Rose by Any Other Name

by Maureen McCarthy

  A couple of minutes later Zoe bursts in.

  ‘Sorry! I got caught up with some old fart in the supermarket who knows you, Dad.’ Still holding plastic bags full of groceries, she rushes over to me and gives me a big apologetic hug before she chucks them down and turns to her father with a beaming smile. ‘At last you get to meet Rose! Isn’t she fantastic?’

  ‘Yep,’ her father nods slowly, looking at me, ‘no question about it. She’s fantastic.’

  We all laugh, but his words make a fizz of excitement pulse through me before I can think. There is something odd going on here and I don’t know what it is. For no good reason a nervous tingle spreads down from my chest into my belly and legs.

  The rest of the afternoon is spent surfing. We pile our boards into Ray’s kombi and the three of us hit the waves. Zoe and I head out together and her father takes a spot further up the beach. The wind is up, it’s a bit choppy and I miss quite a few because I’m so out of practice, but it’s still wonderful. Actually, after the last couple of weeks, it is total bliss. I decide not to ask Zoe about the new guy until later.

  I love the way time loses its stranglehold when I’m surfing. Not that you don’t think about things when you’re paddling out, or you’re up there riding a wave. All kinds of stuff slides into your head, but everything is knocked back down to size. Who cares if you’re late or early, if it’s three or six o’clock? Who cares about some weird vibe between you and your best friend’s father? I mean how crazy is that? You want to laugh out loud. Such bullshit. With a big sky surrounding you, spreading up and out as far as you can see, and this water the colour of fresh mint biting into your skin, you feel cleaned out from the inside, cool as a slippery fish inside your wetsuit. You’re just one of the sea creatures going about their business and it makes absolute sense to be right where you are.

  The sun will tell us when our time is up – the sun and my own belly – growling for food. Out here in the waves the knots untangle all by themselves.

  Zoe is the first one out. I see her sitting halfway up the beach out of her wetsuit, and I’m surprised she hasn’t lasted longer. There is no way I’m ready to come in yet. I wave and she waves back. If she wants me out for any reason then she’ll have to come and get me.

  When I do come in, at least an hour later, she’s lying on her back with her knees up, and eyes closed. Her father is sitting next to her, staring distractedly out to sea.

  ‘Hey!’ I say, all breathless and enthusiastic, shaking my hair about like a puppy. ‘I’m completely wrecked!’

  Her father smiles at me as I unzip my wetsuit and begin pulling it off. I wrap a towel around me, then plonk myself down next to Zoe.

  ‘You got out early.’

  Zoe groans and sits up.

  ‘Got a headache,’ she mumbles.

  ‘You didn’t have anything to eat, Zoe,’ Ray chides quietly.

  ‘I’m on a diet.’

  He and I share a bemused smile. Zoe is always doing something mad with food. Starving herself on some stupid low-this or low-that plan that she can never stick to for more than a day, or else she’s on a total pies-and-chocolate bender.

  ‘You got to eat,’ her dad says, stroking her head a couple of times, ‘or you’ll have no energy and you’ll feel sick.’

  ‘Hunger doesn’t give you a headache, Dad,’ Zoe sniffs mournfully.

  ‘Yes it does!’ I say. ‘If I’m hungry, I get a headache.’

  ‘Yeah, but you’re a weirdo!’ Zoe laughs quietly and covers her eyes as though in pain. ‘Sorry, but I’m going to have to pike out . . .’

  ‘You want to go home?’ her father asks.

  ‘Yeah, I’m feeling putrid,’ she groans. ‘Sorry.’

  We get up reluctantly and begin to pack up our things. I slip on my little skirt, aware of the other two watching me as I zip it up.

  ‘I bet Rose doesn’t go on crappy diets,’ her father says approvingly.

  ‘So!’ Zoe gives me a jab in the ribs. ‘She’s a skinny arse!’

  We begin to make our way slowly up the sand to the car.

  It’s true, I don’t diet. I’m naturally slim. I don’t think about what I eat and I reckon that is the key. But I don’t like her father comparing us, making out I’ve got it all together while she hasn’t. I don’t know what I’d be like if I was naturally big. I’d probably be on stupid diets and crap, too.

