Somehow, this weekend had just crept up on them. There weren't any activities that had caught their attention during the last week or so, the locations, exhibitions or car trips that might fire one's imagination for a day trip. Late Spring, there should have been hundreds of things to do, but come Saturday morning Annette realised with a start that this weekend was "empty."
They built a list of odd jobs, repairs and the like, on the kitchen notice board. They both updated that job list as minor irritants surfaced during the week, and the local hardware store usually profited best from the Saturday morning "bits’n’pieces" shopping foray. This week, there was a kitchen cupboard hinge had collapsed, otherwise nothing. Well, she had been wondering about a bit of greenery about the home. Maybe this was an ideal time to go shopping for some indoor plants. Most of the plant shops stayed open all day Saturday and many opened Sunday as well. Lester got impatient with Melbourne's restricted trading hours; the odd time he bought something wrong on Saturday morning, and didn't discover until evening, he'd be unapproachable the rest of the weekend. Lester had lived in Sydney for a couple of years, and the difference came up every time he brought screws that were too long or found too late that he was out of mineral turps and the paint brushes were already wet. Living with a mild eccentric, she soon developed a functional list of taboos, those subjects guaranteed to drive one's partner into a sulking fit, if not a rage. Of course, she was no creampuff herself, and she was equally confident Lester had his own list of sensitive subjects, the areas of discussion that drove her emotional, too. It was all part of living amicably together. She didn't mind most domestic chores, but kitchen smells, grease and cooking schedules were just not her forte.
They'd eat Chinese six nights a week but for his creative streak. So it was worth the few idiosyncrasies.
Here it was Saturday morning; almost no chores, a late sleeper doubtless beginning to stir in the bedroom, and they had no plans for the weekend. This might be an opportunity to get some uncertainties out in the open. Lester had his moods, but this last month or so was different to anything she'd struck before. It wasn't anything specific but there was something changing. He splashed out on an expensive pile of new clothes, without a word before or since, clothes that were right out of character. She'd never seen him wear them, either, but the subtle changes in the way they hung in the cupboard, the shirts and sox that had gone several times through the wash - he WAS using them.
Why wasn't she included? What was developing? Was their relationship coming to an end?
She hadn't seen any real problems with their love life, nothing specific, certainly. Lester was not at all a demanding partner, and they'd have parted quickly, she was sure, if he'd turned out to have a big appetite. No, his tastes were very conventional, he was the soul of consideration, and his wants weren't at all excessive in her mind. Annette very rarely found herself with wants in that regard. He was an attentive lover, and she almost never found it necessary to ask for attention. His timetable was fine.
It wasn't that sort of question she'd want to tramp right into, either. They hadn't set up together for sex; it was never an important subject between them. They were uninhibited about sexual matters: the TV, the books on the shelf, the friends they knew all had no reservations about open discussion of the darkest corners of human intercourse. Times had changed, it was just that none of that was really personal; it didn't refer to her and hers. Now she was wondering about their situation; and, realistically, their love life was just one of the indicators that a change was under way. There were new clothes, the downturn in libido, and the indications that Lester was re-thinking some career questions, and a lot less open discussion, a lot more pre-occupation these last few weeks. She knew theirs was a setup of mutual convenience, there wasn't any long-term guaranteed, and there weren't supposed to be. You got married for keeps, and you lived together for convenience.
The indoor plants project would help create the right atmosphere. They could browse all weekend without timetable pressures if need be, and his attitude to the whole idea - her suggestion of some living things around - might throw some light on future trends. If he was indeed contemplating a separation, he'd balk at deepening the commitment with her plants. He'd be a bit circumspect, of course, but he wouldn't be too willing to stock up with what would turn out awkward furniture for her in perhaps a month or so. He was good like that - he thought before he inconvenienced other people, even though his exterior was gruff and businesslike sometimes.
