Australia Day Read online

  Later that night, while Ollie showers, Bec tidies his room. She pulls his lunch box from his schoolbag and puts his dirty clothes in the laundry basket. As she hunts for a soiled sock beneath the bed, something red catches her eye. She pulls it out. A T-shirt. One of Tom’s—Bec recognises it straight away. She’s not sure how Ollie got his hands on it. Perhaps he’d found it at the back of her wardrobe when they packed up the old house. She sticks her nose in the fabric. It is not Tom she smells, but Ollie. When she hears the bathroom door open, she scrunches the T-shirt up in a ball and shoves it back where she found it. Ollie slinks into the room and climbs into bed. This is Bec’s favourite part of the day. Something about the heat of the shower and the flannelette pyjamas softens Ollie, and for five minutes he is her baby again. Bec’s thirty-year-old copy of The Hobbit lies, splayed, on his bedside table. A collage of photos and stickers and magazine cut-outs hovers above his wet head: ticket stubs from the Lego convention; photos of Nanna’s late border collie, Milo; a polaroid of Ollie and Bec, soaked and happy, at the bottom of the river ride at Movie World. And there at the very centre, sticky-taped to the plaster wall, the first-ever photo of the three of them. Bec bleary-eyed and doped up on morphine; Tom perched awkwardly on the edge of the hospital bed; Ollie with what looks like a smile—but is probably gas—on his red face.

  Bec pats Ollie’s feet through the doona. She pulls a piece of paper from the pocket of her dressing-gown. ‘Thought you could add this to your collection.’ Ollie studies the black and white picture of the sparrow. They listen to the groans of the water heater. ‘You know you don’t have to go through with it tomorrow,’ Bec says.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘They’ll give you something to put on it after. A cream.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Not that it’s going to hurt.’

  ‘I know, Mum.’

  ‘What was it that the doctor said again? A small sting?’

  ‘Flick of a rubber band.’

  Bec kisses Ollie’s cheek. In a few years it will be lumpy with pimples. For now, it is hairless and clean. She finds a piece of Blu-Tack on the bedside table and sticks the white sparrow to the bedroom wall. It hangs between a Haigh’s chocolate wrapper—Tom’s favourite—and a Bombers bumper sticker.

  ‘You know, Ollie, sometimes I think I’m a bit like that white sparrow.’

  Ollie nods. ‘Mr Walton says there’s a white sparrow in everybody.’

  Bec tucks the doona up around Ollie’s chin. ‘I like Mr Walton.’

  She switches on the bedside lamp.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes, honey?’

  ‘Don’t worry. About tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m not.’ Bec feels a tightness, like the grip of a hand, around her throat. She knows she should say something about Tom—how proud he would be, if he knew. But the words refuse to come.

  Ollie picks up his book, wriggles deeper beneath his doona.

  ‘Goodnight, Mum.’

  ‘Goodnight, Ollie. My little man.’

  In the muted light of the bedside lamp his birthmark is veiled in shadow. Above his tousled head a paper bird floats like a white angel.

  Muse

  I’ve neglected her.

  Her ceilings are soft with cobwebs. Her garden is choked with weeds. Her fence leans, like buckteeth, out onto the footpath. She is getting old, and noisy. Like me, with my snorts and grunts and farts that catch even me by surprise. Her doors creak, her heating claps itself to life, and her pipes splutter up their rusty sputum.

  I used to wander from room to room, hunting for memories. The ladder of lines marking Bea’s height behind her bedroom door. The sun-bleached armchair where Lola nursed Bea day and night for months on end. I wanted to bathe in nostalgia—I never expected to find something new. But there they were, a pair of lace undies at the bottom of the rosewood chest. The Lola I knew only ever wore ankle-length skirts and chunky orthopaedic sandals. The discovery unnerved me. Had I been the one to go first, I would have left no mysteries behind. Lola would have known my clothes better than me. She would have seen the shadows of stains long gone, and they still would have bothered her.

  It is autumn. The Japanese maple is shedding its apricot leaves. I pick a book from the shelf in the lounge room, but hard as I try, I can’t read tonight. I’m relieved when the phone rings—the urgent cry of the old mobile Bea insists I carry around with me. Only Bea, and a few telemarketers, ever call me on it.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Dad.’

