Hindsight Read online

  Doug interrupts, “Too right you are, Rob. Good planning on being a builder, son, you’ll make great money whether you want to or not, especially with your own business. That’s the way to go, be your own boss, make the money, get ahead. Surely some of your wog in-laws could throw work your way too, eh? All those Eye-tie’s are into concrete and property aren’t they? They need houses too. Bloody awful wog houses, but houses none the less.” He belches before lighting another cigarette.

  My eyeballs feel as big as saucers. Surely this can’t be happening? Surveying the area, everyone else is cringing and looking as though they hope that he’ll go away. Luckily Lorena is dressing the trestle table in the back yard, and Stavros is able to ignore him. He must really, really love Lauren to willingly marry into this family. Doug tops the list of arseholes, and, believe me, I’ve met quite a few in my line of work.

  “How’s your work, Chris?” Doug asks.

  “Good thanks, Dad. So Lauren, have you and Stav set a date yet?”

  “I never saw the point in being a toolmaker Chris, what were you thinking? How will you ever get ahead in life when you can’t work for yourself? Nah, you should have taken a leaf out of your brother’s book there, hey Rob? Maybe you could give your little brother a job, eh?” Doug laughs as though he takes pleasure in torturing small animals.

  The room is filled with uncomfortable silence, and so much smoke it’s impossible to see anyone. Sylvia’s head is bowed, her posture is slumped and she looks like a woman who has lost her essence. Rob looks frustrated, like a man who wants to commit physical violence, and is using inordinate amounts of energy to restrain himself. Chris looks at Rob and shakes his head, telling Rob that Doug is not worth the energy.

  Lauren pipes up, trying to break the tension. “We have actually set the date Chris, it’s the fifth of February.”

  Everyone claps and congratulates the happy couple, although it’s safe to assume they will be happier once they leave here.

  “I was going to ask if all the nephews and nieces could be in the wedding party, if that is OK with you all? Greeks love to make a weddings a huge family event, don’t they honey?” Her eyes twinkle and the colour returns to her skin.

  “Well, I hope they’re not expecting me to pay for the bloody thing Lauren. Eh? I paid for the first one and look where that got me. Bloody widowed daughter within a couple of years. Stavros, I know your lot are big on this kind of stuff, but I’ve already done my bit son,” Doug says. The beer is making him even more obnoxious, if that’s possible. What a shame he doesn’t disappear in all that smoke, or burst into flames.

  “No, Mr Taylor, sir, my family, they pay for everything. We no expect you to pay.”

  Doug nods and crosses his arms.

  Stavros holds Lauren close and says, “My family, they love Lauren and Anna. They proud to have them both. My parents, they love these two like daughter and granddaughter already.”

  “So, your lot don’t mind that she’s not…you know…she’s used goods, then? I though the wogs were pretty uppity about marrying virgins.”

  Oh. My. God. Tears of humiliation prickle my eyes and my hand flies up to my mouth.

  Both Chris and Rob look as though they are about to take a flying leap and attack Doug. They look to Stavros before they launch. Stavros has a strained smile on his face, and it’s patently clear that nothing would give him more pleasure than to crush Doug’s pinhead between his huge hands.

  “Mr Taylor, sir, it is offensive to talk about such things. Lauren’s first husband, he pass away, she no choose that. It was terrible tragedy. Very sad for Lauren and Anna, many tears. I am very proud and honored to be her new husband and to be Anna’s new father. Will be happiest day of my life.” He stares at Doug in a way that says, ‘This is the end of the conversation.’ Doug lights another cigarette after dropping the current one in Sylvia’s drink.

  The only reason I haven’t burst into a rage at Doug is that no one else seems to be doing it. Acting out of character will have me sent off to Kew faster than you can say ‘crazy lady’. But holding my temper is harder than eating my own cooking.

  “Why don’t you boys make yourselves comfortable in the garden while we get lunch ready?” I say. Women’s work can come in handy at times. They wander out to the yard.

  “Lauren, are you alright?” I ask.

