The Good Parents E-Book

Joan London

• Herausgeber: Atlantic Books
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2009

Beschreibung

From the author of Gilgamesh - longlisted for the Orange Prize - comes a novel of loss and longing that goes right to the heart of the struggle to belong. Maya de Jong, an eighteen-year-old country girl, moves away from home to live in the city. Here she begins an affair with her boss, whose wife is dying of cancer. But when Maya's parents, Toni and Jacob, arrive to stay with her, they are told by her housemate that Maya has gone away and no one knows where she is. As Toni and Jacob search for their daughter in the city, everything in their lives is thrown in doubt. They recall the dreams and ideals, the betrayals and choices of their youth - choices with unexpected and irrevocable consequences. As if, to bring Maya back, they must return to their own pasts.

Leseprobe

The Good Parents

Joan London is the author of two prize-winning collections of stories. A bestseller in its native Australia, her first novel, Gilgamesh, was published by Atlantic Books in 2003 and was longlisted for the Orange Prize and the Dublin Impac Prize, awarded the Age Fiction Book of the Year and shortlisted for the Miles Franklin Award.

‘Wonderfully realized… Joan London introduces a vivid range of characters and treats each one, no matter how minor, with detailed respect, sympathy, and never with condescension. These are people one wants to go on knowing, in places one wants to revisit. The narrative focus shifts from person to person and is studded with sharp and eccentric observation… Most marvellous, in a book crammed with delights is London’s descriptive writing… Her prose is sumptuous, beautifully balanced with the controlled spare elegance of her narrative voice… This splendid book deserves to be blazoned forth.’ Elspeth Barker, Financial Times

‘Soaring in scope and unassuming in style. The writing can be so quietly lyrical you want to read very slowly, the suspense enough to make you want to race to the finish. The quality of observation, close-focus and long-range, is so sharp you’ll jab Post-it notes on every page. Every character, completely understood from the inside, is matchlessly right and irreplaceable… A lifetime’s close scrutiny has been made sense of and placed in this book.’ Cath Kenneally, Australian

‘The Good Parents is full of characters who vanish but not without trace… Handling the many shades of loss, the eerie and sometimes petulant presence of the absent… The Good Parents is underwritten by a wealth of human understanding… It has compassion for people who make choices they don’t have to; for families that never set. London pushes characters towards each other against the forces of nature… [and] writes wonderfully about intimacy between strangers. The results are as powerful as they are unsettling.’ Michael McGirr, Sydney Morning Herald

‘Joan London comes at her characters from every angle, laying bare their compromises and delusions. Shifting between landscapes worldly and remote, she pulls off the tricky feat of making the act of reflection suspenseful, turning the past into a living, unfinished thing, still bristling with what could be.’ New Yorker

Copyright

First published in Australia in 2008 by Random House Australia Pty Ltd, Level 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney, NSW 2060.

First published in Great Britain in 2009 by Atlantic Books, an imprint of Grove Atlantic, Ltd.

This paperback edition published in Great Britain in 2010 by Atlantic Books.

Copyright © Joan London, 2008

The moral right of Joan London to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

First eBook Edition: January 2010

ISBN: 978-1-848-87437-4

Atlantic Books

An imprint of Grove Atlantic Ltd

Ormond House

26–27 Boswell Street

London

WC1N 3JZ

www.atlantic-books.co.uk

Contents

Cover

The Good Parents

Copyright

Chapter 1: The Office

Chapter 2: The House

Chapter 3: Leaving

Chapter 4: White Garden

Chapter 5: Country of the Young

Chapter 6: Boans

Chapter 7: The Lucky

Chapter 8: Massage

Chapter 9: Kitty

Chapter 10: Retrace

Chapter 11: Warton

Chapter 12: Music for Carlos

Chapter 13: Balcony

Chapter 14: Karma

Chapter 15: Tod and Clarice

Chapter 16: The Vision on the Highway

Chapter 17: The Mimosa

Chapter 18: Andrew

Chapter 19: Grand Final

Chapter 20: The Devil’s Country

Chapter 21: Departure

Chapter 22: Arrival

Chapter 23: The Call

Acknowledgements

For my family

1

The Office

The best time was always afterwards, alone, in the Ladies’ Restroom on the first floor. It had high frosted-glass windows that at this hour, before the frail winter sun had found its way between the buildings of the city, shed a dim grainy light like old footage in a documentary film.

How long since this room had been modernised? There was a quicklime incinerator for tampons and a yellowed notice about a women’s refuge, contact Terri, which might have been there since the seventies. It was the sort of place she was always trying to describe in the on-going letter in her head. But who was this letter to? Who wants to read about the toilets at your place of work? The rotating chrome soap dispensers, the mint-green handbasins on their pedestals, the big wire basket for paper towels – the sense of living in another generation’s film? Her father of course would be hanging out for this sort of news, but she wasn’t going to pander to his romanticism. And Jason Kay – if a letter ever reached him – would read anything from her with painstaking attention, but she didn’t want to think about Jason. In fact she hadn’t sent a single letter home since she’d come to Melbourne, though she’d started several on the office computer in the afternoons.

