by Tess Evans
When the AIDS epidemic sent cold waves of fear through the community, the quilters, led by Pen, took on a new task. The quilts, once for their children and grandchildren, were sent instead to the AIDS quilt project.
One day, he and Pen were having breakfast and she read, with growing horror, an article on the social effects of that terrible, wasting disease. ‘It says here that people with AIDS are being shunned like they have leprosy.’
‘Mmm.’ An absurdly healthy male, George wasn’t much interested in medical matters, couldn’t imagine what it might be like to be sick, and tended to refer to the unwell as whingers and moaners. He moved on to a more appealing topic. ‘They reckon this Stephen Silvagni’s going to be a star one day, just like his dad.’
‘They need volunteers at Fairfield hospital. It’s practically next door. I think I might check it out.’
‘What? What are you checking out?’
‘Volunteering to work with the AIDS patients.’
George lowered his newspaper and stared at his wife. ‘AIDS patients? Drug addicts and poofters? Over my dead body.’
Penny stared right back. ‘If it has to come to that She smiled then to soften her response. ‘Now I’ve got all this time to spare, I want to do something. When all is said and done, they’re just people. Maybe I could read to someone, or just talk.’
George’s voice rose to an unnatural pitch. ‘You can catch AIDS. Why else would they put them in an infectious-diseases hospital?’ His stomach began to heave and growl, indicating the level of his anxiety.
Penny stood up and came around to his side of the table, then put her arms around his neck, her chin on his head. ‘I’ll get all the information first,’ she reassured him. ‘If there’s any danger, I won’t go. Promise.’ She ruffled his hair. ‘Come on, woolly-head. Your tea’s getting cold. I’ll make us a fresh pot.’
Pen got her way. Every Tuesday morning she would visit her ‘boys’, as she called them. Every Tuesday at lunchtime, she’d want to talk about them. ‘Peter’s parents finally came to visit him,’ she said once. ‘But they won’t talk to Mike. Their son is dying and they won’t talk to the other person who loves him best in the world. If I had a child . . .’
George understood then, and stopped calling them junkies and queers. Still, he was happier to encourage the quilting. In his book, it was a lot safer.
He is surprised to hear the doorbell. Shirl and Redgum both have keys. Who else would be visiting at (he checks his watch) nearly three o’clock in the afternoon? So instead of answering the door, he dithers about in his slippers and dressing-gown and starts to wonder. Instead of wondering who is at the door, he wonders at a line of poetry from his Fourth Grade Reader – He stood in his shoes and wondered. Or maybe it was wandered. But would you stand and wander? No. It must have been wondered. He jumps when the doorbell rings a second time. He’ll have to be careful. These wandering (wondering?) thoughts might be an early sign of Alzheimer’s. He does a quick hand check for tremors.
Opening the door, he squints into the afternoon sun. ‘Yes?’
‘You don’t remember me, do you?’
It’s the girl. At least she looks like the girl. ‘In the lane,’ he says. ‘We met in the lane.’ Good grief. He made it sound as though they’d been formally introduced. He stares from the doorway, holding the dressing-gown tight to his chest.
‘Can we come in?’
She has a child with her, a waif with stringy yellow hair and wary eyes that narrow in a very unpleasant way when they meet his. He flinches at that judgemental stare before remembering his manners. ‘Of course. Come in.’ He gestures at the dressing-gown. ‘’Scuse the clobber. Bed-rest. Doc’s orders.’
‘Can’t stay,’ the young woman says. ‘Got a couple of things to do.’
That’s a relief, thinks George, but, feeling beholden, he mutters something conciliatory. The visitors are standing just inside the door. George goes to speak but finds he has nothing to say. He scratches his chin. Perhaps he should thank her again.
‘Don’t want to stay with that man.’ The child (What would she be – three? four? George is no expert) clings to her mother’s hand and slides up against her skirt like some little animal seeking refuge.
‘You got to. Aunty Bree can’t look after you.’ What did she say? He must have misheard what she said. ‘You’re not expecting to leave that kid here?’ The sweep of his arm takes in the whole house, from front door to back.
Her reply is short. Affectedly patient. Even, it seems, from her point of view, logical. ‘I told you. Bree can’t do it.’
