by Cowley, Joy
“I’m pleased,” he said.
“What about?”
“About Sydney. I’m really, really glad.”
“Your father had better not hear you saying that,” she warned.
“Andy, too. We said we’d never move away from Wellington.”
“There was never any question of moving.”
“But it might have happened,” he said. “Mr Staunton-Jones thought we were all going to live there. He talked about that.”
“It was an investment. Nothing more. And it’s not our only concern.” Helen sat at the counter opposite him. She leaned forward. “Jeffrey, I know you and Andrea talk – about a lot of things. Does she ever say anything about Daniel?”
He knew where this was going. He shrugged. “Sometimes.”
“Daniel thinks she’s always busy with school work.”
Jeff put his hands around his glass and felt the chill in his fingers. “She is busy with school work. If she’s going to do law next year, she’s got to get good marks. She works all hours.”
“Nonsense,” said his mother. “She’s out all hours – and it’s not with Daniel. Do you know who she’s seeing?”
It was a relief to shake his head and mean it.
Helen watched him for a few seconds, then she got off the chair. “If you did know, you would tell me, wouldn’t you?”
He tried a small smile. It worked. She put her hand on her forehead and said, “At least there is one person in this family I can rely on.”
* * *
The historical figure Jeff had chosen for Mrs Wilson’s assignment was Dmitri Mendeleev, who had created the periodic table. For Jeff, the man was not as important as the work that gave order to the world. The periodic table was like a holy book for scientists.
The computer gave a few statistics: Mendeleev was born in Siberia in 1834, and he died in 1907. There was a photograph, too, of an elderly bearded man at a desk. Jeff imagined him floating upside down in a space capsule, writing out the periodic table with a pencil, arranging the 65 elements he knew, in a grid. The elements were all neatly assembled according to ascending atomic weight.
It didn’t matter to Jeff that the table was constructed from false reasoning. Electrons hadn’t been discovered in Mendeleev’s time. People thought the atom was the smallest particle. It took a whole forty-four years for them to discover the missing elements and work out the correct explanation. But it was Mendeleev who first knew that chemistry was simply numbers. Jeff wrote all that on his pad and then put down his pen. He picked up a 2B pencil and added, The universe is made of numbers.
* * *
It was dark and neither Winston nor Andrea was home. Helen and Jeff shared a microwaved lasagne, without conversation, Helen reading travel magazines while she ate. The house was so quiet that when the phone rang, they both jumped.
It was Paul Fitzgibbon, eager to talk to Jeff. “Hey, man, I’m in a sweat with the maths I didn’t do yesterday. Fractions, okay. Percentages, okay. But what’s with identifying linear functions? And this graphing of a proportional relationship? Did you do that?”
Jeff could almost see Paul tugging at his scruffy hair, something he always did when anxious. “Yes. They’re not difficult.”
“Can you come over, man? Dad can come and get you and if you like you can stay the night. Would you be cool with that?”
Words such as saved, rescue, escape, came into his head and he didn’t have to consider for long. “I think so. I’ll need to ask Mum.” He saw Helen looking at him, and added. “Here, you ask her.”
She was careful, wanting to speak to Paul’s parents, but in end she agreed and said he could go to school with Paul tomorrow. He ran, sixteen bounding steps, to his room and packed pyjamas, clean shirt and underwear, books.
Winston would be home soon and it would all start again. Andrea would walk in on it. “Sorry, Andy,” he said to her empty room; but he wasn’t sorry enough to stay. He went out the front door, ran along the drive, and waited outside the gate for Mr Fitzgibbon.
* * *
Paul’s house was always noisy. Four-year-old Isabella had been to a library party and had her face painted like a tiger. She was now yelling because she didn’t want it washed off, and her older sister was yelling that she’d mess up the pillow. Mrs Fitzgibbon came between them and said she’d rather wash a pillowcase than put up with the argument, so that was that. Jeff thought that Mrs Fitzgibbon came from Peru or Bolivia. She was a short woman with long black hair and a round face, and she often swore at the children in Spanish.
