Thorn on the Rose Page 15

  Six weeks. Six short weeks and he’d walk her down the aisle and be done with fatherhood. Some managed it with success. He had failed, as he had failed at marriage. As he had failed at much.

  The wedding party was to be at the Hooper house. Two women would be hired to assist Margaret and Amber with the catering. Maisy, who owned a set of wedding cake tins, had baked the wedding cake, three square tiers of varying size which would balance on columns and be decorated with sugar flowers by Margaret Hooper. Norman had heard much about the sugar flowers. Margaret Hooper apparently had a clever hand with icing sugar.

  The wine had been ordered. A keg of ale would be delivered on the day. Norman had compiled his list of Duckworths and ex-Duckworths. Lorna had offered her services in the writing of the invitations. Norman supplied the stamps, the ivory envelopes and matching writing paper.

  Sissy demanded he purchase a new grey suit. He’d ordered it from a city catalogue, at sale price, had ordered his usual size. It arrived, and hung on him like a shapeless sack. The company exchanged it for a size smaller, though not at the sale price. Add to that the sending of the thing backwards and forwards by mail and the suit had been no bargain.

  It was written down in his account book. Every penny spent had been itemised, tallied. He’d added the cost of new spectacles ordered from the optical man who set up shop in the town hall two or three times a year. Certainly he’d needed them.

  Norman’s organisational skills were renowned but there is only so much that can be organised, as there is only so much that can be said about a wedding. His weeks had been filled with the saying, his every meal crammed with it. He longed for May. He wanted it done with.

  Six more weeks.

  Three and a half dozen sealed and stamped envelopes stood in a row on the Hoopers’ hallstand. Half a dozen unused ivory envelopes waited on the writing desk. Jim hadn’t completed his guest list. He hadn’t been there to complete it. He’d driven his intended and her gown home from Willama, dropped his sisters off, told them he was going out to the farm to get petrol and he hadn’t returned.

  He’d been spending his days working on the garden, sleeping at night in the cellar, eating with the manager and his wife or with Hogan’s men and sitting for long hours in the moonlight, looking over the land.

  On Thursday Hogan and his crew packed up the last of their tools and left. On Friday morning the manager’s wife came across the paddock to tell him his father had been on the telephone again, that he wanted Jim to call him.

  Jim was working in the garden. He didn’t make the call.

  He worked until nightfall, ate with the manager and his wife. They were drinking tea when the telephone rang. It startled Jim. There was something about the demanding tone that told him it was his father. He took the call.

  ‘Bring in a drum of petrol when you come. I’ll need it tomorrow,’ Vern said.

  ‘Righto, Pops.’

  Maybe he needed petrol. Maybe he didn’t. Jim filled a four-gallon drum and loaded it into the car; he thought about getting into the car.

  Then he walked away from it. He couldn’t stand the thought of going home.

  Or couldn’t stand the thought of marrying Sissy Morrison in six weeks’ time.

  He’d have to tell her it was all off. He’d have to take off, join up.

  He wanted to live in this old house.

  But not if Sissy was in it.

  Would he want to live in it once he told her the wedding was off? Would he want to live at all once he’d told her the wedding was off?

  So . . . join up?

  He’d enjoyed his time in camp. There wasn’t much that he was good at but he’d always been a fair shot with a rifle and, having become accustomed early to taking orders, he’d got on well.

  Camp wasn’t war.

  He had to do it though.

  The train went through at seven. He’d tell his family at dinner, tell Sissy before the train came in — just before — and buy his ticket before he spoke to her.

  He couldn’t. Norman sold the tickets.

  He’d drive the car down to Balwyn, leave it at his uncle’s place.

  He had to. The alternative was fathering a batch of kids with Sissy — on Sissy.

  That thought got him to his feet. He’d tell her tomorrow night.

  He should have done it sooner. Shouldn’t have let Norman pay for that dress. And he’d let Sissy order a pair of white satin shoes, let Margaret dream of being a bridesmaid in pink.

  He had to go through with it.

  And wasn’t Sissy the type of girl a bloke needed to marry? She’d never had another boyfriend and wasn’t likely to. He got along all right with her — most of the time. She’d been built to bear Hoopers.

