The Telling Time : A Historical Family Saga Page 10

  ‘Relax,’ Joy whispered. ‘Always best to keep your options open.’ She grabbed Patsy’s hands. ‘Come on, girls, let’s make a train.’ Patsy put her hands on Joy’s hips and I followed suit behind Patsy. ‘We’re off!’ cried Joy, her bright headband and fiery hair like a beacon up front. She wove us past the men, Patsy and me bouncing and bopping behind to the music. ‘Toot, toot!’ Patsy cried, as we disappeared out the lounge door all the way into the kitchen before collapsing in a heap of giggles. Joy gripped the red bench and it was an age before any of us could speak. ‘Oh my goodness, that was fun!’ she said, her face glowing. I hugged her, charged by the burst of energy.

  Joy got busy, handing the moussaka to me and a casserole to Patsy. She led the way back to the lounge carrying a potato dish. Just before the doorway, Patsy leaned back. ‘Your man at home must be pretty special. Hope he’s worth the wait — you could do far worse than Roko Tomich.’

  She strode off and I paused, all my fizz drained flat. It was Joy who had spilt my secret to Patsy a week or so back, letting a comment about my dragi slip. I should have owned up then. All I needed to say was that I’d been dumped. There would have been no need to admit I had lied, or to disclose the worst parts, but somehow I justified keeping up my charade. In part I worried about answering their questions and feeling embarrassed about my naivety, how trusting I had been. Even after eight months I was none the wiser as to how they would view me. Joy had been cryptic of late, at times joking about men and their expectations, sharing magazine articles with titles like, How to Keep Your Man Happy, then nudging me while referring to Roger’s “appetite” as though holding the word between her index fingers. And yet, when Marg had joined us for afternoon tea, Joy nodded as though approving of Marg’s comment, serves her right, while discussing their old school friend who had been forced to give up her baby for adoption.

  But it was also my ploy to keep Joy’s teasing at bay. She had been quick to pick up on the fact that the tensions between Roko and me had eased and that we were getting along much better. She loved nothing more than to make comments about how great it would be if I could stay and be neighbours for ever. I reasoned that if there was even the slightest chance Roko felt something for me I didn’t want Joy’s meddling — good-hearted as it might be — to frighten him off. This was all the more important once the thaw between them was likely. But now, with Patsy on my case too, I would have to tell them both the truth, but not until after the party — the last thing I needed was a scene in front of Sara.

  It was difficult to find a spare inch on the table for my dish. Even after nine months, the abundance of food, especially meat, still took me by surprise. Our food at home had been basic, and Mama had done her best, but there are only so many ways to change up cabbage stew. The men piled their plates high, pulling up chairs to sit close to the table. Elvis was still playing and we women took our plates back to the couches and balanced them on our knees. The compliments flowed as we ate but I struggled to concentrate. My favourite was Sara’s crayfish and prawn casserole. I told Marg I loved her pavlova, but in truth it played havoc with my churning stomach and I found it overly sweet.

  After dinner, Joy and Marg insisted I go back and join the others once I’d helped take the dishes through to the kitchen. Roger was still sitting at the table, laughing raucously with Peter and Davor. Roko was chatting in a huddle by the fireplace with Sara, Patsy and Paul. I decided I’d feel braver holding my glass of Pimm’s and went to retrieve it.

  Davor waved out as I turned, joining me and gesturing towards the couch. ‘I’ve been wanting to ask you more about the homeland,’ he said. ‘Sara and I went earlier this year. My folks are from Markarska. Sara’s are from Tucepi.’

  ‘Oh, they’re beautiful places.’ I was embarrassed to admit that I’d never visited either, despite their proximity, just north of Korčula, on the mainland.

  ‘What are your thoughts on Tito?’

  ‘What do you want to know?’ I said, stalling for time, wanting to consider my answer. I looked back to the fireplace. Paul’s face was ruddy, almost the colour of his hair. Roko had rolled up his sleeves, and I thought he seemed more at ease, that really he was happiest in a crumple.

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t report you,’ said Davor. ‘I’m interested if you think the country is better or worse off under Tito?’

  Before coming to New Zealand, I would never have said a word against Tito. When Tata criticised his policies and the Party I felt embarrassed. Now I realised how much our country was still struggling.

