Commended: Fiction, Christopher Ryan
Chris Ryan is a Sydney-based freelance writer. In the search for a story, he has hitchhiked across Australia, hunted for the Tasmanian tiger and been run over by a rodeo bull. Lately he’s done his research from the safety of his desk, as he helps raise a three-year-old and a newborn baby.
One Last Job
Sid pulled the blanket up to Daisy’s chin and tucked it beneath her thin shoulders. She looked like she was in a funeral shroud but in the last few months he’d found it was the best way to keep the cold out and the gas bill down.
He swung his frail legs off the side of the bed and eased himself onto the floor. He braced himself against the wall as he walked slowly from the bedroom. Everything was slow these days.
In the kitchen he hit the light switch. The globe had been blown for weeks. Cockroaches comfortable in the dark were startled by the noise. They scurried into the cracks between the bench top and the wall.
Plates, bowls and cups were piled in the sink. Sid laid the mismatched crockery on the bench and pulled the plug from the sink. A dirty black scum line was left halfway down. The drain clogged with rotted vegetables. He found detergent and a fresh scouring pad in the cupboard under the sink.
Sid and Daisy must have been married for ten years before Sid had even washed a dish. He was showing their oldest, Claire, how easy it was to help her mother. Daisy – ever the proud housekeeper – marched into the kitchen, while she was still nursing Tom, and ordered him out.
He only really started helping in the kitchen after he retired. At first Daisy had been protective of her turf. “What did we build you a shed for?” she’d joke as he fumbled about. “You’re only getting in the way.” It was at least a month until she started to teach him what to do. She was surprised at how handy he was with a knife.
Water pooled under the stack of washed crockery and cutlery. Sid hadn’t bothered to use the dish rack. He pulled a stained dishcloth off the oven handle and did the drying. Daisy would sing as she dried the dishes: silly ditties she made up on the spot. Sid wished he could remember one of those songs now. He wiped down the benches, catching breadcrumbs and food scraps in his cupped palm. He dropped the muck into the sink, ran the taps, and forced it down the drain.
Exhausted from doing the dishes: that’s what old age does to you. Sid sat at the dining table just outside the kitchen. The doorframe to the kitchen was scarred with marks showing the children’s height from each year. Now even the marks from their early teens loomed above Sid as he had stooped with osteoporosis.
His eye was drawn to the faint notch cut at around five foot one. He had wanted to sand it out or replace the frame altogether. Daisy, when she had finished with her grieving, had told him to snap out of it. They were lucky for the time they had together and the children they still had.
Her faith had given her strength. His own faith – just as strong – had left him burdened by guilt. He was being punished. He grew more protective of the other children, lest the Lord seek payment in kind again.
When the rest of the family went to Sunday Mass, he stayed at home and mowed the lawn. He would still go to confession after a job, hoping absolution would spare his family from more disaster. Maybe it had.
Sid ran the vacuum over the carpet in the lounge room. He gathered the yellowed newspapers and threw them in the bin outside. The garden was still looking immaculate. That was the one thing he had kept up. It was the one thing that still meant something to Daisy.
She might forget what day it was, or what decade. Her own children’s names would be a muddle. Still, she could look out the window and rattle off the botanical names for the half-dozen rose bushes and camellias in bloom in the backyard.
He had been wearing a camellia in his buttonhole when they met. It was on the tram from Parramatta into the city. She sat by herself, a hatbox in her lap. There was something in her looks: a majesty that kept any man from daring to sit by her.
It was blind luck that Sid was standing by her when a horse darted in front of the tram. The driver slammed on the brakes, the carriage lurched forward, and Sid’s flower slipped from his buttonhole into Daisy’s lap. The way she smiled as she handed it back to Sid, it broke his heart to remember. Those tram tracks were pulled up decades ago. That quaint meeting belonged to another time.
In the bathroom Sid squirted some detergent around the rim of the toilet bowl and gave it a scrub. He had always been a meticulous cleaner. Every job had looked like an accident. If you wanted to make a statement, you could hire any mug. When you wanted to make sure there was no fall out, you called Sid.
