The Near Miss

In the security born of many harmless marriages, it had been forgotten that Love is

no hothouse flower, but a wild plant, born of a wet night, born of an hour of sunshine,

sprung from wild seed, blown along the road by a wild wind.

The Forsyte Saga
, John Galsworthy
   

One hot day, a young woman rushed her child's stroller through spotlights of glaring sun, and lingered in rectangles of shade cast by the butcher, the baker, and the two-dollar shop. The woman's four-year-old daughter was too large, really, to be strapped into the flimsy stroller — if the child had thought to stand up and walk, she could have carried the contraption on her back, like Atlas bearing the world. The girl pressed the backs of her sandals onto the stroller wheels, making them shudder to a halt, and Grace stumbled.

‘Lotte,
please
.'

Lotte narrowed her green eyes. ‘I want to
walk
.'

Grace stopped outside the newsagent to stare at the caged news headlines
: Wildfires Rage. Ten Homes Lost. Train Rails Buckle in Heat.
Nothing more about the recent mortgage rate rise. Maybe they should give up Lotte's kindy gym classes. Or eat less. Or rent out a room to a student, a nice quiet girl who liked housework. Maybe Grace should work more. Or Tom should work more. Later, going over the events of that afternoon, she would see that her hot exhaustion, and her worry about money, had distracted her from the child.

‘When are we getting an ice cream?' Lotte twisted in the stroller, which creaked at the joints. Please make it through one more trip home, oh piece of junk. It was like so many things these days: cheap, and bound to break. They passed a billboard ad for the local university:
You Weren't Born To Wait
. As if some people might be born into some waiting caste, but not you — you had scored the lucky non-waiting card.

‘Soon.'

‘I want to get
out
.'

‘Just . . . wait.'

At the ice-cream shop, people with sweating faces and glazed eyes spilled out of the doorway. Grace parked the stroller and unbuckled Lotte. She lifted her daughter, and held her on her hip.

Nearby, a woman in a green tie-dye dress shared a tub of ice cream with her son. She raised a spoon to his mouth, revealing blonde armpit hair, slick with sweat. The little boy wore a shirt open over his milk-white chest, and a tattered straw hat. Check the woman's dreadlocks, almost to her waist! Such commitment to a life less ordinary, probably spent in sharehouses traced with fragrant smoke, littered with motorbike helmets and half-painted canvases, where nobody had mortgages. Grace momentarily ached for such a life.

She sighed. Maybe she should have done more in her twenties, taken a few more risks. She should have travelled to the Incas, even though there might have been bandits; she should have taken that Contiki tour of eastern Europe with her uni friends. Her back hurt; Lotte was too big to be carried. She lowered her daughter to the path. The red Subaru, somewhere to the north, speeding towards them, could not yet be seen.

Melody watched the woman and the little girl, who was about Skipper's age. The girl's mother let one handle of her shoulder bag drop and she pawed through the bag, looking for something. She tsked, and sighed, and glanced around herself, catching Melody's eye for a second. She hastily looked back to the bottomless bag; the answer to her problem was obviously in there. She frowned. Maybe infrastructure shares had plummeted, or the nanny had taken the day off? Maybe her Master of the Universe husband was having an affair with his life coach? Melody looked away. Oh, if she was going to survive back here in the big city she would have to learn to stop watching them all, and judging, or her head would fill up with stupid thoughts.

Melody crouched in front of Skip, and fed him the final spoon of pistachio and chocolate ice cream, bought with the very last of their money. The universe would provide. A passing fat man walked across the hem of her green dress as it pooled on the pavement.

She carried on her back a day-pack stuffed with groceries from the small supermarket next door. She had paid for the rice, but the cans of chick peas, the tofu, the olive oil and the curry paste had been slipped in when no one was looking. She didn't shoplift much anymore. It was bad karma. But they had to live.

Around them, ice cream melted over knuckles, and faces tilted this way and that, tongues protruding to catch drips. Old Italian mommas stood back-to-back with men in suits, and young women leaned on prams. City people all, their synthetic fabrics rustling, a different species from those Melody and Skipper had left behind on the commune. Here in the south, they were fatter. Whiter. Shinier, from their walnut-gloss heads to their coloured nails, their thin threads of overplucked eyebrows and their bald, shaven legs. Love yourselves, people! You are all beautiful blossoms of Nature. Even you, spotty teenage boys showing your underpant tops, and you, fat Greek men in belted pants.

She checked her drawstring purse again for cash. Nothing. Just the stubs of two Greyhound bus tickets from Byron Bay to Melbourne. She sighed. There would be no going back. The commune had been heaven, until the druggies got in, with their money-belts of plastic baggies. The woman's fatal overdose could have been predicted; but the death of the woman's six-month-old baby through neglect had defeated all imagination. Melody had not known the woman well, but everything good died with the baby. The mangoes rotted on the trees, the waterfall ran dry, the lantana seized its chance to strangle veggie patches. Melody had packed her and Skipper's backpacks, hitchhiked into Lismore and left on a bus heading south.

Now, licking the bare ice-cream spoon, she glanced over at the small supermarket. An aproned man stood in the door, and raised a hand. Melody looked around, but it was at herself he was waving. He appeared to be wielding a phone. Her backpack of stolen goods grew heavy on her shoulder. Oh, please don't let him have filmed her stealing. Anything that could land her in court, that could separate her from Skipper, could not be risked. She moved, and the cans of chick peas clunked in her pack. They had fallen to the bottom, and their metal corners stuck into her lower back. Her skin burned.

