by Nicole Hayes
‘We went swimming – or he did. Does it matter?’
She sits back, a little shocked. Then she chuckles, bemused. ‘No, I suppose not.’ She folds her arms across her ample breast. ‘If your mother weren’t so proud, she could find him in an instant.’
I’m about to object to this, though I don’t know why. She’s right. Mum would know and she is being stubborn. ‘That’s why I stopped asking her. But you were there … when he was born.’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you make Mum give him up?’
Gran’s steely gaze is unnerving; I fight the urge to look away. ‘You remind me of her,’ she says quietly.
I bristle. When she says things like that I don’t know if she means it as a compliment or an insult. There’s something wrong with that, isn’t there? But the truth is, I don’t know if it’s because of how Gran says it. Or how I hear it. I’m starting to suspect it’s a bit of both.
‘Gran.’
She sighs. ‘No. I didn’t make her.’ She sits straighter and sips her grasshopper, considering me over its rim. ‘But I told her she was on her own if she kept the baby.’ Gran takes a deep, uneven breath. ‘She couldn’t do it without me, and I knew that.’ She uncrosses her arms, rests them on her knees. ‘It’s different today – the government helps you. And schools too.’
‘She didn’t want to give him up?’
Gran’s laugh is completely without humour. ‘Neither of us wanted to give him up, Francesca!’
‘Why then?’
She glances up at the door to the family room, where Luke is probably half-asleep on the couch by now, done in after training. It’s as if he uses every ounce of that scrawny body in the pool, fighting some evil – maybe the kids at school or the poison in his lungs. The asthma itself. Trying to beat it down even though by doing so he’s risking another attack. It’s a delicate balance – that’s what the doctors say. To do the right amount of exercise to build strength and resistance, but not so much as to push his lungs into seizure. I guess we’re always trying to work out how far we can push things. To get that perfect balance.
Gran looks older suddenly. That ridiculously youthful face and body look all their eighty-five years. I feel a pang in my chest, realising for the first time just how short our time together might be. I reach across the table and take her thick, rough hand in mine – something I’m not sure I’ve done in this way before. Something my mum would do.
‘I need to know,’ I say.
‘I’d done it, Francesca. You understand that? I’d done it myself – raised your mother all on my own. After your grandfather left, there was no one else. No husband. No mother. No one but me. Everyone I knew was on the other side of the world.’ Her voice catches at the end of her sentence and she clears her throat noisily. ‘She wouldn’t be where she is today if she hadn’t given him up,’ Gran says firmly. ‘So don’t judge!’
‘I’m not judging!’ I say, though I am. I’ve been lied to my whole life and I’m angry. But it’s all so cloudy, and I know my anger isn’t helping. I silently count two bars of 2:4 time, feel the beat soothe me. Deep breath. Try again. ‘But she had to have a reason. More than this.’
Gran arches an eyebrow. ‘The boy died.’
‘I’m not following …’
‘The father – Colin’s father – died. They weren’t going to get married, but he might have stayed around once he had time to think.’
I take another deep breath. ‘Did she love him?’
‘That’s not a question I can answer.’
I take a moment to absorb this. ‘But you were already in Ireland. You’d already made up your mind to adopt him out.’
Gran’s jaw tightens, the muscles working overtime. ‘I convinced your mother it was better to be with family while she decided what to do. She didn’t know I’d arranged the adoption.’
‘You tricked her?’
‘Not exactly. I was just keeping her options open.’
‘And then her boyfriend died?’
‘It was a difficult time.’
My mind drifts to Dad. I wonder what it’s like for him now, how painful it is to stand by while their marriage is mocked and ridiculed, knowing the truth but not free to reveal it. Dad is standing by his wife, and, yes, his family too. All of us.
‘It was the best thing,’ Gran finishes.
‘But look how it’s turned out!’
Gran sniffs, that large personality for the moment appearing small. But I can still see that woman of iron, that steel trap of a mind just as alive and impenetrable as it’s always been. ‘I knew she was going to be something special,’ she says, her voice lifting at the end. ‘Someone who would break down barriers, make things different.’ She tilts her chin, defiant. ‘She wouldn’t be where she is today.’
