Family Secrets

by Liz Byrski

Lots of love

  Brooke xxxxxxxxxxx

  *

  ‘I’m sorry but what else could I do?’ Farah asks, putting the coffee pot on the kitchen table. ‘I came home and the car is there with all the doors open. I thought there were burglars. Connie told me there are no other keys.’

  ‘There are several other keys,’ Kerry says irritably.

  ‘But they are all in the house, in the little drawer of the table in the hall. Before she left she told me, “No one else has a key, Farah”.’

  Kerry sighs. She’s in the wrong and she knows it. As they’d been about to leave after staying for the funeral and the ashes she’d taken a set of keys from the drawer. She could have asked Connie who would, undoubtedly, have given them to her, but at the time it had felt good to just take them. She was entitled, after all – wasn’t she? I’ll be able to keep an eye on things, she’d thought, although she knows it was actually about asserting her right to come and go in the house.

  ‘Well,’ she says now, watching as Farah pours very dark coffee from a metal pot that is definitely not Connie’s. ‘Mum must’ve forgotten I had one.’

  There it goes, she thinks, another little lie. She seems to be telling more and more of them these days, little, essentially unnecessary, lies. They fall out of her mouth before she knows it, at home, at school, everywhere; desperate little grasps at editing the truth to protect herself. It’s as though this growing crop of little lies makes her feel as though she’s in control of something, like she’s grasping at herself because she doesn’t know what’s happening to her.

  They are silent for a few moments. ‘If it was as I thought – the house is being burgled – I have to call the police.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Kerry says grudgingly.

  Farah pushes a cup across the table to her. ‘It’s Turkish,’ she says, ‘very strong, maybe too strong. Taste it carefully.’

  Kerry shakes her head. ‘I like it strong.’

  ‘Perhaps just sip it to see.’

  Kerry picks up the small fine china cup – also not one of Connie’s – takes a gulp and gasps.

  ‘Christ,’ she says, swallowing. ‘I see what you mean. That nearly blew my head off. It’s good though.’

  Farah smiles and sips her own and, as the two of them sit in silence for a moment, Kerry sees that her own hands around the cup are shaking. She sets it down and it clatters onto the saucer, coffee splashing across the scrubbed surface of the table.

  ‘Sorry,’ Kerry mumbles, clasping her hands together to stop the shaking. ‘Sorry.’

  Farah puts down her own cup and leans forward to look at her. ‘You’ve gone very pale, are you all right?’

  Kerry shakes her head. ‘No, I feel …’ she hesitates. How does she feel? Sick, light-headed and suddenly very cold.

  ‘I think you should lie down,’ Farah says, and she comes around the table to where Kerry is sitting, puts both arms around her upper body and urges her to her feet. ‘Put your arm around my shoulders,’ she orders, and then proceeds to half-walk, half-drag her to the old sofa in the little alcove off to the side of the kitchen, and lowers her down to it.

  Kerry flops onto the edge of the sofa and Farah lifts her legs up, grabs a folded rug from the arm, shakes it out and lays it over her. The room is spinning and there is a strange drumming in Kerry’s ears but lying down is good. She closes her eyes briefly, then opens them and sees that Farah is filling a glass of water at the sink. Water, she thinks, opening her eyes again, that would be good, and she leans up on one elbow and takes a drink before flopping back down again.

  ‘Shock perhaps. Did you eat something this morning?’ Farah asks, tucking the rug around her.

  Kerry shakes her head. ‘No, I haven’t eaten since last night. I left at half past six, meant to get some breakfast on the way but I kept forgetting.’

  Farah looks at her watch. ‘And now it’s after one,’ she says. ‘Drink some more water and I will get you something to eat.’

  ‘I’m not hungry, I …’

  ‘You should try to eat something, it will help; a piece of toast and some tea. Please do not try to get up.’

