Frances held on to her empty wine glass and listened to the quiet chatter. She felt drunk now, both from the excitement of being with Massimo, and on the reconnection she felt with the part of her life she had long ago swept aside. Being with Massimo, with Elizabeta and Iliana and Vasiliki, had reminded her of the dreams she’d had when she was young. When she’d first met these people, she’d wanted to travel the world, to visit each and every country in alphabetical order, from Albania to Zimbabwe, to see and experience the things she’d had just a taste of at Bonegilla.
Elizabeta smiled at something Massimo said, and Frances was so relieved to see it. Elizabeta looked so much older than her thirty-six years. Her outfit—a floral shirt and crimplene trousers—was sensible and plain. Her hair was pulled back in a simple bun that sat at the top of her collar. It was as if Elizabeta wanted to fade into the background. Frances thought back to Bonegilla to remember how Elizabeta had been. She had always had a sober nature, even when they had fun together, but there had always been something in her, a spark of intellect and curiosity, that revealed her quiet intelligence. Since those first days, grief had swallowed her whole. It had come to Australia with her family, as clearly as the clothes and mementoes they’d packed in their luggage, and it had been a constant companion all the way, on the voyage to Australia on the Fairsea, each day at Bonegilla after Luisa died and still, it seemed, in Adelaide.
Someone made a joke. Iliana chuckled and Massimo laughed out loud, blowing the languid smoke from his cigarette into the air above his head.
His imprint was on her skin. She still felt him inside her, so fast and strong. Her lips stung from his kisses. She watched him smoke, and something inside her was reborn. The love she had felt for him, the love that had been so important to her in the lowest moments of her life, bloomed back to life, obliterating every idea about what was right and what was wrong.
Frances had to admit to herself that she had purposely put a distance between herself and Iliana over all these years. It was nothing Iliana had done. It was about Massimo and the other things she hadn’t wanted to remember. She had never been able to find the words to explain how giving away her baby had changed her life. Her baby. The son she had never held, never comforted.
How could she describe to anyone the restless aimlessness of her life in the years after? The moving from school to school, the distance she’d put between herself and her students so she didn’t feel, didn’t wish, didn’t grieve. All those plans she had to see the world had been packed away with the memories of her child. She’d lost any spirit of adventure. She hadn’t wanted to leave Australia after that. She needed to know that she was walking in the same continent as her son. Tom had asked her to go to London to visit him; had urged her more strongly when he married Sally. But she’d had her own children by then, and didn’t want to be parted from them for a night, much less three weeks.
Iliana had understood Frances’s desire for secrecy, for privacy, and had never asked about the baby. Frances had tried so hard to put it all behind her, to pack it in a memory box and lay it to rest. She had buried those feelings of shame in the free-spirited demeanour she had so carefully cultivated, but inside she was still the humiliated and shamed young woman who’d been forced to carry the entire burden of a mistake. Iliana could never know that side of her. Iliana looked blissful, and for that Frances was so happy.
How could she not compare her life to her friends’?
Vasiliki was the most glamorous of all of them, the most successful in business and in life, with a loving husband and four daughters. Frances had a collection of all the photos Vasiliki had sent her over the years: first birthdays, first day of school, Greek Easter and Christmas. Happy family gatherings.
How harshly would Vasiliki judge Frances for what she’d seen in the kitchen earlier in the afternoon, for what she’d instantly understood had happened with Massimo? Frances couldn’t think about that. Because she had decided, right then, as she looked at Massimo across the table as he smoked and laughed and snuck glances at her, that they would see each other again. Now that she’d had a taste of him, she craved him, she craved who she could be when she was with him. It was like an instant addiction to a drug.
The past wasn’t over. Perhaps it would never be over.
Elizabeta yawned. ‘I think it’s time to go.’ She checked her watch. ‘Goodness me. It’s ten o’clock.’
‘I don’t know how I’ve made it up this late.’ Iliana blew out a breath. ‘Perhaps it was the fun of seeing you all after so many years.’
‘Speaking of which,’ Frances said into the night air. ‘I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we do this again?’
