Take It Easy

by Pat Rosier

  ‘So am I.’ Andrew picked up the coffee tray, then put it down again and hugged her. ‘I didn’t know I was missing you, but maybe I was,’ he said, and turned back for the tray.

  She really, really wanted to sleep, the day ahead would start early and finish late, but her head was buzzing with the past. The books she’d read in the years following the Convention, the lesbian groups and places she’d eventually had the courage to join in with, the political actions, rallies, marches, meetings. The ideas she’d embraced, the compromises she’d made at work, the challenges she’d had to answer for staying in the system, the women she had loved, then not, in the years before Iris, the friends — always the friends. And the hopes, the hopes for a better world, fair pay, an end to domestic violence, equal access to everything from education to good health care for women all around the world.

  Above all the belief for a while that – together – they could make it happen. Sisterhood was powerful. Then stumbling over that ‘together,’ the cracks in sisterhood opening, as differences of identity and ideology, challenges and confrontations from women excluded by the limits of their vision increasingly demonstrated that women’s liberation was a many-headed hydra. ‘Monstrous in a positive sense,’ she would say when she used the hydra image, ‘rising up against injustice, fierce, indestructible …….’

  Isobel’s personal, private transgression against the mores of patriarchy, her violation of two of its keystones— those of mother and wife —gave her a sense of entitlement; accusations of white middle-class feminism, did not offend her or turn her away, as they did some. They made her think, and read, and take more chances, speak out more often, but not change her path. She saw herself as pushing from the inside, through committees and reports and submissions and meeting agendas, while others pulled from the radical front.

  Her path, a quiet but progressing career in the public service, she had decided at some time was modest and necessary. Modest because she knew herself as competent rather than ambitious, smart rather than brilliant, a steadily-burning flame, rather than one that flared. Necessary because to have stepped, or even fallen, from that path would have somehow betrayed her earlier decision. Subsumed in the rejection of wife and mother was independent working woman; together they made the soil from which for her lesbian, feminist, radical lesbian feminist grew, watered by the times she was living in. She doubted such ideas would have occurred to her unaided. Her over-riding memories of those years were clothed in hope.

  It was harder to be hopeful in this year of the new millennium when being a lesbian was a lifestyle choice, not a political alternative to heterosexuality. (No one, not even Alex Dobkin would write a song proclaiming ‘every woman can be a lesbian’ now.) Quee’ and gay had become preferred words. Gay marriage was on the political agenda. No-one talked about marriage as an institution for the oppression of women any more. You saw men in supermarkets with young children now. Often.

  She must have gone to sleep eventually, because she woke at six-thirty, aware that someone, presumably Andrew, was moving around the flat. She eased herself out of bed, wondering if he had crept in and turned the heater on, or she had forgotten to turn it off when she went to bed. Whichever, she was grateful for the warmth. Picking up the towel Andrew had left out for her she went in search of the shower. He was sitting on a stool at the kitchen server with the morning paper.

  ‘Good morning.' Very cheerfully.

  ‘Hello.’ She held up the towel, looking her question and he gestured to the bathroom behind him. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Not really. The trouble with cranking up memories, is that they take a while to settle down again.’

  ‘Oops, sorry. Except I’m not, not really, that we, you know, talked like we did.’

  ‘Neither am I. Truly. I’ll probably sleep on the plane.’ When she came out of the shower, coffee was made and she could smell warming croissants.

  ‘Do you usually get up this early?’ she asked.

  ‘No, but I’ve quite decided to take you to the airport.’

  ‘What can I say? It would be churlish … thank you. I’ll get dressed, won’t take me a minute.' He’s so nice she thought, so relaxed and charming. And it would have been rude to insist on a taxi, but she was too tired for more revelations. Driving to the airport, in moderate traffic just prior to rush hour, the morning grey, he said, again, how pleased he was she had come. ‘Mum and Dad are great, always have been, are fine about me being gay …’

  And there’s a “but” in there ….’ Whoops! She hoped he didn’t think she was inviting criticism.

