‘Sex?’ Lachie has no problem saying the word.
‘Yeah. I don’t think they were going to do it at the altar, but they had their hands up each other’s shirts, were clasping hold of each other’s bodies. It looked... painful.’ I pull a face, still disturbed by the memory even though I have a better understanding of it now. ‘Then I cried out.’ Tears prick my eyes.
Lachie strokes his thumb soothingly along my jawline.
‘They heard me. They jerked away from each other and my dad came storming towards the organ. He never got angry,’ I whisper. ‘Not once with Mum, never when she was calling him wet and a terrible excuse for a man. But when he saw me sitting there and knew that I knew...’ I gulp in a breath. ‘He wrenched me off the stool and I banged my head hard on the wall. That hurt, but it wasn’t enough for him.’ Tears slide down my face. ‘He smacked me across my face and called me a stupid little girl. He shook me and kept calling me a stupid little girl, over and over. But he was crying. I had never seen him cry. The priest pulled him away from me and held him back. But my dad just kept shouting, ‘You stupid little girl!’ over and over. The priest tried to calm him down and as soon as I saw my chance, I ran. But he caught me. I was terrified.’
‘Poor thing,’ Lachie murmurs.
‘He locked me in the vestry in the dark and I really, honestly didn’t know what he was going to do to me. I had never seen him like that – ever. I was so scared.’ My bottom lip starts wobbling. ‘Eventually – it seemed like hours – he came into the vestry alone. He’d calmed down and was so sorry, but I was very frightened. He begged. He pleaded. He was deeply distressed, crying and sobbing and asking me not to tell my mum. I swore to him that I wouldn’t. I still didn’t understand what he was doing with the priest. It was all so confusing. Now I get it.’
‘What do you get?’ Lachie probes gently.
‘I get that he was gay. He is gay. He wasn’t in love with my mum. He married her because he felt he had to. He got her pregnant and it was the done thing,’ I say. ‘But really he was just a coward. He should have stuck with the one he loved and left Mum and me in peace if he hated us so much.’
‘I don’t think he hated you,’ Lachie says gently.
‘It felt like he did. After that day, he couldn’t even look at me. But I never breathed a word. Mum continued to cry and he never said a word to defend himself. And then the rumours started to hit. I presume my dad carried on with his affair because the priest stayed in town for almost a year after I saw them together, although he never said another word to me. At church that Sunday, my mum even pointed out the bruise on my face to him, from where I was banged against the wall and then smacked by my dad. She smiled and apologised for my appearance and said I was clumsy and had fallen over. And he never said a word. Bastard,’ I hiss. ‘Having an affair with a married man.’
Lachie stares calmly back at me and the double standards of my sentence sink in. ‘It’s not the same,’ I say. ‘He had a child. Me! And Alex wasn’t married. I would never—’
‘What happened afterwards?’ he interrupts.
‘The rumours started spreading. I went from being a happy – albeit quiet – girl at school with several friends, to having just the one: Polly. Other kids teased and bullied me and called my dad names. It was a small-town mentality and they were very unforgiving. Polly was my only friend, but even she made me feel like I owed her, like I was indebted to her. I went through years of that agony. The priest left, another came and more rumours circulated. As far as I know, Dad never came clean to my mum. But I am certain beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she knew... She knew,’ I say pointedly. ‘And she stayed married to him!’
This is what I will never understand.
‘Why didn’t she get a divorce? Why live a lie? Why make themselves miserable? It was a complete and utter farce!’ It makes me feel angry. ‘I think Dad wanted to get a divorce. I heard him mutter something about it to me once, but Mum would never let him. Just before I left home, I asked her why she didn’t leave him if he made her feel so unhappy? Do you know what she said? She said: “I married your father under the eyes of God and in His eyes we will always be unified.” What a joke!’ I exclaim. ‘They made a mockery of marriage. They never should have married in the first place, let alone stayed married. They are still married!’ I exclaim, feeling slightly hysterical. ‘And he’s gay! My dad is gay! What the hell was he thinking?’
‘Have you asked him?’ Lachie asks.
