Goodbye Sweetheart

by Marion Halligan

  They went to a restaurant on the river which had two Michelin stars. I expect you are worried it might be vulgar, he said in the car, but I don’t think it is. No molecular gastronomy, and none of this head-to-tail eating-the-pig business either. Just nice modern interesting food.

  They sat in a kind of conservatory and watched the late summer light on the river, the way it thickened perceptibly into twilight. Just out of sight was a weir, you could hear the gentle falling of the water over it, a slight, restless, never-changing sound. They began with champagne, as always—The ’96 Pol Roger is drinking very well at the moment, Andrew said—and went on to a decent burgundy. They raised their glasses in a toast. The ashes of roses dress was neither new nor fashionable, but it was beguiling, slipping prettily to one side over her smooth round shoulder, and she smiled at him over her glass. Her eyes sparkled.

  Well, Andrew, she said, this is lovely, as always. Now, tell me, how are you?

  So he did, his wife, his two daughters, at present at school, in London, maybe boarding school soon, if they could bear to part with them.

  Ah, yes.

  Such advantages, for them. None that I can see, for us.

  That is the nature of children, she said, that the parents sacrifice themselves. Oh my, how sententious I am.

  Wise, as always. He patted her hand. He knew that what she was looking forward to was gossip. Once she’d said to him, You know, my dear, there are certain things in life that are absolutely trivial and absolutely essential, like scented tea in Rockingham cups—they were drinking it as she spoke. Like gossip. He was surprised. He’d imagined her upright and somehow beyond such things. Gossip is the story of our lives, she said. It is the way a society works out how it is to behave. Our manners, our morals, our mores.

  After that he always liked to have a choice piece of gossip for her. Tonight it was the death of a cabinet minister whose nickname was Porky. Not because he was particularly fat, but because he was infamous for his pork barrelling. He was always drawn in political cartoons as a very fat pig.

  They say, said Andrew, that he died on the job. The cardinal’s death, he murmured.

  Ah, said Pepita. That kind of job.

  It’s not in the papers, he said. Yet.

  But it will be. Without doubt.

  With a wife standing by.

  Grieving widow.

  So it goes, said Andrew.

  I suppose she knows.

  She is in the country. But yes, she must.

  Pepita looked pensive. Indeed. So it goes, she said.

  Now, said Andrew, the lady . . .

  She is known?

  Some people think so. Cynthia Somerton, the novelist.

  Nineteenth-century bodice-ripping melodrama.

  Exactly. Apparently the name is a pseudonym. She’s the daughter of a duke. So she’s Lady Cynthia.

  Is she? I wonder. Surely the title goes with her real name; she couldn’t use it with the pseudonym.

  No . . . said Andrew. Except, maybe, in her skin she is a lady, whatever name she uses.

  Ah, who knows. Whatever happened to etiquette these days. Pepita made a delicate flying-away motion with her hand. The grandmother’s ring, too big for her now, slid off her finger and flew across the room, flashing and glittering, landing with a chink. Like a comet, said Pepita.

  A waiter saw it as it flashed and where it fell. He picked it up and brought it to her on a silver tray. I must be more careful, she said. It was my grandmother’s; I mustn’t lose it. Not now. Cynthia Somerton—I haven’t read any, have you?

  God no. She’s not young—he showed remarkably good taste for once, said Andrew, neatly saving himself from what might have been a faux pas. And of course he’s no youth. Still, what a way to go.

  Good, or bad? asked Pepita in a demure voice.

  Andrew gave a snort of laughter.

  Nice for him, I suppose. Hell for everyone else.

  Poor old Porky. It will be part of his story forever, said Andrew.

  He will never escape his death.

  Younger than he might have expected, too. He wasn’t sixty.

  A child, said Pepita. You know, I often find those words of Macbeth’s coming into my head. Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it.

  Oh yes?

  Yes. It suggests a noble death, it seems an admirable thing. But he’s talking about the thane of Cawdor, who was a traitor, and executed for it. A death well met, but is that much, in the circumstances?

  Maybe it is, if the life was so ignoble. A bad life, redeemed in death. Whereas poor old Porky, a generally good life made farcical.

