11

THE FINAL STRAW

The day I finally quit, I don’t see it coming – though in hindsight, it was only going to be a matter of time. I’m fresh back from Mombasa, with sand in my hair and a spring in my step. The taste of the outside world – of real Kenya – lingers.

But not for long.

As the taxi turns down the street to drop me back at the house, Fiona is waiting at the corner in the Peugeot to intercept me and whisk me away to the Club.

‘We’re just going to kill some time until dinner,’ she says, beaming, as I transfer my bags from one car to the other on the side of the road. The Kenyans who gather for lunch under the tree at the turnoff – mostly domestic staff from all the neighbourhood houses, here on their break – must think we’re mad. ‘I’ve told Alice to stay away a bit longer. I’ve been having such fun.’

The whole time Alice and I have been away, Fiona’s been stirring Walt up – literally whispering into his ear about his meddling, gold-digging wife, then disappearing unannounced, phone off, for hours at a time, leaving Marguerite to deal with him unaided, with no one to even stand in for two minutes if she needed to go to the loo.

‘Then I got the big, fat African man in.’

Oh god, she actually did it.

The man didn’t last a day. ‘Dad thought he was a politician,’ Fiona crows, ‘coming to repossess the farm. It couldn’t have gone any better, really! Marguerite’s in an absolute tizz.’

So, we spend another whole day sitting at the Club, my Mombasa glow rapidly fading, and this time when we get back to the house Marguerite is livid. Walt is following her around the place, carrying his best suit on a hanger and saying, ‘When are we leaving? I can’t be late – it’s my dear old mother’s funeral!’

Dead mum again. Apparently it’s been going on for hours. It’s Jua the golden retriever’s fault. Absolutely convinced him he was in England.

‘There’s no funeral today, darling! I’ve told you a hundred times!’ Marguerite shrieks. Then to me, while Walt anxiously checks his watch, ‘He’s been like this all day. And not a jolly soul around to help!’ It’s the first time she’s openly expressed anger towards me – and I don’t blame her. ‘Where have you been? I thought you were due back this morning? I missed my computer lesson! Alan was supposed to be coming around at four to show me how to connect the doodad to the whatsit, because you know I am quite quick to pick up these things as long as I have someone to teach me. Well, I had to tell him not to worry, didn’t I? It’d have been pointless with Walt hanging around in this state.’

‘Is Alan coming around, is he?’ Walt asks.

‘No!’ Marguerite screams. Then all of a sudden, out of nowhere, a smile reclaims her face. The woman can switch gears so swiftly and severely it leaves me reeling sometimes. ‘Oh, I say, did you have a lovely time in Mombasa? You must tell me all about it. It is marvellous on the coast there, isn’t it?’

I snatch a moment before dinner to catch up with the staff around the side of the garage. David and Esther are there with James, helping him fill the wheelbarrow with firewood.

‘Hello! You are back! You disappeared!’ David says, shaking my hand. ‘We were wondering what happened to you! And where is Alice?’

‘I know, I know,’ I say, ‘sorry we didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. Alice is visiting a friend in Tanzania. I was in Mombasa with my friends.’

What must they think of this – of our ability to just up and go on spontaneous trips to far-flung parts of the country on a whim?

‘But you are back now?’ James says.

‘Yes, yes, I’m back. And Alice will be too, in a few days.’

‘Oh good, good.’

‘Yoo-hoo!’ we hear Marguerite calling from inside the house. ‘Supper’s ready!’

And I leave my friends outside, while I go in to eat at the table with our employers.

Over dinner, I answer Marguerite’s questions about where I went and who I saw and what we ate in Mombasa, while Fiona sips her soup in smug silence and Walt asks what time we’re leaving for Nairobi in the morning, over and over and over again.

As soon as it’s polite enough to do so, I excuse myself and hide in my room. I start waxing my legs, figuring the pain will be a good distraction from the unspoken tension. Maybe there’s an element of self-flagellation in it, too. I’m growing ashamed at my spinelessness.

But the confrontation that’s been inevitable for weeks gathers pace, until they’re both at it in the hallway, right outside my door.

‘Fiona, this is my house and I do find it awfully rude for you all to just disappear without even telling me what’s going on!’ Marguerite says.

Good on her, I think. It’s the first time I’ve heard her really arc up.

