Food, Sex & Money

by Liz Byrski

  ‘No. I must seem pretty insensitive. And I’m sorry. I was having such a good time, but I should have been more thoughtful, especially about coming here today.’

  Now that her feelings were named and out in the open, Fran felt stupid and childish. ‘It’s been a bit of a difficult time,’ she said. ‘I think I was overreacting. I’m sorry too.’

  ‘And there’s more, isn’t there?’ Lenore said. ‘You’re really worried about the scooter.’

  ‘Yes I am,’ Fran said. ‘She’s very forgetful. She may get lost, not be able to find her way home. But the other thing …’ She paused, remembering she was talking to Lenore but also needing to say it. ‘I don’t know how to put it, really, but this purple business, I’ve found it a bit hard to cope with. It seems so eccentric, and now the yellow scooter … I suppose I don’t want people to laugh at her. This must sound ridiculous, but it’s like when I was a teenager and I used to worry about what she wore at school concerts. I suppose we all worried that our mothers would embarrass us, and our friends would laugh. It’s like that.’

  ‘But who would laugh?’ Lenore asked. ‘Not your friends, or the people in the village who know her and like her, not people whose opinions really matter. If I saw Lila coming along the street, I’d think she must be a great character. I’d admire her, and, in fact, that’s just what I do feel anyway.’

  ‘You think I’m being stupid.’

  Lenore undid her seatbelt and put her hand on Fran’s arm. ‘Not in the least. I think you’re having a perfectly normal reaction. Whoever we grow up to be, Fran, we are always our mothers’ daughters.’ She picked up her bag and got out of the car. ‘This was all very special, something I won’t ever forget, and I hope I haven’t spoiled it for you.’

  Fran took a deep breath and got out of the car. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to laugh or cry. ‘You haven’t spoiled anything, Lenore. Really. I’m sorry for being a pain in the bum.’

  Lenore smiled. ‘I’ll see you soon, then,’ she said. ‘Will you be able to make time to work on the book?’

  ‘I’ll do my best. A lot of it is written in bits and pieces. I just need to make it come together.’

  ‘You’ll do it,’ she said, walking around to Fran’s side. ‘And if you don’t, I’ll be after you with my big stick.’ She hesitated slightly, and then leaned forward and kissed Fran on the cheek.

  ‘Thanks for the lift,’ and she darted between the cars to the other side of the road just as the tram rattled to a halt.

  Fran stood watching as it jolted forward and resumed its journey, and Lenore waved to her from a rear window. She felt uneasy now about her ungenerous attitude. Lenore was a strange and disturbing presence, both attractive and intimidating, and Fran was left wishing that she could have the last two hours back again to do it all differently.

  TWENTY-SIX

  The builders had moved out of the Boatshed the previous week, taking with them heaps of rubble, lengths of surplus wood and boxes of tools. Now the decorators were putting the last touches to the paintwork. By the end of next week, the kitchen fitting would be complete. Bonnie checked the schedule on her clip-board; she had booked the floor finishers and the cleaners for the week after that. Time to advertise for staff, a chef first, then a manager for the restaurant, and she needed to make a final decision about the furnishings, and for that she needed Sylvia and Fran: Sylvia for her strong visual sense, and Fran because, as the restaurant would trade on her name, she had to feel comfortable with it.

  The interior walls had been sanded and repainted gleaming white, reminiscent of the hull of a boat, and the new hardwood floorboards would be stained to a warm cedar tone and then varnished. Bonnie wanted white wooden tables and chairs in bright primary colours – scarlet, royal blue, emerald, purple, yellow and orange. Sylvia had agreed that the bold colours would work, but Fran was more cautious.

  ‘We can drop purple, if you like,’ Bonnie had suggested with a smile. ‘If it’s making you nervous.’

  ‘On that basis you’d also have to drop yellow too,’ Fran replied. ‘But it’s not that, it just feels like too much mixed-up colour.’

  So Bonnie had the designer draw up an interior with simple white painted tables, each surrounded by chairs in a single different colour. The effect was remarkable and she could hardly wait to get Fran’s reaction.

