Indelible Ink

INDELIBLE INK

Fiona McGregor is the author of four works of fiction:
Au Pair
, shortlisted for
The Australian
/Vogel Award;
Suck My Toes
, winner of the Steele Rudd Award;
chemical palace
, shortlisted for the NSW Premier’s Award for fiction; and most recently
Indelible Ink
, winner of
The Age
Book of the Year and shortlisted for the Indie
Book Awards and the Barbara Jefferis Award. She was voted one of the inaugural Best Young Novelists by the
Sydney Morning Herald
in 1997. Fiona is also the author of a travel memoir,
Strange Museums
, as well as being known as a performance artist. She has performed live across Australia and Europe, and her video works have been seen internationally.

First published in trade paperback in Great Britain in 2012 by Atlantic Books, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

First published in Australia in 2010 by Scribe Publications Pty Ltd.

Copyright © Fiona McGregor, 2012

The moral right of Fiona McGregor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

Epigraph taken from A Magic Mountain by Czes
ł
aw Mi
ł
osz © Czes
ł
aw
Mi
ł
osz Royalties Inc. 1975. Used by kind permission of HarperCollins Publishers Inc.

Parts of this book, in slightly different form, previously appeared in HEAT, Griffith Review, The Best Australian Stories 2006 and Meanjin.

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Trade Paperback ISBN: 978 085789 412 0

E-book ISBN: 978 085789 413 7

Printed in Great Britain

Atlantic Books
An Imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd
Ormond House
26–27 Boswell Street
London
WC1N 3JZ

www.atlanticbooks.com

In memory of my mother, Gwenda

Thou shalt not make any cuttings in thy flesh on account of the dead or tattoo any marks upon you: I am the Lord.

— Leviticus 19:28

Not here. No, not here. Even I don’t know.

— Czes
ł
aw Mi
ł
osz, ‘I Sleep A Lot’

FOR THE FIRST TIME IN YEARS, the children were all at Sirius Cove for their mother’s birthday. A westerly had been blowing since morning,
depositing grit on the deck as the family brought out food and fired up the barbecue. Leon, who hadn’t been in Sydney for over a year, was struck by the effects of the drought on the city and
the emptiness of the house since his parents’ divorce. Ross had taken his most valuable furniture and artworks with him, and Marie as lone inhabitant seemed to have shrunk and the house to
have grown. Passing the cabbage tree palm that grew close to the deck, Leon leant out to touch the bark, thick and hard as an elephant’s hide. An old habit that comforted him.

Clark moved the seedling that Leon had given their mother away from the heat of the barbecue. It was sinuous and elegant with narrow delicate leaves. ‘What’s this?’

‘
Agonis flexuosa
.’ Leon broke a leaf off and crushed it near Clark’s face, releasing a sharp peppery smell. ‘It needs to be planted soon.’

‘We can look after it for you, Mum,’ said Blanche.

Clark placed chicken on the griddle. ‘Yes, please,’ he said to Hugh, who was pouring wine.

Marie was walking back to the kitchen. ‘I might have a spot for it down near the banksia,’ she said over her shoulder.

Blanche sent Leon a look, which he ignored. She was wearing a hat with a wide floppy brim so her mouth, full and always painted red, was the only thing visible. It was smiling wryly.

The children sat down to eat.

‘Where’s the wine?’ Their mother’s vexed voice travelled out. ‘Where’s my glass?’

‘Here, Mum.’

‘I’ve poured you a glass, Mrs King,’ Hugh said.

‘But I had one in here.’ The wine she’d had in the kitchen was in a bigger glass, and the last of the Queen Adelaide Riesling, which Marie was convinced didn’t sit on her
breath as heavily as the Taylors Chardonnay that Blanche and Hugh had brought.

‘Mum. Will you come and sit down, before it gets cold?’

There
it was, stashed behind the toaster. Marie returned to the deck, flushed and happy, with her Riesling. ‘This is the first outdoor meal of the season,’ she announced.
‘I think we should drink a toast.’

‘The weather’s beautiful,’ said Hugh.

‘I think it’s sinister,’ said Clark. ‘It’s the last day of August and it feels like summer.’

Dense blue harbour pushed against the canopy of trees below. The flapping of sails from yachts going about was close enough to have come from next door. They had moved the table against the
glass doors for maximum shelter, and pinned the napkins down with cutlery.

‘It feels so weird without Pat Hammet,’ Leon said ruefully.

‘She stayed in that house on her own for nearly ten years after Judge Hammet died, you know,’ said Marie.

‘Yeah, and left the place totally run-down,’ said Blanche.

‘I liked it run-down,’ said Clark. ‘I liked Pat. That house was amazing.’

The new neighbours, the Hendersons, had pulled down the Hammets’ one-hundred-year-old Gothic pile shortly before the Kings’ divorce. They had rebuilt so close to the fence that
Marie’s winter light was almost gone, and in place of the front garden was a four-car garage for Rupert Henderson’s fleet of vintage Jaguars. There were surveillance cameras on the
front wall, and the back garden, facing the harbour, would soon be a swimming pool.

‘Pat’s still around,’ said Marie. ‘I see her up at the Junction sometimes. Salt of the earth.’ She pushed out her chair.

