Gang of Four

by Liz Byrski

  The strength of her slap across his face took Steve by surprise, catching him off balance. He teetered precariously on the edge of the rock before falling backwards across the other rocks and rolling down the grassy slope one leg twisting underneath him.

  Sally grabbed up her vest and camera. ‘Thanks for the advice,’ she called, turning away. ‘I won’t be asking for it again. I’ll make my own way home.’

  And she set off down the track at a fast pace until she reached the main road, where she hailed a passing car.

  TEN

  The cottage was perched on the highest point of the cliff and was larger and more comfortable than Robin had anticipated. It had broad verandahs with uninterrupted views of the ocean and the town in one direction, and of the surrounding countryside on the other. Each morning as she pounded back home down the track, her heart thudding with exertion, her breath floating in a cloud on the cold early morning air, she marvelled at her luck in finding it.

  It was late morning when she arrived, tired and stiff after the four-hour drive from Perth in heavy rain. The first thing she had done after unloading the car was to grab some logs from the pile on the back verandah, scrunch up some old newspapers and light the small wood stove. Then she knelt back to watch as the flames devoured the paper, bit into the few bits of kindling and wrapped themselves around the logs. ‘Good riddance,’ she murmured, scrunching up the remains of the paper and tossing it into the log basket.

  She had brought some of her own things for comfort. The purple and turquoise Indian cotton cushions from her bedroom were now scattered on the big faded couch. A couple of Sally’s paintings replaced the watery old prints on the walls, and her books, ornaments and CDs filled the broad shelves. The floorboards, once polished to a high sheen, had dulled to a mellow glow and were scattered with heavy cream rugs. A courageous choice for a rental property by the sea, but just what she would have chosen.

  She had found a place for her wok, rice cooker and vegetable steamer in the neatly fitted kitchen alongside its already adequate supply of cooking pots, and loaded her supplies into the pantry. The rest of her things she had dragged into the larger of the two bedrooms, dumping some bags on the brass and iron bedstead, and the top of the pine chest of drawers that doubled as a dressing table. By the time the stove needed a second load of logs Maurice had found a prime spot on the window seat; and Robin had set up the laptop on the desk at the far end of the lounge and stacked her files and papers alongside it. It would, she thought, do very well, and as she turned to survey her handiwork the sun broke through the clouds and cast a shaft of brilliant light across the ocean and in through the window. Sinking onto the couch among her cushions, watching the distant waves crashing on the beach, Robin thought, before she dozed off to sleep, that it might do more than just very well – it might very well be perfect.

  The next morning she discovered the track: a long, narrow footpath that ran up the hill from the town, past the cottage and stretched northwards rising, falling and bending with the land for more than ten kilometres to the next settlement, a small cluster of holiday units and a couple of shops behind a popular surfing beach. She could hardly believe her luck. She had chosen it, the house and the location, sight unseen, the first property suggested by the agent in response to her call. Only in the last few days did she really stop to consider that she might have taken more time with the search. But luck, or some sort of divine guidance, had brought her to the right place.

  As Robin dragged on her old tracksuit and running shoes that first morning, she was craving the cold, damp air in her lungs and the satisfying ache of hard-worked muscles. With the sea on one side and the brush-covered hillside on the other, she set off, slowly at first, checking out the surface and soon building to a faster pace. The only hazard appeared to be rabbit holes. That first day she ran just three kilometres, recognising that she had not run for several weeks and needed to break herself in. But she returned to the house longing for more, longing to push herself to the limit. And each day she built up the speed and the distance, able to measure her increasing stamina and fitness by time and how far she had gone.

