Serenade for a Small Family Read online

  ‘Hey, sorry,’ I looked at Benny, then back at Krish. ‘I’ve

  just got to . . . umm . . . go and do some stuff.’

  I closed the bedroom door behind me and plonked myself

  wretchedly down on the bed.

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  We’d been living in our new Alice home for six months

  by the time we decided to get married. It was my idea and

  we workshopped it, carefully nutting out all the reasons

  for and against in Benny’s thorough decision-making style.

  ‘It’s about formalising our commitment,’ I said. ‘Yuck!

  Move your feet!’ We were rocking in the hammock, lying

  end to end.

  ‘What difference would that make?’

  ‘They’re in my face!’

  ‘No, I mean formalising our commitment.’

  I giggled. It was a hot afternoon. I wore a singlet,

  and the hammock strings pressed into my skin. ‘Oh . . .

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  it would make it official, kind of stating where we stand,

  acknowledging it publicly and celebrating what we have.’

  ‘Hmm.’ The hammock squeaked.

  ‘I mean . . . I know in a way it’s daggy and old-fashioned,

  but I think it’s what you make it, and it means what you

  want it to mean. I see it as really positive for us.’ I stretched

  out my arms and crossed them over my chest.

  ‘I’ve always thought I’d never get married—that it

  wouldn’t change anything, so why do it,’ said Benny. ‘It’s

  not like we need to prove anything.’ A car drove down

  the adjoining laneway and dust rose above the fence line.

  ‘I don’t see us doing it out of a need or to prove anything.

  More like a choice to add to what we already have, to

  clarify and build on it. And anyway, I want that ring on my

  man’s finger!’ Ben’s forehead crinkled with disapproval, but

  I pushed on. ‘We could write every word of the ceremony

  and vows ourselves together. I mean, that in itself would

  be cool.’

  Ben’s big toe touched my ear.

  ‘Don’t! Yuck! You meant to do that!’ I shoved his feet

  so they swung over the edge of the hammock. ‘Anyway,

  it would be great to dress up and get people together for a

  big love celebration ritual and party. It would mean a lot.

  It just would.’

  We sat at a table to write our vows as the sun sloped in.

  We talked about being our best for each other and what

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  that meant, discussing everything in detail. I wasn’t used

  to giving things that much attention. Mum and Dad had

  lived as if detail was for bores. They let the mail pile up

  for weeks, then dumped it all on the dining room table so

  they could go through it. Dad still says that, where the tax

  return form asks for Outgoing Expenditure, he just takes a

  stab at it. Doing things Ben’s way made me calm.

  Dad’s expressive, sensitive, charismatic and loaded with

  style. He likes the luxuries of life, and the gadgets—stereos

  that turn themselves on when you ask them to; self-heating

  f loors; cars that purr and, when they’re reversing, warn

  you if you’re about to hit something. When I saw ‘I’d

  trade the necessities of life for the luxuries any day’ on a

  t-shirt, I instantly thought of Dad . He believes that money

  is vital to happiness, because it means you have choices.

  He’s also eccentric, and his fancy vehicles are showy—a

  canary-yellow BMW motorbike with a sidecar; a shiny

  blue Pontiac Parisienne; or an oversized double-seater

  motorbike that has seats covered in sheepskin wool, a stereo

  and suitcases attached to its sides. He’s an entrance-maker,

  and he has presence.

  Dad practises piano accordion with impressive discipline,

  despite the absence of a single musical bone in his body. He

  says that, if he could have his life over and if he could do

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  anything he wanted, he would be a full-time musician—I’m

  guessing country, Willie Nelson-style. He sees it as a cruel

  twist that he doesn’t have the talent for it.

  As far as I know, Dad’s mum Babcia was taken to a

  Siberian prison camp in a cattle train with her father and

  her two kids (Dad was two) when Russia invaded Poland

  during World War II. After their release, Babcia used a

  first aid kit to bribe a train guard for tickets to the Caspian

  Sea; from there they made their way to Persia, and then

  India, where they stayed for five years before coming to

  Australia in 1947.

  Dad’s dad fought in the Battle of Britain, and was shot

  down over France in 1942 as a wing commander. So Dad

  grew up with no dad, and for some reason Babcia sent him

  to a Catholic boarding school when he was four. Dad says

  boarding school was his Siberia. He says he’s spent his whole

  life trying to get Babcia’s approval, but it never happened.

  I think he’ll always be mad at her.

  To Mum, Babcia was an intelligent, curious and

  independent woman who had endured unimaginable

  hardship. To me, she was a really loving old Polish lady,

  who cooked good brandy apricot cake and spoke Polish

  with my dad. She loved me, and I loved her back. Just that.

  Polish is squelchy and consonant-packed. Dad and Babcia

  argued over the phone and over bowls of cold beetroot soup

  and cabbage rolls on Christmas Eve. All of us kids can say,

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  ‘ Vimyoutsa, issina, idoucha, vshventego, amen.’ (‘In the name

  of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, amen.’) And

  we can all say a couple of swear words: ‘ Kourva (whore)!’

  and ‘ Cholerra (go get cholera)!’

