Page 51 of Thursdays at Orange Blossom House
‘So it’s, uh, noisy at home, is it?’ he continues.
‘Hm?’
‘You said it’s easier to mark here?’ He pulls out the chair next to hers and sits.
Patricia tries to be annoyed that he’s distracting her from work, but she’s still wondering whether he really did come to the staffroom to see her.
‘It’s, um … yes, it’s calmer.’
She doesn’t know how much to tell him. If she says she lives with her parents, he’ll know she’s a washed-up spinster. Which is what she knows other people think she is. When her parents were still going to church regularly, the mother of one of Patricia’s school friends said as much, which her mother relayed on one of their monthly phone calls with something distinctly resembling glee.
‘Poor Patricia,’ the woman had apparently said, ‘isn’t she married yet? Such a shame. What a waste. We all thought she’d be first. Oh well – all the good ones are taken now! She’ll just have to lower her standards. No one wants to be an old maid.’
‘The good ones?’ Patricia had said when the conversation was reported to her. ‘Whatgood ones? Almost every boy who went to my school was either as thick as two short planks, or as mean as Ebenezer Scrooge, or as useless as tits on a bull!’
‘Patricia!’ her mother had roared. ‘How dare you use that word!’
‘Which word – “bull”?’ she’d said, furious but not entirely sure why. Was it because her own mother was gossiping about her instead of defending her? Because she’d been talked about in such unflattering terms? Or because what was said was true: it was a shame and a waste? She’s still trying to work it out.
Patricia and her mother hadn’t spoken for weeks after that. Later, Patricia would wonder if it was nascent dementia making her mother meaner than usual, but that day after church was the last time they’d had a substantial argument. Now they live together and barely speak because her mother can’t. Life is impossible with its trade-offs and near-misses and almost-nearlys. Finally she has a rapprochement with the woman who gave birth to her and it’s because that woman’s mind is turning to dust.
Dennis is frowning at her; perhaps he said something and she missed it.
‘Hm?’ she offers.
‘I asked if you have a lot of people at home.’
For some reason, she doesn’t want him to think that she has a husband and children waiting for her either. Although her lack of a wedding ring has probably told him that already. But still … what will he think of her if he finds out she lives with elderly parents? And why does she care what he thinks?
She doesn’t want to lie, though. Lies are difficult and time-consuming to maintain. She knows this because she had a colleague in Sydney who had an affair with another colleague, confided in Patricia and insisted that Patricia maintain the lie in front of her husband and the rest of the staff. Patricia did, but their friendship never recovered.
She takes a breath. ‘Just my parents,’ she says. ‘But my mother has dementia and she can be a handful. So I do some work here after school and it means I can go home and look after her and my father.’ She looks at her watch. ‘Which I’ll have to do in a little while.’
‘I’m holding you up,’ Dennis says, pushing away from the table.
‘It’s fine,’ she replies, and means it. Not many people ask her about herself any more. She doesn’t want to scare him off.
He nods slowly. ‘If you don’t mind me asking – have you always lived with them?’
‘Oh, no!’ she says quickly. ‘I was in Sydney for a while. A long while. But when my mother became a, uh … a handful, shall we say, one of us had to look after her. And my brothers and sister were otherwise occupied. So I moved back to Cairns a couple of years ago. Then I moved in with them a few months ago.’
He nods slowly. ‘My nana lived with us for a while. Until she died. Mum spent more time looking after her than us kids. It’s tough when they get old. Tough for them, I mean.’
There’s quiet for a few seconds.
‘Must be hard for you, though,’ he says, placing his hands on the table and spreading his fingers as if he’s trying to resist something. ‘Giving up your life.’ His eyes meet hers. ‘Your dreams.’
She considers what he’s said. ‘I guess it depends on how we define what our lives are,’ she says softly. ‘I’m not close to my parents, but I didn’t want to leave them here with no one to keep an eye on them. That’s not … fair on them, is it?’
He sighs. ‘I guess not. But didn’t you want to stay there?’
‘Sure.’ She shrugs. ‘And I also wanted to move to Paris and smoke Gauloises and talk about Vincent van Gogh’s short life and Simone de Beauvoir’s writing and run off with Serge Gainsbourg.’
She blushes, because she’s revealed more than she meant to, but Dennis is looking at her with something resembling wonder.
‘I didn’t, though,’ she rushes on, ‘because Paris was just a dream. And staying in Sydney was also just a dream, as it turns out.’
Dennis glances out the window, where daylight is waning, then turns back to her. ‘It’s not too late,’ he says, his eyes alight.
