by Shirley Wine
‘I do understand this, now.’ He shifted restlessly in his chair. ‘As I said, I owe you.’
‘You don’t,’ she contradicted him baldly, fixing him with a gimlet stare. ‘I did what I did for Rebecca, and for no other reason. I was her friend, and your mother, in trying to recreate her own thwarted dreams through your sister, was wrong, on too many levels to count.’
‘She could be pushy.’
‘Pushy?’ Marta snorted again. ‘Your mother was beyond pushy. She was driven, ambitious, and manipulative.’
Joe guffawed, a raucous burst of laughter. ‘I dare you to tell her that.’
‘I would, in a heartbeat.’
‘I can imagine.’ He grinned and shook his head.
‘How is Adele doing?’ Marta watched him, half afraid of his reaction. ‘Has she forgiven you for giving up your music studies?’
‘No.’ His tone was clipped and uncompromising. ‘I don’t think Mother ever will forgive me. She can be very inflexible.’
‘Now there’s a surprise.’ Marta let loose a gruff laugh. ‘Tell me, do you have any regrets about not taking up that music scholarship?’ Her voice was tentative and searching.
‘No.’ His abrupt tone was a distinct no trespassers allowed sign. He stood and walked to the edge of the porch and tossed the empty bottle into the skip.
She watched him, her heart drumming solidly against her ribcage.
For a few moments there, they had been talking—well sparring, actually—like they had done in the far distant past, their bitterness and angst faded. She had let her guard slip, and the past had walked in.
Then Joe shut her down—without a backward glance.
Grief for what they’d lost threatened her precarious self-control. He turned, all warmth, all feeling, wiped from his expression. ‘This isn’t getting on top of that mess inside.’
‘You’re right about that.’ She stood, picked up her empty glass, and retreated to the kitchen.
She rinsed the glass and left it upside down on the draining board, and picking up her gloves, she carefully smoothed them on. The last thing she wanted to do was break a fingernail—she couldn’t afford another professional manicure—and she had to be on top of her game to perform at Chez Christophe.
Joe watched her preparations; his lip curled slightly, his disdain for her fastidiousness obvious.
She ignored his derision, opting for a less fraught subject. ‘I suspect we’re going to need more than one skip to clear away everything my mother has hoarded.’
‘You’re most probably right.’ He rocked back on his heels. ‘You know what’s scary about all this, Marta?’
She looked at him, her eyebrows raised.
‘Agnes brought all this stuff in here, one piece at a time.’
Chapter 5
‘Marta, I think you should come and look at this.’
On her way to the skip, her arms filled with newspaper and cardboard, Marta stopped mid-stride, arrested by the incredulous note she caught in Joe’s voice. ‘Just let me dump this load of newspaper.’
She strode down the hall, now cleared of debris, and tossed her burden into the skip.
For two evenings, they had worked side by side clearing away years of junk. That first evening, Joe had surveyed the messy accumulations and said in his quiet, considering way, ‘Let’s attack this one room at a time. Your mother had an astute eye and there could well be treasures hidden amongst the junk.’
‘You think?’
‘I do, and suggest we take a cautious approach.’
‘I need to get this done,’ she said with an expressive eye-roll.
‘Have faith, it will happen.’ He grinned at her. ‘Look what you’ve achieved already.’ He flicked a hand in the direction of the back porch.
‘And I’ve managed to unearth the kitchen bench, clear the botulism depot from the fridge, and excavate a portion of the dining table.’
‘Then let’s start in the kitchen and work our way from here, one room at a time.’
His advice, as usual, was sound. Now the kitchen and dining room were more or less cleared and restored to a semblance of their former order.
Ever thoughtful, Joe had brought a supply of cardboard boxes. They now stood in rows in the de-cluttered dining room, receptacles for items too good to toss, and destined for donation to Lifeline.
She found him in the sunroom off the dining room, crouched over a battered tin trunk he’d hauled out of a cupboard.
