Patrick blushed. Aimee turned to introduce him to Lori’s father and realised he was oblivious to the new arrival as, having emptied out the last of the ice, he turned and announced, ‘Well, let’s get Mum up the table and start lunch.’ He moved towards Nonna then stopped. The two men stared at each other. Nonna started to say something more about priests, Patrick’s hands flailed about, his arms encumbered, and Alfredo smiled wryly. At that point three of the children, hands washed, rushed out the door looking for their place at the table and stood staring up at the stranger. Alfredo stepped past her, took the table from Patrick in one large hand and introduced himself with the other.
‘You must be Patrick, I’m Lori’s father, Alfredo, but call me Fred.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Fred. Paddy, Paddy O’Connor.’
‘Well let’s get this table sorted out for the kids.’
She watched the two men negotiate the table, and each other; she looked around for Lori and realised that she, along with everyone else at the kitchen window, were also watching. Their eyes met and they laughed. The others moved back to their tasks but Lori beckoned her in. Antony winked at her as he carried out the drinks for the eskies, ‘Brave to go in there.’
‘Mum, where’s the sharp knife?’
‘Gina, don’t bother me, I’m trying to make the gravy. Get your sister to find it.’
‘Excuse me, I’m dishing up the peas,’ countered Sophia.
An assembly line of servers piled up the plates.
‘It’s all right, I’ve found it.’
Lori steered her into the hallway. ‘How did it go?’
‘What?’
‘Dad and Paddy?’
‘I don’t know, your dad seemed okay. Paddy looked nervous.’
‘Lori, the children’s table needs cutlery and these plates need to start going out.’
‘Righto, Mum. Aimee, can you do that and tell Dad to move Nonna, she’s still on the lazyboy.’ She grabbed three knives, forks and spoons from a kitchen drawer and three plastic tumblers and shoved them into Aimee’s hands. Lunch had begun.
Within ten minutes everyone was seated in front of a steaming plate of food, glasses filled, ready for the toast. Alfredo, at the end of the table, clinked his glass with his knife; everyone turned towards him. Nonna sat to one side of him, his wife the other; Aimee was halfway down the table next to Lori, who sat across from Patrick with Sophia a barrier between him and Nonna. Across from her sat Antony and Gina. Further down the table sat Angela and her husband, Graeme, their toddler in a highchair beside her and across from them, looking pleased, their eldest, a small glass of red wine in his hand. The rest of the children held up their tumblers of cooldrink, kicking each other under the fold-up table, in a hurry to eat.
‘To family and friends, present and departed. And thank you, Lori, your mother and I are very proud of you.’ He stared meaningfully at Patrick. ‘And thank you God for our beautiful family and this beautiful meal.’
‘Amen,’ she heard Nonna say softly.
‘Merry Christmas, everyone.’
Christmas wishes resounded around the table and they started eating. Aimee thought of her mother and felt guilty she hadn’t rung; she’d call her before she dropped in for a Christmas drink with Gerry and Jan. She still didn’t know what to make of Jan’s claim about uranium being mined. A loud crack startled her; the children had popped a Christmas cracker.
Lori nudged her, ‘Here, pull this one with me, Aimee.’
‘No, pull mine. Do yours with Paddy.’
Patrick looked over at Aimee and smiled.
Eating was momentarily interrupted as crackers were popped and colourful paper crowns were donned; the children called out for everyone’s favours—a variety of plastic animals and tiny toys. Alfredo insisted they leave the reading of the paper jokes till they’d finished eating. Nobody listened. After the roast dinner and Nonna’s dessert, Karen served up thick slices of her homemade fruitcake with very strong coffee. Unused to the coffee, Aimee perked up; she rescued Paddy who by now had been cornered several times by Nonna, and they chatted happily over the washing up, which was fortunate as the dishes seemed never-ending.
It was nearing five when they all settled down for the evening. The tables had been folded away and the pews and chairs pushed up against the edges of the patio. Although it would be several hours till dusk, Lori had turned on the coloured lights strung over the beams of the pergola. There was a lazy, festive air as the timorous breezes pushed at the heat of the day. The younger children splashed in a canvas paddle pool on the back lawn, Nonna snored on the lazyboy and Alfredo was warming up his accordion. She sat down on a pew beside Lori and Patrick and asked Patrick what time he was on duty.
