And, at the same time, that sense of threat hovering over the kitchen acquires unexpected poignancy. And suddenly (the thought springs upon him like some animal in the night) everything seems suspended by a single hair, not just one person’s life, not just his and theirs, but life. Everyone here, everyone out there across the city, under party lights strung up all across the country, and beyond. Everyone who has ever been, or is or will be. All of it. The thing itself.
And as the thought springs upon him from the dark, his wife stares at him from the other side of the room with the same puzzled sadness still in her eyes. And he is contemplating her eyes and wondering when he last really looked at them and, as he does, he realises with a jolt that everything he calls his life, without which he would be lost, started there, in those eyes and with that face, back then in the last of their student days, when they were older and younger, and younger and older than they knew. And what they were and what they have become merge. One and the same. Peter stares at his wife: the memory of what we were and what we had is so easily lost; the wonder that we are at all is so easily ignored and taken for granted. Until moments such as these, when we look up and see this Whitlam depart: this Whitlam of theirs who was once ours, who stood over the years of our youth, and who was wise like us and silly like us. And as he departs, that wise and silly, silly and wise youth departs with him, and his departure is registered in the questioning eyes of his wife, staring at him across the smoky room, asking, What’s happened to us? And why aren’t things good any more?
How long, Peter asks himself, has it been since he’s been moved by that face and by the ordinary ‘us’ that they became? How long since that love has moved him? And do we have to be shaken to our foundations to see it and remember it?
Whitlam departs; the party, and Peter is only vaguely aware of it, continues all round him. The occasional hand slaps him on the back. Good work, good work, they say. Glasses are raised, victory toasts proclaimed. Loudly and with laughter. Whitlam departs, victory is proclaimed, but all he is mindful of now is the look in his wife’s eyes — and those days when they were older and younger, and younger and older than they knew. When they knew spite that had no limits and love that knew no bounds. Days that fused them together all the same, and which were all but forgotten but have suddenly been returned to them. Whitlam departs, but something is regained in that moment of television departure that takes Peter’s breath away and renders everything and everyone around him, these strangers in his house, so much passing show. A distraction from the real living. And do we have to be shaken to our foundations to see it? And can that ordinary ‘us’ that they became be won back? Or when we have the distance to see it fully for what it is and to understand just what we have lost, is it already too late?
And it is then, still holding his wife’s eyes, that Peter nods to the backyard. And Kate nods back, sadness and smiles, and together they give them all the slip — the party, the house, their children (long put to bed and asleep upstairs) — and meet by the garden shed in the yard. And, standing close, just close enough to lean on each other, without speaking or feeling the need to speak, they take in, from the gentle hill upon which the house sits, the sights and the sounds of all the yards and all the streets, all across the city and beyond, all part of one constantly moving, constantly evolving miracle. All suspended by a single hair.
13. Mandy’s Silence Breaks
The party lanterns cast a blue light over the yard and the lawns. It’s a blue world unto itself. And Mandy, and all those around her, are the inhabitants of it. And once again, as she did in the hospital, she is floating through space as much as she is standing alone beneath a plum tree, observing the groups around her, all absorbed in their talk, their laughter and their circles of friends, leaving her free to watch. And it’s something she’s noted about herself lately: she watches more. As though there was this game she used to play — laughter, love and couples — but doesn’t any more, and which she is content to watch from the boundary line.
But at the same time she gradually becomes aware of someone watching her. And she’s not sure who or where from, but she knows she’s being watched all the same. And then she sees her. There is a woman standing beside a group near the line of lanterns, staring at Mandy. The distance is not so great, the light not so dim, that she can’t tell. How long has she been watching? All the time that Mandy, content to stand alone, was observing these people — friends (who know to leave her alone because she wants it that way) and strangers — in this suburban backyard, the television and all the events of the day playing in the background, she herself was being observed. For how long? And even when Mandy returns the stare, more in curiosity than anything, this woman doesn’t stop.
