Escaping

by Henrietta Taylor

  Alan, the spaced-out gardener, was a different case. As Norman became sicker and sicker, I had valiantly tried to maintain the lawn Alan had planted, but it always looked patchy and ill — symbolic of what was happening inside the house. I never could bring myself to employ someone to come and mow it, as that would have been like saying I was giving up on everything. Alan was brought back only after Norman died, when the garden beds had become a pit for snakes and the grass was waist-high; he managed to transform the unruly jungle into a tamed, self-watering oasis full of places for children to hide and play. But those hollow eyes and the traces of tears down his cheeks through the dust of a day’s work told me all was not well in his life. He never spoke to me about himself, so finally I asked him what was wrong.

  I wasn’t prepared for the answer he gave me. ‘My wife’s just been rediagnosed with breast cancer, and this time it’s spread through her lungs and into her bones. They told us she was cured. They fucking lied. They fucking know shit all.’

  I couldn’t say a thing. She was the same age as Norman had been, barely forty years old, and probably wouldn’t see her next birthday. I refused to mimic the niceties that had been trotted out for me. I couldn’t say ‘Take it day by day’, or ‘Doctors are making new discoveries all the time’, and certainly not ‘It’s in the hands of God.’ How many times can you hear those things? Too many!

  Please don’t tell me any more. I can’t help you. I can’t even help myself. She will die a horrible death. You know it. I know it. The doctors know it too, but it’s their job to lie.

  We sat down together in the vegetable garden and the heavy smell of crushed tomato plants permeated the air. He clasped my hand and pulled up the fabric of my flimsy skirt. But we were both unable to touch further. I couldn’t even bring myself to wipe away his fast-flowing tears; there was no point.

  ‘At least you know what I’m talking about,’ he told me. ‘You’ve been through it. But I don’t think I can do it alone. I’m going home to get stoned — want to join me?’

  I looked at him, and before I even knew what I was saying the words formed within me: ‘I’m sorry, I have to be here for the children.’ I felt so bad for him — but there was nothing I could do.

  Yet fate has a habit of winding its way into your life when you least expect it. A new friendship lay just around the corner. On one of our daily trips to the beach we saw a woman standing knee-deep in the water with a little babe on her hip and her long flowing Indian cotton skirt tucked up into her waistband, while a white-blond haired child played nearby, racing to beat the tide. I watched as the woman bent down and joyfully blew a kiss towards her son, scooping up her skirt as it fell into the water. Their skin still had the deep walnut gloss only achieved by a full summer at the beach. The children and I watched sullenly in envious silence.

  I recognised Jimmy Lucini, the little ice-cream haired boy, from Georgina’s kindergarten, and knew that his beautiful mother’s name was Angie. It had been said to me at the kindergarten that Jimmy had already starred in a major TV series and that his face would be his fame and fortune. All of this before he was five years old.

  Angie came up to me, waving as if she’d seen an old friend. ‘Doesn’t this do your soul a world of good?’

  My mouth just gaped open, like one of those clown heads turning from side to side at a funfair. I didn’t think I even possessed a soul any more. Probably sold it along the way to the devil in exchange for the children. I could feel a bubble of anxiety rising in my throat at the crushing hopelessness of my life. I wrapped my cardigan tightly around myself and rushed off towards the car — only to realise that I’d left the children behind, playing defiantly by the shoreline.

  Angie called out, her voice rising in the wind: ‘I reckon it’s time for a cup of tea. Why don’t you follow me home?’

  I would follow you anywhere. Please be my friend.

  The usual cries from Mimi and Harry about not wanting to go home were instantly replaced with whoops of delight at the thought of a visit to someone’s house, which only means two things to the under-fives: new toys and different food. They piled into the car covered in sand, while buckets and spades rolled helter-skelter around the back seat. Their two little faces beamed up at me, overflowing with joy and optimism. And so a wonderful friendship began right there on a sandy beach.

