by Pamela Cook
At the park, her head tipped back, arms taut against the metal chains of the swing as she arced up and down, the two of them side by side seeing who could go higher.
Walking along the street, her face drawn, shadows rimming her eyes, and the quiet desperation on her face as she clutched Tess’s arm.
Each memory put her right back there with Skye, her eyes growing heavier, dragging her down into a deep, dark dungeon of sleep: doors opening and closing, the sound of her own breath echoing inside her skull, a voice hissing venom into her ear.
She surfaced into the bleary light of morning, her T-shirt damp with sweat. Rubbing a hand across her face, she picked up her phone and blinked at the numbers on the screen—it was almost eight. Much too late for a responsible parent to be rising. Plates and cutlery clinked in the kitchen. She sloughed off the covers and sat up, taking a minute for her blood pressure to settle. Her phone buzzed with a message from Josh. I assume you got there safely. Curt. Like most of their conversations since she’d said she was coming to Weerilla. She should have messaged him to let him know they’d arrived, but then they’d got here and Grace had freaked out and they’d gone in search of Tiger and …
She typed back a quick apology and a promise to call him later. Her temples ached and her head was as heavy as a bowling ball. How much sleep had she actually had? Only a few hours at most. She blinked away the residue of her nightmares and switched off the lamp. Time to get moving. Today was going to be all about taking things easy and making some headway with Grace. Now that the cat had been found and the first night was out of the way, things were sure to get easier.
By the time she stumbled out to the kitchen in bed socks, Grace was already eating breakfast—a standard bowl of Weetbix and banana, drowned in a swimming pool of the milk she must have retrieved from the esky—and a book was laid open on the table.
‘Good morning. Sorry I slept in, that drive must have taken more out of me than I thought.’
Grace kept reading, slurping cereal off her spoon.
Back to square one. Tess rummaged around in the box of stuff she’d brought from home and dragged out the plunger and filter coffee. On a scale of one to ten, today’s need for caffeine was around nine-point-five. She flicked on the kettle and folded her arms as she surveyed the space. The kitchen was tiny, set at the back of the house, divided from the lounge area by a rectangular table with bench seats. A set of cast-iron frying pans hung from hooks below open shelves storing cups, glasses and plates. A white trough sink set into a timber bench sat beneath the single window facing out onto the backyard. She straightened as she peered through the glass. What was all over the grass? She could have sworn it was a dull shade of green yesterday when she’d followed Grace out there on the hunt for Tiger. Now it was a powdery white. She leaned into the window for a closer look. Wait, was that …?
‘Frost?’ She turned to Grace, hooking a thumb over her shoulder. ‘Is that frost out there?’
The usual nod, then back to the book.
Freaking hell. The whole yard was covered in a sheet of tiny crystals, under a woolly blanket of grey sky. The house was cold enough, but it looked positively arctic out there. Tess crossed her arms, rubbing at her elbows, her palms eventually warming from the friction. A cloud of fog appeared when she blew on her knuckles, then quickly evaporated. So that was why Grace was wearing a scarf, beanie and gloves. They needed to get that fire going before they did anything else. Before they froze. The kettle whistled and she filled the plunger, closing her eyes and inhaling. The last time she’d been anywhere remotely rural was at her father-in-law’s winery, where the accommodation was more designer luxury than rustic cabin. A gas fire had ignited with the touch of a button and the heated travertine tiles beneath her feet had been positively a gift from the gods. Here all she had was an empty pot-belly and bare boards turning her socked feet into slabs of ice. It was like visiting an alternate universe—one that had a climate reminiscent of the North Pole.
Grace scraped the final remnants of cereal from her bowl. With Tiger perched on the chair beside her, book at her fingertips, she seemed perfectly content. Maybe, just maybe, coming back would be the therapy she needed. Maybe she would feel closer to her mother here and that would help her deal with Skye’s death. Once the funeral was over, they could focus on getting to know each other.
Tess needed to phone the mortician and finalise arrangements, but settling Grace back in at home was her first priority.
