Piece by Piece

CHAPTER ONE

Grandma Rose

Celeste Harding - 1967

Honestly! Who in their right mind could be hungry at a time like this? I shriek, totally appalled at the sight of my very own family, even my twin brothers, Adam and Adrian and my out-of-the-woodwork relatives, gorging themselves less than two hours after my darling, Grandma Rose has been reduced to ashes at that barbaric Crematorium.

What are you heartless people thinking? I cry out, glaring at the crowd in disbelief.

Celeste! Mother calls, chasing after me as I run down the hallway into my bedroom and lock myself in. Seeking solitude within the four walls, I turn the knob on my transistor radio up as far as it will go in an effort to drown out the muffled voices, sounds of laughter and the annoying vibration of my mother’s pounding fist on my door. My mother, Eleanor Harding, bears a striking resemblance to Elizabeth Taylor, and has watched enough of her movies to be her understudy. I close my eyes and imagine the role she’s playing right now, preparing myself for the volatile untamed shrew to confront me.

Open this door at once, Mother demands, furiously turning the brass doorknob back and forth as her pounding picks up momentum. There’s no use putting off the inevitable, so I gingerly open the door just enough to see her god-damned self-righteous face peering at me like a woman possessed. I glare and say nothing, attempting to close the door again but her foot is firmly wedged against it.

Talk to me, Celeste, she says, as I run to my bed, fling myself across it and bury my head under my pillow hoping she will get the message and leave me alone.

I feel my mother’s arms closing in around me from behind and the weight of her head on my pillow.

There, there, she whispers, holding me tighter with every breath she takes. I remain silent, wondering if this could be an attempt to smother me and put me out of my misery. But no, that can’t be it - she isn’t about to let me get away from her that easily.

Right at this very moment, I am wishing her to hell as her false sympathy isn’t helping. If anything, she’s just making me more upset. Suddenly my whole body is engulfed with inconsolable sobs - my nose is dripping all over the sheet beneath me, and I have once again given my mother complete control. Next thing I know, the pillow is tossed to the floor and I immediately feel her hot breath on my cheek.

Leave me alone! I scream, rolling onto my back, planning to jump up and run as fast as I can away from her. But before I can make my move, Mother’s hanky-filled fist is furiously dabbing at my tears, while her other hand manages to plant itself firmly on my shoulder, making it impossible for me to escape. I’m blinded by the hanky but thankful I can’t see her face. I hate my mother for being such a control freak. She has just lost her mother-in-law and yet she’s as cool as a cucumber. Heartless bitch are the words itching to escape from my lips. Then through my teary blur, I notice her tear-stained face - something I have never witnessed in my entire life.

The pain will pass, Mother says softly, burying her face in my hair. For a fleeting moment, I consider the possibility that she might actually have a sensitive side to her personality and the ability to feel sadness and even compassion. Then out of the corner of my eye, I notice her hand reaching towards my bedside table. At the sight of her fingers grasping my makeup purse, I immediately come to my senses, realising my vulnerable state of mind has given me a false sense of security I now know will be very short lived.

Then bingo - her sympathy phase is over within minutes.

Why don’t we fix our makeup and the two of us go back to our guests? Mother suggests, eagerly getting her repair job underway – her red lipstick devouring her face as she speaks. After blotting her lips with her hanky, she powders her nose, sucks in her cheeks and spreads a dab of rouge over them. Suddenly she’s ready to party once more.

I’m not going back out there, Mother! You’re the one who organised this ‘death party.’ I never wanted any part of it, remember.

I know you are hurting, Celeste, but is it really necessary for you to refer to your grandmother’s wake in such a derogatory manner? Can you think of a more fitting way for families and friends to pay their respects and farewell their loved ones?

Call it whatever you want, Mother. It doesn’t change the fact that Grandma Rose is dead, and I think it’s wrong for her beautiful home to be filled with people scoffing free food and alcohol in the name of respect. Everyone seems so happy, and I just can’t stand watching them. You know how much Grandma Rose meant to me, so please just leave me alone to deal with it my way, and you get back to doing what you do best.

And how should I interpret that? What is it that I am supposedly so good at?

Sucking people in. You are a professional at it. Like that soppy caring mother act you tried on me when you forced your way in here. Your sad face almost had me sucked in. But then I realised you are a woman of many faces...one for every occasion to match your mood, just like your handbags and shoes.

What act? Mother says innocently, her ‘fake face’ pretending she hasn’t got a clue what I’m talking about.

