But she struggled on, or so it seemed, her books at her elbow and life’s requirements throttling her. A fragile, seemingly brilliant woman, sensitive, bruised, hounded by endless obstacles: small ones like bills and meals and cinema tickets, and bigger ones too: liars, cheats and misers. She was invariably surprised when events turned against her, but not knowing what her needs were she was forced to flow with the tide. That there were problems with friends was not surprising. Kate failed to distinguish between people; she was as attentive to the stranger on the tram as she was to her latest lover, as grateful to the man who read the electricity meter as she was to the woman who spent days reading her thesis. Her egocentricity merely added to the problem: with so much attention given to herself there was little opportunity to observe other people clearly. Max had been her worst mistake: a petty con man with a roguish air. By the time Kate had revised her opinion of him he had disappeared in search of a new source of patronage, along with her car, her stereo, a leather jacket, countless free meals and two hundred dollars in cash. Kate was shocked. ‘He was never like that in the beginning,’ she would say still acting in his defence; he was neither manipulative nor grabbing nor deceitful, because if he had been, she would have seen it.
But she would not have and that was the point.
This then was how it was. When Kate was in her early twenties, around the time Elizabeth met her, there was general agreement that Kate would produce several important works – not simply criticism, or literature, or philosophy, but a combination of all three – like Walter Benjamin, whom Kate read between 1969 and 1973. At the time of the opening of Eden Park, Kate was still regarded as exceptional by all but a very few close friends, but now, instead of several exquisite volumes, there would be one remarkable tome, perhaps a fiction, dripping with symbolism; this would be her life’s work, not to be completed for several years. Kate, whose passivity had laid her pen to rest years before, had earned herself a few more decades in which to continue her transit undisturbed by the need to produce the work for which she already enjoyed the reputation.
How could this happen? How was it that intelligent and successful people were drawn to Kate? How could it be that normally discerning people looked at Kate as if through a scrim and did not seem to realise their view was obstructed? How was it they failed to see that Kate was a person in whom something was not fully digested – memory? a moral sense? courage perhaps? How were they drawn to one who did so little?
Years after her affair with Kate had finished, Monica Vanderlou tried to explain.
‘It’s a rare type of generosity,’ she said to Elizabeth Dadswell one winter’s day in 1980 while the two women waited for Kate to arrive home. ‘The material world is beyond her reach so she can’t make offerings from that source, so she offers herself, perhaps even more than that she insists on herself. The joy of her words, the mention of Benjamin, Arendt, Woolf, White, the writers you yourself admire, the glowing descriptions, the apparent dedication, all this she shares with you, and, if that were not enough, she permits you to love her. I don’t mean just physically, although that’s not irrelevant, I mean she provides herself as the target of your affections. And although now I might suggest that the object of one’s love is an advertisement for one’s self, and there could be no better advertisement than Kate, then I simply adored her for allowing me into her life.’
These were the words of Monica Vanderlou, scholar and intellectual, a dozen or so years older than Kate. If Monica could be enthralled, almost anyone could. Kate and Monica had met back in 1966 when Kate was in her third year of philosophy. Neither was particularly happy with the philosophy department, Kate because she felt she was being treated unfairly by her other philosophy tutor who said she lacked the rigour of the male students, and Monica who, as the prodigal returned home from Cambridge five years before to become the only woman in the department, had since been overlooked for promotion.
When the year finished and Kate who had been in both the philosophy and English honours streams finally settled on English, she and Monica became lovers – which is not to say they wouldn’t have if Kate had chosen philosophy. The relationship thrived during Kate’s fourth year and it was with much sadness that Monica, fed up with her treatment in the department, accepted a tenured position at Edinburgh University. In January 1968, Monica left for Britain. Four months later she wrote to Kate: I love you, I’ve organised everything, all you have to do is be on the aeroplane on the third of May, here is the ticket, please come.
