The Making of Christina

by Meredith Jaffe

  ‘Taking Simon and Josh away proved what I already knew. Blame me, blame Sarah, it’s kind of irrelevant. The boys are nice to me when I’ve got my hand in my pocket but quite frankly they don’t give a stuff if I live or die. In fact, they’d probably prefer I did die because I’m worth a bucketload more to them six feet under than I am whilst I’m breathing.’ Jackson raked his hand through his hair, ‘And don’t even start me on Ashleigh.’

  Christina stayed silent. She knew Jackson had a strained relationship with his children but it was terrible to hear him admit it was beyond redemption.

  ‘Working with Sarah is a nightmare. We call it creative tension but it’s nothing more than restrained animosity.’

  She knew this part of the story too well. She’d seen Sarah at the house once and that was enough. Sarah Plummer came across as an uptight bitch and every story she had heard for the past seven years confirmed this.

  ‘I got my kicks out of building the business but now . . .’ Jackson trailed off, grabbing the bottle and pouring more tonic. He gulped it down and poured another.

  ‘But what’s the solution?’ Hope flickered but she tamped it down.

  Jackson shrugged. ‘I spend my days in endless bloody meetings. The boredom is driving me insane. Sarah hides behind the numbers because she doesn’t dare say she’s noticed I’m unhappy. Woe betide anyone who shows any emotion.’

  She’d heard his sarcastic rants so many time she knew them by heart. This time she wanted more. ‘But what will you do?’

  Jackson looked at her properly for the first time. ‘I think it’s time I left Sarah.’

  Christina had imagined this moment in so many ways, embellishing the scene in her mind until she could recite it word perfect. Now Jackson had uttered those magic words and they struck her afresh.

  ‘The key is to divest myself of my commitments at TBK.’

  Christina grabbed hold of this, saying, ‘Maybe Sarah could buy you out.’

  Jackson shook his head. ‘Honey, if Sarah finds out I’m leaving her for another woman, she’ll have my balls for breakfast. She won’t let me leave with my reputation intact, let alone my bank balance.’

  Christina chewed a hangnail. How was it possible to leave Sarah without Sarah knowing? She waited.

  Jackson opened the pantry and found the container of pistachios. He poured a few in his palm and cracked a nut. ‘I thought I’d buy a farm.’

  Christina bit down so hard on her finger she drew blood. She gasped and shook her hand. ‘A farm?’

  Jackson grinned, pleased with his neat, logical solution. ‘Sarah hates the country. There’s no way in hell she’d ever come near a farm. She’s allergic to everything.’

  Christina floundered. ‘But what does buying a farm have to do with selling your share in TBK?’

  Jackson helped himself to more nuts. ‘Well we’ll need a place to live. You’re always saying how much you miss your parents’ farm. So I thought, obvious solution.’

  Christina had never said any such thing. She missed her parents, being at home, not the farm itself. She and Jackson had dreamed of spending a year living in Tuscany sometime in the distant future, never a farm.

  ‘Honey, think of it.’ Jackson came around the bench, took Christina’s hands in his. ‘If I buy a farm, we can run it as a going concern. Raise cattle, grow olives, whatever. It gives me time to disentangle myself from TBK, which will probably take a good twelve months anyway. In the beginning I’ll be living in two places, but at least it gives us a base to build from.’

  Christina jerked her hands away. ‘Two places?’

  Jackson frowned. ‘I’ll keep the penthouse. It’s handy, plus Sarah thinks I’m there when I’m with you anyway. There’s no point rocking the boat for the sake of it.’

  ‘But where will Bee and me be?’ This sounded a lot like Jackson wasn’t changing anything, apart from adding a farm to his property portfolio. She didn’t want to leave Sydney, their life was here.

  ‘What d’you mean?’ Jackson fetched a fresh tonic from the fridge and held up a bottle of wine in case Christina wanted a drink too.

  Christina shook her head. She was confused enough as it was. Alcohol was the last thing she needed. ‘Are you expecting that Bee and I will move to this farm and live there permanently?’

  Jackson grinned.

