He ignored her questions and spoke of dingoes which protected the women, but not very well because the man caught one of the women. But like many men, one woman was not enough for him. ‘I’m not like that,’ he said. ‘One woman, the right one, is plenty.’ The rest of the group, he told her, turned into birds and flew away from the man, but still he followed. ‘You can see him in the sky with his spear. Somehow he avoided the dingoes and, really, he has never stopped following them right up into the sky. It is because he wanted to have babies with them, but he will never catch them, and in the end it is only the dingoes who have babies.’
‘So,’ he said, ‘it’s not an awful story, but sometimes things are not what they seem. People don’t get what they want. They can go on for long time, can be good, even when you think they’re not.’
‘Yes,’ she said. Even though she couldn’t be sure she understood what he was telling her, and the talk about babies was disturbing.
The next day she and Marvyn had set out for a station where Marvyn knew they could get some work for a while. She had stayed, all the while knowing it was a postponement. Divided, always divided, she felt this was her true life, but not her only life. She felt invigorated, but underneath there was a hardness that she could not escape. She wanted the mystery of Marvyn, but not the child in him.
Rather than stay in the depressing workers’ quarters, they had set up camp some distance away. One night, sitting around their small fire—when yet again he’d sought her advice and approval—she’d said to him, ‘I am not your mother or your grandmother. You are my lover, not my child.’ She wanted him to believe her, but the words she had spoken were too harsh. And she could have spoken and held him close to her, but she did not.
He did not reply. He stood up, looked at her briefly, and walked away into the night. There was moonlight bright enough to cast shadows. The words he wanted to speak were caught inside him. One, then another and another. They did not fit together and yet he could feel the surge of them. His body moved, clumsily; he wasn’t in control of his arms and legs, his tightening chest. There was some presence building and he needed to do something.
He came to the edge of the slow-moving creek and lowered himself into it. He sank down and the water just covered his face. He held his breath for a long time, and slowly the tension eased and the words floated out of him. He did not know what they meant. They whirled gently in pools near the bank, like leaves momentarily trapped, then flipped and continued on their journey away from him—to who knows where? Maybe someone would discover them, far away, in a different time and place.
Fifty-six
For weeks Greta had stayed put, only venturing out for supplies and to renew her library books. She felt turned in on herself, insecure, and in danger of becoming an isolated eccentric. Then one day the skies changed and it was no longer overcast: there were white clouds scudding across the blue.
The air was full of smoke for the third day in a row. It was blown out to sea by the easterly wind, and then back over the land when the sea breeze came in. It looked like an early summer. The hazy beauty of red sky sunsets filled her with awe.
She had decided that she would seek out her neighbour, Tinny Thompson, and arrived, unannounced, at his door. ‘I need someone to talk to who understands the oddity of living in a shed on the coast. I have a list of one. If you’re agreeable, can we walk and talk at the same time? I’ve been sitting and thinking for too long.’
‘Of course. I’m honoured. Let me put on some walking gear.’
They set off side by side, and Greta told him she’d been thinking about what he’d said to her, about feeling less certain about who or what he was. ‘You said the boundaries that separated you from people—and places, even—were blurry. It was, you said, a good feeling, but also frightening.’
‘Yes, I still feel the same,’ said Tinny.
‘When I was in Hamburg, my sister, Eve, came to visit me one afternoon. At that time I was staying in an apartment, an old hotel near the wharf. The sun had come out and so we went for a walk. Everyone seemed happy, because of the light. It’s not something you notice here, because the light is always there. Well, almost. Then we sat on the bench watching the boats in the harbour and the light started to change. As we talked, we became less happy.’
‘Was it the light?’ asked Tinny.
‘Yes, in part. I think that changed the mood. And I know it sounds like a fanciful connection, but even at the time I felt we were seated between light and dark—an indeterminate space, if you like, without clear boundaries. You see, I don’t think my sister understands, or respects, boundaries—social and individual—and so a notion like privacy, even morality, doesn’t intrude on her thinking. I’m not absolutely sure what I think about this, but let me try to explain.’
