On a Mission from Melbourne

I've agonised about whether or not this piece belongs here, but I've decided that it's a valid part of parenting and what happens to children, to parents and to the extended family when things go wrong.

Within walking distance of Bondi Beachhouse YHA, is Bondi Beach. Lush plants and tree lined streets surround us and refreshing sea breezes make it an idyllic holiday spot for my son David and me. But we’re not in holiday mode; we are on a mission from Melbourne. For several weekends each year it’s our little world; David’s, his children, Dezzy and Rachel, and mine. 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 four 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.

But it isn’t the building or its surrounds that matters, or even the free surfboards and snorkelling gear on offer that counts; it’s the constant that the place represents. Lilla works behind the check-in counter and gives our Pearlie girls access to computer games. David sets up some boppy music on his mobile phone, and when she’s not kayaking or leading a fun run, Sam the day manager joins Dave and the Pearlies for a twirl around the foyer. Yuki, when she’s not swimming with sharks or dolphins makes the place shine. Corrinne, who is Yuki’s colleague, says ‘bonjour’ to the girls and sometimes joins them at the common room table to have a chat. Steve the handyman keeps the place going; he’s friendly and staunchly loyal to the place. Steve takes the girls’ questions seriously and responds in kind. Once upon a time there was James, but he went back to England; Brad has gone off to Ireland with his girl Orla, and Andrew the travel bug comes and goes depending on his finances. It’s 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 David 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. David 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 Sue 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, Dave 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. I’ve been known to bring along an electric hand mixer to bake birthday cakes. Last year I baked Dezzy’s cake on the hostel’s commercial oven two days before her birthday. Sam always has little gifts for the girls and makes sure they feel special; and last year, Corrinne, conducted dozens of visitors in a cheery happy birthday sing-song for Dezzy.

Dave and I set our alarms for quarter past four. I haul my aching bones out of bed at three thirty and make some coffee; Dave 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. David brings the girls down from their upstairs flat. 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 Dave 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. Dave 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 David 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.