Six Bedrooms (4 page)

The dream always woke her, or Ross did, as she was trying to say help, or stop.

 

‘Imagine,' said Martin, ‘if you could see all the people who'd ever wanted to sleep with you, right in front of you.'

It was a sunny day. They were both sitting in squashy vinyl chairs in Chemotherapy Bay.

‘All of them?' said Elizabeth, grinning. ‘People on the street?'

‘All of them. People from school, people you'd worked with.'

‘It might be a bit scary. What if there was some creep in a park, or your dad's best friend? Or your dad?'

They contemplated this in silence. The man from the bed next to Martin's shuffled by, bent over his drip.

‘I bet you'd have more than me,' said Martin. ‘Most women would.'

‘You're probably right,' said Elizabeth. She crossed her legs, and the vinyl squeaked under her.

There was a pause. ‘Guess what I had to do,' said Martin.

‘What.'

‘You know the chemo can make you sterile.'

‘Yeah.'

‘So they wanted me to … store … some sperm.'

‘Oh. Right.'

They looked at each other. Elizabeth laughed uneasily.

‘I thought they might give me a nurse but they didn't,' Martin shifted in his padded chair. ‘Just magazines.'

‘How'd you go?'

‘Well, it worked.'

Their eyes met again. ‘This is strange, isn't it?' said Elizabeth.

Martin nodded. ‘Pretty much.'

 

One afternoon she arrived to find a terrible hush in Martin's ward, and the blue curtains drawn around his bed. The other patients sat upright against their pillows, silently watching the come and go of nurses. Martin's stepmother was sitting by the window, looking out.

Even on cloudy days the window dragged at your eyes, pulled you straight to its cold flat greasy view of North Sydney. Visitors always stood there, staring out at the metallic clot of buildings. With Martin trapped, flat on his back with oxygen mask and drips, a wiring of plastic tube strapping him to the bed, they went straight to the
window and stared at the buildings as though there was something to look at, as though the view might change.

In fact you looked out there, especially at first, while you tried to think of something to say. You felt your mind ticking hopelessly over all the things you had done that day.

Martin's stepmother moved her hands inside her handbag as though she was developing film.

Elizabeth stepped forward. ‘What's happening?' she said in a low voice. She could see feet next to Martin's bed, and the curtain shifted.

Amanda looked around. She had a soft, animal's face that was slightly furry, a silky down that gathered thickly about her temples. ‘He's very sick,' she whispered. ‘He's got an infection.'

Elizabeth felt a coolness in the pit of her stomach. ‘How sick?'

‘It happened so fast. They won't tell us if he – if he –'

The doctor came out from behind the curtain, and smiled at them. ‘We've put him on penicillin,' she said, ‘and given him some morphine. He should sleep quite soon.'

‘Will he be all right?' said Amanda. She brought her hands out of the handbag and folded them in her lap.

The doctor smoothed her white coat. ‘He's very sick,' she began.

After they'd gone Elizabeth tied on the mask and pulled the heavy, crackling gown over her clothes. She stepped behind the curtain.

Martin's head turned heavily to one side, his eyes on her.

‘Hey,' she said softly.

‘Whozat?'

‘It's me. It's Elizabeth.'

His face was red. It looked like a newborn's, scrunched and sweating.

‘How're you feeling?'

He frowned. ‘Shithouse.'

Elizabeth sat down. ‘You got an infection.' She reached over to take his hand. It was slippery with sweat.

Martin kept his eyes on her. ‘I can see things,' he said.

‘It's the infection. You're a bit delirious.'

‘You've got painting on your face.'

‘It's a mask,' said Elizabeth, and as she spoke a huge, breathless pain rose in her body, seizing her throat, forcing tears into her eyes.

‘Don't cry,' Martin said. He watched her, kept his eyes fixed on her as she sniffed and choked, until, quite suddenly, he fell asleep.

She left hours later, while he was still sleeping, her neck and shoulders frozen. Amanda, gowned and masked, had taken a place by the window again, looking
out at what were now symmetrical constellations in the blackness. Gerard sat by the bed. He and Amanda spoke in hushed voices.

 

She hung up. Stared at the phone for a second, and then turned her eyes on Ross.

‘What's wrong?' he said, offering her a glass of water.

She took it. ‘Martin's dying.'

They watched each other. She bent down and placed the glass carefully on the carpet. She put one hand to her throat and rubbed it, like a man does before a shave, thoughtfully.

‘What does that mean?' said Ross, after a long pause.

‘I don't know.'