Greta described the situation of her sisters and the singular father of her nieces, and that her older sister, Katrin, knew nothing about the identity of the father of her sister’s child.
‘Let me get this straight,’ said Tinny. ‘There are two children, Maren and Sabine, a similar age, who are half-sisters and cousins, and your older sister knows only half the story?’
‘Not even that. Katrin lives in Berlin. Our parents are dead. She doesn’t know Maren exists. It’s astonishing. There is a boundary that Eve takes no account of: the idea that a marriage is deeply personal, individual, exclusive. There are boundaries here that I don’t think are blurry. Some people would say it—she—is immoral. Of course, she’s not alone. There is the man, Reinhard.’
‘What do you think? Is the behaviour so wrong?’
‘Well, that’s what I’m uncertain about … Eve loves her daughter, who is very sweet-natured, and pretty. If you saw them, you’d think of a mother-and-child photograph in a magazine. And although it’s unkind, I think that’s how Eve sees the pair of them. When she talks about her daughter, and Reinhard, and her arrangement, she has this little smile on her face as if to say how clever and knowledgeable she is, far more so than me, who, she knows, does not approve of what she has done. All Eve says is, “Where is the harm?” In a way that suggests I’m foolish, naive, a simpleton in the world. She’s sophisticated, lives in cosmopolitan Europe, and this sister she is sitting with, on a bench bathed in winter sunlight, has run away to Australia and does not live even in a city.’
‘I don’t think I understand. Why are you so bothered by this? Is it because she is critical of you and maybe you think there is some truth in what she says?’
‘Well, yes. She does think there is something very wrong with me, and my life. She doesn’t say, “What would you know—you don’t have a child?” but I know that is what she thinks. But I have been pregnant. That of course is not the same; I know that. I’m not that stupid.’
Tinny did not know what to say; he could feel the tension in her.
The nearer they came to the ocean, the louder the sound of the surf. ‘Odd, isn’t it,’ said Tinny, ‘when there’s no wind you’d think the ocean would be flat. This swell could have started a hundred kilometres away, or more.’
‘Like the sources of pleasure and pain—they might not be immediate.’
She saw the look on Tinny’s face. ‘Forgive me. I’m in one of those moods. Shall we walk down to the beach, sit there for a while?’
They turned off on the narrow track through the coastal heath and walked along the beach until they reached a smooth granite outcrop. They sat down, as if by prior arrangement, and stared at the ocean, the power of the waves.
‘Eve sounds like she has a very clear sense of herself. No blurry lines there,’ said Tinny.
‘Yes, I think you’re right. I suppose it’s other people’s boundaries she doesn’t respect, but she is quite insistent on hers—her rights, as she sees them. When I pointed this out to her, she dismissed, quite rudely, my concerns about Katrin and what might happen in the future with the little girls. I told her she was smug, too self-satisfied.’
‘Did that make you feel better?’
/>
‘You think I’m being childish, don’t you? Some silly competitive thing between sisters? It’s true, Eve told me I had little understanding of her desire for a child, her need of a child, nor did I understand the modern family. Maybe she’s right. This is difficult for me to talk about.’
‘Let us stop, then; we don’t have to continue.’
‘I know I’m imposing on you. I won’t need to do this again. I hope.’ She smiled—unconvincingly, he thought. ‘I can remember her exact words. “The world is changing, Greta,” she said. “Even out there in the wilds of Australia. The bush—is that what you call it?” And she raised her eyebrows. “You’ll have to get used to it,” she said. But it’s more than that. I’m trying to work it out. I think it’s that this so-called changing world is not one that I want to get used to; I didn’t agree that Eve’s attitude, and circumstances, were normal or commonplace. You see, I started to make a connection between Eve’s view of her world and all the other things that are going on in the world at large, all the unrest and unhappiness, and it felt like she was saying I’d better get used to that as well. I could not see myself doing that, but then I didn’t know what that meant, practically. Am I making any sense?’
