by Liz Byrski
‘He made me promise, you know,’ she says, turning to Flora. ‘That’s the other thing I can’t forgive. He made me promise never to put him into any sort of care, no matter how awful it got. He kept making me promise it again and again as things got worse. I know I shouldn’t mind, I loved him and it was my duty to look after him. But it was terrible, Flora; the last few years have been a nightmare. It wore me into the ground and sometimes I hated him for it, really hated him, because it changed everything and damaged all of us, separated me from the children and grandchildren. That’s the other thing that I simply can’t forgive, how he pressured me to make that promise. But sometimes I think it’s myself I can’t forgive for keeping it.’
Ten
‘How’s it going?’ Donna asks, joining Brooke on the seat in the bus shelter.
Donna, smelling of cigarettes and a mango face mask she had tried out at morning break, is, as usual, oozing energy. Sometimes Brooke loves that energy, it jolts her out of her own little world, which is pretty depressing these days, and draws her into a social life that she would not otherwise have had. At other times, like now, it just totally pisses her off because Brooke likes being alone with her music or her books, or her iPad – she is never afraid of her own company.
It’s started to rain and the strong wind drives it inside so it stings their faces and legs like hundreds of tiny sharp needles. As another great gust of icy wind swoops through the shelter, the two girls huddle into one corner. When Brooke left home this morning it was bright and clear, the wind cool but friendly; now it’s just turned midday and it might as well be winter. Donna is wearing a silver anorak over her blazer; if a teacher had seen her leaving the school in that there would have been trouble.
‘Is it better since you talked to your dad?’ Donna asks.
Brooke shrugs, wishing she’d brought her own anorak this morning. ‘Yeah, I s’pose. At least they’re including me now, and I think they’re trying to be nicer to each other. I wish they’d get on with it though, it’s, like, going on forever. They agree about one thing and then they start arguing about something else. I just want it to be over. I mean, I know what I want …’ she hesitates. She hasn’t yet told Donna about her plan to go to Hobart. If she does Donna will freak out and then Brooke will have that to cope with too.
Fortunately Donna is fully occupied trying to light one of the two cigarettes she has pulled from the pocket of her anorak. She draws on it, exhales and offers it to Brooke.
Brooke shakes her head. ‘No thanks. Does your mum know you smoke?’
‘You’re joking, she’d go mental. Anyway, I don’t really smoke. I mean, I never buy them, just get them off other people.’
Brooke gives her a long look, wondering whether she wants to start an argument about whether or not that means Donna is not really smoking, and decides against it. ‘Who gave you those?’
‘Danny Philpot,’ Donna says.
‘Eeww! He’s touched them and you’re putting them into your mouth? That’s disgusting. He’s disgusting.’
‘He’s cute,’ Donna says, ‘and mega funny.’ She sucks smoke into her mouth and blows it out again. ‘Anyway, I don’t inhale. You don’t have to, you can, like, smoke without inhaling and it just looks like you’re inhaling.’
‘But that’s why people smoke – to inhale,’ Brooke says. ‘You’ll stink of cigarettes and your teeth will go yellow but you don’t even get whatever people get when they do inhale.’
‘Well, it’s safer not to inhale anyway,’ Donna says with a note of defiance. ‘You can’t get lung cancer this way.’
‘Yes you can, because you inhale the passive smoke, and anyway you can get cancer of the mouth.’
‘You cannot, there’s no such thing.’
Brooke rolls her eyes. ‘There is so! I did smoking for my health project. You only do it because you think it makes you look cool, but it doesn’t, it’s just really gross.’
The wind whips into the bus shelter even more strongly now. Brooke peers out searching for signs of an approaching bus, and spots a teacher heading their way under a green umbrella, a huge shoulder bag bumping against her hip, her free hand stuffed in the pocket of her trench coat.
‘Spoiler alert,’ Brooke hisses, turning back into the bus shelter. ‘Whiskers is on the way.’
Donna drops her cigarette on the pavement, grinds it out with her shoe and peers up the road. ‘The bus is coming too,’ she says, ‘she’ll have to run for it.’
Miss Whiskin does indeed run, her umbrella swaying, the wind blowing her dark red hair across her face. She reaches the stop just before the bus and looks at them with suspicion.
