by Liz Byrski
‘Right,’ Chris says in a soft and steady voice, turning back to his wife. ‘So just before you go on, Kerry, there was a general conversation this morning while Connie was out walking the dog, and then you and Andrew chewed it over in the café. There hasn’t actually been a family meeting.’
‘For goodness sake, Chris …’
‘Well, has there?’
Kerry sighs. ‘I suppose … no … not exactly …’
‘Right, just as long as we’re all clear about that.’
Kerry hesitates and Connie’s stomach clenches. She loathes conflict. As an only child she never had to compete for anything at home, never had to negotiate with siblings, and survived school by keeping a low profile. Politeness, good manners, never putting oneself first, deferring to the opinions of others and never saying outright what you think, had been the ruling code. Once, in anger, she had told Gerald that it was the ideal training for the job of being the wife of a control freak like him.
‘Well, you’re saying what you think now,’ he’d replied.
‘And you simply haven’t a clue how often I hold back.’
Kerry leans forward in her chair, fixing Connie with a steely gaze. ‘Anyway, Mum,’ she begins again, ‘it’s like this, we all …’
‘You mean, you and Dad?’ Brooke says.
‘Yes, okay, Brooke,’ Andrew intervenes. ‘Kerry and I think that you should consider moving somewhere smaller, Mum.’
‘You’d enjoy it,’ Kerry says. ‘You can move nearer to us. It’d be lovely. We can help out … it’d be more convenient.’
‘D’you mean it’ll be more convenient for us, Kerry?’ Chris says, leaning towards her, putting his hand on her arm. ‘And, Connie, just so as you know, the helping out probably means that you could help us with the children.’
Connie’s throat has gone dry. ‘Look, I don’t …’
‘That’s not it at all,’ Andrew says. ‘We all want what’s best for you, Mum. Linda and I think you should come somewhere nearer to us. You know how you love Melbourne.’
‘You should stay here, Nan,’ Brooke cuts in again. ‘It’s where you were with Granddad.’
‘Granddad’s ghost might be here,’ Ryan says, and he begins some ghostly howling.
‘Stop it, Ryan,’ Kerry snaps. Her cheeks are fiery red and Connie is reminded how much her daughter hates the flush that rises when she’s agitated. ‘And, Brooke, this isn’t up to you. Keep out of it.’
‘Actually, Kerry,’ Chris says quietly, leaning across the table, ‘I think it’s up to Connie to decide what to do, and personally I think it’s pretty insensitive to be talking about this right now.’
Kerry shakes her head irritably. ‘We’re just trying to help, Chris, stop being so difficult.’
A great surge of something hot and fierce, something stronger than the anxiety, rears up in Connie and she pushes back her chair and gets to her feet. ‘Stop it, at once, all of you,’ she says, in a voice that sounds entirely unlike her own. ‘We’ve just scattered your father’s ashes, for heaven’s sake. How do you think he’d feel if he could hear you arguing like this? How do you think it makes me feel?’ They’re looking at her now, Kerry and Andrew, visibly shaken and embarrassed, Linda flushed and awkward while Chris studies the tablecloth with a deadpan expression on his face. The silence is deafening.
‘Woohoo, Nan! You rock,’ Brooke says, a huge grin spreading across her face.
‘Shut up, Brooke,’ Linda hisses.
‘No!’ Connie says. ‘Don’t shut up, Brooke dear. I do indeed rock and now I’m going to rock on upstairs for a rest which will give you all time to sort yourselves out and do the washing-up.’
‘We’re just trying to help …’ Kerry cuts in, crimson-faced.
Connie holds up her hand. ‘Kerry, I said, stop! Stop it now. If this is your idea of help, I don’t want it. Remember why you’re here.’ And she turns into the house away from the mix of anger and hurt that Kerry has carried with her since childhood and which nothing – not love, or encouragement, success or motherhood – ever seems to resolve.
*
It’s Brooke who wakes her, tapping on the bedroom door.
‘It’s me, Nan, can I come in?’
‘Of course, dear.’ Connie struggles to sit up.
Brooke opens the door and crosses the room clutching a mug. ‘I made you some tea.’ She puts it down on the bedside table and perches on the edge of the bed.
