The two girls started to giggle.
‘Gawu?’ I ask.
‘Yeah. It’s the word for egg in the old language,’ Nan explains.
I still don’t understand and, reading my face, she continues. ‘He would sit around all day and do nothing and everyone would run around making sure he was looked after very nicely. Like an egg.’
‘That, and he was an undeveloped life form.’ Melanie laughs heartily at her own joke and I can’t help but join in.
The baby starts to cry. Amanda lifts him up to Nan and she settles him down in her fleshy arms. I look at how gently she cradles him, how instinctively she knows how to keep him quiet. I wonder yet again why Dad never comes home.
Nan is gazing at the baby she has just lulled to sleep when she says, ‘Why don’t you two take your cousin out to the cemetery later today. It’s too hot for me in this heat but the graves need to be tidied. I’ve some flowers for your mother and for Emily.’
A photograph of Emily, a studio portrait, sits on the wall opposite Nan. Dark eyes and pouty mouth - made beautiful with the same features that made Dad handsome. Beside Emily’s portrait sits one of my grandfather, George. Handsome as well, dressed in a suit. The photograph had been coloured by hand but has faded.
Nan’s eyes flick to Emily’s picture as she speaks and I realise how strange it is to hear the name my father never mentions - ‘Emily’ - said aloud. Mum once explained how he hated to talk about her death and it was a family agreement among the three of us never to speak of it. Now I suddenly wanted to go to see her grave, this mysterious woman who Nan loved. And Dad must have loved her too otherwise her death would not have pained him so.
‘It’s too bloody hot to go dancing around the dead,’ Melanie swaggers.
‘Go later in the day. And have some respect for the old people,’ Nan rebukes her sharply.
‘All right. But we’re taking her car.’ Melanie points at me.
When we pull up at the cemetery, the heat has relented. It’s still warm but not too oppressive to move.
You can learn a lot about a town by the cemetery. We walk past the graves of the babies. ‘Died seven months. With the angels now.’ ‘Died three days old. Always in our hearts.’ And one grave: ‘Died five years old. Our light. Our boy.’ The grave is covered with tiny tin and plastic cars, with whistles and other small toys. The odd, colourful display - like a Christmas tableau - is a tribute to inconsolable grief.
We walk further past lines of granite and marble headstones. Some have one side filled with the other side patiently waiting for the spouse to join them. Here lies Pop. Husband of Wilma.
Melanie talks as we go, noticing my interest. ‘That one there is for Wilma Patterson’s husband. I bet she talked him into that bloody grave. She runs the canteen up at the school. She’s an ox. Old man will be waiting a long time for her to join him.’
Wilma ordered the headstone so clearly she knows that is where she wants to be when she goes. The cynical side of me wonders whether her husband wanted the same thing. Still, how comforting it must be to know where you are heading, to know there is a place for you, to know that there is someone who will rest beside you for eternity.
Melanie gives me an oral history of the other graves. There are several young men and women who’ve been killed in car accidents - friends from school, even two cousins. ‘It’s the mix of the grog and the long distances between towns,’ she says. And the recklessness of youth, that feeling of invincibility that teenagers possess, I think to myself.
We arrive at the grave of Melanie’s mother. Melissa ‘Bloss’ Trindall. Died 57. Beloved wife of John, mother of Melanie, Jack, Jason, Philip, Sarah and Amanda.
‘Dad called her Blossom and it got shortened to Bloss. I sure miss her. There’s plenty of stuff I wanted to ask her before the cancer finally took her off. But at least I can go to Nan for most of it.’ She stares at the grave and a softness comes into her face. She pauses a while in her own thoughts.
‘There,’ she says finally, pointing three graves down. ‘The one with the white angel on it is Emily’s.’
I walk over and place the flowers Nan gave me from her garden, now wilted in the heat. Beloved daughter of George and Frances. Beloved sister of Tony. Died 1972. Aged 17.
‘So young to be taken by an accident,’ I say, thinking of the inexplicable cruelty of losing someone you love in circumstances you cannot control. It must be one of the most disempowering, soul-crushing things in the world. No wonder Dad’s had such problems coming to terms with it. No wonder the sadness never leaves Gran’s eyes.
Melanie has turned towards me, her hands on her hips.
‘She wasn’t killed in an accident,’ she corrects, as though I am soft-headed. ‘She killed herself.’
31
If Beth Ann had any doubts about acting quickly to settle things with Tony they were silenced when the news trickled back to her that Tony was indeed living with another woman.
Not everyone who had brought her information had intended to be kind.
‘Beth Ann,’ Liz Briggs had said, ‘I am so sorry to hear how Tony had treated you. After all these years you had stood by him and now to be left for someone who is younger than your daughter. It must be so humiliating.’
The barely disguised joy of some about the breakup of her marriage had surprised her, but so had the generosity of others. Just two days after the split - how quickly the black grapevine works when it has some gossip - she received a call offering her a job teaching the literacy bridging course at the Aboriginal college.
‘You are just being kind,’ Beth Ann had said.
