I have secrets to tell you, big things and small things. And things to give you, too, if you’re interested. They’re useless to me now. I can’t even read very well anymore.
Did you know you were called after Cecilia’s best friend Breda? They entered the convent more or less together. Cecilia was given the name Mother Mary Annunciata when she was received. And Breda got Mother Mary Perpetua. But you might know that already? I have no idea what you know.
Oh that ceremony! The music was out of this world. I felt as though I’d died and gone to heaven because I was back in the same chapel I’d known as a girl, watching my own girl dedicate her life to God! And having the Bishop there and all those priests serving on the altar, all done up in their fine regalia, the embroidered gold albs and silver crosses! The High Mass went on for three hours. It really was something. Seven beautiful girls all dressed as brides dedicating their lives to God. And your mother, well, you should have seen her. She was the most beautiful of all of them. What a picture! Nancy Morgan from out near Woodside helped me make the dress for her and it fitted perfectly.
It was just about the only I ever saw Kev cry. ‘If only she really was getting married,’ he whispered, the tears streaming down his cheeks. ‘If only there was some bloke up there at the altar with her!’ People sitting in pews around us heard him and so I told him to hush up, the fool, he was disgracing us all.
Those last couple of years in the convent were very difficult for Cecilia. Dominic had died, you see, and I think that was the beginning of the end for her. She wasn’t allowed to go to his funeral because it was an enclosed order. But it was very hard on her.
Everything in the Church seemed to change around that time. Have you heard of Pope John 23? He was a good man but he started all the trouble. Maybe he had to do it. I don’t know, anyway it was like they opened the windows and once everyone got a whiff of fresh air they decided to climb out and run away. The old rules didn’t apply any more. It seemed like every week some rule or other was relaxed and none of them knew where they were. One week if you ate meat on Friday you were in a state of mortal sin and would burn in hell forever, then the next week they told us it wasn’t the case.
Well, what were we meant to think? It wasn’t a clean cut either. The old ways had to co-exist with the new for a good few years and so half the time we didn’t know what was going on.
When she finally left the convent I think your mother was terribly confused. She didn’t seem to know who she was. One day she’d be in a miniskirt, her face plastered in thick make-up, and the next she’d be in a dress that made her look like a grandmother. I probably wasn’t any help at all.
We do things we think are right but they turn out to be wrong. Such genuine holiness in a little girl is not common, so naturally I encouraged her to enter the convent. It seemed the natural thing. Later, when she told us that she planned to give up her child I knew in my heart that it was wrong to give away your own flesh and blood, but I said nothing. Maybe she blames me for that.
You’d think at my time of life I’d accept everything that has happened, including my own mistakes but, I don’t. It’s hard to see the point of any of it.
I’m worn out now. I had planned to write different things to you, Perpetua. Brighter things. But somehow the pen just took off on its own. I hope you will forgive me if I have said anything wrong or if I’m not cheery enough. Maybe you have met your mother already and will be able to tell me she is safe. That would be enough for me.
I am longing to hear from you, Perpetua! If I could just see you once I would die happy.
Love from your grandmother,
Ellen Mary Madden (nee Reynolds)
I fold the pages up carefully and slip them into my pocket; then I go back into the house. The front door bangs behind me as I head up the stairs to my room.
‘Peach, are you still here?’ Stella calls after me.
I am acutely aware of a number of things all at once: the darkening sky outside my window, my neatly made bed, the books on the desk, the curtain falling to the floor in folds, and my skin getting tight across my scalp, as if it might be about to peel away. I cross my arms tightly over my chest to keep myself in one piece, and I turn around slowly and stare hard at all the familiar objects. There is the dressing table with the photos of my friends stuck to the big mirror. There is my bag where I chucked it on the cane chair last night, the shoes I took off yesterday, the glass of water on each side of the bed. Everything is familiar but … somehow strange. Things seem to move in and out of focus. I turn to the Chagall print above my bed. The bright colours of his dream seem to be crumbling at the edges, just like a sandcastle at the end of a day at the beach, all the edges and straight lines slowly collapsing. I swallow, but my mouth feels stuffed full of dry sticks.
‘Peach?’ Stella calls again.
‘I’m here,’ I call back, but my voice is off-key.
‘Are you still going swimming?’
‘Yeah. I think so. Maybe.’
‘If you do, bring me back something?’
‘Okay.’
I grab the edge of the desk. I don’t know what I’m thinking exactly, only that the little systems inside my head seem to be cutting out, one by one. As if someone has turned off the power supply and all the pulleys and levers are creaking to a standstill.
‘Something really yummy, will you,’ Stella yells from the foot of the stairs, ‘like one of those burritos. No beans but extra cheese.’
‘Okay,’ I say, but she won’t have heard. I can’t seem to raise my voice above a whisper. A splatter of rain hits the windowpane and that sort of brings me back. Am I going swimming in the rain? I take the letter and stuff it away into the shoebox inside my wardrobe.
