by Cathryn Hein
His dad squinted at a dovetail corner join, running his thumb over the tightly paired timbers. ‘Your mother and I are very proud of you, you know.’ He looked up, love in his weary eyes, and moved around the trolley, fingers that had seen a thousand cuts and splinters tracing the edge. ‘You’re a good craftsman, with a good eye for detail. The quality’s there. The demand too, by the look of things.’
Josh’s heart sank as he realised where this was going. ‘But?’
‘It’s not a business for two.’
‘With two of us working it will be. The only reason I’m not producing more is because I can’t. Not on my own.’ He stepped towards his dad. ‘With both of us we could double output. Start to display some products. The website’s already getting hits and enquiries. A bit of publicity and this could really take off.’
‘I’m sorry, son.’
‘Dad, please.’
‘No. Not now.’
‘Then when?’
‘Maybe when your mother’s better.’ He looked away. ‘Right now what this family needs most is security. I’m not about to risk that by leaving a job that’s put food on the table and a roof over our heads for more than thirty years.’
Protest was pointless. The old man knew what he stood for, what was needed in his world, and what he could provide. Most of all, he loved his wife. Josh’s arguments wouldn’t stand a chance.
‘Okay. We’ll talk again when Mum’s better.’
Tom’s chin suddenly dropped. For a long while he remained silent. Josh watched him, not liking this at all. The same anxiety that had struck when kissing Em goodbye that morning was creeping around his insides. Finally, his dad looked up. ‘She might not get better.’
‘Of course she will. The doctors said she has a great chance.’ He stared at his father’s watery eyes in horror. ‘Dad?’
‘She does, but only if she has a mastectomy.’
Josh’s jaw tightened as he took that in. A mastectomy. The cancer must be worse than she’d let on. ‘So when’s the operation?’
His father regarded him like a man lost. ‘She’s refusing to have it.’
‘What?’ Breathing hard, Josh leaned on the trolley. His mum refusing treatment that could save her life? What the hell was she thinking? And why wasn’t his dad doing anything about it?
‘Dad?’
Tom took a few shaky steps to a sawhorse and sagged down on it. ‘I’ve tried to convince her. She won’t listen.’
‘What about Karen and Sally? Have they tried?’
‘They don’t know. Michelle made me keep it from them. She made me keep it from all of you, but it’s not right, whatever she says.’ He shook his head. ‘She keeps telling me that the choice is hers to make.’
‘But she could die!’
‘You think I don’t know that? You think I’m not trying everything I can to make her see sense?’
‘But why?’
‘She’s scared about not being a woman or something. I don’t know. It’s all bloody stupid to me. I don’t care if she has no breasts. I just want her with me.’
His dad began to cry in earnest. The sound was like nothing Josh had ever heard, as if it had been dragged up from somewhere so deep the human edges had scraped away, leaving nothing but pure animal pain.
Josh moved to comfort him but Tom jerked to his feet and, with his palm held up, stumbled to the end of the shed. His own mind scrambling to understand what he’d just been told, Josh let him be.
The notebooks. The fucking notebooks. He should have realised. She’d been scribbling in them nonstop since he’d bought them. But the urgency wasn’t because she had nothing else to do; she was racing her cancer. Which could only mean one thing.
His mum believed she was going to die.
After several minutes, his dad pulled a hanky from his pocket and blew his nose, before heading back to Josh. His eyes were rheumy, sad and shame-filled, his voice hoarse. ‘Sorry, son. Lost it a bit.’
‘You don’t have to be sorry, Dad. You love her. We all love her.’
‘I don’t know what to do.’
‘I do. We deal with this as a family, the way we’ve always done. That means telling Karen and Sal.’
‘Mum won’t like it.’
‘Too bad.’ Josh gripped his dad’s shoulder and squeezed, trying to smile encouragement. ‘Mum can get away with a lot of things, but dying isn’t one of them. Hang in there. We’ll have her sorted out before you know it.’
Tom regarded him hopefully, and Josh wasn’t sure what upset him most – his father’s tears or his look of uncertainty, as if Tom’s world was collapsing and only Josh could save it. ‘You sure?’
‘Course I am.’
But inside Josh knew that when it came to his mother, nothing was sure at all.
