‘Okay, okay.’ She opens the door a splinter and drags him through.
Oscar folds his arms and frowns. ‘Not with you here.’
‘I won’t look.’ She dutifully turns her back. ‘I promise.’
‘I’m not going with you in here.’
‘I used to change your nappies, for goodness sake.’
‘I’m not going with you here.’ The voice is getting louder, a tantrum brewing. ‘Shit, Oscar, I won’t look. Now go to the bloody toilet.’
‘You don’t want that man out there to see you, do you?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Because he loves you, and that’s naughty and I’m going to tell Dad if you don’t get out now, now, now.’
What choice does she have?
Julia tiptoes out the back door, and manages to make it across the yard, without being seen. Of course, she will look suspicious, running off. If she was innocent, if she had nothing to hide, she would stay and chat to Tom, offer him some pancakes, act like his presence was no big deal, instead of the baritone of his voice sending waves of emotion through her body.
She stands, uncertain, in the shade of the peach tree, the same tree she kissed Tom under a few nights ago, and tries to see in the kitchen window. It reflects the sky, uselessly. Oscar and Amber come into the back garden, singing the Hungry Jacks jingle — she lets them watch far too much television — and then begin to throw stones at the shed window. She should shout at them to stop, but it might give away her hiding spot.
Fearful of snakes, she squeezes through the barbed-wire fence at the back of their property, and walks carefully across the neighbour’s paddock, through the overgrown grass, past the curious cows.
When Julia reaches town, she sits on one of the metal benches outside the information centre that is never open and combs her fingers through her hair. What is she doing? It’s comical, it really is. Running away from home, leaving her husband and motherin-law to entertain her confused would-be lover.
She watches the man from the bargain shop carry a box outside. It’s filled with rolls of Christmas wrapping paper. Two dollars each!!! Bargain!!! He straightens up and puts his hands in the small of his back, like a pregnant woman, stares into space for a moment and then returns inside. There are no customers today.
Without thinking, she gets on a bus in her sneakers and floppy tracksuit pants, wearing no make-up. She asks the driver if she can pay him tomorrow and he pats her arm like she’s an old woman and says, Of course, love. Then she takes the long trip into the city.
Once there, she heads to Lauren’s house. She rings the doorbell and waits, for what seems like an eternity, for someone to answer; first standing in the shade and then sitting on the grass verge, pulling at daisy petals. Eventually, after she’s annihilated the daisies in a three-foot radius, she gets to her feet and makes the half hour walk to her old house.
There she stands, to one side, next to a tree, noting the changes. The new couple have painted the window frames; replaced the Royal Purple with a much nicer cream. There are knee-high terracotta pots on either side of the front door, tumbling with red geraniums, a boot stand, brass numbers shining. It seems weird that she isn’t allowed inside this house anymore.
She ignores the skin chafing at the back of her heels and walks three blocks to the tram stop, where she catches a tram into Carlton.
The place is as close to perfect as she can imagine. Delicious coffee, heavenly cakes, restaurants smelling of garlic and red wine, the top of the city peeking over the shops. Italian clothes and beautiful people. She misses this old life with deep longing in her heart. And worse still she can’t even afford a coffee.
She no longer belongs here.
Look at what she is wearing, it’s a disgrace. She would never have stepped outside the front door looking like this once upon a time. There is even a stain on the left thigh of her track pants. Is that coffee? She leans closer. Syrup, perhaps?
‘Julia?’
The sound of her name makes her freeze.
There they are. The dancers. At a table outside Brunetti, immaculately slender with perfect posture, dressed in elegant clothes, sipping on café lattes. Sophie Orman, Tania McElroy and Lauren Haigh, her dearest friend, who is looking at Julia as though she’s just turned into a cockroach in front of their table.
‘Julia? Good lord.’
‘Hi guys.’ Julia fakes a casual laugh. ‘I went to your house earlier, Lauren, but you weren’t there. I was going to see if I could borrow some clothes, you know …’ Julia pulls out the fabric of her tracksuit pants. ‘I’d look fine in Footscray, of course.’
