Currawalli Street (21 page)

He works at Coveys, a map and atlas shop in the city, and his days are spent surrounded by maps of the world. The only people who come into the shop are those who are about to travel and are excited. He is tired of their excitement. He wants to be the one buying the maps. One day it will be him—if he doesn't get too old first. That's what he fears.

Meanwhile he sits in his car.

Suddenly there is a knock on the passengers' side window. He jerks in fright, recovers and looks across. A woman with long brown hair looks in at him. It takes him a moment to realise who it is. Eve, the widow from number one. He leans across and winds down the window.

‘Eve, hello.'

‘Are you going somewhere?' Eve asks as she opens the door and slides in beside him.

‘No, not really. I was just looking at the . . . ah . . . indicator wires. They're playing up.'

‘My dad used to love sitting in his car and not going anywhere. When I asked him what he was doing, he always said just that. The indicator wires,' Eve says conspiratorially.

‘Oh.'

‘You shouldn't feel ashamed. Really, most people would love to sit in their cars if they had the chance.'

‘Really?'

Eve looks at him with amusement in her eyes. ‘I don't really know. I made that up. But it sounded good.'

‘It did. It did sound good.'

‘I came over to ask if I could borrow a spade for the afternoon. The handle just broke on mine and I have some bulbs that I have to put in the ground. They're spread out on the lawn.'

‘Of course. I'll go and get it. It's around the back. Shall I bring it over?'

‘Okay, if you don't mind. Say, do you know what the Vietnam soldier boy is doing at Patrick and Mary's place? He's torn out their front steps.'

‘Let me see.' Lance climbs out of the car and walks to the front fence. He looks up the road to number seven. ‘It looks like he's building new steps at the side. Want a cup of tea?'

‘Yeah. Why don't we have one at my place? I just baked some biscuits,' she says, as if delighted by something else.

‘Okay. I don't really have anything at the moment. Hang on, I'll get the spade.'

Eve waits until he returns and then they cross the road together. Lance speaks as they reach the other side. ‘If you don't mind me asking,
how come you're being nice all of a sudden? Normally you just say hello and even that looked hard.' He is quietly spoken but this is softer still and so Eve has to lean forward to hear him. His question and her leaning forward makes him feel awkward.

‘Did it? I just didn't feel like talking to anybody. I didn't feel like getting to know anybody. Did you know that everybody says you're grumpy and hard to get on with?' They both laugh.

‘Do they? I thought they didn't want to talk to me. Oh well, I don't have much to say anyway, so it's probably for the best. But you feel like talking to people now?'

‘Yep. At least the neighbours.'

‘So you can put faces to the names that appear in your son's logbook.'

‘Log
books
. Plural. He's on his ninth, I think.'

‘It's harmless stuff.'

‘I hope he'll grow out of it. Come around the back way.'

They walk down the side of the house and turn into the backyard. Lower Lance has never been in here before. ‘I didn't know you had so many apricot trees!' There must be at least twenty. It is like an orchard. The biggest is next to the fence; it is in that tree that Rodney does all his surveillance work.

‘Yeah, I've made plenty of apricot jam if you ever want any.'

‘As a matter of fact I love apricot jam.'

‘Good. It's coming out our ears. Come in.' Eve holds open the back door. Lance walks through into a kitchen straight from the 1940s. ‘I know.' Eve grimaces. ‘One day I'll do it up.'

‘No, I like it like this. It reminds me of my nan's.' He sits at the table.
‘You'd better tell me about yourself. Just so I know whose house I'm in and who I'm drinking tea with.'

Eve fills the kettle and puts it on the stove. ‘And then you tell me about your life. Although I already know that you work at that big map shop in town. Why aren't you working today?'

‘Sick day, I didn't feel up to it. I'm not really sick. Who told you where I worked?'

‘Mary from up the road. She knows everything. Did you know that Alfred Covey used to live in this street?'

Lance nods. ‘Number nine. He built it.'

‘And Mary's house. Patrick is his grandson.'

Over four biscuits and two pots of tea, Eve and Lance share their stories. For a while, they have no choice but to listen to Bill Casey next door as he curses his lawnmower.