You really have no idea how you come across to people, do you? Like today at the Crematorium for instance, the grieving daughter-in-law act you bunged on is a perfect example of what I’m talking about. You deliberately play on people’s emotions to gain their sympathy, because you have to be the centre of attention. And the worst part is they fall for it every time.

Are you insinuating I was faking my grief, Celeste? Because it sounds awfully like it to me and I will not stand here and tolerate your insolence young lady. Do you hear me?

Yes, Mother, I say, sighing deeply, while rolling my eyes towards the ceiling. I walk briskly to the door and hold it open for her to make a quick exit and rush back to her guests. Fortunately, I manage to stifle my sigh of relief until she’s on the other side.

I’m convinced my father felt the same way about my mother as I do. He outsmarted her by slamming his car into a tree thirteen years ago, when I was just two years old and my twin brothers were four. I have no memory of him whatsoever, but at times my mind plays tricks on me and I see his face in my dreams. That’s probably because his image is familiar to me through the many photos Grandma Rose has given me. My most treasured of all is a hand-painted framed portrait of the three of us - Grandma Rose and my father holding a newborn baby me in his arms. It hangs on the wall opposite my bed, and has always brought me comfort. Yet now, I’m feeling as though my father has been taken from me all over again. My grandmother’s memories of him were all I had, and the painful realisation they have both left me is just too unbearable to describe.

Father was an incredibly handsome man. He had blond hair and blue eyes, and Grandma Rose said I was a mini version of him. Whereas Adam and Adrian are dark-haired like Mother, and have her facial features. My grandmother said she loved all her grandchildren the same, but I always knew I was her favourite. She never actually said that, but many times she told me how much I reminded her of my father as a child, which I believe definitely gave me the edge over my brothers.

We had no understanding of why our daddy went to heaven, and Grandma Rose never spoke of the accident which claimed the life of her only child. However, she made a point of sharing her memories of him with the three of us, as her grandchildren and the only remaining link to her son.

By the time we were old enough to ask questions, Mother had her version of events down pat. From her perspective, our father’s death was a tragic and unavoidable accident, possibly the fault of a wild animal running out in front of his car on a dark rainy night, causing him to swerve and hit a tree. Of course she would say that. It could never be her fault. The thought would never enter her head that her loving husband took his own life just to get away from her.

At times like this, I prefer to escape from reality and retreat into my own little fantasy world fuelled by my imagination. Right at this moment, I am visualising my grandmother and my father reunited in heaven. Okay, I know it’s a bit out there, but it gives me comfort to believe they are back together at last, as Grandma Rose was a believer in the hereafter and I don’t want to be the one to question her belief. I think that she, like me, was a bit of a dreamer too.

Thank God I take after Grandma Rose. I inherited her kind and passionate nature, which is a quality my mother definitely lacks. Possibly, it has something to do with our birthdays being on the same day. It has always been extremely special sharing my birthday with her, and I loved it when she told me I was the best birthday present a grandmother could ever wish for.

Today, I have made a quick entry in my seventh red leather diary, a replica of the last six Grandma Rose made for me with her own hands - one for every year since my eighth birthday.

Grandma Rose left me on the seventeenth of November 1967, just fifteen years and five months after I was born on the 19th June 1952, my grandmother’s sixtieth birthday.

Consumed with sadness, I’m not in a writing mood, but feel the need to read my diaries to give myself some connection to my grandmother, and that closeness I am longing to feel.

My fingers trace the outline of the numbers 1960 embossed in gold across the red leather cover of my first diary. Tiny gold roses frame the edges of the pages, and my childish handwriting stares back at me. It’s been seven years since I wrote these words, and now they bring back memories and emotions I had buried deep within the depths of my subconscious. Reading my thoughts and feelings from way back then, my life unravelled before my eyes like a dropped stitch from a knitting needle. I’m astonished at the maturity and amazing grasp of the English language I possessed at the tender age of eight.

Having twin ten-year-old brothers, Adam and Adrian, I soon learnt to twist the male species around my little finger and use them to my advantage. Even at that young stage in my life, in my mind it was a foregone conclusion that I would marry Adam’s best friend, Paul Mitchell, who also happened to be our next-door neighbour, and together we would have three beautiful children.

When I was ten, Paul didn’t seem to mind me hanging around. He found my undying love for him cute, while Adam considered it embarrassing and Adrian thought it was hilarious. But their opinions didn’t bother me in the slightest, because what did my brothers know about love anyway?

I read from the opening pages of diary five, written in 1964, and my spirits are lifted. I remember back to my first year in high school, and the very first time I laid eyes on Elise Chambers.

