The Memory Trap – Andrea Goldsmith
‘Later he will still wonder how it is possible to see someone, actually select from the surroundings, how you can possible know that this woman is important, that you are, in fact, facing your future.’
I love this sentence from ‘The Memory Trap’ almost as much as I hate the word resonate. But I am about to use it, I am and I hate myself for it. But his sentence really resonates for me, as it did for Elliott. He used it to describe his meeting with Zoe, all those years ago in Central Park, New York. He could, though, equally have used it on meeting Beth, whilst walking his dog beside Merri Creek, Melbourne, decades on. He is on sabbatical from Zoe, his brittle, fragile now wife – a woman who, for all of their marriage, has been patently in love with another man. Beth is a koori woman and is at the opposite end of the spectrum to his distant, disengaged spouse. It never takes much to change the projection of a life, a meeting with a stranger by a creek or, as in the case of your scribe, a photo arriving in an envelope. In a novel, jam- packed with intriguing relationships, the one Elliott forms with Beth, later in the book, is the one I relished the most. That creekside encounter is possibly the coming together of two fractured souls, but in its nature it is something not often written of. The man is an American in his fifties and their conversation between strangers leads to one night of sex. Beth is in her sixties, recently bereaved and still grieving. Elliott also grieves for his marriage dominated by another man, the seemingly Helfgottian savant, Ramsey. Beth is soft, luscious and exotic with her dark skin – so earthbound compared with his flighty, distracted Zoe. Although their sex finishes almost as soon as it started, Elliott and Beth spend all future nights entwined in each others arms and sharing a love that needs no words, no demonstration – and it is beautiful.
It is very hard to let go of the couples in this book – they are all flawed, but I wanted so much to continue on with them after I finally turned the last page on their journeys – journeys which, I felt, were so incomplete. I suspect Goldsmith is not the type of author prone to sequels, but this needy reader would sure celebrate one to this gem.
It is like a giant maze – the relationships that gather on Goldsmith’s pages. There’s Zoe – Elliott – Beth; then Zoe – Ramsey – George (the pianist’s stepfather); Ramsey – Sean (his gay brother); then, well you get the drift. Firstly, though, ‘The Memory Trap’ has the marriage of Nina (Zoe’s sister) and hubby Daniel as its main focus, but as it progresses the novel deftly broadens out to minutely examine the aforementioned and more. Early in the piece Daniel gets a fit of the ‘Peter Pans’, leaves Nina for a younger substitute, causing his wife to flee London, accepting a job in her former home town – Yarra City. Her occupation is the facilitation of memorial projects, giving the author ample leeway to riff on the nature of recognising the past. She loves riffing, this author, but it’s never a distraction – her topics all fit seamlessly into the context. And the provenances of her characters sure gives ample opportunity on all manner of subjects.
Speaking of characters, my favourite leaves it till towards the end to emerge from the thumbnail sketch Goldsmith initially gives her. Hayley, daughter to Zoe and Elliott, is a feisty sixteen year old, turning out to be more adult than the adults as she commences a journey of her own. So truncated was her emergence that, as a thread on which to piggyback a future – hint, hint – addition to Goldsmith’s oeuvre, she would be ideal.
Surely Goldsmith is one of our nation’s premier accessible wordsmiths, up there with Winton, Miller and Carroll. I loved her last, ‘Reunion’, and I loved this. Sadly the author lost her long term partner in life, poet Dorothy Porter, back in 2008. I trust the author has found a happy place to be in her life and continues to produce her literary diamonds for eons to come – maybe one being a sequel to this. In conclusion, I can only repeat, ‘If you have ever loved and lost – read it’
Ms Goldsmith’s website = http://andreagoldsmith.com.au/
Snow White Bloom
The Dirty Chef – Matthew Evans
As I have espoused many times prior to this scribbling, I am a lucky man! When my Darling Loving Partner says those magic words, ‘How do you feel about salmon tonight?’ I salivate in expectation each time. Mind, it could be the mention of her cooking a steak, or the promise of one of her amazing butterflied roasts on the barbecue and I am equally in culinary rapture. DLP is not a foodie in the Matthew Evans’ sense, but she is a damn fine cook. When she is ‘rostered on,’ I know I am in for meat or fish cooked to perfection and presented to the table in a manner that would do any restaurant of reasonable quality proud. I also like to think that I know my way around a kitchen and can rustle up an acceptable repast, but DLP has the touch.
I am also a lucky man in where I have chosen to live with my wondrous DLP. My island in the southern seas is gaining a reputation for standard of product that sees it ‘punching above its weight’ in national terms. The exceptional freshness and attention to quality ensures our seafood; beef and lamb; cheeses; cool climate fruit and wines; as well as craft beer and ciders are a gourmand’s delight. Our vegetables are grown in the world’s cleanest air on some of the richest soils in the land. Then there is the ability of our producers to take risks into fare such as olive oil, saffron, quinoa, and truffles that are audacious, but ultimately commercial success stories. Of a weekend, all around Tassie, farmers’ markets bring this harvest of excellence to its towns and cities – fresh, fresh foodstuffs that were in the soil or sea only a few hours prior to selling.
Sometimes I hanker for the days of my upbringing when the connection between source and consumption was even closer – days when tucker was shot or collected by a range of family members, friends or close connections – backyard poultry and eggs, bandicooted potatoes, game meats (rabbit, roo wallaby), mutton birds, oysters from trips to Black or Detention Rivers, abalone collected from the sea rocks below our house, fish we caught off Burnie’s wharf, sugar bags of cray tails down from Circular Head or freshly shucked scallops. In my ideal world supermarkets would be factored out of the equation – but for most of us, even here on a paradisical island, the world has changed.
