The Children Read online

  ‘. . . approached with the sensitivity and acuity that is Wood’s strength . . . remarkable in her forensic abilities . . . The Children confirms her as a captivating, questing writer whose work is well worth watching.’

  Stella Clarke, The Weekend Australian

  ‘One rereads the novel not for its shock value but for its nuances, its deep questions and its lovely supple prose. For this is a vibrant, intelligent, utterly compelling work, achingly real and seductively woven with a restrained consonance of connected images that build through the novel to a final symbolic release.’

  Katharine England, Adelaide Advertiser

  ‘. . . The Children is beautifully and tightly shaped around Geoff Connolly lying insensate, tied to a breathing machine. His family waits, attacking one another but also finding and creating surprising moments of tenderness . . . Wood . . . has the ability to evoke matters of life and death without straining for effect. Her prose is convincing and her images precise . . .’

  Dorothy Johnston, Sydney Morning Herald

  ‘. . . The Children is Wood’s best work yet . . . makes the most ordinary moments glow: her sensitivity to visual detail cuts to the quick. Little escapes her, and the result is a graceful and empathetic portrayal of one family seeking to understand itself.’

  Stephanie Bishop, Australian Book Review

  ‘The bringing-together of an atomised family for an occasion or crisis is a time-honoured narrative strategy in fiction and film, and Wood makes the most of its possibilities both for drama and for social commentary . . . The reunion of three childless adult siblings plus their mother and brother-in-law makes for some very astute observation of how that family dynamic plays out, and also for some rather grim comedy as the demons of childhood rivalry and dislike re-emerge as ferocious and illogical as they were the first time around.’

  Kerryn Goldsworthy, The Age

  ‘Charlotte Wood’s writing is haunting, building tension so subtly the action hits like an unexpected blow. Her characters are wounded and human, their dialogue profound without meaning to be. Simple and real, this is a beautifully heavy and affecting story that will linger in your mind long after you've read the last page.’ **** Highly recommended.

  Anabel Pandiella, Good Reading

  ‘The Children captivates from the first dramatic paragraph . . . transfixing . . . An Australian Jodi Picoult? Definitely comparable to Picoult’s themes, but more aware of, and attuned and appealing to Australian readers of the literary family drama, laced with social commentary and mystery.’ **** An excellent book

  Lucy Meredith, Bookseller & Publisher

  ‘Intriguing . . . excellent reading.’ Graham Clark, Courier-Mail

  ‘. . . a perceptive and dark examination of a family unwilling exploring what holds it together and what has driven it apart.’

  The Dominion Post Weekend

  The

  Children

  CHARLOTTE

  WOOD

  This edition published in 2008

  First published in 2007

  Copyright © Charlotte Wood 2007

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

  This project has been assisted by the Commonwealth Government through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory board.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:

  Wood, Charlotte, 1965– .

  The children.

  ISBN 978 1 74175 604 3 (pbk.).

  I. Title.

  A823.3

  Internal design by Greendot Design

  Set in 13.5/16 pt MrsEaves by Midland Typesetters, Australia

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For sisters and little brothers, especially mine

  and

  always,

  for Sean

  Who said Happiness is the light shining on the water.

  The water is cold and dark and deep . . .

  WILLIAM MAXWELL, ‘Over by the River’, All the Days and Nights

  CHAPTER ONE

  February, 2006

  GEOFF SHOVES the ladder—thunk—against the house, and kicks hard at the bottom rung to dig its heels more solidly into the soil of the garden bed. Then he picks up the plastic shopping bag of newspaper-wrapped tiles and begins to climb, the bag heavy in the crook of his elbow as he moves.

  He bought the tiles from Macquarie Hardware this morning. He stood in the queue in the cavernous building, as he does most Saturdays, holding the one or two things he needs for the weekend’s domestic repairs—a packet of wall plugs, or a couple of star pickets. This morning after he bought the tiles he walked out into the bright glare of the car park. He put the bag of tiles into the boot of the Falcon and then walked back across the car park to the half-case supermarket, pulling from his pocket the shopping list in Margaret’s looped blue handwriting. Although it was early, already the car park was busy with slow cars, with shopping trolleys tinging over the bitumen. Rundle was coming slowly alive for its Saturday.

  He emerged from the gloomy little arcade carrying Margaret’s extra-large bag of flour against his chest. He shifted the bag to his hip as he bent to unlock the boot again—and as he did a sudden, shocked recognition sprang up at him: the bag was the exact soft weight of a sleeping baby. He was surprised by the physicality of this memory, its strength. He hasn’t held a baby in more than thirty years.

  Now, as he climbs the ladder, he is puzzled in a pleasing way again at the mysterious and intricate workings of the human brain. He pictures it, a mass of tiny, coloured electrical wires the thickness of hairs. As he climbs, the plastic bag slides forward, its handles cutting into the skin of his forearm; he shrugs his shoulder to shift it down his arm. Near the top of the ladder he steadies himself, pressing his hips forward against the last several rungs, and then lifts the bag carefully into the guttering, making sure the tiles cannot slide away.

