Sixty Summers

by Amanda Hampson

  If she was honest with herself, Rose would admit to feeling slightly inadequate and unrefined, as though she needed to be on her best behaviour around Prya and appear to have her shit together as much as possible. Anyway, much as she adored her grandson, looking after him tonight would be a no.

  The other message was from Fitz asking what she was up to and did she fancy coming over for a spot of conjugation sometime this weekend. There was never a time in her life when Rose thought that having a lover, let alone one ten years her junior, was an ideal situation. It was still confusing as to how she had acquired one so easily and that he had fitted so seamlessly into her life.

  They had met a year ago in the language section of a city bookshop, both looking at the books of French verb drills. There was a brush of skin on skin and laughing apologies. Rose felt herself go hot and tingly all over, as if she had been hit with a straight shot of oestrogen followed by a chaser of testosterone. She imagined her hormones sitting up like meerkats, scoping out this intruder wandering into the barren terrain of her sexual life. He was so attractive she didn’t think for a moment that he’d be interested in her. It had been a decade since anyone had shown her the slightest interest, even longer since her husband had. They had compared the various books available, confessed they’d both learned French on and off for years, dropping it and picking it up again without making much progress. It was an easy move across the road for coffee. After an hour of stimulating conversation, they had agreed to meet up and help each other with their verbs.

  A week later she found herself rolling around naked in a strange bed in the middle of the afternoon to the sounds of AC/DC’s ‘Highway to Hell’ at full volume and felt twenty years younger for the experience. A year later they had still not practised a single verb but had fine-tuned their rolling around to a mutually satisfactory level of expertise. She felt no guilt, no remorse. She just wished that he wouldn’t text her so often in between times. It was a no for him as well. Or, perhaps a ‘maybe tomorrow’ after Maggie left.

  Rose enjoyed a cool shower and slipped on a cotton muumuu, which was practically all you could tolerate in this late summer humidity. She had a glass of cold rosé while she chopped the garlic for the spaghetti vongole and tossed a green salad together. She put on some Norah Jones and hummed along contentedly, planning to savour every moment of the evening with Maggie and Fran. She ignored the first call from her mother but the third time the phone rang she capitulated. ‘Emergency, Mum?’ she asked, already knowing that it wouldn’t be.

  ‘Can you please explain to your father that we were married in 1952. Here he is.’

  ‘Mum, no … no … please. It doesn’t matter.’ But it was too late, she could hear her father breathing into the phone. She wondered if people still did that – breathing into phones. It used to be a thing but now seemed tame given that there were so many new, much worse, things people did with phones. ‘Hi, Dad. How are you?’

  ‘Who is this?’ her father asked.

  ‘It’s Rose, Dad. Your eldest daughter.’

  ‘What do you want? I’m busy right now.’

  ‘Is there a lady with short dark hair near you?’

  ‘Affirmative. Pink blouse and maroon skirt.’ Rose flinched; it couldn’t be anyone but her mother wearing that colour combination. ‘She’s quite pretty actually, although I think she’s taken liberties with the hair colour,’ he added in a hushed voice.

  ‘Can you pass on a message for me?’

  ‘Fire away,’ said her father.

  ‘Okay, this is it: My apologies, you’re absolutely right.’

  There was silence at the other end and Rose wondered if he had twigged to her.

  ‘Did you get that, Dad?’

  ‘Yes, I believe so. Just repeat it for me.’

  She said it again and heard her father repeat it word for word with the same emphasis. ‘She said, “thank you very much”,’ he reported back.

  ‘Well done. Now you go and relax. Bye, Dad.’

  Her mother came back on the phone. ‘I knew he’d listen to you.’

  ‘Listen, Mum, he’s not trying to annoy you. If he’s bothering you, just go home. He probably won’t even notice. The staff can take care of him. Maybe you don’t need to be there so often —’

  ‘I won’t be able to come at all if your sister has her way. You know she told them not to let me bring your father food, because, apparently, I am trying to poison him!’

  ‘Yes, she sent me a long email about it. Flimsy evidence at best. You’re not, are you?’

