‘Now?’
‘Yes, before everyone wakes up.’
Rose nodded.
‘Go and get changed,’ she said, ‘I’ll meet you out the front.’
I went back to my room to pull on a T-shirt and some shorts. At moments like these, I was glad that Rose was my mother. She hadn’t asked where we were going or, like most mothers would have, made a fuss. We had been through so many of her own moments of madness, she wasn’t about to question mine.
I slipped my shoes on, feeling surer now that Rose was coming with me. If anyone could help Frank it was my mother. When I wheeled my pushbike around to the front of the house, she was waiting for me under the sign, in Phoebe.
She hitched the hem up, and perched side-saddle on my bike, the daisy clips dancing on its spokes. ‘I haven’t done this since your dad used to dink me home from work,’ she laughed. ‘Forgotten how much fun it is.’
I smiled, climbing on and concentrating on keeping us balanced, arms either side of her, breathing her in, just like Harry must have done all those years ago.
‘Hold on, Rose,’ I yelled, ‘corner!’, as we lurched to one side, threatening to tip over, shrieking and giggling and half-hoping we would.
‘That was close,’ Rose laughed, ‘I thought we were goners!’
I laughed out loud at Rose suddenly acting the child she should have been.
Nearing Annabelle’s house, I slowed down and wobbled the bike to a stop outside the gates guarded by the twin gargoyles, baring their grinning teeth and fat little tummies at us.
‘Good morning, Lulu, Annabelle,’ Rose said, nodding at them.
‘Very funny, Rose,’ I said, leaning the bike against the fence. ‘Come on.’
Making our way past the house and the shed, as the earth sloped towards the river, Rose took my arm, slowing me down. ‘Are you sure this is where he is, love?’
‘Pretty sure,’ I said, my foot on the first rung of the steps that Frank had somehow managed to curl around the tree without using a single nail – ‘You don’t want to pierce a tree,’ he’d explained to us, ‘breaks its spirit.’
‘I’ll go up and see.’
The wind whipped at my legs as I began to climb to the place where Frank had built our nest, shadowy in the branches that held it in their gnarled claws.
Reaching the last rung, I hoisted myself through the hole in the floor, pulling myself up by the dangling rope to the verandah, and peered through a window.
‘Frank,’ I whispered, ‘Frank, it’s me, Tallulah, are you there?’
No answer. Only the rushing breath of the growing wind and the screech of a flying fox startling me and rousing the shape on the floor.
‘Annie,’ Frank said, ‘is that you, Annie girl?’
When I think of that night, I think of the wind that tore at it, and the strange journey that was Frank’s descent from the tree house.
At first he was hesitant to leave, his eyes flicking from Rose to me then back to Rose, where they widened for an instant.
‘Ah,’ he’d said then, ‘a fellow traveller.’ And let himself be led.
Rose sent me home to tell Annabelle he had been found, and after that, Frank’s mother Christa took him in, the apple from his father’s tree, Craggy Jack’s shadow shuffling on her doorstep.
Frank was cleaned up and sobered up, Christa telling an interviewer years later, when Frank’s ‘In My Mother’s House’ series came out, that when he first arrived she had pointed him to his room and handed him a paintbrush.
‘It’s how the Andrews men heal,’ she said.
How the Andrews women heal she did not say, but the day after Frank left for his mother’s, Annie came home to claim her daughter.
*
‘How’s your dad?’ I’d asked a few weeks after Annie’s return.
Annabelle shrugged. ‘All right.’
We were sitting at Snow’s, waiting for Josh to show up.
‘Is he doing any work?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Yes, you do, Annabelle, he writes to you all the time.’
‘Well, he writes to you too, Tallulah, so you already know the answer to that question.’
‘Are you going to go and see him soon? Maybe I could come with you. We could go in the holidays?’
‘No.’
‘Annabelle, why don’t you go see him?’
‘I don’t want to,’ she said. ‘Stop going on about it.’
‘I’m not,’ I said, ‘I just think it would be good for him if we went to see him.’
