by Cathryn Hein
Tess laughed. ‘You want advice from me?’
‘I don’t have anyone else to talk to. Not about this.’
‘Try that boyfriend of yours,’ Tess said in a bored voice.
‘It’s him I want to talk about. Dad seems to think he’s going to hurt me.’
Tess snorted and took a slug of wine. ‘He’d have the inside running on that.’
Sophie sat forward. ‘What do you mean?’
Her aunt’s eyes swam back into focus. ‘Nothing.’
Frustration mushroomed in Sophie’s mind like an atomic blast. She was so sick of everyone keeping secrets. She dumped her glass on the floor, then grabbed Tess by the shoulders and shook her. Red wine slopped over Tess’s T-shirt and stained it burgundy. ‘Tell me what you know!’
Tess rolled her eyes. ‘The teenage horror rises again. Are you going to make a decent job of killing yourself this time?’
‘Screw you,’ said Sophie, backing away.
‘My, my. Don’t tell me your boyfriend’s been teaching you bad language. What would your father say?’
‘Why are you like this?’
‘I’ve told you why.’
‘And I’ve told you I can help, although God knows you don’t deserve it. I don’t want you at Vanaheim any more than you want to stay here. Let me talk to Dad. If I tell him what it’s like for you he might listen. You could get back Braeburn. Make a proper life for yourself.’
‘Don’t be so naïve. You think that bitch is going to let Ian give me what I want after all the grief I caused him? She hates me nearly as much as she hates you and your mother.’
Sophie’s heart almost stopped. ‘What bitch? Who are you talking about?’
‘No one. Get out and leave me alone.’
‘Who, Tess?’
Tess reached for the wine bottle and drank straight from it, then snatched up the television remote and turned up the volume until the commentator’s voice became so loud the furniture vibrated.
‘Please, Tess. Tell me.’
‘Ask your bloody father. Now piss off and leave me alone.’
As she walked slowly home, Sophie reflected that not only did she still not know what to do about Aaron, she had also added another mystery to her growing collection. She and her father needed to talk, and this time, he wasn’t walking away until she had the truth.
With her eyes narrowed and her mouth stretched in a determined line, she pulled her mobile from her pocket and began dialling.
A fat slice was missing from the chocolate cake Sophie had left on Aaron’s kitchen table when she and Aaron walked in the next morning. A half-drunk mug of tea sat there too, surrounded by cake crumbs. A crystal-crusted spoon sat in the sugar bowl where someone had put it back wet. Her favourite horse magazine lay open, its glossy pages covered in drink rings. From the lounge came the sounds of morning television. In the air, faint but discernable, hung the smell of cigarettes.
‘Have you been burgled?’ she asked Aaron, staring at the mess before heading to the sink for a sponge and some kitchen spray.
Aaron stomped down the hall without answering. The door to the lounge slammed shut and an argument ensued. Sophie cocked her head to listen but the words were too muffled. The row was brief and Hakea Lodge quickly settled back into creaking serenity. Aaron returned to the kitchen, his face thunderous. Behind him, grinning like a nicotine-stained Cheshire Cat, trailed Danny.
‘Nice cake,’ he said, giving Sophie a wink and sitting down at the table.
‘Nice mess,’ she replied, keeping watch on Aaron as she rinsed out the sponge.
Aaron glanced at her, his expression unreadable. She raised her eyebrows, but he ignored her unspoken question and returned to putting the kettle on to boil.
She sat down, picked up her magazine and flicked through it, looking for the article she’d been reading about equine flu. No one spoke. The atmosphere curdled with Danny’s pervading body odour and tension.
‘Well, I guess I’ll be off then, boss,’ said Danny, scraping his chair back. ‘Leave you to enjoy your last day with young Sophie here.’
Sophie’s head jerked up. What did he mean, her last day? Aaron kept his back to her. Giving Sophie a smarmy look, Danny sauntered out of the kitchen, leaving his verbal grenade ticking its countdown.
She waited until the scrape of spinning tyres on gravel and the ning-ning of Danny’s trail bike had faded before she spoke.
