Tom hasn’t much to add to what he has already told Jan and my father earlier. The visit seems to be something of an anti-climax; an agreeable morning tea, that’s all. They chat amiably as northern sunshine streams in through the window. It is strange to imagine my parents sitting, talking to Tom about a chain of events that commenced when Rosetta was eighteen years old and Queen Victoria still occupied the throne. In that tidy, contemporary house, with its gleaming white refrigerator, chlorinated swimming pool and ubiquitous TV, it provokes an odd feeling, as if time might be more elastic than one thinks.
Tom serves tea and opens a packet of biscuits. My mother notices that just one item stands out in this unexceptional house. It is the tea cups. They are beautiful, of fine china, a pleasing shape and have an oriental pattern. My mother exclaims, ‘These are exquisite.’
Tom says, ‘Those were your grandmother’s.’
How does she feel? Mum struggles for the right word and settles on ‘unusual’ to sum up the uncommon emotion evoked by holding in her hand something precious that was once pressed against the lips of the grandmother she never knew.
‘I would have liked one of those cups,’ my mother, wistful, said to me years later. But she hadn’t asked, and Tom hadn’t offered, so she remained disappointed. He did, however, send many other things. It was Tom who despatched Lilian’s riding crop, Tom who forwarded the contents of a small child’s suitcase that had remained untouched and overlooked for years in one of the sunny rooms that lay next to that man-made Gold Coast canal. Inside were the rare, century-old letters and telegrams written to Zeno and Rosetta by their crowned and titled friends and clients from both Britain and Europe. But as to who that little case might have originally belonged to, Tom never said.
He did reveal that he knew Rosetta’s granddaughter had married my father. He claimed that it was ‘common knowledge’ between them, that he and Rosetta had been aware of it ‘for years’. By the 1950s Dad was a member of the Parliament of New South Wales. He had a profile, Mum was a beauty and, as a consequence, their photographs were in the papers from time to time. But how did Rosetta become aware that Sybil Jacobs, as my mother was, had married him? How had she found out that Sybil was her daughter, Frances’ child? All of which leads me to ponder just how much about her daughter and her granddaughter Rosetta had really known.
FIFTY-NINE
‘I couldn’t see her. That made no difference. She was a disturbing presence in my life.’
I was talking to a fine woman called Nancy. Both her husband, Hal, and his brother, Col, were dear friends of my father’s for more than half a century. When, near the end of his days, my father’s ill health meant he had to be admitted to a nursing home, Col came not just to visit Dad. He took a razor in his hands and shaved the silver stubble on my father’s cheeks, a rare act of intimacy between men.
Nancy is the only person I have met who also knew Rosetta, the single thread from my life that connects directly to my great-grandmother, though even this strand is flimsy and distinctly strange in type. Indeed, ‘knew’ is probably not the right choice of word to describe their relationship. It could, perhaps, be more properly said that Nancy ‘experienced’ my great-grandmother.
It was my mother who discovered that, in a remarkable coincidence, Nancy lived adjacent to Rosetta’s Murray Street house when she was a girl. Intensely curious, I telephoned her late one afternoon and asked what it was like.
‘She existed somewhere behind us,’ Nancy recalled. ‘I didn’t know who she was, but I couldn’t ignore her; she was too loud, too volatile.
‘Her language could be shocking. I remember the churned-up feeling I’d have in my stomach once she’d start.
‘I don’t remember ever seeing your great-grandmother.
‘She was just a very upsetting voice, a sound.’
Afterwards, thinking over what Nancy said, I imagined it was like dwelling in the shadow of a disembodied phantom whose fearful curses and unholy spells spread alarm each time they floated over the fence and across the lawn.
Sometimes Rosetta is as gay and charming as she used to be. Her house which, in a rare, nostalgic nod to her past and the irresistible charms of Alberto, she has named Donna Rosa, still reflects her refined taste. The furnishings and art are elegant and so is she. But she is increasingly erratic, can surrender to inexplicable, appalling rage.
