by Tess Evans
But she was speaking to him, he thought happily. It would only be a matter of time. Master of the grand gesture, he took every lover’s cliché and presented it with a frenetic kind of courtliness that both embarrassed and charmed her.
Red roses, yellow roses, pink roses, white carnations, purple irises, white lilies, silky orange poppies, Chanel No 5, Chypre, Midnight in Paris, Black Magic chocolates, Haigh’s peppermint creams, even a pair of silk stockings—gifts appeared at her door every day. As you can see, my grandmother was wooed in style.
‘I’m in love,’ Hal told his friends. ‘And in the end, she won’t be able to resist me.’ And his warm brown eyes would crinkle with delight.
Every night, he went to the ballet—he, Hal, whose idea of entertainment was an afternoon at the footy or a game of cards with the boys. He, Hal, who was mesmerised by the graceful sweep of her slim arms, her pale oval face and the dark hair in a prim little bun at the nape of her neck. He loved the way she held her head and marvelled at the straightness of her back. He watched the twinkling little satin shoes and longed to caress her feet. Most of all, he wondered at the lightness with which she touched the earth and felt that such an ethereal creature must surely float away. He felt gross and fleshy and unworthy, but despite this and despite his quixotic behaviour, he wasn’t playing at love. He had never heard the term ‘soulmate’ but believed utterly that this woman was the one he was meant to be with.
Barely six months after their first meeting, Hal proposed. He had spent the last month scouring the jewellers’ shops. She won’t want a fancy ring, he told the long-suffering salesmen. I want something classic and beautiful. Finally he chose a simple sapphire-cut diamond, set in platinum, which he placed in a box with a string of matched pearls. Every night he’d come home and gloat over the open box before falling into despair. What if she says no? He was going to wait for her birthday, but in the end couldn’t stand the tension.
For once, Hal denied himself the dramatic gesture. This was about Paulina and he had become aware that he sometimes embarrassed her. So one Sunday in September, when the trees were draped in fresh green lace, he took her for a walk in the Fitzroy Gardens. They sat on the seat under the Fairy Tree and he took her hand. ‘I love you,’ he said. ‘Will you be my wife?’
‘Yes,’ she said and kissed him.
It was as simple and profound as that.
Though their love is central to my story, this golden time was no more than a prelude to the main act. Nevertheless, they are my grandparents and I like to imagine them as young lovers: holding hands in the park, kissing under the Fairy Tree, laughing as they ran back to the tram in a sudden spring shower.
Book I
Hal and Paulina married on a clear, frosty day in May and lived in the beautiful house by the river that he built her for a wedding present. They don’t pay much in the corps de ballet, and Paulina’s gift to Hal was a jumper she knitted; a jumper so large that they could both fit into it at the same time, and often did, cuddling before the open fire.
This is the house that Hal built.
This is the wife, all loving and warm
Who lived in the house that Hal built.
This is the son so handsome and tall
Born of the mother all loving and warm
Who lived in the house that Hal built.
This is the daughter with no life at all
Who watches the son who was handsome and tall
Who was born of the woman now wrapped in her pall
Who lived in the house that Hal built.
And then there was me.
Now, Hal is coming home. After all these years, he’s returning to the house he built with so much hope, in 1945.
1
WHEN ZAV WAS TWELVE AND Sealie seven, Paulina died. She was—and then she was not. So swift. So cruel. How can children possibly understand such a thing? One moment their beloved mother was gliding, dancing around the house on her magic ballerina-feet, the next minute she was a graceful heap on the floor.
Sealie was there when it happened. Paulina liked to listen to the music of the great ballets, and holding her daughter’s hand she would pirouette, glissade and arabesque, all the while la-laa-ing or humming the tune. She died to Les Sylphides. Her last dance was the Pas de Deux Waltz. Sealie was her partner, giggling and leaping awkwardly about, when Paulina suddenly fell to the floor. Still giggling, the little girl began to tickle her mother.
‘Wake up, Mummy.’ Busy little fingers working at her mother’s ribs. ‘Come on, Mummy.’ More impatiently now. Shaking the still figure by the shoulders. ‘Come on!’
