The Crush (8 page)

Nosing through the blue waters of Sydney Harbour, the mammoth orange container ship steered towards the White Bay docks. Behind it, ferries and yachts cut across its white wash. Crew members leaned over the starboard side, smoking rollies and peering down at the wharfies scooting about in forklifts. A new shipment of cars had arrived from South Korea.

Large grain silos blocked the view as the bus exited the huge Glebe Island Bridge with its spindly metal cables that looked like bike spokes. Matt rechecked the small map on his lap. Balmain was just around the corner with its higgledy-piggledy roads, terrace houses, steep hills, cafes, pubs and harbour views. A long time ago the inner Sydney peninsula had been the home of boat builders, coalminers,
labourers, unionists, sawmills, power stations and the odd candle factory. Now the trendies had moved in with their focaccias, lattes, black skivvies, silver sunglasses, art studios and designer-clothed babies. A blue collar was something attached to a blue shirt.

In his hands, Matt squeezed the bundle of letters he'd found in his mum's room. They'd created more riddles. From what he could understand, the anonymous writer had been mailing short, sharp messages to his mother every two months. They'd started friendly, but deteriorated into animosity.

One message read:
I'm warning you. Take me very, very seriously. I'm nearly fifty-five and I've been asking you the same thing every year but you still don't have the guts to grant me this one wish. Go on. Keep playing your silly games. I'll be talking to my lawyer. See if you can hide between your lies then.

A second revealed:
If this is some personal grudge against me, then tell me. I'll walk away from it. You know I'm only acting as a go-between. Your stubbornness has almost destroyed my family.

The third was more disturbing:
When are you going to tell him, Heather? When he's eighteen? Twenty-one? Or never? You promised me it was when he was fourteen last time!

That one was definitely about him.

The bus deposited Matt along busy Victoria Road, a couple of hundred metres from the heart of Balmain. He rechecked his map, folded it away then wound through a street plastered with tattered and ripped concert promo posters.

The address in Mort Street was a double-storey late-Victorian terrace with a white cast-iron balcony, hanging pots instead of a garden, wind chimes and an old BMW parked out the front. Someone was at home, at least. He opened the gate and banged on the screen door.

The third thump worked. The door opened. Matt breathed in and prepared to go to war.

A woman in her fifties stood in the doorway. He breathed out. Strange. He'd expected a man. The lady was well presented in a black dress with gold trimmings and a pair of slip-on shoes. Her hair was dyed brown and her eyes were the same fudge colour as his. Most of her face was covered in make-up, her fingernails were a dull red and she was holding a diary with very few phone numbers written inside.

‘Yes?' she asked in a firm voice.

‘I … er …'

She looked at him quizzically as his anger turned to confusion. ‘Is there something I can help you with?'

C'mon, man. Hold it together.

He thrust the bundle of letters in front of her. ‘Did you write these to my mother?'

Taken aback, the lady raised her glasses to her eyes but she need not have bothered. She instantly recognised them. Matt could see it in her face. Shocked, she looked back up at him and reached for the handle of the screen door. Instead of locking it, she threw it open.

‘Matthew?'

She reached out and hugged him. Caught off guard, he tried pushing her away but she held on tight.

‘I can't believe it! It's really you, isn't it?'

‘Yeah?'

‘Finally! My grandson!'

Deadened by shock, Matt was a zombie. His feet were working but not his brain. The woman guided him deeper and deeper into her narrow home, excitedly prattling away about how glad she was to meet him at last. The air smelt of saffron and the walls were cluttered with knick-knacks from India: masks, rugs, carved elephants, hanging shawls, ornate chests, photos, dolls and paintings. She led him into the kitchen-cum-family room where a fan whirled above a circular table well lit by a large bay window. Outside in a small garden, a blue-green peacock and white peahen strutted pompously next to an aviary full of orange and brown finches. In the back of Matt's mind, he realised he had never seen a white peacock before. Weird.

‘Sit! Sit!' the woman urged. ‘What would you like to drink?'

‘Juice,' he said, unsure if he had actually spoken out loud.

While she hunted for a glass, Matt's eyes scouted the room as his brain finally yelled at him to run. He shouldn't have come inside. Curiosity got the better of him. Problem was, this woman was mad. Imagine thinking he was her grandson!

Several framed pictures near the window caught his eye. They were part of a collection of large photos and yellowed newspaper clippings sealed under glass. They were all of a boy, whose life had been chronicled by various papers over six years. In one, the kid had scored a record seven tries for his Campbelltown primary school. Another showed him collecting a giant cheque after winning a junior sportsperson of the month award. In another, he'd been snapped with a dozen other boys collecting autographs from their footy heroes. The next frame was a classic. It must have been summer. The boy was dressed in cricket whites. However, a heavy downpour had washed out the match and turned the pitch into a mud bath. The kid had been photographed sliding on his belly through the brown mess, much to the amusement of his mates in the
background. The final frames reported that the boy, now fifteen, had scored all twenty-eight points for his new team, the Bankstown Central High Mongrels. One showed him grinning after scoring the winning try against the Princes Boys College Lions.

