by Liz Byrski
She let herself in to the house, put her bag down in the hall and wandered slowly through each of the ground-floor rooms enjoying, as always, the fact that it remained as she had left it, free of any other influence. She considered her own choices of colour and style: the renovated art deco settee and armchairs, upholstered in primrose damask, a colour that was repeated in the blurry clumps of primroses that patterned the blue and cream curtains, and the matching walnut veneer dining table and chairs. She paused in front of the paintings that reflected her changing and developing tastes. The sharp modernist prints, the originals by emerging Australian artists and a group of small Aboriginal dot paintings. How would it look to Ellis? What would he learn about her from these rooms? How would he fit into them?
Upstairs in the bedroom she threw open the shutters and stepped out onto the balcony, inhaling the cold air from the ocean. Leaning forward, her arms resting on the top rail of the wrought-iron lacework, she felt a sudden and quite intense sadness about being alone. She had thought for so long that alone was what she wanted, that it was something she did well, something safe and peaceful. Now it felt different, precarious, even here in this house that she loved, in the city she loved. She had bought this house fifteen years earlier and its value had risen exponentially since then. It was now what real estate agents called a prestige property, in a highly desirable location. One of an elegant cluster of houses on The Hill, it faced a park, and from the balcony where she now stood she could see through the palms and pines to the sea, where the freighters stood at anchor waiting for entry to Newcastle port, their bulky silhouettes charcoal against the misty grey-whiteness of the horizon.
Now more than ever, she wished Ellis were there with her. So many times since the shooting she had said that she wanted to get back to normal and here she was, doing just that, first the electorate office, then parliament, and now home again. But she was restless, unwilling to move back into the old routines. Ellis had made Sydney different, made the colours richer, the air fresher, even the ordinary seemed memorable; here the usual pattern of her life loomed as dull and routine. Why had she been so desperate to return to it? ‘Normal’ no longer had the same appeal it had held in the hospital bed or in Barbara’s cottage, and ‘alone’ seemed totally devoid of attraction.
She thought about Jill, whom she liked and admired but also envied. Jill’s freedom seemed endless to Heather. Weekends were real weekends, free of work and full of time to spend with Adam and the children, the ability to decide something on the spur of the moment, the freedom to be herself without the need to live as a public figure weighed down by responsibilities and expectations. Yes, Jill’s freedom was what she envied, that and the sense she must have of being loved, by Adam and by her children, by being the centre of their lives.
*
The following morning, Heather arrived early at the electorate office, but Shaun had beaten her to it and was at his desk sipping a large takeaway coffee and going through the morning papers. She was struck again by the strain and exhaustion that showed in his face.
‘I’m okay,’ he said, ‘just tired. It’s been a long haul since that night. And then there’s personal stuff – Charlene and I have split up.’
Heather, who was moving papers from her briefcase to her desk, looked up. ‘You have? Oh, Shaun, I’m sorry. I mean, I know it wasn’t working out for you but just the same . . .’
‘It’s the best thing,’ he said swiftly. ‘Irreconcilable differences, as the A-listers say. It was never going to work. Anyway, Roussos called just now. He tried your mobile but you must have forgotten to switch it on. He wants you to give him a call.’
Heather’s eyes lit up. ‘Did he say what –’
‘He just said he wanted you to call.’
Heather sat down at her desk and switched on the mobile, excitement surging as she dialled the number. After his few days in Sydney at the start of the parliamentary sitting he had handed over to the Sydney police and returned to Newcastle. This must be it, he was on to something at last.
‘I just wanted to touch base, after that debacle the week before last,’ Alex said. ‘I was a bit shaken to discover that I was about to arrest an eminent person.’
Heather’s anticipation hit the wall and slumped. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I thought perhaps you rang because you . . . oh, well . . .’
‘Nothing, I’m afraid. Not a dickybird. And Mr Hargreaves? Has he recovered from being wrestled to the ground by two police officers?’
