by Liz Byrski
‘Not ever.’
Zoë slipped out of bed and went to the kitchen to make tea. The danger had passed, and her guilt would eventually fade. She certainly wouldn’t be taking any more risks, but even as she tried to expunge it, the memory of Harry’s mouth on her breasts, his fingers slipping expertly inside her, flooded her body with heat. Waiting for the kettle to boil, she closed her eyes remembering how it felt to be in his arms; how vulnerable but safe she had felt melting into him, as though the slow, decisive tenderness of his caresses, the rhythmic way he moved inside her, had made her a part of him. Her mouth went dry as she remembered the thrill of abandoning herself to him. The kettle clicked off, jerking her back into reality, and she made the tea, and carried two mugs back to the bedroom.
‘My sister’s home,’ Richard said, hauling himself up into a sitting position and taking the proffered mug. ‘She’s engaged, getting married at New Year. They want us to meet for a drink.’
Zoë sat up straighter. ‘Really? What’s he like?’
‘Rich. His family owns the Branston Hotels.’
Zoë sucked in her breath. ‘Crikey, he must be a millionaire.’
‘He’s probably the most awful chinless wonder but I suppose I have to go.’
‘Just because he’s rich, doesn’t mean he’s not a nice person.’
‘No, but I suspect my sister would happily marry the Hunch-bank of Notre Dame to get away from home. Anyway, d’you want to come along?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Okay, I’ll fix it later.’
‘I’m dying to meet Julia,’ Zoë said, sipping her tea. ‘I hope she’ll like me. She’s not scary like your parents, is she? It would be great if we could be friends. What sort –’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Richard cut it. ‘Can we give all that girlie stuff a miss?’
‘Why are you so grumpy?’
‘I’m not grumpy,’ he snapped, ‘just tired, and it feels odd being back.’
Zoë took his mug from him and put it on the side table. Winding her arms around his neck, she slid down in the bed. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘I’ll make you feel at home.’
But he tugged her arms away with both hands and swung his legs out of the bed. ‘You seem to think that sex is the answer to everything,’ he said. ‘I’ll be late for work and so will you.’
Zoë’s face crumpled. ‘I’m not going to work. I took a day of my holiday leave so we could be together.’
Richard shrugged. ‘I’m meeting Martin at nine. You can stay here if you want, but I won’t be back until late.’ He strode out of the bedroom and Zoë heard the bathroom door slam behind him.
Julia rested her head against the brocade of a high-backed armchair in the cocktail bar of the Branston. Simon had suggested a small club in Baker Street, and Richard a pub just off the Edge-ware Road, but she had wanted it here and somehow she had prevailed. Richard had always been one up on her – worldlier, more sophisticated, free to pick and choose – now it was her turn. She pictured herself as a younger version of Marina Branston, graciously receiving her guests, ordering champagne cocktails on the house and generally behaving like a society hostess; but when Richard appeared, her desire to have the upper hand evaporated. The moment she saw him, she remembered the day he rescued her with dock leaves when her bike had skidded into a clump of stinging nettles, and the time he taught her to fly a kite. In a most un-Marina like manner, she almost ran to meet him, hugging him and bending spontaneously to kiss Zoë on the cheek.
‘So, are you actually living here?’ Zoë asked while Richard and Simon were at the bar.
Julia shook her head. ‘No, I wouldn’t dare. Mum and Dad would go berserk. I’m just up here for a few days.’
‘I don’t think your parents liked me,’ Zoë said, as though seeking news that they had recently changed their minds.
‘They wouldn’t,’ Julia said bluntly, ‘you don’t fit the bill at all. Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean that like it sounded. I’m sympathising – really, I am. It’s just that they always hoped Richard would get together with a daughter of people they know from the golf club, or one of Daddy’s Masonic friends. But Richard’s never gone out with girls like that.’
‘So, what sort of girls did he go out with?’
Julia shrugged. ‘Just ones that were . . . well . . . different. Don’t worry about it, they’ll come round eventually, if you intend sticking around yourself.’
Zoë’s eyes sought Richard out. ‘I hope so,’ she said. ‘It’s just . . . since he got back from America, he’s been different.’