The noise in the Fitzgibbon house had a good feeling to it, like the noise in a farmyard. But it was hard to find a quiet corner of the kitchen table where Jeff could help Paul with his maths homework. It didn’t take long. Paul was smart and once he understood the questions, he was finished in less than twenty minutes. He shoved the papers into his satchel and they were off to the basement for a session on keyboard and drums.
At eight-thirty, Mr Fitzgibbon came down to tell them supper was ready. A light meal at bedtime was usual in Paul’s family. Jeff’s mother said that one should not eat before going to sleep because the energy needed to digest food caused restlessness and bad dreams. Mrs Fitzgibbon had the opposite view. Food calmed the body, she said. A full stomach was a happy stomach that dreamed of heaven.
Whatever, her suppers were always good. Tonight it was grilled cheese and tomato on toast, which would sit well in lasagne. They sat around the table, Jeff and six Fitzgibbons, and the dog under the table like a furry vacuum cleaner. Jeff wished he could have a dog like that. He fed it bits under the table and let it lick his fingers.
Out of the blue, Paul’s father said, “You must be pleased about your brother coming home.”
Jeff went still. “What?”
“Beckett coming back to Auckland. I think the government did a good job of negotiation. It’ll be a relief for you all to have him here, safe and sound.”
Paul, seeing Jeff’s blank look, added, “It was on the six o’clock news.”
“Was it?” Jeff put the toast down on his plate. “Did they say when?”
“Soon, they said.” Mr Fitzgibbon looked at his wife. “Did they give a date?”
“I did not hear.” She said to Jeff. “Your mama and your papa will be very happy. La familia es todo.”
“Family is everything,” Paul translated.
Jeff’s smile began inside him and spread out to his mouth and then to the faces around the table. He had not seen Beck for three years, two months and five days, and in every day of that time, he’d thought of him.
Now it was official. His brother was coming back. Winston would have seen the news. Helen too, and Andrea. At that moment, Jeff wanted to hug the entire Fitzgibbon family, even the sulky ex-tiger. “You’re right,” he said. “Everything.”
7
LIGHT is an electromagnetic wave. The speed of light in a vacuum is commonly denoted c, the letter coming from celeritas, Latin for swiftness. It is a universal constant. Its value is 299,792,458 metres per second. Sunlight takes 8 minutes and 20 seconds to reach Earth, and 100,000 years to cross the Milky Way.
The news about Beckett was in the papers the next morning, and while Jeff was still at the Fitzgibbons, some people from TV had been to the house to interview Winston and Helen, who had refused to open the gates.
“We have nothing to say!” Winston had bellowed through the bars. “Nothing! The person you mention is not a part of this family!”
Jeff heard this from Andrea when he came home from school, and he saw that she’d been crying. He looked around her room. It was a mess, drawers turned out, bed unmade. Her favourite T-shirt, with the slogan Save Plankton, Kill Whales, was on the floor with her netball gear. “You didn’t go to college today,” he said.
“No. I couldn’t.” She sat on the bed. “I’m so glad you weren’t here, Squidge. It was terrible. Not just Dad. Mum, too. When the news came on, I said I was going to Auckland to see him, and they explode
d. I reminded them I wasn’t a little kid any more.” She wiped her face on the corner of her bedsheet. “Mum said I was living in their house and they were paying expensive school fees. I had to do as I was told. It just kept getting worse. Then Dad said if I went to visit Beck, I was no longer welcome under his roof.”
Jeff sat down beside her. His heart was thudding and he hardly dared breathe. “What are you going to do?”
She put her hand over his. “I’m sorry, Squidgy, I have to go. I just have to leave. I intended to go flatting next year, anyway, and I’ve decided to make the move now. Everything has changed. But I’ll still see you.”
