Family Baggage

by Monica McInerney

  Molly told her mum she was having trouble with her ears, that she thought she might need them to be syringed on account of all the chlorinated pool water. She was worried her mother would suggest coming with her, but luckily she was busy organising the autumn brochures and was working long hours.

  She made her own appointment, went confidently into the doctor and talked in detail about how bad her period pain was. After he had written the prescription for the pill, she casually asked him to check her ears, to see if they needed syringing. ‘You’re still swimming?’ She nodded. There had been an article about her in the local paper the week before. It meant she didn’t even have to lie when her mother asked her later how the visit to the doctor had gone. ‘Fine, he said my ears were clear.’ Once again, she’d called the question out across the office, not caring for one second about Molly’s privacy.

  Her mother had been the same three years before when the time came for Molly to be fitted for her first bra. Molly had nearly died with embarrassment. No one liked their private business to be broadcast like that.

  ‘I’m going to Melbourne for the day with Molly tomorrow, Penny,’ she’d called out to Molly’s grandma. ‘There’s not a decent bra shop in this town.’

  ‘Mum, please.’

  ‘Well, there’s not.’

  Molly had gone out to the back of the house, very upset. Lara and Harriet were sitting there, having morning tea together.

  As usual, Lara noticed something was up straightaway. ‘What’s up, Mollusc?’

  ‘Mum,’ she said, rolling her eyes. ‘Why doesn’t she take out an ad in the local paper that we’re going to buy me my first bra? She shouted it to Grandma, right in front of Mr and Mrs Kingston.’

  ‘Grandma won’t tell. And Mr and Mrs Kingston are both deaf, don’t worry. They wouldn’t have heard.’

  It helped to have two aunties. Lara and Harriet sat telling stories about their first bra-fittings. Harriet had got hers first, even though she and Lara were nearly the same age.

  ‘I was flat-chested until I was seventeen,’ Lara said matter-of-factly.

  ‘Were you? Were you worried?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You weren’t,’ Harriet said. ‘I remember. You didn’t mind one bit.’

  Molly was fascinated with her aunts’ relationship. She knew of course that they weren’t real sisters, that Lara had come to live with the Turners when she was little. She asked them lots of times to tell her stories of things they’d done when they were kids, but usually the stories were about her uncle Austin, and all the naughty things he used to do. If Molly had had a sister, foster or real, she reckoned they would have got up to all sorts of things, tried on make-up together, put on concerts, been good friends as well as sisters, but it didn’t seem like that with her two aunts. Molly secretly thought that she was closer to Lara than Harriet was.

  A few nights before Lara went to England, she and Molly had sat talking for ages. For the first time, Lara talked about coming to live with the Turners. How she’d had to change schools, houses, her whole life, really. Molly had also heard about the memorial days her grandma had organised for Lara, as a way to remember her parents.

  ‘Did it help?’ Molly asked.

  ‘Just a bit,’ Lara said quietly.

  ‘So you’re not my real aunty, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m not. Not really.’

  ‘You feel like a real aunty.’ She’d leaned over and hugged her.

  Lara had hugged her back. ‘You feel like a real niece.’

  Molly had felt even closer to Lara since then. Which was why she really wanted to talk to her now. Of course, she was going to make her own decision, but it would be interesting to hear what Lara thought. And it wasn’t as if Dean had been putting any serious pressure on her yet. He hadn’t, not in any bad way at least. But she knew that if she didn’t go to bed with him, he would go to someone else. ‘You know I love you, Molly,’ he’d said on the phone the day before, ‘but I need to know you feel as strongly as me, otherwise …’

  He hadn’t had to finish his sentence. Otherwise it would be all over between them. She told him how much she loved him. Twice. ‘I just need to think about it.’ He understood. She’d had that beautiful I I u text from him again this morning. She’d been so relieved.

  She glanced down again at the text she’d written. Would she send it to Lara? Or decide for herself? She shut her eyes and imagined Dean’s face. It helped her make up her mind. She did love him and she did want to sleep with him. And, at the end of the day, it had to be her decision, not Lara’s, didn’t it?

