Roy stood alone at sunrise in his sparse, pale-blue laminate kitchen, and gazed out the window. His neighbour, a mere few meters away, was already powering confidently down her geranium-edged garden path on an equally vivacious canary-yellow scooter. As he sipped a bitter black tea and alternated between bites of overripe banana, Roy observed the contrast between them. He felt every bit of his ninety-four years these days, straining against the effort that just standing now required. Bringing the trembling teacup to his lips, Roy fully surrendered to the realisation that optimism would no longer be enough to stop the years from catching up with him. His body was winding down. It showed in the clouding taking place across his senses; ears permanently full of cotton-wool, shiny eyes dimming with creeping darkness. The softening tide-out effect on his muscles and bones was all so gradual it didn’t bother him anymore. He’d come to think of it as quite an impressive final ruse by the creator, to making defeat: the permanent lie-down enveloped in hushed darkness, appealing. But the hardest part of aging was losing the people he loved, and of those, there had never been many. Today would be his first birthday without Jack and Gus. Only he and Vera remained. Resolution seeping in with each sip. Today was the day — he was finally going to tell her.
Roy finished his tea and shuffled over to the worn, floral recliner in the sunroom. Normally, he’d spend mornings riding his trike around town collecting cans to raise donations for the Sisters of the Sacred Heart. But today, Roy felt too preoccupied. He’d been fussing all week, tidying the already tidy unit for Vera’s arrival. He glanced at the vase of Madonna Lilies on the dining table, beginning to open in shared anticipation. As Roy dispensed the morning’s pills, his mind wandered, to recent contented and clear afternoons spent with Gus, ambling along the rock wall of the estuary. Chatting as they watched the oystercatchers hard at work. Plunging much further, he thought back to the death of his parents. Roy had only been six. That tender, bittersweet age, before he could keep a firm grasp on his memories. He and Jack had been codified and delivered — as orphans — to the nearby Kilkurney Catholic Home for Boys. The following ten years of Roy’s life had been largely devoid of any form of love or affection, except for that given constantly by Jack and eventually cultivated by the Donohues.
Jack was Roy’s North Star. Despite the three years between them, Jack had always waited for his little brother to catch up, steadfast and unwavering in his protectiveness over Roy. Pity and indifference had served the brothers well at the orphanage, leaving them to look after each other. Roy had realised early on that Jack could have left him to flounder under the cruel weight of the pecking order, shouldered with too much pressure for a young lad, with all that pain inside. But it was never like that. Their parents’ death had shaped and welded them imperviously together. The brothers could talk about anything, which meant they didn’t talk much at all, didn’t need to. They beat with the same heart, no competition between them. Roy knew why they had always chosen to keep things that way. Spending life side-by-side in dependable, simple companionship. The guilt from leaving the other would never have been worth it. They’d carried on together, intentionally oblivious to the speculative murmurs following them as they aged — what’s wrong with them, why have they never married? Formative years in the orphanage had whittled down their small arms that reached for role models or relationships. Clipped and shamed by shrouded nuns, unfamiliar with the ways of boys. As a result, the brothers had remained incredibly reticent around the fairer sex.
Dubbo in the 1940s meant sheep and grain. From the age of eleven, Kilkurney orphans spent their weekends with local farming families who benefited from quick feet and the spirited, labouring hands of the lads. Jack and Roy were lucky to be sent to the Donohue’s, who became the first and only real family they’d ever know. John and Rita Donohue had two children, Gus and Vera. Their imposing white timber homestead with its rusty tin roof and brick chimneys contrasted brilliantly against the burnt Australian earth. Wide and welcoming wraparound verandas were protected by fragrant rosemary bushes and clumps of marigolds. The gardens, home, and their inhabitants, all tenacious through the dry spells. Despite the tiring and sweaty work expected from them, the brothers were overjoyed to escape the confines of Kilkurney. Their amiable and hard-working natures, paired with a shared endearing bashfulness, led to their physical weekends soon becoming filled with the unusual sound of a family’s open-hearted laughter across the dining table, over cream-of-the-crop breakfasts, lunches, and dinners. It was lead-heavy disappointment that shadowed Roy along that dusty path each Sunday evening, as they returned to town. Even today, a lifetime later, he could still picture looking back towards the Donohue’s house, the setting sun highlighting its greatness with crepuscular rays.