  ‘I’ve got other problems,’ I say weakly.

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ Ray says, amused. ‘Such as?’

  ‘She’s one big problem!’ Zoe cuts into the odd moment between me and her father with a giggle. ‘Just look at her.’

  And so it goes. Easy enough, but as the day proceeds and we make our way back to the car and then to the house, the weird undercurrent surfaces again. He takes my board from me to put in the car – Zoe’s board is already in and she’s waiting in the front seat – and there is a moment’s hesitation, with us both holding the board. We stand there at the back of the car, inside the open doors, not looking at each other, just breathing. It’s as though he’s waiting for something to happen, or for me to say something, at least. I pull away feeling totally wired up.

  Two minutes later I find myself sitting in the back seat leaning forward a little, staring at his hands on the steering wheel, at the strong, blunt fingers still covered faintly in oil stains. I make myself sit back and look out the window but the lines at the back of his neck and the way his hair is flecked through with grey catch my attention. This guy is old. But when he puts one of those hands out to caress Zoe’s knee as he explains something about road rules (Zoe has only just got her licence), I am breathless for a moment as though it’s me he’s about to touch, and I’m walking a tightrope, waiting for it. What is going on?

  ‘Hey Rose!’ Zoe calls from where she’s lying on her bed. ‘There’s stuff I’ve got to talk to you about.’

  I’m off to the bathroom for a shower but I stop in the doorway of her room, a towel hung around my shoulders.

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ I say. She looks back at me with this weird, sheepish expression on her face but doesn’t say anything. Suddenly I know. Nat Cummins is the new bloke. Has to be. A flare of anger ignites in my chest. She wants to get it all out, then hear me tell her it’s all just fine with me. Nothing has happened between them yet but she wants to tell me now how keen she is to push it. She knows . . . she knows I like him. I don’t know how I know this last bit, but I do.

  ‘Can it wait till after my shower?’ I say lightly. ‘I feel too poxy to talk right now.’

  Grains of sand swirl around the plug hole before disappearing. Come on, be fair, Rose. How would Zoe know about me and Nat? Stop being paranoid. Unless he told her . . . but I can’t imagine him being that uncool. I mean, nothing really happened between us. Be fair, Rose. I told her that it was fine to ask him out, even though I couldn’t come. I turn off the shower and stand naked, drying myself slowly. I hear her father moving along the passageway whistling ‘Wish You Were Here’, and it sends a sudden, sharp shiver right into my guts, and my head catapults off in another direction altogether. I put on my clothes and decide all the crap happening at home is making me crazy. I console myself with that thought as I tousle my hair in front of the mirror. When I bend to search for a lipstick in my wash bag I stop for a moment before applying it. Lipstick? Why am I so desperate to look nice?

  Road Trip

  ‘Dorothy has gone completely nuts.’

  I’d been about to walk around the back of the house with the dogs to see if there was a view of the sea when my phone started ringing.

  It was Cynthia in Army General role, getting the troops into line.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I ask. The reception isn’t good. All the hiss and crackle is making my sister sound like a foreign correspondent reporting from Iraq.

  ‘Have you still got Mum?’ she wants to know.

  ‘What do you think?’ I shout impatiently.

  ‘Don’t shout!’ she shouts back. ‘May I spea
k to her please?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘What do you mean, not really? Dot said you left her with some hitchhiker! Why on earth did you pick up a hitchhiker, Rose?’

  ‘You’re breaking up, Cynthia.’ I say. Not true but I’m not about to admit any hitchhiker regret to her. I walk over to the house now and it’s sounding clearer.

  ‘I can hear you very well!’ she snaps back. Damn. ‘So where are you?’ she wants to know, ‘and why aren’t you there already? Dot is going berserk! Dad has arrived. And guess what? He’s got Cassandra with him. They’re staying at The Stump.’

  ‘You’re kidding,’ I say, shocked. ‘Why would he bring her?’

  ‘Who knows? But I want to warn Mum.’

  ‘Is she, Cassandra, I mean, hanging around the house with Gran and Dot?’

  My mind boggles trying to imagine that cool, glamorous, red-suited woman in Gran’s cluttered kitchen.

