Gang of Four

by Liz Byrski

Robin picked up a deep amber glass vase, wrapped it in three sheets of butcher’s paper and put it in one of the boxes marked for storage. ‘I can’t stay around here, Grace. I have to get away.’

  ‘You’re risking your career and leaving your lovely house to go and live in a little rat hole in the back of beyond. Don’t let this business with Jim drive you away. It seems like you’re punishing yourself.’

  Robin shrugged. ‘Who knows, maybe I am, but it feels right. It’s only a year. I can come back when I’ve got myself together. It’s not as though I’m selling the house. I really wanted to go south and now I’m going.’

  Looking at Robin knee-deep in packing cases, thinner than ever in a pair of faded jeans and an old grey sweatshirt, Grace noticed that the shadows under her eyes were more deeply etched, and her skin had acquired a new pallor. ‘But what will you do with yourself all alone down there?’

  ‘Run, walk, get fit, rest, read, maybe write – I don’t know. I quite fancy a lot of doing nothing.’

  Grace started packing books into one of the smaller cartons destined for Robin’s retreat. ‘Look, I’ll come down with you and stay a couple of days, help you unpack and settle in. We can work out what else you might need and I’ll pop down again –’

  ‘No, Grace, thanks for offering but it’s not like that.’ Robin sealed a box and straightened up to face her. ‘I need to do it alone. Just like Isabel and Sally.’

  ‘But it’s not the same,’ Grace protested, feeling herself flush with annoyance. ‘You’re doing this because of Jim, because it didn’t work out. You’re in a very fragile emotional state.’

  ‘Jim was the catalyst but I’m not doing this because of him, I’m doing it for myself, because I want to. I wanted it from the day Isabel first told us what she was going to do. Now I’m actually doing it and I have to go alone, no visits, no food parcels, no mercy dashes, Grace. Remember Leslie Kenton – did you read the book?’

  Grace realised she might burst into tears. It was a totally unfamiliar feeling to her and she was determined not to succumb to it. ‘Yeah, I read it! But we were just getting to know each other,’ she said, turning away to study the spines of the books. ‘I’ve loved having this time with you.’

  Robin put down the roll of tape and scissors and went over to her. ‘So have I. And honestly, I don’t know how I’d have got through this without you. Grace …’ She paused until Grace turned to look at her. ‘Grace, don’t take this personally. It’s not about you, it’s about me, my retreat, what I have to do for myself.’

  Grace nodded and, not trusting herself to speak, turned back to the books. ‘So which day are you going?’ she asked eventually, wondering if she could face another departure.

  Robin took a final look around the house. Stripped bare of books and ornaments, with only the larger furniture remaining, it had an air of elegant minimalism. She walked around the room running her hands over the backs of chairs, across the smooth and creamy marble bench tops, the olive wool of the couches, and gazed out into the courtyard. Someone else would watch the roses bloom, the herbs thicken and spread, someone else would sit out on the deck on hot nights and hose the plants this summer. What would she be doing? A lump rose in her throat and she sank down into the big cane armchair trying to hold back the tears. Something hard was lodged between the cushion and the cane, and slipping her hand into the space she pulled out a pair of glasses – Jim’s glasses. He had searched everywhere for them. She stared at them in shock, turning them over, opening and closing them again, feeling crushed by the weight of memory and grief.

  He had begged her to wait, promised he would sort things out as soon as possible, but still did nothing. Finally she told him: ‘I’m going away, down south. I don’t want to hear from you, not until I come back.’

  ‘But I’ll call,’ he said. ‘I’ll visit you. We can email.’

  ‘No. A year.’

  ‘And if I tell Monica and move out?’

  ‘I don’t want to hear from you until I come back. Sort out your life or keep it as it is; either way, I’m going to do this for myself. You must do what’s right for you. We’ll talk when I come back.’

  She sighed at the memory of it, the pain and shock in his face, the slope of his shoulders as he walked away, the grinding emptiness she felt as he looked back at her as he stooped to get into the car, and the way the sun turned the tears on his face to pinpoints of light. Maurice rubbed around her legs and she bent to stroke him as he inspected his travel basket, which stood in the middle of the kitchen floor.