I wait a while, then I tiptoe downstairs and out into the backyard. Our big tree is already drooping a little as a smattering of rain hits its thirsty leaves and branches. I run through the warm heavy air and shelter under it. I already have a grandmother. I have the best grandmother in the world. The fact that she is dead is not the point. She is still Nana. My nana. And there is Dad’s mother in England, too, although we don’t really know her. I don’t need another one.
Stella and I adored Nana. She took us to piano and dancing lessons. She was at every school concert and every sports match. Mum was her first child and born late in her life. Before she married, she sang for ten years with the Australia opera. Her voice was a low, rich contralto. She’d be at the piano for hours with Stella; they’d be laughing and singing together, chatting over new pieces. If you love music then you’ll never be lonely was one of her sayings. Her musical genes had passed over Mum and into Stella.
I’m not musical like Stella, but I always felt adored by Nana anyway. You’re the brains around here, she used to tell me. One day you’ll show the world! I loved being told that. It made me study hard at school because I didn’t want to let Nana down.
She sang at weddings and funerals and she kept busy seeing all her friends. Most of them were old ladies like herself, full of fun with plenty of money. They drank sherry and had card nights. They went to films and plays and concerts and enjoyed their lives. Our nana was … perfect.
I sit on the back verandah comforted by the lovely soft rain.
A decent downpour will mean I can stop worrying about Mum’s garden for a few days. I’ve been collecting shower water and carting it out in buckets to the plants every morning, along with what I save from the kitchen sink. Stella helps, but it isn’t in her nature to take such things seriously.
A long roll of thunder in the distance sends a shudder through me, and then the sky is alight with two sharp forks of lightning. Another loud crack of thunder and the rain picks up pace. I shut my eyes. It is so dark inside my head. I listen hard to the sounds around me, the soft hiss and occasional crack as the rain hits the leaves, and the creaking of the shed door. I can’t hear my own breath going in and out, but when I put one hand over my heart I feel it pumping.
‘Sadie, Ellen and
… Cecilia.’ It feels odd to say these names aloud, oddly familiar. I’ve never heard them before, but it’s as if they’ve been sitting there all along, waiting for me to open the door and let them in.
‘Peach, is that you?’
‘It’s me.’
‘What are you doing?’ Stella is standing at the back door holding a bowl and a wooden spoon. Her hair all is all over the place and she’s wearing a big white apron. ‘Didn’t you go swimming?’
‘Just watching the sky.’
She puts down the bowl and spoon and comes towards me, both arms stretched out. I let her pull me up.
‘Come inside!’ she says. ‘You’ll get wet.’
‘Okay,’ I laugh.
‘What’s the matter?’ She is dragging me through the back door.
‘Nothing.’
‘You look weird. Like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘Nothing’s wrong.’
‘Don’t lie!’
‘Okay.’
Once we’re inside I tell her that I feel a bit strange, and that I’m going up to my bedroom to lie down. The truth is, I’m scared.
Stella never minded me waking her when I had the dreams. I’d crawl into her bed, or she’d come into mine, and I’d tell her the dream in as much detail as I could remember. Then I’d go back to my own bed and sleep peacefully. Sometimes weeks would pass without one, then, out of the blue, they’d be back, three nights in a row. I was always lost somewhere, abandoned and alone, with crowds surging around me. When I opened my mouth to scream no sound came out.
‘It’s your soul talking, Peach,’ she used to tell me. ‘Your soul is wandering around looking for answers.’
Well, maybe. But what I do know is that I haven’t had one of those dreams in more than a year, and although Stella might miss them I certainly don’t.
Lying here on the bed I have to wonder if maybe Fluke was right after all. Maybe it is gutless to not even want to find out your own mother’s name.
I remember coming home from school once in Year Nine and finding Mum on the couch reading. I’d developed a passionate hatred for my name over that year, and I wanted to have it out with her.
‘Why did you call me this crazy name?’ I complained as soon as I came in the door. ‘Nobody, absolutely nobody, is called Perpetua!’
Mum took her glasses off and looked at me. I was at the fridge pulling out cheese and tomatoes and slamming them onto the bench, giving her snaky little looks while I did. I used to get so ravenous after school. It was probably hunger as much as anything else that put me in such a bad mood.
‘It was the name your birth mother gave you,’ Mum said. ‘Remember, we told you that?’
I shrugged. She had told me about being adopted, of course. Right from the start my parents had been totally open with me. But I suppose I wanted to have a fight. ‘So why didn’t you change it?’
‘Because you were a gift!’ Mum put her arm around my shoulders, but I shrugged her off. So she just stood there alongside me picking cheese from the plate. ‘The most precious gift in the world, and we were so grateful that we wanted to pay her that respect.’
‘Respect?’
‘It seemed the one thing we could do to say thank you.’
‘Did you ever meet her?’
‘No.’
‘So who decided that I would go to you two?’
‘She did. She was given a list of profiles of different couples and photos but she didn’t want to meet anyone.’
I knew this already, but I suppose I needed to hear it again.
‘We just felt so lucky that she chose us,’ Mum said.
‘Why did she choose you?’
Mum shrugged and smiled as if she still couldn’t quite believe it. ‘No idea! She might have liked the idea of us both being doctors. I don’t know.’
‘Did she take long to decide?’
