Ross could see his father struggle with the logic. St Marys was close to where he lived. Guildford was out in the sticks. Half the guests would find an excuse not to turn up. But the senior Basset knew when to push and when to yield. He could also count, and his opposite number would be footing a rather large bill. His lukewarm offer to contribute had been brushed off. Preston was forceful, making it clear he possessed the means and the intent to send his daughter off in style.
‘He must believe in the dowry,’ Ross’s father commented. ‘I’m fortunate to have three sons.’ Though he did not articulate it, Basset considered he was twice-blessed, having discovered an inexplicable affinity with his prospective daughter-in-law. His son could have done a lot worse.
That took care of the church. Taking care of the clergy proved more troublesome.
‘We don’t have to say all this crap?’ Ross stared at the papers in front of him.
‘What don’t you like, son?’ Reverend Hastings’ speech was measured. Any peevishness occasioned by the impiety of the two young heretics sitting before him was well hidden. They were in his office. It had been a tedious drive out along the busy airport road. Ross was sweating and no drink, not even a glass of water, was on offer.
‘It’s all so ……religious.’ Ross heard June stifle a giggle.
‘I suppose it is,’ said the reverend. ‘You are seeking God’s blessing, after all.’
‘Are we? Can’t He give it a bit more concisely?’
Hastings let that one pass.
They spent an hour going through the service. Here and there, a word or a phrase came out. A hymn was omitted. Otherwise the reverend had his way. Ross swallowed his objections but made a mental note the play list for the reception would be his baby and his alone. An eclectic mix of pop, blues and rock; a force of nature to resurrect their guests who would all be hymned-out, assuming they managed to survive the church service.
In fact, the whole country was in resurrection mode. When they set a date for the wedding there was no indication they were competing with another event.
‘Guess what?’ said June one evening, after Ross returned from work.
‘You’ve pranged the car!’
She threw her head back. ‘You idiot. Much more serious. We’re getting married on the day of the election.’
‘We are? How come we weren’t consulted? Anyway, what’s the problem? We’ll have more to celebrate.’
She looked pensive, thinking of her conservative parents. And his, for that matter. There will be a few tears in the beer, no doubt about that.
By the time they left the church and headed off to the reception, there were plenty of tears, not all politically motivated. June’s mother was dabbing her eyes from the moment she took her place in the front pew. Her sobbing intensified during the service. He was not sure if she was simply happy to let go of her daughter or mortified June had chosen him, a city clerk with no apparent ambitions. Later, as he became better acquainted with his mother-in-law, he understood the tears had nothing to do with him. Unlike her daughter, Patricia Preston wore her heart on her sleeve. And, as Ross was to discover, she struggled with her diminished status as a cloistered housewife, a struggle in which she felt as helpless as a passenger in a leaking lifeboat.
They survived the church and the reception and were en route to an undisclosed location. He wanted a surprise honeymoon. June was unfussed and allowed him to set the ball rolling. There was only one proviso. ‘Not Rottnest. I don’t want to be seasick on my wedding day.’ With some reservations, he entrusted the task to Jacob and Rachel. From a fund into which both sets of parents contributed, Jacob booked airfares. Arriving at the airport, they would be met by an Ansett rep and given tickets and accommodation vouchers.
‘We will always remember our anniversary.’
‘December, 2nd, you mean?’ The results were in. ‘Men and women of Australia,’ Gough had thundered in an address to the faithful at the Bankstown Civic Centre. ‘You have a choice between the past…and the future.’ The faithful – and many others – took it all on board. The Labor Party fell over the line. After more than two decades in power the conservatives were finally on the outer. For anyone under thirty, the world had changed. Voting for the first time, June and Ross were astride the winning horse, their money deposited on the future.
‘What do you think about that?’ He leant over and addressed the taxi driver, who appeared not to be a New Australian.
‘Not much, mate. They’re all the same, those pollies. Wait and see.’
‘Free university, free healthcare,’ responded Ross. ‘It’s got to be better.’
He saw the driver look at him through the rear vision mirror but he did not reply. Minutes later, they were at Perth Airport.
