Hindsight Page 19

  Chapter 17

  It’s my sixth day here and under the threat of being institutionalised, it’s time to start of Will’s quest for a scholarship. Cal and I are at Gran’s, polishing my silverware for Sunday’s Taylor family lunch.

  “Gran, do you have any idea about scholarships for Will?” I ask.

  “Isn’t he trying for a football scholarship?”

  “Yes, but there have to be others available. Do you know anything about them?”

  “No love, sorry. Perhaps you should speak to the school, maybe ring the others. You’re welcome to use the phone.”

  “Would it have to be a Catholic school?”

  “Of course, Juliette. No other school would take a Catholic boy, not the Anglicans or Presbyterians, certainly not the Protestants or Jewish, and we wouldn’t change our religion.”

  I bury my face in the phone book and ring various schools within reasonable travelling time and find out that there are only four private schools that offer both sports and academic scholarships where he can apply for various university scholarships in his matriculation year. I make an appointment with each school, to discuss Will’s prospects, for the following week. Satisfied with my fifty minutes of work, Cal and I then walk up to the school to enquire about any other form of scholarship.

  “Mrs Taylor, we must warn you that our school is very small. We’ve never had a successful scholarship application to Melbourne University. Even though Will is a very talented footballer and an excellent student academically, his best chance of attaining a paid place at university lays with the larger schools,” says Mrs Armitage, the school bursar.

  “What do you think his chances are?”

  She thinks about it for a moment and then responds, “Confidentially, Mrs Taylor, scholarships aren’t always about academic performance. A recommendation from a respected member of the community or Church goes a long way,” she smiles at me. “But you didn’t hear that from me,” she says as she returns to her work.

  Will is going to university. Nothing is going to get in my way.

  Saturday night rolls around slowly. After Gran’s revelation the other day, I have been walking around in a daze. Ignorance really is bliss. Mum’s been entering my dreams each night, the little sleep that comes my way in-between Cal’s wakings. Each night she calls my name, and when I am close she slaps me, her claws raking their way across my cheek, wiping my father’s smile off my face. Each morning I wake up, exhausted but happy that sleep- and dream-time is over.

  During my waking hours, the ones that are not consumed with cleaning, washing, ironing, children or Chris, I work my way through my book. According to HG Wells, time should be standing still in my own world. That means that Chris is not divorcing me, Big Al is not cancelling my contract and my business has not disintegrated. That gives me a little comfort and relieves some stress associated with being here. Not much, but enough. Then again, it was written by a fiction author, not Stephen Hawking.

  Tonight is cards night. What a huge social life we have. The younger boys are in bed and Will is allowed to stay up and watch some TV or read. Uncle Din arrives with a couple of bottles of beer and Aunty Maeve with some boiled lollies. Gran’s behind her with some sherry and a block of chocolate. Greetings are exchanged and everyone makes a huge fuss of Will, star footy player for the Collingwood under-eighteens. He played today and kicked seven goals. It was a surprise to find how riled up I got in my barracking. It’s probably just immense pride, there’s no way I’d carry on like that if Will weren’t playing.

  “You’ll get that scholarship, Will. No doubt about that, my boy,” Gran says, hugging Will’s shoulder. He is only a tiny bit taller than her.

  “He’s a champion, our young Will. It will be Christian College’s good fortune to get you. They’ve a strong team, but with you there, they’ll be unbeatable,” says Uncle Din.

  “Just wait until you get to that posh school, me darlin’ boy. Oh, makes your old Aunty so very proud,” says Aunty Maeve, her tiny arms around Will’s chest because it’s as high as she can reach.

  “Right, here we go. Let’s see what these girls have for us tonight, Chris.” Uncle Din says, pouring two glasses of beer. “Old Bird, are you going to remember the rules or should we write them down for you…again?”

  “Very funny, Din. It’s not that I forget, it’s just that I don’t always remember.”

  “What’s the difference, Maeve? I know you’re Irish, but for the love of God woman, what did you mean by that?”

  “What’s hard to understand about that, Din?”

