I’m shocked by how terrible Dad looks and for the first time in ages I feel a pang of concern for him. Apart from having lost weight over the last year, his hair is now almost white and his skin is ashen. Whereas Mum’s weight loss makes her look younger and healthier, Dad looks simply scrawny inside his clothes, his face uncharacteristically lined and old.
Mum must be thinking the same thing.
‘Justus,’ she whispers, ‘you look . . . terrible.’
Dad smiles apologetically and shrugs.
‘You do look shithouse, Dad,’ I chip in bluntly.
‘Well, thanks, you two,’ he grins good naturedly. ‘Just what I need to hear.’
‘Would you like to go to your hotel and have a sleep?’ Mum suggests. ‘We’ll stay with her.’
‘No,’ he sighs, ‘I want to be here when . . .’
‘Yes,’ Mum nods. He doesn’t have to say any more. Although Dad hasn’t always been the most consistently attentive son, his ties to his mother go very deep. We grew up on stories of how she used to take in washing to feed them both. How she nagged him to use the local library. How she scrimped and saved for his school uniforms and encouraged him into Law. I guess it’s only right that he sees her out.
I end up sitting there with them for most of the afternoon. Dorothy comes back, grinning sheepishly, from her interview with the reporter from the local paper, bringing coffees and cakes for us. She has just had her photo taken outside the post office and next week she’s going to be on the front page with an accompanying article: ‘Time and Tide star returns to look after Gran’.
The hours tick by slowly. It’s weird being stuck with my estranged parents like this. Initially they’re very careful with each other, making only neutral comments and boring chit-chat. But after a while, the odd joke bubbles through and I can feel them both start to relax. Gran’s heavy, slumbering old body between them probably helps. It’s okay Dot being there too, it takes the spotlight off me.
Soon they are like old friends with a lot in common. Mum tells him about the hitchhiker. Dad teases her about her propensity to pick up lost causes. When he and Dot relay some of the outrageously horrible things Grandma has been saying about the nurses and the hospital food, Mum and I crack up laughing.
At different times through the afternoon I have this weird sensation that the last year didn’t actually happen. That it’s all been a figment of my imagination.
‘So where is Cassandra?’ I whisper to Dot at one point.
‘Back at the hotel, apparently,’ she replies. ‘She’s got a big case on.’
‘What bad luck!’ I grin sarcastically. Dot giggles.
‘So what do you think of her?’ I ask. All my sisters have spent more time with her than I have and I’m suddenly interested in Dot’s opinion.
But she only shrugs and makes a bored face.
‘She’s okay.’
Gran begins to shift about a bit like she is trying to wake up. Dot and I turn to see Mum and Dad exchange a worried glance as they prop her up in the bed.
‘Poor old Gran,’ Dot murmurs sympathetically. ‘She must just hate this. Stuck in bed, not able to move or talk . . .’
‘Or boss people around,’ I add softly. Dot giggles again.
‘Remember Christmas last year?’ she whispers, conspiratorially, nudging me, making sure Mum and Dad can’t hear. ‘Remember it, Rose?’
‘Jeez!’ I reply dryly. ‘Could I ever forget!’
Last Summer, Melbourne
I wake, wondering what the sinking feeling in my chest is all about, then remember that it is Christmas Day. The first since the split, and Dad is bringing Gran for lunch.
I have to make myself throw back the covers, crawl from the bed and into the shower. Then I pull on the clothes I wore the day before. A weirdly apt Paul Kelly song pulses out from some other room, ‘If I Could Start Today Again’.
Oh yeah. I know what he means. I want to flip right into tomorrow now. I listen more closely to the lyrics and I find myself wondering which day I’d choose if I wanted to take back one day and start again. Will it be tomorrow? My arrangement to meet Ray in Anglesea is only a day away now. I can’t work out if the mass of strange knots in my stomach is about that, or about Dad and Grandma coming.
When I get downstairs I find the others gathered in the kitchen drinking tea and looking as freaked out as I feel. Dave and Hilda and the twins. Cynthia and Bruce. Mum. When they see me they all rouse themselves, trying to appear cheerful.
‘We’re waiting for you!’
‘Happy Christmas!’
‘Now we can open the presents!’
