The Yellow Villa

by Amanda Hampson

  ‘It’s not easy for either of you. It’s all very well speaking the language, but if you have no one to talk to … you’re not in touch with the other guy, are you?’

  ‘No, Mum. I’m not. As if. That’s over and I wouldn’t do that to Ben. He’s made a massive effort to make things work for us. I’m not going to sabotage it.’

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting sabotage. That’s not what I meant at all. I just thought if you were lonely … you might … that was part of the problem, I think. And also the other business.’

  Twenty-four hours and she’s already starting to get on my nerves. I get up from the table and stack the dishes in the sink. ‘Mum, you don’t need to find mitigating circumstances for me. And if we have to talk about it – which we don’t – you can just say it. You don’t need to call it “the other business” – it makes it seem worse. Like some sort of criminal activity.’

  ‘No, we don’t need to talk about it, but I don’t want you stewing, either.’

  ‘I have the right to stew if I want to.’

  ‘Mia, darling, leave those dishes, I’ll do them. Just sit down.’

  I sit down reluctantly at the table. I don’t want to talk about this right now. It still feels as though there is a dam of grief inside me that has set hard and just won’t crack. My eyes burn with unshed tears. ‘I actually feel like a complete idiot …’

  ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself, darling.’

  ‘No, don’t try to make things right – if you want me to talk about it, then listen to me! All those years Ben and I were living together and perfectly happy. Then the perfect, wonderful, amazing wedding. Exactly as I wanted it. When I think about all the energy and work I put into the styling and the place names and those stupid heart-shaped wreaths I made. The ridiculous things I thought were important. I’m so embarrassed by how … superficial I was.’

  The pain in my mother’s face sparks my tears. ‘I actually told people we were getting married to start a family … like I was going to order online for immediate delivery. One of each, please. How stupid was I? I never thought … It was just so incredibly disappointing to find out in the end that it wasn’t going to be possible. It was never possible! My body kept this secret from me all those years. It’s completely broken my heart.’ I pick up a tea towel and wipe my tears away roughly. ‘That’s why I wanted to come here. Partly for me and Ben and partly to get away from our friends and all the people who feel sorry for us. Practically all our friends have children now …’

  ‘You’re quite sure you don’t want to look at …’

  ‘I’ve told you before, adoption is incredibly difficult now. It takes years, and I just don’t have the energy for more disappointment.’

  Eva takes my hand and presses it to her cheek. ‘I wish I could take this pain away. I wish I could suffer it for you. You have so much more to offer than that …’

  ‘Don’t tell me there are other things in life. Or I’ll smother you with this tea towel.’

  ‘I’ll risk it.’ Eva smiles sadly. ‘Of course there are; you’ve got this wonderful project right here. It has so much potential. It’s just calling out for your creative talents; for you to make your own mark on it.’

  ‘I don’t have a mark! I don’t know what my mark even is! I feel as though being “creative” is just a childish thing you do, pottering around making things until you do something real and grown-up – and become a parent.’

  ‘Children are a phase of your life, for a short time you’re the centre of their universe, next thing you know they’ve gone to live on the other side of the world. The drive to create can apply to anything and everything, it can sustain you through your whole life. Actually, it was my job that got me through motherhood. I’m not sure I would have survived without that to nourish my soul and lift me out of the drudgery. Cooking, washing, driving – it felt endless. The creative urge will come back for you, I promise. You’ll see something, a shape or a colour, and feel that urge to make something …’

  ‘I pictured myself doing craft with … having a craft room … teaching them how to paint, and draw and sculpt instead of watching TV. I imagined what a great mother I would be. Taking them to exhibitions, like you took us. I still can’t believe it was all just a fantasy. It seemed so real to me.’

  ‘Darling, even if you’d had children, you’d find that picture was a fantasy. One minute they’re creating a beautiful collage, next thing they’re gluing each other’s hair to it and inhaling the glitter.’

