by Jennie Jones
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said, his shoulders slumped again. ‘Nothing about my mother matters anymore. It’s the kid that matters. I tried to coax something definite out of her just now, but she’s giving me less than she did before. There’s nothing.’
‘It’s all right, Tom.’ There was everything to be grateful for. He’d opened up emotions in Ali. She didn’t know how he’d done it, and perhaps he felt as though he’d failed, but he hadn’t.
The complex mix of hurts in his features caused Adele as much pain as seeing Ali broken. She stepped towards him, raised her hand to his face and cupped his cheek softly.
His eyes met hers and her chest suddenly hurt with a need to touch him more. She pulled her hand from his face but he caught it and took it to his mouth to kiss her palm. He didn’t lose her focus.
As he bent, he released her hand and put his arms around her. By the time his mouth touched hers, she was against him.
The feel of his arms around her, the pressure of his mouth on hers, the heat from his body, sent exhilaration spiralling throughout her. Her mind drifted but her lips were open—she wasn’t only accepting, she was giving, kissing him back with almost as much pressure and force. She grabbed hold of his arms, pressing her fingertips into his biceps.
Knowing, even before this touch, that his strength of mind, his physical appeal and his ability to make her smile weakened her bones, she couldn’t have predicted the sensational, fanciful and welcomed feelings he brought from her.
It was a kiss that tugged her heartstrings. Sentimental feelings hurtled through her body. A longing to share, and be needed. A wish to be involved on all levels, to show someone care with touches and kisses. And more …
She lingered in that mindset, knowing the kiss would end but not willing to consider the outcome. Not while she was wrapped in him and against him and with him.
When he pulled from her, when his mouth left hers, she was left in some peculiar limbo, teetering in awareness yet not in control. She could hardly breathe.
‘I couldn’t help that.’ There was an apology in his tone, but not in his eyes or on his face.
She couldn’t have helped herself either, not by pushing him away nor by attempting to stop him. Not in a million years.
‘I want to make love to you,’ he said. ‘I want to take you to bed.’ He closed his eyes tightly then opened them. ‘Not now, obviously, but later. Tonight. Tomorrow. Anytime.’
The kiss had knocked him off balance too, he sounded harsh with himself, but it hadn’t struck him with the same feelings that had rushed through her. This was a man; a tough, sometimes edgy man, and she’d fallen like a woman. A dreaming woman in an imaginary world. Visualising the impossible; not seeing the realities.
She pulled from him, prising his arms off her to do so. ‘I don’t know what this is, Tom, but it’s too sudden.’
‘It’s both of us wanting each other.’
‘That’s not enough. Not yet. We don’t know each other.’
‘I know I want you. I know I’ve wanted to touch you since the moment I set eyes on you. I know you make me feel.’
‘You’re confusing this with—’
‘I’m not confused. I’m certain. Let’s be together while we can.’
‘While we can?’
‘I can’t say what’s going to happen, Adele. I don’t know, but I’ll be here for a while.’
He was asking her to … She couldn’t even put the words together in thought, let alone understand what they meant to her. ‘You’re not staying. It would be silly to start something …’ That would likely break her heart.
‘Look, everything is fleeting. Nothing lasts.’
‘I don’t believe that.’ What was could be again; it was her motto, her hope. She was no longer a young, single woman who could party all night. She’d only had a couple of years of that world anyway, then she’d fallen pregnant. She was a woman with a lifetime of being alone ahead of her. A woman who might come to rely on a man, if the man around her, and making love to her, and kissing her, was Tom.
‘You’re not staying,’ she said again. Didn’t he get it? Couldn’t he see how dangerous this might be for him?
‘So?’ he asked. ‘That’s going to stop you from being with me?’
‘Being with you for an affair?’
‘What’s wrong with that? Tell me what’s wrong with us sleeping together a few times. Tell me.’
‘No.’ She stepped back, the velvety feelings washed away. The sentimentality gone. ‘If you don’t know, you’ll have to figure it out. Or get whatever it is you need somewhere else.’
