The Telling Time : A Historical Family Saga Read online

  Again I took in all that was new: The streams of well-dressed people, the complicated patterns of gleaming white rails and manicured flower beds, the cars and umbrellas and yet more crowds of people, many jammed inside the centre of the track — some racing from one set of rails to another, cheering their horses on. The race master spoke so fast that I couldn’t understand a word. I had asked Roko about the miniature men and he’d been unable to hide his amusement when he explained they were jockeys. I loved how their vibrant silks contrasted with their constrained white jodhpurs and shiny black boots.

  There had been a number of races already. The horses, all tagged by numbers, had thundered around the track, hooves flying, their jockeys perched like flies. I struggled to tell them apart and their colours, so distinctive close up, blurred on the far rails. It was never clear to me how many times the horses would go around the track before finishing. I’d made a fool of myself in one of the earlier races, clapping and cheering, thinking the race was finished, when in fact it was only partway through. Hana and Tracy had teased me, but I’d learned now to gauge where the race was at from the fervour of the crowd, or by how many words the race master tried to cram in, or by the way the jockeys lifted their white bottoms in the air, tensing their knees while urging their charges on.

  Roko tapped me on the shoulder again, flapping his race book. I expected he wanted to explain more of his secret information about the horses and their form.

  ‘Time to try out your betting skills,’ he said. ‘Shall we go see the horses up close?’

  I picked my way past all the knees to join Roko at the end of the row. He guided me down the central concrete steps, his hand at my back. The morning haze had burned off to a blue-sky special. I shielded my eyes against the flat glare, and we weaved our way through the crowds towards the birdcage enclosure for a last look at the horses before they went off to race. We leant against the white railing, and Roko held his magic race book out front, pointing at each horse and at the information on the page. The trainers, all turned out like businessmen in suits and hats, paraded the ten or so horses around the ring. Their charges were brushed to a high sheen and up close they looked powerful, lean and keen and strong. It seemed to me that those horses held all the cards: it was them leading the men to a business deal, not the other way around. I had no need for Roko’s details.

  ‘You can tell a lot from looking,’ I said.

  Roko raised his eyebrows and I could tell he thought me naive, that I knew nothing about horses and betting. I didn’t let on that I’d chosen my horse the moment she entered the ring — a chestnut mare with a lustrous coat and a white streak running down her nose like a lightning bolt. I’d noticed the way she pricked up her ears and nodded when the trainer leant in to pat her neck. She was strong and ready to run the race of her life. I could just tell.

  ‘I like the look of number fourteen,’ I said.

  Roko checked in his magic book. ‘Red Glare. No past form.’

  ‘That’s the one. You’d better show me how to place a bet.’

  Roko frowned. ‘Keep your money in your purse. Might as well back a donkey.’

  I said nothing. Fourteen was the sum of five and nine and having nearly made it through 1959, if this horse could overcome the others in the race, it would be a sign. Roko led me over to the stand of totes in the area behind the grandstand where we waited in line at the row of small windows. I clutched my money in my hand, and when we got to the front the woman behind the counter leant forward, close to the glass window.

  ‘What’ll it be?’ she said through a cut-out hole.

  I pushed my ten shillings under the slot. ‘Number 14. For a win, please.’

  She pushed a ticket back. ‘Good luck, Missy.’

  We walked down to the front rails to watch the race. The starting pistol cracked and the horses launched forward. I strained to see Red Glare but it was impossible. The noise was deafening and it was only when they came down the final straight that I picked out the race master’s words: And, number fourteen. Number fourteen, Red Glare is ahead by half a length. Red Glare . . . Red Glare . . . she wins! I jumped up and down pumping my fist in the air.

  ‘Looks like I should keep you on,’ said Roko, grudgingly. He pulled me into an awkward hug.

  I rubbed my hands together like an excited child, knowing that his pride would be dented. ‘Goes to show you shouldn’t be too calculating. That gambles can pay off. Horses are a lot like men.’ The look in his eyes told me he understood my meaning.

  My winnings, twenty-five pounds, were a fortune. With that much money I could buy the hat of my dreams, something much nicer than Marta’s. Best of all though, Red Glare had thrown me a lifeline. If things didn’t work out, I could afford to rent a room somewhere, take my time finding a new job.

