The Good Daughter
Page 22
Ask Joanne? Is he serious? It’s on the tip of her tongue to scream her disgust, her 100 per cent revulsion, to swear a lifetime of loathing … It’s her mother; it’s the Joni Toyer pull, the rip, the undercurrent in her personality – what would be so easy to go with, the dark water ready to sweep her away. But she fights it.
She picks up the jacket and lays it on the bed.
‘I’ve been careful with it. You can return it.’
‘Rebecca …’
She doesn’t look back. She doesn’t say goodbye.
She picks up her schoolbag and closes the door gently behind her.
It’s hard to go like that – without a scene – but something tells her, one day she’ll be pleased she did.
She waits until she’s well down the road and finds a secluded spot by the river, where she sits, hugs her knees, and watches the water pass. It’s the colour of well-brewed tea. It slips deep and sure and steady, as though its course is charted. And the longer she sits, the more she sees there’s sovereignty, real potency in the way the water flows. There’s nothing soothing about this current – it moves without pause, without rhyme or reason; the water coming through catches up as fast as the river rushes forward. In this way it is the right place for her to come and reflect – not for the beauty, or the ability the river has to stroke all five senses. It’s the slippery, darker sixth sense the passing flow invokes, the unsettling reality that water going holds in it the same elements as water coming.
42
For dinner Rebecca and her father have warm chicken salad. It’s a still night. Moths flutter around the light. ‘It was me who called Teddy,’ her father is saying, ‘and told him you might be upset about the dogs, and that Ben Kincaid was there. None of it seemed right. Teddy told me things had got out of hand.’
‘I don’t remember Mum talking about Ben Kincaid much.’ Rebecca says.
‘No, she didn’t say much.’
‘Did he come to her funeral?’
‘Yeah, he did.’
‘Did he ever own a red sports car?’ she asks, smiling.
Her father laughs quietly. ‘Does he look like a red sports car type to you? I think your mother made that story up. I never knew any sports-car-driving actor in her past. She knew a lot of beat-up Ford and Holden drivers, but no-one with a red Ferrari.’
‘Mum was pregnant with me when you met her, wasn’t she?’
‘If you’re talking the first time we ever met – she wasn’t pregnant then. She was pregnant when we got together, two years later.’
‘Did she know the Kincaids?’
‘Everyone knew the Kincaids. But they weren’t among it. They didn’t mix with the general riff-raff. Your mum hung out at Newman’s Garage. That’s where I first saw her.’
Rebecca lowers her knife and fork.
‘She could never remember it,’ he says. ‘But I remember it all right. She was an up-front, sassy thing, teasing me about how I had to get around in a truck. She asked me how I went to the drive-in and what happened when I went to the beach. I told I didn’t go to the drive-in or the beach much. She said she’d love to go to those places in the truck, and go parking in it. I was pretty much a goner from that point on. I kept going back. I spent a fortune on tune-ups I didn’t need and spare parts I’ve probably still got out in the shed. And you’d remember we did take that rig to the beach, and to the drive-in, until they put those new gates in.’ His eyes are bright with reminiscing. ‘It was a good day the day she climbed up in that cab. I’ll never forget the smile she gave me – she really thought it was a thrill, being higher than everybody else. She grinned down at every car we pulled up beside.’
Rebecca says, ‘I didn’t know that story.’
‘No … I actually liked that she never talked about it – they’re my memories that way. You know what she was like– if she’d remembered it she would have retold things over and over and changed it, and made the story more exciting. This way it’s … quiet, the way it was. She worked in the garage office. And that first day I drove in, the way she stood and looked up at the cab … like she’d never seen a truck pull into a garage before. It was one of the few times I saw her looking like a kid. I could see she was a kid, inside it all.’ He smiles at a private thought. ‘She always was a poor choice of office girl. I’m surprised she lasted as long as she did. Sue Newman was trying to give her a bit of a leg-up, I think.’
‘Was there a Mr Newman?’
‘Sue Newman was widowed a long time ago. She’s always run that business. She’s got no proper qualifications, but some sound mechanical knowledge. She’ll say if a job is too big for her. Joe, her son – he’s a good mechanic too.’
‘Mum was my age at the time?’
‘Just turned seventeen. Her first proper job. She was only there to answer the phone. Joe would get home from school and take over. He was more responsible at his age than Joni was ever gunna be, even as an adult.’ He smiles and shrugs his shoulders. ‘God knows what Joni did to them – Sue Newman wouldn’t talk to her after Joni quit. Even right up to the time before she died they wouldn’t talk – your mum wouldn’t go into the garage and Sue wouldn’t ring here. Two stubborn women there …’ He looks off to the other side of the kitchen. He brings his gaze back. ‘I suppose you could even ask Sue who your father might be? Or I could ask for you. She wouldn’t mind. Even Joe might remember. I suppose he was about fifteen or sixteen at the time. He might know who she was knocking around with.’
Rebecca shakes her head.
‘I’ve even thought of having them as your safety number when I’m away. Teddy tends to be too busy now. Joe Newman often asks about you. They would be good people to call.’
‘They want me to babysit their girls.’
‘Well, there you go,’ he says. He takes a mouthful of his dinner. ‘They can be your new safety number.’ Once he’s finished chewing he says, ‘Maybe it was for your own good your mum didn’t tell you who your real dad was. Not Kincaid anyway, that’s for sure. Any chance of a bit of that money coming your way, and she would have been yelling it from the rooftops. Given the time we’re talking, your real dad was more likely some hothead cruising through town, one that perhaps didn’t treat her right.’
