Gwennie's Girl Read online

  Song. Repertoire. Shit, Mum. She sounded like her Mum, her beloved Gwennie. There had been times in her life when she had tried desperately not to be like Gwennie, and there had been times when she had known that she was like her. And like Nanna. There were times when the three of them got all mixed up, but now, most of the time, Lizzie realised she was herself and that was exactly what they would have wanted. They would have enjoyed seeing her develop her own interpretation of her own role. She wasn’t a star as they had been stars in their times (even if the world had not quite realised it) but she had her own part, and she would enjoy playing it, because, no matter where she went or what she did or said, she was Lizzie and Lizzie was Gwennie’s girl.

  Here she was in her forties, still too short, still with a face that looked like a kid’s smudged copy of a beautiful original. Gwennie was the original. But Lizzie had hair again. When she walked into parties and friends exclaimed about how wonderful her hair looked, she could grin at the perplexed expressions on strangers’ faces. So this woman had hair? Ordinary sort of hair. Ordinary sort of woman. What’s the big deal? Delight at their bewilderment.

  These days, there were so many things that delighted Lizzie. It was as if all the yellows in the world had become more yellow and the reds more red and the blues more blue. There she was again. Gwennie, with Christopher Robin, “the cold so cold…and the blue so blue…” Something like that.

  The point was that she, Lizzie, was alive and enjoying her living with all its contradictions and absurdities. But, only recently, she had stood at the traffic lights in Rue de Servette in Geneva and suddenly longed for it all: her house, her valley, her dams, her pool, the muddy tracks, kangaroos loping gently at dawn, the red fox yipping and teasing her beautiful dogs, the smell of hot dusty sweet blackberries in the crackling heat and the dripping golden beads of wattle in the winter grey of eucalypts. She had felt herself starting to cry. She had wanted Australia so badly she could have howled her eyes out right there in front of those self-contained Swiss.

  She wanted her house of soft pink bricks and slate floors cut from the earth in some rich warm part of Africa. She wanted to look out through the full-length windows under the ceiling of soft creamy boards. She wanted to see that special blue of agapanthus flowers on their stiff green stalks. She had spent so long in her bed looking out at those flowers: first, all hung like chandeliers with raindrops; then like fragments of sky caught into tiny branches; then fading. She had thought she would never see them again. Now she was here and they were probably there. She really, really wanted to see it all again. They were part of her. She wanted it. That was her place. Those were the paddocks where she had walked, cried and screamed that it wasn’t fucking fair. It wasn’t fucking fair. She wanted her house. Lizzie was truly homesick.

  Then she had pulled herself up. Stop. Stop it. Stop right there. Don’t go back into that space. The lights have changed. Start walking. You can walk. You can feel the tingle of cold chilling your cheeks and you can cuddle into the warmth of your body alive in your woollen coat and leather boots and gloves.

  A woman passed, carrying a pot plant of chrysanthemums, and Lizzie’s senses felt that autumn smell of rain, earth and crackling leaves. Memories again. The first house. The old couple next door. Then her house, her garden and the sweet damp smell, gathering firewood, the remembered smell of chrysanthemums, Mother’s Day. All that was gone. But the smell was there, not quite perfume, and she breathed it in. It was good; it was really good to be alive.

  This morning, when she woke up, the sun had been streaming in her bedroom window. She always meant to get up early enough to see the sunrise over those mountains, but she never did. She had woken with that lovely feeling of nothing specific to do except pack the usual bag of gear that was never really unpacked. As it had turned out, Sam was often in Geneva too with contracts from the many humanitarian organisations headquartered here. Lizzie had been a tad disconcerted at first, but he was good company, an undemanding friend—and a very lovely lover. So relax girl and just enjoy an uncomplicated dalliance.

  Lizzie had stretched and looked, as she mostly did, at the design and pattern on the beautiful Turkish silk rug that hung on the wall at the foot of the bed. It was a joy. The silks were soft rose and pale gold with the gentle sheen of petals and early morning sun. This was the way to begin a day. She remembered another morning, about six months after she arrived in Geneva when she had woken with the realisation of a strange feeling. Oh girl, she had realised and told herself, this is safety and contentment. This is what it feels like to be content, to be happy even.

