Blue Skies (9 page)

‘Yes. Well, Jonathan Pickup was on the phone and I couldn't stop him talking. I couldn't just hang up on him. I mean, I really couldn't think what to do.'

‘Well, that's up to you of course, my dear.' She rolled her eyes at the paper open at page three. ‘If I were you of course…' She didn't finish, but stared up at the ceiling as if seeing visions and said: ‘Such a sordid little man. One always knew of course that there was something not quite right about him.'

I served Angelica's steaming brains into her bunny-rabbit bowl. Taking her from her grandmother, I sat on a stool with her wedged more or less upright on my lap and started to spoon the colourless goo into her mouth. Too late I realised I had forgotten a bib. I fielded the thin rivulets of rejected food that ran from the corners of Angelica's mouth as best I could. This took so much concentration that I barely heard James's mother wondering aloud on the comparative merits of convenience foods and foods pureed lovingly all morning by caring mothers. Angelica didn't want it anyway. I didn't attempt the banana custard. It was a relief for both of us when the time came to finish off with her bottle. I put a little more formula in to make up for her not having eaten much. Angelica's whole body quivered in anticipation as the rubber teat hovered above her mouth.

Her grandmother sat on the other stool and watched this happy domestic scene with satisfaction. Afterwards I did my best to sponge the stray brain spots from Angelica's pretty yellow smock. She was going visiting. I helped load her on to the back seat of the car. She chortled up at the vinyl roof from the wicker depths of her carry-cot. Her grandmother leaned towards me over the passenger seat and spoke to me out of the car window.

‘Why don't you phone James and tell him to pick up the car on the way home from work? I'll keep Angelica round there until late tonight. Then you can get your shopping done in peace.'

‘Oh, that's lovely. Thank you so much.' I smiled with genuinely surprised gratitude and waved goodbye enthusiastically.

A high cracked voice seemed to come out of the air: ‘She dotes on that little baby, can't you just seeyut?'

I hadn't seen her there, standing dead-centre on her pride and joy.

‘Must be nice for her, having you all so close by.' She laughed as though she had just made a joke. ‘Tell you what. Just step over here a minute. Got something to show you.'

I stepped over the miniature ranch-style fence and walked delicately over the grass towards her. She dug into the pocket of the stiff brown smock thing she wore while tending her lawn. She waved an agitated clenched fist full of something in my face.

‘What is it?'

She unfolded the fist close up under my nose. It took me some seconds to focus on what it was. My shells.

‘Found them, I did. Early today. Chucked down on me lawn. What a thing to do. I ask you. Some kids I suppose. Makes me mad, I must say. You work and slave to make the place look decent and then some drongos come and pull a stunt like this. They coulduv done some damage, you know. Got sharp edges, these things. Coulduv got trodden in. Damaged the roots. Lucky for them they didn't, or they'd have had me after them pretty quick, I can tell you. Come to think about it, I'll bet it was that paperboy that did it. He'd better watch out for himself, that's all.'

I looked sympathetic. ‘Oh well. No harm done, I suppose.'

‘No. Suppose not. Still, it's not right, is it? I mean to say. It's an uphill battle as it is. What with the poor soil and all them old tree roots I couldn't shift up out of it. Now people are chucking litter on it.'

‘Why don't you put covers on it at night like they do on cricket pitches?' I suggested: it was about the same size. I said goodbye and went inside. Looking through the sitting-room blinds, I saw her thinking it over—pacing it out and making notes.

I washed up the bits of used crockery dotted round the house. I hung the washing on the rotary clothes hoist out at the back, noting as I did so the subliminal whine of the electric lawnmower drifting round from the front, and phoned James. He wasn't there—wasn't in this afternoon, be back later, someone thought he had said. I left my message, found all the remaining food in the house and stuffed it between two slices of faintly stale bread, and took it to bed with a book. The book and the sandwich lasted the same length of time and then I was asleep, at first half-thinking, half-dreaming about phoning Jonathan back and finding out how things were going; but then sleep was deepening all around and I couldn't. James was there, standing in half-dark by the bed. I recognised his knees. The waist of his trousers appeared to be below them. He seemed to be undressing. Thinking very slowly but logically, I moved across the bed. He wriggled in and lay facing me.

‘Hey, sorry. I didn't mean to wake you. It just seemed such a good idea. You looked nice curled up in here. You feel nice too. Except for the crumbs.'

‘What's the time? Did you get my message? We'd better get up. I haven't made a shopping list. What are you doing?'

‘It doesn't matter about the time. Yes, I got your message. Which is why I came home early. We don't need a list, and you know what I'm doing. I'll do it some more. That's if you don't mind.' James was a gentleman. It was a result of his perfect upbringing.

