The Quieter Life

The Quieter Life

Vera lights up a Winfield Blue with a pink Bic lighter, her heavy arms
strain against the sleeves of the white cardigan she wears over a faded
floral dress. She is sitting in the corner by the window at the white
Formica table with a pile of unpeeled potatoes and a thick chopping
board. I watch her as she stares out the window into the back garden, a
long line of ash dangles from the cigarette and breaks off, falling
delicately to the floor. She half turns, smoke billowing around her
like a floating veil, and catches me looking at her.
'Get a move on girl, we've only got an hour till the hordes arrive,'
she informs me in the gravelly voice of a veteran smoker.

Vera is my mother.

Frank sits, or rather has melted into, the recliner chair in front of
the television. He stares at the football replay with slack jawed
interest. At regular intervals, he brings the can of VB he rests on the
arm of the chair to his mouth, slurping down the lukewarm beer, his
eyes never leaving the screen. The sweat from his armpits has made dark
stains in the cloth of the singlet he's wearing and I can see more of
it dripping from his flushed red cheeks and disappearing into his
lambchop sideburns. He takes another swig of beer, momentarily breaking
his gaze from the screen to stare at the can.
'Beer thanks,' he aims his voice at the kitchen, but has already gone
back to facing the telly.

Frank is my husband.

They say women marry men most like their fathers, I look up from
shelling the home grown peas to glance at Frank and wonder how I
managed to break that rule. Dad is outside in the garden putting the
finishing touches on his Bonsai arrangement. My sister Mary's children
love to play dolls in 'Grandad's little forest'.

Every time they trek from the city to pay mum and dad a visit, dad
rearranges the trees into new and beautiful landscapes. The mottled age
markings and gnarled features of the trunks seem so strange in
comparison to their small stature and the tiny ceramic pots they are
held in. I love to crouch to the ground and examine these masterpieces,
so out of place compared to the rest of the garden, where mum's pink
flamingos and gaudy concrete gnomes hold sway. I gaze at the landscape
and imagine I have travelled to somewhere in Asia, to a peaceful garden
in one of the Zen monasteries I see in travel magazines. That is until
mum bellows from the kitchen window for me to come inside and help her
with some chore or other.

I still live here in the same small town I grew up in. Frank and I have
a house four doors from mum and dad. We can see their pagoda from our
small backyard. We're often here, Frank in the lounge-room, me at the
sink or the stove, dad in the garden and mum in her high back chair at
the kitchen table. Mary moved to the city nine years ago and married
her husband. They have two girls, we don't see them much.

I finish the peas and toss the empty shells into the bin. Frank has
brought his beer in an esky and put it by the fridge. I pull out a
fresh can and stroll to the lounge-room to replace his empty. Dad comes
in from the garden with a grin lighting up his whole face.
'Hello Possum!' He says to me as I return to the kitchen.

I've often wondered how so much pride and affection can be expressed in
just those two words, but dad somehow manages. It never fails to bring
a warm flush to my cheeks and that special confidence only a parent
gives their child rushing back to me. He guides me by the elbow into
the yard and down to the left corner, where a magnificent
transformation has occurred. Instead of the cracked plastic outdoor
setting and the garden tools lining the fence, there's a delicate
miniature forest of gnarled pines, oaks, maples and fruit trees. A
single lane, complete with pebble edging, winds its unhurried way
through the landscape, interrupted here and there by old-fashioned
English bridges across tiny water filled streams.

I don't even want to breathe! Dad has really outdone himself this time.
In the centre of a clearing of oak sits a tiny cabin painstakingly
assembled from broken sticks and twigs. Around the cabin he has placed
moss for grass and constructed a clever stick fence complete with a
gate that opens.
'Well done dad!' I say to him and we grin our big silly grins at each
other.
'Thanks Poss.'

From the garden we hear the sound of a car pulling into our street.
It's most likely Mary's four wheel drive. We head to the front yard
just in time to see the huge black car pull into the driveway,
children's arms and heads sticking out every which way and Mary sitting
at the wheel looking tiny in comparison to the monstrous vehicle. Doors
open, bodies and luggage spill out over the neat lawn and the
children's shrill laughter and excited cries fill the balmy afternoon
air.

We herd them in through the front door, gathering up stray pieces of
luggage like lost sheep. The children run ahead to the kitchen, into
Grandma's warm expansive embrace. I slip away to the spare room and
unburden myself of the heavy luggage I am carrying. Mary follows behind
with the rest. She straightens up and I notice she looks tired,
flustered. Her usual immaculate bob has turned to ratty bangs and she
blows a lock of hair from her face with a sigh, turning toward me and
smiling her typical faded half smile.
'How's things?' She enquires.
' Good, and yourself?'
'Yeah, We're muddling along!'
I laugh inwardly, Mary and her husband wouldn't know how to muddle,
she's an attorney, he's an accountant.

