Small Blessings Read online

  It could have been the vodka but his words flooded her with happiness. Reliability was good. Her housemates would have laughed at her for thinking so, but she was pretty sure they’d never lived with an ounce of uncertainty.

  Plus, no one had ever listened so intently to her as he did. Frankly, it was flattering. It made her tell him things she shouldn’t have. About her parents’ red-brick house near the petrochemical plant, and how the fumes that wafted into her bedroom window during summer smelt like failure.

  ‘What do your folks do?’ he asked in a smooth private-school accent.

  She downed another drink and told him her mother threaded electrical cables through metal tubes for a living and how her father stunk like fuel even after a long shower.

  Marcus thought it was cool she was a working-class chick. It made her absurdly grateful. She channelled her mother’s big open smile until Marcus put his drink down and kissed her. Later, she asked him to take her home.

  She channelled her mother more often after that, in a controlled way, with purpose. Her mother’s unbridled enthusiasm was too much, but in strategic doses at just the right moment it was magic. People opened up in ways they hadn’t before, and for the first time in forever she felt she belonged.

  She sits bolt upright, the fine hairs on her arms spiking. There’s a ragged gasp nearby. For a moment she thinks Marcus is having a heart attack. She lunges to his side of the king-sized bed. He’s not there, and she realises the scrape of air is coming from her instead. She blinks hard and focuses on the fuchsia scent of the bedsheets and the clean expanse of white wall opposite.

  Below, the house is too quiet. She brushes a hand across Marcus’s pillow, denting the place where his head should be. The hum of traffic on the street outside is slightly disconcerting, as is the thin line of light streaming beneath the blinds. Even on Saturdays she wakes before the birds. She fumbles past a pile of books for her mobile phone on the bedside table. It’s eight o’clock. She pushes the hair roughly from her face and pulls her legs to her stomach. Marcus must have got in late and left early again, but the clean slate of his pillow is troubling.

  Once upon a time, she would wake when he arrived no matter what the hour, her whole body pitched to his presence, expectant of his touch. Nowadays, she drops into bed exhausted, hardly aware of him at all.

  She gets up, pulls on a pair of leggings and her dressing-gown and goes downstairs to search for signs of him. There’s no wet towel on the heated rack in the bathroom and the toilet seat is down.

  The kitchen is as she left it too, the same dirty butter knife on the bench and her plate in the sink. She stares at the cracker crumbs on it, soggy and swollen, and tries not to panic. He didn’t come home.

  A play of light or a movement catches her eye and she glances over the speckled benchtop to the living room. The rough heap of Marcus stretches out on the couch, draped in her cream cashmere throw. She walks over, furious for the shock. His leather shoes are positioned neatly beneath the coffee table and his suit jacket hangs loosely from the back of a dining chair.

  ‘Marcus,’ she whispers tersely.

  He doesn’t stir.

  Hands on hips, she watches his sleeping form. Her husband. And feels as if she’s intruding. His hair protrudes at boyish angles on the small square pillow, and she’s surprised how grey it’s got around his ears. Sleep takes away the stiff angles of his face, the self-possession, the likeness of an ageing Tommy Hilfiger model. He’s rarely this unguarded. She could bend down and kiss him on the lips, slip a hand under the throw, up his shirt and over the smooth skin of his belly. But she doesn’t. Somewhere along the way, spontaneity became awkward.

  ‘Marcus,’ she presses his shoulder until he opens his eyes, peering up as if seeing her for the first time.

  ‘What are you doing down here?’

  He sighs and shifts his legs. ‘Didn’t want to disturb you.’

  She tightens the belt of her gown. ‘What time did you get in?’

  ‘Around one.’ He frowns. ‘Maybe one-thirty. I was about to leave when I realised the grad had screwed up some numbers.’ He exhales. ‘How are you?’

  If she starts, she might not stop. ‘I’ve got an appointment to see the fertility specialist on Monday afternoon,’ she blurts out instead.

  Marcus sits and stretches his arms above his head, letting the throw drop to the floor before getting up and walking past her to the kitchen to put coffee on. She does her best to ignore the throw and the fact he hasn’t responded and pulls the blinds up.

