Rose by Any Other Name

by Maureen McCarthy

I’m lying on top of the unmade divan against a couple of grubby cushions, naked except for a cotton Indian bedspread that I have pulled up to cover myself. I stare at the bike poster on the wall opposite: a man dressed in leathers with a girl dressed in not much at all sitting behind him. She is pouting like crazy and holding a can of bike oil in her right hand. I want to ask him about his friends. What kind of people would have such a tacky image on their wall? But there are more pressing things to think about, such as what to say, exactly. And how to get to the bathroom without him seeing the blood on my thighs?

  We’ve just had sex in this strange room, after a crazy couple of hours of talk and laughter, a bit of drinking and some wild dancing. I’m feeling dazed, I suppose. Stunned might actually be a better word, and I’m on the verge of crying. How did I get here again? I can hardly bear to admit the next thought that runs through my head, because it indicates just how seriously crazy I’ve become within the matter of a few short weeks. Nat Cummins. It should be him standing naked by the window. I wish I’d just had sex with Nat Cummins.

  ‘I want you to know,’ Ray turns around and folds his arms across his chest and looks at me seriously, ‘that I didn’t plan this. In fact, I was thinking I must not let it happen.’ He looks away. ‘I’m so much older than you and when I invited you for lunch, lunch was all I had in mind . . .’

  My mouth falls open in surprise. He’s got to be kidding! But he throws both hands up in the air and the towel slips off from around his waist and I don’t know where to look because . . . I’ve never really seen a naked man before.

  ‘Of course I’m attracted to you,’ he continues, ‘and I like you and . . .’

  ‘I know.’ I cut across him impatiently. His sincerity is obvious but it is also baffling. I might be only eighteen but I knew what was happening when he invited me in for lunch! After all that flirty talk on the beach, the swimming together in the surf, the quiet lying side-by-side in the glorious sunshine, the music and the dancing . . . this was the next thing. I knew what was happening when I walked through the door. So why pretend?

  ‘Good.’

  There is an awkward pause.

  ‘So are you sorry?’ I ask, sitting up straighter and pulling the sheet more tightly around my breasts. ‘Because . . . if you are, just say so. I mean . . .’

  ‘No!’ he says. He comes across from the window and sits down at the end of the bed, then reaches out and picks up my foot which is poking out from the cover and settles it on his knee. ‘I just hope you feel . . . okay,’ he says, rubbing my foot and smiling in this tense way. ‘We both got pretty . . . carried away there and you seemed to want to go ahead with it and . . .’

  ‘I did want to go ahead with it,’ I cut in sharply.

  He is frowning and still seems troubled because he sighs a couple of times as he caresses my foot.

  ‘So you didn’t feel pressured?’ he persists. ‘Because that is the last thing I’d want, Rose. I’m so much older. I’m not sure if it was the right thing . . . to do.’ His voice trails away.

  ‘How old are you?’

  He hesitates a moment.

  ‘Nearly fifty-four,’ he mumbles with a rueful smile.

  ‘Really?’ I whisper wonderingly. Fifty-four! Then I start giggling and I can’t stop. I flop back on the pillow and let the laughter hoot and bubble out of me. I’m shaking with it. It’s coming up from my toes. He is older than my father! No. That’s got to be wrong! I wriggle the toes he’s holding, wanting him to join in my laughter, for the tension to ease. He doesn’t, so I eventually stop laughing, sit up again and look at him directly. Yeah! He’s older than Dad!

  ‘I just want to be sure I didn’t push you,’ he mutters.

  ‘Don’t treat me like a child,’ I say, reaching for my skirt and top which are lying at the end of the bed, then add for good measure, ‘You didn’t push me into anything. I might be young but . . . I’m old inside.’

  ‘Are you?’ He seems amused by this idea.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, and I mean it seriously, ‘I was born old.’

  ‘Well then . . .’ It’s his turn to laugh. ‘That settles it.’

