Author: Sarah Clutton
Date: 2025-04-28T14:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; Family Life; General
Description: For readers who love The Midnight Library and Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine , here comes your next favourite life-affirming, delightful and funny novel, The Remarkable Truths of Alfie Bains . 'A warm-hearted and perceptive story that explores the meaning of family and the ties that bind us. I adored the vivid characters in this stand-out novel – young Alfie Bains leapt off the page and straight into my heart.' Joanna Nell, bestselling author of Mrs Winterbottom Takes a Gap Year 'Every family could do with some home truths from the wildly adorable Alfie Bains.' Meg Bignell, bestselling au
Publisher: Allen & Unwin

PRAISE FOR
THE REMARKABLE TRUTHS OF ALFIE BAINS

‘A warm-hearted and perceptive story that explores the meaning of family and the ties that bind us. I adored the vivid characters in this stand out novel—young Alfie Bains leapt off the page and straight into my heart.’ JOANNA NELL, bestselling author of Mrs Winterbottom Takes a Gap Year

‘Every family could do with some home truths from the wildly adorable Alfie Bains.’ MEG BIGNELL, bestselling author of The Angry Women’s Choir

‘Alfie Bains is a delightful, precocious nine-year old, who views the world in a completely different way. Through him, we come to understand his difficult family dynamics, the complexities of love, and how to be true to one’s self. This bittersweet story will nestle right into your heart.’ PETRONELLA McGOVERN, bestselling author of The Last Trace

Sarah Clutton lives in a storybook village in the Southern Highlands of New South Wales on Gundungurra and Tharawal country. She has tried her hand at various jobs: research assistant, judge’s associate, insurance claims guru, litigation lawyer, philanthropic foundation manager and ghost-writer. In between freelance writing gigs she is events manager for her local chapter of Rural Australians for Refugees. In 2018 she was the national recipient of the Dymocks/Fiona McIntosh Commercial Fiction Scholarship. The Remarkable Truths of Alfie Bains pays homage to her early years on a farm in North West Tasmania, and to the charms and challenges of small-town living.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

First published in 2025

Copyright © Sarah Clutton 2025

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin

Cammeraygal Country

83 Alexander Street

Crows Nest NSW 2065

Australia

Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

Email:info@allenandunwin.com

Web:www.allenandunwin.com

Allen & Unwin acknowledges the Traditional Owners of the Country on which we live and work. We pay our respects to all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Elders, past and present.

ISBN 978 1 76147 147 6
eISBN 978 1 76150 617 8

Map illustration: Grace Lewis

Typeset by Midland Typesetters, Australia

Cover design: Hazel Lam

Cover images: Stocksy

FOR HENRY, GRACE AND GEORGIE

CONTENTS

MAP

1 PENNY

2 ALFIE

3 CYNTHIA

4 PENNY

5 ALFIE

6 CYNTHIA

7 PENNY

8 NOAH

9 ALFIE

10 NOAH

11 PENNY

12 NOAH

13 ALFIE

14 CYNTHIA

15 ALFIE

16 CYNTHIA

17 ALFIE

18 PENNY

19 CYNTHIA

20 CYNTHIA

21 ALFIE

22 PENNY

23 ALFIE

24 CYNTHIA

25 NOAH

26 CYNTHIA

27 ALFIE

28 PENNY

29 NOAH

30 CYNTHIA

31 NOAH

32 PENNY

33 PENNY

34 ALFIE

35 NOAH

36 PENNY

37 ALFIE

38 CYNTHIA

39 CYNTHIA

40 CYNTHIA

41 CYNTHIA

42 ALFIE

43 ALFIE

44 CYNTHIA

45 PENNY

46 CYNTHIA

47 CYNTHIA

48 CYNTHIA

49 CYNTHIA

50 ALFIE

51 NOAH

52 NOAH

53 ALFIE

54 PENNY

55 ALFIE

56 NOAH

57 PENNY

58 NOAH

59 NOAH

60 NOAH

61 ALFIE

62 NOAH

63 ALFIE

64 PENNY

65 CYNTHIA

66 PENNY

67 NOAH

68 ALFIE

69 CYNTHIA

70 CYNTHIA

71 NOAH

72 ALFIE

73 CYNTHIA

74 CYNTHIA

75 ALFIE

AUTHOR’S NOTE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

1

PENNY

NOW

The knife teetered atop the bag of chicken pellets, feathers dancing along the length of the blade like yellowing snowflakes. Puffs of them clung to Penny’s woollen jumper and floated down inside her boots. There was no delicate way to gut a pillow.

She shook the last of the down through the gash in the fabric and arranged it around the nesting box. The chickens ignored her and pecked at their wheat.

‘There. Cosy as you like, girls.’

The empty pillow casing was brown with old patches of sweat and smelled faintly of mildew. There wasn’t even a hint of Lincoln’s scent remaining, though what had she expected? The pillows had been gathering dust under the bed for almost two decades, and yet still, she felt a flicker of loss. Today Lincoln would have been seventy, and Penny had a sense that the niggling farm issues that had plagued her all day were some sort of portent—a gruff message from her long-dead husband, perhaps: Time to retire, old girl. Sell up and move into town before it takes you too.

She leaned beneath the cherry tree to pick up the knife. There was a sudden tug and she jerked to a halt. Her jumper had snagged on the chicken coop. She peered over her shoulder, but a branch smacked her in the face. ‘Ooph!’ she muttered as her glasses fell off. She leaned back as carefully as she could, but the snag held.

All day she had been walking around the farm on autopilot. Milking the ewes, fixing a loose fence post, fiddling with the ball-tap mechanism in the west paddock water trough. But a blank hollowness had settled through her; and a strange conviction that Lincoln, or the universe, or the guardian angel of accidental farmers, was telling her to listen. Listen for what, exactly, it was hard to say, but she supposed for some sort of sign. Was being trapped by the chicken coop a sign?

Her hip began buzzing. She felt around for her phone and squinted at the screen, but without her glasses she couldn’t read the name. ‘Hello?’

‘Can you believe Rainn doesn’t want my help? I said I’d come up and bake for her, but she keeps saying there’s nothing to do. Of course there are things to do!’

Cultivated vowels, clipped tones, imperious delivery. Her elder sister. ‘Hilary? When did you—’

‘She said she’s got thirty-seven cakes promised and it’s all under control.’

‘If you’re talking about the centenary cake stall fundraiser, I’m sure she’ll be fine.’ Although Penny, too, had serious doubts about their younger sister organising an event that involved the coordination of two dozen people, the erection of a market tent and the use of an oven.

‘Are you insane? We’re talking about Rainn! The woman who forgot to turn up to her own wedding.’

‘That was decades ago. She doesn’t drink anymore, Hil.’

‘You sound odd,’ said Hilary. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing.’ Penny didn’t like to mention Lincoln’s messages from the grave, nor her current predicament with the chicken coop. Hilary would laugh at her. She shrugged her shoulders back and forth, but the jumper remained stuck.

‘I’ll come tomorrow,’ said Hilary. ‘I’m going to book into that lovely bed and breakfast with the fancy moon bird mural on the wall.’

‘You can always stay here, you know.’

‘Your spare bed is lumpy,’ said Hilary, dismissively. ‘The sea air is fresher in town too. It doesn’t smell like sheep.’

Penny looked across at the setting sun that was turning the paddocks to gold. The sky was striped pink and the air was lovely. Extremely fresh.

‘Or maybe I’ll come on Thursday. Bring the Jag and make a road trip of it.’

Hilary’s 1980s Jaguar was an ugly bronze rust bucket with uncomfortable seats. She’d paid five thousand dollars for it to a retired judge she somehow knew. No doubt it was unroadworthy, since her sister hated spending money unless it was on something sparkly or from an op shop. She’d only bought the car so she could say things like, ‘Oh, yes, let’s take the Jag,’ in an off-hand sort of way.

‘Good idea.’ Penny stood on tiptoe and shrugged again. She imagined the hole getting bigger as the wool unravelled.

‘You could come back to Hobart with me next week. Have a weekend off,’ said Hilary.

‘I … I can’t.’ Penny huffed in frustration as she reached behind her back. She could only feel leaves.

‘I’m changing to FaceTime,’ said Hilary. ‘You’re grumpy. You need to look me in the eye and tell me what’s wrong.’

‘No, I—’ but the line was dead, and the burbling sound of the FaceTime call began. Against her better judgement, Penny swiped the screen.

‘Right, what’s the matter?’ asked Hilary.

A riot of colour assaulted Penny amid the blurred creases of her sister’s face. Hilary was wearing bright red lipstick and her hair appeared to be dyed pink. A garish purple and lime scarf was tied at her neck. Most 64-year-olds couldn’t pull it off, and yet Hilary almost managed it.

‘What have you done to your hair?’

‘Isn’t it fabulous? I went to see Marco yesterday and we decided I needed a change. But what’s up with you?’

‘I’m stuck. And I’ve been having strange feelings about Lincoln.’

‘What sort of strange feelings?’

‘It would have been his birthday today, and every task I tackle seems to be a problem. It feels as if he’s talking to me. What if he’s telling me to give up this place?’ She sighed. ‘I know I sound mad.’ She waited for the onslaught of ridicule from her sister.

‘Oh, darling,’ said Hilary, gently. She leaned into the screen, frowning. ‘Your neck looks funny. And why are you in a tree?’

‘I’m not. I’m next to one.’

‘Oh. Right.’ Hilary paused. ‘Take action then. Sell the farm. You shouldn’t feel stuck.’

‘I’m not feeling stuck, I am stuck. On the chicken coop. If I hold you up over my shoulder, can you tell me what I need to do to unhook my jumper?’

‘What are you doing?’ shouted Hilary. ‘It’s all blurry. I can’t see anything!’

Penny lifted the phone higher and tried to shrug herself upwards, but the jumper remained caught.

‘Just pull the damn thing,’ ordered Hilary.

‘No, it’s special.’

‘It’s that hideous brown thing you knitted thirty years ago.’

‘It was Lincoln’s favourite!’

‘Take it off,’ called Hilary.

Penny put the phone on the fence rail and gently prised the jumper over her head. She slithered out of it. ‘You’re a genius.’ She retrieved her glasses and wiped the dirt off the lenses.

‘Of course I am,’ said Hilary. ‘But back to you. You’re wearing Lincoln’s clothes and communing with the dead. We need to sort you out.’

‘I’m fine,’ muttered Penny, unhooking the jumper from a jagged piece of wire.

‘Some may say you need to slow down.’

‘Well, some don’t have a flat tyre to fix on their quadbike and a fridge full of cheeses to package.’

‘You know, Pen,’ said Hilary thoughtfully as Penny headed for the back door, ‘you probably just need to get laid.’

‘Don’t be daft!’ Penny shoved the pillow-casing fabric into the kitchen bin. She didn’t have any interest in men. She hadn’t had sex since 2002—a week before Lincoln had made a rash decision involving a steep hill and a dodgy fence post, which had upended far more than just the tractor that had flattened him. The celibacy didn’t bother her, but the lack of someone to discuss farming decisions with, or to share dessert at an occasional restaurant, had made life quite lonely.

Penny’s stomach rumbled and she opened the pantry, searching for crackers that might transform some cheese and hommus into dinner. The doorbell trilled.

‘What was that?’ asked Hilary.

‘The doorbell. I need to go.’

‘Take me with you! It might be a knight in shining armour for you. I need to see if he’s the right sort. Or she. Nobody minds these days.’

‘I’m hanging up.’

‘Don’t you dare! I’m your big sister—you know I only have your best interests at heart. Besides, I’m sitting in my chair with a foot treatment on and I need entertainment.’

‘Oh, for pity’s sake! You’re impossible.’ Penny walked down the hallway, letting the phone swing in her hand, hoping it might make Hilary dizzy.

She opened the door. The porch was empty. She peered left across the dahlia bushes that framed one side of the path. She raised her hand to her eyes and squinted into the setting sun. Nothing. Ahead, her pebbled driveway was empty. The road outside the front gate was devoid of cars and, across the way, her neighbour’s broccoli crop rolled across a gentle hill, verdant green and striped with rows of red-brown earth, towards the distant ocean.

‘Who is it?’ Hilary’s screeching hummed in Penny’s hand. ‘Hold up the phone!’

‘There’s nobody here.’

‘Bells don’t ring themselves.’

Something drew Penny’s attention to the other side of the garden. Part of a small silver hatchback protruded from behind the radiata pine hedge. Then, without warning, a rustling noise erupted from the huge flowering hydrangea that hugged the front of the house. A boy stepped out.

Penny jumped. ‘Oh, heavens! Who are you?’

‘Hello,’ he said, brushing down his T-shirt.

The boy had freckles and startling blue eyes flecked with amber. He stared at her, then down at his shoes, balling his fists. His alabaster white skin began to redden from his neck to his cheeks. He looked at her again. There was something about those eyes.

‘Who is it?’ screeched Hilary.

The boy looked at the phone.

‘That’s my sister. Hilary. She likes to know what’s what.’ Penny glanced at the car. Someone was in the driver’s seat.

‘Hold me up!’ called Hilary again.

Penny lifted her arm and said to the boy, ‘What’s your name?’

‘Alfie,’ said the boy, frowning at the phone.

‘And what can I do for you, Alfie?’

‘I’m here to meet you.’ He returned his focus to Penny. ‘I wanted to after my mum’s appendix exploded, and I had to go and stay with Aoife. When Mum told me about you, I said I had rights.’ He had the faintest hint of an Irish accent.

‘Oh. I see,’ said Penny. ‘You’re very young to know about your rights. You only look about seven.’

‘I’m nearly ten. And I’m in the G and T program.’

‘Gin and tonic?’ called Hilary.

Penny and the boy both looked at the phone. Penny’s mouth had become unaccountably dry. ‘Why did you want to meet me?’

He shifted from side to side and rubbed his hands on his shorts. Then he took a breath. ‘I need more people in case something else happens to my mum, because I don’t know my dad, and so I don’t know his family or any cousins or anything like that. And I told my mum it was not kind to hold a grudge, like she’s always telling me about the kids who tease me for putting up my hand in class and knowing everything, and so I told her it was time not to be holding the grudge anymore because if something happened to her I would need more than just one or two people in my life.’ He blinked at her earnestly.

‘I see,’ said Penny. A hot, thick sensation was spreading in her chest.

The boy continued. ‘Kevin smells too much to go and live with. Also, he used to have mental health issues. And Mrs Teale from over the hallway is nice, but she’s got bad arthritis because she’s nearly a hundred. And she says a grandmother is a good sort of person to know in case of emergencies like could happen in Dublin if you got off the bus and weren’t looking because the traffic is fecking terrible.’ The boy’s face froze, mortified by his slip.

