Starting from Scratch

by Penelope Janu

  ‘Inge loved you as a daughter, Sapphie. Kate loved Matts as a son. She wanted to protect him from innuendo, from gossip. Most importantly, Matts had an image of Inge as a loving mother and wife. Kate kept Inge’s secret.’

  Tears run in streams down my face. ‘She kept Inge’s secret.’

  CHAPTER

  42

  To: Sapphie, Cassie, Luke, Gus, Matts

  From: Chambers

  Great work on the press releases and other information, ably led by Sapphie and Cassie. Sapphie—as arranged I’ll call early tomorrow morning (Thursday) to finalise the roll out.

  From: Matts

  To: Sapphie, Chambers, Cassie, Luke, Gus

  Sapphie—others in the group are getting through on your phone. I am not. Please call.

  My foot doesn’t hurt when I wear boots and keep to level ground, so after I call Mr Chambers, I walk slowly to the farmhouse by road. I could drive. Yesterday I borrowed Pa’s van. I sat behind the wheel and fought my anxiety all the way to the end of the loop road and back again. I don’t imagine I’ll be driving at night anytime soon, but one day I will.

  Mum wouldn’t want me to run scared. She did enough of that for both of us.

  The farmhouse looks much the same from the outside, but most of the furniture and equipment, the desk, filing cabinets, boots and hats and halters and bridles and saddles that were stored in the hallway and office, have been taken to the youth centre. Edward Kincaid has given me permission to keep my horses on his land at Kincaid House until I find somewhere else, and I can store their gear in Jet’s shed. Gus’s working bee, his annual community project where we help each other out, is a big December event. When I told him the farmhouse had been sold to my father, he cussed and cursed for an hour. And then he pulled out his small spiral notebook and wrote my name on a list.

  ‘Don’t see why Beresford-Brown should get the lot,’ he said. ‘You’ll be wanting your flower bench and mirror and your other odds and ends for when you find another place. We’ll move them to my shed.’

  I’ve packed all my crepe paper—the scores of rolls and scraps I kept in the bookcase—into containers. I’ve stored my glues and scissors and wires as well. The boxes will take up all the living space in the schoolhouse, but I want to have them close. I flick through one of Gran’s exercise books. She wrote in pencil to record the patterns she thought she’d use again, but she rarely referred to her notes. She’d either remember what she’d done the first time around, or decide to try something new. She liked to make flowers she’d never made before. ‘Look, Sapphie,’ she’d say, peering at the petals through her glasses. ‘The perfect imperfections.’

  Inge seemed to be perfect. She never raised her voice. She was modest and kind and thoughtful. She always kept fresh flowers on her dining room table.

  I move Gran’s books aside and put my phone on the bench. I pull up a hardback chair and find Matts’s number in my list of missed calls.

  ‘Sapphie.’ He doesn’t exactly bark my name, but it’s close.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Silence.

  ‘Are you still there, Matts?’

  ‘Hold on.’

  There are muffled voices in the background. Is he in a meeting with the Water Resources minister? Or an environmental lobby group? Or farmers, irrigators and organic crop producers? The UN High Commissioner?

  ‘I can call back.’

  ‘No.’ A door clicks shut. ‘What the fuck, Sapphie?’ Louder now.

  ‘Shout at me then.’

  ‘I never would.’

  ‘I know …’ The box of tissues I used when Jet was here is on the bench. I pluck two and wipe my cheeks. ‘I know that.’

  Silence again.

  ‘Matts?’ I sniff. ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Are you crying?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘That’s unfair. Fucking unfair.’

  ‘I’m—’ My voice breaks. ‘I don’t want to hurt you again.’

  He sighs so loudly that I hear it. ‘Has your father upset you?’

  ‘Nothing new.’

  ‘Have you injured yourself again?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why are you crying?’

  When I fold the tissues and put them on the table, it not only reminds me of Gabriel’s handkerchief. It reminds me of the tissues I gave Matts at Inge’s funeral. And the tissues he wanted to give me at Mum’s.

  I shudder a breath. ‘I wish you were here.’

