‘It’s beautiful.’
‘Anyway I’m sticking with the plain old motor boat. It’s more independent. I don’t have to rely on a bunch of ugly blokes to help get me onto the harbour.’
Blanche walked to the edge of the terrace in order to see the sapphire water of Quakers Hat Bay. ‘God, it looks tempting. I’d love a swim.’
‘No, you wouldn’t. Saw a bull shark down there in December, near the bridge.’
‘No.’
‘Oh yes. Sharks are back. We’re victims of our success in cleaning up the waterways. Don’t you move. I’m bringing us dessert. Tea or coffee?’
‘No, thanks.’
Blanche got out her mobile and texted her team. How was lunch? What did Sean think of the pitch? Ross returned with fruit tarts and cake forks. She had never seen her father take responsibility for an entire meal. All her childhood he had never lifted a finger. She smiled at his careful serving. She felt a rush of affection for this calmer, smaller person, and simultaneously nostalgia for the big father of her past, a longing to curl up in his lap. In the living room, David Helfgott thundered down the ivories and rumbled menacingly among the bass notes.
‘So. What did you want to talk to me about, Dad?’
‘Business.’
Blanche tried not to smile.
‘It’s not good news, I’m afraid. I’m going to have to claim half of the estate.’
Blanche felt her jaw literally drop.
‘I’ve lost a shitload of money lately, Blanche. I can’t tell you how much on the stockmarket. Numbers are down at the resort. I’ll probably have to sell it.’
Blanche spoke with disbelief. ‘I find all this recession talk sooo exaggerated. We’re still working day and night at HA.’
‘Your clients still paying on time? Mine aren’t.’
Blanche thought spitefully, Cos your ads are shit. ‘You can’t claim the estate, Dad. That’s outrageous. Mum got the house in the settlement. You had the resort and other properties and your business and shares.’ Her voice began to rise, along with her gorge. ‘It’s illegal.’
‘It’s perfectly legal. We settled out of court. Without the imprimatur of the court, the property is hers by my goodwill. It was a gift.’
‘So you’d be doing this even if she was going to live?’
‘Well, yes. Half the estate is still a decent amount of money. Besides which, you told me she was going back to university and wanted to get a job.’
‘She’s fifty-nine and she’s been a housewife her whole life, Dad!’
‘Blanche. I had a three-hour meeting with my accountant last week and I have no choice. I have to make a claim.’
‘As if you have no choice. Look at this house! What about us? That’s not fair!’
A steely expression came over Ross’s face. ‘Right now, it’s your mother’s property, not yours —’
‘And she’s dying.’
‘— and all of you children received money from me to buy your own properties when you were twenty-five which is more than what 99.9 percent of the people in this world get.’
‘You chose to give us that money!’
Ross’s face darkened and he became her childhood father again, hard, callous. ‘I left school at fifteen years of age and worked my fingers to the bone for another fifteen before I was able to buy a property! Rabbit once a month was a treat in my childhood. Do you have any idea?’
‘I work hard too! And what about your grandchildren? Plural now, Dad.’
Ross sighed. The smell of fermented grapes washed over her. ‘Princess, please. I know you have a lot on your plate. I’ve been dreading telling you this. I’m not going to do anything now, but when your mother dies, half the estate is going to come to me, and that’s final.’
Blanche shook off his hand, left the table and ran the length of the light-filled house to the bathroom.
Parked in the shade on the esplanade above her father’s house, Blanche tried to recover. How dense and beautiful the foreshore of Quakers Hat Bay looked, and the water all around rippling in the sun. There was the clatter of wings against foliage then two currawongs burst forth carolling loudly. More than Sirius Cove, this was the place that Blanche had associated with that trio of couples — her parents, the Joneses and the Tottis — no doubt from those sailing trips.
She didn’t know what had possessed her an hour before, reducing her father to an innocent like that. She thought of her mother at her own age and was staggered by the differences. Although she never had time to even cook proper dinners, Blanche’s life seemed so simple. Just her and her husband and her work. She hadn’t even had her first child. Her mother, on the other hand, at the age of thirty-seven had three children almost grown, with a husband who never lifted a finger around the house, and that house was enormous. Imagine the endless toil. And the way she and her brothers were at that time. The fights that blazed through the house. Ross shouting, Marie crying.
