Izzy slowly emerged from her den. She was cramped and rigid with cold. A constant, upsweeping draft had shrunk her gooseflesh hide. There had been sufficient room in the cupboard to lift her head and wriggle about a bit. And it wasn’t completely dark—after a minute her eyes were able to make out the hairline cracks of daylight around the edge of the cabinet door. She’d been able to ignore her discomfort so long as the tyres continued rolling beneath her—every passing minute transporting her further away. Each time the motor home stopped, Izzy was petrified she’d been caught. She stiffened, poised and alert like a startled woodland animal, until she heard the patter of voices and felt the physical rock and slam of the occupants boarding, followed by the reassuring tremor of the engine thrumming to life.
She rubbed her achy legs and fossicked in the pantry for a biscuit then perched tentatively on the edge of the couch to eat, ready to lunge out of sight at a moment’s notice. She would have loved to switch on the TV, but didn’t dare for fear the sound might prevent her hearing their return. In time, she began to wonder if they were coming back at all. Maybe they’d set a trap for her? She had a sickening premonition of her mother charging into the Winnebago and dragging her away. Izzy roped her skinny arms about her waist. She was cold and fretful.
Eventually, physical discomfort won out. She removed her shoes and curled up like a mollusc on the couch.
Izzy woke to the sound of voices. It took her a minute to get her bearings, by which time Ruby had her key in the lock. The door opened and Izzy rose like a counterweight from the couch. The women stood dumbstruck in the doorway.
‘Where’s your mum?’ Ruby said, presuming this was some sort of ambush.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did she just leave you?’
‘No. I left her.’
Ruby and Angela bustled forward as though shoved from behind, emitting a string of enquiries, making it impossible to determine who was asking what.
Amid the flap and the fluster, Izzy managed to unclench her jaw. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whimpered.
Angela and Ruby paused to glance at one another with hangdog expressions. Ruby held out her arms and Izzy plunged into her belly.
‘I take it your mother doesn’t know you’re here.’
Izzy rubbed her head back and forth against her grandmother’s stomach. ‘I left a note,’ she lied.
‘Well, that’s something I suppose.’
‘How on earth?’ Angela wondered.
Izzy lifted her face to see Angela’s eyes roving around the van’s interior, trying to pinpoint her hiding spot. She pointed to her cubbyhole beneath the couch. Angela pushed her lips together tightly, trying not to appear impressed by the child’s daring.
Ruby gently peeled herself away from Izzy’s embrace. ‘I suppose I better put the kettle on. Have a cup of tea while we figure out what to do next.’
Izzy felt a return to form, sitting wedged in at the dinette, drinking milky-sweet tea and munching on Tim Tams.
‘You had me so worried,’ Angela grumbled after hearing Izzy’s side of the disappearing act. ‘Running off on me like that. I thought I’d hurt your feelings.’
Izzy sucked a smear of chocolate from her thumb. ‘When?’
‘When? This morning.’
Ruby, who’d been sitting with her eyes closed as though she’d dozed off at some point, shuffled in her seat. ‘And what do you expect will happen now?’
‘I want to stay with you. I won’t be any trouble. I’ll do all the chores you want.’
The proposition was met with silence.
Izzy made another attempt at persuasion. ‘I’ll eat my vegetables. I think I can learn to like them. I’ll eat them even if I don’t.’
Their unresponsiveness was making her nervous. She’d convinced herself that they’d be pleased—she’d chosen them over her mother, hadn’t she? They were supposed to be happy. ‘Is it because of Mum?’ she asked. ‘You don’t have to worry, she won’t mind at all. She’ll be happy I’m gone.’
‘That simply isn’t true,’ Ruby said.
‘You don’t know her. You don’t know what she’s like. She hates me, especially after—’ Izzy faltered.
Ruby was slowly shaking her head. Across the table, Angela’s lips had rolled in on themselves. She looked like Mrs. Potato Head without her press-on smile.
Izzy reached for Ruby’s hand, lying limply on the table. ‘Please,’ she begged, clasping at its loose, silky flesh, as though there was a smaller hand inside. ‘Please let me stay. You have to let me stay.’
Ruby cupped her other palm over Izzy’s. ‘We can’t dear. Don’t you see? We can’t do anything without Carol’s permission.’
‘What difference does it make? You’re my grandma. Please don’t take me back. I want to be with you.’ Her chin trembled with grief and frustration. ‘I want to be with you.’
Ruby enfolded Izzy in her arms and they rocked together in time to her distress.
Izzy’s sobs gradually dispersed and she was left feeling numb and quivery. She inhaled a few viscous sniffs and slowly lifted her arm to receive the tissue that Angela was flapping at her across the table. She would gladly have sat there forever, with Ruby stroking and crooning and Angela waving white flags.
After taking a long overdue pee, Izzy opened the bathroom door a crack and brought her ear up to the opening.
‘Let Carol stew for a bit,’ Angela said. ‘Izzy told you she left a note, it’s not as though she’s disappeared into thin air.’
‘You don’t think I’d be making things worse?’
‘Not at all. A night of worry will do her good—give her a chance to reflect.’