It was as though the air in the room had changed suddenly to perspex; hard, clear, unbreathable.

Ross drove her to the hospital. They had to stop for petrol. She sat in the front seat waiting, hearing the clunk of the bowser. It was sunny – an aching light that pressed on her eyes. It was unbelievable, the people, the way they got in and out of their cars, smiling and talking. When Ross got in beside her and put his warm hand on the back of her neck, she could not even turn to look at him.

Left alone in the room with Martin and his body, Elizabeth stood at a distance from the bed, scarcely breathing. Nothing moved, and yet it seemed as though everything was moving. She could not tell if his chest went up and down. Was his head slipping to one side? His eyes were closed, but unconvincingly, not as though he was asleep, but as though he was waiting for something, a surprise. At the moment of his death she had seen him turning purple, quite clearly, so aware was she of every change. Now he was a dull blue.

She came up to the bed and touched Martin's hand. It was tepid and unpleasantly soft, a bit like his liquid-filled chair. His head was crooked on the pillow, making him look uncomfortable, so she slipped her fingers underneath his neck and straightened him up and there, in that moment, learnt how very much heavier a dead body is than one in which there is still life.

She stayed there as long as she imagined the others imagining her doing so, looking alternately out of the window and back down at Martin. Nothing happened. There was a pressure behind her eyes. When the time was up she let herself out of the room and walked quickly down the hospital corridor before the others could see her, making for the lift and the reception area, where Ross sat waiting.

Ross drove her to work every morning for two weeks. A laugh would begin and then curdle in her stomach as she sat in the car, leaning against the cold window. Martin would have laughed himself: what a joke, a dumb, clumsy joke, death nudging him off balance, elbowing him out of his place in the world. She stared out at the winter morning light, streaking down the street beside the car like a lost dog.

I
HATED
Judy's first boyfriend, as expected. He was shaped like a sweet potato. His clothes were exactly wrong. Judy had arranged for us to meet him at Circular Quay one Saturday morning, so that the three of us could go to the movies. He was waiting for us when we got off the ferry. He wore a t-shirt that said
I love Brisbane
, loose over his narrow shoulders, clinging around his fleshy waist. He stepped forward when he saw us and produced from behind his back a bunch of yellow flowers, six or seven of them, wound in cellophane. I got out of the way so no one would think he was giving them to me.

Judy and Alfred held hands as we walked up George Street. He was taller than she was, which was a mercy,
and he might even have been heavier. We were early, and had to sit in the dark recesses of the foyer, waiting for the doors to be opened. Alfred told us about his last girlfriend, who had gone to live in America. ‘She was stunning,' he said. He had a slightly English accent, and a deep, pompous voice. ‘She had legs up to here,' indicating his waist, or somewhere above it. I could not meet Judy's eye, as I knew how ashamed she must be. I could picture Alfred's old girlfriend. She would be the daughter of friends of the family, stupidly tall with limp hair and glasses, someone who had been silly enough to let Alfred kiss her during a game of Murder in the Dark. And now she was gone, to America, too far away to correct Alfred's version of their story.

I will not tell you about being in the cinema with Judy and Alfred and the sound of his mouth sipping at hers. When we came out into the light my father had died, though the city and I did not know that yet. It was autumn and a cold wind blew straight up George Street, hustling a few stray people before it. We walked back down to the Quay and I was energetically mean, telling Alfred stories that Judy would not want him to hear, stories that until then had been private to both of us. When we reached the wharf I got on the ferry before Judy did, and went straight upstairs. I leant my face against the window and watched the grey water pitching
all the way home, so that Judy would think it was I who had the right to be angry, and not she.

My mother picked us up from the ferry, which was unusual. It was clear that she had a secret. Her lips were pinched together against the telling of it. We drove away from Judy's house and then, instead of turning on to the main road, she pulled into the kerb and parked.

‘Tasha,' she said, and I closed my eyes. ‘I have something to tell you.' I thought of asking her to keep it to herself, but she would not be stopped.

My father had been at home, in his study, and had come out holding his head, leaning against the door-frame. ‘I have a headache,' he said to his wife Anne, ‘everything hurts.' Then he fell forward, on to the wine-coloured carpet, and had a kind of fit, his arms and legs thrashing. He broke his wrist, smashing it against the wall. Anne called an ambulance and he was taken to hospital unconscious, where he died. All this had happened while I was travelling into the city with Judy, walking up George Street, sitting in the cinema with her and Alfred. My father had been taken to the hospital closest to his house. It was twenty minutes' walk from where I had been sitting in the dark.

