Gwennie's Girl Read online

  When?

  ‘Next week.’

  Would she buy a ticket and he would reimburse her?

  Nope. She didn’t have the money.

  ‘I will send you a ticket.’

  Why me?

  ‘I hear you area a story teller who has been talking to women about suffering. I want a story-teller to report on humanitarian needs.’

  Bloody hell, she could tell stories. Off to Geneva, get the job, run away to safety where the husband could not reach her, could not taunt her. Travel to war zones, to conflict, to refugee camps and talk to people and tell their stories. The German guy from the international organisation just wanted her to tell stories for big donor agencies and the UN. Bloody hell, she could do that. So she did.

  Somehow, thinking someone was prepared to pay her to do the job made her confident she could do it. Somehow, slowly the fear began to fade. Her husband could not touch her. She was safe in Geneva, in this beautiful world again. Now, there was just that flicker of fear that still sometimes caught at her and had to be controlled.

  When she walked with Sam she could almost extinguish it, perhaps pretend it wasn’t there. Almost. Would it always be almost or perhaps? Was she always going to be “damaged goods”? Not the way her husband had meant it, not because she was physically scarred—but because the essence of her would not easily trust again. At least, not completely. Yet, somehow, somewhere, Lizzie had found a sense of safeness and opening to let in some joy.

  Lizzie’s body recovered in Geneva. It seemed as if a general sense of well-being stayed ready to reassert itself. That must have been part of the healing too. It must have come from the beauty and the fun she experienced in her new life. Who would not recover when she could go to places out of storybooks and fairy-tale romances? Places like Provence of novels, history, poetry, lavender, poppies and romantic legends. Provence had certainly helped the healing.

  The first time Lizzie went to Provence, she had left the office with her friends. She recalled the rain and the joking as they piled into the rented van ready for a weekend in the little village whose name she could not remember at the time. She had known that the weather would improve and was expecting to enjoy herself. The friend had organised a small group to stay at the house of a colleague. It was, apparently, in a tiny village, and the colleague had renovated the house himself. She did not know the colleague, Richard, very well—and did not particularly like what she did know. When she had first arrived in the office and been introduced he looked as though he might be rather nice, rather fun.

  However, when she spoke to him a couple of times he seemed to withdraw. Someone said he was divorced and lots of the women fancied him. ‘Up-himself-prick!’ Lizzie decided. He probably thought she was some desperate divorcee out to jump his bones. ‘At least, wait to be asked’, she flung at him silently and dismissed him. Some months later, they had to work on a committee together, and he was patronisingly polite to the “simple minded woman from the colonies”. She played dumb for a while—about bureaucratic things that bored her silly—then snarled at him and walked out of the committee. Sure, she was a bitch, but she felt some satisfaction that he would not stereotype her again so quickly.

  However, when a friend, Bill (gay and proud of it) invited her to join the excursion, she was reasonably sure that Richard would not agree. Bill (gay and incorrigibly mischievous) said he would tell everyone Lizzie was his experimental mid-life affair. She giggled, and although Bill never would tell her whether or not he did so, she found herself invited. Richard was clearly uncertain of her—in fact, quite wary of her—and she was bitch enough to find that amusing. ‘Up-himself-prick,’ she thought again.

  However, over coffee one day, when he tentatively approached her to arrange departure times and she asked about the house he seemed a different person. He went into detail about how he had found it as just a stone shell full of rubble and rubbish, had worked on it for years going to the village in every spare moment. He smiled at her, simply assuming that she would understand, and said, ‘After my divorce, the house became my love, you see.’

  She found herself smiling back and wondering—God forbid—could she have been too hasty in her judgement? Not Lizzie? Too hasty to judge? Never. Well…maybe. She would wait and see.

  They were all in high spirits on the way down. Richard pointed out landmarks and said that there was a legend about the village, but he wouldn’t tell them what it was, said he would tell them at the appropriate time. As they drove down the valley of the Rhone, the weather gradually cleared. It was late afternoon. Lizzie was watching the play of light on the countryside of fresh greens, dark greens, watery greens, succulent greens and secret, shadowy greens.

  Suddenly, without warning, there was red. Fields and fields of shining, bold, sunshiny red. She gasped aloud, and Richard drew into the side of the road. They were red, red, black centred poppies. This was what the Impressionists were all about. They weren’t shape or form. They were living, vibrant colour. This was the definition of red. Softly, underneath, as if supporting it, was the sheen of silver, olive green. But you didn’t notice it for a while. The red demanded your attention. It was total beauty, that colour. It seemed as if it must be forever. The absolute red.

  By now, she knew she was reaching the burbling, bullshit stage. Stop prattling to yourself, woman. Just enjoy it! So she did. And the glow of it stayed with her.

  Finally, they turned into a small valley full of grape vines, and the road became narrow and wound its way between them. There were white stony hills covered in bush and trees. The van crossed a tiny bridge, passed by a gentle old war monument, and they entered the village, a higgledy-piggledy maze of three or four blocks of houses with a small square, a church and a clock tower.

