Rose by Any Other Name

by Maureen McCarthy

  ‘Anyway, you deserve it,’ he mumbles.

  ‘Not really.’ I am suddenly close to tears again, so I tuck the money back into the envelope, get up and pin it up on the notice-board near the fridge, then go to the sink and get a glass of water. I make myself take a few deep breaths before turning around again. Thankfully, by this stage Dot is telling him when she’ll be starting back at university so the moment passes.

  Dad is exactly the same: warm, funny and ironic. And yet . . . being with him now is totally different. It’s not only the cool undercurrent coming from Cynthia that makes things awkward. It is more about the chasm of unspoken subjects that are lying between us. I want to ask him where he is living and who is he is living with, and yet . . . I desperately don’t want to know.

  After about forty minutes there is a lull in the conversation.

  ‘So, girls, how is your mother?’ he asks at last. There are a few moments where none of us says anything. I look at my sisters, only to find Hilda looking away uncomfortably, Cynthia staring at her hands and Dot switching her gaze from Cynthia to me to Hilda.

  ‘Why don’t you ask her?’ Cynthia’s voice is icy.

  ‘Well, I will Cynthia, I will,’ Dad replies mildly, ‘but I’d still like to know how things are from your point of view.’

  ‘Well then, things are awful.’ Cynthia looks around at the rest of us for confirmation. ‘Bloody awful, if you want the truth. Mum is not coping. She can’t eat or sleep. She does nothing all day and cries continuously . . . I personally think she should be hospitalised . . .’ But Cynthia doesn’t get to finish her sentence.

  The door from the hallway suddenly opens and there is Mum, in her old, very beautiful green dressing-gown, looking absolutely . . . terrible. Distraught. Crazy. Completely freaked. I hadn’t realised how much weight she’d lost! I see now that she’s changed from being a pleasantly plump, curvy woman into a thin, pale and washed-out one. The dressing-gown, made of thick silk, was a present from Dad years ago. I remember him bringing it home from Paris in the fanciest gold box I’d ever seen, when I was about ten. It used to suit her perfectly. Cut on the cross in that flattering forties style, with a pointed waist and soft gathering on the bust and hips, the soft colour gave her fair skin and red hair a luminescence that made everyone who saw her in it suggest she get more clothes in the same shade. Not now. Now it drapes around her like a piece of old curtain and the subtle green only accentuates the transparent quality of her skin, making her look ill.

  Obviously shocked, too, Dad doesn’t quite know what to do. He goes to stand up but then thinks better of it and remains sitting. Mum has stopped in the doorway, and they stare at each other for close on half a minute. The rest of us sit still, not knowing where to look, barely breathing.

  ‘Hello, Patsy,’ Dad says at last, but she doesn’t even nod, much less acknowledge his greeting in words.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she demands in a hoarse voice that doesn’t even sound like her. She is standing, tall and very still, her chin held defiantly as though she’s about to prove something.

  ‘I came to see the girls,’ Dad says simply, then with a small smile he motions to the bunch of flowers on the table, ‘and of course to congratulate our Rose on her wonderful results.’

  ‘Get out!’ she hisses. Dad winces as though she has struck him. His face drains. Hilda stands up, puts a hand out towards Mum, opens her mouth to say something but then thinks better of it. None of us has ever seen our mother like this. Not with anyone. I remember her getting mad once when some guy wrongly accused her of smashing into his car. She really let him have it – but it was nothing like this.

  Dad nods and slowly stands up.

  ‘I think it’s pretty legitimate for me to come and congratulate our daughter on her VCE results,’ he says, ‘but if you would prefer . . .’

  ‘You no longer live here!’ Mum yells, cutting him off. ‘It is no longer your home! You have no right to come in the door!’

  Dad’s mouth tightens angrily but he swallows it and merely shrugs. ‘I did try to ring,’ he says in this strained, put-upon way, standing with his arms folded tightly against his chest, ‘a number of times. I left messages.’ He turns around to us. ‘But no one rang back, so . . .’

  ‘So you decided to just come in anyway!’ Mum interjects.

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘How dare you treat me with such contempt!’

  ‘Now, Patsy,’ Dad cuts in forcefully, ‘I have never treated you with contempt. Would never . . . do that. Quite the wrong interpretation of events.’

