Last Tango in Toulouse

by Mary Moody

  ‘I’ll dig the hole,’ says Ethan, grabbing a spade and getting as far away from the shed as possible.

  David paces the lawn, still in his nightshirt, muttering and mumbling into his whiskers and wringing his hands in despair. Aaron puts on a brave face and tries to scoop the remains into a box with a flat shovel, but immediately starts to heave. It takes an eternity for them to complete the task, with David doing the worst of it in the end, and I am left with the grisly job of cleaning up and getting rid of the maggots that have multiplied into thousands. The shed smells frightful for weeks, and that particular Sunday nobody feels much like lunch.

  Being in the midst of such a large and lively family and distracted by all the tasks of running the farm helps me cope with my mental confusion. I realise that this is the way I have coped for most of my adult life: by creating an environment around me which is so busy and demanding that I don’t have the time or energy to think too deeply about how I am feeling. But now, in the middle of the night, my dilemma returns to haunt me. When the children and grandchildren have gone home at the end of the day, after dinner and a few glasses of wine I am left alone with David and my thoughts, knowing that I am feeling far from happy.

  21

  A couple of months after Christmas the long-awaited letter from my sister Margaret finally arrives. After the brief card she wrote acknowledging the copy of Au Revoir I sent there was a long, long silence, and I was seriously worried that she would never write again. Perhaps her childhood memories are so traumatic that she doesn’t care to relive them in any form – neither the written nor the spoken word. Perhaps her need to divorce herself totally from our family is so strong that my reappearance, after fifty years, is just too much for her to stand.

  But not so. Margaret’s letter is long and friendly, handwritten and covering ten pages. She tells me with humour and some pride about her full and happy life, the life she made for herself after walking out the front door of our overcrowded and unhappy flat on her eighteenth birthday. There is little reference to the pain of her childhood, just lots of good news about her extensive travels and her career. When she left home she was on a teacher’s college scholarship and training at East Sydney Tech to be an art teacher. It was a struggle but, by working at nights and weekends, usually in factories, she managed to support herself until she completed her degree. She then worked in a couple of country high schools as an art teacher: for several years in Cooma, in the Snowy Mountains, and then at Dubbo. In the 1960s she went to England to teach and from there she travelled to Canada, where again she taught art in rural schools. Along the way she decided to upgrade her qualifications and completed two masters degrees, eventually undertaking a PhD in art education. Margaret didn’t marry until her mid-thirties and she and her husband Ken, also a teacher, don’t have children. Margaret embraced Ken’s large extended family and eventually, when they both retired, they built a farmhouse and established a commercial kiwi fruit farm on glorious Vancouver Island, where they still live.

  Margaret sends me a photograph of herself, now aged in her late sixties, standing in her garden wearing a straw hat. She looks so much like me, only with grey hair, and I am amazed at the parallels in our lives. She loves her garden and is an enthusiastic producer of compost. She loves to cook and fills her pantry shelves with jams and jellies and preserves, just as I have done for years. She and Ken love to travel and they have spent many happy holidays with friends painting village scenes in France. Not just anywhere in France, but in exactly the same region of France that we so love and where we own our little house.

  The hair on the back of my neck stands up. This is my sister that I don’t know. She left our home when I was fourteen months old and made a totally different life for herself. Yet here she is, so like me in so many ways. She obviously had a burning need to achieve too, hence her long string of academic qualifications. She must be a kindred spirit. I read her letter over and over, soaking up her handwriting, drinking in every word.

  For the first time in months I feel really happy. So much has happened in my life these last twelve months – the move from Leura, the entanglement with the man from Toulouse which has created so much confusion in my mind, the sheer hard physical work of setting up the farm, the launch of the book and the overwhelming reaction to it, the rediscovery of my long-lost sister and my inner struggle with my relationship with David. I feel quite drained emotionally.