Rebecca says, ‘Maybe she didn’t treat him right.’
He tips his head. ‘Maybe … I can’t see how that would be the case, though …’ He pauses. ‘Are you gunna look into it? I don’t mind. I understand that’s something you might wanna do.’
Rebecca looks a moment at her father. ‘It’s actually a bit strange the way they asked me to babysit.’
‘Was it, love?’
‘Sudden, like they’d been waiting for a chance. Almost like they wanted to get to know me.’
He hasn’t listened. He’s eyeing the carburettor sitting at the end of the table. She can see his thoughts have drifted outside into the shed, wound their way under the bonnet of the truck. He pulls the carburettor close and uses his fork to pry back a seal. He wipes the back of his arm across his mouth and pushes aside his dinner. ‘I’ll tee it up,’ he says without much thought to what he’s saying, ‘and if you want, I’ll put in a few quiet questions about who your real dad might be …’
Rebecca reaches across and touches her father’s hand. ‘But you’re my real dad,’ she tells him.
43
It seems Rebecca’s father can’t go long without dogs. He’s gone and bought a whole mongrel litter. There are bitzer brothers and sisters everywhere. The little unco dopes make Rebecca smile. She sits in the grass beside the driveway and lets them climb all over her. She’s in school uniform. She laughs and hides her face from their small needle teeth. The morning sun shines warm on the top of her head. Over by the shed her father tinkers with the truck. He washes nuts and bolts and engine parts in a tray of diesel. The school bus rumbles down the road. Rebecca disentangles herself from the puppies and picks up her bag.
The driver gives Rebecca a cold once-over as she climbs the steps.
Rebecca pauses by the railing. Zach Kincaid is up the back seat of the bus. He’s sitting in the same spot he always does – dead centre. She’d half expected him to slide sideways, into a less prominent position. His gaze lifts to meet hers as she comes down the aisle. She smiles. His expression is mild, hard to read. His hair has been cut short. His face is lean, but not from lack of food, she doesn’t think. His body is surprisingly filled out. If anything, it looks as though he’s hit the gym. The new shape to his face might be because he’s lost some of his softness. His features aren’t boyish any more. The short sleeves of his school shirt fit snug around his upper arms. His legs are stretched out in front of him, feet crossed at the ankles, and there’s definition in his thighs, thickness in his calves. Could pre-season footy training have started? Rebecca is happy for him. Not too many boys will think to mess with him, even with his mantle somewhat tarnished.
The bus pulls away, Rebecca sways and walks towards him. A flush of embarrassment and the same shyness Aden caused sweeps through her. She feels her chin dip. She blinks like some Victorian-era fool. Sweat springs up on her palms, heat races up her face. She wasn’t expecting this … Only Zach Kincaid could emerge from a scandal with such poise, sudden credibility and increased handsomeness. She could curse him for it. She pulls herself together. ‘You back at school, Kincaid? You took your time.’
He doesn’t speak.
‘Come back to brave the masses?’
She leans against the steel upright beside her. She’s in two minds whether or not to sit down next to him. The steady way he looks at her has her sliding into her own seat, the one she always chooses. She sits with her back to him, and puts her school bag between her feet.
‘Moved on from drug dealers, I hear?’ he says.
‘What would you care, Kincaid?’ Is that resonance she detects in his voice? Was he always that baritone?
‘How’s your dad?’ she asks after a moment.
‘How’re your new best friends, the Newmans?’
She glances back. He stays straight-faced, not giving anything away. She returns her gaze to the front. ‘I like spending time with the Newmans.’ After a pause she says, ‘I’m glad your dad is going to be all right.’
‘I thought being one-eyed suited the old man, but he’s got full vision back.’
‘That’s good. And your mum?’ she asks. The question takes some effort.
‘Someone wants to buy one of her paintings.’
‘Really?’
‘Dad can’t believe it; he reckons he’ll have to take her seriously now.’ Zach’s humour is evident in his lighter inflection. ‘She’s trying to tell us her behaviour is a result of her creativity. Not sure that’s gunna wash with Dad, although he did say this morning that if that’s the case, and a couple of paid-for paintings excuses everything, then she better have a gallery in the main street, neon lights, dancing girls out front, so everyone’s clear.’ He laughs.
Rebecca would like to turn and face him. But it feels like a leap of faith. Sun angles in through the window. She closes her eyes. She can’t believe she’s back here, feeling the same things she felt. Too nervous to take a seat next to him, too afraid to talk – for fear it will stop when someone new files on. If she could pick, if she had the luxury of choosing, she’d leave behind this uncertainty, and move instead into a place where acceptance extended beyond her front gate and further than her family. Although considering how her family has grown, it is, perhaps, too much to ask. Rebecca looks at her hands twisted together on her lap. Something catches her eye. She turns her head. Drawn in the dust on the bottom of her window is a love heart with the initials ZK and RT inside it. It’s on the outside, in mirror image, so that she can read it from where she’s sitting.
Rebecca feels Zach watching her. There’s no malice, no resentment. He’s not leering. He’s waiting for her.
VIKING
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (Australia)
250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia
(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada)
90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Canada ON M4P 2Y3
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Ireland
25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland
(a division of Penguin Books Ltd)
Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd
11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ)
67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand
(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd
24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London, WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Penguin Group (Australia), 2010
Text copyright © Honey Brown 2010
The moral right of the author has been asserted
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
penguin.com.au
ISBN: 978-1-74-253080-2