The Beloved (16 page)

Roberta.

Ro-ber-ta. My name. A gutsy name, a name people could take seriously. Not any more.

‘CP?'

He dropped down beside me and curled his body around mine. I felt its heat and the thump of his heart against my spine, so close, so insistent, I couldn't feel my own.

‘I didn't know,' he said. ‘She only ever called him Henry. I am so, so sorry.'

‘Never call me his name again, Dad.'

‘It's your name too.'

‘Not any more. I hate it. I hate her.'

‘Ah, no, you don't hate her. You hate how much you love her. I know.'

‘Do you still love her?'

He was silent, and I could sense him juggling words. ‘Not like I used to.'

I stared into the darkness. ‘Are you leaving us?'

‘I'll never leave you.'

‘Dad, who is Helen?'

‘Not now, CP.' He moved and I felt air stir between us. ‘I'm so tired I can't think straight. Come on.' He stood up and stretched out his hand. ‘It's time we were in bed. Tomorrow. We'll talk tomorrow.'

I woke to the sound of pans clattering in the kitchen. Eight o'clock. Dad would be long-gone. Normally my mother would be gone by now too. I wished she had. I didn't want to see her.

‘Pancakes, Bertie,' she called. ‘Bacon and maple syrup.'

I went into the kitchen.

‘I'm not Bertie. I'm not Roberta. I'm not your
other
man's child.'

‘Of course you're not, you duffer. But please don't call him my “other man” because he was infinitely more than that.'

I pulled my favourite yellow mug from the cupboard and tipped Milo into it straight from the can, spilling brown crumbs on the bench top. ‘I don't care what he was. You had no right to give me his name.' Sunshine powdered milk next, two tablespoons and enough water to make a sticky paste.

She stared. ‘It's an honour. I wanted to give you something precious and his name was the most precious thing I had.'

I stirred the doughy mix, rattling the spoon hard against the mug. ‘Dad should have been the most precious thing you had. Not another man's
name
. You can shove it in that little box you keep along with the rest of your memories.'

‘Don't belittle my memories, Roberta.'

I glared at her. ‘I am not Roberta.'

‘You are. You wouldn't be you with any other name. Now sit,' she pointed at the table with a shaking hand, ‘and eat these pancakes.'

I looked at them, three on the plate, with two strips of crispy bacon and drizzled over with maple syrup. Something about it all – this perfect breakfast, this sunny morning – was terribly wrong and I was overcome with tiredness.

‘I don't want your pancakes.' I left the Milo drink on the bench and went to my room. My foot ached. I slumped on the bed and wrenched off my boot, exposing the warped, wasted ugliness. Roberta. Dumb ass. All my life I'd cherished a name that wasn't mine. It belonged to a stranger. A dead man. I heard the jeep back out of the driveway and rattle along the road below. How could she?

I went back to the dining room, spread butcher's paper over the table and drew the outline of my mother's face with a thick black pencil. Leaving gaps for her eyes and mouth, I filled in the face with black watercolour. But Uncle Bill's cheap paints left only a dark veil and I wanted black; thick, impenetrable black. I got Vegemite from the kitchen and smeared it on her face, snapped Dad's razor blades in half for her mouth and eyes.

Roberta.

Names defined you. Cripple, Cockroach. Lindsay for my mother's family, Lightfoot for my father's, Bertie, CP. Who was I now? I went into my parents' bedroom. The box was still in my mother's underwear drawer, along with his ring and deckle-edged photo, upside-down. There was writing on the back:

Dr Henry Robert Blake
.

I turned the photo over. A man beamed up at me. My heart flip-flopped. He looked like Mama, with the same toffee-coloured skin and ink-black hair. Handsome. Smiling. So nice I wanted to tear his face to pieces. I put him back in the box. As I closed the drawer, I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror: Dad's blue eyes, Mama's skin and wide mouth. I stifled an urge to spit at myself. I didn't want to see my mother in me any more, not the cheating mother who'd named me after her lover. I noticed her locket around my neck, its tiny blue forget-me-not and golden centre . . . her dreams. I tugged on the clasp.

No
.

My
locket. My dreams.

Whoever I was.

Tim came home at midday and headed for the kitchen. As he passed the dining table he saw my painting and stopped.

‘Jesus, Bertie. What the hell's that?'

‘Don't call me Bertie. Don't call me Roberta ever again.'

‘Why not?'

‘Mama named me after her dead . . . lover.'

Tim blinked.

‘His name was Robert.'

Tim looked as if I'd slapped him. ‘What'll I call you, then?'

I dropped my head on my arms. ‘I don't know.'

He called me Lindsay.

‘Her name is Roberta,' my mother snapped. ‘That's what you'll call her.'

