by Helen Brown
Mojo was wedged between the men with his pompom head on Scott’s lap. The cat opened his eye, offered a welcome squeak, and closed it again. Lisa was relieved Scott’s shorts finished halfway down his thighs and his T-shirt was devoid of sci-fi creatures.
Portia was too stoned with jet lag to take in much of her surroundings, anyway. Climbing the steps, she offered a cheek to her father. ‘Thanks for the upgrade, Dad. Economy looked like a zoo.’ Then, flashing the dismissive smile reserved for anyone over thirty, Portia, disappeared inside.
The men rose politely, but Zack insisted on carrying her bags. The young man seemed to have suddenly developed biceps.
‘Second on the left upstairs,’ Lisa called after them.
Jake leaned back in the sofa and put his hands behind his head, revealing damp shadows under his arms. ‘Scott here’s been telling me about life in the outback,’ he said with the ease of a prince who’d been passing the morning with a peasant.
‘This is hardly the outback,’ Lisa said. ‘Has Belle recovered from last night?’
She knew Belle had survived the animal invasion from the state of the bathroom. The vanity was awash with cosmetics derived at legendary expense from the foetuses of endangered sea mammals.
‘She’s gone into town for a facial, or whatever they do Down Under. Guess she’ll be having a clay-painting ceremony with the natives.’
‘Sounds more like the Peninsula Spa in New York.’ Lisa was aware her defensiveness was a sign of insecurity.
Scott cleared his throat and spread his legs further apart than necessary. ‘Young Jake here’s interested in doing a spot of rock climbing. Thought we might head over to the Grampians.’
Mojo flopped to the floor and sashayed inside with a swish of his tail.
Jake hadn’t climbed a boulder in his life, not even the Rockefeller Centre with the aid of an elevator. Besides, if he took off with Scott on a suicide mission to the Grampians she’d be stranded overnight with Miss Husband Stealer. ‘What about Belle?’
‘Oh, she wants to have a girls’ day out with Portia,’ Jake replied. ‘Shopping in the city.’
Lisa fumed. ‘But I hardly ever see Portia! We’re here for her brother’s wedding . . . not some extreme shopping orgy.’
Scott stood up and brushed imaginary crumbs off his thighs. ‘Look, I’m not that into abseiling,’ he said, stroking the cockatoo’s head. ‘I’ve only done it a couple of times. I’ve got some beer in the ute. Want one, mate?’
Jake nodded. As Scott sauntered off, Jake patted the sofa, inviting Lisa to sit next to him. ‘I’ve been wanting to have a word with you,’ Jake said in a confessional tone. ‘Belle feels you treat her like a dumb blonde . . .’
‘I do?’
‘She has got an MBA, you know.’
‘I’m not surprised. She’s far smarter than me.’
‘Her family came from Russia with crumbs in their pockets. They had to fight for everything.’
‘Like other people’s husbands?’
Jake shook his head, as if she’d just cursed over his mother’s grave.
Scott trudged back up the path carrying a slab of gold cans.
Jake cleared his throat. ‘Scottie’s done a great job here. I’m getting him to do some plans for a roof garden for me.’
‘Yeah, but my printer’s stuffed,’ Scott said, opening a can with a hiss and passing it to Jake.
Jake accepted the offering and bowed, as if taking part in a native ritual. He took a tentative sip.
Scott tore open a can for himself. It glinted in the sun as he raised it to his lips. Either Scott was being uncharacteristically sensitive or . . . ‘By the way, I’ve drawn up some thoughts for your driveway,’ he said to Lisa. ‘Nothing elaborate, but we’d need to get on with it if you want it done before the wedding.’
‘That’d be great,’ she lied. The truth was, she’d have to call a halt to Scott’s grand designs, at least until she had the thumbs-up from Vanessa.
‘If you come over to my place tomorrow evening I can make any changes you want onscreen.’
‘Yes, but . . .’ The wedding was only a week away and the house was overflowing with high-maintenance guests.
‘Bring your daughter along.’
The cockatoo ran her beak over Scott’s hand, tickling him with her grey tongue.