The decision had been made so Kate came. A month later on the fifth of June, the relationship in tatters, Kate took the night train from Edinburgh to London. The carriage was stuffy and full; apart from Kate, all the passengers were young soldiers either at the beginning or end of leave, rowdy with alcohol, and stinking of tobacco and sweat; engrossed with one another, they left Kate entirely to herself. The air was thick, the noise unabating, and Kate full of joy. Later she would say how Monica was a perfect example of how once-satisfactory lovers change. ‘I am always constant. Always. It’s the others who make demands.’
Monica, like others before her and others to follow, wanted Kate to love her, but that was not on Kate’s agenda. To love is to make a decision of preference; to love is to act rather than to wait. And Kate always insisted that the world come to her. The demands of her lovers exhausted her, so when each relationship finished, Kate was exhilarated. When the train pulled into London at six in the morning Kate was ready for new adventures. She put her luggage in a locker and went to explore the London of literature.
That first day was spent around Russell Square – London University, a book store in which she spent all her money, and the Bloomsbury haunts. At nine o’clock in the evening she sat on a parapet near the British Museum, the contents of her handbag spread on the stone, searching for loose change. She was hungry, but very happy, and, as it was not her way to think ahead – something always turned up – she was not the least perturbed. And something did turn up. His name was George. He bought her a curry, collected her luggage and took her home. Home was in North Kensington, in a run-down area close to the underground; it suited Kate perfectly. George’s flat was small and at the top of the house, the bathroom was grimy and shared, and he was out every day.
A month later, while nibbling a sandwich in Hyde Park, Kate was joined by two women who struck up a conversation. Kate asked if they knew of a clinic where she could get some free contraception. Within three hours the same women had helped Kate pack her belongings and had moved her from George’s flat into the spare bedroom of their house. The following week they accompanied her to the clinic but already it was too late and Kate was quite definitely pregnant. The two women contacted a women’s health collective for information on abortion; Kate held the list of addresses in her hand and said she would think about it. She felt nothing, neither pregnant or not, and put the list beside her bed. Three months later with her breasts swollen and stomach bulging, the pregnancy could not be avoided. Decisions about it though, were quite another matter. Kate telephoned Vivienne who was spending the year in Italy, but there was little she could do from that distance, particularly as Kate seemed so vague about what she wanted.
It was September, Kate’s favourite time of year in Melbourne, so she decided to fly home. In October she thought a baby would not be a good thing but by then it was too late. In March 1969 her son was born. It had all happened so quickly she was caught unprepared. She called the baby Walter because she was reading Walter Benjamin at the time; while she was in hospital her friend Lyn arranged for her to move into a women’s household where children and pets were welcome and meat and drugs were not; the Rostens nominated themselves as surrogate grandparents and all seemed to be well.
When Walter was a year old, Kate returned to the university on a postgraduate scholarship; she also had a small amount of tutoring. Walter’s oddities were already obvious and for the sake of peace in the collective household, the other women found a small flat for Ka
te and Walter in the next street; it was here Kate and Walter lived for several years in as much comfort as Walter would allow. Even after the accident Kate stayed on until Elizabeth invited her to occupy the bungalow.
Elizabeth and Ginnie finished unpacking the food; they left the bungalow and walked slowly back to the house.
‘Will you have time to buy some of Kate’s healthy stuff? – brown rice, fruit juice, you know the sort of thing she eats on her crazy diets.’
‘Of course.’ Elizabeth shrugged and shook her head. ‘Stupid of me not to have remembered. And what do you think it’ll be this time, a liquid diet? Brown rice? Do you remember the carrot diet when her fingertips turned orange?’ They both laughed.
The two women continued up the path towards the house.
‘And Scott?’ Elizabeth asked. ‘When do you expect him?’
‘He said he’d be around early afternoon.’ Ginnie’s words bounced in time with her swinging gait. ‘You’d better tell Kate not to expect to see me until tomorrow.’
FOUR
Scott had telephoned. That morning. He was coming to visit. Today. This afternoon. At last, some time alone with him.