‘Why are you girls out here at this time of day?’
‘Mrs Morland fainted and the Head cancelled her senior classes,’ Brooke says. ‘We were told we could go home.’
Miss Whiskin nods. ‘Right. Tacky anorak, Donna,’ she says. ‘It doesn’t conform to uniform standards, and neither does the cigarette you just put out. My classroom tomorrow morning, eight-thirty.’ And she pushes past them and steps up into the bus.
Donna pulls a face and pokes her middle finger at the teacher’s disappearing back. ‘Whiskers’ hair is the same colour as your mum’s, only it doesn’t look good on her – miserable old bag. I like your mum’s.’
‘I don’t,’ Brooke says. ‘It’s horrible, artificial. I hate Mum’s hair how she’s got it now.’
‘But it’s so cool,’ Donna says. ‘She always looks cool, your mum – her hair, her clothes and everything. I wish my mum would dress like that. Your dad’s nice too, but he’s not really cool, he’s just, well …’
‘Ordinary,’ Brooke says. ‘I like that. I wish they’d just be ordinary, both of them. Act like ordinary parents.’
‘So what’s going to happen?’ Donna asks. ‘Will you have to move?’
‘Maybe, but they can’t agree about the house, who’ll stay, who’ll go, who I’m going to live with.’
‘I s’pose you want to live with your mum?’
Brooke hesitates. ‘I just want them to make up their minds,’ she says.
‘You should go with your mum,’ Donna says. ‘She’d probably buy you more stuff if your dad wasn’t around. My mum hides stuff and then pretends she’s had it for ages. And if Dad sees she’s been shopping she lies about how much she spent.’
Brooke nods slowly. ‘My mum does that too. Last night we went down into town and Mum bought stuff for both of us, then she goes, “Don’t tell your father, he’ll never notice”.’ She leans back in her seat. Andrew has been away in Perth for two nights and is not due back ’til Friday, and, just as when her mother was away before, it’s so much nicer when there’s only one of them around. Brooke had said that to her nan when they’d Skyped the other day and Nan had said that it was bound to be like that when two people were at loggerheads. Nan had talked to her dad too. He’d phoned her and told her they were close to working things out.
‘Well, you see, Brooke,’ Connie had said, ‘in a relationship both people put up with things that they don’t really like. They do it to keep the peace. But when things go really wrong, like they have for your mum and dad now, they’re not only upset about the present, but all that old stuff comes up for them too.’
‘It’s the same for me too, Nan,’ she’d said. ‘I mean, I’m so fed up with both of them right now that I keep thinking of all the things they’ve ever done that have upset me.’
‘That’s why it’s best for you to stay out of what happens between them, and just think carefully about what you want for yourself, and remember that none of this is about you. You’ve been very brave and mature, Brooke,’ she’d said. ‘I’m so proud of you, and I’m looking forward so much to seeing you in the holidays.’
But Brooke is feeling less brave and mature with every passing day because each time she thinks she knows what she wants, something happens to change it.
‘If we get off at the next stop we can have hot chocolate in that place on the corne
r,’ Donna says, nudging her in the ribs. ‘Then we can walk the rest of the way.’
Brooke nods and they grab their bags, jump down from the bus and head for the café.
It’s half past two when Brooke turns into the private road to the townhouses. Down near her own house a big van is parked in the street and as she walks towards it two men lift an ugly but expensive-looking black leather sofa off the tailboard and set it down on the pavement. Brooke peers ahead through the fine rain. Yuk, bad taste, Mr Perozzi, she thinks, glancing along to where she expects to see the front door open to receive it. But Mr Perozzi’s door is closed. The door that’s open, and towards which the sofa is now being carried, is Brooke’s own front door, and standing on the front step, anxiously watching its progress, is her mother.
Linda steps aside to make room for the delivery men as they shift and turn to get the sofa onto its side. ‘Careful,’ she calls, in her imperious, gallery manager voice. ‘Make sure you don’t damage it.’
The men mumble something under their breath and ease the sofa in through the front door. Brooke pauses at the gate; she has a horrible feeling she knows what’s happening. Her chest tightens and her heart begins to pound, making her breathless, as though she has run fast all the way from the corner of the street. Linda watches as the sofa disappears safely into the hall, and it is as she turns to follow it that she spots Brooke out on the street.