  He sat down again, striving to see his father’s grandchildren, to see Sissy singing nightgown-clad babies to sleep.

  Instead he saw her standing over a cot reciting ‘Daffodils’. Saw a batch of little Sissies chanting back at her. And he was up and pacing his house. His house, since he’d been eleven or twelve.

  His, but never Sissy Morrison’s.

  He peered at his watch. The windows had no blinds yet. Moonlight poured in, but offered insufficient light to read his watch face. He’d taken the call from his father between six thirty and seven. It must have been nine now. He had to take that petrol in.

  He ran his hand over the newly papered walls, touched smooth paintwork, loving that house, wanting to live in it, wanting to work all day in the garden until he’d got it back the way it used to be.

  Lighting one cigarette from the last, Jim stood looking at his garden. He couldn’t see the weeds in the moonlight. He could see the paths he’d cleared, see the creek reflecting the moon.

  And he had to go home.

  The doors locked, he slipped the key into his pocket and started around the house to his car — but diverted, wondering what ants did on moonlit nights, if they slept or had teams to work the nightshift. Stamped his feet on clay then stood immobile looking down. Couldn’t see if they were crawling over his shoes, up the legs of his trousers. Stamped his feet again, imagined showing his father’s phantom grandson that bull ants’ nest.

  Saw Sissy’s sons stamping on his ants . . .

  Wedding dress or not, he couldn’t marry her.

  The invitations had probably been posted. Had he been staying away from town, wanting them posted, wanting the decision taken out of his hands?

  Maybe he had.

  He looked up at the moon, bigger tonight, roaming free up there, laughing at him because it was free and he wasn’t. He had to get himself free. Somehow. Had to get himself home, too. He walked to the car.

  There were few lights burning in town, no lights showing at his house as he eased the car into the backyard and parked it behind Vern’s new car. It might have been later than he’d thought. He crept in through the back door, crept up the passage to see if the invitations had been posted. Saw them standing white against the dark wood of the hallstand. Fingered them to make certain they were still there.

  The ball had been tossed back into his court. He went to bed to bounce it.

  It bounced around in his head for hours. And the moon had followed him home to peer between his drapes. He liked a dark room, liked his root cellar bedroom. He closed his eyes against the moon, but couldn’t close down his mind.

  Tired, tired of thinking, tired of attempting to find a way out of the mess he’d made and knowing there was only one way out. He tossed until five, when weary from lack of sleep, he rose and crept out to the eastern verandah where he sat smoking until the back door opened. Lorna. She was at it each morning at six, rain, hail, sleet or shine, taking her thirty-minute constitutional. Around and around the verandahs she went, diverging from her straight line on each circumnavigation to avoid his sprawling legs, conversing as she passed, commenting on his early rising, and on the next turn asking after his health. He replied in monosyllables. He’d never had a lot to say to Lorna.

  At seven he h
eard Margaret rattling pots. She enjoyed her kitchen. During the early days of the depression, Vern had paid two full-time domestics. Irene Palmer had wed, Mrs Fitz, the housekeeper, had retired to her daughter’s home in Melbourne. Nelly Dobson now handled the heavy work but Margaret had taken over the kitchen.

  Water splashing in the bathroom, sluicing down the pipes. Vern was up, washing his face, wetting down his hair. Back door opening, slamming. Vern taking his only exercise, the long walk down the back to the old lavatory, still there, though well hidden behind trellis and passionfruit vines. Vern didn’t eat where he peed and he didn’t pee where he ate — and he’d resented paying for Sissy’s septic system.

  ‘Sissy’s septic system,’ Jim mouthed as he rose to his feet. It would make a good tongue twister. He yawned. He’d eat, then get some sleep; stay out of their way today and tonight, and before the train came in, he’d tell them. Then he’d catch the train. The decision made, he went inside for breakfast.

  ‘Morning, Pops, Lorna,’ he said. Vern sat at the head of the table, Lorna on his left. Jim took his place at the foot of the table.

  Margaret served them.

  ‘Morning, Margaret.’

  ‘Good morning, dear.’

