by Liz Byrski
It hadn’t taken long for Julia to realise that on that first day she had dipped her toe into the waters of something for which she had unconsciously been searching. In addition to her pragmatic approach to love, she had learned from Tom the importance of having something to believe in. As they had watched the street battles together, as she had listened to his arguments about justice and freedom, a seed had been sown; a seed that had, since then, been struggling to grow. Now Hilary had introduced her to a group of women who had fired her own interests and passions. But the discovery also confronted her with the contradiction between what she was learning and the reality of her marriage to Simon. It had brought her face to face too, with her own part in what had happened in the dreadful days that followed the birth of Zoë’s baby, a part that she now considered shameful.
‘We need to get her out of the way,’ Ralph had said. ‘You’ll have to divorce her, shouldn’t be a problem in view of the bast . . . the child. But we don’t want a fuss. You need to be able to get on with your work, have a new start and all that. How much do you think she’d take?’
The whole thing had smacked of the landed gentry paying off the chambermaid who had got into trouble with the eldest son. Caught between her brother and the sister-in-law who had become her friend, Julia had struggled with conflicting loyalties. She had gone to the hospital hoping to find a way to make things better, but her good intentions evaporated when she was confronted with the reality of Zoë’s baby. In the days before their wedding, she had stood with and between Richard and Zoë as mediator, supporter and confidante, until they finally made it to the registry office. She could not do it again. Richard’s anger and hurt had, she realised, become her own, and Zoë’s betrayal felt deeply personal. Shocked and deeply embarrassed, Julia had stayed only long enough to reassure Zoë that she would return to collect her when she was discharged.
‘And Richard?’ Zoë had asked, once again on the verge of tears.
‘He’ll come and see you when you’re back at the flat,’ Julia said, unable to bring herself to explain that Richard’s pride would not let him return to the hospital to be stared at by nurses, doctors and anyone else who had heard the story. Three days later, she had collected Zoë and Daniel, and escorted them home in a chauffeur-driven Branston car. It was a journey of tense silences punctuated by stilted conversation.
‘Richard drew some cash for you from your joint account,’ Julia had said, handing Zoë a bulky envelope, once they were back at the flat. ‘It’ll save you going to the bank. He hasn’t drawn anything else and he’s taken his name off the account. It’s all yours now. And I did some shopping for you, there’s food in the fridge and stuff for . . . for the baby.’ there was a horrible silence.
‘Thanks,’ Zoë murmured, ‘thanks for bringing me home.’
‘Well, I’ll leave you to it then,’ Julia said, hesitating. ‘I . . . Er . . . I hope you get on all right. We’re at the Branston, of course. Ring if you need anything. Richard’ll . . . he’ll be over in a couple of days.’
Two weeks later, she had returned with Richard for the terrible final conversation. Julia knew she would never forget the Zoë she saw that day. She was standing by the window, holding the baby against her shoulder, swaying rhythmically to lull him to sleep.
‘I see,’ she’d said eventually, looking up at them. ‘So, you want to move back here, and you want a divorce?’
‘Yes,’ Richard said, his voice tight with emotion. ‘I’ll help you, though; money, I mean.’
‘Is it because he’s black?’
‘It’s because he’s not mine.’
‘But if he was white and not yours, would it be different?’
Richard looked around as though seeking a way out. ‘I don’t know. Possibly. I probably wouldn’t have known. You might not have known either.’
‘But say you had known?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Zoë.’
‘So, it is a race thing.’
‘It’s a recognition thing. Daniel is so obviously not mine, had he been white . . . maybe . . . maybe I would have thought I could handle the reactions, maybe I could have pretended he was mine and made it work, but . . .’ He shrugged and turned away.
‘You’re worried about what people will think when they look at you and me and then at Daniel?’
Julia saw the agony of conflicting emotions flickering across Richard’s face.
‘I suppose so.’
‘Because he’s black. So much for your . . .’
‘It’s because he’s so obviously not mine,’ Richard snapped. ‘And because every time I look at him, I will be reminded about you and Harry and . . . I just don’t think I can live with that.’
