by Kim Lock
Four more drinks and three games of eight ball later, Fairlie sways on her feet and suggests Bri-Bri considers undertaking the gentlemanly act of walking her to her door. It’s just around the corner, after all.
‘I’m a gentleman,’ says Brian without deliberation. ‘So what choice do I have?’
Grinning, Fairlie tips back her head to laugh and grabs onto Brian’s shoulder for balance. ‘Easy, tiger,’ she says to him, as though it’s he who stumbled. ‘Think there’s a step there or something. O, H and S hazard,’ she cries, pointing to the plain, smooth patch of carpet.
Outside the night is still warm, the waxing moon bright and high. As they stroll the side streets Brian Masters tells Fairlie about the four years he spent in the navy straight out of high school, wishing he could be on his father’s crayfish boat instead of the HMAS Sydney.
‘So you were called home,’ Fairlie says. ‘I wish I knew where my country really is.’
Brian doesn’t say anything, just watches her in the darkness.
‘Want me to carry you over the threshold?’ Bri-Bri asks as they reach the doorstep.
‘Look, it’s tempting,’ says Fairlie. ‘But one, we’re not married. And two, you’d snap your spine like a pigeon bone, Little Bri.’
Brian takes a step back and looks her up and down, eyes narrowed in concentration. ‘Piece of cake,’ he says.
Fairlie spreads her arms. ‘I’m not exactly Tinkerbell.’
‘You’re not a tank, either.’
‘Be still my beating heart! A man who thinks I’m more slender than a tank!’
Brian claps his hands together, rubs his palms briskly. ‘Hold onto your britches,’ he says, and in one swoop bends and lifts Fairlie into his arms. With a shriek, Fairlie kicks her feet into the air. She clutches her arms around his neck and giggles; he’s fragrant with one of those cheap, testosterone-y deodorants, beer and hot skin. She reaches down to unlatch the door and Brian balances on one foot to kick it open, stumbles and they fall together onto the living room floor.
And so it is a matter of moments later, on the scratchy carpet in her living room with Yodel offering judgement from the couch, that Fairlie discovers little Bri-Bri Masters definitely isn’t little after all, and makes a mental note to tell Jenna. But then she remembers, somewhere amongst her gasping breath and the smoke-scented drape of Brian’s ponytail across her cheek, that she can’t tell Jenna. Never again will she tell Jenna, and she digs her fingers into the clenching arse of Brian Masters and cries out because he isn’t little, and Jenna, who would be scandalised and blush with the verbosity of Fairlie’s recollection, will never find out exactly how little he isn’t. In fact, he is so very un-little that her groin and hips will ache for three days.
In the morning, she remembers him kissing her tenderly, and she’s grateful that he’s gone.
iii
Later the following afternoon, the hangover pounds in her head in time with the ringing down the line. It rings for so long Fairlie thinks she’ll be diverted to voicemail. But as she prepares to leave a message, he answers.
A brief silence and then, ‘Oh. Hi, Fairlie.’
‘So.’ She drums her fingers on her knees. The cat chirrups and butts against her elbow and she pushes him away. ‘Just calling to see how you are,’ she says, hoping her voice sounds unremarkable. ‘How’s Henry?’
‘He’s okay,’ Ark replies with a small cough. ‘We’re both as to be expected.’
‘Right, sure, I’m sorry.’ Fairlie is nodding. She doesn’t know why. She stops.
‘So,’ she says again, drawing the word out. ‘I thought I might come up for a visit. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long.’ Damnit, she thinks, why do I keep apologising to him?
‘That’s fine,’ he breaks in. ‘No need. I have my family supporting me at this time.’
‘Are you sure? I’d love to see him. You. Both of you.’
‘Thank you. But we’d like to grieve together.’
A flash of irritation thickens her throat. ‘Of course. But can you please –’ She breaks off, wipes her nose with the back of her hand. ‘Can you please keep me posted? I’m worried. About Henry.’
He goes quiet.
‘Ark?’
A heavy sigh blows like a burst of static against the earpiece. ‘I don’t mean to sound like a jerk,’ he says, morosely.
