‘I’m never venturing outdoors again,’ had been Kerry’s response.
Sidney ran her finger around her plate to scoop up the last of the buttery honey. Manners, reprimanded the mother-voice. Sod off, she replied. When pleasure is in limited supply, you should grab it whenever you can.
Kerry. Was he a pleasure or not? Every time he came into her mind, which was frequently, her thoughts split into two teams: one side totting up his good points, the other his weaknesses and flaws. And then both sides leapt into a good old tussle that was about as ordered as a game of shinty, that Scottish form of homicidal hockey, all shoving and stick-cracking, and swearing from the sidelines.
Trouble was, no matter how many times the match was contested, neither side came out a clear winner. Kerry was intelligent, funny, attractive, affectionate, skilled in bed (though, admittedly, her experience was limited), comfortable with the boys and generally adept at managing them, and he was enthusiastic, energetic and, at heart, a decent human being on the side of good.
He was also disorganised, in too much of a rush to tick off every important detail, and tended to gloss over his mistakes with flippant remarks, which gave the impression he didn’t really care. He relied too much on charm and blarney, and he avoided all discussion of any future beyond the next few days. Not that Sidney wanted him to get down on one knee and pledge his troth for all eternity, but just a tiny glimpse into his plans would be nice. Did he intend to stay in Gabriel’s Bay? She had no clue. For all she knew, he might see himself as a red-haired Mary Poppins, dropping in to fix everyone’s lives, buggering off again when the wind turned.
So what was he? A boon or an alarm bell? Sidney wished she trusted her judgement more. Fergal’s departure, which she had not seen coming, had destroyed any faith she had in her ability to read men, and to distinguish between rose-tinted wishful thinking and reality.
‘Boys well?’
Contrary to Kerry’s opinion, Mr Phipps was perfectly capable of conversation. His style matched how he lived — nothing unnecessary, nothing wasted.
‘Fighting fit,’ said Sidney. ‘And acting up. Well, Aidan is. Rory won’t push it past a certain point.’
‘Energy.’
Sidney was well practised in deciphering Mr Phipps’s shorthand.
‘With inadequate outlet, correct. Used to be that I could send him outside to run around, work it off in play, but that’s not enough now. My hunch is that he’s at an age where goals start to be important. He needs to feel like he’s achieving something, that his energy’s being directed into meaningful activity, rather than aimless dashing about.’
‘Growing up.’
‘Oh, yes.’
Another thought that filled Sidney with ambivalence. Mothering was always presented as a series of developmental milestones that you guided your child towards and ticked off happily when they reached them. But no one warned you that for every milestone there was an accompanying loss. Your chubby, peach-skinned infant who craved your touch grew teeth and knobbly limbs and independence. When they learned to dress themselves, you no longer played the peekaboo game. Skill with a spoon meant no more giggles at swooping aeroplanes. When they learned to read, you went from narrator (doing all the voices) to lights-out monitor. No more piggybacks, no more falling asleep in your lap, no more make-it-better kisses. Hugs only when no one was looking. Teddy bears put away in cupboards. Clothes you’d made became outdated and outgrown. Every height mark chalked on the wall a countdown to them leaving home. Mothering was as much about grieving as loving. But no one ever mentioned that.
‘Football coaching with Kerry was good while it lasted,’ she told Mr Phipps, feeling a twinge of disloyalty as she did so. ‘But Aidan needs competition, and there was no way he was going to get a proper match, so maybe it’s better that …’
Why lie? It wasn’t better that the coaching group had been — temporarily, Kerry insisted — disbanded. It left a void Sidney could not fill because Aidan refused all her suggestions. No other ball sports interested him; they were all dumb. No, he didn’t like mountain biking or skateboarding — dumb, dumb, dumb. No, he didn’t want to go fishing with Jacko; fishing was boring. He was too young to go hunting, how dumb was she not to know that?
Kerry was no help. He nodded and said soothing words, but he was no help. And his glib assurances when Sidney asked how the other kids were taking the end of coaching made her angry to the point of shrillness, never an attractive quality.