Eddy Plenty, senior corporate risk analyst, drove his new red Subaru down Oriel Road. He had been out to the university to give his annual talk on risk management to the summer school business students, the driven types sacrificing a fortnight of sunshine and beach to knock off a whole unit on a deserted campus. He felt the usual post-seminar relief that it was over, the usual hope that he had inspired some to see the beauty in risk analysis (shrinking each year), and the usual wistfulness for the student days now behind him (growing each year). He turned west, his turbocharged H4 firing up to pass another car; the stability control system waiting to correct any errors. He had selected this car for its safety features, which included overhead airbags and pretensioner seatbelts. He had chosen many things in life according to his professional principles of risk reduction — many things except his girlfriend, he reflected, possibly the most important life choice of all. Love had selected his girlfriend for him, and Love, judging by her choice, had only scorn for mitigating harm probability or severity of failure categories. If Love were a person, she would be a fat, shrewish woman leaning on a kitchen counter and sucking on a cigarette with garishly painted lips, letting ash fall on the floor, and cackling manically at him. ‘And you, you measly, small-hearted scared-of-everything little man! For you, I pick someone who will keep you
on edge, nervous, every day of your life! Ha ha ha ha!'

Eddy had for some weeks now been carrying a diamond ring in a small velvet box in his pocket. Risk: such an open declaration of his love might make the restless Romy flee from him forever. Consequence: Severe to Catastrophic. Probability of her flight: well if he were honest, over fifty per cent, or Medium to High. A Severe-to-Medium matrix was never to be advised in business, but this was a matter of the heart, and Love did not brook such interferences as rational thought. He could hear Love sucking on her fag and cackling at the very thought of his risk matrix. Anyway, it could be argued (he whispered so Love could not hear) that the possible rewards of a secure life with Romy, children, a family, changed the matrix.

He turned up the air-conditioning. He needed fresh air, the car was stuffy, but the aircon would not be optimised if he opened a window. Romy should have finished her waitressing job by now, and be heading to their modest, three-bedroom brick home in a nice street, in a desirable area. No doubt checking her phone as she did every hour, for a message from the acting agency; the message that never seemed to come. Not a failed actress, as Eddy's surly father had once called Romy behind her back, to Eddy's indignation. Just someone who dreamed of a bigger life.

Romy had complained less about her menial job in recent weeks, newly distracted as she was by an event which had shaken both their lives. She had cheated on Eddy and slept with her yoga instructor — just a one-night stand, but still; sex, true, penetrative sex, with another man. It had shocked them both, after five years of monogamy. Romy had confessed to him within days of the act, and then proceeded to confide in all of their friends with an endearing and handwringing honesty, which made people murmur soothing things like ‘Don't be too hard on yourself'. Advice which Eddy privately thought was well-intentioned, but not, it appeared,
desperately
called for. There appeared no danger of true, heartfelt self-flagellation on his girlfriend's part.

For himself, he reflected that, had he seriously contemplated such a possibility in risk-analysis terms, he would have dramatically underestimated the
likelihood
of its occurrence, but probably could have guessed its
consequence
— the level of his pain — at about right. He was gutted. He would rather have endured a physical beating to his body than the agony of this intimate betrayal. Almost as bad had been her need to share the titillating details with
all
of their friends, even if it was in a spirit of self-recrimination. But such soul-baring was typical of Romy. She had even
blogged
about it.

However, he had survived the infidelity, and the subsequent broadcasting of it to half of Melbourne and general cyberspace. Things were healing. They would get through. And maybe, just maybe, moving to the next level of commitment would help.

Driving now along the main street, Eddy slowed. He was drawing near the strip of shops which clustered near the train line, and traffic here was always a stop-start affair. Cars pulled out of parallel parks; pedestrians darted into the centre of the road and quivered on the white line, waiting to dash to the other side. A bus heaved itself out from a stop like some massive, weary beast and blocked his vision. Eddy politely let the bus in, and two more cars took advantage and darted in front of him into the stream of traffic.

‘You're welcome,' Eddy told them dryly. He pressed down on the accelerator and set off.

Up ahead was an ice-cream shop; the busiest outlet in the street, of course, on a day like this. The sort of crowd the TAB drew on Melbourne Cup Day. People spilled from the door; others moved towards it. They held cones and tubs with spoons. A little girl emerged at the edge of the crowd and stepped onto the road. Eddy watched her, wondering what he could make for dinner. Maybe something on the barbecue outside, not the stove, so as to keep the house cool—

The child darted onto the road, right in front of his moving car. Eddy saw the streak of her
white dress like a torn page, and in one frozen moment he saw the child's laughing face, all mischief and loveliness, at the lower edge of the window. He slammed hard on the brake, the ABS fluttering beneath his feet to stop the car fishtailing. The child's dress had scalloped edges, and she held a cone topped with pink ice cream, and her face was too close.

‘Shit!'
he shouted.

But in that last second a woman in a green dress appeared; thin, with golden hair in long ropes, and long brown arms that shot out and snatched at the child. Bystanders' ice creams fell or melted unseen down their fingers, people's faces distorted in gothic, open-mouthed denial.
No!
Every face was turned towards him. Movement everywhere. There was the plastic crunch of a second car accident somewhere in the traffic behind him. Had he hit the kid?