Roy's Beginnings

THE MEETING PLACE
CHAPTER TWO

Roy's Beginnings

Darkness began to envelop the tiny home opposite the park. Only the leaves of the oak tree rustling in the autumn breeze broke the silence of the night. A lone figure on the veranda, surveyed the scene as he paced back and forth across the old timbers. A family of possum trailed across the grass, chattering as they scampered through the turf, oblivious to his gaze, intent only on reaching their prize: discarded fruit around the childrens’ playground. The chattering reached a crescendo as the family bickered over their treasure before settling into their impromptu meal. Their spectator though, smiled as he imagined the possums squabbling over the outcome of events taking place behind his door. The smile began to slip from his lips though as he stole a glance toward the porch behind him. His brow furrowed, concerned, anxious, but still hopeful. He turned on his heels and went back to his aimless pacing, waiting for the end, the call – if it were even going to come.

Inside, Nancy scurried through to the narrow, confined kitchen where pots were bubbling on the old wrought iron stove. The stove was immaculate, a pure ebony, standing proudly amongst the chaos which reigned all around. Remnants of life littered surfaces, food scattered amongst knives and forks, plates and bowls carelessly tossed toward the sink hinted at the pandemonium that had broken out earlier that day. Nancy moved efficiently amongst the debris, earnestly seeking towels, tissues, cloths – anything that would be clean and absorbent. Clean was proving to be a challenge as she methodically traversed each cupboard, each drawer, each shelf. Each one yielded nothing. Finally as she peered into the depths of the last cupboard , using her hands where her eyes could not go, she felt something with potential. The soft fluff yielded around her fingers as she grasped firmly to bring it into the light. She sniffed with satisfaction, folded the fabric and thumped it up toward her armpit as she grasped the pot with her remaining hand. Having achieved her purpose, she strode further into the house, back to her mission, calling over her shoulder as she went.

“Not long now, Bill, not long.” Bill stopped his march immediately on hearing Nancy. Was it done? Was it over? Could he come back? His questions lasted only a moment once he caught sight of Nancy’s load. He had heard her say the same thing, from the same position so many times since it began. It had started long before the darkness had descended, many hours before and still the commotion persisted, unabated and unchanged, but for Nancy’s occasional forays into the kitchen.

Bill drew deeply on his cigarette and exhaled, the blue smoke billowing softly from his lips. Cigarette butts lay scattered across the veranda, a diary of this day, a journal to the turmoil and confusion. The louder the noise, the more cigarettes he had smoked. “Nancy, what about the hospital?” he begged, in a voice he didn’t know he had. Panicked, desperate, pleading. “Can’t you make her go to the hospital?”

Nancy stood by the door, towels firmly wedged in her sturdy armpit, hands gripping the steaming pot, looked squarely at him. For a moment, their eyes locked and neither spoke. She broke his gaze, shook her head and sighed. “You know her Bill, you know how she is.” She trailed off, head bowed and started to turn. “It’ll be done soon though, you’ll see. You just have a couple more ciggies and it’ll be over! Don’t stress, it’ll all be right,” she chirped, her tone at odds with her manner, at odds with the strain in her eyes.

Bill continued to trudge along the wooden floor, each circuit adding to his pain, yet he hoped, bringing him closer to its end. Backwards and forwards, again and again. Two cigarettes turned into four and then six, then seven. The possums had left their prize long ago, preferring to retreat further toward the edges of the park, settling themselves for the evening. The hours continued to tick by, the night grew colder. All Bill had with him were his thoughts and the mists of his breath hanging in the damp air. Nancy had ceased her expeditions to the kitchen, leaving Bill to ponder the events of the day and the promise of the future.

“Let it be over. Keep her safe. Let it be over. Keep her safe.” Over and over he intoned as he walked. “Let it be over. Keep her safe.” He no longer even realised that he was speaking, or walking, or smoking. He was simply waiting until it was finished.

The hubbub from the house had waxed and waned through the day, oscillating between chaos and calm and reaching a crescendo as daylight had receded. Now, hours since it began, all was quiet, save occasional muffled yelps and sobs. The quiet was a disturbing contrast to the earlier noise, but Bill remained hesitant and dared not enter, not until he knew with absolute certainty, that it was over. This was for women, between Nancy and Rose. He wanted to know, he wanted to check, but he couldn’t, not yet, not now. He would wait until it was finished and then he’d check. Make sure. When it was all done.
Bill was jerked from his reverie as the screen door it was jerked open, emitting a loud squeal of displeasure. Nancy stood in the doorframe, looking earnestly at Bill. He scanned her features for clues, but found none. She stepped out onto the creaking boards towards the tattered chair, which had been on the veranda for longer than Bill could remember, propped up against the wall. She exhaled deeply, exhausted, her body sinking back into the voluminous cushions. Bill wanted to ask, wanted to check, but no sound emerged from his throat. He looked at Nancy, a quizzical look on his face and tried again. This time, he heard, “Is she? Is she?” Nothing else would come, but it didn’t matter, Nancy knew. Nancy always knew.