Starting high school in a strange country would be a challenge for any twelve year old, but this beautiful and extremely shy young student had no need to worry. There was no mistaking her charming Liverpudlian accent - Elise had to be from Liverpool, England, and I, being The Beatles biggest Australian fan ever, had to have her as my best friend. She had an old-fashioned English schoolgirl look about her back then. Her long golden hair was pulled tightly back off her face into a ponytail, accentuating her huge green eyes, oval face and peaches and cream complexion. I knew the moment I met her I would have to put in a bit of work to make her fit in. But it wasn’t long before we were both proudly peering out from beneath our trendy mop-top Beatle fringes, and constantly avoiding our mother’s scissors.

The Beatles’ arrival in Sydney was just two weeks away, and what if my new best friend, Elise, knew them personally and could introduce me? The possibilities were endless, or leading me down a dead-end street, as I would soon find out. Either way, to an ardent Beatle fan, this girl from Liverpool was the closest connection I had to my idols and she had no way of escaping me. Anyway, a timid shy girl like Elise, needed an outgoing and extremely confident friend like me to show her how we did things here in Australia. And lucky for her, I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.

At 6am on the 11th June 1964, propped up in my bed by two huge comfy pillows, with my Onkaparinga woollen blanket wrapped around me, I sat glued to my little portable television set, ready and waiting to catch a glimpse of my idols arriving at Sydney Airport. For me to even be awake at this ridiculous hour was unheard of. There was only one six o’clock in my day, as normally I had no trouble whatsoever sleeping peacefully through the first one.

To the screech of thousands of drenched and somewhat hysterical teenagers, the door of the plane opened and four giant black umbrellas with arms waving madly beneath them, appeared on the stairs. The Fab Four, turned out to be the Fab Three and a stand in for Ringo Starr, which annoyed me immensely as I had waited so long for this day and Ringo was my favourite Beatle.

After the news broadcast ended, I snuggled back under the covers and went back to sleep, until Mother came in and interrupted my dreaming. She hauled me out of bed, stripped me of my flannelette pyjamas and replaced them with my school uniform, before I even had time to wipe the sleep from my eyes. Luckily, I managed to hide my trannie under my jumper and cover the earpiece with my long blonde hair, so at least I didn’t have to speak to her while she drove me to school - something she saw as her duty, because the school bus had long gone.

I was happily bopping away to ‘Love Me Do,’ my favourite Beatle song, when my mother yanked the earpiece cord so hard it catapulted out of my ear, just in time for me to hear the crunching sound of our car rear-ending the vehicle in front.

See what you made me do! Mother screamed like a fishwife. Then she jumped out of the car and slammed the door almost off its hinges.

I put my earphones back in my ears as the song faded away to nothingness. While I listened to the next track, my fingers delved into the depths of my mother’s handbag in search of cigarettes and mints, which I quickly shoved into my uniform pocket.

Using her short skirt and low cut top to her advantage, Mother crouched down to inspect the mangled bumper bar of the other car, and the really cute owner knelt down beside her. His eyes were firmly fixed on her bulging breasts as she rocked back and forth on her stilettos. Holding my hand firmly down on the horn most certainly had the desired effect. Mother lost her balance, toppled backwards and landed flat on her back with her legs in the air. A familiar position for her, but one she wouldn’t normally assume in public.

You obviously enjoyed humiliating me in front of that young man, Celeste, Mother stated, as the squeal of car tyres and the smell of burning rubber alerted me to the fact that she was extremely anxious to be rid of me. How could you be so thoughtless?

Oh lighten up, Mother. Where’s your sense of humour? You should have seen it through my eyes - I almost wet myself laughing. My mother’s acid tongue spitting venom across to the passenger seat didn’t faze me in the slightest. My mind was busy jumping ahead, playing out the scene at school when I would relate to my friends my morning so far, and no doubt document it in my diary for those inevitable times in my life when I would need a good laugh. I really hope Grandma Rose is up there reading this diary with me today, as this is spirit-lifting literature at its finest.

A journalist for a modelling magazine, my mother has a way with words, and this is the only talent or trait of hers I am happy to inherit. I love writing. Expressing my thoughts with words takes me to ‘my space,’ a special place where I can block out the outside world. I thought by now I would have outgrown my fascination for diaries, or ‘my books of obsession,’ as Mother sarcastically refers to them, but I’m not ready to move on just yet. I feel my grandmother sensed that, as in the last months of her life she lovingly made me five more diaries to last me until 1972, my twentieth year on this planet. Right at this moment I would gladly leave the planet to be with Grandma Rose. She was the only person in this world who truly loved and understood me.