‘I take over from Ron at midnight. I’ve got the two-way with me, hard to keep things confidential with that thing. It’s been pretty quiet though, no call-outs Ron said.’
‘Hard to keep anything confidential in Kalgoorlie,’ challenged Alfredo, his arms squeezing the large box, in and out, his fingers gently pushing the buttons.
‘Well, things may be less confidential in the future. They’re talking about people accessing government files, including their own.’
She noticed a look of surprise on Lori’s face. It didn’t surprise her, part of her induction had been a pointed warning against subjectivity, unsubstantiated inferences and judgemental comments in case notes; she was just surprised to hear about it here. Perhaps Patrick was trying to impress Alfredo.
Alfredo stopped tuning. He looked sideways at Patrick, ‘You mean anyone will be able to read what’s in the files?’
‘No. Some things might be blacked out, so people don’t feel, you know, a bit embarrassed or ashamed. Not so much in recent files but there might be subjective comments in some older files, workers are more conscious now.’
She saw Lori’s face redden. ‘Or we might feel ashamed,’ Lori said sharply, looking directly at Patrick.
Uncertain, he tried to smile, his lips pressed together. Alfredo expanded his accordion and his chest and a beautiful long note pierced the air between them. They let the matter go and settled back to listen.
A dozen more people arrived bringing plates of food and drinks; she had meant to leave by now but kept being introduced to Lori’s relatives and family friends. Someone kept topping up her glass; she’d sipped at the first glass of weak, red wine over lunch, and drunk coffee for most of the afternoon but, since sitting down next to Lori and Patrick, she’d been drinking Lambrusco. The silky, cherry red liquid slid down her throat with ease as the day slid into night and the music of Italy wafted over the garden, mingling with the sounds of other families creating their own memories of Christmas.
By the time she really thought she should go, it was too late; everyone but Patrick had gone home, she was a little bit drunk and Lori was insisting she sleep in the spare room. She agreed and half an hour later fell into bed leaving Lori and Patrick talking at the kitchen table, Patrick’s two-way radio between them. As she drifted off she smiled to herself. It had been a happy day. The last thing she heard was Patrick talking on the radio, a name she thought she should know then the sound of a car starting up, but she was too tired to wonder and fell into a deep sleep.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Kerry sat in the car. To her left swam the crusty shores of a salt lake, an empty crystalline vastness, its elusive horizon, like her mind, inviting imagination or madness, that thin, dry line. She sailed its thinness, tacking into the wind of her memories, catching her breath, tasting the salt of tears settling into the corners of her gaping mouth.
Inwards, inwards, inwards she gulped but no air.
Two weeks without Paul. Two weeks since he’d died, in the early hours of Boxing Day, in the bed beside her.
Without Amber knowing she was adopted.
Around and around her mind raced.
Breathe, writhe, grieve. Breathe, writhe, grieve. Breathe, writhe, grieve.
A final gasp and her outward scream
thrust her over the steering wheel. She bashed her hands on the dashboard over and over and over.
‘It’s not fair, it’s not fair. You should have stayed till we’d told her,’ she yelled. ‘I can’t do this on my own, Paul.’
Gripping the steering wheel, she threw her head from side to side, rocking in the seat, then, squeezing her hand into a fist, leant back and with all her strength smashed her fist into the half open side window.
Like her, a piece broke off.
She laughed as the blood ran down her arm. And laughed. And laughed.
How funny, if she were to die in a car like her father, out in the bush, miles from anywhere.
The thought of her father slapped her. Hard.
The day they told her he was dead replayed itself, the day she started counting, the number of tiles in the hospital waiting room—the soothing order of certainty amid a chaos of screaming women. She saw herself sitting there, small, small like Amber.
Amber. Her laughing stopped.
