Tim

by Colleen McCullough

  "What happened?" Mick asked, lighting a cigarette and trying not to stare at Tim.

  "I dunno. When Tim and I come home she was lying unconscious in a chair in the living room. I dunno how long she'd been there. Christ, why didn't I go straight home from work, why did I go to the Seaside? I could of gone home for once!"

  Dawnie blew her nose. "Pop, don't blame yourself. You know you always come home at the same time during the week, how were you to know today she'd need you? You know she didn't mind your habits! She liked to see you enjoy your little drop after work, and besides, it gave her the chance to lead her own life. Many's the time I've heard her say it was such a break for her knowing you wouldn't be home from the Seaside before seven, because she could play her tennis until six and still have a meal ready for you and Tim when you came in."

  "I oughta knowed she was getting on and not too well, I oughta seen it for meself."

  "Pop, there's no point in recrimination! What's done is done. Mum wouldn't have wanted her life or yours any other way, and you know it. Don't waste time fretting over things you can't undo, love, think of her and Tim instead."

  "Oh, Christ, I am!" His tone was despairing.

  They turned to look at Tim, sitting quietly on the seat with his hands clenched together, his shoulders hunched in the withdrawn pose he always assumed when grief-stricken. He had stopped weeping, his eyes fixed on something they could not see. Dawnie wriggled closer to her brother.

  "Tim!" she said softly, her small square hand stroking his arm.

  He flinched, then seemed to become aware of her. The blue eyes transferred their gaze from infinity to her face, and he stared at her sadly.

  "Dawnie!" he said, as if wondering what she was doing there.

  "I'm here, Tim. Now don't worry about Mum, she's going to be all right, I promise."

  He shook his head. "Mary says you should never make promises you can't keep."

  Dawnie's face stiffened dangerously, and she turned her attention back to Ron, ignoring Tim completely.

  The night was very old when Dr. Perkins came into the waiting room, his face drawn and fatigued. They all rose at once, like condemned men as the judge pulls on his cap.

  "Ron, may I see you outside?" he asked quietly.

  The corridor was deserted, the spotlights dotted down the center of the high ceiling flooding the tiled floor crudely. Dr. Perkins put his arm about Ron's shoulders.

  "She's gone, mate."

  There seemed to be a terrible, dragging weight in Ron's chest; he looked into the elderly doctor's face pitifully.

  "You don't mean it!"

  "There was nothing we could do. She'd had a massive heart attack, and then she had another one a few minutes after she got here. Her heart stopped. We tried to get it going again, but it was useless, useless. I suspect she must have had trouble before today, and this sudden cold spell of weather plus the tennis didn't help."

  "She never told me she was sick, I didn't know. But that's Es, never complains." Ron had good control now, he could manage. "Oh, Doctor, I dunno what to do! There's Tim and Dawnie in there, thinking she's all right!"

  "Do you want me to tell them, Ron?"

  Ron shook his head. "No, I'll do it. Just give me a minute. Can I see her?"

  "Yes. But keep Tim and Dawnie away."

  "Then take me to her now, Doctor, before I tell them."

  They had wheeled Es out of the intensive care unit and put her in a small side room reserved for such occasions. All the evidence of her medical treatment was gone, the tubes and cables; a sheet was drawn up over her head. It struck Ron like a mammoth fist as he stood in the doorway, looking at the utterly quiet form outlined beneath the drape. That was Es there, under the sheet, and she could never move again; it was all over for her, the sun and laughter, the tears and the rain. No more, no more. Her portion of life's feast was ended, here like this in a dimly lit room with a snowy white cloth to cover her. No fanfare, no warning. No chance to prepare, not even the time for a proper goodbye. Just finished, over, done with. He approached the bed, suddenly conscious of a sickly sweet smell of jonquils stealing from a huge vase on a nearby table. Never afterward could he bear the smell of jonquils.

  Dr. Perkins stood on the far side of the narrow bed and twitched the sheet back quickly, then turned his head away; could one ever grow used to the grief in another's face, could one ever learn to accept death?

  They had closed her eyes and folded her hands across her breast; Ron looked at her for a long moment, then leaned over to kiss her lips. But it was not like kissing Es. Those bleached, cold lips brought nothing to him of Es. Sighing, he turned away.