  She wandered through into the gallery where the paintwork was now complete, and stood studying the drawing of the shop fittings she and Sylvia had chosen, visualising the rich colours and textures of the fabrics, and the glint of silver, bronze and bead jewellery displayed in the glass cabinets. By the time Will arrived at the end of the following week, she thought, he would see a major transformation.

  She wandered outside to get away from the smell of paint while she waited for the signwriter to turn up. A couple of plastic crates were stacked on the boardwalk right where the few scruffy kiosk tables used to be and she perched there, in the same place she had sat brooding on the day her mother left for Greece, the day that she and Fran had rescued Sylvia from the vicarage. Sylvia’s late-night lecture had shaken her, confronting her with her own selfish neediness, and then that question about what age would be ‘too old’. But toughest of all was what Sylvia had said about them all being alone; that in the end each had to be enough for herself. Bonnie had gone to bed that night battling fear and confusion, and frequently breaking out in hot flushes of shame about her behaviour towards her mother and Hamish.

  But it was the vision of herself and her future that was so confronting. ‘I never think of myself as single,’ she’d said while Sylvia made the tea. ‘Jeff and I were married for more than thirty years. Even though he’s gone I still feel married to him.’

  ‘I know,’ Sylvia said. ‘And I do know how hard it is for you, but yes, he’s gone. You’re on your own now, Bon, and you do have to get to grips with that.’

  Bonnie realised that in many ways she was still behaving as though Jeff was alive, and would eventually return and take over the reins.

  ‘So what do you think about the kitchen design?’ she’d ask him at night, or ‘D’you think I’ve gone over the top on the projected turnover?’ She felt his advice and acted on it and she sensed his approval around her like a safety blanket. But Sylvia had forced reality on her – Jeff wasn’t coming back, and her mother’s life was her own. She would need more than the Boatshed to sustain her through the vast expanse of the future, but in the meantime it would serve to distract her from the other emotional maelstrom that had threatened to engulf her since the birth of Fran’s granddaughter.

  The morning after Rebekah’s birth, Bonnie had staggered downstairs in her dressing gown to find Hamish in the kitchen drinking coffee and reading the paper.

  ‘Good morning, Bonnie,’ he’d said, getting up. ‘Can I get you a cup of coffee?’

  Weary and bewildered, Bonnie felt the dialogue was the wrong way round. Surely she was supposed to do the asking? It was supposed to be her move, her olive branch, but he had beaten her to it.

  ‘Thanks, Hamish,’ she said, getting a glass of purified water from the cooler, ‘that would be nice.’ She drank the water and sat down at the benchtop observing him as he discarded the contents of the plunger, rinsed it and put in fresh coffee.

  ‘I’ve been up for a while,’ he said. ‘This lot is a bit stewed, I’ll make a fresh pot.’

  He was not, thankfully, in his pyjamas, but wearing an immaculate pair of chinos and a light blue shirt. Bonnie’s first and uncharitable thought was that obviously the sleepover had been planned, as he wasn’t wearing the same clothes he’d had on at the party. But she realised she was thinking like a mother with a troublesome teenage daughter.

  ‘Quite a night, last night,’ Hamish said. ‘A once in a lifetime experience for me.’

  ‘Me too,’ Bonnie said, feeling as though she had lost some battle, one that hadn’t really been worth winning anyway.

  ‘Wasn’t your mother splendid? She and Lila – such rema
rkable women.’

  The slight Scottish accent that he had never quite lost, although he had come to Australia as a teenager, sounded pleasant, melodious. In fact, he was quite a nice looking man for his age.

  ‘Don’t you think so, Bonnie?’ Hamish prompted.

  ‘I thought they were amazing,’ she said, sipping her coffee. ‘None of the rest of us knew what to do.’

  She watched him get out Irene’s favourite cup and saucer, fill it almost to the top with coffee and add a dash of cream, just as she liked it. He looked relaxed, pleasantly domestic; there was something reassuringly solid about him. Hamish had been involved with her parents for as long as Bonnie could remember; a childhood memory of her running towards him and being caught and swung around in the air, squealing with delight, came with a burst of nostalgia, a taste of childhood joy she had forgotten, and she remembered too her teenage appreciation that he always took her seriously. And yet she had not taken him seriously, had seen him merely as an interference; he was so familiar and yet entirely new.