But Matthew Evans is not most of us. Working as a highly respected (although reviled in certain quarters) restaurant critic in Sydney, he was living the big city lifestyle, but, increasingly becoming disenchanted with it. He developed a dream and had the blinkered will to pursue it. He wanted control over the whole journey of what entered his stomach. He had a yearning to farm and that’s what bought him to Tasmania’s Huon Valley – to Puggle Farm at first, then taking on Fat Pig as well. Both were sited in the hills around the valley town of Cygnet.
The Huon, south over the Wellington Range from where I live by the Derwent on the northern outskirts of Hobart, is where both my parents hail from, growing up when it produced apples for the British market. Once the Poms went all European on us, that industry faltered and for a time the Huon went backwards economically. It has now largely bounced back with diversification. Its decidedly four seasons of climate now also attracts an overlay of tree and sea-changers from all over Oz. And it is stunningly beautiful to boot with the wilderness just beyond the tree line.
Evans’ transition from urbanite to rustic landholder has been well recorded in the three seasons of ‘Gourmet Farmer’ on SBS. As one can imagine, this huge change in his life had its ups and downs – with it still being a work in progress. Such has been his persistence, he now has a ‘brand’ within his adopted state.
I was as enamoured of this book as I have been of the show. It was a pleasure for me to have him sign my copy of ‘The Dirty Chef’ at his book launch late last year. I also own a couple of his recipe compilations, but this tome is a different kettle of fish, although recipes close most chapters. It takes over from his television programmes and gives a more detailed account of the territory covered in ‘Gourmet Farmer’ – especially the challenges that beset Matthew as he strove to attain his goal. In Series 2 of the show and in his tome he is latterly joined by new wife Sadie, with Hedley arriving in due course. Along the way he also gathered good mates Nick and Ross as his companions for ‘adventuring’ on the farm and throughout the island as they set out to conquer their version of the world. This made for terrific reading – close to home reading. From now on, going up and over Vinces Saddle, then down into the Huon, will be, for me, as closely associated with Evans’ series and book as it is to family.
I do, just a tad, take issue a little with his definition of the Huon. His seems more or less based on municipal boundaries, but for me the area after Geeveston, moving away from the river, is the Far South. The country changes, the communities are more hardscrabble and there is less of a mainland invasion. The eclectic disappears. But I am being pernickety.
There are wonderful moments in the book – his description of tasting his first farm egg from his own chooks; his assertions as to why Tassie should now be nicknamed ‘Spud Island’ rather than the outdated apple appellation; his descriptions of the foibles of the long standing residents, as well as their sense of community. There are the relative hardships winter presents down in these parts, although Evans has come to terms with the season of the frost and ends up rather liking it. Many of the farm animals, including the dog, have their own personalities. He describes the coming to terms with the necessary deaths of such beasts that need to occur to fulfil his vision. He argues persuasively for many of the practices vegans and vegetarians abhor. He describes the battle it is in this economic climate to make both farms economically viable. Then he describes the joys of the goose.
For a time my mother was married to a farmer – a lovely salt of the earth fellow called Bill. I remember well several Christmases at Bill’s farm, up behind Somerset, on the island’s North West Coast. On his property the soil was so rich it was almost edible. Bill had made an arrangement with one of his rural pals to prepare a goose from his flock for our yuletide table. Of course, it was my mother’s task to roast it. Now my mother claims never to have taken to the art of cookery. But I aver, based on the fact she raised three healthy sons and a daughter. And to me, those several birds we devoured those Christmases at the farm would be amongst the finest meals I have partaken of. The flesh of the king of poultry is even superior to that of duck, which I similarly adore. Oh to have another goose at some stage down the track! Evans does write, with evidence, that raising them is a little on the tricky side.
An earlier tome by Matthew Evans (‘Never Order Chicken on a Monday’) had left me somewhat underwhelmed in terms of its shallow content and pedestrian prose. With this publication his standing as an engaging writer has come ahead in leaps and bounds. In what he now scribes he is a lively and engrossing author. Perhaps it does help to know its setting so well, but all kudos to him for making the time to share his journey with those of us who are not prepared to shake up their lives to the same degree. He has presented the island I love in positive tones to the outside world and I congratulate him on that.
Matthew Evans’ website = http://www.matthewevans.net.au/
Tulip01
Why Avs?
The Blue Room took serious umbrage to the latest Sunday Age column from Sam de Brito where he savagely attacked, of all things, the av. Here is the Blue Room’s rebuttal of his nonsensical assertions.
Why pick on avs? I love avs. I know perhaps they’re not the most flavoursome item you can place in your mouth – but I find them, well, sensual. There is the texture of this de Brito maligned fruit as well as its subtlety that appeals to me. It doesn’t hit your taste buds with a sledgehammer unlike some other fruits I could mention. It has a lush unctuousness that I consider most rewarding – slightly oily, somewhat, dare I say it, even sleazy. And it is bit of an elusive strumpet as well. As my culinary-savvy Darling Loving Partner points out, it is only with gentle prodding to its bottom region can one tell if it is ripeness is fully fledged for the plate. There is a sort of tingling joy when divesting it of its outer covering, followed by the culminating climax of the insertion of a knife point to pluck its perfectly formed, hard central core out for disposal. No, to me the av is the queen of fruit, even if its reputation has been sullied by being associated with the word ‘smashed’ on the carte du jour of numerous eateries of hipster persuasion!
