The Grass Castle (34 page)

It’s wild and desperate love-making, hungry, as if this is the last time and the world is about to end. The intensity and emotional brutality of it breaks them both open. Abby can feel herself tearing inside—it is wonderful and terrible all at once. She wonders if it is the same for Cameron. In his eyes, she sees both ecstasy and pain.

Afterwards she presses her face against the broad hairiness of his chest and weeps. He crushes her close. She feels the power of his feelings in the hard thud of his heart beneath her ear. He knows she won’t stay—she can feel it in him: a heavy sadness of premature loss.

He holds her a long time and they breathe into each other, chests rising and falling, skin against skin, their limbs enmeshed. Her fingers trace the shape of his back—the nub of his shoulder blade, the curve of his shoulder. He smells rich and humid like a damp evening after a hot day.

He tries to stay awake—she senses the effort in him—but sleep slowly takes him. He twitches with it, his limbs gaining slack stillness, his breaths deepening, beginning to rasp softly.

She disengages herself with infinite stealth, expecting to waken him, but he sleeps on.

In the lounge room she tugs on her clothes where she left them on the floor. Then she tiptoes on fairy feet to the door, escaping like a thief. In the lift her heart sinks in synchrony with her descent.

31

Daphne is standing semi-naked in the bedroom. She has fumbled undone the buttons of her cardigan and blouse and trousers and let them drop to the floor. All that is left is her bra and underpants and several folds of sagging old skin. She’s no oil painting anymore, that’s certain. She hasn’t put on any weight since she was younger, but all the tone and elasticity have gone. When she looks at herself, she’s reminded of the dog in the toilet-roll ad, all sad and droopy. There’s not much she can do about that.

She dips her hands into the cardboard box on her bed and lifts out the shimmering pink dress, admiring its sheen in the soft afternoon light. She likes the smooth feel of the fabric between her fingers. It’s not very fancy compared with ballgowns these days, but to her it is still the dream-filled sumptuous garment it once was.

She concertinas the dress and, with effort, lifts it up over her head. It’s a struggle to insert herself inside, not because the dress is tight, but because her shoulders are weak and she hasn’t the strength to keep her arms elevated for long. For a moment she thinks it is all going to end badly—she is encased in fabric and can’t find a way through . . . an image of Mr Bean with his head stuck inside a Christmas turkey comes to mind and she almost laughs. But it won’t be funny if she can’t sort out this tangle. She will end up on the floor in a heap, and it would be far too embarrassing to be discovered by Ray, who is working in his office as usual.

Gasping a little, she lowers herself to lie sideways on the bed and rests for a moment, her arms still extended above her head, the box pressing into her back. Sound thumps in her head like a hammer—it’s always worse when she’s stressed. She forces herself to breathe slowly then pushes upright again and wriggles her way into the dress.

There she is in the dressing-table mirror, her face flushed and her mouth gaping. It’s not a pretty sight. Her body has crumbled these past decades: her lips are thin and lined, her face has deep valleys, and her shoulders are stooped. But the dress is still gorgeous and it hangs from her in an almost flattering way. She smiles at the broad mauve-grey ribbon that is stitched around the hem, the band of matching lace around the waist, the dropped-V back, once so risqué and revealing. If only she could wind back the clock.

She reaches behind her back in an attempt to grasp the zip, but it’s beyond her. She will have to leave it for later—perhaps Abby can help. That’s why Daphne has pulled the dress out after all, so she can show it to Abby. She had planned to give the girl a peek into the box, but then an irrepressible urge had come over her to try the gown on again.

She slides her hands down over the fabric, enjoying its silken touch. Then she goes to the bathroom to put on some make-up. Standing in front of the vanity she smiles wryly. This could be interesting . . . she hasn’t attempted eye shadow in years.

At two-thirty, she has the kettle boiled and several pieces of Pam’s lemon slice laid out on a plate. Pam has gone supermarket shopping with Ben prior to collecting Jamie and Ellen from school. They’ll all be home after half past three—noise and madness arriving as they surge through the door. Daphne hopes she will be done by then so she can save Abby from the onslaught of her great-grandchildren.

