by Joy Dettman
Bernard signed it, printed the name of his hotel, his room number, then sealed it in Lorna’s supplied, stamped, addressed envelope.
‘Perhaps we shouldn’t,’ Margaret said, and an arrow pierced Bernard’s heart. ‘Shouldn’t post it in that envelope,’ she added. ‘Lorna’s handwriting is very distinctive.’
Bernard took the tram back to his hotel at four. Margaret returned home with her darling boy, where, blushing, she handed the folded page to Vern, and later called a taxi.
Vern found his prospective son-in-law short on inches and common sense — and perhaps a perfect match for Margaret. Unbeknown to Lorna, Vern’s final will and testament was written, signed, sealed, locked safe in the solicitor’s vault, and his solicitor instructed to get to work on the adoption papers. Only a formality; the boy’s mother had relinquished him in ’47. As had Jim — more or less.
On the third Wednesday in May of 1951, while the grey shark mourned the sprat that had got away by disappearing from his fourth-rate hotel, a smiling little couple met out front of the Melbourne registry office, where the deed was done. After a fine dinner and two glasses of wine — for courage — they caught a tram to Balwyn to break the news to Lorna.
Vern and his grandson spent that week at the holiday house in Frankston, which was as well. Balwyn was not a pleasant place to be. Lorna’s bitter gall rained down upon the newlyweds, submerging them. However, negotiating the raging torrent drew the odd little couple closer — by day. By night, Margaret slept in her virginal pink and white room and Bernard slept in the studio. Until the Monday night when he, venturing late to Margaret’s door, knocked, and was invited to enter. A courtly gentleman, Bernard, he took her hand to his lips. The lifted arm, the gaping armhole of her gown, the exposed portion of one astonishing breast, led to . . . a surprising fringe benefit . . .
The vociferous tirade from the third party was water off two merry ducks’ backs when they exited that not so virginal bedroom the following morning.
An arranged marriage, a marriage of convenience, call it what you will, but for Margaret, it was a breaking free. She had her final blooming in ’51. How she delighted in her married name. No more the Miss Hooper who had missed out; she was a wife. And, before her dear boy’s tenth birthday, the courts made her a mother, made Bernard a father.
‘Just try to say Mummy, my darling boy. The first time is always the hardest.’
Jenny was his mother, though she’d always been just Jenny. Michael and Peter called their mothers ‘Mummy’ or ‘Mum’.
The first time was the hardest, but he’d got his tongue around it, because Aunty Maggie wanted him to. He couldn’t call Bernard ‘Daddy’. He had one of those. He’d seen him two times.
‘I’ve had three mothers and three fathers,’ he told Michael one afternoon.
‘People can’t have three.’
‘I did. Mum, didn’t I have three mothers and fathers?’
‘I’m your mummy now, your only mummy forever and ever more,’ Margaret said.
REVELATION
On 6 February 1952, King George VI died, and Vern Hooper took a massive stroke — brought on, perhaps, by the knowl edge that a whippersnapper of a girl would now be Queen of England.
For ten days he lay paralysed and unable to speak — in a vegetive state, the doctors told his daughters.
Vegetables don’t hear. They don’t think. That term annoyed Vern. He’d never been fond of vegetables. He knew he was supposed to stop breathing and be done with it, but, uncertain of what he might find in the hereafter, and of who might be waiting for him, he wasn’t over-eager to give up sipping on oxygen, to give up thinking either, or give up wishing he’d crawled back to Gertrude one final time.
Cool hands on that woman. Always cool. He wanted to feel their touch again. If Margaret had told her he was taking his time about dying, she might get down to give him absolution.
Margaret sat with him daily. She didn’t care if vegetables could hear or not. She spoke about Queen Elizabeth, and how lovely it was to have such a pretty young woman on the throne. Lorna scoffed and prodded him with a talon to see if he was dead. She spoke to the nursing staff but not to him.
