‘Your legs are not ugly.’
‘They are.’
‘They aren’t.’
‘They are ugly leper legs.’
‘They are not ugly leper legs any more than my arm is ugly. Are you saying my arm is ugly?’
‘We’ve been through all that. No, I don’t think your arm is ugly.’ The old lie.
‘There you go, then. Nor do I find your legs ugly.’ Surely she was lying too.
Yet, maybe not. She liked to wiggle her good hand into my underpants and test me for servicing. ‘What have we got down here?’ she said, and rubbed and handled. As much as I clenched against getting excited, as much as I gripped her wrist and told her to behave, she persisted and wanted me to kiss her. She suggested I feel into her clothing for her good breast and see if it appealed to my touch. It did. Off came her gauntlet and her sleeve. Up and over her head went her shirt, her bra and prosthetic body part. She straddled me and said in shivery whispers, ‘Tell me if I’m hurting you, sweetheart. Is this okay? Your legs aren’t stinging?’ She didn’t want servicing, she was after true congressing, the real McCoy of loving intimacy.
Here’s the Swahili of all Swahilis: so did I. My distaste for the idea was gone. In its place was not desire so much as me wanting the home of someone. I wanted the homeness of Tilda. We must surely have been marked out for each other, fated. Cursed in body, the better for being blessed in soul. I said so to her during the gentlest of straddlings. I said, ‘We must be cursed but we are cursed together.’
‘Yeth. We are blethed in that way,’ she whispered.
Something enfeared me that I had never experienced when I was well. ‘What are you thinking?’ I asked her. ‘Right this exact second. Tell me your thoughts?’
‘Wha?’
‘This very second. Be honest.’
‘I thinken nothing. I feel you move roun inthide me.’
‘Nothing else?’
No, she promised. Nothing else. I couldn’t let up, however. It was jealousy, you see. Jealousy, and all the desperate hallucinations it causes. I kept thinking: What if she’s straddling me but in the privacy of her mind wishes she was straddling her equivalent of a Holly or Donna? I closed my eyes and searched the town for a selection of threatening possibilities. Gavin, the gardener at the duck pond park? Christ no—he has teeth missing and talks simpleton-slow. Joshua, Scintilla’s liquor store attendant? Has body odour and looks over fifty around his eyes.
What about Michael Farrelly, LLB? He has Scintilla’s goldest shingle. Its only shingle, in fact: Attorney at Law, like Americans on TV. He wears suits, cufflinks, ties, so he wouldn’t be interested in Tilda. It reassured me and insulted me that he was out of her league.
What about Vigourman? He left a get-well cake for me at the back door, and a batch of Mrs Vigourman’s Anzac biscuits. You’re in the wars, you two, it said on his card. We look forward to having you back on board soon. My wife is always saying, ‘There can never be enough Colin in the Gazette.’
I disliked his name intensely. I couldn’t even congress with vigour given my state. I was a passive pommel horse for Tilda to trot on. I also envied him his money. On my bedside table were official government forms for my filling out and signing. I now qualified for a sickness handout. What slightest appeal could I have left for anybody? Yet Tilda must have valued something. There I was beneath her, not a Joshua, attorney or Vigourman. I advised myself that this could well be as good as things ever got for me. This might be the height a man such as me can reach. It’s like sinking to the bottom of your own life, thinking such thoughts. You are weightless, released. You don’t want to surface; you no longer want to breathe. Which makes you panic suddenly. I came up gasping for air, grateful for Tilda in her moaning reverie upon me.
That’s when I asked her to marry me. I spluttered it into her dangling hair.
She gripped my ears to steer my eyes to look into hers. ‘Really?’
‘Would you want to?’
‘What a beautiful quethion.’
‘So, yes?’
‘Yeth. Pleathe. Yeth.’
Chapter 56
Marry me is the very opposite of bad language. A bout of bad language and I crave chain-smoking. I get so thick in the neck veins—anger is blood-borne and clogs them—I need smoking and cold vodka to treat it. Then I need sleep to silence my banging brain. Marry me was calming to utter. More like soap and water than two old-fashioned words. I expected my blood was being cleansed of red and was now a clear colour.
