One More Song

by Nicki Edwards

  *

  After lunch, Eddie and Aimee set off in the car and wound their way through the blackened hills to Glenview. Staring up at the charred hill, Eddie’s stomach tightened. Was she ready for this? On either side of the car were the burned skeletons of once-gorgeous gum trees. Closer to the house, she spotted a patch of grass that had somehow stayed miraculously untouched in the inferno.

  Aimee turned in the driveway and pulled up beside the concrete water tank – the only structure still standing apart from the red brick chimneys. Eddie climbed slowly from the car, her eyes roaming slowly around at the devastation, taking it all in but not really comprehending what she was seeing. She looked over at what had been her cottage. It was as though it had exploded, or a bomb had been detonated right on top of it. Or both. There was nothing but the brick foundations buried in white ash and rubble, piles of melted glass and unidentifiable debris, and metal twisted into odd shapes by the heat. Nothing that resembled a house. Her house.

  Miraculously, an ancient gum tree in the back yard was unscathed, but Nan’s prized garden was nothing but blackened dirt, the jacaranda bare of its colourful foliage. Around the perimeter of the house, once green bushes were a mass of dry, crunchy, russet red and black leaves. Everywhere was evidence of the tremendous heat and force of nature.

  Eddie’s feet felt like they had lead weights attached to them as she crunched across the scorched soil and headed around to the back of what had once been her home. She stood in front of the still smouldering ruins with an empty heart. She resisted the urge to cry but it was pointless. The tears flowed anyway. She brushed them away. It was deathly quiet. No wind in the trees. No birds. Nothing.

  ‘Have Nan and Grandad seen this yet?’ she asked Aimee.

  ‘No. I had a call from one of their new neighbours at the retirement village. They’re trying to keep Frank and Daisy occupied.’

  Eddie sniffed and tried to smile. ‘Good luck to them. I can’t see Nan doing Sudoku right now.’

  ‘Neither can I. Can you picture your grandad doing a jigsaw puzzle?’

  ‘Knowing them, they’re already planning another charity fundraiser for next year.’

  ‘Probably.’

  Eddie walked over to what was once the garden shed. Sheets of iron roofing lay on the ground, covering more twisted metal that had once been a lawnmower and other garden equipment. ‘I’m glad I wasn’t here. I wouldn’t have stood a chance.’

  ‘You were right where you were meant to be. If you hadn’t been doing your job, other lives might have been lost.’

  She sighed heavily. ‘I guess like they say, it’s just a house, isn’t it?’

  Aimee drew alongside her. ‘It was your home, Eddie. You don’t have to be so stoic. It’s okay to cry about losing that.’

  Eddie shrugged. ‘It’s just stuff. Clothes, furniture . . . I can buy all that again. Although thanks to you, the clothing situation is partially sorted already.’

  Everyone had told Eddie she’d be amazed at the things she’d find after the fire had gone through, but looking at the incinerated mess she doubted she’d find anything, especially not the one thing she was looking for. She spied one of her journals but when she bent to pick it up, it literally turned to dust in her hands. Only the wire binding remained, blackened and twisted by the heat like everything else.

  Aimee stood next to her, a silent, solemn, yet comforting presence.

  ‘I don’t think I’m going to find it,’ Eddie said, her voice thick with emotion. She’d been holding back tears all day.

  Their only goal was to find the jewellery box that held her mother’s necklace and a few dress rings. In her rush to leave, she’d remembered the silver-framed photograph but had totally forgotten about the necklace. Eddie wasn’t especially sentimental and didn’t really care about the rings, but her mum had always worn the necklace – a gold medallion that looked like a tiny shield hung from the chain. It was an antique Maggie had found after her grandmother Ivy – Eddie’s great-grandmother – passed away. Maggie always said it wasn’t anything special, a prize for being a junior sports champion, but she’d always loved it. She’d polished it up, put it on a chain and never took it off. As a child Eddie would clutch the medallion in her puffy little hand whenever she sat on her mother’s lap. It was one of her strongest memories.

  She shuffled over to where she thought her bedroom had been and kicked at the ash. Hope ebbed away. It was going to be impossible.

