Three Gold Coins

by Josephine Moon

  On Saturday morning, Sunny took the kids with her on a garage sale run. Early spring was a classic time of year for a good clear-out, and there were a lot of sales in the area today. Hand-drawn signs had lined the streets all week, with balloons and streamers at traffic lights to garner attention. Anyone who was practised at finding gems and bargains knew they had to be up at dawn, and so she was. She’d put the kids in long-sleeved tops before they went to bed, so they’d get up already dressed. They wouldn’t be in them for long, not once the sun had climbed a few degrees into the sky.

  Hudson had no shoes on, which was normal for him—she’d long let go of any idea of trying to keep him shod. Shoes, clothing tags, new clothes, heat, cold, roughness, prickliness, hair-brushing, teeth-cleaning, nail-cutting, hair-washing, bandaid-applying—for Hudson, everything was a challenge. Strangers had told her, ‘Get a jumper on that kid,’ or stared at him and asked her, ‘Why isn’t your son wearing shoes?’ She’d been the recipient of disapproving looks at kindy when he turned up wearing the same paint-spattered t-shirt as the day before because when she’d tried to wrestle him out of it he’d screamed so much that she was terrified someone would call the cops. The most obvious diagnosis, she assumed, would be the same as for Lara and their father, Leonard.

  Bipolar affective disorder, though Leonard was type I and Lara type II.

  Leonard had tried different medications but none of them seemed to work. Often, he simply refused to take them. In Sunny’s memories he was either non-verbal, not answering when spoken to, or insisting they lock all the doors and close the curtains because The People were following him. Sometimes he was lavishly generous, coming home with flowers and jewellery for Eliza and toys and lollies for the girls, picking them up, whirling them around and talking of holidays on tropical islands. This part of the manic episode was exciting, and Sunny would think that maybe he was better now. But then the crash would come and the three of them tiptoed around him, waiting for him to explode at the smallest thing.

  He would disappear for weeks at a time. After years of this, Eliza stopped calling the police to notify them that he was missing. They’d stopped caring long before that anyway. There was nothing they could do, they’d said, to prevent a man from walking out of his house. For many years, Eliza had pretended to her friends that her husband was busy with work, rather than admitting that he would prefer to live a life on the streets. At least, that was where he told her he was. She could never know for sure. She became quite masterful at lying to her co-workers and friends, though the latter diminished in number as she attempted to conceal the chaos in her home.

  The two sisters had responded very differently. Lara was the earnest, hardworking, sensitive one, always trying to help, convinced that if she was just good enough, quiet enough and helpful enough then Leonard would be happy. Sunny was the wild one, with no tolerance for Leonard’s behaviour. She used to take off too, from her early teenage years. Maybe her restlessness was something she’d inherited from Leonard. Or maybe it was the only way she could cope. Instead of striving for peace like Lara she embraced instability. Sunny often thought how ironic it was that of the two of them, it was she who was now living the life of responsibility.

  Sunny plucked a rubber ball from the garage sale table and clenched it in her fist. She needed to channel her anger at the memories of having to explain her father’s strange behaviour at birthday parties, or walking home from a school dance alone in the cold and dark because he’d forgotten to pick her up, or the time his fist landed on the wall right beside Sunny’s head. She could still remember the puff of air on her cheek as his knuckles broke the plaster. The dent in the wall remained for several years until Eliza got sick of it one day, mad as hell with Leonard, who’d been gone three weeks with no word. Eliza plastered over that dent the way she covered over so many emotions in order to keep their lives going.

  Sunny watched her children running wild on a stranger’s lawn. Daisy had put on a pair of fairy wings and was pretending to fly by running in circles, her purple gumboots leaving a trail through the dew on the grass. Sunny watched her daughter, her chest thick with emotion. How she adored that little girl. It was such a privilege, this mothering thing. It wasn’t something she’d ever given much consideration before it happened. It had never been part of her vision. But then it did happen, and the course of her life changed in a moment.

  A fellow fossicker reached across Sunny to pick up a battery charger, and accidentally elbowed her in the arm. ‘Oh, sorry,’ the woman said, putting her hand on the spot she’d bumped. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘All good,’ Sunny said, with a smile and a wave of her hand. The woman grimaced another apology and wandered away, carrying the charger with her.

