by Liz Byrski
About A Month of Sundays
For over ten years, Ros, Adele, Judy and Simone have been in an online book club, but they have never met face to face. Until now . . .
Determined to enjoy her imminent retirement, Adele invites her fellow bibliophiles to help her house-sit in the Blue Mountains. It’s a tantalising opportunity to spend a month walking in the fresh air, napping by the fire and, of course, reading and talking about books.
But these aren’t just any books: each member has been asked to choose a book which will teach the others more about her. And with each woman facing a crossroads in her life, it turns out there’s a lot for them to learn, not just about their fellow book-clubbers, but also about themselves.
Liz Byrski has written a beautiful novel about the joy and comfort reading a good book can bring to us all.
PRAISE FOR LIZ BYRSKI
“Byrski . . . is by turns turbulent and tender. Her characters are portrayed as . . . warm, funny flawed heroes grappling with the cards destiny has dealt them.” WEST AUSTRALIAN
“. . . reflective, warm and wise . . .” WEEKLY TIMES
“Liz Byrski has a guaranteed cheer squad for her novels which champion . . . women taking charge of their life and growing old creatively.” DAILY TELEGRAPH
Contents
About A Month of Sundays
Title page
Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Acknowledgements
About Liz Byrski
Also by Liz Byrski
Copyright page
Hetty had never read a novel; how then could she find
shape for her expectations?
George Elliot – Adam Bede – 1859
Dear Reader,
Have you ever noticed how many great works of art are of women reading? Do a Google search and you’ll see what I mean. Do a similar search for men, however, and you’ll see a smaller collection, and more often the male is seated at a desk, a hand on a book or scroll, looking straight at the artist or staring thoughtfully into the middle distance, rather than actually reading. They seem to be more about status, power and distance than about immersion and imagination. Why this difference?
It’s a question that goes to the heart of women’s relationships with books. It’s about why women read so many more books than most men, and why they form and join book clubs, swap books with their friends and subscribe to online book discussions and review groups and social media sites. It’s about past times in which women had no access to books, and why in countries where they are still banned from reading they will risk their lives to do so in secret. And it’s about how women writers speak to other women through the form of the novel; how books start conversations, lead to friendships and to action at an individual and group level. Just like George Elliott’s Hetty, many of us need books not just to help us shape our expectations, but also to make sense of a world still shaped by men, and to find ways to be ourselves within it.
We use books to talk to each other, to connect with other women, to work out issues in our own lives and, of course, to know that we are not alone.
For a long time, I’ve wanted to write a non-fiction book about women and reading, but I’ve been thinking about it and arguing with myself for so long I feared it might never see the light of day. I hoped writing a novel about women and their books might get me started.
A Month of Sundays is that first step.
My mother was serious about her reading. My
earliest memory is of her reading by a window in my grandparents’ cottage; a shaft of sunlight captures her, totally absorbed in her book. Through books she made sense of, and peace with, her world. She was equally serious about teaching me to read, and to love and value books. My mother made me a reader and in doing so she also made me a writer.
I hope you’ll enjoy this novel and that perhaps you will share it with your mother, your daughter or
a woman friend.
Liz Byrski
Chapter One
Ros in Sydney, June 2016
At four in the afternoon of the day she is diagnosed Ros stands inside the hospital’s sliding glass doors assessing her chances of getting a taxi in the pouring rain, and wishing she had downloaded the Uber app. Outside people scurry past, struggling against the wind that threatens to rip the umbrellas from their hands. Perhaps if I lie down on the floor and moan pitifully they’ll send me home in an ambulance, she thinks, and she lets out a little sigh of pleasure at the idea of being lifted gently onto a stretcher by strong and youthful paramedics in fluoro vests, transported home in comfort, deposited on the sofa and left in peaceful stillness to contemplate her future.
Beyond the hospital entrance the traffic lights change and as the line of cars moves forward a taxi swings into the hospital car park and stops in one of the drop-off bays. Ros makes a charge for the doors, clutching her bag and stick, and she has a grip on the taxi’s rear doorhandle while the arriving passenger waits for his receipt.
‘I think this one’s mine!’ a man in a dark suit, with attitude, says, attempting to elbow her aside. ‘I called one ten minutes ago.’
Ros tightens her grip and squares her shoulders. ‘Me too, but fifteen minutes ago,’ she lies. ‘I’ve been waiting ages. This one’s mine.’ As the incoming passenger emerges she flings herself onto the back seat and slams the door. ‘Paddington, please, driver.’
‘You don’t look much like Kenneth Bacon who’s going to Market Street,’ the driver says, grinning at her in the rear view mirror. ‘I think you just gazumped my fare.’
‘Absolutely,’ Ros says. ‘But Kenneth Bacon looks more like an Uber person, don’t you think? I’m Rosamund Benson, senior citizen, and I just want to go home to Paddington.’ And she leans back, impressed by her own speed, dexterity and ruthlessness. Not bad in the circumstances, she thinks, and she closes her eyes and breathes deeply. The small victory makes her feel more like herself again. Fifteen minutes later, she is home, and Clooney is skidding down the passage to greet her.
