Ripples on a Pond (22 page)

‘I'm in love with you.'

‘You're not, or not with the person I am. I know you're in love with the way I look, dress, speak, even my profession. My parents, their address, fit perfectly into your image of the perfect wife, but me – I don't fit and never did.'

‘Smoking has been proved to be one of the major causes of lung cancer. I can't understand why you persist in doing it.'

‘I do it because I do it, and until I've got a reason not to, I'll continue doing it. I am what I am.'

‘You've had a bad day,' he said.

‘I've had a bad life too. A few minutes after I was born, my unmarried mother handed me over to Mum. I'm the result of a pack rape, Chris.'

They were in one of his fancy restaurants, and rape not the subject to be discussing there. He was looking at her, silent. She kept her voice low, but continued.

‘My father was one of five Yankee sailors who abducted my natural mother and left her unconscious on a Sydney beach.'

He lifted a finger as a waiter placed their meals before them. She allowed the waiter to do what he was paid to do, waited till he left their table. Chris picked up his knife and fork.

‘Want to know something else?' she said, studying her meal.

He glanced at her, nodded, his mouth busy.

‘I'd prefer to eat a pastie drowned in tomato sauce to that. That's who I am. And if there are still any doubts in your mind, I've got an eighteen-month-old son in Sydney who I'm going home to in December.'

She stood then and walked out of a second posh restaurant, no money left this time on the table for her wasted meal. She was going to need every penny she had. Left him sitting alone with his lump of raw steak, his two green beans and a white marble moonlighting as a potato, all swimming in cow's blood.

He didn't call her that night or on Sunday.

On Monday morning, she bought a wedding acceptance card; not as fancy as the invitation, but it said all that was necessary.

Perhaps to show Morrie how little it mattered to her that he was remarrying, she wrote Barry's name and phone number and the MG enthusiast's name and phone number on the back, and a few words to assist him in making the right decision.

As previously stated, when my lease is up I'll be moving home. A decision on the MG will need to be made prior to 18 December. Best wishes, Cara

Posted it on her way home from school. Then, to make her decision more definite, and to keep the call short, she rang Myrtle from the public phone box and told her she'd be moving back to Sydney when the school year ended.

*

She wrote her letter of resignation, told a few teachers she was going overseas. The headmaster called her into his office and offered her a twelve-month leave of absence, for study and overseas travel. She didn't tell him how brief her overseas travel would be: sixteen days in all, and that included the three days she'd spend on aircrafts. Already having second thoughts about Sydney, she accepted his offer.

She'd written to Pete, asking if he could give her a bed for a few nights. He'd told her she could stay for twelve months if she felt like it – as long as she supplied her own sleeping bag. She'd never owned a sleeping bag, but had bought one, lightweight but warm. She bought a narrow inflatable mattress too, small enough to fit into her case.

Morrie had replied on one of his blue aerograms, offering her a bed. She'd sent a telegram accepting his offer, but only for the night prior to the wedding.

WILL ARRIVE MID-AFTERNOON STOP MANY THANKS TO LETICIA

Shouldn't have done it, but accommodation wasn't cheap over there, and his Aunt Leticia would have a house full of her Grenville relatives and Cara would probably only see Morrie at dinner. And she wanted to spend a night in a five-hundred-year-old manor house, and why not?

Chris phoned. He wanted to see her. They needed to talk.

‘Talking won't alter the facts. What I told you is fact.'

‘You had a son to him?'

‘Yes.'

‘He's with your parents?'

‘Yes.'

‘We go back a long way.'

‘You were a good friend when I needed a good friend, Chris. I told you from the start – the second start – that I wasn't interested in more.'

‘Your birth–'

‘I was conceived on a Sydney beach. My father is one of five Yankee sailors.'

‘You didn't trust me enough to tell me.'

‘Would your knowing that have changed who I am?'

‘I love who you are.'

‘Most of who I am, maybe.'

‘Helen said that you're going to England?'

‘My cousin is over there.'

‘How long will you be away?'

‘I've taken a twelve-month leave of absence. I'm free – or will be in December. I'm not certain of my plans.'

‘I hope we can continue to be friends.'

‘I hope so too.'