‘What did he mean?’
Aaron poured the hot water for their tea. He placed the mug in front of her and then sat down. He didn’t look at her, but he’d barely made eye contact all morning. The events of Saturday night still hung between them, a curtain of embarrassment that Aaron refused to draw.
‘He comes back to work tomorrow.’
She stared at her mug. Their days of intimacy were over. She’d miss them.
‘It means I won’t need you any more.’
She looked up, blinking. ‘Of course you will.’
He shook his head and fingered the sugar spoon. ‘Danny and I can work the horses.’
Her breath failed. She took a gulp of air, but that panicked, drowning sensation remained. ‘But what about Rowdy and Costa Motza? Danny can’t ride them. They’ll be upset with him on their backs.’ She knew her words were irrational, but she couldn’t stop. ‘And what about the others? Who’s going to talk to them when they’re bored and feed them carrots to make them happy and brush the dirt off their legs and comb their manes and tails and kiss them when they’re been good?’
She took slow, careful breaths through her nose. Still her lungs burned. ‘I can’t stay away. Not from the horses. Not from you.’
‘This was never a permanent arrangement, Sophie. You knew that.’
She shook her head. ‘You can’t make me go.’
‘I know, but I’m asking you to.’ He looked at her, his blue eyes imploring. ‘I don’t want you near Danny. I might not always be around to protect you if he tries anything.’
She peeled his fingers from the mug and held them. ‘I can look after myself.’
‘I’m asking you to stay away, Sophie. Not for my sake, for yours. He’s not to be trusted.’
‘So get rid of him.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
He laughed but it held no humour. ‘Like everything to do with this place, it’s a long story.’
She sat back and let his fingers fall from her grip. ‘And one you won’t tell me.’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘It’s another one of those.’
When Sophie arrived home that afternoon, she found a message on her mobile. Her father had called, but then, he could hardly ignore her this time. The trail of messages ran from his electoral office all the way to Canberra via numerous mobile phones and through every political contact she could find.
At least this was good news. No matter how much she had pleaded, Aaron wouldn’t budge. She was no longer welcome in the yard. The pain was almost unbearable.
Her father’s beautifully articulate voice on her phone filled her with yearning for her childhood. The time before the dark days descended, when he’d taken her hands and twirled her around, and laughed with his giggling daughter. A normal father with a happy, loving family. She wanted the comfort of that time, the love of a father to help ease her shattered heart.
‘Sophie, I received your messages and I agree. We need to talk. As it happens, I’ll be in Ballarat tomorrow, so I’ve made time to be with you. I have a meeting in the afternoon, but I’ll drive to Harrington afterwards and should arrive around seven. Do you wish to talk at home or somewhere neutral?’
There was a pause, as if he had forgotten he was talking to a machine and expected her to answer, but then he continued, his voice lowered and gentle.
‘Sophie, what I have to tell you will come as a shock, and for that I apologise. This has been far too long coming, but that’s my fault, not yours. Leave a message on my mobile with your decision.’
Soph
ie stared the machine, elation and worry warring within her. Her father was going to tell her the truth about her mother. She might not like it, but at least one void in her life would be filled.
The message bank switched to the next message. It was Ben.
‘Hey, Sophie. I’ve been trying to reach you but your mobile keeps going straight through to voicemail. What’re you up to tonight? I thought I might call in after work. If you want, I can grab a pizza or something on the way and we can have dinner together. What do you think? Call me.’
Sophie sighed. She had to sort that out, and fast. She picked up the house phone and, after leaving a message for her father that she’d see him at Vanaheim, rang Ben.
‘The man of your dreams at your service.’
Sophie smiled. If it wasn’t for Aaron, she’d probably be half in love with Ben. Sex appeal and charm made an intoxicating combination.
‘How did you know it was me?’
‘I have a secret Sophie antenna. So, are you up for tonight?’
Sophie took a deep breath. ‘Ben, I’m sorry. You’re lovely, but I don’t think this is going to work out.’