  ‘Bea.’

  This is how we talk. We acknowledge each other’s existence, nothing more.

  ‘I’m coming over.’

  ‘What if I have company?’

  She sighs. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Not tonight.’

  ‘Good. I mean, not good.’ She clears her throat. ‘You know what I mean.’

  I hear voices, a siren, somebody’s phone.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘On a tram.’ She is already losing patience with me. ‘And Dad?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m bringing Edwina.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So don’t say anything stupid.’

  Bea likes to have the last word, and she usually makes it bite.

  I sweep away the crumbs between the toaster and the kettle. I spray the stovetop with Windex and wipe it down with a sponge. It is a superficial clean—just enough to stop Bea from worrying. Lola, with her tenacious broom, always kept the insects at bay, but now the ants trace invisible maps across the floorboards, collecting breadcrumbs as they go. The spiders follow, emerging from the heating vents to knit sticky webs in secret corners. One day, I think, someone will find me, tangled in the bougainvillea, with centipedes crawling out of my eyes.

  Bea arrives at seven, on the dot. When I open the door she pushes past—blaming her bad manners on the bags of hot food in her hands. I look at the girl left behind on the doorstep. She is a pretty thing, fresh-faced, with pale skin. I decide to like her.

  ‘I’m Evan,’ I say, extending an arm.

  The girl takes my hand as if to shake it and then pulls me into an embrace. She leaves a star of wet saliva on my cheek.

  ‘It’s so great to meet you. Finally,’ she says.

  We follow Bea into the kitchen, where she is searching frantically through the drawers.

  ‘Where have you put the placemats, Dad?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I am still feeling the wetness on my cheek and trying not to imagine this long-limbed girl in bed with my daughter. I suppress an image of them sleeping late on a Sunday morning, naked among crumpled sheets.

  ‘Honestly, Dad, do you ever put things back where you find them?’

  ‘The table can get stained for all I care,’ I say, and smile sideways at a visibly awkward Edwina.

  ‘Mum would’ve wanted us to use the placemats.’

  Here we go. Is this how it’s always going to be? The two of us scrambling for Lola’s approval? Even when she’s dead?

  Bea finds the precious placemats and we bury our heads in the food. Rice is piled onto plates and thick green curry is spooned on top.

  ‘So. Edwina. What do you do?’ I say, and my daughter flashes me a look.

  ‘Ed’s an artist.’

  ‘Can’t Edwina speak for herself?’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ Edwina says. ‘But I’m hardly an artist.’

  ‘Of course you are!’ Bea turns to me. ‘She was highly commended in the Archibald.’

  I nod, pretending to know what the Archibald is—presumably a prize, an accolade of sorts.

  ‘Bea tells me you’re a bit of a painter yourself,’ Edwina says between mouthfuls.

  ‘I played with a few oils, when I was young. But I haven’t been near a brush in years.’

  ‘You should really get back into it,’ Bea says, and now I am the one shooting looks. Edwina, naturally more intuitive, or kind, sees my discomfort and changes the subject.

  We all relax a li
ttle once the wine has coated our insides. I make a fire and put Billie Holiday on the stereo.

  ‘Not this shit again,’ Bea says, but as I move to change it Edwina grabs my arm.

  ‘Leave it,’ she says. ‘I like it.’

  She’s too nice, I think. Bea will chew her up and spit her out when she’s done.

  ‘I’m going for a smoke,’ Bea says, and when she leaves I feel relieved and then guilty for feeling relieved.

  ‘I’d love to see your paintings one day,’ Edwina says once we are alone. She cups her steaming mug of tea with two hands. ‘Bea says you’re very talented.’

  I offer Edwina a Tim Tam. ‘I might have a couple of things in the shed. Maybe next time you come over.’

  ‘I’d like that.’ Edwina smiles. The song on the CD finishes, leaving us with the pop and crackle of burning wood. I poke one of the logs. It sizzles some more.

  ‘I don’t know if you’re interested,’ Edwina begins, ‘but I do a life drawing class once a week on Smith Street. We’re always looking for new people to join.’