  In January we have our first big party at the farm and I am thankful for the large community hall that will accommodate the seventy or so guests we invite. My half-brother Jon who lives in the small town of Warialda in northern New South Wales will be seventy, and I decide to round up as many of his and our relatives and old working colleagues as possible and have a lunchtime gathering in early January. By email, phone, fax and snail mail I manage to track down five of his cousins on his mother’s side of the family, the Fannings, who came originally from Melbourne, where our father, Theo, met Jon’s mother, Veronica, back in the early 1930s. These cousins range in age from mid-forties to late fifties and are scattered around the countryside but, because they’ve all stayed in close touch with each other, it’s easy to find them and they are all happy to be invited.

  I also contact some of our Moody cousins, the various offspring of my father’s brother Rollie, who was a well-known journalist of his era. Now, if my father was a cad and a womaniser and a drunk, his brother Rollie left him for dead. Rollie married several times and fathered illegitimate children in between – well, at least one that we know of. His first wife had two sons. His second wife (my darling Aunty Jeanne, who died two years ago) had three sons and a daughter. Then there was a daughter out of wedlock, which caused a scandal at the newspaper where they all worked. Who knows what after that. Rollie’s preferred modus operandi was to have two women pregnant at the same time. Initially, neither would be aware of the other but eventually he would try to move them all in together in a communal living arrangement. He succeeded at least once in convincing a wife that the mistress and baby should move in. It didn’t work out, as one would expect, and in the end Rollie fled back to Melbourne, abandoning all the children and their mothers. He offered no financial, physical or emotional support to any of them. Attempts had been made over the years to link up the half-brothers and sisters, and I had met some of them at a small but happy reunion in Sydney the previous year. Now I want them all to come to Jon’s party; this means that at least two of them – half-sisters – will be meeting each other for the first time. It makes me think of my own tenuous link with Margaret. What a tangled family these Moodys are, with so much pain and confusion caused by two egotistical, self-centred brothers.

  I also manage to round up various members of my mother’s family, children and grandchildren of her brothers and sisters. A lot of these cousins are also fairly wild and wacky, so I can tell it’s going to be a spirited gathering.

  All my children and their partners come to help, grandchildren and dogs in tow, and we prepare a huge buffet lunch with lots of wine and beer. I’m not too sure about the Fannings, but the Moodys and the Angels (my mother’s clan) are partial to a drop or two, so the fridges are well stocked.

  It turns out to be the most wonderful day for everyone. All these people connected by the common thread of the notorious Theo and Rollie Moody come together to celebrate the birthday of the oldest member of his generation – dear Jon. I have a vivid memory of Lynne, by now almost nine months pregnant, zipping in and out of the house with huge platters of cold meats and salads and cheeses. Miriam and Lorna and my stepson Tony’s wife, Simone, are also kitchen slaves. It’s very much all hands to the pump. The children, as young as little Gus, who is now crawling, have no idea what the party is all about but join in the fun and gets lots of hugs and kisses from second cousins and distant in-laws whom they have never met. It is a couple of hours before the two half-sisters, one in her forties, one in her fifties, work their way round to talking to each other, but by mid-afternoon I see them
sitting together in a huddle, laughing and talking. Jon is slightly overawed by it all. We make speeches and there is a huge birthday cake. The party goes on well into the evening, so it’s just as well the fridge is well stocked.

  Next morning, as we tidy up and say goodbye to the last of the cousins, Jon sits on the back verandah and reflects on the gathering.

  ‘You know, Mary,’ he says with a sigh, ‘I’ve never had a birthday party before.’

  It was a long time to wait.

  22

  Ten days after Jon’s party Ethan and Lynne produce a beautiful baby girl. Isabella Rosa is tiny but perfectly formed and has, to my delight, a crown of bright red hair. We are overjoyed to welcome another girl into the family – an ally for her sixteen-month-old cousin Ella Mary – in among this large bunch of boisterous boys. Now, when the whole family comes to the farm for Sunday lunch, there are seventeen of us. I can’t believe that at 52 I already have seven grandchildren. It’s a tight squeeze even for our large dining room table, and the preparation of food is a massive undertaking. Just as well most of us are keen to cook – it’s probably because we are also very keen to eat good food. It’s a joyous time.

