by Lia Weston
Phil gave him a look and headed for the staircase. Travis sat halfway up the stairs to listen.
‘Evie?’ Phil knocked at the bathroom door.
‘I can’t do my dress up,’ said Evie in a muted voice.
‘Hang on.’
Sounds of a door, material and a zipper.
‘You okay?’
Travis could not hear Evie’s reply.
Phil helped Evie into the passenger seat of the van and turned to Travis. ‘Can you drive?’
‘Um . . .’
‘Want to hold the cake down instead?’
‘Er . . .’ said Travis.
Phil tossed the keys to him and got in the back.
Evie had her eyes closed. Travis reached across to fasten her seat belt. She murmured a thankyou. After stalling the van three times, Travis finally got them moving.
‘I didn’t know you had your licence,’ said Evie, still with her eyes closed.
‘I don’t,’ said Travis, narrowly missing a drain.
They puttered along Main Street so slowly that the Pointers overtook them, tootling past on their bicycles.
Like a mirage, the Holy Father House of Reception’s ornamental lake finally appeared, Mr Bitey skimming along the surface like a vicious yacht. Travis, however, had forgotten about the steepness of the driveway. He would have crossed his fingers if they weren’t all clamped to the steering wheel.
Crawling up the incline, the van almost stalled again. He misjudged the clutch; they lurched forward.
‘First gear, Trav,’ came the voice from the back.
Evie seemed to be asleep again.
The gravel sounded like it was being ground to powder under the wheels. Travis leaned forward, urging the van on as if it were a horse.
After what seemed like several years, the driveway flattened out and the Holy Father was waiting.
Travis cruised to a stop, then ruined it by jerking on the handbrake.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ said Phil in the back.
Travis let him out. ‘Sorry.’
Phil opened Evie’s door. ‘Come sit in the sun. Arm around my neck.’
Evie obediently looped her good arm over his shoulders. Phil carried her to the fountain and carefully sat her on the side.
‘Afternoon.’ David Sturn came bustling up. ‘Your MC, reporting for duty. Evie, don’t you look, er, isn’t that a nice dress? Heard you’ve been busy with the . . .’ David trailed off, staring into the back of the van. ‘. . . cake. Good lord.’
‘Have we missed the party?’ Evie spoke so softly they could barely hear her.
‘Not yet. Nathan and Cameron are at the winery. Phil, you were supposed to pick them up twenty minutes ago. Everyone’s inside.’
Phil checked his watch. ‘Bugger.’
‘I’ll get a trolley for the cake,’ said Travis, heading inside.
The sun prickled the back of Evie’s neck and heated the zipper of her dress.
The courtyard’s conical pines were swathed in silver tinsel, which glinted harshly in the daylight.
Travis, Mini D and Phil lifted the cake onto the trolley. Phil’s phone bleeped. Evie knew it would be Nathan. He and Cameron were probably sitting outside to admire Sweet Meadow’s jacaranda-dappled streets, sharing a bottle of wine. Was Nathan nervous? Would Cameron have guessed? Why couldn’t it have been Evie? And then that tiny voice she’d been ignoring so successfully said to her Did you really, really want it to be?
The sun was temporarily cut off.
‘Boys’ll look after you,’ said Phil. ‘Won’t be long.’
Evie nodded, staring at her bandage. She felt the lightest touch across her hair, and then Phil crunched off across the car park.
The cake was on the trolley now, the gold box back in place, and Evie’s heart in every petal, every molecule of flour and chocolate.
Travis and Mini D were in the foyer, talking to Clayton.
Evie stood, her legs like glycerine, and approached the trolley. It was the first time she’d seen the cake in full light. The gilt tips of the lilies sparkled, and the pearl-dusted petals gleamed. Just peeking out from under the waterfall of roses were two wombats, Nathan’s favourite animal. The third tier’s ivory fondant was broken by a tiny window, half-open, sweets spilling out. On the second tier, worked into the quilting pattern, was the war memorial, a sling lying next to it. The more she looked, the more she found. The Rose Apothecary door, yellow instead of blue. The stolen school speakers. Cherry bombs sprinkled between the roses. Ns carved into the backs of the twisting ribbons. Finally, at the base of the cake, surrounded by violets, a miniature replica of Nathan’s favourite steamtrain postbox.
