by Liz Byrski
‘But what’s wrong with me?’ she began, struggling briefly against tears. ‘How can I love him passionately but then be prepared to let it all go? What about all those great romantic liaisons? That actress Juliette Drouet, she waited fifteen years for, um … Who was it? Well, whoever it was, she wrote him seventeen thousand letters and he never left his wife.’
‘It was Victor Hugo, and I think it was twelve years, and look what happened to her. If I remember my history correctly, Hugo removed her from a very active social and professional life, set her up in a small apartment and virtually forbade her to have any sort of social connection. She submerged her identity into a creative man. The great love stories of the past, Robin, often have a very dark side for the women. But then you don’t need a Catholic priest giving you the feminist analysis – you already know that.’
Robin swallowed her whisky. ‘I can’t actually believe that I’m talking to a priest about all this anyway,’ she said, getting up to pace back and forth across the room. ‘No offence, Father, my apostasy goes back a long way and I’m known for keeping my cards close to my chest.’
‘Well, your cards are safe with me. Coincidence has brought us together. Perhaps it helps that I know Jim. He’s a good man. You’re both good people caught in a timeless and rather tragic situation, but you decided, wisely it seems to me, that if Jim wouldn’t or couldn’t put you first, you’d put yourself first. A decision of integrity and some strength and not without its difficulties. You’re not a Juliette Drouet, Robin, you’re an independent woman and this is a different world. You’re a successful lawyer, you’ve struggled to get to this stage of life – why would you be prepared to disappear into purdah and write seventeen thousand letters, or emails, or whatever lovers do these days?’
Robin laughed and blew her nose. ‘How come you know so much about love?’
‘You think because I’m a priest I’ve never been in love? My dear Robin, falling in love with all the wrong people at all the wrong times has been the story of my life. Without it I might well be a bishop myself instead of His Grace’s troubleshooter who’s too big a risk to be left alone in any particular parish.’ He picked up the empty glasses and slipped the silver flask of whisky back into the pocket of his jacket. ‘Time for bed, I think. Sleep, like prayer, is wonderfully soothing to the savage breast.’
Four days later Robin stood on the opposite side of the road looking at the bookshop through half-closed eyes. What was it worth? Was it freehold or a lease? Was that storage space on the first floor, or maybe accommodation? She opened her eyes fully and took a deep breath. She would never find out standing here.
‘Well, hello there, you’re back again,’ said the woman as Robin walked into the shop. ‘How’re you enjoying Enduring Love?’ She put down the armload of books she had been passing two at a time to a tall, thickset man perched at the top of a ladder.
‘Actually, I haven’t had a chance to start it yet,’ Robin admitted. ‘I’ve had rather a lot on my mind.’
The woman nodded. ‘So, can I find something for you or are you just browsing?’
‘As a matter of fact, I came to talk to you about the shop,’ Robin said.
The woman raised her eyebrows. ‘The shop?’
‘You mentioned that you were considering selling it?’
‘Well, yes,’ she said, glancing up at the man on the ladder. ‘Not just considering, we’re definite about it. It’s really a matter of when we do it.’
Robin paused, swallowing hard, her heart beating fast with the excitement she was trying to contain. ‘I might be interested in buying – depending, of course, on all sorts of things … I don’t even know what you have in mind. I wondered if we could discuss it, or perhaps you’d prefer me to go to your agent?’
‘We don’t have an agent yet,’ the man said, coming down the ladder. ‘I’m David Tranter. I see you’ve already met my wife, Sue.’
‘Robin Percy,’ she said, shaking hands with them both. ‘I hope I haven’t come at a difficult time but I’m not here for long.’
‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘It’s fine, absolutely.’
They stood, the three of them, awkward for a moment in the silent shop, not sure what to do next.
‘Why don’t I put the kettle on and you can ask us what you want to know,’ Sue said, and she hurried off to the back of the shop.
David Tranter wiped his hands on a soft duster. ‘Good idea. We’ve had the place valued of course, Robin. There’s the shop and an apartment upstairs. The accountant has all the books ready for inspection. It’s just as Sue said, we’ve been debating about the best time to sell. Anyway, come and see the rest of the place. Are you in the book business yourself?’
Dorothy was shelving biscuits when Robin called in at the shop on her way back to the cottage. She straightened up, one arm full of Tim Tams. ‘The wanderer returns. How was your trip?’
‘Good,’ Robin smiled. ‘Very good, thanks. How many Tim Tams are there in a packet?’
‘No idea, dear, I only sell the things.’
‘The answer is: not enough.’ Robin grinned.
‘Well, you’re clearly in good form and you’re looking very perky. There’s quite a bit of mail for you. Maurice has adopted us. I think he got lonely – he’s spent a lot of time down here.’
Robin smiled. Thanks, Dorothy. I’ll just pick up some bread and fruit and then I’ll get the mail. You remember the cards, the reading you did?’
Dorothy nodded as she continued stacking biscuits.
‘When you were talking about the future?’
‘I don’t predict the future, Robin, I just tell you what I see in the cards.’
