by Cathryn Hein
She’d been perky since his sisters began their Saving Mum From Herself campaign the afternoon before, as if the confrontation had flicked a combative switch inside her mind. His mum had always hated being patronised, and any mention of stupidity left her mutinous. It came, she’d once explained, from being looked upon a certain way simply because she’d chosen to be a stay-at-home mum. As far as Michelle was concerned, her career was the most important in existence. More important than a doctor or politician or any other profession. She, and women like her, nurtured the future. They moulded the growing minds of the next generation. Just because that involved cleaning up vomit and poo, reading picture books and crafting spaceships from toilet rolls, didn’t make her unintelligent or without worth. Far from it.
Josh hadn’t been there for yesterday’s discussion, but it didn’t take a genius to work out that his sisters’ approach had failed. The irony was that defiance appeared to have done her wonders.
He indicated the notebook lying open at the opposite end of the table, both pages blank. ‘Run out of wisdom?’
She smiled as she sponged toast crumbs from the bench into her hand. ‘Mothers never run out of wisdom.’
He smiled back, on her side. ‘I wouldn’t go saying that to Sally or Karen right now. You’re liable to cop it.’
Michelle picked up her cup of tea, leaning against the bench as she sipped. Light streamed behind her, leaving her front shadowed and her hair a gauzy halo of white-gold. ‘Good thing I can give as good as I get, then.’
‘They’re only doing it because they love you. We all are.’
His words brought her across the room. Josh sat back and let her cup his cheek. Her gaze was soft and understanding. ‘I know. But this is my battle, not yours.’
Josh couldn’t hold onto his calm. He couldn’t keep up the pretence of understanding, not when he wanted to shake her and bawl into her chest like he was a kid. ‘No, it’s not. It’s all our battle. When something happens to one of us it happens to all of us. You taught us that.’
For a moment he thought he’d made it through to her. Her gaze flitted to the china cabinet behind him, towards its mismatched cluster of photo frames and old and new family snapshots, before losing focus as she drifted somewhere beyond. Then her eyes cleared and she shook her head. ‘Not this time, my sweet. Not this time. Now,’ she said, sliding her hand from his cheek and reaching for her tea, ‘why aren’t you out in the shed creating something beautiful?’
‘I wanted to talk to you.’ At her expression he hurried on. ‘Not about that. About Dad. About the business.’
‘What about it?’
‘He won’t leave Flanagan’s, Mum. I think there’s something worrying him. Something about me.’ That wasn’t quite the truth. His dad had inferred no such thing but he couldn’t say it was her holding Tom back. His mum needed strength, not guilt.
‘Like what?’
Josh tried to form words around a thought he wasn’t sure about. The idea had only arrived that morning. ‘We’ve never really worked together before. Not commercially. We’ve made plenty of stuff but that was always for things around the house or gifts, like Sally’s table.’
‘You think he’s worried you mightn’t get on?’
‘I don’t know. It’s a possibility, though. I was thinking I could approach Flanagan’s, ask Brendon if I could work for them for a while. With Dad.’
‘But what about your business, your commissions?’
He shrugged. ‘I could do them at night.’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘No, I won’t have it.’
‘Mum.’
She held up her palm. ‘I’m serious, Josh. I won’t have it. You’ve already sacrificed enough, leaving your job to come back here. I’m not having you sacrifice your dream as well.’
‘I won’t be sacrificing my dream. The idea is to make it come true.’
‘By wasting your days at Flanagan’s? I don’t think so. The sooner you build your business the sooner we can get your father working with you. Now,’ she said, in a voice that conveyed she wanted no more of this talk, ‘tell me what’s happening with Em.’
He blinked at the change of subject, opened his mouth and then shut it.
Michelle’s gaze sharpened. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t called her?’
Hot shame crept across Josh’s skin. He concentrated on his crumpets, on the honey and butter smears, anything to avoid his mother’s disappointed stare. He’d meant to call Em. He had great plans after Saturday night but they all disappeared the moment he saw his dad cry, when his chest became thick and heavy with fear. Even when he’d driven past the shop, Em’s window display shining brightly, he’d meant to call in and say hi, ask how she was, what she thought about seeing him again, but his mind wasn’t in the right place. This wasn’t the time. She didn’t want the burden of all his worries.