Since his return from Japan, Ginnie had scarcely seen him: a short conversation on enrolment day, a couple of phone calls, a spaghetti in a fast-food restaurant, and a cup of coffee in the university cafeteria which had been abruptly terminated by the arrival of two of Scott’s friends. These two had skipped through the crowd of students shouting greetings here and there – truly a grand entrance Ginnie had thought enviously – pounced on Scott, grabbed a couple of spare chairs and sat down.
‘Mind if we join you?’ the fellow said as he lit a cigarette. He leaned back, put his feet on the table and inhaled. ‘Desperate for that I was.’
“We’ve missed you, Scottie old pal,’ said the other person, a woman. And then she leaned over in her chair, balanced herself on one foot, and trickled a line of tidy kisses down his neck. From ear lobe to collar bone, Ginnie noticed, her own bottom firmly on the centre of the seat, her own feet flat on the ground. ‘Why, it must be a full fifteen minutes since last we met.’
Down his neck, neat dry kisses from the ear stud Ginnie had given him, to the base of the neck where the blond hair curled upwards. The coarse, blond hair that had stroked Ginnie’s own face. She touched her cheek to erase the feeling and watched as the woman sat back and the three chatted and joked and laughed and ignored Ginnie until she, taking advantage of a lull in the conversation, touched Scott’s arm and suggested he might introduce them. He glared at her and moved his arm – hadn’t he told her he hated displays of affection in public? – while the others were effusive in their apologies, ‘Terribly sorry.’ ‘Were we interrupting something?’ ‘You’re a rude bastard, Scott.’ The guy stood up and bowed and said he was Andrew, and the girl, mimicking him, said she was Nikki, and Ginnie, who could have died of embarrassment, said nothing. Then another girl joined them and the introductions were forgotten. The newcomer reminded them that the ski club meeting had already started and if they wanted accommodation at the university lodge they had better hurry. The others rose and headed for the door. Scott looked at Ginnie as if to say ‘you know how it is, such a drag to have to book months ahead for the ski season’, and followed his friends through the crowd. At the entrance he turned and shrugged – some things were beyond his control – and was gone.
That was twelve days ago. In the interim he had telephoned and apologised for his hasty departure. He was run off his feet, he said, still hadn’t found a place to live, was camping on a friend’s couch, had a mountain of reading, and was in a general state of chaos. He had declined her offer of the spare room, but thanked her anyway: things would settle down soon. Then this morning, without any warning he had rung and suggested they spend the afternoon together.
She prepared a pasta salad in case he arrived early and tried to do some reading. But waiting consumed her, pushed the work aside, so she wandered into the garden imagining the pleasures of the hours to come. At one o’clock he rang from the library to say he was running late and not to expect him until four. He was most apologetic, a tutorial paper to prepare, and although she understood, she was nonetheless very disappointed; he had been home five weeks and she had seen more of the local grocer than she had of Scott.
One o’clock. Three more hours to fill. She picked up a book of her mother’s on Barbara Hepworth, leafed through admiring the huge elegance of the sculptures. She tried the text but had little concentration for it and put the book down. It fell open at the flyleaf – ‘To the second sculptor in my life. With my love, Vivienne’. Ginnie smiled and decided that exercise not art would see her through the hours.
She changed into her bathers and went next door to the MacIntyres’ pool. No one was home, but Ginnie had an open invitation to use the pool any time, which she did, as often as possible. Swimming gave her a new body, a perfect body. She loved the touch of water, that first shiver of promise, then slipping into the cool cloud that stretches her limbs, seduces them, softens the hard edges, smudges the furious muscles, rocking and stroking as she sinks into its yielding swell. She dives deeply and pulls herself along, smoothly moving, lightly and easily. And now she rises, breaking the water’s surface, water trickling over her face, down her neck, across her shoulders, water running over her body, touching more gently than skin on skin. And after catching her breath, she swims again to pass away the hours.
‘I’m desperate for a good cleanout,’ Kate said to Vivienne as they walked along the beach. ‘I’ve decided to try a new beetroot diet when I get home.’