She closed her eyes and chugged back a large mouthful of coffee, scalding her throat. This was all such new territory. The only other deaths she’d experienced had been her paternal grandfather and her maternal grandmother. She’d been young for both, a kid and then a teenager. Although losing them had been hard, there was something inevitable about an older person dying. It was something you could accept, part of that whole cycle-of-life thing. But this was different. This was her friend. Someone she’d grown up with, someone who had survived the worst and deserved to live. Funny then how this death hadn’t moved her to tears, yet every time those two words—Skye and dead—came together in her brain, a solid lump of gristle settled at the base of her throat. It was there now, a mass not even the strength of the coffee could dissolve.
So what must it be like for Grace?
Her mother had left her. Not by leaving the house, by removing herself from life. Why had Skye gone to such lengths to protect her child—holed them both up in the wilderness with barely any connection to the outside world—if she was going to throw Grace to the wolves? It didn’t make sense. Or did it? Did the past eventually catch up with you no matter how hard and fast you ran? How diligently you hid. Perhaps some things were just too horrible to live with no matter how much—or who—you had to live for?
The downy hairs on the back of Tess’s neck bristled. She tightened her grip on the cup. Morbid thoughts were not helpful. She needed to take control of the situation and get shit done.
‘So, how about we get a fire happening?’
Grace lifted her head from the book, but made no attempt to move. Tiger took the opportunity to jump from the chair and scoot across to the back door, letting out a high-pitched meow. That was enough to get her owner mobile. She walked to the door and opened it, the cat slinking out with a quiet trill, as if saying thank you.
A shot of cold air blasted into the room. Tess sprang forward and pushed the door shut. ‘Brrrrr. I hope poor Tiger doesn’t freeze her little butt off out there.’ What looked suspiciously like a grin tugged at the corners of Grace’s mouth. ‘She doesn’t run off, does she?’ Another frenzied cat chase in what amounted to polar conditions was not on today’s agenda.
Grace gave a shake of her head.
‘Good to know. So, we should probably get some wood.’
Grace marched to the fireplace and returned with the empty basket. Tess reached for the door, pausing before stepping outside. She was only wearing socks. Not the best form of footwear for wood collecting, or traversing a frost-covered yard. Outside, Grace pointed to a shoe rack beside the step, where two pairs of rubber gumboots sat. Tess gave the larger set a good upside-down shake before pulling them on. She was literally stepping into Skye’s life. Her daughter, her house and now her boots. Coffee swirled inside her otherwise empty stomach.
Grace left her no time to ponder as she headed off across the yard. Tess followed, blades of grass crunching like shattered glass beneath her feet. Even the fruit trees along the fence line were coated in frost, miniature icicles glittering on their naked branches. The morning air burned her lungs and she held it there for a few seconds before huffing out a mouthful of fog. Her eyes stung and she swiped away the beads of water settling against her lower lashes. Birds chirped high up in the gums and higher still, a crow cawed.
Everything was fresh and clear and crisp. Breathtaking, in the best possible way.
By the time she reached the woodpile at the back of the shed, the basket was already half-filled with neatly cut logs. Grace shoo
k her head when Tess went to help, and continued on with the job, pulling a bundle of sticks from a pile stacked up beside the abandoned chook pen. The pile was waist high and a metre or so wide, probably enough timber to last a good few days. How long did wood take to burn? If she’d been a Brownie instead of a ballerina, or if her dad and brothers had taken her away for camping weekends instead of leaving her at home with her mother, she might know the answer to that question. She might not be such a useless twit when it came to anything vaguely practical. Give her a staffing issue and she’d have it sorted before the office door closed for the day, but hand her a load of sticks and a box of matches and she’d probably freeze to death before she could strike a flame.
Taking one handle of the basket each, they carried the load inside. Once again, all Tess could do was watch as Grace scrunched up bits of paper and stuffed them into the grate, tossing in a few fire starters from a box on the floor before she reached for the matches.
Tess sprang forward. ‘I’ll do that.’ Grace was a kid. Far too young to be mucking around with fire.
‘I am not a baby.’ Grace snatched her hand away, the match box firmly in her grasp.
‘No, but you’re not an adult, either.’
