The Sister's Gift

by Barbara Hannay

  She wasn’t quite sure what she might have said if the new owner had actually answered. I’d just like to take a peek at the back bedroom?

  The thing was, although Billie wasn’t a kid any more, it still kind of hurt to know that her parents had cleaned everything out of her old bedroom, making high-handed decisions about what to toss and what to stow in boxes at the back of their new garage.

  Billie hoped her mum hadn’t been too nosy while she’d been packing. She hated to imagine her mum snooping between the covers of that embarrassing diary she’d kept in Year 10. And what about that dope she’d hidden in a shoebox at the back of her wardrobe and never bothered to remove?

  So embarrassing.

  Oh, well, her parents had never held back from speaking their minds when they’d been upset with her, so if they’d been bothered by any of these things, they would have said something by now.

  This evening, however, as Billie let herself into the sleek new kitchen – double oven, induction cooktop, stone benches, natch – she had to wonder if her parents were bothered by something at the moment. The house seemed to be in darkness, so they must have already gone to bed. Which wasn’t particularly unusual, given her dad’s nursing shifts, but Billie fancied she’d sensed a subtle change in them since she’d returned after almost two years away.

  She couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was that she’d noticed. Her parents hadn’t turned into snobs just because they’d moved house, or anything painful like that. Their favourite TV shows were still MasterChef and any adaptation of Agatha Christie they could find. Her dad, Troy, still worked at the Townsville General Hospital and caught the ferry to the mainland each day. But their new garage was no longer littered with his fishing rods and reels, cast nets and crab pots in the way their old garage had been.

  As for Billie’s mum, Pearl, she no longer put in the long hours on the day-to-day menial tasks in the bistro the way she had when she’d first started out, but she seemed to work almost as hard now as its manager. Billie had asked what this involved and had been somewhat stunned to hear her mum rattle on about monitoring cash flows and planning marketing strategies.

  Even so, the change in her mum couldn’t really be explained by a new skill set and a new vocabulary. There was palpable tension in the air and Billie had no idea whether this was caused by worry about finances – had they overspent on this house, or was the bistro no longer as profitable as it had been? – or whether her parents had some other concern that they weren’t willing to share.

  Of course, after her breakup with Petros, Billie knew it was possible that she was now viewing her parents through the filter of her own sadness and despair. She might have dismissed her worries if she hadn’t seen the meaningful look in Sonia Brassal’s eyes this evening.

  Billie had caught that look again as the Brassals were leaving. Her former teacher had taken her aside and had spoken almost furtively, out of the corner of her mouth. ‘As I said before, Belinda, it’s very good of you to have come home to help your parents. I know they’re very grateful, but just remember you shouldn’t stay too long on this island.’

  It was hard to know what to make of this. Billie hadn’t viewed her return as especially big-hearted. She’d needed a job and a roof over her head until she worked out what she wanted to do next. And her parents hadn’t shown any signs of over-the-top gratitude. If they were happy to have her come home to help, why should it concern Mrs B?

  ‘What’s wrong with the island?’ she couldn’t resist asking, hoping she didn’t sound too naïve. ‘You’re still here, and you’re happy, aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ she was told. ‘But it’s different for you, Belinda.’

  ‘It is?’

  Sonia Brassal narrowed her eyes and stared at Billie, as if she was trying to read her mind. Then she gave a slow nod. ‘It is. Remember that. You’ve always had huge potential. Make sure you don’t waste it.’

  Then she’d sailed off into the night, her cape flowing about her, her husband, sister and brother-in-law trailing demurely behind her, leaving Billie to wonder what the hell she’d meant.

  What was this about potential? Anyone would think she was some kind of brains trust, but she’d only been a slightly above-average all-rounder at school. In high school – on the mainland, as the island didn’t run to secondary education – she’d become quite rebellious, changing from Belinda to Billie, and getting into all sorts of strife, so that her parents were somewhat relieved when she’d finally scraped through Year 12 with a very mediocre result and they hadn’t pushed to send her to uni.

