The brown wooden gate, streaked with dark Estapol. The wooden slats of a fence. The tin letter box in the shape of a house – where the hell had that come from? – stuck on a white post at the end of the driveway. The crunch of gravel, and the crescent-shaped flower bed in the middle of the green lawn. The shock of it, that moon-shaped bed edged by bright blue stones.
Sarah’s chest heaved up, almost without her, and something stung her behind her eyes, like a pre-sneeze tingle. In the slat of sunlight cutting across the lawn, she could almost see – if she let herself remember – the crooked callipered figure digging away at her own ‘special garden’. Kari who wanted the moon for her flowers. Kari who dragged stones from the back paddock, hobbling and pausing and clinking out songs. Bright blue. Bright bloody blue. Sarah felt her whole body swell and melt with a fierce tenderness. They had to be blue, she’d had to paint them blue like the sky; the sky cuddling the moon. Like the time she wanted her room painted purple with pink polka dots like Clown off Adventure Island. And Mal, ready with a paintbrush, ready to give it to her, to the special cripple – to give the blue stones, the polka dots, the moon. Sarah’s melting stopped and she clenched her teeth together. There was no flower bed on the lawn which bore the shape of Sarah’s hands or dreams.
The cement on the driveway was cracking near the gate, and the garage at the end of it, sitting like the plain sister next to the house, had been painted brown. Fenced by wooden rails, still black and white, the main paddock was horse-less. Dry, dry mouth. Hands clenching and unclenching. Sarah felt dizzy, wanted to run into the paddock, batter herself against the wooden fence. Holding her breath in, placing each foot carefully, she walked up the cement steps: avoiding the scrape of her shoes, the sound of her steps, even the sound of her breath. She leaned her head against the red brick wall, pressing against its coolness. They’d put a new doorbell in. Very posh. One with a light shining in it for night-time visitors. Her hand was right next to the button, fingers spread out, wrist poking up all bony. All she had to do was move one finger, just one, and press. Not even hard, just the smallest bit of pressure would do it. They’re very sensitive, those doorbells. One press, that was all. A slight shift of the wrist. Her hand seemed stuck though, planted too firmly on the wall.
It was like moving under water, trying to get somewhere with water pushing back against your body. So easy, it looks so easy, or you think it should be, but it takes so long, the resistance is so soft it tricks you.
When she finally slipped her finger on to the bell she’d almost forgotten where she was or what she was doing there. There was a brief chime – a low, plain note – a pause of not even a breath’s length, and the door swung back.
‘Yer here. I’m so glad ya came, love. I’m so glad.’ The voice was small, a slight tremble in its corners. Ruth was on pause for a moment, frozen in the doorway.
The jumble of light behind her made a glow around her. Small. She was small, smaller than Sarah, standing there watching this woman, her mother, with her words all catching in her throat and then, as if the switch had been flicked, falling out falling out fast too fast and hanging for a moment on her lips and anything to close the space, cover the gaping hole, the huge distance and the what ifs and whys.
‘I’m here, ha, finally, terrible journey, thought they’d have coffee on the train but they didn’t of course oh well it’s not a very long ride really and here I am anyway and I missed the earlier train and had a wander and well. Here I am then.’
The space closed between them with a squish of breath released. Ruth smelt of Estée Lauder White Linen. She left lipstick on Sarah’s cheek, then stepped back, almost cautiously. ‘Look at you, hey? Tea? Cup of tea? You must be exhausted, I bet.’ Her nylon frock – red, carefully fitted with a blue Peter Pan collar – shone. Sarah noticed the blue pumps on her feet, carefully coordinated with the dress. ‘Put your things in your room and I’ll make some tea. Oh, Sarah.’
Sarah felt herself shrink. Suddenly knew she was not to speak of her life, not to remind this tiny stranger of her long absence. She smiled, squeezed Ruth’s hand and said yes, tea would be lovely and she’d just be a moment. She could find her way to the room with her eyes closed.
Nothing was different in there. The two beds, metal-framed bunks, covered in pink chenille. The white teddy propped against one of the pillows. The shining windows. Oh, god, the shining windows. Sarah laid the pack against the bed closest to the door. Kari’s bed.
