Wind in the Wires

by Joy Dettman

  ‘But you love me anyway –’

  She loved him. The relief of his arms told her so, and his mouth, without the ring, though wine-tainted. And what came next told her so. The unembarrassed shedding of her baggy blue pyjamas, and her mindless lack of care for tomorrow.

  She didn’t name it research, but learned something anyway. She learned why the human race kept on multiplying.

  They had no say in the matter.

  REPERCUSSIONS

  His ring was too large for her wedding finger but a fine fit on her middle finger where it spent the night. She slept warm beside him until the alarm demanded she arise and prepare for her day ahead. His encircling arm held her back from the morning chill, and his kiss was enough to change her mind about rising.

  She’d slept with Chris in a finer room, a wider bed, where even the sheets oozed affluence. She made love with Morrie between wrinkled ex-boarding-house sheets, in a box of a room – and therein lay the difference between lovemaking and sleeping with.

  ‘I’m probably pregnant,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll demand blood tests,’ he said.

  And for the first time she thought about Chris, responsible, reliable, his packets of condoms in his bedside drawer. The thought of his condoms moved her from the bed.

  Morrie cooked and served her breakfast when she came from the shower clad for the schoolroom.

  ‘It still feels like Sunday,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not.’

  ‘Is a week’s engagement long enough for you?’

  ‘What? You want your ring back next Sunday?’

  ‘Mum came back here to get me married off. Cathy won’t be showing by next Saturday.’

  ‘My parents would have forty fits.’ They’d have them anyway.

  ‘It might give Mum reason to live until Saturday.’

  ‘You’re not doing it for her, are you?’

  ‘Now she asks.’

  And no more time to ask anything. Dishes left on the sink, late to her classroom, and breathlessly happy when she got there. Loved his ring, loved him, and he wasn’t a Catholic, which might take the sting out of it for Myrtle.

  Chris would be in court. She had to call him, but couldn’t yet. Myrtle and Robert would need to be told. They’d probably booked the church, were probably pricing caterers, printers for the invitations. Couldn’t call them until she called Chris. Didn’t want to call anyone.

  No one noticed her ring at morning recess, or if they did, they didn’t comment.

  At lunchtime, she counted coins, then ran down to a phone box where she dialled Chris’s Sydney office. He was in court. She shrugged and used more coins to call Amberley.

  ‘Is anything wrong, pet?’

  Didn’t tell her why. Told her the wedding was off and not to book anything and that she’d call her tonight.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I’m out of coins, Mum. I’ll talk to you at home. Wait until I call you.’

  She reached Chris at four-thirty, after minutes spent on hold, and a phone call to Sydney at that time of day would cost a small fortune. And when his voice came on the line, it’s tone told her he didn’t need the interruption.

  ‘Can your concerns wait, Cara? I’m in a meeting.’

  ‘I need to tell you that I’m breaking the engagement, Chris. I’m sorry.’ Silence, a long empty silence.

  ‘This . . . cannot be discussed at a distance.’

  ‘There’s nothing to discuss. I’m sorry, but I’m back with Morrie.’

  He’d met Morrie at Cathy’s wedding, had suggested after she’d slept with him that a few of those pretty boys leaned a little left of centre. A lengthy half-minute of silence, Telecom’s adding machine ticking over while he shuffled papers.

  Then. ‘I’ll call you tonight, Cara.’

  ‘I wanted you to . . .’ but the connection had been cut . . . to be the first to know. She stood over the phone, wanting to vomit. Almost did when it rang.

  Only Cathy, wanting every detail, and Cara in no mood to give her the details, and no sooner was the phone down than it rang again.

  Myrtle.

  Told her. Told her that there was nothing to be done about it. Told her Morrie’s parents were Church of England. It cut no ice with Myrtle, so she told her that they were getting married on Saturday, if Morrie could arrange it.

  Myrtle jumped to the natural conclusion. ‘Are you certain Morrie is the father?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge, Mummy. His mother is dying. He wants her to see him married. That’s the only reason for haste.’

  ‘Have you told Chris?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What on earth did he say?’

  ‘He was in a meeting.’

