Candelo

by Georgia Blain

  A week later, Simon had told me she was actually living there.

  As in living with each other? I had asked.

  He had simply shrugged his shoulders.

  I watched as they all called for Vi to respond. Speech, they shouted, and she eventually stood up, feigning reluctance as she took her place next to Mari under the thick mass of lilac flowers.

  Even in her heels, she only came up to Mari’s shoulders. Her black curls had just started to grey and I noticed for the first time that she was looking old, her olive skin pallid in the sun, her cheekbones sunken.

  She produced a thick wad of notes to a loud chorus of boos. Of course, I have something prepared, and she smiled as she pushed her glasses back up to the bridge of her nose. In fact, I wanted to use this occasion to speak about recent cuts to spending on women’s health, and she looked around the garden at the mass of amazed faces.

  And there was, for one moment, a stunned silence.

  It was hard to believe she could be serious.

  But what was worse was that it was possible.

  And she laughed.

  I had you there, she said, raising her glass of red wine.

  And the relief was instantaneous.

  Thank you, she said and she took Mari’s hand, holding it in her own for an instant, so brief it may not have happened.

  She took her glasses off and put her papers down on the table. All of you, and she blew a kiss, her arms outstretched. You are good friends, and she looked down.

  It was one of the few times I had seen my mother at a loss for something to say.

  When I helped Mari wash the dishes later that afternoon, she told me she was glad I had come.

  Of course I’d be here, I had said, surprised by her words.

  Red wine and lazy afternoon sun had relaxed her. She put the tea towel down and rested an arm around my shoulder.

  We’ve never really become friends, have we? she asked.

  I did not know what to say. I laughed and moved away. I told her she was being silly. Too much to drink, I said.

  But she was right. Mari and I have never really become friends. It is not that I do not like her. We have just kept our distance. But lately, I have tried harder. I am glad she is there. She loves my mother and she looks after her, and these things should not be taken lightly.

  When I heard her message on my machine, I called her back straightaway.

  She did not spend long asking me how I was, what I had been up to, before telling me she had called because she was worried about Simon.

  From my window, I could see a storm was coming in, rolling in across the dark metallic grey of the sea.

  Anton’s washing was still on the line, flapping against the blackening sky. It would rain soon. Any minute. Heavy drops on the parched patches of grass that struggled to survive against the weeds.

  I twirled the cord tight around my finger and watched the blood drain out, white.

  Why? I asked her.

  Unlike the rest of our family, Mari is direct. She had seen Mitchell’s obituary. Simon had clipped it from the paper. She had tried to talk to him but he had told her little more than he had told me.

  You’ll go with him? she asked me.

  The first of the rain had started to fall and I watched as Anton unpegged each piece of clothing, bundling them into his arms before they flew wild across the garden and out to sea. I could hear the windows upstairs straining against the sashes and I remembered. Lying in bed with him and hearing the crash. The entire frame ripped off its hinges and floating out, still, for an instant, before it shattered, a thousand pieces on the rocky path below.

  I didn’t want to talk to your mother about it, Mari said.

  And I was surprised. Because she believes in confronting, in tackling, head on.

  It would only upset her.

  But I wanted to make sure you would look after him. Check that he doesn’t do anything stupid.

  I told her I had already promised Simon I would go. I didn’t know if I would actually go to the service, but I would drive out there with him.

  Thank you, she said.

  And as I hung up, I remembered, way out, in the stillness of the ocean, Anton swimming from one point to the other. Swimming alongside me. Crossing the bay for the first time. Pulling himself up onto the rocks on the north end, the moss spongy beneath our feet, purple, blue and green plants sparkling as the water lapped over them. Telling me that he had never done this before, and I wasn’t sure what it was that he was referring to. Kissing? Kissing someone other than Louise? Or swimming from one end to the other? Telling me he shouldn’t be doing this. But not stopping. And not knowing why he was saying what he was saying because I did not, not for one instant, think of either of them. Louise or Marco. Showing him a starfish. Right there, pressed against the side of a rock and him not looking, just telling me he should get back, but kissing me again. And again.

  And I had thought, this is it. This is what I wanted. And I have it, right here, right now, perfect for this instant.

  I tapped on my window. I knocked on the glass. I forced it open against the onslaught of wind, and I called out to him.

  Anton, my voice ringing out across the garden.

  He turned and he looked at me. The rain streaking down, heavy, hot, and the washing bundled under his arms.

  He glanced upstairs, and then back at me, and I saw the fear on his face.

  Anton, I called again, determined now to finish what I had started.

  And as he ran over to my window, he was shaking his head. She’s upstairs, he was saying. She’s upstairs.

  I told him I needed to talk to him.

  Please, I said.

  And I opened my front door and waited for him to come in.

  twelve

  My friend Lizzie has just fallen in love.

  After six years on her own, she is excited and wants to talk of nothing else. It is all too good to believe.

  She tells me she met him at a Buddhist meditation retreat. Nine days of silence and stolen glances across a cold draughty hall. Nine days of wondering.

