Colleen McCullough - The Thorn Birds

He didn’t seem to; at least he didn’t comment upon weariness or possible illness, even made no reference to the exigencies of packing. Which wasn’t a bit like him. And after a while she began to experience a sensation that the world must be ending, so different was he from his usual self.

He wouldn’t help her make the dinner a success, the sort of affair they could refer to in letters with reminiscent pleasure and amusement. If she could only have persuaded herself that he was simply upset at her going, it might have been all right. But she couldn’t. His mood just wasn’t that sort. Rather, he was so distant she felt as if she were sitting with a paper effigy, one-dimensional and anxious to be off floating in the breeze, far from her ken. As if he had said goodbye to her already, and this meeting was a superfluity.

“Have you had a letter from your mother yet?” he asked politely.

“No, but I don’t honestly expect one. She’s probably bereft of words.”

“Would you like Fritz to take you to the airport tomorrow?”

“Thanks, I can catch a cab,” she answered ungraciously. “I wouldn’t want you to be deprived of his services.”

“I have meetings all day, so I assure you it won’t inconvenience me in the slightest.”

“I said I’d take a cab!”

He raised his eyebrows. “There’s no need to shout, Justine. Whatever you want is all right with me.”

He wasn’t calling her Herzchen any more; of late she had noticed its frequency declining, and tonight he had not used the old endearment once. Oh, what a dismal, depressing dinner this was! Let it be over soon! She found she was looking at his hands and trying to remember what they felt like, but she couldn’t. Why wasn’t life neat and well organized, why did things like Dane have to happen? Perhaps because she thought of Dane, her mood suddenly plummeted to a point where she couldn’t bear to sit still a moment longer, and put her hands on the arms of her chair.

“Do you mind if we go?” she asked. “I’m developing a splitting headache.”

At the junction of the High Road and Justine’s little mews Rain helped her from the car, told Fritz to drive around the block, and put his hand beneath her elbow courteously to guide her, his touch quite impersonal. In the freezing damp of a London drizzle they walked slowly across the cobbles, dripping echoes of their footsteps all around them. Mournful, lonely footsteps.

“So, Justine, we say goodbye,” he said.

“Well, for the time being, at any rate,” she answered brightly, “but it’s not forever, you know. I’ll be across from time to time, and I hope you’ll find the time to come down to Drogheda.”

He shook his head. “No. This is goodbye, Justine. I don’t think we have any further use for each other.”

“You mean you haven’t any further use for me,” she said, and managed a fairly creditable laugh. “It’s all right, Rain! Don’t spare me, I can take it!”

He took her hand, bent to kiss it, straightened, smiled into her eyes and walked away.

There was a letter from her mother on the mat. Justine stooped to pick it up, dropped her bag and wrap where it had lain, her shoes nearby, and went into the living room. She sat down heavily on a packing crate, chewing at her lip, her eyes resting for a moment in wondering, bewildered pity on a magnificent head-and-shoulders study of Dane taken to commemorate his ordination. Then she caught her bare toes in the act of caressing the rolled-up kangaroo-fur rug, grimaced in distaste and got up quickly.

A short walk to the kitchen, that was what she needed. So she took a short walk to the kitchen, where she opened the refrigerator, reached for the cream jug, opened the freezer door and withdrew a can of filter coffee. With one hand on the cold-water tap to run water for her coffee, she looked around wide-eyed, as it she had never seen the room before. Looked at the flaws in the wallpaper, at the smug philodendron in its basket hung from the ceiling, at the black pussy-cat clock wagging its tail and rolling its eyes at the spectacle of time being so frivolously frittered away. PACK HAIR-BRUSH, said the blackboard in large capitals. On the table lay a pencil sketch of Rain she had done some weeks ago. And a packet of cigarettes. She took one and lit it, put the kettle on the stove and remembered her mother’s letter, which was still screwed up in one hand. May as well read it while the water heated. She sat down at the kitchen table, flipped the drawing of Rain onto the floor and planted her feet on top of it. Up yours, too, Rainer Moerling Hartheim! See if I care, you great dogmatic leather-coated Kraut twit. Got no further use for me, eh? Well, nor have I for you!

My dear Justine [said Meggie]

No doubt you’re proceeding with your usual impulsive speed, so I hope this reaches you in time. If anything I’ve said lately in my letters has caused this sudden decision of yours, please forgive me. I didn’t mean to provoke such a drastic reaction. I suppose I was simply looking for a bit of sympathy, but I always forget that under that tough skin of yours, you’re pretty soft.

Yes, I’m lonely, terribly so. Yet it isn’t anything your coming home could possibly rectify. If you stop to think for a moment, you’ll see how true that is. What do you hope to accomplish by coming home? It isn’t within your power to restore to me what I’ve lost, and you can’t make reparation either. Nor is it purely my loss. It’s your loss too, and Nanna’s, and all the rest. You seem to have an idea, and it’s quite a mistaken idea, that in some way you were responsible. This present impulse looks to me suspiciously like an act of contrition. That’s pride and presumption, Justine. Dane was a grown man, not a helpless baby. I let him go, didn’t I? If I had let myself feel the way you do, I’d be sitting here blaming myself into a mental asylum because I had permitted him to live his own life. But I’m not sitting here blaming myself. We’re none of us God, though I think I’ve had more chance to learn that than you.

In coming home, you’re handing me your life like a sacrifice. I don’t want it . I never have wanted it. And I refuse it now. You don’t belong on Drogheda, you never did. If you still haven’t worked out where you do belong, I suggest you sit down right this minute and start some serious thinking. Sometimes you really are awfully dense. Rainer is a very nice man, but I’ve never yet met a man who could possibly be as altruistic as you seem to think he is. For Dane’s sake indeed! Do grow up, Justine!

My dearest one, a light has gone out. For all of us, a light has gone out. And there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it, don’t you understand? I’m not insulting you by trying to pretend I’m perfectly happy. Such isn’t the human condition. But if you think we here on Drogheda spend our days weeping and wailing, you’re quite wrong. We enjoy our days, and one of the main reasons why is that our lights for you still burn. Dane’s light is gone forever. Please, dear Justine, try to accept that.

Come home to Drogheda by all means, we’d love to see you. But not for good. You’d never be happy settled here permanently. It is not only a needless sacrifice for you to make, but a useless one. In your sort of career, even a year spent away from it would cost you dearly. So stay where you belong, be a good citizen of your world.

The pain. It was like those first few days after Dane died. The same sort of futile, wasted, unavoidable pain. The same anguished impotence. No, of course there was nothing she could do. No way of making up, no way.

Scream! The kettle was whistling already. Hush, kettle, hush! Hush for Mummy! How does it feel to be Mummy’s only child, kettle? Ask Justine, she knows. Yes, Justine knows all about being the only child. But I’m not the child she wants, that poor fading old woman back on the ranch. Oh, Mum! Oh, Mum… Do you think if I humanly could, I wouldn’t? New lamps for old, my life for his! It isn’t fair, that Dane was the one to die… She’s right. My going back to Drogheda can’t alter the fact that he never can. Though he lies there forever, he never can. A light has gone out, and I can’t rekindle it. But I see what she means. My light still burns in her. Only not on Drogheda.