Bonnie stared into the mirror and peered closely at her face, inspecting what looked like enlarged pores on her nose and broken veins across her cheekbones. Just before Jeff died she had been thinking about cosmetic surgery: Botox for her forehead, an eye lift, perhaps, her lips, and maybe doing something with the telltale pad of flesh under her chin that screamed middle age. But since then she hadn’t given it much thought, it hadn’t seemed to matter so much back here in Melbourne, at least not until now. Not until her mother started behaving like a teenager.
Bonnie put a hand on either side of her face and gently drew the skin tight towards her hairline. She looked ridiculous, but if she slacked the tension a little she looked good, and she held it for a moment, contemplating a younger look. Who would she be doing it for? Herself?
Jeff had always been against it. ‘You’re beautiful as you are, Bon,’ he’d said whenever she mentioned it. ‘Why do you want to change? Growing older is okay. I’d rather have you than some bland looking thirty-year-old. Your face tells a story, our story, and I love it.’ But without Jeff around, there was no one to share the story written in her face.
She released the mask she’d created and looked at herself again. The haircut had been a sound decision, and overall she looked pretty good. Perhaps she just shouldn’t look at herself so closely with her glasses on. She took them off and straightened up – a little bit of distance was a big improvement. Anyway, no one cared what she looked like; she could go out looking like the Witch of Endor and no one would take any notice.
It didn’t seem so long ago that heads turned whenever she walked down the street. Europeans weren’t so hung up on youth as Australians; in Switzerland she had constantly felt noticed and admired as a woman, whereas here she might just as well have been invisible. But it was ironic how visible she suddenly became when someone, a man, realised that she had money. The architect, the builder, the designer, the project manager – all of them had treated her in a bored, dismissive manner until it became clear that she was not only talking big money, she actually had it. Then they started to take her seriously. She didn’t doubt that if she had been twenty years younger, or male, the original response would have been very different. There was considerable satisfaction in the knowledge that she could tell them all to get stuffed and she’d find someone else, but it had shown her that to be an older woman and not have the power of money behind you would make life a very different prospect.
Bonnie had encouraged Fran to respond to the offer for her house with a counter offer, driving the price up by another five thousand dollars, and she had gone with her to the real estate agent’s office. Watching Fran’s anxiety as they waited for the agent to call the potential buyer, she was reminded again of how comfortably insulated she had always been from the sort of financial concerns that had dominated her friends’ lives. To Fran, the five thousand additional dollars represented a great deal more than just a well-done deal.
Bonnie turned out the bathroom light, went downstairs to the kitchen and stared at the fridge, wondering what she would eat. It was strange being alone in the house. Sylvia was away, Will had left for Hong Kong and now, this evening, for the third time in a fortnight, Irene was out and presumably not coming home. Bonnie, thankful that at least she hadn’t yet been faced with Hamish in his pyjamas, realised that her own behaviour was probably holding this reality at bay. She had been so shocked when Irene told her that she and Hamish were ‘an item’ that she had actually dropped her cup and it had smashed on the kitchen tiles. The job of cleaning up the broken china and the tea had given her a few moments’ breathing space but when it was done she and Irene had stood there looking at each other and Bonnie had been totally lost for words.
‘You look rather shocked, dear,’ Irene had said, returning to the task of unpacking the shopping.
‘I am,’ she managed to say, wondering if it was really just shock that she felt. ‘You mean . . . you mean, you and Hamish are . . .’
‘Having a relationship,’ Irene supplied, not looking up. ‘Yes.’
‘Are you sure?’ Bonnie said, realising before the words were out of her mouth that it was a perfectly ridiculous question. ‘I mean,’ she said, blushing, ‘well . . . a relationship.’
Irene put a packet of flour into the pantry and turned to face her daughter. ‘Look, Bonnie, we both know what a relationship involves, or do you want me to spell it out? Hamish and I are old friends, and while we were in Greece we spent a lot of time together. I called to talk to you about it one night but it was awkward, you were busy. Anyway, our friendship has developed into something deeper, more intimate. We’re both very happy about it, and so are our friends.’ She paused, taking in Bonnie’s face and her body language. ‘I hoped you’d be happy too. I’ve been on my own for a long time and I never expected to love someone or be loved again.’
Bonnie’s shock and embarrassment outweighed sensitivity. ‘But you’re eighty, Mum!’ she said. ‘People don’t have . . . aff . . . relationships, at eighty.’
‘Of course they do, Bonnie, don’t be so naïve. People have affairs when they’re even older than us, even when they’re in hostels and nursing homes. It’s just that everyone pretends it doesn’t happen. People don’t stop being sexual once they draw the pension, Bonnie.’