  And on the tenth?

  We snuck out to the garden without a word, she says.

  At first I am surprised, even shocked, but then I am not.

  Lizzie is an academic. She lectures in philosophy. Reserved and serious, she went straight from school to university and has never left. We met in first year, drinking in the bar. After two or three beers, Lizzie would become loud and sociable and I would become progressively more introverted, both of us soon realising our differences were not as marked as we had originally thought.

  She tells me she has put her doctorate to one side. She has stopped meditating and stopped going to yoga.

  I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this before, she says, and she asks me for the third time what kind of tea I want.

  Her lounge room is cool and calm. All white, with little sign of any inhabitation; I usually feel myself relax when I am at her house. But this time I am agitated. We have met because I need to talk to her. I want to tell her of the decision I have had to make. I want her reassurance, but glowing with her own excitement, I know I will have to wait. I will have to listen.

  How many times have you been in love? she asks me.

  I tell her I don’t know. Maybe three.

  Marco? she asks.

  Yes, Marco.

  Anton? She is cautious as she mentions his name.

  Perhaps.

  And?

  Mitchell, I tell her, surprising myself as I say his name out loud.

  She, too, is surprised. But only because she has never heard me speak of him.

  I was only fourteen, I say, and I am not looking at her. I am wishing I had never spoken. I lost my virginity to him, I tell her, and to my horror, I am blushing.

  This is what happens. You find you are revealing an intimacy, telling it as a story, and suddenly you wish you weren’t. It is more painful than you have let yourself realise. It is something
that should not be spoken out loud. At least, not in that way.

  I am staring at the neat pile of books on her desk, hoping she will not ask me to go on, to tell, because I do not want to speak of it.

  I do not know what Mitchell thought of us, of our family. He never said, and I can only guess at his bemusement.

  My friends like hearing my childhood stories. We were an oddity. It seemed that no one else had divorced parents, no one else had a mother who worked, no one else ate ratatouille, and I certainly didn’t know of anyone else who had gone to a nudist commune for their summer holidays (this was the year before we went away with Mitchell).

  At that time this country was deeply conservative. Vi would argue passionately that it still is and I would probably agree with her, but I would still maintain that it is less so now than it was then.

  Our difference was, no doubt, accentuated by the suburb in which we lived and the schools to which we were sent. Despite Vi’s staunch beliefs, after she and Bernard had separated, we stayed in the well-heeled middle-class area in which we had grown up, and both Simon and I went to a very expensive private high school (coeducational but private nonetheless).

  Most of my friends were envious. I was allowed to smoke dope, drink alcohol and sleep with boys. Not only was I allowed to, but I was allowed to do it at home.

  Their parents did not approve.

  I remember when a friend of mine once stayed the night. Her mother picked her up the next morning. Vi pointed the way to my bedroom. We were not expecting her and she opened the door to find us smoking a joint.

  She complained to Vi.

  She complained to my father.

  She finally gave up on them and complained to the school.

  Vi refused to go and discuss the matter with the headmaster. She didn’t see that there was a problem at all. She also didn’t see that it was any of their business. Bernard promised he would come in for an appointment, but after his secretary postponed it for him three times in a row, they eventually gave up.

  But it was not just the liberty we had that was unusual. There was also the manner in which Vi liked to run the household, the procedures aimed at creating a pretence of democracy.

  On our first morning at Candelo, Mitchell had to endure a house meeting.

  Because it was breakfast there was no red wine and stale cheese. There was, instead, black coffee and rye bread toasted to a crisp.

  Mitchell sat at one end of the table, his hair uncombed, a slight stubble on his face, his dark eyes sleepy. He hadn’t wanted to get up. I had heard Simon trying to wake him and I had heard Mitchell complaining.

  It’s a house meeting, Simon had explained.

  A what? Mitchell had asked.

  I was at the door to their room, hand poised, ready to knock, ready to tell them to hurry up.

  Vi likes to talk about things. I saw Simon roll his eyes and I was surprised. He was always the most patient when it came to Vi’s meetings.

  He looked up and noticed I was there. You could’ve knocked, he told me, irritated by the fact that I had just come in.

  I ignored him. She wants to tell us what we have to do, I said, and as I explained this to Mitchell, I was about to add that I had seen him. Last night. Sleepwalking. But I changed my mind. She’s waiting, I said, and because Simon was still glaring at me, I left them both, closing the door loudly behind me.

  Vi gave Mitchell another explanation. She told him that she believed in a fair and open decision-making process. In treating young people as adults. In participation.

  We like to hold these meetings so that everyone has a say.

  Mitchell nodded, his eyes wide, trying not to look too stunned by the concept.

  Obviously, I have certain expectations, and she rolled herself the first cigarette for the day, her thin fingers moving rapidly across the paper. I need to get some work finished, and when I’m doing that I like to be left alone. I’m also very tired from yesterday’s drive and there’s a lot to be done around the place. She drew back sharply on the cigarette and I saw her face relax with the first rush of nicotine.

