The Boy In the Olive Grove

by Fleur Beale

  And just how was I meant to do that?

  I gave up, put on my trainers and took myself out for a run. An hour later I came back calmed and determined not to let my mother grind me into the dust. How to deal with her, though, remained a mystery. I had a feeling that just understanding that she was incapable of loving me wouldn’t be enough.

  I accepted that now? Apparently.

  Oh, to hell with her. I logged onto Facebook. Nothing more, of course, from the missing brother. I chatted for half an hour to Anita, Mary Jane and Isabelle, who was in France for the skiing. Jetlag, she said, was playing havoc with her sleeping. Then I gave into temptation and looked to see if Nick had a site. I didn’t really expect to find him — he didn’t strike me as the sort of guy who lived an online existence.

  But he was there all right, even if he didn’t appear to update the page much. There were a couple of photos of him with his dad and his four brothers, one of him in a kayak, and a couple of him in rugby gear and covered with mud, a huge grin on his face.

  The final one was the most recent. He was with Lulu. Talk about smouldering. I swear I could see the electricity between them. I couldn’t bear to look any longer. Served me right. I knew it would be dangerous to look.

  The weekend dragged. I kept out of Mum’s way, left notes when I went to the tennis club and the pool. I told her I wouldn’t be in for dinner on Sunday but would be there for lunch. She said, ‘It isn’t convenient for me to prepare lunch for you today. You can’t expect me to be at your beck and call whenever you deign to come home.’

  This time I ran straight to Dad and Iris’s. ‘She’s driving me insane!’ I yelled even before I’d shut the door.

  Dad gave me an industrial-strength hug. ‘You can come and live here. Any time, Bess. I want you to know that.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad. Appreciate it.’ I wouldn’t, though, not unless life got truly unbearable. ‘I’ll hang in there. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Come and help me with lunch,’ Iris said. ‘We’ll talk.’

  I shut the kitchen door. ‘I get the feeling Dad’s not a hundred per cent about inviting me to live here. Is he worrying about money still?’

  She handed me a bowl of new potatoes to scrub. ‘Mostly not. He feels guilty about you, though. He knows what Clarissa’s like. He’d have you here like a shot, but she’d cut off all financial support for you if you lived with us.’

  I’d taken my allowance for granted all my life. I’d never dreamed it could just stop. I brushed the thought aside. It might never happen.

  ‘Iris, Gwennie said I have to detach from her, but we didn’t have time to go into how to do it. Any ideas?’

  My stepmother let loose a witchlike cackle. ‘I imagined her as a miniature train on a skinny little track. I chopped off all the carriages and stood back watching her scuttle around tooting. Some days I put her into a TV sitcom. She was the one-dimensional baddie. I’d visualise a screen around her and I’d watch her scene as if I were the producer. Hmm, not bad, I’d say to myself. An eight out of ten performance today.’

  ‘Did that help? Honestly?’

  ‘Try it,’ she said. ‘It’ll take a while before you can see her as something unrelated to you. The things she says are designed to hurt. She knows how to push on the sore spots, and she’ll push harder for a while when she sees it’s not working any more.’

  ‘Gee, you’re such a comfort,’ I said.

  ‘And you,’ said my stepmother, hugging me despite her flour-coated hands, ‘are a good person, a loving and thoughtful daughter, and a strong, competent woman. Don’t let anyone tell you different.’

  And she was balm to my soul. Gwennie was right. I did have adults in my life who loved me.

  THAT EVENING I wrote to Hadleigh.

  All right, you’ve asked for it. Here, for what it’s worth, is an explanation for the great airport departure debacle. I went to Gwennie (Iris’s shrink friend) for info on handling Mum but, instead, up you pop. There were a couple of past-life scenes where you disappeared into the distance, but I won’t go into those because you’ll just think it’s crap. The interesting bit was going back to when you went off to live with Dad and left me with the mother. I’d shut that right out of the memory bank — needed to believe that somebody in the world loved me according to G, so I blocked out evidence to the contrary. But here’s the kicker, bro — that was then, this is now. You were bloody brilliant apart from that one thing, so GET OVER IT. Come back (electronically or in person). You’re a big dumb lummox but I miss you.

  I sent it. There was nothing else I could do now. Up to him from hereon in.

