Sometimes, as I ladled out soup, I felt a little like Milly in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, but that feeling was so different from anything I had known in what I was already starting to think of as my previous life that I couldn’t get enough of it.
As the men got to know me they became less shy and more rowdy, cheeky and occasionally downright vulgar, but it was all light-hearted, it was all good fun if not particularly clean fun.
I frequently found myself singing while I was cooking, or laughing out loud at some vulgar joke or another, and once or twice, after a few too many glasses of the excellent Chardonnay that came out of a box, I laughed so much that my ribs hurt. And that hadn’t happened since my teens.
On weekdays I cooked and cleaned and fixed the house up as best I could without burning the whole place down and starting again, and on weekends James took me on day trips to the stunning mountains, or nearby beaches, or to museums and restaurants in Brisbane.
But the ghost of Judy seemed to be at our sides ever more often. When I was cooking, I thought about the fact that she had perhaps cooked this meal, that she had used these same pots and pans . . . When I served up, I wondered if my lasagne was better or worse than hers. When I snuggled against James at night, I wondered whether he had preferred Judy’s body to mine. She looked young and fit in the unique photo I had found in a drawer in Hannah’s bedroom, and I was pretty sure her young farmer’s body must have been firmer than my post-childbirth curves. When we visited restaurants, I wondered if James and Judy had ever eaten there together, and when the restaurant owner knew James by name, I felt convinced that he was comparing me with his mind’s eye memories of James’ dead wife. And thinking quite probably that I was no match. Because I was convinced that these obsessive ideas had nothing to do with him and everything to do with me, I didn’t say a word to James. But try as I might to convince myself, this obsession continued to take form, and my fear that I was being shipped in as a replacement for Judy started to pollute almost everything we did together.
James picked up on it once or twice. He noticed me staring into the middle distance as I battled with myself, and asked me if I was OK, but I simply faked a smile and told him that everything was fine. He had enough on his plate, I reckoned, without dealing with my irrational fears.
For Christmas we drove down to the Gold Coast to spy on the nouveau riche types pretending to play chic (they looked the part until they opened their mouths) and on the way back visited a local casino where we quite literally threw away two hundred dollars. Surprisingly, throwing it away was the most fun I had ever had with money.
During the long drive home, James was quiet, and as always when things were quiet, my obsession with Judy began to fester.
As we drove back past Broadbeach, I asked, “So how long have you had this car, James?”
“The Toyota? Oh, about ten years,” he said. “Why?”
“No reason,” I answered. But it wasn’t true. I was, of course, wondering whether James had driven Judy along this same route in this same car.
“And you’ve been to the Gold Coast a few times?” I asked. James seemed to know all the places we visited pretty well.
“Sure,” James said. “Of course.”
We drove on in silence for half an hour before James said, “Something’s eating you, Hannah.”
I didn’t answer.
“Have I done something wrong?” he asked, after a pause.
I reached out and stroked his arm. “No,” I said. “No, you really haven’t.”
“But something is wrong, right?”
I shrugged. “It’s just some silly stuff in my head,” I told him. “It’s honestly not your doing.”
“You’ve been quiet for days,” James said. “I think maybe you should tell me what’s up.”
“I’m worried it will upset you,” I said, feeling suddenly sick with stress at the realisation that there was no avoiding the subject now. “And it’s really not your fault.”
“Hannah,” James said. “Please?”
“Look . . . It’s Judy,” I said.
“Judy?”
“You never talk about her much, so it’s—”
“You want to me to talk more about Judy?” James asked, sounding vaguely annoyed.
“No. That’s not it.”
“Then what?” he asked, glancing at me briefly in puzzlement, then turning back to the road.
“Look, I know what I’m feeling doesn’t make any sense, OK? So please don’t blame me for it. It’s . . . it’s irrational. I know that.”
“OK.”
“But I worry that I’m some kind of replacement.”
“A replacement?”
“A substitute. For Judy.”
“Oh,” James said.
“Do you understand what I’m saying?” I said. “I’m staying in her farm, I’m sleeping in her bed, I’m cooking the same meals for the same men that she used to cook for. So I feel – and, as I say, I know that this isn’t rational – but I feel as if I’m some sort of replacement. Like I’m some kind of substitute.”
“Right,” James said. “Gotcha.”
James’ features closed up like a book and that was the last thing he said. And because he looked so angry, I didn’t say another word until we stopped for coffee on the Pacific Highway an hour later.
We parked in front of a glass-fronted cafe and when we climbed out, I chose the end table. I sensed that an argument was in the air, and I wanted to be seated as privately as possible.
The waitress came and took our order, and only once she had gone did I dare say, “I’m sorry, James. I know I’ve upset you. It really wasn’t my intention.”
James shook his head sadly. “Nah, you haven’t,” he said. “I’m just not sure what to say. I’m not that good at this kind of stuff.”
I nodded. “Try anyway,” I said, softly. “Just tell me what you’re feeling.”