  I expect cardinals managed better, keeping secrets. Though people knew, otherwise they wouldn’t have given it the name.

  Andrew said, Would it be less a sniggery topic if the lady had stayed at the scene, called a doctor, acted with dignity?

  Interesting question. Imagine if it had been his wife whose embrace he died in. Would that have made a difference?

  You never hear of that. I suppose it’s not scandalous, dying in bed with your wife, people keep it quiet, out of respect. And of course in such a case I don’t imagine it’s a cardinal’s death.

  No, it has to be adulterous.

  Pepita refused pudding, but drank a small cup of black coffee.

  How can you do that? asked Andrew. Doesn’t it keep you awake all night?

  No, said Pepita.

  He was finishing the burgundy. She had not drunk her share of it, but had had enough. That was the way of it, enjoy your small portion and let the man have the lion’s share. Roaring and shaking his golden mane. Of course not literally. Not when she’d trained them.

  She’d never been involved in a cardinal’s death. But then she’d avoided a lot of messy things. Marriage. Children. Circumspection, she’d been good at it. Regrets she’d never allowed.

  The river was dark now. Only the rustling of the weir kept its memory alive. The sound came softly through the French windows.

  Perhaps, a cognac?

  Pepita was about to say, Thank you, no, then she thought, why not. That would be delightful, she said.

  The moon suddenly slid up over the trees on the opposite bank. There was suddenly white blanching light and inky shadows.

  The cognac comes in small tulip glasses. Pepita takes a small sniff, the fumes rush up her nose, down her throat, hit her stomach. I had forgotten. She gives a little laugh. Who would have thought you could forget the smell of cognac. She takes a sip, there’s the same rush down to her stomach.

  A very good digestif, said Andrew.

  Pepita smiled, but to herself rather than Andrew. She was seeing her life through all the decades, herself a small woman, holding a glass, sipping, sipping, sipping. And the sparkling of her eyes over the rim of the glass, at the man who paid, who was thanked in the charm of her company. She put the glass on the table and let her lids slide down, then raised her head so she could see the river. There is the moon walking on water, she said.

  The moon followed them all the way home, playfully nipping from side to side of the car, carrying the inky shadows and pallid light with it. So many moons. How many moons have I seen? she wondered. Not all that many really, thirteen a year multiplied by ninety; ninety will do. How old was I when I first recognised the moon? That was many moons ago, as primitive people used to say in novels. Andrew beside her was quiet, too; maybe he was thinking of how to oust the current lot from power. Probably not. She pulled her pashmina more closely round her neck. It was warm in the car, but in her bones there was a chill.

  She thanked Andrew in her pretty manner when he helped her out of the car, took her arm up the path to her door and unlocked it for her. The golden light of a lamp lit up the hall. He would not come in. À bientôt, he said, and kissed her hand.

  She heard the car drive off into the moonlit silence. She was tired, not like her. But first. She took off her grandmother’s ring, watched its half-hoop of diamonds catch the light and flash it brilliantly ba
ck. A girl’s best friend: no, they weren’t. But nice. She put the ring in its small plum-coloured box, the velvet worn threadbare, clicked it shut and put the box in a thick brown envelope on which she had written in her beautiful hand: For Ferdie, for his love. She put it in the box with the lawyer’s papers and went to bed. So cold she was, so cold. The electric blanket was on but it didn’t seem to help. She rested her foot against her calf, it was as cold as stone on a frosty morning. Perhaps I am turning into my own marble monument, she thought, feeling herself sinking into sleep. It did cross her mind that perhaps she was sleeping herself to death, but she lost consciousness before she could examine it.

  TO EDEN

  Lynette drove down on Friday, dropping Ferdie off at Jack’s and going on to the Seahorse Inn with Erin. They had a room upstairs at the front, looking over the sea, a suite in fact. It was evident that the main business of the place was weddings. There were photograph albums artlessly strewn everywhere, the staircase had a Hollywood glamour curve, and under it was a table set with silver, glassware, linen, and white-dressed chairs with organza ribbons tied round their bosoms. In the photographs, brides peeped coyly out from behind palm trees or turned plump shoulders at stained-glass doors or glided down the gilded stairs. Erin was fascinated. I could get married here, she said. It’s very commercial, said Lynette. It’s a business, that’s what it is. Very cold-blooded.

