Good Neighbours

The kitchen was hot and stuffy, filled with the smell of onions cooking. Water vapour condensed on the window and ran down the pane of glass, collecting with the pool of dust on the sill. Ruth stood by the stove, wooden spoon in hand, stirring the pot. She added a twist of pepper, then turned down the stove and went outside. It was getting dark, with the sky a pale blue, tinged pink over the horizon. The warm breeze ruffled her skirts as she bent by the back door, gathering herbs: thyme, rosemary, sage, parsley and oregano she placed into the pocket of her apron. She stood up and stretched her back, listening for the squeak of the front gate. He still wasn’t home.

Hello. Yes, I’m fine, I usually am. Yes I am pleased to see you, of course I am. How was the trip? The train wasn’t too bad? Not all young people are like that. Let’s start walking; here, I’ll take your luggage. It’s not far from here; we can walk. You’re just not used to this many people. Isn’t it great to have some anonymity? Well I think it is. Look, there’s the stadium. And down that way is the place where I work. I like it; it’s not too bad for a job. The people are pretty easy to work with. Mmmm, the weather is good, has been lately. Reminds me of my childhood summers… Why don’t you want to talk about the past? I thought that’s why you were here. Then why are you? Surely you don’t just want to see how I’m going?

The front door opened as Ruth was sprinkling the chopped herbs onto the meat. She heard Lachlan go into his room, and the door close. Ruth sighed, then got out the plates to serve. She went up the hallway to the lounge room, where Victor was reading the newspaper.

“Darling, I’m about to serve dinner.” Victor grunted, and didn’t look up. Ruth knocked on the door of Lachlan’s room. “Lockie dear? Tea’s ready.”

As usual, she placed the food in front of Victor, holding her breath. He stared at it.

“Crumbed chicken and potato gems; I’m sure you’ll like it.” They sat at the table in silence, Lachlan picking at his food. “Were you good at school today?” Ruth asked Lachlan.

“Yes mum” he replied, staring down at his plate.

“How was your day at work, dear?” she asked Victor, trying not to sound forced. She needn’t have bothered; he only shrugged and continued eating.

Don’t you feel like you’ve escaped? God that town was oppressive; I hated it so much. The best thing I did was get out of there. Those people have no idea. So what do you think of my new look? These sideburns took me ages to grow. I’m still not sure about the moustache though. You don’t like my shirt? But mum, it’s paisley, it’s all the rage. I think it’s hot. So how have you been coping? Are you sure you’ve been alright? Maybe you should stay with your sister for a while. Because there’s not much room at my place. Seeing as you’re only here for a couple of nights I can manage to sleep on the couch. No, you can have my bed. Of course I’m sure; you are the guest after all.

The room was too hot, the quilt smothering. Ruth got out of bed quietly, careful not to disturb Victor as he snored laboriously on the other side of the bed. She tiptoed across to the window and pushed it up further, then closed her eyes and drank in the sweet smell of jasmine. The night always made her sad. It was so quiet and lonely. Victor rolled over in his sleep, and Ruth left the room to wander through the quiet, dark house. In the kitchen, she turned on the light and sat at the table, writing a list. Flour; yes, and sugar, for the jam she would make with the mulberries from the tree out the back. She’d have to pick some tomorrow, early in the morning before it got too hot.

Lockie? Nobody calls me that anymore; it’s a kid’s name. I’m not your baby now, I never was. I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to upset you. I never do; it just seems to come naturally. Don’t touch me mum! Just leave it. This is what I’m left with, every day when I look in the mirror I see it. Of course you can see it, just be honest with me for once. God! (Pause) Sorry, I’m sorry, okay? Have you got a hanky? Here, have mine. You don’t need to apologise, I shouldn’t have said that to you. But can’t you see what this is to me? It’s more than a little scar on my forehead; it’s a constant reminder. Of what? Stop pretending you don’t understand. It’s telling me I’m different, that I’m not accepted, even by my own family. I’m not! Do you want me to give you a list of names, all my relatives who’ve disowned me? They’re bloody pathetic: small-minded, prejudiced… Okay, okay, I’ll stop there. Wouldn’t want to offend you, mother. But you do realise don’t you? Even now, I get thrown insults in the street, no matter how hard I try to hide. Some people can just tell.

