The Telling Time : A Historical Family Saga

by P. J. McKAY

  ‘Bad luck!’ Marta chipped in. ‘That what you call it?’

  ‘Enough, Marta. Let me finish.’

  Marta gave a disapproving sniff, crossing her arms and straightening her back.

  ‘His wife’s gone to the hospital,’ Stipan said. ‘She’s an alcoholic. Too fond of the bottle. A hopeless case.’

  I struggled to make sense of it all. Ever since Tata had announced his plan that I was to work as a housekeeper for Roko, I had tortured myself with images of this stranger. I imagined him as handicapped in some way, or with some dreadful personality flaw that had prevented him from marrying.

  ‘I want that filthy woman scrubbed from my Roko’s home,’ Marta said. ‘Cleaned to within an inch of its life. Understood?’ She reached across and pinched me just below my elbow, applying just enough pressure to emphasise her point.

  ‘It’s a delicate situation,’ continued Stipan, ‘but when I discussed it with your tata, he said you’d be perfect. He said it would be just the start you needed in this new country. I hope it’s the way you feel too?’

  Marta tapped her index finger on the table, matching the dull thud in my head. ‘You’ll keep everything to the high standard I expect,’ she said. Tap, tap, tap. ‘My Roko’s suffered terribly. These Kiwi girls are no good for our men.’ She waggled her finger at Stipan and her eyes filled with tears. ‘Told you, didn’t I?’

  ‘Now come, Marta,’ said Stipan. ‘Not all Kiwi girls are like our Pauline.’

  ‘Our Pauline!’ Marta scoffed. ‘From the start I said she was no good for him, but there’s no telling you men. Mama knows best — what our Roko needed was a nice Dally girl. One of our own.’

  I nibbled at the corner of my egg sandwich trying to make sense of this new information. The bread dissolved like air in my mouth and the flavour was foreign. From somewhere deep in my mind I dredged back the smells which had tainted the Bombay airport terminal.

  Marta made a hurried sign of the cross. ‘I pray to our God for the annulment.’

  Was this the real reason I’d been sent here? Did my sponsors think of me as a replacement wife? I knew about the proxy brides. Mama had spoken of them — girls from her village who had left between the wars, promised to men in America, Australia and New Zealand, men they had never met. Picture brides. If that’s what they thought, they were mistaken. I wasn’t going to marry any New Zealander.

  I sent up my own quick prayer asking for my love to write soon and find a way to take me away from all this. The last time we were together, I’d snuck out to meet him in a secret cave high in the hills above Luka. ‘To hell with the rest of them,’ he’d said. ‘We’ll be together. I promise you, Gabrijela. I promise.’

  All I had to do was wait. To get through my days in this strange new place as best as I could. Polako, polako.

  The yolks of two fried eggs stared up at me like knowing eyes. The dining table with its spindly metal legs and brown Formica top was pushed hard against the longest wall. We were crowded around the three remaining sides, Marta and Stipan at either end, and me on the long side. The one small window in the room, behind where Marta sat, had both panes thrown wide open but still the room felt claustrophobic, both a sitting room and dining room, and oddly shaped, as though a bite had been taken from the corner where the fireplace angled across. I estimated I could cross from one end to the other in five long strides, three crossways. I snuck a peek towards the open door behind Stipan, wishing I could escape. Stipan had given me a tour of the house the night before so I knew it led out to the back porch, off which was the wash-house and toilet. I shifted about on my chair with its scratchy fabric and the same spindly legs as the table, trying to get comfortable.

  I had panicked over what to wear, settling in the end on a striped yellow blouse and a dark-blue flared skirt. Nothing from my meagre collection had seemed suitable, and on seeing Stipan lounging at the table in shorts and a checked short-sleeved shirt, and Marta in a simple black house dress, her bare feet peeking from under her chair, I felt overdressed, like a showpiece, one of those caged animals I’d seen pictures of in a book about the Moscow Zoo, shipped from their natural home and deposited in a strange land.

