‘So you’re still doing the dancing then?’ Tessa said, and Sonya, shocked almost speechless at this first phone call from her sister in years, admitted that she was. ‘When will you be back in Perth?’
‘End of the month,’ Sonya said. ‘We’re in Port Hedland now, then we’re driving down to Geraldton for a week and then home from there. Why?’
‘Just wondered. I thought you’d want to know Donna’s had the baby, this morning. A little boy.’
‘That’s wonderful news,’ Sonya said. ‘Congratulations, Tess, you’re a grandmother. And are they both doing well?’
‘It was a bit traumatic. She ended up with a Caesar, but she’s fine now and the baby too. We’re all very happy about it.’
‘Well, I’m thrilled for you, and for Donna and Ray. What’ve they called him?’
‘Ned,’ Tessa said. ‘Just Ned, not Edward or anything else. Odd, really. Wouldn’t be my choice but they like it.’
‘Is she still in hospital?’ Sonya asked. ‘I’d like to send some flowers and a gift.’
‘She’ll probably be home in a couple of days,’ Tessa answered. ‘Best to send it to me, because she’s coming here for a while before she goes home.’
‘It’s wonderful news,’ Sonya said, wondering how to continue the conversation. ‘And how’s everyone else? David? Alannah?’
‘All fine.’
‘And Mum and Dad?’
‘Oh yes. They’re okay, delighted with their first great-grandchild. Anyway, I’ll let you go. Just wanted you to know about the baby. And you’ll be back in Perth at the end of the month?’
‘Yes, should be, why?’
‘Oh, just wondered,’ Tessa said. ‘Well, I’ll let you get on.’
‘Okay,’ Sonya said. ‘And thanks for telling me. It was good to talk –’ but Tessa had hung up.
Sonya took the phone away from her ear and stared at it. The last time she had had a call from Tessa was when Alannah was staying with her in Perth. Tessa would call to speak to her daughter, and when Sonya answered there would be a brief and awkward exchange of information and Sonya would take a message.
They had been close as children. Tessa was five years her junior and Sonya had enjoyed alternately mothering and bullying her younger sister. She had graduated from university and was almost a year into her first job when Tessa moved up to Perth, ready to embrace the excitement of life in the city. That excitement rapidly found its focus in drugs, and she soon moved to a depressing flat with Gary, a drummer ten years older than her who spent more time trying to score heroin and pump it into his veins than he did on his music, and Tessa was soon shooting up as well.
For Sonya – ambitious, focused and genuinely fearful of putting a foot wrong in any direction – they were nightmare years in which she constantly rescued Tessa from one drug-related drama after another, taking her to hospital, to the methadone clinic, to counsellors, giving her money or sweet-talking her out of police stations, while fending off anxious calls from their parents. The turning point came the day Tessa found Gary dead from an overdose, blood trickling from his nose and mouth from an encounter with a corner of the table. Sonya had grasped the opportunity to get her sister into a detox clinic, from which she emerged some weeks later, scrawny and grey faced, to sit speechless in the front seat of Sonya’s car as she drove her back to Kalgoorlie.
To Sonya there was something surprisingly admirable in the way that Vera and Lewis had taken in their errant daughter, nursed her back to health and supported her until she was physically and mentally able to take care of herself and get a job. They had been frantic with worry and strongly disapproved of Tessa’s lifestyle, but there were no recriminations. Sonya respected and loved them for it. Back in Perth again she was relieved that she no longer had the responsibility of looking after her sister and could get on with her own life. But something had changed, something that in all the subsequent years Sonya had never been able to understand. It was as though Tessa had cut her off, as though in leaving behind the chaos of that time she had chosen to leave Sonya behind as well.
‘She’ll get over it, dear,’ Vera had assured her the following year when Tessa, just starting a job as a receptionist in a doctor’s surgery, had treated Sonya like a stranger all through a Christmas visit. ‘It’s been hard for her and she hasn’t always been easy to get on with. It’ll all sort itself out in time; you have to be gentle with her.’
‘I was, Mum. Probably too gentle for too long,’ Sonya said. ‘So many times I rescued her, bailed her out financially, and now she’s better she treats me with contempt.’
