The Long Hot Summer (14 page)

The only way to make the
Blue Mountains Whisper
work was for it to be different in style and content from the two mainstream newspapers and to rally as much unpaid assistance as possible. The Mountains have always been a haven for creative people – writers and artists and musicians – and it was up to us to enthuse them with the concept and to get them involved.

The biggest political issue in the area at the time – both on the state and local government level – was the destruction of the environment by thoughtless and greedy overdevelopment. So we decided our paper should be a pro-environment/anti-development newspaper with a strongly satirical bent (this was Geoff's forte). Our first target for help was Greg Gaul, a local artist/cartoonist, who we hoped would design a masthead and set the style for the paper. He immediately agreed, lured by the challenge but also by a promise of regular meals around the kitchen table and a good supply of my homemade beer. He was fantastic and his wife Carol, a teacher, was also enthused by the concept.

Quickly others came on board. I talked to Richard Neville, who shared our outrage at the environmental destruction happening on a daily basis right across the Mountains. He and his journalist wife Julie Clarke both offered to contribute articles.
Noni Hazelhurst, before her days on ‘Better Homes and Gardens', was also keen to write a column. Designer Jenny Kee, always at the forefront of environmental battles, contributed and local writer Ken Quinnell volunteered, along with two computer whizzes who could do the layout using desktop publishing. Essentially this technological breakthrough was what made self-publishing feasible for people like us. Until computers could be used to design and lay-out pages, the cost of production was prohibitive. Now it was possible to put together a sixteen-page newspaper in less than a week using the new design programs, and we could also design and lay-out advertisements. All we needed were people who would buy space, and this task fell to a local woman, Susanna Miller, who agreed to chat up local businesses and take only a commission. My brother Dan, also a journalist, offered to help with the first few issues. It was all hands to the pump.

The other Mountains papers were give-aways and we would have to charge at least $1 a copy just to cover printing costs. We didn't worry about not earning an income from the paper, but we certainly didn't want it to cost us money. At the time I was editing a series of bi-monthly gardening magazines, so we organised our
Whisper
deadline to fit in between my ‘paying' obligations. Geoff had a city job with a printer, so we had enough income to survive if our crazy scheme didn't take off immediately.

What followed the launch of the
Whisper
were the most outrageous and funniest three years of my life. The kitchen table became the editor's desk, and regular meetings of contributors were held in and among family dinner times. My mother, also an old journalist, loved the buzz of these editorial think-tanks, but erred on the side of caution, always fearful that we would be
sued. Glass of Scotch in hand, she would wave her arms in dismay at many of our story ideas – especially ones that involved holding local politicians and public figures up to public ridicule. We ignored her advice, taking the ‘publish or perish' point of view.

We attacked the local aldermen on council, the state government ministers and the opposition as well. We quickly managed to offend just about everyone – left-wing, right-wing, religious, conservative, feminist, arty, greenie – no group or individual was spared our scrutiny and undergraduate humour. Our local Liberal state member, Barry Morris, was a rotund man in his fifties who, several years after the
Whisper
days, was sent to Berrima jail for making threatening phone calls to a local alderman. Barry had a reputation as a bit of a bully boy, but we found him utterly benign. He was fond of his food, our Barry, and we frequently bumped into him at public events or functions that involved eating. Barry was always the first in line at any community sausage sizzle, so we established an editorial policy of only publishing photographs of him eating. It wasn't difficult to achieve – Geoff and I carried our cameras with us everywhere and Barry even played up to the joke, posing with a slice of cake or a handful of hot chips every time he saw us approaching. He didn't seem to feel at all threatened by us, unlike most of the other local politicians, who took our lampooning far too seriously.