Nine
Jasmine’s voice carried sharply over the sea breeze. She twisted in the saddle, gaping at Em, and pulled her grey show horse, Ox, to an abrupt halt. ‘You slept with him?’
Em winced at her friend’s incredulous tone. It was just sex. Hardly new or innovative, and not something she hadn’t done before. Or with Josh. She eased Lod back to a walk and turned him to face Jas.
Teagan manoeuvred Astra alongside, the filly protesting at the change of pace with her usual skittery dance and extravagant neck arching. As a horse recently off the track, Astra still believed there were only two speeds: stop and go. But she was the prettiest horse any of them had seen in years and Em could understand why Teagan persevered.
Rose-pink spots sat high on Jasmine’s cheeks, whether from wind blush or shock, Em couldn’t be certain. The sight of them shot irritation down her spine. Jas didn’t hold an exclusive license for bedroom fun.
Em couldn’t prevent the sulkiness in her voice. ‘Aren’t I allowed to?’
‘No!’
‘Jas, don’t be ridiculous,’ said Teagan.
Jas blinked and her voice dropped back to normal. ‘I mean, yes, of course you’re allowed but, Em, this is you we’re talking about. Since when do you sleep with someone on the first night?’
Em slid her palm down Lod’s shaggy neck. Time for the clippers. Any further delay and his coat would be too short to look its best at the first show. Perhaps she, Jas and Teagan could make a day of it, at the hill.
‘Well?’
‘It was just sex.’
Jas held her eyes heavenward. ‘With Josh Love-Of-Your-Life Sinclair. And on the first night!’
‘Who could blame her,’ said Teagan. ‘You saw him Friday night at Camrick. The bloke’s grown into a complete babe.’
Josh had always been a complete babe, but Em didn’t need to add that to the conversation. ‘Since when did you become so judgemental? You’ve had sex on plenty of first nights. Mike, for starters, and how could any of us ever forget Rory Davidson?’ Em feigned an exaggerated shudder, which at last earned her a throaty laugh.
‘You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?’
‘Never.’
‘With good reason,’ added Teagan. ‘God, he was awful! Those zits.’
‘That penis,’ countered Jas.
More laughter followed. They urged the horses back into a walk, keeping to the wet sand, where the footing was firmer. The wild weather from the previous week had cast high drifts of seaweed further up the beach. The air was rich with its iodine smell and noisy with seagulls picking at scraps caught up in the weed tangle. Fish, crustaceans and molluscs brought up from deeper water to slowly die. Here and there a fluoro orange float added brightness as well as sadness to the decaying browns. Each year the mess seemed to get worse; the selfishness of humans captured like abstract art in the masses of marine rope, plastic rubbish and fishing line.
‘So,’ said Jas, ‘how was it?’
‘How was what?’
‘Don’t play cute. We’re your best friends.’
‘The same.’ Em looked towards the sea. A rippling white line stretched across the water where the swell hit one of the coastline’s
many distant reefs and formed a bank of ocean breakers. She smiled at the crashing wave inference, thinking of Josh’s skilful touch. ‘Better.’
‘Better? From the man you once described as the ultimate bedmate?’ Jas flicked her dark curls. None of them wore helmets. The day was too fine, the air too enticing. ‘Bloody hell.’
Teagan speared her with an envious look.
Em said nothing. What was there to say? They’d had amazing sex. Sex she’d enjoyed every delicious second of, that made her feel womanly and desirable and alive. Sex she wanted to repeat. Soon.
She wondered what he was doing, if he would be free tonight. She could cook something simple, an omelette with fines herbes, all fresh-picked from the garden, with perhaps a sprinkle of parmigiano, and a dressed salad. They could share a bottle of rosé or pinot noir, and relax afterwards on the lounge. Then later, when their slow caresses signalled a change in mood, Em could lead him to bed where she’d rub his sore body with warm vanilla-scented oil until they were both slippery with excitement.
‘Oh, you are so gone.’
‘What?’ said Em, jerking around to blink at Jas.
‘You should see your face. Last time you looked like that you were seventeen.’
‘You never looked like that with Trent, that’s for sure,’ said Teagan.