‘Enjoy your trip.'

‘I will, and thanks for . . . for everything.'

And the phone was down, and she was free – free of Chris, free of Morrie, free of school. Free to be, and to find out who she wanted to be.

F
REEDOM

W
ith only a week to go, and
Balancing Act
still with the publishers, she paid the post office to transfer her mail to Sydney, paid for two months. If the manuscript hadn't been returned by then, she'd give the publisher a call.

Three days before her lease was up, she called a storage company – after she'd all but evicted a secondhand dealer who'd offered next to nothing for her near-new, unmarked refrigerator. If she was going to store that, she may as well store her desk and her bed; and if she was going to store them, why not the lot, on the off-chance that she decided to return to Melbourne when her twelve-month leave was up – or sooner. She wrote a cheque for six months' storage.

Morrie's car was shrouded beneath a greasy green tarp in the rear of Barry's tin shed, its fate now in Morrie's hands, but she rode a taxi out to Ashburton with a carton of beer for Barry and a pretty silk scarf for Mary, and couldn't get away from them without one last cup of tea.

Balancing Act
was leaning against her door when she returned. So disappointed, she couldn't open it. Pitched it, still in its envelope, into a carton with
Angel At My Door
, then buried both manuscripts beneath loved books she couldn't toss into the bin. She'd damn near filled the bin with old books and old clothing.

She'd had hope for
Balancing Act
, a contemporary tale, topical too. Maybe if she'd found a happy ending for it, they might have accepted it. Readers liked happily-ever-after endings. Ought to pitch it into the bin, but twelve months locked in the dark with
Angel
might get both of them breeding happily-ever-afters. A year of freedom might get her head into the right place to seek her own happily-ever-after.

*

On her final day in the dogbox, she watched it emptied by two strangers. The finality of seeing her earthly possessions walk out that door and down those stairs to be loaded into a van was like the death of six years of lost life.

Spent the final night in her sleeping bag, on the inflatable mattress she'd worn out her lungs inflating. She slid on it, rolled off; it squeaked. Morning wouldn't come fast enough.

At eight, she booked a taxi to arrive at ten. Her phone was being disconnected sometime this morning.

A long two hours: all packed up and ready to go and time refusing to move on. She was travelling north by bus; no luggage limit on a bus and she had plenty. Two weighty cases and her small case, packed for the plane. She'd bought a new handbag, huge, zip-topped with a shoulder strap. It was weighty with
Rusty
, which would travel with her to a London publisher.

Emptied of her possessions, the dogbox unit appeared larger, as it had when she'd looked it over that first day. It had been home, and closing the door on it hurt. It took three trips to move her luggage down those concrete stairs. They needed a sweep and a wash, and she'd miss them too.

The taxi came on the dot of ten, the driver remaining in his seat, meter ticking over while she loaded his boot with her cases. His meter ticked again when she handed her familiar keys to the estate agent, and ticked more while she demanded the return of her bond. She told the agent the owner should be reimbursing her for the cost of the extra key, for the peephole she'd paid to install; told him she had no intention of waiting six years for the return of her bond as she had waited six years for her faulty safety chain to be replaced. Told him more, but got her bond money.

It was sad waving goodbye to her local shops, and to a bone-shaker tram determined to delay her taxi. Sad, but exciting too.

*

Two nights and one full day in Sydney wasn't enough. Robin's life revolved around the elderly: the old teachers in Unit Two; white-headed Robert who looked as old as Miss Robertson. He was using a walking stick – Gran Norris's old stick.

Myrtle looked younger with her tiny prince at her side. She dressed him like a prince, over-protected him, still spoon-fed him. Cara knew too well the life he led; it was the life she'd led. Until school, she'd had little interaction with kids other than Pete. If not for Pete, she may have gone stir crazy younger than she had. She was looking forward to seeing him.

During the afternoon of her one full day, she absconded with Robin to a nearby park, so he might see there were others as small as he. Myrtle, who was no hill walker, came panting up behind them with his hat.

‘He's got my skin, Mummy. He won't burn in the few minutes we'll be away.'

‘I always put a hat on him, pet.'

