Falling into Place

by Pamela Mc Casker

  “So ‘help’ is what you call it. And your days?”

  “There’s the herb garden. Sewing outer sides to inner sides of old sheets.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Economising. We make potato and zucchini parings soup stock. A veggie diet’s healthy. I’ve lost my puppy fat! Bonnie makes corn bread to save petrol. There’s Ikebana. Church.”

  “You’ve become the sort of girl who makes me want to puke! So industrious!”

  “Better than dressing wounds. I snip box hedging. Peel spuds with Bonnie. She’s my friend.”

  “Lucky, you. No meds, no deads. How’s your leg mending?”

  “I fell off a cliff my first day out.”

  “No! How come, dummy?”

  “Was on a scenic drive with Alex.” Claire reddens at the memory.

  “Suz’s Alex? He’s heaven. Horny tradesman’s hands. An air of knowing all. A B.S. act, I bet.”

  “He knows tons,” Claire says, cross.

  “Aha! So, you’re two-timing both Clive and Suz!”

  “Mm.” Claire tries to hide an insistent smile.

  “Your face speaks volumes and it’s talking bodice-ripper romance. Wicked girl. No wonder your leg won’t heal. You need your injury to disguise the pain of being rejected at heaven’s gate for choosing fornication and fulfilment over duty.”

  “But nursing was my dream!” Claire insists.

  “Will Clive need comforting?”

  Claire shakes her head. “Not by you.”

  “You couldn’t care less. Heartless thing,” says Mary.

  “I was the solution to his existential problems for five minutes. Now he’s fooling around. The house is full of drunks, and Giggling Gerties. Hopeless! Still says he wants to marry me. But I’m done with others’ problems.”

  “No hope, then?” asks Mary

  “No hope for Clive and me,” she says, wondering at how her feelings have firmed up overnight. Earlier she’d told Alex she needed to see Clive once more before deciding. It’s no longer true.

  “Do you want me to get you any hospital scuttle-butt on Clive?”

  “No. I couldn’t care less. Why do people queue up to marry?”

  “Our hormones, luv. You think it’s sexual attraction on its own. But sexual attraction is all about finding yourself a suitable father for your kids. It’s about babies, babies, babies.”

  “You’re on Ob Gyn rotation, right?” Claire says accusingly.

  “Yes. It explains why sex is so great. Who’d guess babies would be so gorgeous? At sixteen all you can see is drool and yellow poo. Sex is the lure but you need good providers who are kind. How does Alex make his house payments?”

  “He does a bit of this and that!”

  “Then stick with Clive. He’s good enough.”

  “I don’t want good enough! I used to think that was all I deserved!”

  “Gees, Claire!”

  “Mary, you’re a tonic. Marry Clive after all. Be my sister.”

  “I may prefer the charismatic Alex!”

  “No way!” Claire slaps Mary’s wrist playfully.

  “Okay. I’ll have a pumpkin parings hol. It’ll be a change from Suz’s everlasting Spaghetti Bolognese. You’ll have to ring the Head Girl, though. She’ll be displeased. When you left she fell into a deep hole.” Mary swipes her hand across her forehead in a Suz drama queen way.

  Claire snorts coffee from her nostrils at the idea of Suz’s affectedness.

  Chapter 46

  Cynthia, Claire – Will

  Cynthia is waiting at the door, having heard the ute arrive.

  Bertie trims shrubs out front. His faithful kelpie accompanies him. He’s eager for an eyeful of Mary. Her famous well-defined legs under flippy skirts have made spot pruning compulsory.

  Mary’s hairstyle has taken a ‘punk’ turn since they left the café. It’s extremely short on the left, yet a hank on the right forms a gravity defying purple spout.

  It’s an outlandish wig designed to wind Cynthia up. To no avail. Today is a ‘Good News Day’. Cynthia is all smiles and hugs. She simply adores Mary’s ‘punk aesthetic’!

  What’s Cynthia on? Claire wonders.

  “Sorry Ma-am, it’s a wig,” Mary says, removing it and finger combing her straight black hair.

  “Well, purple hair or not, you’re most welcome. And call me Cynthia.”

  “Bertie,” she calls, “you’ve had a good squiz at Claire’s gel-friend. Stop torturing the hedge. Go set up the camp bed in the sitting room for goodness sake! Then there’s a firewood delivery from yesterday that needs stacking.”

