At Home with the Templetons

by Monica McInerney

  Something changed inside her as she read his notes that night. The fury she’d felt towards him started to dissolve. For the next two days, alone in the house, she found herself remembering only good things about him. How he could make her laugh. His stories. The way he made love to her. He had always been a wonderful lover, skilled, attentive …

  She left the boxes from Templeton Hall alone and found herself drawn towards the family photo albums. She was in tears by the time she finished looking through them: their wedding, the arrival of the children, Christmas parties, summer holidays, Henry at the centre of each image. How had she forgotten those times? How had she let money come between them? Yes, he’d made mistakes. Yes, he’d lied to her about the bills, but hadn’t she vowed to stay with him through good times and bad? Was it too late to try again as a couple, as husband and wife?

  She was walking towards the phone that evening to call him, to ask him to come back to her, when it rang. For a joyful moment she thought it was Henry, ringing to ask her for a second chance. It was Spencer, barely coherent, calling from Italy, the words tumbling from him – an accident, hospital, Gracie, drinking, Tom badly hurt …

  It took Eleanor more than eight hours to get to them, between flight delays and overbooked airplanes, her fear rising as each hour passed, worrying for her children, for Tom, for Nina. It was Eleanor who’d broken the news to her. Spencer had begged her to make the call. Nina’s voice had been almost unrecognisable. ‘Is he going to die, Eleanor? Will he die?’ All she could tell was all she knew, that Tom had been in surgery for almost three hours, that he was in intensive care, that she should get there as quickly as she could.

  Eleanor was waiting in the hospital foyer when Nina arrived. She ran in, they hugged, two mothers. ‘He’s this way.’ She took her by the hand. They barely spoke. What was there to say? Nina had to be with Tom.

  It was two hours later, after Tom was recovering from more surgery, that Nina came to her again. She had stopped crying. She was now angry. She met Eleanor outside the ward Gracie was in, in the corridor, her voice too loud. She didn’t ask about Gracie or Spencer. She stood in front of Eleanor and delivered a statement, almost shouting. ‘Tom won’t ever walk again. It’s Gracie’s fault. Gracie was drink-driving.’

  ‘Nina, she wasn’t.’ They’d done blood tests. She was under the limit. She tried to tell Nina.

  Nina shook her head. ‘I’ve read the police report. The truck driver said she was driving all over the road.’

  ‘Nina —’

  ‘Your daughter has destroyed my son’s life, Eleanor.’

  ‘It was an accident.’

  ‘She was drunk.’

  ‘She wasn’t. It was an accident.’

  Nina’s voice was getting louder. ‘It’s my fault. I should have told him to come home. I should never have let him stay with you. I should never have had anything to do with any of you. I should have trusted my instincts years ago.’

  ‘Nina, please, don’t —’

  ‘It’s the truth. It’s the truth, Eleanor.’ Her voice raised again. ‘My son is in pieces. His whole body, everything’s broken. His face is …’ Her tears started then, her body heaving with them. Eleanor’s compassion returned. She led Nina into an empty room nearby, held her, let Nina cry, tried to think of soothing words but could find none. There was only bad news, and the bad news was all Nina’s. It was only luck, some kink of fortune, that had it this way around, Tom with the terrible injuries, Gracie and Spencer almost unhurt. Like a terrible lottery, Eleanor the only winner. She would be as angry at Nina if the positions were reversed, she knew. As shocked, hurt, scared, crying as hard …

  She tuned back in then to what Nina was saying. Nina was talking about Henry. Why was she talking about Henry?

  ‘It’s a game to you, to Henry, isn’t it? Just a stupid game, to lure people in and then laugh in their faces, turn them into fools. Your family are dangerous, all of you. You seduce people and then you destroy them. Henry did it to me, and now Gracie has done it to Tom. You’ve destroyed us both, all of you. I want you to leave me alone. You, Gracie, Henry, Spencer, all of you. Leave us alone. Do you hear me?’ Nina was now shouting and crying at the same time.

