that the isolation hadn’t bothered her at all. She told me that she hadn’t minded in the least being marooned out here in the middle of nowhere.’
Kate had the sudden feeling that her mother was referring more to herself than she was to Grandmother Ellie. Did
Hilda
feel marooned out here in the middle of nowhere? When she was first married she may well have done, Kate thought, for isolation would have remained very much a governing factor in the forties. Was that why she drank?
Hilda snapped out of her pensive mood. ‘The women were so terribly alone in those early days,’ she said, and once again she was on the move, gliding off towards the dining room.
Kate followed in silence.
‘It’s different for you modern young things,’ she continued with an airy wave of her hand. ‘You have your independence with the roads as they are and your very own cars.’
Kate didn’t state the obvious. Her mother was only forty-four. She could learn to drive if she wished. Independence was hers for the asking. But Hilda Durham refused any form of driving tuition. She was accustomed to being chauffeured and preferred things that way, even though it made her reliant upon others.
They wandered around the house for a further fifteen minutes, Hilda chatty and animated, refusing to give in to another maudlin bout.
‘Well I suppose that’s it,’ she said finally. ‘I do believe we’ve successfully farewelled the past, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Yes, I would.’
They walked down the front stairs to the car.
‘There’s a trunk load of Grandmother Ellie’s old books under the house,’ Hilda said. ‘They’ll need to be cleared out of course and donated to some charity or other. Would you like to look through them before I have Max take them into town?’
‘Yes, I would.’
‘Half of them are in French, so you’re the only one who’d be able to understand them anyway,’ she said with a light laugh. At school Kate’s language of choice had been French, and like the rest of her subjects her matriculation results had been excellent. ‘Goodness knows what we’ll do with that particular lot,’ Hilda added as she climbed into the passenger seat, ‘I suppose Max will simply have to find a French charity.’
‘I’ll come back tomorrow and go through them.’ Kate started up the engine. ‘There might well be some I’d like to keep, particularly among the French editions.’
As they drove off, Hilda gazed back at the old house. ‘Yes,’ she said her mood again pensive and her voice distant, ‘I remember Grandmother Ellie loved her books. They were very precious to her. She was always reading. Perhaps it was her form of escape.’
Once again, Kate sensed that her mother wasn’t really talking about Grandmother Ellie.
The following morning, rather than walking as she would normally have done without the need to chauffeur her mother, Kate drove to the old house once again. It would save her carrying home any of the books she might choose to keep, and they could simply stay in the boot of the car ready for the following day when she would set off on her drive to Sydney.
She discovered the trunk sitting in a protected corner in the storage area beneath the house, surrounded by a number of empty packing cases. It was not locked and she opened it without any difficulty.
She’d expected that after twelve years, damp might have set in and that the books might be mouldy, but they certainly were not. The trunk was airtight and the books had been packed with great care, wads of folded tissue paper resting between each layer as if protecting items of the most delicate crystal. Kate found the degree of care taken touching. Following Ellie’s death, the trunk would have been packed upon Big Jim’s orders, he could possibly even have packed it himself, although that was doubtful, she thought, for he’d been over ninety when Ellie had died. But either way, the intention was obvious. Big Jim had wished to preserve his
Kate had the sudden feeling that her mother was referring more to herself than she was to Grandmother Ellie. Did
Hilda
feel marooned out here in the middle of nowhere? When she was first married she may well have done, Kate thought, for isolation would have remained very much a governing factor in the forties. Was that why she drank?
Hilda snapped out of her pensive mood. ‘The women were so terribly alone in those early days,’ she said, and once again she was on the move, gliding off towards the dining room.
Kate followed in silence.
‘It’s different for you modern young things,’ she continued with an airy wave of her hand. ‘You have your independence with the roads as they are and your very own cars.’
Kate didn’t state the obvious. Her mother was only forty-four. She could learn to drive if she wished. Independence was hers for the asking. But Hilda Durham refused any form of driving tuition. She was accustomed to being chauffeured and preferred things that way, even though it made her reliant upon others.
They wandered around the house for a further fifteen minutes, Hilda chatty and animated, refusing to give in to another maudlin bout.
‘Well I suppose that’s it,’ she said finally. ‘I do believe we’ve successfully farewelled the past, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Yes, I would.’
They walked down the front stairs to the car.
‘There’s a trunk load of Grandmother Ellie’s old books under the house,’ Hilda said. ‘They’ll need to be cleared out of course and donated to some charity or other. Would you like to look through them before I have Max take them into town?’
‘Yes, I would.’
‘Half of them are in French, so you’re the only one who’d be able to understand them anyway,’ she said with a light laugh. At school Kate’s language of choice had been French, and like the rest of her subjects her matriculation results had been excellent. ‘Goodness knows what we’ll do with that particular lot,’ Hilda added as she climbed into the passenger seat, ‘I suppose Max will simply have to find a French charity.’
‘I’ll come back tomorrow and go through them.’ Kate started up the engine. ‘There might well be some I’d like to keep, particularly among the French editions.’
As they drove off, Hilda gazed back at the old house. ‘Yes,’ she said her mood again pensive and her voice distant, ‘I remember Grandmother Ellie loved her books. They were very precious to her. She was always reading. Perhaps it was her form of escape.’
Once again, Kate sensed that her mother wasn’t really talking about Grandmother Ellie.
The following morning, rather than walking as she would normally have done without the need to chauffeur her mother, Kate drove to the old house once again. It would save her carrying home any of the books she might choose to keep, and they could simply stay in the boot of the car ready for the following day when she would set off on her drive to Sydney.
She discovered the trunk sitting in a protected corner in the storage area beneath the house, surrounded by a number of empty packing cases. It was not locked and she opened it without any difficulty.
She’d expected that after twelve years, damp might have set in and that the books might be mouldy, but they certainly were not. The trunk was airtight and the books had been packed with great care, wads of folded tissue paper resting between each layer as if protecting items of the most delicate crystal. Kate found the degree of care taken touching. Following Ellie’s death, the trunk would have been packed upon Big Jim’s orders, he could possibly even have packed it himself, although that was doubtful, she thought, for he’d been over ninety when Ellie had died. But either way, the intention was obvious. Big Jim had wished to preserve his
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