The Telling Time : A Historical Family Saga Read online

  ‘Yes, yes,’ the man cut in. ‘But Pauline. Her belongings, please.’ He swept the photo in a wide circle as though asking Pauline to scan the room.

  ‘Rings!’ Justine chimed in, tapping at her own finger. ‘Her clothes.’ She patted at the sleeve of her dress.

  ‘We collect them,’ Peter said, staring at me to check I had understood.

  I had, but I wasn’t sure where these things were or, more importantly, whether they had the right to take them. I nodded, trying to give the impression that I was taking everything in slowly. ‘I get Marta.’

  ‘No!’ Justine cried. ‘Police.’

  She dug in her handbag, producing a letter and waving the official-looking paper at me. On it was a picture of some scales within the printed header, and a stamp at the bottom. Justine tapped, tapped, tapped at the paper.

  I assumed Pauline’s things were in the master bedroom, but I only went in there to make Roko’s bed, dust and vacuum, or to put a pile of folded washing on his bed. I hadn’t seen anything belonging to Pauline. Besides, it would feel wrong to snoop.

  ‘Roko home soon,’ I said, pointing to the clock on the wall.

  Justine and Peter exchanged tense looks and talked in hushed voices, their words spilling out so quickly that I couldn’t make sense of them.

  ‘We will wait,’ said Peter finally. ‘Here, for Roko.’

  He seemed grateful when I handed him the newspaper. I scuttled into the kitchen and set about preparing Roko’s favourite sandwich: egg mayonnaise with a dash of curry — the secret ingredient I’d tasted in the sandwiches on my first afternoon; the first thing Marta had taught me how to make. The comforting aromas of onion, tomato and beef stock were already settling around the kitchen from the osso buco bubbling in the oven. Marta had handed me her recipe that morning along with some beef shanks — substitutes for the veal. I hummed as I mashed the eggs with a fork, partly to ease the silence, but also because the kitchen was my domain and someone else was the outsider for once.

  Roko swooped down the driveway at his usual time, 4.30 p.m. I snuck a glance towards the visitors. Their backs were still turned. I crept around the corner and out the back door. Roko sat on the porch pulling off his work boots. ‘Visitors,’ I whispered urgently, pointing inside. ‘Peter. Justine.’ I scanned his face for a reaction.

  He frowned and scratched the top of his ear. ‘Ach! Wait here,’ he said curtly, heaving himself to standing.

  I edged back against the house. Roko brushed past me but left the back door wide open. I ducked into the wash-house, snatched up a broom and made myself busy clearing the quarry dust off the porch but peeking through the door. They were congregated in the centre of the room. Justine was shouting and shaking a piece of paper in Roko’s face. Roko stood stock-still, hands on his hips. I moved on to sweep the small courtyard area. Peter was rubbing Justine’s arm as though trying to calm her.

  Roko threw his hands skyward. ‘All right! All right!’ he yelled, storming from the room. I brushed the debris into a pile. Peter and Justine were whispering, their heads bowed close. Roko returned clutching a collection of bags, some overflowing, and dumped them at Justine’s feet. I didn’t need to understand more than a few words. ‘Take everything. Don’t come back!’

  When the front door slammed, Roko retreated up the hallway too.

  Roko was still bristling when we sat down for dinner. It was as though we were thrown back to how it had been in my first days at his house: strangers casting dark shadows, and me conscious of my every move. I hadn’t appreciated until then the small progress we had made. Roko had his head cast down. He seemed intent on shovelling his risotto and stew into his mouth.

  I grabbed at the confidence I’d felt earlier, unable to bear the silence for one minute longer. ‘I met the lady. Next door one,’ I said, my cutlery poised as though floating above my dinner plate.

  ‘Joy Johnstone,’ Roko replied tersely. ‘She’s one who likes to know what’s going on.’

  I lowered my knife and fork, waiting for him to say more. He took another mouthful and chewed noisily. Again, I felt worthless in his eyes, desperate to be seen as a real person, someone worthy of conversation, a person others wanted to meet. We continued to eat in silence and a loud rap at the door came as a relief. Roko swivelled around. Hana, Roko’s other sister, popped her head around the door.