And what was the world coming to when a young wife and mother could become Queen of bloody England? Vern had been born during the reign of Queen Victoria. She’d still been squatting on the throne when he’d wed — and that poe-faced old bugger should have been enough to put him off marrying a pommy. It hadn’t. Lorna Langdon had been worth five hundred pounds a year to him, and he’d needed that five hundred the year he’d wed. Hoped she wasn’t waiting up there for him. Like her daughter, that one, she’d be waiting to cut him to shreds with her tongue.
Three times he’d vowed to love, honour and Christ only knows what else. He’d taken those vows for money twice and for his reputation once. Only his last, only Joanne, had given him a son. Always too much of her in that boy. She’d been addicted to doctors when he’d wed her, had spent a fortune on doctors during their marriage, and in the end had died on the operating table.
He’d done his best to stay out of the doctors’ clutches, and for much of his life had succeeded. They had him now.
Another dose of oxygen sipped and his mind turned to the fortune he’d paid out to doctors since Jim had been brought home. The desire to live had to be born into a man, along with the will to keep going, no matter how hard the road he walked, just to keep limping along it to the next corner. Who knew what was around the next corner.
He got me a grandson. A man has to be thankful for that, Vern thought. Blood, and the continuity of the blood line, was all there was when it came to the end. A man begot his son, and his son begot a son, and one day Jimmy would do his own begetting. That’s all that counted in the end, the begetting.
Vern had never worked his way much beyond all of the begetting in the Bible. Maybe he should have persevered. He’d had too many demands on his time, and by the time he hadn’t, the small print had buggered up his eyes. Anyway, there had to be more to being judged a decent man than making a knee to a bloke who had so little faith in his flock, he’d hidden his face from them for two thousand years.
I’ve lived a decent life, more or less, Vern thought. I’ve done no real harm to anyone — disregarding that hot pants little bitch — but no grandson of mine was going to grow up a bastard.
Never give an inch if you’re in the right, lad. Fight to the death if you’re in the right, old Pop Hooper used to say.
Vern had lived life by his grandfather’s set of rules, and, whether upstairs or down, he’d be waiting to shake his hand. Jesus mightn’t — if he was up there. Vern sucked in another breath, just in case He was up there waiting to throw the book at him.
It was just putting off the inevitable though. Jimmy was safe. The will was in order.
Lorna wouldn’t like it. A man ought to consider himself lucky that he wouldn’t be around to see how much she didn’t like it. A dominating bugger of a woman that one. She’d ruled Margaret for most of her life; had attempted to rule him since he’d handed over his car keys. Dominating women needed to be kept down or they’d take over the bloody world.
Someone was nearby. He could feel them. He hoped it was Gertrude. Hoped Margaret had told her. Craved the touch of her hands. Just one last time. Craved her mouth. He’d give up his final breath to her kiss. Loved that independent bugger of a woman.
I should have gone against you, you mean old pommy bugger. I should have married her. What a dynasty of Hoopers we might have bred between us. It’s your fault I ended up with . . . what I ended up with . . .
An eye for an eye. That hot pants little half-dago bitch had taken his son so he’d taken hers.
Old Pop Hooper used to be big on An eye for an eye. He used to say it was in the Bible. Anyway, if Jesus was up there compiling his list, then the saving of a grandson ought to be on the plus side not the minus.
He’ll be the first good-looking Hooper. A pity I won’t see him grow. Margaret is d
oing a damn fine job with him. A good mother, a good daughter too — if not mine.
Wouldn’t it be a lark if he got upstairs, where all questions were finally answered, and found out he’d been wrong all along about Margaret? She had the Hoopers’ staying power. She had their desire to win.
I could have done a lot worse.
A breath sighed out and he thought about Gertrude and what she used to say about her time in India, how the folk there had looked on a river as one of their gods. He liked rivers, liked the idea of a river god, just flowing on down to the ocean, being picked up as rain, and flowing on down again. It seemed more logical than a bearded old bloke threatening hellfire and brimstone.
Gertrude used to say the Indians believed that folk didn’t die, they just left one life and came right back to have another go at getting it right. ‘I’m coming back as a man next time around,’ she’d said. ‘And with any sort of luck, you’ll come back as a woman.’
