Authors: Fiona McGregor
‘Make a wish,’ Blanche said as the final drips emerged.
‘I wish for a happy and healthy son for my beautiful daughter.’
‘We’d be just as happy with a girl, Dad.’
‘I’ve got a granddaughter already. I was being selfish. I was being
democratic.
And your mother,’ Ross looked at her, ‘how is she?’
‘Pretty sick. Keeping her spirits up.’ Blanche spared him the details, that if Marie’s chronic constipation didn’t ease, she would be hospitalised.
‘Clark told me she had a rough trot with the chemotherapy.’
‘She’s picked up a bit since coming home. She walked down to the cove the other day.’
What was noticeable about this house, particularly the terrace, was the lack of birds, apart from the occasional pelican gliding over Clontarf in the distance. It felt so exposed here on the
cliff. Just the elements of air and water, no animals, no trees. Spit Bridge was open, like two TimTams at forty-five-degree angles. Weird how something so ugly could look so beautiful. One after
another, boats passed through the channel. Blanche felt muffled by her sunglasses: she pushed them back up onto her head.
‘Are you all coping?’
‘I guess so.’
‘The medical bills covered?’
‘She’d stopped her insurance, Dad. Everything’s being paid for with the estate, via Hugh’s chequebook.’
‘I knew you and Hugh could be trusted to look after things. You doing okay?’
He didn’t seem the slightest bit fazed at the debts Marie had incurred. Blanche wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. ‘Yeah. Except Hugh bought a property in Ultimo that I
don’t, um, agree with.’
‘But you’re secure in your own place, and you’ve still got that flat in Neutral Bay?’
‘We own Lavender outright, and Neutral pays its way.’
‘Good. Excellent. You’ve done well. I’m proud of you. You’ve been good to your mother, you know. Very good with all of this.’
‘You just do what you’ve got to do, don’t you?’
He listened and spoke with his head inclined towards her, his tone insistently gentle, brow furrowed. ‘Well, I’m really very sorry. It’s very tough. It’s tough on all of
you.’
‘Are you going to visit her? Have you rung her?’
Ross moved his tongue around his teeth and gazed at the view. What had happened to her gruff, macho father? Was it just a memory-versus-actuality disjunction, like the dining room table that had
loomed over her as a child and remained fixed in those proportions in her mind through all the years of looming over it in turn as an adult? All his brutalities now seemed petty, the blunderings of
a man uneducated, like most, in the ways of parenthood. Even the philandering could be seen in context: a 1970s advertising executive flush with success who’d married too young. And her
mother had had her bit, and her mother had drunk hard too.
Ross made a gesture of helplessness. ‘I’ve been thinking about your mother a lot, you know. But I don’t want to upset her while she’s going through this.’
‘Dad, when she finishes going through this, she’ll be dead. You’re going to have to see her at some stage.’
‘Yes.’ He moved his plate away, lining his knife and fork neatly across it. ‘I know I am. I want to choose the right time. It’s the drinking, isn’t it. Geez, what a
comeuppance.’
Blanche wanted to change the subject. ‘Do you get out much in your boat?’
The boat was at the bottom of the cliff, down a twisting staircase of wooden slats and steps carved into rock. Moored to an oyster-encrusted jetty, it was equipped to fit eight but rarely went
out with more than one or two.
‘I’m fixing it at the moment. Climbing up and down those stairs every day, believe it or not. That’s where this has disappeared.’ He patted his stomach proudly then
uncorked the Verdelho.
‘I used to love coming here in Jonesy’s yacht,’ Blanche reminisced.
‘Oh yes, those were the days. Of course Jonesy’s riddled with arthritis now from all that sailing. And he can’t
give
that old hulk away.’
‘Do you see much of them? Or the Tottis?’
‘We went to Adelaide together to see
The Ring Cycle
in February.’
‘How was that?’
‘A bit bloody boring to tell you the truth. But Traci likes that sort of thing. She’s educating me in classical music. She got me this one playing.’ He indicated a box set of
David Helfgott open on the couch just inside the door. ‘Do you like it?’
‘It’s beautiful.’
‘Anyway I’m sticking with the plain old motor boat. It’s more independent. I don’t have to rely on a bunch of ugly blokes to help get me onto the harbour.’