‘And by the way, I wasn’t going to say anything, but I feel now I just have to. I know about that awful letter you sent around town. I think it’s dreadful. Really, I do.’

Holy. Shit. This is about to get wild.

Except it doesn’t. ‘Well, Marguerite, I felt people needed to know the facts,’ says Fiona, cool as ever.

‘They are absolutely not the facts! They are outright lies, and thankfully all my friends know me better than that, and do you know they all binned it straight away and called to tell me they thought it disgusting of you to do such a thing?’

‘Well, that’s their prerogative. At least they know my point of view.’ Fiona sounds barely rattled at all.

‘And I’ve got a copy myself. Dolly brought it over. I’ll be showing it to the lawyers.’

‘You’re entitled to do that.’

‘I just don’t understand you, Fiona!’ Now Marguerite’s voice starts to wobble. ‘I brought you up, I cared for you when you were sick. I don’t know why you’d treat me like this.’

Part of me wants to put earphones in and drown this out. The other part desperately wants to get to the bottom of what’s going on between these two.

‘I’m just trying to look after my father in his final years,’ Fiona says.

‘Yes, and for that I’m very grateful! I’m trying to look after him too! But this would all be so much easier if you would just tell me what is going on. This is my house and you’re just walking all over me.’ My door swings open. Marguerite’s on the verge of tears. ‘I suppose you’ve just heard it all,’ she says to me. ‘Well, I’m sorry but I must say I do think you’ve all treated me terribly badly.’

She’s right. I’m mortified. ‘I know. I’m sorry, Marguerite. Really, I don’t want anything to do with this …’

‘You know this is my house. You all just arrived here – no one asked me – and that’s fine, you’re a great help, but to be mucked around like this by everyone …’

I feel my face flush with shame. This poor woman. She really has been treated appallingly. And I’ve been a part of it.

Then Fiona rolls her eyes at me from the doorway, and something inside me snaps.

‘You know what, guys?’ I say, struggling to stand up as my half-torn wax strip binds me to the carpet. ‘I’m done. I’m out. I can’t take this anymore.’

I pack my bags and leave first thing the next morning for Sarah and Jack’s place, wondering what the hell I’m meant to do with myself now. It’s two months before my job in Sydney starts up again. My friends convince me there’s no point in going home early – that I may as well make the most of being here. At some point in the midst of a Bundaberg Rum–induced haze, I book myself a last-minute spot on a two-week overland safari to see the mountain gorillas in Rwanda, leaving in a few days’ time.

Best decision I ever made.

The next day, I have a chance to visit Claire again. Her girls have their school cross-country, and we head down to watch the race. Hundreds of children in house shirts of purple and green and orange run around, following the red flags that mark out the course. They’re black kids, white kids, brown kids. They’re African and European and Indian kids. They’re kids who seemingly don’t notice or care about skin colour – kids of every race, racing around a school oval, equals, competitors, friends, while their parents laugh and cheer and watch the next generation take for granted what in their day could barely be imagined.

‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’ Claire says. ‘Even when I was at school in Zim, what, twenty-five years ago, it was nothing like this. We had one or two black kids in our class, but that was it. For these kids there really is no segregation. Well, look, at least not for the middle class. There are no whites or Indians in the slums. But these kids will grow up and this will be the norm to them.’

I think back to a conversation I had with my mother once, about whether she – growing up in Rhodesia – knew there was something wrong with their society.

My mother is a good, kind, decent person. She was about to hop into the shower when I asked her, in our poky little bathroom on the farm in north Queensland, the one we always shared with green frogs and insect invaders. She stopped, stood stark naked on the bathmat, tilted her head to the side to think about it. Then she pulled the toilet seat down, sat on it, stared into the distance and the past. ‘You know, it was just the way things were. We were born into it. We didn’t hate Africans – well, maybe some people did. I didn’t. I didn’t know anyone who hated them. You must remember, it wasn’t like South Africa. We never had apartheid in Rhodesia. It was just – they had a different place to us. That’s just how it was. You know, black people didn’t come to the front door of our house – I only realised that many, many years later, when I read a book by an African maid about what it was like working for a white family. I don’t remember anyone ever telling me that was a rule. But when I thought back on it I realised that if anyone black ever came to the house for any reason, they knocked at the back door.’ Mum held her hands up in the air, in disbelief. ‘I mean, how bloody stupid! How awful! But you know – we were kids. It just seemed normal at the time. It wasn’t until I was much older – in my twenties, I suppose partly because of the war – that I really started to analyse things. My mother, being English, was far more progressive than my father. They’d have debates about it. She was on the side of the independence movement, but Dad would say “They’re just not ready to run a bloody country!” They used to cancel each other’s votes out. But I never really got involved in any side of it. I mean, obviously now, in hindsight, I can see how wrong it was. But not everyone is naturally political, you know?’

