‘What could possibly happen?’
‘Darling, you’re so headstrong. You could get into all sorts of trouble . . .’
‘I’m not headstrong!’ Katerina laughed.
‘If anything happens you will talk it over with Lou, won’t you? Or, better still, ring us?’
‘Like what?’ Katerina teased. ‘Do you think I’m going to get pregnant or something?’
‘Katerina! Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Well, what?’
‘Look, darling, sometimes I think you’ve had things a bit easy. Not your fault of course, but . . . well, life won’t always be neat. Out in the big world it isn’t a matter of just passing exams, you know . . . coming top in everything. Those things are marvellous, of course. But you won’t always be able to have your own way . . .’
Katerina’s green eyes narrowed.
‘I don’t always have my own way!’
‘Of course not,’ her mother said. ‘Oh dear, I don’t know quite what I’m trying to say!’ She brought both hands up to her face. Katerina was suddenly interested. Her mother rarely spoke like this. It was interesting to watch her floundering, struggling for words.
‘Things . . . can get tough,’ her mother went on from behind her hands. ‘I just don’t want to see you get hurt . . .’ Katerina nodded, but her mother had turned away, frowning unhappily as though she’d really meant to say something else.
‘So you think I’ll mess everything up because I’ve had it easy?’
‘Oh no, darling . . . I’m sure you won’t mess anything up . . . I.. . .’
‘Well, what?’
Her mother shrugged, then her vulnerable expression slowly slipped back into the more usual, on-top-of-everything smile.
‘I think you should go and clean that pool as your father asked you to do yesterday,’ she said at last.
‘Okay, but I thought I’d wait till it gets a bit cooler.’
‘Very well,’ her mother said, turning away, ‘as long as you don’t forget.’
‘I won’t, Mum. Promise.’
Going to university and getting her Arts/Law degree with honours would only be the first step on a very long road. Katerina had no clear idea of what she wanted to do, only that she certainly didn’t want to stop there – simply being a lawyer. Her sister Louise’s idea of coming back to their hometown after she’d finished her specialist degree and gradually taking over her ageing father’s practice filled Katerina with an angry impatience. Why would anyone want to live in Manella when there was . . . well, the rest of the world, for a start?
‘Oh well, this will have to do,’ her mother said, trying to be cheerful as she pulled a plain glass vase out from under the sink. ‘What day does Louise get back from France next week, Mum?’ ‘Friday, darling. It would be nice if we all went out to meet her.’
Katerina mumbled her assent, knowing that she would, when the time came, be able to think of some excuse not to go.
‘So there will just be her and me in the house?’
Her mother frowned disapprovingly as she arranged the flowers.
‘Yes. Philippa’s gone to live with . . . some boy. Silly girl.’
Katerina ignored her mother’s moral undertones as her mind clicked into action.
‘Do you know if Lou has anyone in mind for the third room?’
‘No. In her last letter she said she’d have to find someone when she got back. It won’t be too hard. It’s a lovely house.’
‘What if I could find someone first . . . you think she’d mind?’
Mrs Armstrong set the vase of roses in the middle of the table and turned to look at her daughter.
‘As long as it was someone suitable, dear . . . I can’t see why not. After all, it’s Daddy’s house. He bought it for both you girls. If you can find a suitable friend, I can’t think that Louise would mind.’
Katerina was feeling happier by the minute. This was a good idea. By the time bossy old Lou came back from Europe, she’d have someone decent installed in the third bedroom, instead of having to put up with one of her elder sister’s awful friends. She’d ring around some of the girls from last year and see if anyone, like her, wasn’t going to live in a college. Katerina ran upstairs in a distinctly happier frame of mind than she’d been in for weeks.