  Geoff knows the brain doesn’t look like electrical wiring, but all the same he likes the image: an old, corroded thread of wire, deep in the tangle, suddenly sending out a hot white spark of memory.

  He climbs the last few rungs, hunching, tilting himself forward, and crawls up onto the roof. He is too aware of his ageing body, of the anticipatory decisions he must always make now about its movement. He steadies himself for a moment, kneeling there on all fours on the sloping tiled surface. He glances about at the bright roofs of his neighbours, the fresco of red and orange tiles, of telephone wires and television aerials and sky. A mynah bird perches on the Collins’ aerial, frowning out of its dark yellow-rimmed eye for a moment before flying off. The aerial quivers, an echo of flight.

  Geoff crawls a little further onto the roof and then, when it is safe to do so, turns to sit on the slanting tiles, his bony knees apart, hands dangling between them. From here he can see off into the distance outside town, the flat plains, the pai
nted striations of river and hill and horizon. He draws his gaze closer then, to the furze of trees lining the river, nearer again, to the bright metallic sheet of the fire station roof over on Fitzroy Street, then the few houses beyond his, then to the Collins’ next door, and his own backyard. From here the view of his yard is spacious, surprising, making the place where he has lived for more than thirty-five years suddenly unfamiliar. He stares down over his garage roof, his barbecue, his pergola. His intimacy with it is in this instant scrubbed away, and he is struck by a light, strange feeling that there might yet be things to discover down there, in his yard, in his life.

  Just nearby, in the guttering, he catches sight of a mottled, ancient tennis ball. Again there is the little zzzt of memory, to do with the children, to do with the weight of a baby in his arms all those years ago.

  When he falls a moment later, what he sees is the colourless flap of a bird’s wing and a rushing, tilted sky.

  MARGARET STANDS on her tiptoes, peering into the back of the pantry, reaching out her hand to a green-lidded bottle of paprika among others in the blue plastic ice-cream container, when she hears the noise. Something sudden and heavy on the roof above her head. She stands there in her kitchen looking up to the ceiling with a cylindrical little spice bottle held aloft in her fist. She stares upward, listening for more sound.

  CATHY FISHES the ringing mobile telephone from her shoulder bag, pushing the groceries along the supermarket’s stalled conveyor belt with her free hand. She looks at the screen and puts it to her ear. ‘Hi, Mum,’ she says into the phone.

  ‘Oh, Cathy,’ says her mother’s voice, in a surprised way. It is not her usual message-delivering telephone voice, but high, and bewildered.

  The checkout girl presses the conveyor button and the last of the groceries jolt, then slide forward. The girl drops a box of tissues and a tube of toothpaste into a pale green bag, unhooks it to sling it alongside the others, and waits. Cathy is hungry. She casts a look along the queue behind her, wondering if it is too late to run back for bananas. But there are people waiting; a man behind is glaring at her.

  ‘Did you ring me accidentally,’ says Cathy to her mother, frowning, tucking the phone between her neck and ear as she opens her wallet and passes a fifty-dollar note to the girl.

  Her mother’s voice, its disbelief: ‘Dad’s fallen down.’

  HE LIES in the new hospital ward, the dark purple mess of his face obscene in the whiteness of the bed. All around him is white. Stainless steel and white, slivers of blue-and-white, mint-green-and-white. Nurses stride around in the quiet, twirling keys on lanyards, or holding things in their gloved hands. Their rubber-soled shoes on the new linoleum, squidge, squidge.

  Tony Warren, the wardsman, kneels to check that the brakes on the bed’s rubber wheels are properly engaged. Then he straightens and puts his hands into the pockets of his blue overalls. He steps to the head of the bed to look at the man’s slack, unconscious face. He moves his own head this way and that, to better view the particular gruesome flowerings of colour and swelling. The ventilator tube coils out from the old man’s mouth, then up over the ear and his bald, bandaged head, on the opposite side to the mashed temple. Hands still in his pockets, the wardsman leans in to inspect the dark, pulpy edge of the large wound, which is visible despite the dressing and the sticking plaster holding the ventilator tube in place. As he inspects the edges of the wound the wardsman winces, showing his teeth and inhaling a quick, quiet breath.

  Tony Warren is unnoticed as he stands there by the bed, the large ward empty but for a couple of murmuring nurses and two other unconscious patients at the end.

  There are no visitors, yet. They will soon gather, as they always do, rushing into the ward with their eyes wide, glancing around them at their shocking new world. But for now the patient is untended, a mechanically breathing corpse.

  The wardsman looks up to read the card taped to the wall above the bed, the name in black texta capitals: GEOFFREY CONNOLLY. The wardsman stops, his gaze fixed on the card. Then he leans in again, removing his hands from his pockets and resting his forearms on the bars of the bed, staring once again for several long seconds at Geoff’s damaged, horrible face.

  Eventually he sticks his hands back into his blue overalls pockets, pivots around and without looking up, walks back along the wide lane between the beds. At the door he stops and whacks the oversized red button on a panel on the wall, and the wide laminate door swings slowly open with a hydraulic sound.