  ‘Surprise!’ she said, stepping inside and flinging her arms wide. ‘C’mon, give your big sister a hug.’

  Roko scrambled to his feet, his face creasing into a smile. He wrapped Hana in a warm embrace, and his shoulders seemed to relax as though a weight lifted off him.

  I had met Hana at the Dally picnic. She seemed kinder than her older sister but I couldn’t be sure as I’d only talked to her briefly. They were both much older than me — Petra by fifteen years, and Hana, eleven — and both had husbands and children. I was envious of their looks, their beautiful olive skin offsetting their dark eyes and hair. If it wasn’t for the way they wore their hair they might have been twins. Hana wore hers short and styled in soft curls around her face, much like Marta’s, whereas Petra’s high ponytail made her brow look stretched and taut.

  ‘Where’ve you been hiding?’ Hana said to Roko in Croatian as though making sure to include me, which gave me confidence that my initial impressions had been right. ‘It’s been ages. I brought the boys to see Mum and Dad. Dida’s got them busy in the chook house. Thought I’d take my chance to escape.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Petra’s there with Mum.’

  Marta was always saying, Petra leads such a busy life — three teenage daughters, you know. Was Hana inviting me in on a joke? Petra always had time to visit her mama, and I suspected she was the type who liked to look busy. Regardless, her effect on me was always the same: anything I tried to say always came out in a jumbled mess.

  Hana took the seat at the far end of the table so that Roko was opposite and I was in between. ‘Yum, dinner looks good,’ she said.

  ‘Would you like some?’ I made to get up from the table, embarrassed I hadn’t offered sooner.

  ‘Should have saved room,’ said Hana, brushing me off. ‘No, I’ve eaten. You carry on. I wanted to make sure I met you properly. I feel terrible I got dragged off at the picnic. How are you finding things?’

  ‘It was a day for visitors,’ I said, smiling, wanting to show my appreciation that she was taking an interest, that she was bothering to speak to me. ‘I met the lady next door and this afternoon we had some other visitors.’ I stopped short, sensing Roko’s glare. Why did I always speak without thinking? But my tongue felt loose, as though all the exciting things wanted the chance to escape.

  ‘Don’t mind him,’ said Hana, her smile reassuring. ‘Must have been Joy. She’s great fun. Who were the visitors?’

  ‘Peter and Justine,’ Roko cut in, rubbing at his face as though even saying their names was exhausting.

  ‘Really?’ said Hana, flicking me a worried glance. ‘Must be a relief to have that over.’

  Roko was balancing on the rear legs of his chair. He took a deep breath. ‘Had to happen, I guess. Been dreading it though.’ He closed his eyes.

  I looked to Hana for guidance and mouthed, Should I go? But she flapped her hand, signalling for me to stay. ‘What did they want?’ she asked, after what seemed the longest time.

  ‘The last of her things.’ Roko opened his eyes and crashed forward on his chair. ‘Damn it!’ He thumped the table. ‘I wanted to hold on to something small. A reminder . . . despite everything.’

  ‘That’s understandable,’ said Hana, hands on the table, pushing herself to stand. ‘But it’s important to let go as well. You were too wrapped up in her, even you’ve admitted that.’

  I stayed seated, frozen to the spot while Hana went to comfort Roko. I knew what he meant. I had just one photo of my love, but it wasn’t as important as his knitted vest, which over the past weeks had helped me through the lonely times. At night I’d breathe him back into my room, holding his vest up
to my face, recapturing his smell. Each morning I would reach for it again and cradle him to my chest. His vest was all I had to hang on to. That, and his promises. Roko’s head was down. Hana kneaded his shoulders.

  ‘From the photo, you both looked happy,’ I said. ‘Seems such a shame.’

  Hana rolled her eyes at me. ‘Our Roko was like a puppy dog. Pauline cast a spell on this tough-nut brother of mine.’ She squeezed Roko’s shoulder. ‘That’s right isn’t it?’

  Roko glanced up with a faraway expression. ‘She’s a great girl. Just couldn’t beat the booze. It changed her. Changed everything. She’s better off in the hospital. But it’s over for us.’

  ‘It’s better,’ said Hana. ‘We all tried our best but it’s time to move on. Put it down to experience.’

