by Liz Byrski
‘So you . . . ?’
‘Stole some of George, yes,’ Barbara said defiantly. ‘In fact, I like to think that what I’ve got here is George himself, and what’s under the ground is his clothes and the coffin. I scattered a little in his garden, and a little in my own, and then I rode over to our favourite café by the river and scattered some from the balcony; only a tiny bit, of course. And the rest of him is in here to scatter somewhere off the Great Wall. He so wanted to see it, had done all his life, and then . . .’ She swallowed and rubbed her eyes with the hand that wasn’t holding the tobacco tin. ‘And then just when he was going to see it he . . . he . . .’
Heather leaned across and put an arm around her shoulders.
‘He told me to go, you know, the day of the accident, before he . . . before he sort of disappeared from himself, that day by the road. “You go,” he said, “go for both of us”, but I thought I couldn’t. Not alone, I couldn’t, and then a couple of weeks later you turned up with the tickets and . . .’
‘And you thought you’d keep some of the ashes for China.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry, Heather, I should have told you. Goodness knows what they’ll say if they inspect my bag at the airport and then want me to open the tin.’
Heather was having trouble restraining her own tears. ‘They won’t,’ she said, ‘they don’t apprehend respectable elderly ladies. Just try to pretend you are one, for a change. This is one time when being seventy-six is a big advantage.’
‘You think?’
‘I do. But they’re also unlikely to apprehend an Australian member of parliament, so I’ll put George in my bag if you like.’
Barbara hesitated and then shook her head. ‘Thanks, but no, I want him with me. You’re not mad at me, not telling you?’
Heather laughed. ‘It’s wonderful. I’m proud of you, proud to be with you and with George. Of course we’ll take him to a high point on the Wall and set him free.’ She paused, looking down at the tobacco tin in Barbara’s hand. ‘You know, Barb, all the time with Ellis I kept thinking of what you and George had and how special it was. I kidded myself that we could have that, that I could get him to change and then it would work. But Ellis would have had to become a different person for that to happen. It’s the ultimate arrogance, isn’t it, believing you can change someone?’
‘Yes, but most of us are guilty of it at some time or other,’ Barbara said.
‘I can’t believe it took me so long to come to my senses.’
‘Well, you did, that’s what matters, and next time –’
‘I doubt there’ll be a next time,’ Heather cut in. ‘The sort of relationship I wanted – that combination of separateness and attachment – it’s hard to find.’
‘But not impossible. I searched for a long time and eventually found it with George when I least expected it. Maybe you will too.’
‘Maybe.’
‘In the end what matters is what you make of it.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Like with the shooting, you had a choice. You could see yourself as a victim or a survivor, and it was clear, very early on, that you chose to be a survivor. Same with the Ellis saga. What will you choose to make of it?’
‘Um . . . I’m hopeless relationship material?’
Barbara rolled her eyes. ‘Or?’
‘Or what?’
‘Or, you’re a woman who’s not scared of being alone.’
‘I see,’ Heather said. ‘I like that. It sounds like someone I know, like a woman who puts the man she loves in a tobacco tin and takes him to China.’
‘To set him free.’
‘Exactly,’ Heather said. ‘That’s it, then. That’s what I choose: to be a woman exactly like that.’
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to my son, Mark Bennett, and his fiancée, Sarah Leaton, for introducing me to Newcastle and the Hunter Valley, and for their valuable help in finding locations where my characters could feel at home. The research trip was enormous fun and your local knowledge saved me hours of tedious work.
Special thanks also to Peter Grayling and Robyn Johnston, who spent time talking with me about the qualities of the cello, the life of a cellist, the work of an orchestra and the qualities of the Bach Preludes. I am most grateful.
And I am indebted to Gail Bell’s fine and fascinating book Shot for an insight into the immediate psychological effects of being shot.
It is, as always, a huge pleasure to work with the terrific team at Pan Macmillan, and I thank Cate Paterson and Sarina Rowell for their wisdom and patience. If there is an award for keeping writers on track during crises of confidence, they would have to be the winners. Jo Jarrah is a brilliant editor, and her creative and thoughtful contribution is always so valuable. And Jane Novak gets the award for being publicity manager of the year, and for always knowing when it is time to eat and top up the caffeine levels. Many thanks, too, to my agent, Sheila Drummond.
It goes without saying (but I’ll say it anyway) that events like those depicted in Trip of a Lifetime do happen in the world, but this is entirely a work of fiction and any mistakes in it are my own.