She had this room to herself. The other women in the building, the beauticians from Beauty by Mimi on the ground floor, didn’t start work till nine. It was pristine, like a beach first thing in the morning. She didn’t switch on the fluoro, but stayed in the gray light. All the contents of the little bag she kept in her desk were laid out on the broad sill of the handbasin. She washed and dried herself with paper towels, fixed her hair, put on deodorant and mascara. The antique plumbing hummed as she ran the taps. She felt safe here, performing these classic female rituals. Every morning at this mirror she thought for a moment of her mother and the compulsive little pout she made when she looked at herself, like an old-fashioned model.

When do you stop being haunted by your parents? The face that looked back at her was not a face that they had ever seen, the eyes darkened and reckless, the skin luminous. It made her shy, she turned away and then could not resist another peek. She knew this transformation wouldn’t last for long.

It was time to go back upstairs. She liked the washed lightness of her body as she moved to the door. She liked the silver flecks in the faded terrazzo floor. But then of course she liked everything, everything seemed to have significance, for a short while, afterwards.

Global Imports occupied the whole top floor of the narrow old building, above Jonathan Fung Barristers. Its corridor ended in a door out to the rusty metal landing of the fire escape, where on a fine day, amongst the roar of air-con vents, you could sit and eat your lunch and look out over the roofs along the back laneway. Someone had once slung a little washing line out there and tried to grow basil in a pot. It was like being in Naples or New York.

The office consisted of one large bare-walled room, high-ceilinged like all the rooms in this building, with two tall front windows facing the street. A head-high partition of varnished ply and frosted glass made a waiting space by the door. Here there were two cane armchairs and a low glass table on which sat a Cinzano ashtray – some of the clients came from countries where it was still OK to smoke at business deals – and a neat pile of magazines, Time, Fortune, BRW. It was part of her duties to keep these up to date and to water the rubber plant in its bamboo stand.

As soon as she opened the door she knew he wasn’t there. She could sense his absence even before she saw that his black coat had gone from beside her sheepskin jacket on the hooks behind the door. Inside the office the answering machine’s red light was flickering on his desk. He’d made the call from his car in traffic, she could hardly hear him. He said that he was going home, there’d been a turn for the worse and could she please just carry on. He would be in touch, he said, and something else that was lost in a blast of static.

She stood looking out a window for several minutes, holding her little quilted bag. The long window had a view of the black spire of the church opposite and the bare swaying tips of the churchyard trees. Below her a phone was ringing in Jonathan Fung’s office. Someone with a light tread was running up the stairs. The working day had started.

There was no other message. She had a sense of abandonment which was, she knew, unreasonable. He’d left the computer on and the coffee-maker. She poured herself a cup and sat down at her desk. The air in the room was still thick with their closeness. But her feeling of well-being, of doing good in the world, had faded.

Maynard Flynn started work before anybody else in the building because he had a sick wife. She slept during the morning while their son stayed with her and Maynard left at noon to be with her when she was awake. He asked Maya at the interview if she could work from seven till three. For the time being he was in and out of the office and needed someone to hold the fort. Things had, he said, with a little grimace, got rather out of hand. That was six months ago, in summer, soon after she’d arrived.

Each morning of those first couple of weeks she took the cup of coffee he offered her and plunged straight into the messy paperwork and files. She spread them out in piles all over the seagrass matting and for a couple of hours before the phone started ringing, she crouched over them, silent and frowning. He seemed both impressed and entertained.

In this way she saved herself from the shyness that threatened to take her over whenever she was face to face with him. Shyness, she knew, had a mind of its own, chose when to strike, caused red blotches to break out on her neck, made her voice catch, her eyes fill with tears. She lived in dread of its attacks.

His wife’s name was Delores. Sometimes he spoke of her as Dory. Every few days now her friends phoned to ask him how she was. He had a special tone with these women, Francine, Bernadette and Tina, women from her church. His voice dropped a note, became suave and medical. She’d had a good night, thanks, the doctor was pleased. Yes, he and Andrew were coping well. At the same time he kept tapping away at the computer. These conversations never lasted long. Maya began to understand that they were all waiting, that things were coming to an end.

She’d never got up early before in her life. This was one of her new adult acts, making herself wake before her natural span of sleep was done. She put the alarm clock out of reach, leapt from bed, pulled on her clothes, cleaned her teeth and rushed up to Victoria Street while the last stars were fading. The 6.40 tram approached just as she reached the Vietnamese deli. She liked to make the transition between sleep and work as swift and dreamlike as possible, while she was still all instinct and warmth.

As winter came on, each morning was darker than the one before. Nobody on the tram looked at one another, their faces blank and private. Some were shift-workers falling in and out of sleep on their way home. She was like a shift-worker herself, she thought, her real life happened at the other end of the day from other people’s.

Leaves rolled down the pavement ahead of her as she stepped off the tram. This was when she liked the inner city most, empty and echoing, a half-world, the light seeping into the dark. Car headlights and street lamps were still on. A newsagency was open, also the espresso bar on the corner, serving the little community she was briefly part of, the dog owners and joggers and council workers in rubbish trucks. Light broke out minute by minute as she walked, pale splashes over roofs and walls. Birds were going like mad in the trees around the old church. Bells rang the hour somewhere, pink clouds streaked the sky ahead. Sometimes the experience of striding up this street – the achievement of being there – could give her a historical feeling, as if she were looking back at herself, as if these mornings were already in the past.