‘Mumma always let me. It’s my job.’ She pulled out a match and struck it against the side of the box before Tess could react. Sulphur sizzled and a puff of smoke rose as Grace lit the contents of the pot-belly. She slammed the door shut and placed the closed matchbox back on the shelf, the look on her face blacker than the soot on the hearth. She stomped past, grabbed her book from the table and vanished into her bedroom, the curtain of beads clattering against the wall as she swiped them aside.
In the quiet of the lounge room, the fire crackled to life. Tess turned towards it, knees tingling as her muscles began to thaw. Had she and Grace just had their first fight? And if they had, how long would the cold war last?
Twelve
Right now, the big freeze was much more physical. Her fingers were frozen solid. She scrunched them into fists and then released them again, repeating the action as the blood began to flow. Once the blaze inside the pot-belly billowed into a full-blown fire, she had to take a step away. There was no point in scorching her trackies since they were the only comfortable—and warm—piece of clothing she’d brought.
Breakfast refuse littered the table. She could get on with tidying up, if she had any idea where things belonged. The heating system was remarkably effective, already warming the air out in the kitchen. As she collected her cup, Grace, changed now into a sweatshirt and leggings, breezed past, picked up her bowl and proceeded to rinse it at the sink. A shaft of sunlight streamed through the window onto her hair, creating a halo effect. Based on the way she was savaging the plate with the dish brush, however, her expression would be more demonic than angelic. Good to know she wasn’t all sunshine and light. At least she had some spunk.
And she’d come out of her cave. That was surely something to celebrate.
Eleanor had suggested normality, and a return to everyday routine for Grace was homeschooling. One more thing about which Tess was completely clueless. Wasn’t there already enough tough stuff to deal with as a parent without adding that onerous task? Skye had her reasons, though, and for the time being Tess would need to follow suit. Surely it couldn’t be that hard. A bit of reading, a bit of maths, maybe some social science or whatever they called it these days.
‘Would you like to do some school work?’ That sounded too tentative. She tried again. ‘I mean, if you have any school work I can give you a hand.’
Grace swished her ponytail and opened a cupboard beneath the bench, pulling out a plastic crate and unloading its contents onto the table. Books, pencil case, ruler. She arranged it all neatly, sat down and looked vaguely in Tess’s direction.
This was a turn-up. One minute the kid was storming off to the bedroom and the next she was setting up a home office, but who was Tess to argue? She pulled out a chair, taking in the textbook Grace had chosen first. ‘Great. I aced maths at school. Show me what you’re doing.’
Grace opened the book and pointed. Fractions. She bowed her head over the page and got to work. Letting the student tackle each question on their own first, urging them to work it out for themselves rather than giving them the answers, was the technique Tess had used in her university days when she’d earned her part-time wage as a tutor. A few of her older kids had blitzed their HSC, more fodder for her mother’s argument that she really should be a teacher and give the psychology degree away. Funny that in the end she had switched paths, despite it not relating to any great desire to follow in her mother’s footsteps. Giving that dream a miss had nothing to do with her future and everything to do with her past.
Grace stared up at her, one eyebrow arched. Is that right? She didn’t have to say it out loud for Tess to catch her drift.
She’d been miles away. She bent forward and checked over the tidily drawn figures. ‘You’ve got it. That’s so good for your age.’
Grace’s eyes shone. Seeing her face light up was such a gift.
Giving her space to try things for herself was probably a good idea. Better than being one of those helicopter parents, hovering around and watching every move her kid made. Not that Grace was her kid … anyway. ‘How about I do a bit of cleaning up and unpack the rest of my stuff, and you give me a yell if you need some help?’
A quick nod and Grace returned to her books. Perhaps this whole homeschooling caper wasn’t so bad after all.
A smoky, not unpleasant, scent filled the cottage. Unpacking her clothes was a logical next step, but there wasn’t a whole lot of storage room in the place. Apart from the wardrobe and an old chest of drawers in Grace’s room, there was the blanket box at the end of the queen-sized bed and another wardrobe in the far corner. Ornate flowers were carved into its timber doors, their stems and leaves highlighted with mother-of-pearl. Such a beautiful piece of furniture. Like the butterflies on the bedroom lamp, the pattern was reminiscent of the jewellery box she’d bought Grace for their first meeting. This time almost identical. Was that why Grace had been so immediately enamoured with the piece? The living area must have doubled as Skye’s bedroom, so her clothes would be in there, and possibly some of her more personal items, too. Goosebumps pimpled Tess’s arms, creeping across the ball of her shoulder and up the base of her neck.