We take our cups of tea into the lounge room, to where all the presents have been arranged under the tree, and proceed to do what we do every year. Give and receive presents, all of us pretending not to feel the enormous empty space that Dad’s absence creates. Mum, now so thin that she looks frail, nods and smiles vaguely as she opens presents but puts them aside, without interest, as soon as she can. One of her brothers rings from overseas. Then a neighbour drops around the back with two pots of homemade marmalade. When the doorbell rings on the dot of twelve-thirty, my sisters all look at me.
So it’s my job to get the door! I get up reluctantly, knowing Hilda will only burst into tears and Cynthia will get all icy and distant. Dot has already run upstairs to avoid the situation and Mum looks completely unable to do anything. She’s clutching the arms of her chair with bony fingers, looking almost sick with anxiety.
‘Hi Dad,’ I say, cautiously opening the door, ‘and Grandma!’ Dad looks incredibly tense. Apart from a brief phone call, we haven’t spoken since the city meeting with Cassandra.
‘Merry Christmas, Rose.’ He tries to smile. Dressed casually in light pants and a plain red shirt, he is holding a bunch of bright flowers in his left hand, bottles of wine and two plastic bags full of brightly coloured parcels in the other. He looks as though he hasn’t slept.
He steps forward, kisses me on both cheeks, then puts all his things down carefully on the doorstep and pulls me close. His skin against my face feels slightly damp and I catch a whiff of alcohol.
I move on to my grandmother who is dressed in the lavender dress she always wears on Christmas Day. Blue-rinsed hair and four strings of heavy pearls around her neck, her skin as thin as parched white paper, and amazingly unwrinkled for someone her age.
‘Happy Christmas, Gran!’
‘Ah Rose!’ she kisses me sternly. Her smell, sweet and slightly musty, catapults me into another time altogether. For a moment I feel like I’m about ten years old.
‘I heard you have a boyfriend!’ she exclaims.
‘What?’ My head swarms briefly with panic. Ray? How could she know about him?
‘The Cummins lad!’ she declares cheerfully. ‘I know his father well. He came down to stay with Justus.’
‘Really?’ I say in relief, and then I’m curious in spite of myself. ‘So does he keep in touch?’
But Gran has lost interest. She is sizing me up critically.
‘Never mind him,’ she sniffs, ‘what the devil have you got on?’
‘Oh,’ I look down at my completely inappropriate old jeans, T-shirt and rubber thongs. Damn. I’m still in the clothes I threw on that morning. I forgot to change.
‘You’re planning to change before Christmas lunch, I hope?’ she booms. ‘You won’t impress anyone like that!’
‘I’m just on my way,’ I say meekly, thinking, I’m not exactly trying to impress.
‘Is everyone here?’ Dad asks, taking hold of my arm in desperation before I can escape.
‘Yes,’ I say, thinking for the hundredth time that this has to be a big mistake. I should have quashed it as soon as it was mooted. Stupid. Crazy. I step aside and motion them in. But Dad is bending, fishing in the bag of presents nervously.
‘I have something for you, darling,’ he says.
‘Justus, leave the presents until later,’ Gran orders imperiously. ‘I need a drink. Now where is
everyone?’
At last we are all there, sitting around the beautifully set, polished wooden table. Grandma is in pride of place, just under the window. Hilda and Dave are on her left, Cynthia and Bruce down the other end, and Dorothy and me between Mum and Dad. Tension sits in the air like a big cat lurking behind foliage, eye on unknowing prey, waiting for the right moment to pounce. Needless to say, by this stage I’ve changed my clothes.
‘Happy Christmas, everyone!’ Gran declares defiantly, raising her glass. ‘I’m so glad to be here.’
‘It wouldn’t be Christmas without you, Greta,’ Mum responds quietly. The rest of us murmur our agreement and I have a moment of thinking that the whole thing might work out fine after all. There is a lot to be said for protocol and for not speaking your mind.
But I have it wrong, of course. Gran is simply biding her time. The polite conversation finishes almost as soon as we are all served with food.