She thought of the sick woman lying in the dawn, listening to the birds. Her relief. Her pillow shaken, her sheets smoothed, ready at last to sleep.

She had a key to let herself into the building. Past the brass letterboxes, past Mimi’s glass door with its stencilled sign, Waxing, Peeling, Paraffin Treatments: she still hadn’t found out what Paraffin Treatments were. The stairway was in darkness. She was aware of the ticking life of the building when it was left to itself, and its particular smell, ancient wood and radiators and dust, like an old person’s house. Her heart started thumping as she climbed the stairs. Her stomach felt queasy with excitement. Sometimes Dory had to have an injection and he’d arrive later than her. She could always sense if he was or wasn’t there. Nearly always. With about 98.2 per cent accuracy, as her brother would say.

‘I thought you were a farm girl!’ he said, amused, when she arrived that first morning windswept and out of breath. ‘I thought you’d be used to getting up at dawn.’ She began to explain that she didn’t grow up on a farm, but in a town in the wheat-belt, that her family weren’t real country people, but whenever she spoke about her past she knew he wasn’t really listening. He went on making jokes about her strong shoulders and legs, from all that hay baling and cow milking: if he was in a good mood he liked to tease her about her cowgirl strength. The only questions he ever asked her were about her social life in Melbourne. When she told him after the weekend that she’d walked in the Botanical Gardens, or gone for dim sum with her housemate Cecile, he seemed disbelieving, even disappointed, and quizzed her about clubs and bars and boys. She shook her head. Something froze in her when he asked her these sorts of questions.

You could tell he wasn’t being looked after by a woman. The first time he held her his shirt smelt musty, as if it had been left too long in the washing machine. A bachelor smell, like some of the young male teachers at school.

It was a fatherly sort of hug that first time, an arm around her shoulder as he left for the day. The culmination of all the little taps on her arm he’d been giving her over the past couple of weeks when he was pleased with her. Just a little more lingering.

Good old country commonsense, he said that first time, his face close to hers, his arm along her shoulders. A can-do attitude, he said. This was his way of showing his approval, she told herself. It was what good employers were supposed to do. Look how it made her work even harder! All the same, all afternoon she could feel the heat of his arm at the back of her neck. It seemed like a long time since anyone had touched her.

That night she dreamt she was walking down the main street in Warton with a friend of her brother’s, Ben Lester, a nice enough boy, tall, freckled, three years younger than she was, to whom she’d never given a single moment’s thought. Except it wasn’t Warton, it was voluptuously beautiful, it was India, it was Paradise. A grove of feathery palm trees all swayed in the same direction, like underwater plants, beside a heaving grape-green river. The light was bronze, as before a storm. Everywhere she looked was this swelling beauty, exotic and familiar at the same time. She and Ben Lester stood beneath a blossoming tree by the river and moved closer, their feelings generous and loving.

She woke with the words of course he wants you in her head.

The next morning as she climbed the stairs, she was suddenly aware that they were the only two people in the building. When she let herself into the office and saw him she was too shy to speak.

‘There you are,’ he said softly, as if he too had been dreaming of blossoms and rivers. He stretched out his hand to her. ‘Maya,’ he said, to her vast surprise, and yet deep down some part of her wasn’t surprised at all. ‘You’re tormenting me.’ His voice was husky. ‘I can’t stand it.’ Her first thought was that she must have done something unfair to him, and she searched her mind for how she might have hurt him. He looked tired as if he hadn’t slept. He must be cracking up under the strain of Dory. She took a step towards him. That was the crossing-over time.

From that moment she ceased having her own life.

When she first came here she saw an office that was too bare, that had been cheaply, hurriedly put together. It looked like he’d just moved in and could disappear overnight, though Global Imports had existed for some years. None of the furniture suited the dark wood of the old room: the flimsy pine desks, the metal filing cabinet, the plastic table for the fax and photocopier. The matting was greenish and springy as if it had only recently been grass. In the corner there was a little fold-up divan, on which, before Delores got sick, he used to take a siesta, a habit he’d picked up during his time in Asia, he said. Only the long uncurtained windows with their view of the spire were beautiful.

Now in her mind it was a room at the top of a tower, floating amongst the clouds, detached from the world. She was grateful for its unclutteredness, the space it gave them, its work functions pushed to the margins. Its bareness seemed to say that this was enough, this was all they could ever ask for. They lay on the divan’s thin mattress which he placed on the seagrass. There he was fully attentive. A beam of early sun streaked across the floor, stroked their white winter ankles. It was a shock to see white flesh in the pure morning light.

Whenever she was alone, in the office, on the tram, in bed, at any time of the night or day, she would see his hands, or the flank of his cheek, relive his touch, feel the weight of his legs, hear his voice in her ear as she fell asleep. She would sense the gray light swirling around them in their wordless concentration, hear the bird cries of their endless practice, closer and closer to the brink, and a shiver would run through her all over again.

The reason she couldn’t write letters was because he was everywhere and everything and he was secret.

Sometimes the phone rang, the answering machine clicked into life or a fax spewed out. He chuckled. She knew it excited him, to be lying with her at the top of this silent house of business. He liked to stalk naked across the room, and stand at the window, lightly scratching himself, with only the birds to see him.

