by Susan Allott
“No. I put it out of my mind.”
“Have you done that before?”
“No. First time.”
“And now Ray wants you to go back and get him, does he?”
“That’s right. He was none too pleased I came back without him the last time.” He trod across the linoleum in his socks, looking out at the yard. “I can’t face going back out there, Mand. Think I’ve come to the end of the road with this business.”
She filled the kettle at the tap, put it onto the hob, and lit the flame beneath it. She considered her words, her tone. “You know,” she said, keeping her back to him, “you’re taking it all too much to heart. Letting it get to you again. You need to remember this is about the best interests of these kids. Making sure they get a decent start in life.”
“Now you sound like Ray.”
She turned to face him. “Ray might have a point. You don’t know what’s really going on in these families. Just because you don’t see anything wrong, doesn’t mean there’s nothing wrong. You might have left that child to get neglected.”
“You might be right, Amanda.” He looked down at his feet. “But you might be wrong. That’s the trouble.” He was sweating through his uniform, dark rings forming under his arms. “I went into this thinking I was the good guy. But over the years it’s turned itself around on me. I think maybe I’m the bad guy.”
“Don’t say that.” A kookaburra laughed at the back of the yard, making her jump. She wished he wouldn’t talk this way. “Of course you’re not the bad guy. I know who you are. You don’t have a bad bone in your body.”
“You don’t understand.”
“You’re a decent man doing a good job. Don’t talk daft.”
He crossed the room and reached for the drawer where her cigarette packet was lying open. Only two left in the pack. He drew them both out and handed her one.
“I’m not doing so well at packing them in,” she said, leaning forward gratefully as he lit a match.
“I know. I’m not stupid, Mandy. I can smell ’em on you.”
“Right.” She inhaled deeply.
“I want us to be straight with each other. Honest.”
She stood next to him and leaned back against the countertop. “So do I, love.”
“I need you to hear what I’m saying. Try to understand.”
“I do understand.”
“Do you?” He crushed the empty packet and lit his own cigarette. He wasn’t much of a smoker. Cigarettes looked thin in his hands, and he rarely took more than a few puffs, which was wasteful in Mandy’s view.
“Look, it’s not up to you if a child gets taken or not, is it?” She rinsed out the ashtray and put it down on the countertop. “It’s not your fault if there’s a mistake.”
“They should look at some of the Homes if they want to see neglect.” He pointed north, out through Joe’s house and beyond. “They ought to go look at the places I take those kids to. Neglect’s the least of it.”
Mandy looked around at her half-clean kitchen, the bright sunlight in the yard, the mess of her interrupted morning. She was going to have to hear him out. He was right; she didn’t understand, not really. She’d thought he was taking kids into care, where they’d have a better life. She’d thought she’d married a policeman and he’d be brave and uncomplicated.
“Is it that bad,” she said, “in the Homes?”
“They shouldn’t call ’em Homes.” He puffed on his cigarette, barely inhaling. “They’re not homes, they’re institutions.”
“It’s got to be better than leaving them where they are, hasn’t it? I remember you saying they live in dirty conditions, these people. Kids looking after themselves, not enough to eat. I remember you were shocked by it.”
“That’s true.” He closed his eyes against the smoke. “There’s a time I was shocked by that kind of thing.”
“It’s not good for children, growing up dirty and hungry, but.”
“People who live that way still love their kids, Mandy. Once you understand that, you start to have your doubts about all of it.”
The kettle rumbled and she reached into the cupboard for two cups. “He’s a baby, is he, this boy you’re meant to go back for?”
He nodded. “Few months old, I think.”
“Why do they want him removed?”
He shrugged a shoulder. “The family unit’s not regular. The dad doesn’t have anything to do with ’em. Mum’s just a kid herself. The grandpa seems to keep the family going, but there’s not much money to go ’round.”
“Maybe it’ll be better for the boy then, Steve. Getting taken out of there so young. He won’t know anything else. Won’t remember his family.”
He stood up straight and thumped the countertop with his fist. Smoke streamed from his nostrils. “Christ, Mandy. Haven’t you heard me?”
“Yes, I heard you. I’m trying to make you see sense, is all.”
“You’re the one who needs to see sense. It’s not right, this business. Do you understand?”
“I understand you’re a good man.” She said it softly. “That’s what I understand.”
“How can I be? I’m on the wrong side.” He shook his head. “I’m through with this. I can’t do it anymore. I’m going to tell Ray I’m done with it. He can find someone else to do the job.”
“What’s he going to say to that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ray’s been good to you. Understanding.”
“I know.” He nodded, and she thought he might have calmed down a bit. He ground out his cigarette and wiped sweat from his neck with the palm of his hand. “I’d have walked away years ago if it weren’t for Ray. That and the thought of my old man. I’m ashamed to think what he’d say if he could hear me.”
“You have nothing to be ashamed of.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” He pulled her tight against him. He smelled of smoke, sweat, and dust, and a heat came off him like a stove. “I have so much to be ashamed of, darl’.”
