by Hugh Mackay
I was certainly not in the market for any more children. Looking back, I was not much more than a child myself – twenty-eight – when Angie was born. The young are far more sensible about parenthood today. At meetings of Socially Aware Architects, we receive regular briefings about the changes reshaping society, and I must say I approve of what I hear about the falling birthrate and the increasing age of new parents. Most first-time fathers today are in their mid-thirties. Very sensible – except for the sleepless nights, I suppose. We have a new father at work who’s practically my age, poor bastard. He looks positively haggard.
Angelina was a nice enough kid. But, really, I can’t say I’m into young children, to be honest. They don’t become interesting until they’re well into their teens, and even then it’s no sure thing. But I hung in there for a whole year, with the access visits and the holidays and all the rest. Very tough going. The situation was greatly eased when Angie’s mother and her new husband announced they were moving to Perth. I think they thought I was going to object, but they misread me totally. Let’s just say I didn’t object.
By the time Freya and I were married, Angelina was a difficult fourteen-year-old, but things became far less tense with Freya on the scene. Don’t quote me, but that kind of thing comes more naturally to women, I believe. I know it’s mainly cultural, blah, blah, blah, but I could see it in Freya. She just seemed to know instinctively how to deal with Angie when she came to stay. Both females, of course. It’s easier all round now she’s an adult: she and Freya get on like a house on fire – let’s face it, there’s only a thirteen-year difference between them, which can be a bit unnerving in its own way. In fact, I see more of Angie now than I ever did when she was a child. Her mother and what’s-his-face always claimed Angie wasn’t keen on coming to see me. May I be frank? Back then, the feeling was mutual.
My buildings are my babies.
6
Coming Home –
3rd Variation – ‘Flashback’
The sight of the travertine-paved convivium gladdened Richard’s heart, as it always did when he returned home. And yet . . .
Pausing at the door, Richard recalled, for the hundredth time, another version of this very scene occurring in another time and another place. He was fourteen, arriving home from school. As he came through the back door, he saw his mother sitting at the kitchen table, her shoulders heaving with terrible sobs. He was shocked, confused, frightened. She had her back to him and he didn’t know whether to retreat, in the hope that she had not heard him, or pass through the room saying nothing, or go to his mother and try to comfort her.
There was no precedent. He had never seen his mother cry before. Not once. His mother was famous for her composure.
He waited. It was the most harrowing sound he had ever heard. It was like a wall, with no way through it.
He stared into the room – the shabby linoleum on the floor, the fridge with a rusting hinge, the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. There had been a light shade, but it had been smashed when, according to his mother, his father had been attempting to kill a mosquito. His father had no doubt been drunk, as he so often was, and angry. He had probably thrown something. At least it had only hit a light fitting.
His father seemed to Richard to be almost perpetually angry, or on the brink of anger. He had once dared to ask his mother why she stayed with him and she had said, with a faraway look, ‘He’s your father.’
He could never anticipate his father’s rages. They seemed unconnected to his own or his mother’s behaviour, though for many years he had assumed he was somehow responsible. His mother had reassured him on that point, around the time of his twelfth birthday. He remembered that conversation as the most intimate, the most intense, he had ever had with his mother.
Looking at her now – listening to those racking sobs – he was certain this was about his father. But why at four o’clock in the afternoon?
He must have made an involuntary sound.
His mother turned and saw him standing in the door. She stood and composed herself. Even at fourteen, Richard was amazed by the speed of that transformation. She held out her arms to him. That was unusual – she was reserved as well as composed – and he accepted her embrace with a sense of relief.
As she held him against her tiny frame, there was one more shudder, and then silence.
‘Go to your room and change out of your school uniform,’ she said, ‘and I’ll make some toasted cheese sandwiches. We’ll have them together on the back porch.’
He did as he was told.
Walking to his bedroom, he was conscious of some shift in the atmosphere of the house. A different smell. A sense of movement. A disruption. Dust in the air.
He glanced into the living area. All the bookshelves were empty. Taking a step inside the room, he saw that his father’s beloved sound system had gone. And so had the beat-up old piano on which Richard had so consistently failed to practise that his lessons had been discontinued long ago.
‘Mum? What’s happened?’ His voice came out sounding strangely husky.
‘Get changed, Richie. I’m making the sandwiches.’
He went to his room, closed the door, changed his clothes and sat on his bed.
His father had clearly moved out.
His first thought was that there would be no more anger. It didn’t occur to him that he might have to see his father again. Regularly. For years to come. Under very different, very strained circumstances.
‘Richie?’
His mother’s voice was unsteady. He didn’t want to upset her. He opened his bedroom door and went out to join her on the back porch. Everything felt strange, dangerous, vulnerable, insecure. He sat down on an old cane chair. His mother was perched on a wooden stool. A teapot, two mugs and a plate of toasted cheese sandwiches – his all-time favourite – sat in front of her on a second stool. There had been a table here when he’d left for school this morning: a table his father had made in woodwork classes at high school. Gone, too.
His mother gave him the bones of the story. She spoke calmly, until she got to the part about them needing to move.
‘But why can’t we just keep living here?’
