The Memory Tree

by Tess Evans

  Godown had expected a small dinner with Eileen and her sister, but was pleased and confused to find that the guests included Sealie, Bob and Rose, Chloe and Ariadne and Helena and Spiros, back from their holiday. They squeezed around Alice’s small dining table and ate crusty bread with tzatziki, olives and stuffed vine leaves. Delicious, they all agreed as they ate the unfamiliar food prepared by the delighted Helena.

  ‘Lamb roast, next.’ Alice and Eileen disappeared into the kitchen, while Bob poured more drinks. ‘Dee-licious, Mrs Mac,’ Godown said, as he loosened his belt a notch. ‘And you too, Alice,’ he added, catching her quizzical look.

  ‘Many happy returns, Godown.’ Bob proposed a toast as Eileen brought out the cake.

  ‘I thought fifty candles might start a fire,’ she said. ‘So there’s one for each decade.’

  ‘We’ll have tea in the front room,’ Alice said. ‘Or would anyone like coffee?’ She took Godown by the arm. ‘Come on, birthday boy. Time you did a bit of work.’

  As they prepared the tray, Alice turned to him. ‘I might be an interfering old biddy, so stop me if you want, but why haven’t you asked Eileen to marry you?’

  Godown looked nonplussed.

  ‘I mean you’ve been coming here for dinner once a week, walking with Eileen in the park—you really seem to care for each other. Why not go the next step?’

  Godown continued to stare at her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, paying sudden and extraordinary attention to the sugar bowl. ‘None of my business. Now—how many for coffee?’

  When the party broke up, Godown offered to walk the twins to the tram stop.

  As the tram approached, they kissed him, one on each cheek. As their hair brushed his face, he sensed rather than heard the murmured words, take happiness where you find it.

  Looks like the ladies have been talking about me. Why do women always want a weddin’? He tried to be outraged, but grinned, in spite of himself. Bet Helena’s in on this too. He was outnumbered. But did he mind? He was surprised that he didn’t mind at all.

  ‘Men are so unknowing,’ Helena was saying, scrubbing a saucepan with unnecessary vigour. ‘My husband, the pig’ (this now had the cadence of a pet name) ‘says—“why spoil a good friendliness with a wedding?” And I say, pah!’ She flourished the dishcloth like a banner. ‘Marrying me was the smartest thing you did in your whole life.’

  Alice grabbed her arm. ‘Shh. Eileen’s coming.’

  Meanwhile, Moses B. Washbourne, former Sergeant of the United States Armed Forces, erstwhile pastor of the Church of the Divine Conflagration, walked back to his flat, stomach churning. Marriage. Uncanny that he’d only just been thinking about marriage himself. He tested his feelings for Eileen McLennon. She was a dear, dear friend. She was good and she was kind. Wise, too, in her own way. They had shared a life and family for over a decade.

  Suddenly he saw her as a woman; saw the sweetness of her smile, her mild, myopic blue eyes, her finely boned hands. Soothing hands they were. Caressing hands. As he turned his key in the lock, he felt a little surge of excitement. This could be home. He thought of it as ‘the flat’. With a loving woman, with a loved woman, it would become a home. All those wasted years! He’d been such a fool. Well, he wouldn’t waste another day. He tossed in his narrow bed, alternating between the excitement of planning for the future and panic that he might have left it all too late. What if she didn’t feel the same way? What if . . . he steeled himself. What if his colour prevented her from accepting him? Though it was only a thought, he flushed with shame. How could he have even imagined such a thing of Eileen? She had never given the slightest indication that she even noticed his colour. He was honest enough to admit that it would bother some people. But Eileen (he had already begun to think of her as his Eileen), was a woman of principle. She had never let what others thought affect her. ‘I take people as I find them,’ she always said. And she did.

  The question was, how did she find him? Godown Moses dared to think he just might have reason to hope.

  I wonder, sometimes, at how dense people can be.

  As they walked in the park the next day, Moses took Eileen’s hand. Except for the time he told her of my death, he had never done this. She looked at him in surprise but left her hand in his.

  The usually eloquent pastor was lost for words. ‘Eileen,’ he began. ‘I want to ask . . . if . . . if you brought some of that dee-licious fruitcake.’

