The Grass Castle (5 page)

Abby loved to listen to her, and even now she plays the songs her mother used to play, mournful lyrical pieces that suit the melancholic tone of the guitar. Songs by James Taylor, Jim Croce, John Denver. Abby knows these singers are long out of fashion, but these are the songs she grew up with.

She remembers the time after her mother’s death only in patches. Her mind has blotted things out, and perhaps parts of it are safer forgotten. But there are things she can’t erase, like the quietness that came on the skirts of her mother’s departure, time losing its shape and definition, hours when Abby lay alone in her room watching patterns of light moving like liquid across the walls. She recalls someone taking her to the window one night to look at the stars so she could find her mother.
She’s up there
, they told her.
She’ll be watching for you, waiting for you
. It seemed like rubbish even then, silly sweet fairytales when she was already well beyond star-people and the concept of heaven.

Then there was the time of humming, a period of vivid clarity and bright light in which all things presented in sharp and wonderful detail. Abby was transfixed by a persistent and monotonous sound that permeated everything: her chest, her feet, the air. At the funeral, it fused with the hymns that echoed in the church, floating up near the lofty ceiling. Then she was outside in warm daylight with the arm of a buxom woman around her shoulders, and her collar was wet with tears she didn’t know she was shedding.
Poor darling
, the woman said.
You must stop that dreadful noise.
But when she shut the humming off, the silence was overwhelming, and she was lost in it, lonely, shapeless without her mother.

After that came visceral sobs and the onslaught of unwanted hugs as women from all across town marked her as a target for sympathy. Abby was defenceless and numb, small and easy, so they captured her in their grip. Her face was crushed into the bosoms of everyone else’s mums trying to fill the hole her own mother had left.

Her memories of the angry time are more defined and full of shouting, the sound of plates breaking. Yes, she threw things. People accepted her behaviour and she played on their pity. She had a good excuse to be horrible: a girl without a mother was like a yacht without a mast. Back then Abby didn’t realise the consequences of it—the isolation that awaited her, the unexplained mysteries of puberty. Her brother Matt had their dad, Steve, to guide him through adolescence—although Steve was as useless then as he is now. Lost without Grace.

The day Abby attained womanhood was one of her worst. Blood leaked through her clothes at school, leaving a murky stain which everyone sniggered at. The teacher was sympathetic—Abby saw it in his eyes. But he was a man, and the facts of life were not his duty to impart. He sent her to sick bay, where a female teacher said
Poor you
and handed her a sanitary pad and gave her permission to go home to change her clothes.

It was a long walk. Abby could feel stickiness between her legs, the pad, bulky and uncomfortable. The knot inside her wasn’t embarrassment; it was fear. She needed someone to talk to. She walked the lonely stretch of road alone and looked to the purple mountains for answers, finding none, of course. At home she put on a clean dress and threw the tainted one in a bucket in the laundry for her father to find later (he washed it without a word). Then she sat on the couch feeling surreal as a cloud, detached and floaty, as if none of this was really happening.

Eventually she thought to ring Gran, who came over immediately with everything Abby needed, including compassion and explanations. Gran gave the kindly, loving help and guidance she’d always given, the help that Abby’s mother could have provided if she was still alive . . . or perhaps it would have ended up Gran’s job anyway, as it had so often before when Grace wasn’t up to mothering.

But Gran died only a few months later, and Abby was left to suffer the mood swings and uncertainty of puberty alone. Her father ducked away from it—what he didn’t acknowledge couldn’t touch him. By seventeen, when her hormones had levelled, she was already planning her future. By then she knew what she wanted. She was young to be so certain, but she’d learned how to take care of herself. She had to get out, make her own life in science, which was her passion, and outdoors, which was where she needed to be. Matt had moved into a ramshackle house on a friend’s property. He took a job at a local vineyard—anything to be independent. There was nothing to hold Abby at home. She finished school, applied for university, shifted to Melbourne, worked a night job in a bar. It wasn’t nirvana, but she had to set herself on her path, away from the past.