‘Another Bonegilla girls reunion?’ Vasiliki asked. ‘I’m in. But let’s do Melbourne next time, huh?’
‘And Adelaide after that,’ Elizabeta added.
‘I assume you mean girls only,’ Tom said jealously. ‘It seems rather a shame that the chaps have to miss out, doesn’t it Massimo?’
Massimo looked at her. She knew what he was thinking. That they wouldn’t be waiting years to see each other again. She was surer of that than of anything in her life.
‘Sorry,’ Vasiliki announced. ‘It’s Bonegilla girls only.’
Frances pulled herself to her tired feet. ‘If we had any wine left I’d suggest we drink on it but we don’t. We’ll just have to promise.’
And with their goodbye hugs and affectionate kisses, the Bonegilla girls agreed.
Chapter Forty-one
1984
‘Stop joking. I don’t want to be a grandmother yet.’
‘Why not?’ Vasiliki refilled Frances’s wine glass.
‘Because I’m only forty-six, for God’s sake.’ Frances shuddered at the thought. ‘And Vanessa and Lyndall are only eighteen and sixteen. You think I want them having babies now? God no.’
It was a warm sunny day in Melbourne—at least it was for the moment—and Vasiliki and Frances were waiting for Elizabeta and Iliana to arrive for their reunion dinner. The women had kept their promise to meet ten years after the reunion at Frances’s in Sydney, and this time it was Vasiliki’s turn to host. The Bonegilla girls were coming for the weekend—no husbands and no children—and the venue was one of Melbourne’s best Greek restaurants, in Lygon Street. Vasiliki knew the owners through business, and she’d managed to secure a private area on the balcony overlooking the street.
For a public-school teacher from Sydney, Frances felt very spoilt indeed.
She’d never seen a spread like it. Even before they’d been given menus, a huge platter had arrived and it bulged in the middle of the table. It was groaning with wedges of pita bread, dips of all colours, including an intriguing pale pink one, cubes of fetta cheese, vine leaves wrapped into little cigar shapes and meatballs. Frances had never eaten Greek food before and didn’t quite know where to start.
‘They should be here any minute.’ Vasiliki checked her elegant watch. ‘They’re staying together at a motel just around the corner and they must have decided to walk.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Frances said. ‘I’m sure I won’t starve while we’re waiting.’ She studied the platter, trying to decide what she would taste first. It all looked very different to her kitchen staples: roast lamb every Sunday night, spaghetti bolognese, schnitzel, sausages with three veg, and sweet and sour pork—with sauce from a jar. Frances had finally admitted to herself years ago that she simply didn’t like cooking. She’d lost all the skills Iliana’s mother had taught her in Cooma twenty years before. Cooking wasn’t the thing that brought her joy.
She had something that brought her joy and it had nothing to do with food.
‘You know.’ Vasiliki popped a cube of fetta cheese into her mouth. ‘Speaking of forty-six. I’ve just realised something. I’m forty-six, too—I know, I know, I don’t look a day over thirty—which is older than my parents were when they came to Australia. They left behind their entire families, both sets of parents, my yiayia and papou on my mother’s sid
e, and packed up as much as they could carry and left. They didn’t know a word of English and uprooted their young family anyway and got on a boat. I still can’t believe they did it, you know?’
‘They were so brave back then. Everyone who came to Australia.’ Frances stared at the platter. ‘What’s that?’ She pointed to the pink dip.
‘Taramasalata. Try it, you’ll love it.’
Frances dipped a triangle of warm pita bread into it and took a bite. ‘God, that’s delicious.’
Vasiliki grinned. ‘It’s fish roe.’
Frances tried not to look shocked. ‘Well, it’s still delicious.’ She dipped again and ate it hungrily.
‘The thing is,’ Vasiliki said. ‘If my daughters did it to me, packed up and moved halfway across the world, I think I’d try to lock them in the house for the rest of their lives.’
‘Is Aphrodite still living at home? She must be nearly thirty. I thought she must have moved out by now.’
