Cheating The Bastards

By RD Hamilton

When Sophie says to Ruth and Jill that all men are bastards, the experience of each tells them that it is true. These three women, separated by age and different experiences, meet in a caf and find friendship. They learn to support each other, and when one of them does something brilliant and terrible, cheating the bastards, the others share in the consequences. This is a witty and poignant look at relationships.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Sep 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543403633

RD Hamilton

Roberta Hamilton is a busy Parish Priest in Victoria. After living in regional NSW while she raised her family and taught music, Roberta returned to university and completed degrees in Creative Arts and Arts (Hons 1st class). While undertaking doctoral studies in the UK Roberta found her vocation, abandoned her thesis and returned for Theological studies to the ACT where she also trained for ministry. She has lived in the bush and in cities of all sizes. She and Stephen, her husband of almost 40 years, and her Airedale Drummond are currently enjoying life in the suburbs. Roberta is an avid reader of both theology and fiction. One of her passions is medieval architecture and she spends as much time as she can in the UK visiting churches. She also enjoys playing her recorder, in the time left from her work and her family that includes seven grandchildren. Roberta writes very slowly but always has a project she is working on. She has written a number of novels but this is her first to be published. She is currently working on a novel using her doctoral research.

Book preview

Chapter One

I s that girl looking at me? Ruth asked herself. She’d walked past at least four times, staring in the window. Ruth turned to look at the other patrons in the coffee shop. She gazed at Anton and Julian, regulars, their conversation punctuated with the word ‘bitch’ at regular intervals. Then she turned and looked at the beautifully dressed bored Italian woman who looked repeatedly at her gold watch as if she were waiting for someone, but not the girl, and then at a young mother with her little child, licking the froth off her lip after a ‘babyccino’. As Ruth turned back to face the window, she nearly died of fright. The girl had walked silently in, an amazing feat in her huge heavy boots, and was standing, looming, just two feet away.

‘What do you want?’ Ruth was almost panicking. The girl was quite frightening, with her lip pierced with a pointy stud and her black hair hanging greasy over her very white face. She had a large tattoo of a heart, that for some reason, was vaguely menacing. Ruth disliked tattoos intensely.

The girl was looking at her speculatively. Ruth’s hand shook, and she spilled her coffee in her saucer.

‘Do you mind if I sit down?’ the girl asked in a surprisingly well-educated voice.

‘Ah…’ Ruth felt it was a reasonable, though disquieting, request. ‘Ah… yes, yes. I’m not waiting for anyone. Sit down.’

The girl stretched out a disgustingly dirty hand.

‘I’m Sophie.’

Ruth swallowed and took the hand.

‘Ruth,’ she said.

‘Ruth, would you buy me a cup of coffee?’ Sophie asked. ‘I’m not begging,’ she said with a slightly aggressive tone to her voice. ‘I’m just asking. It’s the smell. I walk past, and the smell of coffee wafts out.’ She looked like she might faint.

‘Would you like something to eat with it?’ The mother in Ruth had taken over. She absent-mindedly reached into her bag and handed Sophie a tissue. Sophie took it without comment and gratefully wiped her nose.

‘I don’t want to be any trouble. Just some coffee would be great.’

‘When was the last time you ate something?’ Ruth demanded. She was a great feeder of people; that’s what life in the rectory did for you.

‘Oh, we ate something last night, I think.’

Something with garlic as one of its component parts, Ruth thought. She was analysing the smell now; at first, it had just hit her like a wall, but now she could smell garlic as well as unwashed body.

‘As it’s 3.30, I should think you’d be hungry. Would you like a sandwich or cheesecake or something?’

‘A salad sandwich would be great. It’s hard when you’re vegetarian.’ That explained why she was so thin and pale.

‘I’ll just go and ask at the counter. They’re incredibly slow in here. What sort of coffee do you like?’ Ruth asked.

‘A latte please, skim.’

Ruth hesitated; it seemed so rude to pick up her bag, but very stupid not to. She left it. After all, it was only money! And plastic cards and her address and keys and a mobile phone and a handkerchief, which had been hand embroidered by her mother.

