‘You certainly do get a sense of how much Stevens has sacrificed the night of the large banquet when his father is dying but he continues to attend to his duties as Lord Darlington attempts to play statesman,’ I add.
When I finally put the phone down I have a renewed enthusiasm. Talking to Professor Young always inspires me. The fear I harbour in the lead-up to the meetings that he will be disappointed with me, that I will make a mistake, evaporates when I actually speak with him and leaves in its wake the adrenalin rush that comes from a challenging, fast-paced conversation in which I feel as though I am in the hot seat.
The next phase of my doctoral research is to start really drilling down into what it is that Aboriginal people mean when they speak about ‘sovereignty’. And the best way to do that, I decide, is through a series of interviews. This would justify my staying here longer. Perhaps until December when Jamie comes back from Perth. Professor Young won’t like it, not one bit, but I’ll draw up an interview schedule - I might even be able to do a few in Perth - and then it will be easier to counter his inevitable protests.
There would be no better place to start than by talking to my father.
7
BOSTON, UNITED STATES
He scheduled his meetings with Simone so she could be the last appointment of his day. Today, he had missed looking at her as she spoke, seeing how expressive she was when she was confident about what she was saying, loosening the nervousness she seemed cloaked in at the beginning of every meeting. Even with just her voice to go by he could, through the nuances, imagine her face, how she looked upwards when she was thinking and frowned when she was listening.
His meetings with doctoral students had always been structured the same way. He would start by asking them about their project: ‘What is your central argument?’ This required them to think more deeply and assisted them in understanding their arguments more thoroughly than by just writing them down. But he also had the habit at the end of their meetings of asking his students about what they were reading, knowing the question forced them to read something other than the materials they needed for their research.
It gave him a chance to talk with these bright, young students about matters beyond their studies - about life, love, ethics, duty, values and politics. John had always been a prolific reader, an only child who wasn’t naturally drawn to sport - more of a loner than a team player - and he prided himself that it was rare that his students would talk about a book that he had not read. He had even introduced a ‘Law and Literature’ course over the summer semester, much to the amusement of his colleagues but to the delight of the students. It always filled quickly with a long waiting list.
He liked his discussions about literature with Simone best of all. He understood her better by her reaction to what she had been reading. He could see her interest in recognising right from wrong, in social justice.
It was just like Simone to pick Remains of the Day, he smiled to himself, a book that raised questions of sacrifice for work, of exploitation of the lowest classes and too much deference to the upper ones. But at its heart it is a love story, albeit a doomed one. Not of a love unrequited but one which failed due to time, circumstance and emotional limitation. Stevens’s role as butler, as a servant, made it impossible for him to have a fulfilling emotional life. Inevitably, he could not act upon how he felt about Miss Kenton.
But, John pondered, what if you do get the person you want? What if you do have love in your life and then you lose it? Had Stevens been able to woo Miss Kenton, it would have been no guarantee of happiness.
Charmaine had fascinated him when they met at a dinner for Noel Phillips, an old friend who had become a local political figure. Like most fateful meetings, it almost didn’t take place. The tragedy of losing Lucy had left him wrecked. Louise was visiting her parents and had taken Jessica with her. He felt uneasy about his ability to function socially, had lost his confidence among people, but his loyalty to Noel and the kind intent of his friend’s personal invitation made John feel obliged to attend. He had planned to go only to see Noel, eat something and leave as quickly and as quietly as he could.
John had been seated next to an empty chair and was calculating how long it would be before he could escape when Charmaine Edgeworth walked in and sat down beside him. It is the worst of cliches to say that his heart skipped a beat. It didn’t really skip a beat, so much as beat harder, reminding him that he had one. Her face, the softness of her skin, her bright, bright smile, her sweet, chocolate dark eyes, the tantalising curves under her red dress, they all drew him in. She melted into his heart that first night.
But he realised now that he had seen what he had wanted to see. He had been so low, so paralysed with his grief, so engulfed with thoughts of falling asleep and never, never waking. No wonder he had created something to believe in, someone to save him. And why wouldn’t he have hoped to find it in Charmaine? He could not have known then that beauty could mask such coldness. She was so much more sophisticated than Louise but Charmaine brought with her vanity, materialism and deceit.
When he had discovered the birth control tablets while he had been innocently searching her bedside drawer for pain killers he felt like a fool. Their conversations about her wish to give him a child, and the disappointment he felt with each failure over the previous years were a farce.
Charmaine, unaware of what he had discovered, continued for a while - ‘We really should go to Aspen this winter. It might be the last that it is just the two of us’, ‘Let’s look at baby clothes; they are so adorable’, ‘Madelaine, what a lovely name for a little girl’ - and he could not say anything to her, did not accuse her but just looked at her, disgusted, as she continued the charade.
Eventually his stoniness seeped into her. She understood that he had unmasked her and they never mentioned children again. Without the promise of such a future, one of hope, and with what he knew of her deception, he began to fall out of love. Since then he had been falling back into the abyss that she had pulled him from.
John put on his coat and tied his scarf tightly around his neck. His in-tray was overflowing with letters, tasks, requests that he needed to attend to but it all seemed overwhelming.