  It’s not a request; Farah’s manner implies that she is accustomed to her patients doing as they are told. Not that Kerry wants to move. The room is spinning more slowly now and she feels she is drifting, into sleep or perhaps some other sort of unconsciousness, and then she is up near the ceiling, looking down at herself huddled there on the couch under her father’s blanket. It’s the one he used when he was still mobile but weakening rapidly. He would sit or lie on this couch, blanket around him, close enough to hold a conversation with whoever was in the kitchen without getting in the way. The blanket is light and very soft, made of a synthetic material, and patterned like the skin of a tiger. She can remember Connie saying that she had searched everywhere for something light because the weight of blankets irritated him. Strangely, while Kerry can clearly see the blanket from above, she can also feel its warmth and softness wrapped around her.

  There is a movement beside her and she half-opens her eyes. Farah has moved the coffee table alongside the sofa and is setting down a small tray.

  ‘Kerry,’ she says softly, touching her arm. ‘Kerry, are you able to sit up a little?’

  Reluctantly Kerry turns slightly on to her side and pushes herself into a semi-recumbent position.

  ‘A little more, please.’

  And she moves further up and Farah quickly slips some cushions behind her back. ‘Good.’ She hands her the cup. ‘Sip it only, not like …’

  ‘Not like the coffee,’ Kerry says, managing a wobbly smile.

  ‘Exactly. I should not have given you the coffee, I’m sorry. I think you were already in shock. What happened this morning was not nice.’

  Kerry sips slowly, leaning back against the pillows, feeling herself descend from the ceiling and back into her body. ‘No it wasn’t,’ she says eventually. ‘I was fast asleep and was woken up to find three policemen looking at me. It was really quite frightening, and then having to explain who I was and that I wasn’t robbing the place …’

  Farah nods slowly. ‘It is frightening of course, the most terrifying thing, the shock, then the terror. To be invaded, to be woken like that …’

  ‘You mean you … ?’ Kerry’s voices trails away in embarrassment.

  ‘Yes. Always we lived in fear of the Taliban, but it was Australian soldiers who broke into our bedroom.’

  ‘Australians?’

  Farah nodded. ‘We were told they made a mistake with the house.’

  ‘Were they armed?’

  Farah laughs. ‘But of course! It is a war.’

  Kerry sits up straighter, her head has stopped spinning now. ‘That must have been terrifying.’

  ‘Rashid and I had taken the children to sleep with us, we thought it would be safer. But in that moment we both thought we would all be shot. The Australians were very kind. They made many apologies. For weeks we had talked of trying to leave the country; after this we did everything to get away. It is terrible always to be in fear in your own home. How can you raise children like this, always in fear, the terror, the killing – often they see other children killed and maimed.’ She gets to her feet, smiling. ‘It’s good that you’re drinking the tea. Please try to eat the toast as well.’

  Kerry picks up the plate; the toast has been cut into small triangles and she takes one and pops it into her mouth. It tastes like food of the gods. Odd – how good something simple can taste when you’re feeling wobbly. She remembers how Connie would bring her tomato sandwiches, made with very thin brown bread and lots of butter, or perhaps a boiled egg with toast soldiers, when she was sick. And last year, when she had the flu, Chris had brought her buttered toast with a smidgen of Vegemite. But right now the joy of the toast is soured somewhat by shame. Here she is, firstly being rude and grumpy over something that was entirely of her own making, and then practically fainting with shock at being woken by the police, and all the time s
he is sitting with a woman whose bedroom has been invaded in the middle of the night by soldiers with AK47s or whatever it is they carry these days.

  She looks over to where Farah is making more tea and toast. This is the first time she has ever really thought about Farah. She’s seen her of course, said a few words to her when they visited, but they’ve never actually had a conversation. Her own despair at her father’s decline, and the guilt of her failure to bring herself to do for him any of the awful, messy, degrading things that her mother and Farah would do for him, had made her hostile to the nurse who was simply doing her job. Now for the first time she starts to feel curious about Farah’s life, both in Afghanistan and in the process of climbing with her children into a rickety boat in pursuit of a safer, better life. She has always seen her as too different, too foreign to connect with. At school, the refugee children mixed easily with the others, and when she met their parents she had a specific job to do which gave her a way of relating to them. Beyond that she could feel no connection. But Farah is just like any other strong and compassionate woman who would fight for the best for her children. They have, she thinks, more in common than she has ever bothered to think about.

