Legacy (4 page)

6

SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA

My meeting with Professor Young is still scheduled for 4 pm on the third Thursday of the month even though I am in Sydney. The time difference means I have to dial his office at 6 am. I have risen early, barely sleeping last night for fear of not hearing the alarm. I cannot help but smile to myself that I will be having a conversation with Professor Young while I am in my pyjamas; I am usually so meticulous about what I wear and how I look when I get ready to see him. My notes lie scattered across my bed.

Professor Young had not been happy about my going home. I had told him that I had to attend to some family business but he had not seemed very sympathetic.

‘It's a mistake,' he had said bluntly. ‘Every student I have ever known who thought they could do the bulk of their research and writing around the distractions of their home town has always found out that they can't.'

And I have to admit that, as with most things, he has been right. The pages I had sent him earlier in the week were cobbled together a few days before they were due. I had lost the discipline of the routine I had fallen into in Boston. Here in Sydney there always seemed to be other things to do during the mornings when I would usually be working on my writing and in the evenings when I'd be doing my reading.

I've spent plenty of time consoling Tanya about her break-up with Terry and this has required long phone conversations, sleepovers, shopping trips and going to the movies. I've also been catching up with other friends and emailing Jamie, who is in Perth for a few months for work and not due back until December.

And I've also been distracted by not being able to shake my suspicions about my father's infidelity. For the last three weeks, I've been trying to find any evidence of it. But he has had no late nights and my several unannounced trips to his office have uncovered nothing.

He has not always been so careful. When I was a child, he would take me to a movie most weekends - just him and me, father and daughter. It was our ritual - looking through the movie guides, making a list of the films we wanted to see, writing down cinemas and times, making sure we arrived in time to catch the trailers in case there were movies about to be released that could be added to our ‘must see' list.

One day, when I was about twelve, we had gone to the movies and, it seemed by chance, ran into one of my father's friends. Her name was Liz. On the way home, my father said, ‘It might be best not to tell your mother about Liz. Let's make it our little secret.' In my innocence I enjoyed the conspiracy of silence, seeing it as no more than a secret I shared with my dad.

The next few times that we went to the movies, we always seemed to run into Liz. I thought it was simply the strangest coincidence. And although I was sometimes tempted to tell my mother about this funny circumstance, I felt bound by my loyalty to my father not to reveal anything of it. Then, after several months, we saw Liz no more.

In time I began to understand what the arrangement had actually meant and how I had been used to cover my father's infidelity. How he had used, even abused, our trips to the movies, our special time together. I said nothing to my mother. I knew she would be hurt.

When I was fourteen I stopped going to the movies with Dad. I began to resent him. At times I couldn't listen to his political rhetoric, his talk about principles and human rights, all delivered in his self-righteous manner without reflecting on what a hypocrite he was, a hypocrite with a lack of morals. Especially when I compared him to other men who did not seem so morally flawed. Men like Jamie, who never gave me a moment's doubt. Men, I think now, like Professor Young, dignified and intelligent, an embodiment of what a perfect father should be.

‘Well, Simone,' asks Professor Young, his voice echoing with the distance, ‘I can see from your briefing note that you have shifted your focus since our last meeting in line with what we discussed. What is your central argument now?'

‘I have been thinking about our discussion. So, I've been reading what people actually say about sovereignty when they talk about it. You know, thinking about how they would answer if they were asked, “When you talk about being sovereign, what do you mean?” '

I tell Professor Young that I know there isn't much written on the issue that begins from the Aboriginal perspective, at least in academic discussions and debates. And when that point of view is taken seriously, it is clear that people are not talking about ‘sovereignty' as we would understand it under international law. ‘Listen to this from Kevin Gilbert - he was an Aboriginal poet and an advocate for the recognition of Aboriginal sovereignty - in a draft treaty he wrote with the Aboriginal Members of the Sovereign Aboriginal Coalition in 1987:

We are free to manage our own affairs both internally and externally to the fullest possible extent, in the proper exercise of our Sovereign Right as a Nation … Our Sovereign Aboriginal Nation, fulfilling the criteria of Statehood, having Inherent Possessory Root Title to Lands, a permanent population and a representative governing body according to our Indigenous traditions, having the ability to enter relations with other States, possesses the right to autonomy in self-determination of our political status, to freely pursue our economic, social and cultural development and to retain our rights in religious matters, tradition and traditional practice.'

I explain that I think within this concept of ‘sovereignty' and ideas about the legal implications of recognition there is no claim for separatism from Australia but instead there is a desire to negotiate a better position within the Australian state.

