French onion soup, Maddie thought. Nourishing and easy for Ro to swallow. Or was it too hot for soup? It was late afternoon, but the temperature showed no sign of dropping. The hot air caught at the back of her throat. A forty-five degree day.
Get the onions anyway. You can never have too many onions.
She passed the piroshki stall, one of her favourites. In spite of the heat she thought about ricotta and spinach piroshki, the filling like scrambled eggs but with the added crunch of spinach. And of course the whole thing an excuse for a great big doughnut.
But not today. Piroshki were designed for people wrapped in furs, tossing down vodka and stamping the snow from their boots, not for people with sweat sliding across their skin. The top she had loved that morning was dark at the armpits and clammy around her belly. She hoped that the people at the piroshki stall, who were friendly, had another source of income in the summer.
In heat such as this a war-time solidarity emerged, at least in the first day or so. Normal life was interrupted and people let down their defences, grunted at each other, or burst into speech. Kindly people asked how you were coping. Optimists said it couldn’t go on much longer. Pessimists reminded each other that there might be many more days yet. Angry people … but she kept away from angry people.
She thought about the parts of the world where this temperature was normal and people survived. She’d seen it herself. She remembered a battered little bus in Jordan, sweat dripping down her face. In the distance a Bedouin in robes detached himself from the mirage and herded sheep across a stony plain.
In Adelaide in this weather police patrolled the hills and tailed known fire-lighters, civil liberties long ignored, an accepted state of emergency. In this heat one match could ignite the world.
The people around Maddie were looking toward the glare of Grote Street, framed by the high Market gateway. They were wondering how to avoid going out into it. Not that the Market was much cooler, but anywhere under cover was easier.
Maddie was glancing back at the piroshki stall, but she heard the whoosh. People who watched the spurt of flame were dazzled, blinded. But Maddie could see clearly, when she spun around. It was a rubbish bin on the footpath, an ordinary old rubbish bin. And it had burst into flames.
Maybe a smoker had tossed in a cigarette butt. Maybe the butt had been smouldering away, waiting for a MacDonald’s wrapper to land on top of it. But who would be smoking? Even without a cigarette, every inward breath threatened terminal dehydration.
The effect was spectacular, the whoosh, a flash, and suddenly a truck at the kerb was in flames, too. A man near Maddie screamed, ‘It’s a bomb!’ And another man was trying to push everyone back, telling them to get down.
Maddie dropped to her knees and crawled backwards. Was it a bomb? She pictured a young man stooping to lift something, running forward, hurling it. A generic TV news shot.
The world was heat and confusion and red light flickering on the walls of the Market. She hadn’t heard any explosion herself. No big bang, not then. But plenty of people later claimed they had.
She couldn’t tell if the Market itself was burning. Her brain was detached from her body and was functioning in a calm parallel world. Don’t worry, it was saying. You’ll be all right. It’s a brick building, and all those green vegetables, nothing to burn. But at the same time her eyes were registering the piles of banana boxes and miscellaneous cardboard on top of the stall across the aisle. That’s when she heard an explosion. The truck, she thought later.
She crawled round the side of the piroshki stall. She hadn’t ever been in close contact with the floor of the Market before. It was dirty bitumen with splodges of this and that. She crouched beside a stall and crossed her hands into the comforting softness under her arms. A single orange glowed in the gutter like a small flame, offshoot of the bedlam behind her. She picked it up. The juice would be cooling.
The man who made the piroshki was squatting against the counter, rocking, with his hands over his head. The woman from the stall spoke very fast, not in English. She sounded angry.
‘Are you okay?’ Maddie asked. It was a futile question, since clearly they weren’t, and anyway Maddie didn’t have so much as a water bottle to offer, only a bag of onions and an orange. She held out the orange but the woman waved it away. Maddie could hear sirens. She kept crawling. You didn’t know about people, where they’d come from, what they’d seen. It was odds-on that the piroshki pair came from a place where bombs and smoke and screaming happened often, were embedded in their memories, waiting to reappear. A place that featured on TV. Television news, a geography of the world in 600 wars.
Maddie made her way along the gutter. Around her people were shouting and running. The PA system was barking unintelligible orders, presumably to evacuate. She let the feet pound past. At the centre aisle she clambered upright and ducked across to the southern half of the Market, putting the escalators between her and the commotion. She crouched again. It felt safer, to be on all fours, close to the ground and below the spreading smoke. The floor here was wet, which was puzzling. She looked up and felt a fine spray on her face from the ancient sprinkler system in the roof. It was cool and seemed to be clearing the smoke away. They should do this every hot day, she thought. It doesn’t hurt the fruit and veg.