Bloody hell! That was it. That’s what hell was!
The revelation took Vern’s breath away, though no one noticed until a nurse came in later to take his temperature at eleven ten on Monday, 17 February.
When the telephone rang in Balwyn, Margaret was at the clothes line, hanging Vern’s oversized pyjama pants. Lorna took the call from the hospital. Five hours passed before Vern’s matching pyjama shirt, maroon with a blue stripe, was hung. Never again would Margaret wash her father’s pyjamas. She wiped a tear.
Still, one must look on the bright side; one must be pleased for him that he’d gone so easily. Many strong men lingered on in their beds for months, and how he would have loathed that, she thought.
She picked up her laundry basket, her peg bag, and took the longer path around the garden to her laundry. The perfume of damp earth, wet leaves and mowed lawn was intoxicating after the rain. She loved her garden, her house, its position, adored it, but an hour ago — fifteen minutes after Lorna had taken to her bed with a migraine — Margaret had called two estate agents, asking each to give her a valuation on the house. Before she’d come out to the clothes line, a chap from Fletcher & Parker had returned her call, eager to arrange a time.
The house was situated in a quiet street where ancient elms grew tall, spreading their greenery over the road and high brick fence. Vern had bought the property for a veritable song, as he’d bought several other properties during the depression. In ’48, when they’d moved in, Vern’s sister-in-law had lived next door. She’d passed on five months ago and her house had sold for an astonishing figure. Balwyn was now considered a prime residential address.
Margaret hadn’t seen Vern’s latest will, but she wasn’t expecting any surprises. Ian Hooper, her cousin, would be the executor. He’d been so supportive since Vern’s stroke, and again today. He’d offered to drive out and let Jim know. The funeral, of course, would be in Woody Creek.
It saddened her that her beautiful boy could not attend his dear grandpa’s funeral, but it was out of the question. He’d taken the news well. She’d prepared him when they’d learnt the serious nature of the stroke.
‘Grandpa is sleeping at the hospital, waiting for the angels to come and carry him home to heaven,’ she’d said. ‘How pleased he’ll be to be with Grandmother Joanne. She’s been waiting for him for such a long, long time.’
‘What did she die of, Mum?’
‘She became very ill when your father was younger than you, darling. The doctors tried very hard to make her better.’
One death raises memory of others. He’d asked how his other family had died.
She flinched each time he mentioned his former family, flinched from the lie she’d told him during their time at the city hotel — a difficult time, and at the time, according to Vern, the Morrison girl had been at death’s door.
‘I believe it was a very nasty pneumonic influenza.’
‘I had it, but I didn’t die.’
‘You were so precious to your grandpa, he drove you all the way to Melbourne where he found the best doctors. Do you remember the doctor who came to the hotel?’
He remembered. ‘Did . . . did my other granny die of it too?’
‘We must try to be very quiet today, darling. Aunt Lorna has one of her headaches and is sleeping.’
‘Can I ride my bike down to Michael’s?’
Far better he be at play today with rowdy boys than asking questions she found difficult to answer.
‘Ride on the footpath,’ she’d said.
She stood with her laundry basket, surveying her garden. The old farm rose had a few buds; they’d be open by Friday. Her father had loved that rose. She’d take a bunch of its blooms with her on Friday.
Most of his rose cuttings had done well in Melbourne, though their flowers were not as vibrant in colour as they had been in Woody Creek. Different soil. Different weather.
She glanced at the sky, cloud-covered this morning but only blue overhead now and the sun with a sting in it. A typical Melbourne day: intermittent showers all morning, but a fine afternoon — a little like Margaret’s own life. There had been so much rain in her early morning, but such a wonderful afternoon.
She’d come late to motherhood, though since the day she’d first held Jim’s boy in her arms, she’d known God had meant him for her own. He had Jim’s long limbs, his wide mouth and something of the Hooper jaw. There was much of the mother in his face, her eyes, her fine features, but had he been the green child of a Martian, Margaret would have adored him. A long-buried instinct to mother had emerged to fill her, to flood her life with joy.
