Neil Varcoe was a tech executive in Sydney until he bought an old hotel in Carcoar, NSW, population 272. Here’s the seventh instalment of his monthly column for Galah.
We’re doing well, thanks for asking. The clouds have parted, and the overwhelming feeling is deep and profound gratitude: gratitude for catching Edwina’s cancer early, gratitude for living in a time when gentler gene therapies exist, gratitude for the world’s biggest group hug, and gratitude for our “beautiful distraction”.
A girl with a bow in her hair appears at the foot of the bed like an apparition. She steps forward, meekly, into the grey light of early morning. It’s 6am — too early for talk and too late for ghosts. It’s Molly, and she’s here to see that I make good on a promise.
“Da-da,” she says in a whisper, the words dancing in the air.
“Yes, sweetheart,” I reply, rallying myself awake.
“Is it time to go to the cafe yet?”
“It can be, absolutely — let’s do it.”
I sit upright and notice she has her best dress on. Her hair is brushed into submission, the wildness is gone. Molly hates brushing her hair. The gesture swells my heart to fill my chest. She did this for me.
My dad spent 12 hours each day down a hole. He was a coal miner in Lithgow, hard and dangerous work now — deadly then. The year before I was born, an uncle was killed in a mining collapse. He is remembered by my name, Neil.
One of my earliest memories is of my mother putting my sister and me to bed when the front door clicked open. The bedtime routine was done; Mum had just left. The curtains glowed dimly with the day’s final light.
I creep to the bedroom door and crack it open slightly, and peer out. Dad is in the hall, his shoulders low, cowed by the day. He moves towards the door to look in on us — I tear away to my bed and dive under the covers. A lamp glows a dirty yellow in the corner. Dad pulls a book off the shelf — a thick volume of Little Golden Books.
“C’mon, then,” he says, knowing full well I’m awake. I leap out of bed and slam myself down on his lap. His hands turn the pages, stained with coal dust. Warm honey runs through my body. Love can feel like honey.
The idea I’ve wrestled with daily since moving away from my family to build a dream for them in the country is: How will it affect my relationship with my children, Molly (4) and Tom (2)? Will I hurt them in some way by being away?
I remind myself that my father spent half the day down a hole. I imagine that he barely saw me in those early years — gone before I woke, home after I was asleep. Bedtime stories were a rare event. And he was my best friend in the world.
To quote me, “It’s quality time, not quantity time”, but there are tricks to being a Fi-Fo Dad.
It’s time for me to return to Carcoar, and Molly is as angry as a bag of cats. She asked for a cuddle and won’t let go. Nanny Meg tries to pull her from my arms. Molly clings and wails and swipes. My heart shatters into a thousand pieces. There has to be a better way to do this. I think about it all the way to Carcoar.
Now, when I arrive in Sydney, I tell the kids how long I’ll be with them and what we’ll do when I’m in town. I largely log off from work. This is family time. I also tell them why I’m leaving — so that they know that it’s something important, something for them:
“I need to go to the farm to check on the highland cattle”; “I'm off to Carcoar to help Aaron with the hotel”; “I'm working so that we can all be together soon”.
“So, I’ll be here until Friday,” I say as my bag slumps to the floor. “Then I’ll go back to the hotel to help Aaron.” They nod intently.“We have lots of fun things to do this week — we’re going to see Spot at the theatre. If there are things you would like to do, just let me know.”
Molly tilts her head — the way she does when she’s thinking. Tom replies, “Park!”
It’s the night before I head out, and Molly is at the foot of the bed as I pack my gear. “Da-da,” she says in a way that sounds like ta-dah!
“Yes, honey, what’s up?”
“Can we go to the cafe before you go, tomorrow? The one you used to take me to when I was a baby?” I know the one: Sideways Deli Cafe.
“Sure, honey, I’d love that — we’ll have to bring Tom, too. We can go to the park afterwards.”
She nods, recognising a compromise — she’d prefer to have me to herself.
Immaculately dressed, Molly makes colour creations out of playdough between mouthfuls of pancake. Tom has the chaotic energy of a kid who found the birthday lolly bar too early. A bottle of water tips over. It glugs apologetically as Tom makes a break for the door. An elderly woman smiles knowingly at me. It might be time for the park.
After the park, Tom takes a nap. Molly was good about sharing her time with him, but it sat uneasily. I ask if she’d like to go to the bookshop with me and grab a milkshake afterwards. Her face explodes into a wide smile.
I choose Juice by Tim Winton, my favourite Australian author and a hero of mine. Molly wanders around the children’s book section, making a case for more than the one book that I promised. We create a shortlist — by laying them on the floor. I agree to three. I’m so proud of the person she is I could burst. I’d lasso the moon for her if she asked.
We bag the haul and head next door for a shake. We read a book aloud: Mr Chicken Arriva a Roma. The noisy cafe falls silent. The people fade away. It’s just me, Molly and Mr Chicken.
We return home. Molly waves at me from the verandah, then hurries inside to play. This feels better. I feel better. I leave them with an easy feeling in my chest.
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