Starting from Scratch

by Penelope Janu

  Matts watches every move. When I put my hands on his shoulders and kiss his cheek, his bristles are rough.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Queensland, WA.’ He runs his fingertip down my nose to my mouth. He traces a line along the crease between my lips. ‘Call me tonight.’

  We are not who we were.

  CHAPTER

  22

  ‘So …’ Hugo, says, keeping his eyes on the road but turning down the volume on the radio, ‘what was the problem with Prima?’

  The seatbelt is a vice across my chest. I bite my lip as a car overtakes on our right. ‘There wasn’t a problem.’

  ‘Your committee’s UN delegate said that’s why you were late.’

  ‘The Ramsar Secretariat is UN sanctioned. He’s not a UN delegate.’ I squeeze my eyes shut. ‘Are you trying to make me throw up?’

  ‘Not on my watch,’ he says, as he indicates left and pulls into a layby at the side of the road. He winds down our windows and switches off the engine.

  I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth. Deep breaths. If you don’t control the anxiety, it will take control of you. ‘What time is it?’

  Hugo peers at the dashboard clock. ‘Almost six-thirty.’

  ‘That’s why it’s dark.’

  ‘Have you just noticed? You’ve been staring out of the window since we left.’

  ‘I’m telling myself there’s nothing out there.’

  He puts his hand on my forehead as if checking my temperature. ‘We’re on the outskirts of the city now. Won’t be long.’

  ‘Just give me a minute. If my breathing is okay, I do better.’

  ‘Daylight saving starts next weekend. Maybe that’ll help?’ He whistles a tune I can’t identify. ‘Sapph?’

  ‘Hugo.’

  ‘Why’d you go to Prima when we wanted to get here before dark?’

  I knew Ma would ask why it’d taken so long to get the pins out of my hair. I didn’t want to face Matts again. So after I walked out of the flower room, I left my bags on the steps and ran to the paddock. Freckle nickered and Lollopy rushed to the gate wearing his ‘I’m afraid you forgot to feed me’ expression. I wrapped my arms around his neck and buried my face in his fuzzy black mane. He smelt of horse and dust and hay, much easier to process than scents of pine and peppermint. ‘I’m going to miss you and Freckle when Jet gets back.’

  I didn’t realise that Joel was still at the farmhouse until I saw him in the paddock with Prima. He’d bridled and saddled her and was leading her around on a rope. He looked up proudly.

  ‘Reckon it won’t be long before you can ride her, Sapphie.’ Prima stood quietly with Joel at her head as I walked around her, keeping close to her body in case she shied and kicked out. I practiced what we’d been doing all week—Joel holding her steady while I put my hands on the saddle and my foot in the stirrup iron. When I pulled myself up as if I was going to mount, she held my weight calmly. Next week, I’ll climb onto her back.

  I take another deep breath before I turn back to Hugo. ‘Joel was waiting, and I wanted to say goodbye to the horses.’

  He laughs. ‘Bet they were hanging out for that.’

  ‘You’re the one who talks to frogs.’

  He puts the car into gear. ‘Only the males croak back.’

  ‘Which means girl frogs are much less likely to be eaten.’ We turn onto the road. ‘I know a lot about frogs because of you.’

  He looks at me slyly. ‘Matts likes my frogs.’

  Within a few minutes, we turn onto the two-lane loop road that leads to the city. There are road signs and traffic lights and roundabouts and pedestrians and rows and rows of houses.

  No kangaroos.

  I open my fingers, releasing the belt. I link my hands in my lap. ‘Matts also likes swamps.’

  Hugo grins. ‘Give, Sapphie. You didn’t want him on the committee. Then you did. When you got back from the horses this afternoon, you couldn’t keep your eyes off each other. In a fortnight, you’ll be away with him for a week.’

  ‘It’s only five days. Anyway, I was roped into that.’

  ‘I’m not an idiot. What’s going on?’

  ‘I don’t deny he’s physically attractive.’

  ‘That’s big of you!’ Hugo hoots. ‘He’s not only built like a triathlete, he looks like a guy who models Swiss watches.’

  ‘He’s—yes. But looks aren’t everything.’

