‘Well, in my early twenties I went to America for a while and I learned a bit about sound. For a while there I was a mixer at some of the big concerts. Neil Young.’ He frowns trying to remember. ‘Then Jackson Browne and Emmerson, Lake and Palmer. I had my own mixing company with another guy.’ He looks away for a few moments then muses, ‘We were with Joni, too, for one summer.’
‘Joni Mitchell?’ I whisper, in awe. He nods and frowns as though embarrassed. ‘What was she like? Did you get to know her?’
He smiles and shakes his head. ‘Not really but we . . . worked up close for a while. She’s a nice woman but I don’t pretend we were ever friends. I wasn’t friends with any of these people,’ he smiles in a self-effacing way. ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’
‘Oh no. Don’t be sorry!’ I laugh. I like his honesty. It means whatever he tells me will be the truth and not a beat-up. ‘You haven’t disappointed me. It’s enough that you met them and worked with them and heard them play so often.’
‘Well, I certainly did that,’ he sighs, as though it is all a bit boring to him. ‘Now, how do you like that soup?’
‘Fantastic,’ I say and take a few more mouthfuls. ‘Did you ever, like, talk to Jimi Hendrix?’
‘No,’ he laughs, ‘but I did pass him on the back stairs once coming off stage, all dressed up and on his way to the toilet.’
‘God, you must be so old,’ I say in awe, without thinking. Then I flush with embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry. What I mean is that you must be so much older than you look?’
He laughs, but he pauses before he continues eating his soup. ‘Well, I dunno, Rose,’ he says guardedly, ‘I’m pretty old.’
We get seriously stuck into our soup and bread and continue talking. Mainly about music and the people he met in the early days. I’m awe-struck and keep coming back with more questions. How many hours a day would Eric Clapton practise? Was he really good friends with George Harrison? Was Led Zeppelin easy to deal with or were they crazy? He has all kinds of little anecdotes and stories that I lap up. The bottle of wine disappears and he opens another. I refuse any more because I know I’m a little drunk already. Besides, I feel totally easy now. All the nerves and jumpiness have gone.
We’re onto coffee and ice-cream when he tells me about the work he is presently doing. Zoe was never quite able to explain, so I’m interested. For the last ten years he’s been a buyer for a small chain of shops in the city that sells Eastern clothes, jewellery and artefacts. It involves being away a lot, travelling throughout India and Indonesia, choosing and buying the stuff to be shipped home.
He tells me funny stories about some of the characters he meets year after year, the stall owners and village entrepreneurs and artisans, who lie and bargain and get under his skin in all kinds of ways. I forget about Zoe in bed down the hallway. Her father is so nice, kind-hearted and funny all at once.
‘So you like it,’ I ask shyly, when there is a gap in the conversation. He is over at the fridge, serving us both more ice-cream.
‘It’s a living,’ he shrugs, coming back with my refilled bowl and setting it in front of me, ‘but to tell you the truth, I’m always so glad to get home.’ He sits down and suddenly reaches out and briefly covers my hand with his own and gives it a squeeze. ‘We’re so lucky here in Australia, Rose,’ he says earnestly, looking into my eyes, ‘having all this sea and space and clean air. So many people live such cramped and busy lives that they never even get to see the stars.’
‘Yes,’ I nod breathlessly. Him touching my hand like that has sent my head swirling off to another place altogether. I daren’t move and certainly don’t breathe until he moves it away again.
‘Would you like to see the sort of stuff I buy?’ he asks, pushing back his chair when we’ve both finished. ‘Give you some idea what I’m talking about.’
So we head out into the dark night, along a concrete path to a large back shed that I hadn’t noticed before. He unlocks it with a key hanging inside the door frame, pushes the door open and turns on the harsh fluorescent light hanging from the ceiling.
‘After you,’ he says politely, standing aside for me to enter.
I step into what I guess is a small warehouse, full of all kinds of bright, exotic Asian stuff. The walls have been roughly lined in white ply board and they’re covered in gold-threaded wall hangings, brocaded curtains, weavings and mats – a mass of rich colour. There are tables lining the walls as well, covered in carved wooden statues, ivory nick-nacks, batik paintings, all kinds of toys and jewellery and furniture. A couple of racks of bright, beaded clothing, too. I smile as I begin to wander around and look through it all, touching things, amazed at the variety of textures and workmanship.