‘He’s always been moody,’ Julia said. ‘What are you doing tomorrow? D’you want to go shopping?’
‘That’d be great,’ Zoë replied. ‘I need to get some shoes, and a present for my cousin’s birthday. She’s back in Australia.’
Julia, who had taken to Zoë immediately, responded at once to this openness and to what seemed like vulnerability. She bore no resemblance whatsoever to the bossy, self-opinionated journalist who had been Richard’s last love interest, and who had made Julia feel ignorant, dowdy and provincial. And as the conversation developed, Zoë increasingly appeared to think that Julia was some sort of authority on London, and possibly all sorts of other things, and, most of all, on Richard. As Zoë regaled her with the details of the grim weekend at Bramble Cottage, Julia, newly confident, saw an opportunity to be, at last, the elder sister; the source of knowledge, a mentor almost, for this apparently open and obviously nervous younger sibling.
‘I like her,’ Julia said later while Simon was showing Zoë the framed history of the hotels that hung in the foyer. ‘I think I’ll probably like her a lot, but she’ll never go down well with the parents.’
‘Probably not.’
‘So is it serious?’
Richard lit a cigarette and sighed. ‘I thought it was but now I don’t know.’
‘She’s serious, very serious, about you.’
‘I know.’
‘So if you’re not sure, you should be careful.’
‘Landing a millionaire makes you the expert, does it?’
‘You are such a bastard,’ Julia retorted, reminded now of his unattractive cynicism and sharp tongue.
Richard raised his eyebrows. ‘Paris has changed you, you never used that sort of language before. Or is it the influence of the heir to a fortune?’
‘What’s got into you? We haven’t seen each other for months, you could try to be a bit nicer.’
‘Mmmm. Sorry,’ Richard said, staring at the glowing end of his cigarette. ‘Guilt, I suppose.’
‘Guilt?’
‘What you just said, about Zoë. I probably ought to end it.’
‘What’s stopping you?’
‘I do sort of love her, but she hasn’t a clue.’
‘About what?’
‘About the things that matter, or about the fact that I actually have cooled off. I don’t think she has any idea what a real relationship involves.’
‘Oh! And you do, I suppose?’ Julia said, lowering her voice. ‘You have to tell her. It’ll be worse if you leave it.’
‘And you?’ Richard asked, nodding towards Simon. ‘Do you love him?’
Julia blushed. ‘I’m marrying him, aren’t I?’
‘That’s hardly an answer.’
‘Don’t spoil this for me, Rich. Simon’s kind, he’s generous and he loves me; that’s enough.’
‘Is it?’ Richard asked, raising one eyebrow in a way that had always irritated her.
‘So you don’t like him?’
‘On the contrary,’ Richard leaned back, locking his fingers behind his head. ‘He seems very pleasant, but I suppose I’m wondering why you –’
Julia wanted to slap him. ‘Just because I said . . .’ she cut in.
Richard shook his head. ‘Nothing to do with that, you were right about Zoë; I should end it.’ He flicked the ash from his cigarette. ‘Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?’
‘Of course I’m sure.�
��
Simon and Zoë were heading back towards them.
Richard leaned in closer, lowering his voice. ‘If you want to talk about it, give me a ring at work. We can meet up somewhere, have a chat.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Julia said, standing up and brushing down her skirt.
‘What don’t you want to talk about?’ Simon asked, slipping his arm around her waist.
‘Nothing, just my brother being stupid,’ Julia said, turning to Zoë. ‘Do you like Russian food, Zoë? Eddie, the concierge, tells me there’s a great little place just off Great Portland Street where they make marvellous borscht. What do you think? Shall we give it a go?’ She linked her arm through Zoë’s, glancing back over her shoulder at her brother; the memory of the nettle patch and the kite flying replaced now by the time he locked her in their father’s shed and went out to play cricket, and the day he threw her doll into a blackberry bush.
‘But I’ve booked a table at that place we went the other night,’ Simon protested.
Julia shook her head. ‘Russian bistro,’ she said, ‘candles in bottles and a little man who plays a balalaika. What do you say, Zoë?’