The new clothes were a concrete, objective discrepancy. They were a partner to some sort of new lifestyle. Did she have any right to an explanation? Perhaps not, but an element of curiosity would be understandable.
The preoccupation of his, the impenetrable moods of distraction, were they the way to bring up the subject? They were certainly a soft way to bring the matter up, but on their own they didn't amount to much. It was easy, too easy, to brush moods aside and not get to the heart of the problem. Still, it was an entry point, a conversation starter. How about that investment subject, too? He hadn't mentioned it again, but he might still have twenty grand or more in his cheque account.
No, she felt that might have nothing to do with anything. Bringing it up might get the conversation onto whether and where he was competent. He could get defensive about money management, and it might have nothing to do with his current unsettlement. Leave that go: what else?
She'd run all the shirts, blouses and skirts over the ironing board and hadn't progressed with the plan in the last half hour. As she started into the last of the pressing, the handkerchiefs and pillowslips, best way in still hadn't taken form for her.
What else, damn it, what's the core problem, why do I want to have a talk, anyway?
Because I wonder if he's getting tired of the setup.
Why? Why do I think it's coming to an end?
Because his mind seems to be somewhere else all the time.
The sound of curtains sliding open in the bedroom interrupted her scheming, so she moved across to the fridge. He liked the occasional breakfast of bacon and eggs at the weekend, when they had the time to clean up the resulting greasy mess. Shuddering involuntarily, she cracked two eggs in the pan, beside the bacon. He'd probably clean up anyway, in return for a "pleasant surprise" breakfast.
"Come and get it!” she called.
"What's doing this weekend?" he asked lazily, idly scratching himself through the gaping pyjama fly.
"Going to be a do -nothing weekend," she started. "I thought we might do some hunting for some indoor plants. How do you feel about that? The job list is almost empty."
"Mmm," enthusiastically, "that sounds like a good way to put in a few hours. What's the time?"
Annette consulted the kitchen clock, in plain view of them both.
"It's about the same as the clock says. Almost ten, for those of us who need glasses. Let's start with some obedience training: go wash your cruddy hands and breakfast will be ready by then."
Puzzled, he gazed sleepily at both outstretched hands, and then padded lazily to the bathroom. Obviously nothing serious or she wouldn't have been so blunt. Whatever, it looked as if they'd have time this weekend, if something was bugging her, to get it out in the open.
Breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast slid down nicely, and he washed the dishes quite amicably after that fine meal. He'd probably miss lunch; settle for a slightly more bulky afternoon tea as usual. The kitchen cupboard would have taken a real carpenter about five minutes, so the hour he spent over replacing its hinge was pretty good going when you included the trip to the Hardware. He saw a new kind of knife-sharpener while he was there, and decided to take it too. New things are interesting.
By the time he was finished the cupboard, Annette had finished the modest sandwich that she was prepared to call lunch, and they set about collecting the books and magazine articles lying around that gave them some rudimentary background on indoor plants.
They set about collecting impressions on Saturday, and planned to defer any buying to Sunday. The third or fourth nursery they dropped in on was a disappointment: the attendant was short and unhelpful, acting as though he worked on commission. Once it was clear the couple didn't know what they wanted he determinedly sidled off to attend to other browsers.
So they moved on. It was late afternoon when the opportunity first cropped up.
"He must have had something on his mind," Lester commented as they drove on up the highway. "He certainly didn't seem to have his attention on us."
"He's not the only one lately," Annette commented gently. No matter how she dropped that comment, she felt it landed with the thud of a dead horse. "You seem to have a lot on your mind, too. Is there any way I can help, was what I've been wondering the last month or so," she added, trying to soften the opening criticism, half-wishing she could manage for a more innocuous way in.
Lester was driving, she could afford to wait a while then, let him find his own way to respond. "The last month or so, eh? Been that bad, has it?” he explored, after a lengthy pause. She'd seen the new clothes, of course. She washed and ironed the shirts, he hadn't tried to hide the suit and ties and shoes. How much else had she seen, he wondered? He thought he's covered up fairly well over the investment studies, and she'd been out of town when he did the night-school course.
