“Jesus!” Clive hurries through the portico.
He mounts the steps determined. He’ll coax his mother down from her eyrie. “Mama,” he calls from the door.
“Come,” she replies listlessly.
“It’s blowing a gale. Why are you here?”
“Why is anyone here?”
“Excellent question.” Clive scrambles through the lower half of the sash window, tiptoes over to Cyn, stepping carefully on nail rows denoting a connection, however tenuous, to joists. She’s seated on a retro butterfly chair that’s charming for muscular young bodies flitting in and out of pools in summer, but…
He kisses the brittle hair on her crown. Noticing that her home dye has grown out, his eyes tear up. “Ma, do take better care of yourself. That old chair’s full of rust.”
“Me too. My joints need oiling.”
“Get dressed before 4.00 pm. Go to a day spa. Your hair’s all wiry like Miss Haversham’s.”
"Tant pis. My life is over."
“How do you get out of the chair?”
“I strike the gong,” Cynthia indicates the Chinese paraphernalia. Hal rigged up this pneumatic lift thingy. She points to a metal contraption the chair’s back legs rest on. “Foot pumps. Two pumps and one goes flying up like James Bond. Then one swings one leg across to the side to get leverage on the butterfly wings. Between Hal and Bonnie, they manage me. Clever, your father. He might have gone somewhere.”
“He did.”
“He did what?”
“He did go somewhere. He came to Arcadia with you. And you’ll go somewhere too – like flying off the balcony. We wouldn’t be the Sins without you Ma.”
“Don’t suck up, Clive. Things are dire.”
“‘Things is crook in Tullarook!’ What’s the latest calamity?”
“Everything. Claire’s mother is down for a few days. Nice enough woman. Too clever. She’s the least of what’s bothering me.” Cynthia pats her chest. “Words can’t do justice to such a tale of lust and betrayal,” she says, as if she’s been practising before the mirror.
“‘Greener pastures: a family saga of trusts lusts and cruel betrayals’.”
“Shut up!” Cyn snaps. “Claire is in an interesting state.”
“‘Victoria: The Garden State’?”
“She’s pregnant, you fool!”
“Wow! Pregnant, that’s great! But why isn’t she telling me?”
“She’s seeing about her cast.”
“Let’s break out vintage champagne.”
“Have a soda.” Cyn gestures to the jug, whose contents have lemon slices floating on top.
It’s Cynthia’s home-made lemonade that Clive’s always loved. All sugar and lemon zest.
“‘Oranges and lemons, the bells of St Clements’. So, who’s for the chop, Ma?” Clive pours himself a beaker of lemonade. Sips. “Shit! Cold Duck’s been added. You are a cheap lush. Oh well, it’ll bring on a coma as fast as expensive stuff. ‘Oh, for a beaker full of the deep South, with beaded bubbles winking at the brim and fairy casements open…something…foam…’”
“Don’t garble Keats. As I said, Claire’s pregnant.”
“I won’t forget that, Ma.”
“If only we knew who the father was.”
“Whom! Good Lord! Are you serious?”
“God’s not involved in this annunciation, Clive!”
“So?” Clive sucks on a lemon quarter, spits it out. “Bugger! No, it’s my child. We’ll bring him up as ours. Still, I’m disappointed in Claire. Poor thing! Bet she’s worried she’ll lose me.”
“She won’t care. I know the gel better than you. I’m your silly besotted mother who indulged you. I know how you use girls. This is worse than you imagine,” Cynthia makes demented movements with her hands as if gesturing might help propel her awkward lumps of words through the wind gusts. “It’s she who must get over the man,” says Cynthia.
“What? Some yokel got her pregnant down here? With her bad leg and all! Ridiculous. Wasn’t Alex keeping an eye on her?”
“Yes.” Cynthia makes a noise like an animal in pain. Clive pats her knee. She looks up, her eyes wide with horror. “He looked after her too blooming well…he… It was Alex.”
“What the…! My little brother, lover of camp poets, climbed into the sack with Claire? Holy crap! It’d be hilarious if it wasn’t so unlikely.”
