The Attachment Read online

  Sorry. That’s confusing.

  When I say sister, I suppose I mean half-sister, though I never think of Alanna that way. She is as full as it is possible to be, and I am lucky to have her as a friend and cornerstone of my sometimes-shaky foundations.

  My family is complicated—divorces and re-marriages and half-siblings. The odd thing—well, odd to other people, though it seems perfectly natural to us—is that we all get along famously and are, in spite of the ructions and eruptions of decades ago, incredibly close and protective of one another. I guess that is testament in some way to my parents—all of them!—and their ability to navigate tricky emotional terrain in a way that allowed respect to be maintained. Even my father and stepfather, who were both in love with my mother, are mindful of each other, and generous with and about each other.

  So there you have it—some background to the dramatis personae of the trip.

  My stepfather, Frank, grew up working as a roustabout, jackaroo and manager on sheep stations, and was working on our family property when he and my mother fell in love. He, too, suffered from the loss of connection to that red dirt country that was the eventual outcome of events after the family property was sold in the divorce settlement. That landscape is part of him, and so returning was both nostalgia and a reunion.

  For Alanna, who is eight years younger than me and never lived on that property, it was a chance to finally experience the physical reality of the myriad stories we had been told for decades. A place of family mythology. The fabled north-west, where everything would be right, if only we had been able to return. Not unlike the displacement stories told by refugees, except that the Gascoyne belonged to the Yamaji people before my great-great-grandparents claimed it.

  But that is another layer of story. So many are swirling in my head.

  Then there was me. I lived there for the first few years of my life, and have sketchy memories and many photos of me as a tot from that place.

  And finally Peter, who grew up in Victoria’s green rolling landscape, and for whom the Gascoyne was a revelation. Fences stretching for hundreds of miles. Endless horizons broken only by low scrub, and relentless sun overhead. Rocky, barren-seeming earth. Beautiful, yes, but how could it support sheep, he kept asking. How could anyone have thought that it was a good idea to have agriculture there?

  How indeed.

  It was great to share my earliest history with him and to get his take on that land after all these years spent living in, or visiting, the places of his youth.

  Being in the shearing shed was the most vivid memory for me. The smell of lanolin still so strong in the noonday heat. The templates that were used to put the name of the property onto the bales—so familiar. The slotted tables for the fleeces, and the chutes beside the shearers’ stations, where the sheep would scramble away after they had been shorn.

  And then the creekbed. It was exactly where I remembered it, and that’s not something I could have known from any photo. It was from that memory of toddling hand-in-hand with my grandfather, and thrilling to have it verified.

  But other things were sad. The tennis court cracked and disintegrating. The vegetable gardens gone. The home fence just wires. The coolhouse walls open to the elements. The once-polished verandah—made of a mixture of cement and anthill earth—crumbling to dust. The front door boarded up because now the only entrance that is used is through the kitchen. Windmills sagging. Troughs splitting.

  A kind of graveyard, really. That life is gone.

  Most potent of all was one of Alanna’s comments—‘It’s just a place.’

  And it is. But it isn’t.

  We talked about that. About how it’s also the site of stories and hopes and dreams. And so it’s a place inside of us and we measure ourselves by it.

  I wondered . . .

  Would I have been big enough for it? Are our lives as vibrant or rich as the lives of which we were told? Will we ever know what it is to match the north?

  No answers yet. Only questions. And a curious sadness. I was left with more of a sense of yearning and how that has characterised me, if not the others of my family. I should not speak for them. But I do recognise a feeling that home may be always just out of reach, and that the best part of me is somewhere else, over that distant hill. Walking . . .

  Enough. I have gone on far too long. But do you know, I didn’t realise any of this until I sat down to reply to you? So thanks for prompting me, Antonio. I’m grateful to have learned something. What a teacher you are for me.

  Now. Nuts and bolts!

  Please come to our place on the 13th. Around 7 if that suits? What a treat.

  Ailsa

  Dear Ailsa,

  Your reflections on your return to the Gascoyne set my mind racing about the importance of the desert in the Australian imagination. Your trip to the family home, in all of its grim reality, is returning to face your lost story. It’s a journey of sterling courage. You must write more about what it means to you.

  There’s an ancient biblical belief that the genuine prophet comes from the desert. There is also the belief that the worst of our acquisitive culture is the product of most Australians clustering around the coast, backs turned away from the mystery of this immense continent. We will only find the energy to build a future if we turn to face that mystery and find within it our deliverance. Don’t waste that experience. Write about it.

  Just been caught up with your book, snatching some time in a heavy day. It’s simply delicious. Enjoying it all over again.

  And here’s a little twist! As I read, I realised I too had been in the Camino town of El Ganso—and not only that, I was in their famous Cowboy Bar! Mine was a riotous night spent with Germans who spoke no English—and my German is limited to auf wiedersehen. After a night of singing songs with these new friends—isn’t it extraordinary how music can transcend boundaries, even the lack of language?—and being plied with Grappa by our ebullient host, I ended the night dancing with him cheek to grizzled cheek in the middle of the restaurant. Entirely disgraceful behaviour for a serious pilgrim.

