by Hugh Mackay
Actually, I never lost contact with young Daniel. He was always so attentive. So, you know, affectionate. He confided in me – but not like a mother. More like a friend. When he gave me a hug or a kiss it really felt as if he meant it. You know? It wasn’t just perfunctory.
Freya never liked me seeing him when she wasn’t present, so I simply stopped telling her. He was very supportive when Frank died. Freya would have no idea of that. And now Charles is – how shall I put this? – back on the scene? Ugh. I hate mealy-mouthed talk like that. Anyway, now Charles is becoming a more established part of my life, Daniel is really the only one who knows or understands the depth of it. The girls must have an inkling. I don’t try to hide it – I just don’t push it in their faces. It’s three years since Frank went, so I don’t feel there’s anything remotely improper about it. But we haven’t said anything formal about it. I don’t know. I’ll just have to judge the moment. Felicity sees him, of course, since she still lives here. Most of the time, anyway. He acts like an uncle to her. Always has. Well, not always. But the other girls . . . no.
Strangely enough, Charles has never met Daniel. I like to keep it that way, for some reason. They each know about the other, but why complicate things? They’d have nothing in common, and I don’t need any more strain in my life.
So. Freya’s visit. She stormed in here – only the most cursory glance at the pair of new curtains I’ve hung in the breakfast room – and got straight into it.
‘Why have you been talking to Daniel about Richard? What did Daniel say about him? What did you say about him?’
I was taken aback, I don’t mind admitting. If only Freya knew the context – the many hours I’ve spent with Daniel going over what happened between them, encouraging him to be bolder – and then, when Lizzie and the baby happened, trying to let him see that we could still be friends. And that he could still be friends with Freya, obviously. They work together, after all. Keep the channel open: that’s what I always say to him. You never know, I always say.
I refused to react. Freya doesn’t listen when she’s in that sort of mood. I told her Daniel and I were good friends and that he sometimes came to me for advice about the baby. That’s almost true. She didn’t like that. Not one bit. She didn’t like to be reminded that Daniel and I have a relationship independently of her.
‘Daniel is a little shit, Mum. A little shit.’ I distinctly remember her saying that, because it is so obviously untrue and she so obviously doesn’t believe it herself. Also, the language. Ugh. We don’t talk like that in this house. Well, I don’t. Never have. Frank was very strict about language. Swearing. Very strict. Even Felicity – she of the foul mouth – was careful around Frank.
‘And Richard is the man I intend to marry. Marry. For life. Do you understand? He is not to be the subject of idle chat between you and the deeply delusional Daniel.’
Deeply delusional. I recall that bit, too.
I said, as simply as I could, that I thought Daniel was still in love with her and there was nothing amazing or terrible about that. People can love more than one person at a time. Everybody knows that. Daniel certainly knows it. I know it myself.
Then Freya tried to get me to say something positive and supportive about Richard. I hadn’t even met the man at that stage, but here she was, expecting me to be all delighted on her behalf. I was prepared to concede that, by the sound of it, he was a decent chap who apparently loved one of my daughters. I could hardly have been expected to offer any more than that, sight unseen.
‘Oh, great. “A decent chap”. Thank you so much,’ she said.
She was rather worked. Very. Said something about wanting my blessing. My blessing. Not like Freya at all.
I was tempted to say, ‘Well, he sounds like a much better proposition than Dave’, but I restrained myself.
It kind of petered out then, as if she’d run out of steam. She actually admired the new curtains and even asked me about the arthritis in my hand. (No worse, thankfully.) But that was just the calm before the storm, because she suddenly seemed to go slightly mad. She began shouting at me. ‘Are you ever going to admit where Felicity’s red hair came from? Did Dad know? Are you ever going to be honest with us? About anything?’
Then she started sobbing and ran out of the house. It was an astonishing performance. She did ring me later to try to justify her appalling behaviour. I hope I was gracious.
