The Turning Tide (30 page)

I hear Ian coming back from the ute and he stops beside me as he sees Frank. I sense his stillness, his shock.

‘Okay, mate. We’ve got to go, sorry,’ I say.

Frank steps forward. ‘And young Ian! I haven’t seen you for so long and now you’re all grown up, not a little sook anymore. How’s your mum going?’

I see Ian’s shoulders tense and I offer him the carton I’m holding. ‘Can you grab this? It’s a bit heavy for me.’

Ian takes it, staring at Frank. Frank looks from him to me and back again.

‘Fuck me,’ he snickers. He reeks of beer and fags. ‘I always knew she was a cow but I didn’t know she was a slut, too. You been gettin’ some, Whalen?’

Ian’s eyes narrow in fury and I grab his arm and murmur, ‘Listen. Take the booze to the ute. I’ll handle this. I promise. Go on.’ I gently move him in the direction of the car.

Breathing heavily, looking over his shoulder, Ian walks quickly back to the ute.

I step towards Frank. He smells even worse close up.

‘Look, fella …’ I say, putting my hand on his shoulder in a matey sort of way. Then I shift my thumb to a spot I learnt more than forty years ago and press hard against the nerve. It’s a paralysis point and he’s puzzled and tries to twist away, his mouth open in outrage. But my hold is too strong.

‘Jesus, Whalen,’ he gasps. ‘Oh, Jesus, stop it.’

‘Frank. Go back to the rock you’ve been hiding under all these years. Don’t ever come round here again.’

‘You bastard! What do you care?’

‘That’s enough, Frank,’ I say, as I shift my hand to a point near the first one.

‘That stinking little kid –’

I press on the second point. It’s a cripplingly painful spot, probably one of the ones he used on the small boy. It’s so painful he can’t speak, just a long keening moan. He falls to his knees.

I keep up the pressure. ‘Shut your mouth, Frank. Go away again. Not another word. Or there’ll be worse than this, I swear.’

A groan of terror comes from his ragged mouth and he looks at me through tears of pain.

‘Say you’ll never come back, Frank,’ I continue, sick with rage.

‘Yeah, never, never … stop,
stop
…’

I stop and he topples over, whimpering. I want to kick him but somehow, appalled at myself, I hold back. Blood pounds in my head. I take a deep breath and watch him scramble to his feet and limp away. I turn and Ian is standing there, fists clenched.

‘You should have let me do that, Mike.’

‘No. That’d be revenge. This was punishment.’

‘What’s the difference?’

My knees suddenly start shaking. I move to the open door of the ute and sit down heavily in the front seat. ‘Fucked if I know, Ian. Fucked if I know. But it was better me than you.’

‘Lena told you about him, didn’t she? And me.’

I nod.

He laughs bitterly. ‘I’d probably’ve bawled like a baby anyway.’

‘No. No, you wouldn’t have. But it was a cruel thing to do, even to scum like him, and you don’t need it on your conscience.’

‘What about your conscience?’

‘Soiled, mate. Soiled beyond salvation,’ I say, tired. Then I smile a little. ‘Always wanted to try those points, see if they worked. Never had a chance to in the war.’

‘They work, Mike. Believe me, they bloody work.’

Shaken, we look at each other for a moment.

I settle back into the car seat. ‘Was going to walk over but reckon I deserve a lift now.’

‘Reckon so.’ He half-grins. ‘Anyway, I need a hand with the booze at the other end.’

There’s an air of panic at the house. Mitch is vigorously vacuuming something white off the carpet. In the background Jessie is wailing and Suyin is cuddling her.

Suyin looks up and I kiss her cheek. ‘In the wars?’ I say.

‘Oh, Mike, lovely to see you. Yes, she knocked over a bag of flour and bumped her head.’

‘Give her here,’ says Ian. ‘What’s up, little girl?’

Suyin hands the baby over gratefully, then says something about fixing her hair and disappears.

Lena’s mother Liz emerges from the kitchen, spatula in hand, red-cheeked. I kiss her too and she says, ‘Hello Mike. Oh God, we’ve got a crisis.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘You remember Lena’s boyfriend, Pete?’

‘Yeah. Came to get her at Tidal River.’

‘Well, it’s been a bit rocky for them lately. He’s never been happy about her doing uni. He’s got no ambition and doesn’t want her to have any.’

‘So –?’

‘He rang this afternoon and broke it off, today of all days. She’s had her doubts about it, I know, but she’s devastated. Nothing I say seems to help. Would you see how she’s going? She’s in the sunroom. Oh, bugger.’

