by Wendy James
If she’s honest with herself, Beth has to admit that it isn’t just the prospect of being closer to Margie that worries her – but what she thinks of as the Margie effect. The way Dan becomes a little less hers, a little less theirs, when he’s around his mother. The way he tends to defer, to acquiesce, to Margie’s . . . not demands, no one would ever accuse her of being demanding, but to her opinions, her ideas about him. The way Dan seems almost apologetic about his career, his expanded horizons and, on occasion, his wife and daughters. Truth is, when they’re around Margie, Beth feels vaguely sidelined.
Regardless, the return to Australia is necessary: Beth has been desperate to get back before the girls get any older, before they become irrevocably, unchangeably, American; before the relocation is too traumatic, the differences – more marked the longer they live in the States – too ingrained. She can already see it happening; sometimes they feel slightly alien, their childhood experiences, their concerns, their accents, so very different to her own. One day soon they’ll be embarrassed by their mother’s Australianness, will do their utmost – even more than the required snapping of apron strings – to differentiate themselves from her.
By the time Beth goes to pick up the girls from school, all the positive aspects of their impending return have begun to filter through, quashing her initial anxiety. She waits impatiently in the schoolyard, bursting to tell them. Desperate to share the news, she confides in one of the other waiting mothers, just an acquaintance really, and not one of her particular friends.
‘You’re going to Australia?’ the woman, Karen, says in a tone of mild horror. ‘Are you sure that’s good news?’ She still seems a little uncertain when Beth laughingly assures her that going back to Australia is definitely good news, and that they won’t be heading back to a life of deprivation, but to home and family and considerable creature comforts in a civilised and beautiful coastal city.
‘Oh, Janey will be just devastated,’ Karen says, ‘I don’t know what she’ll do without Charlie. I don’t know what any of the girls will do. She’s such a force, you know. They’ll be lost. What do your girls think?’
At this, Beth has to admit a little guiltily that the girls don’t know, that she’s only just found out herself. Karen gives an unreadable moue – whether out of concern or disapproval isn’t clear – but she doesn’t say anything more, interrupted by the noisy approach of her twin sons. Immediately caught up in the maelstrom of children’s demands and desires, the women’s conversation ends in the usual abrupt schoolyard way, with farewells and apologies neither given nor looked for.
Beth’s girls arrive soon after. Lucy first, cheerful, but ready for home; Charlie later, more reluctantly. Charlie, as always, is surrounded by friends, and only slowly extricates herself, making her way over to her mother, walking slowly, calling back over her shoulder, smiling and giggling, unwilling to finish the conversation.
She launches immediately into a frantic entreaty for a weekend sleepover for four or maybe even five – Please, Mum – of her best friends, ignoring her older sister’s prior claim to conversation. ‘I haven’t quite decided whether Stella or Carly should come, but definitely Evie, Liza, Belle and Rosie—’ But Beth is impatient, full of her own news, and shushes them both, pulling them towards her. ‘Hold on, Charlie. I’ve got something very exciting to tell you.’ Lucy looks intrigued, but Charlie pouts. ‘Oh, but Mum, this sleepover is really important. I need to know now. I’ve been planning—’
Beth interrupts. ‘I’ve got some great news, girls.’ She has their attention, finally. ‘We’re going home to Australia.’ Lucy looks momentarily surprised and then, as if sensing her mother’s pleasure, grins widely, grips her mother’s hand, breathes an exultant Yes! But Charlie is another matter. Her expression, momentarily blank, becomes steely in a heartbeat. Her eyes narrow, and she glares at her mother. ‘Actually, that’s your home, Mom.’ She emphasises the vowel. ‘Not mine. I wasn’t even born there. This is my home.’ She throws out the words, her voice suddenly hard-edged, then clamps her mouth shut and turns away, brushing aside her mother’s hand. Ignoring the bemused glances of her schoolmates, Charlie stalks through the schoolyard, out the gate, and begins the short walk home alone.
