A Clutch Of Pearlies: On A Mission From Melbourne
My son and I are staying at a Youth Hostel in Sydney. It’s home base for us several weekends each year. The place and its surrounds are idyllic but we’re not in holiday mode; we are on a mission from Melbourne. Our home away from home is comfortable, has spectacular views and most vital for somebody whose creaky old bones prefer the comfort of an indoor loo to stumbling down the passageway in the middle of the night, it has en suites. We’ve had the same room since we arrived on the YHA doorstep several years ago. We snooze on our separate bunk beds (I’m told I snore), keep our drinks cold in the bar fridge and make cups of soup or coffee using the room’s kettle. Last but very much not least, there is the very necessary bathroom. It’s home.
It’s not only the mod cons that count but the constant that the place represents. Leonie works behind the check-in counter and gives our girls access to computer games. Robert sets up some boppy music on his mobile phone, and Kath the day manager joins him and the girls for a twirl around the foyer. Yoshi, when she’s not swimming with sharks or dolphins makes the place shine. Once upon a time there was James, but he went back to England and Brad has gone off to Ireland with his girl. It is people who have made our place a home.
When our girls and their mother shifted back to her home town, the Melbourne mob got together for a brainstorming session. The options open to Rob as we saw it, was that he either communicates with his children long-distance or takes the more expensive option and travels to Sydney every fortnight. Rob chose both. I said that in that case I would come along at least once a month and we all discussed finances and the practicality of renting a unit for the weekend or a hotel room that would take the four of us. My sister who has been a bit of a traveller in her time suggested a Youth Hostel. As its name implies, Youth Hostels are marketed to young travellers with firm, tanned bodies and an optimistic outlook on life, but my sister assured me that the YHA will also take in worn-out old cynics as long as they don’t influence the young optimists.
The Friday night before each visit, Rob and I pack a couple of t-shirts each, spare trousers or jeans and a change of underwear. That takes up a tiny corner of each of the two suitcases we bring along. We fill the spaces up with board games, toys and books.
Rob and I set our alarms for quarter past four. I haul my aching bones out of bed at three thirty and make some coffee; Rob bounces out of his room looking perkier than he has a right to at 4.15 am; he’s fully dressed and ready, lugging his suitcase behind him. We head for the car and Melbourne airport; chatting quietly, talking strategies and anticipating the fun time ahead.
In Sydney we hire a car for the weekend, pick the girls up then do the weekend shop for one breakfast, two packed lunches and two dinners. We have a routine. It’s not exciting but it gives the impression of normalcy which is the aim. Rob brings the girls down to the car. Their faces glow. We hurtle towards each other, arms outstretched and hug; words spill out on both sides as we try for a month’s worth of catch-up. They look different each time. It’s not only that they’ve grown a bit since the last time I saw them that makes me sad, but also that something indefinable I see in their faces that speaks of life experiences we’ve not been involved with.
On Saturday afternoon Rob and I lie on our bunks, chatting with the girls in a desultory way; I’ve cooked, they’ve played and we’re all exhausted. Then we get our second wind and all go back to the common room for dinner. Afterwards, Dezzy and I play ‘Hangman’ or ‘I Spy’, and Rachel who hasn’t learned to read yet, participates in her own inimitable way. It’s been a long day. On Sunday we’ll go for a drive, or see a movie or do some browsing.
Before we know it we’re back at the airport waiting for our flight home; as usual it’s all gone faster than we’ve expected, faster than we’ve wanted it to. Rob and I don’t talk much; we’re deeply into our own thoughts about the visit; storing away little images to take out and treasure late at night. But mostly what I’m doing is thinking how thankful I am that Rob is part of a supportive family network. The girls visit us in the school holidays; we come and see them regularly. We talk; we never stop communicating. I’m grateful that we have between us all managed to normalise an abnormal situation as far as it’s possible to do so. What I’m thinking is that it’s a miracle.
I can pick a separated dad out a mile off these days. He and his children are usually at McDonald’s; it’s family friendly there and neutral territory. The children and the dad face each other across a table littered with chip and burger wrappers. The dad has that haunted look of somebody on a blind date; the formal and stilted conversations probably run along the same lines. The kids look as if they’d rather be elsewhere, but they gamely hang in there. He is their weekend dad.