She wanted to be lulled by sleep, to lay her head on the white teddy and just – accidentally – doze off. She pressed her hands against her temples, hard. Tea. Must have tea and be, what? Suitably polite? Suitably silent? She slipped her shoes off, stuffed her socks in them and trod softly, softly down the dark stairs to the too-familiar kitchen.
Ruth was all bustle. Clicking the tea pot down (knitted cosy in the shape of an owl) on the Laminex. Laying out two saucers, two cups (new and white) and even a milk jug and sugar bowl. Sarah smiled, felt skin stretching across her face. ‘Lovely.’
‘Nothing like it is there?’ Ruth’s chair scraped uncomfortably as she pulled it out. ‘A warm cup of tea can do wonders.’
‘Yes.’ Sarah smiled again. Reminded herself not to tap her fingers on the table.
‘Yer Dad’s over at Teralba. He’ll be back later. Mad pleased that he’ll be seein ya. Oh,’ Ruth clapped her hand over her mouth like a girl and pushed her chair back again, ‘brownies.’ She reached for the blue tin on the bench and put two chocolate slices on a plate. “They’re from the shop.’
The Coffee Pot? Are you still working there? Really?’
‘Assistant Manager. Full-time.’ Ruth brushed her dress down, the nylon whistling like a solitary cicada. She dabbed at the corners of her mouth carefully. ‘I help with the ordering. Give lists to Mrs Saint Clare. Oversee.’ She pronounced oversee as if it was a word which had got stuck somehow in her mouth, a too-large chunk of cake.
‘You’re joking.’ Sarah swallowed too fast, the tea burnt at her throat. ‘Are you serious? Oh,’ she swallowed hard, trying for some cool saliva to ease the burning, ‘that’s wonderful. That’s fantastic.’
‘Chocolate Fudge Brownies, these are. American. Mrs Saint Clare saw them in the Marmong bakers – you know the Marmong bakers – and decided to give them a try. They sell like hot cakes. Have one. I brought them home specially.’
Sarah bit off a corner. ‘Mmm. They’re good.’ She ate the rest quickly, tasting only the scalding of the tea.
Ruth reached for the blue tin, placed two more on the plate. “They sell very well.’
Sarah smiled the tight-faced smile again, across the red Laminex table which sometimes haunted her dreams. Passed a quick smile like a pay-off to this painfully familiar woman making quick little dabs at her reddened mouth. Ruth had the brittle look of someone too made up, too eager to please.
Watching her, Sarah felt something like shame wimper its way around her skin. She reached for another brownie and brushed her hand across Ruth’s, letting the contact last for a moment. Ruth bit her lip and rubbed at her eyes, then smiled at Sarah.
‘You should see all the changes we’ve had. Lots of changes. Didja see the lock-up’s been done over? Metal door. Sky-blue they painted it. Honestly, you’d think it was the Taj Mahal in India the way your father fussed about.’
‘I went up near the hills, up Fourth Street. There were loads of places up there painted red and yellow and blue. Has there been some kind of award for weirdest colour schemes?’ Sarah rubbed her hands on her knees, began to breathe easy.
‘The Sulphide bought them up, all those places. Dunno why they painted them like that, they just did. They rent them out. Sam White sold his place up there and now he rents it from the Sulphide for practically nothing. His own place.’
‘Is that so they can’t sue when they get poisoned from the bloody fumes?’
Ruth bunched her forehead up and flicked her fingernails in and out against her thumb. That smile stretched across her face again. ‘It’s very low rent.’
Sarah breathed in, very very deep. ‘So, the lock-up’s sky-blue. What a laugh.’
The two women looked at each other in silence. Sarah stretched her hand out again, this time letting her fingers entwine with Ruth’s. Both hands were cold.
‘Ya sister. We’ll go tomorrow. First thing. Thanks for coming, love.’ Ruth wiped at her nose with the back of her hand. ‘Here, darl, have some more tea.’
Sarah’s voice came out in an almost whisper. A croaky latenight voice. ‘No, I’m sorry, I’m really bushed. I just need, do you mind if I crash? If I go to sleep? I’m sorry, I’m so. So. It’s lovely, lovely to see you. The brownies are lovely, Mum.’ It felt strange in her mouth, that word, Mum. Like oversee.