  ‘I’d better take this up to the boss,’ Hamish said, slipping a couple of digestive biscuits onto the saucer. ‘She likes her coffee really hot.’

  Bonnie reached out and put her hand on his arm. ‘Hamish …’ He paused, looking down at her in surprise. ‘Hamish … I’m sorry … really. I don’t know what got into me.’

  He put down the cup and took her hand. ‘No need to apologise, Bonnie.’ He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers lightly. ‘I’ve known you since you were as small as Rebekah Frances, and this is a bit of a shift for all of us, but you’re a wise and generous woman, just like your mother.’ And he patted her on the shoulder, picked up the cup and was gone.

  Facing her mother loomed as a rather more awkward hurdle in Bonnie’s guilty imagination. It was hard to rid herself of the feeling that Irene was suddenly going to confront her with a reprimand about the banker and the share portfolio; the fact that Irene had probably forgotten all about it years ago didn’t seem to make it any less of a threat. Eventually, around midday, Irene had come into the study where Bonnie was working to give her the Sunday paper.

  ‘I’ve finished with this, Bonnie,’ she said, dropping the paper onto the desk.

  Bonnie, who hadn’t heard her come in, jumped nervously to her feet, and took off her glasses.

  ‘Thanks … er … thanks, Mum.’ Every line that she had rehearsed now seemed fatuous, pretentious or both. ‘Mum, I …’ She looked down at her feet. ‘I’ve been really stupid and selfish.’ She paused, hoping her mother would rescue her but Irene, standing straight-faced in the doorway, was clearly waiting for more.

  ‘About Hamish,’ Bonnie began again. ‘I’m sorry, really sorry. I always think I know best but I was wrong.’

  ‘Thank you, Bonnie, I’m glad you’ve come to terms with it.’

  ‘Yes … and I was so proud last night, you and Lila were wonderful, and I’m … well, I’m ashamed of myself.’

  Irene walked back into the room. ‘Don’t be, there’s no need. Sometimes being close to someone makes it hard for us to see each other clearly.’ She paused and fleetingly Bonnie was convinced she was going to mention the banker. ‘I was worried about you last night,’ Irene said. ‘The baby … I thought … I saw your face and wondered whether …’

  Bonnie’s heart began to race and she raised her hand. ‘It’s okay, Mum, I’m okay. I wouldn’t have chosen to be there but it happened, and I’m fine, happy for Caro and Mike, and of course for Fran and Lila.’

  Irene said nothing at first, just looked her straight in the eye and eventually Bonnie had to look away. ‘Well,’ Irene said, ‘if you’re sure … as long as you’re really okay.’ And she patted Bonnie gently on the arm and left the room, closing the door behind her.

  Bonnie sank into her chair gasping for air. With her elbows on the desk she buried her head in her hands, taking deep breaths to calm herself. A fine film of sweat broke out on her skin and her head was spinning. She thought she had carried it off well last night, concentrating on doing practical things, then on her annoyance with Hamish and finally, when she was alone, forcing the feelings down by focusing instead on what Sylvia had said to her. But of course her mother knew, would understand how it felt; indeed, she too would be caught in her own grief as she helped deliver Lila’s great granddaughter. And in that moment Bonnie knew that by referring to it Irene had forced their shared grief to a place where it could not be ignored for long.

  The signwriter’s white flatbed van drew up in the street outside and Bonnie got to her feet, straightened her shoulders and walked out to meet him. Keep busy, that was the thing, keep busy and distracted for long enough and the pain might go away, she might be able to smother it again. What she must not do was to think about the baby and the fact that one day, probably quite soon, Fran would have Rebekah with her and she, Bonnie, would be expected to admire her, touch her, hold her – because she was afraid that when that day came, the decades old bandaids would no longer be strong enough to contain the wound.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Sylvia was counting her money, not in piles of coins, but carefully working out her capital, how much interest she would get on the investments that had been her share of the settlement, and how much she would have left from her pay from the Boatshed after tax was deducted. What she had said to Bonnie had also worked as a reminder to her that she was now really all she’d got. But she was also well aware that her situation was somewhat different to Bonnie’s and it wasn’t just a difference in financial status.

