To return to her childhood home, Sandra drives her sleek white ‘Missibitchi’ past the Footscray drill hall where she was forced to participate in cadet training with the other young boys. It is now a performance space used by a women’s circus. She drives past St John’s Primary School, where she was routinely caned across the knuckles and where ninety-five per cent of the students now speak a language other than English at home; past a green footy oval that used to be just a big hole in the ground. She drives past meticulously renovated Edwardian homes that are selling now for close to one million dollars until she crosses a date line where the cottages get a little shabbier and the streets get a little narrower and, by the time she pulls into the dead end of her childhood street, it feels like we have driven back through time.
The house facing Sandra’s childhood home, the one her grandparents lived in, is as immaculately cared for now as it was then: freshly painted and blooming and neatly clipped. But Bill and Ailsa’s old house slumps on its small plot of dirt like a body exhumed, recognisable but rotting.
There it is, behind a low brick fence that has cracked into three separate sections and which threatens, at any moment, to tumble over: a single-fronted weatherboard cottage. Under the drooping porch roof, a large window with the curtain drawn looks blindly out onto the street, a milky cataract beneath a paralysed eyelid. Ailsa’s beloved front garden is all brown weeds that come up to my knees. The glass of the thin window running down the side of the front door is broken; boxes and rags have been piled high inside in a poor attempt to stop the gap.
We try knocking. No one is home. So we walk down the long driveway where Bill would struggle sloppily with his car each night and, as we pass along the length of the house, Sandra looks over the tall fence. ‘That was Barbara’s room. That was the boys’ room. That was my room.’ The top half of ‘the bungalow’ is visible, just, from where I stand. Back near the front of the house, we peek around the other side. We see only one window, broken; a hole into the house in the middle of winter.
‘It’s a fuckin’ dump,’ Sandra says, less in a tone of resentment and more in the spirit of clean appraisal. This is exactly the type of property that she is called upon to clean.
We get into her car and she takes me on a tour of the neighbourhood. To the eternal drone of her news radio station, she points out Sims grocery store where her mother shopped, her primary school, a number of government houses she has been contracted to clean and the tiny flat in Swan Street where her father interrupted her eighteenth birthday party to try to kill her.
‘I wonder if we could go in and see the nuns?’ she smiles as we pass the convent where she used to help out after school. She reconsiders: ‘They might spank me for changing sex.’
I ask her what it feels like to see these places again.
‘I’m OK with it now. I wasn’t when I first came back here. I was crying my eyes out. There were just so many bad memories and I wanted to get away,’ she says, steering back to her street. Tapping on the car window with a pink-lacquered nail, she points with some enthusiasm at a house near the corner and says, ‘The lady in that house here, she died in the toilets at Myers.’
As Sandra parks outside her old house again, a short woman with frizzy blonde hair and a teenage girl, both laden with shopping bags, shuffle past the car and through the gate of the house across the road.
‘Here are the people that live in Nana’s house!’ she says, crackling with excitement. ‘Let’s go talk to them.’ She pops open her seatbelt and launches herself out of the car with the brisk vigour of someone much healthier.
‘Hi, I just want to introduce myself. I’m Sandra Pankhurst,’ she says, smiling, gasping a little as she walks up to the woman and shakes her hand. ‘I used to live in that house sixty years ago.’
The woman squints up at Sandra through her Transitions, dark in the glare of the sun.
‘OK, yes,’ she nods eagerly, waiting for Sandra to continue.
‘I was just wondering, do you know any of the history around the area?’ Sandra asks.
‘Tell you what, the person to ask would be Nancy,’ the woman advises, with a lisp and a slight stutter. She calls out to her daughter to go on inside with the shopping. ‘I’ll come with you.’
‘OK, darls,’ Sandra says, and we stroll to the house next door.
‘Nancy’s mum lived here for years. Nancy’s had a heart operation,’ says the woman, chatty now. And then, oddly: ‘Do you know anybody from Geelong who lives at the end of the road?’
‘No, not Geelong,’ Sandra says, taking the non sequitur in her stride.
‘Simon,’ the woman says.
‘My brother, Simon? He’s dead now. But he didn’t live in Geelong,’ Sandra corrects her.
‘Nah,’ the woman says as we climb the steps to Nancy’s front door. ‘This one was alive.’ She rings the doorbell.
‘Hi Nancy! It’s Debbie!’ booms the neighbour as the door is opened by an old woman with short brown hair.
‘How are you doing?’ Nancy says formally, standing in her white-carpeted foyer.
‘Pretty good. Are you well?’ Debbie inquires.
Nancy nods. ‘Do you want to come in?’
