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Sport 39: 2011
Delphie
Delphie
Delphie rolls her eyes up under the folded back brim of the floppy sunhat. Her big blue eyes disappear for a second, then she rolls them back down, turns them from side to side and everyone laughs. She smiles her little secret smile. Rolls her eyes up again. She’s such a hard case.
‘She’s got a great sense of timing. Who would have thought that such a tiny person would have such a great sense of timing?’ Fleur can’t get enough of this being a grandmother business. It’s as if she’s been waiting for ever.
‘How awful if anyone was to call her a show off!’ Freddie pulls his face into a long, mocking streak of disapproval.
‘Let them dare, just let them dare!’ Fleur’s trying to squeeze Delphie’s feet into the pink jumpsuit. ‘It’s not fair, is it darling, it’s just not fair,’ and Delphie’s wriggling and crowing. Freddie pops his eyes at her. ‘Wow,’ he says, ‘a soprano!’
Wow! That’s Delphie’s favourite word.
She gives a mighty kick, rolls over, rocks up on all fours. She sits back on her glossy haunches (as tasty as chicken thighs, says Fleur who likes to nibble them) and turns her head from Fleur to Freddie, then from Freddie back to Fleur again. ‘Wow,’ she says. ‘Wow.’
What a little show off!
So here they are, Fleur and Freddie, just flown in from New Zealand, grateful for this unexpected chance to spend a little extra time with the miracle baby. Ginny and Sam are going away for the weekend. They’re staying with friends on the Gold Coast, Byron Bay is it, or Ballina, Fleur can’t believe she can’t remember. Freddie’s been entrusted with the list of essential numbers, the cellphones, the doctor, the Breast Feeding Consultant (Delphie has just gone onto the bottle), the hospital, emergency as well as paediatrics.
page 254‘The police? The fire brigade? What number do we ring?’ Fleur can’t help herself, it all seems so extreme.
‘ZERO ZERO ZERO, I told you that before.’
Uh oh, Freddie raises a mocking eyebrow. Watch out, grandma.
‘I feel terrible.’ Ginny is actually wringing her hands. ‘What if anything happens? What if she gets sick? What if she swallows something?’
‘Nothing’s going to happen, darling.’ Sam has already packed his golf clubs. ‘And anyway, your mum’s a nurse.’
Was, was a nurse, a very long time ago.
‘Delphie’s safer with her than she is with us.’
Jesus!
But before Fleur can say anything, Ginny is on the move. ‘You’re absolutely right,’ and she’s flying around the apartment, grabbing tiny lace knickers from the clothes rack in the living room and a large make-up kit, it looks more like a suitcase, from the bathroom.
‘Don’t forget your sunscreen. And your bikini.’ Sam has put his sunglasses on. He’s halfway out the door, carrying the pinot noir out to the car, the wine that Freddie had lugged all the way over from the Waipara, the wine that Fleur had imagined they would all share.
‘When are you going to see Dad?’ Ginny’s dragging a brush through her hair. She grabs a rubber band, twists and loops her hair at the back of her neck, flicks the band around it twice, and, quick as a flash there she is molto elegante with that casual Italian kind of look she’s inherited from her father. But with her mother’s dark eyes.
‘Soon, once we’ve got ourselves sorted.’
‘Don’t wait too long, will you. He’s pretty busy.’ She kisses Delphie. ‘Bye bye, baby, be good.’ And Ginny’s off out the door just as little Delphie’s eyes begin to fill with tears.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll be fine.’ Fleur’s voice trails away into nothingness. She picks Delphie up, takes her out onto the balcony, points out the birdies on the power lines and the pussycat sleeping on top of the next door neighbour’s car. ‘Bossy boots,’ she whispers into the baby’s soft hair. ‘We’ll go when we jolly well want to, won’t we.’
Freddie answers the phone. It’s Sadie.
‘Welcome,’ she says, ‘it’s so exciting that you’re here.’ She wantspage 255 them to come round. How about they make a day of it, on Wednesday. It’s no problem, Gerald will take the day off, they can all go out somewhere together, it will be really lovely, to the river perhaps or to the Art Gallery, there’s a new exhibition on, everyone’s talking about it. Then back to their place for a meal afterwards?
