by Anna George
When Neve returned inside, Jessie was a ball on the floor again, her eyes droopy. On the rug beside her, Cliff was staring, unsleepy, at the window. Neve dropped onto the couch and the girl stirred. ‘I’ve found these,’ Neve told her. The girl blinked awake and examined the illustrated covers. Had she met a book before? Neve began to read.
When Anatole’s story was finished, Jessie was quiet, lost in the world of wily mice and struggling French cheese factories. Or perhaps she hadn’t been able to relate to the mouse’s story. Or to his cheek: slipping into the factory under the cover of night, tasting the cheese, and leaving tiny signs. Too tart; more salt; not enough lemon zest. Or to his fearless irreverence, which saved the factory from ruin.
Or perhaps, more simply, she wasn’t in the habit of being read to.
‘Hey, Jessie,’ said Neve. ‘You can stay until someone comes for you, okay?’
The girl trained gentle, worried eyes on Anatole, balanced on his bicycle.
Neve brightened her voice. ‘How does that sound?’
The girl’s eyes swept from the picture book and across Neve’s lounge room to the wall of windows. The second front was heading for the horizon. In the mid-distance, the sky was falling into the sea. Yet within Neve’s home all was quiet and dry now. They were in a perfect bubble, a weatherproof capsule.
‘Good.’ Jessie’s smile was short-lived and grey-toothed.
Neve bent so that her face was level with the girl’s. Though they were side by side, Neve was careful not to touch her. ‘You’re safe with me,’ said Neve.
The girl’s eyes swung up to Neve’s and away again. She nodded, once. ‘Can you read it again?’
13
When Leah came to, she was on a stretcher. People were talking across her chest but she couldn’t catch what they were saying. The pain in her head was gone. ‘Kelly?’ The name echoed. She tried again, louder, then tried to sit as the ambos moved around her. Outside the vehicle, kids were darting and one was howling. Tayla? Is that you?
‘Stop . . .’ she said, to no one in particular. She was giddy again and her words were far away or underwater. ‘Wait . . .’
‘Take it easy,’ said a man. ‘Lie down.’ Or that’s what she thought he said, as he slid a needle into her arm.
‘Kelly?’ she yelled. Her right ear, she realised, was whistling.
Kelly burst into the open end of the ambulance and spoke at her. Something like, ‘Where have you been?’ Or, ‘How are you feeling?’
Leah raised her hand to her ear. Something was oozing. Something bloody and thick.
Kelly looked at the gunk too and her mouth went down. But she was there, and she didn’t look cross. Leah tried to prop herself up as the man fiddled with tubes and straps. She fixed her stare on Kelly.
‘Tayla . . .’ she whispered as urgently as she could.
‘Where is she?’ mouthed Kelly. ‘Where’s your car?’
When the nearest ambo turned, Leah curled her finger. Kelly climbed into the ambulance and crouched. With a hand cupped to her mouth, Leah whispered in Kelly’s ear. When Leah was done, Kelly’s face was blotchy and she was blinking hard.
‘It’s going to be okay,’ Kelly whispered into her good ear.
Her big sister was trying to sound calm. But Leah didn’t need two working ears to know she wasn’t. Kelly ran from the ambulance like a whippet.
A week ago, Tayla had been making a cubby with the cushions off Kelly’s couch. The other kids were at school and Cyndi was catnapping. Sat on the floor, Leah was tweaking her budget. Three months ago, she’d cut up her credit cards; but last week, another bill had found her. Mitch wasn’t only surfing on the Gold Coast. The bastard had bought a bed! Squashed inside her hut, Tayla had wanted to play her next favourite game, where everyone gets three wishes. A game Mitch taught her. ‘Your go, Mummy,’ Tayla said and then again. ‘Mummy, your go . . .?’
Leah stopped, with the pencil in her mouth. At this rate, what with the old bills left to pay and this new one, they’d have to stay at Kelly’s for another three months to save enough for a bond. ‘Not now.’
Tayla’s lip went down and Leah sighed. The girl always wanted a piece of her, at the wrong time. ‘You go first,’ she said.
Tayla tended to take a while, choosing the spot-on wish. Like for Leah to plait her hair or draw a tattoo on her arm or play vets with Mick and her imaginary animals. Leah guessed she’d mull it over carefully today and then ask for something easy. And quick. But that morning Tayla had sat, cross-legged beneath the cushions, and said, super soft, ‘All I want is a forever house.’
