Tim

by Colleen McCullough

  When she sat in her dimly lit living room listening to the haunting searching of some violin she mentally reached for an unknown, still withholding some reserves of feeling, but when she sat in her dimly lit living room looking at Tim there was nothing left to seek, everything -she had ever yearned after was embodied in him. If she had expected anything of him in the few hours between first seeing him and coming to realize that he was mentally undeveloped, once she had discovered the truth she had ceased to expect anything more from him than the mere fact of his existence. He enthralled her; that was the only word she could think of which halfway fitted.

  All the hungers and yearnings of her woman's years had been ruthlessly suppressed; they had never gained a hold on her, for she had always been careful to avoid any situation which might encourage them to flower. If she found a man attractive she studiously ignored him, if a child began to laugh its way into her heart she made sure she never saw the child again. She avoided the physical side of her nature as she would the plague, shut it up in some dark and sleeping corner of her mind and refused to admit it existed. Keep out of trouble, the orphanage nuns had told her, and Mary Horton had kept out of trouble.

  In the very beginning Tim's beauty and helplessness had disarmed her: Mary found herself impaled on the pin of twenty-nine solitary years. It was as if he genuinely needed her, as if he could see something in her to which even she herself was blinded. No one had ever preferred her above all others, until Tim. What was it about her dry, matter-of-fact personality that Tim found so fascinating? The responsibility was a terrible thing, so hard to deal with for one quite unversed in the emotions. He had a mother, so it was not that which he sought; and he- was too much the child and she too much an old maid for it to be a sexual thing. There must have been many, many people in his life who had been cruel to him, but there must also have been many, many people who were kind, even loving. No one with Tim's appearance and nature would ever go short of love. Why, then, did he prefer her?

  The fire was dying. Mary went to seek more wood, then decided not to build it up again. She sat awhile longer, staring at the twinkling lights among the coals, her eyes unfocused. A worm popped its head out of the sand and looked at her; the heat of the fire was seeping slowly through the ground and forcing hundreds of its minute denizens to flee or fry. Unaware of the havoc her source of warmth was causing, Mary doused the embers with sand instead of water; safe enough as a fire hazard precaution, but no cooler for the sand and its inhabitants.

  Ten

  Mary continued to take Tim to Gosford with her all through the summer. By the time April was coming in and autumn with it, Tim's mother and father were well acquainted with her, but only over the phone. She had never invited Ron and Es Melville to Artarmon, and they had not liked to ask her to visit them. It did not occur to any of the four to wonder if each held the same impression of Mary Horton.

  "I intend taking a holiday on the Great Barrier Reef this winter, perhaps in July or August, and I would very much like to take Tim with me, if it's all right with you," she said to Ron Melville one Sunday evening.

  "Cripes, Miss Horton, you're too good to Tim now! He can go with you, yes, but only on condition that he pays his own way."

  "If you'd rather it was that way, Mr. Melville, then certainly, but I assure you I'd be only too delighted to have Tim along simply as my guest."

  "That's very, very nice of you, Miss Horton, but I do think Tim would be best off paying his own way. We can afford it. We could have taken him ourselves any time if we'd thought of it, but somehow Es and I never seem to get any further from Sydney than Avalon or Wattamolla."

  "I quite understand, Mr. Melville. Goodbye."

  Ron hung up the receiver, shoved his thumbs through his trouser belt and sauntered into the living room, whistling.

  "Hey, Es, Miss Horton wants to take Tim to the Great Barrier Reef with her in July or August," Ron announced as he stretched himself comfortably on the sofa with his feet higher than his head.

  "Very nice of her," Es said.

  A few minutes later the clip-clop of high heels sounded under the window, followed by the snap of the back door closing. A young woman walked into the room, nodded to them and sat down with a sigh, kicking her shoes off. She was both like Tim and not like him; the height and the fair hair were there, but she lacked the absolute perfection of his bone structure and her eyes were brown.

  "I think I just saw the elusive Miss Horton," she mumbled through a yawn, pulling an ottoman close enough to put her feet on.

  Es put down her knitting. "What's the old girl like?"

