by Pamela Cook
Was that true? She’d been so sure she could handle this, had wanted desperately for there to be some sort of invisible connection between Grace and her, but she’d been fooling herself. Although there’d been a few baby steps forward, there’d also been a whole lot of gigantic strides in the opposite direction.
‘Maybe we should reconsider.’
‘What?’
‘We said we’d give it a try and if it wasn’t working we’d talk to the social worker about finding a better home for her.’
‘Are you serious?’ Less than one week and he already wanted to bail? She stared at him until her eyes began to water. He didn’t need to speak. The hard line of his mouth made the answer perfectly clear.
‘I don’t think I can do this, Tess.’
‘You mean you don’t want to do it.’
He ran a hand through his hair, a single, stray lock falling back onto his forehead, not saying a word.
Something soft inside Tess started to shrink, leaving behind the tough, brittle shell of her armour. ‘I’m taking Grace to Weerilla first thing in the morning, for the funeral, and then we’ll be staying on for a while. The psychologist I took her to said it would be for the best.’
The colour drained from his face. ‘How long is a while?’
‘I don’t know.’ However long it takes.
‘But I’m leaving for the conference first thing tomorrow.’
‘I know.’
‘Will you be okay out there on your own?’
No I’ll cancel my work trip. No we can work this out together. Just I and you. Separate and divided. His phone began ringing again, neither of them moving as it continued to buzz. How it must have been killing him not to take the call. Part of her wanted to drag this out, make him suffer, but in the end, the result would be the same.
She shook her head. ‘Just get it.’
He spun around and practically lunged for the phone. ‘Hey, Aaron, how’s the job going?’ His work voice. Keen. Interested. Completely opposite to the dry, strained tone of their domestic conversation.
A half-drunk bottle of red sat on the bench by the stove. She reached into the cupboard for a glass, and poured a generous slug.
Josh had made it blatantly obvious from the get-go that Grace was her problem to fix. She’d known that all along, so his reticence now came as no real surprise. Just as her mother’s behaviour was no real revelation. In fact, after today’s showdown, it had all become infinitely clearer. She couldn’t rely on her mother. She couldn’t rely on Josh.
When it came to helping Grace, she was on her own.
Ten
A few leftover drops of rain wobbled on the wipers before being swallowed by the wind. Showers had chased them all the way from Sydney, but now they were well past the Great Dividing Range and the clouds were starting to part, leaving a haphazard patchwork of grey and blue in their wake. According to the numbers on the dashboard, it was three pm with two kilometres to go until they reached the turn-off to Skye’s house. Despite the coffee Tess had had in Blackheath, keeping her eyes focused on the road was becoming a challenge. Chatting to her passenger might have helped—if that passenger was so inclined. Grace was asleep against the door, her head resting on the scrunched-up orange cardigan she’d turned into a makeshift pillow, the apples of her cheeks rosy against her freckled skin.
The car jerked, skating over the edge of the bitumen and bumping along the rocky verge. Tess caught her breath, turning the steering wheel hard to get them back on the road. Grace let out a quiet groan, but then settled back into sleep. Had she just nodded off herself? Maybe one of those microsleeps they talked about on the driver-fatigue ads. She straightened up and forced her eyes to open wide. Stopping was probably the safer option, but they were so close now, it was better to push on.
When the side road appeared she leaned forward, straining to read the faded letters of the sign: Longman’s Track. This was it. The Audi bounced along the dirt road, winding through deserted paddocks of stubbly grass. There were no farm animals, just dry land stretching into the distance dotted with occasional clusters of bush. Bare. Barren. Monotone. And a fifteen-minute drive into the nearest town. Skye had moved here for a reason, but surely such isolation wasn’t really warranted. Or safe. What about at night, when it was as black as soot outside, and not a soul within screaming distance? Tess’s skull shrank at the thought. Admittedly, an intruder would have to be pretty desperate to bother coming all the way out here, but still, there had better be strong locks on the doors and windows.
