A Month of Sundays

by Liz Byrski

  *

  ‘Tea and toast,’ Simone says, a couple of hours later, carrying a tray into the lounge room and putting it on the coffee table. ‘Pity we’ve run out of crumpets, but I always think toast is comforting.’ She looks at Ros, who is sitting on the sofa, her legs up, blanket wrapped around her and Clooney glued to her side. ‘You’re looking a bit better now, Ros,’ she says, ‘but still a bit pale.’ She takes a mug of tea from the tray and puts it on the small side table where Ros can reach it, along with two slices of toast. ‘In fact you’re looking rather regal sitting there. Drink your tea and eat some toast, Your Majesty.’

  Ros smiles. ‘Thanks Simone, I am certainly being royally cared for.’ She looks around the room. ‘I’m so sorry . . .’

  ‘Oh, do stop apologising,’ Judy says, standing beside the fireplace, hands on her hips. ‘It’s so unlike you. We’ve grown to love our grumpy old bat and now you’re going all polite and, well, wet!’ They are all laughing now. ‘Besides,’ Judy continues, ‘we have things to do.’

  ‘Do we?’ Ros asks, cautiously nibbling the corner of her toast.

  ‘Of course. We need to make a plan for the future. There are ways we can all support Ros –’

  ‘But it’s not your responsibility . . .’ Ros cuts in.

  ‘It’s not about responsibility,’ Judy says. ‘I’m not saying it’s something we’re responsible for; it’s about commitment to each other, to our friendship. Sisterhood, if you like, Ros, that sounds like your sort of leftie, feminist word. And it’s not all about you anyway. As I was about to say when you interrupted, we need a plan to support you and each other. We’re all single and we’re all getting older; each of us has had to face something serious since we’ve been here. That’s a bond. This is no longer just a book club. It can be much more; it can have a life long after we leave here. Does anyone have a problem with that?’

  ‘Not me!’ Adele says. ‘I want this to go on.’

  ‘Me too,’ Simone says, looking at Judy, thinking how dramatically she has changed since their drive up here from the airport. ‘You’re all part of my family now.’

  Judy looks at Ros, who gives her a watery smile and nods her head slowly, then more rapidly. ‘I’m in,’ she says, her voice shaky. ‘I’m very much in.’

  ‘There’s something else,’ Simone says, looking around, wondering how they’ll take what she wants to say. ‘There are things . . . transitional things we need to do, each one of us.’

  ‘What do you mean, Simone?’ Judy asks. ‘What transitional things?’

  ‘Well as you just said, Judy, we’ve all gone through something important. We’ve all changed in some way; we’ve faced up to something significant, so none of us can just go back and pick up where we left off. For me it means going to London, meeting Claire and Paula, being with Geoff and Doug again. I can’t just go home and pick up my old life again until I’ve done that. I have to continue what I started when I wrote that message to Geoff the week we arrived.’

  ‘And what about the rest of us?’ Judy asks.

  ‘I think it’s pretty obvious that you need to go back to Suffolk, Judy. Stand where you stood the day of the king’s funeral, assuming it’s not been bulldozed and a factory built on it. Say a prayer; see if you can find some people from your past. You know what England’s like – full of people doing the same things they’ve been doing for decades, living in the same places, going to the same church. I bet you’d find a few people you remember and who remember you.’

  ‘Yes, Judy, Simone’s right,’ Adele says. ‘And I need to go and see Jenna. I want to show her who I am now; talk to her about at least a million things. What about you, Ros?’

  Ros is silent and Judy sees that she is once again struggling to get her voice under control.

  ‘Well I have to get serious about the Parkinson’s, make a self-management plan, as I should have done months ago,’ she begins. ‘Look at making some changes in the house, get rid of the car . . . all that stuff . . .’ She hesitates.

  ‘And before you do that?’ Simone asks.

  ‘Before I do that . . .’ Ros pauses, then looks up at them. ‘Well I think you all know the answer to that. In fact, you all knew it before I did.’

  Chapter Twenty-two

  London, six weeks later

  ‘So where is it you want me to drop you?’ the taxi driver asks.

