Rose by Any Other Name

by Maureen McCarthy

  ‘Shut up!’ I try not to smile. ‘I’m serious.’

  She leans over and skims her hand across the top of my hair. ‘Rose, will you do something for me, please?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Grow your hair back.’

  ‘I’m trying!’

  ‘It looked so much nicer before.’

  ‘I’m trying, okay?’

  ‘I’ll pay for the extensions,’ she laughs.

  ‘Oh, shit no!’

  ‘Remember Dot?’

  We’re both laughing now, remembering how Dot had to get hair extensions last year when she got a part in a television serial. She’d had her hair cut stylishly short just the day before being offered the part, and the producers weren’t happy. They insisted she get extensions. The process was so time-consuming and tedious that Dorothy had a tantrum every hour for the next few days about how unfair it all was. How come men can wear their hair any way they like? Blah blah . . . How come women have to tizz up? All the usual stuff. When she turned up for the first day of filming the director changed his mind and had a hairdresser brought in to cut them off again! Dot was so mad that she went around threatening to quit.

  ‘Seems like such a long time ago,’ Mum muses wistfully.

  ‘Only last summer.’ I take a swift look at her, trying to gauge her mood. But she’s looking out the side window. I can’t see her face.

  Dot’s big about-turn from classics scholar to television star began just before Christmas last year. I’d only just met Ray. And it was way before I’d decided not to go to university. Way before I’d thought about moving out of home as well. So much has happened since then . . .

  I take another glance at Mum. She has pulled down the sun shade and is busy very carefully applying lipstick. I suddenly want to talk to her about some of the stuff that happened last summer, but we’re only a few kilometres from Port Fairy and I can tell she’s apprehensive about getting there. Now might not be the best time to bring it up. She’s come a long way. The last thing I want is for her to do a nosedive back into despair . . .

  Last Summer, Melbourne

  Only days before Christmas and I’m with my three sisters in the kitchen, trying to work out how we’ll manage the big day. Gran has insisted on seeing us all together, as usual. Because she’s so old, and because it might well be her last Christmas, Mum and Dad have agreed to a shared lunch, in the family home in North Fitzroy. None of us feels it’s a good idea but we can’t think what to do to get out of it. Cynthia is giving us a lecture on staying calm when the phone rings. I’m the nearest so I pick it up, glad for a diversion.

  ‘It’s for you, Dot,’ I say.

  Dot frowns and takes the phone, says who she is and yes and no a couple of times, and the rest of us go on with our conversation in low tones, waiting for her to finish.

  After a while, her tone becomes animated, almost excited. She turns her back to us so we can’t see her face. The rest of us watch as she leans across to the table, picks up a pen and begins to write something down on an old envelope. At last she says goodbye and hangs up but she doesn’t turn around immediately. We’re all as curious as hell by this stage.

  ‘Dot,’ Cynthia ventures at last, ‘who was that?’

  Only then does Dorothy turn around. Her exquisite face is a picture of delighted surprise. Those brilliant, lavender eyes shine like gas lamps in the twilight of her creamy skin.

  ‘I got it,’ she whispers. She is standing erect, arms straight down at her sides, clenching both fists, hardly managing to contain her glee.

  ‘What?’ We’re all concentrating now. ‘What is it? What have you got?’

  ‘I can’t believe this!’ She begins to hop up and down where she is standing. ‘I just can’t believe it!’

  ‘Dot! Tell us!’

  ‘I got the part of Chloe Preston in Time and Tide!’ she suddenly shouts. ‘I got it. I got the bloody part!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Penny what’s-her-name is being phased out and they’re bringing me in!’

  ‘You?’

  The rest of us stand there completely stunned. No one, at that point, understands exactly what she means.

  ‘You’re going to . . . act . . . on TV?’ Hilda gulps.

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘You’re kidding!’ Cynthia frowns in disbelief.

  ‘No, it’s true!’

  ‘But how?’ Cynthia starts jumping up and down herself. ‘I mean how did you get it? Did you go for an audition or . . . tell us what happened?’

  ‘I was approached by this guy in the street. He gave me his card.’ Dorothy suddenly puts out both arms and pulls us around her. ‘Don’t be mad!’ she pleads. ‘Please don’t be mad! I never thought anything would come of it. I only went along to those auditions for fun. That’s why I said nothing.’