Sealie swears she remembers the moment when she sensed her mother’s dying. The Waltz had finished and in the space of a breath, between its final notes and the first bar of the following Grand Waltz, she saw Paulina’s spirit execute a grande jeté into the unknown, while her body lay on its side, arms arranged in the classic fourth position.
She knew then that her mother had gone.
‘Mummy’s gone away!’ she screamed in terror. This was verified by Mrs McLennon, who told the story over and over to whoever would listen.
‘She knew, young Sealie did. She said her mother had gone away. Not that she wouldn’t wake up, like you might expect. The body was still there, right in front of her, for pity’s sake! How could she know her mother had gone? Blessed if I know.’ And she’d shake her head in wonderment at the child’s intuition, or knowledge or perception or whatever it was that had precipitated that cry. All Mrs McLennon could do at the time was cradle the frightened child whose face was grubby with tears and snot.
‘Shh, sweetheart. We’ll ring Daddy. You come out here with me.’ Sealie began to shiver violently as Mrs McLennon ushered her into the hallway. ‘Poor little mite. You just pop into the kitchen and we’ll have a nice cup of cocoa. I’ll be with you in a jiffy.’
A desolate little figure, Sealie sat at the kitchen table and sipped her cocoa, while Mrs Mac hovered uncertainly, wondering what had become of Zav. She took a step towards the door then stopped. I’ll have to find him—but I can’t just leave my poor baby. When Sealie was born, Mrs Mac had moved in with the family, and watched with pride as the little girl learned to smile, to sit, to crawl. When Sealie was fifteen months old she said ‘Mac’ (or something that sounded very like) and Mrs Mac felt real joy for the first time since she received the dreaded telegram from the army.
Zav had been older, of course, but he treated her with an artless affection that she returned threefold. But where is he? He had come running into the room at Sealie’s cry and saw his mother, of this much she was sure. But she had no recollection of what he did next. He had just disappeared. She hovered between the passageway and the kitchen where her little girl was still hiccuping her distress.
Poor Mrs Mac! She was cruelly torn by the need to help both her children.
She knelt down beside Sealie and held her close. The child was still shivering, even though it was a hot January day. ‘Wait here, sweetheart. I won’t be long. Mrs Mac has to go and find Zav.’ She stood up and hesitated in the doorway. ‘You wait here like a good girl and drink your cocoa.’
Sealie’s big eyes followed Mrs Mac out the door and then she slipped from the chair and padded down the hall.
‘Zav?’ Sealie stood outside the closed door of the cupboard under the stairs. ‘Let me in.’ She rattled the handle, but Zav had made a barricade. She stopped rattling and listened. There was a muffled sound followed by a loud sniff.
‘Go away,’ came a voice from the cupboard. ‘This is my place.’
Sealie gave a forlorn little whimper. ‘It’s my place too. I need a cuddle.’ And she continued to snuffle into her skirt until she heard a scraping sound. The door opened slightly.
‘Come on in, then. Hurry.’ His voice, unwieldy with adolescence, seemed a thing apart. He grabbed his sister’s hand, closed the door and put his arm around her shoulder. ‘It’s okay for you to cry,’ he said gruffly.
Sealie felt
safe in the cupboard under the stairs. No-one ever came there and it was where she and Zav hid when they didn’t want to be found. She looked at the dim shape beside her. Zav was sitting against the wall with his knees drawn up under his chin. His eyes glowed darkly.
‘When’s Mummy coming back?’ she whispered.
‘She’s in heaven,’ he said. ‘People don’t come back from heaven.’
‘Why did she go?’
‘She was sick.’
Sealie remembered times when she had been sick. Once, she had felt hot all over and her head hurt. She coughed and her nose ran too, and Daddy had taught her how to blow it on a handkerchief. Another time she had felt sick in her tummy and she’d vomited all over Teddy. Vomited had been an interesting new word and while vomiting was nasty, she felt better afterwards—especially when Mrs McLennon cleaned up Teddy.
It just didn’t make sense. ‘I’ve been sick lots of times. You don’t have to die just because you’re sick.’