  ‘You have treated me with absolute contempt,’ she screams straight back. ‘You have shamed me terribly!’

  ‘Shamed you?’ He is genuinely bewildered.

  ‘Utterly shamed me!’

  ‘Patsy, for goodness sake!’ Dad is genuinely at a loss. ‘This is not the nineteenth century! You have a job and your children. This house. You will not be left destitute! There is plenty of money.’ He pauses. They are still staring at each other. Dad lowers his voice into a more kindly tone. ‘You’re an attractive woman. After some time . . . I don’t see why we can’t be friends again. Good friends. I know I want that. You are dear to me, Patsy. The girls are dear to me. I have never said I want you out of my life . . .’

  Then Mum does something that is so shocking that I can barely believe it. Even when I see it with my own eyes, it’s as though it happens in a dream. She picks up the vase from the nearby dresser, a quite large ornate vase that Grandma Greta gave them eight years ago for their twentieth wedding anniversary, and she throws it straight at his head with all her might. Dad manages to duck in time, but only just. Honestly, it could have killed him! The vase slams into the wall and smashes into tiny pieces. Dot screams, the rest of us gasp and leap to our feet. We are standing there, breathing quickly, shaking a bit, staring at the large half-moon shaped hole in the plaster. Mum moves quickly to the table. She picks up the plate of chicken bones and hurls that, too. The twins wake up, with a sharp cry from each of them, and then they are silent and watchful, as though they understand intuitively that a huge drama is happening and they’ll miss it if they don’t keep still.

  ‘Patsy, stop this!’ Dad shouts, deeply distraught. He has always hated violence of any kind. ‘Stop it at once!’

  ‘Don’t tell me what to do!’ Mum screams, grabbing a jar of chutney. ‘Just get out!’

  Hilda rushes over to the twins, pulls them protectively onto her knees and starts sobbing loudly as the chutney jar smashes against the wall. Dad makes a move towards Hilda, then stops when he sees Mum is all set to throw something else. He retreats to the door, his face twisted up with utter bewilderment and pain.

  ‘Okay, Patsy!’ he calls shakily, pointing at Hilda and the twins. ‘I’m leaving right now! I beg you not to do this in front of our children. You’ll . . . be so sorry later!’

  ‘Will I?’ she screams. ‘Will I really? I’ll be sorry, will I?’

  ‘Yes. I think you will.’

  ‘Don’t you dare tell me what I’m going to feel!’ she yells. ‘Did you tell your children that you’ve been seeing this woman for two years?’ Mum adds sarcastically, ‘On and off.’

  Dad groans and shuts his eyes. There is an awful, sharp silence as those words settle over us. I don’t know why but this information takes everything that has happened down to a new level of awfulness. It feels as though someone is up there tightening the screws on all our lives and there is nothing any of us can do.

  ‘Her name is Cassandra,’ Dad says in a low, desperate voice, ‘and I thought we agreed it was not necessary to disclose these kinds of painful details to our children.’

  ‘So you won’t appear in a bad light!’ Mum hits back savagely. ‘Well, fuck you, Justus! I’ve changed my mind! I’m going to tell everybody!’

  Another first. My mother rarely swears. If she’s seriously angry or stressed she might say ‘damn’ or ‘bloody’ but never ‘fuck’. I don’t think Dad has ever heard he
r use that word either, because he gives an almighty shudder of distaste before he opens the door and walks out.

  Mum stands there for a few moments, staring straight in front of her. Her hands, still holding a couple of bowls, begin to shake violently. Without looking at the rest of us she suddenly puts the bowls down again, turns around and disappears through the same door she came in. Back up to her room, I guess. The rest of us stand looking blankly at each other, except for Hilda who sits crying on the settee.

  The phone starts ringing.

  No one moves and it rings and rings and . . . rings. The three of us stand looking at each other like zombies as Hilda continues to sob on the couch. We’re all waiting for the appalling shrill noise to stop. After it rings out once there is a short wait and it begins all over again. Oh shit. Someone must have accidentally unplugged the answering machine.

  I come out of my shocked stupor and pick up the receiver.

