by Lois Murphy
‘Baby talk, mate. Telly crap.’
‘Yeah, well, it’s easy, in’t it? Keep your mouth shut and we’re both safe.’
‘We could’ve been. But you’re a dickhead, Stick, if you think you can stand over me. You’ve just issued your own arrest warrant.’
I leave him leaning against his dingy porch. He’s still slumped as before, a cowboy, seemingly unperturbed, but his shoulders are set in a way that belies the tension in them.
‘Drop round any time, mate!’ he calls as I walk to the truck. ‘Door’s always open.’
I look back over the bonnet. ‘See you soon,’ I tell him.
Thankfully the truck starts first go. I keep my fingers loose on the steering wheel and the gear stick, but I cannot unclench my teeth. It’s as if I’ve got them clamped around Stick’s scrawny bloody throat.
At home I sink a beer in two swigs. I ring Milly, ask to ride with her into Woodford the next day.
Milly picks me up early. I swing an esky into the back of her ute. Gina leaps up beside Felix, and the two dogs immediately cram their noses into each other’s bums, tails wagging with delight. On the floor in the cab are a spill of library books, a thermos and a packet of Tim Tams. I hadn’t joined Milly and Li the night before, saying I’d had a shit of a day and was going to turn in early. Milly’s used to my moods, and she greets my battered morning-after face as if it’s all she expected.
‘Sleep well?’
‘Need to restock the liquor cabinet,’ I tell her. ‘Already.’
‘Thought that might be the case.’
‘I’m on a health kick, you know.’
‘It’s obviously doing you the world of good.’
I burrow my head into my jacket collar, trying to keep it as immobile as possible.
‘Anything up?’ says Milly. ‘You’ve seemed distracted lately. Since your visitor.’
‘Gloomy,’ I tell her, keeping my eyes closed. Alex’s Soon wafts in my head in time with its throbbing. A tiny word but immensely weighty when pondered at length. Was it advice, warning, threat, instruction? I badly want to talk it over with Milly, but I couldn’t give her such an undeserved burden. I have to be responsible for my own decisions; she does not ask me to stay here with her. She owes me nothing.
I’ve decided not to tell her about Stick’s little enterprise, either. He’s proving to be a vindictive little sod; it’s safer if she’s not involved in any way. I realise, though, how much I rely on talking things over with her, how sane it keeps me. Without her I feel closed in and closed up. Aside from all its other possibilities, Soon is also a very effective barrier.
Milly’s looking at me sideways. ‘Well, you’ve already found the primary cure for gloom. Next step’s in the glove box.’
I open one eye. ‘Shotgun?’
‘Panadol.’ She pauses. ‘Shotgun’s under the seat if you’d prefer it.’ She doesn’t meet my gaze. ‘I borrowed Li’s. I don’t know why, really. Just … I don’t know.’
She shrugs as if it’s nothing, but it isn’t. Milly is the only one of us who refuses to keep a gun with her. Li keeps hers in a locked built-in case behind the seats of the truck, and mine lives in one concealed under the spare wheel in my boot. Even Tom and Gail have a handgun, although Tom at the trigger would be more dangerous than anything they could possibly face. What we could ever need these guns for is unacknowledged, and Milly’s refusal to consider owning one steadfast. For her to have taken the step of borrowing Li’s is worryingly out of character.
I cough. ‘It’s only a doctor’s appointment. I’m sure he’ll renew your prescription without persuasion.’
She sniffs. ‘Bloody quack that he is. It’s not loaded, anyway.’
The Panadol does the trick. By the time we’ve been on the road an hour I’m feeling vaguely human again. As we approach the rest area eighty kilometres along the highway – our usual stop when we venture to town – Milly asks if I’m ready for coffee.
I’m ravenous. I hold up the Tim Tam packet as she digs out cups. ‘No scones?’ I say, feigning outrage.
She grimaces. ‘Joints’ve been bad.’ I notice that her skin is pallid, her eyes tired, and curse my self-absorption.
The rest area is strewn with rubbish from torn bags. Crows wail from branches above the overflowing bins. The dogs are off into the debris before we even have our doors closed.
