by Helen Brown
Cleo was opening the world to me in other ways, too. A movie deal was signed and I was invited on a global publicity tour. Out in the world after nearly two years engrossed with illness and book writing, I was anxious to present a passable public image. My tracksuit collection went in the bin. The breast cancer John Wayne uniform went too.
Being interviewed by foreign journalists was a disconcerting prospect. Even though I’d worked in media for three decades and had a pretty good idea how to feed an angle to a reporter, my homely Antipodean style mightn’t go down well. I thought about trying to ‘improve’ my presentation to seem more sophisticated. But in the end I decided honesty was safer. If the real-life author of Cleo was a disappointment, so be it.
Unlike our trips to the airport when we’d seen Lydia off to the monastery, the car hummed with enthusiasm. Amid promises to send postcards and text messages to Philip and both girls, I realised this adventure into the unknown was in some ways a middle-aged version of what Lydia had done.
As I kissed Philip and Katharine goodbye, Lydia stood back. For a moment I thought perhaps she wasn’t going to kiss me at all. As I turned to walk through the departure doors, Lydia stepped forward.
‘I’m so proud of you,’ she said, hugging me warmly.
I felt sheepish that Lydia was so generous in her support. My behaviour toward her Sri Lankan exploits had been inglorious by comparison.
A Strauss waltz spiralled inside my head as the plane I was on circled Vienna, where I was to do publicity for the German-language edition of the book. I craned my neck for glimpses of Viennese woods. Bare and spiky in their October garb, they seemed to stretch forever over snowy ridges.
Martina, my Austrian-based publisher, had emailed extremely clear instructions about finding a taxi from Vienna airport. Turn right straight after Customs, head out the automatic doors then look for a little red hut. A man in the hut would find a cab.
Everything happened exactly as she predicted. Except easier, quicker. I wished I could speak German. It seemed inadequate, rude even, to rely on the famous reputation German-speakers have for fluent English. The taxi driver and I sat in silence while Lady Gaga sang something raunchy on his radio. When I asked what he thought of her, he delivered a professorial analysis of how she combined artistic ability with mainstream appeal. All in perfect English.
Julie Andrews would’ve been perfectly at home in my hotel room. White as edelweiss, it was crisp as schnitzel without the noodles. My suitcase spilt its contents on the floor and the room suddenly looked more like home.
To walk off the jet lag, I headed to the Mozart museum next door. Said to be the only remaining building in Vienna where Mozart actually lived, it was gracious. Sailing through its light-filled rooms, I could almost imagine the short-lived genius flitting through the doorways in one of his embroidered jackets.
His bronze death mask was mesmerising. Mozart appeared to have been surprisingly handsome, almost like Elvis with his hair swished back from his forehead.
Just as well I’d written about a champagne-drinking friend in Cleo. Every foreign publisher seemed convinced I drank copious amounts of nothing else. I stopped arguing when they poured champagne at 11 a.m. or three in the afternoon.
Martina became my Austrian soul mate. She had two cats and had checked out satellite images of Wellington to see if it matched my descriptions in the book. Over dinner she explained how writers and artists are revered in Austria and Germany.
‘You mean like Rugby players?’ I asked. She didn’t seem to understand. I must learn German, I thought. Or possibly move to Vienna.
Clopping over cobblestones in the dark on my way to give a reading one night, I was unnerved by the fact I was being shadowed – not by one, but several silhouettes. When I sped up, they accelerated. If I slowed down, they reduced speed. Their breathing was audible. In the end I stopped, turned around and prepared to confront my would-be assailants, my heart pulsing in my ears as they closed in to mug me, or worse.
‘Mrs Brown?’ asked a polite voice. ‘I love your book. Could I possibly have your autograph?’
Reading from my book in an elaborate jewel of a room where Mozart often played had to be one of the greatest honours of my life. It was difficult to know what the audience made of this big-boned Antipodean author. Martina later reported someone had remarked I looked like the Queen – a perplexing comment. Perhaps it was something to do with the way my hair had been concreted into place in a local salon earlier in the day.