Thinking there will be more to that statement, Fairlie waits, but when Ark remains silent she is forced to concede, ‘Gosh, no, not a jerk at all.’
‘I appreciate it.’ He sounds far away. ‘I appreciate your consideration. I was thinking of packing up . . . her stuff. Maybe . . .’
Again Fairlie waits.
‘Maybe you could come over and help with that.’
‘Sure,’ she forces out. ‘I’d be . . .’ What? Happy? She rephrases. ‘I will come and help you with that. But surely there’s no rush. Can I come over in the meantime, for a visit?’
His answer is a long time coming. ‘Are you free tomorrow?’
Fairlie blinks. ‘Yes, yes I am.’
‘I should have enough boxes, but bring some if you have any. Come by as soon as you can in the morning. I want to get it over and done with.’
Ark hangs up, and Fairlie stares at the phone, holding it at arm’s length. The space between her temples throbs and she resolves never to drink again.
iv
Fairlie sleeps late the next morning. For breakfast she fries rashers of bacon and eats them from the pan, weeping silently. She drops rinds on the floor for Yodel who hums his appreciation and romances her leg with his arched back.
Midmorning, as she pulls on clean shorts and wrestles into a bra before heading over to Ark’s, she receives a text message from her mother: I’ll be up with some dinner.
Sounds good, Fairlie types in response.
The message fails to send. She tries again, but the same fail error appears.
‘Bloody hell,’ she mutters, holding her thumb on the power button to restart the device. But when that doesn’t work either, she swipes the screen to try calling.
‘Your account has been suspended,’ a recorded voice tells her. ‘Please contact Telstra for reactivation.’
‘Oh, fuck’s sake.’
With a groan she hurries to the fridge, but she hasn’t tacked the telephone bill there. She searches the benchtop, rummages through the drawers. ‘Where’d I put that damn bill, Yodel?’ She slumps back into the lounge room and stares around.
A corner of an envelope pokes out from beneath the couch. Now she remembers. The morning after Jenna’s death. Henry was here; she’d kicked the pile of mail away. Recalling the comforting weight of him on her hip, the sweet, still-babyish smell of his hair, her heart gives a twist.
Peering beneath the couch, she fishes out three dusty envelopes, a stale cracker and a sock with a hole in the toe. Another envelope is pushed further back, but she can’t reach it. Taking a wooden spoon from the kitchen, she retrieves it after a few attempts, trailing a dusty braid of cobweb.
She freezes.
The envelope is pink. In green ink, her address is penned in familiar handwriting.
Jenna’s handwriting.
Jenna has addressed this envelope.
With a blunt fingernail she tears the envelope open. She unfolds the slip of paper to reveal more of Jenna’s handwriting.
My dear Fairlie,
I’m sorry I can’t give you more answers. I know you’re reading this and you’re probably confused as hell. And you’re probably denying it, too. All I can tell you is that I’m sorry. And I am – I am so, so sorry about all of this. About everything.
You probably hate me, but please know that I’ve thought of you every single day. And I’ve missed you, too. More than I could tell you. But there was nothing I could do. Please don’t worry about me. I’m where I’ve alway
s wanted to be: in heaven, with the elephants. I love you – please believe me. And please tell Henry that I do love him, too.
Inside the envelope you’ll find a key. Store-For-You, unit 8.
All of this? This is between you and me only, sister.
More love again, and always.
Jenna
Fairlie reads the note three times; the brevity of the words inexplicable on the page. Turning the envelope upside down, something small and heavy slides onto the carpet.
A key.
Fairlie stares at it, dumbstruck. The key is small, brass coloured and unimportant looking.
What is this? What the fuck is going on?
‘What the fuck is going on?’ she echoes aloud.
She can hardly breathe. With one hand she clutches Jenna’s letter to her chest, with the other she covers her mouth to stifle her scream.
8
THEN
Crammed together in the hospital tea room, Jenna watched the biscuit crumbs stuck to Fairlie’s bottom lip bounce as she chewed. As yet, Fairlie hadn’t responded to Jenna’s revelation. Instead she’d simply gazed back at her warily.
