Mercy Street

by Tess Evans

  ‘I hate you, too,’ she sobs, and charges to the door, only to be barred by her teacher.

  ‘Rory. Stop. Listen to me. What do we do when we’re angry?’

  ‘We take ten deep breaths.’ She doesn’t sound convinced.

  Her narrow chest is rising and falling and George feels his own heart beating in time with hers.

  Ms Hamilton talks her through it. ‘That’s right. One, two . . . Good. And a big breath on ten. Now wait here with your Poppy. I’ll talk to you later.’

  Joel, bewildered by it all, and clearly scared of Rory, backs towards the door and Ms Hamilton takes his hand. ‘It’s okay, Joel. Rory’s just a bit upset. And Rory . . .’ She opens the door, ushering Joel into the classroom next door. ‘Have a think about your behaviour while I’m gone.’

  Rory is frozen to the spot, her body taut like a string about to snap, and George experiences a violent quivering that pins him to his chair. He looks across at the distressed child, who clutches the book to her chest and returns his gaze with one of outrage and betrayal. His growing confidence in his ability to handle children has shrivelled in an instant, leaving him with an overwhelming sense of failure. How could he have been so insensitive?

  He says the first thing that comes into his head. ‘I think Joel is very upset.’

  Her face is hard.

  ‘And I think you’re sad, too?’ he adds with a tentative smile.

  Her lower lip begins to tremble.

  ‘I should’ve asked you if I could borrow it. It’s your book.’

  She’s way across the room. Still out of reach. ‘You like Joel better than me.’ This she says in a whisper, as if she doesn’t want anyone else to know.

  George finds his feet although his knees won’t stop shaking. ‘Sweetheart, I . . . like you better than anyone. More than all the other children in the school put together. You know that. I help Joel here but I wouldn’t let him come and live with me. With us.’

  He moves across the room and lifts her up in his arms. She’s getting heavy and her body is rigid with resentment. ‘I don’t know about you, but I reckon we should say sorry to Joel and Ms Hamilton. What about it?’

  ‘All right.’

  Not exactly enthusiastic. ‘You know you shouldn’t kick people. Or shout at them.’ He’ll leave the rest to Jessica Hamilton. From an outsider’s point of view, Rory should be punished. So let the outsider punish her. He understands with sobering clarity that what Rory needs from him is the fierce, unconditional love of a parent. And it scares the hell out of him.

  The incident shakes George more than he cares to admit, and it’s only when he’s leaning on the bar with Redgum that his thoughts, jagged and fragmented as they are, begin to coalesce.

  ‘. . . so there she is, hanging on to me like – like paint on a wall. And me not knowing what to do.’

  ‘Hard to get paint off.’

  The metaphor has come out of nowhere, but George feels its veracity. How do you get paint off? You scrape it into flakes or dissolve it with some chemical. Either way, the paint is destroyed. And it can’t be reapplied. Ever. Until now, he thinks with a jolt, he’s been playing at being a parent. Enjoying all the good things. Crowing when he solved a problem like the nightmares. But all the while, this child who is not his has been claiming him as her own.

  ‘What happens to her if I die, or become too sick to look after her? What happens if I get Alzheimer’s? Or cancer or . . .’

  ‘A doc,’ says Redgum, clearly relieved to discern a practical solution. ‘Go and get a check-up.’

  George is aware that this is only part of his problem, but he, too, is thankful that there’s something he can do. First things first, as he always says. The other can wait until he sees the doc.

  The doctor scans his computer. ‘No history of anything sinister. You don’t have any symptoms. What makes you think you need such a major check-up? There’s such a thing as over-servicing, you know.’

  George looks at him craftily. ‘That your Merc outside?’

  The doctor frowns. ‘Yes. Although what that’s got to do with your—’

  ‘Bet you service it regularly – a fancy car like that.’

  The doctor grins. ‘Fair enough. Let’s start with some blood tests.’

  George’s tests are ready. The doctor clicks through the results then looks up and smiles. ‘Your blood pressure’s a bit on the high side, but there’s no real cause for worry at the moment. Your liver’s a bit sluggish. How much alcohol do you drink each day?’

