All is quiet.
At number four the Alberto family is drinking wine. Rosa finishes hers quickly and walks over to a pot boiling on the stove. Her husband, Gerald, sips from his glass and looks across the table at his mother-in-law, who is shelling peas. Her glass, almost empty, sits on the table beside the basket of peas that she has brought in from the garden.
Gina has a flourishing vegetable garden. She only ever goes to the fruit and vegetable shop to buy potatoes and look at the prices. She doesn’t grow potatoes because they take up too much room. Gerald doesn’t mind, even though he likes potatoes. He is smart enough to comprehend the role that Gina plays in all facets of their life, from cooking to house painting, from joking to child minding, from good company to silent presence.
The only contentious issue in the house is who has control of the stove, Gina or Rosa. The problem would be easily resolved if Rosa could say to her mother, ‘You are a guest in our home and therefore I want you to stay out of the kitchen unless I invite you.’ But it is actually Gina’s house. Rosa grew up here; her dad Joe died one night in this very kitchen. Rather than live in an empty house like a widow, Gina invited Rosa and her family to move in. So she still retains a little authority. The lines are grey and blurred. She has moved into the bungalow out the back, right next to the train line.
Gerald doesn’t mind who claims domain over the kitchen. He simply likes to eat good food.
Rosa and Gerald have two children. Kathy is twelve years old and listens to the radio all the time. Bradley is eight and spends a lot of time digging holes. He likes to look over the fence at the trains.
Across the road is where the strange boy Rodney lives. Kathy often sees him up in his tree and her intuition tells her to be wary of him. She doesn’t have to worry. Rodney has no interest in talking to her.
Next door is Norm Norman’s house. He comes over for dinner every Thursday night. His dog, Bruiser, always comes in about half an hour later. The dog generally stays out of Gina’s garden other than to scare the birds away with a bark, for which Gina rewards him with a polpetta that she makes specially for him. And for Gerald. Mainly Bruiser sniffs around the windows and empty paint cans to see if there have been any cats about other than Thomas.
The Albertos’ backyard is Thomas’s hunting area. There are always mice in the garden and sometimes sleepy birds. Thomas and Bruiser have an understanding. Bruiser will only chase Thomas if he is out of his designated hunting areas. But he is nowhere to be seen at the moment.
As she shells the peas, Gina suggests that Gerald build a chook shed. Rosa agrees. Both women look at Gerald, who only looks up from the paper when he feels the heat of their stares.
‘What?’
‘Mum is suggesting you build a chook shed,’ Rosa says brightly.
‘Me?’ Gerald is nonplussed.
‘You could do it. It won’t be difficult.’
‘Time is the issue. There is a busy time coming up at work right now and I don’t know when I will be free. Why do we need chooks, anyway?’ He lowers the paper to his lap.
‘The eggs, of course. Why else do people have chooks?’
‘Their good looks? Their beautiful singing? Why all of a sudden do we need more eggs?’ Gerald is the only one who laughs at his joke.
‘The pub wants Mum to supply their kitchen with pasta. Norm told the manager how good her pasta is and so he came around yesterday. She wants to do it.’
‘What about using that young bloke who’s been working on the Cummings’ veranda? He might be cheap. Anyway, I’ll pay for it.’
‘Okay, we’ll do that then,’ Rosa says, happily.
Immediately a plate of Romano cheese is placed in front of Gerald and Gina brings over the wine bottle to refill his glass. The women begin to talk happily about the suspected assignations of a woman they know in the street. Before Gerald can catch her name, he realises that his offer of payment for the chook shed was probably the result required. This has happened before. He looks across the table. Rosa smiles sweetly at him. So, unusually, does Gina. And then Kathy follows suit. So his daughter is in on it too! He looks down at Bradley, playing on the floor with a fallen bread crust, pretending it is an aircraft carrier, unaware of the scene that has just played out. Gerald recognises him as his only future ally.
He sighs and returns to his paper.
Mary looks down at the old newspaper clipping on the table in front of her: ‘A coronation cake to celebrate the Coronation of George the Fifth, 22 June 1911, created by Sir Stephen Bolton, Master Chef to our Royal Family.’ Mary loves this newspaper clipping. It was inside a recipe book given to her by Patrick’s grandmother when Mary first moved in. The recipes were mainly of English cakes and Mary made a few. One day when she picked the book up, the clipping fell out from the back. Mary took it in next door on her visit for a cup of tea the following day. By then Rose was crippled with arthritis and she drifted away a lot but she smiled when she saw the clipping.
‘Make it and bring me a piece,’ she said to Mary. ‘Will you do that?’
Mary went home, grabbed her bag and walked straight down to the store. They had all the ingredients the recipe required. She made the cake that afternoon and took over a piece that night. Rose was too tired to eat it but she asked Mary to hold it under her nose so that she could smell it.
Rose closed her eyes as she spoke. ‘The first time we made that cake was right here at this table. Most of the women of the street were here and we took turns to beat the mixture and tell stories. What a good day it was. I know the year—1914. This clipping came from London and was sent to Kathleen Oatley—the mother of Kim across the road in number ten—by her mother living in London. She was a lovely girl, Kathleen. They all were.’
