Escaping

by Henrietta Taylor

  Alison and I had met way back in 1986, when we both taught at Cremorne Girls’ High, the depleted school that had been about to close down. Special concessions were made due to this imminent closure, and excursions that normally would have been knocked back at the staff-room door were finding their way into the principal’s office and exiting with a rubber stamp of approval. It was decided that a skiing trip to the Snowy Mountains would be a bonding experience to help the girls get over the trauma of having to leave their school.

  Alison and I had met over an argument about who would accompany the gaggle of St Trinian’s girls to the ski fields. Pru the art teacher and I both vied for the two spots, as the two most irresponsible teachers in the school. Alison was the sports teacher at the time, and she was furious. She skied! She even had brand-new ski pants that looked like they were sprayed on. Alison might have looked gorgeous on the slopes, but the big drawback was that she was only part-time. She came stomping into the staff room, but the decision had been made: Pru and I were going. Alison was furious. Yet somehow, out of this, she and I created a lifelong friendship. She wasn’t married, but while I was organising my wedding to Norman she seemed to have a better idea than I did about the pitfalls. We had spent most of the first half of 1987 in deep discussion about flowers and table decorations when we should have been doing lesson preparations for our students.

  It felt like several decades had passed when our paths crossed again just weeks before my departure from Sydney at the end of 2000. We sat and chatted as our children swam up and down the pool in swimming squads.

  I didn’t know that she’d ended up marrying Nicholas the Greek God, whom she had just started dating back in 1987. Their children, eight-year-old Zach and five-year-old Isabella, took after her, with their sleek athletic bodies. Our lives had gone in such different directions back then that we had lost contact completely.

  She had no idea that Norman had died and was hugely upset when I told her. Increasingly it was becoming my role to comfort other people when I told them about Norman’s death. Women, and mothers in particular, immediately thought of their own situation and projected an image of themselves without their spouses or their children; the tears flowed. I consoled Alison with my view that it was a hideous tragedy, but to lose a child would be possibly even worse. I couldn’t see how a parent could ever recover.

  A few weeks later, on 22 December 2000, Ali called me to say that Zach had been diagnosed with Hodgson’s lymphoma. He had a large lump in his groin that had to be operated on immediately. There was a small risk that the doctors would have to amputate his leg. A long course of chemotherapy would be needed, to begin without delay in the New Year. This was a child who didn’t appear to be ill and who had just completed a massive twenty-seven kilometre bike race. My mind went numb and froze over. Any words of comfort now sounded hollow and insincere.

  We talked about how I had gone to Provence to heal our family bereavement. Hours were spent with Alison and Nicholas in their kitchen, talking about the real essentials of life; health and happiness seemed to come at the top of the list. They were convinced that Zach would get better. The alternative didn’t warrant thinking about.

  ‘Ali, make me a promise,’ I said to her. ‘The moment that Zach is well enough to travel, come to me in France and I will give your family a holiday in one of my houses in Saignon.’

  The following months were gruelling for all of them as they watched Zach’s veins collapse and the poisonous chemotherapy work its way through his little body. Ali and Nicholas decided to take me up on my offer and bring the family to France for a month towards the end of 2001. Zach’s health was improving and Nicholas had managed to get time off from work. They would stay three weeks in Saignon then spend a further week exploring Europe.

  In October, all the bad memories of doctors and hospitals were left behind as they walked into Rose Cottage. There was no way you would ever suspect that Zach had recently been critically ill. Every day he and his sister Isabella played football in the square outside the cottage, waiting for their parents to gather up maps and organise the day’s sightseeing program. During the week Mimi and Harry had to go to school (where they had both settled in well), but the two families saw each other as often as possible. Ali and Nicholas had a wicked sense of humour, and it was a real treat to have such great friends to stay.

  On the weekend after their arrival, we organised to meet at the Saignon post office and go on a picnic together. In the car, descending the hill that leads to Bonnieux and then Lourmarin, Raymond — and for the first time, Harry — called out for an emergency vomit stop. I really needed to find a man with a stronger stomach — and it seemed the problem was catching!