  Babcia, according to Mum, had the Polish drama gene.

  She would put her hand to her heart and say, ‘I huff special

  place in my hutt for Stefan’, while a tear rolled unchecked

  down her cheek. Babcia gave Mum a hard time, but Mum

  respected Babcia and envied her independence—she lived

  in a small flat out the back of my Auntie Eva’s place. She

  would shake her head and shed a tear at the Polish news,

  and kneel to pray in pink pyjamas before bed. Mum wanted

  to be independent too, so she bought herself pink pyjamas

  to make a start. Seriously.

  Dad and Bec, my stepmother, offered to buy me a dress

  for my wedding, so I made a special trip to Sydney. Bec is

  expressive and generous-spirited like Dad; she is also loud

  and a bit bossy, but in a good way. Most times, when she

  and I talk on the phone, we wind up laughing our heads off.

  Bec’s bright and capable, and an exceptional, natural-

  born schoolteacher. She is also like a man in that she can

  only focus on one thing at a time—for example, she would

  struggle to answer a question and scramble eggs at the same

  time. I sometimes push her limits, just for a laugh.

  In Sydney I tried on glamorous dresses in glamorous

  shops on Paddington’s Oxford Street, and chose a ra
cy red

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  satin halter-neck. But when I got back to Alice, I couldn’t

  shake the memory of another dress I’d tried, so Bec agreed

  to track it down.

  ‘Inky? It’s Bec. Okay, I’m in the shop. I’m at the frock

  rack, looking . . . looking.’

  ‘Go, Bec! It’s white with tiny red polka dots.’ I bit into

  a sour green apple.

  ‘Here it is! What size?’

  ‘Yay! Small . . .’

  ‘Got it!’

  ‘Woohoo! Oh, you star!’

  When Mum came to Alice for a visit, she bought me a

  hand-embroidered white silk nightie from a shop in the mall.

  A cranky local dressmaker sewed pleats into it as well as a

  petticoat to go underneath. ‘Dammit!’ she said, crouching

  beside me on one knee with pins held between her lips.

  ‘Keep still!’ Looking into the mirror, I slipped the comb of

  a white veil into my hair and, with raised eyebrows and a

  thumbnail between my teeth, I decided I would snub the

  two swanky options and wear the nightie from Todd Mall.

  Lu-la flew up from Sydney to be a bridesmaid, along

  with Sofie. She stood over the stove, stirring a steaming

  saucepan of tapioca, and said she was having ‘trust issues’

  with the Brazilian man in her life.

  ‘Shit, Lu, it sure sounds like maybe he just can’t be

  trusted. That’s hardly you having trust issues. ’

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  I did a kick-ball-change dance move in time with an

  upbeat song on the radio. Benny sneaked up behind me

  and pinched my bum, back from his version of a buck’s

  night. ‘Oh, god,’ he moaned. ‘My mouth feels like a science

  project.’ He and his best man had driven out of town and

  dragged Benny’s green couch down into the sand of a dry

  riverbed. They spent the night sitting by a fire, drinking

  red wine with Benny’s little brother.

  That afternoon Sofie, Lu-la and I got dressed together

  in a sun-filled hotel room in town. Lu and I were side by

  side, peering into the mirror and putting on makeup as we

  had done countless times before, when there was a knock

  at the door. ‘I’ll get it,’ I said.

  Dad wore a white suit with a hip leopard-skin print

  shirt underneath with the top button done up and no tie.

  He looked hip and stylish, and I felt proud.

  ‘Don’t you look beautiful, darlin’!’

  ‘Thanks, Dad. I’m wearing a veil!’ I pulled a pose.

  ‘Just beautiful. Now listen,’ Dad looked at Sofie, who

  hovered behind me, ‘in your speech, Sofie, are you going

  to talk about Inky’s past?’

  My stomach did a small flip.

  ‘No . . . I wasn’t going to,’ said Sofie, still half behind me.

  ‘What? You have to . . . Someone has to, and I thought

  you were!’

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  I stepped up to Dad and held up my palms: ‘Don’t be

  ridiculous,’ I said. ‘No one has to!’

  ‘I’m not,’ said Sofie.

  ‘That’s terrible! You’ve got to!’ said Dad.

  ‘I’m not going to. Back off, Dad!’ said Sofie.

  Dad sighed and turned: ‘Right. Well, we’d better go.’

  Mum might not be able to tell left from right, but Dad’s

  sense of direction is pathologically bad. He rings Bec time

  and again for directions out of a shopping mall or a carpark

  or even—no exaggeration—a toilet block. But he got us to

  the Desert Park venue, no problems, and the sun was well

  behind the ranges as we approached.

  In the back seat I huddled forward, with my two fists

  under my chin to contain the building mess of nerves in

  my stomach and chest.

  Dad turned around to look at me. ‘Now, darlin’, do

  you want me to keep going?’ Lu-la, in the passenger seat,

  laughed. ‘We can just keep on driving—it’s not too late . . .’

  ‘Dad!’