  She had thought she would probably always be lonely or sad. She wasn’t. She wanted to keep saying it so she knew it was true. She was safe and content. She was safe and content. It was an amazing feeling. Don’t be a drama queen about Sam, just go with it. She sighed, stood up and wandered in from the balcony and the sharp morning blackness that overhung Geneva.

  She had been aware of that sense of safety and wellbeing as she showered and dressed slowly, savouring the music she could choose in the apartment she had been able to furnish as she wanted. From her kitchen window, she had looked down at the street where the trees were coming alive again and had seen that the tables on the pavements were covered in coloured cloths. She had looked at the other blocks of apartments, many of them “circa ugly” but some old and gracefully ornate. As winter ended and spring moved into summer, they too would unfold and yellow, green, red and blue canvas blinds would blink down over their grey eyes. Flowers, mostly those sturdy peasants, red and pink geraniums, already trimmed sills and ledges. The sky was cloudless, and she could see the mountains icy-tipped against the fine blue.

  Funny how much she enjoyed Geneva. She had heard horror stories about it being a boring, life-less, dull city. Yet she loved its elegance, its gracefulness, even as there were times when she felt stifled and longed for her ocean beach with its banging surf and ferocious, noisy wind. The mountains just didn’t ease her heart the way the ocean did, but the gentleness of Geneva had its own charm. It was here that she realised just how liberating it was to be a woman and yet be safe to walk in the streets after dark. It was nice to feel safe, and if she were honest with herself—come on girl, be honest with yourself—it was nice to see Sam sometimes too.

  It was also a thrill to be so close to many places. A few weeks ago, she and Sam had gone to France, just to go to the market. One suburban bus ride and they were in Ferney-Voltaire, once home to the famous man himself, in a completely different country. They had held hands tentatively as they drifted between the rows of appetising smells and colour. Things were still very new with Sam. She felt he did not make demands, did not try to intrude into her mind or want to know all about her—some men seemed unable to deal with her having a part of her that she would not share. Lizzie had learnt the hard way that it was wiser to have some part of herself that stayed private, stayed closed so she was never too vulnerable.

  She had enjoyed sharing the market with Sam. Ferney-Voltaire was so close to the Swiss and yet so far. There the people talked loudly, calling and laughing while arms and hands waved volubly. She loved the oozy stalls of cheese, the fruit whose colours came straight from a child’s palette—no mixing—just orange, red, green. Pots of herbs lined up beside the cacophony of brass and copper ware. Be careful, Lizzie, there are so many sense memories of home.

  She and Sam bought hot sweet chestnuts in a twist of yellow paper, and Lizzie saw a group of young back-packers with hot chestnuts too, standing near the seller’s cart by Voltaire’s statue. One boy had his mouth full when he grinned and said, ‘Hey—how many centuries of kids do you reckon have bought hot chestnuts here and warmed their hands and stuffed themselves?’

  Sam and Lizzie had eaten their own chestnuts slowly. Then they bought a rich slab of pate with its jelly glistening over the dark green peppercorns and a loaf of bread such as would have delighted Khyam and they strolled to the nearby little auberge. There was a smile of recogn
ition from the waiter, a jug of red wine (Oh Khyam!) two glasses and a knife for the pate and bread. The waiter had the first taste, pronounced it good and left them to sit in the thin warmth of the sun. Yes, life was good here. She had shared that morning, and nothing terrible had happened.

  Gently, Lizzie, gently, she warned herself. Take your time and enjoy this morning.

  It was time for coffee so she headed down to the Pavillon de Ruth, the coffee shop restaurant next door to her apartment building. As she left the building, crossing the lobby she encountered the concierge. One never met the concierge, one always encountered her. A Spanish woman, who seemed to have modelled herself on every caricature of a concierge, she was stocky, loud, a bully and had a husband (one assumed he was her husband) who was small, silent and meek. As far as Lizzie could see, the concierge’s job consisted mainly of putting out the garbage containers and keeping the lobby clean. There was, however, always a slight smell of garbage so her job description probably didn’t include cleaning the containers. The lobby was usually almost clean. Today, she was slopping a mop around the floor creating a pattern of slimy grey on sullen grey. Lovely, Madame, lovely.

