“Go on.”
“I admire her. Truly. Cynthia’s a force of nature! Friends were puzzled. No one thought we’d last, Cynthia’s charms were…unorthodox. There’s a difference between falling in love, falling for someone, and falling over someone, which was what happened to me. It’s like I got stuck in molten lava from Vesuvius. Love her, in my way.”
“Mm.”
“Vesuvius documentaries chill me to the bone; the victims’ horror as magma engulfs them moves me beyond reason. Cynthia’s determination to have me left me breathless. I was in love with someone else. My fiancée was away – Cynthia saw her opportunity and leapt. Still, I can’t regret a union that produced such wonderful boys.”
“No,” says Claire.
"I tried laughing her off, fighting her off, but confirmation of her pregnancy sealed my fate. I was a man thirsting for spring water who’d fallen into a brackish lake.
"Her take on science irritates me no end. She needles me with her ignorance! ‘Why is DNA structured “helically”, Hal?’ she’ll say. ‘DNA’s only a corkscrew viewed through a microscope.’
*“‘And as for dining tables being fluid collections of molecules? Tables stop Wedgewood falling through ’putative’ holes between ‘putative’ atoms. Here’s your proof that a table’s hard enough,’* she’ll say, thumping my hand onto the ancient elm. How could one not feel something for her?”
“You’d have felt hurt by her!” Claire says, with a giggle. Hal joins in.
They’re on the Western Highway. Claire’s experiencing rien vu. This can’t be the road she travelled along five weeks ago.
Arcadia had been magical; a decadent neo-gothic pile, its silken day beds frayed and grubby, its chandeliers too dust encrusted to reflect the light, its general clamminess too clammy for words.
Smithfield rolls itself up behind her like a magic carpet sneering at her. Piss off imposter townie!
Have last months’ joys and tumults been obliterated? This has been the best and worst time of her life. She’d rather live the extremes than live a smooth life with all the knotty bits untangled.
Claire rearranges her cushion. Wishes she could start again from the tramway’s safety zone, remove her shoes, stand flat-soled upon the bumpy asphalt, knees bent, feet apart for stability! But would it help? What then would her life boil down to? Sensible shoes? And no Alex?
Scrubby trees lining the verges blur like photos do when taken by an arty camerawoman.
There’s an adage: one can’t sleep in the same bed twice. Nor in beds belonging to twin brothers…
Claire goes quiet.
“Is it your leg hurting, Claire?”
“My heart hurts,” Claire says.
Hal studies her in the mirror. “I’ll stop. We’re early,” he says.
“No thanks, Hal.”
Returning from outpatients, she’s a snail learning to live without its shell. The surgeon certified her leg good to go. He failed to tell her where to go. They approach the turn-off to the tourist road, the one taken just four weeks ago. Its image is branded on her synapses.
Tears turn the scenery into an impressionistic blur. Claire covers her face with her trackie hood.
Hal checks the rear vision mirror. He brakes and makes a U-turn towards the beach.
A bank of cloud leans like a masonry balcony over the sand. Hardy sea-gulls wheel and caw in the charged air currents.
“The clouds!” Claire says, regaining control. “I came here with Alex. It was windy. But bright and clear. It’s his beach,” she says.
“It was mine first,” Hal says. “I used to bring the love of my life down here.”
“Cynthia?”
“No. Look, a storm is brewing,” says Hal. He pulls into a parking bay and winds the window down.
“Wow! It’s as if the air here’s thinner, like it donated molecules to thicken that cloud,” she says.
“Storm fronts don’t last. That’s the point of them. They blow over. You’re the one holding all the aces, Claire.”
“Am I? Then I want a happy ending for everyone.”
“Impossible, or we’d die laughing in our sleep. A child is the sum of two souls added up and divided by two. Your child will be unique.”
“But I don’t know which two souls were added up. Oughtn’t she be brought up by her dad?”
“Whoever brings her up with love is her father.”
“Mm. Clive would worry if she made mud-pies. Alex would worry if she didn’t.”
“Clive would lavish gifts on her. Teach her to read at three,” says Hal.
Claire smiles at this. “Yes! Alex would watch her write her name in the sand and wait until a wave washed it out. That storm was exhilarating. But I’m sorry for the cedars,” Claire says.