Before Debbie can answer, Sandra is introducing herself in a loud, breathless voice. ‘I used to live over there, sixty-odd years ago. My mother, Ailsa Collins, has died, and my brother, Simon, has died, and my Aunty Sullivan used to live in there.’ She twists to her left and points behind her. ‘I’ll give you my card.’ She grabs her wallet and pinches a card out between her long nails. ‘This lady lives in my Nana’s house.’ She motions to Debbie.
‘What was her name?’ Nancy asks.
‘I can’t remember her name now, it’s so long ago,’ Sandra answers.
Nancy nods. She tells Sandra, ‘After Nana died, Ailsa’s daughter moved in.’
‘Did my sister move into that house?’ Sandra asks with brief interest. ‘When Mum died—I was excluded from the house many years ago when I was sixteen or seventeen—apparently my sister wanted to turn the house into a shrine, but the boys said it’s got to be sold. They had a fall-out and never spoke.’
Nancy and Debbie are looking up at her wordlessly. There is so much of the story and it comes gushing out, contextless and disorganised, sloshing in and over itself in big waves and small eddies from Sandra’s pink-frosted lips. ‘No one knows where my sister is, but she married some Asian gentleman and moved. My brother Christopher is now a wheeler-dealer, and my brother Simon who was in the army is dead. And so there’s me left.’
‘Right, because I know the family there,’ Nancy says very slowly, nodding towards the house. ‘I know they were Ailsa…’
‘Ailsa Collins and Robert Grifford Parker Collins,’ Sandra confirms eagerly, stumbling, as always, on her father’s second name, which is Griffith.
‘I can only remember Ailsa,’ Nancy says.
‘It was always well painted, I remember that,’ Sandra says.
‘I remember that too, I do. It was a lovely house,’ Debbie nods.
Sandra turns and looks at a large house a few doors down. ‘Bonnie Sullivan lived there, and then they pulled the house down. Her house was green.’
‘That house there is on two blocks, so there were two houses there, I think,’ Debbie says, looking in the same direction.
‘Right,’ Sandra says. ‘So much changes.’
Throughout this conversation, Nancy has remained coolly formal whereas Debbie, with her rapid-fire nods and eyes wide behind the Transitions, which have cleared in the deep shade of the porch, has now come on board.
‘Nancy, do you remember that fellow that come knocking on my door not long ago?’ Debbie asks suddenly. ‘Is that part of the same family?’
‘Yes,’ Nancy says simply. And though Sandra is a few moments away from realising it, standing there half-listening to this irrelevant aside, the architecture of her world is about to be drastically altered.
‘Simon,’ Debbie says, remembering his name again.
It’s been circling like a bird, this shape that now lands on me, heavily. I look up at Sandra to see whether she felt it too. But her mind has been trained for so long to ignore certain forms. So I say the words softly for her: ‘Maybe, is it your son?’
‘Ohthatcouldbemyson!’ Sandra exclaims.
‘He came knocking on the door with his mother. She had dark hair. He works in a surf shop,’ Debbie says, giving Sandra the first piece of information about her child in forty years. ‘Where are all the surf shops? In Torquay or one of them, yes.’
Then she turns to Nancy. ‘Tom is still very sick,’ she says.
‘Has he gone to work today?’ Nancy asks.
‘Yes. He shouldn’t have but anyway he did,’ Debbie replies. ‘My husband got really sick,’ she explains to Sandra. ‘He got a brain infection, so he’s pretty sick.’
Sandra nods sympathetically. ‘Did Simon leave a contact number or anything?’ she asks.
‘He left you a card,’ Debbie says.
Nancy goes to look for it. I ask Debbie if she remembers what Simon was asking about that day.
‘About the same things you are,’ Debbie says.
‘Wow. Isn’t that amazing,’ Sandra marvels.
‘You don’t see him?’ Debbie asks.
‘No,’ Sandra says. ‘I’ll tell you the situation. I used to be their father. So that’s why things are the way they are.’
‘OK,’ Debbie says neutrally. ‘You know what? I get it now.’ She gives a series of small nods that make her curls bounce. ‘And you know what? He said that.’
‘Did he?’ Sandra asks.
‘Yes, he did,’ Debbie answers.
‘So he is looking,’ Sandra says, stunned.
‘He is definitely looking,’ Debbie confirms.
‘Isn’t this amazing,’ Sandra says to herself.
‘He’s desperately looking,’ Debbie adds.
‘I’ve wanted that, but you see, when the divorce came through I wasn’t allowed to talk or touch them,’ Sandra explains.
‘OK,’ Debbie says, nodding rapidly.
