On Cringila Hill (9 page)

Chapter Ten

Sundays are never easy for May Winter. She's up before dawn to drive north to the nursing home outside the village of Waterfall to visit her senile father. She spends some hours after she arrives feeling anguished and confused, trying not to stare at the gaps in his yellow teeth, the eyes that stay fixed, unseeing, on some far-off point, the fingers that unclasp and clasp on the rolled top of his bed sheets.

May has been told that hearing is the last sense a person in her father's condition loses, so she talks to him. She tells him of the demands of her current workload in a school – mid-year is approaching and there are assessments to be collated, marks to be calculated, report comments to be written and already she's exhausted from the pressures of performing in the classroom. She tells him of the deterioration that continues in Gordon's spinal column, and of her husband's irrational decision to return to work. Hoping to be rewarded with a smile, or at least some flicker of a facial muscle, she describes to her father the elite success of his granddaughter in her studies at Sydney University. Never is there any sign of response. She talks until her jaw hurts. At times, she lifts up his drinking glass so that the straw that protrudes from it enters his mouth, and she watches his lips purse over the straw, sees him sucking up liquid and then push the implement away from his teeth with his tongue. She's ashamed of the relief she feels when it's time for her to return to her duties with Gordon. She kisses the dry skin of the old man's forehead and already has car keys in her hand when she reaches the reception desk on her way out of the facility.

Driving down the winding road, heading south beneath grey cliffs and above the rolling surface of the sea, she remembers the confident, loyal, funny man her father once had been. May weeps while driving, because she loves her father.

On her return home, May assists Gordon perform his toilet and put on a suit because it's his day for church. May feels obliged to drive him there, and it is a relief for her to sit for a time in a stone building in a patch of distorted colour that filters through stained glass windows – she listens to the elderly congregation stoutly sing the old songs of comfort. For that short time no demands are made of her. Afterwards, she stands in the sunlight on the churchyard's gravel driveway and listens as members of the flock talk to Gordon about the new minister. ‘He probably isn't too bad, but there's none of that sense of truth we got when your father stood before us up there!' If Gordon still feels any resentment she knows he'd once felt at being required to sit in the front pew while his father stood frowning in concentration before the altar, May can't see it.

In the car on the drive home May finds that she's deeply tired and feels apprehensive about the tasks that she must still complete during the day. Without having known it was her intention, she asks her husband, ‘Why do you do it?'

‘What? Go to church?'

‘Yes. I truly don't think that you believe in God. Are you still trying to please them?'

‘Who?'

‘Your father and your stepmother?'

They're held up awhile at a set of traffic lights. When there's a break May turns towards Thirroul.

‘They've been dead a long time, May.'

‘I
know that,' she says. ‘And you and your dad clearly didn't like each other by the time he died. And your stepmother was clearly never going to approve of you. She virtually commiserated with me when you told her we were going to be married. That doesn't seem to make any difference. You still seem to have an argument you're trying to win, about who you are. It's why you're back at work.'

The car takes the rise to pass over the Thirroul railway bridge.

‘I think my stepmother was afraid of the memory of my mother,' Gordon says. ‘She was jealous. I was never going to be as worthwhile as her own children.'

‘So,' says May, watching the road ahead. ‘Why do you go?'

He shrugs. ‘What's this? Day for deepest truths?'

‘I'm tired, Gordon. Things are grating on me. I feel like con­fronting some matters.'

‘I'd feel wrong if I didn't go,' he says. ‘Thanks for taking me. I know you're busy and I'm a burden. Don't think that I don't appreciate what you do.'

‘Just let your back heal,' she says. ‘Don't make it worse. That's the best you can do for me.'

‘Well. You'll get a break from me this afternoon.'

They're through the little township of Thirroul and beginning the winding pull up the hill to the north. May glances to her right to get a view of the sea.

‘What's happening this afternoon?' May asks.

‘David Lawrence is taking me up to see Mick Laecey. He knows more about Cringila Hill than anyone we've got these days.'

‘Michael Laecey!'
They're over the crest of the hill and on the sharp run down to Austinmer beach. ‘Call David and tell him not to come.'

‘May …'

‘If there's one person who can make me remember who I am it's Michael Laecey.'

