A Month of Sundays

by Liz Byrski

  ‘No, no, it’s not that. But . . . you remember I said the other day that we hadn’t seen Maddie for a while? Well a care worker from the place where she lives came in this morning with the usual bag of scarves. And . . . oh dear, I don’t know how to tell you this . . . Maddie, she’s . . . um. She died, Judy. The week after you went away, she’d been out to buy some liquorice allsorts for an elderly gentleman who’d moved in there recently, and she was hurrying back and she stepped out into the road without looking and was hit by a car. She died in hospital the following day. I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, Judy . . . I know you were very fond of her . . . I wonder if there is anything you’d like me to do?’

  *

  ‘Is there anywhere else you need to go while we’re here, or would you prefer to head straight for the hills?’ Simone asks as they walk out to the hospital car park.

  ‘I’m a bit peckish,’ Ros says, ‘and there’s a lovely little café in the same street as my house. I thought we might have lunch there and I could pop in and pick up my mail.’

  Simone drives out of the car park and follows Ros’s directions to Paddington. ‘It’s years since I was in Sydney,’ she says, looking around with interest as they wait at the traffic lights. ‘I might just spend a few days here catching up on the city when we leave the Blue Mountains.’

  ‘Oh yes, do,’ Ros says. ‘You could stay with me, if you like. I have a lovely studio room upstairs.’

  ‘I thought you had a flat that was let to a violinist?’

  ‘I do, but that’s on the first floor. When I had that converted I also had the roof space insulated and lined, and then opened it up into a studio. It’s just a really big space with a double bed and a sofa that opens out into a second bed. And it’s got a small kitchen area and its own little bathroom with a toilet and shower. I thought the rent from the flat and maybe the studio would help boost my very small retirement income. So far I’ve kept the studio for friends, but recently I’ve been thinking of putting that on Airbnb as well. The views of the city are great from up there.’

  She thinks back now to when she made those decisions about the house, a few years after James died. At the time a couple of friends had told her she would regret it. ‘What if you meet someone else and want to live together?’ one had asked, while the other said, ‘You should sell your house now and buy something more suitable, move to a retirement village.’ Ros had ignored both and for her it had also spelled the end of these two, never very important, friendships. It was suddenly clear to her that these women had no real sense of who she was, or what she cared about. Couldn’t they understand that there could never be anyone after James? Couldn’t they see how unsuited she was to living in the very sociable environment of a retirement complex?

  At the time she still had plenty of regular work with the Symphony Orchestra and the quartet, certainly enough for her financial needs, even if not enough for lots of travel, which was something else they had both mentioned. ‘Come on a cruise with Len and me,’ one had said. ‘It’s wonderful, lots of things to do, dancing, games on the deck, and lots of the cruise ships have groups for table games – cards, mah jong, even Monopoly.’ ‘Best to downsize first,’ said the other, ‘and those villages have the same sorts of social activities, as well as sports and walking groups, that sort of thing. You’d be well set up in one of those places and you’d have heaps of cash left over to go cruising.’ But for Ros the prospect of organised social activities was the kiss of death. Doing anything with a group of people, or being out at sea on a ship and having to dance and play games, sounded like hell on earth. Converting the house and staying put as long as she could was her plan and she’d stuck to it.

  ‘At the clinic this morning I got the feeling that I’d be able to live independently for quite a while yet,’ she says now. ‘They did say that deterioration could be quite slow, didn’t they?’

  ‘Yes, they did,’ Simone says, sounding cautious. ‘But they said it sometimes happens that way. I don’t think they meant that it happens in most cases. Hopefully it will be slow for you, but I think you have to accept that at any point it could accelerate, so you need to plan for that.’

  ‘Oh yes, I understand that, but going there today was a good thing, because it has allayed my immediate fears. You were right when you said that once I had more information I would feel I had more control. I just have to make the long-term plan and start changing the way I do things. And of course they did say about yoga being valuable, so I really will join you and Adele to get myself started. I said that before but every day since then I’ve found an excuse not to!’ She indicates a couple of parking bays. ‘The café is right here and my house is just across the street.’