‘He goes mad at it a lot,' says Eve apologetically. ‘We hear him all the time.'

‘He's always been like that.'

‘Has he? Apparently his wife left him some time ago. Ran off with someone, they say.'

‘Who's they?'

‘Mary up the street. She knows everything.'

Lance turns his cup around in its saucer and then says, ‘I knew her—Mrs Casey. He was alright to her, but it . . . wasn't enough. I remember the day she left. I . . . helped her go actually.' Lower Lance smiles. He looks at the window as he continues. ‘Bill's not too bad. That's not why she left. She just happened to fall in love with someone else, that's all. I miss her. We were good friends.'

‘Well, I'm sorry to hear that. He loves apricot jam, that's for sure.'

Lower Lance nods. He is suddenly sad again. Eve sees that.

When Rodney comes home from Choppingblock Primary School, he looks at Lance with a certain amount of suspicion, goes outside and climbs the apricot tree. Surveillance has begun.

When Lance comes out of the front gate two hours later, crosses the street, and goes inside his own house, the first thing he does is pull down from the cupboard the map outlining his own proposed trip overseas. He looks at it, feeling that somewhere there is something different. Somewhere on the map. Somewhere in his head. Maybe it's finally time to go.

Rodney notes that Lance checked his letterbox for mail and didn't notice that Upper Lance has put his garbage bin out.

A
t number nine, Megan hears the work going on next door. She heard it yesterday as well. It is not like Patrick or Mary to be hammering so solidly. It sounds like the type of noise that a stranger makes. She looks out her front window but can't see anything. She decides to check the letterbox, even though it is far too early for the postman. She looks up at the painting above the fireplace and shakes her head, as she always does when she looks at it.

Derry insists it has to be prominently displayed here in the lounge room, above the fireplace where everybody can't help but notice it. She wanted their wedding photo, the one taken outside Luna Park, to be on the mantelpiece. But Derry didn't agree. He says the painting is a talking point. He's right too. But no one talks about it when they are in the lounge room; she imagines they talk about it in the car, driving home.

‘Did you see that painting?'

‘It's obscene.'

‘It looks horrible.'

‘Imagine getting up in the morning and having to look at that.'

‘Who would paint such a thing? And why would you hang it where everybody can see it?'

Derry imagines that they say other things.

Megan hates the painting. It casts a shadow over her life in this house.

She walks out the front door. The son from number ten is working on the side of Patrick and Mary's veranda. He looks as if he knows what he's doing. It's the hammering of a professional. He was over there in Vietnam fighting those communists. But then his mum and dad were murdered. Who would do a thing like that? This isn't America. Most likely communists heard that the son was over there killing them and so they sneaked in and did away with the parents. That's a hard price to pay for protecting us from the Soviets and Chinese. She watches him wielding the hammer, his cloth hat bouncing back off his forehead with each blow, the muscles in his arm so defined and tight. She blinks and concentrates on opening the letterbox. The hammering continues a little longer. When it stops she looks back over at him. He is looking at her. He nods. She nods back and smiles, half closing her eyes. She lets her head tilt to one side. Then she tosses her hair and walks back into the house. She leans against the kitchen sink for a moment, pulling on either end of a tea towel.

This is a good feeling, she decides. The hammering continues in her head so she is unaware that Jim has not recommenced but is still nursing his throbbing thumb.

Through the door to the lounge room, she can see in the reflection of the TV screen the painting and, on top of the sideboard, a photograph
of her and Derry at his sister's wedding anniversary. He is holding his stomach in for the photograph.

Megan's mother, who is an observant woman, had warned her against marrying an older man. ‘You will be on your own even when he is with you,' she said. ‘He only thinks he is like you at the moment. The time will come when he has to satisfy the demands of his age and he will recede into that world. A world that won't include you. And he will most likely die before you, and you will be alone again.'

Her mother did give her one helpful piece of advice. ‘The older he is feeling, the more he will try to hold his stomach in. When he holds his stomach in tight, try to be nice to him. When he lets it out, you can relax.'

