by Fleur Beale
‘Flowers.’
Yeah? It looked like I’d had my quota of chat for the day, and my heart ached for the mother I’d always longed for, and for the brother I’d lost through my own stupidity.
I tried to remember what she’d been like before Dad up and walked out. I couldn’t recall her ever laughing. Maybe life had never been how she wanted it to be. I remembered her nagging at Dad. She hated that he called himself Charlie. ‘Charles,’ she would say. ‘Your name is Charles.’
‘True enough,’ he’d tell her, ‘but I’m Charlie.’
I doubted that she’d ever been happy, that she’d ever felt the flaring delight of the olive grove boy. Maybe that was what had soured her. I was deeply glad she’d sent me away to boarding school.
Late in the afternoon, she promoted me to weeding a bed of bright flowers. Ah ha! I knew what these fellows were — lilies. And they smelt glorious. I crawled in amongst them, being careful not to break a stalk or squash a plant.
Dad sent me a text as I was finishing. Dinner here sunday. 6.
The images of Iris who wasn’t Iris blazed across my mind. Oh god, I would have to face her over the dinner table. I hoped Dad wasn’t intending to fire up the barbecue. The glowing orange petals around me now looked like flames.
Chapter Four
MUM HAD A BRIDGE TOURNAMENT all day Sunday. I waved her goodbye and wished her good luck. She drove off without acknowledging that I was there.
Ah well, so far, so normal.
Facebook time. I took the tablet out to the veranda and prepared to catch up with my life. There was nothing from Hadleigh. But there was news from every one of my school friends. Alice had posted a photo of herself in a blue Rarotongan lagoon. Anita had a job till Christmas in a chocolate factory. Clodagh’s grandmother was teaching her how to make real lace. Charlotte and Maddy were dripping with guilt over the vodka.
My fault and my arm that tipped it down my throat. Chill!
I missed them all so much.
My bro absconded by plane to see the big wide world. Specific location unknown. Things here much as usual. I may take up gardening. Not that Mum thinks much of my horticultural abilities. Love you guys.
The rest of the day stretched emptily ahead. Dinner with Dad and Iris would be an ordeal. Dad would yell at me for getting drunk, then he’d grill me about Hadleigh. As for Iris, I was terrified of what images might leap out the moment I clapped eyes on her.
To fill in the day, I pumped up the tyres on Mum’s old bike and rode out to reacquaint myself with the town. I had lunch in a café, walked around the rose gardens. Mum didn’t grow roses. A couple of years ago I’d asked her why she didn’t, but in typical fashion she wouldn’t tell me. A bunch of grey-haired people were fussing around with cameras. An old man sitting on a bench told me the story of the Peace rose.
Maybe there’s a time lag between trying to rekindle a subconscious image and it reappearing, because as the old guy talked I became aware that the world around me was fading to sepia, and instead of looking at roses I was looking at the olive grove boy. He was older, nineteen or twenty. I watched as he ran through the trees, his arms outstretched.
Seeing him again, older and taller than when I’d last glimpsed him about eight months earlier, shocked me back to the present, where I was sitting in the sun beside an old man still talking about the Peace rose.
That scene — it was full of the same emotion as always. The boy was happy, full of joy. But he no longer brought me comfort, because if thinking about an image made it reappear, then the other image — the one of Iris burning — could come back too if I relaxed my guard even for a second.
I remembered my promise to Miss Wilding, but I knew I would not speak of this, not to anyone. Whatever was happening, it seemed now to be benign. I could live with glimpses of some other reality where there was true happiness, but I vowed never again to try bringing images of that boy back.
I said goodbye to the old man, who smiled vaguely at me.
I needed to keep moving. The day was hot. I bought an ice cream, eating it just fast enough to stop it melting in the heat. I longed for Charlotte and Maddy — or anyone at all to talk to.
I rode around parts of the town I’d never been to before. Many of the places had lovely gardens, but I saw nothing to equal Mum’s. At 5.30 I returned to the house. Iris had to be faced. I picked up Hadleigh’s car keys, only to realise that driving there without the proper licence might not be the best way of kicking things off. I put them down and walked.
