Inheriting Jack

by Kris Webb

  Two identical bottles appeared on the counter. This was my kind of cooking, I thought.

  David gripped the neck of the bottle in his fingers, turning it on the side. He slurped an amount into the pan, stoppered it with his thumb and then added another bit.

  Patrick watched him. ‘How much was that?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ David replied airily. ‘A good couple of slurps, until it colours nicely.’

  ‘Okay,’ Patrick said uncertainly.

  Copying David, he turned the bottle on its side and awkwardly tipped it. The vinegar poured out in a rush. In a panic Patrick tried to use his thumb to stop it and somehow dropped the whole bottle in the pan with a resounding crash.

  David picked the bottle out of the pan calmly. ‘See,’ he said to the camera. ‘Beautiful colour.

  ‘You can just pour it normally,’ he said to Patrick, rather kindly I thought.

  ‘No way – it looks too cool. I wouldn’t even have to cook to impress the girls if I could do that. Just offer to put the dressing on the salad and they’d think I was a cooking legend.’

  ‘Dressing that you’d made earlier of course?’ David clarified.

  ‘Make dressing? No way! Haven’t you tried the ready-made ones they’ve got in the supermarket?’ He looked serious but I could see a trace of a smile around his mouth.

  David didn’t seem to notice he was being wound up. ‘Patrick, Patrick, Patrick. If there is one thing you will learn before I leave today, it is how to make a proper dressing. You simply must not buy one of those terrible concoctions.

  ‘Now.’ David drew a deep breath. ‘Where were we?’

  ‘Onion a-sweating.’ Patrick opened the oven door and a waft of cooking meat came out. ‘Meat a-cooking. We just need some mashed spuds and tomato sauce, right?’

  ‘Where have you been for the last five years? You never, ever call it mashed potato – it is mash, as in potato mash, or sweet potato mash. Don’t they let you accountants out at night?’

  Patrick shook his head in mock sadness. ‘Well, they let us out. It’s just that no one invites us anywhere. Social death to be seen talking in public to an accountant, you know . . . It’s why accountants intermarry. Lawyers are about the only other lot that’ll have us, and even they feel they’re doing us a favour.’

  The banter continued throughout the making of a tomato relish, which Patrick insisted, to David’s obvious irritation, on calling a sauce. David showed Patrick how to ‘plate’ the food and finally Tony interrupted.

  ‘All right, you two, I think that’s enough. Thank you.’

  ‘Tony, mate, you’re going to have to do something about the quality of the students you send me.’ David smiled. ‘Got to admit, though, that was more fun than I thought it would be. You’re not going to use that last one, are you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll wait and see how it looks, but I thought it was pretty entertaining. You pair work together well.’

  The crew was already packing up and wheeling large items down the hallway.

  ‘What happens now?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘We’ll edit this over the next couple of days. If it looks good, we’ll take it to a management meeting and see if they like it enough to produce a series.’

  ‘Do you want to stay for a drink?’ Patrick asked. ‘Celebrate the end of filming?’

  I promised myself I’d be extra nice to Patrick for ever more.

  David answered first. ‘Afraid not – I need to get back to the restaurant and prep for tonight’s session.’

  Patrick turned to Tony expectantly.

  ‘Sorry, mate, got to get back to the studio and look at this stuff.’ And with a brief goodbye, he was gone.

  All right. There was now absolutely no doubt that I had imagined Tony kissing me after the movie – and quite possibly the whole date. He’d hardly spoken to me since and certainly shown very little interest. It had obviously been a desperate fantasy that was the product of a sleep- and sex-deprived mind. I was clearly a very sad person.

  At least now the show was finished, I wouldn’t have to see him any more. That was good news.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Although I wasn’t quite lurching from one disaster to the next in the way I had been a month ago, my ability to pack things Jack would need while we were out was still somewhat patchy.

  Typically what happened was that I’d decide I couldn’t be bothered with carting a pile of stuff and head out with nothing but a handbag. However, a dire situation involving some form of bodily fluids would inevitably arise and I’d be forced to deal with it with nothing more useful than a soggy tissue. As a result, on the next outing I’d take more paraphernalia than eight children required, cart a ten-kilogram bag around for hours and use absolutely nothing.