“Yes,” says Cynthia, glaring at the ancient vines. “But do stop swearing,” she says half-heartedly. Even she cannot summon any indignation over Clive’s language.
“Alex and Claire! I’m off the hook…if I want to be. Did he start wooing her the night of the ice-cream?” Clive drops to the balcony floor. He shakes his head, as if dislodging a stubborn nightmare.
“No, down here. He took her to the loo at night.”
“Then, the child’s mine. Hang on. Did Alex bathe Claire? I assumed Bonnie…”
“No. You assume we’re managing down here. We can’t pay Bonnie; she’s been on leave mostly. You left your fiancée with another man. He felt what he felt.”
“Thanks, Mama, for your profound sympathy.”
“I’m being fair.”
“Why now?”
“At last I see you as you are. Alex isn’t bad. You always acted superior. He’d have felt it.”
“You’re certain Claire’s pregnant?”
“A pharmacy test, I believe. Clive, do you still intend marrying this fickle girl?”
“Ah, I get it. You’re putting me off her, Ma. Gees! No way am I falling for your scheme. It’s my baby. And I’ll forgive her.”
Cynthia smiles a private smile for the benefit of the stunted olive grove that never really ‘fruited’. Good, she thinks, he’s taken the bait.
“Ma, you knew that fatherhood was on my list of things to do this decade. Claire’s perfect. Great teeth. Thick, glossy hair. Good figure. I shouldn’t have neglected her. I’ll forgive her after an interval of sulking.” Clive coughs, though possibly it’s a strangled sob that’s broken out. “We haven’t talked much lately. Been falling into bed exhausted.”
“Claire knows you’ve been falling into bed with friends in tow. Someone was always giggling in the background. I heard it too, on the extension.”
“You’re worse than ASIO, Ma.”
“My listening paid off, Clive. Now I don’t care who marries Claire. Your uncle’s will…”
“Uncle Ced’s not dead.”
“His cancer is inoperable. You didn’t visit. His will stipulates that his estate goes to whomever marries and sires a child toot sweet.” Cynthia crosses her fingers saying this.
“Really?” Clive scrambles up, dusts down his trousers and frantically works Cynthia’s foot-pump.
Chapter 65
Claire and Clive
Clive sees the Rover leave the turning circle and head towards the parking area behind Arcadia. He lets Cynthia sink back into the butterfly chair.
“There’s Claire now, Ma,” he says.
“Send Hal up to free me from this contraption. I won’t be left out of things,” she says, pettishly. Basil the Basset Hound nuzzles Clive’s hand; he whines to be let out through the sash window. Clive lifts him over the sill. He slobbers all over Clive’s hands.
Hastily, Clive wipes them on his jeans, glad to be unobserved by Claire.
Once in the car park, Clive claims Thelma’s attention by tapping on her window.
Leave the car, I’ll park, he mouths.
Thelma turns off the ignition; winds the window down. “Clive S’n J’n, I presume?”
“Delighted, Thelma, might I use your Christian name?”
“Whose might you use instead?”
“Thelma,” he says commandeering her hand. “How can I play the charming fiancé if you’re cleverer than me? Hi, Claire,” he calls across to her in the passenger seat. “Sensational news. It’s all good.”
As she struggles from the car, Clive lets go of Thelma’s hand and rushes to Claire’s aid.
But Claire applies her crutches like a pro.
“Oh Claire.” Eventually, he blocks her way and bends to kiss her mouth. He gets her cheek.
“Darling! You’re blooming!”
“Blooming vomitous!” she says, heading for Ma’s winter roses.
“Don’t throw up until I help your mother out…” Claire vomits anyway, and the doughty Thelma extracts herself from the Rover alone. “Oh, Thelma. Do hop back in again and play the helpless ma-in-law,” says Clive.
“Will that help you feel better about yourself?” asks Thelma.
“Stop stage managing everything, Clive,” says Claire, wiping her mouth with her sleeve.
“You got me pregnant through carelessness. Now you want me to vomit on cue? Who, I mean, how are you?”
“Who am I?” Clive’s aghast.
Settled on the garden seat at last, he’s exhausted. “Thelma,” he asks, tactfully, “which is your room?”
