Читать книгу Love Is the Answer - Tracy Madden - Страница 7

My entire life I had craved conventionality. Up until now that was how I had lived, because I wanted a different life to what I’d had as a child.

It wasn’t as if I hadn’t had a good childhood, as far as childhoods went, it was great. However it wasn’t conventional, and all every kid wants is to be normal. They want to fit the mould.

It was a common occurrence for my parents to return home from one of Dad’s clubs as the garbage men began their morning shifts. Still in the clothes from the evening before, propped at the kitchen table, mug of tea in front of him, Dad would pull both of us up onto his knees and kiss the top of our heads. After breakfast, he’d drop us off at kindergarten or school, and then they would both sleep until it was time to pick us up again. Following dinner that night, they would flee back out into the club scene.

We were never neglected. We always had Aunt Honey with us. Although she wasn’t a real aunty, we loved her like she was. These days they’re called nannies. But to us, Aunt Honey was more of a grandmotherly figure. She smelt of Lux soap and freshly baked cakes. She was always cooking, and when Lou and I came home from school there was the smell of fresh bread in the air, and there were tins full of Victorian sponges and butterfly cakes. Those big bosoms of hers were perfect for snuggling into and she had a constant soothing word or a cuddle for us.

She was the only one my mother would listen too. Many a time, Aunt Honey would scold her for some thing or another and chase her from the kitchen with a tea towel. However, my mother would laugh and later kiss Aunt Honey on the cheek.

I once overheard my mother telling my dad, Johnny, that the poor darling relied on us as much as we relied on her. Apparently, she was a widow, and her children weren’t much chop. At the time I remembered wondering what much chop was.

However the part of my childhood I most clung to was Lou and I spending small pockets of time with Nan and Pop on the farm at Dover in South Tasmania. Our mother never came with us. She said she didn’t do the cold!

Although Pop was retired and my uncles ran the orchard, Pop still spent his days tending the garden. Despite the harsh conditions he was determined to have his spring garden every year. I was never far from his side, unless I was with Nan at her old Singer sewing machine, or cooking in her kitchen. Hours went by, while I watched Nan sew my Barbie doll’s new wardrobe, or with her pottering around the kitchen, stewing the apples and peaches that fell from the trees, and brewing jams and marmalades, which at morning tea time, Pop would generously spoon on homemade scones. In hindsight, I realised that I relished watching the way Nan did things in the kitchen, and Pop in the garden. If it’s true that one’s passions are handed down through those that are passionate, then I know where my love of life, and stewed peaches and jam, was first nurtured.

And then as we got slightly older, many holidays were spent picking and packing apples at the farm. I cannot tell you how much I looked forward to this. Lou and I thought we were very important standing alongside the packers at they placed the apples into bags and then into larger crates, which were then taken to the packing shed by tractor, with us running gleefully behind. Once sorted by size, the apples were packed into boxes and stored in the cold room until the trucks took them to the ships in Hobart. I still remember the wooden boxes my uncles used to make for the apples. And can see the top layer of apples individually wrapped in purple and green tissue paper. I even remember with some pride pasting the brightly coloured labels on.

These days my cousins are the ones running the farm. Once a year we still wait for our crate of apples to arrive. Even after all of this time, Granny Smiths are my mother’s favourite, and when they arrive, she cooks up a storm of apple pies. It is the most I ever saw her in the kitchen.

My mother had always been and still was a bit out there. Artists have a way of being out there. It wasn’t what I wished for. She wore caftans, cheesecloth, masses of bracelets, and was spoken about. As both an artist and a singer, along with her pug dog Piggy, she cut a well-known figure in our area. She used to say that if it was good enough for Marie Antoinette and Empress Josephine to have a pug, then it was good enough for her.

Although I knew I was loved and there was plenty of laughter, the thing was, I always felt like the grownup. My parents were the kids. Even now, I sometimes feel as if I’m raising them.

I remember at five being so frustrated by my parents, I yelled at them, ‘You’re not the parents I want, and I’m going to get myself adopted.’ Charming you might say, although, it was exactly how I felt.

To this day, I still remember the shocked look on their faces. As elegant as ever, Bea put her lacquered scarlet fingertips to her equally red glossed lips, drew deeply on her cigarette, turned her head on a slight angle, blew a plume of smoke in the air, and then in a calm voice spoke.

