by Liz Byrski
Brooke wanders out to her old room, which bears no resemblance to the place she left behind. It’s sad, but in a way it’s also a relief. It’s over, not just the awful stuff with Zachary but the long months of her parents sniping at each other, the tense painful silences, the furious looks, the snide remarks, the excessive, artificial politeness. They’re never going to get back together but at least they might be friends now, and that will make things a whole lot better.
Chris sticks his head around the door. ‘Come on, Brooke,’ he says. ‘Let’s get those two out of here and back in the car. Nothing to be gained by hanging around.’
Brooke nods and follows him to the other bedroom.
‘You all go,’ Linda says. ‘I’d better start on clearing this place up.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Andrew says, getting to his feet. ‘We’re taking you and Brooke back to the cottage, and then Chris and I are coming back here. I’ve ordered a locksmith for midday, to change the locks – just to be on the safe side. And I’ve organised some heavy duty cleaners to come in then too. This time tomorrow you can come back, have a look around and work out what you want to do. You can stay on at the cottage while Brooke and I are in Hobart. But there’s no way we’re leaving you here alone now.’
He steers Linda down the stairs and out to the car.
Brooke takes a last look around at what used to be her home. ‘I hate him,’ she says, turning to Chris. ‘I hate him so much that I want to kill him.’
Chris takes her hand. ‘Me too, but we’ve got to help your mum get through this. Your dad and I are relying on you to look after her this afternoon, make her rest, or take her shopping or something while we get this lot sorted out. Now, let’s go, we’ll find somewhere nice for coffee, then drop you off and then Andrew and I will come back. And I can promise you, Brooke, that tosser is not going to get away with any of this if I have anything to do with it.’
*
Connie is thankful that she’d taken the travel agent’s advice and stopped off in Singapore. A good sleep followed by a swim has made a world of difference and as they begin the descent to Hobart she feels she has energy left for the culture shock of home. But as she stares down through the thinning clouds sadness takes over. Thank goodness for Farah and the girls, and then on Saturday Brooke will be there too. Her head spins with jumbled thoughts – so much to do in the house, all the things she left undone. Gerald’s study to be cleared out for a start; how she dreads the thought of that. Are there other secrets tucked away in there, secrets from their years together, things she’d rather not know, just as she would rather not have known about Bea’s daughter? And then there’s Flora, stubborn, selfish Flora. What happens now?
Three months ago she was convinced that now Gerald was gone, Flora would come home. It had never occurred to her that for Flora Tasmania was no longer home, and that she did not share a vision of them living here together like sisters. What can she say to the family without revealing the wounds inflicted that day at The Ivy, wounds that are still both raw and perplexing?
The winter sun is sharp and brilliant as she descends the aircraft steps and follows the other passengers across the tarmac and along the covered walkway into the terminal. And that’s when she sees her – Kerry, waving to her, smiling, walking towards her, and Connie is swept forward on a great surge of love and relief.
‘But what are you doing here?’ she asks once they have retrieved her bags and are heading to the car park. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘No, Mum, everything’s fine, but a lot’s happened and I wanted to be here to see you, to talk to you, before I have to share you with the others.’ She swings Connie’s bag into the boot and then opens the passenger door for her. ‘How would you feel about not going straight home? I’d like to talk to you before we get back. You see, it’s not just Farah and the girls there, but Mia and Ryan are there too, and Erin as well. Could you cope with going for a coffee somewhere, or even some lunch if you’re not too tired?’
And as she looks more closely at her daughter Connie sees that there is a difference and it’s in her eyes. The eyes that have for so long burned with hurt or anger or both are actually smiling. Something in Kerry has changed, but she also obviously has something on her mind. ‘What a good idea. I’m fine so why don’t we go up to that little café on Mount Nelson? It’s near home anyway and I’ve always loved the view.’
The café is busy but they find a single vacant table tucked in a corner by the window and order coffee and muffins, and Connie, who declined breakfast on the flight, immediately tucks into hers.