  Happy days.

  Tony

  Tony,

  I’ve woken this morning feeling sick at heart as I hear of the latest developments into abuse within the Catholic Church. More and more I ponder your words—and wonder how you live within an institution that has failed so many, so badly. Are you coping? Do you have strategies in place? I know that faith does not lie in the Church or the clergy—that it lies elsewhere. But to have lived your life within those structures must cause enormous pain as you read of these events. I have no wish to make you speak of any of it now. Only to offer my support and a little empathy.

  Much to discuss. Always. I’d better start peeling some onions for your dinner.

  Ailsa

  DEAR READER ,

  As you’ll have gleaned from our letters, a Melbourne publishing house had invited Ailsa and me to speak about our separate experiences of walking the Camino, in its conference room in Mulgrave. Seemed like a good idea, even though I had only met Ailsa on that one previous occasion in Sydney. Should be fun, I thought.

  On the day of the talk I was greeted by an avalanche of press headlines about the incidence of sexual abuse of children within the Catholic Church, and the issue of cover up. Photographs of George Pell, the Archbishop of Sydney at the time, were everywhere and the story of his less-than-enthusiastic response shouted out from every newsagency. I felt sick.

  Here I was far away from home about to address an unfamiliar audience—as a priest, in the midst of a media firestorm. I spent the afternoon preparing a statement about the seriously damaged victims of this abuse and about the deep confusion that I felt. A few minutes before the programmed talk, and with little conviction, I showed my statement to Ailsa and our host. My speaking partner gently suggested I jettison the prepared words and just speak my mind and my heart. The notes were torn up.

  The room was packed. A camera and lights were set up to video stream the event
. A few friends were present, but mostly people I didn’t know. To move straight into the night’s topic—the Camino—without first addressing the day’s headlines, seemed impossible—and frankly, irresponsible. But what to say?

  There was nothing new for me about the issue, of course. But the day’s press barrage reopened scarcely closed wounds. I had made such statements before—in Sydney’s Cathedral, in local parishes. This night was somehow different. Looking carefully at the people in the intimacy of that packed room I wondered which of them had suffered the crime of abuse? Which of them had members of their family scarred by this vicious epidemic? These questions always haunt me. I will never know.

  And then there are the perpetrators. Sometimes the only response we can muster for such people is to lock them up and throw away the key. Take them out in a boat and drop them in the ocean. And yet there is the cruel irony that some of those worst criminals have been the hapless victims of abuse themselves. And so there is this incredible spiral of evil, circling round and round, self-perpetuating in some form of hideous spreading stain.

  In this era in which the recurrence of saying ‘sorry’ reduces the act to cliché, how can one find language that doesn’t get lost in the trite and banal, and is genuine enough to frame an authentic apology? How could I compose anything meaningful on behalf of myself, as well as those priest colleagues of mine who have crashed on the jagged rocks of abuse? Would my heart be steady enough to give birth to words honest and healing enough? My script was ripped up. I was far from relaxed.

  Taking a deep breath, I confessed to my feelings of deep turmoil and bewilderment, and my utter disgust at the damage done to young people; at a wound that has crippled their lives and their sense of who they are, right into adulthood and old age. There are mid-age adults I’ve met whose lives have been shredded.

  I spoke about my own response, and my sense of shame and inadequacy. After my effort to put these feelings into words I concluded: ‘I want to express from colleagues of mine to all of you here, personally, a deep and sincere apology from my small part in the Church, entirely heartfelt, for those of you who have experienced abuse in one form or another.’

  It was not perfect grammar. It was not elegant. But it was an attempt to meet people from the honesty of my own turmoil.

  Eventually we directed the night’s conversation to Ailsa’s book Sinning Across Spain. What does it mean to carry someone else’s sin?

  Tony

  Just a postscript . . .

  Paedophilia in our society is widespread and prevalent. The figures are stunning. It is not, I believe, a celibate disease; not a gay disease; nor a married disease. Not a male disease. Not a female disease. It is a disease pure and simple, like alcoholism. It cuts across all boundaries and it plays no favourites. It is a sickness, the effects of which cannot be understated.

  DEAR READER ,

  The night before our public talk, Tony and his friends Justine and Paul came to dinner with Peter and me. They arrived amid much mirth—Tony had forgotten my house number, and Paul wandered up and down the street calling my Scottish name to the stars! There was, however, a more sombre moment after the introductions. Pete entertained the others while I took five minutes with Tony to speak about the shape of our talk and the announcement of the Royal Commission.

  I was aware of him feeling ‘out of place’. In the time since, I’ve witnessed the depth of his connection to his congregation and his community in Sydney. He wanted to be with them, I think—to care for them, but also to be supported by them. His sense of responsibility to them has always impressed me, as has the mutual affection I’ve witnessed between him and his parishioners.

  Of course, he was among friends in Melbourne, old and new. And, despite everything, we laughed. The other guests were the children of his oldest friends. Paul was an actor, so there were many shared connections for us, and Justine was a warm and witty companion. The love between them was tangible in their teasing and easy banter, but I knew Tony was shaken. It was hard to see, just as it was the next night when he spoke from his heart to the audience. I admired him enormously for the way he was determined to face the issue at dinner, before and during our in-conversation and, subsequently, with his community in Sydney.