  Bertie slinks behind a yew but Claire sees dark eyes gleaming from the shrubbery.

  “You’re in with Claire, Mary. Would you do the evening loo-run? Give Alex a decent sleep.”

  Cynthia lingers over the word ‘decent’. She’s convinced Claire and Alex have been ‘up to no good’ in the dead of night, when really they’ve been behaving with utmost restraint. Except for an outbreak of staged-managed snogging recently, Claire’s been a model guest.

  Cynthia rings the bell by the front door. Calls for Bonnie to rustle up tea. Earlier Claire had discovered the biscuit supply had dwindled to Cyn’s ‘rock cakes’ that the horses like; they take more energy gnawing than they confer in calories. Claire will have to tutor Mary in the dunking process.

  Next, Cynthia introduces Mary to the ancestors – the Rogues’ Gallery has been reduced by one since Claire’s own arrival tour. In the conservatory golden rays of sunlight infiltrate the bamboo, lending an impression of lushness. The bamboo’s been cut back without Claire’s intervention.

  The murky windows are hardly noticeable.

  “Oh!” says Mary, clapping her hands with delight. “How lovely.”

  And it does seem to be so, Claire thinks. New eyes on an old scene can transform reality even for the most jaded viewers. It’s as if Claire’s spectacles had just been updated.

  The architecture of The Lodge is testament to generations of owners who dreamt wild dreams of how a grand home should look; luckily, their plans stayed mostly in ancestral heads, rarely being transposed onto architectural blueprints, let alone realised, or things would be more of a muddle than they are.

  The conservatory walls are bluestone on one side, while recycled square timber sixties’ window-walls clad the rest. The ceiling is half-glazed in atrium-style, adding to the room’s schizophrenic character. It’s as if two rooms of opposing character had been glued together.

  Cool and dark in winter. Warm and bright in summer. Perfect only at night when there’s a blaze in the fireplace and on fine nights when the light is out and stars are visible. A warm lounge is one luxury the Sins don’t stint on!

  The furniture is from the Sins’ beach house in Port Fairy. The house had to be ‘let go’, as Cyn puts it. She makes it sound as if a domesticated creature needed releasing into the wild. Claire would love to tell Cynthia that, freed from its heavy cargo of brown furniture, the room could appear quite chic.

  Earlier that day, Claire had been summoned to the study; she’d wheeled herself in, grateful to be negotiating her way through the rat-run of corridors on her own.

  Cynthia had pretended not to see Claire waiting in the doorway. She was all business, lips pursed. Claire can see why literary mouths are often said to be ‘pursed’. Cynthia’s mouth resembles an old-fashioned coin purse whose leather pouch is gathered into folds by a clasp. Eventually, she looks up, waves Claire towards a chair, forgetting that the gel comes supplied with her own built-in seat.

  Cynthia hands Claire a letter. It’s from her brother in NSW; he has terminal cancer.

  Cedric has deeded his estate to Clive, on the proviso that he should marry and produce an heir before his benefactor’s death, otherwise the proceeds of the estate will go to charity.

  A small investment portfolio goes to Alex of whom Uncle Cedric says he’s ‘very fond’, having been ‘honoured to be present at his birth’. Claire’s nose wrinkles. How odd!r />
  If he was present at the twins’ births, why mention one fondly, while endowing the other twin with his fortune? It doesn’t make sense.

  The boys aren’t to know about these provisions. Cedric won’t have Clive changing his life in order to fulfil the requirements of a will. Cynthia intends to abide by these stipulations. “With treatment, Ced has 12 months to live,” she announces flatly.

  “Why involve me, Cynthia?” Claire asks. “Do you want me to wise the boys up on the sly, so that I’ll be the one disrespecting your brother’s wishes instead of you?” Claire seems to have hit a nerve, Cynthia’s face darkens; she waves her hand as if brushing away a blowfly.

  “I needed a witness, dear.”

  “Why not Hal?”

  Cyn stares wide-eyed at Claire as if examining her face for signs of idiocy. “Hal’s the last person I’d trust with this. He’ll get all high and mighty on Alex’s behalf and pester Cedric to make changes.”

  “The will does seem unfair, but it’s none of my business,” Claire says.

