After Edie died, the house got bigger. For the twelve months she was in that awful aged care place John left the house as it was, just in case the doctors managed to find Edie’s marbles and patch her up and send her home. But now Edie was tucked up in the cemetery at the end of the street and there was no way she was coming back. He’d watched as the coffin was lowered into the pit and tossed in the first spadeful of dirt himself. Take that! Then, after that afternoon tea in the church hall where everyone carried on with all that baloney about what a loving person Edie was and how they’d miss her, he’d come home to find his house bigger.
John set about owning the house in a way he’d never done in the thirty years he’d lived there. He moved back into the master bedroom—Edie had kicked him out on account of his snoring and John had spent the twenty years since lying straight up and down in the narrow single bed in the second bedroom, his feet sticking a foot off the end. Now he sprawled diagonally across the double bed in the master bedroom like a king.
All Edie’s shirts, skirts and slacks were still hanging in two neat rows in the wardrobe, her shoes lined up beneath, the impressions of her bunions bulging out the sides of the leather. It took him a whole evening to clear out her stuff, filling eight garbage bags with clothes he’d mostly never seen her wear. He didn’t have many clothes and, after he’d moved his own attire in, most of the wardrobe was still empty, so he started bringing in books and magazines from his studio in the garage.
He shoved the bed in the second bedroom—the one he’d been sleeping in for twenty years—against the wall and brought in his art supplies from the garage too. He could hear Edie’s voice in his head as he set up his easel, ‘Ya’re not gunna paint ‘ere. Not on the carpet!’ He answered aloud, ‘Yes, I am,’ and set about doing a quick watercolour just to spite her, taking delight in the paint that dripped from his brush onto the brown shagpile.
John took down every single picture in the house—all those bad reproductions of iconic works that Edie liked. It took eight trips, with two paintings under each arm, to cart all those pictures to the op shop. Then John hung his own works on the walls, stepping back to admire each one. Edie had never let him display his artwork in the house. Always went on and on about how he hadn’t got the shape of the petals, or the rigging of the masts right and surely that model didn’t really have breasts the size of soccer balls.
The only room where John didn’t hang one of his own works was the master bedroom. There, above the double bed, he hung a picture of the West Gate Bridge; an old photo taken when the bridge was nearing completion, the two sides reaching towards each other like hands about to shake. John had worked in the shadow of that bridge for twenty-five years. He’d watched it crawl up from the river and had been there, practically right underneath, when it fell. He could still remember how the ground trembled and the air was heavy with dust and mud. And then, in the years that followed, he’d watched as that bridge slowly rose up from the river again, laughing at gravity and all those other doubters.
Back when John was working, that bridge kept him company every day. It was just about the only good thing about working at the Government Aircraft Factory—that bridge soaring above him like an eagle, a reminder that anything was possible. You might stumble and fall, but you could rise again.
Jane let him have it when he told her he’d taken Edie’s clothes to the op shop. ‘But there might have been something I wanted.’ Her voice was so sharp John had to pull the receiver away from his ear. ‘I was going to come over and help you—I didn’t expect you to do it so soon.’
‘It was mostly just rags. Nothin’ ya would’ve wanted.’
‘You don’t know that. Don’t throw anything else away without me looking at it first.’ Nag, nag, nag. Now Edie was gone, John was hoping for a nag-free life, but like mother like daughter.
‘You haven’t come across any jewellery have you?’
‘No, just clothes and shoes. I don’t know what happened to her jewellery.’ John had a vague recollection of having discussed Edie’s jewellery with Jane before. Something about needing to keep it somewhere safe. That was a few years ago, back when Edie was just starting to slide into loopiness, before she went totally psycho and attacked him with that knife.
‘Didn’t you take her jewellery?’ he asked.
Jane took a quick breath. ‘Mum gave me a few bits and pieces before she totally lost the plot but I thought she might have some more hidden away.’
John hadn’t found any jewellery but he had found six bundles of five and ten dollar notes at the back of a drawer of frilly knickers. (Since when did Edie wear frilly knickers?) Nine hundred dollars and eight pairs of knickers in total. ‘Nup didn’t find anythin’ of value,’ he said.
‘Well don’t throw anything else out until I’ve had a chance to go through it with you.’
‘No worries, will do.’ John’d dealt with enough nagging in his seventy-eight years to know you couldn’t beat it. You just had to give in, or at least give the impression of giving in.
After that, Jane started calling him every night, five minutes before the start of the news. ‘I’m worried about you, living all alone,’ she said. ‘I need to make sure you’re OK.’ What did she care about how he was doing? No, she just wanted to check up on him. Find out what he was up to and make sure he didn’t throw away anything valuable.
‘I moved the piano into the dinin’ room,’ John told her one night. ‘Me fingers got so cold out there in the garage.’
‘How on earth did you lift the piano?’