‘He’s fine about it. He realised you were just doing your job. Is he actually eminent?’
‘Sure is,’ Roussos said, and she could hear the sound of a keyboard being tapped, as though he were calling up something on the computer screen. ‘You should Google him sometime, some of the people he’s defended make interesting reading.’
Heather put down the phone, rested her chin on her hands and stared at the list of appointments that Patsy had put on her desk. Four meetings with constituents, with half an hour allowed for each. A short break and then a visit from the state secretary, probably about pre-selections, and then she had to present an industry award to a local business, tour the factory and have lunch with the directors. Heather’s heart, which had been sinking slowly since the start of her conversation with Alex Roussos, went into freefall. Sighing, she switched on the computer and went into her personal email. There was a message from Ellis at the top of her inbox, and her stomach lurched with excitement.
Good morning! Take care of yourself and have a good day. Sydney is not the same without you. Longing to see you on Friday. Love E x
She read the brief message several times and considered calling him, but didn’t want to appear clingy and intrusive. On impulse she clicked on Google.
There were more than thirty thousand references to Ellis Hargreaves: academic papers, memberships of boards and committees, controversial statements, lists of trials, and articles on his defence of high-profile criminals. Heather scrolled through the first few realising that she had been so locked into the crisis in her own life that she had seen Ellis only in relation to herself. She had asked him little or nothing about his marriages, his career, his decision to leave it all behind and reinvent himself in Byron Bay. No wonder he hadn’t wanted to come to Newcastle with her; he must have needed a break from her neurotic self-obsession.
She went back to his email, hit ‘reply’ and stared at the screen, wondering what to say, how to tell him she was sorry. Patsy stuck her head around the door.
‘Mr Muir is here for his appointment, Heather. Can I bring him in now?’
‘Two minutes, Patsy,’ Heather said. ‘I just need to reply to this message.’
You have a good day too, and thanks for everything, she wrote. Sorry to be so self-obsessed. I’ll try to behave better next time. Friday can’t come soon enough. Love H x
She hesitated, considering whether she was right to follow his lead in the sign-off. Name or initial? Initial seemed almost intimate. One kiss or two? His one seemed natural, casual, two might be assessed for meaning, just as she was assessing his one kiss. Why did it even matter? Mr Muir’s voice boomed from the outer office. He was very deaf and made up for it by bellowing at everyone else. Heather sighed, hit send and opened her office door.
‘Mr Muir,’ she shouted, ‘so sorry to keep you waiting. Do come in . . .’ and she ushered him into a chair, contemplating as she did so why the words of a two-line email, and the number of xs to include, had suddenly assumed such importance.
It hadn’t taken Barbara long to make up her mind to agree to plan B. Living a totally different life for a few months in a country where she didn’t speak a word of the language was not something that, at her age, she would have considered doing alone. But to travel with a friend put a whole different complexion on it, especially a friend as dear and congenial as George. Even so it was a bit daunting to think of taking this very intensive course which, apparently, had even the young and energetic hollow-eyed and jittery within the first week
.
‘Will you be okay about sharing a place in Beijing?’ George asked as he turned into the car park of the language school. ‘Sachs said we could probably rent a small flat.’
‘That’ll be ideal,’ Barbara said, thinking that it was infinitely preferable to being alone in a large apartment building if the electricity went out or the water was cut off. George had very civilised domestic habits. She had already made one stipulation – she wouldn’t go before March.
‘Winter in China is bitterly cold, and I’m not going to freeze to death in a Beijing apartment with ice on the windows.’
‘Done!’ George had said. ‘You’re right about the weather, good thinking.’
‘Here we are then,’ he said in the car park, switching off the engine. ‘Let’s get in there, hand over the money and register for the course.’
‘Do you want to do the test now?’ Sachs asked as he greeted them in reception.
‘Test?’ they responded in unison.
