by Paul Thomas
‘What’s her name?’
‘Emily.’
‘As in Brontë, I presume?’ I’d heard Patricia make claims on behalf of Wuthering Heights that members of the Brontë Society would baulk at.
All I got by way of a reply was a terse shrug. There was obviously a very fine line between polite interest and prying.
‘How old is she?’
‘Almost three.’
‘She’s a sweet little thing.’
Patricia raised her eyebrows. ‘Thanks for pointing that out; I had no idea. I suppose you’re wondering what this is in aid of.’
I shrugged. ‘Well, we never got to say a proper goodbye.’
She laughed with studied humourlessness. ‘We’re here for one reason and one reason only, and it’s certainly not because I want us to part as friends. When I asked if you could see the resemblance, it was her father I had in mind. That’s right, Daddy,’ she said, mistaking my clueless expression for incipient comprehension. ‘Take a good, long look at your little girl because it’s the only one you’ll ever get.’
I stood and stared. Patricia’s tight little smile unfurled into a malicious grin. When we were together I’d had — or been ceded — the intellectual upper hand. Seeing me struck dumb and disoriented, like a refugee from famine in Harrods’ food hall, must have been a sweet moment.
At times like this one desperately wants to be coolly ironic or, failing that, flippant; I would’ve settled for glibly inconsequential. But the stylish or insouciant comeback requires unflappability and clarity and I was flabbergasted and only capable of suspicion.
‘How can you be sure?’
‘Because I don’t believe in the stork.’
‘What about Serge?’
‘What in God’s name has Serge got to do with it?’
‘He told me … well, actually, he told me quite a lot, starting with the fact that you two used to screw each other all summer long. Strange you never mentioned that when you were on your high horse about me and Samantha.’
‘Oh yeah, the Barbie Doll. I heard she finally cottoned on that she wasn’t wanted.’
‘Let’s stick to you and Serge.’
‘You brought her up. As for me and Serge, well, that’s easy: it was a long time ago and none of your business. And I repeat: what the hell’s he got to do with anything?’
‘He said he went to Paris to help you move out.’
‘So what?’
‘And that to take your mind off things, you and he turned the clock back.’ It was her turn to gawk. ‘He said what?’
‘I’m sure it was wonderful therapy but it does raise the question, how can you be sure I’m the father?’
She took the matter up with Emily. ‘Oh, Uncle Serge is a naughty old uncle, isn’t he, darling, messing with Daddy’s head like that? On the other hand, Daddy must be very, very stupid to believe it. You’ll have to work really hard at school to make up for having a dolt for a father.’
‘That’s your idea of an answer?’ I said testily. ‘In case you’ve forgotten, I’m moving to the other side of the world next week and I’ve got better things to do than …’
‘It beats me why I ever thought you were clever. Look at her, for God’s sake. I’m dark and Serge is darker still; explain to me how we could’ve produced a child with blonde hair, blue eyes and a fair complexion.’
All I could come up with was, ‘These things happen.’
‘Once in a blue moon maybe. Let me spell it out in terms that even you should be able to understand: the resemblance aside, you were the only man I slept with in the relevant period. Serge did come to Paris and, now that you mention it, in the course of one of his twisted little dissertations, he might’ve said something to the effect that the best way to get over you was to take a lover and he was available on a stop-gap basis. I assumed it was intended as a joke; I certainly took it as one. What you’re conveniently forgetting is that I loved you and I believed — because you kept telling me so — that you loved me. But you didn’t love me, did you? If you’d loved me you wouldn’t have been sniffing around that bitch like some sex-starved schoolboy … Although one can understand a sex-starved schoolboy drooling over a Barbie Doll but a supposedly intelligent adult, a supposedly serious writer in a serious relationship with a like-minded, grown-up woman? Soulmates — wasn’t that how you described us? My world falls apart, the life I had planned collapses before my eyes and how, according to you, did I react? By jumping into bed with Serge. Something we’re taught as children, Max, is not to judge others by ourselves, but that lesson obviously went over your head.’
