Falling into Place

by Pamela Mc Casker

She luxuriates in the strength of her young caressable limbs. Honestly, she has no complaints about life just now. Claire knows this is a complacent train of thought, but she decides she might as well enjoy youth while she can. Cynthia and Hal have such a shopping list of ailments. Their access to medical information hasn’t eased their decline one jot. She heads to the downstairs bathroom, taking care to hold the handrail; although she’s wary of putting too much weight on it. She carries a duffle bag containing her toiletries, jeans and a fluffy cotton checked shirt – her usual outfit for weekends in Wang. Another cute little penis word: wang dong dingle. She uses the only functioning bathroom. It’s a paean to the thirties – all matching sea-green fittings. The bath is rust-stained, so she showers hurriedly. No one is up. She daren’t make herself a coffee this early in her friendship with the Sins. She explores the ground floor, noticing all and finding nothing boring.

  The morning room’s double doors give onto a courtyard enclosing a square of browned off grass. Grouped terracotta urns – more arty than classical are mottled by rust-coloured fungi and various lichens that, despite their lowly ranking in the plant world, add character. The urns are filled with succulents, and clumped against a reclaimed brick wall that’s overgrown with ficus and Virginia creeper. She itches to move things about, to make improvements. She might have been a designer in another life. She tells herself to settle down; she mustn’t flex her nesting instinct on her in-laws’ home. The clouds that had gathered part again. Weak early morning sunshine brightens everything. Claire is getting a better feel for the place today. A scrubbed pine table is homely.

  There’s an elm-wood buffet, a pair of sandy-coloured armchairs with linen slipcovers.

  Cuttings from a holly bush in a vase make all the subtler colours pop.

  She exits through the double doors, wishing she’d brought her jacket. As she’s deliberating upon whether to go back for it, Suz hails her from the courtyard gate. Claire goes to greet Suz; they hug awkwardly. They didn’t hug of a morning when they shared a flat. Just grunted at each other. Claire knows she’s got to stop resenting Suzy for winning the 2nd best man on offer in all Melbourne. Claire practices the word ‘lover’ over and over in her head and applies it to Alex and Suz as a punishment for any jealousy she may feel.

  It’s no help. She’s sorry, but she cannot imagine Suz and Alex as lovers. This is absolute proof of her poor character.

  Suzy’s choice of boyfriend puzzles Claire. Alex has an aura of the hippie about him; his personal style is scruffy, especially around Cynthia; it’s an affectation and childish, she thinks, but it’s a tic that’s entirely forgivable in Alex. Although the idea of him in a relationship with her highly buttoned up friend Suz just doesn’t gel. Claire ponders the incongruity of their partnering. The word ‘partnering’ brings to mind two kids tied together in a three-legged race, who are trying to pull away from each other. The image amuses her. She gives a yelp of mirth that leaves Suz staring at her as if she’s nuts.

  “Cyn loves citrus plants,” says Claire, stating the obvious and groaning inwardly. How she hates effortful conversation but she has to try. She hopes she and Suz can be easy with each other one day. “And the poor cumquats,” she adds.

  “Yes. It’s Cyn’s attempt at an orangery like Versailles, according to Alex. Yet Versailles looked nothing like this when I was there.”

  “Poor Cyn! She tries so hard,” Claire says.

  “Well, there’s nothing wrong with trying,” Suz replies sharply.

  Claire holds her tongue. She wonders if the word ‘association’ would better describe what Suz and Alex have together. She imagines them free-associating like fish in an aquarium, weaving around each other without touching. The image calms her.

  “Enjoy yourself last night?” asks Suz.

  “Yes, I did,” says Claire. “Hal was sweet. And Clive behaved.”

  “He did?” Suz eyes widen, until they’re threatening to take over her small face. She wants Claire to notice her surprise. What does Suz know that she doesn’t? Claire wonders. “Of course, he did,” she insists.

  “Hm. That’s good.” says Suz doubtfully. The bitch! Claire thinks. She’s with a great guy yet she takes pleasure in putting Clive down. “Headache still bad, Suz?”

  “No. It’s gone! Nothing like a good sleep and a lie in. The world looks brand-new when a migraine goes.” Suz stretches and permits herself a smile suggestive of sexual languor.

  “Is Alex sleeping in?” Claire knows he is, but she likes saying his name.