  “Precisely, that’s why I’ve chosen you as witness. When things come to a head or if I should predecease Ced, there’ll be someone disinterested who knows where the papers are stashed and understands their import. You!”

  “But you’re in robust health, Cynthia,” Claire says.

  “One mustn’t congratulate oneself on one’s good health. It challenges harmless cells to multiply crazily. Now Claire, I’ve been frank. Promise me…”

  “I won’t break your confidence, Cynthia, but I want you to know it’s over between Clive and me. He’s drinking, partying…”

  “Clive’s sowing wild oats. Married to a good woman and with a darling babe on the way he’ll…”

  “Be rich.”

  “…change his ways.”

  “I don’t care if he ‘changes’! It’s too damn late.”

  Cynthia’s eyes widen at Claire’s overt hostility. “I thought you might rethink things, dear. Now that you know how things stand financially. In such sensitive situations, one oughtn’t be seen to love two men at once.”

  “So Gwenda saw Alex and me canoodling, I suppose?”

  “Yes. Even Maureen Marconi told me. Decent of her.”

  “It’s Alex I love, Cynthia. I think you guessed as much before I knew for sure.”

  “Doesn’t today’s news change things?”

  “No. I don’t want a man with a big bequest – just someone to love and peace to write,” says Claire.

  “That costs. Today while you were in town, you left your diary on the table. I tidied up. Saw your poetry.”

  “I didn’t give you permission to read my diary!” Claire protests.

  “I thought you’d left it there on purpose. I found asterisks denoting your menses. There’s been nothing in two months.”

  “I haven’t been keeping it up to date,” says Claire, flushing.

  “I’m not prying, dear. I’m just asking you to reflect on certain issues…”

  “Issues about issue?”

  “Very witty, dear, but loving first this one then that one leads to ambiguous offspring. Do be fair to the putative father of your child.”

  Chapter 47

  Claire and Mary Courtyard

  At dinner on the evening of Mary’s arrival, Claire watches her tucking into the lamb roast Alex splurged on. Mary, a thoughtful girl beneath her hyper-confident exterior, thanks Bonnie for the delicious meal. Bonnie in turn thanks Claire and Mary for helping with the apple crumble made from Hal’s cold storage Pink Ladies.

  “One day,” she says, “you’ll make bonzer wives. Of course, Claire’s promised to our own dear Clive,” she specifies, after Cyn sends her a significant look. Her encomium stutters to a halt when Alex sends her a contrary look. Hal squints from face to face, guessing there must be a sub-text resonating in the air, but he misses their expressions in the instant they form and catches them only on the wane, when less trustworthy. Still, he knows something’s up.

  Lady Muck reminds them the lamb wouldn’t have been worth two bob if not for her mint sauce.

  “How do you make the spuds crispy?” asks Mary, to get the focus off Cyn and back onto Bonnie.

  Claire’s happy to have feisty Mary around.

  “Dead easy,” says Bonnie, pinkly pleased from all the flattery. “You par-boil them, scrape them with a fork, roll them in flour, then pop them into a hot oven.”

  Bonnie’s appearance tonight is what Claire’s dad calls ‘fetching’. Her hair is piled high on her crown, she’s applied a blush of lipstick to her shapely mouth, and highlighted her cheekbones. Anyone would think she was planning a night on the town.

  “We’ll do the dishes later,” says Mary. “Let’s check out the moon.”

  “Yes, girls. A blood moon tonight, according to the ABC,” says Hal. “A rare celestial event – a lunar eclipse coinciding with a full moon that’s orbiting so close to earth it picks up earth’s reflected light.”

  “Let’s go before the wind starts up in earnest,” says Mary.

  “Good idea,” says Hal. “There’s a weather alert out for the Western District. High winds. Potential for storm damage. Beau Fils is locked in for the night. And Alex, you’d be safer in Clive’s room.” Alex nods. “The girls will be fine. But you and me, Cynthia…up there in the tower…we’re the ones under the hammer.”

  “Maybe we all should take a bedroll and sleep on the floor of the Great Hall,” says Cynthia. “It’d be a hoot! Structure’s sound enough. Your forebears hadn’t started gambling when it was built. When the boys were young, we’d go pretend camping in there,” Cynthia tells them all.