Deep inside, he knew the truth was more selfish. Those hours with her had reignited buried feelings, the intense, vulnerable ones that exposed him to hurt. Far more than he’d anticipated when he’d grabbed her hand at Camrick. That had been more about being walked away from than anything else. He’d let her do it the last time he’d been at Camrick and he was stuffed if he’d let her repeat the act. Ego played a part too, whether he could win her over again. He’d won her over, all right. Bodily, anyway. But her heart?
He wanted her in his life, no question. But needing her the way he once had? Leaving himself wide open to another bout of the worst pain he’d ever felt? That left him shit-scared.
‘Oh, Josh.’ His mum’s dismay made him squirm. ‘I thought we brought you up better than that. What must she be thinking? And you were so happy on Sunday.’
‘I’ll call her, I promise.’ At her raised eyebrows he sighed. ‘I will.’ Tomorrow, when he’d thought about how to explain why he hadn’t called without giving anything away about his mum.
‘Go and see her.’ She snatched his hand and squeezed hard. ‘This morning, Joshy.’
Joshy. His mother hadn’t called him that in years. It was her manipulative name, the one she used when she wanted to get her own way. The one he could no more resist now than when he was ten.
He let out a long breath. ‘All right. But only for you.’
‘Oh,’ said his mum, smiling slyly, ‘I think this might be for you, too. You might be able to fool yourself’ – she patted his hand – ‘but you’ll never fool your old mum.’
Josh paused at the edge of PaperPassion’s window, peering down the thin space between the display and the wall. Em was behind the counter, a pencil clenched between her teeth.
He eased away from the window and eyed the street. Levenham was quiet, relaxing in that sleepy morning period after the school-drop. Soon the footpath would be busy again with mothers and children and the bustle of business. Perhaps the shop would have customers.
A tray-top Toyota cruised by, the kelpie on the back with its head to the wind, watching the footpath and road with clever, curious eyes. Further on, where the road widened to form a small island around the town’s central cenotaph, council workers in fluoro-green shirts weeded flowerbeds. A woman called out, waving to a friend on the opposite footpath before crossing the road. Small-town life going on. The tug of all he’d once thought he wanted.
He turned back to the door and started. Em stood behind the glass, watching him, her expression cool. Only the way she fiddled with the leather band of her watch gave any indication of her mood.
He walked to the door, Em retreating a few steps as he pushed it open. ‘Hey.’
‘Hey, yourself.’
He kept his hands tucked in his pockets as he tried to think of something to say. Sorry didn’t seem right.
‘Has your mum run out of notebooks again?’ She sounded clipped, businesslike.
‘No.’
When he didn’t continue she tilted her head to one side, waiting.
‘Look, Em, about Saturday night.’
‘It doesn’t matter. We’re not ki
ds any more. We had a nice time.’ Her gaze slid away. ‘It didn’t mean anything.’
‘It did for me.’
She stared at him and Josh noticed the heaviness under her eyes, the slight reddening of the lower lids. Not from tears but from extreme tiredness. He hoped like hell he wasn’t the cause.
‘The last week’s been a bit hard at home. I’ve been meaning to call but there’s been stuff going on.’
‘Not your mum? Is she all right?’
He slid his hand over his head. He’d already said too much.
‘Josh?’
‘Mum’s. . .’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘It’s nothing. A bit of a family argument, that’s all.’
She studied him. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah.’ Josh shoved his hand back into his pocket. While Em wasn’t being openly hostile, she wasn’t exactly welcoming. Josh supposed he deserved it, given his lack of manners. ‘How about you? Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine, why?’
‘You look a bit tired.’
‘I didn’t get much sleep last night.’
He wanted to ask if it had anything to do with him but couldn’t bring himself to.
‘I was about to boil the kettle.’
