James would source bulk suppliers for everything from flour, eggs, and milk, to small fridges, cellophane, ribbons and gold stickers that would bear the name of the business. He planned a reorganization of the garage to make way for a storeroom fortified against rats, possums, and cockroaches. In addition, he took on the role of manager, accountant, and messenger. He would deliver raw ingredients to the respective kitchens, and organize the rail consignments. On Helena’s original business plan, he transformed the question mark beside his name under resources, into a star.
The new business venture had woken two sleeping giants, but for Helena, it simply meant less sleep.
Chapter Seventeen
July 1971
THE last time Michael spent an evening with Sergeant David Mackelroth in December of 1965, he believed the visit would be a one-off, but just as Tiny Dancer had raced to an odds-against victory in the fifth, he found himself a patron once more. But it was not his fault entirely.
While he was in Sydney for the Selection Board interviews a couple of months earlier, Helena had collected his pay packet from the council, and daylight had finally shone on the truth of his net earnings before the cream was removed. Consequently, Michael’s drinking fund, the cream, became literally so in the grocery budget. Under ordinary circumstances, he would have defended his right to skim and drink, but he had no hand since the mortgage issue.
And so Michael only came to be at The Royal that unfortunate Saturday afternoon because of Helena: she had acquiesced, and given him money for The Royal to get him out from under her feet. With limited funds though, each drop of ale was precious, and Michael did everything in his power to protect his glass. He had even spread his elbows outwardly to create a physical barrier, harboring his personal space from the ruffians of the visiting football team. Then there was a push, and a frugal sip became an amber river that covered the front of his shirt. A barrage of blows followed, with Michael punching at random from his bar stool, until dragged into the melee that continued on the floor. Broken bottles were the weapon of choice.
Sergeant Mackelroth and his deputy arrived not long after the 000 call reached the station. They pulled at the thrashing layers: three men on top of Michael and an unconscious man below him. Then paramedics moved in to patch four of them while an ambulance sped away with one. They were less quarrelsome on route to the police station in the back of a paddy wagon, and Sergeant Mackelroth bundled them into one cell to allow for more self and collective reflection.
Michael refused to press charges against his attackers and they enjoyed an early discharge with a stern warning. That left Michael alone again for another night with Sergeant Mackelroth, or longer, depending on when the unconscious man woke. Sergeant Mackelroth invited Michael to call Helena. He declined. Helena would already know courtesy of the informal system of telegraphy in Maine.
When the alcohol-induced anesthetic wore off, the depth of the cuts that crisscrossed his body became apparent, but worse pain was to come with a mid-morning release from his cell, and answerability.
Unlike other Sunday morning visitors at the Maine Memorial Hospital, Michael arrived without gifts, and dressed in a bloodied, shredded shirt. The taxi driver had driven directly to the emergency room given the condition of his fare, but continued as requested to the end of the circular driveway as close as possible to the men’s ward.
Michael took the stairs up two flights, not wanting a close encounter with others in the elevator and the risk of a nudge. At the nurse’s station, he unfolded the ripped piece of paper from Sergeant Mackelroth.
“I can show you where to go,” she said, “but only after I’ve taken a look at your wounds.” She steered Michael into a treatment room and turned him into a patchwork quilt. A passing doctor authorized painkillers then as promised the nurse escorted Michael to his destination. She left him at the doorway to the ward, and nodded at the only occupied bed. Thick, heavy curtains stopped the morning sunshine at the glass panes, and Michael was relieved that mounds of surrounding purple skin had pushed the man’s eyes together into slits. He moved closer to the patient, and dragged a visitor chair to his side.
“I just wanted to say…that I’m sorry for what I did. I never meant to hurt you. I was just there minding my own business.” He paused to take a deep breath. “I don’t expect you to forgive me, so I just wanted to say how very sorry I am.”
“Fine,” the man whispered through bulging, cracked lips. “Just go.”
Michael did not want to leave—the darkness, coolness, and having company that could not talk or see him, was comforting. He had nowhere to go anyway, other than home to Helena.
“Just go,” the man repeated, and Michael left.
Helena offered no commentary when Michael returned to Orchard Road, luckily for her, since it was all her fault: if she had not provided the funds, he would not have been at The Royal that day, and there would not have been a skirmish or aftermath.
He needed a soothing place to heal, yet despite Helena’s silence, he could not find it at Orchard Road. Toys and vegemite-coated bread crusts littered the living room floor, which eclipsed the flour and eggshell scarred kitchen, but only just. The uncontrolled noise that emanated from childish things drove Michael down the hallway into a back bedroom where he rested on William’s bed. Three children followed, bringing with them a range of toys including a monkey with cymbals. Michael rose promptly, and headed for the sanctity of the bathroom and a lockable door.