Philip was in good hands with Lydia and Katharine looking after him. Nevertheless, I sent messages and photos home whenever I had the chance. Lydia was always quick to respond with a ‘Fantastic!’ or an update on her latest marks, almost always Very High Distinction. I was slowly beginning to understand that any pain she’d given me I’d returned to her with interest. For that I felt deep remorse.
When I reached London, where Cleo had hit the Sunday Times Bestseller List in its first week, a forest of flowers waited in the hotel room. I assumed there’d been a mistake, but they were from Lisa, my brilliant and generous UK publisher. At the BBC I was sealed inside a booth and given headphones for fielding back-to-back radio interviews. It was easy to tell which jocks had read the book and who were simply filling airtime. Later that day, Lisa threw an afternoon tea in Hodder and Stoughton’s office in Euston so I could meet the thirty or so people who’d worked on the UK edition. At least three of them were New Zealanders. This was followed by yet more champagne.
I’d assumed Lisbon would be more restful than London. The Portuguese publisher of Cleo was incredibly suave. He met me at the airport and drove me to a funky 60s-style hotel. I loved the way Lisbon gazed out over white cobblestones to the sea.
‘U wd love it here,’ I texted Lydia. ‘People are casual & friendly. It’s like Australasia with history.’ I hesitated to add the seafood was great in case it offended her vegetarian soul.
Late at night, early morning in Australia, I’d talk to Philip on the phone. He reported that he, the girls and Jonah were all thriving. I asked if there’d been any more talk of Sri Lanka and was relieved when he said no, though Lydia still meditated a lot and was secretary of the University Buddhist Society. There’d been no sign of the monk, either. We were hopeful she’d stick with her Psychology course in Melbourne for another year.
* * *
The book had sold well to Portuguese teenagers, so I was asked to speak to high school students in a hall for a whole hour. Once I realised they were just like the kids at Katharine’s school, we got on well. After I’d convinced them I wasn’t really a grownup, they were a fantastic audience. They mobbed me afterwards, each with a story to tell or some personal pain to share. My throat started burning. I began to worry my health wasn’t up to international book tours.
After the school visit it was on to interviews with a national newspaper and a magazine. I had a fantastic time in Portugal, but it was no holiday. Some interviews were easier than others. I was bemused by the intellectual nature of the questions posed by a bespectacled woman journalist in Lisbon, and had been unnerved while subjected to Freudian probing about my relationship with my mother at the Vienna Book Fair.
By the time I reached the concrete canyons of New York, the sore throat felt like a bushfire at the back of my mouth. I struggled to hide my exhaustion from my enthusiastic New York publishers. They took me to lunch at one of the city’s smartest restaurants and announced they were putting ‘Number One International Bestseller’ on their cover of Cleo. Admiring the sleek fashion sense of my luncheon companions, nothing seemed further away than cancer and the mastectomy. Life had changed radically in less than two years.
Despite the wonderful US welcome, I developed shivers and a persistent cough. I longed to be back home in bed. A doctor visited the hotel room and said my condition was understandable. A book tour would be extremely draining, and cancer lowers the immune system.
Curious about the book, he acknowledged the importance of pets in tod
ay’s world. Two of his patients had suffered severe clinical depression after the death of their cats. He scribbled a prescription for antibiotics, and gave me an inhaler for the plane. I signed a copy of Cleo for him and wished I could pack him in my suitcase.
* * *
Back in Australia, Jonah adored being a celebrity cat. Every morning he trotted behind me into my study. Though I still didn’t trust him alone in there, he loved nestling on my lap to inspect the overnight emails. He was pumped the day a French television crew arrived at Shirley to make a documentary for a much-loved animal programme in France called 30 Millions des Amis (Thirty Million Friends).
You’d think getting a few shots of a cat behaving naturally around a house would be easy but Jonah had no intention of making the cameraman’s job a breeze. When I tried to hold him on my lap and stroke his fur as a demonstration of cat/human-slave devotion, Jonah flattened his ears, wriggled slippery as a pumpkin seed out of my grasp and galloped down the hall.