Bonnie held up her hand. ‘Don’t! Please don’t! You’re my mother, for goodness sake.’
‘Yes,’ Irene said, clearly both irritated and hurt, ‘and you’re old enough to know better than to behave like this.’ With that she marched out of the kitchen leaving Bonnie alone, confused, and surrounded by unpacked shopping.
Since then the atmosphere had been arctic, but Bonnie couldn’t overcome her embarrassment and distaste. Why couldn’t they just be friends? Surely they were both old enough to know better than to disrupt everyone’s lives by behaving like teenagers. She had been too embarrassed even to tell Fran about it, and she just hoped it would all be over soon, certainly before Sylvia got back, and then no one else need ever know.
There was a plastic container of soup in the fridge and Bonnie took it out, put some in a bowl, popped it into the microwave and ate it sitting alone in the kitchen. She tried not to think about the fact that it was eight o’clock on Saturday night and here she was alone in the silent house. Sylvia’s presence had saved her from the emptiness she had felt when her mother first went away, and somehow she hadn’t expected to feel like this again. Now that she had the Boatshed her days were busy and satisfying, but suddenly her aloneness struck her with greater force than before. Fran had her mother and her children, Sylvia had Kim and her grandchildren and now, even her own mother had someone special. Bonnie couldn’t actually bring herself to say, or even think, the word ‘lover’. It wasn’t that she had anything against Hamish personally, it just seemed so undignified and confronting.
It was cold downstairs and Bonnie washed her soup bowl and decided that the cosiest place would be bed. She took a hot shower and climbed into bed at quarter to nine, surrounded by pillows, and flicked through the television channels to find something to watch. Harrison Ford and Julie Andrews seemed to be caught up in a European hotel avoiding some spies and she settled back to watch. It was in one of the commercial breaks that she heard the front door open. She flicked the mute switch and heard voices, her mother’s and Hamish’s deeper one. Bonnie sank back onto her pillows, staring at the soundless pictures. Was Hamish going to stay the night? Would she have to face him in the morning?
Harrison and Julie climbed into bed together and Bonnie was consumed by a flush of heat as she pictured Irene and Hamish doing the same at the other end of the house. The thought that they might be having sex under the same roof while she lay alone in bed watching a movie had a horrible fascination. She flicked off the mute and the sound came up. Trying to force the images out of her mind she watched the remainder of the movie without really seeing it, until finally she turned off the lights and lay down in the darkness, wondering where they were and what they were doing, and what she would do when she saw Hamish in the morning.
Jacka Boulevard was busy with traffic and pedestrians. Despite the cold wind, the arrival of spring seemed to have brought everyone out of their houses. Fran turned away from the water-front and slowly made her way in the stream of traffic across Acland Street back towards St Kilda Road. She had driven past the house countless times but this was the fourth time she had arranged to go inside, and this time was different. This time she almost owned it – the contract was signed, the deposit paid and in three weeks’ time she could move in.
She parked on the opposite side of the street, got out of the car and stood looking at it, imagining herself inside her new home, her own things around her, familiar furniture filling the rooms, her books on shelves, pictures and photographs on the walls. Each time she saw it she was more convinced that she had made the right decision. She took a set of kitchen steps out of the boot, locked the car, crossed the road, and went in through the wrought-iron gate and up the three steps to the front door. She wanted to do some measuring, work out what would fit where and what would simply have to go. In her pocket she had a list of things to check, a measuring tape and a copy of the floor plan.
It was a small Federation terrace, one of six, renovated in traditional style, but with all the convenience of a new townhouse. The walls of the original entrance hall had been removed so that the front door opened into a light living room, with a broad shallow arch to the kitchen. Beyond that, the old sleepout had been converted to a breakfast room with glass doors opening to a small courtyard enclosed by walls of recycled brick. Upstairs there were two bedrooms and a bathroom fully tiled in black and white. If she had to design a place for herself, Fran thought, it would have looked like this. Not for the first time, she sighed with pleasure at the sunlit spaces, the pale polished timber floors and the freshness of the new interior within the original shell.
She glanced at her watch. David had promised to come and help her but there was plenty to be getting on with until he arrived. Carefully she checked the measurements of the fridge alcove. Her commercial fridge was to go to the Boatshed, as was the huge freezer. How nice it would be to have a normal domestic kitchen, to keep her work away from her home. Sylvia was due back the following day and Fran wanted to get her ideas about curtains and colour schemes as soon as possible. She measured the width of the lounge windows and set up the ladder to measure the height of the glass doors at the rear.
‘Come on in, it’s open,’ she called when she heard a tap at the front door. ‘You’re just in time to help me with this. I need you to read the height measurement.’ And she twisted slightly on the ladder and saw not David, but Caro, an awkward, rotund figure shifting her weight from one foot to the other in the middle of the empty room.
