by Cassie Hamer
‘Call me Will,’ he said gruffly.
‘Where’s the old Mr Parry?’ Poppy made eye contact.
‘Poppy,’ her mother said sharply.
‘No, it’s all right. He was old.’
Poppy’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean was? Where is he?’
Cara thought quickly. ‘He’s gone away.’
‘Where?’
‘A holiday.’
‘Where to?’
Cara turned in panic to Will.
‘Italy,’ he said firmly. ‘Venice for the canals and Rome for the Colosseum.’
‘All right.’ Poppy nodded. ‘Can we have the kkulppang now?’ She took two and raced outside. ‘I’m gonna eat them in the tree house.’
They moved into the garden. Cara tried to catch Will’s eye to give him a nod of thanks – he’d just saved her an evening of questions and tears about death, and whether Cara was going to die and leave Poppy all alone, and why did Daddy have to die before she even got to meet him. In short, a night for which Cara didn’t have the energy.
But the man was too busy looking about the colour-bomb that was her backyard. He whistled softly.
‘It’s so … so …’
Pretty? Colourful? Lively?
‘So … chaotic.’ He frowned.
Cara stiffened. ‘Oh … your father always said the garden was his favourite part of the house.’
‘That figures …’ Will set the tray down. ‘I mean, the house is rubbish, isn’t it? A knockdown job from what I can tell.’
Cara cringed. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve tried my best to take care of the place.’
‘I’m not saying you haven’t.’ He stood in the garden, arms folded, surveying the lean-to. ‘It’s just … really old.’ Will’s nose wrinkled in distaste.
‘Oh, I think it’s charming.’
‘You do?’ He looked at her quizzically. ‘I think most people would take one look at this place and run in the other direction. Especially in this part of town. I mean, it’s hardly a gleaming white box, and that’s what everyone wants these days.’ There was a hint of bitterness in his voice.
‘Not everyone.’ She paused. ‘Your father and I had an understanding. He was very good to Poppy and me, and so, when things broke or needed fixing, I tried not to bother him.’
‘Maybe you should have bothered him,’ said Will. ‘It’s in a real state now. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.’
Cara handed him a cup of tea. ‘My neighbour, Max Chandler, is a real estate agent and he’s always saying it’s preferable to own the worst house in the best street. A house can be changed, but the location cannot.’
‘That’s what we’re banking on …’ Will muttered.
‘Excuse me?’ Cara set down the teapot and sat.
Will cleared his throat. ‘We’re selling … We have to sell.’ He clasped his hands and looked down.
‘Oh, but you can’t!’ The words were out before she could stop them.
Will’s face darkened. ‘Like I said, I am sorry, but I think you’ll also find that under the terms of my father’s will, the decision is between me and my brother and sister. They say they need the money, so that’s it, end of story.’
Cara moved to the edge of her seat and lowered her voice. ‘Oh, no, it’s just that we love this place. Your father loved it too. It’s the only home Poppy has ever known and I thought that one day we might buy it from your father. We have friends here, good friends, and Poppy has her school …’
‘Well, why don’t you buy it? I’m sure my brother and sister would be willing to sell to you, at the right price. Might save us all a lot of hassle.’ He looked at her with what seemed like hope.
Cara shook her head. Easy for him to say, nearly impossible for her to do, as a single mother on a freelance food stylist’s income. ‘I appreciate the offer, but I know I can’t afford this place.’
In the decade since she’d moved there, homes in Cuthbert Close had nearly doubled in price. The Parry family would expect at least $1.5 million for the run-down cottage.
She took a kkulppang and munched slowly, hoping the sugar might prompt a sudden bolt of inspiration. ‘Perhaps we could pay more rent? Mr Parry was extremely generous, and I’m happy to repay his generosity.’ She stopped eating. ‘This cottage could be an excellent investment for your family—’
‘I’m sorry but we have to sell.’ Will raked his hand through his hair. ‘Ben and Sarah say it’s the only way.’ He looked away. ‘Private schools and ski holidays aren’t as cheap as they used to be …’
‘So, you’re not convinced?’ said Cara, feeling a small glimmer of hope.