Zoë hesitated, confused by the undercurrents flowing between Richard and Julia. ‘Probably Russian would be nice,’ she began, sensing an ally in Julia. ‘That is, if everyone’s okay about . . .’
‘Everyone is okay about it,’ Julia said, and, with the air of a woman who has been taking control of events all her life, signalled to the doorman to get them a taxi.
‘Christ,’ Richard said. ‘What’s got into her?’
Simon smiled indulgently at his fiancée. ‘Bloody women,’ he said, with obvious pride. ‘Give ’em an inch – you know how it is.’
And they followed the women out of the foyer and into the waiting taxi.
ELEVEN
The Wheatbelt, Western Australia – October 1968
Justine sat on the steps watching the setting sun that was poised just above the horizon flooding the sky with crimson. It was more than two weeks since Mrs Fitzgerald had brought her here and with each passing day Justine had been worrying more and more about the safety of her box, and the sort of trouble that might be awaiting her at the convent if Sister Edwina thought she had been gone too long.
On that first morning Mrs Fitzgerald had led her into the kitchen and introduced her to Gladys, the cook, a huge woman whose fat seemed to hang off her in folds. Gladys poured tea into cups made of china so thin you could almost see through it. It tasted much better than the tea the nuns made and Justine gulped it down so quickly that it burned her mouth. In the centre of the table was a tray of scroll-shaped iced buns.
‘I’d like you to sweep and wash the kitchen floor first, Justine,’ Mrs Fitzgerald said ‘and then the bathroom. After that, you can do the front steps, the treads are very dirty and need a good scrubbing; you’ll need to change the water several times.’
Justine nodded. She had scrubbed more steps than she could remember but right now her attention was fixed on the buns, their whorls coated with soft white icing and dotted with sultanas.
Mrs Fitzgerald pushed the plate towards her. ‘Help yourself.’
The bun tasted wonderful: light, rich and sweet like creamy clouds, the sultanas plump and juicy. She closed her eyes and ate the rest of the bun very slowly, savouring every mouthful while Mrs Fitzgerald talked to her. Gladys would look after her, she said, she was the person to ask if she needed anything. Gladys, as silent as she was large, nodded, unsmiling.
At six o’clock some men had appeared in the kitchen, and Gladys dished up a big meaty stew with carrots and potatoes and gave some to Justine.
‘C’mon and sit here by me,’ she’d said, as the men settled themselves at the table. They were noisy, and smelled of sweat and animals, and they smoked while they ate their stew. The smoke and the smell made Justine feel sick. They were stockmen, Gladys told her afterwards, in the whisper that seemed to be her usual way of speaking, and she said that she thanked the Lord Almighty that the Fitzgeralds had only a small farm, or she’d be cooking for an army of men.
‘You’ve worked very well today, Justine,’ Mrs Fitzgerald said, appearing alongside her. ‘I think we’re going to get along nicely. Do you like it here?’
Justin nodded. ‘It’s very nice,’ she said. ‘But I’ve lost that bag Mother Superior gave me. I’d better take it back or I’ll get in trouble.’
‘Gladys has put the bag in your room,’ Mrs Fitzgerald said. ‘She’s going to take you there now. It’s in that little building at the back of the house, near her room. It’s very small but you’ll have it all to yourself. Tomorrow we’ll go through the bag and sort out your things, see what else you need.’
‘Am I staying the night, then?’ Justine asked.
‘Well, of course you are.’ Mrs Fitzgerald sounded surprised.
Staring out now from the steps, to where the bees jostled for space on the scarlet fronds of the bottlebrush, Justine decided that she liked helping Mrs Fitzgerald. She didn’t pinch or twist your ears, or scowl with disapproval when she looked at what you’d done. And Gladys was nowhere near as terrifying as she had at first appeared.
Justine turned at the sound of footsteps. Mrs Fitzgerald was standing in the doorway, she smiled at Justine and joined her on the steps. ‘The sunset’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘I love this time of the day.’
Justine nodded, nervous about asking but desperately needing to know the answer to her question. ‘Will I be going back soon, Mrs Fitzgerald?’