He was so afraid, he could not say a word. She was going. He saw two suitcases behind the door. She was leaving him on his own.
“It’s a flat in Thorndon,” she said. “A friend rents it. His name is Mark.”
Jeff pulled his hand away. “Don’t tell me the name of your boyfriend!” he said. “They’ll ask me!”
She stared at him. “How did you know?”
“I just knew.” He looked at her. “Is he at school – or university?”
She made a noise that was half a laugh. “Mark is thirty-two.”
He didn’t say anything. Letters and numbers added and reduced in his head. The name was seven and the age was five.
“Little brother, I won’t be far from here. I’ll see you every day. Promise. I’ll text you. I’ll meet you after school and we’ll go to the chocolate shop. We’ll have burgers at McDonald’s and I’ll bring you letters from Beck.”
He glanced again at the suitcases. “When are you leaving?”
“Today. Now. Before they get home. You’ll be all right, Jeff. They like you. You’re the good child.”
“They like you too,” he said.
“Only if I obey orders. But I’m like Beck was when he left home. I have to get away. I have to be me! I suppose I’ll get a job. Please, please, understand I’m not deserting you.”
He wanted to ask her what happened about sticking together, what about school and her plans for a law degree, but his throat was dry and his voice seemed to have retreated far inside his chest.
Andrea stood up and put some make-up stuff in a soft bag. “Have you seen the old lady again?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“I told Mum about her.”
“Andy!”
“Just Mum. Not Dad. Squidge, I needed to say something. I’m not superstitious, but there’s something strange about that woman. I’d even say sinister. Think of what’s happened to this family since we found her under the tree. Dad gets caught up in a property scam, Eddie gets fired, Beckett’s coming back from Thailand, I leave home. If this was the Middle Ages, I’d think she was some kind of witch.”
But Jeff’s thoughts had stopped at the first example. “What property scam?”
“Don’t you know? It looks as though Mr Staunton marvellous Jones pulled a fast one, and Dad mightn’t get his money back. They didn’t tell me all the details, but this afternoon Dad gave a statement to the police.”
“No!” He couldn’t believe it. Not the man with the silver hair and smart grey suit who had been so kind and friendly! Surely, not that man! “What’s going to happen?”
She shrugged. “When you find out, you can tell me. Will you give me a hand to get these to the car? Thanks, Squidge. I need to go before they are home.”
* * *
Their argument with Andrea must have been big, because neither parent seemed surprised that she had gone. Winston, sitting on the sofa with his iPad, said, “She’ll be back in a week, you mark my words.” Then he went back to looking at emails.
Helen said, “I suppose she’s moved in with a boyfriend.”
“No, not a boy.” Jeff turned away so he didn’t have to look at his mother. “He’s a man. His name is Mark.”
“Mark who? Where does he live?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must know something. What does he do?”
“I told you, I don’t know!” He was shouting.
“Bloody hell!” Winston got up, carrying his iPad. “Doesn’t anyone in this house have an ounce of consideration? It would be nice if just one of you appreciated the situation we’re in.” His face was red. “We are in it because I’ve been working my arse off for this ungrateful family!” He glared at Helen and marched towards his office.
Helen called after him, “Well, I just hope to God she doesn’t get pregnant. That’s all we need!”
Jeff said quickly, “I’ve got homework to do.”
But it wasn’t that easy. Helen followed him to his room, and stood filling the doorway. “I thought you were the one person in this house I could trust.”
He didn’t answer. His computer hummed as he switched it on.
“Today I learned something else. That homeless woman who came the night of the storm – you’ve been seeing her.”
“She’s not homeless,” he muttered. “She lives in some kind of pensioner apartment.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“For a bright boy you don’t know much, do you, Jeffrey? Why didn’t you tell me she’s been following you?”
He tried to look indignant. “She hasn’t been following me! I saw her at the library.”
Helen didn’t move. “And the other times? There were other times, weren’t there? What did she say to you?”
