The Memory Tree

by Tess Evans

  She’d be embarrassed to think anyone knew about these daydreams, but I say good luck to her. They do no harm to anyone else and I’m absolutely certain that they make her life easier.

  She did attend classes as a child. Two years before Paulina died, Sealie was wobbling her way through kindy-class.

  ‘You can never start too soon,’ her mother said to the doubtful Mrs McLennon. ‘We don’t want her bones to set wrong.’

  They all went to see her perform in her first Christmas concert. She danced onto the stage in sequinned, blue satin pyjamas, as she and her class lustily sang, ‘Santa’s coming, off to sleep. With toys into our house he’ll creep.’ After interval, she donned a pink tutu with wings and flitted happily around the stage, grinning down at her family. They all thought she was wonderful, but families are like that. Madame, an old friend of her mother’s, watched her more critically. She may have something of her mother’s talent, she mused. Time only will tell.

  Sealie sighs and boots up her computer. It’s the end of the month, so there’s plenty to keep her occupied. She has always had the ability to direct her mind and focus away from painful thoughts. She does this either by daydreaming or by work. Today the figures on her computer take her through to lunchtime when her friend Cassie joins her in the coffee shop next door. They do this every Friday, two partnerless, childless women, the approach of menopause ready to strike a line through the second option. Cassie doesn’t really care. Unlike Sealie, she has little instinct for motherhood and the way her life is organised, very little time.

  Sealie would have been a wonderful mother. How do I know? Because she held me with so much tenderness. She was only seventeen, but she loved me from the moment I was born. She used to hold me and dance, humming little lullabies. That’s when she was still a dancer. She never became a professional ballerina; she grew too tall. But in those days dance was her centre.

  Cassie has always tried to make time for Sealie. She’s the only one at work who knows her story and the friendship goes back to their schooldays.

  ‘So, that’s it then. No more appeals?’

  ‘That’s it. I’ve got five weeks to prepare the . . . well, to prepare the house—and Zav, of course.’

  Cassie stirs her coffee and looks at her friend shrewdly. ‘And what about you? Are you prepared?’

  Sealie has two close friends and she tries to be honest with them. It’s her way of being honest with herself. She pauses before speaking.

  ‘I truly don’t know. I’ve been visiting him all these years, but home . . . That’s different.’

  Back at her computer, Sealie tries to understand her feelings. One part of her is horrified at the thought of Hal’s homecoming, another part longs to have a father again. How wonderful it would be, if, when Hal came home, things returned to the way they used to be.

  Even after Paulina’s death, the house remained a home. Sealie thought gratefully of Mrs Mac and the cooking smells that welcomed her after school. She had loved nothing more than when she and Zav sat in the kitchen eating freshly baked scones for afternoon tea. She remembers one such time when Hal came in, spattered with the cold rain that was falling outside. He grabbed a scone in each hand and looked at Mrs Mac with his crooked grin. ‘One for me and one for Ron,’ he said unrepentantly as she glared her disapproval.

  ‘Who’s Ron, Daddy?’ Sealie asked.

  Zav looked smug. He knew.

  ‘Later Ron.’ Hal roared with laughter and Sealie nearly choked on her scone. Daddy was so funny.

  After Paulina’s death, the dance lessons continued. Hal made sure of that. Every Saturday morning, Mrs McLennon would twist Sealie’s hair into the regulation bun before Hal drove her to her class. At the same time, Zav’s friends would pick him up to take him to his football or cricket or tennis. Hal waited for Sealie in the car, reading the paper, until she came out, flushed and excited, to tell him her news.

  One morning, about a year after her mother’s death, she flung herself into the car.

  ‘Daddy, we’re doing colour fairies and I’m going to be centre front! At the Town Hall. I need a red tutu and red shoes. Guess which colour fairy I am. Can we stop at the ballet shop on the way home?’ Unable to contain her excitement, she bounced up and down in her seat.

  ‘I reckon we can manage that.’ Responding to his daughter’s excitement, Hal’s mood became buoyant. He grinned widely. ‘Then we’ll go for a milkshake to celebrate.’

  They ordered the dress and shoes, drank their milkshakes and arrived home to find Zav cleaning mud off his football boots.