  A lucky escape, she’d always told herself, although she had sometimes wondered.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  When Freya woke, she took a moment or two to work out where she was, but too soon, realisation dawned. Of course. This was a spare room at Daisy’s house, which explained why the clothes Freya had worn out to dinner last night were now draped over a green cane chair in the corner. And why Won Ton wasn’t in her basket in the laundry, but curled on a woven mat beside her bed. Why Freya was wearing a pink nightdress instead of her usual animal-print PJs.

  In a sickening rush, everything else came flooding back in horrid images tumbling one after the other. The fire. The total devastation of her beautiful home. Plus the disquieting news from a firefighter that the blaze had probably started in solar panels on her roof, followed by the angry thought that bloody Brian had been so busy with his new and better life that he’d neglected the routine maintenance he’d specifically agreed to as part of their divorce.

  Damn him to hell and back.

  For a scant moment, it did occur to Freya that Brian would probably be upset about the fire. There’d been a time when he’d been both proud and fond of their home, and when he heard about the solar panels he was bound to feel guilty, but he’d soon get over the upset. He had pregnant Amber to comfort him now, while all Freya had left in the entire world were her dog and those clothes on that chair. And her car, presumably still at the restaurant’s car park. Oh, and her phone, which Daisy had kindly set to recharge in the kitchen.

  So little.

  It was no good trying to tell herself that she’d only lost things and that no one had died. Somehow that wasn’t any comfort when she was actually homeless.

  With that thought, Freya’s mood sank even lower. Was she now like the women she’d seen on TV, in the second half of their lives and reduced to couch-surfing or living in campervans and being interviewed by earnest journalists? Could she bear it?

  She couldn’t dredge up any excitement at the possibility of building a new house. She’d loved the one she had, thank you very much.

  But never again would she wake to the warm, cheeky new colours in her bedroom. Never again could she wander through to her sunny, north-facing kitchen with gleaming stone benchtops and nifty pull-out shelves in the pantry. And what about the photographs? The paintings? Her clothes? The to-die-for grey silk pants she’d bought in Milan? The gorgeous floral summer dress she’d bought in harbourside Sydney?

  Overwhelmed and flattened by fear and sadness, Freya lay very still. She felt numb, exhausted. Totally drained.

  Life was simply too hard this morning and yet she felt weirdly bored, as if nothing mattered any more. Justice, equality, world peace, global warming? Nup, not interested, thank you. After all, the universe didn’t give a damn.

  She might have rolled over and tried to go back to sleep if there hadn’t been a gentle knock on her door.

  ‘Morning,’ she called and Daisy appeared with a mug in her hand.

  ‘Thought you might like a cuppa,’ her friend said.

  ‘Oh, thanks.’ Freya tried for a grateful smile. ‘Is it very late?’

  ‘A bit after ten.’

  Good grief. Freya propped herself up on one elbow as Daisy continued into the room and set a bright mug in tropical pinks and greens on the bedside table. ‘After ten?’ she said. ‘Gosh, sorry.’

  Daisy shook her head. ‘No need t
o apologise. And no need to get up. I’m sure you must be exhausted. You probably took ages to get to sleep last night.’

  ‘Yes, I did.’ Freya had lain here for hours, boiling in a soup of anger and despair. ‘But this bed’s deliciously comfortable,’ she added, not wanting to seem ungrateful.

  ‘Good, then I’ll leave you to enjoy your cuppa. I think I got it right. White with one?’

  Freya took a sip. ‘Yes, it’s perfect, thanks. You’re a darling.’

  ‘And stay there as long as you like.’

  She really wouldn’t mind staying in bed all day. All week, for that matter. When life had beaten you into the ground, what was the point in getting up? No one would mind if she just wanted to curl up and retreat from the world.

  But to her own surprise, Freya found herself saying, ‘No, I should get up. I’ll just sulk and feel sorry for myself if I stay here in bed.’

