by Julia Leigh
He examined the scripts and rubbed his eye, an atavistic gesture of pharmacist’s suspicion.
‘I got them in Australia,’ said the woman. ‘When I have a chance I’ll come back with a replacement script, something official.’ She was very calm, very patient.
‘These painkillers – yes. But the digitalis, this is highly restricted.’ He flapped the script. ‘This is for?’
‘For me. To slow the heart. Tachycardia.’ She fluttered the fingers of her right hand against her chest.
He hesitated and only when a bell tinkled to signal that he had a new customer did he move to the little storeroom behind him. He returned with two bottles of tablets.
‘Be a good girl. Take care.’
‘Thank you. Goodbye, Dr Steenbohm. It has been a pleasure.’
As soon as she was outside she shoved the bottles deep into her bag.
It had rained – a sun-shower – and the wet black macadam reflected the sky so that she seemed to be walking on a thin crust over vertiginous depths. A teenager on a scooter was bearing toward her and on instinct she moved to the left side of the pavement but her instinct was wrong and they nearly collided. There was a kebab shop not far from the pharmacy and she crossed in front of it before back-tracking and looking in through the window. A smooth large hunk of processed meat, skewered on a metal pole, was rotating slowly beside a grill, the fat dripping off the meat and collecting in a tray below. Because it was late in the afternoon the shop was empty; a lone attendant in a footballer’s tracksuit was reading a newspaper behind the high counter. She went inside and read the chalkboard, perused the bains-marie. On talkback radio a man requested a love song.
‘A merguez roll, please.’
‘Yes, Madame.’
She took a seat at the only table in the place, squeezed in behind the door. The illuminated drinks refrigerator next to her threw a blue light. He brought her over her roll: two pizzles of red merguez in a pale white bun, some shredded lettuce.
‘Thank you.’
She dripped mustard on the bun and picked it up in one hand, wrapping her fingers around it, trying to hold it together. She savoured each mouthful. She chewed slowly as if the flavour were unknown to her and she wanted to fix it permanently to her palate, leave a lasting impression. From time to time she put down the bun and with a paper napkin she daubed away the halo of grease and mustard around her mouth. When she was finished she took her plastic plate back over to the counter.
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
She found her wallet and paid with a note, not waiting for the change. After she had gone he looked down at the note and raised his eyebrows in surprise at its value.
She went into the bank. The ceiling was decorated with red and green streamers and little cards in the shape of Christmas baubles which read ‘6.5%’. She joined the long queue for the reception desk. The bank manager, who was sitting with a client in his glass-walled office, looked over and spied the woman. To the confusion of the client this meeting was immediately terminated and the manager hurried away. He approached the woman in the queue, smiling obsequiously and even bowing.
‘Good afternoon.’
‘Good afternoon.’
‘My apologies, I wasn’t expecting you quite so soon. The new assistant loves to make mistakes in my diary.’
‘No, no, my apologies. There was a change in plans.’
‘Well, I’m very pleased to see you. A pleasure.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Please,’ he said, extending his arm – a monogram, cufflinks. ‘Won’t you come with me. Let’s get your affairs in order.’ He escorted her into his office.
At twilight the car pulled around behind the château. It was that time of day when the last of the light has been absorbed into the sky and darkness has begun to settle on all solid things below, turning the tops of the trees into iron filings drawn starward. Ida was in the kitchen while the twins were in the laundry. Sophie was on the lawn, lying on a picnic blanket with her bundle; she had been out there most of the afternoon. When the woman left the car she caught sight of Sophie and watched as she tentatively lifted the bundle over her head and moved it through the air. With her arms still outstretched Sophie craned her neck and faced the woman, although at a distance and in the darkening neither could make out the other’s expression. They stayed like this – one the beginning and one the end of a connection made manifest – until, as if she had only just been caught out staring, the woman turned on her heel and snapped the connection, walked away.
Marcus came into the kitchen holding a pink satin ball-gown that had belonged to his mother and smelt of musky perfume and mothballs. Ida, confused, smoothing the flat of her apron, asked what he was doing. Before he could answer the woman entered and said, ‘I remember that dress. I wanted to wear it to my sixteenth birthday party but when I tried it on I couldn’t do up the buttons. Even though I was one of the skinniest girls in class. I couldn’t believe Mother had ever been able to fit it.’