Dad was watching the news when I arrived. The sight of him was yet another shock to my multi-shocked system. He’d changed during the few weeks since I’d last seen him. Now he seemed old and weary and gaunt. I kissed him, then left him to the TV while I went through to the kitchen, bracing for the onslaught of terror in my head.
Iris’s face lit up when she saw me, but no flames appeared even when she rushed over to hug me. ‘Good to see you, Bess.’
I leaned against the sink, watching her rip up lettuce to go with the selection of herbs and flowers already in the salad bowl. Even seeing the herbs didn’t trigger the images, although I couldn’t help thinking she was still dabbling with witchy plants.
‘Iris, is Dad sick?’
To my horror, tears welled in her eyes. ‘Yes, of course he’s sick, the stubborn old goat. But try and get him to a doctor! I make the appointments. He just doesn’t turn up.’ She put a hand, speckled with green, on mine. ‘Bess, I’m sure he thinks it’s cancer. He won’t talk about it, though. Just walks out if I try.’
‘Is it all the grief about Hadleigh?’
She shook her head. ‘No, although that didn’t help. He’s not been good for a couple of months. Just says he’s tired, stressed by the business. He’ll be fine after Christmas. A break, he reckons. That’s all he needs.’ She slapped the salad bowl down on the bench. ‘He won’t touch this either. Too healthy for him.’
We sat down to eat. Iris was right about him ignoring the salad. He pushed it away, then glared at me and addressed the subject of my alcoholic binge. Unlike Mum, he kept his lecture short and brutal. ‘You try a stunt like that again, my girl, and I’ll beat the living daylights out of you.’
‘I believe there’s a law against that,’ Iris said.
‘Bugger the law,’ said my father. ‘I want my daughter alive, not pickled in cheap booze.’
I repeated the promise I’d made to the staff in the hospital. ‘I’m never going to binge again. I’m not even going to get drunk.’
‘Make sure you don’t,’ he said. ‘Now tell me about your brother. How did he seem? He left you at the airport? What did he say?’
‘Didn’t he ring you? He said he would.’ Once he was safely on board and couldn’t be told to come back.
‘All he said was, “Goodbye Dad. I’m leaving the country.” Then the phone went dead.’ He frowned at me. ‘He would’ve told you more. Don’t hold back, my girl. I can take it.’
I shook my head but recited our conversation. I’d gone over it so many times in my head, I was word perfect by now. He winced when I got to the part about Hadleigh either belting him or living a miserable life. You’re always leaving me. I left that out of my account.
Iris looked from one to the other of us and kept her witchy thoughts to herself. I tried not to see her burning and cursing me, instead turning my mind to Dad and the problem of how to make him see a doctor. Short of kidnapping him, I came up with no useful answers.
‘I REQUIRE YOUR HELP today, Bess.’ It was Mum dragging me out of bed. ‘Don’t argue. After everything I’ve done for you, it’s the least you can do.’
I wasn’t arguing. She was right, I did owe her. But I could see it was going to be one of those days where nothing I did would be right. Mulch, compost, manure — I was going to get right in amongst the excitement. Before I passed out from the thrill, though, I phoned for an appointment to sit my Restricted. Hadleigh’s car was there, desperate for a driver.
Miracu
lously, there was a slot the next day for my driving test. I booked it, then, with gritted teeth, went out to work as directed in the garden. I tried to show an interest in the plants, tried to be the ideal daughter. Didn’t work, though. I’d known it wouldn’t, but I was damned if I’d be a sulky grump just because she was.
Damned. Iris who was not Iris had cursed me to burn in hell.
I worked frenetically, digging the spade into the compost heap, loading the barrow, running with it, flinging it out in spadefuls on the garden. Those fiery images, would I never be free of them?
TUESDAY I PASSED my driving test. Wednesday and Thursday were toxic even by current standards.
Wednesday had got off to a bad start when I picked up the tablet without asking permission to use it.
‘Really, Bess, didn’t that school teach you any manners at all?’
‘Sorry, Mum. Please may I use your tablet?’
‘Not now. You can put yourself out for a change and help me.’
‘Sure. But is it okay if I just use this for five minutes?’ I tapped the tablet.