‘I want to shake your father until his bones break,’ is her opening line, as she unfolds her napkin and spreads it carefully across her lap. Spoken calmly though, as if Dad isn’t sitting right next to her. The rest of us simply stop. Hilda’s chin drops open. The colour drains from Mum’s face. And Dad’s mouth sets into a grim line. Dot breathes out to calm herself. David and Bruce pretend they don’t hear. Thankfully, Cynthia is in the kitchen getting something or she’d be sure to inflame the situation further. ‘The only thing I can think is that he’s taken leave of his senses,’ she adds mildly, picking up her knife and fork and looking around at the rest of us, who are all simply staring at her. ‘Well, am I the only person interested in this delicious food?’
In unison we all pick up our cutlery and begin to eat.
‘These are not the actions of the son I brought up to be loyal and true,’ Gran says through a mouthful of succulent roast turkey.
‘Well, I’m afraid they are, Mum,’ Dad says coolly, putting down his knife. ‘I am that son. So now, why don’t you concentrate on your meal? Everyone is very pleased to see you. It’s Christmas, after all.’ He holds up his glass of wine and gives a tortured smile.
‘Happy Christmas, everyone,’ Dad says, not meeting anyone’s eyes.
‘Yeah,’ we all say miserably, clinking glasses. ‘Merry Christmas!’
Mum doesn’t even pick up her glass.
‘You need some kind of . . . help,’ Gran persists, frowning at Dad. ‘Some of that counselling business that everyone has these days.’
‘No, I don’t,’ Dad says shortly, with a sigh, ‘I’m fine.’
‘Fine!’ she exclaims. ‘I don’t think you’re fine! You’re far from fine. Why would a man in full command of his senses leave his lovely wife and family . . .?’
She looks around at the rest of us in bewilderment, as though we might have the answer, then she snorts derisively. ‘For some little flibbertigibbet on the make?’
‘That’s enough, Mum!’ Dad explodes.
On ya, Gran! is what the rest of us think.
The meal lurches along at its own pace. Both my parents remain very quiet. I take surreptitious glances at my watch every now and again, and see my sisters doing the same.
The twins, Cormac and Ryan, are the only ones to break the awkwardness. They have their lunch near us at a small table and chairs. After a few bites they are careering around the room, chattering happily, their eyes blazing with mischief.
‘Look!’ They hold out their new toys for Dad to see. ‘Look what we got from Santa!’
Dad’s face melts into a study of joyful tenderness.
‘What have we here?’ he says, taking a car from Cormac and a gladiator figure from Ryan, and putting an arm around each of them. ‘Can you show me what they do?’
Both little boys become engrossed as they demonstrate how their toys work. Hilda doesn’t tell them to let us eat in peace. I think she senses that everyone is relieved to have the distraction.
By the time the lunch is over, Gran has managed to sort out most of us. As usual she’s blunt, verging on rude, and, as usual, by the end we all hate her vehemently and love her in roughly equal proportions.
‘Cynthia, you are wasting your time with that young man,’ she begins mildly, hardly waiting for poor old Bruce to be out of earshot. ‘You need someone with a brain, dear!’ There is no sarcasm in her voice. It is more as though she’s stating an obvious fact that Cynthia has simply overlooked.
‘Gran!’ Cynthia counters sharply, under her breath. ‘Bruce is a very talented person! He not only rides but he is involved in . . .’
‘I’m sure he’s a perfectly decent young man!’ Gran ignores Cynthia’s stricken face as she attacks her last roast potato with gusto. ‘But he’s not right for you. You’re going to be a doctor. You can get someone a lot better than him!’
Cynthia looks around to the rest of us for support but we all refuse to meet her eyes. Mum is staring into the far distance with this weird, fixed smile on her face. Dad is looking down at his meal – hardly having said a word since Gran attacked him – and Dave, with a twin on each hip, simply looks towards the kitchen, concerned that Bruce might have heard. Dot, of course, is nodding and smiling with gleeful agreement.
When Hilda gets up from the table some time later and goes to the window, irritated because David is taking too long to fetch something for one of the twins from the car, Gran snaps at her to sit down.
‘He’s not your servant, Hilda.’
‘I know that, Gran,’ Hilda says defensively, ‘it’s just that . . .’
‘Then don’t treat him like one.’
Gran has picked up on the Hilda and David situation intuitively, inside the space of an hour.
‘What do you mean?’ Hilda is turning bright red.
