The Telling Time : A Historical Family Saga

by P. J. McKAY

  There was a sharp ripping noise. Someone waved a piece of white fabric high in the air like a flag as the drunken men were hauled towards the door. One man’s shirt sleeve was in tatters. The music restarted, just like at home, as though nothing had happened. The dance floor became crowded and I moved off for some food. My earlier conversations with Kate and Hana spun in my head as I piled calamari onto my plate. I needed to be wary. If only there was someone here that I could call family of my own. With Marta and Petra I was always on my guard, but even with Hana I’d been caught out. It was exhausting having to side-step around when conversing with this family, let alone others in this tight-knit community.

  The calamari rings were delicious, comforting, a reminder of home and my thoughts returned to Mama. If only I could see her again, hear her voice. Stipan returned through the main doors, rubbing his hands together like cymbals as though he’d just disposed of some rubbish. He beckoned me over. ‘Have some more to eat. We’ll be off soon.’ He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. ‘Katastrofa! Always someone to ruin the evening.’

  Roko joined us. ‘Ready for home? Go find your mother.’ Roko rushed off and Stipan turned to me. ‘Fools, hard on their luck.’

  Stipan was rarely so short-tempered. Was he reminded of Pauline? Had she embarrassed the family here? I felt sorry for those men and wondered how many others had left Yugoslavia with a dream, only to have it crushed in this place which had promised so much more. I didn’t let myself dwell on the only time I had drunk alcohol at full strength — the start of all my troubles.

  OCTOBER

  Joy and Roger were hosting a pot luck dinner, not a party, Joy was quick to point out. It was a celebration for the start of summer, given that Friday marked the beginning of Labour weekend. Roko swung in on his bike an hour later than usual. I waved to him from the kitchen window as he crossed to the porch to remove his boots. His dark-green overalls, always clean in the morning, were now scuffed up with markings from the quarry dust and chips. The back door clicked open, and I cocked my head from the kitchen as he slumped at the table, pulling the newspaper close.

  ‘Here you go,’ I said, placing down his mug of tea and sandwich with last night’s lamb. ‘There’s not much time. Joy’s expecting us there around seven.’ Neither Joy or I had believed it when Roko accepted and all week I’d been expecting him to pull out.

  ‘I haven’t forgotten. Stop your fussing. Let a man unwind.’ The look on his face was pure Stipan and it seemed this was all he would say. It was the kind of response that had annoyed me earlier, before I understood he was a man of few words.

  ‘I’ll run your bath, then.’

  ‘It’ll be the first time, you know. Since Pauline.’ I was at the door to the hallway. There was a strained edge to his voice and I turned back, half of me wanting to wrap him in a hug and tell him everything would be all right.

  ‘Ah, they won’t bite,’ I said, my feet stuck to the floor, my voice too matter-of-fact. ‘One step at a time. Polako, polako, eh?’

  When I returned he was sitting in one of the easy chairs facing the fireplace. ‘Bath’s run,’ I called from the kitchen. I hoped the evening would go well for him. He deserved a fresh start.

  The moussaka I’d prepared earlier, and my platter of fritule, sat on the stove top ready to take next door. I filled the sink for the dishes, watching the bubbles form as though matching the mix of excitement and nerves brewing in my stomach. Joy had borrowed a dress for me from her sister — the one who got all the height genes in her family — and I was busting to put it on.

  ‘Got some news this week,’ Roko said, so close that I jumped in fright.

  ‘O Bože!’ I said, my hand at my chest, my heart still racing. Mostly, unless we were sitting at the table, he’d call out from a distance. But there he was, so close, leaning against the kitchen doorjamb, wringing his hands as though trying to contain what he wanted to say, stop the words from spilling out. I edged back to the sink, focusing on the suds, my cheeks still burning.

  ‘My annulment’s come through,’ he said after what seemed an age. ‘Today. From the Church. Thought you should know.’

  I gripped the rim of the dish, determined that he wouldn’t see my hands trembling. This was such a personal revelation, so out of character. ‘Ah, well,’ I said. ‘Means you can move on, eh? Marta will be pleased.’

  ‘Another reason to thank God,’ he said, one eyebrow raised and a silly grin wrinkling his face.

  ‘Never hear the end otherwise,’ I said, scrambling, worried at once that he might think me disrespectful.

