‘Beer. For. The. Men,’ Doug was murmuring meditatively as he poured. ‘One for the hero … and one for … yours truly.’ A thought seemed to strike him. He straightened. ‘Tony not here?’
‘He had to go and get Miranda,’ said Rosie. ‘She was stranded. Carol here kindly volunteered her Veedub.’
Carol pushed up the sleeve of her jumper and reached for a grape. New-season muscatels in a hand-thrown bowl of russet brown. Her hair slipped forward, obscuring her face. ‘I hope she’ll be able to squeeze in around the typewriter and paper and whatnot. The bug’s our mobile printery at the moment, so it’s loaded to the gunwales …’ She popped the grape in her mouth. Rejoicing in the fact that she and Tony were comrades, a confederacy of two. The thought made Laurie turn her back, move the frying-pan aside. Burnt butter. The blini had not been a success.
‘Stranded,’ Doug grunted. ‘Why stranded? What’s wrong with the bus? Come to that, why didn’t she just hitch a ride home with a truckie, eh? That’s her usual game, isn’t it? Hey?’ He rounded his eyes at Rosie, as if she were to blame for his daughter’s recklessness.
‘It’s raining, Dad,’ Laurie pointed out, raising her voice to be heard over the drumming on the roof and the hoarse sigh of the gas. She set cups on the table. Milk. ‘She’s got a huge portfolio to carry.’
Gloop, went the percolator. Gloop. The smell of coffee suddenly ravished the room.
‘Miranda’s at the College of Art,’ Rosie explained to Jerry.
Jerry, caught with his glass to his mouth, gulped and when he spoke introduced a deeper note, as if someone had plucked a string of a double bass. ‘Nim – Laurie mentioned …’ he began.
Laurie flicked off the gas and brought the pot to the table. She eased in next to Jerry.
‘Coffee, Carol? Mum?’ said Laurie, preparing to pour. ‘There’s cream. And coffee crystals. For them as want …’
She was distracted. Jerry had toed off his thongs, and she felt his foot easing over hers, clamping hers warmly down. He cleared his throat. ‘Laurie says she’s got quite a gift.’ There was an unfocused intensity in his eye.
‘That she has, my boy. That she absolutely has.’ Doug sounded regretful, as if confessing to a failing in her. ‘’Course, she gets it from her mother.’
Rosie made sounds of demurral. Doug was on his feet and moving for the door, but he leant forward knowingly.
‘She’s got an eye,’ he said, indicating one of his own. ‘Always has had.’
‘She has. She’s got an eye,’ Rosie affirmed, nodding and sipping coffee.
Doug paused in the doorway.
‘No knowing what she could’ve …’ He stopped. ‘’Scuse me a moment,’ he murmured as he quit the room. Leaving behind him a silence that felt conspiratorial.
He’d been about to bring up the accident again, Laurie thought. The river, the boat, the near-drowning.
Jerry was rolling his glass, his chin sunk into his neck.
‘I wonder how long they’re going to be,’ Rosie sighed, filling the void. ‘Tony and Miranda. I’d have thought they’d be back by now …’ Her voice trailed off, and Laurie wondered if wine and anxiety had brought another headache on, if she’d prefer to be lying in a darkened room, with a sleep mask over her eyes.
‘The traffic –’ said Carol, her meaning conveyed by a slight inflection of her head.
Muted by the rain, the sound of the toilet flushing came from deep in the house.
‘It’s heavier,’ Laurie remarked after a pause. For something to say. ‘The rain, not the traffic …’ Then conceded. ‘That too, probably …’ She was caught in a stream of inconsequentiality and couldn’t stop –
But Doug was back, clearing his throat, dragging out his chair. ‘Speaking of heroes,’ he said as he sat, though no one but he had, and then some time ago, ‘young Tony’s a bit of a hero, too, did y’know?’
‘Ah –’ Jerry began.
‘Dad,’ appealed Laurie, ‘I’ve told Jerry the whole story.’ She took her glasses off and cleaned them with the hem of her shirt. Replaced them. She needed to move her foot trapped under Jerry’s but didn’t want to lose the pleasant sensation of protective weight. The feeling of being anchored.
‘Yep,’ Doug continued, topping up his drinking companion’s glass and then going to the fridge and staring into its depths. ‘Quite a hero he proved himself to be, and no more’n a nipper.’ There was a pause. ‘All outa beer. Rosie, is there any more alcohol in the house? I want some more alcohol.’
