The Last Anniversary (25 page)

R
ose serenely tucks her long white hair under her hot-pink floral bathing cap while Sophie jiggles up and down on the cold hard sand, rubbing her goose-bumpy arms and saying, ‘Don’t you think we might be at risk of hypothermia this morning, Rose?’

‘It will be lovely and bracing, darling.’ Rose slowly begins to walk towards the water. Her back is milky-white with purple age spots, her spine long and knobbly. Sophie can see the memory of a young girl’s beautiful athletic body in the length of her legs. Rose gets to the same mossy green rock she always chooses and dives straight in with barely a splash, emerging to do a graceful freestyle.

The woman is nearly
ninety.

Sighing, Sophie follows. The first heart-stopping shock of the water when she dives in always makes her inwardly scream, ‘NEVER AGAIN! NEVER DO THIS AGAIN!’ She comes up gasping, teeth chattering, flailing about with her nose high above the water, like a puppy. After a few minutes she calms down and remembers why she keeps doing this. The water silky against her skin, the bay gradually becoming brighter and sharper as the sun rises higher in the sky–and the fact that she will still be burning fat for an hour after this swim, so the hot chocolate and egg and bacon pastries she and Rose will have for breakfast will be like eating
nothing
!

The pastries were originally cooked by Connie. Apparently Rose’s deep freeze is still stacked high with food cooked by Connie. Rose defrosts them each night, heats them up in the oven before their swim and they’re still warm by the time they’re ready to eat. Sophie keeps offering to take a turn at bringing the breakfast, but Rose just laughs as if she’s making a joke. After their swim they wrap up in warm jumpers and beanies and sit on the sand to eat.

‘How was your outing with Connie’s lawyer fellow?’ asks Rose.

‘It was fun, actually.’

‘Do you think he could be Mr Right?’

‘Maybe.’ She wishes she could get that stupid dream out of her mind. Whenever she thinks of Ian she imagines him covered in chickenpox spots. It’s very unfair.

‘Well, don’t rush. You’ve got to hold out for the right one.’

‘I can’t be too fussy. I’m getting on. I’ll end up an–’

Oh, God. She was about to say
old maid.
And she is talking to an
old maid.
The thought of hurting sweet, fragile Rose’s feelings makes Sophie feel ill. A blistering blush shoots up her neck. The blush feels hotter and redder than usual on her cold, wet skin.

Fortunately, Rose just keeps looking at the river, steadily sipping her hot chocolate. She says, ‘Connie said I was too fussy. She was always trying to match me up with someone.’

‘And you didn’t like any of them?’ asks Sophie.

‘Not really. I thought I was in love with a fairly nice chap some time in the Sixties. What year was it? I remember Connie was marching in the Vietnam protests. 1966? No, it was 1967. But I went off him after a while. To be honest, I was quite relieved. I was getting set in my ways by then. I didn’t want to be cooking and cleaning for some man. He drowned a few years later. So that was lucky, eh?’

‘Maybe not for him.’

Rose chuckles. ‘No, not for him.’

Sophie has seen black and white photos of Rose when she was a young girl, with long hair, smooth skin and elusive eyes. Is life really so horribly arbitrary that some people just never get around to meeting the right person? Here’s Sophie thinking that her life is a romantic comedy and there’s no way the director will let her finish up alone because the test audiences would hate that. But in fact, it could happen. It could just accidentally, capriciously happen.

‘Of course, I was such a silly, dreamy young girl,’ reflects Rose. ‘One day, I saw this fabric in the window of David Jones and I wanted it
so
badly. It was crêpe de Chine. A beautiful deep, rich turquoise colour. The same colour as the river on a bright sunny day. I could see the dress I would make. I needed about two and a half yards to make a dress. It was going to cost me two pounds and thirty shillings. That was an awful lot of money. We were doing it very rough. Not like now. We’re very rich now. Did you know we were rich? It’s lovely being rich. I recommend it. And all thanks to Connie. Anyway, the thing was, I couldn’t get that fabric out of my mind. I was quite obsessed with it. I used to dream about it! I had to find a way to make two pounds thirty. And then–oh dear, darling, I’m not meant to be telling you this story until you’re forty, am I? Enigma will be so cross with me. Are you forty?’

