‘Relax,’ he told baby Minh, who despite his chaotic arrival into the world, looked at this point much more relaxed than Eddy felt. He was sated by the last-minute feed Romy had given him, but fighting sleep, sliding his eyes over the ceiling lights, Eddy’s face, the window and back again.
‘We’re going to be just fine,’ Eddy informed Minh. ‘Mate, there’s just forty minutes to go.’ Talk to the baby, Romy had recommended, as she swung out the door more like a woman escaping custody than one meeting a weekly commitment with the law. She had moved into an apartment. Laura meanwhile had moved in with Eddy, and his dining table had been colonised with engagement party guest lists, weighty brochures from reception venues and fabric samples, the purpose of which he had deduced were dress-related. It was Laura who had said to Romy, let us mind the baby, any time you need a break. Now Laura was working late to prepare to shepherd last year’s kinder kids into school tomorrow, Skipper and Lotte amongst them, and it was Eddy who found himself holding this little scrap of human. Van and Romy’s baby.
What a thought. He remembered that dinner party, the first time Van had appeared on the scene, almost exactly one year ago, Romy virtually walking straight out the door with him. ‘Your dad,’ he began to tell Minh. ‘He . . .’ And then he thought better of it, unsure of the karmic energies swirling around an eight-week-old baby whose father had died in the minutes after his birth. Van hadn’t been so bad anyway, apart from the theft and the suspected drug trafficking. It wasn’t his fault he’d encountered a middle-class girl more desperate for adventure than anyone had dreamed. In fact, Eddy decided he should after all feel grateful to Van — without his interference, Eddy may never have met Laura. Quite satisfied to have reached this charitable resolution with baby Minh in his arms, Eddy started to feel a whole lot better. As if sensing his relief, Minh slid angelically into sleep and Eddy risked slowly lowering himself onto the couch and turning on the television news, babe still in arms. There was footage of a little girl wearing a stiff new gingham dress and shiny shoes; it was the first day of school tomorrow for thousands of small children across the state.
And now for the weather.
He watched Melody, elfin-faced and elegantly dressed. Pearl earrings, neat facial features, and that calm, steady stare, even as she read the forecast. She was getting better at it, more relaxed night by night. Was this the same woman who had climbed a railway bridge in the dark, leaving her child in his arms, the arms of a man she barely knew? He would miss her crazy ballgowns, her dreadlocks, her nose-rings. This woman who had once stood armed with a spray can in the moonlight, fearless on the rails between the brick side of a factory and the shadows and lights of a city and its mountains. Risk Being Alive, she had written. He smiled at the memory and snuggled back, the baby warm and nicely soap-smelling in his arms. Then he felt suddenly concerned that time had flown and Romy would return, just as he and Minh were starting to hit it off. No no, his watch reassured him, he had another twenty minutes. That was enough time, for starters, between blokes. Much could still be shared. Risk Being Alive.
. . . the winds will drop to four hundred isobars, and the high pressure front will bypass Adelaide but meet us by mid-morning tomorrow, this new, polished Melody told him gravely, her face poised, but with a hint of a smile.
And the weather ahead looks fine and sunny, all the way.
Acknowledgements
This novel was an intermittent labour of love over ten years, and in between other books. Thanks to Olga Lorenzo and my fellow students at RMIT for workshopping it. Also to Myfanwy Jones, Paddy O’Reilly and Kelly Gardiner for reading drafts, encouraging me and sharing the journey. Thanks to Simon for shutting me in the study and turning off the internet to make me finish it. The character Skipper owes a lot to my younger son, Redmond, as does his invisible friend Mr Sumper. Thanks to my older son, Ewen, for his general enthusiasm for all things book-related. The kindy scenes in this book were inspired by our now long-gone days at Alfred Nuttall Kindy, and everything I ever learned about kindy came from the legend that is Miss Sue. Ten Mile was inspired by Buchan, of course. I had the privilege of living in a co-operative up near Nimbin at one time in my life, and Melody’s commune experiences are a little touched by that time I spent in Tuntable Falls. I’m grateful to my literary agent, Tara Wynne at Curtis Brown, for her loyal support and friendship through four novels; thanks Tara! Big thanks to the folk at Harper Collins: Anna Valdinger, Vanessa Williams and editor Kate Stone for backing The Near Miss and working to make it better book.
About the Author
FRAN CUSWORTH is a writer based in Melbourne, Australia. She worked as a newspaper journalist for twenty years, and recently had a midlife career crisis and retrained as a nurse. She won the Guy Morrison Prize for Literary Journalism in 2013. She is married with two children and she once lived in a commune, like Melody, and at another time she desperately wanted a second child, like Grace. Like Tom, she has pursued a few foolish dreams, and like Eddy, her courage has at times failed her. This is her fourth novel.
Copyright
Impulse
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
First published in 2015
by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited
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Copyright © Fran Cusworth 2015
The right of Fran Cusworth to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.
This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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