The Place on Dalhousie Read online

  ‘Am I breaking her out of the nursing home?’ he asks, mischief in his eyes.

  ‘She’d like that.’

  He takes her hand, linking it with his. ‘I’ll give you my number,’ he says.

  She shrugs. ‘I don’t have a mobile.’

  ‘Take it anyway.’ He writes on her palm with the marker. She loves the feel of his knuckles against her palm as he writes, like the sinew of his body against her when they have sex. Rosie feels as if every part of her is stamped by this guy’s bony strangeness.

  ‘First chance you get, copy this down on a piece of paper,’ he says.

  She knows there’ll never be a reason to ring this number. She’s not a hello, let’s catch-up type of girl. And then his mouth is on hers and a part of Rosie feels desolate. Because maybe deep down she thought SES Jesus was one of her father’s signs after all. Except they’re both travelling in opposite directions and she can’t think of anything powerful enough to place them on the same path.

  She goes back to the nursing home to tell Miss Fricker she’s leaving. Wordlessly takes the old woman to the toilet, cleans her up, helps her back to where she was sulking by the window. When she pins the Mary MacKillop brooch on Joy’s collar, she feels something press against the palm of her hand. A whole lot of hundred-dollar bills rolled up. Rosie tries to return it but the old woman’s hand is a fist.

  ‘Take it. You’ve wiped my arse and bought me beer. You deserve it.’

  Rosie thinks that ‘You’ve wiped my arse and bought me beer’ would make a great title to a country and western song.

  ‘Have you seen the house?’ Joy asks.

  ‘Been there all week. You’ll be ready to go home soon.’

  ‘How are my roses?’

  ‘Dead. Everything outside was wiped out except for the goat.’

  ‘Is the house still standing? Because that’s all that counts.’

  Rosie nods, goes to walk away but stops herself.

  ‘My father spent eighteen years of his life building a house,’ she tells Miss Fricker. ‘He wasn’t a builder – just one of those guys who knew what he was doing. Anyone who walked past it would say, “That’s the house Seb Gennaro’s building for his family.” But my mum got sick and never got to see it finished and within a year he remarried. Then he died. And now she thinks it’s hers. Won’t move out. The house my dad built for me and my mum.’

  She walks away because oversharing isn’t her thing.

  ‘Rosie.’ It’s the first time Miss Fricker has ever used her name.

  Rosie turns back one more time.

  ‘Keep away from good-for-nothings. It’s what’s kept me alive all these years.’

  She walks past the cenotaph and up to the main street where everyone’s hard at work. Maeve is dumping stuff into a skip bin. Next door, Rockmans is all but ruined. If it’s not water, it’s mud, but it doesn’t stop them working. She envies these people. Some have lost everything and, for the life of her, she can’t get that baby being swept away out of her head. Or those who are uninsured because living so close to a river means the insurance companies won’t touch them for less than a fortune. They belong to something bigger than Rosie’s had for a while and, as depressed as they all seem, the words ‘Do you want a cuppa?’ seem to change everything for a moment. Rosie hasn’t belonged to anything for longer than she can remember. Her fault. Their fault. Whoever’s fault it is, the bleakness consumes her. She hears the deluge spoken about over again, but a deluge can’t be that bad. It has substance. Rosie wants deluge. She wants to watch her whole life float down the river so she can do what these people are doing now. Go retrieve it. Put their lives back together again.

  She sees her ride pull up outside the pub just as it begins to rain. Opens her hand, studies the name. James Hailler. The phone number’s already beginning to smudge like she knew it would. She puts her hands into her pockets. Gets into the truck.

  ‘What about this raaaaain?’ a nasal ZZ Top–type from Newcastle says as if he’s the first to notice the weather in weeks. Rosie knows she’s going to be a passenger to someone who doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.

  ‘You got everything?’ he asks.

  She thinks for a moment.

  And asks for a pen and paper.

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Date: 1 March 2011

  Subject: Sister Mo is dead

  Dear Martha,

  Where have you been and why aren’t you answering my phone calls? I told George this is the longest you and I haven’t spoken since that time in Year Twelve when you misunderstood Elizabeth King’s words and imagined that everyone was blaming you after we lost the netball grand finals. Anyway, Sister Mo died on Saturday. I know you’ve spent the past thirty years avoiding any school reunion, but apparently Alana Charbel went to see her at the nursing home and Mo spoke about you, so I think she’d want you to be at her funeral on Thursday. Martha, please respond! Elizabeth King is after everyone’s emails.

  Love, Sophie

  P.S. Although you would have received the invitation to Scarlett’s birthday party, I’ve attached a photo from the day. You can see how upset she looks because her godmother chose not to turn up.

