‘Who gave it to you?’
‘A guy... He was upset.’
‘Upset? As in vulnerable?’
She pulled a bag open again and took a long look. Then grabbed his hand.
‘He mustn’t have been thinking straight...’
They shut up. Behind them a woman in high-heels clicked down her patio’s stone steps. Two immaculately dressed kids followed her into a silver Mercedes.
‘Should we return the bags, Jayne? Money-back Salvos guarantee?’
The Merc dribbled down the street and Jayne let go of his hand.
‘Do you think it’s, you know?’
‘He’d have dumped it,’ Peter said. ‘Or laundered it. Or something.’
‘Do you think so? ‘
‘I know so.’
‘What would you know? You’re an artist. ‘
She stepped from foot to foot.
‘Look, Jayne, he was legit—’
Peter clammed up, surprised he’d used the man’s words. He scanned the street. Two dog walkers on one side, three kids on bikes further up. They seemed important. Everything did.
‘Let’s go meet the rest of the team. Is there a prize for biggest collection?’
He picked up the bags but Jayne grabbed his wrists tight. ‘We can’t.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s too much... They’ll think we’re criminals...or something. We should take it home first.’
Now Jayne looked up and down the street. A battered blue Commodore appeared. Inside it a man and woman both had dreadlocks. Peter watched them closely until they passed.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ Jayne said. ‘Get this home, then go meet the others. With just our buckets, okay?’
Get out of here? Where were they? Belfast?
‘You want to keep it?’
She shook her head quickly.
‘We’ve got to take it somewhere safe and figure out what
to do.’
‘We’ll take it to the Salvos. They’re safe. And they’ll know what to do.’
‘Not those volunteers. We don’t know who they are.’
She had a point. Their battalion didn’t have a genuine Salvo in it. They were all Reservists like them.
Peter dropped the bags on their white lounge carpet. He’d always thought it was plush but now it looked stringy. It needed a vacuum. Their silver cat Max brushed against the bags as if they were his and where the hell had they been all day? Peter felt the same buzz he got whenever he was about to start painting. A heightened awareness, a brightness in his senses. Like his hands, eyes and even his sense of smell were functioning without his body.
Jayne’s perfume, a fruity burst with a dry finish.
She smelt so good he wanted to munch through the air around her then start on her neck and lips.
She sat on her favourite chair. White leather with footrests but she didn’t relax. She leant forward, her mug of tea between her knees. Peter found in his jacket some of the crying man’s money and threw it at the bags. Max mewled and scampered.
‘More?’ Jayne whispered.
He threw another handful of fifties at the bags. Her face glowed and Peter wanted to lay her on the carpet, grimy bits and all. Give her attention he hadn’t shown her in weeks. Maybe even touch her bare stomach with his.
Although that could be going too far. He still wished with all his heart that she hadn’t got pregnant. That he wasn’t going to be a father.
Jayne sipped her tea.
‘We should take it back to him.’
‘He won’t let us.’
‘But he might have come to his senses.’
‘He was a mess. And he wanted it gone.’
Jayne brought her mug to her lips again but put it down.
‘What if he’s changed his mind? Maybe he’s thinking, What have I done? And he’ll ring the Salvos...’
Peter shook his head. They stared at the bags splattered with fresh cash.
‘How much do you think?’
He shrugged and Jayne winked. ‘You want to count it?’
There was more than seven hundred thousand dollars on their lounge room floor. Jayne picked at a thread hanging from the ankle of her track pants.
‘It’s a lot.’
Peter sat on the carpet against the couch, grabbed a pile of hundreds and squeezed it. Jayne sprang from the carpet and into her chair. Peter was shocked to realise her sudden leap had made him worry for a second about her unborn child.
Jayne sat with her chin in her hands and Peter drifted. Counting the cash, he’d been unable to stop himself from thinking about his old man. His investment in Rockmelon Building Society, or whatever it was, before it collapsed. So much of his and Jules’ money down the plughole. That stuff-up alone could have broken up his parents, let alone the screaming and flailing madman Ron became.
