Abby feels chains wrapping around her wrists. ‘I thought you didn’t like your parents.’
‘I don’t much. But I’d like you to meet them. We can stay with them Friday night, get it over and done with, then the rest of the weekend is ours to have fun.’
‘You told me you don’t usually stay with them.’
‘No, but it might be easier this way. And you can get a proper feel for my childhood home.’
Abby is still unsure, but he’s so bright and hopeful, how can she say no?
She spends the week in nervous disarray, wondering what it all means, whether he’s trying to harness her with a rope of commitment. She can’t do it. But the tickets have been booked and paid for. How can she find a suitable excuse to wangle her way out of it now? She looks to her kangaroos out in the valley for enlightenment, but they don’t help at all. They are placidly unconcerned, watching her with brown-eyed indifference as she perches on a rock to study their behaviour. They barely even move from grazing.
Cameron’s parents live in a large white brick house in upper-middle-class Prahran—he points it out to her as they climb from the taxi. Privilege oozes from the street, from the dark shadows of the stately house, from the walls that surround it, and the arched metal gateway. Cameron swings the gate open and leads her through a well-watered garden. The house is partly concealed behind a large deciduous tree, and on the porch, colourful flowers spill over the rims of terracotta pots. The front door is heavy, with a polished brass knocker and shiny round handle. Cameron presses the bell.
After a few moments a tall grey-haired man opens the door and frowns out at them. He is an older replica of Cameron, obviously the father. ‘You’re here,’ he says, without a smile. ‘Come in. Your mother’s been waiting.’
Cameron glances at his watch. ‘I said five-thirty.’
‘Your mother thought you said five. But never mind. You’re here now.’ He beckons them in.
‘Dad, this is Abby.’ A twinge of impatience colours Cameron’s voice. He places a hand on her shoulder and squeezes it.
His father peers at Abby over his glasses, and this does nothing to relieve her sense of unease. ‘Lovely,’ he says. ‘Nice to meet you. This way please.’ Then to Cameron: ‘Your mother is in the lounge.’
They follow his square shoulders down the corridor, their feet tapping on the wooden floor. Abby notices ornate cornices and arches, a dark antique hall stand, oil paintings in golden frames. Cameron’s father leads them into a lounge room full of heavy furniture. It feels soulless, and Abby wonders at how such a home could produce someone as affable as Cameron.
A woman rises from the cream-coloured couch and moves like royalty to greet them. She is long-faced with dyed brown hair and carefully applied make-up. Her cheeks droop in sombre folds like a spaniel. Abby figures she’s close to sixty.
‘Darling boy,’ the woman says, extending her arms to hug Cameron, a languid smile on her face.
Cameron’s brow furrows. He extracts himself from her embrace and reaches for Abby’s hand, tugs her forward. ‘Mum, this is Abby. Abby, this is my mother, Anna.’
Abby musters a gracious smile and takes the thin white hand that is extended to her. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ she says.
‘And delighted to meet you too, dear.’
Anna Barlow peruses Abby with a sophisticated and judgemental eye. She’s smartly dressed, very boutique, dripping with gold jewellery. Abby feels like a small country hick in her brown leggings and swirly colourful top with too-long sleeves. She shakes the older lady’s hand, wishing she’d worn a more modest top with a higher neckline. Cameron might appreciate a bit of cleavage, but she is suddenly very certain his parents do not.
‘How about a cup of tea?’ Cameron suggests, glancing apologetically at Abby.
‘That would be lovely,’ his mother says. ‘Abby, you sit here and tell me all about yourself while Cameron sorts things out in the kitchen.’
Abby sits as instructed, trying her best to look relaxed. She wishes Cameron was still here to act as a buffer to his mother’s scrutiny, but perhaps she’s being unnecessarily anxious—Anna Barlow has hardly spoken to her yet. ‘There’s really not much to tell,’ she says lightly, giving Anna a bright smile. ‘I’m a country girl from Mansfield—still a student. Part-way through a PhD.’