Caffeine and sugar complete my restoration, but the weak early sunshine makes me lethargic. I light a cigarette and close my eyes. Milly flings the dregs of her coffee on the ground and stretches like a cat. ‘That’s better,’ she murmurs for us both.
I open my eyes. There is colour in her face again.
‘Want me to drive from now?’
‘How’s your blood alcohol level?’
‘Reduced.’
‘Legal?’
‘Acceptable.’
‘Accepted.’
With an effort she hoists herself from the concrete picnic bench. Her movements are small and careful, and she is stooped, limping slightly. But once she’s completed the slow manoeuvre of getting upright she raises her fingers to her mouth, and with a consummate skill that would have any schoolboy in awe, emits a piercing whistle. There is crashing in the scrub nearby and Felix appears at a run, Gina close behind him. They launch themselves onto the back of the ute, excited and panting.
Milly turns back to me. ‘With gratitude,’ she adds regally.
We’re in Woodford in good time, and manage to get most things done before Milly’s eleven o’clock appointment. It’s much easier when there’s two of you, and the shopping’s been reduced by almost half, with Tom and Gail out of the loop. (The carers’ unit at the hospital found temporary accommodation for Tom in a hostel nearby.) And Stick was out of the equation; I was buggered if I was going to be running errands for him.
I drop Milly at the surgery and arrange to pick her up in an hour, calculating a forty-five-minute wait and a ten-minute consultation. At Woodford police station I don’t allow myself to pause or reconsider. Stick’s time is up. When I peer over the counter without ringing the buzzer I disturb Denham, who is reading a Men’s Health magazine with his feet on the desk. I’ve just missed Sean. Denham doesn’t expect him back before lunch. He’s put out at being caught skiving.
‘Is it important?’ His hostile emphasis on the word gets my back up.
‘Yes,’ I tell him, ‘so I guess it’ll have to wait till Sean gets back. Tell him I’ll be back later.’ I let my gaze fall to his magazine, its headline The Metrosexual Issue!, before pointedly turning my back.
Milly’s already filled her prescription when I meet her, and is ready for lunch. At the pub we curl over soup and garlic bread, then toss a coin and share cheesecake instead of sticky date pudding. There aren’t many diners, and the room is cosy with subdued chat, bursts of laughter. The normality of it makes me ache. I could stay all afternoon, every day. We both know our unavoidable curfew though, inescapable, like a mental tattoo. We need to be on the road by two.
With reluctant sighs we leave this comfort zone and head to the hospital; we still have time to do the right thing and visit Gail. At least, needing to catch Sean, I’ll be able to escape quickly, much to Milly’s annoyance.
But when we arrive at Gail’s bed a dour Greek woman is propped in front of a grating American sitcom. A nurse tells us Gail has been moved to another ward, adds that we won’t be able to see her unless we’re immediate family, but won’t tell us anything further. In the foyer we run into Tom, who is hurrying from the opposite direction looking distracted – at first not even recognising us. He tells us Gail has picked up some kind of infection, the kind that hospitals specialise in for culling their elderly patients, and she is about to be transferred to Royal Perth. Support services have arranged accommodation in Perth for Tom for the duration, and are canvassing for a nursing home unit for them both once she’s recovered. It’s unlikely she will ever regain her former mobility, and it’s still unknown how badly the infection wil
l affect her nervous system. Tom perks up visibly as he fills us in. He’s just heading home to collect what they will need for the immediate future; their things will be sent on later. He’s leaving for Perth tomorrow.
‘I have to say, it’s a pretty good outcome really,’ he says of his wife’s grave condition. ‘I can’t see how else we would ever have gotten out of the bloody place. You just can’t live like that.’ He thrusts out his hand to me, insists on giving Milly an affectionate peck on the cheek. ‘I guess it’s up to you and Stick to look after the girls now,’ he says to me, and never have I wanted to punch that smug red face as much as I do that moment.
‘What an arsehole,’ says Milly, out in the car park. ‘If he’d known an accident would get them out he’d have thrown Gail down the stairs himself.’ She frowns at her car keys. ‘I suppose, when you think about it, they were just burdens really. At least Stick’s vaguely useful and he can look after himself.’
