22
The lift is full of men and women in suits. Everyone is busy checking their mobile phones. We emerge into the sun-filled foyer and both release long pent-up breaths. My hands are shaking.
Charlotte’s phone beeps.
‘Mum’s at work today,’ she says.
She leads me into George Street.
‘I texted her to meet me at a cafe. I told her I was bringing a boy.’ Charlotte’s face is pale. ‘She’s probably worried I’m pregnant.’
‘Damn.’
Charlotte looks confused.
‘We haven’t had sex and you’re already pregnant,’ I say.
We stride past the workers on their lunchbreaks. Mobile phones are now replaced by takeaway food. The air smells of chips and fried rice. A circle of well-dressed office workers sit near a fountain where one spurt of water shoots into the air every five seconds.
A man with glasses and curly blond hair, dressed in a long-sleeved blue and white striped shirt, chomps on a kebab. He watches a red Ferrari turn into a narrow lane. A dribble of sauce stains his shirt. He doesn’t notice.
Charlotte waves to her mum sitting at a table shaded by an umbrella. Mrs Walsh stands and waits for us to walk to her. She’s wearing dark trousers, a silk blouse and a silver necklace. She hugs Charlotte and holds her hand out to me. We shake.
‘I’m Selena. We’ve met before,’ she says. ‘I hope your cough is better.’
I’m too nervous to answer.
A waitress in a black t-shirt and jeans brings us each a menu. We all order coffee. No-one looks at the food menu.
Charlotte takes out her phone and swipes the screen.
‘I’m sending you a video, Mum,’ she says.
Mrs Walsh looks confused, but doesn’t answer.
‘Your mum doesn’t need to see it,’ I say.
Charlotte ignores me and presses send.
A few seconds later, Mrs Walsh’s phone beeps. She takes it out of her handbag and places it on the table. ‘I’m not sure what you want me to do, Charlotte.’
She looks around at the other diners, perhaps judging whether they can hear our conversation.
‘Luke knows what Dad is like,’ Charlotte begins.
Her words hang in the space between us.
The waitress approaches with our coffee. She asks if we’re ready to order lunch. Mrs Walsh shakes her head and the waitress gets the message, leaving us alone.
Mrs Walsh stirs her coffee. The colour rises to her cheeks, even through her make-up. She looks at me. I don’t have to say anything.
‘I hid a video camera in the kitchen,’ Charlotte says.
Mrs Walsh reaches for her necklace, as if it’s tightening around her throat.
‘It filmed last night,’ Charlotte adds.
Mrs Walsh drops her spoon. It clatters to the ground. I lean down to pick it up, but she doesn’t notice. She’s watching Charlotte. The colour drains from her face. I fear she’s going to faint.
‘We sent the video to Dad a little while ago. We were in his office.’
‘Oh no!’ Mrs Walsh exclaims.
‘We told him we’d send a copy to his partners and the police if he comes anywhere near us again,’ Charlotte says.
Mrs Walsh leans forward, holding her face in her hands. Her shoulders are hunched and her breath comes in short bursts.
Charlotte reaches across the table. ‘Are you okay, Mum?’
Mrs Walsh straightens and holds up a hand as if to keep her away. ‘What have you done!’
‘I can’t stand him hurting you anymore.’
‘But we don’t know what he’s capable of,’ Mrs Walsh pleads.
‘We can go to the police,’ I say.
She looks at me. ‘And what? They’ll assign a twenty-four hour guard on our house?’ She shakes her head.
‘What’s the alternative, Mum? He’ll keep hitting you. Until one day, he loses it completely and we both end up …’ Charlotte’s lip quivers. ‘He killed Luke’s dog. You saw him!’ She stares down the street to the building where her father works, as if he’s still controlling things from a distance.
I don’t know what else to say. It’s as if the air is being squeezed out of us.
Mrs Walsh leans back in her chair and takes a deep breath, before opening her handbag, pulling out a white handkerchief and dabbing her eyes. The umbrella above our head flaps with a sudden gust of wind.
