by Claire McNab
I looked away, regretting that I'd let down my guard. My tone deliberately conversational, I said, "I don't suppose it ever is."
As if by unspoken agreement, we turned to less personal topics. We chatted like superficial friends who had never crossed the line into genuine closeness. Her dry sense of humor delighted me, as did the strength with which she held her convictions. I had always been drawn to people who not only felt things strongly, but knew why they did, and Reyne could argue her case with both sincerity and evidence to support it.
And running like a whisper under our conversation was my awareness of her homosexuality. I didn't question why it made any difference to me — I just knew that it did.
"I'd better go," she said. "You've got an early start tomorrow morning."
I saw her to the door, then, impelled by a sudden impulse, I kissed her lightly on the cheek. "Happy birthday, again."
Her quick smile stayed with me long after I'd closed the door.
CHAPTER SIX
When I returned to Sydney I made a duty visit that I dreaded, but could never allow myself to avoid. My cousin John had called and arranged for us to meet at the nursing home. He was waiting for me in the car park, even though I arrived a few minutes early. "Hi, Vicky," he said somberly, his substantial square frame looming over me. "Matron Scott called yesterday to say Dad's getting worse. Over the last few days he's been practically bedridden."
I looked at the facade of The Good Shepherd retirement home and hospital with aversion. A graceless building painted a clinical white, its interior was as characterless as its exterior suggested. Uncle David being a minister, he was entitled to spend his declining years in the chilly comfort of this Church establishment. When his mind had started to deteriorate, Aunt Felice had shown little patience with the difficulties he caused, and had handed him over to The Good Shepherd's formidable matron with dispatch.
"It was hearing about Mum that did it," said John as we entered the antiseptic atmosphere. "I know we didn't think he understood when we told him that she'd died, but Matron Scott says at some level, he knew.”
I didn't reply. There was nothing of comfort I could say, and I was fighting the familiar mixture of anger, repulsion and guilt that visiting my uncle always caused me. I wanted to feel sympathy, sorrow — I knew that I should — but when we came into Uncle David's room it was all I could do to stay there with John.
My uncle lay on a narrow chrome bed with a white cover pulled up to his sagging chin. He gazed at us blankly as John greeted him with loud enthusiasm. "Dad! It's great to see you." John glanced at me. "Vicky?"
I knew my role. I was to smile, kiss Uncle David's cheek or squeeze his hand, then say something bracing and cheerful. Today I found it impossible to fulfill those requirements. I looked at the shrunken, pathetic frame of the surrogate father who had dominated my childhood with harsh discipline and even harsher criticism. His narrow cruelty had delineated my life. He had been the prototype of the religious bigots who attacked me now over the content of The Erotic Muse.
"Vicky?" said John.
"What does it matter what I do? Uncle David doesn't recognize me."
"We have to..." John made a helpless gesture.
"What? Go through the motions? Let everyone see we care?"
Even the anger in my voice didn't rouse Uncle David, who continued to stare vacantly out at the world from his ruined body.
John looked miserable. "It's Dad," he said in explanation.
My quick anger faded into depression. "He's your father, not mine."
"He was like a father to you."
I felt defeated by my cousin's incomprehension. "Yes," I said. "I suppose he was."
But I did not move to touch him.
Christie was wearing a pair of lurid pink shorts and an equally startling green top. She ran a hand through her short blonde hair. "You don't ever lecture in academic dress? What about some sort of black robe?"
I had to laugh at her lugubrious expression. "Sorry."
"Reyne won't be happy. She wants a photograph of you lecturing a class, and if you won't wear anything special, you'll look just like everyone else."
She flashed me an appealing smile. "How about a mortarboard tilted over one eye?"
"How about forgetting the whole idea?"
"No can do. Reyne Kendall has spoken."
My students were already filing into the lecture hall to hear my pronouncements on Wordsworth: a poet who lived too long. Some made straight for the front rows, but a hard core of students filled the upper tiers of the raked seating, as though anxious for the opportunity to surreptitiously exit, should my lecture prove too boring or too erudite for their tastes.