  The concierge was, at the same time, haranguing an elderly woman. Well, to be honest, Lizzie assumed it was haranguing but she couldn’t be sure. She could be sure that the voice was just below a screech, the bum was thrust out behind to balance the jaw in front and the slopping included some quite energetic thrusts. When Lizzie dared to cross the wet expanse, she was pretty sure that the tirade was directed at her but felt a little gleeful as she saw the elderly woman take the opportunity to scuttle towards the lift. She knew the concierge suffered greatly from the lack of reaction she got from Lizzie and now she had lost her captive too.

  With a grin, Lizzie had “Bon Jour-ed” cheerfully, stepped out into the sunshine, and in a moment, had been in Ruth’s with that warm smell of coffee and tables set with baskets of flaky croissants. Although the sun was shining, it was still cool so she chose a table inside. The large windows were opened looking out to the terrace with its white chairs, pink cloths and climbing roses. Inside, the walls were creamy against deeper rose cloths and dark golden wood.

  ‘Bon Jour, Lizzie.’

  ‘Bon Jour, Madame Ruth.’

  ‘Comment allez-vous, ce matin?’

  ‘Bien, Madame. Tres bien. Et vous?’

  ‘Bien, aussi. Vous voulez votre cafe?’

  Lizzie’s coffee was not what any self-respecting French woman would drink. It was the Genevois “renverse”, made with warm milk, and Lizzie usually drank it extra weak, extra creamy. It was a sort of compromise with that diet she had followed during chemotherapy, that diet that said no tea, no coffee, no salt, no sugar, no fats, no anything much. Lizzie still took these in very limited amounts—unless she was splurging, of course, and she did splurge quite often. But in general, she tried to remember that these things were not good for people who had cancer, who had had cancer, who were still vulnerable to cancer.

  The coffee arrived. So did the basket of croissants. What was that about no salt, no sugar, no fats? Well, even if the coffee were weak, it was delicious. So were the croissants. She had discovered there were whole sub-cultures built around eating croissants, those flaky, golden, melt-in-the-mouth crescents of pastry. Some people just started at one end and munched to the other end. Some broke them in half and ate from the middle soft out to the crunchier ends. Some never bit at all, just broke off segments one at a time. Everyone got crumbs around the mouth and over the table. Those with beards needed a shakeout at the end of eating.

  There were lots of regulars at Ruth’s. One old couple was often there when Lizzie arrived. They had their coffee, and they shared their croissants. Very neatly, he always broke off the ends and handed her the centre. She nibbled her way through her share while he dunked the ends in his coffee. They talked quietly and seemed completely at ease with each other in the way one sometimes saw with older couples. She wondered if they had ever had a time of fire and flash, or had it always been peace and comfort?

  This morning, she was greeted too by M. Jupe, the little Frenchman who lived in the apartment opposite Lizzie’s. Soon after she had arrived in Geneva, she had gone to her door to answer the bell and had found on the mat a pot of cyclamen, their petals folded coyly over a tinge of crimson on white. M. Jupe stood in the doorway and smiled. He spoke no English, and Lizzie’s French was terrible, but she felt tears come to her eyes because this was the first sign by anyone in this whole building that she existed. She fumbled for the phrases, but he just smiled and gently closed his door.

  After that, several people began greeting her in the lift or at the mailboxes. She thought she probably owed that to M. Jupe whom, she learned much later, had lived in this building “many years” and was something of an organiser. It was he who insisted the building be painted, who demanded security locks, and it was he who was never, ever shouted at by the concierge. When a fuse went in Lizzie’s apartment, it was M. Jupe who fixed it for her, showing her how to do it and telling her where to buy and keep spares. They had never been in each other’s apartments but it felt good knowing that M. Jupe was across the hall.

