‘Rose, what is it?’ Fran asked.
The words wouldn’t come. It felt as though a flood of tears was building. Then the truth burst out of her. ‘Elliot is not Peter’s son.’
Maggie and Fran were silent and Rose had no idea what they were thinking.
‘He’s Charlie’s, isn’t he?’ said Maggie finally. ‘I have wondered. He’s not at all like Peter.’
‘Does Peter know?’ asked Fran, her voice almost fearful.
‘Yes, he does. When Elliot was five and needed blood after that accident on his bike, Peter realised our combined blood types were incompatible with Elliot’s. And he asked me the question.’
‘Are you sure? Is that accurate?’ asked Fran.
‘You can’t identify a father by blood type,’ said Maggie. ‘But you can eliminate one.’ She paused, and then asked softly, ‘Did you know, Rose?’
Rose began to cry. ‘I wasn’t sure … I knew it was possible. But when he was born I knew for certain. He was Charlie. No question.’ She mopped her face with her T-shirt. It smelled disgusting. ‘It was just one slip-up. Peter was being … I don’t know … distant. I wasn’t even sure we were going anywhere. I’d had a few drinks – usual pathetic story.’
‘And Elliot?’ asked Maggie. ‘He obviously doesn’t know.’
‘Here’s the thing,’ said Rose. ‘There’s no good time to break that news. Peter doesn’t want the boys to know. And I owe Peter a lot for the way he’s handled this. He’s treated the boys exactly the same. But now that Elliot’s got his own child, I feel … it’s not right. It’s been playing on my mind.’
‘He should know,’ said Maggie. ‘It’s really his right to know.’
Rose was crying so hard she could hardly speak. ‘I don’t know … yes! Of course it is. But he’ll never speak to me again. What about Austin … and Prya … and Max? I can’t do it. I couldn’t bear it.’
‘What about Charlie? Where’s he now?’ asked Fran.
Rose wiped her runny nose on her wrist. ‘I ran into him earlier in the year. He hadn’t been well. Prostate cancer. He’d had the all-clear but I got the feeling it took a lot out of him. I feel guilty about him too.’
Maggie rubbed Rose’s back sympathetically. ‘Do you think he’d want to know?’
‘Yeah, I do. I think he’d be really proud. Elliot is who Charlie could have been with fewer drugs and better parents. Anyway, Peter wants it kept a secret … so my hands are tied.’
‘Oh, Rose. Peter is just one person affected,’ said Fran. ‘He doesn’t have the last word. In the end, you need to make the right decision for Elliot.’
Rose snuffled unhappily. ‘I don’t want it to be up to me. I don’t want the responsibility.’
Maggie sighed. ‘Rose, you have been such a good mother. Marrying Peter was something positive you did for Elliot. I’m going to give you the same advice you gave me. Free yourself from this burden. Talk to Peter about coming clean with the boys. Elliot won’t reject you for one mistake. And Max will be fine, I promise. Your boys adore you. They will forgive you. I know they will.’
Rose leaned on Maggie’s shoulder and sobbed. The time for guilt was over. The time for crying was over. She needed to be strong. She needed to be honest.
As they stood outside the next morning, waiting for the taxi, Rose felt so many conflicting emotions, she didn’t dare speak. She felt fear and exhilaration in equal measures. She had never expected to come back here or make the decision that she had made last night. But she was glad they’d come and glad that the time they had spent here, all those years ago, wasn’t just a dusty memory. Coming back had given rise to something new – the possibility of a freedom that she found hard to imagine.
Her gaze followed the graceful crescent of the bay. This place was protected by headlands and secluded from the troubles of the world, but the mechanics of living went on just the same. In the last chapter of his life, Spyros was making ends meet, keeping the lights on and the tanks full – most of the time. He was surrounded by his family and people he had known all his life. Every day he sat on the terrace, drinking coffee with his old mates, living proof that there was such a thing as the simple life, and people still came from around the world to experience it for a short time. If there was a metaphor there, it was yet to reveal itself to her.