‘Just beetroot?’
‘Carrot as well. And plenty of fluids.’
‘Including whisky?’ Vivienne was smiling.
‘Vivienne! Do you suggest I lack self-discipline?’
‘Never!’
They were two women in their early forties walking along an ocean beach. Despite the heat the beach was almost deserted – only a man fishing, an elderly couple with their dogs, a youth surfing. It was one of those days when the sky is so bright that it fades the sea to a purplish-silver sheet; towards the shore the sheet buckles into glassy columns that swell and finally burst in the shallows; a smooth day with the regular breaking of waves to fix it in time.
‘If only we could stay another week.’
‘And work?’ Vivienne asked. ‘What about work – my book, your dissertation?’
‘Vivienne, my dear, how often must I remind you there’s more to life than work.’
‘Ah yes, but it’s neither as enjoyable nor as civilised.’
It was Kate’s turn to smile, and yet she was aware of a familiar disquiet nibbling the edge of her pleasure. Vivienne never stopped working, not even on her rare holidays. Simply by being herself, Vivienne threw into relief that lassitude which clung to Kate and which Kate successfully concealed with everyone else. It was only Vivienne with her swathes of insight, her four books, her tenured position and her indefatigable passage through life who reminded Kate that she was more than a little sluggish.
Which was not to suggest that Kate did not love her, because she did and would always. Indeed, a life without Vivienne was inconceivable. She had always been there. She had saved Kate from the claustrophobia of boarding-school and a loveless childhood. Later, she had organised the bungalow at Elizabeth’s and helped secure Kate’s first teaching job. And in the pain of Walter’s accident only Vivienne had been able to blot the grief.
‘Do you remember?’ Kate asked. ‘Up there.’ She was looking at the cliff.
Of course Vivienne remembered; she had been watching the rocks ever since they rounded the point. More than that, she had thought of the cliff every time she and Kate had chosen the other direction for their daily walk.
‘He was always fascinated by flight. Birds, insects, aeroplanes, it didn’t matter, just as long as they could fly.’ Kate stared at the cliff while she talked. ‘I like to think he knew joy as he fell. He missed the rocks, a cl
ean death.’
Vivienne would never forget. It was she who had found the little body, Walter’s perfect child’s body, pale from the water but without a scratch, no sign of struggle. Most of all she could not forget the limpness: the water had sucked his strength.
It had been ten years ago, a day much like this, warm, blue, and the beach practically to themselves: Lydia Branch and her twins, Kate, Walter and Vivienne. Lydia had decided to join them at the last minute – and why not? it was her house after all – she needed the break, she said, tapering the sentence into murmurings of nerves and stress. But since their arrival she had, if anything, become more agitated, slipping into her bedroom on numerous occasions for telephone calls which merely fuelled her distress. Once when the telephone rang she grabbed the receiver from Kate before Kate had said a word, and another time when Vivienne answered and the caller hung up, Lydia immediately disappeared into the bedroom to make a private call. From then on Vivienne and Kate had not bothered with the phone.
Finally Lydia confessed: she was having an affair, and if she appeared to be stressed it was because she suspected her lover was seeing someone else.
‘He’s not married then?’ Kate asked, knowing full well he was.
‘Of course he is, what normal man over the age of thirty isn’t? I think he’s seeing someone other than me.’
Kate and Vivienne and practically everyone else had known about Lydia Branch and Adrian Dadswell for years. Lydia, however, believed her secret was safe and so, as she talked to Kate and Vivienne, she was careful to strip her story of names and places. She was so miserable, she said, loved him so much despite the pain he caused her. It was not the first time he had been unfaithful and yet what could she do? Life without him would be a tawdry affair. The others smiled at her choice of words but Lydia, unaware, talked on. The twins were playing in the sand, the same twins who had been brought into the world to inject life into the Branch marriage but who had, instead, cemented it with obligation, and Walter was sitting close by. He liked to watch the waves and would sit and stare at them for hours.
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