‘Where are you going, Mum?’

‘To get more wine.’

‘You’re not supposed to be moving,’ said Hugh. ‘I’ll go.’

‘No, no, I know where it is.’

‘It’s like this entire city has obsessive-compulsive disorder,’ Clark went on. ‘Nothing’s allowed to be more than ten years old. There’s no
patina.
It’s so philistine
.
’

‘Remember the Hammets’ before Pat moved out?’ said Blanche. ‘The flagging down the bottom was caving in. I went over there to give her some Christmas cake, and there was
this giant bush rat dead in the middle of the path —’

‘Apparently that house could have been heritage listed. It could have been saved.’

‘— it was so foul.’

‘It’s about history, our need to destroy our history.’

‘A lot of the interior timber was cheap and poor quality,’ Hugh said to him.

‘It couldn’t have been.’ Clark spoke with his shoulders hunched, bracing for a sneeze. Bloody cat must have been sleeping on the chairs again. He looked around the room but
couldn’t see Mopoke anywhere. He glared at Hugh instead. ‘It wouldn’t have lasted.’

‘I’m afraid it was,’ Hugh said with an insider’s authority. ‘I think we’re often so desperate to look historical that we make these decisions on sentiment,
and it’s nonsense.’

‘I was meaning in a bigger sense.’

‘It’s bricks and mortar. It needs to last. Architects in the past weren’t necessarily better. If someone built Gothic in Mosman now, there’d be an outcry.’

Leon lowered his voice and inclined his head to his siblings, subtly avoiding Hugh. ‘I was thinking how much Mum is the house. You know, Dad was all the
stuff,
and now that’s
gone you don’t feel his presence much. It’s really just her.’

‘She should replace the furniture before the house goes on the market,’ said Blanche. With the chaise longue and armchairs gone, the bookshelf had become the prominent marker on this
side of the room, and most of the books looked tatty.

‘Why buy new things when you’re about to move to a smaller place?’ said Clark.

‘Because it looks like shit?’

‘Why don’t you wait until
she
says she wants to sell,’ said Leon.

Marie returned with another bottle of wine. She handed it to Hugh, then held out her glass.

‘Might help to get a bit more furniture in here,’ Hugh said.

‘I mean, I actually like it with less furniture,’ said Blanche. ‘I like the sense of space. Like what Leon was saying ... I mean re
place.
’

‘So do
I
,’ Marie agreed. ‘Do you want more chicken, Hugh?’

‘Thanks. That’d be great.’

Marie spooned extra sauce on. Poor Hugh. After all these years the boys still hated him. Even Blanche was embarrassed by him. Marie also thought Hugh was an oaf, but as her children thought she
was a drunken fool, she often found herself siding with him, out of guilt as well. She thought that family get-togethers would be better without Ross, but his legacy of carping remained. Even
little Nell, if here, would probably be making snide remarks. The physical elements of heredity were inexorable, but the gestures and tones seeding generation after generation seemed more like
psychological afflictions that she, as mother, should have thwarted. Then again, as at least half the afflictions had come from her, there wasn’t much she could do apart from sit back and
watch them replicate. Yes, actually, Hugh, as oafish as he was, being free of the King afflictions was a relief. Marie never expected Blanche would marry this man with his thinning, colourless
hair, his thick rugby neck, yet she liked Hugh for the same reason that she disliked him — his dreary predictability — and assumed her daughter felt similarly. It was also a relief
finding things to agree on with Blanche.

Clark offered the wine around.

Blanche shook her head. ‘I’m driving.’

‘Why don’t you come east, Mum? I think you’d like it. It’s less Henderson, more Hammet.’

‘I’ve never lived on that side of the bridge, Clark.’

‘You could actually get more value for money in Kirribilli,’ said Blanche.

Marie sighed. ‘I don’t want to talk about this today, thanks.’

‘We’ll put you on to the people who renovated our kitchen and bathroom,’ said Hugh eagerly. ‘They did an excellent job.’

‘You could get them done for as little as seventy K, Mum.’

‘That’s such a con,’ said Clark. ‘When I was house hunting you’d see these ads saying
Just renovated
and it’d be a slap of paint or a bit of Ikea and
they’d double the price. Even a mug like me could see through it.’

‘We’re not talking about Ikea, Clark.’

Marie thought of putting ice in the wine, the crack it would make like her arthritic big toe escaping its shoe at the end of the day. The chill emanating from the cubes through the surrounding
alcohol to frost the glass, and persuade her she wasn’t drinking as much as she really was. But she was aware of how often she had already left the table, so for distraction she unwrapped her
remaining presents. Clark had given her a book. Marie read every book she was given. She liked Graham Greene, Inga Clendinnen and Angela Carter. She didn’t like Bryce Courtenay or Paul
Auster. Clark gave her crime and local history; she drank the latter down oblivious to style, interested only in content. But her favourite books were her gardening ones, the most significant shelf
taken up by eight volumes of
The Encyclopedia of Australian Plants.
Today’s birthday present was about first contact. She thanked Clark. Blanche and Hugh had given her a bottle of
Issey Miyake. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘
perfect
. I’ve just run out.’