by Maris Morton
The smell of toasting cheese announced that the meal was ready. Mary had made a salad of baby spinach leaves. She watched Clio lever herself out of the armchair and cross carefully to the dining table, reaching out to touch the backs of the chairs to steady herself. ‘Are you stiff ?’ she asked.
Clio was concentrating on sitting down in the wooden dining chair. ‘Yes. It’s taking a long time …’ Mission accomplished, she smiled up at Mary. ‘Now, what are we having?’
CLIO HAD ALWAYS liked Italian food, and when she was growing up in East Sydney her family often used to eat in the restaurants nearby. While she was eating the pitifully small serve Mary had given her, she found a curious sensation creeping over her, a sort of déjà vu. She knew that scents could be powerfully evocative, but hadn’t realised that flavours and textures could be spurs to memory that were just as sharp. Absorbed by the fleeting fragments dancing in the depth of her consciousness, she was finding it difficult to chat to Mary the way she’d like to, and knew that Mary must be wondering what was the matter with her. As soon as she’d finished eating, she escaped to her room.
In bed, in the dark, she let herself slip back into the past; to the scene she’d been avoiding replaying for all the years since.
She’d been having dinner with Tallis, in the Stella restaurant, not far from her family’s apartment. It was the first time Tallis had invited her out and she was elated. Her course at the Con was coming to an end, and she’d been feeling desperate at the prospect of having him disappear from her life, but his invitation had put a whole new complexion on her expectations. Her love for this man had grown during the time she’d been his student, and she’d spent many long nights wondering how it could be that the very intensity of her feeling hadn’t somehow kindled a response in Tallis.
Yet here she was, sitting across the table from him, with a glass of red wine in front of her and a plate of … that’s what had triggered it, of course: she’d ordered their cannelloni, and they made it with crêpes, the same way that Mary had, with a ham filling. The aroma was the same, the texture, the golden cheese, the tang of tomato sauce — sugo di pomodoro, her father always called it — and Tallis, his pale hair gold in the warm light of the place, his eyes bright, but looking down at his plate more than at her … Could he be nervous? As this possibility occurred to her, she felt strong, confident and full of joy.
They’d worked their way through the meal, talking about music, the course, job prospects afterwards, nothing personal. Then, with their espressos in front of them, Tallis reached across the table to touch her hand.
Her heart leapt, and he must have seen that in her face, because he withdrew his hand, not far, but not touching hers any more. When he spoke, he sounded solemn and sad, and she wondered what was coming.
She could remember catching sight of the two of them in profile in the glass of the restaurant’s window, rain streaking down the outside, condensation forming on the inside so their faces were vague and romantic, lit by the candle burning in the red glass holder on the table.
‘You’re a lovely young woman, Clio,’ Tallis was saying. ‘And you’re a fine musician, with a good future ahead of you. But I can’t be any use to you, Clio. You mustn’t expect anything more from me. I know … you’re fond of me.’
Yes, yes, she wanted to say, and what’s wrong with that? She held her tongue, waiting.
‘And I think a lot of you, too, but …’
But what?
‘I’m gay, Clio. I can’t be what you want me to be.’ He shook his head, sadly. ‘There is no way.’
She stared at him in utter astonishment. This couldn’t be happening. How could he be gay, when she loved him so much? Yes, she’d heard the odd remark made by some of the others but dismissed it as envy or spite.
There was something wrong with her face, the muscles collapsing, and she felt a moment of intense embarrassment, wondering what she looked like, in this warm restaurant noisy with people enjoying themselves; and she knew then that she was utterly, desperately alone, as if the props that had held her upright had been kicked away.
Tallis patted her hand and reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, holding it out to her.
She pressed the soft fabric to her face, cringing with shock and pain and humiliation, and crushing disappointment.
But at last she found a remnant of pride.
‘Thank you for telling me, Tallis. It was brave of you.’ He was looking down at the table. A surge of generosity made her add, ‘I hope I haven’t embarrassed you. I’d hate that. But you’ve been very important to me.’ By a miracle, she managed to say this without crying.
The tears had waited until later, when she was alone in her room, and then they’d flooded out as if they could have no end.
