by Tamar Hodes
‘We write letters to each other, but you know how slow the post is. She misses us all, especially Alexander. Her mother is caring for him but of course he wants his mother with him and can be very tearful. She is counting down the days.’
‘We’ll have a great party when she returns.’
‘Oh yes. Definitely.’
The papas arrived in his long black cloak and high headdress, wooden cross on his chest, and the crowd followed him down to the boats, which had been decorated with wild flowers. He made some incantations in Greek, somewhere between singing and speaking, but everyone understood that the sea-vessels were being blessed. He raised his arms and drew a cross in the sky and the gulls added their raucous shrieks to his prayers like a hoarse Amen.
Then the food came: golden-crusted pastries made with feta and spinach, and meatballs and pitta, baklava and halva, and plenty to drink, too.
Frieda held hands with Esther and gazed out to sea. Jack was talking to Gordon and Chuck about Buddhism and Anthony was drawing sketches of people and trying to sell them to passers-by to make back money he had lost on drink and gambling.
‘Why is the priest speaking to the boats, Ima?’ asked Esther.
‘He is blessing them so that they can travel safely,’ said her mother.
Frieda wished at times that Carl could be with them. She felt increasingly that they were living a double life. She felt guilty at deceiving Jack yet bad that she was neglecting Carl, and she wondered how long it was tenable. Carl had made it clear that this was not in any sense a fling, that he loved her, that he wanted to be with her for life. How and when would it all work out?
She worried, too, about her Giddy. Always a quiet child, he had seemed more and more reclusive since they had arrived on Hydra. He was a high achiever at school but had not forged any new friendships and was becoming increasingly preoccupied with his rocks and fossils. Although she and Jack tried to present a united front when with the children, did Gideon somehow detect that their marriage was a sham?
The dancing had begun again and with more vigour, now that the boats had been blessed and the food and wine were flowing. Chubby, dark-haired women were still twirling on the cobbles, their heels clicking, one hand holding the skirt out wide, the other arched in the air above their heads.
Charmian was furious with George. What an idiot to get drunk, assault her and be arrested by the policemen and put in jail – and all because he had had good news that day. They had been getting on so well but now she was just irritated by him. The world might see him as a literary genius but to her he was just a prat.
She was concerned also about Shane and Baptiste: they were becoming intense. She had tried to confront Shane about the relationship, but her daughter would not speak about it, just flicked her blonde hair and crossed her arms in defiance. She insisted that they loved each other. Charmian urged her to go and see Dr Benedictus if she needed any help but she left it at that. She did not want her daughter to endure what she had had when she fell pregnant with Jennifer, but nor did she want to hear her daughter say that her mother was hardly the person to give relationship advice. Besides, they probably weren’t sleeping together yet, Charmian thought – Shane would certainly tell her when there was something to say.
The previous night, when her parents were at the taverna, Baptiste had led Shane into a wooded area behind the monastery and they had made love for the first time, Baptiste clearly more experienced than her. He had been gentle and kind, lowering the girl onto his coat, spread upon the hard ground. The way he kissed her, the way he reached inside her dress and caressed her breasts, the way he prised apart her legs to discover her warm and furry there like a mouse, was all done slowly and with delicacy, determined not to scare her away. Even his kissing was light, brushing her lips like butterfly wings and suppressing his usual cries when he came for fear of scaring her. It only made her love him more. Compared to her volatile parents, here was tenderness indeed. Shane thought: my parents think they are above the Katsikas family, but it is Baptiste who is thoughtful and gentle.
Charmian worried also about Martin becoming reclusive and his tendency to turn inwards. He often had trouble with his eyesight. Maybe she should take him to Athens and have it seen to. She fretted too about Jason. Her only child to be born on the island (she remembered the Hydriot women spitting on him three times for luck in order to ward off the evil eye), he seemed more settled in Greece than any of them, although all her children had picked up Greek more easily than their parents. They all knew that the idyll would come to an end eventually. How would Jason cope?
