Fran’s mother, Lena, had begun her career as a sales assistant in a fashion shop. There, she learned enough to start her own wholesale business importing costume jewellery and accessories, scarves and handbags from Europe. She crisscrossed the country, from state to state, four times a year to show her latest products and take orders for the next season, and was often away for weeks at a time. Life at home with Oma was unchanging, with few interruptions from the outside world. In the evenings, Fran did her homework and practised piano. They often played cards together or Fran would read aloud to Oma, translating from English to German as she read. Patrick White’s novels were favourites.
One afternoon, when she was thirteen, Fran had arrived home to a silent house. No Oma there to greet her with hugs and kisses. No glass of milk and slice of apfelkuchen with cream on the kitchen table. Oma lay on her bed, her hands clasped together. Her eyes were closed and her expression serene. Fran thought she would never get over the loss.
With Oma’s death, all comfort and love and certainty vanished from Fran’s life. Lena insisted there was no need to speak German at home any more, it was time to integrate. She was still often away and Fran was home alone. The flat was quiet and empty when she left for school in the morning, and even more so when she arrived home in the afternoons. Rose changed all that, and Fran never looked back.
When she moved to London, Fran had her Aunt Marie, whom Oma had often talked about. Aunt Marie had never married and she was a softer version of Fran’s mother, more like Oma. Fran felt an immediate affinity with her and they soon became close. They often went out together to exhibitions, theatre and foreign language films on the South Bank.
Fran was in love with Tony, the Irishman, at that time. All that remained of him now was a hazy memory like a composite picture: the dark grey eyes, heavy brows, tousled black hair. They worked together in a bookshop on Charing Cross Road and sometimes kissed in the storeroom, although not as much as she would have liked.
Tony lived in a squat in an old school in Hammersmith that had a grubby bohemian charm. It was another city within the city, populated by fringe dwellers: junkies, communists, musicians and artists, many of them Irish and Scots. Tony was opposed to formal education. He loathed the government and the middle classes. They discussed existentialist philosophies for hours on end; he introduced her to Foucault and Sartre.
Fran’s imagined bohemia involved cheap red wine, European literature and crushed velvet. But the most popular books in the squat were crime novels Tony stole from their employer, and the favoured drinks were Strongbow or Tennent’s Super, neither of which were to her taste. They smoked hash and dropped acid and talked endlessly about leaving London for Ibiza or Morocco. He was determined to live without boundaries, and Fran struggled to emulate him.
Fran held a tenuous idea that this could be the making of her. She could see them living somewhere simple and primitive, like peasants, with ragged children running wild. Then she had a bad acid trip, followed by days of terrifying flashbacks, and when Tony moved on to heroin, she was too afraid to go there.
It wasn’t long before he began to borrow money, forgetting to repay her and fending her off with less and less believable excuses. Finally he was arrested, found guilty of a string of burglaries and sentenced to three years in Brixton. She visited him every Saturday, but three years was an awful lot of Saturdays. More worrying was his lack of remorse. He didn’t accept that he played any role in his incarceration, believing himself a victim of English prejudice.
Fran wrote to Maggie about her Irish dilemma. She didn’t need to ask Rose, because she knew Rose’s advice would be to dump him. A letter came by return mail that was warm and compassionate but also firm. Forget him. Fran respected Maggie’s advice. She stopped visiting but never quite forgot the Irishman. The one thing she did learn from him was that living without boundaries wasn’t her thing after all.
Maggie’s face, when it appeared on the screen, looked tired, her smile strained.
‘Are you all right, Maggie? What’s going on?’ asked Fran with concern.
‘I’m not sure —’ Maggie’s voice sounded breathless and faint.
‘She’s at the end of her tether,’ Rose declared. ‘She’s fallen off the end, I think.’
‘Oh, Maggie,’ said Fran. ‘I’m surprised it’s taken this long for you to get there.’
Maggie nodded. ‘Let’s not go into it, I just want to relax and enjoy the evening.’
