‘Make it two,’ Maria says. ‘Since you’re offering. Is your sister home?’
Beau scratches behind Woof’s ear and looks out the back door at the trampoline.
‘Just us here,’ Dad says.
‘Shame. It’s her I’m after. Wanted to meet the adult of the house.’
Dad bristles. ‘Now listen –’
‘Spare me. You clowns aren’t running any of this.’ She looks around the kitchen, which is well equipped, spotless, and at the neat line of sandshoes and thongs on the swept back porch.
Beau drinks most of his apple juice in one go, then wipes his arm across his mouth.
‘Go play,’ Maria says to him. Beau shakes his head. ‘Go on,’ she says, gentle but firm.
‘Why don’t you take him out to the trampoline, Charlie?’ Dad says. ‘Seems like that might be of some interest.’
‘Yes please.’ Beau slides off the stool.
‘Hold it till I come back. I need to hear this, too,’ I say to Maria. Why would she be here after Finn told me, just last night, to stay away from his commune – and, by obvious extension, Beau? Maybe she’s been sent to hit us up for money.
I come around the bench and touch Beau lightly on the head. ‘You have your mother’s hair. Bet you hear that a lot.’
The instant the words leave my mouth I stop – stop moving, stop breathing. Then I suddenly suck in air, as though my body wants to vacuum the words right back inside me. Beau has gone outside, is on the trampoline. I flick my eyes to my father.
‘How do you know what Skye’s hair looked like?’ Dad says.
‘A photo,’ I say. My heart beats double time.
‘You’ve got a photo of Skye?’ Maria takes an apple from the fruit bowl.
‘There are no photos,’ my father says. His voice is a low rumble. ‘How do you know what her hair looked like?’
I stand in the doorway, frozen.
‘Can we talk about her son please? I don’t have all day,’ Maria says, polishing the apple on her shirt. ‘She did have good hair, though.’
Surely Dad won’t press the issue in front of Maria.
‘Things are going down at the commune,’ she says. ‘Finn wants Beau to be somewhere else for a while. Not today, but soon. We figured since you were so desperate to have him he could stay here, have your daughter take care of him. He said the way Charlie described her last night made her sound super straight. And that’s what Beau needs, until we get ourselves sorted again. He wanted me to check the house though, make sure it was a legit family place.’ She points her apple at me. ‘But your stuck-up friends Ryan and . . . whoever his bitch girlfriend is . . . you can’t say anything to them. I don’t trust them to stay quiet. That’s not from Finn, that’s from me, okay?’
Dad hasn’t taken his eyes off me. Maria seems blind to what’s happening in front of her. She eats her apple, watches Beau through the glass. I hear the squeak of trampoline springs, and Woof barking encouragement.
‘So,’ she says, ‘the house looks like a house should. I’ll tell Finn it’ll do.’
Dad turns his glare on Maria. ‘Is this some game, some trap you and Finn have cooked up? Drop the boy here then call the police and say we took him?’
‘No. We want to find Beau a safe place away from the –’ She frowns. ‘Look, shit’s about to get too heavy to have the kids around. Finn’s not the world’s best father but he doesn’t want Beau getting hurt.’ She stands up. ‘Maybe this was a mistake. He thought you’d be pleased about it.’
‘We’ll take care of the boy,’ Dad says. ‘Keep him away from your train wreck. You can go now. I’ll explain to him.’
‘I’m not leaving him here today. I said soon.’ Maria rolls her eyes. ‘I can see your daughter is the details person.’
‘Do what you need to. We’ll be here,’ Dad says.
Maria picks her backpack up off the floor. ‘Beau,’ she calls out. ‘Time to go, buddy.’
Beau runs into the room, Woof at his heels. ‘Thanks for the juice.’ He offers us a small, odd wave.
And then Dad and I are alone.
‘How do you know what her hair looked like?’ He narrows his eyes at me. ‘There’s no photograph.’
‘Well, it’s nothing like Finn’s hair so it must be like hers.’ I want to run.
‘Don’t screw with me.’
‘People talk about things when you’re not around, Dad. I asked about her at the funeral. Donna told me –’
‘Bullshit. You’ve seen her.’
