by Cathryn Hein
Digby had brought turpentine from Camrick and a bottle of graffiti remover that he’d picked up from the hardware shop on his way through. Though the chemicals stripped the worst of the damage to a faded mauve, the words remained clearly legible against the pale paint of the weatherboards.
‘I guess I’ll have to strip and repaint,’ said Jas, regarding the wall with her hands on her hips.
Digby tried to stay positive. ‘It’s only a small area. With the two of us it won’t take long.’
She pressed her shoulder against his. ‘Thanks.’
He bent and kissed her hair. ‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t demand payment later.’
The comment caused Jas to roll her eyes. ‘And you call me a nympho.’
It took them the rest of the morning and into early afternoon to scrape all the paint away, clean the timber with a wire brush and then jet off any residue with the pressure washer. While the boards dried, they carried sandwiches down to the beach and sat on the dunes watching the breakers and boats. It was a fine day, the sea calm. Recreational fishermen in dinghies dotted the glittering water. A couple took turns using a whippy thrower to toss a tennis ball along the waterline, their chocolate labrador galloping enthusiastically after it. Further down the beach where the swell curled more, surfers in colourful rashies and wetsuits paddled and bobbed.
Seagulls bickered and paraded nearby as they fawned for scraps. Digby tossed a crust and watched the ensuing squabble with amusement.
‘We should go for a swim,’ said Jas. ‘Wash some of this stink off.’
‘We just had lunch.’
‘A paddle then.’
‘How about a long shower instead?’
‘Okay.’
He eyed her. ‘You’re easily pleased.’
‘I’m an easy kind of girl.’
Digby laughed. ‘Aren’t I the lucky one?’
Which was what he was still thinking the following morning when a grumbling Jas finally crawled out of bed to shower for work, leaving him lying on the rumpled sheets, hands behind his head, smiling with oversex and contentment.
‘Quit looking so smug and show a bit of sympathy for those of us who have to go to work,’ she said, returning to kneel beside him, pink from the shower and smelling of the lemongrass-scented body wash she used. Her bra and bikini knickers were denim-coloured with white lace edges. The cute sight of them made him want to drag her back into bed and take his time peeling them off.
He ran his finger over the rim of her bra. ‘Do you always wear sexy underwear?’
‘Yes. My work uniform is boring and sexless. These make me feel nice.’
‘I won’t be able to look at you again without imagining what’s underneath now.’
She tickled fingers low over his stomach. ‘I get the feeling I might have a similar problem.’ Grinning, she bounded up and began dressing properly. ‘Good thing anticipation turns me on.’
‘Jas, everything turns you on.’
She poked her tongue out.
Digby eased himself out of bed. He could have stayed there, dozing and thinking of Jas, the things they’d done, but he wanted to walk with her and the vandalised walls needed a final coat of paint.
He trailed her out to the garage, hands in his trouser pockets. The wind was up this morning, the smell of ozone strong. Overhead, the sky was clouding. He hoped it wouldn’t rain. Digby needed dry weather if he was going to finish fixing the house.
He held the door open for her, watching as Jas settled her handbag and lunch things on the passenger seat and reached for the seatbelt. She was right about her uniform, it wasn’t flattering, but knowing what sexiness lurked underneath gave it a certain appeal, like a tease on his imagination. When she was set he closed the door. She rolled down the window with a smile and started the engine. The radio blared morning wake-up rock music. Jas flicked it off and laid her hands on the wheel, staring at the back of the garage wall. Digby could sense her need to ask. He’d felt the same.
She glanced at him and inhaled deeply. ‘I know what you said. About Felicity. About us. But I don’t want this to be it.’
‘I don’t either.’
‘But it’s not …’ She lifted a hand and weaved it through the air. ‘You know.’
‘Serious?’
‘Yes. No. I don’t know.’ She regarded him worriedly. ‘We’ve had that much sex it has to mean something, doesn’t it?’
He shrugged. ‘I guess it means we like having sex with each other.’