There was a silence heavy with anger and resentment.
‘We can agree to a figure,’ Richard said eventually. ‘You’ll have a lump sum and we can get a divorce. You can divorce me, if you think that’s easier. Then we’ll both have the freedom to start again.’
‘Only you’ll have more freedom than me,’ Zoë said.
‘For heaven’s sake, Zoë,’ Julia had cut in at that point. ‘This is your responsibility, yours and Harry’s. This is not about race, it’s about Daniel not being Richard’s baby. What do you expect?’
To Julia it seemed that Zoë swung back and forth between being a victim and an unreasonable persecutor.
Zoë stood with her back to them, gazing out the window for what seemed an eternity but was probably less than a minute.
‘You’re right, of course,’ she said eventually. ‘You have every right to feel as you do. This is my responsibility. I’ll be gone by the end of the month.’
‘And the divorce?’ Richard asked.
‘Just tell me what I have to sign.’
‘We may have to go to court. Work out the grounds . . .’
‘Okay.’
Tension seemed to flow visibly out of Richard’s body. ‘So there’s just the money to arrange, then,’ he said.
Zoë shook her head. ‘I don’t want your money; or rather, your father’s money.’
Richard, embarrassed, looked away. ‘But how will you manage?’
The baby was fidgeting now, sucking at his tiny fist. Zoë pressed her face against his head to comfort him and crossed the room to the door. In that moment, Julia saw that she was no longer the tearstained, clinging wreck she had been in the hospital. Ice had formed in her heart and made her unreachable.
‘That’s none of your business,’ she said quietly. ‘You’ve made it clear that what I do and how I care for Daniel is nothing to do with you. Could you go now, please – both of you. I need to feed my baby.’
Zoë had nothing; no income and nowhere to go, but she had Daniel, and – most surprising of all, in the circumstances – she appeared to have reclaimed her pride. Somehow, this seemed to give her the upper hand.
Since then Julia’s involvement with the Jeunes Femmes had helped her to analyse what had happened and to name her own feelings of distaste, and she found it impossible to justify her role in her family’s efforts to get rid of Zoë. It hung heavily on her conscience.
‘Ah!’ Minette cried, some minutes into their conversation, gesturing towards the door. ‘It is Hilary at last, so very late, and she is distrait? It is most unlike her, n’est ce pas, Julia?’ In the doorway, Hilary was peering anxiously around the room. ‘She is looking for you, I think.’
Julia waved and turned back to Minette. ‘She does look a bit distraught. I’ll go and see what’s wrong.’
Relief crossed Hilary’s face when she saw Julia heading towards her, and she reached for her hand and drew her into the passage away from the noise.
‘Look, I shouldn’t have come. It’s Eric; he’s not at all well but he won’t let me call the doctor. He’s so stubborn. Why do men have to think it’s brave not to see a doctor?’ She brushed a strand of hair back from her face. ‘Sorry, I’m worried and cross. I was going to give the meeting a miss this afternoon but he insisted that he wanted
to be left alone. And now I’m here and I really think I should be back there.’
‘Would you like me to come with you?’ Julia asked.
‘Miss the meeting?’
‘Yes, if it would help.’
Hilary hesitated. ‘Well, if you really don’t mind. He always loves seeing you. It might cheer him up.’
Julia steered her towards a table. ‘Okay, Simon’s got a business dinner this evening. My time’s my own.’
‘Lucky you. If I have to be nice to one more parishioner this week, I may have to kill myself or them. I know I’m supposed to be the one who’s solved the problem of loving a man but hating his job, but I don’t seem to be handling it particularly well at the moment.’
Julia collected her bag from the room and they made their way down the stairs.
‘I feel awful dragging you away like this,’ Hilary said.
‘You’re not dragging me away, I offered. But I think you need to calm down a bit, Hil. Let’s go and get a coffee and sit quietly for a bit, and then we’ll get a taxi back to your place.’