‘Not really, Doug. Apart from cooking sherry –’
But Doug, with the light of inspiration in his eyes, was already on his way out of the room. He returned holding a bottle of cognac high.
‘Doug,’ protested Rosie, ‘that’s for a special occasion!’
‘What occasion could be more special ’n this?’ said Doug, genial host, flicking the last of the beer from his glass and pouring himself a nip. ‘Welcoming Jerry here to our home and hearth? Eh? You finish that, now, and I’ll pour you a tot, warm the cockles of your heart.’ He took a sniff and a sip and swirled the liquor lovingly in his glass. He turned to Jerry again, his eyelids heavy. ‘You know Broody Heads well?’ Opening a topic, leaving a decent interval for the chap to reply.
With Jerry off and away on his own story of discovery, Laurie took the opportunity to pat his knee under the table and shift her foot. It was all pins-and-needles. Rosie went to the cupboard for two crystal whisky glasses, which she set down eloquently in front of her husband.
Obediently transferring the brandy from tumbler to crystal and settling into his chair, Doug began to describe, for Jerry’s edification, the Broody River of the old days. The remoteness. The silence. The teeming fish. A hint of reproach in his voice, as if Jerry or some other listener might doubt him.
‘Yes,’ Rosie confirmed at intervals, joining her voice to his. ‘That’s how it was.’ Freshly amazed, both of them, at the flight of time.
The rain fell harder. Its din altered the quality of Doug’s voice, absorbed its overtones and undertones so that it attained a kind of bardic purity, but his face with its half-mast eyelids wore a look of brandy-lit self-absorption. Jerry’s eyebrows were signalling interest, and he nodded now and then, and now and then emitted little rumbles of agreement or understanding. Rosie was nursing an elbow, her long fingers pressed to her jaw, rucking up the flesh of her cheek, her eyes on Doug. Carol was watching Jerry. The hazel eyes glancing up under the wings of the brows, the colour in the cheeks, the lips slightly parted. Inscrutable changes in the corners of the mouth, the tilt of the head, the lowering of the lashes.
How small faces are, Laurie thought, to hold all that meaning.
At some point the rain began to thunder down. Through it, indistinctly, Laurie heard the barking of the neighbour’s dog. Doug had to lift his voice.
‘Upriver,’ he was saying, ‘you’d come across –’
At that moment they heard footsteps in the hall, and there was Miranda in the kitchen doorway, tall, vivid and dripping wet.
‘It’s pelting down out there!’ she shouted in greeting. She cast a glance around the room and cocked her head questioningly. She was wearing, over her jeans and T-shirt, a short kimono-style jacket in butterfly blues, edged with black. Her colour was high and her cropped hair gleaming wet under the kitchen light. She commanded all eyes.
‘Ciao, people,’ she said, and waved a hesitant hand. The hem of the kimono was frayed.
‘Miranda,’ Laurie began, ‘you remember –’ But her attention was distracted again, this time by Tony, who had also appeared, blowing a raindrop from the tip of his nose.
Laurie threw out her hands helplessly and laughed. ‘I’m so bad at introductions,’ she said. ‘I wish you’d all come in at once!’ She took a deep breath. ‘Oh, no, wait on! You met Jerry earlier, didn’t you, Tone! I’m an idiot!’ and she clapped her hand to her forehead.
‘Relax, Laurie,’ her brother advised, riffling the rain from his hair as he took
a seat. He shot the car keys back to Carol across the table.
Miranda stood behind Rosie’s chair, lifting her mother’s hair with ballerina fingers, and letting it fall.
‘Miranda, if you’re hungry –’ Rosie began.
Miranda leant over her and pinched a grape. She was a bit whiffy, Laurie realised, and was embarrassed; her armpits, unshaven under the silk, gave off a rich, lived-in odour that competed with the beef stroganoff.
‘– there’s some dinner left in the oven. Stroganoff. Laurie made it. You can –’
‘A wee dram?’ Doug asked, raising the bottle of brandy and his eyebrows at Tony.
‘No thanks. I’ll have a coffee.’ Tony opened the lid of the pot and peered in. Then got to his feet, pot in hand, and became occupied behind them.
‘Anyone else for a –?’
Miranda had taken the casserole dish from the oven and was ladling out a helping. Rain drummed on the roof, reducing their universe to this old, yellow-lit kitchen, crowded with kinsfolk and thick with food smells. For a moment it seemed impossible that there should be anything but harmony among them.
