Robbie knocks on the door aggressively. Bang, bang, bang. Open up. I’m back. He hears voices, then light, quick footsteps. The door opens cautiously. Tangled dark hair, pink cheeks; she’s the picture of her mother.
‘Hello,’ she states.
‘Hello,’ he responds, adopting her serious tone.
‘Are you looking for my mum?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Robbie.’
She tilts her head to one side. ‘I have an uncle called Robbie. He lives in another city.’
‘That’s me. I’m your uncle.’
Her eyes widen. ‘Really? Are you really?’
‘Really.’
The little girl calls over her shoulder. Her voice is loud and strong, at odds with her size. ‘Mum, Mum, it’s Uncle Robbie, it’s Uncle Robbie!’
There’s a cry from the back of the house. Then Celia is barging towards him, her hair coming loose from its bun, a look of utter incredulity on her face.
‘Robbie? Robbie?’
She stops up close to double-check. Then squeals, ‘It’s you! It’s you,’ and flings her arms around him. ‘I don’t believe it! It’s really you. Oh, my God.’
Her arms are warm and strong. Her scent gets caught in the back of his throat. He can’t remember the last time he was this close to someone. He likes it and hates it in equal measure.
‘Sienna, this is your Uncle Robbie. Where’s Charlie? Charlie, get down here!’
Charlie is already halfway down the stairs. He’s older than his sister. Nine? Ten? Robbie should know his age. Celia is always talking about the two of them in her emails.
‘Come in, come in,’ his sister urges. ‘Is that your bag?’
His ‘bag’ is a battered rucksack. She probably doesn’t remember that it’s the same one he left with all those years ago. She takes it, deposits it into one of the rooms off the hall. Then she ushers him into the kitchen-dining area. His first impressions are bright, homely, nothing flash. There’s the smell of dinner in the air. His stomach twinges. He hasn’t eaten since he got on the bus in Newcastle.
‘I have a pasta bake in the oven. Are you hungry?’
He nods in a casual manner that he hopes doesn’t betray how ravenous he is.
‘I must ring Mum and Dad. Sit down. I won’t be long, I promise. Sienna, get your uncle a glass of water. Charlie, put out some cheese and crackers.’
Celia disappears into the hallway with her phone. He is left alone with the children, his niece and nephew. He should have bought them presents. Children of their age would expect something from visiting relatives.
Sienna and Charlie deliver the water and food, clearing some school books from the table to make room. They sit down across from him.
‘Where have you been?’ his niece asks.
‘Travelling.’
Charlie looks excited at this. ‘Have you been to Paris?’
Robbie shakes his head. ‘Nope.’
‘Only cities around New South Wales – Newcastle, Wollongong, and smaller places like Byron Bay and Nowra.’
‘So why haven’t you come to see us before now?’ Sienna crosses her arms accusingly. ‘Those places aren’t very far from here.’
The truth is complex and he doesn’t fully understand it himself. Seeing the same people day after day makes him feel cornered and exposed instead of loved and secure. Being anonymous makes him steadier, more in control, and if something goes wrong, he can simply move on without having to cut any ties or provide a thousand explanations. How to rationalise all that to children? He could lie and say he was just too busy, but a few more questions would reveal that he doesn’t even have a job.
Celia returns and saves him from having to answer. ‘They’re on their way over. They’re so excited, Robbie. They didn’t believe me at first.’
‘I’m not staying with them,’ he says bluntly. ‘I’m not putting a foot in that house.’
She is visibly taken aback. Glances at the children, who are transfixed at this development. ‘Sienna, take your handwriting homework upstairs. Charlie, go and tidy your room.’
Sienna – very unenthusiastically – reaches for one of the homework books on the table. Charlie has a staring contest with his mother before scraping back his chair. They trudge out of the room with such exaggerated reluctance that Robbie almost laughs.
Celia crouches down next to him. ‘Why don’t you want to go back to the house? Did something specific happen there? You must tell me, Robbie.’
Her scrutiny makes him squirm in his seat. ‘Too many bad memories, that’s all.’
She looks at him even more closely, if that’s possible. ‘But not of Mum and Dad, surely?’
‘No, not them. The problem is me. The problem has always been me.’
Tears and confusion mingle in her pale blue eyes, the exact same shade as his own. She can’t comprehend either his motives for staying away or this abrupt reappearance. He wants to explain: hate is more powerful than love. Self-hatred kept him away. A different kind of hatred prompted his return. Love should have played a part – love for his ageing parents, and for her, his faithful sister – but it didn’t. Hate alone has propelled him to this point.
She takes both his hands in hers, squeezes tightly as though she is never going to let him go. ‘Robbie, I am so happy to see you. I am so incredibly happy that you’ve finally met your niece and nephew. You can stay here, with us, for as long as you like.’
The next day Robbie is feeling tired, overwrought and dangerously off-kilter. Seeing his mother and father after all these years. So much older, more fragile and shrunken. The tears and recriminations for not staying in touch. The questions he couldn’t really answer. His mother wouldn’t stop touching him. Squeezing his hand. Stroking his face or arm. She couldn’t keep her hands off him. At some point a phone was pressed against his ear, his brother Nick hollering on the other end, promising to come up from Melbourne. Later, in Celia’s spare room, sensory overload and the inability to settle down to sleep.
‘I wish I could stay at home and be with you,’ Celia said this morning. ‘But I’ve already had too many sick days. The last thing I need is to lose my job.’
His sister works in an office in Brookvale. The pay is bad but the location is convenient for school. She split up from her husband last year. She claims the split was mutual but Robbie has his doubts. She winces whenever she says her ex-husband’s name.