  They continue to bicker while I put out the peanuts and cheese platter, which consists of a block of cheddar and some dry biscuits. No dips, pate, sundried tomatoes, olives, tapenade…

  “What are we playing, Chris?” I whisper.

  “Twenty-one Jules, pontoon.”

  Thankfully that’s a game we played in uni so my knowledge is good. We play for matchsticks because none of us has spare money to gamble with. As it turns out Gran is a card shark and, four hours later, has the largest pile of matchsticks in front of her. Her mind is as sharp as a needle; nothing gets past her. She counts the cards and so has a bit of an advantage over the rest of us, even after a few sherries. The boys are a bit happy on beer and the mead has certainly gone to my head a little, while Aunty Maeve, well, she’s just having trouble remembering.

  The night passes quickly and before we know it is past midnight. We’ve laughed and chatted and I have to say that it’s been an incredible time. It’s just been so…simple, but fun. It would never have occurred to me to play cards like this in my own life. After less than a week, I’ve really connected with these people, my family. They are honest, warm, funny people who take joy in the simple things of life — good company and lots of laughter. There’s nothing fancy here tonight — no complicated meals or expensive bottles of wine, no pretensions, no quasi-intellectual conversations, no fighting, no egos. It’s a welcoming back to the real world for me. I like it.

  “Well, time for us to call it a night, I don’t want to take all the winnings from you boys,” Gran hoots.

  “It’s lucky we don’t play for money,” Chris says scraping up his meager matchstick pile.

  “Lucky for you, Chris. I’d be a rich woman with my fortnightly winnings.”

  “How did you become so good at this, Gran?” I ask.

  “Your grandfather and I used to play regularly. Times were hard, so a deck of cards and a box of matches went a long way,” she smiles. “Many great memories; great friends, good times. Simple times.”

  “They’re always the best of times, Leticia, aren’t they?” Aunty Maeve adds.

  “Yes, my dear, they are. Here I am, an old lady, still playing cards with my son, daughter in-law, granddaughter and grandson in-law. If John was here…”

  “If Dad was here Mum, he’d have the biggest pile of matches in front of him,” says Uncle Din.

  Gran laughs. “Don’t be so sure of that, Din. Your father was good only because he was an attentive student.”

  And with that everyone packs up and says their goodbyes. Although tired, my body and spirit feel revived, happy for the first time in many years.

  Today is the lunch for fourteen people. Please kill me now. This morning is the first time that horrid alarm clock hasn’t woken me at 4.30am. Which is lucky, because it’s living on borrowed time, no pun intended. Waking up to that incessant ring each morning is the aural equivalent of being bashed over the head with a baseball bat.

  Chris is up and getting dressed in his one suit. Why?

  “What’s with the suit, Chris?” I ask, peering over the top of the blankets.

  “It’s Sunday, love, the day for church,” he replies.

  “Church?” My eyebrows rise. My life is hardly full of Christian values. “Do I go too?” Hopefully the answer will be a resounding ‘No. You stay here and put your feet up. Go back to sleep, you deserve it.’

  “We all go, Jules, the entire family.”


  No point fighting the system, and I need a glowing reference for Will’s academic scholarship applications, so I get the kids up, burn more toast and get ready for church. It’s at the boys’ school so the walk is quick. Almost everyone in the street is doing the same thing and we all walk up in a big huddle, Lily next to me.

  “I bet you wished you’d forgotten your religion?” she says.

  “Yes, sort of. Do I not like church?”

  “I think you’d prefer the sleep, like me.”

  “Why do you go then?”

  “Because it helps me to fit in here. And the school expects it. If your kids go to this school then you must attend church. I figure it’s only once a week and besides, we’re here together, so it’s not so bad.”

  “Amen to that, sister.” I say.

  Lily looks at me and bursts into laughter, “Amen to that sister, I love it.”

  All the old ladies of the street rush over to check on my recovery. There’s a good mix of purple, blue and pink rinses, perms, full sets and horn-rimmed glasses, twin sets, pearl necklaces and cameo brooches. It’s like a Dame Edna Everedge convention. It’s a perfect time to thank them all for their casserole contributions, although they ran out last night. Not only do I have to get though this feast-sized lunch, but dinner after that too. Hopefully there will be enough leftovers to cater for hungry tummies at dinner.

