‘Men don’t understand these things,’ Rosie said. ‘I’m afraid your father might think I’m an interfering fool.’ She looked steadily at her son. ‘I’ve asked that the reply be sent care of you, at school. You can give it to me when you see me at half-term. Will you help me, Sandy? It’s for Aunt Lily.’
Sandy was really afraid of his father by that time, and he visualised the consequences of participating in this deception. He wanted to say no, and that she was a fool to risk discovery.
What made her think she could trust him not to tell? But she did trust him, and after all the times he had implicitly or explicitly sided with his father, this was a rather wonderful foolishness. For once he felt worthwhile.
‘Okay,’ he said roughly. ‘Give it here. I’ll post it from the station. It’s alright, I won’t tell the old man.’ But he pulled away as she kissed him.
The third time, just before her death, Rosie told him about the books in the window seat. ‘My journals,’ she whispered, still afraid. ‘I had no-one to talk to, you see. Please destroy them for me.’
Again, ‘Okay, Mum.’ But his voice was kinder. ‘I’ll do the right thing, I promise.’
When the time came, though, Sandy couldn’t bring himself to destroy the journals. They were all he had left of his mother’s life, and he safeguarded them from all prying eyes, including his own. So they lay where she left them: under the cushions in the window seat. Biding their time until her son came, screwdriver in hand, to retrieve them.
Sandy hadn’t made this decision lightly, and had set himself some ground rules. Firstly, he would only access the book or books from around the time the letter was sent to the hospital. Then he would scan the entries as quickly as possible, looking for keywords like baby, Lily, hospital, letter, grave-words that would point to the information he was seeking. In all other ways, he would respect his mother’s privacy. He was only doing this to help Aunt Lily, he told his mother.
There were nearly thirty books in all, stacked in three neat piles; some were covered in black or green or blue cloth, others were no more than exercise books, but all were meticulously dated. Some were tied with ribbon. Sandy’s hand hovered over these. They were the earlier ones, when Rosie was still a hopeful young girl. He picked up the top book and, despite his vow to the contrary, couldn’t resist reading a little of his mother’s early married life. The first book was marked 1936, and Sandy was surprised at the emotion he felt as he scanned the first page.
12 March. Arrived home today. Our honeymoon was wonderful but I can’t wait to settle into real married life. Father and Lily met us at the station. Lily had prepared tea but George said we had to go straight home. I think they were a little disappointed, but George was understandably eager to bring me to our home. He’s so practical. I asked if he was going to carry me over the threshold and he said that it was all women’s nonsense. But he kissed me and called me his little duffer. I can’t believe that I live in such a fine house. It needs a woman’s touch, though.
13 March. George was gone when I woke but last night he was very masterful as we…
Sandy snapped the journal shut and mentally begged his mother’s pardon. He felt he might be on safer ground in the war years and shuffled through the pile to find 1943.
12 May. George has returned to camp, and I feel such relief. It is a sin, I know, to feel so about one’s husband. He has very little patience now with his little duffer. I feel he has lost all affection for me, and if it weren’t for the conjugal act I fear he would barely tolerate me. Thank God I have been able to provide him with a son.
13 August. I went with Father to visit Lily today. My sister is so unhappy in that place. If ours were a different household I would bring her straight home and care for her here. Why must good men like Arthur die in this horrible war while George…
14 August. I am so ashamed of my entry for yesterday. George is an excellent provider and we want for nothing. I pray that he will return safely.
Be careful what you pray for, Sandy thought grimly. So it had taken only five short years for his father to reduce his new bride to the timid, apologetic ghost he remembered. He was sickened, but a dreadful fascination impelled him to continue. He picked up the next volume and opened it at random.
19 June. I couldn’t go to church today. My back still aches from George’s blows. He would have forced me to go with him but my cheek is bruised from where he pushed me down the steps. He’s usually more careful. Now he blames me for bruising where it might show. I’m not able…
Sandy sat in the room that had been his mother’s refuge and felt a terrible desolation. There, in his mother’s handwriting, was the truth he had always denied. For the first time since his father’s death, he looked, really looked, at his childhood. He saw his mother’s pretty face become more ravaged, more haggard, as she strained to please her jeering, violent husband. He saw the warning in her eyes, felt the protective hands tighten on his small shoulders, tasted the treats she offered to sweeten the bitterness of their lives. Ashamed, he heard his youthful self speaking to her in his father’s voice. He saw the bruises and the tears he’d chosen to ignore. Yes, he had been a frightened child at first, but as he grew older, he’d joined the oppressor. He could have found a job and taken his mother away, but he was too craven, and in the end too complicit, to challenge his father’s power. And now, he realised, he was planning to build a memorial to the war hero who abused his own wife and all but stole her child.
Sandy had disciplined his memories for years, refusing to face the truth of his past. Occasionally dreams or rogue memories breached his defences, but he learned to put them aside, unaware of a slag heap of suppressed emotion that was becoming dangerously unwieldy. Now it collapsed, and he was horrified to see the slimy, eyeless creatures that lay hidden there.
Unable to continue reading, he went down to the kitchen and made a coffee laced with a generous portion of whisky. Then he sat on the sofa and had three more whiskies, neat this time. Finally, he went to bed with the bottle and fell into a drunken sleep.
The next day he awoke with a dry mouth and throbbing head, cursing the whisky, which always gave him a hangover, even when drunk in moderation. He made some strong coffee and went outside. The morning was crisp and clear, with some frost evident on the ground, on which there were pathetically few green shoots. The sky was cloudless: a hard, uncompromising blue. A flock of marauding galahs was attacking the old wooden shed by the home paddock. He thought of getting his shotgun-I’ll blow them to pink and grey pieces-but he was too weary to move. Instead, he sat on the verandah and gazed out at the dry, flat terrain. I am a great galah. You were right there, Dad. Maybe I should use the shotgun on myself. I’m just a great, useless galah.
Staring out across the paddocks, he ignored the phone the first time it rang. I’ll tell you one thing, Dad: there’ll be no Great Galah now. When I die, you’ll be forgotten, you fucking bastard. Anger energised him and when the phone rang again ten minutes later, he got up to answer it. It was Moss.
‘Sandy,’ she said. ‘I’ve been thinking. I’d like to help Finn the way you’re trying to help your Aunt Lily.’