Wind in the Wires (32 page)

Georgie reclaimed her top. She wrapped it and picked up her bunch of keys.

‘Stay for dinner,’ Jenny said.

‘Have you got enough?’

‘Stew stretches, and I always do too many potatoes.’

*

A leftover from her years with Ray. He’d demanded mountains of mashed potato, and if she hadn’t piled enough onto his plate, his eyes would become wide, greedy. Raelene’s eyes were his tonight. They wanted that top.

She looked more like Florence than Ray. She had her colouring, her build, but none of her gentle simplicity. If anything other than thoughts of immediate self-gratification went on in that girl’s head, Jenny hadn’t seen it.

She hadn’t wanted to take her back either, or to step back so soon into her role of watch-dog, not after England. Like a dream now, that freedom to wake in the morning beside Jim in a strange bed in a strange land and to know the day belonged only to them. No meals to prepare, no clothes line to fill.

Trudy was so easy to manage, too easy. She’d follow Jim around the garden, pulling weeds with him, would amuse herself in the kitchen while Jenny cooked, spend hours playing with her stable of dolls, or sit on the veranda with Jim, reading. Raelene was wound up and ready to go when she rose from her bed, and she didn’t wind down until she was back in that bed. Six times a week and twice on Sundays Jenny decided to give up on Raelene.

She’d got a lift back to town with a trio of bikies, and Jenny scared stiff she’d come back pregnant. Not street smart Raelene. She was on the pill.

Jenny had prayed in her youth for such a pill. She didn’t need it now. She’d wanted to have babies to Jim. It hadn’t happened, and if it had, it wouldn’t have been another Jimmy – probably another Lorna.

Her mind travelled while she drained the silverbeet, added a dash of cream, grated in a little cheese, added pepper, then left it to sit while she drained beans, mashed the potatoes and wondered where Margot was eating tonight, what she was eating.

She blamed herself for the mess Margot had become. She didn’t blame herself for Raelene. She’d shared her bed with that kid for seven years, had sewn her the prettiest frocks, bought her the prettiest shoes. Homemade was no longer good enough for Raelene. She wanted Georgie’s green top.

She’d unwrapped it, had it in her hands again.

Take your eyes off it, Georgie, and she’ll have it, Jenny thought.

Losing her father too young could have had something to do with the way she was. Developing young had pushed her too fast towards boys. She wouldn’t turn sixteen till next November.

‘Run out and tell Daddy his dinner is ready, Trudy,’ she said and Trudy ran.

Give me a child to the age of seven and I will show you the man, someone had once written. It hadn’t applied to Raelene – or maybe it had. She’d been close to seven when Ray had been killed.

She glanced at Georgie who had wrapped her top again and this time stuffed the parcel into her handbag and not a comment out of her.

Her early life had been as disrupted as Raelene’s. What she’d seen of marriage as a kid had probably put her off it for good. She’d lost her brother, lost her grandmother, and look at her.

‘Daddy said can he please have five minutes’ more.’ Trudy was back.

‘Tell him four and a half and not one second more,’ Jenny said, and that little kid ran again to do her bidding.

Why?

How?

Born of Margot, cut from her two months early, her first weeks of life spent in an oxygen crib, handled only by nurses. What did I do with her that I didn’t do with Raelene? Or is it the compatibility or incompatibility of blood lines? Do some click, find their missing links and join in perfect harmony, and others fight in the womb and pop out problem children?

And Cara, conceived of rape, her father any one of five drunken Yankee sailors.

The experts said environment was seventy-five per cent of the child. She’d stayed at school, was a schoolteacher, still called Amberley home.

But didn’t live there.

Who was she beneath the surface? Why had she come to Woody Creek, and how had she known Georgie’s date of birth?

T
HE
L
ETTER

C
ara had been attempting to work out who she was since she’d learnt she wasn’t who she’d been raised to think she was. She hadn’t touched her typewriter since returning from Woody Creek. On the day Morrie and his parents flew home, she’d buried it beneath an ex-Amberley sheeting shroud. In the months since, she’d buried her dreams of marrying Morrie and living happily ever after.

She’d tried to cremate her manuscript. The burning of one page in the sink had caused so much smoke she’d given up that idea fast and sealed it into its giant envelope with yards and more yards of sticky tape, then kicked it deep beneath her bed. So much for magnificent dreams.

An account she’d opened so she might one day buy a car paid for a twelve-inch-screen television with a rabbit’s-ear aerial. She’d spent a lot of nights twisting those rabbit ears and ended up connecting wires to them, then connecting the wires to metal coathangers she looped over the top of the sitting room’s venetian blind. It didn’t look great but she now received a clean picture, or did on two channels – and not a lot worth watching on either of them.