  Lily, Rosie and John are next to us on the pew and we sit there for an hour until it is all over and we can go home. It is one of the longest hours of my life and the urge to sleep is overwhelming. But falling off the pew in mid-service may attract attention and have me sent back to hospital. Nothing like disgracing God in His house of worship to have you committed to the asylum.

  Lily came home with us after church and organised lunch. We peeled veggies and cooked meat like professional chefs for the fourteen people I am expected to feed. Then she helped me to clean up and left, not wanting to bump into my father in-law, Doug. It seems she’s met him before and isn’t keen to do it again, which sounds ominous.

  Lauren, Anna and Stavros arrive first in a 1948 Morris Minor. My knowledge of old cars is pretty good, seeing as my Dad was a car parts salesman and car enthusiast. It’s a classic shade of dusty green, almost a matt finish, and even has the split windscreen. Stav gets out first and then hurries around to open the passenger door, assisting Lauren as she gets out and then raising the front seat to allow Anna to exit, also holding her hand so that she doesn’t trip on the gutter.

  As they make their way over to the front door together, I get to have a closer perve at Stavros, who looks like a young Anthony Quinn, which is strange seeing as Anthony Quinn was actually Mexican. His accent is like pea soup, thick and rustic, but his English is much better than my Greek. Holding Lauren’s hand, their bodies touch the entire length of their arms, from shoulder to fingertip. Anna hugs me and then runs through to see Ethan. There are greetings all round as Stavros kisses me on both cheeks.

  “Juliette, you have accident? Is no good, I hope you better now?”

  “Yes, thanks Stavros. Is better now, I mean, I am well, thank you.”

  “We should have cancelled lunch today Jules, you don’t need all of us here while you’re trying to get better,” Lauren says.

  “Really, I’m fine. Just got a lousy memory at the moment; temporary amnesia with the fall. I apologise in advance for any forgetfulness today.” Better to explain myself than raise unnecessary suspicion.

  Doug and Sylvia are next, pulling up out the front in an off-white monstrosity that looks as though it should come equipped with a machine-gun-toting Frank Sinatra hanging off the side. A tall man steps out of the driver’s side, places a fedora on his head as he reaches full height, adjusts his trousers and then swings around the front of the car as though he is Frank Sinatra. A cigarette perches in-between mean lips. Sylvia stays put as she watches him, childlike, in the vehicle. He strides up to the small gate while Sylvia opens her own door and attempts to alight from the car. Doug has parked at an awkward distance from the gutter and her short legs stretch to cover the gap, almost jumping to safety.

  “Well, come on woman,” he chastises as she lags behind, scooping up a bunch of flowers and a cake box from the back footwell and struggling to carry it all over. Chris races out to help her, passing his father loitering at the gate without greeting him. Relieving Sylvia of the flowers and cake box, Chris hugs his mother, her pudgy hands clasped around his shoulders and then onto his arm as he escorts her inside.

  Doug finally greets his son with a “Look at that, hey? Isn’t she beautiful? Bet you wish you had one as pristine as that,” and for a moment I am confused. Is he is referring to Sylvia or me? But his hand scoops around and points at his car. “In fact, bet you wished you had one at all! Don’t worry son, I’m sure one day you’ll be able to provide properly for your family.” He throws the cigarette butt down on the small porch, squashes it under his paddle-like foot, puts another in his mouth and lights it. “I spent three hours this morning polishing her. Aahhh, she’s a sight for sore eyes.”

  Immediately, I dislike him.

  Doug greets me with a slight kiss on the cheek and an embarrassing “How’s my only Australian in-law, eh?”

  Sylvia blushes and apologises to Stavros, Lauren, and to me.

  “Hello, Juliette dear, how are you love?” she asks. “We were all so worried about you after your fall. I wanted to come over and see you but….” She looks at Doug as he disappears out into the kitchen, “It just wasn’t possible, I’m so sorry dear.”