When he saw the look on his mother’s face, he wished he had not asked. She had crumpled. Had he been older and more experienced, he would have named the look as heartbreak.
‘I – we – I will be moving in with Aunty Iris and Uncle Eric.’
‘But you hate Uncle Eric.’
‘Everything has changed, Richie. Your father is starting a new life with someone else. And so are we.’
‘Who is Dad starting a new life with? Where?’
‘I’ll let him tell you all that in good time. It’s someone with . . . money.’
‘I don’t want him to tell me anything. I don’t want to see him ever again.’
‘You’ll feel differently in a little while.’
‘But Aunty Iris lives –’
‘I know. Wentworth seems a long way away, but Uncle Eric has arranged a job for me in his accountancy firm, helping out in the office. The good news for you is that you won’t have to change schools. Grandma Davis has agreed to let you board with her during term-time, and then you can come and stay in Wentworth for your holidays, if you want to. Your cousins usually go back there on holidays from their boarding school in Melbourne, so that could be nice.’
Richard barely knew those cousins – two girls, both older. His mother had avoided family get-togethers involving Uncle Eric.
‘And I’ll be able to come to Sydney on the train quite often, for weekends and special occasions . . .’
His mother’s voice trailed away, and there was a long silence. Then she gave him the saddest smile he would ever see. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, firmly, as if that were her final word on the subject.
‘Why do I have to move in with Grandma?’ he asked, conscious that his life had been rearranged for him without a word of consultation.
‘It’s all for the best,’ his mother said
– a line she would repeat many times over the next forty-eight hours. ‘You can stay at the same school and keep your friends. Isn’t that good?’
He thought of Russell, and Geoff, and Barry. He supposed it was good.
‘When?’ He wanted to talk about something practical. He wanted to know what to do.
‘I’ll take you over to Grandma’s this weekend. She’s really looking forward to having your company. You’ll just have to remember to speak up. Uncle Eric will be here to help us move. We have to be out of this house next week.’
‘But I thought this was our house.’ Richard had occasionally heard his father talk about the struggle to pay the rent, but he had never really processed the significance of that.
His mother shook her head.
‘Are you okay, Frey?’
‘I’m fine. Why?’
‘I thought I saw you shiver as I came in.’
‘Oh, I might’ve. It is a bit chilly. Would you mind bringing me a sweater on your way back from changing? Are you hungry? I remembered you were going to have a proper lunch, so I thought I’d just toast us some cheese sandwiches. Will that do?’
Richard went to his wife, pulled her out of her chair, held her tightly and kissed her with unaccustomed tenderness.
‘Perfect,’ he said, and she was too astonished to respond.
7
The Pub Test
Freya sat at a table in the bar of The Exchange with her older sister Fern and her younger sister Felicity. The empty fourth chair had been occupied by Richard until a moment ago when he departed in response to a pre-arranged signal from Freya.
She would have preferred to do all this just with Fern, but Felicity got wind of the meeting from their mother and gatecrashed in her usual breezy style.
‘Alright, you two – what did you think of him? Give it to me straight.’
‘What, no foreplay?’
‘Not remotely funny, Felicity. You’re sounding more sluttish every time I see you. I won’t discuss him at all if you’re going to be like that.’
‘It was meant as a compliment, dear sister. He’s obviously a spunk. I assume you don’t just hold hands.’
‘Fern?’
‘Is the hair dyed, do you think?’
‘Yes, I wondered that. It’s very black, but he is only forty-one.’
‘Is that what he says? I’d have thought late forties, at least.’
‘Forty-two next birthday. Which is next week, by the way. I haven’t seen his birth certificate, but it all stacks up.’
‘He looks quite a bit older than that. Weathered, wouldn’t you say? Or is that unkind? Perhaps I should say an interesting face.’
‘Interesting, indeed,’ said Felicity. ‘“Victim to the heart’s invisible furies”, do you think? Has he had his share of invisible furies, Frey?’ Felicity was sounding almost solicitous.
Freya and Fern stared in disbelief at their younger sister (half-sister, they both believed).
‘Auden,’ said Felicity.
‘Oh, we know it’s Auden. It’s just that –’
‘I went to school, too, you know.’ Felicity folded her arms across her chest and affected a pout.
‘Well, he’s been married once – briefly – a long time ago. It sounds as if it was pretty awful. Especially the break-up.’
‘Children?’ asked Fern.
‘One daughter. She’s fourteen.’
‘Ooh. That’s not much younger than me!’
‘Flick, you’re almost nineteen. Nineteen is much, much older than fourteen. I can barely remember fourteen.’
‘You’re so ancient, of course.’
‘Back to the hair, could we?’
‘Oh, Fern. Does it matter? You have streaks yourself. Do you think Mike will eventually have second thoughts about you because they aren’t natural?’
‘Different for men.’
‘That’s sexist!’ said Felicity, ever vigilant on such matters.
‘Can’t help it, Flick. It’s what I think.’
‘Anyway, I’m pretty sure it’s not coloured. It’s always exactly the same. There are no grey roots.’
‘No grey roots! Pleased to hear it. Grey roots sound like you’d have to stop to catch your breath every few minutes.’