Beth and Lucy follow, subdued, all their initial excitement dampened. Beth tries to respond to Lucy’s obvious efforts to lighten the mood, but there is no dispelling the guilt. She should have broken the news differently: gently and in private. She should have considered the effect. She should have waited. She should have known.
Unusually, there are no afternoon activities scheduled and, once home, Charlie goes straight to her room and slams the door. She doesn’t emerge until dinner time, despite Beth’s anxious tapping at the door throughout the afternoon, her blatant attempts to placate her. ‘I’ve made cookies. Darling?’
‘Go away, Mom.’
‘But Charlie . . .’
‘Just go away.’
Eventually she sends Lucy in to check.
‘Charlie’s okay,’ she reports, after being closeted with her younger sister for a good ten minutes. ‘She’s just upset about leaving here.’ She shrugs. ‘She’ll get over it.’
‘And what about you, Luce?’ Beth realises with a pang that she’s been so worried about Charlie that she hasn’t given Lucy’s feelings a second thought. It occurs to her that her elder daughter’s calm demeanour might be deceptive.
Lucy gives her a valiant smile. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I don’t really want to go, I guess. I’m going to miss . . .’ She throws out an arm as if to encapsulate, well, everything – her whole life, Beth guesses. ‘I love it here, but it was always going to happen, wasn’t it? We’ve been warned our entire lives. So there’s not really much point in complaining, is there?’ Lucy’s smile wavers momentarily; she brushes at her cheek, wiping away a rogue tear.
Beth feels her heart lurch, puts her arm around her daughter. ‘God, you’re a good egg, Lucy. I should have realised how hard this would be for you. I was just so excited, I didn’t think . . .’
‘Are you really excited, Mum? I thought you wanted to go back to Sydney. Newcastle’s so different.’
Beth admires her daughter’s careful understatement. ‘I know. It’s not Sydney. But it’s probably not so different from the Sydney I grew up in, when I come to think of it. Sydney’s so big now – much, much bigger than here. And busy. And expensive. Newcastle’s a bit more small-townish – but the big city’s just a train ride away. Just like here.’ Beth knows she is reassuring herself as much as Lucy.
‘But it’s so . . .’
‘So what?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Newcastle has never seemed like somewhere we’d live. Where Nanny is . . . it’s okay, I guess, but it’s . . . Well, the houses are so tiny. And crowded in. And the people all seem a bit . . . poor or something. I mean, it’s not like here.’
‘Oh, darling.’ Beth almost laughs at her daughter’s effort to be diplomatic. Margie still lives in the same small cottage in the inner-city suburb of Newcastle where Dan grew up. While the suburb, like so much of the once-industrial city, is slowly gentrifying, it is certainly very different to their leafy middle-class enclave in America, where the only dirt and grime her children are ever exposed to is the occasional pile of dog shit left on the sidewalk by some irresponsible dog-walker. Beth hurries to reassure her daughter.
‘We won’t actually be living where Nanny is. There are much, much prettier suburbs. With bigger houses. And Dad says we can live close to the beach . . . Remember that beach we went to last time? There are some lovely places around there. Honestly.’ She sounds so much more certain than she feels.
Beth isn’t entirely convinced she’s satisfied her daughter, who bombards her with questions, most of them impossible to answer. ‘So, where are we going to go to school, Mum? Do you think . . . do you think I’ll fit in? I won’t be too different? Too . . . American? Do they even like Americans? What if they don’t like me?’ Her daughter’s eyes are wide, her f
orehead crinkled in a way that reminds Beth of Dan’s when he’s anxious. She strokes the absurdly furrowed brow, plants a kiss and bites back the tears that threaten whenever she’s faced with her elder daughter’s lack of confidence – so different to Charlie, but so painfully familiar. She makes her voice as cheerful and encouraging as possible.
‘Oh, Lucy. You’ll always make friends. It might take a little bit of time to settle, but wherever you go, darling, there’ll always be someone. Someone who thinks you’re special.’
DizzyLizzy.com
Yellow Brick Road
I tell the girls the Big News: we’re going home. Very soon.
First comes the anger. Then the tears. Then the blind panic. And that’s just me.