‘Adele.’
‘Excuse me,’ she said, her voice raspy and her whole being now weakened with disappointment. At herself. And with Tom. ‘I need to go home now.’
Chapter Seven
The thump on the front door startled Adele, as well as Ali, who was digging into a bowl of cereal. Her precious school poster sat on the table beside her breakfast.
‘It’s okay,’ Adele said as she rose from the table.
She made her way to the door, knowing who was thumping on it.
He had his back to her and he was wearing smart trousers and a jacket. Her heart rocked sideways in her chest a moment before he turned.
‘I have to go to Canberra. This has got nothing to do with yesterday.’
She lifted her chin to indicate she understood but no words formed. Her mouth stayed closed.
‘It’s Scott,’ he said. ‘He’s taken a turn for the worse. Plus, I have to see my lawyer.’
‘I hope it all turns out well,’ she said carefully. ‘Good luck.’
‘It’s not about yesterday, Adele.’
She nodded while gripping the edge of the door to steady the trembling in her hand. ‘It’s all right.’
‘It’s not about me not wanting to continue with Ali, either. I don’t have a choice.’
It was the first time he’d said Ali’s name.
‘I understand.’ She managed to stop herself from asking when he’d be back.
‘Okay.’ He backed away. ‘See you.’ At the gate, he stopped. ‘Tell Ali I’ll see her when I get back.’
Whenever that would be. ‘I will. Have a safe journey.’
***
The following Sunday, Adele was tapping away on her laptop keyboard in the kitchen, putting together a draft for the historic society pamphlet. She’d had two more meetings with the group and had tasked them further to put their memories and photographs into bundles with dates and timeframes. It was something she could have done for them, but if she’d done so the meetings would have consisted of tea, biscuits, chat, laughter, and a lot more good-natured swearing. Eventually, she reckoned the men would have started bringing a few bottles of beer and the ladies their knitting. Better to keep them focused on the task in hand: producing the pamphlet. She hadn’t mentioned the book notion yet, but since she’d got an internet connection the previous day she’d been browsing for ideas on who to contact.
She paused a moment, and listened for Ali. Her daughter’s voice filtered through from her bedroom at the end of the hall. Ali was washing and tidying up her stuffed animals and Adele loved the sound of her soft voice as she told them about her homework, or advised them which colour ribbon she’d be putting around their necks this week.
Tom had been gone three days. Ali hadn’t asked about him, not even when Adele had told her he’d gone to Canberra. Adele had been occupied with admin work for the school and with making notes on what she wanted to do with the house: finish the front patch of garden, start on the living room …
Cath had asked Adele if she felt it was time to begin work at the school rather than working from home. Adele had begged for another week, which Cath had granted. Another week and she might find herself in a brighter frame of mind. Her attitude to Tom’s proposal would have changed. She’d see it for what it had been: a simple request. That she’d refused. That Tom had obviously been angry about. That was hurting Adele’s stom
ach.
Goddamn that lonely spot, she thought, in a tone reminiscent of Tom’s gruff, give-it-the-finger manner.
Tom would get over the experience, and Adele would grow from it. Tom had likely had numerous brief affairs. Adele hadn’t. She believed she’d handled it well though. Of course she’d had to refuse him. The only reason she’d been retrenched from her job in Sydney was because a colleague had started making overtures of attraction towards her. After a couple of weeks, Adele had been left in no doubt that the man wanted to sleep with her. An affair. He wasn’t married, but he liked to play the field, and Adele hadn’t wanted to be one of his players. She’d let him know that she wasn’t interested. A week later, her boss started questioning her work. Then her integrity—of all things. She’d had to take a few days off due to having the flu, and even that had been questioned. Everything she’d worked so hard for had been undervalued, and the feeling of harassment had been extremely painful to deal with. It had been unbearable, being scrutinised and criticised in an almost underhanded, dirty manner. When she’d been retrenched, she’d gone through so much that she was happy to leave, and by that time she’d found the advertisement for Dulili and had her plans underway.