  Only one of her neighbours had ever been in her apartment. It was a woman who lived on the third floor, eight floors below Lizzie’s apartment. She was probably about sixty but it was difficult to be sure. Her face was ravaged by alcohol, blotched and fallen with a network of tiny red veins. The eyes, most of the time, were glazed and recognised very little. Her hair was usually roughly chopped but sometimes glowed with artificial colour. Sometimes she was dressed with showy care. Often she was ill kempt. Almost always, she was drunk. She had a fat, sad cocker spaniel which, also, often looked inebriated as it staggered along on its too-short legs at the end of a gaudy leash that was the worse for wear.

  Lizzie had seen the woman often in the street and in the lift. Sometimes, the mood was affable, and sometimes it was not. On one occasion, Lizzie had a young man staying with her, a friend’s boy from Australia. At home, he was captain of the cricket club, played in the football team, surfed and rode horses and a motorbike. When he landed in Geneva, he was out of his environment among all these foreigners who didn’t speak English, who drove on the wrong side of the road, who didn’t even know what cricket and footy were and probably cared even less.

  He was a little overwhelmed but keeping up a good front. Lizzie had met him at the airport, settled him in and then suggested they walk together over to Migros, the local supermarket chain. They had a happy enough time laughing about different names, learning what one needed to know about this particular supermarket system. Once through the check-out, (‘Shit! It’s expensive! Oh, sorry about the language’) they moved to the bench to pack the goods into the paper bags they had just bought. (‘Well, that’s for the environment, I guess. At home we just get them, we don’t pay for them.’)

  Perched on the other side of the bench was Lizzie’s neighbour, complete with dog, although dogs, whether drunk or sober, were not supposed to come into supermarkets. The woman was glowering at Lizzie and the boy, but Lizzie thought even her rudimentary French would get past that glower.

  ‘Bonjour, Madame.’ Mistake, Lizzie. Big, big mistake, Lizzie.

  The woman erupted in a flurry of chopped hair, fat dog, tangled leash and screeching, real screeching. While Lizzie and the boy—and for that matter, everyone else in the shop—stood transfixed, the woman screeched her tornado way around to Lizzie and began pummelling her, ‘Ma-DEM-moiselle. Ma-DEM-moiselle. Ma-DEM-moiselle.’ She stopped and for a moment joined the frozen tableau around her. Then she gathered herself and her dog to a decidedly not dignified height, and together they made their exit.

  Lizzie was, to say the least, taken aback. Then she saw the boy with his eyes like saucers and his mouth agape, standing in a spread of scattered groceries. ‘Jeez-us. Jeez-us. They’re a sensitive lot, aren’t they?’ he said.

  Lizzie felt the giggles coming and could not s
top them.

  ‘Jeez-us.’ He was bending to pick up the groceries. ‘Jeez-us-bloody-Christ. I know now what they mean about foreigners. Wow.’

  She just managed to say, ‘Welcome to Geneva,’ before collapsing into hysterical giggles. Soon, they were both laughing.

  ‘Bonjewer, Madame,’ he quoted in a broad Australian accent. ‘Well, if that’s what happens I am never gonna Bonjewer-Madame any one, ever!’

  Lizzie saw the woman often after that but always limited her interaction to a smile from a safe distance. However, she answered her doorbell one morning to find the woman outside, crying and seemingly quite distraught. At first, Lizzie could not make out anything the woman was saying, between very unattractive, very moist, drippy sniffles and sobs and waving hands. Lizzie kept clear of the hands, gestured to the woman to come in and mimed the offer of a cup of coffee as the woman flopped into a chair but refused anything else and continued crying. Gradually, Lizzie made out that the woman was locked out of her apartment and that she had left her handbag and keys inside.

  So, Lizzie to the rescue. She picked up the telephone and pointed to the emergency number SOS which was a service for just that situation. ‘Non!’ It was back to the screech again, but Lizzie sensed the old woman was really desperate. There were two fingers being held up and lots of pleading. Then she took Lizzie by the arm and began dragging her towards the door. Lizzie just had time to grab her own keys before she was hustled into the lift and, with more soggy pleading, taken down to the third floor where there was a man in overalls, with a bag of tools and SOS on an identity card. So what was the problem?