CHAPTER
40
Kirsty dropped her duffle in the narrow corridor of her cottage on the outskirts of Port Augusta and paused.
Something was different.
Her gaze landed on a thin glass vase atop the mahogany hall table. A sprig of oleander, white-flowered and narrow-leaved, sat jauntily within it, and … since when had her hall table ever been so shiny?
She sniffed the air cautiously, the way she might sniff at a blackened wire on a pre-flight inspection of an engine. Definitely beeswax, a hint of fresh laundry as though someone had recently walked down her hall carrying a hamper of sun-dried sheets, and … fruitcake?
‘Mum?’
Her voice echoed from floorboards to ceiling and back around again. She was alone.
A cup of tea, she decided, followed by the world’s longest shower, then she could call Helen Best for that counselling session (finally)and deal with whatever fallout her crashlanding had left for her at Mediflight West.
She headed down the corridor, turned into the kitchen and stared. Every surface was covered with colour. Specifically, woollen colour. Reds and peacock greens and sunset oranges, knitted into … she picked up a striped clump decorated with tiny pompoms. Far out. She knew her mum had been knitting wildly, but … did tea cosiesbreed?
She muttered the words she’d been practising for the last few hundred kilometres of cracked bitumen. ‘Hey, Mum. Remember how you love clearing out of town when bad shit happens? Well guess what? I know what happened in Clarence. You want to explain that to me?’
The sound of the back door opening dragged her gaze up. Terri Fox was wearing faded jeans, a chunky rollneck sweater which was almost as red as her dyed hair, and a smile.
‘Kirsty! I wasn’t— I mean—’ Her mother broke off and gave her a hug. ‘Welcome home.’
She wanted to hug her mum back, really she did, but all she could think of was Trevor. The coronial inquest. The little white cross by the bridge over Shannon Gully that wasn’t her father’s—how could it be? He’d died long ago—but nonetheless seeing it each time had made her think about his young life snuffed out when he was on the cusp of becoming a man.
A father.
She eased back.
‘What’s wrong, pet?’
The casual endearment acted like a trigger. ‘Don’t call me pet,’ she said, turning away. Carol had called her pet when she’d told her it was time for some tough love. Ken called her pet when he wasinviting himself onto her patio so she could make him a cup of tea and he could offer her posies of flowers and comfort.
They had, she could see now, each in their own way, been mothering her. Since when had Terri done that?
The smile on her mother’s face dimmed. ‘You know, don’t you, sugarplum? You’ve found out.’
‘Yes. I’ve found out.’
Silence followed her words, and she didn’t know how to fill it.
Perhaps other families—ones who hadn’t spent decades evading difficult truths—would know what to say. How to act.
But she’d come here to face Terri because she wanted change, hadn’t she? And change could start small.
‘Mum, can we talk? Like …reallytalk. No lies. No judgement. Just talk.’
They took a pot of tea outside to the paving stones in the sunny corner of the garden. An olive tree she’d planted a couple of summers ago spread narrow points of shade, and someone—her mother, presumably—had prettied up the garden bed around its trunk with lavender and rosemary.
The azaleas along the side fence had been trimmed of their leggy straggle, and the grass wasn’t just freshly mowed, its edges had been sliced and its winter-brown well watered so it looked like an upscale bowling lawn.
Terri picked up the pot—now adorned with a plump pomegranatehued cable-knit cosy—and poured them both a cup.
Hot water, Kirsty thought. Tea leaves. One followed the other just like words could and it didn’t have to be complicated;she was going to say it straight out. ‘I’ve been doing a bit of thinking.’
Her mother took a careful sip from her cup. ‘In Clarence.’