Robyn Hogan

Del talks to Anne and thinks of her father and meeting Kevin.

Suddenly, after weeks of merely existing, Del was occupied and excited. Susan O’Hare had given her a rare plum in the researching into, and writing about, Jean Bellette. Del was soon into her old haunts of galleries and libraries, chasing down paintings. She worked with incredible energy but every time she eased up a little, her mother’s last words whispered like an itch. She didn’t want to think about family at all. Both Anne and Sarah had left messages for her; she had not responded. Barry, too, telephoned regularly; she had to admit, she was beginning to feel more receptive to his perky one-liners. But the only calls she returned concerned her work. And, in the night, when the words sounded louder, she deliberately forced her mind into ‘JBs’ life.

She was watching a huge Shell tanker coming into berth and yet again toying with including an examination of the Bellette-Haefliger marriage in her essay when her doorbell rang. She jumped at the sudden intrusion of sound and turned towards it, wondering whether to answer or not. ‘Probably Jehovah’s Witnesses’, she muttered and turned back to her computer. The bell rang again, repeatedly, urgently. She rose and walked softly through the lounge area to her door and put her eye to the peep hole. Anne! She couldn’t turn her away so she brightened her face and opened the door.

‘What sort of game are you playing? I’ve been worried sick about you.’

‘Sorry. I’ve been working.’ Del opened the door wider, stepped back and motioned Anne in. Her sister was neat, as usual, in a tailored navy skirt, white blouse and heels. Her greying hair was conservatively waved in the same style she had worn all her adult years though thinner now. ‘Oh dear,’ Del muttered, realising she was wearing a flimsy nightgown. Kevin had always laughed at her habit of forgetting to dress when she was onto something intellectual. He had been capable of doing the same thing if he didn’t have lectures to give, strolling round the house in the boxer shorts he pretended he slept in.

But Anne was aghast. She shut the door swiftly, strode quickly to the coffee table where she set down the basket she was carrying, and turned opening her arms wide. ‘You poor baby! I knew, I just knew, there had to be something wrong.’ She clasped Del to her, smothering her in the tightness of her hug. ‘Oh darling, darling Baby, I should have come earlier.’ Del’s soft curves pressed against Anne’s firmness and she felt surprise that she was enjoying the sensation as she clasped Anne back. Hers had always been a quite different figure to Anne’s; Kevin had called her luscious.

She could not allow the deception to continue so she struggled free. ‘It’s not like that, Anne. I’m quite all right.’

‘You certainly don’t look it. I can’t believe that you would let yourself go to pieces like this.’

‘I’m not in pieces: I just haven’t got dressed yet.’ She pulled away. ‘Excuse me,’ she muttered and, not looking at Anne, rushed to her room. By the time she had pulled on pants and bra, jeans and shirt and brushed her hair, she felt more composed and determined to take the initiative.

Anne was standing by Del’s desk. ‘What’s all this?’

‘That’s my work, Anne.’ Her tone implied Anne was invading her privacy. ‘I put it aside for far too long and now I’m up against the deadline.’

‘I didn’t know you had ‘work’. What is it?’ Anne’s demand sounded possessive.

‘There was no reason why you should know,’ Del replied firmly and changed tack. ‘I’ll make us some coffee and we can have it on the balcony. It’s rather nice there this time of day.’

‘I brought lunch,’ Anne said. Del looked somewhat stunned. ‘Just sandwiches,’ Anne added quickly and Del realised she was being mean to her caring sister. Anne retrieved the basket and handed it to Del.

‘Thanks. You’re always so thoughtful.’ Del took the basket and backed through the swing doors into her kitchen. ‘What’s the time? Twelve! We’ll have lunch, then, out on the balcony.’ As she began preparing a tray, she could feel Anne relaxing a little; could see her checking out the tidiness of the kitchen. Del and Kevin had learnt long ago, with the advent of the twins, to tidy and clean as you go; it was only their personal needs that sometimes got left behind.

‘I have been worried about you.’

‘There’s no need to be. I’ve always been my own woman, you know.’

‘You could have answered my calls. Sarah, Sarah says Mummy said something quite frightening to you just before she died.’

‘Sarah’s got too little to do and too much imagination to go with it.’ She picked the tray up, added a couple of nice wine glasses as she passed the sideboard, and nodded thanks to Anne for opening the balcony door for her. She went back to the refrigerator, returning with a bottle of white wine and corkscrew. ‘You’ll have wine, won’t you?’

