He turned his attention to his parents’ relationship. When they met one another there must have been some semblance of love. It was not an arranged marriage, merely a typical wartime liaison. Were they infatuated with one another, he wondered? Neither spoke of it but then again he’d never asked them. The recurring images that stuck in his mind had a lot to do with his father’s coldness and his mother’s emotional outbursts. ‘There’s no need to get hysterical, Alison.’ He cringed, when he heard his father say that. It sounded like a lump of masonry falling from a building, heavy and definitive. Rather than tell her husband to get lost, his mother would dissolve into a subdued whimpering like a beaten dog. He hated both of them in those moments.
Yet, at other times, his parents seemed at ease with one another. Was it just an act for us, he mused? It seemed genuine. Perhaps they did love one another in their own way. They managed to educate us and to prepare us for a world they hoped would be better than the one in which they were raised. His mother spoke of her time as a child in the western suburbs of Sydney. Her father was consumptive, as they called it then. Never recovered from the war, she told them, and died when she was twelve. Her brothers were already working as apprentices in the building trade. Eventually they came west and set up in business. They were very successful but Ross observed his father avoided them. ‘It’s a middle-class snobbery thing,’ June said to him, after she met his family.
June did not mind his father. In their recent discussions, she’d begun to disclose more detail about her days at home. ‘Your father is benign compared with mine.’ Benign? June might think so but that was not Ross’s experience, especially as he entered his teenage years. He remembered his efforts to dispute the certainties and the platitudes delivered by the self-defined head of the house, as they sat around the dining room table during those long Sunday lunches. Invariably, he was swatted from his perch by an incontrovertible truism of the all-knowing parent. Always listened to but never heard. Benign? Insufferable, that’s the word I would use, thought Ross. Insufferable.
‘What about his father?’
He was camped with June under the grapevine. She’d produced a bottle of wine. It had a South Australian label.
‘Dad’s father? He died when Dad was very young.’
‘In Sydney?’
‘I guess so. I never asked him.’
‘And your grandmother lives abroad?’
‘Yes.’ He had met Grandma Basset only once. She and his aunt came out for a visit when he was about ten. His cousins did not accompany them. ‘They’re in boarding school,’ said his mother. His father drove them down to the wharf. He remembered the tugboats and the large liner hooting as it entered the harbour. He and his brothers were excited and ran around, shouting and waving. A sailor gave him some coins. They were the first in his collection.
‘Do you think it’s affected him, not having a Dad?’ June stretched her legs across the low wooden table, avoiding the wine bottle and the glasses.
‘How would I know? He never mentions it.’
‘Of course not. But they say it means a lot. If you grow up without a father or a mother, there’s always something missing.’
He picked a piece of olive from between his teeth. ‘Do you think that’s an excuse?’
‘Not an excuse. But I think we have to try and understand people like that.’
Understand my father. Now there’s a novel idea.
‘You’re probably right. If I figure him out, will I be well on the way to figuring out why I’m such a mess?’
She laughed. ‘Let’s drink to that. To unravelling the mess. Your mess. My mess.’
He laughed with her and took a generous mouthful. Clare Valley. A tart little Riesling. It tasted delectable. Delectable and delightfully ominous.
15
Her search for Alice had not progressed. When Simone returned to the Institute after her last meeting with Baxter, her supervisor called her in. The draft paper was back from the assessment committee, full of queries and comments that indicated they were less than impressed. Back to the drawing board, she was told. I don’t want to be a killjoy but you have a month. Though her supervisor did not say it, the unmistakable inference was that any extra-curricular activities – to wit, Baxter – were verboten. Simone left the office feeling her embryonic odyssey as a researcher had misfired. For a day or two, she wallowed in a listless despair before the fear of failure kicked in and she put her head down. Re-writing the paper was no fun. Many of the comments made it clear her conclusions were a bridge too far. Criticisms of the status quo could only be entertained if she toned down her language and provided ‘balance’. Clearly, the Institute did not wish to raise its head above the parapets.
During the re-write, she had sworn off her afternoons with Jeff. He demonstrated a predictable lack of understanding and, as the weeks passed, she detected a distinct easing in her ardour for the Beaufort Street hotel and sex in general. The affair, she came to believe, was over. She wondered how she could break the news.
In the meantime, she had not heard from Ross. He was miffed at the conclusion of their last session and she toyed with the idea of calling him. Then, the work took over and she failed to follow through. In mid-October her paper was resubmitted. After her supervisor had gone through each sentence with her usual piercing precision, she communicated a circumspect endorsement. While not an unqualified thumbs-up, Simone took her words as the green light to liberation. It was done, and she could get on with her life.
When she rang Ross, he affected surprise. Her explanations were unnecessary and he gave her a rundown on the resurrection of his alliance with June.
‘Are you sleeping together?’
If her directness carried overtones of impropriety, he did not protest.
‘No, not yet. We do a lot of talking.’
He filled her in on their conversations. They were practicing Transactional Analysis with each other. ‘It sounds simple but it’s not,’ he said, with a passion that amused her.
‘What’s it about?’ She had a sketchy notion of Berne’s theories but had never discussed them with an actual practitioner.