  They’d been through the preliminaries six months before, the blood and semen tests, the ultrasound, just to see what their options were. Doctor Vann recommended IVF.

  ‘Let’s think it over,’ Marcus had said on the way home from the plush Hawthorn clinic.

  And she agreed because their attempts to conceive felt half-hearted, and because once upon a time he waited for her. But things are different now.

  ‘What have you got planned for the day?’ He starts the espresso machine.

  She goes to the fridge and opens both doors while he takes two glasses from the shelf above the bench. ‘I should probably go to Altona.’

  Marcus stands in his crumpled business shirt and spoons coffee into the portafilter without responding. They used to go together, on the rare occasions she visited, and it always surprised her how easy he was. The way he teased her mother or spoke Labor Party politics with her father over endless cups of milky tea. Her parents would laugh at his jokes while she sat on the sidelines, wishing they could leave.

  At those times, she focused on Marcus’s crisp white shirt, pristine against her parents’ washed-out brown recliner. It was a measure of how far she’d come, how unlikely it was she’d ever find herself back there again.

  The visits with Marcus petered out over the years. She missed his presence, the relaxed conversation she couldn’t have. Without him, there’s too much space in the house at Altona; too much space and now, her sick mother.

  ‘Good idea.’ He starts the machine, releasing the nutty scent of coffee.

  She wonders how long it will take him to recall that caffeine could affect her chances of falling pregnant. Something about it increasing the heart rate. She’d read the magazine article to him across a café table last Sunday.

  She waits until he’s poured her a long black.

  ‘I’ll have a peppermint tea.’

  Marcus lifts the glass from the bench and pours the coffee down the sink, the same way he continued dicing an onion when she suggested he cut his alcohol consumption and nodded silently when she mentioned folic acid supplements.

  ‘How is Gracie?’ He plucks the lid off the stainless-steel tea canister next to the toaster.

  Her heart contracts; suddenly she wants to wrap her arms around him. She watches as he jiggles the tea bag in a mug instead. They never use the pot, despite the money they’d spent on it. She’d spotted it at an antique market in London on their honeymoon and had insisted they buy it.

  He’d laughed.

  But a teapot was central to a good marriage. Just look at her parents. So they bought it, and it sat wrapped in ivory tissue at the top of the pantry ever since.

  She rounds the bench, puts her arms around his waist and rests her head against his back. His heart beats steadily through his shirt and she detects the faint whiff of cigarette smoke. Something minty, like the menthols her mother used to buy.

  ‘Have you been smoking?’ Her arms drop back to her sides and she steps away.

  He extracts the tea bag and squeezes it between his fingers in a way she hates but usually ignores for the sake of peace.

  She frowns.

  ‘Want me to come to Altona with you?’

  He passes her the mug and all she can do is nod, awash with a muddied gratitude.

  Rosie

  DULCY IS UNIMPRESSED when she calls in sick. ‘Not good, Rosie.’ She coughs into the phone. ‘You leaving me up the creek. Darren off until next week and Leah no g
ood on the till. She not like you, she thick as a brick.’

  Rosie warms at the compliment even though it’s probably unintended. She is good at her job. Customers often comment on her ability to work out change before the till does. She doesn’t do it to impress them though. It just stops her getting bored. Mostly she likes her workmates too, but the thought of restocking the milk fridge or rotating the shelf stock for the rest of her life keeps her at TAFE.

  ‘Leah will be right, Dulc. It’s just one shift till Petey’s better.’ She flaps a hand at Petey to stop him tearing around the room. Dulcy’s got a finely tuned bullshit detector that can pick up a sickie a mile away.

  The walk home from the station the other night’s been playing on her mind and she wants to take Petey to school this morning herself. She hangs the phone up.

  ‘Churchill’s waiting, Mum. He wants his treat.’

  Petey stands at the doorway to the room, his light wavy hair fashioned into a small haystack. She has to brush it while he’s eating breakfast otherwise he chucks a wobbly. Trying to cut it is a nightmare, his fingernails too. He hates the thought of having a part of himself taken away.