‘If you are but, what about your work?’

‘I’ll set it aside for a while. After all, I’ve been working day and night and must be able to afford to take some time off to be with my big sister.’ She flashed her generous smile and knew her wordless apology had been accepted as Anne returned the smile. She spread the plates and paper serviettes on the wrought iron table and they sat down.

‘I guess I’ve been a bit mean, not helping you with Mummy’s things. You are so capable. You have Sarah nearby. And I do have to work.’ She implied she had to for financial reasons, which was not strictly true, but instinct told her Anne would understand and accept that. She had never appreciated Del’s scholarly bent.

‘It has been hard, I’ll admit. But I’m not complaining. I’m a lot easier in my mind now I realise you are busy.’ She picked up a sandwich from the basket and placed it on her plate. ‘Are you finding your work interesting?’ she asked carefully.

Del smiled, relented. ‘Yes. It’s an essay about a woman artist who was quite a force in the Sydney art movement in the forties and fifties.’

‘What made you choose her?’

‘I didn’t. A friend is compiling an anthology and she asked me to contribute the section on this woman, Jean Bellette. I was going to apply for a part time lectureship but this is far more fun.’

‘You know, Mummy fought tooth and nail for you to go to University.’

‘She did?’ Del took a sandwich, squashing it in her fingers, her eyes on the harbour but her mind in another scene. She was sitting on a bed in the school dormitory clutching a letter which was anything but encouraging. It was a reply to a letter Mother Superior had apparently written to David and Margaret Dunne concerning Del’s future and Margaret had not reacted kindly. Del could feel again her alarm at her mother’s tone; at the insinuation that she, Del, was doing something sly behind her back. For her part, all Del had done was tell Mother Julian that university was out of the question and there was no sense in her applying for a scholarship. Mother Julian had not shared that view and had taken it upon herself to put pressure on her parents – and handed Del a virtually completed application form for her signature.

‘Yes. She did.’

Del shook her head before biting into the slightly mangled sandwich.

‘She scrimped and saved for years. Ever since you were a baby, she planned success for you. She used to be terrified you’d do something silly like marry that cocky little Barry Jackson.’

‘Speaking of which, he keeps ringing me.’

‘Oh, Del, not him!’ There, that note of ownership again.

‘Do you know him? Really know him?’ Her temper was rising but Anne seemed oblivious to her reaction.

‘I know he didn’t work his property well; sold up and moved to town.’

‘As did Davy. Sold ours as soon as Dad died.’

‘Ours? That’s just the point I’m making. Mummy always believed you were destined for a life completely different to hers; the farm was no part of you.’ They sipped their wine. A breeze, a trace of petroleum in its salt and eucalyptus scent, wafted towards them. The tanker had begun unloading.

A light sweat broke out on Del’s creamy skin as her mother’s last words crawled again in her brain. What did Anne know? Suddenly resolute, Del asked, ‘What do you remember of the summer before I was born?’

‘Goodness, Del, what a funny one. Why do you want to know that?’

Realising she had put herself in a spot she answered, ‘I need to know for this essay. JB was in Bathurst about that time and I thought you might be able to give me what is known as “atmosphere”.’ She laughed with a nervous echo. She had begun telling lies when Kevin was ill; they were getting easier, quicker in the conception.

‘Well…I was six. Dad came home. And sat by the stove, crying most of the time.’

‘No. No,’ Del interrupted, ‘before Dad came home. What do you remember of that?’

‘Aw. They were pretty happy days. Aunty Haze and Mummy were always into something and we, Davy and I, just joined in. They would take it in turns to milk the cow and Haze allowed me to sit on the sink while she made the butter. Would let me help squeeze the water through the cream as it thickened. When Mummy did it, she used wooden butter pats but Hazel always used her hands. They would argue about it. Happy arguments.’

‘Sounds as if Hazel Watts lived with us.’

Anne looked surprised. ‘She did. Well, not with you, you weren’t there. She left when Dad came home.’ They sat in silence, eating, until Anne added, in a faraway voice, ‘they picked oranges.’

‘Oranges? You mean they went to an orchard to pick fruit? We didn’t grow oranges.’