De Brito thunders it’s ‘…the perfect food for the mediocre.’ being so bland and diffident in its nature. He aligns it with salmon and sauvignon blanc as the other refuges for the unfulfilled, both of which this punter also takes immeasurable pleasure in. So what if the av’s name, in Aztec, means that sac dangling beneath the male sex organ To me it is almost aphrodisiacal, sharing its virtues with with a plump olive or briny oyster.
As far as it being the food of choice for those who have failed to shine in life, I’ll let you know, young Sam, that I am perfectly comfortable with what I have and haven’t achieved in all aspects of life – my relationships; my former vocation; my capacity to earn – too often the sole measurement; in my artistic and sporting endeavours. And yes Mr de Brito – I too drive a white Mazda. I find it quite zippy.
I would be quite happy to exist, for the remainder of my days, on avocados and Atlantic salmon, all washed down with spritely sav blancs. I have no wish to be Richard Branson with his squillions and women hanging off every appendage, if that is an example of being ‘non-mediocre’. Nor can I abide watching tennis – although I once played it to a mediocre level. I have never, in my life, watched an episode of ‘Rove’. And, back in the day, I was quite fond of ‘The Bridges of Madison County’ – book and film. So there!
And no, Sam de Brito – you haven’t slighted me in the least. I’ll continue to read your Sunday column in the Age religiously, even if you’re becoming increasingly curmudgeonly as the years pass. And as for being addicted to the wanton av, I am also partial to a that sluttish coquette of fruits that leaves nothing to the imagination, the mango. Am I redeemed?
Here follows said column:-
Mediocrity – learn to rejoice in it – March 02, 2014 – Sam de Brito
One of life’s great challenges is coming to terms with mediocrity. When you’re young, you kid yourself recognition of your genius lies just ahead. Then, one day, you crash into the hard shell of your limitations and it dawns you’re not Nietzsche or Nabokov; you’re not even Noel Gallagher.
Many of us subsequently drink a lot or take up cycling. Others search for comfort in food. It’s a very common experience, one I believe has directly resulted in the popularity of the avocado.
The avocado is the perfect food for the mediocre, an ancient Central American fruit tasting like the bland love child of the green pea, almond and potato. Marketers have positioned it as the no-guilt-inoffensive-butter-substitute-cum-wonder-food and the pedestrian have duly convinced themselves they adore it.
That’s the insidious nature of the avocado. People tell themselves they love it, like they do couscous, professional tennis and Rove McManus. Like? Sure. Love? I think not. People love fried chicken and oral sex.
I also like avocado but I’m supremely mediocre. I get a thrill using my new Dustbuster. I cried reading The Bridges of Madison County. I drive a Mazda. It’s white.
Compare your approach to an avocado with the equally large-seeded mango. A person slices and scrapes an avocado like they’re doing colon surgery. It’s clinical. Emotionless. A mango, however, requires passion, bare hands, mess, indignity, pulp in your teeth.
Avocados are just so … safe.
Its mediocre relative in the fish world is salmon. No one scoffs its blushing flesh and says, ”That’s the best meal I’ve ever had!’
Like the avocado, salmon is a safe place for the mediocre to shelter. It’s the polar opposite of risk-taking. Navy SEALs don’t eat salmon. Richard Branson loathes avocado. And neither drink sauvignon blanc. Sav blanc is the wine, of course, that goes perfectly with salmon; it brings out the nuttiness in avocado. It’s the varietal no one feels strongly about. People have an opinion about chardonnay or riesling but sauvignon blanc? You top up from different bottles. It’s acceptable to drink it with ice.
If you recognise yourself in any of these fancies, don’t take it as a slight. We mediocre are a significant force in the world today. We might lack balls, but we’ve also managed to castrate a grape which takes its name from the French word for ”wild”, a fish that jumps up waterfalls and a Neolithic fruit whose Aztec name means ”testicle”.
That’s gotta count for something.
