A Woman of Courage (16 page)

‘Have you had jaundice?'

He gave her a sardonic smile, shaking his head slowly. ‘Not jaundice, no.'

This had always been his way: feeding his ego by giving half answers, forcing her to come to him, but she was no longer willing to play his stupid games.

‘Let's go then,' she said with a gaiety she did not feel. ‘Where are you taking me?'

The restaurant was full but the tables were well spaced so there was no sense of crush. The table linen was white and spotless and the cutlery genuine silver. Beyond the picture windows the lights of Darling Harbour gleamed in the darkness.

Sara had not believed anyone on earth could make her this nervous but the way she felt now she might have had briars down her back. Again she asked herself what she was doing, having a meal with this man. And such a meal. Oyster soup, escargots in a curry sauce, rack of lamb: Emil was pulling out all the stops but she noticed how he only picked at his food. She reminded herself she was there to discuss the possibilities of an interview, only that, but in her heart knew that was nonsense. She'd known it from the moment she had returned his call the morning before: the lurch of the heart, the tightening of the breath warning that even now she was not totally free of Emil Broussard. I am a sorry case, she thought.

Conscious of his dark eyes watching her, she fought for something to say, remembering how at their first meeting she had also found words hard. ‘I have never been here before.'

He nodded but did not speak: which was probably all the inane remark deserved. He was obviously ill yet after his initial rebuff she would not ask him again.

They ate; they shared a bottle of chardonnay; gradually the atmosphere eased.

He told her his latest book,
Snake Country
, had sold over half a million copies in the States. She had known that already but allowed herself to be impressed.

‘When did you get back?'

‘Two weeks ago.'

‘I thought you had settled there.'

He had moved to California shortly after they broke up. Now, after two films and another novel, he was back. Had he returned to Australia because he was ill? Was it serious? It certainly
looked
serious. Was that why he wanted to be interviewed, a man who had done his best to avoid publicity in the past? To place himself and his achievements on record, while he still had time? She had no idea about any of these things.

‘The interview,' she said.

‘I shall ask my agent to speak to your producer,' he said.

It seemed he might be serious about it, after all. He did not say why it had been necessary for them to meet first nor was she about to ask him. If Channel 12 got the interview that would be justification enough, she thought. Yet it did not explain her challenged breath or the tremors she continued to feel, conscious of his eyes watching her.

A taxi took them to Sara's house.

‘Thank you for a lovely evening,' Sara said.

She did not move. Neither did he. Seemingly from nowhere the past had joined the present, laying its quiet hands upon them. Wide-eyed, they looked at each other in the taxi's dim light.

2

Next morning Sara lay in bed and watched through the bedroom's closed curtains the silent coming of the dawn. She listened but at this hour in her side street all was still.

She was later than usual and there would be no time for her early-morning jog yet still she lay and did not move while her mind replayed the events not only of last night but also of that day, so long ago now, when she had first arrived at Emil's beachside house and he had quoted Yeats to her.

That Fergus poem had been the start of it, she thought. The beauty and passion of that first night was what had endured: the joy of possession and being possessed, of being one. Whatever had happened later, that sense of fulfilment had remained. That had been at the root of what had happened last night. Sitting in the taxi, watching each other, that was what prompted her to say: ‘Do you fancy a nightcap?'

Emil had not answered but continued to look silently, his eyes intent upon her, until she opened the taxi door and got out. He had followed, not a word spoken. He had paid the driver and they had gone indoors together.

His body was much diminished yet he still bulked large in the living room. She did not ask herself what she had done; she did not think but gestured at the easy chair, waiting until he was seated before fetching glasses and bottles, not thinking at all, barely breathing, and came and sat down and watched him, the drinks on the table that for the moment separated them.

‘Johnny Walker Blue?' she said.

It had always been his favourite.

‘I'll give it a miss,' he said.

This, from a man who used to drink like there was no tomorrow? Now Sara was certain he must have something seriously wrong with him. But until he was willing to talk about it she would say nothing.

She poured herself a Jägermeister. They sat and looked at each other.

‘This television programme you are engaged with,' he said. ‘It satisfies you?'

‘It's OK.'

He continued to watch her, his yellow features drawn, but with the air of patient observation that she remembered so well. ‘But?'

‘No buts. It's the best current affairs programme on the box.'

And still he watched. ‘My information is that its format is about to change.'

‘Is that right?'

She would neither confirm nor deny but he must know someone at Channel 12 to have heard the rumour. That had always been his way. He had remarkable sources of information but would never say what they were.

He waited but she said nothing.

‘Always you have been in love with the ideal,' he said. ‘Always you expect more than the world can deliver. That is your great strength and weakness. Therefore I question whether your commitment to the programme is as strong as you suggest. If it is indeed the best in its field, why is there need to change the format? Unless the intention is to make it more popular.'

Still she said nothing. Outside the window, tyres screeched as a car roared past: another drunk heading home.

‘You are strong,' Emil said. ‘I have always known that. The strongest woman I have ever known.'

‘Because I walked away from you.'

‘Because you thought you had walked away from me. The question is whether making the programme more popular will compromise its quality – as I believe is inevitable – and, if it does, what you intend to do about it.'

‘Why should you care?'

‘Because you and I have always been custodians of quality, which is the bedrock of civilisation. For people like us compromise is impossible.'

‘And that is important?'

‘Not important. Essential.'

He reached across the table and took her hand. She could have moved it away but did not. He was still strong, his hand still warm, and his warmth and strength communicated themselves to her fingers and her body. ‘We are one,' he said. ‘We have always been one. That is why we fight, but in our unity is our strength.'