It was quite a speech and gave me a chance to pull myself together. ‘As long as you’re not bitter, Patricia, that’s the main thing. So if I’m Emily’s father, why wasn’t I consulted in advance? That’s your idea of being a soulmate?’
‘How much are you drinking these days?’
‘What?’
‘You seem to have gone completely soft in the head. I didn’t discuss it with you because there was nothing to discuss. I had no idea I was pregnant until the symptoms started and I went for a test. Remember when I changed from the pill to a diaphragm? No, of course you don’t. I did try to discuss it but you showed no interest whatsoever. Obviously something went wrong in the transition.’ She didn’t look or sound as if she was making it up.
‘I guess that’s one way of putting it. So how did you feel when you found out?’
‘How do you think I felt?’
‘Like having an abortion?’
‘Exactly.’
‘What stopped you?
Apart from the carry-on following her three-point landing in the puddle, our daughter had been remarkably unobtrusive. There’d been the odd wriggle and squawk and a half-hearted attempt to swallow her hand but otherwise she’d been content to observe proceedings from the comfort of her mother’s lap.
Patricia gazed at Emily, her expression a template for maternal adoration. ‘I thought it would give me a focus, help me put the whole wretched business behind me, and I’d have someone to love who’s worth loving. I also thought it would make me a better person and a better writer. I was right on all counts.’
‘What was it Cyril Connolly said?’
‘“There is no more sombre enemy of good art than the pram in the hall.” But he was a man, Max, so he found it awfully difficult to think of anyone but himself.’
‘So the work’s going well?’
This placatory inquiry was unsmilingly dead-batted. ‘Watch this space.’
‘I’m going to Australia, remember.’
‘How could I forget? It’s the best news I’ve had for ages. You’ll hear about me — but not, I think, vice versa.’
‘Well, on that generous-spirited note …’
‘Yes, time to say goodbye. Goodbye and good riddance.’
And that seemed to be that. Patricia turned her back on me to buckle Emily into the stroller. As she straightened up she flicked an indifferent glance over her shoulder. ‘Still here?’
‘What about Emily?’
Patricia, hands on hips, inspected me sourly. ‘You don’t listen, do you? That was it, the first and last time. From here on, as far as Emily’s concerned, you don’t exist. And don’t bother claiming you feel all paternal towards her because we both know that’d be a fraud.’
‘I have rights.’
‘My father’s as determined as I am that you won’t have a damn thing to do with Emily and, as you’d expect, he has some high-powered friends in the legal fraternity. Feel free to fight for your rights — it’ll get you nowhere and cost you a fortune.’ She beamed me another malicious grin. ‘So you’d better hurry up and write that bestseller.’
‘I take it, then, that you don’t expect any financial support from me?’
‘All I want you to do is disappear.’
Well, that was a relief. ‘No support, no entitlements, eh?’
She pushed the stroller past me. ‘Call it whatever you like. Fuck off to
Australia, Max. I’m sure you’ll fit right in.’
‘One day she’ll want to know who her father is.’
‘I’m a writer; I’ll make something up.’
And I’d thought her earlier grins were malicious.
Patricia walked and Emily rolled out of my life without a backward glance between them. I haven’t seen either of them since and I haven’t heard anything much of Patricia. Then again, she wouldn’t have heard anything much of me.
eight
We left England in spring. It was nine degrees and a sooty sky hung over west London like a sagging ceiling. We arrived in Sydney in autumn. It was twenty-seven degrees and the light pricked my eyes. I could feel the ocean, hear its whisper on the breeze calling to my long-suppressed Antipodean instincts.
It was April Fools’ Day, my birthday. I was thirty-six years old and without assets, savings or insurance. Work-wise I was treading water and, as we know, you can’t do that indefinitely. I had a daughter but only in the biological sense. My ex-wife and ex-partner hated me for falling out of love with them and Samantha, wherever she was and whenever I crossed her mind, pitied me for falling in love with her. I hadn’t particularly set out to make a mess of my life but if you choose to entertain romantic notions and a raffish self-image, it’s always on the cards.