My headache’s coming back, with a piercing jackhammer thump. Milly checks her watch. ‘You going to see Sean?’ she asks.
‘No.’ I let the dogs out of the car for a stretch. ‘Not now. Let’s just get back.’
Before we leave town I jog across to the newsagent’s. And even though I know it’s naff, I rub the Buddha’s belly as I buy Li a lotto ticket.
At the Caltex on the outskirts of Woodford we refuel and decide to shout ourselves ice-creams, even after our cheesecake. I personally need all the sugar I can get. We sit at the plastic tables outside, where trails of ants are colonising pools of spilt soft drink. Milly seems thoughtful as she bites into her Golden Gaytime. She sighs.
‘And?’ I ask.
‘I was just thinking that we’re going to be in for an even rougher time now. We’re dwindling. Four seems such a vulnerable number.’
‘Most likely three. I wouldn’t count on Stick.’
‘Oh,’ says Milly. ‘Crap.’
‘I need to do some weighing up.’
‘Do I want to know?’
‘No.’
A small child on a bike has stopped by the ute and is trying to get the dogs’ attention. They glance down their snouts, aloof, pretending they can’t see him. If he’d been holding a packet of chips he’d have been their god.
‘If we’re down to three,’ I say to Milly, ‘it’ll be impossible for us to stay. You know that. Even four’s a huge risk. I think we really need to start making plans to get out.’
‘To where?’
I screw my ice-cream wrapper round the stick. ‘Anywhere. We could get a caravan, become Grey Nomads. Join the throng.’
‘I’m too old and you’re not grey enough.’
‘Balls.’
‘I could be your mother. And I’m practically a cripple.’
‘You’re not and you’re not.’
‘What about the dogs?’
‘They’d love it. Chasing roos.’
‘And Li?’
‘Caravans are big these days.’
Milly looks at me, her eyes glittering. ‘You’d have to give up smoking.’
‘Harsh.’
‘Essential.’
‘Unnecessary.’
‘Mandatory.’
‘Then if that’s all it takes, consider it done,’ I say. ‘Too easy.’
‘Come off it! All those retirees with their Happy Hours and CV radios.’
‘CBs.’
‘I’d hate it. So would you.’
‘All right, drop that one then. We could get a place, though – with the three of us we’d manage.’
Milly is still smiling, but when she sees that I’m not she subsides, the ground suddenly unsteady beneath her. I keep my eyes on her face; she keeps hers lowered.
The breeze is starting to get up. I reach out for her hand. We never touch.
‘Consider it?’ I ask.
Milly’s lips barely move. ‘I couldn’t. I’d never cope with leaving, knowing he’s still trapped there.’ Her voice is like crumbled ashes. ‘I mean it when I say I’ll be dying there.’
That’s it, then. Standing, I aim my ice-cream wrapper at the bin and resist the urge to answer her: in that case, it seems I will be too.
I had thoughts of leaving once. This was when there were more of us still trying to hang in there, hoping it would blow over.
My ex-wife, Gina’s namesake, had decided to drop her All-Men-Are-Bastards facade, largely because she’d met one who was keen. But Julie, my daughter, wasn’t. At all. Terry was a house painter with artistic leanings. Gina had met him at her CAE watercolour class. He wore big gold rings and shiny shirts, and had an unattractive inflated chin, like a comic book superhero. He liked to play it camp, in a seventies sitcom kind of way, which like the chin and the bad shirts was not endearing. Julie didn’t like the way he joked with the boys, and his habit of raising his unfortunate chin and grinning at people over it put you in mind of Luna Park. Leering, she called it.
Suddenly, it was important for me to have a role in my grandsons’ lives. This realisation coincided with Gina’s announcement that Terry was taking her to Tasmania for Christmas, to meet his family and paint.