  Daisy’s response was a sympathetic smile. ‘You’re certainly entitled to sulk, but perhaps you’re right. I’ve put towels in the bathroom, if you want to shower. Fresh clothes are a bit of a problem, though. I’m so much shorter and rounder than you. But Jo rang to say she’s dropping a few things over and she’s pretty much your size.’

  ‘That’s kind of her. What would I do without my friends? You’ve both been so thoughtful.’

  ‘You know you’d do the same for us.’

  Yes, Freya thought, and if they’d been younger, she and her girlfriends might have got stuck into the grog last night, but somehow, this level of misfortune had brought out the adult in everyone.

  With another of her gentle smiles, Daisy turned to leave, but then she paused in the doorway. ‘By the way, Brian rang. Your phone was in the kitchen and I could see it was him calling, so I answered. I hope you don’t mind. He’d heard about the fire on the local morning news.’

  ‘Oh.’ Freya shuddered at the thought of her home’s heart-rending destruction being broadcast on local radio news or TV screens in thousands of living rooms.

  ‘He was pretty upset.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose he would be.’ Freya sighed. ‘I’ll ring him later.’ She wasn’t ready to deal with her ex’s emotional fallout on top of her own.

  By the time Freya emerged from the shower, wrapped in a towelling bathrobe and feeling slightly less fragile, Jo had indeed arrived, carrying a shopping bag and an armful of clothes.

  ‘Just a few things to get you started,’ she said. ‘Jeans, T-shirts and a couple of sweaters. Oh, and undies in here,’ she added, holding up the bag.

  Freya blinked. She’d never worn someone else’s undies before.

  ‘I grabbed them from Target on the way over,’ Jo added, as if she’d read Freya’s mind. ‘I hope I got the sizes right.’

  ‘Wonderful.’ Freya made a quick check and the sizes were perfect. She’d assumed she would have to collect her car and go shopping straight away for staples. Instead, Jo had given her a little breathing space, while Daisy had made a pot of coffee and set out breakfast options – muesli, yoghurt, fruit, a pile of toast and a collection of spreads.

  ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘How lovely.’

  ‘You should start up a B&B, Daisy,’ Jo added with a grin.

  ‘My kids have suggested that more than once.’ Daisy rolled her eyes. ‘But no, thanks. All that housework every day. I’ll stick to garden design.’

  Coffee was poured and the trio sat on stools at the kitchen’s island bench. Neither Daisy nor Jo was averse to a mid-morning helping of toast, so Freya felt quite comfortable about tucking in, having realised, with some surprise, that she was actually quite ravenous. She was normally careful about too many carbs, but this morning? What the heck.

  It was while she was spreading delicious cumquat marmalade over a thick slice of buttery sourdough toast that Jo said, ‘I’ve been doing a little research on the internet.’

  Freya frowned. ‘Research?’

  ‘Yes. I hope I’m not being too pushy, but I thought I’d check out all the practical info. You know – about what to do after a fire.’

  ‘Oh?’ Despite an inner quaking, Freya gave a deliberately careful nod. ‘Okay.’ In theory, she liked the idea of being practical. It certainly beat moping. But in practice she wondered if it was necessary for her to be heroic so soon. The thought of all the work ahead of her was exhausting. Couldn’t she take a day or two out to grieve?

  ‘I guess you’d need to look into replacing documents like passports and birth certificates,’ suggested Daisy.

  Freya sighed again.

  ‘The documents are important,’ said Jo. ‘But you also need to get yourself well prepared for the insurance people.’

  ‘Oh, God, insurance.’ Freya winced. That was another reason she would have to speak to Brian. Insurance was one of the issues covered by the divorce settlement. ‘I hate to think what they’ll need.’

  ‘They want masses of info,’ came Jo’s unappetising reply. And with a small smile, she added, ‘I’m assuming you don’t have a photo of every item in your home?’

  ‘You’ve got to be joking.’ Freya’s jaw sagged in horror. ‘Don’t tell me that’s what they expect?’