Well, it would be a change of scenery. And a chance to tell Scott to put the brakes on.
Chapter 31
Portia wandered through the ashes of the servants’ quarters in a translucent nightgown, her expression flickering from longing to despair. With her hair spilling over her shoulders she reminded Lisa of a pre-Raphaelite painting.
‘Shouldn’t you be wearing shoes?’
Portia appeared not to hear. She bowed and picked up a piece of charred wood.
‘Now turn your head slowly towards the sunset,’ Zack called from behind his camera. ‘That’s it! Good . . .’
‘Sorry to interrupt, but we have an appointment.’
‘Mo-om! Can’t you see we’re busy?’
Lisa should’ve known Portia would invent an excuse. The child belonged to a generation who had no curiosity beyond the mirror.
Yellow light shone from the kitchen. James was putting on an evening meal for everyone. The advantages of a gourmet chef son-in-law were greater than she’d first appreciated. She’d told him she wouldn’t be away for long. He smiled and said not to hurry back. He’d leave something in the fridge.
Lisa unfolded the scrap of paper Scott had scribbled directions on, and climbed into the car. Soon Dino was humming along a ridge-line as the blue hills across the valley darkened to purple. A scarlet flash of rosellas streaked across the sky. She turned off the main road and plunged down an unpaved track. Coiling through a eucalypt forest, she opened the window and savoured the air. It carried her back to childhood, her father offering her a spoon of cough mixture, assuring her she’d feel better soon.
She caught a glimpse of the river, threading like silver ribbon through the trees, then a spiral of smoke rising from what was presumably Scott’s place. She wondered how she’d tell him that, with the publication of her book up in the air, her dream of keeping the manor was fast becoming a fantasy, that she’d probably have to pack up and leave after Ted’s wedding.
Nestled deeply in the landscape, Scott’s man cave was made of slabs of river rock, each one slotting into the next, as if fulfilling its original purpose. A wood-shingle roof sloped up to a chimney made of smaller, rounder stones.
Lisa pulled into the open space in front of the house. Gathering up her handbag, she stepped into the evening air. Somewhere below, the river gushed. A broad ramp lined with lights led her to a front door—the place must’ve been designed with Todd’s wheelchair in mind. She tapped on the roughly hewn hardwood and it glided open. Somewhere inside the house Tom Waits was barking ‘Burma Shave’.
‘Come through!’
Lisa stepped into a room oozing the scent of untreated cedar. She was surprised to see an entire corner lined with books, though at a rough glance most were about garden design or wildlife. A photo of Todd as a round-faced baby beamed down from a shelf. Next to it was a more recent one of him in a wheelchair, laughing with friends at what looked like a birthday party.
Flames flickered in a broad fireplace made of the same river stone as the outside chimney. A dark suede sofa sprawled across a floor scattered with animal hides. A stainless steel standard lamp cast a pool of light over a coffee table.
Scott stood in the kitchen. He was wearing an open-neck shirt, olive green to match his eyes, and shorts that finished just above his knees. Formal attire, by his standards. She watched him slicing cheese, arranging it on a plate with green grapes.
‘Hope your daughter likes brie.’
‘She’s not here.’
Scott looked up sharply. ‘Ah well . . . do you?’
‘Love it.’
‘You’re wearing that dress,’ he said, pouring red wine into two glasses.
‘My track pants were in the wash.’
It was true. She hadn’t gone out of her way to look feminine. Still, she couldn’t wear the flowery dress without heeled sandals, which probably were her most glamorous shoes. The makeup and earrings had been an afterthought.
He offered her a glass.
‘Beautiful place you have here,’ she said, flinging her handbag on the sofa and wandering over to a set of sliding doors. They opened onto a vast deck overlooking the river. Even in the fading light the view was spectacular.
‘Thanks. I finished it a few months ago. Helped me sort a few things out.’
‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ she said.
He was suddenly standing next to her, smelling of soap, shower fresh. She glanced down at his bare feet planted on the wooden floor. The fact he hadn’t shaved for a day or so only enhanced his allure.
‘You know what happened in the medical centre . . .’ he said, softly clinking her glass.
‘You were in shock.’
