We soon grew to fill the space of our new home. The children, especially Tom, loved the garden. He could now practise his ball-hitting outside, 24/7 if he wanted to. We had a dining area for socialising and a rather big kitchen, perfect for when Li made his mother’s dumplings. He would stand for hours rolling the dough into long tubes, then slicing and rolling them into thin circles. He was just happy to see everyone having a good time while he waited on our guests. What a joy that was, especially for me. I think my years of toasting ten loaves of bread and peeling forty potatoes for the McKendry clan really did spoil cooking for me.
One day, Sophie came home from school and handed me a note. ‘We ’ave conert, Mum,’ she said.
I read the note. A music concert. And my heart lifted. She was to be part of the school’s end-of-year concert. ‘Oh, Sophie. That will be such fun!’ I told her.
The one thing we had always carried heavy in our hearts was that Sophie would never know the beauty of music – the sound that filled our lives. So when she played the cello, it was a joyous thing for us. We never would have dared to hope for more than that. She was actually getting enjoyment from it! ‘Sophie, it sounds beautiful,’ Li would tell her when she practised.
We went along to the school hall to watch Sophie play. I was amazed that she was rather calm. The music began: the magnificent ‘Ode to Joy’ by Beethoven. Because she was part of the orchestra, we watched like hawks to see if she was in time with the other cellists. We marvelled that she absolutely was. We didn’t really care about the sound. Instead we were simply thrilled that her bold, confident movements were in step with the other players. Li and I looked at each other in amazement. Although we had experienced some very special performances in our careers, watching Sophie perform like that, so confident and poised, was more satisfying than anything we had achieved.
Christmas soon followed and, as was now our tradition, we spent the holiday season in Brisbane and then at Rainbow Bay on the Gold Coast. But there was a massive sadness casting its shadow over us this year. Neil George’s emphysema was taking its toll. Our beloved father was really struggling to breathe, even with his oxygen tank in tow. He had very little energy and very little to say. Well, it was too hard for him to speak. Because of this, neither Mum nor Dad would join us at the beach this year.
Mum managed to look calm as usual, but we could see the situation was taking a toll on her, too. We rallied around to help when we could, but it was really devastating. The grandchildren would sit and play at Neil George’s feet. He’d giggle at them and they at him. He was always even-tempered and never a grumpy grandad. The thought that this might be our last Christmas together was something not one of the family could contemplate.
Life never stands still, and soon it was time for Bridie to start three-year-old kinder. Where had the time gone? The last of our three children was now out in the world. Bridie was as lively as ever. Kindergarten provided necessary structure for her while at the same time freedom to explore on the playground equipment. She didn’t socialise much but played a lot, mostly upside down on the monkey bars.
I felt guilty as Li and I were so incredibly busy and didn’t involve ourselves that much in Bridie’s kindergarten life. I tentatively told Li that she wanted us to help with her Show and Tell, and I suggested that he should make dumplings for her kindergarten class for Chinese New Year. ‘We have to do this for her,’ I said. I knew I could trust him to make this happen. The children would enjoy watching him roll out the pastry circles, stuff them with tasty fillings and then cook them in a boiling pot. It would be very special, I thought.
Bridie’s teacher, Ken, agreed. Li had to take along everything: flour to make the dough; Chinese cabbage, pork, ginger, green onions, oil and soy sauce for the filling; a rolling pin for making the pancakes; and a knife and wok. He showed the children how to make the dumplings and each of the twenty-five children made their own. But when they were boiled in water – disaster! Many of them fell apart. Luckily, Li had made some at home that he was able to cook instead.
He also told the children stories about Chinese New Year and the history of dumplings. He was a big hit. But the thing that he treasured most was seeing the pride on Bridie’s face to have her dad as the star at kinder that day. Ken said to Li afterwards, ‘Promise me you’ll come back next year.’
Around this time, we learned that Ross Stretton was to leave Australia to take up the artistic directorship at the Royal Ballet in London. The Australian Ballet needed a replacement, and Li was encouraged to apply. He had turned down a previous offer to run a ballet company overseas, but the Australian Ballet was a different proposition. Deep down, I’d always felt it was a great shame that he was no longer part of the art form that he was so incredibly passionate about. He still had so much to give. Despite never saying so, I knew he really missed the dance world. I believed he could be an excellent director. Stockbroking had added to his knowledge of business, which would only be an advantage.
We were both very excited about this new opportunity. We discussed the pros and cons and Li decided to go for it. He got into the last round of selection and spoke to me very seriously about the challenges he would face if he got the job, and the challenges I would face raising three children often on my own. ‘Mary, the touring commitment is huge. The sheer amount of performances would be overwhelming. Do you think we can manage? I will be away a lot.’
‘I know, but I think I can manage,’ I said. In my heart I knew that Li would be a wonderful leader, the kind who had vision, integrity, honesty and empathy. Once he put his mind to something, nothing could stop him.
Li was excited about the possibility of directing the Australian Ballet, and thought his final interview had gone well. A couple of hours before the official announcement, he received a call from the headhunter to discuss salary, his choice of assistant artistic director, and his referees. Right after that conversation, he phoned me. ‘Mary, it sounds like they may offer me the job. Are you sure you’re ready for this?’
‘Oh God.’ I took a deep breath and said, ‘Yes, I’m sure!’
But then, on the ABC radio news bulletin at noon, it was announced that they had chosen the then principal artist David McAllister as the new artistic director. It was a shock, to say the least. Of course we were happy for David, but to have come so far and to hear the news this way was devastating. We couldn’t believe it. It was too much to take in. Above all, I was terribly disappointed for Li and for what he could have done for the company. He would have been such an inspiration.
Poor Li was stunned, and subsequently fell into a slump. He was clearly going through some soul-searching. I had never seen him like this. The next weekend, he went to the garage to start building birdcages. Birdcages! Out of bamboo, Chinese style. I thought to myself, If a psychologist knew Li’s story, they’d have a field day.
Li was actually depressed. ‘Darling, are you all right?’ I asked him. He didn’t reply, just nodded. He has always been a doer and was looking for something to help him get over his disappointment. ‘But why birdcages?’ I said.
‘I always liked birds, ever since I was a child,’ he replied. ‘I want to make some nice cages and buy some beautiful birds, so they can live in comfortable homes. I’m sure we will get so much joy out of them.’