Family Secrets

by Liz Byrski

  Twenty-seven

  ‘So here’s the plan,’ Andrew says, looking straight at Brooke.

  She waits expectantly, thinking he looks a bit dodgy, as though whatever he’s going to say might be one of those sanitised parent versions of the truth designed to ‘protect’ her by keeping her out of the picture. They’ve obviously decided something without her.

  It’s Tuesday lunchtime and they are back at the house, drinking tea and eating sandwiches that she and Kerry had made when they got back from collecting her dad from the hospital. She’d been ecstatic when the MRI showed that his neck was intact and the doctor said he could go home. Brooke helps herself to another sandwich and waits for him to say whatever he’s going to say. She’s dreadfully tired and Kerry says it’s a combination of relief and delayed shock, but Brooke doesn’t care because everything is okay now, back to normal. Better than normal, really, because Auntie Kerry and her dad and Uncle Chris all seem to be friends again, just like they were years ago, and last night her Nan had rung from England to say she’d be back on Friday – almost two weeks earlier than she’d planned. ‘That’s brilliant, Nan,’ Brooke had said, ‘I can’t wait. It’s going to be great staying with you.’ She’d almost rushed in and asked about living there but something had made her hold back. And afterwards, when she was lying in bed, she realised that it wasn’t just the fact that her dad had told her that she was to wait ’til Nan got back before talking to her about it that had stopped her. It was that she realised she might not want that after all. She thought of her dad, the bike ride, how it had felt – like the start of something, a new life really. About how, as they’d been cycling along she’d imagined them doing that often, and even if her mum wouldn’t cycle with them she might meet them somewhere for breakfast or coffee. She imagined herself getting on the bus to meet her mum and go shopping, and going back to stay with her at night or over the weekend. What she wanted, she’d thought then, was just to visit Nan, stay with her sometimes, practise her French, have a little life there as well as her big life in Melbourne.

  Andrew looks down at his sandwich. ‘Kerry wants to be back in Hobart in time to help Farah and Erin get the house ready for Nan,’ he says. ‘And she wants to meet her at the airport. So we thought we could get you both on a flight to Hobart tomorrow morning, and Chris and I will meet Linda at the airport late in the afternoon and tell her about Zachary. We need to be there for her because she might need some help back at the house. Then we’ll fly over to join you at the weekend.’

  Brooke is silent for a moment, then shakes her head. ‘I think I should go with you to meet Mum.’

  There is silence around the table. Brooke can feel the tension and senses that they all want her out of the way. ‘I want Mum to know that I’m not grumpy with her anymore. And … well, I need to say sorry for being horrible to her.’

  The three adults exchange glances. It’s clear they are into the protection racket again.

  ‘Look,’ Brooke goes on, ‘I know she’s going to be upset and I know there’s stuff you’re not telling me because you think I can’t take it. Well, I can. I want to see Mum and I think she’ll want to see me.’

  Silence again. Andrew messes with his sandwich, clears his throat as though he’s about to speak and then changes his mind.

  ‘Brooke’s got a point,’ Kerry says. ‘We thought this would be the right thing but it’s not. She needs to see Linda and vice versa.’

  ‘Yes … yes, okay, that makes sense,’ Andrew says wearily, fiddling with his neck brace. And Brooke thinks that he looks as though coming home has been more than he can handle.

  Chris nods. ‘Good decision.’

  Kerry leans forward and puts her hand on Brooke’s shoulder. ‘But you must understand that Linda is probably going to be very upset.’

  ‘I know that, Auntie Kerry, and that’s why I think I should be here.’

  ‘Sometimes I think you’re fifteen going on thirty-five,’ Chris says.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ her dad says, rolling his eyes.

  ‘Linda will be so happy to see you there, Brooke,’ Kerry says. ‘But I’m going back to Hobart tomorrow morning. It’ll be a crush with all of us there this weekend, and I want to help get it sorted. And I have some bridges to build with Mum. I really want to be at the airport to meet her on Friday morning, just like you want to be there for your mum tomorrow.’