  Ros leans forward to talk to him through the glass. ‘As close as possible to the British Library please. I think there’s a little café somewhere there,’ she says, turning to the others. This is their third day in London and she’s starting to get her bearings. ‘If not, there will be seats inside the library.’

  The traffic moves on slowly and a couple of minutes later the driver pulls up.

  ‘That’s the British Library,’ he says, pointing across to the other side of the street. ‘And you wanted a café, there’s one just there, see?’

  ‘Perfect. We’ll get out here.’ The others pile out onto the pavement while Ros hands over the cash. ‘Thanks, you’re a star,’ she calls back to the driver.

  ‘We aim to please,’ he grins and pulls back out into the traffic.

  ‘So let’s just check the plan, Ros,’ Adele says. ‘We’ll have a coffee, and when you’re ready you’ll walk down to the corner, do what you need to do, and then walk back. Okay?’

  ‘That’s it,’ Ros says, pausing to take a deep breath, and remembering the last time she crossed this street with James on the way to the Library. Clutching her little bunch of hothouse violets she slips her other hand through Adele’s arm as the four of them wait for the lights to change and then cross the street together.

  It’s a bright, chilly morning, but they are all well rugged up; Ros thinks Adele looks particularly striking and sporty in a lime-green puffer jacket she’d bought in Dubai. She had organised this trip for them, using her contacts to get them upgraded to business class, which had made the journey a great deal more comfortable than it would otherwise have been. They settle at an outside table and order coffee.

  ‘Tell them your news, Judy,’ Adele says.

  Judy blushes and Ros sees that it’s obviously good news. When they’d all met at the airport for the flight to London, Ros had been staggered by the change in Judy. Both she and Adele had sent Ros and Simone email updates from Mandurah, so Ros knew that there was now a plan for Judy to exit the business and that she was over the moon at the prospect of freedom. Even so, she hadn’t been prepared for the transformation. Judy looked about ten years younger; the tension had gone from her body and her face and she seemed almost giddy with happiness and relief.

  ‘Well,’ Judy says now, ‘a couple of weeks ago I sent the video of my knitted town to the local council, like Adele suggested. Then I just forgot about it. But guess what? This morning I got an email. Apparently there’s quite a significant arts centre there now and they want to talk about the possibility of acquiring it! So I emailed back and I’m meeting the manager and the mayor when we go to Suffolk on Thursday.’

  Ros punches the air. ‘Yay! Judy, that’s wonderful, good on you, and you too Adele.’ And to her dismay tears well in her eyes. ‘Oh shit! Am I ever going to stop crying like this at everything? I’m like a bloody sprinkler!’ She dabs her cheeks with some tissues and as Simone hugs Judy, Adele beams across at Ros and gives her a thumbs up.

  ‘What are you hiding in your book bag, Adele?’ Simone asks as Adele hauls the canvas bag onto her lap.

  ‘Books,’ Adele says, ‘for next month’s discussion.’

  ‘Really?’ Ros says. ‘I didn’t know we’d chosen a book.’

  ‘We didn’t,’ Adele says. ‘I made an arbitrary decision because I thought of a book that would be ideal. So yesterday I rang around and managed to track down four copies, and this morning, while you lot were lying around drinking tea, I popped out in a taxi and picked them up.’

&n
bsp; ‘Impressive,’ Simone says. ‘Is it a book we had on the list?’

  ‘No,’ Adele says. ‘I got something else instead.’

  They look at her in amazement.

  ‘You actually changed the schedule without consultation?’ Ros says. ‘I think we’ve created a monster. First you shamelessly exploit your business contacts to get us here in comfort, and then you start changing the schedule without notice.’

  ‘I know.’ Adele laughs. ‘It’s the new me: ruthless and demanding and I love it! Anyway, I remembered this book and how much I’d loved it, and I think you will too.’ She reaches into her bag, pulls out four books and puts them on the table. ‘So here it is, Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont by Elizabeth Taylor, first published in nineteen seventy-one.’

  ‘Not the Elizabeth Taylor, surely?’ Judy says, picking up a copy and studying the cover.

  ‘No, another Elizabeth Taylor, one of the finest English novelists of the twentieth century.’ Ros says. ‘I’d forgotten all about this, but I read it years ago and absolutely loved it.’

