To each other and to ourselves.
sixteen
When Simon was fourteen, he took up art. Life drawing, to be exact.
I remember.
He found out about it through an advertisement in the local paper and told Vi he wanted to join. Once a week she would drive him over to where the group met and pick him up again three hours later.
All housewives, I overheard Vi telling a friend, knowing she had used a term she hated because it was the only way to describe the incongruity of Simon’s presence, and him.
I was fascinated. But not with the housewives.
You have a nude model? I asked him, looking at the charcoal drawings he brought home. Drawings of an exceptionally voluptuous woman lying back on a mound of velvet pillows. Completely starkers?
He was disparaging in his response. What do you reckon?
She had the most enormous pair of breasts I had ever seen.
So where does she undress?
He found it difficult to comprehend the inanity of my question.
Where do you think?
I had no idea.
She doesn’t get cold?
He rolled his eyes in response.
He had his drawing on the very expensive easel Bernard had bought for him in one of his sporadic attempts at being an interested father. I watched as he worked, concentrating on perfecting the curve of the hip, smudging the charcoal with his hand, stepping back, smudging again.
She doesn’t get embarrassed? I asked.
He had no idea what I meant.
In front of you?
Being only twelve, I was at an age when nudity and sex were still, by and large, a mystery. Vi had, of course, explained everything to us in long and boring detail, but I could not help but feel there was something more. Something she had left out.
I had never even kissed a boy.
I didn’t know about Simon; I had always presumed he was as inexperienced as I was. He was too enveloped in his own world to even contemplate the possibility of some physical connection with another.
Do you ever get embarrassed? I asked.
He looked at me. Of course not.
Do you ever get, you know, and I searched for the word I wanted, enjoying needling him, enjoying frustrating his endless patience, a stiffie?
I stared straight at him, not blinking, not giggling, despite desperately wanting to, and waited for his answer.
He blushed. Crimson.
I started laughing.
He turned his back to me, but I could see, from the shake of his shoulders, that he was laughing too. Not wanting me to know, but unable to hide it effectively.
Well, do you? I asked, knowing I was pushing it now.
He didn’t turn around.
You can tell me.
There was still no response.
Just answer me.
It took a lot to make my brother crack.
And then I’ll go.
He turned the radio up.
Just yes or no.
I wouldn’t give up. Not until he lost it.
Tell me.
Because he drove me crazy.
And, no doubt, I did the same to him.
My father has one of Simon’s drawings in his chambers. A nude that he did when he was fifteen. It hangs in a corner of the room, not readily visible to any visitor, but it is there and that, in itself, is surprising.
I like it. As an adult, I can see that it is fairly crude, but there is something jovial and energetic about this woman with her big hips, big breasts and big lips. She makes me smile. Possibly because I remember my conversations with Simon whenever I see her.
Simon still draws. But it is no longer large, overblown nudes on his easel. His pictures are small, tight portraits. Portraits of himself. He has never shown them to me, but I have seen them. Once when he came to visit, he left his book behind. I found it and I flicked through it guiltily, wishing I hadn’t as soon as I had.
There was not a nude in sight.
Just Simon. Eyes averted. Looking anywhere but at himself.
She cheers me up, my father said when he came in from court and found me standing by the picture.
He kissed me on the cheek, and asked me if I was ready. I told him I was.
My father has always liked taking me out. About once a month he books an expensive restaurant, one where he is bound to bump into colleagues and clients. I think he secretly hopes I will do something slightly outrageous or bohemian, something that will enhance the eccentric image he tries to cultivate.
We had arranged this particular lunch some weeks ago. With all that was on my mind, I would have forgotten, but his secretary, Melinda, had called me at work to remind me. She was new at the job and, as Bernard said, frighteningly efficient.
On that day I was dressed for the office, and I’m sure my conservative skirt and shirt were a mild disappointment, although he never would have admitted as much. He told me I looked wonderful. A little tired, but wonderful.
He was in a good mood. An expansive mood. He had just won a long and difficult case that had been covered, extensively, by all the papers, and he ordered a bottle of Moët.
When I told him I only had an hour, he dismissed my concerns with a wave of his hand.
What are they going to do? Sack you?
He was right. I am, after all, his daughter.
So, he asked me, how is the junkie business going? This is how he likes to refer to my acting, loudly and clearly. More for the effect that he hopes it will have on those within earshot than for the value of the joke.
As I told him about the audition, how I thought I had missed out on the part, he read the menu.
I don’t understand this fashion for nursery food, and he sipped his champagne. Corn beef and mash. Hideous.
I didn’t bother continuing.
Realising he had been guilty of not listening, he patted my hand as he looked around the room. What we need for you, my dear, is an introduction to a rich and powerful film producer. One who is embroiled in some very tricky legal business.
I wouldn’t have put it past him. And because I wanted to change the topic, I asked him about his latest girlfriend.