‘Well, I don’t want to see him,’ Annabelle said, holding up her hand. ‘End of conversation, Tallulah.’
I sighed and looked out the window for Josh, Frank’s latest letter burning in my pocket.
Dear Tallulah de Lightful,
Well, things at Christa’s are going as well as can be expected.
She watches over me like a hawk and swoops if she sees me falter, a mother’s prerogative, even if I am fifty-seven years old.
I am painting again, a new series, which I think you might like, and Annabelle also. I think it’s quite enchanting, if you’ll forgive some immodesty.
How is Annabelle?
I do not wish to burden you with all our family’s ills, and I do not intend for you to become our go-between, but as she does not answer my letters could you tell Annabelle this for me?
Could you tell her that I think of her every day and the last thing I do when I close my eyes at its end is kiss her goodnight.
Tell her I have not touched a drop.
Did you know that the name Tallulah has its origins with the native American Indians, the Choctaw people of the Mississippi region?
It means ‘leaping waters’, and having seen you in the swimming pool, I do not doubt it.
Goodbye my friend,
Whatever happens, don’t stop leaping.
Frank X
‘Just hear me out, Lulu,’ Simone was saying. ‘That’s all I’m asking you to do.’
We were sitting in the Royal Albert’s beer garden in Juniper Bay, sunlight spilling through its lattice onto tables with beer coasters shoved unceremoniously beneath their legs.
I loved the Royal Albert, it had been my local my whole life. It was a red-brick, beer-soaked relic where the barmaids called everyone ‘sweetheart’ and placed frosty glasses on long, wet mats that ran the entire length of the bar, long after all the other hotels in the area had nailed their furniture down and painted their walls in a colour called cappuccino.
I had sat perched in its ‘Ladies Lounge’ with Rose, and later with Sam and Mattie too, drinking something red and frothy through a waxy straw, while Harry bought chips for everyone and drank beer until Rose said, ‘That’s enough now, Harry.’
I had danced with Annabelle in its now long gone ‘Cabaret’ room, screaming the words to songs we loved into each other’s faces, hers smudged and beautiful under the red and blue lights.
Josh and I had kissed underneath its dark green awnings, hot nights drowning in sweat and love and too much underage vodka.
And now I was back, sitting opposite Simone, executive producer and presenter of Our Time, Our Stories, and one of the most successful young lesbians ever to graduate from St Rita’s.
Our Time, Our Stories was no Today, Tonight and Tomorrow – no startled, shonky businessmen opening their front doors to a flash of lights and a determined brunette asking: ‘Would you like to tell the people whose lives you’ve ruined where the money’s gone, Mr Stevens?’
It was instead a gentler journey, narrated by Simone herself, her melodious voice inviting viewers each week to ‘Come with me, Simone Severet, as we celebrate our time, our stories.’
And now here she was, trying to convince me to appear on it.
‘The thing is, Lulu,’ Simone was sayin
g, ‘normally we wouldn’t touch “Woman Shags Ex-boyfriend on Wedding Night” with a ten-foot barge pole. Sorry,’ she added, seeing my face, ‘but we wouldn’t. In this case, however, I think, I really think, we’ve got a valid story to tell, and I want to tell your side of it.’
I sipped my wine and thought: Come with me, Simone Severet, while I talk you into doing something you don’t want to do.
‘This is not just a story about love, or betrayal,’ she said, ‘this is a story about dynasties, about what happens when classes collide.’
My eyebrows shot up involuntarily.
‘I mean, look at the family portrait – there’s dear old Frank, an institution in this country, an absolute bloody institution, sloshing around with his red wine and all that marvellous hair. And there’s Annie, swirling about in those awful kaftans, and then there’s Fergus, trying to get into the pants of anything that accidentally wanders into his camera range.’ Simone drained her glass. ‘And then, of course, we have the lovely’ – she raised an eyebrow – ‘Annabelle.’
I took another sip of my wine and thought, not for the first time, that Simone really needed to get over my sixteenth birthday party all those years ago.
