Sweet Surrender (6 page)

In the end we talked about fashion, discussing how men and women have a different view about what clothes make a woman look good (I had no view on this) and the drug habit of some rock star whose name was totally unfamiliar to me.

After the screen test I emailed Libbi:

She responded :

With the show's future in the lap of the gods, I negotiated a period in which to disappear. I felt an urgent need to spend time with my older sister, Margaret, especially if I was soon to be tied down by a twelve-month contract. David and the family agreed that I should spend Christmas away from home – the first time I had ever done so – and with mixed feelings about what the following year might bring, I jumped on a plane bound for Canada, where my sister and brother-in-law live.

Since 2005 the amount of time I can spare for my village house in France has been greatly reduced, because I have a new priority and a new destination in my life. Every year, several times if I can manage it, I travel to beautiful Vancouver Island off the coast of British Columbia, where Margaret and her husband, Ken, have a farm.

My sister and I were separated for more than five decades, and reconnected by chance after my first memoir,
Au Revoir
, was published. During an interview on ABC's
Life Matters
on Radio National, Geraldine Doogue questioned me about this aspect of my story; I told her that I knew Margaret was in Canada, and worked at a university, but I had been unable to track her down. Later that day a former colleague of Margaret's contacted the radio station to say that she knew my sister and had a current address for her. When that call came through, I sat at my desk and sobbed for half an hour, shaking all over.

I can't really explain why finding Margaret was so important to me. Thousands of people have estranged siblings – especially half-brothers and -sisters – and they don't necessarily feel this intense desire to reunite. But I had always known that Margaret was a vital piece in the jigsaw
of my life, and that I had genuinely missed her when she left home even though I was little more than a toddler at the time. My mother had always talked about Margaret during my childhood – there were lots of lovely black and white photographs of her growing up – and she also told me that Margaret had spent a lot of time looking after me when I was a baby. I have a hazy memory of sitting on a potty in the bathroom, peering into a small round hole in the tiles surrounding the bathtub. The story goes that Margaret told me a large tiger lived under the bath and that thought must have stayed with me for years, long after she left.

My husband and our children knew that I was determined to find Margaret some day, to talk through all those memories, both good and bad. When I found her again, it seemed I finally had my chance. When I wrote to Margaret, and sent her a copy of my book, she wrote back immediately. It was a brief note saying how delighted she was to have received my letter, and that she had started to read the book but that she found the early chapters about our childhood difficulties quite painful. She promised to write again soon, but there was nothing more. Complete silence for months and months. I was convinced that she had changed her mind and decided that she didn't really want to meet the little sister who would remind her of aspects of her life she had obviously effectively expunged from her memory.

Then a letter arrived. A long, warm and fascinating account of her life over the decades between her eighteenth birthday and the current day. She was about to turn sixty-eight. She apologised for the delay in getting back to me. She had somehow lost my original letter with my contact details.

‘
I put your letter and book away in a safe place
,' she wrote. ‘
Guess what? I forgot where that was. I finally found it two days ago. I had put it with some art supplies in a very conspicuous place. Hmph! I'm afraid I have blindness of the mind
.'

I was so relieved to get her letter at last that it didn't occur to me that there was anything ominous in her words. I lose things all the time.
Put them ‘somewhere safe' and then can't for the life of me remember where they are. I search until I find them. But I later found out it had been more than a case of misplacing – Margaret had actually forgotten that the book and letter even existed.

Towards the end of that first precious letter she wrote about her love of travelling to France (just one of the many things we later found that we had in common).

‘
Our biggest problem now is getting there and back
,' she wrote. ‘
Unfortunately Ken and I are reaching that “where did I leave my keys?” stage. I find myself forgetting to turn the stove off, or pay some bills on time, and these little episodes are on the increase
.'

All the signs were there, I just didn't read them.

Margaret knew only too well that her memory was failing. She confided in Ken that she was worried about how forgetful she had become of late, and he strongly advised her to report her concerns to her doctor. Yet each time she made a routine visit she naturally forgot to mention her increasing confusion and forgetfulness. When she finally did talk to the doctor he said it was normal for her age. At that time she would have been in her mid-sixties.

So she did what most people do in this situation. She covered for herself by developing strategies to disguise the fact that she was increasingly unable to remember the names of her close friends and family, that she constantly lost things and was finding it difficult to remember even the most simple routines. She could still function at a level that convinced everyone, including herself, that nothing was wrong. She was just getting a little older and a little forgetful. Nothing more.

