Isobel Blackthorn's Blog

Asylum – 9th instalment of my serialised novel

To catch the beginning of this story go to Asylum – a novel in weekly parts

Christmas in Perth with her friends and Yvette is desperate to leave her dismal flat.

2.22

Christmas Day and outside the air was still and the morning sun did its usual dazzling and baking. Down on the streets, there wasn’t a car or a pedestrian in sight. The neighbourhood was silent. No kids on bikes. No washing hanging in back gardens. The whole of Maylands was hushed. Not even a fly disturbed the peace.

She went back into the relative cool of the flat. This time of year, when families and friends unite in celebration, she felt so separate, her own family were foreign to her. Still, she picked up her phone and called her mother.

‘Merry Christmas Mum,’ she said, cheerily.

‘Merry Christmas.’

‘Thanks for the present.’ Another tea towel and, of all things, a nut cracker.

‘Oh that’s all right. Hope you like them. I didn’t know what to get you.’

Anything except a ruddy tea towel. ‘They’re great,’ she lied.

Leah chatted on for a while about her grandchildren and her cat, Yvette more disengaged than ever, her thoughts centred on the tiny life in her belly.

‘Well, I better go,’ Leah said at last. ‘I’m off to Debbie’s shortly. Pity you’re not here.’

She felt a twinge of longing, of missing out, mingled with relief.

For once Leah didn’t ask about the progress of her application. DIBP were having a rest from the horrors they inflict at a pen-stroke.

She knew her mother had left Australia in the nineties without any intention of coming back. If she had even considered the possibility of returning she would have made sure they had all become citizens. Yet Yvette couldn’t help a pang of resentment.

It had been cold and murky that first Christmas back at Grandma Grimm’s end-of-terrace house in London. In front of the bay window Grandma Grimm had crammed a needle-shedding Christmas tree, tinselled and borbled and sprayed white with fake snow. Uncles stood about smoking chunky cigars and telling lewd jokes. Aunties gathered in the kitchen to gossip over sips of advocaat. Cousins she barely remembered or hadn’t met before giggled and scampered, hovered looking bored or bragged and swaggered like their fathers. After the turkey and the pudding they gathered round the old upright piano. Aunty Iris punched some chords and the rest of the adults formed a circle in the middle of the living room and made enthusiastic attempts at Knees-up Mother Brown and the Hokie Cokie, while the older cousins rolled their eyes and stroked their iPhones.

Yvette had a great time. To her, the Grimms were a family united. She wasn’t to know the tensions and strains, the feuds and the fights, in all, the violent rip that sucked at the family psyche. She was innocent, the mind of the child adept at storing bad memories in the darkest corners. Leah lavished the Grimm-family story upon her years later, in those months after her father left, ensuring Yvette developed an unwavering loyalty to her and an unequivocal animosity towards him. At which point Yvette never again saw any member of the family Grimm.

She was due at Thomas’s at twelve. She put into a shopping bag a bottle of sparkling Chardonnay, and the large plastic tubs of potato salad and coleslaw she made last night.

Leaving the roaches to party by themselves, she slammed shut the front door and walked down the carpeted corridor and the six flights of concrete stairs passing no-one. There were no cars in the car park.

The streets were deserted. Walking past the neat frontage of one dwelling upon another, she imagined there’d been an exodus, her, the last remaining human of the suburbs, left to fight an apocalyptic battle with the cockroaches.

When she reached Thomas’s flat she was relieved to hear muffled voices and a radio playing somewhere. Before she knocked, Anthony flung open the front door and spread his arms wide. She was thrown for a moment by his effusive, ‘Ah, Yvette!’ He kissed her firmly on her lips and took her hand, pressing it between his own. ‘So good to see you again.’

‘And you.’

Anthony was exactly as she remembered him, slight of build with wispy fair hair a little shorter than he wore it in London, the same haughty eyes and a mouth drawn into a small smile that pulled slightly more to the left. He had the same effete manner, accentuated today by his outfit, a paisley-printed silk chemise cascading over loose ivory pants.

‘Yvette. Yvette. Yvette. It’s been too long.’

He steered her into the room. Laid out on the coffee table were small plates and napkins, bowls of peanuts and pretzels, champagne flutes and an opened bottle of sparkling wine. The room was uncommonly tidy and smelt faintly of patchouli oil.

