‘Why would you do that?’ Hilda explodes. ‘Everyone in Port Fairy is waiting for you to arrive!’
‘How do you know?’
‘They’ve rung me. They don’t know where you are.’
‘Mum is tired and she doesn’t want to talk to anyone,’ I snap, ‘and I don’t think she’s all that keen to get there.’
‘Why not?’
‘Cassandra will be there.’
‘Why should Mum care about that?’
I stop a moment to marvel, yet again, at the stupidity of my sweet-natured, good-hearted, utterly cosseted and child-like eldest sister.
‘Well? She must have known it would be on the cards.’ She’s genuinely puzzled. ‘Why did she go if she doesn’t want to get there?’
This is typical Hilda. She means well but she is sort of dumb. She can’t think around corners. Sometimes I think her thought patterns fit in way too well with the neat, swish, expensive hairstyles she insists on getting every six weeks.
‘Try not to be so thick Hilda!’ I say eventually. ‘As a special favour to me, eh?’
‘I suppose it might be uncomfortable,’ she concedes with a sigh. ‘David and I are departing in about an hour.’
‘Are the twins coming?’
‘Yes, of course!’ she snaps irritably.
‘Okay, okay.’
‘Well, David thinks we should leave them here, but I don’t want . . .’
‘It’s not a bad idea, Hilda.’
‘Look, I don’t care what you think! My children come with me or . . .’
‘Okay! Fine.’ I cut her off from the rant I know she is simply dying to embark on. All about how society is so anti-child these days that parents are made to feel uncomfortable for bringing their little kids anywhere. ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ I say. ‘I agree with you, they should come. Gran will want to see them.’
‘Okay,’ she mutters. My change of attitude catches her off guard and she is quiet for a moment.
‘We’ve booked into the pub and we’ll see you . . . tomorrow, if you’re staying there, too,’ she says.
‘I’m sleeping in my van, remember.’
‘Rose! Don’t do that!’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s not safe . . . for a young woman.’
‘And what would you know about . . . not safe, Hilda?’ I say nastily. I’m deliberately having a go at her cushy, wealthy lifestyle in just the way she hates. Like most wealthy people, Hilda has no idea that she is so well-off. She snaps back something about me being ‘so far out of touch that it doesn’t matter . . .’, but I don’t listen because Mum comes out of the toilet drying her hands on a towel and slumps onto the bed.
‘Mum, do you want to talk to Hilda?’
She shakes her head vehemently, then, in typical style, changes her mind and takes the phone. She listens to Hilda awhile, then draws her knees up, sighs, closes her eyes and leans against the cushions, murmuring yes and no a few times.
‘Oh, Hilly,’ she buts in eventually, ‘don’t be hard, darling! David adores you and the boys! He wants some time with just you . . . and remember this is about Gran too . . .’
Oh God! The Dave-Hilda soap opera has begun! For the past year everyone’s ideal happy couple have been at each other’s throats, on and off. To be fair, it’s mainly been Hilda finding fault with David. It’s amusing, hearing her complain about him being too goal-oriented, impatient and rigid when those were exactly the characteristics she was lauding last summer!
Time to depart. Get out of here before I get embroiled in one side or another. After all, I have my own life. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that. My own life! I motion to Mum that I’m leaving. She waves me off out the door.
‘Call me,’ she says, ‘and let me know what you’re doing.’
‘I will,’ I say, forcing myself to be cheerful.
I move the van and park it in front of the beach. The sky is black now, with deep purple patches, like it might just break open any second. The waves toss about angrily on the mucky-green water. But, with luck, I’ll have time to walk along the pier before the storm starts.
I take off my canvas shoes and slip my jacket on again, although it’s not cold. I jump down onto the sand and make my way towards the pier. The beach has virtually emptied, only a few stragglers about now, peering up at the sky and holding their hands to their faces against the stinging sand. I hang about on the edge of the pier for a while watching a couple of old guys, completely unfazed by the weather, haul in their lines and reposition their bait. Their catch, of about six mid-sized bream, is in a bucket between them and I wish I could ask them stuff about fishing, and life in general, but after turning over a couple of opening sentences in my mind, I back off, scared that they’d find me intrusive. I go back to the van, get in and sit awhile, trying to decide what to do.
