Goose Girl

by Joy Dettman

  I found a lover who’d love me completely

  We’d walk together through sunshine and rain

  We’d build a dream that would go on forever

  At my side he would always remain.

  I asked my lover to wed me in Maytime

  Confetti of leaves touched with ruby and gold

  He was the one I had searched for for a lifetime

  But my lover is not mine to hold.

  Autumn winds blow scented with rain

  Winter whispering out there again

  The seasons go but here I remain

  Alone, all alone with my pain.

  Take me away winds, carry me over

  sky and the ocean, don’t let me see

  I am the jester, clown of the weeping

  I am the fool. Laugh at me.

  On Monday morning when the little yellow Datsun drove again to the freeway, the bikie tailed it to the Dandenong exit, staying just far enough behind. He had to pick up a car at his sister’s place and fit a new exhaust pipe.

  Her husband was in Timor, but he’d be home in May, his tour of duty ended. He could look after his own car come May.

  Doughnuts and Coffee

  She was calm now. Tears all cried and dried. She was thinking rationally this morning. It was remotely possible that Matt and his wife had been babysitting, still putting on a show for friends and neighbours. She had to go back and see those boys by daylight. Then she’d know. Then she could move on.

  His house was alive this morning, windows open, cat on the letterbox taking the sun. Fat cat. She heard the children’s voices, and they were like the other voices in that other street, the street like this one, but not as rich. Her beautiful home, beautiful then. Worn out now by Carol Rigg.

  She didn’t want it back. Didn’t want Ross back either. Carol Rigg would be good for him, and he’d be good with her kids too. Three ready-made farm labourers. And he’d end up with his six. Carol was built to bear babies. Good wide hips. And she’d fit into Lakeside, always say and do the right thing, never embarrass. A worthy Mrs Bertram.

  It was 8.40 when she saw the boys walk from their door, saw a mother tuck in a small shirt, then walk with her beautiful sons right by the old yellow Datsun, and across the road, around the corner. A young mother and her handsome little boys, walking safe in the sun.

  They all looked like Matt. Slim little-boy necks. Dark, shiny heads; smart, well-pressed uniforms. Sally followed them in her car, watched them enter the school grounds where they became lost in the crush of other uniforms. She found her way around the block, returning in time to see Matt’s garage door open.

  His blue station wagon was not there today. She hadn’t expected it to be. Today was Monday, Sally the fool’s day, bit of fluff on the side day. He’d be on the fourth floor selling dreams to retirees, but he’d be knocking on Sally’s door tonight.

  She’d been conned by a memory. She’d seen what she’d wanted to see in Matt.

  The four-wheel drive backed out and Sally watched the magic door close, then the big car drove away and she followed it to a shopping centre in Endeavour Hills. Sue’s ex lived in Endeavour Hills. Why was she always lost in Sue country? But she had her Melway. They could find their way anywhere, her and her Melway. They’d find their way back.

  Her car parked two spaces up from the four-wheel drive, she followed its driver, saw her meet and greet another woman. They looked at jackets in an expensive boutique, they looked at shoes and the friend tried on white sandals. She didn’t buy. The friends ordered coffee and a doughnut each at the coffee shop, then stood talking. Sally stood close by, listening to their conversation.

  ‘The weather was perfect. Dad took the boys camping on Friday night, and they loved it.’

  ‘How’s your mum?’

  ‘She’ll have to take it easy for a while. Can’t drive for a month, which is frustrating her, but she was delighted to see us. It’s been months since we’ve got away.’

  They paid for their coffee and doughnuts, and Sally ordered the same. A table beside theirs was vacant. She claimed it and sat with her back to them, chair legs almost touching. Then the conversation turned to Matt, and Sally listened to every word.

  ‘Got the biggest boy back at work?’

  ‘He couldn’t wait to get back, and to tell you the truth, I couldn’t wait to get him back. I thought a break from work would be good for him. I don’t know what’s wrong with him lately, Jan. He can’t turn off.’

  Sally chewed on her thumbnail, frowned.

  ‘He spent most of the time checking the market, or on his mobile to Jeff. Sell this. Buy that. He didn’t even go camping with Dad and the boys.’