  ‘Can you come out?’ It’s Zoe, in breathless mode.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now!’ she says. ‘Jane Morton just rang me. Peeping Tom are playing the Social Club in an hour. Last gig before they go overseas. There is a group of us going down. Come on!’

  ‘Zoe, I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Why not? Just, everything and . . . no good reason at all. I really like Peeping Tom. Then I look around. My three older sisters are all looking back at me blankly. I’m the sane, sensible one that they’re all counting on.

  ‘I just can’t, Zoe,’ I say again. ‘Not tonight.’

  ‘Well, do you mind if I ring him?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know! It would be such a cool band for that guy to hear!’

  That guy? She means Nat Cummins. Do I mind if she calls up Nat? Well . . . yeah. Of course I do. I mind very much.

  ‘Oh, course not.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, it’s okay,’ I say, actually trying to inject enthusiasm into my voice. Why? I realise I’m not thinking straight, but I don’t know what to do about it. This is ridiculous, I know. I should say something right now. Crazy not to. Zoe would back off if she knew . . . She would, wouldn’t she?

  ‘Rose,’ she says, ‘tell me! Do you mind if I ring him?’

  But I suddenly don’t have the energy for anything. Not for Zoe or for whatever she has going, or wants to have going, with Nat. There is this low buzz of misery bubbling in my ears and I am looking at my life from a distance. What will be will be. I say goodbye and put the phone down listlessly.

  Last Summer, Apollo Bay

  If Zoe hadn’t gone to bed early that first night, then none of it would have happened. That’s what I often tell myself when I’m looking around for someone else to blame. What happened next seemed like fate . . . but I don’t believe that, either. I’ve always thought that believing in fate was a coward’s way out. I reckon we’ve got to take responsibility for what we do, or give up altogether.

  I feel better after my shower, and it’s easy for a while. Ray makes us all a snack, which Zoe won’t eat, but he manages to talk her into some fruit and yoghurt and she picks at it a bit. Ray heads out to work on the car he is fixing for her, and Zoe and I play cards and listen to music. She seems to have forgotten that she wanted to discuss something important so I don’t ask. It’s all okay. In fact, all the weird stuff fades into the background and, before we know it, the day has all but disappeared.

  At about seven, Ray comes back inside and washes his oily hands at the kitchen sink.

  ‘So what’s for tea, girls?’ he jokes. But of course Zoe and I haven’t thought that far ahead. We look at each other and shrug.

  ‘Just as I thought!’ He pretends to be angry as he pulls open the fridge, pulls out a big fish and holds it up by the tail. ‘Okay, smarty-pants Rose, what are you gunna do with this?’

  ‘Me?’ I squeak. Hasn’t he heard? I’m the worst cook in the world.

  ‘Yes, you!’

  ‘Er . . . well,’ I say, ‘I guess I could . . . eat it?’

  ‘This girl has her wits about her!’ He chuckles, whacks the fish down on the table and selects a couple of sharp knives. ‘Come on, you two, I need helpers. We’re gunna have ourselves some fancy frog soup.’

  So he shows us both how to make bouillabaisse. It’s the three of us in the kitchen, with Zoe and me taking direction. We chop, slice up the fish and vegetables, and joke around in French. He spent time in Paris as a young man and so has the accent down pat, along with a few key words and phrases. Zoe and I aren’t too bad either. Our French mistress at school was a native speaker and a good teacher and we both did well. But, by the time the dish is ready and smelling absolutely divine, Zoe is feeling pukey again.

  ‘Do you mind if I just go to bed?’ she asks.

  ‘After dinner,’ her dad insists.

  ‘I can’t eat, Dad,’ she says, holding her head. ‘Honestly, just the smell is making me feel sick.’

  ‘You can go to bed if you eat a sandwich.’

  Zoe raises her eyebrows at me, as though this is the most unreasonable thing she’s ever heard.

  ‘Okay then.’

  As soon as Zoe is in bed I go outside onto the deck with a magazine. I pretend I’m reading it but I’m really watching the light fade and wondering why I feel apprehensive, as though I should make some excuse and head off to bed too. It would save feeling . . . so jumpy and awkward. The door slides open behind me.

  ‘Hey, Rose, the soup is nearly ready. You want a wine?’

