A nervous energy is overtaking my body as Ian walks towards me.
‘Hi,’ I manage to say, pushing long sweaty strands of hair off my face with the back of my hand.
The boy, Ben, asks his mother a question from the back seat and she turns to answer, no doubt pleased for the distraction.
‘You’re early,’ I tell Ian as he offers the obligatory kiss on the cheek. Then he pecks my other cheek, European style, something he’s never done before. It riles me, this adopted air. I want to call over his head to Sylvia: This isn’t Ian, just so you know. He’s putting it on for you. He’s normally not like this at all.
Ian crouches low, arms outstretched, to welcome Ellie, who is hurtling down the front path towards him.
‘Hi, Elliekins!’
‘Daddy!’ she shouts, launching herself into his arms.
I try not to cry.
I go inside to get Ellie’s bag, snatching a tissue from the small set of shelves in the hallway. I wipe my eyes and blow my nose, checking my pale, makeup-less face in the mirror before returning outside.
I hand Ian the overnight bag, acutely aware of Sylvia’s eyes on all of us. Ian goes to give me the requisite kiss goodbye, but I lean down to pull a weed from between the pavers in the footpath. I shake the dirt off the weed’s roots and onto Ian’s fashionably pointed leather shoes.
‘We’ll see you on Sunday night then,’ he says, shaking his leg.
‘Where are you off to?’
‘Oh, I’ve booked a yacht.’ I raise my eyebrows, but he continues. ‘We’ll get an anchorage down the channel somewhere. We might even go ashore at the winery down that way. “Little Italy”, I think it’s called.’
I feel my chest squeeze. ‘Have fun then.’
‘A boat trip!’ Ellie swoons.
‘We’ll take good care of her,’ Sylvia says with a not unkind smile before slipping her sunglasses down from the top of her head and over her eyes.
I can’t bring myself to say ‘thanks’ and instead blow Ellie a kiss, wishing she hadn’t been so quick getting into the car. I turn my back as Ian pulls away from the curb, and get an ache in my chest, around my heart. With sudden determination and a flood of tears that I don’t bother to wipe away, I march down the strip of garden alongside the cottage, past the dormant greengage and apple trees and straight to the garden shed.
The well-worn shovel is smooth in my bare hands from the countless hours Nina worked its handle. I start digging, finding a rhythm and immersing myself in the repetition.
Within half an hour the rosebush is again balancing on its clod of soil at the side of the hole, and I am out of breath. Great mounds of dirt are piled beside me. It’s 5 pm and almost dark when I brush the remaining soil off the apple box, which I drag out and tow into the garden shed where it will be easier to access. I look again in the plastic bag, in case I have missed something, but I haven’t.
What would I need in order to prove Reginald Forster’s guilt? I have to put things right even if the bastard is dead. I think of what he did to Nina and try not to imagine her face, the horror and fear. I go back inside, get the newspaper article that I found in the library, and add it to the box in the shed.
After a shower, I take a book off Nina’s shelf and head down the pavement in the dark to Abdhul’s house. I know I will be welcomed although I have only visited twice: once after the walk when we introduced ourselves properly, and then for an English lesson the next day, which Abdhul and his friends said they were grateful for. They told me to come back any time. No one else in Hobart has said that to me yet.
From his lit lounge room, Michael Forster watches Abdhul open the door to me, and I go inside. Watch away, I think. Think whatever the hell you like, old man.
Abdhul and his friends quickly roll up their prayer mats and move them out of the way. Tea arrives, again with a dish of boiled sweets. Sayed turns his computer screen in my direction and introduces me to his wife and child on Skype. They smile at me and cautiously wave. I note that the woman is not wearing her headscarf and only draws it over her head when the men beside me, who I suppose are relative strangers to her, come into her view. I feel I am journeying to the other side of the world, that I am in a Hazara family’s lounge room, full of woven carpets and the scents of spiced food.
The woman says something to Sayed that sounds, to my ear, angry.