For a short time afterwards, dressed and back at his desk, he was blinky, dopey, like a little boy woken from sleep, winking at her as he spoke on the phone, calmer, no longer tormented. He was very attractive to her then. ‘My legs don’t work,’ she said as she tried to stand up from the mattress, and he’d smile but keep listening to his messages. She dressed quickly, took the little bag from her desk and set off downstairs, briefly carefree and light-headed.

He winked and joked when he was happy and had sudden bouts of fondness for her. As he passed he’d whisper in her ear that she was the best little worker he’d ever had.

Although she was proud to have made him happy, she couldn’t laugh at this with him. What had happened between them seemed too large, too radical for jokes. She smiled at him but she couldn’t laugh.

A country girl. He’d been surprised he was her first. Wasn’t that unusual these days? he asked. The isolation in the bush perhaps? She shrugged, not knowing why he was so keen for news of her generation, or why he seemed so taken up with the idea of all young women as freely promiscuous. She didn’t want to think about this.

She didn’t say that the way he made her feel aroused a longing in her to tell him about horses and her brother and her dog and the seasons and landscapes of the wheat-belt, all the things that fed into the river of loving that flowed through her.

She knew all the tones of his voice. He had a voice for doing business with Asians and another voice for Australians. Like her father, he became more macho, jokey, his accent broader, when dealing with Australian men. He was more at ease exchanging smooth small talk with the Asians.

Then there was the way he had of talking to his mother, tucking the phone under his chin, keeping on working, rolling his eyes now and then, ironic, yet always patient. His mother lived in a retirement village and forgot things and left flustered messages late at night: Maynard? Maynard? Are you there? – her voice quavery with self-pity.

Who are you? she demanded, impatient if Maya answered the phone. Oh, you’re the little lass from the West, yes, yes, he’s told me about you. There were old girls like this in Warton, left over from the big landowner families, shuffling into the newsagency with their hats and walking sticks, pretending to be helpless but always getting their own way. Going on and on about something that annoyed them, while everybody else had to wait.

His nicest voice, the only time he sounded open and natural, was when he spoke to his son Andrew. He was always happy after he hung up the phone to Andrew, smiling to himself for a few minutes, in a little dream. Andrew was an agricultural science student, writing his PhD – Maynard always mentioned the PhD – who’d come back home to help look after his mother. It was when she thought of Dory Flynn as a mother that Maya was able to grasp the momentousness of the situation, the affliction that had struck this family. A mother with cancer.

The light in the house going out.

Just before she left Warton she went to say goodbye to Miriam Kershaw, the headmaster’s wife. Miriam had asked for her, and at the last moment she knew she had to go. She steeled herself to step into that house, dark and stale with illness, walk down the shadowed corridor, sit beside her, and not show shock at Miriam’s body, so terrifyingly shrunken in her bed. Afterwards she went to the creek and lay back on the boulders and took deep swigs of air. I’m young! I’m young! she breathed.

Her father was angry that she’d been summoned and angry that she went. Something about Miriam always made him harsh and impatient.

Maynard never spoke of Dory’s illness in the office and she knew she mustn’t ask him. He remained matter-of-fact, calm and cheery. He gave no sign that he was worried. She couldn’t tell how much he cared. Perhaps he pretended not to care because he cared too much?

She worried that he didn’t care enough.

But this morning when she came in after the weekend, the face he turned to her shocked her. His eyes were sunken, his face blotchy, unshaven. For the first time she thought of him as old. He’d been up all night, he said. Things were going downhill. His voice was gruff and his hands shook a little as he shuffled papers. I shouldn’t really have come in, he mumbled, looking around the room. She knew it was for her, the ‘fix’ he sometimes joked about. In that moment she had no suspicions of him. She went straight to him at the desk. As she held his head against her, her eyes searched out the spire in the window behind him, her point of reference. Why should she be troubled by something so simple, so generous? She bent and whispered how she’d missed him, how she’d hardly lasted the weekend. She loved him for his need of her, and for his pain at last, his redemption.

At midday there was still no word from him. She was so hungry that she closed the office and ate a hamburger and chips – taboo foods of her childhood – very quickly, sitting on a stool at the window of the espresso bar on the corner. Then a jam doughnut. She knew she ate too much to make up for being parted from him. The cafe was busy but not fashionable. She didn’t feel intimidated here. It had a TV and a magazine rack and a table of pale-skinned salesmen meeting for coffee. There was a pinup board in the back corner covered with fluttery desperate-looking homemade notices, to sell, to buy, to rent. It was here that she’d noticed Cecile’s Room to Let sign, her eye drawn to its professional graphics and its lack of chest-beating. She was still proud of this moment of good judgement, and the luck it brought her, to find Cecile. There was a new sign pinned up, a flyer for something called The Marijuanalogues, which made her think of her father. An evening of hilarity you will not soon forget (unless you smoke pot of course). Spread the herb! She remembered that her parents were coming to Melbourne to stay with her. When? It must be soon. For the past couple of months she’d deliberately wiped all thought of this visit from her mind.

She finished off with a large Diet Coke and left. The day stretched endlessly ahead.

The office was one in a row of old buildings, all joined together, two or three storeys high – a fashion agency for uniforms, a paper warehouse, a plumber’s workshop – down a side street, facing the church. It was like an old-fashioned village street tucked in amongst the tall buildings. Seen from a distance, it would make a good location for a film.

