The Beloved (13 page)

‘What's the meat?' I asked.

‘Brains.'

‘
Brains?
'

‘Yes, for maths dunces.'

‘Very funny.'

‘I think so.'

Sunday was overcast. We caught a ferry – heady with the smells of engine oil, old timber and salt water – to Luna Park. Tempe's friend Allison was, as Tempe had promised, a good sort. Best of all, she loved the rides.

‘You were supposed to keep me company,' Tempe grumbled as Allison and I lined up for the big dipper.

We all had toffee apples and I had fairy floss and a hot dog as well.

‘You'll be sick,' said Tempe.

‘No, I won't. You should try it; better than brains.'

‘Very funny.'

‘I think so.'

Rain had been threatening all morning and by midday, heavy drops sent us scuttling to the ferry. At Tempe's we dried off and made toasted ham sandwiches and tea. Afterwards we trooped downstairs. Allison sprawled on the sofa with a book and Tempe set out paints, brushes and paper. ‘I mostly use oils, Slug, but for now I think you should stick to watercolours. These are a bit old but they'll do. The brush is more important, anyway.'

My old brushes were like straw compared with the new sable brushes Tempe had given me and her paints came in tubes instead of tablets.

She brushed clear water over a whole sheet of thick, rough paper called rag then squeezed out a worm of violet paint. She dipped her brush into the paint and touched it to the wet paper where it bloomed like a flower.

‘You have to work quickly,' she said, dropping on more paint: scarlet, indigo, sap green. She didn't seem to be painting anything in particular but the colours looked scrumptious. In some places they were dark and strong, in others delicate and pale. The brush flowed over the paper like a living thing, sending paint dancing through the water in a kaleidoscope of shifting shapes. ‘You mustn't drag the paint. Tease it out, gently.'

When it was dry, Tempe took a black pen and drew pictures through the colour: figures, birds, flowers. The effect was . . .

‘Dazzling, isn't it?'

Yes, dazzling. It reminded me of colouring-in books with my paints spilling over the lines and how much it upset Mama.

Next, Tempe had me stroke paint onto dry paper. ‘Easier to control,' she said, ‘but not as much fun.' When I finished painting, I studied the brightly coloured blobs and swirls and made out a baby, a flower and a cat. Carefully, I drew them in with ink. It looked all right but would have been better with a lighter touch. Fewer lines, just enough to suggest what you were drawing. The next picture was good; a little stand of orange, violet and red trees and a yellow pond.

‘I love it!' said Tempe. ‘Much better than ordinary colours, don't you think?'

Yes! Tempe
understood
. The third painting was better again – just shapes among colours, like a kaleidoscope – circles, triangles, diamonds, stars.

‘Wait till your mother sees that.'

‘She'll hate it.'

‘Why?'

‘She doesn't like my paintings.'

‘But they're fabulous! Full of flair. What does your dad say?'

‘He says he likes anything I do. He says I take after you.'

She smiled. ‘Poor you.'

Tempe shuffled about the kitchen, pouring coffee and lighting her first cigarette of the day.

‘Take Allison a cup of coffee, please Slug.'

‘Allison?'

‘Yes. She's in my room.'

Her voice was airy and light, as if the words didn't matter. But I felt they did. Yellow fans edged with murky pink flashed from beneath her throat and I suspected a lie; not an outright lie, but truth being hidden. I knew I should keep my mouth shut but I needed to understand what was going on.

‘You've only got one bed.'

‘It's big enough.'

‘But—'

Tempe raised her finger. ‘Slug, years ago when you first came here, I warned you about seeing too much. Remember? There are boundaries.'

I shut my mouth and took Allison her coffee. She was propped up in Tempe's bed against a pile of pillows, reading a book. When I went in she put down the book and smiled.

‘Thanks, pet.'

I hung about, wanting to ask her . . . what?

‘What is it?' she said.

‘Why don't you sleep on the couch?' I felt guilty for asking but I wanted to know.

‘Oh . . . Tempe's bed is more comfortable.'

‘Then why doesn't Mama sleep in Tempe's bed when she's here?'

‘Your aunt and I have known each other a long time. We're used to each other.'

I wasn't satisfied but it was all I dared ask.

‘Do you work?' I said instead, as Tempe slammed around, showering and dressing. She was grumpy about missing the morning with Allison and me because she'd been unexpectedly called in to work.

‘Yes, I'm a teacher but we're on holidays now.'

After Tempe left for work, Allison and I walked up to Kings Cross for coffee scrolls and fresh bread from the bakery, oranges and avocados from the grocer's.

‘Shall we have a spider?' she suggested.