‘Why don’t you come over one weekend and meet June? We can show you how it works.’
Before she put down the receiver, she made a tentative commitment. It would give her time to read up on the subject and not appear a complete ignoramus. Besides, she was unexpectedly put out by Ross’s effervescence. He no longer needed her, and she felt a curious amalgam of loss and relief. Is this what it is to be a helper, she wondered?
Her attention returned to Baxter. A letter arrived from her friend in England. Gloria was coming to earth after a tour of the Continent, and the request for some sleuthing had gone unaddressed. She promised to delve but it would take a while, as they were heading north to Wales and then over to Ireland. Her latest boyfriend had reconditioned their Kombi. He was Spanish and handy with motors. Handy in many respects, Gloria added. Simone could envisage the self-satisfied smile. Lucky bitch, she thought.
What could she say to Baxter? She decided to see him in any event. When she rang to arrange a time, Angela answered. Her voice reflected a deep concern. He’s unwell. It could be pneumonia. You’d better hold off for the moment.
Holding off was not an option. Pneumonia, she knew, could spell the end. Upon arrival at the home, she was greeted by the matron.
‘He’s been asking for you.’
She was ushered into the infirmary. Baxter lay in the far bed, at the end of a long sick bay, bathed in yellowish light. The room reeked of disinfectant.
‘Not too long now,’ cautioned the matron, before sweeping from the room.
‘Is that you?’
‘Yes, Baxter, it’s me. How are you feeling?’
‘You can book the undertaker.’
Simone laughed. ‘Can I get you anything?’
He signalled to the glass on the bedside table. She held it to his lips and he sipped.
‘That’s better.’
>
As he tried to raise himself she leant over and rearranged his pillows. ‘You’ve been busy.’ It was a statement.
She had left a message at the front desk, telling him of her workload.
‘Yes, but I’m free now.’
‘Any luck with Alice?’
‘Unfortunately, no.’
Baxter looked resigned, as if he’d already anticipated her answer.
‘It’s a needle in a haystack.’
‘Perhaps, Baxter, but we need to get you better. That’s the priority now.’
He closed his eyes. ‘Bring me a gun. They shoot horses, don’t they?’
She left in a funk. He did not look well. Don’t die on me now, she swore. You deserve better. We both do.
Two days after her visit, she received another summons. Upon entering the infirmary, she found him sitting up in bed.
‘Who do you fancy?’
He held the racing section of the morning newspaper.
‘For what?’ She wasn’t a punter. On occasions, she’d walked by a TAB agency. They seemed to be located near banks or pubs. All that could be seen was a cluster of anxious men, puffing on cigarettes and staring up at a board where the races were listed. She would inevitably shudder and move on.
‘For the Cup. It’s on Tuesday.’
‘You seem to be better.’
He grinned. ‘Granted a reprieve. Must be your good influence.’
‘With God? I doubt it.’
He looked at her. ‘You don’t strike me as much of a sinner.’
‘Wait until you know me better.’ She was enjoying their old banter. ‘Which horse do you think will win the Cup?’
‘If I give you the tip, will you promise to put some money on?’
She nodded vigorously, overjoyed to see his improvement. They chatted while she arranged the flowers her neighbour had given her. Baxter did not ask about Alice.
That night Jeff rang. He was still in his office.
‘When can I see you?’
She hesitated. They had not been together for six weeks.
‘I’m in recovery mode,’ she told him. ‘I need time to recharge the batteries.’
To his credit he didn’t push.
‘By the way I have a tip for the Cup.’ If Baxter was on to something, she may as well share the joy.
He didn’t seem impressed, declaring he was too busy for any frivolities. Except me, she thought, and I’m not available.
When she put down the phone, she felt a whiff of sadness. The desire to see him had evaporated. Their liaisons were illicit and regrettably brief but fulfilled a need for both of them. She would be relieved to shed the burden of guilt but once again faced another stretch on her lonesome. The prospect did not thrill her.
16
‘What will you do with your winnings?’ June sat at the kitchen table, finishing her coffee.
He turned from the sink and dried his hands on a tea towel. ‘No idea.’
She brought him her cup. ‘Did your brother back the horse?’
‘He told me he promised to put money on for someone else. He’s not a gambler. Keeps his hard-earned lucre close to his chest, just like my father.’
‘And you are?’
‘Hardly. You know me. An annual punt on the Melbourne Cup. That’s about it.’
Jeff had passed on Simone’s advice. Think Big is the one. I have it from an old racehound, a fan of Bart Cummings. Ross took this with a grain of salt. It’s the horse not the trainer that has to run, he thought. In the end, for want of inspiration, he invested a moderate amount and was over the moon when the horse stormed home. After fronting up at the betting shop, he headed home with a wallet stuffed with crisp twenty-dollar notes.
‘I know. We could throw a dinner party with all the trimmings. Get the Duncan Street crew around. And maybe your Simone. Didn’t you say she wants to meet me?’
He considered June’s suggestion. They were spending a lot more time together. She and Claire had reverted to being housemates and no more. Claire was disgruntled but put up with it. ‘Just for now,’ she said to June. ‘But if I meet someone else you’ll have to move out. Three’s definitely a crowd, as far as I’m concerned.’
