by Liz Byrski
‘No, we haven’t met,’ Connie says, moving aside so that Bea can slip into a chair, ‘but it’s nice to meet you now, Bea. Phillip says you were at university with him and Gerald, so I guess this meeting is decades overdue.’ And she sits down alongside her.
This surely can’t be Connie, it’s as though an impostor has taken her place. Bea has to resist the temptation to turn and face her full on, to stare at her and try to make sense of it – to match that old image with reality. People change as they age, she tells herself, taking the wine Phillip pours for her, but do they change this much? Was Connie ever as Gerald had described her? And for the first time in decades Bea allows herself to consider that perhaps Gerald had simply created a description of Connie that suited his own purposes.
‘It’s good to meet you too,’ she hears herself say. ‘And I’m so sorry about Gerry, this must be such a sad time.’ And she sounds like a normal person, not the raving mad woman she had always assumed she would become should she ever meet Connie. And from the other side of the table, where he is sitting alongside Flora, Phillip smiles across at her and she sees that he is hugely relieved that she is acting like a civilised person, and he gives her a slight, almost imperceptible nod of appreciation, and the waiter hands her a copy of the menu.
Fourteen
It was late by the time Farah finally got the girls to bed, and by then they were exhausted. It had been a big and emotional day for them, the seventh anniversary of their father’s death, and they had all gone together to visit the Muslim cemetery.
‘Would you be able to come with us, Kerry?’ Farah had asked the previous evening.
Kerry had hesitated, uncomfortable about intruding on their private grief. ‘Well, I …’
‘I know it’s so soon after Gerald … but I always find it hard. Connie came with me last year and the year before. There is no grave of course, Rashid was buried on Christmas Island. But the Imam had a small memorial built for the people who lost their lives seeking asylum.’
‘Then of course I’ll come,’ Kerry said, although she really dreaded the prospect, but Farah had been so kind to her since she got here, and had welcomed it when she asked to stay on for a couple more weeks, that there was no way she could refuse.
Now, as she hears the murmur of the twins’ voices and their occasional laughter as they make their way to bed via the bathroom, she knows it was the right thing to have done, not just for Farah and her daughters but for herself too. Although Farah had told her about the circumstances of her and Rashid’s decision to leave Afghanistan and seek refuge in Australia, she knew almost nothing more about Rashid himself, or Farah’s Auntie Ana, with whom they had lived here in Hobart.
‘She married an Australian in the mid-seventies and they lived in Melbourne for a while, and moved to Hobart about ten years later,’ Farah had explained. ‘Jack, her husband, died of a heart attack when he was only in his late fifties. When the girls and I were told we could stay in Australia we came here to live with Ana – she had just a small flat but it was good to be with someone from home, and when I started to get some work with the nursing agency Ana took care of the girls. She died two years ago, and she left me her flat.’
Kerry lies back on the couch and closes her eyes, listening to their voices, quieter now that both the girls are in the bedroom. Farah is talking softly to them, as she had done earlier at the cemetery.
‘Do you think plaar knows we’re here?’ Lala had whispered, taking her mother’s hand as they stood by the modest bronze memorial plaque.
But Kerry could see that Farah was so choked with tears that she could barely speak and so she took Samira’s hand and put her other hand on Lala’s shoulder and steered the two girls and their mother to a nearby seat. ‘I think your dad knows you’re here,’ she said softly. ‘I’m sure he’s still taking care of you every day.’
‘But our dad has been dead so long,’ Samira said, ‘and his grave is a long way away, maybe he forgot us?’
Farah swallowed her tears and put her arms around them both. ‘He knows, of course he knows we are here. Have you forgotten him?’ The two girls shook their heads in silence. ‘Will you forget him – ever? No, of course not, and he does not forget you, not now, not ever.’
‘Why don’t the graves here have headstones like the graves in the other part of the cemetery?’ Samira had asked.