  He was so pleased with himself. Why could he not see what a monumental change this represented for her and Bianca?

  ‘I have a job. Bee’s going into Year 6 next year and then high school. It’s important she has continuity and stability.’

  Jackson unscrewed the tonic and took a swig. ‘CC, you always get stuck on the details. I know it’s not Italy but it’s still our chance to be together forever. Since I’m funding this adventure, we’ll do it my way. We both have to make sacrifices.’

  ‘Hang on a minute, Jackson.’ Christina pressed two fingers to her forehead, attempting to corral her thoughts. ‘Let’s go back a step. Why move to the country? It’d be so much easier for everyone if we stayed in Sydney. What about the ocean? You can’t bear being far from the sound of the sea.’

  ‘Because,’ Jackson exaggerated his words as if talking to a simpleton, ‘if Sarah or Ashleigh find out we’re playing happy families, they will go bananas. I’ve been looking over my shoulder for seven years, CC. Do you know how that feels? And there I was sitting on a boat in the middle of the Indian Ocean, feeling more relaxed than I had in years.’

  Christina’s heart contracted with the hurt of him feeling so free whilst she had been stuck here pining.

  ‘There I was, miles from anywhere, where no one could see me and no one could give me grief. It made me realise it’s not the ocean that counts, it’s what it represents. That’s why a farm, so we can get away from all this crap. Start again as us, a proper couple.’

  Christina ignored her misgivings and focused on what Jackson was talking about. All of a sudden the future was no longer a distant dream. Did the where really matter? It was far better for Bianca to change schools whilst she was still in primary. If they lived near a big enough town, Christina could even run her own design business. She’d always said she’d love to go out on her own. With Jackson’s financial backing she could. Jackson was right. There was no point fussing over the details. She sounded negative and risked killing his enthusiasm. She couldn’t afford to do that – seven years was a long time to harbour hope.

  She stepped towards him, so close they breathed the same air. ‘Are you sure this is what you want, Jackson? You’re not just saying this for my sake?’ She searched his eyes for the truth.

  Jackson’s expression softened. He rubbed a tender circle on her cheek. ‘I’m so tired of wasting time, CC. If I’m going to spend the rest of my life with you, I’d better get cracking before I’m too old to enjoy it.’ His forehead touched hers, his laugh a sweet breath on her face. ‘All hell is going to rain down when Sarah eventually finds out, but you know what? She’s not the first wife in the world to be left for the other woman and it’s not like she’ll be short of a quid, is it?’

  He ran his hands up her arms and held her face with his fingertips, placing a gentle kiss on her mouth. ‘I want to be with the two people in the world who truly love me and make me feel good about myself. I am sick to death of living a lie.’

  Their world had turned in an instant. Together. Forever. The three of them. She couldn’t wait to share the news with Bianca.

  chapter eight

  Three Weeks Till Christmas

  Once a week Christina goes into town to collect the mail and buy supplies. In the lead-up to Christmas, the council has strung lines of red and green bunting across the main road and threaded ropes of fairy lights through the plane trees that divide the street. The birds don’t like the blinking invasion and every year the locals grumble about the damn cockatoos whose strong beaks clip the wires in half. She spots
a council worker up a ladder repairing the damage, a cost that riles many ratepayers, Rosa included.

  Most of the shops have loops of tinsel in their windows or a battered tree shrouded in dust from seasons past. Unloading the ute, Christina sees that Mr Pucciarelli, the butcher, has taped a sheet of cardboard to the glass announcing Smoked Hams, Geese, Turkey, Ducks. Order Now 4 Xmas! A lot of the poultry used to come from their farm but not now Rosa is losing her sight and Christina hasn’t the heart. All the butcher stocks these days are Rosa’s quails and their free-range eggs. Carrying a styrofoam box of frozen carcasses, Christina pushes on the diagonal steel bar to open the door, yelling a greeting.

  ‘Christina! Come stai?’ Mr Pucciarelli smacks a kiss on each cheek and holds her shoulders.

  ‘Fine, Mr Pucciarelli. Mama sends her regards.’