  ‘Perceptive!’ He smiled briefly in her direction. ‘It’s a subtle “but”,’ he said, ‘They’ve always welcomed anyone I’ve been with — but — the best way I can put it — is that I think they see me as having a lifestyle rather than a life. Which is fine. Sort of. If that makes sense.’

  ‘It makes sense. Like some of my colleagues. I’ve never found a way to …’

  ‘I don’t try. It’s just them. Some of the stories my friends tell ….’

  ‘Uh huh, I’ve heard some frightful family experiences, from both women and men. Psychiatric treatment, the works.’

  The rest of their conversation was desultory. Once on the plane Isobel was asleep before take-off and got two good hours.

  ~~~

  Chapter 21

  ‘Hello Chris.' He looked small surrounded by hospital paraphernalia.

  ‘Isobel!’ The hand he held out grasped hers tightly while she sat on one of two chairs by the bed. Isobel had taxi’ed, still careless of expense, to the hotel once she she’d accepted disbelievingly that Iris was not going to meet her at the airport. She had waited, sure that Iris would come, until everyone else from her flight had left the baggage claim area. Then she’d gone in search of a taxi, given the address of the hotel, and ignored the driver’s attempts at conversation. She could not recall any other time when one of them had flown into where the other was without being met. When she had checked in and showered again she walked the short distance to the hospital in a cold, blustery, unpleasant Melbourne afternoon; it had been raining and seemed that it would again.

  ‘It’s gratifying that you’re pleased to see me.’ His grip on her hand and warm smile left no doubt. ‘And I’m pleased to see you. How are you?’

  ‘All right, I think. Medicated to the hilt. No further operations needed … “young and strong,” and “nearly out of the woods,”’ he quote,. ‘I have a doctor who’s working on his bedside manner.' After a glance over her shoulder at the door, he said, ‘Isobel, I need your help. It’s Mum, can you …?’

  ‘Here we are!’ Iris was well into the room before she noticed Isobel. A quick recovery Isobel thought, as her partner gave her a hug and pecked her on the cheek, not meeting her eye. She’d forgotten I was coming, Isobel thought, at least for the moment. Eleni stood in the doorway looking wan and tired.

  ‘Hello.’ Isobel took a step towards the younger woman and hesitated. ‘Hello,’ she said in a small voice and held out a hand for shaking. Not likely, thought Isobel, this is no time for politesse, and she grasped the hand and pulled Eleni into the room, hugging her briefly as she guided her to the chair she’d been occupying herself. Chris and Eleni watched Isobel. Iris was busily not looking at anyone, putting items away in a drawer and a cupboard, straightening the bed-cover, looking at the chart at the end of the bed, all the while talking to Chris and Isobel both, asking questions without waiting for answers.

  ‘Was lunch better today? They didn’t have the heads for your razor so we bought another one … Did you have a good flight? It’s awful out, and the last few days have been lovely … You really didn’t need to come, you know … Where did they put that magazine I brought you this morning …?’

  Chris’s eyes were pleading. Eleni was looking at her hands.

  ‘Iris.’ Isobel picked up her handbag, and Iris’s. ‘Come on, come and have a cup of tea with me.’

  ‘Eleni and I have just had lu
… .’

  ‘Mum.’ Iris’s eyes swung around to her son. ‘Go on,’ he said, ‘Isobel’s just got here.’ Isobel watched Iris watch Chris’s hand go out and grasp Eleni’s. ‘Go on Mum,’ he said again.

  ‘Don’t say anything!’ Iris commanded when they were in the corridor, ‘until we’re sitting down in what passes for a café in this place.’ But she did put her arm around Isobel for a moment as they walked.

  Iris was slowly stirring her tea, watching the spoon making small waves in the cup. There’s no point in beating about the bush, Isobel thought and said,

  ‘What’s going on, Iris?’

  Iris launched into a string of complaints about the hospital.

  ‘Stop it! That’s not what I mean. What’s going on with you?’

  ‘I’m looking after my son, that’s what’s going on. And don’t think you’re going to stop me, I know what it means to be a mother ….' Apparently she had forgotten what she’d said a few days ago about accepting that Chris was grown up and didn’t need a mother any more.