Sam de Brito
Dromedary Dusk
A Melbourne Weekend – Half Told Stories and a Music Nazi
One could smell it as soon as the door swung open – it was the minty whiff of cleanliness. This put us in a positive frame of mind for adventures to come at the commencement of our weekend stay in Yarra City. Rarely does this city let us down in that regard – there are always adventures to be had. Our chosen hostelry certainly looked unpretentious as we trod over its stained carpet to the cubby hole that formed reception, but the being it held at the counter was beaming a smile as wide as the St Kilda strand a little further down the road. He checked us in with cheery chatter and then presented us with a bottle of, as it turned out, quaffable red. I was attracted to the images lining the walls as we made our way up to our first floor apartment. These were from the days of yore back in the 50s when the Oakleigh Motel was the height of travelling sophistication. Rebranded as the Armidale Serviced Apartments, on the corner of Dandenong and Williams Roads, it was a far cry from that now, but our unit was spacious enough to constrain the energies of that mighty-mite Tessa Tiger, giving her as well numerous cupboards to open and examine. It was well appointed and was soon made tot-safe by my BTD (Beautiful Talented Daughter). Following an afternoon of meeting with publishers (BTD), ‘adventuring’ with Tiges (me) and lugging luggage on and off trams (the both of us), the quality our accommodation was a fillip to our sagging stamina. As an added plus, it possessed a bath to indulge this showerophobic man. The trips we made back and forwards to the city took only a restful twenty or so minutes along either tram routes 5 or 64, plus with a few shops nearby for supplies it was all very convenient. Our choice therefore was the bees’ knees until……………
We suspect he/she, hereafter to be referred to as the Music Nazi (MN), had attended the Soundwaves Music Festival, which had attracted my son and son-in-law across the Strait as well this weekend. We deduced this for the MN started off his/her ‘show’ around midnight with a cacophonous Freddie Mercury track blasting me from my slumbers. Musically, it was downhill from there with a full range of heavy metal/rock making it impossible to contemplate a return to the Land of Nod. Initially I thought BTD had had a sudden urge to tune into ‘Rage’ at maximum decibels, but a quick reconnoitre put that theory to bed. Unbeknown to me until later, by four a.m. BTD, despite her love of a wide range of modern music, had also had enough and contacted the local constabulary. They, gratifyingly, soon put matters to right with an abrupt termination of MN’s thundering efforts to wake the neighbourhood. The following day I made polite inquiries of the smiley reception man as to the effect on other residents of the racket, only to be startled by his news that we seemed to be the only guests affected and offended. Even the in-house manager, residing in the unit below us, when summoned, claimed he had had a most restful night’s sleep. Perhaps BTD and I had both suffered a simultaneous nightmare and imagined it all!
Of course the weekend’s big event was the excursion to Melbourne Zoo. Tiges duly got to be gobsmacked by a wide variety of beasts, big and small, she had only previously encountered in her books. Lions, bears, otters, monkeys, apes and those quirky sentries, the meerkats, were of great interest to her. And she espied, for the first time, a real living tiger. The butterfly house utterly delighted our little miss, as did those dozy koalas. Similar magic was created by the arrival, at various stages, of glamorous Auntie Peta and handsome Uncles Rich and Neil. She became completely besotted by the latter when he presented her with a wearable hugging orang-utan. This she promptly added to her fairy wings as an essential everyday fashionable accoutrement.
But the trams, the trams! In Yarra City it’s always about the trams. Except at peak hour sandwich time, they are such a joy. Tiges loved them, and with her fashion statements, ever present smile and vibrant big blue eyes, it was like moths to a flame for our fellow travellers. As soon as BTD alighted, Tess attached, seats were offered up by young and old. Something similar occurred when luggage was being hauled. BTD was constantly politely batting away offers of assistance. Then there were those who initiated conversations using Tess as the entry point. There was the genial, voluble guy down from the Blue Mountains, who was giving his daughter a birthday treat with the attractions of Old Bearbrass. He was later encountered at the zoo. There was the striking, heavily pregnant Indian lady who, as she was expecting her first, queried BTD on the path that lay ahead. In the fifteen minutes that we spent in her company we discovered she was a US trained expert in biotechnology; that she had met her hubby, an Aussie sub-continental, through family connections – her way, perhaps, of saying an ‘arranged’ marriage. Sadly, before we could deduce more of her story, this elegant vision had to depart the conveyance. I could have listened to her sing-song, accented voice all day. On another similar journey from our digs up to the city a young lass, with a flower in her hair, sat down opposite BTD. The duo were soon in deep conversation. Hailing from Perth, this lovely had a smile as wide as that city’s Cottesloe strand, with eyes that sparkled with pleasure at the contributions of Tiges to proceedings. Sadly, with only a tram stop to go, my daughter and WA girl both found out they had a great deal in common as both were writers. There was no time to exchange particulars, so another story half told had to be settled for. Then there was a stunning blonde further up the tram, that same day, who could not take her eyes off my equally stunning granddaughter. I wondered what her tale may be as she pointed to Tess and made comments to her partner. Was she herself in the early stages of expectation, or was there an expectation that she could be if only she could convince her man – ‘Look at that little treasure over there darling. Wouldn’t you like one just like that?’ Later on that night the same lady caused the ruination of a well worn but loved white linen shirt, but that event, together with one involving a mirth inducing nappy belonging to Tessa, is for telling about at another time.
We discovered the village (as shopping strips in our vicinity were termed) of Hawksburn two blocks away from the Armadale. It’s located where Commercial Road morphs into Malvern. At 521 on the latter is Cafe Latte where, according to son-in-law, very knowledgeable in such matters, there was consumed the best coffee of the trip. The accompanying tucker was pretty sublime too. The shops and other eateries along either side of the thoroughfare were as eclectic as they were inviting, with a little indie bookshop (My Bookshop, 513 Malvern Rd), as well as a fruit and vegie emporium, of particular note. In future trips I’ll be catching the 72 down to Hawksburn as respite from the generic sameness of the CBD.
The final morning found me meandering around Fed Square. Up on its big screen the Academy Awards were in progress so I ambled to a viewing position to watch awhile. Glenn Close was on stage taking the millions viewing through a sad list of those shining talents lost to us during the past twelve months – Shirley Temple, Annette Funicello, Peter O’Toole, James Gandolfini, Paul Walker et al, as well as the incomparable and irreplaceable Philip Seymour Hoffman. Then Bette Midler walked on stage to warble ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’ in tribute to them. Apart from the occasional clang of a passing tram, extraneous noise seemed to evaporate and time stood still as this remarkable performer worked her way through her signature tune. The response in the venue of the Awards was to give her a standing ovation. I looked to the guy on the step below me. A big, burly, stereotypically barrel-chested working class Aussie was unashamedly wiping away his tears in the most unmanly fashion (joining your soft scribe in doing so as well). Was he weeping for the fact that song had special significance? Perhaps it was for the reason that, as with all of us, time was catching up with ‘The Divine Miss M’. Were his tears ones for a loss he had endured, or because such an array of talent will no longer grace our screens again? As with me, perhaps it was a combination of all of the above.