  They went down to the bar and sat in the window looking out at the sunlight shining on the roofs of Eden across the bay, shining on the boats; watching as it was all lost as the sun slid away. A mist blew in from the water, up the slope of the shore, and the low sun shone through it so that it was thick and dusky. As the sun disappeared, Eden was lost in the distant dimness. The folded-down umbrellas on the terrace flapped like vultures.

  They went out to walk across the terrace and the lawn to the edge of the bay, where the little waves rolled in, but the wind was cold and the melancholy creak of the umbrellas too gloomy. The faint pink light over Eden wasn’t cheering. They went in, and ate dinner in the bistro. Oysters are off, said the waitress, the rains and winds have stirred up the mud in the lakes and they can’t be harvested. I think oysters were William’s favourite food, said Lynette. It would have been nice to eat them and think of him.

  Back in their suite Erin couldn’t make the television work. They asked the receptionist who had turned into the barmaid but she couldn’t fix it. I think it’s just generally bad reception, she said. Bad reception, said Lynette.

  An early night, said Lynette. Did you bring a book? She looked out over the water, it was pitch dark with occasional twinkles of light; nothing that meant anything.

  They sat in a bow window to eat breakfast. The bay was a bowl full of glitter from the slanting sun. I can’t look at it, said Erin, it’s too bright. Jack and Ferdie came and Ferdie drove them all in Lynette’s car to Ben Boyd’s tower. They had to park the car and put money into an envelope since it was a national park, and walk some distance to the tower. There were dying melaleucas falling about the track, and living ones making a gothic arch above it. These were wind-sculpted into bright green cushion shapes. Erin read a lot of information off panels along the track. It’s very pedagogic, said Ferdie.

  The tower’s made of Pyrmont sandstone, Erin told them. Very beautiful it was, pink and greenish colours, walls more than a metre thick. Skilfully made. It was meant to be a lighthouse, she read, but Ben Boyd wanted it only for his ships, and you can’t have that. A lighthouse has to work all the time, otherwise it’s too dangerous. So he used it as a tower to look out for whales.

  I wonder how many people he ruined in pursuit of his grandiose schemes, said Ferdie. Crook that he was.

  They were walking along a fine wooden boardwalk. Beside it was a big piece of flat rock carved out in squares. For the whale spotters, said Erin, they amused themselves playing draughts and stuff. Ferdie looked at the old scored lines, imagined bored men filling in time. Under this still sun. The wind hadn’t got up, you could hear the distant sea splashing against the cliffs, they were held in a space of silence within the shell of the sound of the sea. He looked at Lynette; she was frowning, he imagined her thinking, this isn’t William’s place. Erin had been carrying the box of ashes but it had got too heavy and she passed it on to Ferdie.

  They came out on to a fenced lookout. The sea was not close, if they threw ashes from there they’d fall on to the sloping cliff. Jack went off on a path to the side and found a rock edge dropping sharply down to the water, very level till it fell away, pointing to oblivion. The red rocks were jumbled below it, the sea smashed against them, flaring up in jets of foam. Lynette took the lid off the box. The ashes were white and chalky, with odd shards of bone. Gingerly she put in her hand and took some, cast them over the cliff. They fell down into the sea. Erin next. Be careful, said her mother, don’t throw yourself in. Jack put his arms round her. They all threw in handfuls and then Lynette took the box and upended it, the ashes shimmered down into the sea. Goodbye, my daddy, said Erin. Goodbye, William, said the others. What about our speeches? said Jack.

  Go ahead, said Lynette, and Jack took out a piece of paper and read his words. Mainly that William was a son, a brother, a husband, a father, that he loved and was loved. Then Ferdie spoke some sentences remembering his father’s Citroëns and driving to Sydney, the story about Lake George. The sun shone down on this sheltered cliff top, very warm, ticking with its quiet life.

  So much for people coming, said Lynette. The notice in the paper didn’t bring anybody at all. I said it wouldn’t.

  But we have paid due ceremony, said Ferdie, that is what matters.

