She didn’t like to tell him that in her happiness, she
hadn’t taken precautions. He would’ve assumed
shehad.She didn’t know how to explain. She left the city
immediately. And by the last day of winter, in a rented
housein a country town that didn’t prove friendly, she gave
birth to a child. She still didn’t know what words to say to
such an urbane man who was surrounded by urgent
messages. In fact, she didn’t contact him for three years.
But one day, because her child expected it of her, she
Ĵǯ
She counted the hours before he’d receive it. She thought
he might read it when he got home from work.
After 24 hours, she allowed herself to think, “He’ll be
reading it now. Right now.” She could imagine his face so
clearly, reading her modest words in his kitchen.
Ĵ ǰȱȱȱȱȱȱ
which word he was up to.
She waited for his reply.
But there was no reply, and as the days and weeks
passed,she felt abashed. Perhaps this sophisticated man
didn’t even remember her.
She hadn’t guessed that when she left the morning after
the party, Gerard didn’t clean or rearrange anything inhis
house. He didn’t move the jars or touch the
boxes of cereals. He wanted his things to be
like they were when she’d gazed on them.
He kissed thebed sheets every night, the
very spot where she had lain. It was the most
Ĝwaiting of his life, that six weeks
waiting fortheir next party. All year lay in
those sixweeks, the heat of summer, the
chilly fear of autumn, the dreariness of
winter, thehope of spring. And then the
joyful evening, which becamethe dreadful
eveningwhen she didn’t come walking up
the street into his arms, not at dusk, not
mid-evening, that dreadful moment at three
in the morning when he had to agree with
the snickering voice inside him that she
wasn’t going to turn up. He’d wept then.
He felt he’d never wept before, not when his mother
left,not when his father left, if this was weeping. Grey-faced
with exhaustion and despair, hecouldn’t go to work the next
day, or for many days, untildespair became resentment, and
he could kick things, like the walls of his house, or himself.
Ĵ ¢ ǰ
with her name on the back of the envelope, his heart hadleft
his chest, and only crept back in terror if he promisednot
toopen it, not yet, not yet. Because there has to be an end to
pain. He didn’ Ĵ ǰ
mantelshelf, where he’d allow himself to glance at it, still
unopened, his timid heart saying, “Not yet.” It might be there
still on his mantelshelf to this very day but he ran out of
paper one day for a new shopping list, and hisheart allowed
him to take her envelope down, of course only so he coulduse the envelope for a message to be hung on his string in his
hall. Once he’d torn the envelope, it seemed wasteful not to
read her words, her wonderful, wonderful words. He
shouted until his neighbours cupped glasses onto their walls
to listen to the noisy man next doorwho’d always been so
quiet. He left the city that eveningfor her country town.
“That’d be Craig Johnson’s old house,” said a taxi driver
at the station. “Craig had some tenants, but they left a week
or two ago. And Craig’s passed on now.”
In the dark, he could make out a small house in a garden
of weeds with a big yellow sign saying “For Sale”.
“Where have the tenants gone?” he asked the driver.
“Don’t know,” the driver said. “She kept to herself. You
can probably get in, we leave back doors unlocked here.
We’re not like you city people, we’re all friendly.”
“How long have they been gone?”
“It’Ĵ¢ǯ”
He followed Gerard into the house. He heard her voice.
He smelled her. Every door he opened, he was sure she was
there behind the next one and the next one. The house
wasfull of her laughter and of something else, the gurgling
ǯ ě ¢ǰ
a smiling sharkwith threadbare fur.
“Funny what kids take to,” said the
taxidriver.
He saw Gerard’s face move and feared
he’d overstepped the mark and that he
might lose his tip.
“She’d be missing it,” he added. “It’s
been loved. Got kids myself. They always
pester you to go back for something they’ve
lost. And you always end up giving in.”
Gerard was holding up the toy. He
could see dangling from its tail, and
illuminated by street light, one single
curlychildish blonde hair. He turned to
thetaxi driver.
“What’s the kid like?” he asked.
ę
the simple question, his voice trembled. He
cleared his throat, to cover the tremble.
“Smart,” said the taxi driver, who didn’t remember at all.
“Smart!” repeated Gerard proudly. He put the toy on the
mantelshelf, because a mantelshelf had brought her back
ǰ Ĵǯ
“A bit of a dump,” the taxi driver said, looking around.
“I’ll buy it,” said Gerard. “Can you take me to the owner
right now, Craig Johnson, did you say – his relative?”
“Sure,” said the taxi driver, brightening up because this
fare was turning out to be a good one.
“Once you put some paint on this place, you won’t
knowit,” he said.
“I’ll wait and see,” said Gerard. “You never know.”
Taken from Do You Love Me Or What? by Sue Woolfe ($29.99, Simon
& Schuster Australia)“When her letter
arrived three years
too late, his heart
had left his chest,
and only crept
back in terror if he
promised not to
open it, not yet”
Photography: Alamy
ELLE.COM.AU / @ELLEAUS 93