‘Did you have any African friends?’ I asked.

‘When we were little we did. We all played with the “piccanins” – the servants’ children, most white kids did, especially if they lived on a farm. Your father learned to speak their language before he could speak English! But as we got older that sort of fell away. You know, you went to school and life just became more segregated.’

Mum thought for a moment. ‘The only person I knew – white person, that is – who really truly didn’t seem to see colour was my friend Irene. It was like she was immune to it. She even had a black boyfriend in high school. But that was very rare. And, of course, her parents could never have known about it.’

It’s astonishing, I think, my attention returning to the cross-country, how much has changed in this part of the world in just a few decades.

Back at Sarah and Jack’s place, I start to have second thoughts about quitting – I wonder whether there’s a way I can make things work. At the very least, I need to make sure I’m not bringing my sister into an intolerable situation. I send Fiona an email, trying to make her see sense.

Hi Fiona,

I hope things have settled down at the house and you and Marguerite have been able to have a discussion about everything and come to something close to an agreement about Walt’s care.

Remember Bridget needs to know by Friday at the latest whether she is required here to help care for Walt next year. She needs to be assured about the working conditions here – i.e. she is here as a carer for Walt and will not be dragged into the family disputes and will not be required to lie to or deceive Marguerite or anyone else about her whereabouts and activities. All parties have to agree to her presence here and she can expect a set amount of work and can budget and arrange holidays around that, and if she has to be sent away at short notice she will be paid for that time as work. Obviously she is open to a reasonable degree of flexibility regarding time on/off. If she is to stay in the cottage at the Kirby’s then it would be good if she could also know that now.

I hope that by the time I return from my trip away something close to these conditions can be achieved, because I am finding the current situation intolerable. I know you have your issues with Marguerite, but I feel extremely awkward being in her & Walt’s house and treating her the way we have, regardless of her ineptitude as a sole carer for Walt. Whatever the family history may be it needs to be recognised that for outsiders, she is his wife of almost 40 years and has lived there with him for over 25 years and it is not our place to assert ourselves in their world beyond what is necessary for Walt’s health.

Cheers

Kirsten

My safari leaves the next day. Fiona’s got two weeks to get back to me.

I sit on a bright red overland truck and I stare out the window at Africa. I make friends with the twenty other foreigners on board – Americans, Brits, Swedes and Germans.

We go whitewater rafting on the Nile, camping at Lake George, and on a walking safari at Lake Elizabeth. We see hippos and crocodiles and lions, flamingos and elephants, topis and zebras and giraffes. It’s all pretty standard Instagram fare: white people in sunglasses, gazing out the window at a land of contrasts.

In Rwanda, something magical happens. We climb a mountain and find a family of gorillas. An enormous, grunting silverback sits not five metres away from us, chewing on a fistful of grass as his dozen wives mind his dozen children. We sit and watch them for hours in silence, in awe. There are only a few hundred of these creatures left in the world. This is something only a handful of very lucky people will ever get to see.

A baby gorilla playing nearby suddenly decides to cross in front of where I’m standing. The Rwandan guide tells me to stay still – not to back away, to just let it pass. The misty air swirls with my breath. My knees tremble. The baby gorilla somersaults across the forest floor, tumbling and rolling over the leaf litter. Its mother follows close behind, and as she passes she grabs hold of my shin with her left hand to keep her balance. I freeze, heart pounding, equal parts terrified and elated. She lets go of my leg, carries on her way, apparently unfazed by our encounter.

There is something indescribable about the experience of coming face to face with a creature so closely resembling our own kind, and knowing that in all likelihood, it will soon no longer exist because of what we have done. I can’t tell if I’m overcome by beauty or sadness. All I know is that every tedious, compromising experience with the Smyths feels worth it in this single, life-affirming moment.

I get back from the safari on Christmas Day.

