by Wendy James
‘Oh, but —’
Helen holds up her hand. It is spotted, wrinkled, but her fingers are still strong and straight, the tips of her long fingernails obviously filed and buffed. Jodie’s own hands are work-reddened, her fingers are short, stubby, the nails torn and at this moment slightly grimy from the potatoes.
‘Jodie. I know I’m an old woman now, and I’m probably rather out of the social loop – it happens when you get old, you know. Your social, er, garden tends to die off a bit – rather more literally than I’d like, actually.’ Again the sudden flash of humour. ‘But credit me with some understanding of these matters. You’re about to be at the centre of what we in the olden days used to call a scandal.
‘I know that to you, the details – what actually happened, whether people believe you – seem terribly important, but in my experience, the particulars of the scandal are largely irrelevant. When this all becomes public, you – and Angus and the children too – are going to find that people you’ve trusted, even dear friends you’ve assumed will be loyal, will avoid you. The usual invites will dry up very quickly – though to be honest, dear, you probably won’t feel like going out. On the other hand, people you barely know will suddenly want your company, though I’ve never really understood why. Out of curiosity maybe, or pity …’ She pauses for a moment, considering.
Jodie is curious herself. It’s impossible to imagine her mother-in-law ever being an object of pity, or even public curiosity. And it would take a brave person to snub Helen Garrow, particularly the Helen of yore, who was, as she well knows, one of Arding’s most formidable and influential social agents. ‘Did you —’
‘Yes. It’s obvious that I’ve had some firsthand experience, but now isn’t the time to go into all that. Ancient history, anyway. What we really need to talk about is just how you’re going to deal with it. Arding will begin to feel very, very small, and the prospect of running away will be very appealing.’
The thought of escape offers immediate relief, and Jodie is surprised it hadn’t occurred to her. ‘Perhaps we should take a holiday?’ she says. ‘All of us. We could even go overseas, I suppose. Get right away.’
‘Well, of course you could. But it’s not really going to solve anything in the long run, is it? This isn’t going to go away – whether you’re here or elsewhere. Eventually you’ll have to come back and … face things. You’re not going to be able to leave permanently – Angus has his practice, the children have school, their friends. So we’re going to have to work out a way to make it bearable. The way you handle things is going to matter a great deal – not just for your own sake, but for all of you. All of us.’
Us. How it pleases Jodie to be so unequivocally embraced even under these bizarre circumstances. Us.
‘So what do you suggest I …’ She cringes slightly at the thought of including her mother-in-law in her own sordid drama. ‘What should we do?’
Her mother-in-law doesn’t hesitate. She shrugs off her expansive, almost philosophical mood in an instant, replacing it with a rapid-fire set of instructions that leaves no opportunity for discussion or demurral. Jodie feels as if she is in a war briefing, wonders whether she should be making notes, taking minutes.
Jodie, her mother-in-law instructs her, is to go about her business as if nothing has happened. If anyone asks anything, she’s to tell them she’s been advised not to discuss the matter. If anyone’s rude, Jodie’s to ignore them. She’s not to get into sentimental discussions over the lost child, her youthful follies or, God forbid, into any sort of argument or conflict over the matter.
If the situation becomes too heated – if public opinion really turns on her – Helen will take the children away to Melbourne, to protect them, at least. There’s not much she can do about Jodie and Angus though; they will just have to ride it out. If the worst comes to the worst and there’s some sort of charge – Angus has apprised her of that possibility – well, they’ll deal with that when it happens.
‘The one consolation,’ Helen concludes, ‘is that eventually it’ll be yesterday’s news – not even fit for wrapping fish and chips in, these days.’ She leans back in her chair, stretches her legs, lets her head drop backward. Sighs. ‘Actually, dear, I’ve changed my mind. A whisky would be lovely. Make it double. Neat.’
9
When her parents call her in for a serious talk, a few days after Christmas, Hannah’s already half prepared to be told something terrible, something earth-shattering.