Getting the paper out every month was very much a family affair. My mum proofread and subedited the pages and reiterated her dismay at some of our more outrageous articles. David wrote a film column, Miriam posed for photographs for advertising and Aaron, wearing a baseball cap with the word ‘Shithead' on the crown and a plastic dog turd on the brim,
stood beside the then Liberal premier Nick Greiner while he was opening the annual Leura Fair. It made for an hilarious photograph. Mum (once more against her better instincts) even agreed to be photographed for our bumper Christmas edition in bed, clutching a flagon of sweet sherry, with Geoff dressed in a Santa Claus suit, with the headline ‘Santa Strikes Again'.

Geoff took photographs and wrote various columns, including a restaurant review and his regular ‘Wasted Days' monologue, which developed a bit of a cult following. Sydney broadcasters such as Margaret Throsby and David Spicer would regularly quote from our pages on morning radio.

Amazingly, we did get good advertising support from local business, including one of the most prominent real estate agencies in Katoomba, and we managed to cover our costs with enough left over for the odd bottle of wine or two.

Sad to say, eventually our high jinks got us into trouble – serious trouble in the Supreme Court, with a defamation suit slapped on us by three local politicians who failed to appreciate the humour of our scribblings. It didn't stop us – in fact it made us even more outrageous, but eventually we ran out of puff because of time commitments. All of us needed to have ‘proper jobs' to keep the wolf from the door, allowing less and less time for our
Whisper
antics. The defamation suit was settled out of court (thank heavens we had good insurance) and the
Whisper
faded away, we like to think with dignity.

It certainly was one of the most creatively charged and high-spirited times of my life, and thinking back to it reminds me of the naughty streak that I have never really managed to suppress. And that, eventually, being naughty will get you into trouble!

I drive to Agen to collect David from the train. Ever since we have owned the house David has caught the train to Toulouse after the Cannes Film Festival and then connected with a train to Cahors so I can pick him up. But it's a bit of a logistical nightmare because David always carries far too much luggage and there is less than fifteen minutes between the connecting trains. He has to wrestle his bags down steep stairs from one train, find a departure board to locate the platform for the Cahors train, then make a dash for it. Both previous times he has only managed to catch the train by a whisker and has arrived in a state of nervous exhaustion.

So I make some investigations and discover that there is a through train from Cannes to Agen, which is a slightly longer drive for me but far less of a hassle for him. I have only ever driven to Agen once, so I relish the thought of exploring the different countryside again. Agen is famous for its prunes, which are used in so many ways: prune tarts, prune liqueurs, prune
sauces, rabbit and quails sautéed with prunes, and prunes soaked in eau de vie which is a regional delicacy.

It's a beautiful day and the scenery is outstanding. Vast fields of sunflowers just coming to a head, patches planted with maize, and endless vineyards with small stone villages punctuating the countryside. The architecture changes as I drive south and the region appears to be more prosperous than the Lot, where I live. I am trying to feel happy at the prospect of having David and then Miriam arrive, but somehow I fear it isn't going to be an easy time for us. David is still incredibly fragile about the man from Toulouse and I fear it will sit like a cloud over our family holiday.

I have taken time with my clothes and make-up and I am hoping we can manage a happy reunion. Throughout our marriage we have spent long periods apart, mostly because of the nature of David's work. The best part has always been getting back together again. The reunion. I haven't seen David since that stressful afternoon at Sydney airport with the ABC film crew in our faces, and although I know he will be tired from the long hours that are a part of the Festival, I am hoping he will be in a slightly more positive frame of mind.

He falls out of the train with his usual quota of oversized bags, plus numerous smaller carry bags stuffed with scripts and magazines and Cannes paraphernalia. He is being assisted by a tall man who carries several of the bags. As I walk towards him, anticipating an embrace, he just nods at me and continues an animated conversation with the man. I stand waiting and eventually the man moves off. David looks frazzled and gives me a cursory hug.

‘Who was that?' I ask, imagining that it must be someone he knows, perhaps also from the Festival.

‘Just a man from the train. He spoke English and offered to help me get off.'

I feel somewhat deflated. The moment has been lost. We just haven't made an emotional connection and it's as though, from the very start of our holiday, the tension has set in. Driving through the glorious countryside I make attempts to point out landmarks, but that does nothing to lighten the atmosphere. Eventually I challenge him: ‘What's your problem?'

