Black Painted Fingernails

by Steven Herrick

  ‘Look at you!’ Her voice is like sandpaper.

  I leap over the fence and walk towards the sandpit, my hands clenched. The woman sees me and disappears inside, emerging a few seconds later on the verandah. She wears an oversized pink smock and rubber thongs and waves a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. ‘Who the hell are you?’

  She looks up and down the street, ready to scream for help. I hold up my hand, as if that will stop her. The boy hasn’t moved. His eyes plead for the tractor. I step into the sand and pick up the toy. On the shiny metal, Nathan is written with texta in a child’s hand.

  The woman points an accusing finger at me, blood percolating in her cheeks, ‘That’s his, leave it alone!’

  I kneel in front of the boy and hand him his treasure. ‘It’s a big tractor, Nathan. For a good boy.’

  He tries to smile but looks at his mum glaring from the verandah. He says thanks in a small voice.

  ‘I’m calling the cops right now!’ the woman yells.

  As I saunter back to Sophie, I can’t help but smile. Sophie holds out her hand to help me over the fence, and kisses me on the cheek. ‘My hero. My warlock.’

  We walk slowly back to the car. Sophie reaches for my hand again and studies it, delicately touching my fingernails. ‘After this is over, will you let me paint your nails?’

  I can already hear the response from my mother.

  ‘It would certainly make an impression on my first day of school.’

  Sophie links her arm in mine. ‘Join me, and together we’ll save the world.’

  Sophie had been in Sydney for more than two years before she finally convinced her dad to visit. At the airport arrivals gate she was unable to stand still as she waited to see his face, hoping she wouldn’t cry. When he walked through the gate she bounced up and down, like a child trying to be noticed in the crowd. She held his hand and giggled as they walked to the taxi together. She wished she still had Mabel – he would have liked the old car.

  He wanted to sit in the front of the taxi, like a man should, but she made him sit beside her in the back. She’d been up since daybreak cleaning the flat, expunging any sign of Carlos: his clothes, financial magazines, family photos and silly beach hat with the floppy brow were all stuffed into the wardrobe. Carlos was in Byron Bay for a Bob Marley memorial festival. Sophie had a vision of two thousand rastas in a muddy field dancing and looking for a sign from Saint Bob.

  She told her dad she shared the flat with a girl who was staying at her boyfriend’s to give them space. Sophie had made up the sofa bed in the lounge room and explained to her dad that it was where she slept, and that her flatmate, Carlita, paid a larger share of the rent for the bedroom.

  ‘Carlita, is she Greek?’

  ‘No . . . I think her grandparents are, were, are Spanish.’ Lies weren’t always easy.

  ‘It smells of smoke.’

  ‘That’s Carlita’s boyfriend – we don’t let him do it inside anymore.’

  Her father sat at the kitchen table and looked longingly towards the cupboards for tea. Sophie held up the kettle in answer.

  There was a knock at the door.

  When she opened it, Brutus rushed in, wheels whirring over the polished floorboards. He saw Sophie’s father and rolled up to him. ‘Hey, fella,’ he said as he scratched Brutus’s neck. The dog nuzzled contentedly. Mrs Daintree poked her head around the door. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mrs Daintree, I’d like you to meet my dad.’

  Her father stood, careful not to step on Brutus.

  ‘The name’s Angus. Pleased to meet you, Mrs Daintree.’

  ‘Oooh Sophie, I see where you get your looks from.’

  Brutus yapped but Mrs Daintree ignored him. The dog’s wheels were caught in the fringes of the floor rug so that it dragged behind him like a wedding veil.

  ‘I must invite you both down for tea.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’m going to show Dad the city first.’ Sophie was not sharing him with anyone, not in the next forty-eight hours.

  Brutus ran towards the door, the rug swishing behind him. Mrs Daintree bent down and untangled the wheels and the dog skittled away down the hall.

  ‘Did you want something, Mrs Daintree?’

  ‘Oh no, dear. I just . . . Brutus, come back here this instant! Sorry, I’d best be off. Lovely to meet you, Angus. Don’t forget tea later on.’