‘What have you found?’
He looked up at her over his shoulder and handed her a photo in a battered frame. ‘Is this Ben?’
Conscious of her quickened pulse, she took the photo and stared at the likeness of a man in full dress uniform, a man with her brother’s face.
‘It can’t be,’ she whispered, her voice breathy with disbelief. ‘Ben has never been in the army.’
Joe stood and, with a bare hand over her gloved one, held the photo steady.
Outside, the day was rapidly fading into night, but even in this dusk, the likeness was uncanny.
‘Is this a photo of your father?’
‘You think?’ The question rasped from a throat as dry as dust. She moved closer to the grimy windows where the light was better, and stared at the framed image.
‘It has to be a close relative. The likeness is too pronounced to be coincidence.’
She rubbed the dusty glass against the leg of her jeans. ‘Where did you find this?’
‘In there.’ He jerked a thumb at the trunk. ‘It was in the back of that cupboard. It’s filled with old photos, books and clothes.’
Marta handed him back the photo and pointed to the cupboard. ‘Is it cleared out?’
‘Yeah. The trunk was underneath all the other junk stuffed in there.’
‘Then put it back, I can deal with it later.’
Joe returned the photo to the trunk and grunted with effort as he manoeuvred the bulky thing back to its hiding place. He stood and dusted his hands. ‘Let’s break for a drink.’
‘Good thinking.’ She led the way to the kitchen and, after pulling off her gloves, she filled the kettle. ‘Coffee?’
‘Sure.’ He walked to the sink and washed the grime off his hands, drying them on a hand towel as he leaned against the bench watching her. ‘What do you plan to do about that trunk, those photos and papers, Marta?’
‘At the moment?’
He nodded.
‘I have no idea,’ she said dismissively. ‘It’ll keep until Ben’s here.’
Joe sat at the table, his legs extended and ankles crossed. Marta was aware of his scrutiny as she made the coffee, spooning sugar into his, handed it to him and sat opposite.
Joe stirred his coffee, his brow scrunched in a frown. ‘What do you know about your father?’
‘His name is Sean Finnelley.’ She gave him a veiled glance. ‘At least that’s what Mum has always told us.’
He stared at her, his expression one of shocked surprise. ‘I thought you didn’t know who your father was?’
‘We knew. We’ve always known. He’s just never been a part of our lives. Mum always said he was a charmer, and not ready to be a father.’
Joe digested this in silence, before he asked, ‘Is he still alive?’
‘I don’t know.’
Joe put his mug down and leaned across the table. ‘If that’s a photo of him, then he was a military man. You could find him through the army. They keep accurate records of past and present servicemen.’
‘I need to think about it.’ She pulled her hand free, too unsettled at uncovering that hidden trunk to have any clear idea what to think, let alone what to do about its contents.
‘It’s just a suggestion.’
‘And one I do appreciate.’ She gave him a quick glance. ‘I need time to go through that trunk first, okay?’
‘Fair enough.’ He sat back in his chair, his expression brooding. ‘Do you think Ben will want to learn more?’
Marta gave an impati
ent sigh and stood, palms flat on the table-top as she leaned towards him. ‘Look, Joe. I need time, okay? Time to go through that trunk, time to talk to my mother and my brother, time to decide what the hell to do with something I’ve only just unearthed. Okay?’
Joe stood too and looked down at her, grinning, his thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his jeans. ‘Calm down, you little shrew. You know me; I’m a curious kind of guy.’
‘Curiosity killed the cat.’
His grin widened. ‘Ah, but satisfaction brought it back, don’t forget.’
She laughed, the shaky sound easing the tension.
***
Joe was relieved to see the shock and sadness fade from Marta’s face. Finding that trunk stuffed with old photos and papers, a veritable cache of memorabilia, had left her shaken.
He watched her anxiety fade with something close to tenderness. ‘I think we’ve done enough for tonight. You’re tired.’
