Tim (7 page)

"Well, he is and he isn't, Mr. Melville. The fact of the matter is, I have to go up to Gosford this weekend to see how my summer cottage is getting on. I've neglected it sadly so far, concentrated on the garden at home. Anyway, I was wondering if you'd object to my taking Tim with me, to help me? I could do with some help, and Tim is terrific. It's very quiet out where I am, and I give you my word he wouldn't be subjected to strangers or undue stress or anything like that. He told me he loved to fish, and the cottage is situated right in the middle of the best fishing for miles around, so I thought perhaps-perhaps he might enjoy it. He seems to like coming to me, and I certainly like his company."

Ron squiggled his eyebrows at Es, who nodded vigorously and took the receiver.

"Hullo, Miss Horton, this is Tim's mother here. . . Yes, I'm very well, thank you, how are you? . . . Oh, that's nice to hear . . . Miss Horton, it's very thoughtful of you to think of inviting Tim to go with you this weekend . . . Yes, he is a bit lonely, it's hard for a poor chap like him, you know . . . I really can't see any reason why Tim couldn't go with you, I think the change would do him good . . . Yes, he does like you an awful lot . . . Let me hand you back to my husband, Miss Horton, and thank you very, very much."

"Miss Horton?" Ron asked, snatching the receiver from his wife. "Well, you heard the Old Woman, it's all right with her, and if it's all right with her it had better be all right with me, ha-ha-ha! Yeah, right you are! Okay, I'll see he packs a bag and gets to your place by seven on this Sat-iddy morning . . . Right, Miss Horton, thank you very much . . . Bye bye now, and ta again."

Mary had planned the sixty-mile trip as a picnic, and had jammed the back of the car with provisions, diversions, and comforts she thought the summer cottage might lack. Tim arrived promptly at seven on Saturday morning. The day was fine and clear, the second weekend in a row that it had not threatened rain, and Mary shepherded Tim out to the garage immediately.

"Hop in, Tim, and make yourself comfortable. Are you all right?"

"All right," he answered.

"My house is not in Gosford itself," she said as the car headed out along the Pacific highway in the direction of Newcastle. "Living and working in the city, I didn't want to have a holiday cottage right in the middle of another crowd of people, so I bought a property quite a way out, on the Hawkes-bury near Broken Bay. We have to go into Gosford because the only road to my place starts there, you see.

"My word, how Gosford has grown! I remember it when it used to consist of a pub, a garage, two men, and a dog; now it's jammed with commuters and vacationers, there must be sixty thousand of them at least, it seems. ..."

She trailed off nervously, glancing sidelong at him in sudden embarrassment. There she was, trying to make conversation with him as though he was somewhat like the person she imagined his mother might be. In his turn he was trying to be an interested auditor, snatching his fascinated glance away from the passing landscape every so often to fix his bright, loving eyes on her profile.

"Poor Tim," she sighed. "Don't take any notice of me, just relax and look out the window."

For a long time after that there was silence. Tim was obviously enjoying the journey, turned side on with his nose almost against the window, not missing a thing, and it made her wonder just how much variety there was in his life, how often he was lifted out of what must be a very humdrum existence.

"Does your father have a car, Tim?"

He didn't bother to turn and face her this time, but continued to look out the window. "No, he says it's a waste of time and money in the city. He says it's much healthier to walk, and much less trouble to catch the bus when you need to ride in something."

"Does anyone ever take you out for a drive?"

"Not very often, I get carsick."

She turned her head to stare at him, alarmed. "How do you feel now? Do you feel sick?"

"No, I feel good. This car doesn't bump me up and down like most cars, and anyway, I'm in the front not the back, so it doesn't bump as much, does it?"

"Very good, Tim! That's quite right. If you should feel sick you'll tell me in plenty of time, though, won't you? It isn't very nice if you make a mess in the car."

"I promise I'll tell you, Mary, because you never yell at me or get cranky."

She laughed. "Now, Tim! Don't be martyrish! I'm quite sure no one yells at you or gets cranky with you very often, and only then if you deserve it."

