by Isla Evans
Kate suddenly realised that, as depressingly awful as Rose’s background was, it was also, in some strange way, a relief. Because suddenly her mother was comprehensible again. She had not sprung forth from a happy, secure, middle-class home as a horrid woman; rather she had crawled from a wreck of a childhood and then probably tried to secure herself a future in one of the only ways she would have known. This new mother might not be the princess of her father’s stories, but she had regained her tragic essence – even enhanced it. And that was what Kate had always been used to.
The weather finally broke that afternoon, a brisk, cool breeze heralding a sheet of grey clouds that wrapped their way across the sky. An hour later they released their burden, sending down a drizzle of rain that rapidly became a torrent, beating against the windows with a ferocity that forced Kate to turn the television volume up. She was watching an American talk show, one of the types guaranteed to make even the most pessimistic person more cheerful about their own lives. Today’s topic seemed to be: How my father slept with my wife and then she had a baby who was both my step-child and my sibling.
Kate watched the show until the credits began to roll, then she turned the volume down and immediately the sound of hammering rain filled the room. She could see nothing through the windows but a greyness pierced by slashes of silver whipping across the glass. It brought a sense of isolation and seclusion that was strangely cathartic. She closed her eyes and, with the absence of sight, the drumming of the rain seemed to fill her head, banishing even reason. She laid her head against one of the cushions and let it massage her head, the repetition becoming almost hypnotic.
The shrill ringing of the telephone jerked Kate roughly awake, and she sat up, feeling dislocated and sodden with sleep. The sound of the rain had eased and a newsreader now filled the television screen, his lips moving wordlessly. The telephone rang again so Kate forced herself to answer it.
‘Hello?’ She turned her head from side to side, trying to erase the stiffness.
‘Hello! Who’s this? Angie?’
‘No, it’s Kate.’
‘Ah, hello, honey. You sound tired.’
‘Auntie Faye.’ Kate made an effort to lift the flatness of her tone. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m well. Very well. Now, did you ring me? Or was it Angie?’
‘It was me. How did you know?’
‘Can’t get anything past this old bird,’ Auntie Faye chuckled proudly. ‘You see, the answering machine picked up a call, but no message, so I just pressed a few buttons and voilà! Mystery solved. Ah, the wonders of technology.’
Kate stifled a yawn. ‘I was just ringing to say thanks. For lunch the other day.’
‘My pleasure. Any time.’
‘Well, it’s our turn next. You’ll have to come down here.’
Auntie Faye laughed. ‘Then I’d better make it soon, hadn’t I? That is, if Angie goes overseas. What wonderful news about Melissa, hey? I’ve already rung her to say congrats. Fancy me being a great-aunt! I’ll tell you a secret though, I thought something like this’d be on the cards. Just had this little feeling. I told Angie that too.’
‘Did you?’ Kate frowned to herself, but she wasn’t sure why. Something jarred. ‘So you’ve spoken to her?’
‘Oh, yes. We had a lovely chat this morning.’
‘I see. Um, and I suppose you spoke about . . .’
‘What, honey?’
Kate chewed her lip, wondering how best to ask the older woman whether she had said anything about their little chat over lunch. Then her eyes widened as she was suddenly struck by an anomaly that had framed the entire conversation. If Angie knew very little about her mother’s story, then why hadn’t Auntie Faye been more discreet in the first place? I’ll tell you a secret . . .
‘I’m going to have to go in a sec,’ prompted Auntie Faye. ‘I’ve got pottery. So . . . ?’
‘It was nothing,’ said Kate weakly. ‘Just wanted to say thanks. That’s all.’
‘Any time at all, honey. Have a lovely Easter.’
Kate hung up the phone slowly. She could have asked Auntie Faye directly but she wanted to get it straight in her mind first. Besides, that would only have served to emphasis the entire episode. And for all she knew, Auntie Faye suffered from periods of forgetfulness, or downright senility, and had put the whole thing out of her mind. In that case, to mention it now would only serve to remind her. And she may well feel that then she had to tell Angie.