We head back into the kitchen where mum is finishing the dinner
preparation. Mary walks to the stove as mum turns, wiping her hands on
her apron. They hug and exchange pleasantries, then mum notices and
comments on Mary's haggard appearance. It's fleeting, but I notice
Mary's gaze break from mum's and stray guiltily to the floor. She has
resumed her girlhood habit of deliberately brushing her hair behind her
right ear. Mum has a way of bringing out the awkward girl in the both
of us.

Mary comments on the large workload she's had these last few months and
the stress of juggling work, the kids and everything else. She does not
elaborate on the everything else, and mum has turned back to the stove
with a pursed lipped silence. Jonathan hasn't come with her, Mary has
stopped making excuses for his absences. It's obvious to us he cannot
stand to be exposed to the countryside and our unsophisticated,
uneducated ways. I grab Mary by the arm. Dad has suggested we eat
outside to take advantage of the unusually warm evening, so I lead her
down the garden stairs to the shed for the tables.

'Don't mind Vera,' I say to her as we move the sun-faded boards and
sturdy wooden legs of the trestles. I try to catch her eye and give her
that same special look we used to share as girls, hiding at the back of
the shed or in the attic, whispering with an eager conspiratorial air
over the latest injustice dealt to us by our ogre of a mother. But she
avoids looking up, moving the table parts to the grass as if it's the
task she has travelled all the way from Melbourne to complete.

I recall a time when we were younger, before Mary moved to Melbourne,
where such an exchange between herself and Vera would have resulted in
a screaming match. Their shouting would drive me to my room to sob
quietly into my pillow, waiting for the bitter silence that followed.
Vera always made it clear we should never expect to amount to much.
Mary had always been the driven and outspoken one and had violently
opposed our mother's controlling regime. I believe it was only me who
knew how deeply the insecurity and anxiety had settled into my sister.
Because of my mothers harsh words, my sister was now terrified of
failure.

We go inside for the tablecloths, two will be needed to cover rough
boards, the one with the faded daffodils and pink beetroot stain from
Mary's tenth birthday and the green check cloth I always associate with
family get togethers.

We pass the lounge-room and Mary looks up to see Frank in the recliner
chair. She gives me her usual pitying look, the one that says I could
have done so much better, that I have made such a huge mistake on so
many levels. All this contained in one quick glance, she would never
say it, but it's there in her eyes.

I smile good naturedly, we are so very different, my sister and I. How
could I ever explain to her that living in the city and the fast lane
success she has was never for me. How can I convey to her the
immeasurable value of a slow quiet evening such as this or the crisp
dry smell of the eucalypts as I tramp through the bush, which starts
mere metres from the end of our street? These subtle pleasures are lost
on her, and I content myself with the knowledge that, despite our
differences, we still manage to hold onto that sisterly bond.

We finish setting up for dinner and start helping mum with carting out
the assorted steaming dishes of food and the piles of crockery and
cutlery. The kids continue playing in the Bonsai garden despite the
fading light, watched over by a smiling happy grandad.
When dinner is ready, mum puts out a general call to the table in the
form of a bellowing shout. Children and adults alike flock to the
table, with the kids taking a detour to the garden tap guided by
grandad in an attempt to scrub off the ingrained dirt. I sit down on
the wooden bench, Mary to my right, Frank to my left and start to serve
out portions of everything onto the plates handed to me.

The table becomes a factory line as plates are passed from one to
another until everyone has dinner in front of them. We start eating in
companionable silence, the kids already swapping food and squabbling
over who has the most of what. After a while the noise of conversation
resumes, Frank and dad talk about the latest football scores, mum chats
to the children who squeal with delight as she tells them how naughty
their mother was when she was their age. Mary watches them, an easy
smile creeping across her face, she is visibly relaxing. I watch the
whole scene and feel as though it was curtain call at the opening night
of a show I have orchestrated. There is nothing like the companionship
of family to allow me to be myself entirely.
My musings are interrupted by on of dad's good-natured guffaws.
'Vera, Vera, Vera!' He laughs, shaking his head, the dimples in his
cheeks standing out as he smiles. Mum tries to act severe in reaction
to whatever he has said but we can see the grin beneath her scowl.
Frank turns to me with a smile and squeezes my hand underneath the
table; I know he hopes we'll be like them. For all his faults, he is a
man I have no regrets marrying.

The clatter of dishes in the sink and the splash of water signal the
start of clean up. I have decided to stay here for the night to keep
Mary company, We'll share our old room at the back of the house, the
kids will have the guestroom.

Mum takes the extra bedding down to the back room as the children race
through the house in their pyjamas saying goodnight to all. The house
is more alive when they are here, it reminds me of an age before when
Mary and I raced through these same rooms, when the house felt like a
castle full of exciting adventures rather than a house full of rooms
and faded childhood dreams and memories.

