In her room that evening, classical music playing on her small radio, a glass of gin and tonic on her bedside table, Lola was feeling much better. She’d changed into her favourite pink silk pyjamas and was lying on her bed, leafing through one of her photo albums. It was something she liked to do when she was rattled by life. She’d been rattled by life today. She found it soothing to be reminded of all the people she’d known, the places she’d lived, and most of all, to gaze at pictures of the family that still filled her life. Looking through her albums from cover to cover, either front to back or back to front, always made her feel safe and loved and, yes, fulfilled. She needed that comfort now.
She had been silly to overreact to the computer program. She’d already phoned Margaret to apologise. Margaret had interrupted to apologise first. ‘We didn’t think, Lola. We’re sorry. We should have realised that Ellen would remind you of Anna —’
‘Of course you shouldn’t have. It was great fun. Such amazing technology. I was just a bit tired.’
It was true. She was a bit tired. A bit sad. A bit melancholy. It had been a good day in parts, too, of course. She had to try to think positively as well. She’d been happy to see all the donations coming in. Proud of Jim for offering to store everything at the motel. But it had still been a day of sad emotions, as every day of her life had been, she conceded now, good thoughts giving way to sad thoughts, back to good thoughts, layer on layer on layer …
Were human beings like trees inside? she wondered. If someone were to cut her in half, would they see all the rings representing her eighty-four years on earth, all the emotions she’d felt throughout her life? Thin grey rings when times hadn’t been so good? Wide colourful rings when her year had been filled with joy and laughter, fun and family? What would the rings covering her short marriage be like? Thin and dark and unhappy? No, not completely, because Jim had come from that same marriage. If there were dark rings representing that time, there would also be the flashes of light that Jim had brought into her life. As Anna, Bett and Carrie had too. They’d be instantly visible, as great splashes of bright colour representing all the joy and fun they’d given Lola. Ellen’s arrival. More colour and light. That silly feud over Matthew would be there too, dull, unhappy markings and colours, until Lola had plotted to bring them together again, with the musical she’d written – that would definitely be there too, displayed as cheerful colours. And then dark ring after dark ring reflecting Anna’s sudden illness and too-quick death. Nothing but shadows and dull colours for what had felt like forever …
Except that wasn’t true, Lola realised now. There had been some happy moments amidst their sadness about Anna, as she, and the rest of her family, searched for some kind of meaning, for any crumbs of happiness available. Laughter over shared memories of the singing Alphabet Sisters. Pride in Anna’s work as an actress. Tears, but happy tears, at remembered acts of kindness and generosity from Anna. The best of times, the worst of times. That was the truth of all life and all lives, Lola knew. Nobody went through life seeing only bright colours and warm light. Sorrow ran alongside joy, despair beside happiness, fear beside confidence. And best of all – or was it worst of all? – you never knew when the light might suddenly switch off, when the colour might turn to monochrome. But you also never knew when that dim light might begin to glow, when something good and happy might appear, when it was least expected and, sometimes, when you needed it most. Like the arrival of Delia, Freya and George, followed by the twins …
She shouldn’t have been so unsettled by the website today. They’d all often remarked how much Ellen looked like her mother. Of course an adult Ellen would resemble Anna even more. It had still been a shock.
Lola turned her attention back to the photo album on her lap. There’d be no surprises in here. She knew it was filled with pictures of Anna. Not just Anna, either, but all three girls, the whole family, at all stages of their lives. She flicked slowly through the pages, starting from the back of the album, enjoying the feeling of turning back time again, watching the three girls get younger, watching Jim’s hair grow full, Geraldine’s turn from grey to brown, her own from its current white to original deep chestnut. Back and back she went, passing dozens of images of herself and Jim in front of every motel or guesthouse they had ever managed or lived in together. It had been their ritual, a photo taken on the first day and a photo on the last. She watched Jim grow shorter and younger with each photo, his cheerful expression and sturdiness evident no matter what age he was.