  In the morning I got to the factory early to escape from Mum, but I didn’t try to do anything constructive apart from check to see if Hadleigh had written. Same old nothing. I sat at Dad’s desk in a puddle of loneliness. According to Gwennie, this was work I needed to do. Experience the pain. Well, pain sucked. Yes, okay — my brother escaped and left me in Alcatraz. Of course I didn’t like it, blah blah blah. That was years ago. I was over it, I’d moved on.

  A wave — no, more like a sodding great tsumani — of pain, loneliness and betrayal socked me in the gut. So much for moving on, Bess Grey. I sat in Dad’s chair, hands pressed into my stomach while I fought for breath. It was horrible. I could see myself as a ten-year-old kid. I could see the expression on my face as I watched him ride away on his bike. I wasn’t crying. I seemed to be in a vacuum of disbelief. I stayed watching the road for him to come back until it was dark, and Mum stormed out, grabbed my arm and dragged me inside.

  I put my head down on the desk, working to understand that this had passed, that I didn’t need to carry the pain any longer. By the time the door squealed, I had it together enough to greet a bunch of workers who all seemed blessedly sane, with nice, straightforward psyches. The sight of Clint gave me the usual jolt. I’d never get over pining for Nick while this older version of him was in front of me every day.

  I was finishing off the morning’s emails when Bernie came in. ‘Anyone heard from Jason? No? Little sod hasn’t turned up.’

  I don’t wanna be the boss! Let somebody else handle this. ‘Okay, I’ll ring his house. See what the story is.’ I tried to sound more confident than I felt.

  It was Jason’s mother who answered. Her voice clattered in my ear. ‘Oh dear, oh my goodness. Look, I’m sorry but he’s not very well.’

  Clint loomed in the doorway, holding out his hand for the phone. ‘Erini? Clint Southey. Young Jason been on the piss, has he?’

  I heard her wail of despair from a metre away.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Clint said. ‘I’ll deal with him.’ He hung up on another wail. ‘Weekend bender. I’ll go and haul him out of bed. He won’t be much use, though, I’m guessing. Bess, you’ll have to talk to him when he gets in. Dock his pay. Read him the riot act.’

  Oh shit. ‘Do I have to?’ He stood there in front of me, arms folded, feet apart, face implacable. ‘Okay! I get it. I do the boss thing.’ But I was laughing — my workers were definitely reclaiming their backbones.

  Clint left, and I sat and practised Stern Boss lines. This is a disappointment, Jason. Ring if you’re not well, Jason. You’ve got a job, Jason, don’t fuck it up.

  I groaned. Being a boss sucked.

  Half an hour later Clint came in towing a sorry specimen only just recognisable as Jason. He’d showered, or maybe Clint had just held his head under a tap somewhere. The purple stripe in his hair looked far from jaunty.

  Clint, face like granite, propelled him in the door of the office. I winced as a flash of fellow feeling caught me. Show no pity. On the other hand, I found I couldn’t do the boss growl either. I just said, in as neutral a tone as I could make it, ‘Jason, I’m sorry, but you’ll lose twenty dollars of your pay.’

  He cut his eyes at the clock on the wall. ‘Ten. Only an hour late.’

  Don’t mess me around, buster. ‘Twenty. Clint had to take time out to go and get you. Don’t push it.’

  He didn�
��t move for ten long seconds, just stood with his head down. God knows what was going on in it, other than a pounding ache. Then he turned himself around — rather gingerly, I noted — and slouched off over to the finishing shed where Bernie would no doubt give him a few useful tips on how to be an employed member of society.

  Clint came over and patted my shoulder. ‘You handled him just right, Bess. Young bastard! I was ready to dong him — trying to get the better of you!’ He gave me another pat and got on with his work.

  The rest of the day passed peacefully. At lunchtime, Jason’s clothes stank from the evil-smelling stain Bernie had made him work with. At smoko, his clothes were dusty from a hearty bout of sanding. But he didn’t try to go home before the others left. There was no word from Maurice. I checked to see if Hadleigh had responded. He hadn’t. I gave into temptation again and looked at Nick’s Facebook. He’d put up a new photo of Lulu. She appeared to be looking directly at me, and her expression said, You can’t compete with me.

