Starting from Scratch

by Penelope Janu

  ‘Matts.’ My voice is a whimper.

  ‘Fuck.’ His hand slides over the silk to my breast.

  I have a rule about my breasts: Hands off.

  Matts doesn’t know my rule. But he’s touching my right side, not my left. And it feels—my breath hitches as his fingers slip under the strap. He pulls it up and rests it on my shoulder. He runs his mouth up my arm, his lips soft and warm. He lifts his head as his fingers slip under the strap and pull it down again. His eyes are dark and bright.

  ‘I can kiss you here? Yes?’

  I swallow. ‘Yes.’ Just this once.

  His kiss on my shoulder is firm. He flicks his tongue against my skin. And then his lips move down my arm as he follows the course of my strap. I cup the back of his head and bury my hand in his hair. My legs are shaky. He wraps an arm around my back. When I arch my neck, he kisses the pulse at my throat.

  ‘Sapphie.’

  He pushes aside the neckline of the nightie with his nose and runs his lips along the line of my collarbone. His mouth is warm through the silk, but my body is warmer. When he nudges my nipple, my legs shake even more. I grasp his shoulders as he kisses around the areola. He strokes through the fabric, gently then firmly, firmly then gently. He cups my breast, presses with his thumb, teases with his mouth.

  When he takes my nipple into his mouth and softly sucks, I squirm against his body. ‘Matts.’

  The nightie is dark but where he’s kissed is darker still. His head dips again on a groan, until all I’m aware of is the warmth of his breath and the cool of the silk, the pull of his lips and the touch of his tongue.

  My legs are weak when, his hand still warm on my breast, he straightens and kisses my mouth again. His lips are hard and then soft. I stand on my toes to press into his hand. We breathe through each other.

  He swaps arms. One supporting me at my back, the other moving up my side and cupping my other breast and—

  ‘No!’ I pull away, hitting my thigh on the bed. ‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘Not there. You can’t.’ I shake my head again. ‘You can’t.’

  ‘Sapphie?’ His voice is raspy. ‘What did I do?’ He holds out his hands and rests them on my arms, crossed tightly over my middle. He kisses my forehead, a tender touch. ‘Did I hurt you? Tell me.’

  I want his worried mouth on mine. I want his arms around me. I want the warmth and strength of his body.

  I’ve lost them.

  Blinking back tears, I twist away. I lift my bag onto the bed, search through the clothes for my sweater, yank it over my head and push my arms through the sleeves.

  ‘You didn’t do anything, Matts.’ I pull the sweater down over my hips. ‘I hurt myself years ago. It’s healed now, but …’ I press my left arm tightly to my side and hold it with my right arm. ‘I should have explained.’

  He steps behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders. ‘How did you hurt yourself? How should I touch you?’

  Every time he breathes in, I feel his chest against my back. I blink again. ‘I find it hard to talk about it.’

  ‘I want to understand.’

  If I lean back, I’ll feel each of his breaths. I bite my lip and stiffen my shoulders. ‘It was an accident, but how it happened … I don’t want my father to know.’

  ‘You trust me so little?’

  When he lifts his hands, I miss the weight of them. When he steps back, I miss the warmth of him. He strides to the other side of the bed and shoves his hands in his pockets. He faces me again.

  ‘Does Hugo know about it?’

  ‘He knows I have scars.’

  He tucks in his T-shirt. ‘You told him because he’s your friend? You tell your friends secrets.’

  ‘Yes.’

  His nostrils flare. ‘You only have sex with strangers.’

  ‘Matts … Don’t—’

  ‘Where does that leave me?’

  ‘We didn’t have sex.’ I force out the words.

  ‘I kissed your mouth. I kissed your breast. That was sex.’

  I scoop up the doona and bunch it in front of me. ‘In the park, you said I was afraid to be beautiful. Maybe you were right.’

  ‘You are beautiful. I want you.’

  ‘I … oh.’

  ‘Why would I tell your father you’d been hurt?’

  ‘Because—’ I lift my chin. ‘I can’t tell you. It’s personal.’

  ‘That’s all you’ll give me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about the other secret?’

  My heart stills. ‘What?’

  ‘The man from Hernandez Engineering. What did he want?’