  “He made me breakfast, then dozed off again. We’re lucky, not being engaged. No pressure.”

  “Cynthia worries less about Alex’s supposed ‘homosexuality’ with you here.” Claire gives the ‘h’ word air quotes.

  “Bullshit!” says Suz, her language bolder than it had been pre-Alex. “I could certainly reassure Cyn on that issue if I chose.”

  “Good,” Claire says. “Not that there’d be anything wrong…” She wraps her arms around herself, fending off cold and other things.

  “Set the date yet?” Suz asks.

  “No.”

  “Get a move on then,” says Suz.

  “You think he’ll go off me?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Thanks for that, Suz. If you’re right it’s best we don’t rush into anything,” Claire says sourly.

  “I reckon you’re practising being in love while hoping for someone better to show up!”

  “Unfair, Suz. I love Clive.” Claire hopes she’s injected the right degree of indignation into this remark. “Clearly, you don’t think we’re much of a couple,” Claire says.

  Suz shrugs, turns on her heel without replying and heads towards the door in the wall. As she gets there, Bonnie hurries through it with a basket over her arm; it’s filled with spuds and carrots.

  “Morning, Bonnie,” Claire calls.

  “Hi there, Claire! An’ it’s Suz, the darlin’ girl Alex found himself! So slightly built and sweet and fair.” Suz smiles and smiles.

  “Yes,” Claire says. “And guess who introduced them? Moi!" Shit, I hate people who say, moi, Claire thinks. Suz’s lips scrunch up tighter than a corgi’s bottom at this claim.”Not that I’m claiming total credit," Claire says, hurriedly. Gees, she thinks. She’s putting her foot in it this morning. Yet she feels compelled to add, “But if I hadn’t met Clive, then Suz and Alex would never have met.”

  Suz glares. “It’s always you at the centre of things…”

  Claire is left speechless.

  Bonnie rescues them. “Girls! Be nice. We might all be related one day.” She laughs as if this were a delightful notion. “I’ll make coffee while you two make up.” She scoots off to the kitchen in her impish way.

  Claire tries to usher Suz through the door ahead of her. Suz yanks the door wide open and waits for Claire to enter. Crikey! Claire thinks. It’ll be lipsticks at ten paces soon.

  Bonnie goes into the scullery for water. It’s the business end of the kitchen; all the mincing and mucky pots are dealt with there, so the work area itself stays tidy for the leisurely stirring of soups and casseroles on the Aga.

  Seated, Claire thanks Bonnie for the loan of her silk fabric. “Was there a groom?” she asks.

  “A well-brought up young lass would never ask,” says Bonnie.

  “So sad – him dying.”

  “Who said anything about dying?” says Bonnie.

  “Sorry, I thought…”

  “You thought wrong.”

  “He left then. That’s worse…”

  “Not for him, it isn’t! It means he isn’t dead. And I’m glad.” Bonnie is red in the face now.

  “Of course, you’re glad he’s still alive.” Claire is feeling chastened.

  Suz shoots her a black look.

  “Bonnie, sometimes it’s therapeutic having someone to bring up difficult topics,” Claire protests.

  “So now you’re a therapist! Here’s the gist of it. My fiancé married someone else. She had the g
reater claim, being pregnant.”

  “He was a love rat?”

  “No. Just over-scrupulously kind. You’ll need to grow up a bit if you want to understand the subtleties of human behaviour, Claire.”

  Ouch! Claire’s shrinks before this tart reprimand, but her curiosity is growing, not diminishing. She knows she should rein it in but, bursting with curiosity, she asks, “Is he still in the district?”

  “Enough, Claire.”

  “Sorry, Bonnie. But mine isn’t a prurient curiosity,” she insists. ‘Prurient’ is a word she’s been dying to get into a sentence.

  “The bloke is happy with how things turned out.”

  “No hope, then?”

  “For us? No. It was for the best.”

  Claire frowns but says nothing.

  “I don’t blame you, Claire,” says Bonnie. “Writers are perennially curious. One day you’ll learn that apparent tragedies often turn out okay.”

  “You’re happier than otherwise, then?” Claire persists.

  “That’s hypothetical,” Bonnie shrugs. “Marriage is unromantic. You’re darning socks, or stewing mutton, scrubbing floors. It’s drudgery. Living here, I’m paid. I’ve two lovely boys and no husband to get sick of.”

