Free The Heaven I Swallowed by Rachel Hennessy

really tasting it.
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    Mr Roper’s FJ Holden smelt of the thin brown cigars, or cigarillos, I often saw him smoking after church. His house seemed to have avoided the stale stench and it had compensated by ingraining itself into the upholstery of the car. I tried not to let it remind me of Fred, concentrating on the solid chin of Mr Roper beside me.
    We began driving slowly through the back streets, retreading ground I had already walked along although I did not point this out to Mr Roper. A man’s search needed to be self-directed and any comments from me would sound like nagging. The boys were still playing marbles near the statue although they had moved along the path to catch the shade cast by a hydrangea bush. I was struck by the absurdity of expecting Mary to be out here. She would be much further away by now. Could I really expect to see her strolling benignly past the sprinkler-dotted lawns, the rose beds, the concrete effigies of her tribesmen, those plaster savages who stood on one leg in front gardens for eternity?
    â€˜That one is in good shape.’ Mr Roper nodded over to one of these blackman–gnomes as we crawled past. Its red loincloth was perfectly vermilion and even the tip of its spear was intact.
    â€˜We could take him home,’ Mr Roper said. ‘I’m sure no one would notice the difference.’
    He laughed at his joke. I could only manage to raise a smile.
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    At first I was not even aware my subtle directions were manipulating us towards Hyde Park. Perhaps there was also a part of Mr Roper that was naturally drawn to the city. I had often seen his face animated with descriptions of the centre—‘all that hustle and bustle’—his voice longing for a life he could not find in the suburbs.
    Whatever it was, we soon found ourselves driving down William Street, following the tram down the hill. I felt the sensation of being completely out of control as we dipped and then rose again along the avenue, so much so that I wanted to grab at the wheel just to have something to hold onto. To prevent this, I clung to the inside door handle. I saw Mr Roper glance over and see my grip. He did not say anything, nor did he reduce his acceleration. I could not determine if his thin smile was one of amusement or annoyance. How little I knew about this man, our lives travelling next to each other these past five years without ever truly joining.
    â€˜Where in the city, do you think?’ he asked, as if in reply to an unvoiced question. I told him to park on Elizabeth Street.
    We walked along the footpath towards the southern entrance of the park. We did not hurry. Our pace was similar, we moved side by side. The ride in the car had revived my legs and feet, yet it was not just this that created the odd feeling of being there but somehow above it all. I was holding myself tall, at ease. At the kiosk families recovered from the heat with glasses of lemonade. With a strange awareness, I saw a slender mother leaning into a pram to check her baby’s temperature, knowing I would appear to be a wife too, out with my husband for an afternoon stroll. To have a man by my side again. That was it. What did it matter if he was not actually my spouse? What did it matter if this wasn’t the absolute truth?
    We pushed on through the humidity. As we got closer to the ANZAC memorial I was tempted to take Mr Roper’s arm, to maintain the illusion for a little longer. By this point, however, there was no one around to see. The steps up to the cenotaph were deserted, their pink stone absorbing heat and throwing up an unwelcoming glare. I had to shade my eyes with my hand, negotiating the ascent through the slits of my fingers as Mr Roper barrelled on ahead of me. I had told him Mary might have wanted to see inside the memorial, see what I had not shown her. This was my only, rather weak, explanation for coming here.
    A young couple stood in the circular Hall of Memory, both