The Telling Time : A Historical Family Saga

by P. J. McKAY

  Davor pulled Sara forward at the entrance to the club and handed their ticket to a man sitting at a small desk. Marta and Roko had gone through already. My heart pounded but the man waved me on, directing me to the small cloakroom at the side, explaining that I could leave my stole there. Passing this to the lady behind the desk made me feel exposed, as though I was shedding a piece of my armour. She handed me a number on a piece of paper and I panicked for a moment, twisting it in my fingers, unsure what to do with it. A Maori lady beside me was dropping hers inside her purse and I turned away, tucking mine inside my bra. How long had it taken before this lady felt accepted amongst our people? Stipan had explained how this group of New Zealanders, with their coffee-coloured skin, had a special link with our culture: both languages shared the same phonetics, and many of our Dally men, especially during the early gum-digging days, had married Maori women. I turned back, wanting to connect with this lady, even with just a smile. But she had already moved on, the noise from the double entrance doors spilling forth like a blast as she swept through.

  I inched my way over. There were hundreds of people inside, at least three times more than at the Vela Luka dances. My heart ached for Nada and Antica, and all the evenings we’d spent at the dances together back home as I scanned the sea of unfamiliar faces, looking for Hana, wishing that Joy could have been born a Dally. The decorations were magnificent, flash compared with home: twisted strips of red-and-white paper streamers floating in criss-cross formations across the rectangular hall, bunches of red balloons clustered at points around the sides.

  A mural depicting a typical village scene spanned the far wall, and the images that I’d been pushing down all day flooded back. Memories of home that were so hard-hitting, and of that last, very special ball I’d attended in Dubrovnik, back when all my troubles started: fortified sea walls and crenellated towers; whitewashed buildings and church towers piercing the sky; Italian-inspired domes popping above terracotta roofs; sheer mountains hemming the village in; pelargoniums and oleanders in shades of pink and red and cerise and bright green; and the sea, shimmering in front of it all, the bluest of blues, cradling the fishing boats like babies.

  Stipan tapped my shoulder and nudged me forward, his hand at my back. ‘Come, Jela. Let’s find you a friend.’

  Closer up I recognised many of the faces of the young girls I’d first seen at the Dally picnic and then many times since at Sunday Mass. They were gathered at the side, leaning in towards each other and giggling. I suspected they might be swapping stories, like we used to do, of which boys would have snakes in their pants, and which ones they wanted to dance with. It was my habit now to join this group outside the church after Mass. They always welcomed me but it was annoying that I never had the chance to speak to anyone individually, to find some common ground. Many of the girls were related, or had gone to school together, or socialised within their family groups. They seemed to operate as a package, a bulk deal, and I craved the chance to pull someone aside and tell them more about myself. Instead my place seemed to be on the fringe of their group, listening in on their chatter, trying to make sense of it, pretending I was a part of things. I wondered if everyone had to go through this trial period before being officially welcomed into their ranks.

  ‘Valentina, take care of our Jela,’ said Stipan, his voice sounding too loud. A number of the girls turned but Stipan was already backing off.

  ‘Come,’ Valentina said, holding out her hand to pull me into their huddle. ‘Your dress is lovely. Pretty colour.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, glancing around, wanting to catch the eye of the others, to say more, to tell them all how nice they looked. They were already back to their conversations, a hive of busy bees, speaking too fast for me to keep up. Two large flags draped from the ceiling — the Yugoslav alongside the New Zealand one — and right then I would have given anything to have my time again. To be held close and have him lean in close, whisper in my ear and have my heart pound. To feel at home.

  Hana waved out, a bright white spot close to the mural. She was already moving forward and I raised my hand, feeling a wash of relief. I tapped Valentina’s shoulder, signalling that Hana wanted to see me. Valentina shrugged then turned back to the group as though it was of no consequence whether I stayed or went. Hana and I met part-way and I complimented her on her dress: a white satin number, full skirt with a violet sash, and lime-green trim around the neck and cutaway arms.

  ‘Your dress is fabulous too,’ she said, tugging on my arm. ‘Can you believe Roko’s actually come? You’ve been good for that brother of mine, you know.’

  ‘Nothing to do with me,’ I said, but I don’t think she heard. Her mission seemed to be to drag me to the far end of the hall at speed. I didn’t mind. I kept my eyes fixed on her sash as though it was some regal force pulling me along and catching me in her whirl.

  Hana stopped short. ‘Talk about surprises! Zoran’s dating a Kiwi girl,’ she whispered, leaning in close. ‘He’s keeping her well away from Mum, though.’

  ‘Can’t blame him,’ I whispered, thrilled I was a confidante. Hana took a step back, frowning, and I rushed to make amends. ‘Just thinking about Pauline and what happened.’ I cringed inside, wishing I had more space.

  ‘Pauline was always trouble,’ Hana said tersely, the silence pounding between us. ‘Roko was just too blind to see it. Come.’ She grabbed my arm again, leading me off as though that conversation had never happened.

