‘No.’
‘How come?’
So he tells me how, after our dinner, which we ended up having around at the cottage because the restaurants were fully booked, he went back to the hospital to spend the night with his mother. But the nursing staff suggested he go get some rest. They were all joking about her being stronger than she’d been in weeks. Why not come back in the morning, they suggested, after he’d had some sleep? So, after kissing his mother goodnight, he went back to the hotel and got his first good night’s sleep in more than ten days. He was woken by a phone call from the hospital at five-thirty. Mrs O’Neil had taken a ‘turn’ and he should come in quickly. By the time he got there she was dead.
‘Does that upset you, Dad?’ I say, unlocking the van door. ‘I mean, that you weren’t there?’
‘Well . . . I suppose it doesn’t matter,’ he shrugs, and I see immediately that it does matter a lot. ‘She went peacefully, apparently.’
‘Do the others know?’
‘Yes, I called in to the cottage, then walked down here to you.’
‘Want me to drive you back there?’
‘You know, Rose,’ he says quietly, ‘I’d just like to sit with you a while.’
‘Okay,’ I say a little awkwardly. Me? I get in and lean across and open up the other door. He gets in and we sit together in silence watching the surf roll in.
I can’t remember the last time I was alone with my father. I switch on Classic FM low because it’s his favourite station and settle back behind the wheel. After a couple of minutes the quiet, cultivated voice of the announcer tells us that they are beginning a special on Haydn. What luck. I turn to Dad with a smile. That’s his favourite composer. When a lovely joyful quartet starts up I sneak a look at him. He is sitting with his head against the side window staring straight ahead, both thin hands on his knees, very still.
‘Is this too . . . much,’ I ask, meaning is it too bright and cheerful for how he feels.
‘No,’ he murmurs. ‘I love it,’ and then adds wryly, ‘and it’s going to change into something sombre pretty soon.’
‘Want it up a bit louder?’
‘Yeah.’
He’s right. The next movement plays with the original theme but it’s much darker, and more sorrowful, exactly right, in fact. It’s fantastic music, rich and tender in a way that pulls me right into its core.
I don’t have my watch, so I don’t know how long we sit there. But I figure that it’s getting on a bit because people are starting to arrive at the beach for the forecasted hot day. Mothers with little kids in tiny bright pants, towels slung over their shoulders, all the colourful hats and balls and bags. Fat middle-aged men with hairy bellies. My own belly is rumbling but I’m determined not to hurry Dad. His mother has just died, I tell myself sternly, so sitting with him is the least I can do! The quartet ends and they read the news. More terrorist bombings in the Iraqi capital have killed seventeen people. Then some poor girl has been taken by a shark off the West Australian coast. The dollar is losing value. Life goes on.
Should I be trying to cheer Dad up, or asking him how he feels? Maybe he wants to know about me? The last three hours of surfing have cleaned me right out, I feel like I’ve got nothing to hide any more. I almost wish he’d ask me something. I never discussed with him why I deferred university, and I refused point blank to talk about what had happened with Zoe when he tried to broach it. My present life in Hurstbridge as a waitress, living with those two odd-bods, has likewise been off the agenda. I can’t remember even one conversation with my father in the past year. And we used to talk all the time.
But he remains silent and so do I. The beautiful music rolls out between us and, as the minutes push by, I sort of space out. I find myself hanging on to the edge of each dramatic crescendo as though to a cliff face by my fingertips, then I dive with the musicians straight into the wild, painful bits and crash like a mad girl into the finales, as if my whole life is there, depending on each note. And I want to cry out loud for every bloody thing! The girl taken by the shark. Ray, of course. My Gran and her hard life. That special gift that never came my way. Listening to music is a bit like mind surfing. It picks you up and chucks you around inside your own head. You lift and plunge back and forth into loosely connected thoughts and memories that hold you in place, and all the while you live and breathe right alongside the sound.
But my stomach is rumbling again and I can’t stand it much longer. I need to eat or I’ll go completely spare.
‘You had breakfast?’ I say, trying to sound casual.