‘A guy from the pub helped.’
He heard Jane sigh. ‘Which guy? How much did you pay him?’
‘Twenty quid. He’s a good bloke.’
‘You shouldn’t be letting strangers into your home. Con artists prey on old people. You have to be careful. Phil and I would’ve helped you shift the piano.’ And probably charged him two hundred quid, thought John.
John decided not to mention that he’d also sold the bloke his van. Three hundred quid was giving it away but the van was just taking up space in the driveway. John hadn’t driven for ages—the roads were so busy nowadays and everyone was impatient, weaving in and out, beeping and sticking their fingers up at him. There’d also been that incident when he’d been reverse parking outside the bank. There wasn’t much damage—only a little scratch really—and John was sure the owner of the white car wouldn’t even have noticed.
The bloke from the pub, Dave John thought he was called, had done him a favour by taking the van off his hands. Dave had been so happy with his new vehicle, he stood on the accelerator and roared out the driveway before John had even finished telling him about how he’d witnessed the West Gate Bridge collapse. How he’d been right there and had heard the crash, felt the earth shudder and tasted the mud in the air. Dave and the van disappeared up the road so John had to tell the rest of the story to the neighbour’s cat which was pawing at its ears on the side fence.
When Jane came to visit she stuck her head into each room and clicked her tongue. ‘You’re not taking care of the place. Look at the mess you’ve made of the carpet in the spare room.’
‘That’s me studio now,’ said John. ‘Ya need paint on the floor of a studio—shows ya’ve been workin’.’ And boy had he been working. With Edie out of the way he’d become a painting machine, the canvases stacking up against every wall. He tried to show Jane some of his work but she pushed past him and went to inspect the bathroom.
‘The toilet is putrid!’ Jane wiggled a hand in front of her face.
‘I bet you haven’t been eating right.’ Jane scowled into the bare fridge.
‘I’m gettin’ along just fine.’
‘It doesn’t look fine to me. I think we need to start talking about aged care.’ Jane produced a handful of brochures from her handbag and fanned them out on the table. Grey-haired oldies smiled up at him from the glossy photos. What a joke! The people in the place they stuck Edie never smiled like that, except perhaps when they stole each other’s dentures, or smothered another patient with a pillow.
John turned away. ‘I can look after meself.’
‘When was the last time you ate a vegetable? What about fruit?’ If he closed his eyes, he’d swear it was Edie nagging him. ‘You can’t go on like this.’
‘Never felt better.’
While Edie was alive, John had kept up a healthy diet—muesli for breakfast, ham and salad sandwiches for lunch and sausages or eggs with peas and spuds for tea—just in case she ever asked him when he visited her in the looney bin (she never did ask). But now Edie was gone he could eat whatever he wanted. His preferred diet was bread with jam and cream, Monte Carlo biscuits and fruitcake with cream. Food had never tasted so good.
After that, every night when she phoned Jane asked, ‘Are you eating right?’
‘Yup.’
‘What did you eat tonight?’
‘Eggs with peas and spuds, just like Edie used ta cook.’ John wiped the last bit of jam and cream off the plate with his finger. ‘I’m eatin’ real well.’
‘I’ve spoken to the council,’ said Jane. ‘They can sign you up for meals on wheels. A healthy hot meal delivered every day. Wouldn’t that be great?’
‘I don’t need that. I can look after meself.’
Every Thursday John caught the train into the city to go to life drawing at the University of the Third Age. The week of Edie’s funeral was so busy that John missed his class—the first one he’d missed in years. He’d rung the teacher so she wouldn’t worry and the teacher had obviously told all the other students about Edie because when he turned up to class the next week, a gaggle of silver-haired ladies intercepted him on his silent glide to the easel by the window. He recognised them as women who’d been his classmates for years, but he’d never spoken to them before. He came to class to draw, whereas their main purpose seemed to be to share stories about grandkids and swap recipes for teacake and cucumber chutney.
The ladies huddled around John, pressing so close he felt overwhelmed by the heavy scent of lavender. He would’ve liked to step away but they had him surrounded. The women all spoke at once, firing questions but not leaving any space for him to answer.
‘Was it unexpected?
‘How’re ya copin’?’
‘Are ya lonely?’
When they ran out of questions, they started swapping stories, their eyes on him as they gasbagged, even though he sensed these stories were not for him but for each other.
‘When me Bob died, I couldn’t face leavin’ the house.’
‘I was so lonely after Bert passed. I’d get up in the morning and say good mornin’ to him like he was still there.’
‘After I lost Ted I had to move in with me daughter for company.’
John listened, nodding his head. He’d been the only bloke in the class since poor old Al carked it a few years back, but he’d thought it was because blokes didn’t like to draw. Now he was thinking maybe it was because most of the men his age were dead, leaving behind this bunch of lonesome old bags. At least his Edie had the good sense to die first, freeing him to enjoy a few quiet, nag-free years.
