A Bird on My Shoulder (6 page)

However, horseriding presented me with something of a challenge. As a young teenager my confidence had been gradually sapped and finally crushed by a rather fat pony with a sadistic streak and a vicious sense of timing. Often my forays into the countryside would end with me flat on my back in a ploughed field listening to the sound of drumming hooves as the pony, riderless and exuberant, galloped home.

It was something of an achievement on Julian's part that he had persuaded me to get back on a horse. He assured me that we would take the ride very quietly and that it was important to regain my confidence because, as he saw it, I was missing out on one of life's great pleasures.

Julian led the way as we walked the horses past tiny hamlets in the hills that edged Port Moresby where young children would run out from their small kunai grass houses calling, ‘Morning! Morning!', grinning with delight at our unexpected appearance.

As we headed into the rain-starved hills, it gradually came back to me how much I had once loved to ride: the higher perspective, the sweetness of the horse's sweat, the feel of strong leather reins between my fingers, the freedom and sense of adventure it brought.

Julian was true to his word and did not push me to go any faster than I felt comfortable with, but I imagined he was a little bored. After about half an hour, I too began to weary of the slow pace.

‘I think I'd like to try to canter,' I said to the back of Julian's head, surprising myself. ‘He won't bolt, will he?'

‘Absolutely not, I'll be in front of you the whole time,' Julian assured me.

The sudden lurch of the horse's change in stride threw me off balance for a second but thankfully my dormant instincts were still intact, and we surged up the hillside track in a flurry of dust. Grinning, I pulled up beside Julian at the top of the hill, my heart pounding.

‘That was amazing,' I said.

He smiled, saying nothing.

We ambled home, the horses sweating, and talked about Julian's childhood in the north of England. He told me he had
left the UK at the age of ten with his family – ‘we were typical ten-pound Poms' – and had been raised in Sydney by his Irish mother, Pat, and English father, Victor. Julian said the boat journey to Australia with his two younger brothers, Adrian and John, had a huge impact on him.

‘We stopped at the Canary Islands,' he told me. ‘It was a completely different world to the one I'd known. The bright beautiful skies, the laughter of the people, their open cheerfulness; that's when I decided I wanted to live abroad.'

I had already told Julian about my long-standing dream to live in Papua New Guinea; it seemed we had a similar sense of destiny.

‘Do you think you'll stay here or go back to Australia?' I asked as we drove back home. I knew Julian's sons were all living in Sydney, either at school or university.

‘No, I'll stay here for the time being and see what happens. The boys certainly love coming home in the holidays and I'm not sure I want to live in Australia.'

He deftly changed gear as we climbed the hill towards my house.

‘Who knows?' he said casually. ‘Perhaps I might even marry again.'

I felt something nudge at my heart like a drop of slow rain.

7

I let the days unfold, waiting for the deepest

wisdom of my heart to speak.

One night we went to dinner at Julian's house. His younger sons, Edward and Henry, were home for the Easter school holidays, and I was meeting them for the first time.

Singapore mud crabs were apparently Julian's signature dish. He loved nothing more than to head down in the afternoon to the local fish market at Koki with a couple of old woven flour bags and select some of the meatiest live crabs on offer. The fact that they were filthy and covered in oozing mud only increased his delight in working with such elemental ingredients.

Julian was an enthusiastic cook, happily splattering the kitchen as he expertly hammered the shells and plunged the crabs into vats of steaming broth. I stood in the kitchen doorway, watching him work, enjoying his obvious pleasure.

•••

Later, we all sat around the large dining table in the centre of the house, which sat on the edge of a rocky hill overlooking the Coral Sea. Nancy and John, Julian's Chilean friends, had brought some wonderful Spanish music, the conversation was lively and animated, and the house was filled with laughter and warmth.

In between courses I talked to Edward, already at fourteen so thoughtful and measured.

‘I don't think Dad should get married again,' he said casually and without rancour.

I was caught off guard. Why was he was saying such a thing to me? As far as I was concerned, there was an element of courtship to our encounters but so far nothing of any substance had actually happened.

‘Well, I don't think one-night stands are much fun,' I said in what I hoped was an equally nonchalant way.

During dinner I asked to use the bathroom. The main one was already occupied so Julian suggested that I go to his instead. We stood by the door talking and then, quite out of the blue, he squeezed my arm affectionately then let his hand casually linger.

‘Better get back to the party,' he said, smiling apologetically.

Walking in I immediately felt an unexpected sense of intimacy: the cracked porcelain pot, the packet of cotton wool balls, a dusty box of unopened aftershave. Here was a glimpse
of the private Julian, a more real and ordinary man than the one I had witnessed so far. Through my slightly wine-muddled haze, I could hear music from the other room and the scrape of chairs as Nancy began to cajole everyone into dancing.

Leaving the bathroom, I had to pass through Julian's walk-through wardrobe. I stopped to look at the rows of pressed shirts and trousers hanging in the semi-gloom. Without thinking or even knowing why, I found myself gathering an armful of Julian's shirts and pulling them close to my face, inhaling a faint tang of his unmistakable scent.

I stood there, drinking in the moment. And as I did, a small clear voice spoke to me:
You are going to marry this man.