‘Grammar, usage and so on, easy as falling off a log, but you have to pass in order to get onto the course. You won’t have any trouble.’ And before they knew it, they were sitting in separate booths in an otherwise empty room, and given half an hour to complete a test paper, with instructions not to talk to each other.
‘You didn’t tell me we had to do a test,’ Barbara said as they walked back to the car later. ‘It’s years since I had to do a grammar test – decades!’
‘I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know,’ George replied irritably, searching his pockets for his car keys. ‘Anyway, what are you grumbling about? You got a hundred per cent. I only got eighty-nine.’
‘Yes,’ she said with a smile, ‘it’s your bizarre use of commas that undid you, George. But you can console yourself with the knowledge that if they had asked us to provide the symbols for chemical compounds, I wouldn’t have got even one right. Cheer up. Let’s get over to Heather’s office, she’ll wonder where we’ve got to.’
George grunted and started the engine. ‘We could take Heather out for a meal as we’re so late,’ he said. ‘Have you told her about our plan?’
Barbara shook her head. ‘Not yet. We can tell her while we eat. Let’s go to Scratchley’s, it’s ages since I went there. Lend me your mobile and I’ll see if they’ve got a table.’
‘China?’ Heather said. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? You can’t be serious, you’re both over seventy.’
‘Aren’t you the person who shamed the council into introducing a more adventurous seniors’ program?’ Barbara was rather enjoying Heather’s astounded reaction. ‘Don’t look so amazed, Heather. Life after seventy isn’t all lawn bowls and genealogy classes, you know.’
‘Well, I know, but . . .’ Heather hesitated. ‘Will you be all right? I mean, China’s not the safest place.’
‘Neither is Newcastle, if your experience is anything to go by,’ George chipped in, nodding toward Heather’s shoulder. ‘We’ll be fine. It’s certainly not going to be luxury, but it’ll be an experience we’ll never forget.’
‘I suppose so,’ Heather conceded. ‘And you think you’ll manage the course all right? I’ve heard it’s pretty hard.’
‘Really, Heather,’ Barbara was irritated now, ‘at what point did you decide I’d entered my dotage? I just passed the test with a mark of a hundred per cent, and Robert told me it was the first time that he’d ever known anyone get everything right. Even George got eighty-nine per cent, and he’s no grammar buff.’
‘Even George –’ George began, but Barbara was in full swing now.
‘Just because I no longer roll up every day for life in a city office, it doesn’t mean I’ve lost my marbles.’
Heather flushed. ‘No, no, of course, I never thought that. It’s just that other people, much younger people, have said that it’s very hard, very intensive. Do you really want to put yourself through a month of that?’
‘Yes,’ said Barbara decisively, more sure of it now than ever. ‘Even if I didn’t want to go to China, I think it would be a great thing to do. I could get involved in that English language program for the asylum seekers. I think it’s very exciting.’
‘I’ve brought some bits and pieces about China to show you, Heather,’ George said, moving their wine glasses and putting some leaflets on the table. ‘You don’t need to worry about Barbara, you know. We’ve both still got our wits about us and we’re tough old buzzards, really.’
‘Of course you are,’ Heather said. ‘I’m sorry, it was just a bit of a shock. I never imagined you doing anything like this.’
‘Nor did I,’ Barbara said, ‘but surprise is part of the attraction. It seems like a great adventure.’ She poured some water into her glass and looked at Heather again.
‘Anything from the police?’
‘Not a thing. And, of course, the longer it is, the less likely they are to find anything. Roussos says that the more the trail cools the more difficult it becomes, not that they ever seemed to find a trail in the first place.’
George got up to speak to an acquaintance sitting at a nearby table, and Barbara grasped the opportunity of a few moments alone with Heather. ‘Jill tells me that you’ve met up with an old flame. Is it anyone I know?’
‘No. His name’s Ellis Hargreaves. He was one of my uni tutors and he was married, so I kept him well away from you and Mum.’
‘Obviously. But he’s not married now, presumably?’