Soon the taxi would take them to Corfu town, where they would stay the night as tourists, before flying to Rome and home. Anyone who saw them would assume they were three old hens on a cosy holiday, never suspecting that they had met their younger selves, witnessed their lives from a different angle, and were changed in ways even they couldn’t yet know.
Part Three
Homecoming
Chapter Nineteen
Rome was a heightened experience for Rose: the food more delicious, the men more handsome, the women more glamorous. She felt a bit stoned and high on life. The trip had reverted to a normal holiday. Armed with their credit cards, they stayed in a luxury hotel – although any hotel would have seemed luxurious after the Helipad, let alone the Beast. They enjoyed hot showers and soft beds, dined in wonderful restaurants, walked the Via Condotti to the Piazza di Spagna and ascended the Spanish Steps. They walked and talked and ate and discussed all that had happened over the past four weeks.
Everything looked quite different from this perspective. Now it seemed as if everything that had happened needed to happen. Like an epic tale, each incident had served to propel their story forward. Arguments and mishaps now seemed comedic. And Rose realised the reshaping of this experience had also unwittingly been applied to the first trip. Stressful experiences had been buffed and polished over the years, the true emotions long since forgotten.
Suddenly, though, it was over and they were saying goodbye to Fran, who was on a morning flight back to London. Rose and Maggie hugged her, more than once, and promised to call her as soon as they got home. There was no telling when they would all be together again. As the airport shuttle bus pulled away, Rose saw Fran crumple with grief as she covered her face with her hands.
Rose and Maggie had a few more hours before their flight but both felt flat after Fran had gone, as though her departure marked the end of the trip. They were relieved to finally make their way to the airport and settle in for the long journey ahead.
On the flight home to Sydney, Rose woke from a restless sleep and looked over at Maggie, who had the light on over her seat and was completely engrossed in scribbling notes in an exercise book. Despite being surrounded by hundreds of sleeping strangers, there was a pleasant sense of intimacy in the golden circle of light.
‘Writing a book?’ asked Rose, leaning over to get a peek.
‘Sort of. Just noting all the thoughts I have right now, so I can be clear with myself. Not just ideas, practical application.’ She turned to look at Rose. ‘Do you know what I realised? I do love being at the centre of the family. I know you dream of flying solo, but that’s not for me.’
‘Not that long ago you said they were killing you,’ Rose reminded her.
‘Yes, they were. And they still could. But I’m part of the problem, bending this way and that to keep everyone happy at the expense of my own wellbeing.’
‘You’re like a sapling that could just snap under pressure,’ said Rose. ‘Whereas you need to be an oak, immovable. Unshakable. Sheltering but never bending …’
‘Correct. I need to get clear with myself which battles to fight.’
‘Mags, I think you need to be prepared to walk, if need be. Even for a short time. It’s not going to be that easy to convince them you’re serious, after mopping up everyone’s mess for decades. And I still think you have to tell Kristo about Nico.’
Maggie nodded. ‘I know. From here on, it’s all about coming back from that night at the lake. How about you, Rosie? Made a decision about Peter?’
‘If I was only thinking of myself, I’d make the move. But packing Peter in when he’s retiring and has nothing but free time ahead seems so lousy. And I am inde
bted to him. I need to work on accepting him the way he is. He’s not going to change.’
Maggie patted her hand. ‘See how you feel when you get home. You may feel differently.’
Rose’s luggage arrived on the conveyor belt first. She was taking the train to the city. Maggie had emailed Kristo from Rome and was expecting him to pick her up, so they said quick goodbyes in the baggage collection area, promising to meet up soon.
Rose took the train and then a taxi from Central Station. When she arrived in her street, it was lined with a dozen film trucks, their back doors open, revealing rows of neatly packed technical gear. She wheeled her suitcase past an improvised canteen, where crew stood crowded together, deep in discussion over breakfast. Bacon and egg rolls, by the smell in the air.