  It’s good to be back on home territory, Ros thinks. Not that she is ready to come home, but there is a pleasant reassurance in seeing that life goes on as usual. The Italian couple who run the café are delighted to see her, especially when she introduces Simone. Hearing her surname they lapse immediately into Italian, and Ros is happy to be left for a while with her thoughts while the three of them talk.

  ‘What nice people,’ Simone says later as they stroll across the street to Ros’s house. ‘And the food was great.’

  Ros nods. ‘I’m so at home in this area, I just love it. It’ll be really tough if . . . when I have to move.’ She goes up the four steps to the front door, unlocks it, and drops her keys on the hall table alongside the pile of mail that Tim has left there. ‘Come on in, Simone,’ she calls, beckoning her through to the lounge. ‘I just have the ground floor, which is quite enough for me.’

  ‘This is lovely,’ Simone says, walking across to the French windows, looking out onto the garden. ‘Do you look after the garden yourself?’

  ‘I always have done, but when I come back I’ll have to start rethinking everything, I suppose. The big decisions will be the garden, the car and, of course, the cello. The quartet I play with has a gig in late October. I should’ve let them know by now that they’ll need to find a new cellist, but I haven’t been able to face doing that yet because it’s so . . . so final. But they really need to know.’

  Simone walks back to the table. ‘Why don’t you call someone from the quartet while we’re here? Then it’ll be done. I know it’s a big thing, but it’s also the right thing to do. And you need to do something significant to make yourself feel you’re taking control of the situation.’

  Ros sighs, looks up at her. ‘I suppose . . .’

  ‘I’ll have a wander in the garden while you think about it,’ Simone says, and she squeezes Ros’s hand, turns and walks out through the French doors.

  For a moment Ros watches her as she crosses the small paved terrace. Simone has thrown down the challenge, and everything she said is right, but just the same . . . She watches as Simone looks around the garden, hesitates, then stoops to pick up the basket where she keeps the gardening gloves and secateurs, and heads towards the three rosebushes. This is the right thing to do, Ros tells herself again. I’ve barely left them enough time to rehearse. The change will be as disruptive emotionally and musically for them as it is for her. She sucks in her breath, picks up the phone and dials Donald, the leader and first violin.

  It takes time to explain, to allow him his shock and dismay when it registers that she is not just withdrawing from this performance, but that they will not play together again and the reason why. She and Donald have played together for more years than she can remember, so it seems impossible to both of them that they won’t do so again.

  ‘I just can’t believe it,’ he says. ‘Dear Ros, I’m devastated, and so very sorry. What will you do?’

  ‘Whatever I can,’ Ros says, trying a small laugh. ‘Keep going, work with it, adjust to it and hope that the progress is slow . . . that’s all I can do, really.’

  ‘We will play together again,’ Donald says eventually. ‘I know we will. I will come and sit in your lovely room l
ooking out on the garden, and we will play together.’

  Ros sighs. ‘You’ll have to contend with me shaking, messing up the fingering and probably dropping the bow,’ she says. ‘You know how you hate working with incompetent musicians, and how cross you are when anything goes wrong.’

  ‘But this is you, Ros,’ he says, ‘and we will play for our own pleasure for as long as you have the strength and the desire to do so. Dearest friend, I will only stop making music with you when you actually kick me out of the door.’

  They talk on some more, and she warns him not to tell Leah if he should bump into her, and asks him to tell the other two members of the quartet not to mention it either. ‘I will tell her soon,’ she says. ‘I have to now that I’ve told you. But she must hear it first from me.’

  ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘And are you back home now, Ros?’

  ‘Only today to go to the hospital clinic. Simone, one of my friends from the book club, kindly drove me down, and now we’re heading back to the Blue Mountains.’