Eventually, Ken cajoled Margaret into seeking a referral to a neurologist. She wasn't just forgetting where she put the car keys; she was actually hiding them. The mail started to go astray. She would forget
to pass on phone messages and she also started to become unsettled and at times agitated. She stopped reading and watching television and started to go to bed earlier and earlier. Losing herself in sleep. It was totally uncharacteristic of this vibrant, involved woman.

Every Wednesday, Margaret had lunch with her art group, a small, tight-knit band of women from vastly different backgrounds who loved the pleasure of getting together, painting, and then sitting down to a meal, each bringing a plate of food to share. For nearly twenty years they had met in each other's homes. They would spread plastic sheets on the tables, and sit around talking and laughing non-stop while painting furiously. Members of the group had also travelled overseas together, packing up their oils and watercolours and renting small houses in the French, Spanish or Italian countryside.

One such trip – this time to France – had been planned several months after Margaret had her appointment with the neurologist. The results of the test had not been good, and Ken was keeping it close to his chest on the assumption that Margaret wouldn't want people to know. It was a definite diagnosis of Alzheimer's and, according to the test results, her condition was fairly advanced. By no means was she in the ‘early stages' of her long and tortuous journey. She had already negotiated a big stretch of the road, and she had done so without her condition being detected by her doctor or her friends. It was obvious that her intelligence had enabled her to bluff her way through. By the time her condition was finally acknowledged she had already reached the stage of retreating into her own world.

Ken and Margaret and two friends rented a holiday house in a coastal town north of Bordeaux. I was in Paris, at the end of my annual French walking tour, and took a train down to spend a day with them. It had been almost a year since our first overwhelming reunion and I was keen to maintain contact as much as possible. They met me at the station and took me to their little house where a wonderful lunch was waiting. I didn't notice anything different about Margaret, except perhaps that
she looked a little thinner and frailer than I remembered. I had thought of her as being small but wiry and strong. This time she seemed a little less confident in her stride, more cautious, more hesitant.

After lunch we went sightseeing, and stopped for a cup of tea in a local cafe. Margaret and her friend Dorothy left to do some window-shopping, then Ken put his hand on my arm and told me, quickly and quietly, that Margaret had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease. I was devastated. How could this be? My clever sister. I'd only just found her again. I had only just started to rebuild our relationship. And now I was going to lose her.

I cried on the train going back to Paris that night. Selfish tears of pain and loss. I wasn't thinking of Margaret but of myself, and my anguish. I was angry and felt cheated. It wasn't meant to be like this. Our reunion was supposed to have a happy ending, not be the beginning of a nightmare.

My reaction was one of grief, understandable at the time. But after wrestling with my emotions for a few days, I recognised the truth of the situation. How fortunate I had been to find Margaret when I did. How lucky I was to have enjoyed the time we had already shared over the previous eighteen months, writing and talking and reminiscing about our common heritage. Imagine if I had found Margaret five years hence? Then, perhaps, I would have good cause to feel sorry – for both of us. I had to put it into perspective. Finding Margaret had been totally positive. A gift in my life. Nothing, not even this tragic development, could spoil it now.

The Christmas I spent in Canada in 2006 was my first in a cold climate, and it was tremendous fun. We cut a perfect tree from the local Christmas-tree farm, and decorated it with great care. More than twelve of Ken's relatives were invited for dinner, and everything was organised down to the last bonbon. In Australia, the Christmas feast is traditionally served at lunch, but here in Canada it was an early evening meal of roast turkey with all the trimmings. It was icy cold outside, not snowing, but hovering below zero. There were fires in the two living rooms and the house – like all houses in Canada – is centrally heated and therefore comfortable all year round. The meal seemed more appropriate to this climate than to ours at home, where I am usually sweating over a wood stove on Christmas day with temperatures well over the 30-degree mark.

It was more than eighteen months since Margaret's original diagnosis, and even though I had seen her since, when she and Ken had come to Australia for a couple of months to reconnect with brothers Jon and Dan, I was shocked by her deterioration. My sister could put on a show of being totally with it, but in reality she had trouble managing even the most simple tasks, and putting names to faces was almost impossible
for her. She was able to help me prepare vegetables for dinner, and she could still do the washing up efficiently, but using the stove and coordinating a meal was completely beyond her. She had lost quite a bit of weight and I had trouble convincing her to eat – for breakfast all she would consider was a single kiwifruit and a cup of green tea. Her lack of appetite affected her energy levels and made her appear delicate.