"It isn't really bad, as you put it," she said, "but I think the mood of the party's changing, that's all. I think you've been somewhere else a lot lately, and it's got me a bit interested. We might be coming up for a change of some kind. If we need to change somehow, I think we might as well be open about it, and try to do the best thing, and for the right reasons."
She didn't want to goad him into talking about specifics; she just wanted to know whether anything was wrong. Well, hang on, now; it was more than that. He had changed lately, and she did want to know what had changed... what, not whether.
He took a while preparing the next statement. The plan had to stay a secret for the next six weeks or so. Including her in the process would only make it more risky for them both. Later, when he knew whether he was in clover or in jail for life, then he could offer her the kind of choices people dreamed about. For now, he had to get her off the scent. Keep questioning.
"Do you want to go home yet?" he asked.
"Not unless you do. We passed a big garden supplies a block back. Let's turn back and have a closer look at it. No, I'm not in any hurry to have a deep and meaningful interchange. We've got all the weekend and more to talk about what's wrong."
Aha, he thought: she sees something wrong. He'd probe a bit further on that point, after they'd had a look at the plant place on the highway. This place specialised in a lot of exotics, same as several places they'd looked. It wasn't their style, they agreed after a brief examination. Much as the saleswoman tried to convince them otherwise, they felt those glorious big succulents would need a lot of care, and the working couple didn't have time for a really demanding hobby. They didn't have a lot of room either. So, shortly, they piled back into the car and headed further down the highway towards Dandenong.
Annette decided to let him pick the subject up, and Lester picked his way again with care.
"I don't want you to get upset about me, you know," he started carefully. "Are you worried we might be drifting apart, or something?"
"The thought did cross my mind. Are we, do you think?"
"No," he said, slowly enough to pass on the impression that he'd given it little thought. "I know I've been a bit distracted lately, but it's certainly me, not you. I've got a few things on the go, I suppose, but the main thing is the far future. We've talked about careers, haven't we? Well, I don't have a lot of answers, because I'm still looking for the right questions. I've started looking at some other jobs, but I don't really know what I want. It's very unsettling, but I didn't mean for you to get unsettled, too."
He left it there, and then there was a long silence. Neither of them knew where to point the conversation next. They stopped at another plant farm, stayed there chatting with the garrulous proprietors for a good half-hour. There were light, fresh air, temperature and water requirements to consider, and the experts were free and helpful with their advice. As they eventually departed, thankful but empty-handed, the owners decided to lock up for the day. The couple thought they might as well do that, too.
After dinner. they padded warily around each other's emerging sensitivities, both treating the matter of the relationship as unfinished business, neither knowing how to get back in to the discussion. They made love that evening, the first time in well over a fortnight, under the aura of insecurity. Wordlessly, they agreed they'd have to sort this business out.
Next morning, they started deciding what to buy. Apart from some ferns, baby-tears and cacti, they'd need some fertilizer, watering utensils and a few hanging baskets. They could get all those bits and pieces at one of their earlier calls yesterday, and spend the rest of the day putting them up. So off they went shopping late Sunday morning, confident they would be back with goodies by lunchtime.
Annette broke first. In the car on the way back home with their purchases, she started in clumsily, knowing only that they had more to settle between them.
"Less, I'm not happy with where we got yesterday. There's been something wrong lately, and I don't know what it is. What is it, Less, is it something I've done?"
"I'm not happy, either," he answered, "but I'm not sure what to say. I don't know what's wrong with me, I do know there's something wrong with my job, and there isn't anything wrong with you. P'raps I ought to be jealous that you're so damned well-adjusted."
"That's not all, Less!"
"It's all I know about. What else do you think there might be?" he asked coolly. Now they stood a chance of getting somewhere, if only he could keep the information flow going, preferably in one direction, too.