  When she puts down the phone, Ros presses a handful of tissues to her eyes and walks over to James’s piano and picks up his framed photograph. You would’ve made me do it sooner and you’d have been right. You’d have managed everything for me, and I know it’s probably character building to have to do it myself, but who needs more character at my age? She holds the photograph clasped in her folded arms against her chest and crosses to the open door. Look, she says, Simone’s pruned the roses. You’d like Simone; she’s your sort of person. You’d like the others too. We laugh a lot. She moves to return the photograph to its place, then changes her mind and puts it in her bag. I’m taking you back with me, she says, not that I’d forget what you look like, but just because. She watches as Simone carries the basket of clippings to the far end of the garden, tips them into the bin and turns slowly back towards the house.

  ‘I’ve done the roses,’ she says, gesturing towards them. ‘They’re all ready now for new life in the spring. And what about you, Ros?’

  *

  Ros is quiet on the drive back. She seems to be watching intently as first the city and then the suburbs disappear behind them, and Simone, who well understands the need for silence, knows that Ros will talk if she wants to. Making the call to the leader of the quartet had obviously been tough; Simone could read the signs in her face. ‘Let’s have a cup of tea,’ she’d said, and she had made it while Ros walked out to the terrace, wrapping a scarf around her shoulders. They sat there, drinking their tea, for a while in silence.

  ‘You were right,’ Ros had said eventually, ‘it was awful, but it was the right thing to do, for them and for me. It was irresponsible not to have done it sooner. And it is a sort of marker, a sign of acceptance, I suppose.’

  Later Ros had taken her up to the third-floor studio.

  ‘Oh my god, it’s gorgeous,’ Simone said. ‘Much nicer than I imagined, and it’s huge!’

  ‘Well, not huge, but it’s a good size,’ Ros said. ‘I thought I might ask Adele about putting it on Airbnb, what sort of rate I could charge for it, what to look out for. She seems to know all about these sorts of things.’

  ‘Adele has no idea how much she knows about so many things,’ Simone had said, laughing.

  ‘Her choice of book is significant. I haven’t quite finished it, but I could almost write my sentence about the story now and it would be Adele’s story too,’ Ros commented.

  ‘I haven’t got very far with it yet,’ Simone says. ‘I need to catch up ready for Sunday. But I know what you mean – Adele’s managed to be part of the group and still hold back. But I like her so much more than I expected to.’ She’d turned away from the window then. ‘Would you really rent this to me for a couple of weeks when we leave the mountains, Ros? It would be the perfect place to stay.’

  ‘I won’t rent it to you,’ Ros had said. ‘You can use it for as long as you like, and the car too. It would be lovely to have you here in the house.’

  As they went back down the stairs Ros had hesitated and then tapped firmly on the first-floor door. ‘If Tim’s is in I’ll ask him to show you the flat,’ she said, but there was no response.

  A few minutes later they headed out through the front door and Ros was about to lock it but then seemed to change her mind. She opened it again, stepped back into the hall and appeared to be staring down at something on the floor.

  ‘Everything okay?’ Simone had called from the pavement.

  ‘Yes,’ Ros replied. ‘Yes, everything’s fine.’ And she stepped outside again, and locked the door.

  ‘Did you by any chance notice a pair of purple suede boots just inside the front door?’ Ros asked as they were getting into the car.

  ‘I did, and I meant to say how cool they were. Did you mean to bring them with you? I can run back and get them for you.’

  ‘No . . . no thanks, they’re not mine.’

  ‘Not your tenant’s though – they were women’s boots.’

  ‘Exactly. And they looked damp, didn’t they?’

  ‘I didn’t look that closely.’

  ‘Did you get the feeling that there might be someone else in the house?’

  ‘No, not really, but you did say some areas were soundproofed. Why? Is there a problem?’

  ‘No. But I do know exactly whose boots they are.’

  Now, as she drives out of the city, Simone realises that several hours have passed since she thought about Paula, who has been on her mind almost exclusively for the last week. She imagines the evening she’ll spend with Geoff and Doug, for the first time in more than forty years, the three of them together again with the chance to recapture something of what they shared in the past, maybe to discover if they can share it again.