  When would I feel at ease with this family? To know when to say it and when to bake it. I should have learnt from Marta’s reaction after mentioning Joy’s new washing machine. She had snapped: You still need to boil the clothes, Gabrijela — those new machines only do half a job. Up ahead, Sara and Petra were among the group we were heading towards — resplendent red alongside cool sapphire blue — but when we closed in Petra turned her back, blocking us out. Hana seemed oblivious, squeezing in and wedging me between herself and Petra. Their extra height, broad shoulders and strong arms made me like the cross-link on the letter H, insignificant, a girl with no right to be at such a party.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Jela,’ said Sara, craning forward. ‘I’ve just been telling Petra you’re not interested in our men.’

  ‘Not good enough?’ said Petra, a blue flash drilling me with her stare. She flicked her ponytail and turned away.

  It seemed everyone else in the huddle was staring too. Hana leaned in close. ‘Don’t worry about her. It takes a while to break the ice. Give her a chance.’

  I wanted to scream that I had been interested in someone but what would that prove? They would all likely think I was reacting, making an excuse. The band was setting up in front of the mural, a group of seven men: one hefted a piano accordion, another a trumpet, and a couple of the men held tamburicas. They were dressed alike in crisp white shirts, black trousers and red cummerbunds. I wondered where Roko was, if he might ask me to dance. It was strange to think it but anything would be preferable to dealing with Petra and Sara. A folk tune started up and Petra and Sara wandered off. Hana’s husband, Franjo, was beside us, tapping Hana on the shoulder. ‘I’ll send a partner over soon,’ she called back.

  Across the hall some women were laying out food on two long tables, and I wondered where Marta might be. A lady serving drinks from a hatch just behind waggled her finger at some men gathered out front, tipping back her head and laughing. Roko and Stipan were close by, holding glasses of red wine. The music was catchy and I tapped my foot, itching to dance, to feel a part of things, all the while scanning the room and wondering who Hana might send my way.

  A young guy was skirting the dance floor and it wasn’t long before he approached. We were about the same height but his tuft of curly hair made him appear taller. His shirt was so ill-fitting that I wondered if it had been passed down, or maybe he still had to grow into his body. He bowed formally, introducing himself as Clem, then led me to the dance floor mumbling something about working for Franjo. We joined in on a rock and
roll number, ‘Wake Up Little Susie’. I recognised it from Aunt Daisy’s programme. Clem’s eyes darted this way and that, anywhere but my face, and his dance moves were clunky. I wasn’t bothered. I realised how much I had been itching to dance, to lose myself in the music. I was already hoping that Clem might want to dance again, but when the song finished he led me to the side, and I barely had time to thank him before he scuttled off.

  Two men were slouched against the wall just along from me, neither of them looking capable of standing. I inched away, not wanting to draw their attention.

  ‘I’m sorry, Draga, I didn’t mean to startle you.’ It was Kate, Marta’s older sister. Her hair, like white spun silk, was styled neat as a cloche hat.

  I’d met Kate a few times. Even in her heels she was a head shorter than me. She was always immaculately turned out — tonight in a floral blouse and trim, straight skirt — and the sheen of powder on her face reminded me of the scones with their flour dusting that Joy had been teaching me to make. I held out my hand but Kate pulled me into a hug, kissing me. Her skin was soft as rose petals and sweet-smelling, like Marta’s Nivea face cream, the one I’d snuck open to try in the bathroom a few weeks back.

  ‘You realise how brave you are, don’t you? Coming all this way by yourself.’

  Something about Kate’s tone caught me off-guard — Mama, her reassurance, how much I missed that. Kate drew me close, her hand around my waist. ‘Mind, I know how that feels. I was only nineteen when I came out myself. Everything will work out. You wait.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘I still remember my adventure. Not easy, is it? All history for me now. I made my life here and I hope you have the same luck, dear. You will.’ She squeezed my waist. ‘Come, sit with us.’

  She herded me towards a group of women, more like grandmothers, all seated at a table to the side. Memories of the Dally picnic crowded back, but when Kate motioned for me to pull up a chair it felt different. She was so full of confidence, and even though I was certain she had Marta’s feistiness, there was also a warmth about her. I knew some of her story: she’d been the first of the family to come, six years before Marta and Stipan; she and her husband Nick had been successful growing grapes. They had organised a job for Roko’s brother, Zoran, and Marta was always telling me how he was destined to be the best winemaker.

  ‘Bet you’re still tired,’ she said, patting my arm when I sat beside her. ‘It took me months to get over that journey. How long has it been now?’

  ‘Five months already,’ I said, not needing to think. It felt more like five years.

  ‘Lucky you, coming by plane. In my day, of course, the boat was our only option.’

  I nodded, thinking how it was my uncle and his Party connections that Tata had used to sweep through all the necessary paperwork and pay for my fare. Ironic, given Tata’s disparaging views of my uncle and the Party.

  ‘We were stuck on that boat for weeks.’ Kate’s voice dragged me back. ‘By the end of the journey, I knew these girls so well.’ She smiled and waved her hand at her companions. ‘We were thrown together. All proxy brides as naive as each other. Weren’t we, ladies?’ A few of the women rewarded her with a smile, and I thought how lucky they were to have come as a group. ‘But that sickness. Ach! You couldn’t escape it, only temporarily when we leant over the railing and let go of our stomachs.’