But not so good for the bakery stall. Bread rolls had spilled from a tray and were turning to mush. Maddie stopped to think about it. One of her favourite stalls. And above her head as she squatted in the gutter was the glass fronted tray that held the gruyère and leek tarts. In a few more minutes they would be ruined. She rose to her knees and peered over the counter. The stall was deserted. Thoughtfully she helped herself to two of the driest tarts. Was this looting? She liked the idea. The orange didn’t count, since it was already in the gutter. But helping yourself to whatever you fancied from the stalls. That was an appealing thought.
She needed a refuge out of the water and away from all the fuss. Instinct took over. The next stall was fruit and veg, the display counters draped with black cloth. She pulled at one corner of the cloth and was pleased to find that the space underneath was empty except for half a dozen boxes. Grunting, knees creaking, she folded herself into the space. She was dry and well stocked with food. She eased her back against the side wall and found that she could stretch her legs out. Not bad at all. She hoped there weren’t rats.
She would meditate. She closed her eyes and slowed her breath. In … out. Heart … mind. Peace … joy. Later she found this lack of panic impossible to explain, and wondered if she was suffering from adrenaline deficiency. She would ask the naturopath.
She came to her senses feeling groggy and pushed her black curtain aside. It was almost as dim outside as it was in. The lights were off and the smell of smoke was thick in the air. There was banging and the occasional shout coming from the northern edge of the Market, but this end was silent.
Her knees were locked straight. Reaching forward cautiously she rubbed at them, pummelling the flesh until she could bend them, draw them toward her chest. Her bottom was cold and cramped. Damp, she realised. She ate the two tarts in quick bites, rolled to one side and pushed past the curtain into the aisle. Reaching for the counter above her she pulled herself upright and clung to it until feeling prickled its way back into her legs.
The aisles between the stalls were deserted. The Gouger Street gates were closed and bolted. Now what? She could scream and make a fuss—but the footpath outside was strangely empty too, and the shops opposite had their shutters down. A blue light flashed slowly further down the street, so there must be police about.
Maddie sat on the cement steps to think.
Of course. If she went up into the car-park she could go down again through one of the exits that opened onto the street. Or did they lock those as well? It was worth a try. She hauled herself up the stairs. The absence of people was eerie.
The first exit she tried led her into a fire-escape and down into the street. She emerged feeling pleased with herself and was taken aback when she heard shouting.
‘Hey! You!’
She looked around. Her? She was quickly surrounded by uniforms and reflective vests. They made her sit down on the footpath.
‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘I nodded off.’ It sounded unlikely, she realised, looking at their impassive faces.
One of them leaned down and grabbed her arm. He’s arresting me, she thought. But instead of clamping handcuffs around her wrists, he took her pulse. ‘Smoke inhalation,’ he said.
Maddie was hoisted unceremoniously to her feet and installed in the back of a patrol car. All the ambulances, apparently, were busy. She imagined telling Julia about this. ‘They thought I was a terrorist,’ she would say, laughing carelessly. ‘But I managed to talk my way out of it.’
The driver pulled into the Emergency entrance of the hospital, jumped out and held the door for her. He was a gangly young man, face raw and twitchy. Was he old enough to have a driver’s licence?
‘Want me to get a wheelchair?’ he asked.
‘No, no,’ she said. ‘I’m fine, honestly.’ He took her arm and handed her over to a weary nurse who made her sit on a trolley in the passageway.
‘Sorry I can’t stay,’ the young cop said. He waved awkwardly, all bony wrist, and shambled off.
It was then that Maddie saw the clock on the wall. Shit. She was meant to be at Ro’s, cooking. She gathered her bag, slid off the trolley, and sidled out through the curtains. The place was full, every nurse attending to three people at once. No one questioned her as she followed the exit signs into the street.
Ro woke from a dream, a long car ride, her father driving. They were going to the beach and she was already wearing her bathers. Her brother was kicking the back of the seat, but when she turned to complain he had become an adult in a business suit.
She blinked groggily. The humming of the car became the hum of the air-cooler supplementing the ancient air conditioner. She should get Julia to check it. It would be unbearable if it broke down. Her earbud had fallen out and was squeaking on the bed beside her. She pressed it back into her ear in time to hear the news about the Market.