‘No, no. They’re right. It’s the best idea.’ He fixed her with his gaze. ‘We have to move on. It’s just a house. Just a crappy, old house.’
Cara took a second to swallow the anger in her throat.
‘See that little tree house.’ She pointed to the casuarina in the back corner of the garden. ‘Your father built that when your mother fell pregnant with you. You remember that scar on your father’s hand?’
He nodded.
‘That’s where the saw slipped. Six stitches in the hospital. But it was worth it, he said, in return for the hours you spent pretending the cubby was a pirate ship.’
Will raised his eyebrows. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘You probably just don’t remember.’
He gave a noncommittal grunt.
Cara splayed her fingers in her lap. ‘When we moved in, the tree house was falling down, and my husband was a builder, so he fixed it up because I was pregnant with Poppy …’ She clasped and unclasped her hands. There was more, but her voice was already thickening with emotion. ‘My own parents moved around a lot when I was a kid, and this cottage was the first place that really felt like home.’
She stopped, and Will didn’t speak, the silence broken only by the sound of Poppy, humming gently to herself from the cubby house.
‘It’s more than just a house.’ She looked at Poppy, sitting in the doorway of the tree house and swinging her legs. She was as rooted to this place as the old casuarina beneath her, the exact spot where Cara had sprinkled some of Pete’s ashes – grey, like moon dust. Was that why Poppy spent so much time there? Cara had never told her about the ashes but wondered if she somehow sensed Pete’s spirit, nurturing the soil and giving strength to the foundations of the tree house. This cottage was their rock and their refuge. It was everything she’d never had as a child, but was determined to provide for Poppy, particularly in Pete’s absence.
Will rubbed his temples. ‘There’s really nothing I can do.’
‘I think there is …’ Cara began but Will glanced at her sharply.
‘Please, don’t tell me what I can and can’t do. I’ve already told you – there’s no choice.’ He went to rise and Cara put her hand out.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, please don’t think I was trying to tell you what to do. What I know is that your father loved this place and he would want you to think carefully about what you do with it.’
‘So now you know my father better than I did?’
‘I only meant that I know what it’s like to lose someone you love. It’s sad, and confusing, and there are so many decisions to be made and you feel like you have to make them all at once and people are tugging you this way and that.’ Cara’s mind flicked back to Pete’s funeral, her mother telling everyone that of course Poppy and Cara would leave Cuthbert Close and live with her and Sam. In times of hardship, family needed family. Her daughter couldn’t possibly cope alone.
Will lifted his head. ‘Okay.’ He nodded. ‘I’ll talk to Ben and Sarah. Try to buy some more time … But I’m telling you it’s a waste of effort. Their minds are made up.’
Cara exhaled and sat back in her chair. With the sun inching slowly towards the horizon, a raven flew overhead and let out a mournful cry of farewell to the day.
CHAPTER FIVE
Beth was in her happy place – mortar in one hand, pestle in the other
, and the exotic aromas of lemon grass, chilli and coriander wafting into her nose, making her mouth water.
Pound that coriander! Smash that garlic! Grind that lemon grass! Release your flavours, or else!
She always began her curry pastes in a fit of frustration, and ended them on a nirvanic high. In what other activity could you collect such a chaotic mix of ingredients, then grind and smash them together to make something totally delicious? That’s what cooking was: making order out of chaos, and there was no bigger devotee of order than Beth Chandler.
She raised her head for a moment and puffed through her mouth to blow away the stray hairs that had come loose from her low ponytail during the wild pounding. Her eye was drawn over the fence to the two heads bowed together in discussion. One of them was her neighbour, Cara. The silken black hair was a dead giveaway. But who was the other person?
A man. She craned her neck for a better look. A rather handsome one too, by the looks of his smart business shirt and luxurious dark hair.
