The Grass Castle (20 page)

They follow his square shoulders down the corridor, their feet tapping on the wooden floor. Abby notices ornate cornices and arches, a dark antique hall stand, oil paintings in golden frames. Cameron’s father leads them into a lounge room full of heavy furniture. It feels soulless, and Abby wonders at how such a home could produce someone as affable as Cameron.

A woman rises from the cream-coloured couch and moves like royalty to greet them. She is long-faced with dyed brown hair and carefully applied make-up. Her cheeks droop in sombre folds like a spaniel. Abby figures she’s close to sixty.

‘Darling boy,’ the woman says, extending her arms to hug Cameron, a languid smile on her face.

Cameron’s brow furrows. He extracts himself from her embrace and reaches for Abby’s hand, tugs her forward. ‘Mum, this is Abby. Abby, this is my mother, Anna.’

Abby musters a gracious smile and takes the thin white hand that is extended to her. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ she says.

‘And delighted to meet you too, dear.’

Anna Barlow peruses Abby with a sophisticated and judgemental eye. She’s smartly dressed, very boutique, dripping with gold jewellery. Abby feels like a small country hick in her brown leggings and swirly colourful top with too-long sleeves. She shakes the older lady’s hand, wishing she’d worn a more modest top with a higher neckline. Cameron might appreciate a bit of cleavage, but she is suddenly very certain his parents do not.

‘How about a cup of tea?’ Cameron suggests, glancing apologetically at Abby.

‘That would be lovely,’ his mother says. ‘Abby, you sit here and tell me all about yourself while Cameron sorts things out in the kitchen.’

Abby sits as instructed, trying her best to look relaxed. She wishes Cameron was still here to act as a buffer to his mother’s scrutiny, but perhaps she’s being unnecessarily anxious—Anna Barlow has hardly spoken to her yet. ‘There’s really not much to tell,’ she says lightly, giving Anna a bright smile. ‘I’m a country girl from Mansfield—still a student. Part-way through a PhD.’

‘Very creditable,’ Cameron’s mother says, nodding. ‘It’s good for girls to study. Both Henry and I are barristers, as Cameron may have told you. Retired now, I might add. Henry still takes on the odd legal case, but I’m rather preoccupied with my art these days. I paint. It’s nice to express the creative side of oneself, don’t you agree?’

‘I’m afraid I’m not very creative,’ Abby says.

‘Oh, but dear, I don’t agree,’ his mother protests with an amused smile. ‘Look at your clothes. They’re very creative.’

Abby cringes internally, but manages to absorb Anna’s comment without flinching. ‘What sorts of things do you paint?’ she asks.

‘Oh, I’m very abstract and eclectic,’ Anna says. ‘Portraits and still life, occasionally landscapes. I have a studio. Would you like to see it?’

‘Of course.’

The studio is upstairs in a surprisingly light-filled room with abundant windows framing the sky. In the centre of the room stands an easel with a canvas mounted on it. Old bed sheets spattered with paint are strewn across the floor. On one side of the room two enormously fluffy cats lie stretched on a couch.

‘Meet Cassius and Antony,’ Anna says. ‘My glorious couch potatoes. Living their immensely tedious lives of leisure.’

‘They look very comfortable,’ Abby observes.

‘Comfortable but devious,’ Anna declares. ‘Like their Shakespearean counterparts. Their sole aim in life is to do nothing and to do it well. They’ve made me their servant, and I adore it. Are you a cat person, Abby?’

‘More of a dog person,’ Abby admits, thinking of the golden retriever with its joyful smile at home in Canberra.

‘That’s a shame.’ Anna’s nose wrinkles. ‘I’ve always preferred cats. I like their independence.’ She sighs. ‘I never could tolerate dogs—all that blind devotion . . . it just isn’t me.’ She sashays across the studio to a series of canvasses leaning up against the wall. ‘These are a few still-life studies I’ve done this year,’ she says, beckoning. ‘I appreciate lots of colour, don’t you?’ She indicates an impressionistic painting of a bowl of fruit on a blue tablecloth in the style of Monet. Then she pulls out another canvas. ‘This is a portrait of Henry—rather experimental, but I like pushing my boundaries . . . oh, and this was just for fun . . . Cassius and Antony lolling on their couch. Do you like it? I keep intending to give it to Cameron for his flat. Such a nice little apartment, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, it’s very tasteful,’ Abby says, wondering if Cameron’s mother is trying to gauge how intimate this new relationship is. ‘I’ve been spending quite a bit of time there,’ she adds, a little embarrassed.

Something flickers across Anna’s face—perhaps a tinge of sourness, Abby can’t be certain. ‘So do you think he would like this painting?’ Anna asks.

‘I’m not sure,’ Abby says. ‘He mentioned something about a preference for dogs.’

Dinner is a politely restrained affair. They are seated at the Barlows’ large, polished, antique dining table in a room spacious enough for a king. The table is carefully laid out with ornate silver cutlery, diamond-cut crystal glasses, gold-coloured placemats and pressed white napkins. The centrepiece is a large crystal bowl filled with water and floating white candles. Twisted silver candlesticks cast amber light across the table.

