The Telling Time : A Historical Family Saga Read online

  My memories flooded back to our lounge at home when Tata found out about me and my dragi. Tata shouting, me cowering behind Mama.

  ‘Are you okay? Do you want me to stop?’ asked Joy.

  ‘No. I’m fine, honestly,’ I said, desperate to push those other thoughts aside, feeling guilty I couldn’t confide the real reason I was sick to my core.

  Joy shuffled to the end of her seat and reached inside a cupboard at the end of the island. She pulled out something that looked like a mirror, laying it on the table between us. It was her wedding photo, a beautiful black-and-white studio portrait centred within a bevelled mirror mounted on a hexagonal-shaped wooden board — but a crack ran through it, severing Joy’s dress like a fault line.

  ‘What happened?’ I picked up the photo, which was much heavier than I expected.

  Joy shook her head. ‘End of the day it’s just a photo. I doubt it can be fixed. I still can’t believe she threw one of my precious Hummels, though.’

  ‘Wait,’ I said, waving my hand. ‘What’s this hum-thing?’

  ‘An ornament. Quite a heavy one — like a rock. It was on the mantelpiece in the lounge and Pauline grabbed it to throw across the room. She was aiming for Roko and luckily he ducked but this photo was the casualty. Honestly, it was like a gun going off. You can imagine the shock.’

  ‘Must have been dreadful.’

  ‘Next thing Roko was exploding again. He dragged Pauline kicking and screaming from the house. That was the end of the party and it’s the last time I spoke to either of them.’

  She was quiet then as though lost in thought, sipping at her coffee.

  ‘Was it then that Pauline went to the hospital?’ I dared to ask.

  Joy scrunched her face. ‘A few days later. They took her in the ambulance. We heard Pauline yelling from here. Dreadful. I tried my hardest with Roko, leaving him notes, inviting him for dinner, but he seems determined to ignore us. It’s awkward and now we’ve got into the habit of avoiding each other.’ Her face looked on the verge of collapse.

  Determined to lighten the mood, I pointed to the chocolate biscuits. ‘What are these ones?’

  ‘Afghans,’ said Joy, pushing the plate towards me. ‘Try one. I can give you the recipe.’ The mix of light and dark chocolate crumbs was divine. Meanwhile, Joy popped a doughnut into her mouth. ‘These are sensational,’ she said. ‘Did you know they’re my favourite?’

  I wanted to pinch myself. Was I really sitting there watching Joy savour my treat from home? ‘I can teach you how to make those, but anything else I’ll need lessons for. Marta’s already given up on my baking skills. Oh,’ I gestured to the bag on the counter, ‘I hope you like persimmons? I brought you some from their tree.’

  ‘What a sweetie. Thanks! With Pauline gone I thought I might miss out on that treat this year.’ Joy reached for another doughnut. ‘How are you getting on with Mrs Tomich?’

  ‘Difficult,’ I said.

  ‘It was the same for Pauline. That woman made life impossible. I feel like rattling her cage, making her see how she drove Pauline to the drink.’

  ‘Were you and Pauline good friends?’ No wonder Marta was wary.

  ‘The best,’ said Joy. ‘We shared everything.’ She frowned then, wrapping her hands around her cup, eyes downcast. ‘If I’m honest, Mrs Tomich wasn’t the only one to blame. I could have done more to stop her and I feel so bad now.’ She glanced across, crestfallen. ‘Pauline and I would share a drink most afternoons once our jobs were done. It was fun swapping stories, and for me it felt a little wild, risqué, a break from all the drudgery. Sometimes I knew she’d already been drinking, but I didn’t do anything to stop her. If anything I encouraged her and now it’s too late.’

  ‘You can’t take the blame.’ I didn’t know what else to say so I reached for a pikelet, folding it like a crescent to contain the cream.

  Joy took a cheese stick and bit off the onion wedge. ‘That’s enough sad stories,’ she said. ‘There’s other important things to ask. No more secrets.’ Her eyes gleamed wicked and the light above caught the copper in her hair. ‘Tell me, someone must have been giving you the eye back home? I can’t imagine with your gorgeous looks there was no one.’

  I looked away, the combination of cream and tart jam still singing in my mouth.

  Joy reached across to rub my arm. ‘Oh, Jela. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—’

  ‘It’s no worry,’ I said. ‘Really. I’m fine. I miss him, but he’ll be coming soon. I just need the . . . How do you say it?’ I scoured my brain for the right word, aware of Joy’s puzzled expression and of how much I couldn’t tell. ‘Strpljenje is what we say at home.’