‘What about Reuben?’ she’d demanded. ‘Are you going to cut him loose just like that? Who else do you think he has on his side?’
‘I’ll get Reuben to help me with Littleville,’ Kerry had promised. Dead silence so far on that front, but lately, she felt like she’d done nothing but nag — Kerry, the boys, people who’d eagerly volunteered for Littleville but then had apparently gone into witness protection. She didn’t have to gnaw at every bone.
One bone she did need to get her teeth into was the situation with Madison, which was financially breaking her. The moment Olivia announced that she was suing for divorce, the Jensen household had gone into meltdown. Rick had checked into a cheap hotel in Hampton, and Olivia had checked out, apparently deciding it was OK to abdicate from all her responsibilities, including care of her own daughter. Sometimes, she’d pick Madison up from school, but more often these days she simply wouldn’t appear, and three children would walk into Sidney’s house at three-fifteen. Rick and Olivia’s phones invariably went to sodding voicemail, and even her sharpest, testiest requests for one of them to pick up Madison before six were ignored. Madison ate dinner at Sidney’s most nights, and if there was no response at all from either Rick or Olivia, Sidney had no choice but to let her stay overnight. Last week, she’d slept over three times, which was three whole days’ worth of extra meals Sidney had to fund.
Checking her bank balance required nerves of steel these days, and deep breathing to quell the urge to hyperventilate. The urge had got the better of her when a sympathetic but adamant person from the power company had rung to say she had forty-eight hours to pay the (very) overdue bill before the electricity would be cut off. All she could do was ask Jacko to advance her a month’s wages. She refused to tell Kerry because he’d just give her the money, whereas Jacko understood that intending to repay a loan meant you hung on to at least one shred of your pride, which seemed more important at the time than whether or not you could actually repay it. Mr Phipps had given her an extra ten dollars today because the hive work was entering its busy phase. Sidney had almost cried.
It had to stop. She had to put her foot down.
But, oh God, what would happen to Madison then? There was no way Rick or Olivia would part with a cent if Sidney demanded recompense, and how could she look into that angel face and tell Madison she wasn’t welcome anymore because her parents were low-life, using cheapskates?
It was a mess. She was a mess — a seething stew of resentment, fear and guilt.
The person who bore the brunt of all this bottled-up stress was Kerry, and Sidney knew that was, for the most part, unfair. But it wasn’t completely unfair. He could help himself by being more aware and more reliable. Was it really that hard to do what he said he was going to do?
Or was it her fault? Were her standards far too high? Was there such a thing as ‘the right one’? Or were even the most successful relationships full of niggle, doubt and compromise?
Sidney suppressed a sigh and let her gaze travel around the kitchen. Mary Phipps had been dead five years and a fading framed photo on the kitchen window ledge was one of the few traces of her left in the house. Not that there’d been many in the first place, neither of the Phippses being much for interior décor or, for that matter, furniture. The photo was an accurate portrait of an unobtrusive woman, with the look of one who spent so much time outdoors that she’d taken on some of its aspects — slate-grey hair, limbs sinewy and supple as tree vines, eyes the grey-green of lichen. She didn’t care about her appearance, and
she and Mr Phipps often wore each other’s chunky jumpers and flannel shirts. Only Mr Phipps wore short shorts, though, Mary preferring a pair of vintage woollen tramping trousers that must surely have chafed like the devil.
Sidney had met Mary only a few times, her friendship and beekeeping arrangement with Mr Phipps having begun after his wife’s death. Her impression had been of a quietly contented but strong-minded woman, who knew what she liked and politely but firmly refused to engage with anything or anyone she didn’t. Oh, to be that certain, thought Sidney. So clear about what did and didn’t make you happy.
‘Miss her.’
Mr Phipps had caught her looking.
‘I bet you do,’ said Sidney.
She longed to ask if they’d ever fought, or even occasionally bickered, but that would be untactful, selfish. Mr Phipps’s eyes were damp around the edges at the best of times, but Sidney was sure she observed extra moisture.
