Melting Moments

by Anna Goldsworthy

  ‘Happy birthday, Mum,’ says Eva, when she rejoins the family in the kitchen.

  There is uneasy laughter. No one quite dares to look at anyone else.

  ‘Shall we make a start on that cake?’ asks Ned.

  It scarcely seems proper, but it is a shame to let a good ginger cake go to waste, so she brings out the dessert plates and Mother serves it up. It is a fine cake indeed: piquant and moist.

  ‘Granny never did like a ginger cake,’ she observes, though it is not entirely the right thing to say.

  ‘How’s work, Mum?’ asks Charlie.

  ‘Getting busier. Now all these women are joining the workforce I have to go out in the evenings in order to catch them at home.’

  ‘Bloody working women,’ says Eva.

  ‘Any stories for us this week?’ asks Charlie.

  She did have a story she had earmarked to tell them, but she is not sure this is the time.

  ‘Oh, go on!’ says Eva.

  ‘Well, on Tuesday I had to conduct a survey for the School of Dental Health.’ She drops her voice. ‘And over by the corner of Lancelot Avenue – you know, the big green Tudor place – the lady of the house launched into a detailed account of her sexual troubles.’

  ‘Heck,’ says Ned. ‘Arthur know what you’re up to in your spare time?’

  ‘What are section troubles?’ asks Amy.

  ‘Never you mind,’ Eva replies.

  ‘And finally I got to the question, Do you have any teeth in your upper jaw that are not your own, for example, any false teeth? To which she replied …’

  She cannot speak, she is so overcome by laughter.

  ‘To which she replied …’

  She pulls out her handkerchief to wipe her eyes; she cannot remember ever having laughed so much.

  ‘What?’ asks Eva, chuckling in anticipation.

  ‘To which she replied, in high dudgeon: That is a very intimate question, isn’t it?’

  The room explodes in laughter, then falls silent as Arthur trudges in.

  ‘Very sorry for your loss, Arthur,’ says Ned.

  ‘It’s all of our loss, really,’ he replies.

  He is distinguished in his grief; you could almost say it becomes him. Ruby pours him a cup of tea, and serves him a slice of ginger cake.

  He gazes up at her, admiringly. ‘The necklace suits you. Very fetching.’

  Her hand reaches for her neck, where the pearls are cool and unblemished beneath her fingers. She had completely forgotten she was wearing them. It is all too much to absorb, really. Her house is her own. Her husband is her own. She looks at him – his furrowed brow, his clear eye – and feels a love like ecstasy.

  PART THREE

  1

  When Eva announces that she and Ned are getting a divorce, Ruby’s first thought is that her daughter, yet again, has made her life harder than it needs to be.

  ‘For God’s sake, why?’

  ‘According to Ned, we have different interests,’ Eva says, with a contemptuous snort. ‘And he’s right. I have no interest in his secretary.’

  A crackle of rage passes over Ruby’s skin. That anyone should spurn her daughter. Ned had never been good enough. Nobody has ever been good enough.

  But then this passes back into the atmosphere, and she is left with the spectre of divorce. Only last week, she had been boasting at bridge about the couple’s renovations of their Walkerville home.

  ‘I urge you to think very carefully about this,’ she advises Eva. ‘We’ve never had a divorce in the family before. Don’t forget that men have their needs. Sometimes we all need to find it in our hearts to forgive.’

  ‘I think I’ve forgiven enough already,’ Eva says darkly.

  Ruby does not wish to hear any more, though she does feel that Eva could have done things differently. It would not have hurt her to wear a nice dress occasionally. But of course the girl could never be told.

  ‘Just the same, I might not mention anything at bridge,’ Ruby says. ‘In the hope that the two of you soon come to your senses.’

  Over the months that follow, it becomes clear that nobody is going to come to their senses. The house in Walkerville is sold – despite its lovely north-facing renovations – and Eva and Amy move into a townhouse in North Adelaide. Still, Ruby decides against any sort of public statement. The best approach is always a dignified silence; people will think what they think, and what they think is none of her business. Or so she tells herself.

