True Stories by Helen Garner Page A

Three. ‘A lot of people say they envy me having four sisters—but no one ever hugged or cuddled, to comfort. It wasn’t done. I was at a friend’s place recently when her older sister came round, looking wretched. Between our sisters, a rough joke would’ve been made—Come on, pick up your lip before you trip over it! But the younger one had a good look and said, “Ah—what’s the matter ?” The older one shed a few tears and said: “Life’s too difficult. I’m trying to work, and there’s the baby, and I have to do a course if I want to keep my job—it’s too much for me.” And the younger one said, “Oh, come here”—and sat her sister on her lap. Can you imagine any of us doing that? Then they ran a bath and got in it together. I heard them laughing and shrieking. I felt terribly envious. Maybe you others had that sort of closeness. I never did. When I had a hysterectomy, I was abandoned. See? You hardly even remember it. One came down and minded the boys for a couple of days, but the rest of the time I was on my own, with a new baby and two toddlers, too weak to get out of bed. It was…desolate. I learnt not to look for help from the family.’
    â€˜Yes, that’s shameful,’ says One, ‘but do you realise how perfect your marriage seemed, from the outside? You looked as if you had everything sewn up. You didn’t ask for help. There’s an art in asking.’
    â€˜I know how,’ says Three, ‘but I wouldn’t.’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜I was afraid of indifference.’
    â€˜ Would there be indifference, if you showed weakness?’
    â€˜It’s not weakness,’ says Three. ‘It’s need. It’s better not to show need, if you’re not going to get your needs met. I’ve learnt that. I worked out where people were going to care enough, and I went there.’
    â€˜It is rather uneven,’ says One. ‘I tried to tell Four my troubles once—we were driving downtown in a car. I talked for five minutes, and she cut across me and said, “Oh, shut up—you sound exactly like Mum.” But whenever anything goes wrong in her life, the first thing she does is pick up the phone and dial my number.’
    Four is the witty one. But as a child she was a tremendous howler. At the slightest rebuff she would throw back her head and roar; tears would squirt out of her eyes and bounce down her fat cheeks. One, Two and Three used to hold up sixpence at breakfast time, saying ‘You can have this tonight—but every time you cry, we’re going to dock you a penny.’ By teatime Four would be once more heavily in debt.
    â€˜If we cried when we were little,’ says Two, ‘Mum used to say, “Stop it, you great cake. ” ’ ‘I don’t remember that,’ says Five.
    â€˜Of course you don’t,’ says Two. ‘You weren’t born yet.’
    â€˜Three,’ says Two, ‘was the painful little sister we used to run away from. Once she tried to bribe us. She said, “I’ll give you threepence if you let me come with you.” But we took no notice and kept running.’
    â€˜I remember that,’ says Three. ‘I can remember the feeling of the wire of the gate under the soles of my feet, as I hung over it and watched you two disappearing up the road. At least, I think I remember it. Maybe it’s only because the story’s been told so many times.’
    â€˜Maybe,’ says One, ‘it never happened at all.’
    Endearments
    Because endearments were never used in our family (Plymouth Brethren two generations back on our mother’s side; grim-jawed Mallee stoicism on our father’s), it has taken us all our lives to learn to say dear, darling, sweetheart , without irony.
    â€˜At school,’ says One, ‘when I was a boarder, I was sick with envy of girls who got letters from