  We re-joined Roko’s family. They had laid out picnic rugs under the shade of some lacy silver birch trees in the car park. Petra and Andrew’s car was parked up close to shield off the spot and a large brown bottle of DB stood like a trophy on the car’s roof. The men, suit jackets and ties off, shirtsleeves rolled up, leant against the car, each holding a picnic glass of beer. Stipan and Franjo puffed on cigarettes. The five children were sprawled on a tartan rug, the boys with their socks off. They were in fits of laughter at Hana’s youngest, Peter, who was wiggling his arms and legs in the air like a beetle on its back.

  ‘No more giggle juice for you lot!’ Stipan called.

  ‘We’ve got a winner,’ Roko announced. ‘Seems Jela can pick ’em. She’s just won twenty-five quid.’

  The children cheered and raised their colourful plastic cups.

  ‘Bravo!’ called Tracy who was chatting with Hana beside one of the rugs. Hana clapped too.

  ‘Keep her on, then, Roko,’ said Franjo, raising his glass.

  ‘Who was your pick, Jela?’ Stipan asked.

  ‘Red Glare,’ I said, turning to the children and giving them my best impression of an angry stare. Peter let out a peel of laughter. My sense of empowerment felt wonderful, as though my winnings were a cloak of armour.

  Marta, Petra and Kate were busy unpacking containers of food from the picnic baskets. ‘Well done, Jela,’ Kate called out.

  I walked across to help with the food. ‘Beginner’s luck?’ said Petra, stretching out her white-gloved hand to pass me a plate of ham sandwiches.

  ‘A little luck goes a long way,’ said Kate, winking.

  ‘Luck and good judgement,’ I said, flashing Petra a smug smile. I pointed to the empty rug beside the children. ‘Shall I put the food there?’

  ‘Thanks.’ Petra’s voice was clipped.

  I’d offered to make food, but Marta had insisted it’s all covered. Her comments from a few weeks back still stung: Baking’s a skill you either have or you don’t. Better to focus on getting the language right. I wondered if Marta would ever allow me to contribute. It was no consolation that Tracy hadn’t been asked to bring anything either. Regardless, there was an impressive selection: Marta’s gigantic bacon-and-egg pie, Petra’s shortbread and slab of fruit cake, punnets of fresh strawberries which Hana had collected from a stall in Henderson, and a mountain of sandwiches made by Kate.

  ‘Come and eat before the sun ruins it,’ said Marta, clapping her hands like a school mistress.

  ‘Would any of you ladies like a shandy?’ Stipan called over.

  ‘Yes. Lovely, Dad,’ said Petra.

  I didn’t know what a shandy was. Normally I would have asked Hana, but she was engrossed talking to Tracy. I decided to risk asking Petra. Maybe Hana was right in saying that sometimes Petra felt left out, that I should give her a chance.

  ‘What’s a shandy?’ I asked in a low voice.

  ‘A mix of beer and lemonade. It’s refreshing — why not try it?’

  She sounded pleased to be asked, and after getting my food I made a point of sitting next to her on the rug. I was still feeling charged from all the adrenalin racing through me. Roko delivered our drinks and I flashed him
a smile.

  ‘Živjeli!’ I said, clinking Petra’s cup with mine.

  ‘And to you,’ she said.

  I took a sip of the drink. Petra was right. The combination of cold and sweet was refreshing and I hadn’t realised I was so thirsty.

  ‘Our Roko seems happy,’ she said.

  ‘I’m happy too.’ If this was all it took to get Petra on my side I’d been a fool for waiting so long.

  ‘I trust he’s not playing second fiddle?’ she said, under her breath, wagging her white index finger. ‘Sara told me you’re stringing along someone else back home.’

  My heart raced, and my cheeks started to burn. Why had I sat next to her? ‘I’m very fond of your brother,’ I said, willing my voice not to waver. My nerves jangled as though electricity was pulsing through me. What would it take to be accepted by this family? Petra gave me a withering stare and I wanted to throw my shandy in her stony face. I might as well have handed myself on a plate for her to cut me up into tiny pieces.