Then the rain slackened, and it was as if, one by one, the faces around the table drifted apart.
‘Your name can’t really be Jerry,’ said Miranda, filling her mouth.
‘It’s Jerzy.’
‘Jerzy. Mmm.’ She frowned, processing her mouthful. ‘I thought it’d be something epically Slavic, or Slavically epic, like … Konstantin, or Igor. Something wintry and northern. Like Boreas.’
‘Don’t be whimsical, Miranda,’ said Rosie.
Jerry was speaking. ‘Your father was just saying –’ he ventured, as Tony took up a position behind Carol, leaning back on the dresser, drinking his coffee. Your father. Laurie had a pang of anxiety.
Rosie facilitated. ‘Doug was telling Jerry about the old days at Baroodibah …’
‘Jerry’s a blow-in,’ said Laurie, avoiding Tony’s face, hoping he hadn’t noticed Jerry’s faux pas. ‘A Johnny-come-lately. That’s right, isn’t it, Jez?’
He nodded. ‘The story of my life. Ever the outsider. Your father was telling me how –’
‘Camus,’ said Miranda. ‘What was it he said about the weight of days?’
‘It’s funny, isn’t it –’ Laurie began with a hint of desperation.
‘I was just telling young Jerry here –’
‘Yes, but it’s funny how proud we are of, I don’t know, of having prior knowledge of a place. We set such store by precedence. Being there first. As if we should have privileges in consequence.’
‘What privileges do you mean?’ Carol asked.
‘Anyone catch the news this evening?’ Tony asked, passing over Laurie’s musings and Carol’s query. ‘I wanted to hear the reaction to Menzies’ announcement.’
Heads were shaken vaguely. Laurie wasn’t really sure what she’d wanted to say anyway.
‘Menzies is going to send troops to Vietnam,’ Carol explained to the blank faces.
Doug’s glance seemed to fall on Tony for the first time. His combat pants, his jungle-green shirt wet across the shoulders. ‘What unit would you be with then?’ he asked. Tony said nothing.
‘Doug –’ Rosie began.
Laurie would explain. ‘They’re from army surplus, Dad. They’re cheap.’
‘Oh, I know that …’ said Doug, already retiring from the fray. Sounding tired.
‘But there’ve been troops in Vietnam for ages,’ said Miranda. She was dealing with her stroganoff but interested in accuracy.
‘No, they were advisers,’ Tony said with heavy irony.
‘It’s so cynical!’ said Carol.
Jerry frowned. ‘You could see it coming, though, couldn’t you.’
And then it was on. Supply lines … Ho Chi Minh … ANZUS … Haiphong … Chairs were joggled. Voices rose. In Carol’s, Laurie could hear a tremor of passion suppressed. Jerry was shaking his head, agreeing that it was a shocking mess, only to have Tony contradict him flatly and Carol explain that it wasn’t accidental, colour spreading up her neck.
Laurie was uneasy. The empty beer bottle stood on the table. She had an urge to blow into it, and imagined the mournful sound it would make. She broke in. ‘I think we’re all on the same side, really,’ she said. ‘We’re all agreed that Australia has no business being there. Maybe if we talk about something really controversial? Like … fishing?’
Doug leant over and patted her hand, ignoring her peace-making. ‘In my opinion this is – no, don’t go off half-cocked – if a sovereign government asks us for help –’
Tony was shaking his head. ‘That’s just about the most feeble pretext –’ he muttered.
‘What’s that? Speak up!’
‘I’m just saying you’re accepting the pragmatist line, the way the question’s been framed by –’
‘How much evil has been perpetrated in the name of pragmatism!’ said Rosie, breaking her silence. ‘How much misery!’
‘That’s right!’ agreed Carol, visibly trembling.
Jerry looked sharply at Rosie. ‘Even more in the name of principle,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it results that count?’
A nervous tremor ran through Laurie too.
‘What results are you talking about?’ asked Tony.
‘Peace.’
‘And freedom? What about freedom?’
‘What you young’uns fail to realise,’ said Doug, allowing his lids to descend for a moment over his eyes, which (the gesture seemed to say) had seen so much, ‘is that if it’s not one pretext, it’s another.’ He swung around in his chair to include Rosie, who had got up and was busy with the dishes. ‘Am I right, Rosie? Eh? Been that way since the dawn of history. I’ve seen it, an’ I’m telling you. You can’t change –’
‘Human nature,’ said Tony, finishing his sentence for him. His jaw muscles twitched. Clearly he was itching to speak his mind. ‘This war is not a result of human nature; it’s a result of imperialism, and what’s needed is international support for the forces of liberation.’