‘I know, I know. But there was something to do with my work, do you remember? Something you said about seeing words on paper being important?’
‘I remember. And you said it must be about you having started a journal.’
‘Yes, but could it be about books, do you think? About working with books?’
‘You have to be the judge of that, Robin. The journal was your interpretation, but if you feel it means something different, well, that’s what it is with the cards, really – whatever you choose to make of it.’
Robin looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Yes, well, that’s good, that’s what I thought – that, and the part about making an important decision.’
‘And the chance encounter –’ Dorothy said.
‘Yes!’ Robin cut in. ‘You were quite right about that.’
‘I know, Pemberton. You ran in to an old friend in Pemberton last Friday.’
Robin’s jaw dropped. ‘How did you know that?’
Dorothy laughed. ‘Don’t look so shocked, he came here looking for you. Nice chap, very handsome. Monday, I think it was. Said he’d bumped into you in Pemberton and there hadn’t been time to talk, and now he was on his way back to Perth with friends. They wanted to go to a winery for lunch but he wasn’t keen so he popped over here to see you. Couldn’t stop long, he said, because they all had to get back to Perth that night. I was surprised, really, because I thought you’d not told anyone where you were. But I suppose you must have told him when you met him. Anyway, he said he’d try again some other time.’
Robin stood motionless for a moment. ‘I see,’ she said eventually. ‘No, I didn’t tell him where I was. Someone else must’ve done that.’
She wandered around the shop in a daze, picking things up and putting them down again, unable to think straight, until she managed to organise a few apples, a loaf of bread, some milk and half a dozen eggs. She put the shopping in the car and unlocked her mailbox. There was a package from the office, cards from Grace and Sally, and a letter from her mother. At least there wasn’t a letter from Jim, but how had he found out where she was? She was sure Father Pat wouldn’t have broken his promise, and it certainly wouldn’t have been Josie or Dawn. Grace and the others were all away. Jim must have found out that she had a post office box here and then just taken a chance that in such a small place
he’d be able to locate her. Her confusion turned to anger. It must have been the office, and she had specifically told them that the address was confidential.
Dragging the shopping out of the car she ran up the verandah steps and dumped it by the door with the mail, but as she turned to go back for her bag she saw a narrow white envelope tucked between the door and the jamb. She pulled it out, her anger mounting. In the top right-hand corner was the address of the judges’ chambers. So he had not only found the place, he had found the house – he had been here. Had she come straight home from Pemberton he would have walked in on her, a flying visit while Monica had lunch a few kilometres away. Once again he had slotted her in between his other commitments. Now, even though it was obviously over, he was still calling the shots, turning up on the doorstep when it suited him, ignoring her request not to contact her. For so long she had accepted the inequities of their situation: he could call her at home, she could not call him; his family and his work agenda came first, then she was fitted in between social commitments, golf, the health club. He had been the focal point of her life but she had been peripheral to his. Suddenly the fire of her anger was smothered under a pall of depression. She dropped the envelope, unopened, on top of the other mail and went slowly back to the car for her bag. If ever she needed a reminder that she had done the right thing, she would only have to remember this moment. Without Isabel and Sally to act as a catalyst, she might have gone on for years, always thinking that her life with Jim was just around the next corner, and always being disappointed.
She dialled the office, needing to take her anger out on someone. But the receptionist assured her that she didn’t even have the post office box address. Mr Seaborn, she said, was the only person who knew how to contact her. Alec Seaborn was an old friend and the senior partner in the practice. They had known each other for almost twenty-five years and it was with his encouragement that Robin had migrated to Australia. She apologised to the receptionist and asked to be put through to Alec, whose obvious delight at her call fell on stony ground. No, she assured him, she wasn’t ready to come back to the real world; she just wanted to know why he had given her address to Justice McEwan’s office. But he had not. The address – location, even – had not been given to anyone; indeed, no one had asked for it.
Robin apologised again and they talked briefly about cases and the opinions Alec had sent her. He tried hard to get her to specify when she would be back and her resistance made him suspicious. ‘Are you planning to come back at all – ever?’ he asked suddenly, and she paused just a little too long. ‘Look,’ he cut into the silence, ‘please don’t make any final decisions yet. Let’s talk about it. I’ll come down there, or meet you halfway, whatever you like. We need to discuss this face to face.’
‘I want a couple more weeks,’ she said, pulling out her diary ‘How about next month – December? The week beginning the fifteenth, or do you want to wait until after Christmas?’
He didn’t want to wait. They arranged to meet for lunch in Bunbury on the eighteenth. ‘Don’t make any decisions yet,’ he said again. And she didn’t mention that one major decision had already been made.
The late afternoon sun cast a mellow light in the lounge, and she opened the glass doors to the verandah and lay down on the couch. Maurice leapt up effortlessly alongside her, settling immediately at her feet. As she leaned over to stroke him a lump rose in her throat. She now saw not just that it was over with Jim, but how hard it had always been; how she had forced herself to rise above the hurt and resentment, to pretend that she could handle it. Not until those last days had she actually asked him to leave, but he had promised it constantly and she had colluded in his rationalisation that the time wasn’t quite right. She had felt magnanimous in not pressuring him, enjoyed occupying the high moral ground of forbearance, especially as she had always assumed that, in the end, he would do as he had promised. She wondered briefly if Monica had been playing the same game. So many people seemed to have known. Had Monica also known but decided to stay silent, refusing to acknowledge the situation because it would force a confrontation?
