Yearning (29 page)

At the highway he hesitated. It was just after five am.
A few stray rays of sunlight lanced the cracks between clouds drifting in the east. Arrows on the sign pointed left to the city and right to the desert country of the north. He was empty and the car tank was full. The engine idled as he flicked the indicator back and forth, undecided. Tic-tac-tic-tac-tic-tac. Finally he pulled left, pressing the ute to a roar as his tail lights vanished like animal eyes in the early morning mist.

In the early hours of the morning the fever broke and sleep finally took her. When she woke it was after eleven. Sun pierced the gaps between the curtains. She squinted, a sharp pain jabbing behind her eyes from the glare. The events of the night before came flooding back and she felt herself sink under their weight. If Max had come back she hadn’t heard him. Through the fog in her head she heard the front door click. Dread rose in her as she anticipated Max’s heaving resentment. Instead, hesitant footsteps trod up the hallway.

‘Who is it?’

‘It’s me.’ Her mother’s voice was uneasy.

She was both irritated and relieved by her mother’s arrival. ‘Is Josh with you?’ She wanted the comfort of her little boy.

‘No. Max said you were very sick. I thought it best to leave Josh with your father.’

Jude came in, her face disapproving as she took in the sweaty bundle of her daughter and the broken mobile phone on the covers.

She waved at her mother weakly.

‘You look terrible,’ Jude observed.

‘I feel terrible.’

‘Have you taken anything?’

Memories of Solomon’s kindness brought a lump to her throat. She wondered where he was. Had Max found him?

‘Not since last night.’ She coughed and noticed her mother wince. Jude had always been uncomfortable around sick people. Whenever she’d been sick as a child her mother had kept a safe distance. ‘I don’t want to catch your germs,’ she’d say, as if they could be thrown at her, like a netball.

‘I’ll get you a cup of tea. Do you have any paracetamol?’

She pointed towards the bathroom and blew her nose again.

She listened to her mother making her way down the hallway, kicking Josh’s shoes and toys out of the way. She thought about the disarray of the kitchen. Her mother would be staring at it with disgust. There were dishes piled in and around the sink, and she was sure the two empty cans of baked beans from dinner the night before were still on the bench. She hadn’t taken the rubbish out and the bin was overflowing. She’d been too sick yesterday to think about cleaning up. She heard her mother sigh and the tap running in the sink. A clatter of saucepans. Cupboards opening and closing.

‘You don’t have any dishwashing liquid.’

Her mum sounded impatient. If she was here to help then she wished she’d just help. She couldn’t be bothered with her complaints. Not today.

‘Just leave it, Mum. I’ll clean it up later.’

‘Darling, living like this will make you sick. For heaven’s sake, I can’t bring Josh back to the house when it’s like this.’

She set her teeth, biting back an argument. Nothing was ever good enough for her. Whenever she came over it was pick, pick, pick. Why couldn’t she just arrive with some hot soup and her son, do something to make her feel better instead of worse?

‘I’ll just have to wash the dishes in soap I suppose.’

‘Whatever,’ she murmured, knowing her mother wouldn’t hear. She knew how much her mother hated that word. There was no point giving her a reason to start, she’d had enough of fighting in the past twenty-four hours.

The pipes groaned as her mother turned the tap off. She heard her give a yelp.

The rubber gloves. They had a massive hole in them. She’d been meaning to buy a new pair. And their old hot water service almost boiled the water. She felt guilty. She’d probably burned herself. The kettle began to sing. She could hear her mother muttering to herself as a tea spoon clinked against the side of a mug.

A few minutes later Jude returned carrying a tray with two mugs and a pot, one hand reddened by the ordeal in the sink. She kicked aside the clothes on the floor and set the tray down on the bedside table, disturbing the thin layer of dust covering the surface. She watched as her mother poured the tea, wishing she’d remembered to dust. Jude handed her a steaming cup and headed to the bathroom. She returned, tinkling two pills onto a saucer and handing her a glass of water. An awkward silence fell between them. She sipped her tea, grateful for the
hot liquid soothing her dry tongue. Jude was the first to speak.

‘Max called this morning.’

‘Yes?’ She closed her eyes. Her nose was so blocked. If she could only breathe she might not feel so panicked.

‘He’s gone back to the city. For work, he said.’

