by Mary Moody
The two boys wanting to have children at such an early age was, even under the circumstances, quite a surprise. A lot is written these days about ‘Peter Pan Syndrome’, where males delay commitment to relationships and parenthood until much later in their lives. Studies have shown that they would rather play with their computer games and remain living comfortably at home, rent-free, with their aging parents, than accept responsibility for starting a family. This has been blamed on the lack of positive messages in society about marriage and parenting. It is just not seen as an attractive option. But not so for our boys. They leapt into steady relationships, marriage, parenthood and mortgages all before the age when most sons even think about leaving the nest.
Our children must have been inculcated with happy messages about parenting. Those were the best years of my life, when the children were growing up, and they picked up on all those confident and positive signals. They didn’t sit down and make a plan – they simply emulated the established pattern. None of them was financially secure but that didn’t stop them. So, even though I was concerned about how they would cope at such tender ages with the emotional and financial implications, I was happy for them. Because they were happy. They all had good relationships with their partners and, fortunately, David and I were delighted with the choices they had made.
The whole issue of motherhood and grandmotherhood fascinates me because it has changed so dramatically in just two or three generations. I talk to other women in my age group and their experiences are so different from mine and from those of their own grandmothers. A journalist colleague in her early sixties tells me she has given up on the idea of ever becoming a grandmother. Her two children, one male and one female, both in their late thirties, show no inclination to produce offspring. When she asks them if she is ever likely to become a grandmother, she is laughed off with the words, ‘It’s your problem, Mum. We’re quite happy the way we are.’
So she is resigned to the probability that she may never, ever hold a grandchild.
Another friend in her late fifties with several grandchildren admits that she loves them dearly but is adamant that she has no interest in being overly involved in their lives. Certainly no interest in babysitting. ‘I did the baby and kid thing for decades,’ she says. ‘I am free from children now and I don’t want to be tied down looking after them. I love seeing them, but ultimately they are their parents’ responsibility. Not mine.’
They seem harsh words but my friend is anything but cold and heartless. She adores her family. It’s just that she is relishing the time she now has to do all the things she couldn’t afford to do when her own children were young.
Yet another friend has a different story. Her son and daughter-in-law work full-time and she has been co-opted, with the other grandmother, into caring for the two small children several days a week. She loves them and is thrilled to be able to help, but she is also exhausted by the physical demands of looking after toddlers all day in her early sixties. She doesn’t complain, however, and is just delighted that she has such a close bond with her grandchildren. A bond she wouldn’t have if she wasn’t their carer.
I fall somewhere between the last two. I love being intimately involved in the lives of my grandchildren but I also have to be realistic because, at my age, I still work constantly and therefore don’t have unlimited time to spend with them. My career involves a lot of travelling, which means I sometimes go for months without seeing them. I miss them keenly but I know that when I am back home I can balance this out in many ways. I love having them to stay at the farm, en masse, and cooking up sumptuous feasts, so that for our family sitting around the table has become the centrepiece of bringing the generations together. In the summer I take them to the swimming pool or on picnics, getting them to help prepare the food and pack the baskets.
I also love treating them to special outings – films and theatre and concerts, and trips to the big city to visit museums or the aquarium. I am aware that family outings can be very expensive and often beyond the means of their young parents, who are now all at the stage of struggling with mortgages and car payments, not to mention huge grocery bills. On a recent two-day trip to Sydney with four boys in tow – Eamonn, Sam, Theo and Hamish – I was startled at the cost of lunch in a restaurant and tickets to a live stage show. Sam, ever the observant and thoughtful one, asked me as I stuffed credit card dockets into my wallet, ‘Are you thure you can afford thith Mutti?’
‘Yes, Sam,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘How much money have you got, Mutti?’
‘Unlimited amounts,’ I replied, to put his mind at ease.
I try to get to their pre-school and school open days, especially ‘grandparents day’, when we are given a chance to visit their classrooms, meet their teachers and see examples of their work. I went to Hamish’s lovely little school in Mudgee with his other grandmother, who is about my age and also works full-time. We had both taken a day off work to attend. There was a formal assembly where the children, in class groups, performed songs and poetry. Then there were speeches. The youthful deputy principal welcomed us and emphasised how important we were in the life of these young children. He said that having grandparents who were interested and involved enough in the lives of their grandchildren to come along and support them was just fantastic. He concluded by saying: ‘So I would like to thank you all for taking time out from your art classes and games of golf to come along and support your grandchildren.’
Both our hackles rose immediately. Shortly afterwards at the morning tea I took the young teacher aside and explained, quite sweetly, that not all grandmothers had time to attend art classes. Some of us had jobs and other responsibilities. Somewhat flustered, he apologised for being both ageist and sexist, and I laughed quietly to myself at his embarrassed reaction. After all, he was just conforming to the common perception. Grandparents these days are meant to be a lot older.