  Sunny picked over battered board games and one-eyed dolls, frying pans missing handles and rocking chairs that didn’t rock. Next to all the crappy bric-a-brac lay a pile of dusty items that looked as though they must have been stored under the house for decades. Metal tubs and rusted gardening tools. A milking pail. An ancient baby’s cot that wouldn’t pass today’s safety standards. Interesting stuff, but nothing of use to Sunny’s current upcycling venture, and she didn’t have room at home—that was to say, at her mother’s—to store much more stuff.

  Hudson tackled the residents’ corgi to the ground, and the small dog growled at him and nipped at his wrist.

  ‘Baxter! No!’ the girl at the stall yelled. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said to Sunny. ‘He’s never done that before.’

  ‘It’s fine, really,’ Sunny said.

  Her son let the dog go and it ran away. He howled, holding his wrist. Sunny crossed the grass to Hudson, who was half crying and half raging with indignation that the dog had bitten him.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Sunny said, bending to rub his back and inspecting his wrist. Nothing but red skin and saliva.

  ‘It bit me!’ he bawled.

  ‘I know. But I think you squashed him and hurt him. Dogs can’t talk, so he couldn’t say so. He only had his teeth to tell you.’

  Just like that, Hudson stopped crying and got up, his attention caught by a balloon that Daisy had taken from somewhere and was bringing to him. ‘Here you go, Hudson,’ Daisy said, handing it over. He ran away with it. Hudson was always moving, unless he was asleep or in front of a screen of some sort. Maybe it wasn’t bipolar. Maybe it was ADHD. Or maybe he was simply five.

  Sunny smiled and pulled Daisy in for a hug. At least her daughter liked to be hugged. She knew it wasn’t her fault as a mother that Hudson didn’t much like to be touched, but she craved his body, wanting him to lean into her and cuddle her back, rather than stiffening up, or wriggling away, or becoming completely disengaged and floppy.

  Maybe it was autism.

  Or maybe he was just five.

  ‘Thanks, Daisy,’ she said, kissing her daughter’s cheek. It was warm from all her running around. Sunny helped her pull up her long sleeves.

  ‘Can we call Aunty La La in It-a-ly?’ Daisy said, over-pronouncing the unfamiliar word.

  Sunny lifted one of Daisy’s long plaits over her shoulder. Her daughter had incredibly thick hair for one so young—a lot like Lara’s. ‘Well, it’s night-time in Italy. She might be asleep. We don’t want to wake her.’

  ‘When she’s awake, then? Can we call her then?’

  ‘Of course,’ Sunny said.

  ‘I’m going to tell her about my puppet show,’ Daisy said, grinning and jigging up and down. Daisy had already forced Sunny and Eliza to sit through one puppet show with the nightmarish marionettes. It looked like they might be treated to another yet.

  Sunny levered herself off the ground. She was somewhat stiff from taking apart a wooden bed frame yesterday, sawing it and sanding it to turn it into a bench seat, then painting it turquoise.

  ‘Come on, let’s get your brother and go find something fun to do. There’s nothing here for us. I’m in the mood for an adventure.’

  12

  Lara

  Lara wa
s still in bed, enjoying the view through the open double doors onto the balcony, watching the light over the mountain range slowly changing from pale rose to a misty lavender, when her phone buzzed beside her.

  Sunny.

  ‘Hello?’

  There was a slight delay at the other end and then, ‘Aunty La La! I’m Daisy!’

  ‘Hello, sweetheart.’ Lovely Daisy was exactly as her name suggested: cheerful, bright, dependable, resilient. Sunny had asked Lara’s opinion on the name, holding her baby in the hospital, the smell of antibacterial gel strong in the air.

  ‘Do you think it fits?’ Sunny had asked, the tip of her nose twitching slightly, desperate to get just the right name. ‘I’ve been thinking she should have a really strong name, like Valencia or Audrey or Kendra. But I just keep thinking she’s a Daisy.’

  Lara had reached out her fingers and wound them around the tiny fist and Daisy had opened her eyes, deep pools of wisdom, and looked right at Lara, spearing her with love. ‘Yes,’ Lara had said, a tear rolling down her face. ‘Daisy’s perfect.’

  ‘How are you?’ she asked now, thrilled to hear Daisy’s voice.

  ‘Good. Guess what?’

  ‘What?’ Lara winced, bracing herself.