  "I couldn't see much detail, be she's sort of stubby and has a head of silver hair with a bun on the back of her neck, typical old maid. Sixty-five-ish, I'd say, though I couldn't really see her face. What a car, mates! A big black Bentley something like the sort of car old Queen Lizzie rides in. Phew! Wall to wall money, I'd reckon."

  "I don?t know about that, love, but I suppose she must be quite well off to own all that property."

  "Rather! I wonder what she sees in Tim? Sometimes it worries me. . . . He's so awfully taken with her."

  "Oh, Dawnie, I think it's nice," Es said. "You're getting too clucky about Tim and Miss Horton."

  "What do you mean, I'm getting too clucky?" Dawnie demanded sharply. "Darn it all, he's my brother! I don't like this new friendship of his, and that's that. What do we really known about Miss Mary Horton?"

  "We know all we really have to know, Dawnie," Es said gently. "She's good for Tim."

  "But he's so wrapped in her, Mum! It's Mary this and Mary that until sometimes I could strangle him!"

  "Oh, come on, Dawnie, don't be such a nark! You sound like green eyes to me!" Es snorted.

  Ron frowned at Dawnie. "Who were you out with tonight, sport?" he asked, changing the subject.

  Her mood dropped away as her lively, extremely intelligent eyes laughed at him. "The managing director of some big international drug firm. I'm thinking of going into industry."

  "My bloody foot! I reckon industry's thinking of going into you! How can you keep so many blokes on a string, Dawnie? What on earth do they see in youse?"

  "How should I know?" She yawned, then listened. "And here comes Tim."

  A moment later he entered, tired and happy.

  "G'day there, mate!" his father said cheerfully. "Have a good weekend?"

  "Extra good, Pop. We're making a flower garden all around the house, and we're building a brick barbecue on the beach for cookouts."

  "Sounds like you're making a real picture-book place out of it, don't it, Es?"

  But Es did not reply; she sat up straight suddenly, clutching Ron's arm. "Hey, Ron, how could

  Miss Horton talk to you on the phone one minute and be outside dropping Tim off the next?"

  "Stone the flaming crows! Tim, did Miss Horton phone us a few minutes ago, just before she dropped you?"

  "Yes, Pop. She's got a phone in her car."

  "Blimey Charlie! That sounds a bit like putting on the dog to me, mate."

  "She has to have a phone in her car!" Tim answered indignantly. "She told me her boss Mr. Johnson needs to talk to her in a hurry sometimes."

  "And why couldn't she have come inside for a minute to talk to us in person if she was almost outside the house?" Dawnie sneered.

  Tim's brow wrinkled. "I dunno, Dawnie. I think she must be a little bit shy, just like you say I am."

  Ron stared at him, puzzled, but said nothing until after Tim had gone to bed. Then he swung his feet off the sofa and sat where he could see his wife and daughter comfortably.

  "Is it my imagination, girls, or is Tim improving a bit? It struck me the other day that he's using fancier words than he used to, less down to earth, like."

  Es nodded. "Yes, I've noticed it."

  "So have I, Pop. Apparently Miss Horton spends some of her time with Tim teaching."

  "Hooray and good luck to heri" Es said. "I never had the patience and nor did the teachers at school,
but I always reckoned Tim has it in him to learn."

  "Oh, come off it, Mum!" Dawnie snapped. "Next thing you'll be expecting us to call her Saint Mary!" She got up abruptly. "Since you can't find anything better to talk about than that woman's influence over Tim, I'm going to bed!"

  Ron and Es were left staring after her, startled and perturbed.

  "You know, Ron, I think Dawnie's a wee bit jealous of Miss Horton," Es said at last.

  "But why on earth should she be jealous?"

  "Oh, I dunno, love. Women are real possessive sometimes. I have a feeling Dawnie's peeved because Tim don't hang around her so much these days."

  "But she oughta be glad! She always used to moan about Tim getting under her feet, and besides, the older she gets the more she leads her own life."

  "But she's human, pet, she don't see it like that. You know, dog in the manger."

