Last Tango in Toulouse

by Mary Moody

  This proves to be an understatement. They have just spent three weeks in the UK and then driven halfway across France to find me, getting lost along the way. They are exhausted and stressed and obviously, I quickly realise, having relationship problems. Now here I am, on the verge of an emotional time myself, going to meet my long-lost sister in Canada. I have survived a very rocky period in my marriage, finished an exhausting three-week stint leading the walking tour and am about to pack up my entire house and shift it up two flights of stairs. The very last thing I need is a couple of visitors intent on domestic rows right under my nose. But that’s what happens.

  There are tears and recriminations and their dispute spills out of the door onto the street and then around into the courtyard. It lasts for several hours and I am forced to keep a low profile by hiding in my bedroom. It’s too ridiculous. I would have gone out and left them to it except that that very morning I had started the task of boiling up a huge vat of fig jam for Anthony, who has returned to England to sit some computer exams. He picked the figs from his two productive trees and started the initial stage of soaking the fruit in sugar overnight, but then ran out of time for the cooking stage. So I volunteered to cook and bottle the jam. It needs to be stirred every twenty minutes or so, which means I can’t disappear. In the end my ‘friends’ resolve their differences but the jam has caught and turned black on the bottom of the pan. I bottle what I can save with slightly clenched teeth and look forward to them departing for the rest of their holiday and leaving me in peace.

  I have heard many horror stories about ‘guests from hell’ from my friends in villages nearby. When you have a house in a faraway or highly sought after location, all sorts of friends and relatives descend, and the experience can either be pleasurable or frightful. Margaret Barwick told me about one old friend who came to stay and the two-week visit almost completely destroyed their previously harmonious relationship. This woman, who had worked with Margaret years before, married late and had her only child even later. As a mother she lacked common sense. The child, now aged four, entirely ruled the family, and it was impossible for Margaret and her friend to have even a brief conversation if the child was in the room. He would grab his mother’s face and turn it away from Margaret, directing her attention back towards himself. He was obnoxious from the moment he opened his eyes in the morning until he eventually collapsed and fell asleep at night – usually very late because his parents hadn’t yet developed a strategy for getting him off to bed. The worst aspect of the visit, however, was the child’s odd toileting behaviour. He simply refused to sit on a potty or go anywhere near a toilet, and when he needed to defecate, the procedure was to spread a towel on a bed, where he would lie and perform his business with his legs in the air. All too bizarre for words.

  Jock once had some visitors who brought along a single, middle-aged female friend who decided, after a few days, that Jock was marriageable material. He just needed a bit of tidying up and organising. This woman spent the entire three weeks of her visit clinging to Jock’s side like a limpet, grinning gormlessly at him and winking lasciviously whenever she caught his eye. He felt extremely uncomfortable. Worse still, she decided to try to clean up his act. Every time he poured himself a glass of wine she would carp at him.

  ‘Jock, Jock, darling you drink too much. It’s not good for you. Don’t have any more. You’ve had enough.’

  Of course, it had the effect of making him drink twice as much as he normally would. Which is quite a lot. She also tried to tidy up his appearance (an impossibility) and kept dropping heavy-handed hints about staying indefinitely, perhaps for ever.

  When she left, Jock collapsed in a state of relief. It was a lucky escape. I also recall a friend who visited regularly from America when we were living in Leura. This man, although charming in many respects, had the irritating habit of helping himself to the contents of our fridge, especially if he came home late at night and wanted a snack before retiring to bed. Many times I went to prepare a meal only to discover that half the ingredients had been devoured by our guest.

  One morning at breakfast he complained bitterly to me that the stew he had half-eaten the night before, long after David and I had gone to bed, was tasteless and in fact had a very odd and unpleasant flavour. I shrieked with delight. In those days Muriel was still around, and she routinely cooked up a large vat of stew for the dog. It was a combination of kangaroo meat, brown rice and vegetables, usually the ones from the bottom of the vegetable bin, the ones that had gone a bit limp and bedraggled. It certainly contained no salt or anything to brighten up the flavour. The dog loved it just the way it was. I was delighted to inform my ill-mannered guest that he’d scoffed the dog’s dinner. Sad to say, it didn’t cure him of his irritating habit.

  So there’s a minefield of potential problems to be tackled when it comes to inviting friends to stay. Some guests are terrific. They arrive laden with goodies from the market and bottles of wine; they help with the cooking and do the washing up; they disappear for long periods to do their own thing without expecting to be ‘entertained’; they strip the beds when they leave, even put the washing through the machine and hang it on the line before they depart. But these guests are few and far between. I resolve to be more careful, knowing that my times here in France, when I am here alone or with David, are precious and not to be wasted coping with other people’s problems.

  I am aware that David’s anxiety is largely due to his concern that during this short period of time between finishing the tour and flying to Canada I will somehow re-establish my relationship with the man from Toulouse. Although I think about him a lot, I have absolutely no intention of making contact. We have agreed that silence between us is the best way of dealing with the finality of the relationship.

