‘I was only counting it.’
‘Why?’
Her lips wobbled. She ran her hands up and down her track pants.
‘Have we been robbed?’ ‘I don’t think so.’
Peter got his act together. He stood and put his arms around her and she dropped her head on his shoulder. Then took it off quickly. He let her go and piled cash into the safe. Jayne watched, then knelt to help.
She stopped scooping money. And went silent for a long time.
‘What are we going to do with it?’
He was the expert now?
‘Take it to the Salvos, I suppose. Where’s their head office?’ ‘Wyanirna,’ she answered, picking up a bundle. She sat quietly and all he could do was stare at her belly.
‘I’ll take it tomorrow,’ she said at last.
‘I’ll come too.’
The idea seemed to bother her.
‘Are you sure? You didn’t get much work done today... did you?’
‘It won’t take us long,’ he said, knowing it would. Bloody Wyanirna. Jayne looked at her knees as if they were a fresh discovery.
‘Okay,’ she whispered at last, then flitted too quickly, Peter thought, to the wine rack. He wondered for a second why she was suddenly having a drink, then got busy sliding the safe door closed.
He woke and pulled out his greasy earplugs. They hadn’t blocked much of Jayne’s clanking in and out of the en-suite in the night. He flopped his arm to touch her but it made a cool slap on an empty sheet.
Ahhh, she was up. He could stretch out on his own for a while. Diagonal if he wanted.
He fluffed the doona. They didn’t have to be at the Salvos any particular time. Another half-hour’s sleep would make up for Jayne’s nocturnal ruckus. And he’d work tonight.
He listened to the suburb. Kids chirped on their way to school and cars purred on newly upgraded bitumen. Not exactly the sounds of paradise. But when they finished the renovation and if Peter’s work kept selling, they’d be, she said, in a position soon enough to put a deposit on that beach house they’d looked at. The one in Airey’s Inlet, not too far from the famous one that stretched out from the cliff. They’d get down there most weekends with their little one, she said, let the surf wake them up, eat toasted rye bread from the bakery. With marmalade, which Jayne loved. They’d watch from their balcony as clouds puffed on the horizon and they’d taste salt on their lips.
Peter preferred the bush. But he’d fit in with Jayne’s plan. So long as he didn’t have to mind the kid too much. At all. He might take up coastal scenes. Use more blue than reds. Unlikely, but he’d do what he could.
Happy wife, happy life.
Like yours, Ron?
He shifted the pillow beneath his head and turned on the clock radio. It was fixed on some classic pop station. A guy he couldn’t name from a decade he hadn’t lived through. Something about a ferry crossing to a land that someone loved.
He wondered if Jayne was alright. Maybe she was down there on the couch again, sick? He’d have to go to the Salvos alone.
He got out of bed and pulled on his white dressing gown and matching slippers. Jayne had insisted he buy the ensemble to remind her of their honeymoon in Port Douglas.
‘I’ll never forget it now, baby,’ she’d purred as they’d left the David Jones’ change rooms. She’d told him to try the gown on over his naked body because that’s how he’d wear it at home. She’d pulled beneath her skirt and shifted her underwear aside. They’d watched each other in the mirror, faces reddening as they’d tried not to laugh or moan.
That was when she was on the pill.
He couldn’t father. He had no idea how to do it. He didn’t hate kids, for Christ’s sake! He was just terrified of one needing him to be anything or anyone.
He slippered down the stairs. The house was quiet. The kitchen was empty except for Max. The cat pressed against the fridge then Peter’s ankles. The lounge was empty too.
‘Jayne?’
The only place she could be was the downstairs loo. He knocked on the door. Nothing. He went to the safe, reached in and swished air. His face flushed and he told himself to calm down.
A fool and his money...
There had to be a rational explanation. ...are soon parted.
He looked out the window as if the trees would tell him what to do. He sat on the edge of the couch. Tried slowing his breathing.
