From the Ashes

by Deborah Challinor

  ‘Electric washing machine?’ But Kathleen could see the answer in Allison’s amused expression. ‘My dear, how do you manage? Especially when both of you are so busy working.’

  ‘We’re used to managing.’

  ‘Are you paying rent or a mortgage?’

  There was a short silence and Kathleen wondered if she might have pushed it a bit far.

  Then Allison said, ‘Neither.’

  ‘Well, there you go, dear. Buy yourself some convenience!’

  ‘We’re saving. For our own house.’

  Kathleen picked an invisible speck off her lapel. ‘But you know what they say, a woman’s work is never done. Surely you deserve a treat.’ She gave Allison a wide, bright smile. ‘I’m sure your husband knows how to treat his wife. Mine certainly does. And if he doesn’t, drop some hints. Take him window shopping. In fact, drag him right into the shop and show him what you want.’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Well what?’ Allison’s colleague demanded as she approached, the heels of her pumps clattering on the shiny floor tiles.

  Damn, Kathleen thought. ‘I was just telling Allison she deserves some modern conveniences in her life.’

  ‘Don’t we all? She also deserves a tea break. Go on, love, off you go.’

  Allison went, leaving Kathleen warily eyeing the girl. She really was a hard-boiled piece of work.

  ‘Sorry, I seem to have forgotten your name,’ she said.

  ‘It’s Peggy, Peggy Mitchell, and if you don’t mind me saying so, Allie doesn’t need your advice.’

  Kathleen’s hand fluttered to her chest. ‘Well, that’s rather rude, I must say.’

  ‘And so are you, poking your nose in. Leave her alone. Who do you think you are, the queen?’

  ‘You can’t speak to me like that, I’m a customer!’

  ‘I can and I just did.’

  ‘Then I’m reporting you to Mr Holmes.’

  ‘That’s not very original. You said that at the fashion parade. But go on, see if I care.’

  ‘Right then, I will!’

  The cheek of the bloody girl! Kathleen marched straight to the lifts and jabbed the button for the floor of Mr Holmes’s office. She’d show her!

  *

  All the way home in the taxi Kathleen could hardly keep the smirk off her face. George Holmes had been suitably appalled and apologetic regarding Peggy Mitchell’s insolent behaviour, and she was fairly sure the girl would lose her job by the end of the day. How satisfying.

  Also, Rosemary and Evie would still be at the birthday party, and Jonathan, who wasn’t flying until tomorrow, was at some meeting until this afternoon, so she would have the house to herself for a few lovely, quiet hours. She thought she might just lie on the sofa, read her new book and have a couple of gin and tonics until everyone converged again and shattered her peace.

  The taxi driver pulled up outside the house and she paid him and walked down the garden path as he drove off. Jonathan’s car was in the driveway but he’d taxied into town earlier, which probably meant he’d arrive home blind drunk. Not that that had stopped him driving before, of course. She unlocked the front door, stepped onto the long carpet extending from the foyer into the reception hall, closed the door behind her and took off her gloves. Then she heard it, a rhythmic thumping and moaning that took her straight back to the night Terence tried to hang himself. Filled with sharp, glassy fear she hurried, almost ran, into the hall, but there was nothing — no one — hanging from the stair rail. But still the thumping went on, even louder now. She moved closer to Evie’s bedroom and that’s where she saw them — Evie and her husband joined together, thrusting and sweating, over the bed.

  Evie was fully dressed and wearing her suspender belt, stockings and shoes, but her skirt was up around her waist and her knickers were on the floor, and Jonathan’s trousers and pants were in a heap at his ankles. Evie was bent over the end of her bed, one foot on the floor and the other knee on the mattress, facedown with her round backside in the air, her arms outstretched and her fists bunching the bedspread while Jonathan, his teeth bared, gripped her hips and rammed into her from behind. She was doing the moaning while the bedhead banged against the wall, making the thumping sound.

  The sight was so awful — so unexpected and brutal — Kathleen thought she might be sick. She opened her mouth to say something but nothing came out. She tried again.

  ‘Stop it. Stop that!’

  Then when Jonathan turned his head to her and she saw the heavy glazed look of pleasure in his eyes, a monstrous wave of anger hit her.