Thomas called out from the bedroom. He appeared moments later straightening his shirt. ‘I was just getting changed,’ he said, blushing.

‘I brought some goodies,’ she said, raising the shopping bag. She put the bag on the kitchen bench and removed the contents. Anthony bustled up beside her. ‘Fridge,’ he said, abruptly, handing Thomas the bottle and the coleslaw.

‘Fridge?’ said Thomas, pointing at the potato salad.

‘No. Bench. Better warm. The flavours are more…,’ he kissed his fingertips, ‘Present.’

He opened one of the drawers, pulled out a sharp knife, deftly split and de-seeded three avocadoes, and mashed them in a glass bowl. ‘Lemon juice, garlic, a little chilli, a pinch of salt,’ he chanted, holding the last syllable of each phrase. He squeezed the juice of a lemon and tossed the squashed skin into the sink. ‘Tut, tut. You don’t belong in there,’ he said, plucking out a pip with his fingers. Yvette watched, amused. Then, with a knife hovering over four cloves of peeled garlic, he looked up at Thomas and said, ‘Where did you buy this?’

‘Coles.’

‘Never, never buy garlic from Coles.’ Antony waved the knife in Thomas’ direction, ‘It’s kept in cold storage until the flavour turns bitter.’

‘I’m sorry. I had no idea.’

‘We’ll survive,’ he said, rolling his eyes.

His reprimand, though playful, carried with it a certain malice. He winked mockingly in Yvette’s direction. ‘Shall we?’ he said, gesturing at the coffee table.

‘I’ll be one moment,’ Thomas said. With focused intent he arranged olives and crackers, strips of carrot and celery, and cubes of cheese on a platter.

Anthony sat cross-legged on the floor and poured the wine. Yvette joined him, taking up a space on the other side of the table. She took the glass he proffered. Through the adjoining wall, next door’s pop music reverberated in dull, muffled pulses. Once Thomas had sat down, choosing the straight-backed chair beside his music stand, she raised her glass.

‘Merry Christmas.’

‘To absent families,’ Anthony said.

‘Absent? I thought yours lived in Perth.’

‘They’re camping on a beach near Margaret River. Parents, three sisters, their husbands and a mob of nieces. I’m driving down tomorrow.’

Yvette glanced at Thomas as a look of anguish appeared in his face.

‘Respite from the heat and the dry of Kalgoorlie,’ she said positively. Then, keen to steer the conversation elsewhere for the sake of Thomas, she asked him how he enjoyed last night. He’d gone to the Fremantle Town Hall to listen to Kavisha Mazzella’s women’s choir, Le Gioie Delle Donne, sing Italian regional folk songs.

‘I know Kavisha,’ Anthony said, under his breath.

Thomas held her gaze. ‘Captivating,’ he said, dreamily, ‘And poignant. The hall was packed with a mixed crowd, but I was surrounded by Italian migrants. The woman seated next to me clutched a white handkerchief to her bosom and muttered to herself “Oh Mamma, Oh Mamma” through the whole performance.’

They all laughed.

Yvette reached for a pretzel. ‘Memories of home,’ she murmured, suddenly aware of Thomas’s Jewish heritage. The only son of an Orthodox mother, he’d struggled with guilt his whole adult life, over his lack of faith and his sexuality.

‘It fascinates me what motivates people to emigrate,’ said Anthony.

‘There’s no single reason,’ Yvette said, glancing at Thomas again, who looked tense. ‘Everyone has their own circumstances.’

‘Other than sun and sand and the great Aussie dream.’ He pointed his gaze at Yvette. ‘So, what were yours?’

She reached for another pretzel and dipped it in the guacamole.

‘Delicious,’ she said, between mouthfuls, relieved she wasn’t feeling nauseous.

‘Thank you, dear heart.’

‘I see what you mean about the garlic though.’

‘I’m surprised you didn’t know.’

‘I took it for granted. In Malta, garlic is always fresh.’

‘You haven’t answered my question. Why leave Malta and come here?’

‘England is too cold and too grey.’

‘You see? I told you. It’s always the same. The good old lucky country.’ He dipped a celery stick in the guacamole and waved it in her direction. ‘And your parents? Why did they come here?’

‘Is this an interrogation?’ she said with a short laugh.