Marcus said, ‘I remember. And you wore a yellow dress instead. It made you look beautiful.’
‘Thank you.’ She continued, ‘I’ve spoken with the Town Hall. Everything is in order. Please let me know how else I can be of help.’
‘Thank you, Olivia.’
‘The children?’
‘Upstairs. Sleeping.’
When she had left, Marcus lay the dress on the kitchen table. He went to the drawers and found a pair of scissors, laid these side by side with the dress.
‘Ida, there is something I need you to do. I’ll help you. The baby – the doctors said…’ His voice trailed off and then he blurted out, ‘She has to sleep in the freezer.’
‘The freezer?’ Incredulous.
‘The doctors said —’
‘No.’ Ida shook her head. ‘No. I refuse.’
‘To keep —’
‘No. I refuse.’
‘Because the —’
‘No.’
‘Doctor’s orders.’
‘No.’
‘Ida, we have no choice.’
‘No.’
He sighed and walked over to the upright silver freezer. He began removing the frozen food, stacking it neatly on one of the benches. She watched him. Did not help. When he had emptied the freezer of its contents he gathered up the dress and the scissors.
‘And we have to make it – comfortable.’
He returned to the freezer and held out the dress, measured it against the door. When his back was turned Ida took a plate and dashed it to the floor.
The children’s room was a pigsty: suitcases disembowelled, bedspreads kicked to the floor, Violet hung askew. The woman stood in the doorway and watched the children sleeping; they’d tossed off most of their clothes. The girl was splayed horizontally across her mattress, the boy had his feet pointed to the bedhead. Through the window: evening star. The girl rolled over in her sleep. Quietly shutting the door behind her and picking her way through the room, the woman carefully lay down beside the girl, making sure not to touch her. She curled onto her side and used her left upper arm as a pillow, closed her eyes. Opened them again. Let the lids fall. A moment later the boy did a sudden flip-flop, realigning himself so that he no longer faced in her direction.
They slept and their breathing was slow and steady. When the girl babbled something incoherent, sleeptalking, they slept through it. And in sleep they looked just the same as they had looked the last time they’d slept, in another country, under another roof, as if the sleeping state were one to be returned to – effortlessly transcending timelines and territories – rather than encountered. Suddenly the woman jolted awake – perhaps she’d had a dream in which she was falling. The room was dark. She switched on the bedside lamp and checked her wrist-watch: nearly three hours had passed. She sat on the edge of the bed and vigorously rubbed one eye as though she hoped to drag it down to her chin. She went over to the boy and gripped his shoulder, shook him awake. He was
wild-eyed, startled, but even before his mother could say anything he had already taken stock, as if it were only the being ripped out of deep sleep that had shocked him and not any prospect that lay ahead – in this regard he was a veteran.
‘It’s okay,’ said the woman. ‘Time to get up. We can’t sleep, it’s bad for jetlag. Up you get. Get dressed.’
He got to his feet, uncomplaining.
The woman bent over the girl and stroked her hair. Gently began tapping on her cheek. ‘Lucy… Lucyloo.’
‘I’m asleep,’ said the girl, eyes closed. ‘Sleeeeeepy.’
The woman kept tapping at her cheek, her eyelids. ‘If you sleep now you won’t sleep all night. And we need dinner. I’m tired too – but we have to stay up a bit before we can sleep. Okay? Like I told you.’
The girl squeezed her eyes closed and blindly batted away her mother’s hand.
‘Where’s Pinky?’ said the woman. ‘Here she is. Hello Pinky. See, Pinky’s awake.’
The girl sat up and grabbed Pinky. The woman leant down and found a dress on the floor for the girl. ‘Here you go darling, you’ll look lovely.’
The children dressed, laced their shoes. The woman took hold of the doll and held it to her ear. ‘What’s that? One more dream. Alright Pinky.’ She turned to the girl. ‘Let’s tuck Pinky in.’
They lay the doll on the pillow, pulled up the sheets.
‘Sweet dreams,’ said the woman. The girl gave her doll a kiss on the plastic dome of its forehead. ‘Sweet dreams.’