And his anger pours out. He doesn't really want to be here. He never wanted to return to the village. He's only coming because of Miriam. Under sufferance. Nothing I can say will make any difference.

It's obvious that we are in for a difficult summer.

Even when we arrive at the little house his mood is leaden. Resentful. I have filled it with flowers and the courtyard looks pretty in the dappled evening light. But he just wants to collapse and drink gin. He's carrying tobacco and rolls himself cigarette after cigarette. He hasn't smoked – except perhaps two cigars a year – for thirty years, and I can see that he's using these as a crutch. A coping mechanism. But in reality the alcohol and tobacco make him even more wound-up and stressed.

We make love in a desultory fashion. He's tired and I'm annoyed at his negative attitude. I'm now wishing he hadn't come after all. That he had just left the film festival and gone to England, which was an alternative he had proposed during one of his unhappy phone calls from Cannes.

The following morning we drive to Toulouse to pick up Miriam, who will have endured the gruelling 34-hour trek from Bathurst via Paris. I wish we could have had a few days to resolve our differences before her arrival, but the plan has always been for her to be
here on her thirtieth birthday – which is in two days' time. We arrive before her plane is due to land and are astonished to see Miriam already standing at the entrance to the airport looking anxious. She is overwhelmed with relief to see us, because the journey has been a nightmare. In Paris there was a baggage handlers' strike and her luggage was lost at the terminal. The connecting plane to Toulouse was cancelled, so she was rushed by coach to another airport to pick up a Toulouse flight that actually arrived 40 minutes ahead of the one she was originally scheduled to take. She's tired, frazzled and dirty and has no clothes, just a small Air France emergency pack that contains face cream, a toothbrush, disposable knickers, a tampon and a condom. They have promised to send her bags on by taxi.

David does the driving and I point out the various châteaux and churches nestled on the hillsides as we wind our way from Cahors to Frayssinet. Her spirits start to lift as she takes in the absolute beauty of the countryside, with the old stone houses that remind her so much of the one we rented in Grasse when she was a child. It's after lunchtime and I immediately drag her across to the bar and start introducing her around to the locals. We order the largest beer we can get – more than a pint – and she gradually starts to calm down and look around her. Jock, Sandie and Gordon appear from nowhere, and within minutes we are laughing and talking thirteen to the dozen. Miriam looks around the square, at the church and the streetscape with its colourful bar awnings and tables and chairs spilling into the roadway.

‘Oh Mum, this is an amazing place,' she says. ‘I can see why you love it here so much.'

The long hot summer begins in earnest. Miriam and I formulate a plan of the things she wants to see and do. She has only three weeks, including the two days travel at each end, and while she wants to see as much as possible she also wants to chill out a bit because it's the first time in ten years she's had a holiday without children. She's interested in sightseeing, but really only the towns and villages in quite a small radius. She loves the markets and wants to see as many of those as possible, and she also wants to meet all our friends and socialise. She would love a couple of days in Paris but we have decided we can't afford that. Perhaps we will spend a few days in Toulouse at the end, before putting her back on the plane.

Her bags are not delivered by the airline within the promised 24 hours so she will be eligible for some insurance compensation for the purchase of emergency clothing. We dash into Cahors and do the boutiques, which is great fun, especially as there are sales on and lots of amazing bargains. French clothing, especially the ranges designed for young women, is comparatively
inexpensive and always well made from good fabrics, as well as being stylish. She buys gorgeous new underwear, some groovy jeans and tops, a lovely skirt and a new pair of shoes. This is an unexpected bonus as we never anticipated buying a new wardrobe as part of her holiday.

Everyone is keen to meet her, so a series of lunches and dinners and drinks parties are organised. She ignores her jetlag to keep up the pace and gets into the swing of the local scene instantly. We go to the Prayssac market and buy cheeses and cold meats and crusty bread for lunch. Her eyes roll back in her head as we devour the goodies spread across the kitchen table.