Candelo (15 page)

If I dared to ask her now, I wonder whether she would be more honest with me. I wonder whether she would talk about the gentleness in Simon. I wonder whether she would talk about the desire to protect that she always had with him. I do not know. Because to talk about these things would be to hold up their life now. In the same house, but never in the same room, Simon awkward in doorways, wanting to help but unable to, Vi darting nervously around him, a rapid fire of words with no substance as she picks up after him and then is gone without ever having met his eyes once. Short notes left on the sideboard, Simon appearing for meals and
then taking them up to his room, Simon sitting at the table, eyes fixed on the paper in front of him.

When I talk of Vi, people tell me I am lucky.
You speak the same language
, they say.

And we do. We know each other.

Half-finished sentences collide with no need for completion, giant leaps take us to the same place at the same time, irritation flares and then dissipates, one of us lies and the other one knows: this is the bond that we share.

But.

It has never meant that we reveal everything to each other.

I stand in Vi's garden and I pick herbs for our dinner. Sweet basil, sage and peppery rocket, the last leaves left from the summer. All planted and cared for by Mari.

I was lucky with my children
, I once overheard Vi say.
They didn't fight with each other
.

And we didn't. Not really. Any attempt I made to fight with Simon would always be stymied by his good nature.

They liked being with each other
.

And I did. I would follow him, wanting to be a part of whatever it was he was doing, wanting to be there, once again reliant on his good nature, trusting it enough to know that he would not turn me away.

Which was how he was. Until Candelo. Until Mitchell.

As I search for the last of the lettuce, I find myself pulling out the weeds that have begun to grow since Mari has spent more and more of her time looking after Vi. I toss them into a heap, knowing that I am doing this because I do not want to go back inside. I do not want to have another meal with
Simon sitting there, silent at one end of the table, eating rapidly, and leaving immediately.

And as I tug and pull at clumps of sticky green nettles, careful to avoid what I recognise to be plants, I think about what I would be like as a mother. I think about the choices Vi made, and I am overwhelmed by the relentless slide of generations, each replacing the next.

Her gone and me in her shoes.

And the decision I have had to make weighs heavily on me.

They did not get home until just before dark.

I doubt whether Vi would have noticed if I hadn't kept asking her where they were. But as the heat of the afternoon burnt into a soft dusk, as I asked her again and again, she began to look at the clock. She was irritated. And it was building.

I was giving Evie a bath when I heard the front door slam, followed by Simon calling out, letting us know they were back.

Evie struggled and squirmed out of my hold. She was out of the bath and running, dripping wet, up the hall towards them before I could stop her.

Hey there, sexy legs
. The broadness of Mitchell's voice rang through the house as Evie threw herself on them, both of them.

I'm in the raw
, she shouted and I heard the three of them laughing as Evie danced down towards the kitchen with Mitchell behind her, aping each of her moves, kicking his legs out, waving his hands in the air.

I was angry with them. Still. And standing by the bathroom
door, I tried to look unamused but I, too, could not help but laugh, as I watched Mitchell wag his head from side to side, his hair stiff with salt and sand, his face sunburnt, his mouth open in a smile that threatened to split his face in two.

It was Vi who didn't find it funny.

She was in the kitchen, sitting at the table under the harsh fluoro light, as they came to a stop, bags of groceries at their feet, there in front of her.

I waited for what would follow, part of me wanting trouble. I watched Evie tug slyly, once, twice, at Mitchell's hand, wanting the game to continue, before she, too, realised the fun was over.

Vi brushed her hair back from her forehead, took her glasses off, and folded her arms.

She was silent for a moment.

And then she told them.

She had never said they could have the car all afternoon. In fact, she might have wanted to use it.

She was very angry.

She was disappointed.

I listened and I watched their faces. We all knew she hadn't wanted to go anywhere, but this was what Vi was like. She had decided she was angry and the accuracy of the reason was of little importance.

She uncorked the red wine and poured herself a glass without offering one to any of us.

At least you remembered to do the shopping
, and she pulled the food furiously out of the bags that lay at her feet.

It was Simon who went to help her.

Mitchell stayed where he was, leaning against the doorframe, tapping his foot and scratching nervously at his forearm.

Evie winked at him and he winked back. Evie stuck her tongue out at him and he stuck his out at her. They were both trying not to laugh. Suppressing it.

But it was his eyes that gave him away.

Glassy. Red.

Out of it.

I quickly glanced at Simon. He was grinning, from ear to ear.

And I wondered how long it would take before Vi noticed. Sometimes she was oblivious to what was going on, but at other times, she didn't miss a thing. Sometimes she couldn't have cared, at others, the slightest infraction was cause for raging fury.

It was Evie who gave the game away. Her face close to Simon's as he unpacked the bags, she recoiled in disgust.
You stink
She turned to me.
Smell him, Ursula
.

I told her to shoosh, but it was too late.

Vi looked at both of them. Neither of them were quick enough to duck their heads from her gaze.

For Christ's sake
, and she slammed a tin of tomatoes onto the table.
I really would have expected more sensible behaviour
.

But you let us smoke
, Simon said, feebly.

She snapped back at him:
Not when you're driving
, and she turned to Mitchell.
If this isn't going to work, then we'd better face up to it now and get you on the next train
. He lowered his head.