She hadn’t told Myrtle and Robert she’d bought it. Hadn’t told them she’d been up to Woody Creek either. She went to work, came home, ate what she could be bothered preparing while the television attempted to convince her that one brand of coffee, one brand of soap, one brand of washing detergent was superior to another. She bought what was on special.

Called home on Sunday nights from the box on the corner. Rarely extended her calls beyond the allocated three minutes. Nothing to say. She wrote letters and posted them to England. Morrie wrote back.

Marion swore he had a girlfriend or fiancée in England. Cathy said he didn’t. She said his mother had been in hospital again, that they’d removed her second breast, that she was currently having X-ray treatment.

She said that James Collins was being given early release – for good behaviour. And when had that swine’s behaviour been good? In January ’64 he’d been sentenced to five years. He’d served three, plus the months he was in jail prior to the trial. Apparently they counted, and they shouldn’t have counted. And he should have been given twenty years anyway.

She’d returned to the classroom with a new batch of nine year olds and, determined to start out as she planned to continue, she’d worked their little socks off them. On her first day back the office woman had handed her an envelope, her name on it in large black block print. She’d seen
HATE
in that block print, seen the tattoo on Dino Collins’s knuckles and known he’d found her. Hadn’t wanted to touch it. Hadn’t opened it until she was home, in her flat, the door locked, the safety chain on.

And it had been from Georgie, a cute Christmas card, two little girls seated on a chubby Santa’s lap, and ten words.
To Cara. Hope Santa was good to you. Love Georgie

Relief and a different form of fear. She’d understood its message. Given different circumstances, she and Georgie may well have sat together on Santa’s lap.

She’d put it away. Knew she should have tossed it away. Hadn’t.

Some things are fated, even if we don’t recognise fate’s hand at the time. On the Saturday morning after receiving the card, she’d found that green top amid a pile of shop-soiled garments on a table at the Melbourne market and, recognising its quality, she’d bought it and handwashed it in her sink. The stain came out.

She never wore green, but every time she’d looked at it, every time she’d sighted that Christmas card in her desk drawer, she’d known who should wear green.

Then in late February, given the job of searching old school files, she’d unearthed her half-siblings, Georgina, Margot and James Morrison-King. Their dates of birth were there, their Armadale address.

So she’d posted the top to reach Georgie on or near to her birthday.

*

On Friday 30 March, the office woman handed her a second envelope, similarly addressed in large black capitals, a smaller, but chubbier envelope. She had no fear in opening that one. Ripped her way into it before she left the building, read two pages at the tram stop and the rest on the tram, four pages, with little wasted space on any one of them.

Dear Cara,

I’m not much of a letter writer, more familiar with docket books, but today has been one of those days you hope you’ll never repeat, so you’re about to cop its overflow.

Charlie is in hospital and they say that his kidneys have shut down. He’s in his nineties. I know people don’t live forever but I was convinced Charlie would. I took him down to the hospital this morning, and when I got back, the health inspector was waiting for me. He spent an hour or so sniffing out Charlie’s pet plague of mice and his longjohns, then gave me a week to basically remodel the shop or he’ll close us down. The fact that Charlie is dying was water off a duck’s, and when I rang Charlie’s daughter, it didn’t concern her a whole lot more. She’s no doubt looking forward to inheriting his mice and his longjohns. Then your present turned up. I don’t know how you knew it was my birthday, but that top is absolutely fabulous, so I thought I’d let you know that you managed to turn the worst day of my life into something a whole lot better. I was convinced you took one look at us the night you came up to Woody Creek and decided to keep your distance.

I’ve got a fair idea of what you were hoping to find. I’ve been imagining finding my father since I was four years old – when I found out I actually had one. Jenny gave me a framed newspaper photograph of him and I thought because he’d been in the newspapers he was a famous movie star. I used to show it to everyone and tell them that when I grew up I was going to be a famous movie star like my daddy. I was about seven when I took the newspaper out of its frame and read what he’d been famous for. They called him the redheaded water-pistol bandit. He robbed banks, jewellers, you name it, with a worn-out water pistol – wouldn’t even shoot water. Cops in two or three States had been after him.

Jenny met him when she was fifteen, or he ran her down in one of his stolen cars then gave her a job cleaning his classy house – which turned out to be someone else’s classy house he’d decided to borrow. Nine or so months later I turned up, but by then, he was in jail. Most crims reoffend, or so a cop told me once, so I’d probably find him easy enough – if I had the guts to go looking.

