I stared at him. “No. It’s you he’s asking. You go!”
Torrenclar sat in silence. Then he said, “Sandro it would do you good to spend some time in the water. I’ll look after you. Come with me.” And they actually went. After they’d gone and left me to find my own way home, I cried.
Now he’s sitting in my garden. I don’t know what to do. I want to go out there and tell him off for not looking out for me. But I’m too scared. I’m thinking of what the Source said about him losing it, and I am shitting myself that he will be taken away if I carry on. I ask the Source to help me, then I go out to join him.
“Well?” he says.
“Well what?
“Don’t play games with me, Bridey. What have you got to say?’
“Okay. Why have you cut me off? Why are you shutting me out?”
“You know very well what’s going on. I asked you not to play games with me.”
I glare, and he stands up. “Come over here!”
“Why?”
“Just do what you’re told.” There’s that hard, closed look about his mouth which I don’t like. While I wait trying to gather my thoughts, he takes a step towards me, but when I cringe, he stops again. “I’m sorry darling. I don’t mean to frighten you.” My eyes fill with tears, and he holds out his arms.
“I’ve been missing you a lot,” I whisper into his chest, and he stiffens for a moment. “Please don’t shut me out. I love you. You are my best friend.” His arms tighten around me, and I’m filled with happiness. Everything’s going to be okay.
“It’s going to work better if you talk to me. I have no tolerance for games.”
“I’m not sure what that means.”
“Perhaps not.” He’s still holding me against his chest, but it takes a while for him to answer. “When we were in the coffee shop, and you wanted to be with me, instead of letting me know, you sulked. That just makes me angry with you.”
“But. You used to come and talk to me all the time.”
“I don’t want to get in the way with Sandro.”
There’s something about this that doesn’t feel right. It’s never been a problem for him before, he usually just turns up. I want to stay in his arms because it feels safe so I wriggle in closer and he kisses the top of my head. Then he says, “Sorry, sweetheart. I have to go now.”
“Did I do something wrong?” His mouth has gone stern again, and he shakes his head slowly.
“No. You didn’t. It’s just the way it is.” And he’s gone.
***
Finally, the meeting between the parents is arranged. It seems Elaine is keen to catch up with her daughter, and as she’s told there are no available daytimes, she agrees to a Sunday night at Gabriella’s. When asked if they can bring something, I suggest drinks. This is a safe bet although she insists they need to know what food there will be, in order to match it to wine. My anxiety grows.
Sunday morning, after work the night before, I wake full of dread.
During the day, I have hours of homework to address. This helps me calm my thoughts, but as soon as the afternoon begins to wane, I feel myself getting agitated. I ride my bike around the bike track to give us both some exercise and get an airing. My thoughts go to Homarta, but because she and Elaine have developed a serious dislike for each other, it’s not a good idea to seek her assistance over this planned meeting. Sandro is picking me up at six. Gabriella has insisted I not bother with food, but just bring myself and my courage. I take a long bath and wash my thick, black, curly hair. This is a big job; especially getting it dry again. I choose my clothes carefully, a skirt with leggings and a long dark blue jumper. I even apply a touch of make-up, not really sure who I’m attempting to impress. Sandro’s cheerful which helps prevent an argument in the car. He refrains from platitudes such as ‘it’ll be alright’, or ‘everything will work out’. In return, I work hard not to snap and snarl at him. He puts his hand on my knee, and we travel largely in silence. Too soon, we reach the house in Nunawading. I’m so nervous I have difficulty getting out of the car and Sandro, misinterpreting this, comes around to open my door. “You look stunning, Babe” he says, as I’m climbing out of the car. “All fresh and bright and beautiful.” I give him a smile which earns me a kiss and we make our way into the house.
It’s always lovely to come into Sandro’s home. It’s warm, inviting, furniture large and comfortable rather than minimalist, and I immediately feel calmer and more able to face the music. The dining table is set with six places which means the girls had been encouraged to be elsewhere. That is a good plan. My mother wouldn’t have liked the way they sweep the conversation every which way according to impulse. She would have begun giving them the parent looks which prevented my friends from wanting to be in her company, and, consequently, all sleepovers took place in their homes rather than mine. Gabriella holds me in a warm motherly hug. Jarrod gives me a peck on the cheek. His eyes always light up when he sees me. Both of them make me feel likeable, in contrast to my parents who always bring up the feeling that there’s something radically wrong with me. This makes me want to fight them. Tonight, I’m determined to behave like a reasonable human being rather than a petulant child. Of course, they are on time.
“Well,” my mother says to Sandro when we meet them at the door, “you’ve been in the wars haven’t you?” I’m sure she thought this was a friendly beginning. My dad shook his hand. I’d forgotten they haven’t met yet. It’s easy to forget about my dad altogether sometimes. Neither of them remember to greet me. So, I trundle along behind them as we make our way into the living room for pre-dinner drinks.
Gabriella greets my mother with a warmth she definitely does not feel.
“Elaine, meet my husband, Jarrod.” She then turns to my father and introduces herself drawing him into the room further and asking what he might like to drink.
“This is a lovely old area you live in,” he says. “How long have you been here?”
