Legacy (15 page)

31

If Beth Ann had any doubts about acting quickly to settle things with Tony they were silenced when the news trickled back to her that Tony was indeed living with another woman.

Not everyone who had brought her information had intended to be kind.

‘Beth Ann,' Liz Briggs had said, ‘I am so sorry to hear how Tony had treated you. After all these years you had stood by him and now to be left for someone who is younger than your daughter. It must be so humiliating.'

The barely disguised joy of some about the breakup of her marriage had surprised her, but so had the generosity of others. Just two days after the split - how quickly the black grapevine works when it has some gossip - she received a call offering her a job teaching the literacy bridging course at the Aboriginal college.

‘You are just being kind,' Beth Ann had said.

‘This is not sympathy. We need you. Our last teacher quit last week. Patricia Tyndale, who's on our board, recommended you. Honestly, you'd be doing us a huge favour.'

And so she had accepted. Not long after, the university down the road offered her some tutoring on their bridging course. Starting next year in February.

She'd been touched that, though she was white, people had looked after her. She had never pushed to be accepted and now, when help was most appreciated, these acts of thoughtfulness made her feel like she had been included.

One week without Tony and she had two parttime jobs and set the wheels in motion for a property settlement. She calculated she could buy a small flat, invest the rest and work part-time. She had never been extravagant, was the kind of woman who did not dye her hair and liked bright, classic clothes, not necessarily expensive ones. She also decided that she would move to the other side of the harbour. She didn't want to keep running into people in the street and find herself the object of their pity.

She'd never expected marriage to be all romance. She had been realistic about it all along, had expected to have to compromise and to concede. Marriage, she had thought, took two people with a firm resolve to make it work. Both she and Tony had lost that resolve now.

Even with Christmas looming she felt scarce regret that she would be spending it on her own - perhaps with Simone but not with Tony. She had already given herself the best present: her freedom.

It only remained to tell Simone. ‘Best if you do it,' Tony had said when they spoke on the phone yesterday morning. ‘She'll take it better coming from you.'

It was commonly understood that a divorce is hard on the children. Even adult children. Beth Ann wondered how much harder the news would be for Simone when she found out that her father was living with someone only slightly younger than she was.

Or would she be surprised? Since Tony had left and Beth Ann had been reminded of how swiftly gossip flew around the neighbourhood, she began to suspect that the rift she had seen between father and daughter could be explained by this new relationship. For Tony to have moved in, it must have been going on for some time and have been serious. If Tony couldn't hide it from his wife, he probably hadn't hid it from many people.

Carl Jung once said, ‘Nothing has a stronger influence psychologically on their environment, and especially on their children, than the unlived lives of their parents.' Beth Ann had remembered it because she thought it explained a lot about her own childhood - the impact of watching her mother's happiness smothered by an unhappy marriage. Surely she owed Simone the example of being a woman who makes certain that her life is fully lived.

32

‘You knew that Melanie would tell me the truth about Emily.'

I have just finished putting the last of the washed dishes away. Nan is sitting in her chair, looking at the pictures of Emily and George on the wall in front of her.

It is two days since I visited the cemetery and I can think of nothing else. Finding a family secret raises more questions than it answers. I have plenty and have been biding my time waiting for the right moment to ask Nan some of them.

‘Is that why Dad never wanted to come back here?'

‘It was my fault that he carried it so hard. I raised him to be strong. When George died Tony was so young but I always made him believe he was the man of the house, that he had responsibility for us all. He did look after us too. But when that terrible thing happened, he blamed himself for not protecting Emily. For not being able to protect us.'

I sit quietly next to her, waiting patiently for her to reveal more.

‘George and I knew that life was tough if you were black and we kind of accepted it because we grew up with racism all the time. When we finally came to this mission was the first time I had shoes. I remember how proud I was of 'em and they were really just cardboard. But see, back then, blacks were given so little, we were so grateful for any mean thing we got. And yet we all worked so hard all the time. I wanted life to be different for Tony and Emily.

‘Tony would never accept that he wasn't as good as anyone else. I'm proud of him for that. Always held his head high. Thought he was as good as any white person and no one was going to deny him anything. So when it happened, it shook his pride and crushed him.'

She pauses for a while. Again lost in a memory. I think of my father and for the first time here with Nan, in this place where he grew up, I appreciate how much he has made of his life. He was forever pushing me to take opportunities and I am chastened to realise that I have rarely thought about the barriers - greater than any that faced me - that he overcame.

‘So I understood why he had to leave,' Gran says, breaking me from my thoughts. ‘I understood why he never wanted to talk about it. I understood why he never wanted to come home. And I also understand why it is so important for him to do things to help our people. I understand why he drives himself so hard. I understand why he feels better when people admire him, why he needs to be loved.'

Nan is quiet again but I know she has not finished speaking. I am glad Patricia taught me about the silences when people talk and I respect them now.