“They’d had a good life – the boys made cubbies in the branches. We lopped them only when desperate. We’re bankrupt, Claire.”
“I’d guessed as much. Cyn’s elbows are out of her dressing gown. The light bulbs are 30-watt.”
“Yes. I wish I could help with your difficulties, Claire…”
“It’s enough that you’re here, Hal. Clive was my prince for five minutes.”
“Mm.”
“When I met Clive, I thought, Wow. Handsome, well bred, smart; he loves me, me, specifically! But it was his night for falling in love. He’d had an epiphany buying ice-cream.” Claire gives a snorting laugh. "I’m in an interesting condition because he couldn’t buy a curvy pistachio parfait. I was his vanilla tub with sprinkles. He bought me because there was nothing else left. I melted into his life. He wanted my youth and compliance. I wanted his impulsive, devil-may-care attitude!
“Now our conversation is all budgets, mortgages, financial goals. But Alex observes the world closely, he theorises, he has a beautiful spirit.” She wipes her eyes, all watery from the wind.
“If you married Alex, Clive would bounce back soon enough.”
“I wish he’d marry Fliss…”
“Thought you disliked her?”
“Girls are taught to hate their rivals. But she looks at him with such longing. I’d leave here happier, knowing he’d be loved. But the child is Clive’s. Should I be a single mum?”
“I don’t know. But I’ll support you if it’s Alex you want.”
“No, Alex wants us to run away. But I’m facing things.”
“Listen, Claire. I shouldn’t tell you this but if Clive has a child pronto, he inherits an estate in NSW. Cyn tried to keep it from me and I’m cross.”
“I know about the bequest. So, if I marry Clive, I’ll have enriched Alex’s brother; he’ll be poor. If I marry no one, then everyone hates me equally. Shit!”
“Cynthia will use the inheritance. She’s counting on Clive helping us out once he’s rich. He’ll inherit Arcadia, so making repairs will be in his interest.”
“And Alex wouldn’t help?”
“Alex would bequeath the property to ‘Friends of the Earth’, Wave us off to a villa unit. Marry Clive, and you’ll own Arcadia one day.”
“Why does everything hinge on me? I didn’t know any of you eight weeks ago. Now I’m responsible for all of you.”
Chapter 63
Claire and Thelma
The paternity of Claire’s unborn child has become a matter for universal speculation in the hamlet of Smithfield. Is the outrage caused by this pregnancy justified? Can’t a young woman have sexual encounters with two young men over the course of two months? Didn’t the sexual liberation movement of the ’60s sanction at least that amount of sexual activity?
Apparently not, for this topic’s been shanghaied by every man and his sheep dog, becoming fodder for opinions, sought and unsought.
Everyone has an angle. Hal fears its potential for conflict. Cynthia thinks the pregnancy fortuitous – this baby will not only graft the family tree onto sturdier bloodlines, but it will restructure family debt. Alex, the idealistic boy/ sage, thinks Claire’s pregnancy wonderful, provided he’s the designated father.
Hal slows at the turning circle, but seeing Clive’s Porsche parked under the portico, he continues around behind Arcadia and parks under skeletal twigs of wisteria twined sketchily over a pergola, like old ladies’ hair over rollers.
He turns to Claire. “Well, my dear, does Thelma drive?”
“She has a licence but she rarely drives.”
“Never mind, she’ll rise to the occasion. Take the Rover. Tower Hill’s the ticket. There are blankets in the boot. Come back only when good and ready to deal with Clive, Alex et al.”
“Okay.”
“Everyone will be importuning you,” said Hal.
“Pardon?”
“Sorry. I’m in the habit of long words from Scrabble tournaments,” said Hal. “Don’t be ambushed.”
“Thanks, Dada, for everything. Would you please find Mum for me?”
“Oh, Claire, thank goodness!” Thelma leans through the car door and clasps Claire to her in an embrace that’s necessarily clumsy. She gestures towards the gloomy imposing house, “I thought their minions had locked you in the dungeon.”
Claire giggles. “They’re not so bad when you get to know them.”
“Your poor leg!” Mum touches Claire’s thin leg.
