Down in the City (19 page)

‘Look, will you just
go
!…All right, if you won't, I will,' she said, and went to the wardrobe for her hat.

Stan saw that she meant it and he jumped to his feet to block the doorway. ‘Don't be a silly goat,' he said roughly. ‘You haven't given a man a chance to say anything.'

‘Huh!' she laughed ironically. ‘I suppose I've given a man a chance to think of something by now…Okay. I'm listening.' She let her straw hat fall to the floor and sat down.

He spoke and moved towards her at the same time. ‘I've had a hell of a lot of trouble over a big deal all this time, Vi. I've been in a pretty bad spot or I'd have been round same as usual. You know that.'

‘Oh, sure. I know I can count on you.' But while she doubted, and raised scornful eyebrows, she experienced a jolt of alarm. Any trouble could be really bad for Stan—and his luck had been too consistent.

He sat down beside her. ‘Everything's settled now,' he said, ‘but it was sticky while it lasted. Afterwards I just felt like a binge.'

Concern overcoming scepticism, Vi said, ‘You ought to be careful. A fellow called Jeffries has been going on about you down at the pub. I've had to get Joe to shut him up a few times.'

Her blue eyes searched the expressionless black pupils and brown iris as long as Stan would allow—for seconds only—before he flickered the short brown lashes restlessly and turned his head.

Was he lying? Wasn't he? She could detect no sign of change in the smooth-shaven texture of his skin, in the doubtful lines of his mouth. And yet some inner nerve told her that he had seen a crisis, that in the other life of his, an event had happened—something she would not discover.

Stan put his hand under her chin and kissed her on the mouth, slowly, deliberately. Her airless lungs, her weary, listless heart sent arms and weight to resist him. She tried to push him away, feeling cold and lifeless, unwilling to be roused. But Stan held her firmly until he felt her weaken, relax, and respond at last with the unhappy passion of desperation.

Later, she said slowly, ‘You didn't get very far with your excuses.'

‘Are you complaining?' Stan asked, putting down her hairbrush and looking at himself in the mirror.

She held out a hand. ‘Come to the kitchen. We'll make some coffee.'

Stan grinned. Arms round each other they angled through the doorway and joggled with uneven steps down the short passage to the red-and-white kitchen.

Soon the coffee was percolated and poured, and Stan, dunking a doughnut, watched with interest as part of the fat, golden circle turned dark and the sugar coating melted. He dived at it and caught the soggy bit before it fell.

He waved the remaining portion at Vi approvingly. ‘Damned good—I'm hungry.'

She took a bit of hers and said, ‘Don't they feed you, honey?' undoing in a second months of caution—months during which she never asked ‘why' or ‘when', during which she was his accomplice in an act of deception meant to deceive only herself.

‘That's enough of that!' Stan rapped at her, casting down the uneaten doughnut, chewing his last mouthful as if it had suddenly turned to sand.

‘All right, all right,' Vi said, trying to look indifferent to his rebuke until the shock left her. She drank her coffee, and they sat in heavy silence until she had finished.

‘Let's forget it?'

Stan gave her a cigarette. ‘Well! What now?'

She glanced at the clock. ‘Hell! We'd better clear out of here in a minute or there'll be someone at the door looking for me. I was going out with a friend. And I said a friend, Stan.'

‘I heard you. Why'd you have to say it twice?'

‘Funny!'

‘Too bad about your friend. Where'll we go? Got any ideas?'

‘Have you got the car? Can we drive out of town somewhere?'

‘It's what we always do, isn't it? We'll go up Gosford way.'

‘Where they grow the oranges? Will they be on the trees now?'

‘God knows. We'll see soon enough when we get there.'

‘It's a great day, Stany,' Vi said, encouragingly.

‘Is it?' He squinted out of the window, looking consciously at the sky for the first time for weeks. ‘Yeah, not bad,' he complimented her as if she had made it. He opened the door. ‘Well, come on, tiger.' He rattled the car keys and they were out of the flat and down the stairs, joking, suddenly laughing. By the time Vi's doorbell rang, they were on the Pacific Highway heading north out of town towards the Hawkesbury River and the orchards of Gosford.