‘Sounds great!’ Freddie’s mouthing sorry to Fleur. How pathetic. He turns away and bends further into the phone. ‘We’ll look forward to it then. Thanks very much.’
For fuck’s sake!
‘You could have lied.’ Fleur’s acting up, it’s the bad-girl kind of joke that she knows will make him laugh. ‘You’re an outrage!’ that’s what he’ll say, it will actually be quite funny, but they’ll both understand that she’s really angry.
If only she’d got her hair done before they’d flown over, if only she’d bought some new clothes.
If only Freddie wasn’t always such a pushover.
On Wednesday morning Fleur and Freddie push Delphie around to the new house, only a couple of blocks away. It’s astonishing what they have to take with them: disposable nappies, a bottle of formula, the floppy velvet Tigger, the kitten cuddle rug, herbal wipes, a big fluffy towel, two changes of clothing, the Buzzy Bee. (Was it really such a business when Ginny was a baby?) Everything is stashed away on a rack underneath the buggy.
Sadie opens the door. She hugs Freddie. ‘You’re nothing like your brother, are you.’ Then she hugs Fleur. ‘Come in, oh do come in, it’s so lovely to see you.’
Gerald comes hurtling down the stairs. He embraces them both, hands on their shoulders, kisses on their cheeks. ‘Fantastic to have you here!’ His big voice fills the hallway as if he’s addressing a meeting of constituents. ‘Here we go,’ and he ushers them through to the huge main room with its polished floors, expensive rugs, the French doors leading out into a small walled garden with white stones and bonsai trees in ceramic pots and a water feature, an original artwork no doubt, that reflects and softens the light.
Sadie takes Delphie out of the buggy. ‘Come on, sweetheart,’ she says, ‘come and help me make the coffee.’
page 256It’s clear they are the very best of friends.
Fleur sips her coffee.
Gerald flashes his eyes at her; he’s full of fire and brilliance. He looks happy. That would be a bit of a shock. There were always complications when they were living together. Complications and distortions. So many things that didn’t quite fit, that finally just didn’t make sense.
‘With Gerald I always feel I’m on stage,’ that’s what she used to say to her friends when they were first married. ‘In a very minor role of course. The faithful servant who brushes the cake crumbs from the table.’ It was a great line and everyone had loved it. She was in love, yes, madly love with him back then, and he could get away with anything.
She decides that she doesn’t like the room after all, it’s too big, too clean. Where’s the sand and the cat hair, where are the mud-caked boots, the real things that go towards making a real life?
And now it transpires, surprise surprise, that there is a problem. Something has come up. It’s urgent. Gerald has to go in to the office. It’s unbelievable, such bad luck, who would have thought, but he actually hasn’t got any choice. They must all go out, of course, the day mustn’t be ruined because of him. He’ll be back for tea and then they can tell him all about their adventures.
‘I feel rotten, absolutely rotten.’ He turns to Freddie. ‘I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’
‘No problem.’ Poor old Freddie, he looks embarrassed. He’d had such high expectations of this trip. ‘I’ll live.’
‘It’s always the same. I can never get anything right!’ Gerald flings his hands up into the air in a gesture of surrender, what more can these people want!
Sadie goes over and wraps her arms around his neck. She rests her forehead against his (she is tall) and murmurs, ‘My silly, silly darling.’
It’s ridiculous. She’s so much younger than Fleur had expected.
She’s younger than Ginny.
Sadie packs Freddie and Fleur and Delphie into the big SUV. Freddie sits in the front. Fleur’s in the back beside Delphie who’s strapped into a back-to-front bucket arrangement. Sadie and Gerald have certainlypage 257 got all the gear. From the moment Delphie was born, according to Ginny, they’ve wanted to be involved.
Fleur undoes her seatbelt. She wriggles across to Delphie, tucks in the frill of her suntop, tickles her under the chin. Delphie stares at her. Her face is completely blank. Fleur beams and clicks her tongue but there’s no response. Just that calm, steady stare as if Delphie is memorizing her grandmother, assessing her.
It’s very disconcerting.
Ginny used to stare like that when she was a teenager, facing off against her mother, turning the air to ice. ‘Do you think I’m any thinner? Mum, answer me.’
And Fleur would struggle in the trap, half wanting to laugh, half wanting to cry. Wanting most of all to shout out, ‘For god’s sake! This isn’t fair. This isn’t bloody fair. I’ve got enough on my own plate already!’
