Thirteen Weddings (41 page)

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. He’s helping me take some of these boxes to the charity shop.’ She goes bright red.

I stare at her, deadpan. ‘He?’

‘His name is David and he’s just a friend,’ she says defensively.

I feel cold inside. ‘Polly told me you had a male friend.’ I try to sound neutral, but it’s a struggle.

‘He’s just a friend,’ she says again, but her blush is not reducing.

‘When was the last time you went to see Dad?’ I ask her, a strange emotion forming inside me.

‘I see your father all the time!’ She raises her voice at me, reminding me more of the mother from my childhood and less of her glossy, bronzed, highlighted current self.
‘I’ve given him everything!’ she cries. ‘I gave you both everything! Now it’s time I took care of myself!’

I stare at her and then get up and walk out of the room.

‘Bronte!’ she shouts. ‘Come back here!’

No. I can’t. I grab my handbag from my bedroom and walk out of the front door.

I turn left and set off at a fast pace, slinging my bag over my shoulder and crunching over the brittle, dead eucalyptus leaves scattered across the baking hot path. I don’t know where
I’m going, but I can’t be there with her. I just can’t. Friend! She’s lying. She gave us everything? She gave me an unhappy childhood. And as for Dad...

The sun beats down on my pounding head and my body feels like it’s been emptied of its contents and filled with sand by the time I come to my destination. And I didn’t even know it
was my destination until I’m standing in front of the little church built out of bluestone rock. The tin roof gleams silver in the sunlight and the white wooden cross above the small bell
tower looks even brighter than usual. I wipe my nose on the back of my hand and walk up the path, trying to ignore the dead pine needles slipping into my sandals and pricking my feet.

The door is open so I walk straight in, barely faltering as the familiar smell assaults my nostrils. I walk with determination up the aisle, past no more than ten pews, and come to a stop in
front of the organ. In a daze I sit on the stool, my memories washing violently over me. I can
hear
my father and the priest, I can
see
them, and then they see me and my head relives
the memory with me, as a painful throbbing pierces the right side of my face, just above my eyebrow where my head hit the wall. I press my cool palm to it and try to calm down.

I don’t know what I’m going to do now. I really don’t want to go home. I could call Lily and Ben. I wonder if they would let me stay with them for a few days. I know they have
a tiny baby, but maybe Lily would appreciate the help.

My eyes fall on the door to the vestry and I instantly feel a little claustrophobic.

‘Bronte?’

I sigh wearily. She’s found me.

‘Bronte?’ Mum asks again, coming up the aisle to see me sitting there desolately at the organ.

‘Just leave me alone,’ I murmur, suddenly too tired to argue with her.

‘Please come home,’ she urges, looking around fearfully. God forbid anyone should see us here and
talk
...

‘I don’t want to come home,’ I tell her. ‘I don’t know why I came here at all. I should have stayed in England.’

Alex’s blue eyes stare back at me from inside my mind and I wince. No, I don’t want to be in England, either.

I should have gone with Lachie to Perth. I jolt. I
could
go to visit Lachie in Perth! I don’t have to stay here. I’m not a child, she can’t make me.

‘I need to talk to you about your father.’ Mum’s words quash my hopeful thoughts.

‘What about him?’ I say dully.

‘He’s not good, Bronte.’

‘I know. You’ve told me. Polly has told me. What do you want me to do about it?’ I slowly lift my eyes to meet hers.

She looks shaken. ‘Do you want to see him?’

‘Not really.’ I stare back at her, feeling like I’m not really there inside my body as I watch her reaction. ‘But maybe we should just get it over with.’

Mum has embraced the digital age since I last saw her and she uses her new mobile phone to call her friend David or whatever he is to postpone their trip to the charity shop. I
wait in the car while she calls, but I can hear her high-pitched weirdly girlish tone as they speak. He is more than a friend. I stare out of the window as she drives me to the home, then I get out
of the car and tell her through gritted teeth that I don’t want her to follow me.

‘I’ll wait—’

I slam the door on her sentence. I breathe deeply and erratically as I walk up a path lined with purple agapanthus to the front door. I need to calm down before I go inside, but it’s so
hard with her sitting there watching me. So I push ahead and approach the reception desk. A middle-aged woman with a permed bob and an unflattering shade of orange lipstick looks up at me.