  Joy’s laugh exploded. ‘Stir-pee-yay-yay. What a great word! I wonder what you could mean? Come on, try and explain.’ She leant forward on her elbows, her chin resting on her hands, back to being my teacher again.

  ‘It means he’s coming but I have to wait, be happy, because nothing moves fast where I come from.’ I scanned her face, hoping I’d reassured her. I was certain the questions were racing across her mind, as many as the freckles tracing over her scrunched-up nose.

  ‘Maybe you mean patience. Could that be it? You mean he’s coming to get you but you have to wait. Not complain?’ I nodded and she rubbed her hands together. ‘How exciting! Yay-yay — what a perfect word. You’re not here for Roko, then? To be honest I thought you probably were.’

  ‘No! I’m here as his housekeeper. It’s a family favour. Our tatas were friends.’

  ‘Well, it’s good there’s someone at home. Is there a chance you’ll go back?’

  ‘Not sure yet. Have to wait and see. But can you keep it a secret? I don’t want Roko’s family worrying.’

  Joy squeezed my arm. ‘Of course. I love secrets. What’s his name?’

  ‘Moj dragi. What’s in a name? Far better to show the emotion. We Yugoslavs, if we love someone, it’s the only name we use.’ My guilt felt as obvious as my new crimson cardigan but I couldn’t backtrack.

  Joy pulled back, still puzzled. ‘Well, I guess that makes sense. You mean, like “darling” here?’

  In the distance there was a high-pitched cry. David. Perfect timing, I thought. Almost simultaneously, the cuckoo called his tune, popping in and out on his perch. ‘Cu-ckoo. Cu-ckoo.’

  ‘That’ll be his majesty,’ said Joy. ‘Oh my goodness, where did the time go?’

  ‘I best get going too,’ I said, making to move. ‘For my own jobs for the majesty next door.’

  Joy waved me a hurried goodbye from her front door. I huddled under my umbrella, making a beeline for her white gate, my guilt contained under the nylon canopy. After a morning of such honesty I had misled Joy when I should have been my most truthful.

  Throughout the afternoon I pushed aside my worries about fudging the truth to focus on the positives of my morning. All that we had shared, Joy’s honesty about Pauline and the part she had played in the terrible story. Ironically, I took some comfort from this — that someone I held on a pedestal had taken risks and made mistakes too. It provided some reassurance that my secret might stay safe with Joy, but as for her pushing me for further answers about my dragi, I resigned myself to keeping my lies going. My limitations with the dreaded Engleski gave me no insights into this country’s moral compass, no sense of the reality, the word on the ground from the younger ones. And even if Joy had strayed, I doubted she would have been so stupid to risk everything like I had. If I was to keep Joy as my friend, she could never know the extent of my story and the shame I was living with now — no one could.

  At dinner, with the fire crackling in the hearth, Roko was relaxed and talkative. Over the weeks we had made small progress, falling into a pattern where we were both more tolerant of each other but still careful to skirt around topics that might cause friction. My improving ability to converse in English helped, but it was as though we had also come to an unspoken agreement, each carrying our hurt like the jagged edges of broken china with neither pushing the
other to explain. Perhaps he recognised the fragility in me too.

  ‘Those hailstones were freaky,’ he said, recounting the story of his bike ride home. ‘Someone upstairs was shooting at me. You saw how soaked I was coming in.’

  I laughed, recalling the bedraggled mess that had come through the door, too frozen to speak at the time. ‘I had to brave it going over to Joy’s. She invited me for morning tea,’ I said, not stopping to think. I scooped up some lemon instant pudding and a wedge of Marta’s preserved peaches, feeling carefree for the second time that day.

  ‘Oh?’ he said. ‘And how was that?’

  I scanned his face for signs that he might explode. This is good, I reassured myself, no more secrets. Perhaps he wondered why it had taken me so long.

  ‘Good,’ I said, looking him in the eye. ‘Joy told me about growing up here. I wondered what it was like for you.’ A small lie couldn’t hurt.

  He paused for what seemed like an age and I worried I’d pushed him too far. ‘Trips to the beach,’ he said. ‘And the Dally picnics, of course. Riding my bike around the local streets . . . Tip-Top ice cream.’ He smiled as though remembering the taste, then frowned. ‘Petra got teased at school. The kids called her “stinky” — all the garlic and onions. By the time I got there, there were more Dallies and they weren’t so mean, but I always felt different.’