She leaned against him awhile and rubbed his back. She didn’t want to look at him in case she saw what she feared she might see. That something was unraveling in him, quite rapidly, like an untethered rope from a harbor wall.
“I think you should finish this job,” she said. “Don’t end on a bad note.”
“I can’t, Mandy.”
“I think you can. Leave after you’ve done it if you still feel the same.” She held his face in her hands. “Walk away with dignity once you’ve done what he’s asked you to do.”
His chest rose and fell. “I need to think about it.”
“You do that, love.”
She went back to the kettle, poured water into the pot, and swilled it around. In the corner of her eye he brought his hands to his face. She went to the fridge for milk and stood there awhile with the door angled so she couldn’t see him.
17
Leeds, 1967
Isla sat on a wooden chair in the kitchen wearing a sweater that was much too big. The windows were steamed up and it was dark outside, like always. You couldn’t go outside in that perishing cold. The kitchen was the only room that wasn’t perishing, because of the stove, but it wasn’t warm in here either. It wasn’t warm anywhere in England. You had to wear a vest and socks and a sweater inside the house, and you could catch your death in the bathroom: there were icicles at the window, and it was best not to sit down for too long on the toilet seat. Grandma had a pot under her bed that she used in the night because she did not want to catch her death, and one of these days she would get the chill on her chest and that would be the end of it.
Grandma was tidying up the kitchen, wiping the crumbs from the bread board into the sink with the flat of her hand. Isla could tell Grandma was nice, but she didn’t like her. England made her hate everything, even nice things. The worst thing about England was that it was a bit the same as Australia, but everything was a bit wrong. Isla did not like the way English houses were tall. She did not
like stairs. She liked flat, wide houses with just the roof on top. English people thought they had it right about houses, this was the thing that made Isla want to cry. They thought their way was right and nobody cared what she thought.
“You’re not eating your toast?” Grandma stood next to her. She was looking at Isla and Isla was looking at the toast. “Why don’t you try it? You must be starved.”
“It’s not Vegemite,” Isla said.
“I think it’s the same thing.” Grandma showed her the jar, which was brown and curved, with a yellow lid. “It’s your mum’s favorite.”
Isla shook her head.
“You might like it if you try it.”
“It’s not the same.” Isla hated Grandma for not understanding this. “And I don’t like it burnt as well.”
Grandma took the plate away and tipped the toast into the bin. “I don’t blame you, lovey,” she said. “Horrible stuff.”
Isla decided she would wait until she got back to Australia before she ate anything else. She didn’t want to eat anything English.
“How does your mum do your toast?” Grandma took the bread knife and balanced it on the loaf.
“Mandy makes it for me how I like it.”
“Mandy?” Grandma said her name funny. “Who’s Mandy when she’s at home?”
Isla didn’t know how to answer this question. She swung her feet under the table until she wasn’t thinking about Mandy saying goodbye.
“Will I toast it lightly with a bit of cheese?”
Isla looked down at her hands and shrugged one shoulder. She liked cheese on toast but was not ready to break her fast.
From the hallway the telephone rang. Grandma went to answer it, but Mummy ran down the stairs and got it first.
“Someone’s awake,” Grandma said.
Isla listened to her mum on the phone. She was talking loud, the way she did at home when she called England. “Hello,” Mummy said. “Yes, it’s me.”
Grandma was listening too. She stopped sawing at the bread and tipped her head toward the door.
“It’s great to be home,” Mummy said. “Really lovely. Bit cold!”
Isla knew her mum wasn’t talking to Daddy. It was her pretend voice. Grandma went back to slicing the bread.
“Have you spoken to him?” Mummy said. There was a long pause, then, “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“Are you sure you won’t have a bit of Marmite on this toast?” Grandma said.
“No, thanks,” Isla replied.
“You sure now?” Grandma was doing a face. It was quite a good one. She could do her eyes crossed and one eyebrow up higher than the other.
In the hall, Mummy put the phone down. She said something to herself that Isla couldn’t hear.
“Grandma?”
“Yes, lovey?” Grandma stopped doing the face.
“Why are we here?”
Grandma reached up and turned the grill off. She wiped her hands on her apron and held out her arms. “C’mere,” she said.
Isla climbed down from the chair.
18
Sydney, 1967
Mandy put the phone down. England was great, was it? Jesus. She was seeing another side to Louisa, just lately. It was a shock, in all honesty, to hear her sound so happy with herself.
“Who were you talking to?”
Mandy swung around. “You scared me. How long have you been standing there?”
“Sorry, Mand.” Steve lumbered into the kitchen in his pajamas, barely awake. “I thought I heard you talking to someone. Were you on the phone?”
“It’s nearly midnight, Steve. You must have been dreaming.”
“I’m sure I heard you say something. Bloody nerve, I thought you said.”
“I didn’t say that. You were dreaming.” Mandy twisted the watch on her wrist, tried to stop it pinching. She didn’t know why she’d lied to him. She could have told him she’d called Louisa. They could have talked it over, sat down, and laughed about it, like the old days. Why had she flat out denied it?
