Dr Cayley bent over her, pressing his fingers into her abdomen while staring at a spot on the wall. ‘There?’
‘No, not there. I don’t know ...’
Maybe she had booked the appointment on false pretences. The pain was so mild today that the impression of the doctor’s cold, dry hands was one of discomfort more than anything else.
He continued his examination, suddenly reaching an area that made her cry out. He straightened, satisfied. ‘The indigestion tablets aren’t working?’
‘No.’
‘Right. Well, I’m afraid it looks as though you might have ulcers. I’ll give you a prescription, but in the meantime you should also go and get some tests done.’ He returned to his desk and wrote on a piece of paper. ‘I’ll give you a referral to Dr Barr.’ He paused and looked over his glasses at her. ‘Everything going well? Are the children well?’
‘Very well. Clark’s just been awarded a PhD scholarship.’
‘Terrific news! Clark’s the youngest, isn’t he.’
‘The eldest.’
‘And I hear you’re selling the house.’
His eyebrows twitched, and Marie realised that the mouth hidden in its white bush below was smiling, a polite, even timid, enquiring smile. She had a sudden desire to lie back on the couch, in Dr Cayley’s arms. Grief surged into her throat. ‘Yes,’ she said, her eyes on the pen spinning between his fingers.
‘Happy Christmas!’ He saw her out.
She handed the receptionist her Medicare card.
‘That’s ninety dollars, thanks, Mrs King.’
Marie was taken aback. ‘You don’t bulk bill?’
‘Not for three years.’ The receptionist smiled.
‘I’m sorry, I had no idea.’ Marie handed over her Visa card.
‘That’s good. It shows how long it is since you’ve been to the doctor.’
Marie drove back to Mosman, her gouged car turning the heads of passing drivers. She searched behind the junction for a park in the shade. The shops were filling with Christmas decorations and the media with stories of spending. Australians had bought fewer motor vehicles this year than the previous — a record year — but sales were still strong relative to other countries. On the passenger seat beside Marie, the Herald had a photo of two sisters in Pitt Street Mall, proudly proclaiming the expenditure of their first thousand dollars on Christmas presents. Marie switched off the engine and sat for a while in the air-conditioning. In her rear-view mirror, a woman put down bags from Country Road and Kidstuff and pointed her keys at her Lexus.
Marie walked up to Military Road. It was midday and both sides of the street were sunny. She had forgotten her hat and walked with her head bowed, the sun boiling down between each hair follicle. She was sweating, her socks hot and damp: why hadn’t she worn sandals? Automatic coverage of tattoos, she realised, but she felt even more uncomfortable being this hot. It was going to be sandals from now on. From the direction of the oval the thrumming of cicadas came in waves. She walked past the delicatessen and menswear shop, and entered Bonza Brats. A blonde with sloping green eyes and a thin disgruntled mouth was folding clothes on the counter. Her face lit up when Marie entered.
‘Hallo! What can I do for you today?’
‘I’m looking for a sailor suit. For a four-year-old.’
‘What a fabulous idea! I love sailor suits. Your timing is perfect.’ The shop assistant led Marie to a rack in the corner. ‘The retro styles are becoming popular again. These have just come in.’ She stood beside Marie, flicking through the clothes. She had glossy golden skin and a fine neck strung with seed pearls. She smelt like the David Jones cosmetics floor. ‘I had a sailor suit, you know, and I wore it to death. You can’t go wrong.’
‘So did I. My mother made it.’
‘Oh how sweet,’ said the shop assistant, gazing into Marie’s face. Her elegant, long-nailed hands seemed to see the clothes on their own, rifling to the spot where size 4s hung as she continued to stare searchingly at Marie. Then she shook her head. ‘But we don’t have the time to do that sort of thing anymore, do we? We don’t seem to have time for anything.’
The suit was of raw linen with dark blue trimming, dark blue buttons and detailed stitching. Marie turned it, inhaling its fresh, natural smell, imagining Nell inside it. ‘Oh, it’s beautiful.’
‘It’s Italian. It’s actually modelled on genuine Italian navy wear. It’s for your granddaughter, is it? She’ll love it.’
