Our stay at Avoca Beach is mixed. We love the surf, the inland waterways, the walks through iconic national park, the friendliness of the local people. We walk to a tiny waterfront village called Wagstaff and chat easily to the people passing by, learning much about the area, including the fact that 7 out of 10 properties here are holiday houses.
Then there’s the Central Coast Symphony Orchestra and a very entertaining concert in Wyong’s Art House Theatre; the tiny Avoca Beach cinema where we watch ‘Living’ with Bill Nighy; the numerous art galleries and quirky clothes shops. This is a place, with its combination of environmental beauty, cultural activities and benign climate, that could tempt us to stay in Australia. But the huge positives of the Central Coast are somewhat countered by an evening with my second youngest sister, Janie, who lives nearby.
It’s an unavoidable fact that some of my sisters have ‘issues’ with me that I can’t quite fathom. Perhaps, it’s simply that I’m the one that got away. As the absent sister, I’m acutely aware that I must tread carefully in matters of my mother. I try hard to see all perspectives, to take a balanced view, offer sympathy and support to those more involved in her ongoing care, give Mum holidays when I can, which isn’t, I know, often enough (although she’s sometimes stayed for months).
But while sympathising with my sisters, I also, cautiously, try to be a distant advocate for this person, our mother, who is now a frail elderly woman with little control over her own life. After Janie and her husband visit us at our rental flat, something I’ve looked forward to, I realise that this is at the root of the ‘issues’. Somehow, this advocacy is interpreted as betrayal and sadly, after an hour or so of lecturing from a sister who I haven’t seen in years and who is admittedly very drunk, I gather that she wants nothing more to do with me. This takes just a little dealing with.
Each morning at first light, the surfers are out on the water, sitting astride their boards, rising and falling on the distant swell. As we watch them over cups of tea, we begin to work out the dynamics of the ‘good’ wave, the necessary qualities that dictate the choice of this wave over that. Later, as we walk to the beach for a swim, we fall into conversation with one of those early-morning surfers who explains that getting out at dawn gives him a couple of hours on the waves before starting work. It’s no wonder he looks so fit and glowing with health.
Having explored the area to our satisfaction, we head south back to Belrose in Sydney, where we’ll be house and cat-sitting for the next ten days. On our arrival, we’re greeted by the youngest daughter who, having politely introduced herself, immediately launches into explanations about the care of her cat. Her mother, Yael, appears and speaks to her gently but firmly in Hebrew. One doesn’t need to understand the language to know she is being told to ‘calm down and give these people a chance to come into the house, for goodness sake.’
The family are charming and welcoming and, while we digest information about the bins and the wifi, we’re offered all sorts of delicious food left from their Passover meal of the night before, notably cheesecake and fishballs (Gefilte Fish), made by Guy. At the mention of fishballs, the older daughter wrinkles her nose. ‘They’re very controversial,’ she says with teenage sophistication. ‘Do you mean in the family?’ I ask.
‘In the family and in the whole country!’ she exclaims, laughing. And her mother adds, ‘I’m the only one who likes them,’ and smiles. ’Guy’s vegetarian so he makes them just for me.’ In the evening, we sample the fishballs and I can confirm that they’re absolutely delicious. Adrian and I are definitely on the Yael side of that particular controversy.
