The House on the Hill

by Susan Duncan

  He frowned. Went through the motions again. ‘Double vision, you say?’

  ‘Yes, it’s quite bad.’

  ‘Well, let’s do all the tests, shall we?’ he said, clearly bamboozled. ‘Did you bring your glasses?’

  Esther shook her head. ‘I never wear them, so I didn’t think there was much point.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘I think I’ll wait outside, if you don’t mind.’

  The specialist called me back when all the tests were done. I took a seat, crossed my legs and listened intently: day surgery to remove the cataracts. New lenses on both eyes, but done one at a time. It would solve the problem of her refusing to wear glasses. Is she on blood thinner medication? Yes, I said. Tell her to stop taking it a week before surgery. I turned to my mother: ‘Tell the nurse at the Village to stop giving you blood thinners a week before surgery. Do you understand?’ She nodded. I made a mental note to check she’d followed through. We all stood to go. He shook my hand, patted my mother’s shoulder. We exited his austere office. The receptionist wrote out the upcoming appointments. Handed the card to my mother. I asked her to write another card for me. Then Esther latched on to her walker, and we took off for the basement car park.

  ‘He treated me as though I wasn’t there,’ she said, sounding grumpy.

  ‘Did you make a joke of all his questions?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, it was pretty boring stuff. I thought I might liven things up.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘He didn’t even want to know about seeing double. Never mentioned it.’

  ‘Maybe it’s because it’s all in your mind.’

  She stopped short like I’d slammed a door in her face. Closed her eyes as though she was in pain and heaved a deep sigh: ‘I know what’s real and not real. And you wouldn’t have a clue.’

  ‘Right.’

  A week later I called her to say I’d been unable to get hold of the nurse to halt her blood thinners. Had she mentioned it? If not, could she please give the instructions when her morning pills were delivered. Otherwise, we’d have to delay surgery.

  ‘I’ve already done it,’ she snapped.

  Right.

  A week after that, the operation was complicated by excessive bleeding. ‘We managed,’ explained the surgeon, ‘but it would have been a lot easier if she’d stopped taking her medication.’

  ‘Pish tush,’ Esther said.

  ‘Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to ignore instructions?’ I asked angrily.

  ‘Rubbish. It all worked out.’ Outside the building, she looked at a new world. ‘The colours,’ she said, ‘are quite spectacular. And everything looks so sharp.’

  ‘If you’d worn your glasses for the last ten years, it would have been just as good.’

  ‘They didn’t really suit me, you know. And when I put them on, I felt like my nose was being nibbled.’

  ‘You get used to them. But not if you don’t wear them.’

  We finished the trip in silence. I took her back to her apartment, made her a cup of tea. Asked if she needed anything else.

  ‘Go on. Off you go, I know you’re busy,’ she said in a tone full of blame.

  ‘Right. I’ll see you in two weeks for eye number two.’ I left to find the nurse. No mistakes this time.

  ‘The second operation wasn’t as good as the first,’ Esther said. ‘The colours aren’t as bright anymore. And I’m still seeing double.’

  I debated arguing with her and then gave in. ‘Well, you’ve managed perfectly well for years. All you have to do is go on in the same old way and you’ll be fine.’

  She grunted. ‘At least you believe me now. I don’t tell lies. They come back to bite you on the bottom.’

  We were locked in the car, having lunch, and I could feel a loop about double vision building. To break it, I asked the first question that popped into my head: ‘How did you meet Dad?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s not an inquisition. I’m curious, that’s all.’ Outside, waves lapped at the shore. A yacht the size of a dinghy in the distance scudded along the horizon. Esther gave me a suspicious look. ‘How are the oysters?’ I asked.

  ‘Pacifics are better than Sydney rocks.’

  ‘Ok, I’ll get them next time.’

  ‘And only a dozen. I’m not young anymore. I can’t eat like I used to.’

  ‘I know the feeling.’

  ‘You could afford to lose some weight. Quite a lot –’

  ‘So tell me about you and Dad. What was he like when he was young?’ I asked, because so many of my memories are riveted to the drink instead of the man.