Then the woman smiles. As if to say, look, we are the same, you and I. All these people, all these groups and couples, and we choose to stand alone. And this woman’s smile assumes a puzzling familiarity, as if they already know each other, which they don’t. And it is while Mandy is contemplating all of this that the woman strolls towards her and Mandy is able to see her better: a sharp fringe slanting across her forehead, the lightness and spring in her step like a fox and, Mandy notices as she nears her, eyes to match.
Then she is standing in front of Mandy.
‘You don’t like trooping off in a gang either.’
It is not so much a question as a statement. Mandy nods, but her eyes are puzzled, as if to say, don’t I? And if I don’t, how do you know? And answering the implied question, the woman adds: ‘I’ve been watching you.’
As much as Mandy ought to feel uncomfortable, she is not. And it is all in the way it is said. I was not spying, the woman’s tone implies. Nor, I hope, was I intruding. And it is not that you draw my interest because you are alone, as I am, and don’t like trooping off in gangs either. Or that you looked lonely. Or that I was lonely. No, it’s none of that. I was drawn to you. Do I need a reason? And, once again, Mandy has this feeling of standing in a blue world unto itself, and that at any moment she might just float off into blue space. Mouths move silently on the television screen, visible over this woman’s shoulder in the lounge room of the house; the music is distant; the dancers, shadows.
And it is at this moment that one of Mandy’s friends (the very friend who took the call from Michael) approaches and smiles, pleased to see Mandy has found a friend.
‘I see you’ve found each other.’
And Mandy stares at her, puzzled, as her friend continues.
‘You have a room in common.’ Then, waving a hand, Whitlamesque, in the direction of the television, she says, ‘Isn’t it dreadful?’
Then she is gone. The question implies its own answer. Yes, it is dreadful. The woman who has just joined Mandy watches her friend go, then turns back to Mandy, a glint in her eyes, and a slight, conspiratorial smile.
‘I don’t care.’
And straight away Mandy’s eyes light up.
‘No.’
‘I did once.’
‘Yes, didn’t we all?’
‘But I don’t care any more.’
‘No.’
And this woman, who, it seems, just plunges in and says whatever she wants, sips from her drink as she stares at the house then turns back to Mandy. ‘Perhaps I will again. But I’ll never care the way I did.’
‘No, you can’t. You can only care like that once.’
Mandy is wondering where the words are coming from, and with such an ease that both delights and puzzles her — like those dreams in which we perform the most extraordinary feats with a naturalness that we take for granted, but which, all the same, leave us thinking, no, this can’t be real.
But it is. And implied in their exchanged words, and in that conspiratorial glance that passed between them, is the assumption that you and I, we understand each other. We have known things, such things as pain and hurt and loss; we share this, and in sharing this we can speak frankly. Life is short. Shall we plunge in?
The words flow, and all
with a dreamy ease that both amazes and delights Mandy, but which also leaves her thinking, no, this can’t be real. But it is. How long do they stand and talk? What do they say? Words, words of release, liberating her from a silent loneliness she’d begun to take as her natural condition and which she’d begun to take for granted, flow from her with dazzling ease. Words made new by that silent loneliness she willingly entered, and which has now broken. Has she ever spoken like this? Has she ever felt free to speak like this before? Not asking herself if she is saying the right thing or the wrong thing, or wondering what everybody will think; if she’s being silly or putting her foot in it, or asking herself what Michael and all the other Michaels she’s ever known are thinking. And it’s not as though she’s even speaking her mind. She’s left her mind, the mind of the old Mandy, behind her and is speaking, more or less, without thinking. Words are just welling up like water from a spring and flowing from her. It’s all deliriously mindless. And, as much as the words and the talk, Mandy is also conscious of the woman’s voice: soft, and as soothing as the blue light of the lanterns in this blue world she has landed in. And how long have they been standing here beneath the plum tree? It is impossible to say, for it would need to be measured in blue seconds, blue minutes and blue time.
And it is while Mandy is contemplating blue time, when she is lost in thought and this woman, too, has stopped talking, when there is a silent pause that drowns out the music, the surrounding talk and the occasional shouts and car sounds from the street that tell you there is a world out there after all — it is in the midst of this silence that Mandy watches, with a fascination that leaves her a spectator to her own self, the woman’s hand fall slowly through the air, and land upon the inside of her forearm, with breathtaking sureness, stroking it in slow, circular motions, offering up, as she does, the words Mandy has longed to hear, like the last words of a dazzling dream that have miraculously lingered on beyond dreaming and which have waited all this time, for just such a night, to fall upon her in the same way that this woman’s hand just has: ‘You are beautiful. More beautiful than you know. Have you never been told?’