It was washing day. Ruth pegged the garments onto the clothesline, slowly and carefully; smalls on the inside, towels on the outside. She tugged at the bottom of Lachlan’s school shirt, and gently smoothed out the creases until it hung perfectly. She gazed at it, wondering what he would be doing at the moment, then went around to the front garden. It was dry, and the grass was dying. Ruth inspected the plants; the one by the gate was in bloom, and the tiny blue flowers formed a hairnet flung over the leaves. She stood at the gate with her hand shielding her eyes form the glare, and gazed down the dusty street. Across the road, Mrs Collins had her curtains closed; she always did worry about the carpet fading. Come to think of it, Ruth hadn’t caught up with her for a while; perhaps some apple cake would go down well later. But there were things to be done, and no time to waste languishing by the road. Ruth turned and hurried back inside.

You can’t just fix up the past ten years like that, it’s not that simple. Of course he wasn’t sorry! I know full well how he felt about me, and I hope he’s turning in his grave knowing that you’re here. I’m just being honest; he was a bastard, and you’re better off without him. I can speak ill of the dead if I want to. Yeah, yeah, he was my father. (Pause) Unfortunately. It’s not as if I deliberately tried to hurt him; I can’t help who I am. God I wished he could just treat me like a son he was proud of.

Ruth lit the red stick of incense and watched the fine blue-grey smoke form patterns in the air. The top of the window was open, and the flow of air twisted the smoke into patterns, curling one moment, spiralling the next, rolling like silk. It was mesmerising, a peaceful beauty, and Ruth had to pull herself away from watching it to go and get the washing off the line. She never lit it when Victor was in the house; he didn’t like that kind of “hippy shit”. Later, Ruth crept down the hall, past the living room where Victor was sprawled in the chair, listening to the wireless. She pushed open the door and turned on the light. The room was clean, desolate, almost un-lived in. Lachlan’s schoolbooks were stacked neatly on the desk, a half-written essay lay open, line after line of neat, precise writing.

Where did I go? Most times I just went up to the hill, wandered through the bush. To get away from everything of course! I hated being at home. Yes, I know you were there; it wasn’t you I was escaping from. But how can I describe it? It was the one place that I loved going to, especially in summer, with the long days and warm evenings. What did I do? I just walked; there were heaps of paths to follow… All of it houses? Gone. Well that’s change for you, ‘progress’ I guess they call it. (Pause) We’ve got to move on sometime.

Ruth tied the peg-apron around her waist and went outside. Ray was in his backyard, smoking. She averted her eyes and concentrated on unpegging the clothes, then folding and placing them in the wooden basket. He came over to the fence anyway, leaning against it and staring at her. She could feel his eyes on her back, and eventually he spoke.

“Evening Mrs Hursley.” Ruth turned at the sound of her name.

“How are you, Mr Talbot?” She didn’t smile.

“I’m good, Mrs Hursley, really great, thankyou.” He blew smoke towards her, smirking. “How’s that boy of yours?” He paused; “he’d be, what, fourteen by now?” Ruth met his eyes.

“He was sixteen in June.” There was that smirk again.

“Sixteen, eh?” He raised a hand and motioned for her to come closer. She hesitated, then stepped towards him. He leant his face towards her, as if her was a conspirator. “Just between you and me, Mrs H”, he lowered his voice, “I think he’s a queer.” He laughed, his smoky breath harsh in her face. She jerked away, backing towards the clothesline. “I’d watch him if I were you” he called. “He’s just not right”.

I don’t want to know about the funeral. ‘Nice’ isn’t a word I’d use to describe anything to do with that man. What? People actually turned up? Like who? I reckon you just got all your CWA friends there. So who lives next door now? I bet you’re close friends. Come on, you didn’t expect this to be easy did you? As if we’d make up for all those years with a hug? (Pause) When my number came up in sixty-eight, my buggered nose got me out of strife; breathing troubles they reckon.