‘How about this?’
‘Perfect.’
They were gazing from their hotel balcony. Below and beyond lay the white sands and sparkling waters of Surfer’s Paradise, a mecca for surfers, travellers and the honeymoon crowd. Jacob had chosen well. The splattering of high rise apartments and hotels had not yet become a flood. Nobody wore white shoes. Most Victorians still lived in Victoria, and school leavers partied in their own backyards.
‘I love you, Frau Basset.’
‘Ich liebe dich auch.’ German formed part of June’s repertoire. But languages were on the backburner. Early in her student days, she switched to psychology, ultimately achieving first-class honours. In the New Year, she would commence her Masters. A grant would assist their household budget. Boosted by parental contributions, they had saved enough for a deposit on a house.
‘Maybe we can pick up an apartment over here.’
‘As well as a place in Perth? Have you just won the lottery?’
He hadn’t bought a ticket. But the idea of a getaway stayed with him during their week at Surfers. He heard there were some great places further south. Byron Bay was mentioned. ‘Cheap as chips,’ urged a know-all young surfer they met at a bar near the beach. ‘Get in quick.’
Ross nodded sagely. He knew he should be ideologically opposed to speculative investments but he sensed he would never make a fortune from a career in the Public Service, even if he rose to the top of the tree. Given his present attitude, that was highly unlikely. He could never bring himself to express it to June but secretly he envied Martin Preston. Here was a man who scored a good tip from who-knows-where and didn’t just nod his head and ignore it. No, Martin acted, put his dough into shares, and now was worth a mint, if only on paper. Why shouldn’t they also put some money into mining shares, like his father-in-law, or into a block of land somewhere? Perhaps we can get some decent holidays and explore the coast, he pondered aloud. His wife’s expression said a lot, and he abandoned the thought.
Back in Perth, they rented a flat and took their time house-hunting. Eventually, they settled on an unspectacular brick and tile in Graylands.
‘Are you near the asylum?’ his mother asked.
‘Closer to the Showgrounds. You’ll like the garden, Mum.’
Everyone loved the garden, an English cottage arrangement at the front and an expression of Italia at the rear. The elderly couple who recently vacated were a quintessential Darby and Joan – or, as the agent described them – ‘a Gino and Joan’. Gino had embarked post-war from Trieste as a Displaced Person and met his widowed wife on the boat. Despite the linguistic and cultural barriers, a romance developed. Like other migrants, they were initially billeted in Nissan huts in the suburb that became their permanent home. After scraping together to acquire the block, they set to work on the house, with Gino doing much of the labour. Once, it would have been new and fresh, an advertisement for hard yakka and the prosperity of the fifties. Now, the musty interiors were in complete contrast to the external grounds and gardens.
‘We’ll call it The Vines.’ Their offer accepted, they were celebrating with the Duncan Street crew. Mateus Rose and Ben Ean Moselle, recollected Ross.
Nobody disagreed. In homage to his palate a
nd his homeland, Gino had planted a variety of table grapes, and the old gnarled vines covered the pergola and lined each of the side fences. Olive and citrus trees dotted the backyard, and the raised beds were replete with tomatoes, eggplant and zucchinis.
A month later, they moved in.
Baxter’s mother died the day Artilleryman won the Melbourne Cup. Lizzie’s last hours were peaceful. He and Ann took turns sitting with her as her strength ebbed away. Jennie arrived and they reworked the shifts. Eve made endless pots of strong tea and, when the nights drew long, they gathered in the kitchen and downed Dewar’s whisky, not a lot but enough to restore their colour and their courage to be with the dying old lady.
‘Do you think she knows what’s happening?’ Ann held her glass tightly. She was a sipper while he and Jennie were gulpers. They were already like that when they were youngsters. Ann, the responsible one, measured and calm amidst the chaos. He and Jennie, like two peas in a pod, excitable and apt to fly off at tangents. Jennie remained this way for her whole life, while he had gradually mellowed.