Bree? ‘What’s that got to do with me?’
‘Poison toe. She’s got to go to the doctor’s, so there’s nowhere to leave the kid.’
George smarts at the exasperated tone, the patronising way she rolls her eyes. It puts him on the defensive. Watch your tone, young lady. Don’t think you can treat me like I don’t know what day it is. He doesn’t say this aloud, but makes do with glowering over her head at the lamppost beyond the front gate. It requires some effort, deciphering the young woman’s shorthand. He’s almost certain he doesn’t know a Bree. But why would she think he did? And why should this Bree’s poisoned toe lead them to his house with such a ridiculous request?
‘Why here? Why me?’ Of course he doesn’t want to be responsible for this disagreeable child (or any child for that matter). But that’s not the only thing. It is so unsuitable. Not to mention dangerous. What could be so important that she would risk leaving her child with a stranger? Clutching his bruised ribs, he draws a painful breath and begins to sputter. ‘You want to leave the kid here? With me? You don’t know me from a bar of soap. I could be a child molester for all you know.’
‘You’re not, are you? Wouldn’t’ve saved your life if I thought you were.’
‘Of course I’m not. But you don’t know that. And anyway (He’s doubly mortified by her claim to be his rescuer.) ‘They put the knife away before you came.’
She shrugs. ‘Say what you like, Granddad, from what I saw, they were kicking you. And you were having an asthma attack.’
George deflates under his dressing-gown. ‘True enough, girlie.’
‘So you’ll mind the kid, then?’ This time she tries a smile. ‘Her name’s Aurora-Jane.’
Aurora-Jane? What sort of name is that? Honestly, the names people give their kids these days. What’s wrong with just Jane? Or Patricia. Or Annie? For some reason he is able to picture his Annie much more clearly. Perhaps because she’s the opposite of this unlovely child with the sallow skin and guarded eyes.
‘I can’t. It’s not right. Look at her. She’s terrified.’ And so am I. What do I know about kids?
George looks at Aurora-Jane and she looks back at him. The dislike is both candid and mutual.
As one, they turn their eyes to the young woman. We don’t want this, their eyes say. Don’t make us. You have to stop it before it’s too late.
She doesn’t stop though, does she? No matter that George has made his feelings quite plain.
‘Interview at the Job Centre. Lose me benefits if I don’t go. Look. I got no choice. It’s too hard with a kid whining round me ankles. Besides . . .’ She measures the effect with her eyes. ‘You told me where you live.’
George almost feels sorry for the child. Perhaps he does owe the mother something. ‘How long?’
‘Half an hour. An hour at the most,’ she says, her voice (in deference to his age?) getting louder as she disappears down the path.
‘Just this once,’ George yells after her. ‘Don’t get any ideas.’
George is perplexed. ‘Now what can we do with you?’
The kid is crying, beating on the door where her mother has just disappeared. ‘Maaarm. Mummy.’ She works up to a high-pitched shriek. ‘Maaarmeee!’
What on earth will the neighbours think? What would Pen do? What should he do?
‘Shh. Shh. Stop it. Aurora-Jane! Mummy’ll be back soon.’
The crying contin
ues, punctuated by demands for her mother and the odd venomous Hate you directed at George.
‘Stop this minute. Do you hear me?’ George’s heart is racing uncomfortably as he struggles for control. Perhaps he should ring Shirl. She could be here in ten minutes. Fifteen at the most. Then a flash of inspiration. ‘Hey.’ The wailing subsides. ‘How would you like a biscuit?’
The kid looks at him from under her arm, which is still beating on the door. ‘Maaarmee!’ she counters.
But negotiations have begun. Holding out for a better offer, are you? George plays his last card. ‘What about an ice-cream?’ His one self-indulgence is to buy a packet of Choc Wedges at the supermarket each week. There must be one or two left.
His faith in this tactic is confirmed when he waves one in her direction and the tears dry up as quickly as they’d come. He’s quite chuffed. Fancy him managing to quieten an upset kid. ‘Now,’ he says, ‘you just sit here at the table.’ He goes to help her up but she puts down the ice-cream and clambers up by herself. Despite his dislike, he recognises independence when he sees it. A determined little bugger; he has to give her that. But she might have said ‘thank you’.