Sinking instead into a kind of clotted, artificial calm. As if she was struggling ashore, having left the safety of the longboat. As if she was sinking deeper and deeper into thick, estuarine mud.
‘What do you mean thinner? You don’t want to be any thinner. You’re gorgeous as you are.’
‘You always say that. Why don’t you ever tell the truth?’
‘I am telling the truth.’
There was something heaving in the mud, something scaly touching her ankle.
‘Look, look at this,’ and Ginny would drag at her jeans and slap her thighs. ‘Lard, lard, lard. Even you have to admit it.’
‘You’re beautiful, darling. Everyone says so.’
‘Who’s everyone?’
‘Your dad. Your friends. To be honest I think some of them are a bit jealous of you. Freddie. Freddie says you’re very beautiful.’
It never sounded convincing. And all that would be left was Ginny’s scathing disappointment which felt very close to hatred.
It was all so ridiculous.
I’m sorry, darling. That’s what Fleur really wanted to say. I’m sorry you’re not as beautiful as you’d like to be. I myself have never been what anyone would call beautiful and I want you to know that it really doesn’t matter. Except that maybe it does and anyway, whatever I saypage 258 you will never believe me. I’m sorry I wasn’t more beautiful for your sake, so I could pass on to you my beautiful genes.
I’m sorry your father and I didn’t manage to make a go of things.
The silver ute swings out of Why Not Street onto the highway. The jacaranda trees are in full bloom.
‘Look at those purple lakes down there.’ Fleur had craned across Freddie as they’d flown in.
‘Jacaranda,’ he’d replied. ‘Great isn’t it.’ Good old Freddie, he always knew the most surprising stuff.
What would it be like to stand underneath a jacaranda tree, to stare up at the sky through the bare branches, how blue it must be against all that purple.
It’s a relief when they get to the Art Gallery.
A girl on the desk, an art student probably with black lacy stockings, black lipstick and a Katherine Mansfield hairdo, rushes over. ‘Welcome,’ she says, ‘you’re most welcome,’ and she gives an extra special smile to Delphie. Hands Fleur a pamphlet on the Albert Namatjira exhibition.
‘You’ll love it,’ she says. ‘You’ll so love it. Hundreds of people have been through already. It’s stunning, absolutely stunning.’
But in fact, it’s disappointing. The art is so very European, the red hills, the blue trees, the vanishing perspective.
What about the real stuff, the dotty patterns, the kangaroo and emu tracks, the little banana shapes that represent the people, the whole family sitting around the rings of concentric circles which are the campfire? One shape might be turned the other way, someone with their back to the flames.
That would be Gerald, of course, all bristling and huffy. Down-playing his successes, over-playing his disappointments.
Muddying the water.
What about the x-ray drawings, the turtles and the wombats, the see-through people drawn with white clay?
They move slowly through the galleries.
Scarlet and yellow paintings flare like mini bushfires on the walls.page 259 There’s the thin black line that’s a native hunter, one leg bent. They can stand that way for hours apparently, like a heron, motionless beside a billabong. Then one quick jab and there’s another yabbie squirming on the end of a spear.
Freddie disappears inside an installation. Fleur follows with Delphie who’s nodded off to sleep. They’re enclosed now by two half circles, eight huge panels in each. The two sides mirror each other but in slightly different tones. One is pinkish, painted on board. The other, on metal, has the brassy glow of an old fire-screen.
It’s The Bend in the River by Sidney Nolan.
There’s the mottled water of the creek, two creeks if you look from side to side, snaking through stands of gum trees. There’s the Sergeant of Police, two Sergeants if you turn your head, little more than swishes of pinky-white paint. Each of them wearing nothing more than a blue regimental helmet with a silver badge on the front.
And there’s Ned Kelly, no, two Ned Kellys, hiding out among the mangroves. The pallor of their nakedness is startling, the dark scrag of their beards, their jagged cheekbones. Their big haunted eyes.
Sidney Nolan saw himself as being like Ned Kelly, even when he was living in London. He identified with the notion of the artist as a renegade, as being a loner, outside society.
Ah yes, the notion of the reckless man who acts on the spur of the moment and spends a lifetime dealing with the consequences. It’s irresistible to Freddie who’s in love with Ned Kelly.