But this was a commercial broadcast. The ovation for Ms Midler was cut short to be replaced by the leering faces of Shane Crawford and Sam Newman feverishly promoting that most crass and turgidly inane of shows about to commence its twenty first season of Thursday night sewage. The spell was now well and truly broken. The outside world and its din had re-entered and those, who moments previously had stood transfixed, awoke from their reverie and were, as with me, moving off to continue their day.
Even if the Footy Show never does, Melbourne always beguiles and I am looking forward to the next time already. This visit had added sheen as I was accompanied by my incredible BTD. I therefore had the magic of seeing the city anew through the eyes of the wonder that is Tessa Tiger.
Oh, and about that Music Nazi. On leaving the Armadale Apartments our smiling reception clerk came running out to tell us that MN had been at it again the previous afternoon, whilst we were out. Those resident were regaled at heavy volume with MN’s musical offerings. There were no bad dreams after all that weekend in Yarra City.
The Academy Awards tribute to those departed icons = http://perezhilton.com/2014-03-02-bette-midler-oscars-2014-performance-video-watch-here-live-wind-beneath-my-wings-in-memoriam
Huon Beauty03
A Burnie Tale – Dandruff.
June 25, 2000
To Whom It May Concern
It’s getting closer now. I’ve only a few months to go, according to Doctor Jim, my oncologist. I was once so positive that, together with Tori, we’d beat it. But this time around there was no secret Chinese cure for what is afflicting me. Now I know that the end game is not so far away my place in the hospice is booked. Tori, Jack and I have discussed life for them post me. My wife has decided she’ll sell up and move back to Melbourne and naturally her son will accompany her. Her parents are getting quite frail and she feels obliged to care for them in their declining years. I tell her she’s going from the frying pan into the fire, but she’s happy with this decision. It is the Chinese way, she reckons
Death. Does it worry me? I guess I have come to terms with it in some ways. I feel cheated that I will not get to see a bit more of the life journey for the people I love, but it, in itself, is no longer frightening. I know the facility I am shortly headed for has an excellent reputation for making one as comfortable as possible. I’ll be managed well and my passing will not be a shock for others. I know, now, that with the impediments to living anything remotely resembling a normal lifestyle increasing, as well as is the amount of medication required to keep the pain at bay, it will be a quite quick demise from here on in. I cannot use a keyboard any more so this is being completed through a voice activated programme. I have had a compulsion to put this document together for some time now. I want to write my story. Bill will tizzy it up for me and place it with the papers held by my lawyer. By the time this is read, by those it is intended for, I will have departed. This record of my time on the planet is not designed to hurt, but I am being frank so I suggest it may well upset, in some ways, a person I hold very dear. Bill has his instructions as to people he is to pass this on to. Here has been my life – as I see it.
Before Tori there was, of course, my first spouse. Veena was – sorry is – of Indian extraction and wasn’t like some of the others. She wasn’t a ‘gold-digger’ as, it seemed to me, many of the nurses I worked with back then were. Some of her mates even were decidedly that way inclined. She, in contrast, was quiet and professional, devoted to her work in that Melbourne hospital where I was completing my residency. Back in the late 60s, when we were starting off, it seemed a sexual revolution had occurred and many of the nurses were after a doctor as their pathway to financial security, even wealth – and often were prepared to use their bodies to smooth the path. Not all, but a sizeable minority. That wasn’t Veena’s way whatsoever.
As for me, by this stage, I was still a sexual novice. I was bought up in the Western Districts of Victoria, my father being a leading and successful pastoralist. My mother, quite well off in her own right, had never done a day’s paid work in her life, devoting herself to being an affluent grazier’s wife. I knew, over time, my father had been involved with other women around the district, perhaps explaining in part what happened to me in life. I also knew that my mother was aware of his indiscretions too – but in those days marriages stayed together, no matter what.
From an early age I was compelled to leave for boarding school in Geelong – a sheltered, lonely existence that I think is to ‘blame’ for the way I am today – that and my appearance. There was no possibility of any interaction with members of the opposite gender, either in the school beside Corio Bay or at our fairly isolated rural homestead. So going to university was quite a shock. Although most training to be doctors were still of the male persuasion, there were nonetheless quite a selection of confident young ladies at my lectures as well. In truth, they scared me – so overt and capable – nothing like my mother. As I was no where near handsome, in conventional terms, the sexual revolution on campus entirely passed me by. By the time of my residency I had not known love, sex or even the touch of a woman’s hand on mine. A late developer in that regard, I was a tall streak with a pinched, seemingly disapproving mouth, eyes that bulged and already thinning hair – and even that wasn’t the worst of it. So, as a target for even the least choosiest nurse, I was lower than the proverbial bottom of the barrel. So when Veena showed the slightest interest I grabbed on to her for all I was worth, especially as, along with all my other disadvantages, there was the dandruff.
It had afflicted me all my life. My growing up was a misery at boarding school as I was bullied mercilessly about it. No matter what I tried – expensive lotions, specialist doctors, old wives’ cures – nothing, nothing would do the trick. With it any shred of confidence I could muster to approach a woman was immediately negated. It made me feel wretched – made me feel completely unlovable even – that is, until Veena.