Apart from the odd head-flopping, dribbling doze, Kate and I stayed awake and took our punishment as the jumbo tracked south towards the day after tomorrow. I went easy on the booze at first, not wanting to get off on the wrong foot with her family, but Kate persuaded me that meeting the O’Tooles wasn’t an operation to be undergone sans anaesthetic. I knew they were pretty down to earth but as the big moment in the arrivals hall drew closer, Kate started to get twitchy. It wasn’t that her family had a problem with writers or New Zealanders (spongers were probably another matter, but I was relying on her to nip that one in the bud). No, she was more worried about how I’d react to them, fearing that I’d take one look at these simple working folk — Dad was a bus driver, Mum did part-time clerical work for the local council, big brother was a copper and little sister a solo mum — and decide that this wasn’t my scene.
‘I’ve been accused of a lot of things,’ I said, ‘but that’s a new one: so now I’m a snob, am I?’
‘Come on, Max, you get the picture: they just aren’t your cup of tea.’
‘So what? It takes all sorts.’
‘Does it now?’ she said. ‘Tolerance is a piece of cake until you actually have to put it into practice. It’s like those sanctimonious Swedes lecturing the world about race relations; I mean, how many blacks are there in Sweden?’
‘There’s probably a few in the porno industry.’
‘Right, and if that’s not racial stereotyping, what is? Anyway, I’m not saying you’re a snob, I’m just saying you’ve got bugger all in common. They don’t read books, they don’t travel, they’re not interested in ideas or abstractions … Their idea of a night out is steak and chips and a few beers down at the footy club.’
‘Do they vote?’
‘Oh, shit yeah, true-blue Labour. But it’s that old working-class, Catholic, trade union thing; it doesn’t extend to being liberal-minded on social issues — especially not the old man.’
‘A touch of the redneck, perhaps?’
‘Let me put it this way: whatever you do, don’t get him started on the Asians. Fuck, you’d honestly think Pearl Harbor happened last week.’
‘True blue, red neck and yellow peril,’ I said. ‘The man’s a walking, talking colour chart.’
‘A walking, talking paranoid bigot, that’s what he is.’
‘Let me guess: the little yellow monkeys are itching to get their filthy little yellow hands on Australia’s wide-open spaces and fair-skinned womenfolk.’
‘You forgot our vast, untapped mineral resources,’ said Kate. ‘I’m telling you, when he gets the bit between his teeth it’s not a pretty sight. I strongly recommend that you avoid the subject altogether.’
‘So what’s safe ground?’
‘Rugby league.’
‘I don’t know the first thing about rugby league. Only criminals play league in New Zealand.’
‘That’s my whole fucking point, Max: you’re poles apart. And you’d have to admit, you’re pretty choosy about the company you keep, especially if you suspect there’s a risk of being bored. Well, there is a risk. In fact I confidently predict you’ll be bored shitless, and we’re going to have to spend a fair bit of time with them until we find somewhere to live.’
She wasn’t giving me much credit for adaptability or diplomacy but I could see where she was coming from. I was detached — as opposed to estranged — from my family and had spent more than a decade knocking around Europe with people who lived and thought and behaved much as I did and who had also loosened or severed their family ties. I was used to being stimulated and entertained; I hadn’t had to pull my head in or play a part in order to co-exist with people who weren’t on my wavelength. Bohemia’s a bit like Switzerland — small, self-contained, keeping the rest of the world at arm’s length. (In other respects Bohemia’s the complete opposite of Switzerland — messy, chaotic, impractical, financially illiterate.) I was going to have to engage with ordinary people and Kate feared that I couldn’t — or wouldn’t — do that.
I told her I understood the situation and would do my bit. I didn’t tell her I knew which side my bread was buttered on.
The gang was all there. Kate’s father was known to one and all as Ginge because he’d once had red hair; the hair had gone but the freckles remained. He was wearing jandals, a Manly rugby league jersey and dramatically short, tight shorts that if I hadn’t known better I would’ve interpreted as a militant statement of his sexual orientation. (I later discovered they were a working-class fashion icon known as stubbies.) He shook my hand as if I’d saved his life, and called me ‘mate’.