Now, sitting on the step of her bungalow, she hears her phone ringing inside on the coffee table, and she unhooks the guitar from around her neck and sets it gently aside. The flyscreen door bangs as she swings it wide and rushes to find the phone among the jumble of books on the table. The battery is low—after this, she will have to recharge it.

‘Hello?’ She flicks to speaker-phone and goes back outside to retrieve her guitar.

‘Hey, Abby, it’s me.’ Her brother’s rough voice scrapes down the line. He rarely rings.

‘What’s up?’ she asks.

‘Dad’s not good. Had a fight with Brenda. Anniversary of Mum’s death.’

The anniversary. Abby is surprised she has forgotten it. ‘What happened?’ she asks, suppressing a surge of guilt.

‘He got drunk. Pissed off his head. Walked round the streets shouting Mum’s name. Singing to her. Brenda had to rescue him. Serves her right. But she made him sleep in the chook shed.’

The chook shed may not sound like much to anyone else, but to her family it has special significance. Abby’s trampoline-heart knocks hard as old visions rise and she works to squash them down. ‘He didn’t have to stay there. He’s a man, isn’t he?’

‘Not when it comes to Brenda.’

Abby pauses. She knows what she needs to do. Matt wants her to fix things like she always does. She rolls in when there’s a need and finds solutions. That’s how she manages. She sees a problem, gauges its shape, sizes it up, resolves it then moves on. No looking back. ‘Do you want me to come down?’

‘Be a good idea. Soon as you can.’

‘My car’s not running well. I’ll have to catch the bus. Can you pick me up?’

‘Just let me know the time.’

4

The bus trip down the Hume Highway the next day is quicker than it used to be—at least that’s what the driver claims in conversation with the passenger seated just behind him. All the new bypasses have cut the transit time, which is good for passengers and drivers alike.

Three rows back, Abby eavesdrops without wanting to. The bald-headed driver, in his dark blue shorts, pale blue shirt and long white socks, seems hungry for chat. Abby supposes it must be dull driving the same stretch of road over and over, pulling into the same roadside stops, day after day. The driver must be hungry for food too, she notes. He has an impressive stomach presumably won from countless deep-fried meals and fizzy drinks. The rubbish bin, located down the front, already holds two empty Coke cans and one of Red Bull. Abby reserves those sorts of drinks for exam time, but highway driving must be tedious.

She feels sleepy as she sits slumped in her seat watching the farms flicker by. The bus is not full, so she doesn’t have to share her seat. At the bus station in Canberra she used her daypack as a deterrent to would-be trip companions who eyed her seat with interest. She doesn’t fancy conversation with strangers at the best of times, and today she has other things to think about . . . like that horrible incident with the kangaroo, and Cameron’s failure to ring—she’s still smarting about that. Honestly though, she’d be better off contemplating how to deal with her father. He can be evasive and he won’t discuss anything if he doesn’t want to. He finds smokescreens to hide behind—generally women or alcohol. And Abby ought to know.

When Grace died he became a beacon for assistance, and women came flocking to him like white cockatoos settling on a gum tree. Abby had watched them claim the house, stacking the freezer with pre-cooked meals and taking liberties in the kitchen, filling the kettle to make their own cups of tea. They took other liberties too, planting themselves at the table to immerse in long conversations with her father. Mostly they oozed sympathy and condolences, but sometimes they came drenched in other things, like perfume and verbal diarrhoea and flirtatiousness—even Abby could see it.

Whenever an invasive matriarch arrived, Matt vacated the house, rifle in hand, to blow the crap out of some poor defenceless rabbit in the bush. Abby hated it too. But her father seemed to like the endless talk-fests and female attention.