  It doesn’t work. Knowing that I am back in France and alone, he phones me. All the old feelings come flooding back. I find it difficult to breathe during our conversation and when he suggests I come to Toulouse for lunch I readily agree. Having been convinced in my heart that we had reached a mutual conclusion to the relationship I now feel we are back to square one.

  I am torn about how to handle the situation. Part of me thinks that if David doesn’t know it will be better for all concerned, but the other part of me knows I cannot lie to him now. Our marriage would be doomed.

  So I tell David what I am doing and I go to Toulouse, just once. It’s the final farewell, which I even jokingly refer to as the Last Tango in Toulouse. The reunion is bittersweet. We talk through all the good aspects of our brief relationship but also discuss the downside. I tell him in detail about David’s reaction when I returned to Australia and about the pain it has caused my family. We agree that it simply isn’t worth it and we agree that, once and for all, this should be the last time we see each other. This time I don’t feel the same sensation of loss or grief. I have moved on and, although I feel a deep attachment to this man because what passed between us was so tender, I know that my heart is with David and our family.

  I get back to the house in Frayssinet late in the evening and as I walk in the door the phone rings. It’s David, and he sounds terrible. He’s phoning from hospital in Bathurst where he has been admitted through the emergency department with an acute infection in his upper jaw. He had a tooth extracted several days before, and despite taking antibiotics his face has blown up and the infection has become serious. He was told by the admitting doctor that if he hadn’t come in for urgent treatment the infection could have been fatal.

  Despite his incredible physical pain he has only one question to ask: ‘Is it over?’

  ‘Yes, it’s finished,’ I reply.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’ve never been more certain about anything in my life.’

  When he starts to cry, I am overwhelmed, for the first time, with terrible feelings of guilt. While I realise that the infection is the direct result of a physical problem, I also acknowledge that he probably succumbed because of the intense stress he
was experiencing, knowing that I was in Toulouse for the day, meeting my lover. I can do little but reassure him that the affair has finally been laid to rest and ask him to believe me. He has suffered enough.

  32

  It’s still dark when Jan and Philippe arrive to drive me to Gourdon to catch the early train to Paris for my journey to Canada. The house echoes strangely because of the emptiness left after removing everything from the main ground level, and I feel almost bereft leaving it looking so bare and vulnerable. It will be totally transformed by the time I return.

  The whole business of living in two countries is very difficult. While there is the joy of the diversity – the different friends I love in each place and the beauty that I relish in both France and Australia – there’s an element of sadness each time I pack up and leave. I won’t be seeing Jan or any of our gang again until the middle of next year, and yet I will soon be home again with David and the children and grandchildren. I feel torn. In between, I am going to meet my sister, and the thought of it overwhelms me.

  I have spoken to Margaret only twice on the phone since we first started communicating last December. The first time was when Jon was visiting on his way to France. I thought it would be a good time to exchange our first words, knowing that Jon would be there beside her. It takes me all my courage to dial the number. In fact, I dial two or three times then hang up before it starts ringing. I am worried that I might cry, and that would be embarrassing for everyone. I sense from Margaret’s letters that she isn’t anticipating any sort of overly emotional reunion. She’s certainly very pleased to be seeing Jon and me after all this time, but she quite obviously doesn’t want the situation to escalate into high drama. Neither do I, although I feel deeply emotional about the prospect of meeting her and talking over all the memories and sensitive topics that are bound to arise. When I first hear Margaret’s voice I am amazed. She sounds a lot like me and hasn’t a trace of a Canadian accent – indeed, she still sounds fiercely Australian. I find it very reassuring. She also exudes warmth and humour over the telephone. She jokes with Jon and I speak with him briefly; he sounds tired, and I expect he must be feeling both physically and emotionally exhausted.

  The next time I phone is a few days before I leave Frayssinet, to make sure we have communicated clearly and that she and Ken will be picking me up from the airport at Victoria. I am concerned about the lateness of the flight but she reassures me that it’s no trouble at all. They are both very excited about seeing me.

  From Paris I fly to Montreal, where I change flights for Vancouver. From there to Victoria is just a twenty-minute flight. The airport at Vancouver is virtually deserted when my plane lands, and it takes me a few minutes to find my way to the transfer desk and work out where the small plane is leaving from. My luggage has been booked right through, but I have only a few minutes to get myself from one side of the terminal to the other. The booking clerk looks at my ticket, then at me. ‘Can you run, lady?’ he asks.

  ‘If I have to.’

  ‘Well, off you go. Gateway 22. They’ll be waiting for you, I hope,’ he smiles.

  So I run like a madwoman down the long corridors of this half-deserted airport. Running to meet Margaret. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry – after fifty years of wanting to meet her I’m running like fury to catch the plane. It’s the dash of my life.