25
ON MONDAY, MARY WENT OVER TO GLORIA’S to pick up her shopping.
Gloria set the bags of groceries on the kitchen table. ‘Here you are, Mary: one whole fillet, costing an arm and a leg; chicken breast fillets, ditto; bacon, on special, pine nuts, various other bits and bobs and your cask of wine, all on the Downe account, as per usual.’
‘It’s a painless way to shop. Thank you so much.’
When she was ready to cook the steak, Mary went to invite Clio to join her in the kitchen. In honour of the anticipated meal, she laid the table using embroidered table mats and the best cutlery, setting out mustard and horseradish, salt in a tiny crystal dish and the pepper mill. The béarnaise was warming over hot water, the sauté matchstick potatoes were crisp and golden, and the black iron pan was getting hot over the open top of the stove, the bright heat of the flames dancing under its rim and a smell of woodsmoke filtering into the room. The asparagus was ready to be boiled in the few minutes that the steak would be resting.
Clio came out to the warm room. ‘What are we having?’
‘Exactly what you asked for. Remember? A fillet steak with asparagus and béarnaise sauce, and I’ve made some crunchy potatoes to go with it.’
‘Oh, lovely!’ Clio beamed with pleasure. ‘Can you do my steak medium-rare?’
‘Certainly. Would you like a glass of wine?’
‘You really did get some?’
Mary poured the wine and handed a glass to Clio, who accepted as if it were the elixir of life.
She drank a mouthful and licked her upper lip. ‘Yes,’ she said after a moment. ‘I’d forgotten what it tasted like: that feeling that good things are surging through one’s veins. Paul and Martin only drink beer, and I’ve never managed to like that.’
‘This is a Cab Sauv-Shiraz-Merlot blend from South Australia. I’ve had worse wines that have cost a good deal more.’
‘It’s lovely,’ Clio said, taking a bigger sip.
The pan was hot enough, and Mary dropped the two little steaks into it. They hissed and spat and she covered the pan with a spatter screen.
‘Can I have some more?’ Clio asked, holding up her glass, and Mary refilled it, and her own.
When the asparagus was done, Mary dished up and took the warmed plates to the table. Clio edged herself into the chair, leaning over her plate and inhaling the aromas of the hot food. Mary felt a twinge of embarrassment: beside the doll-sized portion she was offering Clio, her own meal looked positively gargantuan. Still, she knew by now that what she’d given Clio was all she’d eat. She passed the bowl of sauce over and offered to spoon some of the unctuous golden confection onto Clio’s asparagus; Clio nodded her thanks and started to slice her steak. Mary was busy with her own food but soon noticed that Clio’s weak left hand was having trouble holding the fork steady. When Clio made a greater effort, the fat little steak dived off her plate and landed in front of Mary. Clio looked mortified.
‘It’s not tough, is it?’
‘No …’ Clio’s voice wavered. ‘It’s not that.’ She put down her knife and fork and grasped her left hand with her right, frowning at it.
‘Have you hurt your hand?’
‘No, I …’
&nbs
p; Mary’s voice was gentle. ‘Would you like me to cut it for you?’ She remembered now that ever since she’d met her, Clio had been protecting her left arm.
Clio flushed, then pushed the plate towards Mary. ‘Yes, if you wouldn’t mind.’ The flush faded, and Clio became pale.
Mary cut the steak into fine slices. ‘You can do the correct thing by the etiquette books and eat the asparagus with your fingers.’ She smiled to ease Clio’s embarrassment and started again on her own meal.
They ate in silence. The meal was delicious, but Mary’s enjoyment was shadowed by her concern for Clio. How had she been managing the meals she’d been eating in her room? Thinking back, Mary realised there must have been times when Clio had had to resort to using her fingers. She still had no idea what the cause of this debility could be, and curiosity was gnawing at her.
‘More wine, Clio?’
‘Yes, please. It’s perfect with the steak. It’s all lovely, just the way I dreamt it would be. Thank you for taking the trouble.’ She finished eating, licked the last trace of flavour from her lips and pushed away her plate. ‘I couldn’t eat another thing.’
