by Suzanne Leal
When at last it is time to go, he waves at Leonie and gives her a wide smile as he walks out. Only when he’s in the car does he start to wilt. But not for long. Don’t come a cropper now, he warns himself as he starts the engine. Not now.
He’s hoping he’ll beat Michelle home. At least that’ll give him a bit of time to compose himself.
But as it happens, she’s already home, and as he walks through the door, her cheery voice greets him. ‘Hi, love,’ she calls from the kitchen, ‘I’m making a cuppa—you want one?’
A cuppa’s not going to fix it, love. That’s what he’s going to have to tell her. A cuppa’s not nearly going to fix it, love.
And then he can’t hold it back any longer. So there he is, bent over in the hallway, his face in his hands, his knees bent, his shoulders hunched. Crying. How he cries. He cries until the muscles in his stomach contract, his eyes sting and, once more, he can’t swallow. He doesn’t cry loudly. He is almost silent in his weeping, almost soundless.
When Michelle finds him like that, doubled over and sobbing, she starts to scream. ‘Terry!’ she screams, like she thinks he’s having a heart attack or something. ‘Terry! What is it? What is it?’
He can’t tell her. He doesn’t have the words for it. He has no words at all. He just wants to be alone.
But he isn’t alone. He is at home and Michelle is there with him. So he lets her take him into the lounge room, lets her sit him down on the sofa, lets her sponge his face with a warm washer. And, later, he thanks her for the cup of tea she brings him.
She doesn’t push him to speak. She just waits. She sits beside him on the sofa and she waits.
He starts slowly, cautiously. ‘The new teacher,’ he tells her, ‘she came into the shop. She was looking for Bridie. Thought she might be with me. And she was, she was with me, all right. She’d taken off from school. And she was that upset, poor little blossom. That’s why I took her to the tearoom, love, just to calm her down.’
When he turns to Michelle she gives him a tiny smile and, taking his hand, holds it tightly in hers. ‘Love, I had her on my lap. I was holding her on my lap. And maybe I shouldn’t have done that, but she was so upset, I didn’t know what to do. I just—I just wanted to comfort her.’
Michelle’s hand tightens around his. She makes a noise, a little noise, so he’ll keep going. But he’s not sure he can.
‘When the new teacher saw me there, with Bridie on my lap like that, the look she gave me, it was like I was vermin. No, no, I wanted to say to her, no, no. It’s not like that. It’s not what you’re thinking. But she wouldn’t have heard; she was just screaming at the little one to get off me—when all I wanted was to keep my arms around her and hold her tight and keep her safe.’
It is so, so hard to speak now. ‘The new teacher, she said she was going to tell Laurie Mathews. And I know what she’d do: she’d be on to the police. And I was thinking, for God’s sake, we can’t get the police mixed up in all this, not after everything we’ve done to keep Bridie away from all that. I panicked then, love. I panicked and I told her everything: everything about Bridie and Trent and Donna. I told her the lot. I didn’t want to, love, I really didn’t want to, but what could I do?’ His voice cracks. ‘And, love, I don’t know if I can trust her, I don’t know what she’ll do with it, but I told her anyway. And all the while she was staring at me, staring at me like I was the most disgusting thing she’d ever seen.’ Because he can’t face looking at Michelle—he just can’t face it—he keeps his head right down.
Michelle doesn’t say anything. For the longest time, she doesn’t say a thing. ‘The other stuff,’ she says finally. ‘Did you tell her about the other stuff?’
He looks up, confused.
‘About the girl,’ she says. ‘Did you tell her about the girl?’
For a moment he is still puzzled. The girl? What girl? Then he realises she means Clare. ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘I told her about Clare.’
‘And about the baby, did you tell her about that, too?’
She is speaking so quietly he can hardly hear her.
‘I told her all of it, love. I told her everything.’
She is silent for a moment. ‘But you’ve never really told me, Terry,’ she says at last. ‘Not properly. Not in any detail.’
It is his turn to fall silent. ‘You know, love,’ he says, when he can bring himself to speak again, ‘after the fuss, I didn’t even want to think about it. That’s why I never talked about it.’