My father has an endless stream of affairs. He starts up with the next one while he is still with the first, so there is never a transition, a period in which he is alone. Now that I am older I can see how he does it. He is not a handsome man. But he is charming. He has limitless energy and enthusiasm.
His latest was a young lawyer called Samantha. She is only about five years older than I am. On the one occasion I have met her, she was uncomfortable. It was probably just the close proximity in our ages. But I did not warm to her.
As he told me that things had been a bit tricky in that department, I knew Samantha was probably on her way out.
So who’s the next one? I asked him, and he did his utmost to look offended.
Well, and he leant forward in his best conspiratorial manner, I have had my eye on someone.
Probably more than your eye, I said.
And he laughed.
How is your exceptionally complicated love life? he asked.
I had, in the throes of first passion and over a bottle of champagne, once told him about the entire affair. Normally I liked swapping stories with him but this time I wished I had kept silent. I told him it was over. He was staying with his girlfriend and that was that. Not much I can do about it.
Hence the long face? he asked.
Hence the long face, and I looked down at my plate, wanting to talk about something else.
It was not until the end of the meal that I mentioned Simon. I had been tossing up whether to tell him, uncertain as to whether it was, in fact, something he should know, and, if so, whether he would be of any use.
Being a barrister, Bernard is well trained in not revealing anything, especially when he is caught off guard. So I was surprised at his reaction, at the sudden gravity in his manner. He put his glass down on the table and lowered
the tone of his voice.
How on earth did he find out? he asked me, clearly concerned.
I told him I didn’t know.
And he wants to go to the funeral?
I nodded.
He sat back and rubbed his chin with his hand.
Your mother was a damn fool.
I did not know what he meant.
Taking that boy on holiday with you.
I didn’t remind him that he had been distinctly uninterested in the matter at the time.
He called for the bill.
Does she know about this? he asked me.
I told him she didn’t.
You can’t stop him from going?
When I told him it was unlikely, he made me promise I would go with him. He made me promise I would try to keep him from doing anything foolish. And call me, he said, as soon as you get back.
Like Vi, my father does not like to talk of Evie. Her name is never mentioned. And I could only presume that his distress was due to the fact that our conversation had brought up a subject he would prefer to forget.
I reached across to take his hand. It was, I suppose, a gesture of comfort, and I was as surprised as he was by my attempt.
He squeezed my fingers in his, just for a moment, and then pulled away. The waiter had brought the bill.
seventeen
Vi has caught another dose of flu and is not well, but still she refuses to succumb, to see herself as ill.
I can sense her irritation as Mari takes the call each time the telephone rings. Mari turns down invitations, requests for Vi to speak, to sit on a board, to participate in a radio interview. She tells them all that she is not well and no, she doesn’t know when she will be up to it.
Vi tenses.
Her voice is hoarse and cracked as she asks Mari to tell her who the caller was and what it was they wanted.
No one important, and Mari checks that Vi is warm enough, that she has everything she needs.
I try to tell Mari that perhaps this is not the best approach. My mother is someone who has always worked. She lives for her work. In all my memories of her, she is sitting behind her typewriter, chain-smoking, brow furrowed, surrounded by reports and papers.
Sometimes Simon and I would test her.
Standing outside the door to her room, Simon would giggle as I would ask her if it was okay to take some money. I wanted to buy some heroin. (This was the worst that we could think of. Although, in retrospect, telling her we wanted to join the National Party would have been far worse.)
The typewriter would not stop.
In the cloud of smoke that always surrounded her, Vi would nod her assent.
So you don’t mind? I would ask again.
She would swear loudly at a key that was stuck and tell me to bring back the change.
Mari tells me that she doesn’t know what choice she has. You can see how sick she is, she says. I have to stop her from working.
She is irritated with me for questioning her.
But she has nothing else, I say without thinking.
Well, I don’t know what you are to her, or Simon, but I certainly hope that I am more than nothing, and she drains the pasta she is making for lunch, the steam clouding the anger on her face.
I try to placate her but I am never very good at it.
She spoons out the sauce without looking at me. You think of something, she says.
I don’t know what to say.
Maybe if you and Simon made a little more effort we could go on some family outings, interest her in your lives. I don’t know.
And I nod dumbly in agreement, but I am horrified at the thought of a family outing. It is not something that we have ever been good at, and I can’t see how we would start now.
I promise her I will talk to Simon and she passes me Vi’s plate with a look of scepticism.
Simon’s room is dark and cluttered. He never opens the curtains and when I first go in, it is difficult to see.
His clothes are strewn across the floor and his bed is unmade. The portable television is propped up on a chair. Coffee cups and plates are piled up. His desk is covered with old newspapers and magazines.
I write him a note asking him to call me and then I’m not quite sure where to leave it. I fold it so it stands and rest it up next to the television aerial.
