by Jennie Jones
She bowed her head, in case he looked up. In case her emotions were visible in her eyes or on her face. Loneliness was the plague she’d been carrying around with her over the last few months. The one that sat in her stomach and made it hurt. She didn’t want it; had felt enough of it when she was a child and had fought hard to lose it. She’d managed, too, but seeing Ali broken for some unknown reason had brought back forgotten memories of her own childhood.
She hadn’t been allowed out much, especially with her father’s overseas posts. Germany, Britain, Singapore—she’d mostly seen them all through a window but that hadn’t stopped the tastes of different cultures permeating her imagination and changing her perspective on life. Different countries had different toys and different sweet treats and she’d enjoyed most of them with whomever her current nanny had been. Those women had been sometimes kind, sometimes indifferent.
Maybe that’s why she saw things in people, the way she did in Tom. Because of all the perspectives in the world that she’d been given a chance to see. Maybe it wasn’t a plague, this sense of loneliness, but a gift and she’d been looking at things the wrong way round. People usually responded to her when she offered them kindness in any way she could. A good deed, a caring word. She’d learned to do this because of her own loneliness and because she saw it in others. Maybe this insight was her ‘power’.
‘Tom,’ she said, saying his name in a manner that told him she needed him to look at her.
He straightened, the belt slipping on one side, hanging against his thigh, and met her gaze. ‘Yeah?’
‘You make me smile.’
He stilled, apart from his eyes, which widened. ‘I what?’
She laughed. And they said it was women who couldn’t accept a compliment.
‘Thank you.’ She indicated the kitchen with a tilt of her head but didn’t take her eyes off Tom.
‘Not needed.’ He paused, then he too nodded towards the kitchen. ‘I’m not good with little people. So I hope you’re not expecting anything from me other than what’s happening.’
‘Of course I don’t expect anything of you. It’s just so wonderful to see it happening.’
‘I’m not around too much, anyway, so it’s best if you don’t go hoping for—’
‘It’s all right,’ Adele said, cutting him off. ‘It’s a start, and that’s what makes me happy.’ It didn’t matter that he wasn’t around much. Maybe Ali would find another person to talk to. Maybe she’d get a friend when she started school. Too many hopeful maybes, but that’s all Adele had and she was going to cling to them because otherwise she might miss one. The important one that would help Ali.
‘Too much happiness coughs up trouble,’ he said in an ironic tone.
‘You sound as though you haven’t had much recently.’
‘I haven’t.’ He didn’t expound. He might already know that Adele had been told something about his troubles. ‘Although I like your honesty, and the way you care.’ He said that last bit quietly, again, as though he didn’t want to say it but the words had come out anyway.
‘It’s what mothers do,’ she told him.
‘Is it?’ A scathing look flew across his features a moment before he looked away.
She paused. He wasn’t passing verdict on Adele’s abilities to mother so his discontent had to be for another. His mother? Or the mother of his child or children?
‘Do you have children?’ she asked. It was entirely likely. He was around thirty-four, thirty-five.
‘No way.’ He said it as though he was defying the law of reproduction or nature itself in case it popped up and tried to bite him on his backside.
His gruffness made Adele smile again but she kept her amusement hidden. Fortunately, he missed the fleeting smile that appeared on her face.
‘I don’t have a mother,’ he told her.
‘I’m sorry. When did she die?’
‘Years ago.’
‘I’m even sorrier then.’
‘Don’t know what the fuss is about. I’ve grown up okay, haven’t I?’
She wanted to ask him why he didn’t like the fuss but perhaps she should shut up and watch her own backside. The way he’d asked the last question was rhetorical. He wasn’t interested in any answer Adele might have.
And what did she know about what mothers did other than the efforts she, herself, made? She couldn’t stake a claim to having the perfect child. Not that she wanted a perfect child; that would be boring and limiting for Ali. The only perfect at the moment, as far as Adele was concerned, was the sight of Ali’s smile when Tom spoke to her.