And Farah, her voice gathering strength, had described for them the process of the Muslim burial: the cleansing and preparation of the body, and the rituals around it, the purity and modesty of the white cloth in which the body is wrapped, the simplicity of the graves – just shallow mounds covered with grass and wildflowers. And then she had told them stories about Rashid, how much he loved them, how proud he would have been if he could have seen them now, some little anecdotes from his life. And Kerry understood then why Farah had wanted her there; her presence served to lessen the load a little. While Farah supported her daughters, Kerry was there for her. They had talked a little and then sat for a while in silence as the girls wandered off to inspect the flowers on the graves. It had been wonderfully peaceful there, under the big casuarina, both lost in their own thoughts and comfortable in the silence. And Kerry had wondered whether somehow Farah had known that this would also be a good thing for her to do, to be with them in their mourning, while still coping with her own. It had certainly helped, although not in a way that Kerry understood. She knew only that it had left her with a sense of peace, a feeling that she just had to wait for all this to be over. Wait without trying to fight either the grief for her father or her own confusing aching numbness. Just wait.
The house phone rings now, jolting her out of her thoughts. Expecting it to be Chris, she gets to her feet and walks out into the hall to answer it.
‘Hello, Farah,’ Connie says, sounding as clear and close as if she were in the next room. ‘Is that you?’
Kerry’s heart thumps in her chest. Her mother doesn’t even know she’s here. She takes a deep breath. ‘It’s Kerry, Mum,’ she says. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Kerry?’ Connie says. ‘What are you doing there? Is something wrong? Is Farah … the children … ?’
‘Everything’s fine, Mum,’ she says, trying to sound relaxed. ‘But I’ve been a bit off colour, so I’ve taken a few days’ leave and come down here to stay with Farah. Erin’s at home with Chris and the kids.’
‘Erin, of course,’ Connie says. ‘I’d forgotten she was coming. Are you sure it’s not anything serious?’
‘Absolutely sure,’ Kerry lied. ‘But it’s nice being here, and far enough from work not to feel obliged to go back in.’
Connie is silent for a moment and Kerry’s heart beats faster again. She’s tempted to say more, to try to explain her behaviour, to apologise, to make excuses.
‘Well, that’s good. You take care, darling, it’s been a very hard time for all of us, I’m sure you need a bit of a break.’
‘And how are you, Mum?’ Kerry asks, thankful to change the focus. ‘Are you having a good time?’ And she listens as Connie tells her about France, and London, and meeting up with a couple of Gerald’s old friends. She doesn’t mention Flora, and Kerry, to whom Flora has been such an unknown quantity for such a very long time, doesn’t mention her either.
‘Did you want to talk to Farah?’ Kerry asks eventually.
‘Well, yes, if she’s there, I just wanted to check up that everything is okay.’
Farah, who is making her way down the stairs, looks at her questioningly.
‘She’s here now,’ Kerry says, nodding and beckoning to Farah, ‘so I’ll hand you over. You take care, Mum, and enjoy the rest of your holiday. We’re all thinking of you.’
And she offers the receiver to Farah and turns back into the lounge, wishing she’d handled it better but knowing that it could have been worse and wondering how she is ever going to get back to any sort of comfortable relationship with her mother after everything that has happened between them.
&n
bsp; *
Brooke is lying on her bed waiting for a phone call. She checks her phone and then her watch. No message, and it’s almost six o’clock – well past the time she’d expected to hear from her father. He was meeting an estate agent at five to sign the lease on a new townhouse, and had promised to call when it was all done. The longer she waits the more restless she becomes. Her bedroom door is locked against possible intrusion by her mother or Zachary. For the past three weeks she has worn her key on a piece of black ribbon around her neck, much to Linda’s chagrin and Zachary’s amusement. She fiddles with it now as she waits, listening to the rain beating relentlessly on the big dormer window. In the last week the weather has turned suddenly cold and wet and Brooke would love to go down to the lounge and stretch out on the rug in front of the gas heater that’s set in the wall and looks like burning logs with real flames. But these days she only goes downstairs when necessary or when Zachary is out. She won’t do anything that brings her into contact with him or could be seen as somehow condoning his presence. She would rather stay here, chilly and resentful, rather stick pins in her eyes than have anything to do with him. But at least it won’t be much longer now, as soon as her dad calls she’ll know the date when the two of them will move together to the nice little townhouse in North Melbourne.
