The Place on Dalhousie

by Melina Marchetta

  Ewan’s a bit of a Rain Man when remembering dates and venues.

  ‘What’s your best gig ever?’ he asks. He grabs two napkins, hands one over to her. ‘If we write the same thing, I get lucky tonight,’ he says. She fishes in her bag for a pen.

  ‘Pity. I was thinking you were going to get lucky anyway,’ she says, ‘but now it’s up to probability.’

  She scribbles hers down and hands it over.

  There’s a strangeness in never once ending up in the back seat of his car in high school, but here she is thirty-odd years later doing the deed in a Hilux for the second time, courtesy of Charlie P’s funeral and Martha’s dead husband’s mother-in-law, and Leonard Cohen’s 2008 Sydney concert. She manages to get on top, but needs the grab handle above the window, and when Ewan sits up, they’re jammed against the door, going at it so fast and hard that she’s worried it’s going to spring open and they’ll end up sprawled naked on some obscure Enmore street.

  When it’s over, they don’t move, lying there, sort of entwined in a less than erotic fashion. She traces his face, feels the bristle and then he’s kissing her slowly and there’s this terrible guilt at the thought that if she had ended up with Seb for the rest of her life, she would have missed out on this. And that if she had found this earlier, she’d have missed out on the comfort that only Seb could have given her at the worst time of her life.

  ‘My nan needed the Jesus handle to get out of the car,’ Ewan says to her. ‘That’s what she called it. So it’s the first time I’ve ever thought of her during sex.’

  ‘If I thought of Oma Beate during sex I’d be turned off for life,’ Martha says.

  He chuckles and makes himself comfortable. For a moment the back seat is illuminated by a car turning into the street. ‘So what are you going to do with your life beyond this break?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m trying not to think about it,’ she says. It’s been almost three months since she walked out on the job, and Martha knows she has to get used to the idea of returning. ‘I can’t go back to that department. Paedophiles and rapes and domestic violence and sexual assault. There aren’t many good-news days. It chips away at your soul, you know.’

  ‘So what are your options?’

  ‘Oh, you know. An offer from the UK and New Zealand. Not to mention the Queenslanders wanting me.’

  He nips at her chin.

  ‘You’re making fun of me.’

  She thinks of one or two of the jobs that have come up. The attorney-general’s department. Infrastructure.

  Martha’s waiting for a sign. A Gennaro sign. Seb was big on them. Like those seeds they planted in the early days of their grief when the house was just his. One tree for Loredana. One for Lotte. For months there was little growth, even though the soil was drained. The day after Seb kissed her for the first time, it flowered. ‘It’s a sign from them,’ he said to Martha. She had put it down to twenty millimetres of rain the week before, but she remembers crying because she had wanted some sort of message from her mother. Seb’s rule about signs was that they weren’t as important as what people did with them.

  She lifts her chin from where it’s resting on Ewan’s chest.

  ‘I have to sell.’

  ‘That could be a good thing, Martha.’

  ‘Really?’ she asks and she can hear the bitterness in her voice. ‘For who? I’m going to get half of what it’s worth, take away what’s owing on it and then have to get a loan on a single public servant’s salary to buy anything half decent in this area.’

  ‘You can get a townhouse. We can be neighbours.’

  The idea of living next door to a lover has Martha contemplating the possibilities.

  She sees him the next night at training. Looks for a private glance while he takes them through their fitness regime. Sometimes she finds it, other times Ewan’s caught up in whatever’s going on in his life. He sends the team off on a couple of laps while he takes a phone call.

  ‘Truly the world’s shittiest coach,’ Elizabeth says. Her daughter is with her again, sitting by the sidelines and, as usual, not getting involved. Although Louise King is in gym gear, the most exercise she does is pick up her phone to check for messages. Elizabeth brings her to everything these days. Training. The games. Drinks. After high school, Louise scored a scholarship at Sydney Uni’s St John’s College and is now majoring in medicine. She’s a humourless girl who doesn’t say much, but Elizabeth’s days of helicopter parenting certainly aren’t over.

  Later, Martha updates them on Eugenia’s purpose for being in Australia.

  ‘She flies out here so her granddaughter will go for a mammogram?’ Julia says with disbelief.