‘I’m very
nearly
forty,’ Sophie says hopefully.

‘Oh sugar!’ says Rose. ‘I can’t tell you any more. Enigma already thinks I’m losing my marbles.’

‘Can you at least tell me if you got the fabric?’ begs Sophie.

Rose smiles. ‘Yes, I did. But I never made the dress.’

‘And this is somehow related to Alice and Jack’s disappearance?’

‘Of course. It’s how it all started. When we take you up to Kingfisher Lookout on your fortieth birthday, Connie will say,

“We’ve got something to tell you about Alice and Jack. It all started with some green material that Rose just
had
to have.” Green material! It was
turquoise crêpe de Chine
! Oh dear, but this is terrible. I shouldn’t be telling you any of this! I don’t know what’s come over me lately. I’ve been feeling a little
wild.
As if I want to break all the rules. I wonder if I’m about to die, like Connie.’

‘You’re a picture of health.’

This is so tempting, thinks Sophie. The solution to the Alice and Jack mystery is right there hovering on the tip of Rose’s tongue. All she needs is the gentlest nudge and Sophie could know it all. But it seems so cruel and thuggish; like capturing a butterfly. Of course, if Veronika was here she’d be tearing its wings off by now.

‘Did you know that Veronika is determined to solve the mystery and write a book about it?’ Sophie warns Rose. ‘She’s even talking about getting some forensic expert to do DNA testing on the blood stains on the kitchen floor.’

‘No need for testing. It’s Connie’s blood. She bled all over the place that day. What a mess. Oh,
sugar
!’ Rose clamps her hand over her mouth. Her eyes dance. ‘I’m being so naughty today!’

Sophie puts her hands over her ears. ‘I’m not listening to another word you say.’

Rose giggles. ‘Thank you, darling. I appreciate it. Have some more hot chocolate.’

S
ophie walks towards the ferry wharf to meet Rick the Gorgeous Gardener for their picnic lunch.

She feels quite pretty and appropriate and nowhere near forty. For once she has on exactly the right outfit for the occasion–a striped, subtly sailorish, flattering-to-the-waist top, with crisp white, leg-lengthening pants and flat, stylish, outdoorsy-girl shoes. Her hair is up in a bouncy, breezy ponytail. It’s refreshing to go on a date without her stomach clenching, without trying not to think:
Is this it? Is this my chance? Will this change everything?
What’s come over her? She doesn’t care less whether Rick likes her or not. There is Ian, after all.

Someone is jogging up the hill towards her. She sees that it’s Callum and now her stomach does clench with an idiotic pleased anticipation, which irritates her.

WOULD YOU STOP IT!
It’s just his unavailability making him seem appealing. She’s acting just like a man. Callum is wearing a singlet top and baggy shorts and his face is all wrinkled with that frenzied, pained look that runners get. She waves, and when he reaches her he stops, bending forward and resting his hands on his knees.

‘Good. An excuse to stop,’ he puffs. ‘I’m not a runner. I’m just pretending to be one.’

‘You fooled me,’ says Sophie.

He straightens up. ‘Where are you off to? You look nice.’

‘On my date with Rick.’

‘The turtle-tattooed gardener?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘Hey, Sophie?’

‘Yes?’

‘Has Grace said anything to you lately about…anything?’

Oh, nothing much! Only that you were never really right for her and she’s thinking of leaving you.
She hedges. ‘You need to be a bit more specific. What do you mean by anything?’

His face does an awkward spasm. ‘Anything about us, I guess. She’s said some really strange things lately. I can’t get her to talk to me. I thought maybe–well, you know, women always reveal their deepest secrets to each other. I’m not asking you to betray a confidence or anything. Although, of course, I am, aren’t I?’

