The Telling Time : A Historical Family Saga Page 6

‘Couldn’t have survived without them,’ said Marta, straightening and squinting towards the shops. ‘Gabrijela, we should go.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, looking to Joy, my mouth set like an apology, willing her to see my discomfort and not blame me for Marta’s rudeness.

  ‘I’m off too. Wee David needs a drink. See you next week, Jela.’

  I edged up beside Marta, anticipating her outburst. ‘You want to be careful,’ Marta said, quickening her pace. ‘That girl’s not to be trusted.’

  No wonder Joy hadn’t invited me to her place. It was likely she would never get to know the real me. Would she even want to? My heart sank at the thought of returning to the isolation I’d felt in those first few weeks, the possibility that I might always feel like a paper cut-out of my former self, someone with no substance in this country.

  Marta waved and called out to a lady across the road. She looked dressed to go to town: white gloves; shiny black handbag; and her pièce de résistance, a purple ruched hat, velvet perhaps, gracing her head in the softest of folds like whipped cream. The lady waved and climbed into a car beside a man who waved too as they drove off.

  We reached the school, and the children’s cries filling the playground sounded like a discordant band of trainee musicians. Marta waved to a group of girls gathered by the fence who jiggled about returning her wave, seeming both shy and excited. It was the primary school which Roko and all the Tomić children had attended, so Marta always knew someone. It still baffled me how Tata could crush my dream of further education, how he could reduce me to a life of drudgery. Every time I passed this school my disappointment felt double edged; my dragi had rekindled my dream to become a teacher. I focused on the collection of shops at the end of the street. Surely those hopes wouldn’t be dashed again?

  ‘Cross,’ Marta said, her trundler crashing off the kerb. I nearly bumped into her. There was no need to cross for Simun’s shop?

  Then I saw them up ahead. The two women. One pushing a pram back and forth, the other grasping the hand of a toddler. They were always together, these two, as though one couldn’t exist without the other. Over the weeks I had tried to be friendly, saying hello, smiling, but they seemed determined to snub me.

  ‘Nothing better to do with themselves,’ grumbled Marta, her pace slowing as though she was reluctant to walk past them.

  I snuck a glance across the wide street, still trying to fathom Marta’s reaction. Both women had their heads locked together and then one shouted, ‘You lot should be ashamed! Disgusting, that’s what!’

  Marta winced as though she’d been struck by their venom. I looked behind, wondering who else might have heard but the street was deserted.

  ‘I’ll give you what!’ Marta cried, shaking her fist. ‘Katastrofa! You know nothing!’ She brushed past me, gripping my arm to tug me along. ‘Idiots! You’re not to talk to those girls, understood?’ Her face twisted in a scowl. I nodded, still too shocked to speak. Marta dropped my arm. ‘Good-for-nothing busybodies. They think our Roko’s to blame for Pauline and they’re determined to make my life hell. They won’t succeed, though! I could wring Pauline’s neck for all the trouble she’s caused our family.’

  Marta set off, unleashing her fury, the wheels of her trundler bashing against the pavement. Simun’s fish shop was our target and I struggled to keep up with her, not daring to look behind. I took a strange comfort, knowing it wasn’t me or my looks or the way I dressed that had caused those girls to avoid me. I had been tarnished by association. But what did she mean, disgusting? What had happened between Roko and Pauline? How well had Joy known Pauline? Had they been friends? I wished I could ask Joy, but any time Roko’s name came up she clammed up or changed the topic, as quick as a sprat dancing in the shallows.

  Marta pushed at Simun’s shop door. The bell tinkled, a welcome to safe ground. Simun emerged from the rear of the shop, his navy and white striped apron tied around his wiry frame. I let my breath go and checked the wall clock behind the counter. One hour until Mr Postie.

  At the gate I sent up another prayer. Please God, let there be a letter and I’ll never disappoint you again. Like Simun, I counted Mr Postie as a friendly face, and I was grateful to him for delivering my letters directly to Roko’s over the past month. In the corner of Joy’s garden, a tui hopped among the spindly limbs of a tree laden with red berries. As the bird alternated between feasting and singing, the white tuft at its throat bobbed and the sunlight showcased its iridescent bronze, blue and emerald feathers. I craned my neck down the street to where Mr Postie was rounding the corner, his bright red saddle bags hanging like targets. The letters came regularly: from Nada and Antica; Mare who wrote with news of Josip and Jakob; and Mama, bless her, who wrote without fail each week. It was always a relief, as though for a fleeting moment my friends and family were beside me. My hands felt clammy watching Mr Postie, who seemed to stop at every letterbox. The tui flew off, a noisy flurry of flapping wings, singing its goodbye.