  She disappeared as quickly as she arrived. Sophie closed the door and locked it for good measure.

  ‘Neighbours!’

  ‘I should have got a dog, for you children.’

  Sophie remembered the anguished trips to Saturday football, Brad and the car door.

  ‘I’d pity the poor dog.’

  ‘Soph.’

  She turned on the stove, filled the kettle and settled it on the flame, wanting to kick herself for bringing up Brad already. She didn’t want the boys in her life, just her father. She wondered if the creases across his forehead had always been so pronounced and his neck so wrinkled and sun-beaten.

  ‘Dave is getting married and going to be a dad again. Do you remember Cheryl Cochrane, the girl with big teeth and matching hair?’

  Sophie didn’t realise her father noticed such things. She remembered the photos of Dave and his baby daughter her dad had sent in the mail.

  ‘She’s pregnant again?’

  ‘She’s a nice girl, Soph.’

  ‘Let’s hope it’s a boy, hey.’

  Her father wriggled uncomfortably in his chair. ‘What makes you say that?’

  She realised this was leading back to brothers and footy and the past and she just didn’t want to go there. Not now, not with her father finally here.

  ‘It’ll be someone for Dave to play footy with,’ she said.

  ‘Every boy needs footy.’

  Not Cardigan.

  ‘What does a girl need, Dad?’

  Her father stood and opened the cupboard doors, searching for cups and saucers. He placed them on the table and looked in the fridge, for milk. ‘I don’t know . . .’

  ‘Sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean . . . can we not talk about family?’

  They sat down, together, the teapot between them on the table, both looking out the window at the blue sky and the seagulls.

  ‘I’m enjoying having a grandkid, Soph. Not the nappy changing and night feeding, Dave can have that . . . but the cuddles, watching her grow, teaching her stuff. Geez, someone to talk to who wants to listen – that makes a change.’

  And then they grow up. Sophie was surprised this bitterness could rise so easily to the surface, over a child she’d never met. It was her father sitting in the kitchen, not Brad. ‘Dave’s a good dad, I imagine.’

  ‘Course he is. Brad’s got a girlfriend too. Before long, there’ll be more grandkids than fathers.’ He raised his eyes to meet her gaze and added, ‘And mothers.’

  She poured the tea into her cup, added milk and took a scalding sip. She stirred the tea once more, not wanting to argue with her father after so long apart.

  He glanced towards the sofa bed.

  ‘Will I get to meet him?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The boyfriend.’

  ‘What boyfriend?’

  ‘Soph, I’m not stupid. Is it serious?’

  Sophie ripped the plastic off the Tim Tams, placed them on a plate and offered it to her dad.

  ‘He’s away for the weekend. I won’t ever be serious about a boy again.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘After Cardigan.’

  We were just kids, Cardigan and me. Sophie shivered, and wondered if she believed it herself. If it were true, that she’d never be serious about anyone, what did that mean for her future? Years and years of men like Carlos?

  ‘We don’
t see it coming, Soph.’ He laughs, and she aches inside to hear that sound after so long. ‘I courted your mother for weeks before she’d go out with me. I thought I had no chance and then . . . wham.’

  ‘Do you miss her?’

  ‘I miss you, Sophie.’

  ‘You never talk about her, Dad.’

  ‘What’s there to say? I thought I had it all . . .’ he sighed, ‘. . . and then one day I didn’t.’

  Sophie leant forward. ‘Sometimes, when I’m going to work, I look for her among the faces on the bus, as if she’ll just appear, like magic.’

  He poured another cup of tea, reached for a Tim Tam and placed it on the saucer. ‘I never knew what she was thinking, not really. We both just focused on you kids and took each other for granted.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t mean you’re to blame. Not at all. After a few years together, you get complacent. She wanted more. I was happy with what I had, what I thought I had.’