She couldn’t stay away from it for long; the closed door always beckoned. She was alone for most of the day, and taking comfort in Lachlan’s room was a small consolation. As usual, the room was immaculate, but today there was a piece of scrunched up paper lying on his desk. She sat down on the bed, carefully smoothing the creases out of the paper.

Can’t you see?
The tears pool in my eyes,
The blood rush to my cheeks and burn my skin.
Don’t you feel?
The words form on my lips,
The silent pleas escaping from my mind.
Can’t you sense?
My soul slip through the trees,
My body crushed as rocks come tumbling down.
Don’t you know?
My strength is all but lost:
The shower of taunts, the cutting pain…

Unfinished she knew, but it still pulled at her heart. Ruth crumpled the paper up in her hand and put it back on the desk. It was time to start preparations for tea.

This isn’t going so well, is it? (Pause) You shouldn’t have come. I know you wanted to. I’m sorry you feel bad. Guilty? Yeah, that’s right, guilt is something I’d be feeling too if I was you. I change my mind easily, always shifting from one thing to another. Thoughts are hard to keep track of, don’t you think? I guess it depends how many you have; you probably wouldn’t have that problem. I’ve let you down. What will all your friends think? You’ll be the only one without grandchildren. I know you mum, and it will matter. Don’t pretend it won’t. It’s a pity you didn’t have any other children, maybe they could’ve made up for your disappointing child.

Ruth poured beer into the glasses. Victor and Ray were outside on the verandah, and she could here their voices, their laughter. She carried the beers out to them, handing Ray’s to him without a word, then went back inside. She shut the screen door.

“Women; ain’t good for much but they’re good for a beer.” More laughter, a clink of glasses, someone belching. Disgusted, Ruth continued into the kitchen. She poured herself a shandy, then put the rest of the lemonade in a glass for Lachlan. She went up the hallway to his door. “Lockie? Are you in there? Would you like some sponge cake darling?” She paused, waiting.

“I’m fine thanks. I’ll be off soon anyway.”

“But it’s your favourite, and there’s lemonade too. Come on out to the kitchen, now there’s a dear; your father’s outside.” When Lachlan didn’t reply, Ruth sighed. “Well make sure you’re back for tea.” She returned slowly to the kitchen.

Who’s Paula? Oh yeah, that friend’s daughter. She still living there, hey? What a good daughter, three kids and she’s not even, what, thirty? Tut tut, I’m really letting you down, not burdening myself with three little tackers under five. Here we are, this is the flat. You don’t like it? What a surprise. Shut the door would you? Okay, now this is the room you’ll stay in, I’ll dump your luggage in there. Yep, that’s the bathroom that way. Come into the kitchen, do you want something to eat? Well how about a drink then, tea? I thought you would. Sit down mum, you can relax you know. Then try to at least; I’ll grab some biscuits. Do you still cook all the time?

Ruth was creaming the butter and sugar for a pound cake. It had been a hot day again, and her head was aching from the glare. The light was orange and she could smell the smoke of a bushfire, somewhere in the distance. She was just stirring in the raisins when Victor got home. That meant no time to take the cake across the road, no time to spend having a cup of tea and gossiping, trying not to worry. She put some scones on a plate, and got the jam from the pantry. She left the food out for him and went outside with the compost bucket to feed the chooks. There were precious few eggs; Ruth collected them carefully. She stumbled on the way back inside, and an egg tumbled to smash onto the back door step.

I can remember the day clearly, even now. It was hot, and I’d decided to go for a walk up into the bush. It must have been the holidays… yeah, that’s right, the summer of sixty-five. Anyway, I went up there and walked to my usual spot; it’d only take about fifteen minutes to get there. The place I always went to? (Pause) It was peaceful, that’s what I remember, removed from everything else; a little shaded pool, a small cliff on up one side and the rest gum trees. You know it? Really? Did you used to go up there too? Ohhhh… I loved sitting there with my feet in the water. When it was still, the dark water reflected the trees perfectly. Yeah, it was beautiful, I agree. So I was sitting there and I must’ve heard someone coming along the track- what? Yeah, I can remember it, but you tend to forget the details after ten years. Anyway, like I was saying, I got up and there he was, just where the track looks over the water. Our ever thoughtful neighbour. How strong do you want your tea? And no sugar of course. I know you’re sorry… there was nothing you could do; you could never have known that it would come to that. (Pause) Such a long time ago.