  The phone rang and she jumped in surprise. She considered leaving it but it kept on ringing, so she blew her nose and picked up the receiver. Isabel’s voice sounded as though it was coming from a tunnel under the sea.

  ‘I thought international lines were supposed to be the latest technology,’ Robin shouted above the rushing noises.

  ‘Not this one, apparently,’ Isabel yelled.

  ‘Are you okay? Why are you calling? I mean, it’s fantastic to hear from you but you said no calls.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Isabel sounded hesitant, a little strange. ‘I just … just wanted to talk something over, but this line’s so bad.’

  Robin changed ears. ‘I can hear you okay above the noises. Listen, I need to tell you – I’m going away, I’m retreating! I’m leaving tomorrow morning, going down south, the remote cabin by the beach, running, the whole Leslie Kenton thing, except I don’t have a novel about Beethoven or anyone else. I was going to write to you when I got there.’

  ‘What about Jim?’ Isabel yelled, her voice suddenly coming through loud and clear.

  ‘To cut a long story short he promised he’d leave Monica and then didn’t, and I was at the end of my rope. He still says he’s leaving, but I don’t know … all I know is, I’m getting away for a year. Just like you, just like in the book.’

  The silence at the other end seemed longer than usual. ‘Are you sure it’s the right thing?’

  ‘Positive. I’m going to make it the right thing. I’ll send you all the details. It’s so strange talking like this, trying to say everything quickly – I promise to write.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Isabel. ‘Good, well … I don’t know what to say. Suppose Jim leaves Monica now?’

  ‘He’ll just have to wait and see how I feel next year.’

  ‘That’s very brave, Rob. You’ll take care of yourself?’

  ‘Of course, that’s what it’s all about.’

  ‘I see.’

  Robin felt a strange sense of unease at Isabel’s tone. ‘Are you okay, Isabel?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Is it wonderful there? Do you love it? What did you want to talk about?’

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter really. Just felt the need to make contact. It wasn’t anything important. How’s Grace?’

  Robin pushed her hair back from her forehead.

  ‘June died and Tim and Angela have gone to Japan for two years. She’s struggling, but you know Grace, there’s not much one can do. She’s been wonderful over this, we’ve got a lot closer. We haven’t heard much from Sally, only a postcard. Have you?’

  ‘Not a word. But that’s probably a good sign,’ Isabel said. ‘It most likely means she’s really happy and caught up in things there. Give Grace my love. Write and tell me more about what’s happened. Are you okay about this Jim thing?’

  ‘I haven’t been, but I think I will be. It feels terrible but right, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I know what you mean. Well, take care and write soon.’

  ‘I will. Isabel, are you sure you’re okay? You wanted to talk –’

  ‘No, no, I’m fine, it’s great to hear your voice. Better go. I’m in a call box at the station. I have to get a train to Madrid.’

  ‘Take care,’ Robin called. ‘I miss you.’

  ‘You too. Look after yourself. Give my love to Grace.’

  Robin dropped the phone back into its cradle and stared out at the darkening garden. Then she picked
it up again and dialled.

  ‘It’s Robin.’

  ‘Hi!’ said Grace in an unfamiliar tone.

  ‘I just got a call from Isabel. She sounded weird.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘I’m not sure, just different.’

  ‘Perhaps it was the line.’

  ‘No; well, yes, it wasn’t a good line but there was something else. She said she called to talk but then she seemed to change her mind. But it was just so nice to hear her.’

  ‘Did she say anything else?’

  ‘She sent her love to you, and she hadn’t heard from Sally either.’

  There was silence on the other end of the line.

  ‘I feel I may have cut across her by jumping in with my stuff. Should I call back, do you – shit, I can’t. She was in a call box.’

  There was a pause and then Grace said, ‘I think she’ll call again if she wants to talk. She probably just wanted to make contact.’

  ‘Are you okay, Grace?’ Robin said, unnerved by the unfamiliar smallness of Grace’s voice.