The girls, of course, are far more laid-back.
‘Hey, Mum.’ L looks up from her homework. ‘Do they do math in Australia?’ She sounds so hopeful that I don’t answer right away. Let her enjoy the sum-free moment.
‘I’m afraid they do, darling. Yes.’ Her face falls.
‘They call it maths, though,’ I offer.
‘How about geography?’
‘Afraid so.’
‘Athletics?’
‘Yes – but it’s called PE in Australia.’
‘What about history?’
‘Uh-huh. But it wouldn’t be American history.’
‘So, what sort of history? Would it be, like, Australian history?’
‘There’d be a bit of world history, but I guess there’d be a fair bit of Australian too.’
‘Oh.’ She pauses, thinks for a bit. ‘I guess that would be about when Christopher Columbus discovered it and all that?’
So, yeah. As well as the packing and the cleaning and the interminable filling out of forms, all the endless things that have to be done before we move our little household from one hemisphere to another, we’ve clearly got our work cut out on the educational front.
Sigh.
46
EXPATTERINGS:
@BlueSue says:
And so it begins . . . I hate to be a wet blanket, Lizzy, but sometimes moving home isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Coming back to Australia was a complete disaster for our family. Both of the kids ended up moving back to the UK as soon as they’d finished school – and they’ve never really come back. It’s one of the great regrets of my life that we ever left Melbourne to begin with. Anyway, I wish you the best of luck on your journey ‘home’. You’re going to need it!
@DizzyLizzy replied:
Hey, @BlueSue – I’m sure it might be a bit complicated when it comes to settling the kids, but they’re pretty tough cookies, both of them, and I think they’ll be okay. Really glad to be heading home, but wouldn’t swap the last fifteen years for the world!
@AnchoreDownInAlaska replied:
Just remember that children are resilient, Lizzy. What’s the bet that in twelve months time they’ll have made a new life!
@OzMumInTokyo says:
Oh, Lizzy, I’m so happy for you! But promise me you won’t stop writing! I can’t do without my daily fix of DizzyLizzy <3<3<3
@DizzyLizzy replied:
Of course I won’t stop writing, ozmum! I’m sure being an ex-expat will provide plenty of blog-able moments!
@GirlFromIpanema says:
My youngest daughter asked me if we had the same numbers in Australia. I told her that they went backwards – so 100=1; 99=2; 98=3 etc. It was all fun until she asked me to make up an Australian times-table chart for her.
WWW.GOLDENCHILD.COM
RANDOM FACT No 1
THE OLEANDER
The oleander is one of the most poisonous of commonly grown garden plants. Ingestion of this plant can affect the gastrointestinal system, the heart, and the central nervous system. The gastrointestinal effects can consist of nausea and vomiting, excess salivation, abdominal pain, diarrhea that may or may not contain blood and, especially in horses, colic. Cardiac reactions consist of irregular heart rate, sometimes characterized by a racing heart at first that then slows to below normal further along in the reaction. Extremities may become pale and cold due to poor or irregular circulation. The effect on the central nervous system may show itself in symptoms such as drowsiness, tremors or shaking of the muscles, seizures, collapse, and even coma that can lead to death.
(Wikipedia)
COMMENTS
@HAPPYGARDENER says:
I’m just wondering if oleanders grow in cold climates? I live in Devon, England, and was thinking of planting an oleander hedge. The flowers are so pretty.
@RANDOMREADER replied:
I don’t think this is a gardening website, honey;)
BETH
HER FIRST INKLING COMES DURING A MILDLY HYSTERICAL game of Chinese whispers between parents at school pick-up, a constantly morphing tale: an ambulance was sighted out the front just after lunch, or was it just before recess? Paramedics had rushed in; someone had been carried out on a stretcher. It was a sixth grade boy, someone says, hurt in a fall. Or has a kindergartener broken a leg? No one knows the truth of the matter, but all feel guiltily relieved, happy to be left in the dark for a little while longer – because knowledge would presume some sort of connection, and tales of ambulances in schoolyards are something all mothers are glad not to be connected to. A collective prayer is sent out for the safety of the hurt child, and personal thanks given: Not my child. Thank you . . .