His first betrayal had been the worst. Abby had come home from school to strange noises disrupting the familiar quiet of the house: rhythmic thudding, a woman’s voice. At thirteen, Abby was naïve, but not stupid. She tossed her school bag to the floor with a deliberate clatter, pausing to enjoy the subsequent strained silence and then the rustling that came from her father’s room. She knew he was trying to make himself presentable so he could explain with some pathetic mash of excuses. She didn’t wait, banging the door behind her as she raced across the paddock towards the trees. She was almost to the fence when her father’s voice came on the wind. Glancing back she saw him, standing half-dressed and barefoot in the grass by the house, his unbuttoned shirt flapping against his chest. Self-righteously angry, she turned away, barely breaking stride as she dived through the fence, ripping her T-shirt on the barbs before continuing up-slope. On the ridge she stopped. Around her, the bush whipped and sighed, and the tree crowns seemed lashed by a windswept fury that matched her own.

It was almost dark when she crept downhill again, sliding on the scented bark of peppermints. Her father stood in the paddock, swaying like a drunken scarecrow and calling her name. From where she remained hidden in the gloomy shadows, Abby watched him taking regular gulps from a bottle. When he finally staggered back to the house, she slipped from the bush and followed him home.

After that, there had been many dalliances, and sometimes it seemed to Abby the whole lonely-hearts brigade of the town had worked their way through the front door of the house and into her father’s bedroom. Neither she nor Matt became accustomed to it or was able to forgive him, but over the years they learned that it was unreasonable to expect him to remain true to their mother. Available women were few in a country town, but he found them. Or they found him. This was something Abby and Matt had to live with.

When the bus arrives in the main street of Mansfield it is already dark. Abby sees Matt waiting for her beneath a streetlight outside the post office, hands in pockets. He’s wearing his usual uniform: checked flannelette shirt, stained jeans, toe-worn boots and a worried frown. He has none of the smooth style of Cameron, Abby thinks, and then she feels guilty for comparing them. It’s hardly fair to line her brother up against a private-school educated city boy.

Hooking her daypack over her shoulder, she alights from the bus and goes to hug him. He’s awkward with her, stiffly resistant to her affectionate embrace. This is not unusual, but a small part of her had hoped he might have melted a little and become more amenable to a sisterly hug. Naturally, he hasn’t changed.

It’s been a while since she’s seen him, but he’s still thin and rangy. His blue eyes shift when she locks him in her gaze, and he scuffs his boots on the pavement while the driver unloads her suitcase. She smiles to herself. He’s never been one for eye contact. Who knows how his girlfriends get near him.

‘Good trip?’ he asks, not looking at her.

‘No, it was boring.’

He nods his agreement. ‘I hate highway driving.’

She cocks an eyebrow at him. ‘Is that why you never come to visit? I’ve often wondered . . .’

He grabs her case and grins sideways at her as he leads the way to his old bomb Nissan. ‘You know why I don’t come,’ he says, tossing her case in the back. ‘I hate cities. Hate fake dudes.’

‘There’s none of them here, of course,’ she says, leaning on sarcasm.

His grin widens. ‘No. Here we only have good wholesome country people with charity in their hearts.’

They clamber into his car and Abby kicks aside takeaway containers to find a home for her feet. She dusts the dirty seat with the back of her hand. ‘Nice car for royalty,’ she says.

He grins again. ‘No room for airs and graces here.’

They drive out of town, the headlights cutting haloes in the dark. The car rackets over the bridge, inky water gliding beneath.

‘How’s Dad?’ Abby asks.

Matt firms his hands on the wheel and shrugs. ‘Sucking it up to Brenda, I reckon.’

‘Is he back in the house?’

‘In the spare room.’

‘I can’t believe she banished him to the chook shed. Maybe he deserved it.’

Matt tenses. ‘Brenda’s a bitch. Worst thing she could have done.’

‘She holds him together,’ Abby says. ‘I suppose we should thank her for that.’

Matt’s brow furrows into an angry black line. ‘Thank her for nothing. He shouldn’t let her wear the pants.’