by Liz Byrski
When she’s done with her serious swimming, Gwen rolls onto her back and floats, moving her arms gently at her sides and watching Justine, who has joined her this morning, undoubtedly because she has something she wants to talk about. Dan is still asleep back at the house.
Justine is a messy swimmer, thrashing about with arms like windmills, legs totally out of sync, shaking her head and spluttering. It is, Gwen observes, an extraordinary performance for a woman who is so graceful on land, who walks like a dancer.
‘Getting out now,’ Justine calls from a distance. She crashes off through the water to the shallows and walks swiftly up the sand to where she left her towel.
Gwen rolls over and over in the water, dives down to the sandy bottom and floats up again, before turning to swim slowly back to the beach. Some of her fellow swimmers are heading up to the old lifesavers’ building, where they usually have tea and toast. In winter, they hunch their shoulders into tracksuits and clutch warm mugs with both hands, savouring every bit of warmth. This morning they meander between the hut and the beach, talking, dripping sea water, contemplating a second swim. Gwen waves to a couple she knows well and turns along the beach to join Justine.
‘I’ve told Dan,’ Justine says from her seat on the towel, looking up at Gwen, who is drying her hair on a second towel. ‘I told him about Mal a couple of weeks ago.’
‘Everything?’
Justine shakes her head. ‘Not yet. Just what happened to me, about you taking me to hospital and then giving up the farm.’
‘But not . . .’
‘No.’
Gwen’s heart beats faster and she feels slightly dizzy. Dropping her towel onto the sand, she sits down suddenly. She has lived so long with her secret. ‘And what did he say?’
‘He was wonderful. Sad for me, of course, and for you, but totally understanding.’
‘And when will you tell him the rest of it? Are you worried about it?’
Justine smiles and reaches out for her hand. ‘No. And neither should you be. He’ll understand, and if by the remotest chance he doesn’t he won’t be the man I want to be with.’
Gwen nods. ‘It would be dreadful if what I did spoiled this for you.’
‘It won’t, Gwen. I’ll tell him soon. And, anyway, you have to stop looking so worried and be happy, because he’s asked me to marry him.’
‘Marry him! Really?’ Gwen says. ‘And did you say yes?’
‘Of course I did. With indecent haste, almost before he got the words out of his mouth!’ she says, laughing.
Gwen flings her arms around her, their wet limbs slide together and water drips from their hair onto each other’s shoulders. ‘Darling Justine, I’m so happy for you.’ She leans back on her haunches, her hands on Justine’s upper arms, looking into her face. ‘Dan is a lovely man, and he’s also a lucky one.’
‘I’m lucky too,’ Justine says and a huge smile seems to take over her face.
‘And you can cope with his job?’
She nods. ‘I think so. It was really hard this time but maybe it gets easier. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I have you and the nursery, my friends; I’ve got a lot to sustain me when he’s away. It’s pretty scary but he’s worth it. I love him to bits.’ She puts her hand on Gwen’s. ‘You’re sure you’re okay with this?’
‘Absolutely. When are you going to get married?’
‘Not sure yet, maybe towards the end of the year.’
‘When did he ask you?’
‘New Year’s Day.’
‘So, who else have you told?’
‘No one, yet.’
‘What about Dan’s family?’
‘We’re going to leave it a while. Wait until we’re clear about our plans, about where we’re going to live.’
Gwen looks away quickly to compose her expression. She has always known Justine would leave one day, but the length of time they’ve been together – more than thirty years – and the fact that Justine has never previously been in a serious relationship have lulled her into a sense of security. Without Justine, she is a solitary person, not entirely by choice. She has a full and satisfying life, but it is grounded in her privacy and solitude, and in her love for Justine and the knowledge they share. There have been times when Justine went away for long periods; a whole year working in the Pilbara, almost two years backpacking and working in Europe. But she has always come back; this is different.
‘So you haven’t decided where you’ll live,’ Gwen says now.
Justine shakes her head. ‘No. But I . . . we wondered . . . and you must say if this is not okay . . . I wondered if we might start off downstairs.’
‘In the flat?’ Gwen says, her spirits taking a dramatic turn upward.
‘If you didn’t mind.’
‘Mind! I’d love it, it would be perfect. Will the flat be big enough?’
Justine laughs. ‘It’s huge, Gwen. It’s probably the only granny flat in existence with so much space, and a lovely balcony looking out over the water.’
The flat is the whole ground floor of the house, which in the seventies Gwen had turned into a self-contained unit for her mother. She had lived there for more than ten years before she died, and since then other family and friends have used it from time to time. Gwen is dizzy again, this time with pleasure.
‘We could redecorate,’ she says, relieved to find herself speaking of such normal and positive things, ‘refit the bathroom and kitchen.’ She pictures sunlight falling on gleaming paintwork, granite work tops, cedar blinds and mellow terracotta tiles. All warmed by the glow of Justine’s happiness.
‘Well, we don’t need to do all that but we thought if you were okay with it, we might paint it before we move in. And we’ll pay you proper rent, of course. It just seems it would be a good place to start. For me, too, when Dan’s away . . . it’s an easy way for me to ease myself into that life, having you there too.’ She pauses. ‘But I’d understand if you’d like to have the place to yourself after all these years.’