I grinned at Christie. "Tell Reyne I categorically refused to cooperate."
She gestured towards one of the lower entry doors. "Tell her yourself, Victoria, if you dare."
Reyne came striding in with quick, confident steps, wearing not her usual jeans and shirt, but a deep green suit and a frothy white blouse. "To impress the Vice Chancellor," she said, catching my appraisal. "And it's not about you," she added. "I'm contributing to an article on the funding crisis in Australian universities."
I was very pleased to see her. I told myself this was a response to the electric aura of energy that surrounded her, but I knew it was something more. What that more might be I wasn't willing to explore, other than to admit that it included the possibility of close friendship and, perhaps, the daunting thought of unambiguous understanding.
While I checked my notes, Reyne and Christie consulted. I remembered Hugh's gossiping reference to Christie as bisexual, and for the first time I considered whether she and Reyne had been — or might be — lovers. The thought was uncomfortable, as though I'd inadvertently invaded some intimacy that had nothing to do with me. I glanced at the white face of the clock that measured the slow progress of lecture room time for restless students. "I'm starting right now."
Reyne smiled at me mockingly. "Ma'am!"
She and Christie moved to one side, Reyne taking a notebook from her shoulder bag, Christie adjusting a camera tripod. I looked up at the packed rows, now mostly full of young people who chattered together like birds. I felt safe, secure. This was my territory, and lecturing was my profession. "Thank you..." I said, and silence ran along the seated lines.
This particular lecture on Wordsworth was well-practiced and I paced it with comment and poetry so that its pattern fitted the hour exactly. I was fond of Wordsworth and read examples of his poetry with that special pleasure that comes from balanced words, each in their best places. Although conscious of the slight stir that Christie's photography caused, I'd almost forgotten Reyne's presence until she came up to me at the end of the lecture. As the sounds of shuffling feet and the hubbub of conversation released from the constraints of an hour's silence filled the room, I said, "Have you time for coffee? It's too noisy here to talk, and there'll be another lecture in a few minutes."
Christie had another assignment, so it was only Reyne and I who faced each other over the ugly laminex table in the staff room. "I enjoyed your lecture," she said. "It may surprise you, but I like poetry."
Although it did, I said, "Why should that surprise me?"
She shrugged. "I don't suppose liking poetry fits with your view of me."
This was too close to the mark, so I said, "What sort of poetry do you prefer?"
"Really modern stuff, mainly. Not your area at all."
I raised my eyebrows. "Indeed?"
Reyne laughed. "I should learn not to do that. You hate being categorized in any way, don't you?"
She'd had her dark hair cut and styled. It curled like a glossy helmet, and I had to resist touching my own hair, which I'd pulled back into my usual tight chignon. I suddenly resolved to have it styled, although I'd worn it the same way for years.
Remembering the latest Millennium I'd bought that morning, I said, "I read your article about discrimination against women and gays in the military. I thought it
very fine."
She looked at me doubtfully. "Is this a critique? Are you going to add a rider?" I didn't understand what she meant, and when I frowned in puzzlement, she went on, "I mean, Victoria, it's not your kind of writing, is it? I'm a journalist — I don't write literature."
Feeling a guilty twinge because I had been surprised at the quality of her work, I said stoutly, "If you mean, do I think your writing is inferior because it's for a general audience, then you're wrong."
"I notice," she said with a note of asperity, "that you're choosing your words carefully. You can't really think that what I do compares with work produced in the exalted halls of academe."
"Are you trying to pick a fight?"
My indulgent tone made her smile. "You know — I think I am."
"Please don't. I admire your writing. I couldn't do it."
"Would you want to?" The challenge was back in her voice.
I put my hand lightly on hers. "Peace?"
Reyne didn't move her hand. "Okay," she said slowly. Abruptly embarrassed by our physical contact, I removed my fingers. "Did you have some questions to ask about the lecture or my work at the university?"
My return to formality didn't throw her at all. She flipped open her notebook. "Just a few. About both."