‘Thank you, darling, just what I need.’ Connie yawns, resting her head against the bedhead. ‘I must have fallen asleep. Have they stopped arguing?’
Brooke nods, twisting a strand of hair. ‘Just about.’
‘And have they stopped making plans for me?’
She grins conspiratorially. ‘Not really. They’re so bossy, Dad and Mum and Auntie Kerry.’
‘Except for Chris.’
‘No, but he’s not one of them really, is he? Like he’s not …’ she pauses, turning her fingers into inverted commas, ‘not a blood relative, as Dad says.’
‘Your dad said that?’
Brooke nods.
Connie looks at her, searching for something of herself in her granddaughter. Brooke certainly has the Hawkins gene – the height and the strong, rangy build – but her dark hazel eyes belong to neither of her parents nor her grandfather. Those are my eyes, Connie thinks, as she reflects on how surprised she’d been when Brooke had spoken up so bravely during the earlier argument between the adults. She had grown up a lot in recent years; years Connie has largely missed due to nursing Gerald.
‘Anyway, they all reckon they know best. Are you coming down soon?’
‘In a minute. Did you mean what you said – about my staying here?’
‘’Course I did. It’s your home, you wouldn’t like living in a townhouse. It’s like living in a big posh box and everything has to be tidy all the time.’
Connie laughs. ‘Well, I’d be hopeless with the tidy bit, but I think that’s more about who’s living there than the place itself.’
‘Yeah right! Mum and Dad are so anal … it’s like they’re always expecting a magazine to turn up and photograph them.’
‘Well, your father’s changed. He was an absolute grub as a kid. I never knew what I’d find when I cleaned under his bed or tried to tidy his cupboard.’
‘Mum’s worse though,’ Brooke says. ‘Anyway, you were cool down there today, Nan. I never saw you do that before, like, tell people off.’
Connie swings her legs off the bed and crosses to the dressing table to brush her hair. ‘I used to do it quite a bit when they were younger,’ she says. ‘I thought I’d lost the knack but perhaps I haven’t. What are Ryan and Mia doing?’
‘Ryan is in the big tree throwing stuff at Mia, and she’s screeching, but standing right under the branch he’s on and won’t move away.’
‘Oh dear, it never stops, does it?’
‘I’m never going to have children,’ Brooke says. ‘They’re evil.’
‘You’re not,’ Connie says, picking up her tea.
‘Well, I quite often am, really,’ Brooke says, turning to face her. ‘When I’m feeling really, you know, shitty and stuff.’
‘Knowing that is a good thing,’ Connie says, following Brooke out of the bedroom. But then what do I know about it, she thinks, giving in all my life and mostly not minding about it, too comfortable to take a stand, happy to leave everything to Gerald. And she wonders suddenly what her granddaughter really thinks of her.
‘Mum, I’m sorry,’ Andrew says as they reach the kitchen. ‘Really, it was unfair, today of all days.’
‘It was,’ she says, smiling but determined to resist the temptation to tell him it’s okay and not to worry. And she walks on out to the terrace, where Kerry jumps immediately to her feet.
‘Mum,’ she holds out her arms, ‘very bad behaviour, really sorry, you need more time, of course you do. Big hug?’
Connie allows herself to be hugged but refrains from hugging in ret
urn. ‘Ryan!’ she calls sharply over Kerry’s shoulder. ‘Come down from that tree immediately. I will not have you throwing things in my garden. Mia, stop snivelling and go and wash your face.’ Mia complies immediately. Connie had forgotten what it was like to have people do as they’re told. How long can she keep up this assertiveness, she wonders. Long enough to tell them about her plans? She has a horrible feeling that they’re not going to like them at all.
*
An hour or so later it’s clear she was right.
‘Going away? But why?’ Kerry says before Connie has begun to explain. And before she has time to answer continues, ‘Shouldn’t you be sorting things out here? Making plans for the future? And why France, why Auntie Flora? Dad didn’t want anything to do with her. I don’t think it’s …’ she stops, colours up again and looks away.
‘And after that,’ Connie continues, ignoring her, ‘I’m going to England. I’ve never been back, not since Dad and I moved here.’ She waits, hoping they’ll show an interest, but there is just an awkward silence.
