Hard Word (16 page)

‘Normal.'

‘She says you're normal?'

‘Yes.'

‘And you're going to see her again?'

‘She's very nice. And sharp. Philip, you do think I'm doing the right thing, don't you?'

‘Yes,' I say, ‘just keep moving your hips like that.'

‘I mean about Mother. You do think … ?'

‘Darling, we've been through this. She's your mother. It's your decision, and I'll support you whatever you do. Isn't that enough?'

‘I'd like to know what you really think.'

‘Sweetheart, I'm not going to get caught in that. What if I were to say that, on balance, given the stresses on her, on you, on the girls, I think she should be in a home, so long as we did it on a trial basis and we found she could stand it …'

‘So you do think –?'

‘Darling, listen to what I'm saying.
What if
I said that, and then three months from now, six, a year, two years, she dies …'

‘Two years? Could she last that long?'

‘And then you get a fit of the Elektras, and you believe you've done the wrong thing. Isn't it likely you'd also begin to blame me, and where would we be then?'

‘You're afraid I might blame you.'

‘I'm afraid about what might happen to us.'

Miriam lies, moving gently, unconsciously, under my hand, while she thinks about this. I know what she's thinking. She's thinking that all this isn't very courageous of me, that it's a bit wimpish. I know she's thinking this because I know Miriam, and also because it's what I'm thinking about myself. But I can't see my way out of this fix. And getting any closer to it all is too hard, too messy. I've got to leave it to her. When she speaks again, we're back where we were, before Mother intruded. Whether Miriam's decided something or not, I can't tell. But she's recaptured her playfulness. She rolls towards me and undoes the buckle on my belt.

‘And what about you?' she says. ‘What did you get up to in Melbourne?'

‘I can't hear anyone now,' I say, reaching for her. The noises of the house seem to have retreated. Even Laura's metal seems to have transmuted into velvet.

‘No, wait a minute,' Miriam says, rolling back from me. ‘I want to know. About Melbourne.'

‘I did meet this gorgeous floozy,' I say. ‘Unfortunately she was acting for the prosecution.'

‘Phil-ip,' Miriam says.

‘Come here,' I say and ease the blouse down over her white shoulders. Miriam's body is so beautiful.

‘Do you still love me?' she says, shrugging off her skirt.

‘This book,' I say. ‘I was reading it on the plane. The latest Updike.
Bech at Bay,
or something.'

‘You want to discuss books?' she says, shucking off her bra. She's naked now and, I see, already very aroused.

‘The character's describing a legal case he's just been in, and the lawyer woman who's been defending him –'

‘Are you sure there's nothing you want to tell me about Melbourne?'

‘They're in bed,' I say, ‘and he touches – like this – the tip of her breast and says it's like a sun-darkened apricot. And I sat in the plane and thought about that, and thought that's rather strange. It's not the way I would have … But now, like this, it does suddenly rather look –'

‘An apricot? Not grapes?'

‘Grapes?'

‘
This thy stature is like to a palm tree, and thy breasts to clusters of grapes …'

‘I know that, don't I?' I say.

‘You ought to. It's Solomon.
The Song of Songs.

‘The only bit I remember is:
Your breath sweet-scented as apples
…'

‘That's the Jerusalem,' she says. ‘Not the King James.'

‘Are you sure?' I ask her. I'm obsessive, I have to know about such things. Texts, evidence, authorities. Even now, at a moment like this, when my own stature – also like to a palm tree, even unto the nuts – makes walking awkward. There is a shelf of favourite books at the end of our bed.

‘Philip – not now,' Miriam says. ‘Not now, darling. Just believe me. It's
Old
Testament, remember?'

‘So?'

‘Here,' she says. She stretches her arms out in front of her, towards me. ‘Breast now, book later. Please?'

I enter her almost immediately, and am amazed at her heat and wetness.

‘Men are such fools,' she says, and laughs to herself. ‘Their dicks get in the way,' she says as though she's quoting again.

‘Is that what the counsellor told you?' I say.

‘Oh, not yours, darling,' she says, and her heels are hard and urgent all of a sudden against my buttocks. ‘Yours can go
all the way
.'

‘Like that?'

‘Just like that.'

At one point her hands reach out to cradle my hips.

‘You know it's crazy. Men are such fools,' she says again. Though what she says next seems to hit her with just as great a sense of shock as it does me. ‘But, oh Philip,' she gasps, ‘I do want a son.'

‘You, what?' I say. Amazed that she can still be thinking of this. Now, in the midst of everything else that's going on.

‘How can you explain that?' she says.

‘I can't. Not right now, anyway.'

‘Go on. Tr-yyyy,' she says. Arching her back ever so slowly.

