One True Thing (27 page)

‘It seems you've opted for a strategy to avoid mention of that issue.'

Mum laughs out loud. ‘To quote my daughter, “I think that horse has already bolted”. I am, quite clearly, a woman.' She leans in, as though to confide something to Seamus alone. ‘That's why we've decided on an alternative route for the Northlink on-ramp, addressing the need to reallocate the women's shelter and the community centre. We're diverting the ramp to the eastern corner, two kilometres closer to town.'

‘Which is exactly the alternative route laid out by the Opposition.'

‘Yes, it is. Even the Opposition can come up with a good idea every now and then,' she says smoothly. ‘Of course, they'll need more than one.' She tucks her hair behind her ear, that silver streak exposed for the moment. ‘Instead of moving the shelter, the centre will be refurbished and expanded, a family violence research
body established, a new women's health and welfare clinic opened and the community centre expanded. The Joan Kirner Women's Centre will be a one-stop shop catering to all women's needs, and named after the
true
first female Premier of this glorious state.'

‘Holy crap,' I say, offering my mum a slow clap even though she obviously can't hear it. I wonder if Kessie knows about the centre yet and then my phone bleeps, and I have my answer. I pause the recording and scan the message.
‘Your mum rocks!!!!!!'
flashes across my screen beside Kessie's new avatar – a photo from tonight of the band in action.

I write back:
She kind of does, doesn't she?

Seamus Hale's face is frozen in outrage, and I'm tempted to snap a photo for future reference. I hit ‘play' instead.

‘So you're playing the gender card,' Seamus continues, contempt lacing his words.

‘Let me tell you a secret, Seamus. I'm a mother, a wife, a daughter, a woman. This is not a
card
or a strategy. It is a reality. It is not a question for me, nor a source of weakness. It is, in fact, my strength. All of these things together, and each of them apart, are my greatest asset.'

‘That's debatable, Premier, but not for me to say,' he answers. ‘That's up to the people of Victoria, and what they decide at the election on Saturday.'

I watch my mum, Premier Rowena Kate Mulvaney,
cock her head and look directly into the camera, that trademark smile lifting the edge of her mouth, the fine spray of wrinkles reminding us of her humour and wit and the life that she's lived. ‘Bring it on.'

The electoral office is virtually empty. It's late and only the senior staff are still around. They're all holed up in Mum's office, some last-minute meeting before the family goes out to dinner – a belated celebration for the election win without all the hangers-on.

It wasn't the expected landslide predicted weeks ago, but it also wasn't the disaster that Seamus Hale campaigned for. Mum's words struck a nerve, her honesty and determination to confront her painful past somehow cutting through despite the weeks of bad press and rumour.

‘The electorate is stupid in an election year,' Harry said after the interview, worrying that she'd gone too far.

But Mum disagreed. ‘We just treat them like they are,' she'd said.

I make Luke a hot Milo in the cramped staff kitchen while he plays Minecraft on one of the PCs and then I head into the main office to finish some homework before we go. On the front desk there's a blue envelope with a yellow post-it note on top, my name marked out in pen.

I flip the envelope over and read the back, my heart immediately leaping into my throat. It's from Ireland. From C. Leith.

Colin.

I run my finger along the seal and open it carefully. I have no idea what to expect, and I realise then how little I know about Colin. I know he felt something for us – even for Mum in the end. I remember his expression at the pool when Luke was so sick, and at the hospital with Mum beside him, his decision to tell the media, to let Mum off the hook … He did that for her, not for himself. I'm sure the media hounded him for a time after – even in Ireland, it would be a story – and yet he put himself out there anyway.

The media still calls Mum ‘Yummy Mummy' – the Colin story only adding fuel to that particular fire – but the story has lost some of its heat. Harry's two weeks finally seem to be over. It took a little while, but, eventually, some big-name journalists started asking real questions, just like Mum requested. And once they did, others followed. Seamus Hale wasn't so keen to move on,
but a couple of footballers have got into trouble this past week and that's what's distracting him right now. I'm sure it will turn again – it always does – but it's nice to be forgotten for the moment.

I unfold the letter – one page, one paragraph in rough scrawl – and read.

The meeting ends a little later and the staff trickle out in ones and twos. Most of them pack their things and head off immediately, but the usual suspects return to their desks.

When Harry sees me, he hums the opening guitar riff of ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit' before breaking into his own version of the lyrics. Something about teenagers and how they smell like old shoes. Or old poo? Something like that.

‘Nirvana again?' I ask lightly, to take the sting out of the fact that I didn't play along. ‘It's time you hear some new music.'

‘Oh, really?' he says. ‘Like who?'

‘There's this really cool band I know,' I say, offering him a lopsided smile.

He's grinning too, and it feels real. ‘Yeah? What are they called?'

‘The New Normal.'

‘Great name.'

‘Great music too. Shades of that excellent but somewhat earnest indie band No Politics, with a stronger set and a bigger voice – two voices now.'

‘Two voices? Really? I like the sound of that.'

‘Totally your thing,' I say.

‘I'll keep an eye out for them.'

