Deirdre laughed. ‘Geoffrey – always so strategic! He’s right, Keira.’
*
In Olivia’s new house they sat at the kitchen table drinking a pot of peppermint tea. Olivia was wearing white trousers and a grey satin top. Her hair was pushed back with a grey satin band. A silver chain caught the light, glinting where it curved over her collarbones. Olivia was showing Keira the photographs she’d taken the first day they met.
‘It’s taken me this long to develop and print these,’ said Olivia, ‘because of setting up a new darkroom. Exciting how this roll of film turned out. Look at the light defining your cheekbones in this one. You’re very photogenic.’
‘You are too, even at your age. Oh, sorry! That sounded awful!’
‘Not at all. I know what you mean. And as Stendhal said, “Beauty is only the promise of happiness”.’
Keira poured more peppermint tea into their green porcelain cups. She asked, ‘When you were young, when you were so stunning, did you think it would bring you happiness?’
‘I thought I would be happy. I didn’t think I was beautiful. Young women rarely realise they are walking works of art. Most women of any age look in the mirror and see only their faults.’ Olivia sipped her tea. ‘I made the best of myself though. I enjoyed dressing up and going out.’ She paused for more tea, then said, ‘Beauty is not an unmixed blessing: it attracts the envy of women, and the wrong sort of men.’
‘The wrong sort of man like Howard?’
‘Talk about Mr Wrong!’
Keira laughed with her, relieved at not having offended her. ‘Olivia, can I ask you something personal, maybe painful?’
‘Yes.’
‘Remember when you discovered Howard and my mother at Beach Lane that time and stabbed him with the scissors?’
‘I do. I wound up back at Broughton Hall.’ She looked into her teacup as if trying to divine the future instead of peering into the past. ‘If Maureen told you that, did you two have a long talk about it?’
‘She told me everything that happened.’
‘Everything,’ repeated Olivia, looking up from her teacup into Keira’s eyes. ‘Including …?’
Keira gave her a lopsided smile.
‘You wanted to ask me something?’ said Olivia.
‘Ye-e-es. But it’s a touchy subject.’
‘Couldn’t be touchier,’ said Olivia cheerfully. ‘Just what did Maureen tell you about Howard?’
‘She told me … she told me … about Jim and his heroic behaviour.’
Olivia smiled. She drank the rest of her tea. ‘Jim Bolt was a bolt from the blue. And a stayer!’
‘Not a bolter.’ They laughed.
‘And they seem to have had a happy life together. Shame to lose all that history, but no one on the outside can know what a marriage is like. And sometimes things just have to come to an end.’
‘Just come to an end,’ said Keira thoughtfully. ‘As if the two people could think – it was wonderful but it’s over. Then go their separate ways.’ She paused. ‘But won’t there always be one of them who doesn’t want it to be over?’
Olivia sighed, looked into Keira’s eyes, and nodded slowly, a rueful smile lifting the corners of her mouth. ‘Listen, I imagine your mother told you the whole story about Howard and Jim, yes?’
Keira nodded.
Olivia continued. ‘As you probably know, I was in Broughton Hall again afterwards. Lillian Burnside visited me a lot, and Alfred Foote, of course. Alfred has always been in love with me. But I could only think of him as a platonic friend. It was Lillian who told me Maureen had had the baby.
‘The arithmetic wasn’t difficult for me to work out the probability about Howard. Maureen was a good Catholic girl. For all its ferocity, I hadn’t forgotten the intimacy in their fight that day at Beach Lane. He’d always chosen extremely young girls. And I of all people knew how persuasive and charming he could be. In a flash, I knew, I was certain.’
There was a long silence. Keira drank her peppermint tea. The refreshing scent hung in the air between them. ‘Did you ever want children, Olivia?’
‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I never did.’
‘Would you … How would you feel if I tracked down Howard and saw him?’
‘Oh, don’t worry about my feelings. I am as tough as old boots now. Dr Karel calls it resilience. And if you do, you can tell him how I am. Success is the best revenge!’