‘Very creditable,’ Cameron’s mother says, nodding. ‘It’s good for girls to study. Both Henry and I are barristers, as Cameron may have told you. Retired now, I might add. Henry still takes on the odd legal case, but I’m rather preoccupied with my art these days. I paint. It’s nice to express the creative side of oneself, don’t you agree?’
‘I’m afraid I’m not very creative,’ Abby says.
‘Oh, but dear, I don’t agree,’ his mother protests with an amused smile. ‘Look at your clothes. They’re very creative.’
Abby cringes internally, but manages to absorb Anna’s comment without flinching. ‘What sorts of things do you paint?’ she asks.
‘Oh, I’m very abstract and eclectic,’ Anna says. ‘Portraits and still life, occasionally landscapes. I have a studio. Would you like to see it?’
‘Of course.’
The studio is upstairs in a surprisingly light-filled room with abundant windows framing the sky. In the centre of the room stands an easel with a canvas mounted on it. Old bed sheets spattered with paint are strewn across the floor. On one side of the room two enormously fluffy cats lie stretched on a couch.
‘Meet Cassius and Antony,’ Anna says. ‘My glorious couch potatoes. Living their immensely tedious lives of leisure.’
‘They look very comfortable,’ Abby observes.
‘Comfortable but devious,’ Anna declares. ‘Like their Shakespearean counterparts. Their sole aim in life is to do nothing and to do it well. They’ve made me their servant, and I adore it. Are you a cat person, Abby?’
‘More of a dog person,’ Abby admits, thinking of the golden retriever with its joyful smile at home in Canberra.
‘That’s a shame.’ Anna’s nose wrinkles. ‘I’ve always preferred cats. I like their independence.’ She sighs. ‘I never could tolerate dogs—all that blind devotion . . . it just isn’t me.’ She sashays across the studio to a series of canvasses leaning up against the wall. ‘These are a few still-life studies I’ve done this year,’ she says, beckoning. ‘I appreciate lots of colour, don’t you?’ She indicates an impressionistic painting of a bowl of fruit on a blue tablecloth in the style of Monet. Then she pulls out another canvas. ‘This is a portrait of Henry—rather experimental, but I like pushing my boundaries . . . oh, and this was just for fun . . . Cassius and Antony lolling on their couch. Do you like it? I keep intending to give it to Cameron for his flat. Such a nice little apartment, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, it’s very tasteful,’ Abby says, wondering if Cameron’s mother is trying to gauge how intimate this new relationship is. ‘I’ve been spending quite a bit of time there,’ she adds, a little embarrassed.
Something flickers across Anna’s face—perhaps a tinge of sourness, Abby can’t be certain. ‘So do you think he would like this painting?’ Anna asks.
‘I’m not sure,’ Abby says. ‘He mentioned something about a preference for dogs.’
Dinner is a politely restrained affair. They are seated at the Barlows’ large, polished, antique dining table in a room spacious enough for a king. The table is carefully laid out with ornate silver cutlery, diamond-cut crystal glasses, gold-coloured placemats and pressed white napkins. The centrepiece is a large crystal bowl filled with water and floating white candles. Twisted silver candlesticks cast amber light across the table.
It’s all very beautiful, very tasteful and opulent: the looping paisley drapes that adorn the high windows, the glass-fronted showcases along the wall elegantly arranged with special fine-bone china treasures, the solid, imposing buffet, bearing even more candles—Anna is obviously fond of such lighting. But to Abby it seems an intimidating announcement of wealth and sta
tus. The room is impressive, but it lacks heart. There is no passion in this house. It is all too perfect and correct. Too staged.
She feels oppressed by the dark heaviness in everything. It weighs on her and reminds her that she is not of their class, never will be, and somehow it separates and degrades her. She knows Cameron wouldn’t want her to feel this way. He has fought free of all this to be his own person. But she understands now the burden of expectation his background has imposed on him. This is what you must be—she feels it in the solid white walls, in the massive table, set royally for four when it could seat twenty. She feels it in the proper expressions etched into his parents’ faces as they share their opinions with the easy confidence that comes with significant financial security. She suspects they believe they are better than others, more deserving, more elevated, even though they are too polite and well-bred to say so. It makes Abby feel deficient and uncomfortable, and she doesn’t like feeling that way.
