Leaving
‘Say goodbye to Alexandra leaving
Then say goodbye to Alexandra lost’
The other stormy night, listening to the rain that seemed to have forgotten us, I thought of Leonard Cohen, of rain, and I thought of Susan Duncan, a dearly loved friend who died a few months back. I only just found out. What was I doing? Hospitals and moving. The last time I saw her was at the Sydney writer’s festival and she quite seriously looked down and asked me if I was wearing mascara. I laughed and lied and said ‘of course’. ‘You’re on stage and you’re selling your book!’ She didn’t laugh. She said, come with me and she fixed me up in the bathroom and I ended up wearing mascara.
Susan lived in a magic place called Lovett’s Bay on Pittwater just outside of Sydney where the sea swells were low, and the houses hold the land with strong hands. The only access is by boat, and Susan was a snappy captain. ‘Off you get, come on now.’ I took all my children to visit her, and they remember her. They ran and rolled around on the tender green grass. Chris was her honorary god son, (we never did the religion thing, it didn’t seem relevant). She loved children with tenderness. That day she served tomahawk steaks and a huge chiffon cake. I spoke to an architect for an hour who lived behind her and who rolled up his walls every morning to let the weather in! She collected special people who liked each other because she was a brilliant host. Next door was Dorothea Mackellar’s house and with Bob Storey, her second husband, she lived there in the end. She showed me through it: such a house with a veranda made for the writing of poems.
We sent each other drafts of our books. I loved hers and I wonder if she loved mine. When she died, a flotilla of boats saw her back to the pier. And now I’m crying buckets of tears at the thought of it.
Loving someone is not a straight line and it moves in time like a cosmic whiplash. I loved her like a mother and yet she was only three years older than me. She was more like the big sister I never had and would have loved. She was puzzled by me and my writing. Never afraid to re-write or to praise. Always encouraging, I remember her when we all were going out for dinner one night. She wore a beautiful black dress, her hair a gold mane, she held a golden glass of champagne in her hand and my golden retriever was at her feet. I still think of her as golden. There were four writers working at the Australian Women’s Weekly then and she was the editor. Now two have died. She gave me a job when I’d been out of the game for years and she changed me for something stronger, someone who believed in herself. That was her secret power, she was a giver. She wanted people to do well. She loved beautiful things, and she cooked like an angel.
When mum was dying, I rang her, about how hard it was. She had a brother and a husband who’d died of cancer within days of each other, and it seemed she had beaten cancer, so I thought she was an expert but there are no experts in that department. Mum was restless, she wanted something, probably privacy, she hated being watched, I can’t even remember, but Susan said ‘The thing you’re forgetting is it’s her death not yours. You’re just there standing by for her.’ And then she listened to me crying about mum for some time.
Tonight, the wind is indecisive, like waves in tides, but death is not indecisive. This old Melbourne house shakes and clicks as if it’s been too long to face such weather again. Rain sleets in and it’s roaring with cold. The house is creaking as the wind pushes it. It feels like a child’s doll’s house all pretty paint and open stairs leading to the front door. I spent a large part of a recent day looking for a parcel. Going to the post office, back again, calling the shop that sent it. Now it seems it had been sent and was stolen. We can go to the police with the photo the postie took and then maybe we could get a refund. It was a fleece jumper for Alfie our eldest grandson, I hope it goes to a worthy child but then I suppose all children are worthy with their poor skinny little necks. I thought of you dear girl, such a friend, sitting on the long shining kitchen counter after a long Friday day at work and having a slice of cake. Duncs, you’d give anyone a warm jumper. And you’d give the gift of your love too. I always felt elevated when I was with you. We love people who see us, really see. You loved people with all you had and my dearest Duncan you were seriously loved in return. You were always a rock star.