Authors: Fiona Kidman
All the same, she makes an effort, as she always will. We all play croquet in the late afternoon, and Fay makes a warm smoked chicken and melon salad.
‘You will finish work soon, won’t you, dear?’ Fay says, putting a cushion behind my back
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Can’t wait, only another month.’
We don’t talk about Christmas at all, for which I am grateful. I want to be forgiven, as if I am responsible. I am polite and
compliant
and think that I am lucky to be loved by them.
Paul pats my hand absent-mindedly.
A
S SOON AS
he opens his eyes, Glass knows something will happen today. In the half-light of dawn filtering between the heavy curtains that divide the bedroom from the verandah doors and the garden beyond, Glass Nichols sees his wife’s face smoothed over with sleep, her mouth slightly open. She sleeps with a great stillness that he has always found restful, in spite of the cloud of gin and fertiliser which clings to her even in bed. Outside, birds are beginning to sing. He listens to his heartbeat, the sound of his mortality.
He wants to shake Edith awake. It is not sex he wants but something else, darker and more primitive, a knowledge of who she is. He wants to hold her and examine her feature by feature — the cool grey eyes, the long spine and the broadening hips, the small moles on her back, the crook of her arms where the flesh is softening, the whorls of pubic hair, the shape of her feet and ankles, the way the second toe is longer than all the rest. Form and shape are what interest him at the moment. When his children were born he had not considered their composition like this, but now it is as if his very life depends upon it, to know how these constellations of the body might merge and blend. He is thinking, what will my grandchild look like? An angry wafer-thin boy like Michael, or a solid meaty boy like Bernard? Or a delicate scrap of flesh like his daughter?
He tries his daughter’s name aloud. ‘Roberta,’ he says, seeing her pale face and swelling body.
‘What?’ mutters Edith.
‘I think the baby will come today.’
‘It’d better not,’ says Edith, sitting bolt upright. ‘It’s not due for a month.’ It’s as if she has spoken in a dream, and she lies straight down again and goes back to sleep.
Very quietly, so as not to disturb her, he slips out of bed and pulls on his clothes. He walks through the house, his house, that he has known since he was a boy, enjoying the quiet rooms. He stands in the doorway of the room, recently vacated by Wendy, which has been prepared for the baby when it comes to visit. He can see it, him, he corrects himself, because he, too, is certain of the
sex, tucked up in the bassinet; later the boy will wake before them, demanding to be taken out on the farm by Glass. He smiles to
himself
.
In his head he starts to compose a letter.
My
darling
Roberta,
he begins. And stops, embarrassed. This is like a love letter, not what he means at all. But he goes on with it anyway, in his imaginary handwriting.
I
want
to
tell
you
about
the
time
you
were
born.
It
was
the
craziest
time
of
my
life.
Your
mother
and
I
were
people
cast
adrift
from
responsibility.
We
didn’t
live
on
the
farm
then.
Not
our
farm,
anyway,
just
places
we
sharemilked
on
up
north.
Sure,
we
milked
cows
and
were
tired
day
after
day,
and
the
boys
were
growing
up
and
we
were
responsible
to
the
man
who
owned
the
farm,
several
of
them
as
it
happened,
but
the
fact
is,
that
for
a
long
time,
nobody
noticed
us.
By
that,
I
mean
me.
If
I
did
well
or
badly,
it
meant
nothing
more
than
‘those
Nichols
down
Ten
Foot
Road
aren’t
up
to
much’.
If
we
didn’t
like
the
farm,
we
could
move
on
the
1st
of
June
to
another
one,
like
sharemilkers
do
all
over
the
place.
My
father
never
got
in
touch
with
us
and
I
believed
he
had
written
me
off
for
ever.
I
learned
to
play
the
fiddle
and
the
washboard
and
sing
blue
grass
country.
We
used
to
stay
up
all
night
till
it
was
time
to
milk
at
dawn.
We
had
a
great
time,
though.
Your
mother
was
a
different
girl.
Woman,
is
that
what
I’m
supposed
to
say
to
young
people?
All
right,
she
was
a
different
woman.
And
beggar
me,
July
16,
1969,
if
we
didn’t
get
you,
the
same
day
the
first
man
stepped
on
the
moon.
I
looked
out
of
the
hospital
window,
and
up
at
the
moon.
The
television
was
on
in
the
day
room,
and
every
one
who
could
get
to
it
was
there,
although
your
mother
was
lying
still
and
tired
in
her
bed.
Can
I
take
her?