CARMEL COULD FEEL IT ALL SLIPP ING AWAY from her: university, a career in music, the future she’d spent many a dreamy afternoon imagining. Within just a few weeks it had slid off into a hole, like a great haul of earth being pushed by one of those huge machines; moving steadily, heavy with its own crazy momentum. First there’d been the less than impressive exam results. She’d been half expecting them, but to hold the paper in her own hands and see the awful computerised letters for herself was something else. Four simple passes and two fails. She had excelled at nothing. Seeing that was like feeling something sharp sinking right between her ribs and making her blood pump with a hot sense of helplessness. This will not be enough to get in anywhere. But she’d managed to hang on to hope right through the Christmas and New Year celebrations. Maybe this year there would be fewer people applying for music courses. Maybe there’d been some kind of mistake. Surely something would happen to right the situation. But there had been no mistake. These were her marks. The conservatorium had been her first choice and she’d known as soon as she got her results that it would be impossible. Against all reason she pinned her hopes on the College of the Arts. Everyone said that the course there was good. They taught piano and singing and gave concerts – she wasn’t exactly sure about much else. All she knew was that she had to be away from Manella and studying music, somewhere. Things would open up for her. They had to. All her teachers said they would.
Then Auntie Mona had written to say that Uncle Peter had had a heart attack, that their daughter Paula was coming home from overseas to help nurse him. It would be impossible now for them to have Carmel in their home for her first year of study because there wouldn’t be room. Mona was her father’s sister and she had generously offered to board Carmel for nothing in return for a bit of housework. Until Uncle Peter fell ill. So now there was nowhere cheap for her to stay anyway.
Then January had arrived and the places had come out. Not only had she missed out on the College of the Arts, but also on her next three choices. What was being offered was her fifth option, the last thing she’d scribbled down before handing the piece of paper back to Sister Bernadette when they’d filled in the forms. An obscure teacher’s course. Kids with disabilities or something. She’d whacked it down because there was room for five courses and she’d joked to the girl beside her that if she was ever reduced to it she’d slit her throat. They’d both laughed. Everyone knew there were no jobs for teachers. Everyone also knew that Carmel McCaffrey belonged in a music school somewhere. That by some crazy twist of fate, in spite of her – being the only girl in that huge, bizarre family of boys, with the eccentric parents, that lived out on the hillbilly farm that no one in the town had stepped foot on for years – the big, awkward girl was talented. Her singing was mainly confined to the school choir and ten o’clock Mass each Sunday. But then there were the other social events: weddings, funerals, Christmas, and Anzac Day at the old people’s home. Most of the locals had heard her sing at least once, and had been stunned by the depth and richness of her voice. If they hadn’t heard her voice then they’d heard about it and planned to be there next time. Shame that she was so overweight and shy; the way she blushed and bumbled around when people complimented her made them wonder if she’d ever get it together enough to do something with her talent.
‘There are no jobs for teachers,’ her mother had snapped, ‘and where do you think you’re gunna live while you’re doing this useless course?’ Both her parents were unimpressed with Carmel’s vague, badly articulated pleas about needing to get away from Manella – even if only to do the teaching course that she had no desire to do. Carmel could see that her mother was getting some kind of perverse pleasure out of her predicament a
nd this made the pain worse. She had always flustered easily, but this deep sense of panic was something else. She could see herself, an enormous captured insect, or a fat spider, her legs and arms flailing around uselessly, the pin sticking right through the centre of her heart. Each minute that went past and the more she kicked, the tighter she stuck to the backboard of Manella.
‘But, Mum, you . . . you don’t want me here.’
‘What do you mean, girl?’ Her mother was ironing a pile of men’s shirts. Every time she shifted a garment around, the iron was slapped down with a sharp thud on the end of the board.
‘Well, I cost so much to feed and keep . . .’ Carmel’s voice trailed off. Her parents were always complaining about how much it cost to feed and clothe them all, so it was the only thing she could think to say that might work. But she could see by her mother’s face that it was hopeless.
‘You’d cost a damn sight more to keep in the city!’