And it is not an affront. It is not presumption. Nor intrusive. No, it is none of that; it is simply the recognition, and registered by both of them, perhaps in an instant and with absolute certainty, that something momentous has happened.
And Mandy watches, spellbound, registering the faint touch of the woman’s fingertip, now on her palm, as she continues to stroke her in slow, circular motions. This woman, all the time, speaking the words that have been travelling towards Mandy through blue time and have now arrived, going round and round in circles like her finger: You are beautiful. More beautiful than you know … And I will not hurt you. Or harm you. But love you.
And when she has finished she takes Mandy’s hand, enfolds it in hers, and holds it in silent compact. It is breathtaking. Direct. As if to say, there isn’t a minute to lose. Life is brief and moments such as these pass from us far too easily, and happiness is too often lost in the blink of an eye. But you and I, we have known pain and hurt and loss, and we will not let this moment pass. And, as breathtaking as it is, Mandy is also registering, with astonishing clarity, that she trusts her completely. Not simply trusts this woman whom she has only just met but trusts the moment itself — that it is not only something momentous that has happened but something true — and that the silence into which she withdrew, calm as the Buddha, cradling that six-week-old gift in all its infinite loneliness and wisdom, has broken. And she has, for all the world, the distinct sensation of being born anew. Oh good silence, true silence …
You enter a party with no expectations, then step under the blue light of party lanterns into the spell of a blue world and everything changes. The woman is still holding her hand, silent for a moment, allowing her words to sink in, then she speaks again with utter certainty.
‘Shall we leave?’
And Mandy nods, just nods. Without hesitation, for she accepts the certainty of things as naturally as she accepts her hand.
‘But I don’t even know your name.’
They are walking towards the back door. The woman releases Mandy’s hand and turns her head towards her as they approach the door.
‘My name’s Theresa. But everybody calls me Trix.’
Mandy passes through the doorway and stares at her. Of course, Trix. And it is the rightness of the name that she is registering, as if the rightness of her name were confirmation of her trust. Trix, of course. Who else?
They pass through the house, leaving the music, the dancing shadows and the lanterns behind, and stand at the front gate. Trix. Her sharp fringe slanting across her forehead, her eyes clear, nimble and mischievous. Her whole body ready to spring at any moment. Ready to pounce upon life. A fox, eyeing her from the carefully trimmed nature strip at the front of the house; a fox, wild and untrimmed. The wild, untrimmed part of us all. Which Mandy had lost, and has now recovered. And will never lose again. Her fox has come and summoned her back to life.
They stroll towards Mandy’s car, the house and all its lights floating away, the faint tinkle of chimes fading in the still street. It is after ten, and out there in the bay the waters have passed their low tide and are once again rising. The sea breeze has dropped; the late showers never came.
They are vaguely aware of a parked car behind Mandy’s and of someone, a dark shape, sitting in it, possibly listening to the events of the day on the car radio. They are aware of this dark shape but pay no more attention to it or the car than they do to the trees, the moon, or the cat perched on the garden fence beside them.
Mandy unlocks the car, then two doors shut, faint thuds in the night, and the headlights cut a path along the street, illuminating a closed milk bar, a shop here and there, converging at some distant point out there in front of them. Then they pull out from the kerb and follow the twin beams, towards that point of convergence.
The house, the party lights, the yard and that blue world they had entered recede behind them with the parked car they barely noticed, the tinkle of the chimes, and the cat, still perched on the garden fence, watching the comings and goings of the street with animal indifference.
14. Whitlam’s Eyes
Is it all accident? Is it all luck? What chance have you really got? Then again, maybe everything comes round in the end and everybody gets their share. Rita is sitting in a tea-room in the city. It’s a famous tea-room. At least, in this city. The world changes around it, but it doesn’t. The cakes, the sandwiches, the teas on the menu have been there through war, depression and more war. And sometimes she feels she’s been coming here for a hundred years, and other times she still feels like she’s the youngest customer in the place. This tea-room has that effect. It never changes, or never seems to, and all the selves you’ve ever been are all here waiting to greet you when you walk in.