I skip through the next couple of pages, just more of the same in my dreary life as a soon to be twelve year old. Then I come to the payback page. The inevitable payback Mother delighted in unleashing on me days after the event. I knew the black widow spider would eventually bite me, and the anguish of not knowing when ate away at me. That in itself was punishment enough, but not for my mother. I was the cause of her embarrassment, and I would pay the ultimate price by being deprived of the one thing I wanted most in this world - to see The Beatles live in concert.

My words of pain are barely visible on this tear-stained page, but I don’t need to read them now. My memories are as vivid today as they were three years ago in 1964. I knew Mother was clever and conniving, but the way she portrayed herself as the caring, thoughtful mother just before she shattered my dreams, was her best act so far. I will never forget the sweet, tender tone in her voice when she broke the news to me that The Beatles’ concerts were completely sold out. She promised to take me for my birthday, but she probably never had any intention of going. Mother hated Beatle music, but she knew Grandma Rose would volunteer to take her place. All she had to do was get the god-damned tickets - she couldn’t even manage that.

There was no doubt in my mind that this was her way of getting back at me for startling her with the car horn. I can accept the blame for that harmless little prank, but I felt my punishment was so unfair. The accident would never have happened in the first place if Mother hadn’t been so busy minding my business instead of her own. If she’d just kept her eyes on the road, my dream of seeing my idols live in concert would have become a reality. Seething with anger, I festered inside for days, counting the hours until Grandma Rose would return home from visiting her sister in Newcastle, just in time for our birthdays.

My grandmother always surprised me on my birthday. She gave me not only the red leather handmade diary for the following year, which I had grown to expect, but another special gift she knew would make me happy. I always slept in my grandmother’s bed the night before our birthday, so the next morning we would be the first to exchange birthday wishes and presents.

I ripped the satin ribbon and pink patterned paper from the present Grandma Rose had placed in front of me, and tried my best to guess what was inside. Discarding the wrapping paper, my fingers gently prised open the cardboard box to reveal the cutest little pink record player I had ever laid eyes on. I was about to jump up and throw my arms around my grandmother, when she handed me a flat square parcel. My heart skipped a beat, as I knew exactly what it was the second I clapped eyes on it. I carefully slid The Beatle’s’ first Album, Please Please Me, out of its jacket and tried to place it on the turntable, but something was preventing it from sitting flat. Then I noticed the hole in the centre of the record seemed to be covered from the other side. I turned it over and to my amazement there was a ticket stuck there. Not just any ticket - a ticket to The Beatles’ concert. Squealing with delight, I looked up to see Grandma Rose excitedly waving four more tickets in front of me.

I couldn’t leave Adam and Adrian out, she said, and I thought it would be nice if Elise could join us.

You’re the best grandmother on the entire planet, I squealed, throwing my arms around her neck.

As the sound of The Beatles’ voices filled my ears, my skin came out in goose bumps. Then Grandma Rose broke the spell, hoisting me off the floor and dancing me around the room as we sang along together, song after song, until Mother burst in and rudely interrupted us.

Happy Birthday, girls, Mother said, flashing us her over-the-top Cheshire cat grin. Then after planting a red lipstick kiss on our cheeks, she handed each of us a small gift-wrapped parcel containing matching gold lockets with photos inside. Mine was a photo of my mother with that grin again, and my grandmother’s contained a photo of her golden retriever, Jed - God how I yearned to swap with her.

Remembering I hadn’t given Grandma Rose her present, I ran outside into the back garden, returning with a magnificent potted, red rose bush, covered in tiny little buds just waiting to bloom. My grandmother loved roses and I could tell by the look on her face, I couldn’t have chosen anything better.

Coming back to the present, I put my diaries away and turn my radio down, only to discover the house is now silent. Confident the wake is finally over, I grab a snack from the kitchen, then decide to give Elise a call. She wanted to come to my grandmother’s funeral today, but her overprotective mother felt it would be too distressing for her. I admit my mother is something else, but at least she doesn’t baby me the way Elise’s mother does her. I don’t know how Elise stands being mollycoddled like that. Although, I have noticed that she has a lot more tolerance for needy people than I do. Actually, she’s a bit of a clinging vine herself, and I don’t mean to be critical, but at times she does tend to make me feel claustrophobic.

Obviously my best friend isn’t as concerned for me as she would like me to think. She doesn’t even bother to answer the phone, leaving me with nothing to occupy my mind at a time when I am desperate for a diversion to stop me thinking about my miserable life without Grandma Rose.

