by Isla Evans
But he was right, there’s hardly any mess.
TWENTY-THREE
April slid past with pleasant, incremental speed. The uncommonly hot March was forgotten as the weather bowed to the inevitable and wholeheartedly embraced the congenial vagaries of autumn. This meant mild, steadily cooler temperatures and an occasional wind that stripped the trees and gusted annoyingly at night.
Whilst finishing her father’s story hadn’t brought Kate definitive closure, where a clear line is drawn between then and now, it had been a surprisingly agile leap in the right direction. Rather than feeling merely drained, she felt purged, and there was a world of difference. Alongside this was a sense of personal achievement, having finally written something, and a huge sense of relief that the chronicle now existed somewhere else other than inside her head. That gave it a life of its own, which was no longer dependent on her for survival, and the subsequent distance brought an objectivity that was liberating in itself.
Kate developed the habit of reading it each evening, just before going to bed. Initially she treated this as a matter of professional pride, a desire to polish the story to perfection before passing it to Angie. But she also accepted that the gesture had an undercurrent of masochism; and a reluctance to actually finish and let go. Imperceptibly, however, this all changed. With nightly readings, the words that scrolled down the screen gradually became so familiar that she developed a sort of cathartic desensitisation, which enabled her to crawl into bed afterwards and simply dismiss the story from her mind.
Towards the end of April, Kate even faced the fact that the narrative required no more polishing. So she printed out five sheets of A4 paper and slid them into a large envelope marked with Angie’s name. But it certainly wasn’t the sum of her creativity that month. Rather, and much to her surprise, her father’s story had almost immediately heralded a surge of productivity. It was as if the act of forcing herself to actually write, for more than just an hour or so, had reawakened something despite the subject matter. Something with an insatiable appetite that craved more, and would not be content with five pages that few people would ever read.
And this time she had no problem coming up with an idea.
Kate had always expected that these six months, for her, would be full of change and growth and, hopefully, new directions. But she never anticipated that her mother would accompany her on the ride. Much of what she had taken for granted about the woman had been exposed as a façade, created by her father himself. Possibly, Kate now realised, for his sake as much as for his daughter. But simply replacing the idealistic image with a less appealing reality was too simplistic, and too unfair on the long-ago child who had endured such a horrid home life. A home life that may well have governed her later choices, as well as having fashioned the exterior that had so alienated others. Liveliness notwithstanding.
And Kate felt she owed her something. Not a true biography, where everything was laid bare, but a framework of fact wrapped around a fluid centre of fiction. Fashioned out of imagination and compassion. Giving the gentlest of closure to a woman who had been dead for many years, and who had deserved much more than life had offered. Furthermore, it seemed right that, having given so much to her father, she should offer this to her mother.
And once she started writing, Kate wondered why it had taken so long. Why on earth she had ever contemplated writing about Angie’s mother when her own had been waiting in the wings, crying out for recognition. She didn’t bother with any further research, just starting with Rose as a child and letting her own inventiveness fill in the gaps. After a rather unsteady beginning, the words began to flow and the story soon took on a life of its own. Demanding her attention like a greedy child, taking all she could give and then crying out for more whenever she turned away.
It left time for very little else during those weeks, so that she surfaced only occasionally to touch base with those around. Like Angie, who was soon to take a few months off before leaving for England in September. Which meant that Shelley and Jacob would be taking over the shop at the end of May, with the added advantage of having their aunt around for a while if they ran into any difficulties.
With this Kate slowly realised that she had made one major mistake in her story about her father. Her remembrance of his face at the end had not been his final gift, not even close. Instead, he kept on giving. To Angie, with her trip overseas; to Melissa, who would have her mother’s company; to Shelley and Jacob, with a new career; and to her. Especially to her. Amongst everything else, he had given her this journey that had culminated in her writing again. Rediscovering a lost love that had lain dormant for so long. And she knew, instinctively, that she would never let it go again. So Kate erased those lines from his story and then reprinted the whole. And this time she sealed the envelope before placing it by the laptop on her desk.
