by Lily Malone
An hour after I start, I have a solid draft — copy for the internet, brochure, window card and sign.
The beach is calling.
‘You want to go for a walk, buddy? Wait here while Mummy gets the pram and her shoes.’
When he’s strapped in, we’re rolling, making for the cycle path as the sun toasts my chest and arms. The breeze has died to a zephyr. A block away someone mows their lawn.
It’s a stunning day, all blue sky and cotton clouds. Everyone is enjoying it. I lose count of the dog-walkers and pram-pushers we pass. Far across the bay the jetty is in my sights, but we’re not going that far today. My priority is to find a playground for Seb.
Then a slippery sensation between my legs changes that.
Toilet first. Then playground.
Five minutes later I reach a carpark behind the dunes. It’s been built for boat trailers and there’s enough turn-around for skippers to reverse trailers on to the beach and launch their boats into the bay.
Tucked in a corner of the bitumen is a red-brick building with trademark blue and white picture signs on the wall.
Fishing a sanitary pad from the pram, I roll Seb close to the ladies’ entry but I don’t take him inside. It’s dark, and even if I’m sure that the puddle on the concrete floor is water, I’d rather not roll the pram wheels through it. So I leave Seb in the sunshine.
In two minutes I’m sorted, and we continue our walk.
***
By the time we get back to the shack, it’s almost lunch. Seb is asleep in the pram.
I re-read my work on Carl Barron’s property and when I’m happy I email the file.
Hitting the send icon feels good. It feels even better when Carl replies almost immediately to say it’s perfect. He asks if I have my phone switched off because he’s been trying to call.
There’s a guilty bump in my stomach as I fetch my phone from the bottom of the pram. It’s been turned off since yesterday morning.
Shooting a quick email reply to Carl to tell him my phone is on now, I scan for texts and find three: two from Jack and one from my sister, reminding me of Dad’s birthday.
Jack’s first message is short.
Hope yr having a good time. Miss u. Pls call.
The second message makes my stomach blip.
Amber says Seb will forget what Nanna looks like. We may make a trip 2 Busso @ the weekend, if u rnt home by then. U will be home by then tho, right?
Amber Bannerman. Seb’s grandmother.
A visit.
Eek.
The phone rings as I’m staring at it, trying to decide how to put Amber off politely.
‘Hi, Carl. I’m sorry I missed your call.’
‘You’re on holiday, Jennifer, you’re supposed to have your phone off.’ He lets loose with a hearty laugh. ‘Thanks for sending me that draft. I’ll send it to the Stewarts and I’ll let you know what they say, but I can’t see they’d have any problems with it.’
‘Great. Once you sign off on it, I’ll finalise the file and send you my invoice.’
‘Too easy,’ Carl says. Then there’s a pause. ‘Now on that note, are you still here on Tuesday? I’ve got two more properties that haven’t had much interest. The sales authority ends soon and I’ll be trying to get an extension. It might help if I can tell my clients I’m bringing you out to view the property and refresh the marketing.’
Tuesday. Why not? ‘That should be fine.’
‘Excellent. One of the properties is at Yallingup, the other is Dunsborough. So if it works for you to meet me at the office again, about ten o’clock, I’ll drive.’
Then I remember my baggage. ‘I’ll have my son with me, Carl. Is that okay? And it might be better if I meet you there. My car has a car seat.’
He hesitates. I’m not sure if his reluctance is about my toddler messing up his clients’ houses, or the extra mileage it will add to my bill if I have to charge him for the trip to Yallingup. It’s half an hour from here.
‘Car seat?’ he says, giving me my answer.
‘Sebastian is fourteen, no, nearly fifteen months.’
‘Oh.’
Here I was, almost liking the guy. ‘He’s a good little boy, Carl. If we leave Dunsborough at ten, he’ll probably fall asleep in the car. He won’t be a problem.’
‘We-ll, if you think it’s okay to leave him in the car on his own,’ he says, making me feel like mother non-grata. ‘The Yallingup house does have quite a lot of valuables. They’re collectors. I just wonder if it’s better if you leave him with someone. What did you do with him yesterday? I had the impression you were holidaying with a friend?’