Mother Lynne was slim and sun-dried. Her breezy chat and hustle-bustle suggested she was a livewire and proud of it; some people — me, for instance — would probably have picked her as one of those hectic busybodies who lack self-awareness and an off-button. She hugged me as if I’d saved her daughter’s life, and called me ‘darling’.
Brother Brad was a constable in Dubbo, a place name no writer of fiction could improve on. He was a slab of a man with deep-set eyes and hunched shoulders that caused his strangler’s hands to hover over his groin as if he anticipated a threat to his testicles or an irresistible venereal itch. He shook my hand as if he was always hearing that he didn’t know his own strength, and called me ‘mate’.
Adele looked more like Lynne’s younger sister than Kate’s. I’d been briefed on her chequered past, beginning with the child she’d conceived while still at school and given birth to after she was expelled. The state took that one off her but she’d had a couple more by different men, neither of whom had hung around to help out. She shook my hand as if I was the Pope, and called me ‘Mark’.
I can’t imagine what they made of me. Having never experienced jetlag themselves, they could have been excused for thinking their daughter had had the extreme bad taste to bring home a druggie. We piled into Ginge’s Holden and drove for what seemed like three hours but was probably half that to an area known as the northern beaches. Although fading fast by the time we arrived at the O’Tooles’ brick bungalow, I was sufficiently aware of my surroundings to realise that ‘northern beaches’, like ‘retirement village’, was not a term to be taken too literally.
The guest bedroom had two kiddie beds with pink duvets. The wallpaper had peppermint-green vertical stripes. A black plastic Jesus on the cross hung on one wall: Jesus looked Filipino. A calendar promoting a local butcher was nailed to the opposite wall. The artwork for the month of April two years prior featured a dusky beauty with porn-star breasts. She also looked Filipino.
I thanked Jesus for a safe flight and slid between clean sheets. I dreamt I was in the Garden of Gethsemane waiting for Jesus to ris
e from the dead. To fill in time Mary Magdalene, whom I hadn’t realised was Filipino, showed me her tits. They weren’t a patch on the Calendar Girl’s.
I got up at sundown for a birthday barbecue. The womenfolk remained indoors making potato salad and coleslaw and remembering absent friends. Being an acquaintance, neighbour or relative of the O’Tooles seemed like a high-risk gig; if the disease didn’t get you, the invasive surgery did. The blokes stood around the barbie, drinking beer from cans encased in Styrofoam holders. These were entirely superfluous since Ginge and Brad didn’t give their beers a chance to defrost and my first careless gulp triggered a stunning mini-migraine.
‘Brain-freeze,’ pronounced Brad as I reeled back clutching my forehead. ‘Cunt of a thing.’
‘If you’d prefer a cup of tea,’ said Ginge with a snaky grin, ‘fuckin get it yourself.’
As Kate had warned, the conversation revolved around the Manly rugby league club, the Sea Eagles. It seemed to work this way: the Sea Eagles were ‘dead-set champions’ to a man, while opposing teams consisted of ‘fuckin low mongrels’, ‘fuckin bludgers’, ‘fuckin sheilas’ and ‘fuckin poofters’.
Inevitably it fell to me to explain why I didn’t share their love of league and burning — and somewhat paradoxical — hatred of all league players who weren’t Sea Eagles. I’d barely uttered the words rugby union before Ginge set off on a mad rant about ‘rah-rahs’ and ‘silvertails’. I later learned that these were derisive characterisations of, respectively, people who played and followed rugby union and the preening, parasitic middle-upper class to which they invariably belonged.
Brad came to my aid. ‘Geez, Ginge, give the bloke a chance. It’s not his fuckin fault he grew up in a place where union’s the go.’
‘Yeah, those All Blacks,’ said Ginge. ‘What a bunch of fuckin dirty bastards they are.’
Ginge’s diatribes were delivered with great vehemence but, the yellow peril aside, I came to realise that none of it should be taken personally and hardly any of it was worth taking seriously. What Ginge and his mates regarded as a little light banter would, in other, less robust cultures, have caused vendettas that would rage for several generations.