•••

After my father had gone to bed that night, I stayed up, reading the many letters I had kept from my mother, neatly written in her long, elegant hand on pale blue airmail paper.

My mother, Eileen, who had married in her early twenties after training as a nurse, performed with great skill the expected domestic duties of her time. Observing her through the adoring gaze of childhood, I was also in awe of all she could do which fell outside the duties of a normal middle-class housewife: she built a rock wall, rode horses, plucked pheasants, hung wallpaper, constructed shelves and made home-made wine out of potatoes (she labelled the vintage
Pot Chab
).

My father's demands and what appeared to be her escape into busyness often made her seem remote. I sometimes missed the opportunity to talk with her now that I lived so far away, and instead we relied on letters and infrequent, expensive phone calls.

My mother and I expressed ourselves more honestly in our letters; she would allow herself to confess how much she missed me and I sensed she found it difficult to understand the life I was pursuing. Ultimately she wanted me to return to England, to see me settled into a more conventional life in which she could play a greater part.

You ask what to look for when considering marriage
, one letter began.

•••

Could this be Julian? While a part of me still felt strangely elated by the evening's unexpected revelation, another voice began to remonstrate that I was simply lonely and getting broody, that Julian was still grieving and that at any moment he would come to his senses. While we were affectionate with each other, so far there had been no outright declaration of anything more serious from either of us.

And what about Julian's children? How would we all get on? Such relationships, I knew, were notoriously difficult for everyone involved. I wondered whether I had the fortitude or maturity to navigate such demanding waters.

In the late-night hours, however, my anxiety demanded action. I crept down to the office. After several attempts, I settled on the following:

•••

I hurriedly fed the letter into the fax machine and dialled Julian's office number.

•••

When the sun came up, I went downstairs to see if he had replied to my somewhat melodramatic message. Nothing.

I heard a slight shuffle on the pathway and Geri appeared at the window. ‘Morning!' he sang out with a tired smile.

Geri and his extended family had looked after the AAP house for many years. It was hard to see how life in Port Moresby in a tiny house at the end of a suburban garden could be better than the pristine coastal village he came from. But like many Papua New Guineans, he was passionate about education and did not want to lose the highly prized school fees the company paid for his children.

Geri was a modest man, a kindly soul who loved to chat. I opened the door and we stood in the quiet heat of the early morning under the shade of an enormous twining tree.

‘
Mi les long ol wantok bilong mi
. I'm sick of my relatives,' he told me as we stood in the doorway. ‘
Yu mas rausim tupela bois, ol i givim trabel long mi. Tok strong long ol
. You must get rid of the two boys, they're giving me trouble. Speak firmly to them.' Two young teenage boys had arrived about three months before, the children of his village-based brother. I could see that Geri, who was earning a reasonable wage, was struggling under the pressure of tribal expectations to care for his extended family.

I heard the fax machine whirring into life and made my excuses. I hoped it was not one of the many press releases I received every day: updates on the crisis in Bougainville, press conferences on the economy, accusations of government incompetence.

The thermal paper slowly inched out.

Let's talk tonight. I adore you. J

FOR JULIAN

Let our love flow like a river,

Winding gold throughout our dreams.

Let our love roar and sing like the ocean

And our blue eyes shed saltwater tears.

Let your hands caress my body

As the soft vine embraces the tree.

Come and lie, half awake in my meadows

And sleep on the bed of my sea.

8

Love, that tender feather,

pierces me and leaves no mark.

In a dark green desk diary for that year, I keep a treasured photograph of Julian. One weekend we took my father away to see the Huli tribes of Tari. In the background of the picture there is a line of young men wearing handcrafted wigs made from their own hair as part of a traditional initiation ritual. The wigs were shaped like upturned canoes, decorated with shells and everlasting daisies.

Julian is in the foreground, his long patrician nose shining with light sweat, his blue eyes squinting under the noon sun. It is the only photograph I have of him where he is not wearing glasses. Without them he looks softer somehow, more vulnerable. But what really stands out for me, behind his shy expression, is the innate and immoveable stoicism that not even the most trying experiences would alter.

•••

It was not long before Julian and I began to talk about a future together. This was not just giddy love on my part; clearly Julian felt exactly the same way as I did. It was as though I was already a part of him and he a part of me.

One night I went out with him alone, leaving my father happily ensconced at home with a good book. Later, I rang to let him know I would not be coming back.

‘I see,' he said wryly. ‘Developments are afoot.'

•••

My father had observed the blossoming of our relationship with kind, uncritical eyes. He may have had misgivings about the age difference between us, but if so he did not express them and was delighted when, towards the end of his visit (which had stretched into several weeks), Julian formally asked him, with some irony, for my hand in marriage over a long lunch to which I was deliberately not invited.

After arriving home in the UK my father penned a rare letter.

He could not resist a parting shot, however:

A few weeks later I fell quite ill. I was constantly nauseous and could barely touch any food; even the smell of alcohol made me vomit. My body felt like porcelain as I moved around the house, aching, vague and preoccupied.

When I saw the doctor, I regaled her with a list of symptoms: constant nausea, unexplained tiredness, light-headedness.

‘Your last period?' she asked.

I couldn't remember. They were irregular at best.

‘Is it possible you are pregnant?'