  We came in from the beach and after an hour of sitting at the kitchen table, talking easily, having a couple of drinks, and getting on like a house on fire, he turned on the music and suddenly . . . it was impossible not to dance. We had this incredible half hour or so dancing together in the lounge room to an old Elvis Costello record. Then, sweaty and breathless and laughing, we retreated hand in hand to the back bedroom, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. As though it was something I’d done many times before, when in fact I’d never done anything even remotely like it. Our clothes were off within half a minute and we fell laughing like drunken sailors onto the bed. But I wasn’t drunk and neither was he. And within a few minutes things got a bit awkward, a bit messy for both of us.

  Now we’re both too shy to talk about it. I was a virgin, and that fact is lying between us like a package we’re both too embarrassed to unwrap.

  ‘Do you want to continue?’ he asks quite formally.

  ‘Continue?’ I don’t understand.

  ‘After this?’ he says.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, not exactly sure that I do, but it seems the right thing to say in the circumstances. I shyly raise both arms and slip on my top. ‘If you want to?’

  ‘Well.’ He looks genuinely overwhelmed, and it is his turn to fall back on the bed. ‘I suppose I do.’ He is looking at the ceiling thoughtfully. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So, when?’ I say, ‘When can we see each other again?’ I pull my skirt over my head, zip it up, and when I next look at him he’s grinning. I can tell he’s getting right off on my forthright attitude, so I crank it up even further.

  ‘Whenever you like,’ he says, leaning forward to push my hair behind my ears. ‘You’re pretty wonderful, Rose. I know there is this age difference between us but as soon as I met you I sensed that you’re much wiser than your years. I feel like I’m talking to a very mature woman.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘so I’m always being told.’ Which makes him laugh again. But it’s true. People are always telling me that. Maybe it’s because I seem so sensible compared to my sisters. ‘But I’d better go now.’ I edge off the bed. ‘I’m worried about getting home. My mother hasn’t been . . . well.’

  ‘Okay.’ He catches me by the arm before I can get up, pulls me back to him and kisses me softly. ‘Ah, little Rose,’ he mumbles into my neck, ‘no need to worry about anything, sweetheart.’ Then he begins to caress me very slowly and tenderly, while continuing with the lingering hot kisses. This time it is much better. So languorous and slow that I become weak, only half conscious. I feel like I might be swimming in slow motion underwater, every part of my skin alive and singing out for more. We push and slide, roll forward and back in it, like sea creatures moving through the still, warm, dark waters towards light.

  When it is over I decide that this must be love. There are no more thoughts of Nat Cummins or anyone else. In the space of an afternoon we have woven a soft, delicate cocoon around ourselves, him and me. Or that’s what it feels like, anyway. We’re outside time and apart from anyone else. All I want is for it to continue.

  Hand in hand we walk out towards the front door.

  ‘Are you going to tell anyone?’ he suddenly asks, opening the door and stepping aside for me to go past. I stop.

  ‘Well . . . no,’ I say. Then I remember Zoe. The perfect warm bubble that has held me spellbound for close on three hours breaks open with a splash of ice to my face. He notices and is immediately concerned.

  ‘What is it?’ he asks. ‘Is something the matter?’

  ‘Zoe is my best friend,’ I whisper.

  ‘Rose,’ he mutters into my hair, ‘she needn’t know.’

  ‘But what if . . .?’ I am suddenly overwhelmed, not only because of what I’ve just done, but that I’m going to keep such a huge secret from her, my best friend. I slump against him, longing to be t
aken back to our private no-man’s-land, back into the hot, thoughtless space of locked torsos, skin and heartbeat, away from ordinary life and everyone else. He smiles and grabs me by the shoulders and tries to lift them, makes me stand up tall again. I raise my eyes and we look at each other quietly, and I know I can’t give him up.

  He puts two fingers gently over my mouth.

  ‘We’ll fit this around your friendship with Zoe,’ he says, slowly and very firmly. ‘Trust me, Rose. I love her too.’

  So I do. I trust him, and I walk out of that room and get in my van and I drive home, buoyed up with excitement and my own set of grown-up secrets.

  Road Trip

  I scurry about on the rocks, looking for somewhere to shelter as the wind starts to blow up again. The temperature drops further and the rain begins in earnest. Eventually I find a little cranny between a few big boulders. Not perfect, but there is a dry space in there so I bend down and crawl through, feeling pleased with myself. This should do until the storm passes. Lightning crackles and I can see across the sand where I’ve just walked, and over the ocean too.