When the bell rings and the noisy mob of children swarm onto the playground, the question of what actually happened falls away in the tide of demands and demonstrations – Charlie complaining that the apple her mother packed for lunch was covered in revolting little brown spots; Lucy requesting that they hurry as she has to get to the town library; Charlie embarking on a story about Mr Cannon’s secret pipe-smoking habit (too gross), his hairy ears (even grosser); Lucy exclaiming over her forgotten hat, a journey back to the classroom required. So in the muddle of departure and then the business – total chaos, really – of the afternoon and evening, Beth simply forgets to ask if they have any idea what has gone on.
And chaos is no overstatement. The countdown for their return to Australia has begun in earnest. Beth has started on the endless, but weirdly satisfying job of culling their belongings – and every corner of the house is filled with seemingly random piles of stuff-to-throw and stuff-to-take. The mess is remarkable. It is remarkable, too, how easy it is to divest yourself of your belongings. All those things Beth had imagined she’d keep around her forever – things that are imbued, or so she’d thought, with meaning, representing her life here, her past, their past: the colonial ladder-back chairs they bought for a steal and so lovingly restored when they first arrived; the maple Art Deco dressing table Dan gave her for her fortieth birthday; the chintzy club lounge they’d planned to have recovered. So much of it now seems old and worn, past it, and despite the fact that every object contains a myriad of memories of their family life, none seems worth transporting across the sea. None of it seems necessary.
Beth wonders if the growing pile of cast-offs is some sort of metaphor for her attitude to leaving; sometimes she feels that she is just as easily casting aside the life she’s lived – more than a decade spent in America – as irrelevant, now that it’s almost over. She’d imagined she’d been fully engaged, but now she wonders whether the whole of her life in New Jersey has been a life suspended, a life spent waiting. But the girls, too, who have embarked on their own lesser culls, are no less ruthless, both of them tossing without a second thought things that Beth knows they once considered precious.
It isn’t until the phone call comes – the three of them having eaten their thrown-together dinner (scrambled eggs, sausages, toast) and settled down to watch an old episode of Doctor Who – that Beth recalls the ambulance, the whispered schoolyard rumours. Too late. If only she’d had some sort of hint, had a response ready.
Naturally, the call comes not from a friendly source, but from Sarah Fuller, who is the mother of one of the girls
in Charlie’s class, Macey. Macey is a tall, pale girl, asthmatic, shy, slightly awkward. She isn’t a particular friend of Charlie, but they share a violin teacher and have been pushed together for concert duets a few times, with Macey (who can always be relied upon to play in time, if not in tune) relegated to the second part. All through grade school Sarah has made her disapproval of Beth clear (though what she’s done to earn this disapproval is a complete mystery), and Beth dislikes her intensely.
‘Hi, Beth? Sarah Fuller?’ The woman speaks with an irritating uplift, as if her every statement requires assent.
‘Hello, Sarah.’ Beth assumes that the woman is calling about a class bake sale she’s promised to contribute to the following week. ‘The bake sale’s next week, right? Tuesday? I haven’t forgotten. I thought I’d do my Anzac cookies again – they seemed popular last time.’
‘I’m not actually ringing about the bake sale, Beth.’
‘Oh?’
‘So . . . I take it you haven’t heard, then?’
‘Heard about what?’
‘About what happened at school today? The girls haven’t told you? I thought one of them would have let you know?’
‘Oh, you mean that ambulance? I heard there was something when I got there this afternoon, but then we got caught up, all the packing . . . and I forgot to ask.’
Her occasional conversations with Sarah always leave Beth in this same position, apologetic and feeling slightly deficient, though she can never really work out what it is exactly that she lacks.
‘Oh, well. I’m surprised the girls didn’t tell you what was going on.’ Beth senses something else in the other woman’s voice now, a tamped-down excitement.
‘You know how it is – we’ve been distracted, busy. Have you heard we’re heading back to Australia?’
