Philip and I felt judged for not selling our house and donating the funds to an African village. He shifted uncomfortably when Lydia suggested he might have a more rewarding career working for a non-profit organisation. I felt equally awkward when it was hinted I could do more charity work.
She wasn’t the only one doing the judging, of course. Sometimes we thought she’d set herself apart on a throne of untouchable purity. On other occasions Lydia and I seemed engaged in a game of chess – with her three moves ahead. Her selfless behaviour made her invulnerable to criticism. Her ideals were impeccable. The work she did was invaluable, underpaid and hardly recognised by society.
And yet in my darker moments – and this puts me in such unflattering light I hesitate to commit it to print – watching her with the wheelchair-ridden, wiping and wheeling, carrying and cajoling, I couldn’t help wondering if looking after the weak gave her a power kick.
‘Where shall we go today?’ she’d ask brightly, aware most of the unfortunate souls in her care had no hope of answering. ‘I know a place where they sell the best custard tarts in the state. It’s just a two hour drive away. Let’s go!’
Her disabled charges were in no position to argue. They had to comply with being wheeled into the bus and carted off. But who was I to have an opinion? If the only alternative was to be shut away in front of television all day, a custard tart odyssey would’ve been fantastic.
Some of Lydia’s clients unnerved me, but their courage and, in many cases, intense love of life were inspirational. Compared to them I felt pathetic worrying about shortness of breath and whether cancer cells were still lurking inside my late middle aged body. They were superheroes on wheels. Meeting her younger clients, I felt heartache for their parents.
That said, I sometimes begrudged the way I’d get lassoed into Lydia’s good works. On a searing hot Saturday two weekends after Rob’s wedding, she asked if she could bring a group of elderly clients around for morning tea.
‘How many?’ I asked.
‘Five or six. We’ll bring our own food and drink, so don’t go to any trouble,’ she said brightly. ‘We can go to a park and have a picnic there if you’re busy,’ she added, tuning into my reluctance.
They couldn’t possibly eat outside when the temperature was predicted to reach 40 plus degrees.
Katharine rolled her eyes. Visits from Lydia’s clients could be very draining.
I made a pancake mix. The pancakes curled in the pan, transforming into something previously unknown to mankind. The doorbell rattled. I opened the door. Heat exfoliated my face.
When I saw the broken humanity huddled on the front porch my chest lurched. I hurried them inside where the air-conditioning laboured ineffectually. Lydia introduced them one by one. Lawrence’s body was so stiff and shrunken he could barely walk. Agatha’s matronly form was mobile, but her eyes were devoid of life. Ellie, white-haired in a wheelchair, was eerily talkative. Sofia didn’t talk, but nodded and smiled too much for comfort. Bert introduced himself erroneously as the boss.
Jonah bolted upstairs.
I was relieved Lydia had an assistant, Emma. Together with Katharine, they helped the visitors hobble down the hall, where cake and sandwiches were set out on plates. The pancakes were surprisingly successful. Aware that some of the women would’ve been consummate homemakers in their day, I apologised about forgetting the baking powder, but nobody seemed to mind.
Conversation didn’t exactly crackle. Ellie chattered away but her subject matter scattered like torn-up pieces of paper. She changed mid-sentence from knitting to tram timetables.
I nudged Katharine and told her to fetch her violin. She reluctantly complied.
Lawrence touched his hearing aid when he saw the violin. Music hurt his ears. Katharine moved her music stand to the other end of the hall.
‘Music! ’ cried Sofia, hurrying to join her. Patting the music stand, she pointed at Katharine and said, ‘Play “Silent Night”.’
It was two months since Christmas, but nobody was counting.
As the first notes floated down the hall, ancient voices warbled tentatively around the melody they’d known since birth.
The ghosts of close to 500 years of Christmas memories hovered around the table. Promises of Christmases to come were severely limited. I reached for a paper towel to dab the tears.
After they’d sung more carols and stayed on for lunch (because it was in the picnic basket anyway) our visitors became restless. Bert wanted Katharine to improvise some jazz on her violin. He jiggled with irritation when she explained her training was classical. Lydia and Emma escorted the others one by one to the bathroom.
‘Do we have a bucket and mop?’ Lydia whispered. ‘Agatha’s had an accident.’
When it was time to leave, Lydia assembled her clients inside the front door. They needed to get down the path and into the van as quickly as possible. The wind had come up and it was unbearable outside. There was an ominous tang of smoke on the breeze.
Lydia assured me she’d be dropping her clients home to shelter from the heat straight away. Before opening the front door, she conducted a swift search of Agatha’s handbag to discover one of our candlesticks and a tube of my Lancôme face wash. Lydia laughed and said we’d got off lightly. Whenever they went to town, Agatha had a habit of snatching food off people’s plates.
Waving our visitors goodbye, I clutched the paper towel. Lydia’s clients always gave more than they took.
Embracing the Enemy
A cat is not always a reliable host
‘Guess what?’ said Lydia, her tone unusually bright.
I was wary of this particular tone. It usually meant I was about to be bullied into something and I wasn’t in a very obliging mood.
‘What?’ I asked distractedly. A ‘general knowledge’ crossword puzzle was driving me nuts, asking for the Christian names of rock singers I’d never heard of.
‘My teacher’s coming to stay.’
‘That’s nice,’ I said. ‘Who’s he staying with?’
I hate it when I have to look up crossword answers in the back of the book. But how else was I going to get ‘Metal with atomic number 22’? Ah yes. Titanium.
‘Us.’
My pen rattled to the floor. Jonah snared it between his teeth and disappeared.
Her monk? That man! Staying with us?! My mouth opened. No words came out . . .
‘He can’t,’ I said at last. ‘We don’t have room.’
‘He can have my bedroom,’ she replied. ‘I’ll sleep on the couch.’
It was our home, not a religious retreat house.
But then it was Lydia’s home, too.
‘How long do you want him here?’
‘I was thinking a month,’ she said matter-of-factly.
A month taking care of a man who thinks he’s a god?
‘Too long,’ I said.
Assuming the subject was closed, I went in search of Jonah and my pen.
‘Three weeks?’ she called after me.
If Lydia knew anything at all about me, it’s that I’m a reluctant hostess. If anyone was coming to stay for an entire month, I could think of several thousand others I’d feel more comfortable with than the man beaming from the photo frame in her bedroom.
‘Don’t monks stay in monasteries?’ I asked.
‘Well, he has been invited to stay at a big house in the country where they’ve built a house specifically for him, but he says he’d rather be close to town.’
If the guru stayed with us, his hold over Lydia would tighten. He might even start trying to convert the rest of us. Besides, I was still angry at him for luring her away to Sri Lanka when I’d been unwell.
‘He can’t come here,’ I said.