The whole cake was for Nathan. None of it was for Cameron.
Everyone was going to be at the party.
Everybody would know.
Including Nathan.
From inside the foyer, Travis chewed his thumbnail and watched Evie. She was next to the cake, dwarfed by its size, staring at it as if she’d never seen it before. ‘Where’s Mary?’
‘Arguing with Clayton about a disco ball, apparently.’
‘How are we going to get the cake up the stairs without Phil?’
Mini D darted to the far end of the foyer. ‘There’s a wheelchair ramp over here. We’ll use that.’
‘Or we may not have to,’ said Travis, looking outside. ‘Shit.’
‘What?’ Mini D turned. ‘Oh shit.’
Evie, almost on her tiptoes, was pushing the trolley towards the edge of the driveway.
Travis reached the doors first, banging his elbow on the glass, Mini D cannoning into the back of him.
‘Mrs P, stop!’
They bolted outside, jumping over the steps, slipping on the gravel. Evie gave the trolley a final heave. Travis lunged for the handle, but caught only air. Mini D skidded to a halt on Evie’s other side.
In silence the trio watched the trolley sail down the driveway with its seven-tiered cargo. It gathered speed as it plunged down the hill, roses rattling loose, leaving a trail of ruby petals and marzipan bees. The lake lay like a mirror at the bottom, waiting for the impact.
With a metallic crunch the trolley slammed into the stone border. The cake shot off the platform, pearl dust glimmering. It bounced across the water, a giant sugar skipping stone. For a single moment it sat buoyant on the surface. Then it began to sink.
‘No!’
Mr Sturn barrelled down the driveway, almost sending Mini D flying. Sturn was no match for the gravel surface, however; he windmilled, stumbled, fell, and rolled the last few metres into the wall. By the time he had scrambled to his feet, Evie’s cake had been claimed by the depths, the gold box sinking noiselessly into the dark.
Evie, expressionless, stared at the water.
Mini D took her good hand. ‘For what it’s worth,’ he said, as they watched Mr Bitey attacking Mr Sturn, ‘I was dreading to have to cut that thing up.’
*
The entire town – including, unfortunately, Zach – seemed to be crammed into the ballroom. Mary considered it a personal victory to be able to offer him a tray of canapés without a flicker of recognition.
‘Thanks,’ said Zach, not quite looking at her directly. In an effort to avoid conversation, he took a huge bite out of his spring roll, and then leapt about a foot when his mouth met the red-hot filling. Mary glided on, but felt that the evening had improved considerably.
Therese was lounging against the foyer doors, her hair now short as a boy’s. Annoyingly, it made her look even more glamorous.
Cameron had handled finding the whole of Sweet Meadow at her birthday dinner with far better grace than Mary anticipated. She and Nathan, with their matching curly hair, never let go of each other’s hands. Nathan could not stop beaming.
Mary dumped racks of glasses on the bar and scanned the room for her mother. There was no sign of Evie, nor of the cake.
Where the hell was Mini D?
An hour later, Mary, going to the foyer to text he
r mother for a second time, was nonplussed to see Mini D and Mr Sturn trudging up the driveway. Both were dripping wet. Mini D was holding a small gold box. Mr Sturn’s jacket was torn.
Clayton bustled past with three bottles of champagne. ‘Oh, good,’ he said, spotting the squelching pair. ‘Go and find Nathan, please.’
‘Where’s the cake?’
‘Mishap,’ said Clayton, thinning his lips. ‘Tell the kitchen they’ll need to defrost about thirty kilos of tiramisu.’
‘Have you seen my mum?’
‘One Pleasant is more than enough to deal with at a time,’ said Clayton.
*
Everyone had sung ‘Happy Birthday’ to Cameron, Nathan had proposed, half of the women plus Quentin had cried, Joy Piece had unsuccessfully tried to coerce Ebony into an interpretive dance, Mrs Sturn had taken control of the karaoke until Mrs Beadles wrestled it off her, and Zach and Therese had disappeared. Mini D had apparently been dismissed to clean himself up after his impromptu swim. Evie had still not replied to any of Mary’s texts. Phil had also disappeared; he must have taken Evie home.