Actually, I’ve tried to talk to her – to both the older girls – in a sensible way about Charles, but if I happen to mention how well he’s done out of novated leasing, Freya simply laughs and claps her hands over her ears. She doesn’t even try to understand. Doesn’t even try. Look, since I’ve got to know Richard a bit, I must say I don’t mind him. Except he’s such a bore. Daniel is more – I don’t know – earthy.
Anyway, it’s Freya’s life. And mine is mine.
10
Daughter and Mother
Ever since I was a little kid, I’ve known that my mother needed careful handling. Not that she’s a prima donna. Well, not exactly. But she certainly likes being the centre of attention – especially with men – and I always felt I was falling short in some way. Even more strangely, I sometimes felt it suited her for me to fall short. She didn’t like to be outshone. Very needy, my mother. Dad adored her until the day he died, but that was never enough.
I was an adventurous, impulsive sort of child – climbing trees, crawling into drains, never staying close enough to shore when we went swimming. (I loved swimming almost as much as playing the violin. Still do – my daily swim is as therapeutic as my daily practice.) Mum would often tell me that something I was doing wasn’t ladylike. Ladylike!
I was right into music, of course, which was never Mum’s thing. She didn’t disapprove – she just didn’t get it. She had clearly hoped I would be an academic star like Fern, and I never was. Neither was Felicity, when she finally came along, but she was a sporty kid and Mum seemed to love the reflected glory of that. (It probably helped Felicity’s cause that she was a rather odd-looking child – is that too uncharitable?) But music? No. Zero grasp. I loved practising my fiddle and that drove her nuts, too. I never spent enough time doing other homework. If I wasn’t practising, I was outside mucking around.
You could say we were never on the same wavelength. I yearned to spend more time with Dad, but he was always busy, often away, and when he was at home, Mum needed his undivided attention.
And then Daniel came along and she was enchanted by him. Even more than I ever was, truth be told. She flirted with him. There was no other word for it. It was excruciating. But he didn’t seem fazed by it. I think he believed if he could keep Mum onside that would give him some sort of privileged access to me. Fat chance. Our little fire burnt out very quickly.
But I thought that was all in the past. Then Fern tells me Daniel and Mum have been having tete-a-tetes on the subject of Richard, when Mum hadn’t even met him at that stage. That’s actually typical of Daniel. And typical of Mum, too. There was no way I was going to let them get away with this. Especially after she told Fern about it.
Knowing Mum, and knowing me, I had to approach this rather carefully. It couldn’t seem like an attack, but I had to let her know that I knew about it and that I was mightily displeased. I also thought I might be able to suggest – ever so gently – that her first loyalty should be to Richard, not Daniel. She knew how serious I was about Richard. Even though she hadn’t met him I’d probably told her more than she wished to know; probably come on too strong. I do that a bit. I’d certainly hinted that, in my mind, marriage was a distinct possibility.
Anyway, I took a deep breath and knocked on her door. (For some reason, she changed the locks after Dad died and Fern and I were never given new keys.)
She looked gorgeous, of course, in a silk Diane von Furstenberg number. Ash-blonde hair perfectly coiffed. Everything up a notch since Dad died. She always looks gorgeous, as if she’s expecting to go somewhere special at any moment, or as
if she wants to be prepared for an unexpected caller.
I wasn’t unexpected.
‘Hello, Mum,’ I said, as cheerfully, as normally, as I could. I kissed her on the cheek while she kissed the air. We almost hugged.
I asked about her arthritis. I don’t like to think of her in pain – well, not physical pain, anyway. I wouldn’t mind if she felt a bit of guilt or shame occasionally. I took her hands in mine and examined them. They looked pretty good. Nails immaculate, naturally.
She mentioned she’d hung new curtains in the breakfast room, so we trooped in there for a close inspection. They were lovely, of course. I told her they were lovely. Even after I’d told her, she asked me if I liked them. We went three times around that loop.
She offered me tea. I accepted, and made it for both of us.
We sat together in the breakfast room. I broached the subject as gently as I could. I mentioned that I’d heard she’d been speaking to Daniel about Richard and I had felt a bit uneasy about what was reported to have passed between them.