Stella had a theory that Simone and Annabelle could never really get on because they were too much alike. ‘They’re pretty much exactly the same person,’ she told me one day after one of their spats during a biology class, ‘the same animal, so they feel threatened in each other’s presence.’
‘Is that right, David Attenborough?’ I had smiled.
‘Yep,’ Stella answered. ‘Think about it, Lulu, they’re both really good at everything, and really, really bossy.’
Simone intruded on my thoughts, leaning towards me and smelling, as she always did, of vanilla, musk and other women. ‘Lulu, are you listening to me? Now, what I think is the really fascinating part of this whole thing is not the family itself – Australia’s full as a goog with artistic families trying to out-paint each other to death. No, what I am interested in is what happens when two kids from the suburbs – you and Josh obviously – find yourselves tangled up with them, two beautiful twin Icaruses flying too close to the sun.’
‘Oh God, Simone,’ I said, ‘I think I liked “Woman Shags Ex-boyfriend on Wedding Night” better.’
‘Fine,’ she snapped, dropping both the coaxing tone and all pretence, ‘we’ll go with that, then.’
We sat back and smiled at each other.
‘Seriously, Lulu,’ Simone said, ‘this is not a story that’s going to go away anytime soon. Believe me, I know – it’s got the big five written all over it.’
‘The big five?’
Simone unfurled one finger at a time, like she was firing off a round of bullets at the table. ‘Fame. Money. Love. Sex. Betrayal. The only way this story could get any bigger would be if Annabelle had actually murdered one of you that night.’
‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you,’ I said, looking up to see a young guy swaying in front of our table. He was wearing a T-shirt that said ‘Bernie’s Bucks Night’ and had the face of another bloke, presumably Bernie, grinning across it.
‘You’re that chick, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘The one who got off with her friend’s husband?’ He turned to call out to his mates at the bar, ‘Hey, it’s that chick, you know, the slutty one from the telly.’
‘Oh God,’ I said into my wine glass while Simone put a cool hand on his arm.’
‘What’s your name, mate?’ she asked.
‘Dougie,’ he answered.
‘Well, Dougie, I think you might be getting my friend a little bit confused with me – I’m on the telly – you might know my show, Our Time, Our Stories.’
Dougie’s eyes clouded, trying to place her.
‘Anyway, I don’t mean to be rude but my friend and I are in the middle of a really important discussion, so what I’d like to do is buy you and your mates a round, and also write down the number of our network sportsperson so he can arrange some footy tickets for you all, how does that sound?’
‘Excellent,’ said Dougie, tipping his head and sending a dribble of beer down his shirt. ‘Ex-cell-ent.’
‘Right,’ said Simone, scribbling on a piece of paper and putting it in his top pocket. ‘Now, go and tell the barmaid the next round’s on me.’
Simone and I sat and watched his retreating back, both knowing that any chance she may or may not have had of convincing me to do this thing, went with him.
Still, she was nothing if not persistent.
‘Lulu,’ she began again, but I held up my hand.
‘It’s over, Simone,’ I sighed, ‘end of discussion.’
I drove home and thought about all the things Simone had said to try to convince me – and how disappointed Dougie was going to be the next morning when he woke up, dry-eyed and throbbing-templed to find Simone’s note in his pocket. He would take it out and read through sandpaper-scratched eyes: ‘Dear Dougie, piss off. Maxine Mathers.’
*
Simone and I had made our peace, and for the moment, she had withdrawn her fire. Stella, however, was another matter. I hadn’t heard from her since I had confessed my crime to her and Simone at Gottardo’s.
She’d left that day, quickly scooping up a still meowing Riley from under the table, and I knew just by watching her panicked exit that she would pray for me the moment she got home.
Stella McNamara-née-Kelly: possibly the only student at St Rita’s who had seriously considered joining their order until she’d locked eyes with William ‘Billy’ McNamara at the Franciscan Brothers’ end-of-year dance.
