Family Territory

Family Territory
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday October 26, 2013

Sometimes, a two hour drive is all it takes to turn humdrum to holiday.

“How about a romantic weekend away?” my Lothario whispers across his pillow, our love life handicapped by the three-year-old octopus suckered between us.

“Just a couple of days hey?” he murmurs. “Somewhere exotic. By the beach.  Away from all this.”

I could have kissed him. Instead, my arm is paralysed by the dead weight of a sleeping child’s leg-tentacle flopped across my chest.

“Promise?” I whisper back.

“No” comes the reply, “but the weekend after next I have to go to my high school reunion in Bunbury. I’ve booked us all into the Lord Forrest hotel.”

Those who remember Alan Bond will recall his gift to Bunbury: a five storey shiny white high-rise with a single porthole window skewered through its pointy apex.  Driving into town last weekend, Bondy’s tower loomed over the back beach like the snout of a white pointer. Its dark porthole eye followed me all the way to the hotel carpark.

“It doesn’t look like a shark, dopey!”  says my husband. “It’s supposed to look like the prow of a ship!”

“Well I say it’s a shark!” (much like its owner in 1983).   

So here I am at the Lord Forrest, sitting on a plastic patio chair by the side of the once-famous atrium pool, staring up at the hanging gardens of Bunbury (devil’s ivy).

“Mum!” cries my 6 year old. “There’s a bridge! And pretend rocks! And a waterfall! And look! You can see through the roof!”

Outside the rain is sheeting down, but my children are intoxicated by their first taste of three-and-a-half star luxury. Small son plays hopscotch on the crazy paving, mindful not to step on the cracks. Then he discovers a blue button in the wall and leaps in fright when the spa gurgles to life. His sister flaps her inflatable orange arms and paddles over to the pretend-rock steps for a closer look.

The pool gate swings open and in walks a portly bloke in baggy shorts, flanked by two primary-school-aged granddaughters.

The girls leap into the water and the granddad settles himself at the only poolside table – mine.

“Nice day for swimming!” he says and we laugh politely.

I can see through the lobby windows a row of date palms flailing in the squall outside.  

“Frank!” he says, by way of introduction, and pumps my hand. “Travelled far?”

“Just from Perth. It’s my husband’s 30-year school reunion tonight. He’s up in the room deciding which side to part his hair.”

“Ha!” he snorts. “We’re holidaying close to home this time. My wife has a sore hip. We’re doing the wineries, sixteen of us.”

“Sixteen?” I say, thinking he must be on a tour.

“Yeah, the whole family. We do all our holidays together – two daughters, their husbands, my son, his wife, the grandkids – 11 of them.”

I must look incredulous because he adds: “Yep, we’re the Griswald clan. We travel in convoy. We need five cars – the eldest grandkid is 19 and they tail down to three.”

“Wow!” is all I can manage.

“Yeah, we’ve seen the world all right. Last year we went on a cruise through the Caribbean, we did Greece and Turkey before that. We’ve gone from one side of America to the other. Sometimes we take up four rows on the plane.”

“Why?” (I feel a hermit by comparison). “Doesn’t everyone want to do their own thing?”

“Sometimes. But this way, the kids learn how to be part of a tribe. We learn about them. I can tell you, that one there…” – he points to the elder girl in the pool – “she’s only nine but she’ll do anything for anyone. Her cousin, she’s six -smart as a whip. Best speller in her class.”

I see the pride on his face. He shrugs at me and grins, as if all families are like his.

I try to picture my family, en masse, checking in at Air Bulgaria. All those niggling, squawking personalities trying to control proceedings: dominators, peace-makers, martyrs. Didacts, autocrats, me –  dreaming of an upgrade.

“Is it relaxing?” I ask.

“Most of the time. Neutral territory helps. We use these holidays to catch up on everyone. I want to know what the young ones are thinking, how they see the world. In return, we tell the grandkids all the old family stories – remind them how they got here.”

I wonder if I tell my children enough about their past. Do they understand the world had its own momentum before they arrived? That they belong to something bigger than themselves?

Frank’s grand-daughters have climbed out of the pool and are shivering. He stands up and hands them each a towel.

“What’ll we do now, Granddad?”

“Let’s go and see what the others are up to!” He winks at me, then raises his hand in a gentlemanly salute: “You can never separate who you are from where you’re from.”

And with that, the pool gate clangs shut behind them.