My demands have been met. Fiona’s virtually begging me to come back. She’s responded to my email, assuring me that she and Marguerite have thrashed it out and that things will be better. She’s returned Walt’s passport. She promises she won’t do that again. She assures me that Bridget won’t be put through any of the drama Alice and I have had to endure.

I get a text from Marguerite.

Hi! U back from trip? Hope had lovely time. Will u be here for lunch? Khamisi has done fab feast.

I guess we’re all pretending none of that bad stuff ever happened.

I’m back at the house just in time – the table is groaning with roast turkey, roast ham, roast chicken and roast vegetables, gravy, Yorkshire puddings and eggnog. Magda’s here, and the Kirbys, and Harry from down the road, and the couple from the granny flat out the back, and Millicent and her mother, and Marguerite and Alice, and Fiona. Even Fiona’s husband, Jonathan, is here from England. Jonathan seems to be an easygoing, jolly kind of guy who doesn’t take anything too seriously. I wonder how it is he ended up with someone as intense as Fiona – although even she seems to have relaxed into the occasion. The two of them are going on safari before they go back. Marguerite’s treat! (What the fuck is that about? A reward for cruelty? A peace offering? Is it possible that while I was away Marguerite and Fiona sat down and thrashed it out – accepted that they both had Walt’s best interests at heart, just different ideas about what he needed? I really, truly, will never understand this family.)

Everyone’s getting along – we’re all pulling crackers and wearing the paper hats that fall out of them, and Walt is thrilled to be hosting such a great party even if he doesn’t recognise any of his guests. We sing Christmas carols and groan at the bad jokes from the crackers and drink far too much champagne, and by three o’clock we’re full and retire to the living room, where half the greying crowd promptly falls asleep in their chairs, mouths hanging open, catching flies.

In a weird way, after two weeks of being on the road, and showering under the stars, and sleeping in tents to the sound of grunting hippos, I’m relieved to be back.

January passes with no major incidents. Fiona still checks in from her safari every day to see how her father is going, but, true to her word, makes no more requests of spying or deception. It’s just me and Alice and Marguerite now, working together with the Kenyan staff to look after a man who’s lost his mind. It’s almost – almost – the ‘cruisey’ gig Alice promised me in the beginning, except that Walt’s outbursts of anxiety over car keys and dead mothers and money are becoming a little more frequent.

By the end of the month, my time with the Smyths is up. It’s time to go back to Australia, back to Sydney, back to the world of TV. But first, I have to pass the baton to my sister, and Fiona will be back from her trip to help with the handover. I suspect she’ll find it difficult not to fall into old habits.

The day Bridget arrives, Peter and I drive out to the airport to pick her up. Peter spots her before I do, emerging from the chaos that is Jomo Kenyatta’s arrivals hall. He grabs me, points her out. ‘That girl, she is your sister!?’ he says, looking astonished.

‘Yeah, that’s her – Biddy!’ I wave at my little sister. I feel a brief wave of anxiety about pulling her into this, but also excitement at being able to share Kenya with her, the good and the bad.

‘She is exactly like you!’ Peter says, looking back and forth between us after we’ve hugged. ‘You are twins?’

We do look quite alike, though Bridget is taller than me. And much sweeter. You can tell that much just by looking at her. She’s got one of those warm, open faces; she doesn’t have the semi-scowl that seems to be my default resting expression. I wonder whether Walt will detect anything familiar in her when we switch places – whether on some subliminal level, he’ll remember that he knows someone who looks a lot like her, and whether that will bring him any sense of comfort or trust.

‘No, not twins,’ I tell Peter. ‘She’s two years younger than me.’

‘Hello, Miss Bridget!’ he says, taking her backpack and suitcase. ‘Karibu to Kenya!’

As we’re driving away from the airport down Mombasa Road, Bridget suddenly squeals and points out the window. ‘Giraffes! Oh my god – are they real?’ I’d forgotten how excited I was to see the same thing the day of my arrival.

‘Yes, they are real!’ says Peter proudly. ‘That is Nairobi National Park.’

‘And there are monkeys in the garden at the house,’ I tell her.

‘Argggh, this is going to be the best!’ she says.

Yeah, it’ll be the best, I think. But probably the worst, too. Along with the rest of my family, I’ve kept Bridget updated on the twists and turns of my time with the Smyths, but I haven’t been totally honest with her about my doubts that the truce between Fiona and Marguerite will remain in place. I’ve pulled a bit of an Alice, really. I’ve said as much as I had to in order to get her here.

