by Kelly Hunter
‘How are you seeing inside my head?’
Because he was.
‘You’re not exactly a cipher.’
‘You haven’t seen me in years! You never keep in touch unless someone nudges you to. I grew up. I should be an enigma to you by now.’
He scratched his head and left a tuft of hair sticking out. ‘But you’re not. What you are is overwhelmed and scared by the huge sea of humanity on your doorstep, but it will pass. Once you get out there and get used to it, your confidence will return.’
‘Promise?’ She felt like a child all over again. A fretful, needy, sheltered little soul and how did he know?
‘You’re going to love it. Also, my shirt looks shockingly good on you.’
‘I—what?’
‘I’m going to call the hotel boutique now. It’s called … I don’t know … something starting with S. It’s between the jewellery store and the tourist shop with all the Dr Who telephone booth underwear and at least twenty rows of fridge magnets of the Union Jack. They’ll be expecting you within the hour.’
‘I can’t—’
‘Please, Matilda. You can. I want to do this for you. Consider it my thank you for all that you do for the people who raised me.’
Chapter Four
Henry Church wasn’t one for extreme self-reflection, but coming home to Wirralong and stepping into a world of ageing grandparents and neglected farmland didn’t make him feel good about the life he lived in London. He hadn’t been around to see the struggle his grandparents faced on a daily basis. He’d learned over breakfast one morning that his grandfather hadn’t renewed his driver’s licence the last time it was due.
‘I wouldn’t have passed the test,’ he’d said when Henry had quizzed him on it. ‘But I can still drive on the farm. It’s private property. Tractor practically drives itself, if you give it the right instructions.’
Which somehow wasn’t reassuring at all.
His grandmother barely cooked these days. Said she’d left the oven on overnight one-too-many times. She microwaved pre-cooked meals instead, and the ones that didn’t come from the Moores came from the frozen dinner section of the supermarket. The well-stocked kitchen pantry of his childhood now held a couple of boxes of long-life milk, salt and pepper, tea and bad coffee, tinned soup, peanut butter, vegemite, and several jars of Tilly’s homemade jam.
The house was clean though, his grandfather’s doing. And the vegetable garden remained his grandfather’s pride and joy. And with Henry around to do some of the heavy work, his grandfather seemed to have no trouble tending his wife too—heartbreakingly gentle with her when she was in a good mood and firm with her when she wasn’t.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ Henry began two nights later, after he’d cleared his plate of lasagne and garden-fresh salad and gone back for seconds. ‘You’ve only the breeding flock left and there’s a lot of feed out there going to waste. What if I run a new fence through the middle of the gully paddock? You could lease the back paddocks, and arrange for the maintenance to fall to someone else.’
‘No loading yards out there,’ his grandfather said.
‘They could use the main yards.’
‘No.’
‘But—’
‘No.’
‘Then I’ll build a set of yards at the far end of Campfire Road.’
‘Where am I going to get the money from for you to do that?’ his grandfather wanted to know.
‘I have the money.’ He had more money than he knew what to do with, and was perfectly willing to spend it.
‘No.’
‘Or, we could get a manager in. Take a load off that way.’
His grandfather bristled. ‘Are you suggesting I don’t know what I’m doing?’
‘No.’ It was Henry’s turn to rock the negatives. ‘What I’m saying is that you are retired, but the farm is still a farm and needs tending. Weeds to keep in check. Erosion measures to see to. Water flow to keep track of. Wildlife corridors to monitor. You taught me this. How to be a steward of the land.’
His grandfather wouldn’t look at him, but his grandmother did, her lips a thin line and her posture rigid.
‘He did teach you. He did it in the hope that you would one day be proud to take over here, but no. You couldn’t wait to be gone. Just like your mother. She was nothing but a basket full of bad decisions too.’
Henry felt his mouth thin and wondered if his eyes had grown hard and narrow. ‘Don’t forget her crippling lack of self-worth. Wonder how she came by that.’
