by Peter Barry
‘But only in summer. They’ll only want to go to the beach in summer.’
‘No, all year round.’ He carried straight on, ignoring her hesitations, as if he could already sense victory and was not going to be slowed down by any hurdle she might attempt to place in his path. ‘Three. You’ll be closer to your parents. Four. Things are going really well at work. I practically run the Bauer account. Murray is no more than a figurehead now. Either he’ll soon step aside, or I’ll get a salary increase, or both.’
His arguments rolled over her, like waves, pounding her with their inexorable logic.
‘Five. It will be a much healthier environment than Crows Nest in which to bring up Tim – and his brother or sister.’
She raised her eyebrows, startled, her interest suddenly aroused. ‘You’ve been talking to my mother.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She said that – exactly that.’ She held out her empty glass to him. ‘I need some more wine.’ She wanted time to think about what he’d said, to come up with some answers. He disappeared into the kitchen.
She was beginning to appreciate how important the house was to him. He’d told her often enough how their Crows Nest terrace house reminded him of Manchester, where he was born. Not as industrial, but cramped and dirty nevertheless. ‘Everyone lived on top of everyone else, and I don’t want to live like that for the rest of my life. I want fresh air, open spaces. I want to live in the country.’ A house on a hill, overlooking the Pacific, with a sweeping lawn, a verandah and four bedrooms, was something he would never have dreamt of as a child. It was something his parents would never have dreamt of. It was the Australian dream writ large, and she suspected it represented to Hugh, not just visible proof of his success but, more importantly, freedom and security. To him, Crows Nest was a house, Stanwell Park would be a home.
He called through from the kitchen, ‘And number six – or is it seven? – we’ll have space! Look at our sitting room. If we had a cat, I wouldn’t have enough space to swing it.’ She looked around the small room. It was true: there was so much furniture it was hard to see the floor. ‘But we haven’t got a cat,’ she called back. Keen to get in the last word, he replied, ‘Only because there isn’t enough room to swing one.’
What she found most difficult to appreciate, or admit to, was what the house might mean to her. There was something about it that did appeal, most definitely. It would be an unarguable statement of their success, and its very solidity, size and position, would leave no one in any doubt that she and Hugh had arrived. And in some kind of perverse way, in a way that she felt was at odds with her image of herself as an artist and a free spirit, this did attract her. She could have a real studio there, a room flooded with light, and invite local artists round, possibly even hold soirées.
When he came back into the room, she said, ‘I still think we should wait, until we have more money.’
He closed his eyes as if exasperated. It so annoyed her when he did that, as if he barely had the patience to deal with her doubts. ‘Katie, the people who become rich are the people who stretch themselves. We’ve been overly cautious in the past. The reality is, we should consider buying Stanwell Park and keeping this house at the same time – renting it out. That’s how we’d make real money.’
She was shocked, almost disbelieving. ‘You can’t be serious. You’re beginning to sound like my father. We can’t possibly afford to do that.’
‘Well, that’s what we should be doing – if we had the money.’ He took her free hand, leaning forward to look into her eyes. She avoided his gaze. ‘I don’t want to spend the rest of my life working for other people, darling. I want to make money while we’re still young. Everyone is making a fortune on property at the moment. It’s going through the roof. I don’t want us to miss out.’
‘We’ve done all right with this house.’
‘We have. It’s gone up by about seventy-five per cent since we bought it. But we’d have done better if we’d had two houses, if we’d speculated a little.’
She was torn when he spoke like this. Although she liked the comforts that money brought, she also liked to feel she wasn’t dependent on them. She didn’t want to be a rabid accumulator like her parents, but she was fond of eating out when they felt like it, enjoying her glass of good wine at night, holidays overseas every year, even a decent car. It was little different to how she felt about Hugh’s work: he earned good money in advertising, but she didn’t like it when he began to sound like one of his colleagues, as he did now when he spoke about the merits of becoming a property magnate. She’d fallen in love with him because of his streak of naïveté, his innocence, because he wasn’t, in her eyes at least, a typical advertising person. She didn’t see him as hard-bitten and cynical like most of the people she’d met in his profession. He had soul. She felt he was the kind of man an artist like herself could marry without betraying her inner self.