She stood at her front gate for a long minute. Something definitely had changed. The house and front garden were immaculate. There were two large pots of flowering orchids flanking the front door. As she walked up the path, she saw the verandah had not just been swept, it looked as if it had been washed. Astonishingly, the timber trim appeared to have had a fresh coat of paint.
The front door was wide open. She walked down the hall, her curiosity growing as she observed that every room was tidy. The living room had been completely rearranged, there were lights on stands and large white reflectors in a semicircle around two expensive-looking armchairs that Rose had never seen before. A couple of paintings, which had been waiting to be hung for a decade, were now up on the wall, perfectly aligned.
At the sound of voices, she turned to see Peter walking down the hall eating a roll and chatting cheerfully to a young woman who walked beside him, carrying a large fishing tackle box. Peter stopped and stared at Rose as though she was the last person he expected to see in her own house.
‘Hello, welcome home,’ he said. He brushed a kiss on her cheek and turned to the young woman. ‘Er, Rose. Paris. My wife.’ He waggled the roll in Rose’s direction to indicate that she was the wife but, even so, Rose was momentarily confused by the introduction and the realisation that Peter was wearing makeup.
‘Nice to meet you, Mrs McLean,’ said Paris, extending her hand. ‘I’m doing hair and makeup.’ She put the tackle box on the kitchen bench. ‘Do you mind if I set up here, just for touch ups? I hope that’s not in your way.’
‘Well, I would like to make a cup of tea,’ replied Rose peevishly. Who on earth were these people?
‘I’ll make you one, Mrs McLean,’ said Paris. ‘You must be exhausted. Would you like one too, Professor McLean?’
Peter said he would, and Paris beamed at them both, perhaps imagining that they were thrilled to be reunited.
‘Peter, what is going on – please?’ Rose looked around for somewhere to sit but the sofa had been pushed into a corner against the wall and she didn’t like to sit in the strange armchairs.
‘It’s a long story. Let me explain.’ He led her over to the armchairs and gestured for her to take a seat.
Being forced to listen to one of Peter’s interminable stories was not what she had planned for this morning. ‘Make it a long story short, Peter. I’m not in the mood for one of your long long stories.’
‘All right. You might remember I was trying to get your assistance with a presentation. Before you disappeared completely. I told you about the friend of Craig’s?’
Not this again! It felt as though years had passed since they had that final frustrating conversation in Paris. She’d expected this topic to have disappeared altogether. She nodded.
‘Well, I followed your advice, which turned out to be unhelpful. But perhaps you were poorly briefed. Nevertheless, I had a very productive meeting, in what I would call a “seat-of-the-pants” style. And it seems they were impressed.’
Rose had thought a break from Peter might give her more patience, but the opposite had occurred. As he continued in this vein for some minutes, she found herself wondering what water-boarding actually involved, how effective it was, and if you could hire an operative to do it.
‘Peter, let’s crack on to the present day. You’re wearing makeup, there’s a film crew outside and all this crap in the living room. Start there.’
He beamed, relieved to have effortlessly reached the punchline. ‘I’m going to have my own television show. Technically, not just mine, Max is a co-presenter.’
Absolutely convinced that Peter was confused and had the wrong end of the stick, Rose needed to talk to someone other than him, though preferably not Max – also not a reliable source of information.
‘Peter, you’re not paying anyone for this, are you?’ She had always feared that he might fall victim to some elaborate online scam. It wouldn’t need to be all that elaborate.
‘Of course not, Rose!’ Peter laughed. ‘What a ridiculous idea. I’m the one being paid.’
Paris brought two cups of tea and put them on a dinky coffee table between the chairs.
Rose looked up at her. ‘Paris, is it possible for you to give me a snapshot of the situation? I’ve been off air.’
‘You better talk to Helena,’ she said, gesturing towards a young woman who entered the living room with two crew members. ‘She’s the producer.’