Amusement danced in her eyes. ‘I think that’s been well established.’
An apprehensive silence fell between them. If this went beyond the weekend would it mean they were in a relationship? Digby had no idea. Sleeping with his sister’s best friend was as new an idea to him as it probably was to Jas. Except he and Jas were friends too. They’d shared things, personal pains. A special bond existed between them. He might not know what it was or what it meant, but he sure as hell didn’t want it broken.
‘I don’t mind having more,’ he said carefully. ‘If you don’t.’
‘I don’t.’ Relief flooded her face. ‘Friends with excellent benefits then?’
‘I can cope with that.’ He lifted an eyebrow. ‘So …’
‘I’ll see you at seven. I’d make it earlier only I need to take Oxy for a run. The poor darling’s feeling neglected.’ She put the car into reverse and held up a finger. ‘Seven. Unless I call you for a lunchtime quickie. I’m that horny I could burst.’
Jasmine’s parting words kept Digby smiling until the painting was complete. He closed up, taking his time and studying the land between her house and the outskirts of Port Andrews. If someone was observing him back, he didn’t notice. All he could hope was that whoever was tormenting Jas had noted his presence over the weekend and realised Jas and Mike were over.
Even so, he fixed the bike chain.
With a last inspection, he drove to the florist he used in Levenham where he bought three bouquets. A fancy box of long-lasting pink-hued natives for his mum, followed by a vibrant, multicoloured spray of mixed blooms for Jas. The final was his standing order for pristine white tulips, which earned him a quickly masked glance of pity from the florist.
Digby said nothing. He was immune to peoples’ judgement.
It wasn’t their opinion that counted.
CHAPTER
13
Jas had been so astonished and delighted by her colourful bouquet when Digby presented it to her Monday night they ended up having sex on the kitchen bench before the flowers made it into water. Earlier that afternoon, his mum had accepted the box of pink native blooms with humble apologies and a teary, squishy hug that also left Digby feeling more than a bit emotional.
The white tulips, however, had been greeted with the usual stony silence. Despite the balmy afternoon, Felicity’s headstone remained as it always was: marble cold, as she had become.
For over an hour Digby perched on the hard raised edge of the slab that covered her coffin with the flowers rested on his lap. The Wallace plot in Levenham’s cemetery was located in the historic settlers’ section, on a mild slope overlooking a larger modern garden cemetery. It faced westward towards the setting sun and was sheltered by a band of elm trees that, when in leaf, blocked any view of the land to the south-east and the cruel slopes of Rocking Horse Hill.
He’d chosen polished white granite for her grave, veined with only the faintest of grains. For purity, for how she’d wanted herself to be. It was also in defiance of the corruption some believed had lurked in her heart. Felicity wasn’t perfect. She was damaged and fragile and made mistakes, some of them harmful. But she had loved him with an angel’s grace.
Carved gold letters in antique Roman font spelled out her name, with her birth and death dates at the headstone’s base. The most important inscription was in the middle: Beloved fiancée of Digby Wallace-Jones, followed by the final few lines from Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnet 43 in elegant script.
I love the
e with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
Even now the words didn’t convey enough.
Em had come to him with the quote, the paper trembling when she’d passed it to him. She’d known Digby partly blamed her for Felicity’s death. Em had blamed herself too, and Digby, so angry, so grief-stricken, couldn’t find a way to comfort her. Truth was he hadn’t wanted to.
He’d thanked her for this though, words of precious love he could never have found himself. And for her insistence he bury Felicity on Wallace land. For battling his mother and grandmother on his behalf when they objected. Without that Felicity would have been another anonymous, overgrown plaque in the main lawn. Lost in death as she’d been so often in life. Here though, she had meaning. Here, she forced memory. Here, she would never be the thing she’d feared so greatly: nothing.