The cameraman wasn’t fazed and said he’d like a shot of me carrying Jonah through the front door and outside. My throat tensed. From Jonah’s perspective any trip out the front door presented an opportunity to run away and give the black cats down the street the insults they deserved.
I nervously picked our pet off the floor as the cameraman positioned himself outside on the front path. Jonah tensed in my arms as I turned the front door handle and stepped on to the verandah, trying to look relaxed. So far so good. Jonah and I were presenting the perfect picture of bonding across the species.
But then the security door slammed behind us and the highly strung animal jumped two feet in the air. Yelping, I stretched my arms out to grab him. Fortunately, as gravity pulled him back toward me, I was able to gather him up.
I was exasperated and a little embarrassed by our unco-operative cat, but the cameraman was unruffled. He had a background in wildlife filming – quite apt given the circumstances – and just shrugged and moved on to film an interview with Rob, who’d escaped from work for an hour.
Not sure what to do next, I laid lunch out on the table for the camera crew. I imagined their work was probably over for the day. But the cameraman was indefatigable. He spent the afternoon creeping around after Jonah, crawling along the floor recording his exhibitionist antics, bouncing down the hall like a kangaroo, flashing up and down stairs like a lightning bolt.
Even after Jonah was exhausted and collapsed on a sofa cushion, the cameraman kept filming, with the cat opening his eye every so often to check he was still centre of attention.
Admittedly, the wildlife filming approach was suitable for Jonah, but I was dubious how the end product would look. I needn’t have worried. When I finally saw the programme, it was exquisitely made. The door-slamming incident had been tactfully edited out. Jonah came across as the outlandish creature he is – even though the dubbing was beyond my schoolgirl French.
New Life
Few joys are greater than the arrival of a new generation
Life had changed since the publication of Cleo. It was taking on different shapes and colours at home, too. On one of their Sunday lunch visits, I noticed Chantelle wasn’t drinking any wine. There was a possibility she was on a diet, though hardly necessary in her case. The alternative scenario was too exciting to contemplate.
Lydia and Katharine were clearing plates from the table when Chantelle broke the joyous news. Their baby was due early June. Philip, the girls and I smothered her with kisses while Rob sat back, trying to contain his pride.
Blushing, Chantelle said they hadn’t intended it to happen so soon. She’d been to a psychic who’d said they wouldn’t have a baby for another three years, so they’d relaxed a bit. It was wonderful news, though I have to confess the concept of Rob, my little boy, becoming a father was mind-bending. Lydia and Katharine were heading into Auntsville. Philip, my toy boy, was morphing into a grandfather. And me – a grandmother?!
I suddenly understood why Mum had been so prickly about the dismal range of grandmotherly titles available – Nana (too goat-like), Grandma (too Little Red Riding Hood ), Granny (well, honestly). A Maori friend said he called his grandmother Kuia, which looked lovely on paper, but processed through an Australian accent would inevitably be pronounced ‘Queer’. If I had to be called anything, I decided it might as well be vague and non-threatening so I took a leaf out of the Teletubbies’ book and opted for Lala.
During the months that followed, Jonah took a special interest in Chantelle’s changing body shape. Every Sunday lunchtime he deigned to curve himself around her bulge, his head pressed against her stomach as if listening for a heartbeat.
Months whirled past, and before we knew it the baby was a week overdue. There’d been a few false alarms, but every time it looked like something was happening the contractions faded away. By this time Chantelle was fed up. Rob was on edge. I’d run out of knitting wool.
On Wednesday night, five days after baby Brown was due, the family put in bets for when he/she would arrive. Being an optimist, I opted for Friday. Lydia and Katharine chose Saturday. When Philip put in his bid for Sunday, I told him the poor parents couldn’t possibly wait that long.
On Friday morning, Chantelle sent a text saying the contractions were regular and they’d be heading into hospital in a couple of hours. After several hours’ silence I sent a text: ‘?’ A reply came back straight away ‘0. Contractions gone away.’ Saturday was no better.