Zav groaned. ‘It was a different sort of sick, Sealie. She didn’t want to die—it just happened.’ His voice wobbled dangerously. ‘If you can’t stop yapping, you can just get out.’ And to the little girl’s dismay, he began to sob. Her big, tough brother was sobbing in her arms.
She patted him on the back ‘Don’t cry, Zavvie,’ she said. ‘Please don’t cry.’ She was only seven and frightened by the violence of his grief, but she already had a dim sense of his need for her strength, a need that lay dormant until it emerged, fully grown, many years into their future.
When Hal received Mrs McLennon’s frantic phone call, he came home in a taxi to find the doctor’s car in the drive. He saw it with relief rather than alarm. Surely the presence of the doctor suggested illness or an accident, not death. Mrs McLennon is a drama queen, he consoled himself as the cab pulled into the kerb. Paulina’s had a fall and lost consciousness. That’ll be it. He was worried, though, and the cab had barely stopped before he flung himself out, thrusting a five pound note into the surprised driver’s hand.
‘I’m sorry,’ the doctor said, as Hal rushed through the door. ‘It was instantaneous. She would have felt no pain.’
Hal stared at him wildly. What was he saying? Why wasn’t he taking care of Paulina? Why wasn’t she in bed? She wasn’t well. Any fool could see that.
‘Mrs Mac, please make my wife a cup of tea,’ he said, ‘while the doctor and I help her to her bed . . . Mrs McLennon . . .?’
But the housekeeper’s face was soggy, her eyes red slits from which moisture oozed until her features seemed to be sliding away. She tried unsuccessfully to arrest the slide with her apron.
‘Oh, poor Mrs Rodriguez!’ was all she could say before running from the astonished Hal, who turned his bewilderment onto the doctor.
‘She is okay, Keith.’ This was a statement. He was beginning to fear asking the question.
‘She’s not okay, Hal.’ A doctor never becomes accustomed to pronouncing death and he bowed his head, unwilling to look his friend in the eye.
Hal was on the floor now, calling to his wife, entreating her, but she was becoming colder, becoming something other, as her warm, supple body gradually turned to marble in his appalled hands.
Meanwhile, his children clung to each other in the cupboard under the stairs, waiting for someone to tell them that the world was still a safe place. That person was not their father, as you might expect, but Mrs McLennon. Realising that Hal had forgotten his children, she washed her face, smoothed her apron and stopped to think. Of course! The cupboard! She went straight to their hidey-hole.
‘Xavier. Selina.’ She used their given names, as they all did when things were serious. ‘Xavier. Selina. Can I come in?’ The scraping noise indicated that the barriers were down, so she opened the door to reveal the huddled figures inside.
‘Come on, now,’ she said, holding out her hand to Sealie. ‘We’ll go outside and I’ll find you a treat.’ Her mind searched frantically through her cupboards, seeking for something to give them. ‘Your dad’s got a few things to do right now and I have to make a phone call.’ She hugged them so hard that Sealie yelped. ‘I’ll be back in a jiffy.’ She turned to Zav. ‘You look after your little sister.’
Relieved to have an adult take charge, the children followed her meekly and Zav, feeling the weight of responsibility, tried to distract Sealie with a game of hide-and-seek. ‘You hide. I’ll count to a hundred.’ He gave her an embarrassed hug. ‘Come on. You can hide anywhere in the garden. One, two, three . . .’ Zav’s voice was muffled and his throat tight, but he did the best he could.
Mrs Mac dialled the local presbytery. ‘You must come, Father. Mr Rodriguez is all overcome, and I don’t know what to do with the children.’ The priest rang a parish member who contacted Paulina’s sister and before long, the children were engulfed in perfume, talcum powder and motherly breasts as a flood of warm-hearted women swept in to comfort them. But they clung fiercely to Mrs McLennon. She was the closest connection they had to their mother, now that their father had deserted them.
We might blame Hal for the neglect of his children at this tragic time in their young lives. Many did. In later years he blamed himself, but at the time, his grief was so overwhelming that he was barely able to attend the funeral. He lay motionless on his bed as Paulina, a shimmering wraith, danced before his dry, grainy eyes. Unconnected to the earth, she danced, while he felt the remorseless pull of gravity that prevented him from dancing along with her.