If I treat you like an adult, I expect you to behave like one. I can't believe you would be so bloody stupid
.

He muttered an apology.

Perhaps we'd better just call it quits
, and she lit a cigarette, grinding the dead match into the ashtray as she spoke.

I looked at Simon. I couldn't bring myself to look at Mitchell.

You're not being fair. You're blaming it all on him
, and Simon fidgeted nervously with the sleeve of his shirt.

She just stared at him.

It was my idea. I was the one who suggested it
.

I waited.

It wasn't his fault
.

She looked across at Mitchell.

He didn't even want any
.

Vi snorted in disbelief.
And you held him down and forced him?

I watched as Mitchell shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. There was a fine film of sand coating his heels, a trail that led up to his Achilles tendon and petered out at the base of his calves.

Finally he spoke. He looked across at her and told her he was sorry. He just hadn't thought. He didn't know what to say.

From above, the buzz of the fluorescent light seemed unbearably loud.

I noticed that Evie still didn't have any clothes on and I took her hand.
Pyjamas
, I said, and she tried to wriggle out of my grasp.

We'll make dinner
, Simon offered.

Vi took her cardigan from the back of the chair and tied it round her shoulders.

She was going to have a walk. To the road and back. To
cool down. And she stubbed out her cigarette and downed the last of her wine, leaving the room without looking back.

Don't worry
, Simon said.
She'll get over it
.

And he and Mitchell looked at each other before collapsing into a fit of giggles.

Jesus
, and Mitchell bent over double, holding the arm of the chair,
I thought we were done for
.

I stared at both of them in disbelief.

You know
, and Mitchell picked up the shopping from the floor,
your mum's pretty cool For an old bird
.

And as he collapsed once more into laughter, I couldn't help but smile, and with the start of my smile, I, too, found I was laughing, reluctantly at first, and then louder.

Until we were all laughing. Simon, Evie, Mitchell and I.

Backs pressed against the wall, holding our sides, unable to look at each other.

And laughing.

‘In loving memory of Mitchell Jenkins.'

I read obituaries in the paper and I wonder what they wrote about Mitchell. I wonder who spoke for him. If there was only one. Or columns of messages.

In loving memory.

I don't know what my memory is. One minute I tell Lizzie that I loved him and I remember the intensity of my crush, burning, and then I want to retract my words. It wasn't love. It seems such a stupid word to have used.

Because my memory is so confused, I do not know how I would describe it. I am, at times, overwhelmed with shame.
I can feel it drain me, empty me, until I am paper dry, flat and without weight.

In loving memory.

And my throat closes tight as I remember.

Mitchell Jenkins.

He woke me in the middle of the night.

Tapping in the stillness on the glass door that separated our rooms.

Ursula
, his voice a hiss in the quiet.

Outside, the sky was clear. Sprayed with stars. Thousands of them smattered across the darkness. And it was still warm. A soft breeze in the cypress trees, giant dark towers marking the small space that had once been garden, home, to someone, sometime ago.

Ursula
.

At first I thought it was a dream, a voice from the depths of my sleep, calling me, and I did not move, I just let it whisper. Over and over.

The tapping on the glass.

Like rain.

But there was no rain.

And as I opened my eyes, I saw him there, on the other side, hissing my name in the still of the night.

Half asleep, I tiptoed down the hall and out the front door, his shadowy figure there in front of me, leading me.
This way
. Trying not to walk into things, not sure where I was, not sure if he was sleepwalking or I was, just following, right behind him, opening the front door to the night sky, leading me
through, and out to the verandah, down the steps, our feet in the dampness of the grass.
Here
, he said, and we sat, side by side, there on the bottom stair, with nothing but us and the night, black and still, before us.

I wanted to see the stars
, he whispered, and I did not know what to say.

With my knees tucked to my chest, I held myself, tightly, rocking myself, as though it was cold, but it wasn't cold. Each faint breath of air was warm and silky.

And I watched as he rolled a joint, the quick movement of his fingers, back and forth, until it was smooth and white, complete in his hands. And as he lit it, the tip glowed, fierce in the dark, fiery against the black emptiness in front of us.

I've never been to a place like this before
, he whispered, letting out a thin stream of smoke with each word, and he waved his arm, the end of the joint like a pointer in the dark.

I could feel his thigh next to mine. The smooth hairs on his legs. And I did not move.

Imagine, all this
, and he tilted his head back, breathing in, closing his eyes for one instant,
owning all this, and not even living here
.

And as he passed the joint to me, the tips of his fingers brushed mine.
You know, at my mum's flat, there's no garden, not even a balcony
, his words soft, whispered to himself, not looking at me, just staring out at the night, the shapes of the trees more visible, our eyes slowly opening to it all.

I looked at him.

He watched as I drew back.

Hold it in
, he told me.

I did.

When I get back
, his words a faint whisper, right there, next to me,
it's gonna be different. I'm going to get a job, my own place, make some money
, and he sighed,
then maybe, some day, I'll come and live in a place like this
.

He looked at me as I passed the joint back to him, and I watched as he pinched it between thumb and forefinger, drawing back with a sharp intake of breath.

What are you going to do, oh, Ur-su-la?
and he grinned as he pronounced each syllable of my name separately, sing-song, the smoke coming out from the base of his throat in one thick stream.