The Grand Tour

by Olivia Wearne

  Mrs Bronson rinsed her mug and straightened the Wettex hanging across the tap. ‘I’m having her over for tea tonight. To see how the situation stands.’

  ‘Oh boy …’

  ‘Someone has to initiate the reconciliation.’ Mrs Bronson opened the door to the refrigerator and appraised its contents. ‘Won’t that be nice, Izzy?’ she brightly asked the fridge’s interior, as if Izzy was sitting at the back, beside the pickles. ‘Having your mum for dinner?’

  Izzy rolled off her knees, sinking onto the kitchen lino. She traced a finger around a square.

  Trent nudged her gently with his toe. ‘She misses you.’

  Izzy moved her finger back along the line and around the next square. If only she could believe him. She hadn’t been able to relax her stomach since the fire. Even when she reluctantly ate, the food sat on top of whatever it was balled up inside of her. She assumed she’d been dumped with Mrs Bronson because her mum didn’t want her anymore. She was pretty sure she wasn’t to blame but didn’t know for certain. When the police lady spoke to her, Izzy’s tongue kept sticking to the roof of her mouth and she had trouble getting her words out. She mentioned something about wet socks, all the while wriggling her bare toes inside her muddy boots.

  Mrs Bronson wrote cheese slices on the shopping list notepad affixed to the fridge. ‘You may as well eat up now, Trent. You’re not invited.’

  At six sharp, Mrs Bronson answered the door, her voice an octave higher as she announced Carol’s arrival. Izzy stood frozen to the spot, clutching her handful of cutlery, listening to the prattle drawing nearer—did the forks go to the left or the right of the plate? Mother and daughter locked eyes. Unlike Izzy, her mum hadn’t been ordered to take a bath before dinner. She looked even more shadowy than usual—her skin was blotchy and her hair sat flat against her scalp, as though it had been painted on.

  Carol accepted the glass of white wine that Mrs Bronson poured from a box and thrust at her. Izzy fill three glasses with water and lay them beside each place setting. She noticed her mother watching and hoped she was appreciating what a good helper she was being.

  ‘How’s that poor hand of yours?’ Mrs Bronson singsonged from the kitchen.

  ‘Still stings like hell. It was stupid of me to try and put out the fire. I wanted to save the rug—a mangy old shag thing passed down from my mum. I was beating at the flames, trying to save it like it was Persian silk.’

  Mrs Bronson came in with a plate of bread and butter. ‘The insurer says they’ll likely have to replace the cabin.’

  ‘Yeah? What about my stuff?’

  Without batting an eyelid, Mrs Bronson said, ‘It wasn’t your policy. Now, sit your bottoms down, you two, while I serve up the dinner.’

  Like petulant schoolgirls, Izzy and her mum hung back, each waiting for the other to sit first. Eventually, Izzy opted to slide into her usual seat, wary in case her mother took her spot. Her mum tossed a paper bag on the table before slumping down opposite. Izzy looked at the scrapbook, which had slid out of its sheath. The rag doll on the cover looked positively nasty—she couldn’t think why she’d ever liked it. Her throat closed over. She wanted to disappear. It was so horrible of her mum to bring that stupid scrapbook. Why’d she have to rub her nose in it? She scooped up the paper bag and dropped it under her seat where she wouldn’t have to see it. For a moment her mum appeared hurt and confused, then her look hardened. But that brief wounded expression made Izzy’s chest feel zipped up too tight.

  She noticed Mrs Bronson’s hand on her shoulder. A hankie was presented with instructions to blow her nose and dry her eyes. Izzy was surprised to find her chin was wet. She heaved, trying to catch her breath. Across the table, her mother had her head in her hand, pressing her eyes shut like she did when she was tired.

  ‘Come on, girls,’ Mrs Bronson murmured, ‘let’s have a nice dinner, shall we?’