  ‘How long were you married?’ I asked, my heart like a drill in my chest. It seemed we were conversing on a knife edge and I didn’t know how deep I could go.

  ‘Four years. I was just twenty-two. She was twenty. Both too young.’

  I didn’t think they were too young. My dragi and I had talked about marriage.

  ‘Do you still see Pauline?’ I asked.

  Roko looked startled. Perhaps it was me mentioning her name. ‘At the start. Not now,’ he said gruffly, as though he was flicking the switch on our conversation and the old Roko was back.

  ‘It’s good to talk about these things,’ said Hana, her voice business-like. ‘You know the family’s been missing you?’ She tapped her brother’s shoulder. ‘I’d better get going. Mum will wonder where I am.’

  ‘Time for the dishes,’ I said, standing to gather the plates, pleased to have an excuse. ‘I’ll leave you two to say goodbye. Lovely seeing you again, Hana.’

  I stood at the kitchen sink with the dinner dishes strewn about. It seemed Roko had been cloaking his sadness with surliness and deep down, despite everything, I was pleased that he and Hana shared a close bond. I thought about my brother Josip, how he had failed me by swallowing Tata’s concocted story, how over the years we had grown apart. Even though Josip had his sights set on taking over our family’s fishing business, I suspected he was frustrated that it was me being sent away on what he thought was a big adventure. We were so different, but how had he not realised that I’d envisaged a smaller step to escape our hemmed-in life on Korčula, maybe to one of the bigger cities on the mainland, somewhere like Split, Dubrovnik, Zagreb even — not this place half a world away. He was too caught up in himself, too short-sighted to see, but that was no excuse.

  I hung the tea towel on the oven door to dry and collected my things. Roko was nowhere to be seen, but I left feeling certain there would be a letter waiting from my love back at Marta and Stipan’s. After a day which finished so differently from how it began, this would be the perfect finish. But it wasn’t to be.

  APRIL

  Friday was bathroom day. It didn’t start well. When I hung my towels out, Joy’s washing was already flapping and she was nowhere to be seen. True to her word, Joy had become my language teacher, conducting our classes most mornings over the back fence. Without this bright point my day would drag even more. Joy was my yardstick for all that I aspired to in this new country — her busy life and the way she dressed, just like the well-groomed ladies smiling at me from the magazines. At first I’d hoped for more, that we might become friends like the regular stream of ladies who visited her home, but I’d had to console myself with being grateful for what we did share, and on this of all days, I was denied.

  I stomped back inside, forcing myself to voice the words, to issue my ultimatum. ‘Still no letter. No more chances. He’s finished!’

  Instead of feeling empowered, my voice sounded unsure. Desperate. But after all these weeks, ten in total, I could not play this tortuous game for one day longer. My excuses for my dragi had worn as thin as the blue aerogramme his words should have arrived on: he must be busy in his new job; his letters have got lost; Tata has intercepted them.

  I carried the radio through to the bathroom, grateful for Aunt Daisy’s distraction but feeling jittery. It was as though my body was dosed on nervous energy, the kind you get when you wish so hard for something that might just as likely end in disappointment. How had my dragi pushed me to this? He’d promised me he would come, to hell with the rest of them, and I’d believed him, trusted that he loved me as much as I loved him. How could he have loved me like he had, if all he was doing was spinning me lies?

  Aunt Daisy prattled on but I couldn’t focus. Even when ‘Splish Splash’, one of my favourite songs played I couldn’t summon the energy to sing along, let alone hum. It was as though I couldn’t get comfortable with how I was feeling: anticipation, fear, annoyance? Perhaps I was just hungry? I scrubbed at the bath, thoughts of my dragi pushing this way and that.

  ‘Gabrijela!’ Marta called from somewhere at the rear of the house.

  Could her timing be any worse? I was always wary of her popping in, certain she was checking up on me. My mind traced back to the kitchen, trying to remember what state I’d left it in.

  ‘I’m here,’ I called, determined to keep the exhaustion from my voice.

  ‘Just passing,’ said Marta, closer now. ‘You mentioned fish for dinner. You could join me for a walk to the shops. Come on then!’