‘What did you say?’ demanded Hilary from the phone.

‘The traffic is terrible in Dublin,’ he murmured, gravely.

‘Did you say … grandmother?’ Penny had a skittery sensation, as if she wasn’t real and this was a scene she was watching from afar, even though her heart had reached her throat.

He nodded. ‘Mrs Teale said grandmothers like having young people around them and I’m not going to be young forever. I turn eleven in thirteen and a quarter months.’

Penny could barely breathe, yet she heard herself say, ‘I’m not your grandmother.’

‘Yes, you are.’

A ball of terror began flipping and spinning up through Penny’s sternum.

‘My name is Alfred Edward Deegan Bains. My mother is Emilia Deegan Bains. You’re her mother, which makes you my grandmother, even if you don’t like it.’ He scuffed one shoe into the dirt. ‘Mum said once you get over the shock, you’ll like me. I’m a very interesting person.’

Penny stepped backwards and sank down onto the porch. She looked to the car where a woman now emerged and took a hesitant step towards them.

‘Mum?’ the boy called. ‘Come and tell her.’

The sunset’s golden pink hues were now leaching into grey shadows, deepened by the pine hedge. But even in twilight, the familiarity of the woman’s gait was immediate. Penny couldn’t move. The boy swivelled his gaze back and forth; confounded, it seemed, by her collapse, and by the spectacle of the barking, pink-haired Hilary on her phone screen who now lay face up on the pavers.

Penny wanted to get up, but her legs wouldn’t obey. She watched the approaching figure while her brain began shooting incoherent messages like misfiring darts.

How dare you do this to me, you dreadful girl!

My god, it’s my beautiful missing girl.

It can’t be true—I have no grandchildren.

I’m a grandmother!

The woman kept walking towards her, serious and slender. She stopped at the edge of the pavers then took the boy’s hand and squeezed it. She looked down at Penny.

‘Hello, Mum.’

2

ALFIE

TWO DAYS EARLIER

The statistical probability of me dying in a car accident during my lifetime is a bit over one in a hundred. But because my mum, being the driver, and being in the 30–39-year-old category and being female are important variables, today my odds are better than that. Also, because she’s not speeding. Still, they are much higher odds than the chance of me dying while canoeing (one in ten thousand) or while playing a computer game (one in a million).

I just started on statistics. Kevin told me I was ready a few weeks ago, before we left Dublin. Anyway, a one in a few hundred chance of dying in a car crash (I’m estimating now, taking into account how Mum is quite old and female) seems like okay odds to me. And if I take the seatbelt off to reach across the back seat to get my iPad, it’s unlikely Mum will crash at that exact second and cause my instant death from brain eruption or whatever high-speed crashes do to a kid without his belt on.

‘Alfie! Seatbelt!’ Mum turns her head back and forth between me and the road like a bent-up cuckoo clock.

I grab the iPad and shove the buckle back in. ‘Sorry.’ But honestly, that would totally have been Mum’s fault if I got killed just then. The crazy neck-turning would have increased the crash probability by heaps. Maybe exponentially. Although I’m not really sure how exponentially works yet. Kevin had scheduled exponentially for one of our future sessions, but then Mum decided we should move back to Australia.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ asks Mum in her furious voice.

‘Getting my iPad. Do you think my grandmother will like me?’ This is an example of my best distraction technique: bring up something Mum feels guilty about when I’m in trouble. In this case, Mum feels bad for not telling me I had a grandmother until last month, after the hospital incident when her appendix exploded like a jelly bomb. I had to stay at Aoife’s for four days, which was not a positive experience. She has way too many horrible children who fight at maximum decibels about everything. The only thing they agree on is that I’m weird. When Mum got out of hospital, I got mad at her for nearly dying and for not having any family, and she agreed she should have told me about this actual living grandmother ages ago. I decided not to let her off the hook so easily. It was a major oversight, forgetting to tell me about a grandmother. Even if the grandmother did live on the literal other side of the world.

‘Of course she’ll like you, Alf. Who wouldn’t?’

I think about this for a minute. Brett Spangler calls me knobchops every day at school. I open Minecraft on my iPad.

‘She’ll only be angry with me, Alf. Not you. It’s my fault we’re estranged.’

‘We’re not strange,’ I say. ‘You tell me that all the time.’

‘Estranged. I mean, the reason I wasn’t talking to her. It’s my fault she doesn’t know about you.’

‘You can’t change the past, Mum.’ I say this a lot when I’m trying to make Mum feel better, even though, in this case, I’m not meant to be letting her off the hook. Kevin taught me that saying. He likes it because even though he’s now a Buddhist, he used to have a crack addiction. Aoife told Mum she was scraping the bottom of the parenting barrel, leaving me in the care of an ex-crack addict with personal hygiene issues, but Mum’s very loyal to Kevin. She says everyone deserves a second chance, and the only reason he smells is that his recipe for home-made witch-hazel deodorant doesn’t work. Still, I’m pretty sure that even though Kevin doesn’t worry about the past, Mum sometimes wishes he could change it.

Mum swipes her eye, trying to pretend she isn’t slightly crying.

‘But you can change the future,’ I say. ‘Everything changes.’ This is a universal truth of Buddhism. Kevin being a Buddhist is proof of a rare statistic happening to me. Way less than one per cent of people living in Ireland are Buddhist, so it blows my mind that our best Irish friend is one. If I was a gambler like Paddy’s dad, I would have put my money on Catholic.

‘You’re going to find it really interesting here in Tasmania. It’s so pretty,’ says Mum. ‘And I bet everyone at your new school will love you.’

‘I’d say the probability of that is low, Mum. Going on previous experience.’

‘Don’t be silly, Alfie.’

Mum calls me silly a lot when I say true things. It’s like she wishes I wouldn’t say them, even though she says telling the truth is the most important thing. Except for kindness. She’s got a bee in her bonnet about kindness. ‘It’s better to be kind than to be right,’ she always says. Personally, I’m not convinced. If that were true, it would mean I should never, ever correct any of the kids or the teachers at school when they say something ignorant. And how’s that supposed to work?

3

CYNTHIA

NOW

Cynthia stood in her garden and considered the abandoned egg carton. The engine noise disappeared down the hill and into the distance. If she raced around the back of the garage, she might be able to make out the details of the car. But then she would know and what good would that do?

A single, perfect egg remained in the box, partially obscured by a bed of lamb’s ear. The rest of the carton’s contents were congealing in soggy, sliding patches on the window ledges and inside the portico of her house.

She sighed and looked across the headland to the grey-gold clouds that blanketed the sky, sending shimmering patterns onto the ocean. The sun would be gone soon. She placed the egg carton onto the drystone wall, then pulled the hose from its retractable casing. Her hand moved up and down rhythmically as she sprayed the water across the windows and along the grand portico until she had jettisoned the remaining gooey mess into the lavender bushes. The lone egg, when she picked it up, felt smooth and perfect against the platinum of her forty-year-old wedding ring. She lifted her arm and hurled it towards the ocean. It dropped, disappointingly, into the paddock fifteen metres away.

‘Little fucker,’ she said.

Upstairs, in the bedroom, she quashed an urge to cry. Instead she busied herself: removing her shoes and placing them in the fifth row of her shoe wall, pulling on slacks and a cotton jumper over her shirt and leaving her pearl earrings in place. She had a board meeting on Zoom tonight: a food aid charity she’d helped since its inception, and the jumper with her collar showing on screen should do the trick.

‘Cyn? You in here?’

She headed downstairs towards her husband’s voice, wondering if he’d passed the egg-tosser on the road as he drove up to the house. ‘I’m here,’ she called, pulling a bottle of wine from the rack as she reached the kitchen. ‘Drink?’

Patrick appeared and took the proffered glass. ‘I’ve put those shirts I ordered from Thomas Pink on to wash.’

She smiled—the equivalent of the pat on the back he was clearly seeking, despite the fact the washing machine would hold only his shirts and nothing of hers. ‘Good day?’

He slumped onto the sofa. ‘Not really. A woman collapsed in the waiting room. By the time we’d gotten her off to hospital I was an hour behind with my patients.’

‘I hope she’s all right,’ said Cynthia, knowing he wouldn’t tell her who it was.

‘Mmm,’ said Patrick, vaguely. ‘I’m thinking we should change the size of the marquee we ordered. If the weather’s bad, the eighteen-metre one won’t fit everyone. I know we’re using the house as well, but I’m not convinced it’s enough.’

The historical society event was all Patrick thought about at the moment. The centenary celebration of the election of the first (and last) Prime Minister of Australia to be born in Beggars Rock was being held at a gala event in their very own garden in a few weeks’ time. Even the state premier was coming. The who’s who of Tasmania’s glitterati were coming too—such as they were—plus anyone from the town with an interest in history. Also, everyone else from town who wanted a photo with the premier for their Facebook page.

‘Why don’t you ask the committee tomorrow?’

‘They’ll dither about the increased cost. I’ll just upgrade the order and pay it,’ he said. ‘What if it rained on the night? Where would we fit?’

Cynthia looked through the double doors of their large kitchen–dining room and down the hallway that led to the ballroom; albeit a small one compared to other significant heritage houses of the era. But still. A ballroom. She called it ‘the library’ and had lined it with books so she’d feel less ridiculous when she led people through on the National Trust tour days. ‘Whatever you think.’

He looked at her quizzically.

She smiled and put a pre-prepared curry for two in the microwave. While it hummed, she wiped the benches. One familiar action, then another.

‘Maybe I’ll get painters in too,’ he said. ‘Freshen the place up.’

‘Oh, really?’ They’d had the entire house painted four years ago. There were no grandchildren with sticky fingers running around. They rarely entertained at home anymore. The walls were pristine. But if that’s what he wanted. They earned plenty of money; if he wanted to spend it on this house he loved so much, why would she worry about it? He liked making financial decisions. He liked making their house perfect. Lately, it was a useful distraction to stop him from thinking about Julian. And Ned. About whether the Heston-Blaise family plot was being attended to properly in the cemetery. And whether they should vary their weekly fresh order of flowers to the plot to include natives that would last longer. And why a dead possum had been found next to Ned’s headstone last week. (Patrick was certain the possum had been maliciously dumped. He was having none of her theory it might have simply curled up on their son’s grave to die. Ned had always liked possums.)

‘I thought some new colours, from the heritage palette of course,’ Patrick said. ‘The colour consultant left it here last time, didn’t she?’

‘I think so,’ said Cynthia, putting beans into the steamer. ‘I’ll look in my office.’

‘And I need to liaise with Henry’s security detail. They sent an email about arrival times and they want details of the whole event.’ Patrick took a large sip of wine.

Cynthia could tell he was excited about the security for the premier, Henry Lewisham, one of Patrick’s old university chums. It wouldn’t take him long to bring it up with the committee tomorrow night.

‘Will the security guards have walkie-talkies?’ she asked. ‘Or those earplug things with the curly attachments around the back of their necks?’ Had she pitched that right? Did she sound interested?

‘They’re higher tech than that, I imagine. Probably have hidden microphones in their lapels.’

Cynthia took the rice out of the cooker and wondered if this was the rest of her life. Ready meals on their laps when Patrick wanted to watch the television; at the table if he didn’t. Business meetings by day. Frequent committee meetings for the historical society where she said almost nothing, and Patrick said everything. Then there was the house, always this wretched house and the farm. And sending emails to people who hedged the garden and ran the cattle and sorted out the roof leaks. It was a lot of work, keeping on top of a heritage-listed house with six acres of grounds and a semi-working farm with an empty manager’s cottage. Sometimes it all felt endless, and pointless. And it gave her very little in return. I need a friend. The thought was so startling she accidentally slopped curry sauce onto Patrick’s rice. Blast. He liked it all separate on the plate. With barely any sauce. She took out a fresh plate and began again.

Why would she suddenly need a friend? She was too busy for friends. She was a partner in a consulting firm. Only part-time now, but still. She flew to Melbourne twice a month for three days at a time and had plenty of people to chat to there. If she wanted to. She usually didn’t, given all the meetings she had to fit in and the hurried visit to her mother in the retirement village before heading back to Tasmania. She’d given up her university friends decades ago and barely spoke to her brother. Patrick and the house took up so much of her time, and now she had all these dealings with Julian’s lawyer. She sighed. Julian. Her spoilt, beautiful youngest child. Who would have thought it would all come to this?

She handed Patrick his plate and sat next to him on the sofa.

‘Wonderful. Thanks.’ He smiled.

There, she thought. I may not have friends, but I have plenty of other things. A well-mannered (and well-respected) husband for a start. One who was happy to be served ready-made meals as long as they were top quality. Patrick genuinely cared about the community and worked hard to bring in opportunities for locals; he was a brilliant GP and he often complimented her choice of outfit. She should count herself lucky, she supposed, to have a partner who could manage the public face of things. She knew she was not well liked in the town. People thought her stuck up, when she was not at all stuck up. She hated the fact she and Patrick had a ballroom in their house! It was Patrick who’d insisted on buying the damn place, but nobody ever thought him stuck up because he made self-deprecating jokes about the ballroom and he was chummy with all the tradespeople. Her husband was the master of small talk and everybody liked him.

‘This is a good curry,’ said Patrick. ‘We’ll need to leave early tomorrow for the meeting. We should have something quick. Maybe an omelette.’

‘There are plenty of eggs,’ said Cynthia, thinking of the one she’d thrown away. She closed her eyes as a wave of sadness threatened to engulf her. That was the second time the egging had happened. If only she was brave enough to mention it. To deal with things. She forked some curry into her mouth and chewed as quietly as she could. What were the chances she knew the egg-tosser? Low. Most of the women she knew in town wouldn’t fit the bill.

‘I meant to tell you,’ said Patrick. ‘Mrs Slip handed in her notice.’

Cynthia spun to face him. Mrs Slip was their cleaner and housekeeper.

‘She emailed me. Needs more time with the family, apparently.’

‘Why didn’t she email me?’ asked Cynthia.

He grinned. ‘Maybe she likes me better.’

Cynthia huffed. Of course she liked him better. Patrick asked about Mrs Slip’s grandchildren and discussed the ins and outs of dead-heading roses with her. Cynthia tried to have conversations with Mrs Slip, but the woman would simply nod and ask for the job list Cynthia typed up every Sunday night, as though concerned she was holding Cynthia up from some important task. That was Patrick’s superpower: making people think he had all the time in the world, even though he’d sometimes complain about them when they left. She’d once told him if he didn’t like it then he should stop asking so many questions, and he’d given her that funny look which meant it was the wrong thing to say.

‘How am I going to find someone new?’ asked Cynthia.