I
said
to
the
nurses,
which
wasn’t
done
in
those
days,
to
carry
the
baby
around
after
it
was
born,
but
because
they
were
excited
they
didn’t
notice
that
I
held
you,
wrapped
in
your
shawl.
I
walked
down
the
corridor
and
saw
another
re-run
of Aldrin
and
Armstrong
planting
their
flag
on
the
ghostly
blue
moon,
as
they
had
done
earlier
that
day,
and
I
said
out
loud,
‘Yeah,
fellas,
good
on
you
mates’,
but
I
don’t
need
to
travel
through
space
to
find
the
moon
and
stars,
I’ve
got
her ri
ght
here
in
my
arms.
I
couldn’t
believe
you
were
real.
Now
you
wouldn’t
believe
this,
because
all
you
Nichols
kids
are
said
to
take
after
your
mother,
but
I
reckon
you
were
the
first
one
to
look
like
my
side
of
the
family.
I
thought
you
were
so
pretty.
I
saw
a
look
of
my
own
mother,
which
is
not
in
the
others.
This
one’s
mine,
I
said
to
myself.
I
went
back
to
the
ward.
I
want
to
call
her
Roberta,
I
told
your
mother.
She
looked
up
through
a
haze
of
pethidine.
‘She’s
meant
to
be
Teresa
,’
she
said.
I
said,
‘You
didn’t
know
my
mother,
it
wasn’t
her
fault
what
happened
to
us’,
because
I
knew
there
was
old
history
on
her
mind.
‘Well,
it’s
not
a
bad
name
,’
your
mother
agreed,
‘quite
strong
.
’
And
we
left
it
at
that.
And
now
you’re
having
a
baby
of
your
own,
and
I
don’t
know
how
to
tell
you
how
happy
I
am,
and
how
much
this
will
change
things
all
over
again.
Glass stops himself, embarrassed, and mentally consigns this unwritten letter to the dust bin.
J
OSH
T
HWAITE’S RETURN
has appeared on my desk yet again. I cannot believe this. The system has collapsed. If there is one. Nobody really knows what the system is. We are just components of an organisation which is the sum of its parts, one department existing in a vacuum from the rest. The letter is unopened. ‘Return to Sender’ is scrawled across its face, in a tight, uneven hand. Josh’s hand, or the woman called Leda? A wave of panic breaks over me on account of this stranger. Inside me, I feel the baby stirring, anchoring his foot under my rib cage as he shoves his head into the birth canal. All I want is to take a pee; Josh Thwaite, the spray painter, can fall off my computer into some never-never land, where responsibilities like tax and children are beyond reach, I tell myself. I have only three more days in this job and then none of it matters any more.
But there is something merciful and generous stirring in me, which I am fighting to resist. I have never tried to hide things in my work. Yet Josh’s incorrect filing of his return seems like a coded message. What is it he said to me? Have I lost my nerve? How would he know?
A queue blocks the entrance to the toilet and I am too tired to stand. I come back into the office and sit down, trying to avoid Marise’s eye.
‘Are you all right?’ she asks.
‘Yes, why shouldn’t I be?’ I don’t mean to sound so snappy — I know she is concerned about me — but I wonder if she has been watching me. Has she guessed that my work has become erratic? I wait until she is looking the other way, or at least I think she is, and slide Josh Thwaite’s return into my handbag.
A few minutes later, when I have made it to the toilet, I begin to cry. My pants smell like old meat.
Back at my desk, I tell Marise that I can’t stay at work. ‘I’m feeling dizzy,’ I say, ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to go home for the day.’
P
RUDENCE
D
AVIES
SITS
in a street-side café on Lambton Quay. Once she would have pretended to read while she was waiting for a man. But Prudence has learned at assertiveness courses that this is
childlike
and immature, as is not travelling alone, or calling room
service
when you could go to a restaurant. You read if you want to read, and if you just want to wait for a man well, then you sit and gaze at the world in a cool, level kind of way, as if you have all the time in the world.
And Prudence
is
waiting for a man. ‘I’ll be out for a couple of hours,’ she tells Florence, her secretary. Florence arches her eyebrows.
‘Long lunch with Paul?’ Florence is twice Prudence’s age, with children of her own, and she has been a secretary for years. She can say what she likes and get away with it.
‘I’m hoping he’ll have come up with an answer to my
problem
today.’
‘Your problem, dear,’ says Florence, ‘is that you want to get laid by Paul. On a regular basis, that is.’
‘Our problem here is that we’re short-staffed. Will you have that report done by the time I get back?’ snaps Prudence. She has a pert face and small, even teeth and wears tinted, thin-rimmed
spectacles
for reading, but her reputation doesn’t always run to a sense of humour.