Izzy pushed open the door and strode back into the room before her grandma could change her mind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Monday’s deadline came and went.
Bernard had heard nothing of a ceasefire and passed his days waiting for the sniper to strike. The ambush arrived by courier on Thursday as he was preparing his dinner: a document from a company calling themselves Skelter and Jones notifying him in alarmingly impenetrable English that he was, or was soon to be, in deep trouble.
Bernard dithered over what to do with the explosive correspondence. He considered the various bureaus and tallboys that graced each room—discovering twice as many electric blankets and wool underlays as there were beds. Knowing Mia’s aversion to the cold, he assumed she’d been stockpiling fleece-lined provisions. He returned to the kitchen and stashed the document in the pantry, from there to the bin, to the recycling tub, finally affixing the pages to his fridge beneath a Green Valley Free Range Eggs magnet.
His wrist continued stirring the carbonara as his brain tumbled alternatives like concrete in a mixer until, to his dismay, he realised his creamy sauce had evolved into scrambled eggs.
After scraping his meal into the bin, Bernard left his dishes soaking in the sink, feathery tufts of burnt egg and cream waving through the water. He held his shirt aloft with one hand and prodded his bruising with the other. He found the sweet pain irresistible, like a hangnail desperate to be picked or a sore gum needing to be probed, and stroked his welts just hard enough to make them sing. He selected the bruise over his kidney and, thinking of Skelter and Jones, pushed down on the mark with the full force of his thumb, sending throbbing pain waves radiating out from the site and on through his nervous system.
The following morning’s Regional Times featured a frontpage banner that pretty much topped the list of headlines Bernard never wanted to see (second only to ‘Bernard Barkley Named in Paedophile Ring’): BERNARD BARKLEY FLEES CRASH SCENE.
Jessica Madden described the accident as a case of arboreal hit-and-run—the tree in question had since been removed, so dire were its injuries. A picture of the vacant spot where the gum had once graced the highway sat in the bottom-left corner of the article. Jessica went on to inform the reading public that Bernard Barkley, former presenter of Great Southern’s evening news for over nine years, had b
een picked up at the crash site by two ACRU servicemen. She went into some detail describing the state of Bernard’s totalled car as viewed by the men. Based on their account, it seemed unlikely any survivor could have walked from the wreckage.
In the second half of the article, which snaked around Bernard’s News Hour headshot, Jessica insinuated her diligence as a journalist had led her to question local police about the accident. She wanted to know whether any penalty had been, or would be, meted out to the celebrity offender. The police refused to speak with Jessica about the incident (Bernard was happy about that) but insider sources informed her the news presenter had been let off with a warning (“insider sources?” Bernard was unhappy about that). Jessica concluded by assuring her readers she would not be letting the issue rest. She would continue investigating until the full story surrounding the accident was brought to light, thereby ensuring that celebrities were punished under the same rigorous system of justice as everyday lawbreakers.
Bernard let the paper drop. He’d been painted as a local Al Capone, thumbing his nose at the law as he drove through town firing shots into shop windows and jumping from abandoned getaway vehicles. He stared down at his untouched breakfast; normally he’d be finished his muesli and onto his toast and Earl Grey as he read about unfortunate events befalling individuals other than himself. The fig jam wore a quaint gingham hat and a handwritten label announcing its birthday. It was one of many similarly attired jars in Bernard’s pantry—not just jams, but pickles, chutneys and unwanted dessert sauces. He brought home boxfuls of the things from community events to which he would no longer be invited. His firsthand experience of local faith in local news—he was constantly being stopped and asked for updates on issues he knew nothing about—meant he was confident the entire city now saw him as an unscrupulous rogue.
—Have you seen the paper?
—Yes, Mia.
—What’s all this about a car crash?
—It was about a month ago. Remember? I had Lucas drive me to the impound.
—I thought that was just a prang.
—I thought you didn’t read the local paper.
—I bought it to see what was on at the pictures. I was shocked to find you’d been involved in some horrific accident of which I knew nothing.
—There was no horrific accident.
—I know that now.
Bernard heard a distant beeping on the line.
—I think I have another call.
—Jim’s here. He’s curled up like a hermit crab on my couch. He’s depressed. We were going to see a film.
The beeping started up again.
—The article perked him up a bit. It was the first time I’ve seen him smile in days.
—I have to go.
—You’re getting rid of me?
—I have another call.
Bernard pressed the end-call button on his phone.
—What the hell is going on there? I’ve just had three calls from people wanting to cancel your appearances.
—Already? Which ones?
—Some Christmas fete … actually there were two calls about the same fete, and one retirement village.
—I appear to have been besmirched.
—You what?
—I’m on the cover of the local paper; they say I fled the scene of an accident.
—Bullshit! That’s defamation.
—Not exactly. I did leave the scene of an accident.
—Jesus, Bernard. When? Was anyone hurt?
—A while back. A tree was damaged but my car took the brunt of it. By the way, I need you to send me a copy of my contract with Eucalyptus Press.
—Why?
—I’m having a lawyer look at it.
—Why?
—I’m being sued. How come you don’t know this?
—For fuck’s sake, Bernard! Why don’t you just finish the bloody book?