Slightly refreshed from a partial bath where only un-bandaged parts of his body could submerge, Michael returned to the living room, zigzagging his way through the debris to the soiled couch where he had slept in the weeks since his youngest son’s birth. Matthew, with his fine layer of wispy blond hair and ocean blue eyes, bore no resemblance to any of the other five inhabitants at Orchard Road—mother, father or siblings, or to any other member of the Baden family. The child’s bloodline was a matter of question and suspicion.
Michael stretched out on the couch, gently lowering his ripped back onto the prickly fabric with his feet extended over one worn padded arm. He extracted the letter from the RAAF that he had tucked between the cushions the day before, and in an act of self-flagellation, he unfolded the letter and read the words again.
He had passed the medical, the letter said, but his stanine score, which combined the results of the psychological testing and Selection Board interview, was four, and a four out of a maximum nine, was not enough for entry at that point in time. He could continue to apply until his score was high enough relative to the scores of other applicants, but Michael knew this meant never, unless applications to join the Force became scant and filled with incompetents, and this was unlikely given the unparalleled benefits of national service.
The first time Michael read the letter, the shocking contents had blocked all comprehension of the latter paragraphs, but he read them then as if for the first time and absorbed the message. There were other opportunities available to him: navigator, air electronics officer, or airman, and he could progress through the ranks to his goal.
He folded the letter, closed his eyes to impede the invasion of infantile gamboling, and focused his mind on what was most important. He wanted to be a pilot, he wanted to be in the Air Force, and while the first goal had aborted, the other had not. The view was clearer once the fog of failure had lifted, and another night with Sergeant Mackelroth had offered some perspective.
Chapter Eighteen
September 1971
THE joy of cooking was the title of a much-used book, and nothing more. The thought of preparations for a christening day feast caused vessels in Helena’s head to swell, and veins everywhere imitated the knotted, twisted dark blue of her legs. Millie, fortuitously, was unaffected by the unrelenting nature of the weekly bake, and with joy, spent the entire weekend in the kitchen for a post-christening lunch for thirty, and gourmet family dinner to follow.
Grace had returned for the fourth and final baptism with two-fold ne
ws: Millie’s Home Baked Treats were selling like hot cakes (and she intended the pun), but the gravy, or the soured cream depending on one’s perspective on sleep deprivation, was that she needed more, much more. Current supplies were selling by pre-order long before the morning train from Maine had schlepped into Central Railway Station, and clients were taking those supplies home to claim as their own. There was little or nothing left for the dessert trolley in the teashop, which forced Grace to fill it with bought cakes and biscuits no one wanted after sampling what had come from Maine.
Armed with a tray of coffee and a platter of chocolate-dipped fruits, James, Millie, Helena, and Grace, retired to the living room to consider the issue of what, who, when, and how they could meet Grace’s latest demands.
The solution was simple according to Grace: double, triple, or quadruple the quantities, but there were logistical complications that could not multiply in relative terms, said James. They still only had two ovens, two cooks, there was just one train to Sydney each day, and they could never send day-old or frozen goods as this was contrary to the essence of Millie’s Home Baked Treats.
“Who else could cook for us?” Grace asked, and Brian answered the call presenting his grandmother with a chocolate patty cake. Millie sniffed at it with some discomfort, and asked about the ingredients. The dirt, sticks and leaves were obvious, and the “round brown things” explained the foul air. James confiscated the morsel and went in search of a backyard garden party, hoping Brian had not yet mastered mass production. He tossed the sole patty cake into a garden bed and monitored playground activity for evidence of more resourcefulness involving nature.
Millie escorted Brian upstairs to the bathroom, with wrists fixed in front of his chest, to douse his hands in ample Dettol to kill the microbes and its spawn.
When James and Millie returned to the living room to deal with the ‘how’ of the problem Grace had created, the think-tank had disintegrated. Helena had fallen asleep in an armchair while Michael had abandoned his Sunday papers, and supposed supervision of the back yard, to entice Grace to The Royal for “a few quiet drinks”. James rushed to his drinks cabinet to fill several glasses with cognac.
“You can drink here,” he said. “It’s a family day.”
He locked eyes with Michael and a quiet battle ensued. Grace continued to the front door, ignoring the suggestion, and Michael followed.
James stewed, and woke Helena to unleash an upbraiding that left her confused. Given his recent incarceration, Michael should not be visiting The Royal, James said, and especially not on the day of his son’s christening. He blamed Helena for granting her husband such freedoms. Grace was Grace, he added, and that would always be a problem for any father.
Helena dared not mention Michael’s behavior since Matthew’s birth, which was odd, even by his standards. He would appear at Orchard Road at the most unusual and unexpected hours during the working day, as if looking for something and expecting to find it. Whatever he searched for, it seemed elusive, for he always left disappointed, but knowing. Helena had no explanation, other than that a lifetime of brawling had caused some damage. She was more concerned about the consequences of his regular absentia from the council.
“What are you thinking about, Helena?” James asked.
