‘Yes, Mummy.’
‘All right, Mum.’ There were smiles all round. They could tell they were out of danger; they’d got off lightly.
‘Now, who wants to go with Daddy to get fish and chips for supper?’
‘Me! Me!’
As she went past the bathroom she heard Alex in the shower, not even singing really, just yelling out a wordless accompaniment to some unidentifiable melody in his head. In the kitchen, he’d turned the radio on and tuned it to the ABC. Some Australian with a plummy voice was speculating about what might be in Her Majesty’s Christmas Day message tomorrow. Rosemarie’s face screwed
up. This ghastly fawning! That awful old England of headscarves and stiff upper lips and rigid class divisions was
dead
now, didn’t they know that? No one
cared
any more – except here, in stupid Australia, the lapdog of two masters, slobbering over the English queen while sending its sons off to fight for the Americans in this horrible war in Vietnam. Savagely she twisted the dial to 3AK
(‘Where no wrinklies fly!’)
and turned up the volume to drown out the sounds of the children’s bickering, which had broken out again as they prepared to depart. The Who was ‘talkin’ ’bout my GENeration’, suggesting in a mighty sneer to the older one, ‘Why don’t you all just fffffade away?’ Rosemarie danced along with it, jerking her shoulders from side to side.
Yes
, she thought,
good idea! Why don’t you all just do that? Ffffff… something, anyway!
Finally the car pulled out of the driveway. Robert came sidling in, stopping just inside the kitchen door, testing the air.
‘The others have all gone with Dad.’ His mother nodded. Robert advanced, cautious yet purposeful, edging around the kitchen table until at last he settled there with his box of Derwents and a large spiral-bound project book.
‘I’ll tidy this up the minute they get back,’ he offered.
His mother couldn’t help a small smile. ‘As if you’d make a mess!’ This nervy, neat boy who never even let a pencil touch the table: each was slotted back into its colour-coded place the moment its work on the page was done. She started chopping up the vegetables for tomorrow; they could sit in a basin of cold water in the ice-box overnight. The fridge. Even if Alex’s mother wouldn’t have.
A Beatles song came on. It was a few years old now. What wouldn’t she have given to see the Beatles when they’d come to Melbourne! She’d said that to a woman who seemed friendly at the school Mother’s Club as they stood side by side making sandwiches for the children’s lunch orders, but the woman looked at her as though she were mad. ‘What, with all those screaming girls?’ she asked, curling her upper lip. But Rosemarie could have been one of those screaming
girls, oh, how easily! Screaming and sobbing ecstatically…
‘Listen…’
sang the warm male voice, tender and confident. Who was that: Paul? Maybe George…
‘Do you want to know a secret?’
No!
she thought emphatically.
And I don’t want anyone to know mine!
She leaned her weight on the big kitchen knife with blind efficiency, slicing through a huge piece of homegrown pumpkin. Beads of moisture formed on the slabs of freshly cut flesh. No one wanted to know the
real
secrets, anyway, not the really big ones. That getting married was like slamming a great big door and living forever in just one tiny room. That babies tore you from the bliss of unbroken sleep as ruthlessly as any torturer and you never got back to that lovely place again. That raising children and running a household was mostly tedious donkey work. That the man you’d once found so thrilling became, over the years, so eye-wateringly boring you could hardly bear for him to lay a hand on you in bed…
The Beatles song had finished. Advertisers were yapping now and she turned the radio down. Robert glanced up at her with a tentative smile.
‘What is it you’re doing there, anyway?’ she asked, determinedly putting a note of interest into her voice. The vegetables were all chopped now and she set them in their bowl of water to one side.
‘I’m working on a project. “Christmas in Other Lands.” Or, Mum? Do you think “Christmas in Foreign Lands” sounds better?’
‘Why on earth are you doing a project now? The holidays have barely started, you won’t be back at school for weeks.’
Weeks of bickering kids all day. And flies. And mosquitoes at night. Never being able to get cool, not for more than a moment.
‘It’s not for school. It’s for me.’ Robert’s head was bent over the page, colouring in a heading with meticulous care. ‘Or for you, if you’d like it.’
‘For me? What would I want with a project about Christmas? I’ve got Christmas coming out of my ears, Robert.’
His head sank lower, his nose now barely an inch from the page.
‘Christmas in Other Lands. Because you miss England, Mum.’ There was no reply. He looked sideways over at his mother, but she was just staring at the empty chopping board. ‘Don’t you, Mum? Miss Christmas in England?’
