Search previous New York articles -    Index   Previous Letter   Next Letter

Next Letter ---->

The Two Marys

Back in Australia I knew two very different Marys. The mothers of two friends. Related by the marriage of their children, my two friends. Two mothers-in-law to a couple I still know well.

The phrase 'chalk and cheese' comes to mind, for never were two Marys with so much in common - being both in-laws to the one couple - so different.

The wife's mother, Mary P was born somewhere in Eastern Europe - in which country I cannot say, as the village where she came from has changed countries many times over the centuries. Suffice it to say it was in Eastern Europe, and like so many other migrants, Mary P brought this little piece of Europe with her, to a small country town in Australia.

Time stood still for Mary P. She continued to bottle fruit, grow vegetables, clean her cottage and to worry about her children. Life for Mary P - whether it be in her home village, the labor camp in Germany where she spent the latter part of World War II, or in the bush in Australia - was a battle and a worry. For Mary P, being alive was synonymous to being worried. If it wasn't one thing, it was the other.

The husband's mother - Mary S - was a different kettle of fish altogether. No Ukrainian headscarves, floral dresses, aprons and work-boots for her. She'd stride around in tweed skirts and twin-sets from Georges and was British to the T. No faltering English escaped Mary S's mouth, her red lipsticked mouth with the stiff upper lip. Instead she sounded rather like Penelope Keith in "To the Manor Born".

In the mornings Mary S could be seen taking her constitutional in the old-money Melbourne suburb of Toorak, wearing sensible brogues, and nodding to shopkeepers who she looked upon as 'tradesmen'. In the afternoons, while Mary P was bottling fruit and vegetables for the impending famine, Mary S would enjoy tea and scones that she'd bought at the local bakery. Cooking was just not her thing. She'd then take time off to tackle the day's cryptic crossword and late afternoon, her old (in both senses of the word) lover would drop by. And yes, he really did smoke a pipe.

In the evenings Mary P would phone her children to see what disasters had befallen them and say 'Thanks to god,' when she heard them answer the phone. They were still alive! In the evenings Mary S would have her tottering old lover pour the first of the evening's many G and T's, and phone her son to discuss the answers to the day's Times crossword puzzle.

At times, a family occasion would bring the two Mary's together. I'd love watching and listening to them.

"How are you, Mary?" Mary S would ask in her brisk and British voice.

"I sick! I very sick!" would be Mary P's unfailing answer.

Mary S - "What bad luck! But do look at our darling grandchildren playing so happily in the garden!"

Mary P - "I think something wrong with girl one. Maybe she sick. And boy not grow enough. I worried day and night. Not sleep."

And so it would go on, every time.

My friend, the daughter of Mary P, would smile. We'd drink some wine together and pour Mary S another gin. Perhaps a mutual friend would drop by. "Meet my mother," my friend would say. "She sick, very sick", and we'd all laugh.

How I love the predictability of people. The comfort of the familiar. The ordinariness of them. It provides a certain stability in an otherwise unstable world.

Now far way in America, I miss the two Marys. And my good friends, their children. But there's always a silver lining they say. And they are right.

Now I call my friend on the telephone. Our own children have now grown up. Even if I were still in Melbourne, there'd be no family occasions with the two Marys and the little children, the babies - our offspring. Our children are young adults. But there is still continuity and predictability enough, to maintain my faith in the human race.

My friend is now about the same age as her mother, Mary P, was when I first met her. The same age. And more than that ...

I call my friend in Australia. She picks up the phone.

"How are you, J?" I ask.

"Oh I'm sick, VERY sick," she answers.


Till next time,
Kate Juliff
New York
January 2006