Fran sat in the moonlit courtyard at the back of the house in a towelling dressing gown, her feet on the lower rung of the table, drinking a cup of tea and staring at an old shoebox full of letters. She was exhausted, but too wide awake to sleep.
‘You’d better see if you want these, Fran,’ Sylvia had said earlier that evening. They were at Lila’s unit, sorting and packing her possessions with Caro and Jodie. ‘They’re airmail letters.’
‘Not more, surely,’ Fran said. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if Mum ever threw anything away.’
‘Well, these seem to be from you,’ Sylvia said, handing her the box.
They were her letters home from England in the sixties, her own voice speaking across the decades, the voice of the person she used to be.
‘Oh, can I read them, please, Mum,’ Caro had begged.
‘Okay,’ Fran had agreed, ‘but not yet. I want to read them first.’
She had brought them home intending to look at them another time, but the pull of the past was irresistible and in surrendering to the temptation to read just one she had been unable to stop. It was a relief to find that she didn’t dislike the young Fran, but it was surprising to feel as though she was listening to a stranger; the enthusiasm and naïveté left her feeling exposed, naked almost.
She could remember writing them, could picture herself at the table by the window in the shared house near Paddington Station, or in the café where she stopped for a bacon sandwich on her way to the job in the record shop in Edgware Road. She could even see herself sitting on a seat in Kensington Gardens near the Peter Pan statue, an airmail pad on her knee, her backpack on the grass beside her, filling in a free half-hour with a letter to Lila. The connection with home had been vital and she had hung on to her mother’s letters, which arrived regularly once a week making her feel safe enough, loved enough, to stay away. If only she had kept Lila’s letters to her, how she would have loved to read them now.
‘I’m dying to know what you sound like,’ Caro had said. ‘Did you tell Gran everything – I mean, boyfriends, wild parties, getting drunk, drugs, everything?’
‘Not everything,’ Fran had said with a laugh. ‘Probably a bit about boyfriends, a few parties, definitely not about getting drunk, and certainly nothing about smoking the occasional joint.’
What had she sounded like? Excited, a bit scared, high on possibilities, thrilled by London and everything it symbolised, a present packed with action, a future throbbing with opportunity. What had she done with all that? Had she wasted the enthusiasm, the experience, the opportunities? Frittered them away? There was so much she wished she’d done or done better, but the greatest satisfaction of her life – her children – made it impossible to wish certain things undone. She was fifty-six, a mother, a grandmother, and now a reasonably successful businesswoman, although the latter title still sat uneasily with her. The truth was that right now she wouldn’t change anything.
In England, aged twenty, she had fallen in love with Daniel, a law student from Jamaica, and tonight she had been reminded how, in letters home, she told Lila quite a bit about him except for the fact that he was Jamaican. Thirty-six years on, she knew that the censorship was unnecessary. Lila was the most open-minded, least judgmental person Fran had ever known. She would have welcomed Daniel, irrespective of colour or ethnicity. So what would she feel if she was here now, if she knew about Lenore?
Fran had never imagined that she would be attracted to another woman, let alone make love with one. Her closest friends were women, some of them in same-sex relationships, but she had never felt this sort of chemistry before. Even in her mounting desire she had felt strange and a little uneasy exploring another woman’s body, so familiar and, at the same time, so thrillingly different. But for the first time in her life she had felt she was making love rather than just having sex, and the moment she abandoned herself to the bliss of it, let go of the feeling that she must satisfy and be satisfied, she knew she was tasting an intimacy that had, until now, eluded her. Even with Tony, sex had seemed more about lust structured into ritual than an intimate expression of love and sexuality. She wondered now if she had always been a lesbian without knowing it, or was she just one of a growing number of women who had found same-sex love and sexual pleasure after half a lifetime of heterosexual relationships?
‘You know what they say about lesbians and how it all happens so quickly?’ Lenore had whispered that first night. ‘Meet in the morning, move in together in the afternoon, get married that night.’
‘Do you think it’s true?’ Fran asked, thinking her question sounded terribly childish.
‘Not always, but it’s not uncommon.’
‘Well, if I could keep you here forever, I would,’ she said. But she had sensed that Lenore was holding back, cautious still, anxious to protect her, or perhaps to protect herself.
‘In a few days’ time,’ Lenore had said the next morning, catching hold of Fran’s arm as she got out of bed, ‘if this doesn’t feel right, promise you’ll tell me the truth – you won’t just run and hide?’ And in the weeks since they parted, Lenore’s anxiety seemed to have grown. ‘I know what I want, Fran,’ Lenore had said to her at the airport. ‘And I don’t want to sound patronising but this is new for you.’
‘You think I’m just experimenting,’ Fran had said. ‘I promise you I’m not. I mean, surely the first time you sleep with anyone you’re attracted to it’s something of an experiment.’
Lenore put a hand on her cheek. ‘But it’s more than that and you need to be sure not just for yourself but for me too. I loved you from that first day when you frightened the life out of me, and I’d trained myself to accept that we could only be friends. Now I’m scared that in a week or two you’ll get cold feet, wake one morning in a panic and turn away from me. It’s happened before and I’m not in the habit of seducing straight women.’
‘It was me who came to your bed,’ Fran said, biting her lip to hold back the tears.