  ‘I’m not mad.’ I begin to smile, feeling absolutely . . . glad.

  ‘Me either!’ Hilda giggles.

  ‘I’m furious!’ Cynthia chortles and we all start laughing. Well, why not? This is so far outside the square of anything that has happened in our family. It’s like one of us has been chosen to go to the moon.

  ‘Tell us more!’

  ‘Well . . . this guy gives me his card and asks me to ring and arrange to come in for an audition. I was about to throw it away but my friend Alana told me I should have a bash. So . . . I rang and I did an audition. They liked it and asked me back. So I went and then I had to go back a few times . . .’ She looks embarrassed again. ‘But . . . it was for fun, really. I never thought I would actually get it.’

  Ours is not, and has never been, a big television household. We only ever watch the ABC or SBS and not much of either. And I’m sorry if that sounds snobby and elitist but it’s just how things are. So, as well as being in complete shock, we’re all standing about feeling totally ignorant. Time and Tide! Well, yeah, we’ve all heard of it. It’s just that . . . I look at the others and suddenly we’re giggling like maniacs again, trying to get our heads around the fact that our sister is going to act in a popular soap opera!

  ‘When do you start?’ Hilda gasps.

  ‘Right away!’ Dot shouts gleefully. Now that she can see we’re pleased for her, she begins to dance about from one foot to the other. In fact, she can’t keep still. She runs up to the old couch under the window and begins to bounce up and down in exactly the way that we used to get into trouble for when we were little kids.

  ‘Tomorrow!’ she shouts again. ‘They want me in there tomorrow.’

  ‘Will you be on TV next week?’ I ask naively.

  ‘No! Of course not.’ Dot laughs at me. ‘My character won’t be seen for about three months. They’re going to build her up slowly into one of the main roles.’

  ‘Shit a brick!’ Cynthia grins.

  ‘Is it full time?’ Hilda wants to know. ‘Will you be able to finish university? What about your Masters?’

  ‘No way!’ Dot says with a deep, delighted chuckle. ‘The hours are long. I’m going to give up university.’

  ‘Forever?’ I say, trying not to sound as stunned as I actually am.

  ‘Maybe.’ Dot giggles and shrugs. ‘Probably! I don’t know.’

  I gape at her, open-mouthed. It’s hard to take in. Dot has always been so uninterested, so scathing about television. About all forms of contemporary popular culture, actually: television, pop music, films. Up till now her devotion to the ancient classics has been all-encompassing.

  ‘Stop looking at me!’ she gripes. ‘Stop disapproving!’

  ‘Of course we disapprove!’

  ‘We’re outraged! You’ve let us down completely.’

  ‘You are such a disappointment, Dorothy!’

  We’re all amazed and thrilled and delighted. But considering Dorothy’s former interests, I think it’s only natural that we are also a bit surprised.

  The transformation to television actor suits her. The excited pink flush on her cheeks makes her look even more gorgeous than usual. No wonder they wa
nt her! She leaps off the couch and the four of us stand looking at each other.

  ‘You do realise,’ Cynthia declares, grabbing our hands, ‘that this calls for bubbly!’

  ‘You’re turning into an alcoholic, Cynthia!’

  Dot is looking at her watch.

  ‘Let’s have it in front of the telly then,’ she says. ‘I’ve got a tape of the last eight Time and Tide episodes they want me to watch.’

  ‘Oh yeah. Let’s do that!’

  So that’s what we do. The four of us sit together in the lounge room, drinking champagne and giggling like idiots, watching Time and Tide tapes. And loving every minute of it, I have to say. At the end of about two hours we’ve all become converts, and promise to watch it every night from now on. This obviously means a lot to Dot because she starts crying. The rest of us join in, raving on about how excited we are for her and how proud and, well . . . the whole scene degenerates into an emotional sobbing and giggling session that I won’t inflict on anyone. Suffice to say, it would make your average chick flick look cool, subdued and intelligent in comparison.