‘Hi,’ Caro said. ‘I came to see the house and . . . well . . . you.’
Fran stepped down and stared at her daughter. It was more than four weeks since she had seen her at the hospital and Caro seemed to have got much bigger very quickly. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘You’d better sit down,’ and she carried the steps through so that Caro could sit on them.
Mother and daughter looked at each other across a silence charged with unspoken accusations and misunderstandings.
‘How are you?’ Fran asked, breaking it.
Caro nodded. ‘Okay, I suppose, I don’t know, really. I don’t know how it ought to feel.’
‘No one does,’ Fran said quickly. ‘Best not to worry, just take it one day at a time.’ She knew she must sound pathetic but she was operating in a purely mechanical way, unable to summon any feelings, as though a surfeit of them had made her shut down.
There was silence again. Caro rubbed the toe of her shoe against the edge of the steps. Fran, wary and wondering why she had come, leaned against the kitchen bench and folded her arms.
‘So, what do you think of it?’ she said eventually.
‘Lovely, really lovely,’ Caro said, looking around. ‘Two bedrooms upstairs?’
Fran nodded. ‘You must be pleased,’ Caro said.
Looking beyond Caro, out through the front window onto the street, Fran could see David sitting in his car reading the paper. Obviously this was a put-up job, an ambush. ‘Why did you come, Caro?’ she asked. ‘Was it the visit from Gran?’
Caro looked away, brushing her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘Partly . . . we did have a talk.’
‘I bet you did,’ Fran said dryly, surprised at her own cynicism. ‘And she told you to come and see me and apologise.’
Caro nodded. ‘She explained a lot of things, and she told me what she thought about the way I’ve been. Not just now, for a long time.’
Fran waited, trying to quell the resentment that was rearing its head. What was she supposed to do, open her arms to Caro only to get knocked back yet again? It had happened one time too many. ‘I’m sure you had your reasons,’ she said, hearing the flat, uncompromising tone of her own voice. ‘But thanks for coming. I wanted you to see the house.’
A few weeks earlier Fran would have grasped this moment irrespective of the emotional cost, but that day in the hospital she had crushed the inner victim that had for so long dominated her relationship with her daughter. She loved Caro as much as ever, but they had to move on to something new and different, and she knew it would take more than this tense encounter to get them there. Caro’s eyes were bright with tears. Fran handed her a packet of tissues from her bag and slipped an arm around her shoulders.
‘David’s out there in the car,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you go and tell him to come in. I can finish these measurements and then we can go down to Acland Street and get some lunch. You shouldn’t be standing about here like this.’
*
Lila was quite pleased with herself. Her crusade to sort out her family had been at least partially successful. She was pretty confident that she had straightened David out and brought Caro back into line – only Fran had remained recalcitrant and told her to mind her own business. But Fran had always been stubborn and Lila had to admit that she’d put up with a lot from Caro over the years. Even so, she remained concerned about the two of them. Caro needed her mother right now and Fran would always regret it if she let her pride get in the way of sharing this time with her.
Lila realised she might have to put a bit more work into resolving that particular crisis; meanwhile, she had other things on her mind. Taking the initiative had done her good, brought back the confidence she’d lost. She was only eighty, or maybe a bit more, not that it really mattered. She had plenty of energy but she couldn’t walk as far as she used to, and that interfered with her independence. There were a few people in the retirement village who used four-wheeled motor scooters to get around, and one even had a sun canopy. Now that, she thought, might be just what she needed to help her get out and about a bit more.
‘I want to buy one of those scooter things, Ray,’ she said, sitting down on the chair in the village manager’s office. ‘Something like Mr Pirelli has up in Eden Close.’
Ray Barton got up from the desk and took a box file down from the shelf. ‘Easy-peasey, Mrs Whittaker,’ he said, shuffling through some brochures. ‘Lots to choose from. Have a look at some of these. I can even get the salespeople to bring a couple over for you to try out.’
Lila liked Ray, but she did wonder why he insisted on always wearing a safari suit. She didn’t really follow men’s fashion but even she knew that safari suits had been out for years. She’d often thought of mentioning it to him but had never found quite the right moment. She also detested it when he said things like ‘easy-peasey’ or ‘okey-dokey’, which she was sure he only said to the residents – he’d hardly be talking like that to his mates at the golf club where he played a round every Wednesday and Sunday. But he was a good-hearted man and he ran the place efficiently, so she hadn’t said anything.
‘They run on rechargeable batteries,’ Ray explained, spreading the brochures out on the desk. ‘Most of them do about thirty kilometres per charge. They start at just under three thousand dollars, but we can get a better price for you if you buy it through the village. This is the one Mr Pirelli’s got.’ He pointed to a smart looking scooter with gleaming silver paintwork and a black trim. ‘Very reliable and absolutely stable, easy to get on and off.’