‘Oh my god, Brooke,’ she says. ‘What on earth are you doing home this time of day?’
‘Mrs Morland was sick so they let her seniors go.’
Linda looks awkward, her face is flushed, and she keeps shifting her gaze away from Brooke’s. She swallows, takes a few steps forward and stops. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘well, I certainly wasn’t expecting you yet.’
‘What’s happening?’ Brooke asks, although it’s pretty clear now from her mother’s embarrassment that her worst fears are about to be realised. ‘Why is that gross sofa here?’
Linda takes a deep breath, and walks towards her. ‘Well, it’s like this, darling, I mean … I’d hoped we’d have this all done by the time you got home. All nicely settled, you know, so we could all talk about it calmly together, but as you’re here …’
Beyond her mother, in the doorway, Brooke sees a familiar figure in black signing papers on a clipboard. He hands it back to the delivery men along with some money, and they return down the path to their van and drive away. Away, Brooke thinks, from the scene of the crime.
‘What’s he doing here?’ she asks, nodding towards Zachary. ‘Where’s Dad?’
‘Darling, you know Dad’s in Perth. I just thought I should take the opportunity to finalise things once and for all.’
‘Behind his back?’
‘Well …’ Linda hesitates. ‘Look, this has been very hard for all of us and we just don’t seem to be getting any further. We talk and talk and never …’ she pauses again. ‘I wanted to get back to some sort of normal life with the least trouble and heartbreak for everyone, particularly for you, Brooke.’
‘For me? For me! I told you I’d live here with Dad or you but I wouldn’t live anywhere with Zachary. That was the one thing I asked not to happen. And now he’s moving in.’
Linda holds up a hand to silence her. ‘I know but, darling, you have to be realistic. You can’t live here with your father, he’s a hopeless housekeeper, you’d never have proper meals or clean clothes …’
‘I can cook and wash my own clothes, in fact I often do, so don’t …’
‘You know what I mean,’ Linda cuts her off. ‘Besides, Andrew has very long days and is quite often away for two or three nights at a time. And, darling, be honest, it would be terribly dull for you, you know it would. Look what fun we have together, what fun we had last night shopping …’
‘It’s not about you, it’s about him,’ Brooke says, pointing to Zachary, who is watching them from the doorway.
‘Well, that’s not negotiable, Zach’s moving in with us,’ Linda says, less sympathetic and firmer now. ‘I know it’s not what you wanted, Brooke, but it’s the way things are. We’re all going to get along fine. I’ve moved all your dad’s things into that little flat above the gallery. It’s been empty for ages, so it’s not as though he’ll have nowhere to stay until he finds a place of his own.’
‘You mean you’ve told him, he knows about this?’
‘Not yet. I’ll call him tonight, when we’ve got everything sorted.’ She has her firm, bossy face on now. ‘And you have to understand, Brooke, that I need to talk to him first. So no calling him before then, okay?’
‘I hate you,’ Brooke says, feeling the hatred boiling up inside her like the contents of some witch’s cauldron. ‘I will never, ever forgive you for this, and as soon as Dad gets home I’m going to live with him.’ She pushes past her mother and heads for the front door.
‘Hey, Brooke, sweetheart,’ Zachary says, sauntering towards her down the path. ‘We’re gonna be friends, aren’t we?’ He catches her arm. ‘I had a look in your room – those posters are a bit tacky. I could do a mural for you, something around your music or all your French stuff …’
Brooke wrenches her arm free. ‘If you ever go in my room again I will slash every bit of black leather that you own with a very sharp knife, even if you’re wearing it.’ And she runs up the stairs to her room, slams the door behind her, throws herself on her bed, gets out her phone and dials Andrew’s number.
*
Kerry is sitting in the staff room with her tuna sandwich and a cup of strong black tea, flicking through a magazine but thinking about Chris, who left at the crack of dawn to drive to Hobart to pick up his older sister at the airport. Normally Kerry would have been over the moon at the prospect of Erin’s visit but right now she’s not sure how she feels. In fact she doesn’t think she feels anything at all. But having her around will be a help; Erin is terrific with the children and they adore her. Still, Kerry wonders how she’ll cope with the effort of trying to behave like her normal self when she feels more like an automaton. Her phone rings and she pulls it from her jacket pocket and gets up, walking out of the staff room into the passage.
