by Liz Byrski
‘Oh,’ Andrew says, surprised by this sudden change. ‘I thought we’d be having an argument about this.’
She shakes her head. ‘I need to stay here. I want to be here with you. I like it in the cottage. And, anyway, who’s going to look after you next time you fall off your bike?’
He laughs. ‘I was thinking I should face up to my responsibilities and look after you. But I’d also miss you dreadfully if you moved over there. For the last few years I’ve been disappearing into work so I didn’t have to deal with the situation at home. I want to change that now, maybe even change my job.’
Brooke leans against him. ‘I love being in the new house with you. Except for the Donna thing, it’s the best it’s been for ages. Anyway I’d miss you, and Mum too, and if you’re not living together you might start behaving like normal parents.’
Andrew thinks it may be the painkillers that make him want to burst into tears but he swallows the urge and takes her hand. ‘Well, I think we’ll both be trying to do that. Although I suspect that what’s happened over the last few years is not uncommon. It was just Zachary that brought things to a head and made it worse for all of us.’
‘I was thinking,’ Brooke went on, ‘that maybe I could just stay with Nan in the holidays, when you and Mum are both at work? I love it there, and Nan and I like lots of the same things.’
‘The flight’s coming through now,’ Chris says, sauntering over to them. He looks at Brooke. ‘You did text her about Andrew’s neck brace, didn’t you, Brooke?’
‘You’ve asked me that three times, Uncle Chris,’ Brooke says, ‘and I’ve told you that I did – I told her that Dad’s neck was okay but he was wearing a brace and is still a bit wobbly. She texted back that she’d pop over and see him. Remember?’
He grins. ‘Sorry, darl, yes I do remember now. Just a bit jittery. I’ve always been a bit scared of your mother so I want to make sure we’ve got it right. And she’s in for a much worse shock than a neck brace, I suppose.’
Brooke slips her arm through his. ‘It’ll be fine,’ she says, smiling up at him. ‘She’ll be upset, but it’ll make it easier for her to kick Zachary out.’
Chris turns sideways to look at her. ‘Sometimes, Brooke, you really knock my socks off. Other times you annoy the hell out of me but this isn’t one of them.’
Brooke grins. ‘It was great you and Auntie Kerry coming over, like … well, like things used to be. Oh look, there she is!’ And she pulls Chris back towards the barrier leaving Andrew on his seat.
Linda is pushing her way determinedly through the crowd of arriving passengers, smartly dressed as ever, claret hair making her stand out from the crowd and, Andrew thinks, a little flushed and bright eyed, as though she might have had a few drinks on the flight. She stops abruptly as she spots Brooke, and Andrew can see from her face that this was exactly the right decision. He gets to his feet and makes his way towards them.
‘How wonderful,’ Linda says, hugging Brooke, then patting Chris on the arm. ‘What a lovely surprise, but what …’ she hesitates, her pleasure changing to anxiety. ‘Oh my god, is Andrew worse or something, is that why you’re here?’
‘I’m just a bit the worse for wear,’ Andrew says appearing alongside her.
‘Oh my god – you poor thing, Andrew, you look awful.’ She puts her hands on his upper arms and stares into his face. ‘Should you be up? Shouldn’t you be in bed?’ She pauses again. ‘Something’s wrong, isn’t it? That’s why you’re all here.’
Silence. The two men exchange a look.
‘We want you to come back to our place,’ Brooke says. ‘Stay the night, you can have my bed.’
Linda looks from one to the other. ‘Why would I do that? There is something wrong, I can see there is. It’s Zach, isn’t it? What’s he done now?’
Andrew looks desperately at Chris, who shrugs. ‘Your call, mate.’
Brooke picks up Linda’s computer bag and takes her mother’s arm. ‘He’s gone ballistic, Mum, but it’s all going to be okay. Let’s get your luggage and go home and then we can tell you all about it.’ And she steers Linda away towards the baggage carousel.
Andrew and Chris exchange a different kind of glance. ‘Imagine what she’ll be like at thirty,’ Andrew says.