In a café further along the street, Julia ordered coffee and two cognacs. ‘We need it,’ she said. ‘At least, you do.’
Hilary sighed. ‘I have this horrible habit of catastrophising,’ she said. ‘Perhaps it’s because Eric is so much older than me. If he’s the slightest bit off colour, I think he’s going to die, and, honestly, I can’t imagine how I’d cope without him. It’s a complete contradiction, really. All the things we talk about in the meetings, all the changes that we want for women, and here I am – an anachronism; incapable of managing if anything happened to him.’
‘But you love him,’ Julia said. ‘I don’t see how anything changes that. And you’re so lucky that Eric understands what we’re doing. He’s not like Simon, who’s totally opposed to anything that rocks his own boat.’
‘Mmm. Well, love does complicate it all. It makes you a part of each other and the thought of losing the other person is very frightening. But you know all that; I’m sure you feel exactly the same about Simon, and you haven’t been together long. Eric and I have been together since I was eighteen.’
‘You’re not going to lose him yet,’ Julia said, as the waiter put their drinks on the table. ‘He’s probably just got some little bug that’s making him feel crotchety.’ She picked up her glass, swirling the cognac and holding it up to the light. ‘Come on, drink up, it’ll help you relax, and then we’ll get a taxi back to your place. Cheers.’
Hilary nodded. ‘You’re right, of course. You’ve become a wonderful friend, Julia. It helps so much that you understand.’
Julia smiled and sipped her drink. She was very fond of Simon – they had fun together and lots of playful sex – but Hilary was talking about a profound emotional connection that she suspected she would never have with Simon. Their marriage depended on her being someone she’d outgrown, and it stretched in front of her like a life sentence. That, she thought, was a worrying way for someone who had been married less than a year to feel.
EIGHTEEN
The Wheatbelt – October 1969
It was while she was cleaning Mr Fitzgerald’s office that Justine saw the map. He had left that morning on farm business and she’d been told to clean up but not to touch anything on the desk. The relief of knowing he’d be gone for a few days was huge. The worst times were when Mrs Fitzgerald herself was away, but even when she was home he still turned up in Justine’s room after his wife was asleep; just as he had done last night, drunk and more brutal than ever.
‘Say anything and I’ll break your fucking neck,’ he’d told her several times. ‘You’re a dirty boong and nobody will give a tinker’s cuss if I kill you. This is your fault and if I don’t kill you, then my missus will.’
It was hard for Justine to believe that Gwen Fitzgerald could possibly kill her but, all the same, she was terrified of discovery. And so, for months now, she had grown more and more withdrawn and could no longer look Mrs Fitzgerald in the eye. She slept only fitfully, always on edge in the dark, listening, waiting. She even stopped reading, fearing the lamplight might attract him. The lightness of life here after the convent had degenerated into a bitter darkness and now, more than ever before, she was burdened by shame and sickened by her own wickedness. At the same time, she was unable to understand how what he was doing was her fault or how she could make it stop.
‘I don’t know what’s the matter with you these days,’ Mrs Fitzgerald had said that morning. ‘You hardly talk, and you walk about all hunched up.’
‘Sorry,’ Justine mumbled, drawing lines in the sand with the toe of her boot and not looking up.
Mrs Fitzgerald sighed. ‘I had such high hopes for you. Well, just give the floor and the windows a good clean, and if you do have to move anything, make sure you put it back exactly where you found it.’ She paused so long that Justine actually had to look up at her. ‘Are you all right? You don’t look too well.’
Justine nodded and turned away, picking up her bucket. Mrs Fitzgerald gave an irritable shake of her head and went out of the office.
Justine had finished the windows and the sills and was about to start wiping down the picture frames, when, looking up quickly, she felt slightly dizzy and had to hold on to the windowsill. Her skin was damp with sweat and there was a throbbing pain in the pit of her stomach. It was while she was standing there, waiting for the dizziness to pass, that she noticed the map pinned to a big board. For a while she just looked at it, wondering, and then, rubbing her hand across her forehead, she walked cautiously across the room to take a closer look.