In the hallway they stopped before an arrangement of flowers – pink roses, lilies, peonies – that sat on a marble table in the shape of a half-moon. The vase was made of cut crystal and was etched all around with a line an inch or so from the lip: the water-line. The girl tugged at her mother’s skirt. The woman reached out her hand and pressed her thumbnail into a rose petal; it didn’t leave a mark. She slipped a finger below the water-line and felt that the vase was empty.
The woman led the children to the kitchen. One of the twins was doing the last of the washing up; everything else had been cleared away. A bucket was stationed below the pipes of the sink. ‘Oh! Hello!’ she said in surprise. ‘We thought you were…’ She fished for the English word but to no avail, made a pillow with her wet hands and brought it to her cheek.
‘Sleeping,’ said the woman.
‘Yes. Everyone is eaten. Oh – please. Please sit down. One moment.’
She made her way to the fridge, the tall stainless steel fridge that stood as companion to the freezer, and hesitated before opening the door as if inside there lurked a razored jaw, a monster. She gathered the food very quickly. Shut tight the door. A deep breath escaped her. She returned to the sink and began to unwrap the roasted chicken from its topcoat of foil. The woman and the children slid onto the low bench at the table.
The girl struck a geyser of enthusiasm: ‘I scream! You scream! We all scream for ice-cream!’
‘Why not?’ said the woman, rising. ‘You’ve been such a good girl today.’
The twin looked at her in dismay. ‘Madame!’
But it was too late. The woman crossed the room and opened the freezer door, just a fraction. Spied the pink satin. Slammed it shut. The boy, too, had seen something – out of the corner of his eye, something colourful – he couldn’t be sure exactly what; maybe he saw something maybe he didn’t, maybe something accounted for his mother’s reaction or maybe it didn’t.
‘Uh-oh,’ said the woman. ‘No ice-cream. But what’s this…?’ She opened the fridge and, using her shoulder as a wedge, rummaged around inside. ‘What’s in here…? Hey presto… chocolate cake.’ She held the cake aloft. ‘For after dinner.’
‘Yabbayabba yum-yum!’
The boy said nothing.
Much relieved, the twin hurriedly brought over plates of cold roasted chicken, buttery leeks.
‘Here for you,’ she said to the children. ‘Bon appétit.’
‘Bon appétit,’ they replied in automatic sing-song and then, surprised at themselves, offered shy smiles.
‘Thank you,’ said the woman. ‘It’s late, please don’t let us keep you. But before you go – do you think Mother is awake?’
‘Oh yes, certainly. She never…’ miming sleep with her hand-pillow. ‘At the most she,’ repeating the gesture, ‘for two or three hours. Like Napoleon. Oh yes, at this hour she will be living.’
‘Thank you. You’ve been a great help. Good night.’
‘Good night.’
The woman looked down to her plate. They listened to the drips collecting in the bucket. The children waited for her to start to eat. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Go on.’
Up the stairs, along the hallway, turning right, turning right again, turning left until they reached a door. The woman buzzed the intercom, holding the button down a long time. They waited. She pressed again.
‘Yes?’ Grandmother’s voice sounded scratchy and far-away, as though she were an astronaut or mountain guerrilla.
The woman leaned forward and spoke directly into the intercom. ‘Mother, it’s me. With the children. To say good night.’
‘Come in.’ There was a buzz and a click.
They walked through a suite of three enormous rooms, low-lit, one room opening out onto the other via a pair of double doors. Each room was elegantly, if minimally, furnished. A pair of Qing dynasty glazed porcelain vases, kingfisher-blue. A silken Persian carpet. A giant plasma screen flat to one wall. And there were secret doors in the walls of the rooms, secret doors leading to secret servant passages, now spidered and empty.
‘Errh.’ The boy bent down to inspect what he had accidentally trodden on: a raw chicken wing. He used his fingers as pincers and held it up to show his mother. With his top teeth he made a rabbitty overbite and at the same time scrunched up his nose – ‘Disgusting.’ Half-eaten raw chicken wings were littered all over the floor. A Burmese cat on top of a footstool observed the intruders.
Grandmother was in the third room. She was propped up in her great bed which had a curved footboard inlaid with lozenges of tulip and rosewood in the shape of prancing deer. She’d removed her make-up and smothered her eyebrows in white cold-cream. Her white cotton night-dress had a high frilled collar which tied under the chin. At the end of the bed there was a small TV nestled in a walnut cabinet – switched on but with the volume turned down low.