She flicked a look back at Grace, head down, still absorbed in calculations. It wouldn’t hurt to take a quick peek and glean some idea of Skye’s life. They’d shed their gumboots at the back door, so her socked feet made barely a sound as she glided towards the wardrobe. Her heart, on the other hand, was thumping away like a boom box. She paused mid-step and looked back into the kitchen. No movement. All good.
Two more strides and she was there. A small key rested inside the lock in the middle of the double doors. She pinched the clover-shaped end and gave a twist. One small click and both doors fell ajar. Key between her fingertips, she held her breath. What was she doing? Snooping, that’s what she was doing, but for a good cause. Besides, no one would know. She inched the doors open. Two racks of clothes. T-shirts, cotton long sleeves, a sheepskin jacket and a Driza-Bone, all hung along on the top rail. Jeans and a few long skirts on the bottom. Arranged in a neat row underneath, was an assortment of shoes—sandals, ankle boots and uggs. Nothing fancy, nothing out of the ordinary. All well worn.
A single panel door was on the right. Again, Tess turned the key. Drawers filled the lower half of the space. She pulled each one out, inspecting its contents. Underwear, socks, jumpers, shorts, scarves. A few pieces of jewellery sat on a shelf around eye level—earrings, rings, a necklace of tiny elephants joined trunk to tail. Skye had always loved that style. Bo-ho, it would be called now, but when they’d been kids it had been plain old Indian. They’d stop in at Asian Affair on their way home from school, swoon over the sandalwood incense, trail their fingers over the dangling pieces of silver hanging from the rack on the counter, and
chatter away to Mrs Novak, who owned the tiny store. Back in the days when they still had walked home together.
Tess shook her head. She needed to stay focused. Poking around towards the back of the shelf, her fingers landed on something she instantly identified. Her stomach whirled. Skye had kept it, after all those years of travelling, the almost twenty years between then and now. She slid out the bracelet and let it rest in the palm of her hand. Two tarnished silver hearts. The small ruby birthstone connecting them was flat and dull. She slipped it over her wrist, but the clasp was broken. If only it was a Tardis that could send her tumbling back in time, to the day or the week or the year before everything had changed. Things might have worked out differently. Skye might still be alive. She let the bracelet fall into her hand and tucked it back in the hidden depths of the wardrobe. Pie-in-the-sky daydreaming would get her nowhere.
Three more shelves to go. A couple of leather bags and an old wallet on the first, an array of knitted beanies on the next, and on the top shelf two brown wicker storage boxes sitting side by side. She reached up and pulled one down, tucking it against her diaphragm as she peeled off the lid and rifled through the contents. Photos, dozens of them. Grace’s pixie face, smiling. Actually smiling. Grace cartwheeling across the frosty lawn. Grace climbing a tree. Joyful, playful, happy. So different to the Grace she knew now. She closed the lid with a sigh and returned the box to its place, grabbing its shelf-mate.
Documents this time. Fixing the lid beneath the box, she filed through the stack of papers. A receipt for the sale of Skye’s grandmother’s house back in Sydney, one for the house she’d bought here in Weerilla, Grace’s birth certificate, and tucked away at the bottom was an A4-sized envelope, unlabelled and unsealed. She balanced the base of the envelope against the box and prised it open with her free hand, pulling out a collection of photocopied pages. The header on the first page showed it had been copied from the Melbourne Herald back in April. ‘He has a daughter’ was scribbled across the top in bright-red pen. Underneath the headline, ‘LOCAL BUSINESSMAN RUNS FOR STATE SEAT’, was a grainy photo of a man in a suit, somewhere in his late forties, smiling tightly from behind dark sunglasses. A shorter woman stood beside him, the pair flanked by two boys who looked to be in their late teens, and a younger girl stood in front of the couple. She brought it closer, squinting at the grainy caption: ‘Businessman and Property Developer Neil Harrison announces his …’