“Oh, yes,” Thelma says, “I’ll make myself scarce. You’ll want…Claire.”
Clive beams winningly. “Such fabulous news! But yes, we must de-brief.”
“Buzz off Mum, I’ll be all right,” says Claire, uncertainly.
“Lovely woman,” he says, neutrally, when she’s gone. “Good stock!”
“You sound like a chef.”
He ignores Claire’s remark. “Let’s go into the library.” He smiles benignly.
Seeing her former lover acting like a used car salesman yet to meet his monthly quota disorients Claire. The balance of power between them has shifted her way. Such a reversal might be gratifying if she entertained even a shred of respect for him. She doesn’t need what he’s selling. In the library, settled into a wing-backed armchair, Claire expels a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding in. She surveys the stacks of books on the antique shelving, admires the gallery that encircles the room at first floor level. It’s accessed by a ladder of elm wood. She loves this room – her sanctuary from Cynthia’s chores.
Here knowledge seems palpable; as if it’s been weighed on old-fashioned shop-scales, gift wrapped and sold with a guarantee that it will enrich lives by a given percentage. Can one marry into erudition, she wonders. Does proximity to others’ learning rub off on one?
“So, Claire?”
“I’d forgotten the shape of your face, Clive.”
He looks slapped. “Sorry, Claire. Ma would drive anyone to…” He doesn’t say: ‘fuck my brother’, but the words hang in the air.
“Listen, Claire. All’s forgiven and forgotten.”
“No, it’s not. I love your brother.”
“He’s a lovely guy in his way.”
“No. He’s lovely, full stop.”
“But we’re pregnant. We’re the viable couple.”
“I’m pregnant.”
“You’re the perfect mother.”
“You’d know. You’ve searched high and low, auditioning women.”
“Oh, Claire…” Clive can’t meet her gaze. “I’m sorry,” he says. “The laddishness stops now.”
“Laddish? There’s a word for what you are? I thought it was a ‘shit’!”
“I’ll change. Be what you want me to be.”
“You can’t even be what you want you to be! Let alone what I want. Start by being honest.”
“I’ll be an honest philandering shit if you want. Okay. I was with girls some Saturdays. Because I missed your…”
“‘Good teeth’,” Claire suggests.
“That was shallow of me. I value so much more in you. Please marry me.”
"You used to be smug. Now…you’ll be what I want!"
“You think I’m influenced by Ced’s bequest.”
“Yes.”
“The olds need…”
“The olds. Phooey!”
“Marry me, Claire?”
“No. I’d spend my life collecting shoes.”
“Sensible shoes for running after kids. I’ve heard on the grapevine that you want to write. I’ll support you. We’ll get a nanny, a cook.”
“No!”
Clive gets up. He wanders over to the tall window, looking onto the garden, where he sees Bonnie on her knees weeding herbs. She looks up. He waves. He turns back to Claire. “You’d impoverish Bonnie, who depends on us?”
“Don’t bring Bonnie into this!”
“You’d deprive me of access to my child?”
“Never!”
“Hang on a tick.” Clive climbs the set of wonky library steps giving access to the domed second level. “There’s a history of the St John Smiths somewhere here,” he says. “The family name goes back to the Norman Conquest. There’s baronets, earls, wrong side of the blanket royals…” He ascends rapidly but at the top he stands awhile, blinking as his eyes adjust to the light; his footsteps raise a powdering of dust motes. “Phfft!” he says, waving his hands in front of his face as if they were ghastly pathogens. He shrugs. “Can’t find what I was looking for in all this dust.” He shrugs. “If only you were a snob!”
“Get off that creaky ladder. Too many bits of this building are held together by sticky tape. Move your parents out of Arcadia and rebuild.”
“A fine sentiment coming from she who could help – but chooses not to.”
“I’m not your restoration fund.”
“It offends you – all this privilege.”
“I’m not ready for marriage.”
“A child is coming, ready or not. Why punish the olds?”
“I won’t ruin my life to repair your family finances.”
“How will you live?”
She shrugs. “I’ll work. You could help with child support.”
