The other side of the world - Page 4

From Griffith REVIEW Edition 26: Stories for Today
© Copyright Griffith University & the author.

Written by Sherryl Clark

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MY WIFE HAS left me a note, not on the kitchen table where I might find it immediately, but in the lounge room, under the remote control. I waited until my stomach was grumbling loudly before I heated up some canned tomato soup and made half a dozen pieces of thickly buttered toast. I thought briefly about my wife's lectures on cholesterol and then forgot them again.

When I carry my dinner into the lounge on a tray, there is the note. I don't open it at first. I pour myself some wine, eat my soup and toast, and watch TV. After I've had another glass of wine and tidied up, I open the note and read: I am leaving you. I think you need help. I will be in touch. Alyssa.

She never was very accurate. She has already left; what exactly do I need help with (I'll be able to do the housework now I'm unemployed); and she hasn't been in touch with me for years.

I laugh. Then I go to bed and read several books, dipping into each one, taking turns. I find myself smiling every now and then.

THE NEXT DAY, I fill in some of the hole and drive to a garden centre that specialises in ponds and water features. I come home with several hundred dollars' worth of equipment and materials, and a book about ponds and waterfalls.

By the end of the week, I have built a four-foot-high waterfall using a load of rocks, and finished the pond, installing eight large goldfish.

I decide to bring my mother home for a visit. My wife would never allow me to take Mum out. She said it wasn't safe.

MY WIFE PHONES and leaves messages on the answering machine. I can't work out whether her tone is apologetic or annoyed. I don't return her calls. Instead I dress in my suit and tie, for the first time in several weeks, and visit my bank manager and then my solicitor.

At night, I read into the small hours then fall asleep and dream vividly of my son. He appears as a boy of about ten, happy and boisterous, playing in the garden with a friend while I watch through the window. I can't hear them, although I know they are shouting and screaming with laughter. I wake with tears on my cheeks.

For the first time, I investigate what my wife has taken with her and what she has left behind. All of her clothes, shoes and jewellery have gone, and when I notice lighter patches on the walls, I realise she has also taken some paintings and photos but I have no idea which ones.

In a cupboard in my study, I find an old framed photograph of Bernard and me, taken after a muddy football game. We are grinning, victorious no doubt, covered in splatters of mud and grass. I hang the photo in the lounge on one of the empty hooks.

ON SUNDAY, I bring my mother over for lunch. She doesn't want to leave her fish at first, until I assure her they will be fine and I have some of my own.

When she sees my pond and waterfall, she claps her hands. I fetch a chair and a hat for her and she sits by the pond for half an hour, feeding the fish and watching them dart around.

After lunch, she walks around the house, admiring the furniture. In the lounge room, she stops in front of the photo. I panic. I should have hidden it from her. Then I think that she probably won't know who it is.

But her face shows differently. Tears fall down her cheeks and she whispers, ‘Bernard was such a lovely boy.' She turns to me. ‘What happened to him? Why doesn't he come and see me any more?'

I don't know where to start. I say, ‘He can't, Mum. He's ...' The word won't come. I search around for an alternative. Gone to God? Passed away? Left us?

She leans towards me and brushes a speck off my shirt. ‘How about a cup of tea?' she says. ‘Will the owner mind?'

‘Mind what?'

‘Us being in his nice house. We'd best not stay too long.' And she walks into the kitchen.

‘I'm sure he won't mind,' I say to her back. She just nods.

THAT NIGHT I find what I hadn't known I was looking for. The family address book. In it is the address and phone number of my son. He is living in London. The other side of the world.

I wonder if he is married. I might be a grandfather. I pick up the phone and put it down again.

Bernard never was a very good swimmer. He told me once that he was scared of the water, especially at the beach where he couldn't see the bottom. But he was more scared of our father. Otherwise he would never have attempted to swim out to the buoy that day. No boy likes to be called a ‘gutless wimp', least of all by his dad.