  The last of the autumn roses were in bloom and there was a slight chill in the air. The crowds had gone home long ago and Provence had been abandoned to its preparations for winter. The intense green of the hillsides was changing to a golden brown. But the sky had stayed the same iridescent blue, and the light was spectacular. Spring and early autumn are the most colourful times in Provence. The constantly changing hues as flowers emerge in spring are sharply contrasted with the muted browns and golds of the leaves in autumn.

  High up on the Luberon plateau, we stopped to look at the colours in the fields, the long stems of dried grasses rippling in the wind, and earth recently turned by the plough revealed in straight lines of chocolate-brown. In the distance, fluffy white sheep wandered in little herds with their shepherds. A myriad of shades had exploded after the much-needed autumn rain.

  We lay around with bloated stomachs from overindulging in every delicacy produced in Provence, chatting about our hopes for the future. It was a delicate subject for all of us, as nobody could voice their fear about the precariousness of Zach’s health. It made my worries about my coming separation from Raymond appear petty and insignificant by comparison.

  That night, the four children were unable to move from sheer exhaustion. Isabella was occupied with drawing ponies. Every day she managed to slip her desire to go horse riding into the conversation. Zach and Harry played with superhero figurines and Mimi managed to watch television and read at the same time; a book was never far from her hand.

  The October night was mild and Raymond flung back the curtains and opened the windows. Ali gasped, saying: ‘Raymond, how did you do that? It’s so beautiful.’

  There, rising up against the inky-black sky, was the largest harvest moon we had ever seen. It was so surreal that Ali was convinced Raymond had gone out into the backyard and stuck a picture of a blood-red moon high in the trees. We could never have seen such a sight back in Sydney. Its beauty made me stop and think of the finer things in life: happy, laughing children, great friends, a roof over our heads, food on the table, and Zach on the road to good health. Just occasionally life could seem so wonderfully simple.

  A clear spot was found on the table for a large map, and the next week’s adventures were plotted out. There was the possibility of an overnight trip to somewhere outside Provence. Ali wanted to go east and see if there was any early snow in the French Alps. She just would not let the school ski trip rest! Isabella wanted to ride horses, Zach wanted to stay in Saignon and play with Harry, and Nicholas wanted to head down to Marseille for a bowl of bouillabaisse (Provençal fish soup), and then continue southwest along the coast into Spain, first stop Barcelona. This was meant to be a relaxing family holiday for them, and it was turning into a race to exhaustion!

  By the end of their three weeks in the Luberon, most places on the tourist agenda had been covered. They left Rose Cottage and headed north to Amsterdam, to stay for a week with some ex-neighbours from Seaforth, before catching their flight home.

  The colours, the sights and the magical atmosphere of Saignon had been absorbed into a series of photographs for their family memory bank. So many good times were deposited there; they might need to draw on them if bad times lay ahead.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  He’s Leaving Us – Again

>   LIKE ALL DATES ON the calendar, if you wait long enough they eventually turn up, and so it was with a certain day heavily circled in red ink: 28 October 2001. Departure from Vienna, destination Sydney, one seat, one way. Raymond had packed up his Latin books and was heading back to Australia and away from me — yet again.

  Half-term school holidays were coming up at the end of October. We had decided we would combine Raymond’s departure with one final family trip: two days in Venice and then on to Vienna so he could catch the flight home.

  Ray’s tour of duty was over and he was heading home to surf, sun and cold beer. There had been times when he had actually enjoyed living in Provence, but Manly in Sydney was the best place on earth for him. France didn’t even come in second.

  In some ways his departure was a relief for me too. Our earlier bickering had stopped, but it had been replaced by glum acceptance that although we were sharing a house, we didn’t have a shared life with common goals. It was pointless trying to live together full-time. We were both far too set in our ways. There was very little room for compromise: I had my life here and he had his over there.

