Susan Francis - The Love That Remains: An extraordinary memoir about secrets, lifes shocking twists and unconditional love

First published in 2020

Copyright Susan Francis 2020

This memoir is a truthful recollection of actual events in the authors life. Some conversations have been recreated. The names and details of certain individuals have been changed to protect their privacy. In some cases, place names and dates have been altered for the same reason.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin

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Crows Nest NSW 2065

Australia

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Web: www.allenandunwin.com

ISBN 978 1 76087 672 2

eISBN 978 1 76087 346 2

Internal design by Post Pre-press Group

Set by Post Pre-press Group, Australia

Cover design: Christabella Designs

Cover images: Stocksy (blossoms); Bianca Van der Werf/Trevillion

Whats past is prologue.

William Shakespeare

For Di, because she kept faith.

And for my son, Jonno, who saved me.

Heres the story I promised I would tell you Wayneabout Aristophanes and his theory explaining love.

He believed that we were created as two individuals, attached back to back. Our separate faces looked in opposite directions, we shared four arms and four legs and we spent our beautiful days cartwheeling around the world without thought.

Then we became too happy for our own good: we assumed too much. The attempt to ascend to heaven was a step too fareven happiness had boundaries.

The gods took their revenge. They cleaved the one of us into two.

And now?

Now were forever destined to spend our life roaming the worldsearching for our soulmate: the other half of our true self.

Because its the only way we can be whole again

Granada, Spain, January 2015

I have a clear memory of Wayne throwing his arm about my shoulders, the weight of him fixing me where I stood. Despite the climb, I couldnt stop shivering, so he rubbed my hands, tried to warm me up. Easiest lesson I learnt that year was how bitter Spain is in wintertime.

Later, after hoisting my bags across a frozen puddle of water, I clambered after my husband as best I could. Till around another corner we emerged into weak sunlight, choosing a courtyarddandelions sprouting out of cracked cementin which to take a rest. Where we wiped cold noses and watched our breath freeze in front of our faces.

Yet even with the weather, the exhaustion, and a niggling instinct that whispered to me that wed lost our wayon that afternoon, wrapped in each others arms, we laughed into the silence. Even as we struggled to catch our breath, even as he kissed me full on the lips, one realisation was clear: wed made itthis was Granada!

Two feral cats arched on a window ledge, glowered at us, ready for flight. The larger one yowled and disappeared in an explosion of fur. I shivered, and tucked my hands deep into my duffle coat.

The echo of boots knocking against stone made me glance up. A wizened old man had appeared out of nowhere, his back bent in half from balancing a stack of firewood. The sun was low behind us and shadows lengthened the cobblestone path ahead, so we followed the Spaniard up the rise like he was the Pied Piper.

The passageway narrowed and I stretched my arms out, fingertips trailing the white walls of the rustic villas lined up side-by-side, next to the path. We were climbing through the original Arab quarter, famed for its labyrinth of stone corridors. Directly above us loomed the Alhambra: a castle created from red clay, built by the Muslims who dominated Andalusia during the early Middle Ages. I caught a glimpse of the snow-covered Sierra Nevada mountain range in the distance, sensed as much as saw the splendourand why the surrounding streets had been heritage listed. I listened to water splashing in the streams and spilling from the palace gardens.

But, bumping my suitcase over the stones, lungs burning, I couldnt keep up. I lagged behind Wayne. Lagged even further behind the Spaniard. Stumbling under a medieval archway, I watched my husband from a distance as he wrestled his bags up another steep ascent. The old Andalusian man had already vanished.

I told myself it was only for a moment. Leant back against a wrought-iron gate. Stared at a series of mosaic tiles set above a pair of wooden shutters on a house in front of me. My eyes traced the rooflineI straightened up and turned on my heels, wondering at the detail of designand a sign fixed to the oldest part of the citadel walls caught my attention.

Almanzora Alta, the street sign read.

Our street!

Wayne! I shouted. Wayne! I grabbed my luggage. I thrust it up a final flight of stairs. Up the hill of Al SabikahWayne now following me.

Then, abandoning everything we owned, we moved across to the outer edge of the pavementshifted from deep shadow onto a narrow outcrop of pale afternoon lightand a wide space of sky stretched before us. Behind us, nestled against the incline of the mountain, was a row of whitewashed houses, one of which, we already knew, was ours for the next twelve months. Our new home. Where we would sleep beside the borders of heaven.

Leaning over the wall that day, I was entranced by the plains rolling northwards, towards the unknown. And WayneWayne entranced mereaching for my hand with his sharp intake of breath.

Granada is amazing, Suz. Ive never seen anything like it.

I watched him shaking his head from side to side like he couldnt believe the scene hanging in front of us. Smiling, I lifted my face into the wind and the silence. We stood side-by-side. Still.

Then, raising an arm entwined in mine, he pointed to the other side of the gorge, where a maze of cottages speckled the hillside. Packed on top of each other, with marmalade roofs and squared-off windows, the opposite neighbourhoodthe Albaicinlooked like a medieval tapestry.

Green cypress trees reached between the buildings to the sky, straight as arrows, and between the dotting of houses and trees grew a clutch of cathedrals, mosques and monasteries. I could hear a thousand pigeons muttering in the arches and on the flagstones.

From the convent, down in the valley, a posy of bells started peeling. Looking back down over the rooftops, over the minarets, over the gilded domes of the mosque flashing in the sunlight, Wayne said, We made the right choice when we decided to come here, my love. Its going to be the best year of our lives; I promise you that. He curled his massive arm around my waist and drew me in, stretching his coat to encompass us both.

The past no longer matters. Till next January, everything is going to be just about you and me. The two of us, living in the moment.

And I believed him.

Through the winter and the spring, we rested against that wall, the view tempting us out each dayclucking birds strutting around our feet. The streets, the sights, the very air was exotic and plump with possibility. Wayne was with me and I thought our happiness was infinite.