by Cathryn Hein
Tash grinned. ‘Happy to take all the blame. Life’s too short to diet.’
‘Says she who doesn’t have to worry about looking like an albino elephant in her wedding photos.’
Sandwiches in hand, they wandered the boundary to Clip’s ute and perched on the bonnet with their feet up on the bull bar. The players were out warming up, practising drills and goal kicking. Tash watched Patrick as he handballed on the run and took a leaping mark when his teammate kicked it back.
The difference between him and the other Saints players was marked. Patrick looked as though he wasn’t even trying. He handballed with slick ease, his leads surging with explosive power, his jumps arcing high and graceful.
‘Talented, isn’t he?’ said Bec.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s good to have him back properly. He was pretty useless last year.’ Bec chewed, watching Clip sprint through his turn of the drill. ‘Not useless, just not the player he was.’
‘Too distracted by Maddy I imagine.’
‘Yeah. He only played because Clip begged him to. He’s better this year though.’ She fed the last of her sandwich into her mouth and wiped her fingers on her napkin. ‘Hope he stays that way. Team needs him.’ She eyed Tash. ‘Good of you to come. Maddy never used to.’
Tash frowned at the inference she was here for Patrick. ‘I only tagged along because Dad asked.’
Bec gave her a raised eyebrow that reeked of ‘sure you did’ before concentrating back on the Saints.
The game was as ugly and dirty as the wind. Players scrambled, out of practice and match fitness, countering their lack of skill with aggression. Tash winced each time the pack thundered past, her heart skipping as she kept fearful eyes on Patrick. No matter where the ball, he appeared in the thick of play, laying tackles or taking them, somehow plucking the ball from a tangle of legs and arms and running on to boot it forward with unfailing accuracy.
Even with Patrick’s best efforts the Saints were down at quarter-time and still trailing at half-time. Tash followed Bec to the gate to cheer the team as they came off. Noticing Tash, a mud-splattered Clip exchanged a wink and thumbs-up with Bec before trudging on. Patrick was at the rear, hands on his hips and chest heaving as he sucked in air. He caught Tash’s gaze, her heart racing at the surprise then elation in his expression.
‘You’re here,’ he said, stopping in front of her, muscled, heroic and deliciously manly.
‘Yes.’
‘That’s great.’ His gaze flitted over her face, as though he still couldn’t believe she was there. ‘It’s good to see you.’
‘You’re playing well.’
‘Not well enough.’ He rubbed at his sweat- and dirt-streaked forehead, then seemed to realise the others had gone on without him. ‘I’ll see you after?’
‘Sure.’
He jogged off with a grin, his footy boots clattering a tattoo on the concrete.
Tash treated them to coffees and hot chips that Bec swore she wouldn’t touch but helped scoff regardless, while complaining that Tash was a bad influence.
‘Make that a good influence,’ Bec murmured halfway through the third term when Patrick took yet another mark forty metres out from goal.
Tash barely heard her, she was too busy bursting with pride. Shoving her fingers into her mouth, she blasted a whistle as the ball sailed between the posts and the umpire signalled another goal to the Saints. Patrick’s goal had put them in front by five points.
‘You do realise he’s doing it for you.’
Tash banged on the bonnet to add to the noise. ‘Doing what?’
‘Putting on a blinder, you nong. It’s you.’
She screwed up her nose. ‘Nothing to do with me.’ She cupped her hands around her mouth and bellowed, ‘Come on, Saints!’
Bec stared at her for a moment before shaking her head and focusing back on the game.
By match end, Tash’s voice was as husky as a pack-a-day smoker’s. The Saints had hung on by eight points and Patrick was best on ground by a country mile.
‘I guess I’d better go hunt down Dad,’ said Tash, sliding off the bonnet and rewrapping her scarf. She had taken to twirling it around her head after her voice began to give out. ‘Thanks for the company. I wouldn’t have known who was who without you.’
Bec jumped down after her. ‘Aren’t you staying?’
‘No way to get home.’
‘Don’t be silly. Patrick will drop you off.’