*
Geoffrey Pettifer was peering at the southern wall of his gallery. Behind him, Keira inspected the wall, dismay mounting in her chest. So little time left!
‘See – there and there, and up there too, now,’ said Geoffrey, pointing at various parts of the wall with his knobby red forefinger.
Keira stood staring at the scabby, greyish, peeling patches breaking out like galloping psoriasis on the previously smooth white wall. It looked like a distorted map of the world. She stood back and viewed the disfiguring bits of crumbling dampness.
‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’ said Keira.
‘I thought it would be all right. I’ve been painting over it and hoping for the best.’ He looked from the wall to Keira’s worried face and concluded mournfully, ‘But the best is not happening.’
A wave of apprehension rose in Keira’s heart. Why hadn’t he done something about this before? A clear vision of the opening, just a few days away, flew into her mind, with the scabby peeling wall painted over and looking normal. Then, after the speeches, the pictures on that wall would fall onto unsuspecting guests – CRASH! CRASH! CRASH! There would be screams of shock, shrieks of horror. There would be hysteria. People would be rushed to hospital. People would be aghast. People would sue.
‘You’ll have to get someone to fix it!’
Geoffrey Pettifer moved his bulk towards her and looked grave. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘there is so little time now.’
What a firm grasp of the obvious he had! Keira seethed.
‘We could just not use this wall,’ he said.
‘We need it. We need every inch of space you’ve got!’ Keira said, wanting to weep, wanting to shriek.
Geoffrey Pettifer looked at her, his rheumy eyes with bags under them making him look more than ever like a lugubrious walrus. ‘We could postpone the opening until we get it fixed.’
‘We’ve already sent the invitations!’
*
Luckily, Keira knew an architect. The following day she was leading him into Pettifer’s Gallery. Alan and Keira were both wearing pale blue jeans and black T-shirts. Keira had enlisted Jim’s help too. He was already there, in his work outfit, sturdy cotton trousers and a flannel shirt.
‘Oh, hi,’ said Keira, kissing him on the cheek. ‘This is Alan Bovingdon. Um – this is … my … this is Jim Bolt.’
‘Good to meet you,’ said Alan, with a firm shake of Jim’s hand.
‘Likewise,’ said Jim.
‘And this is Geoffrey Pettifer.’
‘How do you do, Alan?’ said Geoffrey.
‘I understand you have a problem with a wall,’ said Alan.
‘Yes. Jim’s been working on it. He can show you where the dry rot meets the creeping damp!’
Jim gestured in the direction of the offending wall with his head. He led the way to the southern wall. Alan followed. ‘Uh oh,’ said Alan.
‘Yup,’ said Jim. ‘Rising damp here – and here – and here.’ He pointed.
After a discussion of the technicalities, the men got to work with the tools Jim had brought with him and Keira sat down for a discussion with Geoffrey confirming details of the catering.
Jim and Alan managed to fix the wall so it would appear fine for opening night, and told Geoffrey what should be done as a more permanent solution. When they finished, Alan asked Keira for a coffee.
She kissed Jim and Geoffrey goodbye and she and Alan walked towards the New Edition bookshop and cafe in Oxford Street.
‘You’re quiet,’ observed Alan as they walked along the footpat
h. ‘You’re really preoccupied lately.’
She gave him a half-hearted smile.
Alan said, ‘You’ve got time to come with me to the opening of the Opera House, haven’t you? On the twentieth.’
‘I’m not going. The Queen’s opening it.’
Alan did a double-take as if she’d gone crazy. ‘So?’ He shook his head.
Keira stopped and stated, ‘The Queen and her family live lives of tax-payer funded decadence. British people might be sentimental about them and enjoy the spectacle of the Royals drifting around in their diamonds but that has nothing to do with Australia. We’re not a British colony any more, we’re an independent democracy.’
‘The Queen is a figurehead of that democracy.’
‘The Queen is irrelevant to our democracy; British royalty was part of our beginning, but has no place now!’