  I knew there was middle ground somewhere but was still trying to find it. Faced with my first beach expedition with Jack, I accepted that my groovy little sunflower beach bag wasn’t an option and reached for Patrick’s old backpack.

  He’d been going to come with us. But when I saw the packet of cigarettes on the table this morning I knew we were on our own. Patrick didn’t smoke – unless he’d had way too many beers. The smell of alcohol hit me when I peered in his door and I didn’t even attempt to wake him. Instead, I scribbled him a note and threw Jack and all our paraphernalia in the car. Just as I was about to pull onto the road, my mobile rang.

  ‘Hi Julia. It’s Grant.’

  I felt a jolt of pleasure. I hadn’t heard from him since our dinner last week and had wondered if I would.

  ‘Fancy catching up for breakfast?’

  My heart sank at his suggestion. There was nothing for it. If I was going to attempt some form of romance I was going to have to find a man with children. At least he would understand the terror that such a suggestion inspired in me. But even as I thought it, I recoiled from the Brady Bunch type future which swam before my eyes.

  One thing was certain, though – after the breakfast debacle with Tony, I was not taking Jack out to eat until he could drive me there.

  ‘Actually we’re in the car, heading for Southbank for a swim. I don’t suppose you feel like coming along?’

  ‘That sounds like a great idea. I’ll meet you there.’

  We arranged a place to meet and I let out a silent whistle as I hit the phone’s disconnect button. A morning with Jack for date number two – there was no doubt this was a high-risk activity, but I didn’t see that I had much choice.

  I had discovered Southbank after a particularly bad case of cabin fever had forced me to call the Brisbane Tourism Office and ask if they had any suggestions of good places to go with toddlers. Although I had been vaguely aware of the cafes and restaurants in the Southbank complex, the very understanding woman on the phone had informed me there was an artificial beach in the middle, which would be perfect for Jack.

  It was indeed. The huge lake, which sat beside the river, ringed by a perfect golden beach, was wonderful and had kept Jack busy for hours.

  Today, as we walked past one of the upmarket cafes, I saw a woman seated at a table on the footpath. She was wearing a white T-shirt and blue jeans cut off at the knee. Her long dark hair was pulled back from her face and, as I watched, she pulled my favourite section out of the weekend paper, leaned back and took a sip of coffee.

  I averted my eyes. What a waste she was making of a wonderful morning, I told myself determinedly. It was so much better to actually be going to the beach, not just sitting near it.

  As we reached the sand, Jack struggled to be put down. When his feet hit the ground he looked up at me with a delighted smile and took off for the water as fast as his little legs would take him.

  Backpack bumping painfully, I caught him and threw my towel on a likely spot of sand. I quickly dressed him in bathers, slathered him with sunscreen and pulled his hat down on his head.

  Once again he took off for the water at the stumble that constituted his run. I strolled behind him, sure that he’d stop when he re
ached the shallows. Except he didn’t. He was up to his thighs when I reached him and was definitely heading deeper. The child had zero sense of self-preservation.

  I picked him up and deposited him on the edge of the water where a string of children were playing. As I did, I realised he was seriously outclassed by the other kids who were clad head-to-toe in fluorescent lycra. Jack’s bare shoulders glowed in the bright sun and I looked around guiltily to see if anyone else had spotted my negligent parenting.

  His eyes lit up and he headed towards a group of girls who were delicately covering a sandcastle in shells. Turning him around, I realised I was going to have to provide some entertainment. Any lingering hopes I’d had of reclining on my towel and chatting enchantingly to Grant disappeared.

  It had been a long time since I’d done anything more active than read a book on a beach. Luckily my initial shopping trip before Jack’s arrival had included a bucket and spade. I dug half-heartedly until I had a tiny pile of sand. Jack leaped on it in delight and our roles became clear. I was the sandcastle maker and he the sandcastle destroyer.