It was no good dodging the questions. Andrea had told her. He turned. “She wanted to thank me for the cushion and blanket I got her. You know, when she was lying by the tree.”
“What else?”
“That was the only thing that made any sense.” In a way, this was the truth. “She rambled a bit. She’s old, she’s got dementia like Great-aunt Rose.”
“If you see her again, you will tell me.” Helen was shaking her finger at him. “Understand?”
“Sure,” he said.
“And if you find out Andrea’s address, you will tell me that too.” She turned to go, then looked back. “I can’t tell you how much it hurts me that all three of my children are programmed for deceit.”
For a long time, Jeff stared at his computer, which still had a photo of Dmitri Mendeleev on the screen. The old woman’s words filled his mind. Winston, quicksand! Helen on a precipice! Andrea leaving school! You will know these things when you are ready for them, Maisie had said. Or similar words.
Dmitri Mendeleev, dead for more than a hundred years, stared back with the look of a man who was not comfortable with having his photograph taken. Jeff reminded him, “There is more to the universe than numbers.” Then he wondered why he had said it. It was true, but he didn’t know the truth until he’d heard it in his own voice.
* * *
That evening Helen asked him for his phone. At first, he thought it was being confiscated, then he realised she wanted to check his messages. He didn’t mind that. He’d deleted all his old messages and there was a just a question from Clive about cricket next Saturday. Helen looked at it for a long time, and then handed the phone back without a word. That’s when Jeff saw the new message, Andrea telling him that she had phoned her school about leaving, and she was going there tomorrow to pick up her books. The message finished with LUS for “love you Squidge”, but she said nothing about Mark or their address, which made it okay because he didn’t want to know that information.
He had no way of guessing that Helen would go to Andrea’s school the next morning to collect her daughter’s books and gym gear, and that she would find, between the pages of a media studies book, sheets of brown paper filled with pencilled writing – Beckett’s letters.
* * *
The two men who came to the house did not look like detectives. One had a fat face and ears like paddles. The other was tall and very thin and he wore a yellow shirt with orange pineapples on it. As the tall one sat in an armchair opposite Winston and Helen, he said, “The boy should stay. He may have observed something that you or Mrs Lorimer misse
d.”
He looked at his notes. “There is a daughter, too. Andrea. Is she here?”
“She’s on holiday,” said Helen. “Staying with a friend.”
Winston invited them into his office, but they preferred to sit in the lounge around the coffee table.
“Spectacular view of the harbour,” said the detective with the big ears. “All those yachts and ferries at your feet. You’re on top of the world.”
“I don’t feel it!” Winston growled.
“You have my sympathy, Mr Lorimer,” he replied. “If it’s any consolation, and I’m sure it isn’t, you’re not the only one who’s become a favourite adopted son of Julius Clarke, alias Warren Staunton-Jones, alias Carter McPherson, alias Sir Richard Walgrave. He cast a wide net with this Sydney scam. He caught six: two in Singapore, one in New Zealand and the rest in Australia, a total of nine million dollars.”
“He was so sincere!” Helen said.
The tall detective folded himself into a chair. “He’s very good at what he does, chooses the property carefully, chooses his victims. May I ask how you first met him, Mr Lorimer?”
“I told the officer. It was at an accountants’ conference in Brisbane. He wasn’t at the conference, just staying in the Marriott. We met in the bar.”
“Ah yes. He took an instant liking to you and invited you to some place very prestigious and expensive. What was it? Box seats at the opera? A ride in his personal chopper to an offshore restaurant?”
Winston gave a short, sharp shake of the head and said, “The Royal Sydney Golf Club.”
The plump detective pointed his pen at Winston. “This fellow is a professional. He takes time to groom his victims. He rents a property, forges the paperwork, dots all the i’s and crosses the t’s. How long did you know him?”
“I’ve already said all this. Do I have to go through it again?”
“Yes, sir, if you don’t mind.”