It doesn’t take long.
I’ll have to at least go out there to that beach. It’s why I came, though I never admitted it to myself. Only twenty minutes away, and there is still light in that gloomy sky.
Last Summer, Melbourne
Zoe is such a good Christmas shopper. Astute in a way I’m not. She knows where to go for the good stuff, and she knows if you can get it cheaper somewhere else. Every year I write myself a list before I hit the shops but it never goes to plan. Even when I’ve got something for everyone, I find myself wandering around, feeling desperate about whether anyone is going to like what I’ve picked out. Mad, really, because every year it turns out fine.
Having Zoe with me has made everything so much easier. We’ve had a great day together. Done loads of shopping and had lots of giggles, trying stuff on and working out what to buy for everyone.
We’re standing under the clocks at Flinders Street Station, both laden with parcels, about to say goodbye, when she hits me with it.
‘I went out with that guy again the other night,’ she says casually, then she looks at me directly. ‘Saw a movie.’
‘Which guy?’ I ask, but of course I know.
‘Nat Cummins.’ She turns away abruptly, as though she is already regretting bringing it up. ‘I rang but you weren’t home. A few of us went to a movie. But him and me ended up having a coffee together. He talked about you.’
‘Me?’ the idea of the two of them talking about me is disconcerting. Humiliating even. God, what about? Maybe they were discussing how to break the news gently!
Weird, I know, but for those few hours shopping, I’d forgotten all about this crap. Zoe and I had been back to how we used to be. Joking about the guys we passed in the street, the crappy music in all the department stores, how hard it was going to be getting down to study again next year, all the usual stuff. We were mooning over the fancy clothes we couldn’t afford and working out some of the details of the surfing after Christmas.
So I guess it was Nat she wanted to talk to me about down at the beach house when I fobbed her off.
‘Yeah, you,’ she smiles uncertainly.
‘What did he say?’ I ask, feeling my mouth move into its thin-asa-piece-of-string pose. I look over her shoulder at some guy playing the violin, badly, so I don’t have to meet her eyes. I want to get away. How long this is going to take? Of course, at the same time I’m as curious as hell.
‘Oh, he just . . . said he met you at some party and that he thought you were great and . . . I agreed. I told him you were my very best friend.’ She suddenly moves in close, links arms with me and smiles right in my face. ‘’Cos that’s right, isn’t it? We’re best friends?’
‘Yep.’ I try to smile. What is going on underneath all this? She is holding something back, that’s what I don’t quite understand. I feel sort of sick. But maybe it’s just jealousy.
‘So did you . . .?’ I step away, out of her grasp and shrug, as though I don’t care either way. ‘Did you and him hit it off ?’
‘Well,’ she giggles, ‘we had a bit of a pash in the car when he dropped me off.’
Oh! Her words make something insid
e me crash to a halt, but I manage to meet her smile with one of my own. Just.
‘He drove you home?’ I feign incredulity, as though this is what I find interesting, when all I’m seeing is them together in that car, his hands on her, their faces and mouths locked. ‘All the way to Bayswater?’
‘I know!’ she gushes. ‘It was so nice of him! Said he didn’t mind, he wasn’t doing anything. God, Rose he’s . . . yummy! What . . . do you think?’
Is she asking my permission? I have to look away. Nat? Does she have any idea how I feel about . . . this? Zoe and I are best friends. And he didn’t bother to call me again when I didn’t return his calls, so he’s moved on to her! Okay. It’s fair enough, isn’t it? Why am I shocked? I had my chance with Nat and I blew it.
Anyway, my time to speak has gone. The truth of my own position sinks into my head as sharp as a blade into soft sponge. What right do I have to judge her after . . . kissing her father!
