by Meg Bignell
I’m a bit shaken myself. Apart from the drama, I was reminded that Hannah was actually always very nice. I just wanted her not to be. And Hannah de Montagu seemed just as nice. And even more effortlessly chic. Dammit. She would die before she wore leopard print and her elegant mind would never wander to stuff like whether heated car seats cause thrush.
I’ve had to phone Ria for possibly the biggest debrief since she performed for the Queen. We drank gin. (On a Wednesday, because calamity control. Also gin is not a drink-drink. It’s got botanicals, which are essentially greens.)
‘She was entirely different to how I remember her,’ I said. ‘Or was she? Did we shape her into a villain for convenience?’
‘We never made her a villain,’ Ria said. ‘We just highlighted her boringness because we were so fun.’
‘Perhaps she was just mature?’
‘You can be mature and fun, though. Apparently.’
‘We were unnecessarily nasty, weren’t we? We thought we were extraordinary and she was ordinary.’
‘We are extraordinary.’
‘You are, with your groundbreaking musicals. My major achievement this week is defining “pert” for Jimmy without referring to nipples.’
‘You are raising the good people of the future. Have you bought a new viola yet?’
I was silent, so she added, ‘She dented three panels of Hugh’s car, don’t forget. Boring and psycho.’
‘I stole her sweetheart, don’t forget.’
‘They would never have lasted. Why does Jimmy need to know “pert”?’
‘Imagine how beautiful their children would have been.’
Ria sighed. ‘You’re right. Yours have been beaten half to death by the ugly stick. I don’t know how you can be seen with them.’
‘She’s probably a baroness,’ I said wistfully. ‘Her car has a pearly sheen.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Susannah. Go and find your senses. You’ve left them somewhere. I’ve no time for this bullshit.’
‘Nor do I,’ I said. ‘I’m off to grow four humans and do my bit for world peace.’
‘That’s the spirit.’
UPSIDES:
We got home early-ish for once. I am terrible at the getting home after school bit. Those few hours in which to fit dinner and homework, plant-watering, emergency dog-washing and getting Matchbox cars untangled from someone’s hair, etc. The epitome of the rushing years. And me at my most fractious.
Eloise and I had a bondy moment brought on by mutual mortification. I blurted out who Hannah is. ‘Seriously?’ she said, with teenage dramatic voice. ‘I just pelted a tennis ball into the nose of the daughter of the woman you stole Dad from? Oh. My. God. Literally ohmygod.’
‘Oh. My. Goddy. God,’ I said, because teen drama seemed, for once, entirely appropriate. ‘You soooo would have won.’
Sigh. I really love my children. Sometimes the love punches you in the stomach and slaps your silly face. Love is a violence, really.
SUNDAY 14th MAY
I think Eloise is a bit disturbed by the tennis thing. Well, perhaps not disturbed. Discomposed. This is unusual for her; she’s usually so restrained. Is it awful to say there’s a part of me that’s pleased to see some wavering? Unwavering composure is just not normal for a thirteen-year-old girl. She didn’t even cry when she dislocated her finger in a netball game when she was seven. Or when Barky went missing after Mary-Lou was born (one too many rivals, apparently). She’s tough is Eloise. But is she really? Sometimes I’m not convinced.
We wish we could send flowers and a card, but we don’t know where Hannah and Emily live. I tried an extensive a small online search but only found de Montagus living in Monaco. Most likely relatives, for goodness sake.
I’ve just been in to watch Eloise sleeping. Hugh found me in her room. He came in, put his arm around me and stayed there for a minute. It reminded me of that night when I sat on the floor of Eloise’s room when she was nineteen months old. He held me while I sobbed. He cried too. It felt like our burden then. But it wasn’t long before he didn’t seem to feel it any more and the burden seemed squarely mine. In her room today it felt like he joined me for a minute, under the weight. I wish he’d come there more often, not to fix, just to sit.
He’s a sorter-outer. A problem solver, a fixer. I know how much effort he puts into trying to fix things, fix me. He gets frustrated when things won’t go back together. Even so, I’m surprised he’s been so cross about me selling the viola. It’s the first bit of underthinky fixing I’ve done.