  ‘Fruitcake?’

  ‘That’s right. I wanted to ask you about fruitcake. And if you’d . . . you don’t have to answer right away, but what would you say if I asked you to marry me?’ He groaned inwardly. He felt as foolish as he had when he asked Delia to go with him to the junior prom.

  ‘Are you? Are you asking me to marry you?’ Eileen McLennon felt as nervous as a young girl. ‘Because if you are asking me, I need to know why.’

  They stopped and he took her other hand, saying, ‘To be honest, I’m too old to feel the kind of passion we might have shared years ago. But I’m not too old to feel love.’ Godown Moses was overcome with a sudden truth. ‘I think I’ve loved you for years.’

  Eileen looked up at him. The great love of her life had been her husband, Ken, killed in the wanton folly of the Greek campaign. She still remembers him waving from the rails of the Strathaird, as she and so many others stood on the dock and watched the ship pass through the Heads. She had never looked at another man until Hal brought home this handsome stranger, and for the first time since her young husband’s death, she felt the stirring of desire. But the years had gone by, and their friendship had grown. At the expense of passion? Probably not, she thought. I’m not the type to arouse great passion in a man.

  Friendship, respect and a shared history; that would be enough for now. This new life would be their own. They would cherish and nurture what they had and who’s to say that isn’t love?

  Godown Moses and Eileen McLennon announced their engagement shortly after the birthday party. Neither of them was young, and they were slightly embarrassed at the fuss. ‘A small wedding,’ they protested. ‘Just family and a few friends.’

  My father was the only one unhappy with the match. ‘Going to live off a woman now Hal’s not around. He can weasel his way in anywhere.’ Zav was adamant. ‘There’s no way you’ll get me to that wedding.’

  ‘Do it for Mrs Mac,’ Sealie pleaded. ‘She was always there for us.’

  In the end, Zav went and behaved well, much to his sister’s relief.

  Mrs Mac understood Zav’s reluctance, but she couldn’t bear to think of this day without him. He was the closest thing she would ever have to a son.

  The wedding took place at St Theresa’s. The bride wore a mauve silk suit and carried cream Singapore orchids. As Moses saw her coming towards him down the long aisle, he felt that he finally belonged. Her plain face was transformed in the filtered light and he saw her as she might have been as a young woman, tentative and glowing with the prettiness of youth. He promised before God that he would love her tenderly and faithfully and realised, as he looked down at her upturned face, that joy was still possible.

  5

  BROTHER AND SISTER SETTLED INTO an attenuated life back in their old childhood home. Sealie had begun to dread going out, imagining that passers-by were pointing her out to each other. That’s her. The one whose father drowned his granddaughter.But the truth was that their neighbours and many of their friends found themselves unable to reach out to the grieving pair. The tragedy was so vast, so unspeakable, that normal condolences and the customary offerings of food seemed pitifully inadequate. So, while they pitied Zav and Sealie, they did so from a distance, safe in their own houses where they could only pray that such terrible things might never happen to them.

  Zav, locked in depression, didn’t care, but Sealie, desperate to escape, suggested that they move to another state, or maybe a regional town, where they were not known.

  ‘We could rent this place and move to Ballarat, maybe. Or Geelong. Or ev
en Adelaide,’ Sealie suggested.

  ‘Who’d want to rent a house owned by a murderer? Besides, this is home, whether you like it or not. I’m not going anywhere. You do what you want. I’ll be okay.’

  ‘We can’t afford to keep the house, unless we use some of Dad’s money for upkeep.’ Hal’s share of the businesses was to be paid into an account at the end of each financial year, and although they had access through Sealie’s power of attorney, they had decided that they wouldn’t touch the money. ‘Blood money,’ Zav called it.

  Sealie persisted. ‘We don’t even have enough to pay the rates and there’s the problem with the guttering.’

  In the end, Zav acquiesced. They would use the money for the house, but would pay for their own living expenses. The next day he scanned the newspapers for a job. He couldn’t bear to live off his sister a minute longer than necessary.

