Trust (11 page)

‘Finnie darling!’ Angie bent to hug him. ‘My special little guy! I haven’t even said hello to you properly!’

‘But Mum, what about
my
room?’ he said urgently. ‘You didn’t throw away any of
my
stuff, did you?’

‘Oh, honey, wait till you see. Your room is so beautiful now: the bed’s fixed, I’ve got rid of all those clothes that were too small, all the broken old stuff is —’

The skin around Finn’s mouth and the sides of his nose went white and taut.
Uh-oh,
thought Stella-Jean. ‘Not Robo-Boy,’ he said. ‘You didn’t throw
him
away?’

Angie hesitated, then cast her eyes toward Gabriel. ‘It was
broken
, Finnie,’ she said.

Instantly, Stella-Jean knew what had happened to Robo-Boy, and so did Finn. And he knew who was to blame. Letting go of his mother’s arm, he rounded on Gabriel. ‘You threw him
away
? In the r
ubbish
?’

‘You heard what your mum said, didn’t you, Finn?’ Gabriel said. ‘That thing was broken.’ He had a smooth, gliding kind of voice, Stella-Jean thought, like his sentences were lines in songs, just sliding away. ‘We don’t want broken things around, now, do we?’

Finn gave a horrible, wordless yell and flung himself at Gabriel; Angie cried out ‘
Finn!
’ in a panic and the boy stopped short, quivering.

‘
You’re
broken,’ he shouted, jabbing his finger again and again in the direction of Gabriel’s feet, at the two-inch sole of his built-up shoe. ‘We should throw
you
away! You’re a
cripple
.’

‘Finn!’ said Angie again, her hands flying to her cheeks. ‘Gabriel, he doesn’t mean it. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’

‘You tricker,’ Finn was screaming, ‘go away! We don’t want you sharing our house!’

Oh boy
, Stella-Jean thought, getting to her feet, cross with herself for not being quick enough to stop this one, or even see it coming. ‘I think you should all just leave the —’ she began to say, but both Angie and Gabriel were moving toward Finn and she stepped forward too, protectively. Gabriel was the closest and in a second he had Finn’s left arm, just above the elbow, in a pincer grip. With a shriek of surprise and pain, the child crumpled sideways.

Angie, her hands clasped imploringly, cried, ‘Finnie, tell Gabriel you’re sorry. Please, I
know
you didn’t mean that!’ She looked beseechingly to Gabriel, ‘I’m
so sorry
.’

The look on the man’s face made Stella-Jean go cold inside. Despite the rage and anguish roiling around him, Gabriel’s face was still and smooth, like a mask, his green eyes like chips of glass.
Is he feeling anything, at all?
Impossible to tell.

‘You see, Angie? The children of disobedience,’ he said, and his even, gliding tone was horribly at odds with what was happening. ‘Just as I warned. No, he must learn. He
will
learn.’

He shook Finn’s arm, still gripping it tightly, and commenced to haul him, struggling, toward the front door. ‘Time for us to go, my little friend,’ he said. Finn’s face was twisted up in pain and fear.

‘Stop!’ cried Stella-Jean. ‘You’re
hurting
him! Angie, stop him!’

Angie threw her an agonised look and scuttled after them. By now Gabriel had Finn almost out of the room, out of the house. ‘How
could
he?’ she said over her shoulder, but Stella-Jean understood, with a clutching of horror, that Angie meant,
How could Finn do this to Gabriel?
, not the other way around.

Reaching the front door, she saw her dad standing on the path, panting, in his running gear. He had one hand half-raised toward the stranger who was towing the gasping Finn past him, Angie hurrying behind.

‘Angie? What the hell is happening?’ Gerry asked, baffled but clearly ready for action. ‘Are you —’

‘I’m fine, it’s okay,’ said Angie breathlessly. ‘We’re just going!’ Then they were past him, out the gate and heading toward a van that was parked at the kerb.

As Stella-Jean hurtled after them, Gerry grabbed her wrist, pulling her up short. ‘Wait up Stella, wait up. What’s going on?’

‘Dad, I —’ she said, trying to tug away.

‘Stay! Here!’ he barked, holding her. ‘Tell me what’s happening. Who is that bloke?’