As the music became louder, faster, more frantic, Marianne looked across to where Leonard was sitting with his guitar and was surprised to see him surrounded by a group of girls. As she wheeled Axel Joachim’s pushchair nearer, she saw that, in between songs, he was signing autographs and the admirers were taking photos with him and giggling.
So it had begun. Marianne had dreaded this day, when he would be well known and the fans, especially the female ones, would start to surround him, stalk him, find him. He would never be hers again and she would have to share him with the rest of the world, be pushed aside.
Sometimes he disappeared overnight. It had happened several times and was always unexpected.
The previous evening, they had been so happy together. There had been no quarrel. One of his songs was being played on the radio and he had beckoned Marianne to his study so that they could listen to Bird on a Wire and watch, through his window, an actual bird on the wire. It had made them laugh, the serendipity of it, as if the crow were in the pay of the radio station.
After the gathering at the taverna and its dramatic ending with George being hauled away, they had come home, gone out on the balcony, dressed warmly, and watched the sun stain the purple and lemon sky. They had smoked their favourite roll-ups with hash in the centre and then gone inside to make love.
That night, Marianne dreamed that she was outside a huge fortress with impenetrable brick walls, slits for windows and a moat around it. She looked up and saw Leonard at the window. The drawbridge was up and she called out to him. He laughed and would not lower the bridge. But when pretty young girls arrived and asked to enter, he let them in. She cried, she begged, but he refused and eventually she walked away.
Marianne woke with a start, her heart thudding. She turned to Leonard for comfort but he was not there. Slipping on her dressing-gown she went to his study. Not there either. It was four a.m. He had disappeared again.
Marianne tried to get back to sleep but could not. Just after seven, Axel Joachim cried out for her and his warm milk. She went to him, lifted him from the bed and nuzzled her nose in his warm face. His skin was soft, his eyes crusty: carefully, she wiped them clean. He sucked his thumb. Kyria Sophia had arrived by then, they had breakfast and the day began.
Leonard only returned at lunchtime. He looked a bit dishevelled but handsome as ever, the cold reddening his cheeks, his hair windswept.
Marianne had resolved not to nag him or ask him where he had been but when she saw him, her heart fell, and the words just tumbled out. ‘Where have you been, Leonard? I was so worried about you.’
‘No need to, Marianne. You can see that I am safe.’ He seemed cheerful.
‘But where did you go to in the middle of the night? Who were you with?’
‘You cannot tie me to the tree and nail me down. I am as free as the sea and as dark, as turbulent,’ and with those words he went to get washed.
There was a bad atmosphere between them that day. He stayed mostly in his study where she could hear the typewriter and the radio. She busied herself with her son and going to see Axel who was no less volatile, complaining about Sonja and her demands.
You want it all, you men, thought Marianne. What do I get in return? But she said nothing.
She held herself as a shield against them, angry with them, hating them, loving them.
She had not put a fresh gardenia in Leonard’s room that day. I
n the afternoon she relented, picked the shiniest one from the potted plant on the terrace, and took it to him. As she drew out the limp one, and placed the new bloom in his vase, he caught her arm, kissed it and a truce was wordlessly sealed.
xxvi
After months in the Athenian jail, Magda returned to Hydra. As the boat drew in, her friends gathered on the quayside. They were dressed warmly, defying the temperature. The sky was numb with cold, a slab of marble above a hostile sea.
Magda looked very different. Gone were the flamboyant clothes; gone was the chunky jewellery; gone was her shock of red hair; and gone was the bright make-up.
Alexis helped her from the boat, and Marianne hugged her. ‘Magda, my big sister,’ she said, ‘it’s so wonderful to have you back with us again.’
Magda smiled and squeezed Marianne’s hands, her eyes were full of tears, her skin sallow as if she had aged ten years in four months.