But the initial anomaly remained, and Kate shook her head with amazement that it had never occurred to her before. Even while she was revealing particularly personal segments of the family history on Saturday, Auntie Faye had never once sounded like she was imparting anything confidential. She had spoken as if all was in the public arena already, and she was merely passing it on. Having a bit of a gossip. Kate thought back over the conversation, especially the last part where Auntie Faye had pointed cheerfully towards Sophie’s house. And she realised, with a flash of sudden understanding, that I’ll tell you a secret wasn’t the prelude to a revelation at all. It was just an expression. I’ll tell you a secret, this potato’s actually made from powder. I’ll tell you a secret, my sister lives just up the road. I’ll tell you a secret, Angie already knows. Everything.
SEVENTEEN
Dear Dad, have I opened Angie’s diary again? If so, I didn’t mean to. Could she really have known about this all along? Kept it a secret from me? I’ve been thinking about it a bit (there’s an understatement), and I’ve decided it makes little practical difference. If she’s in the dark, then it’s best that I continue on, prepare as complete a gift as possible. And if – as now seems possible – she does know, then I need to catch up. That way, when I confront her, my indignation can be informed (and not marred by curiosity).
PS: I’ll never know the full truth about my mother, will I? Not the things that matter, anyway. Like how did you meet? Did she maybe change after the two of you got married? Did happiness make a difference? I really want to think it did, so I’ve decided that’s what I’m going to do.
The week unfolded like a gift, day after day of a seclusion that was augmented by continuing inclement weather. Kate only went out once, to stock up on a few groceries, but apart from that she hunkered down and thrived within the isolation. She watched a lot of television, read a couple of books, and marked up a few manuscripts that weren’t due for a while. It was like a little holiday, unencumbered and wonderfully therapeutic. Better than a writers’ retreat, because there was nobody here to judge her.
It occurred to her that this time last year, as her father’s condition worsened, she would have done almost anything for free time like this. And in a way she had.
To her surprise, however, thoughts like this did not contain the sharply accusatory edges they once had. Certainly they made her feel saddened, but the actual pain seemed blunter, as if it had worn down with use. She steered clear of exploring what this meant, because the notion that she was becoming desensitised was depressing in itself.
Instead she concentrated on reimagining her mother and building a framework for Angie’s. Accordingly, Kate also spent a lot of time on the Internet, trawling through the local library website and some archival pages, in search of any references to those on her list. Wharton, Painter, and now Kimber as well. In particular, she was looking for something that referred to Frank’s departure to, or arrival back from, his time spent at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Along the way, she was also hoping for some mention of the Kimber family, maybe even something relating to the death of either or both of Rose’s parents. But all she found was a 1962 article about severe bushfires in the area that had caused over thirty fatalities, where a Mr F Painter was quoted as saying, ‘We thought we was all goners.’
So after hours of investigation, all she discovered was that her uncle hadn’t been a particularly dab hand at grammar, which she knew already. She sent a few enquiries to genealogy websites asking about pointers to discover prison records and cour
t documents but left it at that. It was then, late on Friday afternoon, that Kate went to check her emails quickly and found several Happy Easter ones from friends and a funny Easter chain letter from Shelley, with a bunny hopping across the bottom of the screen laying chocolate eggs as he went.
Kate smiled, and then slowly frowned. How soon was Easter? Even as she jumped off the couch and hurried towards the kitchen, and Angie’s Remarkable Scenes of Australia calendar, her stomach was clenching with unease. Yet this did not negate the disbelief she felt as she stared at the words Good Friday, which were clearly marked across the square containing today’s date. Kate blinked, but nothing changed.
Certainly she had noticed the array of hot-cross buns and chocolate eggs and oversized rabbits through the stores, but since they began making their appearance shortly after the New Year, she had just become accustomed to their presence. And certainly she had registered the occasional mention of Easter in conversations but, if she had thought about it at all, she had just assumed Easter was approaching sometime in early April, not when it was still March. In her defence, it was the earliest Easter for a number of years.