That was nonsense. One when he had thrown her stories in the bin? When he had abandoned her without explanation for days on end?

Still holding her hand he moved the table out of the way and stood up, drawing her with him. They stood body to body, very close, her hand held by his, her eyes held by his.

‘We are prisoners,' he said. ‘Prisoners of each other and the ideal.'

He took her other hand in his free hand and lifted them to his cheeks. They stood unmoving. He had released her hands and she could have taken them away but did not.

Prisoners of each other and the ideal.

For a minute longer they stood, Sara feeling the growing tension of nerves and breath. Then his lips were on her throat.

3

Sara slept again and woke at seven o'clock: suddenly her disciplined existence was a shambles. Since breakfast with Hilary she had become a traveller in an unfamiliar country where even the language was foreign to her ears. Phrases like
I am saying I can offer you a way out
; like
I don't care if you were having breakfast with the fucking pope
; like
I don't believe I have ever met a woman who has excited me so much.

Unfamiliar country indeed.

Was that why she had been so quick to embrace her old lover, to seek refuge from the challenge that Hilary had flung in her lap?

The trauma of Emil's confession was with her still. She had taken it for granted they would make love, yet nothing had happened and eventually he had explained why.

Naked on the bed, she had stared at him in horror. ‘
Liver cancer?
'

‘They diagnosed it in California,' he said.

‘Can nothing be done?'

‘They told me it was inoperable.'

‘Have you sought a second opinion?'

‘The specialist who examined me is the best in his field. He told me there was nothing to be done and I believe him. I feel it in myself.'

‘How long?' It was a question she had to ask although her lips were so stiff with shock it was hard to speak at all.

A Gallic shrug. ‘Three months, perhaps. As a maximum. Quite possibly less. I had thought that with you I might pretend I was whole again. Even if only for an hour. After all, I don't believe I have ever met a woman who excited me so much.' Again the shrug. ‘But now I find I am no longer able to do even that. Even with you.'

‘Was that why you came back? To make love one last time?'

‘Who can say? Our motives are often hidden even from ourselves. I am finding that is especially so now, at the end of my life.'

Sara felt her heart move within her. ‘Let me hold you,' she said. And did so, while unshed tears soured her throat. Cautiously she said: ‘Is there anything –?'

‘What you are doing is enough,' he said. What might have been a smile. ‘In any case I doubt even you could achieve that miracle.'

A break in her voice. ‘I thought you didn't believe in miracles.'

‘You are my miracle,' he said.

4

You are my miracle.

Given Emil's nature that was possibly the most remarkable thing he had ever said to her. Knowing him as she did Sara understood that he was saying that after all the traumas they had shared he really did love her and had returned to Australia so he could be with her at the last. His pride would never let him say it but, yes, that was why he was there.

And Mother wanted her to go to Hong Kong.

Could she abandon him when he might have only weeks to live? The course of her future life might depend on her going. Or not going. After all this time did Emil have the right to disrupt her future in this way? If their positions had been reversed, what would he have done?

She turned to look at him. Emil was sleeping on his back, one arm thrown out. He had lost so much weight, his ribs showing where in the old days there had been muscle. On impulse she reached out and touched his arm very gently so as not to waken him. His flesh was clammy and slack and for the first time the reality struck home. It is true, then, she thought. He really is dying. How can I desert him now?

She eased herself out of bed, taking care not to disturb him. She slipped on a robe and went downstairs. She put coffee to perk, got out a packet of cereal, some eggs and a jug of milk and set the breakfast table. She looked at the wall clock. Seven-twenty; Hilary would either be at work or on her way. She went to the phone, hearing the first sounds of movement from the bedroom. She phoned her mother on her mobile.

‘Hilary Brand speaking.'

‘Mother? Good morning. Are you in the office?'

‘I'm doing some work at home but I'll be going in later. Have you thought about my suggestion?'

‘Something has come up,' Sara said. ‘Something unexpected.'

‘What's that?'

‘Emil Broussard.'

‘What about him?'

‘He's come back. He's with me now.'

5

The phone rang while Sara was in the shower. She grabbed the receiver with a dripping hand.

‘Hullo?'

‘I didn't know Emil Broussard was an old friend of yours.'

Millie sounded offended, as though Sara had deliberately kept the knowledge from her.

‘Until yesterday I hadn't known he was.'

‘What happened yesterday?'

No, Sara thought, we are not going to talk about that. Or the outcome, as devastating as it had been unexpected. ‘We had dinner together and he said he'd get his agent to speak to you about an interview.'

‘She just has. But there's a problem. We'll talk about it when you get in.'

1958–61

RUNAWAY

1

The truck pulled in thirty yards ahead of her, its brake lights red in the darkness, the fumes from its exhaust swirling. Hilary ran after it. When she reached it the driver wound down his window.

‘Want a lift?'

‘Wouldn't mind.'

‘Hop in.'

She couldn't see much of him but his voice sounded OK and she thought she'd risk it. One thing she had learnt about Australia was that it was a long way to anywhere and a lift would certainly help. She climbed into the high cab and closed the door.

‘Thanks,' she said.

‘No worries.'

The driver put the truck into gear and headed on down the road. Soon they were back up to speed and she sensed him look at her.

‘Where you goin'?'

‘Melbourne.'

You could get lost in a place the size of Melbourne. She'd only seen it for five minutes, the day she arrived in Australia – Bacchus Marsh and Koornalla were the only places she knew in the whole country – but Koornalla was obviously out and not for quids would she go back to Bacchus Marsh.

‘I'm not going to Melbourne. Near but not into the city.'

‘Where you going?'

‘Adelaide.'