But there was one glaring absence within her life – Sam. And while Kate was grateful for the occasional visits and phone calls from her children, and being kept up to date, these also served to highlight the fact that she had not been home since her father’s house had been demolished. At first she continued to maintain her anger with a religious righteousness. But as she moved from her father’s story towards her mother’s, the orb began to show signs of fragility. Slowly at first, with hairline cracks spider-webbing the surface, but building in momentum until, at last, it imploded.
She still felt, strongly, that Sam had lacked sensitivity in the way he had handled the demolition. But she also saw that he had been backed into a corner. As the builder in the family, he had been given the accountability for the entire development and then everybody else had virtually backed away. Leaving him to juggle reality and the demands of a work force with the conflicting expectations of those who had charged him with the task. If he had done a less than perfect job, then the responsibility was not his alone and never should have been.
Besides, the time for her to state objections had been last year, when they met to discuss what to do with the house and land. But at the time she had remained mostly silent, instead expecting those around her, and Sam in particular, to pick up on her brittle body language and interpret it. When this hadn’t happened, she had simply retreated into the role of the martyr. And the feelings of resentment and bitterness had been a perfect cohort for the overwhelming grief from both her father’s death and the dreadful manner of his dying.
But there had been no particular moment when all this had suddenly become clear; rather it had been a slow series of realisations, so it was mid-April before the thought of a visit home had even started to appeal. And by then it was too late.
There had been no word from Sam since she had hung up on him. Not a phone call, or a note, or even a casual message passed on by one of the kids. She knew he was working hard because she had gleaned this information from Shelley, and she also knew that the trips to Eildon had continued. But she didn’t know how to end the impasse without a loss of dignity that felt unbearable. However, as April slipped steadily by, Kate started to ask herself what was worse, swallowing her pride or losing Sam, and the answer became both clearer and more insistent.
On the morning of her forty-eighth birthday, Kate woke to breakfast in bed. Fried bacon and eggs, with toast on the side and a mug of fresh coffee. Angie placed the laden tray on the doona by Kate and then sat down on the side of the bed with a grin. ‘Happy birthday! I can’t believe you were still asleep.’
Kate struggled to a sitting position and put the mug onto her bedside table so that it wouldn’t spill. She glanced at the clock. ‘Ten past eight!’
‘What time did you finish up? I heard you still typing away when I went to bed.’
‘About one-ish, I think.’ Kate pushed a pillow behind her back and then picked up the tray and balanced it on her lap. ‘Thank you! This looks delicious!’
‘You’re welcome. Just remember to return the favour, okay?’
‘And by your birthday, you’ll be a lady of leisure so you’ll be able to
enjoy it.’
Angie plucked a small rasher of bacon off the plate. ‘So any big plans today?’
‘No. Think I’ll just continue with the writing.’ Kate sliced into her egg, releasing a burst of thick yellow yolk. ‘Actually, maybe I’ll go for a drive.’
‘When? This morning?’
Kate frowned at her tone. ‘No, probably later. Why?’
‘Nothing,’ Angie shrugged. ‘I just thought maybe . . . you’d like to have lunch or something? Then you can go for a drive afterwards.’
‘Sounds good. Shall I meet you at the shop?’
‘Sure.’ Angie took a bite of the bacon and started chewing.
Kate looked at her. ‘Well, what time?’
‘Oh, say noon?’
‘Okay, then.’ Kate nodded and turned to her meal. It was a long while since she had last had breakfast in bed. In fact, she suspected it might have been soon after the birth of the twins, when Sam had surprised her one morning with scrambled eggs on toast. And a nearly three-year-old Shelley had scrambled into the bed next to her and they all kept their voices down for fear of waking the occupants of the two nearby bassinets. Whose vocal chords had to be heard to be believed.
‘What are you smiling about?’ asked Angie.
‘Nothing much.’
‘Oh well, I’d better get going. Some of us have to work for a living.’
