Nest

by Inga Simpson

  ‘Sounds good.’

  She slid more than walked down the slope, wet after last night’s rain, and waited by the wretched machine till the rope went taut. For a moment it looked as if there was no shifting it, then it was crawling back the way it had come. She adjusted the wheel, took note of the plants snapped off en route.

  When it came to the ditch, it needed an extra push from her to get through. She used her body rather than her arms, which were without any strength at all.

  At the top of the drive Glen stopped, leaned out the open window. ‘Righto. On you get. Just whack it in low and drive across there.’

  Jen swallowed. Breathed. The kookaburras were watching from the bloodwood. Five of them this time. Word of human entertainment had got out. They had the decorum to be quiet at least. She put on the handbrake, turned the key. Gave it some choke. It started, with a great chug of smoke. She put the thing into low gear and released the handbrake, reassuring herself she could not roll backwards while secured to Glen by the rope. Forward it went. Eagerly even, as if it had not done everything it could to go in the other direction only yesterday. She parked it under the orange tree and cut the engine.

  Glen’s knot wasn’t hard to untie, so at least she could hand him the end of the rope by the time he strolled down, winding it over his arm. ‘Piece of piss,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Must have given you a bit of a fright.’

  ‘You could say that,’ she said. ‘Thought it was going to end up in the creek.’

  He bent to look at the guard surrounding the blades, smashed in from its cross-country travels. ‘Might have to bang this out,’ he said. ‘I’ve got some tools with me. Could give it a go if you like?’

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘You’ve done enough.’

  ‘Won’t take a minute,’ he said, already on his way back to the ute.

  That was another trait of the men of the place, they didn’t take no for an answer. Not always a bad thing.

  He banged and twisted, sending the kookaburras further afield to seek their laughs, or morning tea, perhaps. ‘That should do it,’ he said. ‘But your blades might be a bit the worse for wear.’

  ‘It’s due a service soon anyway.’

  ‘Where do you take it?’

  ‘The dealership come out.’

  ‘Bloke in town, the mower repair place, is probably cheaper. They’ll come and get it. Or I could take it in for you. Got a ramp – just drive it onto the back of the ute. Not a big deal at all.’

  She didn’t fancy driving it up onto the ute, but he was being very sweet. ‘Thank you.’

  They stood with their faces up to the sun. ‘Things have gone awful quiet about the Jones girl,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not a good feeling.’ Not a good feeling to have again. ‘Can I make you a cup of tea?’

  ‘Wouldn’t say no.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll just put all this back in the ute and get my phone. Me and Sam have a job on this morning, if it’s not too wet.’

  He took off his boots at the door – the difference between the last generation and this one. ‘Nice place,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘These all yours?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Geez, Jen. They’re real good.’ He peered at one of her tree series. Probably a bit abstract for his liking. ‘Love this quandong,’ he said. ‘They do kind of reach for the sky like that. And their red leaves could be on fire.’

  Jen smiled, turned to tap the old tea-leaves into the compost bucket. ‘So what’s this job you and Sam are hoping will be on today?’

  ‘Not one you’d like. Taking out some trees for the power company. Too close to the lines, they reckon. Pile of crap, but they’re going to pay someone to do it. And we get some good timber that way.’

  ‘How is it working for Sam?’

  ‘The old man’s all right.’ He stirred two sugars into his tea. ‘I gather he was more of a hard case in his younger days. He was competing with two other mills then.’

  ‘He seemed a little scary, but I was only small.’

  He laughed. ‘He was fond of you. And your dad. Helped your mother out, too, when your dad …’

  ‘Took off?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  She offered him a biscuit, shortbreads left over from Henry’s last visit. ‘What do you mean helped out?’

  ‘Financially,’ he said. ‘And popped down to check on her from time to time. Fix things. Said he owed it to her.’

  Jen sipped her tea. A little too strong, the tannin biting her teeth. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t know. I gather he didn’t pay those blokes any more than he needed to. And they never had super or insurance or anything in those days.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Your mum didn’t mention it?’

