Odd One Out

by Monica McInerney

  “You are having a pity party today. Swimming in a sea of woe-is-me. Don’t be silly. You can’t have everyone in a family being an artist. And thank God for that. It would be an unworkable situation. Artists need support. They’re helpless on their own. Painters, for example. They need gallery owners, framers, paint manufacturers. People to look at their work. Patrons. Look at Vincent van Gogh—helpless without his brother Theo. Musicians are the same, nothing on their own. I’m speaking from experience, of course. They need constant reassurance. Audiences. People to make their instruments. Build stages. Sell tickets. It’s the same with writers. They need readers, booksellers, publishers, printers. Even comedians need people to laugh at their jokes. Try to look at it that way, Sylvie. Maybe your mother and your father and your sisters and your brother are the square pegs, the odd ones out. So needy. So fragile. In fact, I’d say they are. I’ve never met an artist who isn’t odd, have you?”

  “No.”

  “Exactly. You’re much better off being the person you are. Independent. Self-sufficient. Sane. Let them be the odd ones out and you can be the odd one in. Now, I must go. George is about to arrive and I promised I’d serve him a Harvey Wallbanger for cocktail hour tonight. Bye for now. Enjoy dinner with your father.”

  Chapter Ten

  Sylvie chose simple clothes. A pale-green T-shirt, a dark-green skirt. She put several sparkling clips in her hair, applied more makeup than usual, looked at herself for a long moment, then washed off the makeup and took out the clips. She wasn’t glamorous like Vanessa or Cleo. There was no point in pretending otherwise. If she disappointed him, there was little she could do.

  Sebastian had been concerned about their father getting anxious. Sylvie’s own blood pressure was heading skywards. This wasn’t just a dinner. If she had been worried about life in Melbourne reaching childhood expectations, it had nothing on her expectations about her father.

  She wanted to meet him. She needed to meet him. She was glad Sebastian had forced the issue. Because there was no way she would have dared do it herself. There was too much that could go wrong. She tried to keep perspective. They wouldn’t run into each other’s arms, like the scene in the final chapter of The Railway Children, which always brought her to tears. Bobbie on the station platform, seeing her father for the first time in many hard months.

  Sylvie knew the whole scene word for word.

  “Oh! My Daddy, my Daddy!” That scream went like a knife into the heart of everyone in the train, and people put their heads out of the windows to see a tall pale man with lips set in a thin close line, and a little girl clinging to him with arms and legs, while his arms went tightly round her.”

  Sylvie didn’t know if she and her father would even touch each other. She could feel the young, hurt version of herself nestling deep inside still, the little girl who hadn’t received any birthday cards, or phone calls, for many years. The same girl who had slowly and methodically sealed off the part of her mind that wanted to think about her father, who missed him. Who would like to have talked to him over the years.

  Would they manage any of those conversations tonight? Manage to catch up on even one year of her life, let alone twenty-one? She wanted to, she realized. She looked in the mirror one more time before she left the apartment. “Hello, Laurence,” she said to her reflection. “I’m Sylvie, your daughter.”

  ***

  She easily found the Malaysian restaurant. She had walked past it many times the last fortnight. There were about a dozen tables, half of them full. Before she had a chance to look around, the waitress came over and greeted her.

  “A table for two, please,” Sylvie said.

  “Do you have a booking?”

  “I’m meeting someone.”

  “Name?”

  “Devereaux.”

  The elderly man at the table by the window looked up. He was wearing a jumper that looked like it had seen better days. There was a jug of water in front of him. She looked closer. Curly hair. Enquiring eyes.

  He said her name first. “Sylvie?” He stood up. “It’s Sylvie?”

  “Hello.” She stepped toward him. “Sebastian couldn’t make it. I came in his place.”

  He was looking intently at her. “I’ve seen photographs, of course, but they don’t do you justice. You’re lovely. You’re like your grandmother.”

  She gazed back at him. It was like time-lapse photography. The handsome man in the photos worn down by age, battered by life.

  “Please, sit down,” he said.

  There was so much to say she didn’t know how to start. She watched him fidget with a napkin. All day she had rehearsed conversations in her head with him. Now her mind was blank.

  He looked as uncomfortable as she was feeling. “I’m sorry. I don’t know where to start with chitchat.”

  “I’m not good at chitchat either.”

  He gave a brief smile. “I’ve brought a couple of books. We could sit here and read if you like. Or I’ve got the crossword.”

  It was a cryptic one, she noticed. “Are you good at them?”

  “Not bad.”

  The waitress arrived with menus and a wine list. Two other groups of people arrived, taking tables behind and beside them. Sylvie felt very self-conscious. This hadn’t been a good idea. A first meeting in twenty-one years in a public place like this?

  Her father picked up the menu. She picked up hers. There was silence while they both read.

  She looked up at the sound of a chair being pushed back. His chair.

  He was standing up. “Sylvie, I’m sorry. I can’t stay.” His hands were shaking.

  “But—”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She could only watch as he walked quickly across the room and out the door.

  She sat for a few minutes. She couldn’t follow him. Wouldn’t follow him. She politely told the waitress she needed more time.