Remembering how he’d looked coming off the field at half-time, like a warrior coming in from battle, Tash experienced a strange wash of shyness. ‘No, it’s okay.’
‘But you said you’d hang around.’
She had, but now the prospect had her flustered. She opened her mouth, closed it, and combed the milling crowd for her dad.
‘I’ll drop you home if necessary,’ Bec pressed harder. ‘The boys will talk footy for hours. I need someone to drink with.’
‘I thought you were on a diet?’
Bec rolled her eyes. ‘God, Tash. Everyone knows liquids don’t count.’
After tracking down Peter and relaying their plans, Bec hooked her arm through Tash’s and marched her into the clubhouse. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been inside. It had to be years, when her brother Matt played before he left for university. The clubrooms possessed the cheering comfort of a community in action, of memories and recognition. Premiership flags from the Saints’ glory days hung above the bar. A trophy cabinet glittered with silverware and memorabilia. Mounted red, white and black guernseys smothered in signatures graced the walls, alongside timber honour boards. The Lawson name featured prominently.
‘Will you have dinner here as well?’ Tash asked.
‘Not unless Clip wants to,’ said Bec, passing over a beer. ‘But I doubt he’ll last that long. Clip’s not eighteen anymore. Give him an hour and the bruises and strains will start to take their toll and the big baby’ll be sooking for pizza and bed.’
Other wives and girlfriends wandered in and gravitated into groups. Bec steered Tash to one of the most animated and made introductions to the few people Tash didn’t recognise from school or around town. Questions about The Urban Ranger and her plans for the future flowed. Tash answered as generously as she could but her mind kept drifting elsewhere.
‘It takes them a while to cool down, do their post-game analysis and shower,’ said Bec, noticing Tash’s glances towards the door. ‘Give them another ten.’
Sure enough, ten minutes later the team began trickling in to more cheers and claps. Patrick received the most of all. A beer was thrust into his hands. He raised it and drank, his gaze sweeping the room. As it locked on Tash a grin formed, only to slide away as he was dragged aside by a teammate.
The groups of women shrank in size as they went off to track down partners. With Clip and Patrick occupied, Tash and Bec found a table and settled in to wait.
‘That was handy,’ said Tash, tapping the hairdresser’s card she’d been given. ‘I’ve been wondering who to go to.’
Bec cupped a hand to her ear. ‘Did you hear that?’
‘What?’
‘That noise. The one that sounds like half a dozen noses going out of joint.’ Bec grinned at Tash’s lack of understanding. ‘God, you’re thick. There’s probably been a book going since you came home on whose salon you’d choose.’
Tash groaned. ‘Don’t say that.’
‘So hard being a superstar. Everyone wants a piece of you.’ Bec’s eyes drifted upwards. ‘Speaking of which.’
Tash turned to find Patrick behind her. Heat prickled her cheeks. It was likely because she was sitting but he seemed taller somehow, more athletic. His hair was still damp from the shower, dark and spiked. She caught the scent of soap and clean clothes and felt a strong urge to bury her nose in his belly.
To Tash’s embarrassment her voice, already hoarse from cheering, emerged even huskier. ‘And the hero of the hour finally arrives.’
Grinning,
he pulled out the chair next to her and sat. ‘Have a good day?’
‘I did.’ She pointed to her throat, now bare of her scarf, the collar of her red shirt open thanks to the warmth of the clubrooms. ‘Although I might have cheered too much.’
‘I heard you.’ His gaze lingered over her exposed throat and neck before lifting to her eyes. ‘Nice whistling. I’d forgotten you could do that.’
‘I’m a girl of many talents.’
‘Yeah, you are.’ He indicated her drink. ‘Want another one?’
‘I’d better not.’
‘Right. You’re driving.’
‘No,’ said Bec. ‘You are.’
Patrick looked at Tash. ‘I’m dropping you home?’
‘If that’s okay.’
‘Sure.’ He glanced around. The crowd was thinner now.
Bec swallowed the last of her beer and rose. ‘I’d better hunt down Clip before he drinks himself too stupid.’
‘Too late,’ Patrick quipped.