Sitting on his bed, I am for a moment at a loss as to what to do. I want to make it better for him. I want to help, but I do not know what he needs. On the few occasions when we have been alone since Mitchell’s funeral, we have not been able to speak. Even attempts at the mundane seem impossible, and we find ourselves unable to look at each other, unable to complete sentences, turning towards the door, the window, any possible exit from the place in which we have found ourselves.
I go back down to the lounge where Vi sits on the couch, her lunch half eaten. Mari has put on a video and I am surprised to see that my mother is absorbed. But then it is not so surprising. She is disparaging about all Hollywood rubbish but if you actually sit her down in front of anything, she will soon be leaning forward, dark eyes intent on the screen, oblivious to any interruption.
I tell her I have to get home and she doesn’t look up.
She just gives me a wave with her hand.
It is Mari who takes me to the door.
I am sorry, she says as she lets me out. I know you’ve been coming around a lot. I know you’ve been trying.
I tell her it is okay.
She says I look tired. Not so well myself.
And for a moment, I find myself about to speak, about to tell her everything, but as the words are forming, she says she wants me to talk to Simon. Vi has been worried about him.
I have never thought of Vi as a worrier. I have always assumed she just accepts the way we are, never really noticing or questioning our behaviour.
Obviously I have been wrong.
He has been more withdrawn than ever. She pauses and looks across the street. Possibly she just notices it more because she’s not so busy.
Again, I find myself about to speak, but stop. I know that anything I tell her will be passed on to Vi. Instead I just let her know that I have left a message for him to call me.
And I will try him, I promise, if he doesn’t get in touch.
She looks slightly reassured, although I know she will believe it when she sees it.
And because I can see the bus coming up the hill, I leave her quickly, telling her not to worry. But I have not managed to stop myself from feeling anxious.
As I head home, I find that I am thinking about all of us, the way we were and the way we are, and when I start thinking about us, when I start remembering, I always end up thinking of Mitchell again.
And I am, once again, appalled at what happened.
I am ashamed.
I look out at the late afternoon sky and I think that there must be something I can do. Something to right all that went wrong.
I just do not know what it is.
eighteen
I have a lot of friends. Friends I go out to dinner with, friends I meet for a drink, friends I see at parties and friends I rarely see. But there are few to whom I am close.
Lizzie is different. She does not know the people I know and I do not know the people she knows. Our lives are separate so our time together is usually just the two of us.
When I first told her about Anton, some months earlier, she didn’t know what to say but I could tell she thought I was being foolish.
I asked her why she thought I always made a mess of things.
She was about to utter platitudes, she was about to tell me not to be so ridiculous, but then she caught my eye. She does not like to lie.
I guess it’s all relative, she said.
Her answer irritated me. I had wanted her to tell me what was wrong with me, how I could fix myself, how I could stop lurching from disaster to disaster, and how I could fall in love and stay in love.
I asked her if she thought what I was doing was
wrong.
She was uncomfortable.
Not wrong, she said, and she paused.
What? I asked.
She didn’t look at me. Maybe cowardly. That’s all.
Her words hurt.
Sitting in reception at work, feeling ill from the lunch with Bernard, I wanted to talk to her. I wanted her advice, but I was scared of her disapproval. I was scared of what I knew she would think.
Instead, I called my friend Sabine. I do not know her well, but I know her well enough to know she is not like Lizzie. Not at all.
She told me she was bored. Sick of her life. That her father had bought her a ticket to Africa and that I should go with her. There was no point in telling her I had no money.
God, me too, she would have said. It’s a drag.
I told her I had to go. I was at work. I would talk to her later.
I left a message for my friend Matthew. We had talked about doing voice classes together. I asked him to call me, I said I wanted to book, and as I was about to hang up, I told him that I also wanted to talk. I needed his advice. But as I spoke those words, I knew I wouldn’t ask him if he did call. I would not tell him.
I picked up my address book and I flicked through the names. Pages and pages of them, addresses scribbled out, new numbers replacing old, new friends replacing those with whom I had lost touch or with whom I had fallen out.
I started drawing up a list. Those who would tell me that I should go ahead, that I could have a baby, and those who would tell me no. And I was, for a moment, carried away with the idea that this was not so stupid. That this was as good a way as any of coming to a decision.
But then I saw myself. Reflected in the glass reception doors. And I looked ridiculous. With my book open in front of me, my pencil in one hand, and my hair a mess about my face.
This was no way to tell right from wrong. This was no way to know.
I screwed up the piece of paper, and as I threw it in the bin, I called Simon and left a message for him. I told him we needed to meet. After work. We needed to talk. It was important.
We were bored. The three of us, Mitchell, Simon and I.
We watched the flies cluster on the few scraps of wrinkled tomato left from lunch, the wilted lettuce, the smear of butter across the plates, but we did not move to put anything away.
Candelo Page 8