Blanche walked to the edge of the terrace in order to see the sapphire water of Quakers Hat Bay. ‘God, it looks tempting. I’d love a swim.’
‘No, you wouldn’t. Saw a bull shark down there in December, near the bridge.’
‘No.’
‘Oh yes. Sharks are back. We’re victims of our success in cleaning up the waterways. Don’t you move. I’m bringing us dessert. Tea or coffee?’
‘No, thanks.’
Blanche got out her mobile and texted her team.
How was lunch? What did Sean think of the pitch?
Ross returned with fruit tarts and cake forks. She had never seen her father take
responsibility for an entire meal. All her childhood he had never lifted a finger. She smiled at his careful serving. She felt a rush of affection for this calmer, smaller person, and
simultaneously nostalgia for the big father of her past, a longing to curl up in his lap. In the living room, David Helfgott thundered down the ivories and rumbled menacingly among the bass
notes.
‘So. What did you want to talk to me about, Dad?’
‘Business.’
Blanche tried not to smile.
‘It’s not good news, I’m afraid. I’m going to have to claim half of the estate.’
Blanche felt her jaw literally drop.
‘I’ve lost a shitload of money lately, Blanche. I can’t tell you how much on the stockmarket. Numbers are down at the resort. I’ll probably have to sell it.’
Blanche spoke with disbelief. ‘I find all this recession talk
sooo
exaggerated. We’re still working day and night at HA.’
‘Your clients still paying on time? Mine aren’t.’
Blanche thought spitefully, Cos your ads are shit. ‘You can’t claim the estate, Dad. That’s outrageous. Mum got the house in the settlement. You had the resort and other
properties and your business and shares.’ Her voice began to rise, along with her gorge. ‘It’s il
legal
.’
‘It’s perfectly legal. We settled out of court. Without the imprimatur of the court, the property is hers by my goodwill. It was a gift.’
‘So you’d be doing this even if she was going to live?’
‘Well, yes. Half the estate is still a decent amount of money. Besides which, you told me she was going back to university and wanted to get a job.’
‘She’s fifty-nine and she’s been a housewife her whole life, Dad!’
‘Blanche. I had a three-hour meeting with my accountant last week and I have no choice. I have to make a claim.’
‘As if you have no choice. Look at this house! What about us? That’s not fair!’
A steely expression came over Ross’s face. ‘Right now, it’s your mother’s property, not yours —’
‘And she’s dying.’
‘— and all of you children received money from me to buy your own properties when you were twenty-five which is more than what 99.9 percent of the people in this world
get.’
‘
You
chose to give us that money!’
Ross’s face darkened and he became her childhood father again, hard, callous. ‘I left school at fifteen years of age and worked my fingers to the bone for another fifteen before I
was able to buy a property! Rabbit once a month was a treat in my childhood. Do you have any idea?’
‘I work hard too! And what about your grandchildren?
Plural
now, Dad.’
Ross sighed. The smell of fermented grapes washed over her. ‘Princess, please. I know you have a lot on your plate. I’ve been dreading telling you this. I’m not going to do
anything now, but when your mother dies, half the estate is going to come to me, and that’s final.’
Blanche shook off his hand, left the table and ran the length of the light-filled house to the bathroom.
Parked in the shade on the esplanade above her father’s house, Blanche tried to recover. How dense and beautiful the foreshore of Quakers Hat Bay looked, and the water
all around rippling in the sun. There was the clatter of wings against foliage then two currawongs burst forth carolling loudly. More than Sirius Cove, this was the place that Blanche had
associated with that trio of couples — her parents, the Joneses and the Tottis — no doubt from those sailing trips.
She didn’t know what had possessed her an hour before, reducing her father to an innocent like that. She thought of her mother at her own age and was staggered by the differences. Although
she never had time to even cook proper dinners, Blanche’s life seemed so simple. Just her and her husband and her work. She hadn’t even had her first child. Her mother, on the other
hand, at the age of thirty-seven had three children almost grown, with a husband who never lifted a finger around the house, and that house was enormous. Imagine the endless toil. And the way she
and her brothers were at that time. The fights that blazed through the house. Ross shouting, Marie crying.