  ‘Apparently that’s the ideal, but of course hardly anyone does it. But they say you should start listing everything you’ve lost.’ Jo was consulting a sheet of paper, no doubt a printout from her computer. ‘The advice here is that you should itemise everything, room by room, drawer by drawer, cabinet by cabinet.’

  ‘I’m supposed to remember everything?’ Freya echoed in disbelief. ‘Drawer by drawer?’

  Jo nodded. ‘That’s what it says here.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘And you should include everything in the garage and the garden as well.’

  Just in time, Freya stopped herself from snapping at Jo. ‘And I suppose they also want to know how much everything’s worth?’

  ‘You can add in values later. Seems it’s a good idea to just get everything listed first. Create a spreadsheet, perhaps.’

  ‘I guess,’ Freya said faintly. At least she’d spent years running an office and she’d mastered Excel.

  ‘And I can lend you a laptop,’ added Jo.

  Brian rang again just as Jo was leaving. Freya’s stomach tightened when she saw his name on her phone’s screen. Waving to her friend, she took the phone back to the spare bedroom and plonked herself down on the end of the bed.

  ‘Hello, Brian.’

  ‘Freya, I’m so sorry about the fire.’ Her ex sounded shocked. Shaken.

  ‘Yeah.’ What else could she say?

  ‘I need to talk to you.’

  Freya frowned. Brian was talking now, wasn’t he? ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Ah —’ He gave an awkward, throat clearing growl. ‘Could you come to the office?’

  Was that really necessary? More to the point, Freya needed to know if Amber would be there, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask this. ‘I – I don’t have my car at the moment. I was out last night. Daisy drove me home.’

  Now an impatient, or possibly desperate, sigh sounded in her ear.

  Really? Whose problem was this? Freya’s thoughts were spinning. What the hell did Brian need to talk about? Now, on quite probably the worst day of her life?

  ‘Please, Freya, it’s important. We need to meet. It’s not something I want to discuss over the phone.’

  Freya wanted to yell and snap that whatever his issue was, it couldn’t possibly be more important than her problems. Not today, but she supposed this would nag at her unless she spoke to him.

  ‘We were planning to collect my car shortly,’ she said with excessive patience. ‘So I suppose I could meet you in about an hour?’

  ‘Okay. Thanks. See you then.’

  Abruptly, Brian hung up before Freya could quiz him further. She sat for a moment, staring at her phone, wishing she didn’t feel so rattled, so aware of an inner disquiet caused by her ex-husband’s unexpected need to meet.

  For the hundredth time she wished
she could press a reset button on this whole horrible problem so it would just go away. And then, as her mind zigzagged crazily, she even wondered if the fire might not have happened if she and Brian had still been married.

  Oh, for God’s sake. Hadn’t she moved on from that useless line of thought? She had moved on, of course she had.

  At least, when Freya and Daisy arrived at the restaurant car park, her car was still there. Freya knew it was ridiculous to feel so inordinately relieved, but she almost cried when she saw her sturdy white Forester still parked exactly where she’d left it.

  Given everything that had happened since she’d abandoned it yesterday evening, this felt like a huge achievement. Now, her ordinary, not very new vehicle, which wasn’t nearly as prestigious as Daisy’s Volvo, felt exceptionally special. After all, it was solid and undamaged and Freya owned it outright. Sure, an inanimate object shouldn’t really warrant such a rush of fondness, but at times like this, just one intact worldly possession could be balm to a distraught woman’s soul.

  Her upbeat mood stayed with her as she farewelled Daisy and drove back along the Sunshine Motorway. It was a beautiful sunny day, in fact. The sky was an impeccable, spotless blue and the wattles on the median strip were bursting into fuzzy balls of golden glory.

  Being a Saturday afternoon, there were no customers at Brian Bright’s Electrics, which was a plus. Freya experienced a jolt, though, as she noted the changes in the office, no doubt adapted to suit Amber’s tastes. Most of her carefully tended pot plants had disappeared and the few plants left were on their last legs, while a shiny Japanese Fortune Cat now sat on the counter with its paw raised, presumably to wave in loads of cash.