It’s all very beautiful, very tasteful and opulent: the looping paisley drapes that adorn the high windows, the glass-fronted showcases along the wall elegantly arranged with special fine-bone china treasures, the solid, imposing buffet, bearing even more candles—Anna is obviously fond of such lighting. But to Abby it seems an intimidating announcement of wealth and status. The room is impressive, but it lacks heart. There is no passion in this house. It is all too perfect and correct. Too staged.

She feels oppressed by the dark heaviness in everything. It weighs on her and reminds her that she is not of their class, never will be, and somehow it separates and degrades her. She knows Cameron wouldn’t want her to feel this way. He has fought free of all this to be his own person. But she understands now the burden of expectation his background has imposed on him.
This is what you must be
—she feels it in the solid white walls, in the massive table, set royally for four when it could seat twenty. She feels it in the proper expressions etched into his parents’ faces as they share their opinions with the easy confidence that comes with significant financial security. She suspects they believe they are better than others, more deserving, more elevated, even though they are too polite and well-bred to say so. It makes Abby feel deficient and uncomfortable, and she doesn’t like feeling that way.

Cameron is definitely not himself around his parents. He’s tense and awkward, trying to conceal his irritation at the conservative right-wing comments his mother and father pitch constantly into the meal. The discussion roves from opera and classical music to private-school education and the entitlement of the
owning class
, as Cam’s parents refer to themselves. Yes, well they certainly
own
things, Abby thinks. Here it is all around her—the evidence of their ownership. They’re proud of it, and Abby supposes they deserve to be. They’ve worked for it like anyone else. But why do they have to bring attention to it in conversation? Abby knows she is not of the same class, and may not have had the same opportunity as these people, but she is equally deserving of existence, she thinks. She forces herself to remain quiet for long periods, smiling blandly, not trusting herself to speak civilly if she opens her mouth.

As the evening progresses, the conversation continues to centre on topics to which Abby is unable to contribute: recent high-profile legal cases in Melbourne, issues of gangland underbelly warfare in the western suburbs of the city, the Barlows’ upcoming trip to Europe to visit architectural highlights and special classical music performances in Vienna. Abby has never been to an opera and, on her student wage, it’s unlikely she’s about to start. And, although she likes classical music, she isn’t up to a detailed comparative discussion of the music of Wagner and Rachmaninov. It seems Cameron’s parents are trying to write her off as uncultured, but she mustn’t let it bother her. All she has to do is survive the evening then her duty is done.

Cameron looks pained whenever he glances her way. He rolls his eyes, but refrains from standing up to them, probably to avoid a confrontation. He’s admirably controlled when they stray once again into current affairs and politics, listening to their remarks with a tight grin on his face. Knowing how vastly his views differ from theirs, Abby is amazed at his restraint. She watches on, astounded, as his parents continue to bounce off each other with the finesse of years of practice. It’s such a polished show, she almost expects them to stand and bow at the end of an act.

The only way to cope, she decides, is by indulging in the fine wine Henry keeps pouring into her glass. The wine softens everything. It blurs the edges of her anger. But as the evening marches on, she feels her self-control slipping. The wine, instead of mellowing her, begins to make her feel fluid and confident.

Across the candlelit table, Cameron regards her with undisguised alarm. He senses her mounting annoyance, and his expression lubricates her sense of injustice. Why should the two of them endure a dinner like this, she thinks? Why should his parents get away with their pompous opinions?

Suddenly Cameron is all over the conversation, in damage control, smoothing and sanding the rough spots that start to emerge as Abby begins to assert herself. At first, she offers only offended grunts and sniffs in response to their comments, then she gains momentum and starts asking them prickly questions.
Do you really believe all Australians have the same opportunities? Even those in underprivileged families, dealing with unemployment and domestic violence?
His parents seem taken aback and disbelieving, and Abby suspects they are unaccustomed to being challenged on their views. In this country, they say, education and chances are available to anyone who wants to work. They appear unconvinced when she points out that it can be difficult to extract yourself from poverty, and that welfare can be a self-perpetuating cycle. They smile tolerantly, and Abby can see they’ve classified her as a young, naïve, left-wing idealist. They shift tack, directing the discussion onto country towns as if attempting to be more inclusive of Abby. But the wine has carried her far beyond her usual capacity for rational assessment, and she feels they are intent on revealing her for an ill-bred imposter. A strange eruptive pressure begins to rise in her chest.

‘So your parents, Abby? Your family?’ Anna says. ‘You’ve told us nothing about them. What do they do for a living? I can’t imagine there are many options in a little town like Mansfield. Where did they do their studies? No universities out that way, are there?’

‘That’s right,’ Abby says. ‘No universities. My father’s an accountant, but he’s also a farmer. He likes his cows. He talks to them.’ She smiles and raises her eyebrows. ‘And my mother hasn’t been too worried about jobs or studies in recent times. She died a decade ago.’ She feels a grim pleasure when Anna recoils.

‘I’m sorry,’ Anna murmurs, glancing nervously at Cameron. ‘What was it? Cancer?’

Now it’s Abby’s turn to recoil. What right does this woman have to ask about her mother? ‘Yes, cancer,’ she says. ‘But I don’t want to talk about it. Death’s a private thing.’

Anna mumbles another inane apology, while Henry leaps up to open another bottle of wine.