by Cowley, Joy
Jeff nodded. He was relieved that his father had left off talk about Andrea and Beck, and he leaned forward, trying to show interest. “Will you play golf there again?”
It was Helen who answered, shaking her head. “Mr Staunton-Jones is going back to England. He’s got cancer.”
“No!” Jeff was sorry. He had liked the man with white eyebrows and wrinkly eyes, who told interesting stories about hunting in Botswana and climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. “We won’t see him again?”
“He will certainly live on in our lives,” said Winston. He gave Helen a questioning look.
She nodded. “Yes, sweetie. Tell him. We can tell Andrea later.”
Winston looked gentle, almost reverent, as he opened the laptop and switched it on. “Jeffrey, you should know this. Our friend has done us a very great favour, one that we will never ever forget.”
“We’ve done him a favour too,” Helen put her hand on Winston’s arm. “He said that.”
Winston picked up his reading glasses. “In 1957 Mr Staunton-Jones bought property at Sydney Harbour for ninety thousand pounds and built a modest house. I have seen it. It’s a wide tract of waterfront land, and today it is worth nearly sixty million dollars. It’s magnificent!”
Jeff’s mouth opened. “He gave it to you?”
“No!” His mother laughed. “We bought it.”
Winston leaned forward, “Jeffrey, listen! In Australia they have capital gains tax when you sell assets. It’s a big tax, about the same as standard income tax. Now this man was not afraid of hard work. He made a lot of money, paid a lot of taxes. Finally, he said, enough is enough. He refused to sell this land to a property developer. He might have got a big price but a lot would have gone in tax and then what? Someone would build condominiums, ugly high-rise, on the land he loved. So he’s allowed us to buy it – wait for it – for one and a half million dollars.”
“It has sentimental value,” Helen said. “He sees us as his family.”
Winston turned the computer around and Jeff saw a plan of some sort, an L-shaped property next to water and something like a tiny postage stamp near a main road. That would be the house. “You’ve already bought it?”
“It’s ours!” His father flung his arms wide. “Signed and sealed!”
“All legal,” his mother added. “Nothing dodgy.”
Jeff gazed at the plan on the computer. It looked alien and threatening and, for an instant, he imagined it made of quicksand. “We’re not going to move to Sydney.”
His mother leaned towards him. “No, but we might visit a few times. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“Well, what will you do with it? Rent it?”
“We’ll see,” she said.
Jeff looked from one to the other. “You’re not going to sell it.”
“Of course not!” Winston brought his hands together in a clap. “At least, not while our good friend and benefactor is still alive.”
So that was it. They were going to sell it to a property developer who would build high-rise, and they’d make heaps and heaps even if they did have to pay capital gains tax. It was what his dad had meant when he said you could count numbers or you could make them work for you.
He knew his parents were disappointed at his lack of enthusiasm but it was difficult to look pleased. He hated change that came without warning, suddenness that unsettled things. It was like living in a horror movie where surprises jumped out at you at every turn and you had to deal with them, somehow making them fit into your life.
He excused himself and went to his room, opened his maths homework book and flicked through the pages. Prime factorisation. Regular and irregular polygons. Volumes of cubes and prisms. But he couldn’t anchor his thoughts. He put his hand over his forehead, wanting to still all the stuff that was going on in there. Too much, far too much! The human brain had about one hundred billion cells. He didn’t know who had done the counting but it was impressive. One hundred billion! If every one of those cells was the size of a star, a planet, each human brain would be bigger than an entire galaxy.
At this moment, his head galaxy was totally out of control.
He looked for numbers that he could hold. Three hundred and thirty-three multiplied by three made nine hundred and ninety-nine.
He heard the front door and knew Andrea was home. Poor Andrea. There were voices raised in the kitchen and then Andrea was saying, “Maybe I know more than one Daniel.”
He smiled to himself. Good on you, Sis.
4
A PRIME NUMBER is a natural number greater than 1 that has no positive divisors other than 1 and itself. A natural number greater than 1 that has other divisors is not a prime number but a composite number. The number 5 is prime because only 1 and 5 evenly divide it. The property of being prime is called primality. The smallest prime numbers are 2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17, 19, 23, 29, 31, 37, 41, 43, 47, 53, 59, 61, 67, 71, 73, 79, 83, 97, 101 …
Prime numbers have influenced many artists and writers. NASA scientist and author Carl Sagan suggested that prime numbers could be used as a means of communication with aliens.
After the storm came fine autumn days, so clear, so warm, they seemed like compensation for the weather’s bad behaviour. Eddie the gardener had cleaned the pool and put out the recliners with cushions, making the yard look like a scene from a travel brochure. One of those Mediterranean places, thought Jeff: swimming pool, tubs of flowers, a little concrete apron out front and, below it, the sea sparkling with light. Even the saw-cut on the eucalyptus tree by the gate had sealed over as though in apology for failure.
Winston had come around to accepting that an elderly dementia patient had wandered in that night, before the gates closed after Helen and Andrea arrived home. There was no other explanation. It was what it had to be. Then the incident was totally eclipsed by the good fortune from across the Tasman. “Water under the bridge,” Winston said, patting Helen on the shoulder. “I overreacted about that woman. It was one helluva storm.”
