by Kris Webb
Kris Webb and Kathy Wilson are sisters who grew up in Brisbane.
Inheriting Jack is their second novel and is the result of even more coffee and wine than their first one.
Also by Kris Webb and Kathy Wilson
Sacking the Stork
INHERITING JACK
KRIS WEBB & KATHY WILSON
First published 2004 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited
This edition published 2005 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited
St Martins Tower, 31 Market Street, Sydney
Copyright © Kris Webb and Kathy Wilson 2004
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
National Library of Australia cataloguing-in-publication data:
Webb, Kris.
Inheriting Jack.
ISBN 0 330 42153 0.
1. Motherhood – Fiction. 2. Toddlers – Fiction. I. Wilson, Kathy. II. Title.
A823.4
Typeset in Bembo by Post Pre-press Group
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
These electronic editions published in 2007 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney 2000
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.
Inheriting Jack
Kris Webb and Kathy Wilson
Adobe eReader format 978-1-74197-129-3
Microsoft Reader format 978-1-74197-330-3
Mobipocket format 978-1-74197-531-4
Online format 978-1-74197-732-5
Epub format 978-1-74262-605-5
Macmillan Digital Australia
www.macmillandigital.com.au
Visit www.panmacmillan.com.au to read more about all our books and to buy both print and ebooks online. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events.
To Neil and Stephen
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Our thanks go to our agent Margaret Connolly, who saw something in Sacking the Stork, our first book, long before it was ready to show the world and has guided us ever since. Thanks also to Cate Paterson, who believed in us enough to ask for two books and without whom Inheriting Jack wouldn’t exist. And to Brianne Tunnicliffe and Julia Stiles, who helped turn our manuscript into a book – thank you for caring about our characters and worrying so much about Jack.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER-TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER-TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER-TWENTY THREE
CHAPTER-TWENTY FOUR
CHAPTER-TWENTY FIVE
CHAPTER-TWENTY SIX
CHAPTER-TWENTY SEVEN
CHAPTER-TWENTY EIGHT
ONE
This had to be the worst blind date imaginable.
Clutching a large brown teddy bear, I watched apprehensively as the passengers off the flight from Rome began filtering into the arrivals hall.
I tried to ignore the sick feeling in my stomach and focused instead on a pair of bedraggled backpackers who had obviously taken advantage of the free airline alcohol. They squinted painfully in the fluorescent glare as they felt the full force of their first Australian hangover. Behind them was a woman who looked more like she’d been in a beauty salon than an aero-plane. She had to be Italian, I thought to myself, not without some bitterness.
Suddenly I craved a cigarette, despite the fact that I had never had more than an occasional drunken puff. A new wave of terror shot through me as I realised that now I would never be able to take up smoking – even if I wanted to.
‘Maybe the bear is a mistake.’ I turned to Patrick. Despite my own panic, I noticed that his eyes, which usually sparkled with fun, were decidedly worried. ‘I think it looks too much like a bribe.’
Patrick ran his hand through his sandy hair; his silence spoke volumes. While I reacted to pressure by talking, my brother’s response to stress was silence. Consequently I’d been babbling nonstop to a wordless Patrick since the phone call and there wasn’t much left for me to say on any subject.
The teddy bear had been an afterthought, bought at the airport gift shop five minutes ago.
‘But then again, it might help to break the ice,’ I muttered. Patrick managed a nod in response and, encouraged, I continued. ‘I mean, what do you say to an eighteen month old you’ve never met who has travelled halfway across the world to live with you? “Did you see any good movies on the flight?” ’
The words died in my throat as I saw a child toddling towards us.
‘Oh God. Here we go,’ I croaked.
Finally, Patrick had something to say. ‘Julia, I don’t know much about kids, but I think it’s unlikely that a boy called Jack would be wearing a pink dress with strawberries on it.’
He had a point. I unclenched my hands and tried to look casual.
When the telephone had rung at six o’clock on Saturday morning, I hadn’t realised my life was about to change forever.
Several of my good friends had moved to London and developed the unfortunate habit of phoning to tell me they were having a drink for me. The time difference meant that these calls came at spectacularly antisocial times and almost always woke me up. So when the harsh bleating of the telephone broke through the layers of my alcohol-induced sleep, I assumed it was my friends, clustered around a table in another smoky London pub.
Cursing, I stumbled out of bed and into the living room, trying to locate the mobile handset. I finally tracked down the shattering noise and pressed the talk button.