  Everything was built of golden stone that looked as though it had caught the memory of sunshine and held it with a smile. Houses began on tiny lanes and streets. There were no gardens visible but here and there, a corner between the stone walls and the stone ground was filled with a rose or a geranium, and there were window boxes and terra cotta containers that also held flowers and herbs. Many of these were up high as the houses seemed two or three storeys and many had rooftop terraces.

  Richard’s house was in La Rue des Oiseaux, the street of the birds. The heavy dark door swung in over terra cotta tiles and opened to show an interior staircase of the same creamy gold stone as the exterior. The house was really three spaces piled one upon the other. At the top of the entrance stairs was the kitchen and dining area. More stone stairs took her to a lounge with a wide, welcoming, stone fireplace. Then a spiral climb brought her to a glassed-in bedroom with wide doors to the terrace which was filled with late afternoon sun. Swallows dived and flirted. She saw the rooftops, the church and distant hills and counted as the clock in the tower chimed.

  Slowly, slowly, she felt herself relax into a sense of safeness. She couldn’t—in fact, didn’t even want to—intellectualise her response. She just sensed that she was safe here. There were other places in the world now where she sensed, recognised safety but it was somehow more than that in St Hiliaire. She just felt instinctively—at some gut, animal level—that she was safe here.

  She realised she had rushed through the house like a kid wanting to open all her Christmas packages as quickly as possible. Now she could take her time and look again. Richard was looking so proud and so anxious that they all like it, that she almost decided on the spot that she had misjudged him. Almost, but this was no fairy story, and Lizzie was not going to have an instant change of heart.

  She walked slowly back and saw how neatly extra mattresses were suspended on ropes ready to drop down and be lifted onto the terrace for visitors. She stepped carefully down the spiral and saw the shelves of books and the couch covered in slub linen and made for stretching out with a good book. She went down the stone steps and saw blue glass bottles and earthy red tiles and a blue checked tablecloth with wax droppings from candles.

  And she saw the rockin
g chair. She told herself later, it was obviously a trick of the light, a shadow or something. She saw the rocking chair. And she was aware of the woman sitting in the chair. She seemed to see clearly, in such detail, that Lizzie could describe the woman to herself later. She was about forty—no more, perhaps less—just late thirties. Her dark hair was smooth and folded under softly on her shoulders.

  As she rocked slowly in the chair, the light fell behind her and the hair gleamed that particular blue-black that Lizzie remembered from somewhere in her childhood. Great dark eyes with thick lashes dominated a face that was, Lizzie sensed, peaceful and smiling. Her skin was olive and clear. She sat quietly rocking. Lizzie saw her—or sensed her—or something. She knew she was there.

  Lizzie certainly did not believe in ghosts or spirits. She was not in an agitated state. She was definitely not drunk. She just knew that at some time a woman with dark eyes and shoulder-length hair had rocked peacefully in the house in St Hiliaire. For the next few days, phrases like “at some time” kept recurring in Lizzie’s mind.

  That evening, they went to the local community hall to see an exhibition of paintings by an English woman who had settled in the village some years earlier. The hall had recently been renewed by the local stonemason, who was also the mayor, a grey-haired man with that crinkly sort of skin that comes of years and years outdoors. He welcomed them charmingly, and the villagers offered glasses of the golden wine that was produced in the valley.

  The paintings were light and full of brightness. Lizzie didn’t buy—couldn’t afford to buy—but she admired and enjoyed. As they walked back through the little square, the villagers were clustered in groups as if clinging to the last of the long, beautiful day. And there were other women there too. Lizzie knew they were there. Some were very old, some seemed young wives. They were at ease and peaceful, and although she couldn’t say she could actually see them, Lizzie knew they were there. And now she also sensed a familiarity. They reminded her of Gwennie. At least, they made her think of the image of Gwennie she had from childhood. It wasn’t Gwennie racked by pain or Gwennie with grey in her hair. It was something like Gwennie as she had almost forgotten her.

  Lizzie must have been about ten or eleven years old, and Gwennie was going dancing. They were living in the housing commission house, and Nanna was on one of her visits. Gwennie came out into the little lounge room and twirled around for them all to admire her. She was wearing a black taffeta skirt—a full skirt that flared out when she twirled and made a wonderful swooshing sound with every movement. She wore a white blouse with tiny ruffles around the neck and at the edges of the tiny sleeves. Her hair gleamed blue-black in the light. Her eyes were dark and her skin was smooth and clear. She smiled at Lizzie and at Nanna, and Lizzie loved her, loved her, loved her.

  Lizzie smiled in the golden square and drifted back to the house where the window behind the rocker was open, and it was probably the breeze which set the chair moving softly. On the seat was a writing pad and a blue ballpoint pen, probably left there by previous guests. That night, Lizzie pulled a mattress out onto the terrace and, when the others slept, she began to write for the first time in what seemed a very long time.

  I stood last night

  in a village square

  half a world away

  from Australia

  The dusk

  reflected

  on the stubble of walls,

  gleaming and sandy-gold.

  It stained

  with the evening sun,

  the pink terra cotta

  of a rippling sky-line

  Time

  occupied

  the square.

