His Other House

by Sarah Armstrong

  He picked up his phone and dialled his father.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, Dad.’

  ‘Quinn? Is everything okay?’ His father had a new anxious tone that Quinn didn’t like. ‘Hang on. I’ll turn the radio down.’ His father rustled about. ‘That’s better. Are you driving? Sounds like you’re in the car.’

  Quinn turned onto the main road. ‘Yeah, I am. How are you going?’

  ‘I’m glad you rang.’ Quinn heard him dropping into his leather armchair.

  ‘Why? What’s up?’ Ahead of Quinn the traffic lights turned red and a skinny kid ran out to the first car with a squeegee and spray bottle. He looked about fourteen. As the boy approached, Quinn nodded and pointed at his windscreen.

  ‘I’ve decided I’m going to go back and see your mother’s grave. In January.’ His father’s voice was loud on the car speakers.

  ‘To Ocean Island?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Quinn had never seen her grave but his dad had sent him a photo of a simple wooden cross at one end of a mound of fresh dirt. Quinn had felt light-headed looking at that pile of raw earth and had tucked the photo away somewhere and had never been able to find it again.

  ‘You still there, Dad?’

  ‘I’m here.’ He sounded irritated. Quinn pictured him sitting up in the neat living room of his Kirribilli apartment, the Sydney Morning Herald folded on the arm of his recliner.

  ‘Is a trip a good idea with your health the way it is?’

  The boy used the brush on the squeegee to scrub the glass. He leaned right over, his t-shirt riding up to show his pale stomach. Through the sliding soap suds Quinn saw how pinched the boy’s face was.

  ‘I’m healthier than half the people who used to live on the island.’

  ‘How are you going to get there? Some dinky little boat out of Tarawa?’

  ‘The regular supply ship.’

  The light ahead turned green and the first cars started moving. A horn beeped behind Quinn. The boy was squeegeeing the windscreen now and Quinn fished a couple of two-dollar coins from his ashtray. ‘Hang on a sec, Dad.’ As he passed the coins to the boy, they dropped to the road. Quinn opened the door to retrieve them but they’d rolled away.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. The kid could pick them up after the traffic passed through. Another horn tooted and Quinn drove forward just as the boy stepped in front of Quinn’s car. Quinn braked but he hit the boy and knocked him to the ground.

  ‘Shit!’ Quinn pulled on the handbrake and opened the door.

  The boy got up and stepped onto the footpath. Quinn climbed out, in his towel. ‘Are you okay?’

  The boy nodded and rubbed his elbow.

  ‘Hang on.’ Quinn pulled the car to the side of the road and reached to the back seat for his shirt. He pulled it on as he approached the boy. ‘Where did I hit you?’

  ‘Just here.’ The boy indicated his hip.

  ‘Does it hurt? Can you walk okay?’

  ‘You’re a fucking idiot. I was just going to pick the money up, but you couldn’t wait five seconds, could you?’ The boy turned away. ‘Idiot.’

  ‘I can take you to hospital if you want to get checked out.’

  The boy laughed. ‘Are you fucking serious?’ He wiped the edge of his squeegee on his dirty t-shirt.

  ‘Wait.’ Quinn went to the car to find his wallet. He searched for it but it wasn’t in his pants pocket. He was rattled, scrambled. He could imagine giving the boy a thousand dollars. Why not? It made as much sense as everything else going on. He found his wallet on the floor, then saw his phone in the charger. His Dad. Shit.

  ‘Here.’ He gave the boy all the cash he had. $150. ‘In case you need . . . Where do you live?’

  The boy quickly folded the money and tucked it away in the back pocket of his shorts. ‘None of your business.’ He walked to the front of the line of traffic stopped at the lights and started on a windscreen.

  Once the lights changed, Quinn pulled back into the traffic and re-dialled his father. ‘Sorry, Dad, I had a little accident.’

  ‘Are you okay? I heard you swearing before I gave up.’

  ‘It’s all fine.’ Except his hands were shaking on the steering wheel.

  ‘Anyway, I’ve made enquiries. They can take us.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you mean you and me?’

  ‘Yeah, you and me. And Tom if he wants to come. I haven’t asked him yet.’