‘I think it might be too small. She’s quite big for her age.’
‘We are bigger than Europeans.’ The shop assistant nodded. ‘And if you buy one a little too big, she’ll get more wear out of it.’ She pulled out sizes 6 and 8.
Marie was stunned by the price: $500 reduced to $325. But she was late, and she only had one grandchild and she hardly got to see her and she might spend too much time looking elsewhere for a present and time was money, so she found herself walking to the counter and getting out her Mastercard.
‘Seven hundred dollars,’ the shop assistant said and smiled.
Marie swallowed. ‘Oh. I thought it was three hundred and twenty-five.’
‘That’s just the jacket.’ The shop assistant flipped out the waistband and displayed another price tag. ‘The dress is more of course. They’re both reduced even though they’ve only just come in. We forgot how hot Australian summers are,’ she added. ‘It’s actually a better garment for autumn. You’re getting a real bargain, because it’s haute couture quality. It’s not mass produced in a sweatshop.’
Marie felt rooted to the spot. She wished she hadn’t come in here. She couldn’t afford the sailor suit. She made a show of appraising the garment thoughtfully. ‘You know, I think I’ll go for something a bit simpler. My granddaughter’s a bit of a tomboy — she’s a really active little kid and I think this might be a bit too formal for her.’
‘That’s fine.’
Marie felt furious. How dare this woman assume she could afford something like that? She sulked over to the rack of t-shirts. There was a selection of colours with an I ♥ DAD logo for eighty-five dollars. (Were they produced in a sweatshop?) Or, for the same price, t-shirts with ladybirds on them. She chose a green ladybird t-shirt.
‘And I hear you’re selling.’ The shop assistant pulled a sheet of blue tissue paper from beneath the counter and began to wrap the t-shirt in it.
‘Word gets around, doesn’t it.’
The woman looked at Marie disconcertedly, her fingers pleating the paper. ‘You don’t recognise me, do you? I’m Penny Brayton-Jones. I went to Queenwood with Blanche. I loved your house. It was one of my favourite places to visit when I was a kid. I loved your garden especially.’
‘Oh, Penny, I’m so sorry! How are you?’
‘Really well.’ Penny drew a ribbon around the parcel in a tight cross, held it against the scissors and pulled it to a tight curl, and Marie felt her heart constrict for her home and the raw display of its imminent loss. ‘And how’s Blanche?’
‘She’s doing very well.’
‘I loved coming to your house,’ Penny said again as Marie left. ‘You had a pinball machine. I thought you were the coolest people in the world.’
‘And how are the children?’ Edwina asked ten minutes later, tucking the cape into Marie’s collar.
‘Very well, thank you.’ Marie reached into the rack for a magazine.
‘And your granddaughter? Will you all be spending Christmas together?’
‘Nell’s going to America with her mother.’
‘How lovely!’ Edwina parted her hair with the thin handle of the brush, revealing a track of grey roots. Practical, bossy and loquacious, with friendly crinkling eyes, Edwina reminded Marie of a home-science teacher. She wore low-cut t-shirts that emphasised her breasts, and high-heeled sandals. She put down the brush and left to welcome a customer. It is not just the politically active: Marie read in her magazine. Just to know someone who might be active could land you in hot water.
‘
Hallo, Marie!’ the new customer boomed, gripping the arms of the chair adjacent, her own tanned, flaking ones wobbling as she lowered herself to a sitting position.
Marie’s heart rose. She spoke to Pat Hammet’s reflection. ‘I didn’t know you came here, Pat.’
‘I don’t really. Only when my daughter forces me to. No offence Edwina. The problem is me. I couldn’t care less.’
Edwina laughed. Pat’s hair was still long and her face had become copiously lined but she seemed to be several inches shorter. Colette, Edwina’s apprentice, removed something from the crown of Pat’s head, and a section of hair gently released. Marie remained bowed to her magazine, lifting her eyes occasionally to this ritual; Pat proud and vulnerable as she came undone, her face diminished in the mass of hair that seemed, in its free state, not to be her own.
‘How is Sirius Cove?’ Pat asked her.
‘She’s selling,’ said Edwina. ‘Aren’t you, Marie?’