WEDNESDAY 17th MAY
This afternoon, Raff and I made a Good Plain Cake from The 21st Birthday Cookery Book of the Country Women’s Association in Tasmania. He was actually mildly enthused, which is nice, and less grumpy about the viola. He’s going to take some cake over to Valda. He’s spending a lot of time with her lately – was there for hours the other day. So there’s that, I suppose.
There should be more ‘cookery’. And more good plain things … Am I too hung up on being extraordinary? Is this why I get frustrated with Raffy, because he’s heading along the ordinary path? There’s really nothing wrong with ordinary. Lots of people love Good Plain Cake, because it’s good. Perhaps good and plain is what I should be striving for? Perhaps then I’d remember people’s birthdays and stop talking to the goldfish. I should probably aim a bit lower in the bedroom department as well. Nothing wrong with good plain sex, is there? At least it’s sex. I can’t bear to calculate how many days it’s been since Hugh and I had any, plain or otherwise.
And here’s another thing: I told Hugh about the Hannah incident and how she might have married into aristocracy and moved back here from Singapore, and HE ALREADY KNEW. ‘Yeah, I heard she’s about. Her husband’s English. They bought that big house in Hampden Road – the one that famous colonial architect built. Spending a shitload on it, apparently.’
What? Shouldn’t Hugh and I have had a good old gossip about this when he first knew? I asked why he hadn’t told me and he said he forgot. He forgot?!
‘Are the de Montagus some sort of royalty?’ I demanded asked and he said, ‘Settle down. I don’t know.’
I hate being told to settle down.
Surely he must feel at least a faint whispering of Hannah de Montagu regret.
FRIDAY 19th MAY
SEX HAPPENED!!!
I don’t think I need to go into too much detail. It wasn’t anything startling. Done is better than passionate, though. Those Country Women’s Association ladies wouldn’t worry too much about complicated methods or decorations. As long as things are sufficiently moist. Good plain sex.
LATER:
That Good Plain Cake that Raffy and I made? It’s already very stale. It’s probably time I attended properly to the Sparkle Project.
SUNDAY 21st MAY
The boys and I walked all the way down to Lettercello this morning. It was one of those Hobart days when the sky is clear as bells and the air is cold and shiny. The sort of day that makes you have another look at things and wish for the milk-bar days. Mr Ng on the corner was asleep in his hammock and the young couple next to him were out painting their fence. Most of the houses in West Hobart look well kept and tasteful these days. Other than Ron and Myrtle’s, and we wouldn’t have them any other way. Hectic purple houses will likely be all the rage one day. ‘Ron and Myrtle’s is my favourite,’ said Jimmy as we passed. I’m not sure whether he was being serious. He probably was. His favourite shoes are bright orange high-tops.
I took them the Hampden Road way so that I could drop a card in the letterbox of Hannah’s house. A little message from Eloise to Emily (plus a note from me with my phone number so I can see whether Hannah hates me we can hear how Emily’s nose is). It was also a chance to gaze for a moment at the splendour of the place and feel a little dizzy. It has a historical significance plaque. West Hobart is not nearly as crowded and touristy as Battery Point, so … why am I being so rivalrous? I’m behaving like Jimmy.
We went to Lettercello because Jim
my had been pestering to see Henry’s birds again and Raff has been asking about the gramophone. And because Henry’s been worriedly phoning in to check on my post-viola state. I thought he could inspect me in person and see that my wounds aren’t open and raw.
We found Henry and Charmian stacking some beautiful vellum suitcases and listening to Emmylou Harris. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Not in pieces, Susannah. That’s good to see.’
‘I think I’m all here,’ I said, giving him a peck on the cheek and my best happy face.
‘I’ll make coffee,’ said Charmian.
‘Helloooo,’ came a voice from behind us. It was a grey-haired man with a clerical collar, an enormous smile and a large box of books. ‘Hellooooo,’ he called again. ‘How are our purveyors of fine wares? Here I am, to lower the tone.’ He put the box down on a little wrought-iron table.
‘Hello, Father Graham,’ said Henry. ‘I have your crystal snifters.’
‘Henry,’ said Father Graham, shaking Henry’s hand. ‘And hello, Charmian-of-the-books!’
‘Tea, Father Graham?’ called Charmian from somewhere muffled.