One night Rosetta and Tom have a fiery argument. ‘Unfaithful, untrustworthy, disloyal!’ she shouts angrily. Accusations fly: Tom might have returned home late, perhaps Rosetta found his stumbling explanations to be inadequate. The following morning he rises early, goes to collect the milk and newspapers. He is a tolerant sort of chap, knows that Rosetta, tempestuous by nature, is becoming eccentric. As Tom walks across the lawn he passes the lavish granite cross, engraved in gold, that Rosetta has had installed above the grave of her champion Pekingese, Chu-Chu, and smiles indulgently.
The matter of Chu-Chu’s demise attracted some small notoriety. Even the Newcastle Herald carried an account. The paper noted the way in which the prize-winning dog lay in state in ‘a pale blue coffin at a Waverley mortuary chapel’ before being interred next to his half-sister, Trinket, on the front lawn of Rosetta’s house. Apparently, she had invited the Archbishop of Sydney, Cardinal Gilroy, to conduct the funeral rites.
The story concluded with the information that ‘… since Chu-Chu’s death, [Mrs Tait] had received more than 100 phone calls and letters from strangers offering her sympathy’.
Then the Herald quoted Rosetta stating, ‘It was just like losing a child. Their condolences were a great comfort to me.’
It was just like losing a child. No, it is not possible. I tell myself that the newspaper must have made a mistake. Rosetta could not have made this statement – it is outrageous. And yet, once more I succumb to doubt. I can’t decide whether she was utterly callous, which renders the sentiment monstrous, or whether, as Freud might speculate, it was but the expression of a long-denied well of pain, hidden deep within the realms of her troubled mind.
Tom wonders not for the first time at the unique woman who is his wife. ‘Ah, Rosetta,’ he thinks, and shakes his head. He breathes deeply of the dewy air but then stops abruptly, his musing at an end. A surge of shocked disbelief comes upon him as he discovers that, where his carefully nurtured rosebushes once stood, there is now a scene of fierce butchery.
Tom sees that, in what must have been a frenzy of revenge, Rosetta has slashed and hacked with savage shears until not a single flower has been left intact. The ground is covered with bruised petals and jagged stems, all that remain after this nocturnal attack. He scoops up some of the damaged blooms before, with a certain rueful resignation, he spreads his fingers and lets them slowly fall from his hand.
Rosetta’s tempests escalate. When she becomes ill, it is not hard for Tom to locate a facility that will accept her. But it is impossible to find one in which she can stay. Rosetta is too difficult, demands too much attention. Finally, she is admitted to a nursing home attached to St Vincent’s Hospital in Darlinghurst. Not long afterwards Tom receives a phone call from one of the staff. The caller is polite but firm. ‘Mr Tait, we would appreciate it if you could kindly take Mrs Tait home.’ She is too trying even for the inexhaustible patience of the Sisters of Charity.
The Restorium Private Hospital in Sir Thomas Mitchell Road at Bondi will be Rosetta’s last residence. The old hospital is not there anymore. It has been replaced by a modern, blond-brick block of flats. In an effort to evade the thumping beat of the rap music pouring from the top floor, I escape to the small park below, to sit beneath a sycamore and think.
I consider a book that I read only recently, in which the author, Elena Ferrante, wrote of a woman who ‘knew how to go beyond the limit without ever really suffering the consequences’. At the time I found these words uncanny, felt that the author could have been describing my great-grandmother. Now, this certainty has faded. I find myself wondering if, at the end, Rosetta was consumed
, depressed, dismayed by what she had done. Maybe a lifetime of repression and unacknowledged love and hate and guilt had exerted a final, dreadful penalty. Those with a more mystical inclination – a Madame Stern comes to mind – might call it ‘the torment of the damned’.
But perhaps all this rumination is but a fruitless search for meaning, a doomed attempt to comprehend this most complex of women. I suspect I am once more endeavouring to make sense of something where there is no sense to be made. Being in such close proximity to the place where Rosetta drew her last breath seems to have unbalanced me, so I stand up and turn away.