  “These days you’d never clamber off the floor for the lav, my dear. Anyway, you enjoy a rollicking good storm,” says Hal.

  “That was when I felt invincible, Hal.” Cynthia’s looking somewhat defeated tonight, her hair is dull and it appears to have resisted the styling tongs.

  “Oh, I love a little Sturm und Drang. You’re safe with me.”

  “I’m always safe with you,” says Cynthia, implying she’d rather be somewhat endangered.

  Bonnie looks displeased but she conjures up a pair of duffel coats and pushes Mary and Claire out. Mary wheels Claire through the courtyard to the folly, where they can shelter if it rains.

  Settled, she lights a cigarette. Claire lets her enjoy it guilt-free.

  “So what’s wrong with Clive?” Mary asks. “Indulge me.”

  “Mare, you’ve never asked me to elaborate on blokes before. The twins are good guys. Clive lacks empathy, I think. It’s like having a low IQ. Not his fault. He needs remedial classes.” She sighs. “It’s irrelevant who’s the better person. I want to be with Alex. I like the me I am with him.”

  “Wow! I’ve never felt that with a bloke,” says Mary. “Ha! Bloody blood moon. Nothing to see!”

  “You’re never with men long enough,” Claire tells her.

  Mary sighs, “So many men, so little time. I’m so used to being outrageous because people pay me attention and that encourages me. I’m like a type-cast actress who only gets the goofy, daggy roles.”

  “At least you’re you,” says Claire.

  “Well, I envy you. Every woman needs an Alex in her life.” Mary stares at Claire intently. She draws deeply on her poison. Holds it in. Takes time to savour it. Then she stamps on the rest of the cigarette and stuffs it back into the packet.

  “You’ll have to throw the others out now.”

  Mary nods. “It’s my strategy. I buy a packet a day. Take a drag on one, then force myself to throw the rest away. It’s breaking me.”

  “Smoking like you did would be dearer long term.”

  “Sensible Claire. I deal with men similarly. Feed my addiction, throw them out before I’m damaged.”

  “You used to wear them once and take them back for a refund.”

  “Shh!” says Mary.

  There’s a crunching of quartz stones. A shadowy figure turns into Alex.

  “I com
e bearing ’58 Grange Hermitage,” says Alex, proffering a bottle. Its label’s hard to read but clearly, it’s cheap plonk. They both shake their heads.

  “What discerning women,” he says. “Dada has some actual Grange hidden away. He refuses either to sell it or taste it. Grange keeps you immobilised by indecision; meanwhile, the stuff keeps going off. I told him to liberate the cash, give Bon her back pay.”

  “The cracks were showing tonight,” says Claire.

  “Yes, Ma and Bon often schedule their tiffs for Friday nights.”

  “So, is Grange like an asset? Can you buy a house with it?” asks Mary.

  “Don’t ask me.” He turns away.

  “Stay, Alex,” Claire says.

  “No. It’s a perfect evening for girl talk. Better come in before the wind starts.”

  “How will we know if it hasn’t started yet?” asks Mary.

  “You’ll have to use your female intuition, girls,” he laughs, turning away.

  Once his footsteps fade, Claire says, “I want a fuller life than Clive’s broodmare wife will have, always in foal or just out of it…”

  “You and Clive would have gorgeous babies, Claire.”

  “Then you marry him. He’s free.”

  “Oh, God. Look. There’s the moon! A rusty colour and so big.”

  “Wow!”

  “Claire, Mary!” Alex hurries back. “Mary, I’ve a favour to ask. Bon’s brother Kevin’s had a bad turn. He’s in the Koroit hospital. Bonnie wants to be with him. I can’t leave the olds tonight. Would you mind driving her? You’ll have to stay there overnight, though. Too dangerous driving back through the storm!”

  Chapter 48

  Storm

  The Lodge is battered by vicious squalls; sleep is impossible. As a reminder of human frailty, nothing’s better than an honest to God decent storm. Without storm’s savagery, we may be tempted to believe that thanks to the government, the SEC, the local government sector, our strict building regulations, the big four banks and Victoria Police, we’re safe.

  Storms showcase nature in its rawness. But Claire isn’t enjoying this one. The rattling of sash windows grates upon her nerves; a cedar creaks in the wind. She prays it won’t fall. She doesn’t want to die tonight, just when she’s ready to be happy.