by Isla Evans
Enough was enough. Kate took a sip of her coffee and then plucked her handbag from the end of the bench and walked out of the room, without even a backwards glance. Through the lounge room, out the front door, down the steps, into the garage. She slid into her car, started it up and reversed out without waiting for it to warm up. And, as she shot out onto the road and changed gears, she glanced back at the house and saw Shelley, standing at the lounge room window and looking down, rather stunned. Kate had the sudden urge to proffer her own middle finger, but instead she put her foot down on the accelerator, quickly leaving the house, the children, the bickering, the weight of it all behind her as she drove away.
She breathed a sigh of relief as she reached the Wellington Road roundabout without meeting Sam’s car coming the other way. Then she veered right and drove, with growing contentment, up the winding road towards Belgrave. She had no idea where she was going, and didn’t much care as long as it was away. And it was a lovely day for a drive. Warm and still, with a few puffs of cloud threaded across the sky.
Kate found a car-park on the side of Belgrave’s winding main street and got out to stretch. New Year’s Day tourists clustered around the various shops that were open, or sat outside the Puffing Billy café, enjoying coffee and cake and public holiday sunshine. Kate joined in, window-shopping her way along the anonymity of the touristy town. Here she wasn’t anybody’s wife or mother, she was just Kate. Stealing back a few hours in which she came first. And whenever a sliver of guilt uncurled, and her mind touched on the work she’d intended getting done today, or Sam arriving home to find her absent, or Jacob’s obvious unhappiness, or even Shelley now having to find somebody else to look after Emma, she would jerk it away. And summon up a sense of self-righteousness that lent her support.
At the huge bookshop at the end of the main street, Kate stopped to peruse the piles of books in the window display and wasn’t at all surprised to see the distinctive shiny black cover of So you want to write? Then enough with the excuses – just do it! She walked back to the car slowly, her hands deep in the pockets of her tracksuit pants, and then drove out of town and down the mountain, through Tecoma and past Upwey before coasting by the national park area and into Ferntree Gully. By the time she put her blinker on and turned off the highway, she knew exactly where she was going, had probably always known, but still felt better to have not gone there directly. Less childish, less maudlin.
His house was the oldest one in the area by many years. All the other original residences had been bulldozed when their land had been sold off for residential developments. Even That Bugger’s house next door had been razed many years ago to make way for a block of units, and the radish patch where Angie’s mother had frolicked with the forbidden fruit was now a row of carports. But Kate could still point to each and every landmark she had grown up with. The red-brick house to the left was built over what had once been an apple orchard, and the white-rendered two-storey nearby covered the dirt area where the old Ford truck had been parked, next to the huge corrugated-iron shed. With its white paint so flaky that she and Angie had been able to peel off large sections to develop their own works of art. Employing paints made from mushed grass, or the glassy red sap from the gum trees, or the brown pigments they would extract from the crumbly clay dirt that surrounded them.
Kate parked her car by the kerb and walked up the driveway past the weatherboard house. The old gate protested as she pushed it open, and she passed through into the backyard, where she closed her eyes for a moment and imagined that when she opened them she would see her father in the vegetable patch. He would be dressed in his dun-coloured overalls, over a white singlet that had seen better days, while on his head would be a broad-brimmed hat that would be better placed on a cricket umpire. His stooped posture would emphasis his lack of height but his wiry physique would be carrying not a spare inch of flesh. Just suntanned wrinkles and ropy muscle.
He would be working steadily. Up one of the regimented rows and down the next. Perhaps armed with his spray bottles, with which he would dose each plant after careful examination. And her internal conflict would be instantly soothed by the repetitive nature of his labour – repetitive not just in the sense of what she was watching, right then, but in that these were the same actions she had seen him perform for as long as memory served. It would be like looking at the stage that had set the scene for the entire spectrum of her life. Giving her tacit permission to regress, and to shed all her different adult personas and just be his daughter. More selfish, more simple, more secure.