‘Hi,’ Chris says, ‘it’s me. Thought I might catch you in the lunch break. How’re you going, darlin’?’
‘Fine, are you at the airport?’
‘Yes, the flight’s a bit late so I’m having a coffee.’
‘Was the drive okay? You left very early.’
‘Oh well, you know me, I love that café where we stop for breakfast. I needed time for bacon and eggs and sausages and all the other things middle-aged men with expanding waistlines aren’t supposed to eat.’
‘I wondered … if you’d called by the house?’
‘Connie’s house? No, why would I do that?’
‘Oh, just maybe to check out that everything’s okay?’
‘Well, Farah’s there, isn’t she? Didn’t you call her the other night? She’d have told you if there were any problems.’
‘Yes,’ she says, ‘of course she would. She said everything was fine.’
‘Well, then …’
‘Just me being silly.’
‘No, no, it’s understandable. Do you want me to drop by there before we head home?’
‘No, ’course not, no need.’
‘Well, as long as you’re okay.’
‘I’m fine.’ But she can hear the flatness in her tone, and knows it disturbs him.
‘Did the doctor say anything about the blood tests? They seem to be taking a long time.’
Alone in the passage outside the staff room Kerry feels herself blush. She still hasn’t called the doctor let alone seen her, but – another lie – she’d told Chris she’d been. Just a bit run down, she’d told him, but the doctor was doing some blood tests. ‘They do,’ she says. ‘Perhaps I should chase them up.’
‘Do that,’ he says. ‘You probably just need a tonic or something. Do it today.’
‘Okay,’ she says. ‘It’ll be lovely to see Erin
. The kids were so excited this morning.’
‘Me too,’ he says, ‘and I think the flight’s landing now.’
‘Good – well, give her a hug from me and I’ll see you both later.’
‘And you’ll call the surgery about the tests?’
‘I will. Gotta run now, the bell’s just gone. Drive carefully.’ And she hits ‘end’ and stands there staring at the phone, knowing just how much she loves and depends on him, but unable to feel it.
What she’d like to do is call Farah. They’ve spoken a few times since the day Kerry fell asleep in the study and was woken by the police. That day seems almost like a dream now. Somehow Farah had seen beyond the physical reality of Kerry lying there on the sofa and recognised that something more serious was happening than just a dizzy spell or low blood sugar. She had persuaded her not to drive back to Launceston that night.
‘You should see your doctor soon,’ she had said.
‘You think there’s something wrong with me?’ Kerry asked, almost with relief that there might be a simple explanation for the way she was feeling.
Farah had turned away to move a pot from the stove. ‘I think you have had a sad and difficult time. Losing your father, your mother being so occupied with him for so long. These things are hard to cope with. You need help.’
‘A psychologist, you mean?’
Farah shrugged. ‘Maybe, or perhaps a grief counsellor. Perhaps you are depressed.’
Depression was what Kerry herself had been fearing but hearing it from someone else shocked her. How could Farah know? She nodded. ‘Okay,’ she’d said, trying to wind up the conversation, ‘I’ll do something about it next week.’ But she knew she wouldn’t, knew that it was too hard, too scary, too much to contemplate. Best to wait and see if it went away. Thinking back now on the day and the evening she spent with Farah, she knows that even after the ‘D’ word had been mentioned, she’d had a wonderful sense of peace there in her mother’s house, and she longs to get it back again.
Eleven
Connie stands on a high ridge of land, shading her eyes against the sun, gazing out across the panorama of vivid green fields bordered by low hedges, dark clumps of trees, meadows lying fallow, and others with the first signs of the future crop tinging them with the palest of pale greens. In the middle distance six triangular white gables peak above a line of tall trees, their earth-toned roof tiles blending perfectly into another clump of trees at the rear. Nearby, scattered glimpses show other, lower roofs that meld into the landscape and the stark grey spire of a church reaches upward like a lance. In the distance, the slopes and hedges, the rough heath and the dark clumps of forested land spread for miles, merging into the blurred grey-green of the horizon.
