by Liz Byrski
‘Dear Will,’ she had said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. ‘I do remember that you told me you’re an excellent swimmer.’
‘For all you know it could be a railway bridge,’ he said sulkily.
‘It’s a bridge over the Swan River,’ she said firmly, but with a note of tender indulgence. ‘I’ve been reading the lovely book on Perth you sent me.’
She was humouring him and the worst thing for Will was that while she was clearly looking forward to seeing him again, she wasn’t driven crazy with longing as he was. She called him regularly, but he called her obsessively; she told him she missed him but he told her he longed for her. She told him about her visits to studios and warehouses searching out stock for the Boatshed gallery, about Bonnie’s efficient management of the project, about their sorties among the ladders and cables and plaster dust as they inspected the renovations, and about the plans for Fran’s surprise party. He told her about his failure to work, his attempts to distract himself, and how he had dreamed that she came to him in the night.
‘I could come over there for the weekend and come to the party,’ he had said plaintively the previous day.
‘Don’t you think that would look rather strange?’ Sylvia said. ‘After all, you’re the one who said Bonnie shouldn’t know just yet.’
And so he was left with nowhere to go, faced at all turns with her relentlessly gentle firmness and good sense.
He picked up the phone and dialled again, flicking it aside as he heard it divert. Why did this have to be so hard? For the first time in his life Will didn’t know where he stood. Not since Glenda had he felt anything more than a mix of affection and lust for any woman, and never had one taken over his head, his heart and his erotic imagination in the way that Sylvia had. Will knew he was in love and he longed to plunge headlong into it, to do all the crazy, irrational, glorious things that lovers do; the things that they had done in Hong Kong. But first of all he had to tell Sylvia how he felt, and what held him back was the terrifying feeling that while he was in it up to the neck and sinking, she had simply dipped her toe into the shallows.
The mobile rang and he pounced on it.
‘So sorry, Will,’ she said in the voice that melted his insides. ‘I did get your messages but Bonnie and I have been delivering stuff to Caro for Fran’s party.’
He lay down on the couch, soothed momentarily by the fact that she was there on the line talking to him, connected directly to him by some miracle of science that held him jerking and twisting like a fish on a line. He closed his eyes and saw her on the balcony in Hong Kong, standing on tiptoes stretching her arms above her head as he walked up to her and took her in his arms. He felt the warm weight of her body leaning into his.
‘You know I love you, don’t you?’ he said, and his voice sounded unreal, wobbly, totally unlike himself. He hadn’t meant to say it, not now, not like this. There was silence at the end of the line and then he heard her take a breath and he could see her face beside him, close enough to touch, close enough to feel her breath on his cheek.
‘I know you think you do,’ she said softly, and he was angry suddenly, sitting bolt upright on the couch, his body tense with emotion.
‘Don’t patronise me, Sylvia,’ he said. ‘Don’t do the wise, enigmatic older woman thing. I can’t bear it. I love you, no thinking about it, no deluding myself, I’m in love with you … and I’m falling apart.’
TWENTY-FOUR
Fran stepped into the long velvet skirt Sylvia had made for her and was surprised to find that it was a little looser than the night she had worn it to the Wine Club dinner. In fact, it was so much looser that she really ought to move the button, but being short of time she opted for a safety pin, and put on the cream silk shirt, wondering briefly if she was overdressed for wherever it was they were going. David had told her to dress up because he was taking her, Caro and Mike out for dinner to celebrate her birthday. It was a gesture designed, she was sure, to help heal the rift between her and Caro. She would actually have preferred to have a quiet dinner with them at home in the new house, especially as she had worn herself out unpacking boxes. But now that the time had arrived she found she was looking forward to it, and when she saw David’s car draw up outside she switched off the lights, grabbed her umbrella and ran down the path.
It was an appalling night, the strong wind driving the rain in almost horizontal torrents, and she slipped thankfully into the front seat. They set off, crawling along streets where water pooled and gushed in the gutters, the wipers working overtime, the gale force wind pummelling the car.
‘Why are we here?’ Fran asked as David turned into Caro and Mike’s street and drew up outside their house.