‘So this gets sold in the shops?’ I ask.
‘No. This lot is mine,’ he says, pulling himself up onto a side bench, watching me move around.
‘Why isn’t it in the house?’
‘I sell it from here,’ he explains, his eyes shifting away uncomfortably. ‘Most of what I buy ends up in a warehouse in Melbourne, of course. But I keep a few bits and pieces for myself, on the side.’
‘I see,’ I say, wondering if that means that he pinches it. But I decide I don’t need to know.
Outside, it is still mild with not a cloud in the sky. The moon is a deep, buttery colour and almost round, and the endless swathes of stars light up the night like so-many-billion silver pins stuck into a huge dark cushion.
‘Fabulous, eh?’ he says, walking in front of me out to the side gate. ‘The best place to see the stars is here.’ I follow him along the path and we stand together leaning on the gate, craning our necks upwards.
‘Ah, I never get sick of it,’ he mumbles, then he moves away a bit, leans his elbows on the fence and looks out into the distance.
‘Zoe told me your mum and dad have split,’ he says.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘That’s hard,’ he says softly. ‘Always sad.’
I nod, and then, I’m not quite sure why, but pinpricks start in the back of my eyes and my throat clams up. I gulp a few times, but the tears form anyway, and within no time they are spilling out, down my cheeks. Oh hell. I gulp again. Stop this. Maybe it’s a reaction to his kind tone, or maybe it’s all to do with the wine I’ve had, or with the enormity of the night around us. All the indifferent beauty of the stars makes me feel so small and insignificant and lonely. Maybe it’s because I don’t have Dad any more. At least, not the way I used to. Ray doesn’t notice at first, but when he asks me something else I mumble my reply in a hoarse voice and gulp a couple of times.
‘Rose?’ He reaches out and puts one hand to my cheek. ‘You’re crying,’ he says simply. ‘Why?’
‘I’m okay,’ I bluster, ‘it just hits me sometimes.’
‘What hits you?’ he asks gently.
‘The sadness of it.’
‘Hmmm,’ he breathes out a couple of times. We are very near to each other, one of his hands still on my cheek. I’m not jumpy now or nervous.
‘Life is sad,’ he says gently. ‘As you get older you learn that.’
He pulls me to him and I take that as a cue to cry a bit more into his shoulder. But very soon I’m laughing, apologising for getting upset, and he’s chuckling a bit too, telling me that it doesn’t matter at all, that everyone needs to cry every now and again. Why not cry when a marriage breaks up? It is sad, he says, for everyone and especially for the kids. I try to pull away but he doesn’t let me move, continues to hold me, talking soothingly. His hands move up and down my spine and over my shoulder blades. One of them kneads the back of my neck while the other continues to massage my shoulders. We are like that for ages. I let myself slump into him, shyly put one arm around his waist, telling myself nothing is happening. This man is my best friend’s father, so now he’s a good friend to me too. He is holding me because I feel sad, and I love this feeling of his arms around me.
‘Ah, Rose,’ he sighs in this very gentle way. ‘You are a lovely girl.’
He bends down and kisses me quickly on the mouth. Once, twice, three times. I open my eyes, too surprised to know what is happening. A lovely girl. Is that what I am? It makes me feel relaxed and calm as though I don’t have to think any more. I’m lovely so . . . I’ll do. Then he carefully kisses each of my wet cheeks, and next my neck and ears. I feel cherished, adored and very special. Then he kisses my mouth again. This time it lasts longer and before long his tongue is in my mouth and I’m overwhelmed. I don’t respond but I don’t pull away either. This all lasts for probably no more than a minute. When he pulls me tighter and begins to kiss me more insistently, I do pull away. We look at each other, both breathing heavily.
‘I’ve got to go to bed,’ I say with a gulp.
‘Okay then, Rose,’ he says gently, ‘it is pretty late.’
I run inside.