My mother and I looked at each other. I had a moment to claim the role as chief mourner in our household – she was only an ex-wife, and I was still a daughter – but
I hesitated too long. She began to cry. I looked out of the window. Two boys from school walked past and I had to turn away so they would not see me.

 

The first thing I did when we got home was to ring Judy, but her phone was engaged. My mother was at the fridge, pouring herself a glass of white wine from a half-empty bottle. I sat on the high stool next to the phone, watching her. She was drinking before the fridge door had closed. I picked the phone up and dialled Judy's number again. Still engaged.

‘Have you told James?' I said to my mother.

She swallowed her second mouthful and said, ‘He's on his way over.'

I dialled Judy's number again. I wanted my mother out of the room while I told Judy what had happened. The phone was still engaged. ‘Why don't you go out and wait for him?' I said.

My mother stared at me suspiciously and downed the rest of her wine. ‘Why don't you?' she said.

‘I have a phone call to make.'

‘So do I.'

We looked at each other. I tried Judy again. Engaged. I got down off the stool and went outside to wait for my brother.

When I was very small, when James still lived at home, I spent more time out on the street than in the house, or that was the way it seemed. The street was a dead end, where cars rarely came. James would drift back and forth on his bike. Sometimes I would follow him on roller-skates. I don't remember him ever trying to get rid of me, or shouting at me. He had a supernatural patience, as though he came from another family. He was tall and dark like my father, with a big nose and pointed eyebrows. He'd left home the year I turned eight.

I sat at the top of the driveway to wait for him. It was starting to get dark, and there was a spatter of rain between the trees. The street lights came on. I listened for the sound of James's motorbike but all I could hear was the sound of leaves washing against each other. When it was completely dark I stood up on stiff legs and went inside.

 

‘My dad died,' I said to Judy. She had been waiting for me at the end of the Alexandra Street Wharf, our meeting spot. We were sitting with our legs swinging. The rain had cleared overnight and it was a bright autumn day, warm and forgiving. The water glittered as though someone was typing light on to it.

‘Wow,' said Judy.

‘He had a brain aneurysm,' I said. ‘He could have had it for years.'

‘Gee, that's awful.' Judy put her hand on my arm. Neither of us quite knew how to play this scene. I considered crying but did not think I had it in me. I had not yet learnt to begin with tears; I always tried to start with sobbing, and it never sounded real.

‘When is – what about the funeral?' said Judy.

‘I'm not going,' I said quickly. ‘Anne doesn't want us there.'

If Judy had been any older or any more sophisticated she would have known this for the lie it was, but I was the one in charge of the truth in our friendship. The only thing Judy could do better than I could was to sing and play music, and she was properly modest about these abilities, which were valueless in our currency. Judy relied on me to judge the worth of things. It would take us some time to recover from this when we left school.

Judy gasped as I'd known she would, but she was not really surprised. Anne's vindictive behaviour towards my small family was well known to her. More than once we had been excluded from birthday parties, and I had never seen my father at Christmas.

I found myself thinking, as Judy obediently cursed Anne, that only men could fully live double lives, as my
father had for nearly ten years. Women could not secretly have a second family, for who could hide a pregnancy and birth, and then a baby? I thought that when I grew up I might have two husbands. One would be good and one would be bad and I would shuttle between them and punish them for loving me. I watched a cormorant dive under, and the telltale shiver of water behind it. It came up, beak open and empty.

‘Alfred told me I was stunning,' said Judy, shading her eyes from the sun.

‘How embarrassing,' I said coldly.

 

In fact Anne behaved very well, inviting us to choose a hymn and asking if James or I would like to read a verse from the Bible. She did not ask my mother to speak, for which I was very grateful.

‘How about “The Rose”,' said my mother. We were sitting at the kitchen table, not eating breakfast. She'd had her black hair cut into a bob, sharp around her face. Her cheeks had that bright spot that told me she'd already had a drink.

‘That isn't a hymn.'

‘“Angel of the Morning”?'

I frowned at her.

‘How about “Bette Davis Eyes”?'

One of my mother's favourite things was to watch
Countdown
with me and berate or imitate the singers. She could shame me out of my love for a band. I had thrown away my Culture Club album after she had appeared from the bedroom, her hair teased up and tied in rags, and wearing every one of her bracelets and necklaces. She'd been in there for nearly an hour. I was learning to keep my passions a secret but it was not always easy. I had almost no one to talk to.

She began to sing “Angel of the Morning” and I interrupted her, saying, ‘“Amazing Grace”.'