  One afternoon there’s a knock at the kitchen door and a slim young woman introduces herself as Sue. She lives at nearby Kirkconnell and wonders if I would like to get involved in a community concert they are planning to stage in a few weeks’ time. While I am always enthusiastic about helping out in community events, I can’t imagine what I could possibly contribute to a concert. I can’t sing, I don’t play a musical instrument and I have never been very keen on poetry recitals. After some discussion I volunteer to try doing a small comedy skit impersonating Peter Cundall, the larger-than-life main presenter on the gardening program that I was involved with for so many years. Peter is quite a character with his thick Mancunian accent and overwhelming enthusiasm for all things related to gardening and the environment. He is well loved by all the regular fans of the show, and even those who aren’t regular viewers will recognise my take-off because he’s a bit of a television legend. He is well known as a ruthless man with a pruning saw and I have developed a small routine, only ever performed at visits to gardening clubs, where I take off his approach to pruning a lemon tree. Massacre would be a better word. I take a lemon tree in a pot and, while explaining the technique of restoring it to good health and vigour through pruning, I reduce it to the size of a petunia seedling. Sue is most enthusiastic about my idea but she also enquires, a little tentatively, if I would be interested in taking part in the can-can chorus.

  I protest that I couldn’t possibly dance the can-can. I don’t know the steps. I’ve never done it before. I’d make a complete fool of myself.

  ‘We are famous for being bad,’ she says. ‘It’s a really easy routine. Why not just come to our rehearsal this afternoon and see what you think?’

  Much to David’s horror, I set off for the new community hall in the late afternoon and, after an hour of kicking and sweating and screaming, I feel I have started to come to grips with the rhythm of the dance. It’s great fun.

  We have time for only four rehearsals before the night of the concert but, as Sue has rightly pointed out, it’s an easy routine to remember and we are all very enthusiastic. Our ages range from early twenties to late fifties and we are all basically fit although not quite as glamorous and sexy as Nicole Kidman in Moulin Rouge. Some of the younger women can do cartwheels, which adds plenty of colour and movement to the routine. I think it’s hilarious, though David has grave reservations about the whole idea. Having worked professionally in the entertainment industry for forty years, he feels uncomfortable with amateur performances. For years I used to hoot at the Saturday night ‘Red Faces’ segment on ‘Hey, Hey it’s Saturday’ but David would leave the room covered in embarrassment. He simply can’t stand people making fools of themselves by being ‘bad’ performers. I have a totally different viewpoint. I think there’s a desire in all of us to get up and perform, and it doesn’t really matter if we are good or bad, as long as we are having fun. David has a fear of people ‘dying’ in front of a live audience so I hope, for his sake, that I don’t fall over and make a complete spectacle of myself.

  The community concert is a most entertaining event. The hall doesn’t have a stage, but the tables are cleared to the side, leaving an open space for the performances. Everyone from the community rocks along, bringing their children and bottles of wine and beer and plates of nibbles to enjoy during the show. The organisers have put together a lavish supper for afterwards and the idea is that anyone and everyone is welcome to get up and ‘have a go’. And they do.

  There are small rock groups and violin players and kids doing poetry and singing pop songs, there are line dancers and stand-up comedians and soloists who throw their heart and soul into every note. Not every performance is a winner, but the crowd’s enthusiasm is overwhelming and the atmosphere is very friendly. I love every moment, even when it’s my turn to get up, dressed in daggy old gardening clothes and gumboots, to do my silly skit. It goes down well and I spy several of my grandsons standing in the doorway looking a little embarrassed at their grandmother centre stage, hacking a lemon tree into small pieces and shouting ‘blooming marvellous’ in a funny accent.

  The last act of the night is the can-can and we all crowd into the ladies’ loo to get dressed and apply our exaggerated makeup. There hasn’t been time for a dress rehearsal, but we are all wearing full skirts and skimpy tops and fishnet tights, with bright red feathers pinned into our hair. Over my fishnets I decide to wear a pair of saucy red knickers, vaguely see-through and with lots of lace. We run onto the stage energetically and the routine goes off like clockwork. It brings the house down and to cries of ‘More! More!’ we somehow manage an encore. It’s exhausting. After supper and more wine we all stagger back to the farm, agreeing that the community concert is definitely one local event not to be missed. Even David agrees.