‘It’s a historical beginning – it’s symbolic. You’re being silly.’
‘She’s nothing to do with us now and I refuse to kowtow to her. I’m not going.’
‘You are always so uncompromising!’
‘Compromise,’ she said, nodding grimly, ‘is where nobody gets what he wants.’
‘Compromise,’ he said, ‘is the foundation of relationships.’
‘The most I will concede about it is that it might be a necessary evil – sometimes.’
‘No, you’re wrong. Compromise is nothing but good.’
‘Only in theory. In practice, it’s always only one person doing all the compromising.’
‘Well, that’s not compromising then – that’s something else.’
‘But that’s the way compromise works.’
Alan shook his head. ‘You always stand on the high horse of your principles but you know what? It’s really just stubbornness. This is typical of you. History is unfolding here in a few weeks, and you have the opportunity to be a part of it.’
‘It will happen whether I’m part of the crowd gawping at it or not.’
‘That’s a cynical view of what we’ll be doing.’
‘Really? How will they be part of history? They’ll just be onlookers, doing nothing.’
‘They – including myself – will be an important part of it – an important part of the democracy you’re so concerned about – bearing witness to the ceremony and celebration of a unique historical and cultural event. The fact that a mere figurehead is opening the Opera House is not important. Look, you need to get some perspective and you also need to get some balance in your life.’
She stopped short and put her hands on her hips; the man in a suit hurrying behind her avoided colliding with her by swerving around her, glancing back as he rushed towards his important meeting.
‘My life is balanced just the way I like it! I live up to my principles. They’re more important than some ephemeral excitement.’
‘And your principles are more important than me, than our relationship,’ he stated.
‘Why can’t I have both? Men do. Men get to stick up for what’s important for them and their careers – they get to have professional lives and personal lives and don’t have to choose between them.’
Alan groaned. He said, ‘I’m not asking you to choose. I’m asking you for a bit of perspective, that’s all.’
‘Don’t be patronising.’
‘I’m not. I’m merely asking for what I want.’
‘What about what I want?’
‘What do you want?’
‘I want to be left alone to finish my honours essay and go after some sort of professional life – like you have – without patronising lectures about how to live my life!’
‘Fine – I’ll leave you alone to do that then.’
*
Later that evening, the Woodstock Street house was quiet. Keira sat down at the kitchen bench to a quiet dinner of salad and a leek and Jarlsberg omelette. Jarlsberg was her favourite cheese. The omelette smelt delectable and she was just about to take a bite when the doorbell rang. One bite first – yes, delectable.
Up the hallway she walked, in the reddish light, the runner soft beneath her bare feet, then opened the door to someone she was not expecting.
‘I came to apologise. I said some hurtful things, things that aren’t true.’
She opened the screen door wider and let him in.
‘Steve and Nessie are out.’ As they walked down the hallway she said, ‘Look, maybe they were true. Maybe you have nothing to apologise for. I’ve been thinking.’
‘So have I. And I do need to apologise.’
‘We could have another fight about this – and be like Japanese businessmen bowing lower and lower as each one wants to have the last bow!’
‘Oh! You were having dinner,’ he said. ‘Please, don’t let me stop you.’
‘What about you?’
He made an impatient gesture and said, ‘I’m not hungry. You go ahead while it’s hot.’
They sat on the kitchen stools. ‘You know, I’m not hungry either. I’ll have this later. Would you like a drink?’
‘Sure.’ He took his caramel corduroy jacket off.
Keira found an opened bottle of white wine, probably Nessie’s, in the fridge and poured some into two glasses. She’d replace it tomorrow. ‘Let’s go into the lounge room.’
‘Alan, there is truth in what you said and maybe I should say sorry to you. Don’t shake your head – hear me out. I’ve neglected a lot of things while I’ve been in single-minded pursuit of this project.’ She pressed her lips together as if reluctant to go on. ‘Okay, I’ve realised I’m ambitious. I didn’t think of myself that way before and society doesn’t like women being that way, but things are changing and … look, I know I’m focused and uncompromising … and if I have to choose between love and a career …’
‘No one’s asking you to choose.’