Mary dipped a spear of asparagus into the pool of sauce on her plate and fed it, slowly and with intense pleasure, into her mouth.
Clio was watching her, sharing the pleasure. Then her face became grave again. ‘I had a mastectomy,’ she said.
Mary was shocked. This possibility hadn’t occurred to her. She’d never met anybody who’d had the operation.
Clio was gauging her reaction. ‘I didn’t tell anyone I had cancer. It makes people uncomfortable. And anyway, nobody’s interested in what happens to me.’
‘Oh, Clio!’ Mary didn’t know what else to say.
‘It’s all right. I’ve been living with this for … ages.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘The trouble with my arm is that they had to take out so many of the little glands there … lymph glands.’ She gestured with her right hand, indicating her left armpit. ‘Apparently, the cancer gets into them, too, so they take out all the ones that look a bit iffy and test them.’ Clio’s eyes were taking on a faraway look. ‘They said they took out fifteen. I don’t know how many I had to start with. Twelve of them had cancer in them. So it’s good they’ve gone.’
‘So that’s why your arm’s weak?’
‘They have to go in among the muscles. I tried to do the exercises they gave me but … it all hurt too much. It all hurts: backache, the arm, the actual wound.’ She drew in a weak breath and let it out again in a sigh. ‘It’s not getting any better.’ She was plainly fighting off tears.
‘How did it all start?’
‘I pulled a muscle, while I was working in the garden. At least, I thought I pulled a muscle, in my ribs on the left side.’ She touched the spot where her left breast had been, then dropped her hand to her lap. ‘Then it swelled up and got hard and hot, so I drove to Glendenup to the doctor. He thought it was some kind of infection and gave me pills — antibiotics, I suppose — but it got worse, if anything, so I went back, and I had tests and he sent me up to Perth. They don’t mess around when it’s cancer. They had the breast off almost before I had time to think about it.’ She paused, remembering. ‘The worst thing was being wheeled into theatre, with the pre-med making me woozy, knowing that if I never woke up nobody would know, or care …’ She used her right hand to wipe the tears that were running silently down her cheeks.
‘Oh, Clio,’ Mary said.
‘That was only the start of it. There were more tests, liver function, bones, all that. Meetings with people from the Cancer Council, reading the literature, deciding whether I wanted a pros … prosthesis.’ She stumbled over the word, her tongue suddenly clumsy. ‘Learning to walk when you’re all unbalanced because of losing the breast, and the ongoing pain, from the wound, the drains, the damage to nerves that can send agonising twinges almost anywhere, at any time …’
‘It must have been absolutely shattering.’
‘When they let me out of the hospital, I rented a unit nearby. There were weeks of physio and rehab … I charged everything to the Downe account. By that time, I couldn’t give a damn what Paul thought. It was like a nightmare …’ She stared into the darkness outside the window. ‘And then I came home. I’d been away for months, but I doubt if Paul missed me. Or wondered what I was doing. He was probably hoping I’d gone for good.’
‘You came home by yourself ? Paul didn’t bring you in the Piper?’
‘Paul? We haven’t spoken since I left. Of course I didn’t tell him. In spite of seeing the bills arrive I doubt if Paul’s given my health a moment’s thought.’
‘Martin has, though,’ Mary said. This was deeply distressing. ‘He’s quite anxious about you.’
‘Martin’s still a boy. He’s his father’s son. I don’t expect Martin to offer me solace or support.’ Clio gave a grim little smile. ‘I expect he’s anxious because he’ll be relying on me to housekeep for him and Alyssa, if and when she gets here.’
Mary was shocked by Clio’s cynicism. ‘No, I think he really cares about you.’
But Clio simply shrugged her thin shoulders. ‘It’s too late.’
26
ALTHOUGH THE RAIN SEEMED MORE LIKE a mist than real rain, Mary took an umbrella when she went to fetch Clio’s oranges. Wetness was everywhere, drenching her feet and seeping up her sleeves from the wet leaves. Under the leaden sky, the greens of pasture and crop had taken on a weird fluorescence, with the pines and native trees as a shadowy foil. Every day Downe looked subtly different, as if during the night, while the people were asleep, a mysterious shift had been wrought by some celestial stage manager.