"Well, yes," he grinned. "But Mum gets real mad if I'm sick all over everything."

"I don't blame her in the least. I'd get real mad too, so you must be sure to tell me if you ever feel sick, and then hang on until you get outside. All right?"

"All right, Mary."

After a little while Mary cleared her throat and spoke again. "Have you ever been out of the city, Tim?"

He shook his head.

"Why not?"

"I dunno. I don't think there was anything Mum and Pop wanted to see outside the city."

"And Dawnie?"

"My Dawnie goes all over the place, she's even been to England." He made it sound as though England were just around the corner.

"What about holidays, when you were a little boy?"

"We always stayed at home. Mum and Pop don't like the bush, they only like the city."

"Well, Tim, I come down to my cottage very often, and you can always come too. Perhaps later on I can take you to the desert or the Great Barrier Reef for a real holiday."

But he wasn't paying any attention to her, for they were coming down to the Hawkesbury River, and the view was magnificent.

"Oh, isn't it
lovely?"
he exclaimed, wriggling on the seat and gripping his hands together convulsively the way he always did when he was moved or upset.

Mary was oblivious of everything except a sudden pain, a pain so new and alien that she had no real idea why she should feel it. The poor, sad fellow! Somehow events had conspired to stunt his every avenue of expansion and mental growth. His parents cared for him very much, but their lives were narrow and their horizons restricted to the Sydney skyline. In all justice she could not find it in her heart to blame them for not realizing that Tim could never hope to get as much out of their kind of life as they did themselves. It had simply never occurred to them to wonder whether he was truly happy or not, because he
was
happy. But could he perhaps be happier still? What would he be like if he were freed from the chain of their routine, permitted to stretch his legs a little?

It was so difficult to draw all the threads of her feeling for him together: one moment she thought of him as a small child, the next moment his physical magnificence would remind her that he was a man grown. And it was so hard for her to feel at all, when it was so long since she had done more than merely exist. She possessed no built-in emotional gauge whereby she could distinguish pity from love, anger from protectiveness. She and Tim were like a wierdly juxtaposed Svengali and Trilby: the mindless it was that mesmerized the mind.

Since first seeing Tim all those weeks ago she had confined herself to action, had kept herself mentally out and about, doing things. She had never allowed herself to sit in the quiet withdrawal of private contemplation, for by nature she was not given to probing how and why and what she felt. Even now she would not do it, would not pull herself far enough away from the center of her pain to come to grips with the cause of it.

The cottage had no neighbors closer than two miles, for the area was not yet "developed." The only road was atrocious, no more than an earthen track through the eucalyptus forest; when it rained mud made it impassable and when it didn't rain the dust rose in vast, billowing clouds that settled on the vegetation nearest to the road, petrifying it into spindling brown skeletons. The ruts, ridges, and potholes in the road itself imperiled the stoutest car so severely that there were few people willing to risk the inconvenience and discomfort for the sake of isolation.

Mary's property was quite large for the area, some twenty acres; she had bought it with an eye toward the future, knowing that the cancerous encroachment of the city would eventually lead to development and fantastic profits. Until such time, it suited her love of solitude very well.

A track diving into the trees indicated the beginning of Mary's land; she swung the car off the road and put it over the track, which continued for about a half a mile through the beautiful, aromatic bush, virgin and unspoiled. At the end of the track lay a big clearing which opened on its far side into a tiny beach; beyond it, still salty and tidal here, the Hawkesbury River twisted and turned its wide way through the towering sandstone landscape. Mary's beach was no more than a hundred yards long, and was flanked at each end by soaring yellow cliffs.

The cottage was unpretentious, a square little frame structure with a corrugated iron roof and a wide, open veranda running all the way around it. Mary kept it painted because she could not abide disorder or neglect, but the drab brownish color she had chosen did not improve the appearance of the house. Two huge galvanized iron water tanks stood on high towers at one end of the rear of the house, which faced the track. Trees had been planted at intervals in the clearing, and were at last growing large enough to take some of the bareness away. She had made no attempt at a garden and the grass grew long, but in spite of everything the place had a certain indefinable charm about it.

