Prologue – after the funeral

Here is an excerpt from a manuscript I’ve been working on this year. Let me know what you think…

Lisa turns into her street, presses the remote, and the garage door slides upwards. The replacement panels have blended well and unless you know where to look, you can’t see where the car hit. She gazes through the driver’s window and out over the ocean while she coasts up the driveway. The blue of the water is washed out under the wind and clouds of the approaching cold front, sloppy whitecaps over the surface. There will be kite surfers on the waves at Leighton Beach, she thinks, losing themselves in the wind and the waves, no time to think about their on-shore worries as they concentrate on staying upright. She would like to be out there with them, but she’s seen how fast they move across the water and it scares her a little, the way they always seem to be on the very edge of losing control. She turns her attention to the house. It is solid against the wind, the same tuck-pointed red brick as the rest of the street. The lavender is in flower in front of the veranda, the purple heads overdue for a prune and blowing sideways. The garden bed under the lemon tree where she used to park in the old wheel-rut driveway is full of heading winter grass. I should weed that as well, she thinks, before it starts to die off. 

She parks well over to the left-hand side of the garage. She knows that Bevan gets cross when he has to squeeze out of his car door. Inside, she sits for a moment in the car, looking at the DVDs, golf buggies and sporting paraphernalia that line the back wall. Wind is blowing through the rain-damaged door to the back garden, making a stack of old tent bags ripple and crackle. It has become a middle-aged couple’s garage, she thinks, a twenty-five-year family history of children’s cartoons, camping trips, and tennis lessons. It also smells like her parents’ garage and her throat thickens again, the waves of emotion from earlier in the day threatening to tumble over her again. She breathes it in at the same time as she reaches for a tissue to press into her eyes. 

Lisa remembers Matthew taking her into the garage on the farm one Christmas, when the children were watching carols on tv. It was the new one attached to the house, with a concrete floor, an automatic door, and direct access into the house.

“Smell that,” he stage-whispered. He’d had more wine than her that day and was in a playful mood.

“What?” she’d asked, amused at the return of his childhood sense of mischief and alarmed at the sneaking around while their parents napped.

He put his finger to his lips.

“Breathe deep and think about it.”

She did as she was told, closing her eyes.

“Oh. My. God.” She looked at him, eyes wide, ten years old again. 

“I know, right?” he said, his face lit up in delight.

“Just like Grandma and Grandpa’s house,” she whispered. “How did that happen?”

“There must be a special garage diffuser that they give you when your grandchildren are born.”

They giggled, naughty kids laughing at their parents.

Later that day, when their parents had emerged from their bedroom and the children went down to the river to play, they took second helpings of trifle out to the front veranda. Their mum had shunted Lisa and Matthew out of the kitchen, refusing their help to prepare dinner. Lisa sat on the old couch, propping her feet up on a chair, and Matthew laid down with his big, heavy head on her lap. She finished her trifle and sank her fingers into his hair. He had loved that when they were kids and would lay there forever if she’d let him.

“How are you liking the city?” she’d asked.

“It’s OK, I guess. It’s good to be close to the beach. Clare loves it of course. Back with all her friends. And the girls are glad that they don’t have to board anymore.”

Lisa could hear his non-committal tone. “But?”

“I’m not really used to the noise and having people so close all the time. I can hear the people next door when they argue. I guess I’ll get used to it. You did.”

“I guess I did.”

“And everyone is so competitive. I mean, I know they in the country too, but in the city it’s like they even comment on the brand of shirt you’re wearing.”

“Maybe you’re hanging out with the wrong people.”

“These are my neighbours,” he groaned.

“But you can still write?” she asked. With Matthew, she has learned to look for the silver lining.

 “Oh yeah,” he’d looked up at her and grinned, his mood flipping. “No problem there at

all.”

Of course, he could still write, turning out books about country town life that readers have bought in their thousands, meaning that he would never have to go back to farm labour. She’s read them herself. They bring back memories of her childhood, swimming in dams, and taking the bus to school. Shamelessly, Matthew has stolen from their own past, weaving in stories about things they did when they were kids, the places they went. The time she tumbled over the handlebars of her bike riding down a too-steep hill, tearing her school shirt (and the skin on her back) on the gravel. The time he had skipped school with his friends and caught the train to Perth. They’d all been wearing their school uniforms, of course, and had been caught by the police, smoking under the old railway bridge in Guildford. The ride back to the farm in a police car had been the best part.

His stories delighted her. They feel like secret messages; reassurances that their shared history has been documented and not forgotten. Lisa was not worried about other people reading about her past; she had no secrets to keep, no teenage pregnancies, no cheating in exams, no experimenting with drugs. Just a girl growing up on a wheat farm with her brother. A golden, happy, uncomplicated childhood. 