Kate opened her eyes and the backyard was empty. And although she had known it would be empty, it couldn’t be anything but empty, nevertheless his image had been so strong that she was pierced anew by a sense of loss that brought tears to her eyes. She blinked, recognising that it had been a mistake to come but also acknowledging her lack of real choice. The house and its empty backyard were like a magnet whose power only grew as their numbered days were counted off.
Kate wiped her eyes roughly, almost angrily, and pulled the gate closed before taking a deep breath and walking over to the wrought-iron setting. With only one chair remaining, it sat between a dull pewter-coloured Hills hoist and a large lemon tree with a trunk so gnarled that it seemed to be growing in several directions at once. Ignoring the thin covering of dirt that blanketed the wrought iron, Kate pulled out the chair and sat, facing away from the house.
She stared at where the vegetable patch had once spread its way across almost the whole backyard and, with an ache that felt like molten lead, registered the fact that it could barely be seen now. This, more than anything she might see in the house itself, forced her to acknowledge that he wasn’t there, and hadn’t been for quite some time. Because her father would never have let it reach such a state. Weeds now as high as the winder on the Hills hoist, with only their undulation indicating the corrugated nature of the earth beneath. Apart from that, a few straggly silverbeets at the end closest to the gate were all that could be seen of what was once a thriving garden. With rows of crisp lettuces, and golden-orange carrots, and snow peas, and celery, and turnips and a patch of dirt-encrusted potatoes just beneath the ground up in the top corner. The same corner where, on a chilly morning last June, her father frowned as he flexed his left arm and then, moments later, grabbed desperately at the paling fence as a shaft of vicelike pressure gripped his chest.
At least that was the way Kate would have liked it to have happened. Short and sharp. Just as it had been with her Uncle Frank long before. Bitterly, Kate turned away and stared down towards the swirling patterns of the wrought-iron table top. She prodded roughly at the dirt that filled the centre umbrella hole until it caved in, falling in a solid lump that shattered as it hit the ground below. Then she started picking at the paintwork, sliding a nail underneath one section and flaking it upwards to reveal a solid knob of red-brown rust, while wondering, not for the first time, why she kept coming back here. It was macabre, as well as masochistic. But it was also an option that would soon be gone, just like her father. Because now that the permits had all but gone through, within a few months the old weatherboard would be razed and the remains of her father’s vegetable garden concreted over to provide foundations for the block of twelve units to be built here. By Sam.
Kate stopped picking at the table and brushed away the tiny flakes of paint, revealing a brown circle that now surrounded the rusted protrusion. She wondered absently whether, if vital enough when alive, if needed enough when alive, a person could leave some part of themselves behind. Then maybe if someone close concentrated harder than they had ever concentrated before, maybe that person could call the other into being. And a dreadful emptiness could be filled, if only temporarily.
Kate lowered her head slowly down onto the table, feeling the metallic coolness of the wrought-iron press against her cheek. She stared at the flaked brown circle, now so close that, with only a bit of effort, she could actually visualise it as a face. With close-cropped grey-w
hite hair and fine lines punctuating the features, ageing them well beyond their seventy years. She reached out a finger slowly and traced it along the side of the face, down to the jawline.
‘Tell me what to do, Dad. Please tell me what to do.’ Kate closed her eyes, still keeping the image alive. ‘I really need your help, because I’m suffocating here.’
The silence that followed stretched until it became unbearable, and it had to be filled. So finally the words came. ‘You’re suffocating? Try being buried six feet under!’
Kate smiled, despite herself. ‘But Dad, I don’t know what to do. At all.’
‘I take it you found my book?’
‘Yes. When I was packing up the house . . . afterwards. Angie said you bought it for me for Christmas. So I kept it till then, put it under the tree.’
‘That was a bit maudlin, wasn’t it?’
‘Exactly what Sam said.’ Kate traced his jawline again, gently. ‘But I thought it’d make it seem like you were still here.’
‘Did it?’
She sighed quietly, the breath warming her cheek. ‘No.’