The bathroom had been the centre of their lives for the last few months. It was all sponge baths and diaper changes. Sometimes Sid felt he was making up for the work he hadn’t done when the children were babies.
Now, after a morning’s cleaning, the whole the house was looking respectable. Burn it down for all I care, Sid had said. Respectable: that was what Daisy had asked for.
He turned on the computer Tom had bought them so they could join the 21st century and opened the email. The letter had been written months ago when the signs were unavoidable. He clicked send and heard a whooshing sound as the message shot off to wherever it went.
In the kitchen Sid opened the cabinet above the fridge and pulled down a small white plastic basket. There were boxes of paracetamol, blood pressure tablets, Band-Aids and half-finished packets of antibiotics. Sid found the orange canister he was looking for. He unscrewed the white child-safe cap and tipped the tablets into his hand. He crossed himself as if taking communion. “Forgive me father, for I have sinned. I have sinned mightily.”
Standing over the sink he forced the tablets into his mouth. A couple slipped between his fingers into the sink. He bent over the tap and took a gulp of water, then snatched up the extra tablets and swallowed them, too.
Sid hobbled back to his bedroom. He stripped off his clothes, folded them and placed them on the floor by the bed. He climbed into bed and edged towards Daisy. He had taken too long getting their home in order. She was already cold.
Sid lay on his side and faced Daisy. Her eyes were closed and her face relaxed. The furrows that had marked her forehead as confusion plagued her were erased. She could almost be sleeping. He wrapped an arm around her body, trying to share some of his warmth.
As Sid drifted off he felt an incredible sadness. He had decided long ago that this was the best possible ending. The two of them, who had shared so much, should share this too.
Now it pained him to think that no one would know how dazzling Daisy has been. She would only be remembered through sepia-toned photos. Her children knew her as a loving mother who tended to scraped knees and sewed school uniforms. Her grandchildren knew her as a nice old lady who cooked well and smelt funny.
Nobody but Sid knew how her smile could make a heart sing, how her laughter could light a dark day. Nobody knew how she had glided across the dance floor at their wedding, or how tender she was in his arms: how she had made him feel whole when he was broken. There was nobody who could sing her praises once he was gone.
Only Sid knew the real Daisy, the whole woman, and he couldn’t live without her. So the only real memory of Daisy would die with him. As he closed his eyes he told himself, this was still the best possible ending.
He swung his frail legs off the side of the bed and eased himself onto the floor. He braced himself against the wall as he walked slowly from the bedroom. Everything was slow these days.
In the kitchen he hit the light switch. The globe had been blown for weeks. Cockroaches comfortable in the dark were startled by the noise. They scurried into the cracks between the bench top and the wall.
Plates, bowls and cups were piled in the sink. Sid laid the mismatched crockery on the bench and pulled the plug from the sink. A dirty black scum line was left halfway down. The drain clogged with rotted vegetables. He found detergent and a fresh scouring pad in the cupboard under the sink.
Sid and Daisy must have been married for ten years before Sid had even washed a dish. He was showing their oldest, Claire, how easy it was to help her mother. Daisy – ever the proud housekeeper – marched into the kitchen, while she was still nursing Tom, and ordered him out.
He only really started helping in the kitchen after he retired. At first Daisy had been protective of her turf. “What did we build you a shed for?” she’d joke as he fumbled about. “You’re only getting in the way.” It was at least a month until she started to teach him what to do. She was surprised at how handy he was with a knife.
Water pooled under the stack of washed crockery and cutlery. Sid hadn’t bothered to use the dish rack. He pulled a stained dishcloth off the oven handle and did the drying. Daisy would sing as she dried the dishes: silly ditties she made up on the spot. Sid wished he could remember one of those songs now. He wiped down the benches, catching breadcrumbs and food scraps in his cupped palm. He dropped the muck into the sink, ran the taps, and forced it down the drain.
Exhausted from doing the dishes: that’s what old age does to you. Sid sat at the dining table just outside the kitchen. The doorframe to the kitchen was scarred with marks showing the children’s height from each year. Now even the marks from their early teens loomed above Sid as he had stooped with osteoporosis.