  ‘No. But it’s still awful. Ring Dorothy, Rose. Let her know what is happening!’

  ‘Nothing is happening!’

  ‘Well things are happening here!’ she declares. ‘Hilda and David are fighting again and . . .’

  I let her ramble on with the latest details about the state of play of our eldest sister’s marriage, which is apparently in some kind of dive, but I refuse to get involved.

  Don’tcha just hate it when you’ve left home but your family expects you to join in all their squabbles and dramas. Just ride the surface you tell yourself, and think of something else while they’re yabbering on at you. The moment you start to think about what they’re saying, you’re gone. Feels like standing on a cliff that is slowly giving way beneath your feet . . . There you go, sinking back into the spot where you were before.

  We are both quiet for a moment.

  ‘So where is Mum?’ Cynthia wants to know.

  ‘I frankly don’t know if I’ll ever see her again,’ I say, just to irritate her. Cynthia always has to know where everyone is at any given time of the day or night. But her view of how life should proceed just begs to be ruffled occasionally. ‘I’m in a tiny remote house in the hills at the back of Apollo Bay and we’ve just driven the hitchhiker out to see his son who he hasn’t seen in two years. Mum has gone inside with him and they’ve been gone for ages!’

  There is silence as Cynthia churns this over in silence.

  ‘Go inside and get her, at once,’ she orders sharply. ‘You know what Mum is like, Rose! She is probably signing away the house or something, as we speak. Get her. This isn’t funny.’

  ‘I can’t,’ I say.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t trust myself with the hitchhiker.’

  ‘Jeez, Rose!’ She gives one of her deep, exasperated sighs.

  ‘Look, I’m joking,’ I say. ‘They won’t be long. He just wants her to meet his kid.’

  ‘I hope you are going to university next year?’

  ‘What?’ But I shouldn’t be surprised by this turn in the conversation. It’s so like her to change the subject, just as I’m getting comfortable.

  ‘Well . . . you’ve got a brain,’ Cynthia declares. ‘Someone told me they saw you in the State Library recently. You looked very involved. They said you were definitely writing something. See . . . that says it all. You’re destined for serious study, Rose, whether you like it or not, it’s in the family.’

  The family! Jesus, I hate the way they all have this strong belief in the family, even though we don’t have one any more, well . . . not a proper one. Just because they’re all high achievers doesn’t mean I have to be one. There are some days when I actually like being a waitress and I don’t want to be anything else.

  ‘It must have been someone else,’ I mumble, as a shiver of dismay goes through me. ‘Gotta go now, Cynthia.’

  ‘Rose, answer me!’

  ‘Sorry, Cynthia, you’re breaking up.’

  Just then, Mum, the hitchhiker, a young boy of about ten and a very fat middle-aged woman I’ve never seen before come out the front door. I decide not to tell Mum about Cynthia’s call. Why get her upset before she has to be? We’ll be there soon enough. I’m introduced to Marion, the woman who has been looking after the kid, and then to the kid himself. He is a surprisingly nice-looking boy with dark curly hair, deep brown eyes and a serious expression. I like the way he looks at me curiously when we shake hands, as though he’s expecting me to tell him something interesting. Sorry to have to disappoint you, kid.

  ‘We can give Travis and Peter a ride back into town, can’t we, Rose?’ Mum smiles anxiously, her hand on the kid’s shoulder like he belongs to her or something. ‘Seeing as we’ve got to go that way?’

  ‘What?’ Haven’t we just taken an hour out of our time to drive him out here to see his son? So why the hell are we driving them back in again? I sigh pointedly, raise my eyebrows and look away. Will this fiasco ever end?

  ‘They want to take Travis to see Peter’s mother in hospital,’ Mum explains quickly, just as though she knows what I’m thinking. ‘Marion’s husband will pick them up from there.’

  ‘No problem,’ I say, letting my voice teeter on the edge of sarcasm. ‘Anyone else want to go anywhere?’

  Without another word we all pile into the car, Mum and me in the front and the other three in the back. We strap ourselves in. I put the key into the ignition and turn. Nothing. I try again. I pump the gas. And again. And . . . nothing. The engine is absolutely dead. I don’t believe this. What now?

