A Grand Passion

by Anne De Lisle

  Mother is coming.

  In her day, Mother lived in Malaya, Hong Kong, Singapore and Brunei. She’s travelled back and forth from Asia to England countless times. First on troop ships and later on planes. For thirty years, she packed up and moved house every couple of years as my father’s regiment was transferred from one country to another. She’s endured nightmare flights at a time when it took days to get from Singapore to London. She’s done this pregnant and with toddlers. She’s been off-loaded in strange countries when there’s been engine trouble. She’s been forced to camp in Middle Eastern hotels between sheets still warm from the previous occupants, and she’s sat up half the night to keep the fleas and bed bugs off her baby (I’m grateful for that one). Always with stoicism. Without complaint.

  But now she is retired from her Life of Upheaval. She no longer cares for travel. She no longer cares for inconvenience. She is too elderly; her years demand respect. She will not like to stay in a house without a proper kitchen.

  A sense of urgency creeps into our work.

  The days and nights begin to cool as we head into autumn. It’s wonderful to sleep under a quilt again, though one night, snug beneath the quilt, I dream of floods. I dream of a swelling Mary, bubbling up and over her banks, lapping along the grass with relentless encroachment until she’s swallowing trees, cars and houses. Our house is on an ever-shrinking island. I run upstairs and watch in horror as the lawn disappears inch by rapid inch, and the water creeps onto the verandah steps. It’s impossible to drag everything upstairs on my own, but I try, heaving tables and chairs up the steep cedar staircase and into the bedrooms. Soon I’m in ankle-deep water as I run from room to room, probably screaming, because the next thing I know there’s an elbow in my ribs and a voice in my ear saying, ‘Wake up, you’re having a bad dream.’

  Ian and I have been hearing tales of Mary River floods since arriving in Maryborough.

  All Wharf Street goes under … all but the tops of the roofs …

  It gets up the City Hall steps …

  All the way to the door of St Paul’s …

  Inside the School of the Arts building …

  They take boats down Kent Street …

  The place looks like Venice …

  As for Queens Park … nothing left there …

  It’s easy to dismiss a lot of what you hear as old-timers trying to scare new-timers. But since my dream, I’ve become gripped by the fear of Baddow House flooding. The river looks so close, and if the water rises as high as they say, it’s easy to believe it could reach the house.

  We need to know for sure, so we visit Jamie Cockburn at the Maryborough City Council.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he tells us, ‘but I’ll fetch you a flood plan.’

  Ian and I practically snatch his hand off when the plan is proffered. We scan its contents with bated breath.

  A flood plan marks the highest point on your land, and uses contours to show the heights of the past floods. Our house is on the highest point at thirteen metres. The ‘Great Flood’ of 1893 peaked at twelve point eight metres.

  There’s a collective sigh of relief. The river has never been inside our house. It’s been horribly, frighteningly close once, more than a hundred years ago, but the floods of 1955, 1974 and 1999 look like pups compared to the ‘Great Flood’.

  I grow fascinated by the ‘Great Flood’ and visit the Historical Society, now occupying the School of the Arts building, to read all about it.

  In the days preceding this flood of floods, the catchment area for the headwaters of the Mary – which happens to be our old green hills of Montville – received, in a four-day period, seven feet of rain. Seven feet! I think it must be a misprint. But no, I’m told, it’s quite accurate. Coupled with king tides and enough rain in Maryborough to raise the local water table, the effect was disastrous.

  To make matters worse, bad weather had knocked out some telegraph poles between Maryborough and Gympie, the nearest town upriver, so there was no warning.

  It was the first week of February, 1893, when the river rose and bulged, and rose and bulged. No one thought it could possibly rise any further. But it did. The banks broke and water spilled out across paddocks, parks and into the streets of the town. And it kept rising.

  Schooners broke anchor and – along with houses, barns, horses and cattle – were swept away down river. Terrified animals clambered to safety on the roofs of floating houses. The land at the water’s edge was a chaos of panic-stricken dogs, fowl and cattle. The ground beneath them was alive with snakes. Distinction between wild and domestic creatures no longer existed: all were trying to escape the deadly torrent.

