The House on the Hill

by Susan Duncan

  Oh god, she thinks he’s infatuated with her. I was suddenly curious. ‘Did you ever have any affairs when you were married to Dad?’

  She shook her head then admitted with a sheepish expression. ‘Well, one. On that trip to London. I fell hard. He was an actor. Very good-looking. Never told your father, but I think he guessed. Probably dead by now. He knew I was married. It didn’t seem to bother him.’

  It was on the tip of my tongue to point out that it didn’t seem to bother her, either, but remembering my own track record I held back. My father, I thought, might not have said a lot, but even after he’d stared into the bottom of several beer bottles he didn’t miss much. ‘Why do you think Dad guessed?’

  ‘There was no one to meet me at the airport when I got home. I waited and waited then caught a cab. He’d gone to the races with your brother. Said he wasn’t sure I intended to return at all. I might not have, either, if he hadn’t announced he wouldn’t send any more money.’ We were silent for a while. I gathered the rubbish from lunch and went to place it in the garbage cans near the public toilets. Scraps of memory hovered at the edge of my mind, leading to questions I knew would and could never be answered. I reminded myself that parents were human, too.

  On Christmas Eve, I collected Esther, her huge suitcase, various carry bags, her walker, and checked she had her medications. She’d forgotten her pills one year but didn’t tell us until, by day three, she was very wonky and forced to admit she’d left them behind.

  ‘Got your keys?’ I asked. She’d forgotten those once, too. For some reason I can’t remember, she’d insisted on going back to the Village after lunch and two guests kindly agreed to drop her off. The entire Village was closed for the holiday. It took an hour to find a security guard to open her unit.

  ‘Please, never ask me to do that again,’ pleaded the guest, only a decade younger than Esther. Today, though, my mother nodded.

  ‘Show me,’ I said suspiciously. She pointed at her walker, where they were tied on to the handlebars with a piece of Christmas tinsel. Put her thumb to her nose and wiggled her fingers at me. I phoned Bob to tell him we were on our way.

  At commuter dock, the boat was tied tight so it didn’t rock. Bob held Esther’s left arm, I went to hold her right. ‘Don’t touch it!’ she yelled. ‘It’s my bad arm.’

  ‘We need to hold you steady,’ I said. She batted me away. I rolled my eyes, thinking unhelpful thoughts such as, If you drown or get squashed to death between the pontoon and the boat, it’s your own fault.

  ‘Get her left arm,’ Bob said, stepping into the tinny. ‘Esther, take a step. Let yourself go. I’ll catch you.’ He opened his arms wide. Oh Jesus, I thought. She’ll knock him flat. They’ll both be dead.

  ‘Ooh, it’s a long time since I’ve fallen into a man’s arms,’ Esther cooed, batting her eyelashes, smiling coquettishly.

  ‘Watch what you’re doing,’ Bob ordered, ignoring the flirt.

  We crossed blue water at a royal barge pace. Smoothly, comfortably. For no reason any of us could fathom, Esther winced.

  ‘Not far to go now,’ Bob said reassuringly.

  I added: ‘If we go any slower, Esther, the tide will take us back the way we came.’ She winced again. Louder this time. Followed up with a groan. ‘If this is beyond you, you should have told us,’ I said, unable, as always, to separate reality from theatrics.

  She made an obvious effort, grimacing but stoic. ‘I can do anything,’ she said in a way that was meant to win fans but was completely unrealistic. We caught a bow wave from a passing tinny. Water sloshed at our feet. The walker rolled back and forth as if alive. We passed the shallow water marker and rounded Rocky Point. Home stretch. Everyone still breathing.

  Bob took his phone out of his pocket and called Michael at the boatshed. Asked him to stand by. ‘We might need a chair to lift her out,’ he explained.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Esther said in a small voice.

  ‘It’s all good,’ I said, gritting my teeth.

  ‘We’re nearly there,’ Bob said. Up ahead, the escarpment shone in the noonday heat. The shallow estuary that meets the freshwaters that tumble from a creek called Salvation glowed gold.

  Pleasure wafted across Esther’s face, easing lines, erasing a decade. ‘So beautiful,’ she murmured. She loosened her grip on the boat. ‘It’s really Christmas now.’ Added: ‘I’m doing alright.’

  ‘You’re game,’ I said, grudgingly, ‘I’ll give you that.’