‘Oh, Amber, Amber,’ she wailed, rocking back and forth again, staring at the lacerations on her arm, the blood pooling in her skirt. Panic grabbed her throat. She watched herself slow down, heard her wailing stop, smelt the hot iron of her blood. Her rocking shuddered to a halt. Heat pressed heavy on her skin. She looked up at the sky, shrouded by distant cumulonimbus clouds, false prophets of relief, for the rain rarely fell, repelled eastwards to dissipate over the never reached horizon. She wanted to die. Her vision blurred and she shook her head. No, she just wanted the pain to stop, for it all to stop. If she could only sleep it would all go away.
A huge thunderclap exploded the desert silence. An adrenaline pump of fear slammed her back into her body. She fought to regain her focus and examined the source of the dripping blood with a distant coolness—she’d have to stem the flow. She unbuttoned her blouse and took it off. With both hands she ripped it down the back, pulling at the side seam till she had a strip of cotton. Her concentration wavered. The effort had caused the blood to drip faster, her breathing to quicken.
Her mind wanted to circle, circle, circle.
She closed her eyes. An image of Paul formed. She smiled and her head lolled forward. Then Amber appeared. Her head jolted back. She stared around wildly. Forcing herself to concentrate, she wrapped the strip of cotton around and around the wound on her forearm. The blood oozed through. She grabbed her blouse and wrapped the whole thing round her arm and with her other arm and her teeth she pulled it tight. She needed to get home. Kerry turned on the ignition and started to drive.
Her dad used to follow this old track for sandalwood, skirting the edge of the salt lake. In winter, it would glisten with a thin sheen of water. She’d loved the pretence of an inland sea and used to throw small rocks across its surface. Sometimes her father would stop his chopping and loading and boil a billy, and the aromatic wood spiced her nostrils and flavoured the tea. They were her best memories of her father; that, and being allowed to drive his truck. He let her steer when she was six and drive by the time she was eleven.
She was a good driver, she was a good driver, she was a good driver.
She struggled to focus on the track. It was still a few miles to the bitumen. She couldn’t drive fast on the gravel but she needed to get home. Her mum would be worried; she’d left her to mind Amber. Her mother had called over every day since the funeral.
Two weeks without Paul. She’d begun to doubt she could live without him. She’d begun to doubt Amber was enough reason to try.
Without, doubt, shout. Without, doubt, shout. Without, doubt, shout.
‘Stop it, stop it, stop it!’ she screamed, banging her left hand on the steering wheel. The car lurched sideways into a bank of dust. The left-hand side tilted but she steered it back onto the track. Shaken, she waited a minute for the dust to settle, and drove on.
Her right arm began to ache. A thin line of blood formed on the cotton. She took her right hand off the wheel and rested it on her left shoulder. The road can’t be too far now. Once she reached it, home was only half an hour away; she’d clean herself up, assure her mother it was an accident and go the doctor’s—she’d probably need a couple of stitches.
No worries. No worries. No …
She felt a warm trickle down her elbow. She glanced down and saw the blood pooling in her lap again. Her vision blurred and her head began to throb. She felt sick. Where is the bloody road? Her dad always told her to look out for the big peppercorn tree, its willow-like foliage an oddity in the straggly bush; an old sandalwood cutter had planted it decades ago, to mark the turnoff. Where is it? She blinked and peered ahead, slowing down, waiting for her eyes to clear. Then she saw it, on the left, straight ahead, a hundred yards. Relieved, she breathed out, unaware she’d been holding her breath, and sped towards the bitumen. She swerved onto the road and headed towards town.
There were no other cars, there rarely were on this road; the sandalwood cutters had long gone. The occasional gold fossickers would venture out or a carload of lost tourists, before they reached a signpost or a boundary fence and had to turn back. She’d brought Paul and Amber out here once, packed a picnic, in the spring, after a rare season of heavy rain, and surprised them—wildflowers, desert wildflowers everywhere, as far as they could see. Amber had run amongst them, collecting handfuls of purple and pink and yellow flowers, piling them up in bunches beside where they sat, under a scrawny gumtree. Paul had stuck everlastings all through her hair and called her his bush nymph. He’d wanted to make love, she could tell by the way his brown eyes darkened and softened. She’d laughed and said, ‘Later.’ They’d made daisy chains for Amber instead.