The next Thursday he was besieged by old biddies bearing gifts. Ethyl brought him an ice-cream container full of homemade scones (‘Ya don’t have to eat them all at once—they freeze real well,’); Pat brought a boiled fruitcake (also homemade); and Dorothy handed him a jar of her orange and lime marmalade, her cheeks pinking as she explained that this was the very same recipe that won ‘Best in Show’ at the Wagga Show back in ’65. Dorothy placed a hand on his and leaned into him, one of her hairsprayed curls sliding across to scratch his cheek. ‘I know what ya’re goin’ through,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve written me phone number on the marmalade label. Call me if ya get lonely.’ John shook her hand away but kept tight hold of that marmalade which he thought would go really nicely with bread and cream.
That night as he tucked into scones with marmalade and cream, followed by fruitcake with cream, followed by a couple more scones (with more marmalade and cream), John reflected that he’d never felt less lonely in his life. Lonely was having to build yourself a studio in the garage because you’d been nagged out of your own home. Now he’d reclaimed the house: he slept in the big double bed, painted in the second bedroom and played piano in the warm comfort of the dining room. He was no longer a man lying low in the garage; he was lord of his own castle.
It was those women who were lonely. They fussed around him, remarking how well he was looking, exclaiming over his artwork, tugging at his arms and begging him to join them for cappuccinos after class. That Dorothy was the worst. She always stood a bit closer than necessary, touching him on the arm or shoulder as she spoke, nodding and cackling at everything he said like he was as hilarious as one of the Two Ronnies. It was all a bit tedious. John came to class to draw. He just wanted to be left alone (although he couldn’t complain about their gifts of scones and cake and homemade jam).
One Thursday when he’d had a bit too much of their fawning and pawing, John announced loudly to the teacher that he’d met a new woman. ‘Down the pub,’ he said with what he hoped was a sincerely saucy grin. ‘A lot younger than me. Of course it’s a bit soon … but I was so lonely.’ The white-haired widows all dipped their heads into their easels or busied themselves sharpening pencils. After that, they left him alone. He would’ve liked some more scones and fruitcake and marmalade, but at least he got peace.
Jane usually rang before she visited, but one morning she rocked up unannounced just as John was finishing his breakfast of bread and jam and cream. She wandered around the house, poking her head into each room, eyes scanning left and right like she was searching for something. ‘You really haven’t been taking care of the house,’ she said.
‘I’m doin’ fine.’
‘Look at the state of the bathroom!’ Jane rolled a pink rubber glove onto each hand. ‘I’m just going to give it a bit of a once over. Phil’s bringing a friend over to see the place and we want it to look nice, don’t we?’
‘Why’s Phil bringin’ a friend over?’
Jane was filling a bucket and had to raise her voice above the pouring water. ‘The bloke’s bought a place down the road. He wants to see what you’ve done with yours. You know—the reno.’
‘That was a long time ago.’
‘Still, it’s a lovely house. And the block’s so big.’ Jane misted the bathroom with spray from a bottle and John retreated into the garden with searing nostrils.
By the time Phil and his mate arrived, the house looked like it used to before Edie lost the plot. John could see his reflection in the shiny surfaces, the carpet stood to attention and every painting, ornament and bit of furniture was dust-free and aligned perfectly square. John felt his stomach seize. Now the whole house was nagging him.
Phil’s mate (John didn’t catch his name) was all spiffed up in a dark suit like he’d come straight from a funeral. He shook John’s hand with a grip so tight John’s knuckles turned red. ‘Great to meet you, Mr Ward, I’ve heard so much about you.’ He swivelled his head, taking in the house and garden. ‘It’s a great little place you’ve got here. Nice street, central location, big block. Very nice indeed.’
The bloke rubbed his hands together. ‘How long you been living here, Mr Ward?’
John could answer that question without even thinking. ‘Moved in back in October 1970—a week before the West Gate Bridge collapsed.’ He grinned at Phil’s mate who seemed to be quite a bit younger than Phil. Maybe he hadn’t even been born at the time of The Disaster. ‘I was working at the Government Aircraft Factory just a few hundred yards away. Oh the noise that bridge made, like …’
Jane clasped John’s elbow. ‘Leonard doesn’t want to hear about that,’ she said, tugging him away. ‘Let’s go out the back and take a look at your lettuces. How’re they doing this year?’
Phil and the bloke went into the house and were in there for ages. When they finally came out the back door, Jane grabbed John’s wrist and pulled him towards the house. ‘Time for a cuppa, I reckon.’
John sat at the kitchen table, watching Phil and his mate through the sliding door. Jane had polished the glass with vinegar and newspaper that morning so John had a really good view of the bloke pacing up and down the backyard.