  He mutters under his breath. ‘Saturday, Sapphie. My flight leaves Canberra at five. I won’t get to Horseshoe much before eight.’

  ‘April’s reception ends at seven.’

  A breeze skitters under the windowpane. The tissues lift and fall to the floor.

  Voices in the background.

  ‘I have to go,’ he says.

  Matts might be older and physically stronger, Mum would remind me, but he needed someone to watch out for him in the same way he watched out for me.

  My mother kept Inge’s secret. Should I?

  April’s wedding is held at a church a few kilometres out of town. On an adjacent parcel of land is the reception venue, a large barnlike structure with gardens of native trees and shrubs. The barn is crowded with people and music and movement. Most of the guests are standing now, laughing and talking as they wait for the final dances. The DJ, jumping around on a raised platform at the rear of the parquet dance floor, turns up the volume. Hugo drapes an arm across my shoulders.

  ‘Anyone swiped right yet?’

  I smooth down my new dress, dark blue, short sleeved and slinky. It falls demurely to my knees, but there’s a split to the thigh on one side.

  ‘You’re drunk, Hugo.’ I elbow him in the ribs. ‘Stop leaning on me.’

  He peers at my sneakers. ‘You been working at the farmhouse?’

  ‘I hurt my foot, remember?’

  He grunts. ‘Gus said you gotta move out.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘You okay?’

  Matts was supposed to see my father yesterday, but he didn’t call last night or this morning. He hasn’t called tonight. Maybe, like me, he’s waiting until we see each other in person.

  I still haven’t decided whether to tell him about Gabriel.

  I shake my head. ‘No, I’m not okay.’

  ‘Your father’s an arsehole. And I’m not drunk.’

  ‘So why are you leaning on me?’

  He doesn’t answer, just looks pointedly over my shoulder to the dance floor. I follow his gaze to …

  ‘Is that Patience Cartwright?’

  ‘Unless she’s got an identical twin I don’t know about.’

  Patience is ethereally lovely, like a storybook fairy with wavy blonde hair. She’s dancing with a group of women, but even in heels she’s the smallest by far.

  ‘She’s back?’

  He drops his arm. ‘Not for long.’

  ‘Hugo? You can’t possibly still—’

  He looks down at his shoes. ‘Don’t want to talk about it.’

  I touch his hand. ‘I’m sorry.’

  His smile goes nowhere near his eyes. ‘You did a good job on April’s head thing.’

  ‘It’s called a crown.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  April, the crown of twelve old-fashioned roses pinned to her short curly hair, holds Ranjit’s hands and smiles into his eyes as they cross step, sidestep, gallop, slide and spin to a folk dance. Gus stands on the edge of the floor, clapping and tapping his foot. The gumnut buttonhole sits neatly on his lapel, the fringes of the flower bright against the blue.

  Mary darts in front of me, holds out her dress and curtseys. ‘Dance with me, Miss Brown! It’s the last dance!’

  ‘I’d love to, Mary.’ I straighten her wattle coronet, at an angle because she’s tugged her braids loose. ‘But I’m supposed to rest my foot. School starts again next week.’

  I wait until April and Ranjit have waved goodbye to their guests before I f
ollow Gus out to the carpark. He’s arranged a lift to our homes with his neighbours, but I ask them to let me out of their car at the bottom of the hill near the park.

  ‘You sure, Sapphie?’ Gus asks.

  I push up the sleeves of my cardigan. ‘I’ll enjoy the walk.’

  I’ve only just crossed the road from the park when I see Matts on the footpath outside the pub. He’s wearing a dark-coloured hoodie and his arms are crossed. The grey-haired man he’s talking to has his back to me, but when he squares his shoulders, he’s easy enough to identify.

  My father slices his hands through the air. Matts shoves his hands into his side pockets. His back is straight, his chin is up. As soon as he sees me, he spins away from my father and runs across the road. I’d imagined throwing myself into his arms and kissing his mouth and—

  As he steps onto the kerb, I take a backwards step. ‘Why is Robert here?’

  Matts glances at my hands, so tightly clenched that my nails dig into my palms. He lifts an arm and drops it. He looks into my eyes. Can he see the shades?

