Au Revoir (34 page)

As we have arrived late in the evening, David and I decide to stay overnight in town so that the little ones will be awake when we get back to our house in the mountains. Aaron drives down to pick us up quite early, and he greets me in his usual offhand manner. As if I've been on a two-week film shoot rather than away for nearly seven months in another country.

‘Gidday sheila,' he says with a grin, knowing that I am not particularly fond of this term of endearment.

There's something very different in my relationship with my sons. I know that they love me dearly—their wives and girlfriends often tell me so—but they are less inclined to show their feelings in any way. Aaron in particular. He doesn't even ask me about France or about how I am feeling. Nothing has changed.

On the drive home I feel quite sick to the stomach with excitement at the prospect of seeing everyone again. The journey can't be fast enough for me, I'm itching to get my hands on those little boys and to greet Ella Mary for the first time. There's no-one at the gate but I can hear the children playing in the back garden. I sneak into the kitchen, where tea is being made, and there are screams of delight. And many, many tears. It's overwhelming and quite wonderful.

I go outside and see the children, who have been well prepared for this moment. They all run to me, even little Theo who only had his second birthday while I was away. I was worried he may feel shy, and not really remember me clearly. Six months is a long time in the life of a two-year-old. But Miriam has kept my photo on the front of her fridge at the children's eye level, and apparently I have been discussed often. He falls into my arms as though he is totally familiar and at ease with my presence. Then the baby is handed to me and I feel I have really come home at last.

Next I do what I enjoy doing most. I cook up a big lunch for everyone, set the table and we gather as a family again for the first time in so many months. It all feels so familiar and comfortable and warm that instead of feeling strange, I feel as though I have never really been away. And in some respects I haven't. Not in my heart. It was just my body that was leaping around southwest France like a lunatic.

As I look around the table I see the faces of my children and their partners, laughing and talking and keeping the little ones in order. They all look so grown up and confident and sure of themselves, much more like my contemporaries than my offspring. It's difficult to imagine them as the babies and
toddlers and teenagers who kept me so frantically busy for nearly three decades. I wonder to myself why they have all launched into such serious relationships at comparatively early ages. Even Ethan, the youngest by five years, has been living with the same partner, Lynne, for more than three years and they are excitedly telling us all about their plans to visit France together the following year. Of course there will be a house and car, and Ethan would love to get stuck into some of the much-needed renovations, but they will have to save their own fares and spending money. David certainly looks pleased that we are both home again, and even the noise and chaos of the five little children doesn't seem to faze him.

It dawns on me that no matter where I am in the world, I will be surrounded by people and laughter and food and wine at gatherings such as this. I may have run away with the idea of being alone. But that was never going to happen.

 

 

F
OUR MONTHS AFTER I
returned to Australia David Barwick lost his long battle with cancer. Our youngest son Ethan and his partner Lynne went to Frayssinet-le-Gélat in May to start restoring the village house, and promptly found themselves pregnant. In June the same year Miriam gave birth to Augustus James, her fourth son.