  For the first three weeks she spoke to no one. She had filled her car with food – vegetables, fruit, cheese, eggs, long-life milk and plenty of bread, which she had stowed in the freezer. She avoided the little town and encountered no one on her dawn runs. Before leaving Perth she had changed her mobile phone number. The only person who had the new number was Alec Seaborn, her partner, and she had told no one that there was a phone at the cottage. Even so, she had unplugged it, deciding only to connect it to the laptop when she eventually wanted to check her email. In time she would have to deal with contacts from work and home, but she was determined to allow herself to feel her way without disturbance. There was nothing that could not wait. She was out of touch and the feeling settled on her like a blessing.

  For three weeks she ran, rested, cried a lot and slept, sometimes for several hours in the middle of the day She read some of the books she had owned for years but not found time to read, and lay on the couch listening to CDs she had forgotten she owned. The logic and intensity of Bach, the romance of Schubert, gave her a feeling of inner strength; she sang aloud with Peggy Lee and Billie Holiday, and danced alone around the house muddling the mindless lyrics on her Abba albums. On the few occasions when she experienced a stab of guilt about doing nothing, she reminded herself that she had not had a holiday for more than ten years and she actually did need a rest.

  She could feel herself getting calmer, healthier; a sense of wellbeing grew within her. She had expected to feel lonely, geared herself for the possibility of depression or panic, warned herself that the reality of what she had done would suddenly send her crashing. But each day she woke with the feeling that she had saved her own life. Jim’s absence was painful, but she had fought through her initial grief and fear before she left Perth. Now the undercurrent of sadness rippled through each day and strangely enriched it. She thought of him with love, but could reflect on their relationship without anxiety, without the temptation to pick up the phone and try to swing everything back to the way it used to be. She wondered about him, how he was feeling, wondered whether he too had moved to a place of peace within himself or whether he was still trying to work out what he wanted, and what was possible.

  In a thick spiral-bound notebook with a pattern of sepia script on the cover, she wrote a journal for the first time in her life. Initially self-conscious, she soon found that with every passing day the process of recording her spiritual and emotional life became less inhibited. The writing was helping her to heal and to discover what it was she was supposed to learn from this radical change. She wondered when she would start to get bored and how she would handle it when it happened. For now, though, her life was opening like a flower. She could rest in its bloom, take time to examine each petal.

  When her supplies eventually dwindled she ventured for the first time to the local shop, which also doubled as the post office. ‘Wondered when we’d see you,’ said the slight, grey-haired woman behind the counter. ‘I’m Dorothy. I see you’re a bit of a runner.’

  Robin wandered around the little supermarket filling a rickety trolley from Dorothy’s surprisingly comprehensive stock. ‘You’ve got a terrific selection here,’ she said, examining the vegetables, which looked as though they had come straight from some local garden, as well as some out-of-season strawberries and rockmelon. She piled her shopping onto the checkout counter. ‘You must be very popular.’

  ‘Aye, it’s not so bad,’ Dorothy said, starting to key the prices into the till. ‘I carry as much as I can and I buy quality, that way people shop here rather than trekking into Margaret River or Augusta. They’re a fussy lot around here. Fancy themselves a bit when it comes to cooking. Somebody says you’re a lawyer.’

  Robin pulled a face. ‘News travels fast. Is that a Glasgow accent?’

  Dorothy drew her breath in sharply. ‘It’s Edinburgh, if you don’t mind
. And I think there’s a bit of south London in yours.’ She grinned and paused, holding an earthy bunch of radishes. ‘But we won’t have any border wars here, and we’ll leave you alone if that’s what you want. Got any problems, you give my Ted a ring. Plumbing, carpentry, any odd jobs, he’ll fix it for you. Now, if you’ll just come over to the post office counter I’ll give you the key to your mailbox.’

  Robin put the shopping in the car and wandered unenthusiastically towards the bank of mailboxes. Slipping the key into the lock seemed like taking a step back into her old life. Gingerly she sorted the letters from the junk mail and tucked them into her coat pocket, and when she got back up the hill and had parked the car and unloaded the shopping, she slipped off her jacket and left it on the chair on the verandah with the envelopes still sticking out of the pocket.