Beth let out a small sigh of satisfaction. Even though the age gap between them was only fourteen years, there was a fragility about Cara that made Beth feel extra specially motherly towards her. She was too young to be on her own.
For a moment, Beth observed them talking intently, then Cara stood and shook hands with the mystery man. Both were frowning.
Not a budding romance, then. Beth let her tight grip on the pestle go slack.
As the pair passed out through the garden and into the house, Cara caught Beth’s eye and waved. Startled by having been caught watching, Beth waved back quickly, forgetting she had the pestle in hand.
CRACK! The sound was extraordinary as the pestle dropped to the tiled floor of the kitchen, rattled around for a moment and promptly split in two.
Beth bent down over the grey shards of granite and picked them up. Her precious pestle. It was one of the few wedding gifts she’d actually ever used, and oh! the curry pastes, pestos and chermoulas it had produced, with such utter reliability, unlike the blender given to them by cousin Judy, which had conked out within the first year of her married life.
Nearly made it to twenty, thought Beth wistfully as she pressed the two halves together.
Everything breaks eventually, I suppose.
‘Mum, what was that? Are you okay?’ Ethan stood over her, concerned.
He’s not really that tall, is he? Maybe it’s because I’m on the floor.
She scrambled to her feet and still found herself looking up into Ethan’s solar plexus.
He actually is that tall. Goodness, how am I now the mother of a near-adult?
‘I’m fine. Just dropped the pestle by accident.’
He smiled and shook his head in that pitying teenage way. Ugh, parents. Can’t they do anything right?
‘Well, it was pretty ancient after all. Better to get a new one, right?’
‘It was a wedding gift from Aunty Marg.’
‘Is she the one who did that tofu cookbook? And doesn’t believe in deodorant?’ He made a face.
‘Aunty Marg is a wonderful woman. She brought us the mortar and pestle back from India when no one in Australia had ever heard of them. Cost her a fortune in excess baggage.’
Ethan sniffed. ‘Cooper’s mum has a two thousand-dollar blender that cooks things too. It makes the best bolognaise in, like, twenty minutes.’
Any cook worth their salt knew that a good Italian ragu took at least four hours to make, but Beth bit her tongue. In the past few years, she had learnt two things about teenage boys. The first was that there existed an inverse relationship between their actual understanding of the world and their level of confidence about that understanding. The more they thought they knew, the less they actually did know. The second was that they absolutely hated this being pointed out to them, and denied it with confidence bordering on vehemence.
Still, in this moment of pestle tragedy, Ethan was being relatively restrained. At least he was helping her to pick up the remaining tiny shards. She watched. Maybe a new, more mature Ethan was emerging. Look at him, all dressed up in a collared shirt and those horrible beige chinos that young men insisted on wearing, tight in the leg and baggy about the crotch.
Hang on. Why, exactly, was he so well dressed given it was a Monday night and he was supposed to be hard at work, studying for his English assessment?
‘You’re looking pretty sharp for a night with the books,’ she said. It didn’t pay to go in with all guns blazing. Teenage boys fought fire with fire.
‘Just going round to Dylan’s to hang out for a little while. It’s his birthday,’ said Ethan, equally casually.
‘On a Monday night? How many others are going?’ Having despatched the remnants of the pestle to the rubbish bin, she now turned her focus back to cooking the curry. At least the mortar and its delicious contents had survived.
‘I dunno. It’s not a major gatho.’
Gatho was shorthand for gathering, that much Beth knew. She ignited the gas hob and heaped spoonfuls of paste into the fry pan, along with a glug of oil.
‘So, how many usually attend a minor gatho?’ The paste started to sizzle and release its mouth-watering aroma.
‘Maybe twenty or so.’
‘And will there be alcohol?’ She could hear it in her voice, how the casual tone had been replaced by something distinctly more antsy. She focused on the paste.
Breathe, calm. Stir three times in one direction. Then three times in the other. Be at one with the curry paste.
‘Mum, he’s turning eighteen! He’s allowed.’