‘I think so. At least, I can see the problem, or problems. But I don’t think I’ve got any answers. Just being is maybe rather like closing your eyes, as a child sometimes does, and the bad stuff disappears. For a moment.’
‘Anyway, I decided I would come back here. There is a simplicity about life in a shed, in the bush, in Australia. But perhaps more than that. It’s something like truth, or maybe authenticity. I don’t think you can describe it as running away. Not exactly. On most days. But I couldn’t just continue as I had before.’
She looked at Tinny and smiled with her eyes. He felt the warmth in her voice, pleased that she would talk to him like this, as if he were a friend, a worthwhile person.
‘I’m not sure what’s happening to me,’ Tinny said, ‘but I do know I’m glad you’re safe, back here again. And, again, I’m sorry that I caused you so much trouble. I really thought it was for the best, of course. I was frightened for you, what he would do, and made it worse …’
Greta glanced away, for a moment. ‘If you hadn’t, he would always be there, always on my mind. And, now, I’m happy to be back here and to have had some time to think, which means something like time for my thoughts to catch up with my feelings. When I was in Germany—and it was mostly through the media—I began to realise in a more personal way what was happening in the world. It looked like everything that I was familiar with, believed in, was collapsing in front of me. I knew then that I couldn’t stay on the sidelines, pretend to be an impassive observer. I’m not sure what that means in terms of actions, but …’ She looked at him and smiled. ‘And it’s good to see you again.’
They sat there in silence, mesmerised by the constant noise and surge of the waves.
‘We should just stay absorbed in this display,’ said Greta, indicating the ocean with a sweep of her hand. ‘But allow me one last word about all this, and then I’ll stop. I promise.’
Tinny smiled and nodded.
‘I think what I’m on about is responsibility—how powerless people, like the masses of men, women and children displaced from their homes by war and famine, are held to be responsible for their actions and circumstances, and yet privileged people who do despicable things—I’m not for a moment saying what Eve, and Reinhard, did was despicable—get away with it, one way or another. I think what I object to—and this probably is childish—is that Eve, educated and secure in her life, could make the world shape up in the way she wanted it to, with no apparent consequences. All this gets tied up and confused with my own circumstances, my past behaviour, the stories of friends who have died or suffered, and I feel a degree of responsibility. And then there’s Clive and his personal anguish, his incapacity to make the world the way he wanted it largely because of an accident—and deception. He’s by no means guiltless, but I can’t see my way through this. Sometimes I think there is a curious symmetry between us, Maia and Marvyn, Clive and myself. Who survived and who died. And I feel I invite certain sorts of destructive behaviour. It’s something within me.’ At the mention of Marvyn, her voice started to break.
Tinny looked away. ‘I don’t know what to say about all that … but, for a moment, thinking about Clive, do you think there is something within him, too, that drives his behaviour, apart from circumstances?’
‘Yes, I do, and I think that, given the opportunity, or necessity, we’re all capable of extreme behaviour. When I was locked up, I could imagine really hurting him, maybe even killing him, if I had to. Away from it all, it sounds shocking.’
‘But that’s circumstances, isn’t it? Not the mysterious within.’ He paused. ‘What will you do now, about your sister?’
‘There’s really nothing I can do, or, probably, should do. What’s done can’t be unravelled, and it’s so hard to predict, anyway, how the girls will grow up, and what their mothers will think of them, and each other. But I do believe that family connections, like who is your father or aunt, shouldn’t be considered secrets.’
Tinny stood up. ‘My bum is going numb on this rock. Shall we head back?’