Marta sighed, the sound heavy and despondent. ‘I am at that, but there’s so much left to do.’
‘You can’t get rid of years of accumulated rubbish in a few days,’ he murmured, resting a hand on her shoulder. ‘Clearing all this away will take time, and another skip. The one out there is pretty full.’
She rubbed her fingers over the back of her other hand. ‘I know.’
Something about her demeanour worried him. ‘Is money a problem?’
Her startled glance, the quickly averted gaze, was answer enough. Damn. I should have suspected this.
Agnes was in care and Marta had intimated she wanted to sell the family home. Was she meeting the cost of her mother’s care to prevent the state taking an interest in her mother’s estate?
This had not occurred to him and there was no way he could ask. And with Ben in jail, Marta was on her own. Joe knew any offer of financial help would be quickly repudiated, but surely there was some way he could help.
‘You mentioned wanting to go and see your mother. Do you want me to go with you?’
She chewed on her lower lip for a few seconds. ‘Thanks, but it’s not really practical. I have other things to do besides visit Mum.’
‘What else?’
‘Eve is going to run me through her duties so I know what to do when I fill in for her. I also have an interview with Xander McIntyre about the entertainment schedule at the resort, and I need to liaise with Christophe about what he wants in the way of entertainment on his deck over summer.’
‘You have a busy time ahead.’
She shrugged and gave another of those despondent sighs. ‘For sure, but if I’m to stay here and be near Mum, I need to do this.’
‘Can I make a suggestion?’
She glanced at him, her eyebrows raised. The evening quiet was broken by the strident noise of lorikeets squabbling as they settled in to roost in the trees.
‘You’ve cleared away most of the rubbish from the living areas and your bedroom. Why not leave the rest until Ben comes home? It will give him something to do, and it will help him settle into life on the outside.’
She stared at him, her expression thoughtful. ‘You think?’
‘Life outside is going to be a shock to Ben, no matter which way you look at it. He’s lost five years and serious change happens in that time. He’ll need something constructive to do while he gets reorientated. Besides, to understand and appreciate the difficulties you’ve faced, he needs to see for himself.’
‘I wanted to have it all done, and the house ready to put on the market.’
‘All you’re doing is running yourself ragged. You’re already stretched too thin. You need to seriously consider if selling this house is the right thing to do, or is it a kneejerk reaction? Have you consulted Ben?’
‘Ben has been gone five years. I’ve coped alone and supported Mum.’ She stood and faced him, her expression set, her chin jutting, her expression belligerent. ‘The bottom line? I can’t afford to keep this house and pay for Mum’s care, too.’
‘That bad?’ He stood and rested a hand on her shoulder.
‘Yeah, it is.’ A tear pearled on her lower lashes and she blinked furiously. ‘And before you offer, no, I won’t accept money from you.’
Her acerbic tone was harsh enough to flay several layers off his skin. Does she really think I’m such an insensitive cretin? Anger scorched him.
‘I wasn’t about to offer.’ He bit off each word. ‘It’s not an option for me; I don’t have excess cash to splash around. If we’re done here for tonight, I’ll head off.’
***
Muttering under his breath, Joe walked out through the back door. Marta watched as he was swallowed by the night. She sank onto her chair and buried her face in her hands. Damn me and my prickly pride.
After all his help, she had to lose her cool and bite his head off over what was, after all, a valid suggestion. Not to mention his offer to employ Ben, something that weighed heavily on her mind. She knew how hard it was for any guy fresh out of jail to find an employer willing to take him on.
Would it help Ben’s rehabilitation to let him help her clear the rest of this mess away? She turned the idea over and was struck by the validity of Joe’s suggestion.
She recalled the social worker telling her in a phone conversation that Agnes could no longer cope, but not until she saw this house, all this junk, for herself, did Marta have any comprehension of the sheer scale of her mother’s problem.
Joe was right—unless Ben saw some of this he could never understand.