‘Daaar-ling,’ she said, dragging the word out. ‘We’re terribly sorry that we’re not the parents you wanted, but we do love you.’ Although her gaze held mine, I still noticed her trembling hands, giving away that she was not as confident as her voice sounded.

That particular phrase of my mother’s became her favourite catchcry whenever she found me all too difficult to deal with.

I had stood there, arms folded across my chest, tears rivering down my cheeks. Dad opened his arms, and even though I wanted to stay angry, I fell into them.

I can’t remember a time when my dad, Johnny Lynch, hadn’t been there for me. Although I called him Johnny, one day that changed.

Lou was almost four, and I was six. It was the first time I had ever heard my mother and Johnny argue. It had gone on for a couple of days. And then one morning my mother came into my bedroom. For a few moments she stood at my window gazing out. Her eyes were puffy and red rimmed, an unusual sight for my vibrant mother. As she inhaled on her cigarette, there was the tell-tale nervous sign of her fingers trembling. I have never to this day seen anyone who looks as sophisticated as my mother did smoking. Taking one last drag, she threw the butt out of the window and exhaled slowly through those beautiful scarlet lips.

Without looking directly at me, she perched herself on the side of my bed, crossed her elegant legs, and explained in a voice, throaty with cigarette smoke, that later that day there was to be a visitor. That was nothing new, our house seemed to be constantly filled with people coming and going.

However, my mother went on to explain that it was my papa who was coming to see me, all the way from France. I couldn’t actually take it in. How could I have two dads? I was very quiet and wished to be left alone to deal with this bit of information. Minutes went by before there was a tap on the door and Johnny crept into my room. Kneeling beside my bed, he took my hands in his. Playing with my fingers, he looked at me and explained that he knew that this was difficult for me to understand, however I mustn’t worry as no matter what, he would always be my dad, and then he hugged me tight, kissing the top of my head.

I was scared you see. What if this man who was meant to be my father tried to take me back to France with him? I explained my fear to Johnny, and he told me that even though Alexandre was my father, he, Johnny, was my dad and he would never let that happen unless I wanted to go. I asked him if he was sure, and he said abso-bloody-lutley! I knew then he was certain. It was a favourite terminology of his. For many years I thought I might find it in the dictionary. From that moment on though, I never called Johnny anything else but Dad.

For the next few hours you could have cut the air with a knife, the tension palpable between my mother and Johnny, as they waited for the visit from my papa. When the car pulled up, my mother looked through the venetian blinds, ran her hands over her long colourful caftan, checked her lipstick one last time, and the headed out to welcome him. Lou and I were told to wait inside. With a face that looked like thunder, Johnny headed out the back to the garage.

Lou and I threw ourselves onto the aqua faux leather cushions on the cane lounge, and cautiously peered through the venetian blinds. We watched as our mother, who did indeed look beautiful with a colourful scarf tied around her head, and huge gold hoops through her ears, elegantly made her way to the man who climbed out of the taxi. They embraced. To me, it appeared that they embraced far longer than was probably necessary. I remember seeing him kiss my mother on both cheeks.

Beside me, Lou, in a small voice, asked who he was meant to be again. Swallowing, I told her it was my papa. The look on her face told me that she had no idea what a papa was, so I explained it was a father. For a minute she was quiet while we continued watching as our mother laughed, perhaps a little too loudly, and ran her hands over her headscarf smoothing it at the back. She kept tilting her head to the side and using her eyes in a way that I didn’t understand at the time.

Lou’s next words were how come I had two fathers. Nervously, I shrugged. I had once asked my mother why she and I shared the same surname Avanel, but Lou and Johnny were both Lynch. She simply told me that sometimes that’s how it worked in families and it was not a big deal. I guess at that age, that’s all I needed to know. It did become more of a big deal as I grew older and it became more obvious. After all, Lou was long limbed like Johnny and blonde like our mother. I, on the other hand, was always one of the shortest in the class and a honey chestnut. Some people call it non-descript… I like to call it honey chestnut. And, as I reached puberty I had generous breasts and curvy hips. Some things have never changed.

After that first visit from Papa, my mother often commented that I was very much like his mother Helena. Generally she said that after we’d had a row. I never did get to meet my paternal grandmother.

