Dinner is Anne’s lamb casserole, and it is the best meal of my life. Every tastebud in my mouth sits up and applauds simultaneously. Mum’s casseroles, or ‘spews’ as we called them, were the culinary equivalent of a benign brain tumour — horrid but not bad enough to kill you. We have dinner with some bread and at the end of the meal Chris uses his bread to mop up his left over gravy, which looks like a good idea, so I do the same. He looks at me oddly.
“Whaab?” I say around a mouthful of lamb gravy-soaked bread.
“Nothing,” he answers, “it’s just that women usually don’t do that at the end of a meal. It’s not very ladylike.”
“Really? It’s delicious, Anne makes a wonderful casserole. I’ve never tasted anything like it. There’s a bit left, do you want it?” The ladylike reference has flown straight over my head.
“No thanks.” His face is contorted in disgust.
“Thank Go…goodness for that.” My constant blasphemy has to stop or Chris will suspect something. “My tummy is about to explode but…”
“I’ll have it Mum, if that’s alright?” Will looks hopefully at the remains in the dish.
“Oh, OK.” Trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice is like trying not to cry through a tearjerker.
“I’m a growing boy. You keep telling me my legs are hollow.”
“Yes, I guess so…” I manage to dip my bread in once more before he swoops in to devour what’s left. Growing boy, blah, blah, blah. What about me? A pathetic thirty-four-year-old woman who hasn’t eaten properly in fifteen years for fear of putting on weight, because, for some strange reason, it would reflect on my ability to perform my job properly.
As I speak a tiny trail of gravy pops out of my mouth and slowly trickles down towards my chin. Chris looks at me as though a new head has sprouted. Not wanting to waste any of this scrumptious dinner, I wipe the gravy trail with my fingers and then stick them in my mouth. If Chris could possibly display any more disgust he would implode.
“What?” Although it sounds more like “Mhot?” around my mouth full of food.
He just shakes his head. “Righto, you clean up here and I’ll take the boys in and watch some TV. Don’t forget to make everyone’s lunches for tomorrow too.” He gives me a kiss on the cheek.
Hang on! I get to clean up and make his lunch while he sits down and watches the TV? How does that work?
Chris sees the confused look on my face and says, “You can’t expect a man to do the dishes and make lunch, can you? That’s women’s work, love.”
My eyebrows disappear under my hairline, like a face-lift performed by an inexperienced surgeon. Well, it seems I have a bit to learn about the role of men and women in 1961.
“No, thanks for clarifying things. No man could do women’s work.” Because no man is tough enough to own a vagina. My PR smile comes out, which disguises the fact that nothing would give me more pleasure than to point that out to him. Mrs O’Shane.
So, my hands get busy with the ‘woman’s work’ of cleaning and preparing food.
“Chris, what do you have for lunch?” I call out.
“Same as always, love,” he says from the lounge room.
“And that would be?” Two parts of fuck-all, a fresh air sandwich and a cup of up yours?
“Two sandwiches with the leftover roast, pickles and cheese; some fruit and a piece of the cake you baked. My lunch box is in the cupboard. The boys have the same but Ethan has only one sandwich. Thanks love.”
“OK, no worries. You just sit in there and watch television. Don’t worry about me…”
Silence.
“Suffering a head injury, wandering around the kitchen using sharp implements all by myself…”
Nothing.
“No, really. I’ll be fine. You just go about your business in there.”
Mumbles emerge from the next room. Ethan pokes his head around the corner and says,
“Mum, Dad told me to tell you to please be quiet. He can’t hear the news.”
Will comes into the kitchen and stands next to me. He’s like a bamboo shoot, tall and willowy. The widest part of him is that smile, it seems to take up most of his face. His French cheekbones, plump lips and flawless skin would have him signed up by a model agency in my own time. But it’s more than just beauty, he possesses a quality that is hard to define. His persona is all Zen garden. We share the same energy; there is light that links us.
“Mum, do you mind if I make a sandwich please? I’m starving.”
“Of course you can, can’t have you going hungry, can we?”
He smiles at me as he butters the bread.
“So, what’s new in the world of Will?” I ask, hoping that he will reveal all.
“Well, the scout from the grammar school will be coming to watch us during the second game in May. They’re deciding on footy scholarships after that.”
“Scholarships, yes. So you can study medicine.” Thanks to Lily, at least I don’t seem like a total flake.
“So I can matriculate and perhaps gain a scholarship into university.”
He collapses into a chair and sighs.
“What’s wrong, Will? Are you concerned about the game?”
“A few nerves, I guess. I really want this Mum, there’s no other way I’ll get to university otherwise.”
“What about academic scholarships?”
“They always go to the private school kids. No one from St John’s has ever got one. Footy is my best option.”