Later, I seek out my psychiatrist friend again. Robert provides a more detached, medical point of view, reminding me that many people become chaotic, even violent during their advancing years. ‘It can be because of senility, Alzheimer’s, schizophrenia or disease,’ he says as he takes off his glasses and polishes them. ‘As to your great-grandmother’s disturbed state of mind; that remains open to interpretation.’
Robert concludes that, in her absence, no one can ever be certain of what demons drove Rosetta to act in the manner that she did. (Now that I recall this conversation, he might have said ‘factors’ rather than ‘demons’ – I rather think the latter word is mine.)
The date is 28 July 1958, a cold, mid-winter day. Rosetta is very ill. She lies in one of the Restorium’s beds, not far from where the splendid fantasy that was Wonderland once stood. As she slips in and out of consciousness, she dreams about the Imperial Menagerie of Wild Beasts and the Palace of Illusions, about Alice the elephant and of the way that once she danced with an almond-eyed sorcerer in the moonlight by the sea.
In less than a week I will turn five. Somehow, I can already read, though I don’t know how I acquired this precious skill; it seemed to descend upon me as if by magic. Rather disappointingly, save for the initial thrill whereby marks upon a page turned into words with meaning, this pastime has not proven as diverting as I’d hoped. So far, the only books I have had access to are my elder brother’s, the kind where Sue and Peter throw the ball to Spot the dog. Today promises something much more than that. Joining the mobile library is a sort of early birthday present, a mark of my transition from being a little child at home to one who is about to start school.
My small arm shoots up at an angle so that my mother can keep hold of my hand in her own. My legs are small as well. I struggle to keep up with her as she walks away from our house in Pleasant Avenue, East Lindfield, and up the hill. I try to match my mother’s far wider strides by executing a kind of half-skipping hop, to no avail. No matter how far I stretch my limbs and flatten out my scabby knees I realise that I will never be in step with Mum.
As I trot jerkily along I am vaguely aware of houses with neat front gardens, letterboxes and painted fences. They pass me by in a suburban blur but mostly I keep my eyes down, focusing on my black lace-up shoes, their shuffle.
By the time I arrive at the asphalt strip in front of the scatter of local shops, the combination of anticipation and exertion has made me light-headed. Perhaps that is why the large green truck with the caravan attached seems so enchanting. In the middle of this metal wagon is an open door and descending from that door is a retractable set of painted steps. I don’t know where they lead but I sense there might be treasure there.
A moment later Mum and I are inside a room of wonders. I look around and there are books everywhere – fat and thin volumes stand in enticing lines, books of different colours from red to green and blue and gold, all with writing down the spines, all waiting for discovery.
I look up at Mum and smile. She smiles back. I have entered her realm now and we are fellow travellers. It is her gift to me.
That night, Rosetta lies in Tom’s arms and sighs as she departs this world for the next.
SIXTY
30 JULY 1958
In death, Rosetta has left behind another version of herself, shed it as easily, as naturally as a snake sheds its unneeded skin. Her Catholic faith has been set aside and, after many years, she reverts to the religion of her convict grandfather, Abraham Rheuben. Rosetta has declared herself Jewish once again. Yet even now, when she is cold and still, she challenges convention. Her final rebellion is against the ancient rituals of death that have existed for a millennium.
Rosetta’s funeral is held just two days after she has passed away. Until that time, her body is never left alone. The Jewish burial society, the Chevra Kadisha, ensures that a shomer, or watcher, does not leave her side. The shomer is not there to observe; he is her guardian. He neither eats nor drinks but spends his time reciting psalms. It is important. In earlier times it was believed that death released ghosts from their unearthly realm: the watcher’s holy recitations protected the departed against the evil that these unruly spirits might unleash. But what would Sir Oliver Lodge believe, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle or Princess Charlotte? Would they think the spirits could be so easily vanquished?
It doesn’t matter who you are, Jewish funerals are all the same. There is a unique equality in death. The Book of Proverbs says it is in this state that ‘The rich and the poor meet together’: whether wealthy or impoverished, of high station or low, untainted or sinful, all must be treated equally before God. In accordance with this requirement, after Rosetta’s body has been bathed it is wrapped in a simple linen cloth; white, for purity. There are no pockets in her shroud, for unlike the ancient Egyptians, who filled their burial chambers with golden plate and jewels and fruit and grain, no material possessions are permitted to accompany the dead on their final journey to another realm.