  His face collapses from beaming to sorrow. ‘Your poor mama,’ he says. ‘It’s been a bad coupla years for your family.’

  Mr Pucciarelli’s elastic face reminds Christina why he was the last person Massimo ever picked for a poker buddy. Plus he is a gossip. Deboning chickens and carving slabs of chuck steak for his customers allows ample time for the butcher to add his two cents worth. His wife Maria, who makes all the rissoles and scaloppini, is worse.

  ‘Everyone has their troubles,’ she says, proffering the box. ‘The eggs are in the car, I should get them before they bake.’

  Exchanging the eggs for a parcel of Maria’s scaloppini which she knows Rosa will sniff and dismiss as having too much sage or salt or not enough of either, Christina thanks him and promises she’ll be back next week.

  At the post office the letterbox is stuffed full of flyers, magnetised calendars and catalogues packed with Christmas gift ideas. She discards them in the cardboard box provided and unearths the real mail hidden beneath. It is a meagre offering compared to the haul she used to collect at Bartholomews Run: a couple of Christmas cards, a phone bill and a notice to collect a parcel. Christina sighs and joins the queue, keeping her sunglasses on and her gaze down to avoid catching the eye of anyone she might know. Even so, someone tugs her sleeve.

  ‘Excuse me, I think you might have accidentally thrown this out?’ A woman with two small children clutching at her skirts hands Christina a postcard. ‘I know what it’s like. It’s so easy to lose real mail amongst all that junk you get these days. Once I lost a cheque my aunt sent me from Toowoomba for a hundred bucks! Can you believe it? It was for the twins’ birthday. Well of course, what could I do? I had to buy the presents out of my own money. Brad, that’s my husband, says I’d lose my head if it wasn’t screwed on.’ She twitters. ‘He’s probably right.’

  Christina thanks her and tucks the postcard between the electricity bill and the card from Della. The woman tilts her head, ‘Aren’t you going to read it?’

  Christina turns away and examines the Christmas gift display.

  In the car she opens the windows and waits for the steering wheel to cool. Della’s Christmas card brims with chatty news about Izzy’s first year of Economics at Sydney Uni and Tom’s selection in the school’s cricket team; she says that Tony sends his love and, in brackets, that he’s still working too hard and has yet to deliver on the promised family break to Fiji. Being Della, this last thought includes a drawing of a face with an upside-down smile.

  A two-dollar scratch lottery ticket falls out of the other Christmas card. Anne Rushmore writes that she hopes Christina might scratch up some luck, that all is well and that she must pop in next time she’s in town. Christina smiles at the last. Anne knows she will never return to Bartholomews Run, let alone Kitchener where the detective is stationed. The phone bill contains no surprises, which leaves the remaining known piece of mail: Bianca’s postcard.

  It lies face up on the passenger seat. The photo is of a sloth hanging off a lichen-encrusted branch, its face a caricature of adorable happiness. The dark stripes of fur around its eyes look like eye shadow, its buttonish nose is too large for its face, and the corners of its smile almost meet its eyes. An overgrown fringe of fur over its face would make it look like a shaggy little human were it not for the long claws. Squeezed on the reverse, Bianca has written:

  Hi Mum and Nonna, Isn’t this picture gorgeous? We met up with another group of English teachers from Holland and visited the Sloth Sanctuary. Amazing! Not allowed to hold the baby sloths but got some great photos. We paddled canoes down the Estrella River and saw toucans! Gijs, Pheebs and me went on a jungle walk. We camped overnight – the jungle is so noisy! It’s stopped raining all the time now. School soon over 4 the year. We’re helping the kids make Xmas presents for their families. Can U believe only 4 wks 2 go! Love ya!

  Christina reads the card twice. Bianca’s world is unfamiliar, full of strangers and exotic places. Her powerlessness to keep her daughter safe squeezes her throat shut. Phoebe she knows, but who is Gijs? Male, female, aggressive, kind? She mentions Christmas but not whether she is coming home. Her words mean everything and nothing. She sounds happy though. That’s something.