‘So I suppose you’ll be away for about three weeks?’ Andrew asks eventually.
She laughs, irritated, and hurt by their lack of interest in what she wants and needs to do. ‘Oh for goodness sake, you think I’m going to do that horrendous journey, spend time in France with Flora and then go back to places in England that I haven’t seen in decades, and be back here again in three weeks? I’ll be gone a couple of months at least.’
‘Sounds good, Connie,’ Chris says. ‘You need to go back and touch the past. You could go to Ireland too, you’d love the west coast, Galway – I can just see you in Galway.’
‘But you’re not used to doing things alone, Connie,’ Linda says, ‘and that’s a very long time …’
‘Far too long,’ Andrew agrees. ‘I think you should …’ he stops abruptly. ‘Sorry I …’
Connie gives him a long and steady look. ‘I’ve been waiting to go home to England since before you started high school, Andrew. Gerald went back for work but I couldn’t go with him because I couldn’t leave you two. This is my time now and I’ll take as long as I need.’
There is another awkward silence.
‘I can understand that you’d want to go to England,’ Kerry says, ‘but really, Mum, I hope you won’t mind my saying this, but staying with Auntie Flora hardly seems very respectful to Dad considering that he had virtually disowned her.’
‘Is Auntie Flora my auntie?’ Mia asks.
Connie takes a deep breath. ‘She’s your great auntie, Granddad’s sister.’
Chris gets to his feet and takes Mia’s hand. ‘Come on, sweetheart, let’s go and see if the goldfish are awake. You too, Ryan.’ And he leads the children away from the table towards the overgrown pond.
Kerry gets to her feet. ‘Well, I’ll go and make some fresh tea.’
‘Sit down please, Kerry,’ Connie says, struggling to keep her voice low and steady, and she waits until Kerry is back in her seat. ‘First of all, I do mind your saying that, in fact it’s really offensive. Flora and I go back a long way, back to before I met your father; we were at school together. You know nothing about what happened between the two of them, so I suggest you keep your opinions to yourself. I’ve spent years looking after your father with very little help from any of you, and now that it’s over I feel absolutely free to do what I want.’
‘Oh yes, and you were wonderful, Mum,’ Kerry says, ‘we all knew that. I was always saying to Chris how wonderful you were looking after Dad, I …’
‘Absolutely,’ Andrew joins in. ‘Kerry’s quite right. We all thought you did an amazing job.’
‘Stoic,’ Linda adds.
And Chris, poised halfway between them and the fishpond, says nothing, just turns to look back at her over his shoulder.
The silence is tense. No one exchanges even a glance. Andrew clears his throat. Kerry’s cheeks flame crimson and she stares down at her feet.
‘So … er … what about Scooter, while you’re away, Nan?’ Brooke asks.
Connie turns to her. ‘My friend Farah will stay here and look after Scooter. She and her children live in a flat so it’ll be nice for them to have a bit more space for a while.’
Kerry straightens with the sort of bristling energy that Gerald always said reminded him of a fox terrier. ‘Farah? You mean that woman who, the one who … ?’
‘Exactly, Kerry, the one who was here, and who did help me, who made it possible for me to have a day to myself sometimes.’
‘But she’s …’
Andrew sucks in his breath. ‘Kerry …’
But Kerry is quivering now. ‘She’s an illegal, isn’t she? Came in on one of those boats?’
Connie waits, wondering if her daughter is going to dig herself in further or back down. She loves this daughter, loves all of them so much that it hurts, but right now she just wants to smack Kerry, as she had frequently wanted to smack her when she was a troublesome toddler. She wants to tell them all to go home and leave her in peace.
‘Farah’s husband was drowned when the boat they were in sank offshore. They left Afghanistan in fear of their lives, she and her children are refugees.’
Kerry is silent for moment. ‘And she’s … well, she’s …’
‘A nurse?’ Connie asks, deliberately misinterpreting. ‘Yes of course.’
‘Well, I really don’t think it’s right …’ Kerry says. ‘After all …’
‘After all what?’
