The Bit In Between

by Claire Varley

  She had awoken the next morning hung over and desperately hoping to score a brunch date, but Ed wanted to go to the Immigration Museum instead. She’d spent three hours pacing the spacious rooms of Old Customs House pretending to care about Australia’s vibrant multicultural history when really all she wanted was a strong espresso, some greasy spring rolls and maybe a kebab. She had almost cried with gratitude and relief when Ed, spurred by his recent discovery of his apparent quasi-Sino heritage, suggested they go get dumplings. As they ate, Alison listened to his unfolding plan: he would go on a pilgrimage to China to uncover his roots, documenting the whole thing for the edification of the greater global population, who would no doubt learn invaluable lessons from his journey that would benefit all mankind. And, because she was absolutely infatuated with him and because she had never slept with someone as truly beautiful as him, Alison had swallowed the dumpling in her mouth and announced loudly that she would accompany him on this most exciting of adventures.

  Oliver looked bemusedly into his half-empty latte glass. ‘No offence, but Ed sounds like a dick.’

  Alison waved her hands in the air. ‘Oh, he was. He was a dick. Such a dick.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Well, I tend to get caught up in the honeymoon phase and I create these fantasies in my head about what our life together will be like, and then, when I realise these aren’t going to eventuate, I get scared and run away.’

  Oliver nodded.

  ‘And he ate dog.’

  ‘He what?’

  ‘He ate dog. In the market one day. A little puppy. I could tell by the little paws bobbing up and down in the soup.’

  ‘I thought you said he was a vegan.’

  ‘He was. But he said it was an imperative part of getting in touch with his roots.’

  Oliver grinned. ‘Okay. I can see why you left – even if he was the most beautiful man you’d ever seen.’

  Alison thought for a moment, swirling the coffee in her glass. ‘Familiarity breeds an alarming sense of distortion. You know how when you say a word aloud enough times it stops having any meaning and just sounds like a weird, primal noise?’

  ‘Yeah . . .’

  ‘Well, if you look at anyone for long enough, they just look like a Picasso.’

  Oliver burst into loud laughter. ‘That is the most tremendous thing I’ve heard in a long time.’

  Alison looked at him proudly. ‘Okay, enough about my love life. What about you? Any girlfriend? Other than your cousin, I mean.’

  Oliver made a face at her. ‘Nope. No girlfriend. My last girlfriend was a while ago, before my book was published. A long time before my book was published.’

  ‘And what happened?’

  ‘She didn’t really want me, and it seems you can’t make people love you no matter how much you try.’

  His face changed ever so slightly and Alison sensed this topic was closed.

  She drained the dregs of her latte, screwed up her face and smacked her lips. ‘Do you know what? For a city that boasts it’s the home of coffee, that was the worst latte of my life.’

  ‘Agreed. Do you want to go get another cup of coffee somewhere else?’

  She did. So they did. Coffee turned into dinner, dinner turned into drinks and drinks turned into hurried, meaning­ful sex on the floor of Oliver’s aunt’s guestroom. And then they slept in each other’s arms with the exhausted familiarity that comes once in every relationship after that first intimate moment.

  Alison awoke suddenly, blinking rapidly as her eyes adjusted to the light. She scanned the room for a moment, her gaze lingering on a framed photo of a racehorse blazing across a finish line with the title ‘Brilliant Mistake, 1986’ etched across the bottom. For a moment she panicked, wondering where she was, then realised that she was lying in someone’s arms. Oliver’s arms. A wave of nausea rose from her belly, bringing with it short, sharp memories of the night before. They were, in no particular order, ouzo, baijiu, tequila and something big, pink and sweet with an umbrella sticking out of it. Her stomach lurched and she shuddered with regret as she remembered something about felafels at four in the morning. Her tongue explored her mouth and located the telltale tabouli in her teeth. She burped: onion. That confirmed it. She looked at Oliver. Asleep, his face had a gentle, almost feminine quality. She felt the urge to lean over and kiss his elegant cheekbones, and another, equally powerful, to swiftly extract herself and escape as fast as possible. Instead, she settled back into the comfortable fold of his arm. Within minutes she had fallen asleep again.