‘I’ll put a notice on the board at the surgery,’ said Patrick. ‘Or on Facebook.’

‘On Facebook?’ Cynthia didn’t do social media. Being in possession of friends seemed like a prerequisite.

‘On the local Beggars Rock forum,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Or we can ask at the meeting tomorrow night. Someone might know someone.’

‘Maybe I’ll go to the coffee shop, put up my own notice in the window.’

Patrick stared at her. ‘Which one?’

‘Is there more than one?’

He laughed. ‘Lolly’s now has competition. The Little Fat Cat opened a month ago.’

Cynthia sniffed. ‘I’ll print two copies.’ Who would have thought Beggars Rock could sustain two coffee shops. She hoped the new people had completed a thorough business plan.

Patrick shook his head. ‘Wonders will never cease. My wife going to the local coffee shops.’

A stab of pain ratcheted through Cynthia’s chest. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

Patrick raised an eyebrow. He pressed the remote and turned on the news. ‘Why indeed.’

4

PENNY

NOW

Twelve chairs were arranged around the table at the historical society committee meeting. Five were still empty; two were next to Doctor Pat and Cynthia, three on the far side of the table.

Penny liked Pat. She liked his warm eyes and his smile, and the way he never made her feel stupid when she asked a question with an obvious answer. She liked that he had never judged her for her daughter running away and leaving his son broken-hearted and distressed all those years ago. Penny shuffled into a seat two down from Pat. She didn’t want to sit too close, in case an awkward comment was made about Julian or Emilia. Pat had always been fine about the history between their children, but it didn’t stop her shrinking with regret if the topic came up.

Cynthia, though, barely acknowledged Penny. She kept to herself and looked down her nose at everyone, never saying much, but being very important because of her corporate ability, so that the whole committee treated her like the queen.

Penny scrabbled in her bag and got out her pen and notebook, ready for the meeting to start. She tried to follow the chatter but she couldn’t focus, so she took a mint from the bowl in the centre of the table instead and fiddled with the wrapper. Emilia’s arrival back in town last night was distracting her. It was still a secret, and one that sat heavily, given her current company. Only Hilary knew so far. She’d been asked not to tell anyone, but the jury was out as to how that would go.

Penny tried to read the agenda but she kept having to re-read the same words because her head was throbbing. That there was a whole, fully formed human being now staying in her house who was her blood descendant, who, only twenty-four hours earlier, had not existed in her mind was all a bit too unreal, the situation not helped by Alfie constantly saying things like, ‘Did you know Mount Chimborazo in Ecuador is closer to the moon than Mount Everest, even though it’s not as high? It’s due to the location of the equator.’

She’d never heard of a mountain called Chimborazo. It sounded made up, though she’d given him the benefit of the doubt. And as for Emilia, Penny had spent long minutes staring at her daughter, grateful that her shattered, terrified heart could now have a rest. Her girl was safe. Right here. Penny had been almost bursting into tears all day. There was that heavy, tight feeling too. As if she should be ashamed for not having looked harder for her daughter. For not having been a good enough mother that Emilia might have come home earlier; for not being worthy of the news that she had borne a child.

She took another mint and pretended to listen to the conversation. Something about the price of bananas. She chanced a sideways glance at Queen Cynthia. What would she think if she knew she had a grandson? Penny had done the maths; Emilia had become pregnant with Alfie right around the time she’d left town.

Cynthia didn’t seem like promising grandmother material. Penny had stared at herself in the mirror last night making facial expressions to go with statements she was practising for Alfie: ‘Would you like a glass of cordial and a choc chip cookie?’ (She’d actually said cookie! Not biscuit! Too many American rom coms.) Or ‘Why don’t you come with Granny to the milking shed to see what those naughty sheep are up to?’ She had a sneaking suspicion she was pitching it a bit too young. He was almost ten after all and seemed quite advanced. He took timed tests online to work out the name of a random country based on an outline of its perimeter. A simple squiggle and he could tell you whether it was Burkina Faso or São Tomé and Príncipe. (‘Both in Africa, and formerly colonised by European countries, in case you didn’t know Granny Pen’—of course she hadn’t known.)

Anyway, it was thrilling, and would be even better if there wasn’t the unexplained decade of absence. She would get to the bottom of it tonight, after this meeting. In the meantime, Penny would try to avoid Cynthia’s imperious looks, just in case she blushed with the knowledge about Alfie.

Doctor Pat coughed into his hand. ‘How about we get started? It’s five past seven. We’re nearly all here.’

There was a scraping, then a clatter from the end of the hall. Then a loud ‘Shit!’ All heads turned as Rainn strode in, jade-green ankle-length coat swirling and long strawberry-blonde tresses streaming behind her. Penny’s younger sister only ever wore her hair up when delivering a baby. The rest of the time she wanted everyone to admire her. Even at fifty-five, she was intolerably beautiful without even trying.

‘Hi! Sorry I’m late.’ Rainn gave them all a magnanimous smile. It lit up her face and made her big blue eyes widen.

She wasn’t really sorry. Rainn was never sorry for drawing attention to herself. She slipped into the remaining chair between Penny and Doctor Pat. He gave her a brief look that Penny could not interpret, then said, ‘Just getting started. You didn’t miss a thing.’

Rainn raised an eyebrow and gave Penny a look that said, Well, if you’d bothered to pick me up as you usually do, I would have been on time.

Penny felt the urge to pee. Her guilt response. True, she should have collected her sister, but was worried that if she spent any extra time with her, she might blab about Emilia and Alfie, so she’d concocted an excuse. It seemed sensible to keep their arrival a secret until Emilia was ready to talk. So far, several cups of tea and a full day on the farm had not done the trick. Though Alfie had been with them constantly. She glanced furtively at Doctor Pat and Cynthia. Alfie was their grandson too, no doubt about it. Knowing he existed, while they remained unaware that the world had shifted on its axis, suddenly felt treacherous.

‘Welcome everyone,’ Doctor Pat began. ‘Has everyone had a chance to check the minutes of the last meeting?’

Penny never actually read the minutes. She’d been at the meeting so she knew what they would say. And who would bother to falsify the report of a historical society meeting?

Once the minutes were accepted, Pat continued, ‘The convenor’s report is the first item on the agenda. So I’ll begin. In terms of the centenary party, the premier’s security detail wants the running sheet for the night and the names of everyone coming, so we’ll need to finalise timings and ticket holders soon.’

Penny tried to focus on the ticketing, and then the fundraising, which had been going on for nearly two years. Trivia nights, meat trays, a large cycling event that had attracted hundreds from all over the state, government grants to help fund the extortionately expensive bronze statue they had commissioned of the long ago prime minister. Their latest efforts, though, were dismal: a raffle promoted on Facebook (two dollar tickets for a cheese hamper, donated by Penny) and last weekend’s lunch at the bowling club, where each family paid ten dollars and a Tennyson boy played guitar while drinking two six-packs of beer and singing ever louder and ruder songs until he sang one about a penis that didn’t like its owner anymore because of the awful things the man did when he was drunk and Lou Higgins, the club manager, had pulled the microphone out of the power socket.

Now Doctor Pat was asking Rainn about the cake stall. Hilary was right, of course; their sister being in charge of anything was of real concern.

Penny accidentally caught Cynthia’s eye. She gave Penny a brisk smile. Well, more of a grimace. Penny reddened and her bladder felt like it might explode. Bother. She pushed her chair back. Doctor Pat stopped mid-sentence, then continued as she tiptoed to the bathroom. The toilet was around the corner, through a very thin wall next to the meeting table. Whenever anyone was in there, unless they had some magical technique, everyone in the meeting room could hear everything. It was hideous.

Inside the stall, Penny placed a thick wad of toilet paper into the bowl. She was mid-stream when she heard a distinctive ringtone: her new ringtone, blaring at full volume, piercing the plasterboard wall of the toilet and making her bottom clench in terror. Alfie had told her he would program a special ringtone for Emilia’s number, asking, ‘What song reminds you of Mum?’ Emilia had laughingly jumped in with ‘Highway to Hell’, and he had fiddled about then said, ‘The next time Mum rings you, you’ll know it’s her and if you want to dodge the call you won’t even have to check who it is.’ Then he’d danced around the living room while it played, like a little elf on steroids.

He must have fiddled with the volume too—the song blared, on and on, like an air-raid siren. Penny hurried to finish, but the trouble with a sixty-year-old bladder that has endured traumatic birth and subsequent surgery is that it takes a while to empty, and even then, it rarely empties completely. As she wrenched up her knickers, another unexpected stream of pee ran down her thigh. She sat and focused on finishing, then flushed and listened. Silence.

As she washed her hands, the phone began again. She sprang out of the bathroom to see her handbag in front of Rainn, its contents spilled across the table. Doctor Pat was standing, grasping the edge of the table with one hand. With his other hand he held Penny’s phone. He was waxen white. Slowly, he moved his eyes from the screen to Penny. His hand began to shake. Cynthia was also staring at the phone. Then Penny remembered. Alfie had said, ‘I’ve uploaded a photo for when Mum rings too.’ He’d showed it to her—a close-up taken earlier in the day, of Alfie and Emilia, the afternoon sun shining on his freckles and golden hair. The boy looked nothing like his mother.

He was, however, the spitting image of Pat and Cynthia’s son, Julian—the husband Emilia had abandoned ten years ago.

5

ALFIE

NOW

I am considering the research I’ve been undertaking on behalf of Kevin.

Interesting facts about Tasmania and cancer and rectums

Tasmanian devils get face cancer which is one of the only contagious cancers in the world. The other contagious one is canine transmissible venereal tumour, which looks like lumpy blobs of pink bubble-gum. It is the oldest cancer known in nature and dates back 6000 years. I am not sure if it exists in Tasmania.

There is an underground museum in Hobart that has a machine that replicates digestion and makes poop while you watch through the glass at 2 pm every day. It smells bad and was commissioned by the museum owner who is a professional gambler who dislikes the Australian Taxation Office. Scientists have used it to demonstrate how easy it is to do a poop test for bowel cancer.

There is a place called Lovely Bottom in Tasmania. And also Prickly Bottom, Deep Bottom, Round Bottom, Grassy Bottom, Broad Bottom, Long Bottom and Bottom Hole. There is also a town called Penguin.

The reason there is a town called Penguin is because the smallest of all penguins, also known as fairy penguins or Eudyptula minor, has its largest population in Tasmania. Granny Pen calls them noisy little beggars and says there are plenty that live in her sister’s garden opposite the ocean. They come in at night to roost. This fact doesn’t relate to bowel cancer, but I read that penguins squirt out guano (poop), on average 145 times per day due to their fast metabolism. They use it to make nests. So, it’s an interesting poop fact and I am encouraging general poop discussions.

I put down my notebook to remind myself that there are good things about moving to Tasmania and leaving your friend behind. I miss Kevin a lot, even though we only saw each other twice a week on average, due to him being an adult and having other pressing daily matters to attend to.

The above poop research has come about because I secretly read an email that Kevin sent to Mum. He’s very frustrated because he took his dad (who is seventy-eight) to a doctor who recommended he does a test for bowel cancer, but his dad doesn’t want to. I like Kevin’s dad, so reading this made me mad because the early bird catches the worm. My research shows that people don’t like being proactive about bowel cancer because of stigma (i.e. embarrassment). So it stops them doing the early testing, which can reduce bad outcomes. Nobody is arguing that catching your own poop on a piece of paper is not objectively revolting, but people need to consider the wider implications.

I am going to email Kevin to say I happened to read his email and have been doing research that might assist. So far, I have confined my research to Tasmanian-based topics that include bowels and cancer and bowel cancer, aka colon or rectal cancer depending on which part of your bottom it begins in. This will have the added bonus that Kevin feels more connected to Tasmania through me, which will strengthen our friendship.

6

CYNTHIA

NOW

‘I think the best thing to do is to ring Penny and ask her to bring the boy up here,’ said Pat.

‘You’re really going to do that?’ Cynthia swallowed the acid taste in her mouth. They were in Pat’s office, going through the list of things to do for the centenary party. She was exhausted after her terrible sleep. The boy on Penny’s phone screen had plagued her all night.

‘No, I think you should do it,’ said Pat. ‘Grandmother to grandmother. Just open with some casual chatter but make it clear it’s only fair we meet him.’

Cynthia couldn’t hold his gaze. There was iron determination in it. She focused on the photograph of Pat on the wall taken thirty years ago, their boys gathered around him as they stood at Bluerock Point, the wind whipping at the three blond heads as if they might all soon take flight.

‘He has to be Julian’s,’ said Pat. ‘The resemblance is striking. He looked about the right age. And why else would Penny have gone all strange if he wasn’t?’

Bugger. This was not how this was meant to go. Cynthia thought back to the terse exchange between Penny and Pat after Penny had admitted the boy was Emilia’s child and they had just arrived in Beggars Rock. Penny had to be helped out of the room by Rainn. After that, the meeting fizzled out and Pat had spent the rest of the night holed up in his office sending emails about tickets and catering, while quizzing Cynthia on what to do about the child.

There was a knocking from the kitchen. Cynthia hurried through to see Harper outside the window. How could she have forgotten that Harper was starting as their housekeeper today? She’d run into her in the new coffee shop yesterday when she was feeling supremely awkward, putting up her notices. She hadn’t seen her for years, but there she suddenly was, larger than life. The shock of seeing Harper had made Cynthia rush her words, and rush at Harper with an offer of work.

‘Hello, Harper,’ said Cynthia now. ‘Good, you’re here.’ She ushered her in.

Patrick appeared in the kitchen.

Cynthia said, ‘I’ve employed Harper to do the housekeeping and a bit of PA and computer work. She’s only in town for a few weeks but it will give us time to find a permanent replacement for Mrs Slip.’

Patrick nodded, but there was an uncomfortable silence. She should have told him. But what would she have said? I’ve just given a job to Emilia’s rebel cousin—you know, the beautiful one who drank too much at Julian and Emilia’s wedding and danced so suggestively with the band’s lead singer that your Aunt Lillian choked on some chicken and we had to call an ambulance?

‘That’s good news,’ he said eventually. ‘Welcome. Are you visiting with your mother?’

Harper regarded him a beat too long before answering. ‘Yeah.’

‘Would you like some tea before we start, Harper?’ Cynthia asked. The sight of this startling-looking woman in their traditional country kitchen was somewhat jarring: tight jeans, cropped boyish hair, a constellation of studs in her earlobes.

‘No, thanks,’ she said. ‘But I can make a cup for you, if you want.’

‘That would be lovely,’ said Pat. ‘That’ll give Cynthia and me a chance to finish some paperwork. Kettle’s there.’ He pointed to the bench. ‘Teabags in the drawer. Mugs below that. We’ll only be a minute.’