  Michael waved. Bob dropped into neutral and coasted alongside the pontoon. Michael tied us on tightly. No gaps. Death traps for the frail and unwary. I hefted the suitcase. The walker. We all turned to Esther, still glued to her seat.

  ‘Right,’ Bob said. ‘Let’s get you on the truck and up the hill. Think we could all do with a cup of tea.’ Half-dragging, half-supporting, we three coaxed her upright.

  ‘Not that arm, not that arm,’ she ordered, although no one went near it. Torn muscle or ligament, a doctor had explained. At Esther’s age, they rarely mended properly. Another boat slid past. Another bow wave. The pontoon rocked. Esther’s walker rolled. Went over the side with a splash. Webster packs of pills, her handbag, make-up, hairbrush, floated out of reach in a nanosecond. A few pieces of paper. Bills, probably.

  ‘Oy! Tristan. Larnce. Get the pills!’ I yelled.

  At the next jetty along, the boatshed boys dropped tools. Sussed the current, judged the drift. Kneeled in position, ready to scoop. ‘Don’t worry about anything else, just get the pills!’ I pleaded. Blood pressure regulators, heart steadiers, painkillers, a chalky balm for a whisky-worn oesophagus so she could eat comfortably. ‘And grab the walker before it sinks! Her keys are tied to it.’

  We steered Esther up the jetty. Bob leading and gripping a wrist, me with a hand on each of her buttocks, pushing. Safely onshore, she came to life and gaily called across the water: ‘Don’t lose my handbag!’ The boys, laughing, held up their trophies. She grinned. Gave a regal wave. They cheered. My mother gave a little bob. Loving every second.

  When she was settled in a cane chair on the verandah, we handed her a recovery cuppa and flopped down next to her. ‘I’m doing alright,’ she said again. Her hand knocked the mug. Hot tea rolled along the table and into her lap.

  ‘Oh, bugger,’ I said, leaping to my feet. ‘Are you burnt?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘It doesn’t hurt.’

  On Christmas Day, Esther hit the whisky and scoffed the turkey skin. She paid a mortifying price. ‘This will be my last Christmas here,’ she said, embarrassed.

  ‘You’ll recover and be back next year,’ I responded, helping her into bed.

  ‘No. Never again. I’m quite happy in my own little box.’

  ‘Let’s see how you feel in a year, eh?’

  ‘Oh, I know how I’ll feel. You won’t have to worry about me. Quite a few people stay in the Village for Christmas.’

  ‘You’ll feel better in the morning. Have you taken your pills? Good. What’s that mark on your leg?’

  ‘A burn.’

  ‘The tea? It burned you? Why didn’t you say something?’

  ‘I didn’t want to make a fuss.’

  ‘Do you need some ointment?’

  ‘You forget, I was a nurse once. I’m fine.’

  ‘I’ll get some antiseptic.’

  ‘I don’t need anything. It’s fine.’

  ‘Ok. It’s up to you. And you were a nurse’s aide.’ I closed the door. Made for the kitchen where I poured a large glass of white wine. Thirty-six minutes till the dishwasher cycle ended. One more load and the detritus of fourteen festive people would be sparkling clean and packed away.

  I joined Bob, his daughter Meg, her handsome border collie, Tali, and her partner, Alan, on the verandah. ‘Esther’s got a terrible burn from the tea. No wonder she hit the whisky.’

  ‘I can clean up after her in future,’ Meg said kindly. ‘That sort of stuff doesn’t bother me.’
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br />   ‘My mother. My duty. But thank you. God, it was a nasty burn. I would’ve screamed like a stuck pig if it had happened to me.’

  ‘We always knew she was tough,’ Bob said with a hint of admiration.

  ‘It’s so weird,’ I said. ‘She skates over the big stuff and gets bogged down by the inconsequential. No wonder I never know whether to call a psychiatrist or an ambulance.’ It was the analgesic patches, though, that blunted the pain. But I didn’t work that out for days.

  The day after Boxing Day we returned Esther to the retirement village with a bag full of sliced ham, enough plum pudding to hold a party and a bottle of whisky for medicinal purposes only. Then we set off in sparkling sunshine to show Meg, Alan and the dog the new property.

  15

  BOB AND I HAVE THE LUXURY of travelling in retired-person time – weekdays and non-school holidays. Nothing could have prepared us for the horror of the F3 – a horrendously claustrophobic crawl of caravans, trailers, fishing boats, motor homes and small cars packed to the rafters with doonas, pillows, loose clothing and swinging soft toys.