I never did get up the courage to approach any girl I took a shine too and beforehand I barely knew Veena existed. She was so unobtrusive, devoid of the usual high spirits of the other nurses. In the end our meeting was brokered by Reg, another doctor to be. He had his eye on one of Veera’s mates but she would only date him as part of a foursome. She would bring Veena along – Reg had to find her a partner – and that was me. He’d chosen yours truly for two reasons, or so I assumed. First of all I was available; secondly I would certainly not provide any threat to his intentions with his girl. In the end he didn’t even get to first base – but there was one marriage that came out of that evening. Mine!
We seemed to hit if off, Veena and I. We had work in common and were both shy – me to the point of paralysis. I think Veena was unsure of me for a long time. Our first kiss took forever to achieve, and it was months before I could convince her to consummate the relationship – and I choose that word – consummate – carefully. We knew the theory of course, but in practice sex was a different matter. Still, I enjoyed myself that first time. Veena looked good in a sari, which she tended to wear frequently in private – even better out of one. But ‘making love’ with her – well it seemed she felt it was my right and her duty. She in no way approached deriving the same benefits as I did. I doubted that we’d last the distance. I knew with what I had to offer I couldn’t be choosy, but she seemed happy enough. Before too long we had announced our engagement in ’74 and married the following year. It was then the double whammy hit.
Being so lofty the only sport I displayed any aptitude for was basketball. I can’t say I overly enjoyed it, but it kept me from being totally sedentary. My job in the team was to dash ahead of the guy with the ball and be under the ring when he lobbed it up. Mostly my height ensured I caught it and then popped it where it was meant to go, but along the way I copped a few hits in the nether regions shall we say. By the time I was getting serious with Veena, my basketball days were over mainly so I could concentrate on my career. It is my feeling the sport left a legacy. Soon after I commenced being intimate with Veena I noticed one of my testicles would ache off and on. I put it down to the sex but, being a doctor, I should have known better. Discovering a lump in the offending testicle I knew it was more serious and consulted a specialist. He confirmed my worst fears and slotted me in for an operation as soon as was possible. I gave the regulatory amount of sperm – just in case – and then the second whammy hit. It turned out I needn’t have bothered. Irrespective of the result of the procedure it turned out my sperm count was way below that required to inseminate anyone. I would never have children in the natural way.
At that point in time that fact didn’t seem to faze Veena unduly – she was more concerned about the cancer. I was lucky. Soon I was able to put the incident somewhat behind me. I thought further down the track we would look at our options and have some offspring by the other available means. Soon after all this I decided to specialise in gynaecology. I took the view that if I couldn’t have kids myself, I’d do my level best to assist others in doing so. And that’s what bought Veena and I to Burnie, over the water, in Tassie. The town was now big enough for a second practitioner and I was soon joining the overworked original in his rooms. Veena had no trouble obtaining shift work at the local regional hospital, so it seemed that all was going along satisfactorily and I supposed it did turn out that way, all factors considered.
Life in the provincial town had few attractions for me apart from work, that being my salvation. By the time the eighties arrived Veena and I were sleeping in separate beds and an invitation to her room was hard to come by. Financially, as the decade proceeded, we were doing better and better. I set up in my own practice and soon we could afford real estate on Grandview Avenue – the best address in town. I didn’t think this made either of us particularly happier. Veena was of the opinion life was passing her by, now vociferously expressing a desire to have children. I was okay with that – the only problem was she wanted to have them naturally. That I couldn’t give her – we both knew it. In hindsight I now think it was a deliberate ploy – she was using my inadequacy as her ticket to freedom, her excuse to be rid of me. Soon I too realised our marriage was in its death throes – that it was only a matter of time. I was miserable at home, but at least at work I was finding some consolation. I knew I had my faults there too. Some complained that my bedside manner left something to be desired, but I keenly felt I was thorough and rigorous in what I did with my clients seeming to respect me for that. I took pride in my success rate, in dealing calmly with matters when they went awry during the process of childbirth. And then I met Bronnie.
For years she was just a patient. I say ‘just’, but right from the start of our professional relationship, through the delivery of three children, I liked her. She was a breath of fresh air compared to some of my usual clientele. Later I carried out some terminations for her. These never seemed to unduly upset Bron – she was always bright and breezy; always dressing provocatively, even when very pregnant. She had a flirtatiousness about her I was attracted to, but of course I would never act on that feeling. She was a small, bosomy blonde, always smelling of expensive perfume and always tastefully made up. I knew from our discussions re the cessation of her last few pregnancies that she had, what she described as, an ‘open’ marriage, engaging in a number of affairs around the town. The event that suddenly made life so much more worth living for me occurred when she came to me for a check-up after her last termination. She stood up, I thought to go – but instead she started thanking me profusely for all I had done for her over the years. She then bent over my desk, knowing full well that she was partially exposing her best attributes to my view, placed her hand over mine to inform me that, ‘If there is anything I can do for you Dr Alomes, anything at all – just say the word.’ After I regained my composure I asked her to leave and told her that this was to be be the end of our doctor/patient relationship.