  Poor Margaret. She wanted to be a bridesmaid in pink.

  She served Vern two sausages, bacon and two fried eggs with toast. Served Lorna toast, and a small dish of marmalade. Jim ate cereal, followed it with two hard-boiled eggs.

  ‘What time did you get in last night?’ Vern said.

  ‘Late. I got the paths clear, cut a lot of shrubbery.’

  ‘Did you bring my petrol in?’

  ‘It’s in the car.’

  ‘Is Hogan done?’

  ‘They packed up on Thursday night. They did a good job of cleaning up.’

  ‘I’ve paid him enough to do a good job. Did he leave his final bill with you?’

  ‘He said he’d post it.’

  A bad choice of word. He shouldn’t have mentioned the post.

  ‘We need to get the invitations in the mail on Monday,’ Lorna said.

  Jim tapped his boiled eggs with the handle of his knife, peeled them, cut them in half, seasoned them, added a shake of curry to each half, then with his fork he mashed the eggs onto slices of buttered toast while Lorna spoke of the ridiculous length of time a letter took to reach its destination, spoke of a Duckworth now residing in Tasmania.

  ‘With a bit of luck they won’t come,’ Vern said.

  ‘I’ll need your list today,’ Lorna said, and Jim bit into his own version of eggs on toast. Having been trained early not to speak with his mouth full, he could make no reply. ‘Have you completed it?’

  ‘No.’

  Margaret’s watery blue eyes blinking at him, Vern’s red-rimmed eyes squinting at him. He needed glasses but wouldn’t admit to his need.

  Lorna fixed him with a gimlet eye. ‘Get them done today,’ she ordered. ‘Six weeks is the bare minimum of notice one can give.’

  A lump of toast caught in his throat. Jim swallowed. He picked up his teacup, emptied it. Considered filling his mouth again to delay the inevitable.

  But it was inevitable.

  ‘I’m calling it off,’ he said.

  Margaret’s cup stilled halfway to her lips, as did Lorna’s wrist, bent in preparation to swipe marmalade, as did Vern’s loaded fork. Jim had risen from his chair and was almost to the door.

  ‘Sit down and finish your breakfast,’ Vern said.

  ‘I’m finished, Pops.’

  ‘You don’t come out with something like that and walk away from me, boy!’

  ‘I’m not marrying her, Pops. There’s nothing else to say.’

  ‘Sit down, I said.’

  Jim continued to the door. ‘Sitting down won’t change anything. It’s off. I’ll tell her tonight.’

  ‘You never had any intention of marrying her. You used that girl to get me to spend a bloody fortune on doing up that house!’

  ‘I’ll pay for it out of Mum’s money.’ He was at the door. ‘I’ll write to the solicitor and get him to release some of it early.’

  Lorna had spread her marmalade. She bit. Margaret, the never-to-be bridesmaid in pink, wept.

  ‘You’ll get back to this table and sit down when I tell you to sit down.’

  ‘I’m well over twenty-one, Pops — and you may as well know I’m joining up, too.’

  That got Vern to his feet, got him spitting brimfire and sausage.

  Something silenced him mid-roar. He made a grab for the table and, mouth still open, crashed to the floor, taking the tablecloth with him.

  Lorna, never one to show her feelings, gasped, inhaled a crumb of toast and was paralysed by a paroxysm of coughing. Margaret screamed, and ran bawling out to the street. Jim came back.

  Horrie Bull and Mick Boyle helped load Vern into the back seat of the Ford. He was unconscious but breathing. Lorna rode to the hospital at his side, and for once Margaret travelled in the front passenger seat. They made the trip in record time.

  The young doctor diagnosed a stroke. ‘At his age, it’s unlikely he’ll regain consciousness,’ he said.

  They left Vern in a narrow bed, in a ward filled with old and dying men. His daughters kissed his brow. Jim shook his lifeless hand.

  ‘Your gross stupidity caused this,’ Lorna accused.

  Jim knew he’d caused it.

  They spent the morning in Willama and, before leaving for home, returned to the hospital. There was no change in Vern’s condition.