‘Perversity?' Is the best I can manage. ‘The unfathomable female mind?' I say. As I plunge. Into hers.

‘Oh, Philip –' she says, her hips rising and then slapping quickly, flatly against mine. ‘Philip …. ?' she says again. Pleading. For a son? While the thought goes – indeed all thought goes – as I thrust back against her.

‘Miriam,' I say, as I enter the last, irresistible, unstoppable channel –

Beep-beep. Beep-beep.

‘Oh no,' Miriam says. ‘No.'

Beep-beep.

‘Ignore it,' she says. ‘Keep going. Don't stop now. Philip, don't stop –'

Beep-beep, Beep-beep.

I become aware of something odd, something wrong, something really strange, and then I realize … The alarm – the magic eye – it's not just sounding, it's actually keeping time with us. And I sense through the thick thermometer of flesh that is about to explode inside Miriam's suddenly cooling body, that she's become aware of this too.

Beep-beep, Beep-beep.

‘How does she know?' Miriam says. ‘How does she do it?'

Beep. Beep-be-b-beep
…

‘Oh, Christ,' I say.

‘What?'

‘She's changed the rhythm.'

‘Darling –' she says.

‘I've lost my stroke.'

Beep-be-beep-beepedy-beep.

‘Sweetheart?' I say. ‘Miriam?'

‘What?' she says, her voice falling.

‘Are you still there?'

Beep-beep, beepedy-beep-beep …?

Laura

You do something really simple, something people normally wouldn't even notice, like you do your hair in a different way, up instead of down or over your forehead in a fringe like Toni does hers now, so she looks like an orang-utan in a fernery, and everyone thinks you're someone else all of a sudden. Like you've had a total head transplant or something, or a personality by-pass. And they start calling you a
young woman
, or stuck up, or
maturrre
– And you start to wish you'd never done it in the first place, but it's too late to change it now because everyone will just think you've backed down.

And anyway I kind of like it, all the fuss it makes, and the notice and attention you get. It's crazy really, if you ever stopped to think about it. And I do sometimes – think about all this stuff, I mean – but I never seem to get anywhere because everything's so complicated and as soon as you start to think about one thing it turns into something else, and you realize everything is connected to every other thing, and you end up going in circles.

And blah.

Like this argument I was having with Mum about Philip (that's the other Philip, not Mum's Philip) only it turned out not to be an
argument
at all when I looked at my Communication book but a
Negotiation among intimates,
which is Mum and me.

It all started because Philip Davies – he's the school captain – was waiting outside our room when we came out from English this morning, and I already knew he was there because Toni had seen him through the window and kept sending me notes, but I couldn't look because I knew he was waiting for me, and I missed all the questions Miss Temple was giving us to think about for the next class. I couldn't write anything, but I wasn't going to let Toni see that so I just wrote scribble scribble, and now I'll have to ring her at home and tell her I've lost the page and can she read out the questions again.

When we came out of class, I was nearly the last to leave, trying to push out in a bunch of other girls, and Toni, of course, was right on my heels and hanging onto the sleeve of my blouse. I couldn't just walk past Philip, though. It would have been rude, especially when he was looking a bit red and embarrassed anyway, just standing there with all the girls sidling past and pushing out their boobs between him and the lockers and then looking back and going
OO-ooha
in that immature way. So I stopped and Toni nearly knocked me over, running straight into the back of me.

Though in fact it's Philip not Toni who actually says:

‘Laura – I was hoping to run into you …'

I make space, then, for Toni to go past but she doesn't move, of course. She just stands there with her head perched on my shoulder like she's a parrot and I'm Long John Silver or something. And poor Philip's going redder and redder, and it really shows because he's blond and has this very fair skin where I'm like an Aborigine, and I blush a lot too but it's harder to see it.

‘I … uh …' he says. ‘I was just … wondering …'

And I know he's going to ask me out and inside my head I'm going, What am I going to say? What am I going to say? and I'm not even listening to him, and all I hear is ‘. seen
Shakespeare in Love?'
and Toni does one of her stupid laughs and says:

‘Seen Shakespeare in love? We haven't even seen him with his pants off yet!'

And of course poor Philip goes even redder then, and I think this is really unfair, and I've never done this before, but I turn to her and say, ‘Toni, stop being so childish. Will you please go away, and let Philip and me talk?'

And her mouth falls open, and she doesn't even say
Well,, pardon me
or anything, but just leaves, looking back over her shoulder with her mouth open like she's been stung with one of those electric cattle prods. And I can still hear my own voice in my head, and I know where all that comes from – and I think how much I admire my Mum.