‘Is that an invitation for a cuppa?’
That earned him a smile. ‘It is.’
He followed Em to the back of the shop. Behind the counter, her sketchbook sat open, discarded papers either side, the pencil she’d held between her teeth on top. He glanced at the drawing and recognised the Uffington White Horse, a famous prehistoric chalk figure carved into a hill in Oxfordshire. He’d climbed to the top with Bianca, saw the place where legend told St George slayed his dragon, and walked the iron-age hill fort alongside. Afterwards, they’d checked in early to their thatched holiday cottage and spent the night playing honeymooners. But at the top of that hill, as he studied the exposed chalk, there’d been a second, a heartbeat, when he’d thought of Em, the girl who’d loved horses and hills. The girl who’d cast him aside.
He stepped behind the bead curtain. The back room was dimmer than the bright shop, lit by a single naked bulb. Steel shelves along one wall held more of the jewel-covered notebooks. He looked away, reminded of his mother’s books and their potential purpose. If it weren’t for how they’d brought him to Em he wished he’d never set eyes on the bastard things.
Em was leaning against the bench, arms crossed, one hand at her mouth, watching the kettle. She’d left her hair long, and it fell in soft waves around her face. His heart contracted at the same moment he warned himself to be careful.
‘I saw your sketch,’ he said. ‘What’s it for?’
‘The book I’m working on. G. K. Chesterton’s The Ballad of the White Horse. An epic poem. Do you know it?’
Josh shook his head, amused she thought he would have. He’d read the signs at the site, explaining about the White Horse, but not poetry. Neither could he remember Bianca reading anything like that. She was like him, working class, simply educated. Not dumb – far from it – but theirs was different world.
‘I want it to open the first poem, “The Vision of the King”. “Before the gods that made the gods had seen their sunrise pass, the White Horse of the White Horse Vale was cut out of the grass.”’ She smiled. ‘It’s a wonderful poem. Very English. Very romantic.’
‘Perhaps I should read it.’
‘I doubt it’d be your thing.’
‘Why? Too romantic for a bloke?’
She stiffened. ‘Perhaps.’
Josh curled his fists to stop himself from reaching out for her. The way she was acting he wasn’t sure what her response would be if he did. ‘I’m sorry. For not calling. I should have.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Yeah, it does.’ He smiled slightly. ‘Mum gave me a telling off when she worked it out.’
‘Is that why you’re here, now? Because she made you?’
‘No, I’m here because I want to be.’
She nodded but he couldn’t tell if it was cool or warm. That he’d hurt her was obvious. The woman from Saturday night was somewhere untouchable, leaving a shell of Wallace aloofness in her place. Shame burned in him again. Regardless of what was happening at home, he should have called. He was a better man than that.
She stared at the kettle, her arms still crossed. Its rattle filled the room. She hadn’t prepared mugs. Perhaps she wanted him to leave. Perhaps he should.
‘You’re angry with me.’
She looked up. ‘No.’ Her expression softened. ‘It’s not you. I really didn’t get much sleep last night.’
‘What’s up?’
‘Two donkeys, that’s what.’ She grimaced. ‘Two o’clock in the morning and Muffy starts barking the roof off. I race out of bed thinking it’s burglars only to discover Kicki and Cutie on the back verandah destroying every last one of my spring seedling trays. When I opened the door they took off down the stairs and went rampaging through the garden.’ She rubbed her hand across her forehead and swept some hair back. ‘It took me nearly an hour to catch them and by the time I’d finished I was too hyped to go back to sleep.’
‘Do you know how they got out?’
‘That’s the frustrating thing. I’ve no idea.’
The kettle clicked off but instead of sorting out their drinks she lifted a curled finger to her mouth and pressed it for a moment before regarding him with tired, stressed eyes. ‘What if they get out and get hurt? Hit by a car or fall or something? I’m supposed to be keeping them safe and they’ve been through so much.’