  Fresh air might help, I thought. I retrieved the red zipped purse containing Roko’s housekeeping money from the kitchen then unhooked the jute shopping bag from its spot in the porch. After clicking the back door shut, I hurried to catch Marta, who was already halfway down the driveway, her black shopping trundler an extension of her arm. Marta did everything at speed, with a focus on efficiency. I clutched the jute bag close, enjoying the sun on my face. The autumn sky was cloudless, the clearest of blues, a stunning backdrop to the bronzed gold, yellow and orange tones surrounding us. Surely my dragi couldn’t ruin this day. But even as I willed it to be so, a shiver traced my spine. We’d been enjoying a spate of warm, sunny weather throughout April, and yet still there had been no letter. Tears pricked my eyes. Soiled goods, Tata yelling those same words. Please God, make Tata wrong.

  I drew alongside Marta and we walked in silence. I had come to accept this, conceding that I would have been lost without her in my first weeks. Not only had she introduced me to the local shop owners and helped restock Roko’s pantry, but she’d gone out of her way to set me up with personal necessities: sanitary items, toiletries, and a large stash of aerogrammes and stamps. I sensed that, underneath her brusque exterior, she understood how I was feeling, that perhaps she remembered what it was like when she’d come here herself, how much she had found strange. Regardless, I knew how to play her game: Marta fulfilled her duty to look out for me provided I understood I was a nuisance. If she felt talkative, we talked, but if she didn’t instigate conversation I knew to remain silent.

  We passed by Joy’s white picket fence and I glanced across, wondering what jobs Joy would have on her list for the day. A low bed of red and orange flowers licked the base of her house like a ribbon of fire. Was it the bright sunlight or had those flowers bloomed overnight? I had passed by so often and yet never noticed them before. Perhaps there was only so much newness a person could absorb. Perhaps this was God’s way of cushioning the change. A sleight of hand. By revealing the novelty, piece by tortuous piece, new immigrants might be tricked into thinking their world hadn’t morphed into something more shocking. It might be the colour of a house that I could swear had been painted overnight, or a street sign with words I felt certain I’d never seen before. Even the shape of the streetlights or the markings on the roads could differ from one day to the next. At times, over the past months, I had become a master of masquerade too, but perhaps this element of trickery is the same for anyone moving to a country where the language is not their own?

  ‘You look pale. Everything all right?’ she said, matter of fact. I snapped my head to catch her eye. ‘You seem distracted, that’s all.’

  ‘Just a little queasy,’ I said.
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  ‘Make sure to wash your hands. Can’t afford germs spreading.’

  Once we rounded the corner at the end of the street the cries from the school playground echoed from further ahead. A short woman behind a pram moved towards us. Joy? At once I was on quicksand where nothing felt certain. Having not told Marta about my friendship, I worried she might not approve, that like Roko she might consider Joy nosey. As she drew closer, Joy’s hair was a flash of copper, the sun glinting off the tips and curtaining her face in a warm glow.

  Marta’s face gave nothing away. I worried what Joy might expect. Whether she would think it rude that I hadn’t waved out as I would usually do, or whether, like me, she was worried about Marta being there, given how she shied away from talk about Roko or his family. Would she want me to pretend we didn’t know each other? Joy jolted her pram to a halt, the black-and-cream carriage jouncing on the small spoked wheels.

  ‘Mrs Tomich, Jela, lovely to see you,’ she said, but her worried crease told me she felt as uncertain as me.

  ‘Joy,’ said Marta with a curt nod.

  For the briefest moment we all faced off like wary cats. Joy gripped the curved chrome handlebar, her eyes refusing to find mine. I was relieved when Marta stepped forward to peer into the pram. ‘How’s the little man?’ she asked, her voice still stern.

  I sidled up beside Marta. Her baby, David, had wrestled his legs free from the blankets. He was kicking upwards, arching his back.

  ‘He’s fine,’ said Joy, leaning in from the opposite side, cocooning him again with his blankets. ‘Just been to see the Plunket nurse.’

  ‘He’s sick?’ I asked, forgetting my nerves.

  ‘All fine,’ said Joy. ‘Just a regular check for his height and weight. Did you use Plunket when the kiddies were little, Mrs Tomich?’ Even though she was speaking slowly, it was torture to keep up compared with our lessons across the back fence.