  ‘Did you get to see his parents?’

  ‘No. I just wanted to get home, and he’d prefer to go there by himself. He was like a kid with a new toy this morning. He was going back to work.’

  ‘Matt the workaholic.’

  ‘Maybe. Honest to God, I think sometimes that he’s playing around. He’s different lately, Jan.’

  A rowdy trio claimed the next table. Sally sat on, hearing snippets of conversations about charities, families and pregnancies. She picked at the hole in her doughnut, slid it on her ring finger. It was about as real as Matt’s diamond, and as greasy as his love.

  As she drained her coffee cup and stood to leave, the trio’s forks became busy and their mouths found better things to do. Again she listened.

  ‘His parents are something else. His father looks at Troy as if he’d like to put him in uniform, teach him some discipline; his mother would prefer us to leg-rope the lot of them to a verandah post and give them a Bible. I haven’t been to see them in months. Matt usually goes up on Sundays, stays over some nights. Or he says he does.’

  He certainly doesn’t stay with me, Sally thought.

  ‘His mother never did like me. Chari and I did ballet together, so Mum and Matt’s mother knew each other. I was about nine or ten at the time.’ She laughed. ‘Love at first sight.’

  They were preparing to leave. Sally watched the friends walk out of sight, then she and her friend, the Melway, found their way back to the freeway, where the inward-bound traffic was heavy.

  On the city side of Blackburn Road the oil light began to glow. She moved into the left lane, seeking an exit. But when the fuel gauge showed empty, she still had another twenty-odd kilometres before it ran dry, and she wanted to get home. Probably had enough oil to get her home. Ross had checked it, topped it up when he was down in February.

  February.

  ‘Checking Carol’s now. Fixing her car now. I should have it serviced, buy new tyres, see what’s wrong with the steering.’

  She had plenty of money in the bank since Ross’s birthday call. She’d claimed his cheque. It had been a little crumpled, a wee bit soiled, but the bank accepted it. Carol Rigg could have Ross; she wasn’t going to buy new curtains with Mummy’s legacy.

  The motor began to labour. Sally bore down on the accelerator but the car continued to lose power. She changed gear, smelt heat, smelt burning oil.

  And the motor stopped, the car rolling to a halt. With the wheels’ final slow revolution she tried to guide them towards the emergency lane. Didn’t make it all the way, and the cars behind her beeped, bunched, then roared away, roared by the poor little yellow Datsun 120Y, passed away on the side of the freeway. Dead as a doorknob.

  Ross had given her the car. He’d kept it on the road. She’d never learned how to check the oil and water. Never put air in her tyres. Didn’t know how. She’d gone from being Mummy’s little watchdog to Ross’s bed and hadn’t grown in between.

  But it wasn’t Ross’s fault. She’d stopped growing nice and straight and tall when Daddy had died. Too many years stagnating in Mummy’s pool of sludge. Too many nights hiding with Mummy beneath the bed, afraid of the bogyman. Too many years of watching. Watching. Always watching Mummy.

  Count when she goes to the bathroom. Listen to the wee hitting the water. Listen for the
paper rustle, listen for the cistern flush.

  Hide her pills under your mattress, and don’t let her see where you hide them, dole them out to her, two by two.

  Throw the sharp knives away so there is nothing for her to cut herself with, and nothing to cut the tomatoes with either.

  Too much time spent between a rock and a hard place, Sall old gal. You grew stunted. But you’re out now. You can live in the sun now. So the first days of full-on heat might burn, but they won’t kill you.

  ‘They won’t kill me,’ she screamed at the thousand motorists roaring by, bunching, cursing her car and her, but not offering to help push it off the freeway. She turned her lights on, flashed her turning signal and tried to push the car off to the side.

  Useless. Not strong enough. She had the build of a twelve-year-old kid. She looked left, right. There would be an emergency phone somewhere. Which way, that was the question. Back in the car she tried once more to start the motor. ‘Deader than a doorknob.’

  A motorbike pulled in behind her. Maybe a helpful cop. She turned, but the sun on the chrome was in her eyes. She looked at the helmet, and down. Saw the long black hair beneath the helmet. And what the hell was he doing here? And where were all the cops when you needed them?