But the worst was the infidelity. Not only did he not help at home, he had also fucked Marie’s two best friends. Imagine how full-on that must have been. Blanche would have cut his balls
off if he’d been her husband. Still, she wasn’t sure her mother knew about Gina back then, nor even later. She wasn’t even sure if Gina’s rejection of Ross that she and her
brothers had witnessed at that advertising party had been of an initial advance or a request for more. Susan seemed to know everything and was trying to shield Marie. She must have still felt
guilty about her and Ross. All of this before Marie had taken her revenge with Jonesy. Susan did not maintain that deference and apology. Nor Marie her hurt. So, revenge paid off.
Blanche also remembered how much her mother had admired Pat Hammet for working, and how Gina had held herself above Marie and Susan because of her job in Mosmania. Blanche had been so
contemptuous of all of them, so sure that what she had planned for herself was better. She wasn’t going to settle for a job in a dumb homewares shop let alone be a housewife. Yet even she had
compromised in choosing advertising over art. And speaking of compromises, the baby wasn’t even born yet. Sitting by the harbour always lulled Blanche. Time stood still; she came right into
the moment. But today the movement to a finish line was ineffable. Marie would never fulfil her desire to work. She could have gone back to study if she hadn’t got cancer. Blanche wondered if
she would have been able to get a job. Would she have had fulfilment from that, or did psychologists become wage slaves too, and get poisoned by their jobs like advertising executives? And what
could you take with you at the end of the day whether you liked your job or not? Yachts? Houses? Your hair and skin. Maybe not the former, if you’d had chemotherapy ...
A text from Kate came through.
All
’
s well, boss, take a load off. x
Blanche’s head pounded. She had finished the bottle of water in her car, but her mouth was still
dry. She was stuck to the seat with perspiration. She put the key into the ignition, but her hand began to tremble so violently she couldn’t turn it. She could barely dial Hugh’s
number. When he answered she began to cry. ‘Can you come and pick me up, Hughie?’
‘Has the car broken down?’
‘No. I kind of have. I’m really sick. I can’t drive.’
‘Sit tight, pooky. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
Blanche looked down at the harbour and ached with longing. Even if she couldn’t take it with her, she still wanted her house by the water. Beneath her righteous anger with her father for
stealing from her mother burnt the flame of her ambition. More than a million dollars that had been coming to her had done a U-turn right before her eyes, just when she was about to have a baby.
That she was well-off even without this sum was irrelevant.
Blanche flipped down the visor and dabbed her eyes in the mirror. At the age of thirty-seven, she was distraught to discover a deep line down the middle of her forehead and one either side of
her mouth. She sat waiting for Hugh, amazed at the sight of these lines, wondering where she had been and what she had done.
Clark waited for Sylvia in front of the university. The wind cut through his jacket, and he stepped from side to side to keep warm. Looking around the forecourt, he imagined
Sylvia appearing in every item of clothing he had ever seen her wear. Her jeans with the small hole in the knee, the red silk scarf, blue trainers. The way her face lit up when she saw him. All his
past lovers had chastised him for his disregard of clothing, but with Sylvia he noticed and remembered everything. Then she was there, in a beanie. She looked like Annie Hall.
They wrapped themselves around each other. ‘Come inside,’ Clark said. ‘I want to find somewhere we can be alone.’
They walked into the dim interior holding hands. Sylvia let go of his to move her hair out of her eyes and Clark felt as though he would die until he took her hand again, but she kept it to
herself. ‘We shouldn’t be like this in public,’ she cautioned. They walked rapidly past the cafeteria, a boy handing them leaflets for a rally. They took a lift to lower ground
and walked outside.
They were alone. They stopped to kiss. ‘I’m wet,’ she said. He leant into her. She was older than him, taller than him, she was possibly even stronger, he loved that, he loved
her. A delivery man appeared, wheeling a trolley loaded with cartons. Clark took Sylvia’s hand and led the way around a corner until they were in a narrow passage beneath an air-conditioning
duct, the forecourt just above eye level. Sylvia stood with her back to the wall watching Clark light a cigarette.
‘Can I have some?’
He passed the cigarette to her.
‘How is she?’
‘Who?’
‘Who do you think?’ She passed the cigarette back.