The Market. It was a long way off, part of another life. Once upon a time Friday night was not complete without the Market. It was always more than shopping. It was chance meetings with everyone you knew, and dinner at one of the Asian stalls with two or three or many friends. It was community, friendship, the throbbing heart of Ro’s city. Who would have a grudge against the Market? If it was Melbourne, perhaps. She had a vague idea about fruit, vegetables and crime bosses. But Adelaide? It must be an accident.
The dinner roster listed Maddie. Ro sighed. That would mean something lovingly prepared, rich and impossible to digest. And anyway, who could eat in this heat? She twisted herself around and pulled the laptop toward her. She could write.
Half an hour later she looked up. Where was Maddie anyway? For the first time she felt a twinge of anxiety. Surely she wasn’t caught up in the Market business. It would be so typical for her to go off to the Market, on the bus, on a day like today. Probably to buy a delicacy she thought would tempt Ro. Oh hell. Anxiety rose, bile in her throat.
She’d left her mobile next to the sink. She pushed herself upright with both hands and crept down the stairs, one step at a time. She should have another glass of water, too.
No answer. But that wasn’t unusual with Maddie, who buried the phone at the bottom of her bag. Ro texted. You ok?
She put the computer to one side and was stretching her legs forward, easing her distended gut with both hands, when she heard a key in the door.
‘Maddie?’ she called sharply, hearing the irritation in her voice but unable to stop it. Too easy to be irritated with Maddie. She would never speak that way to Julia.
Maddie appeared in doorway. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I got caught up. You’ve no idea …’
‘What the hell—what’s happened to your hair? Are you okay?’
Maddie was filthy, black smears across her cheeks and a dusting of ash on her hair and clothes. She turned and peered into the narrow mirror set in the wardrobe door.
‘That must be why they were staring at me on the tram.’ She giggled.
‘You were at the Market.’
Maddie was momentarily deflated. ‘How did you know?’
Ro pressed a fist into the centre of her chest to calm her heart. ‘It’s all over the news. What happened? Are you all right?’
Maddie wriggled her bottom comfortably into the armchair next to the bed. Ro saw the ash transferring itself to the upholstery and could not contain herself.
‘For goodness sake, not that chair.’
She bit her lip. It was an old lady’s voice, querulous, complaining. It was unbearable that it should be coming out of her mouth. She felt the familiar sensation of a black wave engulfing her. Everything was unbearable. She hated her life. She hated Maddie, so well meaning, so … dumb. She turned away and pushed her face into the pillow.
‘I’ll leave you to rest,’ Maddie breathed above her, all tact and kindness. ‘I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.’
It was as much as Ro could do not to scream. A scream that would fill the room, the house, the city. Carry her useless body way up into the stratosphere. She took a bite of pillow, gagging against the cloth. She couldn’t do this. It was impossible. She could not do it.
She stands at the end of the jetty, straining to see the island. Salt wind whips her hair into her eyes and pushes her backwards. She staggers and puts one hand on the rail to steady herself.
The sea heaves itself into grey mountains that crash onto the beach. Rain slashes her face. The air is full of water. The island has disappeared.
A fisherman passes her, clutching a net and hauling himself along the rail with his free hand.
‘Get away inside, girl,’ he bellows above the wind. ‘There’s worse coming. There’ll be no boats today.’
She shivers, realising suddenly how cold she is. Her clothes are drenched.
Ro opened her eyes to find Maddie standing over her.
‘Let me help you up. I need to change those sheets. They’re sopping.’
Maddie’s hands were gentle and in a surprisingly short time she had Ro installed in the armchair in a dry tee-shirt and was changing the sheets. Ro slumped, half listening as Maddie related her day’s adventures.
A fire at the Market. These things happened now that the world was so hot. The arrival of the apocalypse? The death of the human species. Well, why not? Let everyone die.
Ro thought about what Julia had said. That the end of capitalism would not be pretty. Perhaps it was a choice between the survival of humans and the survival of the planet. She wondered if Julia would choose humans. Probably not. She’d put the planet first. Was it a choice? Were humans really that bad?
Ro watched Maddie as she spoke, laughing and waving her hands in the air, making a story out of it. Ro’s irritation drained away. Maddie should have a special role in the new novel. She should be a hero, a noble leader of her people. But was there anywhere in Ourland to be noble? Leading the island women would not be a matter of fluttering pennants and snorting war horses. It would be an everyday hands-in-the-soil and collective-discussions-around-the-fireplace thing.