Lorna cared for the boy as she may have cared for any hardfought-for possession. She’d been born with Vern’s desire to control, and had near lost control when the call came from the hospital. Never had Margaret known her sister to express any real emotion. She abhorred Margaret’s tears, disapproved of her laughter, but, Lord, how she’d smiled the morning she’d returned home from her petrol-buying excursion with the singlet-clad, towel-wrapped boy. She’d presented him to Vern like some sporting trophy.
What a day that had been, a fearful day. Within minutes, they’d been on the road to Willama. The hospital bursting at the seams, Doctor Frazer had suggested they take the child home. Lorna had suggested Melbourne.
Children are quick to sicken and as quick to recover. How he’d screamed for the squalor from which they’d saved him. Her lie had been born of desperation and lack of sleep.
‘Jenny has gone to live with the angels,’ she’d said. ‘You’re going to live with Aunty Maggie and Grandpa now.’
They’d moved from the hotel to the Frankston holiday house, where, for days at a time, she’d been left to manage him alone. She’d walked him down to the beach when he was strong enough, and he’d told her how he and Jenny had taken their shoes off and how the waves had chased their feet up the sand. Margaret had taken her shoes off, then his, and he’d allowed her to hold his hand while they’d played chasey with the waves.
She’d claimed him when he was five months old, the day she’d saved him from a hornet out front of Blunt’s shop. During their weeks in Frankston, he’d claimed her.
Keeping her head low, Margaret crept by Lorna’s bedroom window. The blinds were pulled. Lorna was unable to tolerate the light when she had a migraine. The laundry basket and peg bag placed down, Margaret stood a moment looking at the studio. She’d told the estate agent that it had previously been utilised as living quarters for servants; that, with little money spent, it could be made into comfortable living quarters for a couple, which should add more value to the property.
‘Lord,’ she whispered, clapping her hands to her cheeks, chastising herself for her mercenary thought. Of course she mourned her father. She’d wept when the hospital called. During this past week, she’d sat daily at his bedside, not wanting him to die alone. He had, and there was nothing to be done about it, and now she must look to the future.
And what a future.
A moss-covered brick path led down to the studio, ov
erhung by trees; a treacherous path after rain. She placed her feet carefully, tapped gently on the closed door then opened it. She didn’t enter. The smell of paint and turpentine permeated the air within.
‘Lorna out yet?’ the artist asked, glancing up from his palette.
‘Not yet. Hopefully she’ll feel better tomorrow.’
She watched Bernard slash a blue blob with a brush full of black. What on earth would emerge from that daubing, she did not know. He was a modern artist. She didn’t understand modern art.
‘A pity you couldn’t bury him down here,’ Bernard said.
Margaret hadn’t been back to Woody Creek since ’47 and was not looking forward to running into the Morrison girl, of having her make a scene at the grave side.
‘It’s what he wished. We will follow his wishes to the letter.’
‘I don’t envy you.’
‘No. It’s a long trip.’
‘I was thinking of Lorna,’ he said.
‘Oh. She’ll be fine on Friday.’ She stood watching the brush slosh white on black, then slide down, drawing a spiralling tail of blueish-grey. ‘The will won’t be read until after the funeral,’ she said.
Lorna lay on her brown spinster bed, staring dry-eyed at the ceiling, a nest of fire ants feasting on her brain. She hadn’t seen the will. She was afraid she’d handed those cretins the sword with which to smite her.
GUARD OF HONOUR
Put a red north wind behind a fire in a eucalypt forest and there’s hell on earth. The state burned again in February of ’52; Woody Creek lost fifty acres of timber out behind the slaughter yards. A few of those blackened trees would die; most would be sprouting in a month or two, seeds at their feet would stir. That’s the way it was with the eucalypt, the way it had always been, the young sucking nutrients from the ashes of their forebears, and, with them out of the way, finding space to grow. That was life: the old making way for the new.