by Susan Duncan
'I like walking in the bush, Barbara, as long as I'm on a track, and I love the smell after it's rained. Sort of new and lung cleansing. But I like a garden to have flowers, and ordered beds with spaded edges. And trees that change colour with the seasons and foliage that's a dense or vibrant green, not grey and washed out. I like the bush to stay in the bush.'
I break off because I see her smiling and there's a dreamy look in her eyes. 'That will change, you know.'
'Maybe.'
'Places can change people, weave a kind of magic.'
'Perhaps,' I reply.
At the end of lunch, when it's too cold to sit on the deck any longer, Bob and Barbara get up to go home. At the front door, Bob holds Barbara's bright purple jacket so she can slip her arms into the sleeves. But she ignores him and turns to ask:'Are you enjoying living here?'
'Oh yes, I love it.'
'We knew Gordon, you know. Not well, but enough.'
'Gordon was the first to build after the fire,' Bob says.
'Yes. Tough old bloke. He's going to hate me soon, though. I'm going to extend the house.'
'Are you?' Barbara asks, surprised.
'If I'm going to die, I'm going to die in comfort.'
Barbara laughs. 'Oh, you'll be all right.'
And she says it with what seems like prescience, so it gives me comfort. I remember then, living with the boys when they were dying. Remember the importance of setting manageable goals, talking to them about the future. Buying them clothes that, in my heart, I knew they would never wear. Seeing hope and optimism flood their faces. Taking away, even for a few minutes, the heavy tread of death.
Still standing at the front door, we launch into a discussion about the best builders, plumbers, electricians and architects on Pittwater.
'It's a minefield,' Barbara says, 'unless you know what you are doing.'
'I figure I'll get the most experienced offshore builder in the area and leave it all to him.'
'Oh no,' Barbara says, quite shocked, 'that won't work. You'll have to monitor it every step of the way.'
'Good God, no. I don't even know which end of a hammer is the right one. Pointless. Have to trust them. It'll be fine.'
'Bob will help you,' she says, as though she is used to guiding him and he doesn't mind.
'No way! You guys have enough to do.'
'If you have any questions, if there is anything you don't understand, then please ask me,' Bob says. It's his longest sentence so far.
Barbara insists again that Bob help to oversee the project and I decline again. But I cannot tell her it is because I know what is ahead of Bob, as her carer. There will be no time and even less energy for anything outside Barbara. They are the ones, I think, who will need support.
'Tell me, do you know anything about Dorothea Mackellar?' I ask, trying to change the subject.
Barbara smiles. 'A little,' she replies.
'I'd like to find out more about her.'
'Come for a cup of tea tomorrow.'
To be honest, I don't really care much about a poet who's been dead for thirty years. But I agree because I like Barbara's company and I really have nothing else to do and it takes my mind off cancer.
During that first lunch, the first of many, Barbara and I never talk about the illness that threatens both our lives. I wonder later if we were simply in denial. Lunch was so blessedly mundane. A gentle exchange of information between new neighbours – just enough to keep escape routes intact for a quick exit if one of us turned out to be mad or, worse, a crashing bore.
14
THE MORNING AFTER LUNCH with Bob and Barbara, I feel too tired to vacuum, and gardening is out because every time I bend over and then straighten, the world swims dizzily for about three minutes and I'm overwhelmed by a desire to throw up.
I wander around aimlessly, trying not to think about the big issues but they sidle in easily when your mind is unfocused and your hands lying idle. I decide to clean out a couple of handbags – seldom used now that I don't go to work every day. In one, I find the card with the name and phone number of the Jack Russell breeder that Donald the hairdresser gave me. On a whim, I call her.
'I've got a real little darling pup,' she enthuses, 'gorgeous, so gorgeous a friend wanted her immediately.'
'Oh, so your friend wants her?'
'Oh no! She already has three dogs. She'd take her, though, if she didn't already have three dogs. And her sister. She's gorgeous too.'
'Your friend has a sister?'
'No, the puppy has a sister. There's two of them. The last of the litter. Don't know what I'll do if I can't find homes for both of them.'
