These days my cousins are the ones running the farm. Once a year we still wait for our crate of apples to arrive. Even after all of this time, Granny Smiths are my mother’s favourite, and when they arrive, she cooks up a storm of apple pies. It is the most I ever saw her in the kitchen.
My mother had always been and still was a bit out there. Artists have a way of being out there. It wasn’t what I wished for. She wore caftans, cheesecloth, masses of bracelets, and was spoken about. As both an artist and a singer, along with her pug dog Piggy, she cut a well-known figure in our area. She used to say that if it was good enough for Marie Antoinette and Empress Josephine to have a pug, then it was good enough for her.
Although I knew I was loved and there was plenty of laughter, the thing was, I always felt like the grownup. My parents were the kids. Even now, I sometimes feel as if I’m raising them.
I remember at five being so frustrated by my parents, I yelled at them, ‘You’re not the parents I want, and I’m going to get myself adopted.’ Charming you might say, although, it was exactly how I felt.
To this day, I still remember the shocked look on their faces. As elegant as ever, Bea put her lacquered scarlet fingertips to her equally red glossed lips, drew deeply on her cigarette, turned her head on a slight angle, blew a plume of smoke in the air, and then in a calm voice spoke.
‘Daaar-ling,’ she said, dragging the word out. ‘We’re terribly sorry that we’re not the parents you wanted, but we do love you.’ Although her gaze held mine, I still noticed her trembling hands, giving away that she was not as confident as her voice sounded.
That particular phrase of my mother’s became her favourite catchcry whenever she found me all too difficult to deal with.
I had stood there, arms folded across my chest, tears rivering down my cheeks. Dad opened his arms, and even though I wanted to stay angry, I fell into them.
I can’t remember a time when my dad, Johnny Lynch, hadn’t been there for me. Although I called him Johnny, one day that changed.
Lou was almost four, and I was six. It was the first time I had ever heard my mother and Johnny argue. It had gone on for a couple of days. And then one morning my mother came into my bedroom. For a few moments she stood at my window gazing out. Her eyes were puffy and red rimmed, an unusual sight for my vibrant mother. As she inhaled on her cigarette, there was the tell-tale nervous sign of her fingers trembling. I have never to this day seen anyone who looks as sophisticated as my mother did smoking. Taking one last drag, she threw the butt out of the window and exhaled slowly through those beautiful scarlet lips.
Without looking directly at me, she perched herself on the side of my bed, crossed her elegant legs, and explained in a voice, throaty with cigarette smoke, that later that day there was to be a visitor. That was nothing new, our house seemed to be constantly filled with people coming and going.
However, my mother went on to explain that it was my papa who was coming to see me, all the way from France. I couldn’t actually take it in. How could I have two dads? I was very quiet and wished to be left alone to deal with this bit of information. Minutes went by before there was a tap on the door and Johnny crept into my room. Kneeling beside my bed, he took my hands in his. Playing with my fingers, he looked at me and explained that he knew that this was difficult for me to understand, however I mustn’t worry as no matter what, he would always be my dad, and then he hugged me tight, kissing the top of my head.
I was scared you see. What if this man who was meant to be my father tried to take me back to France with him? I explained my fear to Johnny, and he told me that even though Alexandre was my father, he, Johnny, was my dad and he would never let that happen unless I wanted to go. I asked him if he was sure, and he said abso-bloody-lutley! I knew then he was certain. It was a favourite terminology of his. For many years I thought I might find it in the dictionary. From that moment on though, I never called Johnny anything else but Dad.
For the next few hours you could have cut the air with a knife, the tension palpable between my mother and Johnny, as they waited for the visit from my papa. When the car pulled up, my mother looked through the venetian blinds, ran her hands over her long colourful caftan, checked her lipstick one last time, and the headed out to welcome him. Lou and I were told to wait inside. With a face that looked like thunder, Johnny headed out the back to the garage.
Lou and I threw ourselves onto the aqua faux leather cushions on the cane lounge, and cautiously peered through the venetian blinds. We watched as our mother, who did indeed look beautiful with a colourful scarf tied around her head, and huge gold hoops through her ears, elegantly made her way to the man who climbed out of the taxi. They embraced. To me, it appeared that they embraced far longer than was probably necessary. I remember seeing him kiss my mother on both cheeks.
Beside me, Lou, in a small voice, asked who he was meant to be again. Swallowing, I told her it was my papa. The look on her face told me that she had no idea what a papa was, so I explained it was a father. For a minute she was quiet while we continued watching as our mother laughed, perhaps a little too loudly, and ran her hands over her headscarf smoothing it at the back. She kept tilting her head to the side and using her eyes in a way that I didn’t understand at the time.
Lou’s next words were how come I had two fathers. Nervously, I shrugged. I had once asked my mother why she and I shared the same surname Avanel, but Lou and Johnny were both Lynch. She simply told me that sometimes that’s how it worked in families and it was not a big deal. I guess at that age, that’s all I needed to know. It did become more of a big deal as I grew older and it became more obvious. After all, Lou was long limbed like Johnny and blonde like our mother. I, on the other hand, was always one of the shortest in the class and a honey chestnut. Some people call it non-descript… I like to call it honey chestnut. And, as I reached puberty I had generous breasts and curvy hips. Some things have never changed.
After that first visit from Papa, my mother often commented that I was very much like his mother Helena. Generally she said that after we’d had a row. I never did get to meet my paternal grandmother.
Eventually my mother bought my father inside to meet me. Lou and I scrambled off the lounge and even though we were much the same height, Lou stood slightly behind me, slipping her hand into mine. I squeezed it tightly. It didn’t matter how tall she was, she was still my little sister.
There was a part of me that registered my mother was actually trying to impress this man. That’s what totally pissed Johnny off. Even at six, I could see that.
Papa wasn’t nearly as tall as Johnny, and spoke with a heavy accent. However, the thing that shocked me most was that he was so much older than my mother and Johnny. Twenty years to be precise. In hindsight, I do realise that he was terribly charming, and if you thought Johnny was somewhat stylish, then he had nothing on this man. But back then, I thought him just different. And kids don’t like different. Kneeling in front of me, he took me by my arms and kissed both of my cheeks. Quietly he said my name, Peach, but it sounded like Pesch.
It pleased me that he spoke to Lou as well, although she stayed pretty much behind me most of the time. Although, at one stage she became bored and sat upside down on a cane saucer-chair, swinging herself around and around until she fell off, knocking her head on the timber coffee table and creating a ruckus. That was Lou for you, always the centre of attention.
Alerted by her cries, Johnny eventually came back inside and leant against the door frame, arms folded across his chest, his body language speaking volumes. Lou clutched at one of his legs. Johnny simply nodded as Papa walked towards him and extended his hand. For a minute, it didn’t look as if Johnny was going to reciprocate. Without changing the look on his face, slowly he looked Alexandre up and down, before he put his hand out. It was clear to me that he, for one, was not interested in being charmed.
Plans were made for Papa to take me to lunch the next day, and something I was most grateful for was that he asked Lou if she wished to come as well. However Lou, still with a tear stained face, and busy doing that double-hump-sniff, shook her head no. With my