Now my lip is wobbling very dangerously indeed. I shake my head. ‘I can’t.’ I sniff loudly. ‘The thing is, I’ve been thinking recently that I might be able to forgive him – not that he’s ever asked for my forgiveness. He wouldn’t look me in the eye when I last went home – even now, he can’t look at me. I hate going home,’ I say vehemently. ‘I avoid it at all costs, but my mum puts such guilt trips on me to get me there. I can’t believe I’m going back for Christmas.’ I rub my hands over my face.
I’d almost rather stay here and welcome Alex back from his honeymoon. I feel a sharp pang at the reminder that he married Zara yesterday.
‘You said you thought you might be able to forgive him,’ Lachie brings me back on track as I take my hands down from my face.
‘Yes. He did so much wrong. The way he handled it, the way he was with me, the way he never seemed to forgive me for discovering his secret. But at the end of the day, he fell in love with the wrong person.’
Lachie tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. ‘Are you sure about that?’
I look at him, confused.
‘Maybe he fell in love with the right person. Maybe the priest was the right person. Maybe they would have been happy together. Maybe he could have been happy. Do you think you could have accepted it? The fact that he’s gay?’
‘Of course I could have. I know he can’t help it. It’s not a decision. I understand that, even though some of the small-minded people that I grew up with refused to accept it. It’s the thought of a happy dad that I can’t come to terms with. I can’t imagine him happy. Seeing him kissing that priest... It was disturbing seeing my dad doing that with anyone. I’d never even seen him peck my mum’s lips. But that kiss... That was the most alive I had ever seen him. He was like a whole different person. He was a stranger to me. And that was scary.’
‘I can’t believe he and your mum are still married,’ Lachie says. ‘No wonder you think marriage is a farce.’
‘I know it’s not a farce for everyone. I know some people are happily married their entire lives and that’s great.’
He looks amused. I almost sounded sardonic, but I didn’t mean to.
‘I just think that you should be with who you want to be with. And if you don’t want to be with them any more, then don’t be. You don’t need a piece of paper or a blessing from God. You just need to love each other. And if you decide to have children, then love them, too.’
I sniff and wipe away my tears.
‘I’m sure your dad loves you, Bron,’ Lachie says sadly.
I stare back at him. ‘I’ll probably never know.’
Chapter 30
Lachie doesn’t return to Europe. He says that if I’m going to be living in London for the foreseeable future, then he’ll come back as soon as he can and maybe we can do Europe together. The idea makes me smile, but neither of us knows when that will be and the thought is sobering. He stays with me at Bridget’s, and knowing that I have him to come home to helps, but I seriously struggle through that last week at work. After managing to change our flights, Lachie and I travel back to Australia together. He offered to come home with me for Christmas, but I’m not ready for him to meet my family yet. Our relationship is already on shaky ground, although to my eternal surprise, he is still with me and is heart-warmingly positive about us. In the end, we part ways in Sydney and then fly on to our destinations separately.
The sun is shining on Adelaide when I touch down. I cleared immigration in Sydney, so my mum is waiting in the domestic terminal re
ady to greet me as soon as I step off the plane. I don’t recognise her at first. Her normally mousy, long hair has been cut to a shoulder-length bob and is highlighted. Her skin is glowing and she looks fit and healthy and very, very different to the last time I saw her: washed out and weary, her face carved with worry lines.
I stare at her with astonishment. ‘Mum?’
‘Hello Bronte.’ She smiles and gives me a stiff hug. Nothing’s changed there, then. ‘How was your flight?’
‘Fine,’ I reply, still staring at her with amazement. ‘You look so different.’
She smiles and shrugs in a strange, carefree way. Who is this woman?
I grew up in a small beach town about an hour and a half south of the city, but the way my mum drives, it’s likely to take closer to two hours to get there. We potter through Adelaide’s sub urban sprawl at an excruciatingly low speed, passing a myriad of single-storey delis, dry cleaners, charity shops and hairdressers. We make awkward small talk about work and my life in the UK, and eventually settle into a comparatively comfortable silence. I must doze off, because when I wake we’ve left suburbia behind and are surrounded by the muted bush tones of grey, green, yellow and brown. The road is dwarfed by enormous yellow-brown hills dotted with green pines and eucalyptus trees. The ridges on the hills created by years of driving winds and rain remind me of ripples on the water, and as we pass a deep gully, I catch a glimpse out of my mum’s window of the sparkling blue-green ocean beyond. I’d almost forgotten how beautiful my home is. I can’t help but smile as I look up at the blue sky to see an enormous flock of white cockatoos pass overhead.
