Starting from Scratch

by Penelope Janu

  Matts turned at the door. ‘I’ll come tonight, Sapphire.’

  ‘No!’ I swiped tears from my face. My nose was streaming. ‘You’ve got what you wanted! Go!’

  CHAPTER

  6

  Matts treads carefully up the wobbly timber steps as he follows me to the front door of the farmhouse. The hallway is crowded with plastic tubs filled with riding hats and boots, and crates overflowing with halters, lead ropes and grooming equipment. Three saddles, one behind the other, are balanced on a rail. When the new youth centre opens in a couple of months, the gear will be stored over there. I’ll be able to replace the worst of the floorboards and paint the walls and ceilings.

  ‘Excuse the mess,’ I say, as I close the door to the first room on the left. When his steps slow, I imagine him reading Mary’s poster. Keep away from the flowers or else! This is Miss Brown’s (Sapphie’s) room. Private!

  ‘How often do you come here?’ he asks.

  The living room at the back of the house is set up as an office, with a battered filing cabinet, an old timber table we use as a desk and an odd assortment of chairs. I collect the folders I’ll need for tomorrow, tapping their ends to line them up.

  ‘I come every day, usually twice a day. I have an agreement to buy the farmhouse and land from the council, and my horses live here. We run youth centre activities on Saturdays, and sometimes in the holidays. Kids come on other days as well.’

  ‘The horses are part of this?’

  ‘In the equine therapy program, yes.’

  ‘How does it work?’

  ‘Adolescents who’ve been in juvenile detention and younger children with developmental and other differences interact with the horses. The sessions help with communication skills, impulse control, anxiety, anger management, things like that. Psychologists and social workers take care of the treatments. I provide the horses and coordinate the volunteers.’

  He looks pointedly at the chairs. ‘Can we sit, Sapphire?’

  When I put the folders on the table and perch on an upright chair in front of it, he turns another chair so he’s facing me. He’s clean-shaven. He has very faint lines at the sides of his mouth.

  ‘What work are you doing for the government, Matts?’

  ‘For your government, I’m advising on wetland strategies. For mine, I’m doing a comparative study on diminishing rainfall and wetland biodiversity.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘In the last drought, the Macquarie Marshes dried up. They’re relevant to both projects.’

  ‘They’re hundreds of kilometres from here.’

  ‘Four hours by road.’

  I link my hands in my lap. ‘What did you want to warn me about?’

  ‘You see your father rarely.’

  ‘I won’t forgive him.’

  ‘He was concerned when you ran away.’

  ‘I was sixteen. I wasn’t gone for long.’

  ‘The first time?’ His gaze goes from the cracks in the walls to the crumbling cornices. ‘Six weeks, two days and fifteen hours. It felt like a long time to me.’

  ‘I—’ A white late model four-wheel drive is parked near the gate. Two galahs with pastel pink chests and dove grey wings peck at the ground near the tow bar. ‘I should have contacted my father. It was wrong not to do that.’

  ‘You ran away again.’

  ‘I stopped running when I came to Horseshoe.’ My nails are short and neat, but grubby from the horses. ‘I see my father in the week after Christmas, and sometimes for my birthday. When he emails, I respond.’

  ‘You feel the same about him as you did?’

  ‘He gave up on Mum. He put Gran into a home.’

  Matts frowns. ‘She had dementia.’

  ‘So? I looked after her.’

  ‘What about when she fell?’

  When my hand shoots to my breast, I awkwardly cross my arms. ‘The oil caught fire while we were cooking. She could have come home, with a little more help, when she was better. She was happy in her own house. We were happy.’

  ‘You went to school three days out of five.’

  ‘How would you know that?’

  ‘I communicated with your father.’ He stretches out his legs.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I cared about you.’

  I don’t want to look at him, but I can’t look away. I know him yet I don’t. I clear my throat.

  ‘My father fell out of love with my mother. I understand that now. But what came later was different.’ I cross one leg over the other. The sole of my right boot is almost worn through at the ball of my foot. ‘His new wife has children of her own, young children. I don’t want to be a part of their family. It wouldn’t be fair to her or the children, because I can’t pretend that the past never happened.’

