by Joy Dettman
‘Drop me off at home,’ she said. ‘The car should air on the way to St Kilda.’
And, without comment, he did.
‘My patience and tolerance levels are shrinking daily, Cara,’ he said.
‘I find that smoking helps,’ she said. ‘You ought to try it.’
It was after one o’clock, but in no mood for sleep she lit another cigarette, then sat at her desk to write to Morrie. Just a businesslike letter: the passing on of Barry’s diagnosis and the enthusiast’s offer; then mentioning that he would need to make alternative arrangements for the vehicle before December, that the lease on her flat would be up on the eighteenth and she would be moving home to Sydney. At that moment, she was moving home in December. In the morning, maybe not.
She signed it, sealed it, wrote AIRMAIL front and rear, added enough stamps to sink a battleship, then walked down to the mailbox on the corner and dropped it in.
Done and dusted.
That letter, or the wine at the party, or the argument with Chris, brought Morrie back to her dreams. Afraid he’d leave her, she wasted no time on preliminaries. They made love, not in her bed, but in that room with red velvet curtains she’d raised before in dream; and that dream so real, when she woke she reached out to the empty side of her bed, certain he was there.
Empty. Cold.
Lay on her back watching the dawn come, wondered if his manor house had a room with red velvet curtains, if there was some form of mental telepathy working between them. Wondered, too, if her letter would be delivered to him on a silver tray by a uniformed butler. Old English fiction was full of manor houses and families who sat on their backsides while servants served. He’d never mentioned butlers, or maids. He’d never mentioned his early life in Australia either. Had never mentioned much. And she hadn’t asked.
Should have asked.
His reply came ten days later, in a manila envelope with something solid inside. Impressed by the postal department’s service, certain his ownership papers were in it, she ripped it open as she climbed the stairs.
It contained a second envelope, cream, card-sized. A late birthday card?
That’s what she thought, until she opened the cream envelope and saw the embossed bride and groom. Saw: Willis – Langdon. Phyllis Marion to James Morrison.
Like a blow from a fist to the pit of her stomach; it took her breath away. And how dare he tell her like this. And how could he marry anyone? He wouldn’t be free to marry anyone until December. Chris had said so. Chris didn’t make mistakes.
‘Bloody door,’ she cursed, fighting the two locks open. Every night she fought them before they allowed her in. Two keys now required, and one of them very fussy about how deeply it was inserted before it agreed to turn. She got it open and slammed it behind her, slid the slide bolt, fixed the safety chain into its slot, pitched her keys to the bench and the invitation with them.
‘To hell with you,’ she said. ‘I’ve been sitting over here, having babies and babysitting your bloody car, while you’ve been over there, sweating on being free so you can marry Phyllis Marion Willis. To hell with you.’
Walked to the bathroom to wash him and his envelope from her hands. And saw her wild hair, her face free of makeup, her expression hurt and angry.
‘You’re old,’ she told it. ‘You’re old, and you’re Miss Norris again, by default.’
It was what she’d wanted, what she’d demanded before he left. He’d begged her to fly with him. Week after week he’d written, pleading with her to join him in England. She hadn’t replied, not once. She’d had his baby instead and hadn’t told him she’d had it. And what the hell had she expected him to do? Sit over there mourning his life away for her?
I should have written to him. When I realised I was pregnant. He would have been back on the next plane.
I made the decisions. I can’t decide now that I made the wrong decisions. I have to be pleased that at least one of us is getting on with life. I have to decide now, right now, that marrying Phyllis is the best thing that could happen.
And it was. Once he’d remarried, it would be over.
Phyllis Willis? The name conjured an uncomplimentary image. And what parents in their right minds would name a Willis Phyllis?
She was probably a lovely girl, punished for life with some grandmother’s name, as Cara may have been punished with Gran Norris’s name – if not for Jenny. She’d named her.
He’d call her Phil . . . Phil the dill.
Stop.
Hadn’t he mentioned a Phyllis way, way back, that time when she’d asked him if he’d had a girlfriend at home?