  *

  Connie watches as her suitcase disappears out of sight behind the flaps of the conveyor belt, then slips the boarding pass into her bag, rides the escalator to the next floor and joins the queue of people lining up to pass through the security checks. She waits, numbed into patience as the sea of passengers in front of her crawls onwards, until she can put her phone and iPad in a plastic tray, her handbag in another, and as she passes through the detector to collect them on the other side, she feels she is passing through the point of no return. She has walked away from an unacceptable situation, and each time she reminds herself of this she feels first a sense of relief and then a deep unease.

  On Sunday afternoon she had left the café seething with hurt and anger. There was nothing more she could say to Flora and she couldn’t bear to sit there and listen to her speaking about those people as her family. But all she could do was to give Flora time to realise how unreasonable and hurtful she had been, and there was one very clear way to demonstrate that to her. She had walked briskly back to the hotel, booked another room for herself, told the desk clerk to let Ms Hawkins know her new room number and asked for a porter to help her move her things. It would, she thought, be the sort of shock that Flora needed to make her see sense, and it would elicit an apology, which would be the start of a rather different conversation.

  Connie had made herself comfortable, sitting on the new bed with her book resting on her knees, and waited. But Flora didn’t come. In fact there was no word from her as the evening wore on. Was this to be a battle of wills? Connie wondered. How long would it last? Something had to happen before she set off for the airport on Tuesday. She undressed, got into bed and lay there stiff with hurt and anger until she eventually fell into a troubled sleep riven with disturbing dreams that she was unable to remember the following morning.

  She had ordered room-service for breakfast and ate it miserably, the anger having abated in the night, leaving her feeling bleak but still immovable. It was ten o’clock when the chambermaid appeared to clean the room and Connie opted for fresh air. She crossed the street into the square and walked back to the café. They had used it as a meeting point all the time they had been in London, so if Flora wanted to find her she’d know where to look. And she sat there, trying to read the paper, waiting and hoping to see Flora walking towards her past the fountain. But still Flora didn’t come. And so Connie decided to do some last minute shopping.

  Later she hovered briefly in the hotel lobby, considering her next move, but soon decided that it was not her job to make the first move. Flora was in the wrong and it should be she who offered the olive branch. She took the lift up to her own room where she began to pack her suitcase. But time was running out, and so, in what felt like desperation, she called Phillip and asked him to meet her for dinner. He sounded uneasy at first, as if he feared being dragged into her argument with Flora.

  ‘I just don’t want to spend my last evening in London alone,’ she said.

  And so he agreed to meet her at the restaurant where they’d had dinner that first night. When she arrived he was already ensconced in his corner, and stood up to greet her.

  ‘Yes, I have seen her,’ Phillip said when, after ten minutes of slightly awkward but uncontentious conversation, Connie asked him if he’d seen Flora. ‘I think you know that she came to see me on Sunday about the job. And this morning she came to the shop to see both Bea and me to sort out the details.’

  She nodded, hoping for more, but Phillip turned his attention to the spaghetti that the waiter had just put in front of him.

  ‘So did she say anything abo
ut what happened?’

  ‘Connie, you said you wanted company on your last evening,’ he said. ‘The rest you need to sort out with Flora.’

  She’d flushed with embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry, you’re right, but could we just talk about the situation – what happened at The Ivy about … well, about … ?’

  ‘You mean about Bea and Gerald’s daughter?’

  It shocked her that he coupled their names together so lightly and she caught her breath, and simply nodded.

  ‘If there are things you want to know I’m not sure that it’s my place to tell you.’

  ‘It’s just that nobody’s told me anything.’

  Phillip gave a dry laugh. ‘No one had a chance.’

  ‘I know, I know, but you must see what a shock it was, how insulting and hurtful. And then Flora siding with Bea and … and …’

  ‘Can’t you even bring yourself to say her name, Connie?’

