Chapter Seven
The big house on Beaconsfield Road has a top storey that used to be the children’s floor.
Now it’s divided into a bedroom and a sitting room with windows that look across to North Head and Manly.
Sydney Heads guard the harbour and act as a landmark that can be used to orient oneself, both in geography and, Daphne finds, in life.
Occasionally she’ll catch herself gazing at North Head and the sight of it reminds her that she is here, in this house she grew up in, in this street she knows so well, in this life that has had its ups and downs – mostly ups, she thinks – and which she’s still pushing along.
In the sitting room, with its old settee – the newest one is downstairs in the sitting room they use for guests, not that many visit any more – there is also a large desk.
Daphne’s draughting desk. Arrayed on it today are drawings she has pulled out of a folder she has kept for many years.
Hector has never seen the folder; nor has Janet or Noel – although Daphne’s had to become better at hiding it since Janet moved back in, as her daughter likes to poke around.
The drawings look like a fashion archive as they cover so many decades of dresses and skirts and blouses and coats, all designed by Daphne.
There are some she wished she could make for herself, although it’s been so long since she’s sewn anything and her eyesight now, even with reading glasses, wouldn’t be up to it, nor does her mother’s old Singer sewing machine still work. And there are some she had once longed to make for others.
Well before Adelaide decided to have a creative life, Daphne had one of her own, except she didn’t tell anyone about it.
She just drew and dreamt and wondered how she might ever be able to make these clothes.
It turned out she couldn’t. She had to work; there was no time to learn to sew to the level of proficiency she needed, nor the money for lessons.
Her mother showed her how to do some things, but they were functional: buttonholes and hems.
So Daphne put away the dream of designing for others and kept drawing just for herself. She still enjoys it, up here in the sitting room with the light coming in from the north-east and the desk big enough for her to spread out on.
‘Mu-um!’ Janet calls and Daphne’s heart quickens.
She makes to gather up the drawings, listening for footsteps on the stairs, but there’s only a few seconds of silence.
‘Mum?’ Janet calls again.
‘Yes, dear?’
‘Dad’s asking for you.’
No doubt Hector asks for her when she’s not here as much as when she is, but when she’s home Janet tends to want her to deal with it, instead of distracting her father, which is what Daphne has asked her to do.
‘He’s like a small child,’ she told Janet the first time she left them at home in order to go to the frock shop. ‘You can draw his attention away.’
It shocks her sometimes – only the times she will allow it – to think of her husband as if he is a child.
Hector was always the strong, capable one.
If a member of one of their families, or a friend, or even a friend of a friend, needed assistance, Hector would be in his car and on his way almost before Daphne had finished telling him about it.
He would never let people return the favour, and it wasn’t because he wanted to have a roster of individuals who owed him things – that simply wasn’t in his nature.
Brought up by a generous man and a cautious woman, Hector leaned into his paternal line and gave of himself and his time freely, including to Daphne and their children.
When the children wanted a swing in the back garden, he stayed up half the night making it.
If Daphne complained of sore shoulders after a day of doing housework, he would massage them and finish with a tender kiss on the back of her neck.
On Saturday nights they’d leave the children with Daphne’s parents and Hector would drive them into the city or to Kings Cross for dinner.
Daphne always looked forward to those nights, just the two of them, laughing at nothing much at all.
There was always dancing to be had in those days; most restaurants had a dance floor.
So he’d spin her around the floor after dinner and they’d keep going almost till closing, then go home and climb into bed knowing their children would get them up early but not caring.
He kept the fun in their marriage – that’s what it was. But getting old and losing one’s mind is the furthest thing from fun Daphne can imagine.
Now she can hear Hector downstairs, sounding slightly agitated, so she tucks the drawings back into their folder and secretes them between two art books. She knows Janet won’t touch the books because she likes to say that she doesn’t understand art.
Daphne descends the stairs, past the floor that contains their bedrooms to the bottom floor, which houses the kitchen and main sitting room, where she finds Janet dabbing at Hector’s collar.
