How Bright Are All Things Here

by Susan Green

  What do I want? I want them to know that I loved them.

  No. Not even that. I want them to judge me fairly.

  I think I might ring Leo Lombardi after lunch. No, I will ring him now. With all the money I pay the man, the least he can do is come running.

  I’ve been thinking – it seems I can’t stop! – and I have the wonderful enlivening thrill of my own cleverness.

  Oh, please. We’re allowed to think well of ourselves, at least some of the time, and I am trembling on the brink of righting a wrong. These past weeks and months, seeing Paula each day, rain or shine, I’ve realised how good it is to be seen, and not through a glass, darkly, but face to face. As her father did. We have begun to talk –

  Or is it just that I have begun to listen? Somewhere along the line I missed something, didn’t I? Typical, you might say, and you would be right, but it’s not too late. Darling Paula. I want her to have something special.

  Words fail but money talks; I shall leave her the flat, with the most valuable furniture – the secretaire, the inlaid table, the break-front bookcase. They can sell that little dump in Richmond and pay off the mortgage, or rent it out for some exorbitant sum, and with the income from that and the other money coming to her, why, she can save orphaned whales while the He-Beast drives trucks or tractors or any other manly thing he takes a shine to.

  Poor He-Beast – though I mustn’t call him that, must I, for it was long ago that I realised his sterling qualities, and understood that my dislike came from a few chance resemblances (and it’s all chance, isn’t it?) to Gerry. The crisp dark hair, the widow’s peak, the propensity for sulks. But a different kettle of fish altogether, and so is Paula. In fact, she is ideally suited to such a husband. The crew at My Journal would have approved, for, as they were always at pains to point out, it is a wife’s duty to hide a man’s flaws from himself.

  Anne shall have the beach house; 502 The Esplanade will fulfil her fantasy, for at her command the family – the full disaster with droves of those dreary in-laws – can gather. When grandchildren arrive can you imagine the great jamborees she will hold? All that coming and going, cooking and eating, talking and laughing, all that togetherness, is her idea of heaven. She can be matriarch, den mother, earth mother, adored by all. The house has been rented for the past decade, so it will need work, but she’ll adore that – she loves to redecorate – and after she’s been through it with her trusty Country Style in hand, it will be like something from the lifestyle pages.

  I’m being cruel, and I mustn’t be. One of the things I’ve always said about being a mother – and I was, I was a mother to Anne – is that you mustn’t take it too personally. You mustn’t allow your hurt to overwhelm your love. Did I heed my own advice? It humbles me to say no, I did not. My mouth is full of ashes as I confess that I’ve been bitter and angry underneath my shining surface. How did I not know, Anne? My poor poppet, you’ve always been seeking what you can never find. Playing happy families won’t remake the past; you can’t fix or change what happened. It’s not that I don’t understand the impulse – I do, I do! – for I too have thought I could expiate my sins in that way. But listen, darlingest: you did not kill your mother. Do you hear me? It was not your fault. At the end of my life, it’s taken Paula to make me understand the burden you’ve carried, always, and for that I’m sorry. I thought love could work miracles but it cannot change the laws of time and space. You were born, Anne; your mother went mad; she died. Let it go now. You can never win. You see, after the family have all roared off in their monstrous four-wheel drives, that space will be empty again. Even if Matty’s there with you (he’s a dear man but weak – is that why you chose him?), the tide will go out and you will be alone.

  And finally, there is Tom.

  Tom, Tom, the piper’s son,

  Stole a pig and away he run.

  Stop it! Stop the accusing silence. Why won’t you let me off the hook this once? Do we really have to dig any deeper? Yes, yes, I feel guilty, because I failed Tom. There’s a school of hippie-happy self-help pop psychology that tells us to forgive ourselves, for we were doing the best we could with what we had at the time. Wrong. I did not do my best. I very much fear that I did my worst.

  Tom was – and doesn’t it stand out like a dog’s balls? – sexually abused. Not by a priest, but by Emory Hayes, the art master. Alec was at that school before him, and Alec’s father as well. It was very High Church Anglican, with all-too-frequent services in the ornate Victorian Gothic chapel. Brass plates commemorated Old Boys who’d made the ultimate sacrifice in Boer, First, Second and Korean, and rows of boys would kneel, stand and kneel again, voices raised in unison.