There’s a knock at the door, and Daphne smooths her hands over the dress again, her heart bunting with excitement. Abby must be here. Daphne wonders what she will think of the dress. She arranges a smile on her lips then goes to the door and swings it wide.

Abby is looking down the street as if she might be expecting to see someone, maybe that young man in the red Commodore—Daphne hasn’t heard anything more about him. But no, she thinks, as she watches the girl, something else is distracting Abby, something internal, a suggestion of melancholy and deep sadness. Daphne had intended to focus on the story of the dress today; but now she determines to alter her agenda. In the girl’s dejected posture she sees there is more important work to be done. The gown is a mistake. Daphne wishes she wasn’t wearing it.

At that moment, Abby swings and meets Daphne’s eyes. Her reaction, her transformation, is almost comical; the melancholy slips away and her eyes widen. She hesitates then steps back as if for a better view. ‘Wow. What an amazing dress.’

Daphne musters a coy smile. She will have to play the part, even though the plan has changed. ‘Do you like it?’ She shuffles backwards and orchestrates a slow turn, stretching her arms out for effect. When she completes her uncertain spin, she notices tears in Abby’s eyes.

‘You look beautiful,’ Abby says.

This is a generous lie, but Daphne doesn’t mind. ‘I think I made a mess of the make-up,’ she says.

Abby laughs. ‘The lipstick’s a bit wobbly, but you’ll do.’

‘I couldn’t do the zip,’ Daphne says.

‘Here, I’ll fix it for you.’

Abby finishes off the zip and the hook and eye while Daphne tries not to think about the girl inspecting her knobby, white-skinned back. She’s beginning to think there is more humiliation than joy in parading the dress for Abby. She asks the girl to re-boil the kettle and goes to her bedroom for a cardigan to cover some of her blotchy exposed flesh. Perhaps it would be even better to take the dress off, but it is beyond her arthritic shoulders, and she can’t bring herself to ask Abby for assistance in this task too.

In the kitchen, the girl is staring out the window at the yard. Or perhaps it is more like
mooching
: a dreary semi-absence as if she is here more out of duty than desire. This is not a feeling Daphne has ever had in Abby’s presence before, and she knows things are not right with the girl. ‘You’re not yourself today, are you?’ she says, gently drawing the girl’s attention back into the room. Abby sets a too-bright smile on her face, but it droops at its corners, and Daphne knows she has hit a raw spot.

‘It’s not about me today,’ Abby says. ‘It’s about you and your dress.’

Daphne shakes her head resolutely. ‘There is a story behind the dress, but it can wait. You’re feeling blue and I need to know why.’

Abby sighs and leans her hip against the bench, focuses back out the window, her hair falling about her shoulders in a disheveled and unkempt way—it appears she hasn’t brushed it this morning. ‘Have you been reading the papers?’ she says. ‘All this kangaroo stuff is getting me down.’

‘You mean the cull they’ve been talking about?’ Daphne asks.

‘Yes, that.’

Daphne knows all about the cull because it has triggered even more craziness around here lately. Her granddaughter Sandy’s wildlife group has been caught up trying to stop it, and, as usual, everyone has had to bend around Sandy’s needs. With all Sandy’s emergency meetings, the children have been practically living here. Four-year-old Ben comes nearly every day, and then Jamie and Ellen have to be cared for after school. Pam has been up late at night cooking stews and casseroles, and when Sandy comes to pick up the children each evening, they stay on to dinner. Pam and Sandy bath the children then plonk them in front of the TV, after which Sandy starts sewing pouches for the joeys that will be orphaned when the cull goes ahead. Pam has been roped into sewing pouches too; Daphne can’t believe it. She watches them both—her daughter and her granddaughter—heads bowed, needle and thread in hand, tacking old jumpers and windcheaters into cosy new homes for joeys. But Daphne can’t help thinking it’s all a bit futile. While the others sew, she sits in her chair and reads and does crossword puzzles, keeping her mouth tight-shut, thankful her arthritis and poor eyesight exempt her from helping. She wouldn’t be seen making pouches for orphaned joeys that ought to be killed with their mothers.