They had a good day. Once outside the city limits, Stan urged the car forward, the speedometer needle flickering between sixty and eighty. Vi threw her hat on the back seat, screwed down the window and turned to him, laughing, exhilarated by sun and wind and speed, the sick depression of the last weeks gone entirely now that he was back again. They talked mostly about old times, which pleased Stan. It gave him a sense of continuity to be able to reminisce with Vi. The boys, the original boys, had drifted away, coming and going, not to be relied on: Vi was the only consistent link with the old days. She was there when the gang won a pile on Tickety and went on the razzle. When they were all working up north, she was in the boat that time it capsized, and helped to hold old Salty Marshall up till the other boat came. She was there when he started out in business on his own, and she'd been full of ideas to help him.

When they reached the great, island-strewn river, they left the car for a while before crossing. On the hilly, tree-laden bank a few spaces had been cleared, and here there were stalls selling potato chips and ice-cream and soft drinks and oysters.

Stan bought oysters and they ate them from the bottle with their fingers as they wandered around, leaned on the white railings, looked up and down the river, whose water was grey-blue and choppy, like the sea. A train passed over the long railway bridge on its way north.

Vi wiped her fingers when the oysters were finished and gazed around in a state of deep, thoughtless content. Stan breathed the air in in lung-cooling gulps, and, when he thought she would not notice, he looked at Vi, more aware of her, more appreciative of her vital strength and warm glamour than he had been for years.

They crossed the river and, reaching Gosford soon afterwards, left the main road and drove down dusty yellow country roads, past farms and orchards and guesthouses, past miles of gum trees, over little wooden bridges spanning dried-up creeks. Presently they came to a valley where small, brilliant birds darted from tree to tree, flashing, dipping, making Vi exclaim and call to Stan to stop the car.

He dragged a rug from the boot and walking a short distance into the bush, found a grassy clearing, where he spread the tartan square and flopped down. The earth was baked dry and warm; the trees moved overhead in the breeze. It was very quiet. There was an occasional birdcall. Around them, all was transparent sunshine and green shade.

They drank some beer and Stan slept for half an hour or so with one arm thrown over his eyes. When he woke and moved, he saw Vi looking down at him, her eyes as blue as the birds, and he put a hand up to give her cheek a rough pat.

‘A kookaburra laughed and woke you,' she said. ‘Now stay awake and talk to me.'

Yawning and stretching, warm and lazy, after a time they wandered back through the maze of greygreen scrub and silver gums, liking the scented air, catching some sense of the lonely spaces, the brooding apprehension of the bush.

It was late when Stan let himself into the flat that night, but Esther was at the end of the hall waiting for him.

‘Hello, Est.' He gave her a kiss on the cheek.

‘You must be tired. Can I get you something to eat?'

‘No, thanks.' He lowered himself wearily into a chair and lit a cigarette. ‘Had a big day. Had to be in about six places at once. Finished up carting stuff round about eight o'clock.'

She believed him. Occasionally she went with him in the car, and she knew the routine of visits to suburban bungalows, knew that it took time, and that at the factory Eddie and Eck were always worried and harassed, up to their eyes in work.

She sat on the edge of her chair with her arms extended and her hands on her knees like a young girl trying to appear relaxed. ‘I'm sorry if I was cross this morning, Stan. I didn't mean to be…'

‘Were you cross?' Stan said, pulling some papers from his pocket. ‘Didn't notice, pet…You look dead beat, you know. You look as if you could do with an early night.'

‘It's a little late for an early night, but I am tired.'

‘Why don't you just go along, then? I'll be a while yet. Got some things to do.'

The bruises had faded from her face and the cut on her lip had healed. Since the day Stan had told her about his meeting with David there had been no reference to that scene, nor to the one which had succeeded it, in their own flat. On the same occasion, by way of a conclusion, Stan had thrown in a casual apology, a few words, grudgingly, slanting with recrimination. Three days after that he left a thin wad of notes on her dressing table. A present.

Tonight he was quite sober, quite amiable, yet how far apart they seemed. Flat-faced strangers.

