Soon

by Lois Murphy

  I give Alex the phone number at Milly’s place. And she gives me, in return, that word, four letters to burn into my psyche, to carry with me over my remaining days.

  Soon.

  Milly’s finished stowing the last of the supplies from Li’s and the kitchen is spotless; surfaces gleam in the afternoon sun. It makes my old chipped pie dish look disreputably scruffy. There is a vase of yellow grevillea on the benchtop by a bowl of apples, like a Margaret Preston still life. From the other room come the strings of a Debussy concerto.

  It is a simple, beautiful scene. Peaceful. It is everything a home should be. It is my home.

  I suddenly lose the urge to make my pie. Instead I pour the first drink I’ve had in weeks.

  When Gina and I first married we had a Margaret Preston reproduction in pride of place in our kitchen, a profusion of wattle by a dish that was a burst of colour. We were both keen but amateur painters – we actually met in the Australian collection of the Art Gallery of NSW. We’d started chatting in front of this Margaret Preston, the stunning original. When Gina had found the print and brought it home, flushed and happy, we’d made a ceremony of hanging it in the heart of our home, where we’d see it every time we ate or cooked together. It used to always make me smile, at first with happiness, and then ironically. But then, eventually, not at all.

  That print watched over our deterioration. Late at night after a double shift (Julie was quite right – as Gina got sicker and more difficult, I stayed away as much as I could), I would look at the picture over the edge of my glass and speculate with bitterness that in nature the spray of colourful blossom would long ago have wasted and rotted away.

  Shortly after this we went to a gathering together, a barbecue for a friend’s birthday or something like that, and Gina made a shocking scene, publicly accusing me of drunkenness and abuse, which no one believed but everyone listened to, including our thirteen-year-old daughter, who stood shocked and teary until someone noticed her and had the presence of mind to hustle her inside.

  I’m not proud of my subsequent behaviour. Gina wasn’t diagnosed or adequately medicated until long after we’d played out our own version of a Shakespearean tragedy, so I didn’t understand that she was sick and delusional, I just saw the lies and the corruption she subjected our life to, and I responded with fury. I remember going home and looking at the beautiful print and thinking that everything around it had withered now, its time was long past. And I took it round to the house of a colleague whose wife had always said how much she liked it, and even though she was clearly reluctant to accept such an unexpected and bewildering gift, I refused her hesitation and insisted. In actual fact, I bullied her into taking it.

  At home Gina cried in front the dusty space on the blank wall, but I was so far gone in bitterness by then I couldn’t have cared less.

  In Milly’s kitchen I finger the delicate grevillea and think how I’ve always associated Australian native flowers with comfort and happiness, with their unruly aestheticism. I’ve never seemed to be much good at sharing this appreciation with women, though.

  The phone bursts into its three-ring code beside me, and I answer warily, thinking it might be Alex with another four-letter shroud for me.

  It’s not. It’s Sean. The media presence since Li’s death has now dwindled to pretty much nothing and he’s exhausted. They’re off on the weekend. We agree to meet for a drink on Thursday. He wants to make sure I have his house keys before he leaves. I only hesitate for an instant, and then I think: Soon. The sooner the better.

  Two days later I’m up at sparrow’s fart and loading the Land Cruiser with farewell presents – apples and a fresh pie. Milly opts to stay home; a mild forecast and a good book have won out over the prospect of the long drive. Or so she says. I suspect she’s giving me ‘space’.

  She hands me a thermos of coffee and double-checks I have the shopping list – one of my specialties is leaving things behind. When I go to check the glove box, Gina leaps into the passenger seat and sits upright with a half-pleading, half-cheeky look in her eyes. She shoots a glance sideways at me and thumps the upholstery with her tail. I give in, as she knew I would.

  ‘Do you want me to take Felix too?’ I ask Milly. He is sitting at attention by Milly’s side, watching proceedings with keenness, alert to any possibility of a drive. Milly scratches his ears and he stretches his mouth into a toothy grin.