  The jacket stayed there overnight. In the morning she brought it in and looked at the envelopes, hoping they would not shatter the peace she had created for herself. The white and manila envelopes from the office, the heavy cream one addressed in Grace’s distinctive handwriting and the flimsy airmail envelope with the Spanish stamp demanded her attention, but she already knew – absolutely, unequivocally – that she was never going back to her old life.

  She opened her work mail first and saw that she would have to put in some time to sort out a few loose ends and start preparing an opinion she had not been able to offload. For a while she stared at the other two envelopes, aware of the irony that letters from two of her closest friends seemed strangely threatening and intrusive. She opened the airmail envelope first.

  Dearest Rob

  The idea of minimal contact seemed so much better in the planning stages than it does in reality! I am battling the urge to talk to a sympathetic listener – yes, you of course! And the desire to know every detail of what’s happened with you, and how you’re coping with the separation from Jim and work, and the first weeks of your retreat.

  I hope so much that it will work well for you. At the very least you must feel the positive sense of having made some sort of change, taken control of the situation. Now, perhaps, the distance will give Jim time to sort himself out and you the chance to reflect on what you want.

  I called you that day to unburden a few things. At the time I was on the point of running away, or rather running back home – a few words of sympathy would have been the trigger. Your news stopped me in my tracks and over the last week or so I seemed to have edged a little closer to rationality.

  I guess making changes in my life was about the need to learn something, and as I am still not sure what that something is, I guess I’d better keep going until I find out. I so look forward to the day when we’ll all sit down together and relive our adventures. These changes throw us some emotional and spiritual challenges. I think I am surviving the first round. Being grown up is sooooooo hard.

  I think of you being incredibly grown up and also being as vulnerable as me, and send you my love in both. I miss your company, your conversation, the Gang of Four, Australia – heavens, I even miss the council.

  My love

  Isabel

  Robin put the letter down on the desk and sat for a while, staring out of the window. Then she opened the one addressed in Grace’s neat sloping hand.

  Dearest Robin

  I hope you are taking care of yourself and that the place is not too bleak and uncomfortable. It’s strange being here alone – well, I mean without you, Sally and Isabel. Very lonely. I suppose the kids being gone as well doesn’t help. Last weekend I went to visit Dad and he didn’t recognise me. It’s the first time it’s happened. Other times he has confused me with Mum, or Ron’s mother June, but he always knew that he knew me. Last Saturday he looked at me as though I was a complete stranger. It was the most awful feeling. They say he may not recognise me again, or that next time I go he might be his old self again. It’s all so unpredictable.

  Robin, the other day I got a call from Jim. He asked if I could give him your postal address. He said he had sent you several emails but you hadn’t replied. I said that I wasn’t free to give out your address but that I would write and ask you if you would like me to give it to him, or if he should send a letter to me to forward to you. Let me know what you’d like me to do.

  I haven’t had anything other than postcards from Isabel and Sally. I have this picture in my mind of us all locked in different little punishment cells in different parts of the world. Me, of course, stuck in the same cell I’ve been in for years.

  Robin, I loved the time we spent together. I hope we’ll do it again. Let me know how you are and what you want me to do.

  Love, Grace

  Robin read the letters again and thought carefully about what they did not say. Having the mail in the house, opening it and reading it, had disturbed her. She resented having to deal with any of it. Reading Isabel’s letter her friend’s distress was apparent, despite her effort to hide it under the guise of getting it together. But Robin’s own survival instinct told her that at present she had nothing to offer anyone else. She was creating something precious for herself and could not afford to, as it were, share the building materials. She would write, but not yet, not until she felt ready.