Patrick ushered Cynthia into his office. ‘Interesting choice,’ he murmured, raising an eyebrow. ‘The last time I saw her she was vomiting up shots in the garden at one of Julian’s birthday parties.’

‘That was years ago. She’ll be fine.’ Cynthia now wondered if she had only offered Harper the job because she didn’t want Patrick to do the hiring. But really, the girl was very intelligent and loyal; two qualities Cynthia admired greatly back when she had mentored Harper through her rocky teenage years. Cynthia had been on the board of a charity helping teenagers at risk—mostly to provide legal advice—but someone talked her into taking on Harper when other mentors were scarce. Initially, with her shaven head, Doc Martens boots and questionable attitude, it had been difficult to get much out of the girl. But Cynthia had persisted, and over time they’d formed a bond of sorts. Cynthia bought her an excellent laptop, and aware of the girl’s obvious intellect, encouraged her to sit for a scholarship at the private school her own three boys attended. Then Harper had befriended Cynthia’s twins, Noah and Ned, and they had become an inseparable trio. Harper had never been a favourite of Pat’s, but Cynthia had always been secretly impressed by her insouciance and wit.

Patrick sighed, but she could tell his mind was already back on the other issue. The boy.

‘So, get Penny to bring him up for morning tea or something. We have to have him in our life. That’s all there is to it.’

‘Pat, please. Why would we want Emilia back in our lives after the way she left Julian? And what if the boy isn’t Julian’s?’

‘It’s obviously his son! A Heston-Blaise child! It’s not about Emilia. She can’t raise him without him knowing this side of the family.’

In the silence that followed came the sound of a throat being cleared. ‘Er, hello? Tea girl here, come to take your order.’ Harper was leaning against the doorframe. ‘Wasn’t sure what kind of tea, given how there are thirty-five types of herbal in that drawer.’ She held out several colourful, individually wrapped teabags. ‘What flavour would float your boat? Mint maybe?’

Pat looked distractedly at her.

Harper held a pink packet aloft. ‘Or Liquorice Root? I hear it’s the bomb if you’re constipated.’

Cynthia swallowed.

‘English Breakfast will be fine. Thanks,’ said Pat.

‘Good choice.’ Harper stepped back. ‘I’ll just go dunk it in the cup.’

Pat gave Cynthia a loaded stare as Harper’s footsteps retreated.

‘Early days,’ said Cynthia, but Pat ignored her.

‘As soon as we meet the boy, we’ll know. If we hear his voice …’ he trailed off. ‘Just organise it. Please?’

Cynthia nodded and decided to email Penny instead of calling. Less chance of veering into unwanted territory. She headed into the kitchen. ‘In future, Harper, just so you know, the herbal are mine. Doctor Pat has English Breakfast, strong, with a dash of milk. No more than a teaspoon.’

‘Right,’ Harper said. ‘Do you reckon the good doc will want a bickie with that?’

‘Almost certainly not.’

A few minutes later, they turned to the sound of a car engine. Out the window, Patrick’s silver Mercedes four-wheel-drive appeared and then stopped at the top paddock gate. They watched until the car disappeared over the side of the hill.

‘I guess he doesn’t want this then.’ Harper gestured with the mug, then took a sip. ‘Where’s he gone?’

Cynthia took a deep, heavy breath. ‘To the cottage. You’ll need to go and clean it soon. We have guests coming from Hobart for this centenary event and I’ve promised them accommodation.’

‘You mean Julian and Emilia’s old cottage?’

‘Yes. You’ll need to drive there with the cleaning gear.’

‘I don’t drive.’

The unexpectedness of the idea made Cynthia’s brain stumble. ‘You can borrow my car.’

‘Nah. Don’t have a licence.’

‘Still? Why not?’

‘Guess I was too scared to try again after I totalled Mum’s car on my first driving lesson. Must be nearly twenty years ago now.’

Cynthia had a vague recollection. ‘I think you told me about that.’

‘Probably. Mum told me to pull out at the crossroads when you come out of the Boat Harbour turnoff. But a car was coming down the highway. I was too slow.’ Harper shrugged. ‘She was messy at the time, but it was my fault.’

‘Messy?’ said Cynthia.

‘Pissed off her nut.’

Cynthia winced. She thought of Harper’s mother, Rainn, righteously sober for the last few years. She was still just as good at creating drama without the alcohol, though. When she’d helped Penny out of the hall last night there had been no lack of accompanying theatrics. ‘That’s unfortunate.’

‘Yeah, well. In Melbourne I don’t need a licence. Better for the environment to take public transport.’

‘Not feasible here, I’m afraid.’ Cynthia tapped her finger against her trousers. ‘I’ll drop you at the cottage when the time comes.’

‘Okay,’ said Harper.

‘Pat likes it there’—she took a deep breath—‘it makes him … well, it’s a place where he writes.’

Harper must have picked up on Cynthia’s discomfort. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Heston-Blaise. About all the shit that’s happened to you and the doc.’

Cynthia stood perfectly still; thrum, thrum, thrum went the pulse in her neck. ‘Call me Cynthia. We’re both adults now.’ She considered Harper’s outfit, identical to those she’d worn as a teen: jeans and a hoodie with a rock band logo across the front. ‘And thank you. I appreciate that.’

‘Right, what’s the first job?’

‘I’ve made a list. It’s long.’ Cynthia motioned to the back of the house, remembering how much she hated training staff. ‘You can start in the storeroom off the laundry. All the glasses need polishing for this party. No doubt you’ve heard about it from your mother?’

Harper nodded.

‘If you get through that, start on the ironing. You’ll find what you need in the laundry.’

‘Will you be around if I have questions?’

‘I only work part-time these days and mostly from home. If I’m not on a Zoom meeting, you can interrupt me. Otherwise, we can meet for lunch at one o’clock.’

‘What work do you do these days?’

‘Consulting mostly. Business structuring for asset protection. Not much legal work anymore.’

Harper nodded.

‘You might have heard me talking to Pat earlier about … Anyway, anything you hear during your work here, well, I’m relying on your discretion.’

‘I didn’t hear anything.’ Harper smiled and it undid something in Cynthia. Something she needed to keep done up. It was the small kindnesses she found the hardest to bear. She closed her eyes and evened out her breath.

‘Things can’t have been easy for you either, Harper.’ The girl had been close to Emilia, and still tight with Cynthia’s twin boys a decade ago, back when Ned had died and Cynthia’s ostensibly perfect world had shattered.

Harper squinted, as if she didn’t know what Cynthia wanted her to say or do. Cynthia didn’t know either. Last week—before Harper’s appearance, before Emilia and the boy in the photograph—she felt she had nothing more to lose. But the faces from her past seemed to have blown into town all at once, like gathering clouds converging before a storm, and now she wasn’t so sure.

7

PENNY

NOW

Penny finished turning the final rounds of feta and returned them to the cheese fridge, wondering how long Emilia would take at the supermarket. At the door she slipped off her Crocs, stepped outside and yanked on her mucky Blundstones. Surely Alfie would still be happily distracted by the mountains of Lego she’d left him with? But what would she know? She hardly knew the child. She hurried across the yard, stopping briefly to chat to Travis, her neighbour who leased several of her paddocks on rotation every year for his potatoes and some for his cattle. He was squatted on his haunches over the fence, examining a potato plant he’d pulled up.

‘All okay, Travis?’

‘Hi, Pen. Yep, all good. Bit dry though. Might need to get the hard hose back. Won’t pull this lot up for another couple of weeks. I’m flat out with the harvester up at Murray’s place.’

‘Right-o.’ She paused as he appeared to bury the potato. ‘Could you take a look at that trough in the western paddock while you’re here? It’s leaking.’ Travis was meant to do all the maintenance for the paddocks he leased, but he occasionally missed things.

‘Yep, will do.’

Penny glanced towards the house. ‘Sorry, Travis, I have to run.’ At the back door, she heaved a sigh of relief to see Alfie still ensconced in the middle of a mountain of colourful Lego tiles on the living room floor. She’d forgotten how stressful it was dividing your time as a working parent. ‘How’s it going, Alfie?’

‘Good.’

‘Are you hungry?’

‘Not really.’

‘Oh.’ She paused. ‘I’ll make us lunch anyway.’ She found bread and ham and marvelled that making plain ham sandwiches, also Emilia’s favourite as a child, was suddenly back on her list of chores. A wave of happy exhaustion overcame her. Last night, she and Emilia had talked until midnight: about the recurring croup Alfie had as a toddler; about how he found it tricky to make friends his own age; about the local primary school in Beggars Rock, and whether he would fit in, or whether she would enrol him in the city, most likely Hobart, where there would be a school program that would suit him and a good job for her. Penny put a mini cucumber next to the ham triangles and tucked a napkin underneath.

‘Alfie, I’ve made us sandwiches.’

He was reading a large instructions page with very fine print. First thing this morning Penny had driven into Burnie and bought the largest Lego set she could find. She’d almost fainted when the toy store owner had rung up nearly three hundred dollars.

Emilia had laughed and said, ‘Don’t worry, Mum, you’re just catching up on all the birthdays you missed,’ and Penny wanted to weep at the injustice of the statement.

‘Why don’t you leave that for a moment and come and eat?’ she suggested now.

‘No, thank you. I’m quite busy.’

‘Shall I help you?’ She was mesmerised by the concentrated furrow across his brow.

‘No, thank you.’

A fervent rapping began at the front door. ‘Back in a tick.’

On the porch, Hilary was brandishing a jar of olives and a bottle of clear spirits. ‘It’s time we started drinking cocktails, little sister. Life is short.’ She leaned in and gave Penny a bony hug, then handed her the bottle.

Penny glanced at the old Jaguar parked haphazardly on the grass. ‘Not at midday.’

Hilary arched an over-plucked eyebrow. ‘I’m thinking a tequila martini. We need vermouth. Do you have any?’

‘No!’ Penny followed her older sister down the hall.

‘That’s annoying.’

‘You look tired,’ said Penny. Hilary was wearing far more makeup than usual, which was already an obscene amount, and the pink in her hair was doing something terrible to her complexion.

‘Thank you,’ said Hilary. ‘You look stressed.’ She walked into the living room.

‘Hello,’ said Alfie.

‘Well, hello there. Alfie, is it? Aren’t you the spit of your old man!’

‘Hilary!’ snapped Penny. She grabbed Hilary and dragged her into the kitchen. ‘We are not to talk about his father,’ she hissed. ‘Emilia hasn’t confirmed who the father is, and she doesn’t want to talk about it!’

‘Piffle,’ said Hilary.

‘It isn’t piffle!’

Hilary gave her a wounded look and began to hunt in the cupboards.

Penny sighed and looked out onto the paddock. ‘I’ll make us tea.’

As she reached for the mugs, she was distracted by Hilary’s glittering thighs. ‘What on earth are you wearing?’

‘Jeans.’

‘They’re rather fancy for a visit to the farm.’

‘Every girl needs an item with rhinestones in her wardrobe, Pen. I’ll leave them for you when I go home.’

‘No, thank you. I’m unlikely to be visiting a Las Vegas showgirl pantomime anytime soon.’

‘More’s the pity.’

Alfie appeared in the kitchen. ‘Can I have that sandwich now please, Granny Pen?’

‘Oh, yes! Yes! Let’s sit you at the table, darling. Would you like a glass of lemon cordial with it?’

‘No, thank you. Water is fine.’

‘Oh. Good idea,’ said Penny, juggling an odd sense of disappointment. In her newly formed grandmotherly fantasies, her home-made lemon cordial was a favourite. Not that it was homemade. There were several aspects to the fantasy.

Hilary took Alfie into the dining room, saying they needed to get to know each other. Penny hurriedly put some of Hilary’s olives into a bowl and paired them with crackers and her feta cheese. It might delay thoughts of martinis. She put the kettle on to boil and took a tray out to them.

Hilary was leaning forward on her elbows, peering gleefully across the table at Alfie. ‘So, how does that work then?’

‘It’s all matched by computer, and you can be anywhere in the world. Mum says it’s a global marketplace these days.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Hilary. ‘So how did she pick the right one?’

Penny handed Alfie his water.

‘Thank you,’ he said, turning back to Hilary. ‘She wanted me to be smart, obviously, and nice looking, because nice-looking people have an easier time in life according to Mum.’

‘Ain’t that the truth,’ said Hilary.

‘And so, she picked from the list. She picked blond hair, blue eyes, at least six foot one. Then she ticked on the box for a PhD, which took her to what kind of PhD he would have.’

A sick feeling rose in Penny. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘About how Mum decided which dad to get me from the sperm bank. It was a complicated process.’

‘Sure was,’ said Hilary, grinning. ‘It’s a miracle they can keep those little tadpoles alive long enough to squirt them in the right spot.’

Penny glared at her sister. ‘I’m sure that’s not a topic of conversation for such a lovely afternoon,’ she said breathlessly.

‘It’s okay,’ said Alfie. ‘We talk about it whenever I want. It’s interesting.’ He turned to Hilary. ‘So, she decided astrophysics would be about the smartest type of PhD you could get.’

‘Wow,’ said Hilary.

‘From a top American university.’

‘American!’ exclaimed Hilary. ‘You’re half Yank! Which university?’

‘They don’t tell you, because then you might find out who he was. Most sperm donors tick the box for anonymity.’

‘Your mum is really smart too, you know,’ said Hilary. ‘You get half your brain from her.’

‘I know,’ said Alfie.

‘She was studying biotechnology, or something like that,’ said Hilary. ‘Until she met Julian and dropped out.’

‘Who’s Julian?’ asked Alfie.

Penny frowned at her sister. ‘Let’s go out and see what those naughty sheep are up to, shall we, Alfie?’

‘But I haven’t finished my sandwich.’

‘Oh. Right, well you eat up, darling. Can I see you in the kitchen please, Hilary?’

‘Sure. I’ve got the recipe for the tequila martini on my phone. We’ll need to improvise if you don’t have vermouth.’

Penny shuffled Hilary to the far end of the kitchen, her face tight with reproach. ‘You can’t ask him about his father! What are you doing?’

‘The sperm bank thing is bollocks,’ said Hilary. ‘What are you worried about? It can’t be true. As if a girl of twenty-five, leaving her husband and newly grieving her lost baby, is going to dial up another pregnancy! “Oooh, yes, wait a minute while I look at the menu. Let me have one with ten fingers and a Mensa IQ please!”’

‘It’s possible,’ said Penny.

‘She had no job, no money and no home. Of course, it’s not possible! It’s a story she invented to get her inquisitive kid off her back.’ Hilary pulled a jug from the cupboard and sloshed a large amount of tequila into the bottom of it.

