Ibby nodded purposefully, his boy’s face suddenly serious, determined.
Bilal winked at him. ‘Good fella.’
To Rosie, the boy’s answering smile was full of joy and pride.
She insisted on being in the back seat. As she was pulling the belt across her she glanced at Bilal’s face in the rear-view mirror, and then almost shamefacedly looked away when Bilal returned her gaze. She could hear Gary’s caustic rebuke. You’re so fucking uptight, Rosie, you don’t know how to be around a blackfella, do ya? You’re so scared of saying or doing or thinking the bloody wrong thing. You’re so fucking middle-class, aren’t you, Rosie? That, of course, was the worst insult her husband could throw at her, for it was both truthful and unfair. It seemed absurd to her that she should have no money, that she didn’t have a home of her own, that she should be so poor, shopping for her son’s clothes at op-shops and relying on one- and two-dollar coins to complete the end-of-week grocery shopping. But the worst of it was that she was so stolidly, boringly, stupidly middle-class. She did always experience unease around Aboriginal people, and had done so from when she was a young girl being taken into the city by her father, clutching tightly onto his hand when they passed any Aborigines in the street. She was scared that if she looked directly into their eyes something evil, something abominable would happen to her. She had no idea from where her fear had originated. Her own parents’ racism had been casual, was certainly never expressed violently or aggressively. Her mother pitied the blacks and her father had no respect for them; but beyond that they prided themselves on tolerance. Rosie’s fear had somehow seeped into her from beyond consciousness and memory, imbued from the very air of Perth. She certainly did not experience a similar anxiety around blacks from Africa or the Americas. She had not felt scared as a teenage girl when the US navy frigates docked in the harbour at Fremantle and the streets of Perth would be full of swaggering black American sailors. She loved their attention: the faint obscenity, the seductive illicitness of their stares; their wolf whistles; their pleas: Come on, baby, have a drink with me pretty lady. And Aish, her best friend, she was Indian. That was black, wasn’t it? But she did not risk another glance at Bilal.
She let out a deep sigh. Shamira turned around, her eyebrows raised in question. Rosie shook her head apologetically, briefly patted her friend’s shoulder, and mouthed, I’m alright. It was the news of the imminent hearing, that was what had done it. She shouldn’t jinx herself, not doubt the inherent rightness of the decision she had made. She was a good person and her unease around Bilal was not just because he was Aboriginal. She remembered him as a young man—she’d met him when she first arrived in Melbourne. He always used to laugh then, a sing-song in his voice, an attractive, youthful wildness. But he seemed to be wound up all the time, ready to uncoil with ferocious violence. She had not liked him, had feared him, even. Now in his forties, Bilal seemed to have no connection with that youth. She trusted this man, she preferred him, but she rarely heard his laugh. She was convinced that he detested her, that he still saw her as the silly white girl who’d come over from Perth and couldn’t look him in the eye. In all that time they had barely exchanged a few dozen sentences. But now she was becoming friends with his wife, and she wanted to prove to him that she was no longer that silly, thoughtless white girl, that she had left all that a lifetime ago.
The unrelenting flat suburban grid of the northern suburbs surrounded them. The further they drove, the more Rosie thought the world around them was getting uglier, the heavy grey sky weighing down on the landscape, crushing down on them. The lawns and nature strips they passed were yellowing, grim, parched. The natural world seemed leached of colour. She thought it was because this world was so far from the breath of the ocean, that it was starved for air. She understood her husband’s resistance to even thinking about living here, to settling into this dreary suburban emptiness. But it was all they could afford. Unless they moved to the country. Gary refused to even think of it as a possibility, but it would be good for Hugo, good for Gary’s painting. But she knew he wouldn’t hear of it. She looked at Bilal’s reflection in the window. Here was a good man, a great father, an adoring husband. For a dizzying moment, the kind that took her breath away, she wished that she was the woman sitting next to the man in the front seat. She wished she was part of the couple going to look at a house. She shivered.
