by Cate Kendall
'It's funny,' Joan suddenly said. 'It will take six weeks for my broken hip to heal but it's been a lifetime and my heart still hasn't.'
~ 52 ~
The gravel path seemed fluid as the sunlight fell from the trees and played with the leaves' shadows on the ground.
Their pace was slow, almost a shuffle really. Tony wanted to be sure his mother didn't over-do it on her first day out. 'How's the new hip holding up, Mum?' he asked as they approached a park bench. 'Would you like a rest?'
'Probably a good idea,' Joan admitted and gratefully sank down on the seat. They sat in silence and sheltered from the early summer sun under the gracious boughs of a Moreton Bay Fig. The sparkles bouncing off Sydney Harbour reminded him of the flash photography in the audience at the Olympics; a constant twinkle of pea lights.
As he stared out at the scene that fell before him – the iconic Opera House to his left, the bridge directly ahead, the architectural sentries perched atop the cliffs on the opposite shore – it occurred to him again how lucky he was, they all were, to live in this remarkable city. He'd always had a weird feeling that he'd won the lottery, living in this place; that he'd just barely escaped a very different path.
He had been feeling extremely serene lately. Everything was going so much better. His world was bobbing along in a light zephyr, where sweetness and light abounded. The reno was over and they'd re-structured their crazy living arrangements, stretching into the new space with relief. His relationship with his beautiful wife had reached an entirely new level: the comfortable companionship of long-term now sizzled with fresh flirtation. He was thoroughly enjoying her, but, more importantly, she was enjoying him.
Something had altered in his mother since her accident, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. She was more relaxed, less prickly, less likely to snap at imagined slights. And she wasn't as critical towards Sera: she was almost friendly.
He nodded with pride. He'd done it, achieved the great Australian dream. All he had left to do was kick back and enjoy the patch of paradise he'd created for himself and his family. He felt a spring inside him slowly uncoil for the first time in decades. He stretched out his legs, put his hands behind his back and enjoyed the feeling of release it gave him. Tony finally let go. It was all good.
'Tony, there's something I need to tell you,' his mother said.
'Hmmmm,' he replied, only half-listening.
'And I don't quite know where to begin.'
Tony could start to sense his internal spring tightening up ever so slightly, resentful it had recently been fooled into the luxury of release.
'Why not from the start, Mum? What is it?' He forced himself to sit up.
His mother looked at him, her eyes filled with tears and he shook his head. Jesus, no, not more drama, damn him for jinxing the situation with all the self-congratulation.
'I really don't know how to tell you this, but I have to because if I don't, Sera will, and it's not her place to tell you, it really is mine. It's something I should have told you years ago but I didn't have the guts, anyway your father was still alive and I could have gone to the grave with it and then you'd be none the wiser, but that's really not fair on you, and it's especially not fair on the children, for that matter . . . you see your children are crucial to this news . . . your children are . . . but here I am starting at the end, I must start at the beginning.'
At the mention of his kids Tony interrupted sharply. 'Mum, stop it, you're raving. Tell me right now, what's this got to do with the kids?'
'Well, it goes back to 1967 –'
'The kids, Mum, tell me about the kids.'
'Well, I have to start at the beginning. You see, we needed a crazy paving patio –'
'Mother, what about the children?'
'Tony, don't fluster me, you men don't understand the art of story-telling.'
'Mother! The children are . . . what?'
'Italian!'
There was silence. Tony wondered if his mother had Alzheimer's. Then he wondered if she had suddenly gone deaf and hadn't heard the question properly. How could his children be Italian? He looked at her. She looked back at him.
'Well, one-quarter Italian, really,' she said, as if reading his mind, 'but still Italian enough to get those lovely chocolate brown eyes of yours.'
One-quarter Italian. That would mean his father was Italian, but his father was descended from the Dutch. He and his ancestors were very blond. It was funny how blond they were, actually, he'd often wondered where his own black hair and brown eyes had come from . . . Hang on. Tony's past flashed before his eyes: the years of feeling like he didn't fit in, the sense that his father didn't understand him, the fights, the unrealistic expectations.