A few weeks ago Brooke had thought things were as bad as they could get and then Zachary moved in and suddenly it all got worse. Just thinking about him being in the house, in the bedroom that Linda and Andrew had shared until quite recently, made her feel sick, and she hated the fact that he touched things that she had to use – taps, cutlery, the TV remote control – and he left his smelly clothes and shoes all over the place. She hated that he sat in her father’s chair and occupied what had been his study.
‘I know it’s difficult, darling, but I do think you’re being a bit excessive. And it’s very hurtful to Zach. It’s not as though he’s got some contagious disease,’ Linda had said.
‘He is a disease,’ Brooke had said then, and she’d actually thought that her mother was going to slap her because she gasped and raised her hand, but then dropped it again and turned away.
‘It’s hurtful to me too, you know,’ she said then, and as Linda turned back to face her Brooke could see the tears in her eyes. ‘I’m trying to do what’s best for all of us.’
‘No you’re not,’ Brooke had retorted, shouting now. ‘You’re trying to get everything just the way you want it. This is my home too, you know, mine and Dad’s, but you’ve taken it over and let that man move in. You don’t care what’s right for me or for Dad,’ and she had stomped back upstairs to her room.
But she has hung on, hiding behind her locked door, staying out of their way because her father had asked her to do that. ‘The worst has happened,’ he’d said on the phone from Perth, and Brooke had thought he meant ‘the worst is over’. He’d promised to find somewhere for them to stay and said he’d be there to pick her up on the Friday evening, so she’d made a big effort to stay calm and distant until then. Meanwhile she had packed a large suitcase with everything she needed for at least a couple of weeks, stored all her school stuff in her backpack and waited in silence for Friday evening to arrive. In fact she’d been rearranging the contents of the case earlier that evening when Linda had told her through the locked door that she and Zachary were going out to dinner and then to a movie.
She was both pleased and disappointed about their going out. Pleased because it meant they could get out of the house quickly when her dad arrived, and disappointed because she was hoping that she would be able to watch him throw Zachary out of the house, preferably from the second floor balcony, but more likely through the front door.
She had waited for ten minutes after she’d heard Linda leave, just in case she came back for something, and then she’d unlocked her bedroom door and dragged the huge suitcase downstairs and parked it just inside the front door ready for when Andrew arrived. She wanted a quick getaway, no dawdling, no conversation, until he’d got his car keys and anything else he needed and they were in his car heading off to wherever it was he had found for them to stay.
When he rang to say he was in a taxi and would be there in ten minutes Brooke had put on her coat, hoisted the heavy backpack onto her shoulders and stood waiting by the open front door until she saw the taxi turn in at the bottom of the road. She was down the short path to the gate in a second, stood shifting anxiously from one foot to the other, and almost knocked Andrew over when she threw herself at him as he got out of the cab.
‘Whoa, hang on, Brooke,’ Andrew had said, signing the cab voucher and handing it to the driver. And then he had turned to hug her. ‘Whatever have you got in that backpack? It’s enormous.’
Brooke clung to him in relief, determined not to cry like a little kid, or do anything else that would delay their escape from the house. ‘It’s my school things,’ she’d said. ‘The rest of my stuff is in my case in the hall so you can just put it straight in the car.’
Andrew looked bewildered. ‘Well, let’s get inside and sort things out. I need to speak to your mother.’
‘They’re out,’ Brooke said, ‘both of them. They won’t be back ’til late. But it doesn’t matter, can’t we just go? Please, Dad.’
‘Go where, Brooke?’
‘To the place you got for us, like you said.’
Andrew steered her back up the path and into the house. ‘Not yet, darling,’ he said, parking his case next to hers in the hall and draping his coat over the newel post. ‘Oh my god, what has that bastard done with my study?’ And he’d walked to the doorway and stood there surveying the black leather sofa and the glass and stainless steel desk that left barely enough room to turn around. ‘Where’s all my stuff gone?’