  ‘I’ve read something about her,’ Simone says. ‘Didn’t her first novel come out at the same time as the Elizabeth Taylor made her movie debut in National Velvet?’

  ‘Yes, and it was a disaster for this writer,’ Adele says. ‘It completely hijacked the publicity, and all her life she was being confused with the movie star. People would say just what Judy said: “The Elizabeth Taylor?” And when the answer was no, they lost interest.’

  ‘So why have you chosen it for us now?’ Simone asks.

  ‘It’s about an elderly, single woman, a widow, who tries always to be true to herself in difficult circumstances. She’s at a crucial point in her life, a sort of threshold, trying to adapt to a big change, and then something happens, something at first quite lovely and . . . no! No! I’m not saying any more. But I guarantee you’ll love it.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll get a fifth copy for Paula,’ Simone muses.

  Simone had met Claire and Paula, with Geoff and Doug, the day they arrived in London. She’d slept well on the journey and while the rest of them had been groaning about jetlag she just shrugged it off. A few hours later, when she’d returned to the hotel, where the others were waiting anxiously, she had been exhausted but elated. ‘Paula and I connected almost immediately,’ she’d told them. ‘And when Claire hugged me the past just seemed to melt away.’

  Ros holds the book in both hands and strokes the cover, feeling herself retreating somehow from the group, shifting her focus to where she is and why she’s here at the heart of all the places she knew with James. She feels calm now, calmer, she realises, than she has felt for a long time, and safe. There is no easy road ahead, but she knows she’s not going to have to navigate that alone.

  Her phone beeps and she reaches into her bag.

  ‘Oh look!’ she says. ‘Leah’s sent me a video of Clooney.’ Adele, who is next to her, leans over and together they watch it, doubling up with laughter as they pass it on to the others. Tim is lying, obviously asleep, on Ros’s squishy old sofa. Alongside him Clooney is watching him, fidgeting on his paws in anticipation of a walk. He nudges Tim’s arm with his nose. ‘Go for it, Clooney,’ Leah calls in the background. Clooney tries again, moving to paw Tim’s thigh. Tim begins to stir, mumbles something, eyes still closed, and reaches out to pat his head. Clooney, spurred on by success, immediately leaps onto the sofa, clambers over Tim’s legs, plants all four paws on his chest and starts furiously licking Tim’s face.

  ‘I see my place in Clooney’s affections has been usurped by Tim,’ Simone sighs when they’ve finally stopped laughing. ‘But just the same, could you send that to me, please Ros? I’d love to have it.’

  ‘Me too,’ Adele says. ‘I’d like to show it to Jenna and Jean-Claude when I get to Quebec. I’ve been boring them with Clooney stories on Skype.’

  Ros sends on the video and sits quietly for a few moments, watching the others talking and laughing, remembering the day they all arrived at the house and everything that came after. All those wonderful stories, she thinks, where would we be now without those stories and the books that helped us to tell them? She sighs and gets to her feet.

  ‘Time to do my thing,’ she says, picking up her violets.

  ‘I’ll just come a little bit of the way,’ Simone says, getting up, suddenly serious. They walk together towards the cross street where James had jumped from the bus.

  ‘Thanks, Simone, I’ll be all right from here on,’ Ros says. ‘I won’t be long.’

  ‘Be as long as you want,’ Simone says. ‘We’ll be here.’ And she gives Ros a hug, then turns and walks away.

  Ros walks on to the corner, presses the button for the lights and waits. As she stands there she remembers something Simone said to her on the flight here.

  ‘You and I,’ she’d said, ‘have to learn to turn our grief into strength. Stop it from dragging us down and use it to make us strong.’ Ros stares ahead, thinking of this, willing this small pilgrimage to become something that will finally put her grief to use.

  The lights change and she crosses over. She’d imagined sitting on the kerbstone but it’s clear she won’t be able to do that, there is far too much traffic, and too many pedestrians. But there is a low wall nearby and as the lights change she crosses over and sits on that, feeling very strange, as though she is waiting for something to happen. She shifts her position, closes her eyes to focus, thinking of why she’s here, waiting for the right moment.