  “The gentleman?”

  “He got called away.”

  The second time the waitress came, Sylvie apologized and said unfortunately she needed to leave too. Her shock had turned to anger. As she walked out, the waitress gave her a puzzled look.

  Sebastian rang her on her mobile before she had a chance to dial his number. “Are you okay?”

  “How do you know?”

  “He rang me. From a phone box up the street, by the sound of things.”

  Sylvie glanced around, expecting to see him. No sign. “What the hell is going on, Seb? What games are you both playing with me?”

  “Sylvie, it’s not games, I promise you. I’m so sorry it’s happened like this. But it’s not something I think I should explain on the phone. Are you free tomorrow night?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I’ll ask for a night off. Come back to Melbourne and take you out to dinner. The same place. You’ll like it. And you may even get to eat something this time.”

  She knew he was trying to cheer her up, but it didn’t feel funny. None of this did. She agreed on a meeting time, then abruptly finished the call.

  ***

  She walked home, down Toorak Road, onto Punt Road, hardly noticing her surroundings. Was that it? That was her big reunion with her father? Their first conversation after all those years? She didn’t know if she wanted to cry or rage or even laugh. She was completely confused. If anyone had the right to storm out, surely it was her? She was the one who had been abandoned.

  She took out her phone again and pressed speed dial. She didn’t waste time with a greeting. “Seb, I need Dad’s number. His address.”

  “No, Sylvie. Not yet. After we’ve met.”

  “Forget this. Stop trying to control me. You were mad at me because I didn’t ask you for his details and now that I want them you won’t give them to me?”

  “I made a mistake. I thought things would be different.”

  �
�You thought he might stay long enough to have a glass of wine, you mean? A starter? A prawn cracker or two?” She took a ragged breath. “What did I do wrong, Seb?”

  “You didn’t do anything. You couldn’t have done anything.”

  “What is it? You have to tell me.”

  “Sylvie, I can’t, not over the phone. It’s a long story and I’m about to get called back to the set. It’s not fair to you or him.”

  “I’ll go to the university tomorrow to see him, then.”

  “He doesn’t work there anymore.”

  “Then I’ll go to his home. I’ll look him up in the phone book.”

  “He’s not in the phone book.”

  “Who is he? The Scarlet Pimpernel?”

  “Sylvie, please. One more day. I’ll be there tomorrow night. Before seven, I promise. Will you wait till then?”

  It didn’t look like she had any choice. “Okay.”

  “I’m sorry, Sylvie. I hoped it would be different. I made a big mistake.”

  “It’s not your mistake, Seb.”

  “It’s not yours, either. Remember that.”

  ***

  There was no message from Mill waiting on the answering machine when she got home. There was, however, an email. Addressed to Sebastian, written to her.

  Sylvie, I’m sorry. I hope Sebastian will explain things better than I can. LD

  He hadn’t even signed it Dad.

  ***

  The next day stretched out too long and too lonely in front of her. She waited until nine and then phoned the other temp agencies she’d contacted. Whatever job was going, she’d take.

  One hour later, she was in a boardroom on a fifteenth-floor office on Collins Street, surrounded by three thousand envelopes, address labels and circulars.

  The young woman who’d met her at reception was apologetic. “It’s completely mindless work, I’m sorry. Just stuffing envelopes. I can get you a radio if you’d like one. And please take all the coffee breaks you need. You’ll go crazy otherwise.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Sylvie said. “It’s perfect. Thanks very much.”

  ***

  She was waiting in the restaurant when Sebastian arrived at ten to seven that night. He was carrying his bag and a laptop over his shoulder. He’d obviously come directly to the restaurant without going home first. It had been less than a fortnight since she’d seen him, but she nearly cried with the relief. He came straight over and gave her a hug.

  “You okay, Sylvie?”

  “Not really. How are you?”

  “Work, good. Social life, good. Sister, worried about her. Brother, guilty he landed her in it.”

  “What is it, Seb? Is he sick? Dying?”

  “No quicker than any of us.” He glanced around for the waitress. “Would you like a drink before we start? I’m presuming you didn’t get a glass of wine with Dad last night?”

  “He’s an alcoholic. A drug addict. His life’s a mess. That’s what you’re saying.”

  “He’s a mess, yes. But he’s not an alcoholic. Or a drug addict. Not exactly.”

  He wouldn’t say more until they had ordered and a bottle of red wine was in front of them.

  “Tell me everything, Seb. Don’t leave anything out. Don’t feel you have to protect me.”

  “I don’t anymore.” He poured their wine. “I’m driving you crazy waiting, I know, but I’m also proving a point. Good parts of life go on even when there are bad things in the background.”

  “Nice philosophy but would you please just tell me?”

  “Dad’s a disaster area, Sylvie. Broke. Almost on the streets. He has been for years.”

  She stared at him. “You’re making that up.”

  He shook his head. “He’s got a gambling addiction. Not just an addiction. A curse. He’s been ruined by it. He can’t beat it.”

  “Gambling? Horseracing? Poker?”

  “Horses, dogs, cats probably. Cards. Sporting matches. You name it, he’s gambled on it. He’s been like it on and off all his life.”

