The Memory Tree (16 page)

Downstairs, Godown and Hal sat down for their regular Bible discussion.

‘Don’t feel much like talking tonight,’ Hal said. ‘I know we saw it coming, but . . .’

‘Don’t have to talk, Hal.’

And they sat together in silence until Mrs Mac came in with their coffee.

‘We’re in for a few bad weeks,’ Hal said, as he stirred in his sugar.

‘She might be stronger than you think,’ the housekeeper replied. ‘But we’ll all have to keep an eye on her.’ She remembered the rhyme Hal made for his five-year-old daughter. Even then, it was clear that Sealie had a practical streak.

There once was a girlie called Sealie

A princess, I promise you. Really

She danced off to Mars

And on to the stars

But came home in time for her mealie.

Mrs Mac was right. There was something in Sealie’s essence that was strong and durable; something more than the resilience of youth. Over time, she had constructed a coping mechanism, a shield against contingencies. While Hal indulged his daughter, she also had to cope with his strangeness. During periods of depression when he was silent and withdrawn, it seemed as though he occupied a whole different country. Almost as disconcerting were times when his high spirits and feverish activity had her on edge, waiting for the plunge. Then, Sealie longed for the return of the person she thought of as her real father, the kind, funny, loving,
ordinary
Hal. The little girl had seen her mother die; she had lived with a good but unstable father. And she had learned to cope.

She did this by packing her feelings out of sight, the way she did the objects in the boxes that crowded the room at the top of the stairs. In the attic of her mind lay a box into which she folded and lay the terrible, wrenching loss of her dream of the ballet. Then, with a grim sort of courage, she continued to attend classes, continued to dance because her body willed it.

Her friends enjoyed the drama. They shrieked, they clutched at their heads in disbelief, they hugged her solemnly and spoke about her in hushed tones. They offered complicated advice, none of which was at all useful. Their inevitable schadenfreude and love of theatrics, however, was mingled with genuine sympathy, and after a week of high excitement, they contrived to leave her alone with Cassie, who they all agreed, was Sealie’s best friend.

‘I knew I was getting too tall,’ Sealie confided as they ate their lunchtime sandwiches. ‘I just didn’t face it till she told me straight.’

‘Old bat,’ Cassie sympathised.

‘Not really. She had to do it. I almost feel sorry for her.’

Cassie tucked up her skirt and stretched her plump, freckled legs out into the sun. She looked at her friend. ‘What’ll you do now?’

‘Don’t want to think about it.’

‘You could go to uni like Zav.’

‘You’ve got to be joking. I’m not exactly a star student.’ She stretched out her own legs, causing a pang of jealousy in Cassie’s loyal breast. ‘I can’t think of anything else I want to do.’

Sealie looked so truly miserable that Cassie was at a loss. Then she smiled.
Of course!
‘Remember those books we used to read?’

‘The Sadlers’ Wells books?’

‘No. Cherry Ames—the nurse books. You used to say if you couldn’t be a dancer you’d be a nurse.’ Cassie thought she detected a spark of interest. ‘We could be nurses together.’

‘Don’t be silly. You’ve always wanted to be a nurse. People don’t decide to be nurses just like that.’

‘You’ve got to do something.’

‘Mmmm.’ Sealie’s shut face forbade further discussion.

Despite her unenthusiastic response, the idea of nursing fitted Sealie’s current mood, her own sense of theatre. She couldn’t be a ballerina. Once she accepted that, why not nursing? It was a noble calling. Despite her personal tragedy, she’d sacrifice her life to the care of others. She saw herself, stern and beautiful, gliding through darkened wards, lifting a glass to parched lips, holding the hands of the fearful, bringing balloons to a sick child.
She has had some great sadness in her life
, the other nurses would say
. She has dedicated her life to others.
Sealie felt tears of sympathy for her martyred self as she pictured her gentle rejection of the handsome surgeon who saw not only her external beauty, but the beauty of her soul.

‘If I can’t be a ballerina, I’ll be a nurse,’ she said a few weeks later. And began to look at what might be required.

I have to say that my aunt Sealie was and still is, a gutsy girl. Just as well, really, given what followed.

‘Poor little thing,’ said Alice. Mrs Mac and her sister were coming home on the tram after an afternoon of shopping. ‘What will she do now?’

‘Says she wants to be a nurse. She’d make a good one, too.’

Alice raised her eyebrows. ‘Sounds as though she’s a bit spoilt for nursing.’

‘I don’t know. She’s patient with Mr R, I have to give her that.’

‘How’s he at the moment?’

‘Pretty normal—well, except for the religious bit.’

The religious bit was always there—sometimes quiescent, but always there. In the fabric of Hal’s life, it had become the warp thread, the basic structure of the pattern of his days. He had settled into a faith that accommodated his highs and lows, his hopes and fears with texts, the wisdom of which he believed in utterly.

Godown, the instigator of this fervour, admired the depth of his friend’s faith, but was sometimes uneasy with its intensity. He said as much to Chloe and Ariadne, whose sibylline demeanour invited confidences.

