Not long ago, we received a printed invitation in the mail to the Gibsons’ thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. The paper was tan and the lettering was gold. It said we had three weeks to RSVP. I’ve always wondered how they worked that out. Why three weeks and not four, or two? The Gibsons had booked the Regency Room at the San Remo Reception Centre. It was to be black tie. Maggie had left the invitation on the dresser in our room. She didn’t mention it through dinner. She was talking to Griff, her father, about the ozone layer. He’s not very concerned about it. She’s been trying to make him more aware. Griff has lived with us in Sarah’s old room since Maggie’s mother passed away about two and a half years ago. He’s not bad for seventy-eight. He’s been trying to teach himself the guitar ever since we all heard a special on Radio National about a year back. Maggie’s very good with him.
We listen to the radio together quite a lot, particularly Maggie and me. We listen in bed at night before we go to sleep.
One night in bed as we lay on our backs, having turned the radio off, Maggie asked, “Do you ever wake up with an inexplicable . . . panic inside you?”
“Panic?”
“Yes, a sort of general, nonspecific panic . . . in your stomach . . . that quickens your pulse?”
I thought about this for a moment. Although it was the middle of the night and her question was apropos of nothing in particular, I knew I had better give my answer some thought. Maggie can take people very seriously. She often does. Where was she leading with this question? She was waiting for my answer. She was probably describing something she has felt. Perhaps it is a feeling she is ashamed of. She doesn’t always want to have to be strong. She has told me this.
“Yes. I have experienced something like that.”
“I thought you had,” she said, and rolled over on her side.
Although it was my annual leave, I had taken work home. You realize as you get older that you’re really only hurting yourself if you put off your work, annual leave or not. We had formed a committee at work to undertake a client services program. It was I who had pushed for the committee to be widely representative. Although it wouldn’t be meeting until a few weeks after my return, I thought I would take the opportunity of this quiet time to draft a few proposals, nothing definitive, perhaps starting with a working definition of client.
Maggie had a flexiday so she slept in while I worked on the draft proposals. At ten o’clock I brought her a cup of tea. She had been listening to the radio but had turned it off when I came in with the tea.
“What were you listening to?”
“Life Matters.”
“What’s that? I don’t think I know that one.”
“It’s the new name they gave to Offspring.”
“Oh,” I said, and put the tea down on her bedside table.
“What was it about this morning?”
“Breast-feeding,” she said, bringing the teacup to her mouth. “Is Dad up yet?” she asked.
“Yes, I’ve made him some toast and he’s taken it outside. Are you still going to take him to the library today?”
“Yes. I’d better. He’s got a couple of things that will be overdue soon.”
“What else?”
“What else what?”
“What else are you going to do today?” I asked.
“Well, I’ve got shopping to do . . . and I’d wanted to write to Bruce.”
“Haven’t you started that letter yet?”
“No. No, I haven’t. He wants some more money, you know.”
“Yes, I know.”
“How did you know?” she asked.
“He said it, didn’t he? Doesn’t he say something about money in his last letter?”
“I got the impression he wanted money from the phone call, when he called me at work.”
“Do you want to give him more money? How much does he really need in Nepal?”
“You’ve decided, haven’t you? You have an agenda,” she said.
“No, I haven’t decided. I haven’t decided.”
Maggie sat up with a pillow at her back and said after a while, “I haven’t decided, either.”
“It’s terrific that he still writes. . . .”
“And calls.”
“From Nepal of all places, after all this time.”
“He wasn’t calling from Nepal.”
“Still. He’s a good boy.”
“He certainly knows how to take care of himself. Nothing more we can teach him,” Maggie said, pulling the sheet up to her neck.
“Will you be working all day?” she asked.
“Not all day.”
“Would you do something for me today?”
“What?” I asked her.
“I’d like you to write to the Gibsons, to RSVP to their wedding anniversary invitation.”
“I could just call them, except I’ll never get off the phone if Brian answers.”
“I’d like you to write to them telling them we won’t be coming.”
There was an awful banging sound coming from another room, like a hollow wooden box being slapped. It startled me.
“What the hell’s that?”
“It’s Dad. He’s been having terrible trouble with notes because he won’t press the strings down hard enough. He gets the muffled sound because he won’t press them down hard enough. It’s important that he feels he’s achieving something, making some progress, or he’ll get discouraged.”
“Why do you say he won’t press hard enough?”
“He could but he won’t. He’s too soft. Is there any more tea?”
I don’t think Maggie has been enjoying her work recently. It’s not so much the administrative component. She knew this would be a feature when she accepted the position. I think she even takes comfort in it now. I can understand that. I suspect when Fran accepted a position with the Australian Council of Social Services, Maggie was privately concerned that Fran’s contribution to the community would be greater than hers. No matter what I said, I don’t think anything has really dispelled that concern. There’s a strong policy analysis component to Maggie’s work. She’s even privy to certain inside information. She knows in advance the proposed expenditure cuts, their size and where they’ll fall. She sees the guidelines for the proposed Human Resources cutbacks. She even sees the lists of personnel, in all government departments, whose services will no longer be required. She has her finger on the pulse of public policy in a macro sense that I would have thought she’d find rather exciting. She used to find it exciting, but not lately it seems.