‘Henry,’ his grandfather warned.
‘Rein it in. I know.’ When had he ever not?
‘Neglect happens.’ His grandfather sat back in his chair, still broad of shoulder and firm of jaw, even if his eyes looked like they’d seen a lifetime of war. ‘And sometimes it doesn’t matter much in the grand scheme of things if a farm remains empty and land remains left to its own devices for a few years. So what? Four generations of slightly neglected family-held land will go to the highest bidder when we die, and a new family will set down roots and be happy here. The land will clean up a treat under good stewardship. Trust me. The bones are there.’
‘I’d like to help.’ And maybe that was what he should have said all along. ‘How can I help?’
His grandfather wouldn’t hold his gaze. ‘Just be here and do what you’ve been doing. Small favours around the house. Keeping us company. That’s been grand.’
‘Oh, grand, yes,’ his grandmother piped up. ‘Driving us into town to see friends and go dancing—that’s been marvellous, hasn’t it, George? I haven’t danced like that in such a long time.’
‘George?’ Who the hell was George? And … dancing? But his grandfather nodded, even as his eyes pleaded with Henry to make nothing of his wife’s words.
‘That’s right, love.’
‘You could come back to London with me. Stay awhile,’ Henry began, but his grandfather was already shaking his head.
‘We talked about that and decided against it. We don’t want the worry of travel and getting ill. We have everything we need right here. And now that you’re free of your work commitments you might even decide to start back up again in Australia. Or somewhere else not so far away, so we could see more of you. Or stay in London—whatever you need to do.’
‘You could visit more often, couldn’t you George?’ his grandmother said, only Henry had no idea who she was talking to, because there was no one here called George at all.
But they were both looking to him for a reply. ‘I’m sure I could,’ he offered slowly, guided by his grandfather’s nod. Wouldn’t be hard to visit more than once every three-and-a-half years, now would it? Shame flooded in, even as his grandfather rose from his chair and motioned for Henry to follow.
‘Stay there, love. I’ll put the kettle on and see to the dishes.’
‘And I’ll help.’ Henry waited until they were out of earshot before confronting his grandfather. ‘Who’s George?’
‘Her brother. He died before you were born. She just … forgets names sometimes. It’s nothing.’
‘Have you had her tested?’
‘For what?’ Defensiveness rang in the older man’s voice. ‘There’s nothing wrong.’
‘But—’
‘Enough, Henry. It’s nothing.’ The older man could not hold his gaze. ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’
*
Silly Tilly was a name she hadn’t worn in years, but every time Matilda stepped outside Henry’s beautiful apartment and braved this bold new world full of people and colour and movement and smells, her old nickname came to mind. She’d followed Henry’s directions to the letter and braved the clothing boutique, the restaurant and the gallery. The day after that she’d hit a fancy tea shop and left with a loose-leaf Earl Grey that she wasn’t sure she liked, and a kitschy white teapot with Queen Elizabeth’s elderly face painted on it. It was hideous, but the shop attendant had been so nice and asked her where she was from and how long she was staying and
did she need any souvenirs, so …
It was the teapot or a Big Ben biscuit tin and the teapot had been smaller.
The following evening she caught a double-decker red bus, and it was the right number—the one Len had told her would take her straight into the city. Such a pity it had been going the other way. Out of London Central and off to somewhere called Peckham. By the time she’d turned around and arrived at the West End theatre, the show had already started and she’d had to wait in the foyer for a break before they’d let her in. She had one of the best seats in the house, courtesy of Max and Maggie Walker-O’Connor, and all she got from the people sitting in the same row were glares and tut-tuts as she brushed past them to get to her seat.
Silly Tilly.
