recognisable stranger.
She breaks the awkward silence between them. ‘Julian – sorry I kept you waiting for such an age – sorry I was so slow to respond to your emails.’
‘Christine, it’s been a long time. I’ve been away from home too long.’
‘Indeed – you have.’
‘It’s still early. Do we have time for a coffee before dinner?’
‘The restaurant’s booked for seven.’
‘Would you prefer a walk in the park?’
‘That sounds refreshing and a change from living fast, light and from suitcases.’
The park is almost abandoned. The breeze plays in trees and light rain begins to fall. They climb up the narrow steps of a gazebo that offers a view of the inner western suburbs’ patchwork of rooftops, gardens, tramlines set into the city’s grid-like pattern.
‘What’s Richard up to?’
‘Where do you want me to start?’
‘At the beginning – fill in the gaps left from greeting cards and emails.’
Sanitised impressions of how things really are – that at best are hollow sketches.
‘Do you really want to know the truth?’
He nods.
‘He threw me out. He said,
stay out of my life.
’
‘Surely these were words said in anger and he will regret them later.’
She shakes her head.
‘Then this isn’t a disagreement that will eventually blow over? When did it happen?’
‘Life with Richard has been filled with explosive moments, silent rages, lies and threats, all disguised under the pretence of living an enviable existence.’
‘I didn’t know you had a tempestuous, darker side to your nature.’
She summarises the whole horrible saga she endured from the early days of her marriage.
Julian shakes his head, although little of her account surprises him.
‘I’m sorry Christine. I – don’t know what to say.’
‘You’re about the hundredth person who’s said that.’
He shrugs.
Better keep my mouth shut before I say something really tacky.
‘You’ve been away for a long time. Is your work on the Antipodes project the only reason you’ve returned to Australia?’
She wonders if something more dramatic has brought her brother back to Melbourne and ‘home’ as he put it. There must be some story behind his pale appearance and fragility. This can’t be explained away by age alone. She suspects the scar is not a result of some thrill-seeking adventure.
Julian looks down at the decking. Christine notes his shoes are black, highly polished and expensive. This strikes her as different from the sporty shoes she recalls he used to wear.
His attention is absorbed by a trail of ants marching through a sticky mess left on the gazebo floor. They are loaded up with crumbs twice their size. He points to the trail moving away from where they are standing.
He says, ‘That’s how I feel.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like an industrious creature, small and insignificant. I could be squashed out of existence and no one would know.’
‘Why do you say that?’
He pauses, looks into her face and says, ‘Do you really want to know?’
She nods.
‘You’ve heard about the riots in the UK – racial gangs and their warfare spilling into the streets?’
‘I hear the occasional snippet on international news, fires and damaged property, injuries, no deaths.’
He takes in deep breaths as he arranges the details of how things happened. ‘I became caught up in street fighting between racial gangs.’
‘I thought you were an international correspondent?’
‘I still am. Over the past ten years I had been working on and off for the British Embassy in Egypt alongside a number of refugee programs for Muslim, Somali and Sudanese people. More recently I have worked with refugee groups who have migrated to the UK. I interview these people, track and oversee their integration and try to assist them to adapt to their new home and environment.’
He describes how he became trapped between tribal gangs armed with nail guns, batons, knives and hand-held explosives.
Although he wasn’t a
She breaks the awkward silence between them. ‘Julian – sorry I kept you waiting for such an age – sorry I was so slow to respond to your emails.’
‘Christine, it’s been a long time. I’ve been away from home too long.’
‘Indeed – you have.’
‘It’s still early. Do we have time for a coffee before dinner?’
‘The restaurant’s booked for seven.’
‘Would you prefer a walk in the park?’
‘That sounds refreshing and a change from living fast, light and from suitcases.’
The park is almost abandoned. The breeze plays in trees and light rain begins to fall. They climb up the narrow steps of a gazebo that offers a view of the inner western suburbs’ patchwork of rooftops, gardens, tramlines set into the city’s grid-like pattern.
‘What’s Richard up to?’
‘Where do you want me to start?’
‘At the beginning – fill in the gaps left from greeting cards and emails.’
Sanitised impressions of how things really are – that at best are hollow sketches.
‘Do you really want to know the truth?’
He nods.
‘He threw me out. He said,
stay out of my life.
’
‘Surely these were words said in anger and he will regret them later.’
She shakes her head.
‘Then this isn’t a disagreement that will eventually blow over? When did it happen?’
‘Life with Richard has been filled with explosive moments, silent rages, lies and threats, all disguised under the pretence of living an enviable existence.’
‘I didn’t know you had a tempestuous, darker side to your nature.’
She summarises the whole horrible saga she endured from the early days of her marriage.
Julian shakes his head, although little of her account surprises him.
‘I’m sorry Christine. I – don’t know what to say.’
‘You’re about the hundredth person who’s said that.’
He shrugs.
Better keep my mouth shut before I say something really tacky.
‘You’ve been away for a long time. Is your work on the Antipodes project the only reason you’ve returned to Australia?’
She wonders if something more dramatic has brought her brother back to Melbourne and ‘home’ as he put it. There must be some story behind his pale appearance and fragility. This can’t be explained away by age alone. She suspects the scar is not a result of some thrill-seeking adventure.
Julian looks down at the decking. Christine notes his shoes are black, highly polished and expensive. This strikes her as different from the sporty shoes she recalls he used to wear.
His attention is absorbed by a trail of ants marching through a sticky mess left on the gazebo floor. They are loaded up with crumbs twice their size. He points to the trail moving away from where they are standing.
He says, ‘That’s how I feel.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like an industrious creature, small and insignificant. I could be squashed out of existence and no one would know.’
‘Why do you say that?’
He pauses, looks into her face and says, ‘Do you really want to know?’
She nods.
‘You’ve heard about the riots in the UK – racial gangs and their warfare spilling into the streets?’
‘I hear the occasional snippet on international news, fires and damaged property, injuries, no deaths.’
He takes in deep breaths as he arranges the details of how things happened. ‘I became caught up in street fighting between racial gangs.’
‘I thought you were an international correspondent?’
‘I still am. Over the past ten years I had been working on and off for the British Embassy in Egypt alongside a number of refugee programs for Muslim, Somali and Sudanese people. More recently I have worked with refugee groups who have migrated to the UK. I interview these people, track and oversee their integration and try to assist them to adapt to their new home and environment.’
He describes how he became trapped between tribal gangs armed with nail guns, batons, knives and hand-held explosives.
Although he wasn’t a
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