Protectiveness stirred Josh into action. ‘Come here,’ he said, turning her into his arms and letting her press her forehead into his shoulder. He rested his cheek against hers and stroked her back. ‘They’ll be okay. They’re tough. Animals clever enough to escape their paddock are too clever to get into strife.’
‘God, I hope you’re right.’
Josh expected her to move away but she stayed. The feel of her in his arms, knowing the simple act was giving her comfort, kept his hold steady.
‘I don’t know what I was trying prove by sleeping with you,’ she said after a while.
He pulled back to regard her. ‘I’m not sure it had anything to do with proving anything. We both wanted it. Didn’t we?’
She sighed and he caught a hint of smile. ‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ His own smile broadened. For the first time since his arrival, he felt grounded. Time to lighten the mood. ‘So does that mean we can do it again?’
Her laugh spilled. ‘Maybe. If you behave.’
‘Behave? Like this?’ In a flash his hands were sliding up the inside of her shirt, caressing her stomach. He pressed against her, his hand cupping the hollow of her back, and nuzzled her neck. Her skin came alive at his touch. Desire uncoiled within him, twisting deeper feelings with it.
What started as a joke became serious. His mouth trailed her throat, hungry for her lips. She kissed him hard, needily, like nothing else existed bar him. Her palm curved around the back of his neck, drawing him down so her mouth could trace away from his and along his jawline towards his earlobe, taking nips that jolted him with tiny electric shocks. Her rapid breath brushed his ear as her fingers slid over his bulging pants.
‘Jesus, Em.’ They were in the shop, protected from sight by a dangle of colourful beads. And she was doing this.
She pulled away. A band of colour streaked each cheek. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted and full. Everything about her triggered his hunger for more, to sweep the bench clear and hoist her up to slide between her thighs.
She frowned as though breaking a trance and then smiled in a way that made his heart falter. ‘I think the kettle’s gone cold.’
‘Unlike us.’ But he understood the moment had passed. He slipped his hand from her shirt and pressed his forehead to hers. ‘What are we doing?’
‘Reliving our youth, I suspect.’
‘I had fun in my youth.’
Her eyes g
littered as though she’d read the memories in his mind, the ones involving hidden rock shelfs at Rocking Horse Hill, of lazy summer days and adventures like no other. ‘So did I.’
‘Can I see you tonight?’
She nodded. ‘Dinner?’
‘No, just sex will do.’ He grinned at her raised eyebrows. ‘Best cure for worries there is.’
She laughed. ‘Is that right?’
The turnaround in her mood made him want to whoop. Instead he kissed her. ‘You bet.’
‘Good, because this is one theory I could do with being proven.’
‘About seven?’
‘Sounds good.’
He planned for it to be.
Eleven
Em rolled onto her side and stared at Josh. He lay on his back, one hand on his chest, the other by his side, breathing steadily. Despite the cold, he’d pushed the quilt down to under his ribs. Moonlight caught his bare chest, silvering his skin and casting the curled tips of his light brown hair in shiny nickel. His body rose and fell with each breath, his lips slightly open. She smiled, feeling like she could watch him for hours, but the neat contours of his profile had roused something in the creative hollows of her mind. An idea that niggled and nudged the longer she studied him, until its prods became impossible to ignore.
She kissed the point of his shoulder and slid carefully out of bed. Scooping up her knickers, she padded to the door, turning back to feast once more on his quiet form.
She hadn’t believed him in the shop that sex would cure her tiredness and worries, but it had. Temporarily, anyway.
Em pressed her cheek against the cool timber of the door, thankful for the respite he’d granted. They’d never had the delight of a night together in their youth, yet she was strangely glad. Em wasn’t sure her younger self would have appreciated the simple peace of it. Josh asleep in her bed filled her with contentment, as if the house had at last been made entire. As if perhaps her life had too.
She shook her head and left. Darkness had given flesh to fantasy. Time to channel it where it belonged.
Though the fire burned low, night had yet to pull all the warmth from the living area. Muffy rose from her basket, sinking again when Em bent to shush and soothe her. Through the big windows the waxing moon hung over the hill, bright enough for Em to see without turning on the main lights.