  ‘What about Mum?’ Dot suddenly says through a mouthful of pizza. Time and Tide is well and truly over. David has come and, after a terse few words with Hilda, has taken the twins home. The four of us are a bit pissed. Hilda ordered pizza just to show David she’s not about to come at his beck and call and we’re stuffing our faces.

  We all look at each other guiltily. Incredibly . . . we have forgotten about our mother, who is still upstairs. The thing is, she spends so much time in her room since the split that we’ve become used to her not being around during the day.

  ‘I’ll go,’ I say, getting up.

  ‘Let’s all go,’ Dot says, ‘and tell her my news.’

  We switch off the television and head upstairs together.

  I knock on the door tentatively.

  ‘Mum,’ I say, ‘can we come in?’

  But there is no answer so I push the door open and we all crowd in.

  We don’t see her immediately. The bedroom she used to share with Dad is huge, covers most of the top floor. It’s full of all the furniture, artefacts and nick-nacks collected over their years together. Tapestry-covered chairs, antique lamps, woven rugs, original paintings, family photographs and books. Their enormous carved walnut bedroom suite is set against the far wall. Even though it’s late, the curtains have not been drawn over the wide window, which looks out onto parkland below. The first thing I’m aware of when I walk into the room is the deepening blue sky outside and the mass of European trees crowding below it. The first few stars are out.

  Then I see Mum. Dressed, yet again, in her lovely green dressing-gown, she is only partly visible. She’s kneeling in front of the big polished-wood wardrobe, pulling clothing from the bottom drawer and stuffing items into a plastic bag, working at a frenzied pace.

  ‘Hi Mum.’ I am the first to speak. ‘What are you doing?’

  She jumps a little, startled by our entry, then turns back to the job in hand.

  ‘Clearing his stuff out,’ she says breathlessly. ‘I want all trace of him gone by the end of the day.’ She points to at least half a dozen full bags under the window. ‘I’ve made a start.’

  Hilda switches on the overhead light and Mum stands up and blinks. The bright spots on each of her pale cheeks tell me she is either upset or angry. Maybe both.

  ‘We’ve got news, Mum . . .’ Cynthia begins.

  ‘I could do with a hand, actually.’ Mum waves impatiently that she’s not interested in anyone’s news and kneels down to continue the job. ‘I’d be grateful if someone could clean out that top drawer,’ she mutters, motioning towards a small chest. ‘And someone else the top of the wardrobe. Fill those two cases and the plastic bags over there.’

  In silence, we guiltily set about doing as she asks.

  ‘Just get rid of everything of your father’s,’ she orders, ‘then I’m going to wash out the room thoroughly.’

  I almost gag. What a horrible thing to say! I don’t dare look at my sisters but I know they must find it awful too.

  ‘Dot’s got a role in Time and Tide,’ I say suddenly. Mum doesn’t react. At first I think she doesn’t hear and so I say it again. ‘Mum, Dot is going to act on television.’

  ‘Well, my, my, my!’ Mum blinks, stands up and looks at Dot wonderingly. It is almost as though she can’t quite figure out who she is, nor what she or the rest of us might actually be doing there in her bedroom. Then she gives a strained smile.

  ‘Acting, you say?’

  Dot nods and smiles shyly. Mum shakes her head. She is staring down at a pair of my father’s shoes, old brogues that he used to wear around the house. She puts one hand out tentatively to touch them, and then in a fit of fury picks them up and throws them at the pile of loose things under the window.

  ‘But you’re not an actor, Dorothy!’ she says scornfully. ‘You have no training as an actor.’

  ‘I went for the auditions and . . . they want me to do it.’ Dot tries to sound careless but Mum’s reaction is hitting home. I can tell by the way that rosebud mouth is quivering slightly.

  ‘How can you possibly contemplate doing that, Dorothy?’ Mum asks quite seriously after a few moments.

  ‘What . . .’ Dot stammers. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, associate yourself with that kind of rubbish.’

  ‘Easily Mum,’ she says defensively. ‘It’s a job.’

  ‘But what about your university work?’

  ‘I’m going to . . . let it go for a while.’