  ‘You bastard! You utter bastard!’

  She launched herself into the room at him and he disconnected audibly from Evie, deflating rapidly as he snatched at his trousers. Kathleen took a swipe at his face with her fingernails but he batted her away.

  ‘Get off me, you idiot,’ he cried out.

  ‘You pig,’ Kathleen screeched. ‘You absolute bloody pig!’ She looked around for Evie, who’d scrambled to the other side of the bed. ‘Get out! Get out of my house right now!’

  Jonathan took her by the arm and jerked her out into the hall.

  Kathleen wrenched herself from his grip. ‘Don’t you touch me!’

  ‘Let her pack her things. Then she can go.’

  ‘Don’t you tell me what to do! This is my house!’

  ‘It’s mine. Settle down. Go upstairs till she’s gone.’

  Shaking now with rage and shock, Kathleen cried, ‘I won’t! She’ll steal something.’

  ‘She will not. Go on.’

  Another almighty surge of rage swept through Kathleen and she swung at Jonathan again and this time he wasn’t expecting it, her fist connecting with his jaw. She thought it probably didn’t hurt him much but it clearly gave him a fright and he hit back, punching her in the side of the head. Her hat flew off, she saw stars and staggered against the wall. More than anything she wanted to let herself slide to the floor and sit there, knees drawn up, her hands over her head until everything was quiet again, but she couldn’t allow herself that luxury.

  Instead she picked up her hat and said stiffly, and loudly so Evie would hear, ‘I will be in the parlour. Please make sure Evelyn doesn’t take anything that isn’t hers.’

  In her bedroom, Evie finished jamming her belongings into a suitcase, collected her knickers from the floor, stuffed them into her handbag and joined Jonathan in the hallway.

  ‘I’ll be going, then. You owe me half a week’s pay.’

  Jonathan dug around in his trouser pockets and brought out some cash. ‘Will that do?’

  Watching from the parlour doorway, and hating herself for doing it, Kathleen forced herself to refrain from rushing over and counting the money. The idea of Evie getting more than she was due rankled horribly.

  Evie took the money and slipped it into her skirt pocket. ‘Oh, my toilet things. They’re upstairs.’

  ‘Go with her,’ Kathleen said to Jonathan.

  ‘I will not.’

  ‘Then I will.’

  ‘No you won’t.’

  As Evie trotted upstairs, Kathleen fumed in silence until she returned a few minutes later with her toilet bag. She squeezed it into her suitcase, then, without saying another word, opened the front door and was gone.

  ‘Good riddance,’ Kathleen said. ‘I always knew that girl was a slut.’

  *

  Polly’s flatmate shouted up the stairs, ‘Polly! There’s someone here to see you!’

  Polly sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed and stretched. She’d been dozing, having not got home from work at Flora’s until that morning. Unfortunately she found it difficult to sleep during the day, so when she worked nights, which was frequently, she sometimes resorted to tranquillisers to knock herself out, though these always made her feel terrible when she woke up. At other times she just drank when she got home, which helped her nod off, but she never stayed asleep long with just alcohol.

  She went to the door and shouted back, ‘
Who is it?’

  ‘Your friend Evie.’

  What’s she doing here at this hour? Polly wondered as she glanced in her dressing table mirror. She looked a mess and decided she didn’t care. She trudged downstairs, avoiding the dodgy loose ones. In fact the whole three-storey, seven-bedroom Ligaro Place house was dodgy. It had obviously once been beautifully grand but had been badly neglected over the years and was very slowly sliding downhill. But, nestled beneath Grafton Bridge, it still had an excellent view of the gully, and Blandford Park and the harbour, and was handy for Newmarket, town and the trams, and the rent was dirt cheap, so no one was complaining.

  ‘Not working today?’ Polly asked as she encountered Evie in the foyer. Then she spotted her suitcase. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I got caught rooting Jonathan Lawson,’ Evie said matter-of-factly.

  ‘By his wife?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Messy.’

  ‘It was a bit. She kicked me out. But that’s all right, it was time to go anyway.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I’m off to Sydney. I’ve had it with this town.’