Rose turned to look at Maggie for a long moment as though she didn’t know what to do. But she accepted Maggie’s request and changed the subject, telling a story relating to her frustration with Peter and some fishing rods. Fran only half listened as she watched Maggie silently fork pasta into her mouth without pleasure, only pausing to take a distracted gulp of wine, her eyes distant. Her eyes were the most worrying sign. Once bright with interest and twinkling humour, they were dull, and beneath them were dark pockets of accumulated worry and stress. Her long thick hair, once so envied by both Rose and Fran, had a seam of grey pushing at the parting. It was so unlike Maggie to let herself go. Tears of compassion welled up in Fran’s eyes.
Rose interrupted herself to say, ‘Oh, bloody hell! Don’t you start. Why are you crying?’
Fran reached for a tissue and carefully mopped under her eyes so as not to smudge her makeup. ‘Why do you think, Rose? Maggie’s the stoic one. She’s the rock. If she’s falling apart …’
‘I’m stoic too,’ said Rose peevishly. She turned to look across at Maggie. ‘But yeah, you’re right. I don’t know what to do. Something has to change, Maggie. How can we help you?’
Maggie put down her fork and sighed heavily. ‘I feel as though I’m holding up this great boulder that just gets bigger and heavier. Not just responsible for my family and Kristo’s family but also the livelihoods of employees and contractors …’ Her mouth tugged down in an effort not to cry. ‘It’s crushing me. It’s crushing the life out of me. Some nights I lie in bed and the only relief I get from the stress is planning how to disappear.’
Fran glanced at Rose and saw her own sense of alarm reflected in her expression.
‘People disappear all the time,’ said Maggie defensively, as though it were a logical choice. ‘And I understand why they disappear, because there is no other way out. There’s no way out for me. I find it comforting to plan it all out, detail by detail … where I’ll park the car … where I can swim out without anyone seeing me … out beyond the breakers and then just let myself drop …’ She gave a shuddering sob. ‘The idea that there is some relief in sight is the only thing keeping me going. Otherwise it would be unbearable. I have to keep a grip on myself because I have to manage everyone’s anger. When do I get to be angry?’
Rose leaned over and put her arms around Maggie. ‘Oh, Maggie. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t know things were so bad.’
Maggie nodded numbly. ‘Me neither. It’s become normal to me. Now I’m looking at the expressions on your faces and … well, it’s clearly not.’
Fran didn’t know what to say. It was taking all her strength to hold back her tears.
‘Does Kristo know you feel like this?’ asked Rose. ‘Or the girls?’
‘Of course not. He’s got enough to worry about. It would just annoy him.’
Rose frowned. ‘No. I think you’ve got that wrong, Mag. You need to talk to him.’
‘I’m just a cog in the wheel of the great Dimitratos empire. They’re practical people. His parents made so many sacrifices to get the family to where they are now. They were tireless. For me to say I’m exhausted … it would become a family joke because I sit in a nice clean office and work on a computer – they are in a shit fight every day getting the “real” work done.’
‘Can you get more help?’ suggested Fran.
‘To be honest, I don’t really have much say in the scheme of things. I’m not a partner in that business, you know.’
‘That’s ridiculous. You’ve been running the w
hole bloody thing right from the start,’ said Rose. ‘They couldn’t do it without you.’
Maggie shrugged resignedly. ‘That’s not how they see it. I’m an appendage of Kristo and it’s my job to run the financial side of the business, because I can. They would have no idea of what’s involved with managing the cashflow and lines of credit, payment schedules, insurances, tax. Running a business is a hundred times more complicated than it was twenty years ago, let alone forty years. Yia-yiá seems to think it’s like running a fish shop, but with bigger fish.’
‘I wish you were here so I could give you a hug,’ said Fran.
Maggie smiled. ‘I wish I was there. Anywhere but here, actually. How are you, anyway? What’s happening with Louis?’
‘I wish I knew. He’s become rather elusive. And evasive as well …’
‘Instead of erudite and enigmatic?’ suggested Rose.
Fran laughed. ‘He’s never been erudite, let alone enigmatic. I’ve been sliding down a greasy pole of educated men, decade by decade, from that Oxford scholar in 1980 to an insurance assessor whose spelling is atrocious and who prides himself on never having read a novel.’