  ‘Let it go?’ Mum is suddenly outraged.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is your father’s fault,’ Mum explodes, chucking another pair of shoes, which hit the wall with a thud. ‘This is what happens when parents break up. The children get involved with all kinds of ridiculous things. Acting in some idiot show! This is just the beginning, I suppose!’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Mum!’ Cynthia interrupts angrily. ‘Dot’s not sixteen. She’s already been at university for five years! She has an Honours Degree. It will be easy to defer. She wants to do something else for a while. This has come up and . . .’

  ‘I’m excited about it, actually,’ Dot says, but her voice is thick with hurt.

  ‘I see,’ Mum says grimly, turning back to sort through the clothes. ‘Well, I can’t say I’m excited about it.’

  We all look at each other. None of us can believe this. It’s like our mother has swallowed a nasty pill or something. She ties up the top of another bag and then stands, picks it up and dumps it under the window.

  ‘Hilda,’ she asks out of the blue. ‘Shouldn’t you be home with your husband and children?’

  What? The four of us stop what we’re doing and look at her.

  ‘I’ve had the twins all day, Mum!’ Hilda says through gritted teeth.

  ‘So where are they now?’ Mum snaps.

  ‘Dave has just picked them up and . . . I’m going home soon.’

  ‘Good.’ Mum hurls a fresh bundle of Dad’s clothing at the other bags under the window. ‘It’s where you belong. Poor Dave will be tired after a day at work.’

  Poor Dave? Yeah, well . . .

  We finish the rest of the tasks more or less in silence. At the end of an hour there are nearly a dozen bags and cardboard boxes filled with Dad’s things. Oddly enough, I don’t feel much of anything as I’m piling it all together. I can tell it’s really hitting the others though. Hilda is quietly crying as she kneels in front of a chest of drawers and empties the contents into a bag. Cynthia and Dot look really upset as they fold up Dad’s shirts.

  ‘So where should we put this stuff ?’ Cynthia asks tersely, after a while.

  ‘I don’t care!’ Mum says. ‘Just put it outside somewhere. And if he doesn’t come and pick it up very soon, I’ll burn it.’ We watch as she slumps down on the bed, lies flat out with her arms across her chest, then curls up and closes her eyes. ‘I’ll burn everything,’ she mutters a
gain.

  The rest of us begin lugging the bags and boxes downstairs. On the way up again to collect the next load, Hilda, Dot and I meet Cynthia coming down.

  ‘I’ll ring Dad,’ she says in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Tell him to come and get it tonight, otherwise . . .’ She rolls her eyes, waves her arms and makes a big whooshing noise. ‘It’s all gunna burn!’ We start to laugh.

  Within a few moments, we’re hanging onto each other, verging on hysterical but trying desperately not to make noise in case Mum hears. But that only makes it harder to stop. Dot collapses on to the top stair and the rest of us fall on top of her. Tears run down our cheeks and we hold our bellies. I’m not sure why I’m laughing so hard. It’s not as though anything about this situation is even remotely funny. But I have to cross my legs so as not to wet my pants.

  Road Trip

  We come into town on the golf links road. As soon as I see the bridge and the pines and some of those squat nineteenth-century buildings, my guts start churning. I love this town. It’s the place of so many childhood summers, so many memories. Gran’s house was way too small for the six of us but we used to pile in anyway. When we got older, Dad would put a tent up in the backyard and we’d have friends down as well. I turn the van into the packed main street.

  ‘You want to buy anything?’ I ask, pointing to a car space.

  ‘Let’s just go to the house,’ Mum says anxiously. ‘Get it over with.’

  ‘Cassandra?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘It will be okay, Mum,’ I say. ‘You’ll be fine.’

  ‘But . . . what will I say?’

  ‘Just say “hello” and “nice to meet you”.’

  Mum thinks about this for a while.

  ‘Hellooo Cassandra!’ she practises in a gushy mock whisper. ‘I’m so thrilled to meet you.’

  ‘Well done,’ I say approvingly.

  Mum lets out a tortured groan.

  ‘But Rose . . .’ she wails, ‘I don’t want to meet her!’

  ‘Then it’s, “hellooo, I’ve been so dreading to meet you!”’

  After an initial giggle Mum looks even more anxious. I drive past the buzz of the holiday crowds and turn into Cox Street. Gran’s little house is right at the end, just a short walk from the beach.