  He wasn’t at five-thirty. ‘Have you come to your senses, Cara?’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Chris. I’ve known Morrie since I was nineteen. I told you about him before we started going out. I’m sorry I let things go so far with us.’

  He made a very concise argument while the prisoner in the dock removed the diamonds from her lobes and allowed him to get it out of his system. She owed him that much – and the earrings. Where had she put their box? She’d have to post them back. Couldn’t face him. He was too good with words.

  He commenced his closing statement, and maybe she knew why he was unmarried. He could cut with his tongue when roused. She’d never seen him roused.

  Not a word could she raise in her defence, only, ‘I’m sorry, Chris. I’m so sorry.’ Like a cracked record, she repeated those words each time he gave her a gap in which to repeat them. Willed him to hang up, but not concerned about the cost, he wouldn’t, so she stood and took her punishment, determined not to hang up on him, and she looked at Morrie’s ring, his mother’s, his grandmother’s, now her own, and she loved the continuity of it, the depth of family behind it.

  And remembered where she’d put the earrings box.

  ‘I’m sorry, Chris,’ she said one final time. ‘I’ll post the earrings –’

  He hung up and she walked to her desk and opened the middle drawer, found the velvet box beneath her bills to pay, placed his earrings into it. Set in gold, they looked new. The box looked new – and too small to post. Have to put it in a solid envelope, send it registered mail.

  She left it on her desk, on Rusty, then made coffee, made it strong – and no milk in the fridge. Contrary to popular belief, two can’t live as cheaply as one, not when both like too much milk in their coffee. Opened her pantry cupboard to search for a can of Carnation milk. Myrtle always kept an emergency can in her pantry. Not a lot of her habits had become Cara’s own. She was pleased that one had.

  She drank her coffee at the window, watching for his toy car to drive in. He’d come when he could – or call her if he couldn’t. At six-thirty she took her coffee to her desk to retype a few pages of Rusty.

  He came at eight. He’d spoken to his mother’s minister, who was prepared to marry them on Saturday, beside his mother’s bed.

  ‘Okay,’ she said.

  She didn’t go to work on Tuesday. Rang in with a bad throat. They bought wedding rings, and left the engagement ring with the jeweller to clean and adjust to size. She bought a new dress, pale blue and pretty.

  Myrtle called at five. She and Robert were driving down to prevent Cara from throwing aside a fine young man for a boy, a boy who had been leading her a dance for years. Cara knew from her description of Morrie as boy that she’d spoken to Chris. Probably invited him to dinner last night.

  ‘Three against one isn’t fair, Mummy.’

  ‘We’ll see you on Thursday.’

  ‘Make it Saturday, and drive straight through to Ballarat. We’re getting married there at two,’ Cara said.

  ‘Don’t rush into something you’ll regret all of your life, pet.’

  ‘I won’t. Love you, Mummy.’ And she hung up.

  On the Thursday night at five, Chris knocked at her door. Morrie was there. Cara picked up the earrings before removing the safety chai
n. She didn’t invite him in but stepped out to the landing.

  He didn’t like losing. His face told her how much he didn’t like losing. There was nothing more she could say to him, nothing to do but keep offering the small velvet box.

  He took it. ‘You’ve made your bed, Cara. I hope you can lie in it,’ he said.

  *

  Jenny was where she usually was at ten to six, in the kitchen, cooking up something for dinner.

  ‘How long have you been doing that for, Jen?’ Georgie asked, entering through the rear door. It was always open for her. Most nights she called in on her way home from work.

  ‘Peeling dirty spuds?’ Jenny asked, selecting another.

  ‘Feeding a mob?’

  ‘Since I was sixteen. Granny’s idea of cooking was a frying pan and a lot of dripping.’

  ‘That’s where I got it from,’ Georgie said. She sat then at the kitchen table. ‘If I ever met a bloke who could cook, I might marry him – incidentally, it looks as if my trip to Sydney is off again.’

  ‘Why?’ Georgie shared Cara’s letters with Jenny. She’d read the latest and had been planning a beautiful dress for Georgie. She’d told Georgie to tell Cara she’d make her wedding gown.

