Green Dream

by Robert Gollagher

  Ruth might have been equally sad but she was older and wiser than Michael by three decades. There was a sadness in her heart which never left her, yet she had come to the time in her life where she deeply knew the truth of the old expression, that it was better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all. At seventy-five, and with the secret knowledge that her cancer must surely soon come out of remission, and having seen people that she loved come into her life and then leave her life so many times, Ruth knew that all good things came to an end and that the endings did not make those things any less good. Ruth held on to the things which had been, to the love which she had known, and to the memory of the dear people who had been part of her life. Ruth was sad and happy at the same time, sad for the endings and happy for the beginnings and for the good things that came from those beginnings. She knew that Christmas was going to be much tougher for Michael than for herself. And it worried her.

  When Christmas Day arrived, Michael received a telephone call from his brother. Christopher Andrews explained that business was going well, Sydney was as busy as ever, and that more cars were rolling out of the manufacturing plant than in any previous year – he might even be going to New Orleans, on a bonus trip. Then he asked how Michael was holding up. Michael replied that he wasn’t doing too badly, and changed the subject by saying he hoped Jessica and the children were well. Chris said they were fine. Michael was not close to his brother and he found the phone call uncomfortable. The two brothers always spoke at Christmas, since their parents were no longer alive and they were all the family they had. At the end of the call, Michael simply hung up the phone, grateful that the strained conversation was over.

  Ruth received an unwanted telephone call of her own. It came from Canada. Claire told her it was snowing in Calgary, and that John Ford, her engineer husband, had just been promoted from Assistant Professor to Associate Professor, and so they would be buying a boat in the summer and looking for a cabin on the lake. Ruth tried to be polite. Soon the call was over. She had no time for Claire, not since she had learned of Claire’s failure to protect Sally from Karl’s drunken rampages, and Ruth was not impressed by a token phone call at Christmas.

  For the evening meal, Ruth made roast chicken, and for dessert she made a Christmas cake, a heavy fruit cake decorated with plastic holly leaves. She even dredged out a favourite bottle of brandy. This was unusual, since neither Ruth nor Michael normally drank in the house. Ruth’s drunken son-in-law had been enough to make her request of the agency that her boarder would have to agree not to drink more than occasionally. Since Michael rarely drank, except socially, and since he had not socialised since the accident, this had worked out to be an easy arrangement. But Ruth knew Christmas called for a drink or two, and she had set the kitchen table specially for the occasion, strung decorations up as a surprise for Michael, and made sure there was beer and wine. It was the first time they had really sat down to eat together. Ruth brought out the chicken, and then a bottle of beer for Michael and a glass of wine for herself. Michael had been very sad, that day, but he didn’t want to spoil all the work Ruth had gone to, so he tried to be cheerful.

  “Thanks, Ruth. This all looks lovely.”

  “No worries, Mike. Is that beer all right?”

  “Yeah, it’s good.”

  Ruth took a sip of her wine. “They make this stuff down at Margaret River. It’s my favourite. Try some.”

  Michael poured a little for himself. “Mmmm. Not bad.”

  “Well, don’t be shy. Dig into that chook before it gets cold.”

  “You shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble, Ruth.”

  “Nonsense. It’s Christmas. Anyway, I need cheering up, after the phone call I had today. My daughter called, from Canada.”

  “Your daughter?”

  “Yes. She just calls me so she won’t feel guilty. I can’t stand talking to her, these days. She never has anything to say. And it just reminds me too much of ... things from the past.”

  “I know what you mean. I had the same call from my brother, today.”

  “Well, let’s just put all that behind us, eh?” Ruth lifted her glass. “Merry Christmas, Mike.”

  Michael clinked his glass against hers. “Merry Christmas.”

  After they had devoured the roast dinner, and then the Christmas cake, and finally savoured Ruth’s old bottle of brandy, Michael excused himself for a moment.

  “I’ll be right back. Don’t move a muscle.”