  She swallowed and looked away. ‘Why should I have to?’

  ‘Why should you not? None of this is her fault. You seem to see yourself as the victim in this. If that’s so then it’s a choice you’re making, and while I understand that it was a shock and you find the situation difficult, there are no different sides in this; it’s not war, unless you declare it. No one set out to hurt or insult you, far from it. Frankly, Connie, this is what you make of it.’

  ‘And frankly, Phillip, you are sounding remarkably like Flora,’ she’d said sharply. ‘I thought we were friends – our conversations, the night at the opera. I trusted you.’

  He put down his fork then. ‘I thought we were friends too, Connie; we still can be. But friendship doesn’t guarantee agreement on everything.’ He paused a moment, apparently studying her face which she knew was flushed with emotion. ‘Bea is a dear friend – my oldest friend – and I love Geraldine like a daughter. It was painful to see them hurt and insulted.’

  Connie’s heart was beating very fast, so fast that she was giddy, and her face was burning. It was unbelievable that they were all ranged against her like this. She had expected more of Phillip, who had seemed to understand her so well, who had made her feel attractive, sexy even, something she hadn’t felt for years. ‘It’s me that’s hurt by this,’ she says, her voice shaky now.

  ‘I’m sorry you’re hurt. I understand that it’s been a terrible shock, but are you able to put yourself in their situation, think about what it means to them?’

  She shrugs. ‘What else did they expect, that I’d be over the moon and welcome a new illegitimate addition to my family?’

  ‘I assume they thought, as I did, and as I believe Flora did, that you would be shocked and upset, but that you’d understand. All those years ago Gerald walked away, and then years later you walked away too. Can you imagine how that felt?’

  All Connie could feel then was confusion and, briefly, a stab of fear that perhaps she was in the wrong, but she pushed that thought away as fast as it had arrived. ‘And so I suppose you agree with Flora that I should go home and announce this to my children and expect them to accept this woman as their half-sister?’

  ‘She is their half-sister, whether you and they accept her or not.’

  She pushed her plate away and dropped her napkin on top of it. ‘I need to go,’ she said, standing up. ‘This is just making things worse. I enjoyed the time we spent together, Phillip, it helped me to feel normal again. What you said about the roads not taken, the way you said it, it helped a lot. So I’m sorry we’ve ended up like this.’

  Phillip got up and walked around the table to face her. He put his hands on her upper arms, and leaned forward to kiss her cheek. ‘I’m sorry too, and I hope you’ll find your way through this, Connie, I really do, for everyone’s sake, but most of all for your own.’ He picked up a rectangular package in Tonkin’s gift-wrapping with the signature black ribbon. ‘A small gift,’ he’d said, handing it to her. ‘The book I mentioned when we were at the opera. Perhaps it will occupy some of your journey home.’

  *

  The following morning, after a poor night’s sleep, Connie had put the last few things into her suitcase and was wondering how to kill the remaining hours before she left for the airport. She flicked through the papers looking for a movie or an exhibition but nothing really attracted her. Sighing, she tossed the paper aside and walked to the window, where she saw Flora making her way through the square towards the café. Connie leapt to her feet, pulled on her shoes, grabbed her jacket and headed for the lifts.

  ‘I wondered if you’d be here,’ Flora said as Connie sat down on the other side of the table. ‘That’s why I came.’

  ‘I came yesterday hoping to find you here,’ Connie said.

  Flora hesitated. ‘I’m sorry that …’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Connie cut in, ‘you don’t need to apologise. I realised you just needed time.’

  Flora cleared her throat. ‘I wasn’t apologising,’ she said, ‘I was about to say that I’m sorry you found it necessary to move out of the room, and that it seems we’re going to part on these terms.’

  Connie’s anger started to rise but it was tempered by the chill in Flora’s tone, the distance, her air of resignation. ‘It doesn’t have to be that way,’ she said.

  Flora looked at her, tilted her head to one side. ‘No,’ she said, ‘it really doesn’t.’

