"Here is a gift" she said to me one day, as we sat on her balcony in a dying afternoon and she handed me a bottle of Chloe, my favourite at the time. "Try wearing this every day and not smoking. It will be amazing. You will no longer carry the fragrance of poison but one of light and life. There's no point in wearing perfume of course, if you are going to smoke."
"Thank you" I said.
"So quit smoking. Now."
"I shall try" I said with a smile.
I was in the latter stages of my second degree and in a phase of intellectual obnoxiousness. I showed up to lectures in short skirts, a fur coat, knee high boots of different colours, giant sunglasses. I was usually late and clutching a pile of paper and travel mug. My nickname amongst the 4th year girls was "short skirt girl" and it was not intended in a friendly way. "You've arrived" my gruff and mean but loveable criminal law professor used to say in front of the packed lecture theatre.
"Yes, its cool, you can start now" I replied one insouciant morning. He smiled despite himself and grappled with whether to serve up the rude or the playful. The game always became him. We had been playing it for a while now, ever since I wrote an article for the Law magazine entitled "John Blackwood and Madonna: Parallel lives" "Feel free to remove your sunglasses before gracing us with your presence. We were just discussing murder. None of you will ever defend a murder. We only have about 7 a year in Tasmania."
After the lecture I called her and we talked about the usual. What was interesting, what was going on, her friends that I liked, mum, my brother, university microcosm stuff.
"Grandma, Im coming home next weekend. I just booked a flight. But I have a lot of study to do and exams are the week after. Can I stay with you?"
"Of course. But does mum know about this? I know she'd love to see you."
"Yes, I will definitely see her. I just need to be somewhere really calm and peaceful and stable so I can study."
"Well why are you coming to Sydney?" she asked.
"I need to get away for a bit."
I arrived and Nicky picked me up. "I think you should go to your mum's first. She is really excited about seeing you. Please Caitlin"
"Ok" I resigned.
"Chicken Little! yelled my mum as I walked through the gate. It had been about 6 months and we were close.
"Hallo Bear" we hugged and it was an Eileen and Caitlin night where we stayed up till 4am talking about social digressions, intellectual vagrancies, morality, dream analysis, betrayal, love and life. And some neighbourhood gossip.
The next day I moved to Estelle's. We drank strong tea and painted our nails. She swirled tea leaves around and read their meaning. She told stories of love and travel and sacrifice, families and words, ritual and memory, enlightenment and human kind.
"So every time he picked me up I noticed that the left shoulder of his suit was shiny. I had to ask him one day. I couldn't help it." She said. "It turns out he was a professional pallbearer!" I laughed.
"I cant stay in it"" I said sadly at 2am one night as she did the cross word and made notes in the text book. "He makes me unhappy. I have to carry him. I cant do it anymore. Do his degree, write his essays, keep him sane, lie to his parents, apologise to his friends, organise the flights, carry the luggage, hold us up." I cried.
"Well then you have to leave" she said sadly. She told me a story about an argument with her husband where, back in the 50s she had asked for access to the cheque book. He said no, that's not a woman's place. He was a good husband but she was angry. She drew up a placard and marched up and down the streets with her sign which shouted "Ted Gillin does not give his wife access to the cheque book". The nice bit of the story is that he used to bring her flowers ever Sunday. And even during her protest as she would dress and locate her placard he would still appear with a bunch of flowers. She gained access to the cheque book after 3 weeks.
I woke one morning 3 or 4 days in to my study holiday to the usual pot of tea, grapefruit and toast and Estelle in a ninja -warlord green velvet dressing gown drinking out of her "University of Ottawa Grandma" mug.
"Come on" she said. "You look like a refugee. We're going shopping"
"Yeah but refugee is in Grandmama." I said playfully. "Its what everyone is wearing."
"Well then everyone is uncouth" she said.
I returned to Tasmania happy and sad. I had spent long nights studying, punctuated by cups of tea and conversations in the blue hours. We had laughed, I had cried. She had extolled the virtues of yoga, reading, perfume, quiet time. She had, once again and not for the last time, been my friend and confidant.
There were skins I had to shed, but I had to remember that someone loved me first.