Tilda was the same, though she took it one step further. What I called soap and water she called pure and holy. She said no wonder churches are the common wedding preference: even if you don’t believe in God, what other place is worthy? You can do it in your living room but that insults the feeling. She set her mind on the little white place at Mallock Mallock. It hadn’t been used in years but was so dignified, so simple in the Presbyterian manner. Oh, it would need sprucing up but leave it to her; she’d fix it. She skip-ran down the stairs for a pen to list arrangements. Weatherboards would need re-nailing. She had once sketched the church, made watercolours of its windy ambiance—a bare paddock and padlocked gate, ragged gum trees like sentries. She noticed two stained-glass windows were broken but not too badly. She spied through the cracks and saw cobwebs—they’d need sweeping. There were bat droppings and bat stench, the abandoned nests of sparrows or starlings. She would clean it all, scrubbing one-handed. ‘My pet project,’ she decreed. I was off the hook with my legs being their way.
As for a celebrant, Tilda would make a few inquiries. A minister was all we needed. There would be no catering or grandiose expense—this was our marriage, hers and mine, no family present. Other people get married to show themselves off, a stage production with bridesmaids and flowing veils, Rolls-Royces driving in convoy. We had nothing to show off except rotten health. Nobody was going to watch us become each other’s spouse, weeping how touching it was and feeling sorry for us. We’d exchange vows in the tiny chapel in the presence of the god you have when you don’t believe in any—Nature. The wheat-field winds, the sea-blue sky; tree limbs creaking around us in their own crippled dramas.
‘I get the sense that chapel has been waiting years,’ she said. ‘Doing nothing but wait for the sole purpose of having us in it.’
She bought a catalogue from the newsagent—Wedding Bells. She wanted to wear white like the chapel’s whiteness. Fawns, blues, greens would not do for a wedding, our wedding. They’re for ordinary dos and balls. It was $500, though, for a dress with the merest satin. Instead she ordered a roll of material and pretty lace lengths and a silken bustle, part of an intricate effort to measure herself and cut and pin and stitch the fabric. She taped thimbles to her finger ends and bound up her bad hand, keeping the binding loose enough to let her bend and grasp while ensuring security against needle injury. She sat on the lounge floor and threaded her wedding artwork. I wasn’t allowed to enter and glimpse it. My eyes would have to wait for the ceremony, which is the custom. The dress took a month to complete. She called it her masterpiece. It’s still here somewhere, folded in two garbage bags against silverfish. I think it’s under her side of the bed but I don’t want to see.
I wore a suit, a hired one from a phone number in the catalogue. Tilda measured me for it during my experimenting with standing. Three months after the leprosy set in the pain was dulling enough for relearning to walk. Up the hallway I’d go, then back to bed and a pillow under my heels for draining away pangs. I practised walking twice a day in preparation for the aisle, for waiting at the altar and saying vows and escorting Tilda on my arm out of the church and into married life.
The arrangement was that Reverend Giles Hugg from Scintilla’s All Faiths Congregation would do the honours for a $40 gratuity and keep it hush-hush so there’d be no sightseers. The Gazette would want to be there with a photo for its social page if word got out. Tilda didn’
t want people nattering about how lovely she looked for someone with a mastectomy. I certainly didn’t want the attention. I was managing to walk again, yes, but only with a walking stick in each hand. Tilda bought me black wooden ones from the Salvos—less medical than the steel kind from Philpott but walking sticks nonetheless, like an old codger. I had put on belly weight too, from being bedridden and having my appetite return. I had, in other words, aged. I found seven grey hairs in the mirror: three on my left temple; four on my right. There were signs of sagging below my eye sockets.
My responsibility was getting a ring for her. I didn’t need one—rings are optional on males and we had to be sensible and scrimp on spending. The symbol of a wedding ring was essential on women, Tilda believed. ‘It’s like saying, Colin is my husband. It’s saying, World out there, I’m the love of his life.’