‘Who knows?’
‘I know. And so does your mother if she’s honest.’
‘We need to talk to him.’
Gran shakes her head. ‘We can’t make him accept her. It doesn’t work like that.’
‘But we shouldn’t give up, either!’
Gran crosses her arms and frowns. ‘There’s no need for you to take this on, Francesca. It’s not your burden to carry.’
‘Yes, it is! Yes, it is!’ I yell.
Rapid footsteps. The door slides open. ‘Why are you fighting?’ Luke asks.
‘We’re not,’ I answer, tension crackling in the air.
‘Nothing to worry about, Luke,’ Gran says. ‘Go watch the telly, son.’
‘I want to meet him,’ Luke says, as though he’s been listening the whole time.
‘Oh, jayzus!’ Gran says, looking heavenward.
‘We’re not babies, Gran,’ I say. It dawns on me that that’s how I’ve been treating Luke. ‘We’re all a part of this.’ I wave a hand towards my brother, including him. ‘Mum needs us. She’s going to lose this election and all she’s worked for – and Colin too. We can’t let that happen.’
Gran is still shaking her head, seeking help from the skies – or the ceiling.
‘We can make it better. You can make it better.’ I’m not entirely sure I believe this, even as I say it, but I push on because what else is there? ‘We have to try.’
Gran stands taller, her lips pressed together in a thin line. Luke and I wait, refusing to flinch. And after a long minute, she says, ‘First, you’ve got some fences to mend, Francesca.’
‘No.’
‘You’re making it worse,’ Luke says, turning on me, no longer my ally. He reaches for my phone and starts texting.
Gran and I watch him, startled. He hands me the phone, and I read the message asking Mum if we can talk when she gets home, then my little brother tells me to press ‘send’.
And I do.
I come home from Gran’s with Luke in tow, prepared for an argument when I tell him to go to bed. Incredibly, he doesn’t object, or not really. He just clomps off, slamming his bedroom door behind him with a lot less energy than I’d expected. He looks so tired. I wonder if I should say something to Mum or Dad. Maybe he needs to see the specialist again or change his medication. But when I listen at his door barely fifteen minutes later, his room is dark, the lights out and his breathing sounds normal enough. No rattle. No cough.
I head into my room to wait up. Gran made me promise not to go to bed without sorting it out with Mum. I choose my ‘Chilling’ playlist and let the mellow tones of Lily Allen, Amanda Palmer and the Into the Wild soundtrack soothe me while I wait.
When Mum comes home, I hear them all come with her – Sarah arguing with Harry about how meaningless the word ‘values’ has become; Christie agreeing with one, then the other, trying to keep the peace; Mum telling them it’s too late to change tack now. The whole team plays their roles as though they were born for them; the familiarity of it like home-cooked stew or a summer holiday, safe and reassuring. The normal I know.
A little later Mum knocks, then pokes her head around the door. I’m all set to apologise, ready to say I’ve bee
n an idiot, but the hurt rises up, the desire to lay blame at her feet. At her job. At bloody politics. I barely open my mouth before she shushes me and shakes her head.
‘I did this,’ she says. ‘Not you.’
And just like that, I can’t do it. Deep down I know it isn’t all about her politics. A lot of it was me. Is me. My choices. My mistakes. Just … life. So I close my mouth and offer a small smile. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I know,’ Mum says. ‘I’m sorry too.’ She studies her feet, then looks up. ‘We all make mistakes. I should have told the truth a long time ago – to you and to Luke.’ She leans against the wall and folds her arms in front of her. ‘I’m trying to make it right – really trying – but I can’t pay forever. No one should.’
I think about the trouble Jake’s photos have caused. How much it ached to discover he’d taken them. How it must have hurt learning his dad had stolen them from him, betraying Jake like I thought Jake had betrayed me.
We all make mistakes.
I don’t remember rising from my bed or crossing the room. I don’t remember a decision being made. I’m just aware that my mum is holding me, and it feels good. ‘Is it going to be okay?’
