‘I’ll show you to the door,’ said Madison.
Ms Marshall touched her palm briefly to her own cheek, the way Madison had seen Sidney do when Rory brought her some buttercups he’d picked. Sidney acted like it was the best present ever, even though Rory had kind of crushed the flowers by holding them too tight.
‘Thank you, sweetheart,’ said Ms Marshall.
At the door, Ms Marshall hesitated, as if she wanted to say something but was worried it might come out wrong.
‘It will be OK,’ she said, after a bit. ‘Don’t you worry.’
Then she walked very quickly to her car, which Madison knew was a Suzuki Swift because her dad thought they were rubbish and couldn’t pull the skin off a rice pudding.
Madison could hear her dad’s voice, clear as if he was right next to her. She’d been trying not to think about him too often, which is how she’d managed not to miss him too much when he’d been living mainly in Auckland. But right now, as she watched Ms Marshall’s little blue car drive off, she wanted him here so badly her heart felt like a big hand was squeezing it, crushing it like one of Rory’s buttercups.
She ran back inside to see her mum, but the kitchen was empty and her mum’s bedroom door was shut and Madison knew better than to disturb her.
It was sunny outside, and the skinny man probably wouldn’t be in the secret tree place two Saturdays in a row, though she wouldn’t mind if he was, because he liked reading. Her latest book was about a boy whose sister was a witch. She wasn’t a nice person at all, but it seemed like there was nothing anyone could do to stop her being mean because she had such strong magic. She was getting away with it the way Tanya Booth got away with teasing Reuben who was this close, she heard the other kids say, to being expelled. Madison had tried to play with him one lunchtime, but he shouted a bad word at her and ran away. She wished they were still having football coaching because Reuben enjoyed that, but she knew that Kerry was busy with his project, which was really important to the town. There was no point talking to Tanya, because Tanya wouldn’t listen to her. Madison couldn’t control people with magic powers, like the girl in the book.
But it wouldn’t be a good story if the bad sister weren’t stopped, so Madison packed the book in her bag, and headed outside, being sure to close the front door quietly. She walked towards the trees, looking forward to sitting down and reading about a world where everything worked out right.
Chapter 31
Sam
‘So, how about it?’ said Tubs.
Brownie’s smile was both amused and amazed. ‘Wasn’t the last trip enough of a debacle for you?’
‘It was good fun!’ protested Tubs.
‘How do you know? You were shickered for most of it.’
‘And we didn’t shoot anything,’ said Sam.
He kept his voice down. Wouldn’t want the old men of the club to overhear. They already had plenty to say about the youth of today.
‘All the more reason to go back,’ Tubs insisted. ‘My dad’ll lend us the gear again, and the truck.’
Brownie clapped his hand on Tubs’s shoulder. ‘Under a bit of pressure from the old man, are we?’
Tubs went bright red. ‘Nah!’ he said, too quickly.
Sam’s eyes shifted to the prime spot in the clubroom, the big table, where only the important men sat. Sam hadn’t been able to work out exactly what criteria defined them as important — some were wealthy, some had sod-all except loud opinions, some were former players, others’ only exercise ever was lifting pints from the table to their mouths. Maybe the only thing they had in common was that they all thought they were important — and that conviction was enough to make everyone else believe it, too.
Tubs’s dad, Rob, was one of them. He ticked more boxes than most, being wealthy, loud and opinionated and a former player, whose physical strength had not been totally buried under layers of lard. Honestly, some of these old guys looked like they’d been made out of the melted manky ends of old candles. Sam knew a youthful metabolism and a physical job were advantages he wouldn’t always have, but you didn’t have to go to seed, did you? His dad was heftier than he’d been when he was nineteen, sure, but he ate healthily and kept up the exercise, didn’t smoke, or drink too much. Wyatt should live to a good old, age, shouldn’t he … ?
‘Earth to Sammo!’
Brownie had set down his beer so he could cup his hands around his mouth.
‘Yeah, what?’ said Sam.
‘Seems Mr Hanrahan senior has been putting the hard word on his son and heir to come back with some proper trophies. Splashes of drunken vomit on boots don’t count, apparently. Nor do blisters, itchy bites or tongue burns caused by inadequate blowing on gas-station pies.’
