Melting Moments Read online

  ‘Why do you call her sweetheart?’ Eva demands.

  ‘What you want me call her, bella? Your mother beautiful woman. What you like me call her instead?’

  Of course the girl has a ready answer. ‘I heard you address the man before us as sir. What’s wrong with that?’

  Joe explodes into one of his belly laughs – Great sense of humour, your daughter! – but Ruby wants nothing more than to disappear into the ground.

  ‘Had you been a ten-year-old, I would have been embarrassed,’ she tells Eva, back in the car. ‘Had you been thirteen, I would have been deeply ashamed. But as you are sixteen, I am utterly mortified. To throw the kindness of a good man like that back in his face!’

  At home, Eva runs into her room and slams the door.

  ‘An altercation at the greengrocers,’ Ruby explains to Arthur. ‘She insisted poor old Joe address me as sir.’

  Arthur shakes his head, but seems almost to be smiling.

  ‘Too smart by half, that girl,’ Granny remarks, not for the first time. ‘And getting too big. How in heaven’s name will she find a husband?’

  It is a concern that has occupied Ruby too of late, not that she would give Granny the gratification of agreeing with her. But to her surprise, Arthur rounds upon his mother.

  ‘I will not have that sort of talk in this house, Mother. If the world is not big enough for our Eva, it will just have to get bigger.’

  5

  One of Granny’s frequent opinions is that Ruby has been spoilt by the attention of others – and perhaps after all she is right. Ever since she first came to town, Ruby has taken such attention for granted, moving through it almost as a native element. Even in her late thirties, she would sense the bridge ladies performing a quick appraisal of her appearance when she arrived, and it was only to be expected that echoes should appear in their own outfits over the weeks that followed: a judiciously applied cameo, perhaps, or a rakish scarf. But at some stage this attention had started to erode, imperceptibly at first, though lately it has become harder to miss. Only last month, Ruby had been sitting on the bus on the way into bridge when a group of teenage boys came on board, grunting and bellowing in their heedless way, and one of them had actually sat on her. He was a great hulk of a boy, and profusely apologetic, but that wasn’t the point. It was starting to feel as if she were vanishing from the world. Afterwards, she had drifted into bridge like a shade. When nobody invited her to join a table she was forced to sit with the newcomers, who wished only to speak of dog-breeding.

  And it seems that just as she is fading – as her hair is thinning, and her neck turning into a magnificent ruin – Eva is finally becoming lovely. The girl seems oblivious, but Ruby notices when others notice, and privately glories in it. She’s mine. And she’s going to be a doctor. Ever since Eva started university, there has been no shortage of gentleman callers, all of whom strike Ruby as gormless: too short, which is demeaning; or excessively bearded, like that glamorous Ivor, who appeared to sport a perm. Regardless, they keep arriving in their cars and taking the girl out – goodness knows where – so that most Saturday nights, Ruby and Arthur find themselves waiting up in the lounge room, long after Charlie has finished noodling at the piano and gone to bed. It is oddly silent over these long evenings, apart from the soft aspiratory noises Arthur makes when anxious, punctuated by the announcements of the grandfather clock, which only seem more strident the later it becomes. When a car at last draws into the street outside, Ruby prays that Eva will not linger, or that at the very least Arthur will not hear. But he jerks to attention immediately and is out on the street with his torch, often as not followed by Granny Jenkins, who has clearly been lying in wait in her dressing-gown.

  What in heaven’s name is going on out there? the old woman hollers out, for the whole neighbourhood to hear – Is he fiddling with your nick-nacks? – until Eva storms inside and slams her bedroom door.

  After such evenings, Arthur struggles to sleep, and Ruby frets about the toll it is taking on him, safeguarding his daughter’s virtue. She reminds him that when she was Eva’s age, she was regularly attending the Palais with a certain male chaperone, and nary a parental torch in sight.

  ‘What are you suggesting, dear?’

  ‘That we let her go a-courting in peace. How else will she find an appropriate young man?’

  ‘Perhaps we could find one for her,’ Arthur proposes, which strikes Ruby as a very poor idea indeed.