  He glanced up, seeking confirmation that I had understood. I made sure my face didn’t betray my surprise. Despite our progress, and his efforts to speak slowly, it was rare for him to link so many sentences.

  ‘But why did you feel so different?’ I was intrigued he could feel out of place in his own country.

  ‘Dally parents, I guess.’ He opened his palms as was Stipan’s habit, as though God might have the answer. ‘Mum refused to speak English for a long time and her rules were always strict. Petra and Hana were hardly allowed out as teens.’

  ‘Same as home,’ I said, thinking about my own upbringing and how Branko might as well have been hand-picked for me.

  ‘Petra tells the story about getting a right telling-off. One of the neighbours asked Mum how she was coping with her teenager, and Mum thought “teenager” meant “bad girl”.’ Roko tipped back his head and laughed. ‘Easy to see the funny side now but it must have been hell on my sisters.’

  I laughed, too. This was easily the most relaxed we’d ever been. I was surprised how interesting I found him and how handsome he looked when his eyes crinkled in a smile. He’d been hiding his sense of humour under all that gruffness.

  ‘By the time I got to be that age I’d worked out how to get around Mum, using her language gap to my advantage, choosing which words I’d teach her. Half the time she had no idea what I was up to. I’m always telling Zoran I paved the way.’

  I’d only met Zoran, Roko’s younger brother, a couple of times. Like Roko, he seemed to steer clear of home.

  Roko was looking at me, smiling, with a glint in his eye. ‘And you? How was your childhood?’

  ‘Ah, well, very different.’ I looked away, struggling to find the words to explain. ‘When I was four, I lived in a refugee camp in Egypt. They shipped us by boat towards the end of the war. I didn’t see my tata for two years. He had to stay home, to fight if he was needed.’ I stopped, realising I’d slipped back to Croatian, but also the irony given Tata and I weren’t talking now. The way Roko was staring made me lower my eyes, but I wanted to continue, to tell him about myself, to share something beneath my surface.

  ‘The sand was so hot. It whipped around our legs sending us running for cover to our tent — one that we shared with a number of families. For meals we’d line up with our tin plates. Everyone ate the same which meant we all shared the same bugs. Some people died from the sickness.’ His brow was creased, as though he was already thinking of more questions.

  ‘They set up a tent as a school room. I was so proud when I finally got to join Josip, my big brother. Until we returned home I didn’t realise that living like that was anything out of the ordinary.’

  ‘What happened when you got back home?’

  ‘The war was over and the whole country got busy — everyone working to a plan to re-build Yugoslavia under Marshall Tito. You must know this, though?’

  It was clear, by the way he hesitated, that he had no concept of what we’d all been through, despite my country being part of his heritage. Perhaps living so far away meant he hadn’t needed to know. How could I convey in a few words how it had been? I felt disgruntled when I stood to clear the dishes.

  ‘You’ve led an interesting life,’ Roko said as I reached to collect his plate. His eyes seemed focused and kind. ‘I’d like to hear more some time.’

  Hemmed inside the kitchen and scrubbing at the dishes, I couldn’t reclaim my lighter mood. Nothing could change the fact that New Zealand was so unlike my homeland or that I was stuck here. I wiped the dishes dry, stacking the plates to the side, my spirits sinking further. Even though Roko and his family were my closest links to home, our lives couldn’t be further apart. And what of that flicker of interest I had just felt? I scrubbed harder at the remaining pot. How could I ever trust my judgement again? Besides, there was no comparison between these feelings for Roko and how I’d felt about my dragi — even knowing now how misguided they were. But would second best always be my lot? I slapped the wet tea towel against my leg, blinking hard, seeing the mess for what it really was.

  JULY

  Roko and I were squeezed into the back seat of Stipan’s car, our knees stacked behind the front seats, both holding ourselves like wooden pegs. I was conscious of my extra bulk with Joy’s champagne-coloured mink stole wrapped around my shoulders. Along with Marta and Stipan we were headed for the Yugoslav Club Ball and whereas I’d felt like a queen wrapping that stole around me earlier, I now felt as nervous as I had at sixteen for my first dance back home. I fiddled with the diaphanous chiffon layer of my dress, the palest shade of aqua that floated on top of the satin underskirt. Joy had reassured me it would be perfect, but I was still nervous about fitting in and doing the right thing at these club events. The dress had been Mama’s, one she’d altered for me, and I’d worn it to all the dances back home. Everyone said it matched my blue-green eyes perfectly. When I’d checked myself in the mirror earlier, I’d swallowed a lump thinking about all the other times I’d twirled around the dance floor with my dragi, and others, that same skirt swishing like a whisper.