‘Oh, in some ways. There was never much of a Christmas to be had when I was little. During the war.’ She looked up, talking to him properly now. ‘And when I was your age, ten, the war had only been over for two years and the rationing made things even worse. It was pretty grim, really, that England. And it stayed grim for a long time. It was still grim when I left.’
‘But the snow was nice, wasn’t it? And singing carols in the snow, with the lanterns and everything. A white Christmas,’ the boy said swooningly.
‘Yes. The snow was nice.’ Rosemarie started opening cupboards and getting out tomato sauce and pickled onions and vinegar. ‘We’ll eat the fish and chips outside, shall we? On the patio.’ She got some plates out, and leant on the kitchen bench with her hands on either side of the stack, elbows locked, staring again. Her son watched her.
‘When I left it was grey and dirty and poor, it really was. And now it’s changed, and I’m not there. That’s what I miss: England now.’
‘But, Mum… if it’s changed…’ Robert hesitated, looking puzzled, trying to get this right. With a rush of conviction he went on, ‘I think you can only miss what you used to have and it’s gone, can’t you? Isn’t that what “missing” something means? Like, you know, “Oh, I used to have a really good pocketknife and now I’ve lost it. I really
miss
that pocketknife.” ’
‘No, Robert. Oh no. You can miss something you’ve never had, too. Something you could’ve had, and should’ve had, but then you find you haven’t got it after all.’
‘Rosie? Darl, look who I ran into at the fish and chip shop!’ Behind Alex, all smiles, were their neighbours from a few doors down, an
older couple. Well, Alex’s age. ‘John and Joyce Grounds!’ he cried unnecessarily. Their gangling son Tim, twenty-one now (they’d been to the party just a few weeks ago, a big marquee in the backyard), loomed in the rear. He and Alex and James were all carrying bulky newspaper-wrapped parcels.
‘Oh, how lovely!’ said Rosemarie. ‘I’ll just get some more plates. Let’s all go through to the patio, shall we?’
Alex’s face relaxed. ‘Good-oh!’ he cried. ‘And I’ll pour us all a refreshing ale, how about that?’
‘Deborah, make up a jug of cordial for you kids. Lots of —’
‘Ice blocks,’ Deborah cut in, already at the fridge. ‘I know.’
The sun was finally setting and Rosemarie had asked Robert to hose the patio, so now it was cool and wet underfoot.
Quite pleasant really
, she surprised herself by thinking.
In a sloppy Australian way
. The kids were excited by the unexpected company, and although Robert watched with a hawk’s eye as Deborah doled out their servings like a sergeant (‘No, Meredith! Just two potato cakes, and you have to eat your flake!’), he didn’t challenge her. No bickering, no complaints. The kids sat on the patio steps happily eating with their fingers in the gathering dusk, shy lanky Tim sitting with them, perched on the topmost step with his long legs stretching almost to the path. The evening suddenly had a party feel: the adults were happy and excited, too, loose and chatty round the outdoor table.
Joyce placed a confiding hand on Rosemarie’s forearm. ‘I’ve been so wanting to see you, dear, and tell you about the Christmas party at John’s work. I wore that new cocktail frock you made me.’
‘The pink one?’
‘The pink one,’ Joyce confirmed. ‘With the green bolero. Rosemarie, I will never again even
hesitate
over one of your suggestions! I don’t think I’ve ever had so many compliments on a frock in my life. Even more than for the mother-of-the-bride outfit you made me for Leonie’s wedding.’
‘Oh, Joyce, I am
so
pleased to hear that.’
‘I gave your telephone number to three different ladies, I hope that’s all right.’
‘It certainly is. Of course. You know how I love to sew.’
And how I love to tuck the money away in my own little bank account.
‘I don’t know how you do it. I mean, I can follow a pattern, but how you make these things up out of your own head, it’s just marvellous.’
‘Do you think so?’ said Rosemarie, smiling.
You think that’s marvellous? These little outfits? If I’d stayed in London I’d be working for Mary Quant right now. Or Biba. Or I’d have my own label! Even here, if I had just half the backing Prue Acton’s had…
‘She’s not just a pretty face, my little wifey,’ said Alex proudly, opening another bottle of beer and refilling their glasses. ‘Joyce, would you like some green beans for your dinner tomorrow? I’ll be picking some fresh in the morning.’
‘That’s so nice of you to offer, but actually we’re going to Leonie’s tomorrow.’
‘Oh! That’s something different!’