She gave me her finger size—her good hand’s finger, a finger she would display like a normal wife: 13 millimetres diameter, which turned out to be size C in jewellers’ language. Not that we had a jeweller in Scintilla. We had O’Connor’s Manchester, which sold everything for the home and human, including orthopaedic footwear. And down the very back, in a knee-high locker, cheap watches, necklaces, bracelets and ear studs. In a locker inside the locker, accessed by brassy key, was a felt container which opened out into rows of rings of gold and silver. Wedding rings, engagement, eternity.
Of the three that fitted Tilda’s measurements there was a plain gold band, price $75, which came in a little domed presentation box and included a tag saying nine carats. Me and my sticks hobbled down Main Street twice before I finally decided on the nine carats over a thicker band with a speck of diamond in it but not as much reflective shine.
It was probably the O’Connor girl who informed the town—Shona or Sheena or whatever her name is. The one with powder so densely applied it makes her face look dirty. ‘When’s the happy day?’ she asked.
‘We’re keeping it very quiet.’
‘Oh, do tell.’
Never confide in country people.
Chapter 57
The ceremony would start at 11am. Tilda was having her hair done at Tracy’s Salon before breakfast, which would give me time alone in the bathroom to make myself presentable. I was able to bathe on my own now—my legs tolerated water and floated painlessly under the surface provided the temperature was cool. I could step out and onto the bath towel without help, and bend and rinse dead skin from the enamel without losing my balance or feeling leg blood scalding me.
I was to dress by nine and wait at the back gate for Reverend Hugg, who had kindly offered transport. He and I would go to his house for morning tea while Tilda dressed in her masterpiece, put on her face and picked a dewy posy of flowers from our backyard for her aisle walk: lavender sprigs were in the purple of health after spring rains; oleander bloomed pink; bottle-brush was scarlet and bristling. She’d make her own way to the chapel by van so I wouldn’t see her bridal look until vow time.
Reverend Hugg was worried about the van part of proceedings. What if the rickety wreck broke down? What if we stood there at the altar, he and I, and there was no Tilda? He’d put fresh batteries in his cassette player and said it would be a shame if only flies and magpies got to hear the wedding march. Also, he was booked to umpire junior cricket in the afternoon—any dallying would cause him inconvenience.
He needn’t have worried. The van did its bit. We heard it pull in through the church gate with a salute of backfires. The reverend stood to attention and nodded his relief to me. He touched a knuckle to his nose to wipe away bat odour. He lit two candles and smoothed the cloth he’d brought to cover the bat-stained altar table. He didn’t care whether we were believers or not, if we were going to get married in a house of God there had to be a Bible and crucifix present or we could get someone else. His cross and Bible were between the candles. He nudged them together as if aligning sensitive instruments. He was the fidgety type, short in stature, big on baritone speaking. His head was a pincushion of hair transplants still healing, pubic-like strands slicked across his skull as if he thought no one would notice. He pressed play for the organ music and immediately had to turn it down because of echoing in the empty pews.
There she was, the long white stem of her. Her arms were webbed in lace, with oversized lace cuffs in a glove effect to conceal her sleeve and gauntlet. She stood in the narrow door arch holding her posy above her waist like a nervous offering. She smiled but it was a flinching, embarrassed kind. I could see the problem. There were people behind her, half a dozen elderly women. I couldn’t name them but I knew them by sight. ‘Biddies’, they were called behind their backs in Scintilla. ‘Ladies’ to their faces, but ‘biddies and busy-bodies’ behind. They tugged and pinched their cardigans over their bosoms, patted their candy-floss perms because Holly was there too, camera over her shoulder, blinking heavenward for the best lighting, positioning the camera tripod used for steadier social-page portraits.
The biddies clumped themselves together to be photographed, granny-stepping through the door after Tilda. She took a deep breath and proceeded towards me. The nuisance of impostors would have to be ignored. Reverend Hugg directed me to extend my arm and invite her to be at my side. He stood on his toes and pointed for everyone else to settle in the rear pews and be quiet. He put his finger to his mouth and gave the order: Quiet.
I put both walking sticks into my left hand and bid Tilda come embrace my right elbow. I felt compelled to touch wood that she would look just as fragilely beautiful up close as she did slow-stepping from the door; that she would not become tearful from all the smiling and worry about tears melting makeup. I touched wood that I would not appear unlovely suddenly to her with my hunched reliance on walking sticks. That there would be no scene of second thoughts for the biddies and Holly to dine out on for months. Wooden walking sticks at least mean you’ve always got the touchings close at hand.
