Page 118 of Weekends with the Sunshine Gardening Society
‘That would be wonderful,’ Elizabeth says, even if she doesn’t know that it will happen. Once she’s left here – regardless of where she moves to – she may wish to seal it up in her memory.
After Jon died she was encouraged to ‘talk about it’. One of her Brisbane friends is very keen on seeing psychiatrists and thought Elizabeth should have one. The thing is, though, Elizabeth doesn’t believe that talking about it is for everyone.
Her father served in New Guinea in World War II. She knows he was shot at; she knows he survived. That’s all she knows. She believes it’s all her mother knows. Her psychiatry-mad friend once opined that Elizabeth’s father undoubtedly had shell shock and that’s why he never mentioned the war, but Elizabeth’s view has always been different: he simply doesn’t want to talk about it. That may be because it’s how he manages to live with the memories so he can be a good husband and father, and he has certainly been both. Or it may be that he doesn’t even like to think about it.
If a psychiatrist were to ask her father to lie on a couch, she wonders what he or she would make of the man – would he be someone avoiding reality, or someone who is so keen to live in reality that he doesn’t wish to live in the past? Is he an example of a man who isn’t coping just because he won’t ‘talk about it’ or, rather, as she believes, a man who shows every day that he is coping?
Her conclusion about her own experience – based on what she has seen of her father’s – is that when faced with a traumatic event each person has to manage the way that works best for her or him. If Elizabeth is getting out of bed each day, feeding her son, getting him to school, going to work,functioning; if she has moments of joy and wonder as well as sadness, isn’t that just whatit means to be alive? So many people have terrible things happen to them. They walk around and no one knows, because the victory over those terrible things is the walking around. It’s the showing up, the being present for people and in places. It’s not for anyone else to say that this is the wrong method, that ‘talking about it’ is preferred. And, for that matter, why should there be a preference at all? Sadness and tragedy are part of the gamble of being alive, and everyone rolls their dice differently.
That’s why she thinks she won’t ever come back to this house. Which is not to say she wouldn’t want to see Cynthia socially – she would. They’ll just have to meet on neutral ground.
‘So,’ Cynthia says, gazing around the room, ‘I don’t really need a tour to be convinced of the value of this place, but let’s do one anyway. Then I’ll drive straight to the agent and put in my offer.’
Elizabeth knows she’s been given a nudge because she was probably sitting there in silence. That happens sometimes – in lieu of talking. Not that Cynthia seems to mind. When you spend hours next to someone in a garden without speaking, it makes other non-verbal interactions easier.
Elizabeth gets to her feet. ‘Let’s start with the bedrooms.’
‘After you,’ Cynthia says, gesturing for Elizabeth to lead.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Theday is outrageously bright and sparkling, as Kathy can see when she looks out of the restaurant’s glass front to the river. A yacht goes past with two men on it clad in T-shirts and shorts; they’re laughing and pointing at something on the other side of the river, and Kathy wishes she could be out there with them, soaking up the day.
Late autumn in Melbourne involves ominous portents of winter, but here it’s still weather for light clothing and outdoor activities, and she doesn’t know that she’ll ever get used to it – in a good way. In a grateful way. Although she is a born-and-bred Melburnian Kathy knows she can’t go back to the cold and the grey; to winters when a football match is the only thing worth leaving home for, other than work; where the advent of springtime means that everyone emerges and turns their faces to the sun, like it’s a god. And it is, of sorts – one she’s taken to worshipping now she lives on the Sunshine Coast.
The real estate agent called her yesterday to ask if she’s staying on. Her lease was up a while ago and she’s been going month to month, but the owner wants to know if she’s thinking of leaving anytime soon because they might do a new coat of paint and some other maintenance. It made Kathy realise that she hasn’t thought about the future because she’s been living so much in the present.
That also means, of course, that she hasn’t been thinking about the past. Jemima hasn’t crossed her mind in weeks. She’s been free; freer than she’s felt in … well, ever. Since she was a young woman Kathy’s worried about other people – what they think of her, what she can do to help them, where she fits in the world in relation to them. Since moving to Noosa she’s been able to concentrate on the things she needs to do each day and not worry about anything or anyone else. And it’s glorious. Stress has fallen out of her life since she did something that was in her own best interest, and that’s a lifestyle she intends to continue.
So she has something to tell the real estate agent – and Hans too, since when she started the job she said she wasn’t sure how long she’d be here. He’d been relaxed about it; pleased, he said, to have someone with her experience. It would be nice, though, to give him some certainty.
As Kathy watches the river for a minute more, enjoying the spectacle of birds and humans and boats on the waterway, she can hear the chefs chatting loudly as they do their prep for what looks to be a fully booked lunch service.
‘It’s a beautiful day,’ Hans says from behind her. ‘We are lucky to have such a view.’
‘We really are,’ Kathy says as she turns around. She checks her watch. ‘I’m dawdling, sorry – patrons will be arriving soon.’
‘It’s fine. We are ready.’
He smiles so kindly at her – as he always does – that Kathy wants to ask why. Certainly she’s never done anything special to deserve it; she’s been a fairly standard employee. No above-and-beyond. Just turning up on time, doing her job. Or maybe that’s so rare these days that he thinks she’s the bee’s knees.
‘But I do have a question about next week,’ he says, indicating that they should walk to the front desk. ‘We have two staff taking two days off. I do not expect you to cover all of their shifts, but if you are able to cover some I would appreciate it.’
‘Sure,’ Kathy says, because all the freedom she has now also means she’s available to cover people’s shifts. Extra money doesn’t hurt.
‘And while we’re talking about shifts,’ she goes on, ‘I should mention that I’m, ah …’
She was about to just blurt it out, that she’s staying, but it feels momentous all of a sudden. It’s a commitment. To this area. To herself. All these years – this lifetime – of letting things happen to her and never really deciding what she wants, and here she is in her fifties doing it and it feels both too late and too early. Like she’s finally growing up. Her mother used to say that when she was seventy she still felt thirty; Kathy feels like she’s nineteen or something, finally figuring out what she wants to study at uni. Except this uni is her life. And really, it’s about time she made some decisions. That’s what adults do.
‘I know when I started here,’ she continues, ‘I said it might be temporary.’
Hans looks amused. ‘It has been a long temporary.’
‘I know.’ She laughs. ‘Very long. And now it’s permanent. I’m not going back to Melbourne. I’m staying up here.’
‘Really?’ He looks delighted. ‘That is wonderful news. Because I need another manager here and I was hoping to offer it to you.’
‘Another manager?’ She didn’t think anyone had resigned.