'Mum?'
Joan looked as contrite as a fallen woman of sixty-six could. 'Sorry, Tony, I should have told you years ago. I am so sorry, but I just couldn't do it to you, I knew how disappointed you would be with me. I didn't want you to hate me. You're mad, I knew you would be.'
He continued staring at her. He had never considered his mother as a person before, just as a mother, carer, nurse, cook, and wife to his father. He saw her fear that she would lose him, her fear that he wouldn't support her.
'Mum, I'm not mad at you.'
'You're not? Oh, darling, that's wonderful. You should be, I know.'
'I wouldn't be here, if it wasn't for you. And now it all makes sense. I always felt so dreadful that Dad and I never got along like other fathers and sons. He never seemed to enjoy my company or my ideas. I felt it was my fault the whole time that I couldn't win him over. It makes perfect sense after all. We weren't even related.'
He stared back at the water, letting this new revelation sink in. His dad wasn't his dad. It was the most bizarre feeling he'd ever had. His every sense of who he was seemed to dissipate into the Sydney sunshine. But rather than feeling lost, he felt free. Released somehow.
'It wasn't just because you weren't genetically related that you didn't connect to Barry, son. He was also a king-sized arsehole, too, you know.' Tony laughed at Joan's flouting her number-one rule of never speaking ill of the dead.
'This is amazing, Mum,' Tony said, and to Joan's obvious delight he squeezed her tightly. 'So one question remains to be answered. Who is my dad?'
~ 53 ~
The year was fast coming to an end. The group couldn't believe that November's Stitch 'n' Bitch had come around so quickly. That night's session had the air of a teen slumber party. The giggles and squeals floated up to the limed, exposed rafters of Sera's extension like the champagne bubbles that drifted up in the slender flutes.
As Sera passed around the pretty little teeny-weeny strudel-lini she'd picked up at Gusto in Five Ways late that afternoon, she marvelled at the transformation that each member of the group had been through in just a few months.
Jacqueline accepted an apple strudel and, without a hint of snobbery, declared it delectable. She had softened, unwound; she didn't act in such a superior way anymore, Sera thought. Of course she was run off her feet with her new business, but the work suited the manic redhead. At least now she was working for herself instead of the spoilt and overbearing menfolk in her family.
'Two hundred and twenty units a week!' Jacqueline declared to Joan, who was a new and welcome addition to the group. I've become quite adept at freezing pie crusts and pre-mixing fillings. And I've just put on a driver: the deliveries were getting quite time-consuming, especially the North Shore orders. I need to steer clear of André's turf, he's been wonderful.'
'Well done,' Joan said, squeezing Jacqueline's arm. 'I am very impressed. You have really done a great job. Let me know anytime you need a hand.'
Sera shook her head and smiled to herself. Talk about unlikely allies.
Joan was a new woman since her big confession. The years had dropped away. The terse and tense manner had dissipated and now that she was relieved of the burden of guilt and shame she'd relaxed into a different woman. The judgments had dried up, the sna
ppiness had disappeared. It was like a total mother-in-law transplant. Joan had expected to be judged herself for her adulterous past and was utterly surprised to find the news was greeted with congratulations and support from the other women. Mavis had sniffed in a superior manner when she'd heard, but Joan hadn't cared a dot. She was too amazed at the acceptance she'd received from Sera's friends.
She was now a valued member of the Stitch 'n' Bitchers and was eager to show the others her advanced knitting and needlework secrets.
It had been such a relief to be able to sit in the bosom of this group of friends and pour out her heart, explain her feelings about Antonio for the first time, whisper the details of the intimacies the young couple had shared and enjoy the gasps and coos of her audience. She felt safe and secure within this group, a feeling she'd never had among friends before. It felt extraordinary to be accepted as Joan the Woman and to be proud of that person, with all the flaws and history that came attached.
