Ripples on a Pond (34 page)

A happy night. They could be so happy together, just the two of them.

*

Late before she used Miss Robertson's key. Not a happy task, the searching through private papers for the name of a relative or friend who should be informed of the Monday funeral. John and Beth had organised it. She found many old letters, a few from England, posted twenty, thirty years ago. Nothing new.

Little in that two-bedroom unit was new. A dining room setting with a small extendable table was in new condition, but not new. She extended it to use as her working table. A pretty two-seater couch and matching chairs were also not new, but unworn, and doubtlessly chosen by Mrs Collins. Miss Robertson would have bought something brown or navy blue.

The bedrooms had been furnished with ex-Amberley dressing tables and single beds. Not the old robes. Modern units had built-in robes. Miss Robertson's smelled of the Amberley of Cara's childhood. The aged cardigans and skirts hanging neatly behind that modern door may have been the same cardigans and skirts that once had hung behind aged timber doors.

Found a photograph of a First World War soldier hidden between the pages of an ancient hymn book. Perhaps he was the old lady's brother, or a friend, perhaps the love of her life she'd remained true to forever.

No family to mourn her passing, only a landlady who had deserted her, only the landlady's husband who had envied her – and the landlady's daughter. Not a lot to show for the almost eighty-seven years of
Matilda Dorothy Robertson
's life.

*

It wasn't much of a funeral. Miss Robertson had attended that church every Sunday for forty years. More than a handful should have come to say goodbye. She'd taught at a Vaucluse girls' college until the late fifties. Too long ago to be remembered.

Myrtle's service had been at the same church; the same minister had officiated. It was a very different funeral. Myrtle had a grave, a headstone so she might be remembered. Miss Robertson's will had stipulated an inexpensive coffin, cremation, and for her ashes to be scattered from the Harbour Bridge. Perhaps the handsome soldier from the hymn book had been lost at sea, and in death they'd ride the waves together.

Freed from Robert, Cara's mind was creating.
My Soldier Boy,
she thought. She could do it too – if she had time.

*

No time on Tuesday. Ten minutes after she'd settled her rabble, she took a phone call. A brief call.

‘Never feel safe in bed, you fucking, schoolmarm bitch. I'll get you if it's the last thing I do–'

Cara hung up on Raelene and returned to her class.

At lunchtime Cathy rang to tell her there was a bed for Robert at the nursing home.

‘He's in hospital, Cath. I'll get back to you.'

Then home to a unit still smelling of vomit and old age. She sprinkled carb soda on the carpet and told Robin to stamp it in. She'd vacuum it up later. At eight, a man-hungry Marion rang. At ten, the phone rang again. Probably Georgie. Couldn't talk to her tonight. Only after the caller had given up did she consider that it may have been the hospital calling.

Too bad. They had John's number.

Slept with the windows and balcony door open, slept well until a dream of Myrtle woke her at five, woke her with the knowledge that she couldn't run away from the responsibility of Robert.

Take him home. She'd have no rent to pay at Amberley. If she gave up work, she'd have no crèche fees to pay. She could live on Robert's pension and pay the rent from three units on the loan – and she could apply for the single mother's pension if need be. She deserved it more than Raelene, who hadn't paid a cent in tax in her life.

She'd have time to write.

Thought of Raelene, free in July and no doubt moved into a taxpayer-subsidised flat with her mop-headed baby.

Thought of the day she'd gone to Woody Creek, and wished to God that she could take back that day.

*

Linda Watson called on Thursday. Cara learned that Raelene had not only lost her prison privileges but one of her perfect front teeth. Back in the main prison, a runt of a girl, she'd come off second best in a fight. A pleasant woman, Linda, a listener, and easy to speak to. Cara told her that her father was in hospital. Didn't tell her why, or that she hadn't been near him since he'd been carried down those stairs. She spoke to her for fifteen minutes, and before the phone was placed down, she'd made an appointment to meet her on Monday morning at ten.

They met across an office desk, and Linda looked exactly as she'd sounded on the phone, one of life's innocents, gentle, trusting and a few years to the right side of middle age.