  But the following Saturday, when she returns home from the greengrocer, he summons her into the bathroom. He is lying in a cloud of bubbles, looking inordinately pleased with himself, and reports upon a promising conversation at tennis. Apparently Mrs Emmet Clutterbuck, though slight of stature herself, has raised a boy of unusually large proportions – even going so far as to describe him as a young stallion. This strikes Ruby as somewhat untoward coming from a mother, but Arthur goes on to explain that not only is the young man of appropriate size, but – of all things – he is also studying Medicine. And so Arthur has taken it upon himself to invite him to the Med Ball, on Eva’s behalf.

  ‘Goodness,’ says Ruby, foreseeing disaster.

  ‘Spare a thought for the way the two of us became acquainted!’

  He is in such a fine mood – all paternal benevolence, chortling in the bath – that she doesn’t like to remind him that she had actually been set up with Eddie Pickworth. Instead, she returns to the kitchen, and immediately sets about preparing a lemon delicious pudding.

  Fortunately, it turns out to be a most successful effort, with a light, airy sponge, and just the right degree of tartness to cut through a dollop of cream.

  ‘What’s the special occasion?’ asks Eva, when Ruby presents it for dessert.

  Arthur clears his throat. ‘I know we’ve had a few unfortunate chapters recently.’

  ‘What sort of chapters?’ asks Charlie.

  ‘Never you mind,’ Ruby says.

  ‘Your sister bringing down the family name,’ says Granny.

  ‘We’re keen to put it behind us,’ Arthur continues. ‘And for you to know that your mother and I fully support you in your, shall I say, courtship activities.’

  ‘They call it dating these days,’ Granny pipes up. ‘Heard it at the pictures.’

  ‘In fact, when your mother was your age, she was already off the shelf, so to speak’ – he gives Ruby a suggestive wink – ‘so we’ve found what we believe is a highly appropriate chaperone to accompany you to the Medical Ball.’

  ‘A fine, upstanding young man,’ Ruby offers hopefully.

  ‘Certainly stands up tall, by all accounts. It just so happens that Mrs Clutterbuck —’

  ‘Never!’ ejaculates Eva.

  ‘Mrs Clutterbuck is a member of the tennis club. Coincidentally she has a son who is also studying Medicine.’

  ‘You’re not seriously suggesting that Brendan Clutterbuck should be my date at the Med Ball?’

  Arthur recoils in astonishment; Ruby is reminded of Louis, proffering the under-appreciated gift of a dead mouse.

  ‘Brendan Clutterbuck has one subject of conversation only,’ Eva continues. ‘How amazingly tall he is.’

  ‘Enough.’

  ‘I’m not going with him.’

  Arthur raises his voice. ‘You most certainly are going with him. I have given Mrs Clutterbuck my word. And whatever else they might be saying about us around the neighbourhood, I will not have them saying that Arthur Jenkins is anything other than a man of his word.’

  On the evening of the ball, Eva labours over her appearance, lining her huge, mournful eyes with kohl, and attaching a hairpiece and false eyelashes, so that even Granny remarks that she resembles a young Catherine Deneuve.

  ‘You do look lovely when you make the effort,’ Ruby agrees.

  Eva just gazes back at her tragically, and Ruby feels a rush of impatience.

  ‘For heaven’s sake. You’re not a virgin sacrifice. No one’s asking you to marry him.’

  ‘How te
rribly reasonable of you.’

  ‘If he’s so jolly bad, hand him over to one of your friends and dance with someone else.’

  But then Brendan Clutterbuck arrives with his mother, and the problem is immediately clear.

  ‘What a handsome, tall couple,’ enthuses Mrs Clutterbuck. ‘Smile at the camera, lovebirds!’

  Brendan Clutterbuck grins like a labrador, clearly stupefied by his good fortune; Eva manages a coolish smile in his direction, which strikes Ruby as the epitome of grace.

  After they leave, even Arthur seems remorseful.

  ‘I suppose not all blind dates can be as successful as ours.’

  ‘But darling,’ she says, exasperated. ‘We never even had a blind date. I was chaperoned that first night by Eddie Pickworth, if you recall.’

  Arthur looks sceptical. ‘I have no recollection of any Eddie Pickworths. All I know is that I had an Essex sedan. I was very upper class, you see.’

  ‘And you frightened the wits out of me by talking about our future life!’