Walt is at the gates when we get back to the house, shouting at Patrick to let him out. Fiona and Alice come racing out from the house, trying to round him up. He marches alongside the car as we roll into the driveway, rapping on the window.

‘What are you doing driving my car?’ Walt says to Peter – then, peering over at me in the front seat, and Bridget in the back, ‘And who the hell are you?’

Bridget shoots me the kind of look only a sister can understand.

‘You’ll be fiiiiiiine,’ I say, as Peter lifts her bags out of the boot.

I give Bridget a quick tour of the house, introduce her to the staff, explain the locked suitcase, the fake wine and fake salt, the handwashing-of-undies-because-Mum-said-so situation. We run into Walt again in the hallway, on his way to the bathroom. He does a double-take of the two of us, says nothing, just scowls and carries on. It doesn’t appear that our likeness will be of any benefit to Bridget.

Then, only a few hours after she set foot on Kenyan soil, I abandon her. Fiona wants us – Alice, Marguerite, Jonathan and me – to go to the Club for dinner. ‘It’ll be a good, neutral space to discuss Walt’s new care plan, before I go back to England tomorrow,’ she says. ‘You’ll be alright with Dad, won’t you, Bridget? Esther will be around to help.’

Bridget shoots me that look.

‘You’ll be fiiiiiiiine!’ I say again. I am such a bad sister.

I do try to suggest that one of us should stay back to help, but Fiona insists it’s more important that Alice and I both be at the dinner. ‘I need you straight-talking Aussies to act as translators and witnesses for me. To make sure Marguerite understands how things are going to be. Also there’s less chance we’ll have a row if you’re both there as a buffer.’

‘We’ll only be a couple of hours,’ I assure Bridget, who stares at me in disbelief upon hearing she’s about to be left alone with Walt for the evening because things between Fiona and Marguerite are, in fact, still so touchy that they need intermediaries to facilitate discussion. ‘Khamisi’s cooked dinner for you. And Esther will be around to help if you have any trouble. We’ll be back before Walt’s ready for bed.’

Dinner goes far more smoothly than anyone anticipated it would. Marguerite readily agrees to the new terms of Walt’s care – that he is to have three full-time carers employed to look after him, chosen by Fiona and agreed upon by Marguerite; that only the carers are to administer Walt’s medication; and that no changes to his medicinal regimen are to happen without Fiona and the Trust first being consulted. In return, Fiona promises to communicate more clearly with Marguerite about the young women being sent to live in her house and look after her husband, instead of just installing them without warning. The Club’s secretary is sitting at the next table and insists on shouting us a bottle of champagne. Jonathan insists on following that up with a good South African red and telling us about how a recent MRI scan had made his balls feel so warm he thought he’d pissed himself. I insist on following that up with a round of whisky and telling everyone how I accidentally shouted the word ‘vulva’ in the Club computer room while discussing a story about labiaplasty with my Hungry Beast colleagues on Skype. Oh, how we laugh.

We have dessert. We have cheese. We have brandy, port and cigarillos. The waiter tells us the kitchen is closed and they need to pack up the dining room. He gently points out that we are the last remaining guests, and that it’s nearly midnight and that –

‘Holy fuck, it’s nearly midnight!’ I yell.

Bridget has been trying to call all of us, but of course our phones are all switched to silent. She’s sent me several text messages:

9:35 oi where are u? Thought ud be back by now

10:12 Oi. Walt doesn’t know who I am. What do I do?

10:38 Oi!!! ANSWER ME! Walt has put a suit on and is asking me for the car keys!!!??

11:20 ok well now we r sitting in the living room but he thinks we’re on a plane and won’t let me open the door to the hallway because we’ll all die but Im gonna have to soon cos I REALLY NEED TO PEE!!!!

11:32 what r these red buttons on the wall for cos he wants to push one

I round us up and bundle us out of the dining room. On our way past reception, Marguerite leans over the front desk and starts rummaging around the mail drawer. ‘Just going to see whether my newspapers are in yet!’ She folds the Tele into a peaked crest and wears it on her head, then struts around the foyer flapping her arms and clucking like a chicken. The rest of us – even Fiona – form a conga line and parade around the parquetry floor while the Club staff watch on, part amused, part appalled.