‘Well …’ Kerry draws up her shoulders. ‘Well, I just don’t think Dad would’ve liked it, you know … being … well, she’s not one of us …’
Silence. Kerry’s blush deepens and she looks around as if for support. ‘What I mean is, she’s not one of the family.’
Connie pauses, poised between disgust and disbelief. She knows her daughter well enough to know that she is free of racial and religious prejudice, but for some reason Kerry seems determined to win this battle of wills whatever tactics are required. It seems so ridiculous that she throws back her head and bursts into laughter. ‘Well, Kerry,’ she says, ‘Dad was happy to have her sit with him, play chess with him, wash him, shave him and clean him when he soiled himself. And anyway, I make the decisions about who gets to stay here now, so you’d better get used it.’ She gets to her feet. ‘Would anyone like any more tea? Brooke dear, come and help me fetch that cake, Ryan and Mia must be desperate for it by now.’
Two
Port d’Esprit, Brittany, Northern France, early February 2012
There is a collective sigh of relief from the pews as the priest genuflects, picks up the altar vessels and departs to the sacristy. He is young and inexperienced, a locum filling in for Father Bertrand, who is in hospital in St Malo recovering from a triple by-pass. This one seems barely old enough to be out of high school, let alone ordained. Flora, irritated by his trembling hands on the chalice, the dropped wafers and most of all the torturous fumbling as he lost his way in the litany, waits impatiently for the right moment to leave. It’s not unusual for her to come and sit in the church but it’s a long time since she attended a service. This morning, however, she had come to the six o’clock mass and to her own surprise had taken the sacrament, although she had wondered whether she was entitled to do so after such a long absence. It was thinking about Gerald that made her want to do it, and she’d told herself that God would be more concerned about her intentions than in checking up on her dismal devotional record. She’d thought she’d stay on after the service – make the most of the silence for a while – but the young priest took so long that her time has run out, and now she needs to get back home. Silently Flora slips out of the pew, nods to the altar and walks quickly down the aisle and out into the square, letting the church door swish softly to a close behind her.
It’s daylight now and as she pulls her bike from the rack the market traders are unloading their vans, and a waiter in a long white apron is setting up tables on the pavement outside Café Centrale. Flora weav
es her way between the stalls and heads for the tabac, glancing at her watch. The breakfast trade back at the hotel ramps up well before seven as the fishing fleet finish unloading the catch. But while being late is bad, being late without Suzanne’s cigarettes would be a cardinal sin. Flora queues for the cigarettes, then squeezes her way out of the crowded little shop, drops the two packets of Gitanes Bleu into the bike basket and freewheels down the hill to the post office, where she collects the mail from the post box, and doubles back past the square heading for home. Outside the church the young priest, hands tucked nervously into the sleeves of his cassock, is chatting with members of the congregation. Flora flashes him a killer look; she should have stayed home, practised some yoga as usual, before cycling down for the mail.
As she turns the corner onto the quay, the wind whips into her face tugging at her hair and making her eyes water, but she pedals on along the curve of the harbour where the leisure boats are bobbing at anchor on the high water. At nine she had fallen in love with this place, this harbour, the stone houses that line the quay, and behind them the rocky pine-clad backdrop of the cape stretching out beyond the curve of the sea wall.
It was the fifties; their first ever visit to France, and her father, who had driven the Morris Oxford confidently onto the ferry at Southampton, suffered an obvious loss of confidence as he steered his way off at St Malo and pulled out onto the street where traffic was hurtling towards them on the wrong side of the road. What should have been a forty minute drive to Port d’Esprit had taken two hours because Flora’s mother had a problem reading the map.
‘For god’s sake, Margaret, give the bloody map to Flora,’ her father had shouted when they found themselves back for the third time at the same roundabout, ‘then we might get there before midnight.’
There were just the three of them that year – Gerald, by then fourteen, had gone with the family of a school friend to Switzerland. Port d’Esprit was smaller in those days, just a neat fishing port with stunning sandy beaches, nothing like the steep and stony ones of the Sussex coast, or the coarse and crowded sands of Southend where the school had once taken them on a day trip. Their father had been posted to London when Flora was five and by the time they made that first trip to France her memories of life in Hobart had all but faded away.