Penny slumped against the bench. ‘Are you staying here with me? You won’t be able to drive after that.’

‘No. I’ve booked into Ripley’s Inn. It’s very fancy. Lovely linen on the beds.’

‘Expensive too. How are you going to drive if you drink that?’

‘You can run me back later. Or Emilia. Don’t be a killjoy. We need to celebrate. I haven’t seen you for months!’

‘Well, whose fault is that? You know it’s hard for me to leave the farm. You’re the one who stopped visiting.’

‘I’ve been busy,’ said Hilary mildly, as she sorted through old bottles of liquor in the top cupboard.

‘With what?’ Penny asked.

‘I’ve got a new boyfriend.’

Penny opened the freezer, hoping to stifle further discussion about a new man. She should have realised. ‘I suppose you’ll need ice.’ She sighed. There would be lurid sexual details next if she didn’t head off the boyfriend conversation and she already felt a headache coming on. She might as well get on board with the drinks. There was no stopping Hilary when she started on a mission. The martinis were a fait accompli.

A new voice floated down the hall. ‘Yoo hoo, I’m here, sisters!’ Rainn was taking off her coat at the front door. ‘Good god, Pen.’ Rainn grimaced. ‘You need a clean-up.’

Penny reddened. She was so tired. She rarely had the energy to tidy up. She kept her cheese room pristine, wiped everything down meticulously to keep bacteria out, but the house was a different story. Seeing the clutter and shabbiness of her house through her sister’s eyes, she felt embarrassed.

Rainn skirted around a cabinet with a mountain of old magazines stacked on top of it.

‘And you must be Alfie, my little man.’ She squatted down and held out her arms. ‘Come and give your Aunty Rainn a big hug.’

‘That would be Great-Aunty Rainn, actually,’ said Hilary, emerging from the kitchen.

Alfie regarded Rainn suspiciously. ‘I prefer to shake hands with strangers.’

‘Oh.’ Rainn took his hand. ‘Well, we won’t be strangers for long. Aren’t you just gorgeous.’ She turned back to Penny and Hilary with a melodramatic shoulder shrug. Alfie’s rebuff had hurt her feelings. They were all going to pay for it.

‘You, dearest, are looking peaky.’ Rainn was frowning at Hilary. ‘A five-hour drive from Hobart is too much in one day. I’m always telling you that.’

‘Rubbish. I look spectacular.’

‘Not sure the pink hair does you any favours,’ said Rainn.

‘I like your hair,’ said Alfie.

Hilary swigged her drink. ‘Thank you, precious.’

‘Well, sisters, a short walk around the garden!’ Rainn clapped her hands.

Hilary rolled her eyes then tipped the rest of her drink down her throat. They both followed Rainn.

‘Look at these!’ Rainn plucked a pink climbing rose from the arbour and twirled it in her fingers. ‘You really are a whizz in the garden, Pen.’

‘Thanks,’ said Penny, tiredly.

‘So,’ Rainn turned back, ‘where on earth has Emilia been?’

‘Getting right to the point,’ quipped Hilary.

‘Don’t be like that!’ Rainn glared. ‘You can’t expect us to suffer through her disappearance for a decade and then act as if nothing happened! Look what she did to Julian. She ruined him! And she made us look like fools.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Hilary.

‘Not rubbish! Honestly, we’ve all suffered. Although I know it’s been hardest for you, Pen.’ Rainn put her arm on Penny’s.

Penny felt a little sick. It must be the tequila. She straightened a stake holding up a young banksia bush and noticed her hand shaking. How could she let her little sister have this effect on her?

‘She’s been in Dublin,’ said Penny. ‘And before that in Perth. She’s been working as a lab assistant, and studying too. Raising Alfie all alone.’

‘But, why?’ asked Rainn.

‘I … I’m not sure.’

‘It’s not really our business, Rainny,’ said Hilary. ‘She’s a grown woman. She can do what she wants.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ snapped Rainn. ‘Poor Julian! And Penny has suffered too. Year after year. Not to mention Pat Heston-Blaise. And Cynthia, not that you’d know it, but she probably has. The boy is obviously Julian’s child!’

‘He might not be,’ said Penny. But she felt the exhaustion in her voice. It was as if she were twelve again, and seven-year-old Jane (not yet Rainn—it being twenty years before her sister’s spiritual awakening at an ashram in the Grampian Ranges where she happened upon her new watery, misspelled moniker) was blinking her big eyes, spinning a most inventive story to their father to explain her ripped pants or the pen marks on the walls. Most involved Penny telling Jane to do the naughty thing, or Penny not doing something to prevent it from happening. Penny had never had the words to defend herself, or the heart to tell the truth. Little Jane-cum-Rainn had been so adorable. And so Penny had happily—well, not happily, but at least without complaint—always taken the punishment for her little sister.

‘Don’t be naive, Pen,’ said Rainn. ‘Of course he’s Julian’s.’

‘He might be from a sperm donor,’ Penny said, weakly.

‘We’ve been thrown over by the people in this town, Penny! Thrown over because your unstable daughter walked out on poor Julian and caused all the problems that followed. You need to get her up to Sommersby House to apologise. And give that family access to the child!’

Hilary scowled at Rainn. ‘Whose side are you on?’

‘There are no sides, Hilary!’ Rainn flicked her hair back over her shoulder. ‘It’s the right thing to do.’ She turned back to Penny. ‘You’re a grandmother now, so you can understand how it must feel for poor Pat. Giving him access to his grandchild is the right thing to do.’

‘And Cynthia, I presume?’ Hilary raised an eyebrow at Rainn, then glanced at Penny: a look that might have said, Don’t worry, sis, I’ve got this. Or perhaps, Good lord, our sibling really is out of control this time. Or maybe it said, Perhaps Doctor Pat does need to know this boy, Pen. You need to get Emilia to suck it up. Penny waited to see if Hilary would elaborate.

‘This is fucked,’ said Hilary, slumping against the fence. ‘I need another martini.’

8

NOAH

NOW

Birthday, birthday, birthday.

Noah stood on the edge of the cliff and stared out at the ocean with the word stuck on a torturous loop in his head. It had been ten years since he first began wishing the twentieth of March could be purged from the calendar. A decade of being reminded he was still here, but only half here. In the years since his twin died, Noah tried to look normal or even smile when people wished him a happy birthday, and yet a thick numbness would settle through him in the days leading up to the event. Sometimes his lungs felt so thick it was hard to take in air. Often, he would go bush up near Cradle Mountain to avoid seeing anyone. Something about the alpine moorlands, the calls of the currawongs and the majesty of the pencil pines made it possible to stay in his skin. But this week there were things he needed to be around for, so he’d agreed to a birthday lunch with his parents.

He turned away from the cliff and headed for his house, a converted shed in the middle of a paddock. Plans to build a proper house were underway, but secretly he was in no hurry. The shed held some of his most precious memories. Inside, Sophie was perched in front of her laptop, fingers flying, her shiny hair held back in a perfect ponytail. He’d left before dawn, Sophie nestled into their bed, eye mask and earplugs firmly in place.

‘How’s the case going?’

‘You’re back. Finally! Happy birthday!’ She crossed the room and flung herself at him, planting a firm kiss on his lips. The smell of her perfume made him feel dizzy. She swept a neatly wrapped parcel off the table. ‘Here. I found you something nice.’

He stared at the package.

‘Open it!’

‘I don’t need a present.’

‘Noah! Open it. Everyone needs a birthday present.’

Noah fumbled with the fancy paper. Inside was a green and grey gadget, about the size of a phone. ‘Oh, Soph.’ He reached out and pulled her into a hug. ‘You’re amazing. It’s perfect.’ It was a GPS locating beacon. Top of the range. He’d mentioned he was going to research them, now that she was coming on longer hikes with him and he felt responsible for more than just himself if something went wrong.

‘I thought it would put your mum’s mind at rest. Although I’m not sure if it will work in Europe.’ She laughed.

Noah squeezed her hand and made a note to do better when her birthday came around. He usually thought about it the night before and ended up getting her flowers. ‘I’d better get changed. You know how Dad is about being on time.’

Sophie gave a tiny laugh. ‘I have him wrapped around my little finger, babe. Don’t worry about it. I’ll just fix my face.’ She closed the bathroom door. Noah pulled on a pair of jeans and called out, ‘I’ll wait in the ute.’

They drove along the highway and took the turnoff towards town. A dead wallaby lay sprawled on the roadside and Noah slowed and pulled over.

‘Babe, it’s your birthday! Do we always have to stop for every bit of roadkill? You’ll get your good clothes dirty.’

Noah gave Sophie a tired smile. ‘Won’t be a minute.’ He got out and checked the wallaby was dead and that there were no babies in its pouch, then dragged it off the road and into the bush, where the Tasmanian devils could feed on it tonight without fear of becoming the next bit of roadkill. He imagined them roaring and fighting and screeching at each other, oblivious to the dangers. Since the facial tumour disease had reached the devils in the north-west population, he felt an urgency about saving every one.

Noah started the engine and continued driving, past curious black cattle in paddocks teetering at the edge of the ocean. It curled around the headland in a deep blue arc. He took the side road that led to Sommersby House and navigated the winding driveway, parking at the back, near the kitchen entrance of his childhood home. When Sophie had first met him, she’d called it a mansion, and he supposed it almost qualified. But to him it was home; the familiar scents of daphne and geranium in the gardens by the old stables, the creaking of rusty pipes in the bathrooms, the echoing memories of boyhood giving way to a disorienting bleakness each time he visited now.

Sophie asked softly, ‘Does it get any less weird, not having Ned here for your birthday?’

‘I suppose it’s not as bad as it used to be.’

‘Will your parents be okay? I mean, I guess they’re used to Ned being gone, but will they be okay without Julian here this year?’

‘They’ll be okay. You’re a good distraction for them.’ He squeezed her hand.

‘Gross! You need to wash your hands after touching that roadkill.’ She slapped him playfully.

Through the kitchen door, Noah’s mother waved.

‘Hi, Cynthia,’ said Sophie.

‘Hello, Sophie.’ Cynthia smiled, then looked at Noah. ‘Happy birthday, darling.’ She hugged him tightly.

He crossed to the sink and washed his hands as his father appeared from his office in a neatly pressed shirt and dress pants; his silver hair carefully groomed.

‘Happy birthday, you hairy buffoon.’ Pat shook Noah’s hand then kissed Sophie’s cheek. ‘And how is my favourite daughter-in-law-to-be?’

Sophie laughed. ‘I’m great thanks, Pat.’

‘I’ve got a bottle of Veuve chilling in the conservatory. I know this beauty of yours likes her French bubbles, Noah. A girl after my own heart.’

Sophie laughed again and Pat smiled but there was an unusual restraint in it. Noah wondered if his father was distracted by some patient crisis or a farm issue.

‘Why don’t you two get the drinks,’ said Noah. ‘I’ll give Mum a hand here.’

Pat led Sophie towards the back of the house and his mother picked up some plates. ‘How are things, darling?’

‘Yeah. Fine.’

‘Wedding plans going well?’

‘Yeah. Although the firm brought Sophie’s start date forward. We have to leave for London in about three weeks’ time.

‘What?’

‘They’re giving her two weeks off to come back for the wedding. Don’t worry.’

‘But that’s crazy!’ said Cynthia. ‘You’ll only just get over your jet lag, then have to travel back. You’ll be exhausted.’ She opened the oven and took out a casserole dish.

‘Yeah, well.’ He shrugged. ‘That smells great.’ His stomach rumbled, distracting him from the endless uncomfortable thoughts about the move to the UK.

Cynthia crossed to the buffet for some platters. ‘Did you know Emilia is back in town?’

He stared at her.

Cynthia took his hand. She squeezed it and looked thoughtful. ‘She has a child. A boy. I’d say about nine or ten years old.’

He tried to focus on her face, but couldn’t. The room felt hot suddenly and his mother’s gaze was an arrow through his armour. Footsteps sounded on the stairs from the front of the house and Cynthia squeezed his hand again before letting it go. She said, ‘I forgot to mention, Harper’s back too, and working here a few hours a day. I invited her to stay for lunch, but I don’t think she can.’

‘Harper?’ Noah’s heart began speeding erratically, just as Harper appeared in the hallway.

‘Hi,’ he said. A decade gone, yet there she was, a ghost in a faded hoodie.

‘Hi, Noah.’ Harper shoved her hands in her pockets. ‘I’m done up there, Cynthia. I’ll head off.’

‘Are you sure you won’t stay for a drink for Noah’s birthday? Or lunch?’ asked Cynthia.

‘No, thanks.’

The oven beeped and Cynthia bent to retrieve another casserole dish, while Noah tried to breathe. Harper looked almost the same, although her hair was shorter, and she’d lost the dewy glow of early adulthood. But what did he expect? Ned’s death had stolen their youth.

‘Must be shit to have to celebrate every year without Ned,’ said Harper. She seemed to be glowering at Noah, but maybe that was his conscience misinterpreting things. She’d lost the nose ring. And there was a new tattoo on her wrist. It looked like an insect.

‘Oh my god!’ Sophie appeared from the conservatory. ‘I forgot the candles!’

Noah regarded her blankly.

‘Your mum asked me to buy some candles for the cake. I forgot!’ She smiled at Harper. ‘Hi, I’m Sophie.’ Then after a pause, ‘I’m marrying Noah.’

‘I’m Harper. I’m cleaning toilets. Sounds like you got the better deal.’ She didn’t return Sophie’s smile.

Pat appeared from the hallway, glass in one hand, bottle of champagne in the other.

‘I’ll race to the shops now and grab some candles,’ said Sophie. ‘Can’t have a birthday cake without candles. That would be a travesty!’

‘A travesty,’ said Harper.

Sophie gave a hesitant smile, her brow furrowed and Noah said, ‘I don’t need candles.’

‘Of course he doesn’t need candles,’ Pat said.

‘You have to have candles for a birthday!’ Sophie held out her hand. ‘Give me the keys, Noah. I’ll race into town. Cynthia hasn’t started serving yet. I’ll be back in ten minutes.’

‘I can go,’ said Noah.

Cynthia took plates from the cupboard. ‘Perhaps you could give Harper a lift back to town, Noah.’

‘Sure,’ he said, supremely unsure.

‘No, thanks. I’ll walk on the beach,’ Harper said. ‘Hope the birthday’s not too shit, Noah.’

He was staring at her, he knew, but he couldn’t look away. He wanted to say, ‘It will be shit. It’s the worst,’ knowing she wouldn’t give him platitudes about making the best of things; about how Ned would want him to keep living; to enjoy the day—as if it was possible to ever enjoy a birthday again when your twin should be alive to share it with you. But he was silent and she gave him a sad smile and walked past them towards the back door.

