Things We Cannot See

by Dianne Maguire

  Hair Attack was the first in a row of four shops along the narrow main road of Ackland Point. The overhead bell tinkled as Laura entered the empty pine-panelled salon and sank into the red vinyl couch that had seemingly been there for decades, or at least since the very first time Bev had done her hair, some years ago. A deep sigh escaped as Laura opened a tattered magazine and waited for Bev to appear.

  ‘Is that you, Laura?’ Bev’s Yorkshire accent echoed from the back storeroom.

  ‘Yes,’ Laura called, flicking through the pages of the magazine.

  Bev stepped through the vinyl strip curtain into the salon, stirring a small bowl of the solution that would banish Laura’s menacing grey. Bev’s smile was wide, her eyes twinkling within an English-rose complexion framed by artistically chaotic blond curls. ‘Coffee? Tea?’ she said, placing the bowl on the bench under a wall of mirrors and pulling out a chair for Laura to sit.

  Her slumped posture evident even under the draped black vinyl, Laura averted her eyes from the mirror and straightened in her chair. She sipped her coffee, and as Bev silently segmented and dabbed at her hair, thought back on that hour she’d spent in Flynn’s studio only two weeks ago, her earlier resolution to forget eroded by her need to secretly explore what it had meant and why it plagued her so.

  It had all started with their chance meeting on the beach, exchanging small talk as Callie had dug with sufficient energy to send plumes of sand between her back legs.

  ‘Laura,’ Flynn had announced as though struck by a stroke of genius, ‘I would love to paint you. Pose for me . . . please?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she had said, glowing with a sense of flattery that flooded any dubious thoughts she may have entertained about his motives. She had also been concerned about Simon’s possible reaction and that brought with it a mixture of acute guilt and burning defiance.

  ‘Oh, come on. Please? Your height, the way you hold yourself, you have an unusually striking presence. I’d love to capture you on canvas.’

  ‘Really?’ she said. ‘I think I am way too old to be of interest to anyone, on canvas or in the flesh,’ she had chuckled, immediately afraid she had given the impression she had been fishing for compliments or worse, reassurance.

  He’d blown out the side of his mouth, had turned his deep, almost black eyes to hers. ‘What does age have to do with anything?’ he said. ‘The world would be a much better place if we could all see through the wrinkles, past the lines, to the thirty year old within ourselves and each other.’

  Her smile had been spontaneous. She dropped her head and dug at the sand with one toe. ‘OK. I’d love to pose for you,’ she had said, her smile widening.

  Once in his studio he had handed her a plain black tee with a scooped neckline to wear with her jeans, and set her up on a stool, driftwood and dried spikes of seagrass artistically placed on the bare floorboards at her feet. Flynn’s teal and gold Macaw ‘Gorgeous,’ ran along her perch, twirling and screeching ‘Hello Gorgeous’ before she finally settled and watched, as Flynn alternatively glanced up at Laura and scratched at a slab of canvas on a wooden easel.

  ‘May I talk?’ Laura had said after ten minutes.

  ‘Mm? . . . Yeah, of course you can talk, just don’t move.’

  ‘Have you always been an artist?’

  He took a while to answer, seemingly focussed on his hand sweeping across the canvas. ‘Yes. I taught art in a high school. So did my wife . . . until she died three years ago from liver cancer.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, guilt stabbing at her because she did not mean it.

  ‘I still miss her,’ he muttered. ‘You know, right up to the end she worried about her appearance . . . kept apologising . . . I could not convince her that I didn’t even notice her hair, her figure, her complexion. All I really missed was her smile. Her smile was what made her beautiful . . . nothing else. And it simply left as the disease took over her.’ His voice faded then as though he had disappeared into himself.

  The unblinking genuineness, the ease with which he had spoken about his deepest feelings, the unfamiliar comfort Laura had felt in his presence . . . it had all come together to make that hour a defining moment in her life.

  ‘Mm. We’ve left this treatment for much longer than we should have.’ Bev’s voice splintered her thoughts.