‘Put a sock in it, Flick. You are becoming a very silly, very unpleasant person with a one-track mind. Don’t let Mum hear you talk like that. Give Frey a break, will you?’
Freya took a sip of her wine and said: ‘So neither my older sister nor my younger sister has anything useful or constructive to say about the new man in my life?’
‘That’s not fair – I was just asking. About the hair, I mean.’
‘And you think he’s older than he’s admitting to.’
‘I didn’t say that. You asked for a straight response. I thought his voice was very nice. Is he musical at all?’
‘Actually, no.’
‘No? No? What do you mean no?’
‘He’s heard me play – that’s how we met. So he appreciates music. But he’s not what you’d call musical.’
‘Never played an instrument?’
‘Piano when he was a kid. That didn’t last. Typical story. Refused to practise.’
Felicity clapped her hands like an excited child. ‘I love this! He’s on the brink of being, like, geriatric – at least compared to you. And he’s not musical. So are we to conclude that it’s all about –’
‘Choose your words very carefully, Flick.’
‘Well, you did warn us he was like a Greek god. I assume you didn’t mean a statue of a Greek god. The guy performs, right?’
‘I wish I’d never brought any of this up. Say something, Fern.’
‘I must admit the music thing does shock me a bit. I mean, it’s practically your whole life, Frey.’
‘Yes, and look where living with a musician got me.’
‘Well, there are musicians and musicians. I liked Dave, but he was certainly what you’d call an acquired taste. And I don’t think a perpetually stoned trumpeter is necessarily the gold standard.’
Felicity suddenly flinched as if she’d been struck. She drew her smartphone out of the back pocket of her jeans. ‘Oh. Gotta go, girls. That was a message from Jezza. I thought Dave was awesome, by the way.’
‘Jezza? I thought Mum had banned Jezza from the house.’
‘Oh, don’t worry your head, big sister. He’s not coming to the house. He’s picking me up outside here in his van . . . like, now.’
‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Flick. Mum has a good instinct where men are concerned, you know.’
‘So what are you going to do – tell on me? Bye-ee!’
Left alone at the table, the two older sisters rolled their eyes at each other, then Fern rose and went to the bar to buy them each another drink.
‘What a relief,’ she said as she placed Freya’s wine on the table. ‘Sometimes I can hardly believe she’s a member of our family at all. She drives Mum to distraction, or so Mum says. But there’s a really strong bond between them I can’t quite read. Like a special obligation. I don’t know. There was no way she was going to let me meet Richard without Felicity being present.’
‘He’s an architect.’
‘What?’
‘He’s an architect. Richard, not Jezza.’
‘Yes, you told me.’
‘Well, he might not be a musician, but he’s sort of arty. Don’t you agree?’
‘I must say he looks like an architect.’
‘And what, exactly, does an architect look like?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. The longish hair. The linen jacket. And, yes, a bit arty, but a bit suave, too. Richard, never Dick or even Rick. Definitely Richard.’
‘And?’
‘I’d have said he looks . . . interesting. I think I said weathered before. Almost – not quite – damaged? But who isn’t? A bit distinguished, too, I grant you.’
‘A bit distinguished? He’s drop-dead gorgeous, Fern. I practically s
wooned when I first laid eyes on him.’
‘So you said.’
‘Don’t you agree?’
‘I liked him. Don’t get me wrong. I liked him a lot, for a first . . . well, a first look at him. It’s just that I’ve never seen you like this. In such a rush, I mean.’
‘I want him, Fern. And I don’t want anyone else to nab him first.’
‘Second, you mean. I’m glad Felicity wasn’t here to hear you say that.’
‘He’s a good architect, by the way. I’ve seen some of his work. He’s very passionate. Very committed. He wants to revolutionise low-cost housing. Put more style into it.’
‘I like the sound of that. He’s not a socialist, is he?’
‘Believe it or not, we haven’t discussed politics.’
‘Mike and I talk about little else.’
‘Each to his own.’
‘You seem so young to be falling for a man of . . . let’s say forty-two.’
‘I’m almost twenty-seven.’
‘That’s what I mean. Think about it. When you’re fifty and in your prime, touring the world with the Orison Quartet, he’ll be sixty-five.’
‘So?’
‘Sounds a bit old, doesn’t it? But, look, he might be happy to retire and carry your bags by then.’
‘Is that supposed to be a joke?’
‘Or stay home and look after the children.’
‘Who would, by then, be twenty and not needing to be looked after.’
‘So you’ve discussed children?’
‘We have.’
‘And?’
‘I don’t really want to go into it, Fern. Not yet, anyway. You’ve never discussed your and Mike’s plans with me. You didn’t say a word until you were well and truly pregnant.’
‘Fair enough. It’s just that . . .’
‘What?’
‘Well, it’s just that a man’s attitude to his own children gives you an interesting insight into the calibre of the man. Wouldn’t you say?’
‘Not necessarily, no. Circumstances alter cases, Fern. You’ve always said that.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Don’t go all hmm-y on me. Speak your mind.’
‘Well, for instance, does he see his daughter? Is he close to her? Is he a good dad?’