  Eleanor took a small step back, unable to believe what she was hearing. ‘Nina, what are you talking about? What do you —’

  ‘I’m talking about your husband, Eleanor. Your lying bastard of a husband.’

  ‘Henry? You’ve seen Henry recently?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen Henry, Eleanor. I recently spent the weekend in bed with Henry.’

  Eleanor wasn’t hearing this. Nina was upset, angry. She was raving. It was jetlag, shock … ‘Nina, what are you saying?’

  ‘I’m talking about your husband screwing me, Eleanor. In every meaning of the word.’

  Eleanor went still. Their children were hurt, lying in hospital beds only metres away, but this was her focus now. Sharp, cold, clear. ‘When, Nina? Where? Tell me.’

  Nina’s chin lifted, her eyes hard, glittering. ‘At Templeton Hall, of course. Where else?’

  The words tore into Eleanor. It didn’t matter that she and Henry had been separated for years. It didn’t matter when it had happened between Nina and Henry. The pain of it felt like a knife in her heart. She tried to find words, any words … ‘But he’s my husband. You’re my friend. I trusted you.’

  ‘Trust? Will I tell you what he said, Eleanor? What your liar of a husband said to me?’

  Eleanor held up her hand, stopping Nina. She couldn’t hear it, whatever it was, whether it had been happening when they all lived there, whether it had just started recently. She had to stop her saying anything else. Hurt her, too.

  She forced her voice to stay calm, her expression composed. ‘I don’t want to hear, Nina. Not any of it. You think I haven’t heard it before? You think he hasn’t been having flings on the side for years? That you were unique? That you were special to him? He says what people want to hear, Nina. He always has done, he always will do. You weren’t the first and you won’t be the last. Let me tell you that.’

  ‘Eleanor —’

  Eleanor silenced her again. All hope of a reconciliation with Henry had just died. Her husband had not just had affairs with colleagues, possibly with Hope, he had slept with her friend Nina. Had sex with Nina. Their friend Nina. She felt grief and anger rise inside her, fire and ice in her veins, masking her pain, overshadowing concern for Tom, changing everything. Her voice was as cold as her expression when she spoke again.

  ‘And you dare to tell me to leave you alone, Nina? To tell me to keep my family away from you? You get out of our lives. You and your son, get out and stay out of our lives.’

  ‘Eleanor —’

  ‘I don’t want to hear it, Nina. I don’t want to hear anything you have to say. Leave me, my children and my husband alone, do you hear me?’ She walked out of the room first.

  Facing Gracie afterwards was one of the hardest things she had done. Hearing her youngest daughter crying, begging to talk to Tom and to Nina, knowing it was impossible for more reasons now than she would ever be able to share.

  Back in London, it got worse. Henry arrived to see Gracie and Spencer. All concern and love, making Spencer laugh and even Gracie smile within minutes. Eleanor had to leave, barely able to look at him, let alone be in the same house as him.

  One afternoon, she nearly told Gracie, needing to somehow put a halt to Gracie’s hope and despair about Tom, to stop her writing letter after letter to them both. At first, despite everything she’d said to Nina that day in the hospital, Eleanor had posted them for her. Eventually, Eleanor broke all her own parenting rules and stopped at a café down the road and read two of the letters. Her heart nearly broke to see Gracie’s guilt and grief laid bare, pages of heartfelt lines begging Tom to write back, telling him how much she loved him, how she would do anything to turn back time. She told him that if she could swap places, if she was the one unable to walk, she would do it. Her letter to Nina was
as sad, so confused, so guilty, pleading with Nina, telling her how much Nina meant to her, how she loved her too. It was that letter that stopped Eleanor from telling Gracie about Henry and Nina. Her daughter was already devastated, already so fragile. What would news like that do to her?

  It barely seemed possible eight years had passed. Eleanor knew that something had stalled for her and for Gracie since then. Not for Spencer. He’d somehow emerged untouched. He had the same charm as Henry, Eleanor knew, the expectation and knowledge that people liked him, were drawn to him, that things would turn out well. It was helped by his looks, his sparkle – Henry’s traits, replicated in the next generation.