  ‘No. But there were a lot of things we didn’t talk about.’ Probably she had been protecting Jen when she was a child and, later, protecting herself.

  Glen’s phone rang, his ringtone a tinny rendition of a familiar seventies tune. ‘Yep. On my way.’

  ‘Job’s on?’

  He swallowed a mouthful of his tea. ‘Job’s on.’

  First

  Jen recognised it from its call, a grating chuffing – like a bird playing a comb – and looked up from her planting to confirm. A spectacled monarch, egg-yellow chest, dark face mask, its smaller mate answering its call.

  The last of the native frangipanis were in, and she was almost out of lomandra. She had gone a bit overboard at the nursery, leaving herself short for groceries, but the slope down from the house was going to look fantastic. A vast improvement on her old view of lantana.

  She heard a car door open and slam, then running footsteps down to the house.

  ‘Jen?’

  ‘I’m out the back, Henry.’ She washed her hands under the garden tap.

  He was inside before he could possibly have removed his shoes properly, and the spectacled monarchs fled the scene.

  ‘I won!’

  ‘The art prize?’

  ‘FIRST in my age group,’ he said. ‘And highly commended in the open section.’

  Jen dried her hands on her shirt. ‘For Caitlin’s portrait?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well done!’ she said. ‘Told you it was good.’ She patted him on the shoulder. ‘Lucky I made chocolate cake. Must have had a feeling.’

  Henry grinned and began spreading his gear all over the table. And so an artist was made.

  Jen fired up the gas and cut cake. ‘Tea?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Shame he was too young for champagne; she had a bottle in the fridge that had been waiting some time for something to celebrate.

  ‘What happened to your mixmaster?’

  She had left it outside to soak. ‘I was mixing paint in it.’

  ‘How’d you make the cake?’

  ‘I have beaters for that,’ she said.

  ‘You want me to finish the forest painting?’

  ‘That’s why it’s there.’

  He sighed. A comedown from prize-winning, no doubt.

  She carried out his tea and cake, spilling over the sides of the little plate.

  Henry was splotching on the paint a little too casually.

  ‘You know, I met some people once who spent their whole careers, their lives, really, studying forest canopies.’

  Henry gave her his sceptical look and filled his mouth with cake.

  ‘What percentage of species would you guess is located in the treetops?’

  ‘Twenty,’ he said, spraying crumbs.

  ‘Fifty,’ she said.

  That earned her a raised eyebrow, a pause of the brush. ‘What, like animals?’

  ‘Plants and animals. That includes rainforests. There’s a lot going on upstairs there. Insects and reptiles and mosses and fungi and epiphytes.’

  ‘And birds,’ he said.

  She smiled. ‘Yes, and birds.’

  ‘Why are jungle birds
so bright?’

  ‘Is this a joke you heard?’ She didn’t do jokes, especially about birds.

  ‘I’m serious,’ he said. ‘Why are tropical birds so big and colourful? With big beaks?’

  ‘Like toucans and macaws?’

  ‘Like Long John Silver has.’

  ‘Well, I guess there’s a lot of competition in the jungle, all that colour and life. And the male birds have to work harder to get the females’ attention. Our tropical parrots are bright, too, if you think about it.’

  ‘Not blue, with striped beaks.’

  She smiled. It was nice to have someone to talk to about birds.

  Aunt

  It was time to ask some questions of Aunt Sophie. Jen was overdue a visit anyway, and a long drive was just what she needed to clear her head.

  Her aunt had never seemed as sympathetic as everyone else towards her mother, perhaps because she had been the one who had to pick up the pieces. Whenever her mother had let her down – a visit had fallen through, or money for something – her aunt had shaken her head and looked unimpressed. Also unsurprised. Perhaps it began earlier, in their childhoods. Jen couldn’t pretend to understand what it was to be a sister.

  At the time, she would have preferred an explanation, something spoken out loud, spelled out. She had thought herself mature enough to be treated like an adult, to handle any information. She appreciated now, having worked with children herself, that Aunt Sophie thought she had enough to deal with. She had put Jen’s interests before her own, which was what parents were supposed to do, and more than either of hers had managed.