  Fifteen brave men were selected to try and save the Maryborough Bridge. They were stationed along the bridge and, armed with long poles, endeavoured to keep the debris from stacking up. They kept up their efforts all day and into the evening when, with a deafening crack, the bridge gave way. The men dropped their poles and scrambled to safety. All survived.

  But others were not so lucky. Many lives were lost, along with more than one hundred and thirty houses.

  It makes horrifying, fascinating reading, but it’s a relief to know that we’ll be high and dry if such a catastrophe happens again. Though it’s not long before old-timers start to tell us of an Aboriginal story of a terrible flood long before white man came. A flood that covered all the land for many, many miles around. Everything was submerged except one hill, where the present Maryborough hospital stands. Ian and I do calculations and realise that such a deluge would put our roof well and truly underwater.

  But we have more immediate things to worry about than legends of the ancients. One day Ian tells me, ‘I have to go away next Sunday.’

  ‘Oh? What’s happening?’

  ‘It would have been Jenny’s and my thirtieth wedding anniversary. The kids want to have a lunch gathering back in Montville to mark the occasion.’

  I am silent. I think this is strange, seeing as Jenny is dead. And I think this is hurtful to me. Perhaps if we were married, I wouldn’t mind so much. But circumstances do not seem to be permitting Ian and me to enjoy any wedding anniversaries of our own and it is hard, therefore, to see him going away to celebrate his marriage to someone else.

  Ian and I long ago vowed not to interfere or be difficult with matters concerning each other’s children so, though I hate it, I make no attempt to stop him.

  I analyse myself at length. Am I jealous? Would another, more generous-spirited human being think it was great that Ian could share in such a happy day with his children? I’m a parent too and understand how vital it is to have special moments alone with our respective families. From the beginning, Ian and I both recognised the importance of this and we’ve ensured that it happens. But, whichever way I look at it, I can’t reconcile the idea of him celebrating a wedding anniversary with his late wife. Especially as it rubs salt in the wound of having to wait ourselves.

  The day arrives and I am slightly mollified by Ian telling me that he means to take the opportunity to have a good talk to his children about us. Topsy and I wave him off, trying not to feel too desolate.

  The day drags. I don’t get anything done but just hang around, watching the clock and wallowing in stupid self-pity. I know I should get outside, do some gardening, enjoy where I am. I try to remind myself how lucky I am to live here. But nothing works.

  I wonder if it has occurred to Ian’s children that I might not be feeling great about this. I try to imagine myself in their shoes. It’s true that I phoned my mother in England on the day that would have been her fiftieth wedding anniversary, had my father been alive. I ring her on his birthday too. They are never maudlin calls, more a case of raising our glasses to him and drinking a toast.

  But no amount of reasoning in my head lets me imagine myself organising a get-together for what would have been their wedding anniversary, while leaving her new partner at home alone – if she had a new partner.

  Perhaps it is harder to lose a moth
er than a father, harder to come to terms with the loss. I know I’m fortunate to still have my mother, just as my own children are fortunate to still have both of their parents. Perhaps divorce is easier to come to terms with than death. Perhaps this is why my own children have no problem accepting Ian in my future.

  Though it could be argued that children of divorced parents might nurture secret hopes of their mother and father reuniting. Had this been the case with my children, then my making a life with Ian must surely demolish those hopes once and for all. For children of a widowed parent, the reuniting option doesn’t exist. Wouldn’t this make the parent’s moving on a less complex issue? I wonder about all these things, my brain going round and round in circles till I’m dizzy with over-analysis. None of it eases the misery of the day.

  Ian returns. We eat dinner then slump in front of the TV. I ask the inevitable question: ‘Did you get a chance to talk about our future?’

  He’s silent.

  ‘Did you?’ I prompt.

  ‘I talked about us and marriage. Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Do you really want to know?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. I’m still feeling far too masochistic to deny myself the details.