‘I said we’d pick them up.’
‘Can’t they get there under their own steam?’
‘They could, but I’m the designated driver, so they can get stuck into the champagne with you.’
Fran leaned back in her seat, thinking that it wasn’t a good idea for Caro to be drinking at all, especially if she was still throwing up. But she decided that it might be best to keep her nose out of it and try to enjoy herself. ‘Just hoot,’ she suggested as David opened the car door. ‘They can run out.’
‘Caro wants to show us something,’ he said. ‘Come on, it won’t take a minute.’
Fran struggled out of the car, which was low and awkward for someone her size. She felt it was irritatingly typical of Caro to make everything more complicated, and putting up her umbrella she took a stride across a huge puddle and hurried up the path. The front door was ajar and she pushed it open and walked into the dark hall.
‘Caro, Mike!’ she called. ‘We’re here!’ There was no answer. A slice of light showed under the door to the living room.
‘Best go on down,’ said David, and with her irritation growing, Fran strode on down the passage and opened the door to face a room decked with streamers and heart-shaped balloons, ‘Happy Birthday’ banners, and the smiling faces of her family and friends, who immediately burst into song.
‘Happy birthday, Mum,’ David said, pressing his hand in the small of her back, pushing her gently forward, and Caro, looking as though she might drop the baby at any minute, took her hand and drew her gently into the room.
Fran’s heart plummeted as she struggled to cope with the shock. She had always hated surprises. It went back to childhood, to the day her father had promised her a surprise on her eighth birthday. She had convinced herself it was going to be a visit to the zoo and afternoon tea with pink-iced buns, fruit cocktail in jelly, and strawberry milkshakes. But when the day arrived Mal had taken her and Lila down to the footy club, installed them in the family lounge and produced lemonade and a small birthday cake with seven candles. His mates had trooped through from the bar, sung ‘Happy Birthday’ and disappeared again, taking Mal with them. Fran had stared miserably at the candles that proved her father didn’t know how old she was, and then burst into tears.
For more than an hour she and Lila had sat alone in the silent lounge waiting for his return, waiting for even a glimpse of his face around the door. Finally, Lila told Fran to put on her coat, and led her out of the club to the tram, with the promise that she would take her to the zoo the following day. Hours later, Fran had woken to the sound of her father staggering drunkenly into the house, demanding to know why they’d left. Since then she had maintained a strong, sometimes perverse need to know just what was being planned, when and by whom. It had been the start of a lifelong mistrust of surprises, and her unwillingness to trust others to do anything for her. Faced now with this extraordinary demonstration of affection, Fran swallowed the shock that threatened to choke her, and gripped Caro’s hand. There was no mistaking the nervous brightness of her daughter’s eyes, nor the anxiety with which she searched her face for approval.
‘I wanted to surprise you, to make it really special,’ Caro said, cautiously, as though sensing Fran’s ambivalence. ‘I hope … I hope it’s okay.’
Crushing the strange mix of hostility and panic that she felt, Fran smiled. ‘It’s lovely, Caro, really lovely, thank you so much,’ she said.
‘Happy birthday, Fran,’ Mike said, kissing her and handing her a glass of champagne. ‘And many happy returns. Next birthday you’ll be a grandmother.’
Sylvia, who had registered the flash of mixed emotions that crossed Fran’s face as she opened the door, was wary. She knew that Fran’s reaction to Caro’s efforts in planning the party, and her own and Bonnie’s involvement, could go in one of two very different ways. Bonnie had been cavalier about the whole thing, confident that the genuineness of Caro’s purpose justified the secrecy; but Sylvia, highly sensitised to the subtleties of offence, defence, confusion of intent and misinterpretation in her own presently awkward relationship with Kim, had been on tenterhooks for the past ten days.
‘See,’ Bonnie whispered, ‘I told you it’d be okay.’
‘It’s not,’ she whispered back, watching Fran take in the presence of everyone in the room. ‘Not yet, she’s still being polite. We’re not out of the woods yet.’ Even so, she began to relax as Mike put on some music and the level of noise in the room rose to a lively buzz, drowning any traces of awkwardness.