  ‘No, he can stay here with me. I’ll let him snooze in the ute.’ As if he understands, Felix puts a paw into Milly’s hand, licks his lips and grins even wider. Like all Milly’s animals, he started life as a stray, and is devoted to her. Far from the vehicle-mad Blackie, who would have crammed himself into the back seat by now and refused to budge, even for Li, Felix would always choose Milly’s company over anything. And if there’s a sleep in the sun-filled cab of the ute thrown in – well, no contest.

  If only people were so easy.

  Or tyres. I stop at our usual rubbish-strewn rest stop for the coffee and linger over a smoke, watching Gina and enjoying, like her, the sense of freedom that always comes with being on the road and out of Nebulah. If it wasn’t such a long trip, and diesel wasn’t so expensive, I think I’d make the drive to Woodford every day. I wonder if I’d feel the same way about it if I lived there. I have a strong suspicion that, under the circumstances, I might.

  But freedom inevitably seems to have a price, and when I’ve stashed away the thermos and circled back to the driver’s side, I discover the back tyre on that side is dead flat. I must have punctured it when I pulled in; the ground all around this stop is littered with debris. There’s even an old tyre and a dusty car battery in the patch of bush beside the unemptied bin. You can’t blame the crows for everything.

  It’s as well I’m in good time: either the prick at the garage was channelling Superman last time he did the wheel nuts up, or I’m in far worse shape than I’d imagined. It’s a long, drawn-out battle to get the last two off, so prolonged I have to stop for a couple of breathers. At one stage I think I’m not going to manage, that I’ll have to call Milly and get her to come and tow me back, but finally, sweating and swearing and arms trembling like buggery from the effort, I get the final nut to shift. I’m going to kick that apprentice’s arse when I get to Tommo’s.

  Out the front of his workshop, Tommo wipes his greasy hands on an even greasier rag and rolls his eyes. ‘That’d be right,’ he growls. ‘Useless sack of shit.’ From inside comes the clatter of a thrown tool and a burst of shouts. ‘He’s Paul’s best mate, got into a bit of trouble. Paul got up me to take him on, give him a bit of a break, but he’s just a feral dickhead, and a bludger to boot. I’ll rark him up. Again.’

  Tommo had brought Paul, his only son, into the business as a partner a year ago, hoping he’d settle down and eventually take it over. Personally, I reckon he’d be better off selling up. As a local ex-cop, I had good reason to be familiar with Paul Thompson’s character traits. He isn’t someone who likes being told no, either in business or in his personal life. He’s a thug; I wouldn’t trust him within half a kilometre of an innocent like Alice.

  The head of the nail protruding from the tyre would be obvious even to a blind man, but Tommo’s kneeling and running his thumb round the edge of the spare, shaking his head.

  ‘Don’t like the look of this bastard,’ he says. ‘How old’s it?’

  ‘Bout as old as me. Good as gold.’

  ‘I reckon you’re lucky you got here in one piece mate, it’s rooted. Accident waiting to happen.’

  I hesitate, torn. ‘Next time,’ I say, ‘I’ve got the dog, a hundred things to do.’

  He shrugs. ‘Your call. Personally, in your situation, I’d be seeing it as a risk.’ Another four-letter word. They’re crowding in on me.

  ‘Let me grab the shopping first, I can’t do it without the car.’ Everything else I could manage on foot.

  ‘How soon can you get it back?’

  I calculate. ‘Twelve?’

 
‘When do you need it by?’

  ‘Gotta be on my way by two.’

  Tommo winces. ‘Get ’er back as soon as you can. We’re flat out today, already backlogged.’

  ‘Sorry, mate. I don’t live in a world of convenience.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. Don’t worry, we’ll have her ready.’ From the workshop comes another volley of swearing. Tommo’s eyes narrow and he cusses under his breath. As he stalks away he pulls his shoulders back and seems to start inflating; by the time he strides through the workshop door he looks to be twice his original size.

  I pull the shopping list out of the glove box and gaze with dismay at the boxes of apples on the back seat. I’ll have to dump them round at Sean’s now, before I can do anything. I look at my watch. I think of another four-letter word.

  I get the car back to Tommo’s by twenty to twelve, free of apples but laden with groceries. He’s grim and businesslike as he takes my keys; the atmosphere in the workshop is heavy and sullen. I double-check that the gun cabinet under the seat is securely locked.

