by Wendy James
He drove me down through the housing commission, a settlement of run-down fibro homes that skirted the town, then out to the new estate, big brick homes along the river. The homes were oversize, squeezed onto mean and usually treeless blocks, even though there was plenty of room to spare.
Chip turned back onto the highway, then drove down a bumpy dirt road until we reached a clearing, where a hand-printed sign nailed to a gum tree told us we had reached the Wash.
“Is a wash some kind of geographical thing?” I asked.
“It means a place that floods—or that’s what they told us at school.”
“And does it?”
“Not more than any other river in Australia. More likely to dry up at the moment. It was named after the place that the bloke who founded the town came from. There’s no particular geographical significance as far as I know. It was just that he was from Enfield Wash, which is somewhere near London. Not all that unusual. Half the names around here have been taken from there, too. There’s Turkey Brook just over the highway, the Lock, which is the reservoir at the other end of town, and then where I’m taking you now—another swimming spot called Freezywater.”
“And is it?”
“Is it what?”
“Freezy water.”
“Depends on how much water’s coming from the dam.”
The road petered out, and Chip pulled up under a tree. Ahead was a willow-tangled turn of the river. It was a pretty spot, perfect for swimming and camping. There was no real bank on our side, and the river looked deep and clear, the water running fast. There was evidence of recent campfires, despite the total fire ban, along with the usual party litter—empty bottles, chip packets, pizza boxes, a few empty condom packets.
Chip sat for a moment, gazing out. “In summer we used to float on airbeds all the way from the Lock. It’d take half the day. And then we’d walk back to my place—almost ten Ks along the road, but we’d cut through a few paddocks as well. I can’t imagine anyone letting their kids do it these days. Skin cancer, drowning. Cars. Snakes. Pedophiles.”
“How old were you?”
“Twelve, maybe.”
“Pretty tame stuff, really.”
“Oh, we progressed.”
“In what way?”
“You know. Here, for instance . . . When we got older, it was the go-to place for parties. Drinks, drugs, loud music. Sex.”
I pointed to the beer bottles, the condom packets. “Still is.”
“Yeah. I guess it’s all the same. Young love. All that bullshit.”
He sounded regretful.
“Are you going to tell me more stories of your teenage conquests?”
“Nah. Not just yet.” He opened the door. “Don’t want you to get the wrong idea about me. I’ll leave those for the second date.” He grinned, tossing me my bag from the back.
“This is a date, is it?”
“Actually, this is a test of your capacity to withstand low temperatures. So why don’t you get your togs on, Gypsy, and we’ll go take a dip in the freezy water and see if you go purple.”
HONOR: APRIL 2018
She was pleasantly surprised at how much she’d enjoyed Suzannah’s company.
It wasn’t usually Honor’s scene, the whole female-friendship thing. She’d never really got it—not as a little girl, and not as a teenager. She’d always been part of a group, was never a loner, exactly, but had preferred to maintain a certain distance from her peers. There’d never been any of that bosom-buddy shit, no crying on anyone’s shoulders, no being there for any significant female other. She’d never had any loyalty issues, simply because she’d never really had anyone to betray.
As an adult, she’d been too busy working hard to do anything more than establish alliances and allegiances, and these were always subject to change, depending on what—or who—was useful at any particular moment. She was ambitious, sure, and focused, but it wasn’t actually a conscious decision; she’d just never felt the need for friendship.
A few weeks after the trivia night, she’d met up with Suzannah a second time. Honor had come alone on the Friday—Dougal was at a business dinner in Melbourne. She bumped into Suzannah at the local supermarket in the late afternoon, both of them stocking up on food for the weekend. They laughed at their similarly wholesome trolley loads. “Hope you’re going to balance that with some booze.”
Suzannah held up a bag bulging with bottles. “It might be the other way round, in my case.”
On an impulse Honor asked if Suzannah wanted to duck into the pub for a quick drink. Honor’s other arrangements for the night—the real reason for the trip—had been canceled at the last minute, and she knew she’d only be bored and slightly resentful once home.