  ‘He’s got a string of degrees and a bloody great job.’ He grins. ‘I don’t know that you’ve been out with anyone lately, but—’

  ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘Which isn’t a bad thing, since your relationships never last more than a weekend.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘What’s the longest you’ve been with anyone? You frighten the good blokes away.’

  ‘I don’t want to hurt their feelings.’

  ‘You see the futility?’ He shakes his head. ‘You plan how you’ll break up before you’ve gone out.’

  ‘I … sometimes.’

  ‘How old were you when you started dating? Eighteen? Nineteen? I’ve never met anyone you’ve dated who I liked.’

  ‘I had no idea you were keeping tabs.’

  ‘You don’t drink or do drugs. You’re beautiful and smart, but go out with jerks. It’s not so surprising you dump them.’

  ‘Let’s change the subject.’

  ‘You owe me.’ When we stop at lights, he turns in his seat. ‘I’ve had no one to talk to for the past three hours. Which is another thing I’ve been thinking about. There’s more to this road fear of yours than hitting a kangaroo, isn’t there?’

  I shake my head. ‘Don’t, Hugo.’

  ‘You and the roads have never got on. And that’s okay. I know how your mum died. But you got over your reluctance to drive, didn’t you? Remember the day you finally got your licence? How we went to the pub and got smashed?’

  ‘You got smashed. Jet was tipsy. I drank lemon squash and drove you both home.’

  ‘Whatever. You hit the roo last year, but you’re no closer to driving than you were. Why?’

  The sob that escapes is a mix of a cough and a hiccup and a gulp, and so unexpected it’s impossible to smother. Tears course down my cheeks. I sniff and wipe my nose on my sleeve.

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ.’ Hugo pulls over and takes off his seatbelt. He forages in the glove box. ‘Tissues.’ He dumps them in my lap. ‘I’m an arsehole, Sapph. Sorry.’

  I shake my head. ‘Not you. Me.’

  As I scrub at my eyes and blow my nose, he ticks things off on his fingers. ‘Something is going on with Matts. It must be. You’ve had zilch do with your father, and now you’re spending weekends with him. You’re in the car and it’s dark and …’ He wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me close. ‘Don’t get snot on my shirt.’

  He smells nice. But he doesn’t smell like Matts. And that makes me cry even harder.

  CHAPTER

  23

  Gus said my flowers don’t grow out of the dirt, but no one can tell the difference. He also said some folk end up where they should’ve started out in the first place. The renovated houses with manicured hedges, the rows of matching trees on the nature strips, the double garages, fenced backyards, swimming pools and tennis courts … all of these things should be familiar to me. They are familiar. But now I’m a stranger to them.

  I don’t belong here.

  I convince Hugo to drop me off a block away and resist the urge to rub my eyes, already red, as I walk along the footpath. My overnight bag and handbag are in one hand, and the broomsticks are in the other. I must look like … A runaway? I’m not sure whether the bubble that wants to come up will be a laugh or a sob, so I swallow it down. My father’s house, close to where we used to live, is two storeyed and has a long sweep of lawn out the front. Tall lantern lights on black metal poles line the driveway at two-metre intervals. I lower my bag onto the terrazzo porch tiles and lean the broomsticks against an
oversized ceramic pot with a cerulean and aqua glaze. I press the doorbell.

  Jacqueline, in her late thirties and very attractive with dark brown eyes and hair, opens the door. She holds out her hand. ‘Come in, Sapphire. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.’

  Her nails match her dress, which matches her lipstick. She’s cool, yet courteous. Is she aware I’m here under sufferance?

  ‘Sorry I’m late.’ I pick up my bags. ‘Robert said his driver would drop me at the motel later on. Could I leave these somewhere in the meantime?’

  ‘Certainly,’ Jacqueline says, looking curiously at the bag that contains the broomsticks.

  ‘I’ve brought outside toys for Atticus and Alex,’ I explain. ‘I’ll give them to them tomorrow if that’s okay.’

  She smiles a little less severely. ‘How kind. Would you mind if the boys joined us in the dining room? Robert wasn’t sure whether it would be a good idea or not.’

  ‘I was hoping they’d still be awake.’

  ‘After we’ve finished our entrée, I’ll put them to bed.’