'And after that we're off to a little village in the east where her aunty was raised.' Chantrea was regaling the group with the details of her impending holiday to Cambodia. It would be a surprise for Sally.
Chantrea explained that it was tradition in her mother's family that when a child reached school age he or she was taken on an adventure to celebrate the journey from babyhood into childhood and, as Sally was about to enter Prep, her mother and grandmother were indulging her wish to visit Cambodia. 'I really have to brush up on my language skills, though, I won't have a clue what anybody's saying,' Chantrea said and laughed.
'I haven't seen you this excited about going on a trip in years, Chantrea,' Sera said and topped up the champagne. 'I'm so happy for you, you're all going to have a ball.' She was genuinely thrilled for her friend and was so pleased she'd finally come to accept her heritage.
Sera looked around at her newly renovated house. The new kitchen gleamed with granite and glass and gave the house the heart she'd always felt was missing. Joan had finally given the domestic facelift her blessing, especially since Tony had been able to reclaim the original slate crazy paving and had re-built the now famous patio.
Now Joan sat every morning in her special courtyard, sipping her espresso and admiring how her Tony had recreated Antonio's courtyard with such immaculate detail.
And Mallory, darling Mallory. It was typical that only Mallory could make facial scarring look endearing and sweet. It added to her natural vulnerability. She was still in terrible pain over her marriage break-up, of course, and the girls had taken turns spending large chunks of time counselling her and helping her to mend both physically and mentally. But at least this evening she was finally laughing again. It's going to be months before it gets easy, Sera thought, but at least she's still with us, she still has Tilly, and thankfully the prick is letting her keep the house.
Sam looked shattered, Sera thought, as she opened a beer for him and passed it over. He was working too hard and the girls were running him so ragged that his mother had just flown in from Brisbane to help him out for a couple of weeks. And by the sounds of things, his string of disastrous dates was taking its toll.
'A monk!' He declared in response to Chanrea's probing about his love-life. 'That's what I should become. So easy: a cave, some chanting, a bowl of rice every so often, no dramas. Then at least I wouldn't have to endure the hell of the dating scene.'
'Oh, come on, it's not that bad, surely,' Jacqueline said. 'It must be fun getting out there and meeting new people.'
Chantrea and Sam both looked at her with dubious expressions. 'It is awful,' said Chantrea. 'It seems single people are single for a reason – except us, of course,' she hastened, throwing an apologetic glance towards Sam.
'Absolutely,' he agreed. 'We're single because everybody else is completely wacky!'
'That's right,' Chantrea said, 'completely and utterly wacky. I had a date recently and he seemed so very, very normal – entertaining, interesting, charming – then we went back to his house and from crockery to wallpaper it was decorated with Lucy Liu images. He had a freaky Asian thing going on. I couldn't get out of there fast enough.'
A flurry of bad date stories ensued. Even Joan joined in and told a story about a strange doctor she had afternoon tea with during her nursing training who had a fetish for cadavers and spent most of his free time in the hospital morgue. 'It wasn't sexual, mind,' she reassured the group, 'he just really enjoyed talking about them. It was quite creepy.'
Sera noticed Sam lean his head back on the couch. 'You need a break, Sam,' she said, 'just a few days to yourself.'
'Sera, I'd love a break, just to sleep in for a couple of hours, read a newspaper – hell, I'd be happy to simply sit still for a day. It's all go, go, go running a business from home, and those dear little girls – do kids ever stop moving?'
'Listen,' Sera said, striking on the perfect answer. 'Bella's given me a business class ticket to Hong Kong with three nights at the Peninsula. It's for this weekend, and I can't possibly go. We're flat chat, so I was about to call her to cancel.'
'It sounds like heaven, Sera, it really does, but I couldn't,' Sam said.
'You're crazy to pass it up, Hong Kong's fantastic,' Chantrea said. 'Your mum's here with the girls, why not?'
Sam shook his head in the manner of a typical parent, in complete disbelief that it would ever be possible to get any time alone. 'No, it's just not doable. I've got clients, the girls, Mum . . .'