Aurora-Jane, having finished her ice-cream, climbs down from her chair, trots into the lounge and sits, large as life, on Pen’s nice velvet couch, looking expectantly at the television. Children shouldn’t watch too much TV (even George is aware of that), but he doesn’t want her crying again, so they watch The Price Is Right. George chooses to sit on the straight-backed chair. Getting up and down on the couch is still pretty painful. Besides, he doesn’t feel comfortable with the thought of sitting beside her. Watching TV together on the couch suggests an intimacy beyond their brief and hopefully short acquaintance. With Annie it would have been different. They would have sat cuddled up together as fathers and daughters do. Or better yet, they’d be outside on the swing. It would be a mild evening, very much like this one. The swing would have been a birthday present. Or (George is quite carried away by this thought) brought by Santa in his magic sack. Redgum would have come round to help him put it up on Christmas Eve after Annie was in bed.
‘I hate this show.’ Aurora-Jane’s whine cuts into his reverie.
‘Too bad,’ he says.
‘I hate you.’
‘I don’t like you much, either.’
They glare at each other for a bit – then George goes back to watching TV. He has to admit she’s right. It is a stupid show – he never watches it unless he’s desperate to hear another voice. On the other hand, it doesn’t do to let a kid rule the roost. ‘Say please.’ That’s what Pen would say if she were here. ‘Say please and I’ll find another channel.’
This remarkable show of firmness results in renewed bellowing. He looks at the clock. Twenty past five. Half an hour, she’d said. An hour at the most. And the wailing goes on and on. ‘Maarmeee! Maarmeee! Maarmeee!’
He clicks through the channels and finds a cartoon. Kids like cartoons. Especially if there’s a bit of biffo. Wham! Captain Cool dispatches two bad guys with one punch. Aurora-Jane pauses. Takes stock. When she flicks a glance in his direction, he swears there’s a glint of triumph in her eyes. There’s certainly no trace of tears.
Moments later Shirl arrives with his tea – a nice chicken pie and vegetables. When she comes into the room, the look on her face is priceless. ‘George, I . . . Who is that child? And what on earth is she doing with her shoes on Pen’s good velvet couch?’
You get a good deal of satisfaction out of seeing someone like Shirl nonplussed. ‘Her name’s Aurora-Jane.’ Why make things easy?
‘Shoo, girl! Shoo!’ Shirl puts down the plate and flaps her hands at the child as though she were shooing a chook. ‘Get off that couch this minute! George – she’s all sticky. Do something.’
George tries to be reasonable – not always the best approach with Shirl. ‘She’s just finished an ice-cream,’ he explains. ‘Bound to get sticky.’
Meanwhile, Aurora-Jane burrows her way into the cushions and sets up another bout of wailing. ‘Maarmeee. Maarmeee. Maarmeee!’
‘Now look at what you’ve done. She was fine till you came in flapping and shooing.’
‘I hope Pen had that couch stain-guarded, that’s all I can say.’
Of course despite this claim, she can say a lot more – and does. While George goes into maybe-she’ll-shut-up-soon mode. He had perfected this as a boy. The staring as though he were listening. The occasional nod. The total refusal of the words that spatter the surface of his consciousness and slide away like rain off a plastic raincoat.
‘Her mum’ll be back soon.’
‘Who on earth is she?’
‘Aurora-Jane. I told you that.’ Hearing her name, the child looks up, and catching Shirl’s expression, decides to return to the relative safety of the cushions.
‘Not the child’s name, you old fool. Who’s her mother? Where do you know her from?’
To George’s relief she doesn’t pursue him about the mother’s name. Just as well because he’s sure he doesn’t know it. (Although you never can tell. He may have forgotten.) ‘She was the lass who helped me after the bikie incident.’ Shirl’s expression changes at the margins and George pursues his advantage. ‘Got my puffer for me and everything. I’m just helping her out for an hour or two.’