But Sylvia had more on her mind than Fran’s reaction to the party. In the four weeks since she’d got back from Hong Kong, her relationship with Will had taken an entirely unexpected turn. She had been sure that the insistent telephone calls would soon stop. But it seemed that he had abandoned all routine and was instead working at odd, disorganised hours, dropping out of his social life, and focusing all his attention on her. Even from the other side of the country his neediness was smothering her. She had taken to leaving the mobile switched off for quite long periods to give herself a break from the constant calls, and because she was sure that their frequency would alert Bonnie to the fact that something strange was going on.
On more than one occasion Sylvia had been tempted to confide in both Bonnie and Fran, but it was clear that Bonnie was, for some as yet unexplained reason, distressed about Irene’s friendship with Hamish, and Fran was not only exhausted but anxious and concerned about Caro. And so, uneasily, she had kept her own counsel, hoping that time and distance would eventually do its work. But Will’s blunt declaration of love had made her realise that she was enmeshed in something much more complicated than she had realised.
‘You look anxious, Syl,’ Fran said, coming over to hug her.
‘Just hoping you’re happy about this,’ she said. ‘Happy birthday, Fran. You look gorgeous – and thinner.’
Fran displayed the safety pin. ‘I think I’ve lost a bit. Look at this! Bonnie might be right about low carbs being the answer.’
Sylvia hugged her again. ‘Well done! I hope this’ll fit,’ she said, handing her a package wrapped in silver tissue. ‘I made it but I may need to take it in a bit now.’
Fran made her way around the room. ‘What is Lenore Bannister doing at my birthday party?’ she hissed into Bonnie’s ear as she hugged her.
‘It’s difficult,’ Bonnie said awkwardly, turning Fran away slightly so that they couldn’t be overheard. ‘I stuffed up. The day I took her and Jack to the Boatshed she mentioned she was going to be in Melbourne again, and we arranged to meet and have dinner this evening. Thing was, I forgot to put it in my diary. So when she rang this afternoon I bluffed and suggested she come along. Do you mind very much?’
‘I’m just getting used to the idea of the party,’ Fran said. ‘Lenore is a minor hurdle.’
‘And I’m afraid Hamish is here too,’ Bonnie said. ‘Mum insisted on bringing him, although I told her she shouldn’t.’
‘Why ever not?’ Fran asked. ‘He’s a lovely man, and he and Irene get on so well. She was telling me that they’ve known each other for years.’
‘Don’t!’ Bonnie said, holding her hand up, palm outwards. ‘I don’t want to discuss it.’
Fran shrugged and moved on to hug a couple of former neighbours, and Bonnie glanced across the room to where Irene and Hamish were deep in conversation with David. At least they looked okay together. Perhaps this was just a phase they were going through, grasping at youth and the idea of a holiday romance. Surely Irene should be getting over it by now?
Lila had found a soul mate. She had spotted her the minute she walked in the door, a strong, energetic looking woman with curly grey hair, dressed entirely in purple with a turquoise pendant on a silver chain around her neck.
‘Hello, I’m Lila, Fran’s mother,’ Lila had said, thrusting out her hand, and the woman had taken Lila’s hand in both of hers and fixed her very bright turquoise eyes on her.
‘I can see that you are,’ she said. ‘I’m Lenore, I’m going to be working with Fran on her book. You and I are a matching pair – you love purple too?’
And Lila had led Lenore over to the window seat and told her how she had coloured her life purple.
‘I know that poem,’ Lenore said. ‘And, Lila, do you know about the red hat society? Well, you know the poem talks about wearing purple with a red hat – ’
‘And the hat clashes with the purple,’ Lila cut in.
‘Right! Well all around the world there are red hat groups, women who wear purple with red hats, to beat that feeling of invisibility and the idea that older women are irrelevant.’
‘You mean there are other women?’ Lila asked. ‘Other … purple women?’
‘Thousands,’ Lenore said with a grin. ‘There are lots in England and the US, I think there are a couple of groups in Sydney, and maybe one here in Victoria. I could find out for you.’