  Laura turned her eyes back to the mirror. ‘I know. Work has been hectic,’ she said.

  ‘How’s Simon?’ Bev asked without looking up from her ardent dabbing.

  Laura’s mind searched for a truthful answer without giving anything away. ‘I haven’t seen much of him, to be honest.’

  ‘A few people said they saw him months ago, driving a trailer of furniture out of town. And no one seems to have seen much of him since.’ Bev’s eyes bored through the mirror into Laura’s. ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘Yes, everything is fine.’ Laura resented the way Simon had sailed into his new life of complete autonomy and anonymity and left her to deal with any fallout, including the community’s idle curiosity. ‘We loaned some furniture to a friend in the city a while back. Perhaps that’s what your client saw,’ she said, hating that she had been forced to lie, wondering about the busybodies who had found such events noteworthy.

  They lapsed into silence for a while before Bev stopped dabbing and said into the mirror. ‘You know, your regrowth would be less noticeable if you went lighter, or grew your colour out altogether.’

  ‘What? You mean go grey?’ Laura said, catching sight of her reflection, taken aback by the harsh twist of her mouth, her deeply furrowed frown.

  ‘Your natural colour is a beautiful shade, Laura. Women younger than you and me both are paying me a king’s ransom to give them that colour. And you have it naturally. I know I’ll probably regret saying this, because I am doing myself out of income, but you really should wear natural colour.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me I’m too old to be auburn?’ Laura said.

  ‘Nooo. Not really,’ Bev said, ‘I’m just saying your natural colour is really nice. That’s all.’

  ‘Well, I’ve been auburn since I was nineteen and I intend staying auburn,’ Laura said lifting her chin.

  ‘Just saying,’ Bev said, her smile less broad and suddenly more forced.

  Laura’s freshly dyed auburn hair in a new blunt cut and fringe was a compromise in the face of Bev’s avid insistence for change. She gazed at her reflection in the salon window. Turned her head each way, peering through narrowed eyes and wondering if Bev had been completely honest when she had convinced Laura that the new style would take years off her appearance. Stealing a second glance at her reflection, Laura hoped she had not made a terrible mistake.

  After shopping for fresh croissants and bread, fruit, milk, and the weekend papers, she took a leisurely drive home, wondering with a sense of dread whether Simon would be there. Even her visit to the bakery had turned into a mind-game after she had spotted the last cherry Danish, Simon’s favourite, and fretted over whether or not to buy it for him.

  But as she approached home, Laura decided it was time she faced her fears. She played through in her mind the scenario of a puffy-faced, red-eyed remorseful Simon telling her he had fallen in love with someone else. Imagined how those words would make her feel. And felt numb with disbelief. Then she allowed herself to imagine the possible scenario of him saying, hand on heart, that he had finally decided he wanted nothing more in life than to spend the rest of it with her – and her gut tightened.

  The moment Laura turned onto the esplanade she spotted Simon’s red sedan parked in their driveway. She slowed down, took in the unusually calm, astoundingly blue sea, noticing with an immediate jab of glee and sense of shame that there was no trailer of furniture attached to his car. She pulled into her parking space under the deck, and glanced at the lawn, expecting he would have trimmed and cut it by now. But only the neglected, weed-infested grass that had taken hold over past months stared back at her. />
  Juggling her shoulder bag and sacks of groceries, Laura picked her way along the path at the back of the house, thrown off-guard when she rounded the corner to see Simon on his knees repairing the lock on the back door. He was wearing the faded jeans and grey sweater she had loved on him – the one that emphasised his still straight back and broad shoulders, his reasonably flat belly.

  ‘Hello there,’ she said with forced cheer as she walked towards him.

  He peered up at her, his wide smile the same as ever. ‘You’ve changed your hair,’ he said in a tone she could not fathom.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, not expecting compliments or comments and not receiving them. About to tell him of her tense discussion with Bev, she stopped, realising he was no longer an appropriate partner for personal conversations.