“What are you doing up?” Steve asked.
“Couldn’t sleep. Too hot.”
Steve yawned into his hands. “I’m not right in myself, Mandy. Turning things over.” He passed his hand through his hair, making it stand on end, and stared into the dark room. “I’ve decided I’m going to go and remove that kiddie up in Ivanhoe. I’ll go today.”
He looked sad, she thought, and older than his years. “You sure? I thought you’d decided you couldn’t do it.”
“I know. But it doesn’t sit right with me that I haven’t seen it through. Don’t want Ray thinking I’ve shirked on a duty.”
She stood next to him and smoothed his hair. “You’ve always been a proud man. You want to be able to hold your head up.”
“That’s it.”
“We should’ve talked about all this a long time ago. I should’ve tried harder to understand.”
He rubbed his nose with the palm of his hand. “I started to dread coming home to you. I couldn’t stand the way you looked at me when I was in a bad way.”
“I’m sorry.” She leaned into him. “You should’ve said something sooner.”
“I want us to be honest from now on. All right? It’s the only way, Mand.”
She reached for his hand. She knew he was right. She’d got in the habit of holding him at bay. “There is something. Maybe I haven’t been straight with you about it.”
“Go on, darl’.” He blinked.
“I don’t want to get pregnant, Steve.” The words were out before she could think it over. She almost laughed with the relief of it.
“You don’t—?”
She shook her head.
“I thought you were coming ’round to the idea.”
“I’m sorry, love. It’s not what I want.” His hand was heavy in hers. “I can’t pretend anymore.”
He didn’t speak for a long time. The second hand on her watch moved briskly around the dial and the relief died back in her.
Steve dropped her hand and sat down at the table. “You were starting to come ’round to it,” he said. “Weren’t you?”
“I did try, Steve. But the more I tried, the more I knew I didn’t want it.”
“You don’t think you’ll change your mind?”
“No. I’m sorry.”
“That’s a blow, Mandy.” He stared down at his feet. “I’ve been wanting a child a long time. It’s what I want more than anything.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He stood and walked through to the bathroom, hitching up his pajamas at the back where the elastic had gone.
“Steve, don’t go. Come back and talk about it.”
“Might as well make an early start.” He switched the bathroom light on. “Get it over with.”
“It’s the middle of the night. Don’t be daft.”
He pulled the bathroom door shut behind him. Mandy searched in the drawer for cigarettes and found the pack was empty. She stood by the open back door and looked out at the dark yard. Her dad came into her mind. The best man she ever knew. Proud, solid, and decent, broken by the woman he loved.
19
Sydney, 1997
Isla stirs in the night and reaches out for Dom, certain of his weight in the bed beside her, the heat and the smell of him. She feels his mouth against hers. He is drowsy at first and then insistent. She lets him touch her, keeping still so he works harder. He’s good at it. Responsive and generous, never needy. She pulls his shorts down to his knees. He rolls her onto her back and she resists him. Not yet. She doesn’t say it; she can’t seem to open her mouth. He speaks into her ear, but his voice is thick with sleep and she can’t hear him. His mouth is wet, dripping. He tastes of blood.
She opens her eyes. He stares down at her, eyes dark and bruised, mouth formless, bubbling red as he speaks. “Not again,” he says.
Isla sits up. The room is black and he is not there. She is drenched in sweat. She pulls the covers back, re
aches around in the single bed. It wasn’t real, of course. A phantom, made from fear and shame.
She switches the bedside lamp on. It glows a soft pink, the thin cotton shade patterned with roses. Her childhood furniture sits alongside boxes of coat hangers, boxes of shoes, boxes with smaller boxes inside. An industrial-sized carton of laundry detergent is now stored on top of the desk she once sat at to do her homework. She feels outsized in this room. A disappointment to the younger, hopeful self who lived here.
She lies back down, shuts her eyes, but Dom is still there, clean-cut and smiling, the way he was when she first met him, when her boss introduced him to the team. He’d blushed at the sight of her, and it had taken all her strength not to stride across the office and kiss him hard on the mouth.
For the first few months she didn’t drink in front of him. She drank orange juice in the pub after work and filled the fridge at home with cans of full-strength lager. It got harder when he moved in. At some point he’d rumbled her, caught her drinking vodka neat from the bottle when she’d thought he was asleep. She’d played it down, promised to change. He’d believed her. He’d talked about marriage as she’d thought about the bottle he hadn’t found in the pannier of her bike. And later, years down the line, he’d become the enemy, the person she hid from, the person who forced her to look at herself. The one she took it out on when she hated what she saw.
She misses him like he’d just left.
The clock beside the bed shows it’s still early, not quite eleven. She changes into a dry T-shirt. She needs water and fresh air, her new clean-living staples. A light is on in the lounge room and the door is ajar, the television turned down low: British accents, canned laughter.
Isla makes for the kitchen, treading lightly. She stops, hearing her mother’s voice.
“Get rid of it, then,” Louisa says. “If it means nothing.”
Her dad’s reply is inaudible. A grunt. A shifting of weight on the couch.