It’s so unfair. Never once did I feel privileged to go to uni.
“Tell me Will, what sort of doctor do you want to be?”
“I’m torn between surgery and psychiatry. Both attract me, but for different reasons.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Well, surgeons get to save lives, fix broken bodies, and that’s incredible.” He comes to life, animation taking over. “Considering that before the war mortality rates for minor injuries were high, imagine what the future holds? Imagine being able to save a person’s life.”
Imagine indeed, laser surgery, nano-technology, microsurgery, surgery on unborn babies… The future holds incredible advancements, none of which I can share with him.
“And the other?”
“The human mind is like an uncharted world, with us clomping our way through, oblivious to new pathways, experiences, causes. What causes lunacy, melancholia, mania, insanity? How can it be cured, can it be cured or has the brain changed permanently? There’s so much we don’t know,” he says.
If he only knew that depression is commonplace in my own time, that women no longer have shock treatments for post-partum depression, that new drugs allow mental illness sufferers to live functioning lives in society, not locked away in asylums. He’s right. His foresight is impressive, for a boy not yet fifteen.
“So, if I were to wave a magic wand, what would you wish for? What is your best chance of getting into uni?”
“Attending a private school as of next year,” he looks down at his feet, “but I know we can’t afford that. And I don’t mind that Mum, it’s just the way things are.”
“What will you do if you don’t get into uni?”
He exhales deeply and looks into the distance, “I guess I’d join the army. Dad wants me to do an apprenticeship with either him or Uncle Rob, but I don’t know. Toolmaking and building don’t appeal to me. At least in the army I could be a medic, a bit like a doctor.”
The army? The Vietnam War is only a few years away and there’s no way my son is going to be involved in that, particularly against his will once the drafting starts. His soul would be destroyed by the ugliness of it. My son is going to uni, he’s going to a private school next year. From now I am on a mission. This beautiful creature will not miss out on his dream.
We cuddle up on the couch after the kids are in bed and Chris pulls out the photo albums. The last time we cuddled like this was so long ago that it is no longer accessible in my memory. I struggle to remain conscious and retain some level of concentration, because even though our bed is only a double, tiny compared to my regular king-size, it’s whispering to me and curling up under the blankets, (no doona here) is too enticing at the moment.
“This is your side of the family, it was taken at Cal’s baptism.” He points a photo packed with about twenty people. The photo is black and white and very grainy, but I look so…young and happy, a movie-star smile on my face. Lily is holding Cal in a full white baptism gown.
Despite only meeting Lily today, there is something special about her, a bit like a girl crush. So I am happy to learn that she is Cal’s godmother.
“Where’s Dash? Why isn’t she in the photo?”
“Dash and Joe moved to Queensland six years ago to take over his family’s cane farm. His Dad got sick and it was a great opportunity for them to live the country life.”
“Dash isn’t here? But we’ve never been apart. Do we see each other much? She comes down each Christmas, right?” My voice is full of hope.
Chris sighs. “No love. I’m sorry. It’s a long drive and air travel isn’t affordable. You haven’t seen each other since she left.”
Hope is a pricked balloon, as is my face, flaccid and lifeless. A Dash-less life is unimaginable. Even though she drives me nuts at times, she’s my sister. Our blood is thicker than cottage cheese.
“But you write often and Gran always comes to get you if she’s ringing Dash for birthdays and Christmas.” He rubs my shoulder and then hugs me close. “I’m really sorry Jules. This must be very difficult for you to live through again. It took you a long time to adjust to Dash’s move north. “
“It did? How long?”
“Nearly a year. After everything the two of you had been through together, it was no surprise. But Lily moved in and you became close with her; she filled the gap that was missing in your life. And you’ve been inseparable ever since.”
“What about my Dad?”
If there is an extra son then hopefully my Dad is still here too.
“Jules…” Chris looks at me and holds my hand, “I’m so sorry, but your Dad passed away when you were a little girl.”
“Oh, I see.” Tears prickle my eyes. “So he’s gone too.”
“I’m sorry, love. Here’s a photo.” Chris lifts the pages and there he is, the same as in my memory, except in black and white.
“I remember that photo, we were at a park, having a picnic. Dash took it.” It’s so odd that the photo in my hand is exactly the same as the one at home. How can that be? “It was taken a week before he…” Suddenly, the photo is out of focus, the blurriness making it impossible to see anything. Drops of water splash onto my hand and my cheeks feel wet. Chris produces a hanky and gently wipes away the tears that are falling out of my eyes.
“I’m so sorry, love. I never knew your Dad. It was the beginning of a difficult time in your life.” He holds me close. “How about we leave this until another time?”
“No. I need to hear it. Please, keep going Chris.” The tears stop and my nose starts to leak instead.