The bag was still there when she turned back, and so was the girl. Surreptitiously, she slipped her hand into her it to check, and the contents were all still there. Sophie must have noticed the movement.

‘Thanks,’ said Sophie. ‘Thanks for trusting me,’ she said, gesturing towards the bag as Ruth put it back on the floor. ‘Look, you don’t know me, but I don’t…’ She stopped. Ruth looked up at her face and saw tears glistening in her big grey eyes. ‘My life…’ She tried again. ‘Oh shit!’ she said and stopped.

‘It’s OK, Sophie. I don’t need to know.’ Ruth felt compelled to touch her again despite the filth and put her hand over hers. ‘It’s OK, you’ll feel better once you have something to eat.’ The sandwich seemed to be a very long time coming, and the silence stretched between them. Ruth suddenly missed her daughter.

Trish brought the sandwich over. She gave Ruth a slightly puzzled look, obviously concerned that she might be being had. Ruth understood perfectly and gave her a smile.

Sophie ate the sandwich quickly but savoured her coffee. Ruth was silent. Worried as she was, the effort of making small talk was beyond her. Sophie finished and pushed back her chair.

‘Thank you, Ruth. I really enjoyed that.’

‘How old are you?’ asked Ruth without looking at her.

‘Eighteen, but does it matter?’ asked Sophie.

‘No. It’s just… 18 seems very young compared with 55.’

‘You don’t look 55.’

‘I’m not. Look, I come in here quite often in the afternoons. Anytime you see me, come in, and I’ll buy you coffee—that is, if you’d like to.’ She sounded very much as if she expected a rebuff.

‘That would be lovely,’ said Sophie in her mother’s best society manner.

Chapter Two

S ophie wandered down the street to the op shop. She really needed another layer to put on. She wondered if she could steal something. Sophie slipped a cardigan on over her singlet, picked up another, looked at it, and then put it back; she moved on to the next rack, pulled out a jumper, put it back, and moved to a rack close to the door. This time, she pulled out trousers and shook her head at the approaching saleswoman. ‘I don’t really think these will fit. They look a bit big. What a pity.’ Then she sidled carefully out the door. She was pleased. It was even a nice co lour.

She turned into the street where their squat was and walked along, kicking at an orange someone had dropped until it rolled into a big pile of dog droppings. The pages of a free newspaper were all blowing around with the huge leaves that the plane trees were beginning to shed. The wrought-iron gate creaked with its particular high pitch, which always made the hair on the back of her neck stand up, though it was not quite so bad when you did it yourself. She pushed open the front door and called out into the echoing hall.

‘Billi, Sue! Are you there?’

No one answered, so they were either out or asleep. She wandered out towards what was left of the kitchen. Sitting on the floor surrounded by the stinking remains of meals consumed in some distant past, she nearly gave in to despair.

Chapter Three

R uth dribbled the sugar out of its little paper tube slowly, one grain or two at a time. She only wanted a tiny bit, just to take the edge off the bitter coffee. Trish came past and smiled at her as Ruth stirred. She was sitting in her favourite table facing the st reet.

‘I don’t know what I’m going to do,’ she murmured audibly. She stirred and stirred, the crème on the coffee whizzing around with her thoughts. Her life was like an old paper bag with nothing left in it but the creases. Trish came back with the order for the table next to her.

‘Are you feeling OK? You look a bit down.’ Trish paused beside her and put her hand on her shoulder.

‘Down?’ Ruth was startled. ‘Down where?’ She thought and realised what Trish meant. She focused on her face.

‘Yes, I suppose I am. Men can be…’ Her sentence tailed off. Never in twenty-eight years of marriage had she said a word of criticism of her husband, not to anyone; it wasn’t ‘seemly’.

‘It wouldn’t be meet, not meet and right so to do,’ she said out loud, much to the mystification of Trish, who’d never been to Cranmer’s Holy Communion, the mass in Latin being her ancient history.

‘Did you say you were meeting someone? I’ll come back when they arrive.’ She walked off, wondering if Ruth, who was a very nice woman, was really losing it.