But the really puzzling facet was that there had been no mention of Easter from her family. Especially as this was a time they traditionally spent together, with their annual obeisance to religion being a fish dinner on Good Friday and then, on Sunday, a barbecue and a genial exchange of chocolate eggs. Kate sat down at the dining room table; she felt so hurt that she physically ached. Besides, this was Emma’s first Easter! Her first Easter!
It was also the first Easter since her father had died. And suddenly Kate thought she knew why nothing had been organised. They had been waiting for her, taking their cue from her actions. And as no actions had been forthcoming, maybe they’d thought she would prefer nothing to be done. But they were wrong. Kate ran upstairs to pack her bag for the weekend. Within twenty minutes she was reversing out onto the road, heading down to Lysterfield. She made two stops on the way, the first at a local supermarket to purchase an assortment of chocolate eggs, bunnies and bilbies, and a large box of chocolate-covered cashews for Sam; and the second to her father’s house. Kate didn’t stay there long. She strode through to the back, feeling rather embarrassed at what she intended but trying to mask it with brisk pragmatism.
The yard was even more overgrown now, the weeds most abundant over the vegetable patch. Knobbly dull-yellow lemons lay scattered on the ground near the tree, and Kate kicked a few away as she sat down at the old wrought-iron setting. Glancing around self-consciously, she slid a small, caramel-centred egg out of her pocket and put it down on the table. The royal blue silver foil glittered incongruously against the dull grey-white of the table top.
‘Happy Easter,’ Kate spoke in a low voice and then waited, staring down at the egg. There was no reply, and the silence that followed her words seemed somehow deeper than it had before she spoke. With one finger, she rolled the egg backwards and forwards over the rusted nipple section, while she let the quietness stretch until it moved from painful to almost boring. Then she picked up the egg and carefully wedged it into the empty umbrella hole at the centre of the table. ‘Happy Easter,’ she said again, but this time she just mouthed the words so that the ensuing silence didn’t seem quite so harsh.
It was nearly six o’clock by the time Kate pulled in the driveway and the first thing she noticed was the absence, once again, of Sam’s silver ute. She stared at the gap in front of the garage, surprised by the depth of her disappointment, and then grabbed her overnight bag from the back seat and walked slowly up the stairs.
Shelley was curled up with Emma on the couch in front of the television. On the coffee table were the remains of their dinner, which looked like it might have been spaghetti bolognaise. Both glanced across as Kate entered, but Emma, after a toothy smile, went straight back to staring at the television.
Shelley frowned. ‘Mum! What’re you doing here?’
Kate put her bag down by the doorway, feeling suddenly awkward. ‘Um, I just thought I’d . . . it is Good Friday, you know.’
‘Yeah, of course it is,’ Shelley nodded, and then her eyes widened. ‘Oh no! Did you think we were having a family dinner?’
‘Well, we do every year, so I sort of assumed . . .’
Shelley looked down at her empty plate and then back at her mother, clearly dismayed. ‘I never thought . . . but I did ask you a week or so ago what you were doing, and you didn’t answer. Shoot, I feel really bad now.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Kate, making an effort to keep her tone light. ‘So where’s everybody else?’
‘Up at Eildon. Hey, do you want some spag bog? I made heaps.’
Kate was staring at her daughter. ‘Eildon? Again?’
‘Yeah. So, do you want some?’
‘I, um . . . maybe later. Thanks.’
‘No problem.’ Shelley unfolded her long legs and sat up. She undid Emma’s bib before lowering her to the floor, where Emma immediately crawled over to the television and sat up again, transfixed by the vivid colours. Shelley picked up the remote control and reduced the volume.
Kate went over to her usual armchair and sat down. ‘So . . . why did they go up to Eildon again?’
‘Dunno,’ Shelley shrugged, and then glanced at her mother’s overnight bag curiously. ‘Are you staying over?’
‘Well, I was going to. I thought with Easter and all. Do you know when they’re going to be back?’
‘Not sure. Maybe tomorrow. I know Dad said we’d have a barbie on Sunday.’