  But Gracie’s spirit had dimmed since the accident. Her joy, her enthusiasm to experience life had turned to a low flame rather than the blaze it once was. Eleanor saw it in herself, too. She’d felt her own interest in so many things dwindle. Was it simply part of the ageing process? She was in her mid-fifties, after all. It felt more like disappointment. Sadness. Loneliness. Months had turned to years without any contact between her and Henry. There were no longer outstanding bills to be paid. All he sent now was the figure they’d agreed when they first separated, which he’d somehow honoured, month after month, on top of the other debts she’d made him repay. Eleanor had barely touched it, living off her own earnings. She’d divide Henry’s money between her children one day.

  She knew all four of them had relationships with Henry independent of her, but if they did meet up with him, they’d obviously decided not to tell her. They’d all seemed to come to terms with the separation. It was she who still hadn’t, who still found herself burning with slow outrage towards him, and even more infuriatingly, feelings of love, despite everything. What would it take to sever any feeling for him?

  Perhaps if she knew where he was, where he lived, who he lived with, it would be easier. That’s what made it so difficult, not knowing anything. She understood Gracie’s anguish about Tom more than her daughter knew, the longing for some small detail, the silence harder than any facts would be. Was Henry living with another woman? Did he even have more children? It was possible. He had no reason to tell her if that had happened.

  It was late, after eleven, but Eleanor was now too restless to sleep. An urge came over her to see photos of the Hall again. All the boxes of paperwork were still in the attic. There’d been no desire and no need on Eleanor’s part to go through the rest since that time eight years previously, when her heart had softened at the sight of Henry’s attempt to trace his family tree, when she’d wanted to invite him back home, until all her hopes were destroyed by everything that happened in Italy. She’d finish the job now.

  Two hours later she was on her knees in the attic, surrounded by the final piles of papers, the remaining contents of the filing cabinets from Henry’s office at the Hall: old business plans, accounts, tourism newsletters, brochures, pages written in Henry’s strong handwriting, tales of the different rooms, the scripts for the tours of the Hall. Nearly three years of their life now tidied neatly into folders. It read like family history, not just paperwork. Perhaps Gracie might like to see it before she flew back, Eleanor thought. It might help remind her of happier times.

  As Eleanor reached the bottom of the final crate and took out one last folder, she yawned, tired now. She expected it to be more brochures, more scripts, possibly even more of Henry’s hidden invoices. It took only a quick glance at the first page for her to realise it was none of those things.

  Ten minutes later she was still there on the floor, reading through the sheaf of stapled, photocopied papers for a second time. She’d thought she could no longer be shocked by Henry; that there were no more deceptions for her to uncover. It seemed she was wrong.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  It was the light in Australia that was so different, Gracie realised, as she drove beyond the airport, heading north towards the goldfields for the first time in sixteen years. On either side of the freeway, the scenery was changing from scattered suburbia to sunburnt rolling hills, clumps of gum trees, that big, big sky all around. She fiddled with the car radio, finally settling on a station playing classical music, in need of the soothing tones.

  She’d promised to call Charlotte and her mother on her arrival, to phone Hope too, but she hadn’t yet. She’d ring once she got to Templeton Hall, she decided, once she was inside and had real news to impart, something beyond the obvious – that the flight had been long, the sky was blue.

  Charlotte had been all concern in their final conversation. ‘You’re still absolutely sure you’re okay to go back? You won’t be too nervous there in the Hall on your own?’ A pause then. ‘You won’t do anything silly, will you?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Go looking for Tom and Nina. I can understand you might want to find them, Gracie, I do, but I don’t think you should do something like that on your own.’