Pat said, ‘Well, well.’

Cynthia nodded at the champagne bottle. ‘Could I have a glass of that?’

‘I’ll get you one,’ Sophie said. ‘You okay to get the candles, Noah?’

Outside, Noah backed up his ute and drove towards town. His head was spinning. Harper was in town. Emilia had a child. Around nine or ten years old. Maybe his mother was wrong; maybe the kid was younger. Eight maybe. Emilia must have found a new man after she’d left town.

He tried to think about Sophie, about lunch, about anything else. But Harper’s face had lodged in his head and he had an urge to vomit. He pushed his foot to the floor and wound down the window, letting the noisy air buffet the cabin as he hit one hundred clicks on the speedo and his head began to throb. He slowed as he reached Tiny’s Bend on Old Gully Road then pushed his foot back down hard as the road straightened and the gum trees flashed by in blurry groves, giving way to paddocks before the outskirts of the town. It’s our birthday, mate. You can’t lie on our birthday. Not even to yourself. Noah tasted the words, as if they came from his own tongue. Words he and Ned had said to each other every year. Truth or dare, Neddy? Can’t lie, though. It’s our birthday. Noah always knew the answers his twin would give. They thought the same way; felt the same way. ‘Identically idiotic’, their father often called them, as boys.

You need to tell Harper the truth. You can’t hide forever.

‘Stop!’ Noah yelled. ‘What the hell would you know, mate? You have no clue! No bloody clue!’ His hands were clenched white around the wheel as the speedo hit one hundred and twenty. The wind pushed the tears across his face. ‘You don’t know anything, Neddy. You pissed off and left me, mate.’

9

ALFIE

NOW

Being with my mum’s family is really different. Usually it’s just me and Mum. If Mum has a bad day, I get her a cup of tea. If I have a bad day, Mum makes me hot chocolate and reminds me of my strategies. Sometimes I get anxiety and my brain does a chemical meltdown. My best strategy for this is one the school counsellor showed me for seven-eleven breathing. By the time you do seven-eleven breathing about ten times, your brain usually moves on to something else. Maybe it’s just a distraction technique, although the counsellor says it stimulates my vagus nerve, which she reckons is the rock star of all the nerves. It was a weird comparison, because rock stars don’t calm you down, which is what the vagus nerve does. When I told Mum about the vagus nerve being a rock star, she said maybe it could do a show at Caesars Palace, which is a casino in Las Vegas well known for live music. So now whenever I need to do emergency breathing responses, I say, ‘Caesars Palace,’ and Mum is ready.

Anyway, meeting my new grandmother and my great-aunties has made me feel better. I’m breathing properly again, without even thinking. Ideally, I would like a nuclear family. A mother, father, sister and brother. Me in the middle, or possibly the eldest because middle children tend to have more than an average amount of life problems.

But if I can’t have that, this new situation is very acceptable. Granny Pen is nice. I’m not sure why Mum would have run away and not talked to her for my whole life.

I get out my notebook.

Things I like about my family members

Granny Pen

- Brings Mum cups of tea a lot. Mum hasn’t complained once about the tea, even though she only drinks semi-skimmed milk and Granny Pen uses her sheep’s milk which is higher in butterfat content than even the fullest fat type of cow’s milk.

- Buys cream biscuits and lets me eat as many as I want when Mum isn’t here.

- Enjoys discussing science.

Great-Aunty Hilary

- Does not treat me like a kid.

- Has great outfits.

- Gave Mum $20 in advance for the swear jar because she says she was born with a potty mouth and you’d have to have rocks in your head to think she’s going to change now. Then she said I should have the money for lollies.

Great-Aunty Rainn

- Has objectively nice hair.

Cousin Harper (who I met this afternoon)

- Has an interesting tattoo of a spider which symbolises feminine strength, but Aunty Rainn says it also symbolises being in prison, which Harper hasn’t been in, so Aunty Rainn hates it.

- Told me about the fish traps formed from rocks that were made by the Palawa who are the Aboriginal people from Tasmania. You can still see some fish traps if you know where to look and she is going to take me one day.

- Gave me a can of Coke, which Mum confiscated.

Mum used to be best friends with Harper because they used to share a bedroom growing up for five years when Harper lived at Granny Pen’s house when she was a kid. This afternoon they were hugging and Mum was saying sorry for something, but then they went quiet when they saw me. I will get to the bottom of this in due course. I close my notebook and look at the piles of stuff around the room. After my shower tonight, Granny Pen brought me a box of books. They were from my mum’s childhood, like the Secret Seven and Famous Five. I’d read most of them by the time I turned seven. She asked if the Harry Potter books would be too old for me, but I’ve read them as well. At the moment I’m reading about the history of the periodic table. There was a cool guy called Jan Baptist van Helmont who was a bigwig in pneumatic chemistry about five hundred years ago. When I told Granny Pen this, she looked a bit confused then said maybe I’d study science same as she did at university, which sounds good to me. Then she gave me a kiss on the forehead.

I can hear Mum and Granny Pen talking in the back room. I tiptoe into the kitchen for more chocolate. I can only find one with nuts in it, which seems like a poor purchasing decision, given there’s now a kid in the house. You’d have thought Granny Pen would know nuts and kids don’t mix. While I’m sneaking back out, I hear Granny Pen say, ‘He’s certainly unusual.’

Mum says something I can’t hear, then says, ‘He doesn’t make life easy for himself, but I suppose that comes with the territory.’

The heavy feeling starts in my chest. And when Granny Pen says, ‘It’s time you told me, dear. Is Julian his father?’ I peer through the crack in the door and see Mum is crying.

Sometimes I feel like I’m Anakin Skywalker, because we’re so similar with my mum raising me all alone like his mum did, and me also being different like he was. But when I hear that question about my father and Mum starts crying, it’s like I’ve gone over to the dark side and Darth Vader has swiped through my alveoli and stopped them from sending oxygen into my lungs. There are six hundred million alveoli down there, but it feels like at least five million nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand of them have been struck by Darth Vader’s lightsaber.

I try to say, ‘Caesars Palace, Mum,’ but can’t push it out. Then I remember I pinkie-promised Mum I’d stay in bed, so I run back and get under the doona and start my breathing. The doona smells like insect spray. I climb over some boxes and get into Mum’s bed and when I finish my seven-eleven breathing I lie there staring at weird shapes on the ceiling. After a while I get out my notebook and write down some questions to think about.

Who is Julian?

Could he really be my father?

Why was Mum crying?

Can I ask Granny Pen to buy more appropriate chocolate?

I look at my list and my whole body feels heavy. Why would Mum lie to me about my father being from the sperm bank? If she knew who my father was, why wouldn’t she want me to know him? It makes more sense that Mum has been telling the truth, which is why I don’t know my father. There are lots of issues that prevent you from knowing a sperm bank dad. For a start, he might not want to know all of his children from all the sperms he donated. Every time a man donates sperms, he is creating possibly hundreds of millions of children. If he does this lots of times, this would be equal to billions. I think if he tried to imagine the billions of possible children being mixed up in petri dishes at the sperm bank while he’s cleaning his teeth in the morning, or when he’s vacuuming, his brain might malfunction.

I think his sperms donations must be similar to when Mum gives money to the Red Cross. She knows there are millions of flood victims in, for example, Venezuela, but she doesn’t want to imagine them properly, with all their suffering and sad family life and wet carpet. She just wants to do the right thing and donate the money and then not think about it. But just because my sperm dad doesn’t want to think about me, doesn’t mean I don’t think about him. Although I haven’t told Mum yet, I’ve decided that when I turn eighteen, I’ll find him. Maybe my possible half-siblings too. There are websites that help with that stuff.

But if it turns out Mum has been lying and that this Julian is my father, then everything is changed: I can find him, and he can find out about me. I could have a backup parent, so that if Mum got sick again, I’d still be okay. Maybe I’d even have someone to discuss important topics with, like the extinction myth about the Palawa people, or the probability of me getting acne as a teenager because maybe he got it.

So, even though Mum probably didn’t lie about my paternity, I think the best thing to do is to keep these thoughts to myself. And to keep my ear to the wall.

10

NOAH

ELEVEN YEARS AGO, APRIL

Noah threw a log into the rusty iron drum he’d cut in half. He and Ned had dragged it to the edge of the property where a fallen tree provided a perfect seat to look over the ocean. Inside the drum, the flames flared and spat with hypnotic rhythm. He poked at them with a stick.

‘Chuck me a beer, Noah.’ Ned was staring into the twilight across the ocean. Next to him, Harper was smoking a joint.

‘My jumper’s going to stink of that,’ said Noah, as he passed a beer to his twin. Harper had borrowed his favourite woollen jumper without asking, though there was no point complaining. Harper did as she liked. Always had.

‘I’m doing you a favour. It’ll mask the smell of your BO. You might even get laid if you put on some aftershave, dickhead.’ Harper exhaled into the chilly night air, turning her head away from the boys, then turning back and giving Noah a brilliant smile.

‘I don’t have BO.’ Ned didn’t smell bad and he used the same deodorant, so Noah knew she was teasing him. Some days Harper made his head hurt.

Ned took the joint and had a puff. He leaned back on one lazy arm, his eyes bright. Ned had been different since he got back from Ireland a few months ago. He was still Ned—curious, impetuous, clever—but something had changed; as if he wanted to be more of an individual, separate from Noah. He’d been obsessed with the idea of visiting Ireland since their first year of university when a friend had shown them pictures of his walk along the Cliffs of Moher and introduced them to Guinness. When Ned had finally arranged a year of travelling through the country, he told Noah that Dublin felt as if it was where he belonged; as if for the first time in his life, he felt like he fit. He’d made a good friend over there. The guy liked drugs a bit too much, but Ned swore he was one of the best people he’d ever met. Some nights, now, Ned would go out without Noah, who would sit at home worrying if it had anything to do with drugs; that maybe this guy had got his twin hooked on something. He didn’t really believe this, but Ned was secretive these days. And he knew Harper would get Ned pills if she was asked.

‘Let’s put some music on,’ said Harper, staring across the fire. ‘Where’s your speaker?’

Noah had one in the car. He should go and get it, because it would make Harper happy, and later she might get out her guitar and sing, which always did something to him.

The three of them had been tight since Year Eleven, when nobody except Noah and Ned understood Harper’s in-jokes about science. So Harper had joined the ‘nerdy twins’ and the phrase came to refer to all three. Noah and Ned were tolerated with some good humour by their classmates, mostly because of their younger brother, Julian: footy champion, square-cut jaw and eyelashes that belonged on a magazine cover girl. Julian had some sort of invisible quality too; girls became breathless and giggly when he talked to them, although boys weren’t immune either. Julian was like light to a whisper of moths. His charisma gave the Heston-Blaise surname high social currency, but the twins didn’t like sports or parties, and the rest of their credit was squandered when they brought up obscure intellectual topics that bored or alienated their peers.

The twins didn’t care; they had each other, and then they had Harper, the scholarship girl who didn’t give a shit what anyone thought; who had a tattoo on her shoulder and wore a nose ring and a stud in her lip on the weekends when the teachers at their exclusive private school had no jurisdiction.

‘Want to cook something?’ asked Harper. ‘I’m starving.’

‘Sure. I’ll get the stuff.’ Noah walked across the paddock to the large shed that he and Ned had converted into a two-bedroom house of sorts. They’d been given money in their grandfather’s will and bought the block. One hundred acres with nearly a kilometre of ocean frontage across the cliff face. One day they might build a couple of houses on it, take advantage of the view. The money would buy them twenty houses, but they were happy with the shed for now.

Noah stared into the fridge, considering tomatoes and lettuce to go with the sausages. Headlights announced the arrival of a car before it appeared from behind the callistemon hedge that lined the driveway. The figure who emerged was thin and familiar. Emilia.

Why was his brother’s wife visiting? The twins didn’t hang out with Julian; they’d moved in different circles since graduating from Henston Grammar; the twins eight years ago and Julian a year after that. Emilia had been at the local high school, but they’d known her forever because the town was so small, and she was Harper’s cousin.

‘Hi,’ called Noah as she reached the door.

‘Ned?’ Emilia’s voice was tremulous.

‘Guess again,’ said Noah, stepping out of the shadows. Their whole life it had been like this.

‘Oh, Noah. Sorry.’ She looked away.

‘You okay?’

‘Yeah. I … I needed a change of scene. Thought I’d see if you guys wanted some company.’

Noah focused on finding the paper towel. ‘Give me a hand? Ned and Harper are waiting for dinner.’ He pointed across the house paddock to the fire flickering against the darkening sky.

‘Sure. Yeah. Good. That’d be good.’

Noah grabbed the sausages and sauce and found bread and tongs. ‘Think we need plates?’

‘Maybe.’

He put tin plates and the paper towel in a box. ‘Okay. That’s it. The hotplate’s over there.’

He turned to see Emilia shivering. Her eyes were red raw, swollen. ‘Sure you’re okay?’

She squeezed her eyes shut. ‘I’m fine. I just need …’

There was a long pause. Noah supposed she and Julian had fought, but he didn’t want to pry. He didn’t dare ask why she’d come to them instead of her mother, Penny, who lived closer. Or to a friend’s place.

He handed her his jacket that was over the back of a chair. ‘Let’s go. I’m hungry.’ He closed the door behind them. The porchlight clicked on and a sharp rustling nearby made them both turn their heads. A mother possum, followed by her baby, ran along the water tank then up a gum tree. Emilia gave a relieved little laugh, as if she’d been afraid. ‘Oh, they’re so darling!’

Noah smiled too. She’d always been sweet, Emilia. Gentle, watchful, with a quiet determination that saw her graduate near the top of her year, despite losing her dad in high school. She’d started dating Julian four or five years ago, when they were both home from university. Both had the summer to get through in their small hometown, with little to do except surf or play footy or drink, unless you liked spending time in nature. Noah and Ned went rock climbing and bushwalking, anything that took them away from crowds. Or they mucked in on the farm if needed. Not that they were paid for it, but none of the Heston-Blaise boys ever needed to work for money once their inheritance came through. They didn’t think that way either—their parents were workaholics and work was all they knew.

That summer, Emilia landed a job behind the bar and Julian turned up at the pub every night. It was a love match for the locals to sink their teeth into. Emilia was pretty and generally admired around town for the strength she’d shown after her father’s death. And Julian Heston-Blaise was the biggest deal to come out of Beggars Rock in years, with his state footy jersey and his charming way of remembering every person’s name over the age of sixty. He had the under-sixties covered too, but it counted for more with the oldies.

Noah had a churning discomfort in his guts, seeing Emilia like this. They’d always been friendly, but she was Julian’s wife, so there was a Julian-shaped chasm between them, too wide to jump over.