Matt choked. The articles were about him!

When the woman placed the glass of orange juice in front of him, he reeled backwards from his chair and demanded what was going on. ‘I don't know who you are, lady, but you're scaring me!'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Half my life is on your walls!'

‘Yes.'

‘Well, aren't you going to tell me why?'

‘Because like any grandmother, I like surrounding myself with pictures of my grandchild.'

‘Stop saying that! My real grandmother lives at Campbelltown.'

‘And your other grandmother?'

‘She doesn't exist.'

The woman placed her own orange juice on the round wooden table. ‘Is that what your mother's been telling you for the past fifteen years?'

‘Yes.'

‘Then she's a liar.'

Matt shook his head. ‘You're the liar. A sicko too if
you ask me.' He bumped into the wall behind him, knocking one of the framed photos. He almost tore it off in disgust.

‘I know you're shocked—'

‘Lady, I'm not shocked. I'm furious. I should call the cops to find out what's going on here.'

‘Keep your voice down. I don't want to alarm the neighbours.'

‘Forget the neighbours! I'll scream and shout all I like! I want these pictures of me taken down!'

He grabbed the nearest one, ripped it off the wall and chucked it onto the ground. Glass shattered but it didn't stop him reaching for a second frame.

‘Stop it!' she said, holding the picture between them like a tug-o-war. ‘You're carrying on like a child. Is this how Heather's raised you?'

‘Don't you badmouth my mum. She's a good mother. I don't know what mess she's got into with you, but back off!'

He let go of the frame in disgust. He had to get out of this house.

‘Where are you going?'

‘None of your business.'

She chased him down the hallway. ‘Why won't you believe that you're my grandson? Isn't that why Heather sent you here?'

He spun round. ‘No. I came here because I found these letters hidden in her room.' He pulled them from his back pocket and fanned them in front of her. ‘I also came here to tell you to leave her alone. You can take us to court but we don't have any money. And it's not as if you need any more.'

‘Heather doesn't know that you're here?'

‘No. And she won't either.'

Stopping, the lady paled. ‘We might have a problem then.'

‘You've got that right. How dare you threaten my mum. She's struggling enough without your grief.'

‘Matthew, come with me,' she said, walking back towards the kitchen.

‘Why should I?'

‘We need to talk.'

‘No, I'm out of here,' he said, reaching for the door handle.

‘Matthew, just give me a second.'

‘I don't want to—'

‘Please. It's very important. For you and your mum.'

Breathing in, he wanted to shout some more but the fright on her face was genuine. Momentarily, he collared his anger and followed her into the kitchen.

‘Take a seat.'

‘I'll stand.'

‘I insist.'

‘I don't care. Tell me what you have to say, so I can get out of here.'

Beaten, she sat down and nursed her orange juice. She looked out the bay windows and watched the finches hop between branches in their aviary. Small shadows hid in her wrinkles as the sunlight streamed inside. Slowly, she drank a mouthful, swallowed and asked, ‘How much do you know of your mother falling pregnant?'

‘Enough.'

‘Nothing, in other words.'

‘So?'

‘So are you interested in the truth?'

‘Of course. But I won't hear it from you.'

The lady gave a pained smile. She was tiring of his stand-offish behaviour. But he was sick of her lies.

‘When your mother was fourteen,' the lady began, ‘she fell pregnant to a sixteen-year-old boy she'd met at a party. They were both from bad crowds and known to do crazy things. Your mother had snuck out of her parents' house to go to the party and your father—that is, my son—had gatecrashed it. There were no adults at the party, but plenty of beer.
Something was bound to happen. Before long, your mum and dad were drunk and flirting heavily with each other.

‘Your dad said to your mum that he wanted some air, so the both of them went for a walk along the nearby river. Your mother was slimmer and more attractive back then so it was natural that your dad became interested in her. They kissed some more before they, well, you know what happened next. Your mother was worried about getting pregnant but your father foolishly convinced her that it couldn't happen on the first time. They were lying on the river bank when the police arrived at the party and scared everyone away. Your parents escaped through a back street.

‘Two months later, your mother found out she was pregnant and told your father. He panicked and wanted her to prove that he was responsible. But of course he was the only person she'd slept with. That was my son. Always denying things. I tried bringing him up the right way, but he never listened to me. Eventually, after a lot of tears, your father agreed to take care of your mother as long as she didn't say a word to their parents. But you can't hide a pregnancy for long and so we all found out.'

‘My mum says she never knew who my dad was,' Matt scoffed.

The lady shook her head. ‘Typical Heather. Always trying to rewrite history. The truth is your mother knows exactly who your dad is. He was at your birth. We all were.'

‘So what happened?' he asked, taking a seat.