Cameron is definitely not himself around his parents. He’s tense and awkward, trying to conceal his irritation at the conservative right-wing comments his mother and father pitch constantly into the meal. The discussion roves from opera and classical music to private-school education and the entitlement of the owning class, as Cam’s parents refer to themselves. Yes, well they certainly own things, Abby thinks. Here it is all around her—the evidence of their ownership. They’re proud of it, and Abby supposes they deserve to be. They’ve worked for it like anyone else. But why do they have to bring attention to it in conversation? Abby knows she is not of the same class, and may not have had the same opportunity as these people, but she is equally deserving of existence, she thinks. She forces herself to remain quiet for long periods, smiling blandly, not trusting herself to speak civilly if she opens her mouth.
As the evening progresses, the conversation continues to centre on topics to which Abby is unable to contribute: recent high-profile legal cases in Melbourne, issues of gangland underbelly warfare in the western suburbs of the city, the Barlows’ upcoming trip to Europe to visit architectural highlights and special classical music performances in Vienna. Abby has never been to an opera and, on her student wage, it’s unlikely she’s about to start. And, although she likes classical music, she isn’t up to a detailed comparative discussion of the music of Wagner and Rachmaninov. It seems Cameron’s parents are trying to write her off as uncultured, but she mustn’t let it bother her. All she has to do is survive the evening then her duty is done.
Cameron looks pained whenever he glances her way. He rolls his eyes, but refrains from standing up to them, probably to avoid a confrontation. He’s admirably controlled when they stray once again into current affairs and politics, listening to their remarks with a tight grin on his face. Knowing how vastly his views differ from theirs, Abby is amazed at his restraint. She watches on, astounded, as his parents continue to bounce off each other with the finesse of years of practice. It’s such a polished show, she almost expects them to stand and bow at the end of an act.
The only way to cope, she decides, is by indulging in the fine wine Henry keeps pouring into her glass. The wine softens everything. It blurs the edges of her anger. But as the evening marches on, she feels her self-control slipping. The wine, instead of mellowing her, begins to make her feel fluid and confident.
Across the candlelit table, Cameron regards her with undisguised alarm. He senses her mounting annoyance, and his expression lubricates her sense of injustice. Why should the two of them endure a dinner like this, she thinks? Why should his parents get away with their pompous opinions?
Suddenly Cameron is all over the conversation, in damage control, smoothing and sanding the rough spots that start to emerge as Abby begins to assert herself. At first, she offers only offended grunts and sniffs in response to their comments, then she gains momentum and starts asking them prickly questions. Do you really believe all Australians have the same opportunities? Even those in underprivileged families, dealing with unemployment and domestic violence? His parents seem taken aback and disbelieving, and Abby suspects they are unaccustomed to being challenged on their views. In this country, they say, education and chances are available to anyone who wants to work. They appear unconvinced when she points out that it can be difficult to extract yourself from poverty, and that welfare can be a self-perpetuating cycle. They smile tolerantly, and Abby can see they’ve classified her as a young, naïve, left-wing idealist. They shift tack, directing the discussion onto country towns as if attempting to be more inclusive of Abby. But the wine has carried her far beyond her usual capacity for rational assessment, and she feels they are intent on revealing her for an ill-bred imposter. A strange eruptive pressure begins to rise in her chest.
‘So your parents, Abby? Your family?’ Anna says. ‘You’ve told us nothing about them. What do they do for a living? I can’t imagine there are many options in a little town like Mansfield. Where did they do their studies? No universities out that way, are there?’
‘That’s right,’ Abby says. ‘No universities. My father’s an accountant, but he’s also a farmer. He likes his cows. He talks to them.’ She smiles and raises her eyebrows. ‘And my mother hasn’t been too worried about jobs or studies in recent times. She died a decade ago.’ She feels a grim pleasure when Anna recoils.
‘I’m sorry,’ Anna murmurs, glancing nervously at Cameron. ‘What was it? Cancer?’