  Before I have time to answer, Bea is back in the room, holding Shakespeare, our Persian cat, in her arms.

  ‘It’s fucking cold,’ she says, collapsing into the couch and burying her nose in Edwina’s hair. I feel my cheeks burn with embarrassment. Or jealousy. Or both.

  ‘We should probably get going.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thanks for the tea.’

  ‘And the wine.’

  We hug and Edwina leaves a matching kiss on my other cheek. ‘No pressure,’ she whispers as she stuffs a piece of paper inside my pocket.

  I watch their car disappear down Sydney Road before I pull out her parting gift. It is a flyer, with a sketch of a female nude in the background.

  MARCEL’S STUDIO

  UNTUTORED LIFE DRAWING CLASSES

  TUESDAY NIGHTS 6.30–8.30

  $20 PER CLASS

  ALL WELCOME

  *

  Her name was Ana. She owned the milk bar at the end of our street. There was a room at the back of her shop, and that’s where we did it. Even now, I feel a swell in my boxers at the sound of a cash register rattling closed.

  When news of the affair finally came out, everybody was shocked. Lola was beautiful. She didn’t know it—she pulled her hair into a severe ponytail and covered her pointy breasts with shapeless cardigans—but to everybody else it was clear. She had smooth skin, translucent like a half-cooked egg, and big, blue-grey eyes. Ana, on the other hand, was not beautiful. Her breasts sagged over the soft rolls of her belly, and when she wore a tight top (which was most days), big sweat marks, like bruises, bloomed in her armpits. I didn’t love her, but she was real. She didn’t slip out of my hands like silk when I held her.

  I wake up with a headache. I look at the clock: ten am. Shakespeare is clawing at my feet. I roll out of the warm nest of sheets and lean down to stroke him. In the kitchen there are Tim Tam crumbs under the stools and dirty mugs on the benchtop. I catch sight of Edwina’s crumpled flyer on the floor and pick it up. I’ve never done life drawing before. I wonder how it works. Does the model strip down in front of the class? Or does she appear in a satin robe, which she lets drop at the ring of a bell? I look at the sketch again, focusing now on the underbelly of the breast. I imagine how lovely it would be to recreate that gentle upward slope of flesh and then the sudden sting of nipple.

  I go for a walk. I follow the trail of clouds created by my breath. They lead me here. Every path leads me here. To the milk bar. The Chinese man who now owns it is sweeping leaves from the footpath. I feel an urgent need for Ana, electrifying Ana, with her strong thighs and brassy laugh.

  I am alone. Maybe it’s been cancelled. Maybe it was a joke. Maybe Bea and her lover are hiding behind a wheelie bin laughing at me. But just as I’m about to leave, Edwina arrives.

  ‘Evan!’ she says, kissing me again. ‘I’m so glad you could make it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, schoolboy shy.

  ‘You’ll love it. I promise.’

  We climb a groaning staircase and emerge, breathless, into a light-filled space. On the floor a small radiator burns near a pile of patchwork pillows. Edwina gets to work, assembling her easel and lining up her broken sticks of charcoal. She beams at me.

  ‘I’m right,’ I say, holding up my sketchpad.

  People filter in. An Asian man sits on a milk crate and sharpens his pencils with a rusty knife. Others gather around the kettle, making tea and helping themselves to mugs of red wine from a cask. Fearful of conversation, I wander over to the window. A tram rattles by and a couple of rugged-up passengers step out. They cover their wet noses with their scarves. I think of home and it feels like a wretched place—a playground for insects and ghosts.

  I’m still staring out the window when the session begins. All matters practical are dealt with while my back is turned: the disrobing, the arrangement of pillows, the adjustment of the light. By the time I turn around the stage has been set. In the centre of the room, bathed in light, a white beauty.

  As long as I can remember, I’ve preferred the company of women. This may be because the important men in my life were all bastards. My father admired two things: brutality and stoicism. I never saw him cry—not when he shot our dog, or beat my mother, or lost his thumb to a machine at work. For a long time he was the toughest, coldest man I knew. And then I met Lola’s dad. Back in those days there were few people in Melbourne who hadn’t heard of Professor Duvall. The week before our introduction, he’d drilled a big hole through the police commissioner’s skull, and—as he liked to point out repeatedly—saved the dirty bugger’s life.

