by Liz Byrski
‘Judy,’ Adele says, jumping out of the passenger seat. ‘Judy, can you get up? Can you get in the car? Come on, I’ll help you.’ She slips her arm through Judy’s and urges her to her feet.
‘Wow, you’re a godsend,’ Judy says, getting up slowly, steadying herself against Adele. ‘I think I overdid it a bit.’
‘You’re soaked,’ Simone says, leaning across from the driver’s seat to take her hand. She hauls Judy into the car, while Adele slides into the back seat.
Judy leans back, her breathing more normal now. ‘Were you going somewhere?’ she asks.
‘We were looking for you,’ Simone says. ‘Adele came and got me because she was worried about you. But we didn’t know which way you’d gone. We tried three other tracks before we found you.’ She slips the car into gear and goes a little further on down until there is space to turn and then heads cautiously back up towards the house. ‘Okay,’ she says, pulling up outside the front door. ‘Can we trust you not to do this again? Or do we need to chain you up?’
‘I promise,’ Judy laughs. ‘It was a really stupid thing to do. Sometimes I feel compelled to just rush at things.’
‘Come and do yoga with us,’ Adele says. ‘Simone is a great teacher. I already feel calmer, more centred.’
‘Maybe,’ Judy says, unconvinced. ‘But for now I might just go and have another lie-down.’
*
‘Are you sure you feel up to this, Judy?’ Simone asks as they settle around the fire that afternoon.
‘I’m sure. I really want to,’ Judy says, looking out through the big windows to the garden, which is still taking a beating from the rain, then she turns back to the others. ‘Okay,’ she says, picking up her familiar, dog-eared copy of the book and stroking the cover. ‘This is my book, Sacred Country, and as I think I told you last week it begins in nineteen fifty-two with the two minutes’ silence for the king. It was the day of his funeral, just like it says on the first page, and it began to snow that afternoon, and just like the family in the book, we – my younger brother Robert and I – stood with our parents at the bottom of the garden to honour the king. So you can imagine how it felt when I opened this book and, on page one, found a place and a time and a feeling that was entirely authentic and personal.’
‘I imagine it was a bit strange to read something so close to your own experience,’ Adele says. ‘Almost as though the writer had been watching you.’
‘Yes. Sonny, the father in the book, made his family go outside because he believed that prayers worked better if said out of doors. And my dad was the same; he maintained that even churches, with their high ceilings, could get in the way of messages getting through to God. So it really felt as though Rose Tremain had been there with us.’
Simone, who had been intrigued by Sacred Country, is watching Judy closely. She really wants to know more about why this book is so important to her. There is also something about it all that reminds her of her own childhood: the way that the people in the book struggle to cope with the place where they live, their limited choices. It is nothing like her childhood home, but parental controls based on religious beliefs – whether Baptist as it had been for Judy, or Catholic as it had been for her – was something familiar to her. And above all there was the sense that all important life was happening elsewhere . . .
‘When I was out this morning –’ Judy says.
‘When you tried to escape and were brought back by the guards,’ Ros interjects.
‘Exactly!’ Judy laughs. ‘So, when I tried to escape, I was trying to work out why I had actually chosen this book, other than the fact that it is incredibly important to me. Is that enough reason to select a book that fits the brief that Adele gave us?’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean you had to stick to –’
‘I know why you suggested it, Adele,’ Judy says, ‘and it was a brilliant idea, because we all know each other but, at the same time, we don’t. What better way to fill the gaps than by talking about books, this time more personally? Anyway, on that first page there’s that mention of the way the buses stopped at that moment, that people wept, not just for the king but also for themselves and for the country. It says the silence was heavy with eternity. And when I read that line halfway down the first page, I swear my heart stopped, because I was right back there with the snow falling, and the utter stillness and the enormity of the silence. I thought that the whole world had stopped breathing. And as I read on it seemed as though some of the people I’d known then were in the book. Not that they are exactly the same, but versions of them.’
‘Not that awful man who lives in the bus and has cancer in his nose, I hope,’ Ros says.
‘Not exactly. But the local butcher’s widow was very like the wife of the baker in my village. And there was a woman who was said to have gone mad with grief when her husband was killed at Dunkirk. Her name was Beattie Hindmarsh and she was supposed to be responsible for the flowers in the church, but she would often disappear completely for weeks on end, and my mother had to do the flowers instead. Beattie, I later discovered, was frequently taken off to what was then called “the asylum” until she stopped crying and calling for her Arthur. I can remember that when I was in my teens she would wander around the village knocking on doors, asking if Arthur was there. To me, Estelle, in the book, is Beattie Hindmarsh – she even looks like her.’
This strikes a chord for Simone. ‘I loved that character,’ she says. ‘She was being driven slowly insane by hardship and the awful implacable husband, but I think she actually retreated to a sort of peace in her stays at the asylum – in a way she used it to escape. And of course, as time goes on she uses television in the same way.’
