The Beloved (17 page)

Thump. Thump. Thump
.

The jeep skidded to a halt. ‘Jesus, Bertie! What is it?'

Thump.

‘Stop!' She grabbed my shoulders. I wrenched away and lunged again. She locked her arms around my chest. ‘Stop it, Bertie. Stop it . . . Sshhhh, it'll be okay.'

Not
Bertie.
Not
okay. I pulled away from her.

She put the jeep in gear and moved off.

Mrs Breuer presented her cheek for a kiss. ‘Bertie! So tall; not the little girl any more.' The familiar smell of Craven A filled my nose. ‘But
drágám
, such a face. What's the matter?'

‘I'm not Roberta any more, Mrs Breuer. Since we found out Mama named me after her dead . . . friend, Dad and Tim have been calling me Lindsay. It's my second name and Mama says it's all right as long as I promise not to tell everyone why. I'll just say I like Lindsay better. That's right, isn't it, Mama?'

Mrs Breuer looked winded.

Mama tried to smile. ‘Oh, for heaven's sake. She can call herself Boofhead for all I care. She'll always be Roberta. It's a phase. She'll grow out of it.'

Mrs Breuer sucked on her cigarette. ‘So, you're Lindsay now?'

‘Yes.'

‘I'll try to remember. Now, go and find Stefi. Your mother and I need to catch up.'

Stefi sat on the side of the bed, her eyes huge. ‘Your mother named you after her
lover
?'

‘Yes.'

‘Yuck.' She looked around the room, as if trying to remember something. ‘So you're Lindsay now?'

I shrugged. ‘I can't think of anything else.'

‘It's a bit dull. We could invent something. Go through the Sydney phone book. Plenty of weird names in there.'

I tried to smile. I was so glad to see Stefi again. She didn't appear to have changed much, except for sounding tired.

‘Is everything all right with you?' I asked.

‘Yeah.'

A wad of photos lay on her desk. I picked them up and began to flick through. She reached for them. ‘Don't.'

‘Why not?' I held them out of her reach and went on looking. Photo of a chook, photo of a mangy dog scratching behind its ear, photo of her mother laughing, photo of people at a party in someone's backyard, photo of my father and a lady with long wavy hair. Smiling at each other. Smiling like they were the only people in the world. My stomach slowly tipped upside down. ‘Who . . . ?'

Something about it; something about
her
, was familiar. ‘Who is she?'

Stefi shrugged.

‘Tell me.'

‘I don't know.'

‘You do know.'

She plucked miserably at the chenille bedspread, her fingers like small pecking birds.

‘
Who is she
?'

‘Helen something or other.'

Not blonde. Hard to tell from a black-and-white photo but not blonde.

‘Bertie, let's—'

‘I'm
not
Bertie.'

‘Sorry.'

‘Stefi, I know my father's . . . well, I know about
her
, but you have to tell me—'

Mrs Breuer's raised voice interrupted us. ‘You can't, Lily May!'

I opened the door an inch so I could hear what they were saying.

‘He wants a divorce,' Mama said, ‘so he can shack up with that tart. After all this time when we've finally got a decent life together, he wants to toss me aside. I won't let him. I'll fight every inch of the way to keep my family.'

A match struck, a
tink
as it hit the ashtray. ‘Men,' said Mrs Breuer. ‘None of them are faithful.'

‘Magda,' said my mother, ‘are you saying Konrad . . . ?'

‘Yes, of course.'

‘Good grief. Who?'

‘Does it matter?'

‘Yes! Don't you care?'

‘Yes. No. I used to care very much. Now . . .'

‘Why do you put up with it?'

‘Stefi needs a father and he's a good provider. After what we suffered in Hungary, infidelity is not so important. Give it time, Lily May. Ed's fling will blow over. These things do.'

A chair creaked. ‘
If
it's just a fling,' said Mama. ‘Whoever she is, she's got a grip.'

‘You don't know who she is?'