I don’t reply but I know he catches the anxious dart of my eyes, the flash of panic. ‘You were at the car, weren’t you? You took her out.’
He reaches across, grabs a fistful of my t-shirt and yanks me closer. I stumble, caught off-guard. ‘Didn’t you?’ He spits the words out. ‘Answer me!’
He’s not as strong as when he was young, but my father can still punch. And though I push him away, and duck to avoid his swings, I’m not quick enough. He slams his fist into my jaw with the force of a twenty-year-old. The blow sends vibrations up through my head. He shoves me against the closest wall.
I shove him hard and he falls back against the pantry door. I run out of the room, down the stairs and onto the street. I keep running.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Monday 30 December 1974
Abby
I pull into the carport and beep the horn. Mark won’t be home yet – he’s helping Geoff build a pergola – but Dad or Charlie might be here to help me get Sarah, the twins and the groceries into the house. Nobody responds to my beeping.
‘Bugger.’
‘Bugger,’ Sarah echoes.
‘Don’t say that.’ I wind my window up, sling my handbag over my shoulder. ‘Out you pop.’
By the time I get to Sarah’s door it’s still closed, though I can see her trying to push it open. I lift her out and heave the twins one by one onto the cool shaded concrete, touching my palm to it for quick relief from the relentless heat of the day.
‘Go see if anyone’s inside, Sar. Tell them Mum needs a hand.’
Putting three-year-olds down in an open space is asking for trouble. Joanne walks down the steep driveway; Petey heads to the hot front grill of the car.
‘For the love of –’ I scoop up Joanne while yelling to Petey, ‘Don’t touch the car. It’s hot. Hot.’ I hear a small howl that builds to a scream before I can get to him. I pick him up so I have a twin dangled under each arm, my handbag pushing into my hip. They’re both whining, and squirming like puppies. ‘Stop, please, both of you.’
Sarah appears at the boot of the car with Dad.
‘Great. I have a car full of food. Can you get the bags on the front seat?’
‘Sarah, take the little ones inside. I need to talk to Mum.’
‘Dad, can it wait? I’ve got ice cream –’ But I stop speaking when I see the fierce expression on Dad’s face.
Sarah, Petey and Joanne make a game of walking up the stairs to the front door, the girls holding hands and all three jumping when they reach each tread.
Dad takes a step closer to me. ‘Did you meet her somewhere, you and your brother?’
‘Who?’ Though I know who he means, the instant he says it.
‘How would Charlie know what Skye’s hair looked like?’
I am flustered, flummoxed. What has Charlie said? I glance behind Dad to see if Charlie is nearby. ‘Well, I don’t think he does. Why would you ask that?’ I pull my bag higher onto my shoulder. ‘Can I bring in the food?’
‘Forget the bloody food. Charlie said Beau had Skye’s hair. You were there that night, weren’t you? Pulled her body out of the car and left her.’ He points at me with a shaking finger. ‘That’s what happened, isn’t it?’
‘No, Dad, we – no.’ Where is Charlie?
‘Beau was here. Charlie said to him, you have your mother’s hair. Your mother’s hair.’ Dad stands an inch away from me, fire in his eyes.
‘Beau was here?’
‘How c
ould you?’ he bellows. He is breathing heavily, hands on his hips, glowering at me. ‘You get her out and then, what, you drive off? What possessed you?’
My lips tremble but no words come.
‘Is that what happened? Say something.’
‘I tried to move her up to the road. But she was so heavy, and –’
‘Pregnant, she was pregnant! Christ, Abigail. I –’ He makes a gesture as if to erase me, then turns away. He takes the sleeper stairs two at a time and I scurry to catch up with him as he storms inside, down the hall and to his room. As I pass the kitchen I see the children are outside. Sarah is standing on a wobbly chair so she can swing on the Hills hoist. The twins are watching, will want to try, she’ll egg them on, and while none of this should be ignored, I have to ignore it. I hurry to the doorway of the spare room and watch my father hurl his suitcase onto the bed and fling the top back. He grabs his shoes, pyjamas and the stack of books beside his bed and throws them in.
‘Dad, we didn’t mean to. It was an accident. Where is Charlie?’ Where for the love of God is Charlie?
He turns. ‘You didn’t mean to?’