  ‘OLIVAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! BREAKFAST! OH MY GAWD!’

  Oliver and Alison jerked awake to find a young girl standing in the doorway. She looked about seven and was wearing bright pink pyjamas with Disney princesses on them. Alison self-consciously drew the sheet up. The little girl stuck her hand on her hip and shook her head at them.

  ‘Morning, Vicky. Can you give us a minute?’ Oliver said, his free hand rubbing his temple.

  Vicky stuck her hip out further. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That is Alison. My friend. She’s . . . Vicky, can you please go away?’

  Vicky pursed her lips. ‘Mum says you should come down for breakfast because we made pancakes and if you don’t come down now we’ll eat them all because we’re voracious. That’s what Mum says.’

  The word pancakes made Alison’s stomach heave and she whimpered faintly. Oliver frowned. ‘It’s okay. Eat all the pancakes. We’ll find our own breakfast.’

  Vicky exhaled patiently. ‘Mum says –’

  ‘Tell your mum we’ll come down later.’

  Vicky looked at him in despairing disbelief. ‘But there’s ice cream!’

  This time Alison actually felt the bile start to rise and she planted her face in Oliver’s armpit. At least if she vomited she could vomit there . . .

  ‘Vicky!’ Oliver snapped.

  ‘Fine,’ Vicky said, slamming the door behind her.

  Alison groaned again and Oliver leant his head against hers.

  ‘I know,’ he soothed.

  ‘Mmffgggh,’ Alison said into his armpit.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said I’m going to vomit,’ Alison repeated.

  ‘Into my armpit?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Okay. When you’re done, do you want to go and find something really greasy for brunch?’

  A small tear of happiness formed in the corner of Alison’s eye. It smelt slightly of tequila.

  ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

  After they had dressed, Alison prepared herself for the walk of shame.

  ‘Where are we again?’

  ‘Preston.’

  ‘And who are these people?’

  ‘My aunt, uncle and cousins. On my dad’s side.’

  ‘And why aren’t you staying at your parents’?’

  ‘Because my bedroom was turned into a home gymnasium for my godbrother’s personal training business.’

  ‘Right. Let’s do this.’

  They walked along a photo-lined hallway and down a set of narrow carpeted stairs. Judging by the photos, there would be at least three children waiting at the bottom. The stairway opened up into a large kitchen with a big table in the middle. Five sets of eyes turned to them.

  ‘Alison, this is my uncle Mick, my aunt Christina and my cousins Vicky, Sophia and Socratis.’

  Alison glanced at Socratis, who looked to be about three years old and was trying to eat his pancakes through a straw.

  ‘It’s a family name,’ Oliver’s aunt offered in a voice that suggested it had not been her idea to name her only son after one of the greatest thinkers in the history of the world.

  ‘Nice to meet you all,’ Alison said.

  Oliver’s uncle gave a short nod and turned back to his pancakes. His aunt stood up.


  ‘I’ll just go get another chair . . .’

  ‘No, don’t worry about it,’ Oliver said, waving his aunt away. ‘We’ve got to head to the train station so Alison can get back home.’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ she said and her face fell. ‘I’ll show you to the door.’

  ‘Thea, I know where the door is –’ Oliver started, but his aunt ignored him. She pushed her chair back and swept past, motioning for them to follow her. Alison gave the others a small wave, which they all returned except Socratis, who was busy trying to get both ends of the straw up his nostrils. Christina led them out of the room and down a short hall, then busied herself unlocking a small series of deadlocks and bolts on the front door.

  ‘Okay,’ she said and stepped back.

  Oliver squeezed past carrying Alison’s pack and paused to give his aunt a hug and a kiss on the forehead.