She shifted under the bedcovers and kept quiet. This was a surprise. Maybe he’d done something terrible to Solomon. Maybe he was on the run. God, what the hell had he done? She wished it wasn’t her mother delivering this news. She was desperate to know if Solomon was all right, but she couldn’t ask Jude. Not without giving herself away. She drank her tea and let the questions burn inside her.

‘It’s all very sudden,’ her mother ventured.

‘Is it?’

‘He was very anxious when he came over last night. What’s going on?’

‘Mum, I don’t want to talk about this now. I’m sick.’ She tried a stony gaze, but thought she probably just looked desperate.

She hoped her mother would give in, for the sake of peace. A melancholy void hung between them. She felt defensive and could see her mother was getting anxious as she fiddled with the teaspoon. Bugger her. It was none of her business. And it wasn’t like she could offer her any help anyway. Her mother had always been happy to keep secrets; so was she.

‘I’m worried about you. Something bad has happened, hasn’t it?’

‘I don’t know, Mum.’

‘What did you do?’

She sat up, furious. ‘What did I do? Fuck, Mum, why does it have to be me? Can’t you stand up for me for once?’

Her mother recoiled. ‘I’m not blaming you. I don’t know what’s going on.’

‘Sure you are,’ she insisted. ‘You think the sun shines out of Max’s arse. You’ve got no idea what I’ve had to put up with from him.’

Her mother was silent. She always got it wrong. No matter how she tried, there was always that little bit of judgement tacked on at the end of everything she said. Jude always sided with the men in the family. Always sided with her dad, and now Max. It was pathetic.

‘Is it Max then?’

‘Yes. And no.’ She knew she was doing a rotten job of hiding her guilt. She felt Jude’s gaze upon her as she gripped her mug between her hands.

‘I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.’

‘You can’t help anyway, Mum.’

‘Is he drinking too much again?’

She thought about the question. It would be so easy to lie, to make Max wrong, but it wouldn’t be fair. Max had barely touched alcohol since moving here. He’d been a prize shit up till now, but he’d reclaimed the man she’d married – the gentle man she’d married. And he’d stuck to his word. She couldn’t fault him now. He’d hadn’t badgered or bothered her, he’d helped with Josh, had been stoic and supportive. She felt sick in the stomach. What had she been doing with Solomon? Was it escape? Or punishment? Or worse? Was she as bad as Max, the way she’d treated him? It struck her how angry she must be
with Max, and how disappointed she was in Solomon. She looked up at her mother waiting for an answer.

‘No.’

‘Then what is it?’

‘Mum . . . ’

‘I might be able to help.’

‘I doubt it.’

‘You seem to forget that I’m married, too. Have been for a long time. I’ve learned a thing or two.’

She snorted cynically. That was laughable. The only thing her mother had learned from being married to her father was submission. ‘Yeah, Mum? Like what? How to give in?’

Jude fiddled with the wedding ring on her finger. ‘I know what it takes to make a marriage work.’ She hesitated. ‘I know the difference between love – and other things.’

There was an unfamiliar softness in her mother’s voice. It made her wary. And curious. Jude’s face was open, almost shy. This was something new. Something she hadn’t seen before. She wasn’t sure if she could trust it. A chink of light shone across the bed between them. She felt the heat of it warming the bed.

‘Other things? What do you mean?’

Jude paused again before she answered. She looked like she was weighing words in her mind, checking them for sincerity before she spoke. ‘I know you think less of me for putting up with your father’s moods. God knows he’s not an easy man to live with. But I do love him. I always have. He might be bad-tempered but he’s as reliable as the day is long.’

Was this some kind of confession? Was this about the letters she’d seen in her mother’s desk drawer? She wasn’t sure. They hadn’t mentioned it since that night. It was too awkward a conversation to have. She wasn’t used to this kind of intimacy with her mother. She couldn’t look at her. She picked at the balls of fluff on the old blanket instead. Jude continued, her voice trembling.

‘I know what it is to have love, and I know what it is to lose it.’

She lay motionless, listening intently to what sounded like honesty.

‘I also know that not everything is about happy ever after. Sometimes we have to choose what’s best over what we think we want.’

She didn’t know what to say. Her mother sat stiffly on the edge of the bed staring out of the window. She looked as though she was fighting back tears. Silence stretched out between them. She was wondering if that was all her mother was going to say when Jude turned and looked her in the eyes.