Towards the front of the album, she found herself in the Irish section. She hadn’t brought many photos with her when she’d emigrated. There was one of her family house in Kildare, a big house in the countryside with an oak tree at the front gate. One of herself with her parents on her wedding day, sheltering under umbrellas. It had been a typically damp Irish summer day. One of her and her husband Edward standing in front of the church in their wedding clothes, and another of the two of them more casually dressed, taken on the boat to Australia in the late 1930s. She’d kept those for Jim’s sake rather than her own. She preferred not to be reminded of her husband. The final photo was of herself as a child in Kildare, pictured standing between her parents. She touched their faces. She hadn’t seen them since the day she’d left for Australia as a twenty-year-old. They’d been dead now for more than fifty years. She barely remembered them. It was sad, but it was the truth.
And so there it was, she thought. A life lived backwards in less than five minutes. A life of almost eighty-five years reviewed that quickly. No, that wasn’t all. In the pocket at the front of the album was an envelope of extra photos. Twenty or so images she hadn’t had room to display in the album, but still wanted to keep. She flicked through them now too. There were more motel shots. Extra funny ones with Anna, Bett and Carrie from their days as the Alphabet Sisters singing group. She had other, separate albums devoted entirely to those days. These were just the spare photos, but it was good to see them again too, to remember those happy days.
The final photo in the pack did surprise her. It was of a man in his early thirties, with kind dark eyes, a shy smile, his black curly hair combed into neatness. The photo was nearly fifty years old, but Lola could remember exactly where it had been taken. Not only where, but what had happened the morning it was taken, what had happened after it was taken, what the weather had been like that day, even that there had been a slight breeze. It had been one of the happiest days of her life. If that time were to show up on one of her inside tree rings, she knew it would be all golden colours and warm light.
His name was Alex Lombardi. She’d been seeing him for four months by the time the photo was taken. They had met in Melbourne, in the most ordinary fashion, standing beside each other in a queue at their local supermarket. He’d remarked on the fine weather. She agreed it was a glorious day. He noticed her accent and asked about it. She noticed his accent and asked about it. They walked out of the store together, talking. Fifteen minutes later, they were still standing outside the store, still talking. She learned that he worked two streets away in Carlton, assistant manager with an Italian food-importing company. She told him about her guesthouse, two streets in the other direction. Three days later they met again, once more at the supermarket. That time he asked her to join him for a coffee. The next day she invited him to join her for a tea. It was a relationship founded on varying strengths of caffeine, they agreed a month later, when they were seeing each other every day. It moved easily, beautifully, even thrillingly, in Lola’s opinion, from coffee- and tea-drinking and talking to lovemaking and talking. She suddenly understood why women sought romance. Everything she had with Alex was everything she hadn’t had with her husband. Alex listened to her, amused her, entertained her, admired her. She wasn’t completely in love with him. Not yet. Something was holding her back, some inbuilt caution. But she was as close to love as it was possible to be.
On the day the photo was taken, she and Alex had given themselves an afternoon off. Jim was
away on a school camp. She had no bookings and for the first time ever, she hung a ‘Sorry, no vacancies’ sign in the window. Aged in their thirties and behaving like children wagging school. They packed a picnic and caught a tram to the beach in Brighton. They swam, sunbaked, read to each other, swam again. Ate their picnic. Kissed. Kissed many times, between the conversation and the laughter, so at ease with one another, so happy in each other’s company.
Who decided they shouldn’t go back home that night? Her or him? Perhaps they decided at the same time. They called it research. It was important that Lola knew what her competitors were up to, he said. So they booked into a guesthouse near the beach, smoothly and easily calling themselves Mr and Mrs Lombardi. The woman at the front desk didn’t care whether they were married or had just met on the tram, they could tell, but it added an extra glow to their mood. They asked her to recommend a good Italian restaurant nearby. She shrugged and told them the food was better in the pub.