  Sapphire, cobalt, indigo, navy.

  Bruised.

  CHAPTER

  43

  When I was fostered by the Hargreaves, I promised to maintain contact with my father and to see a counsellor. Angela, a psychologist, lived on the outskirts of Dubbo, and I’d catch the bus to her house every second Monday. We talked about trust not long before Mum was killed.

  ‘A lack of trust makes it difficult to express emotions,’ she said. ‘Why do you think that might be?’

  ‘You don’t want to tell people how you feel in case they let you down.’

  ‘Trusting people makes us vulnerable. Keeping our distance and avoiding interactions with others protects us from harm.’

  ‘I talk to people when I have to.’

  ‘When we’re distrustful, unexplained actions can be seen through a magnified lens. They can appear to be threatening. Intimacy and relationships become difficult.’

  ‘I’ve made a few friends.’

  ‘You’re very pretty, Sapphie, exceptionally so. Boys must ask you out.’

  ‘I don’t want …’ I linked my hands tightly in my lap. ‘I’m busy with other things.’

  ‘You’re doing well.’

  I glanced at the screen of her iPad. ‘Then why’d you tick so many boxes?’

  Angela closed her iPad and draped her hand over the top. Her nails were acrylics, painted red, green and silver for Christmas. She smiled encouragingly.

  ‘We’ll talk about trust again next time we meet.’

  Matts offers me his hand when I step off the kerb, but I pretend not to see it. He stands next to me when I face my father on the other side of the road.

  ‘Sapphire.’ Robert nods formally, making no attempt to kiss me. ‘You look lovely.’ He’s wearing a suit and a royal blue tie patterned with burgundy triangles.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I wanted to speak with you.’

  Matts mutters, ‘He said he’d come tomorrow.’

  ‘And that’s supposed to make this better?’

  ‘Don’t, Sapphie.’

  ‘You should have warned me!’

  Robert, frowning, glances towards the pub. Mike Williams and Artie Jones, both from Warrandale, are sitting at a table by the window. Mike lifts his hand, large and rough from a lifetime of work.

  ‘Do you think we could retire to somewhere more private?’ Robert asks.

  When I walk past my father and open the door to the pub, Leon looks up from the bar.

  ‘By the look of your finery, you went to April’s wedding,’ he says. ‘Good celebration?’

  ‘It was a beautiful wedding. Is it okay if we use the private dining room?’

  ‘All yours. Lemon squash?’ He looks past me. ‘G’day, Matts. How’re you doing? Soda water?’

  Matts nods stiffly. ‘Thank you, Leon.’

  ‘I’d like a single malt whiskey on ice.’ Robert takes out his wallet and hands over a note. ‘Drinks are on me.’

  Leon smiles. ‘I’ll bring them out to you, Mr Beresford-Brown.’

  I leave coins on the bar. ‘For the squash.’

  The dining room at the back of the pub, often booked for birthdays and special occasions, seats twenty at a rectangular table. Robert sits at the long end near the door, I sit opposite and Matts sits next to me, clenching his jaw when I shift my chair further away. No one speaks until Leon bustles in with a tray, sets down coasters and places our drinks in front of us.

  ‘Enjoy,’ he says, before closing the door quietly behind him.

  Robert swirls his whisky over the ice. ‘As I appear to have caused a ruckus by bringing this meeting forward, perhaps I should start?’

  Matts glares. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sapphire?’ Robert says. ‘You’re well aware of my motivations in respect to the farmhouse.’

  I clasp my hands together. ‘You want to control what I say.’

  ‘I desire to encourage discretion.’

  ‘I’ve moved out.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Most of the stuff has gone already. My furniture should be out in a couple of weeks, my horses after that.’

  Matts frowns. ‘I told you to wait.’

  ‘And I told you I wanted nothing to do with him.’

  Robert turns to Matts. ‘I believe I require your assistance.’

  Matts angles his chair towards mine. ‘Robert has a proposal. How you respond is up to you.’

  ‘I played happy families and he went back on his word. I want him out of Horseshoe.’

