Bad Behaviour

by Liz Byrski

  Richard looks up at him. ‘You’re saying I’m emotionally selfish and arrogant.’

  Tom raises his eyebrows and shrugs. ‘Another pint?’

  ‘Yes,’ Richard nods. ‘Please, and another chaser.’

  The sales are unbelievably awful; the ferocity with which the women storm the shops, rip garments from the hands of friends and strangers, and yell at sales assistants makes Julia ashamed of her sex. She is numb with horror and they’ve only been in Primark for five minutes. Knowing she has only herself to blame doesn’t help. In the ten days since Gaby’s arrival, it’s been like having an ally in the house against Tom and Richard always ganging up to tease her. In four more days, Gaby will be going back to London, so she wants to make the most of it. Making the most of it, though, has led her into this New Year sales folly.

  ‘The sales start tomorrow, Gaby,’ she’d said last night. ‘I was wondering if you’d like to go.’

  To which Gaby had looked up from the chess game she was playing with Tom and said, ‘Yeah! That’d be cool.’

  ‘You must be totally insane,’ Tom had said later as she climbed into bed. ‘You’ll loathe it.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I got carried away. But it’s the sort of thing young women love.’

  ‘Really? She didn’t seem that keen to me; in fact, I thought she was agreeing in order to please you.’

  ‘Rubbish. She said it’d be cool.’

  ‘Yes, but if she’d really wanted to go, wouldn’t she have suggested it? Or at least said it would be awesome?’

  ‘Oh Lord,’ Julia said. ‘I don’t know. You mean, I could be doing this for no good reason? Well, too late now; I can hardly renege on it, in case you’re wrong.’

  She looks now at Gaby who has made a brave initial foray into the scrum beneath a sign that offers a fifty per cent reduction on hipster jeans. She emerges unscathed but with an expression that indicates she knows she’s had a narrow escape.

  ‘Find anything?’ Julia asks, hoping she sounds enthusiastic.

  Gaby shakes her head. ‘This is totally vomit-making,’ she says. ‘I’ve never been to the sales before.’

  Julia grabs her arm and pulls her out of the path of new and vigorous shoppers flooding through the doors. ‘I thought you’d be an old hand at this.’

  ‘No way, I can’t do the crowd thing. I’m the only one of all my friends who never even goes to the Big Day Out.’

  Julia stares at her. ‘So, why did we come?’

  ‘Oh, I thought you wanted me to keep you company,’ Gaby says.

  Julia is out of the exit, dragging Gaby behind her, almost before she has time to draw breath. ‘I only suggested it because I thought you’d be pining to do the sales.’

  They lean against the wall outside laughing. ‘We could do something else, if you like. There’s everything in Brighton, from high culture to sleaze.’

  ‘Great,’ Gaby says. ‘Could we go to that pier we drove past? I’ve never been on a pier, not a huge one with stuff on it like that.’

  The wind on the pier feels as though it has come straight from the Arctic Circle rather than from across the Channel, but it’s wonderfully bracing with the briny scent of the sea seasoned with the aroma of fried onions from the hot dog stand. Hands buried in their pockets, Julia and Gaby stroll up one side of the pier, the wind tugging at their scarves, past the various attractions, many of which are closed. There is a clairvoyant in residence but a peek through the gap in the curtains of the booth reveals a raddled woman with bright-orange hair, wearing a pink velvet tracksuit, and an atmosphere thick with tobacco smoke. It does not inspire confidence in a connection with the spirit world. But there is a courageous lone entrepreneur running the shooting gallery and they hand over what seems to Julia to be an exorbitant number of pound coins.

  ‘You first,’ Gaby says.

  Julia lines up the ducks in her sights and manages to knock off four.

  ‘You’re a really good shot,’ Gaby says, positioning herself behind the rifle. ‘I’ll probably be hopeless, I’ve never done this before.’ And she proceeds to fire rapidly and wipes out the whole complement of ducks. ‘I can’t believe I did that,’ she says, as they walk away. She is clutching her prize, which is a blue plush elephant the size of a healthy toddler. ‘I wonder if I could send this to Harry. I have a huge pink teddy Dan bought me for my birthday. You know, I read a book about Brighton once, it was called Brighton Rock, about teddy boys with flick knives; can we go and see The Lanes?’