The most distressing aspect was that she appeared totally lost and confused a lot of the time. She was restless, unable to remain seated for more than a few moments, and spent a lot of time gazing out of the windows or standing in front of the wall calendar in the kitchen trying to work out what day of the week it was. Ken used the calendar as a way of keeping her in touch with appointments and engagements, and she would stare at it constantly, pointing to each day and asking about entries that had been written in. Every half-hour she would return to the calendar as though she was using it to cling desperately to keep a grip on the real world. Margaret's short-term memory had faded to such an extent that if she answered the phone and took a message for Ken, she would forget who had called within two seconds of hanging up. As this failure made her very anxious I put a pen and paper next to the phone, and made sure it remained there; that way she could write the message down as it was being given to her. She also became obsessed with the family's cats, Boris and Sheba, and followed their movements in and out of the house very closely. They enjoyed this attention, because she kept feeding them – filling their bowls ten or fifteen times a day because she simply couldn't remember that she had already done so.

My sister had also taken to hiding things and moving objects from one place to another. She was someone who had always been busy, on the go. Now she couldn't think of any constructive way of filling her time so instead she relentlessly picked up any item that was left lying around and put it somewhere else. The cups from afternoon tea were put in the oven, slippers left lying in the family room were put in a drawer, and mail collected from the letterbox turned up in the freezer.
Ken had to hide things that he really needed, such as car and house keys and incoming bills. It was all very frustrating.

However, Margaret loved accompanying me on long walks, and these provided a great opportunity for us to talk about the past and discuss the different and yet similar paths that our separate lives had taken. Her memory of many of the events of her childhood had disappeared, but she retained the ability to laugh at some of the grim stories she shared with me. Her sense of humour remained intact.

I planned to leave Canada immediately after Christmas to spend three weeks in France before returning home to start work on
The Catch-Up
. Two days before I left Canada, Ken became quite ill. He was dizzy and short of breath, and appeared exhausted. I was not surprised. Caring for Margaret was more than a full-time job and it was beginning to take its toll. I started to panic about leaving them. How would he cope if he wasn't well himself? How would he manage meals, and getting Margaret into the shower, and having to do all the shopping and day-to-day organising without help?

Frantic, I rang a close family member and expressed my concerns. He rallied immediately, and within hours a homecare agency had been contacted. Although Ken had previously resisted the idea of outside help, it now became imperative. By the time I departed a roster of carers had been drawn up and Ken admitted for the first time that he simply could no longer manage the situation alone.

I left for France with a heavy heart. It was bitterly cold in Vancouver when I boarded the plane there, and freezing in Paris when I arrived half a day later. January is not an ideal month to visit Frayssinet because my small village house lacks central heating; however, the walls are very thick and I have installed a new wood stove which makes conditions comfortable even in the depths of winter. I burn large oak logs bought from a neighbouring farmer, and while they don't last as long or burn as hot as Australian hardwood they keep the house cosy overnight. I have also hung heavy, well-lined curtains, which help to muffle
draughts from the ancient windows that no longer fit snugly. Over time the stone front wall has dropped in places, and the windows and doors are out of kilter. It would take major renovation and great expense to repair or replace them. In any event I love the look of the old frames and the original glass that has a distinctive watery appearance.

Apart from my emotional desire to spend time in France, the practical reason for this visit was to carry out the stills photography for the French chapter of
The Long Table
, a cookbook I was contracted to write. If the television show indeed went ahead and was a success, I didn't know when and how I would get away to complete this vital part of the project. I wanted shots taken of the markets and the local region, of my friends and neighbours, and of my kitchen, to illustrate my story of learning the French way of shopping and cooking. I had arranged for my talented French photographer friend, Nadja, who lives in Normandy, to come down for a week so we could collaborate on the pictures.

But despite the fact I had a genuine reason to go to France, David was not thrilled at my decision to run away yet again, especially when I was facing a critically busy year in which work would often keep us apart. My visits to Frayssinet continue to be a huge source of conflict between us. I am torn by my need to spend time in my little house and by the knowledge that David is unhappy whenever I am staying there. It represents a period in my life that, although often difficult and sad, made a great impression on me. It's as though that dash for freedom from my marriage and responsibilities has taught me a lot about myself; every time I go back I reconnect with France, yet the fact that I am so far from home and living in a foreign culture also reminds me that my priorities ultimately lie with my family in Australia.