Rose got up and introduced herself to Helena, who greeted her warmly. ‘I can imagine all this must be a bit of a shock, Mrs McLean. It’s all moved very quickly, even for us! Let me bring you up to speed. We’re a production company called Xylophone Productions, and we make historical documentaries for television. We had secured funding for a series called Inside the 20th Century featuring Professor Flanders as the host. Then, three weeks ago, Flanders had some accusations made against him and we couldn’t risk proceeding with him. My friend, Craig, suggested his old professor – Peter.’
Rose was not surprised to hear about John Flanders, a longtime colleague and adversary of Peter’s, and she could well imagine what the accusations might be. More difficult to imagine was how Peter would go as a television host with his propensity for going into every mind-bendingly tedious detail when he was freed from the constraints of the lecture theatre. Then it dawned on her – they could edit him!
Helena asked if Rose would like to see a segment from the previous day’s shoot. Next thing she was sitting in front of a monitor watching Peter and Max, seated in the fancy armchairs, enjoying a chummy father-and-son chat about the origins of the White Australia policy.
Max and Peter both had excellent minds, but there were times when Rose privately thought of them as Dumb and Dumber because they were both so cerebral, lacking any practical commonsense. But here, onscreen, they were in their element. Max looked so fresh-faced and handsome, she felt choked with motherly pride. He was asking intelligent, insightful millennial questions and Peter was his best ‘lecturer’ self, responding with fascinating snippets and historical background, making sly political jokes and twinkling at the camera.
Rose was dumbstruck. Helena and Peter were clearly waiting for her response. After a moment she shook her head in disbelieving wonder. ‘It’s brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.’
Helena grinned. ‘Aren’t they amazing? Peter will be to history what David Attenborough is to nature. He’s the right man in the right era. As I’m sure you know, the twentieth century has become so mythologised in the last few years, there’s huge interest right now. Older people want a new perspective on events they experienced, and young people are attracted by the cool elements like the sixties and world wars.’
Rose wasn’t sure if Helena was implying that world wars were cool, but she let that go.
‘It was my idea to involve Max,’ said Peter, pleased with himself. ‘I needed a student to make it more natural for me.’
Helena and Peter began to discuss the day’s shoot and Rose wandered down the hall not knowing where to put herself.
Max bounded in the front door and enveloped her in a bear hug. ‘Mumsy! You’re back! Did you see us? What did you think?’
‘I think … look, I’m just trying to catch up, but
I think it’s fantastic. I don’t know what to say. Hang on. Is it all going to be you two chatting in our living room?’
‘No, of course not. That’s just the opening sequence. Then we’re on the road. We’re going all over Australia to the locations. It’s like we had the convo in the living room and then jumped in the car and went exploring. It’s going to take three months to film. It’ll be on the ABC next year.’
‘What about your job?’ asked Rose in dismay.
‘I had to resign. This is my job now. Why are you looking like that? I thought you’d be beside yourself, Mum.’
It had taken Max two years to get a permanent position with the Department of Planning and Environment and, in her absence, he had thrown it over for a three-month project. But then again, he radiated a newfound self-confidence. The young woman he’d been accused of stalking worked in the same building, so the further away he was from her, the better. Until now, Max had only revealed his talent for overcomplicating everything, so perhaps this was his chance to shine. His blue eyes clouded with worry, waiting for her response. She opened her arms to him. ‘I think it’s wonderful, my darling. Well. Done. You!’
His face lit up, as it always did when she bestowed unconditional approval on him. He excused himself, as he was due in a meeting with Helena. Max having meetings … The mind boggled. Rose watched him lope down the hallway to the living room and marvelled that all she had to do was go away for a month and her two problem children had magically got their shit together.
There was a lot of activity in the house and nothing for Rose to do but be quiet and stay out of the way. The day passed in slow increments and it was a relief when the film crew finally packed up and departed and she could get into her pyjamas and dressing-gown and order pizza.
Sixty Summers Page 27