I’m sitting in the kitchen, Granny’s clock is telling me it’s almost half past eleven. It may be right but usually isn’t. My watch tells me it’s three o’clock – I haven’t found time to wind it today and tonight I don’t want to. My mind won’t stay away from Charlie. I know he’s not going to make it this time, so I’m drinking his Christmas wine and sort of wishing him a safe trip. I might add that tonight’s bottle is a vast improvement on the one we shared, so it’s no punishment emptying it.

I think this must be Granny’s old writing pad. I didn’t buy it. I never write letters. No one to write to. The last time I used this one was to write to Jenny when she was in Frankston. I can almost feel Granny in it, telling me not to go wasting all of her writing pad. Too late now. I’ve got one page left.

Margot is in Melbourne, in a psych hospital. Her old boyfriend got engaged and she went off her head and attacked her grandmother with a broomstick. Maisy drove into town to get one of her sons – one of them is Margot’s father – anyhow, I’d better stop airing the family’s dirty linen or you’ll put on your running shoes. Blame Charlie – or his wine. I think I’ve had a glass too much – too many. There is a definite difference between having had enough and having had too much. Have too much and you do something about it, having enough forces you to persist in bashing your head against brick walls until more than enough becomes too much . . .

I’d finish on that note, except for Granny. Waste not, want not, she used to drum into us when we were kids, so I need to finish this page. She was the town midwife for years. People would come looking for her at all hours. She’d had enough, but she’d saddle up her horse, pick up her basket and off she’d go.

Before I sign off, one more thing. When we were kids we had Granny and Jenny, which I know is a lot more than some have, but Margot also had Nana Maisy and the Macdonalds. Jimmy had Grandpa Hooper and his aunties. I had Granny and Jenny and nothing more. So, to get to the point of what I’m attempting to say, there is plenty of unfilled space in my life for another blood relative. All written applications for this position will be replied to, though I can’t guarantee the same goes for telephone applications. Once Charlie has gone, then I’m gone.

Love Georgie

P.S. Jen and I both want to know how you knew my birth date.

G

*

Cara folded the pages and slid them back into the envelope. She was going out tonight. Wished she’d known her horseriding midwife granny, instead of Gran Norris. Wished she was going out with Morrie. Wasn’t.

She had a date with Chris Marino, a solicitor she’d met at one of Helen’s dinner parties – Helen, a new teacher, or new to Armadale, enjoyed showing off her cooking skills. Chris, one of her husband’s colleagues, had offered Cara a lift home and she’d accepted. Then a week later he’d called her at school and said he had two tickets to a show on Friday night and would she like to see it with him.

She wanted to see it. He was probably the type who would expect payment in bed after the show, but if he was, he was doomed to disappointment. There was only one man she’d be willing to hop into bed with.

*

The show was not spectacular, nor was the company. His car was. He was punctual. She shouldn’t have worn high heels. They made her taller than her date. He had a pleasant face, was pleasant enough company. He expected to be invited up for coffee, but took her refusal well. In points out of ten, she’d give Chris Marino five. She’d give Morrie ten plus – then delete a point for distance and two more for his sick mother.

Late when she got in. Shoes off, frock off, dressing-gown on, she made coffee and took it to the table where Georgie’s letter tempted her to read it again.

There is plenty of unfilled space in my life for another blood relative. All written applications for this position will be replied to . . .

Cara glanced at her sheet-shrouded typewriter, a white useless lump on the landscape, and considered unshrouding it and writing a fast application for the job of blood relative. Georgie had few. Cara had none.

I can’t get further involved. I don’t want to get further involved. I knew that posting that top would say more than I meant it to say.

Had it said more than she meant?

I was convinced you took one look at us that night and decided to keep your distance . . .

Which was pretty much how she had felt. She’d got off the bus at the city depot feeling desolate, and desperate enough to spend money on a taxi home where she’d washed that town out of her hair. She’d been desolate enough to consider spending the September holidays at Amberley. Then Morrie came back from Perth and she’d put Woody Creek away.

Everyone she knew was either married or getting married, or had been married, and those who weren’t were bed hopping. He’d never said he loved her. He’d kissed her, but never once had he stepped over some line he’d drawn across their relationship.

He either had a fiancée at home, or a boyfriend. Marion had suggested that too.

It was after midnight before she removed the sheeting shroud and wound paper into the carriage, not to write a letter, or an application, but to make a copy of Georgie’s letter and to somehow trap her voice on paper.

It became much more. Eight pages she wound into the carriage, fast pages. Words she’d been denying for too long were pouring out from some place deep within. Two o’clock when she read what she’d written. It was the beginning of something.