Sayed turns the computer screen back around and addresses his wife sharply in his own language. Have I done something to upset her, or was she annoyed that the men saw her without her scarf ? I don’t know Sayed well enough to ask.
‘How are you all?’ I venture. I am looking at the other three men.
‘Good, thank you. Thank you,’ Abdhul says. ‘And you? And your daughter … Ellie?’
‘Good, good.’
‘And Mummy?’
‘Also good.’ I give a small laugh. Helena is so not Mummy. In truth, I have no idea if she is well at the moment or not.
‘Daddy?’
I hand over the book I have brought, changing the subject. ‘Do you want another lesson?’ For the last lesson, I had mostly read aloud from the day’s newspaper, pointing at the words and asking the men to repeat what I was saying.
Abdhul takes the slim volume and jokingly says something to the others. I am struck by how much laughter fills the men’s small house, despite all they have endured.
Abdhul slowly reads the title: ‘Pe-ter Rab-bit’. He points at the picture of a rabbit dressed in a blue vest on the front cover and says something else to his friends. They laugh again and I find myself laughing, too, although nervously, guessing at the joke. Something about grown men reading a story about a rabbit? And not just any grown men, men who have suffered more than I want to know. God, what was I thinking? Peter Rabbit? One of the men, the oldest one, walks away.
‘Yes, sorry, it is one of the books from my grandmother’s house. She taught me to read with these books.’ I shake my head, thinking how ludicrous my choice was and hoping I have not offended Abdhul and his friends. I vow to go shopping for suitable teaching materials, or to visit the migrant resource centre to see if they have something more appropriate. Perhaps I should get some training in teaching English as a second language. I am woefully ill-equipped, yet the remaining men are, thankfully, forgiving and still seem grateful.
Sayed finishes his Skype call, reaches for the book and, his face serious now, looks at the words. I ask him if he can make any of the sounds without me saying them first, and Abdhul translates my question. Sayed shakes his head.
‘They don’t know the letters,’ Abdhul informs me.
‘Right,’ I say, realising the extent of the task I have volunteered for, and how inadequate and naive my efforts so far have been. ‘Have you got a piece of paper?’ I ask Abdhul.
Abdhul goes to the next room and brings me a small notepad and pen. I write out the alphabet and point to each letter, making the matching sounds. It is slow progress, but, given the lighthearted attitude of the men, surprisingly fun. We then move on to a few nearby objects.
‘Pen,’ I say, holding up the pen. I write down the letters. Abdhul teaches me the Hazaragi word for pen, which I repeat, although unsuccessfully if the men’s good-natured laughter is any indication.
‘Table,’ I say in English, again writing the letters and trying to remember how I taught Ellie about silent ‘e’s. Again, Abdhul challenges me with the Hazaragi word. It is only fair. This will not be a one-way lesson.
‘Can you write those words down for me?’ I ask, certain I won’t remember the words without seeing them written. Abdhul agrees and, starting at the left-hand side, writes a beautiful flowing script that I think might be a form of Arabic. I don’t recognise any of the letters, which look more like art than an alphabet – delicate birds that might fly from the page. Underneath, to my relief, he writes the Hazaragi words using English letters. I suppose the translation is phonetic.
Together, we read a little more of the children’s story. I say the w
ords slowly, sounding out the letters and pointing. ‘I can come each week, maybe a couple of times,’ I say, hoping that what I am doing is helpful.
‘Yes, please,’ Abdhul says. ‘But I work now. Afternoons and some evenings till late. I have a job in restaurant.’
‘That’s great. And your work in Pakistan was …? Sorry I don’t think I asked you that.’
‘Carpet weaving. I was a teacher. A master. Here I wash dishes … But my family needs money. And my brother’s family too. His wife. Children.’
‘When do you find out if they can come here? Your family?’
‘I am still waiting to be called for my interview. My case worker says I must be patient.’
‘It sounds as if you have been very patient already.’
‘Thank you. I try.’
In his presence, I’ve noticed myself feeling calm and at peace, and have no idea how he remains equanimous despite everything.
‘How do you stay so positive?’ I ask.
‘It is my habit.’