  ‘Well, he’s a great leader,’ I said, trying to read Davor’s expression. ‘They say the country’s going from strength to strength under his rule.’ I wasn’t sure whether Davor would have an opinion, given Roko’s reaction whenever we talked of the homeland.

  ‘To be honest, we were surprised at how backward it was,’ said Davor.

  ‘Where did the night go?’ said Sara, squeezing in beside him. ‘I hardly got to talk with you, Jela.’ She patted Davor’s leg as if he was a dog. ‘You go off and say your goodbyes while Jela and I have a chat.’

  Davor moved off and Sara inched closer. ‘I hear Marta’s got her wish. Petra called me to say the marriage has been annulled.’

  ‘Great news, isn’t it.’ I was pleased that I knew.

  ‘Good news for you. Just the one hurdle, I hear?’ She leaned in closer, staring at me as though the answer was written across my forehead.

  I wrenched back. ‘What do you mean, hurdle? I work for him. Nothing more.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Jela, don’t be so naive. Why else would Marta and Stipan bring you here?’ She lowered her voice. ‘How much do they know about this other boy?’

  I blinked hard. It must have been Patsy. They had been talking for most of the evening. Joy wouldn’t have said anything. She knew how I felt about Sara.

  ‘It was just my silly way of getting the attention off me. My way to stop their teasing about Roko. There’s no one else.’ From Sara’s expression it was clear this all sounded like excuses.

  Davor returned. ‘How did you think Roko was tonight?’ Sara asked him.

  Davor looked puzzled. ‘Good. Yeah. Happy? Come on, Draga, we should go.’ He held out his hand and pulled Sara to standing. ‘Nice seeing you again, Jela.’

  ‘Marta’s been singing your praises, by the way. All the Dallies are talking. Hope it’s all not in vain,’ said Sara, turning back.

  I watched them leave, straining to hear when they left the house. Only then did I make my move. Roko and Paul were back with the other men at the table. There was no sign of Patsy. I called from the front door, ‘Thanks, Joy. I have to get going.’

  Joy rushed from the kitchen. ‘Are you okay, Jela?’

  ‘Got a headache. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Only if you’re sure?’ said Joy, closer now, her face concerned.

  I was already at the base of the steps. ‘Thanks. It was great. I’ll see you next week.’

  Without looking back I wrapped my arms across my chest then walked like a whip, cracking along the footpath towards Marta and Stipan’s. The wind had picked up and the sky looked heavy, threatening to rain. Word would surely get back to Roko and the rest of the family, that I’d been in love with someone back home. There was no knowing how they would react or the questions they might ask, but I was certain Marta and Stipan would not be happy. My mind felt crammed with Sara’s comments. Keeping close the reason I had been sent away was now even more important. Damn Tata! If only he could have been more flexible, less judgemental.

  Mala darted from somewhere across the front lawn to greet me, winding her tail around my legs, purring as I hesitated on the front porch. When I opened the front door, she scurried up the hallway, a black streak.

  My rosary beads felt like rocks between my fingers, and no amount of polishing could rub the problem away: Sara would spill my secret. The only remaining question was who she would choose to tell first. My secrets and lies were fake pearls set to unravel from
their cheap string to leave me exposed and my life in tatters again.

  Throughout the long weekend following the party I existed in a state of dread, listening out for visitors, certain that at any moment Marta might pull me aside and insist on a phone call home.

  At Sunday Mass I snuck furtive peeks sideways, scanning the pews up front again, willing Sara away. Somehow I was saved, although it felt as though my discomfort was reflected for all to see by the whitewashed walls in the modern spare space. The high row of windows at the sides were unadorned squares of glass through which light entered without allowing a glance outside. I would have given anything to be back in our church at home where the stained-glass windows and intricately carved stonework spoke in pictures, encouraging your mind to wander. At St Patrick’s, Panmure, there was no such respite. For the hour-long duration of Mass I squirmed, forcing my mind to the prayers and rote routines: standing, sitting, kneeling, the long march to take communion, habits which saw time pass. Afterwards, when we gathered in huddles on the concrete pad outside the church, I hung off the usual bunch of girls, forcing my eyes away from the flight of steps leading to the cemetery. Those gravestones were a line-up of bishops, each dignitary topped by a gleaming white cross, each one seeming to pass judgement.

