We drift along for a while, seduced into silence by the gentle ebb of the river, the play of light on the water and the rhythm of the paddle pulling us forward.
‘Why are you alone on Christmas Day?’ I ask.
He looks at a point somewhere over my head. The silence changes tack.
‘When my heart broke it was more than a physical thing. I had stuffed up everything in my life. I lost my family, my kids – the only things worth having. Worse still, I was stuck with a problem – me. I’ve had to get to like my own company.’ He pauses and looks at me. ‘Anyhow, I’m not really alone, I’m with you. Tonight I’ll see Mum and my brother’s family. Tomorrow arvo I’ll go down to Sydney and see my kids. How about you? You said the other night you’d lost your business – did you go bust?’
‘I didn’t quite go bankrupt. For months the company was like a semitrailer teetering on a cliff edge – waiting to see if I’d go over or hang on.’
‘And?’
‘A liquidator was appointed – the dreaded Mr Arnold – he took on the role of gravity. In the end the company just melted away. The creditors were paid off but I was personally liable for around one point four million. My apartment fetched one point two and a half, I cashed up my share portfolio and that was it. I walked away from the wreck, literally with the clothes on my back.’
‘Of which there were quite a few, I imagine.’ He smiles.
‘All last season’s, sadly.’
‘At least you walked away.’
‘It’s only a metaphor. People don’t die of financial disorders.’ I think about that for a moment. ‘There was a time when I thought I might die of despair, though.’
‘You don’t have nothing – you have the farm.’
‘That was my secret stash. If I’d been made bankrupt they could have taken that too. Let’s just say I was quietly resistant to that option.’
‘What about your daughter – Lauren? What’s her story?’
‘She’s left the country, as of this week. London.’
‘You missing her?’
‘Yes and no. We had a spat. She told me I was selfish.’ I sound flippant but feel my carefree mood start to crumble. ‘Perhaps I’m more like my father than I care to admit.’
‘Jack could be a bit of a moody bugger, but I never found him to be selfish – the opposite in fact. Which reminds me, there’s something on your farm I must show you sometime.’
‘He’s left me a letter. I haven’t opened it yet.’
‘Oh? Why not?’
‘I know that’s what he wants me to do. He’s going to have the last word.’
Joe roars with laughter. ‘You’re as stubborn as he was. There’s a good picnic spot just up here; I’ll pull in as close as I can but you might get your feet a wee bit wet getting off.’
He paddles hard towards a small beachhead and says ‘Hold on tight!’ as we breach the bank. He steps out and pulls the canoe further onto the dark sand. He offers his back. ‘Jump on, I’ll bet it’s a while since you had a piggyback.’ It is indeedy.
The spot is like a little dell, a secluded patch of grass surrounded by large trees that create stippled shade. The sort of place a French impressionist might have set up to paint friends enjoying a picnic under parasols and wide-brimmed straw hats. There’s a small patch of pebbled sandy beach, almost hidden from the river by large white rocks big enough to lie on.
‘We’re actually on your property right now,’ says Joe. He points out a track through the bush that leads to the farm. Opening the holdall, he spreads out a rug and some cushions. The esky holds champagne and glasses, chicken, ham, tomatoes, olives, cheese and bread. We spread the rug and cushions in the dappled shade of a tree, set out the picnic and pop open the champagne.
‘Merry Christmas!’ we say in unison, clinking glasses.
Joe settles himself comfortably, props a cushion behind his back and leans against the trunk of a tree. He stretches out his legs, crosses his ankles and takes a sip of his champagne as if performing a ritual. ‘I don’t want to mislead you – I am more a beer man than a bubbly boy at heart.’
‘I don’t want you to mislead me either,’ I say.
‘Come over here,’ he says and pats his thigh. I lie down and rest my head on his lap. He gently traces a finger around my jaw as though calculating its dimensions and brushes my hair back from my face.