The city centre was only a few streets away, but she never went there, among the fashionable people. She preferred to sit in the courtyard of the church. Every day she felt the need to collect herself, by being outside, near trees. The church was nested down between the glass flanks of the high-rise on either side of it, a valley surrounded by mountains. It was built of blackened stone, as old as England. Clusters of white plastic chairs were set out hospitably beneath tall English trees. A few twittery sparrows hopped along the bare black branches. She was used to native trees full of singing birds. Sometimes it was in this courtyard that she could feel most fully a stranger. When she first came to Melbourne she was almost surprised to find the same currency. It was like another country over here.

Clouds scudded past the tops of the skyscrapers so you could think it was the buildings that were moving. A hush seemed to descend over the precinct and for a moment everything stilled. Nothing appeared, no car, no passer-by. No phone rang, no door slammed, no voice called out a greeting. On the Diet Coke billboard next to the cafe someone had scrawled Nutra Sweet Causes Cancer.

She understood suddenly that death meant ending. Her heart started to thud, for Dory.

By three o’clock she felt very bad indeed. She shut down the computer, put on her jacket, zipped it up to the chin and locked the office door. Although she had no experience of religion she went straight across the road into the old church and sat down in a pew. She had an impulse to pray for Dory, though she didn’t know what for. Too late now to pray that she’d be cured.

For her forgiveness? Why hadn’t she thought of this before? She’d let herself believe that to be held and caressed like this was a good thing, kind and loving, when they were both so lonely. He was more lonely than her in a way. But who knew what Dory felt or understood, lying there day after day?

She’d taken her cue from Maynard in this.

When he spoke of Delores his voice was even and controlled like a professional carer, or the parent of a special child. Once, after he’d thanked one of Dory’s church friends for the curry she’d sent, he put down the phone shaking his head. ‘Excellent women,’ he said. ‘Saints.’ He sighed. ‘Just like my wife.’

He spoke as if she were apart from him. He only called her ‘Dory’ if he was talking of the past. He said I when he talked of future plans. How to finance his return to Asia, probably Indonesia or Thailand. To live, for good. He spoke like a traveller who would soon be on his way.

But this morning he’d held onto her like a child does, his head against her stomach. He was breaking up inside and didn’t know it. She knew she was harnessed to him now, wherever he was going.

No one had taught her how to pray. Who is God? she’d asked her parents when she was a kid, and they had thrown their arms about and talked of trees and kindness and the way families love each other. Jason Kay’s God was the Great Headmaster, watching you wherever you went. Jason lived in fear of Hell, yet when she rode past his Brethren meeting hall, it seemed to her that it was Hell, chocolate-brick, windowless like a big toilet block, a yard of gray sand, a high cyclone fence all around.

Churches always made her curious. What was supposed to happen there? Comfort? Inspiration? But the cold dusty light and vinegary smell inside this old church had no power to calm her.

The tram was packed with very loud schoolkids. She was only a year or so older than some of them but she shut her eyes in their midst like a middle-aged woman with worries. If she could have prayed it would have been for Cecile to be home but Cecile was in Kuala Lumpur visiting her sister. There was nobody else in Melbourne she could talk to. Her secret life with Maynard cut her off, from her own past, her own family. She belonged nowhere.

Above all do not panic, she told herself. She would buy some takeaway noodles, have a long shower and watch a rerun of Friends, which was like going to bed with your teddy.

The next morning he wasn’t there. She strode straight through the dark office to the flickering answering machine and listened to the voice of a woman with a foreign accent telling her that Mr Flynn would not be coming in today, because unfortunately, yesterday afternoon, Mrs Flynn passed away. Mr Flynn will be in touch, said the woman in her precise, gentle foreign voice. Francine, Bernadette or Tina? Whoever she was, she didn’t feel comfortable speaking into an answering machine. Er – thank you. All the best … Like signing off a letter.

Maya sat down in his chair. Through the window she could see the very tip of the spire, a mysterious, ornate black knob. What was it supposed to be? An acorn? A bud? She’d asked some workers at the church, but they didn’t know. All that care, she thought, put into something that nobody knew about or saw. Just the birds, year after year. For some reason, this made her want to cry.

She didn’t know how long she sat there. It was cold, she’d forgotten to switch on the heating. She sat sunk into her jacket, the collar turned up, the wool around her jaw. A phone rang on and on somewhere in the empty building. It felt like days since she’d spoken to another human being. What to do next? She took her little bag from the drawer of her desk and made her way down the stairs to the Ladies’ Restroom.

A toilet was flushing and the black-haired beautician from Mimi’s was washing her hands. She had switched on the lights and was peering critically at her skin, though her geisha-pale face looked perfect to Maya. She smiled at Maya from the mirror. All the women from Mimi’s were friendly. She was wearing tight black pants and a pale-blue smock and high black platform heels. The air carried drafts of her airy, floral perfume.

‘Busy day?’ she said to Maya, as she reached for a paper towel. Her name, Jody, was embroidered on the pocket of her smock. Jody had a kid, Maya had watched her once on the footpath, blowing kisses to a little tear-blotched face in a car driving off up the street.

‘Not really. My boss’s wife died last night.’

‘Oh no!’ A concerned, maternal frown appeared beneath Jody’s dead-straight, blue-black fringe. ‘Was it expected?’

‘She’d been sick for a while. Cancer.’ They stared at one another as Jody slowly dried her hands.