Because of the cold, Douskos had moved the tables and chairs inside the taverna and that is where they sat, in a circle, facing each other, candles dancing and bending in jars at the centre of the table. A fire clicked and sizzled in the grate.
George was also out of jail and promising to drink less; Leonard was calmer now that he had seen the positive reaction to his latest novel, poems and songs; and Jack and Frieda were presenting a united front, determined to focus on – and save – their marriage.
The wine was brought, olives and dolmades; pitta and hummus in wicker baskets; feta and tomatoes shiny and glazed in their own juices; salamis and cold meats; grilled sardines crowned with lemon wedges; crusty bread carried in by Demi and wrapped in tea towels to keep it warm, like a swaddled baby, protected against the winter. Marianne had organised the lunch for Magda and the woman smiled her thanks to her friend. She said little, as if the imprisonment had robbed her not only of exuberance and life, but also speech.
‘I am so happy to have you back here with us,’ said Marianne. ‘We have good times ahead. Axel Joachim will be very pleased to see Alexander. He’s walking now and starting to say a few words.’ Magda smiled. ‘When Alexander returns, can you both live at the house?’
‘Yes,’ whispered Magda. ‘My mother is on her way now to return him to me. We have the home and a small allowance. I’ll sell Lagoudera, too, and live a quiet life, just my boy and me. That’s all I want.’
While they were eating, Nick Katsikas came in and handed a note to George. They had a phone in the store now and the message was for him to ring his agent. George excused himself, and left the table. Charmian scowled at him: ‘It’s Magda’s welcome home lunch,’ she muttered, still angry about his arrest.
As always, the air was thick with conversation: Jack, Gordon and Chuck were telling each other about the books they were writing; Leonard was lending a volume of Lorca’s poetry to Charmian who was telling him about Peel Me a Lotus and confessing to finding the mixing of information and description a challenge; Marianne was listening to Frieda and Anthony talk about the merits of acrylic painting as opposed to watercolour as a medium for conveying the rustic beauty of Greece; Norman was quiet as usual but absorbing what was being said.
Ten minutes later, George came running in, his face excited.
‘That was my agent,’ he said. The mixture of wine, coughing, and good news made him struggle to speak. ‘My Brother Jack has won the Miles Franklin Award and is going to be made into a television series.’
Applause broke out.
Charmian hugged him. ‘Oh George, that’s great.’
‘What do you know, Charm? Thanks everyone. Jeez, this year is getting better and better.’
He coughed again and wiped his mouth with his hanky, concealing the blood from his wife.
‘Can’t believe it. ABC has bought the rights and they say it’s going to be the biggest thing they’ve done for years. They’re casting Nick Tate as David Meredith and Marion Johns and Chris Christensen as the mum and dad. I can hardly take it in.’
‘Will you be adapting it?’ asked Gordon.
‘No, I think that’s beyond my abilities. I’ve said I have someone in mind to write the script.’ He turned to Charmian.
She blushed. ‘Me?’
‘Yup. I’ve told them. That’s who I want.’
More wine was brought, the drinks were again on George and toasts were made.
‘You know,’ said George, standing up for his address, his eyes glassy with tears, looking around him, ‘many of us here have come from imperfect families. On Hydra, we have made our own family. It is a slightly odd one, misshapen perhaps…’
There were cheers and whoops of agreement.
‘…but it is a family nevertheless and I love every one of you seated here today. Sharing food and wine and conversation with you, is everything to me. Thank you. I appreciate you all.’
Charmian could not stop smiling. The thought that George, who she felt often underestimated her abilities as a writer, had asked her to write the script: it was amazing.
There were days when life on Hydra felt so good: friends gathered, laughing, talking, sharing. And, as if the day could not get any better, the door opened and in walked Alexis laden with suitcases, Magda’s elderly mother and in her arms – Alexander.
The boy looked dazed and confused, even when Magda leapt from the table to hug him. He gazed around from Marianne to Charmian, all of whom he had known in the past but not seen in a while.