I feel my phone buzzing again. I answer it, trying to be inconspicuous.

‘Heyyyyyy, Biddy!’

‘WHERE ARE YOU?’

Hoo-boy, she is mad.

‘We’re coming – we’re coming now, I promise.’

‘THIS IS BULLSHIT!’

‘I know, I know – I’m sorry. We lost track of time.’

‘Excuse me, madam – no phones in the Club, please!’

That’s it. We’ve crossed the line. Moses ushers us out the door.

In the car park, Fiona pulls me aside for a heartfelt embrace. She tears up, thanking me for ‘the excellent job you’ve done looking after Dad, especially in such trying circumstances’. It’s the first time she’s expressed any kind of gratitude or appreciation for how difficult the task has been. I feel a sudden rush of warmth for her in return. Or maybe it’s just the whisky repeating, hard to tell. She’s not a monster! I think. She’s just a daughter terrified of losing her dad. These poor, lovely people.

When we get back, Bridget is in the dining room with Walt, helping him zip up an overnight bag. She glares at me. ‘You’ll be fiiiiine!’ she mocks.

Marguerite waltzes him down the corridor to their bedroom, where she puts him to bed as he giggles like a little boy.

Bridget sits on the bed across from me in our room, fuming.

‘You will be fiiiiiiine,’ I tell her. ‘Trust me! Look, I am!’ I hiccup and swallow a bit of vomit. I have to close one eye to see straight.

Bridget is fine. But she doesn’t stay a day longer than the three months she agreed to.

In the meantime, I go back to Sydney. I do the final season of Hungry Beast, and when it’s all over I find myself … still lost.

Hungry Beast has given me a taste for stories about people and places that aren’t often covered, about things that aren’t what they seem. And I can’t stop thinking about Kenya. My time there has shown me just how deeply misunderstood the place is – how all we see in the West are stories about famine and disaster, war and disease, horror and poverty and violence. Those things happen there, yes, but we have no context for it. We don’t see the everyday life around it, the ordinary (and extraordinary) human endeavours. The art exhibitions, the fashion shows, the schoolkids on class excursions to museums, the FM radio hosts, the film festivals and Sunday afternoon picnics.

An idea starts to form. There are hundreds of stories I can write – I can try my luck freelancing for a while.

Plus, Australia is giving me the shits. Who’d have thought the culture shock would be worse coming home? I’m far safer here than I was in Kenya, but in a strange way I feel less free. Since returning to my country I’ve felt the oppression of order far more keenly than I did before. Australia likes to think of itself as a ‘laid-back’ place. It’s anything but. It’s a nation obsessed with rules and control.

Everything seems ugly. I get righteous at all kinds of things. Like people spending twenty-five dollars on hot breakfasts and complaining about the cost of living, while reading newspapers full of paeans to strong border control. Border control! Here, on this island at the bottom of the Earth, one of the richest countries in the world, where we panic because a few thousand people have shown up uninvited and completely miss the irony given how things went down in 1788. Although I’m equally irritated by the naive progressives who tell me that Australia is a ‘racist country’, and act as though desiring any form of a system to decide who gets a humanitarian spot makes you a bigot who hates people of colour. ‘There is no queue!’ these people insist. But there are heaps of queues. There’s a refugee camp in northern Kenya – Dadaab, the world’s largest – where people have been queuing for twenty years. I read about it every day in the papers there. Dadaab is so established that it functions like its own city, with its own economy and a population including adult residents who were born there and have their own children. By size, it would be Kenya’s third-largest city (indeed, many Kenyans think the fences should be torn down and the place made official), but its residents are imprisoned in limbo, homeless and hopeless. And they just aren’t close enough, or rich enough, to reach Australia by sea.

Then, at just the right moment, Alex – the journo I’d met at Sarah and Jack’s – emails me to ask if I’d be interested in doing some short journalism workshops for FilmAid, in Dadaab. The idea is to get different kinds of media practitioners in to teach residents how to produce their own content. I could run a few classes on video production – they have some recording equipment and keen students; he’s already helped them set up their own newspaper.

I really want to do this. But the workshops only run for a couple of weeks at a time and are unpaid, so I need something to sustain me financially.

You won’t believe it. Or maybe you will.

I go back to the Smyths. Six months after I left, I go back to the asylum for more.