I glance left at palace number one, and right at mansion number two. We aren’t exactly on would you please look after my kid for an hour terms. He likes his toast cut in soldiers. Only real butter will do. No margarine.
‘My friend’s gone home, Carl. So I’m sorry, but if you want me to do it, I need to have Sebby with me.’
‘Okay then,’ he capitulates. ‘We can swap your car seat into the back of mine.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah. You might have to give me a lesson in how to fit those things — it’s a while since I had to put a car seat in my car.’
How would he go putting up a portacot? I want to say it, but I don’t. ‘Okay. I’ll see you Tuesday morning, about ten.’
As I hang up, I wonder if Brayden is right. Could this real estate writing be an opportunity I should grab?
Then I look at Seb, peaceful in the pram. His mouth is open, skin pure as milk and honey. What do I do with a toddler while I’m touring through other people’s homes?
I think about it for a while.
What would Jack say if I told him I was making a permanent move to the south west?
The breeze wafts salt-scented air, heavy with the click of cicadas and chat of birds, and as I soak up the scents and the sounds I decide what Jack says doesn’t really matter.
***
It’s after two when Seb wakes. We eat lunch, I slather him in sunscreen, find our hats, and it’s an easy decision to head for the beach.
Seb holds my hand and we walk. He stops to examine a piece of bitumen or gravel or point out a bug — like he’s found a gold nugget — and I ooh and aah appropriately at his treasures.
We don’t have to hurry.
For the first time in more than a year, I’m not even wearing my watch.
It’s hot though. The track through the dunes is airless, sun strikes the bitumen and my armpits sweat. There’s a slick of moisture chafing my breasts.
I’m glad when the dunes open out to beach. Lifting the hair from the back of my neck, I let the breeze kiss my skin.
I take off Seb’s shorts and nappy and he trots toward the water. I spread my towel on the sand, drop my beach bag beside it, and follow Seb to the shore.
Sand caves around my feet until I reach the tide-mark where it sucks at my heels and toes. Tiny dots perforate the grains — breathing holes for creatures unseen.
There are no rocks here, but there are shells. Delicate butterfly shapes with dark undersides and silver-grey scalloped backs. Some make two halves of a perfect whole. Most are broken.
Seb releases a fountain of wee in the water as he wanders in up to his knees. When the ripples crest into whitewash, it reaches his dimpled thighs.
Sunscreen has made his skin greasy, and sand has stuck to it. Reaching him, I try to wash the sand away.
He grizzles and retreats from the foam, face screwed up tight. One hand reaches for his leg, and soon the grizzle is a full-blown scream.
‘What is it, mate?’
Could it be a stinger?
Surely not. The water is barely up to his little knees. But those are real tears streaming down his face.
‘Come here, buddy. What’s wrong? What happened?’ I drop to my knees in the wet sand, desperately trying to decipher his code. There’s no mark on him.
Not a stinger, not tired, he can’t be hungry. Tee
th? I feel his forehead. He isn’t hot.
He won’t let me hug him. He won’t let me pick him up. When I try, it’s like he wants to climb out of my arms. My hat goes flying. He’s so upset he’s shaking, yet the water’s not cold.
All I can do is grit my teeth, get as good a hold on his wriggling body as I can, and ignore his screams as I carry him up the beach so I can see what’s wrong. His hat joins mine on the sand.
Kneeling on the towel, I stand him in front of me. In two seconds, I see the problem.
Seb gets eczema. Not badly, as long as I don’t let him sit too long in a hot bath. Now, red patches glow angrily on the inside of his thighs and at the back of his knees. I don’t know what irritated it. Salt? Sweat? Sand? Sunscreen? Or did urine splash his sensitive skin? Is that what’s making it sting?
I have cream for his eczema at the shack but that’s not much good to me now.
I dab at his legs with my skirt, trying to shift the grains of sand. The material is cotton and soft, not like the beach house towels that have been washed so many times they’re like sandpaper.