“The kid mightn’t be mine.”
“I won’t fight you for support, Clive. We Kellys don’t have Gothic piles or debts.”
“Okay.” Clive draws his shoulders together and spreads his hands as if tamping down unpleasant information. “You won’t be budged. I get it. I don’t grovel. If you want 24 hours to think about it, fine. If not, leave soon please. I’ll drive you into Warnambool to a motel. Ma’s planning a drinks party to welcome Thelma. It’d be a fiasco. I’m disappointed you’re no gold digger. Does Alex know of your decision?”
“Not yet,” Claire says.
“If you fall for Alex’s sweet talk after refusing me, I’ll…” Clive makes a wringing gesture with his hands.
Chapter 66
Fliss Pregnant?
Claire heads for the kitchen, seeking Bonnie, the powerhouse of the Sins’ empire; she’ll know where Alex is.
“Bonnie!”
“Yes, love?”
“Alex?”
“He’s in the pantry plaiting garlic into ropes waiting for you!”
“Bonnie. Tell me what to do…”
“No, dear. You must decide. Talk to the lad.” She indicates the pantry door. “He’s in a state.”
Claire checks her appearance in a hand mirror. Straggles of hair escape her plait. She looks a fright.
“You didn’t care that Clive saw you looking dishevelled. And Alex won’t care.”
*“I’ll* care.”
Bonnie wipes her hands on her apron, undoes Claire’s plait.
Claire bends from the waist and rakes her fingers through her curls to untangle them.
Raising her head, she asks. “Honestly, Bonnie, how do I look?”
“Like a wild woman. Natural ’n beautiful. He loves you.”
“I know. Bonnie, do me a favour?”
“Yes, darlin’?”
“Invite Felicity to come early to cheer Clive up. He wants me gone. But I’m not ready.”
“Sure. Now go in, love, or he’ll…”
Claire opens the pantry door. Alex is re-arranging tomato relish on the shelves. He doesn’t acknowledge Claire…
“Alex,” she whispers.
He turns to face her but in the semi-dark she can’t read his expression. “I wondered when it’d be my turn,” he says. “You’ve talked to everyone else.�
��
“Not Cynthia.”
“You’re marrying Clive, then?”
“No.”
“You’ll marry me?”
“I…” Claire starts to cry softly.
“Abort?” He circles his long arms around her.
Claire shrugs and wipes her nose on Alex’s shoulder.
“Do you regret the last eight weeks?”
“Not the hours and minutes, with you in them. I’ll have a go at living alone.”
“Brave. In Wang?”
“It’s all I can afford.”
“You’d always be welcome in Carlton.”
“I couldn’t sleep chastely under your roof.”
“You wouldn’t have to.”
“There’d be the ghost of Clive hanging over us. The child will remind me of him every day.”
“I guess. Now, Claire, I’ve news I couldn’t mention in case you hopped into bed with Clive and his huge bequest.”
Claire giggles nervously. “What?”
“In the pharmacy earlier, I saw Fliss lurking near the pregnancy kits.”
“Well, that’s nice. Her tutor boyfriend?”
"I said, ‘Hi Fliss, anything doing?’
“She said, ‘Alex, I’m in an interesting state.’”
“I’d have said I was buying the kit for a friend,” admits Claire.
"Maybe she wanted me to know. I said, ‘But you haven’t used it yet.’
"Poor Fliss fell apart. ‘I’ve tried every bloody brand. It never comes out right,’ she sobbed.
"I put my arm around her. ‘By “right” you mean un-pregnant?’
"‘Yes,’ she sighed.
"‘The father’s against fatherhood?’ I asked.
"‘He’s with someone else. Why am I telling you this?’
"‘How pregnant are you?’
"‘Five weeks,’ she said. No hesitation.
"‘A one-night stand,’ I said. ‘Is that how you can be so precise?’
"She nodded. ‘You don’t want to know.’
“‘Maybe I know already,’ is what I said. Now Claire, listen, I do happen to know when and where she had her one night stand.”
“No. Surely it wasn’t you, Alex?” said Claire.
Falling into Place Page 28