‘What does this “position within the Australian state” look like?' he asks. I imagine Professor Young, his eyes slightly squinting from the low sunlight that would be streaming over him now.

‘Well, there is a strong aspiration for a capacity for decision-making, for community governance but there are a vast range of other goals: the recognition of past injustices, the aspiration for land justice, the protection of culture, heritage and language, to be able to access the same services and have the same opportunities that other Australians have.' As I explain this idea, I recall my father talking about each of these things.

‘That's the next stage of your project, Simone. You need to map out what this “Aboriginal sovereignty” means to Aboriginal people and then map the pathway between where your legal system is now and where it should be going.' I hear a note of caution come into his voice. ‘It may need a political solution at the end of the day, but even so you need to think about the role the law can play in that pathway.'

I had been thinking too much like a lawyer, I realise, but I liked the message better when it came from my work with Professor Young than when my father said it.

‘I know that you were skeptical about how much I would get done here,' I say to Professor Young, ‘but I think with this as the new focus of my research, it may be fortuitous that I am back here in Australia.'

‘Hmmmm. My warning about the dangers of attempting to do your project away from the school still stands. You have the opportunity to work at one of the world's greatest law schools without distraction. Have the family matters you wanted to attend to resolved themselves?'

‘Yes. Yes they have. And I will be making plans to come back in the next week or so.' I wince a little, knowing that is not quite the truth.

There is silence, long enough to express disapproval. And then I hear Professor Young sigh.

‘And what are you reading, Simone?'

I imagine his mannerisms, his facial expressions, the way he tilts his chair sideways so that he can look out the window that is usually behind him as he talks to me.

‘I have just finished Kazuo Ishiguro's
The Remains of the Day
,' I tell him. I don't add that I only finished it last night, knowing Professor Young would ask me this question. He always does. Even if I'm tempted to just watch a movie and bluff, I always read a book. But I got caught up in this one and reading it had not been a chore.

The novel tells the story of an English butler, Stevens, who dedicates his life to the service of Lord Darlington. It had promised to be a love story and begins with Stevens receiving a letter from Miss Kenton, the former housekeeper at Darlington Hall, alluding to her unhappy marriage. Darlington Hall has just changed owners and Stevens has a new employer, the wealthy American Mr Farraday. Stevens, under the pretext of seeing if he can offer Miss Kenton - now Mrs Benn - her old position back, accepts Mr Farraday's offer of taking a ‘motoring holiday'.

It emerges that Stevens and Miss Kenton, when working together during the years leading up to World War II, had an attachment that bordered on romantic - always implied but never declared - as they shared intimate moments such as taking tea and talks at the end of the day. Stevens's inability to express his feelings to the more passionate Miss Kenton eventually led her to accept a marriage proposal from Mr Benn.

Lord Darlington was a Nazi sympathiser. In the aftermath of the war he is disgraced for his naivety in dealing with the Nazis before hostilities broke out and for his hopes of brokering a deal between Hitler's Germany and Great Britain. Stevens had been totally loyal to Lord Darlington, as any good butler would have been but he seems incapable of believing his master could be wrong in his politics and actions.

Miss Kenton has now been married for over twenty years and while her relationship with her husband has not always been easy or happy, she has grown to love him in her own way. With the arrival of a grandchild she chooses to stay with her family rather than return to Darlington Hall and Stevens returns there alone.

‘And what did you think?' Professor Young asks.

‘At the end of the book Miss Kenton has a family, even though she is not always happy and her family life is not perfect. Her husband loves her even if he does let her down but, sadly, Stevens has none of that. Instead he sacrificed his life to the service of a man who was morally flawed and eventually disgraced. What did he have to show for all the hard work, the loyalty?'

We talk about the importance of work/life balance as I bundle up my notes from the meeting. I lie back on my bed, looking at the ceiling, and listen to Professor Young.

‘People didn't have as much choice in those days though, did they? If you got married, you pretty much had to leave your employment. Domestic service in someone else's house certainly wasn't conducive to having a family of your own.'

‘You certainly do get a sense of how much Stevens has sacrificed the night of the large banquet when his father is dying but he continues to attend to his duties as Lord Darlington attempts to play statesman,' I add.

When I finally put the phone down I have a renewed enthusiasm. Talking to Professor Young always inspires me. The fear I harbour in the lead-up to the meetings that he will be disappointed with me, that I will make a mistake, evaporates when I actually speak with him and leaves in its wake the adrenalin rush that comes from a challenging, fast-paced conversation in which I feel as though I am in the hot seat.