Stella-Jean gulped in air, trying to find words. ‘That’s, uh – Gabriel, from the church, he’s moving in to Angie’s house and I – uh – Finn chucked a wobbly and went for him and then Gabriel —’ she made a helpless gesture toward her own elbow ‘— and now he — Look, he’s just carting him away!
Da-ad!
’

The others were in the cabin of the van now, and the engine started up; they were about to drive away.

‘Let them go,’ said Gerry firmly. ‘I don’t want you getting involved. Let her sort out her own bloody problems.’

‘But, Dad, what about
Finn
?’ Her father had released Stella-Jean’s wrist now but there was no use running after them, the van had already pulled away from the kerb.

‘Maybe it’s time somebody took a firm hand with that kid. Maybe somebody’s finally going to set some boundaries.’

‘
I
take a firm hand with him!
I
set boundaries!’ Stella-Jean cried.

‘I know you try to, Stell,’ her father said, ‘but it’s not your job.’ He flung a sweaty arm over her shoulders, turning her back toward the house. She twisted around, looking at the van as it drove away down the street. As it turned the corner she thought she could see Finn’s small pale face at the window, staring back at her.

She raised her arm to him, forlorn and desperate, but tonight her cousin did not – or could not – return the salute.

NINE

‘You just sit there and relax, darling,’ Jean said. ‘Leonard’ll help me; he knows where everything is.’ And indeed he did, as Susanna realised watching her mother’s friend get out the mustard, or the colander, as needed, with quiet efficiency.
My friend Leonard Styles
: that was how Mum always referred to the tall, courteous man who’d moved into the retirement village a year or so ago – but surely they were more than just friends? Susanna hoped so; she thought him a very suitable companion: active, intelligent, a good conversationalist.
Would Mum actually get married again?
Susanna felt a tingle of presentiment that an announcement, a significant announcement, was going to be made this evening.

Not wanting to hover, she went across to the living room and looked around, trying to figure out what it was that had vaguely registered as being different when she’d arrived. Not the flowers, not the furniture … It was —
oh!
The pictures, on the wall! Susanna froze for a moment, then went closer to make sure.
Yes.

‘Mum! You’ve put up Dad’s painting of me and – Angie’
.
Her voice dropped as she said her sister’s name. Jean hadn’t had even a snapshot of Angie on display, not since the day Susanna’s father died.

‘Yes, dear. A bit of a change,’ said her mother in a neutral voice. Amazed, Susanna gazed across the room at her and saw her mother glance swiftly at Leonard, who was assiduously picking over a bowlful of lettuce leaves. ‘Actually,’ Jean said, ‘Leonard suggested that it … might be a nice idea.’

Ah, did he now?
Susanna’s respect for Leonard Styles ratcheted up several more notches. She went over and leaned against the bench. ‘Thank you, Leonard,’ she said quietly, and he inclined his head in acknowledgement.

‘Now, Susie, look at this,’ Jean said, in a tone that declared Change of Subject. She handed her daughter a newspaper clipping. ‘Aren’t these paintings lovely? When I saw this article I thought, these are the sorts of paintings Susanna could do for her exhibition.’

‘Oh, Mum, I’m flattered! But this is so far out of my league. Cressida Campbell is one of our finest artists.’

‘I’m sure you could do things just as good as these,’ said Jean.

‘No, Mum, really!’ Susanna protested. ‘I play a bit of tennis, but I don’t kid myself I’m up there with Serena Williams.’

‘Well,
I
think you are,’ Jean said stoutly. Their eyes held each other, then they both laughed. ‘Now then. Dinner’s ready. Let’s sit at the table in the courtyard, shall we? It’s still light enough.’

‘Might I ask, Susanna,’ said Leonard, as he put some grilled fish on her plate, ‘what sort of pictures you’re planning to have in your exhibition? I’m not very knowledgeable about art, forgive me, but I am interested.’

She told them, rather hesitantly, about the ‘Women’s Work’ idea, and found herself buoyed up by their enthusiasm. Maybe it
was
a good idea after all. Their simple dinner was soon finished, and Jean apologised to Leonard for the lack of dessert. ‘One of our book group members has a patisserie, so Susie and I always save ourselves for whatever wicked indulgence Jo brings.’

‘Of course, my dear,’ said Leonard.

‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ said Susanna, half rising, but Jean held up a hand to stay her. ‘Wait, Susie.’ She and Leonard exchanged a meaningful look. ‘There’s something we wanted to tell you.’