She pulls away and offers me that slow, heavy smile – the one she hides from the cameras. ‘What are you asking? About us? You and me?’ She frowns and her lips quiver just so when she speaks. ‘We’ll always be okay.’ She holds my face and looks at me. ‘You know that, don’t you? We’ll always be okay.’ She shrugs, a little helpless, like there’s nothing she can do about it. Nothing I can do about it. ‘I love you. I’ll always love you.’
‘What about the election?’
She looks to the ceiling in the way Gran does. ‘I have no idea.’
‘That must be driving Harry crazy,’ I say, laughing.
‘Bless him. It is.’
‘So … is that it?’ I ask. ‘It’s over?’
Pain like a bruise around her eyes. The tired lift of her smile.
I take her face in my hands, just as she’s done to me, and say simply, ‘Don’t give up.’
Rowena Mulvaney – my mum, Dad’s wife and the Premier of Victoria – laughs dryly. ‘Give up?’ she asks, looking me square in the eyes. ‘Never.’
CHAPTER 36
THE DOMINO EFFECT
Before I’m even fully awake, my phone is buzzing with messages I can no longer ignore. Mr Campaspe has organised an emergency rehearsal to try to make up for the lost days at the beach. The date has been finalised, a new venue found, and we only have a week to get it right. It feels like ages since we’ve had the band together, and I have no idea how much damage has been done by our neglect. At least we’ve settled on our set.
Mr Campaspe looks relieved to see me, and I wonder how many sleepless nights he’s had too, worrying that all the work he’s done to land us an audition might end up a total waste because some kid in the band he’s chosen to help happens to be the Premier’s daughter. Talk about ripples in the pond. Or what do they call that? The domino effect?
I feel guilty just thinking about it. But he only asks how I am and waits for me to answer, not like he’s testing me, but like he cares.
‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘I’m good.’
‘Excellent,’ he says, giving my shoulder a quick squeeze when I head into the studio.
Tyler is behind the drums, adjusting the foot pedal. Van has headphones on as he runs through some chords, eyes closed, in that place the music takes him. The one place that always finds room for me too. I realise how much I’ve missed all this.
Kessie looks up. ‘About time.’
‘Okay, everyone!’ Mr Campaspe says, and we all turn to him. ‘We’re running out of time and we need to get this happening. Everyone on the same page?’
My heartbeat increases, dreading the inevitable onslaught that awaits if any of my bandmates even attempts to explain all the crap that’s gone wrong. But Van shakes his head and Kessie says, ‘We’re good.’ Tyler doesn’t respond, but she and I take our positions like any ordinary rehearsal.
And then it is a normal rehearsal, where everyone has their job and we all know what we have to do. Not surprisingly, it takes a couple of false starts before we hit our stride, but we get through the third version of ‘Bad Grammar’ before I realise that Kessie and Tyler have barely looked at each other. Or, more accurately, Kessie is constantly trying to make eye contact with Tyler while Tyler seems to be looking everywhere but at Kessie.
Kessie stumbles on the second verse, then misses the cue for the third verse. Then stops singing completely.
We all stand there and wait.
She turns to the back of the stage. ‘Talk to me,’ she says to Tyler, as though they’re midway through a conversation.
Tyler turns away. ‘Not now, Kessie.’
Kessie doesn’t move. It’s like she’s frozen to the spot, oblivious to everyone except Tyler.
‘What’s going on?’ I whisper to Van.
He rolls his eyes, then plays the first chords of ‘Trouble in Paradise’.
‘When then?’ Kessie’s voice is small and fractured.
Tyler shakes her head.
Mr Campaspe steps into the studio, sizes up the situation. ‘Five-minute break, guys.’
Kessie heads straight for Tyler. I watch them speak quietly, hurriedly, then force myself to look away. I take a long slug of my drink bottle, line up beside Van as we fiddle with our guitars. He plucks a few strings – the last couple of bars from ‘Bad Grammar’ – and twists his mouth into a question, asking if he sounds okay.
‘Harder on the D.’