I waited a few weeks out of ‘professional’ integrity before I relented and shoved to the back of my mind my conscience. After a particularly bleak weekend with Veena, I made contact and Bronnie and I became lovers. I knew I was one of a number, but Bron was addictive and she loved sex just as much as I loved sex with her. It wasn’t just the act. There was more to it that that. For want of a better word, there was languor. With her time seemed to slow down and we spent hours in bed just chatting, just cuddled up to each other. This was a new and wonderful experience for me. She also had orgasms with me. I couldn’t believe that. After years of Veena, that was the best feeling in the world. I found it hard to believe she was attracted to me, but so she seemed – and she never once mentioned the dandruff. We had our assignations out of Burnie in hotel rooms up and down the coast. When I attended conferences in Launceston, Hobart or even in Melbourne, she made it her business to be in whichever city as I was. Veena had given that away years ago.
I knew my wife was sensing something, but I didn’t think by this stage that she particularly cared. I know I had few scruples about the affair. By now Veena was mute on the child thing; was as removed from me as it was possible to be under the one roof. She was clearly ‘considering her options’. We treated each other cordially when our paths crossed on the occasions I attended the hospital, but at home she locked herself away in her room, I in mine. Stony silence reigned. Unlike popular misconception, she didn’t leave me because of Tori – or indeed Bronnie – nor do I think she specifically left to have children before it was too late for her. I think she left because she simply couldn’t stand me any more. One day I came home to discover the house empty of all her gear. There was a note stating that she was intending to return to Victoria, not to try and contact her and wishing me good fortune in all future endeavours. I have no idea what came of her. I respected her request and signed the divorce papers when they arrived, returning them to her lawyer without quibble over her admittedly quite reasonable terms – and so ended my first marriage.
So it was to my immense good fortune that soon after those events Tori entered my world. The leaving of Veena put some extra pressure on Bronnie – I now saw her as a future partner in life but, of course, she wasn’t in the least attracted to that notion. She wasn’t about to give up all that she made no secret of for me – and I sensed I was in danger of losing her. I backed off. Keeping my lover was an imperative, so Tori suited me down to the ground. Besides, I liked her. I liked her very much and I had delivered her first, Jack, not so long beforehand. The town library had always been one of my haunts in my attempts to escape the house when I wasn’t at my surgery. Frequently I would spot Tori at work there. One day I noticed she was seated at the ‘assistance’ desk so, affecting an air of casualness, I sauntered over and asked after Jack. She answered in a way I’ll never forget, but that was Tori, forthright to a fault. ‘Thank you for asking but he is fine, but look at you. You’re a mess. That dandruff! Why don’t you do something about it?’
I suppose part of me was offended, but I gave her the abridged version of my lifelong affliction and then she really startled me. ‘Bah! I can fix it. Give me your address. I’ll come around tomorrow. Give me a time. Ancient Chinese remedy,’ she laughed. ‘Success is guaranteed. Only will take a few treatments. And to thank me, you can then take me out to dinner.’ For better or worse I agreed. She was there at my door the next day, spot on the agreed time. She noticed the neglected state of the house, turned and simply raised an eyebrow. I told her. I told her of Veena’s departure a few weeks previously. I now suspect it was even as early as that moment that Tori started figuring out a new path for herself as well. I may misjudge, but that is what I suspect.
I was instructed to get a towel, put it around my shoulders and to sit. From her bag she produced a jar of a substance that she proceeded to massage into my scalp. Her fingers gently prodding the top of my head felt so heavenly I could have purred, but the stuff itself smelt foul. I asked what was in it but she just laughed and said, ‘Let’s see if it works first!’ It did, noticeably. After a few more applications in the further visits Tori made, for the first time in my existence I became dandruff free. True to my word, I asked she and her husband to dine with me. ‘Bah! Who needs him?’ she responded. ‘I’ll make some excuse. I want it to be just us two.’ Who was I to argue?
At Burnie’s best, the Raindrops Room, we chatted amicably enough, but I could tell she was in a rush to be away and I naturally assumed it was to get back home. But no, it turns out it was my abode that she was anxious to get to. After she refused coffee she announced, ‘Now I would like you to take me back to your house. You will make me coffee.’
At that moment I didn’t think much of it – I was just slightly shocked. Looking back, it seemed further evidence she had it all planned from the start. Was she akin to those nurses way back when. I figured she wouldn’t be badly off, but certainly her husband’s teaching wouldn’t be as lucrative as my gig. It was all very suspicious but, as I said, it suited my purposes.
I was no sooner through the door than she grabbed me. ‘Wouldn’t you prefer to do something with me other than just have a coffee? she whispered. ‘Take me to your bedroom!’ When we arrived she ordered me to remove my clothes, then I was to undress her. I was immediately struck by the difference of her body when compared to Veena’s and Bron’s. She was so lean, almost boyish. We made love. It was very quick, hardly satisfying for either of us and we were no sooner finished than she was up and getting dressed. ‘It is time for me to go. When would you like to do this again?’
There was something about Tori that was so engaging. I knew I’d never really love her, nor she me, I quickly figured. But we made her version of love frequently for a while after that. When I told Bronnie about her, I was fearful – but determined to do the right thing. I shouldn’t have worried about her reaction. She said she was delighted but warned about the small town thing. I’d have to be very careful or it’d be all over the place – the local gossips would see to that. She was correct – it didn’t take long before I gathered all and sundry knew. Bronnie inquired if I still ‘required her services’. Again she seemed delighted when I answered in the affirmative.
