Escape (20 page)

'No,' I said, 'not with the war.'

'What?'

'Just no, I can't, I couldn't cope. And anyway, there's no money for
childcare.'

'But couldn't Guido look after her? He's home all day, isn't he?'

I rolled my eyes to the ceiling. How can you talk to someone who
is so ignorant about the realities of life? Maria will have to get married
and have a baby, I thought wearily, before we can really talk again.
I couldn't be bothered explaining, and she wouldn't understand,
anyway.

'But what will you live on?'

'We'll manage. I saved a bit from maternity leave and Guido's
working, kind of—'

'Oh good, what's he doing?'

'Writing poetry. It's really good, I'm sure he'll be published soon.'

Maria snorted with laughter. 'Yeah, you can make really big money
in the poetry scene!'

I wanted to put down the phone. The sarcasm in her voice
shredded me.
You forgot to put the lemon into the osso bucco
, said the
voice,
and it'll be too bland
.
Get off the phone
.

'Well, whatever,' Maria said into the silence, 'but you'll have to
write another letter to the department. Don't resign, whatever you do,
just apply for more leave without pay.'

'Okay, thanks, Maria. I'd better go now. Bye!'

We lived on pasta and rice and vegetables for another month until
there was no money in the bank to pay the mortgage. I'd been quiet
about my decision, or rather, my lack of it. If I didn't mention work, I
thought vaguely, somehow it would go away. And there was so much
to do at home. Guido was immersed in his poetry and hadn't been
checking on our funds. But when the letter came from the department,
asking me to make a further application for leave, he turned to me in
surprise.

'Why you are not going back to work? Most women make a family
and a career. This is the modern world, no?

It was true. I should be enjoying my choices.

'You will enjoy it,' Guido went on. 'It would be good for you to
get out of the house. You would 'ave to get dressed every morning
like a normal person. No more with that old tracksuit. You look like
a retired Romanian athlete. And we would not 'ave to eat pasta all
the time.'

I looked down at the caked egg on my sleeve. For a brief second I
imagined what it would be like to wave Guido off in the morning, watch
him make his jaunty way towards some kind of gainful employment. I
pictured myself playing cubbies with Clara, making a delicious dinner
in the afternoons, secure in the knowledge that the mortgage was
soaking up a salary like a parched field under regular rain.

'What about you?' I burst out. 'Isn't there something
you
could do
seeing as I'm looking after Clara all day?'

Guido stared at me. The silence grew.
What a nag you are
, said the
voice.
You'd better watch out or he'll forget why he married you.

'I'm not the one with the career already made,
cara
,' he said evenly.
'Is not so easy for me. This is not my country.'

And I didn't have a special talent, as he did. I started to sweat with
guilt.

'You know, you don 'ave to be just the 'ousewife for me, Rachel,
cooking and cleaning all the time.' He laughed. 'Not that you do much
of these things.'

'But I do – I am the sole cook here, aren't I? I shop and make
dinner every night. Who cooked last night, do you remember? Who
washed down the kitchen and bathroom floor?'

Guido raised an eyebrow. 'I don wan to waste time talking of such
petty things. Is not interesting. You will see that you 'ave time to do
all these tasks even when you work. You don take hours any more to
prepare dinner. Scrambled eggs does not need a whole afternoon to
cook, no?'

'No,' I agreed.

'No, and for me, simple food is okay. I've told you. All you need
for a good meal is fresh ingredients in season. You must pay attention
when you shop and then,
vedi
, is all okay.'

But a one-course, quick meal was not okay for Guido. 'Is there
more?' he would ask. His eyes were wide and hopeful, he even held
the plate in his hands. I made bigger and bigger portions of pasta, so
that second helpings were always available.

'But is not good to eat like this,' he complained after he'd devoured
a towering plate of spaghetti alla carbonara. 'Is all carbohydrate, with
no protein. We will just grow fat, not nourished. In Italy, we 'ave a small
plate of pasta first for entree, followed by a main course of meat or fish,
with side dishes of vegetables. Then there is dessert, fruit, perhaps
pears done in red wine. Is a good diet.'

I went blank. How could you argue with that? With anything he
said?

I started to leave the table abruptly after dinner, returning to clear
up later. Guido didn't like it. 'Even when you remain with me at the
table,' he complained, 'is like you are not there at all.' Once he leapt up
and paced the living room shouting, 'I need more than this! I am in
prison! I cannot live like this!' It was frightening. He had a deep loud
voice, and the vein in his forehead swelled, pulsing. I had to hold my
eyes wide open so the water wouldn't spill.