  This was my first meal — I’d been too exhausted for dinner. Grace was a ritual that Mama insisted on, but Stipan was already picking up his knife and fork to eat. I followed his lead, feeling blasphemous as I made a hurried sign of the cross in my head. I hadn’t realised I was so ravenous and although the eggs were delicious, the sound of our cutlery scraping against our plates felt like torture. I stabbed at my eggs, resentment building inside me like a knot, and focused my attention on one of the little white boxes on the wall. Stipan had explained these were for the electricity when he demonstrated how to switch the light on in my room. It was fascinating to see this new technology that we were still waiting for back home, but it was as though I was a child understanding things for the first time.

  A small black cat, its tail a white tip, wandered in from the back porch mewing. When it slunk up next to Stipan’s chair and wound its tail around one of the metal legs the air seemed easier to breathe.

  ‘My ujak . . .’ I started, but couldn’t finish the sentence.

  I wanted to boast that my uncle was a ranked officer in Marshall Tito’s Party. That he’d been responsible for the project upgrading the roads on Korčula. That he was the one who had explained to me how the electricity would eventually flow. But what was the point talking about home, or the people I’d left behind? Neither Marta or Stipan seemed to notice I’d said anything at all.

  ‘Ah, Mala. Meet our Gabrijela,’ said Stipan, lounging back in his chair, his shirt buttons straining against his paunch. He patted his thigh and the cat jumped to settle on his lap. ‘Lucky for Marta, she has a helper now.’ He scratched the cat’s neck and winked at me.

  So, it was no different to home. It’s the reason you have daughters, according to Tata, for the ‘women’s work’. Marta stood to collect the plates and I scrambled to my feet, doing what I knew was expected of me. I followed Marta into the tiny galley kitchen as though pulled along by an invisible string. My heart pounded in my ears. Did she want me to talk or remain silent? I doubted I could find words, let alone form a sentence. I wished Mama could miraculously appear and inhabit Marta’s rigid body, to somehow pave the way and help me feel the ease the two of us shared while doing chores side by side — at least, until recently.

  Marta turned a tap and I stared, transfixed, as the hot water flowed. ‘We cook on electric stoves here. The same at Roko’s,’ she said, pointing towards a white appliance at the end of the room topped with three curly black rings. I would have to pray that using an electric stove wouldn’t change the way I had to cook, that I would still know how.

  ‘Welcome to the life of luxury,’ Marta said, as though reading my thoughts. She rattled a metal cage under the water and pursed her lips, transforming what might have been a hint of a smile into a thin line. As the sink filled with bubbles, Marta thrust me a tea towel. It was bright, like a painting, with a picture of snow-capped mountains, and seemed far too pretty to be used for drying the dishes. ‘We got a fridge last year. We share it with Roko. Did you see it in the wash-house?’ She placed a plate in a wire rack.

  I nodded and picked up the plate, trying to appear unfazed. I didn’t want to admit to jumping back in fright earlier when I’d passed the humming, coffin-like box on my way to the toilet.

  ‘I’ll take you to Roko’s later,’ she said, piling more dishes in the rack. ‘He likes to sleep in on a Saturday.’ She stared out the window as though there was nothing more to say.

  The flower beds edging the courtyard were an explosion of colour, contrasting with the staid brown paintwork of the back porch, and laid out neatly in front of two sections of wooden trellis that partitioned off an area behind. An ungainly timber structure with Y-shaped arms at either end and wires strung between reared up behind the trellis. A type of washing line, perhaps? At home we’d lean out the window to
string the washing off the house.

  The air felt heavy as though we were in a morgue rather than a kitchen. I consoled myself with anything that felt solid or true, even trivial things such as that minus her spiky shoes, Marta and I were the same height. My head was crammed with thoughts and questions but Marta’s stillness made my words rise and stick in my throat.

  After drying the last dish, I fled back to my room. Marta’s curtains taunted me from the bed. Was this some cruel trick? Would I never escape this woman who was so unlike Mama? And then the reality. All that I had been pushing aside. That my confidante and rock had abandoned me. I squeezed my eyes shut but the images of those final days still played out. Mama taking to dusting our already spotless home with an unprecedented fervour. Mama a stranger, her face a blank canvas of resignation, who rather than pulling me closer had allowed the silence to stretch between us like a canyon. The days reducing to a handful before concertinaing into hours. And my anger and sense of betrayal that, just like those specks of dust, Mama found it simplest to wipe me clean off the family slate.