I must admit I’ve had my moments, too, moments when I’ve felt I’d lost that sense of challenge. When you’re caught up in a new program, though, it’s hard to remember ever having felt that way, but I have felt it from time to time. You can even get blasé about things. I remember that within only a year of being granted a Higher Duties Allowance I took it for granted.
Sitting there in the study one day last week, with the sunlight coming through our trees and falling softly onto the pages of the draft proposals, I had to work hard to be at one with Maggie’s dissatisfaction. Griff was in the garden with his guitar. He likes to hold it to him.
Maggie came in from the car and unloaded the shopping bags onto the bench beside the sink. When Griff heard her he brought his guitar inside and looked in the plastic bags. I was listening to the rustling and talking. Maggie put the kettle on. Griff put the guitar on the kitchen table. Maggie ran the tap water, not hard but firmly over certain fruit and vegetables in our sink. I couldn’t see it from the study but I knew this was what she was doing. I thought we might have a salad for lunch.
I was first in bed that night but not by much. Maggie was sitting at the dresser, taking off her face. It was a bit nippy so I brought out the flannel pajamas, my stripy ones. Maggie saw me in the mirror and gave a little smile.
“Those pajamas are so . . . you,” she said.
I smiled a little. “What do you mean?”
“They are just . . . y
ou,” she said, and went back to her face. “But they’re too stripy. I can’t look at them.”
I got into bed and she couldn’t see much of them anymore. Then she got into bed. We listened to Phillip Adams on the radio. I thought Maggie seemed sad.
“What are you thinking?” I asked.
“Lots of things . . . and nothing.”
“Should we talk about some of them?”
“Did you know that Sarah had once asked how we got married: about the decision to get married, the mechanics of it, the proposal and who was told first, et cetera?”
“I didn’t know that. She was very romantic, wasn’t she? I mean, right from the early days.”
“There were only early days.”
“Yes, of course. I know, Maggie.” I reached for her hand.
“You told her the way it all happened?”
“Yes,” she said, removing her hand to apply her moisturizer.
“You always knew what you wanted, didn’t you?” I said, resting my hand on her shoulder.
“Why . . . why do you say that?”
“Because of the way it all happened. I was much too scared. I would never have said anything without your . . . encouragement.”
“But you did,” she said.
“I just said yes. Do you remember? It was about the time we were meant to be going camping, near Mount Disappointment.”
“What do you mean you said yes?” Maggie asked.
“Well, I obviously didn’t say no or we wouldn’t be here, would we?”
“But I didn’t ask you anything.”
“Yes you did,” I insisted. “I remember it clearly. It was nighttime. We were in your parents’ front room. They were in the kitchen. We were talking about what your parents would say about us going camping. We’d never been away alone. You said they wouldn’t like it and that we might just as well tell them we were getting married because, as far as they were concerned, couples shouldn’t go away alone together until after they’re married.”
Maggie sat up. “Yes, I remember. You said you didn’t agree with that. You said it was old-fashioned but that you would respect it.”
“And you said we shouldn’t respect it . . . then you asked me if I was ready . . . and that’s when I said yes,” I reminded her.
I took Maggie’s moisturized hand and put it between the covers and my stripy flannel pajama top. She sat still. We were quiet for a moment, remembering.
“There’s a logical inconsistency there,” Maggie said.
“Where?”
“Even the way you tell it now—”
“Which is the way it happened,” I jumped in.
“Even the way you tell it now, it sounds as though I was asking if you were ready to disrespect my parents’ views for the sake of our camping trip, not if you wanted to get married.”
“Look, I don’t remember the exact words after all these years but I remember the effect it had on me, and I said yes. Don’t you think it’s getting late?” I said, turning off the bedside light and snuggling up next to Maggie, who stayed sitting upright.
“But I would know what I was asking!” she said.
“Yes, of course,” I said, tucking my nose into her hip, “but you might not remember now what you meant then.”
I was getting sleepy warming up next to her. The moisturizer smelt nice.
There are two forms of probate that may be granted, the common form and what may be called the solemn form. It’s only when there is a dispute as to the validity of the will that probate in solemn form is employed.
I listen to the news. Maggie’s away. There’s a flood alert for rivers north of somewhere I don’t think I’ve been. Bad news on the debt front is faced squarely by the Prime Minister. He says we can’t keep living above our means. I guess that’s true. He says the government will set an example in “belt-tightening.” It’s the harsh medicine we have to have to make up for the excesses of the last decade. I feel a bit sheepish. The all-ordinaries are down. Griff’s in bed. He’s not feeling the best. He doesn’t understand why Maggie’s not here. There’s something about the recent Uruguay round of GATT talks. Where are my golf clubs?
She said she just needs some space. That’s all she really needs at the moment. I can run things alone for a while. We’re out of that multipurpose spray stuff. We use it on the kitchen table but it says it’s appropriate for bathroom use as well. I might take my work into Sarah’s room, just to keep an eye on Griff. There’s nothing I can get for him. It’s probably best that he keep dozing. The more he sleeps the better. I’ll get him some lemons when I go out. I don’t mind the supermarket. It’s got everything you need. Poor thing.