He had. He’d said she owned horses. She’d rented one of his aunty’s paddocks for her horses.
She washed her face, pitched the cloth at the mirror, then walked back to the kitchen, where she emptied the contents of his envelope onto the bench, still clinging to the vague hope his car ownership papers might fall out.
A note fell out, briefer than the one she’d written.
Dear Cara,
The guest list is badly out of balance. There’ll be sixty-odd Willises, umpteen Grenvilles and one of me. I hope you use the ticket.
Love, Morrie
What ticket?
It was inside the wedding invitation – a return air flight to London.
‘Holy Jesus!’ she breathed.
That ticket would have cost a fortune, and she couldn’t afford a new television set.
Then she looked at the date on the invitation: 30 December.
Chris had told her she’d be free in December. He was never wrong. Morrie had hired a solicitor to get him free to marry his Phyllis bloody Willis in December.
One flight to London, but the invitation was for Cara Norris and partner.
Go. Ask Chris to go with you, and wear his diamond earrings – or a wedding ring.
Or take Pete. He was still over there – or he had been three months ago.
She looked again at a ticket Pete would have once sold his soul for. He’d given up on his plan to fly to London and gone by boat, on a one-way ticket, and couldn’t afford the fare home – or hadn’t been able to the last time she’d heard from him.
Take Pete. Buy a purple dress, hire Pete a purple suit, and we’ll sing ‘Purple People Eater’ all night and kill ourselves laughing.
The thirtieth of December. Spend Christmas in Sydney, then fly out from there on Boxing Day. She’d spent the last two years trying to convince herself that he was her brother, so why not fly over to attend her brother’s wedding? If Pete was still in London.
Beth would know where he was. Three months ago he’d been sharing a ‘pad’ in Earls Court with half a dozen Aussies. He’d find her a bed.
Of course she wasn’t going. As if she could stand to be anywhere near Morrie or his Phyllis Willis. She’d post that ticket back tomorrow. Airline companies probably gave refunds.
The invitation and ticket placed safe beneath the telephone, she went to her fridge and opened the freezer section. Found a Cornish pastie – and thought of Cornwall. At fifteen, she’d read a book about Cornwall and dreamt of one day going to Land’s End. Turned the oven on and checked her watch, wondering what time it was in England. October half gone, winter would be coming over there.
It would take an hour for that pastie to thaw then heat through, time enough to bake a small potato. With only the very small left, she chose two, washed, stabbed them, smeared butter all over them, wrapped them in foil and tossed them in with the pastie.
Later, a coffee made, she went to her desk where she addressed an envelope to Morrison Langdon and Phyllis Willis, then wrote a few words of congratulation.
Dear Morrie and Phyllis, congratulations on your coming wedding, and thank you so much for . . .
Ripped the page from the pad and began again.
Dear Morrie,
Thank you for the invitation and ticket. Family commitments won’t allow me to attend so I am enclosing the ticket. I’m sure the airline company will refun
d the cost, or offer you a credit to use in the future.
I wish you both every happiness . . .
Did she? Should have withheld that every happiness. Ripped the page from the pad, crumpled it and pitched it far.
REFLECTIONS
Jenny had left home before six that morning, had parked the car before ten and found her way to the court, where she’d been kept hanging around all morning. Two o’clock before they’d called her to the witness box where she’d been badgered, accused of neglect and God knows what else by Raelene’s solicitor, but she’d sworn to tell the truth and that’s exactly what she’d done.
Half past four now, and her feet, clad for her day in the city, were complaining about being walked on – and her head complaining in sympathy.
She would have been on a train out to Nobby and Rosemary’s if they’d been home. They were in Queensland. If she’d got out of the courtroom at two, she would have been halfway home. Melbourne’s traffic was too fierce for her to tangle with during their peak hours. It had been bad enough driving into the city this morning.
Should have come down on the bus yesterday and stayed overnight at a hotel, as Jim had advised her to do – and would have ended up having to stay for two nights. The bus left Melbourne at two. Woody Creek was too far away from everything. If he’d sell up and move, life would be a damn sight easier.