  ‘We certainly can, we could have lunch there,’ Julia says, and they walk back down the pier. ‘I used to come here years ago,’ she says looking out over the beach. ‘When I was engaged to Simon, and Zoë was with Richard. We’d drive down from London early in the evenings, it would have been late September. It was warm; well, not what you’d call warm, but a sort of Indian summer until the middle of October. See that pub over there? We’d go there for a drink first and then, as it was getting dark, we’d come down here and get our gear off and go swimming.’

  ‘Swimming?’ Gaby is horrified. ‘Off that stony beach?’

  ‘Oh, I know it’s nothing compared with your beaches,’ Julia says with a laugh, ‘but Zoë put up with it quite well. We had such a good time.’

  ‘Did you swim in the nude?’

  ‘God no, wouldn’t have dared, not even in the dark. We’d just swim and then lie on the beach and snog, admittedly not in the height of comfort. Then we’d go and get fish and chips, and eat them on one of those seats on the promenade.’ She laughs. ‘Those simple things seem so precious when you look back on them. I wish we’d had more time together, Zoë and I. We got on so well and then, of course, I got married and went to Paris. And then Zoë had Daniel and it was all over.’

  ‘Have you got any photos?’ Gaby asks. ‘Of all of you then and of Mum and Richard?’

  ‘Yes, quite a few. But you’ve probably seen them all, they’d be much the same as Zoë’s.’

  ‘Mum threw hers away when she moved home to Australia, dumped everything. How annoying is that? She doesn’t even have a wedding photo.’

  ‘I have one,’ Julia says. ‘Several, I think, and I even know where they are. When we get home, I’ll find them for you. Meanwhile, maybe we should buy a postcard of Brighton and send it to Zoë. You don’t think she and Archie will mind you working for Richard, do you?’

  ‘Dad was a bit off about it,’ Gaby says. ‘But he’s a bit off about everything at the moment. He’s – well, I just need to find a way of reassuring him about something. Mum thought it was great, though. I think she thinks Richard’ll look out for me.’

  ‘I’m sure he will. We all will.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks. But you know Mum, she was worried I’d get into trouble, be exploited, get bullied or get transported somewhere as a sex slave.’

  ‘Strange how history repeats itself,’ Julia says. ‘Zoë used to say something similar about her own mother.’

  Gaby laughs. ‘I know, she told me, but the weird thing is, Mum actually thinks she’s really different from Gran. She is in some ways; I mean, Gran’s really critical and . . . bitter, I think. Mum’s not like that. But she’s always worried about stuff; you know, us getting into trouble, what people will think, whether she’s doing the right thing, whether people disapprove of her. All the stuff she says drove her mad about Gran when she was young. Did you know that Gran never let her have friends over to visit? Mum hasn’t got friends; only Aunty Jane, of course. She knows heaps of people but it’s like she’s scared of letting people in. Weird – parents are totally weird. Aren’t you glad you’re not one?’

  ‘A lot of the time, I am,’ Julia says, pushing open the door to a restaurant squeezed between an antique shop and a place that sells everything occult. ‘But since you arrived, I’ve been unattractively envious.’

  FORTY-FOUR

  Fremantle – February 2002

  Gaby’s letter is among the mail in the letterbox when Zoë gets home at dusk from her art class. I
t’s Friday and she has the house to herself for the weekend. Archie is away at some corporate team-building weekend, and Rosie is up at the winery with Rob. These days she is alone in the house far more frequently than she used to be and she’s grown to enjoy these little oases of solitude that would, not so long ago, have seemed bleak and lonely. A whole weekend to herself to work at her painting now seems like a luxury. She wonders, fleetingly, how Archie is getting on. Maybe the weekend away will do him good; this strange low-spirited phase of his has been going on for too long and Zoë can’t get to the bottom of it. After his dummy spit on Christmas afternoon, she’d felt guilty that she’d laughed about male menopause. He’d been so good to her when she was panicky and depressed, but now he’s battling with something and won’t talk about it.

