hand-sewn beach outfits, cats-eye sunglasses and a broad-brimmed sunhat. She was tanned and relaxed; barefoot on the beach in one shot, in another holding a crayfish on the end of a spear. There is no wedding ring on her finger. One snap shows her sitting in a deck chair on the sand, wearing a strappy white dress, holding a middy of beer. A man is standing behind her with a schooner; both are smiling widely.
âShe had such poise,â Lorraine said.
âWhoâs that man?â I asked.
âBill Bishop. I think that was his name. Joan seemed to know him. In fact, I got the impression sheâd been to the island before. That they already knew each other. Iâm not sure. I didnât ask. Joan was always very discreet,â said Lorraine. âWe knew she was married and separated but we didnât ask questions.â
My mother was more than discreet; she was secretive to the point of impenetrable. Sheâd never spoken a word of her separation from my father so soon after their marriage, although this new information illuminated Stowâs comment on how Joan had met Alex âagainâ on a park bench. In those days it would have been absolutely scandalous to be a young married woman recently separated from her husband. She could have been made to feel ashamed and embarrassed. But here she was having tropical holidays in Queensland, clearly enjoying her freedom, apparently with a cheerful-looking bloke called Bill who took her to the local bar and bought her beers. An independent woman who had worked and holidayed, had friends and lovers, gone boating and picnicking and spearfishing and drinking; a liberated feminist long before it was fashionable.
Only then, in Lorraineâs lounge room, did I recall that in 1976 my mother had sent me to Heron Island for a holiday. At sixteen I was possibly the most atrocious teenager in the Sutherland Shire, so it was as much a holiday for her as it was for me. My brother and I had never been anywhere so exotic. Except for two visits to Perth, our holidays had almost always been on the Hawkesbury River. But Heron Island, even then, wasnât the rustic deserted isle that it had been in 1950. As an earnest, poetry-writing adolescent, I spent the entire week recording the spiritual emptiness of the Australian middle-class. Although I enjoyed the snorkelling, a sport my father had introduced me to in the waters around Cronulla, I couldnât delight in the island as my mother had. A spoilt Sydney teenager, I failed to find the beauty in the place. My mother must have been so disappointed.
But if only she had told me the story of her own voyage there, of her disillusion with marriage, of her time as a free woman, Heron Island might have had some meaning for me. I might have sought out her crayfishing spot or lingered under the pandanus tree where she and Bill had shared a beer.
It wasnât until forty-five years later, over Lorraineâs coffee table in Victoria, that I could begin to understand.
*
On the plane back to Sydney I gazed at the photos that Lorraine had given me, of Joan as a young carefree blonde on the beach. Iâd always believed that my mother had done the completely conventional thing by marrying in her early twenties and staying with the same man until they separated in 1969 after which she remained celibate until her death. When Iâd had troubles with my own marriages I kept asking myself: If my mother could do it, why canât I? Now I thought over Stowâs correspondence with his family, remembering his letter to his mother in 1952:
Talking of ballet, I had a letter from Joan on Wednesday and she has been to Sadlerâs Wells, and lots of beaut plays. She had a front seat for the Kingâs funeral â right on the kerbstone, in Piccadilly, but she had to wait five hours for the procession. She says she hated England at first but likes it now. Sheâs working at Eton as a nurse in the sanatorium. She sent
âShe had such poise,â Lorraine said.
âWhoâs that man?â I asked.
âBill Bishop. I think that was his name. Joan seemed to know him. In fact, I got the impression sheâd been to the island before. That they already knew each other. Iâm not sure. I didnât ask. Joan was always very discreet,â said Lorraine. âWe knew she was married and separated but we didnât ask questions.â
My mother was more than discreet; she was secretive to the point of impenetrable. Sheâd never spoken a word of her separation from my father so soon after their marriage, although this new information illuminated Stowâs comment on how Joan had met Alex âagainâ on a park bench. In those days it would have been absolutely scandalous to be a young married woman recently separated from her husband. She could have been made to feel ashamed and embarrassed. But here she was having tropical holidays in Queensland, clearly enjoying her freedom, apparently with a cheerful-looking bloke called Bill who took her to the local bar and bought her beers. An independent woman who had worked and holidayed, had friends and lovers, gone boating and picnicking and spearfishing and drinking; a liberated feminist long before it was fashionable.
Only then, in Lorraineâs lounge room, did I recall that in 1976 my mother had sent me to Heron Island for a holiday. At sixteen I was possibly the most atrocious teenager in the Sutherland Shire, so it was as much a holiday for her as it was for me. My brother and I had never been anywhere so exotic. Except for two visits to Perth, our holidays had almost always been on the Hawkesbury River. But Heron Island, even then, wasnât the rustic deserted isle that it had been in 1950. As an earnest, poetry-writing adolescent, I spent the entire week recording the spiritual emptiness of the Australian middle-class. Although I enjoyed the snorkelling, a sport my father had introduced me to in the waters around Cronulla, I couldnât delight in the island as my mother had. A spoilt Sydney teenager, I failed to find the beauty in the place. My mother must have been so disappointed.
But if only she had told me the story of her own voyage there, of her disillusion with marriage, of her time as a free woman, Heron Island might have had some meaning for me. I might have sought out her crayfishing spot or lingered under the pandanus tree where she and Bill had shared a beer.
It wasnât until forty-five years later, over Lorraineâs coffee table in Victoria, that I could begin to understand.
*
On the plane back to Sydney I gazed at the photos that Lorraine had given me, of Joan as a young carefree blonde on the beach. Iâd always believed that my mother had done the completely conventional thing by marrying in her early twenties and staying with the same man until they separated in 1969 after which she remained celibate until her death. When Iâd had troubles with my own marriages I kept asking myself: If my mother could do it, why canât I? Now I thought over Stowâs correspondence with his family, remembering his letter to his mother in 1952:
Talking of ballet, I had a letter from Joan on Wednesday and she has been to Sadlerâs Wells, and lots of beaut plays. She had a front seat for the Kingâs funeral â right on the kerbstone, in Piccadilly, but she had to wait five hours for the procession. She says she hated England at first but likes it now. Sheâs working at Eton as a nurse in the sanatorium. She sent
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