I also know that the house in Frayssinet is a refuge, a retreat from the hectic pace and expectations of my normal life. I can close the doors and shutters and be alone, or swing them open and have a party. I love driving my beat-up old Peugeot, zipping along the winding lanes,
through the woods and villages, and I love the sense of independence I feel living there. Being in France always recharges my batteries, and after my visit to Canada I believed it would put me in a good frame of mind for the work that lay ahead during 2007. I decided to put the TV show out of my head completely, remembering what had happened last time I left Australia expecting to return to a relatively well-paid job. In a sense, when I am living in the village it's as though I have completely escaped from my real life into another world; a fantasy world.

My initial trip to France back in 2000 was like falling in love for the first time. I saw the entire experience through rose-coloured glasses, just as one looks at a lover and sees nothing but beauty and goodness. My perspective has greatly modified these last few years, not just because of the everyday changes among the people I am close to when I am staying in my little house, but also because of essential changes within myself. I am just not the same woman who ran away from home at fifty. I used to fantasise about moving there permanently, and only the thought of abandoning my grandchildren made the idea impossible; I would miss them too much. Now I can see that I would probably go crazy if I lived in France all year round, because of the language barrier and the social difference among the expat community.

Making friends has never been a problem for me, but with hindsight I realise that I would have been wiser to include more non-English-speaking French people in my social circle. I hadn't studied French at school, so it was natural for me to gravitate towards English speakers, but it was also rather lazy. I feel very timid about speaking bad French when, in fact, speaking lots of bad French and struggling to understand and to be understood would have forced me to grasp the language with confidence. I have discovered that when I have to buy a train ticket or transact some business at the post office I can muddle along in French quite well. Gradually my ear has adjusted so that I can follow French conversations if they are not spoken too rapidly. But once I'm socialising in the company of bilingual friends I become self-conscious
and tongue-tied, and resist speaking French for fear of making a total fool of myself. This has seriously limited my ability to get to know the locals better.

There are many native English speakers living permanently in France who simply don't bother learning the language, beyond basic words and phrases which enable them to get by in restaurants and at the market. This effectively disconnects them from the local community, because they can't interact socially. Dinner parties become purely English-speaking affairs, and they cling to each other rather than trying to assimilate. This is not the way I want to experience France. It's frustrating not being able to crack a joke, or to join some of the lively debates on politics which are a feature of conversation at any French dinner table.

After my first six-month stay in France, living in a room behind a shop in a medieval village, my return visits have been shorter, usually six to eight weeks at most. Every time I get to the point of beginning to feel I am making some progress in communicating, I pack up and return to Australia, where most of my newly acquired language skills are quickly forgotten. Work, family and farm take priority. I am also not very disciplined when it comes to studying. I get fits of enthusiasm then it all falls by the wayside. I realise that unless I experience ‘full French immersion' by living with a totally non-English-speaking family for three months at least then I will never become ‘almost French'.

I have also discovered that life in small communities has its social ups and downs, especially among the expat community, and my village is no exception. Among the small number of hamlets which surround it are a wide variety of people from vastly different backgrounds, and there have been rivalries and jealousies, mental illness, nervous breakdowns, alcoholic collapses, horrific car accidents, deaths from cancer and heart attacks, stand-up fights, affairs, marriage break-ups and plenty of acrimony. The population is ageing – both the French and the expats – and this has brought problems too; health and financial problems
mainly. I was oblivious to all of this during my first visits to France, but it has become increasingly obvious, and keeping clear of it has proven extremely difficult. As a part-time resident I drift in and out and that makes it tricky to keep up with the local politics. If there has been a falling out – and these seem to happen quite a lot – I'm usually unaware and, quite frankly, I don't really want to get involved. I just wish they'd all get over it and get along together.

Since I first bought my house nearly eight years ago, two more cottages in the village have been bought by Australians aspiring to live there part of each year. They are just around the corner from me. I know and like them – they are friends of my old mate Jock – yet curiously we have rarely been ‘in residence' at the same time. There have been plenty of Kangaroo Valley jokes of course, and the locals now call the main street Rue de Billabong because it backs onto a bubbling stream. However the Australian influx is nothing compared with the English invasion. New houses – not very attractive new houses – are being built on the outskirts of the village, and they appear to be predominantly for Britons looking to make their home in the region. Because of its distance from the Channel, the Lot was relatively free from tourism and immigration for many years. Slowly and steadily, however, the population has been changing, and this has to some extent changed the character of the villages.

Those English who do speak French fluently have a pretty fair idea of the local reaction because there are mumblings in the bar and an undercurrent, among the older population, about
les Anglaises
. On the surface the local businesspeople appear delighted with the relatively affluent new population because without that cash flow their shops and restaurants would undoubtedly have difficulty surviving.