  ‘I’m fine. A bit tired. What time are you going?’

  ‘I want to leave about five in the morning, six at the latest.’

  ‘Take care,’ said Grace. ‘I’ll be thinking of you. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Robin, ‘I will. Look after yourself and, Grace – thanks for everything.’

  Not a word from Sally for weeks. Robin picked up her diary and flicked through the previous year’s pages. This day a year ago the four of them had spent the evening together at Sally’s place with a meal from the Thai takeaway and their favourite movie, Enchanted April. ‘Well, aren’t we predictable?’ Sally had said as she dished out the food. ‘Who wants to bet that we’ll be doing exactly the same thing this time next year?’

  ‘So what do you want me to do about the wheelchair?’ Denise asked, putting the coffee down on Grace’s desk.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘The wheelchair for your dad.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Grace, ‘just leave me the brochures. I’ll talk to the nursing home at the weekend and see what they recommend. Next week we have to do some work on that training schedule. Can you mark us out some time in the diary?’

  Denise picked up a bundle of files from Grace’s desk. ‘I won’t be here next week, Grace, remember? I’m on holiday. Two weeks in glorious Bali and then two weeks in Cairns with my less than glorious motherin-law. Actually, at the moment even that sounds pretty good.’

  Grace looked up in surprise. ‘But it can’t be due yet. Did you change the dates?’

  ‘No.’ Denise shook her head. ‘No, it’s always been Saturday the thirty-first. I guess you’ve just been very caught up with your friends going off and then Tim and Angela. The temp is coming in tomorrow for a briefing. It’s Leah, who you had last time. You said you liked her.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Grace quietly. ‘Yes, I did. Sorry I forgot your holiday. I think it’s because I always hate it when you’re away, and going away seems to be what everyone’s doing at the moment.’

  Denise closed the office door, and Grace put her feet in the drawer and stared out across the river, where a cluster of sailing boats was assembling for a race. For a long time she felt nothing, just sat there watching the water and humming snatches of something from Carmen that she couldn’t name. It was as though she had moved out of her body, like in a dream she often had as a child when she was floating high against the bedroom ceiling looking down at herself asleep in the bed and wondering what would happen next.

  A strange detachment bordering on calm had settled on her after the conflicting emotions of the last couple of months. She had felt consumed by loss, first Sally and Isabel, then June’s death and the sudden departure of Tim, Angela and Emily for Japan. All the people to whom she was connected had disconnected themselves from her. She had felt herself to be an anchor but they seemed no longer to need anchoring, and then Robin had needed her through those first few weeks of separating from Jim, and Grace had snapped back again into what she knew best. But Robin didn’t need anchoring either. Quite suddenly she too was gone in a cut as clean and decisive as all the others.

  ‘Love doesn’t die just because you’re miles away, Gracie,’ Ron had said all those years ago when the company sent him to check out a rig on the northwest shelf. She had known he was right but she had grown accustomed to the proximity of those she loved; and now they had left her, starting with Ron, then her mother had died and now this sudden intense exodus over the last couple of months. Only her father remained and much of the time he wasn’t really there at all. What had she done to end up alone like this?

  Denise stuck her head around the door again. ‘It’s almost six, so I’m off. See you tomorrow.’

  Outside, the streetlights were coming on and the traffic on the freeway had slowed to a crawl. Thursday, late-night shopping. She needed a new top to go with the black skirt she’d bought at the weekend. She could run into the city and see if she could find anything in David Jones. The guilt was fleeting. She’d just have to make up the super contributions next month. Right now Grace needed retail therapy, because for the first time in her life, she was afraid of going home alone.

  EIGHT

  As the train pulled out of Lisbon, Isabel stared, as though mesmerised, as the city lights faded into the distance. Tomorrow she would be in Madrid, another city, another country, another chance to start again but she knew that what had begun in Portugal was not yet finished. Tears rolled down her cheeks uncontrollably and she rummaged in her bag for tissues, thankful that she had the compartment to herself. Resting her head on the back of the seat she began piecing together, once again, the events of the last few weeks.