  An hour later, Marta banged on my bedroom door and announced it was time to meet our Roko. I wrenched myself to standing, my head woozy from being hauled back from sleep. How long before this heavy feeling would pass? I dragged myself out to the hallway, joining Marta by the front door, the bell in my chest clanging like a warning. I stared at my old black pumps, awaiting her next instruction, taking strange comfort that she was wearing flat shoes as well. Marta opened the front door and motioned for me to follow.

  Part-way along the jagged paving stones, I stopped. A large tree in full green leaf monopolised the lawn to the side of the path. How had I missed it the previous day? I stopped and stared like a halfwit, grasping for something familiar. It reminded me of our pomegranate tree at home, the fruit had the same orb shape and yet something was different. I cast my mind back a week. The tree at home was in its winter phase, the fruit not even set yet. This tree was laden with fruit but it looked unripe and the leaves were all wrong. Everything felt tipped on its head and suddenly my fears of coming to the Southern Hemisphere, having to live upside down and cling on for dear life, seemed founded.

  ‘Persimmon,’ said Marta, standing by the gate, holding it open. ‘The fruit will ripen in May.’ I shook my head, dragging myself back to the present before hurrying to join her.

  After swinging the gate shut, Marta strode off down the street that crawled with children: riding bikes, running and chasing; clustered in small groups. I stared at the wooden houses, which to me looked temporary, as though having landed on their large kerchiefs of lawn they were poised to take off again. The brooding sun lurked behind the untidy mess of clouds and the heat invaded my every pore, making me feel clammy. At home I was accustomed to a dry heat, not this energy-sapping liquid cloak. Marta called to some of the children by name. I felt their intense stares, and the tears I’d kept hidden in my bedroom welled again. My dragi, Mama, my friends Nada and Antica, my brother Josip and his wife Mare, all the people I’d left behind. I hadn’t known how different my life would be here, how unsophisticated my country was by comparison. I swallowed hard, trying to snap out of this strange dream world in which I was hurtling from one new experience to another, and felt relieved when a man mowing his lawn and a woman tending to her garden seemed too preoccupied to notice us.

  Marta stopped and gripped my arm. She pointed at a house across the street and my stomach turned. I shielded my eyes against the flat glare. The weatherboards were painted white and the blue trim on the window sills was peeling in places. I forced myself to concentrate on the other features of Roko’s house — the front fence made from white timber palings, rows of arrowheads pointing to the sky, and behind it, a scruffy browned-off front lawn with no flowers or trees. Perhaps Roko wasn’t quite as house-proud as Marta made out.

  ‘My Roko’s suffered terribly.’ She looked me in the eye as though searching for acknowledgement. ‘You understand?’

  I nodded, wishing she would let up. She dropped my arm and directed me across the street, pushing past me to stride through the gate and up the front path. I scurried along behind her, my heart still bouncing in my chest, wishing I was an ant who could crawl into the door’s framework and hide. Marta rapped on the dark blue timber then burst inside, calling Roko’s name. He emerged from a room at the side and Marta spoke in English. All I understood was my name. Roko slouched further out into the hallway to lean against the wall. I edged up beside Marta, all the while feeling as though I was dangling centre stage.

  He was a big man, like his tata, but whereas Stipan cradled his physique, Roko carried his. He wore a striped shirt loose over a white singlet and he’d rolled the sleeves up to his elbows. Rather than being good-looking in the clean-cut sense like my dragi, Roko was swarthy and fit, with a certain ruggedness, an unkempt, couldn’t-care-less look. His jet-black eyebrows were distinctive and bushy, the same colour as his hair, which, like Stipan, he wore cropped on top and shaved close above his ears. I had no idea whether he noticed me. It was easiest to look away.

  Marta spoke again and I stared at the floor, trying to find answers to the questions racing through my mind. I’d expected Roko to be older but he didn’t look any older than my brother. Marta was still prattling and beckoning for Roko to move closer. He scowled, but Marta seemed oblivious.

  ‘Hello, Gabrijela,’ he said, cutting off Marta mid-stream. He stepped away from the wall to face us. His frown lines pushed his eyes back under his brows as though they were seeking protection, making him appear tough but vulnerable at the same time.