‘Yes, I remember her,’ Mary says patiently.
‘My own daughter, Elizabeth, who of course you know, was away at the time meeting her husband, Patrick’s father. I remember because Alfred and I were worried about her. But she brought the wagons home and a husband to boot. The house you’re living in was being built then and they moved in a few months later. Then Elizabeth was with child and Alfred and Walter went away together to the war.’ She fell silent.
‘So Patrick’s father wasn’t there when Patrick was born?’ asked Mary.
Rose looked at her for a long time. ‘No.’
And now the clipping is even more yellowed. Mary doesn’t need to look at it to make the coronation cake; she just likes to do so for some reason that she can’t really fathom. Perhaps it is because she is starting to see that her own life is only relevant when she looks at it as history. Just as the clipping is fading, maybe she is too.
Mary puts the clipping back in the tin on top of the fridge and turns to the window. She sees Patrick pulling at weeds outside in the garden. He picks up an old rusted horseshoe and throws it behind him to be placed with all the other rusted horseshoes they have always found in their yard.
Almost symbolically Jim hits a nail into the veranda floor that doesn’t really need to be hit again. That should be the final blow. Just then, Mary steps out the front door carrying a tray with a cup of tea and a piece of coronation cake on it. She puts the tray on the wooden bench just under the new ticket window.
‘Finished,’ Jim tells her. ‘I think I’ve done everything we said. Can you see anything that I’ve forgotten?’
Mary looks around. ‘Other than the signs, that looks like it to me.’
‘We can put them up now.’
Mary walks along the veranda to where the signs are leaning against the wall. She pulls away the canvas that has kept them dry overnight and, with two hands, carries them back.
She puts two of them on the ground below where they are going to be attached to the wall. Jim picks up his drill and plugs it into the extension cord that is snaking out of the front door. The first sign is going to be hung next
to the ticket window, and Mary holds it in place while Jim drills the holes. They work together well, Jim thinks as he puts the drill down at his feet and pulls a screwdriver from his top pocket.
‘It’s level, isn’t it?’ he checks.
‘Yes. Good enough for me.’
Jim begins tightening the screws. It is harder than he thought it would be. Even though the timber is soft, it is biting hard on the screw and squeezing it tight.
Jim finishes the second screw and they both stand back and look. ‘Peter did a pretty good job,’ he observes. ‘Maybe he should be a signwriter?’
Mary looks at the sign, then at Jim. ‘I think he is better off doing what he does.’
‘Probably. What does he do exactly?’
‘I don’t really know. He’s harmless though.’
‘He did paint these signs well. You’ve got to hand that to him,’ Jim says, as he uses the screwdriver as a back scratcher, at the same time tilting his head to see the sign.
‘His father was a signwriter. Now, he was a strange potato. There are lots of stories about him. He’s back in Poland now.’
‘Mary, did the police ever talk to Peter?’ Jim asks quietly.
‘They did more than that. They took him away for a few days. Locked him up. They thought he was the one who . . .’
‘He didn’t tell me that. He pretended that he didn’t know anything about the shootings.’ Jim looks at her for a moment then out towards the street. ‘But he wasn’t, was he?’
‘No, they had to let him go. I don’t think they could get much sense out of him.’ Mary’s hand goes out towards the sign on the wall. ‘I don’t know whether he would have been pretending not to know anything about it; it’s probably more likely that it just left his mind. He’s a troubled boy. What must go on in his head, I don’t know.’
‘He had an alibi?’
‘I don’t know exactly. I wonder . . . Have they been around to talk to you yet?’
‘They rang. They’re coming tomorrow.’
She rubs her forehead as she says, ‘Life goes on, even when we don’t want it to. If you don’t mind, when we have finished with these signs here, I will start going through your mother’s wardrobe, throwing things out. Is there anything you particularly want me to keep?’
‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive. Nothing.’
‘Good. It will make it easier to . . . clear out her ghost.’ Jim flinches. Mary thinks she has spoken too coldly. ‘Sorry. I don’t . . .’
Jim straightens up, standing taller than usual, and gives the tiniest of coughs. He says, ‘That’s alright. They are only words and it is what has to be done. Sometimes though it is hard to keep her in the place where I keep dead people.’ He looks at her quickly and tries to explain. ‘I mean, in my . . . head. I don’t keep real dead people.’
‘I know what you’re trying to say. Words seem to get themselves in the way of your meaning sometimes.’ She places her hand on his back and rubs it twice. ‘Let’s finish here and then I’ll go over.’
The last sign goes up easily and Mary disappears inside for a moment while Jim puts his tools together and rolls up the extension cord. He is standing in the hallway when Patrick walks out of the kitchen, followed by Mary. She ushers him out through the screen door. Jim stays in the hallway and listens.
‘We’ve finished, Pat. Your very own platform. I don’t want you to have to walk up to the station anymore. This way we can be together like we always wanted. Remember how you used to say you wished we lived in the station as that way we would always be together? Well, this is pretty close.’