  ‘Greetings, missy,’ Mr Postie said, drawing alongside Roko’s gate, touching his hand to his cap. He dug into his bag. ‘Three today.’

  I flicked through the mail. The brown envelope on the top was for Roko. Antica’s messy scrawl was on the blue aerogramme beneath. I knew it before I’d even uncovered the last one. A white envelope. Another letter for Roko. I stared at his house unable to move, swallowing down the last of my self-esteem, burying my sob as a gulp. The pretending was over. My dragi had led me on like a lapdog. I’d known it for weeks but I’d insisted on playing my stupid game.

  Somehow I dragged myself back to the house and closed the front door before slumping against the wall, sliding until I was seated on the bare floorboards, my legs outstretched. My thoughts crashed inside me, all-consuming waves which left me reeling and dizzy. A wave of nausea hit, impossible to contain, the bile rising in my throat then onto the floor beside me. Again and again I heaved. When I had nothing left to give, I edged away, inch by slow inch, pools of my vomit trailing me. I mustered the last of my reserves to turn my back on my stinking mess, curling into a tight ball, crushing my nose and mouth into my armpit to avoid the terrible stench. My head throbbed so hard I worried it might burst.

  When I forced myself to move it was as if I had aged twenty years. Stiff and sore, I set to cleaning up my mess. Then I forced myself out to the washing line, reasoning that it was best to regain some routine. I untied the rope and lowered the creaking wooden beam, but as I wrenched the towels off the line, piling them higher and higher into the basket, all I saw was a mountain of despair. What I had thought was love was no more than a cheap transaction. I had been seduced by that man’s charms and the lure of escape, a fool who refused to acknowledge the facts. Facing Roko would be impossible. I left him a note explaining that I was sick, and somehow made it back along the street to Stipan and Marta’s. By God’s grace, Marta didn’t question me but shuffled me into my bedroom instead.

  Once I lay down, my dreadful thoughts gelled. I’d been clinging by a thread — one foot still on Korčula, the other teetering in Nova Zelanda — now I was cast adrift without an anchor to ground me or a map to guide me forward. I had lost everything. I unhooked my rosary beads from the headboard and touched the gold crucifix to the top of my head, making the sign of the cross. Usually my fingers worked quickly, dancing over the stanzas, ballerina steps taking me through the opening prayers and onto the five longer decades, but I couldn’t progress past the first short row of glass beads. There was Tata standing over me, yelling, Stupid girl! You’re a disgrace to this family. My fingers worried the beads and my hurt felt as sharp-edged as it had on that day. Who will want you now? His fists raised. And me, defiant — still so sure of my dragi’s love.

  MAY

  Joy’s simple invitation, would I join her for morning tea, Friday, at ten, set my heart racing. Nearly four months in and this was my greatest achievement yet. There was a spring to my step when I pushed her white picket gate open and strode towards her front door. It didn’t ma
tter that the trees were skeletons with emaciated branches stripped of all colour. It didn’t matter about the pelting rain ricocheting off my umbrella. I sheltered my plate of fritule and pinned the bag, holding the picture books and some freshly picked persimmons, tighter under my arm. For once I wasn’t forcing my feet forward, one step in front of the other, polako, polako. I was off to see Joy and, with any luck, another step closer to building a true friendship in this country.

  Her front porch was no more than an indent reached by a narrow set of concrete steps. Juggling everything proved difficult. I managed by placing the doughnuts on the small concrete slab then turning outwards to collapse my umbrella, the bag still pinned under my arm. I faced her front door again, a pane of textured glass, rippled, as though a storm had blasted through leaving raindrops as permanent markings. It was odd seeing into her house, the shapes and colours at least, but not the full picture. My worries returned. None of my winter shirts matched the smart burgundy and black panelled skirt Marta had given me and I’d been determined not to resort to my tatty grey cardigan. But did I look ridiculous in short sleeves? I rapped on Joy’s door feeling jittery. She emerged from the rear, blurry around the edges, a mix of mustard and cream.

