by Shirley Wine
‘Joe’s been helping me, Mama.’ The childhood name slipped out easily. Marta held her mother’s hands, and willed her to stay anchored in the present. ‘He’s helped me mow all the grass, as you wanted me to.’
‘That’s good. It’s a fire danger otherwise. When are you going back to your singing, baby?’
‘Soon. I’m busy—’ she stopped abruptly, catching Joe’s eye and seeing the infinitesimal shake of his head. It would be a mistake to mention clearing the house.
‘Sit down, Joe,’ Agnes scolded. ‘You’re way too high up for me to look at from down here. I’ll get a crick in my neck.’
He sat in the visitor’s chair and Marta picked up the photo she’d brought.
‘What you got there?’ Agnes twisted her head to one side.
‘A photo I found.’ Marta placed the photo on her mother’s lap, then rested back on her heels so she could watch her mother’s face.
Agnes stroked her fingers over the glass, her expression softening and filled with sorrow.
‘Sean.’ Agnes sighed; the whispery sound echoed with melancholy. ‘He was so handsome and kind.’ She looked up directly at Marta, reached out and touched her cheek. ‘You have his eyes, and his voice. Sean could make angels weep when he sang.’
‘He could sing? I didn’t know that.’
‘You never had a chance to know him.’ Agnes sighed again.
‘He romanced you then left you to raise us alone.’ A hard note crept into Marta’s voice.
‘Not by choice.’ Agnes’s eyes were clear and lucid, her voice surprisingly strong. ‘He tried to immigrate here, but he wasn’t allowed in.’
‘Why?’ Marta sank back on her heels, startled by this unexpected disclosure.
Agnes stroked her fingers over the photo, silent so long Marta was sure she’d slipped away once more, retreated from reality. Then she looked up, her tear-filled eyes filled with hurt. ‘He came from Ireland on a visitor’s visa and overstayed … They deported him.’
‘He wasn’t allowed back into Australia?’
‘Not for three years.’
‘Even though he had children?’ Marta asked, even as she knew the answer.
Australian border security was tough on over-stayers, their rulings almost impossible to challenge.
Agnes sighed once again. ‘He had a wife back in Ireland, see.’
Oh dear, Immigration wouldn’t like that. Marta caught her mother’s hands and smoothed her thumbs across the backs of them. ‘Did you know, Mama?’
‘Not at first. Later it didn’t matter.’ Agnes’s voice was bleak and echoed with pain.
The sound threatened to break Marta’s heart. ‘Why didn’t it matter?’
‘He was Catholic so divorce was never going to happen.’ A solitary tear ran down her cheek. ‘And then he was dead; he was killed in a passenger train derailment.’
‘Oh, Mama.’ Marta stroked her mother’s hands offering her wordless comfort. So much she’d never understood now began to make sense.
‘I didn’t know he was dead for such a long time, not until after Ben was in school and by then all I could do was keep raising you kids.’
Agnes lapsed into silence and sank back in the chair, her head drooped and her eyes closed, and moments later she began to rock in that haphazard way, and once again she was lost to the world around her.
Marta knew asking about the men’s boots she’d found was pointless. She had loads more questions, but her mother’s precious moments of lucidity were gone: the old lady had already forgotten she and Joe were there.
Marta blinked furiously to dispel the gathering tears and gave Joe a helpless look. He extended a hand to help her rise. ‘You ready to go?’
The compassion in his eyes was nearly her undoing and she fought to keep the threatening tears at bay. My poor mother. Fancy not knowing her man had died, and to find out years later—Marta shook her head.
It beggared belief that anyone could endure such unimaginable sorrow.
Chapter 7
The sun was setting as Marta pulled into her driveway. Joe pulled in and parked his dusty ute behind her little car. He got out and strode towards her to open her car door.
She looked up at him and smiled, but her lower lip trembled. ‘You didn’t need to follow me.’
‘Yes I did. You were upset and I wanted to be sure you made it home safely.’