  I turn around and look at the three faces staring at me from the back seat and shrug.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mutter, ‘it won’t start.’ The hitchhiker gives a loud exasperated groan, slides the door open, gets out and lights a cigarette. I seriously do want to kill him at this moment. Oh sorry! I’m on the point of screaming. Sorry for not having a better car for you to have a free ride, you bloody jerk!

  Mum and the other woman exchange glances. The kid’s eyes stay on me. I wind down the window.

  ‘Don’t suppose you know anything about cars?’ I snap at Travis’s back. He turns around and shrugs without meeting my eyes.

  ‘That would be right!’ I snarl under my breath as I try again.

  ‘Well, never mind!’ Marion says cheerfully, giving the boy’s shoulders a little squeeze with her fat fingers. ‘Ross will be home soon.’

  ‘Does he know anything about cars?’

  ‘Oh yes, love,’ she declares mildly. ‘He’ll fix it. No worries.’

  ‘So when is he home?’

  ‘In an hour.’

  So we all pile out again.

  They invite me in for something to eat but, even though I’m hungry, I’m so shitty with everything that I refuse. Watching them go through that gate again I’m tempted to pick up a stone and chuck it at Travis’s back. What the fuck am I doing here? What if Ross – whoever he is – can’t fix my van? We’ll be stuck here forever!

  I wander around, kicking things and swearing to myself about the mistake of bringing Mum. After a while I calm down. There is nothing for it but to wait. My spirits revive a bit when I remember the packed lunches sitting in the van.

  I’m sitting on the ground with my back up against a tree, eating the sandwiches, when the kid approaches.

  ‘You want this?’ he asks, holding out a can of coke. He startles me a bit because I’d been looking the other way, but I take the can gratefully, break open the top and take a long guzzle. He stands there looking at me.

  ‘You want to see the calves?’ he asks after a while.

  ‘Okay.’ I finish off the drink. ‘What is your name again?’

  ‘Peter.’

  He ends up showing me all around the little dairy farm: the chooks, the dogs, the cows and about a dozen glossy-coated, tottering, black–and-white calves. So pretty. He’s a quiet kid but turns out to be amazingly knowledgeable. I can’t help being impressed. He knows how many cows there are in the paddock, and how many litres of milk they give each morning and night, and what prices the ca
lves are likely to bring when they’re sold in the spring. He tells me when they need rain and when they don’t, and what the government’s milk policy is, and what’s happening with dairy exports. At first I think I’ve happened on a genuine eccentric, a kind of quaint anachronism from another age, but after a while I start listening to what he’s actually saying and it’s interesting. When he’s not at school, he works alongside Ross, the owner. He proudly shows me the new posts they put in the day before where the cows had trampled down a section of the fence. He is just a young boy, but his serious attitude is surprisingly refreshing. After about half an hour I realise that I’m actually enjoying myself. What an excellent kid!

  He’s curious about me, too, but it takes him a while to get over his shyness. His first question makes me laugh.

  ‘Why is your hair like that?’

  ‘Just a crazy idea I had one day,’ is my answer. ‘Don’t you like it?’

  ‘It’s okay,’ he grins shyly. ‘Can I feel it?’ So I let him run his two hands over the top of my bristles. ‘At least you don’t have to comb it,’ he says thoughtfully.

  ‘That’s right.’

  We walk down the hill to a dam that is surrounded by trees. I squat down under one of them and watch this odd, skinny, self-contained kid skimming stones across the gleaming brown water and I try to imagine him transported suddenly to Sydney. How will it be for him?

  ‘Do you like my dad?’ he asks suddenly, without looking at me.

  ‘I don’t know him,’ I reply, avoiding the boy’s direct look. ‘What about you? Do you like him?’

  The kid shrugs and looks away and I immediately want to kick myself. What a stupid question for me to ask! He hasn’t even seen his father for two years.

  ‘My mum is dying,’ he says, still not looking at me. I knew this already and yet his words chill me. I look at his thin legs and his raised, bony arm in the big T-shirt, about to throw another stone and . . . something unfamiliar stirs inside me. What? Sympathy? I don’t know. I can’t put a word to the feeling. My mum is dying . . . I don’t know this kid. So why do I care?