Jeff inspected the bus shelter when he biked past, but there had been no sign of the old lady. He told Andrea about Saturday afternoon. She didn’t see anything odd in the encounter. “I’m glad she wasn’t seriously hurt,” she said.
“She knew our names,” he insisted.
“Probably. When people are unconscious they hear things. We were standing around her talking to each other – and to the police. Names went back and forth.”
He considered that. His sister was so practical that sometimes she could flatten the structures of his thinking with a single sentence. Then he remembered something else. “Beckett! She said his name. We didn’t talk to each other about Beckett.”
“Oh yes, we did. I was bending right over her when I told you I’d had a letter from Beck.”
She was right. She was always right. He folded his arms and was silent. Then he looked sideways at his sister. “Are you thinking of leaving school before the end of the year?”
“What?”
“I said, are you going to leave school –”
“I heard you! What made you ask such a thing?”
He couldn’t say it was the old woman. After all, his ears had felt thick, so he might have misheard her. “I don’t know. I just wondered.”
“Squidge, you are one strange child! Why on earth would I leave school? It’s my scholarship year, right?” She put her hands on his shoulders. “Are you hungry? I am. Get in the car and I’ll drive us down for a Chinese meal. It won’t take long. We’ll be home before the zoo-keepers get back.”
He had to laugh. If their parents ever decided they wanted to live in Sydney, then he would stay here with Andrea and life would be good.
* * *
He fished with his chopsticks for the wontons in his bowl of soup, aware of the way some men in the restaurant were staring at his sister. That made him both pleased and uncomfortable. She was eating chicken and cashew nuts, picking the nuts up neatly and popping them in her lipsticked mouth. “Did they tell you about Beck
coming back?” she asked.
“No.”
“Mum told me. I think she’s nervous about him returning to New Zealand.”
“Why?”
“Publicity, of course. It’ll be in the news, maybe on TV. She and Dad are so phobic.” She lifted a piece of chicken and waved it. “They won’t stop me from seeing him.”
He tried to get the chopsticks around a slippery wonton. “They’ll stop me,” he murmured.
“We’ll work something out. Do you miss him, Squidge?”
He nodded.
“So do I. Remember his jacket pocket? That old khaki jacket and the presents he used to bring home for us? Interesting things like a piece of quartz or obsidian, a green pine cone, a shark’s tooth. I’ve still got the George the Sixth penny.”
Jeff dropped a wonton back in the bowl. “The dead spider in the matchbox freaked me out.”
“You remember that? You screamed your little head off. Poor Squidgy! Oh, I remember so much about those days! I thought Beck was the most important person in the world.”
There was a silence and when Jeff looked up, he saw that her eyes were glassy with tears. He leaned towards her. “Mum and Dad will get over it, Andy. They’re really happy about Sydney. They’ll stop being so hard on Beck.”
“Don’t count on it,” she said.
A waitress asked if they would like more jasmine tea. When she saw a trail of tears on Andrea’s face, she looked awkward, lost for words, and turned away. Jeff gave his sister his spare paper serviette. She spread it across her face and blew her nose.
He looked away from the table to the window and the after-work crowd that flowed in two directions along the pavement. Only one person outside wasn’t moving. He spotted her at once. The old woman again! Standing against a verandah post, and looking into the restaurant! The clothes were different, no hat this time, but it was impossible to mistake that face.
Jeff grabbed his sister’s arm. “Over there!”
Andrea saw her too, but only for a second. More people blocked their view and when they had passed, the woman was gone. Jeff stood up to peer over the heads. “That was her, wasn’t it? The old woman?”
Andrea didn’t answer. She looked as though she couldn’t believe what her eyes had taken in. Her face was as pale as the paper serviette in her hand, and Jeff knew that behind her stillness, her thoughts were screaming.
* * *
While Andrea microwaved the food, Jeff started to set the table.
Winston and Helen were arguing about a packet of documents that were coming by courier. At least, that was how the row started.
“Why the hell didn’t you have them sent to your office?” Helen snapped.
“I told them! Of course, I did! But Warren could have given him our home address. His lawyer hasn’t been here. He wouldn’t know a courier doesn’t have access to this property. I needed you at home to release the gate –”
“If a courier had come, there’d be a notice in the mailbox.” She turned her chair slightly to focus on the TV news, some big bomb blast in Afghanistan.
“You should be here!” He hit the table with his fist. “In this house! Isn’t it good enough for you?”
“Oh, shut it, Wins.” She grabbed the remote and turned up the sound.
He talked louder. “I come home at night, the kids are here, no mother, no dinner, packets of noodles and pizzas out of the freezer. Where are you? Selling tours in a travel agency!”
“Sometimes,” she said, “I have to work late.”
“You don’t have to work at all!”
“So you keep saying, and I keep telling you: I – want – to – work!”
Winston grabbed the remote from her and switched off the kitchen TV. His voice was loud in the silence. “Work here – in your own home. I will pay you executive wages, twice your salary – three times –”
She took a deep breath. “I work to get away from this place!”