For a few seconds he was quiet. ‘It’s Aaron Laidlaw, isn’t it?’
‘I can’t help the way I feel, Ben.’
‘Neither can I.’ He sighed. ‘I guess I should have realised when you changed your mind the first time.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Yeah, I know, but that doesn’t help much right now. Look, I’d better go. Work and stuff to do. I’ll catch you around.’
She began to lower the phone, her finger on the disconnect button, saddened by the hurt she’d caused.
‘Sophie?’
She pressed the phone back against her ear. Yes?’
‘Take care. And if you need me – for anything – just ring.’
This time, after he said goodbye, he cut the call.
Sophie carefully returned the handset to its stand and stood looking at it. One day, when his disappointment wasn’t so palpable, she’d apologise again, but that time would have to wait.
Right now, she had greater worries.
Nineteen
For the third time, Sophie checked the place settings and inspected the knives and forks for dirty spots. Finished, she stood back and surveyed the table, then decided that she preferred the wine glasses in line with the soup spoons rather than the knives, the way she’d arranged them the first time. Only when they were aligned to her satisfaction did she head back to the kitchen to stir the soup and check on the roast.
She hoped her father liked pumpkin soup. She knew he liked roast beef. That much she could remember from their family meals. Roast beef, roast vegetables, peas, carrots and corn, all smothered in rich, thick gravy made from the pan drippings. Her father had loved it. Once.
She dropped the soup ladle in the sink and stared out the window. She should have made something else. Something that wasn’t so homely, so reminiscent of Vanaheim when her mother was alive. Before both her parents left her, one in body, one in spirit.
A metallic-grey Mercedes pulled into the yard. After a few minutes, her father stepped out. He looked tired, soul-weary. Sammy sniffed a rear wheel and then cocked his leg against it before moving on to check the other tyres. Ian Dixon didn’t appear to notice.
He opened the boot and pulled a small suitcase from it, but as he reached up to close the lid, he stopped, staring at the bag at his feet. Del snuffled at its rollers. He shooed her away, then picked up the suitcase, tossed it back in the boot and, after slamming the lid closed, trudged toward the house, the heelers trailing behind.
Sophie swallowed her disappointment. Her father wouldn’t be staying.
‘Hi,’ she said, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. ‘You look tired.’
He smiled, but Sophie could see it was forced. ‘It’s been a long day.’
‘Do you want a drink?’
He nodded and followed her into the kitchen.
Sophie poured two glasses of red wine and handed him one. ‘I hope you like pumpkin soup.’
‘I do.’
They sipped their wine.
‘This is nice,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
He nodded at the oven. ‘Dinner smells good.’
‘Thanks.’
They drank some more. Her father walked toward the window and peered out. ‘How are things with the farm?’
‘Okay. We had a good calving and the renovated pastures have made a big difference to dry-matter yield, but the older paddocks aren’t coping as well.’
‘Understandable. They haven’t been touched for quite a while, but the Bureau’s forecasting a mild winter, so that will help.’
‘Yes, it should’ Sophie took another sip of wine. ‘And the ministry. How are you finding it?’
‘Very challenging. Very busy. There are never enough hours in the day.’
‘Yes. I can imagine.’ Sophie put down her glass, picked up the ladle and stirred the soup. This was horrible. They were like strangers. ‘Are you hungry?’
‘Not particularly, but if you want to eat, then go ahead and serve.’
She put down the ladle and turned off the gas. ‘No. It can wait. Let’s go into the lounge. It’s warmer there.’
Sophie sat on the edge of the recliner, her hands around her wine glass. Her father sat at right angles to her, on the long, darkly tanned leather sofa his wife had bought so many years ago. Silence crept its way into the room and turned the atmosphere frigid and fragile, as if Vanaheim was holding its breath. Every noise they made became uncomfortably loud. The sound of wine carefully sipped, the creak of leather as bodies shifted, breaths drawn and exhaled in quiet sighs – all reverberated in the awkward stillness.