  I leave my bags in the foyer, at least half the size of the schoolhouse, and follow her down a carpeted hallway. She indicates the bathroom. ‘Would you like to freshen up?’

  When I leave the bathroom, my father, dressed in pants and a collared shirt, his grey hair neatly parted, is waiting in the hallway. He kisses my cheek.

  ‘Welcome back,’ he says.

  Welcome back to Canberra? Welcome back to the Beresford-Brown family? I nod stiffly. ‘Jacqueline said I could meet the boys.’

  ‘Come this way.’

  Robert sits at the head of the table, fingering the stem of a voluminous glass containing a moderate quantity of wine. Jacqueline, with Alex and Atticus sitting either side of her, is on his right. I sit opposite. The boys aren’t identical twins but look very similar—sweet-faced, dark-eyed and brown-haired. Atticus wriggles incessantly on his chair, sitting, kneeling and standing, no matter how often my father reminds him to sit still. Then, as I reach for my soup spoon, he fires questions at me, asking what countries I know about.

  ‘Should I start with countries beginning with A?’ I say. ‘Antigua, Austria, Australia, Argentina—’

  He interrupts, describing each country’s flag in intricate detail. He’s articulate and clever. Is he also on the spectrum?

  Alex has eyes like his brother, but lighter brown hair. He’s painfully shy and speaks so softly that even Jacqueline has to bend her head to understand what he’s saying.

  When Atticus throws his serviette ring to get my attention, it skitters across my bowl. Sweet potato and carrot soup splashes on the tablecloth.

  ‘Atticus!’ Robert says.

  Jacqueline stands. ‘I’ll put the boys to bed.’

  ‘No!’ Atticus says. ‘I want her to talk to me.’

  ‘Atticus.’ I speak quietly. ‘If you help me clean up the mess, maybe you won’t have to go to bed so soon.’

  ‘No!’

  I hold out my serviette. ‘Do you think we should dip this in my glass of water? Do you think the tablecloth would be easier to clean with a wet cloth or a dry one?’

  He runs around the table. ‘I can make it wet! Let me!’

  I tip my glass to the side. ‘Just put the corner in.’

  Atticus does as I ask before industriously rubbing the tablecloth.

  ‘Thank you for being so helpful, Atticus. The stain is much paler now. Do you know any countries with orange in their flags?’

  ‘The Republic of Ireland and the Congo.’

  ‘You’re doing a great job.’

  ‘I’m good at cleaning.’

  ‘I agree.’ His eyes light up when I plop his serviette ring into my water glass and scoop it out with fork. ‘This should shine up nicely.’

  ‘Can I sit with you?’

  ‘Of course you can.’ As Robert pushes a clean glass across the table, I pull out the chair next to me. ‘I could do with some company.’

  ‘Mum,’ Atticus says, ‘I can clean yours too.’

  As Alex assembles serviette rings for his brother, I look across the table again. ‘Alex?’

  With Jacqueline’s prompting, Alex looks up.

  ‘Atticus has taught me a lot about flags. What are you interested in? What do you like to do?’

  ‘Reading,’ Alex whispers. ‘I like to do reading.’

  ‘I love to read.’ I push the soup to one side. ‘Do you have a favourite book? Would you like to show it to me?’

  ‘I’ve got a book!’ Atticus says.

  ‘Two books are even better than one. Could I read them to you?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Alex whispers.

  ‘Now!’ Atticus says.

  I glance at Jacqueline. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Not if it wouldn’t be too much trouble,’ she says.

  Atticus is back in a moment, waving The Highway Rat above his head. He clambers onto the chair next to me again. ‘My book first,’ he shouts. ‘I always go first!’

  Alex pulls the chair on my other side so close to mine that the seats press together. He carefully places a book on my lap. ‘The Gruffalo is my favourite,’ he whispers. ‘I want that one first.’

  I turn to Atticus. ‘What letter comes first in the alphabet, Atticus? H for Highway Rat or G for Gruffalo?’

  He taps his fingers as he recites the letters. Then, ‘G comes first. G!’

  ‘When the children in my class can’t decide which book to read first, we use the alphabet to decide. Thank you very much for working out which book starts with the earlier letter in the alphabet. We’ll read The Gruffalo and then we’ll read your book.’

