by Susan Allott
“Can I have a word?” He stood at the line of shrubs that separated his yard from hers. Louisa’s roses were a bright, cheery pink. The sky was blue, cloudless. Beach weather. The salty air, the colors, all of it filled him with a nameless terror.
“Afternoon.” Mandy moved closer, a few feet back from the shrubs. “Humid today. I’d give anything for a southerly.”
Joe got as close to the shrubs as he could, one foot in the dirt. “Mandy, did Louisa say she was thinking of going away for a bit? Anything like that?”
Mandy pushed her hands into the pockets of her apron. “She said she was leaving. She told me when she came over on Friday night. I’m sorry, Joe. I tried to talk her out of it.”
“She said she was leaving?”
“That’s right.”
“She used that word?” Joe had a sick, scared feeling. The cicadas were loud in his ears. When had they started that noise? He could barely hear himself think. “Are you sure?”
“She promised me she’d go home and talk to you.” She was squeezing the tip of her finger with a clothes peg she’d brought out of her apron pocket. “I really thought I’d changed her mind.”
Joe didn’t like the words Mandy was using. He didn’t like her tone of voice, her sorry smile. As if this were a situation he might just accept. As if it were definite.
“Where are they, Mandy?”
She dropped the clothes peg. Stared at it, lying in the grass. “You don’t know where they are? She didn’t leave you a note, or—?”
“No.” His shirt was stuck to his back. “No idea.”
Mandy’s eyes moved over his face. “You must be worried sick.”
“She wrote one word on a piece of paper. Sorry. That’s all.” He gave Louisa’s rosebush a kick, making the petals shake. “Which doesn’t help me much.”
Mandy bent and picked up the clothes peg. Her shoulders were red; he saw a pale stripe as the strap of her dress slipped down her arm. “They went to England,” she said, as she stood. She put the peg in her pocket. “They left the country, Joe.”
Joe shook his head. The cicadas screamed. “They can’t have.”
“I’m sorry. Louisa should have told you herself.” She looked away. “I can’t believe she’s left me to tell you this.”
“They can’t have gone to England.” He felt exasperation wash through him. “That’s not possible, Mandy. She couldn’t just go to England.”
Mandy smiled apologetically, and he despised her for pitying him, for telling him what he didn’t want to know. “I saw them go in a taxi. She asked me not to tell you right away.”
He kicked the rosebush a second time, sending petals into the air. For a couple of seconds the cicadas fell quiet. He kicked it again, harder.
“I’m sorry, Joe.”
He turned his back to her, facing his house. His empty house. Jesus, the note. The guilty, final-sounding note.
“If there’s anything I can do, Joe.” Mandy sounded nervous. “Anything at all.”
He turned around. She’d stepped back a couple of paces. “Why didn’t you tell me she was going to do this? I could have stopped her!” It felt good to shout. “I’d have stopped her if I’d known she was thinking this way. You should have said! You should have told me!”
Mandy threw her hands in the air. “Do you think I like being wrapped up in your business? Do you think I like being the one to tell you where your wife and daughter are? I wish I’d never tried to help her.” She turned on her heel, back toward the chair where she’d left her flowers. She picked them up, held them in her arms: purple, with bright yellow stamens.
“Mandy.” He called out to her as she reached the paving stones. “Mandy, I’m sorry. I just. I can’t make sense of this.”
She looked down at the flowers, which were wilting in her arms. “Drop by if you need to talk, Joe. Anytime.”
He crossed the grass and fell into the house, sat down at the kitchen table, beside the stale toast and the coffee and the note. Pink rose petals were pressed into the soles of his shoes; he’d trodden them through the house. Louisa’s beloved roses. He pulled a shoe off and threw it with all his strength across the room.
13
Sydney, 1967
Mandy stubbed her cigarette out and tipped the butt into the bin. Cigarettes were all she could think about since she’d told Steve she was going to pack them in. It would have been easier to put up with him complaining. She pushed the packet back under the napkins in the drawer and opened the back door to let the smoke out. Another thing to lie about was all it was.
The front door opened. Steve was singing something to himself, a nameless song that might have begun this morning as something he heard on the radio and had ended up here, hours later, with a whole new set of words and the tune pretty much gone. It was a good sign, but. He’d pulled himself together. She knew where she was with this version of her husband: upbeat, noisy, tone deaf. Long may it last.
She pulled the back door open and shut a few times to let out the last of the smoke.
“There you are, darl’.” He dropped his lunchbox and flask on the kitchen table. “What you cooking?”
“Made a stew. You hungry?”
“Bloody starved.” He opened the fridge and looked inside, shut it again, and lifted the lid on the stew. “Is that ready?”
She slapped him on the arm. “Get out of there.”
“Just seen Joe out front.” He opened the fridge and took out a beer. “Poor bastard. Didn’t know what to say.”
“Nothing you can say, is there?”
Mandy drank the last of the gin from her glass. She had a guilty feeling over Joe; it had been there all afternoon. She kept recalling the sight of him when she’d told him where they were.