Cara watched Myrtle pull the hat over his cloud of golden curls, and knew that if she had any chance of living again at Amberley she'd need to relearn old habits. Don't argue until it's important, then dig your heels in deep. Had learnt that at fifteen.

Robin had never been on a slippery slide, and would have nothing to do with it until she climbed the ladder and he rode down on her lap. He enjoyed that and wanted to do it again, and again, until Cara became embarrassed queuing up with the kids to climb. She led him to the swings, where she held him again on her lap and he clung to her like a koala to a tree, his big blue eyes afraid of that swing, but brave enough to ride if Mummy rode it with him.

Whether she could stand living with her parents or not, she was doing the right thing by him in coming home.

*

Boarded the plane on a steamy, sticky Sydney day, and too many cramped hours later, too many pre-packaged meals later, landed in midwinter. No room in the plane to slide her arms into the black overcoat she'd carried with her. Helen had spent a winter in England and had warned her to take boots, gloves too, and a warm hat.

She'd kissed her goodbye on that last day. She hadn't taken Chris's side in the latest break-up, believing it was Cara who had been dumped this time. Chris was currently squiring a junior solicitor around town. He was pushing forty, and maybe becoming desperate to find someone to live with him in his house in Doncaster.

In Sydney, Cara had queued to get on that plane; now she queued to get off it. When she followed the herd out to a strange airport she felt as Robin may have when he'd ridden the slippery slide – afraid of her daring – until she saw Pete's familiar face amid the crowd of strangers.

His hair wasn't familiar; it had grown long enough to tie back with a rubber band. He looked scruffy but happy, and he bear-hugged her and she hugged him, then followed him through a winter evening to a battered old van, a communal van that he and a few Aussie mates had pooled funds to purchase. It stank of stale smoke and mould, and when it refused to start, Cara wondered how he'd expected the thing to start. But he continued to expect and eventually the van shuddered into life. They lit smokes then, which killed the stink of stale smoke and mould.

She watched the road; hoped Pete knew where he was going. Not a lot to see at nightfall. She'd see England tomorrow.

He parked in a too-narrow street, and no wonder that van was more dents than panels, Cara thought. She followed him through a dark night blindly, followed him down a narrow brick path to the rear of a dilapidated building, then down ancient steps to a room he shared with a multitude – and sharing Robert and Myrtle's two-bedroom unit looked suddenly like paradise.
Always room for one more
, Pete had written – room on the floor. Just a case of everyone shoving over a bit – and she the only female amongst seven males. Every one of them was an Aussie, and every one of them pleased to welcome another one from home.

Their fridge was too filthy to chill anything other than grog. Plenty of nothing in it. No milk for coffee. No coffee. She'd visualised Pete's ‘pad' as some form of flat. It was a crumbling hole in the ground, a hole with a sink. No table, no chairs. Mattresses and assorted bedding on the floor. No bathroom. They shared a bathroom with the inhabitants of the upstairs lairs.

Desperate to use a toilet and for a hot shower, she braved the communal bathroom. Changed her mind about a shower and hotfooted it back down to Pete's kitchen to wash her face and hands at a sink that was no cleaner than the communal bathroom. Cleaned it with her own soap and newspaper, then washed her face and hands again.

‘Just what the place needs, a woman's touch,' one of the Aussies said.

‘Don't knock any paint off the walls with your cleaning,' another said.

She'd bought an expensive frock to wear to the wedding, crushed in the bottom of her case. Had hoped to hang it tonight. It was safer crushed to death than hanging in this place. She'd brought her only copy of
Rusty.
God help me.

She repeated those words aloud when she took her life in her hands again in that van, riding with Pete and half a dozen more to a pub where they bought her a beer. She didn't drink beer, loathed the taste of it. But Aussies drank beer and were always welcomed to England's shores with a free pommy beer. She got it down and the maniacs filled her glass again.

Ate greasy fish and soggy chips with them, washed down with more beer. Smoked and drank and started laughing. When you can't bawl, that's what you do. Laughed and drank beer and smoked with them, and barely recalled the drive home. Recalled singing ‘Waltzing Matilda', and one of the Aussies telling her she could sing, so she sang ‘What Do We Do With a Drunken Sailor' while the mob inflated her mattress. Plenty of excess air in Pete's pad. They rolled her into her sleeping bag, zipped her in, jean clad, sweater clad, sock clad. And for sixteen hours she died, and if the mattress squeaked she didn't hear it.