‘While I was recovering in hospital I was seriously depressed. Hardly anyone came to see me apart from a couple of blokes I’d worked with, my brother Sammy, and Mum when she could. I felt as though my life had been a complete waste of time. Then one day they put me in a wheelchair and stuck me outside under a tree in the hospital grounds. It was a big old oak tree and there was almost total shade under it. I was cold and uncomfortable, even though the day was sunny and warm. It seemed like the sun was shining for everyone but me. I sat there for ages – felt like hours – sort of blindly staring into space, just waiting for it to be over. Then there was this sort of thread of wind that ruffled through the tree and a drop of sun fell onto my face. I felt as though I was being lit, like a candle. I could feel the warmth. It was glorious. I realised that this is how happiness comes – in little unexpected spoonfuls. It probably sounds overly romantic but it gave me hope. That little trickle of sunlight gave me the strength to get myself going again.’
‘I know you think that relates to me somehow.’ My eyes prickle unexpectedly.
‘Does everything have to relate to you?’ he says kindly.
‘Of course it does,’ I reply, only half joking. I sit up and stare at the river flowing past. My flippancy is a diversion. I envy him his epiphany. Deep down I’m shallow. I want my life to be comfortable again, and as soon as possible. I envy him his certainty. I envy his acceptance of happiness in small dollops; they just don’t seem enough for me.
‘I know I can be happy,’ I sigh. ‘I just don’t know what I need to make me happy.’
‘At the risk of sparking Mohammed accusations, I think happiness is something that comes to you, not something you can pursue as a lifestyle, like getting fit. The more you look for it the harder it is to find – like love.’
‘Well, I’m not looking for love,’ I say quickly.
‘Hmm, you better watch out,’ he murmurs as he wraps his arms around me and plants tiny kisses on my neck. ‘That might just creep up on you too.’
When I wake in my own bed the next morning I am not alone. Joe sleeps beside me, his face as serene as a child’s. He seems to fill my little white room with his presence and his salty sweat. With his spoonfuls of sweetness and light.
When your heart has been broken in five places you can only offer a piece at a time. There are countless ways to betray someone and I have somehow suffered every one of them, been let down on every count. My love life has been a rugged descent into the depths of disillusionment – and it’s not as though I had illusions in the first place. I may be stuck, but it’s safe and comfortable. The way I feel about Joe right now terrifies me. I don’t want to be responsible for his happiness and I’m desperately afraid to entrust him with mine.
The phone rings and I slip out of bed quietly so not to wake him, sure that it’s going to be Lauren. It’s Diane, full of Christmas cheer.
‘Did you have a nice day yesterday? What did you do?’ she asks.
‘I messed about in boats.’
‘Really? I’d like to hear more about that. I’ve got lots of yummy food, I thought I’d drive up and make us lunch – what do you think?’
‘I’ll be here with bells on.’
‘How festive! See you about eleven.’
I make tea and take two mugs back to bed. Joe’s awake, stretching and yawning. He has this way of smiling every time he sees me as though just the sight of me makes him smile. I’ve never had that effect on anyone before – apart from Dog.
He sits up and takes the mug of tea from me. ‘This is nice. Nice room. Nice woman.’
‘You don’t know me that well; this
isn’t really me,’ I say as I slip back in beside him.
‘I’d like to, and that’s what counts.’
‘If you stay this morning you’ll meet Diane – she’s arriving at eleven.’
‘Do you want me to?’
‘Maybe. Let’s see how we go.’
‘Yeah, it could all be over by eleven.’ He grins at me and sips his tea.
‘Dog has been rather neglected these last few days. Perhaps we could take him for a walk up the hill after breakfast?’ I suggest to placate him.
‘You know Dog’s real name is —’
‘No! Don’t tell me.’
‘A walk up the hill with Dog sounds good,’ he says, feigning nervousness.
Dog is delighted to see us pull on our boots at the front door, still eating our toast. The day is clear and bright, yesterday’s humidity has dissipated overnight and the air feels fresh. It’s been several weeks now since all the rain and the grass is not as lush as it was – it’s easier to walk through the grove. Joe offers to come and slash the whole grove; apparently the trees don’t care for all the grass around them. As we walk, Joe talks about the trees and how the rootstock was smuggled into Australia by my grandmother and her two young daughters in the seams of their clothes and the linings of their suitcases.