  ‘She rang me this afternoon to tell me to ignore most of what was in her letter, that she’s broken her engagement to the solicitor and is marrying her Pom with the hyphenated name on Saturday.’

  ‘Is she pregnant?’

  ‘I doubt it. She hasn’t had much to do with him for the past year or two. She said his mother is dying of cancer and she wants to see Morrie married before she dies.’

  ‘That’s no good reason to be racing into marriage!’

  ‘I can’t see any good reason, racing or not – unless he can cook.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be hinting for dinner, of course.’

  ‘Depends on what you’re offering?’ Georgie said. ‘She’s known the bloke, Morrie, since she was at college. He’s her girlfriend’s husband’s mate. I think she was in love with him years ago, but got sick of waiting.’

  ‘Will I peel another potato or not?’

  ‘What are you offering with your potato?’

  ‘Sausages.’

  ‘How rare,’ Georgie said.

  And Jenny laughed. She’d been hearing Georgie’s ‘How rare’ since that kid was twelve years old. And Georgie had heard her reply to it as many times. ‘They’re Willama sausages.’

  ‘Oh, a different matter entirely – if you do them in flour with spices.’

  ‘You can. They’re in the fridge – and pass me that medium-sized saucepan – the one with the red lid.’

  Georgie passed the saucepan. She found the sausages. ‘Have you heard anything from Raelene?’

  ‘I never hear from her. One of the commune girls said she was in Sydney.’

  ‘Everyone goes to Sydney bar me. Do you reckon he’s still up there?’

  ‘Laurie?’

  Georgie was separating sausages with a pair of scissors. ‘Who else.’

  ‘He could be anywhere. He’d be hitting sixty now. He was twenty-six when I was fifteen.’ She watched Georgie’s war with a string of sausages wanting to take them from her hands. Still reminded her of Granny – not in appearance, but in every move she made. Still sounded like her too.

  She looked like Laurie, or what Jenny could remember of him, his red hair, his green eyes. She had his kindness too. She could handle Margot. Jenny couldn’t – never had been able to.

  ‘Use a plastic bag, love. Toss in a few spoonfuls of plain flour, not too much curry, a bit of salt and pepper and a pinch of ground ginger, then toss the sausages in and give them a shake, and make sure the bag is closed or I’ll have flour all over the kitchen . . .’

  THE WEDDING

  Each day Morrie commuted, east at night to Cara, and west each morning to be with his mother, the sun always behind him.

  Cara drove west with him on Saturday morning. No Myrtle and Robert waiting to greet her. She hadn’t expected them to be there.

  She’d met Morrie’s mother at the hospital, briefly, after the lump had been cut from her breast. The woman in that hired hospital bed didn’t look like the one she’d met. His father she met for the first time, a frowning little man who told her she had pretty hair, told her five times in as many minutes.

  Morrie’s retired army nurse chose the mother of the groom’s outfit, a pink shawl to drape over her nightgown, a hat to cover her sparse white hair. She propped her up with pillows for the ten minutes it took for the words to be said, the rings exchanged, the papers signed.

  Then no more Cara half-Morrison, half-Billy-Bob Someone, Norris by default. Cara Langdon walked out of the bedroom, Cara Langdon-Grenville. And C.J. Langdon-Grenville sounded like an author’s name.

  There would be no honeymoon. The bride had to work on Monday, but Gerry and Cathy’s wedding gift was dinner at a posh Melbourne hotel and one night in the honeymoon suite.

  A uniformed porter carried their small cases. Two waiters served them in their suite. All paid for. Champagne paid for. They drank it at the window while looking down on the lights of Melbourne.

  When the meal was cleared away, Morrie tested the ridiculously wide bed, bounced on it.

  ‘Who else have you invited?’ he asked.

  ‘I thought I’d call down and take what’s available,’ she said.

  ‘Male or female?’

  ‘Couldn’t we fit in one of each?’ She sat with him then, and later they lay, with room for two more between them, her hand lifted so the light caught her diamonds.