  Comparatively early in her marriage, Sylvia had recognised that she would have to take responsibility for her own emotional and spiritual needs and had developed her ways of coping with the painful discovery that loneliness within a relationship is more acute than being alone. Already Colin’s presence in her life was shadowy, different entirely from Jeff’s constant presence in Bonnie’s consciousness. He was in every respect Bonnie’s point of reference; for Sylvia, on the other hand, the issue was one of direction tied to a restless sense of something she hadn’t yet been able to grasp.

  She was very close to deciding against England, but at the same time the prospect of running the gallery felt like a compromise. Just as moving to England would be hooking her in to Kim’s dreams and aspirations, so the gallery locked her into Bonnie’s. In Hong Kong she had discovered the passionate, assertive, sexual woman she could be and it was thrilling, but it was just a stage in the unfolding challenge – and she would not compromise this journey for Kim, for Bonnie and the Boatshed, or even for Will.

  ‘I’ve always had this idea,’ Irene said as they discussed the use of the garden cottage, ‘that single women should reorganise their living arrangements as they get older. We don’t need all these separate households when we all have different things we can offer each other.’

  ‘I thought you liked your solitude,’ Sylvia had said.

  ‘I do. I like to know I have spaces where I won’t be disturbed. But the older I get, the more I see the value in having people close to me as well. The thing is, Sylvia, some of us are lucky enough to have money or property or both, others are less well off financially but can contribute in other ways – energy, companionship, a safety net as one ages. I have more than I’ll ever need, and I really hope you’ll stay. It’s as much for my own sake as for yours.’

  The cottage was the size of a one-bedroom apartment, simple, comfortable and sufficiently detached from the house to give her the feeling of being in a place of her own.

  ‘We’ll get the flying domestics in next week,’ Irene said, pulling the dustcovers off the sofa. ‘Open up those windows, Sylvia; let’s get some sun and fresh air going through.’

  The furniture she had put in storage when Colin vacated the house could stay put for a while, but there were lamps, ornaments and pictures, cushions, and other bits and pieces which would give the cottage a familiar and personal touch.

  ‘For as long as you want it, dear,’ Irene sai
d. ‘And I personally hope it will be a long time.’

  ‘Couldn’t you go somewhere else?’ Will asked when she told him. ‘Somewhere you and I could be together?’

  ‘I need somewhere that suits me,’ she said. ‘Besides, why would I get somewhere for you and me? You’re only here occasionally.’

  ‘I could be there more often,’ he suggested, but Sylvia decided not to respond.

  ‘Come in, Sylvia, come in,’ Veronica Waters said, drawing her into the living room. ‘It’s lovely to see you, I was so glad when you phoned.’

  The room was bright and warm with afternoon sunshine, and Sylvia remembered that the last time she was here, she had thought it clearly reflected its owner, a woman who was entirely at ease with herself and what she wanted. It was essentially well organised but also confidently scattered with books, newspapers and other bits and pieces – there was no plan here to impress a visitor, or to impose a particular décor. The contents were entirely compatible with Veronica’s personality.

  ‘This is such a lovely place,’ Sylvia said.

  Veronica moved some books from a chair so that they could both sit down. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I like it. I’m not the tidiest of people but then it doesn’t really matter when one only has oneself to worry about. How are you, Sylvia? I’ve thought of you so often but didn’t like to call. I thought you might be wanting to forget about Box Hill, create a little distance.’

  ‘I did at first,’ Sylvia admitted, ‘but time’s moved on now and I certainly didn’t want to lose touch with you.’

  ‘Well, I’m delighted,’ Veronica said. ‘Of course, we have a new minister now, you know, and a new minister’s wife.’ She pulled a long face. ‘It takes a bit of getting used to when one is so involved and someone very different takes over. They’re from England, and rather stodgy, I’m afraid. He’s amazingly patriarchal and she’s very much the bossy vicar’s wife. Still, I think they have good hearts. I guess we’ll get used to them eventually.’