  Unfortunately, she was right.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  ALL TUESDAY I twitched from the effort of not contacting Maurice to ask if he’d got any orders. I hoped he’d get in touch, but he seemed to belong to the Hadleigh school of communication. Mid-afternoon I escaped to the tennis courts. A guy with a girth larger than his shoulders was bashing a ball against the practice board.

  ‘Want a game?’ I asked.

  ‘Sure.’

  His name was Lewis and I could tell he intended to beat me to a pulp. He did beat me, but not by much.

  ‘You’re a fighter,’ he said.

  ‘Yep, that’s me.’

  ‘You Clarissa’s daughter?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, unsure if he was an admirer or if she’d pissed him off majorly.

  ‘You don’t look like her. She’s a real lady, is Clarissa.’

  ‘And I’m not?’

  ‘I didn’t mean that! It’s just … she’s, well, she’s kind of regal. Gracious, but not very approachable. Oh shit! Why don’t I just shut up and take the foot out of the mouth!’

  He looked so distraught that I took pity on him. ‘Hey, it’s fine. I get what you mean. But how come you know her?’

  ‘We’re both in the horti society. She organises the garden tours. They’ve become big fundraisers since she took over. She’s pretty sharp, your mum.’

  Yeah, so sharp she cuts me to pieces.

  He shook my hand. ‘That was a good game. Much better than I expected, to tell you the truth.’

  Once again I was left to ponder the enigma that was my mother. A fine woman, according to Wally Earl. Regal, gracious, unapproachable and sharp, according to Lewis. A real lady, which in my opinion wasn’t the greatest enticement to join the ranks of ladyhood.

  Perhaps Hadleigh was the only person in the entire world who could describe her as loving. Except that he wouldn’t. He made use of her willingness to spend money on him, but he kept her at a distance. For the first time, I wondered if he did that because of the way she treated me.

  Back at the land of wood shavings, saws and sandpaper, the men wanted to know if I’d heard from Maurice. I shook my head. ‘Had to go and play tennis to stop myself texting him.’

  Clint looked gloomy but said, ‘Message for you from Nick. Text him. Says he owes you an ice cream.’

  ‘Is he home?’ It was all I could think to ask as a sudden flash of excitement and god knows what else crossed my face.

  ‘Nah,’ said Clint, ‘he’s in Africa. You’d better like melted ice cream.’

  He was smiling, so I guessed that was a joke and smiled back.

  Nick turned up precisely six minutes after I texted him. I braced myself, preparing for the sight of the ornamental Lulu hanging off his arm, but he was alone.

  ‘Is this the ice cream you promised me when I was ten years old?’ I asked. ‘The tree ice cream?’

  OMG! That smile, those wickedly glinting dark eyes. That feeling of familiarity, of rightness. ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘So it’s gotta be huge? Lots of interest’s been piling up since I was ten.’

  He took my arm. ‘It’ll be whopper. It’ll have all the bells and whistles too.’

  ‘They’d break my teeth. Can’t I just have chocolate flakes, hundreds and thousands, lollies …’ I turned to Clint. ‘Can you lock up? It’ll take me a week to get through such a huge ice cream.’

  He waved us goodbye, Nick ushered me into his mum’s car and we were off. It felt so right, being here beside him. He must be the boy from the olive grove. He had to be. To remind myself of the uselessness of that idea, I asked, ‘Where’s Lulu?’

  ‘Japan. We’re going to her folks for Christmas, which is why I’m home this week.’

  ‘Where do they live?’ I was proud of how casually interested I sounded.

  They lived in Australia. Some little place in Queensland, practically on the beach. I hoped the weather would be foul in the extreme. The image of the gorgeous Lulu cavorting with Nick in glorious blue waves was more than I could cope with.

  ‘That’ll be nice,’ I said.

  He drove to a café at the far end of town. ‘They do the best ice creams. Come in and be amazed. How about you grab a table under one of the trees while I order? I can recommend the raspberry ripple with real fruit. Okay?’

  When Nick appeared with the ice creams I had to laugh. My raspberry ripple in a cone had morphed into a long plate with three mountains of ice cream surrounded by a sea of raspberry coulis.

  ‘Blackberry, peach and butterscotch. Eat and enjoy.’

  I did enjoy, but it was his company, just being with him, that made my heart sing. I gave myself up to the moment. This was my afternoon, my one time in the sun with the guy who, just maybe, kept popping up in my head from long ago.