  ‘Do Mum and Dad know about your secret man? I can’t imagine they would’ve subsidised your living here if they’d known the truth.’

  Red Glare was back and I felt a rush of determination. I could either accept the curse or fight it. Now I had the wherewithal to live wherever I might choose, there was no need to pander to Petra. ‘Why don’t you ask them, Petra? In fact, why don’t you ask Roko what he thinks?’

  For a moment she looked shocked, then the old Petra returned, making it clear she couldn’t bear the sight of me, her ponytail flicking like Marta’s fly swat as she turned away.

  I scrambled to my feet, desperate to escape, knocking over my drink. The pale amber liquid dribbled in slow motion across the rug and seeped under Petra’s polka-dot skirt.

  Moments later, Petra was on her feet as well. ‘Oooh! Yuck,’ she said, patting at her wet skirt. She pulled off her gloves and threw them on the ground like rubbish.

  Marta rushed across with a pile of serviettes. ‘Has our Jela been a little clumsy?’ said Marta, dabbing at Petra’s bottom. ‘Too excitable after your big win? Don’t worry, Draga, it will dry in a flash. I’m sure we can get the stain out.’

  ‘Who cares about the stain?’ said Petra, lowering her voice. ‘How much did you know about our Jela? Apparently, she’s stringing a man along at home.’

  For a moment there was silence. ‘Come over here, please, Roko,’ I said, my voice sounding loud and brave although my legs felt like jelly. ‘Your sister’s got something to say.’

  Petra shook her head. Everyone stared our way but nobody talked, not even the children. Roko placed his picnic tumbler on the roof of the car and stepped forward.

  ‘Really?’ said Marta, her voice high-pitched. ‘I didn’t know this. Is it true, Jela?’

  It was too late for stories. The truth was my only option. I shuffled close to Marta and Petra and said under my breath, ‘There was someone. I thought he was coming, but it’s over. He let me down.’

  ‘How well did you know this man?’ said Marta, outraged. She glanced towards the children and when she turned back her face was twisted into a scowl. ‘I hope not too well,’ she muttered.

  Roko was beside me now, his arm around my shoulders drawing me close. Having felt so brave I was now close to tears. ‘What’s the problem?’ he asked.

  I stared at the trampled buttercups and daisies feeling certain that now the Tomić family suspected it, they would want nothing more to do with me.

  ‘I was just telling Mum about Jela’s other man back home,’ said Petra, pleased with herself. ‘I thought you should know before you took things further. It’s not the best way to start off again, is it?’

  ‘And,’ Roko said, ‘what’s the problem? What makes you think I wouldn’t already know?’ He squeezed my shoulder but I didn’t dare look up.

  ‘You want to be careful, Roko,’ said Marta. ‘Don’t settle for second best.’

  ‘Jela is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, so stop your meddling. Both of you.’

  I couldn’t look at Marta and Petra, but I squeezed Roko around his waist, feeling a rush of pride. Another of Mama’s sayings played in my head: doće maca na vratanca — the cat always comes to the tiny door. What goes around comes around, Petra.

  Without another word, Roko ambled back to join the men by the car. Marta and Petra bustled off to the picnic baskets under the trees. Kate joined me, pulling me to one side. ‘Your story’s not so different from mine. I wish you all the best. You seem a great match.’

  Our stories were similar although I doubted Kate would have a chapter to forget like my own. But unlike Kate, I was grateful to have been given the opportunity to get to know Roko malo po malo, little by little. I thought again how Kate must have felt when she first arrived, and about my own first impressions of Roko. It was strange thinking about Tata’s role in all of this. But even if my coming to New Zealand had been a setup, and Tata had been complicit in the tangle of mistruths which had led me to Roko, it made no difference — I would never, ever, be able to forgive him.

  I thought about my winnings, that wad of possibility, the freedom they could buy me. Ever since my picnic with Roko I’d been tossing around the same questions. Was I settling for second best? Rushing into another bad decision? Choosing a life that was the same as what I’d been running from on the other side of the world? I hadn’t yet told Roko the full story, and I wasn’t sure if I’d ever feel brave enough. And what if my dragi did show up with an explanation? How would I feel? It was as though at times, that man still had me under his spell.