  He ambled down the corridor. Michael didn’t use his walking stick any more but it was still uncomfortable to walk and he still limped. He felt better, after the hearty meal, and he had something he wanted to give Ruth.

  A few minutes later, he returned with a gift-wrapped present. It was heavy. He handed it to Ruth and sat back down at the kitchen table. “There you go, Ruth. That’s for you.”

  “Michael. You shouldn’t have. I mean, you didn’t have to get me a present. I didn’t expect you to ...”

  “I know you didn’t. It’s just something little.”

  “Well, thanks.” Ruth ripped the wrapping paper and out fell three hardback volumes, in large print, of Agatha Christie thrillers. Like a little girl, Ruth flipped through each one in turn, excited. “But this completes my set. How did you know?”

  “My ... my wife used to read them. She had the whole collection. In your library, I noticed you had a section for Agatha Christie, but you were missing one or two.”

  “They’re bloody hard to find in large print,” said Ruth.

  “A friend of mine owns a bookshop. She made a few enquiries.”

  “Thank you so much, Mike. That’s a lovely present.”

  “No worries, Ruth. I’m glad you like them.”

  “Well ... I have a little something for you, too.”

  “Oh, no. Dinner was enough, really.”

  Ruth ignored him, got up and disappeared into the library, then returned with a floppy package wrapped in gold paper. She sat down and handed it to Michael. “There you go.”

  Michael took the package and opened it. It was a large, expensive, dark blue, woollen pullover. “This is too much, Ruth. You shouldn’t have.” He stood up and tried the sweater on. It suited him perfectly, matching his dark hair and blue eyes. “It’s great, Ruth. Thanks a lot. It’s really great.”

  “I knew it would suit you.”

  Michael sat down, still wearing the jumper.

  The kitchen radio was playing 1940s big band music, Glen Miller tunes—fast, upbeat numbers. For a moment, Michael seemed to have forgotten about his pain. Then some slow songs came on, still played by the rich, smooth banks of brass and woodwind that make up a big band.

  “You know, Mike, when I was young, this was my music.”

  “I like it too, Ruth.”

  “Well then,” said Ruth, with a mischievous glint in her eye, “would you like to dance? It’s Christmas and I feel like dancing.”

  “Dancing?”

  “Yes, dancing. Do you think we old folks can’t dance?”

  “No, no. Of course not. It’s just that ...”

  Ruth looked at him sternly.

  “It’s just that I can’t dance.”

  “You can’t?”

  “No. Never have. Marie wanted me to, but I ... I never did.”

  “Why not, Mike?”

  “Well, I’m a pilot, not a dancer. It’s just not my style.”

  “Bah! Nonsense. Not your style, indeed. You’re just chicken.”

  The brandy had gone to their heads. Michael replied, uninhibited. “Hey, fair go, Ruth. I am not chicken.”

  “Oh yes you are, Mr Andrews. You are too afraid to try.”

  Michael looked at her. “All right then, Ruth. Let’s dance.”

  “But you said you couldn’t.”

  “I can’t. But if you reckon I’m chicken, I’ll give it a go.”

  Ruth considered this for a moment. “All right, Mike. Help me move the table, if you please.” The two of them got up
and lifted the table to one end of the large kitchen, being careful not to scratch the polished wooden floorboards. “Perfect. Now, come over here.”

  Michael followed her, obediently.

  The radio big band was playing a slow shuffle.

  “Now, take my hand. That’s right. And put your other hand on my hip, there. Now, in time with the music, all we do is just shuffle left and right. You see? Just like this.”

  Michael struggled to follow her. For one thing, he still couldn’t walk perfectly and it wasn’t easy to get his injured body to dance, even just a slow shuffle. On top of that, he had no sense of rhythm and kept stepping wrong. Ruth was patient with him, however, and did not laugh at his pathetic efforts to dance. Even with the brandy inside her, and her head a little light, she knew this was the first time the grief-stricken man had done anything so positive since he had come to stay with her. Michael was unaware of the change in himself. He was too busy trying not to step on Ruth’s toes.