‘If Dad doesn’t leave, I’ll move out to Luke’s,’ Charlotte says.
Mrs Walsh flinches.
To choose between a husband and a daughter. She looks from Charlotte to me and then down at her coffee. She lifts the drink to her lips but her hand is trembling so much she can’t take a sip. She returns the cup to the saucer, pushes back her chair and stands.
‘Please, Mum,’ Charlotte pleads.
‘I’m going to the bathroom,’ Mrs Walsh says. She reaches down and touches Charlotte on the shoulder. ‘I won’t be long.’
The waitress returns to our table and asks if we’d like to order.
I collect the menus and hand them back to her. ‘We won’t be eating,’ I say.
She nods and walks away.
Charlotte leans back in her chair and shivers.
‘You’re telling her the marriage is over,’ I say.
‘He hits her,’ Charlotte replies.
I look around the tables at all the people enjoying lunch and wonder how many secrets they hide. Who hurts their wife? Who cheats on their partner? Who wants a divorce and who dreams of meeting the right person? Who gambles and drinks and smokes and loves their family more than anything on earth?
Mrs Walsh returns to the table and sits down. She’s reapplied lipstick and make-up, but still looks very pale.
‘I got a text in the bathroom.’ She places her phone near the coffee cup. ‘He says he’s sorry.’
‘He always says that,’ Charlotte answers. Her voice sounds thin, as if it’s all slipping away.
Mrs Walsh leans forward. Her eyes are moist. She reaches for her coffee, then stops herself. No-one speaks for a long time. Charlotte looks from me to her mum. They’re both on the edge of tears.
‘I’ll go back to my office. I know a lawyer,’ Mrs Walsh says, as if she’s thinking out loud. ‘I’ll send her the file and,’ she swallows hard, ‘I’ll ring your father.’
‘But …’ Charlotte interrupts.
‘It has to come from me,’ Mrs Walsh says. ‘If he knows someone else, someone anonymous and powerful, has the file, he’ll see we’re serious.’
‘You can’t control him, Mum,’ Charlotte pleads.
Mrs Walsh shakes her head. ‘I don’t intend to, dear,’ she says. Her voice is hushed. ‘You and I will stay in a hotel for a few nights. A safe place. To give him time to move out.’
Charlotte starts to cry. Her mother reaches across and strokes her cheek.
‘I’m sorry I’ve put you through this,’ she says.
‘He scares me,’ Charlotte whispers.
‘I’ll arrange someone to change the locks and install extra security before we return home,’ Mrs Walsh says. ‘And perhaps your video is enough of a deterrent.’
I remember what the policeman told me. ‘The police can issue an order for him to keep away,’ I say.
Mrs Walsh nods. ‘I’ll tell,’ she takes a deep breath, ‘I’ll tell Anthony this afternoon that will be our next step if he tries to come near us.’ She looks at her daughter. ‘I’m so sorry, Charlotte. You’re right. We can’t go on like this.’
Everyone is quiet. Charlotte looks around the cafe as if she’s just realised we’re not alone. A couple at the next table get up to leave and the man reaches for the woman’s hand and kisses her on the cheek.
Mrs Walsh and I exchange glances.
‘Thanks for getting involved
,’ she says to me.
‘I’m sorry about the Audi,’ I confess.
Mrs Walsh shakes her head. ‘The number of times I wanted to fight back,’ she says, before her composure gives way.
Charlotte stands and walks around the table to hug her mum.
23
Charlotte and I walk through the city streets to the railway station. We pass restaurants, empty after lunch, waiters resetting the tables with checkered tablecloths and cutlery for dinner.
At Central Station, Charlotte leads me into a narrow alley shaded from the sun. A few pigeons peck in the gutter for crumbs. We stand under an advertising sign promising immediate relief from headaches.
Charlotte points at the sign. ‘That’s what you do.’ She smiles.
She stands on tiptoe and kisses me. I wrap my arms around her waist, close my eyes and kiss her back.
‘I’m staying in the city,’ Charlotte says. ‘I want to be here when Mum finishes work.’
‘What if he’s waiting?’