  ‘I could only see my earrings when I looked in the mirror. It’s sort of narcissistic, isn’t it, admiring engagement earrings. I prefer them on my finger.’

  ‘I feel branded,’ he said.

  ‘You branded me. I branded you.’

  ‘I think it’s cutting off the blood supply.’

  ‘It will turn black before it falls off.’

  He moved across to share her pillow, and they lay together then, his arm over her, her arm over him.

  She asked about England. ‘It rains,’ he said.

  ‘What are English winters like?’

  ‘Wet.’

  ‘People who have long engagements know every detail of their partner’s life by the time they get to the bed,’ she said. ‘I didn’t even know if you were Catholic or Protestant. And how come you’re so long and your father is so short?’

  ‘Rain,’ he said. ‘He shrank.’

  ‘It didn’t affect you.’

  ‘Mum chased me with raincoats.’

  ‘We’ve had a hit-and-run relationship, haven’t we?’

  ‘I hit that first night and you ran – climbed a drainpipe.’

  ‘I bought a black lace nightgown, planning to seduce you if you’d flown over that February.’

  ‘I like your baggy pyjamas.’

  He won the toss for first use of the bathroom. She took her black lace nightgown from her case and changed into it after showering, and he laughed when she emerged, and told her it was a bit too late to seduce him, and she loved his laughter, and one thing led to another and he won the fight for the nightgown.

  ‘It prickled anyway,’ she said.

  Lovemaking, still so new, was a breathtaking treasure she’d almost passed up for security. To hell with security. He was a rare and beautiful thing, though not the pretty boy Chris named him. He was beautiful in a manly way. Loved the shape of his mouth, his eyes, hands, his long legs. Her sons would grow tall. Her daughters would be beautiful.

  ‘I should go on the pill for a few months, I suppose,’ she said. ‘If it’s not already too late.’

  ‘Aunt Letty has got ten bedrooms. She’ll feed them – if we live in England.’

  ‘Two is my limit. Teaching has put me off large families.’

  ‘I was one of three at one time,’ he said.

  ‘Truly? What happened?’

  ‘A flu epidemic. I had two sisters. According to Mum, I almost d
ied of it. I remember the nightmares – rats with giant teeth eating my feet.’ And he played the rat with giant snarling teeth, and she laughed at his game.

  ‘I didn’t catch anything until I started school. Mum kept me in a glass case, and when she had to let me out, I brought home every disease known to common man.’

  ‘In Sydney?’

  ‘Yep. We lived there until I was thirteen, then Dad transferred to Traralgon.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s a long story. That first book I was writing in Ballarat, Angel At My Door, is sort of my search for identity. This is for your ears only, but I’m sort of adopted.’

  ‘How can you be sort of adopted?’

  ‘You can if your mother and one of her lodgers pulled a swiftie – thus the angel at my door. Mum couldn’t have kids. The lodger had too many. Her husband went missing in the war. She got pregnant to a Yankee sailor and couldn’t take a dead Yank’s baby home, so Mum took me.’

  ‘How about that,’ he said.

  ‘Want a divorce?’

  ‘I’m thinking about it. Is your other one – Angel – finished?’

  ‘Only about six times. I started it when I was fifteen, which is when I found out what they’d done. Parts of it still read like a fifteen-year-old kid’s view of life and I got everything wrong.’

  ‘How wrong?’

  ‘My other family. I created a whole family, a town.’

  ‘How do you know you got it wrong?’

  ‘I went up there one crazy day, walked into an ancient old grocery shop and found my half-sister working behind the counter.’

  ‘Just like that.’

  ‘Not quite, but almost. It killed my writing for a long time.’

  ‘What was wrong with her?’

  ‘Nothing. She’s gorgeous, tall, regal, with a mane of burnished copper hair.’

  ‘Your Rusty,’ he said.

  ‘Yep. She came down here for a long weekend and when she went home I started Rusty. It poured out of me like water through an unblocked tap. Incidentally, you did a good job of editing it. If you could type, you’d be perfect.’

  ‘How did you know where to find them? Your other family?’

  ‘Mum knew.’

  ‘Cathy doesn’t know you’re adopted?’