  Bring me my Arrows of desire . . .

  It was Rob’s favourite hymn – ‘Jerusalem’, with the words by William Blake.

  Bring me my Chariot of fire!

  That would be Emory’s red MG, wouldn’t it?

  Tom at fifteen. Tommy the Beautiful, Tommy the Charmed, turning from a boy into a man under my gaze. Suddenly a young Greek god with broad shoulders, tapering waist and long strong legs was sunning himself voluptuously in front of me on the beach, emerging tanned from the waves with tiny rivulets of water making their way down his flat stomach to the swelling pouch of his Speedos and his newly furred groin.

  What? So I’m not to appreciate beauty because it’s male and underage and my own stepson? Please! I know the bounds of such relationships. He was my child, too. My Tom, so affectionate, so ready with a hug or a squeeze. Tommy the Gorgeous, so eager to please; to please you, me – oh darling! – everyone.

  ‘It’s very good of you, Emory. Of course Tom wants to go.’

  ‘Of course you may go, Tom. It’s very kind of Mr Hayes to invite you. You’re very lucky that he takes an interest.’

  In the terminology of child-abuse experts, he groomed Tom. But first, he groomed me. Let me be honest, at last. He was a smooth operator, but I had known smooth operators in my time. I could excuse myself by saying that what with one thing and another – Alec often vaguely ill and always preoccupied by work; life in Balwyn being, let’s face it, a little dull – I was vulnerable. But the truth is, I was vain, I was flattered, and thus I was easily deceived.

  The visits to the house, the cups of coffee, the intimate chats. At first, they were about Tom’s talent, and then, by degrees, about me, me, me. It was Mrs Henderson to Bliss in a few moves. Admiring glances and a light touch, a slight pressure of the hand here and there – on the arm, on the knee – are so flattering to a woman of a certain age. And all the while he was buggering my stepson.

  When Alec told me that the headmaster had phoned to ask him if there was anything ‘untoward’ in Mr Hayes’s relationship with Tom, I was outraged. When finally it all came out – the sketching trips to secluded riverbanks, the extracurricular outings that ended at Emory’s flat – somehow I blamed Tom. Why didn’t he tell us? Why did he let it go on? Why didn’t I know?

  ‘Mr Hayes is here, Tom,’ I said, knocking on his door.

  After a few seconds, I knocked again. I tried the handle but he’d locked himself in. I banged. I called.

  ‘Tom! Tom, I know you’re in there! Mr Hayes is here.’

  There was no answer. Embarrassed, I returned to the living room, where Emory was standing with his hands clasped behind his back, the very picture of a proper young schoolmaster in his tweed jacket.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Emory,’ I said. ‘He must be asleep. He had cricket practice last night. He’s very tired.’

  ‘Never mind,’ he said, with his delightful boyish smile. ‘Let him sleep.’

  ‘Will you stay for a coffee?’

  He looked at his watch. ‘No, thank you, Bliss; some other time. I’d really better go.’

  He must have known then that the game was up. With a cheery wave, he got into his MG and drove away, never to be seen again. Investigations began, although naturally it was all hushed up for the good of the school. And Tom wouldn’t talk about it to either of
us.

  Alec asked me to try. Begged me to try, actually. Looking ill, drawn and defeated, as he so often did in late middle age. He drifted around the house, picking up at random Tom’s school photograph, his cricket bat, his papers and books, looking at them as if to find an answer. ‘He won’t talk to me. He’s always been fond of you. Talk to him.’

  I nodded. I did try. But for Alec, not for Tom.

  There’s that property in Camberwell. And there’s the silver, the Spode and the Wedgwood, the Chinese bowls and the Jacobite glass . . . Tom knows antiques. Ironic, isn’t it?

  I want them to judge me fairly.

  Oh, Tom, I don’t even want to know how you judge me.

  I use Lombardi & Son, rather than Alec’s stiff-necked Anglo firm, mainly because I like their style, which has a kind of mafioso sprezzatura. It’s the suits. Say what you like about English tailoring, that narrow Italian cut does a lot for a man.