  For the first time since she had arrived, she switched on her laptop. There were seven messages from Jim, one from Grace, several from work and some junk mail that she immediately deleted. Then she opened and read the messages from the office and printed out the essentials. Grace’s message said much the same as her letter had done. She might be able to leave Isabel’s letter for a while but she had to respond to Grace and do something about Jim. The alternative was the very real possibility that one of them would decide to pay her a visit to see if she was okay Robin clicked on reply

  Hi Gracie

  Thanks for your letter and email. Sorry for the delay. Thanks for letting me know about Jim and for not passing on the PO box number. I will send him a message to let him know I’m okay. Which of course I am. This place is heaven and I feel wonderful. It is the best thing I could have done for myself.

  So sorry about your dad. It must be a very hard thing to cope with. I guess it’s a bit weird being the only one there – ‘everyone’s gone to the moon’ sort of feeling. I loved spending time with you too and of course we’ll be doing it again! I had a strange little letter from Isabel. I think she’s finding it all rather hard. She even said she had gone through a stage of wanting to run away. Thinking of you, Grace, take care and thanks again.

  Love, Rob

  Only Jim’s messages remained in the inbox and Robin created a new folder called ‘JM’, highlighted the messages and moved them to it in bulk without opening them. Then she opened a new message template.

  Dearest Jimbo

  This is the first time I have opened email since I left Perth and I found your seven messages. I also got a message from Grace that you were worried about me. Jim, I haven’t read your messages but I haven’t destroyed them either. I really want to have this time for myself and not to worry daily about what emotional firecrackers may lie in wait in my email, so please don’t write again.

  I do understand that you would want to know that I am okay, safe, well, etc – all that stuff. So this is to tell you that I am fine. I’m in a beautiful place and am enjoying solitude, peace, quiet, lots of running, and time for reflection.

  I think of you a lot and, in case you’re wondering, yes, I do love you and miss you, but it doesn’t hurt so much now. As you left the house that last day, you said you would let me know if the time comes that you feel able to leave Monica. Jim, please don’t let me know. Just do or don’t do whatever you have to. I haven’t left in order to force your hand. I left for lots of reasons, just one of them being that I could no longer cope with our situation. I’ve promised myself a year. If, in that time, you make changes to your life it doesn’t mean that I will rush back.

  Take care of yourself. Rest is very good for the soul, I’m discovering. Remember that love doesn’t just
disappear when the other person is not close by, it’s tougher than that. This is really all I can say for the time being.

  Always with love

  R.

  She read it twice, clicked the send button and, with great relief, closed the email program and turned off the computer. She had done the essentials to protect her space, and she walked out onto the verandah and stared down at the beach where a few valiant surfers were hurling themselves into the waves. She thought of Isabel, miles away in a strange place battling her demons; about Grace, seemingly destined for some sort of physical or emotional breakdown. She wondered about Sally and what her silence meant. And Jim, his conflicting loves and loyalties festering like a wound, contaminating everything. She loved him as much as ever but his centrality in her life had changed. She had become the centre of her own life, placed herself there by making this change and she liked the feeling. She was never going to let go of that position again.

  Crossing to the bookshelf she took down Leslie Kenton’s story of her retreat to the Welsh coast. Flicking through the pages she recalled how, six months earlier, she had identified with the anger, despair and frustration. Now it had evaporated or transformed itself into this calm, which felt increasingly powerful. Was she doing it all wrong? Was she supposed to be suffering now? Surely it wasn’t supposed to be as quick and easy as this? Kenton had immersed herself in the frenetic activity of writing, something she felt she had to do, that, together with the physical exercise, had brought her to her knees. To Robin it felt just the reverse. Six months ago she had felt herself on her knees. In the last month she had been raised, lightly, gently, tenderly almost, to her feet. She had a vision now of a life no longer constrained by her legal career or by the frustration of fitting in with others, with her friends, her partners, her clients and, most of all, with Jim. From now on she would direct the action. She picked a vivid pink Post-it note from the desk and in a thick felt pen wrote ‘Authenticity!’ And she stuck it on the door of the fridge and went out to the back verandah to get some logs for the stove.