  ‘How did it go this morning?’ Hal asked.

  ‘We won. I kicked two goals,’ the boy replied.

  ‘Well done, son. Guess what? Sealie’s going to be centre front for her item at the Town Hall concert.’

  Mrs McLennon frowned. ‘Two goals,’ she said. ‘Good for you, Zav.’ But Zav ducked his head and concentrated on his boots.

  It wasn’t always like this. Mrs McLennon could remember a time when Hal and Paulina would come home after the match, eyes shining, rubbing their cold hands and a mud-spattered Zav and toddler Sealie rushing in before them, shouting their news.

  ‘What a match,’ Hal would say, unwinding his scarf. Sometimes he lifted his son’s hand in the victory gesture favoured by boxers. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the cham-peen footballer of the world. Xavier Rodriguez!’ He’d ruffle his son’s hair. ‘Five kicks!’ he’d say, or, ‘you should have seen the mark he almost took!’ There was always something to praise, and Hal’s enthusiasm was infectious. He had a flair for limericks, and Mrs Mac never forgot Zav’s.

  Young Zav was a footballing kid

  A cham-peen in all that he did

  When he ran on the ground

  With a leap and a bound

  The other team ran off and hid.

  When Hal recited his rhyme, they would all fall about laughing. It didn’t matter how often they heard it, they laughed. Not because it was funny, but because they were happy.

  While Sealie deals with exigencies of rubbish removal, parks maintenance and chlorine for the local pool, Zav has no such distraction. He lingers in bed and stares out at a shabby grey sky. The crossword lies half-finished on the floor and the breakfast dishes pile in dirty disarray on the bedside table. At eleven o’clock, he feels the need for a coffee and reluctantly struggles into his dressing gown. Bending down to find his slippers, he feels the familiar pain behind his eyes and stands up wearily. He has only been up a few minutes and is already considering a return to the unmade bed. A moment later, he straightens his back. No, coffee will help to clear the headache and he wants to surprise Sealie by cleaning the house and having her meal ready when she comes home. Zav is well aware of the sacrifices Sealie makes on his behalf, and on his good days, tries to show this in small, manageable ways. After finishing his coffee and washing the dishes, he wishes he hadn’t asked her to pick up his library book. He could have done it himself, he now thinks, bored with the day already. It’s several hours before he needs to start the meal.

  There is something about a sensitive tooth that impels you to test it with the tip of your tongue. Despite your resolve, you delicately probe the cavity. Despite the exquisite shaft of pain, despite all evidence against such an action, you return to the sensitive source as Zav does now.

  Would things have been different if Hal had shown him the affection he had shown Sealie after Paulina’s death? In response to Hal’s apparent indifference, Zav had made an extraordinary effort to excel. He had to be, and was, top in everything—dux of his class, captain of his sporting teams. He sought out the prettiest, most popular girls and with his dark good looks, charmed every one of them. At each success, he looked to Hal for approval but had to make do with the handshake and the familiar Well done, son.

  He confronted his father only once, a few days before his graduation from high school.

  ‘I’m getting the maths and chemistry prizes as well as dux and the all-round sporting cup,�
�� he announced after dinner. He and Hal were alone that night. Sealie was staying with a friend and Mrs McLennon had gone to the cinema.

  ‘Well done, son,’ came the familiar response.

  Zav wanted to shout, but his voice was subdued. ‘Is that all you can fucking well say?’

  ‘No need to swear,’ Hal admonished. ‘It’s a sign of lazy thinking.’

  Hal was an old-fashioned sort of father who doted on his daughter. The motherless little girl with her cloud of dark hair and soulful grey eyes, inspired the gentle chivalry with which he had treated his wife. He expended his softer sentiments on Sealie, his daughter, his baby. It was okay to kiss your daughter goodnight, to hug her when congratulations were due, but your son . . .? That was a different matter altogether.

  Of course Hal was proud of Zav’s academic success and considerable sporting achievements, but as his son grew older, the best Hal could do by way of acknowledgement was a gruff well done and sometimes a handshake or manly punch to the shoulder. Without Paulina, who encouraged physical contact, he reverted to his own upbringing and kept himself in check. In this, he was not so different from many of his contemporaries. Fathers just didn’t hug their sons in the fifties and sixties. More’s the pity, if you ask me.

