A Bird on My Shoulder Page 6
To me, Julian seemed invincible. His life force was so strong that it was impossible for me to imagine him in any other way. So I was surprised when he casually mentioned one day that he was going to hospital to have a blood test which had been organised by an old friend of his, haematologist Dr John White. He’d been having them regularly for years because of a permanently swollen left calf, the result of a botched operation several years before.
Julian was a little vague about why he was being asked to do this, but he had a huge respect for the medical profession and was content to follow instructions. I certainly had no concerns at all. I felt that Julian’s zest for life and passion for sport would keep him active for many years. There was nothing to suggest that anything but a long and robust life stretched before him.
8 December 1995
Christmas greetings and tidings of good cheer. Life has been eventful in our little box 109 and here is some of it.
I am glad last year is a receding memory. A fresh outlook developed towards its end, and then I met Lucy at a Moresby party in March, and everything moved pretty rapidly from then. We announced the wedding and Lucy’s pregnancy in June and were married in Moresby at the end of September. There were a hundred or so people and a bit of formality which went swimmingly. The church was brilliantly done up, the food good, music a little old-fashioned and speeches so-so. Between times we have ridden horses and sailed a bit.
A photo or two comes with this epistle. English with a Midlands/Aussie accent, 32, about five feet one-and-a-bit inches, blonde, blue eyes. See the pic. A good writer and strong, down to earth, warm personality – er, that’s it, she subedited this part. She likes her job and loves PNG – at any rate for the time being.
After the wedding we went to Argentina to find out that our Spanish was not all that good, and Argentines are better at polo than we are. It was a lovely honeymoon and we will go again someday. Previously we had visited Charlie in Seoul where he is enjoying the experience of learning Korean.
Oliver graduated from Sydney University last year and started doing a crummy job selling junky software but enjoyed the perks such as new cars and suchlike. On my urging he eventually got to China in July and is now studying at Tongji University in Shanghai, which he says is to his liking, but is not explicit as to why. He says he is comfortable with everyday speech but is a way off reading and writing with any ease. He will probably stay another year. If you want a penfriend in China he is in room 705 of the foreign students’ building, or qi ling wu as we now say. Charlie has spent the year in Seoul and speaks Korean easily, though at the end of the day a knowledge of Chinese characters is needed for an indepth understanding. He returns early next year and will spend Xmas in China with Oliver. Henry has just done his final school examination and hopes for enough marks to follow his brothers to Sydney University, where he will probably learn languages. He spends next year in Sao Paulo on a Rotary exchange. Edward has another three years in school and has just joined us in Moresby. He is getting taller and is doing well at rowing. I would like him to do as well with his school work.
Life in Moresby continues much as ever. The country is beautiful, the people friendly and there is no crowding. The Pacific is a nice backwater to wallow in and for 8 degrees south of the equator the climate is surprisingly good. The economy took a dive a year ago when the currency was devalued 50 per cent. Plenty of envy of Asian growth rates and terrific corruption schemes. We plan to take a month off after Xmas whilst we wait for the baby, and for once I will be glad to be out of the place for a while. Most people suffer one way or another from higher prices and there are too few local producers benefiting from the situation. The feeling is that PNG should not necessarily become another Nigeria but then again it might.
Lucy is continuing to work as a journalist for AAP. Right now her new boss is unimpressed with the thought of two months’ absence to have a baby, but does not necessarily want to lose her either. At the same time, she would like to get away from straight political reporting, which is largely attending press conferences to hear the lies and then writing a piece which shows the right level of doubt.
We all look forward to catching up sooner than later. Present plans are to visit England next year, Sao Paulo, China and wherever family and friends are.
Julian
9
Married life in those early days was magical;
the world seemed to gleam anew.
The spirit of generosity between Julian and me transformed my rather immature and untested ideas about the constraints of married life. Among all the dinners and jazz, laughter and sailing, there were moments where life leaped out at me, full and vibrant: the early-morning screech of birds, the sight of an aching sky at sunset, the frangipanis outside the window whose scent seduced me as I slept.
I felt so blessed to be living with someone who had such a level perspective on life. Even though I could see that our union was unconventional and clichéd to outsiders, the marriage made absolute sense to me. For the first time in my adult life I felt absolutely accepted by a man. Finally, here was someone who was not at all troubled by my extremes of mood; the force of my temper and my capacity for deep tenderness were both accepted within the safe harbour of his personality.
Julian was an introvert who led a very external life – I was an extrovert who led a very internal life. While I was spontaneous, disorganised and fiery, Julian was fixed, methodical and always calm. Strangely, I did not feel stifled by his predictability and never felt he was trying to impose his values or opinions upon me. We were polar opposites politically. I was definitely left-leaning with a few twists and he was conservative with a flair for surprises. He was an absolute creature of habit, eating the same breakfast – two Vitawheat biscuits with lime marmalade, half a pawpaw with fresh lime juice – and the same lunch – ham and coleslaw sandwiches – every day. After work he would immediately go out for a run or a walk. If the boys were home, they would play squash together at lunchtimes.