She looked away to avoid eye contact, a sure sign she was still shaken from the visit with her mother. He wanted to hold her close and offer comfort, but her closed expression made him wary.
She alighted and stood beside him. ‘Would you like to come in for a coffee?’
‘Thank you, I’d love one. Have you anything that needs bringing inside?’
‘My guitar, and the groceries I picked up from the market at the cove,’ she said as she opened the car boot.
She lifted out the instrument and Joe leaned past her and picked up the two jute bags of groceries in one hand and the esky in the other. ‘Is this all?’
‘Yeah.’ She shut the boot and pressed the central locking. ‘Come on in.’
She led the way indoors. Her bleak expression had eased, but worry still clouded her eyes and her features were set and unsmiling, not that this was surprising. Anyone witnessing their mother in such a state would be upset, and despite their estrangement, Joe knew he would hate to see his own mother come to such a pass.
Inside, he put the bags on the bench and unpacked the milk and other perishables straight into the fridge while Marta made coffee and set everything on a tray.
‘Let’s take this outside, it’s so much cooler out there,’ she said.
‘You open the door and I’ll carry the tray.’ Joe struggled to keep his voice even and disguise his eagerness. After she’d left him this morning, he’d come here and done some much needed maintenance. How would she react?
That conversation with Kev had pulled him up short, and he’d wracked his brains as to what he could do for Marta that held real meaning, something she would never do for herself, and he thought he’d hit on the perfect solution. Now, he was nervous. Will she think I’ve over-stepped the bounds of our very tentative re-kindled friendship?
Marta walked out onto the terrace and halted mid-step.
‘What the—’ She broke off and stared, wide-eyed.
His glance skimmed the area; he was glad he’d thought to water-blast it clean to set off the comfortable set of outdoor furniture that now graced the covered terrace. The big terracotta pots that Marta had put to one side now edged the path, just below the deck. He had re-filled them with potting mix and planted them with sweetly scented annuals, their white flowers luminescent in the fading daylight.
‘Who … what?’ She turned to him, her shock and surprise obvious. ‘Did you do this? When?’
‘I did.’ Joe smiled and put the tray on the wrought-iron table. ‘After all the hard work you’ve been doing indoors, you need somewhere pleasant to relax.’
His handiwork had lifted the tired and rundown area of the house to a warm and welcoming place to sit and rest tired bodies—and just maybe, seeing it rejuvenated like this would change Marta’s determination to sell her family home.
With a delighted little laugh, she stepped off the deck and flitted from planter to planter, bending to inhale the sweet fragrance.
‘Nicotiana.’ She turned to him with a breathless little laugh. ‘I’d almost forgotten how heavenly it smells on the evening air. Mum always used to have it growing near the back terrace. She reckoned it deterred insects, or made them so drunk they never bothered humans.’
He breathed out a soft sigh, relieved at her reaction—until this moment he hadn’t been at all sure how she would respond. Marta had always been unpredictable, and this had not changed.
‘I remember.’ His voice was husky with relief and pleasure. Her uninhibited response made the time and effort he’d expended worthwhile.
‘This is so thoughtful, I love it.’ She stepped back onto t
he terrace and sank into one of the comfortable chairs. ‘Thank you, but why?’
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. ‘With so much out of kilter around you here, you need somewhere to relax, somewhere to remind you of happy memories. Change is bearable if you can focus on something pleasurable.’
‘And Lord knows there’s little indoors or outdoors here that I find even remotely pleasing.’ She rested her head back, eyes closed, her breast rising and falling as she breathed deeply. ‘The rich scent of nicotiana is so familiar. It’s the scent of hot summer nights, and it reminds me of Mum and Ben and fun and laughter. I would never have done this, Joe, but I do need it, and I appreciate it. Thank you so much.’
‘It was entirely my pleasure,’ he said, his voice husky with emotion.
It was a start, a way to mend the huge breach that had sundered their once close relationship.
‘If you want change, son, make it happen’—his father’s words echoed in his head.