Eventually my mother bought my father inside to meet me. Lou and I scrambled off the lounge and even though we were much the same height, Lou stood slightly behind me, slipping her hand into mine. I squeezed it tightly. It didn’t matter how tall she was, she was still my little sister.

There was a part of me that registered my mother was actually trying to impress this man. That’s what totally pissed Johnny off. Even at six, I could see that.

Papa wasn’t nearly as tall as Johnny, and spoke with a heavy accent. However, the thing that shocked me most was that he was so much older than my mother and Johnny. Twenty years to be precise. In hindsight, I do realise that he was terribly charming, and if you thought Johnny was somewhat stylish, then he had nothing on this man. But back then, I thought him just different. And kids don’t like different. Kneeling in front of me, he took me by my arms and kissed both of my cheeks. Quietly he said my name, Peach, but it sounded like Pesch.

It pleased me that he spoke to Lou as well, although she stayed pretty much behind me most of the time. Although, at one stage she became bored and sat upside down on a cane saucer-chair, swinging herself around and around until she fell off, knocking her head on the timber coffee table and creating a ruckus. That was Lou for you, always the centre of attention.

Alerted by her cries, Johnny eventually came back inside and leant against the door frame, arms folded across his chest, his body language speaking volumes. Lou clutched at one of his legs. Johnny simply nodded as Papa walked towards him and extended his hand. For a minute, it didn’t look as if Johnny was going to reciprocate. Without changing the look on his face, slowly he looked Alexandre up and down, before he put his hand out. It was clear to me that he, for one, was not interested in being charmed.

Plans were made for Papa to take me to lunch the next day, and something I was most grateful for was that he asked Lou if she wished to come as well. However Lou, still with a tear stained face, and busy doing that double-hump-sniff, shook her head no. With my eyes, I begged her to come, however luckily my mother intervened and said that she would join us. That was the good part. I really had no intention of seeing this man on my own, papa or no papa.

The bad part was that this made Johnny mad as hell. Much later that evening, I heard my mother telling Johnny she had no choice and she must do it for me. I didn’t see Papa for a long time after that. And the thing was, it never seemed to be the same between Johnny and my mother again. I believe Johnny realised that Alexandre was always going to be the love of her life and he paled in comparison.

Years later, I asked my mother why she never married Johnny. She told me that he had never actually asked. It was obvious to me that he didn’t wish to be hurt by her rejection, so he settled for what he had.

Just around the time I finished high school, my mother moved out of our Kangaroo Point home and into a house at New Farm, directly across the river. She said it was important for her to have her own space in which to be creative.

Lou and I stayed with Johnny. It was our home. Johnny had been the best father and had provided for us in a way that was better than most. His first club was always the one though, and no other had been as lucrative since. Often he had dabbled in other things, once going into business with his brother Terry in the tree loping business. It was called, The Lynch Mob. Johnny thought the name was hilarious and continuously reminded us how funny it was. He would say, ‘Get it, The Lynch Mob! Johnny and Terry Lynch!’ And roar with laughter again, before saying, ‘Abso-bloody-lutely fantastic!’ Although he was unconventional, he was a good dad.

As the years went by, my mother eventually gave me enough information to explain what had happened between her and Papa. The youngest child of Nan and Pop, and bored with life on the farm in Tasmania, my mother had craved more, and waited for the day to spread her wings and travel.

Originally, the sun drew her to Provence and then as an artist, the colours captured her as it had captured the imagination of many artists over the centuries. She said that Renoir, Van Gogh, Cezanne and Matisse were all, at some point during their illustrious careers, inspired by its light, vivid colours and spectacular scenery. My twenty year old mother was no different.

She drank it in. Thirstily, she painted like she had never before. Never had she been so happy in life. She told me she felt as if she had come home.

One afternoon, while sitting at a cafe in a little square in the town of Vence, enjoying a splendid cup of coffee, the most beautiful man she had ever laid eyes on strode around the corner.

‘He was dressed in a terribly elegant grey suit,’ she told me. ‘His hair was rather long, he had a glass of wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He lifted his glass to toast me and I was a goner. You know when you see a handsome man and you go weak at the knees or feel your heart race?’ I nodded and she continued, ‘Well this was that – 10,000 times over. I swear to God, it was one of those moments where you know this person will play a role in your life. He was 40 years old, had huge brown eyes and a divine body, perhaps slightly shorter than I was used to, although that didn’t stop me. I fell into a passive state of contented bliss. He was so damn gorgeous.’