At the end of her shift, Mary scraped her hair back into her ponytail and wiped her face on a tablecloth.
The chef had left her a foil-wrapped package of leftovers. Mary changed in the staffroom and then headed up the steps to the lookout. The dirt steps glowed in the night.
The stone bench, to her surprise, was occupied.
‘Hey,’ said the silver-headed matchstick.
‘Hey,’ said Mary. ‘You weren’t at the party.’
‘Too many people,’ said Travis.
The bench was still warm. She offered Travis the package.
‘Sausage rolls make everything better,’ he said, peeling back the foil.
They ate and listened to Mrs Beadles crucifying ‘Don’t You Want Me’.
‘You can say “I told you so” if you want.’ Mary crumbled a piece of crust between her fingers. ‘About Zach.’
‘It’s not my style.’
‘I just feel so dumb, you know?’
‘You shouldn’t.’
‘Well, I do anyway.’ She crumpled up the alfoil and wiped her greasy hands on the bench.
Travis leaned back to look up at the golden orb of the moon. ‘We can’t help who we fall in love with. Sometimes it’s the wrong person. It still happens. And it still hurts. And there’s nothing you can do about it.’
‘Love is stupid.’ Mary pleated the front of her skirt.
‘Pretty much.’
‘So we’re all doomed,’ she said.
‘Pretty much,’ said Travis.
There was only one light on in the church, illuminating the altar in pale relief. The scent of the Christmas eucalypts spilled in waves across the floor.
Evie sat in the front pew, clutching her hand.
Waste, waste, waste. A colossal waste of time. The move, the whole year, all those days and weeks on the cake, all of it.
She couldn’t believe her own stupidity. To think that a pledge made twenty-six years ago in a treehouse would have any merit. To believe that a priest would love a woman who trespassed, lied, drank, swore and stole. In fact, Evie did not honour her father or mother, or keep the Sabbath holy, plus, if she was honest, had been coveting Nathan’s best friend, so really the only commandment she hadn’t broken so far was murder, and even then she’d come close with Gabe.
She had tried to be as perfect as she could be, but she had failed. She had let Mary down and jeopardised their future. The final kicker was the knowledge that she had realised far too late how much she cared for Phil, beyond simply as a friend or a mentor to her daughter. A fixer of cars, gate latches and broken hearts.
All wasted now.
Evie pulled the treehouse note out of her pocket. She had been carrying it around like a talisman. A useless good-luck charm. She studied the crumpled paper, and knew what she had to do.
Wind pooled inside the church doors, bringing in tinder-brown leaves that caught on the runner.
There was a box of matches next to the wreath of advent candles. Evie took the box back to the pew. The match struck after seven clumsy attempts. The flames snatched the paper pledge and bit her fingers. She cried out, dropped the burning words onto her lap, then panicked and flicked them off. The note shot into the eucalyptus Christmas trees. The dry leaves crackled. There was an almighty hiss.
The flames spread in seconds, fire leaping up the branches, raining down a dreadful shower of sparks. The Sunday school’s lopsided decorations began to curl and burn, dropping onto the nativity scene, setting the sheep, shepherds and stable alight, igniting baby Jesus’s swaddling cloths. Evie sat, rooted to the spot, watching Jesus’s plastic face cave in.
The eucalypts exhaled smoke. Caught in the cloud, Evie coughed, and then couldn’t stop. She sank to her knees, her eyes steaming. Fire crawled up the altar steps, eating the blood red runner. Half-blind, she crawled away from the burning trees and tried to climb over the pew, but slipped. The pew came down on top of her. There was a crack and a sudden ringing pain in her head.
The last thing she heard, before everything went dark, was the bellow wheeze of the organ as the fire took hold.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
‘Evie?’
There was a heavy tread coming up the lookout path. When Phil appeared, his face was streaked with sweat.
‘Hey,’ said Mary, sitting cross-legged on the bench. Travis had made her a silver crown out of tinsel he had pinched from the courtyard trees.
‘Where’s your mum?’
‘She went home,’ said Travis. ‘I think.’
‘You think?’
They both stared at him. Angry Phil was a new thing. He seemed to block out the moon.