‘So what does he want? Us to come back with an elephant?’
‘Grizzly bear, probably,’ said Brownie. ‘Or a moose. There’s rumours, you know.’
‘A deer,’ said Tubs. ‘Just one fucken deer, OK?’
‘And I assume you’ll do the fucking?’
Brownie winked at Sam. He loved winding Tubs up, even though it was way too easy and he should, by rights, have got bored of it years back. Habit, Sam supposed. That’s what kept them all in the same groove. Made even the old jokes still seem funny.
‘Hardy ha,’ said Tubs. ‘Better a deer than that bush-pig you were chatting up in Hampton the other day. Man, she was as rough as guts!’
Brownie went still, no expression.
Then he said, ‘You mean my long-lost sister?’
‘What? Shit. Really?’
Brownie kept staring. Didn’t blink or smile.
‘No,’ he said, and drained his beer. ‘She’s a customer of the firm. And she is, I will admit, not much of a looker.’
Tubs fair sagged with relief.
‘But if she had been a relation,’ Brownie set his glass down with deliberate care, ‘I would have had to take you outside right now and smack you.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
Tubs’s grin showed he felt he was on safe ground now. And he was, with Brownie. But Sam had seen him mis-read the situation time and again, his poor judgement made even ropier by drink. One day someone wouldn’t know about Rob Hanrahan, or wouldn’t care, and Tubs would get a whole lot worse than a smacking.
‘So what about it?’
Brownie caught Sam’s eye.
‘What about it, Sammo? Care to go moose hunting?’
‘Deer,’ said Tubs.
Sam didn’t. Not really. Once had been enough.
‘Ah, c’mon,’ said Tubs, seeing his face. ‘Not like you’ve got anything else to do on weekends. Or are you too busy’ — he put on an annoying singsong voice — ‘baby-sitting?’
It was Brownie’s smirk that stung more than Tubs’s comment.
‘I do have stuff on!’ Sam protested. ‘I said I’d help out shifting the model train!’
‘Oh, the twain,’ said Tubs in same singsong voice. ‘The widdle twain needs you.’
‘Shut up.’
Sam glanced nervously about. The old men only pretended to be deaf when it suited them. And he knew from Uncle Gene that the vote to help out in the working bee had been carried by only a slim margin. Objectors still saw it as a waste of time, and even though they had none of their own, they seemed to be convinced a better idea to promote Gabriel’s Bay was out there somewhere.
But, of course, Tubs was on a roll.
‘Is Sammy gonna play with the widdle dollies, too? In their widdle dolly-house?’
‘Shut u—’
‘Tubs, give it a rest,’ said Brownie.
And Tubs did. The fact he listened to Brownie and not him might have irked Sam more if he hadn’t been so relieved Tubs had shut his trap.
‘Dad says that whole thing’s fucked anyway,’ said Tubs.
‘And why’s that?’ said Brownie.
‘There’s all these regulations and shit they have to meet. Won’t have a hope, says Dad. Game over. Good riddance.’
‘Mr Ha
nrahan senior not a supporter then?’ said Brownie.
‘Nah, he thinks it’s a stupid use of the factory,’ said Tubs. ‘Thinks that old Eyetie bloke’s been taken for a ride and he should just sell the place now.’
‘Buyers queuing up, are they?’ Brownie pushed on.
Sam watched Brownie for clues as to his intent, but his face matched his voice — bland and only casually interested.
‘Been an offer in for a while,’ said Tubs. ‘But old Mr Crappy or whatever’s a bit gaga, and his sons are useless, couldn’t organise a shag in a whorehouse. Everything’s like mañana, mañana.’
‘Your father might have more success if he spoke to them in Italian, not Spanish,’ said Brownie.
Like a cartoon, Tubs eyes bugged out in horror. ‘Aw, nah, it’s not Dad. Nah, it’s — I didn’t mean—’
Sam was suddenly grateful that Brownie was his friend. He’d be a shitter of an enemy.
Brownie clapped Tubs on the shoulder. ‘Sure, sure. No sweat, pardner. How about you go buy us another round?’