  ‘If they are to judge you fairly,’ said Leo Lombardi, ‘you need to be fair.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So you keep your will exactly as it is, Bliss, leaving everything to the three of them, to be divided equally.’

  ‘But that means that everything must be sold.’

  ‘Not necessarily. You can suggest they go to the flat now and choose what they like. You can gift individual items to them, or let them work it out for themselves as they would need to do afterwards. And you can present each of them with a rather large cheque right now, if you wish. Apart from that, I suggest that you leave things as they stand. Bliss, believe me, I have seen as many families torn apart by thoughtless wills as by vindictive ones.’

  ‘Am I being thoughtless, Leo? But I’ve thought about it a great deal.’

  ‘Bliss –’ and here he took my hand – ‘your intentions are good, but . . .’

  ‘The way to hell is paved with good intentions,’ I said, and he gave an embarrassed little cough. Was it the word ‘hell’, and me so close to my fitting end? Or was it just that, as a good Catholic, he knew where I was headed?

  Damnation aside, he was right. Pictures, houses, French glass paperweights, Staffordshire dogs and Georgian secretaires – they were all fossils, ancient history, and who needs to be dragged way back to the primeval slime?

  ‘Yes, you’re right,’ I said. ‘You’re right, darling Leo.’

  PAULA CALLS TOM

  ‘I know,’ said Tom. ‘Anne’s already told me.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Paula. ‘She didn’t say she’d spoken to you.’

  ‘She’s taken it upon herself to ring every couple of weeks with the family update.’

  ‘About Bliss? So you know –’

  Tom cut in impatiently. ‘Yes, Paula. Anne says Lombardi’s got a little cheque for each of us; says she’s instructed him to get going on the sale of the apartment.’

  ‘Did she tell you Bliss wants us each to choose some things from the flat?’

  ‘Yes, she told me that too. Goody, goody. We can argue about who gets Grandma’s salt-and-pepper shakers and Aunt Edna’s false teeth.’

  ‘Some of it’s valuable.’

  ‘For God’s sake Paula, I know that.’ Paula could feel him fending her off. She could picture the effort, see the beads of sweat on his perfect forehead. ‘I’ve had my eye on that little Georgian secretaire for years.’

  In the past she would have backed off, knowing there was no point in persisting when his every word was meant to scratch or bite, but there was no time. It had to be now.

  ‘She wants to see you. Tom, she’s dying.’

  Back at her, his last feeble volley. ‘Aren’t we all?’

  ‘Tom.’ An echoing nothing down the line. ‘Tom?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The cardiologist says it could be days or weeks, but it’s going to be soon. Really. And she wants to see you.’

  ‘Anne says she’s depressed. It’s quite common, apparently; she says she’s asked the Director of Nursing for an assessment from a geriatric psychiatrist –’

  ‘Tom! Listen to me. She’s dying, and she wants to see you, and you need to come.’

  ‘I’ve got things going on here, Paula. We’re in the middle of renovations.’

  She knew what it was going to sound like, and she said it anyway. ‘If you don’t, you’ll always regret it.’

  ‘Jeez, Paula! Is this Oprah, or what?’

  ‘I know you’ve always blamed her for what happened to Caroline –’

  ‘You don’t know shit, Paula.’

  ‘I know you, Tom. Listen, it’s real and it’s now and you know I’m right. Tommy, you do need to do this. Before it’s too late.’

  ‘Jesus wept! I get it, okay? I’ll talk to Roly. It’s just it’s not a great time right now.’ There was a banging noise, a gust of laughter, a low-pitched rumble of male voices. ‘We’ve got the builders in and, well, there’s Roly’s prostate thing again. You know, more tests.’

  ‘Oh, Tommy, I didn’t know.’ And Anne didn’t tell me, she thought. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s been “watchful waiting” for so long that I guess we’re both sort of . . . a bit freaked out, to tell you the truth. Look, Paula, I’ve got some guys here to measure up for shutters, so is there anything else?’

  ‘No. Yes. Could you ring her, do you think? To let her know that you’re coming? I mean, we’ll tell her, but if she hears your voice . . . Just so it’s not a surprise.’

  ‘Shock, more like.’