  ‘I married him on the rebound. A mistake, of course.’

  ‘Cousin Jayne said he was a big softie and he adored you,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, he loved me alright. But he loved a drink even more, and I’ve never been good at sharing.’

  ‘On the rebound, you say. Rebound from whom?’

  She told me stories that I’d heard before but without much detail. She was eighteen years old and, along with eight thousand other young women, joined the Australian Army Medical Women’s Service as a nurse’s aide. ‘When I was interviewed for the job, the matron told me I’d never be accepted because I was too attractive,’ Esther recalled. ‘I said, “Matron, I am not, and have never been, flirtatious.” God forgive me. But I got in anyway.’

  She arrived in Darwin six days after the Japanese dropped their bombs. She had a whale of a time. So good that when her twin sisters told her they were joining the army as well, Esther wrote to her mother that life was too rough for such young, impressionable girls. ‘The twins never forgave me.’ The real reason she wanted them out of the way was because she was involved in an affair.

  Here, Esther adopted a light tone, as though what she was saying was of no real consequence. ‘He was a major, not just an enlisted man.’ In other words, he had class. ‘He was also married.’ She paused. Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I became pregnant.’ Silence, thick and heavy, swirled in the car. ‘All those army doctors and not one of them would give me an abortion,’ she said bitterly.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  ‘I told the matron who told the commander in charge. He asked me for the man’s name. John Brown, I said. That’s what I called him. Not his real name.’

  ‘Did you know his real name?’

  ‘’Course I did. It was a game we played.’

  Barely eighteen years old and suckered in, I thought, feeling a wave of sympathy. ‘What happened next?’ I asked.

  ‘I was given personal leave. Mum arranged everything. I was petrified, of course. A couple of days after the abortion, I received a note. This is going nowhere, it said. The cruelty of the man. One line. Not even a signature.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I got on with it, of course. What else could I do?’

  ‘Did you ever tell Dad?’

  ‘Not about the abortion, but I told him he wasn’t the first when he asked me to marry him. Didn’t want him to throw it in my face afterwards. Men do that, you know.’

  ‘What did Dad say?’

  ‘Thanked me for telling him, and then said we could now put it behind us once and for all. He was a wonderful man, in many ways. I just never realised until it was too late.’

  We were silent for a while. Both of us, I guessed, surprised by a rare closeness.

  Without being aware of it, my voice softened. ‘Why do you think Dad drank so much?’

  ‘He was ashamed. He never served in battle. Felt he hadn’t done his duty. People thought like that in those days. Bit different now.’

  ‘So you met him on the rebound after the Darwin affair ended?’

  My mother shifted in the car seat a little, settling deeper. Our coffees remained untouched on the dash. Growing cold.

  ‘No. By then I was in love with someone else. His name was Noel and he was a slipper salesman in civilian life. Not good enough for me, of course, but he was incredibly handsome. One of the mos
t beautiful men I’d ever laid eyes on. I was working night shift on the switchboard and spent my time writing long, romantic letters to him. Pinned his photo on the noticeboard. Your father, in full uniform, used to stride past the barracks, stick his head in the window and shout, “Hello, Blondie.” After I agreed to go out with him, he ripped up that photo. Then, on our first date, he informed me he was going to marry me. I laughed. But he meant it. Your father was a captain. Well-educated. He loved me. He really, really loved me.’ She sounded wistful, even sad.

  ‘What happened to Noel?’

  ‘He resigned from the army and I never saw him again.’

  She continued to tell me that she and my father quickly married in 1945 in Albury, in a simple church ceremony with just two friends, Daphne and Mack Young, as witnesses. ‘Your father’s mother was a rabid Catholic. My mother was a raging Protestant. The battle for babies would have begun before we signed the register,’ Esther said. ‘That’s why we didn’t want any family at the ceremony. In the end, we told them we’d eloped because we didn’t want a fuss.’

