And all Rosie can see in the kitchen now is a photo of Martha and her father stuck on the fridge. Must have been taken just before he died. The only photo she has with her parents is from around the year 2000, before her mother was diagnosed, when Rosie was ten. The house was still a shell back then. But it didn’t matter, because they were happy. As if nothing could break them.
‘I’ve already seen a solicitor and they said I have the right to this house over you,’ Rosie says. ‘You need to move out.’
‘That’s not true and you know it.’
‘Then I’ll take you to court.’
‘With what, Rosie?’
‘My nonna in Italy’s given me money.’
‘Eugenia doesn’t have money!’
‘You know nothing about my family,’ Rosie says. ‘Eugenia would do anything for me to have this house, because it was built for my mother and me.’
Rosie watches Martha fill up the kettle with water and switch it on. As if she’s calm, but her hands are shaking.
‘You want me out of here, Rosie? Then how are you going to manage a mortgage?’
‘The house doesn’t have a mortgage.’
Martha shakes her head with disbelief.
‘Of course it has a mortgage.’
‘My father worked on this house for years without getting into debt.’
‘Rosie, they didn’t have health insurance. Any money he made went to paying your mum’s hospital bills.’
‘Don’t blame my mother.’
Upstairs, Toto wakes up and is wailing. Rosie sees Martha’s eyes flicker towards the sound.
‘How about we have this discussion when you’ve had a bit more sleep?’ Martha says.
‘I don’t want you living here with us!’
‘Then we sell the house, Rosie!’
Rosie is stunned to hear the words.
‘Is that what you want? Because we both can’t afford to buy each other out.’
‘I’m not moving! This is Toto’s home.’
Toto’s cry turns into a bloodcurdling sound.
‘Seb said –’
Rosie doesn’t want to hear another word about what her father and Martha said or did together. She grabs the photo off the fridge and tears it in pieces. She sees Martha’s teeth clench.
‘Go and calm him down –’
‘Fuck you, Martha. What would you know about calming down babies?’
And then groundhog day begins again. With wailing. With Teresa next door calling out to her. With Signora outside St Joan of Arc’s, reprimand in her eyes, watching Rosie push that pram. With the realisation that SES Jesus is another disappointment in a line of useless guys in her life. And, to top it all off, she picks up the portraits of Toto at Marketplace and sees the mothers’ group, laughing in a café on Marion Street. Without her.
And back in the only place that makes sense to Rosie, she closes her eyes to the sound of crying, and in the end she doesn’t know if it’s Toto’s or hers.
If it’s Seb who instructs Martha during the day, it’s her mother Lotte who wakes her up most mornings. It’s usually with a gentle order. Sometimes a reminder to ring Oberammergau because it’s Tante Kristiana’s birthday, or that it’d be rude not to take up Voula Kolotos’s offer to join the family this Greek Easter. For the past two days Lotte has raised concerns about the silence upstairs. ‘Come on, honigbiene,’ she whispers in her ear, so Martha finally gives in and follows her mother’s voice up those steps. But there’s no one there and it makes her stomach churn. Rosie disappearing two years ago was one thing, but this time she’s taken a baby with her and left Bruno behind. He’s sitting at the bottom of the stairs, brooding, while Suki’s in Martha’s bedroom, dying.
At work, a brief lands on her desk. She stares at it a moment, before heading to the chief of staff ’s office.
‘Can you get someone else to do this?’ she asks Matthew Solloway. He wants Martha to report back to the minister later in the week about her findings, as if there’s supposed to be a profound one. People drink and drive. Loved ones die. Everyone’s devastated. End of story. Martha can’t understand the need to spin it into something more than that.
‘How about I work on the firearms policy and Leon takes over with this?’ she asks.
Martha should let him know that Leon is in over his head with the firearms policy, but it’s not her style to report one of her team.
‘How about you continue working on what I gave you, Martha?’