She takes a quick look at her watch. Her train is due in about three minutes, but she continues to stand there with that expectant look on her face, waiting for some reaction. There is stuff I want to say, a lot of stuff, but I can’t seem to open my mouth. Time is running out.
Zoe blows out impatiently and squeezes my hand.
‘Let’s talk later, eh?’ she says in a nervous, slightly patronising tone. She turns away and bounds up the steps to the railway station.
‘Hey, Zoe!’ I yell after her. I am desperate for her not to get away with this so easily. My inability to say anything in the face of her buoyant high spirits feels so weak, so infuriating. Something has to be said. She stops and stands looking back down at me, this strange half-smile on her face.
‘Yeah?’
I have a moment of confusion, almost panic. The crowd ebbs and flows around me, the noise of the pre-Christmas traffic fills my ears with the discordant chaotic sounds of an orchestra tuning up before a concert. I don’t trust myself.
‘Wait.’ I run up the stairs to join her. ‘I’ll come see you off.’
We run through the entrance and, because we both have student passes, run straight through the turnstiles, down the ramp and onto the right platform. We’re both gasping. A loud announcement tells us that the train is about to leave, the doors are closing. She must know why I have followed her down to her train.
‘I think he really likes me!’ she suddenly blurts.
‘Yeah?’ I call back, coming in closer, hating her suddenly, but kind of loving her too, almost at the same time. There is something genuinely over the top about Zoe that makes love and hate sit alongside each other quite easily. Well, no! Not easily. Envy floods every pore of my body. Why can’t I be like her? Why don’t I know who I am? How come I’ve turned into this little pissant loser who can’t even stick up for herself? But Zoe’s confidence is mesmerising.
‘And it’s up to me now to . . . you know, to do something. Don’t you think?’
‘Do something?’ I repeat weakly, feeling myself being pulled in by the whirling gravity of her energy. She breaks up laughing, her face bright and lovely inside that frame of wild, dyed-blonde curls.
‘Oh, you know?’ she giggles. ‘I’ll ask him out again. On his own this time. That’s if . . . you are okay about it?’
She is not even pretending to be concerned now. Zoe goes for what she wants. So what’s new?
I plaster an encouraging smile over my face and give her a thumbs-up sign as I step back from the train.
‘Sure,’ I say quickly, ‘go for it, Zoe.’
I’m on my way through to my platform when I suddenly turn around and run back out of the station, down the steps, onto the street and into the sunlight. The handles of my shopping bags are cutting into my hands, and I’m crying. Crying. Crying. Crying. It’s so embarrassing. The tears are just pouring down my face because . . . I want Nat Cummins. Why do I mess everything up? Why does she have to have everything in my life? People turn and stare with quizzical, sympathetic expressions as I rush past them. I feel like a dizzy soap star but I can’t seem to stop it. Just stop this right now, I think. Stop it. This isn’t you. You are behaving like . . . one of your sisters. Worse.
I must see my father. I have to talk to Dad about . . . everything. I am filled with a new kind of manic energy as I rush down into the street and melt into the crowds.
I swing left and make my way to Elizabeth Street and, slowly, I calm down and stop feeling so crazy. Then I hop on a tram and travel up a few blocks to Lonsdale Street where I get off and walk two blocks up to William Street. On one corner is the Family Court, over the road is the County Court and on the adjacent corner is the Supreme Court. I’m pretty sure Dad is appearing in the Supreme Court in the afternoon on behalf of a corporate client. It’s not yet three o’clock. I should be able to catch him before he goes back in for the afternoon’s proceedings.
I climb the sandstone steps and walk through the complicated security system into the middle courtyard. Small groups of wigged and gowned barristers cluster together like a strange species of birdlike insects. They talk earnestly to each other and with clients, pull apart and come together, calling out final messages and terse good-byes before disappearing down various corridors to separate courts. I head for the wooden library doors and push through into the round space under the central dome and . . . I am in another world. I look around and take a few deep breaths. This is familiar territory for me. Sunlight streams down in great square shafts onto the polished wooden bookcases, the tables and the worn flagstones. Roughly a dozen people sit, singly or in small groups, working quietly. Solemnity of purpose prevails. I scan the room for my father. He will be here, or somewhere close by. I’m sure of it. Another deep breath as I wait for the atmosphere to work its magic.