Megan laughed gaily at the time but now she sees that it is a blank truth and that her mother didn't say it for her amusement.

At first Megan didn't believe she was reading the signs correctly. But as time went on and Derry's dalliances became like something she had to step around in the bathroom, she came to assume that this was part of being married and that every wife experienced it and put it with the other things that were never talked about to anybody. These days she can tell from the way Derry acts and talks and from the quality of the gifts that he brings home to her what stage in an affair he is up to. From meeting a potential partner to organising a meeting, the first time they have sex and when they call it all off, Megan can read every sign.

Before she was married, Megan assumed that when she experienced sex herself then she would finally understand the allure of it. But even after three years of marriage she doesn't understand it at all. Such a fuss is made about it by everybody, yet it seems to be hardly anything.

Derry is plagued by guilt, Megan can tell that too. She thinks that if she was ever to give him a gift that is something he really needs and wants, it would be to say to him that it is okay; he doesn't have to feel guilty. But she is not ready to give him that gift.

It is still fairly early in the morning. The flattening business of the day hasn't taken hold yet and the light outside is fresh and young and it is easy to picture what the day might become rather than what you expect it to be. The sun hasn't yet warmed anything too much and it is the sort of morning when you say, ‘This is why I love being here' if you are happy where you are, or ‘This place isn't too bad' if you are not.

Derry has already left for work because of a managers meeting, he said. He walked out of the house leaving behind a vapour trail of his special aftershave, something he doesn't douse himself with for a managers meeting. It is more the aftershave he would wear if he was headed to the wetlands car park by the side of the freeway to meet someone for frantic sex before work.

Their marriage is still at the stage where Megan thinks that she and Derry are an indomitable team. And that is something she is very happy about. When his dad had the heart attack which ended up killing him, she cancelled her regular visit with her friends to the café on Choppingblock Road and drove straight to the hospital to sit with Derry. And if anything happened to her or her family, she knows Derry would also be there for her.

Derry has been gone for half an hour but the cloud of his aftershave hangs about in the still air of the kitchen and so she opens the side door
to let the breeze in. The door opens onto the driveway and, beyond that, Patrick and Mary's fence. Just as she opens it wide and takes one step forward to look over the fence, two things happen. First, the wind gusts suddenly and blows her Japanese half dressing gown open over her thigh up to her hip. Second, Jim pops his head up over the side fence as he carries a long piece of timber to the front of the house.

For both of them it is an unexpected confrontation. They are only twelve feet from each other. Jim tries to smile. Megan recognises his attempt and responds accordingly. She tries to cover up her leg with the dressing gown but she can't find the fabric, so her hand ends up resting on her thigh. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?' she asks in a voice still croaky from disuse.

‘If you're having one.' His voice is similarly rough.

‘I'm about to pour it.'

‘I'll come in.'

She is just taking a cup down from the cupboard above her head when he steps inside. She notices that his footfall is gentle as if he is walking on paper. She looks down at his feet and comments, ‘You walk so quietly.'

He looks down at his feet too. ‘Habit, I guess. I learned to step very lightly and quietly over there.' He dips his head to indicate a place to the north of where they are standing.

She is at first unsure of what he means. Is he pointing towards his home? Perhaps his father made him walk softly. But then she realises that he means Vietnam. She gasps. ‘Oh God.'

She leans back against the bench and then realises that her arm is still stretched up, holding the handle of the cupboard door. Both pairs
of eyes, his and hers, follow her arm up past the elbow where the deep-green dressing-gown sleeve has slid down to, then along her forearm, past her wrist to her hand. She opens her fingers but her arm remains raised. She looks at Jim and can't find the place in her mind that will command it to return to her side. He has taken in the hand quickly and is now looking at her face. She doesn't know what to read in his expression but for a moment she thinks it is somehow aligned to the softness of his footsteps. She thinks she is seeing a jungle in his eyes.

Jim moves forward to pick up the teapot and pours the fragrant liquid into his cup.

‘It's green tea,' she says.

‘I know.'