Out at training that night, she’s relieved to be pumping blood into her brain. She likes the laps the most. Sometimes it’s the only peace and quiet she’s had all day, but then one of the others will catch up and they get to talk and she’ll enjoy that as well. Tonight, it’s Alana giving her a rundown on being principal at a new school out west, and how hard it’s been balancing Julia and the kids with all the students at school, but sometimes she sees a glimmer of results. Martha loves people’s passion for their work. She doesn’t feel a passion for hers, but a commitment. Hers is a job of great emotion controlled by useless bureaucracy. This week it’s a backlash against the revenue cash cow of speed cameras. Road carnage is the hardest topic for Martha to deal with, so spending today reading emails from grieving parents and partners and siblings and neighbours and friends of those who’ve been killed or damaged beyond repair has her dancing at the edge of something dangerous. She doesn’t want to be so committed anymore.
Ewan catches up while she runs her third lap.
‘Two’s enough,’ he says. And there it is. The resonance of his voice that brings a pleasure beyond words.
‘I need to say something and I don’t want you to react,’ he says.
And she knows that it’s a ‘yes please’ to whether she’ll go out with him. No beating around the bush this time.
‘You know you don’t have to preface everything with “I need to say something” although I find it very endearing,’ she says.
She can’t help smiling because that’s what she does in his presence.
‘So you’re going to be okay about not playing centre,’ he asks, ‘because honestly –’
Martha puts up a hand to stop him speaking because if she doesn’t give it a purpose at the moment, it might just slap his face.
‘I’ve mapped it all out and you need to be in a defence position because of your height and your intimidating demeanour.’
Martha points to the others who are doing push-ups on the freshly cut grass, like a squadron out of a G.I. Jane movie. ‘I think I come in a close fourth when it comes to intimidating demeanour.’
‘You’re tall and I need you as a goal defender,’ he says. Now he’s speaking to her as though she’s one of his ex-footy players.
‘I was invited into this team to play centre or shooter, Ewan, and if I don’t get to play those positions, I’m walking away.’
‘For crying out loud, Martha.’
‘Don’t you “For crying out loud, Martha” me.’
She breaks into a sprint that she regrets about ten metres in, forced to slow down. It leaves him with two options: pass her or jog alongside her.
‘So what are my chances of taking you out to dinner now?’ he says, going for the latter.
And that’s the humiliating part. His chances haven’t diminished at all.
‘Saturday night,’ he says. ‘Food, film, footy or –’
‘Stop with the Fs or I’m going home.’
He laughs into a cough, because the others are watching them approach.
‘What happened out there?’ his sister asks.
Martha checks a stitch. ‘He told me I can’t play centre.’
The others are outraged. Martha’s sort of flattered. Surprised.
‘Honestly, you’re a C-bomb, Ewan!’ Elizabeth says.
‘Are we playing for the Sydney Swifts or the Commonwealth Games?’ Alana asks.
‘As if it matters who plays what,’ Sophie argues.
Ewan’s unimpressed by their wrath. ‘I don
’t train a team to lose, or to catch-up and chat,’ he says. ‘And don’t be fooled into thinking people in this comp are ready to be put out to pasture.’
‘We could do without the cow references, Ewan,’ Elizabeth says.
‘Martha’s playing goal keeper,’ he tells them, ‘because if she was standing in front of me with a hand to my face while I was trying to score, I’d crumble.’
His face reddens under everyone’s scrutiny. After a moment, Martha gets the same treatment from the others, but there’s no blushing from her because she thinks it’s all pretty funny.
They go for a drink at the Rowers, still berating him. Not as much as one of the patrons ordering at the bar, who recognises Ewan and decides to approach.
‘You ruined that club, you arsehole,’ the woman says, two small kids at her side.
‘Greed ruined that club, fool,’ Julia says. Martha would pay good money to take a Julia masterclass on how to use that word so calmly and with that much edge. Especially when the trio of Ewan-haters walk away with a bit less puff in their steam.