‘Oi,’ said Bec, clipping him over the ear. ‘That’s my future husband you’re talking about.’
Patrick grinned before addressing Tash. ‘Ready then?’
They left as a foursome, curiosity following in their wake. Tash tried to keep her head up and shoulders back, but a tiny bit of shame kept crawling over her skin. No matter how innocent, she was walking into the night with another woman’s fiancé, and the guilt of it was horrible.
The temperature had plummeted. Steam punctuated their farewells to Clip and Bec. Tash huddled in her coat and made ‘brr’ noises as they tromped to Patrick’s ute. He pressed his hand to the centre of her back. Her conscience had her wanting to shake it off. Other feelings had her wanting it to stay.
The radio covered their lack of talk until they reached Castlereagh Road. Patrick swung onto the gravel, the headlights catching a fox scuttling into the tall grass along the verge. He glanced at Tash. ‘Thanks for coming today.’
‘I hadn’t planned to, but Dad asked this morning if I wanted to tag along and I thought, why not?’ she said. ‘Matt was still playing the last time I went to the footy. I’d forgotten what fun it could be. I kept meaning to take photos but every time I thought of it something exciting would happen and I’d forget again.’ She stared straight ahead, the words ‘You were amazing’ hanging on her tongue, but they hung too long and the moment passed.
He indicated and turned into the farm, and drove slowly towards her flat. The lights of her parents’ house slashed beams across the darkness. Tash made out her mum’s silhouette in the kitchen, the pause in her movements as the ute passed.
Patrick pulled up behind Tash’s car. For a moment, neither said anything. Tash twisted her fingers together in her lap, wondering where this new nervousness had come from. They were friends. He knew it. She knew it.
‘I have food,’ she said.
‘You always have food.’
‘I mean I have dinner, if you want.’
He shook his head, hands still curled around the wheel. ‘I should go.’
‘Of course. You must be tired.’ Tash hesitated for a few heartbeats, then unclipped her seatbelt and slid out. She stood in the shivery night, uncertainty knotting her insides, while the warm air from inside the ute spiralled out and into the sky and the silence grew longer.
Patrick leaned across the seat, frowning. ‘Tash?’
‘Sorry. Daydreaming.’ She pressed her hand to the door, then suddenly the words were gushing out. ‘You were amazing today. The way you played, your talent … I was …’ She sucked in a breath and fixed her shoulders. ‘I just want you to know that it made me proud to be your friend.’
Patrick was so still he seemed frozen.
‘Sorry.’
Slowly, he shook his head. ‘No. Don’t be sorry.’ He held her gaze. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome. Although don’t get a big head.’
He laughed. ‘I’ll try.’
Neither made a move to leave. Tash debated offering dinner again.
‘Oh,’ she said instead as Coco wiggled her way against her legs, the dog’s cold nose nuzzling her hands. Relieved at the distraction, she patted and made a fuss. Coco’s tail made happy thuds against the side of the ute. ‘My company for the night.’
‘Some dogs,’ said Patrick, smiling faintly with one corner of his mouth and putting the ute into gear, ‘get all the luck.’
Chapter 24
The buzz from Tash’s words stayed with him through the night and morning, right until the moment Patrick passed through the gates of Springbank late Sunday afternoon, when his promise once more weighed heavily on his bones.
The break up north had done wonders for Grant and Nicola. Their skin glowed from the sun and they moved with a purpose and energy that had been absent these last few months, perhaps longer. New photos of their grandchildren plastered the fridge along with hand-drawn portraits of figures clutching hands with ‘Nanny and Papa’ written in clumsy lettering above. There was even a picture of Maddy riding Khan under a bright yellow sun, the only way she’d been known. The way everyone wanted to remember.
Nicola was preparing dinner. Grant was on the phone in the lounge, talking quietly. Patrick uttered a polite hello to Nicola and nodded at Grant as he passed through to Maddy’s day room. Absence hadn’t repaired the rift between himself and the Handrecks. He supposed nothing ever would.