  Hugging the postcard to her chest, she holds it there until she fears her sweat may blur the words. Kissing Bianca’s little bee, she puts the postcard on the seat and picks up the thick envelope that was the reason she was forced to queue at the post office.

  In the corner is the logo of the Crown Prosecutor’s office. The red-inked franking stamp indicates it was posted three days ago. There is an address in Sydney for the return of mail if undeliverable. If she’d known it was from the Department of Public Prosecutions, she might not have signed for it and then the envelope would have been returned. Now that opportunity has passed. Opening it, she reads the first paragraph and wishes she hadn’t. Flinging the paperwork on the front seat, she reverses onto the street, earning a blast from the driver forced to prop behind her. She waves an apology and takes the road out of town. It’s bad enough that Bianca won’t commit to returning home; now this, a Christmas present from the Crown. They say bad luck comes in threes. What will be the third? She thinks of Rosa and presses the accelerator to the floor.

  Christina finds Rosa sitting on the stone bench in the garden. Something as simple as watering her precious flowers is now fraught with danger. Christina worries about falls, burns, snakebites, although the red bellies are far more likely to slither into the bushes than attack. The rose garden is Rosa’s sanctuary, wrestled from a bare clay soil some fifty years earlier when the farm was rundown, abandoned and the only place the newly migrated Massimo and Rosa could afford.

  Rosa has laid out each bed in accordance to a strict plan. There are weeping bowers of fragrant pale-skirted roses framing beds of their larger, bolder cousins. All buzz with drunken insects gorging themselves on the excesses of summer. As a teenager, Christina spitefully called this garden Rosa’s Folly. But during those terrible years at high school when she could not escape the persistent attention of Melanie Woods and her cronies, Rosa’s Folly became Christina’s sanctuary too. Over the years the name has stuck. Partly because it amazes Christina that her mother squandered the opportunity to grow even more vegetables and reserved a place in the garden for the sole purpose of providing pleasure.

  She sits next to her mother and Rosa pats her knee. They chat about Mr Pucciarelli and Christina remembers she’s left the scaloppini in the car. In this heat, it will have to be thrown out. It’s hard to know which Rosa will think is worse – the waste or eating Maria’s veal.

  She comes at the issue sideways. She reads Della’s Christmas card but ignores Anne Rushmore’s. The detective’s name alone is enough to flood Rosa’s cheeks with colour. In her mother’s mind, Anne represents the hurt and loss they now endure, even though without Anne’s help Christina is certain Jackson would never have gone to gaol. She reads Rosa the postcard, describing the gleeful sloth, whilst her mother nods and smiles, frowns at the mention of Gijs, smacks her lips when Christina finishes.

  ‘It’s good she�
�s happy, eh?’ she says, snatching a weed and snapping it in half, discarding it on a pile growing at her feet.

  Christina’s ‘Yes’ comes out as a sigh. From this far away, how can they be sure Bianca isn’t smoothing over the truth to protect them? Once she’d have considered such a thought disloyal, but the last few years have put paid to that. Christina knows how adept Bianca is at concealing the truth.

  ‘She didn’t say whether she’s coming home. She’s made new friends though. Do you think Gijs is a boy or a girl?’

  Rosa shrugs. ‘How much did Joe give you for the eggs?’

  ‘Four dollars a dozen.’

  ‘Ha! That robber. He’s fleecing me and so close to Christmas.’

  Joe Pucciarelli has bought eggs from Rosa for close to thirty years. Every year he pays a higher price than the year before, without being asked, and has never once complained about the wastage. The truth is that these days Rosa couldn’t sell enough eggs to keep her in toilet paper. Her petulance over the price of the eggs is a smokescreen for what really worries her, what worries them both. Christina remembers the scratch lottery ticket Anne sent her and thinks how astonishing it would be if they actually won anything. Being broke is much harder than she remembers.

  ‘Maybe Gijs is Bianca’s boyfriend?’

  Rosa waggles her head, clearly enticed by the idea. ‘It’d be good for her to be with someone her own age.’

  Christina jumps to her feet. ‘Mama!’

  Realising her mistake, Rosa purses her lips and stares at the ground. What she won’t do, what she never does, is apologise.