It took another two kilometres before the road curved around a bend and there, smack bang ahead was a house. More of a shack, really, perched behind a post-and-rail fence, a yard and an assortment of trees forming a buffer from the surrounding landscape. Blotches of rust darkened the corrugated-iron roof over the porch. A few determined leaves clung to the gnarly vine twisted along the supporting posts and eaves. Smoky-blue weatherboards wrapped around the frame of the building, and in the centre between two colonial-style windows was a purple door. Aubergine, it would be called in a paint catalogue. A set of wind chimes made from old spoons and forks swayed this way and that in the breeze. It was very arty. Very quaint. Very Skye.
‘How did you live here, girl?’ Tess whispered the question as she pulled to a stop in the patch of dirt in front of the house.
You’re about to find out. The answer came from wherever Skye was, out there somewhere, or maybe inside her own head.
Grace sat up and yawned, unravelling her long limbs like a cat stretching awake. She blinked. Jerked up straight. Rubbed the sleep from her eyes and in a split second she unclipped her seatbelt, threw open the car door and raced to the gate. Her curls spiralled in the wind as she bounded up the two cement steps and threw herself against the door, rattling the knob, racing to one curtained window and then the next, cupping her hands to the glass as she banged her fists against the walls.
Did Grace think her mother was inside?
Nausea billowed in Tess’s stomach. This was all wrong. They shouldn’t have come back. Her own mother had told her she had no idea about being a parent and she was right. The engine was still running. She could race out and grab Grace and drive away, write off this whole idea as a mistake.
But then what?
Eleanor had said it would take time. And Skye’s funeral still had to be organised. She owed her friend that much … and more. They would have to stay, at least in the short term. Regardless of the pain it caused them both.
An icy wind stole her breath as she climbed out of the car. In the warm cocoon of the Audi, they hadn’t needed jumpers and the thin sleeves of her cotton shirt provided no protection.
‘Grace?’
The front yard was empty. Cutlery chimes danced in the wind, clanging like a kindergarten orchestra. Tess’s footsteps vibrated against the old timber boards as she marched to the end of the porch and peered around the corner. Not a sign of Grace anywhere. Her heartbeat quickened, pumping adrenaline through her veins as she jumped down onto the grass, the heels of her boots sinking into the damp soil. Grey suede perhaps hadn’t been the best idea, but she hadn’t been thinking of the practicalities when she’d dressed, only how Grace would react when they arrived. Vanishing into thin air hadn’t even occurred to Tess as being one of the possibilities.
A jumble of terracotta pots painted in rainbow colours edged the back lawn. Two timber sheds bookended the far end of the yard, one purple, like the front door with a floral mural painted across the fibro. The other was a chook shed, minus the chickens, a flurry of white-and-brown feathers stubbornly clinging to the wire.
One bare stone step sat outside the back door of the house, painted the same shade as the one out front. Skye always had an eye for colour.
Leaves rustled on the far side of the cottage.
Tess turned to find Grace rifling through a camellia hedge, a hailstorm of pink petals littering the grass. She scrambled for a few more seconds before sitting back on her haunches, whi
mpering like a frightened animal.
‘Sweetheart.’ Tess kept her voice low, soothing. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘She’s gone.’
Gone? Did she really still think her mother was alive? This was exactly what Eleanor had warned her about. No closure. Tess kneeled down and placed a hand on Grace’s shoulder. ‘Your mum isn’t here anymore. She’s not coming back.’ She said it as gently as she could, but it came out sounding way too harsh.
Grace lifted her head, confusion clouding her eyes. ‘Tiger. My cat. She’s gone.’
Tess dropped back on her heels, allowing herself a minute to regain some sense of equilibrium. Grace must think her a total dimwit, but the drama at the christening made sense now: the obsession with the cat, her commando crawl beneath the house to find him. Wilson had reminded her of home. The FACS people had said nothing about a cat. Nothing about anything much at all. Only that Grace had found Skye in bed and called … a friend. And that friend might know the whereabouts of the missing Tiger.
‘What was your friend’s name? The one who looked after you when … before you came to Sydney?’