  To Ruby’s surprise, Eva thrives in her new situation, growing her hair and even wearing the occasional splash of colour. When Ruby has her hip replaced, Eva invites her to come and stay, booking Arthur into respite. Of course, he does not like this one bit, calling every five minutes and demanding to come home.

  ‘He’s just missing you, Mum,’ Eva says. ‘He loves you.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘Just ignore the phone if it rings.’

  But how could she ignore it? He’d only get himself into more of a lather, working his way through the Rolodex until Charlie or Daisy or some well-meaning acquaintance was dropping by to check up on her, and she was forced into entertaining.

  Apart from these phone calls, Ruby has a lovely time staying at Eva’s. She feels strangely unencumbered, never mind her limited mobility; at moments, there is even a girlish feeling of possibility. And she is not lonely, not for one minute. During the day, when Eva is at work and Amy at university, the cocker spaniels are reliable presences, pressing their woolly backs against her legs, and the evenings are loud and festive, with the neighbours forever dropping in to visit. One evening, Eva brings home a new-fangled massage wand for Ruby’s sciatica. Amy picks it up and presses it to her ear, scrunching up her eyes like a dog being scratched.

  ‘When it vibrates in your eardrum it feels like an orgasm.’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ says Eva. ‘What’s this obsession with sex?’

  ‘Sorry, Mum.’

  ‘It’s your grandmother you should be apologising to.’

  ‘I’m sure Granny Ruby has her own stories,’ suggests Amy.

  ‘If she does, she’s remaining very tight-lipped about them,’ says Eva.

  Ruby is not sure that she does have her own stories, as such. All she has are a few key moments, which would not necessarily stand up to a retelling.

  There was that moment with Mr Steele, which she prefers not to think about. She supposes Arthur would have gone off to war anyway, sooner or later, but sometimes she wonders whether things might have been different.

  Then, many years later, there was that moment with Ralphy Phillips, when she had come inside to collect her sponge cake from the kitchen. It was a good sponge too, perfectly light and the cream whipped up exquisitely. Raspberries were in season, so she had arranged these on top. They were always her favourite summer fruit, ruby-red and coated in down like a baby’s nape.

  Of course she had noticed the way Ralphy looked at her, but she was still somewhat taken aback. Above all she was anxious to protect her cake, so when she realised what was happening she leant forward to meet his cold, purposeful mouth with her own. Arthur’s kisses usually had a gentle, questioning quality, but this one finished with the smack of an exclamation mark. Afterwards, as he marched triumphantly out of the kitchen, she checked that the cake had remained unscathed. Perhaps it was relief that made her laugh so.

  Eva hurtled in from the passage. ‘What’s so funny?’

  Foolishly, she told her, and the child furrowed her small forehead and made a tsk.

  ‘Don’t tell Daddy,’ she warned her mother.

  As if Ruby ever would.

  Then there were the other, less obvious moments that did not involve Ralphy, and were even less suited to anecdote. The complicity of a flirtation, like a private joke. That small room erected for the two of them amidst the group. The softening in his eyes; a reciprocal softening in herself.

  The way his fingers brushed against her own when he passed her a glass of champagne. His hand
on her back on the dance floor.

  That private, mutual acknowledgement that if circumstances were different – well, circumstances might be different.

  She had sometimes wondered what would have happened if Bill Clarkson had come to claim her. If he had arrived at the front door, taken her by the hand and guided her to his motorcycle.

  It was a rogue thought and had absolutely no business with her.

  If Bill Clarkson had come to the door, she would of course have offered him a cup of tea and politely declined anything further.

  When they collect Arthur from respite, he has a small box of Haigh’s chocolates for Ruby, and a larger one for Eva and Amy to share. Goodness knows how he procured them; by all accounts, he had driven the nurses around the bend with his complaining. There is something about the package, with its handsome bronze wrapping and tasteful bow, that irritates Ruby. A quality that hasn’t quite been earned – by him or by her, she’s not entirely sure.