Could there be perhaps a smallish dragon for Maddie to slay? But of course she wouldn’t slay it, she’d tame it, bring it into the village as a … as a water heater. Assuming of course that the dragon didn’t want to be fierce, that it would prefer a comfy domestic role. Was it testosterone that fuelled their roaring smashing maiden-eating ways? If you fed them oestrogen perhaps …
Ro came to with a start and found that she was back in bed. Maddie was no longer talking, was not in the room. Ro turned over carefully and slept.
When she opened her eyes again Julia was draped in the armchair, legs over one arm, head flung back against the cushion, eyes closed.
Ro felt a surge of affection. Affection, or more. A stirring of the old passion. She studied the long line of Julia’s neck, the way it disappeared below her shirt collar, the surprising softness of the breasts on an otherwise lean body.
How strange to look back from the other side of alcohol, drugs and sex. Was it the other side of sex? Once she would have argued, stood up for the right of older women to have sex. How funny. Now she was an older woman, and it didn’t matter one way or the other. Simply didn’t matter. She’d clambered out of the oestrogen soup and didn’t have any testosterone either. A hormone-free zone. Peaceful. But nevertheless, the sight of Julia’s neck created warmth in the pit of her belly.
At that moment Julia’s eyes opened. She blinked without moving and smiled.
‘Hello, you old lech,’ she said.
Ro laughed. ‘Sprung. Never mind, it was merely a passing thought.’
‘I could massage your feet. In a chaste sort of way.’
‘Oh well. Better than nothing.’
Julia pulled up a chair and went to work on Ro’s feet.
‘I was rude to Maddie,’ Ro said.
‘Oh.’
‘You don’t sound surprised.’
‘It’s not exactly new, is it?’ Julia gave Ro’s feet a last squeeze and tucked them under the covers. ‘What did you say?’
‘I didn’t say anything. But I could’ve killed her. She must have noticed.’ Ro wanted to cry. It’s not my fault, she wanted to say. I can’t help it. She wished Julia would hold her and pet her. She wanted Julia to be on her side, to be hers.
‘The thinly veiled hostility?’
‘I guess so.’ Amazing how it could make her shrivel, that Julia’s clear cool eyes could see straight through her. The risk that Julia might look at her, as she sometimes had in the past, with impatience or dislike.
‘She said she changed your sheets.’
Ro was instantly furious again. ‘She didn’t have to. I didn’t ask her to. I don’t need a nurse.’
‘You’re lucky to have Maddie, and not a stranger.’
Ro was ashamed, which made her more furious. She’d prefer to have a stranger, then she could ignore the whole thing.
‘She was unbearable,’ she said, knowing how unfair it was. ‘A melodrama about the Market.’
‘Do you know what happened?’
‘A fire. I don’t know.’
‘A bomb.’
‘Oh bullshit.’ But it was what the radio had implied. And Julia didn’t usually dramatise. ‘Not in Adelaide,’ Ro protested.
‘Yes,’ Julia said. ‘In Adelaide. Why should we be immune?’
‘Because …’ But Ro stopped. Julia was right. There was no reason at all why Adelaide should be immune. The rest of the world was in flames. ‘Because this is a democracy,’ she said pathetically.
‘What’s that got to do with it?’ said Julia. ‘Anyhow, I’m not sure I know what a democracy is anymore. One vote for every adult and let the big money make the decisions?’
Ro was suddenly angry. Or afraid.
‘I don’t want to listen to this stuff. It’s scare tactics.’
Surprisingly, Julia didn’t fight. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ she said mildly.
Julia unlocked her bike from Ro’s fence and pushed off, pedalling slowly, letting the day drain away from her. On the bike she created her own breeze. The hot night air was more bearable when it was brushing past her face.
Where the bike-path crossed the main road a cluster of figures jostled and laughed. All men, or mixed? Not that the presence of women was any guarantee. The bike-path was fenced on either side. There was no turning off, no avoiding the knot of people ahead. She was being funnelled straight toward them. She tried to think, aware of her heart thumping.
As she came toward the group she pedalled hard, picking up speed, and let out a deep yell. The figures scattered and she whipped past and veered into the roadway, followed by swearing and jeers.