The next phase of my doctoral research is to start really drilling down into what it is that Aboriginal people mean when they speak about ‘sovereignty'. And the best way to do that, I decide, is through a series of interviews. This would justify my staying here longer. Perhaps until December when Jamie comes back from Perth. Professor Young won't like it, not one bit, but I'll draw up an interview schedule - I might even be able to do a few in Perth - and then it will be easier to counter his inevitable protests.

There would be no better place to start than by talking to my father.

7

BOSTON, UNITED STATES

He scheduled his meetings with Simone so she could be the last appointment of his day. Today, he had missed looking at her as she spoke, seeing how expressive she was when she was confident about what she was saying, loosening the nervousness she seemed cloaked in at the beginning of every meeting. Even with just her voice to go by he could, through the nuances, imagine her face, how she looked upwards when she was thinking and frowned when she was listening.

His meetings with doctoral students had always been structured the same way. He would start by asking them about their project: ‘What is your central argument?' This required them to think more deeply and assisted them in understanding their arguments more thoroughly than by just writing them down. But he also had the habit at the end of their meetings of asking his students about what they were reading, knowing the question forced them to read something other than the materials they needed for their research.

It gave him a chance to talk with these bright, young students about matters beyond their studies - about life, love, ethics, duty, values and politics. John had always been a prolific reader, an only child who wasn't naturally drawn to sport - more of a loner than a team player - and he prided himself that it was rare that his students would talk about a book that he had not read. He had even introduced a ‘Law and Literature' course over the summer semester, much to the amusement of his colleagues but to the delight of the students. It always filled quickly with a long waiting list.

He liked his discussions about literature with Simone best of all. He understood her better by her reaction to what she had been reading. He could see her interest in recognising right from wrong, in social justice.

It was just like Simone to pick
Remains of the Day,
he smiled to himself, a book that raised questions of sacrifice for work, of exploitation of the lowest classes and too much deference to the upper ones. But at its heart it is a love story, albeit a doomed one. Not of a love unrequited but one which failed due to time, circumstance and emotional limitation. Stevens's role as butler, as a servant, made it impossible for him to have a fulfilling emotional life. Inevitably, he could not act upon how he felt about Miss Kenton.

But, John pondered, what if you do get the person you want? What if you do have love in your life and then you lose it? Had Stevens been able to woo Miss Kenton, it would have been no guarantee of happiness.

Charmaine had fascinated him when they met at a dinner for Noel Phillips, an old friend who had become a local political figure. Like most fateful meetings, it almost didn't take place. The tragedy of losing Lucy had left him wrecked. Louise was visiting her parents and had taken Jessica with her. He felt uneasy about his ability to function socially, had lost his confidence among people, but his loyalty to Noel and the kind intent of his friend's personal invitation made John feel obliged to attend. He had planned to go only to see Noel, eat something and leave as quickly and as quietly as he could.

John had been seated next to an empty chair and was calculating how long it would be before he could escape when Charmaine Edgeworth walked in and sat down beside him. It is the worst of cliches to say that his heart skipped a beat. It didn't really skip a beat, so much as beat harder, reminding him that he had one. Her face, the softness of her skin, her bright, bright smile, her sweet, chocolate dark eyes, the tantalising curves under her red dress, they all drew him in. She melted into his heart that first night.

But he realised now that he had seen what he had wanted to see. He had been so low, so paralysed with his grief, so engulfed with thoughts of falling asleep and never, never waking. No wonder he had created something to believe in, someone to save him. And why wouldn't he have hoped to find it in Charmaine? He could not have known then that beauty could mask such coldness. She was so much more sophisticated than Louise but Charmaine brought with her vanity, materialism and deceit.

When he had discovered the birth control tablets while he had been innocently searching her bedside drawer for pain killers he felt like a fool. Their conversations about her wish to give him a child, and the disappointment he felt with each failure over the previous years were a farce.

Charmaine, unaware of what he had discovered, continued for a while - ‘We really should go to Aspen this winter. It might be the last that it is just the two of us', ‘Let's look at baby clothes; they are so adorable', ‘Madelaine, what a lovely name for a little girl' - and he could not say anything to her, did not accuse her but just looked at her, disgusted, as she continued the charade.

Eventually his stoniness seeped into her. She understood that he had unmasked her and they never mentioned children again. Without the promise of such a future, one of hope, and with what he knew of her deception, he began to fall out of love. Since then he had been falling back into the abyss that she had pulled him from.

John put on his coat and tied his scarf tightly around his neck. His in-tray was overflowing with letters, tasks, requests that he needed to attend to but it all seemed overwhelming.