There's a big sigh from the other end of the phone. Visions of lethal injections, glue factories, everything horrendous, flash through my mind.
'I suppose I could take both of them.'
'Oh, luv, I'd give you a discount if you did that. Fifty dollars off each of them.'
Great. Only half the national debt. But I am in live for the moment mode. Forget about the future. There may not be one. Who should I leave the dogs to if I die soon? Pia, of course. She used to have two King Charles spaniels years ago.Two dogs are, for her, normal. There go the death thoughts again. Crush 'em instantly. I am strong and my body is strong.
The breeder talks incessantly. I don't hear most of it. A few words sink in. Worms, raw eggs, house-training. But I am not concentrating. I am trying to understand why I think taking on two little puppies seems like a good idea when I hardly have the energy to walk to the water taxi.
'Are you there, luv? Are you there? Did you get the address then?' she asks nervously.
'Oh yeah. Right. For the cheque. Run that past me again?'
'I'll let you know the flight details. The puppies will be on the plane from Canberra next Monday. They have names. Ibis and Iris. Lovely, aren't they?'
'Oh.'
'Course you can change them if you want.'
'Right. Great. Thanks. Call me when you know the arrival time.'
'They're house-trained, too.'
'Fantastic.'
'Well nearly. And they come to the call of PUPPPPIEEEES!'
An ear splitting squawk reverberates down the line and, muttering a quick goodbye, I hang up. Sisters, I think. Sisters. Well, they'll keep each other company.
There is a quirk in my personality that makes me take on double what is feasible. I always push the limits. I am not sure, even now, whether it is ignorance, innocence or bull-headed stupidity. The trait filters through every aspect of living. When I cook, my husband always said I made enough to feed the Russian army. At his funeral, for God's sake, the priest recounted the details of a lunch I'd prepared for the christening of one of Paul's grandchildren.
I made enough, he told the congregation, for him to take the leftovers back to the seminary where they fed the brothers for a week.
I'm not sure where the impulse comes from. Was it growing up in the country where one minute there was bounty, the next nothing? Was it a lifetime of my mother telling me at parties to 'FHB' (Family Hold Back), in case there wasn't enough for all? Did I suspect a thin line of meanness in my spirit and therefore made sure to overcompensate?
My long-legged neighbour from up the hill, Jack, came closest, I think, to fingering the source of the problem. 'You have,' he teased at a lunch a few months after I bought Gordon's house, 'an almost morbid fear of running out of food.'
But why? Why still, after all these years? I haven't gone hungry since I lived in London when I was barely twenty-one and the best I could manage after paying rent and transport to work (as a receptionist for United Press International) was muesli for breakfast and baked beans for dinner. Forget lunch. Even then, life wasn't lean for long. I eventually got an evening job three days a week as a barmaid in a pub around the corner and the chef took a liking to me. Fed me every night and sent me home with enough to see me through to my next shift. Truth is, I have no idea why I always over-cater. Perhaps I'm just no good at working out quantitie
s.
The idea of the puppies is hugely cheering and I do what every new dog owner does – avoid thinking about house-training, dog hair and exercise routines and think, instead, about warm, furry little bodies and unconditional love.
My diary is littered with gruesome appointments. Blood tests. Chemo dates. Naturopath consultations. GP appointment. Lymphatic massage. But the day is free on Monday. Why all the medical appointments? Because when your life is on the line, you grab every remotely rational sliver of help – or do I mean hope? For the first time in my life, instead of taking my body blithely for granted, I am aware of every tiny function, from a wriggling toe to cracked lips. The body's toughness and fragility is astounding when you think about it. A deep cut in the wrong spot and you can bleed to death. And yet you can be injected with poison and you will recover.
Watching my own body so closely makes me, in turn, study everything that grows. Trees, flowers, animals. And by studying what makes them thrive, a subtle logic begins to prevail in the way I look after myself. Drink alcohol? Pay the price. Eat rubbish? Pay the price. Do everything right? Enjoy the well-being.