Robin stared at the unopened envelope now propped on the dresser. What to do? Jim had told Dorothy he would be back, but Robin reasoned it was unlikely that he could set aside the minimum of a full day needed to make the round trip for at least a couple of weeks. She had time to think. Write? Email? Calling him was out of the question, as was seeing him face to face. She wished Isabel was there to talk to. She would even have called Grace had she still been in Perth. As it was she lay alone, watching the sun set and occasionally staring at the envelope, wondering whether she would open it.
It was after ten when she woke, shivering, for she had left the doors open and the nights were still cool by the sea. She closed the doors, made tea, had a hot shower and went to bed, reminding herself that it was the end of November and she needed to begin her Christmas letter. Next morning, when she got back from her run, she sat down at the table and started to write.
Isabel, Grace, Sally – my dear, dear friends
Why are you so far away? I need you here. Life is confusing me at the moment, or maybe I am just confusing myself How I miss being able to talk through my latest crimes and misdemeanours. I feel if I could do so it would all start to make sense. Then I wonder if absence is important for this reason alone – the experience of working out difficult stuff without one’s most trusted friends. As you said, Isabel, it’s tough having to be so grown up! Don’t expect this letter to sound logical or organised (hold your breath, Grace, and count to ten!!). Logic has drifted out to sea, organisation eludes me, but the first thing I should tell you is that I am planning to sell my house and buy a bookshop in Albany …
EIGHTEEN
Isabel had agonised and procrastinated over the Christmas letter, starting it, tearing it up, starting again and then stalling, eventually mailing it at the end of the second week in December, the day she left the Riviera for Germany. She longed for the company of her women friends and held back the tears as she slipped the letters into the mailbox. In Alicante and in Monaco she had constantly pictured the Gang of Four together, walking along the beach in the windy winter sunshine, shopping in the crowded weekend markets, visiting the perfumeries in Grasse, and watching the rich and famous in the restaurants of Nice and Cannes.
Writing the letter added poignancy. She wanted to share the places she’d been, the things she’d seen, the people she had met, and it was with her friends, more than her family, that she wanted to share her experiences. Despite the complications of their own lives, Sally, Robin and Grace would empathise and understand what she was going through in a way that Doug and her children could not. Face to face it would be so easy, such a relief to talk it all through. But she hadn’t found a way to express the subtlety of her feelings in writing, to describe her reaction to the light, to the sea, to the density of the human history that surrounded her. They knew what Portugal, Spain and the Riviera looked like. How could she tell them how it felt to be here, how it affected her, how it was changing her? And she had no idea how to begin writing about her confusion over and fascination with Antonia. It was as though a new map had been drawn and superimposed on her journey, a map that she couldn’t quite read.
She had left Alicante in a rage, angry with Doug for dumping the job of Eunice’s papers on Debra, angry most of all with herself for her collusion in his learned helplessness. Reflecting on more than three decades of marriage she saw that she had gone from caring to caretaking, and that the caretaking had been woven through with unexpressed resentment and frustration. Why was it not possible for him to remember his own mother’s birthday? Why had he never had to wrap a gift? Even his gifts to her, the children had wrapped for him when they were old enough. Why did she always do for him what any adult should do for himself: take his clothes to the cleaners, make dental appointments and remind him to keep them, iron his shirts, book the car for service and deliver it? It wasn’t even that she had more time. She
too had always had a full-time job, only taking breaks to have the children. Her last full-time job, as mayor, had been endlessly demanding of her time and energy
As she travelled north along the Mediterranean coast, her resentment irritated like a stone in her shoe. Liberated by distance from the minutiae of servicing other’s lives, she had discovered a fresh ability to fully experience her own. It wasn’t just that she had more time, she also had more creative space in her head, and that meant that she could better enjoy and appreciate her surroundings, works of art, wonderful buildings, the history and culture of new places. Curiosity and creativity had moved into the space previously occupied by the responsibility of looking after others. Life back home in Australia would have to be different, but as she rehearsed explaining it to Doug, she could picture his impatience and the fragmented attention that would indicate that he found it irksome. She would be asking him to change the habits of decades, and to do so without the motivation she felt, or the expectation of benefit.
Isabel’s anger and frustration extended even further. The longing for Antonia that had plagued her was now overlaid with a confused mass of emotions. Antonia was playing some sort of game, and it made Isabel mistrust everything, including herself. The day she left Alicante she had mailed a note thanking Antonia for the letter and the theatre program. She was moving on to the Riviera, she said, and then to Germany before Christmas. She would return to Portugal in the spring, and she hoped they could meet again. But since mailing the letter her resolve had hardened. Doug was arriving on New Year’s Day, and would stay for two weeks in Germany. As soon as he left for Australia she would return to Portugal and to Monsaraz.