‘After the wedding, she and Peter will move into their house. They’ve had tenants in for two years and they’ve been saving, saving, saving to pay it off before the wedding. It helps when you both get to live at home and don’t pay any board to your parents.’
‘You’re very generous. A wedding already.’ Frances shook her head. ‘You started so much younger than the rest of us. Having babies, I mean.’
Vasiliki’s head shot up. She opened her lips as if she was about to speak but didn’t say anything.
‘You all right, Vicki?’
‘I was just thinking back to when Aphrodite was born.’ She stopped, took a deep breath. ‘You’re right. I was so young.’
‘You know,’ Frances said, feeling brave and picking up a meatball. ‘The older I get, the more respect I have for the parents who did what yours did. And Elizabeta’s and Iliana’s and the three hundred and twenty thousand other people that went through Bonegilla before it closed. My father loved to remind me of that. Still does, in fact. And, to be honest, every migrant we have in Australia. It’s fun to talk to my students about where their families are from. These days, it’s not Greece and Italy and Germany but Malaysia and Vietnam and Cambodia and Laos and Lebanon. Everyone starts again looking for a better life. You know, I remember, back then, asking my father about it, why you all came out.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘“The war”.’
Vasiliki met Frances’s eyes. They were both thinking of Elizabeta and how her family had suffered. They had never forgotten what she’d told them about her sister. ‘How do you think she’s coping? After her mum’s death, I mean?’
‘It’s hard to tell.’ Frances shrugged. ‘Elizabeta would never say it, but I think she’s relieved in a way that her mother’s suffering is over. When she called me to tell me about the funeral, she sounded … it’s hard to find the words … as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders.’
Vasiliki stared into the distance. ‘I thought the same. Relieved isn’t the right word but she had suffered so much. That whole family had.’
Frances put her hand up and waved. ‘And here they are.’ Seeing Iliana still gave Frances pangs of guilt. When she’d seen Massimo a few days before she’d left for Melbourne, he’d made her promise, once again, that she would never tell.
‘I’ve kept this secret for ten years,’ she’d said angrily. ‘Since that night at my house all those years ago. Why do you think I would say something now?’
It wasn’t unusual for him to be anxious when she saw him. He saw shadows everywhere when he was with her. Even when there were only the two of them in a motel room, alone with a Gideon Bible and a broken television.
Frances pushed back her chair and went to Elizabeta first. ‘I’m so sorry about your mother.’ She threw her arms around her friend and tried not to react when she felt skin and bones under her shirt. When she pulled back, saw Elizabeta’s face up close, she saw hollows in her cheeks and clouds under her eyes.
‘Thank you. That is kind of you.’
‘Here, take a seat.’ She ushered Elizabeta in next to her.
Vasiliki whistled. ‘And look at you, glamourpuss.’
Iliana laughed. ‘Thank you. The last time you saw me I was twelve months pregnant. Anything looks better than that.’
‘How’s Sonia?’
‘Nine years old and all she wants to do is be a dancer on Countdown.’
‘Oh, my girls loved that show,’ Vasiliki said. ‘Every Sunday night. We had to finish dinner by six o’clock or they would race from the table anyway and lie on the floor in front of the television. I understand about Sherbet and the Skyhooks and that John Paul Young. In my day, it was Johnny O’Keefe.’
‘And the Easybeats and the Masters Apprentices!’ Frances added.
Elizabeta smiled. ‘I don’t know who you’re talking about. I never listened to that music.’
‘The good old days, huh?’ Iliana laughed.
Once the waiter had taken their orders, it wasn’t long before more food arrived. Vasiliki seemed to have some influence, because bottles of wine followed and extra pita bread and more food than they would ever eat. Frances was glad of the distraction. As she ate barbecued octopus and grilled lamb and fish with garlic and rosemary, she went over and over what she was going to say. It had all been so easy in her head the past year. But now the Bonegilla girls were all together, she was suddenly nervous. She needed to tell someone and she couldn’t tell their friends because they were all Andrew’s friends, too.
She sipped her wine. ‘I have some news.’
‘God, you’re not pregnant,’ Vasiliki joked.