He tries to look flippant but only manages to look deeply unhappy. Sophie aches for him.

‘I don’t really know Grace that well,’ says Sophie.

‘No. Sorry. Of course you don’t. Forget we had this conversation. It must be the unexpected rush of oxygen to the brain from exercising.’

‘I’d better go.’

‘Have fun. Be back by curfew, young lady.’ He taps at his watch but he is too miserable to be funny. His face sags. ‘OK, bye!’

She watches him go pounding off. For the first time she feels a flood of bitchy feelings towards Grace. You’re beautiful. You’re talented. You’ve got a gorgeous baby, a gorgeous husband who adores you. And you’re actually considering just throwing it all away because you fight about
housework
! Well, more fool you, Grace. More fool you.

Rick the Gorgeous Gardener is wearing a white T-shirt under a blue v-necked jumper, and jeans. When Sophie goes to step into the boat from the wharf he doesn’t just give her an arm. He
lifts
her by the waist and
places
her in the boat, as if this is perfectly normal behaviour. He takes her to a private beach about twenty minutes down the river, only accessible by boat. He’s brought the picnic–a bottle of white wine and slab-like tomato and cheese sandwiches. The wine wouldn’t have been Sophie’s choice and the sandwiches are not especially nice. He’s cut everything too thick and put too much pepper on the tomato. They’re like sandwiches made by a schoolboy. She has to swill a lot of wine to get the sandwich down. Her head starts to feel pleasantly fuzzy.

‘Very nice!’ she says with relief once she’s finished her last mouthful.

‘Really?’ He doesn’t look convinced. ‘A woman once told me I was such a bad cook I even ruined sandwiches.’

Sophie widens her eyes innocently. ‘That’s extraordinary because that was one of the tastiest cheese and tomato sandwiches I have ever eaten.’

He grins. ‘Liar. I’ll make you eat another one if you keep that up.’

It’s very different from her date with Ian the Sweet Solicitor. Ian belonged to Sophie’s Sydney world: they talked the same language; they’d been to the same films, plays, festivals and restaurants. They even discovered a mutual acquaintance. Whereas Rick the Gorgeous Gardener ‘doesn’t get into town very much’, doesn’t even own a television and can’t actually remember the last movie he saw. Ian has skied in Aspen and scuba-dived in the Maldives. Rick spent six months meditating in a Buddhist monastery in China. Ian admitted to skim-reading certain Booker prize–winning novels so he could talk about them if necessary at dinner parties. Rick only ever reads non-fiction–biographies, histories and
National Geographic.
‘I like facts,’ he says, leaning back against a tree and stretching out long legs.

He makes Sophie feel frivolous and pretty and about fourteen years old. He makes her feel like suggesting they play a game of chasing and letting him catch her.

After a while there is a pause in their conversation, and for some reason neither of them break it. They just look at each other. It appears that they’re having a ‘staring competition’ like in primary school, to see who will giggle first. Sophie’s mouth twitches but she restrains herself. Rick’s eyes crease slightly but his face stays immobile. They stare and stare. Now it seems to be turning into a weird sort of foreplay. Finally, to her own astonishment, she finds herself reaching over and taking the wine glass from his hand and putting it carefully on the ground, without breaking eye-contact. She puts her hand on the back of his neck. For the first time in her entire life she is
initiating the first kiss.
(Various girlfriends applaud in her head: ‘About time!’) Rick gets the idea and takes over pretty fast, and fortunately he doesn’t kiss like a Buddhist monk. She is all melting and trembly and clawing pathetically at his clothes.

This goes on for some time until finally they pull away from each other.

‘I cooked chocolate biscuits for dessert,’ says Rick.

Sophie wipes her mouth and readjusts her clothing. She feels ridiculous. Was it necessary to act so eager? She’s practically a
middle-aged
woman. She acted like she was gagging for it, which she was. Oh, and of course, here we go…

‘Is that a blush?’ Rick touches her cheek with his fingertips. ‘Are you doing that on purpose to charm me?’

