by Judy Nunn
Dave studied her as she chatted away enthusiastically, first about Russell Drysdale’s brilliance and then about her own love of painting the outback. A handsome woman with a strong-boned face and a dramatic arch to the brow, she didn’t look like the average Australian of Celtish or English background, and he wondered about her antecedents. But it was her vitality that most attracted him. She was stimulating and yet at the same time strangely relaxing to be with, as if they were old friends.
‘You travel a great deal then?’ It only took one question and off she went again while he sat back and continued to study her. Yes, she travelled a great deal, she said, but her studio was in the city at her mother’s house.
‘Until I’m rich and famous it’s cheaper that way,’ she added with a smile, although he gathered from her tone that she wasn’t really joking, more predicting a certain future. ‘Besides, Mama has a disgustingly huge house with tons of room for a studio out the back so it’s very convenient. We had a country property too, in the Adelaide Hills near Hahndorf, but Mama sold it recently. Papa died last year and she didn’t want to go back there without him.’
‘That’s sad,’ he said.
‘Sad yes, but expected,’ she replied with a philosophical shrug. ‘He’d been ill for a long time. I think he worked himself to death, poor Papa.’
He’d never heard a local girl call her parents ‘Papa’ and ‘Mama’ before; how intriguing. Her voice was pleasant, but distinctly Australian, as was her manner, and once again he wondered about her background. ‘Where are you from?’ he asked bluntly: she didn’t strike him as the type who would take offence. ‘You don’t look Australian.’
‘Well I am,’ she declared vehemently, ‘born and bred,’ then she went on to explain. Her father was German, she said, German Jewish and her mother Russian.
‘They met in Berlin in the early thirties. Not a good time or place to be Jewish,’ she added dryly. ‘They could see the threat Hitler’s Nazi party posed so they moved permanently to Australia. Papa had an antique exports business to the UK and here,’ she explained, ‘so he already had contacts.’
‘I see.’ The briefest of pauses followed while he wondered what question to ask next – he didn’t want her to stop – but she got in first.
‘I don’t always talk this much, you know.’
He made no reply although something in his eyes said ‘Really?’
‘Well yes all right, I do,’ she admitted, a touch on the defensive, ‘but only if I like someone.’
He grinned. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
The tables had turned now, and it was she who was studying him. ‘You did that deliberately, didn’t you,’ she said with an air of accusation.
‘Did what?’ he queried in all innocence.
‘Got me to talk all about myself and deliberately offered nothing in return.’
‘There’s nothing to offer really.’
‘How about a bit of family history?’ she demanded. ‘Come on, fair’s fair.’
‘Sure,’ he gave a shrug. ‘No siblings, my mother died of cancer two years ago and I never knew my father because he died as a prisoner of war on the Burma Railway.’
‘Oh.’ For the first time during their entire exchange Lilian appeared to have run out of words.
He realised he’d sounded overly abrupt. He hadn’t intended to be rude, just succinct, and he hoped she wasn’t offended.
‘Sorry,’ he said, another shrug. ‘No family to speak of; there was only ever Mum and me.’
A whistle sounded. ‘All aboard,’ the guard called. The huge sliding doors of cargo vans slammed shut, carriage doors opened and closed, the Tea and Sugar Train was about to depart.
‘I see,’ she answered. She wasn’t in the least offended, only intrigued. ‘So you intend to remain a man of mystery, Dave.’
‘I sincerely hope not.’ His eyes locked into hers. ‘I get back in a fortnight –’ He was going to say he’d like to see her again and to ask for her address and phone number, but she cut him off.
‘I’ll be here,’ she said, ‘right here on this bench.’
Their eyes remained locked. She has to be joking, he thought.
‘I know exactly when the Tea and Sugar Train gets in,’ she said, ‘and I’ll be here. I need to do a lot more sketches before I start on the actual painting.’
‘All aboard,’ the guard called again.
‘Right.’ He stood, picking up his swag and donning his Akubra. ‘I’ll see you here then.’