“Still can’t believe it, can you?” Steve sat down at the table and unbuttoned his shirt. “Lovely girl like that walking out without a word. I’d never have thought Louisa would do that.” He let his beer rest against the sloping shelf of his stomach. “He says you told him she’d gone back to England.”
Mandy turned to the stove, took the lid off the stew, and gave it a stir. “That’s right.”
“Why?” He suppressed a belch. “What’s she want to do that for?”
“She wanted to go home, Steve.” She wished he’d leave it alone. “Louisa was homesick. She was never happy in this country. Couldn’t settle.”
Steve put the bottle down hard on the table. “What’s Louisa got to be homesick about? This country’s given her everything she could want.” He gestured out at the yard, where the laundry was strung out, just visible in the fading light. “Lovely home for her family. Good standard of living. You’d think she’d be grateful.”
She heard the drink in his voice and turned back to the stove. One beer and he was half-cut. She gripped the spoon she was stirring with, tried to be patient. He’d only been home five minutes.
“It doesn’t work that way, Steve. It’s not as simple as that.”
“Sounds to me like she doesn’t know when she’s lucky.”
“She’s been through a hard time. She didn’t know if she could cope with the new baby, what with her family so far away.” She tapped the spoon against the side of the pot and did her best not to think about cigarettes. She had one left in the pack. “Joe never understood any of that. What else could she do?”
There was a long pause. She could see his face without needing to look around at him. He was gawking at her, building up to an outburst.
“A woman shouldn’t do that to a man!” He thumped the table, rocking the orchids in the vase beside him. “She took his little girl! He came back to an empty house. Imagine that.”
“I know.” She spooned a portion of stew onto a plate. “I know what she did.”
“She left him high and dry. Poor bastard.” He looked down at his plate and picked up his fork. “Lovely girl like that. You wouldn’t get over her in a hurry.”
Mandy gave Steve a look, on principle, although she knew
he thought Louisa attractive and didn’t mind it particularly. There’d be something wrong with him if he hadn’t noticed. She had legs up to her ears. And that thick, dark hair she swung about every time she moved. She was a beauty, in her awkward British way. She pictured Joe’s hand gripping Louisa by the hair as he kissed her neck, her shoulders, her collarbone.
“This is tasty, Mand. Very nice.”
She let go of the image. “There’s plenty more. Made enough for a few days.”
“Did Louisa say anything to you before she left?”
He wasn’t going to drop the subject. The room was warm and close, and she was irritable now from the thought of what she’d done, holding out on Joe like that when she could have told him right away. She took the cigarette out of the pack and lit it up.
“Thought you were giving them up?”
“This is my last one,” she said, shaking the empty pack at him. “Let me enjoy it.”
He watched her inhale. “Did Louisa tell you she might do this?”
“She told me she’d drawn the money out of the savings account. To pay for the flights.” She moved closer to the ashtray on the windowsill.
“Flights?” His face was shocked, openmouthed, in the corner of her eye. “What is she, the bloody Queen?”
“I know. There must have been a lot of money in that account.”
He put his knife and fork down. “How did she get hold of the money?”
“It was a joint account. Joe gave her access.”
“I bet he regrets that now.” He stood and took a second beer from the fridge. “She cleared out the lot, did she?”
“Think so.”
She felt his outrage as he opened the bottle and drank. She shouldn’t have mentioned the money. They’d end up rowing if he kept raking it over. The last fight they’d had was over money. And there was no chance of her clearing out the bank account and leaving him; she didn’t even have a checkbook. She’d get as far as Manly on the housekeeping he gave her each month.
“I was shocked when she went,” she said. The yard was dark now and she hadn’t brought the washing in. “I still can’t believe it.”
“Neither can I.” He put his empty bottle alongside the rest of his empties, next to the bread bin. “I always had her down as a lovely girl. Shows how wrong you can be.”
“No, it doesn’t.” She opened the back door and stood there with her cigarette. “It’s not easy, this country. Not if you weren’t raised here. It’s hard to be so far from home.”
“Now you sound like your mother. Rest her soul.”
“Don’t say that.” She spun around to face him. “Don’t you compare me to her.”
“All right.” He raised his eyebrows. “Don’t get cranky with me.”
Mandy blew smoke out into the yard. A light came on in Joe’s kitchen and she watched him moving around, opening cupboards and shutting them. Looking for something, maybe. “I’m going to bring the washing in.”
“You not eating?” He looked dismayed. “Why don’t you sit down?”
“I won’t be a minute,” she said, closing the back door behind her.
She stepped into the warm, clear night, the sky full of stars. A bright half-moon had risen behind the tea trees that ran along the backyards on the coastal side of Bay Street. The cicadas were still calling their high-frequency note. The air got fresher with each step away from the house, and the boom of the ocean got bigger in her ears until finally she felt her head stop churning. She closed her eyes, leaned against the eucalyptus, and breathed.
Minutes passed. She looked back at the house. Steve was framed by a square of light in the back door, bent over the stove, spooning a second helping of stew onto his plate. She didn’t love him. The thought shocked her, but she couldn’t dismiss it. He loved her as much as he always had, she knew this. But it wasn’t the same for her. She’d had an idea of him and the life he would give her, and it was different to the reality.