I gather some pens and my papers and take them in to Griff. He’s sleeping soundly. I’ve got the mail too. Never anything exciting. Nothing but envelopes with windows. There’s one from work, too, from the department. I’m on leave; what do they want? They never write to me.
When there is a dispute, it’s usually determined pursuant to Part IV of the Administration of Probate Act. The Act provides a lot of room for the exercise of judicial discretion, which is probably a good thing.
I should respond to the Gibsons’ invitation. I wouldn’t go on my own. I wouldn’t like to. I’d have to hire a dinner suit and everything. I’ll drop a present around sometime. It feels silly writing to them. What do you say? I don’t write many letters. Never did. Perhaps I’ll give them a call? Maybe Brian can get away for a game of golf. He works very long hours. They have to in that game. I don’t like leaving Griff, though. He doesn’t look good. We’re out of lemons. How can a family be out of lemons? I’ll give Brian a call. Our major trading partners! He’s so funny. Who are our major trading partners?
MANSLAUGHTER
Scared! Yes, I heard you, the line’s bad but I heard you. You said you were scared. There’s no need to be. Of course I understand it, but there’s no need to be. You’ve got nothing to be afraid of. You’re not really scared, are you?
The dumpy woman, fleshy, soft—fat, for those in a hurry—sits listening at one end of the long bench that makes up the second back row. Her hair is gray and shaggy. She wears a blue-and-white pin-striped shirt with the top button done up. Her neck spills out over the collar. The room is hot but she wears a blue blazer over the shirt. It has no lapels and had been bought at a sale. She never dreamed she would be wearing it under circumstances such as these. She cannot remember when she last dreamed at all. But now, in the middle of so many things, she is always imagining.
In front of her sits the informant and in front of him at the bar table sits counsel for the prosecution. His instructing solicitor sits on the opposite side of the bar table, facing him, ready to do whatever it is instructing solicitors from the Office of the Director of Public Prosecutions are meant to do. They are all nice men with fine manners. Even with all that they have on their plates, each of them has said good morning to her. She feels a bit alone but she is far more alone than that.
The Court officials look like no people she has seen before. There is neither malice nor humor in their faces. This is where they work. Theirs is an invisible art, the seamless achievement of efficiency without undue haste. They have a show to run. The less they are noticed, the greater their success. The Tipstaff wears a gray coat with military bearing. It looks like nineteenth-century European army-surplus and it hides the shape and definition of his body. The Associate sits directly beneath the Judge and, except for the wig, is dressed exactly like him, a Junior League clone. The plump woman listens as the Associate addresses the jury with the precise enunciation and impartiality of a newsreader.
“Members of the jury, Raymond Barry Islington is charged with murder. To this charge he has pleaded not guilty and for his trial has placed himself upon God and his country, which country you are. Your duty is to say whether he is guilty or not guilty. Hearken to the evidence.”
There were twelve of them and they would not all hearken equally. There was a woman in the back who tried to be
excused from jury duty. She told the Judge that it was a busy time for her at work and that her employer would be displeased if she were selected to sit on a jury. Her employer was her son and she did not want to talk about her difficulties with him in a room full of strangers. But the Judge informed her and everyone else in Court that to discriminate in any way against an employee because of their jury service was an offense against the Juries Act. He refused her application to be excused and she had gone back into the throng of the Court with the other members of the jury pool, dissatisfied with the protection afforded her by the Juries Act. When her name was chosen at random from an old wooden ballot box by the Associate, she hoped the accused’s solicitor would have enough sense to challenge her selection. But he did not and she became one of the chosen twelve.
Another woman, much younger, sat in the front row of the jury box with her hair tied back in a ponytail. She was wearing a low-cut singlet with her bra straps exposed. Each of her eyes wandered around the room independently, from the floor to the ceiling, around and around. Her attention seemed to fix for a long time on the knee of the juror to her right. She was not understanding anything.
When the man who was to become the jury’s foreman had his card chosen at random by the Associate, he stood proudly erect but then, momentarily stunned by the publicity of his own presence, he froze slightly hunched, like a rabbit at night when a torch is shone in its eyes. He listened stilly as his name and occupation were called. Donald Hamish McPherson, engineer retired. He walked as directed by the Tipstaff, slowly passing the accused, up the stairs and into the jury box. Kenneth Arthur Halliday, storeman, was much younger and with thicker limbs. He wore jeans and a yellow T-shirt as though, with this informality, he might reduce his unease at being there. He rolled his newspaper up like a baton when he was called and took it into the jury box without making eye contact with the accused.
The dumpy woman looked at the foreman. She thought he looked kindly and that a man like this probably appreciated the authority with which the Judge spoke. The Judge was polite to the jury. He spoke to them with a deference unexpected by many of them, explaining that they were the triers, the judges of fact. He would explain and rule on any questions of law, but ultimately they would have to decide whether the Prosecution had proved all the elements of the offense of murder beyond reasonable doubt. If the Prosecution had done this, the jury had no option at law but to find the accused man guilty. If not, they were equally bound by the law to find the accused not guilty.