He sees this has placated his sister, who is moved to study what she can see of Aurora-Jane with more interest. ‘Well. Yes. Hmm.’ Turning on her heel, Shirl marches off to the bathroom. ‘Washcloth,’ she announces and proceeds to wipe the child’s hands and face. Not without a fight. George has to admire them both. This is a battle of equals.
At the sound of the doorbell Shirl is in the passageway before George can haul himself to his feet. We’re in for it now. He sinks back into his chair to watch events unfold.
Shirl all but frogmarches the young woman in. ‘You had no right to leave your child with a stranger. Tell her, George. She has no right at all.’
Aurora-Jane’s wailing resumes and her mother grabs her by the arm. ‘Shut up, Rory. I’m here now. If you’re good we’ll get fish ’n’ chips for tea.’
George realises he’s been holding his breath. No one could mistake Shirl’s disapproving stare, but most of the time you can rely on her to say the right thing. Nevertheless, he hears shards of ice crackling in his sister’s voice as she shepherds the pair to the door. ‘We owe you our thanks, I believe. For helping my brother after the bikie attack.’
George winces. His white (?) lie will come to light and he’ll look completely ridiculous. He shoots a hopeless glance at the girl.
‘No worries,’ she says and winks at him behind Shirl’s back.
Encouraged by George’s grateful expression, the young woman plunges on with a reckless disregard of Shirl’s increasingly horrified stare. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I got nothin’ against rippin’ people off, but kickin’ a bloke who’s old enough to be your granddad – that’s just crap.’
Shirl returns from the door and gives him one of her looks. We both know you’ve done something stupid/thoughtless/rash, a look like this says. There are subtle differences in her repertoire of looks, and as a youngster he lacked the skill to interpret them. Over the years he has learned to read them like the morning paper and responds to this one with the traditional slight shrug. He glances at his watch and wishes, not for the first time, that it was a stopwatch. The next step is to see how long Shirl can refrain from comment.
Ten seconds. Shouldn’t be long. She inflates an indignant bosom. Time!
‘Did you hear what she said?’ She exaggerates the girl’s broad accent. (Just like yours used to be, thinks George.) ‘“I got nothin’ against rippin’ people off.” That’s what she said. Bold as brass! In broad daylight, too.’
While his sister pauses for breath, George ponders the implication that such a statement might be acceptable at night. (Or at twilight. Or even, at a pinch, on a cloudy day.)
‘I can’t believe you gave her your addres
s.’ Shirl’s growing outrage is evident in the hectic red spots that spread high across her cheekbones, the rapid blinking behind her glasses. ‘And the first thing she does is dump the child on you. With an injured man. A stranger, no less. Honestly, George, I’m speechless.’
With remarkable self-control George bypasses the obvious rejoinder. ‘She helped me, Shirl. I’d have been a goner for sure. There’s a debt. Me to her. That’s the way I see it.’
‘Don’t the Chinese say that if you save someone’s life, it’s you who owes them?’
She never gives in, the old Shirl. George’s expression is mild, even affectionate. ‘But we’re not Chinese, are we?’
Angie scowls at the door, which the dragon lady has shut, practically in her face. Dragging a protesting Rory in her wake, she seethes over her day – Bree and all that bullshit about a poisoned toe, the kid carrying on about being left with George. That bitch at the Job Centre wanting to know why she hadn’t applied for any jobs in the last month. Duh! Like there’s any point. Then along with all the other crap, in comes that up-herself Shirl woman.
The old bloke seems all right, she concedes, tucking away this assessment for future reference. Survival is her one, finely honed skill. And you never know, she thinks as she shepherds her daughter into the fish ’n’ chip shop.
Shirl gives her hapless brother terse instructions about how to heat the pie, and heads off in the direction of her own well-ordered home. She grips the steering wheel as though it might fly off out the window. Would you believe it! Just as George seemed reconciled to his life as a widower, he goes off and gets himself mugged. Not satisfied with that, he seems to feel some sort of obligation to his rescuer. Shirl has always prided herself on her sense of fair play, and it’s clear that he owes the girl something. But he could have given her money. Much less bothersome than babysitting. He was never very good with Marianne and Claire when they were little and they’re his own flesh and blood. So how could he expect to look after the child of a stranger? A child who, if she were honest, is no more than a grubby little brat.