And it’s utterly irresistible to Fleur but you’d never know.
Sadie’s way up ahead now, striding over the marble floor, clack clack clack in her red Italian slingbacks. She’s turning her head side to side like a goanna, no doubt she’ll remember everything, all the little details that Fleur will womble past as if she’s a sleepwalker, soothed by the paleness and the coolness of the space, distracted by Delphie slumped back against the pillow, her cheeks flushed, a little bubble of spit on her lower lip, the soft rasp of her breathing.
‘She’s nodded off, poor little thing, too much culture.’ And Freddie wipes her mouth gently with his handkerchief.
‘Careful, don’t wake her!’
But it’s too late.
page 260Recharged and glowing, Delphie flaps her hands and jigs up and down in the buggy. She’s woken up sweet but she wants to get out. She wants to get going, running in that funny cranky buckling way of hers, rising up on her toes, her left arm swinging round and round like a propeller.
She stares around the gallery.
‘Wow!’
Fleur has to laugh. ‘We should set her up at the front door. She could be the star attraction. The best art critic in Australia’ and she finds herself hamming it up, putting on a fake Australian accent. Austrahlya.
Her voice is all hot and shiny in the quiet room. It doesn’t sound the least bit funny.
By late afternoon an electrical storm has hit Brisbane. The whole sky is livid with massive burnings and twisty wires of lightning.
Fleur is standing in Gerald’s house, looking down through dripping wattle trees to the towers of the city. She’s wondering how on earth she’s going to stick it out for another week.
The late lunch had been delicious. Sadie is an excellent cook and a gracious hostess. After a couple of glasses of wine, Fleur had begun to feel a bit heady so she’d taken Delphie outside. Then Gerald had turned up. He’d come out too and offered her another one. ‘Cheers dears!’ and he’d clicked his glass against hers. He drank noisily and licked his lips.
‘Must be nice for you and Freddie, living out at the beach.’
The ‘nice’ offered almost slyly. What was he up to?
And all of a sudden she’d been sure, absolutely and totally sure (it’s astonishing, when she thinks back now, how very sure she’d been), that yes, it was nice, in fact it was more than nice, it was wonderful, living out at the beach like that, with Freddie. And what she wanted, what she desired more than anything else, was to make Gerald understand once and for all just how wonderful it actually was.
So she’d started up with all that stuff about the waves. How they laid down stones in different patterns on the sand every day. How the mist drifted in like smoke, blotting out the headland. How vapours swirled up from the marshy paddocks around the base of the mountainpage 261 so only the peak remained and there it was, living up to its original name, Maukatere, ‘the floater’.
‘The floater’, he’d said and laughed. ‘Good old NZ.’
She’d gone on then and told him about the little drowned shark, something she hadn’t yet told Freddie. How it was caught in a loop of shallow water. How it turned there, you’d almost think it was alive, you’d almost think it was swimming. (She’d watched it for ages, the fins like white wings, the spongy bobbles of blood tissue along the exposed spine.)
Going on and on like that, like a mad woman.
Until Delphie had got fed up. She’d started to squirm. She’d banged her head back hard against her grandmother’s chest and Fleur’s eyes had filled with tears.
‘Hey hey, that’s enough, madam,’ and Gerald had scooped her up, carted her back inside, plonked her down on the sofa. And they sat there for ages, pouring over her favourite book.
‘What does the fishie say, wop, wop, wop,’ and he’d made a felted sort of popping noise with his lips.
And little Delphie had copied him, her blue eyes gleaming with pleasure. For there was the spider and there was the fish and there was the little stripy bee that zipped from the page onto her nose by means of her grandfather’s whirly finger.
Ginny lifts her head up off the rug.
‘It’s pretty weird, having you and Dad and Freddie all here at the same time. Are you sure it’s not a problem?’
The young ones have come back relaxed and happy. The break had been great, swimming several times a day, prawns on the barbie, the whole works. To top it all off, Sam had won $400.00 at the Casino.
Ginny has taken Fleur and Delphie down to the Parklands on the Brisbane River. There’s a playground there beside the Peace Pagoda, and an artificial beach with sand trucked in from the Coast. There’s a series of paddling pools too. They’re supposed to be quite safe for littlies.
It’s a girly time, mother and daughter times two. That was Freddie’s little joke.