Crying is a form of weakness
, said the voice.

Beneath the fear, though, I could sympathise with what Guido was
saying, I really could. When someone continually didn't acknowledge
your existence, it was as if they disappeared you. A person
could
be
vanished simply by being ignored, like a rabbit in a magic hat. When I
used to watch Dean and Jean I'd always wondered what the rabbits or
doves or ladies did while they were waiting to appear again after they'd
been vanished. Did they spend the time checking to see that all their
limbs were present and accounted for?

After he'd shouted at me I resolved to try harder. When the watt le
bird woke me now there was not only Mother Duty to be afraid of,
but also Wifely Duty, the problem of how to Hide my Misery and the
Spectre of Work. It was hard to know what to do about the misery. It
wasn't like the bad magic mushrooms I'd eaten at fifteen. It wasn't a
drug that would wear off . It was real life.

I told Guido I would be returning to work 'soon' so we didn't need
to talk about the issue any more. I tried to cover it up, putting other
subjects on top of it in the same way that I hid the red wine stain on
the tablecloth with the dinner plates. I don't know how much longer
this would have gone on, this dark, bristling silence, if I hadn't got sick
and Maria hadn't persisted.

When the doctor diagnosed pneumonia I was so relieved. 'The
exhaustion you are experiencing is a symptom of the infection,' he
said. I didn't look at Guido, who was perched on the edge of his chair,
his hands in his lap. He wouldn't have wanted any bare part of him to
touch anything in that surgery, so afraid was he of catching germs. He
hadn't wanted me to go to the doctor, but my mother had insisted.
'Look at her,' she said to Guido, 'you can hardly recognise her.' Guido
had smirked at me. 'No, not without the padding,' and he'd touched my
stomach fondly. Actually, it was more of a poke. We both watched his
finger disappear into the loose folds of skin. Mum said she would look
after the baby, so Guido had to take me. But he looked so unhappy as
we parked the car. 'Sometimes a visit to the doctor makes you even
more sick,' he said. 'You can catch germs just in the waiting room.' He
tried to hold his breath the whole time we sat on the plastic chairs. He
was good at that.

'You need looking after,' said the doctor when he'd examined me.
The way he looked at me, his bushy brows meeting in concern, made
my eyes fill. His kindness made the sadness well up, and I had to keep
swallowing. Oh, if I could take that doctor home with me. Imagine
going home to
him
. I kept my eyes wide.

'Does that mean I don't have to go back to work?' I said.

'Not for a while,' he said. 'You've got to build up your strength.'

Guido stood up. 'Thank you, doctor, that's what I keep telling her.
Sleep more, eat better. She is so silly, never taking any rest, waking so
early. She just needs to be sensible. Come on, Rachel, the doctor has
many patients outside.'

That same afternoon Maria visited. She had been at the Parliamo
Italiano Institute because her father had needed some help from a
translator in applying for a pension. While she was there, she'd heard
two of the staff discussing the size of their Italian classes.

'They need teachers for Italian there at the institute, as well as for
private lessons. I mentioned that I knew somebody who was extremely
well qualified. I hope you don't mind, Guido, but you seemed perfect
for the job, with your classical education, and I know that you could
both do with some extra money.'

Extra!

'Oh, thank you, Maria, that's such a relief, what great news!' I cried,
jumping up and giving her a hug. 'Wouldn't that be ideal, Guido?'

'It is an idea,' he said.

After Maria had gone, Guido shook his head. 'That woman must
not 'ave enough to do in life, she 'as to interfere in ours. She is 'ow you
say, bossy. That is a very masculine quality. Do you see she 'as a slight
moustache? She should wax 'er top lip.'

'But aren't you pleased with the idea? It really helps solve our
problems, don't you think?'

Guido shrugged. 'I suppose I must go and see this institute. But I
will only take on three days a week. There must be time for my poetry.
Does Maria 'ave a
fidanzato
?'

'A boyfriend? No, not at the moment—'

'I am not surprised.' He sniff ed. 'She will find it difficult, with
those thick ankles of 'ers like a peasant.'

So Guido went into the city to register with Parliamo Italiano. 'I
will be going to the 'ouses of students,' he said when he came home.
'And I will do one day at the institute. But there must be time for my
poetry.'

'Yes, yes, of course,' I agreed, grateful. The pin hole of light
expanded as I glimpsed an opening in the long caves of the coming
days. 'And I will get work soon too, when I'm better . . .'

'When?'

'Oh, you know, as soon as I'm better . . .'