  “He’s a rude bastard that one. God, I ….” She looks at her Mum. Sylvia nods. “I’m not sure how he manages to get more and more obnoxious and offensive, but he does. It’s as though he practices in his spare time.”

  Sylvia starts to laugh, a nervous laugh that evolves into hysterics. We all look at her. Maybe she has finally had enough and is going to ram a knife in the back of his skull?

  “What’s the matter Sylvia, why are you laughing?” I ask.

  “Practices in his spare time,” and she laughs harder. “Lauren, he is like that all day, every day, he doesn’t need the practice.” Then she does an impersonation of him, “Excuse me for a moment, I have to stop being a rude bastard to you now because I need to go and practice being a rude bastard to my family. I’ll be right back.”

  Everyone is silent, then we all start to laugh at the absurdity of it.

  “I’m sorry, love,” Sylvia says to Lauren. “He is horridly rude and nasty. He wasn’t always like that; he used to be nice, charming even. Not that you’d believe that now and not that I’m defending him. But his work took over, the drink took over, and he changed. I disappointed him, his work disappointed him, life disappointed him and this is what’s left after a lifetime of bitterness at what should have been. I hate to hear him talk to his children the way that he does. It is unforgivable.” A tear rolls over her eyelashes and spills onto her cheek. “I’ve got used to it for myself, but it tears me apart when he talks to one of you that way. Thank God he hasn’t started on the grandkiddies yet. Hopefully his liver and lungs will give out before that ever happens.”

  “His liver, lungs?” I ask.

  “His cirrhosis of the liver is pretty advanced now, Jules, as is his lung cancer. Perhaps not too long to go,” Lauren answers, without the emotion usually attached to such a statement.

  “Why does he keep drinking then, and smoking like a chimney?” I’m confused. “Why would he make his condition worse?”

  “Because he wants to, Jules,” Sylvia says. “Deep down, he’s a coward. He’s not man enough to make amends and ask forgiveness. He would rather drink himself into the grave,” Sylvia says.

  Wow, this is really intense. It feels as though someone has just entrusted me with a life-shattering secret. Chris has rarely spoken of Doug, in fact, none of them have ever really talked of him in my own life. It’s easy to understand why.

  “What a waste,” I say.

  “His dying will not be the waste, Jules. The waste is all the years he has spent drinking, hating, criticising, alienating the people who love him, who loved him,” Sylvia corrects herself.

  That must be why no one says anything, because he’s dying. What would be the point of fighting with a man who believes he’s always right and is dying to prove it?

  Lauren and Lorena take the food out to the table in the garden, leaving Sylvia and myself in the kitchen. We work together, assembling the rest of the meal in silence, until my curiosity and courage meet. “Sylvia, do you mind if I ask why you stayed with him all these years?”

  She thinks for a moment before she answers, “I didn’t have much choice, Jules. I married very young, only sixteen. I had no skills that would allow me to support myself and my children. At least he travelled a lot with his work, so that gave us a rest from his behaviour. He was never physically abusive, but I hate to think of the damage he’s done to my children. I tried to minimise it and to compensate where I could. Perhaps it was cowardly to stay, but I didn’t have anywhere to go.”

  “What happened to your family? Couldn’t they help you?”

  “No, you see, I fell pregnant out of wedlock to Doug and shamed my family. Doug
was forced to marry me, and I was told to never return.”

  “Never? They’ve never seen any of your children?” It’s unbelievable.

  She shakes her head, “No, they haven’t.”

  “My God, that is so awful.” More tears prickle in my eyes. “Who could just cast a child out for making one mistake?”

  “It’s the way things are, Jules. I don’t see the times changing to allow unwed mothers to keep their babies.”

  The thought of giving up my children, against my will, brings on nausea. Even though my mothering skills are somewhat lacking, my love for them is innate.

  “I’m really sorry, Sylvia.” I feel myself rushing towards her, scooping her up in my arms and holding her. “You’ve done a great job, Chris is a wonderful husband and father because of you. He loves you so much. I hope that my boys love me as much as your children love you.”

  She looks at me with tears in her eyes as she gently puts her hand on my forearm and whispers, “Thank you.”