  Another flash of a smile. ‘Time for my bath, then,’ he said, heading down the hallway.

  I returned to the dishes, my thoughts still a jumbled mess. What did this mean? Was he inviting me to celebrate with him? To show some compassion or understanding? Of course I felt happy for him. He was a single man now. Free to start again. I scrubbed at the last dish, my resentment building. But what about me? I realised then that I’d taken some comfort in the knowledge that we were both dealing with a full stop in our life. That it wasn’t only me with past mistakes. Over the months I’d come to see us as on a joint pathway. Now, by the stroke of a pen, the Church had wiped Roko’s slate clean, leaving me with no such reprieve. Even if I was brave enough to tell the priest in the confession box it still wouldn’t change anything. There would be no holy rule to annul what I’d done.

  I slipped into the side room, the match for my bedroom at Marta’s. The dress lay on the bed and I tried to rekindle my enthusiasm, taking a moment to rub a triangle of the fabric between my fingers, tiny checkered squares of cherry-red and white. After pulling on the dress then cinching the waist with the red belt, I twirled and inspected myself in the mirror. Earlier in the week, Joy and I had admired how the skirt floated. Shows off your impeccable curves, she’d said and we’d both collapsed in laughter. Now, I felt self-conscious. Would he think I was making an effort to dress up for him? It was as though the wall of protection surrounding us had tumbled, leaving me exposed. Pushing aside those thoughts, I curled my fingers around the eyeshadow compact that had made a small dent in my pin-money savings. I leant close to the mirror, steadying the tiny wand, and brushed a thin smear of blue powder onto my lids. Joy was back: Try not to be heavy-handed. Don’t be a fool. I thought, peering closer, applying my lipstick that was close to the nub now. Why should anything change? When I reached for my old pumps, I took a deep breath, my fingers at my locket, reassuring myself: Tears are for the dead people. Get going, girl.

  Roko was waiting in the living room, his hair still wet and slicked back. He’d changed into his smart steel-grey trousers with the narrow leg. The shirt I’d never seen before: it was in burnt-orange tones and for once he’d buttoned the sleeves at the cuff. The colour suited his tanned face and he looked younger somehow, as though the news of his annulment had lifted a weight off his shoulders. I couldn’t help thinking about my dragi, how he always took pride in his appearance — crisp pressed shirts, shiny shoes — and how even dressed casually he looked refined.

  I dragged my eyes down, patting the front of my dress. Roko’s feet stuck out like milky white icebergs. ‘Those white boots stop the stones biting your feet?’ I blurted, my laugh erupting like a snort. I grinned, remembering the first day we’d met and how I’d been too afraid to say what I was really thinking.

  He pointed at his feet. ‘Ha! They’ll do won’t they? Spent years hardening these up.’ He made a show of biting his fingernails, reminding me of my brother, Josip.

  ‘Might look better with shoes.’

  ‘Shoes?’ he said, in all seriousness. ‘No one wears shoes to parties here. Not in the summer. Didn’t Joy say?’ He let me stew for a moment before laughing heartily. ‘Ah, don’t be worried, Jela. I wouldn’t do that to the neighbours. Being there will be shock enough.’

  I laughed too. ‘Pays to check. Who knows with you Kiwis?’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that a new dress? Stylish.’


  ‘Joy lent it to me,’ I said, not knowing where to look, wanting to get next door, away from ourselves, among other people.

  Roko hung back at the base of Joy’s front steps, holding the moussaka as though he was a mannequin in a department store display. I knocked and a flash of bright yellow appeared.

  ‘Look at you!’ I said, ‘Don’t you look smart,’

  Joy’s hair was pulled back from her face by a wide yellow headband, the same colour as her dress but patterned with white dots. A mix of stunning and risqué, she might have just stepped off the latest catwalk. She hugged me as I squeezed past and then pecked Roko on the cheek, him stooping, angling the heavy dish. ‘Thanks for coming,’ she said, as Roko twisted and righted himself.

  ‘Great seeing you again,’ he said in all seriousness, as though he hadn’t been living next door for the past year.

  An awkward silence followed. I was still stunned by Joy in that dress, that she’d been brazen enough to wear something so short.

  ‘Here, let me take that,’ Joy said, reaching for the moussaka. ‘Roger’s in the lounge, Roko. You remember your way?’