‘Why can’t we be satisfied with what we have? Why this sudden need for more? We used to be happy with what we had – remember that? When we used to criticise our friends for always talking about property prices and the stock market and the assets they’d accumulated?’
‘Kate, I’m still like that. I haven’t changed. I simply want enough money not to have to worry about money, that’s all. I hate money and I hate talking about it, but I also hate never having enough. This isn’t being greedy, it’s being realistic.’
‘But we have enough. Compared to most people we’re really well off.’
‘So long as I work until I drop.’
She knew that he should be the one saying what she was saying, that they were comfortable as they were. After his upbringing in the industrial heartland of Britain, he should surely be the one looking around him now and saying, we don’t want for anything, we’re doing very nicely thank you, far better than I could ever have imagined coming from my background. Whereas she had never wanted for anything in her life. Her parents, by most people’s standards, were rich. Her father had retired at fifty-five and was still living more comfortably than at least ninety per cent of the population.
‘I’m concerned this property boom isn’t going to last. It can’t last forever.’
‘You realise how long people have been saying that? Forever! This one has a long way to go yet. Paul Skirrow – you know, one of the Board directors at work – is a bit of a property wiz and he reckons this boom won’t end.’
‘That’s nonsense. Every property boom ends.’
‘He told me that with the number of migrants flooding into the country – something like three jumbo jets a week – the demand for property will remain high for years, even decades. Builders can’t keep up with demand. So long as you buy quality, you can’t go wrong. And the Stanwell Park property is quality. It’ll never fall in value. Not when you look at its location and its proximity to the city. We can’t lose with a house like that.’
She felt it was futile to argue with him at times like this and, anyway, did she care that much? Money had never held any interest for her because she’d always had it. Only people without money worried about it. If this property was so important to him, maybe she should just give way gracefully. It would be so much easier. ‘I’m tired,’ she said. ‘I’ll get us something to eat.’
‘I think we should sleep on it.’ Those had been his last words on the subject that evening. He’d buried a seed in her mind with the sole intention of keeping her awake most of the night and finally having her won over to his point of view by morning. By and large, he was successful.
* * *
Her glass of wine was empty. The sun had sunk behind the hills above the town, and her spirits had sunk with it. Apart from the light from a small lamp on a side table in a far corner of the room, she was sitting in almost darkness. Outside, there was absolute silence. There was no wind, there were no waves, and there was certainly no traffic. The roar from the Pacific Highway was no longer a part of her life. That, she had worked out some time a
go now, was what they were paying for: silence. And she wasn’t sure, in her own mind, that it was worth that much. She felt unusually heavy and tired, very much as she had felt those eighteen months ago in Crows Nest. She was brought back to the present by the sound of her husband walking down the corridor and into the kitchen. She decided to escape up to bed, to avoid him. She didn’t want to argue with him yet again about his being late back from work. And she wasn’t sure there was anything else she wanted to talk to him about.
3
He woke up to find Tim clambering across Kate and settling, without a sound, his back to Hugh, like a foetus between them. Hugh rolled onto his side and edged forward so that he could snuggle up against his son. Such occasions were possibly the best part of his day; to be cocooned within that warmth and softness, to become part of such abandoned intimacy, that was how he felt a family should be. Yet it occurred so rarely. Within minutes all three were again asleep.
When he woke, it was still barely light. He willed himself to disengage from the sleeping bodies at his side and slip out from beneath the duvet. He crept from the room.