  The wooden shutters of Chemin St Roch were slammed shut and the windows and doors locked; we were ready to go. Raymond leapt into the car, amongst the paper towels, plastic bags, maps and sweets for the trip. Desperate to leave.

  First stop: Nice, just two hours away. Rather than driving all day, it made more sense to head off in the early evening for the short drive to the Côte d’Azur, less than an hour from the Italian border. It broke the trip up into easy sections, and since I was the only driver I was wholeheartedly in favour of that. Raymond could have driven but preferred to navigate, giving us a better chance of arriving in Italy rather than Spain. He knew just what instructions to give me; I understand directions such as ‘Keep the sea on your right and stay on the main road’, whereas I get lost with ‘Travel in an easterly direction on the A8.’

  We had booked accommodation in a small hotel in Nice next to the airport. It was completely lacking in charm, but comfortable and extremely clean, and for one night, ideal for our needs. The evening sea air was cool enough to warrant wearing our thick coats but not to stop us from walking along the Promenade des Anglais, the famous walkway overlooking the main beach. Young men in shorts and T-shirts pounded the pavement with that glazed look of pure concentration only joggers possess; others were more laid back, with headphones and roller blades; well-groomed little old ladies strolled along deep in conversation, while bundles of fluffy white miniature poodle wearing warm tartan coats and diamanté-studded collars stuck out from under their arms. And young lovers were sprawled across the public benches, joined at the hips and lips.

  When I saw them I felt that old empty pit return to my stomach. Within a couple of days, Raymond would be in Sydney. There would be no more Sunday mornings in bed with him. No romance. No tender words. I had to blink away the tears. It had just crossed my mind that it was now twenty years since we first met, in December 1981. This year had been the first time we had spent more than a month in each other’s company, and now he was leaving the children and me yet again. Suddenly I felt wretched with despair. Abandoned and unwanted.

  ‘Why are you leaving us?’ I cried out. ‘Why don’t you want to stay? Why can’t you go to a university in England? I bet they teach Latin better in England than Australia.’ I could hear the timbre of my voice rising into shrillness.

  ‘Now come on, don’t ruin these last few days. We’ve been through this so many times. This is your dream. Look at how much you’ve achieved in such a short time — and you’ll have other projects. I know you. Nothing will hold you back. The bottom line is that I want to study Latin at Sydney University. You know I can’t study Latin in France; it’s hard enough learning Latin in English, let alone in French. And if you think I’m being stubborn, the truth is that it would be much harder for me to get into an English university. Maybe I could in time, but certainly not now. And it’s not as if I’ll never see you again. We’re not breaking up.’

  I didn’t believe him. It did feel like we were breaking up. This was the same speech he trotted out every time we separated and we both knew it off by heart. Yes, he would ring nearly every day. Yes, I would always be going back to Sydney. Yes, he would always come to visit me for holidays. Exactly the same. Nothing ever changed.

  ‘Yeah, well, I bet that the day you enrol at Oxford or Cambridge will be the day the children and I decide to go back to Sydney.’ I smiled bitterly.

  We watched the children rushing around on the pebbly beach while we sat in a bar with glasses of wine and a large bowl of oily black olives covered in thyme and garlic. We were locked in an uncomfortable silence. The lithe young waiters in their black pants and long white aprons moved about with quiet activity, arranging the menus and smoothing down the snow-white tablecloths, which were soon to be splattered with pungent fish sauce from the Dish of the Day, steaming bouillabaisse. From under their thick black lashes they observed their female customers, their eyes lazily daring these women to order what they really wanted. Sexy young men like these were abundant in a town like Nice, but Apt wasn’t the same. I would never have any sex again in my life. If I wanted sex I would have to travel to Sydney. It was unbearably depressing.