‘Ah, girl. You’ve got to stop with all this, you know. Doesn’t do you any good. And you know why I bought that book? Because you need a kick up the you-know-what. If you want to bloody write, then just do it.’
‘It’s not as simple as that. I mean, there’s not even anywhere for me to write, and then there’s all the interruptions, and everybody wanting –’
‘Here we go again. Christ, just read it. Maybe it’ll give you some ideas to make time. And I’ll tell you something for nothing, if you don’t do something soon, you’re going to drive the rest of us nuts. Or yourself.’
Kate fell silent as tears built up behind her eyes. She swallowed and then clenched her lips together, waiting until the tears abated before opening her eyes slightly and whispering across the table: ‘But . . . well, don’t you think I’ve left it too late? I mean, I’m forty-seven years old. I think I’ve missed the boat.’
‘Christ! You talk like you’ve got one foot in the grave. And, believe me, you don’t want to do that before it’s time. There ain’t much in the way of entertainment there. Anyway, what’s forty-seven? Some of the greatest writers in the world didn’t do their best stuff till they were near ancient! But what the hell, it’s your choice.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is.’ Kate shifted her focus so that her father’s face softened. She thought about the vacant room in Angie’s unit, quiet and peaceful and undemanding. ‘Dad? Did you hear about Angie getting a boarder?’
‘You mean how you’d like to be her boarder?’
Kate rested her finger on her father’s chin. ‘Yes.’
‘Well, go for it, girl.’
‘Really?’ Kate felt a bubble of excitement. ‘But I can’t just shift out . . . can I?’
‘Why not? You lot can afford it now, what with flattening my house. I mean, you’re going to make a killing on all these units here, aren’t you?’
‘Oh god, Dad. I didn’t –’
‘Doesn’t matter, love. Do what you have to. I owe you that much. But the point is, this is your chance. I don’t know whether you can write or not. I reckon you’re good at it, but then I’m your father. By the way, you get that from your mum, you know.’
Kate smiled at the gift. ‘Yes, so you’ve said.’
‘But anyway, I’ll tell you something for nothing here – you need to find out whether you can write a book or you’ll never settle. If that means moving out for a bit, then so be it. If Sam’s got any sense, he’ll see it’s a small price to pay to stop your . . .’
‘Whining?’
‘Yes. And it’s not like you’re splitting up or anything. Not like Angie did. No, just look at it like it’s your office. You don’t even have to sleep there, just spend the days, and see what happens.’
‘My office,’ repeated Kate softly, scratching a fingernail absentmindedly at the paint that rimmed her father’s face.
‘Exactly. Although sleeping there mightn’t be a bad idea either, maybe even get rid of those dreams you’ve been having. Besides, it won’t do that lot of yours any harm to have to fend for themselves a bit. Especially the kids. They run you ragged.’
Kate grimaced defensively. ‘They’re not that bad.’
‘Sure they are – basically nice and spoilt rotten. But right now you need to get back to them. Sort your life out. And I’ve got to skedaddle.’
‘I don’t want you to go.’
‘Tough, you’ve got no choice. By the way, sorry I couldn’t go the same way as your uncle. It was hard on you, love, I know.’
‘Yes, it was. Still is.’
‘Wasn’t your fault, you know. It was mine. Should never have involved you. But that’s life, and if this helps you, then I say go for it. Now, for Christ’s sake, stop picking at my damn table.’
Kate opened her eyes fully and her father’s face vanished. She stared across the wrought iron for a moment before sitting up and pulling a sleeve over her hand to wipe down her face and then press hard against her eyes. When she removed it, the tabletop had turned into a kaleidoscope of images, all in sparkling greys and browns. Slowly, her focus came back but the face was still gone. Along with his understanding, and compassion, and reliability. All that was left was a circle of lumpy brown surrounding a knob of darkened rust. Which, from this angle, just looked like a rather well-used nipple. Despite herself, Kate smiled as she put a finger out to run gently over the areola. Perhaps she would be better off forgetting about the writing and instead harnessing her creative side into sculpture and using this as her first piece. She could call it ‘Corroded Motherhood’ and sell it for a fortune.