Looked at her watch. She’d have to stay somewhere tonight. The thought of getting in the car and doing that four-hour trip alone, and half of it in the dark, gave her the internal shakes. Could take a train out to Vroni, call her from the station. Or call her first.
Have a cup of tea first, she told herself. Sit down, take a couple of aspros, get those damn shoes off for five minutes, then decide what you’re doing, and with that thought in mind she walked into Coles. They had a cafeteria and a ladies’ room, and at the moment, she required both.
She and Jim had been down here eight days ago to get Trudy, a rushed trip that one. They’d taken a call from the school at nine telling them that Trudy was unwell, and they’d been at the school by one. Jim didn’t do a lot of the driving, but he knew the city roads, and having him at her side as an extra pair of eyes gave her confidence. They’d done the return trip that day.
Trudy still wasn’t well. Had hated leaving her this morning. Jenny’d tried everything to get out of coming down here again but you can’t argue with subpoenas.
She could have come on the bus. Had anyone told her that she wouldn’t be called until after lunch, she would have.
Crazy court system, she thought. Crazy judge too. A few years ago, thieves had been judged guilty and locked up. Now the guilty were told to behave themselves for twelve months then let back out on the streets to rob someone else.
She had the ladies’ room to herself. The mothers had gone home long ago to their kids. Wished she was home with her own. She took her shoes off, took them with her into the toilet, where she sat a while wriggling her toes. Someone came in. She heard the cubicle door beside her lock. And she couldn’t sit there all day.
She flushed, picked up her shoes and handbag and walked barefoot to the washbasins, where she glanced at her face in the mirror. Not a kind light, and after the day she’d had, she needed a kind light.
Sighed, turned on the tap and stood soaping her hands–
*
Two women were leaning over her. Two men. The floor beneath her was . . . tiled.
She tried to sit up.
‘Stay down, dear.’
‘What?’ she said. ‘Where?’
Then she saw where, saw the row of handbasins, saw her shoes.
Two men in the ladies’ room?
*
Cara was checking her pastie when someone knocked at her door.
Since the robbery, the woman from Number Eight had been knocking to invite her in to watch TV, and the young guy who shared with the two girls had asked twice to use her telephone. Not in a mood for either of them tonight, she crept barefoot to the door to place her eye to the peephole. And saw her own distorted reflection looking back.
Peepholes don’t reflect images.
It was her, the woman who refused to wear every label Cara had attempted to pin onto her. Neither the slut nor the victim had adhered, nor, more recently, that baby-dropping bitch. Since Robin, she’d stopped trying to categorise a woman capable of dumping her baby at a boarding house like so much excess baggage. Since Robin, she’d set Jenny free and allowed Jessica of Angel At My Door to grow into her own person, a smidgen slut, a touch victim and too much Cara.
And what the hell was Jenny doing here?
Had she brought Raelene around to pick up the drycleaned overcoat?
Cara altered her angle, searching the landing for Raelene. Couldn’t see a lot through the magnified peephole, couldn’t see who might be lurking on the stairs. Someone was. Her visitor’s face was turned towards the stairs and she was speaking.
That someone came into view: a police constable. His knock was more demanding, his badge flashed at the peephole. Cara drew the bolt, opened the two locks, but left the security chain safely in its slot.
‘Georgie said she’d phone to let you know I was coming,’ her visitor said.
Georgie couldn’t phone. She hadn’t been given the new number, and the exchange didn’t give out silent numbers. Since the robbery, Cara had decided to rub Woody Creek out of her life. Woody Creek had come down here to reel her in.
She removed the security chain and stepped out to the landing, looking towards the stairs, still expecting Raelene.
‘You’ll be right then, Mrs Hooper?’ The constable wanted to leave.
‘If it’s not convenient . . .’ Jenny said to Cara.
It wasn’t. Cara looked at the constable, wanting him to know it wasn’t convenient.