‘Okay, okay. Yes, I’m home,’ she says, hanging her stick on its hook and walking towards the living room. ‘I was quite my old self this afternoon, with the taxi – bossy, annoying, pushy. The old pain-in-the-arse-Ros, remember her?’
She dumps her open bag on the table and it immediately topples over and discharges a bundle of glossy leaflets that slither out across the wooden surface. Ros stares at them spread out in front of her in full colour – the story of her new life: the symptoms, the treatment options, the lifestyle advice. Photos of healthy young people in white coats, with shiny eyes, clear skin and perfect teeth, assisting hunched and ageing patients along passages, or sharing a cup of tea with them in a sunlit room.
Ros grabs the Sydney Morning Herald from the far end of the table and tosses it on top of them. ‘Doctors,’ she says aloud, flopping down onto the sofa. ‘I am so sick of doctors and their sodding tests.’ In the last few weeks ther
e have simply been too many doctors, too many needles, tests, scans, X-rays, possibilities, opinions and theories. She knows that only a few years ago she could have taken all this in, thought it through carefully and come home to make plans, but now she just feels overwhelmed, as though she would do anything to avoid thinking about it. She rests her head on the cushions and closes her eyes. She had made notes in the specialist’s office, kept cool, forced herself to pay attention. ‘Too much,’ she murmurs to Clooney, as he jumps up beside her. ‘I have brain drain.’ He rests his head comfortingly in her lap. It’s a fork in the road, she thinks, I can sink into this diagnosis and fade away, or fight it. I can let go of all the things I thought I would do and be in my old age and try to create something new, or I can fall in a heap and hope someone will pick me up. She strokes Clooney’s head and his big, floppy, cocker spaniel ears. ‘Do you know how heavy your ears are?’ she says, feeling the weight of one in her hand. ‘And your feet are enormous. But I’ve told you that before.’ In apparent acknowledgement he licks her hand and they both close their eyes at the same time.
Minutes later the sound of the doorbell has Clooney leaping up and he hurls himself off the sofa and pounds down to the front door. Ros struggles irritably to her feet. The rain has stopped now. As she opens the door a thin slice of late afternoon sunlight forces its way through the clouds, and a bearded young man in a well-worn brown leather bomber jacket and jeans raises a hand to shade his eyes.
‘Ros Benson?’ he asks.
‘Possibly,’ she says, ‘who wants to know?’
‘Tim, Tim Barnaby, Leah’s friend. She said you’d be expecting me this afternoon . . . it’s about the flat . . .’
Ros steps back and opens the door. ‘Of course. Sorry, I only just got home, and I’d completely forgotten you were coming.’
‘If it’s inconvenient . . .’
‘It’s not,’ she says. ‘Come on in.’
Tim Barnaby wipes his feet on the mat and leans his umbrella behind the door.
Ros takes a key from a line of hooks on the hall-stand. ‘Did Leah tell you I only rent it to musicians?’
‘She did, but not drummers.’
‘And you’re not a drummer?’
He grins. ‘Far from it. My instrument is the violin, and yours – the cello, I think?’
‘Indeed it is.’ She hands him the key. ‘The flat’s on the first floor, do you mind going up on your own? Have a look around, see what you think and I’ll join you shortly.’
‘Sure, thanks.’ He takes the key from her and heads on up the stairs.
Ros goes to the small cloakroom under the stairs and splashes water on her face, straightens up and stares at herself in the mirror. My face, she thinks, is moving ever downwards, I will soon have jowls. It reminds her of the description of an elderly woman in a book. She scrabbles around in her memory and recalls a character described as having ‘neatly folded jowls’ and there was something else – a long infuriating pause while she grasps at it – ‘she would have made a distinguished-looking man’, that’s it. Well the jowl bit is right, but I wouldn’t make a distinguished-looking anything really. She takes some deep breaths to loosen herself up, trying to look less like some miserable old bat who would be a terrible landlady. Then she makes her way slowly up the stairs, still trying to remember the title of the book.
Tim Barnaby is standing by the window looking out across the rooftops to the city.
‘What do you think?’ Ros asks from the doorway. ‘People usually either love it or hate it.’
‘I love it,’ he says, turning towards her. ‘It’s perfect.’
‘Not too small?’
‘Small but perfect.’
‘My thoughts exactly! I had it converted when James, my husband, died some years ago. Since then it’s been home to another cellist, two violinists, a trombone player, and a flautist.’
‘Was your husband a musician?’
‘No, he was an academic, a historian, but he was also a fine pianist. His piano is still downstairs.’
They stand facing each other, suddenly awkward. He is younger than she’d expected, but these days she finds it hard to tell people’s ages because everyone seems to be so much younger than her. Clooney pushes past her, stalks across to the window seat and jumps up.
‘No, Clooney, down,’ Ros says, and he gives her a sheepish look and slides grudgingly back onto the floor.