There was no need for touchings. Tilda held me tightly, her head bowed to display jasmine flowers braided there. She was shy and wanted my approval.
‘Beautiful.’
The reverend lifted his arms like surrender. ‘Heavenly father, we beseech you to be with us on this most auspicious day.’
I never knew humility was not demeaning. I never knew it made you kneel and made you tall.
Chapter 58
I was sworn in to Tilda, and she was sworn in to me.
I switched walking sticks to my other hand for a moment to get the ring box from my pocket, spread its stiff jaw and prise out the nine carats.
Reverend Hugg surrendered his arms again. ‘A ring is a symbol of commitment, of pledging love and faithfulness. Marriage is not to be taken lightly. It is our souls we are joining. Let this ring be a constant and lifelong reminder to you, Colin and Tilda, of your blessed union.’
It slid into place on her with a few budges over bones. There. Done. I leant forward and kissed my wife. She leant forward for me to kiss her longer. She whispered, ‘My husband.’
Reverend Hugg announced, ‘Ladies and…ah…ladies, I give you Mr and Mrs Colin and Tilda Butcher.’ He began applauding us. The biddies applauded, called out, ‘Amen. Congratulations. Bless you both. Bless you.’ They pulled handkerchiefs from their cardigan sleeves for effeminate dabbing.
What happened next I thought was just those old girls. There was a crazy screeching like they’d spotted a ghost, or had a turn, one of them, and dropped dead to the floor. The screech was higher up, though, where roof beams criss-crossed. Dust fell to us, and dirty clots of old spider webs. I looked up and dirt stuck in my eyes. The reverend spat fibres from his mouth. ‘Bats,’ he coughed.
Bats don’t have green feathers and flash about in green flight. Green was all I saw—a screeching blur of it, then another louder screech as greenness descended and separated into two birds: two parakeets diving our way, merging and tilting, separating again. They arced around the revere
nd’s head and screeched directly into mine, collided with mine, a feathery thud on my forehead, tipping me off my sticks. I crumpled over. Tilda told me later they didn’t even try to alter course. It was like they’d lined me up and hit me on purpose. They swerved to miss the biddies and Holly but flew straight into me, then whooshed out the chapel door.
I have to hand it to the biddies: they tried to make me feel better. I was shaky on my sticks after climbing to my feet. My eyebrow had a bleeding scratch on it, like a parakeet sign of foreboding. ‘Oh no, no, no,’ they said. ‘Parakeets are good luck. That’s a good luck sign you’ve got on your head. Isn’t it, Valmai?’
‘Yes it is.’
‘Isn’t it, Ada?’
‘Absolutely, Vera.’
They probably even believed it. I certainly did. I had the weather to help me believe—the softest drizzle had started up. The whole smooth sky was coming down to greet us and give that soap-and-water sensation for our outsides.
I smiled for Holly—for her camera, not her eyes. Her fringe was dyed orange, which suited her. But I had eyes only for Tilda.
Chapter 59
Ceremonies are like surgery—they kid you along with their action and elation. The ordinary business of living is then returned to you. Our wedding ceremony lasted two honeymoon days and nights. We didn’t take off anywhere special: the expense would spoil relaxing. A night in Bendigo at The Shamrock, say, was $100 before food and beverages. We appreciated the special history of the building—Dame Nellie Melba stayed there, but that was years before. For $100 we wanted her singing in person and not to feel we were financing bistro renovations.
We set up the stereo in Tilda’s bedroom—I moved back there like a proper spouse. With the blinds kept down our bodies looked normal in the honeymoon dimness. We played Bruch’s Violin Concerto No. 1, Tilda’s favourite, over and over. We kissed, we congressed. We whispered ‘sweetheart’ and ‘darling’. We planned the years out, defiant of illness. If welfare was all we were good for, so be it. We resigned ourselves to burdening the government—we deserved being indulged after what we’d been through.
The Amateur Science of Love Page 14