  She started deleting the text, letter by letter.

  Kevin Hillman tapped three times on the kitchen table. ‘Gloria? Gloria? Dearly beloved husband calling his suddenly deaf wife?’

  Gloria turned away from the window and put down the cup of tea she’d been holding. It had gone cold without her realising. ‘Sorry, Kev, were you talking to me?’

  ‘Only for the past five minutes. That’s all we need, me blind, you deaf. What’s up, love? You’ve been distracted the past couple of days. Is it Lara or Harriet you’re most worried about?’

  It was Lara. But nothing about Lara that she could tell Kev about. Were promises between people still promises even after one of the parties had died? Because she was longing to talk to Kev about it. She hated being the secret keeper like this. While Penny was alive, she hadn’t needed to think about it. If the subject had come up, it would have been up to Penny, not Gloria, to deal with the fallout. If there had been time, perhaps Penny would have even given her some advice on what to say. Or told her how much of the truth she had told Lara. That was the worst of it. Gloria didn’t know how much Lara knew. It was like carrying something fragile, but not knowing if it was going to melt or explode in your hands.

  She leaned over and touched Kevin’s arm. She touched him a lot these days. That was how they communicated – physical smiles, she thought of them as. ‘I’m worried about Lara. I hope she’s okay.’

  ‘She’ll turn up, love. It might be her version of Harriet’s breakdown. Parents dying affects different kids in different ways. Being back in England might have brought back a lot of memories of them, of both sets of parents. She might just need some time out.’

  ‘You’re probably right.’

  ‘Are you working late tonight?’

  ‘I am. Is that okay? I’ll be back at teatime though. Did you want me to do something?’

  ‘No, you’re okay, love.’

  She stood up with a sigh. ‘I’d better get going. The Cuthberts are coming in this morning. Off on their annual trip.’

  ‘Where are they going this year?’

  ‘Spain, Portugal and Italy.’

  ‘Again? They’re getting showy since they retired.’

  ‘We can be as showy when we retire, if you like. We can be away the whole time too. I have contacts in the travel world, I reckon I could get us a few good deals.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you’re too young to retire. Because you love your job.’

  ‘You don’t believe me, do you? I’d retire at the drop of a hat.’

  He was serious. ‘You’d go mad with boredom at home.’

  ‘No, you’d be here to entertain me. It’s you I worry about going mad with boredom at home.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Course I am. The blokes from the council depot are going to drop by this afternoon.’

  She could picture it. They’d shuffle around, look and act uncomfortable and then leave, glad the visit to their old blind mate was out of the way for another few weeks. It struck her again how unfair it all was. All the plans they’d had. The two of them hoping to work until retirement, and then perhaps setting off with a caravan for a few months, heading up the east coast of Australia. They’d had bigger plans than that, too. Overseas trips. Gloria had even sent away for information on a get-over-your-fear-of-flyin
g course. They’d talked about trying to get to New Zealand first. Then maybe Europe. Kevin had a longing to eat a real Italian meal in a real Italian village. They wanted to see so much. They were lucky, they had good health, enough money.

  His loss of sight had been so rapid. It was as if the diagnosis had sped things up. It went from a gradual fuzzing of his vision, to complete loss of sight in one eye two months later. He could only see the barest outlines now. Legally, he was blind. It changed things, of course it did. Kevin had been so vital, so independent. It took all her acting skills to stop herself crying when he despaired at how weak he had become, how dependent on her he was. They had talked about him maybe getting a white stick, or even a guide dog, but Kevin had resisted all of it. ‘I have to get used to the idea of being blind first.’

  She’d found him in tears one night. She had come into the bedroom and discovered him sitting on the side of the bed, hands over his face, sobbing quietly. He had knocked something off the table and been unable to find it, even with all the lights in the room on. His sight had been practically gone by that stage. ‘I’m useless, love.’