It was oddly satisfying for Nance McCaffrey to know that all the talk about her daughter being talented had come to nothing. She didn’t understand music herself. Didn’t even like it. The girl must have got it from Nev’s mother. She remembered that old cow playing piano sometimes in between whingeing about her arthritis. Any fool could see that a career in music wasn’t a realistic path for a country kid from a farming family to follow. Now she’d been proved right. Nev and she were basic people; they worked hard with their hands for not much return. Everything was a struggle. What reason had she to think that it would be any different for her daughter? Those teachers ought to have their heads read, giving kids all these bloody fancy ideas! The McCaffreys had just enough land to make a decent living when the rain came at the right time and the prices were reasonable. But now, with the drought and the loss of overseas markets, it was just plain impossible. Who ever heard of making a living out of something like music? That dreamy lump of a girl of hers would be better off going by bus to the local college in the next big town and learning how to use one of those new-fangled computers. That at least would lead to a job; perhaps in the bank or a nice clean office somewhere.
Mrs McCaffrey herself hardly ever went to town these days. The bread was delivered every second day with the mail. They killed their own meat, kept a few scraggy chooks, grew pumpkins, and bought spuds from their neighbour. Anyway, what would she want to be going to town for?
Of course, like most gruff people Mrs McCaffrey had another, deeper layer under her tough, brittle, no-nonsense surface. A small corner of her tired heart grieved for her daughter as she watched the girl blunder around in her disappointment. This part of Nance McCaffrey wanted the best for Carmel, to see her happy and settled, even fulfilled. But the softer, kinder side so often got lost beneath the hardness of everyday life. Whole weeks passed where it lay dormant, waiting for the spring, for some change in the family’s circumstances, to wake it. Sometimes in the dead of night, lying next to Nev, she woke shivering with shame at the harsh way she’d stepped on one or other of her kids’ feelings, the needless hurt she’d caused to their fledgeling senses of themselves by her snapping and complaining. Even the young boys, harmless and playful as a couple of clumsy puppies, felt the heat of her tongue most days. At such times, she wondered if she’d lost the person she once was altogether, and longed for something to happen that would bring it back to life.
Then Vince arrived, out of the blue. Carmel was inside at the sink finishing off the lunch dishes. The men – her father and brothers, seventeen-year-old Anthony, fifteen-year-old Bernie, and thirteen-year-old Gavan – had gone back up to the shed to finish the crutching. She was staring out of the back window watching the younger boys, eight-year-old twins Joe and Shane, playing in the dried-up, dusty yard. A few chooks were scratching around and a couple of the sheepdogs were sitting panting in the shade of the mulberry tree when the bike suddenly appeared. It roared up the dirt track, around the house and stopped suddenly halfway between the shed and the house. Carmel stopped breathing and waited. The figure on the bike sat there, taking his time and staring around. Suddenly he tipped off the helmet and got off the bike. Carmel gasped. It was him! The tall, strongly built leather-clad figure of her brother was slowly walking on down to the house.
‘Mum!’ she yelled. ‘It’s Vince! Vincent is home!’ Her mother came running into the kitchen.
‘No,’ she said flatly, but her face was loose with expectation. ‘Yes, Mum. Look!’
Mrs McCaffrey was short and slightly built compared to her daughter. She peered through the window at her eldest son letting himself in through the back gate.
‘Well, I wonder what he wants,’ she sniffed.
‘Mum, please,’ begged Carmel, laying one hand on her mother’s thin, freckled arm, ‘can’t we just welcome him and . . .’
‘Welcome him!’ her mother snorted, pulling her arm away. ‘Not a letter in six months and before that those piddly little postcards. He doesn’t deserve anything from us. He thinks he can . . .’ But Carmel had run for the door. She didn’t care at that moment what her mother was going to say. Even the idea of her own dismal future, which had been blocking her vision for the last two days, faded away. It meant nothing. Vincent was home.
‘Vince!’ she shouted, bounding along the path to greet him. He stopped, dropped the helmet, and held out both arms, smiling. ‘G’day, Carma, girl! How ya going?’
‘Okay, okay,’ she said. They locked arms around each other and began slowly to spin around where they stood. He smelt wonderful, just as she remembered, of oil and grass and cigarettes. ‘Hey, you smoking again?’
‘Nah. Why?’ When they pulled away Vince looked back to the house. His mother was standing watching at the back door. ‘Everything still the same?’ he said, turning back to Carmel with a laugh.