Sadie’s gone off to the David Jones sale. Gerald’s at work andpage 262 Freddie’s in town. He wants to hunt down a part for the little steam engine. It was a birthday present that their father had given to the boys on their ninth birthday but he’d taken it back again, said they couldn’t be trusted to look after it properly.
It was Gerald, of course, who had snaffled it when the old man died. Not that he’s ever done anything with it. Now that Delphie’s on the scene, Freddie thinks it could be fun to get it going.
As a child, he’d never been able to work the little engine on his own. It had always meant hanging around, waiting for the right time to ask his father, hoping that he wouldn’t go off on one of his tirades about the family, the bloody family, never off his back. When was he ever going to get some time for himself?
And Gerald would sneer as he told Fleur about it. He’d shake his head in disbelief. How come the kid always chose the very worst moment to ask? Couldn’t he see the old man was working up to something?
‘Maybe there was a big case on.’ Fleur would feel herself floundering. ‘Maybe it was because of your mother’s death.’
And Gerald would slap the side of his head in frustration. ‘Get real,’ he’d say. ‘It’s just what happens when your dad is a bastard and your brother is a halfwit.’
But because it was Freddie who was asking, skinny little Freddie who was prone to the sniffles, Freddie who appeared in the world as a kind of afterthought, half an hour after his brother, Angus would gradually come to his senses.
He’d go down on one knee and very carefully he’d pour kerosene into the tank through a little funnel. He’d strike a match and light the wick and the little gold-painted rods and wheels would begin to turn, the kitchen would fill with the sweet smell of the burning fuel and the red and green engine would glide across the lino, little woofs of smoke popping out of its shiny stack.
And Gerald would go outside and start whacking a ball against the side of the house until his father came out and threatened him with a hiding.
‘No, it’s not a problem.’ Fleur’s bending over Delphie. She’s smearing suntan lotion up and down her pudgy little arms.
page 263Ginny props herself up on one elbow. ‘What about Sadie?’ She pulls a couple of blades of grass out of the prickly lawn, twiddles them between her fingers. ‘I really like her. I think she’s good for Dad.’
‘Okay.’
‘I reckon she knows how to handle him.’
Stroking the lotion up and down, making sure it gets into all the creases.
‘I’m seeing a bit more of her these days. She likes Delphie.’
Fleur snuffles into Delphie’s neck, ‘How come you’re so lucky, baby?’
Ginny’s frowns. Or maybe she’s just squinting, holding her hand up across her face, the sun is so dazzling. ‘Mum, I love you, you know that.’
‘And I love you.’
‘And you know what?’ Ginny picks Delphie up and sets her on her hip. ‘I think you’ve done a great job. Honestly. I reckon I’ve turned out pretty bloody good.’
And there she goes, prancing over the grass, flouncing like a model on a catwalk, her cheeks sucked in, her lips pushed out. And the baby’s going joggle joggle joggle on her hip and her poor little head’s wobbling all over the place. Now she’s got the hiccups.
‘Watch out, you’ll make her sick.’ Fleur gets up. She takes little Delphie into her arms. She whirls her around a couple of times, then carries her down to the water.
Delphie crawls slowly in the water. How careful she is, it’s amazing. She stops. She sticks out her tongue. She’s lapping the water, like a cat.
Fleur has seen her press her tongue against a roughcast wall, against the wooden floor of the living room. Against the metal struts in the security gate that shuts off the stairs in the apartment.
Ginny seems to find it funny. ‘I know. She’s a real tongue girl. Sam says it’s got to be good for her immune system.’
Oh well.
Something catches Delphie’s eye. It’s a yellow, saw-toothed leaf. She stretches out, sluicing the water gently through her fingers. The leaf jigs away, riding the little ripples she’s set in motion. She crawls after it.
page 264She’s quite a long way out now, almost in the middle of the pool. The water’s bobbing against her chin. How deep is it?
Fleur hitches up her skirt. She’s wants to rush in, to intervene. The interventionist. That’s what Gerald used to call her when he was in one of his rages. Blessed is the bloody peacemaker, smoothing things over, straightening the sheets, ignoring the corpse on the pillow. Let it go, he’d shout, for Christ’s sake, why don’t you just let it go. I can sort things out for myself.
But Delphie is just a baby.