  Sealie had nagged him unmercifully. ‘I can’t support both of us,’ she said when his army pay ran out. ‘Electricity bill,’ she’d say, rolling her eyes at the expense of it all. ‘If you want steak, you’ll have to wait until payday,’ she’d announce. Her personal favourite started with, If you’ve got nothing better to do than sit around all day . . . ‘If you’ve got nothing better to do than sit around all day, you might learn to iron your own shirts, hang out the washing, vacuum the carpet.’ There were endless variations. Sometimes she cringed at the sound of her own voice. Like a middle-aged shrew, she thought. And she was barely twenty.

  She resented this gradual encroachment on her life but believed she had a debt to pay. She had promised to look after Zav’s family and she’d let him down. If only she’d taken the time to understand the nature of their father’s illness, her brother would be living a normal life with his wife and child. She took out her frustration by being bossy and sharp, but she didn’t leave.

  While she waited for a new nursing intake, she had started in a clerical job with the local council. Her old schoolfriend, Cassie, already worked there, and after the publicity surrounding her father, Sealie felt in need of an ally. In the weeks leading up to the new intake she demurred, then let it go by. She went to see Sister Una.

  ‘You need more time. Is that it?’ The nun’s face was kind. ‘We can make allowances under the circumstances.’

  Sealie shifted in her chair. ‘I’m ready. But it’s my brother. It’s too soon. I can’t leave him alone. Not yet.’ Zav had found a job in a pathology lab, carrying out basic tests. His degree had prepared him for much more, but he didn’t care what he did. He just wanted Sealie off his back. So they both had nine-to-five jobs. Sealie could be confident that he was alright during the day, but didn’t want to leave him alone all night and couldn’t imagine living away from him. ‘I appreciate your support, Sister,’ she continued. ‘But realistically, it could be some time before I can come back.’ She struggled to prevent her voice from breaking.

  ‘We’ll pray for you and your brother,’ the nun said. ‘You must follow your conscience, my dear.’ Her stern face softened. ‘You showed real promise as a nurse. Don’t give up on the idea entirely.’

  Life goes on. That’s what they say. And it does—even in my case, it seems. Sealie and Zav Rodriguez, once the golden children, get up, have breakfast, go to undemanding jobs and return home to dinner. After they have done the dishes, they bicker over the television. On weekends, because they’re together more, they bicker over other things—the length of the lawn, who forgot to get the coffee, whose turn it is to do the shopping. The weekends she visits Hal, Sealie asks Mrs Mac to stay the night.

  Mrs Mac worries about both of them. ‘They’re so young,’ she wails to Godown. ‘All their lives ahead of them and they lock themselves up in that gloomy house . . .’

  Even the dullest lives are punctuated with events: an occasional new paragraph might present itself, but rarely a new chapter. I have to say, though, that the advent of the Padre and Zav’s old friend Scottie, warrants consideration as a new chapter.

  One Saturday afternoon, six months after Zav moved back home, the doorbell rang. Sealie and Zav looked at one another in surprise. Nobody ever visited. It seemed to them that the house repelled all callers—even encyclopaedia salesmen walked by their gate.

  Sealie opened the door to see a pudgy-faced young man wearing an army uniform with a clerical collar. Purveyors of religion weren’t welcome and he wilted a little under her cool appraisal.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m sorry . . . does Xavier Rodriguez live here?’ She nodded. ‘I’m Will Norton, army chaplain. I was there when . . .’

  Sealie nodded and indicated for him to enter. ‘I’m Zav’s sister, Selina,’ she said, extending her hand. Zav never mentioned the army, except in relation to his pay. She wasn’t sure how he might react to his visitor, but the stranger seemed nice enough and she was in desperate need of a change.

  ‘He’s through here,’ she said, leading him down the hall. Will followed, admiring her straight back and graceful carriage.

  ‘Zav, you remember Will?’

  Zav looked up at the vaguely familiar figure. ‘Will.’ He shook hands and looked to Sealie for help. Spitefully, she ignored the look and asked if they’d like a drink.

  ‘A beer?’ Zav was still floundering. Perhaps you didn’t offer a beer to a chaplain. ‘Or tea?’

  They settled on a beer and Will sat down. ‘I can see you don’t remember me. We got drunk together the night you heard the—news about your daughter.’

