Margie Bates hasn’t looked at her painting since the iceberg rose off the page at her. And when she read in the newspaper this morning that the Australis had struck a growler in a storm, she vowed not to toy with fate again.
Instead she is busying herself cleaning the house and baking. She has invited two friends for morning tea, and the kitchen is alive with flour, eggs, milk and talk-back radio.
She hasn’t been sleeping well, but has discovered that there are other ways of deriving strength and energy. Before breakfast today, she did yoga on the veranda and then enjoyed an Earl Grey tea while she watched yellow-throated honeyeaters bathe themselves in the glazed-pottery bath she made for them. The bird bath sits on a flat rock under an old eucalypt at the bottom of her garden, near where Sam’s old rope swing had been. As Margie sipped her tea, the honeyeaters drank from nectar-filled grevilleas, whose floral heads, heavy with blossom and birds, kissed the surface of the shallow pool.
Margie remembers having an inner reservoir of calm that she could tap into at a moment’s notice. But that was in her other life. Since Sam’s death, she has emptied out that reservoir countless times and, unable to find even a drop of life-sustaining liquid calm, has been left dehydrated from grief. Only in recent months has she learned the importance of refilling that pool—with yoga and tea, friends and art – to fortify herself against the bad days. Now is not the time to start depleting it with senseless worries about Dave. That’s something else she has learned. Worry about what you can change, not what you can’t. Easier said than done.
She struggles constantly to refute the thoughts that catapult her into fearing the worst all the time. Catastrophising, she has heard it called. She knows people think of her as a worrier, and she hates it. What’s closest to the truth always hurts. Worry is an intruder in her life. A robber of valuable time and energy. A thief of happiness. It drives morbid thoughts and spirals her into anxiety. Like the time, shortly after Sam’s death, when Dave was late radioing in from a fishing trip and Margie had been left pacing the house. She saw Dave’s hairbrush in the bathroom, his wiry red hair spun around the bristles, and thought how much she regretted never having collected a lock of Sam’s adult hair. All she has is a fair wisp from his first hair cut, neatly sticky-taped into his baby journal. In an instant, she’d imagined Dave’s boat sinking, her husband lost, these few strands all that she had left of his physical, tangible form.
But thoughts like this serve no one, least of all herself, and she pushes her fears away. If Dave’s hairbrush was here now, she would give it a good clean and put the hairs in the rubbish bin. She mustn’t let worry get the better of her.
Margie sweeps the floor and rearranges the cookbooks on the shelf, aware that her busyness borders on mania. But so be it. By the time her friends arrive, she will have collected herself. Her house will welcome them with light classical music (she must remember to put a CD on), the smell of freesias picked from her garden, and a tidy kitchen warmed by freshly baked scones doused in her own rich blackberry jam and thick King Island cream.
Bonnie, Sam’s golden retriever, is standing at Margie’s feet, tail wagging, tongue out, panting hot air against her shins. Bubbles of saliva drop onto the newly mopped Tasmanian-oak floorboards. Margie gives the dog a loving rub on the soft fur at the base of her ears, and gently scolds her for the puddle of drool before encouraging her outside with half a scone. Bonnie takes the offering and moves in the direction of Margie’s pointed finger without argument, plonking herself heavily onto the sunny veranda, the scone still bulging under a soggy black lip.
Margie loves having Sam’s dog about the house to share her grief. There’s an understanding between them. Bonnie lost her whole world too when Sam died. Crusty tears have since formed in the corners of her dark eyes. Margie often spends a good hour on the veranda burying her bare feet into the comfort of the dog’s warm stomach, and Bonnie later reciprocates by simply laying her heavy head on Margie’s lap. And there’s something else. Every now and then, for no obvious reason, Bonnie will suddenly run to the gate, wag her tail furiously, and smile in the way dogs do when they greet someone they love. Margie can never see a cause for the welcome, and allows herself to believe that it’s Sam’s spirit paying them a visit. Something in her heart opens expectantly, and she imagines seeing her handsome dark-haired son, all six feet of him, crossing the grassy lawn and walking up the front steps, arms outstretched for a hug.