  ‘Silly old boy. You shouldn’t have.’

  She sees Eva and Amy exchange a glance.

  ‘Such a generous gesture, Dad.’

  ‘My very favourite chocolate, Grandpa. How did you guess?’

  Eva helps Arthur into the front seat of the Vauxhall, and Ruby climbs into the back with Amy. She knows it was a mistake to let her daughter drive, and sure enough, Eva is complaining even before they reach the corner.

  ‘How in God’s name do you drive this thing, Mum?’

  It has been some time since Ruby has had the Vauxhall serviced, and its suspension is not what it was. The gear changes require a certain rigour, and the steering wheel – now clothed in its fourth cover – seems to have stiffened with time, though this could equally be her arthritis. But there is a pleasure in driving it that transcends its physical attributes. It has to do with restoring a sense of Mother in her prime – not that she would expect Eva to understand this.

  ‘It’s done me nicely, thank you very much. And I plan for it to see me out.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Mum, it’s a tank!’

  ‘Not compared to the Chrysler, it isn’t.’

  Arthur chuckles, as if acknowledging his car is the same as acknowledging him. He angles his head towards her hopefully; Ruby knows she should meet his gaze but finds she cannot.

  It is unnervingly quiet back at home, and for the first time in her married life she is startled by the chime of the grandfather clock. My grandfather’s clock was too large for the shelf so it stood ninety years on the floor. It has stood in the front passage for nearly five decades, measuring out their days in quarter-hour increments, apart from the two grand tours of Europe, and that week back in the seventies when Ruby was bedridden with the flu and too sick to wind it.

  The two of them settle into their familiar rhythm. Ruby still sleeps in the glorious master bedroom, with its bay window overlooking the rose bushes, but she moved Arthur into the adjacent study some time ago. Every morning, upon waking, she visits him for a cuddle. If his incontinence pads haven’t quite held up, she remains on the outside of his sheets, but even so, her gown becomes pungent with urine. The smell no longer troubles her, any more than the smell of her own toileting. She rests her head against his chest, listening to the thud of his heart, inexorable as the grandfather clock. His rib cage feels less sturdy than it once did, but the heart keeps on going. For better or for worse. In sickness and in health.

  Each morning, his bed sheets seem incrementally heavier as she removes them from the washing machine and hangs them on the line to dry.

  ‘What’s it like being married to the same person for sixty years?’ Amy had asked her once.

  It was one of the girl’s impossible questions, and she had no real answer. But if she thinks about it, she feels towards her husband an equal measure of tenderness and exasperation, so interwoven that they have become something else entirely. Something she thinks of as patience, though she doubts her granddaughter would understand this.

  The patience of waiting for him to return to the way he was before the war. The patience when she realised he would not. The patience she would feel in bed, waiting for him to culminate; the patience of waiting for the day that finally arrived, on which he no longer asked for it.

  But these are all subsets of a larger, different sort of patience. Till death do us part.

  On Thursday mornings, she drives him down to a café on the Parade for a cappuccino. The cars overtaking them look flimsy, make-believe.

  ‘There’s a fellow running late for his accident,’ Arthur says, reliably.

  At the café, they sit in silence and watch the life going on around them. The young waitress wears a sleeveless top that reveals the faces tattooed down her arm: Marilyn Monroe, Mae West, Vivien Leigh.

  ‘Always good to have a gander,’ remarks Arthur, as Ruby takes a serviette to his upper lip and wipes off the froth.

  Back at home, she removes his shoes and holds his feet in her hands, feeling their equal weight. Those mute, swollen feet. As if he spent his days walking for miles instead of sitting in his chair, waiting.

  For Ruby’s birthday in April, the children surprise her with a set of car keys.

  ‘Modernity has finally arrived at Greenhill Road,’ Eva announces.

  They all seem so excited that she strives to be gracious. But when did everyone stop listening to her opinion? When did she relinquish the right to a vote?

  ‘You shouldn’t have.’ It sounds like good manners but she means it.