James rubbed his forehead. “Kind of tired,” he said, unhelpfully, then, “Disappointed, too, I guess.”
“Disappointed?”
“Yeah. That I haven’t said enough.”
“That’s not what I was saying, though,” I told him. “I don’t need you to talk more about Judy. I—”
“That’s not what I mean,” James said. “I mean, I feel bad that I haven’t said enough to convince you.”
“To convince me? Of what?”
“Well, of how special you are.”
At this instant, the waitress returned with James’ beer and my coffee, and I raised one hand to my mouth, bit my bottom lip, and struggled to hold back a batch of tears that were suddenly pressing at my eyes.
Once she had gone, James continued, “The thing is, Hannah, that I loved Judy.”
“Of course you did.”
“She was an amazing woman. Strong, and clever and funny. Brash, some would say. But I loved her.”
I sipped my coffee then swallowed with difficulty.
“But you’ve got it all the wrong way around,” he continued.
I shrugged. “I don’t see . . .” I said.
“It’s a terrible thing to say about someone who’s dead,” James croaked, shaking his head. “And if she hears this, I hope she’ll forgive me. But you’ve really got it all wrong. Judy was the substitute, Han’. She was the substitute for you. The only woman I ever really wanted was you.”
He reached out to take my hand, and I could no longer hold back the tears. They flooded down my cheeks, and with them, all of the stress produced by my obsession – revealed, in an instant, as unreasonable jealousy of a dead woman – vanished.
It was the most wonderful declaration of love that I had ever heard, and the only thing I managed to say in reply was, “Oh, James.”
His words were delivered so simply, and with such painful honesty, that I had no choice but to believe him.
By the time we got back all my worries about the ghost of Judy had blown away like so many storm clouds. Ryan had gone for good too, and with him an
other chunk of the past had been wiped. Only Giovanni and Charlie were left now, and, like me, had never met Judy.
James had to work long full days on the farm, but in love all over again, we ate well and laughed lots and drank too much and made love every night.
My life in England seemed a million miles away, and when I phoned Luke every morning, his tales of Christmas in England seemed absurdly familiar, ridiculously staid compared to the adventure I was living. I missed Luke, but perhaps not as much as I felt I should. And certainly not enough to want to be in England rather than here. Did that make me a terrible mother, I wondered?
EIGHT
Cliff
The therapist had sounded pretty nice on the phone. She had a warm voice and an easy manner that somehow made it seem as if anything, and perhaps even everything, was OK by her.
We had spoken three times before I met her, once to enquire and book an appointment, and twice to cancel. Each time I had phoned to do so she told me that this was perfectly possible in such a warm understanding manner that I no longer wanted to cancel at all.
Her house was just outside Guildford in a leafy lane of large houses, and I thought as I parked the car, Wow! Therapy must pay well. But when, through the December drizzle, I reached the front door and saw seven different doorbells, I understood that I had got that wrong.
Jenny Church’s flat occupied the ground floor of the building, but her therapy room was a small wooden chalet at the bottom of the garden. This came as something of a relief, as I had been feeling nervous at the idea of potentially bumping into members of her family on the way in or out of her office.
Inside the chalet, Jenny offered me a coffee then sat opposite. She was a pretty woman in her thirties, wearing jeans and a wrap-around cardigan. Her hair was a little wild, which gave her a skitty, sympathetic air.
“So, lovely to meet you!” she said. “What would you like me to call you? Cliff, or . . . ?”
“Cliff is fine,” I said, fidgeting to get comfortable. “I’m not sure how this works really,” I told her. “I’ve never, you know . . .”
“Sure. Well, before we start, I want to reassure you that everything you say here will remain in the strictest confidence.”
I nodded.
“The only exception to that rule would be if something you told me led me to believe that you or someone else might be in danger if I failed to act upon that information, or if you told me you were involved in money laundering or terrorism. In those cases, the law says that I would have to break patient confidentiality, but I would always tell you first. But other than those exceptions, you can be totally certain that anything you say in this room remains in this room. It’s very important that you know that.”
“Thanks.”
“So sometimes it can be hard to get started in the first session; you don’t know me and vice versa. If you find it easier to simply tell me what’s going on for you then that’s fine, but if it makes it easier I can ask you some questions. There’s no right or wrong way of doing it, and I completely understand that you have to build up trust in me. What will work best for you?”
“Now that I’m here, well, I’m not sure that I know why I’m here,” I told her confusedly. “So I’m not sure.”
Jenny nodded. “So maybe a few questions to get us kicked off?”
I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket to wipe my brow and nodded.
“Is it too warm in here for you?” Jenny asked.
“No, it’s fine. I’m just a bit nervous,” I said.
“Of course you are,” Jenny said with a smile. “Hopefully that will ease as we get more used to each other. So let’s start with some basics.”
Jenny asked me my age, occupation, marital status, and then moved on to my parents. I guessed that she was probably fishing for some Freudian obsession with my mother, but answered, “They’re both dead. A long time ago. So I’m fine about that now really. Well, not fine, but I mean . . . I’ve had time to get used to the idea.”