When I got home, my answering machine was blinking aggressively. Before I listened to the three messages I collected Tao from where he was reclining in my little courtyard and gave him a snack — he demanded a different gourmet cat food every night — and then made myself a strong gin and tonic. I didn't usually drink during the week, but I felt an unsettling combination of fatigue and restlessness that I hoped alcohol might assuage.
The first message was from Zoe, who managed to sound both peremptory and conciliatory: "Victoria, Arthur and I do want to see you as soon as possible, and definitely before you go to Melbourne. And I've found some more stuff in Mum's things you'll want to look at. Call me when you get home."
The second was from Gerald: "Hi, it's me. Wondered if you'd be free for dinner tomorrow night — say, Italian? I'll try and catch you later this evening." There was a pause, then he said, "Love you."
The third message clicked on. Immediately recognizing the voice, I frowned. "This is Reyne. I meant to ask when I saw you this morning, but I wonder if you'd like to go to dinner tomorrow night..." A small sound of amusement. "And it's not a disguised interview, Victoria. This is a genuine, no-strings-attached invitation. I'll be out this evening, so please leave a message on my machine if you're interested."
I finished my drink, picked up the receiver and punched in a number. "Gerald? It's Victoria. I'm sorry, but I've got something on tomorrow..."
When Zoe called early the next morning I felt thick and uncoordinated. I'd slept badly and fragments of my dreams still circled just out of reach. There was one disconnected, repetitive episode I'd had for years: bright, bright lights and a deep voice saying repeatedly, "Be a good girl, Vicky. Be a good girl." That's all I could ever remember, but after I dreamed it I always felt the same baffled anger and depression.
"You didn't ring back," Zoe was saying accusingly.
I took a large gulp of coffee, hoping it would clear the haze that enveloped me. "Zoe, I was tired last night. I didn't want to talk to anyone." Uncharacteristically, I added a sarcastic sting, "Even to my nearest and dearest."
"I see," said Zoe, obviously taken aback by my tone. "Well, I'm sorry to interrupt you now. Perhaps you could call me back later." It was unusual for me to ever have her at a disadvantage, and it didn't last long. "Of course, Victoria, I was calling because I thought you'd be interested in a box of stuff I found in the back of Mum's wardrobe when I was cleaning it out. I mean, it's all about you..."
I felt a breath of disquiet. "What's in the box?"
I expected Zoe to sound deliberately vague, and she did. "Odds and ends. . but you'll want to see them." In case I'd lost interest, she added, "And there are some reels of old film."
"When can I come over?" I was disconcerted by the urgency in my voice. Surely it was only a collection of worthless memorabilia — but I found myself reacting as though it were something dangerous that I didn't want here, in my own house. "When can I come over?" I said again.
I'd been incautious enough to show my interest, so naturally, Zoe played hard to get. "I won't be free today. It'll have to be tomorrow at the earliest."
We set a time, and before she rang off, Zoe brought up the real reason for her call: "And Victoria — Arthur and I would like to have a quick talk with you about investing in the company..."
Amid a full day of lectures and tutorials, by mid-afternoon I'd shaken off the dark mood that was a hangover from my restless night and my absurd apprehension about the box Zoe had discovered. I was looking forward to seeing Reyne that evening, so when she called and said, "I'm afraid there's a problem about tonight," I felt a stab of sharp disappointment.
"We can make it some other time."
She chuckled. "I haven't told you what the problem is, yet. Are you that keen to get out of dinner with me?"
I matched her light tone. "It depends where we're going."
"That's the problem. I've got two important international calls coming in, and I want to be home to take them. I wondered if you would mind if we had dinner at my place, rather than going out?"
I felt ridiculously relieved that I would still be seeing her. "Do you want me to bring something?"
"Not a thing. Just tell me what you don't eat."
I could almost smile at that. During my childhood, if I didn't eat everything on my plate, I had to stay at the table until I did. Zoe and John, trained since babyhood, seemed able to consume anything, but I, as my aunt often pointed out, had been spoiled. Food that I hated, like lambs' brains or tripe, had to be eaten, even if I gagged at the taste. "There are children starving," Aunt Felice would say with narrowed eyes. "Children who would be glad to have everything on your plate." Then there'd be dark silence, while the enormity of my failure to eat every morsel was considered.