  During the next few weeks, I often visited Angie for bottomless cups of tea, whilst the children threw themselves into her dressing-up box and cupboards of endless delights for a winter afternoon’s play. It all seemed so normal. An immense feeling of Zen and peace reigned in her house, even amidst the chaos of squealing and castanet-playing children and her barely walking baby; nothing was stressful, and nothing was too awful that it couldn’t be put right.

  By pure coincidence, Angie was a social worker with a wealth of experience in critical care and grief counselling. I soon found myself opening up to her about Norman.

  ‘How can you fight with someone who’s dying?’ I asked her. ‘How can you not give them everything they want?’ It was the same daily liturgy. Norman and I had drifted so far apart during the last two years of our marriage that the relationship we had both nurtured had ended bitterly. Now I could barely remember any of the happier times.

  ‘Tonight, when it’s quiet and dark, after the children are in bed, I want you to think of one thing, one event, one mannerism, one phrase he said that amused you, that made you laugh, that made you love him. Push all other thoughts outside of your head and just concentrate on that one thing. And every day think of one more thing, until you have the whole picture back in place.’

  Another piece of advice Angie gave me would have even greater impact — though it took me a while to realise it. She suggested I take a holiday with the children. What we all needed more than anything was to get to know each other again — to try and reclaim those precious years we had missed out on.

  Cleaning the oven that night, I thought of a plan that I hoped would work. But I needed to speak to Mr Friendly the bank manager to find out where I stood financially. Recently I had sold Norman’s smart blue sports car and put the cheque into the bank, amidst twitters of horror from Mr Friendly. He would like to give Mrs Taylor a couple of lessons in money management — preferably when the children were at kindergarten (and I knew what that meant). I could feel a huge list-making session in the offing.

  Just then the telephone rang. ‘Hello?’ I said.

  There was a long silence and then a low clearing of the throat. A voice I instantly recognised said, ‘I didn’t know your husband was sick. How am I meant to know these things? That day you rang I thought you were looking for an affair.’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t, and I’m certainly not now. I am doing brilliantly well. My life is brimming with happiness and I really never need to see you again. Thank you, goodbye and fuck off!’

  Yes. That was clear and succinct, even witty. Goodness, I knew how to turn a phrase. I smashed down the telephone and left it dangling from its cord. Why did the Latin Lover always make my blood boil? Never, ever would I speak to him again!

  I hadn’t seen the Latin Lover since before Mimi was born. The timbre of his voice stirred up memories of our love and the same old confusion about why he had loved work and bachelorhood more than me. Even though our break-up had been mutual, the wound still smarted.

  Even though he’d managed to obtain an ‘A’ in interpersonal relationship skills during his Master of Business Administration, he was almost dense when it came to reading my actions and words. I only hoped that this time he’d got the message.

  Later that evening, I found Mimi talking on the telephone; from her laughter I assumed it must be my father on the line.

  ‘Give me the phone, my love. I want to speak to Jack.’

  ‘Mummy, it’s not Jack. This man’s name is Latin Ray. That’s what he told me.’

  I leapt across the room in a single bound à la Superman and wrenched the receiver from her grasp. My hands had broken out in
a sweat. I managed to hiss at him, ‘What do you think you’re doing, going behind my back, worming your way into my life via my child? You’re such a ratbag! I told you earlier, I don’t need to see you ever again.’

  I was trying really hard to control my language in front of the children. Big tick for effort, I thought.

  ‘Listen to me. You might not want to see me ever again but I think you need someone to talk to. You need a friend and I’m here. I always have been and I always will be. You ring me whenever you need to talk. Nothing more.’

  And so it began. Nine years, one marriage, two children and one death later, our jaded long-distance friendship via the telephone unfolded. Every night I would chatter endlessly about everything from domestic problems to subjects we had never discussed, like politics and religion. Lying in bed with the telephone cradled in the crook of my neck, I would listen to him whistling a sonata as he went about cooking his late evening meal. This was the same Latin Lover I had accused a decade before of an inability to communicate in any form except sex (where he got a gold star). Tirelessly, he listened and held my hand through the black nights.