‘No, Bess. It is not okay. I want your help now, not when — or more likely if — it pleases you. You can’t expect the world to revolve around you. At eighteen I would have expected you to be more thoughtful.’
And that set the tone for the day. I worked my butt to the bone, but apparently I didn’t put the compost into the wheelbarrow properly, I didn’t put the weeds in the correct compost bin, I tied up the delphiniums with bows instead of knots. But I didn’t yell at her either, a fact which didn’t feature in her inventory of my faults.
Thursday was a repeat of Wednesday. Hadleigh, come back, I need you. He had always been around to take the heat out of my dealings with our mother. I could moan to him, we’d laugh and things wouldn’t seem so bad. Now there was no refuge, unless I went to Dad’s. But that would mean being with Iris. I sighed — no brother to shelter behind now, whichever house I was at. The ache from missing him was constant.
I pulled at minuscule weeds and, with Mum safely out of earshot, chatted to the gladioli. ‘Have you ever been stuck between a rock and hard place, Mr Glad?’
White gladioli don’t even give you a nod. I moved on to the purple fellow next to it. ‘It’s no fun, I’ll tell you that for free. Do I put up with Mum, or do I go to Dad’s where Iris will be lurking?’
I shut up as Mum emerged from the rhododendron grove. ‘Are you being deliberately slow, Bess? You should have finished that weeding an hour ago.’
An hour ago I’d been collecting up the dead heads she’d cut off an entire border of flowers. I’d been weeding for all of about ten minutes. Since it was one of the days where nothing I did was right, I decided to risk a return of the flames and go to Dad’s for the evening. Mum responded to that by turning her back on me.
I went inside to shower and change, hoping Iris wouldn’t mind me driving over unannounced, praying that she wouldn’t pop up on a pile of sticks with her dress on fire.
But, as usual, she welcomed me with a hug. ‘Bess dear, it’s lovely to see you! Can you stay for dinner? Your dad’s not home yet and I’ve got one more client, but then I’m done. Make yourself at home.’
‘Thanks. Would you like me to start dinner?’ I was on edge, tensing for a possible blast of fire and cursing to zoom in from cyberspace, but so far all was calm.
Her shoulders relaxed. ‘Would you? That would be lovely. I thought we’d have spaghetti bolognese and I’m going to sneak every vegetable I can into the sauce. Make a salad too — you and I will appreciate it.’
‘He’s no better?’
‘He’s a stubborn lump of concrete,’ she said and marched off to her treatment room. I wondered if she’d ever tried to do a reiki session on Dad. Probably not. He wasn’t into any of that new-age witchy stuff.
I will not think of witches.
No uninvited images beset me as I raided Iris’s garden. I chopped the vegetables, stirred the sauce, and kept my thoughts on the here and now.
Iris, when she came back, sniffed the air. ‘Mmm, that smells so good. You’re wonderful, Bess. This is such a treat, having somebody else do the cooking.’
I muttered thanks and hoped she didn’t see I was struggling not to cry. She hadn’t yelled, she hadn’t criticised, she was grateful. Best of all, though, the sight of her hadn’t filled my mind with flames and curses. She made us each a drink, then we chatted about the safe topic of Hadleigh until Dad came home.
He hardly noticed what he ate, although he was with it enough to avoid the salad. He finished the meal, pushed his plate away and eyeballed me. ‘Bess, I will not have you driving until you get your Restricted.’
I laid my temporary licence on the table in front of him. ‘Fully legal as of Tuesday.’
He picked it up and gave it a good look.
‘It’s the genuine article,’ I said.
‘Good. Come to the factory tomorrow. You can run errands for me.’
Iris mouthed please at me, but I didn’t need persuading. ‘Sure thing. I’d like that.’
Mum wouldn’t, but since she wasn’t liking anything I did, I couldn’t see that it mattered.
I was right. She got in a mega strop about it. ‘Typical of you, Bess. Always choosing That Man over me.’
She was no happier by the morning.
‘Mum, I’m sorry you’re upset. But you divorced Dad, I didn’t.’
That wasn’t the smartest comment either, because it let her point out with wounded dignity that Charles had divorced her. How much wounding could her dignity take? It must be beaten to a mush already.
