The Book of Ordinary People

by Claire Varley

  32

  DB

  DB stood at the front of the marquee feeling ridiculous in his hat and outfit. He hadn’t wanted to return to the house so he had made do with items from his father’s wardrobe, and it appeared that at some point his father had gone to a party as a hustler. DB felt stupid. And tired. He missed his wife. He missed tucking his son in every night and he missed doing so in a bed that wasn’t infested with stale canine hair.

  Madeline’s ghost hung around him like a constant companion now, poking his ribs while he slept and running across his keyboard during the day, causing him to forget what he’d been writing and veer off into strange worrying sentences. Only it wasn’t a ghost, was it, because she was still alive and wading her way through the Family Court system just so she could raise her children in safety. She peered at him from the corner as he sat on the couch beside his parents watching whatever shows they wanted to watch, sang through his mobile phone, asking why he didn’t press a few buttons and apologise to his wife. She taunted him in the shower, as he urinated in the office toilets, as he swam his late-night laps. He had transposed the living, breathing Madeline into some kind of Ghost-of-Separations-Present type thing, and he realised the utter ludicrousness of this.

  There was a tap on his shoulder and he turned to find Mr Williams beaming in his safari suit. DB handed him a copy of the speech and he took it with a nod.

  ‘Solid work, DB,’ Mr Williams smiled. ‘You’ve made me a happy man.’

  Mr Williams offered a cheerful salute then stepped up to the microphone. As he began the speech, DB noticed Nell slip from the marquee. He watched her for a moment, quickening her pace as she fled from the celebrations. He envied her, suddenly and intensely, running like a convict towards some kind of freedom.

  ‘I would like to start by welcoming everyone here on this momentous day!’

  DB’s mobile vibrated against his thigh. He pulled it from his pocket. Tony? His heart started racing. Something was wrong with Sylvie or Rudy, he knew it. DB edged his way out of the marquee.

  ‘Tony?’

  ‘Ben. Mate. I’m just calling to see if you know where Sylvie is. I’m gonna call her this arvo and wanted to know when to call.’

  DB let go of the breath he’d been holding. The bloody Zambetti communications tree.

  ‘She’ll be in class,’ he replied, looking towards the marquee.

  ‘You sure?’ Tony asked. ‘On account of it being a public holiday and all? I figured she’d be at Mum and Dad’s. Rudy too. I figured they’d just be hanging about all day.’

  DB frowned. What was he going on about?

  ‘You know, I’ve been thinking,’ Tony continued. ‘I know how good my life looks. Eat, sleep, gym, repeat. I know, living, right? What can I say, life is pretty sweet.’

  DB pulled the phone away from his ear for a moment and stared at it. Perhaps Tony had hit his head on some gym equipment? Perhaps he had concussion?

  ‘But sometimes,’ Tony went on, ‘and this is just sometimes, mind you – sometimes I look at what you have and I’m jealous. Not like being married to my sister. We’re not in the village anymore. But, I mean, you know.’

  And DB knew. Tony was definitely concussed.

  ‘But like I said, my life is pretty good. Just, you know. You know. Anyway, listen, we should lift sometime, mate. You, me and Rudy. You hear me?’

  ‘I hear you, Tony.’

  ‘So anyway, you think that if I were to call Sylvie at say 3.30 pm she and Rudy will be sitting around at Mum and Dad’s? Just waiting? At Mum and Dad’s. At 3.30 pm?’

  ‘I’m certain of it,’ DB replied.

  He ended the call then looked towards the marquee. People were clapping, wildly, and someone had started the music back up. DB glanced down at his watch. He might just be able to make it.

  It took two trains and a moderately difficult jog-walk-jog, but eventually he arrived at the cul-de-sac just as the rain did too. He was instantly drenched, the world suddenly grey, and he recognised the appropriateness of this. The house was quiet as he approached, save for the gentle sound of sobbing coming through the windows. At this, DB’s heart broke. He pictured Sylvie now, curled up on top of the crochet-covered single bed in her room, heartbroken and bereft, pining for her wayward husband. He imagined her uttering one final heart-wrenching sob then pulling herself up stoically, washing the tears from her cheeks, and plastering on a bold face with which to show their child that she was holding up just fine.