‘She’s so proud of the new house she and Dennis have built,’ said John. ‘She was keen as mustard to have Christmas dinner there and we thought, well, why not? Do something different!’
How very daring of you
, thought Rosemarie, all her discontent flaring up again.
‘What about your family, Alex? Got anyone coming?’
‘As a matter of fact we do. My brother Bob and his wife Joan are coming over.’
‘That’ll be nice.’
‘It will be nice,’ Alex agreed, nodding.
‘I’m thinking,’ said Rosemarie suddenly, ‘I’m thinking of getting some labels woven, to put in the garments I make.’
Joyce stared at her, puzzled. ‘Labels? With… what? To say what?’
‘The designer. You know. Me.’
‘You? Your name?’
‘Well,’ Rosemarie gave a little laugh, trying to sound casual. John Grounds was staring at her, too, now, though Alex, at the end of the table closest to the steps, had twisted sideways in his chair and was looking at the kids. ‘“Rosemarie McDonald” might be a bit long. I was thinking… something shorter…’ Actually she had been thinking that “Rose Red” would be charming, and memorable, but now she didn’t want to say that.
‘I just don’t think…’ said Joyce uncertainly.
‘Listen, pet,’ said John kindly, leaning toward Rosemarie, ‘you don’t want to look like you’re big-noting yourself. Not here. People won’t like it.’ His wife nodded emphatic confirmation. Rosemarie felt herself blush fiercely; from the collarbones up, her throat and face were on fire. She hoped desperately that in the deepening dusk no one would see.
‘Did you hear that?’ asked Alex, turning back to them. ‘The kids are trying to guess what we’ve got ’em for Christmas, but they really haven’t got a clue!’ He gave a happy chuckle. ‘God I love Christmas. It’s such a great time for the kids!’
‘And what have you got ’em?’ asked John.
Alex leaned in closer. ‘New bikes,’ he said softly. ‘For all of ’em!’
‘Oh, aren’t they lucky!’ said Joyce. She took a decent swig from her glass of beer and turned to her silent hostess. ‘What about your own family, Rosemarie?’ Her voice was over-bright, like an adult trying to cheer up a grumpy child. ‘Do you ever have anyone come over from England?’
There was a little pause before Rosemarie could make herself respond. ‘No. It’s so far to come, you know.’
‘Well, yes, it is. Of course.’
Suddenly she wanted to shove a sharp elbow into their cosiness, these nice middle-aged people, her husband, their friends. ‘And I didn’t exactly make myself popular, you know, running away with an older man.’
‘Oh.’
The table stilled, but it wasn’t enough.
‘I was only seventeen, after all. And pregnant. We said some very hard things to each other, my mum and dad and me.’
‘Oh.’
‘They’d trusted Alex, you see. He was working with my dad. On a bridge project. That’s how they met. How
we
met.’
It was almost completely dark now and the silence around the table was profound. Suddenly the outside light snapped on, and they all flinched at the glare. Deborah was standing by the back door, her hand still resting on the wall beside the switch. ‘It’s got too dark,’ she said loudly.
Did she hear?
Rosemarie wondered, but Deborah’s expression was giving nothing away. Defiantly Rosemarie glanced from face to face around the table but they were all looking in different directions, no one at her. Joyce reached out and started to gather plates. John made a little coughing noise, a let’s-all-get-on-together noise.
‘We…We’re thinking of going to my cousin’s holiday place down at Rosebud for a few days around New Year. Ah… Maybe you could bring the kids down one day?’
‘Oh, that’s a top-notch suggestion!’ cried Alex gratefully. ‘Kids! What do you think of this idea?’
The younger children came over and leaned against their father as he and John put to them the enticing prospect of a day at the beach. Deborah collected their messy, abandoned plates from the patio steps and said, as she passed her mother, ‘There’s a brick of neapolitan in the freezer, Mum. Shall I get it out for sweets?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ Rosemarie followed her daughter into the kitchen, a clutter of bottles in her arms. She felt almost ill with shame and defiance.
Why did I have to say that? What earthly good did it do?
‘You’re such a help to me, Deborah. Sometimes I think you could run this family on your own.’ She nudged her daughter’s shoulder gratefully, and the girl dipped her head in acknowledgement. They stood side by side for a moment looking through the window at the
scene on the patio, the three older people talking animatedly again, Meredith snuggled in her father’s lap stealing sips of his beer, James draped over his shoulders. Tim Grounds was slouched comfortably in a chair, Robert leaning forward attentively in the one beside him.