But the worst was the infidelity. Not only did he not help at home, he had also fucked Marie’s two best friends. Imagine how full-on that must have been. Blanche would have cut his balls off if he’d been her husband. Still, she wasn’t sure her mother knew about Gina back then, nor even later. She wasn’t even sure if Gina’s rejection of Ross that she and her brothers had witnessed at that advertising party had been of an initial advance or a request for more. Susan seemed to know everything and was trying to shield Marie. She must have still felt guilty about her and Ross. All of this before Marie had taken her revenge with Jonesy. Susan did not maintain that deference and apology. Nor Marie her hurt. So, revenge paid off.
Blanche also remembered how much her mother had admired Pat Hammet for working, and how Gina had held herself above Marie and Susan because of her job in Mosmania. Blanche had been so contemptuous of all of them, so sure that what she had planned for herself was better. She wasn’t going to settle for a job in a dumb homewares shop let alone be a housewife. Yet even she had compromised in choosing advertising over art. And speaking of compromises, the baby wasn’t even born yet. Sitting by the harbour always lulled Blanche. Time stood still; she came right into the moment. But today the movement to a finish line was ineffable. Marie would never fulfil her desire to work. She could have gone back to study if she hadn’t got cancer. Blanche wondered if she would have been able to get a job. Would she have had fulfilment from that, or did psychologists become wage slaves too, and get poisoned by their jobs like advertising executives? And what could you take with you at the end of the day whether you liked your job or not? Yachts? Houses? Your hair and skin. Maybe not the former, if you’d had chemotherapy ...
A text from Kate came through. All’s well, boss, take a load off. x Blanche’s head pounded. She had finished the bottle of water in her car, but her mouth was still dry. She was stuck to the seat with perspiration. She put the key into the ignition, but her hand began to tremble so violently she couldn’t turn it. She could barely dial Hugh’s number. When he answered she began to cry. ‘Can you come and pick me up, Hughie?’
‘Has the car broken down?’
‘No. I kind of have. I’m really sick. I can’t drive.’
‘Sit tight, pooky. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
Blanche looked down at the harbour and ached with longing. Even if she couldn’t take it with her, she still wanted her house by the water. Beneath her righteous anger with her father for stealing from her mother burnt the flame of her ambition. More than a million dollars that had been coming to her had done a U-turn right before her eyes, just when she was about to have a baby. That she was well-off even without this sum was irrelevant.
Blanche flipped down the visor and dabbed her eyes in the mirror. At the age of thirty-seven, she was distraught to discover a deep line down the middle of her forehead and one either side of her mouth. She sat waiting for Hugh, amazed at the sight of these lines, wondering where she had been and what she had done.
Clark waited for Sylvia in front of the university. The
wind cut through his jacket, and he stepped from side to side to keep warm. Looking around the forecourt, he imagined Sylvia appearing in every item of clothing he had ever seen her wear. Her jeans with the small hole in the knee, the red silk scarf, blue trainers. The way her face lit up when she saw him. All his past lovers had chastised him for his disregard of clothing, but with Sylvia he noticed and remembered everything. Then she was there, in a beanie. She looked like Annie Hall.
They wrapped themselves around each other. ‘Come inside,’ Clark said. ‘I want to find somewhere we can be alone.’
They walked into the dim interior holding hands. Sylvia let go of his to move her hair out of her eyes and Clark felt as though he would die until he took her hand again, but she kept it to herself. ‘We shouldn’t be like this in public,’ she cautioned. They walked rapidly past the cafeteria, a boy handing them leaflets for a rally. They took a lift to lower ground and walked outside.
They were alone. They stopped to kiss. ‘I’m wet,’ she said. He leant into her. She was older than him, taller than him, she was possibly even stronger, he loved that, he loved her. A delivery man appeared, wheeling a trolley loaded with cartons. Clark took Sylvia’s hand and led the way around a corner until they were in a narrow passage beneath an air-conditioning duct, the forecourt just above eye level. Sylvia stood with her back to the wall watching Clark light a cigarette.