Her father placed his wine glass on the coffee table and then stood. ‘I think we should have dinner after all.’
‘Yes, let’s get that out of the way.’
The roasting pan lay soaking on the sink. On the bench, commemorating a meal no one could eat, sat dogs’ bowls full to overflowing. Sophie stared out the window waiting for the kettle to boil.
Dinner had been a disaster of untouched plates and murmured apologies. She would have been better off bunging a frozen pizza in the oven. After all, her father hadn’t come to Vanaheim to play happy families. He was here to talk, although given his uncharacteristic reserve Sophie wasn’t sure how much she would get out of him.
All she wanted was the truth about her mother, and to know why he’d abandoned his daughter when she needed him most. She’d choke it out of him if she had to. If nothing else, he owed her that.
The kettle clicked off. Sophie poured hot water into a coffee plunger, then carried a tray with cups, sugar and milk into the lounge.
Her father stood with his back to her inspecting the photographs she had arranged on the shelf above the television. He pointed to one of Chuck. ‘Which horse is this?’
‘That’s Chuck – Prince Charles – at Lake Ackerman.’
‘It’s a very big jump.’
She smiled, remembering. ‘It was enormous.’
He turned back to her. ‘That was the event you won?’
She nodded, not wanting to speak in case she snapped, and busied herself pouring coffee. He would have known the answer to that question if he’d bothered to listen to her message. The one he claimed had been mysteriously deleted. But she didn’t want to fight. Not tonight.
She handed him the mug and perched, like before, on the edge of her seat. Not knowing where to start, she waited for him to speak.
Without sitting down, he took a sip of coffee and then placed the mug back on the tray. ‘This is very difficult, Sophie. I’ve let this go for far too long. At the time, I believed I had reason to keep things from you, but now I realise it was a mistake.’
He stopped, and she could see him inhaling deeply. The air stilled. In the hush, her breathing sounded loud and asthmatic. She held it, waiting.
He locked his eyes on hers. They were crease
d and brimming with what she could only describe as shame. Her heartbeat accelerated.
‘Your mother was depressed, had been for years, but I never believed for one moment…’ He took a shaky breath. ‘Sophie, your mother killed herself after she found out I was having an affair with Carol Laidlaw.’
The cup spilled from Sophie’s hands. Coffee soaked the carpet by her feet, but she couldn’t see it. A mist had crept into the room, swirling around her like a ghost, clawing her with icy fingers, trying to drag her into the void. She heard her father’s voice, but it seemed to come from outside, as if he were yelling at her from behind a door. Her head felt strange, like someone was popping air bubbles inside it.
A hand pressed into her back, pushing her forward until her head dropped between her knees.
‘Take a deep breath, Sophie.’
She tried, but it seemed she could only draw shallow ones.
‘And another. That’s it.’
The popping stopped.
‘Keep breathing. Good girl. You’re all right. I have you.’
Slowly, the mist began to clear. The pressure on her back eased, and she could sit up.
Her father knelt beside her. He brushed a hand over her hair, easing it away from her face. Are you okay?’
She shook her head, tears stinging her eyes.
‘It was a shock, I know.’
She began to cry, and, as he had once done, so many years ago, her father held her and stroked her hair, and whispered soothing sounds into her ear. When the tears had worn themselves down to hiccups, she pulled away, staring at him in disbelief.
‘Go and wash your face.’ he said gently. ‘You’ll feel better. Afterwards, I promise we’ll talk properly.’
Knowing he was right, Sophie did as she was told.
She stared at the blotchy-skinned person reflected in the bathroom mirror and wondered if she had changed. So much had been revealed in that single statement – the lies, the secrets, the obfuscation – but it wasn’t enough to reverse ten years of confusion, and certainly not enough to allow her to shed the guilt that had been her companion since she was twelve years old.
And then there was Aaron.
He had known this all along. He had known it had been kept from her. The shame of what his mother had done – what both their parents had done – must have boiled inside him, but it wasn’t his fault. He wasn’t his mother, just as she wasn’t her father. This guilt wasn’t his to carry.