Lila clasped her hand. ‘Yes, yes please, I haven’t got a red hat yet, but I’ve been thinking about it, a big one, with a wide brim and some lovely tulle or chiffon wrapped around it. Only between you and me, Lenore, I thought everyone would just laugh at me. They already think I’m a bit of a joke.’
‘Take no notice of them,’ Lenore said, patting Lila’s arm. ‘This is the time of your life to make a statement, Lila. There’s a novel written about it too, I’ll mail you a copy.’
‘I wish you’d come and see my place, Lenore,’ Lila said. ‘What are you doing tomorrow?’
‘I have to meet an author and a photographer in the morning,’ Lenore said, ‘but I’m free after that and I don’t go back to Sydney until Tuesday morning.’
‘Splendid! Here, I’ll write down my address for you.’ She leaned forward and lowered her voice conspiratorially. ‘I may not have a red hat, but I do have something else. It’s a secret, I haven’t told anyone yet, but I’ve just bought a scooter, so I can get around a bit on my own. If you pop over tomorrow afternoon I’ll show it to you.’
‘A scooter? Good for you, Lila,’ Lenore said. ‘Purple, I hope?’
‘Canary yellow,’ Lila said with pride. ‘Lovely combination, don’t you think?’
‘Stunning,’ Lenore said. ‘And a red hat will top it off. Maybe I can have a ride on the scooter …?’
David strolled outside onto the deck to get some air. Three hours in and the party was in full swing. He had done his turn on the dance floor with his grandmother, his mother and sister; he’d even managed a very sharp samba with Bonnie and a rather surprising jive with Sylvia. He closed the sliding door behind him, breathing in the fresh cold air. It was good to be outside. Sometimes the effect of light and noise combined with the slightest hint of tobacco smoke would make him nauseous. Leaning against the wall out of the path of the wind, he watched as it ripped through the tree tops and the light from the windows transformed the driving rain into sheets of silver. It was the worst night he could remember for a long time, but at least everyone, and particularly Fran, seemed to be having a good time. What would it be like to have Jodie there with him, in the heart of his family, dancing with him, holding his hand? Pushing away the images he cursed himself for the stupidity of the past that had so dramatically affected his life, and for his more recent failure to grasp the opportunity that had been offered.
The door slid open and Mike staggered out, burping loudly, and lurched towards him. He’d been playing rugby that afternoon and had sunk a good few beers in the bar before collecting Lila, and had made it home half an hour before the party. Now he was quite drunk, bumping into furniture, hugging people at the least invitation, and constantly telling anyone who would listen that he was about to become a father.
‘Hey, Davo,’ he said, thumping him on the shoulder. ‘Great party, mate! Need you to do drinks and stuff, I wanna dance.’
David steered him back into the house, pointed him in the direction of Caro, opened some more wine, topped up glasses and checked the oven. The food looked done and he took out the quiches and the tray of filo pastry parcels filled with spinach and ricotta, and lined them up on the benchtop.
‘I’ll help you,’ Fran said, appearing beside him.
‘You will not,’ he said. ‘You’re the guest of honour. You just get out of the kitchen and enjoy yourself. You are enjoying it, aren’t you? I wasn’t sure at first.’
She hugged him as he put down the tray of food. ‘Very much,’ she said. ‘It was a bit of a shock, that’s all. Now I’ve got over that it’s wonderful, the first time I’ve ever had a party for me.’
‘Then off you go,’ he said. And she drifted away and was collared by Hamish, who swept her onto the floor with a flourish.
Caro danced slowly, her arms around Mike’s neck. It was after ten and apart from champagne for the toasts she had drunk only water and eaten nothing at all. She had felt strange all day, queasy, light headed and on and off she’d been getting quite painful squeezing sensations.
‘Braxton-Hicks contractions,’ Mike had said when he got back from rugby. ‘Tightening-up practice for the real thing.’
‘I know what Braxton-Hicks feel like,’ Caro had said irritably, ’I’ve been having them for weeks. Everything tightens and squeezes and you feel as though your eyes are going to pop out. These are different, more intense – painful, actually.’
