The Place on Dalhousie

by Melina Marchetta

  ‘Let’s go for a walk, John,’ Leila says, an accent in her voice because she was born in Lebanon. Rosie remembers Julia saying that Leila had helped raise John’s children so it must feel like double family if their daughters are partners.

  ‘Your father must have never got over your mum,’ she says to Ewan, looking at the old wedding photo.

  ‘I don’t know, because he never spoke about it.’

  ‘My father forgot about my mother. Eleven months after she died.’

  Ewan looks up from scanning the TV. ‘It doesn’t work that way, Rosie. I don’t think people forget a person they loved just because someone else comes along.’

  ‘No offence, but you’re twice divorced. You’re not exactly a pin-up boy for everlasting love.’

  He chuckles. ‘True. But I think I’m in love with a woman who still loves the man she was married to.’

  Rosie wonders if Ewan’s told Martha any of this.

  ‘Martha hasn’t forgotten your father,’ he says. ‘And I can’t imagine him forgetting your mum. I’m sure Martha had to cope with her ghost in the same way I have to deal with Seb’s.’

  There’s a grimace.

  ‘And he’s a bloody big ghost. As big as that house.’

  Rosie knows that there’s more than her father holding Martha back.

  ‘Well, the house is going to be out of your way soon,’ Rosie says.

  ‘Like I’ve said to Martha, that might not be a bad thing.’

  When Toto and Jimmy are both sleeping that night, Rosie hears Martha in the kitchen and she ventures down with a photo. There are times at night when Rosie would like to sit in the kitchen like she used to when Eugenia was here, but it’s an unspoken rule that it’s Martha’s territory after eight p.m. Martha’s studying her computer screen, maybe checking out jobs because Rosie heard her mention it to Ewan.

  ‘I thought you might want this,’ Rosie says, sliding over the photograph. She couldn’t bear to look at it the other day at Teresa’s. But when she finally did in the confines of her room she had to agree that it’s pretty beautiful. Martha stares at it, her mouth trembling, so Rosie walks away, because she doesn’t want to think of Martha being that human.

  In the morning, when she goes to leave the house to drop off Toto at Signora’s, she sees the photo on the sideboard, next to the porcelain figurines. Rosie and Martha’s mums, in the cancer ward at the RPA, with their heads bare, laughter in their eyes. Taken by her father, no doubt, or maybe that lovely woman who used to cheer everyone up at chemo. Rosie can imagine that some of those patients are gone. Others, she hopes, have been seven years cancer-free. Her father used to say that cancer isn’t racist, or ageist, and it’s not homophobic. It lets anyone in. An equal opportunity club. She studies the photo because Rosie’s obsession with wanting to connect with her mum has grown ever since she had Toto. She sees her father in Toto all the time, especially his eyes and the colour of his skin. She gets a sense of Sebastiano Gennaro, in the house, in the neighbourhood. Everywhere. But she can’t find enough to bring Loredana back. Rosie had thought the photos would work magic. But once again, her mother only comes in fragments. And Rosie owes Toto more than pieces of their lives.

  Martha wakes to Lotte telling her not to respond to text messages. Which is ridiculous really, because Martha’s mother wouldn’t have known what a text message was back then. Lotte still had one of those telephones that required the force of a finger. But the voice that wakes her is clear and emphatic. So when the message comes from the real estate agent advising that a response is needed urgently if Dalhousie Street is going to make the spring market, Martha ignores it.

  That day, the netball team win their first game by one point. In her humble opinion it’s a clear example of brilliant teamwork, although most of the opposing players are in their thirties. She finds them the least competitive demographic because they haven’t hit the desperation of wanting to be fit in their forties, or fabulous in their fifties. They’re more like the ‘fuck off, we’re in our thirties’ lot.

  ‘Why don’t we go to the pub and celebrate?’ Martha suggests, avoiding the three text messages on her phone.

  ‘You go to the pub and celebrate when you lose,’ Rosie says. ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘You don’t have to come.’

  They’re at Briars in Concord because they have the kids with them and Sophie’s the expert on kid-friendly beer gardens in the inner west. Ewan’s writing out next week’s game plan on a napkin, as if any of them give a shit.