  When Michael was starting to get the hang of it, Ruth embellished the lowly dance a little by stepping back from Michael and doing a simple spin under his raised left arm. “That’s right. Just hold up your left hand, and I spin underneath it.” She smiled.

  Michael laughed. He had completely forgotten himself, forgotten the accident. Here he was, dancing with an old lady, in her kitchen, to fifty-year-old music, and loving it. He felt silly, and a little drunk. And he laughed, really laughed, for the first time in four months. Ruth danced with him for a few minutes, then they moved the table back and sat down again.

  “There you are. I told you, you could do it,” said Ruth.

  “And I told you, I wasn’t chicken.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  Michael raised his brandy glass. “Merry Christmas, Ruth.”

  “Merry Christmas to both of us.”

  Michael nodded. A lot seemed to be said in silence, as if they both knew there were some things that were best left unsaid, things about how they missed the people that were not there.

  That night, Michael had the first sound night’s sleep he’d had in a long time. There were no nightmares. He dreamed of dancing. He dreamed he was dancing with Marie – something he had never done in real life. It was a happy dream, a wonderful dream, a magical dream.

  In the morning, when he woke up, and the dream was over, and he realised it was only a dream, he cried.

  Chapter 5

  Neither Ruth nor Michael celebrated the New Year. It came and went quietly. Ruth had gone to sleep long before midnight, since it was her custom to be up early and working in the garden. The only concession Michael made to the change in the calendar, from 1997 to 1998, was to step out onto the front verandah and watch the distant fireworks that arched high above the cityscape. They reflected in the river and they reflected in his eyes. And then they stopped, and Michael stood alone in the darkness for a few minutes, and then he went to bed.

  In January, Michael had surprised Ruth by taking to painting watercolours. He would sit in the garden, under a tree to keep out of the sun, and paint sketchy portraits of the rose bushes or the garden statues, of the lemon tree, of the small backyard fountain, and occasionally even of Ruth. He never asked her to pose but simply included her in a garden scene or against the backdrop of the house. The pictures were more about colour than shape – the efforts of an amateur impressionist. Most of them were really quite bad but a few of them captured something of that time and place, enough to be called ‘interesting’ or ‘reasonably good.’ Michael didn’t show his pictures to Ruth and Ruth didn’t ask to see them, although sometimes she would walk by him in the garden and glance at what he was doing, and he didn’t mind.

  “I didn’t know you painted,” she said, one such day.

  “I had a ... a friend. She was an art teacher. She and Marie made me try it. I didn’t want to. I thought it was too ... sissy, you know.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s what I thought, back then. But this friend of mine wouldn’t listen. She got me a painting kit for my birthday. Marie was in on it, of course. A bloke knows when he’s defeated. So, I gave it a try.”

  “And you liked it?”

  “I hated it. Couldn’t paint a bloody thing!”

  “What made you keep it up?”

  “Not what. Who. Marie – she had an argument with me. She said I’d never try anything new. I said that was bullshit, but she was right. Anyway, I took some lessons. Actually, it was okay. I didn’t mind it. Marie thought it was hilarious. She was funny. She could read me like a book.”

  “How long have you been doing it?”

  “Oh, coupla years. I’m not very good, but it’s something to do.”

  Ruth looked at him for a second. “Well,” she said brightly, “I’d better get back to my pruning. I’ll leave you to it.”

  “No worries.”

  The watercolour pictures that Michael painted seemed strange to him. They were all right, but it was as if there were a distance between him and the paper. He could look but he could not feel. He could see the colours, and paint them, but he could not touch them in his heart, where it mattered. There was a detachment about him. He had thought, at Christmas, that maybe he was getting better, that maybe he might even learn to smile again and not have to force the smile. But it had not happened. Food now seemed bland to him. The flavour was there but it meant nothing. The world seemed that way, too. He could look at the river, or the garden, or the fireworks, but the scenes would not touch him. Things seemed somehow grey. Above all, things seemed pointless and meaningless. What did anything matter?