“Oh, about twenty years,” she replies, reflecting.
“Where were you before that?” Elaine, unhappy for her husband to be in any conversation which excluded her, took over.
“Oh, several different places,” Gabriella tosses this out lightly determined to steer the conversation. Up to this point, in the whole dread of them getting together, it hadn’t occurred to me that the subject of Sandro’s father might come up. I begin to feel a cold sweat rise.
Elaine wanders the living room picking up photos of the girls and commenting on them, replacing the photo and making sure she doesn’t miss a beat of the conversation. Dad and Jarrod are swapping ‘what do you do for a crust?’ stories. Mum is left to circle because Gabriella has gone out to check on the meal. How I wish I could join her. Elaine is extremely impressed that Jarrod is a solicitor.
“So, Sandro. What do you do for a living? Are you following in your father’s footsteps?”
In any other situation, this could have been an innocuous and relatively safe direction for the conversation to take, but it had to come up, didn’t it? You should have seen her face when she ferreted out that Jarrod was not Sandro’s dad, and that he was born in Iran.
“I thought there was something different about you,” she says.
We make our way to the table for dinner. Attempts to turn the conversation onto safer topics are quite successful in steering away from social issues where Mum would be likely to share her views on asylum seekers, people who are interested in the environment, inclusive ideas, when out of the blue Elaine says again, “I thought there was something different about you.” She’s staring at Sandro’s face. “I thought maybe you were an aborigine when I first saw you. Particularly as your manners were poor and the house so dilapidated. Then, there was that very strange, horrible woman who seemed to hanging around the house for a long time.”
There’s a light kick to my ankle from Sandro when I open my mouth to speak.
“Well, that would have been a good heritage too,” he says to my mother.
>
“Are you one of those Muslims?”
“And when you say ‘one of those Muslims’ you mean?” His voice is calm, polite, and friendly.
“Well. You know the ones that are trying to take over our country with their strange ways. If they can’t fit in, they should stay away!” Her voice is shrill. It isn’t just the words.
“No, I can’t say that I’m interested in taking over the world. I wouldn’t have a clue what to do with it.” He laughs, and she takes it as an insult. Gabriella and Jarrod are watching, listening, no longer attempting to steer the conversation onto safe subjects.
“How long have you two known each other,” she asks. This is obviously a trick question, but Sandro doesn’t seem to pick that up.
“About five months.” He turns to me and smiles with a slight shake of his head. “Seems longer. I guess a lot’s happened.”
“Well. You don’t seem to have much sense,” she says. I watch Gabriella bristle and Sandro smile the smile he keeps for her; warmth being its main focus, but a special intimacy always creeping into it. “First you talk her into doing something silly with her thesis, then you start spending a ridiculous amount of money on a house that should be pulled down. You don’t seem to have anything to do with your life, and you keep her away from us.” To sit there like a child at an adult dinner being spoken about, and over, is intolerable. But being defensive of him isn’t going to help much. Many times, I’ve been down that track!
“Well,” he muses. “You’re right about the house, of course.
Very poor financial decision. Unfortunately, we’ve grown attached to it. Can’t pull it down now it’s starting to cheer up, can we?” Ignoring the glare, he continues. “Had a bit of an accident a few weeks back which has slowed me down, but after another month or two, I should be back in full swing.” His face has dimmed. “As to keeping her away from you, it was my idea to get together.” If he’s thinking this is going to help, he’s wrong. “Oh,” he adds as an afterthought, “and she chose her own thesis topic before we met, but if you think back you’ll remember that.”
“She never tells us anything.”
“No. I get that.” A bit cryptic, but Mum has no repertoire for dealing with cryptic, so she tries another tack.
“Are you now attempting to change her to your religion?” She gives me a scorching look when I splutter with laughter, and the other two grin.
“What religion would that be?” he asks in surprise.
“Muslim.” Her voice is raised again. “Don’t try to put that one over me. As if I don’t know what religion you come from.”
At this point the table threatens to dissolve into hilarity, and Jarrod jumps to his feet to fetch another bottle of wine while Gabriella rushes to collect the dessert from the kitchen where we can hear her coughing and spluttering.
“We don’t believe in religion of any kind,” she says defiantly. “It’s all a sign of weakness.”
“I’m not sure we’re into religion either,” I say, hoping the Source won’t be offended, but there doesn’t appear to be any religion I know of which accurately describes the way the Source interacts with us.
I think, in a way, she partially acknowledges her defeat because after that we speak of food, and social events, and arts happenings around Melbourne. It’s all painful and embarrassing, but eventually it comes to an end. We make it through without fighting. That is a first for the family!
Fifteen
The race to the finish line requires constant driving attention in order to keep up and jump all the hurdles. The week before we leave for the trip I complete my forty interviews. Sandro has typed them up, but not finished the translations which are far more time consuming. I say goodbye to work for six weeks with an air of leaving school for the last time, but of course I have to return otherwise I’ll have no income. ‘Nearly there’, I keep telling myself. Almost at the end of Uni, and then I’ll be able to at least apply for work which hopefully relates to my interests; not that that guarantees a happier life. I’ve discovered how challenging my field and interests are when it comes to the practice.