Slowly, gently even, she slips her hand from his. ‘But I want to know about her. I want to talk about her.’
It’s the last thing he wants to do. The last thing.
But after everything he’s put her through, maybe that’s not fair.
‘She was nice, love,’ he tells her softly. ‘She was really nice. Fair hair, not so as you’d call it blonde, sort of silvery blonde-brown, something like that.’
‘Ash,’ Michelle murmurs. ‘Ash-blonde, that’s what it’s called.’
He repeats that back to himself. ‘Ash-blonde. That’d be it. And blue eyes and an olive sort of complexion. A bright spark, she was, too. Even at fifteen, I reckon she was running rings around me.’
God, it’s hard to talk about her. Even now.
‘It was a surprise—a big surprise, really—when she said she’d be my girlfriend.’
Beside him, Michelle is very quiet. He gives her hand a squeeze. ‘You right, love?’
‘Do you wish—I mean, do you wish she’d had the baby?’ The question is whisper-quiet and when he looks at her, he sees that there are tears falling down her face.
‘Oh, love,’ he says. ‘Oh, love.’
‘Do you?’ she repeats. ‘Do you wish she’d had the baby?’
He can’t bear the sadness in her voice. He can’t bear it.
‘Oh, darling,’ he says, ‘I wish I’d had a baby with you. That’s what I wish. I wish we’d had a baby.’
She doesn’t bother to wipe her tears away. She just lets them fall. ‘But you could have had one with her. And it’s my fault.’ She falters. ‘It’s my fault we didn’t have a baby.’
It breaks him to hear her. It almost breaks him. ‘No,’ he tells her. ‘No, no. That’s not what they said. You know that’s not what they said. It just didn’t happen, love. It just didn’t happen.’
They are both crying then: they are both crying, their shoulders touching, their hands tightly clasped. They cry for a long time, for such a long time, and it is as though they might never stop. But they do stop. They stop, they wipe their eyes, they blow their noses then they stand up and, slowly, they make a start on dinner.
Nina
The concert doesn’t start for an hour but already Nina has stage fright.
Breathe, she whispers to herself, breathe.
The kids are all backstage, but Kurt, it seems, has left half of his costume at home. Nina calls his mother to check but she doesn’t pick up. ‘It’s Nina Foreman here,’ she says when it kicks over to voicemail. ‘Could you ring when you get this? It’s about Kurt’s costume.’ Despite the breathing, she’s still feeling panicked.
Almost immediately, her phone rings. But it’s not Kurt’s mother. It’s the childcare centre. They’re calling to say that Emily has conjunctivitis and, in accordance with the centre’s policy, will need to be picked up immediately.
Steve doesn’t pick up his mobile. She dials again but it goes to voicemail. She hates calling him at work but today there’s no choice. In any case, the receptionist tells her he’s not there.
When her phone rings, she grabs it without checking the screen. ‘Steve?’ she says hopefully.
But it’s not Steve, it’s Kay Ward to let her know she’s got Kurt’s costume and is on her way.
Colin. She’ll call Colin. But Colin doesn’t answer when she rings the home number and he doesn’t have a mobile.
Now what?
There’s one other possibility.
No, she tells herself, not her.
> But any moment now, the childcare centre will be ringing again to find out what’s happening.
Nina still has her number. She knows she does. And sure enough, when she scrolls through her contacts, there she is: SR. Squeezing her eyes, she presses call. As soon as the number starts ringing, she hangs up. Then she calls again. This time, she doesn’t hang up.
The phone rings three times before it connects. ‘Hello?’ a woman answers, then, more tentatively, ‘Hello? Is anyone there?’ when Nina doesn’t reply.
Nina clears her throat. ‘Is that Sue?’ she asks.
The voice is wary now. ‘Yes, this is Sue.’
‘It’s Nina here,’ she says. ‘Nina Foreman.’
There’s a pause. Don’t hang up, Nina wills her, don’t hang up.
She doesn’t.
‘It’s Emily,’ Nina tells her.