He inhales deeply and then continues. “Your mother didn’t cope well with his passing. Gran practically raised you and Dash until your Mum…”
“Which one is Gran?” I interrupt him. I know what happened to my Mum. Her tale of woe doesn’t interest me.
He points to a tall, older woman standing behind me on the porch of a house, with her arms wrapped around my shoulders. She resembles a weather-beaten shed left to stand in the sun for sixty years, but one that isn’t about to fall over any time soon because it was made properly. Her brown, wavy hair is parted in the middle and pulled back off her face.
“What’s her name?”
“Gran,” he laughs.
“No, I mean, her Christian name. What do you call her?”
“I’ve only ever called her either Mrs Hoey or Gran. If I called her Leticia, she’d string me up.”
“She looks scary, is she?”
“Only for those foolish enough to cross her.”
“Have you ever crossed her?”
“No, I’m not silly,” he smiles. “Gran’s hard to describe. She’s tough, no doubt about that. But she’s also a very generous and kind woman. She’s lived though some very hard times: both wars and the Depression. You’ll see for yourself tomorrow. This is Uncle Din, who is your Mum’s older brother. He and his wife, Aunty Maeve, live behind Gran.”
“What are they like?” I ask.
“Funny, both of them. He keeps taking his car apart and puts it back together, but always has bits left over.” Chris shakes his head and laughs. “Aunty Maeve is Irish, she’s a lovely woman. Great cook.”
Chris runs through other family members in the albums, but at the moment they are just faces in black and white and mean nothing to me. None of them live in the street; mostly in the neighbouring suburbs of Carlton and Fitzroy.
“Well, sweetie, it’s late and tomorrow’s a workday, so let’s get some sleep.”
“But wait, you never told me what happened after Dad died.”
Chris hesitates, “Ahh, I think Gran is the best person to answer those questions. She knows everything and will give you the full account. It was before my time with you, so it’s best you ask her.”
“What about your side of the family?”
“We’ll cover that tomorrow night. We both have an early start in the morning, so let’s get to bed,” he yawns, covering his mouth.
“The kids don’t start until nine; why do I have to get up early?”
He smiles and kisses me on the forehead, “come on love. Bed time.”
I make a last dash out to the loo, for fear of having to go later. Grabbing the torch and making my way up the concrete path to the back of the yard, it strikes me how quiet the neighbourhood is. There’s not even any traffic noise, not a peep. It’s a bit eerie. But what the area lacks in noise it makes up for in starlight. There are millions of them up there, twinkling, shooting, living in galactic chaos. A bit like me.
Breathing in the cool night air, it occurs to me that this is my second night away from my own life. What’s happening there? Has Anya moved in? Has Big Al cancelled my contract and awarded it to Sonya Schafer? Not that there’s anything that can be done about it from here, and there’s no point worrying about things that are way out of my control. Tomorrow will be my day of exploration, seeing as I am committed to remain here until Will’s scholarship is secured.
Chris snores softly next to me and my mind wanders back to the first time I fell in love with him. My limited previous relationships were nothing special, for no special reason.
During our long nights sipping wine and eating cheese, I had told Chris of my intention to visit Dad’s grave and of my discomfort in returning to a gravesite that had been left untended for two years. Its neglect exacerbated my feelings of guilt. After all, he was only there because of me, and I wasn’t even decent enough to maintain his resting place, after all the love and warmth he brought into my life. It was an eternal loop of guilt.
My father’s birthday was March 1st and I’d decided, spontaneously, to visit his graveside and lay some flowers, even though the thought of going there caused insomnia. The last time Dash and I had visited, two years prior, both of us were upset for a week afterwards so together; we made a pact not to return until we were better able to deal with our emotions.
On Dad’s birthday, I wandered around amongst rows and rows of plaques and headstones for ten minutes before it occurred to me that I had entered through the wrong gate. I eventually came close to Dad’s plot only to discover a young man already there, down on his hands and knees. I hid behind an ornate tombstone, blending in with the large winged angels, vision blurred by tears, watching this person clean the headstone, pull weeds out and place them in a plastic bag and brush away the cobwebs over Dad’s inscription. He then stood up, put his hand on the stone, said something, collected his belongings and left. Remaining out of sight until he drove away, my cheeks slippery with tears, I walked over to Dad’s grave. It was tidy, clean; didn’t look neglected at all. I fell to my knees and wept quietly, running my fingers over the inscription. William Wilde, loving father and husband. My heart beat a little harder for Chris.
I waited over the next week for him to mention it and thereby receive my sexual gratitude. But he didn’t. Not a hint, suggestion or even query as to the grave’s condition. To this day he still doesn’t know that I saw him, and he has never spoken of it. Whatever he said to Dad has remained a secret, as has my knowledge of what he did for me. That was the moment I fell in love with Chris Taylor.