What Matters Most

by Dianne Maguire

  ‘Hoops — over here, mate,’ Snowy called seconds later, beckoning Tim with a sweep of his arm. Grabbing his pint, Tim decided damn it to hell with Shanksie, he wanted to accept Snowy’s invitation. He began to make his way through the noisy crowd — some seated at tables, others scattered along the bar, some local, others tourists, sure that the noise level dropped once he’d been noticed, and feeling countless eyes burning into him like a shower of embers.

  He imagined himself leaping up on a table and shouting, ‘Yes, that’s right. I’m Tim Hooper. I can’t get a girlfriend. My father, who isn’t really my father, is on remand for sexually abusing my little sister who was also raped by Trevor Carson. And my mother forgot to mention until just now that I am not the person I grew up thinking I was. So why don’t you all cop a bloody good look and then leave me the fuck alone?’ But instead, he cracked a smile and joined the huddle of footy mates who were ready to greet him as though seeing him again was the best thing to have happened all day.

  Countless backslapping moments followed, including the comment, ‘If you’d been playing in the grand final, Hoops, we would have won for sure.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ Tim said. ‘The Cats played pretty well that day from what I’ve been told.’

  Tim had never missed an A-grade grand final since he had been playing, but this year he’d been out of action because Rachel had been so sick in hospital.

  ‘Maybe next year,’ someone commented, slapping him on the back again.

  The conversation grew louder, the laughter more frequent and, at one stage, Chook, the best of Tim’s footy buddies leaned over and said in a low voice, ‘How are you coping, mate?’

  ‘Could be better, but happy not to talk about it now,’ Tim said.

  ‘Fair enough. Let me know if you’re up for a quiet beer some time, hey,’ Chook said before lifting his head and calling, ‘Whose shout, you bludgers?’

  Tim had lost count of how many pints he’d had when Jack Carmichael stepped in and went straight up to the bar. ‘A schooner thanks, Thelma,’ he heard Jack say with his usual smile. Tim watched Jack chatter animatedly to Thelma who laughed at his jokes while she pulled his beer. Studied all 1.9 metres of him, with more interest than ever before. Took in his solid build, still muscular in middle-age apart from a slight ring around his belly; his olive skin; the greying fairness of his hair; his generous smile and relaxed manner. Annie could have done worse, he thought, when she had unwittingly selected the father of her first child. But she had plummeted into the land of losers when she had subsequently chosen her life partner.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ Tim said to Chook, wrapping his hand around his pint and wandering to lean next to Jack at the bar.

  ‘G’day, Jack,’ he said.

  ‘G’day, Tim mate,’ Jack said studying Tim’s face before looking away and taking a sip from his schooner. ‘How is Rachel?’

  Tim waved an arm in the air. ‘Oh, you know … hunky-dory.’ He chuckled. ‘No, seriously, she’s out of hospital now. And the good news, the good news,’ he said, poking Jack in the chest, ‘is that there has been no lifelong liver damage, because you got her to them quickly.’ He felt the smile spread slowly across his face while he pondered whether or not he had just slurred his speech.

  ‘That’s really good news, mate. But don’t forget you’re the one who wouldn’t give up until you found her. You saved her life, Tim.’

  ‘Yeah, but what a bloody life, eh? All she does is stay in her bloody bedroom all day. Even though she’s seen the shrink, she doesn’t seem to be getting any better.’ Tim studied Jack’s caring expression. Decided he was happy, after all, to have Jack’s genes.

  ‘Give her time, mate. It’s early days,’ Jack said.

  Tim skolled the rest of his pint and called out to Thelma, ‘I’ll have another when you’re ready, thanks Thels.’ He saw Thelma’s questioning look towards Jack and wondered if she knew Jack was actually his father.

  ‘It’s alright, mate,’ Tim said to Jack, taking great care to use his responsible voice, ‘I can hold my grog. I’ve never spewed yet.’

  Jack watched Thelma set Tim’s pint down on the bar towel. ‘How’s your mum coping with the farm?’ he said.