‘I doubt you’d look fine anywhere,’ says Tania.
‘Sit down.’ Lauren quickly pulls out a chair for her. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Sure, I just forgot to put on make-up.’
‘You look like you fell out of one of the commission flat windows,’ Lauren says. ‘Is this what having sex with a farmer does to you?’
Sophie and Tania lean forward in their seats, keen for gossip.
‘No, no, I never got around to doing that. I came out of the house quickly, that’s all. I didn’t have a chance to get changed or anything.’
Sophie gets to her feet. ‘You need a coffee.’
‘Didn’t I warn you?’ Lauren frowns at her. ‘I said on the phone, didn’t I, that I was worried about you. And look at you. God, look at your nails.’
Julia slides her hands off the table. Does she really look so bad though? In the country, she can collect the kids from school and do the shopping, wander around the mall, looking like this. No one even bats an eyelid at her. People wear gumboots and dirty-arsed jodhpurs and hole-ridden sweaters.
Sophie places a flat white on the table in front of Julia and she takes a grateful sip. ‘I haven’t got any money, Soph. Sorry, I forgot my purse.’
‘It’s on me.’
‘I’ll send you the money.’
‘Forget it, Julia. It’s just a coffee.’
Lauren narrows her eyes. ‘Bryant isn’t beating you, is he?’
‘No. God, no.’
While Julia drinks, taking small sips so that the coffee will last longer, the women discuss their lives. They talk about ballet, naturally. They discuss the intricacies of recent performances, and what the Artistic Director was overheard saying to one of the choreologists. They mention the new male dancer from Sydney; how gorgeous he is and they speculate if he’s gay. They discuss a choreographer Julia’s never heard of, they laugh about parties she wasn’t invited to and complain about their weight, injuries, diets. As they talk, Julia can feel them inching away from her, like a boat slowly, but inexorably, leaving the pier.
‘So, Julia,’ Sophie says. ‘How is Bryant’s yoga school coming along?’
‘Brilliant, thanks.’
‘Really? You wouldn’t think there would be much demand for it up that way.’
‘Well, his classes are packed.’ A lie, so what?
‘Excellent. By the way, we’re having a dinner party Friday night, if you want to come. Although it might be too far for you to drive. You know, at night.’
‘Just an hour and forty minutes.’
But does Julia want to be part of this world anymore? She sees it clearly for the first time. Perfect on the surface, but requiring so much effort. Julia simply doesn’t have it in her anymore.
She gets to her feet and hugs each woman in turn, taking one last lungful of their expensive perfumes. She thanks Sophie for the coffee, which has lifted her spirits more than a sunny day in the middle of a Melbourne winter.
Lauren squeezes her hand before she leaves. ‘Do you want some money, Julia?’
‘Thanks for asking, but I’m fine. And I promise, next time I come to town, I’ll dress more appropriately.’
Julia’s feet are gritty and blistered from walking already, but the pain is not so bad now. She no longer feels self-conscious in her shabby clothing, just grateful to be going home. Risking a hefty fine, she hops on another tram, w
ithout money or ticket, standing close to the exit in case the inspectors get on, and rides it five stops to the bus terminal.
Once there, she climbs on the country bus and is overjoyed to discover the same driver who took her to Melbourne earlier in the day. Before she can stop herself, she has given him a hug.
‘Hey, that’s nice.’ He pats her back. ‘Did you have a good time?’
‘Um … yes.’
He smiles. It’s obvious she’s lying. But being a gent, he turns in his chair, gestures to the rows of mostly empty seats, and says, ‘Take a seat, pet, and I’ll drive you back home to Lovely.’
Tom
Mother sits at the kitchen table and flicks through a Kmart catalogue, one hand guarding a cup of tea. The screen door is open and a squadron of blowflies circles the stove and crashes kamikaze-style against the windows.
‘What made you fall in love with Dad?’
She looks at me as though horns have sprouted from the top of my head. ‘You’re letting all the flies in.’
I close the flyscreen and ask her the question again.
She tuts in irritation. ‘What a fool of a question. How would I know such a thing?’