  It is best with just us, Mummy, said Erin.

  They went back to the whale lookout and sat on a bench there for a little while, in the shell of the silence inside the sound of the sea.

  It is peaceful, said Erin.

  They looked across the bay at the little settlements, along at the bottle shape of the wood-chip factory. There were no boats at its wharf. When they were driving in, the empty timber trucks had gone screaming past, bucketing all over the road, making Ferdie pull aside nervously.

  Do you want to have a look at the old whaling station? he asked.

  No, said Lynette. We’re not tourists.

  When they got back to the Seahorse Inn they went to the restaurant for lunch. Lynette ordered a bottle of white wine.

  Do you want to go back this afternoon? said Ferdie. Lynette looked at him. I could drive, he said, I’m happy to do that.

  Thanks, said Lynette. She drank most of the bottle, Jack had a light beer, Ferdie half a glass. In the car going back she said, before she closed her eyes and went to sleep, It was a good idea, Ferdie. It’s done now. I know I grizzle, but I am grateful.

  My daddy’s in the sea, said Erin. Now he can go round and round the world forever.

  FERDIE TAKES THE BUS

  Ferdie took the bus to Sydney from the Jolimont Centre. Once he had despised this trip: only the elderly and the poor and the very young took the bus. But now he liked it, it was easy and quick and you saw a different landscape from a high bus than a low car. You could see over the bridges to the rivers deep in their gorges, observe the tidy rows of olives, see untouched wild country beside neat field patterns, complicated and ancient-seeming. You could contemplate. Take the bus and contemplate. This trip he was tired, and dozed, falling into a troubled sleep as his head bumped against the window pane. And he dreamt.

  It was one of those dreams in which you know you are dreaming. Not the sort where you can control what happens, use your will to change things, but the sort where you are mildly aware of yourself observing this phenomenon, unable to do anything about it. It was a dream of Berenice, of her bed covered with its silvery green sheets and her white body lying on it. It was a kind of cliché by now, but none the worse for that. She was almost face down, so he could see the curve of her bottom. The colours were strange, their essential nature washed from them, so they were darker
or paler than themselves, her skin like a black and white photograph, the sheets more silver than green, her hair a dark crimson tangle round her head.

  He was saying to himself that this was a good dream to be having, that he should be grateful for this gift of Berenice naked and so poignantly there. Then he became aware of another figure coming into the scene, walking slowly from the right-hand side, a man, also naked. He recognised his father from the particular flaring curve of his thighs, and the way his hair grew in slight sideburns on his cheeks; he remembered saying once that William’s hair was never quite fashionable, either too much sideburn or too little; William liked to say that he prided himself on his consistency. What he did not recognise was the enormous erection, the penis pointing upwards in a tense curve.

  The man climbed on to the bed and knelt over the Berenice figure, bent down and plunged between the buttocks, began to move. Ferdie wanted to look away but he couldn’t, it was a dream and he was obliged to be observing it. He groaned, and must have given a twitch in his own body, because his head bumped hard against the window and he woke up. The girl next to him, who’d spent the trip till now on her phone texting, Ferdie admiring the speed of her thumbs, gave him an odd look. He coughed, making a groan-like sound at the same time, wondering why he was bothered about what this girl thought. He looked out of the window at lines of olive trees that swept away as the bus sped past.

  The dream disturbed him. Staring at that swiftly passing landscape, trying to remark to himself on the things he saw, he felt its powerful presence in his mind as something that had actually happened, that he had seen. He felt angry with William; Berenice was his lover. How typical of his father, to see something that belonged to someone else and simply walk in and take it. Belonged wasn’t the right word, but it would do for now. She certainly did not belong to William. All his life William had done that, had picked whatever he desired. He had to tell himself that this wasn’t fair, William hadn’t done this, it was his dream, Ferdie’s dream, it must be what he was thinking, and why was he thinking this, what did it say about his own fears? Did it mean he thought he wasn’t the man his father was, able to come and take what he wanted? Masterful, even brutal? Ferdie had never had that thought, but maybe he should have. Whatever it meant, the dream was about Ferdie, not William. What about Berenice? Not her, either.