  In the waiting room, three pairs of eyes riveted themselves on his face when he came in. He stood looking at them, squaring his shoulders.

  "She's gone," he said.

  Dawnie cried out and let herself be taken into Mick's arms; Tim just sat staring at his father like a lost and bewildered child. Ron came over and took his son's hand very tenderly.

  "Let's go for a little walk, mate," he said.

  They left the waiting room and the corridor behind them, heading for the open air. Outside it was growing light, and the eastern rim of the world was pearly with the first flush of rose and gold. The little dawn wind puffed itself in their faces softly and sighed away again.

  "Tim, there's no use letting you think Mum's ever going to come back," Ron said wearily. "Mum died a little while ago. She's gone, mate, gone. She can't never come back no more, she's gone away from us to a better life, no more pain or sadness. We're going to have to learn to get along without her, and it's going to be awful, awful hard. . . . But she wanted us to carry on without her, it was the last thing she said, to carry on and not to miss her too much. We will at first, but after a while, when we're used to it, it won't be quite so bad."

  "Can't I see her before she goes, Pop?" Tim asked desolately.

  His father shook his head, swallowing painfully. "No, mate. You can't see her ever again. But you mustn't blame her for that, it wasn't the way she wanted it, to go off so suddenly with never a chance to say goodbye. Sometimes things get out of our control, things happen too fast for us to catch up with them, and then it's too late. Mum died like that, too soon, too soon. . . . Her time had come and there was nothing she could do to push it away, you see, mate."

  "Is she really and truly dead, Pop?"

  "Yes, she's really and truly dead, Tim."

  Tim lifted his head to the cloudless sky; a seagull screeched and wheeled far above them, dipping toward the alien earth and then soaring in search of its watery home.

  "Mary told me what dead was, Pop. I know what it is. Mum's gone to sleep, she's gone to sleep in the ground under a blanket of grass and she's going to rest there until we all go too, isn't she?"

  "That's about the size of it, mate."

  When they came back to the casualty room, Dr. Perkins was waiting for them. He sent Tim in to be with Dawnie and Mick, but detained Ron.

  "Ron, there are arrangements to be made."

  Ron quivered. "Oh, God! Doctor, what do I do? I don't have the faintest idea!"

  Dr. Perkins told him about undertakers, and offered to call one particular man for Ron.

  "He's good and kind, Ron," the doctor explained. "He won't charge you more than you can afford and he handles it all very quietly, with a minimum of fuss and glorification. She'll have to be buried tomorrow, you know, because the day after is Sunday and they should be buried within forty-eight hours. It's the hot climate. Don't embalm her, what's the point of it? Just let her alone. I'll tell Mortimer you're an old family of mine, and he'll take care of everything. Now why don't you call a taxi and take your family home?"

  When they let themselves into the deserted house Dawnie seemed to come to life a little, and busied herself making breakfast. Ron went through to the phone and called Mary Horton. She answered at once, which relieved him; he had dreaded finding her muddled with sleep.

  "Miss Horton, it's Ron Melvill
e here. Listen, I know it's an awful lot to ask, but I'm desperate. My wife died this morning, it was very sudden. . . . Yes, thanks very much, Miss Horton. . . . Yes, I am sort of numb. . . . Yes, I'll try to get some rest. . . . What I rang you about was Tim . . . yes, he knows, I couldn't see the sense in keeping it from him, he had to know sometime, and why not now . . . Thanks, Miss Horton, I'm real glad you think I done the right thing in telling him. I'm awful grateful to you, too, for explaining dying to him. . . . Well, it was a terrific help, it really was. . . . No, it wasn't nearly as hard making him understand as I thought it would be. I thought it would take me all day to get it through to him, but he took it like a regular little trump. . , . Yes, he's all right, he's accepting it very well, no tears or tantrums. He was the one who found her, terrible. Miss Horton, I know you work all week, but I know you're real fond of Tim, so I'm going to get up my courage to ask if you could come out and see me today, real soon, and maybe take Tim off with you until Sunday. She's being buried tomorrow, can't be buried the day after because it's Sunday. I don't want him at the funeral. ... All right, Miss Horton, I'll be here and so will Tim. . . . Thanks very, very much, I do appreciate it. . . . Yes, I'll try, Miss Horton. See you soon. Bye bye now, and thanks again."