‘You’re not eating,’ she says, looking up. ‘What’s the matter, are you all right, Kerry?’
Kerry nods, wrapping her arms around herself, rocking nervously on her chair. ‘Yes … well, actually no … Mum, I’m so sorry for everything, for the way I’ve been for ages, while Dad was sick, for not supporting you, for everything really. I was a mess and I dumped it all on you.’ Her eyes are full of tears and she brushes them away.
‘Darling, don’t be upset,’ Connie says, taking her hand across the table. ‘It wasn’t just you, it was me too. I handled it all so badly. I was so worn down by it all and I wasn’t there for you …’
Kerry shakes her head. ‘You were amazing, Mum, I don’t know how you did it, and all I did was stand on the sidelines all grumpy and hurt because I wasn’t getting attention from either of you. I reverted to being a spoiled teenager.’
Connie nods. ‘It’s over now, Kerry. It was a nightmare for all of us, and now we have to sort ourselves out and try to get back to where we were before it all …’
Kerry puts up a hand to stop her. ‘No, Mum, I think you were going to say “where we were before it began”, but it goes back further than that. I need to tell you that I know what you did, that you spent your whole life deferring to Dad, and I know you did it for us, for Andrew and me. To avoid rows and people taking sides, and that was a big sacrifice that went on for years, and I’m sorry – I’m so sorry that I never appreciated it. A lot of the time – well, for years really – I was just angry with you for always giving in to him, never taking a stand. I felt you were devaluing yourself. And at the same time I was doing the same thing, always running after Dad, trying to get him to approve of me … I’m forty-two, for goodness sake, and at the end, that last day when he died, I felt utter despair because there was no chance that it could ever happen. And all the time you were there …’
‘Don’t, Kerry,’ Connie says, leaning closer across the table. ‘Don’t do this to yourself. I know what was happening for you, but he did approve of you, darling, and he loved you so much and was very proud of you, of both of you. But he never found it easy to show that or say it, or to dish out any praise. The more I think about him the more he puzzles me, Kerry. I feel now, after all these years, as though I hardly knew him. Perhaps I didn’t and perhaps that’s what kept me on my toes, doing everything he wanted. Now I think he was frightened, frightened all his life.’
‘Frightened? But of what?’
Connie smiles. ‘Of everything … of life, of not being able to control things. Not any one specific thing, but life generally. Perhaps he grew up in fear and never grew out of it. Perhaps that’s what made him need to feel he could control the things and the people closest to him.’ She shakes her head and picks up her cup. ‘Perhaps that’s silly …’
‘No,’ Kerry says, frowning with concentration. ‘Actually, I think it makes sense.’
They talk more, about Gerald, about the past and about childhood.
‘Do you remember the summer that Jennifer came to stay?’ Kerry asks eventually.
‘I do,’ Connie says. ‘I always liked Jennifer and you were such good friends and then that summer it all seemed to fall apart in the last ten days or so. I never knew why.’
Kerry hesitates, starts to speak then stops, then starts again and tells her about the day on the beach, almost holding hands with Jennifer, and of Gerald’s shadow falling acr
oss them, blocking out the sun. ‘It was nothing, you know what girls are like, how intense it can get with your best friend.’ And she went on to talk about Gerald’s warning and the fear it instilled in her.
Connie is silent, realising now where this is leading.
‘Did you know?’ Kerry asks.
Connie shakes her head. ‘I didn’t. I wish you could have told me, I would have talked to him.’
‘I know,’ Kerry says, ‘but what I don’t understand is why you never talked to him about Flora, and why you never told us, Andrew and me. All that time you let us think she was some sort of criminal. I mean, you must have known years ago that Andrew and I would be fine with it, so why … ?’
Connie takes a deep breath, and shakes her head. ‘I can’t really explain it,’ she says, hearing the crack in her voice and pausing to stop herself from crying.