  ‘Hi, Jela!’ The usual string of pearls clutched at her throat and her lips flashed orange. She wore a cream twinset and a mustard A-line skirt. Joy took my plate as I stepped inside. ‘What a dreadful day! Don’t you look smart. Quick, come through to the kitchen where it’s warm. These look delish.’

  I deposited my worries and followed her up the hallway. Opposite the entrance to the lounge was a collection of framed photos. A picture of David hung among them, his one tinged with colour.

  ‘Where’s the little man?’ I asked.

  ‘Shhhh.’ Joy gestured down another hallway to the right. ‘Having his morning sleep. Come.’

  Inside Joy’s kitchen there was none of Marta’s clutter. Instead of lace curtains, modern slatted blinds were lowered around a small dining alcove and concertinaed up over the kitchen sink. I liked how they lent the room a bright and airy feel despite the gloomy day. Joy crossed to a glossy red bench, an island set at right angles to the stainless steel kitchen bench, and fussed about slipping my fritule under a fine gauze cloth. I hung back, unsure whether I should join her. Despite mastering our conversations over the back fence, and whenever we met on the street now, everything felt at odds.

  ‘I feel terrible it’s taken so long to invite you,’ said Joy, spinning back, her arms hanging slack by her sides. ‘It’s difficult with Roko. Did he know you were coming today?’

  I hesitated. Even after so many months I wasn’t sure how well they knew each other, and I didn’t want to be drawn on Roko’s insinuation that Joy was nosey.

  ‘No, but it’s none of his business.’ I scrambled for another topic. ‘Has Mount Wellington always been your home?’

  A look of relief crossed Joy’s face and she smiled. ‘No. And Dad wasn’t happy either. But wait. Let me get you a cardigan. That weather’s turned you to ice.’

  I objected, scrambling to uncross my arms at the same time, not realising I’d been hugging myself tight. My protests were fruitless and when Joy rushed from the room I wondered whether she too was grateful for the chance to gather her thoughts. We would have to tackle the subject of Roko at some stage, but any mention of him was always a sticking point, a full stop, a topic Joy had been a master at avoiding.

  I crossed to the red island to unpack the books Joy had lent me to help with the language, leaving the persimmons in the bag. Everything was so orderly, from the stack of letters propped in a rack at the end of the island, to her glossy white cupboards and black-and-white checkered floor. I loved the splashes of colour tying in with her island: the red figurines on the ornate cuckoo clock hanging above the stove, and the white wooden calendar surround decorated with a red filigree pattern. I made sure to stack the books neatly, placing the larger hard-covered one on the bottom, its little foxes racing about in cars, trucks, even a crocodile car, and the smaller My ABC book, with its comical lion surrounded by alphabet blocks, on the top. You can do this, I reassured myself, grateful that the rain was no longer lashing at the windows, making everything feel calmer. But when I looked at that lion again he might have been mocking me, so assured he was, lounging back while balancing a stack of ABC blocks on one talon. The kitchen door banged, startling me.

  ‘I can’t,’ I said, as Joy pushed a beautiful crimson-coloured bundle into my hands.

  She waggled her finger as though scolding me. ‘There, that’s better,’ she said, after I slipped the cardigan on. The wool was so soft and luxurious I felt a million pounds. ‘Keep it. It’s one Mum knitted and it’s always been too big for me. The colour’s spot-on with your lipstick. You look beautiful.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, stepping forward and hugging her. Joy squeezed my waist and I made a show of parading up and down her kitchen as though I was a model in a magazine. Joy clapped with delight. For the first time in this country I was being true to myself, showing the fun side of my personality, the real Jela. ‘You didn’t finish telling me about your tata,’ I said, still buzzing with adrenalin.

  ‘My dad, you mean?’ Her teasing brought us back to familiar ground. ‘Let’s just say he thought I was making a mistake marrying Roger. He can be a bit of a snob.’ She tapped the side of her nose and lowered her voice. ‘Is Roger really the man of your dreams? Plenty more fish in the sea. All because I was moving from Epsom to Mount Wellington.’