  ‘He didn’t want … I promised not to say anything.’

  ‘Why did he ask that of you?’

  I squeeze my eyes shut. ‘I don’t know, but I trusted him.’

  ‘Yet you won’t trust me. You won’t even talk to me.’

  I turn away, throwing the doona on the bed and smoothing out the creases. My hair hides my face. Like it hid my breast when …

  I face him again. ‘I think you should go, Matts.’

  He swipes a hand through his hair. ‘Go?’

  ‘Yes!’

  He stalks to the door but stops before he gets to it. He spins around. ‘Where, Sapphire?’ His eyes are black. ‘Where the fuck do I go?’

  ‘It was you who set this up!’ I wipe a hand across my eyes. ‘I didn’t ask for it!’

  He yanks open the door and cold morning air rushes in. Jacaranda flowers form a backdrop when he turns.

  ‘You keep secrets,’ he says.

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘You take risks.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The lights in his hair glisten like teardrops. ‘Why not on me?’

  CHAPTER

  28

  The sun is shining brightly by eight o’clock. I throw my bag into the back of the car and climb into the passenger seat. I look straight ahead. Breathe.

  Matts has barely glanced my way since I stepped outside my room. He puts the key in the ignition.

  ‘I have personal questions.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk—’

  ‘Not us. Forget that.’

  I turn to the window. Tears sting my eyes. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘You said you have anxiety. You have panic attacks?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The engine purrs to life. ‘Your heart rate increases. You feel sick. You do breathing exercises to counter the adrenaline?’

  ‘You looked it up.’

  ‘Two months ago at the park, you said the lights scared you. This was a panic attack too.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wilson is two hundred kilometres away.’

  ‘I’ll be okay.’

  ‘We stop at the river on the way.’

  ‘I thought we were going to the river on Thursday.’

  ‘I changed the schedule.’

  I smooth down the legs of my jeans. ‘You paid for my room. I’ll pay you back.’

  He watches closely as I fasten my seatbelt. ‘Did you eat?’

  ‘My breakfast was on the bill, wasn’t it?’

  His lips firm as he puts the car into gear. ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘Yes.’ I wind down the window.

  He switches on the radio and finds a news station. So he doesn’t have to talk to me? Because I don’t talk to him.

  When I was younger, I talked all the time like Mary does. After we’d moved back to Canberra but before I moved in with her, I’d visit Gran on the weekends. She used to pat my cheek and tell me I could talk as much as I wanted.

  ‘Matts says I never shut up.’

  She smiled. ‘I haven’t heard his name today.’

  ‘He’s busy with school and sport.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘And his girlfriends.’

  ‘Does he walk to school with you?’

  ‘Sometimes I wish he wouldn’t. He’s so cranky all the time.’

  ‘You still go climbing on Fridays? He must enjoy your company or he wouldn’t ask you to j
oin him.’

  ‘He says I don’t talk so much when I climb.’

  ‘Matts is seventeen now, isn’t he?’ She reached across the table for red and pink crepe paper. ‘I imagine he’s waiting for you to catch up.’

  ‘I climb as well as he does.’

  She laid the paper out. ‘There are other things, too.’

  ‘He says if I didn’t talk so much, I might tune in to what he’s thinking.’

  ‘It’s Valentine’s Day next week,’ she said, smoothing out the paper. ‘Should we make a red rose?’

  Scarlet, raspberry, blush, Ferrari.

  ‘For Matts? He doesn’t rate my flowers.’

  ‘You could make a gift for another boy.’

  ‘There is nobody else.’

  Other girls my age had boyfriends, but I never did. For me, there was only ever Matts.

  I tear my gaze from the window, shift in my seat and look at his profile. He’s listening intently to the radio. There are lines at the sides of his eyes.

  He didn’t mean to do it but he broke my heart. I stuck it together, but it wasn’t very strong. To save it I had to hurt his.

  He turns. ‘Are you all right?’

  I look away quickly. Too quickly. A wave of nausea climbs up my throat. He stops the car and I jump out, already bent double. He silently holds back my hair as I rest my forearms on my knees and throw up muesli and fruit. He unscrews my water bottle and hands it to me, watching as I rinse out my mouth.