‘May, you've got all that work. It's all the way up the Jamberoo Mountain Pass.'

‘Gordon, I'm stretched pretty thin. I'm going to take a break from everything for just one afternoon and be with Michael. I want to remember who I was when we were young and spent time with our old friends.'

They pass the shops of the little village of Austinmer, turn left. After a while Gordon says, ‘All right, May'.

Chapter Eleven

Masked by forest, out of sight of the roadway there's a clearing behind a double wire gate within a post-and-mesh fence. Low, dark-bricked, its walls filled by broad windows, the house sits at the end of a gravel drive beside a broad patch of lush grass lawn. Michael Laecey has planted shrubbery – rhododendrons, azaleas, acacias – against the wall of thick-trunked rainforest that borders his block. Inside the house, on the western side, there are a tiled sunroom and a carpeted lounge room, which share views across his garden.

Earlier he stood in the lounge room with his dog, Sergeant, watching him from the edge of the sunroom, the boundary where the dog is permitted in the house. Michael lowered the receiver at the end of the call, thought for a while and then said, ‘Well, Sergeant. We are to receive visitors, you and I. Gordon Winter and the wonderful May are to join us. I've cupcakes, do you see, which I bought yesterday for Gordon and David Lawrence to enjoy as afternoon tea. Now I'll need assemble a lunch.'

Sergeant is an ageing Fox Terrier who Michael rescued from a ‘death row dogs' refuge. The dog has lowered its head to one side, trotted outside when Michael collected the car keys, and dropped himself to the lawn to wait when his master backed his light four-wheel drive out onto the Jamberoo Mountain Pass, and set off for his shopping.

Michael's a tall man with a head disproportionately large even given the length of his body. He's found a parking space in the village of Jamberoo, experienced his normal difficulty in manoeuvring his way from behind the driver's seat, waved or smiled confidently to villagers he's encountered while walking to his shopping destination. In the the long, low weatherboard building of Frederick's General Store he has bought crusty bread, sharp cheese, sliced corned beef, onions. Having returned up the Pass to his home he checks that there's enough juices and mineral water chilled in his fridge, places onto a cut-glass stand the cupcakes he'd bought the day before from the patisserie he favours in Bowral and thrown over them a light drop-cloth. He's cut bread and assembled it on a wooden platter, placed tomatoes, onion and cheese on a board with a series of knives. Prepared, he's settled himself on a chair in his sunroom, facing his driveway with Sergeant sprawled beside his armchair, awaiting the arrival of his visitors.

When the Corolla rolls up to his gates he heads out into the garden with his dog, observes the difficulty with which Gordon manages the walk across gravel. This far up the escarpment there's been frost, and while most of it has melted now some patches still remain in shade on the lawn. The three walk towards each other through the damp mist that hangs above the cloudline. The air is sharp with chill. Michael holds his arms wide to May and she enters his embrace, her face almost reaching Michael's upper chest. Michael and Gordon clasp each other's hand.

‘It's wonderful to see you both,' Michael says. ‘Please. Come inside.'

Sergeant stops at the edge of his territory and sits quietly. Vivaldi is coming from the stereo, and the light notes bounce around the furniture. They sit, Michael with his back to the picture windows, which reveal the view of the garden and forest. ‘Well,' he says. ‘Here again!'

May looks about the room. ‘Michael,' she says, ‘you've changed the furniture.'

‘No. It's exactly as it was when you last came.'

‘Are you sure? Something's different.'

He smiles. ‘Is it?'

‘Well, I feel as though it is. Of course we've only been here the once.'

‘Yes, for the beautiful Julie's wake. I didn't explain it at the time but I wanted to delay her … farewell until I was ready to receive her here. Our party out on the lawn in the sunshine, music playing, people smiling and chatting, that was our
true
goodbye to her, not the funeral, which was just a ceremony we had to go through. And when you were all gone I scattered her ashes at the fringe of the forest, in a place that I can see from this room. I like to think of this home as being her place too.'

‘I didn't realise you'd done that,' May says, ‘about the ashes.'