‘No,’ he murmurs, shaking his head indifferently.
‘Feel like a drive in my hot machine?’
He looks up then and smiles, puts one hand out and runs it over the top of my sawn-off hair.
‘I was wondering when you’d ask.’
So I take my father to Warrnambool for breakfast.
He seems to really enjoy the trip. ‘God! I haven’t been in one of these things since 1975!’ he mutters as I pull out onto the main road. It loosens him up. All the rattles, clunking gears and screeching brakes have him grinning with pleasure.
We buy some egg-and-bacon rolls and hot coffee and take them to the main city park where there is a wooden table with seats. He eats a few bites and then seems to lose interest. This is my dad, I remind myself. Until recently he was so handsome, a brilliant barrister, and the most cheerful, intelligent father in the world. He was my mentor, and my idol. So what happened? How does all that equate with this thin, old, wretchedly sad man sitting across from me, trying to pretend he is interested in eating the rest of his toasted sandwich? But maybe I got it all wrong . . . maybe he never was what I thought he was.
‘Are you happy now, Dad?’ I ask. It’s unfair to ask him this, but I have to know if he thinks it’s all been worth it.
‘What a question!’ He smiles and looks away. He’s not being evasive. It might take a while but I know he’ll give me an honest answer.
‘Well,’ he says after a while, ‘Cass and I are right for each other so I am happy in that respect, but . . . I had no idea I’d miss everyone so dreadfully.’
I turn away, self-conscious and guilty.
‘Me?’
‘You and all the others.’
‘But you see them?’ I protest. ‘Cynthia told me that she sees you at least once a week.’ And what did you expect? I want to add but don’t. You chose to leave! He must be able to read my impatient body language because he suddenly reaches out and touches my arm.
‘I’m not blaming anyone, pet,’ he says. ‘You asked. I’m just answering the question.’
I think back to the evening before in Gran’s backyard, Dad cooking those fresh fish over the grill, laughing and talking. Him and Mum pretty relaxed together, considering everything. Then the speech he made to us all.
‘Thanks for coming. The last year hasn’t been easy for . . . anyone here, and it means so much to me to have all of you around with my poor old mum, your gran, on her way out.’ He looks at Mum. ‘Patsy, you particularly. Your generosity is absolutely . . .’ his voice breaks, ‘overwhelming. Thank you so much.’
‘I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, Justus,’ Mum replies quietly. ‘I’ve known and loved your mother for over a quarter of a century.’
‘Mum was in good form last night,’ I say slyly, not looking at him. Mum was in good form. The strained look of earlier in the afternoon had disappeared, and by the time we all got together to make the food and eat she was laughing and joking like the old days. I want to see if he noticed how pretty she looked in her tight cream pants and soft silk matching top. I want to rub it in and make him sorry that he left. Actually, what I really want to see is my father begging Mum to take him back, leaving Cassandra out in the cold, with egg on her face. But he either doesn’t pick up on the intent of my question or pretends not to.
‘Yes,’ he says mildly, ‘but she was always a lovely woman.’
Well why leave her then? I want to yell at him. Why l
eave a lovely woman who also happens to be your wife!
‘I fell in love with Cassandra,’ Dad says, as though he can read my mind, ‘and it was the most powerful thing I’ve ever experienced. All-consuming. So . . . I had to leave.’
‘Right,’ I say cynically. He fell in love! God, how many people through the ages have used that excuse for bad behaviour?
‘Like you did,’ he adds mildly.
What? I jerk away from his intense look. But he’s right, of course! And I’m thrown back into the confusing morass of my own life, not daring now to ask if he thinks it has all been worthwhile. That would mean asking the same question of myself. Was the whole thing worth it? Was Ray worth it?
The grey morning cloud has cleared and the sun is coming out. It’s got some real bite in it, too. With the food sitting comfortably in my belly, I suddenly want to laugh. At myself, mainly, because I’ve only just worked out that life isn’t an exam, and there is no way I can get a perfect score. Unfortunately, it’s not an investment portfolio either. You can give it everything you have, and more, but there are no sure returns. I grab Dad’s wrist and look at the time. Nearly eleven already! The sun is climbing high in the blue sky and my sore eyes are dazzled by its brightness. Time to go.