‘And he did do good, you know. All his generation, those angry young men and women who said enough and demanded their rights, our rights. They made a difference. These houses weren't built out here until after they started talking about rights. And many of us were too shy to ask for them. Didn't know how. Some said they should be quiet, not rock the boat. But we are so much better off now than we were back then before they were marching in the streets. Even if we still have a long way to go. But,' she turns to look at me directly and raises her finger, shaking it slightly, ‘if he thinks it was hard on him, that thing that happened, what they did, imagine how hard it was on those of us who stayed. And how hard it was on Emily. In the end, it was too hard on her. She just couldn't take it after what they did to her.'

‘Who were they and what did they do to her?'

‘Those boys raped her down by the river. They might as well have killed her right then and there.'

I feel a chill down my spine. Raped? Nan's face has hardened. I sense that she will say nothing more. There is a trickle of sweat on her brow, glistening in the sun.

‘Would you like a glass of lemonade?' I ask gently.

She nods, still looking at the photographs of Emily and George.

When I return with the cool glass, I ask one last question.

‘Nan, what was Emily like?'

Nan smiles. ‘She was like a little bird, a little sparrow. Quiet but busy. Always wanted to help. She adored her brother. Would have done anything for him. She was the kind that would have done anything for anyone. She was like an angel on this earth.'

Nan takes a long drink. ‘There was something about your mother, her goodness, and the sense that she was fragile, that always reminded me of my little Emily.'

The telephone rings. I am more mobile than Nan so I have taken to answering it.

It's my mother. ‘We were just talking about you. Were your ears burning?'

‘No. What were you talking about? Have you spoken to your father?'

‘No, I haven't spoken to Dad. And we were saying nice things about you.' Her questions make me suspicious. ‘What's wrong, Mum?'

‘Nothing. Nothing. Everything is fine. Just fine. I wanted to ring before you come back and let you know that your father and I have decided to separate.'

The chill I felt upon hearing about Emily's rape is back.

‘Why? What has he done?'

‘It's a mutual decision. I'm staying in the house for the time being and he has moved out.'

‘Already? When?'

‘Just over a week ago. The night after you left to visit your Nan.'

‘Over a week ago. And no one told me?'

‘I didn't want you to worry about us.'

‘I'll come home,' I say.

‘No, no. I'm fine. You stay with your Nan. She rarely sees you and it must mean a lot to her to have you visiting. There is no need to come home early.'

‘Where's Dad gone?'

‘He's staying with - a friend.'

I don't ask any more. I suspect it is Rachel and if Mum knows she clearly doesn't want to tell me. If she doesn't know, I'm not about to tell her.

‘Should I let Nan know? Or should I keep it a secret until you are sure that this is what you really want.'

‘You can let her know now, if you find the right time.'

‘That was Mum on the phone,' I say, returning to my seat next to Nan. ‘She and Dad have split up.'

‘I know. I heard.'

‘I was in the other room. I thought you were hard of hearing.'

Nan ignores my attempt at humour. She looks past me.

‘I love your mother like she was my own daughter.'

‘She's very fond of you too.'

‘But that son of mine … I know. I hear. I don't like it.' Nan finishes the last of her lemonade. ‘I always worried that one day he would do something to lose her.'

‘Seems like that day has finally come,' I say glumly.

‘Well, it took longer to get here than I thought it would.'

We sit in silence for some time. The room starts to darken but neither of us stir. Even though I had caught my father out, it never occurred to me that my parents would separate. I have never imagined them apart.

Finally, Nan tells me to put the television on so we can watch the news. We stare at the screen but my mind is full of my mother, my father and Emily.

33

I wake up early the next morning. I can tell from the light that it is just after dawn. I have had a fitful sleep with so much on my mind. Why was what happened to Emily kept such a secret? Why was there shame around her being raped? Why was there silence about her suicide? Is that why my father decided not to come back here? Why did he feel the need to protect me from what had happened? Why did he think I was not capable of understanding the truth?

Now, awakening, I am even more agitated. How could he cheat on my mother? She had been the best of wives to him. How could he be so selfish, so indulgent to have an affair? How could he throw away everything Mum has given him?

I am furious and can no longer lie in bed. I tiptoe to the phone in Nan's living room and dial Dad's mobile. It rings several times and I am about to give up when he answers.

‘How could you do what you've done to Mum?' I demand.

‘Simone?'

‘Yes, it's me. And I want to know how you could treat Mum the way you have?'

‘I'm not happy about this situation either.' His voice has the thick sound of being woken from a deep sleep. ‘Your mother wanted me out of the house.'

I am taken aback a little. Mum had said it was a mutual decision and I had assumed Dad had left her. But I think of the embrace I caught him in with Rachel. I think of the times he would bring his friend Liz along to the movies with us. My anger boils again.

‘Well, you must have deserved it.'

He is silent and I wonder whether he is still on the line. Finally he speaks, ‘I am not at all happy about things between me and your mother and I understand why you're upset about them.'