  Almost all of Mrs Bronson’s food came in boxes out of the freezer, whereas Izzy was used to eating from tins. She thought the frozen stuff tasted better, especially the pies, which she smothered in tomato sauce, causing Mrs Bronson to remark, ‘You’re eating sauce with pie on the side.’ Izzy went for the sauce bottle now, dressing her fish and vegetable medley to stop it tasting anything at all like the original fish and vegetables. She glanced at her mum, wanting to make a joke about sauce with fish on the side. Maybe it would cheer her up? But her mother still had her head in her hand and she was frightened of disturbing her.

  Izzy realised she’d been too hasty. She put down the sauce bottle and grimaced at Mrs Bronson in apology. She placed her hand into her hostess’s awaiting palm. Mrs Bronson tapped Carol on the shoulder and gestured with a little flap of her fingers, insinuating she’d like the use of the hand currently supporting her forehead. Carol wearily reached out to clasp hands, her head hunched over her shoulders like a sulky bird of prey. Mrs Bronson dipped her chin to imply that Izzy should take her mother’s other hand. Izzy shook her head urgently and directed her eyes toward the bandages. Mrs Bronson sucked in her lips and elected not to pursue the matter. She started in on the mealtime prayer. Immediately, Izzy’s mum’s head snapped up. She stared daggers at Mrs Bronson, who continued thanking the Lord for all their blessings, not least among them the dinner they were about to eat.

  Izzy had never prayed before coming to stay here and wondered if her mum was gawking like that because she’d never done it before either. The formality came as little surprise to Izzy. There were so many rules and regulations in the adult world, it seemed only natural you should to have to thank someone before being able to eat (she was made to wash her hands here as well). To begin with, the prayer had been something of an enjoyable curiosity, like watching people sing the national anthem on TV. After a couple of days she’d grown tired of the routine, especially at breakfast, when her Froot Loops were getting soggy.

  Before Mrs Bronson had even finished saying amen, Izzy’s mum snatched her hand away.

  Mrs Bronson sighed. ‘It’s natural for you to be feeling angry toward the Lord right now, but you must understand he does everything for a reason.’

  Izzy pricked her ears, eager to finally learn what the reason might be. Her mum laughed in a way that sounded like someone had cupped a hand over her mouth.

  ‘Ingrid, you can believe whatever you want, but we both know it was an accident. Accidents and coincidences—you don’t have to attribute it all to Him.’

  Mrs Bronson was nodding like a jack-in-the-box, but Izzy had been around her long enough to know she wasn’t happy. ‘You need to be patient. Jesus is testing you and if you come through this, you’ll be all the stronger for it.’

  Her mum pushed back her chair. ‘I came for a meal not a sermon.’

  Mrs Bronson gave a snuffle of annoyance, folding her arms beneath her sagging bosom and hitching it up grumpily. ‘Yes, you’re very good at taking, but not so good at listening.’

  Izzy’s mum gave one of her false smiles and turned to Izzy. ‘You coming?’

  Izzy wasn’t sure. She didn’t want to be rude. Plus there was custard and jelly for dessert …

  She took too long.

  ‘Fine,’ her mum spat. ‘Stay here then. Ask her God to forgive you for almost killing me—for ruining my hand. Just don’t try getting any forgiveness from me.’

  Mrs Bronson trotted down the hallway after Izzy’s mum, pleading with her not to leave in anger.

  She returned alone to the kitchen and looked quizzically at the uneaten food as though its presence were a mystery. Izzy felt miserable. She hoped Mrs Bronson wasn’t going to make her eat her dinner. She wasn’t sure she could swallow it. Her throat felt full of sand.

  Mrs Bronson lowered herself into her chair and said something about Izzy’s mother being depressed right now and needing time to heal. Her voice sounded like it was being spoken underwater. ‘Eat your tea, love.’

  Izzy scraped off a few mouthfuls of tomato sauce before pushing away her plate. She was worried about her mum not eating
.

  ‘Should I take her dinner over to the cabin?’

  ‘I’d leave her be, she’ll come round when she’s ready.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Bernard awoke at six and lay in bed until seven. He took a warm shower, leaning against the cool tiles lest his wobbly limbs give out on him. He sipped his tea and rolled muesli around the bowl, working up the appetite to spoon it into his mouth; the process took the better part of fifteen minutes. At eight he picked up his phone to call a tow truck to collect his car. At eight-o-five he called the tow truck company back to cancel. He’d decided to check if his car was still there before forking out money for a tow.