‘Yeah, yeah, I’ll do that,’ said Tubs, with the haste of a man who’s just been offered an alibi by the police. ‘Same again, yeah?’
He took off before they could confirm or deny.
‘Sometimes,’ said Sam, ‘I’m really glad my dad’s my dad, you know?’
‘Yes, you certainly are the lucky one.’
The edge to Brownie’s voice made Sam realise what he’d said.
‘Shit, sorry, man. How is Ed?’
‘He’s dying, Sammo. And not quickly.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’
He knew his own dad, his mum, too, would have more words to say — right words. But Sam struggled. Could it be that he didn’t really want to know? Come on, Brownie was his mate. He should make the effort.
‘It’s not fair,’ he said. ‘Your dad is a good guy. He doesn’t deserve to be ill like this.’
‘A good guy?’
Brownie’s flat delivery flustered Sam.
‘Well, yeah, you know,’ he said. ‘He was. Is …’
‘Well, let’s review that statement …’ Brownie drew out the words, as if holding them up to the light. ‘Has Ed ever smacked me around? No. Does he drink to excess, gamble or take hard drugs? No, again. Did he support me at school and on the sporting ground? Yes, as much as he was able. Sounds like a pretty good guy so far, don’t you think, Sammo?’
‘Um …’
There was a light in Brownie’s eyes that made Sam want to duck for cover.
‘Did Ed pull his weight around the house? Not really, but that’s not unusual for our fathers’s generation. Did Ed ever stretch himself to get a better job so his wife wouldn’t have to work all the hours God gave? Now we’re getting into trickier territory, but I’ll press on. Did he pay the bills, do the banking or balance the household budget? That’s a no. Did he take any responsibility for our financial situation after my mother, who had done all the above, died? Did he ever ask how we would manage without her income, even though she was the major breadwinner? Has he ever enquired as to how we’re managing now that he has no income except a negligible sickness benefit? To all that a resounding no. But, you know, it’s OK, because I got it sorted, because I had to. He tells me I’m a good boy, Sam, and I try to be, I really do. He’s sick and it’s bloody rough and I’m all he’s got. But even if his body’s buggered, his mind’s OK. He can think, he can observe. So how hard would it be for him to pull his head out of the sand? How hard would it be for him to be the grown-up, just one fucking time?’
Sam felt accused of something, and part of him resented it. If Brownie’s life was that shit, why didn’t he ask for help? Or did he want to be the victim, did that make him feel special?
The other part of Sam knew he had no right to judge Brownie — how he felt, what he did — because he had no idea what it would feel like to be in his friend’s shoes. Warmth, light, family and laughter — that was Sam’s life. He hadn’t known trouble at all, and probably had fuck-all of what it took to handle it.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, again. ‘I didn’t know.’
Brownie seemed to be contemplating a choice of answers, shifting them along some internal slide rule.
‘Well, what you don’t know won’t hurt you, will it?’ he finally said.
Fair enough. And not as harsh as Sam had expected.
‘Is there — can I help?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Brownie, firm and abrupt. ‘As I said, I’ve got it sorted.’
Then he softened a fraction, and added, ‘Thanks.’
Tubs was back, bringing with him two jugs and what Uncle Gene called ‘the airspace of posturing aggression’ that he felt compelled to create around him.
‘So — one more hunting trip, right, girls?’ He filled their glasses. ‘Come on, you know you want to.’
‘And abandon my gravely ill father?’ said Brownie.
‘Well, what’d you do last time?’
‘Asked Doc Love to pop in.’
‘There you go,’ said Tubs. ‘Sorted.’
‘Indeed.’
Brownie grinned at Sam, as if their tense conversation had never happened.
‘Come on, Sammo,’ said Tubs. ‘Lucky last. Or loser last, whatever.’
‘What about Deano?’ Sam said.
‘What about him?’ Tubs replied. ‘Not like he’s been anywhere near us lately.’
‘We should at least ask him. He’s our mate.’
‘Yeah, he was …’ Tubs screwed up his face. ‘But he’s kind of a loser now, don’t you think? Bit fucken shabby on it.’