  Professor Duvall arranged our first meeting at the hospital. Lola was nervous. I could tell by the way she played with the edge of her scarf. He finally appeared, half an hour late, on a cloud of white-coated underlings. He didn’t say hello but threw me the keys to his Peugeot 404 and ordered me to drive him home. It was a good-looking car, sleek black lines, tan leather interior—I should have been proud to be at the wheel of such an impressive beast. But it was impossible not to see this charade for what it was. A test.

  She didn’t exactly purr in my hands, but I got the three of us back to Hawthorn in one piece. Surprisingly, the professor didn’t take much notice of my driving along the way. He and Lola chatted happily in the back seat, and only once did he lean forward to say, ‘Nothing quite like French engineering!’

  Dinner went off without a hitch. I didn’t spill anything, and I used my utensils from the outside in, just as Lola had instructed me to. I laughed at the professor’s jokes. I drank, I relaxed. By the time Lola excused herself from the table to help her mother with dessert, my guard was down.

  ‘Cautious, eh?’ he asked, once the women were out of earshot.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘A cautious driver.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with being cautious,’ I said. The wine had given me confidence.

  ‘When you’ve got another man’s life in your hands, you’ve got to think fast, take risks. You can’t afford to be cautious.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘You know the difference between you and me, son?’

  I gripped the edge of my chair.

  ‘I have the whole world on my plate, and you’ll never even get a taste.’

  At that moment the women returned to dispense sweet chocolate tarts with even sweeter smiles.

  ‘Bon appétit!’ the professor cheered, slapping his wife playfully across her aproned rump.

  The model has short hair and a plain but pleasant face. I wouldn’t look twice at her if she walked past me on the street, but on the page she’s lovely, with creamy skin and the limbs of a ballerina.

  ‘Wow,’ a voice says. It’s Edwina.

  ‘How’d you go?’ I ask, ignoring her little exclamation and adding some last-minute shading to the fingers. ‘I can’t seem to get the hands quite right.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  I stop drawing.


  ‘You know it’s good,’ she says, and though she is smiling there is a bite to her words. ‘Just take the compliment.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’re even better than I expected.’

  Lola would never get naked in front of me. If I happened to walk into the bathroom after she’d just had a shower I might catch a glimpse of a breast, but only for a second, until the towel was secured firmly in place. Sex was something we did with the lights off, fumbling under the covers, finding the pieces and fitting them together in the dark. Towards the end, we didn’t even do that.

  *

  Edwina and I are standing outside in the cold when she finally comes down the stairs. She stops at the bottom and shakes out a cigarette. Someone offers her a light. She looks different in clothes—less magical—but she’s still a celebrity in this place.

  ‘Who’s the new guy?’ she says, without addressing anyone in particular. I’m grateful when Edwina speaks up.

  ‘That’s Evan. My friend.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Evan,’ the model says and offers me a limp hand. ‘Daniella.’ She barely looks at me before flicking her cigarette to the ground. ‘Gotta go. My ride’s here.’

  A man on a black motorbike stops in front of the studio. Daniella puts her helmet on and climbs on the back. There is a puff of diesel and leather and smoke.

  ‘That’s not her real name,’ Edwina whispers as they disappear behind a tram.

  I hang my best sketch on the wall. She has her back to me. A swell of buttocks narrows, in a gentle curve, to a tiny waist. Her backbone climbs—a string of pearls—to that craning neck and teasing glimpse of face. I have her here, caught in a sketch. Daniella.

  The mobile vibrates on the bedside table and Bea’s name appears on the screen. The ring and flashing letters are insistent, but I can’t face her tonight. She’s angry and itching for a fight. Edwina is our new Lola and she doesn’t want to share.

  I’ve never liked doctors. But I despised them after I got married. It wasn’t just that every doctor I met seemed to know and worship Professor Duvall. It was more than that. He had sown the seed of a delusion in my brain (which was, granted, fertile ground for such things) that the entire medical fraternity was looking down on me.