Patrick walks over and fingers the lettering of one of the signs. ‘But there are no trains.’
‘That’s true. I can’t do anything about that. But there will be plenty of people who will come onto the platform to sit and talk to you,’ Mary says softly.
‘Will there? Oh well. Trains aren’t everything when it comes to a station. I was getting a bit tired of walking up there. The other day, a man spat on the concrete in front of me.’
He walks along to the end of the platform. ‘I like the look of this. I could make up my own timetables.’ He looks around. ‘I’ll need a good broom.’
Mary smiles sadly at him. ‘We’ll buy one.’
Patrick goes to the screen door and looks in. ‘Jim, I didn’t really know what you were doing. I see it now. Thank you.’
‘It’s my pleasure, Patrick.’
‘Did you learn to do this in the army? Over there in Vietnam?’
‘This is some of what they taught me.’
‘In its own way that makes it worthwhile. For me anyway.’ Patrick looks up and down the platform before he says, ‘Did you enjoy doing it?’
‘Yes, I think I did. It was good work.’
They hear voices. Upper Lance and Debra are coming in the front gate, responding to Mary’s open invitation. Megan is just closing the front door of number nine to join them too.
‘You’d better get some cake ready, Mary,’ says Patrick.
By the time Jan returns from his office work that evening, Sally is at the front window waiting for a friend to pick her up. All the classmates are going out to celebrate something, nothing important. But a night out together is what is needed and so no one declines.
Sally knows that it has been a long time since Jan has seen her dressed up like this. He has probably forgotten that she could look like this. She notices him trying not to stare too hard.
Since her life at university started, Sally has noticed that many things are, if not changing, at least altering. She has never been so aware of her mind before. She has never been so aware of her body before. She attributes this to spending so much time with other women and the rhythms they create together which resonate strongly through her. She didn’t comprehend the meaning of the word ‘sensual’ until she heard it come from another woman’s lips. It has less to do with desire and more to do with an awareness of what her classmates call her spirit.
Jan would never understand that, no matter how much he pretended to. Sally is confident from seeing his face that she looks good and he knows from the way she is looking at him that she is aware of what he is thinking.
Jan sighs, knowing that he is transparent to her. As she turns back to the window, he notices the earrings.
He is about to ask her where she got them from but by the time his mind has run through the possible answers, he has decided to stay quiet and pretend not to notice them. They are not the gift of a relative or even a close friend. They are the gift of a lover. The blue light that they reflect sears straight into his mind and without another word he walks from the room, accidentally knocking a Bible from the sideboard as he does so.
As her friend’s car pulls up on the street outside the manse, Sally smiles.
The apostle birds won’t settle in the branches this morning. Their fluttering and arguments draw Val from her house to look up into the tree. The colony has been in that tree longer than Val has been in the house. The silly old railway man across the road said that they were already there when he was a little boy. Mr Oatley, from number ten, told her that apostle birds select a tree and the flock will stay there for generations. She believed him, though, in hindsight, she thinks he probably lied to her. People who get murdered aren’t the sort to have any regard for telling the truth to next-door neighbours.
Val decides to look up apostle birds next time she is at the Choppingblock Library. She actually came outside to see if it was Thomas disturbing the birds. He has been gone now for a week and she has stopped pretending that she isn’t worried. It is unlike Thomas to be away for so long. Something has happened, of that she is now sure.
That dog from down the street—the one that fouls the nature strip and treats each lamppost
as if it is his very own urinal—now comes to the front gate and looks in. His look may not be of dejection but Val reads it as such. She watches the birds for a few minutes and then goes back inside. The house seems cavernous without Thomas.
Val thinks back to how she coped with her husband’s death. He was only forty and she was thirty-two. She dealt with his death as any robust thinking person would: she replaced him with physical, tiring duties and worked at them hard until she felt brave enough to stop. It took three years. But her expression of grief was minimal. Now, though, with Thomas, she doesn’t think she can begin a new round of frenetic activity; she feels too tired.
She walks over to the mirror and when she looks at her reflection the tears begin. They are hot and stinging. She has an uncontrollable need to call out to someone. She can’t say Thomas’s name but she can say her husband’s. The tears are full and run easily down her cheeks. She leaves the mirror and walks into the lounge room. There is a picture of Thomas on the mantelpiece, next to a picture of Keith that she took when they were on their honeymoon in Sydney.
When the tears begin to dry up and the aching begins in her chest, she picks up the picture of Thomas to bring back the tears in force. At least they keep the aching at bay. She cries like this for the next twenty minutes. But the next time she looks down at the photograph she is clutching, she realises that it is the one of Keith wearing his uniform. She starts to cry again.
Keith was a good man. He would never have let her answer the door on her own when the postman delivered the telegram. He would have stood by her side with a hand on her shoulder as she read it. He would have known how sad the news would make her and he would have held her tightly in his arms. He was a good man.
And he would be out there now looking for Thomas.
The tears dry up, her breathing becomes steady and she feels as if something has been pushed a little further from her mind.
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