‘Can I help you?’ she asks pleasantly.

I tell her I’m there to see my father, Terrence Taylor. Her eyes widen and she smiles widely. ‘You must be Bronte!’

I nod.

‘And you’re here all the way from England?’

‘That’s right.’ Mum must have told her I was coming.

‘Oh, how wonderful! When did you arrive?’

‘Just today,’ I say, in no mood for conversing with a stranger.

‘Oh well, that’s wonderful.’ Her smile fades slightly, then slightly more, until her face changes into an expression of compassion. ‘He might have changed a little since
you last saw him,’ she says gently.

‘I know. I’ve been warned.’

‘He has his good days and his bad days,’ she explains kindly. ‘Sadly the good days are getting less and less. He seems quite perky today.’

I just want to get this over and done with. ‘Where is he?’ I ask.

She looks down briefly. ‘He’s in the communal room to your left, through the double doors.’

‘Thank you.’ I turn away from the sympathy in her eyes.

I push open the doors and the sound of tinkling piano music instantly reaches my ears. Frowning, I walk towards the sound, coming out of the corridor into a large room. There are dozens of
brightly coloured armchairs, many of which are occupied by elderly residents staring into space, although a few of them have what I assume are family members visiting. One ancient old lady has hair
the same colour as the purple agapanthus lining the outside path, but my focus is on the man playing the piano.

A lump forms in my throat as my feet glue themselves to the carpeted floor. I can’t move an inch, so I just stand there staring. I recognise this song. He used to play it when I was
growing up. I don’t remember what it was called, but it’s a difficult piece and his fingers dance across the octaves as he bows his head and occasionally nods along to the music.

He’s greyer than I remember and his hair is too long, but he really doesn’t seem too bad. He’s playing the piano! What’s he doing in a home?

My feet carry me on autopilot over to him. I stand at his side, watching him hesitantly as I wait for him to notice me. But he just carries on playing.

‘Dad?’ I ask tentatively after a minute.

Still he continues to play.

‘Dad?’ I say again more loudly. I put my hand on his arm. His fingers continue to play, seemingly with a mind of their own, but he slowly turns his face to look at me. Nothing. No
sign of recognition.

‘Dad, it’s me,’ I say, a tightness in my chest. ‘Bronte.’

Again nothing. He’s an empty shell. A vacant vessel. He turns back to look at the piano, his fingers merrily tripping across the keys.

‘Dad,’ I say again, shaking his shoulder.

All of a sudden it hits me. He’s gone. I’m too late.

But no. He can’t have left already. I’m not ready for him to leave without saying goodbye. I’ve got to get through to him.

I shake his shoulder gently and once more he meets my eyes, but this time he just looks more confused.

‘Bronte? Bronte, dear.’ I spin around as someone touches my arm and I come face to face with a middle-aged, kindly-looking nurse. ‘Will you come with me, dear?’ She pries
my hand away from my dad’s shoulder, and he never stops playing, not once. The sound of his music is ringing in my ears as she leads me to a small office, shutting the door.

‘He’s deteriorated far more quickly than we expected, I’m afraid,’ she says softly.

‘But how can he still play the piano?’

‘Alzheimer’s is a strange thing. Pre-learned music can remain until quite late in the illness because of the area of the brain involved. I’m sorry, dear.’

I walk out of there in a daze. A single tear rolls down my cheek.

So I will definitely never know if he loved me. He doesn’t even know who I am.

Mum regards me with a mixture of trepidation and sympathy as I climb back into the car.

‘Is it true? Is he in Adelaide?’

She looks confused for a moment, not sure who I’m talking about.

‘The priest? Is he back?’

She instantly looks shifty. Is she, even now, refusing to accept that it ever happened?

‘I want to see him. Do you know where he works?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ she snaps.

‘If I can’t ask Dad any more, then I want to ask him.’

‘Ask him what?’

‘How it happened! How did my father end up having an affair with him?’

She recoils and I shake my head at her. ‘Dad is
gay,
Mum. Why didn’t you divorce him when you found out?’

‘Marriage is sacred.’ She looks uneasy.

I regard her with disbelief for a long moment. ‘How can you say that when you’ve got yourself a boyfriend?’