She nodded.
He boarded the train, wondering if she’d meant what she’d said, wondering if he’d ever see her again, but on his return, true to her word she was there seated on the same bench, sketchpad in hand.
Within a year they’d married. Their very differences were their strengths. Mad had met sane, wild had met calm and, somewhere in the mix, soul had met soul.
When Matt did finally recognise the bond between his parents, it created a further bond that was equally special: a bond between father and son. Dave and Matt were observers both, solitary men, possibly as a result of their solitary childhoods. They shared much that was unspoken, not least being their recognition of Lilian’s eccentricities. Quite often they found her funny, sometimes when she didn’t mean to be, and their response infuriated her.
‘Why are you both smirking?’ she’d demand in the middle of a tantrum as she whirled about, a blur of colour and movement, a sort of demented peacock, usually because a piece of work was not going to her satisfaction. ‘I fail to see what’s so frightfully amusing.’
But she was unable to ruffle the feathers of either husband or son. Matthew, like his father, was implacable. Indeed implacability was where young Matt’s strength lay, for like his father he had no need of centre stage. Matt was quite happy to sit, observing others, taking action only when and how he deemed necessary, which more often than not proved highly effective.
For all her indulgent behaviour and egocentricity, Lilian stayed true to herself over the years, always brutally honest and, to those she loved, always fiercely loyal. She became rich and famous, just as she’d predicted, but she did not desert her mother. Having no desire for the trappings she could have afforded, she and therefore Dave and Matt remained ensconced in the bluestone in Wakefield Street with its studio out the back. They remained not only because it served their purpose, but because Svetlana needed them. Svetlana, cantankerous as she was, would have been lost without them, particularly the grandson to whom she had become so devoted. Lilian had no wish to deprive young Matt, too, of his babushka, the woman who had been more of a mother to him than she had herself.
Dave didn’t mind. He quite happily went along with the arrangement, the family downstairs, the old lady upstairs. He was away half the time anyway and, as usual, very little bothered Dave.
Lilian’s loyalty was never more evident than in the spring of 1989 when, not yet fifty, she was at the height of her career. Twenty years of dedication had brought critical acclaim worldwide and in her native country the status of national icon. She’d been awarded an Order of Australia; her work hung in galleries and private collections around the globe; and she was feted by the international art world. But all was put on hold as Svetlana, who had suffered a series of heart attacks and a crippling bout of pneumonia, succumbed to old age.
Determined that her mother should not languish in a hospice, but rather die in the comfort of her own home surrounded by her precious antique collection and the people she loved, Lilian hired a live-in nurse to help her and the long-suffering Olga with Lana’s care. Then she cancelled her London exhibition, scheduled for early the following year, along with her many other commitments, including a long-awaited return to the outback with Dave. Their trips had become less frequent over the past several years, Dave opting for contracts closer to home as more and more demands were made on his wife’s time. Now everything was put on hold so that Lillian could remain by Svetlana’s bedside until the end came.
Eight
y-year-old Lana, in typically tetchy fashion, did not appear to appreciate her daughter’s display of devotion. Propped up like a queen, albeit a withered one, in her massive Georgian four-poster, Lana managed to find something to complain about or something with which to find fault on a daily basis.
‘I do think it’s time you started dressing your age, Liliana.’ The voice, although frail like the body, still carried an imperious edge.
Lilian put the customary mid-morning pot of tea on the bedside table, plumped up the pillows and straightened the bed’s coverlet. ‘And how exactly should I dress my age, Mama?’ She wasn’t remotely interested in the answer, but was willing to humour her mother.
‘Something less gaudy for a start.’ Svetlana looked her daughter up and down critically. ‘Something in muted colours and of more stylish cut, you’re a middle-aged woman for goodness’ sake.’
‘I dress for comfort and I like bright colours,’ Lilian replied simply. She left it at that and started pouring the tea.
Then later the same day …
‘It’s a little late, don’t you think?’ Svetlana grumbled as her daughter fed her the soup that Olga prepared fresh each morning.