‘Jack and your grandfather had plans to build an olive press together. You can see the two big millstones in that shed out the back – that was the propagation shed. The old man died before he saw his oil flow, unfortunately. Both old boys did.’
He throws a stick for Dog, who lollops after it but then lies down to chew it. ‘If I had the money I probably would think about buying this place from you. It would be a tragedy to have this grove ripped out. I am interested in olives in the long term but short term – hey, I’m pretty darn happy slashing paddocks.’
‘I don’t really believe that mowing grass is enough for you.’
‘Depends what you’re after,’ Joe replies. ‘I find it satisfying. I can see where I’ve been. It’s continuous. I have time to think. I hate to disappoint you, but that does it for me right now. I don’t need a title to tell me who I am.’
‘Well, I don’t think cutting grass or growing olives will do it for me. I’m not going to take on the family burden – the proverbial millstones.’
The sun is hot on my back as we walk the length of the grove and start to climb the hills beyond. It’s a long climb but not difficult. The gradient isn’t too steep so it comes as some surprise as we near the top to turn around and take in the extent of the view. Off to our left we can see the river winding covertly through the bushland that borders the grove. The grove itself, laid out to a grid, is unexpectedly satisfying to the eye with its rigid lines contrasted against the random nature of the bush. The faded red corrugated-iron roof of the house is all but swallowed up by the trees surrounding it. I can see the meandering driveway with the creek a dark ribbon beside it. It’s in fact a little tributary of the river.
‘There’s something I want you to see,’ says Joe, taking my hand. We climb higher and reach a small area where the ground flattens out. It’s quite sheltered and populated by wattles. He leads me to a spot among the trees, crouches down and pulls away the grass to reveal a headstone. I kneel beside him and read:
Francesco Luciano Martino
1891–1951
Here He Rests in Peace
‘What on earth is he doing up here?’
‘Jack brought him here. Had the headstone made years later. No one else knows he’s here.’
‘No one else knows? He was buried somewhere else and Jack dug him up? Good God! Why?’
‘Wanted him to be here, on his land.’ Joe gestures across the valley. ‘He loved him, I guess.’
‘Well, that’s a problem. I can’t sell the place with him up here.’ I sit down in the grass. What a strange thing for Jack to do. What a strange man that father of mine was. ‘He must have trusted you to have told you,’ I say, giving him a sideways glance.
‘More fool him, eh?’ says Joe as he folds his arms behind his head and lies back, gazing up at the sky.
I lie beside him and watch a single cloud drift across the blue.
‘Can I trust you?’
‘Trust needs time, my love. Give it time.’
When next I look, he’s fast asleep.
Diane’s gleaming silver Audi noses its way up the drive and pulls up beside the steps. She steps out of the car perfectly attired for poolside champers and canapés and runs an appraising eye over me.
‘Hmm, you’re obviously eating well – you look terrific,’ she drawls as she gives me a peck on the cheek. She flicks open the boot of the car. It brims with David Jones carrier bags. ‘I had a little shopathon – I know how difficult it is to find food in the bush.’
We each take a handful of bags and carry them inside, followed closely by Dog, who catches the scent of delicatessen on the breeze. Diane squats down and rubs Dog behind the ears, murmuring sweet nothings.
‘Whosealovelyfellowyesyouarealovelydoggiewoggie. What’s your name? A dog, Adrienne! I never took you for a dog person.’ Me neither.
I’m glad Joe decided not to stay; she talks non-stop over lunch. I want to quietly enjoy the food and flavours of Persian fetta, pheasant pâté, five types of lettuce, smoked salmon, fresh baguette, mangoes and mascarpone, but it’s yadda yadda yadda. I’m all of a tizz, drink too much chardonnay and have to go and lie down in my room.
When I emerge, Diane (who has also drunk too much) has decided to stay the night. I try to get her to come for a walk to clear our heads. She demurs, she hasn’t brought the right shoes – God knows why not, she’s got about a hundred pairs.