Ruth went back to her soul-searching. In all the years she’d been married, she’d never said a word, but now suddenly, she could recognise the hypocrisy. It wasn’t ungodly women that were the problem—it was men like him. When he started on about women, she could feel her hackles rise. She felt like asking if the girl was godly and submissive.

‘You bitch!’ Julian screamed.

Ruth spun round in her chair as if stabbed, the words ‘Are you speaking to me?’ drying on her lips as she realised he was talking to Anton. Maybe Robert was right, and she was getting neurotic. She went back to pouring sugar.

Ruth looked up from her little sugar grain sandcastle and saw Sophie outside. Her hand shot out, and she waved frantically before she knew what she was doing. Sophie smiled and pushed open the door.

‘Hi!’ Sophie plonked herself down like an old friend. ‘So what’s happening?’

‘I don’t… um, nothing really. What would you like today? Why don’t you have a look at the menu,’ Ruth said a trifle guiltily, not being in the habit of spending much money.

‘We’ll have a latte,’ she said to Trish, who was hovering. ‘And can we see the menu?’

‘Skim, please,’ Sophie added. ‘It’s beautiful being here with you. You treat me like a person. Hey, do you like my new cardigan?’ Ruth realised that was why Sophie looked so appealing today. She had a pretty little cardigan, covering the tatty black singlet. It was a soft pink angora with delicate little pearl buttons.

‘I acquired it yesterday,’ Sophie said carefully. ‘It’s starting to get quite cool in the evenings.’

‘Now is the winter of our discontent,’ said Ruth. Sophie raised her eyebrows, and Ruth smiled. ‘So… you look better today.’

‘And you look worse.’ Sophie looked into Ruth’s startled face. ‘I’m sorry… I just mean you look more depressed or something. You’ve got worries, haven’t you? I noticed it yesterday.’

‘Yes, I have—but everyone has worries.’ Ruth looked out the window, hoping Sophie would drop the subject.

‘OK, don’t tell me if you don’t want to. I mean, you hardly know me, after all,’ said Sophie.

‘It’s not that so much. But I’m 48, and you’re younger than my daughter.’ Not, however, much younger than the girl, Ruth added internally.

‘What difference does that make? Look, I’ll go first. My name is Sophie Dickson. I grew up on the north side, went to a private school, took a gap year, lived with my mum until she kicked me out, and now I live in a squat in Alton. I don’t ever see my mum, who is not at all like you. And most of the time, I’m hungry.’ Sophie felt the tears of self-pity prick behind her eyelids and stopped.

‘OK. Ruth Browning, clergyman’s daughter. He ended up a bishop. I trained as a teacher but married a curate, who ended up a theologian. I was a wife and mother. Now I’m just a wife.’

‘Tell me about your kids.’

‘There’s Simon, who is 25 and a teacher. He’s recently married to a lovely girl. Then there’s Sarah, who is 23 and a nurse and is working in London. I miss Sarah a lot. I see Simon, but he certainly doesn’t need me, and I can’t be much help to Sarah. I’m very glad she’s independent, but I no longer feel like a mother—at least not the kind of mother I used to be.’

‘I don’t need a mother either, but a friend is good.’

Ruth couldn’t suppress the thought that a friend who would buy coffee was certainly an asset.

Trish came back with the menus, and Sophie examined hers with deep interest.

‘Are you eating anything?’ She looked speculatively at Ruth.

‘No, no. I’ve had lunch, and I have to watch my figure.’

‘Watch it do what?’ asked Sophie provocatively. ‘Be a devil and have some cake.’ Ruth shook her head.

‘Well, do you mind if I have a vegetarian focaccia? I didn’t eat last night except for some rice. Billi and Sue had Chinese, but it was all meat.’

‘Have you none of your dole payment left?’ asked Ruth.

‘I’m not on the jobseeker’s allowance. I don’t get anything.’

‘Is that because you’re not looking for work?’ Ruth wondered if she was too lazy to look for something.

‘No, I haven’t registered. I don’t want anyone to find me.’ Sophie looked at Ruth, then looked away.

Ruth asked gently, ‘Is it the police?’

‘No. What do you think I am? No!’ she almost spat across the table. ‘They should have been protecting me, but they didn’t—no one did. But I don’t want to be found, OK? So don’t tell anyone my name.’