  Family from Sydney and Melbourne joined local friends

  on a wooden deck at the foot of the ranges, where Benny

  waited nervously. We were married by a Catholic priest who

  had married Ben’s two brothers and christened their kids,

  and who had agreed not to mention God too much. He

  wore a suit instead of robes, and started by acknowledging

  the Arrernte people of Alice. Dave has always struck me as

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  one of the genuinely kindest people I have ever met. I am

  suspicious of religion as a rule, but to me, with his natural

  generosity of spirit, Dave gives Catholicism a good name.

  With our throng of beloved people crowded around, I

  pushed my vows out past the lump in my throat.

  At the end of his speech, Dad, being Polish, recounted

  a Polish tradition and had everyone raise shots of vodka in

  the air to toast in unison: ‘To Ingrid and Ben, one hundred

  years!’ We knocked back the vodkas and shimmied our

  heads and shoulders when the shock of warmth hit our chests

  and stomachs.

  At the end of the night, I grabbed a fistful of dress and

  hoisted myself up into Kelly’s familiar cabin; Benny and I

  drove to a hotel in town, chosen for its gourmet breakfast

  spread. In the morning I lay in bed feeling uneasy: ‘I don’t

  know . . . I feel like I’ve given up my independence or

  something.’

  ‘Yeah, me too—I want my freedom back!’ Benny

  punched his fist into the air and chanted: ‘Free-dom! Free-

  dom! Free-dom!’

  I relaxed, belly laughed, and threw back the sheets:

  ‘Come on, husband . . . let’s get brekkie!’

  Not long after the wedding, I received a grant to record my

  songs. I was over the moon. Alice was limited in terms of

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  recording studios, but I knew a great musician who had a

  studio near Byron Bay. I booked in for Emma and me to

  record six tracks in ten days. Steve’s studio was a shed with

  tall wooden double doors and fairy lights strung across the

  ceiling. We were directed to the loft, where Emma and I

  would be sleeping. After I’d folded my clothes into neat

  piles, I tentatively made my way backwards down the steep

  ladder steps to the studio: ‘Whoa, they’re scary.’

  ‘You’ll get used to them,’ said Steve, sitting at his

  computer. ‘No one’s fallen yet.’ The space around him

  was a minefield of leads, gadgets and mic stands. Emma

  stood by the sink, holding a steaming cup with both hands,

  surveying the scene. Steve handed me a pair of headphones:

  ‘Give these a go.’

  Steve was a perfectionist, raking finely over every note.

  Not that I didn’t have a tendency to flatten them.

  ‘Still a fraction flat . . . laaaaaaaa.’ His eyebrows rose as

  he strained to demonstrate the desired pitch, holding his

  hand out horizontal in front of him to show where it sat.

  ‘Let’s go again.’

  ‘Right.’ I adjusted the headphones over my ears for yet

  a
nother take. ‘Ready.’

  He taught me new guitar lines for my songs, and I sat

  on the studio step and practised stretching my fingers into

  awkward positions across the fret board. Sofie rang from

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  New York, where she was at a writers’ residency, and I laid

  my guitar on my lap to talk to her.

  ‘Ing! Everything’s big here! It’s beautiful, it’s so hip . . .

  you would love it!’

  ‘Really? God, I can’t believe you’re in New York!’

  ‘Neither can I. People talk loudly, but not in a stupid

  way. They’re great. And out walking around by myself . . .

  it’s kind of scary.’

  ‘Shit, Sofie, be careful!’ I plinked a guitar string, then

  another.

  ‘Like right now, I’m in a phone booth, and this big guy

  covered in tats is walking towards me . . .’

  ‘Sofie!’

  ‘I’m not kidding!’

  Emma’s piano tinkling filtered through the studio doors

  and I flicked an ant off my guitar. ‘How’s the writing?’ I

  asked.

  ‘Really good . . . I think you’re going to dig it. I can’t

  wait for you to read it. Shit, I better go—this is costing me.’

  ‘Bye! Love you!’

  ‘Love you!’

  In the early mornings, after a bowl of organic Byron

  muesli, I would hook my finger into my tea cup and take

  a sandy track towards the beach. Once there, I’d stash my

  empty cup at the foot of a fence post before deciding which

  way to go.

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  Sometimes I woke Emma and dragged her along. ‘Emma,’

  I whispered. ‘You awake?’

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘You awake?’ I watched the silhouette of her head rising

  from the pillow in the early morning dark. ‘Want to come

  for a walk?’

  ‘Mm? Oh . . . okay.’

  On the plane back to Alice, I stared out at the clouds and

  churned over the past days, half a muffin and a sprinkle of

  crumbs on the tray table in front of me. Beside me, Emma

  slept with a thin blue plane blanket pulled up over her

  shoulders. Steve had managed to create a slick production

  but, looking back, I would have done it differently—I would

  have recorded locally with the whole Alice band, sticking

  mics into the middle of the room and all playing together,

  with or without perfect pitch. We weren’t ready for slick,

  and all those takes knocked the spirit out of the songs. But