  ‘And I don’t.’ O god, thought Isobel, let me get this right, and went on, ‘but never mind about that. Do you want to know what Chris said to me?’ Iris nodded, looking up momentarily. ‘He asked me for my help. He said it was you ….’

  ‘He knows how this has affected me! How I should never have gone home!’ The last was definitely accusatory.

  ‘No. Iris, he was asking me to take you away.’

  Iris jumped up, eyes blazing.

  ‘He did not! He wouldn’t! Let me go!’ Isobel was holding her partner’s wrist.

  ‘Not until you sit down.’ She didn’t care who was watching, or what they thought.

  Iris went limp and sat. ‘What exactly did he say?’

  ‘He said, “Isobel, help me, it’s Mum, can you …” and then you came in.’

  ‘He might have been going to say could you look after me.’

  ‘He might. And I will. But you have to come to the hotel with me.’

  ‘Not Shirley’s?’

  ‘No. She doesn’t know I’m here, yet.’ And she might encourage you. ‘A hotel five minutes — less even — walk from here.’ She stopped herself from saying that Eleni looked dreadful, exhausted, likely needing a break from her hyperactive almost-mother-in-law.

  ‘Let’s shift your things from Eleni’s, get something to eat, talk, or see a movie if you don’t want to talk.’

  ‘A movie! Don’t be ridiculous! Chris will wonder where I am ….’

  ‘We’ll go and tell him.’ Isobel stood. She took Iris’s hand, gently pulled her to her feet and kept holding it as they made their way back along the corridor, up two flights of steps, and along another corridor to Chris’s room. When they went in he held a finger to his lips. Eleni’s head was resting on his unbroken arm and she was asleep.

  Iris whispered what they planned to do. It was clear from his face and nods that he was very happy for them to do it. Isobel, watching Iris monitoring his expression, saw her partner’s chin wobble. Iris kissed Chris’s forehead from the other side, Isobel waved from the door and hoped Iris had not seen his grateful look.

  Iris didn’t want to talk, except about the animals and their friends and various work arrangements, so they found a movie-house and sat through something neither of them subsequently remembered the name of, then went back to the hotel.

  ‘A bath!’ said Iris. She stayed in it for ages. In different circumstances Isobel would have offered to wash her back, they might have both ended up naked, soaped and rinsed, back in bed …. Instead, she called out, ‘I’m exhausted love, my body clock thinks its one in the morning and I’ve been up since six, I may well be asleep when you get out of there. Don’t turn into a prune!’

  ‘I won’t. Goodnight, then.’ And if she gets dressed and goes back to the hospital, so be it, Isobel thought. Later, how much later she had no idea, she was aware of Iris getting into bed.

  Full consciousness returned sometime between the dark of night and the light of day and she was alone in the bed. A small movement located Iris in a chair by the window, looking out through a small gap in the curtains and she sat up, holding the covers to her chest.

  ‘I’ve been watching the stars fade,’ Iris said. Then, ‘why are you writing that bloody diary? And don’t ignore the question again.’ It took Isobel a moment to figure what she was talking about. Before she could answer, Iris swung around in her chair and said, again, ‘Why are you writing in that fucking diary? Tell me, for god’s sake!’

  ‘Because …,’ Isobel couldn’t for the life of her come up with a reason. ‘Because …,’ she started again …

  ‘Yes, I got that! Because …’

  ‘I’ve been trying to work some things out, some things about myself, and it seemed to help.’ She sounded feeble even to herself.

  ‘And you couldn’t talk about these “things”, these so-private things that you scribble away at them then snap! it’s all locked away in your briefcase safe from the prying eyes of your partner — your partner!’ The light wasn’t good enough to see for sure, but it sounded as though Iris was crying.

  ‘It wasn’t like that. You said you didn’t mind.’

  ‘Of course I minded! Scribble, scribble, scribble, sigh, more scribble. And if I like I can read it at the end, maybe. Huh!’

  ‘Iris, it wasn’t like that!’

  ‘It was to me. And now your talking as though it — whatever it is, is finished. Is it?

  ‘I don’t know. Well, yes, actually I think it is, I haven’t wanted to write in it for ages. Well, it seems like ages. It’s on the shelf at home.’