  ‘Oh, Dad.’ Quinn turned into his wide, tree-lined street and pulled up in the driveway. Light glowed golden from behind the curtains of their bedroom. ‘Dad, speaking as a doctor for a moment, I’m really not sure you should make that journey. Talk to your endocrinologist . . . You’re not managing your diabetes well enough yet. If something happens, you’d need first-world medical help.’

  His father was silent.

  ‘And, I’m sorry but I can’t come with you. Much as I’d like to keep you company, I need to be here at the moment.’ The light flicked off in the bedroom.

  His dad said, ‘She’d always loved the idea of an island, you know, ever since she was a kid. That’s the only reason she agreed to come with me.’

  ‘I never knew that.’

  ‘Well, the island was a terrible disappointment, of course . . . She stayed for him.’

  Him. Quinn had never heard his father talk about Tebano, except the once, when Quinn was fourteen, and he overheard his parents in the hallway. His father had said, ‘Just be more discreet, for God’s sake. I saw you and him in the garden just now. I’m turning a blind eye but please . . . for the boys’ sake if not mine.’

  His mother had said, ‘You can’t control everything in your little fiefdom. Life will persist and blossom despite you.’

  ‘You just want everything. You’re a child, Bess.’

  At dinner that evening they had both appeared perfectly civil and courteous to each other and Quinn had wondered if he’d imagined it.

  Quinn reached into the back seat for his clothes. ‘Will you talk to your doctor about it, Dad?’

  ‘I will. But think about it, eh? Think about coming.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll think about it. I’ll call Tom.’

  ‘Don’t go ganging up on me.’

  Quinn smiled. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it. Good night, Dad.’

  He walked up the side of the house in the dark, to hang the wet towel on the clothesline. He stood by the line and stepped into his underpants and trousers, then watched Marianna moving about in the warmly lit kitchen. In the midst of all the madness – Rachel, the crazy notion of making a baby with some other woman’s eggs, his father climbing aboard a leaky boat in the middle of the Pacific – in the midst of all that, what he needed to do was come back to his life with Marianna. Their shared history. Their love.

  He picked up his briefcase, remembering the anger in his mother’s voice when he’d overheard that conversation on the island. And he wished again that he could have held her hand as she died. Countless times he had imagined her laid out in her bed with her short, brown hair neatly combed. Sensible hair, she called it. And the straight nose she’d given him and freckled arms. When he was young, he used to lie beside her during siesta, and while she read he’d look for constellations in her freckles. It was so calm in her room, the sunlight dimmed by the big wooden shutters and the sound, every minute or so, of her turning a page. It was a world away from the dusty, arid island outside.

  It was Tom who had brought him the news. Quinn had been sitting in the kitchen of his share terrace house at midnight, eating a bowl of oily leftover fried rice, when Tom knocked on the front door. He knew his brother’s knock, the friendly rhythm they’d used on each other’s bedroom doors back on the island. Quinn had opened the door to find Tom on the porch, bicycle helmet dangling from his hand, panting as if he’d been riding hard.

  ‘Dad called me,’ he said. ‘Mum’s died, Quinn.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Just . . .’ He rubbed a thumb and fingers over his
eyes. ‘Can I come in?’

  Quinn had ushered his brother into the kitchen. It couldn’t be true. Surely he would know it if his mother had died. Surely he’d have felt her go. Tom sat at the kitchen table across from Quinn, his long face pale; he looked more like their father than ever. ‘She has to be buried tomorrow. You know how it is.’ His brother’s grey t-shirt was spotted with rain and drops glinted in his short brown hair.

  ‘What happened?’ Quinn asked and shoved away the half-eaten bowl of fried rice.

  ‘Doc Walter thinks it was an aneurysm. She had a really intense headache right beforehand.’

  ‘Where was she?’ He wanted to picture her. Wearing her flowery dress and sandshoes in the garden. Sitting down on the edge of a raised garden bed to cradle her head in her hands. And then, suddenly, gone.

  ‘She was in her bed. Reading.’ Tom looked down at his big hands spread over the formica table. ‘It’s just happened a couple of hours ago. Dad said she called out to him. He was with her when she went.’ Tom stood up, his chair scraping loudly on the floor. ‘Have you got anything to drink?’