Maybe they could do it again, Paul could … No, he couldn’t. He was gone. Without telling Amber—without telling Amber. She’d have to tell her. How could she tell her now, how could she?
Could she? Kerry felt herself drifting. Maybe she could. Maybe …
Like her, the car too drifted, drifted slowly. And stopped.
The foyer of the welfare office was always chaotic on the second Wednesday of the month—Gerry’s day for Cundeelee. Aimee smiled at several naked children sitting on the floor; they grinned back as she stepped over them. She nodded, eyes down, to three elderly men sitting, stiffly, on a bench against the wall; the two women sitting on the floor beside them she knew, and greeted them warmly.
They would all squeeze into Gerry’s Land Rover for the trip home. Sometimes there wasn’t enough room for everyone and they had to make other arrangements, often after protracted arguments—usually when some of the younger men had been drinking and needed to get out of town in a hurry—but Gerry gave priority to the elders. If the young men causing trouble didn’t settle down the women would hit them with a warti till they gave up and left.
One of the women, Doreen, a relation of Hayley’s through kinship on her mother’s side, touched Aimee’s hand as she passed. ‘Nyurra ngayula nyinanyi.’
She would have loved to respond to the invitation to sit down but Patrick had rung the duty room wanting to speak with her in the staffroom. With Hayley, she sometimes sat with the women, speaking Wangka. It often resulted in Doreen or the others covering their faces with their hands and laughing at her struggle with the pronunciation, particularly the retroflex consonants that required her to push the tip of her tongue against her palate as she spoke.
‘Munta,’ she apologised. ‘Ngayula tjarrpa,’ she indicated, pointing to the staffroom.
She continued through the foyer and into the staffroom, closing the door behind her. The noise, muted a little, followed her in but was overridden by a thunderous rendition of Happy birthday to you. She took a step back in surprise, hand to her mouth—all the staff, except Maureen who she had passed on reception, were gathered in front of her, singing loudly, and Lori was hopping up and down in delight, waving about a cake with lit candles.
‘Surprise, surprise,’ Lori laughed, placing the cake beside a pile of small plates on the staffroom table. ‘Come and blow ou
t your candles.’
‘Oh, you’re a bugger, Lori. How did you know?’
‘Checked your file,’ she smirked.
‘Happy birthday, Aimee,’ Patrick said, stepping forward to kiss her on the cheek.
With that, everyone rushed forward and did likewise. She was passed amongst sets of arms and into a chair in front of the cake where she meekly obeyed Lori’s command to blow and make a wish and cut the cake but not all the way through or it was bad luck.
‘Twenty-one, are we?’ Ron chiacked, winking.
‘She looks it,’ smiled Hayley.
‘I’ll have to eat my piece and run, sorry,’ said Gerry. ‘I have to head off but we’ll see you Sunday, eh? Jan’s making it your birthday roast.’
She leant back in her chair overwhelmed with their generosity of spirit, and found it hard to believe she had only been here a year.
‘Thank you all so much,’ she mumbled.
Lori passed her a piece of cake, then served everyone else.
Daniel took his and left, grinning at her as he passed. She noticed Hayley’s eyes follow him. Not surprising—Daniel was beautiful.
‘Daniel’s covering your duty for the next half hour, so relax and enjoy yourself,’ said Patrick, pulling up a chair beside her.
‘Oh, thank you,’ she called out to Daniel’s disappearing back. She hoped he’d be all right. There’d been a problem last time—a man didn’t want to speak to him, something to do with Daniel being from the Kimberleys. It was rare for district officers to work outside their own region but Patrick had worked with Daniel, up north, and had arranged for him to come. Lori apparently knew the story but Aimee hadn’t really caught up with her since Christmas and the funeral.
‘Well, it’s been a big week or two, Aimee, and I know you’re off to the Steeles this afternoon. How are you feeling?’ Patrick sought her eyes.
She looked around the room but everyone was chatting loudly. They all knew she was upset by Paul’s death; several of them had also attended his funeral on New Year’s Eve. She’d thought she would see him again, today in fact, the day she’d scheduled for her next home visit. Paul and Kerry were going to tell Amber and she was going to support them. Now he was gone, without Amber knowing she was adopted. Her throat tightened.
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