He is close enough to her now that she can smell the tobacco on his breath. He stands in front of her and lifts the cup to his lips. She thinks she can hear the clock ticking on the fridge, which is funny because it hasn't been working for two months. He gently blows some of the steam rising from his cup onto her face. Later on she can't convince herself that she felt anything at all, but at that moment it is like being soaked completely by a hot tropical shower.

As he lifts the cup to his lips again and drinks, she feels his other hand dispense in one unhesitant movement with the obe keeping her dressing gown closed. There is no tug or frantic pull. That hand is now sliding slowly down her belly, gradually through her pubic hair, and then, tentatively, one finger touches her while the finger on either side keeps her exposed to its touch.

She shudders and softly gasps, which is something she has never done before. Not seriously, anyway. Only for effect. She shudders because she
sees a look in his eyes that she can't recognise—perhaps because his face is expressing nothing, as if it has no connection to the finger that is circling her so slowly that her mouth fills with air because she has closed her lips to stop any further gasps. Indeed, he holds the cup up to his lips and drinks slowly. But his eyes have not left hers. He gently blows some more steam over her face and instinctively she closes her eyes, grateful to have a moment to step inside herself so she can assess what is happening. When she looks at him again, he is still holding the cup to his lips but suddenly his finger stops moving. The energy between them changes. His expression, or lack of it, doesn't. Nor does hers: she is still holding her mouth tightly closed.

His finger doesn't move. She feels his hand press up against her and she imagines that she can feel his pulse through it. Her mouth is beginning to open. She cannot internally voice the command to prevent it.

She sighs with a depth that she has never heard from herself before. The warm still hand is now a beautiful ache and she silently pleads with him to resume his movement. Her eyes do not betray her pleading, but he knows and drinks once more from the cup. Her right arm is still lifted above her head and she raises her left hand to hold onto another handle. Now she feels totally exposed to him. But they seem to have crossed a certain point a long time ago, and exposure of that kind doesn't matter anymore. She stands with her arms up and open and suddenly her head is filled with his voice, even though his lips don't move.

Shall I continue? Shall I?

Yes. Yes. And then I will . . . I don't know.

His finger begins to circle again, now faster and now slower. Just when the rhythm settles he changes the rotation or the speed. He never
takes his eyes off hers. Her chin lifts as she lengthens her neck but still her eyes are fixed on his.

What begins as a slow out-breath that she sees rising to the ceiling as a stream of evaporating mist becomes a tiny shudder that grows larger until it is a convulsion of great and sudden beauty. She arches her back and knows that she is perfect and that she is in a perfect world.

Yes, you are perfect.

Her cry comes from somewhere much deeper than her throat and goes on unbroken for almost a minute. She slams her hips backwards to close the arch of her back. His hand is there and takes the brunt of the impact. She hasn't noticed that he put his cup down on the bench and slid his hand behind her. And that is how they stay for a few minutes.

Her hands come away from the handles and her arms fall to her sides. Only for a moment does she drop her head down. When she straightens her neck again, his eyes are still on her.

Okay?

She nods and breathes in strongly so that her shoulders are pushed back. His hands have not moved from her and now with a strength that she already suspected was there they move her hips away from the bench towards the kitchen table. Only two steps but her legs have grown weak as if she has just woken up.

Firmly, steadily he pushes her down across the table and for a moment she looks at Derry's cereal bowl close up. Then she feels the back of her dressing gown pulled up to the small of her back. She knows from watching him hammering this morning that he keeps the nails in his back pocket and it is a ringing sound that she hears as his trousers fall to the tiled floor.

She thinks she should reach her hand back to guide him but instead she finds that she is reaching forward to grasp the far edge of the table. Just as she finds it and her fingers begin to explore the underside, she feels him touch her once, twice, and then enter her slowly. She feels the hairs of his belly against her buttocks and his hands are holding her hips. She can feel his fingers pressing into her skin as he pulls her body back to hit his and then slides her away. She can actually feel the webbing between his fingers. She is still holding the edge of the table but relinquishes her grip slightly when he pulls her back to him. When he can pull her back no further, when her buttocks are squeezed up against his belly, they exhale at the same time.