  ‘No, you’re not. You’re just going blind.’ She wouldn’t let him feel sorry for himself.

  ‘I’m blind and I’m useless.’

  ‘Never useless.’

  ‘It’s too much to ask.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘For you to help me. Lead me around like some invalid.’

  She’d moved to him and held him close. ‘I won’t be leading you anywhere. You can walk beside me or in front of me if you like, but I’m not leading you. There was nothing about that in any marriage rulebook that I read. I’ll sue you for false pretences if you start making those sorts of demands on me.’

  ‘You hard-hearted witch. No sympathy for a poor old fellow like me.’ He’d held her tightly. ‘A poor old blind fellow like me.’

  ‘Try as hard as you like, that won’t wash with me.’ She had been smiling as she said it. ‘Don’t think about yourself like that, Kev. Because I won’t be.’

  ‘Gloria Hillman, I—’

  ‘Oh, Mum, Dad, stop it. That’s disgusting at your age. And it’s not even night-time.’ It had been David, their oldest son, calling in on an impromptu visit with his youngest child.

  That was nearly two years ago. Kevin had left the house hardly a dozen times since, and each time had wanted to come home early.

  There in the kitchen, the morning sun shining in on them both, it seemed obvious what she had to do. The feeling was getting stronger. Time was slipping past too quickly. She kept thinking that what had happened to Penny, with Neil dying so suddenly, would happen to her. She would regret all this time spent in the travel agency, getting mad at Melissa, worrying about Austin and Harriet and Lara, being tired and no company for Kev when she got home, all out of some probably misplaced loyalty to Penny and Neil. As she picked up her bag, she told him. ‘When Harriet and Lara get back, I’m going to talk to them all about retiring.’

  ‘Gloria—’

  ‘It’s simple, Kev. I want to spend more time with you.’

  ‘You’ll get bored.’

  She wasn’t imagining it. There wasn’t the same vehemence in his voice. She leaned over and kissed his forehead. ‘I can’t leave you here on your own. Any fancy lady might walk past and see you.’

  ‘That’s good, because I won’t see her.’ It fell flat. He seemed to know it. ‘Have a good day, love.’

  ‘You too, Kev.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It took Harriet three attempts to get the microphone on the bus to work the next morning. Clive finally leaned over and, with a sigh, jiggled the cord around, gave it a thump and then handed it back.

  ‘Should be all right now, BB.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Monkey-face, she added to herself. Clive’s BB jibes were wearing very thin. She picked up her script and started reading. ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Now, we met each other informally and possibly a little drunkenly last night! (James had inserted a handwritten question here: Possible laugh??) But as today is really the first full day of our formal Willoughby tour, I wanted to say again, on behalf of everyone at Turner Travel, what a pleasure it is to have you all travelling on this tailor-made tour with us. If you’re happy, we’re happy, remember! And of course, I’d like to extend another special welcome to our guest of honour, Patrick Shawcross. (Gesture at guest of honour. Possible applause.)’

  Harriet refused to do the gesture. Patrick Shawcross was less than three feet away from her. She didn’t need to point him out. In any case, the group members hadn’t left his side since he came down and met them in the breakfast room that morning. James had been right about the applause though. There was an enthusiastic round of clapping, a whoop from Mr Fidock, a gallant bow from Patrick Shawcross and then Clive changed into gear and edged his way out onto the main road.

  Harriet was in the guide’s seat at the front of the bus. Patrick Shawcross was in the seat across from her, next to Miss Talbot. She was wearing a bright blue cotton jacket this morning. It went well with her spangly runners. Harriet had given her niece Molly a similar pair for her twelfth birthday a few years ago.

  Mrs Lamerton was several rows back, looking unhappy. Her seating plans had gone awry when Patrick met Miss Talbot as they came out of the hotel, and escorted her, hand on elbow, on to the bus, taking the seat beside her. Harriet had half-expected an incident, or at the very least Mrs Lamerton insisting on taking the guide’s seat. At the last moment, she had moved down the bus. She was making it clear with her dark glances at Harriet that she wasn’t pleased.