‘Yes. It comforts me. And here I am, now, up in this small …
memorial to my daughter. And here I live, unchanging. And now, Gordon, you. A cane! So tell me this, what on earth are you doing at work on an investigation, in hilly old Cringila, of all places, with all of its stairways when clearly you are unwell? You have access to
sick
leave to help you with such a situation. Why aren't you at home, convalescing?'

May stares through the window at the garden.

‘Don't you start!' Gordon says.

‘If May has given you the same advice, then you should have listened. It's very
wise
advice. This is what you'll find: whatever it is you hope to achieve by working through your infirmity, in the end you'll find that, inevitably, it isn't going to be available.'

Gordon purses his lips, looks out through a window, doesn't reply.

‘And how are you finding Cringila?'

‘Fascinating. It's its own world, really, isn't it? Like nowhere else I've ever seen.'

Frowning, Michael crosses his knees, reaches down to readjust the hang of the creasing on one leg of his corduroy trousers.

‘Well, it's a
dangerous
place, actually, that's what I've found. A place that would be a threat to your soul, if you still believed in such a thing. You must confront matters, on Cringila Hill. Inevitably you'll learn certain things about yourself that you may have been better off not knowing. I love the place.' He nods. ‘I must go back and see how it's getting on. I could
live
there, actually, on Cringila Hill, or so I once believed. I thought about doing it before eventually I moved up here. Then I thought that it wasn't truly my place and never would be, that I'd be an intruder, and I couldn't have done there what I'd had in mind about creating a resting place for the remains of Julie's life. So I came up here.'

‘To live in isolation,' May says.

Michael turns his big head to look at her, smiles. ‘Exactly.'

‘Cringila?' Gordon says. ‘You surprise me. I'd have thought that Port Kembla had more life.'

‘Oh, I'm sure that it does. And I've known very fine people who've lived in Port Kembla and loved its cosmopolitan atmosphere, the restaurants and pubs, but it always has to me the sense of corruption. I believe that there's very little that money will not buy in Port Kembla. It is a port, after all. Sailors come in off the sea. They have their needs and packets of money. And in those circumstances, their needs will be catered for.'

‘Michael,' May says, suddenly, ‘I know what's different. It's not furniture, it's the pictures. When we came before you'd brought those pictures that you'd had in Narrandera, the painting of Jesus with his hands out, Mary holding her son's sacred heart. They were on the wall, just there. I remember because you've had them as long as I've known you.'

‘Yes,' he says. ‘They were Linda's. She had them from her mother. I brought them here when I came, and hung them out of habit.'

‘Ah,' May says, and nods.

‘And what is this, Gordon, about the cane?'

‘It's my back. It fails to improve. They're threatening me with a cortisone if it doesn't come good. Not a pleasant experience, I'm told. And then, if we do that and there remains a problem it's to be the knife. I'll wind up my involvement with the Hijazi matter and then I'll see to it.'

Michael and May look at each other, Michael shaking his head as if to say, What's to be done with him?

‘Anyway,' Michael says, ‘I'm sorry that I've been unsociable, not being in touch. It's been wrong of me. Self-indulgent. Perhaps I'm ready to emerge. I'm determined to improve.'

‘Oh, Michael,' May says. ‘After all you've been through, I wonder that you've coped at all.'

‘You've both been through it, with parents. It's different with a spouse. This will come to one of you. In the end one of you will have to go on alone. The child is the worst. Losing a child is the worst thing.'

They sit awhile, all silent. Then, ‘As for Julie, at first you try to delude yourself,' Michael says. ‘No, they're wrong, it can't be. Then you say, well, they have these treatments now, she'll pull through. Then you think, this is unendurable. Then, guess what? You endure it. You think, “I can't face going again, to see her suffering,” and then you think, “Oh, God, I may be late!” and you just do what needs doing. Then it's over, and, of course, you're not the same person that you were before. But you're still a person, and you go on. In the end, life is something that we've got no choice but to do.'

May says, ‘And she herself was so brave.'

‘Well, again – there comes a point where there's no other option but bravery, bravery and as much dignity as everyone can muster. If there'd been anything to be gained by panic and denial we'd have done that. In the end all there is to do is accept, and behave as well as you can.'

He turns his head, then, and they see his expression change. ‘Look!' he says. ‘Look out there!'

A plump, olive green bird is hopping from the forest's edge.