Five minutes later he was out of the house and running down the road towards the beach. With the exception of someone walking a dog in the distance, there was no one around. He ran on the soft sand, half way between the breaking waves and the coarse grass that straggled across the dunes at the top of the beach. Someone had once told him it was twice as difficult and therefore, at least in his mind, twice as good for you as running on a hard surface. Against the vast backdrop of sea and sky, the sparkling, almost blinding white spray lying low against the rapidly lightening blue above, he became a disconnected being, blank, unthinking, and wonderfully insignificant. Running towards the headland, attempting to put as great a distance as possible between himself and the demands that everyone – Russell, Murray, Dieter, Kate, Tim, his in-laws, even his own son – were always making of him, he couldn’t help feeling that they were still there, just over his shoulder, in relentless pursuit.
At the end of the beach, where the cliff, as if on some capricious fancy, had decided to suddenly curl around and dive headlong into the ocean, he threw off his running gear and ran into the water. He didn’t go far out. He was naturally cautious, never having overcome his English awareness (bordering on fear) of the rips and sharks that his imagination told him were waiting to attack him just a few metres out from the Australian shore. He swam a steady crawl parallel to the beach, keeping well within his depth. The waves continually swept him up and tried to push him back towards the beach, and he had to struggle not to be dumped on the sand. Back on the beach, he dabbed himself half dry with his T-shirt, struggled into his shorts and running shoes and set off back along the beach. At the house, after showering, he crept into their bedroom. There were giggles from under the bedclothes. He leapt on top of the smaller of the giggles, and a shrieking three-year old wriggled out to throw his arms around his father’s neck. ‘If you come downstairs with me, young man, I’ll get you some cereal.’
‘Can I watch TV while I eat my breakfast?’
‘What does your mother think?’
‘His mother thinks that’s a brilliant idea, then she can enjoy a cup of tea in peace and quiet.’
He carried Tim downstairs, and left him in front of the television with a bowl of cereal. He took a tray back to the bedroom with two cups of tea, some toast and marmalade, and the Sydney Morning Herald. They sat side by side against the head of the bed, Kate staring out of the window, Hugh flicking through the newspaper. It was as if they’d agreed, without a word, not to mention his getting home late the evening before, but had yet to decide what would be a safe topic of conversation. Finally, she spoke, ‘You know that café that let me display some of my paintings?’
‘Yes.’ He didn’t look up from the newspaper.
‘They’ve sold two.’
He dropped the open newspaper onto the bed. ‘That’s amazing.’
‘Well, don’t sound so surprised.’
‘I’m not. That’s really fantastic, darling. Well done.’
‘And this will make you laugh. One of their customers called me and said she’d like to buy Interiors 3 – you know, that large abstract I did a few months ago.’
‘With all those circles and rectangles?’
‘Well, it’s a bit more than that.’ Almost indignant. ‘Those circles and rectangles, as you put it, mean something, you know. But, yes, that’s the one. Only she wants it in green.’ He looked surprised. ‘It’s predominantly red at the moment, if you remember, and she’s saying it won’t go with the colour scheme in her living room.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘I hope you told her to take a running jump.’
She looked annoyed. ‘No, I didn’t, Hugh. Why should I? I told her it wasn’t a problem. I thought you’d be pleased I’m making some money from my art. You go on about it often enough.’
‘I am pleased, darling. That’s not what I meant. I was sticking up for you. I thought you wouldn’t be happy to change your original concept just to suit some stupid woman’s colour scheme.’
‘It doesn’t bother me. Why should it?’