  Dawnie took Tim out into the garden while Ron talked to Mr. Mortimer the undertaker, who was indeed all that Dr. Perkins had promised. A death in an Australian working-class family was neither an expensive nor a long-drawn-out affair, and rigid laws made exploitation of the bereaved difficult. Uncomplicated, earthy people, they felt no compulsion to make up a lifetime of real or imagined guilts to a corpse; no opulent coffins, wakes, or putting the body on display. It was all conducted quickly and quietly, so much so that often friends and neighbors would have known little about it except for the gossip grapevine.

  Shortly after the undertaker left, Mary Horton parked her Bentley in the street outside the Melville house and mounted the steps to the front door. Word had got around the vicinity during the early morning, and many front windows showed telltale rifts in their curtains as Mary disappeared onto the front veranda to wait for an answer to her knock.

  Dawnie's husband, Mick, opened the door, and stared at Mary in bewilderment. For a moment he thought she was someone professionally connected with the undertaker, and said, "Oh, you've just missed Mr. Mortimer, he left about five minutes ago."

  Mary looked at him appraisingly. "You must be Dawn's husband. I'm Mary Horton, and I've come to fetch Tim. But please, would you quietly let Mr. Melville know I'm here first, don't mention my arrival to Tim? I'll wait here."

  Mick shut the door and trod down the long hallway, his thoughts in confusion. From what the Melvilles said he had gathered Miss Horton was an old lady, but though the woman on the front veranda had white hair, she was far from old. Ron was trying to interest Tim in a television program; Mick wriggled his brows mutely toward the front door, and Ron got up at once, closing the door between the hallway and the living room as he went out.

  "Dawn, Miss Horton's here," Mick whispered as he sat down beside her.

  She looked at him curiously. "So?"

  "She's not old, Dawn! Why do you speak of her as if she's Ron's age? I could hardly believe my eyes when I opened the front door! She can't be more than forty-five, if she's that old!"

  "What on earth's the matter with you, Mick? Of course she's old! I admit I didn't get a good look at her that night I saw her outside in her car, but it was close enough to tell she was old. And her hair's whiter than Pop's!"

  "People can go white at twenty, you know that. I tell you she's a relatively young woman!"

  Dawnie sat in silence for a moment, then shook her head, smiling wryly. "The sly old bezom! So that was her game!"

  "What was her game?"

  "Tim, of course! She's sleeping with him!"

  Mick whistled. "Of course! But wouldn't your parents have suspected something like that? They watch him so carefully, Dawn."

  "Mum wouldn't hear a word against her precious Miss Horton, and Pop's been like the cat that swallowed the canary ever since Tim began bringing home the extra money Miss Mary Horton pays him for doing her garden. Hah! Doing her garden, indeed!"

  Mick shot a quick glance toward Tim. "Keep your voice down, Dawn!"

  "Oh, I could kill Pop for turning a blind eye!" Dawnie said through clenched teeth. "All along I've thought there was something suspicious about that woman, but Pop wouldn't hear a word of it. Okay, I can understand Mum not suspecting, but Pop should have listened to me! Too busy thinking of all that extra money coming in!"

  Ron in his turn gaped at Mary Horton, shocked out of his numbness for a moment. "Are you Miss Horton?" he croaked, voice cracking from the long hours and the strain.

  "Yes, I'm Mary Horton. Did you think I was an old lady too, Mr. Melville?"

  "Yes, I did." He recollected himself sufficiently to hold the door fully open. "Won't you come in, Miss Horton? I hope you don't mind stepping into the front bedroom for a minute before I take you through to Tim."

  "Of course not." She followed Ron into the bedroom, ill at ease; this looked like the master bedroom, and she wondered how Ron would hold up under the stress of talking to her in the place where he and his wife had lain each night for years. But he scarcely seemed to be aware of his surroundings; he could not take his eyes from her face. She was nothing like the person he had imagined, and yet she was exactly like the person he had imagined. Her face was young and unlined, she could not be more than forty-five, if that. But it was not a rapacious, intensely feminine face, it was a kind, slightly stern face with a tduch of suffering about it, in the fierce brown eyes and the determined mouth. Her hair was very white, like crystal. In spite of the shock of discovering she was much younger than he had thought, Ron trusted that face and the person who owned it. A severely handsome sort of exterior, he decided, a fitting exterior for Mary Horton, whom he always thought of as one of the kindest, most generous, and understanding people ever to enter his life.