  ‘Very funny,’ said her mother. ‘Can you tell her to pull her head in? I’m not putting up with it. I’m eighty-five next week; I shouldn’t have to deal with this shit from my own daughter.’

  Rose had to agree. She promised she would deal with it, but not this weekend.

  ‘Rose, I want you to know that I do love your father. It’s just I never agree with anything he says.’

  ‘So, what you’re saying, Mum, is that arguing is the foundation of your relationship.’

  ‘I suppose so, if you put it like that,’ she agreed reluctantly. ‘I just wanted you to understand that.’

  ‘If you enjoy arguing with him so much, why do you need an arbitrator? You could go on for many happy hours arguing about that one thing.’

  ‘I just can’t stand it when he gets his facts wrong, and he’s so stubborn!’

  Rose sighed. ‘Okay, fine. Listen, I’ll see you Sunday, Mum.’

  As she disconnected, there was a message from Max to say that Peter had forgotten his reading glasses. She ignored it, figuring they were too far away to turn back, and also that three capable men – well, Elliot was very capable – would work something out.

  As Rose resumed her preparations, her thoughts turned to the evening ahead and the friendship with Fran and Maggie. It might not have been evident to anyone at the time, but when she’d met Fran at high school, Rose had been struggling to find her place there. Her parents had recently sold their share in the family farm and bought a suburban newsagency. At fourteen, Rose was tall and awkward with freckles and hair that fought its way out of every style. Not one to be easily dismissed, she made a name for herself at high school through sheer bloody-mindedness. Looking back, some of the things she did were quite unhinged. She was all reaction, no reflection. Fran was the voice of reason and had calmed Rose down, made her less wild.

  Fran was her opposite: small and anxious with dark woodland-creature eyes, almost hidden in the shadow of a heavy fringe. It took a long time to get to know her. She was guarded – not one of the popular girls; her foreignness and her reserve marked her out as different. She never brought lunch to school. Rose thought she was on a diet but later, when they became closer, Fran admitted she had almost stopped eating when she was thirteen and her oma died. Back then, anorexia was almost unknown and it was years before Rose realised it was a condition.

  Fran didn’t have a father around and she wasn’t close to her mother but had adored her oma. For years she couldn’t mention her grandmother without getting the wobbles. The not-eating nonsense went on for years too. It was only after they got to London that Fran began to relax and eat properly. Rose had made sure she got plenty of food and gallons of Guinness to build up her stamina.

  What Rose had liked about Fran from the start was that she was a good audience and laughed at all Rose’s jokes. Rose had been looking for a partner in crime, but somehow ended up going straight. As it turned out, there were other more productive ways to make her mark.

  In their years on the farm, her family’s entertainment had revolved around the radio. They sat together in the evenings and listened to serials and music. Everywhere was miles away, and long hours spent in the car were for family singalongs. Rose’s mother was an Elvis fan, her father did a memorable rendition of Val Doonican’s ‘Walk Tall’ and they sang endless rounds of Bing Crosby’s ‘Swinging on a Star’. With the move to Sydney, they no longer spent much time in the car. They went their separate
ways and forgot about their happy times singing together. Rose never forgot. Music was her passion and singing always made her happy.

  Fran had somehow missed the sixties music revolution. She was brought up on classical music and played the piano. She was dazzled by Rose’s repertoire of pop music and encouraged her to use her voice. On top of that, after a lifetime of having the wrong hair, Rose now had the right hair that could be teased into an afro. The musical Hair had been an enormous hit and, on the crest of that wave, Rose put together a garage band. Fran quickly overcame her lack of confidence with a pitch-perfect voice, a gift of her classical training. She read music, played keyboard and taught Rose the science of singing harmonies. They found guitar-playing girls but a drummer was more difficult. In the end, they compromised with a token boy, who wasn’t much of a drummer but owned a drum kit.

  After endless practice, and not a few disputes, the band performed at the end-of-year concert and their rendition of ‘Aquarius’ had the audience on their feet and dancing in the aisles. It was a good year for both of them. Fran had discovered that as a performer she was more extroverted and could even be slightly provocative. And, by some miracle, Rose managed to get through that entire year without one detention.

