sat on her bed, and without looking at her, explained, ‘She’s terribly qualified. I’m thinking of offering her a job.’
Bea spun around again. ‘Do you think that’s wise?’
‘Look Bea, I’m never going to fall pregnant the rate I’m going. I need to take some pressure off. I want to take six months away from the business.’
‘And what has Davis said about that?’ she asked, looking down as she slid a huge aquamarine cocktail ring on the middle finger of her left hand.
I shrugged. ‘He’s been a bit funny, but I promised him I’d find someone to fill my shoes, and I have a strong feeling Felicity could be the one.’
‘Go steady darling.’ And then with a spritz of her perfume she was done. ‘And look, do take this lipstick, it could be just the thing you need.’
She glided across the room, our deep and meaningful over. My mother’s vanity and her meticulous attention to the details of her own appearance had always struck me as incongruous in a woman who lived such an alternative lifestyle and bordered on being a hippy. However, she rarely left the house without lipstick, mascara and perfume, often stating, ‘Just because you’re different doesn’t mean you can’t look pretty.’
Later that day, Felicity phoned me. The old Felicity never phoned me. Years ago, I had always been the one who rang her, and then I’d walk over to her home to find someone else there. I remember feeling in the way and very much on the outer. But that was then.
Now, I set up a time for an interview. I had a feeling she could be the one.
She was.
My entire life I had craved conventionality. Up until now that was how I had lived, because I wanted a different life to what I’d had as a child.
It wasn’t as if I hadn’t had a good childhood, as far as childhoods went, it was great. However it wasn’t conventional, and all every kid wants is to be normal. They want to fit the mould.
It was a common occurrence for my parents to return home from one of Dad’s clubs as the garbage men began their morning shifts. Still in the clothes from the evening before, propped at the kitchen table, mug of tea in front of him, Dad would pull both of us up onto his knees and kiss the top of our heads. After breakfast, he’d drop us off at kindergarten or school, and then they would both sleep until it was time to pick us up again. Following dinner that night, they would flee back out into the club scene.
We were never neglected. We always had Aunt Honey with us. Although she wasn’t a real aunty, we loved her like she was. These days they’re called nannies. But to us, Aunt Honey was more of a grandmotherly figure. She smelt of Lux soap and freshly baked cakes. She was always cooking, and when Lou and I came home from school there was the smell of fresh bread in the air, and there were tins full of Victorian sponges and butterfly cakes. Those big bosoms of hers were perfect for snuggling into and she had a constant soothing word or a cuddle for us.
She was the only one my mother would listen too. Many a time, Aunt Honey would scold her for some thing or another and chase her from the kitchen with a tea towel. However, my mother would laugh and later kiss Aunt Honey on the cheek.
I once overheard my mother telling my dad, Johnny, that the poor darling relied on us as much as we relied on her. Apparently, she was a widow, and her children weren’t much chop. At the time I remembered wondering what much chop was.
However the part of my childhood I most clung to was Lou and I spending small pockets of time with Nan and Pop on the farm at Dover in South Tasmania. Our mother never came with us. She said she didn’t do the cold!
Although Pop was retired and my uncles ran the orchard, Pop still spent his days tending the garden. Despite the harsh conditions he was determined to have his spring garden every year. I was never far from his side, unless I was with Nan at her old Singer sewing machine, or cooking in her kitchen. Hours went by, while I watched Nan sew my Barbie doll’s new wardrobe, or with her pottering around the kitchen, stewing the apples and peaches that fell from the trees, and brewing jams and marmalades, which at morning tea time, Pop would generously spoon on homemade scones. In hindsight, I realised that I relished watching the way Nan did things in the kitchen, and Pop in the garden. If it’s true that one’s passions are handed down through those that are passionate, then I know where my love of life, and stewed peaches and jam, was first nurtured.
And then as we got slightly older, many holidays were spent picking and packing apples at the farm. I cannot tell you how much I looked forward to this. Lou and I thought we were very important standing alongside the packers at they placed the apples into bags and then into larger crates, which were then taken to the packing shed by tractor, with us running gleefully behind. Once sorted by size, the apples were packed into boxes and stored in the cold room until the trucks took them to the ships in Hobart. I still remember the wooden boxes my uncles used to make for the apples. And can see the top layer of apples individually wrapped in purple and green tissue paper. I even remember with some pride pasting the brightly coloured labels on.
These days my cousins are the ones running the farm. Once a year we still wait for our crate of apples to arrive. Even after all of this time, Granny Smiths are my mother’s favourite, and when they arrive, she cooks up a storm of apple pies. It is the most I ever saw her in the kitchen.
My mother had always been and still was a bit out there. Artists have a way of being out there. It wasn’t what I wished for. She wore caftans, cheesecloth, masses of bracelets, and was spoken about. As both an artist and a singer, along with her pug dog Piggy, she cut a well-known figure in our area. She used to say that if it was good enough for Marie Antoinette and Empress Josephine to have a pug, then it was good enough for her.
Although I knew I was loved and there was plenty of laughter, the thing was, I always felt like the grownup. My parents were the kids. Even now, I sometimes feel as if I’m raising them.
I remember at five being so frustrated by my parents, I yelled at them, ‘You’re not the parents I want, and I’m going to get myself adopted.’ Charming you might say, although, it was exactly how I felt.
To this day, I still remember the shocked look on their faces. As elegant as ever, Bea put her lacquered scarlet fingertips to her equally red glossed lips, drew deeply on her cigarette, turned her head on a slight angle, blew a plume of smoke in the air, and then in a calm voice spoke.
‘Daaar-ling,’ she said, dragging the word out. ‘We’re terribly sorry that we’re not the parents you wanted, but we do love you.’ Although her gaze held mine, I still noticed her trembling hands, giving away that she was not as confident as her voice sounded.
That particular phrase of my mother’s became her favourite catchcry whenever she found me all too difficult to deal with.
I had stood there, arms folded across my chest, tears rivering down my cheeks. Dad opened his arms, and even though I wanted to stay angry, I fell into them.
I can’t remember a time when my dad, Johnny Lynch, hadn’t been there for me. Although I called him Johnny, one day that changed.
Lou was almost four, and I was six. It was the first time I had ever heard my mother and Johnny argue. It had gone on for a couple of days. And then one morning my mother came into my bedroom. For a few moments she stood at my window gazing out. Her eyes were puffy and red rimmed,