But not all traditions are observed; there is one last act of defiance. ‘For dust thou art and unto dust shalt thou return’ is a holy command contained within the Book of Genesis. It is for this reason that Jews are interred in boxes of plain pine. Metal is forbidden; even the coffin’s handles must be made of rope. The Rabbinical authorities claim that observance of these strictures ensures ‘the soul rises to God, but the physical shelter, the … elements that clothe the soul, sink into the vast reservoir of nature’.
Rosetta didn’t care what either God or his rabbis might decree. She would not be despoiled by those small creatures that live beneath the earth. Somehow, contrary to every tenet of the faith, she persuaded the Chief Rabbi of Sydney, Dr Israel Porush, to intervene. Rosetta had her way; he gave his consent.
Now Rosetta’s body rests in a lead-lined coffin of polished wood. It is unheard of. The casket is so heavy that ten pallbearers are needed to carry it, and still they stagger beneath its weight.
When my father was a little boy and living in Enmore, his parents made certain that he regularly attended the Newtown Synagogue Sunday School. He must have managed to suppress his natural exuberance, for I am holding The Authorised Daily Prayer Book in my hands that he was awarded in 1920 at the age of eight. Produced by His Majesty’s Printers, Eyre and Spottiswoode of London, it was the Conduct Prize.
It is in this near century-old black book that I turn to ‘The Burial Service’ and find the same words that would have been spoken at Rosetta’s funeral. This takes place in an unadorned red-brick chapel abutting the main thoroughfare of Oxford Street in the Sydney suburb of Woollahra.
It is a locality filled with memories. The building is directly opposite the broad lawns of Centennial Park, that same park where, in the year following the birth of Rosetta’s only child, the Federation of Australia was declared by the Governor-General Lord Hopetoun. Nearby stands the terrace house in which Rosetta lived during the years that Zeno the Magnificent performed his spell-binding feats at Mr Anderson’s Wonderland City and, further down Oxford Street, is Paddington Town Hall, the place he went to find succour for his unquiet mind and troubled soul.
Forty, perhaps fifty people come to pay Rosetta their respects. Her brother and his wife, her sisters, their husbands and their children, all in black dresses, suits, coats and hats, attend. But not her own child, not her granddaughter or great-grandchildren. We remain unenlightened.<
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Reverend David Krass of The Great Synagogue officiates. A bearded bear of a man, he has recited the necessary holy words in his sonorous, Russian-accented voice many, many times, yet they never fail to elicit his compassion. The Reverend composes himself, then intones, ‘As for man, his days are as grass; as the flower of the field, so he flourisheth. For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no more.
‘O Lord, who art full of compassion, who dwellest on high – God of forgiveness, who art merciful, slow to anger and abounding in loving kindness, grant pardon of transgressions, nearness of salvation, and perfect rest …’
The service is brief. Afterwards, mourners shake hands or embrace. They wish one another, as is customary at Jewish funerals, ‘a long life’. Florence and her sisters weep and wipe their eyes. Rosetta, clever and determined, vibrant and resolute: she was the eldest, always daring and different. What will they do without her now?
Tom is lost in thought. He has spent more than a decade with Rosetta, yet never fathomed the secrets she carried in her heart. They were known only by one mesmerising man with a haunting, low voice, coal-black hair and panther eyes. Tom is an easy going sort of chap and philosophical about her loss. Rosetta, always a challenging woman, has in her last years presented him with many difficulties. Some part of him must surely feel relief.
He is only forty-four. Should he wish to do so, there is ample time for him to marry once more.
‘Come on, come with me,’ says Florence. She takes Tom’s arm, turns towards the funeral car, which waits behind the hearse. There are no flowers lying on Rosetta’s casket to mitigate or soften the harsh fact of her demise. There is no sense of celebration; this is not Judaism’s way in which to mark a death.
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