‘Oh. Nice.’
Kate looked across at the television, where a cartoon cat was now being disembowelled by a hyperactive mouse. Emma stared raptly, her mouth open. ‘Do you think she should be watching this?’ Kate’s voice was harsher than she intended so she smiled to smooth it down. ‘Next thing you know, she’ll be decapitating you in your sleep. And you’ll only –’
‘Have myself to blame,’ finished Shelley, looking at her daughter pensively. As if sensing her audience, Emma flopped forward and crawled closer to the television, where she hoisted herself up awkwardly. She batted a hand against the colourful characters for a moment and then, mouth open, leant forward and started sucking the screen, a trickle of drool dribbling down the glass. In front of her, now partially blurred by smeared saliva, the mouse continued his macabre occupation. Kate grimaced and then looked across at Shelley with her eyebrows raised.
‘Okay, okay.’ Shelley picked up the remote and flicked the channel over. As Emma sat back down grumbling, she sighed and crossed her legs, jiggling one foot in the air rhythmically. ‘It’s just that it keeps her so quiet.’
‘I’m not surprised.’ Kate made a mental note to buy some child-appropriate DVDs, preferably ones that did not include evisceration amongst their learning tools.
‘I’m glad you came round,’ said Shelley suddenly. ‘I was going to drop in on you this weekend anyway.’
‘What for?’ asked Kate suspiciously.
‘God! Nothing.’ Shelley looked offended. ‘Can’t I drop in without ulterior motives?’
‘I don’t know. Can you?’
‘Very funny. Hey, did you hear about Melissa?’
Kate nodded, smiling. ‘Yes, great news. Your aunt is thrilled.’
‘So am I. Now I won’t be the only one in this generation with offspring.’
Kate looked at her curiously. ‘Does that bother you?’
‘Nah, not really.’ Shelley stared at her daughter, who had found a piece of spaghetti under the coffee table and was now occupied with trying to separate it from the carpet pile. ‘Well, only when people think I’m a screw-up.’
‘What! Who thinks you’re a screw-up?’ asked Kate, instantly furious.
‘Calm down, Mum,’ Shelley smiled and finally stopped jiggling her foot as she reached down and took the spaghetti from Emma, flicking it onto a plate. ‘Nobody thinks that in particular. It’s just sometimes when people look at Em, and then me, I can te
ll they’re thinking ‘Oh, you silly girl.’ You know.’
‘Yes, I suppose.’
Shelley kept her eyes on Emma. ‘Do you think I’m a screw-up?’
‘Certainly not,’ Kate didn’t hesitate. Although she was enormously surprised by the question, she sensed it was important her answer be honest and unsentimental. ‘I don’t deny I was shocked at the time, and I did wish you’d waited until you were in a really stable relationship, or more financially secure. But that’s life. And I think you’re an excellent mother and I also think you’re going to land on your feet. I have never once thought of you as a screw-up.’
‘Good,’ said Shelley, still without looking at her mother.
‘Besides, how can anyone have any regrets when they see little Miss Buggalugs here?’ asked Kate rhetorically as she leant forward and hoisted her grand-daughter up onto her lap. ‘Hey, Em? Who’s a beautiful girl then?’
Emma wriggled herself into comfort and then gazed up at her grandmother with an adoring expression. Kate, however, noticed the baby’s little finger being crooked expectantly. She took hold of it, just in case.
Shelley stacked Emma’s plastic plate on top of her own and then used the discarded bib to clean spaghetti sauce from the coffee table. She glanced over at her mother with a thoughtful expression. ‘So what’ve you got planned for tonight then?’
‘That depends. I mean, do you want me to stay?’ asked Kate, knowing that she was fishing for affirmation. Emma struggled to free her hand and then splayed her fingers and stared at them, as if searching for marks.
‘Absolutely. Except . . .’
‘Except what?’
‘Well, I was going out. Just over to some friends. And Daniel’s mum was going to have Em, but now she’s not well. So-o . . .’