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it a second go at fifty, the grand-son of a wild Irish colonial boy turned
factory worker, a militant for Aboriginal land rights whose mother had
been fascinated by the male spirit of the National Guard, he could sense
the same kind of contradiction mirrored in the domesticated germinating
process of kangaroo paw seeds or in the behaviour of a banksia in a
plastic container.
Undoubtedly his last visit to Carol at her home in Lane Cove
was contributing a fair share to the general ambiguity of his status as
the solitary owner of the “Wild Waratah” nursery in French’s Forest.
Contrary to his expectations, no clear progress had been made towards
an agreement on the terms of their living together, no date had been set
for Carol and baby La to move to Fred’s place, only the principle of their
future marriage had been evoked again, half jokingly, by Carol. Fred had
not dared to demand a firm commitment on her part. At times during the
vegetarian meal, he had felt offended by her attitude: “However much
he was attracted to this woman, he wasn’t going to become anybody’s
plaything at his age; better stay alone the rest of his life than be trampled
under that stampeding superiority complex which grew from Carol’s fears
and pain and outgrew them beyond reason.” But suddenly she smiled,
to him or the baby, a disarmingly spontaneous smile, with no calculated
seduction, nothing contrived about it. He knew that, when that smile
occurred in her broad bony face, she had simply forgotten everything
but life itself, and he was enthralled by this capacity of “being in it”
without stopping to think what it was that she was in. She had lost the
ability long ago, but it was still there nevertheless, she had lost it within
herself, so that the depth of his love for her might be able to restore it
and drag it back permanently to the surface of her mind.
Today, a couple of weeks later, it was her turn to visit him. 5.15:
closing time was near, three or four pensioners were still choosing ferns in
the most shaded part of the nursery, not very far from the cash register.
The cashier, a pretty, cuddly redhead in her late twenties, saw him look at
his watch as he carted some bagged peat moss towards the front section of
the shop, next to the annuals’ seedlings; she smiled: perhaps she thought
he would ask her to stay for dinner as he did from time to time. He had
cooked curried eggplants and a few other green delicacies earlier in the
afternoon. They had been sleeping together once in a while ever since
his wife had left him four years ago. Sexual exploitation? This boss and
employee liaison was one more of the many moral dilemmas that kept
nagging him as he grew older. Pat was not very talkative about personal
matters, perhaps a bit shallow rather than secretive, although he did not
like to judge her by cultural standards that were not even his own. He
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