‘Hal’s not at ease with himself,’ Godown said. ‘He finds no lastin’ peace in the Lord.’

‘Poor Hal. There is no peace for him.’

So Godown attempted to lighten the burden of knowledge. ‘Bible’s true, every word,’ he’d say. ‘But we need to pray so we can understand just what the Lord’s tellin’ us.’

‘Of course,’ Hal would respond irritably. ‘What do you take me for?’ But he was secretly shocked at Godown’s apostasy.

10

Z
AV MET MY MOTHER IN
his first year at university where he was studying biochemistry. She came from an outer suburb and was boarding with an aunt in Clifton Hill while she completed her Arts degree. There was something soft about Kate. Something exposed. It wasn’t just her blonde prettiness or her petite figure. There was no guardedness in her eyes. No protective carapace. Like his father, Zav chose a delicate beauty to make his own.

From the first moment, my grandfather adored her and became gallant and charming in her presence. Whenever she visited, he’d cut her a long-stemmed rose or a daffodil or whatever bloomed in his carefully cultivated garden.

‘A rose for a rose,’ he’d say. Or ‘A rose by any other name . . .’

‘For God’s sake, Dad,’ Zav would mutter.

Sealie, sweet sixteen, found my mother quite wonderful and fretted over her own black curls.

‘Her hair’s that soft baby-blonde,’ she told her friends enviously. ‘And I don’t think she’s ever had a pimple in her life.’ Her friends, all a little in love with Sealie’s handsome brother, took a more critical view.

Godown treated her with wary respect. Pretty women were still a temptation to him, and this was Zav’s girlfriend, after all. He half-heartedly invited her to join his congregation, but wasn’t surprised or even disappointed when she declined, explaining that she and her family had always attended the Methodist church.

‘Not that I don’t respect your church,’ she told him seriously. She was terrified of seeming to be racist, but found the big black man unsettling. He wasn’t the sort of person you’d expect to find in a middle-class Melbourne suburb.

For Zav, Mrs Mac’s approval was all-important. He loved this woman who had raised him and Sealie as though they were her own. He was also aware of her down-to-earth wisdom, and respected and sometimes feared her judgement.

‘Kate, I’d like you to meet Mrs Mac. She’s been here for us since Mum died.’ And he hugged the plain skinny woman who had dressed for the occasion in her new apricot twin-set. She’d had her hair done, too, but that was her weekly treat and nothing to do with meeting Kate. Nevertheless, she unconsciously patted the sculpted, grey helmet as she reached out the other hand to greet the girl.

Kate’s hair was a silky curtain that shadowed her face. ‘It’s so nice to meet you at last, Mrs McLennon,’ she said, equally anxious to make a good impression.

‘Mrs Mac, dear. Everyone calls me Mrs Mac. Now what do you say to a cup of tea?’

Kate was a coffee drinker, but accepted the tea and sipped it graciously, murmuring in reply to the other woman’s chatter.

‘She’s a quiet little thing,’ Mrs Mac told her sister later. ‘Very pretty, of course. All Zav’s girlfriends have been pretty. But I haven’t, you know, really
warmed
to her.’

Alice looked at the other woman shrewdly. ‘Sure it’s not a case of the green-eyed monster? Zav’s always been your darling boy. Don’t be like Marjorie. You’ll only lose him.’ Alice was referring to her own mother-in-law who was now thankfully dead and presumed to be harassing the denizens of heaven. ‘God rest her soul,’ Alice added with venomous piety.

From then on, Mrs Mac made an effort, and as my mother was as harmless as she was pretty, soon became quite fond of the girl she thought of secretly as her future daughter-in-law.

That future came sooner than they all expected. Australia had entered the Vietnam War and supplemented their regular armed forces with conscripts. The young men were conscripted by lot, with birthdates drawn from a barrel. Zav’s number came up in 1966. He deferred a year to finish his undergraduate degree but instead of deferring further to complete his honours year, he opted to go into the army. They had made it pretty clear that he’d be sent for officer training and he began to think that maybe he’d make the army his career. He was ripe for adventure and this was the ultimate opportunity.

Hal tried to talk him out of it. ‘You’re crazy not to do your honours year first,’ he argued. ‘The war could be over by then.’ Hal sounded like any other concerned father, but the possibility of losing his son preyed on his mind and momentarily, the Voice slid back, smooth and threatening.
So begins your time of travail
, it said.
Your enemies are growing in strength
.

But an end to the war was the very thing my father wanted to avoid. Like so many young men before him, the idea of fighting for his country stirred him with excitement and dread. The fear of death is a powerful aphrodisiac and on the day my parents married, I was already secure in the fastness of my mother’s womb.

In those days, ‘nice’ girls didn’t go all the way. At least not until they were fairly sure of their man. Zav had suffered tortures as Kate primly allowed him to fondle her breasts and even kiss her firm pink nipples. Thus far and no further. No further for me either. After all, these are my parents.