  I’m leaning against the car when he produces an apple. ‘From the motel,’ he says.

  I’m too afraid of throwing up again to eat the apple, but I keep it on my lap. And, when we turn off the highway onto a two-lane road, I lean my elbow against the window frame and rest my chin on my hand. I thread hair into my plait but it escapes, flying wildly around my face. The land is cleared either side of the road; the car bumps over the potholes.

  ‘Ten minutes,’ Matts says.

  We turn onto an even narrower road. When we pass a towering gum, shedding bark in long brown strips, Matts breaks hard, slowing the car to a stop. He reverses before turning left at an old iron drum mounted on a post and painted red. A shimmery apricot haze hangs like a cloud up ahead. I taste dust.

  ‘Oh!’ I wind up the window. ‘I should have done that earlier.’

  He glances at me. ‘Keep it open.’

  ‘I’m okay.’ I undo the buttons on my cuffs and roll up my sleeves. ‘During the day it’s much easier.’

  ‘We’ll be back before dark tonight.’

  ‘Is that a car ahead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought we were going to the river.’

  ‘We are.’

  We follow the green four-wheel drive to the top of a rise. When it turns off at a gate that leads to a paddock dotted with blue gums, we pull in behind it. There’s a National Parks logo on the rear door. When the passenger door opens and Hugo steps out, I sit forward so quickly my seatbelt locks up. I wind down my window again.

  ‘Hugo?’

  He tips his Akubra to the back of his head, lifts a hand and grins. ‘G’day, Sapphie.’

  As Hugo opens the gate, I turn to Matts. ‘Why is Hugo here?’

  ‘He knows this part of the river.’

  ‘He doesn’t work for National Parks.’

  ‘Lisa Stanhope is with him. She does.’

  After we’ve passed through the gate, Hugo walks to Matts’s side of the car. When Matts winds down the window, the men shake hands.

  Hugo rests an elbow on the roof. ‘See that ridge over there? Drive in that direction. In a few hundred metres, we’ll ditch the cars and walk.’ He smiles at me. ‘How’re you doing, Sapph?’

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you.’

  ‘I didn’t expect to be here. Matts only called this morning.’

  When it becomes difficult to find a route between the shrubs and rocks, the other car pulls over near a large boulder. Matts does a three-point turn and reverses, parking his car close by.

  Lisa, probably a few years older than me with short blonde hair and extremely long legs, steps out from behind the wheel. She’s wearing a standard-issue park uniform of green pants and a matching cotton shirt tucked in above a wide leather belt.

  ‘Hello,’ I say, smiling as we shake hands. ‘I’m Sapphie.’

  ‘Hugo tells me you’re a teacher at Horseshoe. I bet they loved getting someone as young as you out there.’

  ‘I was lucky the position came up.’

  She loops her thumbs through tabs on her belt. ‘I like to stay connected. Dubbo and Tamworth are about as country as I get these days.’ She smiles at Matts and holds out her hand.

  ‘Dr Laaksonen, I presume?’

  ‘Matts.’

  ‘I couldn’t believe it when Hugo called with the invite. I’ve heard so much about you. I’ve read your PhD thesis, for God’s sake.’

  Hugo laughs. ‘If you haven’t already guessed, Lisa is a fan.’

  Smiling, Lisa puts a hand on Matts’s arm. ‘I’m doing post-grad studies in environmental engineering. You’re living my dream career, no doubt about it.’

  Hugo slings an arm around my shoulders. He flicks my plait. ‘What’s with your horse tail, Sapph?’

  ‘It’s a braid.’

  As Lisa opens the back door of her car, Hugo winks at Matts. ‘I hope she didn’t puke in your car, mate.’

  ‘Let’s go.’ Matts turns abruptly.

  We walk along the ridge for half an hour, before heading down a slope towards the river. The tree cover is a multicoloured canopy of green and there’s a constant hum of bird chatter. As the land levels out, glimpses of water filter through the spindly tree trunks and undergrowth. The branch and leaf debris and the rocks that line the riverbank create a series of catchments and ponds. Water cascades at the narrowest point of river to the wider stretch beyond.

  I walk along a dam of fallen logs, crouch and peer into the river. ‘I can see right to the bottom.’