‘You’re not,’ said Pat.
‘Yes, I’m afraid I am.’
‘Dear old Sirius. How I miss it.’
‘It’s too much on your own,’ said Edwina. ‘Those big houses. Did you know the Braithwaites’ went for eight million?’
‘Really?’ said Marie.
‘Oh dear,’ said Pat again. ‘You’re the last one standing, Marie.’
‘It sounds like a war. The last who ...’
‘Who really loves the place. It is a war. Who’s your agent?’
‘I’m not sure yet. Who did you use?’
‘Coustas and Stevens. Absolute sharks. You must come and visit me in my poky little flat near the oval.’
‘I keep meaning to ring you about weeding parties in the National Park but I never seem to find the time.’
‘I’m not getting out as much. I’m too arthritic.’
‘Oh nonsense, Pat,’ said Edwina, wrapping Marie’s head in plastic.
‘I am so.’ Pat stared firmly back at her. She turned to Marie. ‘Where are you moving to?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve been in Surry Hills and Redfern recently. I like it there.’
‘Really?’ said Edwina.
Pat cocked her head and said robustly, ‘I suppose you’re young enough to handle it.’
Edwina said to Colette, ‘I can take over now.’
Pat went docile while Edwina ran the comb through her hair. Marie turned the page of her magazine to find one of Blanche’s advertisements: a tilled field with a row of jocular judges’ heads planted like potatoes, in the background a farmer wielding a spade. The sky was bulbous with stormclouds. She didn’t know what the ad was for but she loved the image, and felt a surge of pride. ‘I’d still visit,’ she said to Pat. ‘My daughter’s in Lavender Bay. Maybe it would take a move across the bridge to get me back to weeding.’
‘You know, you can find information about them on the net.’
‘Are you online, Pat?’ said Edwina, in an impressed, avuncular tone.
‘I’ve been online for years,’ Pat snapped.
‘I’ll look it up,’ said Marie.
‘I’m addicted to email. I have a MacBook.’
‘My son does everything for me on mine. The one good thing about computers,’ said Edwina, ‘is that then they’re not at all interested in television.’
‘What,’ said Pat. ‘The computers or the sons?’
Edwina emitted a tinkle of laughter. ‘I mean as soon as I have a problem, Owen fixes it, and he’s only nine! He was writing music on his computer from the age of three. It’s amazing. There we go, Pat. I’ll just wrap this up so it sets better.’
Pat watched Edwina walk over to someone on the other side of the room who had slivers of silver foil stuck at odd angles all over her head. ‘Oh, I’m dreadful,’ she moaned. ‘She really does mean well. Honestly, Marie. Just give me a good kick, will you?’
They sat there for a while in companionable silence. Edwina could be seen in the mirror, plucking foil from the woman’s head like petals from a flower. Marie had been coming to this salon for fifteen years and all of them — Dr Cayley, Edwina, Pat — suddenly felt so deeply rooted in her life that moving seemed impossible. Grief lodged in her throat like a piece of food that wouldn’t go down.
‘I remember when we first met,’ she said to Pat, ‘how impressed by you I was. That beautiful old house. I still miss it. You had five children and you worked, I was so impressed.’
‘I’ve become a very ordinary little old lady, Marie, slumped in front of her television every night with tea and biscuits.’
‘You never liked television.’
‘I made friends with it after Marcus died. I’m addicted to The Chaser.’
‘Oh yes, they’re so funny. Did you see the episode where they came to Mosman?’
‘With the plan for the mosque? Yes.’
Edwina clicked back across the parquet. ‘Let’s check that, shall we, Marie?’
‘They can be very naughty sometimes,’ said Pat, in a teacherly tone.
‘I nearly died,’ said Marie. ‘It was hysterical.’
‘What was this?’ said Edwina.
‘The Chaser. In Mosman. Showing everybody plans to build a mosque.’
‘Oh, I was in that.’ Through the layer of plastic, Edwina began to massage Marie’s scalp.
‘Really?’ said Pat, bouncing a wink off the mirror to Marie.
‘Yes, I had no idea! I was completely taken in!’
‘What did you say?’ Marie asked.
‘That I didn’t think a mosque would suit Mosman, of course.’
