‘All right, mate?’ Graham says to Fred.
‘Yeah. Hear you’ve been having a punch-up! Good on ya!’ He roars out a laugh, gold back tooth catching the light. Graham looks at him with surprise.
‘I’ve poured you some wine,’ Cassie says, bringing him the glass. ‘You look like you could do with a drink.’ She watches him drink it, her face anxious. He glugs it back. Good stuff.
‘Got the post?’ Cassie says, handing Fred a beer.
He shakes his head.
‘Why?’ Cassie almost wails, her face crumpling.
‘Some sort of mix-up,’ Fred mumbles. He looks down. ‘I’m sorry, love. Next time, hey?’
‘Mix-up?’ Cassie says. ‘What kind of mix-up?’
‘Sorry, love,’ Fred says again. ‘Where’s Mara?’ He nicks the top of his beer and takes a swig.
Cassie sighs. ‘Oh, apparently she’s indisposed again.’
Thank Christ for that and all. Graham breathes out, knocks back the rest of the glass.
Larry comes in. Clean white shirt, swollen nose. ‘Fred,’ he says curtly, ignoring Graham.
‘Nearly ready.’ Cassie looks between Larry and Graham. Pulls a face at Fred. ‘Fred arrived in the nick with the cheese.’
Graham lifts stuff from the table. Puts down knives and forks. He pours wine into some glasses.
‘I take it,’ Larry says, sitting down at the head of the table and unfurling his napkin, ‘that after today’s debacle you’re thinking about resigning?’ His voice is stuffy and thick.
Resigning? Graham thinks. The ponce.
‘We’ve been talking about it –’ Cassie begins.
‘Yes?’ Larry looks at the stove. ‘Shall we eat?’
Cassie picks up the oven gloves. ‘Can you help me, Gray?’
He touches her arm as they stoop down to get the oozy pizzas out. ‘Hey,’ he whispers, ‘anyone ever tell you, you are gorgeous.’ She smiles and blinks at him. Her face is still flushed from before, or maybe just the oven’s heat, and her hair is all wispy, slipping out of its ponytail. She looks perfect to him, perfect. Ten out of fucking ten. He puts his hand on her arm to say something, what? But she shakes him off.
‘Come on.’ They get the two big pizzas on to the table. ‘Dig in then everyone,’ she says, sitting down. He sits opposite her, slides his foot across to nudge hers under the table, and takes a long slug of wine.
‘I have a proposal,’ Larry says. ‘But first,’ he holds up his glass, ‘a toast to our cook.’
Cassie laughs, her foot slips away from Graham’s. ‘It’s not much!’
‘Pizza and a half, love, by the look of it,’ Fred says.
Graham can’t bring himself to look at Larry. Sitting there kind of triumphant and wounded. He takes a mouthful of pizza. It’s hot, great, bits of anchovy and chilli. Sees Cassie giving him a look, should have waited.
‘Proposal?’ she says to Larry.
‘Perhaps if you had a break, the two of you, a trip away, a night or two?’ Larry says. ‘See how you felt then?’
‘Really!’ Cassie’s eyes brighten. ‘That would be fantastic, wouldn’t it, Gray?’
No two ways about that. He nods. Last thing he expected.
‘That’s settled then,’ Larry unfurls his napkin. ‘Fred, you’ll take them?’
‘Where?’ Cassie says. ‘Perth?’
Fred shrugs, stuffs his face with pizza.
‘When?’ Graham asks.
Larry touches the end of his nose and winces. ‘Day after tomorrow suit you?’
‘Where?’ Cassie asks again.
‘The mountains?’ Larry says.
‘I’d like to go to town.’
‘We’ll discuss the finer details later,’ Larry says. ‘Graham?’
‘Yeah, that’d be – cool.’
‘Cool,’ Larry repeats, his eyes lingering on Graham. He holds up his empty glass. Graham refills his own then leans over to top up Larry’s. Cassie has hardly touched hers. Stuffy in the kitchen, flies snarling, but the idea of somewhere else, a pub maybe, pint of beer, new faces –
‘Couldn’t we go tomorrow?’ Cassie says.
‘Mara’s expecting a session with Graham in the morning,’ Larry says. ‘Can’t disappoint her, eh Graham?’
Graham chews too hard and bites his tongue. Behind his eyes goes red. Taste of blood mixing with anchovy and cheese. Can’t look anywhere but his plate.