*

Beth and John were planning to drive down to Melbourne on Monday. They hadn't heard a word from Cara in two weeks, not since she'd called briefly to let them know that Robert had been released from hospital.

They were stocking the fridge for Pete when Cara called on Friday. Pete, currently unemployed, took the call.

‘Cara wants me to meet a removalist at Amberley next Wednesday with the keys. She said she'd spoken to Uncle Bob's agent about renting out the two ground-floor units.'

‘Are they putting the furniture into storage?'

‘She didn't say. She's given notice at school. She said she finishes up before the Easter break.'

‘Is Robert well?'

‘She didn't say,' Pete said.

‘How did she sound?'

‘Businesslike – and in a hurry.'

‘Any reason why she's leaving her job?'

‘I asked her,' Pete said. ‘She said that she was altering her career path to full-time carer.'

*

John and Beth changed their minds about the trip south, but on the Wednesday, Pete hitched a ride down with a truckie. The day was almost done before he found Cara's unit, a bedlam of boxes, Robert sitting like a lost soul between the boxes.

‘What are you doing here? You're supposed to be at Amberley,' Cara greeted him.

‘Mum and Dad are there – or they were. What are you doing?'

‘Moving,' she said. ‘In the morning. If the removalist gets here.'

Pete offered a hand to Robert, who shook it, but had nothing to say. He'd been in hospital for ten days and been out for at least two weeks, and he looked sick, looked ten years older than he had at Myrtle's funeral, and he needed a haircut.

‘You trying to grow a ponytail, Uncle Bob?'

‘I haven't been well,' Robert said.

‘He's lost without his couch,' Cara said. ‘The Salvation Army picked it up an hour ago. What's left is going with us tomorrow.'

‘Going where?'

‘Doncaster. Robbie and I were about to race out for fish and chips. Do you eat flake?'

‘When was I fussy?' Pete asked.

Left alone with Robert, a silent Robert, Pete attempted to find out what he could.

‘You had a decent stint in hospital.'

‘I haven't been well,' Robert repeated.

‘Where's the new house?'

Robert shook his head, and Pete gave up and turned on the television. It made a noise, which was more than Robert did.

*

Two ate on their feet at the bench that night, Robin ate on the bench. Robert was offered his share on a plate at the desk. He ate little.

‘Terrible pain,' he said. He needed a pill.

‘Eat you meal and you can have one,' Cara said.

Robert ate a segment of his battered fish, Robin eyeing him, eyeing Cara, who ate with her fingers from paper.

Something was going on down here.

They watched the flashing screen until the news broadcast ended, when Cara walked between boxes to turn the dial to a sitcom. Robin found a space between the boxes and sat down to watch. Pete found another spot. Cara continued her packing, Robert continued to sit before his now cold meal, obviously in pain.

Not until eight thirty did Cara replace the plate with a glass of water and a pill. She turned the television off. ‘Bathroom, Robbie.'

He skedaddled. Robert rose and shuffled off to bed.

‘Night, Uncle Bob,' Pete called after him. Robert's grunt may have been a reply, or a grunt of pain.

‘What's gone wrong with him?' Pete asked.

‘Whatever it is it's genetic. I'm safe from it but you're not,' she said.

‘He looks like Gran.'

‘He is Gran – with a silencer.'

‘What are his pills for?'

‘They're not for pain.'

But Robin was back and clean hands and teeth had to be inspected.

He was excited about his new house. He'd seen it, and relieved of the numbing presence of his grandfather, Robin wanted to tell Pete all about their new house that was a proper house, not like this one. It had proper bedrooms for everyone and one even left over for Mummy's typewriter.

He'd given up his folding bed to Robert tonight, and at nine, Cara tucked him into her own. With nowhere else to sit, they sat on the bed, allowing Robin to lead the conversation.

‘Mummy said we can get a puppy.'

‘I bet you'll call him Bowser,' Pete said.

‘How did you know? Mummy, how did Pete know?' Robin asked, wide-eyed.

‘He's a good guesser,' Cara said.

‘Can he guess our baby's name too?'