The bedsheets were stiff with salt from the ocean. She unpegged them and folded them into her arms, held them up to her face. She didn’t love him. She spoke it aloud into the sheets, quietly at first, and then louder. It was like watching someone fall from a cliff.
“Mandy.” Joe was standing on his deck, still in his work clothes. He held a whisky tumbler in his hand, and he wasn’t quite steady on his feet.
She ducked under the washing line and walked toward him. “Beautiful evening,” she said.
“Sorry about earlier.” He met her at the shrubbery. “It’s been a shock, all this. I’m still taking it in.”
“That’s understandable.”
“I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way. I took it out on you.”
“I was in a difficult spot, Joe.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
She stood there awhile, looking back at him. She liked his height and his build, his lean frame. His arms. He made as if to turn toward the house and she spoke just to keep him there.
“I was thinking you might need a hand with the housework,” she said. “I could get the place straightened out for you, while you’re at work. Give it a tidy. It’d be no trouble.”
He passed his glass from one hand to the other, considering. “That’s very kind.”
“I’d be happy to. Think nothing of it.”
“That would be a help. If you really don’t mind.” He nodded and stepped away. “Thank you, Mandy.”
She took her time unpegging the rest of the laundry, shaking out the creases, folding it into the basket. She’d iron the bedding tomorrow and change the sheets. They’d smell the ocean in the cotton as they slept.
Joe’s kitchen light switched off and his yard fell into darkness. Steve was right, in a way. Louisa didn’t know when she was lucky. The homesick part you could understand, but leaving a man like Joe Green was nothing short of madness.
She picked up the basket and walked back to the house.
14
Sydney, 1997
It must have rained all night. Isla stands on the deck with her coffee. A breeze blows in from the ocean, sending a shiver through next door’s eucalyptus. The sun is low behind the tea trees. Winter’s coming. It’s beautiful, she realizes. Despite the drab remains of the party, the damp bunting, and the upturned ice bucket, it’s a beautiful day.
“Coffee?”
Isla turns to see her dad holding the coffee jug, offering it up to her. He looks like death. His blue eyes are ghostly pale against his gray skin.
“Thanks.” She stands at the door and takes a mug from him. “You’re up early.”
“Couldn’t sleep. Might as well get to work.”
He puts the radio on and sips his coffee. His singlet hangs loosely from his collarbones. She wants to ask him when he started to look so ill. If he’s scared since the police called to see him. If he’s told her everything.
“I’ll make some breakfast,” she says instead.
Joe nods, distracted by the radio. “Not for me, thanks, love. I’ll get something later.”
She steps into the kitchen. A government minister is being interviewed on the radio. It’s the same story she’s been hearing since she arrived: Prime Minister John Howard won’t apologize to Aboriginal people for the forced removal of their children. People back then thought they were doing the right thing, the minister says. It was a different time.
“Bet this didn’t make the news in England,” Joe says.
“No. You wouldn’t know any of this was going on.”
“Typical.”
“There’s been an election in the UK, to be fair. A new government.”
“That’s right.” He snorts. “Cool Britannia. Not so cool from where I’m standing.”
They sip their coffee and listen. It wouldn’t hurt to say sorry, the interviewer says.
“Tell Tony Blair to come here and apologize.” Joe glares at the radio. “Tell him we’re the bloody great continent with the kangaroos and the boomerangs.”
It would be heal
ing, says the interviewer.
“It all comes back to the British.” He points a finger at nothing in particular. “Everywhere you look, in this country and in most of the world. If there’s a conflict, you can bet it dates back to a time when the British charged in and put their flag in it.”
Isla knows better than to defend the British from her British father. He’s never come to terms with her moving to England, the country he left. She finds some eggs and cracks them into a bowl.
“Sooner we become a republic, the better,” Joe says.
It was a long time ago, the minister says, repeating himself. Most Australians were unaware this was going on.
Joe puts his coffee down and lights a cigarette. “Wasn’t that long ago,” he says. “I remember it.”
“Do you?”
“That bastard next door was up to his neck in it.”
Isla pours the eggs into a pan. She looks up at her dad, who is staring out at next door’s yard. “Dave Taylor? He’s an architect, isn’t he?”
Joe keeps his voice low. “Steve Mallory,” he says.
She lifts the edges of the omelet with a spatula. Her movements feel slow and heavy. “Mandy’s husband?”
He nods.
A sweat springs up on her forehead. She flips the omelet, although her appetite is gone.
“He was a policeman,” Joe says.
“Did he drive a truck? A dark green truck. Always dirty.”
“That’s right. You remember that?”
The sweat spreads across her body. “I was scared of him.”
“Kids can tell when someone’s no good.” Joe rests his cigarette in the ashtray and drains his coffee. “He put on a good show, mind you. People liked him ’round here.”
“Did you?”
“No. Can’t say I did.”
“How did you stand by and let it happen?”
He frowns. “What d’you mean?”
“If you knew what he was doing. Taking kids away. Couldn’t you have done something?”
Joe stops with his cigarette halfway to his mouth. He takes a while to reply. “It wasn’t that easy.”