Here we go again, I thought. If there’s ever going to be a war between Australia and New Zealand it’ll be over possums. Native to Australia, possums were introduced into New Zealand in the 1830s with hopes of setting up a fur trade. With no natural predators in New Zealand, and hardly any socialites wanting to envelope themselves in possum fur, the animals ran rampant. They continue to decimate New Zealand’s native bush.
In short, while Australians swerve to avoid possums on the road, New Zealanders tighten their grip on the wheel and accelerate straight at them. Killing a possum in Australia is breaking the law. Doing the same thing in New Zealand is an excuse to open another can of beer. Not that Philip or I have had anything to do with the demise of a marsupial. Getting into a shouting match with Geoffrey over possums was pointless.
Jonah had no interest in destroying anything other than his house dragon anyway. Pulling his lips back in case it might bite or sting, he crunched it loudly – glancing around the room to ensure he had an audience.
‘It’s cruel to keep cats inside all the time,’ Lydia said, standing to clear the cups off the table. Even though my last drain tube and its ugly bottle had been removed, I still wasn’t too steady on my feet. Lydia insisted I sit down while she cleared up. I couldn’t believe I’d produced such a domesticated daughter.
‘Crueller than letting them get run over?’ Geoffrey shot back.
I was almost relieved when Geoffrey slid into his parka and trudged down the path.
Lydia and I exchanged glances.
‘He was right,’ I sighed. ‘Jonah will live longer if he’s an indoor cat.’
‘But that’s imprisonment!’ she retorted. ‘Imagine what it’d be like for him never feeling grass under his paws.’
It was beginning to sound like another of our Sri Lanka debates.
‘We’ll take him out on his lead,’ I said.
‘He hates it!’ Lydia retorted.
The girls and I went back to the pet shop and bought a cat tunnel for running through, a scratching post, table tennis balls that could be patted through a maze of plastic channels (‘for mental development’), little balls with bells in them, big balls with batteries making them roll around mysteriously inside paper bags, toy mice steeped in catnip and a full range of fishing rods. The house was a cat playground.
Though I felt burdened with guilt and failure at Jonah being an indoor cat, he loved barrelling through his tunnel and pouncing on unsuspecting passersby. It had a hole in the middle for an extra element of surprise. Katharine found the tunnel doubled as a submarine. When she dragged it down the hall with Jonah on board, he popped his head out of a hole to enjoy the passing scenery.
‘I guess that’s it,’ Lydia sighed one day, twirling her new maroon scarf around her neck. ‘There’s nothing more for me to do here.’
We both knew the hidden meaning of what she was saying. Not only was she unhappy with Jonah’s household arrest, it was six weeks since I’d had the surgery and she’d been the most wonderful nurse and daughter.
I could manage without her now.
A week later, packed and ready to set off again for Sri Lanka, she floated downstairs in a cloud of white. The colour of purity and – a far less comforting thought for the anguished parent – martyrdom. Her fisherman’s pants and shawl gave her a Vogue-meets-ashram look. I had to respect her courage; however misguided it might be.
Sensing she was leaving, Jonah ran figures of eight around her ankles, meowing constantly. She picked him up and kissed his nose while Philip carried her backpack to the car. It wasn’t an arduous task. She wasn’t taking much more than her maroon scarf, a scented candle for the monk and gifts for the nuns and orphans. I slid sideways like a crab into the front seat. Getting in and out of cars was still problematic.
Lydia sat in the back while we drove her to the airport. For the umpteenth time, she assured us that the monk and nuns would be meeting her at Colombo airport and driving her straight to the monastery. There would be military checkpoints, she said, but monks and nuns were treated with respect in Sri Lanka. They were protected in their tiny community in the hills. She would be safe.
‘Don’t worry,’ she added. ‘I’ll be back for Rob’s wedding.’
Rob and Chantelle’s wedding was now three months away. It seemed a long time to sit on a rock meditating.
The car was silent, not from anger or resentment. For better or for worse, I’d come to accept my influence was minimal, though I was more than anxious about the dangers she seemed so blithely unaware of.
Lydia had shown no interest in the background of Sri Lanka’s civil war or the plight of the Tamil separatists. The few books I’d been able to find on the subject had been set aside and left unread. The old video show ran through my head – Lydia getting kidnapped or caught in a terrorist attack. I struggled to press the pause button. There was no point fighting it or telling her the Sri Lankan military had just announced it had captured the important Tamil Tiger naval base of Vidattaltivu in the North.
The one good thing about breast cancer and the rows we’d had was Lydia had proved mother–daughter love was a two-way thing.
I’d said a lot of stupid things over the years, mostly about minutiae that weren’t important. Mum had done the same to me, and it’d worn into my self-esteem. I still couldn’t look in the mirror without hearing her words – ‘You should get a corset’, ‘Whatever happened to your lovely curls?’ Her last words to me were: ‘What would you know?’ Admittedly, I’d asked for it.
Watching Mum ride terrible waves of agony in her last hours, I’d tried to summon up appropriate words: ‘You’re doing well,’ I said stupidly. Even though she’d lost her false teeth and control over almost all her bodily functions, there was still enough of Mum left to shoot a bull’s eye. She was right. I knew nothing of what she was going through.
Driving to the airport, I hoped Lydia understood how deeply my love for her was woven into every inappropriate thing I’d ever said to her. It was just a case of Mother’s Tourette’s Syndrome:
‘That shirt’s too short. You’ll catch cold.’ (I wish you good health always.)
‘You’re too thin.’ (No need to compare yourself with magazine scarecrows.You’re beautiful as you are.)
‘Your eyebrows could do with waxing.’ (Enjoy your sensuality. Make the most of your beauty and youth while it lasts.)
‘There’s a hole in your tights.’ (I’m on your side.)
‘Have fun!’ (Fill your room with flowers. Drink champagne. Open your heart to others. Dream huge. You can do anything you choose with your life.)
‘Take care.’ (Love yourself for the wonderful woman you are. Don’t stand in a man’s shadow. Protect yourself. You are precious beyond words.)
At the check-in counter, Philip reached for a name tag on top of the desk, took a pen from his pocket and filled in Lydia’s details. He attached the label protectively to her backpack.
I kissed her cheeks, pink and warm, and thanked her for looking after me so wonderfully after my surgery.
Smiling, she promised to phone and text and write more often.
As we watched her float away like a snowflake toward the departure gate, the mother in me thought, White’s a dreadful colour for stains. I hope she doesn’t spill tomato sauce over herself.
She turned and waved, then vanished through the doors.
Jealousy
Inside every angel cat lurks a demon
The apple tree outside my study window slept through winter. Stripped of leaves, it was a skeleton of gnarled wood, a patchwork of scars where branches had been lopped off. The tree and I were both familiar with the bite of the surgeon’s scalpel.