8
SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA
The front desk is deserted. No Carol Turner. Pity. She’s funny, larger than life, predisposed to wearing large, bright flowers on her black clothes, always has lots of gossip to share.
I realise it’s about lunch time and I should have rung Dad to make sure he would be here. But since I have driven over I decide I should at least check if he’s in his office before I head off. His car was in his parking space. No harm in trying.
I walk down the long corridor, again stopping quickly to look at the poster of Patricia Tyndale - ‘We fought hard for our rights. It’s your responsibility to exercise them.’ Love it. She looks so defiant. So ‘Don’t mess with me.’ And she’s the only person other than Nan who stands up to Dad. I’ve seen it in meetings when Dad is in full swing, thundering, ‘And we are not having these people come down here and tell us
what to do.’ Patricia will sit quietly and then, when he takes a breath of air, say, ‘Have you finished, Tony? Yes? Good. You’ve had your say, now sit down and let the others have a go.’
Nan isn’t aggressive like that but she is deaf and will get Dad on the phone and be raging at him about something and he can’t get a word in edgeways because she can’t hear him. Classic.
I get closer to Dad’s office. The door is ajar and I can hear voices coming from within. I open the door slowly, too quietly for it to be heard. I see my father standing face to face with Rachel, the young Aboriginal lawyer, his hand up her shirt, resting on her breast. I can see where the fabric bulges from the shape of his fingers.
‘Bastard,’ I say and he turns to look at me. He is frozen with shock. He does not even move his hand.
‘You are such a bastard.’ And I give Rachel a withering glare for good measure.
I turn and march back down the hallway out into the fresh air.
9
I am so furious I’m shaking. I can’t go home because Mum will know that something is up. I can’t hide my moods from her and I certainly don’t want to tell her what I saw.
I drive over to Tanya’s. As she opens the door I brush past her. ‘I knew it. I knew it. He’s a fucking bastard.’ Tanya looks at me, puzzled, ‘Who? Jamie?’
‘No, not Jamie,’ I stare at her, perplexed. And I see a fleeting look across her face but I am too determined to continue with my rage so I let it go. ‘My fucking bastard father. He just can’t keep it in his pants. I knew he was up to something. Though I guess that was a pretty safe bet.’
When I turn towards the kitchen I see that Tanya is not alone. Her father, Arthur, is there.
‘Oh, Uncle Arthur! Hi! Sorry for the mouth.’ I walk over and give him a hug.
He smiles at me, ‘Oh, I’ve heard worse at Land Council meetings.’
I grin back.
I’ve heard the story many times, of how Dad and Uncle Arthur, who had known each other all their lives, had left the old mission together, hitchhiking, sleeping by the road, until they arrived in Canberra. Uncle Arthur was a man of few words but reliable, kind. His quiet decency seemed to have always been eclipsed by Dad’s raucous charisma, his flashiness.
‘Don’t judge your dad too harsh,’ is all he says and I put it down to his loyalty to Dad. ‘Anyway,’ he adds, ‘I was just heading off.’
‘Oh, don’t go. I won’t say anything more about Dad.’
‘No. I was going anyway. And you two seem to have lots to talk about,’ he says with a smile. He might not have Dad’s charisma but I have always loved Uncle Arthur. Many times when Dad was pissing me off I would wonder what it would be like to have Uncle Arthur as my father instead.
He seems slightly frail when he stands and he walks slow. He sees me notice. ‘Those old football injuries seem to be reminding me they are there now.’ He stops a moment and then adds, ‘Tell me, how’s your mother?’
‘She’s good. She’s started a new literacy program and she is really proud of it.’
‘Your mother always had a good heart,’ he says. And I am sure that I see a look sweep across his face, too quick for me to decipher it, and as I look more closely, it evaporates into the air between us. ‘And don’t be too hard on your father, my girl.’
I love how he calls me ‘my girl’.
As Uncle Arthur closes the door behind him I turn to Tanya. ‘I love your dad. I didn’t mean to scare him off.’
‘Well, you’d scare anyone when you are in this kind of mood. But he was leaving anyway.’
‘I’m ready for a cocktail.’
‘It’s only two thirty,’ Tanya replies.
‘I’ve already had a four martini day. And besides, it’s midnight in Boston so it’s a very respectable time for my body clock to start ingesting alcohol.’
‘Let’s ring around the girls for a cocktail tonight but right now I’m going to make us some nice, nonalcoholic coffee with this espresso machine I don’t really know how to work and we can have a chat.’ When she has managed to make the coffee I explain to Tanya what I have seen.
‘Hmmm,’ she concludes. ‘It’s pretty hard to figure out how that was innocent unless he was giving her a breast examination.’
‘How can he do that to my mother?’
‘He is who he is.’
‘But that’s just the thing. No one knows what he is like. All my life I have had to listen to what a hero he is. How he talks about the rights of the oppressed, gives them a voice. Do you know how sick I am of people telling me how wonderful he is?’
‘Almost as sick as we are of hearing about Jamie?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I am indignant, furious.