  I eventually learnt that he was no longer at his high-powered job. It was evident that the increase in free time had brought him much more freedom and happiness, although I was sure that the marked decrease in cash flow was acutely felt. Abandoning the career that had once meant so much to him had signalled a major life change. Instead of the chauvinistic eternal bachelor he had been years ago, now he came under the category of a best friend, guaranteed to come and rescue me whenever I needed him. He told me how devastated and demoralised he had been when I went off and married during a period that he had considered simply a ‘break’ from our relationship. He was quite upfront about hoping for more from me down the track, but he said that he was happy to wait. I explained that he shouldn’t hold his breath, as I didn’t know whether I would ever be ready for another relationship; the pain flooding my heart still hadn’t subsided an inch.

  At the end of the year Georgina sold her kindergarten and recommended another place close to our home for Harry. (Mimi would be starting school in February — with luck she’d be in the same class as her best friend Jimmy.) Georgina and her husband Andrew were staying in the area, but working full-time at the kindergarten was no longer possible for Georgina while caring for a sick baby plus an older child, Anna. We would always remain friends, but for them it was time for a life change.

  Change was in the air for us too, as I began thinking more and more seriously about the feasibility of overseas travel. Maybe. Why not? What was the worst thing that could happen? I was already brimming with confidence from a week’s holiday we’d taken to one of the islands off the north Queensland coast in September. A post-winter ‘Escape to the Sun’ package outside school holidays had suited us perfectly: the resort had had unlimited childcare for them and unlimited alcohol for me. Angie and Georgina had tried to find me an alcohol-free island, but we all decided that a family-friendly island was a bigger drawcard. And despite this, for the first time in months I had managed to keep my consumption within normal limits.

  The thought of spending our first Christmas alone at Bilgola made my blood run cold. I decided we needed to be as far away as possible. Already Kate’s friends Ben and Trish Hawke had expressed interest in renting our house while we were away.

  I knew my parents would try to talk me out of it. But I was now thirty-seven years old, a widow and mother of two children. I was certainly not going to be impeded by them after all these years.

  Things fell into place very quickly once the initial decision had been made. The newspapers were full of tempting travel advertisements for people who could travel outside school holidays and before the Christmas stampede. Late November to mid-January would be ideal for us. We could take advantage of the low airfares and out-of-season deals for hotel accommodation. Both children would have finished kindergarten and that in itself would be a major saving, though the downside was that full-time responsibility for their welfare would fall on my shoulders. I was certain that I was up to it. Well, nearly.

  Planning the actual itinerary was easy: I wanted to go back to places where I’d been happy and safe in earlier, more carefree days. I would mimic the way my parents had organised our first family trip to Europe. A week visiting Jack’s sisters in Glasgow and then three weeks touring around Scotland — the trip Norman and I had discussed as a possibility for our honeymoon (before opting for Club Med Bali). The three of us would then fly from Glasgow to Geneva (via Amsterdam) and travel from there into the French Alps for a white Christmas. Positively perfect.

  The Scottish leg of the itinerary would be left in the lap of the weather gods. If there were gales and storms we would go from auntie to auntie in Glasgow until our welcome was worn out, but hopefully there would be no snow or torrential rain and we would meander our way round either Scotland or England. The French leg was made even easier when I contacted the Bayles in France. Catherine, who was now running her own agency in the nearby village of Argentière, had a chalet that would be perfect for us. A four-week rental would give us a much-needed discount on the rate. I knew how important it would be to have a base after a month travelling in a car.