  ‘You hold me responsible too.’ His eyes are clear and direct.

  What’s the expression in mine?

  ‘You thought you were protecting me.’ I reach behind me to the desk, pick up the folders and place them on my lap. ‘I don’t need that any more.’

  The sun is going down, but rays of light shine through the window and lighten his hair.

  Kotka. Eagle. Kultainen. Golden.

  He leans his forearms on his thighs. ‘You must remember my mother,’ he finally says.

  I’m not sure what happens first—the stillness of his body or the tears in my eyes. Inge was softly spoken and elegant. She wore her fair hair in a chignon, and always had fresh flowers on her dining room table. Matts didn’t cry in the months after her funeral, but sometimes I did. He’d look into the distance, shove tissues in my direction and change the subject. We’d pretend it never happened. But I’d always chastise myself afterwards. I knew that Matts’s father was too upset to even hear Inge’s name. If I weren’t brave, there’d be no one Matts could talk to.

  I blink a few times and study my hands. ‘Of course I do. Is your father still working?’

  ‘He retired from the diplomatic corps, but consults to the government.’ He runs a hand around the back of his neck. His sweater has a fine weave. It’s not tight across his body, but firmly clings to his shoulders and chest. When he took off his shirt at the creek …

  I swallow. ‘Did he ever remarry?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Please give him my regards.’

  He frowns again. ‘Your father, Sapphire. Are you aware of the allegations against him?’

  ‘What?’ I shake my head. ‘No. What’s happened?’

  ‘When he was with the Department of Trade in Buenos Aires, Robert headed a multi-country working party, briefed to negotiate major infrastructure projects. The contracts were worth billions.’

  ‘He was always at work.’

  ‘It’s been alleged that, in the course of negotiations, your father accepted a bribe.’

  ‘What? Who from?’

  ‘One of the companies that tendered for the projects, Hernandez Engineering.’

  ‘My father wouldn’t do something like that.’

  His brows lift. ‘You’d defend him?’

  When I look down at the folders, my hair, neatly pinned back this morning, falls over my face. I push strands behind my ears. ‘I don’t think he’d take a bribe.’

  Matts watches me closely. ‘The Argentinian Government is holding an inquiry into the conduct of Josef Hernandez, the founder and majority shareholder. Hernandez has denied personal involvement in your father’s case, but has claimed that, consistent with business practice in Argentina at the time, your father was given a gift.’

  ‘A gift or a bribe?’

  ‘Both would have been illegal under Australian law. Transfers of any type have to be declared. In any case, Robert denies receiving anything.’

  ‘Why were the gifts handed out?’

  ‘For many reasons: access to documentation, details of competing tenderer’s bids, a friendly ear. Money and valuables were placed in deposit boxes in a Geneva bank. The recipients were given a key to a box.’

  ‘Why
do I need a personal briefing about this? Why are you involved?’

  ‘Our fathers were in contact, professionally and socially, at the time the payment was allegedly made. A few weeks ago, Robert asked my father to verify details about business appointments and official engagements.’

  The red gum near the window is blush pink in the sunlight, a silhouette at night. Repressing a shiver, I pull up my collar and blow on my hands. ‘Did he find something?’

  ‘My father had his own records, and also my mother’s. He’d kept her personal items, letters and official diaries. When he looked through these, he found a key. It meant nothing to him seventeen years ago. Now it did.’

  ‘Was it a deposit box key?’

  ‘From the bank in Geneva named by Hernandez. My father didn’t know whether it had relevance to the accusations against your father, but feared that it might.’ Matts stands and walks through the shadows. He glances at me, holding tightly onto the folders on my lap, before flicking on the overhead light. He moves his chair closer to mine before sitting again. ‘My father inherited my mother’s estate, so was given access to the box. It held fifty thousand euro.’

  ‘Oh!’ I blink. ‘What did your father do?’

  ‘He reported what he’d found.’

  ‘But weren’t the allegations against my father? What did Inge have to do with it? Was it her money?’