I lie awake for ages, appalled by what has just occurred and, at the same time, longing for it to continue. I lie there fantasising about him coming into my room and us making love that very night, with Zoe in the next room. How quiet we’d be! How sweet and strong would be those kisses. Just once, of course, and then the next day it would all be over and no one need know. We could forget all about it. That’s what I tell myself. I have never felt such intense desire before. I lie naked under the sheet longing for a tap on my door, to hear the mumble of his voice asking if I’m awake. I’ll go to the door and open. Say nothing, just take his hand and lead him over to my bed like they do in the movies. It feels like I’ve never wanted anything as much in my life before.
I do go to sleep but my dreams are murky and troubled. I wake late and very confused. Where am I again? Did I dream the whole thing?
When I eventually get up Zoe is out in the kitchen eating toast. She grins at me affectionately, and points at the teapot.
‘Just made!’ she exclaims. ‘It’s ten o’clock. You must have been wrecked.’
‘Yeah.’ I ruffle her hair as I go past towards the bread and the toaster. ‘Are you feeling better?’
‘Loads! I’m wonderful.’
She tells me that her father has gone out fishing for a few hours. We eat breakfast and then we go down to surf all day.
It could have ended there. Died a natural death. Fizzled out like lemonade left in the glass too long. He gave me that option. By coming back late that day with two fresh bream in a plastic bucket and three DVDs, by treating me like the kid, the friend his daughter brought home for a few days, joking about my bad cooking and calling me Your Honour and Ms O’Neil, QC. He was saying exactly that: Forget it ever happened Rose. Leave it be . . . Let’s just cook, and eat, and joke and tease each other.
I leave the next day with Zoe and me having planned a Christmas shopping day soon.
Don’tcha just hate the way you get caught up in stuff without really wanting to? You make a wrong move and before you know it, you’re committed. You’ve locked yourself in a box and there is no way out. You’re in some shitty, weird scene that isn’t you, but . . . how do you get out of it?
Maybe you lied, maybe you stole, maybe you betrayed your closest friend?
Hey Saucers! Let’s get specific. Who among you has never made eyes at your best friend’s guy or chick? Harmless enough? Yeah. Until it goes a bit further. Then suddenly you’re one of those pricks you hate because . . . you can’t be trusted. Now let’s go down a notch or two. Anyone out there ever got involved with someone from the totally – and I mean totally – no-go basket? Someone like your stepfather, an under-age girl, your best friend’s old man? Don’t laugh! It happened to someone I know . . .
Road Trip
We are driving through the Great Otway National Park, still more or less in silence. Not much traffic, no beach to look at, just the curves of the road to negotiate, the trees and scrub on either side.
‘You’re very quiet,’ I say, after about an hour.
‘Feeling a bit . . . tired,’ Mum mutters shortly.
‘We’ll stop in Port Campbell,’ I say. ‘Get out. Have a break.’
‘Okay.’
I take a few quick glances at her after that, but her face is averted, staring out the side window. Her quietness freaks me a bit. It’s not easy somehow. She is probably thinking about Dad and maybe how she will cope with him and Cassandra. Or maybe I’ve said something to piss her off.
Once we’re back down onto the coastal road again past Lavers Hill, it seems better for some reason. Even just being near the ocean has a soothing effect on me. We pass the Twelve Apostles turn-off and then the sign leading to the Loch Ard Gorge. There is a lot of traffic now. Tourist buses and caravans. I’m on the point of asking if something is troubling her when she speaks first.
‘This is where it all happened, isn’t it?’
‘What?’ My shutters immediately come crashing down and I recoil, as wary as a kitten approaching water. Don’t even try that, Mum . . .
She turns to me.
‘Around here? You nearly drowned somewhere around here?’
‘Yeah,’ my voice cracks.
‘Where exactly, Rose?’ she asks quietly.
‘A place called Childers, on the other side.’
‘So you want to stop here for the night, maybe?’
I shrug and continue to stare ahead, grim-faced, as the silence settles again between us.
‘I tell you what,’ Mum says matter-of-factly, after about five minutes, ‘I’d like you to drop me at that central motel on the beach in Port Campbell. I’ll ring through and make a booking. You’ll probably want to stop here the night, too, won’t you? Considering . . .’
My jaw drops. What the hell? ‘I haven’t decided what I’m going to do yet,’ I say gruffly. Considering what? If you don’t mind!