Rick the Gorgeous Gardener, just like Ian the Sweet Solicitor, is unquestionably a Catch.

The Trevi Fountain, ROME, at sunset

‘Your mother seems to be doing a lot of reflecting while she’s away,’ comments Callum, putting the postcard back down on the coffee table.

‘Yes. She’s become bizarrely chatty.’ Grace is ironing while Callum watches
Australian Idol
on television. (Grace hates
Australian Idol
. Sophie loves it and has animated discussions with Callum about who they think should win, as if it actually matters.) ‘Relax,’ Callum had said when he saw Grace setting up the ironing board. ‘Or let me do it!’ He is a terrible ironer, energetically ironing in wrinklier wrinkles and missing whole sections. Besides which, Grace doesn’t want to sit down and watch television. It makes her anxious to think of sitting still. Her heart pumps and her hands tremble as if she’s had too much coffee.
Move, move, move. Get this done. Get that done
.
Soon it will be over
.

‘All these anecdotes about my childhood,’ she says to Callum. ‘It’s infuriating.’

‘Really? Why? I thought it was sort of nice.’

‘She’s putting on an act. Playing the Mother role.’

‘That seems a bit harsh.’

‘You don’t know her.’

‘Well, I’m hardly likely to know anything about my mother-in-law, am I, when I don’t know anything about my wife.’ He keeps making clumsy, nervy digs like this, trying to pretend their argument the other day had been over something trivial. Except he can’t carry it off. The inflections of his voice are all wrong and his eyes are still bruised and hurt.

To distract him, she says, ‘When I was ten my mother didn’t say a single word to me for twenty-one days.’

Callum turns his head away from the television and speaks in his normal voice. ‘You’re kidding.’

‘It was her special brand of discipline. She would just look right through me as if I literally wasn’t there. She was very good at it. Sometimes I’d be begging her to stop it, crying, yelling at her, anything just to get her to talk to me again, and she’d just be humming this little tune to herself. I became invisible. It was quite a performance. If it was just a small offence she’d stop talking to me for a day–but if it was something really bad she might not talk to me for weeks. That was the longest. Twenty-one days. I ticked them off in my diary.’

‘But that’s terrible!’

‘Well, she never laid a finger on me. Uncle Ron used to give Veronika and Thomas terrible beltings.’

‘I’d take the beltings any day.’

Grace shrugs. As she bends over to lift another one of Callum’s shirts from the ironing basket a great weight of tiredness makes her knees buckle.

Callum has turned down the sound on the television. He is far more interested in this topic of conversation than she had intended.

‘What had you done when she didn’t talk to you for twenty-one days?’

‘I left a banana at the bottom of my school bag. It turned into black pulp and Mum was just disgusted. I can still see the expression on her face when she saw it. It was like she’d found a body.’

‘A banana! Every kid does that!’

‘I never did it again.’

Callum is all spluttering fascination. ‘I can’t believe your mother didn’t speak to you for three weeks because you left a banana in your bag. So–what–you’d come home from school and she wouldn’t even say hello? What if you said sorry? If you tried to talk to her?’

‘It didn’t make any difference what I did. She was like the guards at Buckingham Palace. She looked right through me. Until all of a sudden one day it would be over and she’d be talking to me normally again.’

Grace flips Callum’s shirt and runs the iron across the collar. She remembers how on the fifth day after the banana incident she’d forgotten her mother wasn’t speaking and went running into the house and started telling her the amazing, goose-bumpy news that her painting of Aunt Connie and Aunt Rose swimming at Sultana Rocks had come first in an inter-school competition. Her mother was sitting on the sofa reading a copy of
Vogue
and Grace was chatting, bubbling over with her story, when she realised Laura hadn’t even lifted her head. She just flipped the page and kept right on reading her article, while Grace’s words trailed humiliatingly away.