  ‘Pleasure to meet you, Roko,’ I said, using my best English, determined to keep my voice strong.

  For the briefest moment his eyes met mine. They were caramel-coloured, a mix of serious and sad. He glanced away and I dragged my eyes to the ground. He was barefoot, with marked tan lines part way up his calves, making his feet look stuck on, like two white boots. I was so nervous I almost giggled. Marta saved me, this time in my own language.

  ‘Gabrijela will start on Monday. I’ll show her everything. Will we see you over the weekend?’

  Roko didn’t answer. He was already retreating to the room he’d come from. Marta shrugged and rolled her eyes. I wasn’t sure if this was an apology for his rudeness or an acknowledgement that their relationship was strained. As I followed her down the hallway, she explained how the layout of Roko’s house was the same as their own: two bedrooms either side of the front door, a small bathroom down the hallway with the equivalent of my bedroom alongside, and the formal lounge opposite. She opened the door to the small bathroom and I felt a secret thrill again. How long until I was offered the luxury of having a bath with no need to boil the water first?

  At the doorway to the formal lounge, Marta pulled at my sleeve and leaned in close. ‘Hardly used,’ she said, opening the door. The furniture sat at haphazard angles, and unlike her own lounge, there was no carpet on the floor. ‘Pauline wasn’t much of an entertainer.’ She snapped the door shut and strode off to open the door at the end of the hallway. Marta of the spiky white heels was back.

  Poor Pauline. It can’t have been easy having Marta as a mother-in-law. But was alcohol a habit in this country? What were the rules? I wasn’t so naive that I had never drunk the poison, as Mama called it, but it was only on rare occasions and then, mostly watered down. I knew its dangers. Maybe Marta had been half Pauline’s problem? I wouldn’t let her get the better of me.

  Inside the sitting-cum-dining room I did a double take. Not only was it the same odd shape as Marta’s, but all the furniture, even their placement, was identical: a dark-green, padded bench seat running along the far wall beneath the window; to the side of the fireplace, the same low-slung, pale green armchairs jammed into the space beside the dining table; the fire-grate stacked with pinecones. Had Marta already started to wipe Pauline from the house, or had it always been set up like this, and Pauline felt she couldn’t change it?

  ‘My Ro
ko needs a cooked breakfast,’ Marta called from the kitchen. ‘Plenty of energy for the heavy stonework at the quarry. He takes a packed lunch and you’ll prepare him an evening meal. Keep him company, but you must judge when enough is enough. Understood?’

  I joined her in the tiny galley space, nodding to appease her. The view from Roko’s kitchen window provided the most striking contrast between the two houses. There were no flower beds, just a concrete pad behind which was a huge lawn and a jumble of weeds along the fence lines. The same timber structure loomed like a prehistoric monster. I looked to Marta, my panic rising again. She was busy opening the cupboards and tut-tutting.

  ‘Empty!’ she whispered, her eyes flashing wild. ‘That woman wasn’t fit for domestic purpose. Thank God there were no babies.’ She looked me in the eye. ‘A bottle in the bed’s never a good recipe. But you can’t tell these men, can you?’

  ‘No,’ I mumbled. ‘Same at home.’

  Marta’s face relaxed into a smile. It was only for a moment, but I took it as a small victory.

  Later that afternoon Stipan called me from my bedroom. He wanted to show me his garden, but how could he not understand that my head was reeling and my body clock was still stuck on the other side of the world? Again I hauled myself from the fringes of sleep to join him in the rear courtyard. The sky had cleared to bright blue and the sun was searing hot.

  ‘Dahlias,’ Stipan said, pulling a giant crimson starburst forward. ‘Aren’t they spectacular? And these tall orange ones are gladioli.’ He stooped to touch some low silver clumps with leaves like fur. ‘We call these little beauties lamb’s ears. Feel them, Jela.’

  Hearing my nickname, the one used by my friends and family, felt like another gift from Stipan among all this newness. I bent to rub the leaves between my fingers too. Their softness reminded me of my goats. I felt a sharp ache remembering the way they would nuzzle up against me with their liquid eyes. I took my time pulling myself to standing. Stipan flung his arm towards the gap in the trellises and smiled broadly. ‘I grow everything from seed,’ he said before striding off.