‘No, and honestly, Barb, it’s wonderful to see him again. He came all the way from Byron Bay to Sydney to see me because he’d been reading about the shooting and thinking about me. He says he’s always wanted to get in touch with me again.’
‘It sounds rather romantic.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. It is lovely to have Ellis around, but romance? You know me, about the most unromantic person in the world, and very set in my ways.’
Barbara, who had enjoyed being single for most of her life, had never been convinced that it was quite so satisfactory for Heather. ‘Don’t rule anything out,’ she said. ‘Extraordinary and unexpected things happen, you just never know what’s around the corner. Like me going to China, for instance . . .’
‘Or me getting shot. You’re right, of course. Has Adam said anything to you about Ellis?’
‘Nothing at all. In fact, I haven’t spoken to Adam for a while. Jill says he’s a bit moody at present.’
‘Moody,’ Heather said with a laugh. ‘Bear with a sore head is more like it. But I guess he’ll get over it eventually.’
‘Who’ll get over what?’ George asked, sitting down again.
‘Adam,’ Heather said. ‘He’s annoyed with me for going out with an old boyfriend.’
‘Ha! Protective older brother, eh?’ George said. ‘Well, you’re right, he’ll get over it. Now, what’s happened to our meal?’
Adam lay on his own side of the bed curled in a foetal position. It was a position he seemed to be adopting with greater frequency these days. Jill had gone out to dinner with some women friends, and he had gone to bed early but had lain there, restless and unable to sleep. A few minutes earlier he’d heard Jill let herself in through the front door and come quietly up the stairs.
‘Are you awake?’ she whispered, putting her head around the bedroom door, and when he didn’t answer she closed it again and he heard her go into the bathroom. He felt incapable of speaking. For weeks now the normal rough and tumble of work and family life had overwhelmed him. He tried to resist the urge to disappear even more frequently into his music room, because he knew it wasn’t fair to Jill or the children, but despite his efforts he couldn’t seem to behave normally. He even found it impossible to tell them all how much he loved them and ask them to bear with him while he went through whatever it was that had him in its grip.
It was such a contrast to the day he’d flown back from Newcastle filled with the joy of being home. The smell of cold toast in the kitchen, the stacking of the dishwasher, the pile of unopened mail on the hall table
had seemed like paradise. But a few days later his spirits had crashed. The managerial part of his job in the orchestra felt exceptionally onerous, and he was awash in a dull sort of confusion that made him feel as though he were wading through mud. He thought his shattered sense of security was at the heart of it, his recognition that the people he loved most were always at risk. He wondered how, in the past, he could have lived without that constant awareness, how he could have assumed that life would go on in the same way it always had done. And then there was Ellis Hargreaves crawling out of the past like a slug from under a rock to be welcomed by Heather as though the misery he’d put her through had never happened.
The taps were turned off in the bathroom and Jill came quietly back into the bedroom. Adam tried to breathe as though he were asleep, and he heard the swish of her clothes dropping onto the chair, and another sound, softer still, as she slipped her nightdress over her head. She pulled back the duvet, slipped into bed and moved close to him, and he felt the comfort of her cool body against his back. She ran her hand lightly down the length of his spine and Adam shivered involuntarily.
‘So you are awake,’ she said.
Adam moved slightly, hoping she might think he was simply stirring in his sleep.
‘Adam, I know you’re awake,’ she said in a small voice. ‘I knew it before I went into the bathroom.’
He turned over onto his back and took her icy hand in his warm one. ‘Cold night?’ he said.
‘Very.’
‘Did you have a good time?’ The effort of speaking seemed enormous, the intimacy of it unbearable.
‘Lovely, thanks.’
The silence throbbed as they lay side by side, holding hands in the darkness.
‘Can’t you talk to me, Adam?’ Jill asked softly, her voice heavy with hurt and confusion. ‘Can’t you please try to talk to me?’
He opened his mouth but no words came out.
‘Is it me?’ she asked.