She shuffled the thoughts behind her. Tom Wade’s motherless state was none of her business but it felt like another link between them. First Ali, then the knowledge that neither Adele nor Tom had owned the love from a mother.
Tom. His name rang and rang in her mind. Why, in God’s name, had Ali chosen Tom Wade? Tough, intense, unsociable rigger with a fondness for sarcasm.
***
Tom pulled the small stepladder towards the window and stepped up to take the shoddy, broken brackets off the wall. He wondered when she’d get around to emptying all the boxes and bags still piled up in her living room. Perhaps she didn’t have enough storage space. He’d been right when he’d told her these weren’t bad houses, but neither were they in any way glamorous. Most of the empty houses between the Devereux woman’s and Imelda’s weren’t even habitable.
The first bracket didn’t need unscrewing; it came away with one good yank.
He saw Adele’s hand from the corner of his eye and glanced down. She’d come to his side and raised her hand to take the bracket off him. He placed it in the palm of her hand.
‘I didn’t have a mother either,’ she said, the tilt to her head and her gentle smile indicating that she was okay with that. Tom didn’t answer. There wasn’t anything he could say—without swearing—about his mother, so he kept his mouth shut.
‘Well, only for the first thirteen months of my life.’
‘Unlucky number,’ Tom said as he got off the ladder, and regretted the words instantly. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that.’ For Christ’s sake, keep your cynicism to yourself.
‘It’s alright.’
‘I’m sorry you lost your mum.’ He shifted the stepladder to the other end of the window.
‘Thanks. I managed. The number thirteen has figured highly in my life, actually. My birthday’s on the thirteenth. I lived in flat 13A in Sydney. What else?’ She looked away, contemplating the many benefits of an unlucky number.
Tom didn’t get it, but he kept his mouth shut and pulled the other bracket off the wall.
‘The best year of my childhood,’ she said, ‘was the year I turned thirteen.’
Same for Tom, actually: his grandfather had carked it. He handed her the bracket.
‘We moved to Perth and stayed there.’ Her face cracked in a smile so wide it was as though someone had handed her the biggest, brightest bunch of yellow flowers the world had ever seen. ‘I had one school, one place, for the next eight years.’
‘We?’ he asked.
‘My father, me, and various nannies. He’s a wing commander in the Air Force.’
‘Where’s your father now?’
‘I don’t know.’
Tom wanted to ask why but he didn’t. Best if he didn’t have too much information on the Devereux girls, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Adele, standing next to the window, the light bouncing around her, her focus on the outside.
He’d thought it was the hair that gave her the air of delicacy. It looked so soft. Light brown strands kept falling out of the knot she’d tied it in. It looked like it needed a man’s hand to smooth it back over her head. His hand.
‘Imelda has chosen you,’ he told her.
She looked at him, surprise and interest on her face. ‘For what?’
‘To help make decisions about the street. She’s doing the houses up. She wants to get rid of all of them.’
She unfolded he
r arms and gave him her complete attention. ‘I don’t understand.’
Neither did Tom, but he usually went along with whatever crackpot idea Imelda came up with, as long as he couldn’t see harm or hurt for anyone, including Imelda. ‘She’s given your house away, she’s keeping her house, and she’s keeping the one next door to yours—actually, she’s given that one to me.’
‘She’d be selling her history, surely?’ She said it as though disbelieving. ‘It’s a huge decision. It’s an enormous task too, doing up the entire street.’
Perhaps she hadn’t heard him say he now owned the house next door to hers. Perhaps it was just as well. He didn’t want to move back to Dulili but he had no choice. His house in Canberra—he’d given it the nickname ‘the palace’ due to its size—was on the market and interest was high enough for him to have made the decision to sell it by auction, and do the same with most of his furniture. He’d get a higher price and he needed money.