  She made a cringing face as Roko made his escape. ‘That was awkward,’ she whispered. Then, louder, ‘Come on through. Let’s get rid of these plates.’ She pushed past me at speed, heading for the kitchen. The lounge was already noisy with laughter. This will be fun, I reassured myself.

  It made sense now why she had been so secretive about the dress. I’d made a passing comment about one just like it in the Woman’s Weekly a few weeks before, saying I’d never show off my knees like that. We’ll see, Joy replied, with a knowing look that left me feeling prudish.

  ‘Oh my goodness, I definitely need a drink now.’ Joy bent to put my moussaka in the oven. She held out her hand for my platter. ‘Thanks, Jela. You’re such a sweetie. These look amazing.’

  ‘So does your dress,’ I said.

  ‘Mum whipped it up.’

  Before I could answer, she was rushing for the door. I worried my fritule would go flying. ‘Let’s join the others,’ she called back, leaving me in her wake.

  I hung back at the lounge doorway feeling stranded, watching as Joy crossed to a table set up at the far end of the room. Roko was opposite, amongst a cluster of men in front of the fireplace. Brown beer bottles were strung along the mantelpiece, and I thought about where Pauline might have been standing at that last party and wondered whether Roko remembered this too.

  ‘Trust you’ll have another?’ a man with red hair said to Roko, raising one of the brown bottles.

  Roko held out his glass. ‘Go on. Pour me some more of your poison.’

  ‘C’mon!’ the man said. ‘Better than that Dally plonk.’ Most of the men laughed.

  Davor was among them and I scanned the room for Sara. My heart had sunk when Joy told me she’d invited them. I’d seen Sara a number of times since the ball, at other Dally events, and once at Marta and Stipan’s, but I still felt wary around her. Joy didn’t know Sara and Davor well, but she’d thought it might be easier for Roko if she invited them. There she was, at the other end of the room from the table, seated among the women on the smaller of the two couches: sleek Sara, neat black dress, her hair a soft blonde curtain around her shoulders with the ends flicking neatly under. Patsy, a friend I’d met through Joy a month or so back, sat beside her, wearing the dress she and Joy had gone shopping for. Patsy had confided how she struggled with clothes: If only I could lose a few extra pounds. The simple white shift dress with its lime-green flowers was a perfect choice. Marg, an old school friend of Joy’s whom I’d met only once before, was perched on the larger couch, her knees angled towards the others. She waved me over. ‘Look at you, Jela!’ Her booming voice matched her boldly patterned dress in pink and orange tones. ‘Don’t you look a treat.’

  Sara glanced up, rewarding me with a smile. ‘Love the colour with your dark hair.’

  ‘Style’s perfect too,’ said Patsy, smiling.

  ‘And look at all you lovely ladies,’ I said, feeling on show but pleased at my display of confidence. I still found it strange, especially when addressing a group, to hear myself speaking Engleski out loud. Marg patted the seat beside her. ‘Joy lent it to me.’ I whispered, relieved to sit down but still revelling in the praise heaped on me.

  ‘Looks like your kind neighbour’s bringing you a drink,’ said Marg, motioning at Joy who was like a bright yellow canary flitting over. Perhaps that dress was Joy’s answer for a shot of courage?

  ‘Try it,’ said Joy, thrusting a tall glass filled with an amber liquid and topped with a wedge of lemon at me. ‘Pimm’s and ginger ale. Our summer drink. Isn’t it, girls?’

  Marg nodded, raising her glass.

  ‘First things first, though,’ Joy said, pulling me to stand before I had a chance to take a sip and leading me towards the group of men. ‘Jela hasn’t met our lumps yet,’ she called back over her shoulder.

  ‘Steady on,’ someone called out.

  ‘Jela, meet Roger,’ Joy said. ‘Otherwise known as my darling husband.’ She looped her arm through his. I knew he was a good-looking man, but close up he was even more striking: ice-blue eyes contrasting with dark hair and a tanned face.

  ‘Great to meet you finally,’ Roger said, holding out his hand. ‘Joy’s told me plenty about you.’

  ‘And, as for everyone else,’ Joy said, throwing her arm wide at the group, ‘this is Marg’s husband Peter.’ The man was a good head shorter than the others, his face peppered with freckles. He acknowledged me with a wave and I thought how Marg must dwarf him.