Guido started the next week, on Monday. Oh, the relief of wandering
into the living room, the sunlight falling, unbroken, in stripes across
the carpet. I could stand there in the warmth, no one watching me.
No one seeing how long I took to do things, no one criticising me for
paying attention to the baby, the steriliser, the house. No one judging.
Well, no one except the voice, of course.

I grew to love inanimate objects. I stroked the fridge, patted
the vacuum cleaner. They hummed along regardless of attention,
impervious to my mistakes.

The grocer in our suburb sold organic vegetables on Tuesdays so I
made sure I stocked up each week. I pureed potato and pumpkin, peas
and carrots, and divided the runny stuff into ten small plastic tubs. The
colours swirled together like an artist's palette. I quite enjoyed looking
at our provisions all lined up in a row in the freezer.

'Can't you just give her those Heinz baby jars?' asked Maria, who
dropped in after school when Guido was out. 'This must take you all
day.'

I didn't tell her that the thought of Clara's tummy full of organic
carrot, steamed and pure with undiminished vitamin A, made me
happy. I felt wholesome while I was cooking. A real mother. It was hard
not to show my fury when I saw Guido taking out a tub for himself,
adding rock salt and ground pepper, and eating it with a spoon for
a snack. I thought guiltily how just a few months ago I might have
enjoyed the idea of all those essential vitamins in
his
stomach.

I began to make lists. Crossing off each item as it was finished was
exhilarating. Well done, Rachel, I whispered to myself. Some days I
could do ten tasks before eleven o'clock. I discovered it was better not
to put too many hard things on a day's list, because you could become
overwhelmed and never start any of them out of fright. Often I put
obvious things on my list, things that you would do automatically,
just so I could tick them off . That's what Toad did in
Frog and Toad
,
a picture book I read with Clara. He even wrote
Wake up
and
Eat
Breakfast
and
Get Dressed
, so I did too. I added
Make Cup of Tea
–
because the early childhood nurse said it was good for Baby if Mother
was happy. I didn't like to think of what happens when Mother isn't
happy. When I was busy making my lists, I thought about that kind of
thing less often.

While I drank my reward cup of tea, I put Clara on the floor
with some toys and my feet up on the desk. Then I'd ring Doreen.
Leaning back into the chair I'd wiggle my toes at the baby, and she'd
scrunch up her nose in a grin. For a moment it was as if we were
conspirators together, Clara and I, getting the better of the enemy,
whoever that was.

Even though Clara was still so small, I borrowed books from the
library to show her. She seemed to enjoy it and smiled each time I
pulled her onto my lap. It was a lovely time of the day – the words were
all there for me to say, such kindly, interesting words that I didn't have
to invent, and Clara snuggled close against my chest, sucking earnestly
on her dummy. I told her about all the things in the world the book
said she needed to know, and pointed to the pictures of happy dogs
and birds and sunlight and grass and bunnies and it was lovely when
she laughed out loud.

While the baby slept I made lists about house improvements. The
kitchen and bathroom were shoddily built, with chipboard drawers
that swelled and buckled with moisture. The small dark cupboards
near the ceiling were so high as to be unusable. Drawers didn't close,
floors ran downhill. Throughout the house it seemed one surface was
incapable of meeting another without argument, leaving gaps like
awkward pauses in a conversation.

It was as the weather grew warmer that I began to notice the
cockroaches. No matter how diligently I cleaned the kitchen, fat brown
cockroaches four centimetres long flew in and stayed, breeding in the
crevices and dark corners. I dreaded coming into the kitchen at night,
switching on the light and seeing those hateful creatures scuttling
like something from a horror movie, dancing, nibbling, running,
fornicating all over my clean kitchen bench. My dreams were full of
them; they wandered over my body, in and out of my cavities, leaving
their small hard pellets of excrement behind.

Once, when Guido and I were sitting at the table having dinner,
a roach crawled up the wall behind his head. I was caught between
trying to think of something fascinating to say so he wouldn't look
around and see it, and asking him to swat it. He was in excellent range:
if he rolled up that thick poetry magazine next to his plate he could
get it for sure. How I loathed those fat, shiny, impervious beings. My
hatred won.

'Quick, kill that roach behind you!' I yelled.

'
No!
' he yelled back. I wasn't sure if he was denying the existence
of such nightmarish creatures or refusing to hit it. Then I realised he
meant both. He shuddered so deeply his wine spilled over the poetry
magazine.