‘Not sure about that one, love.’
‘I just hate my name,’ I whined. ‘You have to spell it for people all the time. And they give you these weird looks. Perpetua?’
‘Well, I suppose it is different,’ she said hopefully.
‘I don’t want to be different.’
Mum went back to the couch and picked up her book again. She didn’t start reading but continued to look at me.
‘Do you want to try to find out more, darling?’
I sighed. Whenever the topic was raised, both she and Dad went into positive overdrive about helping me find out more about my origins. ‘Find out about what?’ I snapped.
‘Your mother.’
‘You are my mother,’ I said quickly.
‘Of course I am.’ Mum smiled. ‘But one day you might want find out more about your birth mother. You might want to try to make contact with her. Of course I’ll always be your mother. Always and no matter what.’
‘Did she see me?’
‘Probably.’
‘So I was loathed on first sight?’
‘No. She would have loved you on first sight,’ Mum said forcefully. ‘Life can be hard, sweetheart. It was impossible for her to keep you for some reason, but I’m absolutely positive she would have thought you beautiful, and she would have loved you.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ No need to go overboard.
‘I mean it.’
‘What about her name?’ I knew the answer to this too. I just wanted to hear it said.
‘Don’t know,’ Mum said. ‘She didn’t want us to know anything else about her.’
‘Why not?’
‘Maybe she thought it would be easier like that. We could find out, of course, by getting hold of the original birth certificate but … I haven’t done that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Just out of respect for her privacy.’
‘Was she married?’ If my birth mother was some hazy forlorn figure, then my father was simply a dark, mysterious blob.
‘We’re not sure.’
‘God, Mum, you don’t know much!’
‘Well, we can try and find out more now, if you like.’
‘Why didn’t you at the time?’
‘What she was doing was huge,’ Mum said hotly. ‘We didn’t want to make it harder for her. She wanted to stay anonymous, but she might well have changed her mind by now. She might really like it if you contacted her.’
I thought about that for about three full seconds, then wrinkled my nose. ‘Nah.’
‘Why not?’
I shrugged, pissed off that I’d even brought the subject up. The earth revolved around me that year, so what did I care about what she might like?
‘Just don’t.’
‘Okay. Maybe another time.’
‘Maybe.’
I love the Fitzroy Swimming Pool, and so let me count the ways. It’s Olympic size, so the laps you do are proper ones. It’s open all year round. The water is virtually cold, with just the chill taken off. And best of all it’s outside. Indoor pools make me feel like I’m swimming in a soup.
The sky is lighter by the time I get there. Dramatic streaks of white light are breaking through the low cloud, but the rain has scared off the crowds. Suits me. I head into the change rooms. Around me there are women of all shapes and sizes and ages in varying stages of dress. Any body size or shape fits in here. I tell Stella this and she still won’t come. I’m changing into my black Speedos right next to a large muscly woman in her sixties with grey hair and tatts on both forearms. She is having an animated conversation with a really old skinny woman – must be about eighty – about hip-replacement operations. They’re cackling about how bits of their bodies have begun dropping off. The really old one has plastic daisies hanging from her ears. Her bathers look plastic too.
There is the pack of teenage girls gossiping and preening in front of the mirrors in their skimpy underwear. And next to the showers are two stunning black-skinned women, dressed in bright purple and orange, with wild turbans wound around their heads. They’re laughing as they muster about half a dozen little kids who don’t
want to go home.
I pick up my towel, walk out, pick the fast lane and hit the water.
One lap, two, four, eight. I surge angrily through the water, the frustration rushing through my arms and legs, making them strong. Before I know it I’ve done fourteen laps and it feels like I’ve just started. I could swim forever.
Stella. Det. Ellen.
Where do I fit in?
No one even asks how I am anymore. No one says, Hey, Peach, what’s going on in your life? Are you happy? Are things working out for you, kid? I know why. It’s because my particular drama is so bloody yesterday! Who in their right mind would want to talk about a love affair that ended months ago? Who would want to talk about the way I continue to allow him to eat away at my heart? And because I don’t talk about it, because I don’t shove it in people’s faces, everyone assumes it’s over, but it’s not over. I’m not over it.
Time to move on, Peach, they’d say. Time to put all that behind you.
But what if I can’t even imagine doing that? What if the very idea makes me feel shaky? What if my heart feels as smashed as a melon fallen from the back of a truck? No one bothers to stop because there are plenty more where that came from. The back of the truck is full of friggin’ melons! Will my heart be left to rot by the side of the road forever?
I remember that first time, standing with a drink against the wall of a bar in Johnston Street, watching my friends dance. I looked up and there he was, watching me. Fluke. We’d met briefly a few months before, and I’d seen him around the traps, always on his own, or at the edge of someone else’s crowd. He would stand by the wall watching the band, in his own world, quieter and more self-possessed than the rest of the crowd. And I was always aware of him in some strange way.
This night felt different for some reason. I knew something would happen. As soon as I saw him standing there my heart leapt to life and without warning the words,You’re the one blasted through my head. Stop it. I was panicking a bit. For God’s sake, don’t be so uncool. You’re not in a Jane Austen novel.
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