Last Tango in Toulouse (31 page)

As we talk I try my best not to show the emotions I feel as each new story emerges. I want to keep our time together as happy and stress-free as possible. When I feel myself losing it a little, I go to my room for ‘a rest' so that I can have a quiet cry to myself without upsetting anybody. I feel overjoyed that I am here at last with my sister, but also deeply sad that we have, through no fault of our own, missed out on a whole lifetime together. I don't know whether I am feeling anger or pain. Both, I guess. I am overwhelmed by the knowledge that, for me, being here is the realisation of a lifelong dream. David and our children all know. I have so often said to them, ‘One day I am going to find Margaret.' And now I have.

What intrigues Margaret is my knowledge of her as a child and teenager. She is quite honest with me from the start, saying that she barely remembered me. I was only fourteen months old when she left and by that time she was at teacher's college and working, spending as little time as possible in the cramped flat. I was just a blur in her memory. But my impressions of my older sister have been firmly set for as long as I can remember. It would have been my mother who gave me such a strong image of Margaret. Muriel excelled as family storyteller. She regaled me with stories of the years the family had spent in America before Dan and I were born. She peppered these stories with imagery and detail, describing the clothes they wore and the food they ate and the picture-postcard snowy white Christmases they had when living in Connecticut. I knew the names of all the cats they'd had and of their neighbours and friends, and in many ways I felt as though I'd been there myself, so vivid were my mother's word pictures. There were also photographs, of course. Black and white images of Jon and Margaret from the
ages of about nine and ten, standing together on street corners in New York and outside their white clapboard house in New Canaan. It wasn't until I was much older that Mum told me about the dark side of their life – the fights and the drinking and the violence, in painful detail. So for me, Margaret has always been there, even though for her I was just a shadow from the life she was trying to forget. I know that I used to fantasise as a child, when things were really difficult at home, that perhaps Margaret might come back one day and rescue me, take me away to wherever she had escaped to. And that I, too, would be free. But those were just childish dreams. However, I never gave up hope that some day I would find Margaret and, now, here I am in her house with her husband and floppy dog. It's a very significant few days in my life.

As the days go by I realise how much alike we are in so many ways. We talk alike and we both have a well-developed, rather outrageous sense of humour. We look alike at certain moments and Ken quite proudly shows me a photograph taken of Margaret when she was just a few years younger than I am now. The resemblance is undeniable. But it's more than that. We like doing the same sorts of things. Margaret likes to make jellies and jams and preserves from all the fruits, wild and cultivated, around the farm and the surrounding countryside. She has a special cooker for extracting the essential juices from soft fruit that I am greatly taken with. We go together in search of one at the hardware store; I buy one and will carry it home as hand luggage. I have been making jellies and preserves for years and this cooker will make the task much easier. Margaret loves gardens and trees and makes the most wonderfully worm-rich compost for Ken's prize-winning vegetable garden. Making
compost has always been one of my great passions too. My kids once dubbed me ‘Queen of the Compost' and the title stuck. I take a photograph of my big sister adding scraps to her compost heap. It makes me laugh to think of it. Margaret and Ken are both passionate conservationists. They belong to an organisation that is fighting overdevelopment of their quiet rural area. She distributes badges and leaflets and attends meetings to try to stop the threat of carving up the farmland into small housing estates. I tell her about the battles I have fought over the years to prevent overdevelopment in the Blue Mountains, the fights against subdivisions and corrupt local councillors and against McDonald's (most of these battles now lost, I'm sad to say). She applauds my activism and I applaud hers.

We get out the map of France and they show me all the villages where they have stayed over the years. By following the road systems I realise that they would, indeed, have driven right past my front door on at least two occasions, but that would have been long before we bought the house. Margaret loves animals, and of course, so do I. The parallels go on and on. Then something dawns on me and I laugh out loud.

‘You know, Margaret, it isn't really surprising that we are so much alike. Just think about it. We share the genes of the same father. That is an inescapable fact. But when you think about it, we also had virtually the same childhood. Just a whole generation apart. Your childhood was more tragic because your mother died; at least I always had my own mother. And of course she was the woman who raised you from the age of eight until eighteen. We really had almost exactly the same early life experiences; the only difference was we didn't have them together.'

It's true. We are linked by a common thread that is tragic but also beautiful. I am so grateful that I have been able to find her.

It seems appropriate that I am here with Margaret and Ken on Thanksgiving Day. Even though it isn't a tradition celebrated in Australia, I know enough about it to realise that for us, as sisters, today has special significance. We start early to prepare the evening feast. There's quite a bit of cooking to do and there will be eight guests for dinner. I discuss with Margaret my technique for cooking turkey. This involves filling it with the traditional stuffing but putting it in the oven upside down, with the breast underneath, until the last half hour when it is turned over so the skin on the breast can turn brown and crispy. She laughs and says it must be because I'm Australian and they do everything upside down in Australia. She charges me with responsibility for the turkey and we work together all afternoon, preparing vegetables, organising dessert, setting the table and doing all the thousand and one little chores associated with a large family celebration.

The magic of this day, for me, is how well we work together in the kitchen; just like sisters, in fact. We don't trip over each other or get under each other's feet. Margaret has no problem delegating tasks to me and giving me the run of her domain. As we cook we talk more about our mad family and our sad childhoods, but we also laugh a lot and make jokes and enjoy the spirit of the occasion. I wish that we could have done this many times before, but it wasn't meant to be. This is our time now and we must make the most of it.