  ‘This lock must have been driving you crazy,’ he said, giving a final turn to the screwdriver before climbing to his feet and stepping aside for her to enter, chastely, clumsily kissing her cheek as she passed.

  ‘Ah, yeah, it’s been sending me a little sparse . . . Coffee?’ she called over her shoulder, her mind scrambling for things to say and ways to feel.

  ‘That’d be great. I’m almost finished here,’ his voice echoed.

  Stepping into the kitchen, Laura immediately stopped, her heart sinking with disappointment as she glared at a giant vase of red roses in the middle of the dining room table.

  Moments later, as she stood at the machine making coffee, he wordlessly stepped into the kitchen. Pondering how to thank him for the roses she did not want, she became instantly aware of his closeness, his body leaning into her back. Felt his warmth as he wrapped his arms around her. Confusion raged like a wild animal inside her and tears built like boulders in her throat. She turned slowly, looked into his brown eyes and saw a softness about them that, she had not realised until now, had left too many years ago.

  He put his arms around her and hugged her to his chest. ‘I’ve made a terrible mistake,’ he murmured. ‘I want to come home.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘Sleep at mine for the weekend?’ Alex said turning to Maddi, who shifted from sitting to kneeling on the lawn. Friday afternoons were always the best part of the school week – not only because they heralded the weekend but also because Art was their final lesson. Their art teacher, Mrs Groot, loved the outdoors and always insisted they work outside, invariably finding a natural, still life project in each tree, under every bush.

  Maddi found the idea instantly appealing, felt a jolt of glee about the weekend when moments ago she had been dreading it. Narrowing her eyes she concentrated on two fine twigs crossed on a blank sheet of white paper she had assembled to represent unexpected encounters. ‘I wish my parents didn’t insist I study law,’ she said as her pencil traced the outline onto a separate sheet. ‘Art is awesome. I can’t imagine spending the rest of my life wearing a freaking horsehair wig. But I can see myself in my own paint-splattered studio living off something I adore doing . . . Mm, it’d be cool spending the weekend at your house, really cool. Mum and Dad are working all weekend. And tomorrow night they’re going to some stuck up corporate dinner.’

  Alex studied the two overlapping autumn leaves she had chosen for her drawing, whisking the pencil across her sketchpad with feathery strokes. She turned again to Maddi, eyes sparkling. ‘Awesome. Let’s download Game of Thrones on my laptop . . . Or maybe a few movies? Mum’s working, and Greg will be glued to the footy on TV, so no one will bug us. You should come before lunch tomorrow,’ she said, growing more excited.

  The frantic chattering of Rainbow Lorikeets woke Maddi early Saturday morning, but not early enough to have beaten her parents out of bed. She recalled vague memories of them creeping in and kissing her in turn on the cheek, whispering goodbye before creeping out again. She wandered into the silent kitchen and poured a glass of juice, before dropping two slices of fruit loaf into the toaster.

  Bruno’s barking echoed from inside the house the moment Maddi stepped onto Alex’s driveway, and persisted as she walked along the verandah and dropped the brass knocker against the timber door.

  ‘Get out the way, Bruno. I need to open the door,’ Alex chided from inside, before she appeared in the open doorway wearing jeans and a cheery smile, bending to hold Bruno back as he insisted on welcoming Maddi with energetic and persistent lashings of his tongue.

  The airy kitchen smelled of toast and coffee even though it was close to noon. Greg sipped from a giant red mug at the kitchen table, engrossed in the weekend papers spread open before him. ‘Hi Maddi. Good to see you, love,’ he said, suddenly glancing up, his eyes sweeping over her before dropping back to the paper. She knelt on the black and white tiled floor of the kitchen and patted Bruno, while Alex made two cups of tea.

  ‘Let’s go to my room,’ Alex said handing Maddi a glass, and leading the way to her bedroom as Bruno padded behind, his tail waving to signal he was more than happy to be one of the girls for the afternoon.