  It began at dinner, that first night in Monsaraz on that magical terrace, the flames of the thick white candles flickering in the evening breeze, the pinpoint lights of the next village twinkling in the distance. The images, now so clear, unfolded like the opening steps of a complex dance; Klaus handing her a glass of wine, Antonia calling a welcome from the kitchen, her own anticipation prickling her skin, the photograph of the house and another of Eunice a burning presence in the pocket of her shirt.

  ‘Antonia and I have known each other since we are young,’ Klaus, her fellow guest, explained as they took their seats at the table. ‘We are old friends. I come every year to Monsaraz to become sane again for a little while.’

  Antonia ladled chilled cucumber soup from a blue and white tureen into matching bowls. ‘The sanity does not last long,’ she said. ‘The Prussian work ethic takes over again when he gets back to Nuremberg. I hope you will like this soup, Isabel.’

  Isabel slowed her breathing, reined in the questions that jostled for attention, and joined the subtle exchange of information that Klaus began by revealing himself as a historian. ‘It is the pirates that are my passion,’ he said, pouring more wine. ‘Much of my serious work has been devoted to the navigators. Now that I am old I can indulge my fascination with the pirates.’

  ‘Age has its advantages,’ Antonia agreed, putting her napkin aside as she finished her soup. ‘It offers new interests to replace those that are no longer available.’

  ‘Are you a historian too, Antonia?’ Isabel asked.

  She shook her head. ‘A translator. I translate from English into Portuguese and German. Sometimes very boring books, sometimes quite wonderful.’

  Klaus piled butter onto his bread. ‘But this book you like, yes? This one you work on now, about the Royal Ballet?’

  Isabel thought her heart turned a somersault. ‘You’re interested in ballet?’

  ‘Oh, in all dance,’ Antonia said. ‘When I was younger I was a dancer, so to work on a book like this is pure pleasure.’

  Isabel took the plunge. ‘My mother was a dancer. After the war she was in Europe, touring with a dance company. That’s why I’m making this journey.’

  ‘You’re retracing your mother’s footsteps?’ Antonia asked.
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br />   ‘I’m visiting some of the places that were really special to her. Lisbon was her favourite. She said she had her happiest time in Portugal.’

  ‘She was in the ballet?’ Klaus asked.

  ‘No, with a modern dance company from France. They were quite avant-garde, I believe. The director was a contemporary of Isadora Duncan.’

  Antonia looked up sharply.

  ‘Compagnie Fluide?’

  ‘Yes,’ Isabel said, her excitement rising. ‘In fact, Antonia, I came here to Monsaraz to find you. You see, I think you may have known my mother.’

  Antonia’s face froze. ‘I don’t think so. Fluide was very popular, and … yes … avant-garde. But I did not know any of the dancers.’

  ‘Are you sure? You see …’

  Antonia stood up to collect the plates and Isabel took out the photograph. ‘I found this picture of a house.’ She held it out to Antonia, who took it without a word. Isabel looked across at Klaus. ‘It’s a photograph my mother had. On the back she’s written “Antonia’s house”, so I found the house. And the baker next door told me I’d find you here.’

  ‘This house belonged to my family,’ Antonia said stonily. ‘I did stay there for some time but my aunt lived there. She was also called Antonia, I was named for her. Perhaps she knew your mother, but she died almost twenty years ago.’

  Isabel knew her disappointment was obvious. She looked down again at the photograph. ‘I was hoping so much that you’d known her. It must sound silly but once I found the house and the baker told me about you, I had this idea that you might have been friends.’ She held out the photograph of Eunice. ‘This is my mother, taken in 1953. Her name was Eunice Pearson and she was a soloist. Are you quite sure you never met her? Maybe you saw her dance?’

  Antonia hesitated slightly at the sight of the photograph and then turned away. ‘It’s a long time ago. I really can’t remember,’ she said as she carried the soup plates to the kitchen.

  A slight breeze extinguished one of the candles, casting a shadow across the table. Isabel shivered, chilled by Antonia’s lack of interest. Klaus reached out for the matches and relit the candle.