‘That may be, but I meant what I said. I think you’re amazing.’
‘But what about Juliet?’
Confusion flickered across his face.
‘Aren’t you two an item?’
He shook his head and laughed. ‘She’s my cousin! First cousin, at that. And she’s practically engaged to Jacko the vet.’
Lisa wasn’t sure if she was delighted or appalled. ‘You must have thousands of women running around after you,’ she said, sipping her wine. It wasn’t a bad merlot.
‘Haven’t you heard of the woman drought in rural Australia?’ he asked with a twinkle.
‘Come on!’
‘Serious,’ he said, raising one hand and a wine glass in surrender. ‘You know that TV show The Farmer Wants a Wife? It’s all blokes looking for women, not the other way around. What’s that thing you wanted to say?’
She drew a breath and took a gulp of wine. ‘It’s just, with the fire . . . and I think my publisher’s going to turn down my book so I’m not sure . . .’
Scott ran his fingers down the stem of his wine glass. ‘I know I’ve been pretty stupid a few times,’ he muttered. ‘But Todd has to come first . . .’
Lisa was shaken out of her anxiety and self-pity. The challenges Scott and Beverley had to face were far greater. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about Todd?’ she asked.
‘I did!’ he stepped back, defensive.
‘You never told me he’s disabled. There’s nothing wrong with that, you know.’
Tom Waits reached the poignant part in the song where they pull the girl from the car wreckage and she’s still wearing her shades. It got Lisa every time.
Scott’s head drooped. A weight seemed to bear down on those huge shoulders, so he could barely stand straight. ‘Matter of fact there is,’ he mumbled.
The room fell silent. Somewhere outside an owl cried.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I was always busy with work. But I used to try and do stuff with Todd. A couple of years ago I took him up in the hills on a quad bike.’
Lisa felt a shadow of dread.
‘He was fine back then. Perfectly normal kid. Amazing on the footie field. We’d been on the bike before . . . only this time he wanted to drive.’ Scott’s voice cracked. He rubbed a hand over his chin. ‘He was fourteen. I learnt to drive a truck at that age. So I sat behind and let him steer. He was doing great. Then he accelerated up this ridge . . .’
Lisa felt her mouth form a soft O.
‘The bloody thing rolled on top of us.’ Scott’s eyes darkened. ‘My leg was broken in three places, but Todd was much worse. We were out of phone contact. I had to leave him there and crawl to the nearest farm.’
An ache of sadness ran through her body. She lowered her wine glass and, turning, put it on the coffee table.
‘By the time we got back in the helicopter it was nearly dark. The poor kid had been lying stuck under that thing for seven hours. I ran over to him. He was white as a statue. He wasn’t moving. I thought he was . . . Scott swallowed hard.
Lisa stepped towards him and rested her hands on his bookshelf shoulders.
‘Then I knelt down and stroked his cheek. He opened his eyes. He just looked up at me and smiled.’
The house was silent apart from the distant roar of the river. Somewhere outside an owl hooted.
Scott swiped his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘He was in so much pain. I asked how he was doing. Know what he said? “Dad, I heard a lyrebird sing.”’
She wanted to weep.
‘It’s all my fault,’ he whispered. She could feel his chest shuddering. ‘He’ll never walk again.’
She drew him close and rocked him gently.
‘Beverley’s right, you know. I am a lousy dad.’
‘That’s why you broke up?’
He straightened to his full height. ‘She has every right to blame me,’ he said after a long silence. ‘I’m going to spend the rest of my life making it up to him.’
‘And Beverley?’
‘She’s tough. Always has been. I used to play footie when I was a kid. Bev came along to all the games. We went out a couple of times, then she got pregnant. She wanted to get rid of it, but I . . . .’ his voice trailed off.
‘You did the right thing,’ Lisa said, finishing his sentence. She cursed herself for the times she’d been angry about Scott’s unreliability. His tendency to turn up and disappear was simply because he was trying to be a perfect father as well as run a business. ‘How come you didn’t tell me?’ she asked quietly.
He stepped back from her and studied something in the corner of the ceiling. ‘I didn’t want you feeling sorry for me.’ Icy pride flashed across his face.
‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘I think you’re amazing.’
Scott shielded his eyes with his hand. ‘My son has every right to a normal life,’ he said, his voiced cracked with emotion. ‘We do all the adventure stuff, everything a teenage boy needs.’
She took his hand and stroked the gleaming hairs on his wrist. ‘I think you’re a brilliant dad. And I bet Todd knows it.’
A slow smile lit Scott’s face. His eyes were full of tender sadness. He tilted her chin towards his lips. As he lowered his lips towards hers, she savoured the delicious sensation of her body melting into his.
His great muscular frame was trembling. She felt the animal warmth of his skin. He ran his hand from the small of her back, tracing the line of her zip.
She tensed. ‘I’d better go.’ She disentangled herself and cast about for her handbag.
He stood back, puzzled.
‘We can’t do this.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m not normal.’
‘I knew that,’ he said with a soft smile. ‘Anyone who’d buy old Tumbledown Manor . . . ’
Smiling, she didn’t bother to correct him this time. ‘Seriously. I had a mastectomy.’ She waited for him to recoil with revulsion.
His hold around her waist was steady. ‘Scars can be beautiful,’ he said after a long pause.
She felt the athletic thud of his heart, the gentle puffs of his cinnamon breath as he drew her closer. He kissed her again.
‘Can I ask one thing?’
‘Sure,’ he said.
‘Can we turn out the . . . ?’
Chapter 32
A brush of lips on one cheek would’ve been an acceptable way to welcome a friend or relation to the parsonage—not that the Brontës had many of either. Deep kissing, however, would’ve been out of the question. As for sex outside the protection of marriage, just thinking about it would bring on the vapours.
Charlotte was the only Brontë sister who walked down the aisle. The author of Jane Eyre declined the first marriage proposal she received, assuring her admirer he would find her eccentric and impractical. She was later persuaded marriage would provide ‘clear and defined duties’, and tied the knot with her father’s curate. Lisa hoped for Charlotte’s sake that the br
ide sailed the heights of ecstasy on her Irish honeymoon. Whatever the curate lacked in expertise, Charlotte would have made up for with her imagination.
Soon after, Charlotte was pregnant. Nausea and fainting fits developed into serious illness. Some say Charlotte was a victim of dehydration from morning sickness. Others insist she caught typhus from a household servant. Either way, Charlotte died four months pregnant on 21 March 1855. Compared to her younger sisters, she’d reached a grand old age—thirty-eight.
As for Emily and Anne, they were afflicted by a disease that had the scandalous ability to cause Heated Blood. Doctors agreed tuberculosis could transform decent people into sex maniacs. Special hospitals were built to keep men and women apart. Winking, waving and smiling were forbidden, along with provocative activities such as hair curling, face painting and letter writing.
Emily and Anne were spared such indignities. They suffered at home, nursing each other into their graves. All the thwarted desire seething under their petticoats was channelled through their pens.
‘You look different,’ Jake said, pouring himself a coffee next morning.
‘What?’
‘Have you lost weight?’
Lisa bent to shake food into two bowls on the kitchen floor. Parts of her body felt deliciously bruised.
‘I’ve never known a bird to eat cat food,’ he mused, watching the cockatoo waddle across the room.
‘Oh, and you didn’t touch your dinner,’ he added. ‘It’s still in the fridge.’
It had been close to midnight by the time she’d crept up the driveway, and only Portia’s window was yellow with light. Lisa had felt like a naughty teenager as she tiptoed upstairs.
Lisa ignored Jake’s comment about her untouched dinner. ‘Kiwi thinks she’s a cat,’ she said as she plonked a tub of butter on the table. ‘She wants everything Mojo gets.’
The cat galloped to Kiwi’s side and crunched contentedly from his bowl. Kiwi dipped her face into her dish and rolled a couple of pellets in her beak.
‘Quite a sight,’ Jake said.
As Lisa rinsed a plate, images from the previous night looped through her head. She’d flopped on her bed, too sated and tired to shower. Besides, clomping around in the bathroom at that hour could’ve raised suspicions.
