Left Luggage

by Andrew Christie

  Billy hadn’t seen a film camera before. Betty showed him how they worked, taking the 50mm lens off the Nikon, showing him the mirror, opening the back to show him where the film went. Then she cocked it and fired the shutter. The old camera still made a crisp click as the mirror flipped up and the shutter opened and closed, all in the blink of an eye.

  Billy was amazed at the complex mechanics of it. “Used to take weeks to see the photos in the old days, didn’t it?” he said.

  “Not necessarily. If you have a darkroom, you can process the film yourself,” said Betty.

  “Yeah?” Billy sounded sceptical.

  Betty twisted the lens back into place and held up the camera “Here, you have a try.”

  Billy held the camera up to his eye and pressed the shutter release. Nothing happened.

  “You have to cock it,” said Betty. She showed him how to use the lever that advanced the film and cocked the shutter.

  Billy tried again, grinning when the camera clicked. “Can I take it outside?”

  John nodded. “Yeah, but don’t drop it. And don’t go taking photos of old people getting dressed.”

  John sat down next to Betty while Billy wandered around the courtyard with the Nikon pretending to take photographs of flowers, birds and an old tabby cat. “I got a letter yesterday from Jacques Poirier about some more furniture in Paris,” he said.

  “The lawyer?”

  “Yeah. Do you know about that? More furniture in storage there?”

  “My furniture? It’s here, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, your furniture is here. All that was at Rue de Gergovie – that was all I knew about. It sounds like he’s talking about some other stuff that’s still in Paris, in storage.”

  “I have more furniture than is here. In this apartment. Is the rest still in Paris?”

  “No. All your stuff is here, in Sydney. There was too much for the new apartment so I put it in a lock-up. A storage unit. I’ll take you and show you sometime. I think the lawyer is talking about some other furniture that wasn’t at Rue de Gergovie. Furniture in storage in Paris. Do you remember what it might be?”

  Betty looked at him then turned to watch Billy squatting in front of the cat, talking to it as if it was a fashion model, while he clicked away with the empty camera. “Jorge’s things,” she said quietly.

  John watched his mother. She didn’t look up at him.

  “Dad’s things?”

  Betty nodded, watching Billy.

  John’s father had died before he was born. All John had ever had of his father’s belongings were some books and photographs. “You’ve had Dad’s things in storage all this time? Why didn’t you tell me?” He stood up and walked away from her, then turned back and stood over her. “It’s been forty years, Mum.”

  “Don’t shout.”

  John sat down again. “For fuck’s sake,” he said quietly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “When he died, it was very sudden. It was too much, too much to deal with. And later ... it just seemed simpler. To forget.”

  “Simpler to forget? He was my father.”

  “He was my love.”

  John couldn’t believe that she had never told him that there were things of his father’s in storage. All that time. “I don’t understand you. Didn’t you think I’d want to know? That I had a right to know? Il était mon père pour l’amour de Dieu.”

  “You weren’t born yet. You didn’t know him.”

  “No, I didn’t, did I? That’s the problem, I didn’t have the chance.”

  “Please don’t shout at me.”

  They glared at each other.

  He hadn’t been bloody shouting. John tried to put his anger aside. “What is there? What furniture did he have? Why did you keep it? Why not sell it, why leave it in storage?”

  “I don’t know why. It was too painful. You were on the way. I was alone. It was just too much.”

  “So what was there? Didn’t you pack it up?”

  “No. After he died, I let the removalists pack it up. There will be his furniture,” said Betty. “I don’t know what else. He had some nice furniture. Books, of course, lots of books.”

  John turned and looked out the window. Billy had stopped photographing the cat. He was talking to a white-haired man who was carrying plastic shopping bags. The cat had changed allegiances and was busy rubbing itself around the old man’s ankles. Billy was looking embarrassed, not sure what to do with his hands or with the camera hanging around his neck. The man said something and Billy pointed to John and Betty.

  “Who’s that talking to Billy?” John asked.