‘Is something wrong?’ said Travis.
‘I told you to look after her. You should have taken her back to the house.’
Travis stood up. ‘On what? The trolley?’
‘She’s not well. You saw that.’
‘She said she wanted to be by herself.’
‘And that’s exactly why you shouldn’t have left her alone,’ said Phil.
‘Have you actually gone to her house?’ said Travis. ‘She may in fact be there.’
‘Travis,’ said Mary, standing up slowly, her eyes on the horizon. ‘What happened to the cake?’
‘She . . .’ Travis glanced at Phil. ‘. . . kind of . . . destroyed it.’
Mary pointed. ‘I don’t think Mum’s gone home.’
Phil turned. Clouds of smoke were drifting from the church roof.
‘Evie,’ said Phil. He bolted for the dirt steps, the others close behind. They tumbled into the car park, almost losing their footing.
‘The fire warden,’ gasped Travis. ‘At the party.’
‘Go,’ said Phil to him, pushing Mary into the passenger seat of the van.
Travis tore up the stairs to the foyer.
Phil reversed with force, knocking over a stone urn. He threw his phone at Mary. ‘Call the fire department.’
‘Sweet Meadow has a fire department?’
‘No,’ he said grimly. ‘Fallow Halls does. But it’s better than nothing.’
Saint Sebastian’s windows blazed, as if constraining an unholy sun.
Phil ran to the doors and shouted Evie’s name. Mary dashed down the side to retrieve the fire hose. He met her at the corner and drenched a rag he’d snatched from the back of the van, tying the fabric across his nose and mouth. ‘Stay here.’ His voice was muffled.
‘No,’ shouted Mary, grabbing the coils back. ‘Come on!’
Phil didn’t wait to argue. Together they plunged into the smoke pouring out of Saint Sebastian’s mouth. Flames snaked to the ceiling and circled the stained-glass windows. The altar wore a blazing halo, the pulpit occupied by a preacher of fire. Between the rolling blackness, the brass eagle looked radioactive.
Phil frantically searched between the pews. Mary moved to the side aisle to try to extinguish the pulpit and saw
a glimpse of something pale on the floor near the front.
‘Here! Over here!’ Mary ran forward, cringing as the heat forced her back. She dropped the hose, which arced like a serpent.
Two pews were wedged together, a body underneath. Mary tugged frantically at the topmost one. It didn’t budge. Shaking off the sparks on her hair, she crawled underneath and grabbed Evie’s arm.
‘Mum! Mum!’
Mary pulled, but Evie seemed to be stuck. The floor was starting to smoke. Gasping for breath, Mary sat up and desperately heaved at the pews again. Her skin felt as if it was peeling off.
There was a movement in the haze. The pews were forced apart, the trapped air swirling upwards.
Phil emerged from the smoke and scooped Evie up. ‘Out!’ He pushed Mary ahead, tripping over the hose.
There was a low slow moan as the timbers started to give way behind them.
Before Phil shoved her outside, Mary glanced back and saw the crucifix above the altar snap and fall.
The fire engine’s lights strobed off the honey gold stone. Firefighters aimed massive hoses through the broken windows. The flames had engulfed the roof; smoke billowed out from every gap. Burning tiles broke off and smashed onto the parapet. Embers rose and drifted from the walls, white-gold glitter.
Phil was with the paramedics. Mary crouched next to Evie’s stretcher in the back of the ambulance. Evie’s face was smeared with ash, sallow under the oxygen mask.
Travis stood at the ambulance doors, staring at Evie’s limp form.
More and more people were turning up, still in their party finery, all shocked at the sight of Saint Sebastian’s belching smoke and flames.
Evie moaned.
‘Mum?’ Mary leaned over her. ‘Mum?’
‘We need to get your mum to the hospital, honey,’ said the paramedic gently. The reflective strips on her uniform glowed.
Evie had opened her eyes. Tears leaked out, leaving streaks through the grime. She was trying to talk.
‘I can’t hear you,’ said Mary, tearing up again. ‘Don’t speak. You’ll hurt your throat.’
‘Tell Mary I’m sorry,’ mumbled Evie.
The ambulance doors clicked into place.