By now the table was covered in borrowed books; coffee cups rimmed with black; plates sticky with baklava and honey; wine glasses stained with their own filling and emptying, the air smoky and dense.
Although he and his granny came and sat at the table and were welcomed by all, the boy could not settle. He cried, tears scalding his red face and he threw his head back and wailed so the party gradually fell apart, Magda eager to take her mother and son home.
Back at their house, Charmian wasted no time in talking to George about the script. Shane was out with Baptiste, Jason was at Gideon and Esther’s home, and Martin was in his room, working on his poetry, the newspaper and articles.
Fuelled by wine and excitement, Charmian and George talked animatedly.
‘The thing is, what I really need you to capture is the complex relationship between David and Jack, the way the older brother feels that he is a redneck, a failure, measuring himself against his successful war correspondent brother.’
‘I get that, George, but to what extent do viewers need to get the backstory, the parents, the differing ways they treated them?’
‘Jeez, Charm, that’s fundamental and the way that Jack has always idolised David. That’s got to be in there. You have to decide when: either at the start or later as flashbacks, maybe. You’re the dramatist.’
‘But I also want to include Jack and Sheila and their romance.’
‘Sure, and more about David’s marriage, too, which I’ll develop in Clean Straw for Nothing.’
She was thinking of Jack and Pat Johnston in real life and believed that they deserved to be portrayed. All the time, her mind was moving between the fictional characters and the real ones: to what extent was David Meredith just a vehicle for her husband to shout out his achievements as a war correspondent? Was writing fiction simply showing off? She recognised the details that were taken from their lives, not just the thinly disguised characters but also the places: George’s parents’ home in Buxton Street, Melbourne, and the Caulfield Convalescent Hospital where his mother had been a nursing sister. She hoped that he would be discreet.
Who am I to talk? she thought. My two recent books as well as all the journalism have stemmed from our lives. Ideas have to come from somewhere.
But she kept her thoughts to herself. She needed to get on well with George if they were to work together: no fighting or falling out, no acrimony. The focus must be on their writing, not their marriage.
And so long days, long nights, were spent working, writing, so that the tapping of their typing filled the house. Sevasty cared for the
children, making sure they were fed, being mother and father to them, tutting: I would never neglect my children in this way.
Elsewhere on the island Norman gathered tin cans and chicken wire for his installations; Anthony painted and missed Charmian; Gordon and Chuck wrote and read their work to each other on candlelit evenings; Leonard wrote, sang, composed; Jack made good progress with his Middle East book; and Frieda and Carl continued their cycle of loving and painting. The island hummed with creativity as if they were all contributing to a collective force of artistry and inspiration, urging each other on. It was as if an energy hung in the air, somewhere between the sea and the sky, hovering above the land like a grapevine stretched across a trellis, whose fruit everyone was welcome to pluck and eat. And no matter how many grapes were picked, the vine just kept on giving.
One day when Frieda and Carl were in her studio, she seemed upset.
‘What is it?’ he asked her, stroking her hair with his thin fingers. ‘Jack is sent a cheque every month from his publishers. It’s not much, yet we thought we could manage on it if we were very careful but money is so tight. The cheque comes in, Jack orders books and periodicals that he says he needs for research and there are things the children need, and there is nothing left for my materials.’
Carl laughed. ‘Frieda, why didn’t you tell me before? I have the monthly allowance from my father’s law firm and plenty to spare. There is hardly much to buy in Hydra, is there? Write down anything you want and I will put in an order to the art suppliers in Piraeus. I need to get some sent for me, too.’
‘Thank you, Carl. Isn’t your father kind to send you money every month?’
‘Don’t be naïve. He does so because he is bribing me to go back to Toronto and take over the practice. He’s getting older now, his health isn’t great, and he wants to retire but he won’t do so unless I go back so it’s a kind of emotional blackmail.’
‘Why doesn’t he just sell it?’
‘He doesn’t want to. He built it up himself and he wants his only child to carry on the legacy.’