She didn’t slow her pedalling until she was through the next intersection. Ahead was a functioning streetlight. She made herself stop under it, though all her instinct was to stay in the dark places. She leaned over the handlebars until her heart slowed and her breathing was back to normal.
Well. So much for the safety of a bike-path. Better stick to the roads and dodge the odd drunk in a car. At least in the roadway there was room to manoeuvre.
She pushed herself back onto the bike seat and set off, wary this time, straining to see well ahead. Her body, she realised, was dripping with sweat, the aftermath of fear. She wiped one arm across her face. But her mind was as clear as if she’d taken a cold shower.
There was no let-up in the heat, though it must be midnight. But surely a change was on the way. In vast areas of Australia people had understood how to survive in heat like this. She knew that. They had passed on to each other the knowledge of shelter. Trees, caves, rock-holes where careful stone lids hid small collections of water. They had rituals and patterns about where to be at which time of the year.
But she was not one of those people. She was a pinkfella, herded together with all the others in a city. Dependent on electricity and piped water. And the city had become very dry, and very hot.
Anne wanted to move out of the city. Julia knew that, but they were avoiding talking about it. Anne wanted all of them, kids, grandkids, friends, to find a refuge where they could be self-sufficient. Back to the land, twenty-first-century style. A safe place, for the grandchildren especially. But where was safe?
Ro was doing the same, now Julia came to think of it. But Ro’s was a fantasy refuge, a utopia. An island.
Kangaroo Island might be good. There were parts that were high enough, and sheltered from the southerlies. The safety of an island was appealing, the insulation. But it was probably an illusion. The violence would escalate as capitalism lost its grip. Nowhere would be immune.
Anne wanted a good big veggie garden and an orchard. It was a place in the hills that she was after. Preferably the one that was for sale now, next to friends. Right in bushfire territory, Julia thought wryly. And anyhow she wasn’t ready to retire yet. Not before sixty. All those years she’d put in to building up the business.
She yawned, mouth gaping, bike wobbling from side to side.
Once their lives had been ruled by the needs of children. Then, finally, the kids left home and were busy. She had Anne to herself at last. Slowly the two of them picked up the pieces. Or that was how Julia saw it.
But it turned out to be no more than a lull. Grandchildren arrived. And Anne’s loyalty to the grandchildren, her belief in their perfection, was even more elemental than it had been with her children.
And where was sex? Gone again. It was not-in-front-of-the-children all over again, or Anne too tired from her time with them, or something. Anything. Over-familiarity.
Certainly the grandkids were fun, a relief from sick friends and demented parents. Was it a childless old age she wanted? Adult time? How ironic to survive the children and founder over the grandchildren.
She did not want to live with them. That was all. She wanted to send them home at the end of the day and put her feet up.
‘That you, love?’ Anne called sleepily. ‘Put the light on if you want.’
Julia stripped where she stood and lay down naked on the bed. Anne pushed the sheet away and rolled over to look at her.
‘I worry about you being out so late.’
Julia grunted. This was an old argument and probably Anne was right. But she was not about to give up the freedom of her bike.
‘I’m careful,’ she said.
‘How’d you go with Ro?’
‘So so. Not too bad. Maddie copped it though.’
‘She okay?’
‘I’ll ring her in the morning. She’s tough.’
‘What are there, three of you? Four? You, Maddie. Who else?’
‘Sue’s pretty regular.’
‘Alby?’
‘She’s gone back to Melbourne to pack her stuff. Back next week with Steven.’
‘I’ve never thought of Alby as domestic though.’
‘I don’t know. Remember I stayed there last year? She’s a pussy cat. Butch on the outside, marshmallow inside.’
‘What about Ro’s brother? What’s his name? Murray?’
‘When Ro lets him. He wants to do more. And Ro’s niece makes dinner every Monday.’
‘What about the care people?’
‘Oh yeah. We don’t have to help her shower. Or clean the place, thank goodness. And the palliative nurses will come when she needs it.’
‘It’s not enough though, by the sound of it. Not to keep her at home.’
‘No. She shat on the floor yesterday.’
‘I thought she’d agreed to wear nappies?’
‘Yes but she’s so thin. It just fell through.’
‘I suppose we’ll all have to pitch in. Me too. Hope I’m a good guy.’
‘So far you are. It’s mainly Maddie she goes for.’
‘Poor Maddie. Fingers crossed the power stays on for air con.’
‘Yes.’
‘Your mum rang by the way.’