  ‘Let’s just live in the moment, Ewan,’ Martha says, taking the napkin and neatly folding it.

  She tells them about Lotte’s instruction this morning.

  ‘You do know it’s your subconscious desire instructing you,’ Julia says.

  ‘What a thing to say,’ Sophie says. ‘Of course, it’s her mother.’

  ‘Really, Sophie,’ Elizabeth challenges. ‘I’m going to put this all down to ethnic superstition.’

  ‘That’s a generalisation,’ Julia says. ‘Alana’s not into ethnic superstition and she’s a Leb.’

  Alana nods in agreement. When Julia goes to break up an argument between the kids just as Elizabeth’s phone rings, Alana leans in close to Martha. ‘Of course it’s your mother.’

  It’s only Elizabeth’s tone in her phone conversation that stops Martha from wanting more analysis.

  ‘Where are you?’ Elizabeth asks, and then there’s a whole lot of, ‘It’s all right. You’re fine. Just turn off the ignition,’ which renders everyone at the table silent. When Alana clicks her fingers for her attention, Elizabeth mouths, ‘Louise’, and they wait to see what it all means. Elizabeth doesn’t look distressed, but resigned. Sad, really. She questions how and what Lou-Lou’s feeling and Martha hears Rosie clicking with frustration beside her.

  ‘Let me try,’ Rosie says, giving Toto to Scarlett and holding her hand out for the phone. For once, Elizabeth does as she’s told.

  ‘Panic attacks,’ she tells them, grabbing her bag. ‘She’s pulled over on the City West Link.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ Ewan says. ‘You’re over the limit anyway, Elizabeth.’

  Elizabeth waves away his offer, but the others convince her to stay. Rosie’s still on the phone, walking away as if she’s some counselling expert.

  Elizabeth gives Ewan a couple of details and he heads off. She’s still watching Rosie, who doesn’t seem fazed by the conversation she’s having.

  ‘When did they bond?’ Elizabeth asks.

  ‘The southern end of the table bitch about us all the time, especially when the basketballers join us,’ Sophie says.

  Elizabeth rubs her eyes. Martha doesn’t know whether it’s from exhaustion or whether she’s hiding tears, because her expression never changes.

  ‘How long has Louise had these attacks?’ Alana asks.

  ‘Beginning of the year. A lot of anxiety to start with. It came out of the blue and it’s just crippled her.’

  ‘Oh, Elizabeth.’

  ‘I spent a fortnight delivering her to the exam hall and sitting in the car park at Sydney uni last month. She doesn’t want to lose her scholarship, but I’ve had to move her back home.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us, you goose?’ Sophie says.

  ‘And what can you do about it?’

  ‘Nothing, but we could hear you out.’

  Elizabeth waves them off. ‘It’s all I talk about. To psychologists, naturopaths, GPs. Sometimes I just want to talk shit and forget about it.’

  About twenty minutes later, Rosie returns with the phone. ‘Ewan’s there. He said your other daughter’s arrived and he’s following them home.’

  Rosie takes Toto from Scarlett and sits down to her cold French fries.

  ‘What did you say to her?’ Elizabeth asks.

  Rosie shrugs. ‘I just told her about the netball game and how you guys went berserk when you won. By a point.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Rosie,’ Alana says. ‘We were fantastic.’
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br />   Rosie ignores everyone agreeing with Alana and concentrates on Elizabeth.

  ‘When these attacks happen, Louise doesn’t want to talk about how she’s feeling,’ Rosie says. ‘She wants the stress in her head to pass, and the only way that happens is if she keeps preoccupied.’

  Elizabeth is nodding, taking it all in.

  ‘So next time just talk about banal stuff,’ Rosie continues. ‘Like your lives.’

  ‘When did you turn into Obi-Wan Kenobi?’ Martha asks.

  ‘It’s Yoda to you, Martha.’

  Elizabeth stands up, grabbing her purse. There’s protest from all around.

  ‘Stay, Elizabeth!’

  ‘Ewan’s got it under control!’

  ‘Chill,’ Elizabeth says. ‘I’m just getting Yoda some hot chips.’

  When she returns they discuss it more.

  ‘I think Lou-Lou regrets not taking a gap year from being the best at everything,’ Elizabeth says.