‘I know, but even so you need to take time. I’m still scared that this is a reaction to loss and loneliness.’ Lenore paused and turned away briefly. ‘I’m sorry, Fran, I must sound like the most awful fascist,’ she said, and for the first time Fran saw tears in her eyes. ‘But I’d reached a time of my life where I’d sworn off relationships for fear of getting hurt again. I’m sixty-two, and I thought I was done with love and all its terrifying emotional peaks and troughs. I don’t want to get dropped when your children or your friends disapprove, or you discover you’re embarrassed to be seen with me in public. I’ve been through all that, Fran; I don’t want to do it again. Take time. I’m a coward, I know, but I won’t come back until I’m sure it’s safe.’
Fran sighed and put down her empty cup. Every day since then they had talked on the phone, every day the emails hummed through cyberspace, her own loving and emotional, Lenore’s more cautious. She thought of Lenore tonight, coping with Bonnie, and wondered what was happening in the little house in Surry Hills. Whatever would Bonnie say when she found out about this? What would Lila have said? Fran stretched her arms above her head, looking up at the fragments of moonlit sky showing through the vines that spread across the lattice.
‘Well, why not, Fran? Who you love is your own business and no one else’s.’ She could almost hear her mother’s voice. ‘You have to be true to yourself or life’s not worth anything.’
‘Thanks, Mum,’ Fran whispered into the darkness, ‘that’s what I thought you’d say.’
Bonnie slipped into the back seat of the taxi and slid across to make room for Jack.
‘This was such a lovely evening,’ she said, resting her hand on his thigh, her head dropping onto his shoulder as the cab pulled away. ‘It feels like, well . . . like old times, like I used to be.’
‘I’m glad you enjoyed it, Bonnie,’ Jack said, lifting her hand off his leg and, as it started to stray back, taking it firmly in his and holding it. ‘You must be very tired.’
The cab seemed to sway a lot but it felt good, as though she was on her favourite train ride, the one that meandered up a steep single track, through pastures filled with wildflowers and grazing cattle, and the higher wooded slopes to the snow-capped peaks of the mountains. It was a journey from warm spring sun-shine to blinding whiteness, where you could stand surrounded by snow without a jacket, breathing the sharp, pure air at the summit.
‘Dear Jack,’ she said, lifting her head to kiss the line of his jaw. ‘You didn’t tell me about your life, but you can do that when we get home.’ Her head spun a little as she rested it back on his shoulder.
Jack cleared his throat and kept looking straight ahead. Lenore’s house was still in darkness when they drew up outside.
‘Hang on for me, will you?’ Jack said to the driver. ‘I’ll just be a couple of minutes, and I’ll get you to run me back to Elizabeth Bay.’ And he helped Bonnie out of the car and attempted to steer her up the front path. ‘I’ll see you in, Bonnie,’ he said. ‘Lenore will be back soon.’
‘You aren’t going, are you, Jack?’ she said, plaintive suddenly. ‘I’ll make coffee, we can talk some more. I want to hear all about you.’
‘It’s late, Bonnie,’ he said, guiding her up the path, his arm around her waist to steady her. ‘I’ve got an early start.’ He slipped the key in the door and snapped on the light in the hall. Immediately, Bonnie reached behind him and snapped it off again, laughing.
‘No, no, too much light, it’s much more fun in the dark. Always leave the light off, more intimate, you see.’ And she turned towards him, slipped her arms around his neck, drew his head down towards her and kissed him. He was stiff and unresponsive at first, so she moved closer, pressing herself against him, sliding her fingers into his hair. As his arms closed around her, Bonnie felt she was melting back into a familiar and blissful cushion of safety. Blood surged through her veins as Jack responded to her kiss, holding her closer now, his mouth controlling hers, his erection hardening against her belly. She was lost in the sheer relief and joy of feeling needed and wanted. She pulled at his shirt buttons and slid her hand onto his bare chest but at the touch of her fingers, Jack pulled away suddenly, grasping her wrists and holding her at a distance, breathing deeply to regain his composure.
‘Bonnie,’ he said, ‘Bonnie, this is not a good idea . . .’ He stepped back slightly and she could see him outlined in the doorway against the light from the street. ‘You’re upset, Bonnie, and you’ve had a lot to drink. I don’t think . . .’
She moved towards him again, driven by the longing to be held, but he managed to keep her at arm’s length.
‘I’m going now, Bonnie,’ he said. ‘Lenore’ll be back soon.’
‘No, Jack,’ she cried, encircling his neck again. ‘Stay, please stay, I need you. Stay with me, please, Jack.’ She was clinging to him now, grasping at his hair, his jacket, his face.
‘Don’t go,’ she pleaded. ‘Stay with me, please stay.’ Panic rose in waves that broke into shuddering sobs. She clawed at his face, trying to drag him closer, her nails tearing into his neck and cheek. ‘Don’t leave,’ she cried, ‘I can’t . . . don’t leave me, hold me . . . please, Jack, hold me . . .’
‘Bonnie, please,’ Jack cried, trying to grip her wrists again. ‘Please stop. I’ll wait if you want but stop, please stop – ’ The hall light snapped on suddenly.
‘Whatever’s going on in here?’ Lenore asked, standing in the doorway, glancing from the misery etched into Bonnie’s face to the streaks of blood running down her brother’s cheek. ‘Seems I got back just in time. Now, which one of you am I supposed to be rescuing?’