‘Just curious.’

‘As you say, they wanted a better life.’

‘Did they get one?’

‘Not really. My dad worked in a factory and my mother was a cleaner.’

The muffled sound of the pop music next door droned annoyingly on. Yvette took a large gulp of her wine and grabbed a handful of olives. Anthony’s eyes never left her face.

‘You don’t strike me as the offspring of a factory worker and a cleaner, if you don’t mind me saying. There’s always been something, dare I say, more cultured in your manner.’

She bristled. ‘Is that so?’ she said, returning his gaze with a measure of contempt. ‘Well, I got an education.’

‘Ah of course. That explains you a little more. Here’s to education.’ Anthony raised his glass.

Yvette sat motionless, suddenly grateful that Thomas hadn’t thus far told Anthony she was pregnant.

Thomas, who had been tapping his arm rest and looking nervously back and forth from Anthony to Yvette, darted forward and grabbed a handful of pretzels. He didn’t appear to want to add to the conversation so Yvette shot Anthony a cold stare and said, ‘So tell me, how do you find the life out there in the wild west? All bandit and bordello, isn’t it? I expect you fit right in.’

‘Ha ha. Touché.’ Anthony laughed. ‘No bandits or brothels these days, although the legacy is there, sort of ingrained in the locals.’

Thomas was now tapping his fingers rhythmically on his thigh.

‘Do they still mine?’ Yvette said.

‘God yes. The Super Pit is still going. As the name suggests, it’s a massive open-cut gold mine. And just across the highway from my house.’

‘You can see it?’

‘No. It’s over the crest of a rise. But there’s a background drone sometimes. When the wind blows from the East.’

‘As it does,’ murmured Thomas.

‘As it does.’

‘And dust?’ she said.

‘Yes, even more dust.’

Thomas slurped back the rest of his wine and went to the kitchen. He returned moments later and laid out a seafood platter and a bowl of salad greens along with the coleslaw and potato salad.

‘Fabulous!’ Yvette said.

‘Thanks.’ Thomas gave her a cordial smile.

The conversation meandered along as they ate. Thomas engaged Anthony in an exchange about wild flowers and a visit they’d made to Wave Rock. Yet the atmosphere remained strained.

After lunch Yvette thought about leaving, hesitating when Thomas removed his violin from its case and adjusted the music stand. Following a brief and intense few moments of string tuning, he launched into the piece he’d been learning since Yvette arrived in Perth, Sibelius’ Valse triste, in D minor; an adorable piece but a dubious choice for Christmas Day. His body seemed rigid, thighs pressed together, head frozen to the side, a look of pained concentration on his face. Altogether there appeared not one jot of pleasure in his manner.

Anthony plucked a volume of Byron’s poetry from a bookcase and flopped into the armchair where he flicked through the pages, making pretences at reading a stanza here and there. Yvette wandered about the room. A single Christmas card leant against a hard cover of Jean Genet’s The Miracle of the Rose. The front of the card, embossed and speckled with glitter, displayed a bucolic Christmas scene. Inside, in shaky cursive, Thomas’s mother sent all her love and best wishes. She must miss him, her only son.

Sunshine streamed in through the window. Thomas played a last few wistful notes before setting down his violin to draw the curtain. He then moved on to play some equally melancholic tunes. Anthony now seemed engrossed in a poem so Yvette lay down on the floor and closed her eyes.

Christmas at Josie’s parent’s house was nothing like this. Their semi-detached home, set well back from a leafy street in Twickenham, had large bay windows, at that time of year festooned with decorations, the lights on the Christmas tree winking reds, yellows and blues at the darkness of the day. The house was a haven of genuine yuletide cheer, no accoutrement overlooked, from holly wreaths and mistletoe to novelty Santa napkin rings. Josie’s mum, a plump and homey woman who oozed benevolence, would pass round mulled wine, home-made sausage rolls and devils on horseback, before inviting the family to table to feast on roast turkey and Christmas pudding. Josie’s dad, a tall and portly man, would carve, and Josie’s siblings – two older brothers and a younger sister, all as charming as Josie – would ready themselves for the cracker pull. Then came the Drambuie and the mince pies, the nuts, the chocolates and even Turkish delight. Yvette pictured Josie, bedecked in seasonal red, throwing back her head and roaring with laughter at her dad’s attempt to convey Corpse Bride in charades. Present opening was the only time Yvette felt apprehensive, not over the exchange of gifts, she always gave them a bottle of good French wine and they gave her something carefully chosen, one year a box of oils, another a book on Dadaism. It was the well-meaning inquiry as to whether she was missing her family and what they were up to right there and then in Australia. Yvette was always evasive.