‘Oh,’ she says, her voice rising, ‘is she all right?’
Nina tells her what has happened. ‘I can’t get on to Steve,’ she says.
That’s because he’s away, she is told, and won’t be back until the evening.
Nina is angry to hear this: angry that he isn’t available and angry that this woman knows where he is when Nina has no idea. ‘Right,’ she replies, ‘all right.’ She sounds curt, she knows that, but she doesn’t care.
‘I could pick her up,’ the woman says. ‘I’ve been there before, with Steve, so they already know me.’
Nina bristles. What does she mean, she’s been there before?
‘And I’m pretty sure Steve’s authorised me to pick her up, but you might need to check.’
Nina struggles to control herself. How the hell can she have the authority to pick up Emily when it’s the first Nina’s even heard about it?
Forget it, she wants to say. I’ll go.
But she can’t go. If there was ever a day she couldn’t go, this is the one.
‘I can be there in twenty minutes.’ That’s what she’s telling Nina now. ‘I’ll take her straight home.’
Nina is confused. Home? What does she mean, home? It takes her a minute to register. She means her home with Steve. Their home together.
‘What about a car seat?’ Nina asks, her voice flat.
She already has one. In her car, in this woman’s car, there is a car seat for Emily. The thought of it enrages her.
‘Right,’ she says. ‘Right.’ Forcing the words out, Nina thanks her. Then she hangs up.
Breathe, and breathe, and breathe.
Because now it’s time.
There is talking in the audience and Nina’s heart is loud as she walks onstage. When she stops in the middle of the stage, the talking stops, too. All eyes, then, are on her. It makes her want to vomit.
‘Good afternoon,’ she says. Her voice wobbles as she speaks. ‘Welcome to the Year 6 show. The students have been working very hard and are very excited about it. We’ll be starting with The Bears.’ Through her nerves, she does her best to give the audience a smile. ‘I know you’ll all be familiar with the story, but I don’t think you’ll have seen it done quite this way before. So sit back, relax and enjoy the performance.’
With that, Belinda presses play on the sound system, Nina melts back into the wings, and the bears take over.
Backstage, the cast of The Wolf is in disarray.
‘Get moving,’ Nina tells them. ‘I need you all ready now.’
Immediately Elsie bursts into tears: she’s left her bonnet somewhere and now she can’t find it. The dressing-room is a mess so it could be anywhere. And because it’s her job to make sure the kids are ready, Mel is down on her hands and knees searching around for the bloody thing. Once she finds it, she gives a whoop, and when Elsie joins in too, Nina has to hiss at them both to keep it down.
Ethan’s shirt is hanging out. As Mel reaches over to tuck it in, he pulls back, scowling. ‘Can you just stop it, Mum?’ he growls. ‘I’m not a baby.’ Nina smiles to watch them. Beside him, Mel looks so young she could pass for his sister.
Adam is backstage, too, helping out with the sets. When he passes Ethan, he gives him a poke between his shoulder blades, which makes him jerk back. ‘Mate,’ he tells him, ‘your mother’s just trying to make sure you don’t look ridiculous onstage. Show her a bit of respect, for God’s sake.’
He looks like he’s about to say something else, but he’s interrupted by the sound of clapping. Loud, continuous clapping, and some whistling. The bears are finished.
‘Five minutes,’ Nina tells Mel. ‘We’ll need everyone in The Wolf ready in the wings in five minutes.’
Four minutes later, they’re all there except for Bridie, who refuses to leave the dressing-room. Nina squats down beside her. ‘What is it, darling?’
‘What if I forget?’ she murmurs. ‘What if I forget what I’m supposed to say?’
Nina reaches out to hold her. ‘You won’t, sweetheart. As soon as you’re up there, the words will just come out. And if they don’t, Sebastian’s mum will be there to prompt you. Okay?’
Bridie bites at her lip. ‘Okay,’ she whispers.
Bridie is in the wings now, too: all decked out in her silver narrator’s cape. Silver shoes, too, she sees.
‘Love your shoes,’ Nina tells her. ‘I really, really love your shoes.’