‘I’d hate it!’ Gwen says. ‘I’d miss you dreadfully and, while I do know you’ll go sometime, I’m delighted it doesn’t have to be just yet.’ She lays her towel flat on the sand now and stretches out. ‘Do let’s get it done properly; it would be such fun. Dan wouldn’t mind, would he?’
‘He’d love it,’ Justine says with a laugh. ‘He’s raring to do a bit of one-legged DIY before he goes back to work.’
‘And what about his family? They’ll be pleased too, won’t they?’
‘Um . . . I think Archie will be, and the girls too . . . I’m not so sure about Zoë. I don’t think she’s feeling too comfortable about things at the moment.’
‘She’ll be fine,’ Gwen says, her happiness breeding confidence. ‘She probably just needs time. They must be very close; after all, it was just the two of them for years, wasn’t it? And she’s got used to him being single. I’m really looking forward to meeting her.’
‘You’re probably right,’ Justine says, and Gwen thinks that she’s about to say something else, before she repeats herself. ‘You’re probably right. Mothers and sons, it’s a big thing, isn’t it? She’s just getting used to the idea.’
And, for an instant Gwen thinks she sees something in Justine’s expression, but it is gone so quickly that she decides she must have imagined it.
‘Oh, Jus, this is so exciting,’ she says. ‘I can’t tell you how happy I am for you. Let’s go home and wake Dan up and have breakfast, and we’ll open up the flat and see what needs doing.’
TWENTY-FIVE
Rye – February 2000
Tom gets off the train and walks up the platform. The station is seething with people, all of whom seem to be in a terrible hurry. Why does everyone have to hurry these days, he wonders; why don’t people take time just to be? This is how he used to be, rushing everywhere, commuting back and forth between Rye and London, hooked on the adrenaline and status of his corporate life. Now, of course, he wishes he’d quit the tread-mill befo
re, when Julia told him to, after his prostate operation. But back then, the idea of retirement, especially early retirement, had been far too scary; getting back to work was proof of life. Now, Hilary’s death is another reminder that one must make the most of the time one has left, which is why he hates this annual trek to London; once you’ve had a brush with death you can’t ignore it. He wonders if any of the hurrying people are on similar missions – blokes heading for their prostate examinations, women on their way to mammograms. Sometimes Julia comes with him but this time, her grief still raw after losing Hilary, he had told her he’d go alone. It would be easier, of course, if he went to a specialist nearer home, but he’d rather see Raheem. If it hadn’t been for Raheem, Tom knows, he might not have made it.
Crossing the station concourse, Tom heads to the Underground to go to Raheem’s rooms in Harley Street. It’s the waste of time that annoys him; every time he’s been back he’s had the all-clear but it costs him a couple of hundred quid and a wasted day. He straightens his shoulders and pulls in his stomach, in a conscious effort to pull himself together. A couple of hours and it’ll all be over for another twelve months, and he can get back to Rye and call in at the travel agency before they close. He wants to book the holiday before Julia has a chance to change her mind. Having finally convinced her that he is not set on moving from England, merely wants to find a place for holidays, she has agreed to go to Portugal.
‘Just a holiday, though,’ she had said before he left this morning. ‘A bit of sun. Don’t read it as a signal that I’m ready for tennis or golf, or Mediterranean retirement.’
‘We’ve been through all that, darling,’ he’d said. ‘Just a holiday, and the Algarve isn’t on the Med. What’s happened to your geography?’
Tom smiles now thinking of it; she is so stubborn, and so determined not to end up like Ralph and Anita. He inhales deeply at the prospect of Portugal – sun, sea and sand, the scent of garlic – and steps rapidly back from the sickening blast of hot, soot-scented air as the train arrives at the platform.
Hours later, the tickets and hotel reservations in a plastic voucher in his inside pocket, Tom retraces his steps back up the hill from the station to home. The solid steel grey of the afternoon sky has darkened depressingly early, to a merciless charcoal dusk, and the cobbled streets that lead up to Church Square seem particularly steep today. As he reaches the top of the hill, he hears the familiar rattle as the mechanism of the quarter boys ratchets up to strike quarter to six. He stops to catch his breath and watch these strange mechanical figures in the clock tower doing what they’ve been doing for the last three hundred years. Then he walks through the darkness of the churchyard, from where he can see the lights of home between the bare branches of the catalpa tree. The curtains are still open, warm and welcoming, and he quickens his step and lets himself in through the front door with a mixture of relief and dread.
‘There you are!’ Julia calls out, hearing him in the hall. ‘You’ve been hours. I was starting to worry about you. Glass of wine or cup of tea?’
‘Tea, please,’ Tom says, unbuttoning his coat. ‘In a big mug.’ He walks through to the kitchen, sniffing. ‘Smells good.’
‘I made your favourite pork and bean casserole, as a reward for staggering off to that awful consultation on your own.’ She crosses the kitchen and kisses him. ‘How was it?’
Tom holds her, looking into her face, seeing again the complex traces of grief and exhaustion.