‘Can I have some?’
He passed the cigarette to her.
‘How is she?’
‘Who?’
‘Who do you think?’ She passed the cigarette back.
Clark took a drag. ‘My sister’s just gone into hospital.’
‘Oh god.’
‘Hopefully not serious. It’s to do with her pregnancy.’
‘And your mother?’
‘Back in on Friday.’
‘Is she in pain?’
‘All the time, I guess.’ Clark inhaled till he was dizzy, the filter soggy between his lips. ‘I can’t have any more.’ He gave the cigarette back to Sylvia. She shook her head and he dropped it, then pulled her towards him. ‘I wish you could have met my mother, Sylvia. Maybe you still could.’
‘Oh, babe.’
‘I want you. I want you to leave him. I’m serious, Sylvia.’
‘I know you are. And I am too. And I’m working on it.’ She pressed her mouth to his.
The wall was cold against his back. A drip from the air-conditioning duct struck his scalp through his hair. ‘Touch me, please.’ Legs moved across the forecourt then stopped, a butt landed and was ground by a shoe, Sylvia’s hand on his fly burrowing inside cupping his balls. ‘Oh god, I feel like I could come right now.’ He sank his fingers into her wetness, muttering insanely into her hair.
‘What?’ she said.
‘You’re mine.’ He pushed into her hand. ‘You’re mine, say you’re mine. You’re mine, you’re mine.’
Blanche decided not to tell her brothers about their father’s intentions until she was out of hospital. They had put her on a drip immediately when she arrived, and by the following evening, with Leon there, she felt rested. Leon had brought some grevillea flowers and arranged them in a jug from the nurses’ kitchen. Blanche was touched.
‘Geez, Louise,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I was having a week off the hos’, now you’ve dragged me back in.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I should hire myself out as a professional visitor. Clark sends his love.’
‘Yeah, he texted me.’
‘And Mum, of course.’
‘You’re all being really sweet.’ Blanche thought how ironic it was that only a day ago, when on the verge of collapse, she had been remembering their fights in vivid detail. ‘Remember that time you tried to cut my head off?’ She smirked.
Leon was about to reply when the nurse came in and replaced the empty bag on the drip stand with a full one. ‘Another one?’ said Blanche.
‘Yeah, we keep ’em coming.’
‘What’s in them?’ asked Leon.
‘Bit of a cocktail. Mainly saline. Most of your condition is caused by dehydration, Blanche. We’ll be feeding you these every day till you’re better.’
‘She looks a lot better already,’ said Leon.
Blanche had stopped vomiting and her brief stay in hospital was having a placatory effect on the family, as though they could now imagine any of them, including Marie, moving through these ominous white tombs as easily as through hotels. Leon was struck by how soft and dreamy his sister looked against the pillows. He had brought her a chocolate bilby for Easter, which she consumed enthusiastically. Hyperemesis gravidarum, said the clipboard at the end of her bed. A condition, Blanche told Leon, that their mother had suffered through her own pregnancies.
He returned to their conversation when the nurse had gone.
‘It seemed perfectly logical at the time. You were like, Go on. You threw back your head. Like this.’
‘What a martyr. I should have been a Catholic.’
‘We were so calm, weren’t we? There I was, sawing away at your neck with the breadknife, wondering why nothing was happening. Afterwards you broke your hairbrush on my head.’
‘God, that was satisfying.’
‘Poor Mum. Hosing us down in the garden.’
‘I always got the blame.’
‘You were older.’
‘But you were a big boofy boy!’ Forgetting the line feed, Blanche moved her hand then winced. ‘I don’t want her visiting me, Leon. She’s got enough on her plate.’
‘She’s quite good today. Pottering around the garden. She’s thrilled you’re keeping the baby. What convinced you in the end?’
‘Hugh. We can take out another loan.’
Leon looked perplexed. ‘You guys are set for life, aren’t you?’