Bridie smiles. ‘Mr P got them for me,’ she says, ‘when I told him about the cape. He got them for me so they were matching.’
Nina can’t suppress a grimace. Why does he have to keep popping up, why can’t he just disappear? And even though she doesn’t say anything out loud, still the little girl’s smile fades. Nina takes her hand and gives it a squeeze. ‘They’re beautiful,’ she tells her. ‘They’re absolutely beautiful.’
Terry
He’s taken the day off work and now he’s sitting on the sofa, phone in hand, just waiting. When the call finally comes through, he answers it on the first ring.
‘Terry, mate,’ Sid whispers, ‘I’ve got to keep it down. Can you hear me okay?’
He can. In fact, Sid’s coming through crystal clear.
Sid sounds pleased. ‘Rightio. The Wolf’s about to start so we’ll do it the way we did it with The Bears, okay? I’ll just hold the phone up again. That should do the trick.’
It does the trick, all right. As soon as Terry puts the phone on speaker, he can hear them all loud and clear. And by God, does that make him smile.
When it’s Bridie’s turn, his palms start to sweat; twice he has to wipe them on his trousers. Listening hard, he wills her to remember the lines, wills her to bat on, no matter what happens. God love her, she does. She keeps on going, her voice clear, her voice strong, her voice loud.
But not nearly as loud as Elsie, who yells her lines. Hearing her makes Terry want to laugh and cry and clap, all at once. It seems he’s not the only one because from somewhere in the distance—from the back of the hall, he imagines—comes a cheer and a foghorn call. Perfect, Else, that’s perfect. In his mind, Terry sees her up there, waving to her father like a maniac, as she hollers out the rest of her lines. Once again, he’s got it right, has Len: she is perfect, she’s a perfect orator; the only kid in the school who doesn’t need a microphone to broadcast her words.
Except perhaps Kurt, who gives her a run for her money as he belts out his final lines:
Now that I’ve got you
Here all alone
What else should I do
But eat you to the bone?
There’s a yell from the audience then. Way to go, Kurt, way to go. For a moment Terry thinks Sean’s stopped island-hopping long enough to give his son some support. But when the yell goes out again and the words are slightly slurred, he realises that it’s not Sean; it’s Cody’s dad, Scott, who’s cheering the boy on. He’s a good egg, that one. Terry’s got to hand it to him.
And all at once, there he is again: right back in the classroom, all of them there in front of him, eyes to the front, smiles on their faces.
The thought of it.
God, the thought of it—it fills him with a sadness so piercing he has to draw breath.
From down the phone comes the sound of clapping: loud, raucous clapping that keeps on going and going. When, finally, it starts to die down, Sid comes on the line again. ‘I think that’s about it, mate,’ he says.
Terry can’t answer him. He has to inhale a couple of times before he can get anything out at all. ‘Thanks, Sid,’ he says finally. ‘Thanks for that.’
‘No problem, mate,’ says Sid. ‘No problem at all.’
And with that, he’s gone—they’re all gone. Every one of them.
Rebecca
They’re still clapping. Clapping and clapping. The hall is filled with the sound of it. Rebecca is clapping, too, her hands outstretched in front of her.
Onstage, the kids are holding hands and bowing, Sebastian right in the middle of them. Look at him, she wants to shout. Look at him. At that moment, she is close to euphoric. They have done it.
The show is over and they have done it well.
So.
So now it’s time.
Beside her, Emmanuel’s eyes are on the stage. He doesn’t even know the letter has arrived.
It is still unopened. All day, it has lain in her pocket, unopened. Now, with a small tug, she tears at the back of the envelope. Inside is just one piece of paper.
Once again, it is little more than a form letter.
And once again, she flinches as her eyes fix on the opening words.
This time, the words are different.
For a moment she just stares at them, unable to properly comprehend what they are saying. Only slowly does it register.
Carefully, she refolds the letter and passes it to Emmanuel. ‘Read it,’ she whispers.
When he is finished, he, too, refolds the letter before he passes it back to her. If she were to look at him, she knows she would dissolve, so instead she looks ahead.