‘Joanne, do you really have to call me every time you get drunk?’ I said by way of greeting as I walked unsteadily back to my bedroom.
There was silence on the line and then the caller cleared his throat.
‘Hello, is that Julia Butler?’
The voice was definitely not Joanne’s. I stopped walking.
‘Ah, yes,’ I answered hesitantly, not entirely sure of that fact this morning. My hangover had just caught up with me and I pushed my fingers against my temple, trying not to move my head.
‘Julia, this is Robert Neilsen.’
I tried to force some rational thought into my murky brain. Why would my best friend’s brother be calling me? Robert lived in London and I hadn’t spoken to him for several years.
‘I’m afraid I have
some bad news,’ Robert said.
Something in his tone made it past the pounding in my head.
‘Anita died this afternoon.’
I heard the words but felt nothing. Anita couldn’t be dead.
When I didn’t respond, Robert continued miserably. ‘There was an accident outside her school . . .’ He stopped and it was several seconds before he spoke again. ‘I’m not sure of the details, but apparently a school bus lost control.’
My neck suddenly felt unable to hold up the terrible weight of my head and I leaned against the wall. I closed my eyes and then opened them, trying to get a bearing on a world that had been turned upside down in the time it took to answer the phone.
I groped for an explanation. Obviously the whole thing was a mistake – they’d just confused Anita with someone else. ‘Are you sure?’ I heard my voice echo back on the tinny line. ‘Maybe it’s a mix-up? You hear about that kind of thing happening. A guy I went to school with disappeared in India a couple of years ago during some floods. His family went mad trying to find him and then it turned out he was on a beach in Thailand the whole t–’
I could almost believe what I was saying as long as I didn’t stop talking. But Robert interrupted me mid sentence.
‘There’s no mix-up,’ he said leadenly. ‘One of the other teachers she worked with saw it happen.’
I thought suddenly of Anita’s son.
‘Oh God. What about Jack?’
‘He’s fine. She’d already dropped him off at the daycare centre. I’m catching the first plane to Rome in the morning.’
My sense of relief that Jack was all right lasted for only a second before Robert’s terrible news finally registered. My hands began to shake and I missed what he said next as I slid down the wall and pulled my legs into my chest.
Closing my eyes, I saw Anita as she was when she was last in Brisbane, several years ago. We had arranged to meet at a cafe in the city and I’d almost walked past her. The long dark waves she’d had since she was a girl had been cropped and bleached almost white and she was wearing a flowing skirt that could only have come from Europe.
Robert’s voice brought me back to the present. ‘Did you know that Anita appointed you Jack’s legal guardian in the event of her death?’ The words seemed oddly formal, as if he were reading them from a document.
‘Sorry?’ I asked, convinced I’d misheard.
‘Anita wrote a will just after Jack was born – she left a copy with me. She stipulated that if anything happened to her, you were to take care of Jack. She didn’t talk to you about it?’
More blurred flashes of that last visit came back to me. Anita had been in Brisbane for her mother’s funeral and had flown back to Rome via Sydney, where I was living at the time. A quiet drink turned into many more and we’d ended up in Baron’s in Kings Cross, sitting on velvet-covered sofas that bore testament to the number of drinkers who’d preceded us. I vaguely remembered us professing undying friendship and promising that we’d be godmother to each other’s unborn children.
When Jack was born, Anita had asked whether our agreement still applied. I’d been delighted, thinking that being his godmother meant an excuse to buy him fabulous presents. I’d given very little thought to the religious side of things and none whatsoever to what might happen if she died. Given that Jack’s father had never even seen him, maybe I should have.
Now I had no idea what to say.
Fortunately Robert didn’t seem surprised by my lack of response. ‘Look, this is a lot for you to take in. Why don’t I call back in a few hours?’
After muttering some kind of affirmative response, I pressed the off button. I looked around. Everything was the same as it had been before I’d answered the phone. My bedroom door was still only half painted. My new white shirt, which lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, still had a red wine stain on it. Last night that had seemed like such a tragedy.
My best friend was dead. Anita. Gone. I knew there was more I needed to deal with, but I couldn’t make my mind focus.
Slowly I pulled on some jeans and a crumpled T-shirt, not caring that I looked more than a little bit slept in. I thought briefly about brushing my hair but dragged my fingers through it instead. My usual morning concerns about whether my shockingly expensive styling product was winning the battle to subdue the kinks in my short hair seemed ridiculously unimportant.