  Daphne wanted Esther to wear her wedding dress, but Esther had her own ideas. ‘I told her I might damage it, then I bought a very expensive, gorgeous fawn suit embroidered on the collar with flowers. A little flowery hat to match. I looked most attractive, even if I do say so myself. Hats have always suited me. I have the right face for them. Not everybody does, you know,’ she said, raising an eyebrow at me pointedly. ‘Your father borrowed a car from a friend – he didn’t really want to lend it to us but he couldn’t say no – and we went off driving along the coast. It was a pretty good honeymoon. I remember, in Canberra, a very handsome man knocked on the door of our room and asked if I’d like to come to a dance with him that night. “Hold on while I ask my husband,” I said. It was thrilling. The word “husband”. Then, two weeks later, I read in the newspaper that he’d murdered someone at the dance. Never did find out why.’

  Esther’s mother sent a tea set as a wedding gift. ‘Inside there was a note: Knowing you, you won’t have one of these and you’ll need one now you’re married. She was right,’ Esther said. ‘Mum was always right.’

  My own memory of my father in those Bonegilla days was of a giant of a man who every weekend, and most evenings after work, took up his usual stance at the bar at the club, one foot resting on the guardrail, a pot of draught beer clutched in a huge fist like a man dying of thirst. Sometimes, when there was a group, he’d stand upright, rocking on his heels, head and shoulders taller than anyone else. Always with an iron grip on his chosen tipple. At weekends, he drank to oblivion. By Monday morning, his hands were so shaky it took him until late afternoon before he could write a coherent signature on an order form. My brother and I, if we were at the club with him, being fed Coca-Cola and Smith’s crisps to keep us happy, were always nagging him to take us home so we could catch the next instalment of a radio serial, No Holiday for Halliday. Sometimes he skolled his beer and we left. But not often. Dad drove a red, sun-bleached ute. Those rides home could be terrifying.

  In the car, I glanced at my mother, wondering if her mind was racing like mine, her memories a tangled mass and snagging every so often on opportunities lightly tossed away to be regretted much later. She looked grey and defeated. I went to touch her hand but reached instead for her coffee.

  ‘Drink it through the slit, remember?’

  She gave me a filthy look. I cleared the lunch mess.

  A year later, when Bob and I visited the orchard to see Uncle Frank and Cousin Jayne, I made a remark about finding it difficult to separate fact from fantasy in my mother’s stories. ‘Did she tell you about the abortion?’ Jayne asked.

  ‘You knew?’ I said, astonished because not a word had ever been breathed.

  ‘Oh yes. Everyone knew. It was a scandal. Your mother coped by making up a mad story about rushing home to help June [one of my mother’s twin sisters] recover from her abortion. When June heard, she wanted to rip out Esther’s hair.’ Jayne added: ‘Your mother got away with murder most of the time. For the life of them, no one could understand why.’

  Although it didn’t occur to me at the time, later I wondered if Esther’s flimsy regard for truth was born out of a desperate need to hide her shame from herself if she were to find the will to get out of bed.

  After a moderate hiatus, ridiculous amounts of money began evaporating from my mother’s bank account once more. Withdrawn in weekly slabs of cash from Woolworths. This time, I called the carer who did her shopping. A warm, kind, practical and incredibly generous woman, I’d trust her with my life.

  ‘I have no idea what she does with it,’ she told me, ‘but when I suggested she might not need so much, she was furious. None of my business, I thought. So I do what she asks.’

  ‘Where do you think it goes?’

  ‘Oh god, I hope you don’t think it’s me.’

  ‘Not in a million years. But I just can’t figure it out.’

  ‘Neither can I.’

  ‘Still, it’s her money. She can do what she likes. I’ve warned her I’m not picking up the pieces when it runs out.’

  ‘There’s a market once a month in the big sitting room near the dining room,’ the carer said after a long pause. ‘There’s lots of jewellery, clothes, knick-knacks for sale.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

  That week I decided to skip the car picnic, where I’d be within easy range of a swinging handbag, and chose the restaurant for our lunch. Esther had a horror of unseemly behaviour in public places. To her, it was the ultimate personal disgrace. So there’d be no scene when I mentioned money – I could guarantee it. I dressed carefully. Ironed shirt, pressed jeans, a scarf. Polished shoes. Asked Bob to take me across in the boat so I wouldn’t have to tie the tinny at commuter dock. Dry knees, no stains. I’d arrive clean. I even wore lipstick.