  ‘Yes!’ Atticus smiles. ‘The Gruffalo!’

  My father leaves the room to take a call as I read and Jacqueline clears the soup bowls.

  As soon as I’ve finished the books, Atticus shouts, ‘Again, again!’

  ‘No, Atticus,’ Jacqueline says firmly. ‘It’s time to clean your teeth.’

  Atticus throws his book on the carpet. ‘I don’t want to clean my teeth.’

  I sadly shake my head as I pick up the book and hand it to him. ‘If you don’t clean your teeth, you can’t go to bed, and that means we can’t go out tomorrow. And that means I won’t be able to give you and Alex your presents.’

  Alex hops down from his chair. ‘We have to clean our teeth, Atticus.’

  When I hold up my hand, Alex taps his hand against it. Atticus’s slap is a little more forceful, but his eyes shine with excitement.

  ‘Sleep well,’ I say. ‘I can’t wait to see you both again tomorrow.’

  Robert, Jacqueline and I make polite conversation in the dining room as we eat our main course and dessert. As Jacqueline clears the plates, my father invites me to join him for a drink in the lounge room.

  ‘I’ll leave you and Robert to talk,’ Jacqueline says. ‘Thank you for your patience with Atticus. It’s no wonder you’re a teacher.’

  I smile. ‘Your boys are gorgeous.’

  She turns at the door. ‘Don’t keep Sapphire up for too long, Robert. She’s had a long drive today; she must be tired.’

  In other circumstances, perhaps Jacqueline and I could become friends. As it is … I hope my father has the capacity to make her happy.

  He hands me a coffee. ‘A little late in the day for one of these, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll sleep anyway.’ I perch on the edge of a chair that’s adjacent to a long bay window. It faces the front of the house but curtains, café latte–coloured silk, are drawn across the glass.

  ‘Does Jacqueline know why I came?’

  Robert, staring at the deep red liquid in his glass as he swirls it around, leans against the back of the couch. ‘Presenting a united front is important for various reasons.’

  ‘I was talking about the farmhouse. Does she know about the option?’

  He shakes his head. ‘As I haven’t informed her of it, no. I didn’t discount that you might.’

  ‘She woul
dn’t mind that you’d keep it from her?’

  ‘You’re here, Sapphire, as requested. If we can contain the controversy, I will relinquish the option.’

  ‘She’s not only attractive, she’s obviously intelligent. I’m sure she knows what you’re capable of.’

  ‘Take care.’ He purses his lips. ‘I might change my mind.’

  The cup is fine bone china and the handle is slender. I try to loosen my grip. ‘You gave your word.’

  He swirls his drink around again. ‘It won’t be easy to defend Kate.’

  ‘I don’t want you to make things worse.’ I sip my coffee. ‘Others have faith in her.’

  ‘Who?’ He raises his brows. ‘Matts? I don’t believe so.’

  Putting my cup on a side table, I walk to the window. ‘Matts cared about Mum. He wouldn’t want to make things worse.’ I close my eyes, fearful of hearing the answer but unable to hold back the question. ‘What has he said to you?’

  ‘He doesn’t need to say anything, not when the facts speak for themselves. Kate had a key and accessed the box. The note to Inge is in Kate’s handwriting. “Don’t worry. All will be well.”’ He lifts the glass and draws in the scent. ‘It’s impossible to believe that Kate wasn’t, in some capacity, involved in wrongdoing. And then there was the sapphire. No independent person in possession of the facts could defend her.’

  I spin around. ‘There is someone!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘He came to see me.’

  ‘What?’ He’s suddenly still. ‘Who was it?’

  ‘He worked for Hernandez. He doesn’t think Mum did anything wrong.’

  ‘Someone approached you?’

  I take a step back. I shake my head. ‘I can’t say anything. Not yet.’

  ‘What on earth? Tell me what you know.’

  ‘No! It’s—’ I face the window again, find the gap between the curtains and open them a crack. Streetlights illuminate the road, the double-fronted houses and precisely mown lawns. When I look through the window at the farmhouse, I see the stars and the moon and the sky and the clouds. I miss the dust and the sheep and the chatter of the possums in the red gum.