‘I know,’ Vera soothed. ‘She’s an emotional girl, always has been. Not practical like you, Sonya. Don’t push her, give her time.’
‘She can have all the time in the world,’ said Sonya, ‘but I’m sick of being treated like shit.’
By this time, Sonya was twenty-five and engaged to Alex, a recently graduated civil engineer. Later that year they were married and Sonya found she was playing rescuer again. The legendary capacity for drink that had made Alex a hero in the engineering faculty also made him a domestic nightmare, and Sonya had more to worry about than her sister’s coldness. A couple of years later, Tessa had married one of the doctors in the practice where she worked and was fitting neatly into the role of perfect wife.
‘He’s a nice guy, your dad,’ Sonya had once told Alannah. ‘I always liked him, so it wasn’t anything to do with that. Your mum and I just never got it together again. We drifted further and further apart to the point that when we do meet, we don’t know what to say to each other.’
‘She’s weird,’ Alannah had said. ‘She talks a lot about when you were kids and how great it was to have you as a sister.’
‘Well, she clearly doesn’t think it’s so great these days,’ Sonya replied. ‘She makes me feel I shouldn’t exist.’
This phone call had come right out of the blue, any new information about Tessa’s family usually reaching her through her mother or Alannah. Sonya, who had been sitting in the hotel lounge with a cup of coffee when Tessa called, longed to talk to the others. It was only ten o’clock but it was all feeling a bit like the first night of their tour, each disappearing into her own shell to reflect on her own problems. Since they arrived in Port Hedland they’d had large and enthusiastic audiences and that in turn had improved their performances. They were a younger crowd here, more of them in their thirties and forties, some of them bringing children who sat watching in boredom or snuck outside to avoid embarrassment while their mothers made their first attempts at dancing.
‘Different entirely from all the other places,’ Gayle had commented as they’d made their way back to the hotel that evening.
‘That’s Hedland,’ Marissa said with some feeling. ‘Different. Too bloody different.’
‘It seems quite a nice town,’ Sonya said. ‘Much nicer than I expected.’ And Marissa just grunted and disappeared into her room as soon as they reached the hotel.
‘Whatever’s bugging her?’ Gayle asked.
‘She doesn’t like it here,’ Sonya explained. ‘She says she has bad memories and she doesn’t want to open it all up, but my guess is that that’s just what she needs to do.’
‘Opening it up,’ Gayle said with a wry smile. ‘Now, that’s where I’m the expert.’ They had stopped in the bar for a cup of coffee before going upstairs and Gayle skimmed the froth off her cappuccino with a spoon. ‘I’ve opened up the biggest can of worms imaginable. God knows what’s going to happen when I get home.’
‘But you did it,’ Sonya said. ‘You did it. You took control of the situation and now you’ll be able to manage the next stage. Whatever it is you decide, you’ll cope now, Gayle. You know that.’
Gayle had nodded. She paled suddenly as tiredness hit her. ‘I suppose. Anyway, Sonya, I’m sorry but I’m wiped out. I’m off to bed.’
Alone now in the empty lounge, Sonya swallowed the remains of her coffee and ordered another. Tessa had ensured that it would be hours before she could sleep.
‘What I’m not sure about is what it means,’ Oliver said, fiddling nervously with his cuffs.
‘It may not mean anything other than that you got drunk and made an inappropriate phone call,’ Andrew said.
‘But I’ve never done anything like it before. Surely it must mean something?’
‘Not necessarily. But it’s certainly part of this period of change, of loosening up, that you’re going through.’
‘But it could mean something significant, couldn’t it?’
‘Yes it could, and you seem to think it does, so what do you think it means?’
‘You’re the therapist.’
‘Indeed,’ Andrew said, ‘and you’re the client and it’s your subconscious we’re dealing with so let’s kick off with your analysis first.’
Oliver sighed. ‘Okay, well, I suppose it could mean that I have until now been suppressing an interest in large breasts.’
Andrew raised his eyebrows and gave a slight nod, waiting for Oliver to continue.
‘Or it could just mean that without realising it I really do fancy Sonya although I told her I didn’t . . .’ He paused. ‘That’s a possibility, isn’t it?’