  ‘It’s so cool you’re here,’ Alex said, placing her mug on the bedside table between two single beds, each with thick white doonas and an aqua throw rug.

  ‘Is it OK to lay on the bed?’ Maddi said, tentatively sitting on the edge.

  ‘Sure. But don’t put your shoes on the doona, or Greg will go mental. OK?’ Alex said, peering into the mirror above her dressing table.

  ‘Did you know Chloe’s having a huge “A Team” party in a few weeks? I bet every psycho in the school will be there . . . Drugs, alcohol, orgies, fights . . . it’ll be full-on.’ Maddi said, watching the brush glide through Alex’s hair like corn silk.

  ‘Well, we won’t be invited,’ Alex said. ‘Not that I care. I’m so glad we are not on the A Team.’

  ‘I so wish I had your hair,’ Maddi said.

  ‘Are you for real?’ Alex turned from the mirror. ‘I love yours. It’s romantic . . . like Anne of Green Gables.’

  Maddi laughed. ‘Gross. I look like a turn of the century Ranga. Thanks for the compliment.’

  ‘We’ll give him a run in the park on the way to the store,’ Alex said, latching a red lead to Bruno’s collar.

  As they walked, Maddi decided she liked being at Alex’s house. Here there was no talk of administration, no frenzied coordination of times and meal arrangements, no being let down when someone arrived home half an hour later than they said they would. Within two hours her parents’ open inspections would close, they would rush home with barely a moment to speak, then shower and change and be off again, this time in sparkles and tuxedo to their evening function. She turned to Alex to tell her how cool it was to be here when she noticed her friend had stopped further back and was standing frozen to one spot, her wide blue eyes staring ahead to the entrance to Connor Lane.

  ‘Why don’t we walk Bruno in the park tomorrow?’ Maddi said shakily, her heart thumping with a sense of helplessness in the face of Alex’s obvious distress. ‘We can turn around now and go to the store the other way,’ she added.

  Alex shook her head, pulling Bruno’s lead, saying through clenched teeth, ‘No. I want to do this now.’

  Taking a deep breath Maddi kept her eyes steadfast on Alex, whose facial expression was the only litmus test as to how she was coping. Maddi put her arm through Alex’s as together they took deliberate steps into the lane, its gloomy pall denying even minimal entry to the mild sun now hanging low in the sky.

  ‘This is where Bruno and Greg found me,’ Alex murmured, slowing after a few metres and stopping to stare down at the asphalt. ‘This is the first time I’ve seen it since . . .’

  Maddi watched her friend’s face turn ashen as Bruno sniffed along the ground where the path abutted the length of iron fence. Facing the park, his pink tongue lolling with the effort, he puffed and strained even more energetically on the lead.

  ‘How does it feel to be here again?’ Maddi said softly as they followed Bruno.

  ‘Awful. But I have to do it.’

 
‘You’re really brave.’ It was all Maddi could think to say.

  For what seemed like hours, but was probably only a matter of one or two minutes, they allowed Bruno to drag them through the lane, and followed him out again until he came to an abrupt stop. Ears pushed forward and head held high, he stared across the road to where Roger Grenfell bent over the geraniums lining his front fence. Bruno’s low growls suddenly erupted into angry peals of barking, and both Alex and Maddi had to hold him back from tearing across the road.

  ‘Bruno, what the hell?’ Alex spat as Roger looked up and stared in their direction, apparently unaware of the dog’s conniptions, eventually issuing a tentative wave.

  ‘Let’s walk on this side. I don’t want to speak to Roger,’ Alex murmured to Maddi, returning a half-hearted wave in his direction.

  ‘Is that the Roger who wrote you those notes? Maddi asked, running to catch up with Alex, glancing back at Roger still staring after them, his hand now shielding his eyes against the afternoon sun.

  Alex nodded, tugging against Bruno who was now intent on lifting his leg against every post, before they all ran through the rose gardens bordering the park, the colours of the blooms and sweeping green lawns, the empty play equipment creating a haunting type of beauty.