‘Nothing, nothing. It was a joke. A not-very-funny one.’
I start getting agitated with Tanya but it turns out that I am the only one in the mood for a fight.
‘I’ll go get another coffee,’ she says and our potential argument dissolves.
‘What was the other woman like?’ Tanya yells from the kitchen.
‘About our age. Maybe a few years younger. But she looked smarter than to sleep with my father. It sort of seems like sleeping your way to the middle if you ask me.’
‘Come on, I told you he was attractive to women.’
‘Well, I don’t want to be reminded of that. And seriously, he ought to know better. And he doesn’t have to act on it.’
10
‘I can’t sleep,’ Patricia said, when Arthur Randall answered the phone.
‘How did you know I wasn’t in bed?’
‘I didn’t think you’d mind me waking you up if you were.’
‘That’s very presumptuous of you,’ he laughed.
‘It’s my way,’ she replied wryly.
‘That’s the truth.’ There was a pause before Arthur prompted, ‘What’s up?’
‘You know, the usual. Too much on my mind. Were you in bed?’
‘No. Was just about to head off though. Was thinking about my girls.’
‘How are they?’
‘Apart from being the lights of my life? Good. Teresa seems to be enjoying her new job. She’s settled down. Tanya has me worried. She just broke up with that fellow she was living with.’
‘I never liked him much.’
‘I bet I liked him less than you did.’
Patricia laughed. ‘You have me there. How’s she coping?’
‘She has her moments. I went to see her today. Tony’s girl came in while I was there.’
‘Simone?’
‘Yes. She was in worse shape than Tanya,’ Arthur said with a laugh. ‘I suppose it’s not funny but it sounded as though she caught her father in a compromising position.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I didn’t stay for the details but she said something about her father not being able to keep it in his pants.’
Patricia laughed. ‘So that’s what the young people call it these days.’
‘I guess so. Just what we called it in ours.’
‘Actually,’ Patricia said more seriously, ‘it would be hard for a daughter to see her father in a “compromising position”.’
‘I know. I told you it’s not funny.’
‘It would be less funny if Beth Ann knew.’
Arthur was silent.
‘Sorry,’ Patricia said and quickly changed the subject. ‘Hey. Thanks for being there.’
‘Anything for you. And you were always there for me when Sarah died.’
‘They were tough times.’
‘I still sleep on my side of the bed. Even after all these years, it doesn’t feel right to take up the whole bed.’
‘You always were a softie. In a good way.’
‘Well, maybe. But the good guys always finish last.’
‘That’s such a cliche,’ Patricia scoffed dismissively.
‘It’s a cliche because it’s true.’
‘Well, I’m getting tired now. Think I might be able to get some sleep at last.’
11
Tony sat in the kitchen making small talk with Beth Ann as she cleared the breakfast dishes. She told him last night that Simone had called to say that she was staying at Tanya’s. He’d been watching his wife closely, gauging her answers to see if she knew but he was certain now that Simone hadn’t revealed anything to her mother about their encounter yesterday.
He’d been relieved. He needed time to concoct a story. He couldn’t explain himself to Simone if she had confronted him straight away and he certainly couldn’t say she was mistaken about what she had seen. Simone would be more aggressive if he told her she was wrong. When he added in Patricia Tyndale and Carole Turner, he had a lot of strong-willed, opinionated women in his life but he would rank Simone second only to his mother in levels of complexity.
He looked across the kitchen. Beth Ann’s back was to him as she washed th
e dishes. Her body was in better shape now than it had been when he married her. She’d been doing yoga three times a week and her body was muscled and toned. Even now, with slightly more weight, with wrinkles creeping on her forehead and around her eyes, streaks of grey through her blonde hair, she looked so much like the woman she had been when he had first met her in Canberra back in 1972.
There had been hundreds, and on the weekend, thousands, of people at the Tent Embassy but when he spotted Beth Ann among the throng he knew immediately she was the one for him. Her blonde hair, her soft face - like an angel’s, he had thought - and her gentle, tender heart. He had felt then and there that if she would have him, if he could make her his, he would be able to become the man that he wanted to be - strong, looked up to, respected. Back then he had been desperate for her, had persisted.
As Beth Ann busied herself with the drying, he thought of Rachel. She had begun working as a lawyer at the Legal Service in July and he had started sleeping with her two months ago after a lunch - that had stretched from day to evening - at a harbourside restaurant to celebrate her first successful appeal. He had just given her a necklace to mark the anniversary when Simone had walked in on them.
Now, even after twenty-nine years of marriage to Beth Ann, he still could not keep his instincts for searching out other women in check. There was a time, when they were first married, when he could not have imagined wanting anyone else, or any other woman being able to match her. Yet, just after Simone was born, he found himself tempted and the first time he actually gave in was the hardest. Since then he justified his trysts with a ‘what she doesn’t know, won’t hurt her’ philosophy. He did feel guilty and each time swore - and genuinely believed - that it would never happen again. In these quiet moments of domesticity, when Beth Ann was engaged in those small tasks of looking after him, he felt the deep shame of his actions.
Beth Ann turned around to face him, as if she had sensed his thoughts.
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