  For a moment,

  I mingled

  with generations

  of olive-skinned women,

  whose skirts,

  fluttered and whose dreams

  lived briefly

  in the sweet, crystal trickle

  from the bronzed mouth

  of the fountain.

  For a moment,

  my breath

  was their breath

  My own magic

  lived

  in the square

  of the village

  at dusk

  sustained by stone walls

  glowing gently

  through time.

  And then night fell.

  The words came easily and so did sleep, and for the first time in a long time, she slept deeply and without dreams. One of the lasting effects of chemotherapy seemed to have been the loss of her previous capacity to sleep easily, and most nights she woke frequently or dreamed dreams she did not care to remember. But this night, she closed her eyes on a sky full of stars and woke only once very briefly. She felt the cold night on her cheeks, registered the delicious warmth of her body under the sleeping bag cover and immediately slept again.

  The next time she woke, the sky was blue and full of swallows. On the terrace wall were bunches of pungent geraniums spilling over rich red pots. One of the group who had slept in another house came through the adjoining door, stepped over Lizzie and descended to where Richard was making orange pekoe tea and fresh coffee to wash down meltingly buttery croissants from the village baker. Lizzie rose slowly and joined them for breakfast.

  Later that morning, they walked up the track that wound from the village, through the grape vines to the cluster of white rocks on top of the hill. Before they reached the top, Richard stopped them on a grassy ledge where an ancient stone seat faced to look over the valley. They had walked over low growing clumps of rosemary and the fragrance was disturbed. Richard told them the legend of the village:

  Once upon a time, about a thousand years ago, the people who lived in the village were very happy and contented. They grew grapes and made wine. They farmed the land and lived well together.

  But one day, invaders came from over those far hills and began to move into the valley, fighting and killing and taking over much of the land. In St Hiliaire, there was a brave, young man who rallied the people of the valley together and led them into battle against the invaders. All day they fought. The valley was filled with the sound of swords, the sight of blood and the cries of people in pain. They fought in the clear sunlight of the morning and were still fighting through the long hot afternoon. Finally, at dusk of that long, long day, the invaders were defeated, and the people of the valley knew they were safe once more.

  Out of gratitude to the young man, they made him their king. He was a wise and good king. As the years passed, he built a castle of white stone on top of the hill, and his sons and their sons continued to care for the people of the valley. For generations, son after son accepted the responsibility and lived in the white stone castle. Until, after many generations, there came a king who had no sons. He had one daughter, and he loved her very, very much. The king and the princess would ride together, walk together, and together they would visit the people of the valley. Everyone loved the young princess. It seemed that the sun would shine more brightly and the birds would sing more sweetly when the young princess played and smiled.

  One day the king and the princess rode their horses out to see the great bridge, which soldiers had built to carry water. (That was in another “Once upon a time”.) The bridge is called the Pont du Gard, and although it is big and strong, it seems to arch its steps daintily across a wide chasm where there is a gently flowing stream of water that is always clear and cool. In the arches of the Pont du Gard, there are many, many birds.

  The little princess was enchanted by all that she saw. ‘If I were a bird,’ she said, ‘I would live here.’

  That was a particularly lovely summer in the valley, and it seemed that the world was good for the king, his daughter and all the people.

  Sadly, this happy time came to an end.

  The princess became very ill.

  The king and the people of the valley did everything they could think of to make her better. They tried medicines. They called for doctors and wise women. Nothing
helped the little princess who just lay in bed in her room with a window that looked over her beloved valley. Each day it seemed to the king that she slipped a little further away from him. He was desperately sad. And then, one morning, as he sat watching his little daughter, a tiny golden bird flew to the window and landed on the sill in a beam of sunlight. It began to sing.

  The little princess opened her eyes. She saw the tiny golden bird and she smiled. For the first time in many weeks, she left her bed and knelt in the window seat playing with the tiny bird.

  The king felt a rush of hope. Perhaps, perhaps the tiny bird would give his daughter joy and she would live. He brought a cage and invited the bird to stay in the cage and play with the princess. The bird agreed. That night, the princess slept happily.

  But in the morning, the tiny bird was dead.

  The little princess didn’t really cry but she looked very, very sad and again she seemed to lose strength. The king called the people of the valley and told them what had happened. The young men of the valley decided they would find another golden bird for the princess so they beat in the bushes and explained to the birds why they were needed. The birds listened and understood the sadness of the villagers. One flew forward.

  So, again there was a tiny bird for the princess and again she gained strength for a day. But again, the tiny bird died and again another entered the cage. The princess thought it was always her own bird waiting for her when she woke each morning. This went on for many, many days. Until, the last tiny bird died.

  This time there was nothing to save the princess. Her father watched and wept, and she became weaker and weaker until one morning she quietly died.

  Now the king’s heart was truly broken.

  In his grief, he called all the people of the valley to the castle on the hill. He invited them to a great meal, and they sat together in their sadness. The king told the people that he could no longer be their king. He would leave the castle and the valley and wander the earth. He gave the people the white stone castle. The people understood the king’s sorrow, and they accepted his decision. Then they made a decision of their own. They would not have any more kings. They could live together and care for each other.