A man in a green apron took our order for two lemonade spiders and we sat watching the people-parade. Ladies tottered along the footpath in high-heeled shoes, the seams of their stockings ruler-straight. Others plodded by on doughy ankles and thick stockings with seams like winding rivers. Young men swaggered in stove-pipe pants, their hair slicked with Brylcreem, older men strode along in business suits and hats.

Back at Tempe's I rushed down to her garage and began to paint it all.

Mama came back from Melbourne in time to do some shopping before we sailed. David Jones was much more posh than Steamies or BPs and while Mama bought glamorous underwear I wandered among the shoes looking for black patent-leather courts. There weren't any. I didn't know whether to be glad or sorry. I still hoped Mama would buy me a pair despite all the reasons why not. She did buy me shirts and corduroy trousers which I liked because you could hardly see my boot.

‘Let's get something for Tempe,' she said. ‘She's so good to us. Any ideas?'

‘A new coffee-pot? Her old one's terribly battered.'

‘I suggested that already but Tempe looked horrified. She's attached.'

‘What about a dressing gown? She only has one and when Allison sleeps with her they have to share it.'

‘Allison?'

‘Her friend.'

‘Who sleeps with her?'

‘Yes. She's nice.'

Mama opened her mouth and shut it. After a moment she said, ‘And I'll bet she's not married.'

‘No. How did you know?'

‘Listen Bertie, ah . . . did they . . . ?'

‘Did they what?'

‘Oh . . . nothing. I think I need a gin, but I'll settle for coffee.'

Mama was hiding something. We headed for the cafeteria.

‘Are we going to buy Tempe a dressing gown?'

‘I think not. It's a bit personal.'

We bought a set of three copper-bottomed saucepans. Tempe turned them in her hands with delight. ‘I'll have to cook something special tonight. Speaking of special, Lily May, Bertie's done some lovely paintings.'

‘Oh yes.' Mama's voice was flat.

‘Really, they're very good.'

‘Don't encourage her, Tempe.'

‘Why on earth not? She has talent.'

‘I sincerely doubt that. Anyway, art makes her reclusive. She spends far too much time with pencils and paints instead of mixing with other children.'

‘Why don't you enrol her in an art class with other children?'

Mama snorted. ‘Moresby doesn't run to art classes, it's too small. She needs to find a more sociable pastime.'

Tempe looked like she wanted to argue but didn't. I wanted to argue too. I wasn't reclusive; I had Stefi and Josie and Tempe and now Allison. I didn't need any more friends.

Later, I found Tempe unloading books from the boot of her car. ‘I'm not reclusive,' I said.

‘Your mother wants the best for you, Slug. I don't want to cause trouble between you but you do have talent. Your mum is knowledgeable about many things but when it comes to art, I know my business. So don't lose faith in yourself, ever. Okay?'

‘Okay.'

‘Promise me.'

‘I promise.'

Chapter Twelve

Vancouver, April 1959

Mama tipped her face to the sun.

‘Bliss,' she sighed. ‘I wish we didn't have to leave. I love Vancouver.' She undid her camera case. ‘Hold still for a photo, Bertie.'

I lined up against a backdrop of tulips, rhododendrons and camellias stretched in a vast patchwork across the grass. Snowdrops, irises, violets and forget-me-nots bordered walkways, roses tossed perfume into the air. Mama picked a forget-me-not and tucked it into the lapel of her jacket. Focused her camera.

Bertie among the flowers in the Butchart Gardens on Vancouver Island.

Bertie with a Canadian Mountie in a red jacket and leather boots.

Bertie with a mouthful of hot dog.

Bertie on the Ferris wheel.

Bertie by the harbour.

Bertie leaving.

As the sun dipped behind the hills our train headed towards Edmonton and Mama's parents. The train had dining cars, lounge cars, bathrooms, and beds that dropped down from the ceiling. It had stewards, gourmet food, books, board games and anything else you wanted, but best of all were the views: high up, the snowy peaks of the Rocky Mountains and below, rivers that snaked through narrow gorges. After Calgary the landscape flattened out; mountains became hills, hills became plains and finally, the prairies of Alberta. The closer we got to Edmonton, the quieter Mama became. Her eyes took on a haunted look and when we pulled into the station she craned her neck as if searching for something beyond the people on the platform. Then she saw her parents and waved.

Grandpa Timothy had a few grey scraps of hair and a wide, kind face. His eyes creased with happiness when he saw Mama and he wrapped himself around her like a bear. ‘You're just like your mama,' he said to me, and kissed my forehead. Granny Davina held back. She was very proper-looking, with a gaunt face and beige hair pulled into a scroll on top of her head. She smiled and kissed Mama's cheek but didn't hug her and said only ‘hello' to me. They took us to their summer cottage, an hour and a half's drive away at Seba Beach, a small village beside a lake. Mama, Grandpa and I changed into comfortable clothes to walk along the beach but Granny Davina stayed in her skirt, pearls and court-shoes. Grandpa said she never wore anything else, even when she was gardening or, as he put it, ‘disciplining the flowers'.

