A Bird on My Shoulder (26 page)

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One of the greatest gifts Julian ever gave me was very simple; he believed in me with a faith that never wavered. He saw me as a very capable, gregarious and loving person. He knew my faults, of course, and tolerated them, but these he always saw through a much kinder and more forgiving lens than my own.

Julian never imposed on any of us a sense of his own suffering. He never wept and said, ‘Why me?' He never said cancer was unfair, that it shouldn't be happening. While he certainly became very gloomy and inward at times, he was always at great pains to protect us all.

While I lamented in the past his inability to talk to me honestly about how he was feeling, over the years I began to see
the greater wisdom of his decision to leave us with peace and in peace. I was in awe of what he had done for love, for all of us.

When Julian died, I crossed the threshold into another life, seeing everything but understanding nothing except for the enormity and extraordinary miracle of death. I felt strangely awed and elated, privileged by my momentary glimpse into its impossible, beautiful truth.

Sometimes I still go out at night and stand on the edge of that mystery; I have come to love the comfort of the sky. To stand on that threshold with Julian and then to return to life empty-handed was, in fact, an enormous privilege, and I sometimes dare to wonder – what if it all makes sense in the end, the things that seem to make no sense at all?

Ten years ago, I stepped through an invisible door and found myself in another life.

My whole being became a scattered landscape, a series of fragments all slightly askew.

In this emptier world, it became my main task to reassemble the pieces of myself that I wanted to keep, and to leave behind the attitudes, emotions and relationships that could not be sustained.

It was deeply painful, to realise that there were people that I had loved and valued who had walked away without explanation. This was something else that I did not expect, that the world I knew would undergo such enormous, unpredictable shifts.
These betrayals, if that is what they were, brought another sense of bewilderment, a cruel reminder that Julian really had left and that the world, as I had known it, had inexorably changed.

Life can have so many untidy endings.

In my lowest moments, I often thought of my mother and her resolute determination. There were only a few times I had ever seen her truly crumble under pressure but it never lasted long – the strength of her will to keep going was just too strong. And while I sometimes found her tough and unyielding, there were many moments where I relied on her example and remembered the lessons she taught me.

As a student, I had moved to a dilapidated house in Battersea for the summer and found a job at the famous Price's candle factory. In the evenings I renovated and painted, slept on a mattress on top of newspaper and lived mostly on packet soup.

The factory was oppressive, full of booming machines, fluorescent lights and the sickly stink of hot wax. Over the machines, I could hear the remote sound of a tinny radio blasting out Stevie Wonder: ‘I Just Called to Say I Love You'.

One evening I was feeling very down. All my friends were away for the summer and I knew few people. I went to find a phone box and called home.

‘I think I'm going to come home for a while – it's miserable here,' I told my mother.

There was a pause while she considered my request.

‘You just have to pull yourself together, Lucy,' she said eventually. ‘You'll be fine.'

I remember putting the phone down, numbed by her response.

But as I walked back home along the empty streets, I had a moment of rare clarity.
She's right. It's all up to me. I can do it.

The fortitude I gained from my mother's remark has remained with me all these years, the last defence against giving up. With three children to care for, I knew I had no choice but to keep going, to keep growing as Julian would have wanted me to. It was also the kind encouragement of others that got me through, when people gave me the greatest gift we have – time.

I have gradually healed and learned to be grateful for so many things: close friendships, a financial legacy that allowed me to be a full-time mother when the children were small, and the sanctuary of the farm where we have now lived for so many years. Most of all I am thankful to the children, who gave me a reason to get up every day and keep going.

Remembering Julian's quiet determination helped me to gradually rebuild my life: socially, as a parent alone, the daily care, the homework, holidays, disputes and emotions, the flat tyres, the bills and the broken pump. I have done my best to provide the love and support the children have lost. I hope it is enough.

And somehow, very much in keeping with the persistence he always possessed in life, Julian's spirit is still here. I sit at
his desk and look out at the orchard that he planted. A pair of his old corduroy trousers hang on my study door. I've accepted that the door of my love for Julian will never be shut, and I no longer wish it to be so. Love did not die when he did.

I remember how he dealt with so many disappointments and setbacks; I was at his side as he faced every trial, every dashed hope. Cancer repeatedly brought him to his knees. And yet I saw again and again his true calibre, how he maintained a deep, inner calm and remained gracious to others even in the face of his own suffering. Not for a moment did he relinquish the freedom to embrace everything that life offered, even death.

Tonight, I simply want to be with him, to sit in the same companionable cocoon that marked so many hours of our life together over those brief six years. I have been on a long journey, and now I want to rest and remember.