‘I’m sure she does.’ Jennie felt confident their mother recognised them. Baxter wondered about that, uncertain whether his sister was more perceptive or simply needed to believe Lizzie’s faculties were intact, at least to the point she could identify her children. Having seen his mother’s vacuous eyes and a mind wandering all over the place, he suspected his sister could not face the truth. I don’t blame her, he thought. It’s hard enough for anyone to get used to this dying business.
‘This morning she started talking about Ramsay.’ They stared at Ann. What was she saying? Ramsay? His name was virtually taboo. Baxter hadn’t heard it spoken in years.
‘She was quite coherent,’ Ann continued. ‘Her eyes were closed and I don’t think she knew I was there.’
‘What did she say?’
‘They were back in Scotland, by the loch…….You know how her accent came out when she would scold us as kids. Well, it came out as thick as pea soup when she was talking today.’
‘Which loch? Loch Tay, where the family came from?’
‘Probably. She didn’t mention names. She was talking with him about getting married.’
‘Getting married!’ This was news. When they were small, their mother loved to tell stories of Scotland. She spoke lyrically about the town of her birth and the nearby villages. The mountains and the lochs were quite unlike anything here. The animals were different too. She described the market days and the Midsummer Eve pageants, the clothes they wore, the food they ate – or coveted – and her journey to the coast when the family left their birthplace for the last time. But she never dwelt on the personal. Her marriage, her own parents and, in particular, her husband were never part of the narrative. While they were children, this was of no consequence. They were fascinated enough by the rich and vivid descriptions of that faraway land where she was born. As they grew older, the inevitable curiosity kicked in. What did their father do over there? Were their grandparents alive? Did they have any cousins? Their questions floated like paper boats on a windy pond. Lizzie had a deft way of brushing them off. ‘You don’t need to know all that muck,’ she would say. ‘That’s the past. Let sleeping dogs lie.’
If they felt frustration, it passed quickly. There was too much going on in their parents’ adopted country. And their father, when the chips were down, was a dead loss.
‘She spoke about getting married to Ramsay?’ Jennie couldn’t believe it.
‘She did. And she called him her sweetheart.’
The three of them fell silent. Eve came out of the bed room, looking sombre. ‘I think it will be soon.’
Normally prescient, Eve on this occasion was premature.
‘She’s a fighter,’ remarked Ann, as they sat down to breakfast the following morning. Lizzie no longer spoke but lay quietly, her breathing steady. Occasionally, she opened her eyes and Baxter thought he saw the glimmer of a smile on her lips.
‘She seems at peace. We can be thankful for that.’
‘Do you ever think about Ramsay?’
He paused before answering his sister. ‘Not so often. But I did a lot when I was a lad.’
His father disappeared a week before Baxter’s sixth birthday. There had been no warning. A note on the counter, addressed to Lizzie. A scrap of paper, expressing regret but little else. I’m going away. Sorry for all the trouble. It’s better this way. Good Luck and God Bless.
His mother had been frantic with worry but not for her husband. Lizzie was glad to see the back of him, what with his drinking and his violence. But Ramsay left a mess. Financially, the family was in desperate straits, a hopeless situation that activated Lizzie’s anxiety and kept her awake at nights.
‘I don’t know what got into me to marry that man,’ she would carp. ‘He took the best years of my life and left me running a miserable country pub, a mountain of debt, and five children to feed and clothe. Good riddance to bad rubbish.’
‘He drank the profits,’ Ann told Baxter, when he got old enough to ask about his father. ‘And he loved the Bible.’
Before the separation, the drinking and the arguments in the evenings left their mark. Lizzie was often furious but suppressed her anger in the knowledge any eruption on her part would trigger an aggressive backlash. When the gloves did come off, Baxter fled upstairs to the room shared with his brothers. Bottles and crockery were broken but Ramsay usually stopped short of striking his wife, especially when George and Bram grew bigger and made it clear they were willing to intercede on their mother’s behalf.
‘He was a real Jekyll and Hyde,’ said Jennie. ‘When I was small, he would read to me.’
‘From the Bible?’
‘Yes, I don’t remember any other books. Do you remember the Sunday readings?’