Though the stone was cold and uncomfortable, Digby stayed on the grave talking to her, sometimes aloud, sometimes silently in his head. He told her about Jas, about his confusion, his uncertainty about what this meant for his life, where it would lead. He told Felicity he missed her, that he loved her, that there was a hollow inside him he thought would never be filled again. A cave in his soul carved out only for her, one in which she’d painted the walls with her smiles and laughter. With her undying, everlasting, beautiful, heartbreaking love.
Finally, when the afternoon began to fade and the wind veered southerly, he’d laid down the tulips. The delicate white cups of the blooms seemed fragile and ephemeral against the permanence of her headstone and the death it represented. It was like laying down his broken self against the immutable laws of nature.
Then he’d gone home to Camrick and retreated to his apartment until it was time to see Jas and lose himself once more in the oblivion of her generous body and laughter.
Tuesday morning, tired yet feeling strangely purged, he’d left Jasmine’s and driven to Josh’s new workshop in the light industrial precinct to the north of Levenham.
‘You’re looking pleased with yourself,’ said Josh, glancing up from the exquisite bookshelf he was French polishing. Josh had a knack of turning cast-off timber into things of practical artistry, and his furniture was in solid demand. At the other end of the shed Josh’s dad Tom, earmuffs firmly on his head and eyes narrowed in concentration, was feeding sheets of wood into a noisy machine. The air was redolent with the scent of polish and fresh-sawn timber. ‘So, are you?’
‘Am I what?’
‘Getting laid, like I hoped.’
‘None of your business.’ Digby’s tone was mild. Anyone else and he might have minded the ribbing, but this was Josh.
‘You’ll be in for it tonight. Em’s been driving me crazy trying to work out who it could be. If she’s twisting her knickers over it, you can imagine what your grandmother and mother will be like.’
Dinner at Camrick. Jas had already reminded him this morning, when Digby mentioned seeing her again tonight. He’d wanted to make excuses but Jas wouldn’t allow it. An evening off would do them good. She was tired from late nights and early morning sex, and needed to organise the finishing touches of Em’s doe’s night, the details of which he was definitely not privy to.
The mention had reminded Digby of his own best man obligations. With little else to occupy him, Digby had finalised Josh’s buck’s night weeks ago. He’d taken great care with the details, wanting the party to be memorable and in keeping with the person he knew Josh to be. It was costing a small fortune but Digby hadn’t cared. The day would be a tribute to their friendship and a gift to the man he owed so much.
‘Thanks for the warning,’ Digby said. ‘I’ll gird my loins.’
Sudden quiet enveloped the shed. Tom had turned off the machine he’d been using. Spotting Digby, he held up a leather-gloved hand in greeting and Digby saluted back. Pride and contentment played over Josh’s face as he watched his dad shift the planed timber to a stack nearby. Josh’s dreams had been made real. He was working with his dad like he’d always wanted. He was soon to be married to the woman he’d loved since he was eighteen. He had a family who adored him. Friends. His world was golden with hope and happiness.
Digby experienced a twist of jealousy. He didn’t begrudge Josh, not for a second, but his happiness only reinforced the loss of it from Digby’s life. He turned away, feigning interest in a pair of bedside tables made from distressed timber. Rubbed-back paint still clung to some of the wood, giving it a shabby but not unattractive appeal. Digby ran his palm over the smoothly sanded surface of the top, inspecting the grain.
‘Oregon?’
‘Yeah,’ said Josh, moving alongside. ‘From old beams. I’m not a fan of the look but the client loves it. They’ve ordered an entire suite, bed and all.’ He studied Digby’s face. ‘Everything all right?’
Digby nodded. He’d come here wanting to talk to Josh, perhaps ask for his advice. Josh had been through a marriage break-up and divorce. It wasn’t the same as a death but there had to be some parallels. Marriage meant love, divorce its loss. Digby wanted to know how a man was supposed to repair himself and move on. Josh had done it. Maybe there was hope for him too.
‘Sure?’
‘Yeah. I’m just …’ He grimaced. ‘You know.’
Josh gripped Digby’s shoulder and gave it a friendly shake. ‘You loved her. That won’t change just because you’re shagging someone else.’