‘Eat up, you need your strength.’ Ignoring the complaint, Lilian continued to spoon chicken soup into the shrunken mouth; her once-imposing mother was skeletal.
‘A little late in the day, isn’t it?’
‘Rubbish. It’s right on lunchtime.’
‘I mean a little late to be showing you care.’ Lana waved the chicken soup aside. ‘You never cared in the past.’
‘You never needed me in the past.’ Lilian remained patiently poised with the soup bowl; Lana always waved it away and always came back for more. ‘Besides I left you with Mattie. Mattie was far more important to you than I was.’ She intended no drama in the remark, just a simple statement of fact.
‘Selfish,’ Lana shook her head disapprovingly, ‘selfish woman, selfish mother,’ and she opened her mouth for more chicken soup.
‘Yes, yes, you’re quite right.’ Lilian spooned in the soup, mopping with a linen napkin the dribble that trickled down her mother’s chin, ‘but a selfish woman and a selfish mother who cares, Mama. I’ve always cared, you know I have.’
‘Is Matthew home from university yet?’ Lana asked.
‘No, it’s only lunch time.’
‘You will make sure he comes to see me as soon as he returns, won’t you?’
‘Of course – he always does, doesn’t he?’
The conversation took a similar turn each day, in fact was almost routine. Svetlana was far more interested in her grandson than she was in her daughter, which Lilian found perfectly understandable. She respected the relationship between her mother and her son. It was to be expected given her years of ‘desertion’ or ‘dereliction of duty’ as Lana was wont to say, but she suffered no guilt, nor did she envy the bond the two shared: it was just the way things were.
‘Ah mily moy.’ Svetlana greeted her grandson in Russian as she always did. ‘My darling,’ she repeated, beckoning with her hands that she wanted a hug. In the old days she would have held her arms out wide, but she no longer had the strength.
‘Babushka.’ Nineteen-year-old Matt, now tall and sturdily built, bent down and embraced the stick-like body of his grandmother with infinitesimal care. She was so fragile he felt she might break. It saddened him immensely when he recalled the ample bosom to which, as a child, he’d been clasped with such proprietorial strength. His grandmother’s embraces had always embarrassed him, but now he would give anything to feel his head buried once more in that bosom.
He pulled the chair up beside the four-poster, preferring not to sit on the bed itself for fear of jarring her.
‘How was university? Tell me all about your day,’ she insisted.
He did, filling her in on every single detail, although this day had hardly differed from the previous day or the one before that. He knew she just wanted to hear the sound of his voice.
Young Matthew was in the second year of his science degree at the University of Adelaide and intended to become a surveyor. During his early teenage years many a school holiday had seen him accompany his parents on their travels and not unsurprisingly he had inherited their joint passion for the country’s remote regions. As a result he’d chosen to follow his father’s career, deciding at the age of fifteen that he would become a Licensed Surveyor and travel the outback. To Matt, his father’s seemed the ideal life.
‘So you feel confident?’ Lana asked. He’d mentioned his forthcoming exams, which would see him either progressing to third year or failing altogether, a nerve-wracking time for university students.
‘Yes I do,’ he said without hesitation. Then he smiled self-deprecatingly. ‘I hope that doesn’t sound complacent and I hope I’m not asking to be shot down in flames, but yes I do feel confident.’
‘That is good. There is nothing wrong with confidence, Matthew; confidence is not complacency.’ Lana’s stern expression, which seemed perennial these days, softened into one of her rare smiles and for a fleeting moment the handsome woman she’d once been was discernable. ‘Ah mily moy, your father will be so proud. It is good that a father should be proud of his son, just as one day you will be proud of your son.’