“Oh, nothing,” she replied then scrambled for a new topic. “Michael has been offered a job in the Air Force.”
“Doing what?” James asked.
“As an airman specializing in systems control, or something like that.”
“There’s no Air Force base in Maine,” he replied. “What are you saying, Helena?”
She paused, unprepared. “We’ll be moving sometime next year. Melbourne or Sydney, if it all goes ahead, but you know Michael—anything could happen, or not happen. He still has to finish school.”
James filled his glass, and they sat in silence while Helena contemplated quicksand. It was mysterious how it sucked one deeper relative to the level of desperation in one’s attempted escape. She imagined herself immersed to the neck, waiting for certain death then a child cried out.
“William!” Helena yelled.
James shook his head, and strode toward the source. He returned a short time later with the villain and the victim, handing Carla to Millie, and keeping William for himself.
Matthew was also now favored since he was the only Wallin descendant to inherit the Swedish looks of their ancestors. Photos of James as a baby and young child confirmed that Matthew was a replica of his grandfather, and that Matthew’s fine, fair hair would one day fall to hereditary forces, dropping strand by strand until completely depilated like his grandfather.
“Tell me the fish story!” said William, and James obliged with the tale of the Baltic herring, which was sometimes so fermented that the flat round tins would explode when opened, covering everyone in close proximity with stinking fish. William laughed hysterically. It was the funniest story ever re-told a thousand times.
Chapter Nineteen
December 1973
TWO years had passed since the Baden family uprooted and moved to the RAAF base in Laverton near Melbourne. And despite the years feeling like eternity, Helena could not find comfort in her new surroundings. She was only a phone call away from Maine, Michael would say, but a telephone cord was not a hug or a smile, or the smell of a freshly baked banana mocha tart.
She had tried to immerse herself in the community life, but as her mass expanded with each passing month, even the house next door was too much of an effort. She no longer bothered with the hassle of grooming since there was no reward for effort: nothing invented could alter her form to one more pleasing, and no cosmetic mask could hide her despair. She ate more for solace then suffered, as one day’s solution became the next day’s crisis ensuring she would soon emulate the geographical bulk of China. As her body expanded, the woman she used to know retracted.
Michael’s most valued contribution to her dilemma was a diagnosis of ‘letting yourself go’, and it was not a reference to free spiritedness. There was no malice in his words though, as she would have expected once, because he was happy, and her appearance was of no real concern to him. It was merely a factual observation she could not deny.
Michael had scaled Everest, and the view from the summit, from all reports, was better than the dream. Helena’s quest however, was to alight the merry-go-round, an impossible task it seemed despite its slow pace. The barrel organ, calliope, and violin piano tormented her as she circled day after day, yearning for peace and home.
Over a breakfast bowl filled with different cheeses, Helena informed Michael of her plan to return to Maine for Christmas. She expected resistance, but received an “OK.”
“OK,” she said. “OK.”
“What are you eating?” he asked peering into her bowl.
“Cheese.”
“I see that, but why are you eating cheese for breakfast. It was apples yesterday.”
“I’m on a diet,” she replied, surprised he had noticed.
“Which one this time?”
“Israeli Army Diet. Two days of apples, two days of cheese, two days of chicken, and two days of salad.”
“Sounds healthy if you ate it all together in one meal.”
Helena shrugged.
“You need to stop with all this dieting, Helena. It’s making you—”
“Fat? Fatter?”
“Exercise is the key,” he said, patting his taut torso.
“Yeah, I’ll try to remember that next time I’m sitting on the couch wondering how to spend all my spare time.”
He laughed. “Let me know the dates for Christmas and I’ll apply for leave.”
She watched him strut through the front door, a picture of perfection in his uniform on his way to his perfect job in what appeared to be his perfect life. She still remembered how that felt back when she could not wait to get to the mill for a day’s work beside her father, in a time when the miserable spouse who could not get an act together was not h
er.
The mortgage issue was ancient history and but a blip. The rent from Orchard Road and the profits from Millie’s Home Baked Treats had reduced the debt to zero in just twenty months, thanks in part also to James and Millie who had continued with the business after Helena left Maine. When Helena failed to return in a matter of months as anticipated, they sold the business as a going concern.
Helena’s bedroom at Waterloo Street had not changed in the five and a half years since 11 April 1967 when she left in a bridal gown. It had benefited from a makeover in 1963 when, after ten years of vacancy, Grace moved into Robert’s room at the front of the house. It was a painful time, for Millie especially, as silk replaced boyish checks, and suede, fake fur, leopard and zebra prints displaced everything that reminded everyone that Robert had once lived there.
With Grace and her clutter vanquished, Helena proceeded to paste the walls of her middle bedroom with plain silver motif wallpaper. She covered everything else in clean, crisp white fabric, and only items inherently displayable avoided the closet. The carpet was a soft floor covering once more, and no longer a pageantry of boots, magazines, and the unwashed.
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