‘Your father won’t tell me what’s wrong,’ was all Peter’s mum would say when he asked if his dad was ever going to stop going nuts. And then his parents had broken up and, instead of feeling relieved, Peter had been angry for years. The voices came back, stronger than ever. He didn’t tell his mum, but it didn’t matter because painting took them away, most of the time.
Jayne folded her hands behind her head, looked out the window and Peter followed her gaze. The sun was yellowing the white blossoms on their Pyrus trees.
‘We need to take it back to him. Just to be sure.’
Peter caught another waft of her perfume. The bags were flat as used party balloons.
‘Okay.’
‘I’ll work from home tomorrow,’ she said. ‘We’ll go together.’
They went to bed naked for the first time in weeks. Peter gently maneuvered Jayne onto her back but she turned and lay on her swollen belly. She looked back at him with a smile and a raised eyebrow. He didn’t need any more encouragement. He tried to get some rhythm going, but Jayne worked against him. Her backward thrusting almost flung him from the bed.
Morning sickness kept Jayne under the covers until after lunch. Peter fed her dry biscuits, when she could stomach them. Between waiting on her, he got started on his new painting. But the idea he’d had before the Salvos mission, an abstract city landscape with light towers, seemed stupid. The shapes, the texture, even the colours, the reds that were supposed to be emotionally rich, looked like a child’s attempt at a fire engine. He tried some layering and blending but the whole thing got worse.
He went to the kitchen for a sandwich and paced up and down. He stopped and stared through the window at the piles of building materials in the backyard. All that junk made the ponds, bonsais, hanging plants and orchids look ugly.
The backyard was a disaster. Worse than his canvas. And the house was no better. Their second bathroom was half finished and they hadn’t even started on the kitchen. Jayne said it needed a complete overhaul: a new industrial oven, a triple sink and wall-to-wall shelving. The window had to be replaced with one double the size. Then dinner party guests would get the best view of their Japanese garden.
Because Peter worked at home every day it was his job to manage the project. He’d thought about stopping painting for a while. Become the full-time project manager-cum-builder. But Jayne wouldn’t have that. Her assessment of their situation made her well up.
‘You can’t stop your work. It’s finally selling.’
Peter had agreed with her, if only to stop her tears. And now the backyard was a pile of wood, steel casings, pipes and ducts. He didn’t know what any of it did and Jayne didn’t have a clue either. But she knew it was no use to them cluttering the lawn.
‘Worksite chic is not part of the Japanese garden aesthetic.’
Still, the renovation was largely on hold due to an unhappy relationship between budget and design. Jayne returned to social justice in the interim, but, according to Peter’s agent, it wouldn’t be for long.
‘That will change when you have the little thing,’ said Wessel. They were at an opening. Wessel had an hors d’oeuvre in on
e hand and a champagne flute in the other. ‘She’ll have someone to care about. And the starving Africans and everyone will have to go stick their puny hands in someone else’s face.’
Peter sculled a glass of water now and Jayne appeared in the kitchen. She looked mousy in her white dressing gown. She moved to fling her arms around him, but checked herself and reached for the cereal cupboard.
‘You been busy?’
‘Trying...Will you be alright to go and sort out the money thing with me?’
Jayne took a bowl of muesli and a tub of yoghurt to the table.
‘I’ll see how I am.’
She put yoghurt on the cereal. After two mouthfuls she clanked the spoon on the edge of her bowl.
‘I’m going to lie down.’
She stretched on the white couch in the adjoining lounge and snuggled cushions under her head.
‘You go. You know him.’
Peter wouldn’t have said that. Still, he nodded and went to the safe he’d thought useless when they’d bought the house.
Never look a gift horse in the mouth. Or he’ll bite you on the arse.
