The Thorn Birds (74 page)

“And they will all be you.” He rose, took her hand again. “Yes, you’re quite right, Justine. You can’t spend it offstage. In anyone else, I’d say you would in spite of that, but being you, I’m not so sure.”

If they applied themselves to it, the Drogheda people could imagine that Rome and London were no farther away than Sydney, and that the grown-up Dane and Justine were still children going to boarding school. Admittedly they couldn’t come home for all the shorter vacations of other days, but once a year they turned up for a month at least. Usually in August or September, and looking much as always. Very young. Did it matter whether they were fifteen and sixteen or twenty-two and twenty-three? And if the Drogheda people lived for that month in early spring, they most definitely never went round saying things like, Well, only a few weeks to go! or, Dear heaven, it’s not a month since they left! But around July everyone’s step became brisker, and permanent smiles settled on every face. From the cookhouse to the paddocks to the drawing room, treats and gifts were planned.

In the meantime there were letters. Mostly these reflected the personalities of their authors, but sometimes they contradicted. One would have thought, for instance, that Dane would be a meticulously regular correspondent and Justine a scrappy one. That Fee would never write at all. That the Cleary men would write twice a year. That Meggie would enrich the postal service with letters every day, at least to Dane. That Mrs. Smith, Minnie and Cat would send birthday and Christmas cards. That Anne Mueller would write often to Justine, never to Dane.

Dane’s intentions were good, and he did indeed write regularly. The only trouble was he forgot to post his efforts, with the result that two or three months would go by without a word, and then Drogheda would receive dozens on the same mail run. The loquacious Justine wrote lengthy missives which were pure stream-of-consciousness, rude enough to evoke blushes and clucks of alarm, and entirely fascinating. Meggie wrote once every two weeks only, to both her children. Though Justine never received letters from her grandmother, Dane did quite often. He also got word regularly from all his uncles, about the land and the sheep and the health of the Drogheda women, for they seemed to think it was their duty to assure him all was truly well at home. However, they didn’t extend this to Justine, who would have been flabbergasted by it anyway. For the rest, Mrs. Smith, Minnie, Cat and Anne Mueller, correspondence went as might be expected.

It was lovely reading letters, and a burden writing them. That is, for all save Justine, who experienced twinges of exasperation because no one ever sent her the kind she desired—fat, wordy and frank. It was from Justine the Drogheda people got most of their information about Dane, for his letters never plunged his readers right into the middle of a scene. Whereas Justine’s did.

Rain flew into London today [she wrote once], and he was telling me he saw Dane in Rome last week. Well, he sees a lot more of Dane than of me, since Rome is at the top of his travel agenda and London is rock bottom. So I must confess Rain is one of the prime reasons why I meet Dane in Rome every year before we come home. Dane likes coming to London, only I won’t let him if Rain is in Rome. Selfish. But you’ve no idea how I enjoy Rain. He’s one of the few people I know who gives me a run for my money, and I wish we met more often.

In one respect Rain’s luckier than I am. He gets to meet Dane’s fellow students where I don’t. I think Dane thinks I’m going to rape them on the spot. Or maybe he thinks they’ll rape me. Hah. Only happen if they saw me in my Charmian costume. It’s a stunner, people, it really is. Sort of up-to-date Theda Bara. Two little round bronze shields for the old tits, lots and lots of chains and what I reckon is a chastity belt—you’d need a pair of tin-cutters to get inside it, anyway. In a long black wig, tan body paint and my few scraps of metal I look a smasher.

…Where was I??? Oh, yes, Rain in Rome last week meeting Dane and his pals. They all went out on the tiles. Rain insists on paying, saves Dane embarrassment. It was some night. No women, natch, but everything else. Can you imagine
Dane
down on his knees in some seedy Roman bar saying “Fair daffodils, we haste to see thee weep so soon away” to a vase of daffodils? He tried for ten minutes to get the words of the quotation in their right order and couldn’t, then he gave up, put one of the daffodils between his teeth instead and did a dance. Can you ever imagine
Dane
doing that? Rain says it’s harmless and necessary, all work and no play, etc. Women being out, the next best thing is a skinful of grog. Or so Rain insists. Don’t get the idea it happens often, it doesn’t, and I gather when it does Rain is the ringleader, so he’s along to watch out for them, the naive lot of raw prawns. But I did laugh to think of Dane’s halo slipping during the course of a flamenco dance with a daffodil.