  Robert huffs. ‘I will transfer the farmhouse to you,’ he says, ‘for the exact sum I paid for it. Effective immediately. In exchange, I want information.’

  ‘What information?’

  ‘As the Australian authorities refuse to hand down their findings until the Argentinian inquiry is complete, I find myself in limbo.’

  ‘You’re still working.’

  ‘I’ve been stood aside from ministerial responsibilities. I have the media at my throat. The cartoonists are having a field day.’

  ‘It might be a year before the Argentinian authorities bring Hernandez to trial,’ Matts says. ‘After that, months could pass before the judgement is handed down.’

  I sip my lemon squash. On the second attempt to swallow, it goes down. ‘I don’t see how this involves me.’

  ‘I didn’t take a cent from Hernandez,’ Robert says, ‘and I suspect authorities on both sides of the southern hemisphere know this very well. But no one is prepared to speed things up. They’re investigating years of potential bribes before making findings on any of them.’

  ‘Didn’t you know this before?’

  ‘New allegations, nothing to do with me, have been brought against Hernandez.’ He drinks, then returns his glass to the coaster. ‘There’s a general election next year. If this matter drags on, I’ll lose preselection. It will be the end of my political career.’

  ‘This must be hard for Jacqueline.’

  I watch as he bites back a retort. He turns his glass on the coaster. ‘You, Sapphire, were approached by an ex-employee of Hernandez. I want you to give me his name.’

  ‘No.’

  He pulls a piece of paper from an inside pocket of his jacket. ‘In the two years I dealt with Hernandez, these men were employed in senior management. My lawyers believe it would have been one of them who approached you. If he is reputable, and provides a sworn statement confirming my non-involvement, there can be no case against me.’

  ‘Against you? What about Mum? You’ve been adamant she’s done something wrong. Isn’t there guilt by association?’

  ‘This contact, according to you, attests to Kate’s innocence.’

  ‘Surely your lawyers have called these men already?’

  He nods abruptly. ‘Some profess ignorance of my case. Others refuse to talk. They will only give evidence if compelled to do so at the trial.’

  ‘So you need one of them to p
ut their hand up for you? You want me to encourage them to do that?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I know of no one.’

  ‘Sapphire!’

  I stand. ‘What about the deposit box? Your lawyers would need to explain the contents, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘I have no idea how fifty thousand euro and a sapphire worth twice that could be explained.’ He smiles stiffly. ‘Your contact might be able to do so.’

  ‘Sapphie?’ Matts stands too. ‘If this man could defend Kate, this helps you both.’

  When you know the facts, you will see my dilemma.

  I scrabble in my bag, but can’t find a tissue. Matts’s chair hits the wall as he pushes it back. He opens drawers in the sideboard and finds serviettes. When he hands one to me, our hands touch. Our eyes meet. I look away.

  ‘This man’s explanation.’ I swallow. ‘At first he told me to wait. And now … now I know that others are involved.’

  ‘You’ve seen him again?’ Matts asks.

  ‘I spoke to him.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  Robert pushes away his glass. He stands. ‘This is your final warning, Sapphire.’

  ‘Don’t threaten her,’ Matts says.

  ‘I’ll do as I please.’

  Matts walks to the door and opens it. ‘Get out, Robert.’

  Robert holds Matts’s gaze as he straightens his jacket. He picks up the piece of paper, slowly folds it and puts it into his pocket. He’s at the door before he turns and faces me again.

  ‘I leave this hotel at eight tomorrow morning,’ he says. ‘Give me a name, Sapphire, and you’ll get your farmhouse.’

  ‘I won’t be bought. And I don’t trust you.’

  ‘In which case, I have nothing to lose. If it’s in my interests to do so, I’ll announce that Kate was an addict and she used her child as a courier. In other words, she was capable of anything.’

  I cling to the table. ‘She changed after Inge’s death.’ My voice wavers. ‘Only then.’

  ‘So now you blame Inge?’ he says. ‘Shame on you.’

  When I can’t hear my father’s footsteps any more, I walk to the tall, narrow window at the far end of the dining room. Across the courtyard, three old stables have sets of double doors.