  There was silence as the waiter arrived with Flora’s coffee and Connie ordered one for herself. Clearly there was to be no apology and Connie, shaken by its absence, was left with nowhere to turn.

  ‘I think all we can do is to accept that we have totally different views about what’s happened and what should happen from here on,’ Flora said. ‘We should try and respect each other’s position, and then talk later, when you are home, when we’ve both cooled down.’

  Connie nodded, watching the birds darting in and out of the fountain, shaking their feathers. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘let’s do that. Although I don’t see a way back from this, Flora, as I won’t be changing my opinion. And it seems that you aren’t prepared to make any concession to my situation.’

  ‘You know, Connie, you always did take the slightest dispute and push it to the absolute limits. And you always felt you were the injured party. Are you aware of that? I’ve been making concessions to your situation since the day I arrived home from India and found you engaged to Gerald. I’ve kept my opinions to myself when you’ve told me about Gerald the saint and Gerald the sinner. I haven’t interfered, I haven’t challenged you and I didn’t challenge him when he told me to leave. None of that was easy. I could have stayed in Hobart and been a bloody great thorn in his side but I didn’t, out of respect and love for you. Meanwhile, you did nothing, you let Gerald have his way and you never fought for me. But Gerald’s gone now, and I’m sick of accommodating your situation. You came to France and I was thrilled to see you again, but I knew it would be different, because we had both changed. Our friendship needed work – it needed updating, it needed me to forgive the fact that you let Gerald determine what would happen. I thought we were getting there but … well, now I don’t know. I have my own life, Connie. I haven’t spent all these years waiting for you. Now I find I have some family here and I am going to enjoy them. I want us, you and me, to get back what we once had, before Gerald changed everything but, frankly, the way things are now, I can’t see how that’s going to happen.’

  *

  The boarding call jolts Connie from her thoughts, and she gets to her feet, checking her hand baggage and throwing her coat over her arm. So this is it, this is the end, she thinks. London, England, all that it represents is over, soured by things that happened decades ago. And she joins the line of passengers waiting to board, trying to think of this moment as a new beginning, but unable to rid herself of the bitter taste of the last few days.

  Twenty-eight

  ‘Why don’t you go and sit down,’ Chris says. ‘There’re plenty of seats over there and you’ll still be able to see her coming through.’ />
  Andrew nods, hobbles over to the seats and cautiously lowers his injured nether regions. When the doctor had told him that he could go home he’d been over the moon and couldn’t get out of the hospital quickly enough. Rashly, he now understands, he’d thought he would be fine to just get up and go. Reality was more painful and disorienting. His neck was very sore and he has to wear the brace for another week – not that he feels like removing it now, in fact he feels his head might drop off if he does. His bum is very sore and the stitches are starting to pull and itch – the doctor has arranged for him to have them removed at the hospital in Hobart next week – and the remaining legacy of three days on his back is a sense of unworldliness. The last thing he wants is to have to help Linda get through the next couple of days.

  ‘Are you okay, Dad?’ Brooke asks, wandering over to him. ‘Do you need water or anything?’

  He shakes his head cautiously. ‘No, I’m fine, thanks. Just finding it all a bit weird. Um, when you talked to Nan, you didn’t say anything about living there, did you?’

  Brooke sighs. ‘No, I didn’t, you said not to.’

  ‘Good. You see, I know you really want it …’ he hesitates. It’s hardly the time or place to start this conversation, with Chris hovering by the barrier and Linda about to materialise off her flight, but he’s into it now. ‘But I’m really not happy about it, Brooke. I think you need to stay here for school, it’s a bad time to change …’

  ‘I know,’ she nods.

  He’s surprised but carries on. ‘And I don’t want to get heavy about it but your Mum and I are both here even if we’re not together. I don’t think Zachary’s going to be in the mix anymore, so I think …’

  ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘I know. I should stay here with you, see Mum, stay with her sometimes.’