  That night, Sophie taught her dad how to cook a quick-and-easy curry. Two tablespoons of curry paste, a tin of coconut milk, chicken thighs and every vegetable in the fridge, all thrown into a big pot. Add fish sauce, pepper and lime leaves. Low heat. They drank beer and listened to the sounds of children walking home from the beach.

  ‘When will you come home, Soph?’

  On the street below, a young man reached down to wipe the face of his daughter as she licked an ice-cream. She offered him the cone, reached up for his hand and they walked off into Saturday night.

  ‘Soph?’

  ‘Not yet, Dad. I think I want to . . .’ Not talk about it? Not have to think of the future? Not live anywhere near Brad? ‘. . . travel.’

  As she said this, she realised it was true. She couldn’t imagine going home, but doubted she’d stay here with Carlos for much longer. This was her third share house in Sydney. If she didn’t keep moving, well, what else was there?

  ‘There’s always a room for you, Soph, if you need it.’

  ‘Do you remember when you picked me up from school, Dad? The day Mum left.’

  He nodded.

  ‘I knew she’d gone, before you told me.’

  ‘I was never much good at hiding things, Soph.’

  Sophie touched his arm. ‘I’ll come home, Dad. Eventually. But not just yet.’

  The church is built of sandstone and has stained-glass windows and imposing double doors. We drive slowly past and park in the shadow of a gnarled oak tree. At the back door is the hearse. Two men sit in the front seat with the doors open. The driver has a peaked black cap, the younger man is listening to his iPod. People stand in respectful groups at the front entrance, waiting to be ushered inside.

  Sophie leads me past the assembled mourners and into the church. Above the altar, a dull light edges through the painted window. The coffin is on a trolley at the front. A light blue cloth is draped over the frame, but the shiny metal shows below. We shuffle into a pew at the back, the sound of our boots echoing in the cool dark. The sandstone floor is worn and uneven. A parishioner quietly places the order of ceremony on each pew. She stops at our row, unsure whether to hand it to us or leave it on the seat.

  There’s a photo of Sophie’s dad on the leaflet, along with his name and his birth and death dates. I offer it to Sophie, but she shakes her head, and her whole body tenses in readiness for what she’s about to face.

  People slowly enter when the organ music begins. Dave, and another man I assume is Brad, lead their partners and a child to the front pew. Dave holds the hand of the toddler and smiles manfully at Sophie.

  When the priest solemnly walks to the brothers, the child steps towards him and offers her hand. Dave laughs nervously and gently pulls the girl back.

  The priest turns and walks past the coffin to the pulpit. The chains around his neck sparkle in the slanting light as he bows his head to the oversized Bible on the lectern. He coughs once and starts his eulogy.

  Sophie reaches for my hand and closes her eyes. I’m not sure if she’s concentrating on his words or trying to shut them out.

  The priest’s voice is gruff. He tells us that Angus Parker died as he lived, among his beloved family with his granddaughter playing in his treasured garden. He says Angus Parker was always the first to volunteer at the football club and will be long remembered for his tireless work during the recent floods when he helped to move the stricken families to higher ground. An old woman sitting in front of us dabs at her eyes with a tissue.

  The priest raises his arms and intones that God welcomes all. He opens a red-bound hymn book and asks us to stand and sing. Sophie stands and looks high into the vaulted ceiling. When she tries to sing, her voice catches in her throat and she closes her eyes.

  The priest motions for us to be seated.

  He calls on anyone who wishes to offer flowers to step forward. The two brothers stand as one and each carry lilacs to the coffin. Sophie keeps her eyes closed, her hand lost in mine.

  The rose rests on her lap.

  After the Lord’s Prayer, the priest motions for Dave to step forward and say a few words. Dave walks awkwardly to the microphone and clears his throat.

  ‘Dad wouldn’t want me to say much, so I won’t.’ He looks sideways at the coffin. ‘I reckon he was the best dad a kid could have, always there for us, every week at the footy, cheering, telling us what we did right . . .’ he laughs, ‘. . . and wrong.’ He glances at his family in the front pew. ‘We’ll miss him. I’m glad Emily got to spend time with her granddad.’