  Let’s see . . . A beer with Redgum, two cans before dinner, two after Rory goes to bed . . . ‘One or two,’ he lies.

  ‘In my experience, that means four or five.’

  ‘You got me there.’

  ‘Ease off a bit. One or two at the most. And some exercise. Walk when you can.’

  George, glad to get off so lightly, agrees with alacrity.

  He’d been going to ask about Alzheimer’s, but in the end didn’t want to know. It isn’t as though he’s all that old and they say an odd memory lapse is nothing to worry about. So, fitness confirmed, he has no excuse. Has he, or can he, make a full (perhaps lifelong) commitment to Rory? The sort of commitment a parent makes without thinking? I want to, he tells himself. Maybe I already have.

  Unsure whether he is able to judge for himself, he talks to Shirl. ‘You warned me that I was taking on a lot. Is it too much?’

  Shirl, for once, is silent.

  Am I? Am I? He dredges the question to the surface. ‘Am I . . . the sort of person who can do this? See it through, even if Angie doesn’t come back?’ (Deep down, he doesn’t believe that she will.)

  Shirl doesn’t harangue him. Doesn’t say I told you so. Doesn’t even give him The Look. George knows she doesn’t expect Angie to return, either. So it’s a big question he’s asking and she answers with a question of her own. ‘What if I advised you to take her to social services tomorrow? That’s the alternative.’

  George is stricken. ‘You can’t mean that,’ he pleads. ‘She believes in me. Trusts me. She might even – care for me a bit.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘And me? It would kill me, Shirl.’ George drops his gaze, looking at but not seeing his hands as they wring and twist in his lap. ‘I never had a kid of me own, but if I did . . .’ He registers shock in a truth he’s been avoiding. ‘If I did, I don’t reckon I could love her more than I love Rory.’ George speaks quietly, sadly, aware that in asserting this, he is saying goodbye to Annie. Her insubstantial hand slips from his grasp and she disappears gently, in a puff of wind. For a moment, George is drawn into the twilight melancholy their parting brings. But he’s no longer in thrall. He has chosen life and all the warmth and joy, muddle and heartache that life entails.

  Shirl stands up and puts her hands on her brother’s shoulders. ‘You’ve answered your own question.’ She plants a brief kiss on the top of his head. ‘You’ll manage, George. We all manage one way or another.’

  That night, when he tucks Rory in, he tells her for the first time, ‘Poppy loves you. You know that, don’t you?’

  She settles Slipper Dog into place on her pillow. ‘Silly Poppy,’ she says. ‘Of course you do.’

  George’s renewed commitment is like Confirmation, a sacrament where the proxy vows of Baptism are confirmed by the adult believer. And like its sacramental equivalent, George’s allegiance does not preclude backsliding. There are moments where he doubts his ability to stick with it; moments when he feels the burden but not the sweetness.

  Rory can still be naughty, whiny and stubborn, and frankly, in the way. On Saturdays, George used to meet Redgum at The Royal Mail, a hotel further away that’s blessed with a TAB. They used to like watching the footy and races on the telly, betting their combined dollars on a hot tip, a quadrella or the Daily Double. As blokes do.

  But not little girls. George resents this loss of freedom. On Saturdays now, they go to the park, or the zoo or the cinema. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy th
ese things. It’s just that it’s a piece of his life he doesn’t own anymore. He feels guilty about this resentment, unaware that even the best of parents sometimes wish aspects of their old lives back. There are battles at mealtimes. ‘Just four more peas.’ Rory has been steadfast in her aversion to peas and plays with them sulkily, corralling the four negotiated peas (the smallest, by the look of it) to the side of her plate. She stabs at one with her fork. ‘It’s all squashed. I can’t eat it when it’s squashed.’

  ‘There’s more over the other side. Eat one of those.’

  A tentative tongue grazes another pea. ‘It’s cold.’ George wonders why he keeps cooking peas. Beans, Redgum had suggested. ‘They’re green.’ That made sense. Then contradictory advice from Shirl. ‘Children like to make a stand when it comes to meals.’ There’s a combative light in her eyes. ‘Never give in.’

  So he cajoles and bargains. ‘Just three, then.’ Or ‘No bedtime story if you’re not finished in five minutes.’ (He hates that one. Story time is his favourite part of the day.)

