Escaping

by Henrietta Taylor

  It wasn’t just the white-collar workers who aspired to live in Mosman; by the end of 1997 I too had set my sights on one of the prettiest houses in the area. It was the dream home I’d always wanted to live in with Norman, a beautiful heritage property with large formal living and dining areas and equally spacious family areas for everyday living. No great Sydney view, no Mercedes in the garage, but it felt like home and it had a wonderfully large, clean oven.

  I went along to the auction suspecting that my highest bid would never buy us our dream home. Property prices had been ascending at an alarming rate for too many months; even run-down shacks were fetching unbelievable sums. My financial consultant and accountant had emphasised exactly where my cut-off point lay and I had to be prepared to walk away without regrets if the auction proved to be overheated. It was in the lap of destiny.

  ‘Sold to the lady under the avocado tree!’ Me! I could barely breathe.

  The house had been bought with the narrowest of margins to spare, setting a new record for the street. It certainly wasn’t a bargain, but I had fallen in love the first time I saw it. It would be our perfect family home, filled with love and laughter.

  The crowd dissipated immediately after the hammer fell and I was left standing alone with the vendors, grasping a flute of chilled champagne. Signing on the dotted line, I knew I’d made the correct decision for my family, and made it with complete independence.

  Yet why did I feel that I wasn’t completely alone? There had been no rustling of leaves in the avocado tree, no mysterious shadows on the verandah. Just a feeling.

  Someone was watching over me.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Clean Slate

  THE NEW HOUSE WAS redecorated with comfy squishy sofas, and finally our life was ready to begin a clean slate. I hoped that being back in the stomping ground of my youth would evoke some sort of happiness for me and the children. My solitary walks round Mosman would take me down to Little Sirius Cove, a small inlet in Sydney Harbour near Taronga Park Zoo, where as a precocious twelve-year-old I had learnt to smoke in the bushland. Wandering along the familiar, tree-lined streets, I was awestruck by the beauty and luxury of the suburb as it was today. The local deli had been given a facelift and was now selling exotic foods as standard fare. The leafy roads were choked with sleek BMWs or massive off-road vehicles depositing children at schools and sporting venues. It was the epitome of domestic bliss. The only thing our family lacked was the husband and father figure.

  I hadn’t reckoned on my eyes playing tricks on me. Walking along the long white sandy stretch of Balmoral Beach one day, my mind in neutral, I looked further along the esplanade and saw Norman walking away from me. The distinctive stoop and fair colouring made him unmistakable.

  Without a second thought, I ran after him like a person possessed. ‘Norman, my love, wait for me!’

  I finally caught up to him and threw my arms around his neck, kissing him frantically. He turned and my mouth dropped open. What a fool I was! This man looked like him, he walked like him, but he wasn’t him. My Norman was dead, and he was never going to be found strolling along a beach.

  But at least I still had the power to honour Norman’s wishes: in 1998 the children would be attending private schools, just as he’d always wanted. Harry was booked into Mosman Church of England Preparatory School (Mosman Prep for short) for his first year of schooling, and Mimi was booked into Second Grade at my old school, Queenwood. (I hoped she would last a bit longer there than I had!)

  Preparations for the new school year began in earnest. Private schools meant more than smart new school shoes; both children had a list several pages long, describing their uniform in detail. I made an appointment with Harry at the outfitter that provided his full school kit. Without a word of complaint, he tried on woollen shorts, blue shirts, woollen jumpers, ties, woollen blazers, woollen baggy caps, blue jogging pants and matching sweat shirts, and white shorts for summer. All in all, he looked like a dwarf going off to work.

  Mimi didn’t fare much better, with her pleated woollen serge tunic and white shirts, ties, tights, sports uniform and straw hat, a summer tunic and a pair of red leather shoes. In addition to these weighty demands, there was a textbook list with details about the type of plastic film to use to cover each book, what colour pens to buy and the different sizes of exercise books, all of which were to go into the Queenwood school bag with the school emblem emblazoned on the external pocket.

  How on earth was I going to fit into the private-school system — a bereaved, slightly demented mother? I was pretty sure there wouldn’t be too many other parents like me. Time enough to discover all at the events held at both schools to welcome parents at the beginning of the new school year. Mosman Prep was leading off with a cocktail party, and although the school was only at the end of my street, I decided it would be best to go by car due to the impossibly high shoes I was wearing for the evening. That was the first good decision I made. The second was leaving Latin Ray in the safe hands of the children. I knew he’d be happier in front of the television watching cartoons with them than dealing with strangers in a social context.

  My worst nightmares came true as I mingled with the other new parents, most of whom knew each other from various golf clubs or upmarket gyms, or from the business sector. I carefully avoided the subject of my missing husband, the key element in the nuclear-family/white-picket-fence dream.

  I’d never met so many investment bankers in my life. There must be an adults’ version of the school-uniform shop, as nearly every man was wearing the same very expensive casual shirt, navy-blue blazer and stonewashed chino trousers. I didn’t want to do a survey, but I could hazard a guess that underneath, all the fathers would be wearing the same style of Calvin Klein underwear too.