I glanced in the mirror. Like the house, I looked much the same as I had yesterday. Dark hair, brown eyes – although the red tinge to the whites of my eyes hadn’t been there before the excesses of last night.
As I pulled the front door shut behind me, I looked up at the light breaking across the pale blue sky. I couldn’t believe that Anita would never see another morning sky. It just didn’t seem possible.
Mindlessly, I turned out of the gate and started walking. There was something soothing about just putting one foot in front of the other and I concentrated on counting my steps until I lost track around a thousand.
When I looked up, I realised that I was near New Farm Deli. Although the doors were unlocked, the chairs were still upside down on the tables. I hesitated and then pushed open the glass doors, breathing in the warm smell of coffee.
I knew I should be thinking about what Robert had told me. Anita was dead and Jack was my responsibility. There were things I had to do and decisions I had to make. I tried to force myself to concentrate, but it was no good. Something in my brain still refused to believe this was happening.
What had Anita been thinking when she’d decided I should be Jack’s guardian? I was thirty-one, single and a solicitor in a law firm that monopolised ninety per cent of my waking hours.
The man behind the counter smiled and I tried, but failed, to smile back.
‘Is it too early for a flat white?’
He shook his head. ‘Never too early for a coffee here.’
I handed over my money. This was all wrong. Anita was dead. How could I be standing here paying for a coffee as I had a thousand times before?
Automatically I turned around and headed for my usual table on the footpath. I hauled a chair off the top and slumped into it.
I’d dropped my wallet on the table in front of me. Slowly I opened it and pulled out a photo I always carried. It was the first one of Jack that Anita had sent me; it had been taken when he was only hours old. Anita was sitting on a hospital bed, a swaddled Jack cradled in her arms.
Anita had been part of my life for as long as I could remember. We’d gone to primary school together in Manly, a laid-back suburb on the shores of Moreton Bay, had swapped sandwiches at lunchtime and ridden home together on matching Malvern Star bikes. Our friendship had outlasted adolescent romances, teenage angst and survived the stresses of university while Anita studied to become a teacher and I’d done a law degree.
We’d always planned to travel through Europe together, but it wasn’t until Anita had been teaching for several years and I’d emerged from university that our dream had finally become a reality.
From our first night in a terrible hostel in Rome, Anita had loved Italy. We’d been travelling for several months by that stage and I’d decided to head to London to find some work to boost my flagging finances. I’d left her in Rome, where she revelled in wandering the ancient streets, stopping only to drink espressos in the shade of thousand-year-old buildings.
‘A little longer,’ she told me, and stayed another ten years, having learned Italian and found work in an English language school. She immersed herself in the Italian way of life and I’d been sure she’d marry an Italian and never come home. That was until Jack came along.
It was this photo of Anita and Jack that had made me realise that for the first time there was a real difference between us. She was a mother. I could only guess at the nature of the love that filled her face as she touched a tiny hand that had escaped the midwife’s efficient wrapping.
And now, after only eighteen months of her son’s life, she was dead.
T
he ache in my chest moved up to my throat and I rested my forehead on my hand, suddenly wishing I had stayed at home. Tears leaked out of my tightly screwed eyes and I pressed my hand over my mouth. A sob burst through and was followed by another. Dimly I registered someone putting a coffee on the table and hovering uncertainly for a few moments, but I could focus on nothing but the fact that my friend was gone forever. Blindly I pushed the chair back and stumbled away, wanting to be by myself. I made it as far as a side street, where I sank onto the edge of the gutter, head buried in my hands, crying uncontrollably.
I snapped out of my reverie as I saw a little boy holding tightly onto the hand of a red-headed man emerge from behind the screen and enter the arrivals hall.
Jack had spent the night Anita died with the woman who ran the daycare centre. A lawyer friend had told Robert that although Jack had an Australian passport, the best plan was to get him out of the country quickly in case the Italian welfare system decided it should get involved. So without giving anyone a chance to argue, he’d picked Jack up on Saturday morning, spent a day I didn’t even want to think about in Anita’s apartment, and got them both on the flight to Australia that night. Twenty-four hours later, here they were.
Robert had changed little in the last few years. While Anita had inherited their mother’s tawny hair and brown eyes, Robert had picked up the red hair and pale skin that appeared every couple of generations. He was tall and lanky and his loud laugh and dramatic gestures had always seemed at odds with his bookish appearance. But now all he looked was very tired.