  Mealtime has become unpleasant and exhausting and finally George has had enough. Quietly he replaces peas with beans. Rory frowns at her plate. ‘Don’t like beans,’ she says.

  ‘I’ll get peas instead, then.’

  Glaring, she shovels the beans into her mouth. ‘They’re all right,’ she concedes.

  Another problem solved. But there will be more. George has developed some understanding of this parent caper and knows that over the years he can look forward to many battles. Small things like peas and lipstick. Large things like study and boys. And each one will test his depleting energy. So he’ll need to choose his battles and take a stand on the important things. ‘Count your blessings,’ Pen used to say, and when he hears the echo of her voice, he understands that despite the day-to-day frustrations, he is indeed blessed.

  Rory comes flying out of the school gate with Maryam and Kirsty. ‘Here we are, Poppy George.’ He is briefly confused. Then it comes back. How could he have forgotten? Rory’s friends are coming to play after school. Thank God he’s on time. He’s aware of that small, familiar stab of fear. What if his memory is failing? What if one day he forgets altogether to pick her up? What then? He braces himself against the fence and orders his thoughts. It takes only seconds but seems longer. Guilty that he had almost forgotten his promise to Rory, he feels the need to compensate.

  ‘Maybe you girls need a treat.’

  ‘Yay!’ The three children scamper off, calling out to George to hurry.

  He meets the eyes of one of the mothers and she shakes her head with an indulgent smile. ‘They certainly keep you on your toes,’ she observes.

  ‘All in a day’s work.’ George quickens his pace and catches up with the children at the corner. An unseasonably chilly wind whips and snatches at their hair. ‘Let’s see,’ he says, rubbing his chin. ‘If it wasn’t so cold, we could have an ice-cream.’

  ‘We’re not cold. It’s boiling!’ Three upturned faces, anxious to convince.

  ‘Okay. Just because it’s spring. An ice-cream for me. A big one. That’s all we need, I think.’

  The little girls giggle into their hands. ‘You’re so funny, Poppy George.’

  Shirl arrives at his house just in time to supervise the hand and face washing while George makes the tea. ‘It’s good to see she has some friends,’ Shirl says, as they set their tea things on the outdoor table. ‘Nice type of girls, too.’ She stirs in two teaspoons of sugar. (We’re all entitled to one weakness, George thinks.) ‘Have you heard from that mother of hers lately?’

  ‘No.’ If George sounds short with her, it’s because he is sick of a question to which he has no answer.

  ‘Tsk.’ Shirl polishes her glasses. ‘A lovely kid like that. Makes you wonder.’

  George grins at his sister. ‘Lovely kid? What happened to “sly little miss”?’

  ‘She was given a chance,’ Shirl says quietly. ‘Thanks to you.’

  ‘We’re going to do a concert for you,’ Rory calls out. ‘But you’ll have to wait till we’re ready.’

  Brother and sister watch as the children dance and whisper and push each other, half hidden behind the rhododendrons.

  ‘Well done.’ They applaud the capering children. But George is in a ruminative mood. ‘I remember what you said when Rory and Angie first came here.’

  Shirl looks surprised. ‘I’ve said a lot of things. It’s nice to know you listen sometimes.’ She sits back. ‘So what did I say?’

  ‘About that Chinese proverb – if you save someone’s life, you owe them. As far as I’m concerned, Angie has paid me in full. The life she saved wasn’t worth much, but now it’s . . . a . . .’ (He’s so bad with words.) ‘It’s a rich life I have now – a life full of riches.’

  George expects advice or at least a commentary. Instead, Shirl stands up. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she says. ‘Take care, little brother.’

  George always walks Bree to the tram on Fridays. Amused at first, she’d protest that she’s been getting around by herself for years. But she’s stopped objecting and George is gratified when she allows him to treat her with the sort of courtesy and respect he likes to reserve for women.

  The three of them, George, Rory and Bree, look forward to Fridays – lamb roast and a Choc Wedge then a DVD that Rory chooses on the way home from school. At ‘interval’ (Bree can only go so long without a smoke), George organises the microwave and they sit down for the second half of the movie tucking into fresh popcorn.