I escaped to the factory, parking beside Dad’s car at the side of the building. The place was a mess. I went over to the heap of discarded junk in the far corner. An old fridge, half a washing machine and a kitchen sink, would you believe. Chucked in behind it was a dead Christmas tree along with decaying cardboard boxes and a heap of broken concrete blocks.
This land had been in lawn last time I was here, with a low wall along the edge of the footpath. Now the wall had migrated to the rubbish heap and, judging by the potholes and tyre tracks, the place had turned into a venue for boy-racer stunts. If the outside neglect was any indication, I began to suspect that Dad might have good reason to be worried about the business.
At the front of the factory the sign above the entrance nearly made me cry: Grey and Son, Furniture Makers. No wonder Hadleigh left the country.
The small side door squeaked as I opened it. You’d think a bunch of guys — practical, hands-on guys — would know how to oil a squeaky door. Or maybe they used it as an early-warning system. Dad certainly heard it, and poked his head out from his office to see who had come in half an hour early.
‘Bess! Good girl. I’ll show you around.’
There didn’t seem much point in reminding him that I’d been here hundreds of times before, so I humoured him, hoping he’d break the habit of centuries and talk to me about what was bothering him.
He gave me the conducted tour from the front to the back, running his hand across each of the machines as he named it. ‘This is the planer. The lads put the roughsawn boards through. Takes off one side and one edge.’
Yes, I knew. I’d seen them use it often, always with Dad’s big hand on my shoulder to haul me back if I looked like getting too curious.
‘Then they go to the thicknesser,’ I said. ‘Then on to the ripsaw to take off the other edge.’
Dad stared at me, light in his eyes for the first time since I’d got home. ‘You remember? You took all this in?’
I grinned at him. ‘And over there is the router. For moulded edges. Rebating grooves.’
‘Want to have a go?’ Before Hadleigh’s defection, he wouldn’t have asked, and certainly not in such a tentative, hopeful tone.
‘Love to.’ I tucked my arm through his to lead him away from the router and the jigsaw beside it. ‘Let’s finish the tour first.’ Because something was badly wrong with the factory. The run-up to
Christmas was usually frantic, with the men working overtime to get orders delivered before the holidays. Now their work stations were empty. There could be stuff in the finishing room being stained and polished, I guessed, but that didn’t explain why there was no sign of work anywhere.
We went through to the woodroom where the roughcut boards were stored after delivery. Shelves stacked with timber lined one wall. Across from that was the big bin for docked ends too short to be used. Beside that was the lathe that was Bernie’s specialty.
‘Is Bernie still going strong?’ I asked. Dear old Bernie — he’d seemed ancient the first time I saw him when I was about five.
‘Yes,’ said Dad. ‘There’s no stopping Bernie.’
He sounded almost sorry — no, he sounded really sorry, and that was another discordant note, because Dad adored the old guy. Bernie had been like a father to him — in fact, had just about given Dad the factory when he decided to retire, though he was happy to stay on as one of the boys. Dad must have imagined the pattern repeating, with him handing Hadleigh the business.
I decided not to probe, not yet. I walked to the four tables stacked in the centre of the space, waiting for pick-up. ‘Where are these going? Shall I get some of the dust off first?’
He didn’t answer, so I turned round to repeat the question. ‘Dad!’ He was hunched over and looked as if all the stuffing had been sucked out of him. ‘You’ve gone really pale. You’re sick. Let’s get you to a doctor.’
That straightened him up. ‘No bloody doctor. You’re as bad as Iris. I’m fine. Just a bit of a twinge. Get them sometimes. Make me a cuppa, then come to the office. Need to talk to you.’
I clamped my mouth shut on a million questions and went to the kitchen, another showcase of neglect. Couldn’t men wash a cup, wipe down a bench or, for god’s sake, clean up spilt sugar? I scoured a mug while the kettle boiled, then made the tea strong, with two sugars, the way he liked it.
‘Thanks, Bess. You’re a good kid.’
No, I was a bolshy, determined kid, as he could well be about to discover. Serve him right — I’d learnt pig-headedness from him.