  ‘They have reservations about you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  He turns to face me. ‘Well if you really want to know, they had quite a lot to say. They think you talk too much and talk over the top of people. They say they would have far more respect for you if you went out and got a job. And they are upset because, while you make them feel unable to talk about their mother in front of you, you go on about your father all the time.’

  Suddenly I’m not talking too much any more. Suddenly I’m not talking at all. These missiles are so acutely hurtful and unexpected, all I can do is stare in dumb shock at Ian, as I try to digest the words.

  It’s impossible to think straight, my brain is a collision of reaction and emotion. I’m overturned, inside out, giddy, shaking, sick to the stomach, because I truly believed we all liked and respected each other, that we were all moving forward to a happy future together. I’m especially shocked about Georgie, who had spent so much time with me and of whom I had grown so fond.

  How could the matter of our marriage be upsetting enough to have provoked this response? Shouldn’t our initial moving in together – that first indication that we meant to make our future a shared one – have been seen as the bigger step?

  For a moment I can’t work out how I feel. Angry, I decide and, with my anger, discover I have regained the power of speech. ‘Go out and get a job?’ I start. ‘What the hell do they think I’ve been doing since we’ve been here? I work all day every day. I sand and paint, sand and paint till my hands bleed. And besides that I’m apprentice to every trade in the house, I’m the foreman when you’re away three days a week, I oil verandahs, I’m the courier, the paint collector, the tea lady, the gardener, the cook, the dog walker and everything else I haven’t mentioned.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ says Ian. ‘You’ve done so much. I explained that to them.’

  ‘And I’ve done all this at the expense of my writing. My writing is my work. But I’ve put it on hold so we could finish the house. Make a home. Our home.’

  I fall silent for a minute, catching my breath. I do know I talk too much. It’s been a problem since childhood. Ask my mother. Ask my school teachers. I seriously doubt the affliction will ever leave me. Chatterbox they called me when I was little. I don’t even bother discussing this with Ian, I know I’m guilty as charged and, besides, overriding everything in my head at the moment is the accusation that they are unable to discuss their mother when I’m around.

  Suddenly I’m about to talk too much again. The words trip off my tongue, stumbling over each other in their haste to get out. ‘How could they say that?’ I almost shout. ‘Don’t you remember when Georgie lived here? Don’t you remember how we talked about Jenny all the time? Ask Georgie what we talked about every morning when we walked around the golf course. And while we worked, painted, drank, ate, drove, watched TV, pretty much whenever. You were here, you heard us!’

  ‘Yes,’ says Ian, ‘I heard you.’ He’s very subdued, looking down into his drink. I realise I’m shooting the messenger and stop.

  In the ensuing silence, my anger subsides. It’s replaced by another, far more painful emotion. I am hurt by this. Really hurt. And I know it has set our future back by miles.

  ‘It’s not about you,’ says Ian. ‘This would have happened whoever I was with. Remember that. It’s not about you. Don’t take it as personal.’

  I suspect he’s right, but it’s hard not to be hurt, hard to take it on the chin, turn the other cheek. Had there been resistance to my relationship with Ian in the beginning, I would have better understood. But so much time has passed, so many happy days have been shared, and so much has been achieved that I’d grown complacent. I know I should ignore it, school myself not to care. The problem is, this turn of events doesn’t just affect me, it affects Ian and the quality of our life together. How can I expect Ian to be happy when those nearest and dearest to him are not?

  It’s hard to see a horizon clear of trouble and, suddenly, I’m experiencing an almost overwhelming urge to bolt. Immature, no doubt, but I just can’t bear the thought of more conflict in my life. I’m of the opinion our capacity to bear conflict is finite, and believe I’ve had enough in recent years to last me this lifetime and beyond. I tell Ian this; tell him that I’d rather live at peace in a cave on my own than have to deal with fresh conflict.