Okay. She’s decided he needed a sleep in because it would help get his creative juices flowing. She’d done it before. This morning she’d taken it upon herself to make the long drive to the Salvos on her own. For his sake. To keep him happy. He went to the kitchen for a reason he couldn’t figure until he found it. A scrap of paper next to Jayne’s mobile.
Peter
Hope you had a good sleep in. You needed it. I’ve taken the money out to the Salvos. I’ll be back for lunch if you’re here, other-wise I’ll see you tonight. Give me a buzz if you want.
He put the note on the bench.
Her usual ‘love you’ was missing. And her name. How could he buzz her if she didn’t have her phone with her? He stuffed his wallet full of Jayne’s cab charges and ran for the door.
In the taxi, he banged away on his phone, trying to remember the Salvos’ number. All those ads and now he couldn’t remember. He fluked it in the end.
‘Salvation Army, good morning, you’re speaking to Karen, how can I help?’
‘Umm, donations. Could I speak to the donations department?’
‘Our fundraising division?’
He nodded, uselessly. The receptionist said the team was in a meeting, could she take a message? He gave his wife’s company, said he worked for it. Gulp.
‘It’s about a donation.’
The receptionist’s voice wobbled.
‘I can definitely take your number and have David return your call. I’m sure he’ll get straight back to you. You’ve got a mobile phone, haven’t you, that’s right?’
Peter wanted to say that doesn’t mean I’m a millionaire. Then he thought of the cash.
‘Yes, that’s right. I’ve got a mobile phone.’
You gotta show ‘em who’s boss, son.
The taxi driver was quiet. Highway noise barriers blurred and Peter made snap decisions. One of which was to call his mother-in-law, Jennifer.
‘Has Jayne been in touch?’
‘I haven’t heard from her for a couple of weeks.’
Jennifer’s strained voice. Like there was a pineapple stuck in her throat and she was trying to talk it out. She’d be standing this morning in her aircraft hangar-sized kitchen, playing with her earrings.
‘How are you both?’
‘We’re fine. How are your cats?’
‘Oh, you know. Porsha was at the vet yesterday. Again. How’s the renovation coming along?’
‘Beautifully.’
‘You were wondering if Jayne had been in touch?’
‘Yeah, we were thinking of having you and Henry over. I thought Jayne might have made it for this weekend but I’m going away ..’
Now he’d done it.
‘Oh, what a pity! We’d have loved to have come! But we’d be fine to come next weekend. Anytime next week, really...’
He opened the window. He could barely hear Jennifer above the traffic. As planned.
‘Sorry Jennifer, I’ve got another call coming in... Hello?’ David Robson. Salvos.
‘Hello Peter? You wanted to discuss making a donation?’
‘I’d like to meet this morning, yes.’
‘Great. I’ll be here.’
‘Have you had any big donations today?’
Peter heard the Salvo’s pen clicking.
‘Umm, well... I can’t really disclose...’
Peter sighed.
‘I’ll be there soon.’
A man in a yellow safety vest smoking a cigarette held up a Stop sign and Peter’s taxi driver followed orders. At last the man turned his sign to Slow and the taxi edged along i
n a single lane. Peter thought of the Stop signs Jayne had stuck up for him. That he hadn’t seen. Or had refused to see.
All those good works. The caring for lemurs, rainforests in Brazil, the Tassie Devils, kids with disabilities, and now the Salvos. She hadn’t been trying to get over her guilt. She’d been telling him it was over. She’d been trying to put something else in her life before she ripped him out.
He hadn’t cared enough. Of course he bloody hadn’t. They were having a baby and he’d acted like she had a pillow stuffed up her shirt. The last straw for her and the last sign for him. Road in desperate need of works. Maybe even road closed. And he hadn’t even slowed down. Now she had more than a little extra cash with which to hit the road.
The taxi turned into the Salvos’ car park and the big red shield on the building made Peter angry.
You never know what’s on the next horizon.
Fuck off, Ron. That’s why it’s a horizon. You can’t see it because it doesn’t exist so nothing can be on it. He fixed up the cab charge and got out. The same Salvo shield was stenciled on the glass front doors. He took off at speed towards them, but pulled up when he heard a familiar car horn.