It took Dane eight years in Rome to attain his priesthood, and at their beginning no one thought they could ever end. Yet those eight years used themselves up faster than any of the Drogheda people had imagined. Just what they thought he was going to do after he was ordained they didn’t know, except that they did assume he would return to Australia. Only Meggie and Justine suspected he would want to remain in Italy, and Meggie at any rate could lull her doubts with memories of his content when he came back each year to his home. He was an Australian, he
would
want to come home. With Justine it was different. No one dreamed she would come home for good. She was an actress; her career would founder in Australia. Where Dane’s career could be pursued with equal zeal anywhere at all.

Thus in the eighth year there were no plans as to what the children would do when they came for their annual holiday; instead the Drogheda people were planning their trip to Rome, to see Dane ordained a priest.

“We fizzled out,” said Meggie.

“I beg your pardon, dear?” asked Anne.

They were sitting in a warm corner of the veranda reading, but Meggie’s book had fallen neglected into her lap, and she was absently watching the antics of two willy-wagtails on the lawn. It had been a wet year; there were worms everywhere and the fattest, happiest birds anyone ever remembered. Bird songs filled the air from dawn to the last of dusk.

“I said we fizzled out,” repeated Meggie, crowlike. “A damp squib. All that promise! Whoever would have guessed it in 1921, when we arrived on Drogheda?”

“How do you mean?”

“A total of six sons, plus me. And a year later, two more sons. What would you think? Dozens of children, half a hundred grandchildren? So look at us now. Hal and Stu are dead, none of the ones left alive seem to have any intention of ever getting married, and I, the only one not entitled to pass on the name, have been the only one to give Drogheda its heirs. And even then the gods weren’t happy, were they? A son and a daughter. Several grandchildren at least, you might think. But what happens? My son embraces the priesthood and my daughter’s an old maid career woman. Another dead end for Drogheda.”

“I don’t see what’s so strange about it,” said Anne. “After all, what could you expect from the men? Stuck out here as shy as kangas, never meeting the girls they might have married. And with Jims and Patsy, the war to boot. Could you see Jims marrying when he knows Patsy can’t? They’re far too fond of each other for that. And besides, the land’s demanding in a neutered way. It takes just about all they’ve got to give, because I don’t think they have a great deal. In a physical sense, I mean. Hasn’t it ever struck you, Meggie? Yours isn’t a very highly sexed family, to put it bluntly. And that goes for Dane and Justine, too. I mean, there are some people who compulsively hunt it like tomcats, but not your lot. Though perhaps Justine will marry. There’s this German chap Rainer; she seems terribly fond of him.”

“You’ve hit the nail on the head,” said Meggie, in no mood to be comforted. “She seems terribly
fond
of him. Just that. After all, she’s known him for seven years. If she wanted to marry him, it would have happened ages ago.”

“Would it? I know Justine pretty well,” answered Anne truthfully, for she did; better than anyone else on Drogheda, including Meggie and Fee. “I think she’s terrified of committing herself to the kind of love marriage would entail, and I must say I admire Rainer. He seems to understand her very well. Oh, I don’t say he’s in love with her for sure, but if he is, at least he’s got the sense to wait until she’s ready to take the plunge.” She leaned forward, her book falling forgotten to the tiles. “Oh, will you listen to that bird? I’m sure even a nightingale couldn’t match it.” Then she said what she had been wanting to say for weeks. “Meggie, why won’t you go to Rome to see Dane ordained? Isn’t that peculiar? Dane—or
dain
.”

“I’m
not
going to Rome!” said Meggie between clenched teeth. “I shall never leave Drogheda again.”

“Meggie, don’t! You can’t disappoint him so! Go, please! If you don’t, Drogheda won’t have a single woman there, because you’re the only woman young enough to take the flight. But I tell you, if I thought for one minute my body would survive I’d be right on that plane.”

“Go to Rome and see Ralph de Bricassart smirking? I’d rather be dead!”

“Oh, Meggie, Meggie! Why must you take out your frustrations on him, and on your son? You said it once yourself—it’s your own fault. So beggar your pride, and go to Rome. Please!”