In an effort to replace my sad emotions, my thoughts turn back to my mother now. Thinking about her brings out my anger and the determined side of my personality, which automatically switches my brain into resentment mode. My mother is too busy being fabulous to even notice I exist, and too infatuated with the many men in her life to have any room left for me or my brothers. Mother collects men like she collects records. Alex Redman is her latest acquisition. He’s just another ‘record’ to add to her collection, and the sixth ‘uncle’ I’ve inherited since I was five, not counting the ones I was too young to remember.

Alex is okay, I guess. Grandma Rose liked him, so I suppose he comes highly recommended, because when it came to my mother’s ‘personal life,’ as she called it, my grandmother usually kept her opinions to herself. It’s early days in the relationship between Mother and my new ‘Uncle Alex,’ but I know it will only be a matter of time until she turns him into a grovelling ‘yes darling’ insipid fool, no different to the rest of them. Believe me, I know how this game works. Mother is a goddess in her own mind, and her ego demands to be worshiped by all around her. The incredible thing is, there’s always a plentiful supply of weak-natured men or suckers, for the want of a better word, ready and willing to occupy the position.

Speaking of mothers, I have no idea where mine has disappeared to. I wander through the house calling out to her, but she doesn’t answer. Surely she wouldn’t leave me on my own at a time like this, I assure myself. I walk outside and head towards the pool area. Not a sound can be heard, except for the rustling of leaves in the treetops, so I slowly open the wooden gate and peer in. Surprise, surprise - there she is, completely naked, sprawled on a sun-lounge with an equally naked ‘Uncle Alex,’ asleep on the one next to her. Or maybe they have passed out, judging from the number of empty wine bottles strewn on the tiles between them. If only these sun-lounges had wheels, I could dump them both in the pool.

Nothing is ever easy when you need it to be. I drag the hose over, place the sprinkler-head between the two lounges and turn the tap on full bore. For me a hilarious end to an otherwise solemn day as the two seemingly lifeless naked bodies suddenly come to life, springing to their feet with all their bits wobbling.

I’ll deal with you later, Celeste, Mother says, her angry voice constrained into a loud whisper as they run for cover, scurrying away like two naughty school children. I swear, if looks could kill, I’d be dead.

With tears of laughter rolling down my face, I clutch my aching side and notice Jed barking and rolling around the grass as if he’s in hysterics too. God how I hope Grandma Rose can see this. Without thinking, I take a step backwards, fall into the pool, splashing and sinking to the bottom, surfacing to find Jed is right here beside me. We swim to the steps and he furiously shakes his long golden fur. His water spray blinds me for a moment as I clamber out of the pool, my soaked silk dress clinging to my skin like a stocking. I whip off my drenched clothes and dive back in.

I am enjoying the feel of the cool refreshing water lapping around my naked body, when an almighty splash hits me in the face. Once again, Jed is beside me. This dog is almost human. I’m sure he understands what I’m thinking, just the way Grandma Rose did.

With the heat of the sun seeping through my skin, I feel a peaceful calmness engulfing me, washing away the uneasy feeling trapped deep inside. It is a feeling I have had for so long - one that has stayed with me for the last six months since my grandmother got sick.

‘Life must go on,’ Grandma Rose’s words ring in my ears. If I didn’t know better, I would swear she had the power to replace my negative thoughts with positive ones.

CHAPTER TWO

Rags to Riches

Eleanor Harding

As if on auto pilot, my arm slithers like a snake from under the covers and my hand slaps at my alarm clock until it finally shuts up. I keep my eyes closed, while my foggy disoriented brain reorganises my thoughts. Suddenly I am uncomfortably aware it is 7am and I have to go to work. As I reluctantly force my pounding head to leave my pillow, I notice Alex is still dead to the world beside me. I gingerly slip out of bed, wrap my white satin dressing gown around my naked body and tiptoe out my bedroom door. With my mind in a blur, the only thing registering is my desperate need for caffeine. I slowly make my way to the kitchen for a quiet coffee and a chance to clear my thumping head.

Not feeling well, Mother? Celeste asks smugly, in that ‘serves you right,’ tone of hers.

I am fine thank you, I answer curtly, in no mood for confrontation this morning. As usual, Celeste is going to do her best to get under my skin. Nursing a hangover is one thing, but if I throw a smart-mouthed teenager into the mix before I’ve had my caffeine fix, the result is less than amicable and far from tolerable. While filling the kettle I lean on the sink to steady myself, hoping she will leave me alone, as talking is the last