That summed up his wife’s artistic ambitions so perfectly, he thought; the amateurish compromise that so readily overrode the declared professionalism. He’d tried hard over the years to take her painting seriously, but comments like that, about repainting canvasses to suit a buyer’s colour scheme, had slowly undermined his faith. Although Hugh was the first to admit he wasn’t an expert on art, he’d never seen any real signs of talent in his wife, yet that didn’t stop him from encouraging her. He believed that if someone felt strongly enough about being an artist (or a writer or a composer), then they should make every sacrifice to pursue their interest, even if they only regarded it as little more than a hobby. The world was overrun by people who talked about their artistic ambition, yet never did anything about it, and he was beginning to suspect Kate was one of them, that she was no more than a dabbler. Being an artist was just another part she played, like being a mother, possibly even a wife. She liked the thought of being an artist, and liked to see herself as one. It gave her a certain cachet among her friends. She carried her Moleskine notebook, the kind Picasso had used, around with her because she obviously felt it endorsed, or added weight, to her artistic ambitious. He simply felt it to be disingenuous, even pretentious. Canvasses became the articles of clothing with which she bolstered her self-esteem, no different to the paint-spattered smock she wore when dropping in for coffee at a friend’s house. ‘Jeez, I look daggy,’ she’d say, and he could see that she thought she looked cool. He could forgive her all these things, and really there was nothing to forgive, but it was the pretence he sometimes found hard to cope with.
‘I don’t think it matters what colour the canvas is, to be honest. The concept doesn’t change. That’s what’s important.’
He nodded and smiled, deciding it was best not to pursue the matter.
‘I’ve said I’ll get it to her in a month.’
‘Will it take that long to re-do?’
‘More like a couple of hours, in fact. But it will make her feel she’s getting her money’s worth if I tell her it’ll take that long.’
‘How much are you selling it for?’
‘Two and a half thousand.’
He laughed. Although it wasn’t something he’d have been comfortable doing, he had a sneaking admiration for his wife’s business sense. He picked up the newspaper again. A minute later she rolled over towards him. ‘Don’t you think you should congratulate me properly?’ She was looking up at him, smiling. She reached up and pulled his head down towards her. They kissed. He pulled back. ‘What about Tim?’
‘He’ll be happy enough in front of the TV,’ she whispered.
The newspaper slid off the bed. He pulled her nightdress over her head. He pressed both of her hands into the pillow, forcing his body against hers. She stared up at him, mouth tight, defiant, but he could see the enjoyment in
her submission. He kissed her hard on the mouth, again forcing himself on her, thrusting his tongue deep into her mouth. He wanted to hurt her. Minutes later, she pushed him off her, onto his back. She climbed above him, straddled him, breasts tantalising close to his face, as she took him in her hand, eyes already distant, biting her lower lip, then placed him there, where she wanted. He closed his eyes as she sank down onto him.
Afterwards, she said, ‘We haven’t done that for a long time.’
His lips brushed her forehead, sweaty and plastered with hair. ‘Ready to go again in five minutes?’
‘Don’t boast.’ She laughed. ‘Anyway, I couldn’t. And I don’t need to either, thank you very much.’ She kissed him briefly on the lips, then rolled sideways onto the bed, turning her head away from him to stare up at the ceiling. They listened to the faint jabberings of cartoon characters on the television downstairs. It was then that the thought came to him. Maybe it had arisen from when he was looking up at her contented smile as she knelt astride him, or maybe it was the words she’d said. Momentarily, he was tempted to say nothing because, if his suspicions were right, he knew they would argue, and was it worth spoiling their morning – which was going so pleasantly – over this?
‘Kate …’ She would notice the hesitancy and the fact he’d called her Kate, not Katie or darling. He knew that, knew that he wanted her to notice those things because then she’d realise he was being serious. She grunted an acknowledgement. ‘You’re still taking the pill, aren’t you?’
She continued to stare up at the ceiling, but a moment later swung her head round to look at him. ‘Why?’
‘You know why.’
She stared up at him, defiant, silent. She pushed him away and sat up. She was facing the end of the bed, her back half to him, hugging her knees, breasts flattened against her thighs. ‘No.’
‘What do you mean, no?’
‘What do you think I mean? I mean no – no, I am not taking the pill.’ And she swung her legs over the side of the bed, and crossed to the chair where her dressing gown was lying. Her body was still good, still firm and slim, and even though he’d seen it thousands of times he still liked looking at it.