At length, Fairlie swallowed her mouthful. ‘And . . . what did you say to that?’
Jenna poured boiling water over her two-minute noodles. Shaking in the flavour sachet she watched the broth turn a sickly caramel-brown as the powder dissolved.
‘Not much.’ Jenna’s voice was stretched as she answered. ‘I told him I wanted to think about it.’
‘Having a baby?’ Fairlie gave a low whistle. ‘Yeah. That one warrants some serious rumination.’
The scent of artificial beef and wheaty starch filled the air. Fairlie dug into the jar for another biscuit and stuffed it whole into her mouth, then folded her arms and chewed with considerable force, leaning back against the counter.
‘Okay, yes, a baby is a huge deal,’ Jenna said. ‘But in a way it makes sense that he wants to start a family. He’s got such big plans, it’s –’ she paused, waved her fork in a circle, ‘– impressive, the way he’s thought the future through. Did I tell you he’s talking with a potential international supplier?’
Fairlie shook her head. ‘I can’t keep up with the dude’s enthusiasm, to be honest. But a baby –’
‘Not only that,’ Jenna went on over her, ‘he’s looking into buying more grapes – some here in Coonawarra, plus a heap of established acres in the Hunter Valley. Eventually, with the income he’s predicting, he’ll be able to employ managers and the business will run itself, so he’ll have more spare time.’ She glanced at Fairlie, gauging her reaction. ‘More money would be helpful,’ Jenna continued, working at the noodles with her fork. ‘It will be nice to not have to explain every dollar I spend.’
Fairlie frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Saving up for the grapes, Ark’s a bit tense about what we spend,’ Jenna said with a short sigh.
‘But a baby? Are you ready for that?’
Jenna’s fork stabbed down. ‘He’s always thinking of us, of our future. He’s like a father already, only without a family.’
‘It’s great that he knows what he wants. But what about you – hey, Marg.’ Fairlie cut herself short as their nursing unit manager strode into the room.
‘Good morning,’ Marg Dunbower said brightly, squeezing her stout frame between them. ‘Isn’t this rain depressing?’ She filled a cup with hot water and dropped in a herbal tea bag. ‘Although goodness knows, the farmers need it.’
‘Depressing,’ Fairlie agreed around another yoyo biscuit, ‘but it’s a party for the farmers.’
Beneath Jenna’s fork the cake of noodles finally fell apart.
‘Jenna, how’s that new husband?’
Jenna smiled quickly. ‘He’s great.’
‘And the vineyard? It’s going well?’
‘Super, thanks Marg.’
‘Any plans for children yet?’
Dunk, dunk, dunk, went Marg Dunbower’s tea bag.
‘Oh, you know,’ Jenna said.
‘Good, good.’ The nursing unit manager nodded.
Fairlie scratched her nose. Jenna coughed and looked at the floor.
‘Right. See you.’ And Marg was gone.
‘Poor Marg’s gonna think we were talking about her,’ Fairlie muttered. ‘Did you fart or something? What’s with the tension?’
In Jenna’s bowl the noodles had gone flaccid, twisty pale strands waving like bleached seaweed. Even an innocent answer to Fairlie’s question evaded her. What could she say? More and more, she found even the simplest eye contact with her friend had become almost unbearable. The weight of what she knew heaved over Jenna like a glacial slide, heavier and darker as time lurked onward. But Ark’s recent suggestion that they start a family had grown more insistent with each day, and Jenna’s answer as yet had not been forthcoming. The lifelong crutch of turning to Fairlie, her beloved friend, was a habit hard to break. She had always shared everything with Fairlie: from the simplest joys to – almost – the bitterest of hurts.
And yet.
Yet.