  ‘See you soon, Thea.’

  Alison gave her a friendly nod and went to leave, but Christina stopped her. She grabbed her by the shoulders and looked deep into her eyes. Alison held her breath and waited.

  ‘Listen to your heart and don’t expect a fairytale.’

  Alison held her gaze for a moment, surprised by the deep sadness in her voice. Then there was the pitter patter of little feet and a door slammed shut down the hall. Christina looked over her shoulder. ‘I better go. Socratis is on the toilet and he’ll need help wiping.’

  They got on a city-bound tram. Alison watched out the window as inner-city suburbia flashed past. A sprawling tree encircled by cement. Half a bicycle locked to a rusty wrought-iron fence. A City of Darebin garbage bin with a giant smiley face spray-painted on it. Young mums in matching exercise outfits jogging behind prams the size of chariots. Ancient women clothed in black pacing up and down outside their houses, talking in their home languages to no one in particular. Terrace house next to Californian bungalow next to modern townhouse next to sprawling student squat.

  Alison glanced across at Oliver. ‘Your aunt . . .’

  Oliver gave her a half smile then looked out the window. ‘My aunt . . .’

  Christina had married Oliver’s uncle because he had asked. For the seven years prior she had secretly loved a young boy who lived across the street and he had secretly loved her back. Unfortunately he was from the wrong part of Cyprus, where they spoke Turkish instead of Greek, and it would have killed both of their parents to see the looks of longing in the eyes of this modern-day Romeo and Juliet. More than three decades and two continents were not enough to ease the tensions of the dispute that divided the island, and while Christina would gladly have drunk poison to be with him, Mehmet had more common sense. He told her their options were to run away together and never see their families again, or else walk away and no longer see each other. He would move back to Northern Cyprus and she would stay in Australia. Despite packing a bag in preparation and bidding her sisters a secret farewell, Christina ultimately couldn’t leave her family. Neither could Mehmet, and instead of returning to his parents’ homeland, he married a girl from the right side of the island and moved into a house a few doors down from his parents. Christina married Mick because he was the first boy to ask her. He was from the right side of the island too, and this would make her parents happy, but it didn’t make Christina happy. Every Sunday-night dinner at her parents’ house was a painful reminder of what she had lost, as they celebrated each and every birthday, every Christmas, across the road from Mehmet and his wife. When her kids were old enough to befriend his, Christina would sometimes stand at the kitchen window and watch Vicky and Pinar march down the street arm in arm, and through her tears the two would sometimes merge into one and Christina would see the daughter she and Mehmet never had. Then she would chide herself, telling herself she loved her husband and children, and would sometimes stick her hand over a burner on the stove to remember who she was.

  Alison didn’t say much during the tram trip, but Christina’s pleading look burned in her mind.

  They brunched in Northcote until the caffeine and oil soaked up enough alcohol to make life slightly more ­bearable. Oliver told stories that made Alison laugh. Alison did impressions that made Oliver chuckle, mostly because he couldn’t tell who they were supposed to be, and they gave each other the kind of shy, sideways smiles that are reserved for only a few living mortals. Then they took the long tram ride into Southern Cross Station. Alison leant against Oliver’s shoulder and he laced his fingers through hers. A man sat opposite talking animatedly into a bluetooth earpiece as if negotiating energetically with himself. Alison giggled, her body pressing into Oliver’s, and she felt him tense beside her. With a sudden rush of urgency he turned to her. ‘I think I’m falling in love with you.’

  Alison glanced at him, startled. She took in his serious gaze and offered a helpless shake of her head. ‘But I’m not your cousin . . .’

  And Oliver smiled and she smiled and time stopped forever and for only a second.

  Soon the tram reached Southern Cross Station, slowing to a halt. Alison turned to Oliver. Oliver looked at Alison. She didn’t stand up. He didn’t either. They rode the tram to the end of the line and then rode it back again. They would both go to the Solomon Islands.