  ‘Well, cancer has wiped out most of the women in her family.’

  ‘I’m convinced they’ll find something every time I’m up for mine,’ Sophie says.

  ‘We know that, Dr Google. We get the emails,’ Alana says.

  ‘White wine contributes to cancer risk,’ not-so-quiet Louise says, eyeing Martha and the others when they order another bottle of wine.

  As they go to leave, Elizabeth lets Ewan know that she can’t play that Saturday.

  ‘I’ll be there, but I’m getting my hair done that morning for DJ’s Fashion Week.’

  ‘So what?’ he says. ‘The game’s in the afternoon.’

  ‘Did you not hear me, Ewan? I’m getting a cut and blow-dry.’

  ‘Saturday’s game is crucial,’ he tells them. ‘If you lose this one, it’ll be three in a row and it’s hard to come back from that, especially when we’re one person down.’

  ‘Louise can play,’ Alana suggests.

  ‘Not a good idea,’ Elizabeth answers for her daughter.

  ‘Why isn’t it a good idea?’ Ewan wants to know, frustrated.

  Elizabeth ignores him and walks away with Louise in tow. Ewan broods as they get into the car.

  ‘Can you believe it?’ he asks, outraged, directing the question at Martha.

  ‘Can’t believe it,’ she lies, because there’s no way she’d play netball if she were getting her hair done the morning of the game.

  A block away from Dalhousie, Martha can see Rosie walking the dog, illuminated by the streetlight. For a couple of weeks, Rosie seemed to be out every second night and Martha figured a guy was on the scene. But apart from nightly walks with Bruno while Eugenia looks after the baby, she hasn’t heard Rosie come in late for at least a week.

  ‘Isn’t that the girl who serves Dad tea at the nursing home?’ Julia wants to know.

  Ewan suddenly pulls over, rolls down the window and calls out, ‘Rosie!’

  ‘What are you doing?’ Martha asks.

  Rosie’s shocked at first, scared. Then she seems to notice who it is and drags the dog to the car. When Bruno sees Martha, he slobbers all over the passenger side. Rosie glances into the car. Acknowledges Julia with an arrogant toss of her head.

  ‘Can you play netball?’ Ewan asks.

  Martha’s surprised by the question. Rosie doesn’t seem to miss a beat, her eyes meeting Martha’s with a sense of menace.

  ‘Only if I get to be centre.’

  To pay Rosie back, Martha plays briscola with Eugenia all night. Because cards and board games are one of the few things you can do with someone who doesn’t understand a word you’re saying. Last week, when Jimmy was in town, he joined in. Sometimes he’d show Toto the cards and Martha would see the ghost of a smile on Eugenia’s usually hard face. The older woman plays with no mercy. Martha can imagine that she’s done much in her life with the same mindset. Although it doesn’t endear her to people, it earns her a grudging respect from the more formidable locals. Eugenia’s most surprising relationship is with the very pious Signora De Lorenzo, who’s never had a moment’s time for Martha until Eugenia. Signora would have been critical of Seb getting married so soon after his wife’s death. Martha, on the other hand, has always been slightly fascinated by the woman’s routine. Cleans the church on Monday. Volunteers at the Ella Centre on Tuesday. Bo
ards the Wests League Club bus on Wednesday for tombola. Looks after Jennifer and Steve’s boys from number 132 on their date night every fortnight. Gets her hair done at Teresa’s on Saturday morning in what Sophie and Martha would call the Lotte hair set. And then family over for lunch on Sunday. Martha’s gathered too much evidence about the loneliness of the ageing population from her job over the years. She has to respect a woman who’s created herself a community from what seems the mundane. Eugenia’s recognised this and has used her time here well. Martha knows it’s not about getting to know Signora De Lorenzo for the company. It’s for the same reason Eugenia’s come after Martha. To set up a support system for her granddaughter and great-grandson once she’s gone. Which means that Martha now gets to venture into the house that causes members of the Haberfield historical society’s hearts to palpitate every time they walk past. Double storey. Blonde brick. Pillars. Concrete. But once inside, Martha doesn’t give a shit about the tiles and wall-paper. The crostoli and sfogliatelle that have been denied to her all these years are now presented on plates with gold trim that remind her of Lotte’s Bavarian tea set. Martha is so charmed, it causes her to tear up.