  ‘What about a teddy biscuit, Mum?’

  She looks down to make sure he’s got his laces done up before breaking the news that Mr Granthall won’t be taking him in today. One of the laces is a ball of knots.

  ‘Mum’s taking you to school today, mate.’ She moves towards him. ‘That’ll be fun, won’t it?’

  He holds himself still, processing.

  She touches his arm. ‘We could go past the playground. You can have a quick go on the monkey bars.’ And tries to sound excited.

  Petey stiffens. ‘Churchill?’

  She bites her lip and tries not to get frustrated. It’s hard though when she knows she’s in for a fight. She takes a moment to consider her approach. It doesn’t come easily. Not after the shit night’s sleep she’s had and the phone call with Dulcy. Also, she isn’t going to be able to put that bit extra in the big jam jar on the fridge this week.

  ‘He’ll be waiting, Mum,’ Petey starts.

  She’s close to caving but recalls the metallic taste of fear she got in her mouth at the sound of the footsteps. And suddenly she’s furious again. Sometimes it’s all too much. The fucking heater that doesn’t work, the homework she never has time to do, and her son, standing in front of her with his fists tight because of the neighbour’s bloody dog.

  ‘I’m taking you, mate.’ She moves past him into the hallway. ‘Where’s your schoolbag?’

  ‘No, Mum.’ He stands his ground.

  ‘I’m not going to say it again. Where’s your bag?’

  ‘No.’

  The hall is a dingy tunnel. ‘Get your bloody bag, Petey. I don’t need this from you this morning.’ His schoolbag is tucked between the cracked leather couch and the wall in the living room. She seizes it before opening the front door. ‘Out! Now!’

  He refuses to move. ‘No,’ he shouts. ‘No, no, no, no!’

  The word knocks around her head until she feels like closing the door and walking away. Leaving him to scream the place down while she takes the stairs to the patchy earth below. Staring at her red-faced son, she fantasises about it, sucking great mouthfuls of air into her lungs as she bolts through the car park. She imagines getting on a tram, catching it to … anywhere, as long as it’s far, far away from here.

  ‘No, Mum!’ His face crumples and he stamps his foot. The lace on his left runner has come undone.

  Now a vision of him tripping over makes her huff and she wonders if this is the way it is with all kids or if she’s turning out to be a shit mum, like her own. She softens a little.

  ‘C’mon then,’ she says, shaking her head and bending down to fix his lace. ‘You can say a quick hello. Then it’s school.’

  The crying stops instantly and Petey charges out the door. She locks up and follows him, schoolbag flung over one shoulder.

  ‘Your kid woke me.’

  She turns. The rough bloke from next door is standing in front of her in a pair of old tracksuit pants and not much else.

  ‘Sorry.’ She starts to walk off.

  ‘Hey, I’m still talkin’ to you.’

  Petey is already at Mr Granthall’s door. If he gets inside she’ll never get him out again, but she’s not taking shit from this bloke either. She stops walking and turns back around. What was it Dulcy told her to do when she had a rude customer? Take a deep breath and imagine you’re talking to a two-year-old.

  ‘I said sorry, didn’t I? He was a bit upset.’ She spells it out for him.

  The guy glares at her while Petey sticks his head through the doggy flap in the door behind her. It rattles loudly.

  ‘What is he? A retard or something?’

  She hears Mr Granthall open the door. It squeaks and Churchill barks in a way that sends Petey into peals of laughter.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘What’s with your kid? He never shuts up. Can’t hear myself think most of the time.’

  Think? That’s a joke.

  ‘Churchill,’ Petey squeals as Rosie approaches the man.

  She gets close enough to see the white flesh through his hairy face and to smell the fags on his breath. His head is bald and his eyes are bloodshot. He stares at her with half a sneer.

  She hates him. Wants to fucking kill him. She knows what kind of man he is. The kind that beats his wife because he reckons the world owes him a favour. A coward. She knows him. Knows what it’s like to be on the receiving end of all that bluster.

  ‘What did you say?’ She’s right in his face now. Can hardly contain her anger.