  Where has Sylvia gone? Her body is a withered flower in the desert. Her face is completely bare of makeup, not even lipstick, and her short brown hair, in a poodle perm, ages her by twenty years. The outfit is a modest beige cotton dress with a belt accentuating the extra layer around her waist. Even though Sylvia has never been my favorite person, this shriveled, frumpy, prematurely-aged woman induces pity.

  Soon Rob arrives with a wife and two daughters. Oh my God, Rob, married. No way! His wife, Lorena, is a shorter, darker Sophia Loren and oozes Italian sex appeal, even though she is dressed in a very plain white cotton dress. It would be easy to imagine her posing for photos in a barn, toying with a piece of straw between her plush lips, eyes the colour of night seducing the photographer.

  “Ciao bella,” she greets me, kissing me on both cheeks. “Girls, you say hello to your familia before you run out to play,” she says.

  Two miniature versions of her wrap their arms around everyone, lingering with Sylvia and avoiding Doug, who shows no interest in them, before running outside to play with their cousins.

  Lorena places a tray of tiramisu in the fridge as well as a salad. “I bring salada and something sweet, OK?” It’s not a question, she’s telling me. Her accent is even more seductive than her eyes. No wonder Rob married her, I would too if Chris wasn’t around.

  Doug opens a bottle of Chris’s beer, pours himself a glass, and then it begins properly.

  “Not a bad brew Chris,” says Doug loudly. “Mind you, Rob made a brilliant batch recently, didn’t you son?” The smoke around Doug lingers like smog over the city.

  “It was OK Dad, not as nice as this though. This is really smooth Chris, what did you do to it?” Rob asks.

  “What do you mean, not as nice as this? Don’t be so modest, son.” Doug exhales another plume of smoke over everyone. “This is rough around the edges compared to yours.” My fists clench involuntarily. How dare he.

  There is an uncomfortable silence until all the grandkids come rushing inside the house from the backyard. Sylvia’s face brightens as though the drought has broken. She opens her arms and both Ethan and Cal fly into them and get squeezed so tightly they make funny squealing noises.

  “Look at my beautiful boys. Let Gran see you both…” She inhales them with her eyes. “What handsome young men. Ethan, you’ve grown again, look at you. You look so much like your Dad at that age, and Will, my big tall boy, and you, little Master
Callum…” But she is interrupted by Doug.

  “Stop it, woman! Stop pawing over the young boys. For goodness sake! You did that to Chris and look how he turned out.” He waves in Chris’ direction, puffing more smoke than the Industrial Revolution.

  My fists clench even tighter; there’s every chance of drawing blood. How dare he say something like that about Chris, especially in Chris’s house.

  “I acted quickly with Rob,” he says to no one in particular, “took him away from her as soon as I saw her smothering him with affection. You’ve got to toughen boys up, not smother them in kisses. Look at Rob now. Hey? Tell me I didn’t do the right thing? He’s a man’s man, builds houses, plays football, great athlete that boy. I just didn’t get to Chris in time.”

  What a fucking arsehole.

  “But then again, look at Will over here,” he goes over and puts his arms around Will’s shoulders. I fight the urge to grab my son so that he won’t be contaminated. Thankfully, Will leans away from him. “Anyone’d think he was Rob’s son: fine footballer, tall, good-looking. Hey Juliette, you sure you didn’t get up to a little hanky panky with your brother-in-law?” he winks.

  My heart rate speeds up, and my breath is audible, like a bull before a charge. Trying to remain calm is driving me to snapping point. That’s my husband he’s humiliating, in front of Chris’s own children. Why doesn’t anyone stand up to him?

  My glare could pulverise him into ash but he’s oblivious to it. “I’ll remind you to keep your manners in this house, thank you, Doug.”

  Doug smirks as though he’s content that he got a rise out of me.

  “How’s work, Rob?” asks Chris, changing the subject.

  “Not too bad, mate, pretty busy at the moment. There’s a lot of building happening in the northeastern suburbs now. I think this is just the start of the spread out of the city…”