  He leaves the ward, and the door closes, pssshh, behind him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  TO BE adult is to be alone. Mandy sees this line, an epigraph, just before she bends back the cover of the novel and shoves it, pages splayed, into the seat pocket in front of her. She moves her head to look out of the window, past the women in the seats beside her. But beyond the women’s profiled faces the plastic shutter is pulled down, and she can see nothing but a crack of light beneath it.

  A French biologist said the thing about being alone. Mandy wriggles in her seat, pulling at the knees of her trousers to stop their tight bunching at her crotch. She longs for the needling hot jet of shower water on her bare back, for clean underwear. There are still three hours to go. A child’s sleepy wail rises from the back of the plane.

  Mandy’s mother’s dazed and careful telephone voice comes into her mind. Her father had made a strange high shriek, flailing in the gravel, she said. Mandy does not want to picture this, her father’s fallen body and this impossibility of sound. She moves her jaw, pushes the image away. It is replaced by the boy again.

  The woman next to Mandy is still asleep, her brow creased, frowning at the light. Mandy can see dried white spit at a corner of the woman’s mouth. She touches a thumb and third finger to the dry corners of her own lips.

  He was a boy she had seen daily, but to whom she had barely spoken. Once, in the hot chaos of the street outside the Al Hamra she gave him a fake silver biro, and he shouted, ‘Tanks!’ in an American voice, and grinned at her in a sly way that could have meant either, and equally, that he liked her or hated her.

  Over the months she saw him everywhere in the streets near the house, wearing his high-waisted bright blue tracksuit pants and a tan polo shirt—the kind her father wore in photos from the fifties, with its caramel-allsorts stripes on the collar. On the boy’s bare feet the dusty vinyl sandals all the children wear. She has seen him giggling in the street, hanging around a couple of soldiers; the Americans heavy with gear looking dumbly down at him.

  Whenever she went out with Graham, the cameraman, the boy would run around in front of them with his friends, a gaggle of tall and little ones, all skinny and perfect-skinned, their black feathery hair neatly cut over their heads. They would push and jostle each other before the camera, holding up both hands, making two-fingered ‘V’ symbols, shouting ‘Hello! Hello!’ and ‘I like Spiderman!’

  The boy—named Ahmer, she learned later—had a big nose, perfectly arched thick brows above his big eyes, and two oversized white front teeth. They reminded her of her brother Stephen’s teeth as a child, and the boy had the same sticking-out ears. She had seen him playing marbles with his friends next to a pile of burning rubbish; or on the main roads with the other children, waving as a tank passed, the soldiers’ guns aimed straight above the children’s heads. Occasionally Mandy has felt a dull surprise at how quickly she became accustomed to these scenes, these things: that children played with the burnt, street-flung doors of exploded cars; that they leapt to catch the tense gaze of a soldier with a machine gun; that in Baghdad’s gritty dust this boy could remind her so much of her own little brother in their long-gone Australian childhood.

  And then the day she saw him sitting alone in the street, oddly bent in the wild powdery air and the terrible noise, and the lower half of his body gone. The blood laced over his face, and the boy silent and motionless in that strange sitting, still alive, just watching her as she ran with her arms hugging her head; recognising her.r />
  The woman next to Mandy suddenly inhales loudly through her nose, blinking and staring in the stunned way people do when they are woken. The gloom is beginning to lighten, and the air in the plane shifts with people waking and stretching in their seats.

  In a Baghdad morgue, Ahmer’s father Ibrahim stood speechless, dressed entirely in white, one large clean hand clutching the other behind his back. He watched, as Mandy and the photographer watched with him, an attendant from the morgue washing his son’s body on a concrete slab. The pale walls of the square room, the rectangles of light from the high windows. Grey cement, galvanised-iron buckets. The gentle white lather of soap covering what was left of Ahmer’s body. The attendant wore a grey t-shirt and black trousers, a neatly trimmed beard. Ibrahim wore a white overshirt, white trousers, and a white kaffiyeh with two black coils wound around his head.

  The blood was dark as mud on the boy now, a slick patina over his neck and forearms—why specially his arms?—as if he had plunged them over and over into a deep, sticky pool of it. His chest and ribs and stomach were clean, where his jumper had been, and here on this skin was only a single small, sweet bruise of boyhood, from a slingshot, or a table corner. In the middle of all that blood this space of clean skin was miraculous. Mandy wondered how Ibrahim could stop himself from falling upon it.

  The boy’s face had been cleaned of its nets of dried black blood, but somehow a new bright red pool gathered beneath his body on the slab as the attendant gently turned him. This bright red was almost the only colour in the room—the red and, Mandy saw with a different shock, the pink-and-green striped towel which the attendant had folded with neat tenderness over the pulpy dark mess below Ahmer’s hips. The towel, threadbare and stiffly clean, was straight from Mandy’s childhood, identical to the two her mother still keeps folded in her linen cupboard behind the new, fluffy, plain ones. The candy-striped towel and the flash of bright blood in the monochromatic room. The photographer moved his body soundlessly—wishing, Mandy could tell, that he could silence the callous whizzes and clicks of his camera.