  He times things to finish around eight-thirty so they can walk Bree to the tram and ensure that Rory is in bed at a respectable hour. The process has been so smooth that they are all surprised one Friday when a sudden deluge prevents Bree from leaving on time. The rain sheets down the window panes, drums like hail on the tin roof. Peering out the door, George sees a torrent running down his path to the gutter which is already overflowing. ‘She’s a beauty, all right,’ he says. ‘I better drive you home.’

  ‘Just a shower,’ Bree says. ‘It’s too dangerous to drive. I’ll hang around here till it blows over.’

  Rory looks gleeful at the prospect of a late bedtime, but soon falls asleep on the couch. George puts a blanket over her and he and Bree watch Inspector Poirot. It’s a repeat and neither of them is much interested. Besides, they can hardly hear it over the racket on the roof.

  ‘Beer?’ George returns from the kitchen with two stubbies. ‘I’ll get you a glass.’ (Pen would expect a woman to drink out of a glass.)

  ‘Best straight from the bottle,’ she says, twisting off the top. ‘Cheers.’

  Bree puzzles him. She seems self-sufficient, sometimes even efficient, but seeing her more often confirms his impression the day he visited her house. Here is a woman who paints her door but fails to clean the glass. Who keeps her kitchen clean and tidy but leaves a mess (an understatement) in her bathroom and bedroom. Who makes elaborate plans to help people but fails to deliver. Randomly directed bursts of energy, followed by periods of lassitude. What’s all that about?

  They have never really talked. ‘How did you come to know Angie?’ he asks.

  She slurps her beer and wipes her chin. ‘Diversion program. A few years ago it was.’

  ‘Diversion program?’

  ‘Yeah. You know, for potheads. Young offenders.’

  ‘Drugs.’

  ‘Just weed. You have to do rehab for the hard stuff. I was one of their so-called successes and they asked me back to talk to the newbies about “the dangers of drugs”.’ (She indicates inverted commas with waggling fingers.)

  Turning away from the television, she fiddles with her bracelet. (One of those jangly things. Pen never liked them.) ‘I usually don’t tell people this, but I started smoking weed when I was in Year 7. Twelve I was then. Good at school, too. Got ‘A’s and all that in primary school. Mum and Dad wanted me to go to uni but I left school as soon as I turned sixteen and got this job in a bakery. Didn’t last long. The weed did my head in. The
y reckon it stuffs up the connections when your brain’s still growing. Probably right, too. All I know is sometimes I feel like hell.’

  ‘Depression?’

  ‘Yeah. Mood swings, memory loss – stuff like that. Sometimes I don’t get dressed for days. I’m good now, though.’

  But George, though he pities this woman with the messed-up head, is wondering about Angie. Had she been affected the same way? Amp. Bree has hinted more than once that he was a druggie. ‘Angie. Is she . . . still, you know, using drugs?’

  Bree chooses to be offended. ‘I’m talking about me, not Angie. I thought we were mates.’

  ‘So we are.’ George hadn’t meant to upset her. ‘It’s just that I’m worried for Rory.’

  ‘Ange always falls on her feet.’ Bree sounds resentful. ‘And I don’t think she’s been using much since Rory.’ She begins to sniffle like a child. ‘It’s my life that’s a mess.’

  George takes her empty bottle. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Thirty-five.’

  ‘And the rest.’

  ‘Forty-two. Honest.’

  She looks even older sometimes. The rain stops as suddenly as it had started. He’s glad to cut the conversation short. ‘Help me get Rory into the car. I’ll drive you home.’

  The look she gives him is clear, even to someone as straight as George. ‘I could stay the night.’ She even puts her arms around his neck.

  Alarmed, George feels a flicker of desire. She’s an attractive woman, in her own way. Knows well enough what she’s doing. But she’s just told him she’s messed up, depressed. What she wants, needs, is comfort, and George is too honest and too decent to take advantage.

  ‘I’m flattered,’ he says, disentangling himself as gently as he can. ‘Really I am. But I’m close to twice your age. You can do a lot better than me.’

  ‘Pity.’ Bree is mildly regretful but not offended. ‘Probably for the best. We still mates?’

  ‘If I was twenty years younger . . .’