I want to ask him to teach me this ‘habit’ but suspect it is not so simple; that it has taken years of practice, of learning how to function despite the ever-present fear of being killed – whether himself or a member of his family – simply for catching a bus or going to the bazaar.
14
When Ian pulls up outside the cottage to drop Ellie home it’s already nearly dark. I peel back the thick woollen cuff of my jumper to reveal my watch. It’s 4.30 pm. The date is 21 June; winter solstice. This morning, the bravest Hobartians went for a nude beach swim and I envied their lightheartedness and joy.
Under the streetlight, I see Sylvia huddled in the convertible, sheltering under the BMW’s soft-top like a displaced tropical fruit bat hiding under her rubbery wing. Her thin cardigan is wrapped tightly around her as a southerly gale shakes the car. I am that wind.
Ian climbs out first and goes to Ellie’s door. There is jazz playing loudly in the car.
‘Did you do the swim this morning?’ I call out.
‘Yeah, right,’ Ian answers. ‘Mad buggers.’
‘I did,’ I lie.
He looks at me surprised as he opens the door and Ellie runs towards me.
Let him believe it, I think. Let him think I am anything but boring. That he got me wrong.
‘Hi, gorgeous girl!’ I crouch to Ellie’s height and hold out my arms, savouring the hug, especially with Sylvia watching. Ellie’s hair is braided into two French plaits, secured at the back with a new white ribbon. As she pulls away, I see she is also wearing lipstick.
‘Do you like my hair, Mummy?’
‘Very flash.’
‘Sylvia did it for me.’ She pouts, waiting for me to comment on her lipstick.
At the same moment, Abdhul and his flatmates walk past and enthusiastically shout their hellos.
‘Salam,’ I call back, waving, and Ian looks at me with a raised eyebrow.
‘Neighbours,’ I say. ‘Lovely fellows.’
‘Right.’ Ian turns back to Ellie, who has called Ben out of the car. They disappear into the house. ‘Anyway, she was very good.’
‘Of course she was.’ I laugh openly now, shaking my head. ‘Christ, you’re her father. You don’t need to tell me she’s been good!’
‘Anyway, we’d better keep going. We’re a bit late returning the car, and I really don’t want to have to pay for another day if I can help it.’ He kisses me briskly on the cheek. ‘Ben?’ he calls.
‘The things we do to impress,’ I whisper, looking towards Sylvia just as she switches on the internal car light. ‘Love and eggs are best when they are fresh,’ I say.
‘Pardon? Oh, a Nina adage.’
‘You haven’t even properly introduced us yet.’
‘She’s a bit nervous about talking to you. She thinks she’s the last person you’d want to see.’
‘Yes, well, she’s right. You were married … She knew that. It’s a bit late to worry about how I feel.’
Sylvia twists her watch around so she can read the time, and looks up at us, her short hair tousled from a day outside.
She gives a meek wave and I am struck by how different she is from the brash person I’d imagined. Still, I hate her.
I hold up my hand in strained acknowledgement. I must do what is best for Ellie.
Ian turns his back to the car before he speaks again. ‘I didn’t start seeing her until I moved out if that makes any difference. She’s a good person, but I know you won’t want to hear that.’
‘Not right now, no.’ I pause. ‘Come and say goodbye, Ellie,’ I shout towards the cottage.
Ellie bursts through the open doorway with her brand-new brother and gallops towards Ian.
‘Bye, Daddy.’
Ian squeezes her tight, lifting her off the ground before returning her to my side.
‘Bye, Sylvia. Bye, Ben,’ Ellie calls, waving wildly.
Ian bends towards me and gives me a second kiss on the cheek. I feel the warmth of his skin and notice that he’s wearing the aftershave I bought for his birthday last year.
‘Oh, and Ellie has already had dinner.’
I try to remember whether he ever came out with this line when we were together.
‘Okay. See you next time.’ I manage a smile and watch the ghost of my breath vanish into the winter air.
Ian drives too fast down the narrow street, and Ellie continues to wave until she can no longer hear the expensive purr of the car. She goes quiet beside me.