From the moment Roy met Vera, something shifted in him. He’d already become attached to Gus; they were the same age and shared a similar, easy-going nature as they moved about the paddocks. But in Vera, whose presence was more elusive, something had been different. His small world had teetered and opened a crack, making space for someone he curiously sought. Throughout their lives, Roy had observed Vera flourish. From a slight, reserved, and watchful girl into a decisive and tall, caramel-haired woman. Her inquisitive grey eyes remained perilously capable of luring thoughts. She’d always conjured a troubling sensation in Roy when she was near. Such an urge to reach for her, with vacant time and space to brush against her skin, just to see if it was as soft as he’d imagined. Roy was unsure what to do with this feeling, unable to articulate it even if he’d wanted to. Blushing, eyes downcast, he’d wait for it to pass. This was the only secret he’d ever kept from Jack and Gus. His stomach lurched in shameful guilt at the thought of them discovering it.
Whilst Roy lent back in his recliner, lost in rumination, Vera, at the convent of the Sisters of the Sacred Heart, was waving goodbye to an early-rising colleague. Beginning her familiar journey to Roy. As the faithful red Mazda rolled into life, a wave of sorrow engulfed her. Picturing Roy’s birthday lunch today without their two brothers — the knot had separated. Vera slowly reversed down the driveway, her thoughts mirroring pace. She heartened knowing the boys had shared their final years together in the retirement village. Roy and Jack had relocated from the farm during Jack’s long illness, with Gus moving right next door following his wife’s death a few years later. Gus and Dana had never been able to have children, due to some kind of incompatibility between the two in that respect. If the circumstances of Jack’s final years had not been so painful, they would have all chuckled over the serendipity in the flipped scene. Now that it was Vera and Gus making frequent weekend visits to the brothers’ riverside home, Jim Rummy, shandies, and Shepherd’s pie. The joyful ease had never faded, and each time Vera climbed back into her car to return to the convent, she had the fleeting sensation she was heading in the wrong direction. When stoic and noble Jack eventually let go, Vera stayed. Understanding through her own retrospective, just how monumentally off-kilter his loss would be for Roy—a one-winged-bird effect. She had cooked and clucked over Roy for weeks until Gus quietly assured her that he was there to fill the void, promising to let her know how he was going. She’d visit on weekends whenever she could.
When Vera reluctantly left, the two men had melded into life’s new flow, released from the troublesome ache of caring for someone you love, knowing they are soon to leave. Then out of the blue, only last month, Gus shocked them both by passing suddenly. Since then, she’d hovered in a strange, purposeless limbo; not even her faith could rouse her. Driving the three hours back and forth between Roy and her home at the convent, she felt oddly adrift and increasingly unsure of her place. So accustomed to firm footing and a resolute higher purpose, Vera now couldn’t decide if she was getting in the way of Roy, preaching too much. She couldn’t figure out what he needed from her anymore, and there was a new awkwardness to their time together. That unsettled her. Perhaps she was just weary, from digging through so much sentimentality and the jarring impact of loss. Her newfound overthinking was also leading to a lack of recognition of the white-haired vision staring back at her in the mirror these days. She kept expecting to see herself as a young woman and couldn’t fathom how she was quite so old. Her Sisters told her it was shock. “Really?” she scoffed and shook her head. All she wanted now, was to be back by the briny river with Roy; he’d always managed to steady her. She just needed to air her thoughts with him. As Vera settled into the familiar drive, long-rejected memories of another birthday came flooding back. The brothers had arrived with gifts for her eighteenth birthday weekend — blue eyes crinkled with laughter. Jack’s nougat chocolates had been delicious, but it was Roy’s small gift, wrapped in muslin and left quietly on her pillow, that had moved her to tears — a delicate golden brooch, a love-knot with three red rubies.