‘So who’s looking for you?’ Ruth asked.

Sophie glared at her. ‘No one, OK? Mind your own business!’

‘A few minutes ago, you said I treated you like a person. So why can’t you treat me like one?’

‘I’m sorry. I beg your pardon. I don’t really want to tell you what happened, but I have good reason for not wanting to be found.’

She looked directly into Ruth’s eyes, which was supposed to be a sign of lying, Ruth thought. However, Sophie looked quite sincere.

‘It makes it hard to get work because if I give a false name, I can’t give my tax file number. If I give my true name, it goes into the system, and I can be traced. The kind of people who don’t require a number don’t pay properly or don’t pay at all or expect you to let them touch you. That’s why I’m hungry. I’m not lazy, and I have all kinds of skills, but I need no questions asked kind of employment.’

‘Well, maybe I could get you some babysitting with the young mothers at college. But I’d have to have your promise that you wouldn’t steal from them.’

‘I’m not a thief!’ Sophie went red from the neck up.

‘Where did you get that cardigan?’ Ruth wasn’t letting it pass.

‘Yes, I stole this cardigan—from the op shop. It was donated to help people, put on sale for five dollars. But I don’t have any money, none. I used to give all my old things and not just old things either—new things that I bought and then decided I didn’t like. You can’t imagine what it’s like to be cold as well as hungry.’

‘That’s why I thought that temptation might get the better of you. What size do you wear?’

‘Ten, maybe 8 now.’ Sophie pouted a bit.

‘I thought you’d be much the same as Sarah. I’ll find you some of her warm things. They’re 3 years old now, so not very smart—trendy, I mean.’ Ruth always felt uncomfortable trying to use the right vocabulary for teenagers.

‘Don’t worry about trendy,’ said Sophie with a grin. ‘Just warm would be fantastic.’

Trish had been hovering for a few seconds.

‘Are you ready to order?’ she said in her most distant voice.

Ruth looked up at her guiltily.

‘A vegetarian focaccia, please. Oh, and another skim latte.’ She smiled placatingly at Trish. ‘I thought I’d try a latte. I always have black. But if it’s skim, it couldn’t have many calories, could it?’ she said to Sophie.

‘Not many. You didn’t tell me what’s worrying you.’ Sophie tilted her head on one side as if to listen like a bird.

‘Oh, just empty nest syndrome, I expect. It’s hard to cope when you stop feeling needed.’

‘But doesn’t your husband still need you? I mean, you can have romantic evenings once your children have left home, can’t you?’

‘My husband is very busy,’ she said dryly. Sophie looked at her and said no more but examined her filthy skin.

‘I hate being dirty. Would it be too much to ask… well, if I was going babysitting, I’d have to look a bit cleaner. The water’s on in the squat, but it’s only cold, and the power is off. So you can’t do much.’

‘Hold on. I said I’d try to get you some work. I don’t know if I can, and you might have to take your stud out of your lip and cover your tattoos. The kind of women I’m thinking of might not approve.’

‘Why shouldn’t a person wear what they want? It’s not hurting anyone,’ Sophie demanded. She looked at Ruth’s face, the black circles under her eyes, the fine lines of worry on her forehead; and her expression softened. ‘But I will fix it if it’s easier. What I was getting at, really, was a shower. I haven’t had one for a while, and I know I stink. I used to hurry quickly past people like me at the train station and try not to catch a whiff of them.’

Ruth heard the wistful tone and suddenly felt like throwing her arms around her and then just taking her home—to stay!

‘Of course you can have a shower. Look, why don’t we go home as soon as you have had something to eat, and I’ll find you some clean clothes as well. I can’t—’

Sophie was beaming. ‘A shower. Excellent!’

Trish put the focaccia down in front of Sophie and gave her a hard look; her eyes narrowed and went to collect the two lattes from the counter.

‘She’s not very friendly, is she?’ Sophie asked.