‘No. Definitely not pregnant.’ She steeled herself by taking a deep breath. ‘Andrew and I are getting a divorce.’
The throaty roar of a car racing down Lygon Street drifted up to them on the balcony. Chattering voices from below filled the silence.
‘Oh, Frances. That’s terrible news.’ Elizabeta looked heartbroken at the admission. She put down her cutlery, as if she’d suddenly lost her appetite.
‘I’m so sorry for you,’ Iliana said, crossing herself.
‘What happened?’ Vasiliki always dived right in for the truth.
‘I don’t know how to explain it, really. We’ve drifted apart over the past few years.’ She looked at each of their faces, wondering who would judge her the most harshly. Surely it would be Iliana. She was a Catholic, a regular churchgoer, a believer. ‘We’ve lost each other, I suppose.’
‘Well, find each other again,’ Vasiliki said adamantly. ‘You can’t do this to your girls. Divorced parents? You’ll break their hearts, Frances. You owe it to them to work things out with your husband.’
‘It’s too late.’ Frances couldn’t care anymore if it would break their hearts. She had to preserve her own. Didn’t she deserve some happiness in her life, after all these years, after all the secrets she’d kept that had slowly eaten away at who she was? In a few years she would be fifty. Old. Unlovable. And all that talk earlier about being a grandparent? It had sent shivers up her spine. She had given up so much already. She had decided to demand something for her own life for once, just like young women were doing now.
‘It’s never too late.’ Vasiliki was angry. Frances couldn’t figure out why.
‘The truth is, I don’t want to work it out. I’m in love with someone else. I have been for years.’
It felt to Frances like a moment from Days of Our Lives. She’d found herself immersed in the convoluted and extraordinary love lives of Salem’s Bo and Hope and Marlena and John during the long summer holidays, when her girls were in their rooms listening to the radio or reading Dolly magazine; when it was too hot to do much of anything. There always seemed to be a dramatic moment just before a commercial, in which the camera would zoom in on a character’s face and wait and wait and wait before cutting to an ad break for OMO or Palmolive Gold.
She was in that scene right now. Her friends stared at her as if she’d gone mad.
Iliana l
eaned in, whispered fiercely. ‘You’ve been having an affair?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, unashamed. Well, perhaps just the slightest bit ashamed.
‘Who is it?’ Elizabeta asked quietly.
‘Someone I work with.’ Frances lied to avoid Iliana’s scrutiny.
‘Is he married, too?’ Iliana asked.
‘Yes.’
‘How could you?’ Iliana’s mouth twisted in a scowl and she crossed her arms over her chest. ‘How could you do that to two families?’
‘Don’t be so harsh, Iliana,’ Elizabeta said.
Iliana couldn’t look at her and, in that moment, Frances knew Massimo had been right about not telling his sister. To her, adultery was a sin and divorce was also forbidden in her church. To a person with a happy marriage, it was easy to think in black and white.
‘You’re such a good person, Frances. You always were. What’s happened to you?’
Without warning, tears were in her eyes. ‘You know what happened to me, Iliana. You were there all those years ago. You were a friend to me then. A sister, actually. I hope you’ll be there for me now.’
Iliana’s face crumpled. ‘Oh, Frances,’ she whispered.
Frances turned to Elizabeta and Vasiliki. ‘In 1958 I got pregnant and I had a baby. I gave him up for adoption.’
‘Gott im Himmel.’ Elizabeta slumped back in her chair.
Vasiliki’s mouth gaped. ‘You had a son?’
Something inside Frances split open and bled. ‘And even though I never got to hold him, I think about him all the time. He would be twenty-five now. I could be a grandmother already and I would never know.’
‘I … thought you’d forgotten all about the baby,’ Iliana said quietly. ‘You’ve never talked about it, all these years.’
Frances turned her pleading eyes to Iliana. ‘That’s what everyone told me I should do. The doctors. The nurses. My parents. But … you’re a mother. You must understand. How can a mother ever forget a baby?’
The Last of the Bonegilla Girls Page 29
