Page 15 of Thursdays at Orange Blossom House
‘Dorothea, we can’t watch you all the time – I’m relying on you to take care of your sister.’
Her parents were trying to keep Cornelia safe – Dorothy understood that. They had to work hard to provide for Cornelia’s future; they had to make sure they could afford special tutors for her, because going to the same school as Dorothy was not possible, and they had no family in Queensland, none in Australia at all, so they had to manage the best they could without that help. Dorothy understood that too, and knew she had a part to play in watching her sister after school while her parents worked.
Once Cornelia was old enough to want to begin talking, it was Dorothy who learnt sign language so she could be her sister’s translator. Their parents learnt a little bit: signs forhelloandI love youandAre you all right?But in order for Cornelia to properly express herself to their parents, and the rest of the world, she needed Dorothy.
At first learning sign was fun; by the time she was in high school Dorothy took a measure of pride in the fact that she spoke not only English and German but sign too. Or Auslan, as it became. It wasn’t just about fluttering her hands around – it was a proper language. Just not one her parents had time to learn completely, and given that they preferred to speak in German perhaps that was no surprise. When she really wanted to make a point to them Cornelia would speak out loud; she chose her moments and everyone paid attention.
Despite that pride, Dorothy knew intrinsically from a young age that any needs and worries she had would now rank behind her sister’s, but she could never say this to her parents because they weren’t doing it consciously and would react badly if she pointed it out. They’d feel guilty, of course, and Dorothy didn’t want that. She felt guilty enough herself every time she wanted to see her friends or even spend time alone, because that meant she was being a bad sister. It didn’t seem to matter that her love for Cornelia was so enormous that it took up almost all the space in her heart; her guilt was never assuaged.
Somewhere in there Dorothy tried to keep a sense of herself and what she wanted for her own life, although there was no one she felt she could talk to about it until she met Frederick.
Dropping her hands from her hips, she’s almost strolling now, through a sunny patch where no trees are planted, crossing a road, drifting away from something and towards who-knows-what. She can’t remember the last time she played truant from her own life. Probably because she never has. She’s the dutiful one, the list-keeper, the crease-folder. She doesn’t run out on things. On work. On duty. It’s how she’s been trained.
There’s laughter somewhere ahead, from more than one person. She briefly closes her eyes and takes it in, feels it as a balm on a pain that is indistinct yet sharp.
As she draws near the source of the sound she sees a house surrounded by a lush, dense garden, with large windows that face the street. The laughter is coming from inside. Stopping on the footpath so she can see through the window, Dorothy wonders if it’s rude to watch. But no one is paying attention to her.
A lithe woman in a black leotard with a lively face and bright red lipstick, her blonde hair in small curls, gives a knowing wag of her finger before she puts her hands on another woman who is much older, adjusting her into a strange shape.
Other women are in that same shape, or variations of it, their legs making a triangle with the floor, one arm reaching for the sky.
One young woman wobbles and almost falls, then rights herself and giggles.
‘Cecilia,’ says the woman in the black leotard, ‘do youreallllythink that is a posture I wish to see here?’
She snorts, and the woman who must be Cecilia makes a show of straightening up then going back into position.
So that’s why they’re laughing: they’re having fun. How glorious. How strange.
The woman in the black leotard catches Dorothy’s eye. Dorothy’s immediate instinct is to hide – except the woman smiles like they know each other, and dips her head almost as if she’s bowing.
Dorothy looks away. Now that she’s been caught she doesn’t think she should stay. If she were in that group she’d feel uncomfortable being observed. But there must be a sign somewhere to tell her what the class is.
Turning, she sees it:Orange Blossom House. Beneath it hangs a wooden panel bearing the inscription:Yoga, Saturdays at 8 am. Tuesdays at 10 am. Thursdays at 6 pm. All welcome. No experience necessary.
Dorothy has heard of yoga but never seen it. And she’s only heard of it because one of the waitresses at the café was keen on it. In fact, she used to not work Saturdays because she wanted to go to class. Probablythisclass.
The waitress is long gone – back to Canberra, to her degree and her accountant boyfriend – so Dorothy wouldn’t have to worry about anyone she knows seeing her. Not that she will necessarily be able to do what these women are doing. But they’re laughing, and she needs something light, a distraction, in her life. Plus the woman in the black leotard seemed to almost invite her in. Didn’t she?
Dorothy believes in fate. Meeting a good, kind man like Frederick had to be fate, when such men are so hard to find. Living in this beautiful place had to be fate, because she loves it so much. Leaving the café today, walking down this street when she did – it wasn’t an accident that she found this house with its charming name and its very own cradle of trees. She isn’t religious but there are some signs she can’t ignore.
Dorothy can make Thursdays at 6 pm. Frederick can stay behind at the café and wait for her. She knows he won’t mind. Or if he does, she’ll work something out.
Feeling lighter, her shoulders at least twenty per cent lower, Dorothy turns and walks back to her life.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Patricia hadn’t planned to come to this Thursday night class, but she couldn’t stay at home. Not again. Not for the umpteenth night in a row.
She’s aware that having her so-called leisure time divided between extracurricular school activities – such as the eternal challenge of creating a school debating team that lasts longer than one defeat – and sitting with her parents as they nod off in their armchairs or watch television or both means she’s classified as a spinster. Possibly with an adjective in front of it. Old spinster, even though she’s not old. Sad spinster, although she tries to be cheerful most of the time. Although, wait, being a spinster is inherently sad, isn’t it, so ‘sad spinster’ is a tautology. So just ‘old’. And let’s not forget pathetic. Pathetic old spinster.
Not that anyone has called her that. They don’t need to when she’s doing it herself.
Once, in the 1960s, she bought a T-shirt that bore the sloganHere comes trouble!Her mother took one look at it and said, ‘Why would anyone announce that about themselves before people have a chance to find out if it’s true?’ Patricia has never forgotten it, so she should know that applying labels to herself, even inside the throbbing roar of her own mind, is equivalent. She shouldn’t think it lest someone picks up on it.
So she’s not pathetic or old, but she’ll be both within a few years if she doesn’t shake up her non-routine of serving the school and serving her parents. That’s why she stayed later at school this afternoon and drove straight to the yoga class. She’s not sure yet if she completely likes yoga, but she likes the fact it gives her an excuse to not be at home or at school.
‘Where are you off to?’ Dennis asked as she was leaving the staffroom and he was returning to it after athletics training with the Year Tens.