  Sometimes Charlotte knew her too well, despite the years and distance between them. Because it had crossed her mind again as her departure date neared – more than crossed her mind. Perhaps if she saw them face to face, even for a minute, even if it ended badly, it would be better than the picture she’d imagined for so many years. Being there, in Australia, would surely make it easier to track them both down. She could go into Castlemaine, ask around. Someone there would know what had happened to Nina, and once she knew where Nina was, Tom would surely be nearby. It was at that point that her imagination kept failing her. She couldn’t picture him any more.

  She’d once seen a documentary about young people with spinal injuries and her heart had filled with sadness. She’d seen so many bright minds in broken bodies, reliant on round-the-clock carers, their days punctuated by feeding, washing, their hopes and plans changed in a split-second. Many still had remarkable spirits, great senses of humour, changing their goals and ambitions to small, attainable things – lifting a finger, breathing on their own for a few hours a day. Some had married. ‘My body was damaged, not my brain. I can still communicate, still fall in love,’ one said. The interviews with the carers – almost invariably the mothers – were as heartbreaking. Footage of elderly women gently washing their grown children. ‘I did it when he was a baby. I’m happy to do it now.’ But what happened after the mother died? Hospitals? Nursing homes? Is that where Tom was now, confined to a bed, a wheelchair? And if she did find him, would he even allow her to see him, give her the opportunity to say to his face how sorry she was, how sorry she would always be? Or would he send her away before she had a chance to speak?

  Just over an hour later, something about the landscape made her slow down. A sign came into view, Castlemaine 25 km. She wasn’t far away now. She hadn’t been sure she would find her way so easily. There were no longer any roadside signs pointing to the Hall, after all. But it felt so familiar. The broad paddocks, gentle tree-covered hills, the big sky, the space. So much light and space. She stopped briefly to double-check her map and the smell when she opened the car door almost overwhelmed her: warm soil, gum leaves, the scents of her childhood.

  Five kilometres later she was at the turn-off. The huge gum tree at the junction of the highway and the dirt driveway had always been their landmark. She indicated left and drove slowly, jolting over potholes and loose stones. As she tried to negotiate her way around the worst of them, she saw broken tree branches, crooked posts, gaps in the fencing. Her father would never have let the approach road look this uncared for. ‘First impressions are everything, my darlings,’ she could almost hear him saying.

  The closer she came, the more neglect she saw: uneven patches of grass where there had once been smooth green lawn, bare brown earth where she’d once picked flowers, rows of fruit trees now left to grow wild, their branches heavy with unpicked, rotting fruit.

  One final bend of the driveway and there it was in front of her. Templeton Hall.

  She slowly brought the car to a halt, feeling as though her heart was trying to beat its way out of her chest. She’d expected t
he building to look smaller, but it seemed bigger. Two storeys high, large shuttered windows, an imposing front door reached by a flight of wide steps made from the same golden sandstone as the house itself. It needed painting, several roof tiles were broken and one of the window shutters was missing a slat, but it was still standing, almost glowing in the bright sunshine, as beautiful as she remembered.

  As she walked towards it, the sound of the gravel crunching beneath her shoes mingled with unfamiliar bird calls from the trees all around. She automatically reached for the antique silver whistle, holding it tight in her hand.

  She climbed the first step, the second, the third, wishing, too late, that she hadn’t offered to arrive early, hadn’t volunteered to be the first to step back inside the Hall again.

  The front door opened before she had a chance to put the key in the lock.

  In the seconds before her eyes adjusted completely from the bright sunlight, she registered only that a man was standing there. A tall man with dark, curly hair, holding something in his right hand. As she saw his face, she felt a rushing sensation from her head to her feet. She heard herself say his name as if from a long distance away.

  ‘Tom?’ She tried again. ‘Tom?’

  ‘Hello, Gracie.’

  He took a step forward into the light.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ he said.

  She was imagining this. She had to be. She was still on the plane, daydreaming, picturing what she would most love to happen, the person she would most like to be there waiting for her. Tom, standing in front of her, tall, strong, looking down at her, his face as familiar as if she had kissed it only the day before, not eight years previously. His hair as dark and curly, his eyes as dark brown, his gaze as direct.