  Their child! Sweet, strange Rudy! He would be seated on the couch, perhaps on his nonno’s lap, bravely watching his cartoons while he pretended with all his heart that the arms around him were his father’s. His beautiful family, longing so desperately for him. Sending coded messages through Tony. How they would run to him when they saw him! He allowed himself a moment to imagine the warm, wild embrace, then set to business.

  DB sidled around the house and stopped beneath Sylvie’s bedroom window. His plan was to pull himself up atop one of the rubbish bins and rap gently on her second-storey window, rousing her mid-sob and very possibly climbing through Romeo-style as she opened both her window and her heart to him. He danced about the bin a moment, working out how to hoist himself up, then eventually managed to mount it using an awkward half-drag half-shimmy motion. He steadied himself on the brickwork then slowly inched further up until he was standing in a sort of crouch. The window was higher than he’d thought and he couldn’t quite see in, so he reached his hands up and knocked gently on the pane. Beneath him the bin wobbled, slippery in the rain. He locked his knees, keeping his balance, then knocked again, a little more firmly. He was about to knock a third time when there was a crack beneath him and he suddenly found himself crashing through the broken bin lid, cracking his left knee on the sharp edge and landing on the rubbish inside. The smell hit him immediately and he knew Guiseppa had made seafood soup that week. Then the front door slammed and he looked up to see Sylvie coming round the corner, a broom raised above her head. She stared at him for a moment, her eyes wild, then lowered the broom.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  She looked at him harder, pushing her wet hair from her eyes.

  ‘And what the hell are you wearing?’

  He had forgotten about the pimp suit. His knee was throbbing and the fishy scent was making his eyes water.

  ‘I was coming over to apologise and beg for your forgiveness, only I seem to have fallen into your parents’ rubbish bin.’

  ‘I can see that. Why are you lurking around the bins in the rain? What’s wrong with the front door?’

  His knee really was hurting.

  ‘I heard you crying. I thought I’d come to your window and surprise you. Like Romeo.’

  ‘Like a pervert, more like it. What crying? We’re all watching mum’s Italian soap operas in the lounge room.’

  ‘But I heard crying . . .’ he wavered.

  ‘Maria’s husband died in a tragic nightclub fire despite having only just got his memory back and she’s asking Giovanni to raise her son as his own. On the show.’

  Oh. He should have felt embarrassed but he was in too much pain.

  ‘Look, you don’t think you could help me out of here, do you? I really think I’ve hurt myself.’

  Sylvie leant the broom against the wall and came to his assistance. As he put weight on his left foot his knee exploded in pain and he stumbled forward, screaming.

  ‘Jesus,’ Sylvie exclaimed. ‘The neighbours will think someone is getting murdered here.’

  She bent her head to look him in the eyes and DB felt her strong grip on his arms.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she asked, and for the first time in a long time he remembered how tender they could be with one another.

  ‘I’m okay now that you’re here,’ he replied gently, leaning into her body.

  This made her laugh, a short
spontaneous bark that she tried to smother, but it was enough for him to hear.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, pressing his face into her shoulder. ‘For everything.’

  He decided now would be a good time to cry, and he did, from relief and pain and sadness. Sylvie pulled him closer and he felt her press her lips into the top of his head.

  ‘I’m sorry too. We’re both such stubborn idiots.’

  He shifted his weight and a new burst of pain shot through his leg. Sylvie pulled away from him.

  ‘This doesn’t mean we don’t have a lot to talk about, though.’

  ‘I know. And we will, I promise. But can we please do it later because I think we may need go to the hospital.’

  She helped drag him into the house. Rudy looked up from his position on Nino’s lap.

  ‘Hey, Dad,’ he said nonchalantly, then turned back to the television.