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Date: 1 March 2011

  Sophie, you better not have given anyone my email address after I’ve spent three decades making sure they can’t contact me. Just what I need. Another shitload of vacuous emails sent by people who have nothing better to do with their lives. And for the record, what part of ‘You lost us the grand finals’ spoken by Elizabeth King would I have misunderstood in Year Twelve?

  Martha

  P.S. We haven’t seen each other for two weeks, Sophie. Don’t be so dramatic.

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Date: 1 March 2011

  Subject: The class of ’80

  Dear Martha,

  I had no choice giving Elizabeth your email. She probably won’t contact you, anyway. I’m sure she got the hint years ago that you don’t want to be part of a reunion.

  Love, Sophie

  To: [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Date: 1 March 2011

  Subject: Sister Maureen Louise Cassidy’s funeral

  Hi girls,

  Now that I’ve got all your contact details, let’s get down to business. Sister Mo would have loved nothing better than her golden girls doing the offertory procession on Thursday. I’m not ruling out a liturgical dance just yet. You know how Mo felt about those she choreographed. Any preferences on what you want to carry in the procession? Bread, wine, the napkin?

  Regards,

  Elizabeth King

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Date: 1 March 2011

  Obviously she didn’t get the hint, Sophie. I’m not spending Thursday dancing up a church aisle, pretending to hold the body and blood of Christ, grieving an evil nun who delegated me to wing defence for six years while the rest of you basked in the glory of being centres or shooters.

  Anyway, I’ve already reached my funeral quota for the month. Please decline on my behalf.

  Martha

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Date: 1 March 2011

  Subject: WMD

  Dear Martha,

  Why aren’t I surprised that you brought up the netball team? Remember the ‘F’ Sister Mo gave us for our assignment on the minority groups persecuted through the ages, and you sketched all the victims wearing WD bibs? You know what you should have had on your bib back then? WMD, not WD. Because you’re a weapon of mass destruction when it comes to bringing up anything related to school. It’s made you paranoid, Martha!

  To: [email protected]

&nb
sp; From: [email protected]

  Date: 1 March 2011

  I’m not paranoid, Sophie.

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Date: 1 March 2011

  At school you were convinced that Julia Healy’s brother only went out with centres and shooters. Move on, for crying out loud. George says you’re better than that.

  Sophie!

  P.S. Did you hear Ewan Healy got sacked from his NRL coaching position?

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Date: 1 March 2011

  I can’t believe you discuss me, and the netball days, with George. Is it dinnertime news? Is that why Scarlett looked so depressed in her birthday photo? And here I thought it was because you threw her a fairy party when it’s obvious my goddaughter was never meant to be in tulle. And no need to bring up Ewan Healy, thank you. I bumped into him at Charlie P’s funeral in the Hunter last week. He didn’t even know who I was, so I’m not exactly crying over the fact that he went out with most of you at some time in his life.

  Martha

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Date: 2 March 2011

  Subject: It’s been a long time

  Dear Martha,

  Sophie mentioned you might not be at Mo’s funeral on Thursday. Alana and I want to have you over for a catch-up.

  Best,

  Julia

  P.S. Did you know my brother was divorced? Are you going out with anyone?

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Date: 2 March 2011

  Sophie, did you write to Julia Healy and suggest matching me up with her brother?

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Date: 2 March 2011

  Subject: Olive branch

  In a brief IM conversation we had today, Julia mentioned that she’s extending an olive branch, Martha. Regardless of how toxic your relationship was in high school, it seems as if she’s moved on. You should too.

  Love, Sophie

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Date: 2 March 2011

  Quit the subject lines, Sophie. They’re supposed to be a hint of what you’re going to say, not a repetition. And you wonder why I don’t respond to you sometimes. Subject: Mammogram scare. Subject: Head lice alert. Subject: I’m the prophet of doom. One day, I want you to send me an email that doesn’t spell despair before you even say hello.

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Date: 2 March 2011

  Subject: How can you say that?

  Martha, how can you say that? I send you the most beautiful emails and your subject line last month was ‘Fuck these angels off’.

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Date: 2 March 2011

  Because I’ve told you so many times not to send those chain emails about passing it on to another twenty people so an angel will bless me. I lost my mother and husband within a four-year period, Sophie. Do you honestly believe I’m on an angel’s mailing list?

  Martha

  P.S. Don’t you think it’s just like Julia to try and match me up with her brother when he no longer resembles JFK Jr? All of a sudden I’m good enough for Ewan Healy because he’s jobless at fifty and has love handles.

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Date: 2 March 2011

  Subject: How do you know Ewan Healy has love handles?

  I thought you didn’t talk to him at that funeral. Please explain.

  To: [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Date: 2 March 2011

  Subject: Burwood United

  Hear me out, girls, because I think there’s a purpose to Sister Mo’s death. Last Saturday Jules and I were up at Cintra Park watching the kids play netball and we saw those Ashbury trolls who demoralised us back in ’80. They’ve re-formed a team and they look smug. We have to get the Burwood United team back together.