  ‘She’s too young to have regrets,’ Julia says. ‘Tell her to buy a backpack and head overseas.’

  ‘I regret not doing that,’ Alana says. ‘Back in the eighties, all my teaching friends ended up in London.’

  And that gets them talking about regrets, which Rosie says is her cue for telling them she’d rather take the bus home than listen to them a minute longer.

  ‘Off you go, then,’ Martha says.

  The others watch Rosie walk away with Toto.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I just can’t help liking her,’ Julia says, laughing. ‘She’s great with Dad.’

  And was such a shit to her own, Martha wants to say. But she doesn’t, because she has to take some of the blame.

  ‘What’s your regret, babe?’ Alana asks Julia.

  ‘Keeping you waiting until I had the guts to come out.’

  ‘How long?’ Sophie asks.

  ‘Long enough to go out with a guy and get engaged.’

  ‘We love him,’ Alana says. ‘He’s been our financial adviser for years.’

  ‘Your turn, Martha.’

  Martha’s regrets are too many, but she concentrates on the one that wakes her every morning.

  ‘I regret not taking my mother to Oberammergau,’ she says. ‘My father refused to go back all their lives, and then, after he died, I was too busy working. Next minute she had cancer and was dead within a year.’

  Sophie looks like she’s going to cry because she loved Lotte and was inconsolable when she died.

  ‘Oh and I regret losing my virginity to the guy behind the bar at Jacksons on George,’ Martha adds.

  ‘I begged you not to order that fourth Kahlúa and coke,’ Sophie tells her, opening up a bag of crisps for the kids and sending them to the next table. ‘I regret spending four years married to a dick,’ she whispers when Scarlett’s out of earshot.

  ‘Big dick,’ Martha agrees, because she couldn’t stand Sophie’s first husband.

  ‘He had a big dick or he was a big dick?’ Elizabeth asks.

  ‘Definitely the latter,’ Sophie says. ‘But I was determined not to marry a Greek guy. So I regret not listening to my cousin Ariadne who kept on telling me about her accountant. I didn’t get to meet George for another fifteen years.’

  ‘And has St George, hero of the Peloponnesus, got a big dick?’

  ‘Shush, Elizabeth!’

  Elizabeth pours herself another glass of wine. ‘Well, I’m sure you all know what mine is,’ she says, and Martha figures they’ll finally discover the truth about the disappearing husband.

  ‘Obviously that perm I got for the Year Twelve formal.’

  ‘That’s probably why Ewan dumped you,’ Alana says, just as he walks back in, oblivious to what they’ve been discussing.

  ‘What about you?’ Alana asks him. ‘Do you regret doing the Men of League calendar and showing off that hairy chest?’

  ‘I regret agreeing to coach you lunatics.’

  Martha keeps herself busy that week. Sophie’s helping George out at the office because his receptionist is off sick, so Martha picks up Scarlett every afternoon and takes her back to the house until Sophie comes to collect her. Elizabeth’s off to a buyers’ conference in Brisbane on Wednesday, so she takes her to the airport.

  ‘What time does your plane get in?’ Martha asks, when she pulls up in front of the terminal.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Martha. You’re not picking me up during peak hour.’

  ‘Course I am. The taxi line will take ages.’

  She decides to do a St John’s Ambulance course with Julia, who needs to be up-to-date because of the adoption application. Later, they go down to Papa’s for a coffee.

  ‘Every time I do one of these courses I sort of wish someone will have a heart attack near me so I can put them in the recovery position.’

  Julia laughs. ‘You’re an idiot.’

  Their cannoli arrive along with a little box of Italian pastries for Julia’s father.

  ‘How much longer is this adoption going to take?’ Martha asks.

  ‘We stopped playing with numbers about five years ago,’ Julia says. ‘But we’re no longer in the Children’s Court, so that’s a relief. Hopefully we’ll get a date for the Supreme Court and we’ll be a tiny step closer.’

  She’s drained. Martha doesn’t know anyone coming out of the Children’s Court who isn’t.

  She soon finds herself under Julia’s scrutiny.

  ‘But let’s talk about you.’

  ‘Nothing to talk about. I’ll be back at work by October.’

  ‘And the house? Because no disrespect to your mother, but you can’t be taking real estate advice from the dead, Martha.’