“If that’s the problem, you can play golf. I’ll get you a new set of clubs.” He ran his hand over his head and became calmer. “I know a good coach. Helen, you’d enjoy getting involved. You already know at least half a dozen women who play down there.”
“How many times must I tell you!” Helen yelled. “I like my job!”
It was Andrea who interrupted. She thrust a bowl of toasted cashew nuts between them and said, “If you two don’t stop, Jeff and I are running away from home.”
Neither parent thought that funny, but they stopped arguing. Winston stood up and tucked in his shirt as though he were getting himself together, while Helen grabbed a handful of cashews with one hand and the TV remote in the other, and went back to watching the evening news.
Winston said to Jeff, “Did you see a courier notice in the mailbox or under the gate?”
“No.” Jeff laid the red chopsticks neatly next to the two place mats. “Something might come tomorrow.”
Andrea placed two dishes of chicken rice on the table. “Jeff and I had ours in town. We brought this back for you.”
“You went to town after school?” said Winston.
“That Chinese place near the library,” said Jeff.
Winston turned to Helen. “You see? This is what I mean when I say this household is totally out of control. The children come home hungry and have to go out to get a meal.”
“Fantastic, Dad,” said Andrea. “What about – thank you for thinking of us, Andrea. That’s very kind of you, Andrea.”
“I’m on your side, here, girl,” he said.
Helen stood up, switched off the TV, picked up her plate from the table and took it into her office.
Winston pulled a chair out from under the table and raised his eyebrows at Andrea and Jeff. “Your mother’s having a bad day,” he explained.
* * *
Andrea’s bedroom was bigger than Jeff’s, with space for two fat armchairs shaped like pouty lips. Bright red, too. They were cushy comfortable, although Jeff sometimes had nightmares about being eaten by a greedy chair. Tonight they sat in the chairs with their homework, Andrea making notes for her sociology essay, Jeff using her iPad to research current environmental issues that influenced politics. Neither of them could concentrate.
Eventually, Andrea looked up. “Don’t let them get to you.”
“I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. You are turning in on yourself like an ingrown toenail.”
He had to laugh, because he had one of those, a nail shaped like half a barrel, sides digging into the skin of his big toe.
“Beck couldn’t stand it,” she said. “I remember the rows. It’s not just Dad. They are both heavily into control.”
He was still smiling. “Remote control.”
“You said it.” She looked at him. “Hey! When you asked me if I was going to leave school, did you think I might go off somewhere and desert you?
He didn’t answer.
“I would never do that,” she said.
“People change,” he said. “People always change.”
“You are my squidgy little brother. I used to feed you in your high chair. I taught you to float and do belly flops. You used to say to me, ‘I love you this much.’” She held out her arms.
He remembered them both doing belly flops at the city pool and how she stopped because she was getting lady bumps on her chest and they hurt when she hit the water face down.
“We still love each other this much.” Her arms stayed stretched out. “And we love Beckett this much. We have to stick together, you, me, Beck. We just have to!”
There grew a warmth in him that melted the tension in his stomach. He nodded again and scrolled down to an article on the impact of mining on native fauna. After a while, he said, “Andy, that was her, wasn’t it? Today? Outside the restaurant?”
Her hands became still on her keyboard, her eyes fixed on the screen. “Could have been,” she said. “It did look a bit like her.”
Her voice was too light. That was how he knew that she, too
, thought the old woman was more than strange.
* * *
Mrs Wilson gave him eight out of ten for his project on New Zealand native snails threatened by a mining company. He would have preferred nine out of ten, but Paul got a nine – so that was the next best thing.
“Generally, there was some interesting creative spelling,” said Mrs Wilson. “Gentlemen, this was not meant to be your sloppy copy. In fact, if it were a job application, I’m afraid you’d all be unemployed and in the dole queue. Remember, we have the spelling competition next week, so I’m giving you a little extra homework this weekend.”
There were groans around the room.
“I promise it won’t kill you. You might even enjoy it.” She looked around the room. “Where’s Ludwig?”
Someone knew. “Fell off his bike and broke a bone.”
“Oh. Poor Ludwig.” Her face creased with sympathy. “Where is the fracture?”
They all looked to someone else, but no one had that information.
“If you fell off your bike and incurred a fracture, where would that be likely?” She ignored a few sniggers. “Come on boys, what do you remember about bones?”
“I might break a leg,” volunteered Salosa.
“Your leg has three bones. Your foot has fifty-two bones. Where is the break? Anyone, tell me! Jeffrey?”
Jeff didn’t want to answer. He would have said tibia or fibula but this was way off track, Mrs Wilson getting lost again, like a dog chasing a rabbit. She was supposed to be handing out the spelling sheets.
Paul said, “We don’t know where Ludwig had the fracture.”
“It’s a hypothetical question, Paul. The human body has two hundred and sixty bones. Maybe you can name one.”
Jeff raised his hand to shoulder height. “Mrs Wilson, a baby is born with two hundred and seventy bones.”
She looked at him.
“It’s true,” he said. “Afterwards some of the bones fuse together, but, actually, babies are born perfect.”
“That’s an interesting statement,” she said. “Tell us more, Jeffrey.”