Judy nods. ‘I think she’s not unusual,’ she says. ‘She lived a life without hope. And as I read on there were other characters that felt familiar, like Mr Harker, who works in his cellar making cricket bats. He, to me, was Stitch, a tailor who lived in a tiny cottage and ran his tailoring business from a shed in the garden. It had a long rail on one side, for hanging the customers’ suits or jackets. And he had a workbench with a sewing machine at one end, and at the other end he would sit up, cross-legged on it, to do his hand-sewing. He must have been between seventy and eighty, and he could still get up there like a little gnome, taking in waistbands, shortening cuffs, putting leather patches on the worn elbows of old sports jackets and tweeds and . . . well, sorry, I’ll stop going on about this, it’s not what we’re here for. But I think you can see that when I read Sacred Country, it brought the past back to life for me in a very vivid sort of way. I wondered if Rose Tremain had grown up in the same area.
‘But if any of you thought I picked this novel because Mary stands outside in the silence on that first day and realises that she is in fact a boy, that is not the reason. I have never wanted to be a boy, nor thought I was one. It’s all about the place, and the people who live there; whether or not that is home and, of course, what it’s like now.’
‘It sounded grindingly miserable,’ Simone says. ‘People were trapped in all sorts of ways – poverty, hardship, tradition.’
‘I thought that too,’ Ros says. ‘It’s a very different picture of rural life in England in the fifties and beyond from what we’re used to seeing. It’s hardly Miss Marple or Midsomer Murders country, is it?’
Judy nods, puts her hand up to her face and realises that it’s quite hot. She moves back a bit from the fire.
‘No, you’re right, both of you. It was a tough life. People were really hard up. England was still recovering from the war; the early fifties were pretty bleak. We had the big advantage that Mum and Dad owned the house. It was small and quite plain, it had belonged to my grandparents, and a lot of the furniture was theirs and was old and well worn. My dad was a clerk in the bank in town, and Mum used to do some cleaning and laundry for a couple of women who had big houses a few miles away. She rode there on her bike. It certainly was
n’t an easy life, and of course the weather was pretty awful, cold and wet and often very windy, at least that’s how I remember it.’
‘This place is obviously important to you,’ Adele says. ‘You’ve told us all the negatives but you speak about it really affectionately.’
‘Yes, because as a child I was happy there, perhaps because it was all I knew. We seemed lucky because we were better off than a lot of the people around us. And in those days it would never have occurred to me to question things that seem alien to me now. I was probably eighteen before I began to hate my father’s involvement with the chapel, for example, and to protest about the rules at home – not talking at meal times, not being allowed out to play on Sundays. Things like that were part of life. And the people I knew then came into my life again through the characters in the book. It made me long to go there, to stand in our old garden for just a few minutes and feel that place, because it is part of who I am.’
‘And did you go back?’ Simone asks.
Judy shakes her head. ‘Never. I haven’t been to England since Ted and I left in nineteen seventy.’
‘But why not?’ Ros asks. ‘It means so much to you.’
Judy laughs. ‘Wasn’t it you who asked the other day why people go back? Now you’re asking me why I didn’t.’
‘Of course,’ Ros says. ‘I’m asking because when you were talking I could hear a longing for that place and that time. And I feel you’re really sad about it. So what stopped you?’
Judy sighs. ’Well, to answer that I need to tell you about why I left and what followed that. But I need a break before I get into all that. Anyone want another cup of tea?’
In the kitchen Judy fills the kettle and switches it on. She is suddenly exhausted by the effort of talking about herself so much. She’s unused to discussing her personal life and now she feels rather as though she’s been doing that ever since she got here.
‘How are you going?’ Adele says, appearing in the doorway. ‘Want a hand?’
‘Thanks, that’d be good. I’m okay but it all feels a bit full-on.’
‘I’ll say! I was sitting there thinking how glad I was I didn’t draw the white marble. Going first is really tough.’
‘It is,’ Judy says. ‘But it also feels good. I don’t get much chance to talk about the past or what matters to me. Things seem different when you say them out loud, don’t they? All that stuff I told you the other day, about running away – it was so good to put it out there, get your reactions. Just sharing it made a big difference. But it’s also exhausting.’
Adele nods. ‘Are you okay to go on? You can just say, no more, draw a line, and leave it to the rest of us to talk about the book.’
Judy turns to her. ‘I want to go on, because when I think of stopping it doesn’t feel good. Perhaps I’ve wanted to tell my story for a long time. That’s how it feels. And you’ve set this up in a way that lets me do that. So I’ll hang in there until you all tell me to shut up.’
Adele laughs as she starts adding milk to the mugs, remembering to keep one milk-free for Simone. ‘Well that’s great,’ she says. ‘I hope I can handle it as well when it’s my turn. This coming week we could have a look at your business situation, if you like.’
‘Please,’ Judy says. ‘I really have to do something and I’d appreciate your help and advice.’
‘So you’ll stay on with us?’ Adele asks.
‘I will, I really will. I’m determined to make the most of it now.’
Once everyone is settled back in the lounge room a natural silence seems to take over. Judy puts her tea on the side table, closes her eyes and inhales deeply. She can feel the warmth of the fire in front of her and the comforting presence of the other women, and knows she is in the right place. Thank you, she says silently to whatever power might be listening. Thank you for bringing me here and persuading me to stay. And she sees that this is where she might mend herself, where she will stitch together the seams that are strained or have already come apart. And she feels enormously relieved and grateful.
