

  Without missing a beat, Esther sweetly said, ‘I was only going to scratch my back.’

  ‘You’re on your own,’ I said, past the point of caring. ‘From now on, sort out your own life.’

  Bob opened the door and I walked through it. Behind me, I heard him say, ‘Goodbye, Esther.’

  ‘She doesn’t care,’ I said, still spitting with fury. ‘She doesn’t care that her stupid, pointless extravagance could mean I have to sell my house. As long as she can play a rich old lady buying jewels. Favours. Whatever. I have no idea.’

  ‘You didn’t bring your mother up very well,’ Bob said, opening the car door.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She knows how to press all your buttons. She’s got you sorted.’

  ‘Not this time,’ I swore vehemently. ‘Not this time.’

  ‘You’ve got to give her credit. She’s so quick. Scratching her back?’ And he laughed out loud.

  ‘What keeps her going?’ I asked, refusing to see the funny side.

  ‘You,’ he said. ‘Part of her can’t bear to think you’ll go on enjoying life after she dies.’

  ‘That is a truly awful thing to contemplate,’ I said, but I wasn’t entirely shocked.

  At home that evening, while Bob watched the news, I considered the new footing of my relationship with my mother. If I felt a skerrick of regret for my behaviour, I whacked it down with the words, she’d failed to protect me. I’d first heard them when my head was unravelling under the pressure of a destructive love affair and I found my way to a chair in a psychologist’s office. For the first time in my life, I babbled without restraint, unveiling old demons. ‘Your mother failed to protect you,’ he told me gently. It was a shattering moment. Turned all I believed to be true inside out. But back then I was an expert at shoving aside awfulness. Compartmentalising, the shrink called it. An art perfected by children unable to cope with what is happening to them.

  Now, that single line had given me the right to hold on to outrage, withhold forgiveness, understanding and compassion. I curled my fist around those words like they held a cure for a fatal disease. I’d crossed a line. Witnessed her feel a tremor in her powerbase. Whereas I – I’d felt the past shaking loose. One wrong word from her, I thought, and I would tell all. I’d let her live with a nasty little slice of family history on her conscience until the day she died. No more protecting her from awful truths, or even minor unpleasantness. I had never felt so enraged in my life. But by morning, after a night of restlessness, I’d calmed down. Turning my back on my mother was impossible. She’d trained me too well.

  Three days later, the Village manager rang me: ‘Esther says she’s interested in moving to a two-bedroom apartment. That a fellow called Frank is coming to look after her. We thought we should check with you before doing anything.’

  ‘Pure fantasy,’ I said. ‘Frank is my Uncle Frank. He lives very happily with his daughter and her family in country Victoria. He’s the kindest man in the world but he’d run a country mile.’

  I let her sweat for a week before I rang to ask her if she’d like to have lunch.

  ‘If you can spare the time,’ she said nastily, straight on the attack. A part of me wanted to applaud. She may have lost the high ground but she’d never, ever give in. We sat in a black silence at the beach. I waited for payback and it didn’t take long: ‘Denise [her carer] is wonderful. More than a daughter to me.’

  ‘Yes, she’s a lovely woman. But remember, she’s paid to help you.’

  ‘Oh, she loves me. Our relationship goes way beyond professional.’

  ‘Ask yourself, Esther, if she’d be there without the pay cheque.’

  ‘I’m lucky to have someone to care. She kisses and hugs me, you know.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘Most people are happy to hug me.’

  Well, I thought, we’re back on track.

  After a while, I asked: ‘Why didn’t you ever remarry?’ I was curious. Her life could have panned out so differently. ‘You were a good-looking woman, still young when Dad died [in her early fifties], enjoyed the company of men.’

  ‘Your brother told me he wouldn’t approve,’ she said. Surprised, I said nothing. It didn’t sound like my brother at all. After a moment or two, she added: ‘I thought about getting together with your Uncle Frank. But really, he wasn’t my type. A little uncouth for me.’ But not so uncouth, I thought angrily, that she didn’t run straight to him when I threatened to leave her to fend for herself. At that precise moment I couldn’t bear being near her for another second.

  ‘Uncle Frank is one of the most decent and wonderful men I’ve ever known,’ I said, my jaw clenched. I grabbed our rubbish and jumped out of the car to dispose of it. Breathe fresh air. Drove her back to the Village in silence.

  Uncle Frank, in his late eighties now, with r
ough hands, tanned skin and buggered knees, could no longer stride the thousand-strong rows of peach, apricot, nectarine and cherry trees of the family orchards, humping a weed sprayer or, in the depths of winter when the first green buds formed and pruning began, secateurs. Instead, hobbling, limping, swinging his legs out wide to avoid bending his knees, he watched over his four-year-old great grandson so everyone else in the family could be flat-out picking, packing and shipping the fruit, earning a decent living some years but mostly surviving through sheer bloody-mindedness. He called Esther every Sunday night without fail to keep family links intact. Until she moved into assisted care, he holidayed with her for one, sometimes two weeks annually. Handing her cash at the end of each stay to cover the cost of feeding him, which my mother accepted without a qualm.

  I strode around to open the car door. Let her struggle to her feet alone, afraid that if I stood too close I’d be tempted to slap her. She shuffled off, bent over her walker.

  ‘You might want to take a good hard look at yourself, Esther,’ I said harshly. She didn’t even flinch. Later, I decided what must have happened: he’d turned her down.

  My cousin Jayne, Uncle Frank’s straight-talking daughter, told me once that Esther was well-known for embroidering the truth. ‘No one pulled her up, though, unless she went too far and someone got hurt. Mind you, she had a habit of going too far, your mother, so she was pulled up a fair bit.’

  So at our next picnic, to make a point, I said, ‘Uncle Frank handed Jayne every penny he had to help see them through the drought. A good man, eh?’