During the morning, Gayleen brought fresh eggs and a pick of Garth’s sugar snap peas. Mary was pleased to see her. With the rain, and Clio’s news, maintaining her cheerfulness was an effort. She felt bad about the times she’d been impatient with Clio, but how could she have known?
Since last night, Clio had stayed in her room, and Mary, newly respectful of her welfare, had left her in peace.
‘Would you like a cuppa?’
‘A coffee would be good.’ Gayleen followed Mary into the kitchen.
Mary pushed the kettle onto the hottest part of the stovetop and waited for it to boil. ‘Instant all right? I’ll have one, too.’
Gayleen was looking out at the rain. Water was trickling into the tanks. ‘This’ll be good for the hay. Things were getting a bit dry, Dad said.’
‘Does your dad make the hay?’
Gayleen nodded. ‘They put it through the chaff cutter for the wethers. Mr Melrose decides how much they need, and how much oats and stuff to put in.’ She came over to the table and sat down. Mary had got out two mugs and poured boiling water into the powdered coffee. ‘Milk, please, and two.’
Mary let her help herself while she fetched the cake tin. She offered it to Gayleen.
‘What brand’s that? I haven’t had it before.’
It took a few seconds for Mary to understand what Gayleen meant. ‘It’s not out of a packet, Gayleen. I made it all by myself.’
Gayleen’s face lit up. ‘Really? Can you do that? Will you show me? Mum makes packets, except for her’ — she pulled a comic face — ‘famous sponges.’
Mary laughed at her. ‘Your mother does make fabulous sponges. But sure, if you like. I’ll have to make more before the men get back.’
‘I can do Anzacs and rock cakes.’
‘Right. When do you want to come over?’ Mary felt a lifting of her spirits. Baking was such a pleasant thing to do on a rainy afternoon.
‘Today?’ Gayleen’s dark eyes were bright. ‘Those kids are driving me demented.’
‘Yes, that will be fine. Come over around … two o’clock?’
It would be courteous to check that Clio didn’t mind, so she went to ask. Clio, haloed by light from the bedside lamp, had put on some music. ‘Nasty old day, isn’t it,’ she said, ‘but I expect the pastures need it.’
‘Clio, I’ve invited Gayleen to come and have a cooking lesson this afternoon. Do you mind? I need to do some more baking.’
‘Gayleen? Well, no. I don’t mind at all. I quite like the child.’ Mary was turning to go when Clio spoke again in a low voice. ‘Mary, I’m glad I told you about the mastectomy. I should have said something sooner, maybe.’
‘I was a stranger.’
‘Yes, you were. But I’m glad you know now.’
BY THE TIME Gayleen arrived for her lesson, Mary had everything ready. On the big kitchen table sat Ellen’s heavy cast-iron scales with their brass and iron weights, and a cream-enamelled electric mixer that looked like a relic from the 1960s.
‘Mrs Hazlitt’s going to supervise,’ Mary said.
Gayleen was clearly shocked by Clio’s appearance. ‘Hello, Mrs Hazlitt.’
‘Goodness, Gayleen, I swear you’ve grown into a young lady since last time I saw you,’ Clio said.
Mary was ready to start work. ‘I thought I’d show you a slice my mother makes, and some honey kisses. If we have time we might do a cake, too.’
‘Is your mother a good cook?’ Gayleen asked, tearing her eyes away from Clio.
‘My mother’s Hungarian. Hungarians make the best cakes! Now, Gayleen, first we have to shell some of these walnuts.’
‘I can …’ Clio offered quietly.
‘Not with one hand,’ Mary reminded her, equally quietly, hoping Gayleen missed the exchange, but Gayleen had already picked up the wooden mallet and was vigorously cracking nuts, fielding bits of exploding shell that were flying all over the table top. ‘Don’t worry if they get smashed,’ Mary said. ‘We’ve got to grind them up anyway. Here, put the good bits in the scales and stop when you’ve got two ounces,’
‘Two ounces?’ Gayleen said, with a blank look.
‘They’re old scales, and it’s an old recipe. You can cope with that, can’t you?’ Mary laughed at her confusion and went to fetch more wood for the stove.