I must admit I was reluctant. I hadn’t seen Julie since she’d visited me in hospital after the tumour was removed. It had been an uncomfortable reunion, for both of us. I was in a fair amount of discomfort after the surgery, which embarrassed me, and she, defensive and brisk in a manner that warned not to expect any kind of reconciliation, took my winces and occasional groans as deliberate attempts to disconcert her and extract pity. She hardened every time I closed my eyes or fumbled for my water glass, her gaze like concrete towards the end. She’d been suckled for so long on Gina’s determined bitterness, her spirit was as sour as her mother’s.
At least her mother had the excuse of mental imbalance.
Julie had expected me to be overjoyed at the offer of spending Christmas in Sydney with family. She took my hesitation as financial, and impatiently offered to pay for half my fuel. I felt cornered. I came close to saying no (resentment, after all, works both ways), but hope is such a distorting aspect of human nature. This was an opportunity – the first real one, I told myself – to reconnect with my daughter and establish a relationship with her family. What twenty years’ estrangement, a cancer diagnosis, and my high-risk living conditions had failed to do, Christmas in Sydney would be sure to achieve. As I said, hope is malicious. Blinding.
I don’t think I can pinpoint with any clarity exactly when I realised that the trip was a terrible mistake; it seemed to go wrong from the very start. If I’m honest, I can admit that I knew I was wasting my time before I’d even left home: I remember how heavy my bags seemed as I carried them to the car, and the temptation to just lug them back inside and pull the curtains till the new year was almost overwhelming.
But misgivings, no matter how well grounded in fact, are easily dispelled (or ignored, at any rate) by the temptations of hope. In my mind’s eye there was a ridiculous Brady Bunch scene of happy families: Julie realising that whatever had happened between her parents shouldn’t poison her, and that she wanted her father, who wasn’t a bad bloke after all, to be a part of her life. I had images of playing cards with the boys, who were overjoyed at their grandfather’s company, welcoming me as the antithesis of their unctuous merchant banker father. Grandad would never, of course, stoop to encouraging them to criticise their father, just allow a small, loaded chuckle whenever they used my pet nickname for him. The Toad.
Of course they came up with that name themselves.
Ridiculous scenarios, shameful in hindsight, and even though I recognised this at the time, somehow they persisted until I was across the Nullarbor and it was too late to consider turning back.
Of course it was the mist that put these ideas into my head. The thought of being rescued, of deserving to be rescued, as if the same force that created such mayhem must also be responsible for justice. As if some presiding entity would recognise that it had to uphold a balance and would point a long,
divine finger my way and say, ‘Well, there is a flawed but fundamentally good man who has suffered enough. Deliver him.’ And with three taps of the little red shoes on my size 9 feet and the chant of an appropriate platitude (There’s no place like home!) I would be transported from the cyclonic hell that had been foisted on my life, into a family scenario of love and comfort, laughter and kindness in the mist-free, sophisticated suburbs of Sydney.
So great is our egotism. As if I should be any different to someone trapped in a war zone or caught in the impersonal brutality of a natural disaster. Only fairytales offer us justice (and you’d think as an ex-cop I’d know that intrinsically): good people restored and the villains dying a foul and excruciating death. So unsatisfying when the baddies simply repent and are forgiven, getting off scot-free. Better that Cinderella’s stepmother is forced to dance to her death in iron shoes heated with burning coals – red shoes always the instrument of deliverance.
‘Deserve’ is an interesting word, really, the seven-letter equivalent of a grasping hand. As if all of us Good People who haven’t deserved the calamities that have befallen us wouldn’t snatch at those little red shoes we’re convinced are ours by divine right, whether it be by driving across the Nullarbor at Christmas or, in more desperate situations, pulling ourselves to safety using the bodies of others.
Things went wrong from the word go, of course. I knew as soon as I saw the house – a large boxlike concrete thing, with pebbles for a front yard and rose bushes mangled into balls on sticks like leafy confectionary – that this wasn’t going to work.
I’d swagged it on the long drive over, nights on the side of the road with camp fires and limited water. I should have thought to go somewhere first to clean up, shower and shave. It was stupid of me to think that they’d welcome my arrival, after all this time, in any dishevelled state. That they’d laughingly point me in the direction of the shower and the washing machine, just glad to see me. I’d been free of the city too long.