Roy had always seemed unaware that Vera entertained feelings for him, her constant. The patient gentleman who’d emerged from the quiet boy, sharing stories around the table for as long as she could recall. Vera had always felt an undercurrent when Roy was close; she was drawn to him. That weekend, she’d been struck by what that feeling really meant. Roy and Jack were a set, always the two of them. They’d become well and truly embedded into her family over the years they had been helping on the farm, eventually taking on permanent positions. Her parents loved them like sons. She loved them too, but it was different with Roy. Vera had always been quietly pleased he had never mentioned meeting a special lady, not even after Gus married. But then again, neither had Jack. Vera allowed a painful memory to settle; sitting alone, atop one of the farm’s towering cement water tanks. An afternoon rainstorm had just passed. Petrichor filled the air, and a warm breeze brushed against her skin; spotted gums danced in the fading light. Roy had left that morning. Standing on the veranda, she’d reached to hug him goodbye. Their bodies had momentarily pressed tightly together, and feeling brave, she’d circled her hands around his warm neck, seeking. The sure and surging ripples of both calm and yearning that spread throughout her, forced an immense realisation. Roy unraveled himself and gently placed her hands back by her side, squeezing them. As their eyes met, he’d quietly murmured in her ear, “Happy birthday Vera. You take care now.” Jack appeared through the doorway and ruffled her hair, then the two strode off down the path, without looking back. As quickly as her hope had risen, it departed. She knew they’d never have a life together in the way she wanted. Roy and Jack were a forged pair; they wouldn’t abandon each other, even if they wanted to. That afternoon, huddled tightly on the water tank, the scented open-air had wrapped its arms around her, coaxing Vera from listlessness. She recalled feeling deeply crushed but also, oddly guided. The very next day, she had resolutely called on the Sacred Heart convent and expressed her desire to be considered for postulancy. Throughout the six wonderful decades that followed, she had dedicated herself to the service of God. Vera’s love for Roy had always remained.
Today was the day she would tell him; now it was just the two of them. The more she toyed with the idea, the more she knew it was the answer to her self-consciousness. There was no longer anyone else she could hide behind. She imagined him laughing at her confession kindly, or holding a shocked expression as he fumbled to check if his hearing aids were working, perhaps even flippantly dismissing her as having a school-girl crush provoked by loneliness. Either way, they would sit in the sunroom overlooking the glistening river, and admire the seabirds sipping on cold shandies between fresh prawns. Hopefully, raising the confession, would settle the new distance between them. Suddenly, Vera marveled at the notion — what if he felt the same? She absentmindedly fiddled with the clasp of her brooch. She pictured Roy standing up from his recliner, still an impressive man after all these years, albeit with fading vision and a preference for brown bananas. He’d hold eye contact and circle around the table towards her, until his warm hands were around her softened waist. That would be enough, she thought. Just to feel his arms around me, without restriction. She sighed deeply, a momentary reprieve from a tautness she didn’t realise she held. If he did, Vera decided, God would understand; she’d learnt that much by now. She would need to be released from her vows.
Only an hour to go, passing Yamba and the sugar-cane mills with their belching plumes. Vera’s alabaster colouring and cream pantsuit contrasted thoughtfully with the golden brooch she always wore, pinned across her heart. She smiled again, at the memory of receiving it, the delight in the flashing red rubies. Feeling more relaxed with each kilometer passing, and eager to arrive, she turned the radio onto Paradise FM and hummed along to ‘Fire and Rain’. As she was lost in this place of re-founded hope and the potential of love’s surprising twists where time holds no bounds, a semitrailer crossed lanes towards her on the highway. “Thought I'd see you one more time again. There’s just a few things coming my way this time around, now. Thought I’d see you…”. A blur of cream and red.