The air rushes out of my chest so I cave in on myself. ‘Dad, I’m sorry. So, so sorry.’
‘You caused this?’ He yells with such ferocity I shrink backwards out of the doorway. ‘You did this to her?’ He walks towards me.
‘I wasn’t – I’m not saying I was blameless. It was an accident, a terrible accident. And the instant her car hit the tree, she was dead. There was nothing we could do.’ Before I can decide whether to tell him that Charlie was driving, drunk on beer I’d bought, that we were both asleep, before I can decide whether throwing my brother between my father and me is shameful and selfish, before I can think through whether that would make the slightest difference to my father’s rage and pain, before any of this mad mental dust can settle or form coherent thoughts, my father lurches forward and slaps me across the face. I had no idea a hit could hurt so much.
I run to the backyard. Where else can I go? I sit on the edge of the sandpit with my arms folded tight across the top of my knees, shaking, staring at the door and praying that Dad won’t yell at me or hit me again with the children nearby. I watch as Petey throws a bucketful of sand out of the sandpit and onto the grass, and waits for my usual admonishments. I hold out my arms. ‘Give me a hug.’ He shakes his head.
I try not to panic. I drop my head onto my folded arms, ignore my stinging cheek, stare at the ground through my legs and try to breathe. Just breathe. He’s not coming outside. If he was going to follow me he would have by now. I concentrate on the ants crawling across the sand in the triangle of space beneath me. I smell my coffee-scented breath and feel the sun burn through my shirt. Anything not to think.
I hear footsteps on the porch. I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting here. I may have even slept or passed out. It feels as though time has somehow moved on without me. I want to look up and see if the children are still in the sandpit – there’s no sign of them in my small range of vision – but if it’s Dad on the porch I don’t dare move.
‘Hey, hi everyone.’
‘Mark,’ I say in a sob and lift my head up.
‘Mummy’s sad,’ Sarah says. ‘Is dinner soon?’
‘Whoa,’ Mark says. ‘What’s going on?’ He pulls me up and shepherds me to the wooden bench near the barbecue, which is still close enough for the children to hear, so I point to the house. ‘Inside.’
‘Is this something you want John to hear?’
‘Is he still here?’
‘Where else would he be? Abby?’
We sit. He rubs my back the same way I rub Sarah’s back when she can’t sleep. I need his comfort, and I know once I tell him the truth he’ll take it away from me.
‘I don’t want to talk right now. And the kids are hungry, so –’
‘Why did you ask me if John was here? Did you have an argument?’ I should’ve known my deflection wouldn’t work. Mark won’t be denied information.
‘It’s nothing.’
He wraps his arms around me. I let myself soften into him.
‘Abby?’ He lifts my head off his chest. ‘Tell me.’
Before I can speak, Dad is at the back door, calling to the children.
‘John,’ Mark says. ‘What –?’
My father cuts off the question. ‘Only the kids. I don’t want a bar of you two.’
Mark screws his face into a frown. ‘Maybe open a bag of chips for them.’
I am mortified. How can it be that this is how I have to tell Mark?
‘I’ve called a taxi to take me to the bus station. Kids, come inside. Pop has to leave. I want to say goodbye.’
‘Why?’ Sarah says.
‘Do it, Sarah,’ I say.
‘John, it’s the night before New Year’s Eve,’ Mark says. ‘Loads of people go out tonight. Getting a cab will be impossible. Why don’t you come out here and tell me what –’
‘Then I’ll bloody well walk.’
‘I’m hungry,’ Petey whines.
‘Woof weed on me,’ Joanne says, holding her hand up as evidence.
‘Why are you going?’ Mark asks. ‘And why now?’
‘Come inside, kids,’ Dad repeats. ‘I’ll give you chips.’
Dad pats each of the children on the head as they file past him to go inside. ‘Wash your hands.’ He stays on the porch, closes the sliding door behind him. ‘You should be ashamed.’
‘Of what?’ Mark says. And then he slaps his thighs. ‘Okay, one of you needs to tell me what you’re fighting about. Why are you leaving? And why are you crying?’