She’s lying on her bed, flicking through Frankie, listening to Erykah Badu on her iPod, facebooking, and sending the occasional text, and though she is alarmed by her father’s polite request that she come into the lounge room, she’s not all that surprised.
Hannah has noticed something going on. Since their return from the hospital in Sydney her mother has continued to behave strangely, her disorienting remoteness during their trip home never quite disappearing. Even though she still seems to participate in all the routine proceedings of family life, somehow Jodie’s attention is elsewhere. She might be listening to Hannah’s complaints about unfair homework deadlines, or nagging about the state of her room, or whatever, but so often lately it seems to Hannah as though her mother is just going through the motions, without any proper feeling, any real engagement.
And now, over the Christmas break, Jodie has been completely scattered. Christmas is the time when Jodie is generally hyper-vigilant regarding her family’s outward appearance: policing their outings, their attire, giving both children constant advice on how to behave around their grandmother and relations, providing a running commentary on their table manners, grammar, accents, on keeping their hair tidy, hands clean, dress sensible and demeanour modest.
Although it had no doubt been going on since forever, Hannah has only really begun to notice her mother’s frenzied social anxiety over the last few years – her desperate attempts, Hannah assumes, to keep up with the Joneses, impress the neighbours, the relatives, even her best friends. She had been invited to stay at Assia’s place in Glebe last Christmas (why Assia had chosen to board at Arding of all places was one of life’s little mysteries …), and Hannah had marvelled at the casual way Assia’s family muddled through the season’s obligations – cancelling dinners, spontaneously heading off to the mountains for the day, or to a café instead of a family barbecue, stuffing the presents willy-nilly into pillowslips instead of wrapping them. It was a whole new experience of Christmas, and of family relations in general, without any traditional observances or painful and senseless formality. Hannah – and, as far as she could tell, everyone else involved – had actually had fun. It had put a very different perspective on her own stuffy, over-catered, convention-ridden experiences. When she’d expressed this to her friend, Assia had just rolled her eyes and said it wasn’t a deliberate attempt to create a happy Christmas Day on her parents’ part. It had just evolved organically from her mother’s hatred of domestic organisation, and her general slackness. Regardless of her friend’s scepticism, Hannah reckoned that Manon’s way of handling what she liked to call the ‘festy’ season was far better than Jodie’s – and she’d have swapped places with Assia, given the opportunity, in an instant.
But this Christmas had been a little less stressful than usual: her mother seemed to move through the days in a state of vague and vapid cheerfulness – almost as if she were sleepwalking, without any of her usual brittle anxiety. Hannah found herself, for the first time ever, excused from many of the usually compulsory family engagements – she’d even been allowed to leave the Garrow Christmas Eve dinner early and head off to a gathering at a friend’s place. Hannah always found this particular family gathering depressingly dull, with no one her own age – her cousins were either Tom’s age or adults with partners – and the whole bunch of them were horrendously boring grazier types, with no interest in anything other than cattle and headers, wheat prices and weather forecasts. No Garrow other than Hannah herself, it seemed, had ever read a book, seen a play, taken
an interest in music (not counting her leso great-aunt, who sadly was never invited).
On Christmas morning itself the presents had arrived as beautifully wrapped and as satisfying as ever – Hannah received the new iPod she’d coveted, iTunes vouchers, an impressive pile of clothes, as well as a plane fare to Sydney and tickets to the Big Day Out in January; and Tom had scored Lego, some sort of remote-control flying machine, a stack of games for his Wii. Both parents had feigned surprise at one another’s gifts, and had expressed genuine pleasure over their children’s largesse. But Hannah could sense that her mother’s heart wasn’t in it.