He repositions his fingers, then does what I suggested. It sounds good. He winks at me and smiles. That is the most effusive Van is ever likely to be, and it’s all because we changed how he played a chord, which makes total sense to me.
‘All right now?’ Mr Campaspe’s voice cuts through the quiet.
Kessie is still beside Tyler, her whole body turned towards her. Nothing else matters. But Tyler is a block of stone. She sits stiffly, clinging to her drumsticks, avoiding Kessie’s urgent pleas.
The moment is so shockingly un-Kessie-like that I rethink the possibility of mind control or alien invasion. ‘Kessie?’ I call, more sharply than I mean to. ‘Break’s over,’ I add, mostly because I don’t know what to say to this stranger in my best friend’s body.
She turns slowly, studying me for a long minute, tears shimmering in her eyes, her anger unmistakeable. And while it’s unsettling, at least it’s recognisably Kessie. Gradually, she breaks the moment and steps up to her microphone.
We launch into the start of the new song, working through it like we’ve been playing it for ages, giving me all kinds of much-needed confidence, despite the general weirdness of moments before. There’s a small change in the mid-point that Mr Campaspe suggests we work on this week.
We move on to ‘Love Song’, Tyler counting us in.
The intro builds. Kessie stands at the microphone, closes her eyes and opens her mouth but nothing comes out.
I wave for them to stop. ‘From the top,’ I say.
Tyler counts us in but, again, Kessie misses her cue.
‘Once more, guys!’ Mr Campaspe says, looking less than impressed.
The drums open, and Kessie visibly shakes it off as if she’s resetting herself. Van and I do our bit, Tyler’s drums pounding in my chest, filling my head so that we’re two bars late before I realise Kessie isn’t singing. Again.
We each stop playing in jagged steps. Me first, Van next, and then, finally, Tyler, her focus still turned away from Kessie.
‘Are you okay, Kess?’ I ask.
She ignores me, pushing the microphone aside, and crosses the stage, eyes only for Tyler. Tyler looks trapped, but then she visibly steels herself and waits.
‘Don’t do it, Ty,’ Kessie rasps, standing before her. ‘Please.’
Van and I hold our breath.
Tyler blinks. There’s the briefest hesitation, then she adjusts he
r position, her resolve seeming to rise in that gesture, and with a steady hand, she pushes past Kessie and heads straight for the door.
‘Tyler?’ Mr Campaspe asks as she passes him. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr C,’ she says evenly, her voice a steel I’ve never heard. ‘You need to find yourself a new drummer.’ Then she sticks her drumsticks into her pocket and walks out.
We all stare after her in shocked silence.
‘What the fuck was that?’ Van says, shocking us all. I recover first.
‘Kessie?’ I touch her arm. ‘She’ll be back.’
Kessie’s face is ashen when she looks at me, but instead of the grief I heard in her voice, I see anger. ‘You did this,’ she says.
My hand falls away. ‘What? I thought we were good.’
She snorts. ‘Like you give a shit.’
‘I do!’
Kessie has a broken half-smile on her face. ‘She dumped me. You understand? Said it wasn’t going to work.’
Mr Campaspe clears his throat. ‘Do you guys need a minute?’
Kessie ignores him. ‘She said if you didn’t get it, no one would.’
Why did I send that stupid emoji? I should have done more. I could have done more.
She straightens, trying to gather her ragged breath, all kinds of emotions doing battle across her face. ‘I have always been there for you, Frankie. Always.’
A stab of something nameless robs me of air. I squeeze her hand, try to close the gap between us, but she yanks it away.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m really sorry.’
‘Too. Fucking. Late,’ she snaps, and walks out.
CHAPTER 37
PRESSING THE FLESH
Gran stops in the foyer of Colin’s hotel, uncertainty clouding her features. ‘We don’t want to bombard him,’ she says, and finds a seat in the lounge area by reception.
I look at Luke.
‘I’m going with you,’ he says simply.
I glance at my phone for any messages I might have missed from Kessie or Tyler, still reeling from rehearsal, but there’s nothing. A big fat zero.