40

Delaney called Uncle after nine at night, an hour when Danielle should have been there alone reading a novel, the yellow codes of all the clients glowing on the computer screen by her elbow. Warwick answered however.

“You’re not making an offer for the business, Terry?”

“Not unless it comes with a stock of explosives,” said Delaney.

“You’re what they call a droll bugger,” Warwick told him. Warwick seemed to be laughing.

Delaney asked to speak to Danielle.

“No,” said Warwick. “She wouldn’t want you to. What can you do, Delaney? Meet in a parking lot for a last embrace? She’s got too much dignity.”

“Put her on, Warwick. If that’s what she says, then—”

But Warwick refused. In the living room Gina pretended to watch an American comedy about a boutique whose owner, a bright-eyed anorexic girl, was in love with a weight-lifting fruiterer. At least it was meant to be a comedy, but when love was threatened everyone grew earnest in that awesome American way, and earnestness prevailed and, because everyone on the screen expected it to, healed all. Gina expected nothing from earnestness, but for the sake of her pride she needed to pretend an interest in the comic-strip love affair. Delaney wondered what women did in these circumstances before the television age. Read the classified ads, pretended a deadly serious interest in Births and Deaths, Furniture for Sale, Houses and Land/North Shore Line, Machinists Wanted.

“Put her on,” Delaney insisted, knowing that a sort of decency demanded that, yet already pleased at the idea of Warwick and Danielle graciously saving him the pain of hearing the voice of his sole desire.

“No, I won’t,” said Warwick. “Do you know what my father thinks of you?”

“No,” said Delaney, half hoping again that distracting insults would fly.

“He thinks you’re an honest man. And you know I’m one too. So you’ll know I’m not lying when I say she has a severe respiratory infection and wouldn’t be able to come to the phone if she wanted to.”

He began to ask frantic questions about her health.

“Of course she’ll get better. We Kabbels weren’t made to succumb to flu. Good night, Terry.” He hung up.

Delaney felt at the same time deliverance and the sense he was committing treachery. He dialed the number again but it would not answer. He dialed it again. Gina rose in the living room, came out past the wedding pictures on the dresser, past the Pontiff’s benediction, and looked at him once in a way which seemed to convey certain questions. What are you doing? Are you tempting Destiny? Don’t you understand the unanswered telephone is a gift! He didn’t. He dialed once more and there was nothing. Gina had returned to the living room and he went and sat beside her.

“I wasn’t even interested in her,” said the musclebound actor to his beloved, whose legs were as thin as those of Central Australian Aboriginal women.

“Well,” said Delaney, as the live audience on the television sighed at the last sentiments of fidelity uttered by the weight lifter. “That’s settled.” He knew it was true enough to say, yet it was harder to believe than any of those doctrines Doig took apart each Sunday. He suffered that awful sense of seeing himself from the outside, seeing exactly the volume of air he took up—a slight, lithe fool, hollowed out from the chest down, no-hoper, sillybugger, deadshit. This self-claustrophobia mercifully lifted after a few seconds. Taking a breath, he saw ahead of him the marital landscape like a plain far from featureless, an earth adequate to live off but at this stage both hard to discern and, of course, empty of surprise, every corner of it covered in the deeds. A decent habitation and, as his parents might say, his lot in life.

“I hope you’ll forgive all the grief and messing around,” he said.

“You don’t have to worry,” said Gina. She didn’t want him to go on. A commercial began and she buried her eyes in the non-news of the evening paper. There was, thank Jesus, no great surge of reconciliation and mad joy.

FROM THE MATCH DIARY OF TERRY DELANEY

Penrith v. Norths at Kalahari Desert, as they call North Sydney Oval. McPhail out with hamstring so played full game in reserves. Really good center, Paul Borissow (some sort of Slav but not much like Rudi). Beautiful working with him—intelligent player and good at busts up the middle. Like all the good ones doesn’t need opening wide as the Harbor Bridge and a printed invitation, just needs a chink of light and good night, nurse! Other player I combined with was second-rower, bloke from the bush, Gilgandra or somewhere, name of Greg Gorrie. Worked wide a lot and fast as a winger, big powerful thighs. Borissow and Gorrie two tries each in first half. Regathered a grubber myself thirty meters out in second half and scooted over for one of my own. Reserves: Penrith 32–Norths 8. Beaten in Firsts again. Bloody club secretary faces the Channel 10 cameras with straight face and tells them how all we have to do to make semifinals is win six on the trot. Deecock his old leaden self. Everyone muttering round the dressing rooms saying, “Selectors have to do something.” Some chance of promotion for one Delaney.

Magic day, best for weeks. Gina there. Life’s honest pleasures.