Astrid was bustling around her kitchen, organising cocoa, toasted sandwiches, a heater and a blanket. As she sat at the kitchen table Helen reflected on the fight she’d had with Arnold the night before: ugly, inevitable and delivering yet another resounding blow to their marriage.
She had been in the kitchen making bread when she heard Arnold’s familiar shuffle. Kneading the dough, she’d fixed her gaze on the floury mass in her hands. She didn’t want to have to look at her husband; she dreaded to think what alien object he might be bringing in this time.
Arnold came in with a snuffle of contentment; he loved Helen’s homemade bread. But his snuffle only fuelled her anger. She pummelled the dough, refusing to raise her head as he stood before her.
‘Guess what I got ya.’
‘I’d rather not,’ said Helen. What was he thinking? She wasn’t stupid. Got her? Whatever he got her, he got for himself.
‘Have a look then.’
Helen took the bait. She flipped her head up and nearly choked. ‘What the hell is that?’
Arnold, unsettled, replied, ‘It’s a photograph album.’
Helen stood, flour-covered arms folded in front of her like a bread knot. Her eyes popped disbelievingly at the large album with its faded cloth cover as she yelled, ‘I can see what it is. More damned junk!’
‘It’s not junk … it’s a photograph album.’
Helen shook her head in disbelief. Of all things to bring home! Didn’t Arnold know how painfully few photographs they possessed of Gabriel and Vivian? There were only a couple of Leif.
‘Remember Mrs Slap?’ Arnold said.
Indeed she remembered Mrs Slap; she had spoken, often, over the phone to the old lady about overdue lawn-mowing accounts. ‘Don’t tell me! She’s dead. And out of gratitude, her relatives gave you her old photograph album?’
‘Yeah,’ whispered Arnold.
Helen couldn’t speak. She screamed. ‘It is not gratitude, Arnold. It’s offloading their crap on to a sap!’
‘Dead people don’t leave you brand new things. They give you things to remember them by.’
‘You already have a million photograph albums,’ Helen hissed through gritted teeth.
‘Well this one,’ said Arnold, tapping his finger onto the album. ‘This one is in particularly good condition.’
‘Humph!’ Helen landed a punch into the dough.
Arnold was holding the album open for her. She leaned forward and noticed it was an expensive album with its black, matt pages littered with little white triangles for holding the photographs in place. Between the pages there was tissue paper.
The book fell open at a page with two large black and white photographs. One was of a family sitting on what looked to be a front lawn; a mother and father surrounded by a huddle of young children. The house behind them was opulent, the surrounding gardens lush and well tended. It would have been a sunny day, for everyone was wearing summer clothing and squinting against the glare of the sun. And they were all smiling. They were happy, with their arms linked around one another.
In the photograph opposite, taken in the lounge room perhaps, a small boy, a toddler, was sitting on a woman’s lap, her hands around his waist holding him securely. Her smile was serene, her composure almost regal. And somehow it seemed that the little boy knew he had a perfect mother, for he appeared to be absolutely content there, his small hands resting on hers.
Helen compared the two photos. Yes, the mother and son were also in the happy family snap. Her shoulders slumped. The photographs hammered home what she didn’t have — a happy family. And what she’d lost — a son. How daft can a man be, she thought, bringing home a photograph album with photos of total strangers. Happy total strangers!
She said, a tremor in her voice, ‘It’s the junk, Arnold, the junk or me. You’ve got three weeks to clear the lot out, or I go for good.’
Arnold scratched his head in bewilderment. Three weeks? What was she talking about? He had never seen her so distressed. She was crying as if she’d chopped onions all day.
‘I do not want that thing in my house. Get rid of it!’ Helen shouted, her index finger pointing the way out. Arnold stood immobile, holding the album to his chest.
‘Get it out!’ Helen screamed, and picking up the lump of dough she hurled it with all her might.
The doughy missile flew straight past Arnold and landed smack in his collection of teapots on top of the kitchen cabinet. Teapots were sent flying.
Helen waited for a response, but might as well have been waiting for hell to freeze over. Nothing would move this man. Not reason, not anger, not even death by a two-kilo wholegrain doughy missile.
‘Three weeks, Arnold. You have three weeks to clear out every single item you have brought into this house over the last twenty years. It’s me or the junk, Arnold.’ But even as she uttered the words, she knew which way the scales would tip. Knew who would be leaving. Threats were wasted on Arnold.
Silence filled the kitchen like deadly gas. They stood motionless, both were in shock. Helen for having spoken what she had only thought for so long. Arnold for her threat of leaving and for seeing his teapots shattered. Putting the photograph album aside he began picking up the bits and pieces from the floor.
Helen marched into the lounge room where she sat and cried, spreading small doughy pieces over her face as she wiped the tears away. She didn’t know where to put herself. She hit out at the piles of objects around her until, unexpectedly, her sense of outrage turned to a profound sadness. She knew Arnold would never move any of his stuff. Her threat had been more about her. She’d drawn a line in the sand. It was time to turn the sign to ‘closed’ on this marriage.
She sat weeping under Arnold’s formidable collection of clocks. Some still worked, but their ticking brought little consolation to one of her bleakest hours.
Arnold meanwhile had come upon the lump of dough. After carefully picking out the dust, the debris, and the broken china, he finished kneading it, then divided it into two, plopping each piece into a baking tin, and finishing them off with a brush of egg yolk. He slid them into the oven and decided to sit and wait until they were done.
His mind was numb. He looked at the photograph album now sitting on the kitchen table. It looked harmless enough. Why had Helen reacted so strongly? He opened it to the page that held the two photographs. Was she upset by another family’s happiness? He closed the album. He felt as though his life was coming apart. He loved Helen but she had shut him out of her life a long time ago. Sitting by the warmth of the oven, his eyes filmed over with tears. He blinked them back.
Soon the smell of baking bread permeated the house, making Helen feel even more vengeful. She went to bed. Later she heard Arnold shuffle to her bedroom door with a tray which he set down without a knock or a word. When she heard his steps drift away she got up and opened the door and took the tray back to her bed. There was a cup of tea and a plate with thick slices of freshly baked bread and honey. The bread had risen well and was baked to perfection.
She felt angry that she couldn’t eat this beautiful bread soaked with butter and honey. Only anger was on her tastebuds.
A stupid photograph album, with photos of a strange family in it! How perverse, where photos of Leif would barely fill one page; the empty pages a constant reminder of a life cut short, and parents too poor to afford even a camera. No happy family snaps for them.
Helen picked up the bread from her plate and threw it across the room. It hit the wall, and she watched its sticky descent. She suspected Mrs Slap would visit her tonight, demanding her album back. Helen spoke out defensively in the dimness of her bedroom.
‘Well, have it back you old hag! Go on take it.’
Her eye fell on the bread, it had reached the carpet. Dammit, she was hungry! She could not let good food go to waste. She slid out of her bed and collected the mess, shoving the slices into her mouth.