'Big deal: cancel, re-schedule, do it. A weekend at the Peninsula is the closest thing anybody's going to get to paradise on the planet, let me tell you,' Chantrea said. 'You simply have to.'
'I can't just go to Hong Kong for the weekend,' Sam scoffed, as though she was nuts.
'Why not?' the women all asked in unison.
'Well, it's too crazy. I mean, what if something happens while I'm away? What if something goes wrong?' He made excuses then looked from face to face in wonder. Sera watched his thought processes click away, mirrored in his face. Was this possible? Dare he do it? What a concept. A long weekend to himself. 'Won't Bella mind?'
'Course she won't,' Sera said. 'You know Bella, she won't care at all. She'd be thrilled.'
'No, I don't know Bella,' Sam pointed out. 'I haven't met her yet.'
'What? Didn't you meet her a few weeks back?' Chantrea asked. 'She came to the last Stitch 'n' Bitch.'
'I was on a date that night with the purrer.'
'Oh, that's right.' Chantrea laughed at the memory of the story. 'The one who thought she was part feline.'
'That's the one. She even wore a bell around her neck.'
'See, they're all wacky!' Chantrea said.
'You're telling me!' Sam replied. And at the thought of the tentative date he had set up for Saturday night with another potential fruitloop, he made his decision. 'Sera, thank you so much, I'll do it.'
The girls all cheered and raised their glasses to him.
'You'll have a ball,' Sera said.
'Absolutely,' Chantrea agreed, 'and it's only for three days. What could possibly go wrong?'
~ 54 ~
The seething masses of humanity lined up barefoot and resigned at security – each bored passenger awaiting his or her turn to remove belts, bangles and other unassuming items that might make the sensitive metal detector sound its suspicious alarm.
Huffs and sighs from one queue burst forth as an elderly woman was caught trying to smuggle nail scissors aboard. Those more experienced travellers, impatiently tapping their feet in the line, shook their heads – they'd all been there before, the old duck might as well try and convince Dannii Minogue to quit plastic surgery for all the good her pleas and tears were going to do.
Bella took the scene in, grateful for her own incident-free queue. She was well-versed in this minefield of inconvenience and had quickly assessed which line had the fewest likely troublemakers. Certainly not the line on the far left with the mother, the stroller and the three children, that's for sure. The infant was asleep in the strolle
r and the mother was in tears after being told she had to remove the sleeping baby, fold up the pram and put it through the X-ray.
Metal-free and sans pointy implements, Bella entered the far side. She checked her watch for the tenth time since entering the airport. She had to meet Sera's friend at the bar to give him his accommodation voucher for the Peninsula. She was more than a little annoyed that her gift to Sera had been re-gifted to a person she didn't even know. She'd been looking forward to a night out in Hong Kong with her sister but when she'd heard the sad tale of the dead wife she'd swallowed her irritation and forced herself into a more charitable frame of mind. Who was this bloke, anyway? When she'd last caught up with the girls in Sydney they all seemed so taken with him.
She found the bar and flicked her eyes around the room. The dimly-lit space was peopled with solo travellers sucking down their drinks, too desperate to wait for the free grog on their flights. All she had to do was hand over the voucher and then she could head to the flight attendants' lounge. The flight was due to board soon and she needed a little freshening-up time.
At the bar, however, was a man who was obviously not the typical airport barfly. He had a long black fringe that touched his narrow black rectangular glasses. He wore a black polo top with a charcoal suit coat and faded jeans. A canvas computer bag sat at his feet. She looked back at his face and realised he was smiling tentatively at her.
He stood. 'Bella?'
'I guess you're Sam.' Holding her hand out in greeting, she moved over to the bar.
'It's so good to meet you. I can't thank you enough for this. I hope you don't mind that your sister re-gifted your present.'
'Not at all, I haven't thought about it twice.' Bella couldn't help herself and smiled again. He was really quite sweet; it was rare to meet a good-looking man unsaddled with arrogance. 'And here is your accommodation voucher.'