‘Bit obvious.' She reached for her cigarettes.

I hadn't decided yet whether or not I would go to the funeral. No, not true. Of course I would go. It was inevitable. I had no choice; not like James, who seemed to have dematerialised since Saturday. He had not turned up that night, and he was not answering the phone at his flat.

‘What will we wear?' I said to my mother.

‘Clothes.'

I quivered with hatred.

‘Where's my lighter?' When she turned around I snatched two cigarettes out of her pack and had them in my pocket before she turned back.

‘I can't think of any other hymns anyway,' she said. ‘“Jerusalem”.' She lit her cigarette. I got down from the table before she could start to sing it.

I could remember nothing of my parents' marriage; nothing of the nights of drinking, the sudden attempts at leaving – both of them fighting for the car keys, determined to be the one who went. Girls at school, fools who had tried to become my friend, sometimes commiserated with me about having no father, but I never felt it. I could not remember living with him. My first memory of him is being left outside his chambers with James, sitting in the plush chairs he kept for his clients. The door to his office opens and he puts his lantern face round, and he says, ‘Not long.' James passes me my book of the Wombles. We are calm and happy enough, for a visit to my father's house means quiet, and the superior toys of our half-siblings, which James was never too old to enjoy.

Now the kids at school, usually wary of me, afraid to be infected by my virulent unpopularity, were commiserating again. When it came time to hand in my Maths homework I had nothing and Mrs Lennon looked surprised.

‘This isn't like you,' she said, pausing by my desk.

‘My father died,' I said loudly.

Raffaello turned around and gave me a startled, then sad look. A few minutes later Katie Goldsworthy passed me a note that said,
We hope your OK.

Judy made a great show of protecting me at lunchtime, when other girls came round to share in the drama.
‘She's too upset to talk,' she said, when they bent over to look into my face. I had mastered the tears this time. I let them roll down my cheeks and then wiped them away with a corner of my school blouse. ‘Thank you,' said Judy, to a girl who proffered her packet of cheese CC's. ‘I don't think she's hungry though.' I heard her telling them that I wasn't even invited to the funeral because my father's wife was such a bitch.

I was calculating how much time I might get out of this, how long the hostilities might be suspended for. The girls walked away in a group, their heads together, and Judy and I shared the CC's.

 

James and I are sitting outside on the street. I suppose I am three or four years old, so James is about thirteen. We are sitting on the side of the road and I am on James's lap, and he has started a little fire in the gutter, using twigs from the jacaranda tree over our heads. It is burning quite well. My mother's lighter lies discarded on the grass. James gives me things to feed into the fire; a twig, a gum leaf. We try a jacaranda flower; it sizzles and fluffs out sweet smoke. James hitches me up on his lap and passes me another twig. The little fire snaps and pops.

This was what I remembered as my mother and I walked up the long driveway to the church. I smelt
smoke – someone burning leaves – and I remembered this. I realised I had not asked my mother whether my father was being buried or cremated. It was quite possible that she did not know.

Anne and her two children, Georgie and Oliver, were sitting in the pew at the front. There was organ music, exhausted and sad. The other pews were filling up. There were a lot of families; men in suits, who had probably had morning meetings and were already checking their watches, high-heeled wives in blacks and greys, sullen, bored children in churchy best. My mother seized my hand and pulled me towards the front. My half-sister and brother turned their heads just as we reached them.

There had been a viewing but not even my mother had been able to force me to go to that. My father could be seen between certain hours at the funeral parlour in Darlinghurst, which was where James lived. There was no way James could know this because no one could reach him to tell, but he might ride past it on his bike, or even walk past it. He might be metres from our father's body without knowing it.

Georgie, smelling of perfume, edged away from me along the pew. She had put on a great deal of make-up. It came to just in front of her ears. I leant behind her to see Oliver just as he leant back to see me; our eyes met.
The music changed, and we faced the front, sitting up straighter as the minister and the boys' choir filed in. The choir took its place behind the minister, one row at a time. My mother squeezed my hand so the bones crackled. The choir began to sing; ‘Amazing Grace', my song. The boys with the deepest voices stood together on the right. The tallest of them, at the back, with his hands together, his eyes closed, his face sorrowful and his white frock moving with the music, was Alfred.

 

Anne had organised the wake at the local yacht club, a place of gleaming surfaces and a broad and shimmering view of the harbour. My mother took the first drink that was offered to her and headed for a group of people who watched her coming, wincing slightly, bracing themselves for impact.