In the early hours of Sunday morning, I struggled out of bed for my usual nocturnal visit to the bathroom. The bedside clock was glowing 3.15. As I rolled back into bed, my mobile phone bleeped to life. Fingers trembling, I fumbled to get the text message open. It was from Rob. Baby Annie had just been born, weighing nine pounds. Mother and daughter (and father!) all well. Room A24.
Flicking the light on, I shook Philip awake. He’d just become a grandfather. I asked him what he wanted to be called. Not Pop or Grandad, surely? ‘How about Papa?’ I suggested, planting a kiss on his prickly cheek. ‘Papa and Lala had a ring to it.’ Philip smiled and nodded sleepy agreement.
Confident I wouldn’t be getting any more sleep, I got up and put the kettle on. A stardust baby had arrived on planet earth. She wasn’t ours, but with any luck part of her life would be entwined with ours in a dance of parenthood two steps removed. No broken nights or parent–teacher interviews, but plenty of excuses to go to the zoo, see Disney on Ice and act like a kid again.
Lydia and Katharine tumbled out of their beds when they heard the news and scrambled into their clothes. Jonah was wide awake and wired, having been moved off his favourite sleeping pillow – Katharine’s arm. If we were off on an early morning mission he was determined to accompany us, thrusting himself at the front door, head-butting the panels and meowing urgently. Like clowns in a bullfight, we each took turns diverting his attention so that one after the other we could slip outside on to the verandah.
Last one out, I reminded Jonah he had an important job to do looking after the house and closed the door. As the car backed on to the sleeping street, we gazed up at the living room to see an unmistakable silhouette pressing its nose against the window. Two headlamps of eyes glowered annoyance.
Cameras in hand, we strode through grey hospital corridors. I was half expecting to be stopped by a belligerent nursing sister, the type who used to roam maternity wards keeping a stopwatch on visiting hours. But those old girls had long gone, along with their enema bags.
The hospital was in a pre-dawn coma. Not a rattle of a trolley or breakfast tray to be heard. Our pace quickened as we headed for Room A24. Turning a corner we encountered an elderly Indian man sitting on a chair in the corridor, a small boy perched on his knee. The old man’s face was deeply creased and his eyes rheumy with age, yet he was smiling like the sun. Well into his eighties, he didn’t have many years left but his daughter (or possibly granddaughter) was behind one of the doors tending to a new life that had stripped any sadness from his old age. It struck me then how
lovely maternity wards are compared to the other worry-filled floors of a hospital.
Barely able to contain our excitement, we finally found Room A24 and burst in on a charming nativity scene. Though Chantelle looked tired, as did Rob, their smiles were triumphant and tender as we hovered over the tiny bassinette. Under her pink and white blanket Annie was very pretty, her domed head sprinkled with wisps of brown hair, her starfish hands with tapering fingers.
Holding the comforting weight of my granddaughter for the first time, I studied her face and thought of the hundreds of thousands of people who were part of this little human. Some of her features were familiar: her almond-shaped eyes were not unlike Rob’s when he was a newborn, and her cupid-bow mouth could’ve been stolen from Mum. There was fortitude in that face, too – an inheritance from a long line of women unafraid of swimming against the tide.
Entranced by the little face, I could have gone on studying her for hours, but Annie had a queue of admirers desperate to embrace her and begin their own story with her. I kissed her little forehead and with great care transferred her to Aunt Lydia.
‘Be careful how you hold her,’ I instructed. ‘Make sure you support the . . .’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Lydia smiling softly down at her niece. ‘Neck.’
My older daughter never ceased to surprise me. Where had she learnt how to hold babies properly? Perhaps it was an extension of her work with disabled people, or the Sri Lankan orphanage.
As Lydia gazed down at the infant, tenderly stroking her head, I was reminded of my favourite work by Leonardo da Vinci, the cartoon painted around 1500 and on display in London’s National Gallery. Lydia’s expression mirrored the Virgin Mary’s and St Anne’s as they admired the Christ child in the painting.