“It isn’t a question of pride.” She shivered. “Oh, Anne, I’m frightened to go! Because I don’t believe it, I just don’t! My flesh creeps when I think about it.”

“And what about the fact he mightn’t come home after he’s a priest? Did that ever occur to you? He won’t be given huge chunks of leave the way he was in the seminary, so if he decides to remain in Rome you may well have to take yourself there if you ever want to see him at all. Go to Rome, Meggie!”

“I can’t. If you knew how frightened I am! It’s not pride, or Ralph scoring one over on me, or any of the things I say it is to stop people asking me questions. Lord knows, I miss both my men so much I’d crawl on my knees to see them if I thought for a minute they wanted me. Oh, Dane would be glad to see me, but Ralph? He’s forgotten I ever existed. I’m frightened, I tell you. I know in my bones that if I go to Rome something will happen. So I’m not going.”

“What could happen, for pity’s sake?”

“I don’t know…. If I did, I’d have something to battle. A feeling, how can I battle a feeling? Because that’s all it is. A premonition. As if the gods are gathering.”

Anne laughed. “You’re becoming a real old woman, Meggie. Stop!”

“I can’t, I can’t! And I
am
an old woman.”

“Nonsense, you’re just in brisk middle age. Well and truly young enough to hop on that plane.”

“Oh, leave me alone!” said Meggie savagely, and picked up her book.

Occasionally a crowd with a purpose converges upon Rome. Not tourism, the voyeuristic sampling of past glories in present relics; not the filling in of a little slice of time between A and B, with Rome a point on the line between those two places. This is a crowd with a single uniting emotion; it bursts with pride, for it is coming to see its son, nephew, cousin, friend ordained a priest in the great basilica which is the most venerated church in the world. Its members put up in humble pensiones, luxury hotels, the homes of friends or relatives. But they are totally united, at peace with each other and with the world. They do the rounds dutifully; the Vatican Museum with the Sistine Chapel at its end like a prize for endurance; the Forum, the Colosseum, the Appian Way, the Spanish Steps, the greedy Trevi Fountain, the
son et lumière
. Waiting for the day, filling in time. They will be accorded the special privilege of a private audience with the Holy Father, and for them Rome will find nothing too good.

This time it wasn’t Dane waiting on the platform to meet Justine, as it had been every other time; he was in retreat. Instead, Rainer Moerling Hartheim prowled the dirty paving like some great animal. He didn’t greet her with a kiss, he never did; he just put an arm about her shoulders and squeezed.

“Rather like a bear,” said Justine.

“A bear?”

“I used to think when I first met you that you were some sort of missing link, but I’ve finally decided you’re more of a bear than a gorilla. It was an unkind comparison, the gorilla.”

“And bears are kind?”

“Well, perhaps they do one to death just as quickly, but they’re more cuddly.” She linked her arm through his and matched his stride, for she was almost as tall as he. “How’s Dane? Did you see him before he went into retreat? I could kill Clyde, not letting me go sooner.”

“Dane is as always.”

“You haven’t been leading him astray?”

“
Me
? Certainly not. You look very nice,
Herzchen
.”

“I’m on my very best behavior, and I bought out every couturier in London. Do you like my new short skirt? They call it the mini.”

“Walk ahead of me, and I’ll tell you.”

The hem of the full silk skirt was about midthigh; it swirled as she turned and came back to him. “What do you think, Rain? Is it scandalous? I noticed no one in Paris is wearing this length yet.”

“It proves a point,
Herzchen
—that with legs as good as yours, to wear a skirt one millimeter longer is scandalous. I’m sure the Romans will agree with me.”

“Which means my arse will be black and blue in an hour instead of a day. Damn them! Though do you know something, Rain?”

“What?”

“I’ve never been pinched by a priest. All these years I’ve been flipping in and out of the Vatican with nary a pinch to my credit. So I thought maybe if I wore a miniskirt, I might be the undoing of some poor prelate yet.”

“You might be my undoing.” He smiled.

“No, really? In orange? I thought you hated me in orange, when I’ve got orange hair.”

“It inflames the senses, such a busy color.”

“You’re teasing me,” she said, disgusted, climbing into his Mercedes limousine, which had a German pennant fluttering from its bonnet talisman. “When did you get the little flag?”