Ruth shut the front door behind Sophie and reluctantly turned towards the kitchen and the washing-up. Robert had adjourned to his study; washing-up was never on his agenda. She stood and surveyed the debris of the meal; how had she come to use every saucepan in the cupboard? She must have been trying too hard. Ruth began running water into the sink. It looked worse than it was. Sophie had rinsed the plates and put them in the dishwasher, so really it was only the utensils and all the pots. Robert suddenly appeared and hovered near the table, picking up the cruets and vaguely brushing the crumbs onto the floor with his hands. Ruth stopped putting things into the sink and half turned, her back stiff.

‘The girl…,’ Robert began.

Ruth said nothing.

‘That girl, Sophie, where did you pick her up? She seems rather . . .’

‘Rather what, Robert?’

‘Well, she didn’t inspire me with any kind of confidence.’ Robert wasn’t looking at Ruth; he found it very difficult to meet her eye these days. ‘I mean, I hope she won’t be hanging around. It can be hard to get rid of these types.’

‘I don’t think Sophie is a type that you’d recognise, Robert. But rest assured that many years in a rectory has taught me quite a lot about getting rid of the indigent.’

‘Well, I’ve warned you,’ Robert said. He walked back to the study and shut his door with a resounding bang that wasn’t quite a slam.

Chapter Four

J ill’s feet were hurting; she was sure she had blisters on the soles of her feet. They were burning hot, and every step was agony. She needed to sit down and have something to eat. She was right outside a coffee shop, so she looked in through the window to see if it was crowded, but it was quite empty. She hesitated, then walked through the door, almost running into a woman. The woman looked vaguely familiar. She was a good bit older than Jill, but she was sure she knew her from somewhere. She had a girl with her, but she didn’t look like she could be her daughter. The girl had a stud in her lip, a large tattoo, and those huge black boots laced right up her legs.

Jill sank down with relief and surreptitiously wriggled her sandals off. She put her feet on the floor but felt grittiness, so she placed them back on top of her sandals. They were burning even worse. A woman approached and gave her the menu. She looked down the list, and the familiar panic associated with making a decision rose up and choked her.

‘It’s OK. It doesn’t really matter what I eat—I can just say the first thing I see. It doesn’t matter… It doesn’t matter.’ She quietly muttered her mantra, the only way she got anything done. She forced herself not to look at the menu and waited while the woman served someone else. Finally, she came back, and Jill just picked up the menu and ordered.

‘I’ll have some raisin toast’—‘Breakfast All Day’ was on the top—‘and a cup of tea.’ She hoped she wouldn’t be called upon to choose what sort of tea, but presumably, they just gave you Bushells if you didn’t specify anything because Trish straightaway murmured, ‘It’ll only be a moment.’

As she went, she paused at a table and greeted a customer by name. ‘Hi, Anton, I’ll be right with you. Where’s Julian? Has he gone already?’

Jill got the list of properties the agent had given her, along with a pen, out of her bag. She read the descriptions to herself and wrote down little notes, but it was a pointless exercise because she knew she couldn’t make a decision. Her husband—soon-to-be ex-husband—had always found them a new place to live after their frequent moves. He had very definite ideas about the kind of place good enough for him. They always cost too much and put a strain on their finances, but it was so important to him to look good that he didn’t care. Jill was indecisive; she knew it. When she was young, her mother could never wait while she vacillated over clothes; she simply bought the things she thought were suitable, and so Jill had just had to live with it. Colin had chosen most of her clothes too. He liked her to look like an executive, which meant high-heeled shoes and tight straight skirts, neat pantyhose, and severely cut jackets. Everything was in neutral shades, grey and navy, with white or pale shirts, which was good for work. Even her casual clothes were very tailored and in neutral colours, and she hadn’t owned a single pair of flat sandals. Well, she’d bought the sandals, not that they were really flat, and taken off her pantyhose; and she was paying the price for her rebellion now.

The waitress came back with the tea and toast, and Jill hurriedly pushed the list aside.

‘Are you looking for a place to rent?’ asked Trish, glancing down.

‘Oh…’ Colour mounted to Jill’s face. She still couldn’t believe she was doing this. ‘Well, yes. I mean I’d like to find something around here. I’m sick of living way out of town and travelling in each day. I work in the city, Queen Street, so I thought Alton… I mean it’s very convenient and—’

‘Julian and Anton are looking