‘That's a female satin bower bird,' Michael tells them. ‘They come into the garden from time to time. Somewhat rare. Sometimes we even see the male, who's a deep purple fellow. He's
very
unusual. It seems that there's one male to a number of females. Oh, we have riches of bird life. Rosellas, lorikeets, finches, sometimes the great yellow-cheeked black cockatoos. There!' He points again. ‘That's the male fairy wren. Can you see him?'

They look, nod, yes he's a lovely little bird.

‘Anyway, you'll be starving. I've some lunch prepared. Come into the dining room and we'll eat.'

He watches Gordon struggle to his feet. ‘Gordon, if you don't get that back seen to, you're crazy. Tomorrow, I mean, not some time soon,
tomorrow
.'

The dog, sensing the fact of his impending further exclusion from the group, lies down at the limit of the territory he's allowed, gives a small snuffle, settles his lower jaws along his forelegs.

At the table they are not sombre for long. They carve bread and cheese, pour themselves sparkling water and juice, talk about the Narrandera days, the barbecues out of town at the weir, the winter balls in the Murrumbidgee Club, how cold it would be when they emerged into the starry night. Gordon says, ‘And you backed the winner of the Narrandera Cup, and shouted us all dinner at the Ex-Servicemen's Club afterward. Sixteen to one. How on earth did you choose it?'

‘I didn't. It found me. Here you are, a story never yet revealed – I was in the ring, thinking, “What shall I back?” I felt I had to do
something
, support a runner, have an entry, so to speak, in the event, and I saw this narrow-eyed fellow who'd been watching events, and he sidled up to a bookie and said, “One hundred on Golden Harvest.” A hundred dollars on a horse at Narrandera! The bookie went white. And before he had time to twiddle his board I turned to the fellow two stands up and snatched out my wallet and said, “Twenty dollars on Golden Harvest,” and by then they were all reaching for their boards but I was on. Sixteen to one. Three hundred and forty dollars!'

‘Three hundred and twenty,' Gordon says.

‘I'm sorry?'

‘Sixteen times twenty is three hundred and twenty, not three hundred and forty.'

May's eyebrows lift, she shakes her head. Michael smiles pleasantly. ‘I was including the twenty-dollar stake, which, of course, was returned to me. Most I ever won on a gamble. And then, as you say, it was off to the club for dinner with the winnings!'

Michael says when they've finished eating, ‘So, Gordon, you have some business you'd like to discuss?'

‘I'll leave the room,' May says. ‘I'll go out and examine your garden.'

‘
What are you saying?'

‘This is “official police business”, Gordon tells me. I'm to be absent.'

‘Don't be absurd.'

Gordon blushes. ‘I learned this from you a long time ago. Work and socialising don't mix. You don't mention work in a social context.'

‘If I said that, I'm sure I didn't mean May and us two all this time after I've retired!'

May says, ‘It's nothing, Michael. I'll wait outside.'

‘You'll do no such thing. If someone has to depart,
we
shall. Come on, Gordon. Get yourself up … if you can. We two are out into the garden.' At the dining room entrance he turns to May, smiling, wags a long finger at her. ‘Now you just wait there, Little Lady,' he says. ‘Don't you worry your pretty little head about this.'

May laughs, claps her hands.

At the approach of the two men the old dog raises his head. Michael leads the way across the damp grass to a bench near the property perimeter. Sergeant trots over. Michael gestures Gordon ahead of himself. Gordon frowns at the mist-stained grey wood, with difficulty settles himself.

The cloud has lifted and they can see the grey ceiling of the sky. They hear rustles in the nearby forest, hear the plop as beads of water from the tips of gum leaves drop and shatter among fallen foliage.

‘You've been working on the death of Abdul,' Michael says.

‘I have.'

‘I met him. I had something to do with the original case, that terrible thing that was done to Luz Solomona. It was always the question, what to charge him with. Not sufficient care was taken during the investigation, and so a mistrial was declared. I always feared that would be the outcome. There was a general belief that obviously something bad had happened, bad and serious. That fact was thought to be self-evident, and enough to win the case. I had feared that poor Luz would have to go through it all again. Oh, dear, she'd been so brave. And now, of course, Abdul's dead. A tragedy all around. No winners.'