  I hope you’re listening, James, she says eventually. I’ve brought you these violets. Do you remember how much you loved the little bunch I had the day we got married? Well, now I’ve brought them to help me say goodbye. Not forever of course, just the au revoir I should have said sooner. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long, but there was something so final about the thought of it that I just couldn’t. But now I’m here I know it’s the right thing to do and the right time to do it. I miss you, my darling. I miss you every moment of every day, but I think I’ve learned to live without you. I didn’t do that . . . didn’t even want to do that . . . for a very long time. I think I had to open myself to something else before I could leave you in peace. The something else turns out to be these three beautiful women. You’d like them, and they’d love you. I like to think of you up there, looking down, seeing what I’m up to, rolling your eyes, laughing and groaning with embarrassment.

  It’s a different life without you and I’ll never forget how lucky I was to have you in that precious other life. I’m never going to stop missing you, that’s never going to change, but there’s a right time for closure, don’t you think? You can’t do it too soon, but I left it too long because I was frightened it would be the end. But it’s really about moving forward, isn’t it? Moving forward without leaving anyone behind, just leaving them and oneself in peace.

  If you know what’s going on down here, and I like to think that you do, you’ll know I’m okay. Oh dear, I’m useless at this, aren’t I? I probably won’t be quite so dependent on you in future. Maybe that’ll be a relief for you?

  And by the way, I really wish you could have waited just a couple more minutes for the bus to stop. Now that I’m here I can see how close the bus stop is to the corner. Why couldn’t you have waited? Men, honestly, you’re a hopeless lot.

  She stops for a moment, inhales deeply, then pulls some tissues from her pocket, wipes away her tears and takes another deep breath before continuing. I’ll still keep talking to you, of course, but not so much. In my mind, you’ll always remain as the man you were when you left home that morning; the man I loved all those years, and still love in your absence.

  It seems a long way from Sydney to London just to say this to you, to bring you these violets. But perhaps the distance itself represents the enormity of what I’m actually doing. I’ll leave you to think about that. Thank you for all those wonderful years, my darling, and for .
. . well, just for being you and for loving me. You will live for me always, in my heart.

  She shifts her position but goes on sitting there for a while, absolutely still, acknowledging, for the first time in all the years she has talked to him in his absence, that there will not be a reply.

  Ros eventually gets to her feet, rubs her hands across her teary face, picks up the violets and walks to the corner, just where she imagines James would have jumped, where she thinks his head might have been. His blood might actually be in that stone, she thinks. She crouches down to lay the violets on it, loses her balance, staggers dangerously, and ends up crouched over double in the gutter.

  A car swerves to avoid her, the driver blasting out his irritation on his horn.

  ‘All right, keep your hair on,’ Ros says aloud.

  ‘Oh my goodness, you poor thing,’ a woman says, hurrying over to her, helping her to straighten up, then guiding her back onto the pavement. ‘Are you all right? This is such a terrible corner; people are always getting hurt here. My sister fell here last year, shocking bruises she had. I think you should sit down a minute.’

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ Ros says. ‘I’m all right but I will sit for a minute.’ The woman steers her back to the wall and sits down beside her.

  ‘They really should do something about that corner. It’s to do with the slope of the kerb or something, and of course people are so impatient, rushing all the time. You’re looking a bit better now.’

  Ros nods. ‘I’ll be fine. I’m meeting some friends near the library.’

  ‘That’s nice; you’ll be able to have a cup of tea, very good for shock. I’ll wait with you until you’re ready, we can walk together, just in case you feel a bit wobbly. Falling at our age is a worry, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is,’ Ros says, thinking that this woman is probably twenty years younger than her.

  ‘I’ve a good mind to write to the council about this. Plus people are so impatient; they won’t wait until the bus turns the corner and stops, so they just jump off, bump into people on the pavement or fall over. D’you know, it’s a long time ago now, maybe ten years or more, a man jumped down from the bus in winter and he slipped on the ice and hit his head on the kerb and died before the ambulance got here. How bad is that? Imagine it. Imagine his wife at home thinking he was on his way to work and then finding a policeman at the door.’ She shakes her head. ‘So sad.’