‘Certainly,’ Andrew said. ‘Anything else?’
Oliver shook his head. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think that either of those is a possibility but there may be other, rather deeper issues here.’
‘For example?’
‘For example, it’s possible that your decision to change your mother’s photograph from one that symbolises intellect and academic achievement to a more lighthearted one that reveals a sensuous side – the ice cream on the lip, the dangling shoe – means you were acknowledging the sensuous side of your own nature, allowing it to surface, being prepared to risk exploring it.’
‘So it could be about the change in me, but might be nothing directly to do with Sonya herself?’
‘Possibly. She may simply be the focus. She’s a woman you admire and feel at ease with and the partner in your most recent sexual encounter.’
‘So I could be projecting something onto Sonya?’
‘Quite possibly.’
‘Like what?’
Andrew took a deep breath. ‘This could be primal stuff, Oliver. Exploring our sexuality always brings us back to our primary relationships – in your case, of course, one primary relationship.’
‘My mother!’
‘Exactly. In choosing to ignore or perhaps forget that aspect of your mother’s life, you have also chosen to suppress that side of yourself. Open up one and you open up your own sexual can of worms.’
‘You mean I could be a raving sex maniac?’
‘Unlikely, I think,’ Andrew replied. ‘More likely just a case of getting a little more balance into your life in this area and coming to terms with the Oedipus complex.’
‘Couldn’t it just be that I got drunk and made an inappropriate phone call, like you said in the first place?’
‘It could indeed be that, alone or in combination with any or all of the other elements.’
Oliver groaned. ‘So how will I know?’
‘We’ll need to do a bit more work around this,’ Andrew said.
‘I prefer the getting drunk or suppression of large breasts theory,’ Oliver said, panic-stricken.
‘Naturally,’ Andrew answered, ‘they’re far less challenging explanations, but as you said yourself they’re totally at odds with your nature. I mean, prior to this occasion when did you last have too much to drink?’
‘At Gayle’s daughter’s wedding, the day I met Sonya. I started knocking back these very strong champagne cocktails and didn’t stop.’
‘And prior to that, when were you last drunk?’
Oliver shrugged. ‘No idea, years ago . . . too long to remember. Ten years, maybe.’
‘Aha!’ Andrew said with a smile. ‘Interesting, and why do you suppose you chose to get drunk at the wedding?’
‘Did I choose it?’ Oliver asked in confusion. ‘Couldn’t it just have happened?’
‘In the light of what you’ve said it seems unlikely. Can you recall how you were feeling at the wedding? Before Sonya showed up, I mean. For example, how were you feeling about your friend Gayle, about being in her home?’
‘Oh Christ,’ Oliver said. ‘Where the hell is this going next?’
Marissa took the long route. She’d avoided the town for nearly forty years; another hour or so wasn’t going to matter. And in any case it wasn’t Port Hedland, or that particular house, that haunted her but what had happened there; avoiding the place had simply been the focus to stop her thinking about the rest of it. It was much more complicated than conquering her fear of motorbikes by climbing on one. What had happened here had determined who she had become and had kept her in emotional isolation for decades.
The town formed the backdrop to the memories that stalked her: the roar of the iron ore crushing mill; the trains, some almost three kilometres long, that hissed and clattered back and forth to Mt Newman; the red dust that coated everything and worked its way into skin, hair and clothing. Days after that terrible night she had stood watching the huge ore carriers in the port and the vast rustred equipment of the crushing mill, seeing so many opportunities to surrender to a physical mutilation as brutal as that which had already destroyed her spirit.
It would have been so easy to disappear. Who would have known or cared? Not Blue. Wendy and Mike maybe, but not her parents, or Roger, or any of the people who had made up the life she’d abandoned for . . . for what? Whenever Marissa remembered that day, she felt it was the salt that had saved her. She had walked for hours with no purpose and no sense of where she was heading, and ended up where the stockpiles stood, dazzling pyramids, their crystalline whiteness sparkling in the sunlight. Somehow they seemed a symbol of hope. Now, years later, it seemed extraordinary that those salt piles, their reflections sharp and clear against the glassy surface of the water, had given her the courage to go on.