‘It’s okay little man, I know it hurts. Let Mummy help.’
He bats my hands away.
I carry him back to the water, where I try to gently wash the sunscreen and sand from his legs.
All this does is upset him more.
By now I’m on the verge of bawling myself. I take him back to our towels and tuck him between my legs so that I can cuddle him into my chest. We rock like that in the warm, fresh sun, and gradually — nowhere near fast enough — his cries subside.
An elderly couple walking on the beach — the woman with a shock of auburn hair and a kind smile — look my way and the lady asks if I need help.
‘I’m okay, thank you. I think the salt water stung his legs.’
They stop, and the man tries to distract Seb by pretending to steal my son’s nose by pinching it between his thumb and two fingers.
It helps.
As I feel Seb relax, I do too. In another few minutes he’s out of my arms, toddling after the old couple as they resume their walk up the beach. The red-haired lady picks up a shell and shows it to him.
That’s kids. Storm clouds one minute, rays of sunshine the next.
I collect my hat, and as I shove it on my head I skim the hair at my fringe. My fingertips come away clammy, wet with sweat.
That’s me, the mother: I’m the one who is the nervous wreck.
Chapter 14
I put Seb straight in the bath to get all the salt off when we get home. He plays for a while, we eat dinner. I smother him in cool white cream and after his milk he’s in bed early, exhausted.
Flopping on the couch, I reach for the remote.
There is nothing on TV.
I miss Brayden more than I thought possible. I miss the way he fills every corner of the shack with one belly laugh. Even this lounge-room feels bigger without his legs sprawled across it.
It’s too quiet. I’m so accustomed to the background city sounds that each crack and groan of the old timbers, or scrape of a branch against a window, makes my skin prickle.
A glass of wine would be nice, but the fridge is empty.
I get my Kindle and start thumbing through the titles I have there. Nothing holds my interest.
My first Sunday night on my own and all I want is company.
My mother always said I needed people around me to be happy. She said I wasn’t like my sister who was comfortable in her own company. Apparently I was the type of kid Mum had to entertain.
I hate it when my mother is right.
I could call Brayden, but the thought of interrupting him if he’s in the middle of telling his folks about the accident puts me off. Plus, he has all those crazy ideas about my need for space.
So that leaves Jack. I haven’t spoken to him since Friday morning at Emmy’s, nor replied to his texts. He is Sebby’s father.
Yet I’m petty enough to think one more night of silent treatment won’t hurt him, and I’m still freaked out at the thought of Amber making a visit. It’s not that Jack’s mother is unpleasant. She’s not. She’s always super sweet. Jack’s mother is like one of those soft-cone sundaes that come in a burger combo meal with a fizzy drink and fries. You eat all that sugar and salt, and after it, you feel like crap.
Sighing, I re-open the Kindle. I’m trying to get into a Viking love story when the phone rings.
It’s Jack.
There’s a moment where I consider screening the call, but if I’m honest, he’s a welcome distraction. I pick up the phone on the third ring.
‘Hi.’
‘Oh, so you’re talking to me again.’
‘Looks like it. What’s up?’
There’s a pause, which isn’t like him. Usually he shoots from the hip. ‘How’s Seb?’
‘Seb’s in bed.’
‘Can I talk to him?’
‘No, Jack. He’s asleep.’ I say it really slowly, spelling it out.
‘But he’s okay, isn’t he?’ There’s a catch in Jack’s normally smooth, rich-chocolate voice — and something else — a probing tone that worms its way under my skin.
He doesn’t believe me. Why not?
‘Seb’s fine, Jack. It’s after half past eight. He goes to bed at seven-thirty. You should know that by now.’ That last bit sounds judgemental, but I don’t care. He deserves it.
He picks up on my tone. ‘I didn’t call to fight. I miss you. When are you coming home?’
The silence stretches. He’s holding out an olive branch and I have to decide whether I’ll grab it.
No matter what happens between Jack and me, we share our son. I’d rather we were amicable than not, for Sebby’s sake, and if we’re going to get to amicable, I need to forgive and forget what Jack’s done with Marnie. Can I do that?