Lola found herself smiling now, remembering every moment of that night. Enchanted, it was the only word to describe it. There had always been so much to talk to each other about. There hadn’t been any unease or caution in their lovemaking that night, either. It had been as luxurious, as loving, as special as always. Passion, laughter, conversation. They hadn’t slept at all. It hadn’t mattered.
Life wasn’t so cruel for them to be separated immediately on their return to their real lives the next day. They were granted another six months of happiness after that, more dinners, laughter, even fights, followed by more conversation and lovemaking. Lola knew it was getting serious. Alex had told her how he felt. She had told him how she felt. She watched him with Jim, saw his kindness to her son, and knew that all would be well there too. It was a golden time.
Until Alex came to the guesthouse one morning, unexpectedly. He usually phoned before he visited. He thought it was only good manners. Just one more addition to the many things she liked so much about him – his intelligence, his gentleness, his humour, his looks, his touch. His eyes.
His eyes.
She’d known as soon as she looked into his eyes that morning that the news was bad. ‘I have to go home. Back to Italy. There’s a problem in my family.’
She’d already heard about his complicated family background. His father had died when he was only twelve. An older brother had taken charge of the family business, supporting their mother, several elderly aunts, many cousins. The brother was the one in trouble now. He’d been in a serious car accident, and wouldn’t be able to work for six months at least. Alex was needed at home.
‘Forever?’
‘I don’t know, Lola.’
‘It’ll be hard to come back.’
He didn’t need to reply. She saw it in his expression. This wasn’t a brief trip back. They both knew that.
Yet his news didn’t bother Lola as much as she’d expected. She knew this wasn’t going to be the end of her and Alex. She’d already moved countries once in her life, from Ireland to Australia. She could go from Australia to Italy, surely? She’d learn the language. Jim would learn it too. It would be an adventure for all of them.
Over the next week, as Alex made his preparations to leave, she waited for him to ask her to come and join him. She’d given it long and careful thought. She would say yes.
He didn’t ask her.
On his last night, she was the one who brought it up. She asked him outright. Could she and Jim join him, follow him, after he’d settled back home again?
Again, his eyes gave her his answer, before he spoke. ‘Lola, I’m sorry.’
‘I see,’ she said. She didn’t flounce away, didn’t cry, didn’t get upset. She just felt very, very sad.
He took her hand, held it tight, raised it to his lips. She saw he was as sad as she was.
‘Why not?’ she said, trying one last time.
‘You’re a married woman.’
‘I am?’ Even this many years later, she remembered that she’d smiled, thinking he was joking. ‘Where’s my husband? I seem to have mislaid him.’
He didn’t smile back. In that moment, she regretted ever having told him the truth about her background. In the ten years since she had left her husband, she had lived a lie, telling everyone, yes, even her little son, that she was a widow, that her brave soldier husband had been killed in the war. She’d reached the conclusion very early on in her days as a single mother with a young son that a widow would receive a much better reception than a runaway wife. It may have been the 1950s, moving into the swinging sixties, but in the rural areas of Australia where she and Jim usually found themselves, attitudes were still old-fashioned.
She’d told Alex she was a widow too. Until one night, ironically, after several glasses of very good Italian wine, he had asked her for more details about her husband. She told him everything. About their wedding in Ireland. The emigration to Australia. Her rapid realisation that the man who had seemed so kind and charming at home in Kildare was in fact a bully, a weakling and, worst of all, a drunkard. How he had started to shout at her. Shout at Jim. How he had hit her one night. Threatened to hit Jim. How she had lived in fear until the day she’d realised that her life didn’t have to be like this and she’d left him. She hadn’t seen him since. He could be dead or alive for all she knew. At the time, Alex had listened in that intent, focused way he had. Asked her questions. Told her how brave she was. Made it clear he understood how difficult it must have been. At the time she’d basked in his praise. Now, she’d have done anything for him not to know the truth.