‘I have never said this before—I’m not sure I’ve ever thought it before in quite this way—but I think about my grandmother and her mother and the war and all that dread-ful history and I wonder if I’m caught up in that somehow. I guess you’d call it guilt. I’ve come all the way to Australia but I’ve not escaped. You might think that’s a very odd thing to say, almost like an excuse, which I’ve railed against.’
‘No, I don’t think it’s odd. And here, too, there is a history which we haven’t escaped. And we scarcely recognise it. So we’ve got a very long way to go. You, at least, have started.’
There was the beginnings of a smile, of gratitude, before Greta once again felt overwhelmed.
Tinny helped her to her feet. ‘Let’s walk,’ he said.
On the way back they did not talk, and Greta was consumed with what she had not mentioned. How her desire to come to Australia had transformed into a necessity. She needed to tell that story. A letter to Eve was where she would begin. It would be a confession, of sorts.
Fifty-seven
In retrospect, it was predictable: Rock’s move to the city had changed the dynamics of the Thompson household. Now, when Greta saw Tinny and Skel, there was an inwardness present that she was sure had not been there previously. There was a quietness about them, as if they were searching for something missing. At one level it was obvious that Rock was that something missing, but it seemed to Greta there was more to it than the absence of a son and brother. There was the possibility that leaving was also an implied criticism of what they stood for. Now, she thought, they lacked a degree of confidence, and exuded at times an air of apology, even despair. She wondered if her presence might help. Not that she could be Rock, merely a third person external to both of them. She knew that the comfort she felt in the company of Tinny and Skel was something that she valued consciously, not to be taken for granted.
She had also begun to believe that Tinny’s connection to the natural world extended further than she had previously thought—into the world of people. This was especially so after their recent discussion. There was a warmth and wisdom behind the often garrulous performance, his flights of fancy. There was a grounded side to him. She suspected his ironic views, although honestly held, were also a form of self-protection.
Fifty-eight
The tragedy, which is how she would now describe Marvyn’s life and (far less significantly) her involvement in it, was that his country could not hold him; in fact, it wouldn’t have him, he had nowhere to go, he was yet another sacrifice—not a he-goat in the tragedies of old, but a man without a home. He told her his granny always said, ‘You never take the shack to town’—but where were you supposed to live if you didn’t? You couldn’t decide to leave ever
ything behind, to go on as if none of it existed, that other world. Greta knew in a small way what it was like to be homeless. But, unlike Marvyn, she could make do. She had a choice. Even in Hamburg she would have survived had she stayed there, in spite of the difficulties. She could have, but decided not to. Instead she would live in a shed on the coast in Australia, with all the strangeness that involved. She told herself it was a strangeness that she embraced, willingly, and would make it part of herself. Marvyn was on the road between the outback and the city when he decided he wanted neither of them. That was tragic. But even here there was a choice, a fall, but he was not powerless. She was insistent on that point. The song he sang was muted, but there nevertheless. It belonged in the sand, the sticks like bones, a brilliant, busy night sky, black and shining in its vastness. Lying there, staring upwards, eyes bright, they had held each other. There was nothing else, nor need there be. In that moment. But after that, and there had to be an afterwards, something other, always. For her, then, it was her work, her research project. And connections with other people. With Oliver, for instance, and the need to explain her absence, not just the physical part of her that had gone away and come back, and gone away. It was the part that had not come back that Oliver had wanted to know about—and she could not answer him. And she would never escape from it.
‘It’s the whole damned lot of them,’ Marvyn had said. Everywhere he looked there was suffering. His little cousin—she’d just had her second baby, got the bonus. The baby was sick and so was she. The kid already fucked on drugs and alcohol. Another one for Granny, but she couldn’t do it, not any longer. And nor could he. Not in the end. Not after Corey. Marvyn had cut him down from a tree.
She had looked at him with pity: ‘I am not your mother.’ Marvyn had walked off and found his way back to his community. He did not look back, not then. Later, those words would haunt her. It was what she had said, in effect, in that other life: I will not be your mother, ever. You will not become a child.
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