Fred snaps open another bottle of beer. ‘Couldn’t see a flaming thing driving here, dust storm. Have to wash the bloody ute tomorrow,’ he says, nervously.
There is a silence. Graham looks up and meets Cassie’s eyes. She’s lost her flush, looks at him apprehensively, eyes wide. He shoves a wad of pizza into his bleeding mouth though his gut is clenched up like a fist.
‘Very nice, Cassie,’ Larry says. ‘Afraid it hurts to eat though. Been in the wars, as you see, Fred! I’m going to go and see to Mara if nobody minds.’
He goes to the door. ‘Wind’s dropped,’ he says as he goes out.
‘Thank the flaming crows,’ Fred mutters.
Cassie stands in the kitchen. No one up yet. Least, Larry’s been up, his napkin is on the table. She put it away last night. White roll of linen in a bone ring. On washdays there is so much white: his shirts; towels; face cloths; napkins; his underwear, old-fashioned white Y-fronts. Seven pairs a week. Much as she can do to get Graham to change his twice a week. Tomorrow would be washday but they’re going. She hopes they can go to a town, shops, a chemist, cafés, maybe even a garden centre. Normal everyday things. And she’ll be able to phone Patsy, hear her voice. Her heart lifts. And then they’ll come back refreshed. Make another go of it.
She stands crunching into a bit of cold pizza, wondering what to do. The washing? She could, she supposes, make a start. Might as well. Graham’s waiting for a cup of tea. She’ll have to prise him out of bed for Mara’s lesson. She spoons tea into the pot. Gets a couple of biscuits from the tin. Puts two mugs on a tray. All the time something pressing against her hip-bone. Something in her pocket. No side effects. If all it does is make him calmer, more reliable. What could be the harm in that? She gets the pills out; opens the lid. Easily soluble. She tips one into her palm.
She feels a twinge, like a string tugging in her belly. So randy. What’s up with her? Rather nice though. She’ll take the tea and go back to bed with him. Just for a quickie. It’s like she’s on heat. Must be the heat. And now they’ve got all that Jas stuff out of the way. Worry about washing later. A green mug, a blue mug. Rough pottery that Fred bought when she said she hated the tin mugs. The pill falls off her palm into the blue mug. She pours the tea. Adds powdered milk and stirs. White scum in both. She picks up the tea-tray and goes out of the door.
He wakes again as Cassie pushes open the door. ‘It’s a scorcha!’ she says.
‘For a change. Tea, ta.’ He hoists himself up on his elbow. His hand feels stiff. Oh yeah.
She sits on the edge of the bed. ‘Just think,’ she says, ‘tomorrow – won’t it be wonderful. Wonder where we’ll go? We’ll be able to phone people. Maybe there’ll even be a cyber cafe, we can email everyone. And then when we come back we’ll feel better. Ready to start again.’
Her hair is down. He puts his hand up to touch it. The ends are crisped almost to white, the roots their usual corn-gold.
‘Yeah. Listen. I was thinking, we could not come back.’ His heart beats with excitement at the thought.
‘What?’ She hands him his mug of tea. Too hot. He puts it on the box beside the bed.
‘When we go off tomorrow, take our stuff and just piss off out of it. Wherever Fred takes us, just tell him we’ve decided – He’s a good bloke, he’ll be OK.’
‘Hmmm,’ she says, wrinkling her nose. ‘We couldn’t – could we? He’d know, wouldn’t he – Larry – if we took all our stuff?’
‘Not take much then,’ he says. ‘Money, passports, the other stuff doesn’t matter much.’
She looks round. ‘No, I
suppose not. But –’
‘What?’
‘Oh – nothing. It’s just that it feels like giving up. I don’t like giving up on things.’
‘We’d still be together,’ Graham says. ‘I want to be with you. I want to be. We can have a baby.’
‘Yes?’ She gives him a searching look.
‘Yeah. Why not?’ He reaches for his tea.
‘Wait,’ she puts her hand on his arm, ‘don’t drink that yet.’
‘Why?’
‘I dunno. Hey, I’m feeling really randy –’
‘Not again!’
She runs her hand up his leg under the sheet, cups his balls, rubs him, till the sheet starts to rise up like a tent though his heart sinks.
‘You’re gonna wear me out. Let me drink my tea.’ He takes a sip.
‘No!’ she yells suddenly and knocks the mug from his hand so the tea splashes and soaks hotly through the sheet.
He jumps up, scalded. ‘Ow, what the hell?’