Susanna’s heart did a little skip. ‘I thought there might be.’

‘We’ve decided, Leonard and I, that we’re going to take a trip overseas next year. A big one: ten weeks. We’re going to visit all those places in Europe I’ve always wanted to see.’

‘Your mother’s never been to Venice,’ said Leonard. ‘A situation which must be remedied.’

Susanna couldn’t, mustn’t, let her face fall. This was exactly what she had hoped to do with her mother next year.

They outlined their itinerary: Italy, Spain, France, Germany. ‘It’ll be the trip of a lifetime,’ Jean said, and Leonard took her hand and held it. ‘A Grand Tour.’

This
is
like announcing their engagement
, Susanna realised, and let go of her own unvoiced plans, and her disappointment. ‘The kind of trip well-heeled young couples used to make, when they were on their honeymoon,’ she said, raising one eyebrow cheekily.

Her mother giggled, and Leonard raised her hand and brushed the back of it, with its ropy veins and its age spots, with his lips. Susanna, watching, felt her heart open to their clear and abundant happiness.

Tonight, the members of the book group had gathered in the comfortable Eltham home of Denise, a primary school teacher, whose attractive adolescent daughters had wafted through several times collecting iPods and homework and compliments from the visitors before being told by their mother affectionately to clear off. On the long wooden table amid the water and wine glasses, the nibbles and dips, sat copies of that month’s book,
Without A Backward Glance
, a novel about a troubled family where the mother had walked out on her husband and four young children in 1967 and not been seen again for forty years.

‘Well now, what did you all think of my choice?’ asked Denise, displaying her copy in what Susanna recognised as a teacherly gesture.
Show and tell.

‘Well, it was certainly easy to read,’ Susanna offered. ‘I gobbled it down in a couple of nights.’

‘Same here,’ said the youngest of their group, Amy, who was doing an MA in Australian Literature. ‘A page-turner. Pretty lightweight.’

‘But does “easy to read” necessarily mean lightweight?’ Denise asked with a smile. ‘I think this novel deals with some quite
heavy
issues.’

‘Maybe, but the characters were absolutely
awful
,’ said Jo, the patisserie owner, who always brought strong opinions to their meetings as well as her delicious cakes. ‘The mother!’ She shuddered with revulsion. ‘I hated her right from the beginning. How could any mother just walk out like that on four little children?’

‘Are you
kidding
?’ cried Andrea, a potter struggling to restart her career now her kids were in school. She’d had an exhibition a few months ago; Susanna and Jean had attended and each loyally bought a piece. ‘How could she
stay
? She was suffocating! All through that opening scene I was thinking, run, girl!
Run
.’

‘How can you possibly say that, Andrea? Run off and destroy her own children’s lives? She was a monster, incapable of love.’

Voices were becoming heated. Susanna and Jean, sitting across the table from each other, exchanged a careful look.

‘But
did
she destroy them?’ asked Denise, in a tone encouraging rational discussion and civilised debate. ‘What would they have turned out like if the mother had stayed, do we think, given that she was so miserable?’

‘They each already had certain character traits, that’s made clear,’ said Miriam, Jean’s recently retired doctor friend.

‘That’s right. Life isn’t all black or white, Jo,’ said Andrea. ‘Nor are people. Every character in this book has flaws; that’s what I like about them. They’re flawed people, but they’re not
bad
.’

‘Abandoning your own children isn’t
bad
?’

‘What should she have done, then? Just let herself be stifled, because she was a mother?’

‘No one
made
her have four kids, did they! And besides, she didn’t have to stay at home. Why didn’t she just go out and get a job if she wanted one? That’s what
we’v
e done,’ Jo said, with a confirming glance around the table.

‘You think she could have done that so simply?’ asked Jean.

‘I doubt she would’ve had many opportunities,’ Miriam said thoughtfully. ‘Not in the sixties.’

‘In 1967, women in Australia had to resign from the public service when they got married.
Had
to. Did you know that?’ Jean said. Puzzled heads were shaken. ‘Contraception was still something you only talked about in whispers, and virtually impossible to get unless you were married. And terribly expensive. If you were pregnant and desperate enough, you risked your life to have a backyard abortion. No government assistance for single mothers.’ Some of the younger women were looking startled, but Jean went on. ‘Women couldn’t get loans on their own, not without a male guarantor, not even to buy a fridge, let alone to buy a house or start a business.’