  I made seeing Joy my first priority on Tuesday morning. She was in the outhouse bent over Betty, slotting the clothes through the rollers like letters through a post box. At first, she didn’t hear me and I hung back, determined not to startle her. That machine could eat fingers given its efficiency at squeezing out water. Joy wore another new dress, as short as the one from the party. Perhaps her mama had been busy over the weekend? I wiped my hands down the front of my new dress, another of Marta’s hand-me downs, knowing I should feel grateful. I knocked and Joy straightened and turned, flicking the switch on the wall to silence the whirr of the rollers.

  ‘Jela! What a nice surprise. I was worried. You seemed rattled on Friday. Is everything okay?’

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ I said, before realising I was patching things over again. ‘But I need to tell you something. Something I’m not proud of.’

  Joy frowned and brushed her hair from her forehead, resettling the strands into the neat shape of her bob.

  ‘It’s silly,’ I said. ‘But I lied. About my dragi.’ I hid my face in my hands. ‘There’s no one coming. He let me down and I was too embarrassed to admit it. I’m so sorry, especially after all the fuss I made.’

  Joy pulled me into a hug. ‘Jela, don’t be silly. I’m not surprised, you know. I had my doubts. Why didn’t you say? That must have been dreadful. What a wretch! Has he only just told you?’

  ‘No, a while back,’ I said, fudging the fact that he’d never written once. I pulled back and looked her in the eye. ‘I couldn’t admit I’d lost him. That there was no one. I felt less attractive, like I wasn’t good enough to have a boyfriend. And now with Roko . . .’ I hid my face again.

  Joy pulled me close. ‘Are you finally admitting you and Roko are sweet on each other?’

  ‘Maybe.’ I took in the laundry shelf behind Joy’s head: the pack of Rinso washing powder, a cake of Sunlight soap on a chipped saucer, a scrubbing brush on a stack of David’s nappies. ‘Not sure.’

  ‘It’s perfect!’ said Joy. ‘Don’t know why it’s taken you so long.’

  ‘But it’s not that simple. And now I’m in trouble.’

  Joy scrunched her nose, frowning, her freckles worked into a hard line.

  ‘Patsy must have said about my dragi. Sara asked me about him at the party. She’ll definitely tell Marta now.’

  ‘But what’s the problem?’

  ‘They’ll think badly of me. I don’t know if Tata told them, and they might think me untruthful. It’s difficult to explain. They won’t be happy I’ve had a boyfriend. What’s the English? Na povratak u ljubavi is how we say it at home, that I’m bouncing back, settling for second-best. That’s the last thing they’d want for their precious son.’

  ‘You’re reading too much into things. Your dragi was just your boyfriend and you’ve been here, what?’ Joy counted the months on her fingers. ‘Gosh! It’s over eight months already. Marta will understand. She was young once. These things happen. They’ll be fine.’

  ‘I hope you’re right. Dallies can be over-protective about matters of the heart — especially the parents.’ I paused, searching Joy’s face. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure how Roko will react either.’

  ‘Roko will be fine, trust me.’ Joy’s face turned serious. ‘He’d be the last one to worry. Take it one step at a time. Polako, polako.’

  I hugged her. ‘I’m sorry for lying, and thanks. I wouldn’t have survived here without you.’

  ‘Well, it’s time for my best advice yet.’ Joy’s expression was impish. ‘Go catch that Roko. He’s a good one. Worth the chase.’

  NOVEMBER

  It took another two weeks, into November. Roko and I had been skirting around each other, perfecting our strange dance. It was as though, having crossed to a place of greater familiarity before Joy’s party, we had lost the knack of feeling comfortable, neither of us knowing the rules any more. Our conversations had reverted to the banal, but each exchange carried an undercurrent, a suggestion that we were on the cusp of change.

  Roko instigated this change, surprising me after our Friday night meal. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask,’ he said, from the chair in front of the fireplace. ‘Dad’s loaned me the car. Can I take you for a drive tomorrow?’

  Somehow I managed to answer as though this was nothing out of the ordinary. ‘I’d love that. What time shall I be ready?’

  ‘I thought about ten, if that fits with your plans?’