‘I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.’ Maya heard her own voice echo, high and plaintive in the tiled room. ‘I’ve never known anyone who died before.’

Why was she talking like this? She’d never once met Dory. And even as she spoke she remembered Miriam Kershaw.

To sound innocent.

Jody raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows. ‘You could always send some flowers.’

‘How do you do that?’

‘There’s a florist round the corner. They’ll deliver them for you or you can take them yourself.’ She started to edge gently around Maya. ‘I’ll speak to the girls. We’ll send a card or something. That poor guy. Any kids?’ She hesitated at the door.

‘A son. Grown up.’

‘You OK, sweetie? Going to close up for the day?’

‘Yes, I will. I’ll take the family some flowers.’ She hadn’t known this was what she was going to do until she heard herself say it.

Everything was speeding up. She was in a taxi holding a bouquet as big as a baby, wrapped in mauve cellophane, the stems like limbs across her knees. They were racing down a freeway, in a direction she’d never been before. Billboards, overpasses, factories stood to attention beneath a sombre sky. She was like an official mourner, sweeping past in a motorcade. The taxi was filled with the freshness of her flowers.

Why this terrible rush? She’d run into the florist’s, pointing to irises and hyacinths and orchids and flowers she didn’t know the name of, as long as they were purple or mauve. She’d never been in a florist shop before, and the exotic blooms, the leafy hush and tang went to her head. In Warton if people gave you flowers, they would have grown them.

She hadn’t asked how much they’d cost – nearly as much, it turned out, as a really good haircut – just signed her credit card and rushed out again to hail a taxi. As if she were late. For what? To show him her support? So as not to be left out?

Her mouth was dry and she was sweating inside her coat. She caught a glimpse of her half-profile in the taxi’s tinted window, and for a moment she thought she saw Dory. But Dory looked nothing like her.

She’d spotted a photo once in his wallet and made him take it out and show her. Dory with baby Andrew beside a potted palm in a studio in Jakarta, a creased little colour print, faded now, washed out. The tiny boy was fat and gingery, his face a smudge, screwed up ready to cry. In contrast, Dory was very striking, like a sixties pop-star, with a beehive of black hair, pale pink lipstick and dark, kohl-lined eyes. She was Dutch-Indonesian, Maynard said. (My father is half Dutch! Maya told him, but as usual, he didn’t seem to hear.) He’d met Delores in Java in his days as a saxophonist with a touring band. She taught Indonesian in a language school. Later he went into business for a while with her father. Dory wore white gloves and a collarless mauve coat with large mauve cloth-covered buttons. Her smile was serene, her eyes shy, shining. ‘She looks happy,’ she said to Maynard as he slid the photo back into his wallet. He said nothing.

In her mind, as time went by, the name Dory came to have a sort of orchid-coloured glow.

They were off the freeway now, charging into a suburb. The main street of every suburb here was a city in itself, stacked with shops and cafes, under rows of swinging wires. This was what Dory would have seen when she first came to Melbourne, looking out a taxi window over little Andrew’s head.

The flowers were for Dory, of course.

The Flynns lived in a dead-end street that finished in a shallow rise of bushland. The houses were packed in, side by side, close to the road. In Melbourne everyone lived closer together. Some of the houses were modernised, with glass and timber additions and frondy landscaped gardens, but the Flynns’ house was bare and treeless, like it would have been when it was built.

So this was where he came from and returned to. Winter sun shone briefly through the clouds, but the house looked dark, stricken, closed in on itself.

It was after she had paid the driver and turned towards the house with her armful of rustling cellophane and flowing purple ribbons, that she realised her offering was not only showy and over the top, it was fatally, morally wrong. Sweat spurted into her armpits, she swung around but the taxi had already disappeared. No shelter anywhere. Oh God, how could she get rid of it? Was anybody watching her?

The curtains in the house were drawn. There was no one on the street. Quick, she told herself, leave it on the doormat and run. Head lowered, she moved swiftly up the front path to the porch. There was no garden, just a concrete slab and some woody shrubs by the steps. Somehow she’d expected Dory to have made a beautiful garden.

Andrew opened the door as she tiptoed across the porch. He could be nobody else but Andrew, though he’d grown tall and dark and clear. The fat smudge-faced days were long gone. How had he known she was here?

A wave of heat moved up her neck so violently that her eyes watered. ‘I just wanted to …’

He smiled and put his arm out and firmly ushered her inside. The door closed behind her.

The hall was cold and bare as a hospital. Far down the end it opened into a room where people were talking. She caught the foreign inflection of women’s voices and the clink of dishes. Francine, Bernadette and Tina no doubt, doing what women friends do. An oxygen cylinder stood in a bar of light outside an open bedroom doorway, and in the shadowy front room next to her she glimpsed a table piled high with bouquets. She could smell freesias, a cold sweetness from her own past. She had no right to be here.

‘These were her favourite colours, did you know that?’ Andrew said, touching Maya’s flowers. She nodded, unable to speak. He had his father’s hands, but more finely cast. She could see Maynard’s features in the set of his face, but his skin was olive and his eyes were dark, wide-spaced, intense. Dory’s son. You could tell that she’d been beautiful.

That’s him, Maya thought, without quite knowing what she meant. It was as if she’d dreamt of him.