‘It’s difficult … it’s been difficult with Flora, who has obviously been deeply hurt by that. I wish I could give you some good reason but the truth is that I was a coward. I never forgot his rage when he turned Flora out, and I just didn’t want to open it all up again. As for telling you two – I thought of it often but once again took the easy way out and said nothing.’ She sighs. ‘I’ve spent all my life saying nothing about things that matter to me, and now suddenly I’m telling everyone what I think in no uncertain terms, and it’s not working out all that well.’
Kerry tilts her head to one side. ‘What do you mean?’
Connie feels herself flush and looks away. ‘Oh, nothing, it doesn’t matter, Kerry. I’m so sick of it all, the past, everything I got wrong. I don’t want to think about that now, I want to think about the future and about having everyone back together this weekend.’
*
Much later, when Kerry, Farah, Erin and the children are in bed, Connie pulls a big scarf around her shoulders against the chill of the wind and goes out onto the bedroom balcony. Beneath her the darkness of the land slopes away to the lights along the river bank curving off towards the city, setting the water alight with their reflections, ruffled by small waves. Everything is familiar, the scent of pine trees east of the boundary, the nocturnal squeaks and rustlings in the garden, the occasional sound of a revving engine in a nearby street, and the old breath of the house itself.
Learning that she was returning to a full house had come as a surprise, as had the news that the rest of the family would be arriving on Saturday, but the welcome from Kerry, Farah and Erin as well as her grandchildren and Farah’s daughters had banished her earlier bleakness. And Kerry had been right to take her to a café first, Connie thinks now. So much happened in her absence and they had talked for almost two hours. The news of Kerry’s depression had come as a shock. The more she thought about it, the more she felt she ought to have spotted it, and that if she had paid more attention to her daughter instead of Gerald, she could perhaps have helped her. Kerry had told her more about Andrew and Linda, and about Brooke’s discovery of Zachary’s activities. ‘She’s been marvellous,’ Kerry had said. ‘Linda and Andrew may have stuffed up their marriage but they managed to raise a pretty special daughter who’s come through looking like the only real grown-up among us!’
As she stands there a light goes out and she glances along the façade of the house to her right. Kerry’s old room, which Farah now occupies. Farah. Connie sighs. She hasn’t really had a chance yet to talk to her, to talk as they had done during those last few years of Gerald’s life. But of course there’s plenty of time.
‘Stay on for a while, Farah, please,’ Connie had asked her on the phone when she called to say she would be home earlier than planned. ‘Brooke will be over soon, it would be so nice if you and the girls would stay a few weeks more.’ It sounded, she knew, as though she wanted company for Brooke, but in fact she was asking for herself. The house with no one in it was too much for her to contemplate just now.
‘What I said about Farah …’ Kerry had said this morning as they walked away from the café and out to the car. ‘It was awful. I didn’t mean it, you must know I didn’t. I was searching for something else to hit you with, Mum. I’m so ashamed of myself.’
The welcome back at the house had done much to restore Connie’s sense of herself. Only Scooter seemed less than thrilled to see her again. Obviously punishing her for her long absence, he had given her a haughty look and stalked off to his bed, ignoring her for the rest of the day.
Later she’d watched with pleasure as they ripped open their gifts, and as the wrappings fell to the floor she remembered the shop in Port d’Esprit where she had bought the traditional Breton dolls for Mia, Lala and Samira, and the game of boules for Ryan, and the dusky interior of the silver jeweller’s shop in St Malo where she had found the heavy silver bracelet for Kerry, and a finely etched one for Farah. It all seems such a long time ago; a faded dream shadowed by all that had happened in those last few days in London.
‘So when’s Auntie Flora coming to stay?’ Kerry had asked earlier, and Connie, caught off guard, had flushed and pretended to search for something in her handbag.
‘I’m not sure yet,’ she’d said, attempting lightness. ‘She’s leaving Port d’Esprit and going back to England to live, so she needs to sort that out first.’
The wind is colder now and Connie goes back into the bedroom and starts on the tedious task of unpacking her bags, tossing some things into the linen basket, stacking others into drawers and onto shelves or slipping them onto hangers. A small package drops out from the fold of a jumper and she stoops to pick it up, wondering at first what it is, and then remembering the book that Phillip gave her that last evening and which she has not even bothered to unwrap. Later, she thinks, I can’t be bothered with it now, and she tosses it into a drawer. Whatever I thought I was doing over there, it’s finished now. And she sits down abruptly on the edge of the bed.