‘After you were born, your father panicked. He realised how hard it is to raise a baby. You demanded every minute of your mum's time and he couldn't handle it. He wanted to party all the time but he couldn't because he had to stay at home to look after you and your mum. One day he even suggested that you be put up for adoption—'

‘Adoption!'

‘You have to understand it was a tough time for all of us. Your father was seventeen by then and your mother fifteen. They were way too young for that kind of responsibility. They didn't know what they had got themselves into. We all thought the idea of adoption was for the best. Everyone except your mother, of course. Thankfully she is a stubborn woman and she fought to keep you.

‘Eventually, your mum talked your dad into changing his mind and he promised to stick by you both. They moved into the garage at the back of my
old house and borrowed some furniture. Your father dropped out of school and found a job at a fruit and vegetable shop.

‘Everything was fine for about a month. That's until the bills started coming in. Your parents would argue every night and day about money. They were loud and angry arguments that would last all night long. Your mother would leave crying, only to return in the morning after your father had managed to woo her back.

‘After a particularly heated argument one night, your dad jumped in his car and left for the pub. He ran a stop sign and collided with another car. He ended up in hospital for eight weeks.' The lady covered her mouth. ‘You should have seen him. He was a complete mess. They had tubes sticking out of him everywhere. I thought my son was going to die. Your mum and I wouldn't leave his side. We were so glad when we finally saw him walk out of that horrible place after two months. The doctors said there was a chance he'd never walk again. And I thought it would be the end of the fighting between him and your mum.

‘But it wasn't. Your dad lost his job. The medical bills, food bills and knockbacks for work eventually wore him down. He and your mum continued
fighting until he made the worst decision of his life: he left you both.'

‘Left? What do you mean?'

‘He just got in his car and never came back. No letter. No goodbyes. No phone call. He just left. It broke your mother's heart. She's never forgiven him.'

‘Then what?'

‘You know the story. Your mum took care of you by herself. She said she didn't need any help. She worked one job after another to support you both. She moved into her own unit. I tried seeing you a couple of times each week but your mother wouldn't let me. She blamed me for your dad leaving. I said she was being ridiculous. She said I was banned from ever seeing you again. She never forgot that we wanted to put you up for adoption.'

‘So she shouldn't,' Matt said angrily. He hadn't even been alive very long and his whole future had been haggled over. That's if this lame story was remotely true.

‘That's all in the past now. I admit that it was the wrong thing to do. I was just as scared as your parents at the time. Your mother has punished me ever since. She has never let me see you even after I've begged and begged her. She keeps a silent
telephone number and she moves every time I find it or your home address.'

‘How did you find us this time?'

The lady pointed at the framed newspaper articles. ‘You're a talented footballer. You're bound to pop up in a story somewhere.'

Matt couldn't stand this farce any longer. ‘Sorry lady, you've got some nice stories but I don't believe any of this. You sure know about my mum and me but you could've learnt most of it from those articles. I don't know what scam you're pulling, but I don't want to be a part of it. See you later.'

He marched along the corridor towards the front door but the lady's voice hooked him. ‘You still want proof, don't you?'

‘No, because I know it doesn't exist.'

‘Then you might like to look at this.'

He turned and stared at her. This was madness. She wasn't his grandmother. She was some gypsy peddling lies. But he humoured her. He looked at her proof.

The photo was nearly fifteen years old. It was of him as a baby, wearing Mickey Mouse ears and sitting in a bucket of water. It had been a hot day and the local pool had been ten k's away. He'd seen the photo a hundred times before, most recently in his
mum's bottom drawer. Except this copy wasn't ripped. There was a lady standing next to him; a younger version of the lady whose kitchen he was currently in.

‘So what? You could've been a friend of mum's once.'

‘You also have a scar above your right hip. You burnt it on a metal heater when you were a bub.'

‘You could've found that out from a mutual friend.'

‘Your middle name is Ian. You were named after your grandfather's favourite football player.'

‘Common knowledge,' he lied.

‘Then how about a birth certificate?'

The lady tipped the contents of a shoebox across the three-seater lounge. Hundreds of baby photos, newspaper clippings and documents scattered across its leather surface. He dared not touch any of it for fear of what he might find.

‘Those photos are of you and me. I wouldn't let your mother have any of them.'

No. This couldn't be true.

‘That's your baptism card. There's a photo that goes with that too.'

No. No. No.

‘And that's your birth notice in the paper. It has your name and my name on it. You were such a cute little baby.'

No! This couldn't be happening.

‘Matthew, are you okay? You look troubled. Do you want a seat?'

He did. He tripped backwards into it and tried focusing. Too many thoughts were whirling through his head. He was having trouble breathing. He wanted to be sick.

‘Do you want your drink?'

‘Yeah. Yeah, that might help.'

But before the lady retrieved it, he grabbed her arm. ‘If this is all true, then why were you so keen to see me?'

‘Because of my son.'

‘Who?'

‘Your dad.'

Matt blinked. ‘He's alive!'

‘Of course. And eager to meet you.'