Plumping up the cushions as she rose, she frowned fretfully, remembering her irritable outburst this morning, and the day before, and quite a few days back. She called up the high, sharp note of her voice, the feeble petulance of her words, as a punishment and warning. She would not do it again. She really wouldn't. And if they both tried…

After Esther had gone to bed Stan jumped up and began to pace about the room, his hands in his pockets and a smirk on his face. He gazed at the walls and the carpet and the furniture in an ecstasy of self-satisfaction, as if they were animated and paying him homage.

They were good kids, he thought indulgently. There was no doubt, either, he was pretty important to them both. Quite a boy. He grinned slightly to himself. Calling Esther a kid. He chuckled and had to cover his mouth with his hand. It wouldn't do if she heard him laughing.

He grew serious again. Poor old Est. She wasn't looking too good these days, and getting herself worked up about nothing all the time. It wasn't any wonder, though. He'd given her a pretty rough trot one way and another. He'd have to make it up to her somehow. It wasn't her fault that that so-and-so of a brother of hers had such a big mouth.

Remorse weighed on him: he pouted and frowned. But the pang of disgust he experienced was not unmixed with more agreeable sensations.

However, some work! He had plenty to do after taking a day off like that, right in the middle of the week. Still, a man's only human—that's what Vi said.

That day, Bill Maitland had taken Anabel to his sister's house on his way to the office.

Laura had explained about it to her on the telephone. ‘Cassie Roberts has this new flat, and she wants me to have a look at it and give her some help about covers and curtains. Don't ask me why, dear. She's getting it all fixed up instead of going away for a holiday.'

‘Is she on holiday now?'

‘Yes. We'll have lunch in town after I've seen the place, and I'll get some of my own shopping done then. I can't be bothered going, but I couldn't put her off any longer. I hardly ever have her over now.' Laura shrugged her shoulders. Cassie was the only unmarried woman over thirty that she knew. ‘Apart from the fact that we were at school together twenty years ago, God knows what I've got in common with my virginal pal. Still, it's a good deed.'

She had no trouble finding the apartment, and there, when she reached it, was Cass at the door, all anxious and eager because she was fifteen minutes late. Cass looked, to Laura, like an overgrown schoolgirl, with her round face and round brown eyes and her light brown hair and large body. And yet, she was no less good-looking than Laura herself, for Laura had no beauty apart from eyes and hair, but where she glowed, Cass was mild and sexless.

There's no man shortage, either, Laura thought. She, personally, knew several women who could lay claim to more than one man. There was no one but Cass who could claim none. She was pathetic, there was no denying it, and innocent, and good-natured, and in a way, freakish.

‘Darling,' she said warmly, kissing her friend, ‘it's lovely to see you again. It's been ages, Cass.' And in a tone of frank appraisal, ‘I
love
that dress!'

Cassie flushed with pleasure and led Laura in. They went through the rooms, chatting, admiring proportions, convenience, and one another's clothes in detail; between debates on the merits of gas, as opposed to electric, hot-water systems, discussing their mutual friends.

When they had finished the tour and were sitting on the low divan by the windows, Cassie said solemnly, ‘I've got some news for you, Laura. I haven't told anyone else yet.'

‘Oh? Out with it!' Laura smiled, adjusted her hat, and waited with royal graciousness. She was confident that it was not a man.

‘I'm being sent abroad by the firm for six months, to England and the Continent. I sail next month.'

Laura's eyes went blank as the lens of a camera. ‘Why, Cass, that's wonderful!' she exclaimed. ‘My dear, I am glad for you. It may be just the thing you're needing. Well, if you aren't the luckiest…
I've
never had the urge to travel.' She laughed to show that she recognised her peculiarity. ‘It's just as well, for I don't know when I'd ever get the chance. But anyhow I always feel that there's not much wrong with Australia. A lot of them are glad to come out here—never been so well off in their lives. Still, it will be marvellous for you.'

‘Yes, won't it?' Her friend seemed to have lost interest, and they sat for some time looking at swatches of floral chintzes. Laura chose an attractive pale green cloth with a darker green pattern, which was the one, Cassie admitted when gaily challenged, that she preferred, too.