As they neared the fire, Harper blew out some smoke and said, ‘Hi, stranger. Haven’t seen you for a while.’ There was an edge to her voice.

Noah thought it was a shame the cousins didn’t hang out much anymore. Harper had practically been raised by Penny until she was fifteen. You’d think they’d be close; sisters almost. Harper’s own mother, Rainn, had been wild in her younger days, so Penny took Harper in when she was still in primary school.

‘Hi, Harp,’ said Emilia.

‘You okay?’ Harper peered at Emilia’s face.

‘Yeah, fine.’ Emilia put down the bread. ‘Hungry though. Need help to cook those, Noah?’

‘No, it’s all right.’ But it wasn’t all right. He caught a knowing look between Harper and Ned. A tension coursed through their little group. Emilia sat and Ned got her a drink. She took it without thanking him, without even looking at him, which struck Noah as odd. He wiped the hotplate and balanced it across the fire. Cooking the sausages meant he wouldn’t need to think about this strange new dynamic. And that suited him just fine.

11

PENNY

NOW

Penny knocked on the door of a glamorous-looking apartment; one of several in the large heritage house that had been converted to a luxury bed and breakfast on the main street.

There was no answer, so she turned to take in the view. Below her, the hill tumbled towards the beach and marina where several red fishing boats were moored and seagulls hovered, pecking at fish and chip scraps left by picnicking tourists. She and Lincoln had often talked about selling the farm and retiring into town; possibly buying something with an ocean view and renting out rooms. She was overcome with a wave of longing for him, and regret. He’d been such a reluctant farmer, only taking over his father’s property out of duty, at the expense of his own desire to paint and travel.

Penny knocked again. Nothing. She peered into the window of Hilary’s apartment. The timber kitchen was a lovely shade of duck-egg blue, the marble benchtop strewn with the remnants of breakfast and some medication. She rapped on the glass. ‘Hilary?’

The door opened suddenly. Hilary was in a fluffy white robe, her head wrapped in a towel.

‘Pen! Good. Come in! Sorry, I was in the shower.’

‘This is nice,’ said Penny, looking around at the paintings and the eclectic, stylish mix of antique furniture and contemporary statement pieces.

‘Bloody gorgeous. I’m never staying anywhere else. You should see the guest lounge! Green velvet couches and a window high in the wall looking up to the Rock. Someone here knows what they’re doing.’

‘How on earth can you afford it?’

‘Pfft.’ Hilary waved away the question.

Penny glanced at the array of pill bottles and blister packs that Hilary was sweeping into a basket.

‘Tea, Penny-pootles?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘So, tell me about this email.’

Penny dug about in her handbag. ‘Cynthia thinks we should take Alfie to meet them. She says Patrick is convinced the boy is Julian’s and he feels it’s only right.’ She held out the email she’d printed.

Hilary glanced at it. ‘And have you got to the bottom of it yet? With Emilia? Is the boy Julian’s?’

‘She says she doesn’t know. When she left him she was drinking a lot. In the two weeks after, in Melbourne, she … intimated she had flings.’

‘Darling girl,’ said Hilary. ‘She was in dire need of some fun back then.’

Penny sighed. She wasn’t so philosophical about multiple sexual partners straight after a marriage breakup. It felt a bit tawdry.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said, frowning. ‘Emilia doesn’t want them to have anything to do with Alfie. And I can see what she means. Cynthia’s so cold. Why would she want to expose him to that?’

‘Is that what Emilia said?’ Hilary took the towel off her head and gave her damp pink hair a rub. ‘I mean, is Cynthia the reason why?’

‘She hasn’t said. Just that she’s not sure that Alfie is Julian’s.’

‘Well, it’s her decision,’ said Hilary.

‘I feel sorry for Pat, though. It seems obvious Alfie is his grandson, and all he wants is a piece of Julian back in his life. Is that too much to ask?’

‘If Emilia thinks so, then yes.’

‘How does that work?’ Penny was confused, and annoyed. How did Emilia get to decide if a grandparent got access to their own flesh and blood? Now she had met Alfie, something had opened up inside her. A love she’d never known before; an all-encompassing love that didn’t depend on what he did or didn’t do. It didn’t matter if he ate his vegetables or refused to clean his teeth: all those things she’d worried about constantly as a mother. They felt so small now. Such inconsequential things to have caused such a ruckus over when Emilia was growing up. All that wasted energy on things that didn’t count.

‘She’s his mother,’ said Hilary. ‘She decides what goes.’

Penny wanted to snap at Hilary, who had never been a mother. How could she understand? But something stopped her. There was a weariness in her sister. She was sitting down now, opposite Penny, her hair clinging to her scalp. She looked frail. Elderly. So unlike the Hilary that Penny carried about in her head whenever she had imaginary chats on how to handle a delicate personal situation; trouble with one of the men in the Probus club, for example, where imaginary Hilary would say, ‘That man is a lech. Of course you can tell him to fuck off!’ And Penny would still flinch, even though the conversation was only inside her head and she was in complete control of the swearing.

‘I can’t ignore the email. That would be rude.’

‘Tell her the truth. Emilia isn’t comfortable with the idea. Cynthia’s a sensible woman. She’ll understand.’

‘But it’s Pat,’ said Penny. ‘He’s the one hurting. The one driving it. Poor Pat. I feel like ringing him, because he must think I was deceiving him on purpose.’

‘I wouldn’t worry about Pat-the-rat,’ said Hilary, airily.

‘You’re only saying that because of your history.’ Penny pursed her lips. Hilary’s university love affair with Pat had been bright and brief. Nobody quite knew what went wrong, but Penny suspected Hilary had been jealous that he’d lost interest and gone after Cynthia, and she’d never quite forgiven either of them.

‘Darling.’ Hilary gave her an icy stare. ‘I have no interest in hurting Pat, or helping him. He’s a big boy, perfectly capable of looking after himself. And capable of communicating with you and Emilia directly. If he’s behind the email then the question you need to be asking is why he got his wife to send it.’

‘It might be odd if he emailed me.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, he’s a man.’

Hilary raised one overplucked eyebrow into a sardonic arch. ‘Last time I looked, yes. And quite well endowed too, if memory serves.’

‘Oh!’ Penny gave an embarrassed huff. ‘You know what I mean—it would be odd to communicate without his wife being involved.’

‘Honestly, anyone would think you grew up in the Victorian era.’ Hilary smirked then sipped her tea. ‘So, how’s the centenary party organisation going?’

‘All right, I guess.’ Penny sipped her tea. ‘Fundraising is on track, although Pat and Cynthia might be out of pocket at the end of it. Though they have pots of money, I suppose.’

‘Who’s catering?’

‘Brian Templeton, from that lovely restaurant in Wynyard next to the sailing club.’

‘Mmm. Fancy.’ Hilary dipped her chin and gave a neat little shrug.

‘The committee are doing desserts to save on costs. Mini cake platters.’

‘Very sensible. I hope you’re making my favourite lemon tarts,’ said Hilary.

‘You’re staying for it?’

‘Of course I am! I grew up here too, you know.’

‘Do you have a ticket?’

‘Nabbed one a few days ago online.’

‘Oh. I thought they’d sold out.’ Penny always worried about being in public with Hilary. Her big sister said and did the most scandalous things. It was terrifying sometimes. And it would be at Pat and Cynthia’s house, so that could be awkward. ‘The premier is coming, you know.’

‘So everyone keeps telling me.’ Hilary looked out the window as a fish truck drove past towards the dock, gears crunching. ‘The premier. Pat will love that.’

Penny almost felt sorry for Cynthia, having to host Hilary, her old love rival, at the party. When they started university together Cynthia and Hilary had been inseparable. And then Pat had come along, and it had fractured their friendship. Hilary had never explained it. Even back then, she’d acted as if nothing had happened; as if her whole world hadn’t erupted in volcanic disaster when her best friend had taken up with Patrick only a week after he and Hilary had parted ways. Pat and Cynthia had married barely three months later. Even to Penny, who had been in the thrall of Patrick the entire time he’d dated her big sister, this had seemed shocking. But that was love for you.

‘So, what do you think I should do?’ Penny pushed Cynthia’s email across the table towards Hilary.

‘Email back. Say if Emilia wants to get in touch she will. End of story.’

‘And if Emilia doesn’t get in touch?’

Hilary winced. ‘Then she doesn’t. It’s not your problem, pootles.’ She got to her feet and swayed a little.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Fine.’ Hilary gave an irritated swipe of her hand.

‘I think you’ve forgotten what it’s like living in a small town,’ said Penny.

‘Cynthia is a big town girl. She’ll be fine.’

‘But it’s Pat I’m worried about!’ said Penny.

There was a knock, and before either of them could move, the door handle turned and there was Rainn, smiling with her perfect white teeth, her tanned skin luminous against the pink and yellow of her maxi-dress.

‘Sisters!’ Rainn announced triumphantly. ‘Gosh, isn’t this place gorgeous! I dream of having a place like this.’

‘Yours is perfectly nice,’ snapped Penny, inexplicably annoyed at both of them.

Rainn set down a container. ‘Biscuits left over from my baking bonanza. Date, fennel and quinoa.’

‘They sound horrendous,’ said Hilary.

Rainn began picking up knick-knacks and examining the curtains. ‘I might have to move in for a few nights,’ she said to Hilary. ‘It’s too scrummy not to be sharing.’

‘Not on your nelly,’ said Hilary.

Rainn pouted, then turned to Penny. ‘So, tell me. Did Emilia take Alfie up to see Pat and Cynthia?’

‘Oh, she … not yet.’

‘Did you write back at least?’

A slow, sickly feeling spread through Penny. She hadn’t told anyone about the email except Hilary. She turned to Hilary. ‘I told you not to tell anyone about the email!’

‘And I didn’t!’ snapped Hilary.

Rainn tapped the side of her nose. ‘Small town, sister. I know all.’ She gave an infuriating knowing look that made Penny feel sick. How many people knew about the email? Were they judging her? Did they think she was trying to keep Alfie all for herself?

‘It’s none of your business, Rainn,’ Hilary said. ‘Butt out of it.’

Rainn crossed her arms. ‘It’s my business as much as it’s yours, and I bet you’ve been talking about it without me.’

‘For heaven’s sake, grow up.’ Hilary tightened the belt of her robe and moved to the stairs. When she reached the top, they heard the click of a door closing.

‘I was only trying to help.’ Rainn gave Penny a wounded look. She picked up a handbook about the property’s history and began reading it.

Penny wondered if Hilary would be coming back down soon, or if she should use her time to go and buy more of Alfie’s favourite white bread from the bakery. After a few minutes she called up the stairs. ‘Hil? I’m heading off.’

There was no answer. Penny took two hesitant steps. ‘Hilary?’ No doubt her sister was putting on false eyelashes or indulging in an unusual beauty routine. She continued to the top of the stairs and knocked gently. ‘Hilary?’ She pushed the door open. Hilary was huddled under the bedclothes, lying on her side in a small, pathetic lump. Gentle snoring floated across the room.

It was nine am. Hilary was an early bird, always up and about. Mornings were her best time. Penny crept back down the stairs. ‘Hilary’s feeling a bit tired. She said we should come back for tea another time.’

‘That’s a bit rude,’ said Rainn, threading her arm through Penny’s. ‘Come on, you and I can go for coffee instead.’

12

NOAH

ELEVEN YEARS AGO, APRIL

Noah woke with a start to the quick-fire squawking of a plover outside his window. A dull grey light bled from beneath the blind. On top of the bedcovers next to him, Harper was asleep, fully dressed and curled up with a blanket and her coat over her. Over the years he’d shared a bed with her plenty of times. So had Ned. Nothing romantic, although Noah wondered about Ned sometimes. One night after too many beers he’d confided in Noah that there was a girl he’d loved since they were teenagers. But he refused to say who it was. Noah had thought briefly it might be Harper, although it didn’t seem to be. Sometimes he thought this mystery girl was the reason Ned went to Ireland last year. To get away from whatever heartache he was nursing; from this girl who didn’t notice him.

Since the twins had befriended Harper, they hadn’t really needed other people. They would chat late into the night, Harper with her hands interlinked beneath her head talking about the shit welfare system, or politicians who should be shot for allowing logging in old growth forests, or how private schools were over-funded. She never ran out of opinions and they enjoyed letting her rant. But then Ned had become distant and decided to go travelling. He’d recently admitted he’d had a bad acid trip during his year away, and it had done something to him. He still had flashbacks, got paranoid.

Noah eased back the covers and slid out. He gently doubled back the doona to cover Harper, then pulled on a jumper and padded out to the kitchen. As he picked up the coffee plunger he caught a movement from the corner of his eye—Emilia was stretching out on the couch. He remembered now. She’d had too much to drink to drive home and Ned said he’d find her a pillow and blanket. She didn’t ring Julian to come and get her and nobody had asked why, but odds on, Julian would have been plastered anyway.

‘Noah?’ Emilia was stretching beneath the blankets, like a fragile kitten.

‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.’

‘That’s okay.’

‘Coffee?’

‘Yeah, but I can make it.’

He nodded. It looked cold outside, the ocean grey and rippling. He squatted by the fireplace, poking at the smoking embers, adding kindling and some larger sticks. When the flames caught, he added a log and sat back. Emilia handed him a mug and curled her legs up beneath her on the couch. Neither spoke for a while, sipping their coffee companionably, listening to the crackling of the fire.

‘That was nice last night. Chatting outside. We should do that more often,’ she said.

Noah doubted if Julian would feel the same. He had never been one for outdoor pursuits that weren’t sport; had actively avoided joining them on bushwalks or camping trips growing up. Noah realised he hadn’t answered her, and that maybe he should have because Emilia seemed to grow uncertain. ‘I mean, only if you guys wanted to. Ned said it would be fine.’ She picked up her phone from the floor. ‘It’s after seven. I should get going soon.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘What are you doing today?’

‘Fixing the water tank in the top paddock. Maybe we’ll do the Surveyors Track later, depending on the weather.’

‘You and Ned?’

He nodded. ‘What about you?’

‘I’m not sure what Julian has planned. Saturdays it’s usually the footy club.’

‘No, I meant you.’

Uncertainty flickered across her face. ‘Oh, hanging out, I guess. I’ll head over if he’s there.’

A car engine roared outside, shattering the silence that had fallen. Noah looked out the kitchen window to see his brother’s Toyota HiLux ute pull up. ‘Julian’s here.’

Emilia was staring at her bare feet.

‘You okay?’

‘Yeah. I probably should, um …’ she pulled the blanket off her lap and searched around for something before pulling her hair into a ponytail.