The house is quiet as we prepare for bed. The children are asleep,
Frank has gone home and mum and dad are staying up late to watch a
special on TV. I sit brushing my hair on the single bed in the corner
in my sensible cotton nightie as Mary rummages through her make-up bag
for rollers in her satin two-piece. She looks up and catches me smiling
at her.
'Here we are, a couple of middle aged women, sleeping at our parents'
house in our childhood room!' she laughs, but there's that familiar
awkwardness behind it. We've both never been able to fully shrug off
the hold our mother has over us. It's an unspoken, pervasive theme
whenever the family gets together and it affects Mary the most. I see
her torn between her strong role as mother and professional woman and
the subdued, insecure role she falls into when she comes back here. I
on the other hand, have learned to deal with Vera in my own quiet
way.

Over the years, the lines of communication between my sister and I have
become less used, like an untended garden taken for granted. We have
stopped communicating, but have assumed the other is there if needed. I
sense this visit that I have become the needed one, but that the line
of communication can only be opened from my side. I don't know how to
start, the words come out tentatively.
'Mary?..,' I hesitate.
'Mmmm?' The blankets muffle her voice.
'We've always been able to talk, you and I, we just haven't done it for
so long I don't know how to say this?'
There is silence from the other side of the room, a heavy expectant
silence.
'There's something wrong isn't there?' I finally manage.

A pause, before I hear her body shifting on the bed, then the
unmistakable sound of muffled sobs as she tries hard to control what
must be a painful flood of emotion from the guttural sounds she is
making. I creep to the side of her bed and kneel there with my arms
around her blanket-covered form. She cries for some time before gaining
enough control to subdue it to a mild sob and sit up on the bed. I open
the curtain, the half moon provides enough light to see the
wretchedness of her face but is dark enough to offer a comforting
cover.

I'm still kneeling on the cold floor, Mary motions for me to sit on the
bed with her.
'So Vera was right,' she spits, the bitterness in her voice as potent
as snake venom.
'He's a no good arrogant bastard who can only think of himself and his
fast approaching middle age,' the last part is uttered in a whisper
verging on hysteria.
'This could be straight out of a mid-life crisis textbook! She's young,
she's blonde, she's even a bloody secretary at his firm!' Mary exhales
in exhausted disbelief, sitting up and throwing her arm around my
shoulders hugging me close, as if I'm the one that needs the comfort.
It's always been this way, Mary comforting me. Even at times like this
she feels the need to keep up the pretence. I don't mind, if it helps
her in any way then it's a good thing.

We spend almost the entire night talking. About her situation, the
children, relationships in general and everything we used to talk to
each other so freely about. It's halting at first, but old riverbeds
are easy paths for new floods to wash through and we find ourselves
falling into our old ways, with one small difference. I feel we have
become equals. Instead of older sister, younger sister we have changed
into two adults who share a deep, common past. I talk of my thoughts
and dreams, of Frank, my disappointment at childlessness and my hope
for a better future. Somehow in our talking, we have unburdened
ourselves of much of the strain we have been carrying, as if the words
themselves are stones dropping away, making us lighter and freer.

Daytime sees Mary and the kids packing for the trip home. I help her
to cart the luggage to the car as the girls' have one last play in the
Bonsai garden. Around the kitchen table we all have a final cup of tea,
sitting back and watching the children from the kitchen window.

There is an absence in the atmosphere, I think it's the tension that
has seeped away with our midnight talk. Mum notices Mary's relaxed
demeanor but does not comment.
Lining up on the lawn in front of the four-wheel drive we say our
noisy good-byes. Mary takes my hand and gives me the first real smile I
have seen on her for ages.
'Thankyou little sister,' she says fondly 'you've always been good at
listening and helping.'
'Anytime, you know that,' I reply seriously.
We hug tightly.

As the car pulls out of the drive and down the street, children's
grinning heads and waving arms poking out everywhere, we turn to the
house, still waving. Mum gives me a strange look that could almost be
interpreted as pride.
'You're a good girl,' she utters with awkward certainty.

This is Vera's version of a compliment, I feel warmed by it. I wonder
what she is thinking and suspect that over the years she has changed in
many ways from the mother we once knew, grown as a person, perhaps
mellowed.

Before going home, I wander out into the backyard. The morning sunlight
feels like an extension of my mood. The Bonsai garden is still intact,
scattered around it are the marks the girls have left with their games.
I crouch to grass level and immerse myself in the beautiful scenery. My
mind soars and I am taken elsewhere. I think of everything that was
discussed the night before, somehow it seems so unreal and yet so real
I feel a part of me has changed forever. Our talk has spurred me on to
start to do things for my own self-fulfilment. Maybe some part of my
sister's determination has rubbed off on me. I dream of all the
possibilities in such a world as this. I could help others with
volunteer work and counselling, I could take this small town and give
it a good old shake, build up community ties and foster a sense of
worth in those that are lacking it. I'd like to reach into the essence
of our society and culture and bring about a small voice of hope. Yes!
A hero to the helpless, voice for the voiceless.

I think perhaps I might start today.