  ‘You won’t like what I have to say.’ His eyes are guarded.

  All the buttons on my jacket are fastened, and the room would be no colder than it was twenty minutes ago. Nevertheless, my teeth chatter.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘There’s no record of the person who made the initial deposit, but the bank had other records. Before my father, only one other person had accessed the box.’

  ‘Inge?’

  ‘She was in Buenos Aires with my father when the box was opened. Your father was there too.’

  ‘Who, then?’

  ‘Passport records confirm that your mother was in Geneva. The bank has her signature.’

  When I stand, holding the folders to my chest, he stands too. He comes so close that I smell his soap. Or is it the scent of his skin? I wish I weren’t aware of him. I wish I felt nothing.

  He takes a folded piece of paper from his pocket. There are three lines of handwriting, my mother’s, on the photocopied page.

  Dearest Inge,

  Empty the box and keep everything safe. All will be well, I promise.

  Love, Kate

  ‘What does it …’ my voice wavers. ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘Kate was in Geneva for a day. She didn’t have a bank account in her own name and might not have had the time—or documentation—to set one up, so left the contents of the box as she’d found them. We believe my mother, who subsequently arranged to meet my aunt in Lausanne, must have agreed to help. Kate gave my mother the key only days before Inge died. She never had the chance to use it.’

  When I step backwards into the chair, it tips and hits the table. It balances there, not up and not down. I breathe deeply as I right it.

  ‘My father is going to drag Mum into this, isn’t he?’

  ‘It’s cold in here, Sapphire. Let me drive you home. We can talk there.’

  ‘No!’

  He sighs. ‘Sit down then.’ He indicates the chair.

  I shake my head. ‘No.’

  He closes his eyes for a moment. ‘Establishing what happened is the only way to clear your father’s name.’

  ‘My mother will be collateral damage. I know what he’ll say, what you’ll say.’

  Matts’s feet are slightly apart. He puts his hands behind his back. ‘Kate changed, Sapphire. She did things she wouldn’t have done before.’

  ‘The drugs, everything else, that only happened after Inge died. Before that, she wouldn’t have needed extra money.’

  He walks to the window. ‘Shall I close it?’

  ‘It’s jammed.’

  He examines the mechanism before opening the window wide and realigning the sash. Leaves rustle; a car drives past. When he puts both hands on the frame and pushes down hard, the window slams shut. Silence.

  ‘Kate’s behaviour after Inge’s death was attributed to grief,’ Matts says. ‘There could have been another reason.’

  ‘She had nothing to do with my father’s work.’

  ‘She was popular,’ he says quietly. ‘Everyone knew her. She also had access to documents and other material your father should have had locked up.’

  ‘He didn’t need to lock them up.’

  ‘So he thought.’ He blows out a breath. ‘Now he thinks otherwise.’

  ‘He accused Mum of neglecting me. He forced her to relinquish custody. He’ll say anything to get out of this.’

  ‘He was concerned about you.’

  ‘And his career!’ When my eyes sting, I turn my back. ‘Whatever happened in Geneva, he’ll blame Mum. She wouldn’t have done something like that. She wouldn’t have sold information.’

  He hesitates. ‘She was capable of worse, Sapphire. You know this.’

  I swallow the lump in my throat. ‘You have no right to say that.’

  ‘You blame your father for what happened. You blame me. Never her.’

  ‘She wasn’t capable of defending herself. Not then. Not now.’

  He stalks back to the window and looks outside. He grips the sill; his shoulders are tight. He turns his head and I see him in profile.

  ‘Your father believes he’ll be cleared of the bribe allegation, but fears the political fallout.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me.’

  ‘Robert told me that if you refused to help him voluntarily, he could force you to do it. That’s why I came.’

  ‘How could he force me?’

  ‘He wouldn’t say.’

  ‘I don’t rely on him, Matts. I don’t rely on anybody.’

  He nods stiffly. ‘You’ve made that clear.’

  ‘I’ll defend my mother. You tell my father that.’