  Dave suddenly looks embarrassed, as if he’s said too much. He puts his hands in his pockets and then quickly removes them, as though remembering where he is. He looks towards the priest and nods, then walks back to the pew.

  Sophie is clenching the rose, and I notice a bubble of blood where a thorn has pierced her skin. I take the handkerchief from my pocket and press it to Sophie’s hand, to stop the bleeding.

  As Dave sits down, piped organ music begins playing. The priest walks to the front pew and shakes hands once again before ushering the family down the aisle.

  Sophie opens her eyes, her cheeks slick with tears, and whispers, ‘Let’s wait here awhile.’

  When the brothers walk by, Brad leans across to us and says, ‘We’re having a drink at home. Everyone’s welcome.’

  Brad is a young man now. His pregnant girlfriend smiles nervously at us, her hands caressing her belly.

  The emptiness of the church hums. A flap of wings comes from above as pigeons resume their loft. The front door creaks shut. Sophie lifts the rose to her face and lets the petals brush the skin, colour returning to her cheeks.

  ‘I’ll just be a minute,’ she says. She carries the rose to the coffin and places it on the polished wood, then she bends forward to kiss the nameplate. I wait a few rows back as she stands, motionless, her head bowed. It is a beautiful dress. Her dad would be happy she wore it for him.

  I walk down the aisle and wait behind Sophie. She turns and takes a few hesitating steps towards me before collapsing into my arms. She sobs as I lead her to the front pew.

  She whispers, ‘I never got to say goodbye.’

  I stroke her hair, knowing there’s nothing I can say. We sit together, her face buried in my chest, until she stops crying. Sophie takes the handkerchief from my hand and holds it close to her face.

  ‘Nutmeg, blood, tears,’ she says.

  Sophie looks one last time at the coffin, before standing and leading me out of the church. When we get outside, Sophie says, ‘Let’s just leave. I’ve said goodbye. There’s nothing left to do.’

  We walk past the family. Brad moves towards us, as if drawn – until his eyes meet Sophie’s. He looks quickly to his girlfriend and Dave.

  The afternoon breeze hurries leaves through the huddled groups, like children playing catch. On the concrete bow of the fountain in t
he courtyard sit a group of young men, dressed in suits. One of them stands and walks towards Dave, offering his hand and gesturing towards his mates at the fountain.

  We walk to the rear of the church, where the graveyard jumbles down the hill. The driver of the hearse shrugs into his coat and walks inside, the younger one unplugging his iPod as he follows.

  Sophie stands at the gate.

  Halfway down the hill is a mound of dirt and clay, covered by a tarpaulin. Parked behind a tree, off to the left, is a Dingo digger. The operator sits back and lights a cigarette, then reaches into his esky for a bottle of water and takes a long swig.

  It feels like years since I’ve spoken. Sophie shakes her head. ‘A pile of dirt.’ She attempts a smile. ‘Can I show you something before we leave?’

  Michael looks at Angela across the dinner table and wonders why she was so insistent on coming to this restaurant. He arrived home from work to find her sitting in the lounge room wearing a red silk dress and silver sandals. She kissed him quickly on each cheek and told him they were going out for dinner in precisely forty-five minutes, enough time for a shower and a change of clothes.

  He wonders briefly if she’s brought her phone to the restaurant.

  When the waiter tells her the duck isn’t on tonight, he hesitates, then half-heartedly orders the poached salmon. Michael chooses the lamb and pomegranate salad, and a good bottle of pinot gris in the hope of cheering her up. The waiter fills Angela’s glass, but Michael accepts only water. Angela doesn’t seem to notice.

  They talk about work and shopping and gardening, as if any of it matters.

  When the waiter brings their meals, Angela picks at her salmon, pushing the pink flesh away from the skin and taking small bites. Michael’s lamb is perfectly cooked and falls from the bone in tender fatty morsels. He finishes his meal long before his wife and watches her eating, sipping her wine, glancing at the other diners.

  ‘I hate to see you unhappy, Angela,’ he says.