They had been in Australia only a few days. The trek through Europe and the Middle East and on to South East Asia had been tougher and more challenging than she had expected, but she had no regrets. By the time they reached Australia their group had dwindled from eleven to seven and for six of them it was a homecoming.
‘Well, here you are, Jean,’ Blue had said as the small aircraft crossed the coast on its descent to the airport. ‘Welcome to the wide brown land.’
Apart from the clear blue water bordered by white sand, it bore no resemblance to the sort of paradise Marissa had envisaged. The dusty red industrial landscape brooding on the coast had come as a shock and she longed to move on. She couldn’t remember now how they all came to end up at the house, but they had pounced on it as a chance to draw breath before they separated to go their different ways. It was a dreary place, a sprawling bungalow of yellowish brick with a barren garden enclosed by asbestos fencing; depressing but cheap – free, in fact, for a few weeks.
The relationship with Blue had petered out over the months of travel, his interest in her waning consistently in every place where it was easy for him to find casual sex. And although they sometimes shared a bed for the sake of convenience, the burst of sexual chemistry that had initially brought them together was a thing of the past. Marissa found their present friendship preferable, as at times his possessiveness had been oppressive. And, even after fifteen months of travelling, of close living in tents, hostels and caravans where the group had squeezed together to save money, Marissa knew little more about him than she had at the start. He was a cagey, secretive man, rarely revealing anything more than trivial anecdotes about himself or his family, from whom he seemed happy to keep his distance. And while she still felt connected to him because he had sprung her from domestic confinement, Marissa thought the time had probably come for them to go their different ways. She was tossing up between heading to Cairns with a couple of the others in the group, or down to the south coast of Western Australia with Wendy and Mike, to whom she had become quite close.
‘Come with us,’ Wendy had urged. ‘It’s great down there – fantastic forests, and the beaches are so quiet. You’ll love it, Jean.’
With a shiver of recognition, Marissa looked down the street which was much as she remembered it, just a little tidier and the houses showed signs of improvement, but it was still an ordinary street of single storey houses, a few cars parked on the road and in driveways, a couple of kids kicking a ball, two women talking on a front lawn, a blue heeler dozing on the pavement. She walked on slowly and was shocked as a soccer ball shot across her path almost tripping her. On the other side of the street, two boys, masking guilt with hostility, stared at her, daring her to say something. Ignoring them she walked on in silence, past the paved front yards, past scruffy lawns and dust-covered lantana, until she could see it, set back further from the road than the other houses, just in the curve of the turning head.
It looked better than she remembered, cleaner. The asbestos fence had been replaced with a low wall of similar yellow brick and someone had taken an interest in the garden. There was the old lemon tree and, beside it, neat beds of roses struggling to survive the climate and the clay. There was a shiny aluminium garden shed and a single room had been added onto one side of the house. So this was it, this ordinary house in this ordinary street. The place of nightmares, and she was standing right in front of it, almost inside the gate, feeling nothing but a little light-headed.
‘G’day, love, looking for something?’ An elderly man holding a pair of secateurs emerged from behind the lemon tree.
Marissa jumped and stepped back. ‘Sorry, no,’ she mumbled, blushing. ‘Just . . . just admiring your garden.’
The man looked around proudly. ‘It doesn’t do too bad, considering. Takes too much water, though. The wife’s always grumbling about the water. Mind you, she likes the roses.’
‘Have you lived here long?’ Marissa asked.
‘Bought it in eighty-four,’ he said. ‘Shocking state it was in then. We’ve done a lot to it.’
Marissa nodded. ‘I stayed here once,’ she said. ‘Long before that, though, in the late sixties.’
‘Did ya? Well, there’s a coincidence. Family live here, did they?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know who owned it. I was with a group, travelling, and we ended up staying here.’
The man grinned. ‘Dick Penfold, pleased to meet you,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘Come on in and have a look round. You’ll see a few changes.’
Marissa hesitated in the gateway, about to refuse, but he had turned away from her and was already heading up the pathway to the front door.
‘I won’t stay . . .’ she began, but he didn’t hear her.
‘Molly,’ he called through the screen door, ‘put the kettle on, love. We’ve got a visitor.’