  There were too many questions and only one certainty. Roko might not have all the charisma of that other man, but he had just stood up for me in a way my dragi never had, even when I had needed him to most. I thought back over the year that had been. How that persimmon tree was heavy again with bright green leaves. How, despite autumn wreaking havoc that tree had flaunted its bounty like beacons of hope through into winter. If I could let my doubts fall away, let them wither to dust, then just as spring predictably follows winter with new life, everything might set hard and fast in its rightful place — even by the next summer.

  Luisa, 1989

  Auckland & Yugoslavia

  JANUARY

  Luisa storms onto the front porch of Mike’s flat, a dilapidated Grey Lynn villa. He won’t get away with this. She pounds her fist on the wooden door which now feels more like a barricade. Where the hell is he? She’s hardly slept all night. If he was out training he’d be back. It takes all her self-control not to yell out. It wouldn’t do for the neighbours to hear. Gossip’s the last thing Luisa needs. A childhood spent at the Dally club educated her on that. She learnt early on to keep her personal life close and not disclose any tantalising titbits to be shared among the well-meaning ladies, many of whom are Mum’s friends. Mike hasn’t been to the club. She couldn’t bear the raised eyebrows — Dally boys are tops and any others are likely to be trouble. She pounds her fist again. Maybe it won’t come to that.

  A fat blowfly bombs into the porch to begin an agitated dance, sheering past her ear and ricocheting between the peeling weatherboards in the confined space. This heat is making us all half-mad. Luisa slams her fist into the door again. Where the hell is he? The fly goes quiet, maybe knocked itself out. She checks her watch, it’s just before midday. Surely he can’t still be in bed? But then again . . . You can do this, she reassures herself, although she’s not quite sure just what ‘this’ even is.

  Footsteps. Luisa collapses her arm and smears both palms down the front of her hot-pink boob-tube dress. The towelling fabric soaks up her nerves, a positive she hadn’t considered when pulling on the dress.

  Mike’s flatmate, Geoff, stands at the door. ‘Luisa! Come on in.’ It sounds like a wary question rather than a greeting.

  ‘Thanks,’ she says, stepping into the gloomy space where the bedrooms are lined up, two on each side, all the doors closed. Geoff heads down the narrow hallway and raps on Mike’s door. This f
eels so odd — that bedroom she knows so well.

  ‘Hey, mate, Luisa’s here,’ he calls, glancing back.

  She feels on show, a pink warning sign. It’s a few moments before Mike’s muffled call comes from the opposite side of the hallway. The hairs on Luisa’s neck prickle and a shiver runs through her.

  ‘I’ll go put the jug on,’ says Geoff, scurrying off.

  So, Amanda hadn’t been telling tales. They had bumped into Geoff and his girlfriend outside the movie theatre last night. Luisa was there with her best friend Niamh, and Bex, a new teacher at Niamh’s primary school. Luisa had invited Mike, but he’d declined. Babe, I’d rather be home sticking pins in my eyes. She’d known Rain Man wouldn’t appeal — Mike preferred action over drama — besides, it was a good chance to catch up with Niamh and meet her new friend. Well, it was, until Amanda pulled Luisa aside.

  Luisa hadn’t said a word to Niamh, making her excuses to head home rather than join them both for a nightcap. Bex had protested but Niamh, bless her, knew Luisa wouldn’t be swayed. Niamh’s one of her oldest friends. They went right through primary school and McCauley Catholic College together. Niamh knows Luisa as well as anyone.

  Luisa closes her eyes as the grim facts settle. Mike emerges, bare-chested. He’s so careful to close Fleur’s bedroom door that it sounds like a whisper. When he moves towards Luisa it’s with the same cocksure swagger that over the months she convinced herself she was comfortable with. What a fool she’s been.

  ‘Guess we’ve got some talking to do,’ he says, pushing the door to his room wide. He dredges his hands through his shaggy black hair as though ransacking it. So, it’s confirmed. Fleur, the spunky new flatmate, has replaced her.

  Luisa brushes past him, turning on him the moment he shuts the door. ‘How could you?’ She shoves him in the chest with both hands.