“That’s easily healed. Though not the other stuff…”
“Being pregnant isn’t stuff, Claire. You should have told me of the complications, not her!”
“Sorry, Mum. I’ve given up my beliefs,” Claire says irrelevantly; “I’m a heathen.”
“It’s beliefs that give you up. Why’s your hair different?”
“A French plait.” Claire says, tucking in a stray wisp.
“Time-wasting!” Thelma adopts a sing-song voice; she angles the rear-view mirror to examine her own face; she massages it in an upward motion. “There’s a beautician in Wang these days. Her treatments bring the bloom back. Ha! But you! Fiddling with plaits! You’re fleeing womanhood!”
“Forthright as ever, Mum.”
“You’re not ready for motherhood, Claire.”
“Motherhood’s ready for me. I don’t regret Clive. Without him I’d never have met Alex. And I really do love him.”
“So, Hal will let me drive his Rover?”
“Sure. Just pretend it’s a brand-new ute.”
Thelma backs out slowly but picks up speed as her confidence grows.
They drive in silence. Thel stops dead at the first intersection. She peers at the road sign, unable to decide what next. Claire elbows her gently. “We can’t stop here, Mum. Turn left.”
“Good Lord, Claire, there’s a dog in the back.”
“It’s Hal’s Basset Hound. Hal takes him on short trips. Cynthia’s always trying to prise them apart. Bas takes the bribe but follows Hal.”
“Dogs know.”
They follow the sign to Tower Hill, an extinct volcano: a rare high point in the landscape; at the viewing platform, they park. Claire opens the door and struggles out.
Thelma fossicks in the boot, gives Claire a crotchet blanket and Hal’s polo cap.
Claire lets the dog out on the leash. “He’s wracked with arthritis,” says Thelma. “Poor old thing. Good boy, Bas.” The dog looks up at her through filmy retinas.
Claire grips the metal edge of the viewing platform. “Mum, I hate my life. Its possibilities have shrunken so in the last 48 hours. I’ll be a…other…ow…ever.” Her words are atomised by blustering gusts.
“Yep. A lifer. That’s…otherhood. A rat…rap.”
“I wanted to…ravel, play tennis.”
“You’ll ravel all right. Forget tennis, love. We all have disappointments. We write ourselves new lists of smaller things to do. Look at that remnant of a once fearsome volcano. It once spewed fire, shed molten lava, now it’s cold black soil, but fertile! It has another, different life. Can I speak my mind, love?”
“You will anyway, Mum.”
“Cynthia is a toxic snob! Is this the family you want?”
“I’m not marrying her. Cynthia’s not too bad…You get to know people; see reasons for their faults, Mum.”
“You’re very tolerant. You’d want a family that’s not too bad?”
“I’d be marrying Clive, not the whole family. I really thought I loved him for five minutes. Now he wants someone different once a week. We simmered for a while and then went off the boil,” Claire giggles and then starts to cry. “I can still be myself with you Mum. At Arcadia, I’m always acting.” Her shoulders shake from emotion and cold.
Thelma hugs Claire to her. “Growing up is hard, love. Those with an easy ride towards maturity don’t always get there.”
Claire gives her mum a long hard look. “That first night with Clive, it was such a hoot dancing the tango – I thought ‘this is bliss!’”
“Until bliss turned to blip,” says Thelma.
“The feeling lasted all night long. Next morning, he went AWOL. During our first month as a couple, he volunteered for emergency shifts! It was hard finding time together! That made the time we had seem extra precious! But it was Alex who brought me herbal tea in bed in the mornings. Already, I loved talking to him but I pushed my feelings away. Clive wanted me to cure his phobia about queuing. Poor Clive! I couldn’t help him, so he drinks.”
“Queuing! Phooey! He’s an alcoholic. Needs help. Look at that magpie, shooing the mynah away from the wattle. Magpies are aggressive little shits; they don’t queue either.”
“You’ve decided about Clive.”
“So have you, it seems.”
“I want to be with Alex. I don’t deserve him. I’ve broken all the rules. So Clive’s my fate.”
“For an atheist, that sounds like divine retribution. If you make a mistake, you rectify it.”
“How? By abortion? No. I could only be happy with Alex; therefore, I must give him up.”