His eye was drawn to the faint notch cut at around five foot one. He had wanted to sand it out or replace the frame altogether. Daisy, when she had finished with her grieving, had told him to snap out of it. They were lucky for the time they had together and the children they still had.
Her faith had given her strength. His own faith – just as strong – had left him burdened by guilt. He was being punished. He grew more protective of the other children, lest the Lord seek payment in kind again.
When the rest of the family went to Sunday Mass, he stayed at home and mowed the lawn. He would still go to confession after a job, hoping absolution would spare his family from more disaster. Maybe it had.
Sid ran the vacuum over the carpet in the lounge room. He gathered the yellowed newspapers and threw them in the bin outside. The garden was still looking immaculate. That was the one thing he had kept up. It was the one thing that still meant something to Daisy.
She might forget what day it was, or what decade. Her own children’s names would be a muddle. Still, she could look out the window and rattle off the botanical names for the half-dozen rose bushes and camellias in bloom in the backyard.
He had been wearing a camellia in his buttonhole when they met. It was on the tram from Parramatta into the city. She sat by herself, a hatbox in her lap. There was something in her looks: a majesty that kept any man from daring to sit by her.
It was blind luck that Sid was standing by her when a horse darted in front of the tram. The driver slammed on the brakes, the carriage lurched forward, and Sid’s flower slipped from his buttonhole into Daisy’s lap. The way she smiled as she handed it back to Sid, it broke his heart to remember. Those tram tracks were pulled up decades ago. That quaint meeting belonged to another time.
In the bathroom Sid squirted some detergent around the rim of the toilet bowl and gave it a scrub. He had always been a meticulous cleaner. Every job had looked like an accident. If you wanted to make a statement, you could hire any mug. When you wanted to make sure there was no fall out, you called Sid.
The bathroom had been the centre of their lives for the last few months. It was all sponge baths and diaper changes. Sometimes Sid felt he was making up for the work he hadn’t done when the children were babies.
Now, after a morning’s cleaning, the whole the house was looking respectable. Burn it down for all I care, Sid had said. Respectable: that was what Daisy had asked for.
He turned on the computer Tom had bought them so they could join the 21st century and opened the email. The letter had been written months ago when the signs were unavoidable. He clicked send and heard a whooshing sound as the message shot off to wherever it went.
In the kitchen Sid opened the cabinet above the fridge and pulled down a small white plastic basket. There were boxes of paracetamol, blood pressure tablets, Band-Aids and half-finished packets of antibiotics. Sid found the orange canister he was looking for. He unscrewed the white child-safe cap and tipped the tablets into his hand. He crossed himself as if taking communion. “Forgive me father, for I have sinned. I have sinned mightily.”
Standing over the sink he forced the tablets into his mouth. A couple slipped between his fingers into the sink. He bent over the tap and took a gulp of water, then snatched up the extra tablets and swallowed them, too.
Sid hobbled back to his bedroom. He stripped off his clothes, folded them and placed them on the floor by the bed. He climbed into bed and edged towards Daisy. He had taken too long getting their home in order. She was already cold.
Sid lay on his side and faced Daisy. Her eyes were closed and her face relaxed. The furrows that had marked her forehead as confusion plagued her were erased. She could almost be sleeping. He wrapped an arm around her body, trying to share some of his warmth.
As Sid drifted off he felt an incredible sadness. He had decided long ago that this was the best possible ending. The two of them, who had shared so much, should share this too.
Now it pained him to think that no one would know how dazzling Daisy has been. She would only be remembered through sepia-toned photos. Her children knew her as a loving mother who tended to scraped knees and sewed school uniforms. Her grandchildren knew her as a nice old lady who cooked well and smelt funny.
Nobody but Sid knew how her smile could make a heart sing, how her laughter could light a dark day. Nobody knew how she had glided across the dance floor at their wedding, or how tender she was in his arms: how she had made him feel whole when he was broken. There was nobody who could sing her praises once he was gone.
Only Sid knew the real Daisy, the whole woman, and he couldn’t live without her. So the only real memory of Daisy would die with him. As he closed his eyes he told himself, this was still the best possible ending.