  ‘Thought the big exodus happened on Boxing Day,’ I muttered, tapping the steering wheel impatiently. In the back seat, Chippy picked up the vibe and, looking for reassurance, made umpteen attempts to jump into the front seat. ‘No! In your bed. Now!’ Hard words that only made her more restless. In the passenger seat, Bob settled the debate by letting her sit on his lap. ‘Good doggie,’ I said, by way of an apology.

  We cranked up the air-conditioning to beat back the heat coming through the side windows and slid along in minuscule increments. The urge to throw a brick at something was almost irresistible. We even had the brick. It was deep purple with more blue than red in it. Bob was experimenting at the brickworks, trying to find a unique product that might kickstart a business struggling in the aftermath of the global financial meltdown.

  At Newcastle the cavalcade came to a grinding halt. ‘We’re never doing this trip at this time of the year again. Agreed?’

  ‘Ok, ok,’ I muttered. ‘Some things don’t need to be spelled out.’

  We’d long ago stopped trying to keep Meg and Alan’s car in our sights. They were out there somewhere in the stop-start mass of red-faced, foaming-mouthed holiday-makers. Alan, a safe driver, was behind the wheel. We trusted him implicitly.

  We finally crossed the bridge over the Hunter River, the official halfway mark. There was a slight pick-up in traffic speed. ‘I could murder a cup of tea,’ I mumbled. Bob, who made mental adjustments to current conditions and simply coped, didn’t answer. Why think about tea if there wasn’t a hope in hell? Soon we hit our top speed for the day. Sixty. It felt like we were flying.

  About twenty-five kilometres south of Bulahdelah, a holiday destination where houseboats beaded pristine waterways and the fishing and birdlife were said to be extravagant, we slammed on the brakes. Ahead stretched a serpentine parking lot. ‘Oh, lordy. Check out the portaloos lined up on the side of the road,’ I said. ‘Makes you wonder if we’ll be here for the night.’

  Just then, the mobile rang. ‘We’re ok,’ Meg said straight off, her voice loud and clear through Bluetooth, sending us both into instant panic. ‘Nobody’s hurt,’ she added. ‘We’re just going to be delayed a while.’

  At barely a crawl, they’d rear-ended a car on the Sydney side of the Hunter River, near Newcastle, slightly dinging the bumper. ‘We could’ve dealt with it all in five minutes,’ Meg explained, ‘but the woman is hysterical. She reckons we’ve broken her best Chrissie present and wants the cops to make a report for insurance. ‘So it’s going to take a while for them to get here unless they come by boat.’

  I hoicked myself back from the kind of superstitious cesspit for which I condemned my mother and locked in the spin: nobody died. It’s all good. We arranged to meet in the main street of Wingham. Then, as if there was a drum beating up obstacles, the sky ahead appeared heavy and grey.

  ‘Nothing like camping in the rain to separate the men from the boys,’ I said, trying to sound cheery. I glanced at Bob. He had that haunted look he gets when events are spiralling beyond control.

  We slipped into a deserted Wingham just after closing time. Argued about whether one of us should head off to the property to erect at least one tent and light a campfire before the heavens opened. ‘Let’s stick to the plan,’ Bob insisted. His standard rule.

  A few years earlier, we’d landed at a chaotic Heathrow after a full-blown terrorist scare that had virtually shut down the airport. When we’d finally cleared passport control I murmured something about staying away from the Underground. ‘Stick to the plan,’ he’d said. He was right then – cabs were caught in gridlock for hours, the fare would’ve been a fortune and we arrived safely anyway – so I figured he was probably right now.

  We settled down to wait. When it was almost dark, Meg and Alan pulled up alongside. ‘We stopped to give Tali a walk and grabbed a hamburger,’ Meg said. Bob glanced at Alan, who shrugged in a way that indicated he rode to orders for the sake of peace.

  ‘We love our dogs,’ I said, trying not to sound cranky.