  But it’s awful to see Ian this unhappy. Searching for a sense of perspective, I again try to see it from his children’s point of view. Though I am, of course, older than Ian’s children, I do know what it’s like to lose a parent at a premature age. In fact my father was a similar age to Ian when he began to develop Alzheimer’s disease. I try to imagine my mother with a new partner. I try to imagine how I would feel. For the umpteenth time in recent years, I wish my sister Jane lived close at hand. I ring her in England, pour out all the details and ask her how she would have felt if Mother had met someone else. The conversation fails to soothe me because Jane feels exactly as I do. Her sense of injustice burns as mine does. But for now there’s nothing more I can say, nothing I can do. I just have to wait and hope that time will soothe everybody’s negative feelings to the extent that we can talk about it. Perhaps I’ll be able to talk to Georgie. Surely Georgie would find it impossible to look me in the eye and say she wasn’t able to talk about her mother when she was here? Surely she can’t have forgotten so much?

  And in the meanwhile, we have work to do. There is a kitchen to build. A garden to create. This is not a time to fall about moping.

  CHAPTER 20

  RESOLUTION

  CATS’ CLAW CAN GROW thirty centimetres in a week. The little spikes on its tendrils rip your hands, it doesn’t respond well to any poison we can discover and if you pull at it, it just breaks off at ground level because lurking beneath the ground are huge, potato-like tubers. If each plant was attached to only one tuber, perhaps they could be dug up, but they lie cunningly connected like strings of sausages, running deeper and deeper underground. Most of these tubers are about the size of a sweet potato, but we have read of one six metres long that was discovered beneath a concrete slab.

  Cats’ claw snakes round and round tree trunks, over itself, round and over, over and round, until its mass is greater than that of the tree inside. We hack through the deadly coils and find poor slender, squeezed trunks deep within. Some are dead; some are clinging to life but as weak as weeds growing in a cellar.

  Hacking, I’ve decided, is great therapy for the confusion and disappointment I’m feeling right now. I tug aggressively at a stubborn rope of cats’ claw and a massive clump of it lands on my head. I shake it off but bits end up tangled in my hair, and fine particles are in my eyes and mouth, and stuck to the sunscreen on my face.

  I’d always thought that if you beh
aved in a certain way, if you did this, then that, then the next, it would all add together neatly, like a mathematical equation, to give you the desired result. In other words, that you should be able to control your life if you are capable of controlling your actions, words and behaviour. Then I remember the lost friend from my Montville days, and tell myself: Well, there’s an example of my bestowing unconditional respect and affection on another human being, only to have forces beyond my control overthrow everything.

  It’s a bit shattering to realise how vulnerable outside forces can make us. I think of the white feather in the movie Forrest Gump, floating at the mercy of the breeze and decide I’m feeling a bit feather-like myself right now. Life is puffing me this way and that, and there’s not a great deal I can do about it.

  I glance over at Ian who is, as usual, stolidly working at twice my speed. His pile of shredded cats’ claw is massive and his face is bright red and sweaty. I realise that this new shift must be much harder on him than it is on me, and feel a huge surge of affection for him. He looks up, gives me a wide grin, and suddenly I’m not feeling quite as feather-like any more. I attack the vines with renewed vigour.

  We have, of course, talked till we’re blue in the face since the pillars of our future were so abruptly shaken. Ian believes it is only a matter of time before everyone comes around. His children are young, all under thirty. He believes maturity will open their eyes and soothe their pique. Over and again he tells me they need time to learn to accept the idea of sharing him with someone else.

  This I understand, but time is more of a luxury than it used to be. Starting out in your twenties with a partner, there’s the expectation, the hope, that you could get as many as sixty years together. For Ian and me, at fifty-eight and forty-six respectively, the expectation is so much less. There’s a sense of needing to hurry up with the problem solving, so that we can enjoy as many trouble-free years as possible.

  I swing wildly from wanting to find the patience to let the months – the years – slide by until that hopeful day when everyone might be happy, to wanting to yell at the world, Don’t you realise we are consenting adults and can do as we damn well please?