Julia sat up. ‘Oh hell. I was supposed to call her.’
‘It’s fine. Don’t panic. She was happy to talk to me. She apologised for not recognising me last weekend. It’s the problem with my down-belows, dear.’
Julia laughed. It was her mother exactly. ‘She had another urinary tract infection. Anyway, sounds as though the drugs have worked if she’s normal again.’
‘Normal? I’ve known Zelda for twenty years and I’ve never noticed normal.’
Julia stretched and yawned and curled up for sleep.
‘What is it with Ro?’ Anne asked. ‘Why is she so stroppy? I mean I can see the obvious. But why does it take her this way?’
‘Don’t know,’ Julia mumbled. ‘Old stuff I suppose. Gerry perhaps.’ The thought was out before she knew she had it. She tried to catch hold of it. Something important there. She remembered the Ro of thirty years ago, her zest for life. But the vision and the thought disappeared together into sleep.
Across the city Maddie propped open doors and windows in case of a breeze and in defiance of security. Hopefully the ancient wooden flyscreens were a psychological deterrent.
Maddie was thinking of Gerry too. Would it be easier if she was here? If she and Ro were together? But age would have caught up with Gerry as well. She wouldn’t be thirty. She would have moved into this seniors’ world, where you turned sixty and then seventy. Seventy! How could that be possible?
She pushed Wags off her feet. She missed her cat. Cats didn’t cling in this insistent doggy way.
‘It’s hot,’ she grumbled. ‘No cuddling.’
Wags merely wagged his feathery rump and stretched out beside her.
She scratched his head. ‘You’ve no idea what a day I’ve had.’
He was a better listener than Raggles, gazing at her with bright eyes, ears up. Looking at him she felt a stab of fear.
‘I don’t know what’s going to happen, Wags. The world’s changing. Maybe we’ll have to move.’
But move where? Where would be any better? Melbourne and Sydney were full of rioting and violence. Tasmania? But unemployment there was the highest in the country. That wouldn’t breed peace.
‘We’ll probably have to get out of the city. Sleep on the ground. Be tough. Fight bushfires and cyclones.’
She shuddered and Wags whimpered softly in response.
This house was the first place of her own that Maddie had ever had. It was her refuge and treasure chest and she loved every soft lumpy cushion and cracked tile. Damned if she would leave it.
She switched her thoughts to Ro, a more immediate challenge. Before too long Ro would need help all night, and she wasn’t going to be happy about that. Storms ahead.
Let Julia handle it, Maddie thought. I’ll be good old Maddie, picking up the pieces.
Ro was awake, as she usually was in the early hours. She pulled the laptop to her. Maddie and a dragon.
Maddie spots her goal, a sloping rock where she can scramble out of the boat. She hitches the rope twice around a gnarled tree, drops to all fours and crawls around the curve of rock. Suddenly she is there. A sandy floor stretches back under the cliff and the roof arches overhead. She gets to her feet and lights a candle.
The back wall is solid. She moves sideways, admiring the stripes of red and orange in the stone.
The candle gutters and she tips it slightly to drain away the wax. As the flame gains strength she sees curving lines etched deep into the rock, following the natural colouring. She steps back to see the whole extent. There, coiling along the wall for twenty feet or more, is a dragon, ancient, head turned toward the watcher, flame flowing from its nostrils.
Well, thought Ro, it’s a start. A heroic voyage, a dragon. Gerry would be able to correct the sailing terms.
But Gerry was not here.
With a grunt Ro pushed away the computer and kicked feebly at the crumpled sheets. A cup of tea. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, but the effort seemed too great, the kitchen too far. She lay back on the bed.
What was it with Gerry, why did she take everything so hard? The compost heap of time had broken down Ro’s feelings of remorse. She’d been young. She’d been selfish. But was that it? Ro no longer believed in guilt. That was one thing age did for you, she thought. Cured you of being the centre of everything. Or anything. The cause. Showed your insignificance in the great scheme of things.
Something in Gerry made it hard for her to deal with the world. It started early, no doubt. Gerry peered out of rare childhood photos with shoulders hunched, clothes all wrong, always bigger than the other girls, tall in an era when girls weren’t tall. She might have felt angry, but the face in the photos was naked, vulnerable. The face of dumb endurance. Except that she didn’t endure. She bloody well walked out.
Ro and Gerry. One of them had betrayed the other. Or vice versa. Ro couldn’t remember which. Tears leaked damply across her face.