I remain standing, watching her. ‘But you married him.’
‘There comes a time, eventually, when a woman just says yes, when she’s asked, that’s all.’
‘Did Dad think about you all the time?’
She slaps the model’s face in the catalogue. ‘How in God’s name would I know a thing like that? Now, get out and see to the farm.’
‘I want to see Dad.’
She looks at me sharply. ‘You’re not to go anywhere near him.’
‘I bet he wants to see me.’
She stands up and aims her finger at my face. ‘You will stay away from him, Tom Leadbetter. Do you hear me?’
I could argue, but what’s the point. It won’t get me any closer to him. Instead, I put together a Vegemite and cheese sandwich, take it outside and eat it one-handed, as I round up the cows.
It takes longer to milk them when your heart is injured. All I want is an empty mind. No thoughts of Julia. To think of her puts a painful yearning into every cell of my body. To think of her staying with Bryant makes me want to punch Wilson again.
I remember to flush and clean the lines this time. I inject antibiotics into the teats of the remaining cows with mastitis and herd them all back into the paddock.
Then, I plunge into the dam. At first I try to drown, but the water refuses to have me and pushes me back to the surface. The water is cold and brown and laps against my ears. I could stay here forever. The sun lies in yellow fingers through the trees, mottling my body with light.
Simon. It is Mother’s voice that calls the name. I turn over in the water expecting to see her standing on the edge, but there is no one there. I swim over to the edge of the dam, pull a couple of leeches off my thighs and put clothes on over my wet body. I used to have a dream years ago, so long I can barely remember it, of a blond-haired boy opening and closing his mouth like a fish. His face is a blur now, but I remember that he used to hold out his hands to me, palms upward, as though in friendship. There are tears on my cheeks as I walk back to the house. Mother will know.
Back in the kitchen she hasn’t moved from where I last saw her, although the catalogue is now closed.
‘Who’s Simon?’ I ask.
She closes her eyes and breathes through her nose. ‘For heaven’s sake Tom, how many times must I tell you?’
‘What. You haven’t told me.’ A painful hook catches my heart, threatens to rip, and for a moment I… I can’t breathe. ‘At least I can’t remember.’
‘Or refuse to remember,’ she replies.
‘No.’ My voice is filled with tears. ‘I’m trying.’
‘You already know who Simon is,’ she says wearily, like I’m stubbornly trying not to find something that is right in front of my nose.
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Your brother,’ she says, shaking her head at me. ‘Your brother, Simon.’
I blink at her, trying to force my mind to remember.
‘You were thirteen,’ she says. ‘You were going through a stage of destruction. We lost a season’s worth of hay and chaff when you set off firecrackers in the feed shed. You crashed Dad’s car — twice. It was like you wanted to detonate yourself.’
I shake my head. She’s making this up.
‘But you weren’t happy destroying yourself, were you, Tom? You wanted to take everyone else with you.’
I don’t believe her lies, but I can’t turn away from them either.
‘You invited some school friends around. The policeman said the brew you concocted was so lethal it was amazing it didn’t disintegrate the bucket it was made in.’ She’s saying this like a news reader, detached, emotionless. ‘Vanilla essence, whisky, methylated spirits and beer. Simon and the other kids didn’t stand a chance.’
Mother’s eyes are unnaturally bright. ‘You all went into the middle of the dam on a raft you made out of truck tyres and palings. I heard the cries, you know, from here. We were watching a game show on TV and I remember turning to your father and saying, What do you think that noise was, and he’d said, Birds?
‘But it was you, flailing about on the edge of the dam like a yabby on a hook, vomiting pure spirits.’ She laughs and I see that she has finally laid her hatred bare, spread it between us like a map for me to view at last. ‘Not only did you take away my chance of having another child when you were born, but you took Simon from me. And the futures of those two other boys.’
‘It’s not true.’ But it has to be, if she says so.
‘That’s why I hate you so much,’ she says matter-of-factly. ‘Why I wish you were dead and buried instead of my angel. Why I hope you suffer every single day of your miserable life.’ She swallows the last dregs of her tea and bangs down the cup.