The children left the house with Celia.
‘Will you be here when we get home?’ Sienna asked suspiciously.
‘Yes, of course.’
Robbie took a deep breath when they left. He made himself a cup of tea and worked out how to operate the TV. The walls started closing in on him so he went for a walk to the local shops, sat on the wall outside the pharmacy, loitered in the newsagent’s until he was asked to leave. Celia had said a few of his old year group still lived in the area but he didn’t see any familiar faces.
Now he’s at his old school, Macquarie High, except it’s gone. Bulldozed to make way for a new housing development. The demolition was more than ten years ago and the houses have established gardens out the front. Celia said that the locals are still angry about it.
‘The kids have to travel two suburbs to the closest high school now. We don’t understand why the government did this. It was such a good school.’
Her memories are obviously different to his. As he recalls it, it was a terrible school. Nobody cared, neither teachers nor students. Celia was two years younger than him; maybe her year group had some genuinely nice people instead of a pack of fucking arseholes.
Robbie leaves the housing estate and strides back towards the shops. It’s rush hour now. People are stopping on their way home for milk, bread and take-away dinners. No sign of Jarrod, Annabel, Grace or any of the others. He can’t explain this sudden fixation with seeing them.
Five p.m. He needs to go home. Celia will be worrying that he’s not coming back. The children will be annoying her with questions. That reminds him. He has some loose change in his pocket. Enough for two bars of chocolate. Not the most extravagant present in the world but all he has to offer.
The next day he’s beset with the same claustrophobic feeling as soon as Celia and the children leave in the morning. The same urge to get out, to distance himself from the cloying walls of the house. He decides to catch a bus into the city. Sydney hasn’t changed much. Some of the roads have been widened. New blocks of flats have been built along Military Road. The bus rattles over the bridge, and Robbie has his first view of the harbour in twenty years.
He hops off the bus and walks towards Town Hall. Almost everyone is dressed in office attire, holding a phone or a coffee cup or both. The ones who aren’t distracted meet Robbie’s eyes before giving him a wide berth. It’s funny how they can sense that he’s different, that he isn’t one of them. It must be his clothing, or perhaps his grooming, even though today he’s shaved and wearing perfectly good clothes belonging to Celia’s ex-husband.
Town Hall is a popular meeting spot. The greetings are effusive: girls squealing and kissing cheeks, men clapping each other on the shoulder before exchanging hugs. When did everyone become so touchy-feely? Robbie keeps walking. This part of the city is more interesting. Chinese convenience stores, organic health food shops, the homeless sitting on corners with signs: Down on my luck and Grateful for anything you can give. He ambles through the buskers and heavy crowds at Central Station. Then he spots a bus with Newtown on its banner. He jumps aboard, barely making it through the closing doors. Katy Buckley works in a school in Newtown. Her contact details were on the email forwarded by Celia.
Katy’s school looks like any other public school: red-brick buildings, concrete footpaths, overgrown grass. It’s lunchtime. Students swarm the grounds, sandwiches being eaten on the go, boys tussling with each other. Short skirts, board shorts, ripped T-shirts; there doesn’t appear to be a uniform or indeed any prohibition of bold hairstyles, body piercings or even tattoos.
Robbie notices an abandoned wheelbarrow under one of the trees. Without really thinking, he slips inside the gates and wheels it around, nodding at the students, not getting too close to the supervising teachers, and stopping every now and then to pick up litter. He is keeping a keen eye out for Katy. A woman rather than the soft-faced girl of his memories. A teacher in place of the earnest student who always had books clutched to her chest. At least her hair colour should be recognisable.
‘Miss Buckley!’
Robbie turns as soon as he hears it. The student is running towards a teacher with dark brown hair and tight-fitting jeans. The teacher is toned – she obviously works out – and has a nose piercing. It couldn’t possibly be Katy.
‘Miss, I’ve left my lunch at home and I don’t have any money. Can I have a pass for the canteen ... please?’
‘How many times have you left your lunch at home this term?’
Her voice is familiar even if her appearance is not. Robbie recognises the wry undertones.
‘Too many times,’ the student replies.
‘Exactly.’ Katy, trying to hide a smile, pulls out a notebook from the pocket of her jeans. ‘Here. Make sure you bring in the money tomorrow.’
‘I will, I will. Thank you, Miss.’
The student belts off. Katy is still smiling. It’s obvious that the student sought her out because she is more sympathetic than other teachers. Robbie remembers now. Katy is kind. She was always the one who ran to get his brother Nick, while the others stood around, watching his torment, never once stepping in to help. Yes, Katy is kind and good and lovely. It’s the rest of them he hates.
The house is strangely quiet when Robbie gets home. That’s right, they’re at gymnastics. They’ll be back by six. He goes into his room to change his shirt: all the walking around has made him sweaty. There’s something on his bed, a sheet of paper propped against one of the pillows. It’s a picture, a crude drawing of a red bus, coloured in with vigour rather than accuracy. Below, a message in wobbly handwriting: Dear Uncle Robbie. I love you. From Sienna.
It’s not long before they burst into the house, an instant infusion of noise and activity.
‘Sienna, don’t dump your bag in the hall. Put it in your room. Charlie, close the door, for goodness’ sake.’
Then the commencement of the panel interview, Charlie and Sienna lined up on one side of the table, Robbie on the other.
‘Where did you go today, Uncle Robbie? What did you do?’
‘I got the bus into the city. Did some people watching at Town Hall. Listened to the buskers at Central Station. It was a good day.’
It was a good day. The best in a long time. He mentions nothing about going all the way to Newtown. Nothing about Katy.
Robbie already knows that he’ll go back to the school tomorrow.