  I make it and the flight feels as if it is over almost before it began. We barely reach our cruising altitude before we have to descend. I pick up my bag and walk out through the arrival gates. I catch a glimpse of Margaret from inside the arrival area, picking her out instantly from the photographs she sent me. I feel a shock of recognition. She is intently searching the face of each passenger who arrives. There is something so familiar about her facial expression but I know it can’t be my memory of her because I was less than eighteen months old when she fled our family home. She looks at me but doesn’t react until I call out her name. She then smiles and we embrace just for a moment. I then see Ken, who is very tall and has a grin on his face. I give him a big hug, too, and we go straight out to the car to head back to their farm. In the back seat is Sidney, their geriatric Newfoundland dog, who puffs and pants and fills the car with his warm doggy breath.

  We are all very tired and, after a cup of tea and a bit of a chat, we head off to bed. I sleep well and wake the next morning to the smell of pancakes cooking. It’s Sunday and pancakes are a tradition. Over breakfast they fill me in on the plans for the next few days. Monday is Thanksgiving Day in Canada, and some of Ken’s family will be coming for dinner – they will cook a large turkey for the traditional celebration. On Wednesday Margaret’s painting group will be coming to the house. This is a group of about twenty women artists who meet once a week at each other’s homes to paint and have lunch together. They have been meeting for years, and some of them have travelled with Margaret and Ken to France, to the Lot. They have driven through my village, I feel certain. And they know the region and love it well.

  In between times Margaret plans to take me on a few tours around the area, to the Buchardt Gardens and on a scenic drive around Victoria, which is a historically significant city. I have only four days and we should make the most of them.

  I realise, from the moment I first meet them, that Margaret and Ken are a very united and private couple. Even though they have busy and full lives, there is a calm, unhurried air about the way they do things. I am impatient to get Margaret talking, to draw out as much information as I can about what she remembers of her childhood and how she felt about leaving the family behind, but I sense that she can’t be pushed in any way. I may be her sister but she doesn’t know me and I have no right to expect her to open up immediately or to talk about memories that she might find painful or confronting. So I just go with the flow and enjoy their company, trying to get to know them a little without applying any pressure or having unrealistic expectations.

  We take a leisurely walk around the house and then the farm. The house nestles behind a lofty hedge of conifers which have grown from small seedlings, they tell me, in the twenty years since they built the house. Although Canadian in design, with a deep storage cellar and central heating and well-insulated walls and windows, it has the ambience of an Australian farmhouse because of the way it sits close to the ground and because it also has deep, shady verandahs. Inside, it is decorated not unlike my own home and this intrigues me – the same sort of old-fashioned but comfortable furniture, a house designed for living in rather than for show. The main difference is the artwork. Where my house is decorated with movie posters from David’s numerous films over the years, Margaret and Ken’s walls are covered with artwork, many of the paintings done by Margaret herself over the years. I recognise the style from the one painting she left behind as a teenager. It’s now in the home of my brother Dan.

  There are lots of photographs of Ken’s family. His parents and grandparents and aunts and cousins are well represented, and there are also shots of Ken and Margaret on their various overseas holidays, mostly in France. There is not one single photograph of Margaret’s family, but I know why. She didn’t take any family photographs when she left, just a small suitcase with a few clothes and her painting materials. That was all of her first life that she could carry on foot as she escaped the madness that was her family home, and mine.

  The farm is small but efficiently organised. Ken has a richly productive vegetable garden and he enters his crops every year at the local agricultural show. He’s a prominent local farmer, involved in several agricultural committees in the region. It’s the end of the season and most of the vegetable crops have been harvested, but the main crop, kiwi fruit, is still ripening on the vine. I have never seen full-scale kiwi fruit production and I am impressed at how attractive they are en masse. A huge area has symmetrical trellises smothered in a brilliant green canopy, with thousands of almost-ripe furry Chinese gooseberries waiting to be picked. They grow two varieties: most are ‘Hayward’, the same variety that is com
mercially popular in Australia, the others are ‘Ananaja’, commonly called grape kiwi fruits. They are the size of a grape, with a smooth skin, and are eaten whole, skin and all. They are delicious. I’ve never seen them before and feel certain they’re not available in Australia. I am determined to find out when I return.

  In between trips out and about exploring the island Margaret and I spend precious time sitting in the family room, drinking tea and talking. It’s good to talk. The look of familiarity that I detected when I first saw her at the airport still plagues me, and it takes me days to work out what it is. She looks a lot like our father, around the mouth and jaw in particular. She also has the most startling light-green eyes. I can’t take my eyes off them and I ask her about them.

  ‘From my mother, apparently,’ she responds. She has no idea what her mother looked like and can’t remember seeing any photographs.

  We gradually open up and talk about our respective childhoods. Her quiet, calm reminiscences make so much come alive for me and help explain many things that have been a mystery to me.

  Margaret believes she was only about four years old when her mother committed suicide. She can’t quite remember and she certainly can’t remember at what age she first became aware of her mother’s cause of death. It may not have been, she thinks, until she was an adult. She recalls being looked after by various relatives in the following years, including for a while our father’s sister Melissa. Our father Theo married Muriel Angel, my mother, when she was twenty-one and Margaret was eight or nine years old. That part of it is all a bit of a blur.