Julia tilts her head back and looks at him. ‘Everything was okay, wasn’t it?’
He hesitates, inhales deeply, makes a decision and then changes his mind. ‘Of course,’ he says, smiling. ‘Clean as a whistle, same as always.’
She kisses him again and returns to the kettle, which has just come to the boil.
‘Well it’s always best to check.’
‘Indeed it is,’ Tom says. ‘Watching our health has replaced religion and television as the opium of the masses.’
Julia laughs and pours water into the teapot.
He pulls the plastic folder from his inside pocket and drops it on the kitchen table. ‘Got the tickets.’
She turns to him. ‘Good. I’m actually looking forward to it now I’ve got used to the idea. I think we both need a break and some sun. When are we off?’
‘Next week. Wednesday.’
‘So soon . . . I thought . . .’
‘Why wait? We need a break and there’s nothing to stop us.’
She hands him the tea in his favourite mug. ‘No, I suppose not. Marion’s doing a great job with the business; hardly seems to need me. So, you booked for two weeks?’
‘Three and a half.’
‘Cheeky – I only agreed to a fortnight.’
‘You know me,’ he says. ‘I need very little encouragement and I start taking advantage.’ He wraps his arms around her waist. ‘You are an amazing woman, my darling,’ he continues. ‘In all the years we’ve been together there has never been a moment when I haven’t been aware how fortunate I am to be spending my life with you.’
Julia half turns to him and puts down the spoon she’s holding. ‘Goodness,’ she says, ‘you’re very romantic tonight. Good thing you didn’t come home with flowers or I might think you had a guilty conscience.’ She kisses him then, firmly, on the lips. ‘I love you too, Tomo, just as much as ever. Are you sure everything’s okay? You look a bit off colour.’
‘Just tired,’ he says, ‘bloody London. Don’t know how I ever put up with it. Should’ve listened to you and retired earlier, waste of precious time.’
‘Well, you’ve plenty of time now,’ she says, ‘so cheer up and sing to me while I finish off the soup.’
And Tom clears his throat and summons his flagging energy. ‘Come fly with me . . .’ he sings as he opens the folder with the tickets and hotel bookings, and shuffles through them.
And Julia hums contentedly along with him.
Zoë drives down Finnerty Street looking for a parking space. All the bays are taken, so she parks in a side street. There must be something on at the Arts Centre; it’s not usually as busy as this on a weekday. She has promised Rosie, who has gone off on a field trip for uni, that she will go in and buy the earrings that Rosie spotted at the weekend and then wished she’d bought. Earrings are Rosie’s thing – large, unusual ones – for which, in Zoë’s opinion, she pays far too much for a student whose only income is from working shifts in a local café. Rob’s family are recent millionaires, winemakers from the Swan Valley and Zoë suspects that he sometimes gives Rosie money.
‘I feel I should ask her about it,’ she’d said to Archie this morning. ‘It doesn’t seem right.’
‘You are not to ask her, Zo,’ he’d said. ‘It’s not our business. Think how you would have felt if Eileen had asked you something like that.’
Zoë remembers how she was at nineteen. The freedom of London, the way she hid everything she could from Eileen and resented the questions in those weekly calls.
‘You’re right, I would have hated it,’ she’d said. ‘I sometimes think I react to the girls just like Mum did to me.’
Archie held up his hands in protest. ‘You have a very open and honest relationship with them, they can talk to you.’ He’d put an arm around her shoulders and kissed her quickly on the top of her head. ‘They’re growing up,’ he said. ‘We have to learn to let go.’
He’s right, of course, Zoë thinks now as she wanders into the shady grounds of the Arts Centre. Knowing you have to let go, though, is a long way from actually being able to do it.
There are some weird sculptures and a couple of large multimedia installations ranged across the lawn. They’re ugly, she thinks, lumps of metal and wire, old tiles, and what look like bits of old baskets all stuck together and she walks quickly past them to the gift shop.
The earrings are easy to find; they are dangling clusters of sparkling purple and turquoise beads. Just as the sales assistant is about to close the case, Zoë sees another pair. Th
ey are similar to Rosie’s, only not so large and the beads are lime green.
‘And could I have a look at those too, please?’ she asks.
Holding them against her ears in front of the mirror she knows she has to have them. They are unlike anything else she owns and they are perfect. She gasps when the assistant tells her the price – they are twice the price of Rosie’s earrings, but she buys them just the same. Archie is always telling her she should treat herself more often. As she waits for the earrings to be wrapped, she walks across the shop to another jewellery cabinet, in which there are silver pendants, and, to her surprise, an oval pendant of blue and white enamel. It is larger than the heart-shaped pendant that was Richard’s first gift to her, but the design and colour of the enamel are remarkably similar. For years after Dan’s birth she locked it away, but she has never been able to bring herself to part with it.
Zoë decides to stop for a coffee in the courtyard café. Choosing a small table tucked away in a corner under the grapevines, she orders and waits silently, comfortable to be the observer. At the other end of the courtyard there are two women from her book club, they smile and wave but make no indication that she should join them and that’s a relief. Zoë envies the easy friendships she sees around her, but her childhood isolation has created a barrier she feels unable to cross.