  “Oh, I met him this morning. Ken, that’s his name.” Betty went to the window and waved him over. “He’s pleasant enough.”

  Ken came over and smiled at Betty. “Is this your family?”

  “No,” said Betty. “Well, yes, my son is, John, but this young man is his friend Billy. I’ve just been showing him my cameras.”

  Ken shook hands with John. “Good to meet you. Young Billy here seems to be trying to turn Tiger into a star.”

  “The cat,” Betty explained. Tiger was sitting in the middle of the lawn watching them.

  “He’s wondering why he isn’t the centre of attention anymore,” Ken said. “Anyway, I better get my ice cream in the fridge before it melts. Nice to meet you.”

  “We better get going too,” said John.

  John didn’t say much as he and Billy drove back to Camperdown. On the way they picked up some lunch in Stanmore. Hamburgers, fries and Cokes, which they ate sitting in the shade on John’s back veranda, looking out on the overgrown kikuyu grass. John ate silently, methodically, but apparently Billy wanted to talk.

  He sucked on his Coke till the straw was just pulling air, watching John chew his fries. “How come you aren’t French?” he asked.

  John looked at him. “I am. Technically.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I was born there, and I’ve got French and Australian passports.”

  “Can you have two passports? From two countries?”

  “Yeah. I was born in Paris, but Mum sent me to boarding school here, in Sydney, when I was six. She wanted me to be Australian even though she never wanted anything much to do with Australia herself.”

  “Why not?”

  “Dunno. I used to stay with my grandparents down at Kogarah in the holidays. I only went home to Paris at Christmas.”

  “What was it like in Paris?” Billy asked.

  “Cold mostly. So cold after Sydney, and dark. Short days,” said John. “Food was good though, particularly after boarding school food. I used to miss the beach and my friends. I never had a proper summer for a long time.” He remembered days stuck in the apartment, and following his mother through the cold streets to parties and restaurants. Playing with kids he only saw once a year. “I think I would have been better off going to school in Paris. I would have had more friends, but Mum was always travelling overseas for work.”

  “Taking photos?” Billy said. “Sounds like a sweet job.”

  “Dangerous, if you’re taking photos of wars.” John scrunched up the wrapping from his hamburger and shoved it into his empty drink container.

  “I suppose so. Do you speak French?”

  “Oui,” said John, “It’s English I have trouble with.”

  “I wouldn’t mind boarding school,” Billy said. “Not have to go home every day. Never have to see Tom.”

  Tom was Billy’s older brother. “I thought he wasn’t at home much anymore.”

  “Yeah, he spends a lot of time with his girlfriend. Unless she kicks him out. Then he comes crawling home. Trying to bludge off Ma and telling me what to do all the time.” Billy peeled the plastic lid off his drink container and peered inside at the ice filling the bottom now that he had sucked out all the cola.

  “How old is he?”

  “Seventeen,” said Billy. “He’s got a new girlfriend now. Called Jenny. Dark hair, big mouth. Big tits.
Ma hates her. Reckons she’s a bloody prossie. ‘What’s he bloody hanging around with her for?’ she says. I reckon the big tits might have something to do with it.” Billy snorted. “She’s nice though, to me. Smiles, that’s more than bloody Tom does. He couldn’t give a rat’s. She’s got a tat of a red rose winding up her arm.”

  Billy didn’t think Jenny was a prostitute. John thought Billy had a big crush on the girl.

  “Not that I’m gonna ask her,” Billy said. “Tom would kill me. Seriously. Kill me dead. Even Ma wouldn’t ask, and she’ll ask anyone anything. She once asked Uncle Teddy if he was a poof. Just like that, to his face. We were sitting around watching telly. Big Brother or some shit. They were just about to kick someone off, when Ma pipes up and says, ‘So Teddy, you a poof or what?’”

  “Who’s Teddy?” asked John. He was having trouble keeping up with Billy’s family.