In my hand, I hold an empty acacia pod with one seed remaining. It has laid itself bare, an offering with no apology, no regret. Its long once-cupped hands are tilted back, parted to take in the first crack of light, the moment where life and surrender began. I gaze upon this lonely seed and drink in its contentment, and begin to write:

Epilogue

Our home is full of personal treasures, including several videos I made of Julian with the children when they were young.

But there is one I have never seen. For some reason the video cassette which just had 2001 written on it was unplayable on the machine that I had, so for many years it just lay in an old black box at the back of a cupboard.

In 2016, fifteen years after Julian's death, I decide it's time to watch it so I have it sent away to be transferred onto a DVD.

The first image that flickers onto the screen is Julian sitting in the garden, near the cubby house, pallid and thin in the faint winter sun. The children are playing nearby, occasionally coming in to hug him, and I am holding the camera, asking questions as usual.

‘How are you feeling, Jules?'

‘It's so nice to be out in the sun, the first day I've been able to get out.'

He tries to give me a heartened smile but I can see it is an effort.

‘It's not cold at all is it? How are you feeling?'

‘Tired, very tired,' he says. ‘I've still got a bit of a queasy feeling. But otherwise I'm enjoying the day. Just letting the time go nicely.'

There is a long pause while I film him and he stares back at me, saying nothing. The children run in and out of earshot.

‘This is lovely, darling,' he says finally without irony, coughing slightly.

I zoom out a little. Julian is framed by spring flowers and the budding promise of long days under a kind tree.

‘These days and hours are precious,' he says, ‘they really are.'

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank my children, George, Meg, and Charlotte, for their patience and understanding while I took time away from them to write this memoir.

My heartfelt thanks to Oliver, Charles, Henry and Edward for their friendship, love and loyalty. Without the support of all of Julian's children, this book would never have been written.

To the extended Thirlwall family, especially Jordana, Mark, Cat, and their children, whose generosity and integrity have brought such light and joy to our family.

To my mother Eileen, for her resilience, strength and unconditional love. To my sister Libby and her children Hannah, Beatrice, Samuel and Florence, who have brought us so much joy.

To the formidable Mary-Louise O'Callaghan and the extraordinary Harry Moore, whose love, constancy and wisdom are the bedrock of my daily life. To Celeste Coucke and Stephen Fearnley, my dear friends who lift my soul and are a constant source of inspiration.

To Steph Hammond, Meg Harris and the wider Hammond family. I could not have done any of this without you by my side, encouraging me every step of the way. To Joan and Michael O'Callaghan, whose love and support for us all has been truly remarkable. To Tara and Craig Elias, who kept me going with fresh fruit, laughter and friendship, my heartfelt gratitude.

To Jo Shepherd, my loyal and loving friend, and to Susie Smith for her fearlessness and loyalty.

To John, Meg and Lydia Bell, our beloved friends. Thank you for filling an important space in our family with laughter, love and warmth. Every moment with you is memorable.

To Janine Shepherd, who has not only opened doors for me but led the way with courage and dignity. To Judy Benjamin, who convinced me that being a single parent was a gift and not a burden. Thank you both for your vision, inspiration and the love you have given us all.

To Emma Calver and the extended Gordon-Calver family in Robertson and Braidwood. Thank you for standing by me and for all the love and care you have given my children, especially in the days when darkness descended.

To Mandy Fleming, the children's second mother and my unswerving supporter. Thank you.

To Maur and John Huskisson, Philip and Shelley Boyce, for your wisdom and friendship.

To Caroline Jones AO, one of my first friends in Australia and a wonderful support for us all. Thank you for your wise advice, and your extraordinary example of a dignified and private spirituality.

To Petrea King, for inspiring the title.

My deep gratitude to publisher Jane Palfreyman whose passionate belief in this memoir gave me the fortitude to keep going, and to my editor Siobhan Cantrill for her steady hand, her eagle eye, and her compassion.

To Nina Kareng and her husband, Maseus, from Morobe Province, Papua New Guinea. Our family would not be the same without the years of loving kindness you have shown us all.

I would also like to thank my community of long-standing PNG friends who were there in the early days of our marriage and stood by us all the way: Dame Meg Taylor, Daisy Taylor, Sir Mekere and Lady Ros Morauta, Sir Julius and Lady Stella Chan, David and Jo Frecker, Annmaree O'Keefe AM, Bill and Elaine Farmer, Charles and Kathy Lepani, Sir Wilson and Lady Winifred Kamit, and Susannah Wamp.

I would like to thank Drew Lindsay and Karl Zabel for so generously giving me a quiet space to write.

Finally I would like to thank all of my friends who remain very close to my heart, the teachers of the Southern Highlands and the many families in this wonderful community who have helped us.

Your gifts will never be forgotten.