Miranda pointed her fork at him with an expression of delight. ‘You’re reciting that, Tony!’ she hooted. ‘You are! You’re reciting it!’
Jerry’s face wore an interested look. ‘You mean for the Viet Cong? Support for the Viet Cong?’ he queried.
‘NLF!’ Carol almost shouted.
‘Our Tony sees himself as a bit of a leader,’ said Doug, winking at Jerry. ‘World’s always in need of a bit of saving, y’know.’
Miranda snorted a laugh. Jerry stroked his chin, pulled his ear.
‘Doug’s had a bit of a setback today,’ Rosie said hastily, pleadingly, to Tony, reaching out as if to stroke his arm.
Miranda, skimming the last of the beef stroganoff from her plate, gave a startled grunt, licked her finger and kissed the top of her father’s head.
‘They knock you back, Dad?’ she crooned. ‘Benighted buggers!’
Doug waved a hand morosely. ‘Argh!’ he muttered. ‘What’s that saying? Not to be a communist at twenty is proof of … what is it? Rosie?’
‘Want of heart, I think, dear. Want of heart.’
‘That’s too pat, Mr Carlyle,’ said Carol, ‘if you don’t mind me saying. It’s too cynical. It –’
‘Heaven knows,’ said Rosie, ‘we were all young once.’ Rejoining them at the table, pouring oil with her laugh. ‘In the distant past.’
‘The past …’ Miranda sighed, over at the tap. She wiped her hands on the seat of her jeans. ‘Isn’t that a foreign country?’
Carol hadn’t finished. She nosed her point forward delicately, like a dog wanting a ball to be thrown. ‘It reduces everything to – er –’
Jerry picked it up. ‘Psychology?’
‘Yes.’ Gratefully. ‘Psychology.’
‘Not psychology, I think,’ said Laurie, suddenly irritated. ‘Ontogeny.’
‘Hmmm?’ said Doug. But his mind was elsewhere.
‘Ontogeny? You should explain yourself, dear,’
said Rosie. ‘Don’t be cryptic.’
‘Individual development as opposed to – I don’t know – personality types.’ Laurie sighed. ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter.’
‘Your father was telling us earlier –’ Jerry began.
But Doug was nodding ponderously. ‘Our Tony’s a hero. None of us should forget that.’
Rosie became brisk. ‘Well, I’d say everyone’s ready for another cup of coffee. Laurie? Could you …? Oh, Tony. You’ve still got yours. Or tea. Would you prefer tea?’
Laurie rose uncertainly. Then sat.
Tony, leaning against the dresser, took a sip of coffee. ‘I imagine you’re referring to my efforts to play a small part in the resistance to American imperialism,’ he said. He sipped again.
‘Tony,’ said Rosie, reproachful.
‘Well, do you expect me to pretend I haven’t noticed him sneering at me?’
‘Sneering? Sneering? Whadaya mean? Sneering?’
‘Dad –’ pleaded Laurie.
Tony held out his hand for the car keys.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Rosie sharply.
‘Rain’s stopped. I’m going to get some gear from the car. And then change into something dry. Is that okay?’
Carol rose, flushed again and pushed in her chair. She smiled apologetically. ‘I’ll … um …’ she murmured.
Tony stopped in the doorway. ‘You’re mistaken, Jerry,’ he said. ‘Doug is not my father. My father never knew me. Never came home, you see. From fighting in New Guinea. From the war.’ And he was gone.
Carol fluttered for a moment at the door. Followed.
iv
Laurie didn’t look at any of the others for fear that she’d see the dismay written on their faces. She was aware of her father sitting to her left. Of his silence. But then he was speaking, and it was as if he hadn’t noticed Tony’s words.
‘Weighty, weighty questions,’ he said, reading his brandy. Others stirred. Shifted a leg. Rearranged their hands. Perhaps he hadn’t heard. Perhaps he’d been off somewhere else inside his head.
The kitchen waited.
‘Miranda,’ said Rosie calmly, ‘would you run some water into the casserole dish please. It needs a soak.’
At these ordinary words, the kitchen was restored to itself. Things settled into place.
The River House Page 23