What could he know, I think to myself. Could he know how betrayed I felt when he used me to cover for his infidelity? Could he know what it must be like for Mum who was always there for him but now is discarded for someone younger than her daughter? How could he know these things?

‘I don't understand you,' I say. I mean it as an accusation of his failure to understand how his actions have affected me and have injured Mum.

‘Well,' he pauses. There is tiredness in his voice. ‘I don't understand myself either sometimes.'

Dad's openness about his misery startles me. I expected him to be defensive, to hide, to blame someone else. In his candour, I can see that he is unhappy and that he knows that he is the cause of it. Seeing him so bereft is unexpected and I find, not forgiveness, but sympathy emerging for him in my heart. My anger towards him lessens. But I still have questions.

‘Dad, I need to ask you something. Not about you and Mum. About something else.'

There is silence. I can feel him bracing himself and I know that he will not be expecting me to move from interrogating him about Mum to asking questions about Emily. But I sense that now, with his guard down, with his frankness about his flaws, it might be the best time to ask him about the secrets he has tried so hard to hide. I need to understand why her death was so hard for him to face and why he had to hide the truth from me.

‘I have found out that Aunt Emily killed herself. And I just want to know why you never told me.'

He takes a moment to answer. I sense his discomfort but I give him no ground and wait until he finally speaks. ‘It was a very unhappy incident in my life. When someone you love takes their own life you are left with a lifetime of wondering what you could have done to have stopped it. There may have been a part of me that wanted to protect you from such unpleasant events but it has always been a very hard thing for me to deal with. That's why I never talk about it.'

My father sounds defeated. I'm unsure of what to say next. It is the first time he has revealed so much of himself to me. Until Professor Young's death I had known no one who had committed suicide. It must be one thing to deal with a death that is accidental but different to deal with one that is intentional. Did that explain the anger I had seen in Professor Young's daughter at the memorial service? Did it go some way to explaining why his family did not want his book of poetry? Death must always bring with it grief, sadness and regrets. Wondering what could have been done to prevent the death of someone you love must be a terrible burden. Death draws a curtain down on everything. There is no time to say what is unsaid.

I remember the scrapbook that Patricia had shown me with the newspaper clipping of the interview where, when asked how he would spend his last night on earth, my father said it would be with me. My anger ebbs away completely.

‘Dad?'

‘Yes?' He sounds wary, as if readying for another assault from me.

‘Are you okay?'

He sounds surprised. ‘I've been better. But I'm doing all right under the circumstances.'

Nan has stirred. She walks past me towards the kitchen.

I look at Emily's photograph. Even in the dimness of early light I can see how much she looks like my father. And at this moment, I no longer feel like judging him.

‘I love you, Dad.'

‘I love you, too.' He sounds confused. Perhaps relieved. But I know he means it.

I hang up and walk to the kitchen.

‘I made a cup of tea,' Nan says. She's sitting at the kitchen table, a cup in front of her. An empty cup sits beside the pot for me. ‘I know he's not perfect but I love him. Even with his faults he is a good man. And I'm not just saying that because I'm his mother.'

‘I know, Nan,' I say meekly. I sit down next to her. ‘And I'm not just saying that because I'm his daughter.'

‘I understand why you're mad at him. I want to give him a kick in the pants most of the time myself.' She smiles and I grin back at her. ‘But,' she becomes more serious and points a finger at me, ‘despite that, he does deserve your respect. We can't abandon him just because he's not perfect.'

‘I think I am starting to understand that too, Nan.'

A week and a half later, when I leave Nan's for the long drive home, I pass through the town but instead of staying on the highway I find my way down to the river, near the weir. I park in the meadow and follow the well-worn path down to the riverbank.

I look around and I wonder where it happened. There is no one around but there is plenty of movement. The wind plays with the leaves in the tall gum trees. The birds chatter and fuss. The cicadas and crickets sing in the stifling heat.

I sit down on the long grass. I listen and wait. I don't know what I am hoping to find. You need time to feel a place, to know what it's telling you. I'm at a disadvantage because the land speaks differently in the day to how it speaks in the night. It has a different spirit. In the light, it bustles with intention. It moves at night too, but it is more thoughtful. Places that seem peaceful in the day, you can almost hear them weeping in the dark.

But I do sense something unsettling. Much would have happened here. Although I am the only one here at this moment, I know all sorts of things go on at places like this along the river - children playing, fathers and sons fishing, girls sunbaking, flirting with boys, people falling in love, having first kisses. But then, in the dark, there are the evil spirits, the mi-mi men, Nan would call them. And somewhere here there are parts of Emily, a part of my father, my grandmother, perhaps even myself, left here because of the events of that one night.

Patricia Tyndale had been right. I felt renewed after my three weeks with Nan. Even with my parents' separation, I feel a serenity I have not felt before. As I leave the town, the loose gravel of the roads crunching under my tyres, I am grateful that there's a nine-hour drive back to the city. Time to collect my thoughts. To think. To enjoy the silences.