She wondered now what the prison guards offered the inmates at Curtin.

2.23

Boxing Day and Yvette was clasping a mug of tea out on the balcony in the cool of the early morning. The solitude, the vacuum left by yesterday’s company, memories of other Christmases and she’d woken wondering if she was doing the right thing bringing a child into the world, knowing she could never be like Josie’s mum. She knew that her last chance to have a termination was fast approaching. She reassured herself that she wasn’t having a baby to gain permanent residence, that no part of her, not even lurking unseen in her depths, held such a corrupt motive. She was bonded to her unborn child like a barnacle to a rock. Giving birth had become imperative, a seed she had planted in her psyche like a farmer experimenting with a new crop. And she knew with all the conviction of fate that the pregnancy was preordained. Therefore, she reasoned, it was her destiny and changing course now would lead to a lifetime of punishing loneliness.

Still, she felt restive.

She stood up and leaned against the balcony wall. The family in the suburban house below were again in their backyard: Women arranging tables, three men leaning over a barbecue. Looked like another celebration. Up until then, Yvette had been annoyed she’d been rostered on at the café. Now work seemed the better of the two locales. At least there she could pretend to be gainfully if precariously a part of this nation, and she didn’t want to spend a single moment more than she had to in this squalid little flat.

At the sight of the party preparations below, it occurred to her to host her own celebration. She would invite all of her Perth friends, which amounted to only a few, but even so, she wanted to prove to them and to herself she could throw a decent party. It would be her eve of New Year’s Eve party. Competition for the cockroaches.

Buoyed by the thought, she left the flat.

2.24

‘We are the reckless,’ Yvette sang, following the lyrics of Daughter playing on her new CD player, another Vinnie’s score, as she sashayed her way to the kitchen. ‘Olive anyone?’ she called out, pretending she could be as carefree as her guests were taciturn. So far her party had all the joie de vivre of a wake and it was all she could do to hide her displeasure.

‘Sure,’ said Rhys, plucking an olive from the bowl.

Dan, and his boyfriend Barry, a tanned and toned man with short hair and a moustache, sat quietly together on the sofa sipping champagne. Thomas was staring despondently at the carpet. Something had passed between him and Anthony on their way in and he hadn’t recovered. Anthony, elegantly dressed in a light-blue suit that loosely covered his slender frame, a trilby hat tilted over his pallid face shading his eyes, his mouth arranged as always in a pert ironic smile, had the enigmatic hauteur of a character from the silent-movie era.

‘I’m ninth generation Australian, or seventh depending on which side of the family I follow,’ he said, putting on an Aussie drawl. ‘They were migrants too. One of my ancestors came out on the Second Fleet, for having a forged one-pound note in his possession.’

‘And Australia has never recovered,’ Dan said, sardonically. They’d been discussing the Australia Day celebrations to be held at the Burswood Entertainment Centre, a multicultural extravaganza featuring scores of Perth’s migrant communities, and Anthony had chimed in with his usual flippancy.

Thomas raised his face to the others, snapping from despondency in a single breath. ‘Will indigenous Australians get a look in?’

‘For sure,’ Dan said.

‘Invited to cavort about to the sound of didgeridoos, no doubt,’ said Anthony.

‘They could stage a massacre.’ Thomas said with a laugh. ‘The custodians’ revenge.’

‘In keeping with The Chant of Jimmy Blacksmith. That would fit right in with my Year Tens.’ Anthony grinned and slapped his thigh.

Dan looked at him, reprovingly. There was an awkward silence.

Thomas and Anthony, seated in chairs on opposite sides of the living area, had started to flash conspiratorial looks at each other. Yvette was annoyed with both of them for being so ill-mannered, especially Anthony. In the little time she’d lived here even she knew the contentiousness of his remarks. And how could Thomas allow himself to be an accessory to Anthony’s poisonous badinage?