  Zav emerges from his reverie and looks at the clock. He’ll make a casserole. That will fill in some time. As he chops the onion, he’s visited by an image of his daughter. Me. Grace. Amazing Grace. His face is pensive as he reaches for the carrots.

  Perhaps that’s why I was so pleased when they told me the baby was a girl. I had a model for being a good father to a daughter. A son would have been very problematic.

  It takes some willpower, but he turns away from that thought and resists further probing. He scrapes the carrot almost to oblivion.

  That evening, Sealie is heartened to see that Zav is dressed and to smell the comforting aroma coming from the kitchen. She kisses him affectionately.

  ‘Smells yummy, Zav. I might have a glass of wine after I get changed.’ She goes upstairs and returns, her suit jacket replaced with a bulky jumper. Zav pours her some wine. He pours himself a Coke. He can’t risk mixing his medication with alcohol. They watch the news in companionable silence. Sealie was going to remind her brother that she was driving up to Ararat the next day, but the years have taught her caution. Zav seems okay right now. Why not enjoy the moment?

  As he prepares to say goodnight, Sealie reluctantly mentions her trip tomorrow. He frowns and tells her not to wake him, so she indicates that she has set the table for breakfast.

  ‘Everything’s there ready for you,’ she fusses.

  ‘I know. Thanks.’

  ‘You will get up?’

  ‘I won’t starve to death, for Christ’s sake.’ He sees the hurt flash across his sister’s face. ‘Joke, Seal,’ he says hastily. He kisses her lightly and heads for his room.

  ‘You’re sure you locked the doors?’

  ‘You saw me.’

  ‘Won’t hurt to check again.’ And she sighs as he prowls around, pushing doors, rattling locks. She hears him return to his room and begin his nightly ritual: peering into the wardrobe, looking under the bed, testing the window locks, tapping the walls and finally his voice calling down the stairs.

  ‘Okay. I’m in bed now.’

  She has perfected the timing, and hurries upstairs with his tray.

  Sealie climbs into her little blue Corolla. It’s her first car and she has had it for fourteen years. She knows she should replace it soon, but it’s comfortable, like an old shoe. Apart from some wear in the driver’s seat which she has concealed with a sheepskin cover, the old car is still respectable. She knows she’ll drive it till it falls apart. Undeniably middle-aged, Sealie has become set in her ways. A new car would be too radical a step to contemplate with any seriousness. So how, she wonders, can she possibly cope with the massive change she must now confront? She and Zav have made a life. Not much of a life, it’s true. But it’s their life and it’s predictable and safe. A sharp toot tells her she’s blocking the fast lane and she moves over to let the other car pass. She must concentrate on her driving. Leave the future to the future.

  Hal is sitting meekly in his silk dressing-gown when Sealie arrives. She’s still uneasy with this passivity, his customary demeanour for the last few years. The medical staff have all assured her that time and treatment have rendered him harmless but she senses a small burning coal behind his mild regard. She’s not sure what it means. She can only hope it’s remorse.

  ‘Dad? How are you today?’ Sealie fidgets a little with her packages, giving Hal the Cherry Ripe but retaining the wrapping as the rules demand.

  Hal accepts the sweet, biting thoughtfully into the rich, dark chocolate, savouring the taste and poking around with his tongue for an errant flake of coconut. ‘Zav not here then?’

  Sealie swallows and checks a rising impatience. Zav is never there. ‘No,’ she says shortly. She won’t make excuses for Zav. And why should she? It would be a betrayal. She sits down and accepts a cup of tea from the trolley. Stirs her sugar long after it has dissolved. Clears her throat.

  ‘Dad. This is the last time I’ll be visiting before you come home.’ She glances at him in an effort to detect his response. He merely nods. Probably doped to the eyeballs, thinks Sealie. She can’t resist the question. ‘Are you looking forward to coming home?’

  Hal’s eyes flare for a moment. His voice is petulant. ‘Home? This is home.’

  Sealie sighs. ‘I’ve explained it all before, Dad. They’re closing this place down. You have to come home. There’s nowhere else to go.’