  ‘In the fridge.’

  Tom opened the fridge door. ‘Did you write to her? Did you make up?’

  ‘No.’

  Tom pulled out a longneck of VB and found a bottle opener in the drawer. ‘We’ll go to the pub tomorrow and have a couple of G and T’s in her honour, eh?’ He opened the bottle and took a long swig then put his warm hand on Quinn’s shoulder. Quinn laid his spinning head on the table and closed his eyes.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The lid of the tea chest splintered as Rachel levered it off with a screwdriver.

  Her mother was propped up in bed and reached out a weak arm to adjust the bedside lamp so that it shone into the box filled with folded clothes. ‘Careful, darling, don’t hurt yourself. Can you see properly? We should have done this in daylight.’

  Rachel picked up Scotty’s maroon and white soccer shirt, the fabric stiff and cool in her hands. ‘I can’t believe you kept all this, Mum.’ She spotted a familiar blue hat.

  ‘Show me what else is in there.’ Her mother gestured with a finger.

  Rachel heaved the musty clothes out onto the floor. On top of the pile was a yellow baby jumpsuit embroidered with a red teddy bear. The fabric felt as if it might crumble in her hands.

  ‘Shaney and Beryl packed all this up for me,’ her mother said. ‘And then it was just easier to leave it in the garage. You wore that little suit too.’

  From the bottom of the chest Rachel lifted a bicycle pump and a terry towelling sunhat. ‘So you’re okay if I take it all to Vinnie’s?’

  ‘Yes, if they’ll have it.’ Her mother nodded. ‘Pass me that book, will you, sweetheart?’

  Rachel handed her the exercise book, Scotty’s neat childish writing on the front: Mathematics. Year 3. Her mother leafed through the pages that Scotty had laboured over at the dining table.

  Rachel couldn’t look at her mother. ‘I’ve been thinking about how, after he died, you disappeared into your room. It was like you vanished for weeks.’ She waited, hardly breathing, pretending to look through the clothes on the floor. She listened to her mother flicking through the exercise book.

  ‘Vanished?’

  ‘Were you avoiding me?’ Rachel looked up.

  Her mother watched her, with that terrible impassive face. ‘Avoiding you? What do you mean?’

  Rachel heaved clothes back into the box. ‘Mike told me that you blamed me for Scotty’s death.’

  ‘Mike did what? When?’

  ‘Is it true?’

  ‘I didn’t blame you.’ Her mother looked down and ran a shaky finger over a page in Scotty’s book.

  Rachel’s heart raced. She didn’t know what to say now. She had always fantasised that her mother would take over and steer the conversation.

  Finally her mother said, ‘Losing a child sends you crazy.’ She paused. ‘It’s like a vacuum sucks up everything in an instant. Our whole future. Everything he was going to become, all the things we might have done together. All gone.’

  ‘So are you saying that you did blame me? When you were crazy?’

  Her mother exhaled a long breath. ‘Oh, darling . . . I guess at times I did. In my madness.’ She looked straight at Rachel. ‘I blamed everyone who was there that day. Mostly myself.’ Rachel could see her trying to smile. ‘You were just a little girl. You were not to blame.’

  ‘I should have been watching.’ She saw his body lying on the grass, wet hair glued to his forehead, and she felt a familiar creeping paralysis.

  ‘No. We should have been watching. Me and Dad. And God.’ Emily tossed the book towards the tea chest. ‘Who knows what he would have done? He might have been a doctor or a scientist. A teacher. We’ll never know.’

  Rachel bent to scoop the rest of the clothes back into the tea chest. Car headlights shone in the window. Quinn. The lights faded and his car door slammed.

  Rachel rested the splintered ply lid on top. ‘Mum, listen. I’m sorry I didn’t look after him. I’m sorry I didn’t keep my eye on him.’

  Her mother closed her eyes and sighed. ‘It’s like this thing got visited upon us and . . . messed us all up.’

  Rachel’s throat constricted.

  Even through the mask of the Parkinson’s, her mother’s face was agonised. ‘I’ve tried to make sense of it . . .’ Emily’s breath caught and she put a hand over her eyes. ‘My job was to keep you both safe and I didn’t. I’m sorry, sweetheart.’