‘Andy? I think you’re needed.’ A long-legged girl in jeans strode up the hall towards them. She was wearing a large football jumper, probably borrowed from Andrew, the way girlfriends liked to do. She put her hand on Andrew’s shoulder. ‘Granny’s asking for you.’ Perfect, cool, in charge, good skin, dark hair in a curly ponytail. She would have been a champion runner, a maths whizz, a prefect, one of the shining girls at school.

‘This is Kirstin,’ Andrew said. His girlfriend. The girlfriend he deserved.

There was a pause. Since Maya didn’t speak, Kirstin reached for her bouquet.

‘I’ll take this if you like.’ She whisked it into the front room with all the other flowers.

‘Maynard? Andy?’ The old girl was down the corridor of course, making sure that no one forgot her. Where was Maynard? She knew he wasn’t here.

Andrew kept on looking at her. ‘Were you one of Mum’s students?’

Maya shook her head and backed towards the door.

‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ he asked. ‘Anything at all?’

His dark eyes each held a drop of radiance inside them, like the gleam of water at the bottom of a well. She couldn’t look too long into them. He knew something she couldn’t bear to know.

‘No, no. My taxi’s waiting.’ She opened the front door and started across the porch. Then she turned and said quickly: ‘I’m Maya, from the office. I’m really sorry …’

‘I know you are.’ He stepped forward and took her hand for a moment. ‘Dad’s at the funeral director’s. With Mum.’ He looked up over Maya’s head. ‘What a beautiful day!’ he said. ‘I had no idea.’ He was almost high, she saw, almost a little crazy.

‘The funeral’s on Thursday, nine-thirty at St Xavier’s,’ he called out after her as she fled down the path. She nodded over her shoulder and he raised his hand to her. Fuck fuck fuck, she muttered, rushing down the street, bare, of course, of taxis. He knew. She could swear he knew. On this day Dory’s son knew everything.

The bushy rise at the end of the street looked down over a football oval, a playground, a bike trail. At this hour it was spotted with retirees throwing balls for their dogs and young mothers with little kids. The embankment was floored with shredded bark and planted artistically with native grasses and shrubs. Imitation bush, city bush, not a place where you could lose yourself. Where to now? Her bladder was bursting, and without thinking, as if she were still a country kid, living out of doors, she crouched down between two bushes and pissed splashily into the bark, risking yet more exposure.

She lay awake in the dark, trying to remember when Cecile said she’d be back from Kuala Lumpur. Sometimes she got up when Cecile came home late from her editing work and they talked. Could she be back tonight? Maybe Cecile would be too tired to talk, but it would be a relief just to see her, or even just to know she was in the house. She longed for Cecile’s calmness. Cecile was nearly thirty, far ahead of her in everything. Her advice was always very down-to-earth.

But in the morning Cecile was still not there. What if she’d come home to get changed and then gone straight off to work? Sometimes she did that. Maya wandered in and out of rooms looking for clues to see if Cecile had been and gone. The house was dark from pouring rain. Everything was cold. She didn’t know what to do next. She couldn’t even think of going to the office. In the end she went back to bed.

She wished she hadn’t told Andrew her name. Maynard would be angry when he heard of her visit. You know the rules. Would he say that to her, like a teacher? What were the rules? They’d never spoken of them, but she knew that they were there. He liked to keep all the different parts of his life separate. She knew, without anything being said, that he was afraid of demands, of being trapped, held back. If she looked away, got on with her own work, suddenly he’d come to her. Sometimes this made her laugh. It reminded her of handling Choko, the most highly strung of the horses in the Garcias’ paddock. Turn your back and he’d be nuzzling in your pocket.

He was capable of sulking. He believed in his right to do what he wanted when he wanted to, and was savage if he couldn’t. It had been a shock to find that out. But underneath, always, was the tug of need.

At first he joked about the matching first three letters of their names. I knew this was a good omen, he said, as soon as we met! A few weeks later she’d referred to this and his face went blank. She’d set off his alarm system: did she think that this bound them together? Was she hanging on to his every word? Nothing he tossed off to be charming could be taken as a promise.

Yet she had no dream of any future with him beyond the usual one, to spend a whole night together. She couldn’t conceive of any other place in the world where they would fit, they existed as a couple only in their eyrie with the bird’s-eye view of the spire. If he was offhand, became businesslike and impersonal, she could cringe to think of herself on that mattress, like a creature without its shell.

He was a bit overwhelmed by her devotion, she suspected, by what he had unleashed. Sometimes he was touched by it and was tender: a small, spontaneous measuring out. Only her love kept them afloat. The creaks and sighs of the old building around them sounded like a warning. Throat-clearings of disapproval. She wondered if after this she’d ever be able to have a ‘normal’ relationship. If secrets and rules were part of its kick, a kick she’d got used to now.

More and more he was out of the office. This was the nature of the business, he told her, a lot of running around. It was better to pick up freight yourself than deal with a customs broker. Then there was the banking and the checking of stock in the warehouse and trips to see potential customers. Sometimes a customer whom he said he was meeting rang up to speak to him. From time to time she caught him out with little lies, to her, to his mother. Why didn’t she take this into account?

What did she know of him? She only had a keyhole view of him, a fixed, secret eye.