‘What sort of a person has never read a novel?’ asked Rose. ‘A Neanderthal?’
‘Actually, I get the impression he thinks he’s too clever to waste his intellect on such a trivial medium,’ said Fran.
Rose laughed out loud and Maggie squeezed out a smile.
‘So what does he have going for him?’ asked Maggie.
Fran had to think for a moment. ‘He’s kind and can be quite sweet.’
‘How’s his performance in the sack?’ asked Rose. ‘That counts for a lot.’
‘Oh God, Rose. Some things never change with you,’ said Maggie, refilling her glass.
‘I think he used to be okay. He was loving anyway. Now he goes through the motions,’ said Fran. ‘It’s like he’s fiddling around under the bonnet trying to get the car started and thinking about what he’ll have for breakfast.’
‘Sure he’s not tinkering with someone else’s engine?’ asked Rose.
‘Rosie!’ Maggie protested. ‘Why put that idea into her head?’
‘Sorry. The thought just occurred and popped out. As it does.’
‘You could be right,’ admitted Fran. ‘He’s mentioned his wife, Barbara, a few times recently, as in quoting something she said. Never divorced. I get the impression they’re seeing more of each other than they used to.’
‘So you think he’s getting his rations with her?’ asked Rose.
‘Rose, do shut up, will you? You’re just making things worse,’ Maggie admonished.
‘No, I won’t, Little Miss Bossy. I’m not going to sit back and watch Fran wasting her life on some loser who’s bonking his wife and popping over to Fran’s when he feels like a bit of TLC. I reckon he’s hedging his bets, Frannie. And when he retires, one of you will get the booby prize and be stuck with him.’
‘He did tell me that Barbara’s thinking of moving to Malaga.’
‘Well, if he starts taking Spanish lessons, give him the old heave-ho, I reckon,’ said Rose.
Maggie pushed her plate away and pulled her wine glass towards her. ‘Okay, Rose, let’s shine a spotlight on your life so we can give you the benefit of our advice. I’ve heard about five messages come through since we’ve been talking to Fran. Peter wanting you to drive down the coast and blow his nose for him?’
Rose laughed. ‘Peter can’t text, thank God! It will be Max complaining.’
‘So has Peter retired yet?’ asked Fran. ‘How’s that going to work out?’
‘He’s got another month to go. I’m bloody dreading having him home all day. I have three days teaching, but I’ll have to find him a hobby or another job, otherwise it will actually be unbearable. I’ll be swimming out into the harbour with Mag … wait, can we joke about that yet? Too soon?’
Maggie frowned. ‘Let’s see how we go.’
‘It will lighten your workload,’ said Fran. ‘Not having to do his papers and whatnot. Although he might want you to ghost another book for him.’
‘Not happening,’ said Rose. ‘You know, the advice I give young couples getting into a relationship? Start the way you mean to continue. Advice no one gave me. If I had known back then that I’d spend my life shoring up Peter’s career as his “wing-woman”, I would have done things very differently. Married someone else, for example. Or stayed single like the sensible Fran.’
‘But you wanted him to keep his tenure,’ Maggie reminded her. ‘It’s exactly like my situation – you pitch in and support the family, they move on and you’re left holding up the building, because you’re the foundation.’
Rose growled under her breath. ‘You know what really gets my goat? Last month, when he got that history award, he had to get up and make a speech. He wasn’t expecting it, or maybe they told him and he forgot; anyway he had nothing prepared —’
‘You had nothing prepared, you mean,’ interrupted Maggie.
‘Exactly. He made this rambling speech thanking everyone from the cleaner up. Then, finally, his eyes fell on me and he added, “and, of course, my dear wife”– not even my name! I was so pissed off.’
‘Perhaps he’d forgotten your name?’ suggested Fran.
Maggie started to laugh. ‘Oh, poor Peter, he’s a darling in so many ways, but that vagueness is too much. You are a saint to put up with him. It’s like having a large child on the loose.’