The little boy is standing on top of the table. His father has lifted him up there. ‘Jump,’ he says, ‘and I promise I’ll catch you, cross my heart and wish to die.’ But he doesn’t and the little boy crashes onto the floor, his leg twisted under him, his back crunched into the table.
His father picks him up, laughing, and he says to him in a thick, East European accent, ‘You trust nobody, you understand?’ and he’s playing the Jew, the highly respected Auckland lawyer is playing the Jew, once again he’s Shylock in the high school play, all gutturals and heavy breathing. ‘I love you, my son, but you must remember this. You trust nobody.’
Gerald would laugh when he told her the story. ‘He was a tough old bastard. Never said that many words to me again the rest of his life.’
‘Does Freddie know?’
‘Of course not. What’s it got to do with Freddie?’
And it was clear that he was proud that his father had chosen him for the game because he was tough and strong unlike Freddie who was always a bit of a wimp.
She’d tried to imagine it, the unexpected levity of that stern, unapproachable man, the Queen’s Counsel, playing with his son, the only time the boy can remember him doing so, teaching him a lesson for life.
And what of the grown man, what of the Gerald who told her time and time again how he adored her, during the few astonishing years when they were together, before Ginny was born. He’d write her love poems (she’d got rid of them all now), ‘To My Beloved.’ He’d follow her into the toilet, wanted to watch her pee, couldn’t bear to let her out of his sight for even a minute.
page 265He was always so full, of life and greed and energy. And year after year as she stayed with him, she could feel herself becoming empty.
To my beloved.
How extraordinary.
There’s a sound bouncing off the surface of the water. It’s a sort of burring, like a bee caught in a blossom.
It’s Delphie.
She’s backing away from the lost leaf, the deepening water. Her head is floppy between her hunched shoulders. Her little hands and legs work away carefully. She’s moving like a lizard. And she’s singing to herself, her face glowing in the tilting panels of light that reflect off the slop slop of the water.
When her little padded bum touches the steps, she stops singing. She twists round to have a look. She gives a vague half smile when Fleur takes a photo.
Then she sets out again, in silence, heading for the middle of the pool where she’ll stop and lap the surface of the twitchy water. Then she’ll wangle her way back, singing her little murmury song of sunlight and leaf, of water and her body so light and floaty in it.
And she’ll keep on doing this over and over till Fleur splashes in and scoops her up, her flesh as chill and firm as stuffed rice paper. And Fleur will roll her over her shoulder and kiss her on the tummy and Delphie will squeal and jiggle with excitement, her whole marvellous life streaming out in front of her.
And Fleur is full of excitement too as she tells the story to Freddie when they’re flying home, the Tasman beneath them and then the Alps, Aoraki rearing up through the clouds to greet them. All about the water and the singing and how clever Delphie is, how she already knows about patience and the pursuit of pleasure. And how amazing it is to see the signs of her interior life, her interior life—isn’t that what people usually call ‘soul’.
She’s as high as a kite, she’s really flying, wow!
‘Pity about the train,’ she says. ‘It would be great to have it over here. Delphie would love it. We could lure her over. We could kidnap her.’
page 266‘Yeah.’ Freddie seems sleepy. He’s got that flushed, soft look of a child who’s nearly out to it, that little half-smile. ‘Yeah, that’s a really great idea,’ and he’s drawling the words out as if he’s loving the taste of each one of them.
‘No!’ Fleur grabs him by the arm, she presses her face close to his, her handsome rosy boy. Her eyes are leaking she’s laughing so much. ‘No!’
‘Oh yes, toot toot.’
‘Where?’
‘In the bag. Up there,’ and he rolls his eyes up towards the overhead locker.
‘I thought it was a bit heavy.’
‘Well you were spot on.’
‘And you know what?’ She can hardly speak, it’s such a crack-up.
‘What?’
‘He won’t even miss it.’
‘The fucking arsehole!’ and he’s shouting.
They’re 18,000 feet up in the air and everyone’s looking, the air hostess is rushing towards them, the mother in front has put her hands over her little boy’s ears, and there’s Fleur, murmuring into his neck, licking and snuffling into the side of his neck, ‘I know, I know,’ her fingers pressing down ever so lightly over his mouth, ‘but he does love Delphie, doesn’t he, and that’s got to be something.’