‘Jules?’ Grace answered with a question as if she wasn’t sure what Tess was talking about.
‘That’s the one.’ A burst of hope made her skin tingle. Not only was Grace speaking, a coup in itself, but if they could find Jules they might find the cat, and Grace would have something familiar to cling to, something she loved. In the absence of someone. There was no point getting too excited just yet. The cat might not even be there—might not be anywhere. Tess needed to keep the whole thing low key, but at the same time try to be reassuring. ‘So how about we get our stuff out of the car and head over and see Jules. She might be able to help.’
Grace’s face instantly lit up. She gave an enthusiastic nod, pushed herself upright and walked away without another word.
But that was okay. She’d spoken. Little by little the ice was cracking.
Sparse. Basic. Rustic. If Tess was being polite, they were the words she would use to describe the interior of the cottage. But since the place was not exactly inducing civility right now, the three words were completely different. A fucking dump. How the hell had Skye lived here? And more to the point, how was she going to live here?
The house was straight out of The Man from Snowy River, the entire thing lined with bare timber—floors, walls and ceiling—making it dark and dingy. At the end of the main room was a wrought-iron double bed covered with a crocheted throw, opposite which stood a battered old piano, partially covered by an equally ancient-looking quilt. On the wall above it, dozens of photos covered a cork board, the corners of some of them bending inwards, pinned at different angles. The wonky arrangement set Tess’s teeth on edge. Neatening that up was going straight on the to-do list. And by the look of the place, the list was going to be long.
A combustion fireplace sat along the wall between shelves made from planks of wood stacked one above the other on bare bricks. More photos of Skye and Grace, this time in frames, decorated the shelves along with rows of books, some stacked vertically, others in horizontal piles. Candles and knickknacks completed the chaos. Tidying shelves: job number two.
Footsteps sounded from behind as Grace entered the house. Tess followed her gaze to the far end of the room. Was that the bed where Skye had died? This would be the first time Grace had seen it since then, and yet she’d wanted to come back. Eleanor had said there would be layers of complicated emotions, but she hadn’t explained exactly how Tess should deal with them. Parenting was like being thrown out of a plane into the middle of the jungle and trying to navigate your way home without a compass. There was no guidebook for this, but Tess was the one who would have to lead them both out of the wilderness. Squaring her shoulders, she turned and took a few steps forward, to where Grace stood, motionless.
‘Grace?’ Her voice trembled. Not exactly oozing confidence. Or inspiring it. She cleared her throat before trying again. ‘Sweetheart?’
No reply. Instead Grace made a slow walk, as if in a trance, towards the bed where she stopped, reached out a hand and ran it over the mound of the pillow. Tess held her breath as the little girl’s head drooped and a shudder racked her tiny frame.
A baby bird coming back to an empty nest.
Seconds ticked over. Something solid in Tess’s gut told her not to approach, to let Grace have this moment of grief. All she could do was look on silently. She had no idea how long would be long enough, but outside daylight was fading, so pretty soon she would need to put operation Find the Cat into action.
‘Shall we go and find Tiger?’ As soon as it was out she cringed at her own question. What if they couldn’t find the cat? What if it was dead? She’d have to learn to phrase her questions more carefully.
Grace’s shoulders rose, then fell again. She turned around and looked up with dry, vacant eyes. Some pain was much too deep for tears.
The diversion had worked. Now they just needed to find Tiger.
‘So, do you know how to get to Jules’s place?’
Glassy eyes staring straight ahead, leg jittering against the leather upholstery, Grace nodded.
If Tess had learned anything over the last week it was that trying too hard with Grace got her nowhere. Sitting back, shutting up and waiting was a far better way to get even vaguely close to whatever was going on inside the girl’s head, so she cranked up the heating and trusted the directions would come when they were needed.