  I can’t help laughing. ‘I didn’t start that, by the way. That was Jonathan.’

  ‘As usual. It’s easy to idealise being a parent. It has its own set of hardships.’

  I fold the tea towel in half and then quarters, storing it away neatly for future upsets. ‘I didn’t tell you but when we got the keys from the notaire, he told us that it had been in Madame Levant’s will that the property should be sold to a young couple.’

  ‘Seems an odd condition; it could have taken years for a young couple to come along.’

  ‘Mum, she’s dead. She’s not keeping to a time frame.’

  ‘You think she wanted children in the house?’

  I nod miserably. ‘I feel as though we’ve slipped in under false pretences. You saw that child’s room, left there all set up.’

  ‘What? You imagine it was left for you?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think. She was ancient, she can’t have had a small child.’

  ‘There are any number of explanations, it could have been her own room —’

  ‘I thought of that. But it feels … I can feel a child’s energy in that room. I’ve been having dreams about a child … a little girl …’

  She gives me a long look. ‘You have every right to be here, Mia. This house is yours now. You can fill it with whatever you want. Get out your pencils and paper, your brushes and paints … make a place for yourself here.’

  ‘I’ve tried. It’s not that easy.’ I hate these angry, desperate tears that just keep rising up in me. ‘Mum, I’m so scared that I’m never going to get over this.’

  I can see from her expression she feels the same.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ben likes Eva, he always has done. She’s made it clear that she believes he’s good for Mia. He likes Joe, Mia’s father, but he’s one of those friendly, preoccupied types who never quite connects. Eva’s the plugged-in one; she says what she thinks but she’s kind and generous too. Mia’s two brothers are good guys but both intense. Mia’s more the thoughtful, peaceful one; she’s inherited Eva’s gift for observation and shares her fascination with line and colour, textures and details.

  As far as Ben’s concerned, Mia’s family are his family. His own family broke apart when his dad died. A death so unexpected, so sudden, that it took Ben years to process. It was years before he would even search the term ‘aneurysm’ online to discover the culprit.

  The farm had been the central point of their lives – everything revolved around that. It was their home, their past and their future. His dad had been at the helm and, without him, everything solid and predictable simply dissolved. His mother sold the farm, paid off the debts and rented a little house in town. The farmhouse had been old and generously proportioned in the way the yellow villa is, designed by an architect for wealthy clients. It had wide verandahs, high ceilings and solid timber floors. The rented house was built for workers; the rooms were small and dark, with lopsided additions attached to the rear. Ben couldn’t decide if his mother was now poor or didn’t care where they lived. Later, it seemed that she knew it was going to be a temporary move. It was just for show. The family had barely unpacked when Bradley Price, a neighbouring farmer, began to show up. Coming home from school, Ben would sometimes see him driving off in the afternoons. His sister Olivia had her suspicions about Bradley. ‘It’s pretty odd how he and Mum hooked up so quickly, don’t you think? Dad never liked him, you know.’ Ben didn’t want to think about it but their mutual dislike of Bradley brough
t Olivia and him closer together.

  When the six-month lease on the house ended, his mother announced that they would all be moving to Bradley’s farm. He was to become their step-father. Olivia was seventeen and still believed she had some say in the matter. The next weeks were a furious blur of shouting and tears and accusations. Ben had just turned fifteen. He didn’t consciously think about his father – the loss was a dull heartache that became a part of him. His only relief was found in sleep and weed. Bradley was no substitute for his dad. Not even close. Ben had his own reasons for disliking the man.

  Olivia left for Sydney the day after her final exam. Ben divided the next three years between school and his bedroom. Each time he left the house, he averted his gaze and tried never to look across the paddocks towards their old house, its dignified profile a memorial to his old life. To a time when he was a member of a family.