  Aunt Sophie seemed more frail, smaller in her house. Jen had put off coming for too long. ‘You still walking?’

  ‘Every morning,’ Aunt Sophie said. ‘And swimming. Though not without a hat. Doctor’s orders.’

  Aunt Sophie had had many skin cancers burned off her face and arms, the legacy of a life spent in the water. ‘Good,’ Jen said. ‘I’m glad you’re listening for a change.’

  ‘Well, it’s all too late now,’ her aunt said. ‘For the wrinkles, too.’

  Jen smiled. ‘Better late than never,’ she said. ‘You always made me cover up. It didn’t escape my notice that you weren’t adhering to your own advice.’

  ‘Most damage is done when you’re young,’ Aunt Sophie said.

  ‘That’s very true.’

  ‘So tell me how you’ve been.’

  ‘I’m well,’ Jen said. ‘I’ve got a little show coming up.’

  ‘That’s great,’ Aunt Sophie said. ‘Where?’

  ‘Just on the coast, but it’s a retrospective.’

  ‘Oooh,’ she said. ‘They’ll love you. And the teaching?’

  ‘Tutoring. Just one boy,’ she said. ‘But I quite like that.’

  Her aunt spooned tea into a pot. ‘When’s the show? Maybe I can come.’

  ‘Next month – but it’s a long way.’

  ‘You’re the only family I have left, girl,’ Aunt Sophie said. ‘I can drive a few hours.’

  Jen smiled. ‘You’re all I’ve got, too,’ she said.

  ‘Have you caught up with any of your school friends?’

  ‘Glen,’ she said.

  ‘What about Phil?’

  ‘He’s still in Sydney, apparently.’

  Her aunt chewed on her cheek. ‘You know, I was thinking. It’s not too late for children. If that’s what you want,’ she said. ‘You could adopt. I was only talking to someone the other day who—’

  Corellas were making a racket in the palms outside. ‘I’m having one last shot at looking for Dad,’ Jen said.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Well, the police are. Around this new child,’ she said.

  Aunt Sophie stepped to fetch the cupcakes from the sideboard. ‘That’s just ridiculous. It was ridiculous then. I mean, I hope they find him, but …’

  ‘I guess they need to follow everything up,’ Jen said. ‘I’ve been talking to Dad’s old boss, Sam Pels. Still runs that mill, you know.’

  ‘Still?’

  ‘Did you know he helped Mum out?’

  ‘She didn’t mention it.’

  Jen frowned and scratched a mosquito bite on her arm. ‘Did you ever hear Mum or Dad talk about a Stan Overton?’

  Aunt Sophie dropped the plate, which clattered and broke into three pieces, sending cupcakes rolling about the tiled floor.

  Jen squatted down to gather up the cakes. ‘These will be fine,’ she said. ‘Your floor’s always clean enough to eat off.’ She pulled a plain plate from the shelf above and set the iced cakes out in a circular gathering.

  Her aunt picked up pieces of crockery – a handmade plate with a green glaze. She started to cry.

  ‘I’m sorry about the plate,’ Jen said. Perhaps it had been a gift.

  ‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘My fault.’

  The kettle burbled and steamed, then switched itself off. Jen poured hot water into the pot. She stepped around Aunt Sophie, busy with the dustpan, to fetch milk from the fridge. ‘You okay?’

  Her aunt nodded. She stood, stepped on the pedal bin’s lever and dumped what had been a plate, and crumbs, inside. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘I’d better find the brandy.’

  Jen turned the teapot and tried to keep her eyebrows where they belonged. It was ten-thirty in the morning.

  Aunt Sophie disappeared into the pantry. There was a clanking of bottles. Had she become an alcoholic?

  ‘Even better,’ she said. ‘Calvados.’

  Jen placed the pot, cups and plate of cakes on the table. Waited.

  Aunt Sophie plonked the bottle and two liqueur glasses between them. ‘I bought this to bake some flash dessert,’ she said. ‘It’s made from apples. Quite a nice one, apparently.’