  There were about a hundred people in the room and I told myself I must be able to find a like-spirited person. The last time I’d been in a place with so many people was for Norman’s funeral, and I was finding this equally daunting. Everyone was chattering about the spiralling house prices (yawn) and the ruinous school fees that might force the mothers out into the workplace (big scary double yawn!). I found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on such riveting conversation as I smoothed down my taffeta and tulle concoction, knowing that my underwear was still lying on my bathroom floor next to the Latin Lover’s towel. I wondered how many of these Mosman Matrons had experienced the same thing earlier on this hot summer evening. Certainly not enough!

  A cocktail party is always full of people acting stiffly, mouthing social niceties and reciting inane comments they have heard that afternoon on talkback radio. Most of the new parents looked ill at ease and desperate to make a good impression. The true professionals had already sized everyone up and were moving around like sharks in the water, sidling up to the wealthiest in the room. By the end of the evening I knew it was going to be an uphill battle to find parents with whom I would have any common ground. I hoped Harry hadn’t experienced this ‘fish-out-of-water’ feeling on his first day of school.

  All this was pushed to the side, however, when Jack called early in the morning a couple of days later with the news that Sheilagh was in hospital. She had had a stroke.

  How quickly life can unravel. It had always been inconceivable to me that she would become truly ill. After the cancer had spread to her lungs there were few options, one of which was aggressive treatment. My parents, or rather my mother, had decided that all the treatments she had endured over the years were enough for any one person and that she would prefer to deal with palliative carers and die with grace and dignity. She could sense her time was near even if we refused to believe it.

  Kate came down from her home at Macmasters Beach to be united with everyone at the hospital. That afternoon Sheilagh was moved to a rehabilitation hospital to start work on overcoming the paralysis that now affected one side of her body. She needed to be in a wheelchair and her speech was inarticulate.

  One look around the ward, which was cl
ean but depressingly awful, convinced us that something had to be done urgently. But what? It was out of the question for her to return home, as there were too many stairs and the bathroom was unsuitable.

  At a pinch, we could convert my living room into a hospital room. It had large, elegant proportions, a high ceiling and a beautiful black marble fireplace around an open fire. It was this room above all that had made me fall in love with our new home. It could easily accommodate a rented hospital bed and all the other equipment that Sheilagh would need. Jack brought paintings and ornaments over from their place and suddenly the room was transformed into a very comfortable home-away-from-home. Had this ghastly medical disaster occurred six months earlier, we would have still been on the Northern Beaches, with very few options to offer Sheilagh. Sometimes destiny works in strange ways.

  Within a few weeks, Sheilagh could get around the house using a Zimmer frame. We were all afraid she would be carried off if she had another major stroke, so every moment with her was valued. Mimi and Harry were delighted to have their grandmother in the front room all the time, even though she often made garbled noises instead of talking. They would take turns in pressing the buttons on her hospital bed and shooting it into different positions, whether or not she was in it. It was just like a toy.

  They would both march into her room in their little uniforms before going off to school.

  ‘How are you doing this morning, Sheilagh?’ Mimi would ask. (All the grandchildren called Jack and Sheilagh by their first names; no boring old Grandma and Grandpa or Nanna and Pops for them.)

  ‘Will you be here when we get back from school this afternoon? Or are you going to die today?’ Being younger, Harry was slightly more direct.

  Something would be garbled back at them.

  ‘Come on, kids,’ I’d say, ‘we’ll be late for school. Sheilagh has just said that today is not a good day for dying and that she has no intention of dying in this house. Harry, she just told you that your shoelace is undone.’

  In the car, the kids would take advantage of the few precious minutes we had together to talk about things that were pressing on their minds. It was almost three years since Norman had died. I wondered if dealing with another illness would irreparably damage their little psyches.

  Harry remarked that his father had walked around with a Zimmer frame just like Sheilagh used and then he had died. Would it be the same for Sheilagh?

  ‘No, my love. That’s impossible. Your dad never had a Zimmer frame to help him get around. You were just too little. You can’t remember.’

  ‘Mummy, you’re wrong,’ Mimi objected. ‘When Norman was at Palm Beach, he had a frame to help him walk. Remember, Harry? And he had bright yellow eyes like a dragon.’

  We were queuing to do the drop-off in the underground car park at Mimi’s school, and I almost drove straight into the navy-blue Mercedes in front of me. How much did these children remember? How much had it damaged them? I’d thought they would have locked all their memories away in a vault like their wise mother.

  I poured out my concerns to Sheilagh that evening over a large whisky. This was her preferred drink, and there was no doubt that every time she had a tumbler of it she became a little more coherent and more physically stable.

  ‘Don’t worry about the children. You’ll know what to do after I’ve gone. I won’t leave until you’re ready. Remember Homer’s Odyssey? A journey through life. You’re almost ready for your own.’

  I could make out every word she said — but it would take me a long time to realise what she meant.