Mary had spent a considerable amount of money on the cottage since buying the property fifteen years before. The massive water tanks, to have enough fresh water for modern plumbing; electricity, to avoid lanterns and fuel fires. Mary saw no allure in open fires, candlelight, or outhouses; they meant extra work and inconvenience.

From the approaching car the house showed to worst advantage, but Tim was enthralled. Mary pried him out of his seat with some difficulty, and coaxed him through the back door.

"This is your room, Tim," she said, showing him a plain but big bedroom with white walls and furniture; it looked rather like a nun's cell. "I thought perhaps if you like coming here you might think about what color you'd like your room painted, and what kind of furniture you'd like in it. We could shop for it one day in the city."

He could not reply, too excited and overcome with the whole experience to assimilate this fresh delight. She helped him unpack his suitcase and put his few things in the empty drawers and cupboards, then she took him by the hand and led him out to the living room.

Only here had she made major changes in the actual construction of the house, which had once possessed a dark, poorly lit living room extending the entire length of the front veranda. She had pulled the outer wall away piecemeal and replaced it with floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors all the way along, so that when the weather was good there was nothing between the living room and the open air.

The view from this room was breath-taking. The grass sloped downward to the bright yellow sand of the sunny, immaculate little beach, the blue water of the Hawkesbury lapped gently along its border, and on the far side of the wide river wonderful cliffs, splendidly crowned with forest, rose to meet the clear, high sky. The only sounds of man to intrude were those coming from the river; the put-put of outboard motors, the chug of excursion ferries, the roar of speedboats towing water skiers. But the birds screeched and caroled from every tree, the cicadas deafened, the wind moaned softly as if filtered through the sighing branches.

Mary had never shared her retreat with anyone before, but on many occasions she had rehearsed the imaginary conversation she and her first guests would have. They would exclaim and marvel over the view, pass endless comments on everything. But Tim said nothing; she had no idea how much assessment and comparison he could make. That he thought it "lovely" was apparent, but he thought everything was "lovely" that didn't make him unhappy. Was Tim capable of gradations of happiness? Did he enjoy some things more than others?

When she had done her own unpacking and stocked the kitchen, she got him his lunch. He said very little as the meal progressed, chewing steadily through all the food she put in front of him. Unless he was starving or upset, his table manners were impeccable.

"Do you swim?" she asked him after he had helped her wash the dirty dishes.

His face lit up. "Yes, oh, yes!"

"Then why don't you change into your swimming trunks while I finish up here, then we'll go down onto the beach. All right?"

He disappeared immediately, returning so quickly that she had to make him wait while she tidied up the last few odds and ends around the kitchen. Carrying two canvas deck chairs, an umbrella, towels, and various other bits of beach paraphernalia, they staggered laden down to the sand.

She had settled herself into her deck chair and opened her book before she realized that he was still standing looking at her, puzzled and apparently distressed.

She closed her book. "What's the matter, Tim? What is it?"

He fluttered his hands helplessly. "I thought you said we were going swimming!"

"Not we, Tim," she corrected gently. "I want you to swim to your heart's content, but I never go into the water myself."

He kneeled beside her chair and put both his hands on her arm, very upset. "But then it isn't the same, Mary! I don't want to go swimming all by myself!" Tears sparkled on his long fair lashes, like water beading on crystal. "Please, oh
please
don't make me go in all by myself!"

She reached out to touch him, then drew her hand away quickly. "But I don't have a swimsuit with me, Tim! I couldn't go in even if I wanted to."

He shook his head back and forth, growing more and more agitated. "I don't think you like being with me, I don't think you like me! You're always dressed up as if you're going into town, you never wear shorts or slacks or no stockings the way Mum does!"

"Oh, Tim, what am I going to do with you? Just because I'm always dressed up doesn't mean I don't like being with you! I don't feel comfortable unless I'm all dressed up, it's as simple as that. I just don't like wearing shorts or slacks or no stockings."