  Then shame hits me; this is the first nice thing I have ever said to Sylvia. Ever. In nearly fifteen years. I am usually too busy looking down on her to form any kind of bond, or to be thankful for the role she plays in our lives. It never occurred to me that the reason she is so flamboyant now is because for so many years she lived under such oppression.

  We continue to assemble lunch on the trestle table. Thank God for Lily’s help in preparing all of this; without her, who knows what we’d be eating now. Vegemite sandwiches, probably.

  Doug returns from the toilet, surveys the food and says, “Thank God for that. Good Australian tucker, no bloody wog food. Well done, Jules. Even if you are bog Irish, you put on a good lunch.” Ramming that leg of lamb up his clacker would bring me unbridled happiness, but that would be a waste.

  The rest of the lunch passes in the same fashion as the first part — with Doug continuing to be rude, abrasive, aggressive and only inches away from receiving the beating of his life. It’s a relief when everyone goes home and our little house is back to normal. Eventually the kids are in bed and Chris and I resume our cuddle position on the couch.

  “Chris, are you alright, from today I mean?”

  He sighs, “Yes, thanks love. I should be used to it by now, but it still stings a bit.”

  “I’m so proud of you Chris, proud to be your wife, mother of your children. You work so hard for us, thank you.”

  He tilts my face upwards towards his, our lips meet and we kiss. But it’s not a husband and wife, married too many years, too-tired kind of kiss. It’s a teenaged, ‘going to get my money’s worth’ kind of kiss. He holds me as though we share the same skin, running his fingers though my hair, tilting my head back, inching his lips over my exposed neck. Like petrol to a flame, we explode as he picks me up and carries me off to our bed. Hungry for each other, clawing off clothes, a feeling that has escaped us for years is reignited and for the next hour he takes me away to a place I haven’t visited in far too long.

  Afterwards I ask Chris, “How often do we do that?”

  “Every night love, every night,” he grins like a king.

  “Really, every night?” Something tells me that he’s exaggerating.

  “Would it be such a bad thing?”

  “No, it wouldn’t. Let’s put the kids to bed early more often.”

  This, I could definitely get used to.

  I sleep like a baby with a smile on my face until the alarm wakes me the next morning, which is Monday, my ninth day here. I even get up to make Chris his breakfast without being told to do it. It still shits me to tears that he can’t make his own breakfast, but it’s easier to go with the flow. Can’t expect to change an entire generation overnight.

  “Well done Jules. This is what I call toast, not cinders. Things are looking up,’ he smiles at me.

  It’s still burnt, but nowhere near as badly. My spirits must be high this morning because I let this comment slide. I even laugh at it, for God’s sake. It just goes to show that frequent, mind-blowing sex could really bring about world peace.

  Gran looks after Cal while I visit the doctor again and the four schools that offer scholarships. My feet are swollen to the point of not being able to fit into my shoes anymore.

  Dr. Hamilton is more at ease with me this week after I spun him something about being scared by the fall and waking up in hospital and that the entire incident left me in a state of shock — particularly the threat of being committed to Kew. The impact that would have on my family is enormous and was weighing heavily on my mind. He believed me and wants to see me in one week’s time instead of every four days, which is an improvement.

  As for the schools, dressed like a devout churchgoer, donning my crucifix and armed with reports, recommendations and personal references from our parish priest, football coach and Will’s principal, I operate at my dazzling best, deflecting their snootyness and condescension as they peer over the edge of their glasses at me. Intimidating to some, but not me. Will is registered to sit for all four academic exams and will be considered on his sporting merit as well. Can’t hurt to cover all bases. My son is going to university.

  Chapter 18

  It is now Saturday, two weeks after my arrival, and so far there is no sign of returning to my own life – or going to Kew, as Dr. Hamilton is happy with my progress. There haven’t been any wormholes, black holes or space gates opened in front of me, nor has there been any fairies, supernatural beings or giant bumblebees offering me a free ride home. It’s disappointing that nothing has happened, but then again, I have made a commitment to ensuring that Will gains a scholarship to finish year twelve, or ‘matriculate’ as they call it here.