‘I’m so glad I’m here,’ she says, opening her eyes. ‘Thank you for encouraging me to stay. It feels a bit like a nursing home for the soul and it is obviously what I needed. You could all see that but I couldn’t.’
‘Well, we are very wise,’ Ros says, her face absolutely straight. ‘Actually we’re a coven. But a reasonably benign one. So we’re glad you’re here too. And Clooney is pleased, too, even though his consumption habits have been cut back. Are you ready to go on?’
Judy smiles and straightens up. ‘I am,’ she says. ‘My parents were staunch chapel people, and very conservative. I think of them now as being scared of authority – not any particular sort of authority, just anyone in charge, a sort of threatening, shapeless entity that had them under surveillance and could, at any time, turn up and find them in the wrong about something, despite their always having done their best. They were very controlling and in my teens I did start to kick against that. Apparently I was quite bright – the headmistress told them I could get into university, but no one in our family had ever been, and I don’t think Mum and Dad actually knew what I could do at university that might get me a job. I wasn’t good at maths or science, just art and sewing, although I did write good compositions. I said I wanted to be an artist, but if you expressed ambition, or the desire to do something other than being a wife and mother, or maybe a secretary or a nurse, you were pushed back into your box. It wasn’t just grown-ups, even the other girls would whisper about you: “Who does she think she is?”
‘So, I did my GCE, and then worked in a small, very old-fashioned dress shop until I decided to leave home.’ She fills them in on her time with Ted, the loss of her baby and how she eventually left him, ending up in Mandurah and starting the knitting shop.
‘So what about Ted?’ Adele asks. ‘Do you still see him?’
‘Of course,’ Judy says. ‘From time to time.’
‘And your friend Donna?’ Simone asks.
Judy tells them about Donna and Ted being together, and finally admits that she and Ted are still married. There is absolute silence in the room. Judy sees the others exchange glances. ‘You think it’s weird, don’t you?’
‘Well, it is a bit . . .’ Simone begins cautiously. ‘Don’t you think so?’
‘Oh I know it’s weird. Which is why I’ve never told anyone else; and at the same time, despite that, it’s been fine. I go down there for the occasional weekend, and sometimes Donna comes up to town and we have a weekend together in a posh hotel in Perth. Although that’s pretty rare these days as we’ve all grown older. The thing is, I love them both, and they love each other and me. Oh, and of course there’s no . . . well, no . . . it’s not a threesome.’
‘No hanky-panky,’ Ros says.
‘Exactly, well not for me!’ Judy pauses, then begins again, unnerved by the silence. ‘I suppose that this, and the business, is why I haven’t really made friends, why I haven’t had holidays. Ted and Donna are a sort of mainstay, even though I don’t see them very often. I just concentrated on working. And recently things have been getting on top of me. I’ve been struggling to cope. Quite a few of the customers drive me mad, I don’t want to be bothered with them, some are just hangers-on who want to talk at me.’ She tells them about Maddie and her scarves. ‘I’m very fond of Maddie, I can cope with her, but there are others who come into the shop for more than just wool, and patterns and needles. They just seem to want someone to unload on! It’s become overwhelming.’
There is silence and it’s clear no one knows quite what to say.
‘So how do you actually feel about this, Judy?’ Simone eventually asks.
Judy looks at her hard, saying nothing, just nodding, then looks away. ‘I feel trapped,’ she says, a lump forming in her throat. ‘Trapped by my own failure to make a proper – a balanced life for myself. I left home because I nee
ded freedom, and like several of the characters in this book I also wanted more than home could offer, although I didn’t know what that might turn out to be. Walter, in the book, desperately wants to be a country and western singer – his every waking moment is filled with this longing, this dream, and he makes it.’
The others nod, remembering Walter’s story.
‘And Mary fulfils her dream of becoming Martin. Those were big dreams, and there were people I knew then who had big dreams and made them come true. And others whom you knew would be there forever, who would somehow fight to keep things the same. My only dream was escape. It’s only since we talked the other night that I’ve begun to see that this has been a pattern throughout my life. I fight my way out of something because I feel trapped, but I always step out into the darkness without a plan, without a torch, and then fall into something else. My last trap, of course, is the one I’m in now. The one where success traps me and starts to suffocate me. And at the same time I’ve felt great nostalgia for the past. My parents are both dead, of course, and my brother too. So there is no one left of my family there now.’
‘Would you like to go back?’ Simone asks.
‘Yes,’ Judy says decisively. ‘I feel I should have done that years ago.’
‘To live?’ Ros asks.
She shakes her head. ‘No, only for a visit. I think it would help just to be there again, a day or two, a week perhaps.’ She pauses. ‘May I show you something?’ She takes her iPad out of her knitting bag, which is on the floor beside her chair. ‘You’ll think I’m crazy . . .’
‘No worries about that,’ Ros says, ‘we already do!’