  ‘We’re going to the hospital,’ Sylvie announced, grabbing her handbag. ‘Romeo here took a tumble in the rain. I’ll call you when we know what’s happening.’

  Guiseppa and Nino surveyed him with a look of concern, which DB met with a brave grimace.

  ‘Okay,’ Guiseppa conceded eventually. ‘We’ll have dinner waiting when you get back.’

  Then they all returned their attention to the television, and DB realised he was home.

  They went to the closest hospital – the one DB always hated because it was under-resourced and understaffed and they always had to wait a long time – and they waited a long time because it was under-resourced and understaffed. While they waited, they talked, and this time when they talked they listened to each other too. They talked about things they hadn’t talked about for a long time – things that were difficult or uncomfortable or that they knew they didn’t agree on – and it was difficult and uncomfortable and while they still didn’t agree, they tried to see each other’s perspective. After a while, Sylvie wandered off to find them something to snack on. She paused before a vending machine, feeding money into the slot, and he watched her peer at the items on display. Her hand hesitated over the key pad then she selected a combination. The machine sprang to life, nudging free a bar of Turkish Delight. DB watched it tumble, freefalling momentarily through the air, and he was overcome with a sudden surge of love that left his body trembling. For her pragmatism, her dependability, for the fact that she was, despite everything, still here. And he realised suddenly all the ways her love had shifted things around to accommodate him and that it was high time he did the same. Of how the things he had once fallen in love with were not as important as the things he loved today, and that these were the things worth fighting for.

  When Sylvie returned, he shuffled himself forward on the plastic waiting room chair.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Ow, shit. Ow. Can you just pretend that I’ve gone down on one knee?’

  ‘The busted one?’

  ‘Yes, that one.’

  DB took the chocolate bar from her then held her hands in his. He looked into her eyes and knew that while this was not the decision he had wanted to make, it was absolutely the decision he needed to make.

  ‘Sylvie Zambetti, will you move to the outer suburbs with me?’

  Sylvie laughed her deep, coarse laugh, then took his face in her hands.

  ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

  33

  Evangelia

  In the end, Evangelia gathered up everything she had found into a folder and set off for the cemetery. There wasn’t much – scraps of her own memories, of Nick and Xanthe’s, and a clutter of largely meaningless photocopies from the library that spoke more of her mother’s absence than of her presence. It had been exciting that night, unspooling from her children the stories they cherished of their grandmother, but it hadn’t really amounted to anything that would move her mother’s story forward, and nearly a year after her mother’s death she still had very little. It would make a brief collection of anecdotes, something to save in some never-to-be-accessed part of the computer, to sit and be forgotten. Maybe one day the children would rediscover it, scroll through the pages fondly, then leave it to gather more temporal dust in the recesses of the hard drive. And perhaps that was all it needed to be, the notes on this ordinary unexceptional life.

  Evangelia followed the familiar path to her parents’ graves, the afternoon sun warming her cheeks. From a distance she saw a figure bent over the headstones, and as the figure straightened she realised it was Lydia. Evangelia paused, watching her. Lydia finished cleaning their father’s side of the plot then crossed to their mother’s. She scooped the withered, mismatched flowers from their vase, replacing them with fresh white roses so that they mirrored those standing tall on their father’s side. She swept the base of the headstone with her hands then stood there for a long moment, her hands brushing her cheeks. Lydia made to leave and Evangelia started, ducking behind a too-short gravestone. She stood sheepishly as Lydia noticed her and beckoned her over. The sisters stood before one another.

  ‘I didn’t realise you came here.’

  ‘Of course I do,’ Lydia replied, her face stern, hands dusting dirt from her trousers.

  She surveyed the cheap flowers in Evangelia’s hands.

  ‘I don’t have to leave them here,’ Evangelia said sharply, glancing at the expensive roses already set out.

  ‘They’re fine,’ Lydia said after a moment. ‘Here, let me help.’