  ‘Don’t give up before we’ve even started,’ Aimee urged, handing Eddie a pair of heavy-duty leather gardening gloves. ‘Gold shouldn’t melt.’

  For the next two hours they sifted through the debris with exquisite patience. Eddie was just about to give up when Aimee squealed. She rushed over and Aimee was holding a small brass hinge between gloved fingers. ‘I reckon this is the hinge from your jewellery box.’

  Both women dropped to their knees and began painstakingly examining every piece of dirt like they were on an archaeological dig. Eddie spotted it a second before Aimee. The chain had disintegrated but the gold medallion was intact. She clutched it to her chest and burst into heart-wrenching, uncontrollable sobs.

  Eddie pulled herself together at the sound of a car coming up the driveway. She squinted into the sun, shaded her eyes and watched as a once-white four-wheel drive rolled slowly down the driveway. It pulled up in front of her and she saw the worried face of her grandad in the front seat beside Steve.

  Steve opened his door and jumped down, his boots causing a plume of ashy-dust to detonate into the air. ‘Ed. Aimee.’ He greeted them with a quick nod. ‘Sorry,’ he said as he pointed behind him, ‘I had to bring them out here. If I didn’t, I reckon they would have tried to walk.’

  Eddie strode over to the car. ‘You didn’t have to bring them,’ she said. ‘They could have driven here on their own.’

  Steve chuckled. ‘No they couldn’t. Someone at the village confiscated their keys so they wouldn’t come up here earlier.’

  Aimee grimaced. ‘They’d have hated that.’

  ‘You’re not wrong.’ Eddie yanked the passenger door open. ‘Hey, Grandad.’

  ‘Hello, possum. Give me a hand, would you? It’s a long way up here.’

  She helped Frank clamber down from the cab, then opened the back door and assisted her nan. Silently the three of them stood and hugged, clutching each other in support.

  ‘We’re all okay,’ Nan soothed, rubbing her back. ‘We’ve still got each other. We’re all okay.’

  Eddie felt anything but okay.

  After a while, Steve approached them, pulling off his sunglasses and tucking them into the top pocket of his flannel shirt. ‘I’ll be off then, if that’s all right,’ he said. ‘Aimee said she’s happy to drive you back into town when you’re ready.’

  Eddie released her grandparents and hugged Steve. ‘Thanks for everything, Steve.’

  ‘Thank you, Ed. Without you, I don’t reckon we would have survived.’

  She looked her friend dead in the eye. The question that had been needling at her required an answer. ‘Did I do the right thing, Steve? Should I have left Jim Baxter and helped Ben save Jenny?’

  ‘You did the right thing. You followed protocol. One of the other guys should have checked the back seat of the car earlier. It wasn’t your responsibility. You did the right thing,’ he repeated emphatically. ‘You saved Jim’s life.’

  She sighed. ‘Seems almost a shame.’

  He frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘He’s got MND. Motor Neurone Disease. He’s dying anyway.’

  Steve removed his cap and ran his hand through his hair. ‘Bugger. That’s too bad.’ His phone rang and he pulled it from his back pocket and glanced at the screen. ‘Sorry, Eddie, I have to take this. It’s Lise. She’s probably expecting me home.’

  ‘Go. Give her my love,’ Eddie said as he took the call.

  She walked over to where her grandparents and Aimee stood at the remnants of the back fence
. The view remained, but instead of the usual bushy green vista, black tree spikes dotted the skyline.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Frank asked, turning to Eddie.

  She lifted her hands and let them fall to her side. ‘I don’t know, Grandad. It’s up to you and Nan. It’s your place.’

  He scratched at his jaw. ‘I guess we could rebuild,’ he mused. It sounded like the last thing he wanted to do.

  ‘Maybe you were right, Grandad. Maybe this is the universe telling me it’s time to move on,’ Eddie said, hoping she’d managed to inflect enough enthusiasm into her voice to appease him.

  A dark cloud momentarily covered the sun and the scent of rain infused the air. A distant rumble of thunder sounded and Eddie glanced at the cloudy sky as a lone raindrop fell on the ground with a splat.