‘Yes, please; I have a minute before the next onslaught.’ He smiled at me. ‘Bit of a dispute over plots in the graveyard, in the midst of the masses.’ He rolled his twinkling eyes at me.
‘Father Graham,’ said Henry. ‘Meet my friends, Susannah, Rafferty and Jim.’
‘Ah, the viola player!’ said Father Graham. ‘Elliot Driscoll is thrilled. You’ve made his year, so thank you for that.’ I felt Henry’s eyes on me; my smile was perfectly steady. Father Graham went on. ‘I am enjoying having Henry here. It’s perked the old place up nicely. He’s not a believer, of course, but it is my job to convert him. Not today, though.’ He gave his brow a theatrical swipe. ‘Keep the snifters here, Henry. I might have to pop over later for a little snort. Do you have Russian Caravan, Charmian? That was lovely last time.’ He leaned down to Jimmy and said, ‘It’s a special smoky tea. Would you like one too?’
That’s really how it went! Those little pockets of English telly charm actually do exist. It’s of course where Henry’s always belonged. No wonder he’s sleeping well.
‘Here are the promised books, Henry,’ said Father Graham, nodding at the box of books. ‘They don’t look like much but you never know. The church would appreciate a small percentage but don’t worry too much. Not sure what’s in there. Let’s have a rummage, shall we?’
So that’s how we ended up spending the morning getting to know Father Graham (who is more full of beans than anyone I’ve ever met) and sorting old books. Father Graham was right, the collection was patchy. I was hoping to find another copy of I Capture the Castle, which is my favourite book of all time. I have six editions in total. I didn’t find another – just a Georgette Heyer omnibus AND a book called Sustaining Sexual Intimacy! It’s not that old and is written by a serious-sounding fellow called Dr Russell Folds. Actually, that doesn’t sound serious at all now that I’ve written it down. Folds, in the wrong context (such as a book about sexual intimacy) could be riddled with connotation. Or am I just being grubby-minded? Rustly folds. Oh, dear. Will I be able to take Dr Folds seriously now?
I’ve had a brief flick through but I haven’t read anything properly yet. I shall start from the beginning and avidly read every word. And I should get some index cards, so I can write down important points and then put them in a box alphabetically so as to refer to them when needed. I can keep them in my bedside table cupboard. I’ll be so conscientious. No more trying random things I’ve seen in films. Just proven, expert, doctorly advice. From one fold to another.
I bought the Heyer too; I had to hide Dr Folds behind it, and anyway I can never resist a little historical romance. Speaking of historical romance, I’ve grown some good old-fashioned pubes back. And I’m keeping them, even if my folds rustle.
TUESDAY 23rd MAY
I love Georgette Heyer! Ohhh, for the Regency days of having to be escorted and not being able to show ankles, and the inevitable, agonising restraint with its wonderfully torturous sexual tension. Think of that first fevered encounter after a long courtship. Perhaps that’s what’s wrong with us all now – we don’t hold enough back.
Even in marriage there’s probably too much letting all our privacies hang out. My boobs, for instance, lost all their dignity once they were used as feeding vessels and are now often exposed and hanging/drooping around. No one gives them a second look, perhaps not even a first. I should be more modest.
Bedrooms were separate too. This idea has some merit. Conjugal visits (knock before entering) and a bit of fevered sneaking about while the rest of the time you can close your door, sleep without disturbance and not hold in your farts. Oh, wait. Hugh never holds in his farts. And I don’t always either, to be completely honest. Dr Folds has other ideas, though. Not about farts, but quite shocking. For instance, there’s quite a lot of – eeeeek – tasting oneself. And he is quite free with the word fuck, something that would have my Regency personages calling for smelling salts.
Luckily there is other Dr Folds advice. Will find quote … (Dear God, it’s just occurred to me that this large book is second-hand, possibly third- or fourth-hand. Think of what it might have witnessed from the bedside tables. And think of the bodily substances with which it may be smote from said hands. Eeeeeek, I’m stepping away from the book … Oh, but there was something I wanted to quote. I’m getting the rubber gloves. And the Glen 20.)
