mother was forty-five when he was born, and his dad was well into his fifties. They were more like grandparents, really. It was sad. Do you know, they actually had him wearing a suit when he was only three?’
‘Mum, having ancient parents is simply no excuse.’
‘It makes you into a certain kind of person, darling.’
‘A person who acts like a pig, who takes his miseries out on other people –’ Clara had paused for breath, and then said, ‘Mum, what about you ?’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you. You’re the one who had bad things happen in your childhood. Your parents died when you were seventeen, you were left all alone, you –’
Rose had flinched then, as she always did when her sad history was mentioned. ‘I know,’ she said quickly, wanting this subject of her parents to pass. ‘But –’
‘But but BUT,’ cried Clara, and her voice had risen to a shout. ‘Mum, why do you always make excuses for him? He’s just a rude old grouch!’ She’d stomped from the kitchen, where so many of their quarrels seemed to take place, stopping suddenly in the doorway, swinging round on Rose. ‘You could leave.’
At first Rose hadn’t realised what her daughter meant. She’d thought Clara was talking about the job at the library, which Rose enjoyed. She loved books, she even liked readers, and matching one to the other. ‘You will love this!’ Rose would greet Mrs Fitchett, holding out the latest novel from the old lady’s favourite author. ‘It’s his best, I think!’
‘Leave? But I like my job, Clara.’
Clara had clicked her tongue impatiently. ‘Not your job. I meant –’ She’d pointed to the ceiling, through which both of them could hear the head of the household splashing in the shower.
‘Leave your dad ?’
‘You’ve got it, Mum!’
Rose’s right hand had risen protectively against her heart. The young were so hard ; they saw everything so sharply, like – like traffic lights: red meant stop and green meant go and the amber one they had no patience with . . .
‘You’ll never do it, though,’ Clara had decided. ‘Mum, I know what you’re hoping for: some kind of miracle, the sort of thing that never happens, here on earth, so it’s not going to happen here at 46 Harkness Street, Lidcombe. Dad won’t change, you know, become the kind of person you like to think he is, deep down inside. It will never happen,’ she’d repeated, and marched off down the hall.
Two weeks later, after a row with her father about her fourth-year thesis topic, Clara had left home. She lived at the university now, and never came home to visit; she rang Rose at the library, and they met every few weeks at a coffee shop in town.
‘What’s your room like?’ Rose would ask her daughter.
‘Oh, just ordinary.’
‘What kind of furniture?’
‘What you’d expect,’ Clara would answer maddeningly. ‘A bed, and a desk, and a chair. Little sink in the corner, built-in wardrobe. You know.’
‘What colour are the walls?’
Clara would shrug. ‘Don’t remember. Never noticed, I suppose.’
They must be white, decided Rose, and in her mind she pictured a narrow cold white cell. Bare, too, because Clara hadn’t taken anything from home except her books and clothes. The room would have cold bright echoing floors. Rose shivered. ‘Would you like me to make you some curtains?’ she’d asked hopefully. ‘I could come and do the measuring, I wouldn’t interrupt your work . . .’
‘I’ve got curtains, Mum.’
Rose had been hoping all these months that Clara would ask her to visit, to see the place where she lived. Clara hadn’t, and Rose had been afraid to suggest it. What if Clara said, ‘No’?
The water in the bath was growing cold. Rose got out and wrapped herself in a deep green fluffy towel. Then she padded down the hall towards her bedroom, put on her nightdress, and lay down on the bed.
She could go there, she thought suddenly. She could go without an invitation, and visit Clara’s
‘Mum, having ancient parents is simply no excuse.’
‘It makes you into a certain kind of person, darling.’
‘A person who acts like a pig, who takes his miseries out on other people –’ Clara had paused for breath, and then said, ‘Mum, what about you ?’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you. You’re the one who had bad things happen in your childhood. Your parents died when you were seventeen, you were left all alone, you –’
Rose had flinched then, as she always did when her sad history was mentioned. ‘I know,’ she said quickly, wanting this subject of her parents to pass. ‘But –’
‘But but BUT,’ cried Clara, and her voice had risen to a shout. ‘Mum, why do you always make excuses for him? He’s just a rude old grouch!’ She’d stomped from the kitchen, where so many of their quarrels seemed to take place, stopping suddenly in the doorway, swinging round on Rose. ‘You could leave.’
At first Rose hadn’t realised what her daughter meant. She’d thought Clara was talking about the job at the library, which Rose enjoyed. She loved books, she even liked readers, and matching one to the other. ‘You will love this!’ Rose would greet Mrs Fitchett, holding out the latest novel from the old lady’s favourite author. ‘It’s his best, I think!’
‘Leave? But I like my job, Clara.’
Clara had clicked her tongue impatiently. ‘Not your job. I meant –’ She’d pointed to the ceiling, through which both of them could hear the head of the household splashing in the shower.
‘Leave your dad ?’
‘You’ve got it, Mum!’
Rose’s right hand had risen protectively against her heart. The young were so hard ; they saw everything so sharply, like – like traffic lights: red meant stop and green meant go and the amber one they had no patience with . . .
‘You’ll never do it, though,’ Clara had decided. ‘Mum, I know what you’re hoping for: some kind of miracle, the sort of thing that never happens, here on earth, so it’s not going to happen here at 46 Harkness Street, Lidcombe. Dad won’t change, you know, become the kind of person you like to think he is, deep down inside. It will never happen,’ she’d repeated, and marched off down the hall.
Two weeks later, after a row with her father about her fourth-year thesis topic, Clara had left home. She lived at the university now, and never came home to visit; she rang Rose at the library, and they met every few weeks at a coffee shop in town.
‘What’s your room like?’ Rose would ask her daughter.
‘Oh, just ordinary.’
‘What kind of furniture?’
‘What you’d expect,’ Clara would answer maddeningly. ‘A bed, and a desk, and a chair. Little sink in the corner, built-in wardrobe. You know.’
‘What colour are the walls?’
Clara would shrug. ‘Don’t remember. Never noticed, I suppose.’
They must be white, decided Rose, and in her mind she pictured a narrow cold white cell. Bare, too, because Clara hadn’t taken anything from home except her books and clothes. The room would have cold bright echoing floors. Rose shivered. ‘Would you like me to make you some curtains?’ she’d asked hopefully. ‘I could come and do the measuring, I wouldn’t interrupt your work . . .’
‘I’ve got curtains, Mum.’
Rose had been hoping all these months that Clara would ask her to visit, to see the place where she lived. Clara hadn’t, and Rose had been afraid to suggest it. What if Clara said, ‘No’?
The water in the bath was growing cold. Rose got out and wrapped herself in a deep green fluffy towel. Then she padded down the hall towards her bedroom, put on her nightdress, and lay down on the bed.
She could go there, she thought suddenly. She could go without an invitation, and visit Clara’s
Similar Books