  ‘The sale sign will go up on the farm next week, Jack. I want you to be the first to know.’ He smiled and poked him in the chest again. ‘But who cares? Rachel and I don’t want to be fucking farmers, anyway. And Ben?’ he felt the smile slowly creep across his face again. ‘Well, Ben is just Ben. He’ll be cool with anything.’

  Tim stared at the reflection in the mirror behind the bar of him and Jack standing side by side. Father and son rent apart at birth, he thought, with a plunging stab of sadness. The family resemblance was obvious when he looked for it. He mused on whether Jack had ever wondered — or whether Sharon had wondered as well, for that matter. Not much passed without Sharon Carmichael noticing.

  ‘How are you, mate?’ Jack’s question dragged him from his reverie and he turned to his look of kind concern.

  ‘Huh? Oh good, mate. I’m good,’ he said taking a swallow of his beer, suddenly aware there were bloody tears in his eyes. He swiped at them with the back of his hand before anyone noticed.

  ‘Let’s go over to that table by the fire, eh?’ Jack said.

  Tim grabbed his glass and followed Jack to the corner where two club chairs faced a small coffee table.

  Jack sighed as he sat. ‘That’s better. My back can’t take it anymore.’ The smile left Jack’s face and he leaned towards Tim. Said softly, ‘Tim, the reason I ask about you is that you don’t seem alright. I know you must be dealing with a lot of shit at the moment. Is there anything I can do to help?’

  Tim chuckled. ‘No biggie, mate. Just lost the love of my fucking life. Don’t know when my sister might try to top herself again. And just found out today that you are my father.’ He watched Jack’s puzzled frown. ‘Yeah, that’s right, mate,’ he said, pointing and leaning forward, not quite able to reach Jack’s chest. ‘You are my fucking father … I am the fruit of your loins. Did you know that, Jack?’ he chuckled and leaned back in his seat. ‘How’s them apples, hey?’ He looked up to see Jack, now glancing around, had turned the same colour as the pale wall behind him. Tim couldn’t see who was behind him, but he didn’t care anymore who had heard. ‘I don’t care,’ he said to Jack. ‘Get rid of all the bloody secrets and lies, I reckon. They only fuck up your life.’ He turned around then to call out for another drink, but Thelma was nowhere in sight.

  ‘I reckon you’ve had enough, mate?’ Jack said kindly, hurriedly draining his glass, grabbing his wallet off the table and slipping it into his jacket. ‘Where’s your car?’

  Tim thought it felt right, sort of mellowing, the way Jack propped him up as they walked across the car park. ‘We need to talk about this, mate. And soon,’ Jack said as they reached Tim’s car. Jack held out his hand and Tim struggled, eventually finding his keys in his back pocket. He dropped them into Jack’s open palm and watched while Jack locked his car, wondering why he had done that as they made their way slowly towards the opposite end of the car park.

  The last thing Tim remembered was being bundled into the front seat of Jack’s ute — a white version of his own. Tim fought back his tears. ‘We even like the same cars,’ he spluttered.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  ‘Sorry,’ Mia murmured to Steve as he hugged her goodbye under the dim porchlight. ‘I had no idea he was going to be here. I don’t have a clue what’s going on. I thought he was in the States. When do you have to go back?’ she whispered, thinking she would take a day off work tomorrow.

  ‘First thing in the morning,’ he whispered back.

  ‘Oh no. Oh, Steve. Damn you, Eric,’ she spat, glancing towards the lounge room where she’d left him sitting, neither of them exchanging even one word beforehand.

  Steve lifted her chin and kissed her. ‘Next time,’ he said, kissing her again. ‘There is always next time.’ He turned and wave
d from the footpath and soon disappeared into the night shadows, his footfalls eventually fading in the direction of the hotel he had stayed at last time.

  Mia ached with bitter disappointment as she gently pushed the front door closed. Suddenly outraged by Eric’s impudence at turning up unannounced, she balled her fists and stomped to the living room. There, she flicked the switch, flooding the room with brutal light. Eric had not moved a centimetre since she’d left him. The only difference was that his brandy balloon was now empty and Molly had stretched her body at his feet to luxuriate in the warmth from the fire. ‘What the hell are you doing here, Eric?’ she spat.