—Don’t think I don’t ask myself that question every day.
The following morning, Bernard glumly read over his press as he spooned up his muesli. The other Victorian papers had printed reruns of the Regional Times article, while the local printed a follow-up, which was merely a rewording of the original.
He was hovering over a sinkful of dishes when someone knocked brazenly at his door. He leant back and peered down the length of the hallway, as though he might somehow see through to the door’s other side. The knock was repeated.
‘Bernard? Are you there?’
He gazed at the blue-and-white-striped mugs hanging from the kitchen dresser. A rapping on the French doors sent him jumping through his skin.
Jessica Madden stood on the patio peering in at him. ‘Can I come in?’
He shook his head.
‘Come on, Bernard, I just want to clarify a few things. I’ll find out the truth eventually.’
‘You mean you’ll make it up.’
‘Don’t be such a cynic. You were a journalist once, remember?’
‘I was never a journalist.’
‘You hosted the news.’
‘That makes me a newsreader, don’t lump me in with you cretins—I was just a pretty face.’
She laughed and jotted something down on her pad. ‘Seriously, Bernard, I just want to know what you were doing that day, where you were going, why you crashed?’
He dried his hands on a tea towel. ‘And I want you to know it’s none of your business.’ He walked out of the kitchen and into the relative safety of the bathroom to massage his bruises.
Fifteen minutes later he abandoned the loo’s asylum, happy to find the reporter had left her post at the French doors. His relief was short-lived; peering through his front window he caught her strolling around his yard, deep in conversation with the phone at her ear. He watched her pause and peek inside his letterbox with her free hand.
Mia was asleep on her couch, a Vogue Living dangling from her fingers, her reading glasses tilted to one side, breathing noisily through slackened mouth. It would bother her to know she’d been caught in such an undignified posture. She’d made grand statements throughout their marriage that he was to take her as she came, yet forbade him from bearing witness to any of her feminine rituals: eyebrow plucking; toenail clipping; lengthy cleansing and moisturising routines. She’d yelp like a puppy whenever Bernard walked in on her poised regally upon the toilet.
Sensing the change in atmosphere, she opened her eyes and was marvellously unfazed to find him hovering over her. She waved him away with three flips of her hand.
He backed off to perch on the armrest. ‘I need a place to hide out.’
‘The paparazzi still at it?’
‘Just the one pap; she plans on airing all my dirty laundry.’
‘A pap smear.’ Mia chortled. ‘I wouldn’t worry, you’re straight as a die.’
‘She doesn’t intend letting that stand in her way.’
Mia wiped a speck of sleep from the corner of her eye, discovering her glasses and frowning: what were they doing there? ‘Just talk to her and be done with it.’
‘Should I mention I was thoroughly sozzled?’
‘Were you? So there are some skid marks after all. Hah.’ She gave him a placatory pat on the thigh. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not as if you have any sort of career worth saving. I mean, just think how they crucified you right before you were fired—there’s bloopers footage you’re never going to live down.’
‘How is this helping?’
‘All you have to do is wait for a more entertaining story to break. Fingers crossed some war erupts tomorrow.’
‘Depends on the country,’ he conceded. ‘Can’t be an African region, or a Balkan state, or any of our unfamiliar Asian neighbours.’
Mia plucked at her fringe. ‘Definitely nothing in the Middle East then.’
‘God, no, it has to be big news to stop people talking about me, people will have to be killing one another in a first world country.’
‘Like Sweden.’
Bernard rolled his lips, seemi
ng to consider that option. ‘No, I don’t think Sweden will cut it.’
‘England?’
‘A bit dull, but it would probably do it.’
‘America?’
‘Well, naturally, that goes without saying.’
‘Here’s to war in America then.’
Bernard thought for a second. ‘Then again, America is so yesterday’s news.’
‘What about Canada?’
‘No one would believe it.’
‘How about Spain?’
‘Spain?’ Bernard looked at Mia in wonder. ‘Now’s there’s one no one saw coming: Australia declares war on Spain. Perfect, now all we have to do is phone it in. You should do it, they might recognise my voice. Then again, maybe it’s better to go through the internet—that’s where journalists go to uncover the truth.’
‘I’m bored of war.’ She swung her legs over the edge of the couch, planting her feet on the floor. ‘Tea or coffee?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Izzy miserably toyed with her breakfast. There’d already been a scene that morning with a reprise of her tears and pleading. Ruby and Angela were determined to take her home. She didn’t know how to convince them to let her stay. Thinking of their betrayal set her off weeping again, a stream of tears that converged on her chin before tapering and dropping onto her toast.
Angela was impervious to the girl’s suffering. ‘We can still do something fun today,’ she insisted, smoothing Izzy’s hair. ‘Anything you like. Doesn’t that sound like fun?’
Izzy wasn’t to be won over with cheap diversions and shook her head morosely.
Ruby had done some thinking of her own in the night, as she clung to the narrow strip of foam mattress that Angela had relinquished to her. She hesitantly suggested that perhaps they might wait for a day or two. ‘The poor poppet could do with a break. What’s the harm in taking her off Carol’s hands for a bit?’
The Grand Tour Page 15