But what was she thinking about? Yes, accident and there only being so much of the world and everything coming round in the end. These are the sorts of thoughts that come to you when you’re waiting for someone. And Rita is. She’s been back from her trip for a few weeks and she’s meeting the woman who led the tour. The guide. The woman who said during the tour that Rita could do this. Mainly because Rita, as often as not, went her own way. Could organise herself. And so why couldn’t she organise others as well?
So, here she is. Giving it a go. And while she’s been waiting she’s remembered a day in her travels when she watched two young women in Paris. They were sitting at a table and talking quickly. In French. And then they switched to English. For no apparent reason. And listening to them, she could have sworn they were English. Then they switched back to French — and they were French again. Then English. And French. And they did this all through the conversation.
And it was this that got her thinking about accident, and things eventually coming round to everyone — or not — because there’s only so much of the world. She, Rita, was born in this city in the distant decade of the 1920
s to a mother who was always working and a father she never knew. But it didn’t have to be like that. Did it? She has a history, but that history didn’t have to be hers. You live the life of Rita, but you could easily have been one of those two young women sitting in a smart French café, jumping from French to English and back to French again without pausing for breath. And looked at like this, history becomes a kind of accident. A sort of game. A throw of the dice. And, for the moment, her whole life seems like a sort of accident or chance, something that resulted in the Rita that she is. But it didn’t have to. So often we look back and everything seems as though it could have been no other way. That we have lived the life we were destined to live. That we love our life. And that we wouldn’t want it any other way. Can’t have it any other way. But we can. And she may well have gone along with everything had it not been for the surprise impulse to jump on the tram of her fancy one morning.
Rita looks up at the clock, wondering where on earth this woman is, when she suddenly enters, apologising for being late — voting, queues, damn election.
Half an hour later the woman rushes from the tea-room as quickly as she entered, leaving behind a small pile of brochures and forms containing, Rita has been assured, all the information she needs. And when Rita has gathered it all together and placed it in her bag, she pays at the cash register and steps out into the gilded arcade that runs quietly through the city. And when she finally emerges into the glare of the street, her steps take her automatically up the hill towards the department store where she worked for half her working life for one last look.
Odd, to think of everything still in there. Everything and everyone still in their places: perfume, lingerie, coats, shoes and so on. The wives of distinguished newsreaders and prime ministers, and the odd dame, will continue to shop here while their drivers wait outside. They may even be in there now, while Rita stands on the footpath in the last minutes of the morning, knowing that everybody will be watching the clock. And she can picture all their faces, the lips that smile and form polite greetings, the eyes that stray to the minute hand that strains uphill towards the destination of midday, the feet and calves that ache from standing all morning. And, somewhere in there, Rita’s place at the perfume counter, to which she has promised to return, is being held for her. But she will not take it. It will become somebody else’s now, and Rita will wear the weight of being a disappointment to them all for a while. The store will go on and the marvel of commerce will continue without her. For the woman, the tour guide who arrived late at the tea-room, brought with her an entirely different promise altogether. The possibility of living differently. A sort of new life. An uncertain one. And possibly a foolish one. This is what you get for jumping on the tram of your fancy. It leads you to fanciful notions, and fanciful new lives that could leave you looking foolish. And as she stares into the glass doors of the store, picturing that neatly ordered world behind it, everybody in their places, levels of power and importance rising from street level to the fifth floor, a picture of how the world ought to be, stable and ordered, she can imagine no one foolish enough to follow her fancy and throw it all away. Nobody foolish enough to look at her life and conclude that she didn’t have to turn out the way she did, or stay that way. To think that she could be different. No, she can imagine nobody, at any of the numerous counters in the store behind those glass doors, foolish enough to follow her fancy. And just as well. For the world can only accommodate so much foolishness before those carefully constructed levels of place, power and importance start to tremble.
Forever Young Page 25