Somehow, despite our differences, we managed to find a sense of harmony and oneness of purpose without a great deal of effort. We both valued our independence and it amazed me that we seemed to be able to accommodate each other’s needs while still doing pretty much what we liked. The age gap between us seemed immaterial. I was clearly not his equal in either wealth or life experience and yet I never felt anything other than his true companion.
I moved into the family home overlooking Ela Beach, continuing to maintain my office just around the corner. Julian’s family home was a simple fibro building with wooden floors, large walls of louvred windows and glorious views. It was one of the very few remaining Queenslanders left in the city – most were being bulldozed to make way for high-rise apartments.
My new home had even less security than the AAP house. Even though there were bars on all the windows, there was no alarm, no guard, no security lights – there was not even a proper gate. For years, Julian and his family had simply parked in a rocky alcove in the street below and walked up a long, open flight of concrete steps to the house.
This was a complete throwback to the days when Port Moresby was a far safer place for everyone. It also helped that Julian had such a strong sense of confidence in the community of people around him; he simply did not register the same signals of potential aggression that other men appeared to feel.
Although I had become used to living behind barred windows at the AAP house, I knew that it would be even worse to continue to live as a prisoner in my mind as well. So I steeled myself against the frequently expressed fears of other expatriates, and went every day with Julian for a long walk after work. It felt better to be living something more akin to a normal life.
•••
The slow pace of life in Papua New Guinea had taken a while to get used to. When I first arrived, I could not believe that what I would consider to be a simple daily task, such as going to the bank, could sometimes take two hours. Every transaction had to be checked and double-checked and t
hen written out by hand.
Once I became accustomed to delays, however, I found it easier to surrender to the inevitability of waiting and instead embraced the freedom from the tyranny of the clock that the languid Melanesian pace of life offered. If time was not of great importance, people were. I saw that in Papua New Guinea so many people had time, real time, for one another. Everywhere I went, people were talking, engaging one another in a way I had never witnessed in a more formal Western culture, where people were so much more focused on getting things done. In this very open, tactile society I had felt the reserve of an English upbringing melt away and a greater sense of connection to everyone around me.
Daily life brought me into frequent contact with Nina, Julian’s housekeeper, and her husband Maseus, who lived on the same block of land with their two adopted boys, Mok and Manu. They had begun working for Julian and Charmian many years before as a young married couple.
Every morning Maseus went off to work at a nearby apartment building. Nina arrived at the house to begin her morning tasks with quiet, methodical purpose. Everything went in a certain place and if I ever unthinkingly moved an object it would not be long before she had put it back. I worried that she disliked me and was unhappy about my arrival – it took me a while to realise that beneath her natural reserve there was a loyal and loving person who accepted me completely.
•••
At first, it felt odd to be immersed in a new home belonging still to what I felt was another family. I remember walking into the house alone one day and being so struck – as I never had before – by the overwhelming sense of Charmian’s presence; her spirit seemed to permeate every room, drape over every empty chair and hover around the salt-licked picture frames full of smiling faces. It was a benign presence, even strangely comforting.
As I gradually settled in, I frequently came across Charmian’s belongings: old medicines in the fridge, tiny silver bells and pendants tucked away in a cutlery drawer. Once I was idly looking through the bookcases and discovered that not only did we have identical collections of poetry and literature but, as we were both writers and editors, had a similar habit of writing pencilled comments in the margins. I would take out these books and peruse her thoughts on and insights into poetry I also loved, carefully deciphering her handwriting which looped and curled with precision on every page.
Charmian was someone with whom I’d had no earthly relationship, yet I was living in the spaces and places, visible and invisible, where she had lived, sharing in some strange way a very intimate part of her life.
One of Charmian’s closest friends had summoned up the courage to speak to me after the wedding, saying how difficult the day had been; she had found it hard to accept that Julian had married again and felt conflicted about her loyalties.
‘The funny thing is,’ she said as we meandered to the end of this rather surprising but not uncomfortable exchange, ‘that I think if you’d met you would have been friends. In many ways you are very alike.’
I drove home feeling slightly nonplussed by this conversation. How should I approach or understand this most unusual of relationships? There was no obvious rivalry here and yet irrationally I continued to feel a private unease, as though I had somehow been a heartless usurper. The effects of her absence were tangible.
One evening, when Julian was out, I went onto the veranda with my notebook and pen. Below, on the beach, I could see dark figures huddled at the water’s edge and, beyond them, tiny ripples of foam. I lit a candle to repel the mosquitoes and began a letter to Charmian.
When I’d finished, I held the paper at the edge of the candle. There was a small wave of relief as my words slipped away in smoky fragments onto the rising wind above the rocky hillside and out into the fading sky. I could only have faith that somewhere, somehow, my words would be heard and understood. As I sat lost in thought, a small particle of the letter, no bigger than a thumbnail and only slightly singed, came floating through the air and landed quietly on my arm.