‘Mum sent everything to the gallery,’ Brooke said. ‘She said there’s a studio on the top floor and you could stay there until you find somewhere else.’
‘I knew she sent some things but you mean she sent all my stuff?’
Brooke shrugged. ‘Yes. She said she’d told you that on the phone.’
Andrew sat down on the stairs and sank his head into his hands. Brooke was horrified – this was the last thing she needed. He looked as though he was about to cry but she wanted him to be strong, to act decisively, to get her out of this place as soon as possible, not sit there crapping on about his stuff like a big kid.
‘Dad, come on, please, we have to go. We can talk about it when we get to the new place. You can tell me about it on the way.’
Andrew had paused for a moment, staring down at the floor, and then seemed to rouse himself. He looked up at her. ‘The new place? But, Brooke, we haven’t got a new place yet. I’ve been in Perth, flat out all week. I haven’t had time even to think about it yet. It’ll take a while, a couple of weeks at least, maybe a month. You can’t have thought I would have fixed it by tonight.’
Brooke felt a weird sort of drumming in her ears and her legs started to tremble. ‘But you promised,’ she said. ‘You said you’d fix it and come and get me and you said don’t tell Mum I’m moving in with you. You did.’
Andrew got up and went to hug her but the backpack got in the way. He edged it off her shoulders and it fell to the floor with a thud. ‘Shh, Brooke, shh. Listen to me. I did say that but it didn’t mean that we could move in somewhere today, tonight. We’ll go and find somewhere together. Look around, and then there will be a lease to agree on and they’ll want to check my references. These things take time. Meanwhile you need to stay here, just hang on like you’ve been doing, be brave and we’ll soon have somewhere of our own. We can start looking tomorrow if you like; see some real estate agents together. But Brooke you are going to have to stay on here until I can get something organised.’
Brooke had stared at him in disbelief; she felt as though a part of herself had been burned away and become a little pile of ashes on the floor. ‘But I can’t,’ she cried. ‘I can’t, Dad, it’s too awful. He’s just vile and Mum keeps sayin
g I have to be nice to him and he’s so gross and creepy, and she let him go in my room so now I have to keep it locked. I can’t stay here, I really can’t. I can’t stay here another night, let alone for weeks.’ She was sobbing now, her whole body shaking with desperation.
Andrew had hugged her closer then, and as she began to calm down a bit he put his hands on her shoulders and held her away from him so he was looking into her eyes.
‘It’s like this, Brooke,’ he said, ‘I have to be careful how I handle this. I have to do it in the right way because if we can’t settle things between us, your mum and I, then we’ll have to go to court and someone else will get to say what happens.’
‘Yes,’ Brooke had nodded, ‘and the judge will talk to me and I’ll say I want to stay with you.’
‘The judge will certainly take that into consideration but only if I can show that I’ve behaved properly in the circumstances in relation to your care and wellbeing. Taking you away without warning while your mother’s out and moving you into a miserable studio with no room to swing a cat, that wouldn’t go down well at all.’
‘But she hasn’t behaved properly at all,’ Brooke said, her voice breaking with despair.
‘Exactly. And that will go in our favour.’
He went on quite a bit after that, about this being a crucial time in relation to the future, about how he couldn’t emphasise strongly enough the importance of his appearing to have acted honourably and responsibly. And she had protested and begged and argued for so long that in the end she felt totally dead inside. She put her head down on her arms and just gave up in exhaustion.
‘I’ll be sixteen soon. Why can’t I decide what I want now, because I just can’t stay here,’ she said eventually.
‘I’m asking you to be very grown up and try,’ Andrew had said then. ‘Try for me, for both of us, so we can get this sorted as soon as possible. I’ll find a hotel for tonight, and tomorrow I’ll see what the studio is like. We can go together. Maybe I can stay there for a while. Then we’ll look around for a place to rent.’