  “You put the best slant on things,” Claire says. “I couldn’t be so philosophical.” Suz nods in agreement.

  “Well, you’d better gird your loins, girls. Life’s goodies aren’t shared fairly. However carefully you plan, circumstances collide to alter things and change the way you look at them. Life’s not just about love. It’s about work, family, friends, community, gardening, politics, books and learning. Fun! Husbands aren’t everything. At your age, I thought they were. Now if ye’ll let me take a breath, I’ll enjoy my coffee, ta!”

  Chapter 36

  Horse

  “Ready?” Hal asks, coming into the kitchen kitted out for riding. Claire’s lingering over a coffee, relaxed and congenial with Bonnie, though less so with Suz. There’s no sign of Clive on the horizon.

  “Hal! Please tell me you’re not going riding?” says Claire, beseechingly.

  “I’m not, you are, Claire. Let’s get your gear on.”

  “Riding gear?” Claire wails, but Hal’s immovable. Once she drains her coffee mug, he hooks his arm through hers and marches her off to the stables. They find Wally, the outdoor dog – a kelpie, curled up in a patch of sunshine. Claire tries to pat him but he growls. She supposes he’s a fine working dog and not susceptible to females of her species. Not even a dog would want her in jodhpurs. They’re from the cupboard containing Cyn’s old riding gear, actually.

  Claire inserts her foot into the cradle comprised of Hal’s interlinked fingers. He bunks her up.

  She wavers half-on, half-off the stallion. Hal boosts her rump until gravity and old habits take over and she can’t help but swing her right leg over Beau Fils and slide into the saddle. What if I’m found dead in jodhpurs, she frets. Claire wouldn’t be seen dead in jodhpurs normally, but then ‘dead’ is not a word normally paired with ‘normally’. Dying is normal – we all do it – but not regularly enough for it to become normal and never on nice drizzly/ sunny mornings like this – the mizzle’s just come on in the last few minutes.

  It’s not the dying that worries Claire though. Once dead she won’t know, hopefully. Bugger!

  Wrong use of hopefully! She prays she’ll live long enough to commit more syntactical blunders.

  Even tooth-chatteringly scared, the whole Vatican couldn’t force her to renounce her recent atheism. And what if there is a heaven just when she’s become a fashionable atheist? Could a reasonable God toss her out of heaven for following fashion shallowly? That’s what humans are mainly, shallow narcissists. He made us so. Plus He failed to sprinkle enough decent evidence of His existence about. But surely, religion is about belief, not reason. Less than two billion out of seven believe in Xianity. That makes it a boutique religion.

  Alex once said she might as well believe because either way there’d be no blowback. He was joking. But what will Claire’s friends say when they hear she’s died wearing jodhpurs, tied with string to keep them up; pants with empty flappy wingy things?

  “Ta Da! Oops! ‘ta-da’!” Her words and their fake triumphalism mock her. She fidgets in the saddle until her feet slip as easily into the stirrups as necks into nooses. She’s sick with nerves. If she dies, will she receive intimations of non-being? Is death at the first hurdle a poor legacy to leave in horsy country? Will it provoke superior smirks in Fliss and Cynthia?

  “Are you feeling a little queer, m’dear? If so, I’ve a remedy for that,” Hal says, taking a flask from his hip pocket and passing it to Claire.

  She throws her head back and takes a draught. Ta Da. She passes it back. Hal takes several swigs before replacing the screw top.

  “Hal, if I fail, fall, please make excuses for me.”

  “Naturally.”

  “And do let me ride on the flat.”

  “The entire Western District is flat. Courage, Claire. You’ll be back in the kitchen in a jiffy.”

  Yes, it’ll all be over and done with, she thinks; I’ll be indoors enjoying freshly brewed coffee with pale yellow sunshine drawing fingers of golden light across the floor-boards and exulting – me that is not the light – in the after-glow of having faced my fears. I bet skydivers enjoy the having-dived more than the diving.

  “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” says Hal.

  “Don’t be a sap, Hal. Sorry that was rude. Please tell Clive I loved him…”

  Hal gives Beau Fils’ rump a tap. He moves off sedately but going through the gate Claire’s running shoe – she’d refused Cynthia’s crusty riding boots – catches on the bent nail of the gate latch; she’s held fast while the horse moves leisurely on. “Stop!” she calls, but now he barges on, muscles clenching and unclenching. She feels a winded jolt as she thuds onto hard-packed earth. What happened to last night’s molten mud? Her innards are displaced; her heart and lungs collide. There’s pain.