Digby let out a breath. He understood that, but understanding something didn’t make it easier.
‘All it means is that you’re coming to terms with her not being here. It’s part of the process.’
Rolling his lips together hard, Digby tilted his head back and stared at the open cavern of the roof, with its mesh of robust trusses, silvery corrugated iron and industrial light fittings. He blinked at the prickles in his eyes, loathing his lack of control.
The stages of grief, the process, how sick he was of that. The counsellor he’d seen for a while had harped on about it, how what Digby was feeling wasn’t unique. Millions, billions, had been there before him. Like that was supposed to help? Digby’s pain, his process, was his own. A thing both embraced and dreaded. While he was still feeling, Felicity remained alive in his heart, but the day the pain and anger and loneliness stopped would be the day he’d have to face that she was truly gone. Acceptance, his counsellor called it.
Josh, who’d seen Digby through enough moments like these before, gave his shoulder another squeeze and moved away to let him recover.
It was another minute or so before Digby had his emotions reined in. He cleared his throat. ‘Everyone looks set for your buck’s do. Only a couple of your footy mates can’t make it. Your mate Angus is coming down from Adelaide for the weekend. I said he could stop at Camrick if he wanted but he said he’d grab a hotel room.’
‘Great. Everything’s organised then?’
‘Pretty much. I’ve booked the minibus to pick us up from Camrick at ten-thirty.’
Josh cast him a hopeful look. ‘Any clues on where we’re going?’
‘Nope. You’ll just have to wait for the big day.’
Josh pointed a finger. ‘Definitely no strippers though.’
‘Not even a lingerie model. As promised.’
‘Good.’ He puffed out a breath in relief. ‘I don’t even want to contemplate what Em would do to me if she knew we had strippers.’
‘Or me.’
They exchanged a smile, aware they sounded like a couple of wusses but not caring.
Digby left Josh’s with his mind a little more at ease. As much as he disliked it, his future brother-in-law was right. Feeling confused about Jas was part of the grief cycle. It was Digby’s fear of its completion that was the problem, and one he’d have to come to terms with if he wasn’t to spend the rest of his life adrift and lonely.
Dinner in Camrick’s kitchen proved, as Josh had warned, a torment of sly looks and sneaky questions. The en
tire household appeared to know he hadn’t slept in his own bed since Saturday night. Digby tried to concentrate on his meal—fried zucchini flowers followed by baked whole rainbow trout from a local fish farm—and hoped his refusal to play along would be indication enough that he had no intention of satisfying their curiosity. For the most part, it worked on his sister and mother. His grandmother, however, was made of sterner stuff.
Granny B dabbed carefully at the edges of her mouth and laid down her napkin. ‘I trust you and Jasmine have been comparing notes, Digby.’
The mention of Jasmine’s name lifted the hairs on the back of Digby’s neck. He blinked and quickly took a mouthful of wine. Jas had cautioned that his grandmother suspected something. He hadn’t expected her to come right out with it.
‘About what?’
‘Your competing duties as best man and maid of honour. What else?’ Her expression was innocent but Digby knew better. This was a fishing expedition and Granny B had him hooked. ‘You do both have important parties to organise. It would be rather embarrassing if they clashed.’
‘We’re sorted.’
Innocence took on a shrewd edge. ‘So you have collaborated?’
‘As far as we’ve needed to.’ Which was the truth when it came to Josh’s buck’s night and Em’s doe’s.
Glitter sparkled in the old lady’s eyes. ‘I’m very glad to hear it.’
Digby braced himself for more but Granny B seemed satisfied and moved on to her pet project: the launch of a wine festival to coincide with Levenham’s art week, in which both Adrienne and Granny B were heavily involved. The region’s small but up-and-coming wine and grape-growing industry was gaining attention and awards, and deserved it. Granny B’s arch enemy, teetotal vegetarian Councillor Herriott, was still blocking the project on the grounds that such an event was paramount to celebrating alcohol, a drug that caused enough problems in the town as it was.