Anyway, the short story of it was, he was an antique dealer and his family chateau was close by. He was the only son, therefore the chateau belonged to him, although his mother still lived there with him. He had been in a relationship with a woman called Sophie for the previous 13 years before meeting my mother. Not much was said about her. When my mother came on the scene, Sophie was forgotten about, and within eight weeks my parents married. I was born eight months later.

My mother told me that Alexandre chose my name. He said that I looked like a beautiful Peach. She said initially they were very happy. Nothing could have burst her bubble. However from the start, Alexandre’s mother Helene, the doyenne of the chateau, had not warmed to my mother. Later, things became a lot worse when my mother realised that Alexandre was still seeing Sophie with the encouragement of his mother. He didn’t see it as much as a problem as my mother did, explaining simply that he was French.

My mother, living at the chateau in the countryside, and married to a man who was not about to change his womanising ways, fled to London with an 18 month old me in tow. There she met up with a friend of a friend. You guessed it… Johnny! He was bowled over by my mother’s beauty.

Only in London briefly, Johnny was looking at clubs and was soon heading back to Australia to open his own in Brisbane. Weighing it up at the time, it seemed like a good option for my mother. Brisbane was by no means the big city of Sydney or Melbourne, however, it sure as hell beat Tasmania. It was a place she could be a big fish in a small pond.

Her catholic parents were already upset with her. Firstly, for marrying in a hurry to a man she barely knew, and secondly, for leaving her husband with the same speed.

My mother and Johnny came back to Brisbane with me in tow. Before long Alexandre attempted to woo her back. She once confided in me that she had decided to pack us both up and return to France. However on that very day she found out she was pregnant with Lou, so she did the only thing she could. She stayed. She said it was a good decision. I was grateful that she said that.

But you see, Alexandre really had a hold on her. Although she did love Johnny, Alexandre was like a magnetic force that drew her to him.

After that initial visit with him when I was only six, I didn’t see him again for years. Although I did at some stage realise that he sent generous cheques to my mother, cheques that paid for my private schooling. In turn, I was encouraged to write letters about my life to him.

One day, not long after my mother had found her own house to live in, I popped around after school to see if I’d left a particular book there. I had taken the ferry across the river and then walked. Surprisingly, Alexandre was there. He and my mother were both at the kitchen table, dressed in robes, wine glass in hand, sharing the same cigarette. It was only three-thirty in the afternoon. You see where I’m coming from.

This was the second time I had ever seen the man. Although there had been many generous offers for me to visit France, I had never really wished to. I kind of thought it would upset Johnny, so I had declined every one of them.

Well, for a 17 year old girl it was embarrassing to say the least. Alexandre didn’t stay long and returned to France not long after that. I didn’t see him again. However, I had promised that when my studies were over, I would finally go and spend time in Provence at the chateau.

For the next few years my mother went to France annually and stayed a couple of months each time. It was now easier for her to do so, since Papa’s mother had passed on. Of course, there was always a valid reason why I could not join her.

When I was in the middle of my exams during my final year at university, my mother told me Alexandre was unwell and wished us both to visit. I should have gone with her, but I didn’t want to have to re-sit my exams. It was too important to me. I told her I would go later.

Alexandre passed away from lung cancer. Not for one minute had I understood that he was so ill. I never saw my mother smoke again.

*

I checked my watch. The loaded trolleys and little family of three long gone. Exhaling heavily, I leant back in the chair and looked around, hoping that Marty would not be too much longer. I watched, as a woman from the next table excused herself, taking a packet of cigarettes from her pocket. Standing over beyond the post boxes, she took one out of the packet, lit it and inhaled. Something about the way she did it reminded me of my mother all those years ago.

The entire time, I watched her face, and realised for the very first time, that there seemed to be nothing else in the world that could bring you down that quick, and give you that look of absolute satisfaction in such a short time. It was a look of satisfaction I had seen time and time again on my mother’s face. Enviously, I wish that I had something that could give me that satisfaction right now, if only briefly.

I had smoked momentarily. Like most teenagers, I had started up because everyone else did. The super popular girls made a point of getting caught in the school toilets, upping their schoolyard cred. I persisted long enough to know I hated it. I was never one of the cool girls at school. And the way I felt right now, it seemed as if some things never change.