  The same can be said about the women in the delis and IGA and pasticcerias. They’ve all become Eugenia’s translators. The customer in line at Zanetti’s tells Martha that Eugenia wants her to keep the pressure on Rosie to get a mammogram. Accompanied by the sign of the cross and a kiss of the fingers. In Lamonica’s, Eugenia is trying to explain to Martha that she would like scarpe? To escape? Scampi?

  ‘Skype,’ the Italian girl behind the counter says, reminding Martha of a young Claudia Cardinale, because Martha’s now watching 1960s romantic comedies as part of her pay TV obsession. ‘La Signora Eugenia wants you to Skype her when she returns to Italy.’

  At the pasticceria the owner listens intently to what Eugenia’s saying. Sighs.

  ‘Che?’ Martha asks, hoping she’s not channelling Manuel from Fawlty Towers.

  ‘Eugenia says not to sell la casa.’

  Martha should be shattered that the suburb knows her business. Secretly, she’s now grateful for the couple of free cannoli she gets every time she pops in. And the fact that she’s no longer referred to as La Tedesca, the German, amongst the older Italians, who forgave Seb for remarrying soon after Loredana’s death, but not Martha.

  The main problem is that Martha has no idea how to convince Rosie, especially after last week’s meltdown at the mention of Loredana’s death. Perhaps she’ll go down the brutal path. The one along the lines of, ‘If you don’t go for a check-up with your history, you could be dead by the time your son’s fourteen and Jimmy will marry some girl who’ll be the world’s worst stepmother.’ Maybe a bit less brutal than that.

  Tonight, when they’ve finished playing cards, Eugenia points to the coming Friday on the calendar. Scribbles in the flight number. Her way of telling them she’s returning home. Martha wants to drag Eugenia down to Signora De Lorenzo’s and ask her to beg Eugenia to stay. But Jimmy tells Martha that Eugenia can’t stay. He found out through Rosie that Eugenia works at the local tabaccheria and needs to hold onto the job or she won’t be able to pay the rent. Eugenia drinks a couple of short blacks as though they’re whisky shots, and eyes Martha with that look she’s become used to. One that Martha goes searching for because it’s all empathy, but zero schmaltz.

  ‘Coraggio, Marta.’

  Because if anyone’s privy to Martha’s state of mind, it seems to be Eugenia. And maybe Jimmy as well. During these quiet tea-and-coffee-drinking, card-playing marathons at the breakfast bar while Toto hammers into the walls. Perhaps they’ve all walked that thin line of despair.

  On Friday morning, when Eugenia leaves, Rosie bawls, trying to embrace her, but her grandmother isn’t the type. The older woman just keeps on walking until she gets into the cab. It doesn’t mean Eugenia feels less. Martha thinks it means that she feels more, but is worried about the dam that’ll burst if she ever lets the emotion get the better of her.

  At netball the next day, Martha embraces Scarlett and is introduced to Julia and Alana’s children, Marley and Samuel, a wary pair, not particularly interested in another adult. But they’re tight with Scarlett, the way six- and eight-year-olds can be. And impressed with Rosie’s pair of wheels more than the baby inside.

  ‘Can you push a pram?’ Rosie asks all three.

  They nod, slightly intimidated. She points out the perimeters.

  ‘I want to see you at all times.’

  ‘I’m going first,’ Marley says.

  ‘He does,’ Rosie says, pointing to the painfully shy Samuel.

  The trio take off with Toto and the pram.

  ‘Lot of people,’ Martha says, watching the kids and the pram. She’s used to trawling newspapers for the worst stories about human nature and what can happen to kids.

  ‘I’m watching them,’ Elizabeth says, securing her daughter’s hair back as though she’s a twelve-year-old and not a medical student who’ll be explaining stage-three cancer to a patient in a couple of years.

  ‘Good to see you’re contributing, Elizabeth,’ Ewan tells her.

  ‘Fuck off, Ewan.’

  They lose, but the score is getting better than in previous weeks. Rosie gets into two shoving bouts with her opponent, but she’s fast and competitive and proves to be great at multi-tasking, yelling out, ‘Give him his dummy’, to the kids, while intercepting a ball. She refuses to throw it to Martha, who’s in the clear more than once, and it costs them a couple of opportunities.