I said to Reyne, "I don't eat brains or tripe... or quail."
"Oh, damn!" she said. "Just what I planned to cook!"
Gerald came into my office as I packed up for the day. Running late, I was keen to get home and shower before I was due at Reyne's. And I had to spend some quality time with Tao, or he would take revenge with an extended feline sulk. "I'm just leaving..."
Only half-jokingly, he said, "It's obvious that soon I'll have to make an appointment to see you."
"I'm sorry. Publicity for the book's taking a lot of my time —"
"That bloody book! I wish you'd never written it."
We were both astonished by his vehemence. He was flushed, apparently from a mixture of embarrassment and anger.
After a moment I said firmly, "The book's done. It's written. I'm not going to apologize for it."
"Of course you're not. Forgive me." His voice was still sharp.
I'd never seen him like this, so I wasn't sure how to react. He ran a hand over his face, as though attempting to wipe out the emotion.
"Victoria, from my point of view everything seems to have changed between us since you published that book. What I mean is.. . you're different, we're different." He sighed. "I'd just like us back as we were before."
I did my best to hide my impatience to be gone. "Can we talk about it tomorrow?"
"Of course. He was almost his urbane self. "I can see you're in a hurry."
Usually I would have lingered for a few minutes to soothe and reassure him, but tonight I was, for me, quite ruthless. "Yes, I am," I said, gathering my things together and leaving him wearing an expression of surprise.
Reyne's apartment was full of clean lines and bright colors. French windows opened onto a huge balcony crowded with earthenware pots of flowering plants. Inside, ferns and palms were featured in the decor.
"I'm a thwarted gardener," she said as she showed me around. "One day I want a house with lots of ground so I can gro
w vegetables and fruit trees as well as everything else."
The first telephone call she expected came while we relaxed with pre-dinner drinks. Politeness dictated that I not sit staring at Reyne while she talked, so I took my white wine and wandered out onto the balcony. The evening was beautiful, with a light breeze and a hugely yellow full moon in the darkening sky. I leaned against the railing and looked back into the brightly lit room.
She was wearing blue jeans and a shirt, as was I — but her top was a lovely rich tangerine, whereas mine was pristine white. I thought of the first time I'd seen Reyne, at the harbor side restaurant, and how much I'd disliked her. What had changed me? She was the same: her gestures emphatic, her manner often arrogant, her dark gaze coolly confronting. Was I different in some way? Gerald certainly thought so...
Reyne threw back her head and laughed. I smiled involuntarily. I could almost hear the hum of her vitality. Suddenly I wanted to share it — that taste for life that reverberated around her. In contrast, I seemed constrained, subdued, only half-alive.
She put down the receiver, picked up her glass, and strode out to join me. "Hey, look at that moon."
I couldn't remember another occasion when I'd been so conscious of someone else's physical self. The earthenware pots left little room, and we stood close together against the railing. I could hear her breathing, feel the warmth radiating from her skin, see the strong lines of her face in the moonlight.
We stood silently for what seemed a long time, then Reyne moved abruptly. "I'd better put the pasta on, or we'll starve before it's ready."
Curiously, I felt diminished by her absence, as though we had an unspoken partnership that had strengthened, but did not intrude. I followed her inside, finishing off my wine in one long swallow. She grinned at me from the kitchen. "I didn't realize you were such a practiced drinker, Professor Woodson."
I felt unaccountably cheerful. "I could surprise you, Ms Kendall."
She nodded slowly. "I bet you could."
It was myself I was surprising. I felt a heady combination of excitement and anticipation and told myself I had no reason for either emotion. But of course, it was Reyne. I knew that the evening was spiced with my knowledge of her sexuality. I knew how to behave with Gerald, with all the men I had known... but I had no preparation for this. It was not that I expected her to make any move towards me. It was that I found myself fascinated by her. Not a physical attraction, of course, but certainly an emotional one.