  Rachel nodded. She had longed to hear her mother say that it wasn’t her fault and had imagined a soaring relief. But she felt nothing. She pressed down on the springy lid of the tea chest.

  Her mother brushed at her tears. ‘How long can they hold your job open for you, darling? I don’t want to keep you here forever.’

  ‘Forever?’ Rachel smiled. ‘Delusions of immortality, Mum?’

  ‘Oh God, I hope not.’

  ‘I’ve got heaps of leave owing,’ Rachel said. ‘It’s all fine.’ It’s like this thing got visited upon us . . . and messed us all up. Rachel bent to a dusty cardboard box and opened the flaps. ‘Do you want to look through this one too? I think it’s his old school stuff.’

  Her mother didn’t look at the box. ‘Darling, this house and the land will give you security. I had the land valued a few years ago and it’s worth a surprising amount. But make sure you invest the money well. When the time comes, go and see Mike Bandon in town. He’ll look after you.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum. And I’m already fine, financially speaking.’ She stood up. ‘I’ll just take this stuff out to the car.’

  ‘Can you help me lie down? I need to sleep.’

  After settling her mother, she carried the chest out to the garage, the tin strip down one edge scratching her arm. She thought of the moment twenty-six years ago when her mother had finally emerged from the bedroom, wearing a green cotton dress, thin and pale. She had walked to the kitchen to make a pot of tea and acted as if she hadn’t been locked in there for weeks and weeks. That day she went back to cooking and cleaning and washing Rachel’s clothes, just like before. But it wasn’t the same. Rachel could feel her mother thinking about him all the time, every single second. She knew without a doubt that her mother was reliving it over and over and over, just like Rachel was.

  From where Rachel stood in the garage she could see clear into Quinn’s empty living room. His briefcase was on the table beside a blue plastic bag of shopping. He’d arrived the night before and she’d made sure not to cross paths with him although she’d smelled his coffee and toast that morning.

  She had tried to stop replaying their kiss in her mind. It only left her feeling pathetic and a bit sullied. Had he been telling the truth when he said he hadn’t done it before? Could it possibly be more than a bit of fun for him? She dusted her hands on her shorts. It was such a well-worn groove for her, the electric longing for the man she could never have. Whoever said that being aware of a pattern would help s
hift it was full of shit. The great suck and pull of desire was as strong as ever. She turned back to the house, the musty smell of Scotty’s clothes still in her nose.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Quinn flicked the jug on and leaned back against the timber bench. The front gate squeaked and he froze. Someone knocked on the door.

  Please let it not be her. He knew they had to talk, but not now. He opened the door and there she stood on the top step in a blue skirt and singlet.

  ‘Hi,’ he said.

  ‘Hello.’ She smiled.

  He’d forgotten how open her face was, forgotten her warm, steady gaze. He ignored the heat blooming in his gut and opened the screen door, but didn’t move to let her in. ‘Actually . . . Rachel . . . I don’t know if it’s such a great idea that you’re here.’

  She nodded. Her feet were bare and she smelled of coconut. She was taller than he remembered. ‘You want me to go?’ she said. Behind him, the jug boiled and clicked off.

  ‘Yeah. It’s probably the wisest thing.’ He took a breath and tried to sound less patronising. ‘It’s –’

  She interrupted him. ‘I just wanted to ask you something. The other night . . . at the pool . . . that kiss . . . was it, you know, just a little something to spice up your day?’

  ‘Oh . . .’ His mouth was dry. ‘You’d better come in.’ She stepped inside and he left the door open to the street. He stood by the table and she stood by the door and crossed her arms awkwardly. Her wet hair was knotted up in a messy bun and secured with a pen.

  He said, ‘It . . . Kissing you seemed like a really good idea at the time . . . and it was lovely . . .’ A few damp strands of hair had stuck to her neck. ‘But it was not a good idea . . . because I’m married. I’m sorry if it was confusing or . . . weird.’ He was stumbling around like a teenage boy.

  She smiled. ‘It wasn’t weird.’

  He swallowed. ‘Look, do you want a cup of tea? I’m just making a pot and I’ve been hanging out for one all afternoon.’ He’d said his piece. She knew where he stood now.