She leaned forward and placed a hand over her friend’s shoulder. ‘Are you excited?’
Shamira shrugged. ‘We don’t let ourselves get excited. We’ve been disappointed too often.’
Bilal’s hand reached across the gearstick to grasp his wife’s. ‘We’ll find a place, hon, don’t you worry.’ His voice was gruff, embarrassed. Rosie sat back in her seat. He didn’t want her with them, it was obvious. She shouldn’t have come along—this was an activity for husband and wife. But what other opportunity would come her way? She didn’t want to look for houses on her own, to look for a home on her own.
The street was a small cul-de-sac a few blocks back from High Street. There was a school around the corner; the kids would be able to walk to it. The house itself was a low-ceilinged, square brick-veneer built in the early seventies. An auction sign was hoisted above the wire fence: Family Convenience. Rosie chuckled to herself. How Gary would hate that phrase. Family values. Working families. Family First. ‘Family anything’ he hated. Some neighbours were hanging over their own fences, looking on dispassionately at the steady stream of people walking in and out of the house. One of them was an old Greek-looking man, and further up the street a group of kids were playing soccer, chaperoned by an African woman, her head scarfed, anxiously keeping watch on the traffic. It would be a quiet street. She wouldn’t be afraid of Hugo playing outside in such a street.
The house itself was drab, there was no other word for it. The tenants had moved out and the place seemed like a shell to Rosie, devoid of personality or charm. The rooms were small, the carpet faded, and there was a distinct smell of damp in the bathroom and laundry. However, it was on a large block, with a decent-sized work shed perched precariously in the far corner. The yard had not been tended properly for years; the small garden beds were full of sickly looking weeds. But Rosie could tell that her friends loved the yard, the space, the possibilities. Quietly, she slipped back into the house, feeling like a fool, the only one on her own. The place was packed with young couples flushing the toilet, tapping the thin walls, measuring the dimensions of the rooms. She walked back out through the front door. When she had first walked in, the round-cheeked estate agent had offered her a leaflet and she had refused. He was still standing under the porch and he went to offer her one again, before recognising her, smiling, and dropping back. On an impulse she stretched out her hand. The photograph on it had a view of the residence taken from the most appealing angle, shot from below to give the house much-needed height and width. She turned the leaflet over and examined the plan. There were only two bedrooms; the kids would have to sleep together, but that was no different to the arrangement in the flat Shamira and Bilal rented in Preston.
‘You interested in Thomastown?’ There was a note of sly cynicism in the estate agent’s tone, as if he had examined Rosie closely, that he’d noticed her clothes, though obviously op-shop, were put together stylishly, that he’d observed she wore expensive Birkenstock sandals.
She avoided the question. ‘How much do you think it will go for?’
The agent’s reply was cautious, speculative. ‘Two hundred and thirty to two hundred and sixty. But.’ He did not need to add anything on to that damn but. Two hundred and thirty to two hundred and sixty—a bargain, close to shops, schools, train. A bargain that she could not afford and one that would most likely go for much more than the price quoted. Three hundred friggin’ thousand dollars. For this dump, for this distillation of banal, ugly suburbia? She handed back the leaflet.
‘Are you looking for an investment property?’ The man slipped a card out of his pocket and handed it
to Rosie. ‘Call me any time.’
Was he flirting? What was he? Twenty-five? Younger? She was sure he was being flirtatious and she found the thought both gratifying and absurd. She looked down at the card in her hand. Lorenzo Gambetto.
‘Thank you, Lorenzo.’
‘Any time.’
‘I’m just here with friends.’
‘Ah, yes. I noticed the couple.’ His tone was even, offhand, but she caught the inflection of curiosity. The couple. She had been aware of it from the moment Shamira and Bilal had got out of the car. The stares, most discreet, but some rude, a few even threatening. The man was obviously an Aborigine, the woman a Muslim, but with the complexion and face of a stereotypical Aussie working-class girl. Who are they?