It's about three hours until I'm due to have tea with Barbara so I check out the fridge to see what's there to make a cake. Eggs? Yes. Butter? Yes. Lemons? Yes. Ok, so it's a lemon cake. One of those quick ones you whiz up in the food processor with lots of butter and eggs and that turn out as light and luscious as a hand beaten sponge and takes only a few minutes to make. It fills the house with a buttery/eggy fragrance that sets the mouth salivating. Is it possible to smell the lightness of a cake? I think so. When it's cooked, I turn it out on a plate immediately and coat it with a sugar and lemon juice syrup with a big slug of gin added. Bugger our livers, I think, and with that thought comes the understanding that it will always be a struggle to do only what it is good for the body. And it is better, perhaps, to aim for balance.
That late winter afternoon, I climb the sandstone steps to Tarrangaua for the first time. Carrying a bloody huge cake after doubling the recipe. Overdone it again. Twenty-two generous slices. Easily. There will be three of us. Oh well, Barbara can freeze it. Pull it out when people call in. As they do, when you are ill.
The steps are steep and uneven. Dizziness swoops in. I have to stop and put the plate down and then sit. From out of nowhere, my skin prickles with a mass of burning pins and needles. I whip off my hat to cool my body and wonder what is happening to me. When the world stops spinning, I look across the bay, the cold from the stone steps seeping through my trousers and cooling me down. Chemical poisoning, I decide.That's all it is.
Yachts are etched with the fine gold line of a late sun. The waterfall runs in a muffled rush. Green on green. A thousand hues. There is an old work boat moored in the bay. I can see her clearly from my perch on the steps. Although she still floats, her buoyancy is the fittest part of her. The wood is tired, the paint peeling.The small cabin where the wheelhouse once stood is half missing, rotted, damaged, whatever. And yet, from a distance, there is nothing sad about this tired old vessel. Because she is beautiful. Her bow rises fluidly and elegantly. Her stern lifts almost flirtatiously and she is long and slim, like a satin-gowned film queen of the thirties. 'That might be a little project one day,' I think, getting up and tackling the stairs once more. 'Bring her back to glory.'
Barbara waits on the verandah, on the western side of the house where she is in the sun and protected from the breeze, sitting in a cane armchair. From the top of the steps, a little way from the house, she looks like a photograph of a woman from a long-gone era, fragile, delicate, with the ghostly pallor of early black and white pictures. The moment feels surreal. The house, settled high above old holiday shacks and nouveau glass palaces of nearby Frog Hollow and the south side of Lovett Bay, is quietly authoritative. Not casual. No holiday spirit about it. Just solid and graceful.
'How are you?' I shout from the lawn.
Barbara waves, indicating I should use the front door steps to reach the verandah, which gleams dark brown, as though polished, and stretches the length of the house. About eighty feet. It makes the current era of decks and platforms seem abandoned before completion.
I plonk the cake on the table and sink into another cane chair. Rearrange cushions for comfort.
'Bit of a hike up here. How do you do it?' I ask.
'Keeps you fit,' she replies, looking at the cake.
'What about after a few drinks?'
'Did you notice the turn? The corner? Near the top?'
'Yeah. Where you move towards the back of the house instead of parallel to the coastline?'
'Yes.That's known as Barb's Rest. Bob and I were at The Point one Friday evening. It was summer and hot and thirsty weather. We had a few drinks to cool down, and then a few more. I made it home as far as the turn when I quietly sat down and decided it was the perfect spot for a bit of a nap.'
We laugh.
'This is a place where, if you are not careful, drinking becomes a way of life,' she adds.
'My dear, I am – or was – a journalist. Drinking is a way of life.'
She looks at me without smiling. Her blue eyes flat. 'Not much gets done if you drink a lot.' Don't waste time, she is saying. Not when we both know it is finite.
On the round wooden table in front of her there is a stack of books and old magazines.
'There's a bit of a mystery about Dorothea,' she says, leaning forward, businesslike, moving folders around. She pushes the cake aside as though she doesn't quite know what to do with it.
'Lemon cake,' I say to help her out. 'Thought you could freeze leftovers. Pull it out when you need it.'