  She watched him prop his bike before walking to her passenger-side window. Slow to reach across, she wound it down an inch or three.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she said.

  ‘It’s a free freeway. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m out of oil.’

  ‘You’re also blocking the traffic. Let your handbrake off.’ He pushed the little car into the emergency lane. So easy for him. He sniffed at the air and shook his head. The smell of burnt oil had grown stronger. ‘You’ve done it this time, De Rooster. Pull your bonnet.’

  She pulled the lever and stepped from the car to peer with him into the maze of pipes and metal. ‘What’s that smell?’

  ‘Smells like a buggered motor to me. Are you in the RACV?’

  She was. Ross had joined her up when she’d left Lakeside. Bloody Ross. He’d paid for that too.

  The bikie offered her his phone, but she didn’t know how to use it, so she handed him her keys. He made the call.

  ‘They’re sending a tow truck for you.’

  ‘Did you tell them I was just out of oil?’

  ‘Your motor is red hot. I’d say you’ve seized it, De Rooster.’

  She opened the passenger-side door and leaned against the seat, and she thanked him, but he didn’t get on his bike. He walked off to the grass and sat down.

  ‘You don’t have to wait.’

  ‘Sunshine, green grass. Sit down and relax. You’re like a grasshopper on an ant hill. It could take an hour for them to get here.’

  Too hot in the car, she walked to the grass, found a sprinkling of shade three metres from him and she sat.

  They spoke of the traffic first, then of mobile phones, and they waited. He took a call and she reached for her cigarettes while he spoke to his mobile friend. And the cars zoomed on by. He moved into her shady space and offered her a stick of chewing gum, and he showed her how to use a mobile. She called Phonepross and asked if they had any raffle books for sale, please, then hung up fast, handed back the phone. They spoke about the country then and green grass, and about nothing in particular and everything in general.

  ‘How long have you had your bike?’

  ‘It’s not a bike, it’s a Harley. I’ve had this one for two years. I got my first bike when I was eighteen. Went around Australia on it. I had a couple in between.’

  He’d been everywhere: Alice Springs, Birdsville, Tasmania. The tow truck killed their conversation. It picked up the little car, dragged it up to the truck tray with rattling chains. She heard its groan, and she groaned with it.

  The driver was ready to leave and she didn’t want to go with him. He wasn’t offering a lift anyway.

  ‘It looks as if I walk,’ she said.

  ‘No animals and pedestrians on the freeway.’ The bikie pointed to the sign. ‘You’d better get on.’

  ‘On that thing? I’ll hop and cop the animal fine, thanks.’

  ‘Get on and stop playing hard to get.’

  ‘Of all the places that you might be today, how come you were here?’

  ‘I’m the White Knight. I spend my life saving damsels in distress.’ He offered her the helmet, and she eyed it, and him, and his bike.

  ‘I used to think you were a criminal – a jewellery thief.’

  ‘I used to think you were a feisty little bantam, so don’t turn chicken on me.’ Again he offered the helmet.

  She mounted the pillion, pleased she was wearing jeans. He placed the helmet on her head and adjusted the strap, then he was almost sitting on her and the motor roared beneath her and the bike wanted to go.

  ‘Ever been on one of these?’ he yelled.

  ‘I never got my pushbike licence. Santa wouldn’t give me one.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Santa Claus. I asked him for a bike one year and he gave me a plastic doll.’

  ‘You were lucky to get a doll. The old bugger always gave me school shoes and jeans. Hang on to me.’

  ‘I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.’ She leaned back and clung to the pillion seat.

  ‘Hang on to me or I’ll lose you on the first bend.’

  ‘I can think of worse fates,’ she yelled.

  ‘Arms around me or we don’t budge, De Rooster. Come on. Give me a thrill. My colour doesn’t rub off. I found that out when I was five.’

  Her hands crept to his shirt and he grabbed them, wrapped them around him. ‘Now, hang on.’

  The roar of untamed power, the primal lunge, then the air sharp in her face, and his hair, wind-whipped, blinding her. She hung on. Tight. Tighter.