  “Uncle Teddy. He’s not really an uncle, just a friend of Ma’s brother, Peter. The one who got killed in Vietnam, not the other one, Kevin. He’s up in Western Australia somewhere, working in the mines. Don’t think I’ve ever met him. If I have, I can’t remember. Peter and Teddy were in the army together, in Vietnam. Anyway we were all sitting around when Ma asks Teddy if he’s a poof. Tom was home then – this was a couple of years ago – Tom gave a huge snort of surprise halfway through having a pull on his VB. Beer came spurting out his nose, made a mess on the rug. Mum jumped up shouting at him to get out, saying he was too young to be drinking anyway, what the hell’s he think he’s doing? Tom’s got beer and snot all over him, yelling at Ma to shut the fuck up and go get a towel. I was nearly wetting myself, but trying not to let Tom see. In all the shouting and carrying on, Uncle Teddy left. Just snuck out the front door.

  “Course, Teddy is a poof, gay, whatever. Everyone knew it, but Teddy didn’t know everyone knew. He thought it was a secret still. I don’t care if he is, though. I like Teddy, he’s about the only person I know who’s never hit me.” He looked at John. “Apart from you.”

  “Give me time,” said John, “you haven’t known me that long.”

  “None of us cared really. It’s just who Uncle Teddy is. They make jokes about him, when he’s not around. Well, mostly when he’s not around. He just pretends not to hear if he is around.”

  “So Teddy’s a friend of this dead uncle, Peter?” John said. “Was he gay too?”

  “Don’t know. No one jokes about whether Peter was a poof. He’s a dead hero. I don’t think Teddy would be so quiet if they did.”

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  No One Gets Out Alive

  Betty hated the new apartment. It was too small and it was too different. It wasn’t her home. She was trapped there unless John came and picked her up in his little truck. Compared to her home in Montparnasse, it was pokey and characterless, all modern and bland. It felt temporary.

  Betty couldn’t get used to it, couldn’t settle into a routine. She had trouble remembering where things were. Even though the kitchen was tiny, she still could never find anything, opening, then banging closed, every one of the cupboard doors before she found what she was looking for – sometimes forgetting what it was she wanted in the first place. John said that he could take the doors off the cupboards if she would prefer that, but it would look terrible. It was designed to have doors. Why they couldn’t just put in nice simple shelves, she didn’t know. She didn’t need much in the kitchen, just two of everything, It wasn’t as if she was going throw a party. No one visited her but John.

  The food was all different too. When John took her shopping, she could only rely on guesswork in the huge supermarket. There were no brands she was familiar with, so there was no way to know which ones she would like. The supermarket vegetables were all big and shiny and flavourless. Even the meat was all wrapped in plastic. John tried to help but it soon became apparent that their tastes did not overlap. Sometimes she chose the cheapest, sometimes the most expensive, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. It was like learning how to live again. Which crackers, which tuna, which soap? And there was only her to feed so if she bought the wrong thing it took a long time to use it all up. John said she should just throw it out if she didn’t like it, but she wasn’t going to waste things she had paid good money for. She should be glad to live somewhere where there was choice, but that was no use when all the choices on offer were wrong. In Paris, Betty had done her shopping at the little street market, just down on the corner. It was only open on Wednesday and Sunday but it had everything she needed, and they all knew her and they knew what she liked. Chèvre from the Loire and those little pork saucisse, her favourite weekend breakfast. She missed gossiping with her neighbours while they shopped, and buying fresh flowers for the apartment each week. She missed it all, she missed her life.