‘Dad, it’s getting hot. I’ll get burnt.’
‘Yeah. Let’s go.’
He nudges me, smiling, suggesting I take a look at the group of about eight teenage girls passing our table. They are all dressed in either tight jeans or tiny denim skirts, backless halter-tops that expose legs and backs, cleavage and brown bellies. Their long hair falling about, tied up, bunched and plaited with bright little scrunchies, baubles and bands. A couple of them hold mobile phones to their ears and joke and yell into them . . . then turn to relay to the others whatever important information they are getting. This brings on bursts of helpless giggling, falling over, tripping, whispering, and then shouts of ‘Cut it out’ and ‘Behave!’ I glance at Dad and smile because he is obviously finding it so funny.
‘They remind me so much of you girls,’ he says, chuckling and shaking his head.
‘I was never like that!’
‘Yes, you were,’ he laughs.
‘Bullshit!’
‘And your sisters too!’
I make a face and stand up, suddenly touched because I’d forgotten Dad’s appreciation of . . . things. That fantastic ability he has to find the spark of joy in whatever he’s doing. I manage to hold the lid on the tears that are threatening, thankfully. I haven’t turned into one of my sisters just yet!
‘Come on,’ I say gruffly. ‘Let’s go.’
He stands and puts an arm around me.
‘It’s early days yet, pet,’ Dad says, as though he knows how I’m feeling. ‘Things will work out. Honestly, I believe they will.’
‘Do you?’ I ask, frowning because I’m not at all sure myself.
‘I’ve got to,’ he sighs, in a way that makes me think he’s not that sure either.
I open the van and we both get in. I settle myself behind the wheel and start the motor.
‘So, back to the cottage?’
‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘I’ve got a funeral to organise.’ Then he grins, in just the way he used to. ‘That is, if Cynthia hasn’t done it already.’
When we pull up outside the cottage, Dad hesitates.
‘I forgot this.’ He pulls a small envelope from his pocket. ‘I found it in Gran’s things. It’s for you.’
I take the letter but don’t open it immediately, because seeing my name written in Gran’s fat, shaky scrawl is making my heart do a dive. Just when I thought I was off the hook!
‘What is it?’ I ask, but I know of course.
Dad shrugs, slides open his door, gets out and stretches, before giving me a tired smile. ‘Why don’t you open it and see?’
I watch him walk off into the house and then sit there skimming through six pages of almost indecipherable scrawl before I get to the crunch. Yes, just as we all thought, the Collection is mine. Mine, all mine. Damn.
That night, after the funeral arrangements are more or less worked out, I go into the front room with a big cardboard box and a few reams of that plastic bubble packing stuff. I start with old Curtin and move up through the politicians, religious leaders, sports stars and entertainers, all the people my grandmother loved and admired through the decades. I wrap them carefully and place them side-by–side, one on top of the other, in the box.
When my sisters come in to offer help I tell them to go away.
‘She’s bonding,’ Dot whispers, and they all immediately collapse into hysterics. I push them out, shut the door on them and go about the business. For some weird reason I do need to pack up this horrible inheritance all by myself.
When it’s done, I secure the box with tape.
Don’tcha just hate the way we’re all so hung up on surfaces! We read all kinds of positive value into what is sleek and new and pretty, yet the ordinary, cheap, ugly things often sing a deeper note. Think about your dad’s old suede boots sitting in the cupboard, the ones he wore when he taught you to ride a bike. The big, stained, green teapot from Coles. That wrecked old pillow that you cried yourself to sleep on every night last year. Stuff that holds secrets about us that the lovely new things will never know . . .
Ah, that’s crap. A piece for Roger has been bubbling up all afternoon but I haven’t got a proper angle on it yet. Until I do, I have to keep turning the sentences over, churning through them, trying to see if there is any halfway interesting idea under all the rubbish. I never know if Ms Angst will turn out or not, and that’s what makes the whole business so tricky and interesting. If I do manage to nail this one, I have a feeling it might be good. The hard ones nearly always turn out better, unfortunately. That’s just the way it goes.