Josh has stayed most nights at the little blue house. His weekly written work for the courts makes interesting reading. He seems to be using it to express his feelings about life and how people should be allowed to live it. Between us, Sandro and I talk him through how to express his ideas respectfully, but still make the point. One of his stories is about a woman in her fifties with an intellectual disability who’d been in homes for too much of her life. Ivy hates the fact that she had to live with people who were not of her choosing and this goes back a long way; way before the rights of people with such disabilities were recognized and respected. Like Josh, she absconded from “prison”, as Josh termed it in his writing, and began living on the streets. Ivy’s life has been characterized by abuse, malnutrition, constantly being the victim of thieves, poverty, neglect and manipulation. It takes some time for us to talk Josh through this so that his report on Ivy isn’t too filled with blaming the system, but still describes the difficulties.
My driving is improving, and I’m now allowed the occasional turn in the driver’s seat of the Ferrari. I’m sure I’ll be of assistance in breaking up the amount of time the others spend at the wheel. Each day of the driving ahead of us involves hundreds of kilometers. First stop, Adelaide! It’s getting exciting. We’ve taken a room at a Hotel the first night, and, as mine was part of the same chain, we get a good deal. Josh will have a bed in our room. Camping begins on the second night which is planned for Port Augusta.
We set off. Sandro’s in high spirits for the first couple of hours. Once his injuries begin to cause him trouble, he’s more difficult to deal with, and I have to insist he hand over the wheel to Josh, much to his delight. The difficult part is tearing him away again once we reach Horsham. He keeps the wheel through Dimboola, and drives us into the picnic stop at Horseshoe Bend.
Torrenclar joins us there. He comes upriver. The three of us are seated at the picnic table over lunch when a strange noise makes us all stare. The water is turbulent as if a prehistoric creature has suddenly decided to surface. Then, he rises in a silver stream walking towards us with a smile full of warmth. It has been weeks. “How’s my favorite family?”
“I wish you could teach me how to do that,” Josh’s wistful voice makes us laugh.
“Come now, and I’ll take you up the river.”
“Getting wet’s not going to work,” Sandro dampens Josh’s glee. “We’re about to set off again.”
“How about I meet you at Port Augusta and take you out there.” Torrenclar seems as eager as Josh. “There’ll not be a great deal of water after that for weeks, and I could do with someone to play with.” He turns to Sandro. “You could come too. And of course, Bridey, you are always welcome.” He grins at me knowing how much I want to go and play in the sea with him in the middle of Spring. Of course the weather’s improving, and jumpers are coming off as we head north away from Melbourne’s winter gloom. The sun shines. We’re on holidays. Life is good. Too soon, he’s gone again giving me a hug and holding me close before he leaves.
We take to the car again, and Sandro asks me to drive for a while. I’m more than happy. The roads are long and straight for the next hour or two. Josh drives again while Sandro sits back and watches, too quiet. Before we’re anywhere near the Adelaide hills, he reclaims the wheel and brings us into the outskirts of the capital around five in the afternoon.
I like Adelaide. It’s a relatively quiet, spread out city with hills on one side and the sea on the other. Hotels not being my favorite places, I’m looking forward to camping again. Being out in the open. Waking in the morning to a fire and coffee brewing. Snuggling at night under warm bedding. In contrast, the Hotel’s impersonal; no character. A stopping off place. Josh warns that if there’s any embarrassing stuff, he’s off. We’re up and away early next morning, heading to Port Augusta where we’ll to stop another night.
This is an odd pla
ce. Great waterways though, and the hotel we’d booked is looking over the sea. We decide to do a boat trip upriver late in the day and Torrenclar takes Josh for a water ski just on dusk when their strange methods will be missed. Sandro declines. He’s keen for us to have a meal together with wine and talk we can’t have in Josh’s company. The view of the water from the pub is spectacular. As the sun goes down it’s leaving wisps of pink in the clouds and long red lines across the water. These are broken up by grey ripples each with a bright highlight of reflected sky at the horizon. Photos couldn’t possibly do it justice. What could? Maybe poetry, but then I’m not much of a poet.
“I’m struggling Bridey.”
“Yeah. I can tell. You’ve gone all quiet. Talk to me.”
“My leg’s complaining about the hours on the road. My arm’s stiff and sore.” He took a deep breath bringing his gaze back to me after watching the sun’s progress. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to do it.”
“The sand dunes?” This isn’t any surprise. I’ve been wondering. Josh and I aren’t going to be able to do eleven hundred sand dunes between us. We’ve had no experience of any sand dunes. Not much experience of driving really. As usual, we’re crazy!
“I can’t pull out either.”
“We’ve got plenty of time. We’ll just take lots of breaks.” His face tells me the words aren’t helping, but I have to give some sort of reply. “That was always the plan!” I have no idea what’s going on in his head, but Melbourne has been so good, and he’d taken back his control of the situation. Now he’s here, on the edge of hitting the desert and his heart isn’t in it. “How about you ask Homarta or one of the others to look at it for you?”
Eleven Hundred Sand Dunes Page 22