Charlotte shakes her head and holds up her phone. ‘I have an invisible force field.’
I check my watch. The next train leaves in ten minutes.
‘I’ll text you from our hotel,’ she says.
I kiss her again. An old man wearing a pinstriped suit and shiny brown shoes walks down the alley, arm in arm with an elderly woman dressed in a bright yellow dress and blue stockings. They smile at Charlotte and me wrapped in our embrace.
‘It’s not Paris, you know,’ the old man says.
The woman laughs.
‘The only thing better than young love,’ the man says, looking from us to his companion, ‘is old love.’
They continue down the alley and disappear among the crowd on the main street.
Charlotte giggles.
‘It’s an omen,’ she says.
The next day I’m woken by a message from Charlotte. It’s a photo of her standing in a hotel room with a wide window opening out to a streetscape of tall buildings. Her hair is wrapped in a towel and she’s wearing a white robe, like she’s just stepped out of the shower. She’s holding an A4 piece of paper with the words I miss you xx written in red lipstick. There’s no text accompanying the photo. There doesn’t need to be.
Over the weekend, Charlotte texts me photos of her holding the same piece of paper standing in front of a ferry at Circular Quay, sitting on the steps of the Opera House and, my favourite, reading The Life and Works of Piet Mondrian in a bookshop. In each photo, the piece of paper is just that little more crinkled, but with an extra x scrawled at the end.
On Monday, I’m woken by another message. In this photo, Charlotte has lined up all the tiny bottles of alcohol from the minibar fridge on a wooden side table. She’s kneeling behind the table, holding the same lipstick-scrawled piece of paper, only this time all I can see is the top of her head and eyes peering over the whisky and gin and brandy and rum.
On Tuesday, a wild storm lashing the window with heavy rain wakes me at dawn. I peer outside where Mr Grady is battling to cover his boat with a large blue tarpaulin. He pulls the rope with all his strength and secures it to the trailer. The wind buffets the tarp, but Mr Grady’s knot holds. He races around and secures the other side before running to the house where Mrs Grady holds the screen door open for him.
Thunder booms overhead, shaking the glass in my windowpane. I climb back into bed. My phone beeps.
In the photo, Charlotte is standing in the hotel room with the skyline bleak and wet outside her window. She holds the same piece of paper, only this time the lipstick words are smudged and the paper is wet. The text accompanying the photo is just one word:
On Wednesday, I lie in bed waiting for a text. Nothing. I check my phone more times than is rational. I switch it off and back on to make sure I have reception. No text. I’m about to phone her when Mum knocks on the door and comes into my room. She’s wearing her uniform. She sits on the edge of my bed and touches my forehead.
‘I didn’t even say I was sick,’ I say.
She smiles and checks her watch. ‘I was looking for a reason why you’re sleeping in so late.’
‘I’m okay, Mum.’ I drag back the sheet and hop out of bed, as if eager to go to school. More like I’m eager for Mum to leave so I can ring Charlotte.
I don’t want to think about what might have happened, but I can’t help it.
Mum kisses me on the cheek. ‘Don’t be late for school.’
She walks down the hallway.
Still no text.
‘There’s a surprise in the kitchen,’ Mum calls, before closing the front door on her way out.
I run down the hall, expecting to see Charlotte standing in the kitchen, holding the smudged sheet of paper.
The kitchen is empty.
The dishes are washed and stacked in the sink. Mum’s also left a ten dollar bill and a note that reads Breakfast on the bench.
A few minutes later, I trundle down Lurline Street, trying to decide whether to phone Charlotte or wag school and go searching for her.
A bright green Mazda2 pulls up beside me. The window winds down. Charlotte sticks her elbow out. ‘Can you tell me directions to the Three Sisters, please?’
I walk over and lean down on my haunches so I’m at the same level. She’s wearing her school uniform and Mrs Walsh is in jeans and a cream blouse, her hair covered in a bright green scarf the same colour as the car.
‘Shouldn’t you be in school?’ I say to Charlotte.
‘Finally, someone who’s a good influence,’ Mrs Walsh says.