  He laughs. ‘Didn’t take me long to make up my mind.’

  ‘Perhaps we should allow Eva to do the same.’

  She urges him to go to bed, as she cannot imagine that Eva will be late, and sure enough, the girl arrives home just before ten, citing a headache. Ruby embraces her, overcome by repentance – From now on we will let you make up your own mind – but Eva draws back, smelling of cigarettes. How quickly your children abandon you; how soon they become unknowable. A tear springs from her eye, and plashes onto Eva’s neck. Just the pollen, darling, she murmurs, and dabs it away.

  Later that year, when Eva becomes friends with a hippy girl, Ruby largely holds her tongue – though she does wish Tessa could be persuaded to pull the hair off her face, instead of letting it lie lank and loose around her shoulders like a horse’s mane. And, for the life of her, she cannot fathom why anyone would choose to combine brown corduroy flares with a skin-tight salmon skivvy, particularly in the absence of supportive undergarments. Still, she is determined to keep her own counsel, and remarks only a couple of times that it is a good thing gravity has not yet had its way, as all will no doubt become a grimmer sight in the years ahead.

  But when Eva announces that she and Tessa have decided to move out together, into some sort of student house, Ruby wishes she had been more forthright.

  ‘For goodness sake, why?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Independence.’

  ‘But the pomegranate is about to blossom,’ she offers, absurdly.

  ‘I’ll admire it when I visit.’

  ‘Got herself in trouble, no doubt,’ Granny mutters, with that fixated glint Ruby knows only too well – a glint that looks, for want of a better word, salacious.

  ‘Do be quiet, Granny.’

  ‘What sort of trouble?’ asks Charlie.

  ‘Dragging us all through the gutter.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Got herself in the family way.’

  ‘Oh, for crying out loud!’ Ruby exclaims, and before she knows it she has picked up her napkin and is swatting at Granny, if she were some malevolent insect, an insect she has allowed to buzz in her ear and her mind and her house for too many years now, and that she wishes fervently would go away once and for all. ‘Would you just buzz off!’

  Granny looks at her, astounded, her face as innocent as a child’s, before turning to Arthur – You need to rein that woman in, you spoil her you do, she always felt she was too good for all of us with her high and mighty ways – but he simply stands, takes his mother firmly by the arm, and escorts her to her quarters.

  When he returns to the table, he tells Eva that of course they are all very disappointed she will be leaving, but that she can return to the house at any time, where her parents will forever welcome her with open arms. Ruby just gapes at her daughter mutely. She has nothing whatsoever to add.

  The following Saturday, when Arthur is at tennis, Tessa comes around to the house with a couple of bearded young men, and they pack Eva’s life into a Morris Minor. Inside, Charlie is playing scraps of Bach interspersed with jazz riffs; they sit in the air like irritants. Then Eva packs herself into the car too, and is gone.

  Ruby takes refuge in the fernery. Usually she is reassured by the creaturely monkey-tails, by the cool and abundant maidenhairs, but today they seem mute and promiseless. She cannot even bring herself to water the hydrangeas.

  Why do they have to leave? What point is there to a home without its children?

  It is Eva’s first day at school all over again.

  She remembers the bitter flavour of its emptiness.

  She remembers she had tried to fill it by baking a cake.

  Later that afternoon, as Ruby drives out to Magill Road, she vows to keep her own counsel. But when she arrives, the flat is tawdry beyond her wildest dreams. There is mould on the ceiling; the skirting boards appear to have sprouted fur. Could Eva really have abandoned her home for this? With the new mahogany dining table, and the rose garden at its finest?

  ‘I was looking for Eva,’ she ventures, to a small assembly of long-haired youths sitting on milk crates.

  They nod benevolently, and pass their cigarette around.

  Eva emerges from the kitchen. ‘Mum!’ she says in surprise.

  Ruby tentatively proffers her fruitcake.

  ‘Fab!’ says Eva. ‘Who’s hungry?’

  There is a mellow chorus of approval, and before Ruby knows it, someone has hacked into her cake with a butter knife.

  ‘Like to stay and join us?’ Eva asks.

  A person of indeterminate gender strums a guitar; an acrid smell burns Ruby’s nose.