  Harriet did her best not to catch her eye in the rear-vision mirror and sat up as straight as she could. ‘If you look in charge, they will think you’re in charge,’ James had reminded her during his hospital briefing. ‘Be first on and last off, and you’ll gain a natural authority over them.’ He’d made it sound as if he was talking about lion-taming rather than tour guiding. Again, though, she had to admit he was right. She’d forgotten the nice feeling of being in the front of the bus, microphone in hand, clearly the one in control.

  She knew Lara had done two familiarisation trips along this route since she’d been in Bath, checking everything she had organised from Australia, timing the journeys, discovering extra places of interest, passing on all the information to James to write up. Lara would have conveyed all the information from the script quite naturally, Harriet suspected. Pointed out this landmark and that fact as if it had just occurred to her. Harriet was conscious she was reading straight from the page.

  ‘We’ll be making our first stop of the day at the picturesque village of Boscastle, known for its beautiful medieval harbour, its charming cottages and best of all for its use as the setting for the dramatic scenes in “The Case of the Crooked Chef”. In the meantime, I’d like to take this opportunity to give you a few more details about the local area. The A30 trunk road we are travelling on is the backbone of Cornwall’s road network and was constructed—’

  ‘Out of second-rate materials if you ask me.’ Even without a microphone, Clive’s voice was audible throughout the bus.

  ‘— as part of a streamlined approach to integrated traffic control following a Government review in the mid 1990s.’

  Harriet tried to ignore a gentle snoring sound coming from the driver’s seat. Clive was right. Who wanted to hear about road networks? She turned the page and tried to find a more interesting topic. She picked one at random. It was a little early, but if the group squinted they might be able to see what she was talking about in the distance.

  ‘We’ll also be passing one of Cornwall’s wind farms later today, remarkable examples of man, and woman, learning how to harness nature’s own energy.’ James was really losing it now. ‘Wind farms may yet be the saviour of our environment and indeed the human race.’ He’d obviously copied this down word for word from a green information pack. She quickly read down the page. No, the group didn’t need to hear about the ravages of
the industrial revolution and the number of species of insects that had disappeared in the past ten years. She was almost relieved when Mrs Lamerton held up her hand.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Lamerton?’ Harriet hoped it wasn’t a request to visit the wind farm. She needed to stick to their schedule.

  ‘I’d like to ask Mr Shawcross when he first decided to be an actor.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Lamerton. There’ll be plenty of time to ask Mr Shawcross all the questions you like once we get to our first stop. ‘As you all know, harnessing wind energy —’

  Mrs Lamerton was having none of it. Her voice rose a notch in volume. ‘It’s just this seems like a good opportunity to hear some of his stories. Certainly, much more interesting than hearing about wind farms and motorway construction.’ It may have been meant as an aside, but her words came straight to Harriet’s ears.

  She glanced down. James’s next set of notes involved the construction methods of traditional beehives. She gave in. James would never know, after all. She put her hand over the microphone and leaned across to Patrick Shawcross. ‘Mr Shawcross, would you mind starting work a little earlier today?’

  He whispered back. ‘No problem at all. As long as you stop calling me Mr Shawcross.’

  ‘Thank you, Patrick.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Harriet.’

  As he and Harriet swapped places and she handed him the microphone, he touched Miss Talbot gently on the shoulder. ‘It’s been a pleasure talking to you, Miss Talbot,’ he said. She turned bright pink again.

  He chose to stand in the aisle beside the guide’s seat, facing them all, his hand on the back of Harriet’s seat. ‘Good morning, everyone. I hope you can all hear me?’ They sent a chorus of yeses to him. ‘Thank you very much for your question, Mrs—?’

  ‘Lamerton,’ Harriet whispered.

  ‘Mrs Lamerton. I’m more than happy to answer it, though I have to admit I was finding that motorway history fascinating. Perhaps you’ll give me some private tuition later on, Harriet?’