  ‘Well, that’s good because if you got it out here I was going to throw it out the window.’

  ‘This place is air-conditioned I don’t think the windows …’

  ‘Stop it! Stop it! Stop being so fucking sensible! You shut me out! Then when Chris — you went “oops! I’d better check out those sons I’ve ignored for fifteen years in case they have an accident and die — and then you had the gall to do poor-me-what-have-I-done-help-me-understand when I got mad!’ Now Iris was pacing up and down the room, tossing her words at the bed, where Isobel was gripping the bedcovers against her so she wouldn’t pull them right over her head.

  ‘Look, Iris…,’ she began, and stopped, hating her own pleading tone. ‘Dammit!’ she started again. ‘I feel like “poor-me-what-have-I done-help-me-understand” right now! I didn’t know you hated me writing in the diary. You could have talked about it!’

  ‘I didn’t want to have to!’ came back at her right away, ‘I wanted you to know.’

  ‘So now I’m supposed to be able to read your mind?’

  ‘Only sometimes and this was definitely one of the times!’ Iris finally stopped pacing and slumped onto the end of the bed. Neither of them spoke for a few moments, then Iris went on, ‘I’m a bit unhinged by this business with Chris, especially this second scare,’ she admitted, and held up a hand to stop Isobel responding, ‘and don’t agree with me out loud, right? And I didn’t really know myself that I hated the diary thing until, well not until after the accident anyway. But I did and I do and I’m angry with myself for not knowing and you for not noticing and the hospital for being incompetent about Chris’s medication and … other things.’ Eleni for being there, thought Isobel. ‘And I have to work it out myself, so can we please not talk about it any more for now and go and get some breakfast.'

  Just like I have to work my stuff out for myself. Isobel didn’t say it out loud. Breakfast in the very ordinary hotel dining room felt like breakfast with an acquaintance she’d run into in the street. As they were finishing Isobel said, ‘I’m going to ring Shirley and see if I can meet up with her today, will you come?’

  ‘No.’ The response came back right away. ‘I want to be at the hospital for doctor’s rounds’ … her voice tailed off, then she said, ‘Yes, maybe I will, if it can be later this morning or this afternoon. Chris and Eleni might like some time to themselves.’ So Eleni was
n’t working today.

  Isobel, looking away in case she was smiling outwardly, missed the lift of her partner’s eyebrows as she spoke.

  It sounded to Isobel, on the phone back in their hotel room, as though Shirley was hurt that she had not been told about this second trip to Melbourne. She suggested meeting her and Iris for a late lunch, about two, at a bakery-café not far from the hospital that made sour cherry pastries to die for. Iris had gone from the dining room directly to the hospital, Isobel thought she’d take her time. Browsing around the souvenir shop at the hotel entrance, she came across a few fluffy kiwis on a stand of souvenirs from ‘our Pacific neighbours’ along with coconut-shell key rings, Hawaiian dolls and plastic palm trees. She bought two kiwis.

  When she arrived at Chris’s hospital room he was telling his mother that Eleni’s parents were coming to visit later for the first time. His nervousness showed. ‘Would you and Isobel like to …?’ he was saying. Isobel waited in the doorway, not certain whether Iris had noticed her or not. Chris had.

  ‘No,’ said Iris, ‘your lesbian mother and her partner is a complication you don’t need right now. Is that right Eleni?’

  ‘Um, of course, if you want to meet them …,’ The younger woman could hardly have been less convincing.

  ‘I do want to meet your parents while I'm here,’ Iris said, with the warmest smile Isobel had seen her give Eleni, ‘but perhaps not this afternoon. Oh, hello,’ as she saw Isobel. 'You'll have heard that.'

  ‘Yes, shall we make do with my sister?’ and she produced the two kiwis and gave one each to Chris and Eleni. ‘To remind you of home,’ she said to Chris, and, ‘to encourage you to come and visit,’ to Eleni and the conversation moved on to places Chris wanted to show his partner punctuated by do you remembers from Iris and Isobel. When Eleni got up to go, explaining she had to call in at her work and would be back before her parents were due, Iris got up and said she’d walk to the car park with her.