‘Did you have a nice weekend, sweetie?’
‘We had the best time!’
Is she testing me? I turn her around to face the house and we head inside where I peel off her jacket and she runs to her bedroom. I hold the jacket’s warmth to me as I follow her. Ellie is concentrating as she digs into her bag, finally producing a small tray of garish eyeshadows.
‘Wow!’ I say.
‘I told Sylvia you didn’t think little girls should wear makeup.’
‘And she let you wear it anyway?’
Ellie scoops a finger into a pool of blue eyeshadow and smears a thick wash of it underneath her eye.
‘Actually, sweetheart, that stuff goes on top. On your eyelid.’
‘No, it’s eyeshadow. It has to go underneath! You don’t even wear makeup. You wouldn’t know.’
‘Pardon?’
Ellie looks guiltily away, slipping the makeup back into her bag, burying it quickly in case I take it from her.
‘I just think you’re beautiful without all that stuff. I love you just the way you are.’
I kneel and draw Ellie towards me for a hug. She relaxes and we are quiet together for a few moments. I think of what Abdhul would give for a moment like this with his children. What I would have given to have had a weekend with my father. To have even known who he was.
‘Sylvia’s having a baby,’ Ellie blurts out.
‘Oh.’
‘She was vomiting when we were on the boat, and then when we got back to the hotel. She even vomited in the morning when she first got up. Daddy said she must have an upset tummy, but Ben said it’s because he’s getting a baby brother or sister and that I am, too.’
I try to stay calm. ‘Look at the time. Better get you into the bath. It’s school tomorrow.’
I take her into the bathroom and sit on the edge of the bathtub as I let the water run, my head between my knees while my stomach churns and Ellie practises applying makeup in the mirror.
15
I take my grandmother’s hairbrush from her dresser and don a pair of thin latex gloves from the chemist before unwinding three white strands of hair. It seems unfathomable that part of Nina is still in this world when the rest of her is ash, scattered on the mountain. I place the hairs in a ziplock bag, noting the speck of follicle tissue at the ends of two of the strands. I will need Nina’s DNA if I am to tie her somehow to Reginald Forster and prove him guilty, I am thinking, yet at the same time I am questioning how rational I am being. The police won’t r
eopen the case with both Nina and her attacker dead. Regardless, I feel an overwhelming need to do this for Nina, who surely kept the news clippings and photographs in the hope of one day, finally, receiving justice.
Is it possible that the pieces of underwear Nina suspected Reginald had stolen are still at the Forsters’ house, hidden in a closet somewhere? Perhaps I could find Nina’s DNA on them, and … I shake my head at myself. The Forsters’ house burned down. I have not been sleeping well since the news of Sylvia and Ian’s pregnancy, and I realise insomnia has affected my thinking. If Nina had wanted me interfering in her past, she would have told me. I look at Nina’s hairs in the plastic bag and decide to keep them anyway. At least I will have something of her with me.
Claire meets me at the school gate with a broad smile.
‘I was right. There is a job going at the university. Dale said you should contact him.’
‘You’re joking!’
‘He looked you up on the internet. It’s just a short-term contract. Someone left at short notice, like I said, and they’re in a panic to process some samples.’
‘Right.’ I’m blown away by my good fortune. ‘When does he want to see me?’
Claire pauses as Ellie pulls me down to her height so she can whisper in my ear that she needs to go to the toilet. I nod and tell Ellie I’ll hold her bag for her. When I look back up, Claire appears distracted, her eyes on my breasts as if my skivvy is too tight.
‘He asked if you could drop in to the lab today to talk about it.’
‘Today?’ I hesitate, stretching out my skivvy.
‘Sorry, I didn’t have your number. There’s no obligation …’
‘No. That’s terrific. I’m really grateful.’ I thank her with a hug, which she reciprocates.
‘That’s a gorgeous perfume,’ I tell her.
‘Thanks. It’s one my mum found for me in France. I forget the name, but it always reminds me of her and the garden where I grew up.’
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