‘We have to get up very early, Robbie, or the moving man will pick up our bed and we'll still be in it,' Cara said. Kissed him four times. He kissed her four times, and they turned out the light.

‘You're pregnant?' Pete accused when the door was closed. ‘That's why you're leaving your job. There's a bloke attached to the Doncaster deal.'

‘I wish he'd been around to help me pack up this place,' she said. ‘I didn't realise until I started filling boxes that I'd accumulated so much.'

‘Who is he?'

‘I'm an impregnable island, Pete. More coffee?'

They took their coffee mugs out to the balcony, where Cara spread a blanket. They sat on it and lit cigarettes, Cara's outdoor ashtray between them.

The neighbour's light was burning, and two minutes later, she hammered on glass.

‘She's allergic to smoke,' Cara said. ‘And to single women raising kids, and to Dad's car, permanently parked in the visitors' parking bay – have you still got a licence to drive, Pete?'

‘You're insinuating that I shouldn't?'

‘Hoping you have. I've been worrying about how to get both cars out to Doncaster.'

‘Where's Doncaster?' he asked.

‘North-east of here. No trains go there, no trams. The house is in a dead-end street. I love it.'

‘Are you pregnant?' Pete asked.

‘Not in the way you think.'

‘Is there any other way?'

‘Maybe.' She blew smoke into the dark.

‘Talk to me.'

‘What about?'

‘Robin's baby's name.'

‘Dad requires a full-time pill dispenser. Robin doesn't like crèche. I want to write a book – and, possibly, almost probably, I'll be a foster mother to a six-month-old baby girl this time next week.'

‘You're mad!'

‘Robin has seen her. He wants her.'

‘You're a stark raving mad woman. You've got enough on your plate!'

‘Have you ever wondered if a mad woman knows that she's mad, or if she thinks that everyone else is mad and that she's the only sane person left on earth?'

‘You're not sane. Why go and do a thing like that?'

‘Her mother is in jail – and I owe her. Incidentally, the baby's name is Tracy – if Robin asks you to guess again.'

‘Are they paying you to do it?'

‘There'll be an allowance. I won't get rich on it.'

They'd been friends since infancy, had chuckled together at their private infant jokes, had hidden in bushes behind John's house smoking stolen cigarettes at twelve and thirteen. At fifteen, behind those bushes, she'd told him about Dino Collins.

She spoke about him then, and about Raelene King. ‘My half-sister's stepsister. She's a drug addict-cum-prostitute who conceived Tracy during a business transaction. She didn't get the client's name. But somehow, Pete, she managed to produce a dear, smiling little mop-top of a baby who deserves a damn sight better than a life sentence of that feral bitch.' She shrugged. ‘I plan to give it to her.'

In England she'd mentioned a Raelene who had conned her way into her flat, and who, if not for a faulty safety chain, would have let Dino Collins inside to rape or murder her.

‘You can't get yourself mixed up with people like that,' he said.

‘Because of him, I've lived scared for half of my life. Since I turned fifteen, I haven't gone to bed without checking that every window in the house was locked. See if you can find one window that isn't wide open tonight, Pete.'

‘Why rent down here when you could live free at Amberley? You've got us, up there.'

‘Because they know about Amberley. They saw Robin playing in the garden there one day – and if I get Tracy, I won't be allowed to take her out of the state. And Melbourne is my city.' She drew the last from her cigarette.

‘What happened with Morrie? I thought you were back with him in England.'

‘It's complicated,' she said, taking a new cigarette from her packet and lighting it from the butt of the finished one.

‘How?'

‘Just
. . .
complicated – or it was then. The way I feel right now, it wouldn't have been.' She sighed out smoke. ‘I've spent my life fighting against who I am inside, determined to be what Mum and Dad expected me to be. And they abandoned me, Pete, first Mum, then Dad tried to. He swallowed two-thirds of a bottle of Valium pills,' she said. ‘That's why he was in hospital.'

She drew again on her cigarette, releasing the smoke slowly into the dark. ‘While I was on my knees cleaning up his vomit, I think the me who I've been denying forever crawled out of her hole. She's tough, Pete, and growing tougher every day. How long are you staying, anyway?'