  Mia, sheathed in a black kimono, stood threateningly over the kettle, daring it not to boil. ‘So what exactly happened in this accident?’

  ‘I ran into a tree.’

  She turned to appraise him. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine; not so the Audi.’

  ‘Oh no, I loved that car.’

  ‘So did I.’

  The kettle began to heave. Bernard felt equally hot under the collar. ‘Angela messaged me. She wants to know what I mean by surrender.’

  Shaking her head, Mia said, ‘Send her a link to a dictionary.’

  ‘I’d say she means the context, not the literal meaning. I’m beginning to appreciate the drawbacks in using emojis as a form of communication.’

  ‘They’re only supposed to be a flourish, like an exclamation mark.’ Mia stirred her coffee and tossed the spoon into the sink with a thunk.

  Bernard pressed his lips together. It hadn’t gone unnoticed that she didn’t bother to offer him a drink. ‘What do I tell her?’

  ‘How should I know? Send her a little confused face.’

  ‘No more images.’

  Lucas stepped out of the bathroom, still buttoning his fly. ‘Alrighty, I guess we should get going.’

  Bernard drew back his shoulders, puffing himself up at the appearance of his rival. He knew his wife and his step-nephew had been having a relationship of sorts because Mia had mentioned it, thinking he would be reassured by the disclosure—they might be separated but they could still be confidants. Bernard found the whole thing laughable. There had to be twenty years between them. Mia didn’t even like young men. She claimed they were all basically pubescent until forty. And, glamorous and attractive as Mia may be, surely Lucas would be drawn to a fresher, more manageable model? Bernard knew it was only a matter of time before the whole farce fell through. In the meantime, it was rather like suffering a bad head cold: nothing too dire but a hell of an aggravation.

  ‘Thanks for doing this. I know it’s short notice.’ Bernard saw Lucas moving toward Mia so he turned and began plonking back down the stairs. If there was to be a fond farewell or intimacy of any kind, he needn’t subject himself to it.

  Strapped into Lucas’s Mazda, Bernard observed the driver’s stovepipe jeans and hooded windcheater. ‘It’s a bit of a hike … you won’t be late for work?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Dare I ask?’

  ‘I’m in marketing for a recruitment company.’

  ‘Right.’

  Lucas laughed. ‘That always puts an end to the conversation. I do a bit of my own thing on the side to keep me sane, mainly graphics—cartoons and stuff. I’m hoping to put out my own online comic soon. And yes, I know what you’re thinking, comics are something you’re supposed to grow out of.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Bernard watched the landscape pass by, an Impressionist’s take on November paddocks.

  ‘And what about you, Bernard, what does retirement hold for you?’

  ‘I’m not retired.’

  ‘No. Sorry. Of course not.’

  ‘I’ve actually got a gig at the moment, narrating audio books.’

  ‘Seriously? That’s cool. So what are you reading?’

  ‘Voss—it’s a Patrick White.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘He won the Nobel. Voss is considered his best. It’s a highly regarded work of Australiana.’ Bernard knew he was coming off like a pompous idiot, he just didn’t know how to stop.

  ‘Is it worth a look?’

  ‘Can’t say that it is.’

  Lucas laughed. ‘So who’re they for? To bore the hell out of high school kids who can’t be bothered learning to read?’

  ‘I’d say they’re for old people who can no longer see to read.’

  Lucas kept on laughing. ‘Or for the blind.’

  Bernard glanced at the driver in bewilderment. What part of being old or blind—or both—did he find so comical? Lucas lost control of the car for a moment, running his Mazda onto the gravel verge. With a young man’s reflexes, he quickly swerved back onto the road again. ‘Sorry ’bout that.’

  ‘I admire your daring, you managed to complete the movement without dropping down to meet the speed limit.’

  ‘Shit, sorry. Do you want me to slow down?’