  "Well, she's going to have to let go a bit, that's all. I'm real glad Tim's got Miss Horton instead of mooning around here waiting for Dawnie to come home."

  The following day Ron met his son at the Seaside as usual and walked home with him through the closing darkness, for the days were getting short.

  When they came in the back door Es was waiting for them, a peculiar expression on her face. She had a flat, colorful little book in her hand, and waved it at Tim wildly.

  "Tim, love, is this yours?" she squeaked, eyes alight.

  Tim glanced at the book and smiled, as if at a pleasure remembered. "Yes, Mum. Mary gave it to me."

  Ron took the book, turned it over and looked at the title. "The Kitten Who Thought He Was a Mouse, " he read out slowly.

  "Mary's teaching me to read," Tim explained, wondering what all the fuss was about.

  "And can you read any of it yet?"

  "A bit. It's awfully hard, but not as hard as writing. But Mary doesn't mind when I forget."

  "She's teaching youse to write, mate?" Ron asked, hardly able to believe it.

  "Yes. She writes a word for me, and I copy it down so it looks just like hers. I can't write a word of my own yet." He sighed. "It's much harder than reading."

  Dawnie came home just then, seething with suppressed excitement, words bubbling on her lips, but for the first time in her life she found herself taking an intellectual back seat to Tim; her parents did not even bother to ask her what she was so excited about, they simply went "Ssssh!" and drew her into the semicircle around Tim.

  He read a page in the middle of the book without having to search around too much for a word or a letter, and when he was done they shouted and cheered, clapped him on the back and ruffled his hair. Sticking his chest out like a pouter pigeon, he strutted through to his room holding the little book reverently between his hands, and smiling; in all his life he had never known a moment more supreme. He had pleased them, really pleased them, made them proud of him the way they were proud of Dawnie.

  Just after Tim had gone to bed Es raised her head from her endless knitting. "How about a cuppa tea, pet?" she asked Ron.

  "That sounds like a real good idea, old girl. Come on, Dawnie, come out to the-kitchen with us like a good kid, eh? You've been awful quiet all night."

  "There's a bit of nice dark fruitcake with orange juice icing on it, or a cream sponge I bought at the

  Jungo this arvo," Es announced, putting cups and saucers on the kitchen table.

  "Cream sponge," Ron and Dawnie chorused.

  There was a delicious nip in the air, for it was the end of April and the worst of the heat was over. Ron got up and closed the back door, then chased an enormous moth with a rolled-up newspaper until he caught it thudding vainly against the light fixture. It fell to the ground amid a faint shower of gold powder from its wings; he picked it up, still fluttering madly, carried it into the bathroom and flushed it down the lavatory.

  "Thanks, Pop," Dawnie said, relaxing again. "Jeez, I hate those bloody things, flipping and flopping in my face. I'm always scared they'll get into my hairdo or something."

  He grinned. "You women! Frightened of anything that flies, creeps, or crawls." He picked up a huge wedge of cake and jammed most of it into his mouth. "What's the matter, Dawnie love?" he mumbled indistinctly, licking the cream from around his nose.

  "Nothing, nothing!" she parried brightly, sectioning her cake and delicately conveying a small piece to her mouth on the tines of a baby fork.

  "Come on, sport, you can't fool your old man!" he said more clearly. "Spit it out, now! What's moping you, eh?"

  Dawnie put her fork down, frowning, then lifted her large, light-filled eyes to his face. They softened, looking at him, for she was genuinely attached to him. "If you must know the gory details, I'm ashamed of myself. I had a piece of news of my own to tell you when I came in tonight, and when I found Tim the center of attention I got a bit peeved. You know, that's disgusting. The poor little bloke! He's taken a back seat to me all his life, and tonight, when he had something to show us that made us proud of him, I got shirty because he'd stolen my thunder."

  Es reached out and patted her arm. "Don't fret about it, love. Tim didn't realize anything was wrong and that's the main thing, isn't it, eh? You're a good girl, Dawnie, your heart's in the right place."

  Dawnie smiled; suddenly she was very like Tim and it was easy to see why she had so many boyfriends. "Ta, old girl! What a comfort you are, love. You can always find something nice to say, or something to take the sting out."