‘And shame on you for using that language in front of your kids!’ Alana shouts after the woman. She turns back to Ewan. ‘It’s been six months. How much fucking longer do you have to put up with this?’
Martha’s seen enough coverage on the news to know that Ewan’s been called worse.
‘George reckons you should have challenged the board instead of walking away,’ Sophie says.
‘George is an accountant, Sophie,’ Julia says. ‘I’d like to see him go and challenge his board.’
Ewan clearly doesn’t want to discuss it and they head to a table out back. He sits opposite Martha and she likes the eye contact they make once in a while.
‘You’re coming to work for me,’ Alana says to him.
‘Christ,’ he mutters.
‘My staff are taking a group of our best players on a four-day sports camp and I want you running it.’
‘Larns –’
‘I’ve got funding, Ewan.’
‘She’s asking because you’re good, not because you’re desperate,’ his sister says.
It’s obvious that Alana and Julia have rehearsed this.
‘What else are you going to do? Sit at home and wallow when disadvantaged kids would appreciate your expertise?’ Alana asks.
‘You are the first to say that you can’t stand the “disadvantaged kids” label,’ he accuses her.
‘I said I can’t stand the western-suburbs-disadvantaged-kids label,’ she says.
‘But you use it every single time you want something for that school.’
‘Do you know how I get results? By hand-picking my staff, and my number one criteria is passion. You’ve still got it.’
Elizabeth returns with a tray of drinks, handing them out. ‘He doesn’t want to be known as the has-been NRL coach saving the kids of the western suburbs.’
‘Yeah, thanks Elizabeth,’ he says, drily.
‘They don’t need saving,’ Alana says. ‘They need funding and opportunity.’
Martha can see Ewan is caving in.
‘So when is it?’ he asks.
‘This weekend.’
Ewan’s and Martha’s eyes meet again.
‘Well, there goes your effing Saturday night, Ewan,’ she says. He laughs. And Martha realises that she looks forward to these training nights not only because of Ewan Healy, but because she misses talking to people about important things like education and foster care and big messy families and vegie patches and food, over unapologetic glasses of wine that don’t lead to fatalities.
At home she calls out, hoping for a response but there’s none. Bruno looks depressed, but not as bad as Suki. While Martha’s trying to coax her to eat, the doorbell rings and she’s desperately hoping it’s Rosie, despite the fact that she has her own key.
‘Who is it?’
‘Jimmy.’
‘Who?’
She realises it’s the dropkick boyfriend. Martha would bet her life on the fact that he’s a drug dealer.
‘She’s not here,’ Martha tells him, opening the door but keeping the security screen door locked.
‘Do you know when she’ll be back?’
‘She hasn’t been home in two days.’
‘Where is she?’
‘I don’t know where she is.’
Martha goes to close the door, but he stops her.
‘What do you mean you don’t know?’ he asks. ‘You live with them.’
‘She lives upstairs. I live downstairs. Rosie’s a big girl. She can look after herself.’
He slams a hand against the screen door. ‘Are you kidding me?’
‘Cut the aggression or I’m calling the police.’
He walks away at the first mention of the cops. Martha’s sure he’s the one who slashed her tyres.
She spends the day with the minister, taking meetings with friends and family of a nineteen-year-old killed in a car accident on the Pacific Highway. At lunchtime, she attempts another discussion with Matthew Solloway.
‘Just give me the report, Martha, and it will be done and dusted.’
Martha inherited an ironclad work ethic from Otto and Lotte and has never walked away from a task. She stays late that night until she finishes writing the report, returning it to Solloway, who is still in his office.
‘I’m taking long service leave,’ she says.
At least that piece of information has him looking up from his work.
‘When?’
‘Now.’
He throws his pen onto the desk and studies her.
‘Is this about Charlie P dying? I know you two were tight, so how about you take a week’s stress leave?’