‘Come here Lucyloo,’ said Grandmother, patting a spot on the bed. ‘Andrew, come over here.’ She picked up a cat, another Burmese who had been lying by her side, and brandished it high for their inspection. ‘This is Hello.’ She turned the cat toward her, cooed ‘Hellooo. You’re such a good cat. A lovely good cat. Hellloooo. Aren’t you.’ She rubbed the cat in her face; the woman watched with equanimity. ‘Oh yes you are. Hellooooo.’
The boy said, ‘Grandmother, can I stroke your pussy?’ Victory. His mother shot him a dark look.
‘Of course!’ said Grandmother. ‘Here we go. Lovely and soft.’ The children took turns stroking the cat between the ears.
‘Helllooo! Helllooo!’ said the girl, staring intently into its eyes like a hypnotist. ‘Helloooo!’ She grinned, delighted by the cat, and took her mother’s left hand, ferrying it over to the animal, a limp offering. After a moment the woman gently withdrew the hand.
‘Good night Mother.’
‘Good night,’ said the children. They both gave Grandmother a peck on the cheek.
In their wake the TV came alive.
Behind a door: Sophie was in her room, sitting on the very edge of her bed. Not moving, as though there were nothing behind her and if she lay back she would only tumble through depthless space, over and over. She was half dressed, in her skirt and stockings, her high heels. And on top, wearing a sturdy white bra, the kind designed for breastfeeding. Wet stains pooled around her nipples. Marcus, in pyjamas, came to sit close beside her. He, too, sat very still, an audience member watching an invisible movie projected on the wall. After a while he reached across and tend
erly brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face, tucked it behind her ear. She turned to him and, without saying anything but imploring, imploring this man her husband, she slowly placed his hand on her wet nipple. Then she reached her other hand around behind his neck and gently guided his head down to her warm breast. Fumbling, he unpopped the press studs on the flap of the bra. He took her nipple into his mouth and suckled. The house was quiet. The night worked night magic. Far away an owl called.
In the morning the boy’s bed was empty. The girl was fast alseep, oblivious to the daylight. He wasn’t in his mother’s room, nor in the kitchen. Not in any room downstairs. He wasn’t behind the curtains. Nor in any of the cupboards. In the garden the dew sparkled on the spiderwebs, countless fine spiderwebs in the grass and caught between the rosebushes, all to disappear by noon. He had disappeared. But not through the door in the wall, now boarded up from the inside. The birds were making busy. He was by the lake, in the boathouse, tinkering around. The air was cool and dank; there were mouldy canvases crumpled over unknown objects on the stone floor, nests of old rope and cord. Two canoes lay face-down on a slatted wooden platform, boy’s-chest-high. Both were made from bottle-green fibreglass although one had seen more use, was patched and peeled. With fingers spread wide the boy raked a pattern through the dust on the smooth hull of the unblemished canoe. He lifted one end and tried to look up inside it: a mouse ran out and he let the canoe fall. He tried again, jacking the end up as high as he could, and this time the canoe slid backwards – he struggled to hold it, gripped it by the rim, he struggled, he held it, he held it high, he tried, he struggled to hold it – it clattered to the ground. On reflex, he quickly looked over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching.
He knelt by the fallen hull and began to inspect it for damage. There was a voice outside, a man’s voice, indistinct. He ran and hid behind the door, peered out through the crack, spied. Marcus was pacing to and fro on the thin fringe of grey sand that encircled the lake. Each time he came closer to the boathouse the boy could make out a word or two – ‘my love’, ‘my darling’, ‘soon’. Walking away, Marcus nodded his head and then he held the phone far from his ear, let the lake listen. That morning the surface of the water was smooth, not uniformly smooth but made up of large patches of smoothness. After a minute or so he began to talk and pace once more. He stopped – his back to the boy – and expertly unzipped his cream linen trousers, hunched his shoulders and slightly bent his knees. The tip of his elbow jigged up and down, up and down, until he suddenly straightened, lifted his heels. He talked a little longer then zipped up his trousers. Pocketed the phone. He shook out his arms and legs as if he were coming indoors after a sun-shower. Then he turned to face the boathouse – square on – so that it seemed he was staring straight at the boy. To the boy’s consternation, Marcus decided to pay a visit.