With Mama, Granny Davina was odd. A dark pink ring appeared around her collarbone whenever they were together, as if she wanted to be happy but something stopped her. I guessed anger, but I wasn't sure. Whatever it was, Mama felt it and hugged herself as if she was cold. It
was
cold; the prairie wind managing to reach us despite the sun.

But Mama wasn't cold. She was hot – too hot – sweating and dizzy and tired. We hadn't been there a couple of days before it was clear she was sick. Grandpa Timothy, a doctor, put her to bed but she got worse. Her temperature seesawed; she boiled one minute and froze the next and threw up until she was too weak to move.

‘Malaria, I think,' said Grandpa.

‘It can't be,' Mama gasped. ‘We took quinine right up to the day we left.'

But when her skin turned yellow Grandpa became certain. He bundled her into his car and took her to hospital in Edmonton. When he came back, he was alone. It took a week for malaria to be confirmed.

‘Rotten luck,' said Grandpa, ‘for your mama and for you, Roberta, stuck here with us oldies.'

‘Luck!' said Granny Davina. ‘Nothing to do with luck. Throwing away her advantages, going to backward countries with Australian cowboys and living like savages and having undisciplined children with god-awful accents. I wanted better things for Lily May.'

Mama's army doctor? I wondered. Well, if so, too bad. She was stuck with us.

Grandpa was kept busy. Though he was supposed to be on vacation he was often out on house calls. Every few days he visited Mama in Edmonton and stayed overnight at his club. Granny Davina and I didn't go. Too much fuss, she said; driving to town, opening up their city house, making beds, buying food and then having to pack it all away and come back. The weather had turned warm and the vegies and flowers needed watering. Granny had bridge. And anyway, Mama was getting better. She would be home soon.

Except she wasn't.

She developed a pain in her stomach and every time she seemed to get better, she got worse. I asked Grandpa if I could go with him to visit Mama but he said children weren't allowed to stay at his club. ‘Write to her,' he said. So every time he made the fifty-five mile journey to the city I gave him a letter for Mama. I knew she was too sick to write back but it made me feel closer to her just being able to say what I was doing. Grandpa was keeping me up with my correspondence lessons and teaching me to play chess and cribbage. I didn't like crib – it involved too much adding up. I was teaching Grandpa to play poker – and winning. His face gave him away; he couldn't help smiling when he had a good hand and scowling when he didn't. He'd taught me to use his dinghy and I went out in it when the weather allowed, rowing across the lake, tying up on a far shore or dropping anchor somewhere. Sometimes I just sat, thinking about Mama, other times I drew. I didn't tell Mama that Grandpa had taught me to shoot tin cans with his pea-rifle. She'd been so cranky with Dad for letting us use his gun on Tom Piper I didn't think she'd approve. I liked firing the pea-rifle, feeling its power and being able to hit a target. It reminded me of Dad, how he'd held me against him while I plugged Tom Piper full of holes . . . Tom Piper, Willie . . . how long ago it seemed.

I tried to keep out of Granny D's way because for some reason I couldn't understand, I seemed to make her angry. Her aura flared purpley-red when I was around and even when her words were mild, she sounded annoyed. I tried to like her because she was Mama's mama, but I didn't.

Twice a week I wrote to Dad with the fountain pen he'd given me and I always enclosed some sort of picture – a sketch, a caricature or a little painting which became smaller and smaller as I tried to conserve Tempe's precious gift of rag paper and paints. With Mama in hospital I had no pocket money and I didn't like to ask my grand-
parents.

I heard nothing from Dad. Nine weeks had passed since we left Moresby and I haunted the mailbox. One morning, nearly a month after we arrived, I overheard Grandpa talking to Granny D in the kitchen.

‘They reckon it's bigger than a grapefruit. I'm going to the hospital to check it out.'

I went into the kitchen. ‘Check out what?' They looked up, startled. ‘It's Mama, isn't it?'

‘Nothing you need to bother about,' said Granny D.

‘If it's about my mother it
does
bother me.'

‘When there's something you need to know, you'll be told. That's all I'm saying.'

‘Come on, Bertie,' said Grandpa, ‘let's go for a walk – I need some things from the hardware.'

As we walked, I asked him about Mama.

‘Don't know exactly, dear. Women's problems. But don't you worry, we'll have her fixed up and back to you as soon as we can.' While Grandpa foraged in the hardware store I waited for him in the park. Two boys were kicking a ball; one saw me and tossed it my way.

