The Country of Our Dreams. Mary O'Connell
was another party, lit also by faerie light, which had brought the Ryan family into her life. Another dark and tree-adorned Sydney street, but that one had been soft and perfumed with summer, and wilder. For there the great Moreton Bay tree roots rose up under old pavements, so that she had scurried like Alice in a heaving unstable landscape. A landscape inhabited mainly by the very rich, whose walls were covered with a riotous fecundity of star jasmine, crimson bougainvillea, fragrant honeysuckle.
Magical night. Parsley Bay, Sydney Harbour. Water and trees – trees old and luscious – humans young and fresh. They had finished their last university exams, and a celebratory party in a Sydney mansion seemed, well, normal. Hilary’s friend Athena Vassilios had paid for her studies by working as a nanny for a filthy rich family in the Eastern Suburbs. The family had offered the use of their home, and garden, for her end of degree party. No-one thought it was particularly kind or generous of them. Partying up in a millionaire’s mansion was just part of the expanding universe they all believed in.
Outside in the street, where the great trees yearned to escape, Hilary had paused to appreciate her own arrival. Like all the stories, like all the paintings – a beautiful young woman in a lovely dress stands before an arched door. The door slightly ajar, her hand reaches out, perhaps a little tentatively, to press it open. Inside you can see glimpses of a walled garden, roses climbing, an earthly Paradise.
So she had stood, Hilary Barton, in Parsley Bay, in Sydney’s privileged East. A child of the South, of the despised Shire, knowing she had made it. And also wondering, have I got the right address?
She had slipped through the arched door and into a soft treed world, behind the trees a large house ablaze with light – enchanted from the very start. Something made her choose not to go straight into the house, where the sounds of Nirvana were beating out. Chose not to enter the world that way, not to be greeted or known or introduced, pinned down, but to move silently around the side to find the gardens.
And found not just sloping lawns and gardens but the sea, the great harbour, a vast glittering mass of water and little faerie boats down beyond the gardens, all lit by a rising yellow moon. It took her breath away. There were other people there already, of course, people were scattered all over the garden. Candles and lights, cunningly placed, lit up their forms, created shadows. But still, at least in her memory, the garden and the sea offered a great sense of solitude and space.
Hilary had gone instinctively towards the water. Somewhere a man was singing a strange song, something between a cry and a chant, in an unknown language. She turned a corner of the rocky garden path and found him there, with his raven black hair, hunched low and protective over his song, sung in a faerie tongue. He had looked up, initially not pleased with the intrusion. But then at the sight of her – the girl in the beautiful dress – Vianney Ryan had smiled.
***
Claudia came to the door, anxious and sharp. ‘Where’s Vianney?’
‘He’s coming.’
Claudia tutted, and swung back into the flat – her fabulous sharp shoulder blades on full display in the thin strapped dark blue dress. Hilary stood on the threshold, feeling tearful. No welcome, no ‘Come in, you look nice.’ Just the attack, as if it was Hilary’s fault that Vianney was a social avoidant. Especially when he was sober.
Breathe in – she told herself. Don’t be a victim.
In the living room, all cream and ocean blue and starry lit, people sat or stood around talking and drinking. Again, that sense of an ad, or a film. Circling the clear spaces, young fresh-looking waiters offered trays of excellent food. Their T-shirts boasted ‘O organics’.
In one corner she saw Lolly and Claudia’s elder daughter Ashe – for many years their only daughter - surrounded by the equally gaunt members of her band. She’d been baptised Aisling but Claudia hadn’t been at ease with the name. She worried about spelling and pronunciation confusions, about her daughter fitting in. So it was Ashe now. Perfect, Siena said, a perfectly self fulfilling prophecy for their ashen faced post-goth.
Hilary couldn’t remember the name of Ashe’s band, but Vianney reckoned they were quite good. Once, when Hilary had asked, Ashe said the band played industrial-romance intensindie music. Hilary had laughed, but surprisingly, Vianney hadn’t. He liked Ashe, which was unusual for a man who mainly felt the young were shallow wasters of internet space. He said that Ashe was due all the respect that every Australian musician and singer deserved in a hostile materialist culture.
Hilary, and Siena, suspected the respect was more due to the fact that Ashe was quite gorgeous in the new frail and wispy girl mode. New? What was new about it!
Hilary found Lolly in the kitchen, as usual. He had a glass of red in one hand and was waving it about as he spoke with two men and one woman. He let her hug him while patting her own, fully covered back, with his one free hand. Even that one hand was warm, comforting. He was kind and courteous, as Lolly always was, and introduced her to the people he had been speaking to, colleagues from his office. Names instantly forgotten. They smiled, the men shook her hand, and then looked back at Lolly expectantly – hoping to resume their conversation.
‘Talking shop, Lolly?’ she asked. He reddened a little, whether at the criticism or the sharing of the family nickname she couldn’t tell. The one woman in the law group came to his rescue. ‘Gossip shop’ said the woman. She had bold red lips. Was her name Amanda? ‘It’s different, much more exciting!’ And she winked at Hilary.
Some of the red had smeared onto the top of Amanda’s glass. Her heels were Jimmy Choo heels. Ridiculously tall on her tiny towers she stood upright amongst the lawyermen, towering over Hilary, and equalling Lolly. Her beads shone out, rainbow colours against the black of her dress, dark red hair swept up above a sleek neck. Queen Bee or Office Lush, Hilary couldn’t quite work out the archetype.
Outside the living room, on the other side of the French doors, the balcony was getting crammed – smoking was making a comeback. Mortgage stress. Rental stress. Sydney was one of the most expensive cities in the world now. Siena, cigarette in hand, had spotted Hilary through the glass and was waving at her to come over. The doors were closed against the cold, and to prevent their smoke coming back into the precious house, no doubt. But it split the party, Hilary thought, as if displaying the smokers for viewing condemnation.
She was making her way to Siena when she ran straight into Kate Ryan. ‘Kate!’ Hilary cried, a tremendous false cry of joyful encounter. Her mother-in-law gave a cool smile. She was holding her younger grandchild’s hand. Sophie was in Princess pyjamas and a fluorescent pink tiara gripped her thin fair hair. She had, it appeared, been crying. ‘Too much for her, I’m afraid,’ said Kate. ‘I’m taking her to bed.’
‘Hello Sophie darling’ Hilary leaned in ‘how are you?’
Sophie stood closer to her grandmother, as if she had never seen Aunty Hilary before. As if Hilary represented stranger danger. As if they had never chortled happily over babyccinos at The Planet. Well, fuck you, Sophie.
‘Want to come with us?’ Kate offered Hilary.
‘No, that’s all right.’ And Hilary moved away before tears could rise, not in Sophie’s eyes but in Aunty Hils.
Ridiculous. It was to do with parties, her insecurities around lawyers, professional people – and Vianney not coming with her. How come Kate had been almost friendly? Maybe even she knew that Vianney and Hilary were on shaky ground. That Vianney was actually seeing a counsellor after all these years. Hopefully to talk about her, the bitch goddess mother.
‘Fuck, its getting cold out here!’ she exclaimed as she slid through the French doors and the night air hit her. People were gathering close to stand underneath the gas heating pillar. At least they had the view of the night bay – the view that added a million dollars to a home.
‘Yes that’s why we are cuddling up!’ An unknown but very agreeable man offered her the shelter of his arms. ‘No thanks,’ she said, but laughing so as not to hurt