Today, he had made the first step. There was time enough for her to discover an empty skip had replaced the filled one, and the depleted water tanks were now topped up.
God knows, it was little enough he could do to help, and it was a small measure to repay his gratitude to Agnes. Her kindness to him and Rebecca had given them both desperately needed relief from his mother’s ambition. Adele Marshall’s determination to see her son and daughter on the concert stages of Europe was relentless; pressure that had driven Rebecca to the verge of suicide.
Agnes talked me and Rebecca both off that ledge more times than I care to count.
Not until his father’s death had forced him into making a choice—a choice my mother has never forgiven me for making—did Joe realise the enormous pressure he had been under.
He poured milk into his coffee and lifted it and inhaled, its rich scent mingled with the heady perfume of the flowers.
Marta sighed again; this time it was a sound of pleasure and contentment. She picked up her coffee and added milk and sugar, and for long minutes they sat there in the evening light in a companionable silence.
‘Your mother,’ he said at last. ‘It’s so hard seeing her in such a state.’
She nodded. Her throat, which he knew tasted as sweet as cream, worked in a sudden hard swallow and she avoided looking at him.
‘I’m still struggling with all this.’ Marta lifted a hand and let it fall. ‘How could things get so bad, so quickly? Mum’s always loved her bits and bobs, but never like this.’
‘It’s tough.’ He leaned across the table and touched her hand. ‘And it’s going to be even tougher on Ben.’
‘God yes,’ she muttered, her eyes closed. ‘I’ve told him but—’
‘It’s not the same as seeing it for himself.’
‘No, and nothing I say can prepare him for the shock.’
Joe hesitated a moment, then decided to continue. Marta needed to hear the unvarnished truth so she could understand her brother, and the difficulties he would face on his release. ‘Trying to shield Ben won’t work. The man who’s getting out won’t be the same man you remember.’
Marta turned to him, her eyes flashing sparks.
‘I have been visiting Ben,’ she said, her voice stiff and cold, hostility radiating from her like a force field. ‘I do know this.’
‘Do you? Jail changes a man. Ben will have seen things, been exposed to things and, maybe, done things he can never erase from his memory. He needs to find his own way of dealing with this. You need to take a solid step back and let him. I don’t mean to step on your toes, but I’m concerned. For you both.’
She sank back in the chair, eyes closed. ‘I’ve had some lengthy talks with the prison chaplain, and he’s told me what to expect, and he expressed the same opinions as you.’
‘That’s good.’ He changed the subject. ‘Your mum—she seemed quite lucid for a little while.’
‘It breaks my heart.’ Marta’s voice hitched on a soft sob. ‘Mum’s always been so strong, so positive. Even with the tragedy surrounding Ben, she’s never faltered. I’ve always thought her invincible, and imagined she’d always be there.’
‘Until the day she’s not.’ He watched her expression, sad even in repose. ‘It’s tough, Marta. A foundation pillar of your life has crumbled, and you suddenly realise you’re on your own.’
‘And you would know this.’ She opened her eyes and looked directly at him.
‘I do indeed. And I still miss my dad, his far-seeing wisdom, his rock solid support.’
He leaned across the space and caught her hand in his and sat there, staring at their joined hands. Hers were dainty, soft and well kept, her nails professionally manicured; his much larger, tanned and liberally callused, the result of physical work in all weather. A marked contrast.
‘Mum was much better today. I think being cared for in the rest home is helping her.’
‘And also the relief of being freed of the burden of all this.’
‘Mum was always so neat; I don’t understand why she suddenly turned into a pack-rat.’
Joe caught the bleak note of despair in her voice, and chose his words with care. ‘Hoarding is a common symptom of the early and middle stages of dementia, Marta. It’s a response to feeling isolated,’ he said quietly. ‘When memory fails them, a person’s focus turns to things instead of people; it’s a last ditch effort to conceal their inability to exert control over their memory.’