Julia
Walking around the supermarket, loading her trolley on autopilot, Julia tries to think of some way of making things work. Perhaps this whole affair thing is a mistake. It’s certainly taking up a lot more energy than she expected. And they haven’t even had sex yet. She feels like a wreck. Does everyone feel this anxious when they’re cheating? Lauren always seemed buoyant.
Perhaps Julia should concede defeat. She isn’t affair material, obviously; her heart is too timid, her soul too uptight. Although she has to admit there is something wild and unpredictable about Tom. Untamed. It attracts and scares her at the same time. Perhaps having an affair with a barista or accountant or the guy next door would have been a safer option.
By the time she reaches the dairy display, she can hear him. She stands still a moment, trying to work out which direction the sound is coming from. She heads towards the tea and coffee aisle with caution. Tom is there, beside the hibiscus tea sale box. He doesn’t appear to be shopping.
Julia’s heart falls out of beat and starts up a crazy rhythm of its own. ‘What are you doing here?’ she says, under her breath, checking the aisle for other shoppers. ‘Someone might see us.’
‘Why didn’t you tell him?’ Tom’s usually tanned face is pale. His hands twitch at his sides. ‘I thought you were leaving him.’
‘I can’t leave Bryant.’ She clears her throat and says, in a quieter tone, ‘We’ve got kids.’
‘But I thought we were going to be together.’
Tom’s voice is getting louder. She imagines the checkout girls listening, the deli guy lowering his mobile phone, curious. Someone in the next aisle is rustling chip packets.
‘We mustn’t talk here,’ she says, in a whisper. ‘My car is parked out back. Meet me there.’
But he doesn’t leave. He moves closer. ‘Everything is falling apart, Julia,’ he says. ‘And I can’t stop it.’ His pupils are unnaturally dilated. His sound is swelling like waves.
‘Tom, what’s the matter?’
He leans towards her. ‘What if I’d done something really bad?’
‘Like what?’ Her hands are cold on the trolley.
‘Burned a shed. Crashed a car.’ He swallows. ‘Or killed someone.’
His words are a slap. She keeps a smile on her face, but internally she’s shrinking. Has Tom really killed someone? No, surely not. She clears her throat. ‘Are you talking hypothetically?’
He sways beside her, like he’s on a boat, eyes shut. His shoulder crashes into the display of beverages and that begins to sway too. Packets of coffee and drinking chocolate tumble off the shelf and onto the floor around them.
As Julia holds out her hands to steady him, a trolley turns into their aisle, and she notices, with a trembling in her stomach, that it’s being wheeled by the local GP, Phillip Barchester.
Phillip ignores the mess at her feet, although she can tell from his expression that he’s made a mental note of her and Tom together, and takes a packet of green tea off the shelf. Clearing his throat, he complains about the run of hot days they’ve had lately.
Julia smiles and makes some inane comment about needing rain. She pretends to study the ingredients on a carton of soy milk as Phillip passes.
When she looks up again, Tom is nowhere to be seen. She dumps the carton of soy milk in the trolley; she hates soy milk. She leaves the trolley next to the mess on the floor. And hurries from the supermarket without buying anything.
By the time she gets home, she is trembling inside. She closes all the doors and windows, and sits on the couch. She won’t leave the house. She makes Bryant go back for the grocery shopping, feigning a headache. Quiet at first, she hears Tom’s song in the distance, coming towards her. Growing louder. Ever nearer.
Soon she can hear him outside the house, in the bushes. Calling to her. The sweetest hymn that curls through the gaps in the house’s seams and into her veins. She walks unsteadily into the lounge room, delirious with longing. His song weaves through the floorboards, beneath her, sending her atoms into frenzy. Resistance is what hurts, she realises; if she went to him, if she surrendered, the pain would be assuaged.
With eyes shut, she imagines the weight of his body, bearing down on her, keeping the terrified places in her firm and safe. She imagines what it would be like to be filled with Tom. In the way Bryant has never filled her.
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