  But first there was Oliver’s yiayia. Waiting, embalmed and lonely, for her oldest grandson to return so that she could be laid to rest beside her long-dead husband in a patient patch of earth in Fawkner Memorial Park.

  Yianni, Oliver’s papou, had died long before Oliver was born. His remaining grandparents, being typical Greeks, had refused to die, so his Yiayia Eleussa was the first grandparent he was conscious of losing. He’d dreaded this moment since he was fourteen, when he’d realised he was the only person in his class yet to bury a grandparent, but still he wasn’t prepared for it. He lay awake in his aunt’s spare room that night staring into darkness as Alison snored loudly beside him, running through all the little moments that were his yiayia. Tomorrow he would bury her, the woman who had fed him homemade galaktompoureko and told the younger cousins that she loved Oliver most because God gave him to her first. Who had told him with resolute certainty when he was six that he was the most beautiful boy in Australia because he had the singing voice of an angel and the eyelashes of Jesus himself, and then lovingly spat on his head three times to drive off the mati. Who had cried joyful tears and swept her hand in grateful full-bodied crosses when he’d told her he was going to Cyprus, to the ancestral mountains of her childhood. Who had – he’d been told – died from the shame he’d sent rippling across two continents. Oliver’s mind raced between sleep and memory and he was suddenly back in Cyprus, back before his yiayia left this world, standing in the village at the foot of the mountains where his grand­parents had grown up almost a century before.

  Arriving in Cyprus, Oliver had deliberately avoided the tourist circuit and had instead gone straight to the house of his theo Costa – who was actually his papou Yianni’s cousin – in the Troodos mountains. He hoped, he was embarrassed to admit, to ‘reconnect with his roots’. Also, he doubted anyone here would have heard of his book, so no one would tell him how relieved they had been ‘when everything turned out for the best in the end’, which was all he ever heard back home. The village was nestled amidst the hard stones of the mountains. Years before, the area had been a prime site for asbestos and chrome mining, but the mines had closed down when people realised why so many of their young men kept coughing themselves to death. The young men of the village were good at dying. They died doing many things: making a living, fighting wars. Statues and monuments from the various wars filled the village, which sat quaint and perfect beneath towering conifers and squat fruit trees. There were monuments from World War II, from the war against the British, the conflict with Turkey and a handful of other disputes to which Cyprus had committed the blood of its youth. Near his theo’s house was a statue to his papou’s twin, Dimitri, who had died fighting the British for independence in th
e 1950s. Shortly after, because everything reminded them of Dimitri, his grandparents had left for Australia with his infant mother. Many years later when Oliver was born, he would be given the middle name Dimitri in honour of his dead uncle.

  His theo Costa’s house was built on a ledge between two clear running streams, which – Oliver was delighted to discover – actually babbled. Pine trees swayed in the wind, scattering their needles across the paths, and on a quiet evening nightingales could be heard above the sound of the water. Each morning someone would offer to take him for a drive to show him the sights, hoping to receive an impromptu English lesson. Oliver would spend his afternoons ‘working’, which most days meant sitting in the little kafenio drinking strong Cypriot coffee and writing either ‘one hit wonder’ or ‘βλακα’ – the Greek word for moron – over and over again in his notebook. His sense of failure was compounded by the fact that this was one of the only words he knew in Greek. It made him feel like a stranger in this place that should feel like home, and this in turn made him feel like a failure in life. He kept these thoughts to himself, though, partly because he realised how absurd it had been to expect to find himself in a tiny village in the mountains halfway around the world, but mostly because he couldn’t speak Greek.

  One day he had been sitting in the kafenio with his theo Costa when a very old woman walked up to him, her eyes wide as full moons. She grasped his cheeks with her hands and said something wild and rambling. The only part he understood was the name Dimitri repeated over and over again. His theo had gently removed the woman’s bony hands and spoken to her quietly. She looked at Oliver with disbelief and backed away.