Giving love a second chance

The yawning gap between them spans 51 years. Margaret Chambers' (not her surname) hair is the colour of snow. His, at 17, is jet black. They could be grandmother and grandson, but that seems unlikely.

Margaret's skin competes with her hair. It's hard to say which is fairer. Joseph's (not his real name) skin tones do justice to the term ‘cinnamon'. Joseph's well-exercised arms force the sleeves of his t-shirt to ride up a bit. One can tell at a glance that he's a fit young man.

Margaret is as fit as she can be although she carries her cane with her for good measure. She has suffered from a mild arthritic complaint which disappeared after she went on a course of medication prescribed by the great Dennis Lillee, who himself limped down that avenue once.

Joseph has the trolley, manoeuvring it through the daytime shoppers, and together they are headed to Woolworths, the supermarket in their suburb. "Pears," says Margaret, over the general hubbub, "we mustn't forget the pears. And then some Gorgonzola. The Marsala's waiting at home. Now there's something to look forward to after dinner, eh Joe?"

"Yes, nan. How's your blood sugar doing by the way?"

"Oh, top of the world, son, top of the world. Six point four. Nothing to be alarmed by. This evening we celebrate."

What is Margaret celebrating? It isn't Christmas. Actually, it isn't even Margaret's festival. But hang on, that's not entirely accurate. It is in a sense hers as well now. She has made it that way.

Nine years and counting. Carla, her eldest daughter, is now married and living in Belgium with her cartoon-making husband of two years. Jan, the younger one, is a nurse. George of course, her dear husband, passed on last year.

"I must have been an obnoxious kid when I first arrived," Joseph says. "I used to run away from school, sit for hours in the park and simply stare into space. At nights I'd slip out unnoticed, head to the same park and fall asleep on a hard bench. I was totally confused.

"I was upset at being separated from something familiar even though it was an abusive situation I know, even though I was receiving no love or affection. But boy did nan and George, my adopted parents, show faith in me."

Moving story

That — at a seminar on foster care — was one of Joseph's longest explanations of how he feels personally inside.

Today, there's an unusually long line at the supermarket although they have indeed procured pears at a specially discounted price. Later, these same pears will be pared carefully, cut in quarters, poached briefly then allowed to stew in a bath of Marsala which will itself metamorphose into a syrupy quality. Chopped walnuts will be thrown into the Marsala and afterwards, after dinner has been consumed, when the pears are served on white quarter plates, a generous wedge of Gorgonzola will accompany the fruit. And in this way another festive occasion will be acknowledged.

"From day one," says Joseph, "George and nan decided that all my festivals would become theirs as well and all their occasions such as Christmas would be introduced to me. Nothing was ever forced on me but Carla and Jan, when they still lived here, used to tell me how much they learned about my own religion after I came to them.

"It's amazing how much respect everybody had for everybody else. I will always miss my blood, my biological bonds, sure, but I'm really one of the lucky ones ... and what I've learned from this chance life has given me is simply … awesome."

Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.