‘He’s just—’

‘
Don’t
tell me he’s just a friend!’ I interrupt her, losing patience. ‘Stop lying to me!’

She looks away from me. Her voice wavers when she speaks. ‘I was scared. And I was miserable.’ Tears stream down her cheeks, cutting through her foundation like new rainfall coursing
through a dry Australian riverbed. ‘The whole sorry episode was so embarrassing. I was ashamed. People were talking and I just wanted to bury my head in the sand and shut them all out. I wish
I’d been stronger.’ She meets my eyes. ‘You’re right about David. I’m in love with him.’ I sharply inhale. ‘And I know that makes me an adulterer, just
like your father, but I love him. He makes me happy. And I want to be happy, Bronte. I’ve had a lifetime of misery and I want to be happy.’ She starts to sob as she holds her hand out
to me, asking for my blessing.

Compassion sweeps through me and I reach over and take her hand, squeezing it tightly.

I just wish Dad could have been happy, too.

We can’t help who we fall in love with. She can’t. Dad couldn’t. The priest couldn’t. And neither could Alex, Lachie and I. Sometimes it all just comes down to
chemistry.

Suddenly I feel very, very tired, and maybe it’s jetlag, but all I want to do is sleep for a week.

‘Can we go home?’ I ask quietly. ‘I’m so tired.’

‘Will you ever forgive me?’ she asks worriedly.

‘Of course I will, Mum,’ I reply. ‘I already have.’

In the end I do go to stay with Ben and Lily in their warm and cosy home in the hills for a few days, and it’s a relief to be away from Mum and David. David’s
friendly and seems fairly decent, but I’m still coming to terms with Dad’s illness and I can’t yet bring myself to get to know him. Mum has continued to pack up the house –
she’s downsizing and moving closer to the city, where David lives, and I’m glad she’s having a fresh start away from gossip and the rumour mill.

I visit my dad again, and I’m told he will only deteriorate further from here on in. So my last hope of finding out what went down all those years ago ends with the priest. Polly manages
to uncover where he works. I have no doubt that my asking her will eventually find its way back to my mum’s ears, so I take the opportunity to go and speak to him before my mum can
intervene.

Lily drives me down through the beautiful, winding Adelaide Hills to the city, and it’s comforting and heart-warming hearing the sounds of her tiny baby cooing in the back seat. She parks
in the church car park and we make a plan to hook up at a coffee shop in half an hour before she sets off with baby Elizabeth in her baby carrier for a walk around the shops.

I’m on edge as I look up at the daunting gothic-style, brown stone church with its tall, pitched roof and spires piercing the sunny sky. I walk through the groomed churchyard to the front
door and enter into the cavernous space. There’s no one in sight so I look around for the vestry and spy it to the right of the altar. I knock on the open door and call, ‘Hello?’
and a moment later a man in a cassock with a white dog collar appears in front of me. ‘Can I help you?’

He’s older – about twenty years older, to be precise, with middle-aged spread and greying hair – but he hasn’t changed as much as I have, and it’s unmistakeably
him.

‘Father William?’ I ask shakily.

‘Yes?’

‘Can I talk to you?’

His brow furrows. ‘Of course.’

He waves his hand with a flourish, encouraging me to enter. I perch on a new and quite uncomfortable armchair and he takes a seat opposite me.

‘You probably don’t remember me,’ I start. I’m not as nervous as I thought I would be. ‘My name is Bronte.’

The look on his face... All of a sudden he knows exactly who I am.

‘I don’t want to cause you any trouble,’ I say as his face drains of blood. ‘My dad is not well – he has Alzheimer’s.’

A flicker of pain passes over his face.

‘So I can’t ask him anything.’

‘What do you want to know?’ He sounds reluctant, like he’s forcing himself to speak to me.

‘I don’t know,’ I admit. ‘I’m trying to understand how it happened.’ I want to tell him how their relationship affected my life, how nothing has ever been the
same and I’m only now facing my demons. But there’s nothing he can do about that, and I’m not here to blame him or to cause him misery. I don’t doubt that he’s had
more than his fair share already.

He blushes at the idea of telling me how it ‘happened’ and I regret asking the question. ‘Can you tell me about him?’ I ask in a small voice. ‘What was he
like?’

He regards me with an odd look. ‘Well, he was kind and talented and a good friend,’ he admits carefully.