‘Yes,’ she answered softly, trying not to cry, trying to keep the desperation out of her voice. ‘Everything is still the same.’
That night they all sat around the table, together for the first time in nearly two years. Her mother and father, the six boys, and herself, everyone soaking up the wonderful Vincent. He told stories about being up north in Cape York, how hot it was and how hard the work was in outback Queensland and New South Wales killing pigs. He’d got himself a couple of dogs and a gun, but he’d left them all with a mate in Albury. He was going back soon. His teeth, when he threw his head back to laugh, shone. His hair, a wavy, coppery brown like Carmel’s, and his eyes gleamed with youth and purpose. At twenty-three, he’d grown up, become more controlled. Carmel could see both her parents struggling with the difference. Vincent seemed to understand their need to punish him after such a long absence, but it wasn’t worrying him at all. Carmel pushed the peas onto her fork and smiled to herself as she watched him choose not to take offence at their brusque questions, their terse dismissal of his opinions about this or that. And the way he looked up in quiet appreciation when his mother gave him the choicest piece of meat.
‘What are you gawking at?’ Mrs McCaffrey snapped, breaking in on her daughter’s happiness in that quick and deadly way she had.
‘Nothing,’ Carmel flinched, wondering suddenly how she could possibly go on living in this house when Vince had gone again. The bleak days stretched endlessly before her. In one flash she saw the meals that had to be prepared, saw herself coming home from some dreary computer course to chop pumpkin, break up Joe and Shane’s fights, and deal with her short-tempered mother. She would have to sneak away for a few minutes to the old piano out in the back room. The resentment, now that she didn’t have exams to work for, would build up and get harder and stronger. And her mother would win in the end. There was nothing surer.
Their father talked more in the first half hour of that meal than he had to any of them for about a year. Vince’s homecoming was the catalyst. It was as though Nev McCaffrey had just discovered that his own tongue could be used for something other than a terse explanation, an order or a complaint. Joe and Shane sat and stared at everyone, goggle-eyed with excitement
as the older ones, mainly Vince and his father, talked about dogs and horse-racing. And about boxing. Vince had had three fights up in Brisbane and had won two of them. He was considering taking up training seriously.
‘Ah, that’s a bloody mug’s game!’ their father growled.
‘Good money, but . . .’ Vince replied with a careless grin at Carmel.
‘If ya win, boy, if ya win! Most people don’t.’
At eight years old, Joe and Shane could only wonder at the tension that welled up every few minutes and swam in dark circular currents around the table. All they knew for sure was that their eldest brother was home, that he had brought news of different places, and that their parents had sparked up somehow. Finally Carmel’s future came up.
‘How did you go, sis?’ Vince asked nonchalantly. Carmel looked away, feeling a flush of unhappiness beginning on her neck.
‘Not good enough,’ her mother said drily.
‘What does that mean?’ Vince asked. Carmel couldn’t speak, but she noted the steel entering his grey eyes. She hadn’t spoken to anyone about her poor results. No one had rung from school to ask her how she’d gone. That made her feel even more left out and afraid. No one wanted to talk to her. She’d let them all down. Now the whole business was going to be brought out like dirty underwear for her brother to see. He’d always been so encouraging, telling her that she could do anything, and she hadn’t been able to deliver the goods.
‘She didn’t get into the course at the university,’ her mother went on.
‘Can’t see the point of anything else,’ her father said. Carmel turned and stared from one to the other in open-mouthed fury. Vince sensed the quickening of her temper, caught her eye and winked. He seemed to be saying, trust me, keep cool. Carmel shut her mouth, sat back and tried to do both.
‘Did you get in anywhere?’ he asked mildly, smiling up at his mother as she unceremoniously plonked the home-made lemon pudding in the middle of the table. God! Carmel thought. He’s become a charmer! Then she remembered that he’d always had that in him. It was just that in the past his quick temper had got the better of the charm. Joe and Shane looked at each other and grinned. Pudding! What a treat.
Queen Kat, Carmel and St Jude Get a Life Page 2