  ‘Ten should work fine,’ I said, smiling at the absurdity and moving into the kitchen. Mass on Sunday was the only fixed plan I ever had.

  After tidying the few remaining dishes I made to leave. ‘I’m off. See you tomorrow. Don’t be late!’ My heart felt as though it was perched on my chest, pounding at my own front door so hard I worried Roko might hear it.

  He waved his arm, not bothering to turn around. ‘I’ll be there. Make sure you’re ready.’

  I bolted for the back porch, desperate to get some fresh air. The moon floated high, a luminous ball with clouds stretched across its face. The evening was mild but even so, shivers travelled up my spine. I reassured myself: the danger period had passed. Surely Sara would have already said something to Marta or Petra? Perhaps Tata had told them about my dragi and they were relieved it was over?

  Closer to Marta and Stipan’s, I allowed myself the luxury of feeling excited about what the next day might bring, smiling as I reflected on some of the funny moments over the past weeks: his hand brushing mine as he handed me his dinner plate; both reaching for the salt shaker then hiding behind a gabble of words with no meaning or context — saying plenty and yet nothing at all. I did a little dance up the pathway but at the front porch my stomach gripped and gnawed. Why should I assume everything had smoothed over? Marta could just as likely be waiting, ready to drill me with questions. I pushed at the door, trying not to make a sound.

  ‘That you, Gabrijela?’ Marta peered from around the bathroom door. ‘How’s our Roko?’

  ‘Fine,’ I said, my voice a little too sharp.

  ‘Hmmph! Stipan tells me Roko’s taking you for a drive in the morning. You’ll do well to get your beauty sleep. Laku noć.’ She closed the door with a sharp click.

  ‘Laku noć,’ I whispered, opening the door to my bedroom, my prayers ready to flow.

  My fingers danced over my rosary beads as I spoke with God: Please give me strength for what lies ahead; let me know that what I feel for Roko is true and that I can trust my feelings — that I’m not settling for second best.

  After breakfast I kept my bedroom door ajar, listening out for Roko. I wished I had something new to wear, something fresh like the trim three-quarter-length pants Joy’s mum had just made her — pedal-pushers, Joy called them. My navy
-and-white-striped dress would have to do, the one I’d worn on the plane coming over, the one with the flyaway skirt. I pushed aside the Marta curtains — not enough wind to cause problems — then crossed back to the mirror to touch up my lipstick, cringing at my reflection, remembering how wide-eyed I’d been during my first dreadful days here.

  ‘Jela,’ Marta called. ‘Our Roko’s waiting.’

  How had I not heard him? I gathered up the handbag Hana had given me recently and made him wait another minute. Marta, Stipan and Roko were crowded close to the back door when I joined them. I hung back by the kitchen and Roko flashed me a nervous smile. He had taken care with his appearance too. His hair still looked damp and he wore the smart shirt from Joy’s party, loose this time over a singlet and shorts, the sleeves rolled up. His milky-white feet were in clunky brown sandals, the same type Stipan wore.

  ‘Ah, Jela,’ said Stipan, his face breaking into a kind smile. ‘You’re off on a special trip today?’

  ‘Lucky me,’ I said, eyes down, unable to look, my mind cartwheeling.

  Would those feet ever darken and catch up? There must be hope. Stipan had worn the heavy quarry boots for years and yet didn’t flaunt the same tan line.

  ‘Time to get going. Don’t want to waste this weather,’ said Roko, breaking the awkward silence.

  Marta stared at me. ‘We’ll still be here. Did you forget about food, Jela?’ There was no time to answer. ‘Lucky I’ve packed a picnic. It’s in the boot.’

  I wanted to be grateful, but why was she always so difficult? Pauline dashed across my mind again.

  Roko pecked Marta on the cheek. ‘Thanks, Mum. Let’s hit the track, Jela.’

  From Mount Wellington we skirted around the outskirts of Ellerslie and Remuera, across the Orakei basin, past the Hobson Bay boat sheds lined up like toy sheds and onto Tamaki Drive. The Waitemata Harbour sparkled like a jewel and the landmarks I was accustomed to seeing on my Sunday drives with Stipan and Marta looked different, as though I was seeing them with new eyes: Rangitoto, the city’s most distinctive volcano, was now a hump-shaped lizard lazing in the harbour.