Marta put down her mug, the chink of china on glass echoing in the dusk silence. ‘You think the cause of Mum feeling isolated was me being in Sydney and Ben being away? That this caused her to go overboard and hoard things?’
‘No, that’s not what I’m saying,’ he said, keeping his voice soft and reassuring. ‘Hoarding is a response to memory loss. Agnes knew and worried that her memory was failing, and because she couldn’t control her memory lapses, she turned to keeping things around her, things she could touch and see—’
‘All that stuff she amassed bolstered her sense of being in control?’
‘More or less.’ He gave her a swift assessing glance. ‘The old guy who helped us clear the yard here, Kev Wade, he knew your mother well, he’s known her all his life. He told me that over the past year or so, there were times she didn’t know him.’
‘Shit! And she managed to hide this from me?’
‘It seems so. I suspect Kev once carried a torch for your mum.’
‘And she never looked at him or any man other than Sean.’ Marta sighed. ‘How sad.’
‘There are people like that, people who only love once.’ And I suspect I may be one of those people.
He watched her, but in the dusk light could discern little of her expression.
With grim resignation, he brushed the bleak thought aside. Marta had broken his heart once, and he wasn’t at all keen to repeat that experience. ‘Your mother surprised you today?’
‘She did.’ Marta traced a fingernail over the decal on her mug. ‘We’ve always known about Sean Finnelley. Mum never once said a bad word about him to us, but she also never revealed any details or told us much about him, except to say he was a charmer.’
‘Listening to her today, I can understand why.’
‘You are more understanding than I am, because I can’t.’ She gave him a quick, sideways glance. ‘Good Lord, Joe, neither Ben nor I are impressionable children. How difficult would it have been when we reached adult status for her to have told us these details about our other parent? Instead here I am, almost thirty and I finally learn that my father was not only a foreign over-stayer, he was married when he hooked up with my mother.’
‘You resent her silence?’
‘I do, and I’m angry about it. Does that surprise you?’
‘No, it’s understandable.’
She huffed out a sharp breath, leaned forward in her chair the better to see him in the dusk light. ‘And now it’s too late—’
He saw the silver sheen of tears streak her cheeks. And his heart broke f
or her. Anguish, need and longing settled like lust in his gut.
Before he could reason away the urge, or talk himself out of the impulse, he leaned over and pulled her onto his lap, and hauled her into a tight hug. She sagged against him, burying her face against his shoulder, little shudders wracking her small frame, but she never made a sound.
Joe just held her, smoothing a big hand across her back, his face buried in the cloud of her hair. There was nothing he could do or say that would ease her heartache.
All he could do was offer her comfort and support.
The close contact made his libido stir—this was Marta, the one woman who had always held his heart in her delicate hands.
One moment she was huddling in his arms, the next she was plastered against him, her curves in intimate contact with his aroused body and her arms were around his neck. Soft, lush breasts pushed against his chest and with a soft imprecation, he bent his head and covered her lips with his.
A fierce rip-tide of desire surged through him, his libido mocking him as it whispered, ‘Hello, remember me?’
His hand found her breast, and her soft moan was warm and sweet against his lips as she pressed against him, wanting—needing.
Trembling. He was trembling.
Lordy—Lordy. He was shaking more than a newly planted sapling—his mouth crashed over hers in a hot tangle of lips and tongue, hot, wet and explicit. This was no gentle getting-to-know-you kiss.
He was not gentle—it had been so long since he’d held Marta in his arms, he didn’t have it in him to be gentle, driven as he was by an ungovernable hunger.
He claimed her, his kiss dark, carnal and demanding.
He wound his hands through her hair, twisting her head slightly to give him easier access to her tender mouth.
Marta was equally aroused, her welcoming sigh lost in the cavern of his mouth.
She surrendered to his passion, melting against him, her hands splayed against the muscles of his chest.
Raging need threatened to consume him when her hands delved into his hair and she cradled his head in her hands. Fire skipped along every nerve and conduit in his body, fizzing like a broken electrical cable.