“Oh God. I’d love to, but I have to get back.” Suzannah’s disappointment seemed genuine.
“I thought you didn’t have kids?”
“I don’t—but I’ve got my mother living with me, and I don’t like to leave her for too long.” She sounded harried.
“Your mother?” It came back to Honor now. “Oh, that’s right. Dementia.”
“More or less.”
She gave a sympathetic grimace. “I know all about that. But at least my dad’s in a home and not living with me. It must be a nightmare.”
“It’s not that bad. Not all the time.” Honor could practically hear the gritted teeth behind the smile. “But nights can be a bit difficult.”
She made a snap decision. It wasn’t the sort of thing she usually did, but why not? After all, she had nothing better to do. “I’ll tell you what, why don’t I come over to yours? I’ve just got to go and look in on Dad first. And I’ll bring another bottle.”
“Oh, I’m not—”
“And what if I bring dinner, too? You look like you need a break. I’ve done nothing all day.” She realized she sounded like someone’s middle-aged mother: bossy, maddeningly competent, compulsively helpful.
Honor could see the other woman wavering. “Actually, that sounds fantastic.”
“It won’t be anything fancy, though. I’m a pretty hopeless cook. Does your mother like pasta?”
Suzannah laughed and shook her head. “God knows what Mary likes. Other than sugary cereal, it changes every other day, so there’s no point worrying. This is really kind of you.”
Honor waved a casual hand. “It’s nothing. What are neighbors for?”
Suzannah’s mother answered the door when Honor arrived with her hands full of groceries, a bottle of chilled bubbly tucked under one arm. She was already half regretting her impulse. This kind of old-fashioned neighborly do-goodery wasn’t really her thing, and after a disastrous late-afternoon visit to see her father, a hot bath and a couple of gins seemed far more appealing.
“Are you her?” The woman peered out from behind the screen for a long moment, her face in darkness.
“Well, I can’t be sure, but I think I might be. I’ve brought your dinner, so I certainly hope so.” Honor affected a jaunty tone.
“What are we having? Is it something I like?”
“I’ve brought pasta, and I thought I’d make a creamy sort of sauce to go with it. Do you like bacon? Mushrooms?”
“It’s called Boscaiola.” The woman gave a haughty sniff, unlocked the screen, and opened it a few inches. “I’m not an idiot, you know. And I actually lived in Italy for a number of years, puttana.”
Honor ignored the insult. “My apologies. Do you think you could open the door properly so I can come in? I don’t have any hands—”
“Suzannah didn’t tell me you were an amputee.” The woman gave a hoarse cackle and opened the door just enough for her guest to push through but then stayed put so Honor had to edge past her in the doorway. For a moment the two were forced together, only a few inches apart, standing practically head to head. The older woman didn’t even try to hide her belligerent curiosity as she looked Honor up and down.
Honor tried to stay relaxed and cheerful under her scrutiny, but it was an effo
rt. The other woman seemed far too young to be the mother of Suzannah, only just middle-aged herself. She was frail, all angles, her face lined, but some remnant of beauty was still evident in the wide eyes, high cheekbones, full lips. Her long, silvery mane was thick and shiny.
Eventually their eyes met in the gloom. The older woman was all hard glare, and Honor was primed for some sort of verbal attack. But even as she readied herself, the woman’s expression transformed: the fierceness suddenly gone, replaced by a dull heaviness.
“Mary, what the hell are you up to?”
Honor blinked as the hall light came on, and turned to greet Suzannah.
“Oh, Honor. I’m so sorry, I didn’t hear the door.” Suzannah hurried up the hall and took her mother’s arm gently. “It looks like you and Mary have already met.”
“We have. I was just telling her that I’ve brought the ingredients for Boscaiola.”
Mary looked up, her eyes alight again. “Did you bring the peppermint ice cream? The one with chocolate chips? And cones?”