  When she and Fran moved into the flat with Maggie, it didn’t take long to realise their new friend had hopeless taste in music. At a time when some of the best music in history was being produced by the likes of Pink Floyd, Santana, the Rolling Stones, Queen, Blondie and dozens of other legendary artists, Maggie, when pressed, elected John Denver and Glen Campbell as favourites. Rose and Fran had to completely re-educate her.

  Forty years. Fran hadn’t changed all that much. Rose’s hair had turned silver and still defied gravity. But Maggie, the beautiful one, hadn’t aged well. She still made an effort to have her nails done and her hair coloured but she was carrying too much weight. She’d come to resent her much-admired breasts, irritated by the male attention they attracted and the discomfort, and wore baggy clothes to hide them. Her signature bubbling laugh was rarely heard. Worse, she’d become more combative, as if she couldn’t be stuffed with diplomacy any more.

  Rose was about to pour her second glass of rosé when she heard the purr of Maggie’s Audi in the driveway. Standing on the front step, Rose watched her friend get an overnight bag from the back seat. Maggie’s shoulders were hunched and, as she turned from the car, her face was visibly flushed. For a moment she was almost unrecognisable – an old woman – then somehow she quickly morphed back into Maggie. Between the driveway and the lawn, she missed her step and staggered heavily. For a moment it seemed she might fall. Rose rushed to take her arm and steady her, only to see Maggie’s forced smile crumple into a grimace of misery as she burst into tears.

  Rose held her while she sobbed and apologised and sobbed again. Her breath came out in gasps and Rose was afraid for her. She had been worried that Maggie could drop dead of a heart attack from the stress she had been under these last few years. Anthea and Elena, whom Rose privately referred to as the evil twins, had no hesitation about putting their mother through the wringer – standard practice in that family. The stress was probably no worse than it had been, but Maggie’s ability to cope with it had diminished, and she’d had problems with her blood pressure lately.

  ‘It’s all right, everything’s all right. Let’s get you sitting down with a drink.’ Rose guided her inside and down the hall to the living room, where Maggie collapsed onto the sofa. Rose poured her a glass of wine and sat down beside her. ‘What on earth’s happened?’

  Maggie took a gulp of wine and brushed away the tears that continued to slip down her cheeks. ‘I think I’m having a nervous breakdown.’

  ‘You’ve thought that before, Mags. You’ll come through. You always do. What’s happened this time?’

  ‘I don’t know where to start. Well, okay … one thing, the latest … Aaron put a video online of him and Anthea having sex.’

  ‘Oh, shit! What? Why on earth would he do that? Poor darling. She didn’t know?’

  ‘He’s a bit of a social media animal, always posting selfies of the two of them glued to each other. So, I imagine it’s because he thinks they’re “hot” and for some reason he thought it was okay. She knew she was being filmed … but she never agreed to put it online.’

  ‘I think that’s quite common … the filming, I mean.’

  Maggie gave her a look of distaste. ‘Really?

  ‘I mean, I wouldn’t do it … obviously. But I think some people find it titillating to watch themselves going at it.’

  Maggie considered this for a moment and grimaced. ‘It makes me cringe, it’s so … personal … and private … Anyway, it gets worse … she sent me the link and Yia-yiá saw it.’

  ‘Far out! No wonder you’re in such a state.’

  ‘Then the girls turned up while Kristo and the brothers were there – and now everyone knows.’ Maggie sculled her wine.

  ‘Faaark! Have you warned Aaron? Honestly, things could get much worse if they go after him. Remember that boyfriend of Elena’s —’

  ‘Yes … don’t remind me. No, I just grabbed my bag and left. I honestly felt I couldn’t stand another minute.’ Maggie’s eyes brimmed. ‘That family is killing me, Rose. It’s like living in a nuclear reactor that’s on the brink of blowing, and I’m the only one who can cool it down. What gets me is that I’m the only one who wants to cool it. Everyone else feels they have licence to let loose and it’s up to me to sort things out.’

  ‘I know. I’m so sorry, Mags. I think I have things tough with my lot but yours are so much … louder. And a tiny bit dangerous sometimes.’