‘Our friends in Ringwood have taken their caravan up to Queensland,’ Jenny said.
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Cara said, and stepped back into her unit.
Jenny thanked the constable before following Cara indoors. She stood watching the door closed, the bolt slid, the safety chain fitted, the deadlock snibbed.
‘Being robbed is inclined to upset the psyche,’ Cara said.
‘I’m so sorry it had to happen to you.’
‘You didn’t rob me,’ Cara said – or didn’t rob my flat, she thought.
She wasn’t being a pleasant hostess. Myrtle had taught her better manners. Blame the wedding invitation; blame the ticket she couldn’t afford, which he obviously could.
‘Sit down,’ she said, gesturing towards the lone easy chair; well worn, but it had worn well.
Jenny remained standing, so Cara went to her desk to place her pad and biro into the top drawer, to rubber-band her manuscript and place it in a bottom drawer.
‘I had to come down to Raelene’s court hearing thing,’ Jenny explained. ‘I’ve spent my life trying to stay out of courts and I end up being subpoenaed into one. I couldn’t get out of it this time.’
Cara glanced at her visitor, now supporting herself on the rear of the easy chair. This is my mother. This is the woman who carried me for nine months, who strained to push me into life. This is Robin’s blood grandmother.
She’s here. And I’m lost.
‘Please sit down, Jenny.’
‘I’m better on my feet right now. The world can’t spin when I’ve got my feet planted on the ground . . . floor.’
‘Were they convicted?’
Cara had been told she may be called to stand in the witness box again. Hadn’t been contacted.
‘It was only about Raelene. He’s older and they say he’s got a very bad record,’ Jenny said.
‘I thought I may have escaped the ordeal.’
‘I couldn’t believe what went on there,’ Jenny said. She released the chair, then made a hasty grab for it.
‘Sit down.’
‘Is it all right if I sit at your table?’
‘Wherever you feel comfortable.’
&n
bsp; She walked to the table, to lean, not sit. ‘You wouldn’t have a couple of strong painkillers, would you?’
‘Aspros.’
‘They gave me two aspros at Coles. They’re not working.’
Cara walked around her visitor to the cupboard above her stove, where she dug deep, unearthing stockpiled nuts, probably stale, and two packets of pills older than the nuts, bought to cure heartache back when her world had ended – all thanks to her guest.
She offered both packets, filled a glass with water and placed it on the table, and Jenny sat down to help herself to a pill from each packet.
‘Was she sentenced?’ Cara asked.
‘They gave her a twelve-month suspended sentence.’
Very nice of them, Cara thought. Perhaps her expression said as much.
‘She won’t be twenty until November,’ Jenny said. ‘Someone must have dressed her today – she looked so innocent, so tiny. Her lawyer made her out to be Collins’s victim, and in a way I suppose she was. She was just a kid when she got mixed up with him – fifteen.’ Jenny sighed in a deep breath and sighed it out. ‘You wouldn’t have a cigarette, would you?’
‘I don’t smoke in the flat,’ she said – or hadn’t for three days. Cigarettes were too expensive and too easy to light; and when in the wrong mood – and she’d been in the wrong mood for months – she chain-smoked the things.
Still had a few in her last packet, for an emergency. This was an emergency. She took one of the kitchen chairs into the bedroom, climbed on it and reached in deep behind old sweaters relegated to the top shelf of her wardrobe. Eight smokes left in that packet, a box of matches filling the gap.
Jenny reached for them gladly, then stood. ‘I’ll smoke on the steps.’
‘My friend is a reformed smoker and now allergic to it,’ Cara said. ‘I’m becoming allergic to him.’
She lit her own cigarette and found her old best-friend ashtray, washed clean for once. It had spent years at her elbow while she’d been typing, when she’d owned a typewriter to type on.
‘Jim doesn’t smoke. I stop from time to time. I stopped for twelve months once, for a bet, and as soon as I won the bet, I went out and bought a packet,’ Jenny admitted. ‘Being with other smokers is the hardest bit when you give up.’