  ‘And Paul, Patsy’s husband.’ He was the red-haired one I’d seen earlier. He gave me a cheeky grin. ‘And you’ve already met Davor. And Roko, of course.’

  Roger moved off to the side to flick through his record collection, and Joy led me back towards the ladies. We sat on the couch, me sandwiched between Joy and Marg, and I snuck another glance at Roko. He was laughing and slapping Davor on the back, the most animated I’d ever seen him, and I conceded that perhaps Joy was right.

  Marg nudged my shoulder. ‘Roko looks relaxed. You must be good for him.’

  ‘It’s thanks to Joy that he’s finally out,’ I said, sipping at my drink. ‘Nothing to do with me.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s got plenty to do with you,’ said Marg, as though she couldn’t be more serious. ‘What do you say, Joy?’

  ‘Happiest I’ve seen him in a long time,’ said Joy. ‘Time’s a great healer though. Can’t have been easy for him. They struggled getting out towards the end.’

  Marg shook her head. ‘She was a mess.’

  It surprised me how many people knew about Roko and Pauline. Everyone I came across seemed to know something or have an opinion. I tried not to sip my drink too fast. My preference was still for wine mixed with water, but wine wasn’t popular here, at least not with the locals. The Pimm’s was refreshing but a little sweet for my taste. It was the first time I’d drunk alcohol at Joy’s, and I couldn’t help thinking about Pauline and the reason I needed to be wary myself.

  Roger turned the music up. ‘Blue Suede Shoes’. I knew music was his passion and that he was one of the first in the neighbourhood to own a record player.

  ‘Roko keeps checking across the room for you,’ said Marg, shimmying away in her seat to the music. ‘He’s been doing it all evening.’

  She was starting to annoy me and I edged away. If she had been one of my friends back home I would have given her what for, but I was still so conscious of appearing rude here.

  ‘Give her a break, Marg. You’re reading into things,’ said Joy, placing her hand on my knee. Marg scrunched up her nose then spun around to speak to Patsy and Sara. I wanted to hug Joy who was leaning in. ‘You do look great in that dress. Roko say anything?’

  Maybe it was the Pimm’s, but I felt a rush of boldness. ‘Told me I looked stylish.’

  ‘Knew it would impress. The eyeshadow looks fab too.’

  Marg saved me from having t
o say more, turning back and switching the conversation to summer holidays. Sara and Patsy joined in too. I couldn’t add much, and keeping up when more than one person was speaking English was still a struggle. Besides, I’d never been on a real holiday. Rather, our family had relied on day trips to the beach for family picnics. The closest I’d come to a trip away was the refugee camp in Egypt and that one time I’d gone to Dubrovnik for that special ball.

  I sipped on my drink, edging back into my seat, tapping my foot to Elvis. The men were getting louder. How did Roko feel about the drinking? And what of those strange conversations we’d had earlier; the compliment he’d given me? I glanced across, catching his own fleeting glance. Could he be attracted to me? It was difficult not to make comparisons between him and my dragi. Roko wasn’t as socially assured: he seemed happiest standing back whereas my dragi loved being the centre of attention, a show-off at times. Maybe Pauline had forced Roko into the limelight too often? Or perhaps, like me, he was finding it odd, us being at Joy’s house together? How would my dragi fit among these people? It was infuriating not being able to forget that scoundrel, but could Roko ever match what my dragi had meant to me? I worried that Roko and I had simply learnt to tolerate each other.

  Joy nudged me. ‘Roko does seem relaxed,’ she said, breaking into a smile. ‘You sure you’re not putting something in his food?’

  All of the girls were looking my way. ‘He has been more chatty lately,’ I said, trying to brush her off. ‘Takes a Dally to know one, I guess.’

  ‘You would know.’ Joy slapped my leg. ‘Help me with the food. You too, Patsy.’ She was on her feet, clapping her hands. ‘Right, folks. Grab a plate.’

  ‘Not before time,’ Pete called out. ‘Our throats have been cut over here.’

  ‘Can’t see why. There’s been no shortage of liquid refreshments!’ Marg retorted.

  ‘Don’t take what I just said the wrong way,’ I said, leaning in to Joy. ‘You know I’m waiting for my dragi.’