‘This is not sympathy. We need you. Our last teacher quit last week. Patricia Tyndale, who’s on our board, recommended you. Honestly, you’d be doing us a huge favour.’
And so she had accepted. Not long after, the university down the road offered her some tutoring on their bridging course. Starting next year in February.
She’d been touched that, though she was white, people had looked after her. She had never pushed to be accepted and now, when help was most appreciated, these acts of thoughtfulness made her feel like she had been included.
One week without Tony and she had two parttime jobs and set the wheels in motion for a property settlement. She calculated she could buy a small flat, invest the rest and work part-time. She had never been extravagant, was the kind of woman who did not dye her hair and liked bright, classic clothes, not necessarily expensive ones. She also decided that she would move to the other side of the harbour. She didn’t want to keep running into people in the street and find herself the object of their pity.
She’d never expected marriage to be all romance. She had been realistic about it all along, had expected to have to compromise and to concede. Marriage, she had thought, took two people with a firm resolve to make it work. Both she and Tony had lost that resolve now.
Even with Christmas looming she felt scarce regret that she would be spending it on her own - perhaps with Simone but not with Tony. She had already given herself the best present: her freedom.
It only remained to tell Simone. ‘Best if you do it,’ Tony had said when they spoke on the phone yesterday morning. ‘She’ll take it better coming from you.’
It was commonly understood that a divorce is hard on the children. Even adult children. Beth Ann wondered how much harder the news would be for Simone when she found out that her father was living with someone only slightly younger than she was.
Or would she be surprised? Since Tony had left and Beth Ann had been reminded of how swiftly gossip flew around the neighbourhood, she began to suspect that the rift she had seen between father and daughter could be explained by this new relationship. For Tony to have moved in, it must have been going on for some time and have been serious. If Tony couldn’t hide it from his wife, he probably hadn’t hid it from many people.
Carl Jung once said, ‘Nothing has a stronger influence psychologically on their environment, and especially on their c
hildren, than the unlived lives of their parents.’ Beth Ann had remembered it because she thought it explained a lot about her own childhood - the impact of watching her mother’s happiness smothered by an unhappy marriage. Surely she owed Simone the example of being a woman who makes certain that her life is fully lived.
32
‘You knew that Melanie would tell me the truth about Emily.’
I have just finished putting the last of the washed dishes away. Nan is sitting in her chair, looking at the pictures of Emily and George on the wall in front of her.
It is two days since I visited the cemetery and I can think of nothing else. Finding a family secret raises more questions than it answers. I have plenty and have been biding my time waiting for the right moment to ask Nan some of them.
‘Is that why Dad never wanted to come back here?’
‘It was my fault that he carried it so hard. I raised him to be strong. When George died Tony was so young but I always made him believe he was the man of the house, that he had responsibility for us all. He did look after us too. But when that terrible thing happened, he blamed himself for not protecting Emily. For not being able to protect us.’
I sit quietly next to her, waiting patiently for her to reveal more.
‘George and I knew that life was tough if you were black and we kind of accepted it because we grew up with racism all the time. When we finally came to this mission was the first time I had shoes. I remember how proud I was of ’em and they were really just cardboard. But see, back then, blacks were given so little, we were so grateful for any mean thing we got. And yet we all worked so hard all the time. I wanted life to be different for Tony and Emily.
‘Tony would never accept that he wasn’t as good as anyone else. I’m proud of him for that. Always held his head high. Thought he was as good as any white person and no one was going to deny him anything. So when it happened, it shook his pride and crushed him.’
She pauses for a while. Again lost in a memory. I think of my father and for the first time here with Nan, in this place where he grew up, I appreciate how much he has made of his life. He was forever pushing me to take opportunities and I am chastened to realise that I have rarely thought about the barriers - greater than any that faced me - that he overcame.
‘So I understood why he had to leave,’ Gran says, breaking me from my thoughts. ‘I understood why he never wanted to talk about it. I understood why he never wanted to come home. And I also understand why it is so important for him to do things to help our people. I understand why he drives himself so hard. I understand why he feels better when people admire him, why he needs to be loved.’
Nan is quiet again but I know she has not finished speaking. I am glad Patricia taught me about the silences when people talk and I respect them now.
‘And he did do good, you know. All his generation, those angry young men and women who said enough and demanded their rights, our rights. They made a difference. These houses weren’t built out here until after they started talking about rights. And many of us were too shy to ask for them. Didn’t know how. Some said they should be quiet, not rock the boat. But we are so much better off now than we were back then before they were marching in the streets. Even if we still have a long way to go. But,’ she turns to look at me directly and raises her finger, shaking it slightly, ‘if he thinks it was hard on him, that thing that happened, what they did, imagine how hard it was on those of us who stayed. And how hard it was on Emily. In the end, it was too hard on her. She just couldn’t take it after what they did to her.’
‘Who were they and what did they do to her?’
‘Those boys raped her down by the river. They might as well have killed her right then and there.’