‘God, I’m sorry, are you all right? Come here.’ She picks up the jug from beside the bed and splashes cool water over his front, his scalded belly and thigh. Not too bad, but it smarts like buggery. And the bed a swamp.
‘What did you do that for?’
‘I thought I saw a – a thing.’
‘A thing?’
He stares at her, red in the face, hair all over the place. Has she completely lost it?
‘Sorry,’ she says again. She bites her lip. ‘Look, you drink mine.’ She thrusts the other mug at him.
‘No, it’s OK. Think I’ll get up now,’ he says. ‘Sooner we get away from here the better, eh?’
Her shorts are wet. She peels them off, stands in her black knickers, she looks good in knickers. Couldn’t spend his life with a woman who didn’t. The thought startles him. Spend his life. Did he think that?
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘You’re right.’
10th (ish) December
Dear Patsy,
This might be my last letter. In fact you might not get this till after we’re back. (And I’ll certainly have talked to you on the phone.) It’s just all too weird. It all came to a head yesterday, when G punched Larry. Yes! Terrible. Blood everywhere. Terrible atmosphere. But the funny thing is, things feel a bit better between us, don’t know why. I think there’s a chance. I did fall in love with him warts and all, didn’t I? He wouldn’t be the most stable dad but I think he’d be fun, don’t you? I’ll just have to be the stable one. I found some letters he’d started in the back of his sketch pad, to his parents. That’s progress isn’t it? He calls me his girlfriend in them which must mean something. They’re not finished letters, but – somehow they give me hope …
I’ll be posting this myself, the luxury of a postbox! Graham’s gagging for a pub. Well, me too. Home soon!!!! Kiss Katie, stroke Cat, say hi to Al.
Cassie xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Twenty-two
Graham stands on the veranda looking at Mara’s door. The flaking blue. What he wants to do is paint. He was intrigued by what was coming yesterday: the wetness of England, lush green, slate grey, quartz glitter, smooth bulge of water before it breaks over rock, before it falls. But anyway, he shakes his head, what he should do is help Cassie with the washing. However, this is what he must do. To keep Larry sweet, as Cassie says. Just this once more.
He bangs on the door with his left hand. No answer. OK then. Larry said she was waiting but maybe she’s gone back to sleep. Fine. He knocks again, softly, and is about to slope off to his studio when he hears her voice:
‘Come in.’
He swallows and pushes, the door opens, sticking against the curtain behind it. He pushes through into the orange gloom, thick sickly-sweet smell. Mara crouching on the floor. What to say? He says nothing. He sits down on a cushion as far away from her as he can. She’s wearing the dressing gown, hair is over her face. They sit for a moment. Sweat seeps from his pores, trickles from his brow to his ear, his jaw, down his neck, his armpits, to his side. Feels like he’s melting.
He clears his throat. ‘Mara?’
She whispers something.
‘Sorry?’
She mumbles through her hair. Embarrassed maybe. Something about a baby?
‘I can’t hear.’
She lifts her face, hair swings back like curtains opening. ‘I thought you would give me a baby. Now he says you don’t like me.’
He opens his mouth and it fills with the hot stink of joss sticks. ‘A baby?’ He gives a shivery laugh. ‘Sorry.’ They sit a while longer. His belly, still smarting from the hot tea, prickles with sweat. Her face is glazed with it.
‘Do you want to go out and we can do some drawing?’
‘Don’t feel well.’
‘OK. Shall I leave you alone? His eyes go to the slit of light showing beside the door where the curtain is rucked aside.
‘No,’ she says.
He looks round hopelessly, cushions, rugs, curtains, everything soft and red. Strong scent of coconut from her hair or skin. Her big toes are warped by bunions. Can’t believe what happened yesterday but at the same time, some unwilling, blind part of him could do it again. It’s horrible, that animal reflex. His eyes are held by the smooth thighs gleaming in the gap of the dressing gown.
‘Do you want to talk?’ he says desperately. ‘Why do you stay in here?’
‘It’s my own,’ she says.
‘But where do you wash and everything?’
‘I don’t wash, I oil.’ She holds out her hands as if to show him. In the dim light it’s hard to see.
‘I thought your skin was –’ he stops, can’t say greasy, ‘soft,’ he says.
She smiles. Her smile always a surprise in her heavy face, like an unexpected lamp switching on.
‘How long have you been here?’ he says.
She puts her head on one side, twists her fingers in her hair. ‘I don’t know.’