  ‘We got a puppy!’

  Surprised and relieved, Lara swung her legs over the side of the bed. ‘Where from? What sort of puppy?’

  ‘A black one. We got her from a woman who had a sign on her fence at her house.’

  ‘Ah, I see. And what’s her name?’

  ‘Midnight,’ Daisy said. ‘I got to name her.’

  ‘Well, that’s a beautiful name,’ Lara said. ‘What does Grandma think about this?’ She remembered all the times she’d begged her mother for a puppy and been refused.

  ‘Grandma loves her. She got a baby sling to carry Midnight around when she’s asleep.’

  Lara smiled. Although Eliza had resisted pleas for a cat or dog over the years, she had always helped Lara to nurse orphaned or injured birds in the garden. Perhaps that was what Lara should have done when she was young—just accidentally ‘found’ a puppy.

  ‘She’s going to sleep in my bed,’ Daisy went on. ‘Here she is—can you hear her?’

  Lara could hear faint grunts and pants that suggested poor Midnight was being dragged up to the phone.

  ‘Say hi-iiiii,’ Daisy sang from the background.

  ‘Hi, Midnight,’ Lara obediently crooned to the pup. ‘Daisy. Daisy! Daisy? Can you hear me?’

  ‘I was just handing Midnight to Hudson so he can give her some milk.’

  ‘Oh, okay.’ Lara was disappointed that Hudson wasn’t clamouring to speak to her, but not surprised; his phone anxiety wasn’t specific to the person on the other end. ‘Can you text me a picture of Midnight? Ask Mum to help you.’

  ‘Oh no!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She’s just wet my bed. Ohhh…popsidoodles!’

  Lara giggled despite herself. She could never hear Daisy’s trademark exclamation without laughing. Her niece had heard the word on television one day and adopted it as her swear word of choice. She was a particularly attentive mimic, so it was a good thing that was the word she’d chosen; both Sunny and Lara could be a bit careless with their language, much to Eliza’s disapproval. Their mother was far too refined to swear.

  ‘I’ve got to go and deal with this,’ Daisy said wearily, sounding just like Sunny. ‘Bye.’ And she was gone.

  Lara sat on the bed, holding her phone. The kids had a puppy. She remembered conversations with Dave about getting a puppy, and how disappointed she’d been when they didn’t get one. And how glad she was now that they hadn’t.

  The memories of Dave unsteadied her.

  A warm shower lulled her back into herself, and she popped her pill and dressed, ready now to help Samuel get up and about and to make his breakfast.

  Downstairs in the lovely stone kitchen, Lara brewed coffee and arranged a plate of sweet pastries she’d found in the freezer and heated gently in the oven. It was the tradition in Italy, she’d been delighted to discover. Now she had a licence to indulge in a chocolate-filled croissant (a cornetto) for breakfast. She couldn’t wait to take Samuel’s car into the market to buy fresh ones.

  It was going to be an exciting day. Her first official half-day off would begin as soon as she’d done some washing and cleaning and prepared lunch and dinner for Samuel. She planned to drive her rental car to the Florence depot and then, with some divine intervention, catch a bus back. From tomorrow, she’d start driving Samuel’s Alfa Romeo around. And since tomorrow was also a day off, that meant she could explore the area. Her feet moved more lightly around the kitchen as she imagined where she might go.

  First, though, she had to milk the goats, and each milking had been taking ages to accomplish. Matteo’s instructions had helped, but she was still a novice. Her nervousness about the task was made worse by the fact that Samuel insisted on coming out to the barn to supervise her.

  ‘You’ve got to do it right or they’ll get mastitis,’ he kept telling her.

  He was sitting beside her on a stool, offering suggestions. ‘Slower. Go gently, now. She isn’t finished; there’s plenty more in that teat. Make sure you wash the end of that teat so no germs go up there—we don’t want mastitis. Come on, pick up the pace or we’ll be here all day.’

  She felt bruised by his irritation, but she reminded herself how important the goats were to him and how frustrating it must be to watch her fumble around. Occasionally he demonstrated a bit with his good hand and she saw how the simple act of milking his goat relaxed him. So she bit her lip and endured his impatience.