  The news of Vern Hooper’s collapse swept through Woody Creek like a firestorm with a hot north wind behind it sweeps through a gum forest. The news hit Norman’s station at one. He carried it home with him at six where it caused a secondary storm.

  ‘I’m not delaying the wedding again,’ Sissy said.

  ‘It’s six weeks away. There’ll be no need to delay it,’ Amber said.

  ‘Some hang on in a vegetative state for months,’ Norman said. He’d been hanging on in a near vegetative state for most of his married life. He was not yet sixty and looked seventy-five.

  ‘I’m not delaying the wedding, and that’s final,’ Sissy said. She’d spent six years in the planning of it, and nothing, no one, was going to interfere with her wedding day.

  By eight, Sissy was looking on the bright side. It could alter everything if Vern Hooper died. Jim wouldn’t leave two unmarried sisters living alone in town. She wouldn’t have to live on a fly-riddled farm. She’d throw huge parties out there though, and invite everyone — and make them green with envy.

  There was no bright side to look on at the Hooper house. Vern’s offspring went to their beds late and rose early. Lorna called the hospital at seven to hear that Vern was very low. By nine they were on the road to spend their morning at his deathbed.

  ‘I’m sorry, Pops,’ Jim said.

  ‘You’ve been courting Cecelia for years, dear. You’ve got the wedding jitters, that’s all,’ Margaret said. ‘Everyone gets the wedding jitters.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Pops,’ Jim repeated.

  THE WORM TURNS

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Jim said, ten, twenty times a day. Guilt and Margaret had near convinced him that he was indeed suffering from wedding jitters. Guilt and Margaret may have been enough to get him to the altar, had Sissy not called by on the third afternoon to enquire after Vern’s health, had Margaret not invited her in.

  He sat beside his fiancée, Margaret’s eyes never leaving him, Lorna ready to override him should he attempt to open his mouth. During the two hours Sissy remained, he managed half a dozen words, most of them beginning with S.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said when he spilled tea on the table. ‘Sorry, Sis,’ he said when Lorna spoke of delaying the wedding.

  He was sorry he’d caused his father’s stroke, more sorry when he escaped the women at four and called the hospital. His father was sinking, the nurse said. Jim didn’t want his father to die.

  All his fault. And maybe he had given Siss
y that ring so his father would agree to renovate the old house. He no longer knew why he’d given it to her.

  He took his seat again, drank the tea Margaret had poured in his absence, and sat looking at the three women surrounding him.

  Knew how a worm must feel when surrounded by squawking crows. Hemmed in by them. No chance of escape. They had him corralled, Lorna on his right, Sissy on his left, Margaret opposite, her cream sponge between them. He watched Sissy bite, the cream squirt, adhere to Sissy’s top lip. There was something wrong with her bite, or in the way she bit. Too much chin maybe, too much power in her jaw. Always cream on her top lip. Always crumbs on her skirt. No breasts to catch the crumbs — no breasts, but thighs like tree stumps. He imagined what they’d look like naked. Flinched, bumped Lorna’s elbow.

  ‘Sorry.’

  Sorry too for wondering if a breastless woman could feed babies. Sorry for staring at Sissy’s breasts and wondering why she didn’t have any. It was all very well being built to bear babies, but they had to eat, didn’t they?

  He glanced at the cake crumbs fallen to Margaret’s breasts. She could have fed Vern’s grandkids, could have fed a litter of them. His eyes dared a glance at Lorna’s tight bodice. If there were breasts behind it, they’d issue acid.

  ‘Sorry.’

  He thought of Jenny’s breasts, recalled the feel of them against him when he’d kissed her. Saw his son at her breast, a curly-headed, blue-eyed, smiling cherub; heard an angel singing him to sleep.

  And like the worm he was, he squirmed, spilled tea. It leaked between his legs and through to the tapestry couch.

  ‘Sorry.’

  It still might have been all right — if Sissy had left while he was in his room changing his trousers, if she’d gone while Margaret washed spilt tea from the upholstery, if he’d seen the back of her walking home alone, he might have felt pity enough, guilt enough, but she hung around for another half-hour and he couldn’t look her in the face, so the worm turned, returned to his room to sit on his bed and wait for her to leave.