Despite the fact that in generations past grandmothers were a lot younger than they are today, even back then they always seemed to be little old ladies with permed hair wearing floral frocks with lacy collars. I have seen photographs of my friend’s grandmothers at fifty and sixty, and they look positively ancient in the black and white photographs of the day. I’m not that sort of grandmother – although in some ways I look forward to the day when I can feel comfortable in that more conventional, less confusing role.
In the meantime I will just enjoy my large brood and continue to set aside very special time to spend with them. After staying with Miriam and her family after their move to Adelaide, I returned home exhausted by the demands of those four lively little boys. Unpacking my bag, I found a little love letter, hidden among my clothes, from Sam. It was on pink paper cut out in the shape of a heart with the words: ‘Dere Mutti, It’s good to have you come down to see us. Love from Sam.’
It can’t get much better than that.
37
David is waiting patiently for me, as ever, at the exit from customs at Sydney airport. He looks tired and is a little withdrawn, kissing me affectionately but without a skerrick of passion. The total reverse of the farewell kiss he had insisted upon in front of the film crew when I was leaving for France five months ago.
In the car, before we have even exited the car park, David initiates a one-way conversation with me about the financial difficulties that lie ahead. He barely touches on the emotional issues except to say that he has made up his mind, once and for all, and that he believes this is the right and the only decision. He tells me that the long trip back to Australia, when he was forced to spend three nights alone in a hotel room in Hong Kong, was a turning point. How for that period of time he did nothing but sleep, eat and think about our damaged relationship. He says that since then he has been feeling stronger and better about himself than he has for the past three years.
I am jetlagged of course, and also emotionally exhausted. I sit and listen to David’s view on how our finances will need to be managed. He doesn’t
believe I am capable of looking after myself financially and says he envisages maintaining his role as the ‘manager’ of my income and expenditure. He wants us to continue living together at the farm because we can’t afford an alternative. He suggests I should seriously consider accepting any work that is offered and mentions in particular the possibility of a radio show that has been on the back burner for quite some time.
I respond by acknowledging that I have always been disorganised in managing money and agree that, from his perspective, I am a spendthrift. However, I am not thrilled at the prospect of accepting work that will see me anchored in one place all year round. How will I be able to take the tour groups to France if I have a weekly radio job? How will I afford to live in Sydney if that is where the work is based? By the time we reach the farm we are in the throes of a heated argument and I am beginning to realise that this situation is destined to be a nightmare. I have known enough people going through messy divorces to know that the money aspect is the most problematic. And here we are at the very beginning of our dialogue and already it’s shaping up unpleasantly.
The entire family is at the farm, including all our wild and woolly grandchildren. The open fires are crackling away and the air is filled with the rich aroma of Sunday lunch cooking. I am hit by a blast of warmth as I enter the kitchen and the first person I see is my daughter-in-law Lynne, mother of Isabella and now quite heavily pregnant with their second child. We make immediate eye contact and we both begin to cry. But unlike our previous reunions where we cried with happiness to see each other, our mutual tears are laden with sadness.
All I can say to her is, ‘I think this is a big mistake.’ She nods in agreement.
This family of mine is the most important thing in my life. Not any one individual above the others, just the group as a whole. The unit. Like many people with damaged childhoods, I had a dream to have a perfect family. And somehow I have managed to create one. There’s my stepson Tony, now in his early thirties, with a successful career and a beautiful wife, Simone. A handsome and affectionate couple who are yearning to start a family because of the joy and fun they have with their nieces and nephews. Our daughter Miriam and her husband Rick, bravely wrangling their four bright and boisterous sons. A strong and committed couple with a positive outlook on life. Our blond son Aaron, less voluble than the rest, with his calm and patient wife Lorna and their two blond offspring. So different from their cousins and yet, in funny ways, so alike. Our youngest son Ethan and his partner Lynne, coping brilliantly with a disabled daughter and courageously awaiting the birth of their second child. Such an amazing group of people. Such a fantastic family. David and I as the parents and grandparents sit at the head of the table. When we sit down to lunch we number seventeen and I don’t know quite how it happened.
So in spite of everything it’s a happy day, simply because we are all together again. The family unit. The lunch is delicious and we drink lots of wine. The proposed separation and divorce are talked about briefly, but not in a heavy way. The children say they are sad but that it’s probably going to be for the best. I try not to cry again.
Later in the day, when the family has departed, we sit alone in front of the fire for a while, listening to music and drinking wine.
‘You know, David, I think this whole idea is wrong,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to end our marriage. I never really have. I know I am to blame and I am so, so sorry that I caused you so much pain, but isn’t there some way we can work this out? Surely we can resolve things between us somehow.’
His response is swift and definite. There is no possibility of reconciliation. He has made up his mind. It’s over. He feels sad, but that’s it. He will never, ever weaken his resolve.