Bill had known Nancy for almost all of his fifty years and he had achieved very little success in hiding from her in all that time. They had never progressed beyond good friendship, despite town rumours to the contrary and despite Bill’s early hopes. He had tried, many times, to move from friend to date, but his courage always seemed to elude him. After a while, he decided to leave it to Nancy. Nancy for once, missed his signs. She had waited for him to make his move, eventually resigning herself to “good friendship”. Years went past and she met and married Martin. The easy companionship with Bill continued on through the years, each a support to the other.

Bill, for his part, settled into his bachelor life; not happy, but not unhappy either. Women, except Nancy, were mysterious, strange, unknown. He was a loner, lived alone, worked alone and unless Nancy visited, stayed alone.

Until Rose. Rose had arrived quite suddenly some four years ago, looking for a housekeeping job (not that he had asked for one) and Bill had been inexplicably drawn to this vulnerable, unconventional young woman. In so many ways, she was quite different to Nancy. Where Nancy was plump and rotund, Rose was slim, lithe and fragile. So fragile, Bill would be nervous when she tried to hug him. He would wrap his arms gently around her, as if she were a doll, as she nestled close into his chest. Nancy was loud and forthright, Rose was quiet and submissive, yet with a subtle strength that cut through everything she did. She needed Bill and Bill soon reluctantly found himself admitting that he needed her too. So, at a grizzly forty-four years old, he wed this fresh-faced twenty-three year old honours student. A small ceremony and intimate gathering later, the incongruous couple retreated to the old homestead he had purchased in his youth, with only Nancy and Martin as occasional visitors.

Bill shook himself back to reality as Nancy nodded and whispered “Yes Bill. It’s over. It was hard on them both, but they made it. They’re tough, you know, very tough. Neither of them would give up, they both made it.” She paused, drawing breath, wiping her face hurriedly. Bill saw the strain on her face. He knew she had been scared, he could see the relief etched into her face. She might not admit it, but she couldn’t hide from him any more than he could hide from her. “It’s a boy, Bill. He’s real small, but perfect. Really perfect.”

“And Rose?” he interjected quickly, almost afraid to hear the answer. Of course he cared for the little one, but Rose … he knew Rose, he needed Rose; the little one knew nothing and needed everything. He needed Rose and he needed to know. He held his breath, retracing the many many steps of the last hours in his mind.

But Bill was already striding through the house, back towards his fragile Rose. He stopped as he reached the bedroom, standing still in the doorway, his body almost filling the narrow space. Slowly, his eyes filled and tears began to streak his cheeks. He was struck by the innocence of the vision before him, nestled together in his bed. Rose was holding the child tenderly to her breast and the tiny infant was already suckling noisily. She smiled serenely at her husband and said simply,

“Roy.” Bill advanced toward his tender, delicate bride and babe and nodded.

“Roy.”

* * * * * * * *

“Even then it was his Rose he looked for. My mother. I was minutes old and he needed to know about Mum. Nancy knew. She used to tell me the story. He never left that night. I was breech and it took all day and most of the night. Mum never let up. No doctors, only Nancy. Dad never trusted anyone, just Mum and Nancy. He never let anyone else in and she knew it. Whatever he wanted, she would do. Whatever she wanted, he would give her. Nancy always used to tell me to look at them both so I’d learn how to love. They loved each other that’s for sure.”

Roy held Pamelia’s hands fast, bringing her fingertips to his lips. He left a light kiss against her skin, releasing her only slightly. “I only had to watch them, Pamelia. They were always together. I could only watch until I met you. Pamelia, please, we can talk about this. We can work it out, you know we can. Let’s go to the house? We can sit and watch the park like we used to. We can do it. It’s meant to be, you know it is.” Roy was struggling to hold himself in control. He reasoned that he had waited so long, he could wait a little longer. She wanted him. She wanted to go. He could feel it, he just had to wait for her to see what he saw.

“Roy,” she whispered, “Roy. You don’t know, you don’t understand. I only came to tell you. Please don’t do this.” The tears threatened to choke the small whisper completely and Roy reached across the table, tenderly dabbing her cheeks. This small gesture only increased her torment further. “Please, Roy?”

“Pamelia, I’ve waited for so long. You know it’s right. You know it is, or you wouldn’t have come back. I know you’re scared. I know you’re worried. But I know it’s right, just as you do. We can go back to the house. Let’s take it from there. Yes?” Roy’s training had taught him how to negotiate, it had taught him to be patient and it had taught him to deny himself. He wanted to pull her close and hold her tight. He wanted to pick her up and take her back. He could do that. She wouldn’t stop him. Roy knew she obey if he were to command, but he wanted love not service. He had waited for this day and he would continue to make allowances for her pain.