During the sewing bees, there have been numerous discussions about Sandy’s wildlife group and their plans. Apparently the joeys will be shared among the experienced carers in the group, which means more joeys for Sandy. Pam doesn’t think Sandy can cope, but when she says as much, it falls on deaf ears. Sandy wants to save as many joeys as possible or the poor things will be knocked on the head and thrown into a pit. She bursts into tears, and Pam rushes to console her, promising to do whatever she can to assist. It isn’t a good resolution, Daphne thinks. In fact, it’s no resolution at all. But whenever she tries to weigh in and add some perspective, Sandy becomes hostile, arguing that she doesn’t expect Daphne to understand.
Gran, you’re from a time when the rights of animals didn’t matter. You fed kangaroos to the dogs.
But things are different now. Society is more evolved. We can’t just keep shooting things.
It always ends with Pam reaffirming her support for Sandy while sending Daphne an eagle glare that says,
Shut up, we don’t need your input on this
. Daphne generally takes the hint and goes to bed.

Now Daphne wonders if perhaps Abby’s opinions are similar to Sandy’s. She’d thought Abby would be more practical, being from the country and all. But maybe the girl has some weird attachment to kangaroos—she does spend her days following the creatures around the valley. ‘You don’t like the idea of shooting kangaroos?’ Daphne asks carefully.

Abby sighs again, as if this subject is too heavy for consideration. ‘I don’t like the idea of shooting
anything
,’ she says. ‘But I’m an ecologist, and it makes sense to shoot them. I just don’t feel good about it.’

‘Of course they have to be shot, dear,’ Daphne says. Obviously the girl needs some reassurance. ‘There are just too many; you’ve said it yourself. And you’ve seen how the countryside is suffering. What else can be done in this drought?’

Abby’s face twists and she glances away. ‘I know all that,’ she says. ‘It’s just my past coming back to bite me.’

Daphne sees the opening and she determines to take it. ‘Is that something you might want to talk about?’ she asks quietly. She sees Abby sag slightly and knows she has found the right place to dig, but she holds back. Whatever is simmering inside the girl needs to come forth willingly, not be dragged out like a loose tooth yanked from a reluctant child.

Abby’s eyes flicker briefly to Daphne’s face. ‘Not really, not today.’

That’s it then, Daphne supposes. Conversation over. She moves around the bench to retrieve the kettle, the tulle lining of her dress rustling as she walks. It takes some effort to grasp the handle with her clumsy hands, and, as she pours hot water into the teapot, she accidentally spills some onto the plate of lemon slice, and curses. Luckily she manages not to splash the dress.

‘Let me do it.’ Abby dives in quickly to help. ‘We can save those pieces. We’ll get a fresh plate, shake the water off, and once we eat a few, Pam will never know.’

Daphne relinquishes the kettle thankfully and sits down in the living room. Easing back into her chair, she’s surprised how tired she is—too much excitement for one day. A deep nagging pain tugs at her shoulders, perhaps from the effort of shimmying into the dress, and the thumping is back in her head. She is a little light-headed. She slumps among the clouds of pink material, feeling rather more like a wilted daisy than a rosebud.

Abby brings the tray into the living room. She removes the crossword book from the coffee table and sets down the tray, pours the tea. ‘I bet you broke a few hearts in your day,’ she says.

Daphne presses her lips together, remembering. ‘Only one or two.’

‘Surely more than that?’ Abby is smiling.

‘Sometimes you have to be careful which hearts you break,’ Daphne says, and she notices the girl’s smile fade. ‘I never wore this dress for my husband,’ she adds. ‘But perhaps I should have. He would have appreciated it.’

Abby is disbelieving. ‘Your husband never saw it?’

‘Oh yes, he saw it, but only in the box. I never wore it to any balls—such a waste really.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Abby says. ‘A dress like that must have cost a fortune.’