Anne stared across the harbour, concentrating. ‘It must have been at Quondong. I can’t remember how we got there but I can remember the intense sweetness of smell. And Davy and I playing ball with fallen oranges. And Mummy laughing.’

After Anne left Del sat on, gazing over the water and allowing her thoughts to flow.

It’s an old saying, ‘no fire without smoke’. Her mother’s final words could be considered the fire; the smoke, though, was slight, more her imagination than fact. Hazel Watts had said Margaret ‘doted’ on Del; Anne claimed Margaret had always had great ambitions for her. She wished she could remember discussing university with her father. But, always, those scenes were clouded with the intense sorrow she felt then and continued to feel now. She had never said farewell to him; he had died so soon after she had gone to the city. Well one day, a quick fever and her mother’s calm, misleading telephone call. That’s when she had become aware of Kevin. She had burst into loud sobs in his lecture. It was immediately after her mother’s call and, without thinking, she had simply carried on with her day. Perhaps it was some word that had triggered her emotions but all she remembered was her intense embarrassment and lack of control; Kevin’s hand on her shoulder and her gasping out that her father was ill.

‘Then go home. I’ll mark your presence on the roll and give one of your friends the notes.’

‘I can’t,’ she had rasped and the words echoed round the great lecture theatre, ‘I live in the country.’

‘Then get a train or a plane. Just go.’

She had shaken herself free of him, fighting for self-control. ‘I haven’t that sort of money. I’m all right. I’m sorry.’ She was gulping hard but the tears streamed down her cheeks. Somehow she had left the theatre with him, had sat in his office, tearing the corners off her handkerchief, then he was driving her to the airport, handing her a ticket and telling the hostess her problem. She had arrived too late, too late to speak to her father, but in time for the funeral.

When she returned she made an appointment to see him. ‘Mr Turner, I want to thank you for helping me last week.’

‘How is your father?’

She couldn’t say the words; her mouth opened and nothing came out. But he understood. ‘I’m sorry.’ He took her hand and shook it formally. ‘Throw yourself into your work; the pain will gradually ease.’

She’d nodded then blurted out her reason for coming. ‘I’ll pay you back but only, only a pound at a time. Here’s the first one.’ Fumbling in her bag, she had pushed the note towards him

He had folded it back into her hand. ‘You keep it, Miss Dunne. I’m a bachelor, I earn a good salary and,’ sternly, ‘I don’t care to be bothered by students, even if they are paying a debt. Regard it as a gift, Miss Dunne, and say no more.’

She had stumbled from the office and, for the remaining years of her study, he had made no personal comment to her. Even her assignments were treated with cold accuracy though he often jollied her fellow students. Until the day she graduated. And he’d taken both her hands in both of his in the quadrangle, drawing her away from the sandwiches and cordial and close to the old jacaranda tree. With both her hands in his he had asked her to meet him next day for lunch. The graduation gown, with its white fur trim, had flickered round her ankles as she had shyly accepted his invitation. His smile was like daylight and he named a restaurant in Norton Street where he would reserve a table.

Later, as they were leaving the quadrangle after tea, hurrying to return their rented robes to administration, she had shared the news with Susan.

‘The Prof’s asked me to have lunch with him. It must mean I’ve got a scholarship or an appointment.’ She danced round then hugged Susan. ‘Susie! Susie! Tomorrow might be the beginning of my career.’

‘Sounds more like a date to me.’ Susan was engaged to Alan, a new veterinarian who could be called ‘doctor’ and saw romance everywhere. They were to be married in March. It was a decade later before Susan’s career had begun; after the children, Byron and Camille, were both at school. ‘Definitely a date.’

‘Hardly!’

‘Who’s got a date?’ Barbara, panting slightly, had caught up with them.

‘Del. But she, dear innocent child that she is, thinks it’s a job offer.’

‘What job offer?’ Laura swung round, ‘though I suppose winning the Medal means you’d have first offer of anything going.’

One by one they had signed their academic gowns back into store; Del refused to hear the hint of disappointment in Laura’s words. ‘What’s the job?’ Laura had asked again as they emerged onto the lawns.

‘Professor Turner— ’

‘—The Prof,’ Susie had interrupted, squealing again, ‘has asked Del for a date and she thinks it’s a job offer.’

‘What sort of date?’ Barbara and Laura grabbed Del, holding her still, examining her face in the gathering darkness.

‘He asked me to have lunch with him tomorrow.’