  ‘Not if you don’t want to. Although if you lose your licence, I’ll be out of a driver.’

  Bernard’s mobile interrupted with a convincing impression of a Bakelite telephone. The voice on the other end was sorry to inform him his car had been stolen. Bernard was confused—why was this girl apologising? She told him the vehicle had been run off the road—joyriders most likely. She asked if he’d gotten around to filing a report—thus tripping a wire in his brain. ‘You’re with the police. Okay, well I suppose I better come down there.’

  Lucas flashed him a look. ‘Change of plan?’

  ‘The police have it.’

  ‘Good or bad?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  He explained the situation, after which Lucas exhaled dramatically. ‘Lucky you weren’t picked up yesterday. They’re arseholes when it comes to drink driving.’

  ‘I think I proved their severity warranted, wouldn’t you say?’

  At the station, Bernard took responsibility for the accident, not for any moral reason but because he feared being caught out. He claimed to have been momentarily blinded by the setting sun, thus loosing control of the car. The policeman attending to him made notes before dispensing some fatherly admonishment. Bernard nodded penitently to give the lad the impression he’d been dealt with by the system. He was issued with a yellow sheet of paper detailing where his car had been impounded and how he could go about reclaiming it. As the young officer saw Bernard out, a couple of older officers stopped to heckle the ex-newsman. Hearing of his accident they proceeded to enact a series of scenarios that involved Barkley driving madly on a desperate mission to get the story. Bernard chuckled along, reluctant to remind them he was no longer the face of local news. He felt like he was hiding a kilo of hashish down the front of his trousers.

  The police impound had the appearance of a squalid secondhand-car dealership: entry-level Fords and Toyotas and an inordinate number of battered Commodores, the local hoons’ car of choice. Lucas navigated the narrow driveway and parked between white lines sprayed on the gravel in front of a portable office. Climbing from the car, Bernard was surprised to notice a yacht and a couple of jet skis parked to the left of the building.

  They crunched in unison across the lot, wandering up and down the aisles of abandoned automobiles. Bernard walked straight past his Audi; only the pull of instinct, or a flash of maroon, caused him to look back.

  There she sat. Her nose smashed in, accusing him of his negligence. Bernard touched the crumpled metal and flakes of paint came off in his hand. He felt a wave of wretchedness that matched the car’s appearance. Inside, the deflated airbags sagged from the dashboard like discarded condoms. He pushed one aside and delicately inserted his keys into the car’s ignition—it felt like an act of violation. As expected, the engine didn’t start; the action had been ceremonial rather than hopeful. Bernard patted the steering wheel affectionately. ‘It’s all right now, pet, we’ll get you home soon.’

  ‘You’re taking it home?’

  Bernard rubbed his fi
ngers together to remove the paint. ‘I’ve got a reliable mechanic. I’ll have her towed straight there.’

  He looked out over the surrounding acreage of wounded vehicles and sensed his Audi looking up at him expectantly. He placed a hand on her bird-shit-splattered roof and stroked her gently.

  —Looks like the ball’s rolling on this winery deal.

  —Good.

  —How’s the book coming?

  —I don’t think you want to be asking me that.

  —You’ll finish it soon though, right?

  —Depends on your definition of soon.

  —This isn’t like you; you’re normally a pro.

  —I told you I didn’t want to read it.

  —Many times. What page are you at?

  —Seventy-nine.

  —I really didn’t think it would be that hard. Have you thought of having your eyes checked?

  —My eyesight’s fine; it’s the bloody book that’s the problem.

  Rather than continue with his reading, Bernard attempted to compose a text message to Angela that explained his position, which was: no position. ‘I don’t care’ was a straightforward enough viewpoint to communicate, but impossible to convey without offending the receiver. It didn’t help that his phone kept insisting on contributing by predicting every word. He scrolled thorough the selection of little yellow facial expressions, unable to settle on one that adequately illustrated his apathy.

  In the end he decided that offence was the only course of action. He wrote his message and quickly dispatched it with his thumb. The text was immediately transported to Angela’s phone. Bernard stared at the words—Please stop texting me—and wished them unsent.