‘Can you carry it all?’ Jayne asked.
‘I’ll take the car.’
‘I want to get some stuff for dinner later when I’m feeling better. Can you ride?’
Not a bad idea. He needed fresh air. And a good bike ride always reminded him of when he lived in the country before Westmore. When they had some good times.
He couldn’t carry the money on the bike.
‘Well...don’t take it,’ Jayne said. ‘Just go and see him. Make sure he doesn’t want his money back guarantee,’ she laughed.
He locked his bike to a street sign and made for the heavy gate. He didn’t want to see the bloke’s crying face again or talk to him. He wanted to go straight back home and make a better fist of his work. Or, if that proved pointless, maybe have a closer look at those building materials out back. But he was in the bloke’s yard now. And he wasn’t home. Nothing was home.
The sculptures had gone from the lawn and just their chains near bare patches showed where they’d stood. The plants had disappeared from the verandah and the front door was wide open. The corridor furniture was gone. Peter stared along the floorboards to the empty back room.
‘Hello?’
The echo surprised him. He didn’t know what he’d expected. The man to come running, full of tears? He’d expected anything, really, but not an empty house and garden. Which, now he thought of it, was stupid. Of course the guy was leaving town! Peter left the verandah, embarrassed at his naivety, and met a fat guy in bike shorts and tight singlet at the gate.
‘You a mate of his?’ the guy asked, scratching at his balloon of a gut.
‘Sort of,’ Peter lied.
‘He’s gone.’
Don’t have to be Sherlock.
‘Know him well?’ Bike Shorts asked.
‘No. You?’
‘I’m his neighbour and I didn’t even know the bastard’s name. He never said hello or goodbye or anything. Dodgy.’
With that, he marched up his driveway. Peter hoped it was to find a bike and use those shorts. He looked at his own stomach, pressed a bit too tight to his new Sonic Youth t-shirt. And rode hard for home.
The garage was empty. Jayne had taken the car. Peter clacked his bike against the wall and puffed inside. He took a bottle of red from the wine rack and poured half a glass. He flopped on the couch and turned on the TV. The man’s empty house had unnerved him. It had reminded him of when he’d been obsessed with UFOs as a kid. When he’d learnt that UFOs took people from their houses in the night, that they singled out people for probes and tests then sent them back into the world and they didn’t remember a thing.
Peter couldn’t think about painting let alone do any.
You wouldn’t work in an iron lung, son.
He held fast against the urge to check the safe and the money.
He flicked the channels and came across a kids’ quiz show. He loved quizzes, but told himself he’d turn it off as soon as Jayne pulled into the driveway.
He should have offered to cook tonight. But he thought he’d just wait and see what she brought home. Hopefully it would be something he wouldn’t know what to do with. Then he could make his offer and she’d say, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll cook.’
The kids on the quiz show were in school uniforms.
He was going to have a kid. Soon!
That he didn’t want. He wanted a kid about as much as Ron had wanted the cancer that had killed him a few weeks ago.
Never had much of a chance to win that battle, did I? But you’ve gotta have a go...
Peter thought of the phone calls he hadn’t made. About his mother, dedicated to Ron regardless of their divorce. She’d stayed single, despite offers. Ron had too, minus the offers.
The TV kids tried to answer questions and memories came at Peter like burglars. Searching for a weak spot where they could break in. They found a couple, too.
Peter was the new kid in class, again. Laughed at for wearing the wrong shoes. A girl called him an ugly turd when the teacher left the room.
Ron, standing at the breakfast table in Corumbul.
Reaching for the kitchen drawer and that fucking knife. The knife in his hands. Ron’s face contorted.
Peter shaking inside but totally still, his hand tight on his spoon. His brother Simon, sitting across the table, his face frozen. Peter feeling something inside, something he didn’t even know was in there, drain out of him fast. Like the last curl of bath water that picks up speed at the edge of the plughole then races for oblivion.