Em twisted her fingers through Lod’s mane, her cheeks hot. ‘I had a good night, that’s all.’
‘A very good night. So what’s next with the sexpot?’
‘I don’t know. Nothing, I suppose.’
‘Nothing!’
‘Bullshit.’
Em released an exasperated sigh. ‘It was just sex.’
‘You mean sex for old-time’s sake?’ asked Jas. ‘Like Daniella Foltz’s high-school reunion one-night stand with Wade Quinn?’
‘No!’
‘Good. Because we all know how badly that ended.’
Teagan’s snort of laughter had Astra shooting off on another of her skittery fits. Given how thin Teagan was these days it was a wonder she had the strength to control the horse at all.
‘Daniella and Wade were married,’ said Em. ‘Josh and I are completely unattached.’
‘So, just your run-of-the-mill, wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, means-nothing one-night stand, then?’
Em narrowed her eyes, but Jas only laughed. Her friend was enjoying this enormously. Fortunately Teagan was too occupied with Astra to keep digging the boot in.
‘Poor, innocent Emily,’ teased Jas, ‘why do you lie to yourself so?’
‘I’m being realistic.’
‘Realistic? Oh, come on. This isn’t just a one-nighter with your average hot bloke. This is a one-nighter with Josh Sinclair, and you know there’s only one place that can lead. Oh, yes. Sex with Josh Sinclair can only have repercussions. Serious repercussions. Repercussions like’ – she slapped her hand to her heart and gasped theatrically – ‘love!’
‘Jas, darling, I love you dearly.’ Em held up a hand and began ticking off counterarguments. ‘But his mum’s sick. He’s been through a divorce that’s left God knows what scars. And he’s only just come home. He’s not interested in anything more than a bit of fun.’ Except that was a white lie. The way he’d looked at her in the drive at Camrick conveyed something very different, as did his farewell that morning. The way he’d held her, gently trapped between his legs, arms around her waist, continuing to kiss and nuzzle long after he should have gone. Em had been just as bad, not wanting the magic to end, letting the day rise and warm over them when she should have been organising Lod for their trip to Admella Beach.
For some reason she didn’t want to tell her friends about those intimate moments. As ridiculous as the feeling was, Em harboured a superstitious fear that she might have read too much into Josh’s expression and caresses. Her hopes were fragile, like the bubbles left with each wash of the tide. This could be nothing. This could be everything. Examining it wouldn’t change Josh’s feelings, or his plans. She had to let it flow.
‘I think you’re wrong,’ said Jas, contemplative now. ‘A man like Josh doesn’t play games. And when you think about it, the attraction must still be pretty intense for him to accept an invitation to Camrick, especially given what happened there. And after. He has every right to hate you, but he doesn’t. Instead he gives you last night.’
They rode on. The horses plodding contentedly as seagulls flapped and bickered, and the ocean kept up its soothing swish.
Em noticed Jasmine’s mouth turning down as her thoughts channelled inwards. ‘How are things with Mike?’
‘The same. He feeds me the usual promises and I believe them.’ Jas bit her lip and Em immediately wished she hadn’t brought the subject up. ‘I’m so tired of this, Em. Everything to do with it – the lies, the loneliness, the way I hate myself.’
‘So stop,’ said Teagan, although gently this time. The pain in Jasmine’s voice was too acute for stone throwing.
Jasmine’s eyes filled. ‘I wish I could.’
Em experienced a surge of loathing for Mike and his selfish heart. All that hurt for the sake of willing sex and the pathetic thrill of adultery. The man deserved nothing, certainly not this beautiful, big-hearted woman.
‘I love him as much as I hate him. Every time I see him I say this is going to be the last. And then he touches me and it’s like I’m possessed.’
Em reached across to rest her hand on Jasmine’s back. As though sensing his mistress’s distress, Ox tossed his head but stayed steady alongside Lod, his black-tipped silvery ears twitching. ‘You have to find the strength. You can’t keep going like this.’
‘No man is worth this sort of pain, Jas,’ said Teagan.
‘I know.’ Jas dragged the sleeve of her polar fleece across her eyes and sniffed loudly. ‘God, I don’t know what I’d do without you two.’