  ‘No, Tom. She . . .’

  Her voice went all wobbly, and Tom broke in quickly. ‘Okay, okay, I’ll ring her.’ And in an American accent, mocking her, he added, ‘Love you.’ And then, softly, just before he put the phone down. ‘I do, you know, Paula.’

  Love you too, Tom.

  SORTING IT OUT

  Paula is here. With Anne. They are sorting things out at the flat and Anne, who has assumed command, wants to know which charities for the clothes and household goods.

  ‘I don’t mind, darling. Decide for yourselves.’

  ‘The jewellery?’

  ‘Oh, divide it up between you. Maura might get some fun out of it. The good stuff – the pearls your father gave me, and the rings – are in a box in the locked drawer of the secretaire, and the key is –’

  ‘Yes, you gave us the key. Now, what about Dad’s things, Bliss? There’s an old tweed jacket in the wardrobe . . .’

  ‘Oh, I saved that for Tom!’

  ‘I can’t see that he’ll want it.’

  ‘He does,’ I said.

  Anne turns to stare at me.

  ‘I spoke to him.’

  ‘When?’ asked Anne.

  ‘Last night.’ It was a complete surprise, out of the blue, a phone call from Tom. It was a short, rather stilted conversation, informing me – no, warning me – of his impending visit.

  ‘So you don’t get too much of a shock, Bliss,’ he said.

  I was feeling pretty chipper, you see, so I took a chance with a more intimate reply. ‘You could never shock me, darling.’

  ‘I know.’ And something in his voice, something almost sombre, made me think of the last time we were close. God, it was so many years ago! It was when he came out.

  It was unfortunate that Alec took it so badly. It made me realise that the gap in our ages – sixteen years – and our experience of life made entirely different events of Tom’s revelation. Disaster versus ho-hum. In spite of Tom’s girlfriends, I’d always known which way the wind blew. And so what? I’d worked in interior decoration, darling. Well, I went to work on Alec immediately, as a matter of principle as much as anything else. Of course. Your child is your child is your child . . .

  ‘I’ve kept his dear old jacket for you, darling. The tweed one with the leather buttons . . . You would like it, wouldn’t you?’

  He said something muffled that I didn’t catch. I took it for a ‘yes’.

  ‘There’s the watch and cufflinks, his medals, the gold fountain pen . . .’

  I am starting to
feel enfeebled by Anne’s managing. ‘For Tom?’

  ‘I’ll ask him,’ says Anne. ‘But I thought maybe they should go to the grandsons. After all, Tom hasn’t got any children.’

  ‘No, but he might like something else of Dad’s,’ says Paula. Says it gently, but it’s nevertheless a rebuke, and there’s a significant pause before Anne resumes.

  ‘There are some magazines and scrapbooks, Bliss, and a couple of boxes of black-and-white photos. They’re very small and none of them are labelled. You can hardly make out what they are.’

  But I know.

  My first camera – a Zeiss Ikon – was a farewell present from Aunt Emu and Miss Minnie when they left London. I had never owned a camera before, and I snapped away like mad. The Festival of Britain was still on and I wandered all over the South Bank recording the pavilions and the Dome of Discovery, the Skylon and Festival Hall. You must remember that I’d never really seen any modern buildings before, not in staid, dowdy Melbourne. Even the new Festival lavatories were rather stylish, though the paper was scratchy and hard.

  I was disappointed when my first efforts were developed. The man in the camera shop gave me a piece of advice.

  ‘You always want to get a person or two in your shot, miss,’ he said. ‘Gives you the scale, adds a bit of interest.’

  I had to rely on strangers and so I stood on the promenade and in the pleasure grounds, watching through the viewfinder as passers-by floated in and out of focus. Click! I’d catch this one. Click! And that one. It became, in time, more about the people. Like collecting butterflies. In the boxes at the flat, there are hundreds of one-and-a-half-by-two-inch photographs of tiny figures sitting on the viewing platforms or walking by the river or standing among the Epsteins and Moores in Battersea Gardens. If you look closely, if you adjust yourself to their black-and-white 1950s tininess, you can discern faces, gestures, little glimpses of lives. Are those two in love? Her shoes are too tight. That man looks ill.