Now she sounded as chirpy as a three-year-old, but in the light she seemed to have aged—her shoulders sagging, face lined. Even her hair had lost its luster. She could be seventy, even eighty. “Oh, Suzannah, tell her she can’t come in if she hasn’t brought any ice cream.”
“Oh. My. God.” Honor topped up Suzannah’s glass first, then her own, generously, and raised hers in a toast. “Here’s to bedtime.”
Suzannah half sighed, half laughed as they clinked glasses. “Some nights are worse than others. This was a bad one.”
It was an understatement. Suzannah’s mother had been more demanding than any tired toddler, and it was eight o’clock before the two women were able to relax. Cooking the meal itself hadn’t been too challenging: Mary had been fully occupied with the television, thank God. But then she’d complained all through the meal—the bacon was too chewy, the garlic made her sick, the pasta was slimy—until Suzannah gave up and made her a peanut butter sandwich. Happily, the peppermint ice cream had been forgotten. But then there’d been a half-hour game of Trouble, which Honor had considered the most boring game even as a child, with a clearly engineered win for Mary. Initially, the older woman had left the room for bed quite willingly, but then she returned a half dozen times with various requests and complaints—she was thirsty, the bed had sand in it, the blinds were rattling, she wanted Suzannah to read her a story—but finally she was out to it. Honor had to stop herself from suggesting that Suzannah add a sleeping pill to the warm milk—maybe a few more than strictly necessary. Mary had given her a keen look before her ultimate good-night. “I like you,” she said. “You’re pretty.”
“Thank you.” Honor gave what she hoped was a friendly smile. “You’re very kind.”
Mary had turned her baleful gaze on her daughter. “Suzie could be pretty, too, if she lost some weight. Fat girls aren’t pretty, are they?” She gave a coy smile. “No one ever wants to fuck a fat girl.” She ducked her head and tripped down the hallway.
Jesus.
“I’m so sorry,” Suzannah said to her now. “I really should have warned you.” She took a big chug from her glass, downing half her champagne in one gulp. “But the thought of company was just too tempting.”
“How do you cope with this full-time?”
“She’s not always that bad, but it’s an unknown with guests. Sometimes she’ll behave really well—she’ll seem almost normal—and then other times . . .”
“My dad’s much further gone, I guess. He basically just sits there doing nothing. I don’t remember him going through an in-between stage like this, though. One moment he seemed fine, and then the next, he was in care.”
Suzannah shrugged. “It’s different for everyone. Mary’s condition is most likely alcohol and drug related. They said it could be Korsakoff’s, but it doesn’t really fit the pattern. She’s okay during the day, at least not so bad that she has to be in a home—although I’ve got her on a list for the Franchise.
“Sally O’Halloran, who works there, comes out three days a week, and that’s helpful. But nights can be . . . difficult. I feel like it might be because some part of her remembers that this was once her drinking time. Although she never actually asks for a drink, which is surprising. The peppermint ice cream can be a bit of a problem. I forgot it today—usually that would be a major drama.”
“Ha. Yes, she asked if I had any. So it’s not ordinary dementia? I thought she seemed on the young side. What is she? Seventyish?”
Suzannah snorted. “She’s only in her early sixties. She had me very young.”
“Wow. Sixteen or something? And she was an alcoholic. That must’ve made for a complicated childhood.”
Suzannah shook her head, laughing. “It didn’t have all that much effect on me, actually. I barely knew her growing up. My grandparents raised me. It was worse, much worse, for them. She was an only child—they were older parents—and I suspect it broke their hearts. Mary was a classic bad girl. She was always in with the wrong crowd, even when she was a kid, or that’s what my nan used to say—truanting, shoplifting, ‘running amok.’ By the time she was fifteen, she was pregnant.”
“Do you know who your father is?”
“I’ve got no idea. At the time she was peripherally involved in the music scene—Nan said she fancied herself a singer and sometimes did backup vocals. But I guess at that age it’s more likely she was some sort of groupie. My father could’ve been anyone. She would never say; I suspect she never actually knew. I spent half my childhood fantasizing it was Jimmy Barnes, but I don’t think the timing’s right.”