  ‘This is how the river is supposed to look,’ Lisa says. ‘It’s not rocket science, either. Don’t use pesticides or overstock the land, and leave things as they used to be.’

  Water rushes through the deeper channels between the ponds. ‘Are there fish here?’

  ‘And frogs,’ Hugo says.

  I smile up at him. ‘I guess the water will be warm enough for tadpoles by now.’

  ‘Smart-arse.’

  ‘Hugo?’ Matts calls. ‘You ready?’

  For over an hour, Matts, Lisa and Hugo discuss current and projected flows, environmental water allocations from the dams to the river and wetlands, and the ways in which the river and marsh environments are interdependent. As Hugo kicks aside ground cover to check for ant nests, he and Matts argue about the pros and cons of earthwork operations to replicate natural and changed environments. We form a semicircle that faces the river when we sit for a break. I’m at one end and Matts is at the other.

  Hugo, sitting next to me, nudges my boot with his. ‘What’ve you been up to while we’ve been knocking heads?’

  ‘I’ve taken photos and drafted a post for the committee’s website.’

  ‘Still working on my frog article?’

  ‘Since you haven’t sent me anything, you don’t deserve a byline.’

  He grins. ‘Don’t be like that, Sapphie.’

  ‘I want to illustrate how frogs are relevant to the river and the wetlands.’ I scroll to a document on my phone. ‘Can I ask you a question?’

  ‘Go for it.’

  ‘Burrowing frogs, in extended dry periods, can live underground. But what happens when the wetlands dry out altogether? In simple terms, can you clarify aestivation?’

  He speaks deliberately slowly. ‘Aestivation is when the metabolic rate slows dramatically and the frogs are in a state of dormancy.’

  ‘They create a cocoon of dead skin cells around their bodies, don’t they?’ Lisa asks.

  Hugo grins appreciatively. ‘They burrow into soil with their b
ack legs and once they’re there, they store the moisture they have.’

  ‘They come out of their dormant state when it rains?’ I ask.

  ‘You got it.’

  ‘What’s your role on the committee, Sapphie?’ Lisa asks.

  I open my bag and take out my water bottle. I’d like to eat a piece of fruit, but don’t have enough for everyone.

  ‘I’m the chair and do most of the admin. Unlike Cassie and Luke, I don’t have any special expertise, but I pass on the town’s concerns and put together our reports. Gus gives the farmer’s perspective and Mr Chambers explains and defends what the government is up to.’ I glance at Hugo and Matts. ‘We get input from outsiders as well.’

  Hugo laughs. ‘Why’d you look at me? I’m not an outsider. And Matts is an ex officio member, isn’t he?’

  ‘Insiders, then.’ I shrug. ‘We use the reports for lobbying government and non-government organisations.’

  ‘You’re from Finland, Matts?’ Lisa says. ‘I’ve been to Sweden but nowhere else in that part of Europe. What a fascinating place to grow up.’

  Matts smiles politely. ‘My father was a diplomat. I spent much of my childhood elsewhere.’

  ‘Really? Where did you live?’

  Even from here, I sense that he stiffens. ‘Four years in Brasilia in Brazil. Seven years in Buenos Aires in Argentina. Two and a half years in Canberra. Then I returned to Finland for military service and university.’

  ‘Have you come back since?’

  ‘Once, for a funeral.’ He glances at me. ‘I didn’t stay long.’

  Pressing my lips together firmly, I look down. And see a small native plant with a delicate, orchid-like flower. Caladenia caerulea. One of us must have stepped on it because the stem has snapped. I pick it up, examining the spiky purple-blue petals and single narrow leaf.

  ‘What is it?’ Hugo asks.

  ‘Its common name is eastern tiny blue china orchid. It’s also known as blue fairy.’

  Matts extends a hand. ‘Can I see?’

  When Lisa reaches over Hugo, I pass the flower to her. She moves so close to Matts as she gives it to him that her arm drapes casually over his thigh.

  Hugo nudges me with his elbow. I feel his gaze on the side of my face. When we drove to Canberra, he suspected there was something going on between Matts and me. Does he expect to see pain in my eyes? Or to share a joke? I ignore him.