  ‘Will Zav be there?’ The same question—over and over and over.

  ‘Of course Zav will be there.’

  ‘Poor Zav. Is he still angry? I need to explain.’

  Sealie looks at her father. Despite herself, she pities the gaunt frame, the lost eyes, the vulnerable, naked skull. Her hands twist and tear at the red sweet wrapper.

  ‘Is he still angry, Sealie?’ Hal asks the question humbly, fearfully.

  She shrugs. It’s better that he knows. ‘Zav hasn’t forgiven you. He never will.’

  ‘No. Of course not. Why should he?’ He grabs her arm. ‘If only I could explain . . . He might . . .’ Hal slumps in his chair. His need for absolution bleeds from every pore and Sealie looks at him with pity and horror. He has never asked if she has forgiven him. It’s a question she doesn’t want to explore.

  Hal straightens suddenly, with a curious dignity. ‘Tell him he needn’t worry. I’m in the habit of keeping myself to myself.’

  ‘Yes. That would be best, I think.’

  When Sealie goes, I linger beside my grandfather as he catches his breath in a sob or perhaps it’s just a sigh. He picks up the book Sealie has brought and flicks through the pages. He pats his pocket for his reading glasses and perches them on his nose. The book is by a new author. It looks alright, but these new writers aren’t a patch on Asimov or his old favourite, Fred Hoyle. After scanning a few pages he puts the book down and looks out beyond the wall to a cloud that hangs like a greasy dish rag above the grey bulk of the Grampians.

  3

  MY GRANDFATHER BUILT HIS HOUSE of brick. No fragile wood or straw for him. He built his house of brick on a large block that faced the river. While his contemporaries were looking at their environment and employing architects like Robin Boyd, Hal settled on a hybrid of deco and thirties modernism, a strange mish-mash of curved walls and windows piled in a seemingly random fashion, one upon the other. He had it rendered and painted white, and spent some time and effort creating an English garden, with extensive lawns, roses, lavender and some fine deciduous trees. The effect was not unpleasing and at night, when the lights were turned on, the house was transmogrified into an ocean liner setting sail through dark seas. I like to think of Hal as captain of that ship and Paulina its guiding spirit, standing at the wheel beside him.

  Inside, the house was large and rambling, with generous room
s and high ceilings. Because of its singular shape, there were odd little nooks and crannies and when they were young, the children made these their own. There were rules of ownership—no less rigorous for the fact that they were unwritten.

  Sealie’s bedroom was at the bottom of a staircase that led up to a strange little tower attic. This room at the top of the stairs was her private place and she often spent time there with her secret treasure boxes.

  ‘How would you like this?’ Paulina asked one morning when Sealie came into her mother’s room to have her hair brushed. ‘The lock’s broken but it’s still very pretty, don’t you think?’

  Sealie held the box in her hands. It was black and shiny with a picture of a beautiful lady in a long dressing-gown. There was a tree with trailing branches and a funny little curved bridge. Inside, the box was lined with shiny red fabric and there were three small shelves, like steps.

  ‘What can I put in it?’ she asked. Did she have anything beautiful enough to put in such a wonderful box?

  ‘Your hair ribbons, maybe? And the little Scottie dog brooch Nana gave you?’

  ‘And the blue feather I found? And my best shells?’

  Paulina laughed. ‘It’s a treasure box, Sealie. You can keep all your treasures in it.’

  So began Sealie’s lifelong habit of keeping everything in boxes. The attic room gradually filled with shoe boxes, chocolate boxes, cigar boxes, biscuit tins, toffee tins, jewellery boxes, hat boxes, dress boxes and two large trunks, all containing some treasure, some secret, some part of Sealie’s life. As she grew older, she put her favourite out-grown dresses there in one trunk, her ballet costumes in the other. When the young woman turned sixteen, Mrs McLennon thought it was time to start a hope chest or glory box for her, and gave her an embroidered tablecloth and a set of six dinner napkins. Her father gave her a camphor wood chest and thus began a new collection of towels, embroidered sheets, tray cloths, table cloths and satin nightgowns laid away in readiness for her wedded bliss. She expected bliss of course. Why else would the chest be dedicated to hope and glory?