  ‘Really?’ Polly thought Sydney sounded quite tempting.

  ‘But I can’t go for a few days. I’ve got a friend on the Monowai and he can sneak me on board but the ship doesn’t leave till Friday. Can I stay here till then?’

  ‘’Course you can.’

  ‘I’ll give you some money for food and that.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ Polly said, but Evie had already pulled a small wad of notes from her handbag. With them came a pair of clip-on earrings set with stunningly blue, pea-sized stones, which slipped out of the notes and bounced onto the floor.

  Polly raised an eyebrow. ‘Did Jonathan give you those?’

  Evie smirked as she retrieved the sparkling earrings. ‘Not as such. Kathleen did, though she probably doesn’t know it yet.’

  ‘Are they real?’

  ‘Of course they’re real. Who steals costume jewellery?’

  *

  Ana Leonard was extremely grateful that the children had settled into a new year at school where, for much of the day, they didn’t have to worry about being around Jack. They still thought some of his ‘antics’ were funny but at the same time they’d become deeply wary of him. None of them liked being alone with him any more, so she made sure that never happened. He frightened them. He’d gone from being their lovable grandfather to a smelly, grizzled old man who didn’t recognise them and whose behaviour was very often unpredictable and violent. She thought it was terribly unfair that they should have to live in a house riddled with tension, anger, and, frequently, fear, but David still refused to even take Jack to a doctor, never mind consider committing him to a mental hospital. This alone really got on her wick as David was hardly ever home, so didn’t have to shoulder the burden of looking after his father and putting up with his behaviour. And it wasn’t that she really wanted Jack locked away in an asylum herself. She loved him — or, at least, she loved the man he’d been. She just wanted . . . Well, she didn’t really know what she wanted. Help? A rest? A miracle?

  David was home this weekend, and was out the back with Jack planting seedlings, as he thought his father might enjoy growing vegetables. She didn’t have the heart to tell him that Jack probably didn’t know the difference between one vegetable and another these days, or even that vegetables were something you grew and then ate, and that he certainly didn’t have the attention span to tend a garden by himself.

  Through the kitchen window she watched them come plodding up the lawn, then disappear as they climbed the back steps.

  Then, from the back door, David said, sounding really quite dismayed, ‘Jack’s shat himself.’

  Ana thought, I’ve told you about that often enough. And you were here when he did it at Christmas. Have you forgotten? ‘Well, you’ll have to sort him out. I’m in the middle of making scones.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Don’t let him sit down, it’ll squash everywhere, get clean underpants, a singlet and trousers from his room, take him into the bathroom, get him undressed, clean him up, sit him on the toilet to make sure he’s finished, then put him in the clean clothes. Then scrape off his dirty underpants, rinse anything else that’s dirty, then soak the lot in the tub with a bit of borax.’

  David looked disgusted. Jack just looked vacant.

  ‘And don’t let him get his hands in it,’ Ana added.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ David muttered, leading his father off towards the bathroom.

  Rowie appeared, sniffing. ‘Has Grandpa done a poo?’

  Ana nodded. ‘Open the windows, will you?’

  ‘Is Dad cleaning him up?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s a first.’

  ‘Don’t be cheeky,’ Ana replied, though she had to agree.

  Eventually Jack was tidied up, the scones were baked and the Leonard family gathered at the kitchen table for afternoon tea. Ana sliced and buttered a scone for Jack and poured him a cup of tea. He then proceeded to make an almighty mess by trying to dunk his scone into his cup. It got stuck and in frustration Jack bashed the cup down on the saucer and broke both. Peter laughed; Jack struck out as quick as lightning and whacked him hard across the jaw, knocking him right off his chair.

  ‘Hoi!’ David shouted, and before Ana had even risen from her seat on her way to the boy he was out of his and had hauled his father to his feet and had one very strong hand around his throat. ‘Don’t you ever touch my kids, d’you hear? Never!’

  Jack took a swing at David but lost his balance and staggered backwards like a drunk, not stopping till he hit the wall. He stood there shaking violently, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘You wait till I tell my son! You just wait!’

  ‘Get to your room,’ David ordered. ‘Now!’