The smoke alarm has started beeping and Liz turns and dashes back to the kitchen.

I find the sunroom at the rear of the house. Lena’s sitting by herself in a corner of the lounge, knees drawn up.

‘Hey, kid. I hear you’ve had a rotten day,’ I say, sitting down at the other end of the lounge.

She nods, head bent. A tear trickles down her nose. She dabs at it with a tissue.

‘I sort of expected it,’ she whispered. ‘And I knew it had to happen.’ She takes a tremulous breath. ‘But not now. All our friends are coming tonight. I just wanted to have fun like we used to.’

I shake my head regretfully. ‘I’m sorry, Lena.’

There’s a silence.

‘Is that it?’ she says. ‘Bit of a pathetic effort. I thought you were here to cheer me up, send me back to greet everyone in about – oh hell – ten minutes.’

‘I don’t think I’m the one to cheer anyone up. I’ve had a bad few weeks too.’

She turns and considers me for a moment. ‘Yes, I can see.’ She blows her nose and clears her throat. ‘So how’s your new place?’

‘It’s good. Blank, empty. I like it.’

She smiles fleetingly. ‘I can imagine that. You seemed weighed down by the old place.’

‘Wish you’d told me before. I’d have got rid of it earlier.’

‘Would you have listened?’

I laugh. ‘Perhaps, to you, I might have.’

She sighs. ‘God, I must look a mess.’

She’s utterly beautiful.

‘Yeah, you do,’ I say. ‘Better go and fix yourself up. Everyone’ll be here soon.’

She rolls her eyes. ‘Okay, mission accomplished. I’ve stopped feeling sorry for myself.’

When she stands I see she has ribbons in her hair and long necklaces and her skirt flounces from a bodice like a 1950s corset, and I say, ‘Wow! Wasn’t Madonna wearing that the other day?’

She laughs. ‘Mike, I bet you hardly know who Madonna is.’

‘Well, she’s got serious competition now, kid. Happy birthday.’

Chapter 28

The noise level at the party is rising. I’m standing to one side of the crowded lounge room and take a sip of my drink. I notice Lena’s nice study buddy James near her. He’s filled out and doesn’t seem so shy anymore and I imagine she won’t be lonely for long.

I hear Lena squeal with pleasure as she hugs a woman who’s just arrived. With a shock I realise it’s Helen. I feel disoriented. She’s young and lighthearted, mature and calm, all at the same time. Ian brings her a glass and kisses her. She hugs Suyin and greets several people as she moves through the crowd.

Her wavy golden hair has glints of silver now. She’s slim, wearing something elegant, not a floral cotton dress. She gazes around, smiling, then sees me. Her eyes are still that wonderful sea-blue.

I suppose she’s experiencing the same trick of memory – tough russet-haired Mike overlaid with tired grey Mike. I doubt her vision is as pleasing as mine, but she comes towards me and we kiss each other lightly on the cheek. It’s good to see her but part of me is exultant: she’s only a nice middle-aged lady now, thank God, no longer my heart’s lodestone.

‘Lovely to see you, Mike,’ she says.

‘You’re looking well, Helen,’ I say.

‘Thank you for all your help with Lena. Ian told me there’s been a few complicated moments.’

‘It’s my job. A lot of kids go off the tracks in their uni years. Lena’s been pretty good, all things considered.’

She nods politely.

‘It must be good having Ian living back here,’ I say. ‘And a new granddaughter, too. Congratulations.’

‘Suyin and Ian seem very happy,’ she says. ‘I’m glad for them.’

I nod politely.

There’s an awkward silence, thankfully broken by Ian dinging a spoon on his glass to get everyone’s attention. He gives a brief speech about Lena’s coming of age, with Lena, embarrassed, saying, ‘
Dad
’ every now and then. Mitch dims the lights and Liz brings in a birthday cake with twenty-one candles. Lena blows them out and makes a wish and we all sing Happy Birthday.

Lena starts opening the mound of gifts on the table. Her friends joke as she opens presents of books and music and makeup and jewellery. There’s a vase from an elderly aunt, saucepans from a cousin, a set of towels from someone else, a card from her mother and Mitch with a cheque and the same from Ian and Suyin. She hugs them in pleasure.

Helen’s gift is a jacket in soft green silk, which makes Lena gasp, ‘Nana, incredible!’ as she kisses Helen. She opens my parcel and I worry for a moment whether she’ll like it. She stares at the small painting with its glowing colours, then looks at me in wonder.

‘Mike. Oh, that’s
beautiful
, I love it.’