She reads the clock and figures she has half an hour before her friends arrive. They’re always a few minutes late. Opening her cookbook, she wonders whether she has time to also make some pikelets. She turns the pan on just as the phone rings. It’s Dave. He’s okay. The line is rough, and she imagines him at sea.
‘Marg, we’re still…on track dow…here…Everyth…fine. Just pho…Canberra…if you’re…worri…’
‘I can’t hear you very well,’ Margie replies, tears running down her cheeks. ‘How much longer do you expect to be away?’
‘Not sure…Hon…We didn’t ev…get close enou…to…catch…the buggers…fishi…And…we…ha…to break…chase. Canberra want us…to kee…going…though. But…we’re…following fr…furth…north. I…hope…all…wor…it.’
‘I hope it’s all worth it, too!’ Margie says, shaking her head. ‘How’s William doing? His mother called. We heard about the iceberg.’
‘News trav…s fast. William’s…fine…Tell Tri…in good…’ands.’
‘Just for God’s sake pull out if it’s too dangerous, Dave. I don’t care what the idiots in Canberra say.’
‘We’re fine. We’re not goin…any…furth…south.’
‘Well that’s something. I love you, you silly old coot.’
‘Love you too…sweethear…’
The phone cuts out. Margie sits down heavily and sighs, shedding days of suppressed anxiety. She calls William’s mother without delay. Trish answers sunnily.
‘Trish, it’s Margie Bates.’
‘Margie, how are you? Beautiful day, isn’t it? I’ve just been out in the garden. So nice to have the warmer weather. Have you heard from Dave?’
‘Yes, that’s why I’m calling.’ Margie tries to sound calm and reassuring. ‘They’re fine. They’re still pursuing the illegal boat but from further north.’
‘Oh good. I’ve called the Canberra office a couple of times, and they’ve said everything’s fine. This’ll certainly put some hairs on William’s chest!’ Trish laughs.
Margie isn’t sure if this is bravado, or if Trish just hasn’t realised the danger her son has been in. Perhaps she just believes that everything will turn out well because it always has. Margie wishes she still had the same blind faith that only good things happen to good people. She considers being more honest and telling Trish how fast the situation can change down south. They’re in iceberg territory, for heaven’s sake. Margie suspects the closest the suits in Canberra will have come to an iceberg are the ice trays in their kitchen freezers. If only someone had warned her about the P-plate driver who was speeding down Goulburn Street on the ninth of October nearly two years ago and ran that red light just when Sam was crossing his path. She would have stopped the car with her bare hands if given the chance.
‘Trish, if you’re not comfortable with this, you must phone Canberra again and tell them. Let them know that these are people they’ve sent into the Southern Ocean. People with families. It’s not okay to put them at risk for the sake of some political points and a few dead fish.’
Trish hesitates, and when she resumes, her voice has lost some of its gloss. ‘I’m sure if there was a problem, the government would bring the boat back.’
It occurs to Margie that some people simply prefer to relinquish control, and to trust that life will treat them well. How much easier that would be. ‘Well, Dave won’t be kowtowing to Canberra all the way to Uruguay if he doesn’t think it’s safe, that’s for sure,’ she says. ‘He asked me to let you know that William is in good hands.’
‘I’m sure he is.’ Trish stops. ‘Sorry, Margie, I’ve got to go. I have to pick up Matt from soccer. Thanks for the call.’
‘Okay. I’ll be in touch. Bye for now.’
Margie hangs up the phone and wonders whether she could have handled the conversation better, but her thoughts are interrupted by a pungent smell. She runs towards the frying pan and sees the margarine container melting against its metal edge. Fumes of burning plastic compete with the perfume of freesias for custody of her kitchen.
There’s a knock at the door. Her friends have arrived.
She throws the smoking margarine container out of the sash window and onto the back lawn where she can deal with it afterwards. She remembers Bonnie’s drool on the floor, takes a tissue from her pocket and wipes it away.