A metallic trundling noise outside the kitchen window, which faced the street, caught her attention. She stood and looked out the window as Imelda opened Adele’s front gate, snagging her shirt, which wasn’t tucked into her jeans. She dragged a lawnmower over the paving slabs of the path and set it to one side.
Adele was at the front door a moment after Imelda knocked. ‘Good morning, Imelda. How are you?’
‘Thought you might like to borrow my lawnmower, since you’ve been busy out the front here.’
‘I would like to. Thanks. The grass at the back is still wild.’
Imelda nodded. ‘I switched the blade height on the mower. You should get through the grass all right, it’s pretty dry. Didn’t get a lot of rain over winter.’
‘Come in.’ Adele led her neighbour into the hallway.
Ali popped around the door of her bedroom, looking at Imelda.
‘Hello there, young one,’ Imelda said. ‘Got something for you, too.’
Adele glanced at the wrapped package Imelda carried, wondering what was beneath the brown paper.
‘You know Imelda,’ Adele reminded Ali. ‘She’s Tom’s grandma.’
Ali gave a slight smile and stepped into the hallway.
‘Can I put it down?’ Imelda asked Adele.
‘Come into the kitchen. I’ll put the kettle on.’
Adele switched the kettle on and collected cups and saucers and her Tupperware container of macadamia and white chocolate cookies while Imelda unwrapped her parcel. Ali was standing politely to one side of the table, her hands clasped behind her back, her eyes on the brown paper.
‘It’s a mould,’ Imelda said, producing two white plaster moulds. ‘A cat. Thought you might like it, since I hear from Tom that you like your toy animals.’
Ali’s eyes shone a little brighter with her interest but she didn’t speak or move.
Imelda plonked a heavy-looking bag onto the table. ‘The plaster. It’s basic, you only need to add water, but the cat should come out alright, if we’re careful when we fill the moulds.’
Ali inhaled, her interest higher now, her thoughts obvious to Adele. She was figuring out how to make the cat.
‘So what do you think?’ Imelda asked her. ‘Reckon you could make a plaster cat, if I showed you how to do it?’
Ali seemed to be gauging the idea, her eyes focusing on Imelda now but her mind elsewhere.
‘Imelda will help you,’ Adele said. ‘Here. At our house.’ She checked with Imelda on the appropriateness of that and received a brief nod.
‘Can I paint it?’ Ali asked Imelda.
‘When it’s dried out. Yes.’
Ali looked at Adele. ‘I might give it to Tom to give to his friend.’
Adele stilled at the sound of Ali’s voice, and at the mention of Tom. His grandmother walking into the house had produced not only a question to Imelda, but also a reference to Tom. Adele ought to say something—now, since Tom’s grandmother was in their kitchen, but she didn’t know what. He might not come back because I refused to have an affair with him.
‘That’s right kind of you,’ Imelda said to Ali, saving the moment. ‘I’ll tell him when he calls. How about we start one day this week, after school?’ She glanced at Adele. ‘If that’s okay with your mother.’
Adele nodded, then smiled at Ali, whose focus was also on Adele, waiting for the answer. Adele could tell Ali was keen, even through the silence. But it wasn’t an uncommunicative quiet, and Ali had spoken—to Tom’s grandmother.
Ali gave her thanks to Imelda with a shy smile on her face. She glanced at Adele again. Adele gave her another nod and Ali left, heading for her bedroom.
Adele put the cups of coffee onto the table. Imelda wasn’t looking at her, but the stillness surrounding the woman’s introspection made Adele feel like she was stuck in a crowd at a football match, the only spectator wearing the wrong colours. She didn’t want to mention Tom at all—not knowing what he might have told his grandmother, or what his grandmother might have guessed.
‘Therapeutic occupation for her,’ Imelda said.
‘A lonely occupation though,’ Adele reflected. ‘With no interaction with others.’