‘You weren’t there!’ I shout, though I’m not sure who I’m speaking to. Both of them, everyone. ‘You weren’t there so you don’t know. I’m sick of having to cover for something I didn’t do. Well, I didn’t – Not all of it. I tried. I tried to get her to the car and I tried to get Charlie to the farm and I tried to pretend I wanted to go to the farm and I tried to act like juggling three kids and Christmas and Charlie and Dad and getting ready for dinner and cleaning the house and – bloody hell, do either of you know how exhausted I am?’
‘Wait a minute.’ Mark holds his hand up to stop me. ‘What do you mean you tried to get her to the car?’
‘You are never home,’ I say.
‘How is this about me? Are you saying you were involved in Skye’s accident?’
‘Yes, Mark,’ Dad says. ‘But somehow she’s feeling sorry for herself.’
I slump back onto the bench. ‘No, Dad, I’m not. I don’t know how to explain. I didn’t see the car. I was asleep. We both were.’
‘Skye was asleep?’ Mark asks.
‘No. She pressed her horn. She was awake. Charlie and I were asleep.’
My father is standing with his arms taut by his sides, his mouth a straight line. ‘Who was driving?’
‘Does it matter? We were both in the car.’
‘Who?’ Mark echoes.
I turn away from Mark and look up at the darkening treetops. I draw a slow breath. ‘Charlie. But I let him.’
Dad yanks open the sliding door and goes inside.
Mark stares at me but I can’t meet his eye. The hairs on my arms rise. I hear the frogs begin their evening chant, growing louder as though they’re an advancing army.
‘She swerved to avoid us, but there was nowhere for her to go, nowhere safe. Such a narrow road and we were right in the middle of it. If I’d woken a minute earlier . . . I think about it nonstop, Mark. I wanted to tell you but . . . It was never the right time.’
I wait for him to speak. I know he’ll be angry but I feel some relief. He’ll know what to do. But when he does finally look at me, his eyes are ice-cold.
‘There’s so much wrong with this I don’t know where to start, Abby. A hit and run. A pregnant woman. And you’ve been lying to my face for weeks. Lying,’ his voice rises, ‘to me, your father, the police.’
I should speak. He’s right about all of it. But
I’m in shock, and my words have fled to someplace less painful.
‘You handed your keys over to someone just off an eight-hour flight then went to sleep? Knowing he’s never been to the farm and is mentally a child.’
‘I know, I know,’ I say quietly. ‘He wanted to drive.’
‘Oh, and God forbid Charlie doesn’t get to do whatever he feels like. How could you be so stupid? And, what, you tried to get her into the car by yourself? He didn’t want to help you? Abby, you wouldn’t leave a dog to die like that.’
‘She was already dead.’
He swears, then goes inside.
Left alone in the sandpit, I watch as the lights come on in the kitchen, the bathroom and Sarah’s bedroom. Mark moves between the fridge and stovetop, making dinner for our children. What feelings will rear up now I’ve purged myself by speaking the truth? Everybody knows nature abhors a vacuum.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Tuesday 31 December 1974
Charlie
I take the window table at Melina’s coffee shop in West End, a small, laidback place in a weatherboard worker’s cottage. It sits between the Anarchist Centre, a grey besser-brick building with a locked glass-covered noticeboard out front – the irony of which seems to have escaped them – and the Greek grocery store. Across the road is a row of peeling, raggedy-garden share houses. I’m waiting for Ryan and Sal before I order food. They’ve ducked up the road to get coffee, bread, olives and other supplies for us to take back to Sal’s cousin’s place. We’ve crashed there for days and while she’s a very relaxed chick, we get the feeling she’s had enough of us. We’ll be party-hopping tonight but hope to end up back at hers, so food will go some way to securing us one more night in her house. While I wait, I’m considering how to broach the topic of Bali with them. I know in their hearts they must want to go back. And life will be cool again once we’re there.
I look out at the street. It’s late morning, so the local Greek residents have done their watering and weeding and are walking up and down the treeless footpath, catching up. The elderly women are clad in black, stockings and all, the men with their hands clasped behind their backs, stopping to talk to people they know and taking the pulse of the neighbourhood before heading back to continue work on their gardens. A man in a navy-blue fisherman’s cap and a waistcoat buttoned over a white collarless shirt yawns as he passes by the window.
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