*
As the train begins to move Flora and Bea edge their way along the central aisle to their seats, and Flora, a good foot taller than Bea, lifts their bags onto the rack, and settles into her seat, excitement vying with a little trepidation about what lies ahead.
‘I thought we weren’t going to make it,’ she says. ‘I love trains, still think they’re the best, most romantic way to travel.’
‘Me too,’ Bea says. ‘A train always seems like the start of an adventure. Although I guess it only feels like that because we don’t have to go to work on one every day.’
‘I may have to,’ Flora says. ‘Depending on where I end up living.’
‘I bet you’ll find somewhere that’s not too far away. Phil and I have quite good contacts. While you’re sorting things out in France I’ll start putting out feelers, then when you come back we can have a look at what’s available. If you’d like some company while you do it, I mean.’
‘I’d love company,’ Flora says, ‘and now that I’ve made the decision I feel really good about living in London again.’ She shifts in her seat, stretching her long legs out at an angle. ‘But right now I’m just excited about going to Cornwall.’
Bea is silent for a moment. ‘I’m so sorry about Connie. I suppose she’s well on her way by now?’
Flora nods. ‘She may be in Singapore as we speak. She was going to make an overnight stop to break the journey.’
‘So how do you feel about it all, about … ?’
‘Disappointed,’ Flora cuts in, not waiting for her to finish, thankful for the chance to talk about it. ‘Disappointed in her. You know, the day after it all happened she moved out of our room and took one on another floor. She did it while I was out with you and Phillip at the shop. I think it was supposed to make me feel guilty, but all it did was make me cross. If she thought I was going to beg her to come back she was absolutely wrong.’ It’s a relief to say it – to hear herself saying it and sounding rational after the hurt and confusion she’s felt since Connie left.
‘It does seem a bit childish. What did you do?’
‘Nothing. Just ignored it. Behaved as though nothing had happened. And you know what? I kept thinking that it was the sort of thing Gerald would have done – stalked out all haughty, booked a new room and waited for the offending party to seek him out with a grovelling apology. The old Connie, the Connie I knew, would never have done that, but then she would never have walked out of the restaurant in the first place. That’s part of the problem, I think. We each thought that the other would be the same person we knew all that time ago, but that was unrealistic. We wouldn’t have expected it if we hadn’t been in touch all that time; we would each have assumed that the other would be in some ways different. But we were often in touch on the phone and later we could see each other online and that’s deceptive. I held a lot of myself back all that time and so, I think, did Connie.’
Bea nods. ‘So where to from here?’
‘I love Connie, I always felt she was like a sister, and I want that back, but not if it comes at the expense of getting to know you, Bea, and Geraldine and her family. I shouldn’t have to choose and I hope that when Connie’s home and had time to think about things a bit more, she’ll see that too.’
‘And if she doesn’t?’
Flora hesitates. ‘If she doesn’t then I suppose we’ll still be in touch, still be friends, but in an even more limited way than before.’ She stares briefly out of the window, then turns back to Bea. ‘I’ve told her that unless she’s honest with Kerry and Andrew about this, unless she tells them they have a half-sister, then I won’t go to Hobart.’
‘Oh, Flora, you don’t have to do that for us,’ Bea says, leaning forward anxiously.
‘I’m not doing it for you, Bea. I’m doing it for myself. Gerald forced me out of his family, and alienated me from our parents. He pretended I didn’t exist. I know Connie hated that, but she colluded with it by never taking a stand. I’m not now going to collude with her in pretending that Geraldine doesn’t exist.’
‘Well, it’s a high price you’re paying,’ Bea says. ‘I hope you won’t regret it.’
‘I believe I’m doing the right thing, so if I end up the loser then I’ll just have to deal with it. The guy with the refreshment trolley is heading our way. D’you want anything?’
They order cups of tea and biscuits and consume them in silence, as the grimy backyards of the suburbs give way to small, colourful gardens, grassy banks and rolling countryside. Flora gazes out of the window, the steady rhythm of the train helping her to organise her thoughts. There have been several times during her recent weeks with Connie when she has been jolted by the impact of Gerald’s way of thinking on the woman she once knew, and none has been more obvious than Connie’s reaction to the present situation.