  Three and a half weeks later, at the end of February, my mother managed to walk out of our house and up the stairs of her own home unassisted. That night, Jack and Sheilagh had a wonderful dinner and she went to her own bed. She died very early the next morning. I know, because I was awake when she came to say goodbye. Why do people always let go in the early hours?

  An era had passed. Things would never be the same.

  All our family and friends expected Jack to unravel before our eyes. I realised I would need to give him a level of emotional support I’d never previously offered. He and Sheilagh had been together for over forty years and gave the impression of falling more in love as each year passed. Raised voices and arguments were exceptionally rare in their house. Kate and I had been brought up in an atmosphere of laughter and fun, endlessly entertained by Jack’s jokes and gags. Now the house and Jack were silent. I knew only too well that the nights were the hardest.

  But he surprised us all with his ability to cope. Of course, he’d never counted on having some new female companionship almost straightaway . . .

  I’d decided it was time to do something about my garden, and not having inherited Sheilagh’s green thumb, I called on the services of the local gardening centre. The gardener, Sam, brought along an assistant called Craig, who in turn brought along his own assistant, a gorgeous little miniature fox terrier crossed with a bit of Jack Russell called Lucy. By the end of the day, the garden had been planted out, a watering system had been installed and everything was complete. Except for one thing. The little puppy was missing.

  Someone suggested I try the veterinary clinic in the next suburb, as the dog catcher often took them directly there. I rang them and yes, they had the little dog. To my surprise, Craig said I could keep her; she’d been giving him more problems than he could handle.

  When my father walked into the house to inspect this new addition to my family, Lucy took one look at him then jumped onto his lap and wouldn’t be budged. In the end, the children and I decided it would be best if Jack took Lucy for a little while to keep him company; my parents had been going through a rare dogless phase before Sheilagh’s death. Of course, we all suspected the move would be permanent.

  Once again, destiny had played its part. Jack introduced Lucy to all his swimming mates down at Balmoral Beach, where he still swam every morning all year round. She would sit on a bench and guard his towel, and they soon became Mosman identities, trotting along the main road together. At breakfast, Lucy would sit on Jack’s lap and slurp tea from a saucer. As a past owner of dogs, Jack felt that he’d trained Lucy particularly well, but the rest of us could see it was Jack who was on the short leash, not the dog. In fact, Lucy was very like my mother in that respect!

  But something Lucy couldn’t do was help Jack out in the kitchen. Sheilagh had been an accomplished cook, expert at everything from Italian and French to inventive Modern Asian cuisine, and specialising in seafood. It was a positive joy to be at her table. The wine was always plentiful, the food delicious and the company exuberant and loud.

  At first I took dishes of food around to him, but it wasn’t the answer. One day I said to him, ‘Jack, you sat in Sheilagh’s kitchen all of your married life. You must have noticed what she was doing. Well, now it’s your turn — you go to that chopping board and start remembering. Tonight you can try reading one of Sheilagh’s Elizabeth David cookbooks. Call me if you need any help.’

  And so it began. Jack slowly learnt the rudiments of cooking and when in doubt he would call Kate or me for advice. We were all the happy recipients of his creative cuisine. For someone who had never lifted a wooden spoon in his life, he became a proficient cook, and on some occasions the family agreed that the student had more flair than the teachers. On Saturdays, Jack and Lucy would often head off to Chinatown to buy ingredients for the next few days’ repasts. The spices and aromas wafted down the corridor of his house and out into the street, and you could see passers-by sniffing the air with approval.

  The wheel was turning. Gradually Jack was creating a new life for himself.

  But while Jack was starting to achieve some kind of normality, it was becoming increasingly obvious that there was something very much out of kilter with my own ‘perfect’ picture.

  Even though I’d found my ‘dream home’, I continued to go to open house inspections every Wednesday and Saturday. It was an incurable habit that I’d picked up from my mother. House
inspections were a legal way of entering people’s lives to try and observe how they found happiness. I didn’t really think there’d be a recipe lying around in their kitchens, but maybe by looking at the way they arranged their houses I’d get some ideas about how to cure our own unhappy home.

  But all the houses I inspected seemed to be replicas of mine. Outside they all had the same immaculate lawns and the same ‘heritage’ colour schemes, and the same make of car sat in every garage. Inside, the houses were on their best behaviour: the detritus of day-to-day living had been swept under the carpet — shoved into cupboards ready to explode the moment the viewing was over. Every room mirrored the interior of my own home: there were the same posed photos of children in ballet costumes or soccer uniforms and the same school merit certificates hanging on the walls.

  After going to endless inspections, the reality finally hit: there was no blueprint for happiness to be found inside anyone’s house. I had the picture-perfect home Norman and I had always wanted, but without him in the picture, I was a square peg jamming myself into a round hole.

  Although I tried, I just didn’t fit in with the Mosman crowd. When yet another fundraising ball for Mosman Prep was organised in October, I decided it was going to be the last social function I’d ever attend with either school. As I told the Latin Lover, I could make the effort to be civilised with everyone so my children would be invited to other children’s homes, but as for socialising outside the school playground, it just wasn’t on my agenda any more.