Matthew spiced up his books with more salacious tales, of course, of sex and drug crops and local government corruption. Lisa doesn’t believe that these stories come from any of Matthew’s own memories of their hometown, which she remembers as peopled with solid, kind, and perhaps a little bit boring mums and dads and grandmas and grandpas who raised kids and farmed farms. The naughty bits in Matthew’s books are all figments of his imagination, however much he twinkles and flirts with his book launch audiences. Sometimes, Lisa is mildly affronted by the falsehood, but she supposes that the beautiful, fictitious infidelities, rather than the descriptions of the sun on golden wheat stubble, are what sells books.

***

Lisa sighs deeply, surprising herself. It has been a long day and she feels tired and philosophical. She eases herself out of the car and leaves the garage to its memories. Inside the bedroom she changes out of her skirt and heels and pulls on tracksuit pants. Nutmeg has vacated

the spare room and taken up daytime occupation of Lisa’s and Bevan’s bed. Lisa doesn’t have the heart to evict him, even though she has never allowed dogs to sleep inside and he sheds hair on the white quilt. She sits on the bed beside him where he is thumping his red tail hopefully at her.

“I know, mate, I know. We’ll go later.” She presses her face into his and turns aside to avoid his licks. He jumps off the bed to follow her downstairs and she opens the back door to let him go out for a pee.

Lisa goes to the kitchen to prepare dinner and pours herself a glass of wine. There is some brie in the fridge, and she carves off a wedge and eats it cold, too hungry and impatient to wait for it to soften. She stands in the kitchen eating cheese and drinking wine in bare feet, scrolling through Facebook. An old school friend is having an argument about vaccinations with someone she doesn’t know. Someone’s friend’s infant son developed permanent brain damage after he had the measles vaccine. The incidence of autism has risen in the United States rose from 1 in 150 in 1992 to 1 in 68 twelve years later, all due – apparently – to the MMR vaccine. No jab no play is an infringement of civil rights. Lisa reads the thread partway through and keeps scrolling; she’s heard it all before. She would like to see the anti-vaxxers treat a toddler with whooping cough. Let them listen to the child’s distress as the dead cells in its windpipe suffocate it to death. All of Lisa’s and Matthew’s children have been vaccinated. She saw to that. 

Their daughter, Sarah, has posted photos of herself and her friends hiking in the hills outside Belfast. She looks happy and has posted a message. Thinking of you today mum xxx. Lisa smiles, approving of the healthy outdoor activity, taps Like and scrolls down. Alice has also posted. RIP Grandpa Bill. Thinking of you Dad and Auntie Lisa. Lisa has always been especially fond of Alice. She taps Like. Clare, Alice’s mum and Lisa’s sister-in-law, has also posted today. A picture of herself in a tight red dress and sunglasses, the ocean in the background. Thank you, Hugo Boss, for my new outfit. #HugoBoss #careerwoman #whodwearasuit #matchingheelsandhandbag. 

She hears the garage door open and checks the clock on the oven. If she starts dinner now, it will be ready in half an hour, which will give Bevan time to have a beer and settle before they eat. He will be edgy, fretting about the lawsuit, and worried that the company doesn’t have his back.  There are other things going wrong in Bevan’s life, too. She knows that now and it makes her feel sad. One day soon she will need to talk with him about it, find a way through the mess he has made. 

Lisa puts down her iPad and starts chopping onions and garlic. While they are frying, she grates a carrot and fetches tomatoes and mince from the fridge. The meat is lean and breaks up easily in the frying pan. She stirs it with a wooden spoon, so it browns evenly then fills a saucepan with water for the pasta. She feels a little guilty because she went into the office early this morning before the funeral, and now she’s tired and making minimal effort for dinner. She could have taken the full day off if she’d asked for it, but she has deadlines to meet that will only make her more stressed if she delays. 

Bevan hasn’t come in from the garage, so Lisa takes the compost out, head down against the rain squall passing overhead, then folds yesterday’s laundry. She remembers that she hasn’t brought in the mail and goes out the front door to the letterbox. For some reason, Bevan has parked his car in the driveway instead of putting it inside. She hopes she has parked far enough over. She sorts the junk mail from the addressed letters and takes it around to the recycling bin. The back door to the garage has blown open while she was inside and she pulls it closed again, wincing as the old, warped door screeches and complains at being forced back into the frame. It won’t stick so she flings it open, hoping for some momentum to slam it into place. Inside the garage light is still on and the first thing she thinks when she sees the bar stool lying kicked over in the middle of the floor is does life insurance pay out for suicide?

Copyright Karen Whittle-Herbert 2020.

#establishmentblues