  The empty house does makes her more acutely aware of Dan’s absence. It’s a few weeks since they heard from him and, while she knows that no news may only be a sign that he’s now somewhere out of communications reach, it’s not conducive to peace of mind. There have been stories on the news about the Australian troops being poorly equipped, and the government has been criticised for their inadequate cold-weather gear. In the mountains the temperatures apparently drop to a long way below freezing. In the searing heat of a West Australian summer, it is almost impossible to imagine what it is like to live in those temperatures. Zoë tries not to think about the awfulness of it because she knows it can overwhelm her.

  She thumbs through the mail; there is a renewal notice from the insurance company, an electricity bill, and this letter from Gaby. What a treat. They mainly send emails or texts, and Zoë phones Gaby, hoping when she does that her daughter doesn’t dread her calls, as she had dreaded talking to Eileen all those years ago. She makes her tea, sits down at the table and slits open Gaby’s envelope.

  Hi Mum

  I meant to send you these photos weeks ago, like right after New Year when Julia gave them to me but I put them in the envelope and then forgot. She’s got heaps so she gave me these, and I thought you’d want to see them. But you are NOT allowed to throw them away. If you don’t want them I DO, so just keep them for me.

  The wedding one is so dire, isn’t it? You all look as though you’re on your way to a funeral, and I think Julia’s hat is worse than yours and so does she. You and Richard look so young! What’s wrong with your face, it looks odd, as though you had a cut on your head? Had you fallen over or something? Richard got quite upset when I asked him, he walked out and went to the pub!

  I LOVE working in the production company, it’s cool and I’ve met this guy who works for the BBC. His name’s Brad and I might have to lift the boyfriend ban!!!! I am having such a brilliant time, London just gets better every day. I almost don’t notice the weather (lies!). Gloria sends her love,

  Heaps of love to everyone and don’t forget to text me the minute you hear from Dan.

  Love, love, love

  Gaby xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

  Zoë picks up the envelope of photos. Does she really want to see these pictures? She could take them straight down to Gaby’s room and put them in her desk drawer without looking at them. She opens the envelope.

  There are five photographs, their age apparent from the yellowish tinge and faded colours. In the first, she is standing in front of one of the lions in Trafalgar Square, wearing a red coat and long black boots. Her face is screwed up with anxiety, and several pigeons are perched on her outstretched arms, one on her shoulder, close to her face. The memory of it makes her shiver; she hates birds.

  ‘Stand there,’ Richard had said, ‘and I’ll take your picture. Put your arms out and see if the pigeons will sit on them.’

  The angry darting eyes, the vicious-looking claws and beaks made Zoë’s flesh creep. The pigeon on her shoulder was so close she could feel the warmth of its body on her cheek and she was rigid with revulsion; but this was her first date with Richard and she didn’t want him to think her silly. He took ages adjusting the camera, and when the picture was finally taken and she was allowed to move, the birds took off in a horrible flapping of wings that made her flinch and shudder.

  In the next picture, she and Richard are in a pub somewhere – Brighton, perhaps – with Julia and Simon. Zoë is struck by how handsome Simon looks, like some Nordic film star, and how dowdy Julia looks, with that awful bob and velvet headband. Julia is no fashion plate these days but she has a certain eccentric style, and her face is thinner, which gives her features greater definition. She has definitely improved with age.

  And then there it is – an exact replica of the picture she burned more than thirty years ago. It is a cold, grey day; she is standing with Richard on the steps of the registry office. Richard’s suit is a little too big on the shoulders, and she is in her lavender dress and the hat she’d thought might look a little Jackie Kennedy-ish and doesn’t. Her left arm is tucked into Richard’s, which he holds awkwardly rigid across his body. In her other hand is the bouquet Julia made for her.