‘I’m not taking stress leave. I’m taking the long service leave owed to me. That I’ve been asking for since October 2009. If I take stress leave, it’ll go on my record and then I’ll never get another position, because women my age don’t get an adviser-to-the-minister job back if they take stress leave!’
‘Calm down, Martha.’
‘Don’t tell me to calm down.’
‘You’re shouting and you sound shrill.’
She grabs a post-it note and writes, LSL NOW.
In silence.
The minister pays her a visit just as Martha is logging off.
‘Matthew says you’re having meltdowns all over the office.’
She counts to ten because she respects the team too much and doesn’t want the story to go around that she told the minister where to go. There are much bigger battles to wage on this job and she doesn’t want to take it out on the overworked.
‘I’m owed twelve months,’ she says.
He shakes his head, irritated. ‘I’ll give you six weeks’ family leave, just because I’m feeling generous, but next time plan this in advance.’
He’s not a bad person. Neither is Solloway. But if Martha doesn’t see them both for a long time, she’ll be happy.
She stands up. Doesn’t do it often, but towering over the minister brings her great satisfaction.
‘Can I give you a few “next times” of my own?’ she asks. ‘Next time a grieving family comes in with photos of their dead son lying by the side of the road after some coked-up arsehole crashes into him, don’t send in the widow of a man who died in similar circumstances.’
She sees his grimace.
‘Shit, Martha. Solloway wasn’t thinking.’
‘And nor were you. So you better work out a way to replace me temporarily.’
The messages go off in her bag all the way home but she ignores her phone. Ignores the look from the guy next to her who has to deal with a vibration against his leg. Her stomach is churning. Not from the confrontation at work but from the fear of silence in the attic space. Once she’s home, Martha’s desperate to get inside, needs to know that Rosie’s brought that baby home safe.
‘Rosie!’
But nothing.
‘Fuck you, Rosie!’
She searches
through Seb’s paperwork for any trace of his mother-in-law’s phone number in Sicily and finds nothing. On her way back upstairs to go through Rosie’s things, she notices Suki’s untouched food. Martha knows that this is it. Because seventeen years with a dog who’s never said no to food means it’s time. So she collects Suki’s bed and one of her toys and drives her up to the vet hospital on Ramsay Street. The nurse recommends that Martha makes a decision sooner rather than later.
Bruno’s at the door waiting when she returns home.
‘Go away,’ she says. Years ago he belonged to Seb and lapped up any attention Martha gave him, but Rosie was always Bruno’s favourite and now Martha refuses to be the substitute.
She picks up her phone and reads the messages. Lots of worry from the team. Mostly because they don’t know how to move forward on a brief without her. When the phone rings this time she notices it’s Solloway.
‘Five months’ long service leave,’ he says.
All of a sudden, the idea of finding something to do for half a year is frightening.
‘I’ll see you in October,’ she says before hanging up.
Rosie’s boyfriend is outside the house the next morning.
‘Are they back?’ he asks, his tone a bit more on the polite side.
‘No.’
Martha keeps walking and he catches up with her.
‘Then can you give me –’
‘Listen,’ she says, before he can say another word, ‘the vet’s putting down my dog and I don’t want to be late.’
Martha says it very matter of fact. The vet’s putting down the dog. I’m going shopping for some shoes. It’s recycling pick-up on Tuesday.
She walks past her favourite house in the neighbourhood and reaches out and squeezes a stem of lavender, enjoying the scent of it on her fingers. Even at the worst of times, the street is a comfort to her. Brush box trees and decorative parapets and timber fences and striped bull-nose roofs and wide verandahs. Back in the early 1900s, when the suburb was created, they were aiming for harmony with the landscape. The Italians who arrived in the 60s weren’t interested in harmony with landscape. Just family harmony, so they built accordingly, much to the chagrin of the local historical society. Seb may have arrived in a different decade to the others, but he was at war with the council over his plans to build an attic space. Martha learnt to swear in Italian because of them.
The Place on Dalhousie Page 7