‘You know they’re all down at Cliffo beach now,’ said Pat.
‘Who?’
‘The Muslims. In hordes. I was down there recently with Phillip and I couldn’t believe my eyes. You see the women in their scarves preparing all the food for the men. Ugh, those big fat men swimming and so on while the women sit out of the way in their heavy black clothes, sweating and serving them. And I thought to myself, What on earth are you doing, you dopey women?’
Edwina peeled the plastic off Marie’s head. ‘I’ll miss you, Marie.’
‘I haven’t gone yet.’
Marie thought Dr Cayley must be wrong but she swallowed her pills obediently along with her Panadol, laxatives, Swisse women’s vitamins, and fish and evening primrose oil. Prompted by Penny, she had unearthed the pinball machine in the cellar. Bought decades ago as a folly, it was fought over incessantly, the pings and whirls driving Marie and Ross mad. The children acquired friends who ignored their parents at the door, trooping straight into the house with the glazed-eyed resolve of addicts going to their dealer. The pinball machine was also admired at advertising parties: its glass top, and seclusion in the rumpus room, a magnet for the cocaine coterie. Then seemingly overnight the machine was abandoned and had sat rusting in the cellar ever since. What could you do with such a hulk? And how could she have forgotten its existence? As her house emptied, Marie began to feel the impact of its perimeters as though she were a pinball herself, rattling through the rooms and decades, and all those pills in turn inside her body, seeking targets.
She asked Fatima to come an extra day and help clean out the cupboards. She stood there supervising as the refuse of a rich life spewed forth. Toys, an old tennis racket, broken banana chair, bug catcher, gumboots, school textbooks, two pairs of children’s ski boots and twenty years of National Geographic. ‘Would you like any of these things, Fatima?’
‘No thank you.’ Fatima smiled.
Marie noticed Fatima had molars missing and thought of the reminder notice for her root-canal therapy. She sat with Mopoke in the rumpus room flicking through the old magazines while Fatima ferried things to the garage. A man with a scar or a strong, damaged face may often be judged more attractive than one with unmarked features, wrote an anthropologist in the 1970s. Marie corralled the National Geographic magazines into a pile. ‘You can leave those.’
More than a purge, the cleaning became a forced investigation. Marie was dismayed by
how much of her past was signified by things. How and why did they linger? They irritated her, like something stuck on her shoe. She still hadn’t found her mother’s embroidery, but an obsolete printer was here.
She was happy to find her university textbooks from Psychology 1, and an old DSM. Year after year, she had intended to go back and finish her degree, abandoned with her first pregnancy; year after year she had been too tired and distracted.
The most unbelievable relic was probably the plaster cast from Leon’s broken leg, crumbling, grotesque, the yellow insides like an old man’s skin. She remembered Leon at fourteen, limping down the path behind Ross, sports bag jerking, face wracked with pain. ‘Leon went down in the scrum,’ Ross announced, with an undertone of embarrassment.
Marie went out to the patio where Leon was slumped on the couch, leg trembling with Parkinsonian fury. She drove him to Dr Cayley’s and, while the leg was being set, rang home from the Red Phone in the corridor. ‘It’s broken in three places. Why didn’t you take him to the doctor?’
‘He said he was alright.’
‘Of course he did. He’s a teenage boy.’
‘He won’t let me near him.’
‘You were watching him play, weren’t you?’
‘I’m trying to get dinner here for two children, Marie.’
‘I can’t imagine how hard that must be.’
Ross’s sigh billowed through the phone, making her hair stand on end. ‘O’Sullivan rang,’ he minced. ‘Tell Leon he wants to know how he is.’
‘Please, Ross.’
‘I don’t think blokes like that should be allowed to coach football,’ his voice rose. ‘I’m going to ring the school about this.’
Marie hung up and paced the corridor. She hated her husband for his hatred, and her son for his betrayal. She hated herself for having failed so spectacularly. She took Leon to Pizza Hut on the way home, where he ordered a Supreme with the lot. ‘O’Sullivan rang,’ she said, watching his face. Leon ate his pizza without looking up. On arriving home, he disappeared into his room for the next four years.
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