I don’t know.
‘Jenn?’ He prompts. ‘Tell me what you’re thinking.’
I’m not coming home. I can’t quite say it out loud. Not yet.
He changes tack. ‘Tell me what you two did today. Did you go to the beach?’
Carefully, I reach for that branch he’s waving at me. ‘We did. Seb was having a great time until his eczema started playing up.’
‘Seb gets eczema?’
‘I told you about it months ago, remember? That naturopath I saw last year, about…’ I feel my face infuse with colour… ‘about my other problem… She said it sounded like eczema but she couldn’t be sure without seeing him. She thought it might be to do with too much dairy in his diet.’
‘Oh,’ Jack cuts in. ‘That rash, yeah, I remember. But he’s okay now though?’
Jack lacks in many areas, but his voice resonates with his love for his boy. ‘He’s fine. As soon as the salt dried he was fine, or pretty much. I think we’ll give the beach a break tomorrow though, do something else.’
‘Come home tomorrow, babe. I really want you back. I miss you being here. The house isn’t the same without you and Sebby in it.’
I close my eyes, like it might help me resist the tug in his voice. ‘I’m not coming home tomorrow.’ Should I tell him about the job?
‘No pressure. But when? We need to work this out, face to face.’
‘I have a job here on Tuesday,’ I venture.
‘What sort of job?’
‘Blain & Barrow has an agency in Dunsborough. I wrote up a property for them on Saturday. The same agent wants me to write another two.’
‘I hope you’re charging them double for working on your holiday.’
Sometimes Jack reminds me so much of his mother, it’s frightening. Amber’s first question would have been about money, too.
I take a deep, steadying breath. ‘I’ve been thinking there might be a job in it, more permanently, like.’
‘What job? Copywriting real estate?’
‘I guess so, yes.’
‘What about the work you do in Perth? Doesn’t Nathan Blain want you to do it anymore?’
I’m having a h
ard time not sounding defensive. His questions are coming like bullets. ‘I haven’t spoken to Nathan about it. It’s just an idea I’m kicking around.’
‘Ah.’
An entire alphabet of doubt gets conveyed in that syllable, and it hurts.
‘Wow, Jack. Don’t go overboard on the enthusiasm. I’d hate to think you might be kind of, you know, supportive of the idea.’
‘I support you. I’m the one who’s been working full-time to support you and Seb.’
‘That’s supporting us financially, not being supportive of me emotionally. There’s a difference. And anyway, you run a golf shop, Jack. You teach lessons. It’s hardly a nose-to-the-grindstone gig.’
‘So now my job isn’t good enough. Is that what you’re saying? Do you think I want to be tied to the shop all day and report back to Archie James and the Pro Shop committee about how many damn golf balls I’ve sold?’
‘The world doesn’t owe you a living, Jack. Everyone’s accountable.’
The words are barely out of my mouth when the hypocrisy of them slaps me.
It was the irresponsible, wild Jack Bannerman who first caught my eye — the man who used to tease me that taking a sick day off work stressed me out more than having the flu.
Then Amber cracked down on the trust fund and Jack had to get a job like the rest of us. Things changed.
‘I said I didn’t want to fight,’ Jack says. There’s a beat where all I can hear is both of us breathing, then he lets out a sigh. ‘I’m doing it again aren’t I?’
‘Doing what?’
‘Acting like Cunt Of The Year.’
My stomach quivers at the rawness of the word, and not in any thrilling, sexy way. Before I can respond he adds, ‘I’m not looking for an apology, Jenn. I deserved it. I’ve never heard you say that word before. It was a wake-up call.’
‘I didn’t actually say it,’ I mutter.
Again the silence stretches, but it’s not interminable. It’s more calm-before-the-storm, a truce.
This time it’s me who breaks it. ‘So, tell me what you know about Cobra Sapphires.’
So he does.
It takes a while, and before he hangs up the phone, he wishes me sweet dreams.
***
Later, lying in bed, I try to look at Jack and me from both sides.