‘What do you miss most?’ was all she dared to ask.
Mr Phipps’s forehead creased, and he was silent a good, long while.
‘She knew me,’ he said.
Of course, thought Sidney. What else mattered but that?
Chapter 30
Madison
‘I am not dog.’
Oksana held the cheque Madison’s mum had given her by one corner. Madison had once seen her sweep a dead mouse out from behind the refrigerator and hold it up by the tail. Her expression then had not been as disgusted as it was now.
Madison knew she shouldn’t be spying, but she hadn’t meant to. She’d come in the back door and heard her mum and Oksana, but it was only because her boots were hard to get off that she’d had time to realise they didn’t sound very happy. She’d peered around the laundry door into the kitchen, thinking they would notice her but they hadn’t. She didn’t feel brave enough to interrupt, so she just stayed half-hidden by the door and watched.
‘Not dog. Not fool, either.’
‘Oh, what does that mean?’
Madison’s mum sounded cross, but Oksana was taller, and bigger, too, and when she took a step closer, Madison’s mum shrunk back a bit.
‘This is rubbish money.’ Oksana waved the cheque in Madison’s mum’s face. ‘Insult. It is play money, like in game.’
‘You’re saying the cheque will bounce? You bloody rude old cow.’
Oksana made a sound that was sort of a cross between a word and a spit. Then she took the cheque in both hands and ripped it up, let the little bits of paper fall like snowflakes onto the carpet.
‘I tenk God I am fortunate woman,’ she said. ‘I haff life spirit and health and decent man, and I haff work with Mrs Barton and other good people. I do not need your work. You are terrible woman with terrible life, and I no more have to take your poison.’
Oksana made the spit sound again, as if there weren’t any words in English for what she really wanted to say. She picked up her pink bag and jacket, ready to leave. The back door was through the laundry and boot room, and Madison looked about in a panic for a place to hide, convinced Oksana would tell her off, too. But Oksana walked through to the hall and out the front door instead, even though it meant she had to go right around the house to get to her car. Madison waited until she couldn’t hear the car any more before leaving the boot room and walking quietly into the kitchen.
Her mum had sat down at the kitchen table, her hands propping up her head. Madison realised she’d been walking a bit too quietly, because her mum hadn’t heard her, and now she might get a fright. It was like last Saturday, when Madison had taken her book and bag to the place in the trees but found the skinny man there already. He was sitting on the muddy ground, no blanket, wiping his eyes in a way that made Madison wonder if he’d been crying. Or maybe he was just tired; Sidney said she was tired when Madison saw her wiping her eyes the other day. Yes, tired was probably right. She knew the skinny man, Deano, had been working long hours at the vineyard, doing night shifts as well as day jobs. Rainer wasn’t happy about it — he’d left a message on their home phone, which her mum had played on speaker. Madison didn’t hear all of it, just something about Rainer refusing to have anything to do with what was going on and that Madison’s dad might think he was the smartest man in the room, but in fact he was a stupid—
The last word was in German, her mum said, ‘and no doubt one hundred per cent accurate’. Then she erased the message, so she must have memorised it well enough to tell Madison’s dad.
Sitting in the secret tree spot, Deano didn’t see Madison approach or slip away again, so he never got startled. She couldn’t manage that with her mum, who spotted her out of the corner of her eye and jumped and let out a big huff of breath like someone had punched her.
‘Jesus, must you?’ said Madison’s mum. ‘Why do you have to creep around? It’s not normal.’
But then she dragged her hands down her face and blew out a breath.
‘Sorry, hon,’ she said. ‘Despite Doctor Love’s best efforts, I’m still a wreck.’
Madison wanted to throw herself at her mum and hug her tight, but that wouldn’t be nice and quiet, would it? So she patted her on the arm.
The doorbell rang. Her mum jumped again.
‘Oh, fucking no,’ she said. ‘Seriously, I just can’t …’
‘I’ll get it,’ said Madison, and ran off.
‘Madison.’ Ms Marshall smiled down at her. ‘I’ve got a meeting with your mother.’