Sometimes he’d lie back and suddenly open up to her. How his widowed mother sent him to a private school where he had less money than the other boys and never learnt anything but how to gamble and play the saxophone. How when he left – he was asked to leave – he ran away to join a jazz band that was touring though Asia.

‘Why were you kicked out?’ she asked. These days you had to do something pretty heinous, or that was how it was at a country high. She needed to know everything about him so she could understand him.

‘Got a girl pregnant,’ he said briskly. ‘The headmaster told my mother that she was wasting her money on me, I was a blight on the school’s reputation. My God, if they only knew what was really going on there.’ He was still angry about it, she could see.

‘What happened to the girl?’

‘She lost the baby before it was born. I was told I’d ruined her life. Girls weren’t supposed to want sex in those days, you understand.’

He fell in love with Asia and married Dory and stayed there for many years. He and Dory decided to bring up Andrew in Australia, but he still went to Asia on business at least three times a year. With the contacts he’d made in Indonesia he started up Global Imports. She’d have to come with him one day to the warehouse in South Melbourne, he said, and pick out something for herself. One morning she arrived to find a large carved wooden jewellery box sitting on her desk. Not really her sort of thing, but he seemed pleased with it and she couldn’t tell him that.

He couldn’t remember the last time he played the sax.

He was fifty, a couple of years older than her parents though he didn’t seem part of the same generation, the sixties or whatever it was. She couldn’t imagine him long-haired in a protest rally. He told her he voted Liberal, and was amused at her gasp of shock. I make love with a right-winger, she thought. She began to explain to him what it was like being Labor in a country town, but as usual he wasn’t listening. He was always dreaming, she’d come to realise, and if she asked, his dreams were always schemes for making money. If he and her parents met, they would have nothing at all to say to one another. But that must never happen. They must on no account ever meet.

‘Global is never going to make my fortune,’ he said, looking up at the ceiling high above them. ‘I’m using some contacts to diversify.’

If he’d looked anything like her father, large, sweaty, hairy, nothing could possibly have happened between them. If he’d had the body of men in Warton of his age. But he was narrow-boned, smooth-skinned, trim. Sometimes he’d pat his belly or flex his arms and frown. ‘Haven’t been able to get to the gym for months now.’ The stress of his current life kept his shape almost boy-like. When their two pairs of shoes lay side by side beneath the radiator, hers were the same size as his.

Her first thought when she met him was that he had the looks of an actor, an older, workaday version of, say, Kevin Spacey. His cheeks were hollow, close-shaven, with a fold on either side of his mouth like pleats in soft leather. A half-circle of creases ran up his neck and jaw if he tucked his head down. He had a habit of running his fingers back through his hair, which was cleverly cut to be pushed-up at the top where it was thinning. It was babyishly fine, a fading reddish-brown sprinkled with silver. Was he vain? At his desk he wore small, fine-rimmed tortoiseshell glasses. His eyes were quick and hard to read. In his black coat he looked like a Melbourne man.

Age didn’t come into it. She registered an instant reaction to him when she saw him, a softening all through her body at the sight of his hands and wristwatch, his ivory skin, his pale shirts, his narrow, gold-buckled belt.

There was some sweetness too, a quick understanding, and sometimes a playful streak. Rarely now. He’d become more and more preoccupied.

Late morning she went downstairs and ate a bowl of Weetbix with the last of the milk. There was nothing else to eat. Neither she nor Cecile had been shopping for a couple of weeks. She ate at the kitchen bar, the big open room silent around her. The long leaves of the bamboo in the courtyard hung flat in the endless rain. She remembered the fierce rush and instant turning off of Warton rain, like a little kid’s tantrum. She kept listening out for the scratch of the key turning in the lock.

When Cecile was home there was always music. As soon as she came in, even if it was very late, she went straight to her workbench next to the stairs, turned on the lamp and played music on her computer. Music was the background to everything Cecile did. It was the same in Warton when her father or brother were home. She would never forget the feeling of relief when she first entered this house and stepped into music.

Cecile gave her the sheepskin coat a few nights after she moved in. It had been hanging forever at the back of her cupboard, much too big for her, she said. She’d bought it from a friend who was desperate for money. The moment she put it on, Maya felt safe, embraced, protected, able to face the Melbourne streets at last. It was a perfect fit, the cream fleece tucked inside against her skin. Cecile put her head to one side and studied her as they put on their shoes at the front door. It was ten o’clock at night and they were about to go to a Vietnamese restaurant to eat a soup called pho which Cecile had a craving for.

‘I knew the right person would turn up for it one day.’

Maya opened the door and set out, muttering something about being big-boned like the Dutch side of the family. At that time, before Maynard, she still hated to be looked at, and avoided looking at herself in mirrors.

After she started wearing the coat everything changed. It transformed those cold dawns, transformed her into a city girl. She began to feel at home. The house, small yet strangely spacious, had a distinct personality that in her mind she associated with Cecile. Just as, from the start, she didn’t feel shy with Cecile, so she felt at ease in this house.

Melbourne started to look different to her. She got the hang of the trams. Shops and restaurants on Victoria Street became familiar. She and Cecile always ate there, or bought take-away. Restaurateurs hailed them. They never cooked at home. Cecile introduced her to Shanghai dumplings and baked pork buns and sticky rice in a twist of bamboo leaf out of the warmers in the little supermarkets. Wherever she went Cecile always looked out for quality.