‘Hugh thinks it’s best if we do. Look, I know Hugh can be a boofhead. He’s much more conservative than me.’ Blanche spoke hastily, as though afraid of being overtaken by further vomiting, or contradiction. ‘But he’s so supportive. He literally got down on his knees and begged me to have this baby and promised to do everything he could for us. It’s one of the main reasons I’m keeping it. Because he meant it, and I trust him. Even if he is a crap housekeeper.’
‘I guess you’re not much better.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I’m even worse. But you’ve got Fatima.’
‘Every single day Hugh tells me he loves me. And I need that. I’m probably very insecure.’
‘I think we all are. I think it’s a family illness.’
‘Or a national one.’
‘Clark’s a good housekeeper, you know. Not a speck of dust.’
‘That’s Dad. He’s got Dad’s fastidiousness.’
Leon was about to point out that it was their mother who had done everything around the house when Hugh arrived in a blaze of lilies, with Blanche’s laptop and more chocolate. Blanche grabbed it greedily. ‘Narva!’ she cried. ‘Was it easy to find?’
‘I got it in Paddington.’
‘Jesus, are you serious? That far?’ Blanche tore the packet open. ‘Did you try our local?’
‘I tried just about everywhere.’
‘Bloody hell! It should be everywhere.’
‘Don’t stress, pooky. Don’t think about work.’
Leon went to find a vase. When he returned, Blanche and Hugh were holding hands and discussing names for the baby. Leon felt jubilant without knowing why.
‘This little terror,’ said Blanche, ‘has made me aware every second of its existence. It’s been trying to tell me something. So I want something kind of feisty. What do you think, Leon?’
Names, thought Leon. Signifiers or red herrings? Their names had been plucked out of a hat, Clark and Blanche from the Hollywood hat, his own he didn’t know. He liked it — Leon King — a big name, masculine. He knew people who had changed their names, one with whom he had studied horticulture going from Sharon to Fern in second year, everybody continuing to call
her Sharon behind her back, pronouncing Fern with a mocking American accent. ‘Well, we have Celtic ancestry.’
Blanche looked nonplussed. ‘Clark would know about that.’
‘I do too,’ said Hugh. ‘Welsh.’
‘My name’s kinda Jewish, isn’t it?’ said Leon. ‘Clark said there’s a few missing links in our family tree. He said it could even be Aboriginal.’
‘Aboriginal?’ Hugh pulled a face. ‘I doubt it.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, you hardly look it. I mean, you’re white.’
‘We could still have a bit. I wouldn’t mind. Anything’d be better than boring bloody Pom.’
‘I’ve got English blood and I’m proud of it.’
‘Look, we’re just white trash,’ Blanche said in a conciliatory tone. ‘So come on, Leon, any suggestions?’
‘How about Kylie?’ Leon minced.
Blanche and Hugh stared at him.
Leon lifted his shoulders up to his ears. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’
‘Like what?’ said Blanche. ‘Sorry. I just don’t get it.’
‘Kylie’s an Aboriginal word, isn’t it?’ said Hugh. ‘Is that what you meant?’
Why had he said Kylie, why had he spoken like that? Was he trying to mock the poofter he thought they thought he was? Subliminally channelling a cancer joke? Maybe it was just the family habit of pissing on anything remotely sentimental for fear of feeling. He didn’t believe Hugh that Kylie was an Aboriginal word, but a quick google when he got back to Sirius Cove proved he was right — it was a West Australian word for a type of boomerang.
By Blanche and his mother’s hospital beds, the sense of his physical strength had felt heretical to Leon. He had been a big boofy boy, stronger than his sister for as long as he could remember, stronger soon enough even than Clark, much to Clark’s chagrin, yet he had always assumed that as the youngest and the one picked on most by his father, concessions were his due. His homosexuality reinforced this. He knew there was hurt beneath Blanche’s joking reminiscences but he had been so preoccupied by his own wounds, so convinced of his inferiority, that it hadn’t occurred to Leon that he might have wounded others. Blanche was right, his mother did favour him. He shut this out in order to breathe. He also needed to keep the idea of privilege foreign: to admit to it would be to admit that he in turn owed concessions. It was a logic with infinite implications. When applied across the board, the debts were never-ending. An entire people could owe another, in perpetuity, and that was just preposterous. It was impossible to even contemplate.
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