  He turned to face her. ‘Would you like a drink, Mia?’ he said, in precisely the same tone he would have used months ago. It was as though the past weeks had never happened — to him, at least.

  ‘No,’ she said, thinking the weight he had put on made him look like a giant pufferfish. ‘Where is Lucinda?’

  Eric remained perfectly still, the empty brandy balloon balanced in his hand. His stoic expression slid away as his face suddenly twisted into the shape of someone having a coronary. Then he cried. Mia could not remember the last time she had seen Eric cry, but now she stood and hardheartedly watched the tears slide down his bloated cheeks.

  ‘She’s in the States,’ he said swallowing.

  Mia clucked and stomped into the kitchen where she poured a glass of water and tossed it back, before returning to the living room where Eric had finally regained his composure.

  He held his empty brandy balloon out to her.

  ‘Get it yourself,’ she snapped, suddenly gorged with the fury of realising she could at this moment have been deliciously wrapped in the arms of Steve Wheeler, instead of talking to her moronically morbid ex-husband. ‘Tell me what is happening, Eric, or leave,’ she said, still standing. She was adamant neither of them would sit back and relax. On the contrary, she wanted to be done with what was proving to be a bizarre and unpalatable conversation at the earliest possible opportunity.

  His face twisted again, this time with contempt. ‘You didn’t waste any time finding a replacement for me, did you?’

  ‘Are you serious?’ she spat. ‘Do you really think I was sitting around waiting for you and Lucinda to be over with, so that I could welcome you back with open arms? Give me a break, Eric.’

  Again he broke into tears. ‘I wanted … I know now that I truly love you, Mia. I think we should give it another try. It’s not too late.’

  ‘Well, I am sorry, Eric. But it is far, far too late for me. You would cringe with shame if you knew the dirt I have uncovered about you since you left. I’m sorry you and Lucinda haven’t worked out, but it has to be your problem. Have you booked a hotel?’

  Eric’s jaw dropped. ‘I was hoping to stay here,’ he stammered.

  Despite how hard she tried, Mia could not speak. The words would not come. Only her blistering rage at the pernicious assumptions flowing from his mouth like sewerage from a broken pipe. Yet some of his faculties must be intact, she thought, as he studied her face for a moment before he puffed out his chest and spat, ‘It’s my home too, Mia. Remember that.’

  ‘Not anymore. I’m calling you a cab,’ she said, storming to the kitchen. ‘Sort yourself out and let me know when our lawyers can meet to finalise our divorce settlement,’ she called over her shoulder, only to turn and find him closely following behind. She scrambled in her bag for her phone and scrolled for the number, feeling his eyes burn into her back.

  ‘Please, Mia,’ he said, gently taking the phone from her and laying it down on the kitchen bench. ‘I need you to understand. I feel like a shell of a human being. My life is in ruins because I made one stupid mistake. I have no one else to turn to. Please talk to me as a friend, if nothing else.’

  Mia pressed her lips together and looked to the ceiling. Felt suffocated by her anguish. Tears of frustration burnt like acid behind her eyelids. This man, who she had loved for more years than she had not, was now, ingratiatingly, throwing himself upon her mercy. And she could feel nothing for him, other than pity and shame. The only semblance, the only thread of interest she held for him now, was as the father of her son.

  She watched from the opposite side of the breakfast bar, as his head bent between splayed arms and he silently sobbed, long strands of spittle stretching from his gaping mouth and pooling on the black granite. She had never seen him so wretched. Her voice softened. ‘We will talk for an hour, and then you must go.’

  ‘I promise,’ he said nodding.

  He silently watched her make coffee, which they carried into the living room where without thinking they each sat in their favourite armchair in front of the fire.

  ‘What happened?’ Mia said.

  ‘She met someone else,’ he said sardonically. He turned to her. ‘I guess it is karma. I guess it’s that simple.’ He snorted softly, staring down at his coffee cup. His willingness to show his vulnerabilities reminded her of the old Eric. The one who disappeared months ago.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.

  ‘I want us to be together again, Mia. I realise I took what we had for granted. It was a foolish, blindingly stupid mistake. I want you to give me another chance. Please. I know I can make it up to you.’