‘Come on,' he said. ‘Give it a kick.'

‘I can't.'

‘Why not?'

‘I . . .'

He came closer. ‘Eew, a boot. What's wrong with your foot? Give us a look.'

‘No.'

‘Chicken-liver,' called the other boy. ‘Go on.'

‘No!'

‘That ugly, huh? Too bad, I could do with a laugh.' He picked up the ball and spun it in my face. ‘So long, Bootie.'

Back at the cottage I took Grandpa's pea-rifle from the cellar and scrounged two empty tins from the trash can. I painted the boys' faces on them, propped them on the fence and plugged them both between the eyes. After I returned the rifle to the cellar I went back outside and dragged the boat down to the lake. Slowly I rowed out to the middle, stowed the oars and drifted. I opened my locket, took out the photo of Dad and gazed into his eyes. Why the long silence? Could he be sick too? A puff of wind sped between my fingers and snatched Dad, tossing him in the air and twirling him like a moth. Higher and higher he went, until he disappeared. I snapped shut the locket. I couldn't risk losing Mama too.

No room for photos
and
dreams
. . .

Silence pummelled the air. Pushing away panic, I grabbed the oars and rowed hard back to shore. Only a photo. I'd get him to send me another. But where was he? The boat crunched onto the sand. I clambered out, sped up to the cottage and flung back the kitchen door. ‘Granny Davina?' I panted. ‘Could we please phone my father?'

‘What . . . ? Oh, for heaven's sake, Roberta, look at that sand. Get a broom.'

‘Yes, I will, but could we please phone my father? I haven't heard from him since we left home. It's been ten weeks. I'm worried, and just now out on the lake I lost his photo. It's all I had and I need him to send me another one.'

‘Telephone New Guinea for a photo – have you lost your mind? Do you know how much it costs? Your father's fine, Roberta. If he weren't, we'd have heard.'

‘Please . . .'

‘Absolutely not. Now clean up that mess and when you're done I need some potatoes from the cellar, if you don't mind.'

I cleaned up the sand and went down into the darkness of the cellar, switching on the light at the bottom of the stairs. The air was thick with the smell of over-ripe fruit and old towels. Sacks of potatoes, onions, boxes of pears and apples were stacked against the walls and the shelves were lined with preserved fruit, jam and chutney. I picked out half a dozen potatoes, took them back upstairs and gave them to Granny D.

Back on the beach the air was sharp. Waves skittered across the inky water and, on the other side of the lake, hills hunched against a darkening sky. I dragged the rowboat up the sand and tipped it upside down so it didn't fill with water when the storm came. Then I wriggled beneath it and lay there listening to my breath, feeling cold grit and grass on my face and thinking about my mother in hospital. How sick
was
she? Had Grandpa told me the truth about fixing her up or . . . ? Surely, nothing
really
bad could happen to Mama? Not . . . ?

And Dad – why hadn't he written?

‘Roberta!' Grandpa called. I slithered out.

‘I was beginning to worry about you,' he said. ‘It's supper time.' He caught my arm. ‘Tomorrow, Bertie, just you and me, we'll go downtown and send your pa a telegraph. Only, don't tell your grandmother. She fusses, you know.'

Around one in the morning the storm hit. I listened to it rattle the windows of the cottage, then got out of bed and went out to the porch to watch. As I passed the cellar I saw a line of light under the door and realised I must have left it on when I'd got the spuds. I went down to turn it off. Jars of blackcurrant and raspberry jam glowed on the shelves like bottles of blood. I picked up a jar, took off the cloth cover and peeled back the cellophane. Beneath it was a smooth pad of wax that gave way when I pushed. Overhead, thunder cracked. I stuck my finger in the jam and held it up to the light. Rich and gleaming and just thick enough to finger-paint
GD
across every jar on the shelf. When I finished I got Grandpa's pea-rifle from the corner, lined up on the first jar and pulled the trigger.
Whack!
Fruit mince hit the wall.
Die, old bat
.

Boom!
went the thunder. I lined up again.
Crack!
Strawberry conserve exploded against the wall.
Whack! Splat!
Blackcurrant jam – two jars – right in her mean mouth. Nice. Mustard pickle. Whoops. Intestines, not nice. Innards should be red. Plum jam – nah, not sloppy enough. Raspberry jam, yes! One. Two. Three – oh, perfect blood!

‘What in
God's name
is going on?'

She stood at the top of the stairs, her face stretched with rage. I put down the gun. Suddenly I was tired, so tired I could hardly stand up. If only I could go to sleep and wake up at home, with my mother and father and my brother and everything normal again.