‘He’s late as well, Mum,’ Charlotte answers.
‘You want a lift?’ Mrs Walsh asks.
The car smells fresh and clean and the door closes with a confident clunk.
‘I bought myself a present,’ Mrs Walsh says, smiling at me, before checking her side mirror and pulling into the traffic.
‘My mum has the same model,’ I say. I remember I’ve sworn never to step inside one again, but today I’ll make an exception.
‘She has good taste,’ Mrs Walsh says.
Charlotte reaches behind for my hand.
Mrs Walsh notices. ‘I have an appointment with a locksmith this morning.’ She stops at a pedestrian crossing to let a group of schoolchildren and their teacher cross. She turns in her seat to face me.
‘One day at a time,’ she says. Her voice is quiet.
A child waves at Charlotte as she follows her teacher across the street. Charlotte waves back.
I lean forwards as Mrs Walsh takes off again.
‘When my dad died,’ I begin as Mrs Walsh looks at me in the rear-view mirror, ‘it felt as if I was looking at the world through a veil.’ I swallow hard and lean back in my seat. ‘Everything was … dull and out of focus …’ I don’t have the words.
‘Are you going to tell Mum things will get better?’ Charlotte says. She squeezes my hand.
‘No,’ I say.
Mrs Walsh laughs. At least I think she’s laughing. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand.
‘At last, an honest man,’ she says.
She flicks her indicator, pulls into the vacant bus stop outside the school and switches off the ignition.
She turns to face me. ‘Charlotte tells me you take photos.’
I nod.
‘We have a few frames I’d like to give you,’ she says, ‘as a gift, for all your help.’
I think of the photos of Charlotte and her parents lining the staircase and how I couldn’t look at them as I crept down the stairs.
‘Thanks.’ I reach for the door handle, before turning back to Mrs Walsh. ‘I keep all the good things about my dad with me. Everything else is in the past.’
Mrs Walsh reaches across and shakes my hand. Her touch is warm and soft, just like Charlotte’s.
Charlotte
and I walk down the corridor to the office to get a late note from Mrs Vance. Sitting outside Mr Pakula’s office are Blake and Hayley. They make room for us on the bench seat. We stare at the drawings on the opposite wall. Hayley offers us all a stick of chewing gum. Charlotte and I shake our heads. Blake puts the gum in his shirt pocket for later. No-one speaks for a long time.
‘There are worse things than school,’ Blake says.
‘Yeah. Like what?’ Charlotte asks.
‘Like walking to the lookout with your girlfriend,’ Blake begins, leaning forwards to look at Charlotte, ‘and Pakula driving past.’
We all laugh.
‘The things we could be doing rather than sitting here,’ Hayley adds. She pops another stick of gum in her mouth and chews loudly.
‘There’s always after school,’ Charlotte suggests. She reaches into her bag, takes out a miniature bottle of whisky and hands it to Blake. He pops it quickly into his trouser pocket.
‘You’re just giving me that in case Pakula searches your bag,’ Blake says.
‘Don’t trust anyone good looking,’ I say.
Blake leans back against the seat. ‘You talking to me or Charlotte?’
‘I love you, Blake,’ I say.
‘Don’t we all,’ Hayley adds.
I’ve never seen Blake blush before. It makes me smile.
Ms Childs looks at me as Charlotte and I sit down, making me feel nervous. She starts handing back our short stories on family, marked with red ink. I sink lower in my chair. When she offers mine, she smiles and says, ‘A masterpiece, Luke.’
I look at the mark. Wow!
My story was about a boy with a dad who gambles too much. Every weekend the father comes home from the races, penniless and desolate. The old bloke falls asleep on the lounge in front of the television while the boy washes the dishes.
Then one afternoon the dad comes home loaded with winnings. He’s carrying two large pizzas and a sixpack of beer to celebrate. When he and the boy sit down to eat, the man pulls the wallet from his pocket and empties the notes on the table. The boy puts down his pizza and counts the money. Two thousand, four hundred dollars.
The Bogan Mondrian Page 14