Now it’s Abby’s turn to recoil. What right does this woman have to ask about her mother? ‘Yes, cancer,’ she says. ‘But I don’t want to talk about it. Death’s a private thing.’
Anna mumbles another inane apology, while Henry leaps up to open another bottle of wine.
Later Abby takes a shambling, drunken, pre-bed walk, and Cameron accompanies her. She wanted to go alone, but he insisted on coming, won’t let her rove the streets on her own so late at night. They head into the muted darkness of the suburb and she attempts to march away from him but he keeps up with ease, striding just behind to allow space for her anger.
‘Your parents hate me,’ she says. ‘I’m not upper-class enough for them.’
‘They don’t hate you. They’re appalling snobs.’
‘You mean I’m not good enough for them.’
‘Nobody is good enough for them; I’m not good enough either. I’ve had a lifetime of not measuring up. I’m not the person they wanted me to be.’
‘Well, there’s something wrong with them if they can’t see how well you’ve turned out.’
His laugh has a resigned edge to it. ‘Sometimes you look at your parents and wonder how you emerged from their combined genetics. Philosophically and politically I’m not like either of them. Temperamentally, I suppose I’m more similar to my father.’
‘Well philosophically, politically, genetically and financially I fall short, in their view. That’s obvious.’
He catches up and grabs her hand, pity and anxiety on his face. ‘I shouldn’t have brought you here, should I?’
Abby walks, half-dragging him along. ‘It’s been a difficult evening,’ she admits.
‘I wanted to make a point,’ Cameron says. ‘To show how important you are to me. I’m sorry about my parents. And I forgot to tell them about your mum.’
Abby tugs her hand free. ‘Mum’s death isn’t something I like to talk about.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He tries to reach for her hand again, but she evades him. ‘Please let’s go home,’ he says. ‘It’s late.’
‘No. I need to walk. I’m not ready for bed.’
He blocks her way, shoulders looming in the dark. ‘Okay, walk then. But be careful. I don’t want you to get hit.’
She pushes past him, colliding with the hardness of his chest and stumbling across the nature strip, off the edge of the gutter and onto the road. A pair of headlights arcs past and Cameron grabs her into his arms.
‘See what I mean?’ he says. ‘You don’t even know what you’re doing.’ He presses her against him, checking her resisting limbs
. For a moment, she leans into him, jolting with hard dry sobs.
He strokes her hair. ‘You should talk to me about your mother,’ he says. ‘I know it upsets you. But I care enough to want to know.’
She drags herself loose and starts walking again. ‘I can’t,’ she says. ‘I survive by forgetting.’
The weekend is saved by a day spent wandering the streets of the city. In the morning, they escape Cameron’s parents’ house and head for a yum cha brunch in Chinatown where they sample dishes of chicken’s feet, bean curd noodles with seafood and fungus, and chilli king crab. Then they browse through a few expensive boutiques, and Cameron insists on buying a skimpy pink dress for Abby to wear that night.
Later in the afternoon, they go to the zoo, which Abby hasn’t visited in years. Her favourite exhibit is the butterfly house. She and Cameron sit on a bench seat for a long dreamy period while gorgeous butterflies dip and float around them. One lands on Abby’s knee, a lovely iridescent blue creature with sculpted wings. It remains with her for an impossibly long time, occasionally opening and closing its wings, until a rowdy child dashes past and dislodges it from its quiet pew.
They finish the day with a fun and depraved evening, drinking alcohol with some of Cameron’s Melbourne journalist friends in a Turkish restaurant. Around a low table, they sit cross-legged on dimpled cushions, pouring wine into tumblers and downing it like water. His friends are accepting of her, and Abby feels warm and confident with them. They include her in the conversation, and they laugh at her comments as if she is witty and discerning. Cameron has a fine glow about him when he looks at her, a lustful aura of happiness, and it’s as if he can’t keep his hands off her, his fingers resting too high on her thigh. The clingy short dress must have something to do with it, she surmises, but whatever the cause, she enjoys it, and feels sexy and desirable. It’s such a relief to feel so free after last night’s awkwardness.
The Grass Castle Page 15