‘Her name's Lindsay too,' said Tim, ‘and that's what I'll call her.'

Lindsay was okay, better than what my parents were calling each other.

Dad's faithful old clock from Melbourne donged eleven long strokes into the night air. I sat in my bedroom chair squeezing Moose's poor sagging belly, listening to them fight. I had thought I was over toys but I was finding Moose comforting. My parents raged on; they weren't even trying to be quiet.

‘Don't give me that fidelity crap, Lily May. The only person you were faithful to was Blake. I couldn't get near you. You couldn't be touched, you wouldn't be touched.'

‘Well, you've certainly made up for it with that Helen-bitch.'

‘Don't you
ever
call her that.'

‘If the cap fits . . .'

I plugged my fingers into my ears. Dad was right. Mama's words, however true, sounded so violent and ugly I felt ashamed. I couldn't imagine Dad with a bitch but I guessed you had to be to steal someone else's husband. What did bitches look like? Tall, shapely, blonde. Stuck-up. All bitches were stuck-up. She'd be beautiful in a cold way and have hard green eyes you couldn't trust. And she'd never give a thought to what she was doing to our family. Not that my mother cared what she'd done by naming me after her dead man.

Moose looked sad. Poor old bear, stuck with his bent ear and that silly name, given to him by my mother. She'd named all my toys: Moose, yellow-haired Margaret and Raggedy Ann, whose name I'd changed to Molly. No doubt I'd only got away with it because I was sick. Not so easy this time.

‘Either she goes,' Mama said, ‘or we do. I'll take the children back to Canada.'

I felt the air leave my body.

‘The hell you will. You're not taking my kids anywhere.'

‘Try me.'

Outside, crickets whirred.

Canada.

The icy fingers of a prairie wind closed around my heart.

The next morning as I went to the kitchen for breakfast, the phone rang and I picked it up.

It was Mrs Breuer. She sounded surprised. ‘Bertie, is that you? Where have you been?'

‘You're back?'

‘A week now. Stefi's keen to see you. Didn't your mother say?'

‘No, Mrs Breuer, she didn't say anything. But Lily May's not been quite herself lately, in fact—'

My mother snatched the receiver from me. ‘Magda? I'm sorry. Yes of course we want to see you. I've been so busy with work, but this afternoon's fine. I will, yes. Bye, for now.' She hung up and glared at me.

‘Don't call me Lily May, Roberta.'

‘Don't call me Roberta, Lily May.'

‘Shut your smart mouth. I'm your mother.'

‘And your name is Lily May,
Mother
, or would you rather I called you Helen?'

Her hand caught the side of my head, hooking my ear so hard I thought she'd ripped it off.

‘Don't you
dare
call me that woman's name!'

I put my hand up, testing my ear for blood. There wasn't any, but my hand shook so hard I didn't know what to do with it. My mother had hit me. It was unbelievable.

She examined her palm. Maybe it hurt. I couldn't bear to look at her. ‘If it weren't for upsetting Stefi,' she said, her voice wobbling, ‘I wouldn't take you this afternoon. Your behaviour is appalling.'

Tim appeared in the doorway, his curls sticking up like a cockatoo's crest from his bike ride. He looked at us both in turn.

‘I'm glad you're here, Tim,' Mama said. ‘I need to talk to you both. Look, I'm sorry, but it's likely your father and I will separate. If we do, we three will be going to live in Canada.'

Tim blinked slowly. ‘What?' he said. ‘Did you say . . .
Canada
?'

For a moment, I felt his confusion. Canada had been just a name to him, as innocent as icing sugar, but now it was real, and as far away from Moresby as you could get. Dad's clock ticked away the minutes, cars swished around the corner below. Out at sea, the water was glassy, the first pontoon baking under the sun. I'd wanted for so long to come home. Now I wanted to go to sleep and wake up back on the
Bulolo
, to sail into Fairfax Harbour and find everything the way it used to be. The way it should be.

‘We can't go to Canada,' said Tim. ‘Stay here and find another house.'

‘No,' said Mama. ‘Moresby's too small.'

‘Melbourne, then.'

‘No. Never again.'

‘Sydney. Brisbane. Adelaide. I don't care. Anywhere but Canada.'

‘It's my home.'

‘It's not mine,' said Tim, and he turned, as stiff as a broom handle, and left the room.

‘Where are you going?' Mama called after him.

‘Colin's,' he said. ‘Or hell. I don't care which. They're both better than Canada.'

On the drive to the Breuers', I felt strange. There was something I wanted to say but I couldn't think what it was. The world seemed a long way off, as if I was looking at it through the wrong end of Dad's binoculars. My head felt light and disconnected from my body. I leaned forward and connected it with the windscreen, hard. It felt better. I did it again.