  Marta, in her emerald-green party dress, was prattling away and for once I was grateful. When Stipan swung around the corners, Marta reeled herself back, determined to keep the plate of smoked-fish savouries balanced on her lap. It was the kind of joke Roko and I might share at his house now — Marta attached by an invisible fishing line — but not in that car, not when we felt so on show, especially now that Roko was gracing the family with his presence. To me it seemed that everyone in the family was on tenterhooks, as though by acknowledging Roko’s presence at Sunday lunch and the like, they were fearful that he might realise his mistake and disappear again.

  Stipan pulled up to the curb and Marta, Roko and I peeled ourselves from the car. A steady stream of people merged towards the club entrance, and Hobson Street buzzed with a mix of English and my own language. Marta had confided this would be Roko’s first club event since Pauline, and I wondered how he was feeling. Earlier, when he’d arrived at Marta and Stipan’s in his dark suit and bow tie, I’d been taken by how handsome he looked. Now, standing alongside Marta, he looked hesitant and half of me wanted to reassure him, as any friend would. Stipan drove off to find a park, but I hung back, frustrated that the ease Roko and I shared at his house disappeared the moment we were outside those four walls. We might as well have been strangers again. A young woman, a bundle of energy in a bright red shift dress, pushed forward, pulling along a tall man in a dark suit. Her blonde hair was wound in a coil and her lips flashed a sparkle of red. Marta waved them in beside us.

  ‘Marta, Roko,’ the red woman gushed, �
��lovely to see you both.’ Her eyes darted, up and down, as though sizing me up. The man turned to talk to Roko.

  ‘Sara, meet Gabrijela. And you too, Davor,’ said Marta, tapping the man’s shoulder. Davor raised his hand, acknowledging me, before returning to his conversation. Sara was still scanning me and I pulled my stole closer.

  ‘Jela’s come to help our Roko,’ said Marta, then turned to me. ‘We’ve known Sara from when she was a little girl.’ Her head flicked back. ‘How was your trip to the homeland?’

  Marta and Sara chatted and we inched forward. Most of the women wore heels, and I felt like a little girl in my flat pumps. I’d already decided that once I’d saved enough pin money I’d buy a new pair of shoes. My tongue worried at my painted lips, grateful at least for this small luxury. The clear mid-winter sky was threaded with purple and black, not yet dark enough to showcase the stars. Not long after I’d arrived in this country I’d confided in Stipan that I couldn’t find Polaris, the star Tata had told me about, the one he used to guide Krešimira home safely after a long day on the water. Stipan had shown me how to pick out the pattern of stars making up the Southern Cross, but it wasn’t the same, and I still felt disorientated.

  As we neared the entrance, Marta pushed forward to join Roko and Davor.

  ‘I love your dress,’ Sara said, dropping back beside me. ‘How’re you finding it here?’

  ‘I’m managing,’ I said. ‘Easier when I can speak Croatian.’

  ‘There’ll be plenty of young men with their eye out, and they won’t care what you speak.’ She arched her eyebrow. ‘Our Roko will want to keep a close eye.’

  ‘I love the dancing but I won’t be returning the looks,’ I gabbled, my hand at my mouth.

  ‘Really?’ Sara’s eyebrows lifted again and she turned away, back to Davor.

  I felt certain she thought me a prude. Mama would say, ispeći pa neći, bake it, then say it. Of course I was interested in meeting people, the men included, I just had no need for love. I had accepted my fate: romance was a privilege I had squandered and the only way to safeguard my secret, and my self-esteem, was to remain single. Deep down, in my darkest place though, I was still making excuses for my dragi. His broken promise was the sharp point of a knife twisting at my heart, yet I was still holding out hope he would come. There had been no arguments. No word of warning. Perhaps my dragi had been tricked somehow, cajoled into thinking that he could bury our love alive, hide away all that we’d shared, bide his time until Tata’s anger subsided. Even though Roko and I were both lost souls swimming against the tide, he at least might have the option of finding someone else — that’s if the annulment Marta kept talking about ever came through. I wondered if any of the girls would be giving him the eye, even though he wasn’t available, not really. Why was it so much easier for the men? I rubbed at my gold locket, the one Mama had given me on my eighteenth birthday. At the time she said it had special powers, that it could ward off adversity, as it had during the war when she’d hidden it from the looting soldiers by sewing a secret pocket in her dress. The weight and shape of it were reassuring, but it couldn’t change the facts: men were the ones holding the power, and I would never be free to return the looks.