We continue to drive along the winding road for a while, past glittering lakes, dry creeks edged with big, old gums and farms filled with sleek horses, hot cattle and dusty-looking sheep. One colonial-style house nestled in the hills is fronted with white rose bushes. White roses will always remind me of my dad, who took so much pride in his.
Ten minutes later when Mum parks her red Kia on the driveway, I’m shocked to see that all of Dad’s prized rose bushes are dead.
‘What happened to Dad’s roses?’ I ask her with a frown, also noting that the once green lawn is yellow and dry.
She shrugs defensively. ‘I don’t have time to garden.’
‘Is work particularly busy?’ She helps out at a library a few towns away.
She ignores me and climbs out of the car. I follow suit, standing and staring for a long moment at the small, cream-brick, brown-tiled Seventies bungalow that I once called home. The blue and white striped canvas awnings are pulled down and in place, shading the windows. I always hated how dark and dingy they made my bedroom feel.
Mum unlocks the door, and rests her hand on the handle, seeming to hesitate before pushing down.
‘I’ve decided to sell the house,’ she blurts out. ‘I wanted to tell you when you were in England, but it’s so hard to get hold of you.’
And I tend only to call her on Saturday evenings when it’s Sunday morning in Australia and I know she’ll be at church.
But I know from the look on her face that not being able to get hold of me is just an excuse.
‘I don’t have a problem with you selling the house,’ I say calmly.
‘Don’t you?’ Her relief is palpable.
‘Why would I? I haven’t lived here in years.’
‘I just thought... Never mind.’
Does she think she needs my permission because Dad isn’t around to agree or disagree with her any more?
She opens the door and an achingly familiar smell wafts out as I follow her inside. I look through the open living-room door on my left to see boxes piled up. She’s already got started on the packing.
‘I haven’t touched your room, yet,’ she says warily. ‘I thought maybe you could sort out your things while you’re here?’
My parents never touch my room, so it always looks exactly the same as when I left it at the age of seventeen and I’m always too depressed to do anything about it on the rare occasions I do venture home.
‘I don’t want any of it. We can give it all to charity.’
She looks taken aback. ‘You don’t want to keep anything? Not even Monty?’
Monty was my favourite cuddly toy when I was growing up. He and I went through everything together. He knows all my secrets.
‘No,’ I reply bluntly. ‘Although I don’t imagine the charity shop will want him, either, so we can just bin him. I’ll put my bags in my room.’
My bedroom is the first door on my right. I feel increasingly deflated as I take in the pink walls, which still look lurid, even though the curtains have been drawn and the outside awning is stealing much of the rest of the sunlight. The walls are partially covered with bleached-out magazine posters, the cheap bookshelves are packed with neat rows of colourful children’s books and Bible stories, and the crappy brown wardrobes and matching chest of drawers no doubt still hold a few dowdy jumpers from my teenage years. My eyes fall on the neatly ironed lilac bedspread and the ratty-looking dog in pride of position resting against the pillow. I let my bags fall to the threadbare carpet with a thud. Then I go and sit on the bed.
Monty gazes at me dolefully with his one glassy black eye, which lost all of its shine years ago. I pick him up and stare at him.
Okay, so maybe I’ll take Monty with me. He hasn’t done anything to deserve being binned. But the rest of it can go.
There’s a knock at my door.
‘Come in?’
‘I’m putting the kettle on. Would you like one?’ Mum asks.
‘Sure.’
I get up and follow her to the back of the house where the orange lino-floored, yellow melamine-cupboarded kitchen hasn’t been updated in forty years. Damn, it’s depressing. I pull out a chair at the kitchen table and slump into it. Mum puts a packet of Yo-Yo biscuits in front of me and that perks me up slightly.
‘I have a friend coming over at one o’clock,’ she says in an oddly breezy tone that immediately gets my hackles up.
‘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 nostr
ils. 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.