Silly Tilly again on the way home when she couldn’t find her travel card and had to get a taxi, but at least she got into the apartment without setting off any alarms. The show had been breathtakingly good, and so what if she’d had to let go of all her dreams of swanning into the theatre wearing her new shoes with the pretty kitten heels and the sky blue scarf she’d never had a chance to wear, because they were still in transit or sitting on the tarmac in Iceland or Newfoundland. Somewhere she wasn’t, and it shouldn’t matter to her enjoyment of her holiday, it just shouldn’t.
Go out and buy yourself a nice outfit, another scarf, and a pair of pretty shoes, her mother would have said, if she’d known Tilly’s luggage was still MIA.
Instead, on Henry’s dime, she’d opted for serviceable black trousers, black ballet flats, and a shimmery bronze top that the saleswoman in the boutique swore did amazing things for her complexion. Sure did. Made her look all ruddy.
Henry’s white business shirts suited her much better.
And when he called her the following morning, she was unashamedly wearing one.
‘They still haven’t found your luggage?’ Henry’s face was on the screen in the kitchen again, looking tanned and gorgeous as he sat back in the cane lounge chair on his grandparents’ verandah and cracked open a beer. It was early morning her time, and late afternoon where he was.
‘Today, I have it on good authority that my luggage is in Shanghai. It was in Darwin the day before that. It’s getting closer. Want to hear today’s plan?’ She’d woken up that morning, determined to spend some money and buy more clothes. Not from Harrods, nowhere that would break the bank, but the clothes would be pretty and inspire confidence and make her smile when she put them on.
‘Does it involve getting out of my shirts any time soon? Your parents are missing you, by the way, and Maggie said to tell you she’s having macaroon withdrawal. She asked after your cooking classes.’
‘That’s not ’til week three, fortunately.’
‘Why fortunately?’
‘I’m self-taught. If anything, those classes are going to make me feel like the backwater amateur I am. I need to work my way up to them.’ She was determined to take the class, nonetheless. ‘I bought you some new socks. They’re pink. And fluffy.’
‘Please, keep them. And take them out of my sock drawer.’
He delighted her. ‘Did you know that you can fit far more socks in your drawer if you organise them in a square? And then another square inside that square, and so on. You now have space for at least six more pairs of socks, which I aim to provide for you.’
‘Are the socks touching? I bet they’re touching.’
‘Of course they’re touching. They’re snuggling. Henry, when did you become all … I don’t know … orderly?’
‘Have you seen my grandfather’s tool shed?’
‘Can’t say’s I have.’
‘Okay, how about the freezer? Who else do you know who organises their frozen food selection alphabetically?’
‘Really?’ She just handed the food over, she didn’t pack it away. ‘So this ruthless organisation thing of yours is a learned response rather than a necessary thing?’
‘Why? Does it matter to you?’
It did. And distance and the small screen size of his face encouraged bravery. ‘Little bit, yeah. Because while I can see the advantages to wanting to keep belongings in order, it doesn’t really speak to me all that strongly. I give you full permission to look in my sock drawer, for example. And weep.’
‘Why would I weep?’
And there it was. Proof positive that just because she was feeling all up-close-and-personal with the man on the screen, he wasn’t exactly sharing the sentiment. Why would he? She was nothing to him but an old childhood friend he remembered when it suited him. ‘Never mind. Was there anything you wanted, Henry?’
He looked ever-so-slightly confused. It was an odd look for him and she returned it with a puzzled shrug. ‘Not that I object to a familiar face over breakfast, but you seem to be checking up on me. Are you acting on my parents’ behalf?’ It was the obvious reason. ‘Because if you are, I’ll just cut out the middle man and give them a call.’
‘I called because you worried me the other day. You sounded overwhelmed.’
She had been. But her comfort zone was expanding, and the National Gallery was her new favourite place. ‘I’m doing okay.’
‘You’d tell me if you weren’t?’
Tell him anything he wanted to know about her. All he’d ever have to do was ask.
‘I would.’
*
‘What about you? How are your grandparents?’