  Back in the house, Samuel eating his pastries in the living room and Lara in the kitchen bottling the warm milk—which would settle today, leaving a thick layer of delicious cream on top—their new-found peace was interrupted by the sound of tyres on gravel. A throaty engine gave a final cough as the ignition cut.

  ‘I wonder who that is,’ Lara said, half to herself and half to Samuel in the other room. If he heard her he didn’t respond.

  She shut the fridge, wiped her hands on a tea towel, and went to the front of the house, stepping out through the huge Roman doors and crossing the small open courtyard to the covered patio area, with that immaculate view of the Tuscan hills.

  Matteo came towards her, dressed in sloppy work clothes and with his hair pulled back, just as he’d been when she’d first met him. Her gaze locked with his and her breath hitched a little. She remembered his hands on hers, teaching her to milk. The heat of his skin. It confused her. After Dave, she didn’t think she would ever respond to a man’s touch again.

  ‘M-m-morning,’ he said.

  ‘Buongiorno,’ she replied.

  Just then, another visitor appeared behind Matteo. He was a young man—younger than her, anyway—and he was the complete opposite of Matteo. Where Matteo’s hair was dark and curly, the new man had straight, shiny hair, white blond. While Matteo wore old, holey clothes, this new man wore brand-new linen. He looked like a department store mannequin.

  ‘Hi,’ Lara said to the newcomer.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said, his white teeth flashing in his angular face. And gosh, if he didn’t have the most groomed eyebrows she’d ever seen. She had to admit that, so far, Italy was living up to its reputation for beautiful people. Except she could tell from his accent he wasn’t Italian. But still, he was in Italy.

  ‘This is Henrik,’ Matteo said. ‘He is W-woofer.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Willing Workers on Organic Farms,’ Henrik explained. ‘I’m doing a science degree.’ He slid his hands into the pockets of his taupe linen pants, accidentally tearing the edge of a pocket as he did.

  She felt for him. That was something she would do.

  He studied the loose threads for a moment, muttering to himself, then moved on. ‘I’m here for six months doing research.’ His accent sounded Scandinavian, but his English was perfect, just like Matteo’s.


  ‘He is working at our dairy farm,’ Matteo said.

  ‘With the goats?’

  ‘Microbiology is my specialty,’ Henrik said, by way of explanation.

  ‘Henrik thinks maybe he w-wants t-to get more experience growing vegetables,’ Matteo explained.

  ‘Matteo told me about his uncle’s inability to work his land anymore. It’s a shame to waste land when it could be used for good,’ Henrik said. ‘I thought maybe I could work it for him and he can get some vegetables in return. The dairy is not far from here. Domenica—the manager—she says maybe she doesn’t need as much help with the goats right now, so it makes practical sense. Crop production is more difficult going into autumn, but I like a challenge.’ Henrik worked at the edge of a loose brick with his toe.

  ‘Right, well, I’m sure Samuel would love to hear that,’ Lara said, though she wasn’t at all confident. ‘Come in. I’m making coffee.’

  They followed her inside, the cool of the villa noticeable right away as they passed through the doors. Samuel was still seated in his favourite wingback chair and all the pastries were gone, she noted.

  Lara motioned for them to go over to him while she scurried into the kitchen to make more coffee. She’d learned that Samuel, though still an Englishman, didn’t drink tea anymore but instead liked his caffè short and black, something that could be thrown down like a shot of vodka. She took a punt that the others liked it that way too. In Rome, she’d seen men standing at cafe bars, drinking their macchiatos and chatting to the barista the way men in Australia would stand at the bar in a pub, drinking beer. Samuel drank upwards of six coffees a day.

  She heard Matteo introduce Henrik to Samuel, and then a lively conversation began in Italian, which was disappointing as Lara couldn’t follow it. Apparently Henrik was fluent in at least three languages. Lara had learned only a handful of Italian words in primary school, but they’d stuck with her. And those few Italian lessons in a hot classroom on Friday afternoons had planted the seed of a dream to one day see Italy.

  She approached the men with the tray of coffees, as well as a glass of water for Samuel and his daily vitamin D supplement for his osteoporosis. She’d picked a few small white flowers that she’d spotted growing in the lawn and put them in a glass. She guessed that they were probably the equivalent of the yellow dandelions that grew voraciously back at home, which she loved but most people considered weeds. She hoped Samuel would think they were sweet; she’d been trying to think of small ways to lift his spirits.