‘Hey! I’ve been working flat out!’
‘True. I meant some of us don’t have the luxury of staying at home and working in our pyjamas.’ Angie peered at herself in the mirror and tried to smooth down her hair. Then she shrugged and turned towards the doorway, pausing as she saw the envelope on the desk. ‘Is this for me?’
Kate felt a frisson of what felt almost like panic. Then, as quickly as it had formed, it slid away, leaving just the answer behind.
Angie frowned. ‘Well?’
‘Actually . . . yes, it’s for you. Take it. But don’t read it at work.’
‘Why on earth not?’
‘Because it’s personal, that’s why.’ Kate stared at her for a few moments, willing the message across. She sighed. ‘Because it’s that thing I promised you. The story. About Dad’s last day.’
‘Oh.’ Angie looked down at the envelope again with sudden understanding and then picked it up gingerly, as if it were precious. ‘I see. Okay. Thanks.’
Kate listened to the sound of Angie running down the stairs and felt a knot of anticipation over her cousin reading the story, a feeling of being judged, both for her actions and for her writing technique. The latter admission made Kate smile. I must be a writer, she thought, if the words matter as much as the content. Or almost as much.
Nevertheless there was also an unexpected sense of relief at finally passing the envelope over, and thus sharing ownership. Spreading it around. Kate steadied the tray as she put the bacon into her mouth. Breakfast in bed was one of those things that always sounded much better in theory than it played out in practice. Forty-eight years old. She took a deep breath and then shrugged. It was only a number, and it didn’t seem quite so important when she felt that she was achieving something. And she was.
If it wasn’t for the dilemma involving Sam, Kate knew that she would have been more content than she had been for a long time. Everything else seemed to be coming together, except that – which was falling apart. But maybe today, maybe he would ring. Kate pushed the tray over to the side of the bed and then flung back the doona and padded into the ensuite where she stared at the mirror, trying to see the evidence of her freshly amplified age. It didn’t seem too obvious, only some slight indentations running down to her mouth, and a few shadows where once all had seemed smooth.
After showering, Kate pulled on a pair of snug black tracksuit pants that flared over her runners and a lime-green and black striped windcheater jacket with a wide hood. In the kitchen Angie had left the morning paper folded on the bench so Kate curled up in the armchair to bring herself up to date with the news. She had just finished when the phone rang. Immediately her stomach clenched.
‘Hello?’
‘Happy birthday, Mum!’ shouted Caleb, a great deal of noise in the background.
‘Thanks, but where are you?
‘At uni! Early lecture!’
‘So what’s all the noise then?’
‘Pardon?’
‘I said what’s all the –’
‘Sorry, can’t hear you!’ yelled Caleb. ‘Too much noise! I’ll ring back later!’
Kate hung up the phone with a wry smile and it rang again almost immediately. She answered it quickly, before she could start debating who it might be.
‘Mum! Happy birthday!’
‘Thanks, Shell. How are things?’
‘Good, good.’ Shelley sounded breathless. ‘I’m at the shop today. Took another sickie. Jacob wanted to fit the network cable. For the computer.’
‘Jacob’s there too?’
‘Yeah, hang on.’ Shelley’s voice faded as she obviously turned from the phone and whispered, rather loudly, ‘Mum’s on the phone. Say happy birthday.’
Jacob’s voice came clearly. ‘Happy birthday, Mum!’
‘Thanks, Jake. So how’s the –’
‘It’s me again, Mum,’ interrupted Shelley. ‘So, got a big day planned?’
‘Not really, although I’ll be down there later.’
‘Down where?’
Kate frowned. ‘The shop, of course. I’m having lunch with your aunt.’
‘Oh, really? Okay, we’ll see you then.’
Kate hung up the telephone with the frown still in place. While it was nice for the kids to ring her for her birthday, even if it clearly hadn’t occurred to Jacob himself, it was a bit puzzling that not one of them had said anything about catching up. Maybe for a birthday dinner, or at least to give her a present, or even a card. Instead, it seemed that a lunch with Angie was going to be the extent of her birthday celebrations.