Any thoughts she may have indulged of lifelong chastity went right out the window to the tune of Madonna’s ‘Like a Virgin’ as Stella had her very own immaculate perception.
‘I’m going to marry him,’ she’d whispered to Simone and me – Annabelle had refused point-blank to attend (‘Why should I stand around waiting to be groped by some pimply juven-vile delinquent?’) – as we waited outside for Mr Kelly to pick us up. ‘I’m going to marry Billy McNamara.’
Simone snorted. I whispered, ‘How do you know?’ and Stella said dreamily, ‘You just do.’
Apparently she did just know, because on her eighteenth birthday Stella Kelly and Billy McNamara stood together in the St Rita’s chapel, promised to love each other in sickness and in health, through thick and thin, and, as it turned out, Billy’s mercifully brief career as a stand-up comic.
Dragging me and Simone along for support, Stella would valiantly sit at the front table at the Royal Albert every Thursday night, laughing slightly hysterically as she drove her fingernails into her own legs underneath the table, while Billy died a thousand deaths on stage, tapping the microphone and saying again and again, ‘Is this on?’
Stella and Billy had survived that, they had survived two miscarriages and five heaven-sent children, and never once did they waver, never once did they look out of the corner of their eyes at what else was on offer, and think ‘maybe’.
So that day at the coffee shop I understood when Stella’s hand flew to her mouth and she said, ‘But Lulu, it was their wedding night.’
The last time I had seen her so shocked was five years ago when Simone told her she was gay, and had dragged me along for immoral support.
We had discussed how to tell Stella beforehand, weighing up the best approach, talking through different ways we could bring it into the conversation, and ultimately deciding to break it to her gently, and with respect for her beliefs.
Which was why I could not believe it that day when the three of sat down at Gottardo’s, ordered our drinks and then Simone had turned to Stella and said: ‘Knock, knock?’
‘Who’s there?’ chirped Stella.
‘A lesbian, now who’s for cake?’
Stella had downed her just-arrived wine in one gulp, giggled uncertainly, and burst into
tears. Stella always burst into tears whenever she felt unsure of herself. Annabelle had called her ‘Old Faithful’. It was a little cruel, but I preferred it to Annabelle’s other nickname for Stella – Virginia Intactica.
I had known Simone was gay since her eighteenth birthday party, held in the somewhat ambitiously named ‘Swan Lake Room’ on the top floor of the Royal Albert. I have a photo of her cutting the cake with her parents, Bob and Viv, either side, three sets of hands clasping the knife, Bob’s buttons straining at his suit, Viv resplendent in lavender feathers.
I had stayed until the end, the band winding down for the night, half-heartedly playing ‘Lady in Red’ for the last few couples still sort-of standing.
Simone and I were outside on the verandah, draining our drinks.
‘Did you have a good time?’ I asked her.
‘Yeah – you?’
‘Yeah, you should be in there dancing,’ I said. ‘It’s the last song.’
‘No-one to dance with,’ she said.
‘You could dance with anyone, Simone,’ I answered, ‘there are boys in there who would cut off their right arm to dance with you.’
‘Don’t want to,’ she said, and I asked the question that had been hovering on my lips all through high school, where St Rita’s girls paired off with St Joseph’s boys or, if they took the road less travelled, tumbled with the boys from Ralston Road High. Kisses were stolen and hearts were broken, Stella and Billy’s eyes met under a canopy of fake stars, Josh Keaton arrived on a pushbike, Lisa Fitzgerald went to Longreach, and through it all, Simone, so beautiful with her pixie face and cheekbones you could ski down, had remained removed, not interested, it seemed, in anyone.
‘Simone,’ I said, ‘have you ever liked anybody?’
‘You mean like-like?’ she asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Who?’
‘Penny Watkins.’
‘Oh,’ I said.
‘Oh,’ she echoed, and there was a little pause while the air settled between us, and we both looked inside to see Penny, arms looped around her boyfriend Scott’s neck, both swaying drunkenly to the music, her head on his chest, and her skirt caught up at the back in her knickers.
Walking on Trampolines Page 8