‘And so all these years I haven’t gone. I’ve got a photo of them in my bedroom: my two boys. Everyone says to me, “Why don’t you contact them?” and I said, “Because I’m not allowed to, by law.” But I would welcome them to come into my life if they want me to,’ Sandra says.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t keep it,’ Nancy apologises, returning to the front door.
‘Oh bugger,’ Sandra says.
‘It was one of them surf shops, so go along to one of them and you’ll see a Simon,’ Debbie says soothingly. ‘Even if you have to go to all of them. It was Torquay. I’m pretty sure he said Torquay.’
‘Yes, excellent, thank you. We’ll do a bit more research,’ Sandra says.
‘He was a nice boy, wasn’t he?’ Debbie says, turning to Nancy.
‘Oh yes,’ Nancy agrees.
‘He was very happy, sociable,’ Debbie continues. ‘And he had two children, I think he said.’
‘Wow!’ Sandra says.
‘Who do you think Simon is?’ Nancy asks sweetly, having missed this part of the conversation while she was searching for Simon’s card.
‘He’s my son,’ Sandra answers. ‘I’m the eldest Collins boy.’
Nancy nods politely. ‘But if Simon is your son, wouldn’t you know what he is doing?’ she asks.
‘No, because we were estranged. Because I was his father,’ Sandra explains.
‘I know there was trouble in the family,’ Nancy says, very slowly.
‘You would probably have been one of the ladies of Les Girls? Nah, I’m only joking,’ Debbie chuckles.
‘Yes, I was at one stage,’ Sandra smiles.
‘Really?’ Debbie is delighted. ‘We’ll have a little bit of history about our house!’
Sandra thanks Nancy and says goodbye.
‘Listen,’ Debbie says eagerly as we walk back to the car. ‘You will catch up with Simon because he does work at that surf shop.’
‘How long ago was it when he was here?’ Sandra asks.
‘It was about six months ago. See, it was not that long ago!’ Debbie says as we stop outside her house. ‘I’d invite you in, but Tom, my husband, is sick.’
‘That’s OK, darling,’ Sandra says.
‘Renee’s doing her eBay,’ Debbie says. ‘Renee is a special needs, you know.’
‘We deal with special needs kids all the time because of the type of business we’re in,’ Sandra says. And then, like a mantra: ‘We do industrial cleans for people who cannot quite deal with their cleaning. We do that plus crime scene, plus meth labs and assisting people with home help.’ There are very few things that Sandra does not take in her stride but even when she is absolutely reeling, she is always willing to discuss her work. It is grounding for her: a solace.
‘Do you know what you should do? You should go to Torquay, go to one of them motels and just stay one night and just have a really good look. He’s definitely there, and he does look a bit similar to you. He does, I’m not just saying that,’ Debbie says. ‘I’m happy for you anyway.’
‘Thank you,’ Sandra says. ‘It’s been a long time. Because of the family law court.’
‘I’m just going to ask this question: what made you do it?’ Debbie asks, peering up into Sandra’s face.
‘It’s just, I felt…’ Sandra starts and falters. ‘I decided I wasn’t going to contact the children because I thought it would be child abuse if I did. As far as I know their mother told them that I was dead. Now, how do I turn up?’
Debbie nods. ‘My mum passed away. She committed suicide in front of me, so that is something I’ll never forget. That was really damaging.’
‘Very damaging!’ Sandra says.
‘She had a nervous breakdown. My dad was an alcoholic and them days, they drank, drank, drank. Eight kids in the family. He used to hit her a lot. I saw most of it.’
‘That’s ghastly,’ Sandra says.
‘So that was pretty bad,’ Debbie says. ‘I’m sure you’ll find him because I know he works in one of them surf shops. Like I said, he runs it or manages it.’ Debbie wishes Sandra luck and walks up her driveway and into her house.
Slamming the car door shut, Sandra sits back for a moment against the cool, black leather and looks out the windshield, stunned. ‘I always thought in my heart of hearts that Simon would come back to me.’
I suggest that she might find him on Facebook.
Taking out her phone, she opens the Facebook app. ‘Let’s have a look. I wonder if he’s called Simon Collins or Simon Hughes?’ she says, considering the possibility that he might have taken on his mother’s family name.
She starts with her own former surname. Clicks on the first search result. Looks down at a face the same shape as her own, smiling her smile. It is, unmistakably, the face of the older baby in her silver frame grown into manhood.
‘Wow. Yes…’ Sandra says with soft wonder at his face and the feeling, and the feeling of having the feeling. And her next impulse is as strong as it is reflexive: to write to him, to run to him, that very second because, like the house to our left and the house to our right and the drill hall and the primary school and the people shopping at Sims and the way Debbie’s stutter gets a little worse when she talks about her mother, the fact that everything has changed, changes nothing, really, at all.
‘How do I contact him?’ she asks.