The wind rustled the leaves of the gums, making the branches creak. Dust flew against the glass as Ruth put the kettle on, waiting for Lachlan to get back. She heard the screen door slam as Ray went into his house next door. The sky was darkening; a storm was on its way. Half an hour later she was sitting at the table, drinking her second cup of tea. The back door opened and Lachlan limped into the kitchen. He stood there, right eye swollen, blood matted in his hair and dried around his nose, a cut on his lips and his cheeks grazed. His shirt was torn, his nose looked broken. The rain drummed on the roof as Ruth put her head on the table and started to cry.

Ruth

Quiet. So quiet. No, peaceful. Peaceful with the clattering of the jars. Bubbling away. Must remember to clean the silver. Where’s the cloth got to? Gosh, always forgetting things. Feeling old today. Bit tired. Need to get more sleep, too hot I guess. Have to move the bed closer to the window. Best try the jam, can’t be too runny this time… Oh, washing day tomorrow. So much work. Victor doesn’t understand. No, don’t think about that. But… Always on edge I am, can’t relax. Still, that’s the choice I made. No! The cake can’t be burning! Oven mits, quickly. No, no… Damn! Too late. Stop it, it doesn’t matter. Just crying over spilt milk. Why do these things always happen? Nothing ever goes right… Bill looked smart. Three children, wife’s pretty too. Could’ve been me. Oh, those old dances, Saturday nights… Jars must be ready by now. Let the water cool? Don’t want to burn myself. Again. Damn cake. It’ll have to go to the chooks. What a waste, good bit of butter in that. Bill. Sat up the front in church. Doesn’t notice me any more: only an old flame now. Silly, silly, silly. Wish I could change. Too late, should be content. Happy with Victor. Stop, stop, eyes keep watering. Stupid me; burnt cake, jam’s probably terrible. Falling apart: me, Lockie… Lockie, please talk to me. What’ve I done wrong? Tried, so hard, done my best. Lockie. Bill. My heart always fluttered… Right, enough. May as well try the jam now. Good, not too sweet. Beautiful colour, is purple: my favourite. Flowers on table, yes; that’d be pretty. Falling petals are a pain though. Oh well, p’raps just a few. Need a cuppa. Gosh, feet are sore. Just want to sit down. Just want things right, happy. That’s how I’d like to be. Wish Lockie was happy. Always used to be chatting away, happy as a little one. What’s changed? Lockie Lockie Lockie. My darling son. Only son. So Bill with three. I would’ve given him as many little ones as he wanted. So young we were. We could’ve moved on, gone somewhere different. Out of town. Wasn’t ready though, was Bill. Couldn’t settle down. Has now, but. Victor was ready though, job and everything…. Poor Lockie; must feel like he’s caged in. Try to protect him, I do. Shouldn’t have to though. Better put the kettle on. Piece of cake would be nice. Shouldn’t really but… Fly. No, go away, I’m trying to have some quiet. Damn fly! Just leave me alone! That’s all I want. Too much time by myself though, too alone. Need some other company, only not a fly. Ha! No fly! Mrs Collins gossips so much, I can’t keep track. Feel left out. Tea… or a proper drink? No, I mustn’t, too early. Bad sign that. Only trying to lift my spirits. Spirits! Ha ha. Better get the bottles out. Dry them in the oven? Or leave them out… oven’s safer I guess, can never be too sure. No mould in this jam. Must bottle it soon… yes, soon. Lockie likes mulberries. Need some air, front verandah should be shady. Yes, I’ll just sit there for a while. Not too long, mind, just a little while. Rest my legs, have a think… Aaah yes, eyes shut, warm breeze. Peaceful.