‘You glare at him whenever he opens his mouth,’ Gran declares.
‘No I don’t!’
‘You do,’ Gran counters firmly, ‘and it has to stop.’
‘But Gran!’ Hilda wails. ‘He can’t find the most simple thing.’
As the first, most-favoured grandchild, she is more used to Gran’s unequivocal support and approval for everything she does, so her nose is out of joint.
‘Men never can find anything!’ Gran declares with all the force of someone who knows an irrefutable fact. ‘But that’s no excuse. David is your husband. Treat him with respect.’
‘Well, sometimes it’s . . . very difficult,’ Hilda mumbles defensively.
‘Just think of the money he earns,’ Gran sniffs, ‘and it will become less difficult, I assure you.’
If it had been anyone else telling us these things, the house would have been in uproar. It would have descended into a screaming match, fisticuffs or something worse. But we all just cop it from Gran. Mum and Dad, too. If she’d turned up sweet and docile, like a proper old lady, most of us would have been disappointed.
‘So Dorothy, I want to hear all about your show!’ Gran declares. She’s sitting at the top of the table, tucking into the pudding, brandy cream and homemade ice-cream that Cynthia and Bruce slaved over all morning. For an old lady she sure can put the food away. ‘I’ve told all my friends and they are blind with jealousy!’
‘I started last week,’ Dot says shyly.
‘And how was it?’
‘It was . . . hard,’ Dot says, frowning. ‘I have to be there at six in the morning!’
Dorothy absolutely hates early mornings.
‘Did they send a limo?’ Gran wants to know.
‘No!’ Dot grins. ‘But they do send a taxi.’
‘How wonderful,’ Gran murmurs thoughtfully as she pictures this. ‘You must be enjoying it?’
‘Too early to tell yet.’ Dot gives a deep sigh.
‘You must be!’ Gran insists.
‘Well . . . I can’t say I’m actually enjoying it . . . yet,’ Dot declares. ‘I’m not used to such long hours and dealing with so many people. Learning lines is hard, too. The others seem able to do it so quickly. No one thinks to tell me anything. Most of the others
have been there forever and they’ve done other acting. It’s really hard working out what they want me to do . . .’
Cynthia, Hilda and I exchange surprised looks. Poor Dot is just running off at the mouth. Until now she hasn’t said much about her first week on the Time and Tide set. Surprisingly little, actually. I feel guilty that I haven’t asked her more. As far as I know, none of us has even mentioned her new job since she started, except to be sarcastic.
‘It’s not you, Dot,’ Mum declares firmly. ‘It’s the silly show.’ There is an awkward silence. Oh no, Mum, don’t! I look quickly at Dad but he is frowning down at his plate.
‘Whatever do you mean by that, Patsy?’ Gran snaps. ‘The poor girl has barely had a week to settle in. Anyone would need time to get used to it.’
‘I know my daughter, Greta,’ Mum continues quietly, ‘and she is better than Time and Tide. Way better!’
‘Mum!’ Cynthia exclaims hotly. ‘Give her a break!’
‘Dorothy just said as much herself,’ Mum exclaims.
‘I did not!’ Dot says, upset, her face set into a stubborn grimace.
‘You are not enjoying it,’ Mum declares forcefully, ‘and I can tell you why you’re not enjoying it. Because it’s a shoddy show that panders to the lowest common level . . .’
‘Patsy!’ Dad says, unable to contain himself. Thick silence descends between us all. Mum turns to him furiously, her face suddenly scarlet with suppressed emotion.
‘Yes?’ she shrieks, picking up her bread knife. ‘You want to say something to me, Justus?’
‘Well I . . .’ Dad falters.
‘Go ahead,’ Mum commands, still clenching the knife threateningly.
Dad gulps. Silence seems to crash about the room. On this warm, sunny day, chunks of grey ice are being thrown over us all. I want to run. I look from one to the other, from my mother to my father, and then to my sisters and grandmother. I feel myself teetering on the brink of something. I wait, breathless. Is she going to try and stab him or start throwing things again? One second. Two second. Three . . . How long can a person live without breathing? I’m a bird about to fall from the sky. I hover up there in the wind but the pull of the ground is strong. I have to use everything to stay in place.
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