  Zav was poised between throwing his arms around his guest and throwing him out. He had shared the worst night of his life with this man. ‘Will. Yes. Will. You drank me under the table.’

  ‘I’ve just come round to see how you’re going.’

  ‘Not bad. I got an early discharge.’

  Sealie came back with the beers.

  ‘You don’t have to hang around,’ Zav said to her, as though she were still his annoying little sister. ‘Will and I have a bit of army talk to catch up on.’

  She glared at him, but left them alone to their beer and talk.

  ‘Did the army send you?’ Zav was curious to know if this was a personal or professional visit.

  ‘Not as such. But you might say it’s part of the job description.’

  Zav was crestfallen. Even though his stint in the army had been short, he had bonded with those he served with. And he had only had official contact since he was sent back home.

  As though reading Zav’s thoughts, Will went on. ‘I haven’t been back long. A David Scott came to see me a couple of days ago. Wants to get in touch with you but didn’t have an address. I’m killing two birds with one stone here. I wanted to see how you were getting along and also to ask if you’d like to see David Scott.

  Scottie. Zav felt his heart pounding. ‘I’d like to see Scottie. Can you tell him that?’ He scribbled down his telephone number. ‘Just get him to give me a call. I’m home most nights— and weekends. Now what about another beer?’

  Will never felt comfortable in his role as counsellor, or even spiritual advisor. He was essentially a shy man, diffident to the point of self-effacement. What he failed to realise was the respect in which he was held by the men he served. They sensed his compassion and empathy. When he tried to preach, he felt it came out all wrong. Nevertheless, the general opinion was that he was okay.

  So Zav, who to date hadn’t shared his feelings with anyone, tried to explain them to this young man who sat so uneasily in his uniform.

  ‘Kate—my wife—she didn’t understand. I was too full of—other stuff. I couldn’t feel . . . All those people—all those deaths. I tried to feel something. Love—even pity. But I just felt angry.’ His hands described a helpless arc. ‘I let her down.’

  Will nodded slowly. ‘That place, the war—it’s in my head too.’

  A flicker of relief. Their eyes met as Zav coughed and shifted in his seat. ‘We might shake it loose with another beer.’

  ‘Just one for the road.’

  T
hey finished their beer and shook hands. ‘Really, thanks for coming, mate. Always a beer for you here.’ They walked together to the car and as Will climbed in, Zav asked yet again, ‘You’ve got my number?’

  Will patted his pocket. ‘I’ll get in touch with David Scott as soon as I can.’

  ‘You had a good long talk,’ Sealie said as Zav returned from seeing off his guest. She was pleased to see her brother so animated. And she was curious, too.

  ‘Not a bad bloke for a sky pilot,’ he said.

  ‘Sky pilot?’

  ‘Chaplain.’ He paused. ‘A bloke called Scottie might ring. He was a good mate. If I’m not here, make sure you get his number.’

  Scottie rang the next day and suggested he might drop by on the coming weekend. Wanting to keep his mate to himself, Zav arranged for them to meet at the local pub for a counter meal.

  Zav was early, and stood at the bar with one eye on the door. At exactly twelve thirty, a familiar figure entered. Good old Scottie. The same freckled face. The same shock of ginger hair. They shook hands and clasped arms.

  ‘Good to see you, mate.’

  ‘Sorry I didn’t see you before you left.’

  ‘Yeah. Well . . .’

  ‘Sorry to hear about, you know . . .’

  ‘I know, mate.’

  They sat at one of the small tables. Remember. Remember. Remember. Every sentence began the same way. What did they remember? They remembered a lot of things they didn’t talk about. But they did talk.

  ‘Remember at Pucka when you reported that a vandal had messed up Monty’s bed? Old Hinkler looked like he was going to explode.’

  ‘Pity he didn’t.’

  ‘Remember Corporal Ascot?’

  ‘Arsehole Ascot?’

  ‘Yeah. Not long after you—left, the Snowman met him in Nui Dat. “Do you remember me?” the Snowman says. “No I don’t, soldier,” he says. “Glad to hear it, Corporal,” says the Snowman—and whap! He knocks old Arsehole out with one punch!’