I smile with relief. She kisses my cheek and shows the painting to Helen. ‘Look, Nana, isn’t it gorgeous?’

‘Sweetheart, it’s lovely. Oh good heavens!’ She looks at me in surprise. ‘That’s a Liam Whalen. And not a reproduction.’

Lena looks closely at the signature. ‘Is he related to you, Mike?’

‘My brother.’

‘I remember now,’ says Helen. ‘You used to mention him. But I never connected him, years later, with the famous artist. Heavens –
Liam Whalen
.’

‘Yes, that’s the usual response,’ I say.

‘Lena, you’ll need to take special care of it,’ says Helen. ‘I’ll speak to your parents about insuring it.’

‘Is it valuable, Nana?’ says Lena.

‘Yes, very. What a kind gift, Mike.’

‘I just hope Lena enjoys it. And if she’s ever destitute it’ll buy her dinner once or twice.’

‘More than once or twice,’ says Helen, laughing. I’m pleased to see her smile, but I’m pleased even more to feel nothing for her.

I stay five days at Foster. I drive to Tidal River and feel a certain peace now, no longer overwhelmed by memories.
I stand at the commando memorial for a long time, looking and thinking.

On the way back, on a whim, I divert down the overgrown lane that used to lead to the O’Briens’ farmhouse. I heard most of the land was sold to the dairy next door. It’s pretty obvious where the boundary is: neatly cropped pasture on one side of the fence, knee-high weeds the other. The overgrowth surrounds the house and shed and smothers the old vegetable garden.

The curtains behind the grimy windows are askew and the paint is peeling, but beyond the house I can see the lovely view of sloping green fields and the water and the Prom. As I take a step to get a better view I kick something in the grass. A small real estate agent’s sign. ‘For Sale’, it says. I look and think some more.

I drop into the agency and find Lena busy behind the desk.

‘Oh, that’s right,’ I say. ‘You were going to get a job here for the holidays, weren’t you? How’s it going?’

‘Good fun.’ Her boss pokes his head out of his office. ‘And is there anything we can help you with, Professor Whalen?’ she says politely. The boss nods at me and disappears down the hall.

‘In fact, Miss Erikssen, there is. The old farmhouse on about an acre at the end of Muddy Lane. This agency has it for sale, I believe.’

‘Ooh. Do we? Wait a minute.’ She flips through a folder and eventually finds the property listed right at the back. It has clearly been for sale a long time. She tells me the price.

I say, ‘Lena, your real estate maths is awful. Now you’ve dropped a zero instead of adding one.’

‘No, I haven’t, Mike. Real estate is cheap around here.’

‘That cheap? Wow. Can I have a copy of the contract?’

She finds the papers and photocopies them for me.

‘Are you really interested in buying it?’ she says, puzzled.

‘I used to stay there with friends of my parents when I first came to Foster. I liked it better than almost anywhere I’ve ever lived.’

‘And now you don’t have a place of your own in Melbourne …’

‘Yeah. Could fix it up as a holiday house. A nice project.’

‘I’ll find the keys. You’d better have a good look over it first, though, before jumping in the deep end,’ she says cautiously.

‘I thought your motto was supposed to be “Sell, sell, sell”. You don’t make a very convincing estate agent.’

She grins. ‘Reverse psychology, see? You’re already feeling keener, I can tell.’

I sign the papers that afternoon.

The old farmhouse becomes mine in early 1984. I’m able to spend most of the summer vacation working on it – painting rooms, hanging curtains, throwing away mouldy carpet, polishing floors, fixing the hot-water system and tackling lots of small repairs. By the end of February, when I’m almost due to return to work, it’s comfortable. For the first time in many years I feel settled. Anchored.

The day before I have to go back to Melbourne I set out a couple of old chairs and a rickety table in the garden. It’s a lovely blue-sky day. I go inside to make a cup of tea and
get the scones I bought at the bakery, and hear a knock at the door.

It’s Helen. I’ve seen her on and off since Lena’s party, at Erikssen events and around the town, without awkwardness, or warmth, between us. She’s wearing a light dress and sandals, her hair loosely drawn back with a scarf.

‘Hello, Mike,’ she says. ‘Lena told me you’ve done a wonderful job here, so I thought I’d bring you a housewarming present.’

She hands me a potted crimson geranium in full bloom.

‘Thank you,’ I say, pleased. ‘I’ve got the right spot for it in the garden too. Come in and have a look around.’

I show her over the house and she seems to like it. In the kitchen she says, ‘I used to bring Ian to visit the O’Briens during the war, sit and have a cup of tea here with Sally. She worried about you.’