Tori’s plan was proceeding apace, talking of moving in with me. So it came as a surprise when she announced, a few months into our relationship, that she was pregnant. It didn’t seem to throw her in any way. She simply announced that she would wait a year after the birth of, as it turned out, Kerryn and then she would commence her life with me. I complimented her on her efficiency and asked, only half jokingly, if I had any say in the matter. ‘Not really,’ she responded. ‘You want me, don’t you? We’d make such a great team. You can wait a little longer.’ Then she threw me the curve ball, ‘I know there is someone else in your life. That is no problem for me as long as you are discrete. Don’t worry, you can still still have nookie with me too!’ And so wait I did.
Did I come to love Tori in the end? Love wasn’t a word she would use. What we did together was always ‘nookie’ – never ‘making love.’ It was quick and efficient, just as Tori was with everything she tackled. I had Bron who gave me the caresses I craved – so no, I wasn’t in love with Tori. I couldn’t fault her as a wife when, true to her word, the day after Kerryn’s first birthday she, Jack and the little tot moved into my Grandview Avenue house. She transformed it in a flash – made it into the home it never felt like when Veena was resident. That I did love! After her divorce came through we made it all official in a simple wedding. There were just a few guests at the lovely rhododendron gardens in the hills behind the town. The only minus was the way she treated her husband. Soon I was concerned that he would worry about whether he was actually the father of Kerryn and I didn’t think that was fair. The only cross words I had with Tori were over that issue. She always told me to butt out – it was her business. I never quite figured out why she – and later on Jack, treated him so, in my opinion, poorly. In my few dealings with him he seemed a fine fellow and certainly a caring dad.
Now in these days of illness Tori cares for me in her usual no nonsense manner. All my needs are catered for and she never turns a hair at some of the more unpleasant aspects of her task involving my well being. In my heart of hearts I do wish it was Bron there in her stead, for at least then the care would come with a little more affection. Oh dear I miss Bron. We kept going as long as we could, but once it became obvious that the diagnosis was terminal I ended it. Bron shed a gallon of tears. If Tori has wept over my impending demise then I haven’t been aware – it has always been business as usual for her.
As it turned out Kerryn was a little force of nature. She adored her dad more and more as she grew. It also seemed the harder I tried the more she disliked me. I persevered with her, I really did. Her growing animosity towards me as she proceeded through her primary school years really put a strain on the relationship. Tori kept saying she’d get over it, but Kerryn manipulated for all she was worth – manipulated to spend as much time with her dad as possible. She has blossomed into a lovely teenager, but eventually even Tori had finally had enough and acceded to her requests to live with her father. Till that point she did everything she could to make our lives difficult. Once she left it was all so much more relaxed and she would happily visit. The young lady even tolerated me enough to have a civil conversation with me once in a while. And Tori’s attitude to her ex also seemed to soften as well. I am hoping that once I am gone there can be even more of a thawing all round.
As for Jack? Well a father couldn’t be more proud of him than I am of that young man. Jack’s gay. I’d suspected it for a while. That night he called me into his bedroom and told me of his darkest fears I now honestly think was the best moment of my life, even if it must have been so difficult for him. I cannot write this without tears coming to my eyes. To think that I was the first that he confided in – expressing his fear of what may lie ahead for him. I like to think it was me that eased his concerns that he was abnormal – that he was a freak. I explained how that in this day and age his life would be much easier than it would have been for me in the same situation, but I didn’t hide him from the fact that, in a place like Burnie, his journey wouldn’t be a breeze. With Burnie being Burnie he sometimes had a tough time at school and out of of it. He feels the move to Melbourne will make it easier for him. It took Tori a while to come to terms with his homosexuality, but now she is as pragmatic about it as she is everything else. His father was fine with it as well, although that didn’t seem to make any improvement in their chilly relationship. I never got to the bottom what the issue was between them, with Tori also claiming to be at a loss. I can only hope that as time passes Jack will see that the guy has always wanted the best for his son.
So – that’s it as I see it. A better life than I could have reasonably hoped for, all factors considered.
.
(I have requested the accompanying notes be given to each significant recipient of the above.)
To Jack
I know you are distraught at what’s happening to me and I love you even more for that. I do thank you, Jack, for your confidence in me that night I wrote of and during the following years. The idiot fringe at school in your last years and around the town weren’t easy, but you stood up and faced them as you did when you courageously acknowledged the way you are. I know you are at peace with that now as we are. Melbourne will be great for you – I am confident of that. I know you will find love and by the time you do I trust that society will be as accepting of that love as they are for that between opposite genders. I am so very proud of you.
To Tori
I know some of what I have written may have hurt, but I also well know, with that resilient nature you possess, you will not let the grass grow under you. You will move on quickly to a new life in Melbourne – and I know it will be an exciting one for you will make it so. You go where angels fear to tread. Thank you for giving me Jack to love. Thank you for being the best wife a man in my situation could have hoped for. It is my belief that Jack will find his way in Melbourne and may even build bridges with his father. And thank you, Tori, for curing my dandruff. I’ll never know what was in that concoction of yours but it did the trick and in so many ways made me feel so much better about myself. Bottle it and you’ll make a fortune – but I know you don’t do that with old Chinese recipes.
To My Bronnie
Thank you my love. If I could have had you to myself I would have done so in a flash. If I loved – truly loved anyone it was you. You are a magnificent woman and it is my hope that one day you will find all that you need from just one man – be that your husband or someone else. You have been the light of my life all these years and have given me so much pleasure that even now, with my life dominated by pain and how to manage it – I can look back and still remember and smile at the wonder of it all.
Dr Louis Alomes
The Blue Room, Riverside Drive 