  There is not much room to move, though. Whenever I want to straighten out my hunched-up legs, I have to put them out in the rain. And the rock is so hard. I peer out at the pounding rain and wish again I’d brought the coat, if only to put under my bum.

  It’s not so bad at first. I quite enjoy sitting there watching the heavy rain in the thickening darkness, thinking back over the day, feeling quite proud of myself, actually. First the swim in the ocean, then the kid – for some reason I feel quite good about Travis, his ex-wife and Peter – and now this. I’ve come back to the scene of the nightmare to lay a few ghosts to rest. Isn’t that what you’re meant to do? Pretty stupid to let past events, or places for that matter, have too much power, so . . . this is my way of dealing with it.

  But after a while I begin to feel weirdly stuck, as though I’m caught in someone else’s little groove. Elaine’s voice keeps diving in from nowhere, playing around my consciousness like a tune that I don’t like but can’t get out of my head. Oh, Rose, it’s Elaine here . . . I wonder if you could call me, please . . . The answer is to move, but I don’t. All I have to do is get up and out and walk back along the beach in the rain and up those steps to my van. And yet something holds me back.

  The storm shows no sign of giving up, and although it couldn’t be more than seven in the evening, and with daylight saving that should mean at least a couple of hours of light, the low, black sky seems to have set in for the night.

  As much as I try not to, I begin to freak out. It doesn’t help that I’m so bloody uncomfortable. Water drips in from one corner. The rock I have to lean on has a jagged surface. More water seeps up the bottom of my jeans. My feet and legs are numb with wet and cold.

  I am alone on a lonely beach at night, watching the sky go crazy, hearing rolls of ominous thunder as the rain slants down. The horrible voice of my ex-friend’s mother squeaks and bites into my brain. This whole fucking display of storm power is aimed directly at me. That’s what it feels like anyway. The cramped shelter will soon be my tomb and I’ll be buried alive. So I hunker down and shut my eyes, and wait for it to be over.

  Last Summer, Melbourne

  I didn’t know anything about Ray’s collapse until I was back home with my family in North Fitzroy. They’d been called to come and get me when I was pronounced fit after only an hour in the local hospital’s emergency department.

  The next morning there is a very short message from Zoe’s mother on our answering machine, telling us that Ray is being kept in hospital for a few days observation and that Zoe is now back in Melbourne. I play that message a couple of times. Her tone is cold, rushed, slightly hysterical, as though she rang to say something else entirely but didn’t have time. Why didn’t Zoe ring? I batten down my worst fears, put it down to Ray being in hospital. And I feel bad because, of course, I’m the cause. I insisted on going back into the water. Poor Zoe must be worried about her father. Even so, when I pick up the phone a few times and try to ring her I end up chickening out before I get through the numbers. What am I going to say? I’m so sorry that your father had to save me? But it’s . . . too close to the rest of it, somehow. Too close to the secrets I’m keeping from her.

  On the third day I’m home, Mum and Cynthia come in from shopping to find me standing listlessly by the phone, trying to work out what to do. Mum is convinced that the best thing would be to go to Zoe’s house with some flowers. She offers to drive me.

  ‘Don’t ring,’ she says, ‘we’ll just land up there with flowers and you stay for five minutes or five hours. Whatever seems right.’

  ‘But they might not want . . . outsiders?’ I whisper.

  ‘Darling, you’re not an outsider!’ Mum hugs me. ‘Your best friend’s father has taken sick after helping you. Of course she’s worried and she’ll want to see you.’

  Zoe answers the door. She stands there and just stares, mouth open and face blank, for about half a minute before her mother comes and stands behind her. And then, unbelievably, Nat Cummins appears behind them both. The three of them, standing there looking at me, completely stone-faced. There is no hint of acknowledgement. It is like they don’t know who I am any more.

  ‘I got the message about your dad,’ I manage to mutter. ‘Is he home now? Or still in hospital? How is he, Zoe?’

  My voice triggers something in Zoe because her face suddenly contorts into the ugliest sneer I’ve ever seen. Her hands dart out and she grabs the flowers I’m holding, all those beautiful roses and lilies that mum helped me buy, and she throws them to the ground. Never one for half measures, she then stomps on them furiously, kicking them about with her high-heeled sandals.