‘Only that her name's Helen. Ed won't tell me anything. I suppose she's half my age.'

‘No, early thirties, I would think. But he should tell you, you need to know. Moresby's small and you're bound to run across her.'

‘I'll bloody well run over her.'

‘Her name is Helen Valier. She's looking after Boroko Books while her brother's in England on sabbatical. I believe she's some sort of artist.'

Tempe's friend! The book illustrator. I edged closer to the door and opened it further. I hated hearing about Dad and that woman but I had to know. Stefi shook her head, as if it hurt her too.

‘Oh, an arty-farty bitch,' said Mama.

‘I wouldn't say a bitch.'

For a moment there was silence, then Mama's voice, smooth as an ice cube. ‘Do you know her?'

‘I met her at a birthday party for one of the engineers.'

‘My husband and that . . .
floozy
went together?'

‘Not together, no. I think they met there.'

‘And left together.'

‘I don't know, Lily May.'

‘Turned a blind eye?'

‘You know how it is. Nine months on his own, Ed was lonely. It's different now that you're back. Moresby's too small for a wife and a mistress. Even for a man as well-liked as Ed. You're the wife. If you want to keep him, hang on.'

I shut the door. ‘A divorce,' I said. ‘So he can marry a floozy.'

‘My mother threatens to divorce my father but nothing's ever . . .' Stefi stopped suddenly, as if someone had pulled out her electrical cord.

‘Stefi?' I put my hand on her arm. When she didn't move I shook it. ‘Stefi, what's the matter?'

‘What?' she looked up, startled. ‘Nothing. What were we talking about?'

‘Divorce. The floozy.'

‘Your father wouldn't marry a floozy.'

‘What is a floozy exactly – isn't it a prostitute?'

‘I think so.' She pulled a dictionary from her bookshelf and flipped through the pages. ‘Here,
Floozy
. You can spell it with a “y” or an “ie”. A floozy is a disreputable woman. Tart, trollop, strumpet, harlot, hussy, woman of the night.' Stefi sighed. ‘Crikey.'

The room seemed suddenly hot. Too hot. I felt dizzy. The thought of my father and that . . .
woman
doing whatever they did together made me feel sick. ‘I have to go to the toilet,' I said.

I went to their dunny in the backyard and sat on the lid in the smelly gloom. Apart from a buzzing fly, it was quiet. I hurt. Everything hurt, even breathing. Dad's floozy was Tempe's friend. All I remembered were her beautiful kookaburra sketches and flaming red hair. Now, because of her, my mother wanted to drag Tim and me back to Canada. How could Dad risk losing us? Didn't he love us more than her? I breathed in the fetid air, lifted the lid, and threw up in the dunny bucket.

Chapter Fourteen

The tide was out.

Ela Beach, mustard and grey and strewn with sea snakes, baked beneath a blood-red sun that dribbled down the shiny butcher's paper onto the dining table.

When I'd asked Mama for art paper the day after our visit to the Breuers', she'd replied in her uppity voice: ‘Art paper? What do you want art paper for? Art paper is for artists.'

I grabbed another sheet of butcher's paper and began to draw my mother with her head on upside down. It made her skull pointy, her chin round and covered in a thick black beard. I was wondering what to paint on it next when she stormed through the door.

‘Goddamn jeep broke down in the middle of town. John Marsh dropped me back.' She scowled at my painting. ‘What's that?'

‘The baddie.'

‘You're telling me. Why don't you find something constructive to do instead of that self-indulgent crap?'

‘What's the difference between me painting and you taking photos?'

‘The difference – are you kidding? There's no comparison. Photos are real. The camera doesn't lie.'