  We collapsed into giggles and it felt liberating — it had been a long time since I’d joked like that. Joy grabbed hold of my arm. ‘I want to show you something. Quick, now the rain’s stopped.’

  She led me out the back door and we hurried along a side path towards an outhouse, a miniature version of Joy’s home, with white weatherboards and a red-tiled roof. Even though it was a short distance, the wind whistled through the narrow gap, tangling my hair. Joy pushed the door open, flinging her arm in the direction of the concrete tub. A circular drum sat beside it, supported on four black legs like miniature stilts, a gleaming white version of a copper. Embossed on its side were large gold letters, and a separate arm with two rubber rollers angled back over the tub.

  ‘What a beauty,’ I said, moving closer to peer inside. A black propeller sat in its base.

  ‘Close!’ Joy said, crouching to trace her fingers over the letters and sounding out the name. ‘She’s BEATTY, but I call her Betty. That’s how I’m the shampion!’ I laughed at her mimicking my accent and at the way she was thumping her chest, looking so pleased with herself. ‘She’s my secret weapon. I’ve been dying to show you.’

  ‘Incredible,’ I said, still grinning and running my fingers over Betty’s smooth white metal as though it were a gemstone. When I looked up, Joy was edged back by the door.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘How much do you know about what happened next door?’

  ‘A little,’ I said. ‘Were you and Pauline friends?’ Even asking the question felt dangerous, as though I might upset the balance, put all that we’d gained at risk.

  ‘I wanted to tell you, Jela. I’m sorry it’s taken so long to invite you. It’s just—’

  I waved my hand, batting away her apologies. ‘Don’t be silly. But can you tell me what happened? Slowly. Polako, polako.’

  Joy’s face relaxed again. ‘I love that saying. All right, I’ll try my best. But you mustn’t say anything to Roko, and especially not Mrs Tomich.’ She searched my eyes. ‘Let’s go inside first.’

  Joy got busy plugging in the kettle and spooning the Nescafé powder into the cups. I made myself useful by ferrying the plates and food to the table in the dining nook with its rectangular table surrounded on three sides by a padded black bench seat. Joy’s dinner set was the same one we used at Marta and Roko’s — their everyday set — with its autumn-leaf design. I scanned the array of food: pikelets, as I knew to call them now, with jam and cream; tiny skewers with chunks of cheese,
pineapple and a wedge of dark onion; some little brown biscuits topped with chocolate icing and a walnut; and my fritule.

  Joy switched on the lights so that the room glowed warm. ‘There, that’s better.’

  I hadn’t noticed that the black clouds had collapsed even closer, dredging all the brightness from the room. ‘Maybe Marta might buy one of those Bettys,’ I said, raising my voice against the wind batting the windows. ‘We could share her like we do the fridge.’

  Joy called back from the stove. ‘Good luck! That was always Pauline’s dream, but Mrs Tomich was like a brick wall on the idea.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, taking a seat at the dining nook, the rattling windows behind me, confident that it would be a matter of picking the right moment.

  Joy set down a tray with our coffee cups and took a seat at right angles to me with the island at her back. ‘We saw a lot of each other,’ Joy said, handing me my cup. ‘We were all good friends, Roko included. It’s terrible what happened.’

  She looked me in the eye, and I nodded for her to continue.

  ‘Things came to a head at a party Roger and I held late last year. Everyone was tipsy but Pauline was really bad — the worst I’d ever seen her.’

  ‘Was she always drinking too much?’ I still struggled to reconcile the image of a drunk Pauline with that face in the photo.

  ‘Not always. She was often tipsy, but I’d never seen her rolling drunk — not like that night.’ Joy leaned forward and touched my arm. ‘I wonder if she’d got clever at hiding it. Poor Roko, it must have been dreadful for him. He would usually take Pauline home, but on that night he didn’t notice until too late and when he tried . . . Well, Pauline exploded, swearing like a trooper and hitting out at him — his chest, his arms — making him lose his temper.’

  ‘What did he do? Did he hurt her?’

  ‘No, nothing like that,’ said Joy, shaking her head and lowering her voice. ‘He told her to go to hell. That he’d had enough.’