He tried to explain. ‘My family are very traditional, Lola. Very Catholic.’
‘So were mine. I still remember my Hail Marys.’ He didn’t smile. She tried again. ‘Alex, they don’t need to know the truth. No one else does. Only you. People don’t ask. They accept what they’re told. We’ll just tell everyone in Italy I’m a widow. For all I know, that may be the truth now.’
‘It’s too late. I’ve written about you to my brother. I told him everything about you.’
‘Everything?’
‘Everything.’
‘Can we pretend I’m someone else you’ve met in Australia? Someone new?’ She was only half joking.
‘Who looks like you and has a son the same age? And an Irish accent?’
He was right. His honesty helped. She saw in that moment that her dreams of a life together were just that. Of course she and Jim couldn’t pack up everything, follow him across the world. Of course not.
They were still holding hands. ‘Will you write to me?’
‘Of course,’ he said.
‘Will you be gone long?’
‘I’ve told them I’ll stay for six months. A year at the most.’
‘And then?’
‘I’ll come back.’
‘To Australia?’ To me, she meant.
‘As soon as I can.’
In the first three weeks, there was one letter from Italy. Brief and overwhelmed. The business was in a mess. His brother was in worse health than he’d been told. She wrote back to him, a long letter, with photos and stories, trying to cheer him up, letting him know how much she cared about him. She received a brief postcard in return. She wrote another letter. Then another. Six months passed. Nothing. Seven, eight. Two weeks before a year was up, she finally received a second letter from him. She had stayed in the same guesthouse, longer than she’d wanted to, because she didn’t want to change address. She didn’t want to risk a letter arriving there for her after she’d gone, and never finding its way to her.
She only had to read the first line to know the rest. He wasn’t coming back. He couldn’t. Not now that he was engaged to the daughter of his mother’s oldest friend.
Lola had put the guesthouse on the market the next day. She and Jim were in a new town and new guesthouse within a month. She hadn’t written back. She couldn‘t. If she had, the letter would have been filled with lies, telling him she understood, that she wished him and his fiancée well and m
any years of happiness together. She hadn’t felt those things. All she’d felt was broken-hearted. She could have written and told him that, she knew, but what was the point? What would it have changed about their situation? So she’d said nothing back to him at all. If he ever did write to her again, she hadn’t received the letter.
Lola touched the photo of Alex again now. It would be fifty years next month since they’d had that day on the beach together. It seemed extraordinary to think of all that had happened since. Herself and Jim making move after move, growing older, Jim meeting Geraldine, the arrival of the three girls, more moves, their performing days, until they came to a halt, a mostly very happy halt, here in the Clare Valley. So much had happened right here, in this motel, as well.
She thought of her husband now too. All these years later, she at least knew what had happened to him. She’d heard from his sister out of the blue, not long after Anna’s death. He had died back home in Ireland, after a life spent travelling around Australia and then through America. A drinker to the end, she was sure of it. She’d felt sad for his family, but not a moment of regret that she and Jim had left him when they did. She was now, truthfully, a widow.
And Alex? What had happened to him? Had he had a long happy marriage? Many children? Or a short, unhappy marriage, no children? Was he even alive still? If he was, would he still have that good heart, or would the trials of family life have beaten it out of him? Would he still have those kind, dark eyes, or would their light have dimmed too? She gazed down at the photo, smiling again. For years she hadn’t been able to look at him without feeling a pang of sadness, even a flash of anger for what might have been, what had been lost between them. Now, this long afterwards, it felt … it felt only good to see his face. She felt curiosity, not sadness. Where was he now? she wondered. Had he had a happy life, a good life? What would he look like all these years later?
She reached for her phone and dialled a local number. ‘Luke, it’s Lola. Could you please pick me up earlier than usual tomorrow? And show me how to do something on the computer?’
Lola's Secret Page 18