But nothing happens. I’m standing there like a dumb, awe-struck geek, feeling completely out of place in my jeans and tight top. I look around enviously at the small groups of people who know what they are doing with their lives. For years, the belief that I, too, will be able to make my mark in this place has sustained me, given me purpose, a reason to study hard, an anchor to pin my life to. And now?
I see now that this place has nothing to do with me. The very idea that it ever did makes me want to burst out laughing. What an egotistical little shit I’ve been all my life! I can’t believe I was so sure about my place in the world. The barristers with their wigs and gowns, the heavy bound books full of dense language and weighty knowledge – all those judgments and precedents and detailed cases have been written by people who know who they are and what they are doing in this world. None of that applies to me. Maybe it never will.
I need to talk to my father. He will be able to tell me who I really am. I walk over to the wooden pointers and note which corridors I must walk down.
I’m through the door and heading towards Court Five when I see him. He is in the middle of a group of about five other barristers. All men, except for one woman. She has fair hair and is dressed in a cherry-red suit. The suit is conservatively cut and beautifully tailored. They are all talking and laughing, walking towards me. I move instinctively to the wall and watch them walk past into the front vestibule. They shake hands and begin to break up, calling about catching each other at a later date. Feeling shy, I wait for Dad to move off, figuring he’ll either go back into the library or out into the street. I’ll catch him either way. But, although the other three barristers have scurried away, my father continues to stand there with . . . the woman.
It must be her. They are standing close together, smiling into each other’s faces, without speaking. Then his hand reaches up and he brushes a strand of hair from her face. No doubt. It’s her. I watch as he holds her lightly by the elbows, bends slightly to listen as she says something to him. She is almost as tall as he is. Straight and slim with short, well-cut fair hair. I can’t see much of her face.
Inside about two minutes my father has changed from the one person I wanted to see most in the world, to the one person I really don’
t want to see at all. I’m longing to escape. Longing for them both to turn away and walk out the front of the building, or at least disappear into one of the nearby courtrooms or offices. Then I’ll make my run and they never need know that I was here. I will be able to push that image of him smiling down at her from my memory. In my head, I’m already on my way back through the crowds, down to the train station. Home. That’s where I want to be. I want to get home.
So, it’s true, I keep thinking stupidly, feeling as though a limb is being slowly ripped from my body. It’s really true. He has this other life, this other woman not our mother, who he loves. How incredible that it takes so long to sink in. I feel tainted, in a way, because I have witnessed my father touching another woman. I need to shower, change my clothes. It feels like I am now part of his betrayal.
But they don’t turn for the street or disappear into a nearby office. They talk a little more and then spin around together and walk back towards me, holding hands. I cringe, push myself nearer to the wall and shut my eyes. Just like a little kid. If I can’t see them, maybe they won’t see me.
‘Rose!’
I open my eyes and try to smile but I can’t. My mouth doesn’t work. I can’t meet his eyes or even look him in the face, so I concentrate on the point just over his left shoulder. He moves over to me and stands in front of me waiting for me to look up.
‘Sweetheart?’ he says softly, perplexed. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Nothing,’ I manage weakly, ‘I just . . . came to see you.’
‘I’m so glad you did, pet!’
I look over his shoulder and catch the moment of shock on the woman’s face.
‘Meet Cassandra, darling,’ he says, taking the woman’s elbow and pulling her forward. ‘Cass, this is my youngest daughter, Rose.’
‘Hello,’ I say. She holds out a soft white hand and, as we make eye contact, her smile becomes bigger. She has lovely, creamy skin – nicer than Mum’s – small, bright eyes and a wide voluptuous mouth painted dusky, matt pink.
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