  In the evenings, he would come out of his room to collect his dinner. He pretended to listen to Bradley’s complaints about his attitude and appearance, and slipped back into the shadows, eating alone at his desk. His mother only cared about what Bradley thought. Occasionally she would make excuses for Ben, but soon gave up in the face of her husband’s hostility. Ben hated the way they would stare at each other hungrily when they thought he wasn’t looking and sometimes, in the night, he would hear his mother cry out. Either in ecstasy or pain he never knew – never wanted to know. It felt like they were waiting for him to go and leave them alone together.

  Ben was rescued from the loneliness of his existence by the camaraderie of coding. Programming appealed to his sense of order and fascination with patterns. He found a kinship online that was missing in his real life. As soon as he finished school, he followed Olivia to Sydney. He slept on an inflatable mattress on the floor beside her bed. She introduced him to her friends as her ‘nerdy stoner brother’. Keen to shake that descriptor, he found casual work with a landscaper, stopped smoking weed and dug it up instead. A week into university he knew vet science was not for him; it was something his father had wanted for him. It was his sister’s housemate, Mia, who convinced him he didn’t have to do it; that he could do something he loved and he fell in love with her.

  Eva is the ideal person to have here right now. She’s beyond excited about the many architectural details of the house that Ben hasn’t picked up on because he’d been overwhelmed by the scale of the place. She’s pointed out the ornate floral plaster cornices and the ceiling roses above the lights, decorative mouldings on the walls, little crests and emblems everywhere. She examines the brass doorhandles, tarnished black with age, and finds little stories in each. She wants to know the history, the name of the architect, the story of the family who lived here. Her enthusiasm is adding another dimension to the house.

  Last night he’d come down to the kitchen to make coffee and heard Mia crying. He was relieved that Eva was there to say the right things to comfort her. Things he struggles to articulate. He wishes he was better at it. He too wants to take her pain away. It’s only now that he recognises the magnitude of the changes they have brought upon themselves. And now he’s working flat out, that’s another change.

  Yesterday Eva and Mia walked up the hill and explored the village, visiting Mia’s favourite ateliers: the jeweller and her artist husband, the leather-crafter, the clockmaker, the chocolatier. This morning the smell of baking wafts up from the kitchen and he has a fleeting sense that the house could one day feel like a real home. Thinking of home, he makes a video call to Olivia, on the off-chance that she’s at her computer. Her face pops onto his screen with a wide grin. ‘Hey bro, s’up?’

  ‘Seriously, Ollie, you sound like an old person trying to act young.’

  ‘I am an old person, remember? Thirty-nine this year, next year oblivion,’ she says. ‘How are you, my serious young insect? How’s la belle France? You’re lucky to catch me, was just about to shut down and go to bed.’

  ‘Things are okay, yeah, good, actually.’ There were so many things he had wanted to talk to his sister about but now they don’t seem that important. He worries that expressing his concerns will breathe life into them. ‘Eva’s here now.’

  ‘Oh cool, give her my love. We’re having Christmas with them, did she tell you? They’ve rented a big house up at Byron. Me and the kids are road-tripping it up there.’

  Ben feels a pang of homesickness for the December rituals of heat and holidays. ‘Yeah, she did mention that. So you’re not going to Mum’s?’

  ‘Nope. Not after last time. I’ve decided that’s it. He’s so rude to the kids. I think Mum’s got Stockholm syndrome. I don’t know how she can bear him. So, Mia said you’ve been working hard?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s not too bad, actually. Same team and Lei-Mae is running the project, so that makes it easier; she’s really good. So we’ve got money flowing in again. Mia’s still trying to figure out what she wants to do, so that’s … you know … okay.’

  ‘Benny Boy, it’s not going to happen that you move to France and everything is magically perfect. Have you heard of the five stages of grief? Denial, anger, something, something, depression and acceptance. Oh, that’s six … anyway, I think she’s somewhere between the last two.’

  ‘I don’t know about that. It’s more like she’s incredibly disappointed that things are not going to be the way she thought.’

  ‘And you are too, aren’t you?’

  ‘Obviously,’ he says. ‘Who wouldn’t be? But there’s no choice apart from accepting it.’