I’m back. Here’s the quote: Intimate sex is not a human instinct, it’s not natural. It’s a potential: something that needs thought, discussion and planning for that potential to be reached. Aha! See, I should be overthinking the passion stuff.
Now that I have permission to continue my work (and Hugh will be asleep enough for me to take Dr Folds to bed), I am retiring to the bedroom to read up on the next phase. With gloves …
FRIDAY 26th MAY
Well, I’ve read and read and, holy moly, Dr Russell Folds makes my overthinking look like mere thought flits. I feel positively beleaguered. The good news is that he strongly advocates for searching through the history of a relationship to identify the deepest connections, so I’m ahead on that front. I mean, I haven’t actually got to the bottom of the connections but at least I’ve made a start. He does ask some quite blunt questions, such as ‘Are your connections sketchy?’
Hmmm … I do worry that we don’t like the same things any more, except our children, and even them not all of the time. Sometimes I wonder if we ever did like the same things. Does anyone really know that the person they fell in love with is the right person? Does anyone really know their own true selves when they are that young? Do lasting sparks come from proper, soulmatey, kindred connections? Is this what Coralie meant? Are these the things we need for the bit after the beginning of love?
We’re the best of friends, though, aren’t we …? Are we? Why, if he’s my friend, do I feel as though we’re tiptoeing around one another? Why are there fewer moments of warmth? Why do my fantasies involve things like time alone to have cheese and bickies for dinner, lick the icing off the Boston bun and steam my pores?
Oh, dear. I’ve just realised that when it comes to sexual fantasies, I don’t actually have any. Aren’t we all meant to have at least one? I do wish that sex would get easier, that I’d want it more often and know what to do, and that there wouldn’t be a white elephant in the room every time the children are asleep and the dishes are done and Hugh yawns. Could this be classified as a sexual fantasy? To be better at it?
Oh, my goodness. Dr Folds appears to have opened a can of worms.
(Bugger! I’ve just remembered that Jimmy was itching his bottom the other day and I forgot to ask him if it was hole or cheek. Praying for cheek.)
SATURDAY 27th MAY
I think I need to acknowledge that Hugh and I are not actually all that compatible. And that I don’t have any fantastical sexual desires. These are big-ticket items, which could well degrade the outcome of the Sparkl
e Project unless addressed. Oh, Dr Folds, you wily old bugger. I should have known the problems might run deeper than my folds. Of course they do.
So with that in mind, here are the Things Hugh and I Have in Common:
– The children
– Barky
– The house and all our possessions
– Ria
– Henry
– Neither of us like peas. Or balloons.
We don’t like the same foods or many of the same movies or the same television. He can’t stand the theatre; I don’t like the footy. He’s a morning person, I’m a night owl. He’s native trees and beer, I’m oaks and gin. I’m beach, he’s mountains … I believe in reincarnation; he believes in steak. Let’s call the whole thing off.
We’re not opposites either, as in ‘opposites attract’ opposites. We had similar, normal-ish upbringings with plenty of love in them. So perhaps we’ve never been right together; it’s just that there was lust and a wedding and babies and domesticities to cloud the view. But we were friends first, and it was him I knew and loved, not an idea of him. Wasn’t it? I didn’t wake up next to him one morning after we were married asking myself, ‘Who is this man?’ He doesn’t annoy me or repel me; I like him coming home; I don’t want to be with anyone else – although I do wonder sometimes whether it wouldn’t be easier being married to a woman. A wife would be handy – someone who knows which time of the month not to ask for computer advice; someone who could empathetically contribute to my one-pot recipe collection.
So many things to ponder. Sigh. I’ll try to work through them, but in the meantime I might go and seduce my husband. It’s been a while, and a man is always compatible with a woman who is attentive to his penis.
SUNDAY 28th MAY
Penis attending turned out quite well. I think. I say ‘I think’ because something a bit weird happened …
I was actually quite horny when it came to it, which surprised me. For a close, breathless moment I noticed that he was solely focused and that there was apparently nothing swaying his amber eyes from me. Then he kissed me with some quite deliberate firmness, as though testing for sparks. I felt memory stir, felt his tongue on mine, which is another thing that hasn’t happened in a while. Tongue kissing. It sent ripples through me; there was a sudden wetness between my legs and on the sheets beneath me.