And along with this realisation came an easing of her worry about Ben’s reaction to her decision that their mother needed to be in care. Marta walked through the rooms more or less returned to some semblance of order. The kitchen, the dining room, the lounge and its sunroom extension were all more or less clear, and she knew that without Joe’s help, she would hardly have made a dent in the work needed to clear up the mess. It was a monumental task, and one she’d grossly underestimated.
All the time, the image of the serviceman with her brother’s face floated behind her eyelids, and questions simmered in her brain.
‘First thing tomorrow, I will go and see Joe, thank him for his help, and apologise.’ Her voice was loud and echoed in the silent house.
Chapter 6
Marta’s pulse skipped and danced as she drove into the laneway of Joe’s market garden. The place was a hive of activity, and she carefully negotiated her way to the area designated as visitor parking.
A big sign advised all visitors to go to the office.
Goggle-eyed, Marta stared through the windscreen, trying to assimilate everything at once and for the first time in a long while, she was thoroughly confused. When did all this happen?
A smartly painted packing shed sported a huge, billboard-sized picture of Joe, clean shaven, smartly dressed, his arms crossed and smiling at the camera, beneath a banner proclaiming Joe’s Gourmet Vegetables.
The image was life-sized and life-like.
Joe was one handsome dude, and that portrait had captured his rugged good looks.
Beneath it, a large curtain-sided chiller truck was parked at a loading bay. Two forklifts worked like busy ants loading it with pallets. Beyond the truck she could see a huge expanse of plastic-sided growing houses. Twisting her head to the side a little, she could see what looked like a construction crew hard at work.
She shook her head in disbelief.
An old dude drove past on a tractor, and it wasn’t until he lifted his battered cap to her in greeting that she realised he was one of the men who had helped clear up the yard around her mother’s home.
Marta lifted a hand in belated greeting.
This upmarket facility bore little resemblance to the hardscrabble acres Joe’s father had scratched a living from.
‘I don’t have excess cash to splash around’—Joe’s words echoed in her head. Looking at this set-up, Marta wasn’t surprised.
Her mother had once mentioned in passing that Joe had redeveloped the market ga
rden he’d taken over after his father’s sudden death, but she had never expected anything so … so, well, industrialised.
Men and machines were busy at work.
Looking at this set-up, Marta held no doubts that Joe had parlayed his father’s small-time market garden into a large and obviously profitable enterprise.
Someone rapped on her car window, and she turned with a start.
Joe was grinning at her, the real Joe, wearing a ragged T-shirt, scruffy shorts, scarred work boots and black stubble on his chin, his genuine smile welcoming; this was not the polished billboard facsimile.
She smiled at him through the window.
‘This is a surprise.’ He opened her car door and stood there, hands on the top of the door, his chin resting on them. ‘What brings you here?’
‘I can’t believe this place.’ She stepped out of the car, her gaze darting everywhere as she tried to take it all in. ‘When did all this happen?’
‘It’s still very much a work in progress,’ he said, grinning at her and so obviously enjoying her reaction.
Marta looked at him over the top of the car door. ‘You were actually serious when you said you’d employ Ben?’
‘Most definitely, I will need more staff. When the construction crew have finished the new growing houses, I will have twenty acres in production under cover, besides the paddocks of outdoor crops.’
‘Good Lord,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I had no idea.’
‘Would you like to come and have a look around?’
Marta hesitated. ‘I’d love to, but I’m on my way to the cove. Eve is running me through her duties today.’
‘When is her baby due?’
‘End of January, but she goes on leave after the seventh.’
‘Do you think she’ll last that long? She looked about ready to pop when I saw her yesterday.’ He lifted his disreputable hat and scratched his head. ‘I was delivering vegetables to Christophe when she waddled in to pass on a message from McIntyre.’
Once again, she caught the slight sneer in his voice whenever Xander McIntyre’s name came up in conversation. Marta didn’t understand his attitude to the developer who was responsible for rejuvenating what had been a rundown and very tired facility.