  Kerry’s cold face burns now with a flush of shame; she wants to reach out to her but she feels like a ghost. There is nothing in me that any normal person can connect with, she thinks, and she rests her head back on the cushions and closes her eyes again, listening to the comforting sound of Farah making more tea.

  Eight

  ‘But of course you must do something,’ Suzanne says, ‘of course. You’re his mother, Brooke is your granddaughter.’

  ‘So what are you suggesting?’ Connie asks. ‘That I should call Andrew and tell him I know what’s happening, and break faith with Brooke?’

  ‘But you have not promised her anything,’ Suzanne says. ‘She asks but you have not replied yet, so you have not agreed to keep silent. You are not bound by what she asks you.’

  ‘I think you’re wrong, Suzanne,’ Flora says, ‘absolutely wrong. Actually I think what you’re suggesting is unfair – and it could make matters worse.’

  ‘You think I am unfair? I am practical. Brooke is a child and it’s Connie’s duty to protect her. Stop her doing something stupid.’

  ‘She sounds as though she’s a very mature and sensible teenager,’ Flora says. ‘It’s good that she’s told Connie what’s happening and is confiding in her. She has someone to talk to now, an emotional safety net. She doesn’t sound like a girl who’s about to do anything stupid.’

  Connie leans back in her chair, uncomfortable with the tension between Flora and Suzanne and wishing she had waited until she and Flora were alone to talk about this. At first Connie had thought that it was her presence causing a problem but she’s been here now for three weeks and it’s clear that Suzanne and Xavier are edging Flora out. It’s not an orchestrated campaign, just two people trying to find a way to be together and a third who is inconveniently in the way.

  ‘I agree that Connie has a responsibility to Brooke,’ Flora continues, bringing Connie’s attention back to the conversation, ‘but that responsibility is to respect her confidence, and to support her in getting through this.’

  ‘I agree,’ Connie says. ‘I think I’ll email or text her and arrange to call her sometime or somewhere when she can talk freely. Maybe we could chat online – Skype or something. I don’t want to undermine her by giving her the impression that I think she can’t cope. She’s very sensible, she’s an observer and a listener, and super sensitive to what’s happening among the people around her.’ And as she says this Connie realises that she is talking about herself. Brooke is trapped between Andrew and Linda as she had been as a teenager when her own parents’ marriage was on the rocks. She has a horrible sense of déjà vu. Perhaps, as Andrew’s mother, she does have a responsibility to talk to him, but as Brooke’s grandmother she feels she has a greater responsibility to keep her confidence.

  Suzanne shrugs. ‘Well, what do I know? I am not a mother …’ she flicks Flora a sharp look ‘… not even a retired teacher, but I think there are expectations of parents, and your son and his wife, Connie, are failing badly in this role. So it seems to me that you should step in.’

  ‘The perfect recipe for setting the cat loose among the pigeons,’ Flora says sharply. ‘Andrew and Linda’s marriage is their business – they won’t welcome Connie’s interference, and Brooke will be in trouble for spilling the beans.’

  ‘In your position, Connie,’ Suzanne says, getting up from the table, ‘I would be on the next plane back to Australia to take charge of the situation, but you will both think this very passé and perhaps interfering. Anyway, I have things to do, and if you two want to get to St Malo before the rain comes you should leave soon.’

  *

  By the time they reach St Malo and park the car it has started to rain and they duck into Flora’s favourite café, and order café crème and almond croissants while they wait for the weather to clear.

  ‘I remember this place,’ Connie says, slipping onto a velvet covered bench in a booth that could easily be the one she had sat in with Jean-Claude all those years ago, crying her eyes out because he was leaving for Paris the following day. ‘The red velvet upholstery, the ornate mirrors and lamps; in my memory it always seemed opulent but now it looks a little faded. I think I prefer it this way.’

  ‘Faded elegance,’ Flora says with a chuckle, ‘always rather attractive. The hint of having passed through better days, just like us!’