‘It’s Solomon Andrews isn’t it?’

Truth broke the surface gasping for air. She felt blood rushing to her cheeks and sweat filming her armpits. She stared at the ceiling, praying for her mother to stop talking. They’d agreed to be silent about it for the last twenty five years. Let’s keep it that way, she thought. I can’t talk to her about this.

She felt her mother’s hand on her knee.

‘I knew it all those years ago, watching you lie there in your bed with your back to me. You were so young and I could see how in love with him you were. I was afraid for
you. I hoped by sending you away you’d get over him. I should have known better. I bet there’s barely a day gone by that you haven’t thought about him.’

Tears stung her eyes. Finally looking at her mother, she shook her head. Her mother patted her knee.

‘I’m sorry, darling. I should have talked to you about it then. I didn’t know what to do. Mr Andrews was dangerous. He wasn’t the sort of man a teenage girl should get mixed up with.’

‘He’s the most perfect man I’ve ever met.’

Her mother smiled at her. This time it wasn’t patronising. It was more knowing. ‘Yes. I can see how you would think he is. But he was always going to leave you. He’s not the sort of man who stays.’

She hated to admit it, but her mother was right. She’d seen Solomon’s true colours last night. When he arrived on her front doorstep she’d hoped foolishly that he’d finally come for her. What an idiot she’d been. He’d taken off faster than prey dodging a predator. All the hope she’d invested in him. What a waste.

‘I know, because I fell in love with someone a lot like him a long time ago.’

She forced herself not to gape. She could barely believe what she was hearing. Her mother had never been this honest with her. Jude stared into her empty mug. Aware of her mother’s sudden vulnerability she tried to be gentle.

‘What happened?’

Jude sighed wistfully. ‘I was young. About seventeen. He was much older than me, very charming and adventurous. He wanted to travel. I was planning on running
away with him when I caught him with another woman. It turned out there were several of them. It was very difficult, broke my heart. Your father was a good friend to me at the time. He protected me, took care of me. In the end he asked me to marry him. I said yes.’

Jude picked thoughtfully at the blankets, musing. She watched her mother’s face. She was still beautiful, even in her sixties. She hadn’t let herself go frumpy like so many country women did. She was proud, elegant, the kind of woman who holds her age with dignity.

Jude looked up and cleared her throat. ‘You probably don’t want to hear this from me, but it’s the man who stands by you who’s worth giving your life to. Men like Solomon Andrews will always hurt you.’

With that her mother stood up, placed the empty mugs on the tray and returned silently to the kitchen. She could hear her clattering as she tidied up and felt a wave of gratitude. For all her faults, at least she was here. She was with her and trying to help, which was more than she could say for Solomon. Perhaps she’d been too hard on her. There must have been plenty of times with her father when she’d wished she’d chosen otherwise. Her mum had made some tough choices and learned to live with them. It was kind of admirable.

‘Mum?’ she called. The warmth of the sun, the change in her mother, made her brave enough to give voice to the question she’d often longed to ask. Jude reappeared in the doorway, wiping her hands with a tea towel and looking uncertain.

‘Why did you choose Dad?’

Jude hesitated, looking down at her worn wedding ring, and smiled. ‘Because I trusted him with my future.’

The two women gazed at each other. She smiled at her mum. Jude nodded at her, then turned back to resume her work in the kitchen.

Thou hast ravished my heart, my sister, my spouse; thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes, with one chain of thy neck.

The Song of Solomon

The view from the window was blue upon blue, the horizon and sea melting together, waves punctuating the restless surface with white full stops and apostrophes. Solomon had been staring at it, vacantly, for a long while. Longer than he’d intended.

He turned his attention back to his laptop and the manuscript he was working on. He was diving deep into his past, plumbing it for the story within, a gospel of spiritual and carnal pleasures:
The Bible of Love
, he called it. A man’s instruction to men on what women want and need in bed. How to please, how to gain pleasure, and the importance of respect and generosity. Yet as he wrote, he faltered. He’d expected the escape into his sensuous past to be renewing, but he was beginning to see that this was a story he’d lived only in parts. In beginnings and endings.
These came to him easily, naturally, but he couldn’t hold them together because his stories were all missing a middle. It was this that he couldn’t quite fathom.