While Hannah’s activities had been radically limited when her leg was in a cast (and there has still never been any serious investigation of the circumstances surrounding her accident – even her father has barely questioned her about that), she has been pretty much left to her own devices since her return. As long as she keeps a low profile, it appears that no one will inquire too seriously into where she’s going, what she’s doing. And ordinarily this would suit Hannah, of course. But perhaps because it’s school holidays, and she has more time on her hands to actually notice what’s going on around her, what’s going on in the adult world, she has begun to worry that something serious is up. She’s tried to find out what it is – has even gone as far as asking her father straight up, a few weeks back, but he gave her a brilliant smile and told her not to fret; there was nothing wrong, nothing to be concerned about. She took him at his word, was reassured for a few days.
But then her father has been behaving strangely, too – has become more considerate than she has ever seen him, like some sitcom dad. Oh, he is just as busy as ever, probably even busier than is usual for this time of year, heading off early to work and then not back till late. But when he’s home, he seems really to be there – making a point of seeking out both Hannah and Tom, expressing a genuine interest in their various activities. And he has put himself out to be helpful around the house, too, Hannah notices: clearing the table occasionally, wiping things down. She has even seen him attempting to put on a load of washing, though he was rather comically defeated in this once he realised he didn’t actually know where to put the detergent, or how to turn the machine on.
It seems obvious that both her mother and father are in the grip of something more significant than the customary holiday strains and stresses: there have been whispered conversations, locked-door conferences, unscheduled visits to undisclosed locations. And now both of the parentals are completely vagued out. They’re not fighting, it’s not that. But they’re also not really talking – not to each other, not to anyone.
Now her father stands in her bedroom doorway, eyebrows raised, waiting unsmilingly as she gives him an offhand wave, pretends not to hear. ‘Come on, Hannah. Stop playing silly buggers. It’s serious. We really need to talk to you both. Now.’ She sighs and gives a miserable pout, rolls her eyes.
‘What, are you two getting divorced?’ She speaks too loudly over the music, trying hard to sound bitchily unimpressed.
‘Hannah.’
She sighs and rolls off the bed, limps across the clothes-strewn floor.
‘You really have to do something about this, Han.’ Her father, who is only occasionally confronted with her room, follows her progress through the clutter with obvious distaste. ‘It’s completely feral. Can’t you …’
Hannah leans against the doorway with her arms folded, carefully maintaining a blank expression despite her growing alarm, and waits for him to finish, the music still blaring in her ears.
‘Though honestly, why I would even bother at this point.’ He sighs and gestures for her to walk out the door, but as she’s passing, he puts his hand on her shoulder, forces her to turn and look at him, gently prises the iPod jack from its socket.
‘Hannah.’ His voice is gentle. And frighteningly tentative.
‘What?’ Her own voice comes out in a squeak, barely audible.
‘It’s just … This is going to be difficult. Really difficult.’
‘Oh God. It’s something really awful, isn’t it? You are getting di—’ Another terrifying thought takes hold, explaining it all. ‘Oh God, it’s Mum. That’s why you’ve both been so weird. She’s got something. Cancer …’ Her stomach begins to churn.
Her father pulls her to him for a brief hug. ‘No, sweetheart. It’s not that. It’s —’ He stops, sighs again, this time more heavily, looks at her gravely. ‘Go on into the lounge, darling. And can you please get rid of the iPod? We need you to listen.’ He pushes her gently ahead of him. ‘And don’t worry, Han – nobody’s dying.’
Tom is there ahead of her, of course, bouncing about as if he has fleas. Hannah sits as directed on the lounge but moves as far away from her brother as she can. ‘Can you just sit still, Tom?’ She glares at him. ‘It’s bad enough having to be here at all.’
Her parents sit side by side on the chairs opposite, both of them looking determinedly cheerful, despite the bizarre formality.
‘Well.’ Hannah’s father clears his throat; he speaks slowly, as if he’s not quite certain about what he’s saying. ‘We’ve got something to tell you. Some news, and it’s not all that good, I’m afraid.’
Tom’s eyes widen; his jiggling peters out. ‘You’re not getting divorced? Mummy?’