  This was flying. No windows to lock her in. This was freedom. No seatbelt to hold her prisoner. They couldn’t talk. They had to yell, and she yelled, the sun and the wind and his hair in her face as they passed cars and caught up with the tow truck before it turned off the freeway to make its way to an RACV-approved repairer in Warrigal Road.

  The motor stilled and it was over, her feet were back on the ground and she didn’t want it to be over. She wanted to fly.

  The mechanic, approved or not, didn’t have a good bedside manner. He tried to turn the engine over with a greasy spanner applied to the crankshaft pulley. It wouldn’t turn. ‘She’s had it. Cost you big bucks to fix her and the old girl isn’t worth it.’

  ‘I can pay. How many big bucks?’

  ‘Have to rebuild your motor. You’re looking at two thousand, with labour. Give or take a few bucks.’ He kicked a tyre. ‘They wouldn’t pass a roadworthy in a pink fit. Set you back another four hundred. You could buy the whole car for two hundred. You’re nearly out of rego, too.’

  ‘I’ve got another ten days.’

  ‘She’s wrecker material, De Rooster. Face it.’

  Sally looked towards Lakeside. Too long since Ross had been to Melbourne. He’d checked her tyres and radiator, poured in enough oil to run a battleship for a week. She walked around the car while the approved repairer stood back, wiping his hands on his overalls. She opened the bruised door, picked up her knowledgeable friend and a box of tissues. Then she opened the boot. And found the plastic container of oil Ross had bought at the market. It was still half full.

  ‘Shit,’ she said.

  The approved repairer walked to the boot, took the container of oil, weighing it, his eyes accusing her. He was a car doctor, called in too late, and the necessary medicine had been at hand to save the old girl’s life.

  ‘Worth nothing now,’ he said. ‘They’re good little cars, these. They go till they drop.’ Died in harness of neglect, his words said, and she wanted to cry for her little car and her neglect. Why hadn’t she learnt anything?

  ‘Why don’t you ring the RSPCA, mate, report her for Datsun abuse?’

  ‘I should have looked in the boot. I
should have –’

  ‘No weeping over spilt oil, De Rooster. Should-have-beens don’t count for much in this world. They’re the ifs and the buts of life. Kiss her goodbye, pay up and let’s go. I’ve got to get to work.’

  ‘Work? You?’

  ‘I’m a blackjack dealer at the casino.’

  ‘Still a thief. You probably rob the poor gamblers blind.’

  ‘I’ve got an old bugger robbing me blind at the moment. He’s got to be counting cards but he’s so cute I hate to dob him in.’

  She paid for the car funeral with Visa, then they rode away, rode away home and when they got there, he parked in her bay and laughed about it. ‘The winner in the parking stakes.’

  ‘A worthy winner.’ She bowed low to his Harley.

  ‘The old girl was junk, De Rooster. Dangerous.’

  ‘She went.’

  ‘Can you buy another one?’ He walked with her to the stairs, and up the stairs, one step to her two.

  ‘I can afford some more junk, I suppose. I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far yet. I haven’t thought. Your bike blew my mind. I might . . . might get on a plane and fly away, or buy a bike – a Harley.’ She shrugged. ‘Thanks. Thanks for the ride. Thanks for your phone, thanks for . . . for being there. Just thanks.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have missed it for quids. I’m going to frame this shirt. It’s got your handprints on it.’

  That afternoon she sat fondling the goose girl while the television played. She didn’t shower, didn’t get ready to entertain Matt. She wasn’t thinking about Matt or his wife or his boys. She was thinking of her ride in the wind.

  ‘I was flying free on the eagle’s back. I was flying free there for a while.’

  In the Blood

  Walter spent a lot of time following her little car around, or just watching her at her window. Not much he could do about it, though. Stirring up old emotions caused more harm than good. He’d learnt that much, but it hadn’t stopped him wanting what he wanted.

  He’d been shopping today, bought a few necessities and a few non-necessities. He delved into a plastic bag and withdrew a shirt. A nice one, too. He’d picked it up cheap, and a pair of jeans, not so cheap. They were for his youngest boy to wear home. He’d finally agreed to go home when they let him out. He’d picked up a couple of nice ornaments for his daughters-in-law. Nothing for the oldest boys, though. Have to get them something.