*

Three nights she slept there, washed in clean washrooms when she went out, used clean toilets when she went out, carried a face washer, soap, hand towel and deodorant in her weighty shoulder bag, with
Rusty.
Drunk or not, that bag never left her shoulder. Wished she'd left
Rusty
safe in storage. No time to post it to a publisher. Nowhere to find the name of a publisher.

She saw the inside of a lot of London's watering holes, and after the first night paid for her own share of grog and for more than her fair share of smokes. If any of Pete's mob worked, she didn't notice. Didn't know what they lived on, but whatever it was, it wasn't a lot.

After unmitigated madness came the pure and blissful relief of boarding a bus filled with umpteen elderly tourists for her round trip: down to Cornwall, across Wales, over to Dublin.

Saw Land's End. Well named: looked and felt like the end of the earth. Didn't stay long; bus on tight schedule. Hotel tonight. Hot shower!!!

*

Wales. Stopped for lunch and toilet break. Hotel last night a delight. A swine of a shower but plenty of hot water. Totally different accents. Took a shot of a crumbling castle and could almost see the old knights riding towards it in full armour.

She ate that night with an old couple and a retired teacher. They made forced conversation.

The teacher, an American, also travelling alone, was Cara's roommate. The travel agent hadn't told her she'd be sharing twin rooms, but the Yank smoked like a chimney and supplied her own – even offered her own.

Most of the tourists were sixty plus, a few seventy plus, and one old bloke proud to tell everyone that he was eighty-three. Cara wasn't there for the company but to see what she might see – fast. Saw a lot of pills swallowed at breakfast time. Picked up a couple of walking sticks fallen into the bus aisle. Walked through snow at one stop.

A young Norwegian chap of sixty-odd latched onto her and her seventy-year-old roommate on the ferry to Dublin. His own roommate wasn't well. A few were seasick on the ferry – the perfect introduction to the city of Cara's dreams.

Dec 24th: Dublin. Bitterly cold, dark, wet and miserable. Overcoat wet. Wish it would snow. Want to see a white Christmas
, she wrote in her notebook, which lived now in the pocket of her wet overcoat, with her smokes, lighter, spare films for her camera, and serviettes. Too much trouble digging deep through her bag to find what she needed in a hurry.

Dec 25th: Still Dublin. Inhabitants undergrown, underfed. Plenty of churches to feed their souls. Colourful Virgin Mary statue on every corner and halfway down every block.

Some of the world's greatest writers had lived in Dublin. It had been Cara's Mecca, as Paris had been Jenny's. In Dublin, she gave up fighting a lunatic shower, washed her face and went to bed, eager to get out of the place.

Ate Christmas dinner with Norway chap, Yank roommate and eighty-three year old. Norway told us about his mate, who wasn't seasick but had a burst appendix – and whether he gets out of this country alive or not is ‘in the hands of the good Lord and his saintly mother'. God help him and me. Wish I'd stayed home.

Dec 26th: Back on the mainland and heading for Scotland. Different country, different accents.

Scotland impressed her. Maybe Hank the Yank or Lanky Link had a dribble of Scottish blood in their veins. She filled several notebook pages there, and gave up on her woollen headscarf. She'd remember Scotland's hills, its water, and an old wool mill where a waterwheel still laboured. She bought a tartan beret there, which she could pull low over her ears, and a pair of matching gloves she'd paid too much for – or maybe not too much. For the first time since the plane had landed, she was warm.

Tried for minutes to get a good shot of a shaggy Highland cow when the bus actually stopped for five minutes. The cow was camera shy, wouldn't pose. Found one at the place they stopped for lunch – a happy cow on a postcard, standing beneath a blue sky. And where the hell had they found a blue sky in Britain?

Dec 27th: Bathrooms from one end of the British Isles to the other are impossible. The longer I fight them, the better my dogbox bathroom looks. Distance truly makes the heart grow fonder. Saw more castles today, and one grand castle in good repair. The bus stopped for an hour there. Rained again. No snow.