The Gerald that Flora remembers managed his family by command and control. He issued orders, even if they were sometimes masked as requests. And he controlled what was done and how, what was discussed, who knew what and what was kept silent or hidden. It had reminded her of their own father, who only had to say, ‘I don’t want to discuss this, you will not refer to it again’ to put an end to questions, challenges and arguments. As a child she had found it first terrifying and then oppressive, and when, as an adult in Hobart, she saw Gerald doing the same thing, it had shocked her. Since then it has surprised her when, in her emails and conversations with Connie, it’s been clear that Gerald’s system is still in place, even after he was no longer physically and mentally able to exercise control of it himself. The hardest thing for Flora is that some years ago, when Gerald was a complete invalid, when he couldn’t communicate and no one knew how much, if anything, he understood, Connie had maintained the wall of silence that kept Kerry and Andrew believing that their aunt was guilty of some terrible crime – if they even thought about her at all. And what Flora wonders now is just how much of Gerald has been absorbed into Connie, and whether she is in fact capable of recapturing her old self, which had been one of the reasons for her visit.
Flora sighs. She finds it hard not to keep returning to this, although what she really wants now is just to look ahead: ahead to the coming weekend in Cornwall, and then beyond to the strange liberation of winding up her life in Port d’Esprit. She has sent two emails to Suzanne letting her know what she has decided, and that she will be back to pack up her things. Suzanne hasn’t replied and that doesn’t surprise Flora. Suzanne had already decided what she wanted before Flora left; all this does is make it easier for her and Xavier to go ahead with their plans. A different sort of friendship will grow from this, Flora thinks; one enriched by their years of living and working together, but no longer distorted by that.
How strange that Connie had assumed that she would want to live again in Australia, to pack up all the fine muddled strands of her past here and file it away, even try to recapture a relationship with Denise. Had she really assumed that? Had she thought it would be a possible or easy thing for her to do? Or was it perhaps just a projection of what she wanted for herself – someone to fill the gap left by Gerald’s death? Flora pictures Connie now, perhaps dozing in her seat above the clouds, and wonders how she is coping with all that’s happened. And she knows herself to be the fortunate one for she has found something new, new people, a new life, a new family, while Connie must try to repair what she left behind. But she has her children and grandchildren. And Flora hopes that they will still have their friendship, but only Connie can decide that now. And she closes her eyes and feels a lump in her throat, for what they have shared and what may now be irrevocably damaged, or perhaps completely lost.
Twenty-nine
Chris goes in first, cautiously unlocking the door with Linda’s key, although it’s pretty obvious there’s no one there, just an overflowing garbage bin on the path and a few empty beer cans scattered among the rose bushes. But there is no car in the drive, no sign or sound of life, just silence and the debris of the party or parties.
‘All clear, I think,’ Chris calls from inside, and Andrew follows him in. ‘I’ll check upstairs,’ Chris continues.
Brooke peers in through the front door and picks her way past a crate of empty bottles and a tatty pair of stilettoes. ‘Look, Mum,’ she calls. ‘Zachary’s sofa’s gone from Dad’s study.’
Linda joins her at the study door. ‘Oh my god, what a mess. And what’s that sticky stuff on the floor?’ She pauses. ‘Everything of his has gone.’
And Brooke thinks she can hear the relief in her mother’s voice.
Last night, once Chris had told her mum what they found at the house the previous weekend, Linda was ready for a fight and wanted to come back here straight away, but they persuaded her to wait until this morning.
‘More chance of his not being there,’ Andrew had said, pouring her another gin and tonic. ‘And right now the gin is talking. By the time you’ve finished this one you’ll be crying, so we’re going to wait until tomorrow.’ He’d been right about the crying. It began halfway through that drink when Brooke told her what she had learned about Zachary. She’d dreaded having to do it and her dad had said he’d tell her, but Brooke knew she had to do it herself.
‘I’m really sorry, Mum,’ she said, watching as Linda’s face crumbled. ‘I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t even tell Dad at first …’
‘And thank god you did,’ Linda had said, her words slurring a little. ‘Brooke, you have nothing to be sorry for. I’m so sorry I put you through all this. You’ve been brave and generous, darling, but you must hate me.’