  Then, damn it all, I found myself asking, ‘Do you two go over to Aus often?’

  ‘Nah. I get sick of the travelling actually.’

  ‘To Australia? Harden up! It’s just a quick hop and you’re there.’

  He gave me peculiar look, one that said Don’t you know what I do?

  Come to think of it, I didn’t. ‘Do you travel a lot? For work, I mean.’

  He started ticking countries off on his fingers. ‘Thailand, Egypt, South Africa, Rarotonga. All in the last twelve months.’

  ‘So what do you do? Airline pilot? Spy?’

  ‘I’m a model.’ He said it totally deadpan.

  ‘Um, what sort? What do you model?’ The idea was bizarre. Clint’s son — a model? I propped my chin on my hands, all the better to examine him. ‘Yeah, I guess you’re okay to look at.’

  He roared with laughter. ‘Chicks are usually impressed as hell, or write me off as a bit of fluff.’

  ‘What does your dad think? Does he introduce you as my son the model?’

  ‘He’s fine with it. Mainly because I showed him my first pay slip before I told him what I was doing.’

  ‘But how come I haven’t heard about it? This town being the size it is and all?’

  ‘Ah, I’ve sworn the family to secrecy and I use a different name.’ He struck a pose. ‘Meet Nico Hamilton, model.’ Before I could ask, he said, ‘It’s just easier. I can be me, then when I’m working I step into Nico’s shoes. I don’t have to carry him round with me, see.’

  Oh yes, I did see. He only had two personas, though, not a whole swag of them.

  He took a scoop of my ice cream.

  ‘Hey! Hands off! That’s mine.’ I batted the spoon away.

  ‘But you’re not eating it. Can’t have it going to waste.’

  I got busy again. He was right, it was the best ice cream.

  ‘And speaking of parents,’ Nick said, ‘how’s it going with your mum?’

  I shrugged. ‘Let’s not wreck the afternoon.’

  ‘No Hadleigh to deflect her rage?’ He’d stopped smiling now. ‘Are you okay? You’re going to live with her next year?’

  I sighed. ‘Yeah. I’m surviving. Iris helps. She
’s great. But there’s so much going on that—’

  To my astonishment, I found myself pouring out the entire saga of my drinking binge, the images that had led to it, and the whole Iris/Gwennie past-life regression scenario. I finished up with, ‘Don’t tell anyone. Please. It’s all so bizarre. I feel like a whacko.’

  But Nick just burst out laughing again. ‘Sorry, I was just picturing what Dad would say. Betcha you haven’t told your father either.’

  I shuddered. ‘Hell, no!’

  ‘You know, I envy you. Not seeing that particular life, of course. But what an experience! For you here and now, I mean.’

  I fear I was gaping at him. ‘You mean, you believe it? You don’t think I’ve gone crazy?’

  He said, ‘Okay, here’s my whacko story. Ready?’

  Nick, son of solid, sensible Clint, with a whacko story? ‘I can’t wait.’

  ‘When I was fourteen, we stayed at Kawhia for a couple of weeks in the summer. I was being my usual rotten self. Driving the parents insane, being really obnoxious, and the little bros followed where I went and did what I did. One night, just on dark, Dad was so fed up with me that he sent me out to run along the beach for an hour. Well, there I was jogging along at a nice easy trot and, I remember, I was devising a way of getting back at Dad, so I wasn’t looking much where I was going.

  ‘I almost flattened an old guy out for a stroll. Stopped just in time. I took a breath to yell at him for being old and in my way, but he looked right in my face, and that knocked the wind straight out of me. It felt like he could see inside my heart, soul, whatever. I couldn’t see him too clearly because the light was behind him. Then he said the weirdest thing.’

  Nick stopped talking then and got busy spooning ice cream into his mouth.

  I grabbed his hand. ‘Keep talking!’ Then I let go, figuring it might be a good policy not to come between a guy and his ice cream.

  ‘Mmmm, bloody good,’ he said. ‘So, this old guy says to me, I have known you from afar. You are not worthy of the talents you have been given. I am grievously disappointed in you. Why do you trample the hearts of those who love you? Why do you set the feet of your brothers on the road of ruin? Is it not enough for you to choose destruction for yourself? Let your brothers find their own pathways. Then he walked off, but I heard him say, A sorrowful day indeed. Such promise. Such waste.’