‘You’re looking at it the wrong way,’ Imelda said. ‘She’ll concentrate on creating something and when she’s finished, she’ll have made something from inside her. That will tell you enough about what’s in her heart.’
‘I’m sorry, Imelda. You’re right. I wasn’t being ungrateful, it’s a fabulous idea and you’re a good person for suggesting it. I suppose I worry about how anything is going to affect her.’
‘I’ll sit with her at first, tell her how to go about it.’
‘Thank you.’ Adele wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or wary. Her house was being engulfed with Wade helpfulness and kindness.
‘Tom told me you were hoping I’d help you with the street.’ There, she’d said his name while facing Imelda, and it had come out sounding normal, not fretful. ‘I’m happy to help. What are your plans?’
‘This ‘n that.’ Imelda cleared the table of the moulds and the bag of plaster, wrapping them in the paper and setting them on the seat of a wooden kitchen chair.
Adele poured coffee and put a milk jug and a sugar bowl on the table, along with a plate of cookies.
‘So how can I help?’
‘The frontages. I’d like to do them up first.’
‘Sure. It would make a big impact. I can start by weeding.’
‘That’d do. I can’t do much myself this next fortnight though as I’ve volunteered to sort out a big charity run going on at the church. Bric-a-brac and the likes. The money will go to the historic society.’
‘Fabulous.’ They could do with all the financial assistance they could get. ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about the pamphlet, Imelda. There’s so much wonderful information, not to mention the photographs and memorabilia.’ Adele sat at the table and pushed the plate of cookies Imelda’s way. Even the biscuits made her think of Tom. Eight. He’d eaten eight, one after the other. ‘I know this might sound ridiculously enthusiastic and it’s probably not possible, but I’m going to see if I can find someone who would print a book for us instead.’
‘Oh?’ Imelda said, taking a cookie.
‘We’d need to find someone who would sponsor us, of course, because it must cost a fortune to publish a book.’
‘Hardback or paperback?’
‘Hardback. Like a coffee-table book.’
‘You’d need to include information and photographs about the whole area, not just the town. And it’d have to be priced right, to make people buy it.’
‘We could also print a small pamphlet, as a second option. That could still go for a dollar.’
‘Good idea. I’ve got an old friend I could contact. Haven�
�t heard from him for a while now, but he might help. He’s a publisher. Got his own independent publishing house.’
‘Really? What type of books?’
‘Travel. Cookery. Coffee-table type books.’
‘That would be amazing.’
‘Yes, it would. Evelyn Mitchell said you’d be good for us.’
‘Well, it’s just an idea. Thanks for offering to step in and help.’ How did a woman like Imelda know a publisher? Adele took the quiet moment between them to take a deeper look at her visitor as she sipped her coffee. Imelda’s outfits were mannish and serviceable but she didn’t look like a farmer. Her hair was still long, mostly greyed. She kept it swept up in a style not dissimilar to those of young, hard-working country women in the 1950s. The ones who hadn’t been able to afford the new shorter styles. The ones who’d kept their skirts fuller for the same reason—no money for a newer, more fashionable wardrobe. The term ‘arty’ popped into Adele’s head and she wondered why she hadn’t seen that facet of Imelda before. ‘I’d like to reimburse you for the moulds and the plaster,’ she said.
‘No need. Had the moulds for years. They’re not new, some were Tom’s from when he was a small enough boy to be interested in splashing around with paints and plaster.’ She laughed. ‘He grew out of that pretty quickly.’
Adele was taken by thoughts of Tom again, and of the newspaper article about his mother. What sort of little boy had Tom been? How had Imelda felt, losing her daughter and gaining full custody of a four-year-old?
It would be intrusive to broach the subject and it was none of her business. Unless she could come at it from a different angle. ‘There were some interesting items in that box you brought to the CWA the week I was introduced.’ Imelda hadn’t come to the following meetings.
‘Rosemary Douglas was my best friend,’ Imelda said. ‘After she died, her sister came and packed up her gear. Sold a lot of it. She gave me that box and told me Rose would want me to have those things.’