  They go to Papa’s instead of the pub.

  ‘We could have won that,’ Julia says, coming back with gelatos for the kids.

  ‘But you didn’t,’ Ewan says. ‘So don’t be happy with could haves.’ He points to Rosie. ‘And if you want to be part of this team, throw the ball to anyone who’s in the clear.’

  Everyone seems to agree with Ewan for once. Martha can’t help feeling warmed by the support she’s getting from a couple of past foes.

  ‘Anyone?’ Rosie asks. ‘You mean your girlfriend.’

  All of a sudden, their support for Martha is replaced by interest in whatever Rosie has to say. She eyes Martha. Enjoys what she’s just stirred up.

  ‘They had it off at a funeral.’

  Martha hears a combination of gasps and laughs and snorts. Wouldn’t mind slapping Rosie senseless.

  ‘Please God, not Sister Mo’s?’ Sophie says. ‘She cursed us enough in our lives.’

  ‘Charlie P’s funeral in the Hunter,’ Julia says knowingly, looking over at Alana. ‘You owe me twenty bucks, babe.’

  ‘Big deal,’ Elizabeth says. ‘Who hasn’t had it off with Ewan?’

  ‘Gross,’ her daughter mutters.

  ‘I know, lovely. Mummy had low self-esteem in her teens.’

  Sophie goes to speak. Martha knows that she’ll refute the idea that she was one of those who slept with Ewan. Sophie’s miraculously reinvented herself into the not-so-wild Sophie of her youth, but Elizabeth puts up a disdainful hand.

  ‘Caves Beach. 1980. Our version of schoolies. The caravan. Don’t deny it, Sophie.’

  Martha wasn’t invited to the 1980 bonding session. That would have been Julia’s doing at the time. Not that Martha’s parents would have let her go.

  ‘I didn’t sleep with Ewan,’ Alana says. ‘But I did pash him when I was thirteen. It’s how I worked out I was a lesbian.’

  Ewan takes any ridicule in his stride and Martha can’t help laughing with the others. In her thirties, she lived with a man who didn’t take well to anyone taking the piss. Almost to the verge of violence.

  ‘It’s true,’ Alana says. ‘I had the biggest crush on him and I thought that if Ewan Healy can’t turn me on –’

  ‘His sister can?’ Martha asks.

  ‘Well, we didn’t work that out until our twenty-firsts.’

  ‘When you’ve all finished laughing at my expense, can we talk about my game plan for next week?’ Ewan says.

/>   Martha’s forgotten about Rosie, but she’s watching them all with Toto on her lap making a mess with gelato.

  Later that night, lying with Ewan in the back of the Hilux, Martha brings up his sister.

  ‘Can you believe Alana and Julia made a bet about us?’ she says. ‘They bet on everything. The winnings go into the same account.’

  She tries to get comfortable. ‘Why do you think your sister left me out of everything in high school?’

  ‘Does it matter? It was over thirty years ago.’

  ‘I feel as if it still lingers.’

  ‘She’s stressed about Dad,’ he says. ‘She overstresses about the kids mostly. The courts are dragging this on and it’s getting to both of them, but Julia has more time in the day to dwell on it. So I don’t think she cares about whatever both of you clashed about back then.’

  She leans her chin on his chest.

  ‘Did she like the wives?’

  He laughs. ‘You make me sound like a Mormon.’

  ‘How does someone decent end up with two broken marriages?’

  He thinks for a moment.

  ‘Shooting blanks killed the first marriage. Not having kids consumed her. It consumed us. She said it wouldn’t, but it did, and when we worked out it was me and not her …’ He shrugs. ‘She’s got four kids now and never seemed to look back. I don’t know what killed the second marriage. Maybe the wrong decision in the first place.’ He’s contemplative. ‘My biggest mistake was being introduced by someone in the League world, and thinking we had something in common.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me that the love of footy isn’t enough to sustain a relationship?’

  He laughs. ‘What? You never met someone you thought you had everything in common with?’

  ‘Yes, for the first twenty years of my dating life. And the moment I met someone I had nothing in common with, except for a dying loved one, he ended up being the one.’