When everyone else is in bed I sneak out into the dark, star-filled night and wedge the cardboard box holding the Collection between the spare wheel and a pile of clothing and wetsuits in the back of the van. I feel a little spooked, like I’ve just shut away my grandmother’s life, so I close the van up quickly and rush back inside. Maybe I won’t unpack them, ever.
In bed, I pick up the letter again and read to the end.
. . . When I heard from your father that you almost drowned, I decided that you should have my precious collection, Rose. Your grandfather drowned over fifty years ago and I still remember that day as though it was yesterday. Oh, the tears I shed. All you girls are lucky to be here because I almost forgot to feed your father! He was a baby at the time and a hard one to rear, and I’m ashamed to say I lost interest in everything, even my baby son. I didn’t seem able to move, much less look after anyone. A neighbour – you remember Eunice Simpson with the crook knee who used to live at the end of James Street? – came in and helped me cope for a few weeks. I always tell her that she saved both our lives. Your father’s and mine.
How lucky you were to survive. And all thanks to that brave man who saved you! I’ve been trying to get his address from your mother and sisters so I can write and thank him personally, but no one has it. They don’t seem to even want me to have his name. But why not? Surely a letter from a grateful old girl in Port Fairy wouldn’t do any harm? But when you’re my age nothing is surprising. You never know with people. You never know when you’re stepping on toes. And you never know what else has gone on before. All I do know is that I wish someone like him had been there the day my Des lost his life . . .
Thanks Gran, I whisper. Thanks for the gift that I don’t want. Maybe I will unpack that box one day and find some place in my life for it.
A lot of Gran’s friends have already died, so there is not a big crowd at the funeral. Probably sixty or seventy people at most. Most of them old, although a few of Dad’s lawyer friends and their wives have made the trip from Melbourne, and there is quite a contingent of cousins from Gippsland. The rest are locals, neighbours and fellow volunteers from the Red Cross shop. There are also quite a few from the bowling club
and the local Labor party.
I sit between Mum and Dorothy in the front pew, watching the four candles flickering around my gran’s honeywood coffin. Every now and again I have to remind myself that she is actually lying in that box, only a few metres away from me. But where is her tough old spirit after eighty-six years? Where do people go? Dad is the only one amongst us who actually knows the hymns and the responses to the prayers. It touches me to hear his thin voice belting them out.
When the long service is over, Dad gets up to join Gran’s old friend Harry and four other younger men as a pallbearer. Mum takes my arm and, along with my sisters, we follow the coffin slowly down the aisle to the back of the church. I study the lovely mosaic floor, feeling shy in front of the rest of the congregation who are standing to watch us before following us out. I’m also scared I might make eye-contact with Cassandra, who has come back for the funeral. I saw her standing alone at the back in her crisp black suit and high heels when we walked into the church. Hilda and Dot went up especially to speak to her but, I decide, that doesn’t mean I have to.
St Patrick’s is an old bluestone building on a rise near the edge of town. I hold back a bit on the top step as Mum and my sisters move forward with the rest of the congregation to watch the coffin being put in the back of the hearse.
‘Rose?’ comes a male voice just behind me. I turn quickly. There he is, standing arm in arm with a faded blonde middle-aged woman dressed in a linen suit. He looks very different from how I remember him last summer. He’s in a badly fitting suit for starters, and his hair is cut very short. He looks older and more serious. ‘G’day Rose!’ he says, with a warm smile.
‘Hello Nat,’ I say, furiously trying to stop the heat rising to my face. ‘How are you?’
I am conscious that I must look a bit weird myself in this sleek, very conservative blue dress that Cynthia wore to her graduation, complete with pantyhose and high-heeled shoes and an ugly handbag. Not me at all, but in the end it was the only outfit I could cobble together that my sisters thought was in any way appropriate for a funeral. I just toed the line and did what I was told.
Rose by Any Other Name Page 27