  ‘We most certainly should have,’ declares Eva. ‘Now you can drive that old rust bucket off a cliff.’

  ‘You know you can’t talk about the Vauxhall like that,’ Charlie reprimands her.

  ‘Your brother’s quite right,’ says Ruby. ‘The Vauxhall demands your respect.’

  She still remembers Mother driving it into the carport, bedecked in her silk scarf and driving gloves. Although she could never stay long – she had to get back to the fowls – it was a bit like being visited by the Queen, and Ruby always made sure the house was immaculate on these occasions. Some years later, when Mother moved into Greenhill Road, she brought the Vauxhall with her. She lost interest in driving at that time, alongside most else, and so Ruby started taking the car out herself, just to keep it on the road. At first it was for short trips, such as picking up an extra bottle of milk or running the odd errand for Granny Jenkins, who had only become more demanding after Mother moved in. Then she started taking it out to bridge and to visit the children, and at some stage – it was not entirely clear when – the Vauxhall became her own car.

  Now, the children usher her out to the carport, with Arthur hobbling along behind them on his frame. She sees that someone has shifted the Vauxhall onto the street, and that a new car has taken its place. It is round and flagrantly red, and looks less like a car than like one of those jellybeans Father would produce on the milk boat from Murray Bridge. He always made her promise not to tell Mother.

  ‘How about that, then.’

  ‘At least pretend to be grateful,’ Charlie says, helping her into the driver’s seat.

  Tentatively, she backs the car out of the driveway for a test drive. It feels almost whimsical to steer; she scarcely needs to think of changing lanes before she has done so.

  ‘You’ll get used to the power steering,’ Charlie reassures her. ‘And never look back.’

  Once the children have gone, she drives the Vauxhall to visit Daisy, who commiserates with her over her gift. For the first time, its heaviness feels like a strain, but at least it offers a proper sense of the seriousness of conveying several tonnes of metal along the road. The following morning, Ruby’s rheumatism is bothering her, so she takes the new car to her appointment at the salon. After a few more errands, she scarcely gives the Vauxhall a second thought. When the children tell her they have found a buyer, interested in restoration, she feels a guilty relief that nobody will be driving it off a cliff, and then puts it out of her mind altogether.

  It is not clear
to her whether there was a conscious decision to relocate Sunday lunches to Eva’s house, or if it was just a collective, unspoken act, a glass gliding past on a Ouija board. But it has been some time since she and Arthur last entertained, and the dust covers have remained on the sofas since Easter. Ruby now keeps the lounge room shut up, venturing in only to deposit the Vauxhall’s keys in the chest of drawers, alongside her collection of fox stoles. Amy used to play with them when she was small: squealing at the foxes’ unseeing eyes, their tiny, impotent paws. They look a little shabby, perhaps, but what is Ruby to do with them? Nobody is going to wear them, though you can hardly throw your disused animals in the bin.

  But the kitchen is still operational, and Eva always asks her to bring along a batch of melting moments. She has just rolled the dough into balls, and is pressing each one with the tines of a fork, when she hears the front doorbell.

  Drat. The passage is longer than it once was, and it is unlikely to be anyone she wishes to see. Who would visit on a Sunday, anyway? The children know to come in the back entrance.

  Then she remembers. Eva had arranged for a potential buyer to come around and look at the Vauxhall. Arthur is still in the shower – not that he would answer the door anyway – so she has no choice but to hobble up to the door in her pinny, smelling of custard powder.

  An old man waits on the doorstep, surely too ancient to be restoring anything.

  It is only when he grins that she knows him.

  ‘Blow me down with a feather!’

  ‘Sweet Ruby Rose!’

  He lurches towards her, planting a kiss on the side of her face.

  ‘If it’s not Bill Clarkson!’

  ‘Remember telling me about the Vauxhall? I’ve come to claim her.’

  ‘How in God’s name …?’

  ‘Saw the advertisement in the paper and called your Eva without realising it was yours. Meant to be, you see!’

  ‘For crying out loud! Come in and have a cup of tea.’