  Our early evening apéritifs were finished. Our stomachs rumbling with hunger, we all wandered back to the hotel to retrieve the picnic hamper that I had carefully packed that afternoon before we left Chemin St Roch. It was full of everyone’s favourites: crusty bread, roast chicken, lettuce, cucumber sticks, a punnet of cherry tomatoes, a thick wedge of gooey, runny brie, and a block of chocolate for dessert, all washed down with copious amounts of a good bottle of Côtes du Rhône and mango iced tea for the children. As we ate, we all laughed about the misery Raymond would have to endure the following day; driving through tunnels would make him feel wretched.

  We weren’t wrong. There are perhaps 100 tunnels on the road from Nice to Venice. After fifty or so, Raymond — newly rechristened Raimondo — lay back in his seat and tried valiantly not to think about the constant movement and changes in light. Autogrills, our favourite roadside diners, served as good places to break the trip every couple of hours. We planned to arrive in Venice in the early afternoon, which would give us plenty of time to find some reasonable accommodation. It was out of season, after all.

  We crossed the four-kilometre-long bridge from Mestre to Venice, watching the emerging city painted on the distant skyline. The oil refineries and other heavy industries in Mestre spewed black clouds of smoke into the atmosphere, blemishing the otherwise perfect picture postcard.

  This was the first time I had arrived in Venice by car. We followed the large blue ‘P’ signs that directed us to the main parking stations, in Piazzale Roma. I wondered how much the Venetians would charge us for this service. Probably too much.

  Entering Piazzale Roma, I eased our car behind a big black Mercedes with tinted windows, through which I could just make out a thickset driver with a female passenger beside him. Despite the obscurity of the interior, I could see the driver’s luxurious velvet-collared coat and the weighty chain that was entwined around his gold Rolex. This man was weighed down with jewellery. His female companion, wearing a pair of black designer sunglasses to hold back her honey-blonde tresses, nestled down into the depths of her fur coat. Big money always came to Venice. I watched them, mesmerised by their every movement.

  I was briefly distracted from this activity when a car-park attendant came out waving to all the cars in the queue to move on. A sign flashed overhead: ‘Pieno’.

  What? How could it be full? What was happening in Venice that we didn’t know about? Quick! Think Italian! Do something!

  Naturally, the big black Mercedes was allowed to pass straight under the gates and into the bowels of the car park. A look of confusion came into the attendant’s sleepy bedroom eyes as he realised that although my car was an Italian Fiat Multipla, the numberplates were French. I could see him d
esperately searching for the French words that meant ‘Bugger off, the car park is full.’ But by the time I lowered the window I had found enough Italian words to tell him that I was an Australian widow, that I had made a hotel reservation last month and that my cousin worked on the eighth floor of the car park.

  Raimondo guessed what I was up to and rolled his eyes, as if to say, You’ll never get away with it.

  Just watch me! mine said in reply. The other cars were waved off to find parking in mainland Mestre, while I progressed to the gates, where I told more unbelievable lies to finally gain entrance.

  The situation in the car park made us worry that we would have difficulties finding accommodation within our limited price range. Fortunately, we were wrong. We were eventually able to find a fabulous apartment just off St Mark’s Square. The bedrooms were small but more than adequate, the bathroom was enormous, the little kitchen was spotless and the colossal forty per cent discount for cash suited everyone.

  We attempted an evening stroll before retiring for the night, glad that there was no need to get up early the next morning. But the children were so tired that they could barely stand upright in St Mark’s Square. The three of us soon started back towards the apartment, leaving Raimondo contemplating the opulent displays of gold jewellery in brightly lit shop windows.

  Suddenly I heard his voice behind me. ‘Hen, come back here. There’s something I want to show you. You know, I’ve been thinking . . . maybe we should . . .’

  But his words were eaten up by the rising wind and the complaints from Mimi and Harry that they wanted to go home, NOW. A child hung off each of my arms as I walked away. Whatever Raimondo had been about to say, it had been poorly timed. The tears splashed down my face. Why could we never get the basics together? I couldn’t even remember when — or if — he had ever taken me in his arms and told me that he loved me.