"You've been too absent-minded for anyone's good the last month or so. There is something wrong with us, and I just wish you'd tell me what it is. We've been living more and more like strangers. It used to be much happier, that's all, now, wasn't it?" she pleaded, turning to face him.
He stared fixedly out the windscreen at the traffic, searching for some way to reassure her. There must be some way to preserve the freedom he needed, and get her off his back for a couple of months. There must be jobs people couldn't tell their wives about - executioners had gone out of vogue, what about drug-peddlers, spies, people like that? He settled on a delaying tactic.
"Well, I know I was happier at home when I was happy at the Centre, but that's the only way our relationship comes into it. You're afraid I'm tired of living together, and I want to break it off. That's just not true. I hadn't even thought about us," - a quarter-lie, he supposed, "because we're not the problem. Tell you what we need to do. We need to work out how my job problems are fouling our life up, and sort them out. But we can't do that while I'm driving a bloody car in traffic. Truce till we get back home?"
"I didn't think there was a war on," she countered, "but that sounds like a start anyway." She settled back into brooding silence, and said no more about the subject until all their purchases were assembled on the ground back at home outside the kitchen door.
She knew it was going to be difficult. If he really was just unhappy at work, what could be done about it? There was this strange prickling of stray hair around her earlobes, the weird feeling that he was keeping something back. But if he wasn't? You can't prove a negative proposition, she remembered that catch cry from somewhere way back in school.
But you didn't just take their word. Only a completely gullible person did that. As well, you took notice of how they acted. You read intentions out of people's actions. He had the opportunity to talk out any difficulties, she'd given him that. To drive the subject further, she risked making more of it than there was. She might be becoming - or be seen as becoming - a nagger. The subject was open, now, so she had to close it as normal, and stay off his back. If he was looking for a way to preserve the partnership, he had it, and she'd generally laid out the problem. If he wanted to fix the problem himself, she'd just have to let him.
And keep an eye peeled for her own welfare.
Her reverie was broken, as he set out to suspend the first hanging basket in the kitchen.
"Come on, where shall we put this one?" he called. "Now, let's talk about us, too. I've got you on edge, and I don't want that. How do we get back to normal?"
"It's not something I can put a finger on," she answered. "You don't seem interested in us lately. Tell me, do you think everything's alright?"
"No, but you know what's wrong with me. What's wrong with us?"
Exasperated, she started wishing the subject would go away. It had become a circular discussion, and there didn't seem any way out. After all, it was his house, and this was his problem – or so he said.
"How long do you think it's going to take to fix the job dissatisfaction?" she asked. "Let's talk about what you're doing to get that resolved.
"I've talked to my boss and our Personnel people," he supplied, "but they all seem to think I'm spoilt. I asked a couple of friends who work as consultants how their business is going, but it seems like a bad time to start out on your own. Career changes don't look promising, either, though I haven't dropped the idea. I got some new clothes to go talk to some people who might be willing to help, and something might turn up. One of them asked me to keep very quiet about a Government job while they ran some security checks," he lied, along the vague lines of defining a spy's work as he had speculated earlier, "but it will be a month or more before I know anything. How long will it take? I haven't the faintest idea - might be years!"
"What sort of job was it? she asked, a bit brighter. It did seem to hang together, the new clothes, the even more scatty timetables, the apparently genuine attempts to make a job change.
"Can't tell you a lot, and I shouldn't have mentioned it. I'm sworn to secrecy, and it mightn't come to anything. Anyway, the important thing is: what can we do to improve the atmosphere around here while I blunder around looking for a better job?"
There wasn't really a lot. A bit more night life - when their work would permit, of course – and maybe more effective efforts to leave work behind.
What else was there to say? She daren't push further, he wasn't going to open up any more, so the whole subject lapsed. They both decided, separately, to remain careful, and the weekend passed in an atmosphere of artificial cordiality.