Which is where I got the idea to put my hair up in the first place, of course, because when we came back from Greece and we had to go and see Grandma Vera every weekend, Mum always put her hair up, like she was going into battle or something, and I always loved her the most then because she was upset and her eyes were blazing and the bones in her face really stood out, and I thought she was the most beautiful person I'd ever seen.

But now Toni's gone and this Philip, my Philip, starts to relax a bit, and I find, after thinking about Mum like that, I'm not nervous or anything after all, and I'm saying to him as cool as anything, as if I'm the one asking
him
out when I'm presuming – but I'm not absolutely sure – he's just asked
me.

‘So, would you like to go and see it?'

‘Yes,' he says. ‘Yes, on Friday, if that suits you, Laura.'

‘Friday,' I say slowly as if I'm thinking hard, but in fact my brain's starting to go blank again. He's got these very blue eyes and his hair's blond but it's got these fawn or tawny streaks in it, and they're natural, they're not dyed or anything, and I'm trying to think,
Friday, Friday,
but I'm actually wondering how his hair will change colour later – maybe the fawn streaks will go grey earlier or maybe the blond will and the fawn will be left and what will that look like then, and Friday's after Thursday I finally work out, and say, ‘Yes, that'd be fine, what time?'

And he says it starts at eight, so why didn't we meet at quarter to? But where? It's only down at the Mall and I could walk but I know Mum will insist that she meets him first, so I'm about to say why don't you come to my house and we can go from there, when I remember what happened at my party. So, we agree to meet at the Mall at quarter to, and I don't know how I'm going to explain this to Mum, and already I know I've done the wrong thing and there'll be an argument, but I can't help it.

‘Fine,' he says, ‘I'll meet you by the Post Office clock at quarter to. I'm really looking forward to it, Laura,' he says.

And he doesn't know how to finish our discourse, and almost goes to shake hands and I realize then he's as shy as I am – and I like that – and in the end he doesn't say anything but just hurries away past Toni who's still hanging about at the end of our row of lockers.

‘He asked you out,' she says when I get there. Only she says it like an accusation. Like someone's just committed a murder or something. ‘Didn't he?'

‘Yes,' I say. ‘He did.' And I open my locker and look into it and not at her, and I try and sound casual as anything. ‘We'll probably go and see
Shakespeare in Love
,' I say, as though we hadn't already arranged all the times and everything, and it was just one of the options we were still considering. And I don't really want to talk to her, I'd much rather be talking to Mum, because in a minute when Toni gets over her upset, she'll be asking, ‘And what about afterwards?', and I've been thinking about that too and I don't know, and that's just one reason I'd much rather be talking to Mum than Toni.

‘Of course you can go, ' Mum says. ‘I've heard it's fun. I only wish I'd seen it myself.'

‘Then you don't mind?'

‘Darling, I'm delighted for you. And I'll be very pleased to meet Philip, and I promise I won't embarrass you in front of him. I'm prejudiced in favour of all Philips, you know that.'

There's silence for a moment then. I don't know what to say. But with Mum you don't have to. She's very smart about silence. Sometimes with Mum, if you've got something to hide, it's better to keep talking because she hears silence even better than she hears words.

‘Why?' she says, when I haven't said anything back to her. ‘Is something wrong? Laura? Have I missed something?'

‘Well, we were thinking of meeting at the Mall.'

‘That's okay, darling. It's five minutes walk from here. You can go down there as soon as I've met Philip.' She doesn't say
if
I meet Philip, I notice, but
when
I meet Philip. Like
after
I've met him.

‘But why?' I say. ‘Why do you need to meet him?'

‘Because,' she says, ‘he's going out with my daughter who's just turned fifteen and is on her first –'

‘I've been out with boys before. Just because Grandma Vera wouldn't let
you
go out with a boy till you were eighteen …' I don't know why I say this last bit, but Mum ignores it anyway.

‘You've been out in groups,' she says. ‘This is your first solo date, and I want to meet the young man who's taking you.'

‘Young man
,' I say. With what I hope is the right emphasis. ‘Would you rather I called him a boy?' she says. And I realize I've made a mistake there. It's always like this talking with Mum. She must have been through all these arguments with kids before but I can't imagine with who, since I'm the eldest. I'm starting to feel really depressed after this, and I wish I'd never said I'd go. Everything gets so complicated. Even something as simple as going out to a film with a boy. Because, of course, by this afternoon, even before I get home to talk to Mum, Toni's already recovered and she's wanting to know all sorts of things – things that I knew she'd ask but I was hoping she wouldn't till tomorrow when I'd been able to listen to my music and think for a night – things like ‘Where will you go after?' And I just shrug, but she won't get the message and babbles. ‘He'll want to kiss you, will you let him?' And ‘Toni,' I say, ‘please,' but she won't stop. ‘Will you let him touch you?' And everything's getting so –