‘Where?’

‘At Norton Street Café.’

‘Doesn’t that sound like a date?’

‘Please, Susie, don’t keep saying that. You’ll make me nervous. I mean, he has never said anything much to me. Not like the way he talks to some, anyway.’ Suddenly, she remembered his assistance in her first year, but the dark was deep enough to hide her blush.

‘Rot! He’s had his eyes on you for years; has looked out for you like a guardian angel.’

Susie had been correct. Del had met Kevin for lunch and, between pasta and the vitello limone, knew she was in love; that they were in love.

Del, sitting on the balcony, watching the view she and Kevin had loved, could feel the softness of their love, even beyond the grave. Briefly, she wished he was with her but put the thought aside. They had made a pact, she and Kevin, in his dying weeks. She was to begin a fresh phase in her life; not to hanker for the what might have been. She had been slow to live up to the promise but the wisdom was obvious now she had begun working again. It was the first part of her life, the very first, that was proving the problem.

Why had her mother waited so long to make such a claim? Almost fifty years — or thirty if you counted from when Dave had died? If it was true, that her mother was an adulteress, why hadn’t she come clean after Dave had died. Even as she pondered, Del realised she had given Margaret no chance to make such a confession. She had been angry, was probably still angry. And Margaret had carried her guilt almost to the grave. But the hereafter, the fires of hell, must have flared in her prayers; she could not go in peace. And the priest, it was he who must have told her she had to tell the truth. The mean old rat had made it a condition of her absolution that she tell her sin. Made the telling her penance. She wondered now, for the first time, whether he had questioned Margaret about the circumstances. He certainly should have; she was frail, she could have been having delusions. If he had queried her supposed sin then he might know who her real father was. But even if he did know he was bound by the secrecy of Confession. Julia O’Faolain’s latest work, The Judas Cloth, was rumoured to explore confession as conspiracy and espionage, albeit in an earlier time.

Del picked up her glass, went inside and slipped it into its place in the dishwasher. ‘There’s been plenty of priests through history who have traded in confessed secrets,’ she muttered, ‘but I doubt he’d do me a good turn.’ Her dark thoughts were interrupted by Susie’s voice on the answering machine. Del intercepted the call.

‘Hi! And how’s that deadline?’

‘Coming along wonderfully.’ She had switched mode and sounded cheerful and confident. ‘I just need a flying visit to the house she owns in Hill End, for atmosphere. And there’s a slight chance I might get an interview.’

‘Right-o. When are you planning Hill End? You can claim expenses.’

‘May I? Tomorrow.’ Del was surprised by her decision; until this call she had not even entertained the idea of visiting Hill End and compounded her surprise when she added, ‘I’ll stay overnight with an old friend, be back the day after and it will all be yours in a couple of more days.’

‘Excellent. Drive with care and I’ll hear from you.’

‘Sure. ’Bye.’

She had almost replaced the receiver when Susan added, shrilly to catch her, ‘If this is any good I might have something else in the pipe line for you,’ and the line clicked out. Susan’s first job had been packing books for a two-bit publisher but she had had her goals firmly in place, unlike Del who was beginning to realise she had drifted along in Kevin’s wake. Susan’s husband, Alan, had not reckoned on her being a career woman; their marriage had split though they remained good friends and co-operative parents.

‘Thanks Susie,’ Del said softly as she replaced her handset. She continued on automatic, going into the bedroom and removing her pocket address book from the tan handbag she had taken to the funeral. She flipped it open from the back and, reaching her telephone, dialled the number Hazel Watts had given her.

By the time Hazel answered, Del’s thoughts were a bit more in order. ‘You asked me to come some time and talk about Mummy.’

‘I certainly did, Pet. When are you coming?’

‘Is tomorrow afternoon too soon?’

‘Not a moment too soon. You’ll stay a few days, won’t you?’

Del took a deep breath. ‘I’m afraid not, Aunty Haze. I can only manage one night.’

‘You’ve always rushed away.’ There was sadness in the comment.

‘I know,’ Del sighed, ‘but I’ve’, she hesitated slightly, wondering if she was offering a hurtful excuse, but the dye was cast, ‘business in the area.’

‘All right, Fidelma, even one night will be wonderful.’ Del blushed as she detected the resignation of the elderly in Hazel’s voice. ‘We’ll make it a good old chinwag.’