  I scrunched my nose. My nausea on the plane had been nothing compared with that day, three months ago, when my resolve had been pushed to the limit. I could still taste the acid in the back of my throat.

  ‘What silly dreamers,’ Kate said, her face bright, not noticing my discomfort. ‘Most of us were only nineteen or so, the same as you, clutching photos of those dreaded men. We’d never met them, of course, even though we were already promised to marry them.’ She let out a peal of laughter. ‘We believed we were coming to the land of opportunity.’

  She was a natural storyteller and I sat back, allowing her story to wash over me. It was my own determination to escape my small life which had pushed me to take the risks I had. Mama had told me about the girls who left as proxy brides. Perhaps forty years ago it was no different. Perhaps when you’re young the risks always seem worth it and the problems surmountable.

  Kate nudged me. ‘Ah, well. I clutched that photo of my Nick so tightly that his face was no longer recognisable. When I scanned the wharf I worried I wouldn’t find him. His real face was no match for the photo anyway. Those men were all scoundrels and my Nick was no exception. We can laugh now, but they’d all sent their most flattering photo — taken when they were in their prime. Some even sent photos of a completely different person.’ Kate laughed again. ‘A photo’s no match for the real thing. What do you think, Jela?’

  My face coloured. I could feel it like a slow burn.

  ‘Nick and I made a good life for ourselves,’ Kate continued. I compressed my lips, worrying that she might sense my relief. ‘Well, you’ve seen our land out west, and the grapevines. Look.’ She pointed across the room. ‘Here’s our Hana, and Roko. You two will make a lovely pair, dear.’ She gave me no time to protest. ‘How is Roko? It’s lovely to see him here. You’ve been like a breath of fresh air for him.’

  ‘Roko’s keen to show off his dance moves,’ said Hana, beside us now, turning and grinning at her brother.

  ‘Aunt Kate,’ Roko said, stepping forward to kiss her cheeks.

  ‘Come on. Let’s see how you Kiwi men dance,’ I said, my words tumbling out, determined to escape before Kate said anything further to embarrass me.

  ‘Hmmph!’ he muttered, his look suggesting he would be happier showing off his escape moves. ‘I’d rather watch.’

  ‘Would be terrible to forget how,’ said Hana, her eyes pleading.

  ‘Off you go, you two,’ said Kate, and Roko reluctantly gestured for me to join him. We walked towards the dance floor like strangers, me trailing behind him. ‘Enjoy yourselves,’ Kate called, and I prayed I was doing the right thing, worried it might set us back again.

  ‘That’ll Be the Day’, a Buddy Holly song, started up. Roko shuffled from side to side and I was relieved to lose myself in the catchy tune. He was light on his feet but, like Clem, reluctant to catch my eye. I sensed that it wasn’t so much inexperience but because he was feeling as much on show as I was. When I snuck a glance, Roko was still looking to the side. Tears are for the dead people, I thought, throwing myself into the music. ‘That’ll be the day when you make me cry-hi,’ I sang, stamping my foot and twirling around. It felt cathartic, as if I was setting my inhibitions free, but I didn’t dare look at Roko in case he was scowling. Shaking my arms and twisting my hips I sang, ‘You know it’s a lie,’ wiggling my index finger as though scolding Roko. I wondered how he felt. If, like me, he was enjoying our dance. Our eyes met and he grinned, just a fleeting twitch of his lips.

  The song finished and Simun, whom I hardly recognised out of his fish-shop apron and black woollen beanie, tapped Roko’s shoulder. ‘I’ve been waiting for the pleasure all night, Miss Jela. Can I steal her, Roko?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Roko, already backing off towards the bar.

  Simun placed his hand on the small of my back. I felt a small rush of confidence thinking how I had progressed in this country. Joy was now someone I counted as a friend, and here I was with Simun, another local who, just like the postie, was a familiar, friendly face. He guided me around the floor to ‘Bye Bye Love’, twirling me at arm’s length then pulling me close. It was exhilarating, but I was grateful I’d avoided this song with Roko. ‘I’m through with romance’ and ‘hello emptiness’ were topics we could dodge at home, but there would be no hiding from those lyrics on the dance floor.

  The music came to an abrupt halt due to a commotion beside the bar involving the drunken men I’d seen earlier. They were yelling and jostling each other beside the food tables. I wasn’t alarmed. This kind of kerfuffle was common at home between men who’d had a skinful. Simun excused himself, dashing over to help, leaving me stranded alon
g with many other women.

  ‘Likely they’re all relieved to be let off the hook,’ one lady said with a wry smile, heading off to join her friends. I smiled too, wondering if Roko felt that he’d been rescued by Simun. There he was, alongside Stipan and many of the other men, all like human winches trying to pull the drunk men apart. I felt certain someone would land on the food table the way their arms and fists were flying. Had I really been that relaxed dancing with Roko? It was as though I’d finally had the chance to show him what I was really like, to be my true self. I wondered if he liked what he’d seen, then shook my head to lose the thought. Of course we were more relaxed. We’d spent so much time together getting over our differences, nothing more, and that was all it could be.