  Mia silently rejoiced in the conviction she felt that, regardless of what they had shared in life, she was no longer anywhere near the same person he had walked out on that day. And there was no longer any attraction for her in being with him again. ‘What happened to the money you took from our savings, Eric?’ she said.

  ‘That’s a little crass, isn’t it?’ he said, taken aback.

  ‘Perhaps, but I want to know. How do you intend replacing it?’

  He dropped his head. ‘I haven’t thought about it.’

  ‘Well, think about it now,’ she said. ‘Even if you sold the engagement ring you bought Lucinda it wouldn’t be enough to repay what you stole from me. Where did it all go, Eric? Bollinger Champagne, five-star hotels, first-class flights, endless nights of fine dining?’

  He wordlessly shook his head.

  ‘Oh no, have you quit your job in the States?’

  ‘I had to,’ he mumbled. ‘Lucinda and I were in the same office. It was untenable.’

  ‘So … in that case, there is only one way in which you can repay my share of what you took. And that is to sign your half of the beach house over to me. It’s a dollar for dollar deal — same value,’ she said, placing her hands on her hips, prepared for a heated argument.

  ‘Okay,’ he said nodding.

  ‘I’ll have my lawyer finalise the deed tomorrow,’ she added, waiting for him to fully understand what he was actually agreeing to do. Waiting for him to react with the rage she had expected.

  ‘I said okay. I didn’t want the bloody beach house anyway. It was Lucinda who was insisting I fight for it.’

  Mia was speechless. It took minutes before she could summon the energy to stand. ‘I’m calling you a cab,’ she said, ‘and I would appreciate you not contacting me. Please allow me the same privacy I have given you and Lucinda.’

  Mia watched as Eric slowly climbed into the cab, a broken, disheveled man. It occurred to her then, that there would be no harm in inviting him to stay the night. They could wake refreshed in the morning and discuss their respective futures together like two mature adults. But, he had allowed a woman she had never met and who had never met her, to almost ruin her life. ‘I will never forgive you for that, Eric,’ she whispered as the taxi pulled away from the kerb and disappeared from view.

  Next morning, Mia rang from her office to have the locks to her house changed. Then, even though she was overdue to start work on the floor, she frantically rang Debra Illingworth.

  ‘Mia, good morning. What’s up?’ Debra said.

  ‘Eric’s back,’ Mia said on speaker, frantically changing into scrubs. ‘He turned up unannounced last night. He has admitted that my share of the money he took from our savings is equal to his share
of the beach house. Is there anything we can do to legally lock it in?’

  ‘I can draw up a Memorandum of Agreement if you think he would sign it.’

  Mia pulled and tied the waist cord of the blue cotton pants. ‘He’ll sign it. I’ll make certain of that.’

  ‘Tell him if he refuses to sign we will argue it in court. And that I am 99.9 per cent confident we will win. Tell him if we all play nicely we can avoid court, which means more money for him at settlement. I’ll draft the agreement today. Oh — and Mia … good work.’

  Once dressed, Mia slipped into her red runners and charged towards the floor in Emergency, already 10 minutes late for handover. The sudden ringing and vibrating of her phone induced her to check her screen, which she did, pulling the phone from the pocket of her scrubs without slowing. It was a text from Eric. Unable to resist, she read his message: ‘When can we talk?’

  Her lips stretched into a satisfied smirk as she messaged a reply: ‘We can talk sometime after you sign the Memorandum of Agreement my lawyer will be sending you today.’

  Torn between letting her son down, or abandoning her work colleagues when all was frantic on the ward, Mia dealt quickly and apologetically with handover before making a hurried call to Adam, only to find it went straight through to his message bank. She whispered urgently to Chester she would be back in five minutes and hurled again along the corridor towards her office. Her computer seemed to take so much longer to boot up than it should have, but once done, her fingers flew over the keyboard: Good morning, Adam. Just to let you know Dad is back in Australia, upset because it is over with Lucinda. I want you to know asap that regardless of what he may tell you there can be no chance of reconciliation between us. I am worried you will be disappointed but I am sure you will understand. Talk soon. Love Mum xxx