  I just have time, Gina on a lead, to collect the mail while Milly’s prescription’s being filled. There’s a letter from Li’s solicitors updating us on the probate, but I won’t have time to see them; I’ll have to call them tomorrow.

  I’m only just late when I get to the Woodford Arms, but Sean isn’t there yet. I buy a pint and roll a smoke in the front bar. There aren’t many in yet. The barmaid is young and bored, already overweight and not given to conversation. She flicks back hair dyed in two equally drab tones, and plonks my change on the counter in a manner that makes it clear that all transactions are now terminated until I need a refill. One function only.

  It puts me in mind of Rhonda, a seasoned pro in Mildura, who’d had a reasonable brain and a fairly good heart beneath a pretty worn exterior. She was known to the cops, but operated discreetly and without trouble, and at over fifty was still managing to earn a fairly decent living. She’d told me in the pub once, when we were the only two there and we’d shared a late afternoon beer, that experienced men tended to prefer the older whores to the young girls, no matter how much better looking they were. The young ones give no comfort, she said, to them it’s just money, lie back and serve your time, but that’s it, they’re cold. The older ones know the score, will give a bit of companionship, a chat and a laugh beyond the menu items, and often it’s this warmth, a bit of female friendliness, that a lonely man craves, that will keep him coming back.

  I could imagine her raising her brows with disapproval at the skinful of unfriendliness who’s taken up position on the back wall of the bar, her arms crossed and her mouth working round the piercing in her tongue as if she’s chewing cud. She won’t be in the job long.

  I take my change and head for the table by the window, where I can keep an eye on Gina, tied up outside.

  Sean’s late – by the time he arrives there’s only an inch in my glass, even though I’ve been trying to take it slowly. At the bar he gets even shorter shrift than I did; I watch with amusement as he’s served with downcast eyes and palpable fury.

  ‘Cheers,’ I say, as he plonks a Guinness in front of me. ‘You survived Miss Personality 1998?’ I nod towards the glaring barmaid. He glances back towards the bar; from her vantage point the girl straightens and attempts to resolutely hold our gaze, but her defiance is shaky and already regretted – it’s obvious that there’s no admiration in our expressions.

  Sean turns away with complete disinterest and she sags with relief. ‘Stacey?’ he says, lifting his drink. ‘Her dad’s been unemployed since we did him for DIC. Again. She’s got a chip.’ He takes a deep swig of the stout. ‘And not much of a brain. I’m surprised Wal’s employed her.’

  The door opens and a mob of tradies enter. The distraction of the sudden noise and activity diffuses the tension in the air and we settle to our drinks. Sean’s not in a good mood. A gang of kids have been out at the bus depot and the neighbouring truck rest with air rifles. Three of the town’s four school buses are out of action and Sean’s had to placate a clutch of large and livid truckies, one of whom has five flats on a rig full of cattle and is determined to lynch someone before he clears town.

  ‘How many days left?’

  ‘Of work, one. We’re off first thing Sunday morning, I don’t care what happens.’ He grimaces, remembering what held them up last time. ‘Figure of speech,’ he murmurs, ‘you know what I mean.’

  ‘You’ll be right. Milly and I’ll make sure we’re not slaughtered between now and Sunday.’

  ‘If you are, you’ll be in Denham’s hands. Remember that if you feel inclined to take risks.’

  I check my watch. ‘Risks are off my agenda. I plan a long and utterly sedate old age.’ Soon croons into my conscience. I push it back, reach for my drink.

  Sean’s digging in his pockets; he reaches over and puts two keys in front of me. ‘House keys,’ he says, ‘and I didn’t get them cut for nothing. I want you to use them.’ There’s a hesitation. ‘Please.’

  I pick the keys up. ‘Mate, I’m not brave and I’m no action hero. I’d be out of there like a shot.’ Bad choice of words; both our eyes flicker away briefly. ‘I’m doing my best to talk her round.’

  Sean rubs his eyes. ‘Even after Li?’

  ‘I don’t know what it will take.’ Alex’s fury on the phone the other week comes back, her insistence that Milly will be the death of me if I don’t get away. But there’s no way I can just leave her there. Instead I steer the subject to safer ground: Sean’s trip, the ridiculous number of books Rachael’s packed and the far more reasonable – though larger – stash of his fishing gear. The barramundi he intends to land and the open fires he will grill them over, with just a knob of butter and some lemon.