  At first I kept half an eye out for Grant and tried to project a lithe and athletic appearance which he could admire as he walked towards us. However, I quickly tired of keeping my back straight and sticking my chest out and started actually enjoying myself. Jack laughed delightedly at my squeals of mock horror at his destruction of my castles and discovered a whole new source of fun when he accidentally flicked some wet sand onto me. By the time a shadow fell over us, wet sand was sticking to most of my upper body, and my sunglasses, which I’d originally perched in my hair, were hanging off the side of my head.

  ‘Looks like you pair are having fun.’

  I looked up and wiped a strand of hair back from the side of my mouth. Grant was wearing a pair of surf shorts and a T-shirt and was looking decidedly appealing.

  ‘Hello. I’m glad you made it.’

  ‘So am I.’ He smiled, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses.

  I looked down at myself. Men found female mud wrestlers sexy, didn’t they? Maybe this was a similar thing.

  In any event, he didn’t seem to be even looking in my direction.

  ‘She calls this a sandcastle?’ he asked Jack as he surveyed the wreck of my last creation.

  ‘Come on now, I’ve been working under pretty difficult conditions. I have approximately two seconds before my demolition team moves in.’

  Grant didn’t seem impressed with my excuse. ‘What we need is a plan. And some wetter sand.’ He picked up the spade and walked along the sand a couple of metres. Jack toddled obediently after him.

  I debated whether I was expected to follow, but decided it was a male-only activity and wasn’t going to last long anyway. Stretching my toes out in the shallow water, I tipped my head back and enjoyed the feeling of sun on my face.

  A couple of minutes later I turned around. Grant’s sandcastle was ten times the size of any of mine and growing rapidly as he shovelled sand on top. Jack was engaged in throwing tiny handfuls in its general direction.

  ‘Very impressive.’ I stood over them, hands on hips. ‘How on earth did you convince Jack not to destroy it? Promise him a lifetime’s supply of ice-cream?’

  Grant looked up in surprise. ‘He hasn’t tried to knock it down. He clearly knows quality when he sees it.’

  I sat down beside them and hugged my knees. ‘You’re not working today?’

  ‘Yeah, I brought the van with me, but I figured I could start a bit later than normal. Thanks for dinner the other night, by the way. I really enjoyed it.’

  ‘You’re welcome. I had a good time too.’

  We smiled at each other.

  Jack stood up and began pointing frantically at several seagulls which had landed on the grassy area bordering the sand.

  ‘They’re seagulls, Jack. Do you want to go closer?’

  His answer was a definite nod. He held out his hand and I took it in mine, feeling a pang of tenderness for him as I did.

  ‘Excuse us,’ I said to Grant.

  As we headed for the seagulls, I wished I’d thought to put my T-shirt on. Since the day I’d bought it, my swimsuit had insisted on riding up if I did anything more strenuous than breathe deeply. Unable to bear the thought of how bad it no doubt looked, I reached behind me every few steps to pull it down. My only hope was that Grant wasn’t watching.

  As we neared the birds, Jack took off, arms and legs flailing as he tried to catch them.

  This was clearly not the first time these birds had been attacked by a child. They took one unworried look at him, flapped their wings casually and flew only a few metres away. Undeterred, Jack continued towards them and the whole process repeated itself. I followed behind him, wondering how long he’d persist. Finally the birds flew over his head and we began the whole cycle again – this time heading back the other way.

  Eventually we made it back to Grant. Instead of abandoning the sandcastle project as soon as we had left, Grant had turned it into what looked like a five-bedroom Tuscan villa complete with palm trees and swimming pool.

  ‘Ta da. I give you the House of Jack.’

  Apparently unimpressed, Jack jumped, clearly set on landing on the sandcastle and demolishing it. Greatly overestimating his abilities, he landed in exactly the same spot he’d started from.

  He advanced on the sandcastle again, this time wielding a spade, and clumsily reduced it to ruins. Grant looked only amused at the destruction of his labour and I sat down beside him. Jack pottered around depositing stones in his bucket.

  ‘Do you go to the beach much – the real one, I mean?’