  Ana realised that amid the shock of the fight and the noise of Peter and Jo crying he might not remember where it was. She handed Peter to his father, took Jack’s arm — but warily, in case he hit out at her — and led him down the hall, ushered him into his room and closed the door behind him.

  In the kitchen David was back in his seat. Peter was sitting on his knee, a scone in his hand, his sobs subsiding to snotty hiccups.

  ‘That’s it,’ David said flatly. ‘He has to go.’

  Ana stared at him. ‘But you said—’

  David cut her off. ‘I know what I said, but we can’t have him attacking the kids.’

  ‘He’s had a go at hitting Mum too,’ Rowie said.

  ‘Has he?’ David asked Ana.

  ‘Well, yes, but I’m not Peter. I’m not a little boy.’

  David held her gaze. ‘No, but you’re my wife and . . . and I’m sorry.’

  The relief Ana felt was immense and unbidden tears pricked her eyelids. To hide them she turned to the bench for more scones, though there were still plenty on the table.

  ‘He’ll have to go away somewhere,’ David said. He sagged back in his chair. ‘Christ, I don’t even know where to start.’

  ‘The doctor will know.’

  ‘What doctor? We don’t have one, do we?’

  Ana sat down. That was a point — no one had been sick since they’d moved to Auckland so she hadn’t bothered to enrol with a doctor. She’d ask Colleen next door to recommend someone. But did Jack actually need to see a general practitioner? Or could you just roll up to the nearest mental hospital and leave your loony loved one outside the gate to be taken in with the milk? Like David, she had no idea.

  And now that the time had suddenly come to send Jack away, she felt guilty. It wasn’t a vague, mild guilt she could push to the back of her mind and ignore, either, it was a burning in her throat and a horribly tight chest and she could tell by the look on David’s face he felt it too.

  ‘This is mean,’ Rowie said, ‘but I’m glad he’s going. I’m scared of him.’

  ‘So am I,’ Jo agreed.

  ‘Me
too,’ Peter said.

  David slid Peter onto the floor. ‘Well, that does it, then, doesn’t it?’

  Chapter Eleven

  April 1956

  Auckland Mental Hospital was a sizeable and very imposing-looking complex, so much so that Ana and David almost changed their minds as they drove through the gate. Did they really want to leave Jack at an institution that wouldn’t seem out of place in a Charles Dickens novel? The shitty weather wasn’t helping as an early autumn squall drove rain and leaves across the Chevrolet’s windscreen. Two long double-storey brick wings flanked a central three-storey building that was obviously the entrance. Behind this main building were many others, the rambling compound situated on farmland between Point Chevalier and Mount Albert. The immediate grounds surrounding the hospital were well kept, with flower beds and large trees, and Ana thought the place might look rather nice on a warm summer’s day.

  David parked near the entrance and they all got out, David opening the boot for his father’s suitcase.

  ‘Bloody flash house,’ Jack said, gazing up at the top storey of the entrance building.

  Ana couldn’t look him in the face. He obviously didn’t know where they were, or what they were doing here. He’d had a quiet morning, had behaved when she’d helped him dress in his good trousers, sports coat and hat, but hadn’t responded when the kids had said goodbye, or when Jo had cried. In fact his mood had been quite good. When she’d asked if he’d done a number two, he’d replied no, he’d done a number six — his idea of a joke. He’d had no sense of where they were taking him in the car, which had been very sad because it wasn’t as if she and David hadn’t told him. They had, several times during the week, as gently as they could, but it just hadn’t seemed to mean anything to him. He’d even watched her sew name tags onto every item of clothing he’d be taking with him, and had never once asked why.

  Now, David said, ‘It’s not a house, it’s a hospital.’

  ‘Who’re we visiting?’

  Ana thought her heart might break. Taking Jack’s arm and feeling like the worst sort of shit imaginable, she said, ‘Come on, let’s go in, shall we?’

  David went first. Inside he found a nurse and they were soon on their way to a ward, walking what felt to Ana like miles along a corridor behind another nurse wearing a white uniform, white stockings and shoes, and whose backside was enormous. Surely if you traipse up and down these corridors all day your bum shouldn’t have a chance to get that big? she thought, knowing she was being unkind but blaming it on feeling upset.