  Jen’s stomach lurched. ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘No,’ her aunt said. ‘I’ve made a terrible mistake.’ She filled the glasses with pale browny liquid. Her hand was shaking. ‘I really wanted to look after you. Do the right thing,’ she said. ‘When your mother couldn’t.’

  ‘But you have. You did.’

  ‘No. I didn’t.’ She slugged back the calvados.

  Jen sipped at hers, hoping it would settle her stomach. And the drumbeat in her ear.

  ‘Stan Overton was, for a time, my lover.’

  ‘You’ve never mentioned him.’

  ‘It was before you were born.’

  ‘Mum never mentioned it either,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ her aunt said. ‘I don’t imagine she did.’

  ‘I thought …’

  ‘You thought what?’

  Jen filled their cups with steaming tea, trying to restore some order to the morning. ‘I’ve never known you to have a partner,’ she said. ‘I thought maybe you and Maeve …’

  Aunt Sophie snorted. ‘Well, she’d be a better prospect than any of the fellas I’ve chosen, but no. We’re good friends is all.’

  ‘So what happened with Stan?’ That required calvados midmorning on a Tuesday.

  Her aunt refilled her glass and topped up Jen’s. ‘He had an affair.’

  ‘But why would he …’ Jen lifted the glass, felt its weight, and sculled it. She was in one of those moments, again. She could feel it all around her, pressing in. The pieces grinding together with the magnitude of tectonic plates. The drink was strong and sweet. Her skin prickled. She slid her glass out to the middle of the table. ‘With Mum.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m not …’

  ‘I think so,’ her aunt said. ‘Your mother was pretty sure.’

  Jen watched her refill the little glass.

  ‘Stan was in the area – I forget why. He saw you with your mum down on the coast. And figured.’

  Jen blinked.

  ‘Carol wouldn’t see him. She was scared, I suppose. So he asked around. Must have gone looking for Peter.’

  ‘And that’s why Dad left?’ Because he wasn’t her father at all.

  ‘It was the dishonesty of it, love. He sa
id he felt tricked.’ This time her aunt sipped at the liqueur. ‘He was angry. But I thought he was going to stay. And I managed to convince Stan to leave you all alone. I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I know Peter loved you.’

  ‘And no one ever felt the need to tell me any of this?’

  ‘Carol said she would. And I thought, when she was better …’

  But she never really got better. The second slug of calvados had a whole lot more flavour. The warmth it gave Jen’s otherwise cold body was welcome.

  ‘I’m sorry my mother did that to you,’ she said. ‘And left you to clean up the mess.’

  ‘Oh, Jen,’ her aunt said. ‘I offered to take you. I wanted to have you. You were never a burden.’

  ‘I need to go,’ Jen said. ‘I need to get home.’

  ‘Please don’t rush off so upset.’

  Jen stood.

  ‘Jenny,’ her aunt said. ‘Should you be driving right now?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ She took her keys from the hall table and let the screen door slam behind her.

  Away

  Jen parked in the driveway. She slammed the door of the Hilux and went straight to the shed. She scooped up her tent and her pack – ready to go, with swag, cooking gear and survival kit. She threw it all in the back of the ute and stomped down to the house.

  She used the bathroom, snatched up her toothbrush and paste. Filled her water bottle, and the spare. Gathered together what food she had: apples, rice, a tin of tuna, half a loaf of bread, a chunk of cheddar cheese, tea and a box of fruit and nut bars. A slab of leftover cake. Stale but sweet.

  The keys were in the back of the cutlery drawer. She held them up to the light to remember which was which, and locked the house behind her. Last, she dropped everything in the box on the back of the ute and secured the cover.

  She headed up the mountain, taking the corners a little faster than she should. Tree trunks rushed by, mailboxes marking hidden driveways. At the top, the tree cover gave way and the road turned to follow the ridge. She glanced out, when she could, at the ocean sparkling below. At all that bright and busy life. Something rattled around in the back, something not secured. A water bottle perhaps.

  She turned inland, towards the old hippie town that still had its working heart, tolerating the tourists rather than deigning to rely on them. She passed through without stopping, veering around a senior citizen attempting a reverse angle park.