‘Back? To the convent?’
Justine nodded. ‘Yes, it’s a long time, Sister Edwina will . . .’
‘But you’re not going back, Justine,’ Mrs Fitzgerald said. ‘You live here now, with us. Didn’t you know that? Didn’t the nuns tell you?’
Justine opened her mouth but no words came out. ‘But I’m going back,’ she said eventually. ‘I have to go back, for my things . . . my . . . my box.’
‘The sisters packed all your things into the bag, Justine. But I’m sorry they didn’t explain things to you. This is your home now. You won’t need to go back there at all, ever again. I hope you’ll be happy here with us.’
Zoë leaned against the sink waiting for the kettle to boil. She was watching Harry, who was icing a cake for Agnes’s birthday.
‘I learned something useful working in the kitchen,’ he said, fitting the nozzle into an icing bag. ‘If I don’t get a job I can always earn my living as a short order cook or a cake decorator.’ He was reeling from having been knocked back for the first half-dozen jobs he’d applied for.
‘I don’t really know what anthropologists do,’ Zoë admitted, pouring water on the tea.
‘Hmm. Well, it seems that people don’t believe I know what they do either, or perhaps they just don’t want to know,’ Harry said. ‘But who wants a black anthropologist – a black anything, anyway.’
‘D’you mean that? You really think . . .’
‘I don’t just think it, I know it.’
‘It seems so unfair.’
Harry filled the bag with pink icing and began to pipe Agnes’s name on top of the cake.
Zoë watched, mesmerised by the smoothness of his dark hands against the whiteness of the bag; her body ached with the memory of those hands on her breasts, on her thighs. She looked up to see him watching her and blushed.
‘What’s up, Zoë?’
She shook her head and turned away to get the milk from the fridge. ‘Nothing,’ she said, but even with her back turned she felt his eyes on her. ‘So, how is Agnes?’ she asked, taking the foil cap off the milk.
Harry paused, still looking at her and then returned his gaze to the cake. ‘She’s very well, very happy about her birthday,’ he said, piping a row of pink kisses onto the cake. ‘She doesn’t know anything.’
‘That wasn’t what I meant,’ Zoë said, ‘I was just wondering, you know, how she was, generally.’
‘Yeah. She’s okay
. What about Richard?’
Zoë sighed. ‘I don’t know. He’s different since he got back but his sister says he’s just really involved with the program he’s making.’
‘Okay, is she? His sister?’
‘She’s great, I really like her. We went shopping together and to the movies, and I’m meeting her again tomorrow.’
Harry piped his last kiss and put down the bag. ‘That’s good,’ he said, looking straight at her as he licked the icing from his fingers, just as he had licked them when he drew them, damp and glistening, from inside her.
The milk bottle slipped from Zoë’s hand and crashed onto the tiles.
The air in the editing suite was thick with cigarette smoke, and Richard, his feet propped on the desk, sat watching the cut outs from his Oakland interviews with the Black Panthers. After Martin had selected the clips they needed for the program, Richard had asked Andy, the cameraman, to splice together the discarded sections and put them on a separate reel. They had filmed early in the morning, before the fog lifted, and the streets of West Oakland looked particularly depressing and other-worldly through the swirling mist. There was a long sequence of Panthers seeing children safely across the street to school at a junction where several young black children had been killed or injured. Through the mist, and in their leather jackets and black berets with guns slung over their shoulders, they could have been warriors from another planet. Richard watched intently; the program was to go to air the following week and he was impatient for the reactions and reviews, to see his footprint on his chosen path.
The door opened, and Andy came in clutching a mug of coffee and a sausage roll in a greasy brown paper bag.
‘Where’s the stuff we shot in the kitchens?’ Richard asked.
Andy peered at the images on the screen. ‘Coming up any minute. Reckon you’ll need any more of this?’
‘I never throw anything away.’ But there was more to it than that. He was looking for something; someone. They had filmed in the Panthers’ kitchen while the volunteers, who turned out every day at dawn, were cooking for the hundreds of children who ate breakfast there.