  One thing that I can’t agree on is Tony’s contention that saying ‘sorry’ has become somehow ubiquitous—or devalued. My perception is entirely the opposite. Whether it be John Howard’s insistent refusal to apologise to the Stolen Generations, many religious leaders’ withholding of apologies for abuse, or James Hardie’s protracted ‘no’ to asbestos victims—we are given examples on all sides, from the highest in the land, that saying sorry is not ‘best practice’. It’s as though something cataclysmic will ensue from a simple act of humility and responsibility. In the words of the pop singer Elton John—sorry seems to be the hardest word.

  As to the statistics Tony quotes, well I have a theory there, too. I welcomed the Royal Commission. Like many people, particularly those living in Victoria where we had been mired in hearings for some time, I was keen to see the issues brought out into the open. I suspect such a commission might only ever have been possible under the prime ministership of Julia Gillard, who was not in any way beholden to a faith group.

  But therein lies a twist for me. The Commission has become a kind of diversion for some. There are people for whom it has become convenient to sheet home all abuse to institutions. For as long as we can point a finger and say that this darkness exists only there, in that quarter, we can turn our eyes away from the more abhorrent fact, which is that the majority of abuse happens in family homes.

  I have no idea about why or what creates abuse of children. It is unthinkable to me, wherever it occurs. But I will not delude myself into believing that it only happens in institutions run by Catholics, Anglicans, Salvos or evangelicals or in the showbiz or sporting worlds. Or that it happens only at the hands of people of a particular sexual orientation. Abuse is happening everywhere.

  I still have to strive to find compassion for perpetrators, but I hope that perhaps I’m a little more able to see some of the complexities of the issue as a result of the stories from readers of my book, and of my dialogue with Tony. Having to listen across a broken fence, to someone who appeared to be ‘the enemy’, has taught me much. Sometimes I wish I could take the easy option and speak of ‘them and us’ about abuse, but that doesn’t advance anyone. Better to ask ‘how and why’. At least that way there might be a chance for change. For understanding.

  I love that phrase about living in hope. I still do.

  Ailsa

  Dear Tony,

  My head is buzzing. So much to talk about after tonight.

  Firstly, thank you for your gracious steering of the conversation. Also for accepting my suggestion to ditch the reading you’d prepared, and to speak from your heart. Your humility, confusion, and sorrow spoke more directly than any received wisdom might have. I don’t think people were ready for considerations of the future. It was a relief to hear someone from within the Church speak without spin. I was grateful for that, and was moved by the ensuing conversation, and by the personal stories people told me afterwards.

  So much grief and damage.

  Fly safe. And thank you again for instigating something that was so affecting—and useful, I hope. My great wish, to be useful.

  I didn’t expect to sleep tonight, but I think a shift occurred by virtue of sharing stories, and now I’m longing for the pillow.

  Hope your eyes close.

  Ailsa

  Dear Tony,

  I’m looking at a photo of us in conversation, sent to me after last night—you in full flight in your pink shirt and me gazing at you with rapt attention!—and I’m reminded of how much our meeting has meant to me. I still have that feeling of having known you before, even though I am conscious you are new to me.

  I trust you will make quiet time for yourself. I was acutely aware of your pain and ‘confusion’—as you named it. It didn’t look
like that, and doesn’t show in the photo, but one never knows what is inside another.

  I will be taking long walks this weekend. Three days, three to five hours each day. I will walk with you in my thoughts.

  Ailsa

  Ailsa,

  Firstly, the touching and precious gift of the camino shell you collected at Finisterre, accompanied by your lovely note. Thanks. It was the perfect conclusion to an exceptional night. (I will beat down the frisson of guilt that rises in me that I arrived empty-handed.)

  Ailsa, your elegance of mind and breadth of heart made a great impact on everyone there—no less than on your oh-so-fortunate conversation partner. I felt so much ‘at home’ with you sitting on my little Andy Williams stool. And the readings were riveting.

  Feeling a little brittle this afternoon. But that too will pass.

  Happy days.

  Tony

  PS The new blog post is thoughtful (as usual) and full of insight.

  Dear Tony,

  I’m relieved you are home and will take a breather. I’ve been glad to retreat into my cave. I found our night energising, but also enervating—the push-pull of the extrovert exterior and introvert interior, coupled with the stories I heard.

  Now . . .

  No guilt frissons, please. The impulse to give that shell to you rose from a sense that our connection is important for me, and because it came via the Camino, that holy and unholy road.

  Thank you for your generous words. I think we shared an intention for the night, and were prepared to look after each other and, where possible, everyone else in the room. Yes, exactly—‘at home.’

  Put your slippers on and pop your feet up. But avoid the pipe.

  Ailsa

  Ailsa,

  No slippers tonight. No pipe ever.

  A little sobering, but sometimes it seems my life is surrounded by dead and dying people. And do you know, being with them is often strangely satisfying?