  It sets off an urge in me that is almost an ache. Fresh fish, a barbecue. There’s nothing to stop us during the daylight hours. My desire becomes need; I’m almost through my second pint and I haven’t had time for lunch and I’m determined. Tomorrow, at home, I want to build a bloody great fire and grill some fresh fish.

  It’s ten to two when we finally separate, and I need to see to my vehicle. He offers me a lift, but I know that officially he’s not allowed to take animals in the squad car, so I tell him Gina needs the walk. And I’m feeling furtive – I want to duck back down to Harry’s Meats, where he has slabs of local(ish) fish in the freezer. I’m besotted.

  It’s already quarter past two when I swagger into Tommo’s, pleased as punch, swinging my plastic bags, the last one containing a hunk of jewfish and another larger piece of snapper. I’m in great spirits: I’m full of Guinness and now I’m heading home with a car full of booty.

  The workshop is empty. My vehicle is over to one side, one wheel off. The defunct spare is lying on the ground nearby, the wheel rim of my flat next to it.

  I find Paul and his deadbeat mate sprawled in the tearoom, beers in front of them, listening to the races.

  ‘Don’t give me a fucken hard time, Tommo was meant to do it. He got called away to the bus depot. An emergency, had to get the school buses back on the road.’

  ‘Got to get them schoolgirls off the street, safely tucked up,’ leers his mate, who affects a signet ring; his hairline is already receding.

  ‘Yeah, and I’ll bet he never told you to finish up for him. I’ll bet, you useless shit of a son, that nothing’s been done here since he left.’

  Paul flashes up. ‘You want your car, you better show some fucking respect.’

  I pull out my mobile. ‘Tommo’s number,’ I bark. He shrugs. I pluck the business magnet off the fridge door. An orange-toned woman with an unnaturally arched back and a pair of self-supporting basketballs supposed to be boobs falls to the floor. I start punching in the mobile number.

  Paul gets up. ‘Jesus. Fuck. I’ll do your fucking car now. Leave the old man out of it.’ He heads for the door.

  ‘Leave the spare, just fix the puncture. You’ve got ten minutes or I’ll take the ute.’ Paul’s hotte
d-up, bright yellow ute was his reason for living.

  ‘Over my dead body.’

  ‘If need be. Got a twenty-two in the gun cabinet under the seat agrees with you. I’m already fucking tempted to use it. Nine minutes.’

  While he grumbles over the tyre I help myself to the phone in the office. Milly answers quickly, she must be in the kitchen. ‘I’ve been on the phone,’ she says. ‘Liz rang.’

  ‘She okay?’

  ‘Yes, fine. Sounds a lot more settled. I got nervous talking to her, though, as if I shouldn’t be tying up the phone line. In case.’

  ‘There’s not too many “in cases” left.’

  ‘Only you. Where are you?’

  ‘Woodford.’

  ‘Still?’

  ‘Long story. Just threatened Paul Thompson with the twenty-two, so hopefully I should be on my way shortly.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Milly’s calm is unwavering. ‘I taught Paul Thompson briefly. A twenty-two would have been most helpful. Will you stay in Woodford?’

  ‘No, I’m heading back.’

  ‘Will you have time? You’ll be cutting it very fine.’ From the workshop I hear the pneumatic gun rattle – my tyre will be back on.

  ‘I’m on my way. If I grand prix it, I’ll be fine. I’ll need a drink, though.’

  ‘Ice cubes and all, will be waiting.’

  In the workshop I jam the spare home and toss ten bucks at Paul’s feet. ‘I’ll get the wheel balance done next time. At Beaurepaires, where I’ll be taking all my business from now on. Tell Tommo that from me. He’ll understand.’

  Paul flushes and gives me the finger. As I pull out, his toadlike mouth forms a single syllable.

  I seem to be collecting four-letter words.

  It’s almost three o’clock. My Guinness euphoria has completely dissipated and I’m grim and pissed off. This constant watching the clock, the sky, racing against time. I’m sick of it. At this rate a heart attack will get me long before the mist has a chance.