“Oh, Claire. You’re turning Presbyterian. They’re only happy unhappy.”
“No, Mum. But I couldn’t be happy if I were – subjunctive – making someone else unhappy. Cyn insists on good grammar. Let’s get out of this wind.” They return to the car, help Bas into the back seat. Thelma flicks on the ignition and leaves the car park with a dash.
“Clive will want me more than ever now – a pile of money is at stake. The first to have a son inherits…” Claire’s words tail off. Fluid leaks down Claire’s cheeks; belatedly, she realises she’s crying.
“They’re using you as a cash cow.” Thelma notices Claire’s distress. “Sorry,” she says and pulls into the nearest lay-by and cuts the engine.
“Clive doesn’t know about the inheritance yet. Ma’s on the balcony telling him now. He’ll want the baby and the money, who wouldn’t? Marrying’s better than depriving a child of its father.”
“So, you’ll fit in with the norm or is it the mean?”
“Or what? Have an abortion?”
“Maybe it’s the lesser evil. Would Suzy take you back?”
“She and Alex had a fling. He phones her sometimes. I’d be gutted if…” Claire drums her fingers on the cast.
Thelma reaches over and stills her hand. “Stop it, dear. You’re getting on my nerves.”
“I’m worrying about everyone I’ll hurt. But a baby should be wanted for herself, and not to save a property. If the Sins are forced to live in a unit in Warrnambool, tant pis, as Cynthia would say. I’ll abort. Get my life back. Enrol in medicine, cure cancer.”
“Now you’re talking, love. Now you’ve got a life-plan that’s worth failing at. Better than one that isn’t worth succeeding in. We’ll support you if you marry either of these donkeys, but it’ll end in tears.”
Chapter 64
Cynthia and Clive
Cynthia phones Clive, demanding that he absent himself from work to attend an urgent family meeting. “Ma, I’m saving lives,” he protests.
“Yours will need saving if you don’t come quick,” she said.
Gees, Clive thinks. It’s serious if Mama’s dropping her adverbial suffixes.
<
br /> “Be here,” she said. “Much is at stake.”
“Ma,” her favourite boy wheedles, “I’ve patients.”
“Let them die. If you love Arcadia, come! Foot flat to the boards, relish your ridiculous Porsche, let it whisk you along the highway like a comet through the heavens. You’ll never experience such freedom again.”
“Ma…aa! You’ve gone all poetic.” The phone dies. Ma’s tart communiqué bodes trouble.
Clive makes good time to Camperdown; he stops at a Golden Fleece. The revulsion brought on by a rubbery ham roll with its vacuum-sealed-in staleness reminds him of childhood car trips. Eating it, he feels cheated of satiety.
Money, sex, death: which of this trio of calamities threatens his peace of mind? Can family fortunes have fallen since last week, he wonders. What’s with Mama? The cancer of fear gnaws at his gut, with nothing substantial to feed on. Clive whips into the fast lane, drives belligerently. Dicing with death’s a sure-fire mood enhancer.
He hopes Claire’s okay. She’s seemed low recently but he’d glossed over it, fearing if that he showed concern, she’d come back to Melbourne when loving her from afar suited him better. It’s lucky Alex is with her. Despite his aimless intensity, he’s loyal. He’ll thank him today.
Entering the property, he notices the battered cedars lining the drive from the storm they’d mentioned. Branches lie in draggled heaps. Bloody Alex, he thinks, disavowing all former gushy sentiments. The tall, skinny drink of water might have tidied up at least.
The front door of Arcadia creaks open. Bonnie’s wiry frame emerges. “Hullo, me darlin’,” she greets him, slipping into fake Irish brogue.
“An’ if it ain’t grand ter see yer,” he replies, kissing her cheek resoundingly. “What’s new?”
Bonnie’s face clouds over. “It’s not all bad news. Go up, Cynthia awaits you in the tower.”
“I’m for the chop? She’s on that dodgy balcony, I suppose?”
“She won’t listen to reason, Clive. She’s up there every day – when she’s not organising luncheon parties. Takes the dog with her when she has something to bribe him with. Gets all dolled up in her candlewick gown an’ with blankets swaddling her knees it’s like she’s practising being dead.”
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