‘What did you think?’
She tactfully turned the question back onto Shamira. ‘What did you think?’
‘There’s only two bedrooms but we can only afford two bedrooms, unless we find a place much further out. But I want to be close to Mum and Kirsty, and Bilal wants to be close to work. I could easily live here.’ Shamira’s eyes were bright, enthusiastic.
Rosie knew exactly what to say. ‘I thought it was a real nice place. The street seemed really welcoming, lots of kids, and you’ve got a primary school around the corner.’
‘There’s also the high school up the road, for later on.’
Rosie smiled at Bilal, wondering if he could read through it, see the disbelief it was shielding. How long would you live here if you got it? How long could you bear to live here?
‘It’s perfect.’
She half-listened in the car on the way back, aware of her friends’ excitement, their apprehension and nervousness. She was wondering how to convince Gary to even begin looking for a house together, to just turn up to inspections.
Spring Street turned into St Georges Road and the skyline of Melbourne suddenly came into view. This was where she wanted to be, this had been her world for years, where she dreamed of buying a house. But if some shit-box in Thomastown was going for three hundred grand then there was no way they could afford to buy here. The inner north. The cafés. Her favourite shops. The pool. The tram rides into Smith Street and Brunswick Street. The luxury of the Yarra River and the Merri Creek for long walks. It was unfair—it was here that they belonged.
‘So when’s the auction?’
‘In a month.’
The weekend after the hearing. It would be an enormous week. Bilal would be full-time at work, Shamira would be doing all the running around. Rosie had no idea what was involved, but she assumed there would be banks to visit, lawyers, estate agents, God knows what.
Shamira read her thoughts, turned around, grabbed her hand. ‘I’ll be there.’
Rosie could not believe how grateful she felt.
At first she thought the house was empty, that Richie had taken Hugo to the park. But from the kitchen she was aware of noise out the back. She softly kicked open the screen door and walked into the yard. Through the broken pane of the lean-to shed she caught a glimpse of Gary smoking.
They all looked up when she entered the shed. She felt as if she had intruded on some masculine game, as if she had walked into an exclusive club. Gary’s face was expressionless. Richie, who was sitting cross-legged on the dirt floor, a pile of magazines across his lap, looked up at her, his mouth open, shocked, guilty. Hugo’s face expressed only uncomplicated adoration and pleasure. He rushed at her and she lifted him up, but in doing so almost stumbled back, had to support herself on the frame of the door. He was getting bigger, he no longer fitted snugly into her arms. His body was separating from hers and she felt a twitch of need; wished he could be a baby again, a tiny thing that fitted perfectly into her. She kissed her son once, twice, three times, then set him gently back on his feet.
‘Mummy,’ he exclaimed. ‘We’ve been looking at boobies.’
Richie had swiftly snapped shut an open magazine when she’d come in, but she immediately saw what the pile on his lap was: Gary’s collection of Playboys, a box he had purchased at a flea market in Frankston when they had first begun dating. The box had travelled everywhere with them since. The editions were largely from the late seventies and eighties, long past the magazine’s heyday; they looked completely innocent these days. Still, what the fuck did Gary think he was doing? Showing centrefolds to a child and a teenage boy? Didn’t he realise how perverse that could seem?
Gary took a final deep drag from his cigarette and stubbed it out on the dirt floor. ‘Can you believe Rich has never seen a Playboy before? ’ Gary’s wink was defiant, challenging. ‘But I guess there’s no need now, is there? He’s got the internet.’
At that, the shame-faced youth rose to his feet, spilling the magazines around his feet. Sheets of centrefold slid out, Miss January 1985’s boobs flopping next to Miss April 1983’s arse. Further mortified, Richie knelt and began stacking the magazines haphazardly into a pile. She felt pity and affection for him; the poor love couldn’t look at her. She knew exactly what Gary was doing. He’d planned this moment, deliberately chosen to show the boys the magazines when he knew she could be home at any moment. He was paying her back for going off to look at houses. The best thing to do was to not react. She’d known that the moment she had walked into the shed. The best thing to do was to not get angry. Because the prick was spoiling for a fight.