Ah, forgive and forget, son. You don’t complain about the beltings, why worry about a silly threat, kid?
‘What’s the capital city of the USA?’ the quiz host asked.
‘New York?’ came a short boy’s reply.
‘No, sorry Jason. It’s Washington.’
Jesus, fucking hell! He was going to be a dad!
And his baby would grow into a kid.
Who had better know the capital of the USA. Or at least Australia.
He sculled his glass of wine and poured another to the brim. A tall girl with braces fluffed an easy question. But she got another chance.
‘In which country are you most likely to find a lemur?’ ‘Thailand,’ Peter answered confidently. Jayne had involved him in a campaign to save the hairy things.
‘Peru?’ the girl answered.
‘That’s right Brianna, Peru.’
He switched off the TV and flicked through a newspaper on the coffee table. The urge to check the money came again and he gulped more wine. He checked the clock on the kitchen bench: 6:14. Late for Jayne to still be at the supermarket. She hated them at the best of times, and recovering from morning sickness was the worst.
Though none of their friends had them, Jayne had insisted they buy mobile phones. Peter didn’t think they’d be much use. Although he was these days using his computer more. Maybe it would all change. He picked up the home phone and rang her mobile.
The thing buzzed in its black leather pouch on the kitchen bench.
He couldn’t hold out any longer: time to check the safe.
Just to make sure everything was in order.
Hold the cash up to the light.
He pushed the stone vase away from the wall, slid the panel and punched in the code. He closed his eyes. The safe buzzed open and he pulled out a few elastic-wrapped wads. He held them in his fists and felt disgusted at the thrill.
It’s serious clams, son. Good onya.
He threw a bundle on the carpet and stared at it. It was like a kid’s fallen domino. He reached into the safe and pulled out a few more bundles. He wasn’t sure if there was as much there now as they’d shoved away last night. He filled his wine glass again.
6:31.
Where in the hell was she?
He decided he would count the cash in one of the piles, make sure the others were the same height, and then count a
ll the piles. Quick and easy. But he sat frozen. He gulped wine, went back to the couch. He couldn’t ignore that damn money.
Jayne would be back soon.
He had to count it.
It couldn’t be more than a 10-minute job.
He handled a couple of piles. The trim looked uneven. How had they stacked it last night? They’d been tired but strangely energised and full of jokes. Who knows how they’d done it? Maybe they didn’t have as much money as they thought. Or maybe they had more.
6:36.
She might be at her mum’s. But she only went there, really, when she was pissed off with him. And that had been fairly often lately. Because she was pregnant and he didn’t care. Her words, not his. His would have been worse.
Women’s business. Keep out of it. If you’re smart.
He’d looked after her like a princess today so she couldn’t be at her mum’s. Maybe she’d run into a friend at the shops and they’d gone for a drink? But she wasn’t drinking. He pushed the couch onto an angle and flicked through the notes. Fifteen hundred in one pile; he put it to his left. A thousand in that stack; he put it to his right. He was onto his third when the front door opened and Jayne tumbled in. Her keys jangled and his scalp prickled. He stuffed cash into the safe but she was in the lounge in a flash.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked, her face beside a breadstick poking from a shopping bag.
‘What?’
‘Does the guy want it back?’
‘He’s gone.’
‘So where are you going with our money?’
‘Nowhere... I’m...counting it.’
‘Why?’
‘To make sure it’s all there.’
‘Why wouldn’t it be?’
He went silent. For too long.
‘We could have been robbed.’
She put the bags on the couch and sat next to them.
‘Have we been robbed?’
‘I didn’t hear the car.’
‘I ran out of petrol. I had to walk, with these bags. And now you’re...’
Her eyes misted.
‘Why didn’t you call me?’ he whispered, then remembered her phone on the bench.
‘Why are you asking me these questions?!’
‘Because you are.’
‘You had our money on the carpet...’
We. Are. Family. Page 8