  “But how can he be a gambling addict? He’s an academic. A poet.”

  “That’s got nothing to do with it. In any case, he hasn’t worked at the university for sixteen years. He hasn’t written poetry for years. Or if he has, he hasn’t had anything published.”

  Sylvie was having trouble taking it all in. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this before now?”

  “He asked me not to. And I didn’t want to. You felt bad enough about him as it was.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell me before I met him last night?”

  “I should have, I know that now. But I didn’t know what phase he’d be in. It’s like alcoholism. He lasts weeks without gambling and then it’s like a fever, it’s all he does, all he thinks about, and bam, all the money’s gone. He’s been good the past few times I’ve seen him. I hoped he was still like that. That you’d get on okay, at least have a meal, a conversation with him before you learned about the whole situation. Did he have a jug of water in front of him when you arrived?”

  Sylvie nodded.

  “That means he’s bad again. It’s a kind of signal he has, to tell me I’ll have to pay for dinner. If I arrive and he has a bottle of wine on the table, it’s his shout. It’s his way of telling me without telling me.”

  “When did you find all this out? When you moved down here with him?”

  He nodded. “The giveaway was when the TV kept going missing. When the fridge stayed empty for weeks on end. When I realized if I wanted to study I’d have to find the fees myself.”

  “But you never said anything. All those times you came up on visits. Why didn’t you tell us? Tell me?”

  “What was the point? Mum hated him anyway. Vanessa and Cleo had decided he was public enemy number one. And Mum wouldn’t let you see him, in any case.” He paused. “Do you wish I had told you before now?”

  She thought about it. What would it have changed? She slowly shook her head. “Seb, was it terrible? Has it been terrible for you all these years?”

  “Sometimes, yes. Most of the time, it’s sad but it’s not terrible. It was harder for Mum than anyone, I think. You know he sold most of her family heirlooms before she realized what was going on?”

  “The paintings? The lamps? That’s where they went?”

  He nodded. “All sold to pay back debts. Nothing much has changed since then. He owns some clothes, a few books, that’s about it. His house is practically a slum, as well, but it’s the best he can do. He gets a pension these days, but it’s touch and go sometimes.”

  “So he’s always been like this?”

  “It was in his blood, I think. His father was a bookie, did you know that?”

  Sylvie shook her head. She knew hardly anything about her father.

  “Dad said it started with cards for him. Playing poker with friends, games that turned into night-long sessions. Small bets that turned into big bets. From what he’s told me, he was up to his neck in debts before he knew it.”

  “And Mum always knew?”

  “You don’t remember them fighting about it?”

  Sylvie remembered fights, but not what they’d been about. She’d always run to her room when they started shouting at each other.

  “Any time they had any money, he spent it. Or took it. Mum had to kick him out or there would have been nothing left, I’m sure of it. I take my hat off to her. She’s always been away with the fairies, but she did bring you all up. She’s a shrewd businesswoman under all those silk scarves.”

  “So after they divorced, Dad didn’t help her financially?”

  Sebastian laughed. “Oh, he might have sent her the odd five dollar note now and then. When he wasn’t on a poker binge or a greyhound binge or a horseracing binge.”

  “But what about you, Seb? Who paid f
or your food and the rent and all of that?”

  “I learned to steal too. Don’t look so shocked. I stole from him. Out of his wallet, whenever I knew he had any money. I kept it hidden so we had enough to pay bills, buy food, cover the rent. Until I decided enough was enough and I moved out of there.”

  “Did it make you hate him?”

  Sebastian shook his head. “He can’t help it. No, that’s not true. Sometimes he can and sometimes he can’t. But put it this way, I learned at a young age never to say ‘Want to bet on it?’ to him.”

  They laughed a little at that.

  “Is that why you moved out so young?” Sebastian had just turned eighteen when he got a flat on his own, she remembered.

  “Part of the reason. I knew that if I stayed, I’d be forever bailing him out. I’d done enough of that. And that wasn’t doing either of us any good. Especially after he lost his job. He kept skipping lectures to go to the bookies. It took a while, but eventually I realized it wasn’t my job to take care of him.”

  “Seb, I’m so sorry. I wish I’d known. For you, if not him.”

  “I was okay, Sylvie. Really. I got mad sometimes, and then I’d get sad. It’s the same now. But I still enjoy him. When he’s in good form—pardon the racing pun—he’s good company. He still reads a lot, still thinks. But I’m not in charge of his life, and he’s not in charge of mine.”

  “This is why he never got in contact with us, isn’t it?”

  “Most of the reason.” He was quiet for a moment. “I’ve thought a lot about it, talked to people about it—”

  “Therapy, you mean?”

  “Nothing so interesting. I went to Gam-Anon. For families of gamblers. I didn’t like what I heard, but it made me understand there was nothing I could do about it. It suited Dad to live separately from me. It suited him to live separately from all of us. No Mum on his back, no kids to feel responsible for. Out of sight, out of mind, out of guilt.”

  She felt tears well and blinked them away. “I wanted to like him. I thought he would be the missing piece in my life. That meeting him would make everything right. And . . .”