Their mother smiles at him gently. ‘No, sweetheart. It’s not that. It’s just something that happened to Mummy a long time ago.’ She seems relieved to be able to say something reassuring, but to Hannah the words sound distant, as if they’re coming from a long way away. ‘And it’s really not going to —’
‘Jodie,’ her father interrupts. ‘I thought that we agreed that I’d do the talking.’
Her mother’s nervous reply comes immediately. ‘Of course, yes. Sorry, Angus.’
Hannah feels irritation flare, unaccountably maddened by her mother’s meek obedience, her passivity. Why won’t she do the talking? If it’s her story, why not tell it herself, her own way? She wonders, half-seriously, whether her mother has sustained some sort of brain damage recently or whether she’s been zapped – lobotomised in some tragic psychological experiment. Or perhaps she’s started smoking pot. The improbability, the absurdity, of this scenario makes her giggle, but then she feels slightly sick – perhaps this newly distant mother is under the influence of some drug.
Her father draws himself up, takes a breath. He gives Tom a steadying glance, looks Hannah in the eye. He tells them.
‘Is that it? Really?’ Tom says, his relief evident. Then, as it sinks in, adds wryly, ‘Another big sister. Awesome.’ He punches Hannah’s shoulder playfully, shrugging good-naturedly when she gives him an angry shove in return. He turns to his parents, obviously eager to make his escape. ‘So, can I go now? I’m almost up to the third level.’ He submits to his mother’s fierce hug before hurrying back to his room.
But Hannah stays seated. She can’t move, can’t raise her head. Can barely breathe.
The relief that coursed through her once she was certain that no one was dying, no one was divorcing – those particular fears that still lingered from childhood – has been replaced by a disbelieving rage. Like most children Hannah has only vaguely understood that her mother had really had a life prior to her own advent – and while the details of Jodie’s circumstances before her marriage, before Hannah’s own birth, have not exactly been shrouded in mystery, they are rarely discussed. Jodie’s family – her parents, her brothers – have never had any part in Hannah’s own life. They belong to Jodie’s past, and from the little she has seen of them, Hannah is glad to leave them there. But this – this announcement, this revelation. It has taken Hannah no time at all to seize upon the ramifications: that her mother might have a criminal past, that her life is about to be made public property. Hannah will be implicated in this; Hannah, along with her mother and father and even little Tom, is about to be publicly shamed.
She can envision her future, has seen it happen enough times to know exactly what awaits her.
First there will be the little groups that gather without her; she will have to move through huddles from which she’s somehow excluded, that aren’t quite welcoming. There’ll be false smiles on her former friends’ faces, certain invitations she never receives. Her friends’ mothers will patronise her, or ask nervously after her mother, and the teachers will look at her differently, regard her as someone to be pitied. Even the people outside school – the university drama group, for instance – will look at her oddly. She’ll become a kind of prize, a curiosity. ‘Aren’t you that girl whose mum …’ It makes her sick just thinking about it.
She has had to work hard to find her place at school – it has taken her years, trying to be both herself and one of them. To fit in. She’s far too bright to be ordinary, too plump to be pretty, hopeless on a horse or wielding a hockey stick or any type of ball, and her musical ability is completely underwhelming. But now, for the first time ever, Hannah is happy with the way she is regarded by her peers, satisfied by the place she occupies in the social pyramid. She’s got to where she is on her wits – she’s the class clown, fun to be around, entertaining. She’s not queen of the pile, she’ll never be that, but she’s well liked and well known. Popular enough. And she’s light years away from that painful to remember, desperate to conform, to be approved younger self.
Hannah is smart enough to know that being a Garrow has given her an enormous advantage; that being a Garrow she’s considered a social asset by certain others. She knows enough too to realise that as soon as being a Garrow – or being her mother’s daughter – carries a different sort of association, her status at school will be non-existent. She will always have Assia, of course: whatever happens, whatever’s said, she knows that her friendship with Assia is unconditional, that Assia will never be influenced by anyone else’s opinion of her, not even her parents’. But Hannah needs more than just Assia, and she knows that other girls – and, more alarmingly, boys – are not so independently minded.