  ‘How could you come here,’ she screams into my face, ‘after what you’ve done? Get out of my life, you fucking slag! I never ever want to see you again! I mean it. Do you hear me? Never ever!’

  I go back to the car, shaking, and get in. Mum doesn’t say anything, just squeezes my hand briefly, fires up the engine and takes me home. I have no idea if she witnessed what happened, but I think not. She was in the car, after all. At this point I’m not quite sure what happened myself. I’m just thankful for the silence.

  I get home and go straight to my room, lie on my bed, still with a sliver of crazy hope that Zoe might not know the full story. I am clutching at straws, I know, looking for any way to believe the worst hasn’t happened. It could be that she blames me for going into the water again that day, causing her father to have to save me. Maybe she doesn’t know about . . . the rest of it. We have always been so careful, so discreet.

  But two days later her mother rings again, to make sure I know they have the full picture. Her light, sarcastic tone is as bad as Zoe’s anger. Did I know that Ray made a habit of seducing young women? He’d been doing it all his life. Admittedly none as young as you, Rose, but there you go. There is a first time for everything, isn’t there? They’d been through his things. Found a note from me in the pocket of his jeans. Other stuff, too, so there is no point denying it. Zoe had been unwilling to believe it until it was confirmed by the owner of the house in Anglesea. Ray had apparently been talking up some little chick called Rose . . . to anyone who’d listen. I might be interested to know, too, that the whole sorry business had brought her and Zoe closer together. They were getting over things together by having a good laugh and, just in case I interpreted that as meaning that they were going to treat it lightheartedly, she made it very clear that what I’d done was . . . unforgivable. I was no longer on their radar screen. I didn’t count. Don’t write and don’t ring. Don’t bother us again. Just stay away forever . . . it’s best that way.

  I listen to all she has to say without uttering a word, then I just put the phone down. I go into shock. Or I think that’s what happens. My legs melt away beneath me where I stand next to the phone. I am in a limp heap on the lounge-room floor when my sisters find me. So Ray has been talking up some little ch
ick called Rose? Me. That’s what I was to him. A little chick called Rose. Believe me, that was the hardest part of the whole episode to hear.

  Road Trip

  The rain starts to ease. I watch as the wind begins to clear the heavy black clouds away, letting through broad horizontal patches of deep blue. A crescent moon emerges, hovering like a magical good-luck emblem in the twilight sky, sending down tracks of silver-bubbled light to play over the black water. This all happens within about fifteen minutes and I’m totally mesmerised. After a while, I crawl out of my shelter and stretch. My limbs are stiff and my clothes and shoes sodden with rain and spray. It’s a relief to be standing again. I walk back across the beach towards the steps. Behind me, the sinking red sun sends streaks of gold and crimson across the twilight sky. It is the last hour of summer evening light, before the day finally signs off. I’ve always loved this time.

  A sharp breeze nips around my face and neck. The sand is soggy between my toes in these completely stupid canvas shoes, making me feel like I’m walking on iron filings, and giving me blisters.

  Way up ahead, I suddenly see three black figures with boards making their way down the steps towards the water. Are they serious? I quicken my pace and then stop, a few metres up the sand, to watch as they enter the water, fall on their boards and begin paddling out. Three guys. I can hear them yelling over the roar of the ocean, joking and laughing and scoffing at each other. I am completely riveted, in awe really, as I watch them go way out into that watery darkness, making themselves almost invisible.

  Then, one by one, they come riding in. Moonlight catches the middle one’s blond hair, making the tendrils around his head stand out like golden spikes. For a few moments, the three of them seem like young gods, gliding across some jewelled landscape. It’s so fantastic, so bizarre, that I wonder if I’m imagining it. Envy starts to bite in hard. How would it feel? To surf the black ocean under moonlight instead of the harsh, bright light of day. To skim across the ocean’s surface like a night bird on a secret mission, unseen by anyone in the real world. Oh shit! No. It would be too scary. I wouldn’t be able to see a thing. Not at night. Not here. Especially not here!