He was too young. But his father’s departure left a hole, a cavity his older brothers might have filled had not necessity compelled them to earn their keep. The pub license was surrendered and the family relocated to Perth. His mother reinvented herself as a dressmaker and took in work at home. He went to school. The others found jobs and were often away in the country.
‘It’s time.’ Ann spoke softly. They were gathered around the bedside.
‘Thank God I made it.’ George had arrived, hitching up from Katanning. Only Bram was missing. There was no word from him in months.
Lizzie’s breathing grew sparse. It seemed an effort to take air in, and her rasping exhalations became less and less audible. The doctor called by and told them there was nothing more to be done. Jennie held a damp flannel. From time to time, she leant across to moisten her mother’s forehead and lips.
‘Do you think she can hear us?’
‘Why don’t we sing to her?’ They looked at George and wondered why nobody had thought of it. Lizzie loved a good Scottish ballad, even an Irish one if the singer’s voice captured her ear.
‘O ye’ll tak the high road.’ Jennie led them into it. ‘And I’ll tak the low road.’
Their voices rose in unison. Baxter remembered the fireside singing during winter when they huddled together without any heating. Again, he gained the impression his mother was smiling.
‘And I’ll be in Scotland a’fore ye.’ Unbidden they joined hands. He was aware of Eve by the door, holding a candle.
‘Me and me true love will never meet agin.’ Ann and Jennie were crying.
‘On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond.’
The candle flickered, and he felt a rush of air.
‘She’s gone.’ George began to weep. He raised Lizzie’s thin wrist and kissed her fingers, one by one. The two girls knelt down. Ann appeared to be praying.
Unable to move, Baxter’s eyes fixed on his mother’s face. She was a young bride once, he thought. Jennie squeezed his arm and he found himself on his knees, hands clinging to the tiny feet beneath the sheets. Like a tidal wave from deep within, the sobbing erupted uncontrollably, with a force that astounded him. For what seemed an eternity, he
emptied his grief into the room.
The funeral at Karrakatta attracted a handful of mourners from outside the family, mostly tradesmen and acquaintances from the neighbourhood. He was glad when it was over. They assembled later at Hexbury Road for a subdued wake. With her husband’s departure and the move to Perth, Lizzie lost many of her old friends.
‘I imagined he might turn up.’ Alice wolfed down one of Eve’s sandwiches. Her belly was huge.
‘Ramsay?’ The vanished parent piqued his wife’s curiosity. But there was not much to tell.
‘He’s probably dead from the booze. Or he’s in South America or somewhere.’
Baxter did not want to think about his father. Nary a word from him in nearly twenty years. Growing up, he’d felt angry and deprived. Now, they had buried their mother. As far as he was concerned, his father buried himself a long time ago.
After sharing for more than three years at Duncan Street, they took time to adjust to the novelty of their own home.
‘We have so much space,’ exclaimed June, on the day their furniture arrived. ‘How will we fill it?’
It was easier than they imagined. They raided second-hand stores to augment the few items already accumulated. The toaster and pressure cooker were wedding presents, along with a set of pots and pans. In the lounge and dining rooms the previous owners left sturdy shelving and bookcases. These soon filled up with their vast collection of books and records.
‘Do we keep our stuff separate?’
‘Why should we? We’re married, remember. What’s yours is mine – and vice versa.’
He would have to get used to that concept, Ross thought, as he carefully extracted his precious LPs from a carton and arranged them on the shelf.
The house in Mangler Avenue contained two bedrooms. Without much discussion, one was set aside for June. She needed a study. They struggled to manoeuvre a heavy jarrah desk through the doorway. Not for the last time did he wonder why they always bought cumbersome furniture. More to do with price than taste, and he acknowledged he was the culprit in this instance. At a disposal store in the city, they came across a range of irresistible bargains, among them the desk, a table and a set of chairs. Underneath the desk, he found an inscription burned into the wood: Education Dept of WA. In the days when jarrah was plentiful, the Department must have been a good customer. Whole forests, he reckoned, wound up in school rooms across the State.
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