She’d looked up at Leah with big, hopeful eyes. She was like a daisy-weed raising its head to the sun.
‘Oh, Tayla,’ Leah said, ‘I’m working on it, okay?’
Her daughter’s head dropped and Leah sighed. She hadn’t meant to sound impatient or to snuff out the girl’s hope. But her timing sure was off. Leah put down her pencil.
‘Here I come!’
She tickled Tayla’s feet until the girl let out a squeaky laugh. Two seconds later, the cubby collapsed.
Leah lay back as the ambulance began to move. She knew what she’d wish for now. She shut her eyes. If only Phil hadn’t burnt himself, yesterday. He’d wouldn’t’ve been such a prick, and made Kelly kick them out. None of this would’ve happened. Leah tried to appreciate the feel of her head without the pain. It was easy to forget how good no pain felt. But you sure missed that nothingness when it was gone.
She hiccupped softly. Kelly would find Tayla; she would. And everything would be okay. Or . . . better. Leah would sit with her daughter for days and play. She wouldn’t rush about with worry and housework. She’d let Kelly cook. She’d stay put and sew. Concentrate on her three wishes.
One of the ambos was speaking to her, about Rosebud Hospital or Frankston. She didn’t care. As long as it didn’t cost her. She’d never been in an ambulance or in hospital. Until six months ago, she’d never been abandoned by her husband or evicted, either. Lots of firsts. None of them good.
Her life was dreamy, a year ago, compared to this. She just didn’t notice. She worked eight split shifts a fortnight on a permanent roster; and was doing a bridging subject online so one day she could study to become a nurse. Mitch worked as a storeman at a model aeroplane factory. They put away a few dollars at month’s end, saving for a house deposit. They had their TV shows: she liked the medical ones, Mitch and Tayla liked the wildlife documentaries. Tayla collected animal fact cards from the supermarket, which Mitch read to her, and Cyndi was starting to crawl. Leah didn’t get much sleep but she wasn’t complaining. Mitch had an extra day off once a fortnight; he had his surfing; she had her sewing and her cat. She was a bit of a nana but Mitch didn’t mind. They were holding it together. Then, one Thursday evening in June, she got the call from Ron, Mitch’s boss. ‘Mitch’s at the beach, in the drink . . . and he won’t come in,’ said Ron. ‘He won’t talk to me.’ Ron didn’t say anything for a good ten seconds. ‘Leah, you ought to come down.’
Her hubby wasn’t one to be late home or to shun a mate. She’d turned off the stove, turned off the telly, and locked up the house. She’d driven the few blocks to the beach, with the kids in tow. At the beach, she’d run past rows of beach boxes. Pink, lemon, red polka-dot. Silly lollipop colours. She’d never understood why people needed a beach box. In some parts, beach boxes cost more than people’s proper homes. More than their place on Bridge Street, that’s for sure. She’d leant against the last box, an orange-striped one, and tried to spot him.
The sun was gone but the night was clear, the sea crinkly. Maybe Ron had overreacted and Mitch had only wanted a walk. That was out of character and it was cold, but it wasn’t the end of the world.
And then she saw him. He was in his work clothes. The water was up to his thighs. He looked spacy, walking about twenty metres from the shore. His socks and boots were down on the sand. His thick, salty hair was out of its ponytail.
‘There’s Daddy!’
Tayla had taken off that fast, Leah thought she was going in too.
‘Stop!’ she’d yelled.
Half the time, she sounded meaner than she meant to. Tayla had come to a halt, like she was a statue. But her bottom lip wobbled.
‘Cut your sooking,’ whispered Leah. She couldn’t deal with Tayla and with Mitch. Not at the same time. Tayla stuck her lips together. When Mitch didn’t even look at Tayla, Leah began to hiccup. She used to hiccup when she was nervous, as a kid. She staggered to the edge of the water as Cyndi squirmed in her arms. At six months, her baby girl was getting heavy. ‘Mitch? What are you doing?’