  She was waiting in the reception area, her feet raised and resting on her walker. Head flung back, mouth open. Asleep and snoring lightly.

  ‘She’s been here for an hour,’ said the receptionist.

  ‘Sorry. I’m not late. She probably just wanted company.’

  ‘Ah. Well, we had a good chat. She’s got a great sense of humour, you know. Very quick wit. Had us all laughing.’

  The sound of our voices had woken my mother. She gave a snort. Sat up straight, left her feet inelegantly extended. ‘You’re late!’ she snapped.

  ‘You were asleep,’ I responded.

  ‘Certainly not. I heard every word you said.’

  ‘Ok, let’s get this show on the road.’

  She struggled to a standing position. Held the walker like a lifeline. Safely upright, she cast a critical eye over me. Hah, I thought, there is nothing to fault.

  ‘How do I look?’ she said, wiggling her hips.

  ‘Great.’ There were food stains on her jacket lapel. More on her shirt. Her stocking socks ended well below her knees. ‘You look terrific,’ I added.

  She gave a little royal wave, shuffled towards the car as though she was walking the red carpet at the Oscars. ‘That lipstick’s not your colour,’ she said as she passed me. ‘Less pink, more red for you.’

  ‘I’ll keep it in mind,’ I said, refusing to be baited.

  16

  FINAL HOUSE PLANS ARRIVED at the end of February. We printed two sets and retired to our offices to study them. First impressions stay with you forever: sleek, sharp-edged, modern, glassy, and yet perched lightly on the top of our high, quiet hill. A butterfly, I thought. The house looks like a butterfly poised to take flight. Hunkered between two soaring juxtaposed skillion roofs and set back a little to soften extremes of light, wind and rain, nestled what would be my office one day. This bodily link between those extraordinary wings ensured there would be no sideways distractions. Just a forward, distant view of rippling hills, the Blue Dam and our pair of wedge-tailed eagles when they surfed currents swelling from the gullies. Huge north- and east-facing windows would frame mountains, hills, val
leys and dark hollows. A farmhouse way below, another a white speck in the distance. One neat hill with a topknot of ordered trees, like a Tuscan landscape.

  Despite the exotic roofline, the house was a basic L-shape. The longest part of the building boasted a single kitchen/dining area separated from a sitting room by an enclosed two-way fireplace. A generous central breezeway, like an open carriageway in a gentleman’s Victorian residence, had another large, open fireplace. Wonderful summer living, I thought, sheltered from the sun but perfectly situated to catch cool air. Further along and accessed by doors opening to an outside walkway – in the style of motel rooms – was the laundry, the guestroom and a spacious cupboard to hang wet-weather gear and stow muddy boots. A double-car garage was hooked at the western end of the building. Back at the short arm of the L, a hallway led off the sitting room to my recessed office, the master bedroom (I’ve often wondered why not mistress), and a bathroom with a separate lavatory.

  ‘So much light and air and space and drama,’ I said, trying not to think about how we’d clean five-metre windows and erase cobwebs from an even higher ceiling.

  ‘Clean lines. No clutter,’ Bob responded, satisfied.

  ‘Not exactly cosy, though.’

  ‘Double glazing. You’ll never have cold feet again. We’ll install underfloor heating as well. I’ve been working on a design that runs off the fireplace. We’ll use every ounce of free energy to the maximum.’

  ‘And all I’ll have to do is flip a switch to get it going, right?’ He gave me a curious look. I read it as assent.

  But I began to feel oddly disconnected from the project, overrun and bogged down by Bob’s technological zeal and the architect’s pursuit of design perfection. At some point, I can’t recall the exact moment, I stared at the plans and wondered out loud: ‘Where are the bricks?’

  ‘What bricks,’ Bob asked, barely listening.

  ‘For the walls.’

  ‘We’re not using bricks.’

  ‘We’re not using bricks?’ I repeated stupidly. ‘Why?’