I feel a chill down my spine. Raped? Nan’s face has hardened. I sense that she will say nothing more. There is a trickle of sweat on her brow, glistening in the sun.
‘Would you like a glass of lemonade?’ I ask gently.
She nods, still looking at the photographs of Emily and George.
When I return with the cool glass, I ask one last question.
‘Nan, what was Emily like?’
Nan smiles. ‘She was like a little bird, a little sparrow. Quiet but busy. Always wanted to help. She adored her brother. Would have done anything for him. She was the kind that would have done anything for anyone. She was like an angel on this earth.’
Nan takes a long drink. ‘There was something about your mother, her goodness, and the sense that she was fragile, that always reminded me of my little Emily.’
The telephone rings. I am more mobile than Nan so I have taken to answering it.
It’s my mother. ‘We were just talking about you. Were your ears burning?’
‘No. What were you talking about? Have you spoken to your father?’
‘No, I haven’t spoken to Dad. And we were saying nice things about you.’ Her questions make me suspicious. ‘What’s wrong, Mum?’
‘Nothing. Nothing. Everything is fine. Just fine. I wanted to ring before you come back and let you know that your father and I have decided to separate.’
The chill I felt upon hearing about Emily’s rape is back.
‘Why? What has he done?’
‘It’s a mutual decision. I’m staying in the house for the time being and he has moved out.’
‘Already? When?’
‘Just over a week ago. The night after you left to visit your Nan.’
‘Over a week ago. And no one told me?’
‘I didn’t want you to worry about us.’
‘I’ll come home,’ I say.
‘No, no. I’m fine. You stay with your Nan. She rarely sees you and it must mean a lot to her to have you visiting. There is no need to come home early.’
‘Where’s Dad gone?’
‘He’s staying with - a friend.’
I don’t ask any more. I suspect it is Rachel and if Mum knows she clearly doesn’t want to tell me. If she doesn’t know, I’m not about to tell her.
‘Should I let Nan know? Or should I keep it a secret until you are sure that this is what you really want.’
‘You can let her know now, if you find the right time.’
‘That was Mum on the phone,’ I say, returning to my seat next to Nan. ‘She and Dad have split up.’
‘I know. I heard.’
‘I was in the other room. I thought you were hard of hearing.’
Nan ignores my attempt at humour. She looks past me.
‘I love your mother like she was my own daughter.’
‘She’s very fond of you too.’
‘But that son of mine … I know. I hear. I don’t like it.’ Nan finishes the last of her lemonade. ‘I always worried that one day he would do something to lose her.’
‘Seems like that day has finally come,’ I say glumly.
‘Well, it took longer to get here than I thought it would.’
We sit in silence for some time. The room starts to darken but neither of us stir. Even though I had caught my father out, it never occurred to me that my parents would separate. I have never imagined them apart.
Finally, Nan tells me to put the television on so we can watch the news. We stare at the screen but my mind is full of my mother, my father and Emily.
33
I wake up early the next morning. I can tell from the light that it is just after dawn. I have had a fitful sleep with so much on my mind. Why was what happened to Emily kept such a secret? Why was there shame around her being raped? Why was there silence about her suicide? Is that why my father decided not to come back here? Why did he feel the need to protect me from what had happened? Why did he think I was not capable of understanding the truth?
Now, awakening, I am even more agitated. How could he cheat on my mother? She had been the best of wives to him. How could he be so selfish, so indulgent to have an affair? How could he throw away everything Mum has given him?
I am furious and can no longer lie in bed. I tiptoe t
o the phone in Nan’s living room and dial Dad’s mobile. It rings several times and I am about to give up when he answers.
‘How could you do what you’ve done to Mum?’ I demand.
‘Simone?’
‘Yes, it’s me. And I want to know how you could treat Mum the way you have?’
‘I’m not happy about this situation either.’ His voice has the thick sound of being woken from a deep sleep. ‘Your mother wanted me out of the house.’
I am taken aback a little. Mum had said it was a mutual decision and I had assumed Dad had left her. But I think of the embrace I caught him in with Rachel. I think of the times he would bring his friend Liz along to the movies with us. My anger boils again.
‘Well, you must have deserved it.’
He is silent and I wonder whether he is still on the line. Finally he speaks, ‘I am not at all happy about things between me and your mother and I understand why you’re upset about them.’
What could he know, I think to myself. Could he know how betrayed I felt when he used me to cover for his infidelity? Could he know what it must be like for Mum who was always there for him but now is discarded for someone younger than her daughter? How could he know these things?
‘I don’t understand you,’ I say. I mean it as an accusation of his failure to understand how his actions have affected me and have injured Mum.
‘Well,’ he pauses. There is tiredness in his voice. ‘I don’t understand myself either sometimes.’
Dad’s openness about his misery startles me. I expected him to be defensive, to hide, to blame someone else. In his candour, I can see that he is unhappy and that he knows that he is the cause of it. Seeing him so bereft is unexpected and I find, not forgiveness, but sympathy emerging for him in my heart. My anger towards him lessens. But I still have questions.
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