  Next morning the phone rings quite early. It’s Sue, our can-can mistress, and we have a good laugh about how brilliant the concert was and how well received our can-can was by the audience.

  She asks me, rather sheepishly, ‘And what were you wearing over your fishnet stockings?’

  ‘Just some red lacy knickers,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, but what were you wearing under them?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I reply. ‘Just the tights and the knickers.’

  ‘I thought so,’ she says with a laugh. ‘Several people phoned this morning to ask. It caused a lot of interest.’

  ‘Well,’ I said defensively, ‘I thought red lacy knickers would be appropriate. What were you all wearing?’

  ‘Black bicycle shorts,’ she said. ‘That’s what we always wear.’

  Whoops!

  Nobody told me that modesty was the order of the night, and I couldn’t see what the others were wearing because we were dancing in a straight line. Only here a few months and already I’ve caused a scandal in the parish!

  The family stays overnight, and on Sunday morning, as we are recovering from the night before over cups of tea and coffee, I ask little Theo if he enjoyed the concert.

  ‘Yes, Mutie,’ he says, beaming. ‘It was great.’

  ‘And what was your favourite bit?’ I ask.

  ‘I liked that bit when you showed everyone your arse,’ he says.

  Oh dear, out of the mouths of babes . . .

  23

  After Russell’s death, his tenant Frank sends a message round the village asking if anyone wants to take the geese. He genuinely hates having them around – they were Russell’s foible – and he says that if nobody wants them they will be killed. I have been intrigued by the idea of breeding geese for meat and fat, as they do in France, so I readily agree to take the entire flock of twelve adult birds off Frank’s hands. They are not purebred Toulouse geese, which is the variety used commercially in the Lot, but they are close enough in body size and shape to suit my purposes. The only problem will be
catching them.

  Frank thinks the best idea is to herd them into one of the sheds on Russell’s farm late one afternoon, then come back later to grab them when it gets dark. Birds are much easier to handle when they can’t see what’s going on. I wait until a weekend when Aaron is there to help. Frank rounds them up and calls over the fence that they can be picked up anytime we like. We wait until about nine o’clock that night and I gather up twelve large grain sacks so that each bird can be bagged individually for safe and easy transfer. Aaron and I enter the shed by torchlight and the geese immediately become agitated, hissing and squawking and flapping their wings. We turn off the torch and discuss a plan of action: Aaron will grab the geese, one by one, by the neck, turn them over and grab their feet and together we will put them headfirst into the bags. I will then tie the bags and lay the geese in the back of my ute. The first few geese are easy to catch and bag and we think the whole operation is going smoothly, not realising that we have been catching the younger, smaller geese. The bigger they get, the stronger the fight they put up, but somehow we still manage to grapple with them and get them bagged. The shed is pitch black and smells revolting, with a thick layer of goose droppings on the floor, a lot of it very fresh and sloppy.

  When Aaron gets to the last bird, obviously the dominant gander, the situation changes. The bird doesn’t want to be caught, and he is large and strong enough to knock Aaron off balance. He falls backwards, quite hard, into a slurry of gooseshit, still struggling to grab the feet of the gander, who is putting up quite a fight. Aaron can’t stop laughing – it’s such a ridiculous situation, rolling around in the dark in muck, fighting this angry gander who is trying to peck his nose off. I’m not much better – it’s after dinner and I’ve had a couple of glasses of wine. I find myself also slipping around the floor in hysterics, trying to control the gander, who by now is really furious. At last we get him bagged and, filthy from head to toe, we drive the flock to the shed I have prepared with a thick layer of clean straw and hoppers of water and cracked corn. The geese are quite subdued when we tip them from their bags, but David is appalled at the sight of us when we return to the house. We are still laughing and I’m in need of a long, hot shower.