Hal always had energy to spare but now, as grief held him in thrall, he felt himself sliding into a dangerous lethargy. For nearly two weeks he drifted in a twilight that muted the pain he knew would cripple him once he returned to the everyday. Mrs Mac brought his meals to his room and put them on the table with increasing exasperation. She loved the children but Mr R was their father and they belonged with him. There was something less than manly in this wallowing.
‘Mr R,’ she said, finally plucking up the courage. ‘You’ll have to get up. The children need you. I’m not bringing your meals anymore.’
Hal just looked at her and turned his back, burrowing further into the bed. He was hiding his shame. Mrs Mac was right, of course—Paulina would never forgive him. He didn’t go down for dinner, but knew he couldn’t stay in bed forever. He’d resume his life tomorrow and bury his grief in the day-to-day.
Poor Grandad. He did try.
That night, Paulina failed to come, and Hal lay staring at the ceiling. Why had she left him? It felt as though his soul had been sliced in two, and grief had dissolved the better half. He trembled at the mere thought of returning to what was left of his life. This room, this house, even their children, were now sources of pain. Absence had invaded every corner—a void that was somehow a presence. There was a malign spirit abroad and it afforded him no rest.
Hal turned feverishly in the bed and looked across at the space beside him. He usually woke up before his wife and loved to lie beside her, listening to her quiet breathing. She plaited her long hair before coming to bed, but by morning there were always loose strands on the pillow. (He had looked in vain for even one of those long, dark hairs only yesterday.) In the dawn light, the curves of her face were luminous and her cheek was usually cradled in one hand.
Hal choked back a sob as another vision interposed. The last time he had seen her, those curves had sharpened and her hands were quietly crossed on her breast. She looks like a sleeping princess, Mrs Mac had mourned. But there is a vast chasm between death and sleep, and Hal saw that the living spirit had gone. ‘Please come back,’ he whispered—the same words he had used at what is crassly called the ‘viewing’. ‘Please. I can’t live without you. You’re my soul.’ Murmuring these words like an incantation, he finally fell into an uneasy sleep.
The next day he awoke, weary beyond imagining, but for the first time in many days, sat down to breakfast with his children. His first words to them were, ‘Not too much sugar on your cornflakes,’ thus arresting Zav’s second scoop mid-air.
‘Mrs Mac lets us,’ the boy responded sullenly.
‘Mrs Mac lets us,’ echoed Sealie.
Looking into his children’s wounded grey eyes, Hal’s body sagged.
‘Come here.’ And he opened his arms. Sealie tucked herself into his chest, feeling the rough wool like a blessing on her cheek. Zav, older and more awkward, stood at his father’s side and placed a tentative hand on his shoulder.
‘We miss her, don’t we?’ Hal said. The children nodded dumbly. ‘And . . .’
At that moment, Hal realised that he could think of nothing else to say. How could he tell them that he had loved their mother more than he loved them? How could he tell them that he felt guilty—that he should have ensured that Paulina was tethered more firmly to the earth? How could he tell them that he thought if anything would keep her, it was not him, but her children—that, in some obscure way, these children too, had failed to keep her spirit from straying? Of course he could never tell them such terrible things. He looked at Zav who was fighting back tears. He felt Sealie’s trusting little head on his chest.
I’ll watch over them, Paulina, he promised silently. I’ll love them and keep them safe, just as you would have done. He tightened his grasp on his children and the elusive words came.
‘We’re still a family,’ he said, ‘and we all love each other. Mum wouldn’t want us to be sad all the time, would she? Now what we’ll do is finish breakfast and go and buy a tree. We’ll plant it in the garden. It’ll be Mum’s tree and whenever we need to, we can go there and think of her. What do you say to that?’
The children brightened. Here was their father, taking action, taking control. Despite the aching gap, the world was returning to something like normal. They devoured their cereal with greater appetite, and toast in hand ran out to wait impatiently at the car.
They finally chose a magnolia. Its soft blooms and curved limbs offered both comfort and grace. They dug and mulched with a will and stood back to admire the little tree.