•••
That Christmas we moved to Julian’s family farm in the Hunter Valley to await the arrival of the baby. In February I was admitted to hospital in Newcastle, north of Sydney, after a rather exhausting pregnancy; I had contracted malaria again. I discovered I had it for the second time when I began to vomit rather dramatically in the middle of a supermarket.
The labour was life-changing for me, although Julian seemed to take it all in his stride. Of course, he had no real idea of the excruciating pain which was building hour after hour, wave after wave. There was one moment, however, just after midnight, when he had clearly decided a little sleep might be just what he needed and, without any discussion, lay down on the bed, leaving me on the edge of the birthing pool. I was staggered.
‘Get . . . out . . . of . . . that . . . bed . . . right . . . now,’ I managed to hiss.
Julian must have heard my barely suppressed hysteria because he immediately came to my side.
I could not get comfortable and moved constantly, trying to follow ML’s instructions, which had arrived by fax the previous evening, to ‘just keep breathing’. There was a terrible moment in labour when I realised there was no going back. Whatever was happening, could not stop. For several hours my body took me on a journey I had never thought possible and while I struggled and cursed, I was also in awe.
I felt myself descend into a long, grey tunnel where all I could focus on was a faint light up ahead. I did not even ask for pain relief, which I had planned to do – I was so busy just getting through each intense second. I remember looking down at the top of Julian’s head as he kneeled beside me on the floor and wiped the blood off my legs. In the midst of this extraordinary experience, this was the pinnacle of trust and intimacy between us; never before had I felt so vulnerable and yet so protected.
Finally, in the early morning, our baby boy was born.
A short while later I was lying, battered and pale under a green surgical sheet, when the doors burst open and the jubilant face of Charlie appeared.
‘Where is he? Where’s my new brother?’ He could not wait to hold him.
Julian was completely elated by the arrival of his fifth son. He shortly came back into the room with a smuggled bottle of champagne – it was 10 am – to let me know he’d called our family in Australia and the UK, and to announce that he had chosen several potential names.
‘I’ve marked them,’ he said, gesturing to the baby name book we had bought the week before.
As Julian already had four sons with decidedly English names, I had been quietly toying with ideas about how we might maintain that tradition. Later, I flipped through the first few pages.
Alphonso, Godwin and Lysander had been given a firm tick.
‘They’re quite splendid, aren’t they?’ Julian said with a confident grin when I asked him about his choices. He then proceeded to give me an explanation of why each name would be perfect.
‘Thirlwall’s tough enough,’ I replied. ‘You have to constantly explain to everyone how to spell it. You can’t be serious about Lysander? That’s a lifetime of teasing. There’s no way we’re going to do it.’
Reluctantly Julian agreed that these rather more florid names might turn out to be a terrible burden for a child. So we named our baby George. Gorgeous George.
10
We’ll help you walk on fledgling feet, and laugh
away your tumbling tears, To meet life’s dragons
face to face, and overcome your human fears.
Julian soon had to return to Papua New Guinea so I went to Sydney to stay with Jim and Elizabeth Hammond, the parents of two of my closest friends, Meg and Steph. With their quiet support and vast experience – they had six grown children and the first of their nineteen grandchildren – they guided me through the first days of motherhood, keeping me company, and nursing me through yet another bout of malaria.
Luckily for us all, George was a great first baby – contented and easy. Elizabeth advised me to try her ti
me-honoured routine of two daytime sleeps – for the mother as well, when possible – and this became my blueprint for the future. George was so adaptable that even when other plans took over, he simply went back to sleep or lay awake smiling.
I was coping reasonably well, but I had moments of panic, particularly when I was on my own with him; there seemed to be so much to learn. It was overwhelming to realise, when I held George’s tiny body in my arms, that after many years of pleasing myself, I was now responsible for another human life.
Julian had seemed quite unfazed by the arrival of a newborn child – this, after all, was his fifth son. But he was not a particularly hands-on carer, as he came from another era, and so when I returned to Port Moresby he decided that his contribution should be to take over the shopping and cooking – something I was quite happy about as he was a much better cook than me.
With a new baby in the house, Nina was transformed. She immediately fell in love with George and, because of him, the two of us grew closer. I observed how carefully she swaddled and carried him, how she soothed him to sleep. Sometimes I would watch from the window as she sat under our mango tree, quietly rocking George in her lap when he would not settle. And later, as she walked up into the sunlit house, I could see her stroking his hair and hear her humming to him.
Alongside ML, who I visited in the Solomon Islands two months after George was born, Nina became my main model of motherhood; my own family was really just too far away. She showed me through her actions how to care for a young baby. I tried to emulate her example and find within myself the unique quality of deep tranquillity that so many mothers in Papua New Guinea seemed to possess. I never achieved it.
Nina had never been to school so could not read or write; her wisdom came from a much older, less fragmented place. For so many years she had brought order and consistency into Julian’s family life and had looked after all of the older boys from a young age. Even many years after Charmian gave birth to their youngest son, Edward, in Port Moresby General Hospital, Nina would speak about him as if he were her own flesh and blood.