Henry hesitated. Silence had always been his go-to when he was wrestling with something, but Tilly had a way about her that invited him to share. ‘Nothing more than what you warned me about,’ he said finally, and she raised her eyebrows and waited—a gesture she’d learned from him. ‘Beth’s a worry. She thinks I’m her brother sometimes—which is good, because from what I can gather she was fond of him and doesn’t criticise; and bad, because she’s a little bit further along the Alzheimer’s path than I was expecting.’
She had a way of tilting her head and listening that made it easy for him to continue. ‘I didn’t get far with the farm manager idea, and I didn’t even mention the word housekeeper. Tonight I’ll push for a visit from the community nurse. An assessment.’ He didn’t like his chances, but it was time. And if he didn’t speak up, who would?
‘Good. It’s the right thing to do.’ A handful of little words, a clutch of syllables lightly spoken, but they warmed him through, and this was why he’d wanted to call her. Not just to provide support if she needed it but to take heart from her in return.
‘I touch base with you there because I miss you being here, right next door,’ he offered gruffly. ‘I touch base because I like the thought of you in my space and want you to feel at home there and supported in a way you’ve always made me feel. I call because I want to.’
‘Oh, Henry.’
Her eyes shimmered and for a moment he thought there might be tears. Clearly more words were required. Better words. But he didn’t have any.
‘Are you going to call me again tomorrow morning?’
She’d turned away and was reaching for a glass of juice. Breakfast time over there for her, the end of a hard day of mending fences here for him. Leather gloves, wire strainers, the sun beating down and red dirt beneath his feet. ‘Are you going to be wearing another one of my shirts?’
‘Oh, you mean this old thing? I looked up the brand name and its worth at least a month’s worth of cupcakes. There’s an even softer one in your cupboard, did you know? It’s blue.’
‘Not the Weatherill.’
‘Was it a gift? Is it from Savile Row?’
‘No, and yes.’ Bottom line, he’d felt as out of place as Tilly did when he’d first reached London. He’d gotten away with his Aussie farm clothes for a while; they’d simply coloured him poor, which he had been. But for his first paid position he’d needed to dress up. Utterly clueless about what might be required, he’d hit Savile Row and discovered precision tailoring and suits that could take him into any workplace or social situation. ‘I bought it myself. I wanted to k
now what all the fuss was about.’
‘So do I. Bye, Henry. Say hello to Bethany and Joe for me. See you tomorrow.’
‘What makes you think I’m going to call you tomorrow?’
‘You’ll want to tell me how the assessment conversation went. I’m predicting not well, but may the force be with you.’
‘Star Wars quotes? Still?’ She could make him smile. Always had.
‘What can I say? I’m loyal to the classics. Besides, you are going to call me tomorrow.’
Confidence looked good on her. His shirt looked particularly good on her. ‘Only if you put my sock drawer back the way it was.’
‘Hand over heart, I’ll do it.’ She suited action to words, and then started rubbing her hand over her heart. Breast. Heart. Breast … ‘How can this be cotton material when it feels like silk?’
‘Matilda, please stop doing whatever it is you’re doing to that shirt.’ Was that a pebbled nipple?
It was.
He closed his eyes. Invoked a prayer. Wished for Scotty to beam him right there. She wasn’t the only one to cling to the memory of scientifically ludicrous space operas.
‘Do you think it’ll pill? This shirt.’
He cracked an eye open and her hand was still there. Breast. Heart. Collar. Button, wait. ‘Is that shirt missing a button?’ It was.
‘It’ll be here somewhere, I’m sure of it. And if I can’t find it I’ll get another one and sew it back on.’
Another one?
‘Did you just whimper? You did.’ She looked delighted. ‘Oh, wait. Found it. Hanging by a thread. Like you. And me at the moment too.’
So, so true.
‘Bye, Henry. See you tomorrow.’ Such a smiling, joyful terror, bane of his world. Why was it so much brighter with her in it? ‘I’ll be the one wearing your Savile Row shirt.’