‘No, but let’s think this through. We need to talk about what we each want.’
Alan put his glass on the table and sighed.
Keira continued. ‘I am sure that I want to go full-steam ahead with my career and I want to go as far as it will take me. And I just can’t envisage myself as a mother.’
He looked crestfallen. ‘But later …’
‘Let me finish. I can’t see it. I just can’t see it ever happening.’
‘But it’s getting easier for women to have a family and a career,’ he said, ‘and I’d be supportive of you doing that.’
‘You know, I think that people can have all the egalitarian ideals they want but in the end, only one person can breastfeed.’
He nodded. ‘There’s no refuting that.’
‘And of course if I did have kids I’d want them to have the best start in life. I could go back to work later and all that. But the thing is, I’m not maternal. It’s not what I want.’
Alan was silent. They both drank their wine. He took her hand in his and looked down at their intertwined fingers.
He raised his eyes and said, ‘But you might want kids later.’
‘I don’t think so.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘It’s not even a problem of getting our timing right. We want different things!’
Alan sighed. He took his hand away and stood. He gulped down the rest of his wine.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, standing too and making a gesture with her arms as if she wanted to hug him. He stepped back.
‘Now you’re angry,’ she said.
Alan put up his hands as if defending himself. ‘I’m not angry. I’m not anything. It’s time for me to go.’ He picked up his jacket and got his car keys out of the pocket.
Keira reached a hand out to him but he had already turned away. She followed him up the hallway. He walked quickly, went out and shut the door behind him.
She wandered back, mechanically picked up the two glasses and took them to the kitchen. Too bad that cat was gone. She scraped the omelette into the compost bucket.
*
The following morning, Keira emerged from the lift and padded along the grey lino
hospital corridor in her sneakers, past pale greenish walls with framed pictures of Mary and Jesus. The sharp antiseptic smell repelled her. She was in jeans and a white T-shirt. She would get this thing over with. Her heart beat fast with nervous apprehension.
Turning a corner, she spotted room number 358. She approached the doorway and looked in. A man faced a window with a view of wispy pale green treetops and red-tiled terrace roofs. Creamy little white clouds floated in the pale blue sky. The window was like a frame around a Lloyd Rees painting. But the man was not looking at it. He was concentrating on the Telegraph’s racing guide.
He sat in a wheelchair, his right leg extended and encased in plaster from knee to toes. He had very short silvery-white hair and his ears were slightly large but well-shaped. The bone structure of his face gave him a noble aspect, like an emperor’s face on an ancient Roman coin. He wore a well-cut navy wool dressing gown with maroon satin piping on the collar, cuffs and pocket. On the night table by the bed stood a glass of jonquils, pansies and marigolds. Their skew-whiff aspect made it look as if a child had picked them from someone’s garden.
Keira stepped into the room and the man looked over. His olive skin was tanned but soft. A piece of white sticking-plaster was diagonally across the right side of his forehead. The only thing giving away his age, apart from the silver hair, were deep grooves at either side of his mouth.
His light blue eyes locked on hers, alive with recognition. He moved his wheelchair away from the window and faced her. ‘Keira! You … you’re here! How … how did you find me?’
‘Madge Burnside.’
A brief bark of a laugh brightened his face. Silver stubble along his jaw glinted under the fluorescent light. He wheeled himself closer to her. ‘That busybody has a vast network right across the city. Piece o’ work she is, pretending to do ’er charity work. She was deee-lighted to see me flat on my back after the accident. Couldn’t wait to tell me about you.’
He paused and seemed to drink her in with his pale, hungry eyes. Indicating a small armchair, he said, ‘Sit … Please. Put your things down.’ He tossed his newspaper on the end of the bed.
He continued. ‘Madge Burnside’s always got to have the upper hand, the last word, the higher moral ground. She’s a cunt, ’scuse my French.’
After She Left Page 31