Patrick headed for the shelf and took down the ring. He pulled up a stool and sat, then cradled her left hand in his. In contrast to her parents, Maddy had been left paler than ever after her time in care. There were no French doors and easy access to sunshine in the nursing home for someone in a trolley bed. Her colour gave her an ethereal beauty, disturbed only by the spontaneous flexes of her jaw and soul-jarring vocalisations.
The ring box remained unopened on the side of the bed. Patrick held her hand and toyed with her fingers, his head down. It was hard to face her with his heart so false. Though he hated himself for his betrayal, he couldn’t stop wishing it was Tash’s hand he was holding, Tash’s finger he could slide a ring on. Tash who owned his promise.
He pressed the back of Maddy’s hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. At the beginning of the year he would have been telling her about his day, about what their friends were up to, talking to her as though she could hear and understand. Now he had nothing. Only love for a girl who wasn’t Maddy, and despair at how he could break himself away without breaking himself apart.
Maddy twisted, and the ring box tumbled to the floor. Patrick stared at it, his breathing ragged, every breath ripping his chest. Slowly, he raised his head.
‘Maddy?’
He leaned closer, searching. Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted like they did when she was sleeping, but there was movement behind the lids—a rapid shift of her eyes as though they were following the action of a dream. Or in distress at what she could sense from the man who was meant to cherish her above all others.
‘Maddy, was that you?’
There was no further movement, no sound other than her shallow breaths. Patrick swallowed and stooped to retrieve the box. He slid the ring on her finger and held her weak hand in both of his, his thumbs caressing.
‘I’m still here,’ he whispered. ‘Still with you.’
He swallowed again and forced himself to be normal. Whatever happened, whatever his changed feelings, she must never know.
‘We won footy. Tight game.’ Patrick inhaled, gathering strength in simple words. ‘I took some good marks. Kicked four goals. Made some tackles. Ended up best on ground.’ He kept going. Footy was easy, normal. Safe. ‘Clip played well too. Bec was pretty excited. You could hear her and Tash cheering from right across the oval.’ He stopped. Tash. Even he heard the way he’d said her name, softer somehow. He studied Maddy’s face, scanning for any sign that she might have heard it too, but there was nothing.
Patrick continued talking about the game, about his teammates and how they played. The tackles
he’d made. The corked thigh he’d received in the third quarter thanks to an errant knee; the size, shape and colour of the bruise, now coming into full bloom a day later. He made no further mention of Tash and Bec. Normal Maddy would have picked up on it and probed. Broken Maddy slept on.
He stayed for half an hour longer, starting other conversations, trailing off as he realised where they all led. Eventually he gave up. He slid the ring from her finger and fitted it carefully into its box, then rose and bent close to kiss Maddy goodbye.
Her eyes were open. For a split second they seemed to focus hard on him. Patrick’s heart lurched. ‘Maddy?’
He curled his fingers against her cheek. Hope rose then listed when her eyes resumed their usual uncoordinated travels. He shook his head. Guilt was making him see things. Gently, he kissed her forehead, his lips lingering as he breathed her in.
Grant was in the kitchen with Nicola, the two of them huddled close and exchanging whispers. Patrick paused at the door and rubbed his face, stubble scratching his palm. The movement caught the Handrecks’ notice, jerking them apart.
‘Son,’ said Grant, ‘do you have a minute?’
Son? Patrick wasn’t that naive. In their eyes he’d ceased being their future son-in-law months ago.
His senses sharpened. Nicola had her hand on the back of one of the chairs in a casual pose, but the skin over her knuckles was tight, her expression brittle. Patrick’s gaze returned to Grant. So another ‘talk’ was in the offing. Too bad he wasn’t in the mood to play.
‘Not really.’
‘Please, Patrick,’ said Nicola. ‘It’s important.’
‘Not so important it can’t wait until tomorrow. I’ll see you then.’ He nodded at Grant and headed for the door.
Whispers sounded behind him and grew in volume. Patrick knew he was being rude, but he hadn’t forgiven them for putting Maddy into care, for making him feel like shit when all he’d ever done was love their daughter. Patrick wasn’t perfect—he had more faults than he could count—but he was a good man, an honourable one, and he was stuffed if anyone was going to take that from him.