‘If you're lucky, I'll rustle up a flyer. They've got a gig next weekend.'

We didn't go through to the next stage in Battle of the Bands, but a booking agent approached us after our set and asked us if we were available. It means having to perform more covers than we'd like, but it gives us time to play with the new sound and write more material.

‘I'll be there.' He glances over at Mum's office. ‘If the boss will let me.'

I lean in conspiratorially. ‘She kind of likes me. I reckon I can talk her around.'

‘I believe you could,' he says, and offers me a broken salute before he disappears into his office.

Mum's still talking to Sarah, so I wait by Christie's desk, listening to her chat about her latest boyfriend, not worrying about trying to remember his name, knowing he won't be around long enough for it to matter. Christie packs up her stuff then says goodbye, and it's just me, Luke, Mum and Sarah – the latter still buried deep in conversation.

When Sarah finally emerges from the meeting, she heads straight for me, greeting me with a tight, knowing
smile. I know in that instant that she found the letter and set it aside.

‘Hey, Frankie.' She looks older suddenly. I wonder sometimes why she does it, why she wears herself down in this job. Is it just about friendship? Or something bigger? I've honestly never asked her. I decide that, one day, when we're alone, that's what I'll do.

‘Hey.' I've got the letter in my hand, the blue envelope distinct and obvious.

‘It came for you today.' She glances discreetly around the office, but Luke is lost in Minecraft, Harry's still in his office, and Mum is head-down in hers. Dad's still on his way, and Gran is meeting us at the restaurant. ‘I didn't show anyone.' Her mouth is drawn in a thin line and I realise she's struggled with this. ‘Not Ro. Not yet.' She reaches for my hand as it clasps the envelope and she gives it a squeeze. ‘It's your call.'

‘Thanks.'

‘I'm sure you'll do the right thing,' she says, and leaves me standing there, contemplating what the ‘right thing' is.
Is it ever one thing?
I wonder. Or are there lots of right things that you have to try to make work for you?

‘Sit down,' I instruct Mum, after I shut her office door. I probably should have started with hey, but the feeling of urgency is weighing me down.

She lifts an eyebrow. ‘Sounds serious.'

I place the envelope between us and wait, the letter still folded in my hand. She looks at the envelope, flinching slightly when she recognises the Irish stamp. She turns it over and reads Colin's name and then just holds it in front of her, in shock.

I unfold the letter and start to read it aloud.

In an uneven, rough scrawl, I read out Colin's name, address and phone number.

Mum blinks. Tears glisten on her lashes. She nods, like she understands, but also like it hurts. ‘I'm glad he's reaching out – at least to you.'

‘And Luke,' I say. ‘And you.' I show her the two sentences scrawled under the address.

Mum sets the letter down so carefully that you'd think it was made of the most delicate crystal. She looks
at me then, hope and fear and all kinds of unnameable emotions scrawled across her face. There's a long silence until I can no longer bear it.

‘Well?' I say.

Mum doesn't answer, but then Dad's knocking on the door. I tell him to come in. He's got his writing cardigan on, which explains why he looks confused and a bit disoriented. When I'm playing music I forget where I am. The same thing happens to Dad when he's writing. He must have come straight from his office, his mind still lost in his story.

I wait to see if Mum's going to explain the letter, but she can't seem to form words.

‘It's from Colin,' I say gently, holding it up to show him.

Dad immediately goes to Mum and crouches down beside her, his arm protecting her like a shield. ‘Are you all right? Has something happened?'

Mum shakes her head, the tears flowing now, but still she maintains that slightly frozen smile, as if she can't let go.

Dad looks from me to Mum, then me again, but I shrug. This isn't my story to tell. Not this time. I learnt that from Gran.

Finally, Mum stops crying and wipes her eyes. ‘What are your plans in the Irish summer?'

‘I don't know,' Dad says, a smile touching his lips. ‘What are they?'

She shows him the letter. In one swift glance he's understood completely.

Mum reaches out with one hand to squeeze mine, and the other to clutch Dad's. They're staring at each other like they used to. I could be six years old again, lying on the couch watching
Finding Nemo
, Mum pregnant with Luke, Dad's arm around us both as they laugh at the jokes I don't realise are funny, while I laugh at the ones I do. But all three of us laughing, in our own time, on our own level. A kind of together without being the same.

‘Luke!' Mum calls out, and my little brother, after objecting and whining about having to get back to his spawn point, finally wanders in, still annoyed at the interruption.

‘Want to go to Ireland?' she asks.

Luke takes this in, squinting to better process it. ‘Colin lives there,' he says matter-of-factly.

‘There's my genius,' I say, and scruff his curls.

‘Stop it, Frankie!' he yells, slapping my hand away, but not before I've ruffled his hair beyond recognition. Those ridiculous curls, that unruly fringe, the chaos and disorder … All of it is perfectly normal. This moment – this life – feels perfectly normal. Big, messy and all out of order, but it belongs to me. And I guess maybe I am finally making it mine. But here's the thing I didn't know – this one true thing I've learnt – nothing is as good, or as real, until it's been shared.