  Love Alana

  To: [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Date: 2 March 2011

  Subject: Re: Burwood United

  We’ll need to find another couple of players to replace Karen and Mary. They’ve completely let themselves go and have got Buckley’s of getting into the uniform. Any suggestions?

  Elizabeth xx

  P.S. Is it true you’re putting Dalhousie Street on the market, Martha?

  To: [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Date: 2 March 2011

  I am not rejoining the team. Please take me off this thread.

  M

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Date: 2 March 2011

  Subject: house on the market???

  Martha, what’s going on??? You would never put Dalhousie Street on the market unless it was bad news. Don’t do anything rash. Please. I’ve put away money for Scarlett’s private school fund (don’t tell George that we’re going to send her to a private school). If you need money, it’s yours. I can’t bear the idea of you giving up that house.

  Love, Sophie

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Date: 2 March 2011

  Dear Sophie,

  I can’t talk about this now. Too depressing. But thank you.

  Love Martha

  P.S. Nothing will convince me to join The Real Housewives of Burwood United.

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Date: 2 March 2011

  Subject: You can play centre, Martha.

  Are you in?

  The house that Seb once started building for his other family is almost complete. What’s left for Martha is the backyard and the grouting on the kitchen floor and wall tiles. It’s all about deciding the colour of the mortar to complement the ceramics. It’s been this way for months now but she can’t find it in her to finish. Each night she stares at the murky space between the cobalt ceramics, frightened of what the finality of it all means. So it stays undone.

  Upstairs she can hear the baby. It’s constant, but she’s become accustomed to its cry these past weeks. Sooner or later she has to venture up those steps, and perhaps she’ll do it tonight. But there’s still a tyre to contend with, courtesy of some delinquent who decided to slash hers outside the house. She wants to go out there to change it, but knows Seb’s voice will be in her ear, telling her to finish the grouting, and to start on the backyard. Or go upstairs and ask about the baby. So she calls a cab and heads down to Nield Park where Sophie and the others said they’d be training, because putting off the inevitable has been Martha’s go-to option for some time now.

  She arrives just as the street lights flicker on around the park. Can see Julia Healy running a lap with the same intensity she had in their school days. Close by, Alana Charbel and Elizabeth King are warming up. Martha hasn’t seen them in years, but here she is in their company again. First Sister Mo’s funeral, now training.

  ‘We thought you’d pike,’ Alana says, giving her a quick hug.

  ‘I’m never one to pike.’

  Elizabeth King gives Martha a quick appraisal. No love lost between them. They had cohabited the same social group all those years ago because Sophie was the common denominator.

  ‘You look good as a brunette, Martha.’

  Martha likes the compliment. It’s what she misses about her work environment. A lack of discussion about the important things in life such as semipermanents and shellac. />
  Julia Healy jogs past and the others join her. ‘Alana and I made a bet you’d pike!’ she calls out.

  Martha catches up with them, already cramping at the twenty-metre mark. ‘What’s with the taxi?’ Julia asks.

  ‘Some dickhead at work put a cops are tops sticker on my back window, which inspired another dickhead to slash my tyres.’

  ‘I heard you were working for the police.’

  ‘The minister,’ Martha corrects.

  Sophie arrives, late as usual, chewing gum as delicately as she can and rubbing her hands with lavender oil, because she’s been smoking. She jogs across the oval and falls in next to Martha, shoulder bumps her.

  ‘I told them you’d come.’

  It’s the reason why Martha has never let go of Sophie. Unconditional love since they were twelve years old, even back at school when the others had become a troika.

  ‘What’s your brother doing here, Jules?’ Sophie asks.

  Martha falters for the slightest of moments. Hopes none of the others have noticed.

  ‘He’s training us,’ Julia says.

  Ewan Healy is heading towards them, a large sports duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

  ‘I’ve just realised that I’ve never seen him in anything but shorts and joggers,’ Sophie says.

  ‘Martha has,’ Julia says.

  Martha ignores the scrutiny.

  ‘In his suit at Charlie P’s funeral,’ Julia says. She’s jogging beside Martha now and watching her closely. ‘My brother said your speech made grown men cry.’

  ‘I make grown men cry every day. It’s too easy.’

  When they reach Ewan, he doesn’t do eye contact, but he’s contemplative, as if he can’t find the words to describe what he’s just seen. Twice divorced and sacked from a lucrative coaching job, he has truly hit rock bottom training his sister’s netball team.

  ‘Too much talking out there, girls.’

  ‘Fuck off, Ewan,’ Elizabeth says. He dumped her on the night of their school formal and Elizabeth clearly hasn’t forgiven him after all these years. As a punishment, he has them doing wind sprints, followed by a circuit of torture.