Neither did my painting. But my mother didn't realise how ugly she'd become. A photo would show her as beautiful as ever but it wouldn't give you the sound of her voice – not curling, any more, around the long Canadian vowels and rolling r's – but sharp as a carving knife. A photo wouldn't show her lips pulled against her teeth ready to hurl insults at Dad the moment he came through the door and a photo wouldn't show her eyes turning from warm earth to cold stone. My mother was so busy being angry with Dad she wasn't even trying to stop the floozy from tearing our family to pieces. Someone had to do something. I put aside the picture and rinsed my brushes.

When the jeep was ‘fixed' – it had run out of petrol – and Mama had gone out again, I changed my smock, plaited my hair into a single braid and headed for the bus-stop. On the trip to Boroko I composed my message, short and to the point, and by the time I got to the bookshop I had it perfect. My heart hip-hopped in my chest as I opened the door. It was dark inside and for a moment all I could see was a panel of pictures on the wall in front of me, beautiful drawings of African animals – zebras, elephants and gazelles.

Then her.

She was serving a man and smiling, but when she saw me her smile faded. ‘I'll be with you in a moment,' she said, her voice thick, as if she'd swallowed a dumpling. I watched her tie a parcel of books with string and make a carry-loop. The man slid a pound note across the counter and tipped his hat. ‘Thanks, Helen.' He left and the shop fell silent.

She placed her hands on the counter. A small heart dangled from a chain on her wrist. Our eyes locked. Hers were clear amber.

‘Hello . . . Lindsay,' she said.

Lindsay! So she
knew
. Dad must have told her. Why couldn't he keep his mouth shut about our family? I waited for her to say something else, grovel perhaps. But she simply stood there, holding my eyes with hers. Her eyelashes were as long as bird feathers. Floozy. Tart, trollop, strumpet, woman of the night. After all she'd done, all she could say was, ‘Hello, Lindsay'?

You're destroying our family. If you don't leave my father alone, my mother will take my brother and me back to Canada and we'll never see our father again. Is that what you want?

‘How did the art materials work out?' she said.

I stared at her in disbelief.
Art
materials?

‘The pencils and brushes you took to Canada.'

Oh, Canada . . . yes. Let me tell you about Canada. Or better still, wait six months until I'm there and I can write and tell you all about Canada. I can tell you
. . . Where
were my words?

She stepped out from behind the counter. Her skirt was shimmering bronze and green, her sandals strappy, her legs smooth. ‘I'm glad you came, Lindsay.'

I stepped back, bumped into the door, felt for the handle and turned it. Hot air loosened my tongue. ‘Leave my father alone!' I fled, clip-clopping along the footpath like a draught horse. At the bus-stop I fell onto the seat, nursing a pain so deep I couldn't find the bottom of it. Helen Valier. Floozy. Strumpet, hussy, tart, woman of the . . . The woman my father . . . It made me feel sick to think about it. I didn't want to think about it but I couldn't stop thinking about it.

Once you knew something, you knew it forever.

What I knew about Helen Valier – that Dad loved her – went everywhere with me, all the time. All day, all night, like dog shit on my shoes. It was my first thought in the morning and my last at night. It ate with me, swam with me, wormed its way into my dreams and stole my paintings. I painted Helen Valier like a child would, bloodying her with horns and teeth, then obliterating her with mud, toothpaste, Vegemite, sardines – anything that stank or stuck. Still, she bloomed. Every day she rose in my mind and every day I smacked her down. Every day I imagined what I might say to make her go away.

In the last week of January Tim went back to Melbourne and I was shunted off to Ela Beach School.

I turned twelve. Mama organised an ice-cream cake and a new dress and took me to the Boat Club for dinner. Dad forgot. When Mama reminded him he looked horrified.

‘I'm so sorry, CP,' he said. ‘I owe you.'

The head start I'd gained from correspondence and school in Canada didn't last. I hated Ela Beach School. I wanted to be back at Coronation with Stefi and familiar faces. There were only two things that made the new school bearable: Mr Pepper's art lessons and the twenty-four plump tubes of watercolour that belonged to Mandy, the girl who sat next to me in class. The Sogeri Show was coming up, a big annual cultural event in the highlands, and Mr Pepper wanted everyone in the class to submit a picture. I did a drawing of a girl lying on the ground among fallen hibiscus flowers with her eyes closed. I crisscrossed the picture with lines and triangles to make it appear as if you were looking through broken glass. Mr Pepper nodded slowly and added it to the pile.