‘Oh, Fern, then, was it?’ She rotated her shoulders back and forth in that way she does to indicate annoyance.
I persisted. ‘I gather Daniel is claiming to still be in love with me. Not sure why he would say that, given Lizzie and the baby . . . to say nothing of Richard.’
‘And, indeed, we did say nothing of Richard.’
I didn’t believe her, of course, but I’ll say one thing for Mum: when she tells a lie, she convinces herself it’s true and nothing will budge her. The information that Daniel still loves me wasn’t exactly news, since he manages to convey that every time we meet, but it was the idea of the two of them discussing me – and Richard, I have no doubt – that galled me. Though here’s a funny thing – I have to admit I was more steamed up about it when Fern first told me than I was there and then, sitting in Mum’s breakfast room, admiring the curtains and realising she wouldn’t have been able to resist another chance to have Daniel to herself – especially if the question of love was on the agenda. Mum is such a victim of love. Of the whole idea of love.
Really, Daniel was the guilty one. Daniel, the little shit. He’d initiated this, for sure. He had the advantage of knowing Richard, so he’d have been trying to turn Mum off him before she’d even met him. He’d have thought, in his tiny twisted mind, that if he could convince Mum he was still in love with me, she’d be able to convince me of . . . what? The need to stay single and celibate, so Daniel’s fantasies could rage unsullied by an inconvenient truth, like the prospect of me becoming attached to Richard?
The more I looked at my mother, the more pointless and puerile this whole scene seemed to be. I was almost sorry I’d brought it up.
And then she said something that flipped a switch in my head.
‘Daniel and I are quite close, you know.’
Daniel and I are quite close. Quite close.
Considering how I was feeling at that moment, I think I stayed remarkably calm. For me. I did tell her a few home truths about Daniel, including, I admit, a rather vehement and not terribly kind critique of his skill as a cellist. It was a sort of metaphor for sex, I guess – it came from a very deep place – but Mum would never have cottoned on to that.
Next thing, like an idiot, I heard myself saying something about Charles. Where did that come from? I restrained myself from telling her that Fern and I call him ‘the Monk’. (We got there via ranga/orangutan/monkey, and rather liked its ironic connotations.) But I did hint at how insufferably boring we both find him. Him and his fucking novated leasing. (I think I actually uttered the f-word, banned in Mum’s house.) I certainly mentioned, not for the first time, that, thanks to her, our family ran on a high-octane blend of secrecy and deceit.
Maybe that’s what set her off. Anyway, she started weeping. It was extraordinary. She never weeps. I never saw her shed a single tear over Dad’s death. Not even at the funeral. Fern and I did all the crying. Everyone said how remarkably composed Mum was and she took that as a compliment, of course, though I doubt if it was intended as one.
Anyway, there she was: weeping. I never really tried with Charles, she said, as if her determined coolness towards the very idea of Richard – even her initial resistance to the idea of meeting him – was some sort of payback. As if I should make more of an effort to understand the importance of Charles’s work; the inherent value to the economy, and to individuals, of novated leasing. Novated leasing! (I certainly understand that Charles makes an awful lot of money out of it, whatever it is, and Mum dresses – lives – more extravagantly than ever before.) Suddenly, the focus had shifted from my complaint about her conversation with Daniel, and her attitude towards Richard, to my attitude towards Charles. I was now the guilty party. She has always been good at pulling that sort of switcheroo. Manipulation, pure and simple, and very impressive in its way.
I tried to get back to the main point – the advent of Richard in my life and all the transformations I was certain would follow. I think I might even have shed a few tears of my own at that point. It mattered so much to me – and to Richard – that Mum should be prepared to welcome him into the family. Ours is such a fucked-up family, I don’t know why it mattered. But it did, and it still does. I think maybe because Richard’s own family fell apart when he was at such a vulnerable age. Even our crazy, secretive, fucked-up version is better than nothing. And I honestly do think we all love each other, in a funny kind of way.