He’d turned to her with the saddest look on his dopey face. He shook his head, like they were in the middle of a row and he was disappointing her. Straight up, she knew. Back then, she read his mind half the time; he read hers the other half. And they both watched the news of a night: people were getting laid off. In shops, factories, office jobs – work was going overseas, or online or to machines. Everything was changing too much, too fast. She thought of Gran, trying hard after losing her job at the supermarket, and it’d made no difference. Too old, too plain; no one would take her on. Leah sank onto the sand. Mitch wasn’t Gran. He’d been at the factory since he was nineteen. Six years. That afternoon, there’d been a special meeting called with the big boss; but they’d thought he was safe.
Cyndi tried to crawl out of her grip. Leah watched Mitch turn and wade the other way through the water.
‘Why’s Daddy sad?’ Tayla whispered to no one in particular. ‘Where’s he going?
The water was the palest blue. This part of the bay always reminded her of tropical islands she’d seen on TV. Places with names she couldn’t say. Places she’d never visit.
Leah sniffed and her head crackled. That day on the beach, she knew it’d be bad. She knew he’d be gutted and that she’d need to hold their family together. The ambulance sped up. What she hadn’t understood was how quickly his shame would spread – from him to them. Or how much damage it could do.
14
Neve’s house was unnaturally quiet without the hum of appliances. Mid-gasp. Soon, the contents of her fridge would suffer. Soon, she’d have to light candles. She put down her pen, as her hand cramped. Beside her lay a high stack of envelopes addressed to colleagues and cousins, peers and clients. She’d handwritten each card, mindful to cite the specific gift and its merit. She’d tried to see the hot air balloons through Jessie’s eyes but she’d had trouble with that dress . . . Manners were important though, she’d reminded herself, as she’d scrawled across each card, somewhat messily. Manners gave us a much-needed framework of respect.
In the hush, her thoughts defaulted to the girl and her mother. What sort of life did they lead? How unstructured could it be for the mother to lose her daughter twice, in two days? It was hard to imagine a mothering style more at odds with her own. Was the woman on drugs, or drunk? And where was the father? Why wasn’t he raising the alarm? Neve pictured the skinny, jean-clad frame, and her erratic driving. Was the woman passed out in a ditch?
Neve’s thoughts hurtled, to and fro, until a man’s voice called her name. She started. Was she hearing things now too? But then she remembered the call she’d made, hours earlier. And that, without power, the doorbell wouldn’t work.
She whispered down to Jessie, dozing beside her. The child roused and sat up, her brow furrowed. ‘It’s all right,’ said Neve. ‘It’s the stonemason. I’ll be back.’ Through the front door, she called, ‘I’m coming.’
From the garage, she fetched her boots. The space was brighter, almost glary. It took her a moment to register, to her dismay, that the roller door was up. She stood, gaping at it, uncomprehendingly. It could be opened manually but only from the inside.
Venturing outside, she was taken aback, too, by the state of her garden. The second front’s wind and rain were well gone but what remained was damp and disturbed. Leaves carpeted the road and the pathway. Slender branches were strewn across her succulents and magnolias, like tiny witches’ broomsticks. A white hibiscus had been denuded. She didn’t know what was more unsettling: the state of her garden or the prospect of another trespasser.
In the midst of the storm’s debris and her confusion, Sal Marioni was bent over the tumbled stonework. His attention fixed on the wet fragments of granite. He wore the standard uniform of a tradesman: leather boots, durable beige shorts and a collared brown t-shirt. Some sort of fleecy vest. His white utility was predictable too, if spotless. Approaching, she took in the square shape of his face, its even features, and his trim waist. She didn’t recognise him as one of Bill Callahan’s men; though it seemed he had been, and he’d bought Bill’s business. She’d enjoyed working with Bill; she hoped this guy wasn’t a cowboy. She hoped, too, that she’d closed the internal garage door. That whoever had let themselves out, stayed out.
When Sal looked up at her, his expression was frank. He stood, extending his hand. His fingers were dry and warm, and his nails cropped and clean.
‘This your emergency?’ His voice was low but deeply accented, with that distinct Australian drawl. Though she wasn’t a full-blown snob, she thought it a shame. He was, otherwise, actually quite appealing.
‘Yes.’
She relinquished his grip to smother a yawn and survey the streetscape.
He cupped his hand under his chin and examined the damage. It probably wasn’t quite as dire as he’d been led to believe. But she saw no need to defend herself. Neither of them spoke; a nearby dog barked, bored. She squinted at a fresh glossy patch on the road. If the mother was back, where was that Holden?