‘Oh, I think you’d cope all right.’ Jas was as tough as they came. Except when it came to the man who knew how to manipulate every cell in her body.
Jas remained serious, her focus on Em. ‘You know, you’ve never once condemned me for this. Teagan’s always made her disapproval known, but you’ve never blamed me.’
‘None of us are pure, Jas. Me especially.’
‘Not after last night, anyway.’
Em laughed, relieved to hear humour return to her friend’s voice. ‘Definitely not after last night. Come on, let’s clear these boys’ pipes out.’
She urged Lod into canter and leaned forward, setting her weight on her knees as she let the horse have his head. Wind rushed past her ears, Lod’s hooves making wet thumps against the dense sand, Ox’s and Astra’s adding to the beat. She steered him into the water, where the beach sloped gently and the tide surged in broad shallow sweeps. The horse powered on, flicking up water that hung like glittering diamonds in the winter sun.
And suddenly Em was free of everything. Of the intense, uncertain feelings that last night unleashed. The world was salty and scented and brilliant, and she was galloping on the very edge of it. Elated, excited and brave.
*
‘Your mother is in the kitchen with Felicity,’ said Granny B in her most cut-glass voice, a sure indication of her temper. ‘Poring over carpet samples, every one of them in that God-awful curdled cream colour to which, for some unfathomable reason, she’s taken a fancy. Wholly impractical, and bound to make Camrick look like a consulting room. Damned shame to cover those floorboards.’
Em thought it was too, but if her mother possessed anything it was good taste. Whatever carpet she chose, the hall and stairs would look designer-perfect. ‘The runner was pretty worn, Gran.’
‘Rubbish. A few threads missing, that’s all.’ She sighed. With the Persian runner pulled up, the hall appeared gloomier than usual, a vast expanse of dark polished timber and shadowy corners. ‘I’m going to miss these floorboards. Creak like an old ship, they do. Always made it easy to determine if a burglar was in the house. They’ll be able to prance around pinching silver all they please o
nce that carpet goes down.’ She and Em walked to the kitchen. ‘Still, that’s your mother’s problem.’
Adrienne looked up from her booklet as they came in. ‘It is, which is why I can’t fathom why you insist on carrying on about it.’ She smiled at Em. ‘Hello, darling.’
Em greeted her with a kiss and a quick hug, and a smile and hello for Felicity. The kitchen smelled as it usually did on a Tuesday evening, aromatic with good cooking and homeliness. Tonight, the air was savoury with vegetables and herbs, and a touch humid thanks to a steaming stockpot on the stove.
‘Minestrone?’ she guessed, although it wasn’t a difficult one. Her mum’s minestrone was a family winter favourite, and tonight was cold, the southern breeze bone-chilling.
‘All Felicity’s work.’ Adrienne smiled at her future daughter-in-law, and reached across to squeeze her hand. ‘She’s proving quite the talented cook. And I’ve attempted another batch of sourdough.’ Releasing Felicity, she threw Em an apologetic look. ‘I know I said I wouldn’t but I simply can’t stand the thought that it’s beaten me.’
Adrienne’s battle to make the perfect sourdough loaf had been waged for a few years now, ever since Samuel escorted her to France on holiday. Em’s mother made perfectly serviceable bread, delicious bread, in fact, with a lovely tang, chewy texture and crisp outer crust. But it was never the same as the loaves she’d enjoyed in Paris, and so the fight continued. Em suspected it would never end.
Perhaps if Adrienne had kept Camrick’s old combustion stove she might have stood a chance but that went after Uncle James’s death, when Adrienne moved from Rocking Horse Hill into town and embarked on yet another of her modernisation missions. Although stunning, its sleek stainless-steel replacement seemed to lack that certain something, as if its efficiency starved the bread of soul.
‘I’m sure you’ll win in the end. So where’s Dig?’
‘Held up at some irrigation forum FirstAg is running. He shouldn’t be too far away.’
Em pulled out a stool and sat opposite her mother at the large granite-topped workstation. Samples of cream carpet were scattered across the surface. Each was plush and expensive-looking, but with differing piles and textures. Em scraped her palm over the surface of one piece. It changed shade the way shot taffeta did when it shimmied against the light. ‘This is nice.’