The only name she recognised was Perth; she’d seen pictures of it, and of the beaches along the coast. And then, as she studied it more closely, she spotted a red dot stuck on the map about an inch to the north-east of Perth and beside it someone had written ‘Fitzgerald Property’. Justine traced the line from the red dot back towards the ocean, wondering how far it was.
‘What are you doing?’ Mrs Fitzgerald asked and Justine nearly jumped out of her skin. ‘Trying to find somewhere? You’ve found the farm – what are you looking for now?’
‘The convent.’
Mrs Fitzgerald crossed the room and looked closely at the map, pointing to a cross close to Perth. Justine’s heart beat very fast. For the first time in weeks, she looked straight at Mrs Fitzgerald.
‘Where do I come from?’ she asked, the question bolting from her mouth before she’d thought about it.
Mrs Fitzgerald took a step back and crossed her arms, scanning the map.
‘I’m not too sure,’ she said, ‘but I think it’s up here somewhere.’ And she pointed to a place near the top. ‘This whole area here is called the Pilbara. I think you may have come from somewhere here. Do you remember any names?’
‘My mum’s name is Norah,’ Justine said.
Mrs Fitzgerald smiled, and touched her lightly on the shoulder. ‘I mean, place names. The place you lived or somewhere nearby?’
Justine closed her eyes. ‘It was red,’ she said, ‘I can see it. The earth was red, redder than here, there were rocks, but I can’t remember what it was called.’
‘Yes, well, I think it’s up there somewhere. I’m glad you’re taking an interest in something at last. When you’ve finished the dusting, you can start on the floor; it’s very dirty just in the well of the desk because he forgets to take off his boots.’ And she smiled again and went out to speak to Gladys, who was carrying a bucket of potato peelings over to the chicken pen.
Justine wiped the dust off a frame and looked again at the map. People used maps to find their way. Could she use this one to get back to the convent and then to Norah? She plunged the mop into the bucket and watched the soapy water swirl around it. She would leave before he got back. She would go at night; take food and water, a torch, some matches, a knife and one of her blankets, put them in the cloth bag she’d brought with her from the convent. And she would take the map. It would be stealing but she didn’t care. She
’d found it and it seemed like a sign.
Feeling hotter than ever, her head hurting as though it were banging inside, she felt something warm and sticky running down her legs. Finding it hard to breathe, she dropped the mop and grasped the door handle. The room was spinning and, as bile rose in her throat, she staggered outside and fell to her knees on the edge of the verandah. She heard Mrs Fitzgerald call out, and saw her running towards her, followed by Gladys. As she sank down into darkness, the last thing she saw was the bucket of potato peelings rolling away from Gladys’s feet.
Richard was making a half-hearted attempt to clean up the kitchen when someone hammered on the front door. It was Martin, jacket undone and tie askew.
‘We made it. We fucking made it. We’re on the shortlist.’ And, shoving a bottle of Jack Daniel’s into Richard’s hand, he drew a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket and read out the names shortlisted for the Film and Television Producers Documentary Award. Richard took the paper and looked at it, needing to see the words in print. The nominees had been announced in March and the wait for the shortlist had seemed endless.
‘I’ve watched the others; you probably have too,’ Martin said. ‘I think we could take this one out. Let’s get plastered.’
It seemed like a good idea. It still seemed like a good idea three hours later, and even seemed to Richard to be a good idea to carry on drinking after Martin had stumbled out onto the street and hailed a taxi. It was only the next morning, when he woke lying on the window seat and thought he might be dead, that it didn’t seem like such a good idea after all.
His neck and shoulders were twisted into a position from which he was frightened to move in case he fell apart. Above him, the lampshade was sliding in and out of focus. He lay there, remembering Zoë sitting on this same seat, months earlier, counting the days to the birth and knitting baby clothes. The morning sunshine flooded through the window and, as he turned his head towards its warmth, he could see her standing by this window on the day back in March when he’d told her they’d been nominated for the award.