  ‘You’re a day late,’ she said, before turning and walking to Aimee’s car. ‘Let’s go.’

  Chapter 33

  All the next day and the following night Harry sat in a chair beside the hospital bed, watching his father sleep. Due to the shock, Jim was still sedated and only woke occasionally, asked for a drink and dozed off again. If he was aware Harry sat at his side, he didn’t acknowledge it.

  Claire and Simon popped in every few hours and brought him food and drinks, but the only time Harry left the building was to go with them to the funeral home to plan Jenny’s funeral. He couldn’t remember ever crying so much. No one had ever dreamed they’d be arranging Jenny’s funeral before Jim’s.

  Harry had nowhere else to be and nothing else to do, which gave him plenty of time to reflect on the rocky relationship he had with his father. Since the fire and his mum’s death it was like a switch had been flicked, and a sudden intense yearning filled him with a desire to fix things with his father. If something good could come of her death, it would be an improvement in their relationship. The separation had gone on for too long. It wasn’t right and it wasn’t healthy.

  He closed his eyes and recalled the time he’d shared a taxi with a couple of his Dogfight cast mates as they’d travelled to an after-show party. They were all on a high after a great opening night, and somehow the subject of families had come up. One of the guys, Darcy, had mentioned how awkward it was having his mum, his dad, and his dad’s shiny new Thai-bride in the audience. They’d had a laugh about that. Brady topped that by saying his parents and younger siblings had come and halfway through the first act his mum had dragged the kids out – the show wasn’t at all appropriate for younger audiences and he’d forgotten to mention that. When they asked Harry what his parents had thought of the show, they were staggered when he said his father hadn’t ever seen him perform.

  ‘What? Why?’

  Harry had brushed off their questions. ‘Let’s just say he’s not a musical theatre-lover.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. He should love and support you,’ Darcy had replied.

  Harry had quickly changed the subject. He’d seen a counsellor once and her advice was either aim for reconciliation with his father or find a way to remain indifferent to his lack of approval. He’d chosen indifference for years, and yet each time his father rejected him again, the same familiar hurts rose up.

  The thing about family was you were supposed to be there for each other, but Harry had learned through bitter experience that it was better to expect nothing than be disappointed hoping things would be different. It was the only way of protecting himself. He had forgiven his father for not showing up to his performances and for his lack of interest in his career, but forgiving and forgetting were two different things. Forgiveness didn’t mean allowing his father to keep hurting him. So he’d taken a few steps back and kept their contact further away than arm’s length.

  Harry looked over at his father now. He wasn’t a bad man or a bad father, just an emotionally absent one. A man who, for whatever reasons, wouldn’t – or couldn’t – support his son doing something he loved. Harry wasn’t able to point to the one thing that had caused the rift, rather it seemed to be a series of small things combined with the passage of time, something he now regretted deeply. He shouldn’t have let things fester for so long. It must have caused his mum so much grief.

  ‘Harry?’

  Jim’s eyes were open and clear for the first time since the accident. Harry stood and went to the side of the bed. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Can you sit me up and get me a glass of water?’

  Harry fumbled with the controls and waited for the bed to tilt into a sitting position. He held a glass of water to his dad’s lips and positioned the straw so he could drink.

  ‘When’s the funeral?’ Jim asked.

  ‘In two days.’

  ‘I thought I’d missed it.’

  ‘No.’ As if they’d have the funeral without him.

  ‘Did I miss the concert?’ Jim asked.

  The disease, combined with medications Jim was on, had caused him to become increasingly confused, and often the past, present and future intertwined.

  ‘What concert?’ Harry asked.

  ‘The one for the fire victims. The one you were singing in.’

  ‘That was ages ago, Dad. You didn’t make it. You got sick, remember?’

  ‘What about the show in Melbourne? Has that started yet?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s started.’ Harry decided not to remind him he’d missed that opening night too.

  ‘Are you singing at the funeral?’

  Harry closed his eyes briefly against the wave of fresh pain washing over him. ‘Yeah.’ It was the last thing he wanted to do.