‘It’s been, what, twelve years since we put this beauty up?’ he said.
‘Yes, that’s correct.’
To his credit, he didn’t seem to be tracking the years on her face. She refocused on his but couldn’t place him. She heard a footfall on a paver close by and flinched. At her cue, he turned too. But nothing moved on the garden path or roadside. No bogan mother, no forgotten child. She made her face relax.
‘I was surprised to hear someone was living here,’ he said.
‘That’s odd,’ she said. ‘It’s a house.’ Between him and the nosy policeman, she was tiring of the local menfolk.
Sal held her gaze. ‘It’s one of my favourites on the peninsula. A nod to Lloyd Wright too.’
She turned her lips up, politely. He was speaking of her other life, currently eclipsed. A dangerous topic. And this house, a labour of love, was very much her own. She wanted to be back inside it.
She gestured to the wall. ‘What do you think?’
With a shake of his head, he walked towards his ute.
‘If the job’s too small, I’ll make it worth your while,’ she called out.
‘Steady on,’ he said, coming to a halt. His face transformed with a smile. It became younger, almost cheeky. His teeth were large, white and regular. Honest, somehow.
‘Getting my phone. I can be back Tuesday. No, make that Wednesday. It might take a week. If you give me a mo, I’ll shoot through a quote.’
She took a step towards him, raised her hand to touch his elbow. Thought better of it. ‘Can you not start today? Put something temporary up?’
He frowned. They both considered her hand, hovering. Her need in the air between them; she wished she could re-cork it. He glanced past her shoulder, at her dark and sodden house of stone. The open roller door, the single car, the bassinet-pram. His gaze returned to hers; she held it a second too long. It was Good Friday. A long weekend. The phone in his hand beeped.
‘Storm put your power out?’ he said.
‘Yes. I’m about to break out the candles.’ This time when she smiled her upper lip trembled.
From the beach path, she could hear footsteps and, involuntarily, she baulked. But then an elderly man and an older dog emerged. The man was wearing an anorak and using a stick as a cane. It took her a moment to regain her composure and recognise him: the ruddy neighbour behind the bar
red gate. He greeted them, as his dog poked its nose behind her wheelie bin.
‘They catch ’em?’ he said.
‘No.’ She tried to smile as she cast about the unpaved cul-de-sac. They both watched as the dog unearthed a large nappy and a grotty bomber jacket. Neve recoiled properly then, partly in surprise, part disgust.
‘The devils,’ he said.
Neve bent to the jacket. It was thin and beige, with a central zipper and a yellow crest on its chest pocket. Sal seemed to be reconsidering, as the man shuffled off. He eyed his watch again.
‘I take it you don’t have “Coast Watch”?’ he said dryly.
‘No.’ Though the idea of a security system was an excellent one. She nipped the jacket between two fingers and raised it, at arms’ length, as though extending a flag. ‘But I’ll be looking into it,’ she said, loudly.
Closing the roller door, returning inside, Neve felt pleased that he’d agreed to stay, and bolstered. Once her wall was repaired, her house screened, that hellish night would be erased. Soon she’d be inconspicuous and safe, again. In the meantime, she suspected, that mother would materialise to claim her daughter, and her nasty jacket. The woman was closer than she’d thought.
Popping the jacket behind her back, Neve roamed her silent home. In the nursery, Cliff was out of it, breathing and oblivious. Jessie had snuck into his room and was almost lost to sleep on the carpet. Above them both, the hot air balloon mobile was suspended, its tiny balloons unmoving.
Jessie opened an eye. Warily, she whispered: ‘Was it Mummy?’
Neve hesitated, reluctant to lie but unable to say with certainty: Yes.
‘It was only the stonemason,’ she said. Seemingly unperturbed, the girl resettled. Too agitated for rest herself, Neve stepped into the hallway and examined her find. It was size XS and unnamed but, on its pocket, silver writing wormed across the yellow crown: ‘Willowcrest’. The lettering was uninspired and industrial. Some pitiful brand she didn’t know. Gingerly, she patted the jacket’s internal pockets. On the left side, she paused. The fabric was subtly lumpy and crackled at her touch. Holding her breath, she dug into the pocket to discover a silver strip. Of supermarket-brand pain medication. Ibuprofen. Could you be addicted to ibuprofen? It seemed too banal to be possible.