'Thank you. Looks delicious. I must say, it's the biggest cake I've ever seen.'
She gets up from her chair and goes into the kitchen, calling to Bob. There's the sound of shuffling feet coming down the hallway.
'Susan's brought a cake.' She pauses, looks down at the cake. 'All of it is here to stay.'
Bob comes to the kitchen door that leads to where we're sitting, nods to me and looks at the cake. 'Big cake. Cup of tea?'
'Oh yes. Lovely. Thank you. With milk. No sugar.'
He disappears.
I turn to Barbara: 'Mystery?'
'Mmm.'
Bob materialises from the kitchen.Two plates each bearing a slice of cake. Half the size I would cut.
Barbara takes a bite. Says nothing for a minute or two. I reach across and sift through the material on the table. A document, bound in plastic with a clear cover and a cheery yellow back, catches my eye and I pull it out. It is titled 'Search for Solitude', subtitled 'Dorothea Mackellar and her Lovett Bay retreat'.
'What's this?' I ask.
Bob returns carrying flowery bone china mugs filled with steaming tea. It smells like it's made from tea leaves, not tea bags. He puts a cup in front of each of us without a word and then goes.
'Bob's working.'
'Oh.'
'On a design for a new kiln.'
Barbara sips her tea, breaks tiny pieces of the cake and eats delicately.
I flick through the document, shovel the cake down my throat in large lumps.
'It's a project I have begun,' Barbara explains about the yellow folder. 'And one I hope you might finish.'
I look at her sharply. She avoids eye contact. Continues to break tiny pieces of cake.
I want to ask her what she means. But I know what she means. And to ask would be rude. Somehow reduce the moment. She does not want me to pretend I do not understand what she is saying. So I do not waffle on with you'll be fine said in a dozen different forms. I am not grinning and positive when Barbara is clearly confronting the most difficult reality any of us ever faces.
My friend Sophia, the Buddhist, taught me truth is easier to handle than lies.
'I may die soon,' I said to her one day. I expected her to tell me it was rubbish, to pull myself together.
'Yes,' she said simply. 'You could die soon.'
For a moment, I was furious with her. S
he was supposed to prop me up emotionally, wasn't she? Then I loved her for her answer. She was the first, in a long line of doctors, friends, family and colleagues, who actually articulated the word die. It was a relief and, with her, I didn't ever have to pretend everything was fine and, that there'd be some kind of Pollyanna-ish end to it all when it was just plain hideous.
So I wait silently for Barbara to go on, to unveil the mystery, whatever it might be.
'That's the research I've done so far,' she says finally, pointing at the document in my hands. 'Read it, and tell me what you think.'
'What's the mystery?' I ask again.
'Come back to me when you've read that.Then we'll talk.'
'Ok. By the way, I'm getting a new puppy – well, two new puppies. They arrive on Monday.'
'Now there's trouble,' she says.
I walk down the sandstone steps clutching her research, not convinced, I must admit, that there could be anything too interesting in the life of a long-dead, spinster poet. 'And how much trouble,' I ask myself crossly, 'can two little puppies be?'
That night I put Barbara's work aside and check out the bookshelves again – this time for anything to do with raising and training puppies. There's nothing. When Sweetie was a pup I went to boot camp training sessions at some doggie training school about an hour's drive from the Nepean home. It rained every Saturday and I slushed through a boggy paddock with niggling sensations of having drunk too much the night before. Saturdays were often delicate. The result of winding down after a big week.
I realise with surprise that I do not miss journalism, haven't thought about it since the day I closed the door on my last job – almost a month ago, now. I know instinctively that the gut churning thrill of looming deadlines, the chase for the big exclusive and the rat-gnawing fear that you'll fail to fall over the line no longer appeal to me. The part of my nervous system that thrived on adrenaline has worn out. What I once found thrilling now makes me feel weak and threatened. It isn't until a few years later that I work out the only reason to feel fear is when you haven't covered all the bases. Haven't put in every ounce of possible grunt. If you could have done no more, then there can be no sense of failure. Not just in journalism, but in everything. From making a cake to cleaning a loo.