  ‘Barry!’ A woman’s voice comes, short and sharp from behind the man. ‘I’ve got your brekkie ready.’

  ‘Piss off,’ he says to the woman without turning around.

  The woman comes out the door. She’s in a hot pink dressing-gown and her white-blonde hair’s a mess. She’s wearing lipstick though. Pink, too, for all it’s worth. It stands out on her pale face, like frosting.

  The woman doesn’t make a difference. If the idiot doesn’t back down, Rosie’ll whack him.

  The woman looks on with big round eyes then says, ‘Your boy’s waiting for you.’ Her cottony voice breaks the spell. She nods her head towards Mr Granthall’s. There’s a fig-coloured smudge at her right temple. For a moment, it’s all Rosie can see, this and the woman’s shiny dark eyes telling her to go.

  ‘Mum.’ Petey’s voice bounces off the rough rendered wall. ‘Churchy got his treat.’

  ‘Come inside, mate,’ she hears Mr Granthall tell him.

  ‘Mum!’

  She nods her head slowly at the woman and steps back.

  ‘Go on, piss off,’ the man says as she retreats. ‘Bitch.’

  She could have socked him after all but the sight of his wife’s drawn face and the alarm in Petey’s voice stop her.

  ‘Funny,’ cause I hear you too, you know?’ She speaks slowly at the man. ‘Don’t think I can’t hear you.’

  The man mutters something under his breath then goes inside, slamming the door behind him. His wife stays on the landing, twisting and untwisting the belt on her dressing-gown.

  Rosie stares at her.

  The woman bows her head so that her frizzy hair falls over the shadow at her temple. Then she looks up again. ‘You better go.’

  Rosie considers her a moment longer then exhales and walks towards Petey with a forced smile on her face.

  Inside the flat, Mr Granthall is crouched down, showing Petey how he’s taught Churchill to shake hands.

  ‘Who says you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, huh?’

  Petey’s not listening. He’s too busy scratching the dog between his ears, distracting him.

  Mr Granthall eases himself up a little.

  ‘You know, you shouldn’t get mixed up with those folk, Rose. They’re trouble.’ He leans on a chair to hoist himself off the ground.

  She doesn’t want to g
o into it. The idiot isn’t worth her breath.

  ‘You’ve gotta toughen up a bit.’

  Rosie watches Petey. ‘First time anyone’s told me to do that.’

  Mr Granthall shakes his head. ‘Your soft spot sticks out a mile away.’ He gestures at Petey. ‘You can’t start a fight every time someone says something you don’t like.’

  ‘C’mon, mate, the bell’s about to go.’

  Petey gets to his feet. ‘Did ya see what Churchill can do now, Mum? Did ya?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She helps him thread his arms through the straps of his schoolbag and smiles at the old man. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’re all right, love.’ He reveals a set of tea-stained teeth. ‘Have a good day, soldier.’ He straightens his back and salutes. Petey does the same, with a gravity that makes her laugh.

  Isobel

  THE PARTNERS DON’T BOTHER HIDING their surprise when she mentions IVF. They exchange looks then clear their throats instead, waiting for her to proceed. It strikes her as she sits opposite them at the vast meeting room table how similar they’ve grown, like an old married couple.

  Both are tall and rotund with artfully dyed brown hair. They have thick brows, groomed to perfection, and are clean-shaven. She suspects they even use the same brand of aftershave as there is only one bottle of it in the private bathroom their offices share, a facility she uses if they’re away. But the spread of their features is arranged differently so that Malcolm’s broad face appears friendly while Andrew’s narrow one is stern.

  ‘I won’t be off long.’ She focuses on Malcolm. ‘I’ll get a nanny, of course, and will be back in five months.’

  She savours the ensuing silence. It’s not often she renders them speechless.

  The city spreads, a silvery hive, beyond their heads. The decision to take leave had surprised even her. It struck in the middle of the night the week before and made perfect sense. She’d stared wide-eyed at the ceiling fan above the bed while Marcus snored, and waited for the doubt to creep in. It didn’t. Instead, the panic subsided and she fell into a decent sleep for the first time in weeks.