Rhys, who had said little all evening, leaned forward in his seat, apparently inspired by the banter to add his own witty remark. ‘Do the boat people have a spot?’

Anthony’s eyes sparkled. He shifted to the edge of his seat and said in a low, dramatic voice. ‘I can see it now. Ten short men, dressed in black, running on stage and crouching down pretending to be a boat pitching and rolling in a storm.’ He stood, removed his jacket and walked to the end of the sofa, turning abruptly and taking command of the room. ‘And then Varg Axenrot…’

‘Varg?’ Yvette said doubtfully.

‘The very same.’

‘Why Varg?’

‘Because he’s a head and shoulders taller than the rest. Now don’t interrupt or I’ll lose my thread.’ He flicked a censorious hand in her direction then went on. ‘Varg appears on stage in his peasant shirt and high-waisted pants and makes his way to the man-boat.’ He paused, casting a cantankerous eye around the room. ‘Then he steps aboard.’ He raised his left leg and made an exaggerated step. Thomas started snickering. ‘He’s standing at the helm with his hand to his forehead. The boat starts pitching and rolling then lists heavily to one side.’ Anthony swayed. ‘Then the starboard men tumble on the portside men leaving Varg flailing on the floor of the stage.’ A long pause to maximise impact. Thomas and Rhys were both grinning.

‘What happens next?’ Rhys asked.

Anthony shrugged as if the answer were obvious. ‘The men simulate waves by doing the Worm dance.’

Thomas laughed, loudly.

‘The worm dance?’ said Rhys.

‘The very same.’

Thomas took control of his laughter to explain.

‘And of course Varg worms his way to the front of the stage,’ Anthony said.

At this point Thomas doubled over, clutching his belly. ‘Do it, do it!’ he gasped.

‘The worm dance? You have to be kidding.’

Yvette was uneasy. She’d just glanced at Dan. He wore a face of granite.

Anthony bowed, sweeping his hands wide. ‘The perfect school play, don’t you think?’

‘You can’t be serious,’ Dan said, angrily.

‘Of course not. It’s just buffoonery.’

‘Fun? You think that was fun? You’re barbaric.’

‘Oh, come on,’ Anthony said, annoyed.

Dan stood abruptly and motioned to Barry to do the same. ‘Yvette, I’m sorry. We must be going. Thanks for inviting us.’

‘Please, don’t go.’

‘I’m afraid of what I might do if I don’t.’ He picked up his jacket and walked to the door. ‘All the best with your painting.’

‘Thanks.’

At the door, she kissed them both goodbye and thanked them for coming, catching Dan’s gaze with a shoulder-raised smile.

‘Yvette,’ Anthony said, the moment she closed the door. ‘What are you painting? Do tell.’

‘Nothing, really.’ She went across the room to the CD player and pressed play not caring if they heard the same tracks twice. Then she went to refill glasses.

‘Not for me,’ Thomas said, covering his glass with his hand.

‘Me neither darling.’

Anthony gave Yvette a weak hug and fetched his jacket. Thomas kissed her cheek, mumbling in her ear an apologetic see you soon, then pulling back with a quick glance at her belly. Rhys scurried out of the door ahead of them.

Yvette was dismayed by their sudden departure. This had to be the worst party she’d ever hosted, eclipsing even the time Carlos threw a party in the month before they’d left for Bali, and Yvette had imprudently invited Josie.

Josie had never liked Carlos. She’d warned Yvette to keep away from him the very first time he’d entered the bar where they both worked. It was about six months into her stay, and Yvette was about to fly back to London, when Carlos breezed in, all grand gestures and camaraderie. He sat on a bar stool with his arms resting wide apart on the counter and caught her eye. Four beers later and he was taking her home. Before she left the bar, Josie had grabbed her arm with a hissing, ‘he’s no good.’ But five years of strict self-discipline and study had left her hankering for adventure; like a long-stabled filly released in an open field, she was all frisky, heels a-kicking ready to gallop off full pelt.

Four years with Carlos and she’d developed a taste for spliffs and sniffing white powders. She’d resigned from the bar, moved in with him and tinkered with simple-jewellery making to keep occupied while he was away doing business. Many times Josie had told her Carlos was dangerous. Yvette didn’t want to hear it. She knew. She knew he was a womaniser and a crook. She didn’t care. She also knew she was going through a phase. That she’d never fully let herself go, there remained the onlooker, fascinated with the lifestyle she found herself in. Josie didn’t see things that way.