  Someone leans over her: “Hells Bells, girlie. You came a cropper. Let’s get you up.”

  “No,” she groans. Hal, worried, calls for Clive, who arrives in his church duds and starts palpating her. Fracture, he tells crowding heads, looking like petals from Claire’s vantage point.

  “Now back off! Ambulance, Da! Stay with me, Claire.”

  Next thing she’s being jolted about until she lands on something firm. Wondrous, the dreamy floatingness of the world.

  There’s questions. Things are said. Answers? Clive climbs in. He takes her hand. He says niceish things, she knows this for his face is soft and flab wobbles under his jawline. Cynthia scrabbles at the door, a sulphur-crested cockatoo for church. Clive pushes her off. They go. Claire laugh laughs. Then dozes. Dreams. “Dear Mary Mother of God, forgive my sins,” she gabbles soundlessly: "Clive and I did it 27 times in our first month, until our rate tailed off; I put each f…in my diary, with asterisks. Relations occurred without the church’s blessing. But since we didn’t take precautions, heaven will smile upon our union, though if I’d known I’d die, I’d have sinned oftener. I hope my shirt didn’t fly up, leaving my belly roll for Suzy to gloat over.

  "Sorry folks, for my awkward funeral. Wedding-baked meats etc. I won’t see Alex again.

  "Sad.

  "Sorry, Mum and Dad. I was creative with the truth; left you out of my seismic emotional life.

  "And now you’re in your little Target Sunday bests. Will they segregate you from the groom’s lot? Marmite!

  "I’m dying without funeral etiquette. Without philosophy. Never having tasted durian. I won’t get through ‘Grey’s Anatomy’. Read Nietzsche. Climb a monkey-puzzle tree.

  "I’ll let the living deal with social class issues. I’ll be in the democracy of the equally dead.

  "Will Hal sing: ‘Immortal, Invisible’, to annoy Cyn, it being a ‘Methodistical’ hymn for hard-scrabble miners? Added up and averaged out, my marriag
e would have failed. Dada is a pet, Ma a tyrant, Alex kind, Clive somewhat sexy.

  “My accounting system goes: Dada (+ 1 point), Mama (– 1), Alex (+ 1), Clive (+ 1) = 3 plusses and 1 minus = 2 points out of 4. It would have been worth getting married – just! But eventually, I’d have found myself with an unattractive stranger.”

  "‘Don’t chalk, darling,’ says Clive, all thick and weird. Think and wired.

  Chapter 37

  Leaving Hospital with Alex

  After Claire’s operation, it’s decided she stay at ‘The Lodge’. Woozy from the procedure to set her tibia, discussions about her recuperation proceed without her.

  “You’ll be right as rain, Claire. Besides, with my finals coming, I’ll have no time for you. It’s a boon,” says Clive.

  “Great!” says Claire. She’s a sad winged bird. Her full range of movement is not even guaranteed, yet Clive is happily abandoning her.

  “Cynthia hates me,” says Claire. “Let me go home with you,” she croaks.

  “Darling, I knew you’d understand.”

  She flaps her hands ineffectually but he concentrates on filling a vase with those horrid artificial felt-petalled flowers, the ones she always forgets the name of…

  “Gerberas! Gorgeous. They’ll last forever,” he says, admiring his handiwork.

  Only because they’re already half dead. Like me, Claire thinks.

  “They’re gorgeous. I could’ve been a florist if I’d wanted to be,” Clive says.

  “You could have been lots of things, Clive…Right now, you’re a…”

  “Now you be a patient. Okay? Got to go. Alex is staying to help out.”

  “Thank God!” says Claire.

  “Yes,” says Clive. He kisses Claire and goes to consult the nurse.

  Marooned in the lumpy bed, she thinks about Clive’s complacency. His assumption is that Alex is all innocent brotherliness, but Claire knows he likes her far too much. Clive wouldn’t believe Alex capable of the sort of feelings she’s glimpsed.

  Clive is a gas BBQ – when turned on, he fires up. He’s no high maintenance wood-fire; he needs no poking, prodding or (dare she even think it?) blowing. Guaranteed one bonk per week, he’s content.