There was that one thing. That one enormous, unfathomable thing. Ignoring it seemed only to inflame it, yet facing it seemed impossible. If only that thing wasn’t there, and she could turn to her friend for advice and solace. It was at moments like these that Jenna’s resentment of her mother stung so viciously she could cry out with it.
ii
As a woman’s voice droned nasally over the PA – someone from grocery was wanted at the checkout counter – Jenna shuffled down the brightly lit aisle, her forearms resting on the trolley handle. On a whim she’d come all the way to Mount Gambier, to the larger supermarket. Perhaps the longer aisles and the bigger selection than the local deli in Penola could overwhelm her, dazzle her with inspiration.
Wake her up. Slap her around with choice and colour and life.
Although she knew Ark would frown – the longer trip, the petrol costs, the splurge on foods they might not eat – she hoped a quiet dinner together, something novel, might sweeten them both.
Her bounty of cheddar cheese, stuffed olives, chicken breasts, brown rice crackers, a dozen eggs and a packet of environmentally friendly toilet tissue made from recycled office paper – the literal wiping of one’s arse on someone else’s hard work – represented a one-item-per-aisle shuffle through Coles. Subconsciously, she also knew she was trying to keep it below one hundred dollars: the smaller transactions were less glaring on the credit card statement.
In the stationery aisle a colourful display of markers and art papers caught her eye. Flag-like flyers proclaiming ‘Back to school!’ highlighted decimated-looking shelves. She guessed the back-to-school part must have already happened.
Jenna paused in front of a clearance bin at the end of the aisle. Generic, saddle-stitched A5-ruled notepads, fifty per cent off. She dipped in her hand and withdrew the first thing she touched: a purple-and-black striped cover, ‘240 pages’ printed in bold white letters in the top corner.
She tossed it in the trolley, trying not to think about why.
iii
Garlic. And white wine, of course. And something else Jenna couldn’t quite place – sage, or perhaps thyme. The fragrance wafted down the hallway, drawing her to the kitchen like a fish on a line.
The kitchen window was covered with condensation, pans steamed on the stovetop and Ark, his back to her, whistled and danced on his feet. Apron straps were tied in a knot at the small of his back.
Jenna smiled and leaned her shoulder against the door frame. For a while she watched him: the quick and sure movements of his arms, the self-congratulatory smack of his lips as he dipped his hand into the pan and licked his fingers.
Jenna cleared her throat. Looking back over his shoulder, Ark’s face split into a smile.
‘Aha,’ he said, spreading his a
rms wide. ‘Mama is home.’
Her stomach dropped. ‘Mama?’
He waved his hand. ‘Just a figure of speech.’ He swept over, kissing her with a mouth tasting of cream and garlic.
‘Chicken,’ he said, and waggled his eyebrows. ‘And I have something else.’ He took two pans from the heat and set them on the sink before wiping his hands on his apron.
‘Sit,’ he said dramatically, gesturing to the set table. Candles flickered on a placemat in the centre. ‘And close your eyes.’
‘Ark,’ she laughed. ‘What’s going on?’ But she did as he asked, a curious flutter in her belly.
‘Hold out your hands.’ His voice, deep and warm in her ear; his lips on her earlobe. A tingle of pleasure ran up her spine. Eyes closed, she held out her hands. Something firm, velvety, pressed into her palms.
Ark’s gentle command: ‘Open them.’
Jenna opened her eyes. A navy jewellery box, sitting open in her hands to reveal a pair of glimmering pearl earrings.
‘Oh,’ she said softly. She looked up at him and he was smiling so tenderly she thought her heart might splinter. ‘Thank you. But what is this for? I thought you said we couldn’t afford –’
‘No.’ He stopped her with a finger on her lips. ‘We can always earn more money, but I can never adequately express how much I love you.’
Jenna stroked the pearls, cool and silky, shaped like teardrops. He took the box from her hands and removed the earrings. Pressing the pearls into her palm, he curled her fingers around them, and wrapped her hand in his.
‘All you have to say is thank you,’ he said, his face inches from hers. ‘Soon you’re going to make me a father. That’s the greatest gift of all.’
Jenna’s mouth went dry. Impulsively, she sought his lips with her own, his fingers tightening their grip. Breaking away, she said, ‘You’re going to burn the chicken.’