  It is all there; the bruises on her face, the furrow of anxiety between her eyebrows, the tension in her shoulders, the fixed stare that Richard is giving the camera. She looks at the photo for a long time and, as she does so, her body seems to take on the tension it has in the picture. Gaby is right – they look incredibly young and very scared, which is just how she remembers it. A big lump is building in her throat and she stiffly puts the picture aside to look at the next one, also taken on the steps. In it her arm is still through Richard’s, his face now a little more relaxed, and behind them are Julia and Simon, Sandy and, at the end of the line, Harry, smiling his broad smile straight into the camera. She stares into his face. It is just like looking at Dan and tears drop onto the back of her hand. She sees in Harry what she has always remembered about him; his warmth and energy, his wisdom, his capacity for love and his determination to make the best of every day.

  Zoë brushes away the tears and moves on to the final photograph, in which she and Richard are cutting their cake, and there again is Harry, standing just off to one side, looking at them with the air of a benevolent uncle. And amid the turmoil of emotions that the photographs have stirred, there is a fragment of joy. Dan will, at last, be able to see what his father looked like. How selfish she had been in depriving him of that chance in order to rid herself of painful memories. She sits for a long time at the table looking at the pictures, picking them up, putting them down and picking them up again. Finally, as she groups them back together, she takes one last look at the wedding picture. And, as she looks at her face, at her anxiety, awkwardness and vulnerability, the knot of grief that has built in her chest becomes great gulping sobs. Sinking her head into her hands, she weeps, not for the loss of Richard, or of Harry, but for her young, naïve, frightened self, for the loss of innocence and opportunity, and for the length of time she allowed herself to feel like a victim. Eventually, she puts the pictures back in their envelope and, as she carries her cup back to the sink, the phone rings.

  ‘Zoë, it’s me.’ Justine’s voice wavers uncharacteristically.

  Zoë’s heart leaps into her throat. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing, it’s not that . . . it’s just . . . I’m so frightened, Zoë. I thought I knew how to do this and I don’t. Could you . . .’

  ‘Of course. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’

  Five minutes later as she is about to leave, Zoë turns back, puts the envelope of photographs into her bag and heads for the front door.

  Justine slides down the wall and sits on the floor, the phone still in her hand. She folds her arms over her knees, and rests her head on them, regretting the call. What will Zoë think of her? What will they have to say to each other? But Gwen is visiting a friend in Tasmania, and it’s weeks since they’ve had news of Dan. Justine’s tension has cracked her resolve and she is compelled to reach out to the one person with whom she can share her misery in this lonely vacuum where she has no control over anything, most of all her own imagination. Frantically, she
tries to drag her mind back to images of Dan safe at home, and memories of the sound of his voice calling from the garden, his laughter as he holds Harry high above his head, the way he turns to look at her when she calls his name, the scent of his skin, the feel of his body warm beside her in bed, his arms around her. Before he left, he recorded himself reading nursery rhymes and stories for her to play to Harry at bedtime. She frequently plays these herself as she tries to sleep, but recently each attempt to recapture Dan is nudged aside by images of him facing terrorist gunfire, crushed under the ruins of a bombed building, tied and blindfolded with a knife at his throat, or losing consciousness, his face encrusted with ice.

  The doorbell rings and she struggles to her feet. Zoë’s face is pinched and white, and her eyes are red. They face each other wordlessly across the threshold; their eyes locked in a moment of profound understanding that they have never previously shared. Justine’s hand drops from the door handle and she holds it over her mouth. Zoë takes a step inside, puts her arms around her and, as the door swings shut, they stand there, locked together in their distress.

  It is hard to begin with; they are not used to being alone, to talking intimately. Justine feels that Zoë must think her pathetic to crack up like this when she herself has been coping with these terrifying absences for years, and embarrassment silences her. She hopes that Harry will wake up so that they can focus on him.

  ‘I’m sorry . . .’ she begins, but Zoë stops her.

  ‘No,’ she says, ‘please don’t. You can’t know how many times I’ve wanted to call you since Dan left, how many times I’ve picked up the phone and put it down. It is such a relief to be able to share this with you.’

  ‘But you have Archie.’

  ‘Yes, and he’s wonderful, but for us, for the women, it’s always different.’

  ‘I feel angry that I know so little,’ Justine says. ‘How far they might be from anywhere, what it’s like, how it all works; it’s a horrible, frightening mystery.’