  When I walk to the door, Matts follows. Our footsteps are loud in the hallway. I stand aside to let him through the front door first, and he does the same. We touch and I jump.

  His jaw is tight. ‘Call him, Sapphire. It’s the best way to protect yourself. It’s the best way to protect Kate.’

  Grey eyes on blue. Grey-blue. Blue-grey.

  ‘You …’ I turn away. ‘You cared for her once.’

  I stuff the folders in my bag and rummage for Gran’s old keyring—the enamelled rosebuds in pale pink and crimson that snagged on my school tights in winter. The key is brass with an oval tip and a long, toothy shaft. I line it up with the keyhole.

  Clunk.

  What did Mum hear when she locked the deposit box? Was she afraid? Did she have something to hide? Was it night time or day time? Were the boxes at street level or deep underground?

  My father didn’t know whether Mum wanted to be buried or cremated. Neither did I. She would never have spoken about something like that. Even in her darkest times, she’d tell me that life was worth living. I’d tell her that one day, when the farmhouse was mine, this was where we’d live and …

  As I throw the keyring into my bag, Matts touches my arm.

  ‘Sapphire?’

  When I turn, my hand is still in midair. He takes it, his fingers cold but mine far colder. He puts his other hand on my shoulder and peers at my cheek.

  ‘Did you see a doctor?’

  ‘I didn’t need to.’ The warmth of his body keeps out the chill.

  ‘Let me drive you home.’

  ‘I don’t like—’ I shake my head. ‘I’d prefer to walk.’

  ‘Call your father.’

  My chin brushes against his fingers when I shake my head again. And all of a sudden, I’m hot and flustered and—

  I take a jerky step back. ‘Thanks for the warning. I’ll think about what you said.’

  As I walk past the water tank, his car door slams. The engine starts up. Headlights flas
h for a moment and then disappear on the road. Skirting around the orange and lemon trees to the paddock, I climb onto the gate and sit with my legs to one side. Freckle, ghostly in the shadows, lifts his head and softly neighs. The weathervane’s rooster looks into the distance. What does he see? What can I see?

  I can’t rely on Matts and never will again.

  I refuse to do my father’s bidding.

  I have to protect my mother.

  CHAPTER

  7

  Almost two weeks have passed since I saw Matts at the farmhouse. Every day, I’ve weighed up the pros and cons. Do I have to face my father in order to protect my mother?

  Yesterday I messaged my father, asking him to call.

  After morning tea, the children, chattering like pigeons, file into my classroom and sit at their desks. I clap my hands to get their attention.

  ‘Mary? I think it’s your table’s turn to talk about native flora.’

  She flicks her long plaits over her shoulders. ‘Yes, Miss Brown.’

  ‘Who would like to go first?’

  Mary considers the other children at her table: Archie, Benji and Amy. Archie, who has multiple items lined up neatly in front of him, jumps to his feet.

  ‘Archie,’ she says firmly.

  Horseshoe Hill Primary doesn’t have enough students or teachers to separate the year groups, so the children in my Year 2 to 4 class are aged from seven to ten. Mary is nine and, as the youngest of the three Honey girls, she enjoys being the eldest on her table. Archie, Barney’s clever younger brother, is eight. ADHD can make things difficult at school, but he responds well to Mary’s bossiness. He methodically sets up his items on the table at the front of the room and I attach his poster to the whiteboard with magnets. He holds up a large strip of bark.

  ‘This is from a paperbark tree,’ he says. ‘Who wants to hold it?’ He laughs and spins around excitedly when all the children put up their hands.

  ‘Thank you, Archie.’ When I extend my hand, he gives me the bark. ‘I’ll pass this around while you talk about the tree you’ve selected.’

  Archie has a phenomenal memory. He crosses his arms and recites, ‘The botanical name of the paperbark tree is Melaleuca quinquenervia …’

  When it’s time for Benji to talk to the class, he walks nervously from his chair to the front of the room. Benji is the son of the publican, Leon. He’s the youngest in the class and barely said a word at the start of the year, but is quietly growing in confidence. He holds up a small branch tipped with green-centred, feathery white flowers.