The firm way she said it made Madison sure she couldn’t make an excuse, pretend her mum was ill or something.
So she held the door open politely, and said, ‘She’s in the kitchen.’
‘Thank you.’
Ms Marshall waited for her to shut the door and they walked to the kitchen together. Even though it was a Saturday, Ms Marshall was in a suit but one with a skirt not trousers. The suit fabric was pale pink, which looked really nice against her dark skin. Madison knew her mum thought Ms Marshall was pretty, too, because she never made comments about her appearance, only about how nosy and unreasonable she was.
‘How are you, Olivia?’
Ms Marshall sat down at the table without being invited, and put her notebook and pen in front of her. Her phone, too, which her mum hated.
‘Why does she need to record our meetings?’ her mum had said. ‘Is that her unsubtle way of calling me a liar?’
Madison began to walk to her room, but her mum said, ‘Stay here!’
She pulled out the chair next to her, and said, in a voice that sounded as if Ms Marshall had objected, ‘I’m entitled to one ally at least.’
‘Are you all right about that, Madison?’ said Ms Marshall.
‘She’s my daughter!’
Her mum grabbed Madison’s waist, pulled her close so that Madison couldn’t sit properly on her chair. It was uncomfortable but she didn’t want her mum to stop holding her.
Ms Marshall gave her mum a steady look, but then she opened her notebook and said, ‘Right. Let’s get on with it.’
Madison tried to follow what they were saying, but she kept getting stuck on the big words and losing track. It didn’t help that her mum was really upset and kept interrupting. In the end, because Ms Marshall had to repeat herself so many times, Madison understood that her dad was going to declare something called ‘bankruptcy’, which meant he wouldn’t have any more debts. But it meant he wouldn’t have any money either, and the banks would go ahead and sell everything he owned, like the resort and the vineyard, so Madison and her mum should start to look for somewhere else to live, and her mum should probably think about getting a job.
‘That is bullshit!’ said her mother. ‘So he gets off scot-free and I have to suffer?’
‘Hardly scot-free,’ said Ms Marshall. ‘He can’t set up any limited liability companies for the term of bankruptcy, which is usually three years, and he won’t be able to get a line of credit over one thousand dollars. So unless he wants to apply for the dole, he’ll have to find a job, too.’
&
nbsp; Madison’s mum gave a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh.
‘Like hell,’ she said. ‘Rick’s lying bullshit is the whole reason I decided to divorce him! He has got bloody money, I know he has! He may be dodgy, but he’s not stupid. You can’t tell me he hasn’t been squirrelling away his own freaking private hoard!’
‘He may well have,’ said Ms Marshall, her words cut short as if she’d lost patience. ‘He may have offshore trusts in Panama. Or a gem-filled cave guarded by a genie. But the reality is that even if he has all the money in the world, his declaration of bankruptcy shows he has no intention of sharing it — with his unsecured creditors or with you, Olivia.’
Her voice softened, as if she regretted being a bit mean.
‘It’s tough, I know. I’m sorry you’re in this situation. But even if a financial settlement is likely to be meagre at best, we can still work out a positive custody arrangement.’
Madison was wondering about the custardy thing, when she noticed her mum had suddenly gone all still. It was weird, as if she’d been taken over by an icy ghost.
‘That’s Rick’s problem,’ she said. ‘He made this mess — he needs to sort it. I want to make that perfectly clear.’
Ms Marshall gave Madison a quick look, then frowned at her mum as if she didn’t quite understand.
‘But you both—’
She stopped speaking, sat up in her chair and closed her notebook.
‘Best if we discuss this another time,’ she said. ‘I’ll call to set up a meeting.’
‘At a time that suits me,’ said Madison’s mum.
‘Of course.’
Ms Marshall stood, smoothed down her skirt, and picked up her things from the table. Madison’s mum had stopped holding onto her a while back, but Madison had stayed put even though her leg was hurting from being pressed into the crack between their two chairs. But she’d better get up now, as it wasn’t polite to stay sitting when guests were ready to leave.
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