‘Clooney? Unusual name for a dog.’
‘Named after George, of course; I think he has the same sort of look in his eyes. Can you see it?’
Tim crouches down looking into the dog’s face, stroking his ears. ‘Well actually yes, I can now – a bit.’
Ros thinks he might be humouring her, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing.
He looks up at her. ‘I’d love to live here, Ros. I have good references, a regular income, and I’ve known Leah for years; in fact a long time ago, before she married Ivan, we were in a shared flat with a couple of other students. I’m pretty quiet and I understand housework!’
‘You understand it or you actually do it?’
‘Both. My part-time job at uni was with a cleaning agency.’
An hour or so later they have signed the tenancy agreement and settled on Tim’s moving-in date over half a bottle of wine. When he leaves, Ros closes the door behind him and leans back against it sighing with satisfaction. He seems ideal: likeable, respectful, intelligent, with a sense of humour. I think he’ll be fine, she says, talking silently to James as she frequently does. It’s a relief, I hate the idea of having to organise a new tenant again, but he seems easy and Leah wouldn’t have sent me a dud.
Back in the lounge, the edges of the leaflets peeking out from under the newspaper make her stomach churn again. Hateful things hanging over her, threatening a future for which she is unprepared: a future that could be as distant as a few years or as close as next week. So I suppose you know about all this, she says to James. You should be thankful you’re not here; you don’t have to be a carer. You’d have done it, I know, but we would both have hated it. On the other hand I wish you were here – it’s all very well talking at you like this but I never get an answer. I don’t even know if you’re listening. I miss you, and times like this I miss you most of all.
The laptop beeps, announcing new emails, and Ros reaches out and scrolls down the inbox: some junk mail, a couple of bills, and a message from Adele – something about the book club. Adele has somehow become the informal convenor now that there are only four of them left. Not that Ros minds who convenes it, as long as she doesn’t have to, but Adele’s message can wait until tomorrow.
Getting up from the table she stretches her arms above her head, rolls her shoulders and walks across the room to sit down on the ageing, tapestry-covered seat of her music chair. The weight of the cello is comforting as she draws it towards her, its curves almost human. She flexes her fingers, picks up the bow, and briefly closes her eyes, focusing on what she wants to play. As she draws the bow across the strings the first strains of a Bach cantata float upwards, as though the instrument itself knows what she wants. Seconds later she is absorbed, blood singing in her veins, at one with the music, rising above the anxiety, letting it drop away. Her energy surges, transporting her beyond the room, beyond the depressing outcome of the hospital visit, beyond herself. But as her spirits soar, her right hand trembles, and the bow slips from her fingers, clattering to the floor, dousing the music like water on a fire. Ros crashes back down through disappointment to despair, and folding both arms around the cello, she holds it closer, rocking slowly back and forth in the silence, staring unseeing out into the darkness of the garden.
Adele in Adelaide
As soon as she’d sent the group message Adele had started to worry about it. Did it sound too bossy? Should she have provided more suggestions about how it could work? She’d read it again and it
seemed fine, but there was always the worrying possibility that someone would hate the idea. Perhaps she should have invoked the twenty-four hour rule – don’t press ‘Send’ until you’ve thought about it overnight. She had thought about it, but not for twenty-four hours – actually it was only about four hours. It’ll be fine, she’d told herself again. It’s only an invitation, a suggestion really. But she wants it so much she can barely contain herself. Is there anything in it that could upset any of them? Surely not. These women are not mere acquaintances; they’re friends – sort of. The three of them, and Adele herself, are the only remaining members of an online book club started twelve years ago. There were six original members, and it had grown slowly to sixteen – sixteen women in locations around the country. That had been too many to manage online and a few fell away quite soon, others more slowly. Now it has shrunk to just four. Death, illness and international moves have taken some members, while others left to join what they’d hurtfully called ‘a proper book club’, where food and wine and conversations about things other than books often hijacked the meetings. Adele has been here from the beginning; in fact it was she and her cousin Marian who started it. As a club it does have its limitations. There are no cups of tea or shared bottles of wine; no one prepares canapés or sandwiches, or bakes a cake; not an olive or a scone has ever passed between them. At each meeting they talk energetically about books, the one they’ve been reading and frequently others as well, but very little else. Since they’ve been reduced to four it has seemed pleasantly intimate, but they are still just four women, hardly a club at all. Four women who have never actually met, reading and talking books one Sunday afternoon a month on Skype. They have been steadfast in the face of frozen screens, visual distortions, the stubborn refusal of the sound to work and the frequent drop-outs, all of which have irritated but not deterred them.
‘I wonder if we’ll ever have the chance to actually be in the same room together,’ Judy had ventured sometime last year.
‘Why risk messing up something that works well?’ Ros had responded. ‘We don’t really know each other, which is possibly a good thing, because we don’t have to tolerate each other’s irritating habits in person. Face to face we could end up loathing each other and dropping out. End of book club!’