  ‘No, I don’t think I will, dear. I just thought I’d drop by and see if you needed some help. But clearly you’re being well tended to.’

  ‘Thanks for the cake.’

  Ruby gazes up at her daughter, towering above her in a peasant blouse, here at home amongst strangers. She will not weep until she is back in the car. But then Eva steps forward and takes Ruby into her arms, pressing her into her soft chest. It seems she is wearing no supportive undergarments, and yet she is so big and strong and adult, somehow, and so certain. Her hair spills around them both, enclosing Ruby like a tent; its fragrance is exactly the same as when she was a child.

  6

  Back in the days when Father was still share-farming on the Yorke Peninsula, before Daisy was born, Ruby would ride out to the fields with Mother to take him his lunch. She remembers it well: the cold meats and tomatoes, the big billy of tea, the plump cherries for dessert. The three of them sitting under the dray, enjoying the cool, with the water bag dangling above. Lunch fit for a king, Father would say, grinning like a jack-o’-lantern. In her memory, Mother even smiles back.

  She wonders now if that was her imagination. It is so unlike Mother to smile, particularly where Father is involved. When Mother arrives at Greenhill Road with suitcase in tow, it is a great shame, of course, but no real surprise. Ruby makes her a cup of tea, settles her into Eva’s vacated room, and is then faced with the problem of what to do about Father. The best thing would be to have him in the house with them, but even if Mother was more co-operative there is really nowhere to put him. She can scarcely set him up in the sunroom, perched on the side of the dining room, and he hasn’t shared a bedroom with Mother for years on account of being such a restless sleeper, and would scarcely be more welcome now.

  Then she remembers that Mrs Dewey, who used to help her out in the house, had sometimes taken on gentleman boarders. When she makes the request, she reassures Mrs Dewey that she needn’t bother too much about hot meals, as Father enjoys cold meats. But soon she suspects the woman took her too literally, and that cold meats are all he is being fed. He is always profusely grateful to come over for Sunday lunch.

  ‘Lunch fit for a king,’ he declares.

  ‘Shame on you all,’ scolds Granny. ‘Sending poor Mr Whiting to the glue factory.’

  ‘Now, now, Mother,’ says Arth
ur. ‘Mrs Dewey’s house is hardly the glue factory.’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ says Father. ‘The lamb is very satisfactory.’

  The whole thing would be intolerable were it not for Eva’s new habit of sweeping back of a Sunday morning, as if by accident, and remaining until afternoon. But she does like to stir Arthur up with her political opinions.

  ‘In the words of Gough Whitlam, it’s time,’ she announces.

  ‘What, time to abdicate our moral responsibility to our allies?’ he asks.

  ‘Time to sweep away the old, and make way for the new.’

  ‘Time for children to be seen and not heard, more like it,’ says Granny.

  Now that Mr Yang has married and returned to Hong Kong, and Charlie has moved out into the stables with his piano, Ruby has taken up a little job with the Bureau of Statistics, leaving the two grandmothers at home alone. She is not quite sure what they get up to without her, but cannot imagine they much seek each other out. Occasionally, she might hear them cross paths in the passage – if Granny Jenkins has taken it into her head to demand a late breakfast, perhaps, after Mother has finished the washing up. Good morning, Mrs Jenkins. Good morning, Mrs Whiting. As far as she can tell, the conversation never proceeds beyond this. In the afternoon, when Ruby returns home from work, Mother reports on the day’s activities. Mrs Jenkins came back from town with a pair of slippers. She quite took the scissors to them.

  It is in fact a great relief to be out and about, knocking on doors and collecting important information about the population, and Ruby soon becomes an expert on local tea consumption, preferred modes of transportation and views on space exploration. She feels she has woken from a long slumber, and is astonished by the profusion of purples and paisleys and loud oranges on the streets: it is as if Adelaide has suddenly become technicolor, and the sober tones of her youth belong to a distant, sepia past. To think she once believed that red and green should never be seen! At the hair salon, she allows Denise to persuade her towards a modern shade of auburn. At first, once it is all dried and styled, she is not entirely convinced. It certainly sets off her eyes, but she wonders if it might be a little ostentatious; the last thing she would ever wish to be is mutton dressed as lamb.