  She looked at Mitchell and smiled. And you?

  He had no idea what she meant.

  Your expectations, I told him, my eyebrows raised. You know, breakfast in bed, that kind of stuff.

  Vi suggested we divide up the chores democratically. When we failed to volunteer for anything, she poured herself another coffee and drew up a roster.

  Mitchell and I had the lounge and the bathroom.

  Simon, the kitchen.

  And this afternoon, we need to go into town and get some food, she said, ashing onto her plate.

  I can do that, Mitchell offered.

  We were surprised.

  If you’re busy.

  They looked at each other, momentarily.

  I could see that Vi didn’t want to ask.

  He reached across for the matches. I got my licence last month, and the match flared, almost singeing his fringe. Up to you, he added, scraping the tip, black lines, on the edge of the table.

  Vi picked up the plates. We’ll see, she said and, putting them down in the same spot from which she had taken them, she left us to get to work.

  I was the one who challenged him.

  Outside the door to his and Simon’s room, I told him I didn’t believe he had a licence.

  Whatever, he shrugged his shoulders.

  Show me, I demanded.

  He was putting on his jeans, standing in a clear shaft of light at the foot of his bed. I hadn’t meant to look, but I had put my head around the door and there he was, his clothes scattered at his feet, his jeans half on, his shirt flung across the pillow.

  I guess you’ve had a look for yourself.

  And to my fury, I blushed, turning my back on him quickly, hoping he hadn’t seen.

  thirteen

  Evie was a mistake.

  None of us has ever said this out loud, but it is not difficult to surmise.

  When I visit Vi now, she often wants to talk of her. After years of silence, it is hard to get used to this new mentioning of her name. But since my mother was told she has emphysema, a lot has changed.

  She no longer smokes. The doctors told her she has a choice. Cigarettes or death, and she has stopped, but not without wavering. She is out for dinner and she reaches for a packet on the table near her.

  Mari cannot believe it. Even if you don’t mind dying, think of me, she says. Think of how I would be without you.

  She also no longer works. Not in the way she used to. She has been told to rest. Until her blood pressure is lowered.

  This, too, is not easy for her.

  When I first used to visit her, Mari would always make her stay on the couch, a pile of books by her side. Novels.

  My mother has never read a novel in her life.

  And because Mari was terrified of Vi getting a chest infection, she would make an endless series of lemon and honey drinks that sat, barely sipped, by my mother’s side.

  I can’t bear them, she would confess to me. All that garlic.

  She would ask me to throw them down the sink while Mari was not looking. It’s ridiculous, she would say. I’m not even sick.

  But on the bad days her cough is raw and the dark circles under her eyes are deep.

  She was a beautiful child, she tells me and I know she is talking of Evie. You were all beautiful, she adds, although you were the most trouble of all.

  And I was. Like my mother, I was always the agitator. Twice suspended for being argumentative.

  But I was secretly proud of you, she confesses and she wheezes slightly as she laughs.

  Sometimes I wonder what would have become of her, and she looks out the window.

  I do not know what to say. I have also wondered this. What she would have been like. Whether we would have been close.

  I can’t help myself, and she coughs again, a cough fierce enough to shake her whole body.

  She asks me to bring her papers in to her,
the next bundle to sort, and I do. Because, unlike Mari, I think that not working is more stressful for my mother than working. But when I give them to her, she wants to talk of Evie again.

  She was stubborn too. Not compliant like Simon.

  She was. I remember. Even with the nine years between us (eleven between her and Simon), we were already fighting.

  This age difference was one of the reasons why I know she was a mistake. The gap was too large. The other was my father.

  When Vi found out she was pregnant, he confessed. He had been seeing someone else. A couple of people actually. For several years.

  I was only eight, but I remember it clearly. I remember their fights. Sometimes they would last all night. Both of them shouting at each other, doors slamming, waking to find one or other of them asleep in the spare bed in my room.

  My father didn’t want another child. He never said as much. But looking back, it is not hard to see that this was how he felt.

  When he finally left, he did so without telling any of us. Not even a note. He just went off to work and did not come home, leaving everything: his clothes, his books, his records.

  Vi got a letter from him two days later, telling her not to worry, and then nothing. We did not hear from him for months.

  She threw all of his possessions out onto the street. Six months pregnant, tottering in her sandals, weighed down by the bundles she was carrying, refusing to stop until it was all gone. Every last thing.

  Well, she said, that’s that, and she poured herself a whisky, lit a cigarette and sat down at her desk to write an article.

  When she went into labour, she went to hospital on her own. She packed her bags and called a taxi, dropping Simon and me at a friend’s on the way.

  Bernard did not visit her or the baby. He did not even ask after them. Years later, he tried to talk to me about it. He had just done a group therapy weekend and rang me as soon as he got home. He wanted to apologise. For being such an absent father. An appalling father. He needed to know that I forgave him. And as he talked to me, he started to cry.

  I was speechless.

  Don’t, I finally managed to say.

  He told me he understood if I did not want to talk. But he needed to tell me he was sorry.