* * * * * * * *

Bill sat in the worn old veranda chair, absent-mindedly smoking his favourite walnut pipe, while his son played at his feet. Bill looked down proudly at his child, the product of his love for his Rose, The child was quiet, but strong. He would never shirk a chore, insolence was not within his nature. Bill and Rose were proud of their son, occasionally allowing him into their embrace. Although more often, they remained simply proud, content to watch their offspring. On this evening, Roy had set to a cleaning an old pan. His mother had complained loudly that the scorched metal would spoil their food and had refused to use it again. Bill immediately offered its replacement when the shops were open the next day. Rose was quietened by this and returned to preparing the meal, albeit without the offending pot. Roy had thought to please his mother by cleaning the pot, then she wouldn’t have to wait. So the little boy had wandered into the outhouse and grabbed a handful of iron wool and a bowl of warm water from the kitchen before retiring to the balcony to attend to his task. He was pleased that his father was there too. He would please them both at the same time.

Little disturbed the idyllic scene, the older man relaxed, leaning into the breeze, watching his boy, intent on his work. His immature muscles flexed and bowed as he put all his efforts into scraping the stubborn black morass from the pot. Roy smiled as small glints of silver began to appear. He began to anticipate his parents’ reactions and felt warmth begin to flood his cheeks, reflecting the pleasure contained in his thoughts. Roy scrubbed harder, engrossed in the task at hand.

Suddenly their peace was shattered, a piercing scream curled around the balcony, followed by metal clattering against metal. Bill sprang to his feet, not a moment wasted, his foot knocking against his son in his haste to reach his wife back in the house. Roy stopped in mid-scrub, too shocked to cry. Alone on the timber floor, he listened, waiting for his father to return, waiting for his mother to hold and reassure him.

The noise grew more frantic, voices climbed urgently, Bill’s voice always on top of the others. Young Roy sat transfixed, not moving, frozen in time, waiting it seemed for hours. In truth, mere minutes had passed since his father had crashed through the screen door, his fury propelling him forward. He had been charged to protect his Rose, and he had failed. His home had been penetrated and she was hurt. Bill saw his wife before he saw her attacker. She lay motionless on the floor, amid a sea of pans and shattered china. A small red trickle had appeared on her temple, leaving a small puddle, stark against the scrap of white china near where she had fallen. The intruder was occupied turning out the drawers of the kitchen dresser, turning Rose’s pristine domain into chaos. He had left a trail of destruction behind him, Roy could see where he had already been and imagined the shambles that would ensue were he not stopped. And there was his wife, alone and unconscious. Bill had stopped for only a second, and now steeled his muscles, launched himself towards the interloper, determined to restore normality to his world. The burglar had little opportunity to defend himself and collapsed under Bill’s charge. Almost immediately, Bill belied his age, jumping to his feet, pulling the younger man up with him. The man was about to protest as Bill’s firm fist connected squarely with his chin. He stumbled backwards, caught again by Bill and tried to defend himself against the ferocity of a man invaded. Bill threw him backwards, growling fiercely as they went. Again the man struggled to his feet, trying to reach the door, unsure of direction, unsteady on his feet. Bill continued to pick him up and throw him toward the exit. Bill’s strength was far beyond that imagined by the thief; he had imagined easy pickings. Knock over the missus, give the old man a whack or two and the kid if he had to, then leave with the spoils. He had not imagined there to be any fight in the old man. He made a lunge towards the dappled sunlight coming in through the screen and half-ran, half-fell down the steps from the veranda, dashing across the dirt, past a bemused Roy, still holding the burnt pot, and back across Ashbury Park.

“I’ll ‘ave you!” yelled Bill. “Anything happen to my Rose, an’ I’ll ‘ave you. You’ll be wishing I’d killed you here!”

Roy watched his father. The anger bristled in his voice and he could see Bill’s body was trembling. He would get like that after he’d been chopping wood, or after the insurance man came. Very few people intruded into the McLaird’s world, only two were ever invited, others were not welcome and Bill never shirked from telling them so. Roy was content. Aunt Nancy often came and she was all he needed really. Her and his mum and dad. Bill turned to go back inside the house to tend to his wife. Roy sighed and returned to the task he had set himself earlier that day. He wondered about the scream he had heard and all the shouting. There was no point being afraid. His dad would come back when mum was OK. Perhaps Nancy would come. The little boy sighed quietly, wishing he could go inside, but unwilling to pre-empt his father. He hung his little head and returned to scrubbing the grubby pot for his mother, for when she came out.

Bill knelt by his wife, stroking her head with a gentleness that was hidden by his demeanour. “Rose … Rose, wake up honey …” Bill, usually so purposeful, so definite, was at a loss. His wife refused to leave their little cottage. Even when the boy had been born. She would not want any more intruders, Bill was sure of that much. He didn’t even notice the cold floor as he sat perfectly still, caressing her hair, speaking softly, trying to bring her back to consciousness. “My love, I need you Rose. Please? Please wake up?” And eventually, her eyes did flutter open and he was able to take a deep breath of relief. And only then did his son enter his mind.