Rose suddenly looked uncomfortable. ‘He’s not quite that bad. He does hold a job down. And I’m definitely not a saint. Far from it.’
‘So he’s obviously good in bed,’ said Fran with a smile.
Rose stared at the ceiling, appearing to rack her memory. ‘It’s been that long, I can’t recall. I gave him The Joy of Sex to read thirty years ago. I’m pretty sure he has never even opened it.’
Fran grinned. ‘Tame stuff, Rose. You should have gone for the Kama Sutra.’
‘Yes, well, I envy you the lack of sex. I have an oversupply situation,’ said Maggie.
‘Difficult to get the balance right, isn’t it?’ said Fran. ‘Life is so often all or nothing.’
Rose drained her wine with a flourish. ‘You know, every year I think this is it. This is the year my life will start. Then Peter gets prostate cancer or white ants invade the house and I realise this is my life and it will always be like this. My time will never come. It’s been and gone and these dried up bloody … crumbs are what’s left behind.’
‘It’s not like you to be so defeatist,’ said Maggie. ‘You’re not dead yet.’
‘It just wears you down; saps your energy,’ insisted Rose. ‘I’m worried that I’ve left my run too late …’
‘How did we end up here?’ sighed Fran. ‘We had such high hopes for ourselves …’
‘And for each other,’ added Maggie.
‘Do we have any hopes for ourselves now that we’re about to crack sixty? Now our girlhood is well and truly over?’ Rose continued.
Fran laughed. ‘Rose, our girlhood was over about forty years ago.’
‘No, it wasn’t. We were still girls when we lived in London, when we went travelling. We were beautiful innocent children, seeing everything for the first time. Nothing has ever been as fresh and glorious as it was then. Nothing has ever been so vivid and exciting.’
‘It was the freedom,’ agreed Maggie. ‘The absolute freedom to take each day as it came, to go to somewhere we’d never been before … no responsibilities or obligations.’
‘We’d never been anywhere before. We didn’t really care where we were going, we just went,’ said Rose. ‘And figured it out when we got there.’
Fran sighed. ‘We were so confident …’
‘We were so ripe and succulent. Now we’re withering on the vine,’ said Rose.
‘Our lives fruitless,’ added Fran.
‘Rotten to the core?’ suggested Maggie. ‘Okay, that didn’t quite work.’
‘I don’t re
ally even remember who I was back then,’ said Rose. ‘I was so unevolved and lacking any sort of self-realisation but, you know what? I reckon we were our true selves. Unfiltered.’
‘In photography, the image you take is called a raw file – it’s just as the camera saw it,’ said Fran. ‘Then it’s manipulated and compressed —’
‘Exactly! We were raw and unfiltered then,’ said Rose. ‘We’ve been manipulated and compressed by everyone around us. We’ve compromised until there’s nothing left of our true selves.’
‘Back then our lives felt infinite. Now we’re at the other end of life —’ said Maggie.
‘This is the last frontier,’ said Rose. ‘If we don’t get our shit together, we’re going to arrive at the pearly gates well and truly pissed off with ourselves.’
‘Is there more wine in the fridge, Rose?’ asked Maggie in a weary voice.
‘Yes, but you’ve had enough. It’s just going to make you maudlin.’
Maggie cast Fran a look of wide-eyed disbelief.
‘When I delve into my memories of that time,’ mused Rose, ‘it’s like everything is in soft focus, drenched in dappled sunshine. Like an art film … it’s almost holy for me. There’s a beautiful purity about everything.’
Fran smiled. ‘I doubt if London was drenched in sunshine, apart from the odd day here and there. But I know what you mean, that time has a dreamlike quality for me as well.’
‘We’ve talked about it so much over the years, haven’t we?’ said Maggie. ‘But it hasn’t worn the memories out.’
‘No, I think it’s helped preserve them,’ said Fran. ‘Remembering the thrill of that first time walking down the Champs-Élysées —’
‘Arm in arm,’ interrupted Maggie, smiling at the memory. ‘The laughing girls.’
Sixty Summers Page 6