She laughs at his expression. ‘Really don’t know.’
‘What –’ he says, ‘what’s the matter with you?’
‘Hold me,’ she says.
‘I don’t think so.’ He looks at the light again. The thighs. The door. Sweat stings in his eye.
‘Only hold. What does it matter? After yesterday. I don’t bite.’
He sighs and edges towards her. Puts one arm round her shoulder, her hair a tangled bush. ‘Shall I brush your hair?’ he says.
‘Oh yes.’ He finds a brush, snarled up with hairs, kneels behind her and drags it through.
‘I am sorry about yesterday,’ he says, pulling with the brush, lifting the thick, wiry hair, black threaded with grey. Strong reek of coconut. With each stroke she makes a throaty, satisfied sound. Like a wood pigeon. Some strands of hair, charged with static, rise up to meet the brush.
‘Fred does my hair like that,’ she says. ‘Fred is lovely.’
He swallows. ‘Mara,’ he says, ‘will you promise me something?’
‘Mmmm?’
‘Don’t tell Cassie about – about what we – about what happened. Please.’
‘Of course I won’t.’ She moves her hand across her chest. ‘Cross my heart and hope to die. Anyway, why would I?’
Graham puts the brush down and smoothes the hair with his hands. Closes his eyes a minute, feels something inside him give with the relief. ‘Thank you.’
She chuckles sadly. ‘You’re welcome.’
‘I am sorry – I don’t know – I just got carried away.’
‘Mmmmm.’
He smoothes and smoothes, then separates the hair into three and starts to plait it.
‘You still think about having a baby?’ he says.
‘If I had a baby I think I would get better. Losing my baby made me ill. Having another would make me better, don’t you think?’
‘How would you look after a kid in here?’
‘I would come out of course!’
He shudders, imagining Mara and Larry bringing up a kid. Poor little non-existent bastard.
/> ‘Why doesn’t Larry give you a baby?’ he says.
‘Doesn’t fancy me any more. Only fancies blonde girls like Lucy.’ She stops.
‘Lucy?’
‘No, no.’ She starts to cry. No. Not going that way again but he does hold her. Fingers on the red velvety stuff of her dressing gown, eyes averted from her thighs, nose full of the voluptuous smell of her. His mother must have tried to have a baby of her own before they adopted him. He tries to see her as a young woman, a sad young babyless woman. Without that stiffly lacquered hair. When they adopted him she was probably the age he is now. That thought threatens to engulf him. Holding this big sad woman, her sobs trembling her flesh, makes tears come into his own eyes, a lump to his throat. Christ, it could almost make him cry.
Cassie stuffs white things in the washing machine. Twin tub. Whites first. She’d only ever used an automatic before coming here. And only ever will when they get home. And this will be the last time she does the washing here. When they get back they can get their heads straight. Get their lives back. It is best they go. So they’ve given up, so what? She frightened herself this morning. What she nearly did.
Soon as Graham had gone to see Mara she’d taken the phial of pills to the dunny, unscrewed the lid, intending to tip them into the shit pit. But something like a hand on her arm had stopped her and she’d gone back and hidden them in the bottom of her rucksack instead. What she nearly did, though! This place. What it does to your mind.
It’s quiet but for the water gurgling into the machine through its special hooked hose. Larry in his study. Graham with Mara. She frowns, turns off the water, pours in some washing powder, it’s only for today, white flecked with blue. Nice smell as it churns up a reddish scum. Fred outside washing dust off the car. Tomorrow. Her shoulders lift in anticipation but in her belly there’s a little squirt of fear.
When she’d come back into the kitchen earlier, Fred and Larry had been drinking coffee. ‘… expedite matters,’ Larry had been saying, but broke off as she came in. ‘Expedite! Speak flaming English, mate,’ Fred had said, winking at her.
She prods at the clothes with some wooden tongs. A wet white shirt arm, flecked with detergent, fat with air, rises. She squashes the air out, watches the tangle of writhing cloth and suds. Expedite what? Who cares. This is the last time she’ll do the washing here. The last morning in this kitchen. She looks round it. The white walls, stains already looming through. She does hate to be letting Larry down. And poor Mara. Should maybe cook something special tonight. Something nice for everyone. A private celebration and farewell dinner. Everyone’ll eat it but they won’t know it’s a celebration and a farewell, only she and Graham will. She rests against the juddering machine, mmm, pleasant vibration against her pubic bone –
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