Page 36 of Thursdays at Orange Blossom House
‘Can I get you anything else, darling?’ Frederick puts her pot of tea on the table and a hand on the back of Dorothy’s neck.
‘No, thank you.’ Dorothy smiles up at him, then across to her friend Ruth.
One advantage of having your own café is that when you invite friends to morning tea, there’s always somewhere to go. Dorothy just hasn’t had time to do it lately – certainly not at the café – but Frederick insisted when she mentioned she hadn’t seen Ruth in months.
‘We can manage,’ he’d said.
Ruth had suggested they meet at her place, but Dorothy knew she couldn’t take that much time away from the café. The only real break she has is at night, but Ruth can never see her then – she has a two-year-old son and a four-year-old daughter, and night-times are for baths and dinner and stories.
‘I’m sorry it’s been so long,’ Dorothy says to Ruth. ‘The weeks have been …’ She sighs.
‘Busy?’ Ruth smiles sympathetically.
‘Fast. I thought I saw you a month ago, but it was … when? February?’
Ruth nods and licks the cappuccino foam off her spoon. Frederick is one of the few people in Cairns who can make a decent coffee – if only they could find a way to tell the tourists that.
‘We’ve both had a lot on,’ says Ruth, picking up her cup. ‘I barely know what day it is. Sandy wants me to go back to work, but really …’ She shakes her head. ‘Iamat work. What does he think having two kids is like?’
Dorothy feels that little stab in her heart that happens each time someone talks about their children like she understands about motherhood. She supposes it’s a compliment –you’re one of us– but it never feels like it.
‘I guess he’s finding out right now?’ she says, trying to imagine Ruth’s burly rugby-playing husband caring for two small humans.
‘If he doesn’t drop them on their heads I’ll say it’s a good day.’
Ruth says it with affection, but Dorothy has heard this before so never really knows if Ruth is actually worried about Sandy being alone with the children or not. Dorothy likes to think that Frederick would be a kind, gentle father but she has no way of knowing until it happens. If it happens.
‘I thought you were going to tell me you’re pregnant!’ Ruth says brightly. ‘When you called, I mean. Not yet, hey?’
Another stab. She knows that Ruth isn’t trying to hurt her – no doubt she thinks Dorothy getting pregnant is just a matter of time. She doesn’t know about the miscarriages; Dorothy is too ashamed to tell her.
‘No.’ Dorothy pours a cup of tea, although it’s probably stewed by now. The darkness of the liquid confirms it, and to offset the bitterness she tips two spoonfuls of sugar into the cup and stirs.
‘Dorothy?’
‘Hm?’ She glances up to see Ruth frowning at her.
‘Did I say the wrong thing? You went quiet.’
How much should Dorothy tell her? They have known each other since school, but Dorothy was one of those girls who longed to confess her secrets yet was scared she’d be laughed at. Ruth had told her everything, and Dorothy was able to get away with a facsimile of confession: talking about boys she liked, whingeing about teachers, speculating about formal dresses. She never revealed the real stuff; she never saidI wantorI needorI dream. Even though Ruth said those things to her. Dorothy had never said that she loved Cornelia and felt shackled to her at the same time. How could Ruth understand? How could anyone?
It’s possible that not sharing confidences is a German thing. Her parents can be austere and remote; and from what she remembers of her grandparents they were much the same. Dorothy has no idea if they were always that way or if the remoteness developed in the wake of the war – no one wanted to speak about the unspeakable so they didn’t speak about anything much at all.
So Dorothy never learnt to confess from her parents, and as she wasn’t brought up Catholic she didn’t learn it at church. Her parents pretended to be Lutherans but they didn’t go to church. She’d once heard her mother tell her father that she was too ashamed to face God, and he’d said he understood, that he felt it too. Shame, therefore, might be all that Dorothy has learnt from her parents, and it too is a powerful reason to never tell anyone anything. It makes a person so lonely, though, to not confide.
She tells Frederick things, of course, but her mother once told her that you should never rely on a man for emotional support – they’re just no good at it, she had said – so Dorothy tends to stick to the facts with Frederick: she can’t get pregnant, so needs to look into ways of changing that situation. As opposed to:I’m a hormonal, emotional mess and I need you to prop me up.
Ruth has been her friend for years, though – couldn’t she trust her now? Is Dorothy not being a proper friend if she doesn’t trust Ruth with the problem that’s occupying so much of her time and energy?
‘You didn’t say the wrong thing,’ she says, looking into her friend’s eyes. ‘I just … don’t know how much to tell you.’
Ruth holds her gaze. ‘You can tell me anything, you know that. Haven’t I told you things?’
Dorothy nods. She remembers Ruth, in tears, telling her that their father had beaten her younger brother. Then that her brother had left home, joined the army and hadn’t been seen since. Another time, when a boy in their class had stopped Ruth after school one day and grabbed at her breasts, tearing her singlet, telling her she shouldn’t go around dressed like that if she didn’t want that sort of thing to happen. The singlet was part of their school sports uniform. Yes, Ruth has told her things. And Dorothy has told her nothing.
‘I’ve been having trouble,’ Dorothy starts, ‘holding a pregnancy.’ She takes a sharp breath in and follows it with a long sip of tea.
‘Oh, darl,’ Ruth says, but there’s no pity in it, just understanding.