She stared at the telephone, willing it to ring again. Just once more. In the background she could hear the clock counting down the minutes. It suddenly occurred to her that only a few months ago she had been desperate for time to decelerate, and now it had. Maybe too much.
But maybe also time had never been the problem, only the symptom. Maybe she had been the problem. Thrown out of sync with her surroundings. And whether this lack of equilibrium had been building for years, and had then been hugely exacerbated by her father’s death, or whether it had actually been caused by her father’s death, was really a moot point. As long as it was re-established.
Kate took a deep breath and gazed at the telephone again. She picked up the receiver and re-hung it to check that it had been disengaged properly. And when the beep was immediately followed by the tinny melody of the doorbell, she was at first rather confused as to its origin. But then her stomach clenched again, and for a few seconds she just stared up towards the foyer. Then she took a deep breath and made herself walk slowly, steadily, over to answer the door.
‘Happy birthday,’ said Sam, with a cheerful smile.
She felt suddenly light-headed. ‘Thank you.’
‘No problem.’
Kate looked at him expectantly, waiting for some sort of acknowledgement of the fact that they’d just spent nearly four weeks not speaking, but he continued to grin. Kate glanced involuntarily down towards his hands. No flowers, no present. Nothing. She kept her face blank. ‘Um, would you like to come in?’
‘Nah, haven’t got time.’
‘Oh.’ Her stomach went into freefall. What could she say, or do, to make him stay? Or talk? Or something?
‘D’you want to come for a drive?’
‘Yes!’ said Kate, much too quickly. She hazarded a smile and this seemed to have an immediate relaxing effect, on her at least. Sam had seemed perfectly relaxed from the moment she opened the door.
‘Okay then. Let’s go.’
Kate’s smile widened with relief, as well as the unexpectedness of it all. His nonchalance
did more than anything else to diminish her feelings of awkwardness. She glanced at Sam’s cargo pants and assumed that casual was fine, so she just grabbed her handbag from the hall table and walked out onto the porch, reaching behind to shut the door.
‘Hang on.’ Sam put a hand out. ‘I have to grab something for Angie.’
‘For Angie?’
‘Yeah. She asked me to,’ said Sam, rather lamely. ‘You go ahead and hop in the car. I’ll just be a tick.’
Kate frowned as she watched Sam go past her and then run quickly up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. This was distinctly odd, not only because Angie hadn’t mentioned anything about Sam but because if she did want something, then why hadn’t she just asked Kate? Then she smiled again as she remembered it was her birthday, and distinctly odd was usually good on such occasions.
Kate had just opened the passenger-side door when she heard the front door close. She glanced back curiously. Sam was coming towards her carrying a navy blue sports bag which he took straight to the rear of the ute. He unfastened a corner of the black tarpaulin and slid the bag underneath carefully before hooking it back up. He turned to her with a grin. ‘Let’s rock and roll!’
‘Okay.’ Kate looked at him suspiciously, but didn’t move.
His grin widened. ‘Come on, trust me.’
‘Hmm,’ said Kate noncommittally. But she got into the car and did up her seatbelt. The interior had clearly been tidied recently but the familiar dusty smell remained, reminiscent of brick dust and concrete and countless building sites. Sam slipped into the driver’s seat, and turned the key in the ignition. He flicked another grin at her and then put the car into gear and drove up the driveway and out into the road.
‘So where are we going?’ asked Kate, winding down her window a trifle.
‘You’ll soon see.’
Kate stared at him for a moment, but when no further information was offered, she looked straight ahead, letting herself enjoy the relief that came from a chance at resolution, as well as the whole mystery of the occasion. They headed up towards the nearby foothills and Kate continued to relax as they drove, aided by a strong sense that the further they went, the more certain they would be able to settle their differences before returning. She sneaked a glance towards Sam and wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed that he looked so well, although rather in need of a haircut. He caught her eye.