“And you look kinda Greek or Italian—I’m guessing that’s not from Mary. And it’s not from Jimmy either.”
“No. My father was probably a Greek schoolboy and not a musician at all.”
“So was she still involved in the music world when you were a kid?”
“Who knows? Until she moved in with me, I hadn’t actually seen her since I was about ten. I didn’t even know if she was alive.”
“You’re kidding. So why the daughterly devotion now? Is there an estate or something?”
“I wish.” Suzannah filled her glass again. Took another long swig. “As to the daughterly devotion, I actually have no idea. It just happened. I got a call from St. Vincent’s—she’d had some sort of turn and put me down as her next of kin. I guess I’m her only kin. I certainly wasn’t looking for her—although a psych might have something to say about that. Anyway,” she added briskly, “it seemed the right thing to do at the time.”
“The right thing? For her or for you?”
“Ha.” Suzannah’s smile was rueful. “Exactly.”
The conversation moved quickly on to other, more interesting subjects. Naturally, men came up, but neither Honor nor Suzannah seemed keen to expand on that particular topic. Suzannah revealed only the bare bones of her own story: she had been married and divorced, but that was years ago. There was no one at the moment, not really; she wasn’t entirely up for a relationship, way too much baggage—and now there was Mary to consider. Honor had little to contribute about Dougal, who was as gratifyingly besotted with her as he had been when they first married, more than twenty years ago. And if Honor wasn’t besotted in quite the same way, if from time to time she discovered other interests, she had never discussed them with anyone—and would never. And they’d had no effect on her relationship with Dougal anyway: he would always be her rock, her still center in this madly spinning world.
The conversation moved on to the town itself. Honor provided a general rundown of the place, a who’s who and what’s what, and told a few salacious stories that only a local could know. But Suzannah was able to tell her a few things, too—gossip she’d missed, news about people she’d forgotten. She was an acute, sometimes caustic, observer of people; her stories of her students’ parents—so many of them classmates Honor had all but forgotten (and usually for good reason)—were particularly entertaining.
“There
was this one woman at my first parent-and-teacher night who asked if I was interested in coming to some sort of orgy. Or at least I think that’s what it was. Right at the end of the interview, she leaned right in and whispered”—Suzannah moved her face up close to Honor’s, her mouth at her ear—“‘I’ve heard you’re into alternative . . . er . . . sexual experiences.’” Suzannah’s voice had deepened, developed a slightly sinister lisp. “‘My hubby and I were wondering if you’d like to come along to a gathering of . . . like-minded people.’” Suzannah sat back, her face alight with laughter. “My God. And the daughter was still sitting at the table with us. When I said no, she said, ‘Oh well—there’s always next month,’ like she was inviting me to join a book club. It was completely bizarre.”
“Janet Cho, right?” Suzannah’s impression had been extraordinary.
“Shit.” Suzannah looked stricken. “I’m probably being indiscreet.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. Janet propositioned all the teachers when we were kids, too. Teachers are her thing.”
“Wow.”
“It gets worse—her darling hubby, Antonio, is into, er, small mammals.”
“No. Oh no. I can’t even—” They both dissolved into laughter.
“I hope you didn’t come to the country to find normal people, honey. I’m telling you, Enfield Wash is kink central.”
They opened a second bottle, and the conversation moved into new territory. Like most people, Suzannah was curious about the world Honor inhabited, but hers was a curiosity born of experience, not ignorance—it had been her world, too, once; she knew the reality. Mostly she was eager to hear gossip about people she’d known. Some Honor knew; others, like Suzannah, had disappeared from the scene, leaving no trace. Honor was pleasantly surprised by the commonalities. And there was a novelty in being able to talk to someone who understood this world intimately yet didn’t have an angle. There was none of the usual danger here—Suzannah wasn’t trying to make contact with anyone, didn’t want any favors. And there was nothing Honor wanted from Suzannah either. She could relax and simply enjoy the company.