The last few months seem just an interlude, balm on that muddled, guilt inducing bruise of grief and relief. What now? She had allowed herself to believe that she could slip Flora into the space that Gerald had occupied for so long. But that was just wishful thinking. Who is she now that she’s alone? Her children have survived significant dramas without her help and free of her interference, and they have questions about the past; questions that force her to face up to an image of herself of which she’s always been aware, but of which she now feels ashamed. ‘I was stuck,’ she says aloud. ‘All those years I was stuck, paralysed by what Gerald wanted, and I’m still stuck. As stuck in the past and as fearful of the future as I was when he was alive, and somehow I have to find a way to change, to break the mould that he created and find my own way. Find out who I am when I’m not reacting to him. Find out what it’s like to be in control of myself.’
Thirty
It’s Thursday morning and the house is empty, the silence, the stillness, almost unnerving. Andrew stands at the front door, watching the tail lights of Connie’s car as she stops at the end of the drive, then turns out into the street. Since he, Chris and Brooke arrived on Sunday the place has been all action – in fact it’s felt like a big party, and perhaps that’s what it was, a celebration of their all being together, different, kinder, more aware of each other, an unspoken agreement to repair what had started to fall apart. And now they’re gone. Kerry, Chris, Erin and the children left at dawn on Tuesday for Launceston: Chris to get back for the last few days of term, Erin to pack up ready to join her husband’s ship, the children to return to school and Kerry to find her way back to herself in her own home. Farah has gone to work, her girls to the last week of school before the holidays. Andrew was glad he had not insisted Brooke go back to school for the last week of the term. The exams are over and he’s sure it is the right thing for them both to be here now, and he’s taken some extra leave so that he can stay on a bit longer too. He smiles to himself as he remembers how he’d imagined a big battle over her living in Hobart, but she’s such a smart kid, wise beyond her years, and had made her own decision. Now she and C
onnie have gone shopping and, for the first time since he was released from hospital, Andrew is alone.
He closes the front door and wanders slowly through the house, taking it all in, living his history there in a way he’s never done before. In the kitchen he recalls breakfast on school days – cereal, toast, eggs, arguments about sports gear and whether he has put his homework in his bag. He remembers Connie teaching him to make a cake and Gerald showing him some experiment with sand and water and the mess they made on the kitchen table. He stares at the couch with its tiger-patterned blanket, picks it up and feels his father there, smells him, hears his increasingly shaky, unstable voice, feels the touch of those weak and trembling hands. Through the sitting room with its memories of Dr Who and test matches on the television, and years of Christmas trees surrounded by presents, into the other living room which had become a bedroom, pausing only to glance at the place where his father spent his last years. It’s empty now, the hospital bed, the trolley and hoist, the cupboard where the medication was lined up, all gone. Then up the staircase to his own old room, so different now that it’s hard to relate to, and then he pauses at the foot of the staircase to Gerald’s study, takes a deep breath, and goes up for the first time in more than a year.
In here it’s as though time has stopped. Stopped perhaps five or more years ago when his father was no longer able to manage stairs, no longer able to do any of the things he had done here until then. Piles of papers on the desk, books dusty on the shelves, framed photographs of them all at various ages and stages, the colours already fading, the computer so obviously superseded, and Gerald’s eccentric collection of old watches, displayed on rolls of felt on the top of a low bookcase. Andrew stands on a small rust coloured rug in front of the desk where he had often stood waiting for instructions, judgments, praise or punishment. Where he had stood waiting for the caning that Gerald had once threatened for some now forgotten offence, a punishment that was never administered. Decades ago his father had smoked in here, brought work home, done the crossword, dozed on the chaise longue that was uncomfortably short for his long frame, and doubtless hidden when the pressure of parenthood was more than he could handle.