  ‘They’re tough people,’ agreed Maggie quietly. ‘And when they’re all riled up at once …’

  ‘Do you want to put Fran off? We could do it tomorrow instead?’

  ‘No, she’ll be all ready and I don’t want to disappoint her. Let’s try and forget all that crap. I’m here. My phone is off. Let’s get pissed and talk shit and be young again for an hour or two.’

  ‘You won’t feel young in the morning,’ said Rose. ‘I’ll just get the pasta going. I’ve got the iPad set up on the table.’

  ‘How is Fran? I actually haven’t spoken to her for a couple of months.’

  Rose filled a pot with water and set it on the stove. ‘I don’t know. A bit lonely, I think. She doesn’t light up when she talks about Louis any more.’

  ‘I know we haven’t actually met him but, even based on what we know from her, I’m not sure why she would light up about him in the first place.’

  ‘“Last Resort Louis”. I reckon he’s probably just another old bloke looking for “a nurse and a purse” – don’t you reckon?’

  ‘I don’t think Fran would be a likely candidate for him,’ said Maggie. ‘She’s got no money. She might pop out a painkiller for him, but I can’t see her going beyond that. She’s not that domesticated. If he was green and leafy, she’d lavish attention on him.’

  ‘Get him under her green thumb,’ suggested Rose.

  Maggie snorted and held up her empty glass for a refill. ‘Do you want me to do something?’

  Rose assured her that all was in hand and they chatted about other things while she concentrated her efforts on the food. But as she served up the vongole, Rose realised her good spirits had evaporated and been replaced by a dark sense of time passing and things lost that could never be recaptured. Of everything changing, collapsing and disintegrating. Life was slipping through her fingers like smoke. Nothing could be grasped or held onto – in the end all would be lost. It occurred to her that Maggie might not make it through this crisis. She had become brittle, and there was always the risk that the next drama could be the one to break her.

  The thought of losing Maggie brought a lump to her throat. She had to stop and try to calm herself, jolly herself back to her earlier mood. She brought the wine to the table and filled their glasses right to the rim, just like they used to, so they had to lean over the
m to slurp the first mouthful. Maggie gave a soft laugh.

  Chapter Four

  Waiting for the faces of her dearest friends to pop up, Fran felt the usual twinge of nostalgia for the humid embrace of Sydney in late summer, with its shrilling cicadas. She longed to smell the rich scent of frangipani. These days she often pondered – quite pointlessly – whether she should have gone home (she still thought of it as home) when Rose and Maggie had, or even sometime in the intervening years. Now it was too late.

  When she was alone in the shop, she often daydreamed happily-ever-afters for herself, imagining a final act so glorious that it made the years of heartbreaks, betrayals and disappointments all worthwhile. She saw herself in the countryside, a cottage surrounded by gardens, rolling fields and trees beyond. Someone kind and caring, soulful, at her side. They would walk together in the evenings, perhaps with a devoted labrador. While she had always loved working with books, lately she’d become acutely aware of the thousands of voices trapped within those silent tomes, clamouring to be released. She spent too much time alone. Too much time in her head.

  When Maggie and Rose had left in 1979, Fran was still infatuated with London – she felt at home as a foreigner among so many other foreigners. She was fascinated by the discovery of the many cities within the city, the mosaic of cultures. The intriguing coexistence of grime and glamour, poverty and affluence and the sense of being central to the world instead of peripheral. It was a place where anyone could belong, something that Fran had never experienced before. Her father long gone, Fran had grown up with her mother and grandmother as her entire family. They spoke only German at home (but never outside). It was their secret language, and one that was imbued with comfort.

  For Oma, home was not Sydney, but Vienna before the war. She lived as someone in exile; their flat was a tiny sovereign nation within this bright city with its bleached skies and sunbaked skins. From early childhood, Fran had loved Oma’s stories about the big house in Döbling and the family jewellery business, their life in Vienna before everything was taken from them, including Fran’s grandfather. As a treat, Fran was sometimes allowed to look in Oma’s jewellery box at the small pieces she still owned: a diamond brooch and amethyst ring, a pearl choker and some earrings with miniature screws on the back. There had been many more pieces, Oma told her with regret, all stolen or sold over the years.