Their new black Range Rover Classic. Parked with Jayne behind the wheel. She flashed the lights and he blinked. He shuffled towards her, eyes to the bitumen like a lazy dog. She buzzed the driver window down.
‘What are you doing here, Peter?’
He couldn’t see her eyes behind her sunglasses. Didn’t want to anyway.
I’ve come, Jayne, to make sure you were handing over the money. No, actually, I assumed you weren’t handing over the money. I assumed you’d disappeared. To the far north where you’ve secretly planted fifty acres of Japanese Gardens. You’ve got a new business selling trinket things at the local market. Good cover for your mad arse plans. I’ve come to meet David Robson to let him know you’ve robbed the Salvos. They should call the cops. Start tracking a black Range Rover, licence plate number Jaynee.
‘Nothing,’ he replied.
‘Nothing?’
He shook his head.
‘Go,’ she waved and Peter got the same taxi home.
The marriage counsellor went on about the importance of trust in a relationship.
‘It’s the glue, isn’t it, that holds the whole thing together?’ The counselor wore a tan shirt and a bright look. Like a man who’d just given up smoking.
‘Without trust, it all falls apart. Doesn’t it?’
Peter realised they were rhetorical questions. He should only answer the real ones. And then be very careful which. It was asking for trouble to answer everything. And he was in enough of it already.
Session after session, Jayne fumed next to him on the black leather couch. It smelt new. She had decided it was not appro-priate to reveal to the counsellor the exact reason for their trust breakdown. The counsellor didn’t push them on it.
Trust was trust, wasn’t it?
Jayne was like a diver picking through a rusted hull. She brought up problems he didn’t even know existed.
‘He never, ever lets me achieve my goals. And he crushes my emotions.’
After one session, she tearfully drew up a goal chart on butcher’s paper. And Peter agreed to do everything she needed. Work from home, handle the renovations, not get shitty if he struggled to open the corks on his wine bottles. Go back to drinking beer if he had to. But he may as well have talked to the counsellor’s sunrise posters.
‘He doesn’t listen... We were supposed to be renovating but all he wanted to do was paint... I thought he was open to who I wanted to become. But then he wanted me to be someone else...’
Rubbish, he thought, but didn’t say. It would have opened up another line of attack.
You’re a bloody wimp lad, get up.
In the counselling sessions, he swatted away her words as they buzzed in his face. He managed once to say he wanted to change, but it was hard because he couldn’t figure out exactly what Jayne wanted. He thought he was doing all he could.
But finally she pointed the counselor to the ticking bomb that he could not possibly defuse. Not quickly enough to save his marriage, anyway.
‘I’m pregnant. And he doesn’t want to be a father. It’s hopeless.’
He couldn’t say a thing. The counselor spoke but Peter couldn’t take his words in. The truth was in the room, holding a shovel and swinging dirt all over him. He’d be buried in seconds.
‘You’re a coward, Peter,’ Jayne said, crying.
You’re chickenshit, son. I had you three blokes!
Great job you did, Ron.
No trust, no love for his child to be. No marriage for Peter and Jayne.
Mr Bright-Eyed No Smokes counselor switched to the importance of positive post-marriage relationships.
To save money, Peter helped the two removalists.
‘Nice set of clubs,’ the bloke in grey overalls said as he dragged Peter’s golf bag into the truck. It had been a long time since he’d had a hit.
It took three of them to get Peter’s final item, the mattress from the spare room, into the truck. He had a last look at his double-storey home; the trees tickled by a slight breeze and the flowers in full bloom. The sun was glinting on every window. It was a crisp morning, worthy of a counselling room poster. But his lungs were somehow filled with dirty air and his throat was tight.
He wasn’t going to cry, and especially not in front of these rough nuts.
He slid into the passenger seat. The trip was smooth until they hit bumper-to-bumper traffic near Victoria Market.
‘Plenty of get-out clauses from a marriage these days,’ the driving removalist said. Something about his silver moustache made Peter listen to him. ‘My missus said I didn’t give a rats about her feelings. Now I’m paying for whoever wants to give her a feel!’