  ‘Be patient. It’s going to take time. It was a huge gamble going there but sometimes gambles pay off. If all else fails, I’ll send the monsters out there for a month and you’ll be put off children for life.’

  ‘How are they? Mia told me Zach tried out for the school band.’

  ‘Yep, he got into the performance band, so he’s pretty happy with that. Still torture to get him to practice. I’m going to book him into surf school in Byron. Hey, Poppy’s doing flamenco now – looks so cute stamping around in her little frilly dress. I’ll send you a pic. I can’t really afford all these lessons, work’s been a bit slow – everyone’s a bloody graphic designer these days.’

  ‘You should be learning more code, there’s front-end work around. I could put you forward on some projects.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, on the list,’ says Olivia with a sigh. ‘I can get Zach to teach me. Twelve-year-olds are ahead of the game now – he’s doing computer science at school. Hey, let’s catch up on Christmas Day and you can see the kids – our morning, after the gift opening.’

  ‘Sure, I’ll call you before then anyway. Good to see you, Ol.’ Ben hears the note of sadness in his own voice. He watches his sister’s face suddenly crease, her mouth pulled tight against the brimming tears in her eyes.

  ‘Call anytime,’ she says. ‘Anytime at all. Love you, baby bro.’

  ‘Yeah. Thanks, you too …’ Her image snaps off the screen before he even finishes. He wishes he’d actually said he loved her instead of that half-hearted ‘you too’ that he always does. He loves her so fiercely it’s hard to say out loud without the risk of bawling. He messages her that Zach’s surf school and Poppy’s dance fees can be Christmas presents from him and Mia and gets an exploding heart emoji in return. It makes him think about how the next generation of graphic interfaces might actually convey emotion.

  Chapter Sixteen

  On Sunday, in an effort to shake Susannah out of her torpor, Dominic suggests that they take an afternoon stroll and drop in on the Tinkers. It’s cold, the sun pale and listless, reflecting the mood of his wife who has been in a complete funk for days, weeping over the money situation. Perhaps tiring of her own melodramatics, she reluctantly agrees and he chivvies her into a warm coat, even digging out her favourite angora beret and cheerfully looping a scarf around her neck. Enamoured with his own saintliness, he bestows a kiss on her forehead and pretends not to notice her flinch at his touch. You give your all, and this is what you get in return.


  These days the walk is visually unrewarding; almost every tree is a grey skeleton. The fields, where bright-green barley, gold sunflowers and shimmering rows of corn grew in the spring and summer, now lie fallow. The soil, dark as coffee, furrowed and heaped in rows, offers an insect-rich smorgasbord for swooping birds. Susannah walks in silence, either lost in thought or continuing to sulk. Only the dogs in their ridiculous hooded tartan coats seem to be enjoying the outing.

  There is no response to his knock on the Tinkers’ front door, but he can see their car parked in the barn off to the side of the house. Susannah turns to leave, but since his involvement with the Tinkers’ electrical problems, Dominic considers himself practically family with the usual familial rights of access. So, despite Susannah’s protests, he has no qualms about venturing around to the back of the house to seek them out.

  The Tinkers are in the back garden, but had he not been spotted, Dominic would have been tempted to slip away. He doesn’t really know Mrs Van den Berg – Lana? – but is familiar with the husband, Thomas. They have grown sons, twins, whom they’re always boasting about. Both boys apparently have civil service jobs in Brussels or The Hague or some other city blighted by bureaucrats.

  Dominic dislikes Dutch people generally – the way they feel entitled to say whatever is on their minds with no attempt at diplomacy. They take a dim view of charm, seeing it as counterfeit currency. Thomas Van den Berg is no exception; he’s combative and fancies himself as a wit to boot. The only thing in this couple’s favour is that they do speak French and make an effort to involve themselves with the local community, not just throwing their hands in the air, declaring it all too hard and collapsing into the arms of the expat clique.