‘Fine,’ she snaps, ‘but I’m going to stay here the night.’
‘Why?’ I say, looking at her. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing is wrong,’ she says, ‘but if you want to go on, I’m sure Dorothy will come and pick me up tomorrow.’
‘But she’s looking after Gran!’ I protest. This is my van. My trip. You have to fit in with me. ‘Don’t you want to get there before Gran dies? I mean, that was the idea, wasn’t it?’
The truth is, I’m not so sure I want to stay the night in the van now. It might turn into one big freak-out. The more I think about it, the more I think it would be better to head on through to our destination, but I’m too embarrassed to tell her this.
‘Look, Rose,’ Mum says, exasperated, ‘stop trying to organise me. I’ll get there when I get there. It doesn’t matter how really, or when. She’s not my mother!’
‘But Mum!’ I am almost wailing now, and I loathe myself. ‘Isn’t she why you came?’
‘Well . . . sort of,’ Mum says irritably. ‘I don’t know. I wanted to come to be with you for a while, too.’
We stare at each other for about three seconds as I take that on board. She came to be with me. Well, of course, I knew that, I just wish she wouldn’t say it! It only puts more bloody pressure on the situation and makes me feel guilty that I haven’t been nicer and opened up more. That’s what she was hoping for and that is exactly what I’ve avoided.
‘Dorothy is there to look after Gran,’ I shoot back sharply, ignoring the stuff about her and me, ‘not to come traipsing after you.’
‘It’s only forty minutes away,’ Mum says. ‘It’s you who should get there, Rose. Gran wants to see you. You go on if you want to.’
We roll into the pretty little coastal town of Port Campbell, tense and hot and out of sorts. Like so many others along the shipwreck coast, this former fishing village is hell-bent on turning itself into a tourist centre. There are a couple of smart cafés, motels and real-estate agents in place of the shabby old milk bar and hardware store of yesterday.
‘Look at that sky,’ Mum mutters, as we round the bend and come down into the street leading onto the beach. ‘The weather has turned on us.’
She’s right. Out over the two rocky points framing the small ocean be
ach, the clouds have darkened to a menacing grey and a strong wind is making the water choppy.
‘It’s that one over there,’ Mum says, pointing to a modern, low-lying building. I pull the van over. Mum immediately pulls the door open, gets out and pounds off towards the office, as though she knows exactly where she’s going and is longing to be free of me. Well! Suits me! I sit back a moment and watch hordes of people clutching bags and towels as they hurry in from the beach. It’s now nearly five and I wonder how things have changed so quickly. The day has turned sour. Then I remember that this was forecast.
‘You need a hand?’ I ask, getting out. She’s back at the van with her room key, trying to lift the back door open. I unlock it for her and she starts searching around for her bag. I jump up into the back and haul it out from under some of my junk, and walk with her past the small office to find her room.
It’s small and sparse and ordinary. There is one big double bed, a single as well, coffee and tea-making facilities and a little bathroom off to the side.
‘I need to lie down a while,’ she says, as though completely exasperated with everything, including me. What the fuck am I meant to have done? ‘I’ve got my phone. Just ring me in a couple of hours and we’ll go have dinner. If you want to,’ she adds wearily. I almost tell her I’m sorry. Sorry for being a horrible person, for disappointing her yet again. But I don’t. I didn’t ask her to come, I remind myself. She suggested it. I’m going to hold my ground.
‘Sure.’
Right on cue, her phone rings. She waves for me to take it while she goes to the bathroom.
It’s Hilda ringing from Melbourne. ‘Rose, how is Grandma?’
‘We’re not there yet.’
‘Why not?’ She sounds bewildered. ‘You should have been there ages ago. Did you have car trouble?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Well, sort of.’
‘How is Mum?’
‘She’s tired.’
‘Can I speak to her?’
‘No, she’s in the bathroom.’
‘What bathroom?’
‘We’re in Port Campbell and Mum is staying overnight in a motel, and I’ll either go on or sleep in the van near the beach,’ I say, exasperated myself now. Why should I have to give an account of my every move to my sisters?
Rose by Any Other Name Page 17