  The air smelled tinny. In the distance, black clouds were heaped on the horizon. Racing to beat the rain, we unpacked our tent from the shed, laid it flat, hammered in pegs, raised the tent pole, tied down guy ropes. A few minutes’ work. We were well drilled by now. A short distance away, Alan was struggling with one of those fancy new camping systems that included separate living spaces. Meg pushed him out of the way. Took over. Bob built a fire in the drum. I hauled equipment from the shed to set up the kitchen – table, chopping boards, bowls, knives, enamel plates and cutlery on an oilskin cloth printed with grapes, eggplants and onions. Meg let out a scream. Stamped the ground angrily. ‘Bull ant’s nest,’ Alan came over to report. She threw a flip-flop at him. He ducked expertly. She threaded a final rod and their tent was solid. Came over to hold her hands out to the fire. Her feet were a mass of red blotches. A gust of wind hit the tents with a noise like a whip cracking. A few random golf-ball-sized drops of rain dropped from the sky. Five minutes later, rain fell in thick ropes. We huddled under an inadequate awning, crammed up against each other, leaning inwards to escape the worst. It was awful. Not even the brief advent of a brilliant rainbow could dull our dismay.

  ‘Funny how in retrospect we remember shocker experiences with clarity and even fondness,’ I said at one point. ‘Perfect holidays are forgotten in a flash.’ I gave a funny, cackly sort of laugh I didn’t recognise as my own.

  We returned to staring into the fire drum where, under an umbrella, Bob continued cooking T-bones as if it were just another glorious day in paradise. Wet, frazzled and on the verge of becoming uncivilised, he handed each of us a plate.

  ‘Hang on a sec,’ he said, making a dash for the ute and diving into the back seat. Seconds later, he reappeared holding a bottle of wine. ‘Great moments like these should be acknowledged with a suitable vintage.’ And he held aloft a bottle of Penfolds Grange in dripping triumph. ‘To the new house,’ he said. ‘And family.’ Let the rain come down. Let the wind blow. Let wet dogs curl on our sleeping bags. Let the fire burn hot and long into a wet black night. ‘Wouldn’t be dead for quids, would you?’ Bob said, grinning, his face slick with water, drops falling from the tip of his chin.

  The following day – and primarily to thumb my nose at another of my mother’s superstitions – I cut my fingernails on a Friday. Then I wandered off into squelchy bush in search of privacy. An eye out for snakes and goannas. And meat ants that sneak up on you with a nip that sears like a jab from a white-hot poker. The scent of eucalypts clung to the humidity. Every breath felt like a spring clean.

  Soon after, Meg told us she was pregnant with her first child.

  The storms abated and the skies shone bright and blue the moment we broke camp and set off for Pittwater. A few days later, we said farewell to Meg, Alan and Tali and settled into familiar routines, waiting for new drawings from the architects without feeling
impatient. The holiday season had slowed us. I spent soporific afternoons on the bed on the verandah with a good book. Falling asleep occasionally. Waking when Bob rounded the corner with a cup of tea and a slice of Lisa’s Christmas cake.

  Lisa is the baking queen of the bays. Each year she takes out first prize (there’s no prize, of course, beyond recognition and a slap on the back) in a contest amongst a few passionate offshore cooks who gather to share recipes and tips. It’s an excuse, really, to get together over a few glasses of champagne enhanced by delicious cake, which we’re obliged to eat because we’re all judges. By the end, we are loaded with sugar, fizzing with bubbles and feeling no pain.

  It is worth noting, I think, that some people are gifted cake-makers. Lisa is one of them. If each of the fifteen cooks precisely followed her winning recipes, her cake would still taste different, better. I asked her the secret one year.

  ‘A strong arm,’ she said, grinning.

  ‘Nah, there’s a trick. There has to be.’

  She laughed. ‘Good ingredients, Susan. Only the best. Makes all the difference.’ But that’s one of the characteristics of people with unique skills – because it’s easy for them, they think it must be just as easy for everyone else.

  Towards the end of January, my mother’s nagging about double vision finally wore me out. Even though I was certain it was an act, I took her to an eye specialist to end the debate once and for all. When her name was called, I stood up. ‘I’m coming in with you,’ I said. She gave me a warning look, which I ignored. ‘If I don’t understand what’s going on, how can I help?’ She put a thumb to her nose, in a way I was becoming very familiar with, and waggled her fingers.

  The specialist, a slight man with a kind manner and gentle hands, tilted Esther’s face one way and then the other. ‘You’re eyes are pretty good. The first signs of cataracts, but considering your age, that’s remarkable.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Esther replied, ‘I have wonderful sight and I’ve learned to live with double vision.’