  ‘Your mum would have liked that.’ Jim’s eyes clouded.

  ‘Are you in any pain?’ Harry asked, desperately needing to change the subject.

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘I can get the nurse.’ Harry’s hand hovered over the buzzer.

  ‘It’s okay for now.’

  Harry felt hot tears prick his eyelids and he brushed them away with the back of his hand.

  His father stared at him. ‘What’s wrong?’

  What’s wrong? What a crazy question. His mum had just died and this horrible incurable disease was about to take his father away too before Harry had a chance to work out how to repair things between them.

  ‘I have regrets, you know,’ Jim said, staring down at the end of the bed.

  Harry froze.

  ‘I’ve been doing some thinking. It’s probably because of this blasted illness. Then with the accident and your mum dying . . .’ Jim’s voice tapered off. ‘I know I used to tell myself I didn’t have regrets, but I do. The minister came and saw me last week. Told me there are only two ways to live without regrets. Either admit you have ’em and do something about it or pretend you don’t and die having lived a lie.’

  Harry kept quiet. In his entire life he couldn’t remember his father ever admitting he had regrets, or voicing such philosophical thoughts.

  ‘It’s pride, you know. That’s why I can’t admit it.’

  Where was this headed?

  ‘Libby said acknowledging the things we regret should motivate us to do something about it.’

  ‘We all have regrets,’ Harry agreed. ‘But there’s no regret too large or too small that can’t be turned around,’ he added, keeping his tone as neutral as possible.

  ‘Forgive me, Harry.’

  A wave of heat washed over him and he locked eyes with his father. ‘Forgive you for what?’

  ‘For putting pressure on you to take over the farm from me.’ He sighed heavily.

  Harry leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees. ‘Why couldn’t you ever accept that I wanted to be a performer, not a farmer? Did you think I’d never make it? Did you think I’d fail? Or did you just think the farm was my responsibility and you never stopped to consider I might have dreams of my own?’

  Jim was silent for a long moment and Harry began to wonder if he was going to answer. ‘It’s always on my mind. It’s just so public, you know, what you do. If you fail, everyone will hear, ever
yone will know. And if you’re not good enough . . .’ He left his sentence unfinished.

  Harry gaped at his father. ‘But I am good enough, Dad. I haven’t failed.’

  Jim dropped his gaze. ‘I know,’ he muttered.

  ‘And the farm shouldn’t have to be my responsibility just because you want to keep it in the family.’

  Jim let out a long slow breath and eventually met Harry’s stare. ‘I know that too.’

  Harry didn’t know how to respond. Did his father finally understand?

  ‘When I got diagnosed it floored me. I spent a lot of time asking “why me?” But the answer is, there is no bloody answer. After days, weeks, months of knowing something was wrong, I thought the diagnosis would be a relief. But it’s not, because despite how much I want to beat it, I can’t. It’s terminal and there’s no cure. It feels like I’ve failed this too.’ A single tear trickled down his cheek. ‘Like I said, I have more regrets than I’d like to admit.’ He cleared his throat and regarded Harry intently. ‘I regret never coming to watch you perform. Like everything I’ve done in my life, I’ve probably botched up my relationship with you too.’

  Harry didn’t trust himself to speak. He had no idea his father had carried such a deep sense of regret and hurt inside him for so long. A throbbing lump formed in the centre of his chest as he realised how hard the years must have been for his father. The throbbing intensified as he reflected that he was just as much to blame for the distance between them. A hot flash of memory burned into him. A memory of his father reaching out to put his arms around him when he’d been injured playing football as a child. He yearned for that comfort now, ached to have his father care about him the way he had when he was younger. All these years he’d blamed his father for being stubborn and opinionated and emotionally distant and he was every bit as guilty as Jim.

  Jim wasn’t finished. ‘I regret never taking an interest in your career, never believing you could do it so well. I was blinded by my disappointment that you were never going to take over the farm – that you didn’t have a son of your own – that it would all end with me. And I didn’t want you to set your sights on the world stage and flop. I wanted to save you the pain. The rejection of not making it to the top. And I’m sorry. So sorry. Because I was very wrong.’