In the end it’s just me and faithful Dog walking in the silence of the grove. The only sounds are the sighing of the wind in the trees and the calls of the birds as they hurry to wherever home is tonight. The last of the golden light is spirited away by the shadows as the day fades before my eyes.
‘So, Adrienne, I’m thinking there might be a man on the scene?’ says Diane, opening another bottle of wine to accompany the leftovers from lunch. We arrange them artistically on the kitchen table. ‘You’ve got a smug look about you.’
‘There could be,’ I say with a coy smile as I sit down.
‘So what did you do yesterday?’ she asks, breaking up the last baguette.
‘Mmm … we talked, drank champagne, swam in the creek …’
‘Sounds divine to me,’ coos Diane. ‘Do I get to meet him?’
‘Probably not, we’re not at that stage yet.’
She’s quieter now, more relaxed. The tension she transmitted earlier in the day seems to have eased. We sit companionably and nibble on our leftovers.
‘I think we need to talk about Lauren,’ Diane says suddenly.
‘Yes?’ My voice is suddenly hoarse. I have, with some difficulty, managed to avoid that subject all day.
‘I gather you two had words – she left in such a hurry. Talk about here today, gone tomorrow. I was surprised you didn’t come down to see her off.’
I can feel that telltale burning at the back of my eyes. ‘It was very generous of you to lend her the airfare, Di. It’s just … I just wasn’t ready for it.’
‘If you love somebody, set them free,’ she says sweetly.
I feel like whacking her over the head with the last of the baguette. Her attempts at philosophical commentary run the full gamut from bumper sticker to karaoke. She doesn’t have children; she has no bloody idea how betrayed I feel. And never will. I don’t even want to talk about it.
‘I’ll keep that in mind, Di.’ The chill in my voice lowers us into awkward silence.
‘So, the big new job starts soon?’ she gushes. ‘Excited?’
‘I was excited about getting the job, but now … I don’t know if I’ve got the energy. I’ve become quite lazy. I’ll miss my naps —’
‘What a cop-out! Do I sense a few confidence issues here? This is going to put you back on you
r feet, Adrienne.’
‘I know I’ve got to start somewhere, I think my resistance is working for someone else. It’s not something I’ve ever aspired to.’
‘Well, I have a little proposal to put to you. I do have a spare room in my new apartment and, although I’m not actively looking for a roomie, I thought it might be a starting point pour toi, mon amie,’ says Diane. ‘I know you’ll love it, Adrienne, it’s very you.’
No sooner has she left the next morning than who should arrive but my old friend Mr Leeton. Dog barks as the car comes up the driveway, which is unusual as he’s only a watchdog in the most passive sense of the word. I come to the door ready to talk. But when he rolls out of his golden car and lumbers up the front steps like a belligerent rhino, I hesitate. My friendly little wave is redirected to the more useful task of tidying my hair. I stay in the doorway, ready to slip and bolt.
He’s flushed with the exertion of exiting his car in such haste and is almost panting as he stands before me. I won’t be surprised if he suddenly snorts and starts to paw the ground.
‘Now, Missus Bennett, you and I both know —’ he thunders.
‘Mr Leeton! Don’t you dare presume to tell me what I know and don’t bother telling me what you know – because I’m not bloody interested! Now fuck off and find some other hill to stick your colonnades on. This one is taken!’
Leeton blinks several times. He looks bewildered for a moment, then turns, without a word, hurls himself back into his car and leaves, quietly.
Oh shit. Now I’ve really stuffed it.
I make a cup of tea and sit down to open Jack’s bank statements. I’m going to have to start withdrawing those funds to keep going until my first pay comes through. I probably could have paid a month of Lauren’s rent from this account. Not that it would have changed things between us.
Something’s odd. There are still payments going out of the account every month to Finbal Pty Ltd. Sounds like a shelf company. I go online to ASIC and search company names. Not much there. Principal Place of Business: Sydney NSW. One possible lead is the former name: Jacaranda Nursing Home. I do a search on the name in the white pages and am rewarded with a phone number.
The Olive Sisters Page 15