The removalists laughed and the storyteller offered Peter a cigarette. He declined, but it was tempting. The moustached removalist blew his smoke out the window and into the morning traffic.
‘How much you comin out with?’
‘Just what’s in the back.’
‘Nah, mate, nah, the property settlement. Your percentage.’
‘Oh, 30.’
‘Sheesh, you’ve done alright! Some buggers get nothin’. I got 20. The missus had worked hard and put a fair bit away and, you know, she’d done most of the housework and kids stuff and that. All counts.’
He thought of Jayne’s, and his, unborn child. He could hardly breathe.
‘You gotta be happy with 30 per cent mate,’ Moustache added, as if the number was from a fairytale. He parked the van in a loading zone out the front of Peter’s white block of 1960s apartments. The front lawn was mown. Too short. There was an empty stubby on the deck of letterboxes. The removalists told their jokes and shuffled his belongings into their new home. But Peter sat in the cabin. He didn’t move until Moustache man put his head in the passenger window to see if he was okay.
You’re not hearing voices, son. Don’t be bloody stupid. And you can go back to school far as I’m concerned.
The removalists smoked up the apartment and left. Peter tried to throw off the dark mist that had followed him for weeks after the break up. He should count his blessings.
Okay, here goes.
It was good to have somewhere clean and bright to live.
First-floor, light-filled. Balcony with a view to the courtyard. With grass and seats in it. Only a short walk to the tram. He had space to paint. If he ever found time again. Child support bills would soon arrive. He’d be teaching more than painting for a long time.
He took from a box some crockery wrapped in newspaper. He’d helped his family move so many times as a kid he knew how to wrap better than paint. He could do it in his sleep. Which was all he wanted to do. But he pushed through his tiredness, and put cups and plates one-by-one into the cupboard beside the kitchen drawers.
He went to the balcony, the cool air. He could see one of the MCG’s light towers.
If he stood on his toes. He might do a series.
He was at RMIT teaching a few weeks later when he got a fax from his ex-mother-in-law. He had a son.
It was ten days before Peter saw him. Jayne wouldn’t answer his calls. Neither would her family. He should have expected that. But now the kid had arrived, a boy, it was all Peter could do from banging the door off his old house. Six days in a row he knocked but no one answered. He called friends, but choked up before he could tell them what had happened. He thought about calling his brother, Simon. He had kids. He’d know what to think. But they hadn’t spoken for months. Not since Simon had threatened to bash Peter in front of some lout mates at a pub in Westmore. Just jokin’, can’t you take a joke? Simon had laughed. He couldn’t call his brother when he was on the brink of falling to bits, but Peter kept thinking about it.
To stop himself, he rang Wessel. His agent was helpful. Sort of.
‘You must take good care of yourself, Peter. Do not, do not paint.’
Then Wessel started psychobabbling about blockages and delusions. Peter should have seen that coming. Wessel was Austrian. He hung up when his agent was mid-sentence about Peter’s ‘father issues’.
He thought about calling Poster Boy Counsellor. What did his ex-wife’s unwillingness to talk to him or let him see their son say about positive post-marriage relations?
It was a bit shit wasn’t it?
But he sat on his balcony instead. He stared at the glow from an MCG light, all the little lights that made one big light. Then the little lights seemed to come loose of each other and fly. He had a half bottle of whisky in his hands. What a bloody cliché I am, he thought. He wanted to smash the bottle but that would be an even worse one. So he just gripped it tight.
It’s no good whinging lad. Get on with life.
He met an intensive care nurse a couple of years later who loved cycling. And he learnt to like riding a bike more than he ever had. Just the way that you never have to bear your own weight. You get out of it what you put in. The open air, the sound of your own breathing, in and out, the click and grind of gears, the burn in your thighs that rips every dark thought out of your mind and into the pain your body’s feeling. Then, when you’re finished, the flow and rush of healthy blood through you when you’re enjoying the view from some restaurant or other.
We. Are. Family. Page 9