Ken's family arrive and it becomes a high-spirited and happy evening. They are all intrigued to meet me. They have known and loved Margaret for thirty-five years and to all intents and
purposes she has never had another family. Some have asked about her background over the years but she always swept the questions aside with good humour. She must have had a family at some stage, but not one that she chose to talk about. Ken knew, of course, but it was a story they shared and kept very much to themselves. As we sit down to eat – the turkey a triumph – Ken's cousin says a brief prayer of thanks, then Ken stands up and makes a little speech of thanksgiving for ‘the sisters long apart and now reunited'. We raise our glasses and say the toast. ‘To the sisters now reunited.' Somehow I manage not to cry.

My few days in Canada are intense – more sightseeing, more talking, more laughter. We start to feel more relaxed and open in each other's company and the breaks we take to explore Vancouver Island help to balance the intensity of our conversations. Each morning Ken and I set off early and take old Sidney for a walk around the block. He's very, very slow, shuffling along and puffing furiously, but it affords important time for Ken and me to talk about the sadness of the early life Margaret and I both share, and to get to know each other a little better. He has a slow, warm way of talking and his view of life is very soothing to me. The days flash past quickly. Margaret takes me to see Victoria University, where she once taught, and the flat, overlooking the water, where she and Ken lived, when they were first married. We have lunch together in a restaurant on a jetty and also in a pub that serves good local beer.

On my last day we get ready for the arrival of the painting group. It's just a matter of clearing all the surface areas, tables
and benches and card tables to create working areas for each person's project. We set up cups and saucers for tea and coffee; masses of food will be brought, as it's very much a communal gathering. They are an interesting group of women. Widely varied in age and background and from many different countries, they share a common passion for art and good company. They have all been told that Margaret's sister will be in residence and most are amazed because, once again, they were not aware that Margaret had any siblings or indeed any family at all. They greet me as though I really am a long-lost sister, their sister as well as Margaret's. There are hugs and a few tears and they all want to know everything about me – who I am, where I have sprung from, all about my life and family. Margaret seems very proud of me, which thrills me to bits. She tells them of my adventures in France and of my trekking, reminding me that I am about to leap from this emotional reunion to Kathmandu. No wonder I feel a little overwhelmed. We have cups of tea, then lunch is spread out on the table. Homemade breads and salads and local smoked salmon – it's a feast, and for me it's a joy to be included.

Mid-afternoon, it's time for me to go. Ken has decided to let Margaret take me to the airport alone so that we can share those last few minutes together. We get there ahead of time and the check-in desk says I can catch an earlier flight, which means we don't have time to stand around and chat. Just enough time to hug and say goodbye.

We agree that it has been an amazing time for both of us. We keep emotions very low-key, but as I turn to leave, Margaret says so sweetly, ‘I'm really sorry to see you go.'

I save my tears for the plane.

On the long flight home I am armed with my sleeping pills and a good book to read. It's all a bit strange, because I will have just one night in Sydney at a hotel before picking up my small trekking group to go to Kathmandu and from there on up into the Himalayas. David is coming down from the farm to spend this one night with me and we will swap luggage. I have already packed my trekking needs – backpack, thermal underwear, medicines, torch and walking boots. I will give him my more glamorous French country clothes in return for my practical adventuring gear.

I am feeling emotionally exhausted but also deeply happy and satisfied with this extraordinary family connection. I am sitting beside a Canadian woman, perhaps a couple of years older than I am, and we exchange polite greetings as we settle into our seats. I find that tears keep welling up in my eyes as we take off, and when I look round, she is crying too. After take-off a member of the cabin crew comes and touches her arm and speaks softly to her. I hear the word ‘Bali' and I wonder if there is a connection. While I have been with Margaret in Canada the Bali bombings have taken place, and it has been frustrating trying to get much news of it on Canadian television. It didn't assume the same level of prominence as in Australia.

Seeing the tears trickling down the cheeks of the woman beside me, I decide to ask.

‘Do you have someone injured in Bali?'

‘My son, Rick,' she says. ‘He has burns to 45 per cent of his body. He's in a Melbourne hospital and I am on my way to see him.'

Over the next twelve hours Audrey and I talk and cry together and sometimes, through sheer exhaustion, sleep. She tells me
all about Rick. He's thirty-two and a much loved son. An adventurer and traveller, always. He has spent his young adult life working in good jobs for two or three years at a time and saving his money. He then takes off for two or three years, and has covered an enormous number of countries in his travels. He writes frequent letters home and phones regularly. Audrey reads me his last letter, written from Bali, and shows me photographs of his smiling open face.

She is curious about my trip to Canada and I tell her all about our mad, sad family and about finding my sister Margaret after fifty years. My story makes her cry too.

It's been a struggle for Audrey to get on this plane at such short notice. She didn't have a current passport and finding the money for the airfare was very difficult. Friends and family came to the rescue, and both the Australian and Canadian governments have also swung into action with assistance. She will be met by officials at Sydney airport and taken quickly to a plane headed for Melbourne. Her son didn't get much medical assistance during the critical first twelve hours after the explosion. Now, however, he is in the best of care, but his condition is critical. He is being kept artificially in a coma to help his body deal with the shock and pain. Audrey is hoping, desperately, that when he is gradually brought out of the coma he won't have suffered brain damage too. But it's on the cards.