“Of course. And brothers and sisters?”
“Just one brother, James.”
“Older? Younger?”
“Two years younger.”
“Right. Am I hearing some anger in your voice when you talk about James? Or have I got that wrong?”
“Sure. There’s anger,” I told her. “But I’m really not here to discuss James.”
“Right. That’s fine too. So you said that you were separated from your wife?”
“Yes. We’ll get divorced I expect.”
“And how recent is the separation?”
“Three months.”
“So very recent then. Is that something you’d like to talk more about?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe later, or maybe now?”
“Maybe later.”
“Great. Well, we can come back to it any time you want.”
“The trouble is, that it’s all linked, isn’t it?” I said, glancing out of the window at the rain. I turned back to face Jenny now, and she nodded at me encouragingly. “My wife. She’s gone off with my brother. She’s with James. Right now.”
Jenny blinked. “I can only imagine how difficult that must be for you. It explains the anger I heard earlier. How do you feel about that?”
“Yep, angry pretty much sums it up.”
“I’m sure.”
“I hate his guts really. But then, I always hated his guts. He was a bastard even before.”
“Before . . . ?”
“Before he stole my wife. But now . . . Well . . . There’s no forgiving and forgetting that one, is there?”
“I can see that could be difficult . . .” Jenny said with feeling.
“Am I allowed to ask you questions?”
Jenny nodded. “You can ask questions if you like but I may not answer them if I feel that it will take the focus away from you. This session is all about you, after all. But go ahead.”
“OK, so here’s one for you. What makes someone gay?”
“What makes someone gay,” Jenny repeated thoughtfully.
“Yes.”
“I just want to be sure we’re on the same wavelength here. The word gay has a few meanings, doesn’t it.”
“I mean, queer. Homosexual or whatever.”
“Right. And when you ask what makes someone gay, do you mean how do they become gay, or what is it that makes society define them as gay?”
I shrugged. “Both, I guess.”
“OK. So let’s start with the first one first then. The truth is that no one really knows how people become gay. Some people believe it’s genetic, like eye colour or hair colour. Some researchers are actually trying to track down the gay gene. But others think it comes more from upbringing.”
“The old nature/nurture debate.”
“Exactly.”
“So what do you think?” I asked.
“Me? I don’t know. If I were forced to guess, I’d say maybe a mixture of both. Really the question is the flip side of another question: what makes people straight.”
I pulled a face. “What makes people straight? Surely being straight is just normal, isn’t it?”
“Normal?”
“Yes. It’s like a biological function. Otherwise the human race would have vanished. So it has to be normal.”
“It’s dominant. I’m not sure that normal is the most useful word.”
“Normal, dominant. I don’t see the difference really.”
“OK, just for a moment, let’s take a different example, eye colour, say. There are far more people with brown eyes in the world than with blue eyes. Brown eyes are genetically dominant. And normal. And people with blue eyes are a minority. But they’re normal too. Normality contains a spectrum of dominant and minority traits. Do you see what I’m saying?”
“You’re saying that being gay is a minority thing, but it still might be normal.”
“Yes. Homosexuality has existed in all societies and all cultures as far as we know. So labelling it as abnor
mal perhaps doesn’t make any more sense than saying blue eyes are abnormal.”
“Sure. I suppose I was wondering if a child was told he was gay all the time. Would that make him become gay?”
“Why are you interested in that question?”
“It’s just . . .”
“Yes?”
“It’s just . . . well . . . If someone . . . Suppose someone . . . Look. James, my brother, he called me a poof. A queer. OK? When I was a kid. All the time. As an insult. He did it because it wound me up. He did it to upset me.”
“I see.”
“So I’m trying to work out if that could have made me . . . if that could have had an effect on me.”
“If that could have made you what?”
“If . . .” I swallowed hard. My throat felt constricted. “If it made me . . . I don’t know . . . less straight than normal guys, I suppose.”
“Normal?” Jenny said.
“Sorry. Less straight than most guys then.”
“I see. Do you feel that you are less straight than most guys?”
“I don’t know. How would I know how straight most guys are?”
“Yes. I see the problem.”
“So there’s a question for you. From your experience, how straight are normal guys?”
“In most studies that have been done, the majority of people place themselves on a sliding scale somewhere between entirely heterosexual and entirely homosexual. There aren’t that many people up in the one hundred per cents on either side,” Jenny said. “But I’d say that anywhere on that spectrum would have to be classed as normal.”
“James would definitely be a one-hundred-per-center.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“I know him pretty well.”
“And you? Where would you put yourself on that sliding scale?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. I tried again and managed to croak, “I don’t know,” I said.
Jenny smiled at me warmly and sighed as she offered me a box of tissues. “Would you like one of these?” she asked, and it was only then that I realised that I was crying.
“That’s why I’m here, I think,” I said. “To work out where I am on the scale.”
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