When I got home that afternoon my mother was on the phone discussing travel to Canada. She waggled her fingers hello at me and went on talking. I waited for a moment, then went back down the steps and headed for Dad's office. He had to know. He had to understand how bad things had become and get rid of that red-headed menace. A bus sat idling at the bus-stop. No-one got off and no-one got on, it simply sat there chugging, rocking a little like a dog panting. As I passed the door, I glanced up at the driver. He raised an eyebrow. I paused, pulled tuppence from my satchel and got on.

She was up a ladder, stacking books. Sun from the window lay on her bare skin. I wondered what colours you'd have to mix to get that exact glow of pink, gold and cream. When she saw me she sighed, dusted her hands and climbed down. ‘Hello. Again.' Her voice wobbled.

Nervous.

A fan whirred.

My mother is right now making plans to take me and my brother back to Canada. We may never see our father again, all because of you. Give him up
.

But the words wouldn't come.

She ran her hands over her skirt, smoothing wrinkles that weren't there.

‘You . . .' I spluttered. The words – the words – where
were
they? ‘You . . . you can't paint!'

Her eyebrows shot up.

I said that? How could I?

She pressed her lips together and her shoulders began to shake. I wanted to die. She clamped her hand over her mouth but the harder she tried not to laugh the more she shook. I turned and fled.

‘But you can, Lindsay,' she called after me, her voice bridging the distance between us even as the door closed. ‘I've seen your pictures and I know how good you are.'

I sat at the bus-stop, raging.
My
pictures. That floozy had seen the pictures I'd sent Dad from Canada. He'd shown them to her. How
could
he? What was wrong with him? What did he see in her? Mama was far more beautiful, more graceful, more . . . but it didn't matter what Mama looked like any more, Dad had stopped seeing her. All he could see was Helen Valier.

How good you are!

As if I cared. The only person whose opinion mattered to me was Tempe. Did Tempe know her so-called friend was wrecking our family? If she didn't, she soon would. As soon as I got home I grabbed a sheet of paper and filled it with everything that had happened since we got back – the fights, the origin of my name, my mother's plans to take Tim and me back to Canada and the whole bloody lot being Mrs Floozy-damn-Valier's fault.

Tempe's reply came by rocket.

My dear Slug:

I'm truly sorry to hear how rotten things are and that you are caught in the middle. Your parents are both good people but even good people sometimes behave badly.

I understand your anger at Mrs Valier and am distraught to think you may return to Canada. I'm not excusing her, but Helen's had a difficult time. Her husband died a few years ago after a dragged-out battle with cancer and Helen struggled mightily to keep things together. I imagine someone as cheerful as your dad must have made a welcome change. She is, despite her behaviour, a good person with a warm and generous heart. Try not to be too angry with her or with your parents. They love you, no matter what
.

I don't know what to say about your name. You must have been very hurt and so must your dad but I imagine your mum gave it to you out of love. Names are precious, we don't give the names of people we love to those we don't. Roberta is a wonderful name but it's your decision whether or not to keep it. Try not to get too down, my dear Slug (Lindsay). Things will not always be this bad.

It was wonderful to hear from you despite the circumstances and I wish I were there to give you a big hug. Please write again and next time, tell me how your painting is coming along.

With fondest love,

Tempe

P.S. Did you know Tempe is short for Temperance? Terrible name, isn't it? Can you imagine anyone less temperate than me? Mothers . . . ! XOX

So much for that. Damn Tempe and her
Helen this
and
Helen that
. The last thing I wanted to feel for that woman was pity. If her heart was so warm and generous why didn't she give me back my father?