Lila looked at the pictures with a rising sense of excitement. She’d been worried about the price, but they weren’t as expensive as she’d expected. It would be an investment, a small price to pay for independence. She’d spent a bit in the last couple of years what with changing her colour scheme, but she could still afford this.
‘Will I need a licence for it?’
Ray shook his head. ‘No, but of course it’s pavements and footpaths only. No tearing up and down the freeway.’
Lila turned over another page and saw a slightly sleeker design, this time finished in canary yellow, with a shiny black basket on the front.
‘That’s nice,’ she said. ‘Pity it’s not purple.’
‘It comes in a range of colours, I think,’ Ray said, picking up the brochure. ‘Yes, look here. Available in a range of colours: cobalt blue, emerald, ebony, crimson and purple. Just your colour, Mrs Whittaker. Want me to arrange an inspection?’
Lila walked back up to her unit holding the papers. Ray had photocopied the brochure for her, and given her an article from Choice magazine comparing the merits of various brands. He’d even got on to the sales rep while she was there and arranged for a couple of models to be brought over for her to try out later in the week.
‘I’d like you to come along too, Ray,’ she’d said. ‘You’re experienced in this sort of thing.’
‘My pleasure,’ he replied. ‘And you don’t have to make a decision on the spot. Try them out and then you’ll probably want to talk to your daughter about it, get her to come and have a look. The rep can always come back.’
‘Absolutely not,’ Lila said, feeling pretty sure that Fran would not approve of the idea. ‘Fran’s got enough on her plate at present. I trust your advice, and I’m going to have a chat with Mr Pirelli.’ But as she put her key in the front door, Lila knew for sure that very soon she would be cruising around Hawthorn and Abbotsford under her own steam, and she thought she’d go for yellow. She could see herself in her purple pants and jacket astride the yellow scooter – she’d always had a flair for colour combinations.
David had not recovered from Lila’s visit. His grandmother’s desire for his happiness had touched him deeply, there was something strong and proud about her determination to sort them all out, but her method had embarrassed him. Worst of all was the thought of Lila and Jodie discussing him over the blood samples. If there was anything designed to make him panic and back off even further it was that. The morning following Lila’s visit he didn’t walk down to the coffee shop, and he didn’t go the next day, or the day after that. And when he got off the tram in the evenings after teaching late classes, he walked a longer route home to avoid passing Jodie’s house. But all the time he was desperately trying to avoid her, he desperately wanted to see her.
About four days later he hurried from the shower to hear her leaving a message on the answering machine and stood there naked, dripping onto the polished boards, listening to her telling him she’d missed seeing him around, and wondered if he was okay and did he want to go to a party on Saturday.
‘You’re a total dickhead, Davo, you know that, don’t you?’ Matt said at half-time as they sat with a pizza miserably watching Geelong make mincemeat of Essendon in the semi-final. ‘You are going to fuck this right up if you don’t sort yourself out, mate.’
David reached out for another slice of pizza and drew back again as his liver flagged a warning. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘but I don’t know what to say to her.’
‘Just have it out,’ Matt said, getting up to fetch a second Coke from the fridge. ‘You can’t go on like this. Your gran’s right. Look, what’s the worst that can happen? You talk to her and she tells you to fuck off. At least then you’ll know where you are. Better than being stuck here in no-man’s land. If you’re not careful she’ll tell you to fuck off anyway, for being a dickhead. What have you got to lose?’
What he did have to lose, of course, was hope. A mindless sort of hope that somehow he’d wake up one morning and it would all be all right without him having had to do anything about it. It wasn’t much of a consolation but it did form the basis of most of his daydreams at present. It was only when reality got in the way that he was reminded that he was simply being childish.
Finally, on the Monday morning after Jodie’s unreturned phone call, he summoned up the courage to walk down to the coffee shop, playing mind games with himself all the way. If she was there it was a sign that he should bite the bullet, ask her out and then have ‘the conversation’, which had by now assumed ridiculous proportions in his imagination. If she wasn’t there it would be a sign that it wasn’t meant to be.
Turning the corner to the coffee shop, his heart was thumping as though he’d done a couple of circuits of the park at a fast run. He was half a block away from the café when he saw the glass door swing open and Jodie walk out, coffee in hand. He jogged a few steps to catch up with her but stopped in his tracks as a man followed her out and over to her car. He watched as they both got in, talking, sipping coffee from identical cardboard beakers. He was too late, there was someone else. David wasn’t a natural pessimist but he couldn’t avoid the feeling that this was the way his life would be from now on.