  ‘Not true. I’ve been watching this Medium show on the Entertainment Channel and it’s exactly what she does.’

  Julia is still studying her.

  ‘I like seeing my brother happy.’

  Martha doesn’t want to speak about Ewan. Because last week when she drove Rosie to the breast clinic, it reminded her that, back in February, she had almost worked out exactly what she was going to do about the family’s history with breast cancer. And then Charlie’s funeral happened and she met Ewan.

  ‘When he came back from Charlie P’s funeral there was something different about him,’ Julia says. ‘The sacking had turned him into a hermit and all of a sudden he came back to life.’

  She smiles and it softens her. Martha has only seen the side of Julia stressed by her children’s legal status and her father’s Alzheimer’s.

  ‘Back then, Alana and I found him going through my old photo albums. He pointed to one of us back in Year Twelve and asked, “Is that Martha Newman?” I’ve driven Alana crazy ever since.’

  ‘So a bit of a coincidence that Sister Mo wanted me at her funeral?’ Martha says.

  ‘Sister Mo didn’t give a rat’s arse about any of us except Elizabeth.’

  ‘Not even Sophie?’

  ‘Sophie was “that Greek Orthodox girl”,’ Julia says, mimicking Sister Mo’s Irish brogue. ‘I was the motherless one.’

  ‘Who was I?’

  Julia grimaces. ‘She didn’t remember you. Martha who?’

  ‘I knew it. What a cow.’

  Julia shrugs. ‘I just want my brother to be happy, so Sister Mo’s funeral seemed a good opportunity to get in contact with you.’

  ‘If I had been forced to do a liturgical dance because of a lie, I’d have to kill someone.’

  They finish their coffee and sweets and Martha walks Julia to the car.

  ‘What did we fight about at school?’ Martha asks. ‘I can’t remember, but it had to have started in First Form because there was never a time you weren’t mean to me. And I feel as if I hadn’t forgiven you all these years, when I should have, because it all seems so petty now.’

  Julia laughs with disbelief. Goes to speak, but changes her mind.

  ‘No, say it,’ Martha says.

  Julia hesitates.

  ‘You were the first person to call me a dyke, Martha,�
�� she finally says. ‘We were thirteen and you must have suspected. Maybe at the same time I was figuring it out.’

  Martha feels as if something hard has been slammed into her chest.

  ‘And I have forgiven how you made me feel. But I’ve never forgotten. Because I’m reminded every once in a while.’

  ‘So you’ve thought I was homophobic all these years,’ Martha asks.

  ‘God, no. I just thought you were a bitch.’ Julia shrugs. ‘But back then … that word made me frightened of everything I felt.’

  Martha wants to remember saying it, so she can take it back, but Julia’s already moved on to another conversation.

  She goes to get a haircut, but her regular hairdresser isn’t there. Martha gets advice she doesn’t need from the guy who’s tugging at her hair with a grimace.

  ‘I don’t get my hair cut often, so just a tidy up,’ she says.

  ‘Mm, it’s not really age appropriate, is it?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m more into the European model of longer hair at any age.’

  ‘It’s all rather schoolgirl.’

  Martha wants to point out that what Michelle Pfeiffer and Julianne Moore and Monica Bellucci have in common is a non- sexist and ageist hairdresser. And that she’s sick of adding to the list: what people her age can’t wear anymore, or do anymore, or be anymore. But she doesn’t. Except she gets a sense that he’s going to do whatever he wants with her hair, so she puts up a hand to stop him, stands up, takes off her cape and walks out.

  Teresa ends up trimming it, and the capable hands kneading her scalp make Martha cry. She can’t bear the idea of not living next to Teresa and Marco and their family, or Jennifer and Steve and the boys. She’s lived in enough houses where neighbours seemed absent. Hostile. Cold. Polite. She’ll miss those conversations while she’s dragging out the recycling bin. The ostentatious Christmas lights that bring people out of their houses for a stroll up and down the streets. Of Teresa waving off Jennifer’s apology for the noise made by her kids at night because, according to Teresa, when your sons get their P plates in this area, who sleeps anyway. But spring has come and there was no warning from Lotte this morning. Just another text message from the agent.