What he didn’t need was some goddamn fascination with his about-to-be neighbour and her non-talking kid. He corrected himself—the kid who only talked to him. For some unknown reason. He could stay at Imelda’s of course, but they’d get on each other’s nerves. Or rather, he’d get on Imelda’s nerves.
‘Not sure what she intends,’ he said. ‘Either for the doing-up process or for getting rid of them, but she knows she won’t be able to sell them. Not in this climate.’ She might in a few years, if the town took off the way the project committee was planning. But she’d get peanuts for them now.
‘Of course I’ll help Imelda,’ she said, green-grey eyes attentive.
‘You don’t have to.’
‘I will. It’s my duty.’
For the first time, he noticed she didn’t wear makeup. Not a jot, unless lip balm was considered a cover-all. Her lips wore a soft sheen. She had a full mouth, the kind that suggested comfort. The kind that could take a kiss.
Wanting her wasn’t on his plan. He didn’t have time, although the inclination to lean down and plant his mouth on hers still lingered inside him after he took his eyes off her bare-lipped, naked face.
‘I’m sorry if you feel it’s been forced on you.’ Before she had a chance to answer, he let her know the next bit of bad news. ‘I also have to tell you that sometime next week, I’ll be moving next door to you.’
Chapter Four
Two nights later, Adele got her first look inside the Country Women’s Association hall on High Street and she liked what she saw. She also liked what she felt.
Thirty pension-age residents had come together to help the Dulili Historic Society. Membership had only been twelve up until this year, when others had joined. They didn’t have anything fancy like a webpage but they did have enthusiasm, memories and a bucket-load of tall tales.
It wasn’t only women, either. There were a dozen men in the society. There was quite a bit of ribbing going on. Age didn’t preclude humour, bad jokes or swearing, apparently, and it wasn’t only the men who did the cursing.
There must be a kind of freedom that came with age, Adele thought. These people weren’t afraid to say what they meant and weren’t scared that what they said would ruin their reputations. They’d already built their reputations and were living out the rest of their lives on their terms. Adele found it courageous. It meant there was something to look forward to, with age. There might not be too many close friendships in the room, and perhaps some just liked the company, but there was a common bond: Dulili.
‘Anyway,’ Evelyn Mitchell said, handing Adele another stack of documents, all hand-written. ‘Everyone has written down some stories about time as it was back then.’
Adele flicked through the notes. The handwriting was either perfect or scrawling. She was going to need to use her laptop to type them up, and she’d need an internet connection for research. ‘These are fantastic, Evelyn. Thank you for letting me volunteer for this role.’
Evelyn laughed. ‘Good heavens, Adele—you were the only one who wanted the job.’
Adele grinned. ‘Your only hope?’
Evelyn patted her arm, and the warmth the woman conveyed wasn’t missed. ‘The best, as it turns out. I can see you’re going to enjoy getting this mob organised.’
‘I will.’
‘There’s a pile of boxes and files over there.’ She pointed to a trestle table in the hall, set against a wall. ‘We’ve made sure that each story is numbered according to the photos and memorabilia in the boxes.’
Ali was sitting against that wall, farther along from the trestle table. Adele had sat her down with her sketchpad and coloured crayons, and Ali was content to keep herself occupied. ‘So everyone is willing to have their belongings on show?’ she asked Evelyn. The plan was to beg the new café owners to let them turn a currently unused back room into a small museum-type area for tourists to wander through as they waited on their coffees and burgers. Once tourists arrived, that was. And once more of the town’s dollar-deal newcomers arrived. The poor old café didn’t have many customers at present, but the owners were enthusiastically expecting that to change.
‘Everyone wants this to work, Adele.’
Adele acknowledged that. It was all these older residents could do to help produce some interest and maybe a few dollars for the town.
‘Now if you don’t mind,’ Evelyn said, pulling a lightweight scarf from her coat pocket and wrapping it around her throat, ‘I’m going to nip off early. My husband isn’t feeling too good.’