  Now she spent most of her time reading, and looking out the window. There was an enormous new television in the sitting room but it never seemed to work properly for her. It was fine when John was around, he could always get it to work straight away, making her look like a bloody fool. But when he wasn’t there it refused to do what she wanted. Not that there was anything on television that she was remotely interested in. It was all American and English shows, except for SBS. France hardly got a mention. The radio was worse. She had no idea what the talk shows were always so indignant about. She wanted a little bit of jazz to listen to but apparently that was too much to ask for in Sydney. She did have her CDs at least. And her own old CD player. She knew how to make that work. In the afternoons Mingus, Coltrane and Davis slid around the apartment, weaving spells, while she read. She was gradually rediscovering her old books, exploring the bookcases that John had filled at random from different parts of her collection. She found once familiar titles in strange new associations, many she hadn’t looked at for years. They took on a new light, covers she remembered well, but the details long forgotten. She spent hours sitting in her old chair, listening to her old music, reading her old books while outside the sun glared hot and white. Through her windows she could see the other residents walking or hobbling through the courtyard.

  John had arranged for a physiotherapist to come twice a week to oversee her rehabilitation. Stephan – “with an A” – was a horribly cheerful young man, and far too familiar. “Have you been doing your exercises, Betty?” No I have not, it hurts too much. And it’s Madame Lawrence to you, she thought, trying to swing her leg out against the pull of a big rubber band that was tied to the leg of the bed. Despite her grumbling at the exercises, Stephan’s relentlessly cheerful encouragement did produce results. Betty found that her leg got stronger and hurt less each week. By her second month at Forest Court she was moving around the village with the aid of her stick. Not that there was anything to see, but she did go to the letter boxes each day, to collect what was mostly junk mail, and she started going to the communal laundry to do her washing.

  Moving around the village put her in contact with more of her neighbours. Most were completely boring. She should have expected that in an old people’s home, but she hadn’t expected them all to be so poorly dressed. There was an awful lot of knitted polyester, mostly shapeless, mostly beige. Some of them even got about outside in slippers.

  They were Christians generally, which was understandable, seeing that Forest Court was a church-run place. To her atheistic eyes, however, it made them even more alien and incomprehensible. They talked about things she had no knowledge of, and less care for. At first they seemed interested in her, asking questions about where she came from, what she had done. When she tried to tell them all about Paris, about her work, their clouded eyes would glaze over and they would nod then take the first chance to shuffle away. They had nothing in common with Betty, nothing to share.

  Nearly everything about Sydney and the village annoyed her. “My God, the heat, how do you stand it? And the noise? Those damned cicadas, I can’t hear myself think.” Betty knew that she was always complaining about Sydney but she didn’t know how to
stop.

  There were a couple of inmates whose company she enjoyed. Ken Mallard was one. Betty got in the habit of sitting outside on her terrace with a cup of tea each morning, about the time Ken came back from his daily constitutional, as he insisted on calling his morning walk. Ken reminded her of men from her parents’ generation, hardworking and with a dry-as-dust sense of humour. The two of them shared a wry view of where life had led them. Ken had worked on the railways, a fitter and turner in the workshops at Redfern. “A good union man I was, until it turned out most of the bastards were corrupt all along. More fool me. It was all comrade this and comrade that, meanwhile they were lining their pockets. I was sick of the whole thing by the time I retired.” His wife, Louise, had died in 2001: “Bowel cancer. A stroke finished the old girl off.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Betty.

  “Well, no one gets out alive, do they?”

  “No. That is true.”

  “What about you, Betty? Were you ever married?”

  “No. Not married. Jorge, John’s father, he died before John was born. 1975, a long time ago.”

  “Long time to be alone.”

  “Yes.”

  There had been men of course, affairs but no relationships. She had never wanted a replacement for poor darling Jorge.

  Helen Hayes was another one that Betty liked. She had worked in the government, “Before I became old, before I became an aged-care consumer.” Helen was a striking woman, tall, and always dressed in strong, bright colours, her long grey hair pulled back in a plait that hung down her back. Helen said what she thought, which Betty liked, and was a bit left-wing, which was appealingly unfashionable. We were all socialists at one time, thought Betty, but everyone seemed to get more conservative as they got older.

  Betty found that despite herself she enjoyed Ken’s and Helen’s company. They had a bit of spark about them, and were interested in life. The two of them tried to get her involved in the village activities, but Betty resisted.