I ended up feeling sorry for my mother that day. It was very fraught. We didn’t even say goodbye, though I rang her later and offered a sort of half-apology which she sort of half accepted.
11
Coming Home –
5th Variation – ‘A Certain Smile’
My favourite homecomings are those when Freya greets me at the door and unleashes her most uninhibited, her most enchanting smile – a smile that lights up her face and melts my heart, every single time. It’s such a welcome contrast from the more usual sight of her sitting at the convivium table, hunched over a musical score or tapping away on her tablet.
That smile. Those bright white teeth, perfectly shaped, perfectly spaced; those full lips, generously parted; sparkling eyes, crinkled nose; the single dimple in her right cheek; chin raised, as if she’s expecting to be kissed.
A few weeks into our relationship, I ventured the obvious question: are your teeth completely natural? It didn’t go down well. Freya thought I was implying that such perfection could only come from implants or caps. I wasn’t actually implying that, but it’s true that nature rarely doles out such perfection as Freya’s teeth.
Back then, I didn’t appreciate how resistant Freya is to compliments on her physical appearance – teeth, hair, skin, earlobes, fingers. She relishes compliments on her accomplishments, but not references to what she regards as the accidents of her genetic inheritance.
Of course, perfection isn’t the same thing as beauty – we’ve discussed that, over the years, though only in the most theoretical terms, of course. (I have learnt something.) The essence of beauty, I’ve come to believe, lies in the imperfections, the asymmetries that rescue a face, or a building, from blandness and predictability. Moles were not once called ‘beauty spots’ for nothing. And, in spite of the perfect teeth, there’s that single dimple – just one – and a very slight, and very charming, crookedness in the smile itself. (I’ve kept this observation to myself.) I think it’s something to do with the fact that her lips stretch a little further on the right side of her mouth than on the left. Such things interest me: I’m in the beauty business, after all, beauty and utility. The relationship between the two is often mysterious – as it is in this case. This is a smile that is beautiful in and of itself; this is also a smile that works.
When Freya smiles, I feel its effect deep within me, beyond conscious thought; like a poem written in light or the wordless songs of angels. I see its effect on others, too – on audiences she plays for, on her mother and at least one of her sisters. On the wretch
ed Daniel, of course.
In performance, her face is intent, focused and impassive. She sways a little as she plays, and it is clear that she is utterly absorbed in her work. But there is no sign of pleasure. One night – I recall it clearly – the audience response was a little tepid. The members of the quartet stood to take a bow and you could see they were a bit crestfallen; a bit disappointed. Then Freya smiled at the audience. Full voltage. The applause grew. People rose in their places. Her colleagues looked at her and then they, too, smiled.
Something happens when Freya smiles like that.
I’ve seen that smile completely disarm her mother. You’d never say they have an easy relationship, those two. Sparks sometimes fly but, more often, there are sullen silences that I find deeply unnerving. I tend to leave the room. But when Freya is determined either to get the response she wants from her mother or to shut her down, she simply hyper-smiles at her. It happened on one occasion, years ago, when they were discussing Fern’s first pregnancy – long desired by the mother, who said she had always wanted grandchildren, and that might be true, but I think she also wanted a symbol of the fact that Fern wasn’t going to run off and leave Mike in the way that she had, according to Freya, abandoned several previous partners. For a long time, Freya had thought Fern was a textbook bolter, but the pregnancy – or Mike – had obviously changed all that.
Right on cue, the conversation had swung around to Freya and me . . . and a theoretical ‘family’. Perhaps her mother feared that Freya, too, might bolt (I sometimes fear it myself – it’s my greatest fear, in fact). Perhaps she feared that I might be the one to go. I know she has never really warmed to me, so ‘feared’ might be the wrong word. Perhaps she was unnerved by some recent hair-raising chapter in the endless saga of Felicity – or ‘Flick’ as her sisters insist on calling her – and needed to be reassured that Freya was as settled, as stable, as Fern was turning out to be.