‘Of course. Thanks for the warm introduction. I hope I live up to expectations.’
‘Oh, you will. I feel it in my bones.’
Adele made a mental note about the internet usage she’d need if she wanted to outdo expectations. It wasn’t likely the historic society had the money to fund it. Maybe there was a cheap internet plan she could purchase, or a pay-by-use plan. Having met the older townspeople and enjoyed their repartee and banter—not to mention having seen, albeit briefly, the amount of artefacts and wares they’d collected from their own homes about their own histories—Adele wanted to go out of her way to help. If it was a pamphlet they were hoping to produce, it was going to be a foot thick. She’d already considered the possibility of creating a book. How she’d go about that, or how the town would pay for its publication, she didn’t know. She’d keep that to herself for the moment, and just see what happened next.
‘So your kid doesn’t talk?’
Adele turned her attention to Rob Wynther, the old so-and-so Imelda had warned her about. He stuck out in this group like a prickly pear in a billowing bouquet of baby’s breath foliage and didn’t seem to care. She’d met him in the general store a few times and already knew he felt it was his right to stick a thorn in the side of anything new—scientific or imaginative. Imelda had been right about him being a pain in the arse. He seemed to thrive on his ability to annoy people.
‘She talks when she wants to,’ Adele told him.
‘Sounds right strange.’
‘Well, it’s not.’
‘Go away, old Rob.’
Saved. By a lady wearing a pearly-pink knitted twin-set and a tartan skirt.
‘Less of the “old”, Sarah Pratchett,’ Rob said. ‘You’ve got two years on me.’
‘Two years my left foot. I’m only four months older than you, you miserable wretch.’
‘Wouldn’t think it by lookin’ at you.’ Rob Wynther showed them his back. ‘Narky, as usual,’ he said as he walked away, not bothering to lower his voice.
Adele breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn’t worked out how to handle Rob yet.
‘Wouldn’t guess he used to be my beau, would you?’ Sarah asked.
‘You?’ Adele couldn’t hold on to her surprise.
‘Had a helluva crush on Rob Wynther. Took me almost the entire year I turned sixteen to get him to ask me out.’
Since Sarah was around the mid-seventy mark, Adele enjoyed the joke and the chuckle they shared at Rob’s expense. Sarah was married to John Pratchett
, and they had five children and eight grandchildren, so she’d obviously got over her crush long ago. ‘He’s …’ Adele couldn’t find the right word.
‘A pest.’
That would do it. ‘I was going to say difficult. Do you have any idea why he wants to be in the historical society?’
‘It’ll be the war.’
‘Is he old enough to remember World War Two?’
‘He was about five, like most of us still here were, but he lost his father and his four older brothers. He lost them all. He and his mum had very little after that. He built his farm up but it wasn’t without immense struggles.’
‘That’s awful.’ Sad wasn’t a strong enough word for the thought of losing your entire family.
‘The war is the reason why most of the men are in the group,’ Sarah said. ‘Gives them the chance to bring up fighting talk, although I have to say, I think a number of them are getting more interested in other stuff, the more we dig up.’
‘Sounds intriguing.’
‘Oh, we’ve got our secrets all right but we’re too old to worry about skeletons and the like. She looked around the hall at her comrades who were chatting or laughing at some joke one of the men had cracked. ‘Well, most of us don’t worry about the past.’ Sarah looked back at Adele. ‘So when is your lovely daughter starting school?’
‘I’m hoping another week to settle, and she’ll go.’ Adele didn’t want to lengthen the settling-in process in case Ali started to think she wouldn’t have to attend school.
‘Lovely little girl,’ Sarah said.
‘Thank you for watching her while Evelyn introduced me.’ It had been hard to let go of Ali’s hand, but she’d known that Ali would prefer to be sitting on her own at the side of the hall than up on the dais in front of the group. She wanted to ask Sarah if Ali had spoken, but decided not to. Not yet. Time enough for everyone to get used to each other and their ways.