  Sadly, for my family, the neighbours’ hospitality ran out last Saturday. We had enough leftovers to cover us for Sunday dinner, the Last Supper as it was termed in my mind. Each night dinner has been put on the table, with varying degrees of success. There was the meatloaf, which has been renamed ‘meat brick’ due to its crunchy texture and brick-like exterior, the tuna casserole that looked and tasted like ‘fish Playdoh’, the lamb chops that could double as hammers, the egg and bacon pie that had cracks akin to the San Andreas fault line, curried sausages that exploded in their skins and ended up looking like circumcised penises bobbing around in luminous yellow goo and of course, tonight’s disaster, spaghetti bolognaise.

  “Smells….nice, Jules, new recipe?” Chris asks as he dry retches his way through the kitchen to the bathroom with Ethan and Cal.

  “Ummm, yes.”

  “Mmmm, can’t wait!” But the look on his face tells a different story.

  From behind the bathroom door I can hear Ethan ask, “Dad, has something died in the kitchen?”

  “No mate, why?”

  “Then what’s that awful smell?”

  “Shhhh, Eth,” Chris answers him quietly. “I think it’s meant to be dinner.”

  “Does that mean we have to eat it?”

  There is a pause before Chris says, “Yes mate. Your Mum’s working hard to make dinner and we have to remember that she has lost her memory. We need to be really understanding and patient with her, OK?”

  “Maybe she forgot how to cook? She keeps burning my toast.”

  Chris sniggers. “Mine too.”

  “Hey Dad, maybe she’ll forget to serve it to us?”

  Looking from my pot of indescribable red, oily, meaty mass, over to my pasta, which is both overcooked and raw at the same time, I can understand how Ethan feels. No one would choose to eat this.

  Eventually, everyone is assembled around the dinner table, staring with dread at the meal in front of them. Even Will, and he’ll eat anything.

  “Well, dig in!” I say, trying to be cheery.

  Chris gulps as though this is the last meal he will ever eat. His reluctance is shared, we all feel the same way. He pokes at it with his fork, tries to smile and look as though he can’t wait to begin. He manages to get some on his fork, but attached to it is a very large, badly chopped piece of
purple silverbeet, one of my rustic additions. It’s around twenty centimetres long and keeps coming out of the meal like a magician pulling a scarf out of his sleeve.

  “What’s this?” he asks.

  “It’s the purple silverbeet from our garden.”

  “We don’t have purple silverbeet. In fact, we don’t have any silverbeet, I haven’t started on winter planting yet. You’d better show me where you got this from.” His face is a mix of relief at postponing dinner, and concern at what the hell I’ve cooked him.

  We go out to the backyard. “There it is,” I say, pointing at the huge leafy thing.

  “Jules, that’s rhubarb, not silverbeet.”

  “Rhubarb, silverbeet, what’s the difference?”

  “Depends on what the objective of your meal is. If you want to chop up the stem, boil it in sugar and then put it in your sauce then that would be….unusual. But the leaves are poisonous, you can’t cook with them.”

  “Poisonous? You mean I could have killed you?”

  “With your cooking or the silverbeet?” Ethan asks.

  Chris hugs him close and clasps a hand over Ethan’s mouth. Will starts to laugh but it soon turns into a coughing fit under his father’s glare.

  “What are we going to have for dinner, bacon and eggs again?” I ask.

  “No!” Chris, Will and Ethan chorus in unison.

  I’m a bit taken aback by their united response.

  “What’s wrong with my bacon and eggs?”

  “Nothing love, but just out of interest, how long did you fry my eggs for this morning?”

  “About thirty minutes. I wanted to make sure they were cooked all the way through.”

  He stares at me with a vacant expression, and his mouth falls open. There is stunned silence for a minute. Then Chris awakens from his stupor, claps his hands together and says, “Will, Eth, come with me and we’ll get some fish and chips for dinner, special treat.”

  “Oh, thank God for that!” Ethan says with relief.

  “Ethan, you know what your father thinks of blasphemy,” I say, trying to remain in character.