FOUR
‘So you see it wouldn’t be a separation at all. More like a . . . well, long service leave. Six months tops. A hiatus of sorts.’
Expressionlessly, Sam walked slowly along the tiled lip of the pool, dragging the leaf catcher through the water to skim curly-edged brown leaves and the odd twig off the surface. Kate, from her position perched on the steps of the decking, watched him carefully and waited for some sort of response. Anything.
‘And the unit would be like an office. Where I do my work.’
Sam lifted the leaf catcher out of the water and swung it through the air like a celebratory banner. A sparkling spray of water followed its arc until he banged it against the fence, hard. The leaves tumbled damply into the garden and then he hefted it back up again, splashing it down into the pool to continue his methodical progress.
‘And this would still be home. I mean, I’d be coming back here all the time.’ Kate waited patiently for an answer but none was forthcoming. Hector wandered slowly up the path and then stood hesitantly for a few moments before lurching up beside her where he collapsed across the step, panting. She put out a hand and ruffled the pouched fur around his collar, then turned back to Sam. ‘You know, staying over, and coming on Fridays to do your books. Like usual.’
Sam lifted the leaf catcher up slightly and watched as a bee clambered drunkenly up the rim. Once clear of the water, it spread its wings several times, trying to dry them. Sam brought the leaf catcher over to the edge and tapped it gently on the concrete, letting the bee fall to the ground in a scattering of leaves. After a moment, where it couldn’t be seen, the tiny insect crawled clear and then stopped by the pool gate, unwilling or unable to make a definitive bid for freedom.
‘I know you don’t understand and I am really, really sorry about that. But it’s something I need to do. And I just can’t do it here. I need to get . . . away.’ Kate spoke slowly and without looking at Sam. Instead, she stared at the bee, mentally urging it to flight. You can do it, just give it a try.
‘You know what really pisses me off?’
Kate’s gaze flicked upwards, to her husband’s face, staring at her impassively as he leant against the leaf catcher.
‘It’s that I built the bloody bungalow.’ Sam jabbed a finger accusingly in the direction of the bungalow
, behind the jasmine-covered trellis. ‘All because you wanted somewhere to do your bloody writing. So you’ve had plenty of chances to do whatever it is you need to do. But no, you wait till now. And don’t think I don’t know why. It’s because you’re trying to punish me.’
‘Punish you?’
‘Don’t play the innocent, Kate, it doesn’t suit you. You’re trying to punish me for building the units, it’s as simple as that.’
‘What!’ Kate sat up straight and stared at her husband, taken aback by the accusation. ‘That’s ridiculous!’
‘You reckon I railroaded you into the whole thing; you’ve made no secret of that. So now it’s payback time, hey?’
‘That is the stupidest thing you’ve ever come up with. As if I’d –’
‘And what also pisses me off is that you’re not taking it out on Angie, are you? Yet she was just as keen about the whole plan!’ Sam picked up the leaf catcher and thrust it down into the pool, turning away from Kate as he began slapping it through the water, sending the leaves away on waves rather than collecting them.
Surprise transformed into anger, measured by the tightening of Kate’s lips. She pushed Hector off her lap and spoke curtly. ‘The fact that you feel driven to raze my father’s house to the ground has absolutely nothing to do with my wanting to write. I have always wanted to write, and you bloody well know that. As for the bungalow, it’s not exactly empty. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s got –’
‘I know it’s not empty!’ Sam stopped punching the leaf catcher through the water and stared at her again. ‘I’m not a bloody idiot. But you’re acting like you’re some sort of martyr. I mean, I built the damn thing for you!’
‘For me? Or just to shut me up?’
‘What’s the damn difference?’ Sam punctuated his words by swinging the leaf catcher through the air again and slamming it against the fence with a thud that echoed along the palings. Clearly gaining some sense of satisfaction, Sam arced the catcher backwards and then walloped it against the fence once more. This time the thud was followed immediately by a crisp snapping sound and the head of the leaf catcher fell into the garden bed.