Svetlana spoke often to her grandson of family. She had made a point of doing so over the years, telling him stories of her childhood in Russia, of her siblings and her parents. She had read out loud to him her brother’s and her sister’s letters, and she’d shown him photographs of his great-uncle and great-aunt and his great-grandparents. Her motives had not been self-interested, although she had enjoyed very much sharing her memories, even with a small boy. She had wished to give the child a sense of personal history, a sense of where he belonged. He had no family at all on his father’s side, no grandparents, no aunts and uncles, no cousins, which to her seemed so very wrong. Fond as she was of her son-in-law, Svetlana considered it inexcusable that David was unable to provide even a family tree.
‘My mother never knew her natural parents,’ he’d explained when she pushed him for answers. ‘She didn’t keep in touch with her adopted parents, and my father died as a prisoner of war, so I never met him. That’s all I can tell you I’m afraid.’
She’d been able to get no more out of him, and her daughter had been no help whatsoever. ‘Stop badgering him, Mama,’ Lilian had said, which had infuriated Lana. Didn’t the woman care that her son had no paternal family history? Further proof surely that she was an unnatural mother.
So Svetlana had decided it was she who must provide her grandson with a family history and she’d taken her task very seriously, even teaching the child Russian, or at least attempting to.
‘Ah mily moy,’ she would say, clapping her hands in delight when he repeated a phrase to her satisfaction, ‘that is excellent: we must continue with these lessons until you are fluent.’ The boy would never achieve fluency – she’d known that from the beginning. He didn’t have his mother’s natural linguistic skills.
‘When your mother was a little girl she spoke Russian with me,’ she would tell him. ‘She spoke German too, she was very gifted linguistically, but then your mother was gifted in so many areas. A child prodigy, your grandfather and I were told. Such a brilliant pianist! She could have had a splendid career as a classical performer, that’s what her tutors said.’
And just look at her now, Svetlana would think, denying her heritage, even changing her name, gallivanting off to paint pictures of the Australian outback. What sort of a career is that?
‘But she has become selfish,’ she would conclude dismissively, ‘very, very selfish.’
Little Matt’s early views of his mother had been influenced by Svetlana, certainly, but even as a small child he had been aware of his grandmother’s inordinate pride in her daughter. He often wondered why Babushka never told his mother that she was proud of her.
Babushka eventually did, but she left her declaration until the very
last minute, just as she’d planned.
It was towards the end of November, Matt’s exams were over and Lilian had turned fifty, momentous occasions both, and cause for celebration. But things quickly returned to normal, and this particular evening started out the same as any other.
The nurse had delivered Lana’s medication ground up in juice as usual, and when she’d gone Lilian sat on the edge of the bed, small paper cup in hand. She fed her mother her medicine, then took away several of the pillows that were propping her up, easing her carefully back on the bed.
‘There you go, Mama, are you comfy?’ No answer. ‘Would you like me to read to you?’ Again no answer, but the faded blue eyes were appraising her, and Lilian waited for whatever complaint or criticism was about to issue forth.
‘I am proud of you, Liliana.’
The words took Lilian by surprise, not only their sentiment, but the fact that her mother had said them in Russian. They had not spoken Russian to each other for years.
‘I know you are, Mama.’ She responded in kind, rewarded by the instant gratification she could see in her mother’s eyes.
‘Ya lublu tebya,’ Svetlana said.
‘I know that also,’ Lilian replied in Russian. ‘I have always known that, Mama.’ She leant forward and very gently kissed her mother on the lips. ‘I love you too.’
Svetlana smiled. ‘I shall sleep now,’ she said, reverting to English.
‘Would you like me to read to you?’
‘No, no, I shall sleep. I am very tired.’
She did not wake up. The nurse discovered her dead early the following morning. She’d suffered a heart attack during the night, a mild one, but enough to take her in her sleep.
‘Mama willed herself to die,’ Lilian said as the family gathered in the bedroom to pay their respects to the frail little body lying in state like royalty in the vast four-poster bed. ‘I didn’t realise it, but she was saying goodbye to me last night.’ She studied her mother’s face, which in death was serene and somehow ageless. The deep furrows had disappeared and the texture of the skin seemed to glow afresh. Lilian was fascinated. ‘Doesn’t she look beautiful?’ she whispered.