  In the end, the whole trip took barely a couple of weeks to arrange. Many discussions took place at my girlfriends’ homes about our itinerary, luggage and packing. Angie was desperate to come. Georgina was putting on a brave face and wished me well on my adventure, but I knew that she was profoundly jealous that I could pack up my two healthy children and head off to the other side of the world. She wanted more than anything to return to London and visit friends and family, but while baby Lucy was so ill a trip of that magnitude was beyond any stretch of the imagination.

  Kate was most supportive and helpful, convinced that I was on the road to recovery. She and Mark were still considering my invitation for Zoë to join us in Amsterdam and travel with us to the French Alps for the second leg of our trip.

  Now it was time to tell my parents and the Latin Lover.

  During one of our nightly phone conversations, glass in hand, I said bluntly to Latin Ray: ‘I’m taking the children on a trip to Europe. I can’t stand the idea of being here at Christmas time — I simply can’t go on like this.’

  The Latin Lover was too stunned to talk. He’d known a holiday of some kind was in the pipeline, but not a huge overseas trip.‘What the fuck are you on? You can’t cope with daily life, let alone travel overseas with two small children. You could lose one of them and you wouldn’t even know it for days! I’ll come with you. You’re far too irresponsible to do something like this by yourself.’

  Norman had taught me early in our marriage that the best way to win an argument was to agree with everything the other person said. ‘Yes, my dearest friend. I respect your views and I must say that I think you’re right. I am irresponsible. I am slightly dependent on drugs and alcohol. I do tend to forget where I have left the children, but only occasionally. So wish me luck. We leave on Friday.’

  More stunned silence ensued, which I chose to take as acceptance. Then he said, ‘Look, I have a passport ready. If you need anything, promise that you’ll ring me.’

  ‘Everything will be fine.’ Fingers crossed.

  Sheilagh’s health was reasonable at the moment, so she and Jack took us to the airport, hoping against hope that at the last minute I would see reason. Sheilagh had already taken me aside to explain how she would have no compunction about having me certified as mentally unstable if I lost or injured her grandchildren. Obviously she didn’t really care at this stage what happened to me, her own child!

  I had done a lot of travelling throughout my life, but never with two children under five. I tried to remember handy things like their passport numbers, but that was so unsuccessful I resorted to things that would require little effort: when were their birthdays? what colour were their eyes?

  It didn’t seem to matter very much; these children were meant to tra
vel. Within a few minutes of taking off, they had found all the buttons on the armrest and had the attendants dancing to their every tune. Yes, more colouring books. Yes, more apple juice — he’ll take it in a bottle.

  As the hours ticked by and more and more alcohol seeped through my stomach lining, I realised the immensity of the task I’d set myself. What could I have been thinking? How was I going to bond with these children in a foreign country? Was I completely mad? Did I really think that a walk in the Scottish heather would solve major problems in my life? It wasn’t even summertime. Maybe my mother was right.

  No — I would just have to show her how wrong she was. Unfortunately, I had no idea how to go about this task. But I was willing to learn — with both children leading the way.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Pocahontas Tour

  OUR PROPOSED TRIP UNLEASHED my childhood memories of travelling to Scotland to meet my father’s family. My daughter would be the same age as I was the first time I went to Glasgow: I had been nearly five, and Kate had been six. Jack’s three sisters, Mindel, Rita and Pearl, had opened their homes and hearts to us, despite the tensions simmering just beneath the surface over the fact that their brother Jack had married a non-Jew. My grandmother Rebecca couldn’t abide the situation, but her heart softened at the thought of finally meeting her last two grandchildren.

  Jack and Sheilagh had taken the opportunity to have a week without children; I went to stay at Auntie Mindel’s and Kate went to Auntie Pearl. Kate and I couldn’t decide which one of the three aunties was the most frightening; they all had bushy jet-black eyebrows that seemed to be always on the move.

  Thirty years later, this still ranks as The Worst Week in Auntie Mindel’s life. My incessant crying brought on an asthma attack that lasted most of the week. Mindel could do nothing but shower me with love and affection and hope for my parents’ speedy return.