‘A little spill,’ Janet says without looking up.
Hector beams at Daphne and holds out his hand. ‘Shall we dance?’ he says, his eyes twinkling.
When he says things like this Daphne wonders if he isn’t all right, after all, because he still seems to have a sense of humour. Then there are times when he withdraws so deeply within himself that she believes him lost forever.
‘Maybe later,’ she says, but she takes his hand anyway, and he kisses the top of hers. She looks down at his hair, which is still relatively thick and not entirely grey.
‘I need to go to the shops,’ Janet says, heading for the kitchen and coming back with her string bags and a little notepad, which is where they write their lists.
‘I can go,’ Daphne says and Janet gives her a look.
‘On foot?’ she says.
‘We don’t need that much.’
Janet snorts. ‘Mum, there are three adults here – we do need that much. Which means I need to go in the car. I won’t be long.’
‘Take some money from the drawer.’
‘I did,’ Janet says breezily but Daphne thinks she’s lying.
Ever since her daughter moved in Daphne’s been telling her she doesn’t have to pay for things, but Janet has her pride – or so she says – and as she’s not paying rent the least she can do is pay for groceries.
She’s out the door before Daphne can say anything, though, and her Volkswagen can be heard puttering to life in the street.
‘Shall I put some music on?’ Daphne says, patting Hector’s hand.
‘Shall we dance?’ he says again.
‘Maybe later,’ she repeats.
This exchange is its own sort of dance, because he may say the same thing five more times, and she’ll give him the same reply five more times, and they can keep dosey-doeing their way around each other. So instead of anything with a beat, she puts a Mahler record on the stereo.
Hector always likes an Austrian composer. Mozart or Mahler – or Strauss, Schubert or Haydn – are safe bets. Daphne prefers the Germans but never pushes the point, although it means she hasn’t been able to listen to Beethoven for a while. And that makes her a little heartsick.
Music has always been a feature of this house, whether on the stereo or being played on the piano that sits in the dining room, in need of tuning.
At one time, while she was dreaming of making clothes, she was also practising piano all the time.
But it was Adelaide who became the musician, and Daphne who found her talents absorbed into domestic life.
She hasn’t been jealous of her friend, but she has wondered, over the years, what it must be like to pursue one’s dreams. To live immersed in creativity and art and the joy they bring. It is unlikely she will ever know.
‘Adelaide,’ Hector says, as if reading her mind. He waves an index finger as if it’s a conductor’s baton.
‘Yes, Adelaide was in the orchestra,’ Daphne replies, adjusting the volume so it’s not too loud for conversation.
Hector sighs and keeps waving his finger. His eyes are watery, as if he’s about to cry; he does become emotional these days.
‘Janet, my love,’ he says and holds out his hand to Daphne again.
She frowns. This isn’t the first time he’s confused her with someone else, although she’s not entirely sure if he is confusing her with Janet or wants to say something about her. It won’t do to ask, though, because it won’t mean anything to him and may upset him. She doesn’t want to do that.
He whimpers, his hand still out, so Daphne takes it and squeezes to reassure him.
He pulls her closer and kisses her cheek. ‘You mustn’t tell,’ he says.
‘Tell what?’
He shakes his head. ‘Don’t say anything.’
Her breath catches in her chest because his confusion is growing worse by the day. What happens if he forgets who she is altogether? Forgets Janet and Noel? It’s too awful to contemplate.
‘I won’t tell,’ he says reassuringly. ‘She’ll never know.’
Sniffing back her distress, Daphne squeezes his hand again. ‘No, she won’t,’ she says.
Hector presses the back of her hand to his cheek as Mahler’s Symphony No 2 swells. His eyes close and he sways a little in his seat.
They sit like this, her hand to his cheek, him moving to the music, tears in her eyes, until Janet arrives home and Daphne gently pulls her hand from his so she can help her daughter put away the shopping.