  Ruth felt better to see Michael painting. At least he was doing something more than just sitting around going stale. She was doubly pleased when she noticed him taking an interest in aviation again. The agency had told her that Michael had been a pilot nearly his entire adult life, first as a weekend enthusiast and then as a professional. Yet Michael had never mentioned flying to Ruth and never shown her any open interest in it, until recently. He was not even close to being ready to fly again – he had not even been to an airport, since the accident – but Ruth had seen him reading trade magazines and one night she had caught him in the library, watching a video of an air show. Michael was embarrassed when she walked in.

  “Oh, Ruth. I ... uh ... sorry. You probably want to read.”

  “No, I’m too tired for reading. What are you watching?”

  “Oh, nothing. I’ll turn it off. Hang on.”

  Before he could get to the remote control, to switch off the television, Ruth spoke, her curiosity piqued. “Is that ... is that a Tiger Moth? That plane, there, the yellow one, is that a Tiger Moth?”

  Michael looked at her, surprised. “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “Sit down, Michael. I’d like to see this. Huh – look at that!”

  Michael didn’t know what to say.

  “Do you know, my husband once flew in a Tiger Moth. He was so excited about. It was the only time he’d ever flown in a light plane.”

  “Was he a pilot?”

  “A pilot? Oh, no. It was a joyride. But he loved it. They made him wear a leather cap and goggles. They even gave him a scarf. They don’t make planes like that any more.” Ruth looked at the image of the old biplane. “The one Fred went up in was yellow, too.”

  Michael remembered his conversation with Ian, before the accident. “It’s a fine ... plane. Lots of them were painted yellow.”

  “Where is this?”

  “Oh, it’s the air force base, up at Pearce.”

  “So these planes are all from Perth?”

  “Oh, no. They flew in from all over the country, for the air show. It was a great show. I bought the video, coz I knew some of these old crates wouldn’t be flying west again for a while.”

  “It’s just like a time machine,” said Ruth. “That old plane looks exactly like the one Fred flew in, all those years ago.”

  “Did you go up, too, Ruth? Did you fly?”

/>   “Me? Oh, no! Fred was always braver than me. He climbed down out of that cockpit, waving his arms and telling me what a great time he’d had. He told me I should try it, but I was too afraid. It didn’t look safe.” Ruth realised what she had said and suddenly went silent, ashamed of herself.

  Michael knew Ruth had not meant to say it, so he tried to change the subject. “Did your husband fly again?”

  “No, no. Fred was always busy with the business. He enjoyed his work, too. You know, he always wanted to be his own boss, and he was.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “What’s that plane, Mike?” Ruth pointed at the screen.

  “That’s an American one. Funny, it’s called a Tiger, as well.”

  “I don’t like it as much as the Tiger Moth. It’s too modern.”

  “Sometimes it’s nice not to have a hundred-knot wind in your face, Ruth. Those old planes weren’t too comfortable.”

  Ruth was not impressed. “What’s that one?”

  “That’s another golden oldie. It’s a Piper Cub. You don’t see too many of those around here. It’s like a modern design, with that high wing and a closed cockpit, but it’s still a bit of a vintage.”

  “Hmmm. It’s not romantic,like the old biplanes, though, is it?”

  “I reckon you’re probably right, there, Ruth.”

  “What about that modern one, with the black stripe?”

  “That’s a Cessna 210. It’s a nice touring ship.”

  “And that’s another one, then, in the red?”

  “No. That’s ... that’s a 172.” Michael felt a stab of sadness. “I’m a bit tired, Ruth. You can watch. I think I’ll go to bed. Goodnight.”

  Ruth wondered what she had said.