'
Porca miseria
, what kind of country this is where animals enter
the 'ouse? You are the native Australian, you must know 'ow to deal
with them. You do it!' And he leapt up, taking his dripping magazine
with him, heading for another room where cockroaches had not yet
been discovered.

Doreen told me that cockroaches could live for nine days without
their heads, and they had no nervous system. She found the idea
interesting. For her it was just a fact, like cows having four stomachs.
But this knowledge made the creatures even more alien to me –
monsters with no feelings or alarm systems. How could I possibly
hope to win, being
all
feelings and alarm systems?

The thought of cockroaches spilling their foul traces over Clara's
sterilised bottles, soiling the carefully blended baby foods, or getting
into her cot became too much for me. Clara's sleep sessions became
my busiest times. I bought masking tape and stuck it over the cracks,
mixed putt y and sealant for the bigger gaps. I did my best. Sometimes
I felt quite pleased with my work, reducing the number of dark
inviting crannies where cockroaches met and danced. I imagined the
way they'd quiver with disappointment as they hurried to their well-known
nightspots, only to find them taped off , like a police crime
scene. I'd feel viciously happy – that is, until I remembered they had
no feelings, only feelers.

On my good days, I felt a bit like Barbie, fixing up my toy house
with the glue and scissors. I just wished Ken would come home and
say, 'Haven't you done well today!' But he didn't seem to notice.

When he was at home, Guido spent most of his time in his
room. I could hear the typewriter clattering, and that busy sound
was reassuring. It meant he would emerge reasonably content, with a
faraway look on his face, and wouldn't notice the dust on shelves or
stains on my clothes.

The times I found most worrying were when he'd splash on
aftershave. I grew to dread the smell of Monsieur Dupont. He'd come
out gleaming and shiny from the steaming bathroom.

'
Allora
, is Saturday night, where will we go?' His shoes were
polished, the creamy silk shirt glowing against his skin. 'Will we go to
the cinema? Maybe dinner afterwards? There is a new restaurant at the
Cross.'

I'd look down at my banana-stained tracksuit. It was eight o'clock.
'What about Clara?'

'Don we have a babysitter?'

I'm not up to that bit yet, I wanted to say. Hadn't he noticed? But
I just mumbled something about not feeling well and crept away. I
heard him crashing things down on the big oak desk and stamping up
the hall. He was pacing like a prisoner. I hoped he'd catch a cockroach
or two under his polished shoes.

The next Saturday night he showered and dressed and slapped
on aftershave, but he didn't ask me about babysitters. He went out by
himself. Mostly, I felt relieved. Once he was out of the house, I could
get on with my jobs. The baby didn't care if I was still in my pyjamas at
dinnertime, or that I hadn't washed my hair in a fortnight.

Soon Guido was out of the house frequently. With his students
he went to see foreign films, ate at new little restaurants, discovered
sushi. He went to people's homes to teach Italian and returned with
stories about how other native Australians lived. Sometimes there
were funny stories, like the time he drove for miles along the coast
to a house where the walls were built entirely of beer bottles. In one
family a huntsman spider was kept as a pet, called Barry, but then
they discovered it was a 'unts
woman
' because it had thousands of little
babies all over the ceiling. I would laugh when Guido recounted his
adventures but I began to be afraid of how he would tell the story of
our domestic life.

Doreen also thought I should get out more. She was going back
to finish her nursing course, and would work part-time at the hospital.
Saraah was going into day care with 'a terrific woman up the road' who
looked after four other children. There was no room for Clara right
now, Doreen said, but there might be later on. Did I want her to put
Clara's name down?

'Oh, thanks,' I said, but the idea of being away from Clara was
unimaginable.

Well, in the meantime, she went on, why don't you come and
meet the Friday women?

This invitation was much easier to agree to, because babies were
invited too. 'That's the whole
point
,' said Doreen, 'mothers and babies
together. We meet on a Friday, there's just three of us, four with you,
and we can let our hair down.'

Like Rapunzel
, said the voice,
and look what happened to her
. But I
might learn something. And heaven knew I had a lot to learn. I hoped
the mothers would all be nurses like Doreen.

But only one woman, Rita, was a nurse. Actually, she was a
dietician. She was a large, practical woman whose baby slept across her
knees for most of the afternoon. I studied mother and baby intently,
wondering what kind of magic made this happen. On the first Friday
I was even bold enough to get up and move across to sit next to her
on the red leather couch, hoping her calm confidence might seep into
my skin. People brought Rita tea and cakes and small bowls of grapes
as if she were a visiting dignitary from another country. No one dared
move her because we all understood the preciousness of a sleeping
baby.