‘Look, Laura,' Mum says. ‘Come and sit here. Now, am I wrong … ?' she says, when we're sitting on the couch together and I'm trying not to pick at the edging because she'll say I'm sulking and not facing up to something or blah, and so I just focus on one of the roses in the carpet and keep looking at that. ‘Am I wrong,' she says, ‘or are you less thrilled than you ought to be that a nice boy, with a lovely name like Philip – who happens also to be the captain of your school – has asked you out to a film? Hmm?' she says, and she does what mothers always do, which is try and peer under your face or your fringe just when you're trying to memorize the shape of a rose in the carpet, and it's even worse when you don't have a fringe at all but you've got your hair pulled back in a bun or ponytail like she used to do herself, and your only defence is to shut your eyes completely.

‘It's just –' I say.

‘Just what? You're embarrassed about me?'

‘No –'

‘Philip? Katie? You don't want your friends to meet your oldies, your brat of a sister … ? Hmmm?'

She's trying to humour me, but I can see she's worried and is trying hard to figure it out. But I can't say anything, it just won't come out.

‘What, then?' she says. And she's doing all the talking, so it isn't really a discussion or an argument at all. Then, Ah –' she says. And she doesn't make it a question at all. ‘It's Grandma Vera, isn't it. You're worried that Grandma Vera will do something stupid and embarrass you.' And I'm just about to say, No, it's not that, that's unfair, when Mum says, ‘Or your Philip. You're worried it may be difficult for Philip, the first time he meets us, if Grandma Vera is there. He may not know how to respond. Is that it?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well, Laura dear, you know what I think about that?'

‘What?' I say, thinking I might get a lecture. About how we're all one family, you can't be ashamed of family. Other people just have to accept us as we are. But instead she says, ‘I think it does you credit.' And she kisses me on the forehead. And I can look at her then. I love my mother.

‘It's just –' I say.

‘I know,' she says. ‘I know.' And then she thinks, and says, ‘But I would still like to meet Philip. What about this,' she says, ‘as a compromise? You meet Philip at the Mall, you see the film, and then you walk back here – not
too
slowly – and you have coffee here at home. We won't pester you. Philip and I will just say hello, and Grandma Vera and Katie will be well in bed and out of the way by then. You can have a nice talk with Philip – your Philip – watch some TV if you like, and say goodbye to him from here. How would that suit?'

‘Yes, oh, yes. That'd be fine, Mum,' I say. ‘That'd be fine.' And I realize I'm saying it too fast, but it's such a relief because it solves everything, and for a moment or two after that we're just sitting there, looking at one another, with these pukey smiles frozen on our faces, until something else, something dark and cloudy, comes into her face, and I wonder suddenly if she's thinking what I'm thinking.

‘I wish,' I heard her say to Philip once, ‘Mother wouldn't bare her teeth at me like that. I know she's trying to smile, to show me she's pleased, but she's forgotten how to use her face. She's forgotten,' Mum said, ‘how to smile. Isn't that an awful thing?' And as usual Philip said something stupid like, ‘She's always smiled at me that way.' But Mum ignored him and went on, ‘Well, I think it's awful – that a human being would want to smile, and no longer know how.' I sometimes think when I hear things like this from Mum, that she's not just sad for Grandma Vera but she's anxious as well, and is thinking about herself, when she gets to Grandma Vera's age.

‘Yes, Mum, that's terrific,' I say to her now. ‘Thank you.'

I know it's hard for Mum. Having to juggle everyone … Listening to me, especially if I've had a bad day at school. Or sorting out Katie and Grandma Vera when they're arguing over cards or who's going to have Yogi each night because Grandma Vera always forgets she's had her last night and gets so upset, and Mum
wants
to give her Yogi but she doesn't think it's fair to Katie and she doesn't want Katie to grow up thinking the world's unjust, and so she just tells Grandma Vera she can't have it and then Grandma Vera chucks a wobbly and screams and things, and a lot of what she says isn't even words, until she forgets, and does something else. But that's all going on and, of course, when Philip comes home from work, Mum has to forget everything else and hear about his day and all that discourse, and he expects her to remember all the details like who his colleagues are, and all the cases he's working on, and you can see he gets irritable if he has to backtrack and explain things, and I'm just amazed at what Mum knows and can discuss like she's a lawyer too, and says things like, ‘But wouldn't they have to establish ill-will?' or something, or ‘I thought Tony Ryle was supposed to research the commercial implications of that?' and once or twice I've heard Philip say, in real surprise, ‘Yes, that's right, you know you're right,' and even go off to the phone and ring his office and come back looking all smarmy and pleased and pour them both a second gin where they normally only have one when Mum's cooking.