  ‘Okay. Thanks.’

  He brings me a glass of red and then disappears back inside again to see to the food. When he doesn’t come back out to join me I am . . . disappointed.

  We sit across from each other at the table in the fading light, two large bowls of the delicious-smelling, steaming fish soup in front of us. Behind him the kitchen light has been turned off, but through the windows we can see the blue tinge of twilight sweeping over the fence and garden. The sounds of the sea are rushing and pulling in the background.

  ‘We need a bit of light here,’ he mutters, getting up and going to the side dresser. He lights one of the big candles and carefully brings it over to the table. The dinner table is suddenly bathed in a cocoon of soft, warm yellow and his face looks so . . . interesting. Old, but handsome in a way I don’t understand. I’m embarrassed. Something tells me he wouldn’t bother lighting a candle if it was just him and Zoe sitting down to eat. Then again, I could be wrong. Some people light candles every night, don’t they? But what if Zoe came out right at this moment? Would she find her best friend sitting like this across from her old man a bit weird? Or not?

  I look over at the TV. I’m on my second glass of wine, but I know that’s where we should be. Zoe is in bed and so her father and I should be sitting on different couches, eating our soup, laughing at some dumb American sitcom, not looking into each other’s faces across a narrow table. But my hair is hanging just so, in freshly-washed, gleaming curls and I’m wearing my best tight mauve top and light cotton pants that fit snugly around my hips. I have on the high-heeled sandals that Zoe made me buy only the week before. I’ve had a glass of wine and I feel . . . I feel beautiful. For the first time in my life I feel beautiful and grown up.

  ‘You have beautiful eyes, Rose!’ Ray says, squinting at me. ‘I’ve been trying to work out what colour they are. Brown, I thought at first. Then hazel, this afternoon on the beach. But in this light they look almost green!’

  ‘Brown,’ I say shortly. Feeling myself flush, I turn back to my soup. ‘That’s what it says on my passport anyway!’

  Well,’ he laughs wryly, ‘they must be brown if it’s written on your passport.’

  ‘So how come you have all these posters?’ I ask brightly, trying hard to keep things ordinary, to sound like an ordinary eighteen-year–old talking to a much older man. ‘Did you go to all those concerts or did you get them from friends?’

  He doesn’t answer immediately. Just cuts a few slices
from the warm bread and hands me one. Our fingers touch, and I recoil as though I’ve been stung, but he doesn’t seem to notice so I put the bread on my plate and reach out for the butter.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I went to most of them,’ he explains softly, looking up from his soup, letting his eyes wander briefly over the walls before coming back to my face. ‘I was a roadie for years with a number of bands.’

  ‘Really?’ I ask. Did Zoe tell me this? I don’t think so. No bells are ringing. Zoe only ever spoke about her father in a very vague, offhand way. ‘Which bands?’

  ‘Oh, famous ones and some . . . not so famous.’ He smiles slowly. ‘I started off with Manfred Mann. You probably haven’t heard of them.’ Yes I have! Of course I have! ‘But I suppose my big claim to fame is that I was with the Stones for a while.’

  ‘The Stones!’ I say excitedly. Why didn’t Zoe tell me this!

  ‘One summer I lugged their equipment around, Rose,’ he grins at my enthusiasm, ‘with a whole lot of other guys. I didn’t play music with them and it wasn’t all that glamorous to tell you the truth! I was a nineteen-year-old kid carting stuff around and that was about it.’

  ‘But you would have met them and heard them play a lot?’

  ‘Oh, sure, yeah,’ he bites into his bread, ‘and I got to go to a lot of free concerts, too. And sometimes we got in on some of . . . the action.’

  ‘The action. How do you mean?’

  He looks away a moment as though slightly embarrassed at having mentioned it.

  ‘Oh, you know,’ he shrugs with a diffident smile, ‘the booze and the drugs and the . . . pretty girls.’ He hesitates. ‘Some of it wasn’t all that nice.’

  I nod, remembering those old vintage Rolling Stone magazines from the seventies that Zoe and I pored over the summer before. The journos covering those big band tours wrote some pretty hairy stories of what happened. Amazing to think I’m sitting across from someone who was there!

  ‘So, who else?’