Late afternoon had brought a bank of angry clouds, a dramatic backdrop to the swathe of yellow grasses flanking the road. Thin rays of sunlight gave the landscape an eerie, almost ghostly glow. The countryside was so different out here. As soon as they’d crossed the Blue Mountains the scenery had opened up. Everything was vast. The farms, the open space, the sky. Even the quiet was more intense. Driving on the one-lane track without a soul around, with no sound except the humming of the engine, was slightly unnerving. By the time they returned it would be dark, and judging by the colour of the clouds, possibly raining. She should have left a light on inside the house. If she’d had any sense she would have left the search for Tiger until tomorrow, but if tracking down the cat was going to bring even a glimmer of a smile to Grace’s face it would be worth the effort. And she did have a light on her phone to get them back inside.
At the turn-off to the main road Grace pointed left and in ten minutes they were in the town of Weerilla. Not a car in sight. A real-life ghost town. Right on cue, Grace lifted her arm, spectre-like, and pointed again.
‘Is that the way to Jules’s place?’
A nod.
Tess drove cautiously in case another direction came out of the blue. It gave her a chance to take in the sights: wide streets, an iconic pub with wrought-iron verandahs, stone cottages with picket fences and cottage gardens. There were even restaurants and cafes, actual civilisation. Skye would have been better to buy here, in town, where there was access to real food, real coffee and real people. But access worked both ways, didn’t it?
‘Here.’ Grace pointed to a federation brick house set back from the road behind a hedged fence. Tess pulled to a stop. A sign hung from a post by the gate: Jules Starkey. Art Studio. Classes and Commissions.
So, Jules was an artist.
For the second time that day, Grace was out of the car before Tess could unbuckle her seatbelt. She ran straight up the cobbled path and yanked on the old ship bell dangling by the front door. Tess followed, wriggling her fingers to keep the cold at bay. Gloves would have been wise, but personal comfort hadn’t been her top priority. Movement sounded from inside. The door opened and Grace launched herself into the arms of a woman who returned the embrace, closing her eyes as she rested her cheek against Grace’s head. The affection between the two of them was obvious. Something prickled beneath Tess’s skin. She folded her arms and waited for the love fest to end.
The woman swayed backwards, stretched out her arms and took Grace’s face between her hands. ‘Look at you! I swear y
ou’ve gotten taller.’ Instead of pulling away, Grace actually edged forward, snuggling into the woman’s knitted poncho.
Just yesterday Grace holding her hand had felt earth-shattering, but seeing her here so comfortable with Jules stripped away any illusion of progress. Strange how something you never thought you wanted could so quickly become something you craved.
Wind rattled through the garden, sending a pile of fallen leaves scurrying across the lawn. The woman looked up and smiled. She had an old-fashioned, cherubic face, like a model from a Rubens painting, and a mop of grey curls pulled up into a rough bun, tied with a leopard-print scarf.
‘Hello, you must be Tess.’ She kept one arm around Grace as she spoke.
‘Ah, yes, I am. But we haven’t met before.’ Strange that the woman knew her name.
‘I …’ The woman looked down at Grace, the worry lines between her brows deepening. ‘The FACS office told me you were caring for this little one was when I called to see how she was doing.’ She hugged Grace to her side. ‘It made me so happy to know she was being so well looked after.’
Everything about the woman said comfort. It was a good thing for Grace to have someone so lovely looking out for her. ‘I take it you’re Jules?’ Tess reached out her hand and Jules gave it a firm shake.
‘You’re freezing, you poor thing. Come in, come in.’ She waved them both through the door. ‘I have someone here you’ll be wanting to see, Gracie.’
For one brief, beautiful moment, an image of Skye popped into Tess’s head, but she shook the vision away as they walked inside. The house was as welcoming as its owner, a zillion degrees toastier than outside, totally divine and delightfully heritage. Walking down the hallway was like visiting an art gallery. If this was all Jules’s work, she was more than talented. The tour came to an end in a huge country-style kitchen complete with a butcher’s block in the centre and an enormous pot bubbling away on an Aga. The combined, mouth-watering scent of chilli and garlic wafted through the room and Tess’s stomach gurgled. She clamped her hands across it to mask the noise. Nobody else seemed to notice, or if they did they were too polite to say.