A piece of lemongrass popped, along with something inside of Beth. She turned to him. ‘But you’re seventeen, so you’re not allowed, and it’s a school night and you’ve got an assessment tomorrow, remember?’
‘It’s only English and it’s only worth ten per cent of our overall grade.’
‘That ten per cent could be the difference between you getting into engineering at the university you want, and not getting in at all.’
Ethan folded his arms. ‘I’m thinking of taking a gap year.’
Beth clenched the spoon. ‘Oh, really? What will you do?’
‘I don’t know. Take a break. Travel maybe. It’s so full-on, all this final-year study stuff.’
But you haven’t actually done any study! she shouted internally, her fingers going white around the spoon.
‘I’m not even sure I want to do engineering.’ He paused. ‘I don’t even know if I want to go to uni at all. Seems like a waste.’
The curry paste was now fizzing and spitting and Beth felt herself heating inside and wanting to fizz and spit at her son. What was Ethan saying? Where had this come from?
‘Ethan,’ she said, her voice more brittle than burnt toffee. ‘University is not a waste of time. It will set you up for life. And if you think your father and I will pay for you to sit around for a year doing nothing, then you are very much mistaken.’ She pointed the spoon at him and noticed a faint quiver in it from the tightness of her grip.
‘I knew you wouldn’t understand.’
‘You’re right. I don’t understand why a bright child like you would want to throw it all away.’ Now she was shouting, on fire, lit beneath by a flame that she had no hope of extinguishing.
‘Look at yourself, why don’t you.’ Ethan flung his palms out.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You went to university and your life is terrible.’
‘What are you talking about? My life isn’t terrible.’
‘You don’t do anything!’
‘I look after you and your sister, and dad. That’s what I do.’
‘But you don’t need a PhD in nutrition to do that, do you?’
Beth opened her mouth, but no words came out. She waved the spoon. She contemplated hitting Ethan’s backside with it, but in seventeen years she’d never laid a finger on him and now didn’t seem the right time to start. Besides, there was turmeric in the paste and it would stain his chin
os – a stain she would have to scrub. Instead, she brought her other hand to the spoon and thought about trying to snap it in half. Aunty Marg’s voice sounded in her head. It’s breathing. That’s all it is. The key to life and getting through it is breathing.
Beth turned back to her curry, which was now on the verge of burning, and breathed.
In, out. In, out. This too shall pass … But when? How?
As Ethan shifted his weight nervously, Beth turned the gas to low and felt her anger ebb away to a dull flicker. Silently, she added chicken, coconut milk and vegetables to the pan.
‘Mum? Aren’t you going to say anything?’ Ethan thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘Mum?’
She didn’t know where to begin. Yes, she had given up her career to be a full-time mother, but she’d never regretted the decision because her children and her marriage were her life, and it was a good life. Certainly, it wasn’t glamorous or exciting, at times it was downright tedious and extremely menial, but it felt worthwhile. How could Ethan not understand that he was worth it?
‘Mum, I’m sorry.’ Ethan crossed one leg in front of the other. Five years old again. Nervous. Needing a wee.
‘Hey, what’s going on here? We could hear you from outside.’ It was Max, collar unbuttoned and jacket slung over his shoulder, and Chloe, peering out from behind him, her wet hair dripping onto the floor.
‘Where’s your towel, Chloe? I only mopped the floor today,’ said Beth, going to remove the schoolbag from her daughter’s shoulders, where she would inevitably find a wet swimming towel squashed over her school uniform, which would now be damp and chloriney and in need of a wash as well.
Max slung his jacket over a dining chair.
‘Please don’t put that there. I’m about to serve dinner,’ Beth snapped, rubbing vigorously at Chloe’s hair.
‘Well, hello to you too.’ Max picked up his jacket.
‘Ow, Mum. Stop. You’re hurting me.’ Chloe shimmied free.
‘I’m going,’ said Ethan, starting for the door.
‘Oh, no, you’re not.’ Beth glared at Max. ‘Do something,’ she hissed. ‘He’s got an exam tomorrow and he’s going to a party.’