  ‘My folks live on the Sunshine Coast, but they’re overseas so I haven’t had a chance to take Jack yet. What about you? Do you still surf?’

  Grant nodded. ‘Yeah. Every time I go out I vow I’ll make the effort and do it every weekend, but somehow it doesn’t seem to happen.’

  That topic came to an abrupt end and I wondered where the easy conversation from the other night had gone.

  ‘So. How’s work going?’ Grant ventured.

  ‘Oh, not too bad. I spent yesterday going around pool shops trying to find someone who would testify that cleaning a pool once a fortnight is perfectly normal.’

  Despite my disillusionment at work, I hadn’t lost sight of the fact that things would suddenly get a whole lot worse if I didn’t somehow snatch victory from the jaws of defeat that were threatening Gordon’s trial.

  ‘You’re kidding, right?’ Grant looked incredulous. ‘I thought you’d spend your days marching in and out of courtrooms, striking deals and rushing out to cocktail parties at night.’

  ‘I’m going into a courtroom for the first time in five years next Friday.’ Even uttering the words sent a shudder of dread down my spine. ‘And trust me, it will not be glamorous.’

  ‘No cocktail parties?’

  ‘Nothing you’d give up dinner with your grandmother for.’

  ‘Ah, see, I was right. Mobile ice-cream sales, that’s the new glamour industry.’

  ‘I’ve heard that,’ I nodded seriously.

  ‘Yep, what people forget is that kids of famous people want ice-creams too. You’d be amazed the people I’ve served ice-creams to.’

  ‘Really?’ I asked.

  ‘Ah, no,’ Grant laughed. ‘I was just making it up. Although,’ he continued, ‘I did once sell an ice-cream to the guy who does the weather on television.’

  ‘Well that is impressive,’ I said with mock awe.

  ‘You’ve shattered my illusions anyway,’ Grant continued. ‘I’ve never met a woman lawyer. I thought you probably drove a snappy red convertible and kept turning down people asking you to become a judge.’

  ‘Well actually my car is silver and it spends more time in the mechanic’s than out of it. This week has seen me bumped from any chance of a promotion, and at the rate I’m going, I’ll be lucky if I still have my job this time next month.’

  There was a pause. To spare Gr
ant the stress of finding an adequate response, I jumped in. ‘What about you?’ I asked. ‘Do you miss teaching?’

  ‘Sometimes.’ He hesitated. ‘Remember Mr White at school?’

  I nodded.

  ‘He was just so cool – somehow he made learning fun and taught me how great reading can be. I’ve just always wanted to be that kind of teacher.’

  I decided this would be a bad time to admit that for years I’d harboured a secret crush on Mr White.

  ‘But once I became a teacher, it wasn’t that simple. There was all the staffroom politics, and the constant bombardment with wonderful new theories and techniques. And then there were the parents . . . Some of them were great, but some of them – God! They usually had the most painful kids and would come in to see me, complaining about the most ridiculous things. I taught for five years, and by the end I was just going through the motions. I decided I needed to change some things – so here I am . . .’

  He looked over at me. ‘Sorry, this is much too heavy for a beautiful morning at the beach.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ I smiled. ‘It’s usually me telling people my life story these days.’

  We both looked at Jack who had wrapped a towel around his shoulders and was advancing on us, growling in a way that would have been menacing if he weren’t three feet tall and smiling. Nevertheless Grant and I both put on suitably terrified faces.

  He flung himself at me. I squealed and fell over backwards, a wet and sandy Jack and a large towel on top of me. To my surprise, he didn’t get up immediately, or even try to throw sand in my face. Instead, he put his arms around me, his head on my chest, and gave me a hug.

  He was up and off again in a moment, but there was no mistaking his affection and I felt unreasonably happy.

  I tried to sit up without using my hands and failed. Even if I couldn’t get to the gym, there was absolutely no reason I couldn’t do some sit-ups at home, I told myself sternly as I used my arm to lever myself up. Peering out from under the towel, I tried to see if Grant had noticed how pathetic my stomach muscles were. Thankfully, he seemed to be looking the other way.