A dinner party. He wasn’t sure about Simone. She’d be the odd one out. But they could give it a try.
Simone had mixed feelings about the invitation. ‘Can’t you scrounge up a few single men?’ she enquired. ‘None of my mates are your type,’ Ross replied. ‘My type? And how would you describe me?’ She was curious what he saw but his mumbled response left her no wiser. She elected to show up, if only to have an evening out and a chance to assess the much-talked-about June.
When she arrived, the Duncan Street crew had already taken up their places in the backyard. Two men – who she assumed to be Jacob and Ben – hovered over the barbecue, discussing the merits of gas versus charcoal. The three women were grouped around a small table under the grapevine. Ross did the introductions and the evening kicked off with expensive champagne, an appropriate precursor to the feast that followed.
Normally, Simone wasn’t a big rap for food. It served a function, a passing function at that. When her friends smacked their lips and rolled their eyes as they dissected the nuanced flavours of caviar hollandaise and coriander vinaigrette, she would stifle her yawns. Coming from Italian antecedents, many found that a bit strange. She’d wondered about it too. Arriving post-war, her parents were much less confronted by the sandy soils and British habits of their adopted country than they were by the bizarre nature of Anglo-Australian cuisine. For her mother, early shopping trips were a nightmare as she agonised over what to buy. The only pasta products available were those long spaghetti sticks, she divulged, in a voice still traumatised by the memory. And, she would invariably add, they had no idea of how to make a sauce. To demonstrate their desire to assimilate, her parents once took afternoon tea at a local tea rooms. ‘We ordered an expresso,’ said her father, ‘and the waitress became so flummoxed she dropped her pencil.’ ‘Then we asked about their range of cakes,’ continued her mum, ‘and she fled back to the kitchen. We ended up with lamingtons and Lipton’s tea. I don’t think we ever went back.’
She grew up on stories like these, and suffered the usual taunts when kids peered into her lunch box at school. Maybe that’s when she became indifferent to food. Much to her parents’ shame, she could eat Vegemite on sliced white bread and wolf down meat pies with gusto. As she drifted in and out of relationships she came up against the expectations of various lovers. ‘You may not believe it but I actually dislike cooking,’ she would say. ‘If you can’t eat what I serve we have two choices. You can take me out or you can cook.’ Such ultimatums, she had to admit, may have been a contributing factor to her failure to pull in a permanent partner.
That November evening with Ross and June and their friends tipped the scales towards her re-education. It was not one of those ubiquitous bring-a-plate affairs that always perplex new migrants. June and Ariana consulted on the menu and everyone, it seems, had a finger in the preparation. The results were good. Exquisite, in fact. Simone found herself savouring every course, as the group consumed wine and food at a leisurely pace, interrupted only by trips to the barbecue, the fridge and the little room on the left.
While the meal unfolded, she endeavoured to follow the free-wheeling conversation as the friends caught up with each other’s happenings. Then, out of nowhere, the focus sharpened.
‘The topic for tonight is…,’ June looked at her. ‘Simone, you may not have been warned but we have started a practice, the six of us, when we meet up for dinner.’
She hadn’t been told and felt a moment of alarm. Ross gave her what she took to be a reassuring smile.
‘When we meet,’ continued June, ‘the hosts choose a topic for discussion. We have to talk about that and nothing else or…’ She paused again for dramatic effect, ‘there are penalties.’
Luckily the champagne had kicked in or Simone’s initial qualms may have
heightened.
Ross resumed where June left off. ‘The topic for tonight is…….open marriage.’
‘Let’s drink to that,’ said Jacob. ‘The topic I mean,’ as Rachel aimed a playful slap at his ear.
‘To togetherness, then,’ proposed Ross solemnly. They clinked glasses. As Simone scanned the beaming faces, she felt a trace of envy. Seated before her were six friends who had shared a house for a number of years, and continued to be a close part of each other’s lives. Ross told her it had not always been easy. His relationship with June was testament to that. But their friendships endured, and had moved well beyond social niceties. Though she could share pretty much everything with her mother and one or two girlfriends, she did not have that luxury with a group such as this.
‘The reason we chose this topic,’ explained June, as she lathered a piece of rye bread with pâté, ‘is because Ross and I have decided to get back together.’
‘Wow, congratulations,’ said Rachel.
‘On one condition,’ continued June.
Simone glanced at Ross, anticipating what was coming. He appeared relaxed but she detected a whiter shade of pale masking his insouciance.
‘What’s the condition?’ This came from Ben. Everyone else, she thought, had guessed.
‘We will live in an open marriage.’
‘Wow.’ Rachel again. ‘That’s brave.’
There was a brief silence.
‘What exactly does that mean?’ Ariana was removing a prawn from a skewer.
‘You sleep with whoever you want to,’ Ben suggested, a trifle eagerly, Simone thought.
‘It’s not as simple as that. We may remain totally monogamous but this will depend on our choice, not upon some vows set in stone.’
Ross interjected. ‘If one of us is seriously attracted to someone else, we have agreed to talk about it first. We will be open and upfront with each other before acting.’
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