  She remembers the time before she went to Paris, when the Marshall boys had both left for university and she was growing rapidly critical of her parents’ relationship. It was then that she had been more aware of how ill-matched they seemed – Carlo so domineering and, in her view, narrow-minded, and Suzette’s tight-lipped, shrugging adherence to his rules. She had lived with their tension for so long that she had taken it for granted. Now she wonders what sort of demons haunted her mother, what else she had had to cope with as well as what was, presumably, Carlo’s affair with Claire. Were there other women? Simone wonders. She feels now that she should have done more, made more effort to know her mother better, both at the time and in the long, difficult years that followed.

  She had been an exceptionally obedient and dutiful daughter, and had craved physical affection, but that was lacking both at home and in the convent, where physicality among the girls was strongly discouraged. It was Claire who dispensed the cuddles when Simone was small, the warm supportive hugs and maternal advice as she grew older. How hard it must have been for Claire, she thinks now, a pregnant widow with adult sons. Perhaps, if Mama and Papa had told me the truth, if they hadn’t cut me off from the Marshalls, we could all have recovered from it, she thinks. At least it would have been better than the years of silence and the awkwardness each time she saw her parents. She’d lost her parents, as she had lost the Marshalls, and some years later she had lost Colleen as well. Is it me? she wonders now, is it something about me? But these things had happened to her and in each case she had felt herself helpless – a casualty. Is that it then? Is that what I am – a casualty, a loser? she thinks. Will I always be that person? Is that who Paula will see when we meet?

  They are back in the mountains now, just a few kilometres from what feels like home. Simone looks across at Ros, fast asleep in the passenger seat. She thinks of Adele and Judy back at the house, and feels a great wave of affection for all three of them. They matter to me, she thinks, they really matter. I trust them and I want them to be part of my life, always, just as I want my sister and Claire and Geoff and Doug.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It’s Friday morning and Ad
ele is reconsidering her relationship with Radio National. She recognises that in recent years it’s become somewhat excessive: a prop that enables her to get herself in the right state of mind to face the world every day. It’s only really in the last week that she’s realised how vital it was for her to listen every morning to a strong woman confronting leaders, asking probing questions, taking on anything that her producers put in front of her. By doing her job in this way Fran Kelly made Adele feel strong, well informed, even reasonably confident in her own job. This morning it occurs to her that perhaps it’s not as odd as it seems, and that other people also need to kick-start their working selves, especially if they live alone. We all find our props and our stepping-stones, she thinks. She remembers now that Roger, who had been instrumental in getting her to set up the bureau, had always insisted he was unable to start or end the day without classical music. It reinforced his belief that there were things in life greater, more important and enriching, than the idiocies of the administrative demands of life in a university, he said. His bedside radio was always tuned to Classic FM, while Jenna, when she was at uni and then later in her first job, seemed unable to start the day without Triple J. ‘Music to arm myself with,’ she had insisted. Music for them, words for me, so maybe I’m not so different after all, Adele thinks, even if I did take it all a bit too far. She looks down at her hands; she’s hardly made any fists in the last week. That has to be a very good sign.

  Since yesterday afternoon when Judy took the phone call from Melissa and promptly ended their discussion, Adele has been thinking how alike she and Judy are in the ways they have organised their lives. Judy had spoken of cramming her life with work and other responsibilities that left no room for love, and when Adele heard that she’d felt winded, as though she’d been punched in the chest, for she knew instantly that she had done exactly the same thing. She had once longed for love, for a lasting relationship, what people thought of as a ‘normal’ family, but her fear of rejection always held her back and when she did meet someone she saw as ‘a person of interest’, she seemed unable to relax and became, instead, her most awkward and self-protective self. But while Judy has been suffocating under own chaos, Adele knows that she herself has been trapped by her own neurotic orderliness.