Rosie crouched and helped Richie stack the magazines. ‘My dad used to read Playboy,’ she said simply. ‘For the articles.’
The youth did not get the old joke, had obviously not heard of it before. He could not bring himself to meet her gaze, his cheeks were still blazing.
‘I’m going to make lunch. You’re welcome to stay.’
Richie’s mumbled reply was almost inaudible, but she made out that his mother was excpecting him home for lunch.
She stood up and looked down at Hugo. ‘You want a feed, darling ?’
With this she turned and walked out of the shed, holding her son’s hand. She was sure that Gary’s eyes were following her.
Gary got what he wanted. Of course they fought. He needed an altercation, an argument, an opportunity to shout, to belittle her, to rant. An excuse to go down to the pub, to stay there till closing, maybe go off into the night, then roll up home, stumbling, incomprehensible, insensible, sometime after dawn. That’s what he wanted, what he always wanted.
At first she refused to bite. I suppose you’re pissed off I showed Richie those magazines. No, I don’t mind. Then he complained about the lack of salt in the pepperonati she had made, sneered when Hugo wanted to breastfeed after lunch. He walked up and down the hallway muttering, cursing because he could not find the copy of the Good Weekend he wanted, for the picture of a young Grace Kelly on the cover. You threw it out, didn’t you? No, Gary, I didn’t. You always throw my shit out. I didn’t throw it out. Then where is it? I don’t know, Gary. What the fuck do you know, do you know anything, you fucking moron?
She tried to take a nap but he played music loud, Television’s Marquee Moon, something with no lightness, no melody, so that she could not sleep at all. He started drinking straight after lunch, had finished a six-pack by four o’clock and then had raged at her when she’d hesitated handing over twenty dollars for more beer: I work for that money, that’s my money—you do shit-all. Give me my fucking money. While he was at the pub she quickly rang Aisha, but she only got the answering machine. When she tried to ring Shamira, the phone just rang out. She decided to go over to Simone’s, who lived just a few blocks away. Hugo could play with Joshua. They were ready to leave when Gary came back from the pub.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I thought I’d take Hugo to Simone’s.’
‘Hugo doesn’t like Joshua.’
‘Yes he does.’
‘No, he doesn’t. Joshua pinches him. Isn’t that true, Huges?’
‘Joshua doesn’t pinch you, darling, does he?’
‘He fucking pinches him.’
‘You tell Joshu
a that he isn’t allowed to touch your body without your permission.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Rosie, what kind of PC bullshit is that?’
‘Let’s go, baby. Put on your jacket.’
‘Yeah, go Hugo, and if Joshua does anything to you tell him that your mummy will sue. Tell him that’s what your mummy does.’
That broke her.
That pissed her off.
That made her fly at him.
Later, when it was all over, when he had stormed out of the house, heading back to the pub, what astonished her as she lay crumpled on their mattress, quivering, exhausted, was how they had both seemed to forget that Hugo existed. They fought as ferociously as when they had not been parents. What terrified her was that Hugo did not respond with tears or with terror or with understandable childish, selfish outrage to their battle, but simply took off, went into the lounge, switched on the television, sat down in front of it, close to it, and turned the volume to loud. It was only when they fought that he did not demand to be the centre of her world, of their world. When they fought he had no wish to compete. What would that do to him? Would he retreat from conflict? Would he take after her? Or would he grow up to be like Gary? Hungering for conflict, being contrary, argumentative, needing the fight? But she only thought about all this later, in bed, trembling, as Hugo lay next to her, his mouth tight around her nipple, it calming them both. She only thought about all this later. First there was the fight.