‘I think that’s a terrible thing to do to a child.’ Callum looks at her seriously, almost pleadingly, as if he wants something of her. What? She can’t give it to him, whatever it is.

She says, ‘It’s hardly the worst thing that a mother can do.’

‘Well, what if you’d hurt yourself?’

Grace buttons the freshly ironed shirt onto a coat-hanger. ‘Actually, sometimes I thought about purposely hurting myself to get a reaction, but…’ She really can’t be bothered finishing the sentence. She really can’t be bothered having this conversation. Why doesn’t he just turn the television back up and stop tiring her?

‘But what?’

It was when Grace was thirteen and her mother wasn’t talking to her because she’d got hot-pink nail polish on the dining-room table. Grace decided to prove that Silent Time could be shattered, that it wasn’t something real, that she really did exist, even during those times when her mother pretended she didn’t. She bought a sesame bar. She didn’t buy it at the school because all the ladies in the tuck shop knew about her nut allergy, and if she’d asked for a sesame bar they would have clutched their hearts in horror. If Grace ate a sesame bar she would DIE, a fact that kids and grown-ups alike seemed to relish. Grace’s plan was to sit down at the dinner table and say, ‘Mum, I’m going to eat this whole sesame bar unless you say something to me,’ and then she was going to open it and slowly take a bite–
very
slowly, to give Laura time to react, to scream, ‘No, Grace!
Stop
!’

The procedure during Silent Time was that her mother made enough dinner for the two of them but Grace had to serve herself. She didn’t need to eat at the table during Silent Time. She could eat in her room, or in front of the television, or sitting cross-legged on the laundry floor. In fact, it didn’t even make any difference whether Grace took the plate of food and upended it on the kitchen floor. She knew this because she’d tried it once and her mother didn’t even flinch, which was terrifying because it must have been torture for her. But surely she wouldn’t let her daughter kill herself?

Grace sat at the opposite side of the table to her mother and carefully laid the sesame bar down next to her bowl of chicken pasta and her glass of orange juice. Her mother’s eyes didn’t flicker. She just continued to eat her pasta, her lipsticked mouth chewing and digesting ladylike mouthfuls. ‘I’m going to eat this,’ said Grace, and her voice, which she had hoped would sound determined and mature, came out tentative and babyish. Laura’s vague, friendly gaze just skimmed straight over her, as if she were no more interesting than a chair. Grace picked up the sesame bar. Her heart was thudding. Her mother dabbed at the corner of her mouth with her serviette. Grace tore open the packaging. Her mother reached over for the pepper grinder and put some more black pepper on her pasta. Grace held the sesame bar in front of her mouth; she nearly retched at the thought.

Her mother yawned. A genuine, slightly bored yawn.

And Grace thought, She’s going to let me die right in front of her.

She took the sesame bar to the rubbish bin and then she scrubbed her hands to ensure there was no trace of sesame seed left. She took the chicken penne up to her room and climbed into bed and ate it there. Three days later her mother said, ‘I think it’s going to rain’ when she came down to breakfast and her punishment had ended.

Now, twenty years later, as Grace irons, her grown-up mind thinks with bitter amusement, ‘She won the bluff. Of course she would have stopped me.’ But another less certain part of her still wonders, Would she have let me die to prove a point?

Callum still hasn’t turned the television back up. ‘I can’t believe you’ve never told me this.’

‘It’s not that interesting. I don’t know how your parents disciplined you.’

‘My father roared at me and my mother chased me around the house brandishing whatever she happened to have in her hand. They didn’t ignore me for days on end.’

He is looking at her with what Grace takes to be revulsion at yet another example of her strange, cold family life, compared to his rowdy, messy, cheerful childhood.

‘Can you turn it back up?’ she says, but instead he stands up.

‘Grace. Sweetheart.’ He reaches out a tentative hand to touch her face.

‘Now you’re blocking the television,’ says Grace, and presses the steam button so the iron hisses.