  Ron grinned. "Except when she's lacing into me. Nasty old bat you are, Es!"

  "What else can a drunken old sod like you expect?"

  They all laughed. Es poured the tea, milk in the bottom of each cup and then a brew of tea on top of it that was as black and strong as coffee dregs. The resulting drink was dark brown in color and opaque because of the milk; they all sugared their cups liberally and drank the steaming liquid straight down. Only when seconds were poured did they resume their talk.

  "What was it you wanted to tell us, Dawnie?" her mother asked.

  "I'm going to get married."

  There was a startled silence, broken by Ron's cup landing noisily in its saucer.

  "That's a bombshell!" he said. "Gord struth and little apples, what a bombshell! I never thought you'd go and get married, Dawnie. Gripes, the house'U be empty without youse!"

  Es looked at her daughter gently. "Well, love, I knew you'd up and tie the knot one of these days, and if it's what you want, I'm glad for you, real glad. Who's the bloke?"

  "Mick Harrington-Smythe, my boss."

  They stared at her blankly.

  "But isn't he the bloke you never got on with because he reckoned women belonged in the kitchen, not in the research lab?"

  "That's him, that's my Mick!" Dawnie replied cheerfully, and grinned. "I suppose he decided marrying me was the only way he'd get me out of the research lab and back into the kitchen where I belong."

  "A bit hard to get on with, isn't he?" Ron queried.

  "Sometimes, but not if you know how to handle him. His worst fault is that he's a snob. You know the sort I mean-school at King's, home in Point Piper, ancestors who came out with the First Fleet-only they weren't convicts, of course, or if they were the family's not owning up to it now. But I'll wean him away from all that after a while."

  "How come he's marrying the likes of you, then?" Es asked acidly. "We dunno what our ancestors were, except most likely they were thieves and cutthroats, and Surf Street Coogee isn't exactly the poshest address in Sydney, nor is Rand-wick High the poshest girls' school."

  Dawnie sighed. "Oh, Mum, don't worry about it! The important thing is that he wants to marry me, and he knows exactly where, what, and who I come from."

  "We can't afford a big expensive wedding for you, love," Es said sadly.

  "I have a bit of money saved myself, so I can pay for whatever sort of wedding his parents want. Personally I hope they'll decide on a quiet one, but if they want a big, splashy affair they'll get a big, splashy affair."

  "Youse'11 be ash
amed of us," Es quavered, tears in her eyes.

  Dawnie laughed, stretching her hands out until the slender muscles rippled under her beautiful brown skin. "Not on your life, mates! Why on earth should I be ashamed of you? You gave me the best and happiest life a girl could ever have asked for, you brought me up free of all the hangups, neuroses, and problems everyone else my age seems to have. In fact, you did a darned sight better job bringing me up than Mick's parents did him, let me tell you! He likes me and my family or he lumps us, that's all there is to it. It must be the attraction of opposites," she went on more thoughtfully, "because we really don't have a thing in common except brains. Anyway, he's thirty-five and he's had his pick of all the blue-bloods Sydney's had to offer in the last fifteen years, but he ended up picking good old common, garden-alley Dawnie Melville."

  "A point in his favor, I reckon," Ron said heavily. He sighed. "I don't suppose he'll ever want to meet Tim and me for a beer or two at the Seaside. A scotch and water in some pansy lounge is more the style of that sort of bloke."

  "At the moment it is, but he doesn't know what he's missing. You just wait! At the end of a year I'll have him meeting you at the Seaside."

  Es got up abruptly. "Leave everything, I'll clear it up in the morning. I'm going to bed, I'm tired."

  "Poor old Dawnie, she's in for a miserable time being married to a prawn like that," Es said to Ron as they climbed into their comfortable old bed.

  "It don't pay to step out of your class, Es," Ron replied sternly. "I wish she'd had less brains, then she would have married some ordinary bloke from around the next corner and settled down in a fibro Housing Commission house in Blacktown. But Dawnie don't like ordinary blokes."