“Now you’re back in Australia, do you plan to stay, or are you going to wander off again?” As if she cares either way, which her disinterested tone underlines. Helen takes the mug from me, and her gaze flicks briefly, without comment, to the bandage on my arm.
“No. I think this time I’ll be staying.” I settle on the step below my mother. “I have plans to start up my own agency. And I’ve bought a house.” Any other mother would probably express happiness, or even surprise, given what a nomad I’ve been for the past ten years. Helen sips her tea and nods.
I don’t mention Greer or my growing fears about our … what? Feelings? Relationship? She’d tell me not to involve myself. The only person you can rely on is yourself. Yet I’m beginning to feel I can rely on Greer. The problem is, she shouldn’t rely on me. I’m a bad risk.
We talk about things of no consequence as the sun lowers in the sky and the shadows deepen.
Dinner is a spartan meal. Helen became a vegetarian a long time ago and eats like a sparrow. A bowl of steamed vegetables with a sprinkle of pepper and a pot of green tea is all that’s on offer.
Lying on the rock-hard spare bed, my stomach growling with hunger, I can’t help comparing the life my mother leads with that of Greer and her family. It’s not about money. Mum’s divorce settlement was more than generous, and she makes a good living from her pottery. It’s about nurture. I don’t think my mother ever possessed the ability and nurture, to care for and comfort others. Not even her son. It shows in the small things. The discomfort of the bed, the thin and scratchy towel, the austere meal. And it shows in the big things. Her complete lack of interest in my life, the inability to show affection, the withdrawal from human contact. I’m not sure if it’s always been her nature or if her marriage to my father broke her so badly she was unable to get past it. A bit of both, I suspect.
Which all leads me to contemplate my own inability to maintain a romantic relationship. Nature or nurture? Do I have trouble connecting because of my childhood or because that’s the way I am? Either way, the outcome’s the same.
I’m dragged from bed at dawn the next morning for a walk along the valley rim. The combination of lingering hunger and lack of sleep has worked on my temper, and I’m not the most pleasant of companions as we set out, but it’s not long before the beauty of the misty morning, dew glittering on the hundreds of new spider webs built during the night, improves my spirits and gets my blood pumping. By the time we get back to the little house, I’m in a sufficiently good mood to offer to make breakfast. At least there’s a chance I’ll get enough to eat.
Predictably, Helen has green tea and unbuttered wholemeal toast. At least she has some eggs in the fridge, no doubt a concession to my visit, which I scramble for myself. Unfortunately, coffee isn’t on the cards. It’s a good thing I don’t hate green tea.
I know my mother well enough not to expect her to change her routine for me, and I’m not surprised when she leaves the table without a word, grabbing her work smock off the hook by the door as she heads for her studio. I take the opportunity to rifle through the garden shed, find the shears and walk back along the track, chopping back the branches blocking the way and stacking them neatly beside the woodpile. Once they dry out, they’ll make good kindling for next winter. It makes my arm ache, but at least I’ll be able to get out of here without any more damage to my car.
After a pathetically lukewarm shower in the tiny trickle of water available, I hop in the car aiming for somewhere to get a decent coffee.
The little villages closest to Helen’s house have changed considerably since my last visit, and I’m pleasantly surprised to see a couple of well-curated art galleries and several small antique stores. Pulling into a vacant car space, I decide to while away a couple of hours browsing before heading back to the cottage. Browsing becomes buying as I wander from shop to shop. First is an enormous and stunning modern nude in shades of rich red, deep pink and burning orange that reminds me of Greer.
In the antique shop, I find an enormous four-poster bed taking up a good third of the floor space. The polished mahogany gleams like satin, and I can’t resist running my hands over the smooth, aged wood.
“It’s a beautiful piece, isn’t it? Only came in this week. It’s not often we find a bed like this. Most antique beds are smaller. This one must have been custom made. We’ve measured it, and it will take a standard king-size mattress.” The salesman watches me like a hawk, gauging my intent as my hand glides over the beautiful inlaid panels of flowers.
“I don’t think it will fit in my car.” I know they can ship it. I’m just messing with him. But the salesman takes it all very seriously. Clearly, he smells a sale in the air.
“We can ship it for you, sir,” he says, all earnest enthusiasm.
I have no intention of buying the bed. “No, I really—”
“I’m sure we could move a little on the price if you’re interested?”
This is a serious bed. A bed for a couple. A family. A lifetime. That’s not ever going to be me.
“It’s not that, it’s … ” Why do I sound so wistful? I think about the house I’m about to renovate. There’s no doubt I’m putting down roots. What does it matter if I’m the only one who ever sleeps in it?
“You know what? I’ll take it.”
“Excellent choice, may I say. You won’t regret it. That bed will become a family heirloom,” twitters the salesman as he heads back to the counter to complete the paperwork. “Is there anything else I can interest you in today, sir?”
“No, I don’t think so.” I’m about to hand over my credit card when I notice the jewellery displayed in a tall glass cabinet beside the counter.
“Actually, those earrings.” I point to a pair of warm gold drop earrings. “Are they sapphires?”
“Yes, sir, sapphire and seed pearls. A fine example of art deco jewellery.” Fumbling with the keys in his haste to open the cabinet, the salesman takes the worn velvet box and places it on the counter. “Of course, they come with a certificate of authenticity and a full valuation. For your, er … wife?” He tilts the box, allowing the light to play over the sapphires.
“No, a—um—a friend.” They’re beautiful. The blue of the sapphires would match Greer’s eyes, and the creaminess of the pearls would match her skin.
“A verygoodfriend then, and a lucky one!” my excited salesman says as I add the earrings to my purchase.
He keeps chattering. I don’t hear him because I’m too busy trying to justify to myself, in a way I can believe, why I’ve bought these earrings. I’ve never bought such a personal or expensive gift for a woman before. Although, Christmas is coming up. Well, it will be in a few months. And she is doing those blueprints for me. It’s the least I can do, really.
Having convinced myself, more or less, there’s nothing more than appreciation for her work behind my purchase, I cross the road and sit in the late morning sun with a large coffee, an apricot danish and the weekend newspaper. The warm sun and the village atmosphere soon unravel the tension spending time with my mother inevitably creates. By the time I head back to the cottage in the early afternoon, having stopped at the supermarket for some actual food, I’m feeling much more relaxed.
“I saw some of your work at the gallery in town,” I say as I put a cup of fresh tea on the table beside Helen’s pottery wheel.