  "Mr. Melville, I'm at a loss for words. I'm so very sorry for this, for you and Tim and Dawnie. ..."

  "I know, Miss Horton. Please don't try, I understand. It's a terrible blow, but we'll weather it. I'm only sorry Es never met you. We just never seemed to get around to it, did we?"

  "No, we didn't, and I'm sorry for that, too. How is poor Tim?"

  "A bit dazed, like. He don't quite know what's happening, except that Mum's dead. I'm awful sorry to have to bring youse into this, but I just don't know what else to do. I can't let Tim come to the funeral, and he shouldn't be left on his own while the rest of us go."

  "I quite agree. I'm so glad you thought to call me, Mr. Melville, and you can rest assured I'll take good care of Tim for you. I was wondering if this Sunday night coming I could drive you and Tim up to my cottage and have you stay there for a while, to get over it in different surroundings. I'll keep Tim in Sydney today, tomorrow, and Sunday, then on Sunday evening I'll come back here and collect you, then drive you both up to my cottage. Would that be all right?"

  Ron's face twisted for a moment, then composed itself. "That's real considerate of you, Miss Horton, and for Tim's sake I'll take youse up on it, too. His boss and my boss won't mind if we take a week off."

  "Then it's all settled. Dawnie would be better off with her husband, don't you think? It will take a load off her mind to know that you and Tim aren't sitting here in the house all alone."

  "That's right, it will take a load off her mind. She's just about eight months gone with the baby."

  "Oh, I didn't know!" Mary wet her lips and tried not to look at the old double bed against the far wall. "Shall we go and say hullo to Tim now?"

  It was a curious little group in the living room. Mick and Dawnie sat huddled together on the sofa and Tim sat in his special chair, hunched over and leaning forward, his unseeing eyes fixed on the television set. Mary stood in the hall doorway quietly, watching him; he had his lost look about him, defenseless and bewildered. "Hullo, Ti
m," she said.

  He leaped to his feet, half overjoyed and half too saddened to feel joy, then stood with his face twitching and his hands going out to her. She went to him and took them, smiling at him tenderly.

  "I've come to take you to my house for a little while, Tim," she said softly.

  He snatched his hands away sharply, flushing; for the first time since knowing him Mary saw him uncomfortable and quite conscious of his actions. Involuntarily his eyes had gone to Dawnie, seen her outrage and revulsion, and something in him was developed and mature enough to sense that Dawnie thought he had done something unpardonable, that she condemned him for holding this beloved woman's hands. His own hands fluttered to his sides, lonely and empty again, and he stood looking at his sister pleadingly. She compressed her lips and sidled to her feet like a fizzing cat, eyes flashing angrily from Tim to Mary.

  Mary walked forward with her hand extended. "Hullo, Dawnie, I'm Mary Horton," she said pleasantly.

  Dawnie ignored the hand. "What are you doing here?" she spat.

  Mary pretended not to notice her tone. "I've come for Tim," she explained.

  "Oh, I'll just bet you have!" Dawnie sneered. "Look at you! My mother not cold and here you are with your tongue hanging out for poor, stupid Tim! What do you mean, tricking us into thinking you were old? A fine lot of fools you've made us out to be, and in front of my husband at that!"

  "Oh, for Christ's sake, Dawnie, pipe down!" Ron interrupted desperately.

  Dawnie turned on him furiously. "I'll pipe down when I've said what I intend to say, you greedy old bastard! Selling your own dill-brained son every weekend for a few measly dollars! Did it feel good, guzzling your extra beer in the Seaside every day? Did you ever stop to think of the disgrace? Look at her, trying to brazen it out as though her interest in Tim was pure and spiritual, and completely altruistic! Well, Miss Mary Horton," she hissed, whipping round to face Mary again, "I'm a wakeup to your little game! Tricking us all into thinking you were at least ninety! I wonder how many people up and down Surf Street are laughing their heads off right now because they just got a good long daylight look at Tim's weekend hostess? You've made us the laughingstock of the whole district, you frustrated old cow! If you had to have a man, why the hell couldn't you have bought yourself a gigolo instead of preying on a mental weakling like my poor, silly brother? You're a disgusting, loathsome, wicked woman! Why don't you get your ugly carcass out of here and leave us alone?"