‘Who’s that bloke with Phil?’
‘He’s a friend,’ said Jane. ‘I’ve already told you.’
A few days later Jane came by unannounced again, a manila folder tucked under her arm. ‘I just need to get your signature on a few things,’ she said.
‘What things?’
‘Just some documents that authorise me to take care of you if anything goes wrong.’
‘But nothing’s wrong.’
‘Not now, no, but just in case.’ Jane thwacked the folder down on the kitchen table.
‘I’d better get me readin’ glasses,’ said John.
Jane took out a bit of paper and shoved it across the table. ‘You don’t need your reading glasses.’ Her finger jabbed at the bottom of the page, under rows and rows of minute writing. ‘You just need to sign here.’
‘Let me fetch me specs …’
Even with his glasses on, John couldn’t make head nor tail of the tiny writing on the form. Jane hovered over him, tapping her foot like a dripping tap. John couldn’t concentrate with her standing there. He froze, just like he did in art class when the teacher came over to watch him work. He glanced up at Jane. ‘Make us a cup of tea, would ya.’
‘Just sign that and then we’ll have a nice cuppa together.’
John shook his head and pushed the paper away. ‘There’s too much fer me ta read now. Why don’t ya leave it with me and pick it up next time ya come?’
Jane crossed her arms over her chest. ‘It’s … it’s sort of urgent.’
John stood up and went over to fill the kettle. ‘I thought it was just in case things go wrong. How can that be urgent?’ As far as John was concerned, things were as right as they’d ever been. He could only remember having this feeling of freedom once before in his life—when they’d stepped off that boat in Port Melbourne in 1953: him, Edie and six-year-old Jane all walking down the gangplank into a land of sunshine and opportunity. How old had he been then? Twenty-five or six? Funny he was feeling this way again in his late seventies when, in actual fact, he couldn’t have too many years left. Still, they promised to be good years—sunny, nag-free years.
Jane snatched up the paper and slid it back in her folder. ‘I’d better get going.’
‘Aren’t ya stayin’ fer a cuppa?’
‘No time.’ Jane marched out the front door without kissing him goodbye.
A few days later his granddaughter came to visit. John had two granddaughters and neither of them were much chop, but this one—the younger one—was the pick of a bad bunch. She brought a Boston bun from the bakery by the station and they had a couple of cups of tea together, talking about music and art. She even asked to see his latest artwork.
The other granddaughter, the older one, didn’t come so often and only stayed long enough to gulp down a cup of tea, alternatively gulping and nagging: ‘Are ya eatin’ right? … Ya haven’t been inviting strangers home from the pub again have ya? … Have ya thought about movin’ into aged care. Mum and Dad worry about ya ‘ere on ya own.’ She always held out her hand when she kissed him goodbye, telling him how hard it was to make ends meet with two young kids and saying he really should be helping out, after all what else did he have to spend his money on? John would pull out his wallet and hand over the lowest denomination note he had—usually five, sometimes ten. His granddaughter would leave scowling and without saying thanks.
This other granddaughter, the younger one, never nagged or asked for money. She was a bit different from the rest of the family, but still wasn’t sure he could he trust her. She’d gone to a Catholic school after all.
In the end he decided to trust her because there was no one else. He sucked in a breath. ‘Ya mum was ‘ere yesterday, wantin’ me ta sign somethin’.’
Three rows of wrinkles rippled across his granddaughter’s forehead, making her look old, even though she was young—born just a few months after the West Gate Bridge fell down. ‘What was it? What did she want you to sign?’
‘I dunno. I asked her ta leave it ‘ere so I could read it, but she took it away.’
‘Well if she asks you again, don’t sign it. Keep it and give it to me so I can take a look.’ Now she was beginning to sound like the rest of the women in the family: naggy and self-righteous.
‘Ya dad brought a bloke over too … ta look at the house.’
‘What bloke? Who was he?’
‘I dunno … I think he was a real estate agent. He was measurin’ up the back yard.’ John reached over and gripped her arm. ‘Don’t let them take me house.’
‘They can’t take your house. I won’t let them.’ She grabbed another piece of bun and licked off the icing. ‘Now tell me about the time ya heard the West Gate Bridge collapse … I love that story.’
John felt something heavy lift off his shoulders. ‘Well, it was back in 1970 …’
That night when Jane rang she said, ‘I hear Sarah’s been to visit.’ Her voice was stern as a school-ma’am, even though she’d been retired from teaching for years. ‘I hear you’ve been filling her head with nonsense.’
‘We had a good ol’ natter.’
‘That girl’s got enough nonsense in her head without you adding to it.’
‘Nothin’ wrong with having a good chat. I told her about the time I witnessed the West Gate Bridge collapse—when I was working at the Government Aircraft Factory …’
‘I bet you did.’
‘Have I ever told ya that story, Jane …?’