Rising to these high standards, we showed each other quantities of style and finesse over the next hour or two. It might have been the result of good breeding, but most likely it was practice. It set the mood of the weekend, which passed quickly and well. We made the supermarket just in time and so avoided lingering and arguments. Afterwards we had dinner at an Italian restaurant in a new suburban shopping arcade. It had red-and-white check tablecloths and a black-and-white tiled floor and candles, and smelled of paint and pasta.

We managed rather well in our role of happy young marrieds and sustained it through Saturday and into Sunday. On Saturday I thought often of phoning Jonathan and seeing how things were. I even thought of going up on Saturday night and helping out, as James was at home. But I did neither.

On Sunday night thoughts of phoning him nagged harder. James was asleep, the house quiet: there was nothing to prevent me. But remnants of the weekend mood kept me in another dimension, suspended above my own action. As I sat at the large pine table in the living room I tried to conjure up Ben and Gloria. But they came to me only as blurred and faded shades. Usually they flitted somewhere in my head accessible to my thoughts, a subconscious shadow-play which sent bubbles of action without detail up into my mind, but now they wouldn't come into focus. I sat at the table. It was very quiet. From time to time the old fridge in the kitchen rumbled and shook, the only sound. The blinds were up and the moonlight was just strong enough to see by without extra light. I played patience, a game of Japanese Rug with four packs of cards. The cards were placed alternately straight and sideways in a multicoloured quilt. I got three games out from five played and went to bed while still ahead.

Monday morning. James was shaving. Cleaning his teeth. Getting papers together. Polishing his boots. He walked to the door, where he paused and fixed his let's-be-grown-up-about-this face on. Turning, he showed it to me and said:

‘Look. I just don't know when I'll be home. If it's tonight it will be late, so don't expect me and don't wait up. You know how it is. I can't help it—got so much work on just now.' He excused himself through the door, which squeaked appreciatively after him. Another squeak: his head came back round the door and spoke again.

‘Sorry. I'll fix that bloody door, soon as I get a chance. See you later. Take care.'

So I took care all day long. No point, I thought, in phoning Jonathan now. I'd be seeing him tomorrow. If he needed anything he would call me anyhow. He knew I'd do what I could to help. I looked forward to our lunch together. With luck he'd have his sense of humour back—have got things more in proportion.

That evening I laid out my going-up-to-town clothes, choosing them with care and anticipation. Next morning, as early as I dared, I put them on, and after the usual trip round to the next road to deposit Angelica, sat in them on the bus composing opening lines in my head. I got off the bus at the square with the fountain in it and walked quickly to Jonathan's flat, climbing the wood-and-iron stairs at the side of the warehouse and knocking on the large brown painted door. There was no answer. I called out.

‘Hi Jonathan. It's me. Can I come in?'

No answer. I pushed at the door, and it opened: it was on the latch. I went in. Obviously Jonathan had gone out for a minute and had left it open for me. Inside I crossed straight over to the record shelves to choose something to play. The shelves were empty, the stereo deck gone. Looking round the walls, I saw that the best pictures were gone too, their empty frames leaning against the walls. There were also gaps in the bookshelves.

I went into the bedroom. All seemed normal. I opened the wardrobe. There were clothes hanging there, but again there were gaps. I returned to the living room and sat at the table, feeling sick and frightened. Tuesdays had done a bunk. What should I do? I sat staring down at the floor. At my feet were little splashes of blood, dried brown and powdery at the edges, still red and sticky at the centre and making a neat trail to the door. I started to cry—because he had left here bleeding, because I had lost a friend, because I couldn't think what to do with the rest of my free day.

I went back into the bedroom and lay down on the bed to cry properly. The beautiful fur rug was gone. There was a crumpled newspaper on the bed: a weekly paper, a tabloid printed on the mainland, Australia's biggest-selling scandal sheet, which was always good for a superior laugh. ‘Wife-swapping circle uncovered in respectable suburb.' This story, written in a polished style of shocked journalese, ran in neat black lines beside a photograph of a naked girl straddling some rocks on a beach. There was a front-page story of great local interest. Jonathan's face looked out, in a slightly younger version, from a maze of smudged print. There were other photographs: the outside of the restaurant, two young girls smiling arm in arm in summer dresses, a middle-aged man, his mouth open, roaring from the page with righteous indignation. Underneath it said: ‘Outraged father of the two girls in the case of Jonathan Pickup, well-known restaurateur, spoke with our reporter in his suburban home today. Angry that the case against Pickup had been dropped, he said: “The man should be locked up. He's no better than a filthy animal. Young innocent girls should be protected from the likes of him. He must have drugged them or something to get them to do those things in the photographs. I won't rest until justice has been done. It's too late for my girls, but I'm thinking of others. All they wanted was to make a bit more money waitressing in the holidays and look what's happened. It's a bloody disgrace, and if the police aren't prepared to do anything about it, then it's up to us ordinary decent citizens to deal with the likes of him.” ' There was a lot more. Until now the details had not been publicly known, but now they were, and Jonathan had fled, although the police had decided not to prosecute.