Brooke, always embarrassed by the evidence that anyone, let alone her mother, has drunk too much, blushed at this. ‘I’m here because I love you,’ she’d said quietly.
There was quite a bit more crying and some raging anger before they finally persuaded Linda to go to bed and soon after that they pulled out the sofa bed and Chris flopped down on that.
Brooke was just coming out of the bathroom heading for her own room when Andrew flicked off the kitchen lights and followed her along the passage.
‘Are you sure you’ll be all right on that bedroll on the floor? You can have my room, you know.’
‘Honestly, Dad, sometimes you’re really hopeless. You’ve just come out of hospital and you’re wearing a neck brace and have stitches in your bum. Do you really think I’m going to let you sleep on a camping mattress?’
‘Well, I …’
She gave him a gentle shove. ‘Shut up, it’s fine. It’ll be good for me to be in there with Mum in case she wakes up and is upset. I can talk to her. That mattress is pretty comfortable too.’
‘Okay.’ Her dad stood there for a moment, nodding, then stretched out his arms and pulled her to him. ‘You were brilliant tonight, Brooke, right from the minute Mum arrived. Thanks for staying and for being here for her and for me. I’m sorry for … well, for everything, things are going to get better from now on, I promise.’
She’d nodded then, exhausted suddenly by all that had happened, not just that evening but by the burden of the last few months, and within minutes she had flopped down onto the mattress, pulled her sleeping bag over her and was asleep. She hadn’t stirred until she heard the men’s voices floating out from the kitchen this morning.
Now, from the top of the stairs back at what used to be her home, she stares around her at the chaos. The mess in the study is nothing compared to this and Brooke’s legs feel weak with shock. She makes for the breakfast bar and hauls herself up onto the only stool that doesn’t have food or liquid spilled on it.
‘Well, at least he … or someone else … has cleared up the vomit,’ Chris says. ‘And the body under the table has disappeared.’ He walks over to Brooke. ‘You still okay, kiddo?
’
She nods. ‘Suppose so, but it’s just so sad. All Mum’s stuff, she’s going to kill him. Look at it …’ Brooke’s voice trails off as she takes in the scene: stains all over the furniture, cigarette burns, sticky stuff spilled on the table, stamped out cigarette butts on the floor, the kitchen strewn with old food, dirty glasses and crockery.
Chris looks at her for a moment, then runs back down to where Linda and Andrew are talking in the hall.
‘It’s pretty awful up there, Linda,’ Brooke hears him say. ‘You might prefer to just stay here. Let Andrew and me deal with it.’
Linda takes a deep breath and shakes her head. ‘Thanks, Chris, but I need to see it, and the bedrooms too.’
And Brooke hears her mother’s steps on the stairs and slides off the stool to meet her.
‘Oh my god, how could he!’ Linda gasps. ‘How could he do this? Didn’t he have any respect for me?’
‘It’s not about you, Linda,’ Andrew says, coming up beside them. ‘This is just who he is.’
But Brooke can see that he is profoundly shocked at what he sees. They go up to the mezzanine, from where the chaos below looks worse than ever, and open the doors to the bedrooms. The beds are a mess, the linen stained with alcohol, a lamp smashed, and Linda’s jewellery spread out across the dressing table, some pieces crushed and trodden into the carpet.
‘How did he manage to make so much mess in one week?’ Linda says. ‘I mean, he was always high maintenance when it came to keeping the place clean and tidy, but this …’
‘I reckon he had people back again after Kerry and I left,’ Chris says. ‘There are more bottles, more mess, it’s worse than when we were here on Sunday morning.’
Linda sinks down to sit on the edge of the bed. ‘Why couldn’t I see it?’ she wails, looking at Andrew and Brooke. ‘You saw it, both of you, I know you did, you saw through him but I just believed in him.’ She sinks her head into her hands.
Andrew sits down beside her and takes her hand. ‘Look, you were unhappy and lonely. We both were. Zachary would have sensed that, it was something he could prey on and he was very good at it. But he’s gone now, and we’re still here, Brooke and me and Chris and Kerry, the rest of the family. You’re going to get back from this, Linda.’