  The sisters divided the flowers between the two vases, circling the roses with supermarket daisies. Evangelia flicked the water from her hands then bent to retrieve the folder. Lydia eyed it suspiciously.

  ‘What have you got there?’

  Evangelia had planned to read through the papers one last time, sitting beside their mother, before putting them away for good. Her cheeks flushed.

  ‘Nothing. Just some papers. Memories and things from the kids.’

  Her sister’s face was unreadable.

  ‘Can I see?’

  Evangelia’s hands moved instinctively behind her back.

  ‘Eva, show me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Eva,’ Lydia insisted.

  Evangelia eyed her mother’s grave. She could not make a scene here, not with God and all the departed watching.

  ‘Fine. Here.’

  She thrust the folder at Lydia then watched her sister leaf through the papers. Lydia paused when she reached the photocopies from the library, peering at herself in the image.

  ‘Mum’s not there,’ Evangelia informed her. ‘She’s not anywhere. I mean, she’s probably in the kitchen cooking but no one ever took photos of that.’

  Lydia traced a finger over the image, haloing their father with her fingernail. Evangelia noticed for the first time how tired her sister looked, her face drawn with the same weary lines their mother had had, as her own was now.

  ‘She didn’t go. That’s why she’s not there.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Evangelia frowned. ‘It says the whole community turned up.’

  ‘She didn’t go. She protested the protest. People wouldn’t speak to her for weeks. Dad was mortified. She said she couldn’t abide by any of it – Greeks hurting Turks, Turks hurting Greeks. That wasn’t the Cyprus she remembered.’

  Evangelia stared at her sister.

  ‘How do you know that? You were too young to remember anything like that.’

  ‘She told me.’ Lydia’s eyes were suddenly full of tears. ‘She’d tell me stories. Later on. Recently. I realised that I’m supposed to be the one that knows these things now. So I asked her and she told me.’

  The tears spilled then, cascading down her cheeks in little rainstorms. Evangelia looked away. She’d never thought to ask Lydia, had never imagined her as the one who would carry this knowledge forward. And she realised that she had always supposed herself to be this person,
despite being younger, because it had always seemed that way growing up. Had always seemed to be what everyone expected, even Lydia. And now tears were falling from her own eyes, great cascades of frustration and sadness because they were two grown women standing beside their mother’s grave learning something new about each other after all these years.

  ‘I miss her,’ she whispered, searching her bag for tissues.

  ‘Me too,’ Lydia said, handing her one from her own bag. ‘It just hit me, suddenly when she got sick, that I’m supposed to be in charge now. And I don’t know how to do anything. I never bothered to learn and now I’m meant to be the one. You know how often I have to google shit? Like sit there asking the internet how I’m supposed to do our traditions? It’s embarrassing. She’d be horrified.’

  Lydia drew a fresh tissue from the packet then blew her nose noisily.

  ‘I can show you,’ Evangelia said. ‘I know things. You were off being cultural.’

  She said the last part with an exaggerated flourish, which made Lydia laugh.

  ‘I’d like that,’ Lydia sniffed.

  The two sisters appraised each other.

  ‘We’re the frontline now,’ Lydia said. ‘It’s us until our kids.’

  Evangelia thought of her children, their stilted ineffectual Greek and their noncommittal dancing.

  ‘God help us all.’

  She shoved the soggy tissue into her sleeve.

  ‘I’m sorry about what happened. About the meat.’

  Lydia raised her eyebrows. ‘It was very expensive jamón . . .’

  Evangelia hid a smile behind her hand. ‘Do you have any more stories?’

  Lydia made a face. ‘Plenty. Names, phone numbers, details. That woman was like a sponge. What I know could fill a whole bloody book.’

  Evangelia shifted feet, clearing her throat gently.

  ‘Could you tell me more? I have memories but they’re all incomplete. Like, I remember she had to go to work when we were little and Dad’s back was playing up, but I don’t remember anything else. And I remember her coming into our room each night when I thought I saw the dragon but I don’t remember what happened.’