Sam knew this was true, but he didn’t want to accept it. He wanted to keep Deano in his head as a cheerful, skinny, madly running boy. He wanted Brownie in there as his best mate, happy with two healthy parents and a good opinion of his father. He wanted Tubs before the drink and aggression and bad judgement. He couldn’t bear to believe that any of them would suffer or fail or give up, even though those signs were already there. He had to believe that they’d succeed, that they wouldn’t become old melted-candle men, marinating in beer and delusions that they had still some kind of value and purpose, some kind of small god power.
‘Deano’s the only one of us who actually knows how to hunt,’ said Sam, too loudly. ‘And you said at the start that this was about the four of us — our last summer together, and—’
‘OK, OK!’ Tubs held up his hand. ‘Fucken go ask Deano!’
‘I’ll ask him,’ said Brownie. ‘I’m doing some work up at the vineyard next week.’
‘He probably can’t come, anyway,’ said Tubs. ‘Isn’t he working, like, all day every day?’
‘I’ll have a chat to his boss,’ said Brownie. ‘Play the sympathy card.’
‘He’s German,’ said Tubs. ‘Thought they were hard as?’
‘You forget I have a natural charm that transcends language.’
‘Fuck off,’ said Tubs. ‘Natural charm, my hairy balls.’
‘Now there’s an oxymoron.’
‘You’re a moron!’
‘Do you think you’ll be able to talk the boss around?’
Sam needed to know. It felt wrong to take this trip without Deano. Worse, it felt — unlucky.
‘Don’t you trust me, Sam?’
Flustered again by that flat delivery. Or perhaps he just didn’t know how to answer …
Brownie smiled. Sam let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.
‘Leave it with me, Sammo,’ said Brownie. ‘I’ll get the band back together for one more gig. I’ll get it all sorted.’
Chapter 32
Mac
Mac rang all of Dr Ghadavi’s references, and none of them had a bad word to say, so she rang Bronagh Macfarlane, whose advice to date had been a hundred per cent bang on the nail.
‘He’s earnest to the point of being borderline bananas,’ Mac told her. ‘And he talks even more than your son.’
‘So the little fecker’s still alive then?�
�� said Bronagh.
‘Kerry? Yes. Why do you ask?’
‘Haven’t heard a dicky-bird from him for yonks. I figured either he’d died, or had been caught up in some undercover police sting operation.’
‘He’s just been busy,’ said Mac. ‘Bitten off more than he can chew, I suspect, though he still insists he’s waving not drowning. Excuse the mangled metaphor.’
‘Irony is,’ said Bronagh, ‘I notice the absence of yak more because normally, as you yourself have observed, he never stops. We had none of the trouble other parents did when their teenagers became all cat’s-bum-face and monosyllabic. Kerry-Francis said his first word at eight months and he’s not, far as I can tell, drawn breath since. I appreciate that he communicates, though during his childhood, his father and I did fantasise more than once about becoming Trappist monks. I think we may have even sent away for the application form.’
‘But is chattiness a good trait for a doctor?’ said Mac. ‘I’d have thought the main skill they require is an ability to listen.’
‘The two are not mutually exclusive. I’ve often found chatter has a soothing quality for patients, like whale song in the background. And if they’re relaxed, they’re more willing to spill the beans about what’s ailing them. As long as your man knows to shut up at that point, he’ll be grand.’
Mac felt a spike of irritation, and realised it was because she’d been hoping Bronagh would give her a reason to change her mind, to halt the whole process and tell Doc Love that he could stay on until he dropped dead at his desk. Change was hard, for her, for the patients. It would alter the whole fabric of Gabriel’s Bay, and tough cheddar for anyone who preferred it the way it was.
But then, if Littleville ever saw the light of day, that would bring change, too. New visitors, new expectations and demands on the town and its people. And in the words of whoever was in charge of developing annoying motivational sayings: ‘If you don’t move forwards, you start going backwards.’ Mac had a moment like that going over the hill in the Love Bus last week; she really must get the gearbox sorted.
‘So I should hire him?’ Mac said, hoping, she knew, for one last out.
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