  Connie laughs. ‘I wish,’ she says. ‘Very French, isn’t it? I mean, French women age so elegantly, don’t they?’

  ‘Some of them,’ Flora says, ‘but walk through Port d’Esprit on any given morning and you won’t be overwhelmed by visions of ageing elegance.’ She looks around at the motley crowd of tourists and locals, her mind filled with memories of times spent here over the years. Here, where she had thought she’d grow old. But now perhaps she should simply bite the bullet, move out and take a chance on the future. She could always get a place here in St Malo, help Suzanne out occasionally, maybe teach English or even work in a shop, just earn enough to pay her rent. The money that she had got for her flat when she moved to France will not be enough to buy anything similar at today’s prices.

  ‘I don’t think Suzanne approves of me,’ Connie ventures. ‘Not just about Brooke, but in a more general sense.’

  Flora smiles. ‘You’re being oversensitive. Suzanne speaks excellent English but she doesn’t have the English tendency to frame things in convoluted ways that soften or play down the message.’

  Connie laughs. ‘You’re right. Australians are a bit the same and I suppose I’ve never quite grown accustomed to it.’

  ‘But Suzanne can be tough, and she certainly disapproves of me from time to time.’

  ‘And what about Xavier?’ Connie asks. ‘Does she ever disapprove of him?’

  ‘Not as far as I can see, but his time will come!’

  ‘Do you think she’s in love with him?’

  ‘It’s hard to tell with Suzanne. I’ve known her so long, shared the place and worked with her for fifteen years, and I still can’t work her out half the time. She’s never settled to being without a partner; it’s as though she sees being single as some sort of failure on her part. And she’s certainly very different with Xavier than any other man she’s been involved with since Jacques. She’s warmer and more relaxed when he’s around, and when he’s not there she refers to him a lot – you know, dropping his name into conversations whenever she can, the way people do when they’re in love. And I know she wants to expand the business. The little toy shop next door is closing at the end of the summer season, and Suzanne wants to buy it. She says she could turn our flat into two holiday flats, do up the place next door and live in it.’

  ‘Does she think Xavier would invest? Has he got the money?’

  ‘He’s not short of it. I think they want to live together, and if Xavier sol
d his house they could probably afford it.’

  ‘So where would that leave you?’

  ‘I’d go, for sure. Suzanne and I rub along fairly well working together, but it would be really difficult for me if Xavier came into the mix. It’s such a relief to be able to talk about this.’

  ‘I can see it’s a difficult situation …’

  ‘And likely to become more difficult quite soon, I think.’

  ‘Have you thought about what you might do?’

  Flora sighs. ‘Many times – in fact I was thinking about it just now. Getting a place in St Malo is a possibility, but I often yearn to go back to London. I need to decide where I want to be. I wish we had more time to talk, Connie, there are always so many interruptions at the hotel. I think I need to be away from here to think about it in practical terms. You’re not planning to take Suzanne’s advice and race back to Australia, are you?’

  ‘Definitely not. I know this must sound selfish but I can’t face the prospect of being drawn into this separation or divorce, whichever it turns out to be. The last few years have taken their toll, I’m a mess – grief, relief, sadness, anxiety about the future. But I can give Brooke a bit of support and I think I can do that just as well from here as I could if I was in Hobart.’

  Flora nods. ‘Of course you can. And you do need to look after yourself right now. Are you still off to England next week?’

  Connie nods. ‘I’m sticking to my original plan, but I thought I might come back here briefly before I go home if that’s all right?’

  Flora takes a deep breath. ‘Of course, but I wanted to ask … well, please say if this wouldn’t work for you, but how would you feel about my coming with you to London, just for a few days? Would you mind? It would be so good to be able to talk more, away from here.’

  ‘Mind? I’d love it – really I would. Oh do come, Flora, come for the whole time – if Suzanne …’

  ‘Suzanne will cope and I actually think the best thing I can do for both of us is to get out of there for a while. It’ll give me time to think about what I want to do. And she’ll have a chance to see what it’s like having Xavier around full-time, because that’s how she’ll organise it. She’ll moan about me going away, but I think it’ll suit her.’