At that party Yvette told Josie she was pregnant. They were standing by the pool surrounded by sparsely clad sylphs with glossy hair and smart-suited men with swanky attitudes and brash mouths. The air was redolent with French perfume. No sooner had the words left her lips, she realised she’d made a mistake. Josie wasted no time telling her under no circumstances to go through with the pregnancy or she’d be tied to that ne’er-do-well for life. Then she left and Yvette hadn’t seen her since.

Now she couldn’t understand Josie’s or for that matter, Thomas’ attitude. What right did they have to dictate what she did with her body?

A short while later there was a light knock on the door. It was Heather.

‘So sorry I’m late.’ They hugged on the threshold and Heather handed her a bottle of red.

‘I’m pleased you made it. The others have left.’

‘Oh no! Am I that late?’

‘They left early. Long story. Come on in.’

She’d invited Heather two days before, the last on her guest list. She’d been uncertain about the social mix and when Heather had explained a prior engagement, fully expected her not to show up. Now she was here Yvette was unsure where to take the conversation. Fortunately Heather took the lead. ‘How was Christmas?’ she said, following Yvette to the kitchen.

‘Okay, and you?’

‘The same as ever. Dad was in his usual dour Christmas mood and Angus lounged about in a half-drunken stupor all afternoon.’

They both laughed. Yvette filled their glasses and they sat down on the sofa.

‘Help yourself,’ she said, gesturing at the food.

‘Thanks.’ Heather sat back in her seat. ‘Must have been hard not being with your folks again.’

‘Not especially. Mum spent the day with my sister’s lot.’

‘You don’t sound that close to your sister.’

‘Debbie? Ten years separation has taken its toll.’

She thought of her sister, her brood, their doting grandmother.

Heather didn’t speak. Her face took on a reflective expression.

She sipped her wine. ‘You don’t have children?’ she said, stating what seemed obvious yet she couldn’t be sure.

‘No. Not yet. My ex-husband wasn’t inclined.’

‘How long were you married?’

‘Three years.’

‘What when wrong if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘Nothing. He came out.’

‘Oh.’ It occurred to her fortuitous the others had left. Not that any one of them might have been Heather’s former husband. What would Heather have made of her coterie of gay friends? Certainly she wasn’t the sort to hold a grudge against an entire group but nevertheless Yvette was relieved Heather hadn’t met Anthony. She glanced in the direction of the balcony and spied a cockroach ambling towards the kitchen cupboards. Her revulsion more intense than ever, she groaned.

‘What is it?’ Heather looked concerned.

‘A cockroach.’

‘He’s out early.’

‘He’ll be the scout. Do cockroaches have scouts? All I know is this place is infested.’

Heather grimaced. ‘They’re disgusting.’

‘I know.’

‘Have you tried an insecticide bomb?’

‘Didn’t seem to make a difference.’

‘They’re tenacious buggers.’

‘You’re telling me.’

They were silent for a while. Yvette stared into her glass.

‘Are you okay?’ Heather said, softly.

Yvette sighed. ‘I have to get out of this place. It’s driving me nuts.’

‘I can imagine,’ Heather said, looking around.

‘It isn’t just the roaches. I feel like a prisoner in here.’

‘It is rather, um, cell-like.’

‘Trouble is Heather,’ she said, succumbing to an urge to confide, ‘I can’t afford to rent anywhere on what I earn and I don’t want to go back to my mother’s farm.’

‘No, don’t do that.’ She seemed thoughtful for a moment. Then she said, ‘Would you like to stay with me?’

‘With you?’

‘I have a spare room. Angus is staying with me at the moment but he’s moving on soon. So help me.’ She raised her eyes to the ceiling with a playful shake of her head.

‘Where do you live?’

‘Fremantle. When do you need to be out of here?’

‘Yesterday.’

‘Can you hold out till Australia Day? Angus should be gone by then.’

‘I think I can manage a few more weeks.’

‘Then it’s settled.’

‘How much is the room?’

‘Nothing. I couldn’t charge you rent.’

‘But…’

‘No buts. You are my oldest friend.’

‘Heather, thank you. Thank you so much.’

‘I take it you don’t have a car.’