Late in the evening the question of where we will sleep crops up. When he spoke to me in France, David suggested that there was no reason why we couldn’t continue sleeping in the same bed. Nothing sexual, just for mutual comfort, because we were both so upset at the end of our marriage that maintaining some closeness might help. At the time I found the notion strange and said it would be much more cut and dried if from the outset we slept in separate rooms. Now I am feeling the reverse; that I would like to be close to him. In my heart I am thinking that if we physically touch it may help to bridge the gap. Perhaps if we make love, his resolve may even soften. But he has made up the spare room for himself. We will be sleeping apart.
When I wake in the morning, I am momentarily convinced that the whole thing was just a dream. I have imagined it. I can’t possibly be getting divorced from David. He brings me tea and bread with butter in bed as he has done for so many years and I find myself incapable of speaking. A numbness has descended.
David has to drive to Sydney for a funeral. It gives me a day to wander around the house and the farm recovering from my jetlag. David is a great one for taking down phone messages on scraps of paper and leaving them lying around for weeks, sometimes months, at a time. By the phone in the kitchen I find an old envelope with a list of messages. Some are obviously messages from me because I recognise the times I have called from France. He writes ‘my love’ as the name of the person calling. Then at the end of the list are two messages written at times that could not possibly have been from me. I would have been in transit. For the caller he has written ‘my other love’. I ponder for a moment then phone him on his mobile.
‘Who is this “other love” person?’ I ask.
He is uncomfortable and can’t speak. He’s in a noisy pub with a large crowd of friends. It’s the wake. He laughs it off, but I still feel unsettled by it. Other love. What does it mean? But when he gets back late that night, I am already asleep.
I have an appointment the following day with a specialist in Orange because my throat has been giving me problems. My voice sometimes sounds harsh and gravelly and I am concerned I may have grown nodules on my vocal cords – a common problem for singers and people like me who talk a lot. As I am scheduled to give more than ten speeches – including several lengthy literary lunches – during the book promotional tour, I am worried that my voice won’t last the distance. It’s more than an hour’s drive to Orange and David insists on taking me.
‘No matter what happens between us, I want to be around to support you,’ he says.
In the car I am again incapable of saying much. I really don’t know what to say any more. As we drive along he starts another conversation, somewhat hesitantly.
‘You know how you were asking me about that message beside the phone yesterday?’ he starts. ‘The “other love” message? And do you remember when we were talking on the phone in France and you asked if there was someone else?’
‘Mmm,’ I say.
‘Well, there is someone else. It’s not definite yet. Nothing’s actually happened. But I’m happy because I have the possibility of a new relationship.’
Total silence from me.
The words tumble out. When I was in France, he was phoned by a South African woman writer who was put in contact with him by some of the filmmakers he worked with during the 1980s. She was visiting eastern Australia for a few days and David offered to show her around. She visited the farm briefly and he drove her around the local countryside. He also showed her the sights of Sydney.
On the day she was returning to Africa he drove her to the airport. Out of the blue she made a declaration of love to him. He couldn’t have been more surprised. She told him that from the moment she first saw him she felt overwhelmed and that she was convinced she was in love with him. Totally. Love at first sight. During her visit he had screened the ‘Australian Story’ documentary and she had been deeply affected by it. Moved and filled with compassion for his situation. They spent a few moments in the car holding each other and kissing before she left.
He was overwhelmed. At the moment in his life when he felt at his lowest ebb, when his wife of thirty-three years had betrayed him not once but twice, when he felt his self-esteem had hit rock bottom, somebody had fallen madly in love with him.
It had turned his life, and mine, upside down.
38
Sitting in the doctor’s waiting room, I am light-headed and disorientated. I have sent David away to wait for me in the car. I can’t stand the thought of being near him, but I don’t quite know why. It’s a strange sensation when you are hit with a piece of information that is so powerful and so painful to assimilate that you feel disembodied. I suppose it was just how David felt when he first discovered I was having an affair in France. Stunned with disbelief. Finally I understand. For two years, David has been asking me to put myself in his shoes; to imagine how he must be feeling, and I couldn’t. Now I can.
The doctor is efficient and speaks with a strong South African accent. I have to swallow a tiny camera inserted through my right nostril so he can examine my throat in detail. He tells me my throat and vocal cords are perfectly healthy, it’s just that I must have been dehydrated which has caused the vocal cords to dry out. I need to drink lots of water during the day to wash them clean and prevent them from drying out again. The long hot summer in France probably contributed to my symptoms.
I ask him where he is from and he tells me Johannesburg. I immediately start telling him about Mapantsula, the anti-apartheid film David made there in 1987. As I speak, tears start rolling down my cheeks. Here I am telling this doctor – a total stranger – about my husband, of whom I am so proud. Telling him about a film that was selected for the Cannes Film Festival and won for David an Australian Human Rights Film Award.
But he’s no longer my husband. He’s my ex-husband. And soon he will probably be somebody else’s husband. I have lost him and I have nobody to blame but myself.