‘Noah.’ Julian grinned from the doorway. He ran his hand through his hair. He hadn’t shaved but the stubble suited him. At school Harper used to say Julian reminded her of a brainless caveman, but the other girls said he looked like a Swedish pinup model. In their teens, Noah and Ned had sometimes talked about what it would be like to draw the stares of every person you walked by. They couldn’t fathom it. If you looked too long into the sun it hurt your eyes; that’s what it felt like to be with Julian sometimes.

Julian kept his eyes on Emilia, the grin still on his face. ‘Come on, Em.’

Emilia seemed frozen for a moment, then stood and gathered her things.

‘Want a cuppa, Jules?’ Noah asked.

‘Nah, thanks.’ Julian gave an almost imperceptible flick of his fingers towards Emilia. ‘I had a few too many last night with the team. Emilia thought you guys would be better company.’ He grinned again and at the same moment they all noticed Harper standing in Noah’s now-open bedroom doorway assessing Julian with a stony stare.

‘It’s Twin Three!’ Julian guffawed at his use of Harper’s schoolyard nickname.

‘It’s the bonehead ruck-rover,’ said Harper, blank-faced.

That was Julian’s favourite football position. Noah was impressed that Harper remembered. Harper continued to eye Julian off and nobody spoke. Maybe Noah should fry some eggs for everyone.

Julian’s laughter cut through the awkward silence. ‘You never change, Harper. That’s why we were all scared of you at school.’

‘Scared?’ Harper arched one eyebrow. She eventually looked across at Emilia. ‘Want to come see Penny this morning with me, Em? She said she’d be in from milking before ten.’

‘I, um, I might go later.’ Emilia clutched her mug, avoiding Harper’s pointed look.

‘She does speak to her own mother, you know, Twin Three,’ said Julian amiably. ‘She can organise her own visit without your help.’

Harper assessed him. ‘And she has her own car here, bonehead, so she doesn’t need your help either.’

Julian laughed again. ‘Just visiting my brothers.’

Emilia said quickly, ‘I’ll follow you home now. I just need to use the loo.’

Julian nodded as she disappeared. ‘Come to the footy club this arvo, Noah. There’s a session on. Jase Myers is on guitar. Tell Ned too.’ He glanced at the bathroom. ‘I’ll get going then.’

‘See you,’ said Noah.

Julian inclined his head towards Harper and whispered to Noah, ‘Don’t let her near your balls, mate. They’d shrivel up.’

As the door closed behind him, Harper rolled her eyes. ‘Your brother is a top-shelf tosser.’

13

ALFIE

NOW

Occasionally, when I was young, I worried about the sperm donor and whether he was sad about not knowing how his kid turned out. He might have been interested in whether or not the kid preferred carrots or beans (beans) and whether he inherited something from his side of the family, like my singing voice or maybe Hutchinson-Gilford Progeria Syndrome which would have turned me into a really old person by now, so luckily, I didn’t get it. (I once spent a whole weekend googling genetic disorders when Mum was asleep with a migraine.)

But that was before I figured out that the sperm bank dad probably doesn’t waste much time thinking about his sperm outcomes. There are too many variables. Which doesn’t bother me. Mum calls me Mr Pragmatic, and it suits me because even though I do think about theoretical stuff, I think a practical approach to things works best.

For example, I’m pretty sure that if my sperm bank dad did get to know me, he’d like me. It’s like those Mayans in Guatemala two thousand years ago. Before they worked out they needed to get the beans out of the cacao pods on the trees and crush them up and froth them, I bet they didn’t even think about them, but when they finally did (and added water and made hot chocolate) their minds were totally blown.

But since the other night, I have been worrying about another possibility: that this man, Julian, might be my dad. If he is, it means my mum has constructed a huge fabrication. I have been experiencing pain in my stomach all day. Mum says it might be constipation. I think it’s psychosomatic pain (which is when your brain shoots chemicals into your body from the stress of finding out your mum has been capable of lying to you for your whole life).

I am sitting on the toilet with a glass of water in my hand that I don’t need. Mum is in the hall and keeps calling out, ‘Did you drink it all up?’ and ‘Did you do a poo yet?’

I tip some water between my legs onto the blue bar of soapy stuff that’s in a plastic cage in Granny Pen’s toilet bowl. Blue lines run down into the water and make funny patterns.

Mum keeps saying things through the door, but I blur out her words and stare at the blue swirls in the toilet water. This is another good example of when Mum should not be let off the hook too easily.

I tip some more water on the blue thing. Then I remember I am Mr Pragmatic. I can make a plan. I pull up my shorts and flush the toilet. In the hall I hand the empty glass to Mum and she says, ‘Great. Feeling better?’ and I say, ‘Yes, thanks. Much better.’

‘Excellent,’ says Mum. ‘We’ll go in about twenty minutes, okay?’

‘Sure.’ I wash my hands then go into the bedroom and get out my notebook.

Operation Procreator

I stare at the page. The name needs to be like a code. Harder to crack.

Operation Procreator

Operation Rehtaf

Operation Nailuj

Operation Sperm

Operation Tadpole

That’s it. Operation Tadpole! Nailuj is too obvious. So is Rehtaf. Mum would work it out if she snooped in my book, which I caught her doing once before. Every important operation needs a code name and Tadpole sounds right. I always liked the idea that when the spermatozoa (sperm) meet the egg and they make a zygote, which turns into an embryo and then after a few months a proper baby, it all began with a long swim by a sperm, that resembles a tadpole. It’s not always long, though—sometimes it’s a short swim. For example, across the laboratory dish at the sperm bank. When I was young, Mum read me a book about how donor babies are made. The laboratory dish looked like a huge round swimming pool at a resort I saw in California on Google, and the tadpole sperm in the book had a really nice face on it, although it was just an artist’s impression.

Investigations

1. Who is J****n?

2. How do I conduct research without Mum finding out?

These are the basic parts of Operation Tadpole. I stare out at a paddock of sheep. They are dirty white statues against a sea of green. Granny Pen has gone down to the sheds on her quadbike. When she comes back, we’re going into town to have hot chocolate at a cafe and look for shells on the beach. Then we might go to Aunty Rainn’s. I tap my pencil on the doona and look back at my page.

3. Why does J****n make Mum cry?

Procedures:

1. Look in cupboards and drawers when Mum is out and Granny Pen is doing farm stuff.

2. Locate strangers who knew my mum from when she lived here before and see if they are prepared to talk confidentially.

3. Ask Harper, who seems like a very straightforward person and probably wouldn’t lie.

Now I have a plan, I am hoping my stomach pain goes away.

‘Alfie,’ I say to myself, ‘time to give up the stress. Operation Tadpole is a GO.’

14

CYNTHIA

NOW

Cynthia paused at the dressing-room door. Patrick was in his black and pink lycra cycling outfit, rooting around in a drawer for something.

He had taken up cycling four years ago, when his weight had become an issue. Now he was one of those far-too-old men who got around in lycra in public, gathering in groups at coffee shops as if the world was lucky to witness their garish displays of collective manspreading. There was a name she’d learned for them recently—MAMILs. Middle-aged men in lycra. Anyway, the whole thing was humiliating if she happened to be in public when he was clacking down the main street in his cycling shoes, meeting up with his posse.

He turned. A long lump protruded through the lycra to one side, where Patrick’s penis had been flattened against his abdomen. Except it wasn’t flat. It was appalling. And mesmerising. She had an urge to reach out and slide her fingers over it, as if it was an interesting find on her beach walk—an unlikely hillock or a sea cucumber—something deposited in entirely the wrong place.

‘What are you staring at?’ asked Patrick.

‘Nob … no! Nothing,’ she spluttered. She began putting away the pile of clothes in the laundry basket.

‘I’ll be back for lunch,’ he said, and Cynthia quashed a burbling urge to laugh as his padded buttocks bobbed like aged Scotch fillets down the hall.

At least it got him out of the house. It also gave him something to spend endless amounts of money on, and spending always put him in a better mood. The packages came with alarming regularity. Inner tubes; new cycling gloves; eye-wateringly expensive sunglasses that didn’t fog up due to some particular design feature involving a gap; a more ergonomic helmet; a multi-tool set with what looked like about seven different ratchets for attending to all the emergencies that might happen when out on a ride with his mates. Nobody would be left behind if a wheel fell off, for example.

Cynthia knew, too, that he was angry about the boy, Alfie. He was exercising more to deal with his stress. But she didn’t want to think about that. She checked her watch. She had, against her better judgement, agreed to a weekend Zoom with a difficult client about a looming deadline.

She began returning folded shirts to her drawer. As she turned around, she knocked something on the dressing table. A photo frame. She hesitated. The air between her hand and the frame became heavy, almost liquid, so that moving her hand towards the ornate silver was like pushing through syrup, and the moment her fingers bent around its edges, she felt it coming: pain caught her in the gut and she stepped backwards losing herself into the dressing-room armchair. Time was still now, and her face was wet, but she didn’t feel the tears, only a vast emptiness. An absence providing a presence so large and grey that at times she felt it would swallow her. There was dust on the glass, she saw now. Mrs Slip hadn’t been in, and nothing had been properly cleaned. Her tears mixed with flecks of dust and she took the corner of her cardigan and, as she began to breathe again, rubbed at the glass.

A noise made her look up. Harper stood at the end of the dressing room, silent, another basket in her hands.

Knowing that this was important Cynthia continued to rub, to see the frame cleaned properly. To see her three boys’ faces shining, although she usually angled the frame so she didn’t see it.

‘Would you like me to clean in here?’ asked Harper.

‘No. Thanks.’ Cynthia pulled a tissue from the box on the dressing table and wiped carefully at her face. ‘What’s next on the list I gave you?’

‘A trip to Burnie to buy tablecloths, outdoor lanterns and lots of other party stuff.’

Cynthia placed the photograph back onto the dressing table. ‘Right then. That’s next.’

‘I can’t drive,’ said Harper. ‘I told you.’

Cynthia stared and Harper looked away, removing clothes from the basket.

‘Come on. Let’s go,’ said Cynthia.

‘Didn’t you say you had a meeting?’

‘It will wait.’ Cynthia hurried down the hall, Harper following. She picked up her phone from the kitchen bench and sent a quick text then held the car keys out to Harper.

‘I told you, I can’t drive. I’m not kidding, Cynthia.’

‘Neither am I. I’ll teach you. No young woman can go through life without her independence, and a car gives you that. One day you’ll need it.’

Harper swallowed. ‘I don’t have my learner’s. It lapsed years ago.’

‘We’ll apply for that online. In the meantime, we can drive the back roads. Nobody around here gives a fig about whether you have your learner’s. I’m a good teacher. I taught the boys.’

‘But I don’t have time. I’ve got to finish’—Harper held out the list—‘work, then I have plans.’

‘This is the work. I will pay you to learn to drive. It will assist me in the long run.’

‘I won’t be here in the long run.’

Cynthia lifted an eyebrow. ‘I should hope not. Beggars Rock is no place for a young woman with aspirations.’

‘It’s not that.’ Harper put the laundry basket onto the kitchen bench. ‘I don’t want to live near Mum. She drives me nuts.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ said Cynthia. ‘Rainn is a difficult woman.’

‘You’re not meant to say that.’

‘But I’m agreeing with you.’

‘She’s my mother. I’m allowed to say that, but you’re not supposed to agree with me. You’re meant to keep your shit to yourself and be supportive.’

‘I thought I was being supportive.’ Cynthia gave a little shake of her head. She never got these things right. Usually she kept quiet, or let Patrick do the talking but Harper was so direct, so devoid of artifice, that Cynthia had let her guard down.

‘Anyway,’ said Harper, ‘I don’t have huge aspirations.’

‘You’ve lost your confidence, that’s all. From what you’ve told me, your job in Melbourne is difficult. Technical. You’ve suffered a setback. Rebuilding your confidence is a process. Believe me, I know.’

Harper eyed her as if Cynthia might be crazy. Perhaps she was. She felt tired and heavy, but something in Harper’s eyes made her want to push through it.

‘All right then.’ Harper looked at the car key. ‘Let’s drive.’

‘I’ll just put a plate out for Patrick,’ said Cynthia. ‘In case we’re not back for lunch.’

‘For real?’

‘He’s not good in the kitchen,’ Cynthia murmured.

‘What does he do when you’re working in Melbourne?’

‘It will be your job to make him something.’

Harper guffawed. ‘Seriously?’

‘Well, he could make a sandwich if you were very busy. But he likes something tasty if he comes home from the surgery for lunch. It’s how we split things.’

‘What’s his part of the split?’

Cynthia busied herself at the fridge. ‘Why don’t you put that washing away and I’ll meet you in the garage in ten minutes? I’ll print out an L-plate off the internet and run it through the laminator.’

Cynthia taped two laminated A4 pages bearing a bright yellow L to the front and back of her car. She got into the passenger’s seat and watched Harper adjust the driver’s seat.

‘I need the key,’ said Harper.

‘The car senses it’s here in my bag. Put your foot on the brake and press that button to start the engine.’

Harper sat ramrod straight in her faded T-shirt, a mesmerising mixture of elegance and brashness.

‘Ease out and follow the road to the gate.’

The car jumped forward.

‘Fuck.’ Harper glanced at Cynthia. She inched forward, then drove smoothly to the dirt road and followed it down the hill. ‘Nice view from up here.’

‘Indicate,’ said Cynthia, when they reached the road.

Harper flicked on the windscreen wipers. ‘Shit!’

‘It’s European. The indicator and wipers are on the opposite sides to Australian cars. And perhaps say, “Heck,” if you make a mistake. It’s less abrasive.’

Harper sat, hands positioned at ten and two, carefully increasing her speed until she reached eighty kilometres an hour. Cynthia sat back, oddly calm. After about fifteen minutes with minimal input from Cynthia, they came to the outskirts of Wynyard. ‘Make sure you give way to cars on your right at this roundabout.’

‘I know.’

‘You’re competent at this, Harper.’

‘I grew up driving in Penny’s paddocks.’ Harper’s hands tightened on the wheel as a car overtook her. ‘In an old paddock basher we used to take down to the creek.’

A quick, single wailing sound filled the car and Cynthia detected the whir of blue and red lights. She looked over her shoulder and her stomach dropped. ‘Police. Slow down and pull over on that verge up ahead. Make sure you indicate.’

‘Shit,’ said Harper. She jerked her hand up and turned on the wipers. ‘Fuck it!’

‘Calm down,’ said Cynthia as Harper found the indicator and pulled in. ‘Right. Now put the car in park and say nothing. I’ll do the talking.’

‘I’m the driver. I’ll talk!’

‘I have a law degree. Do you?’

‘No.’

‘There we are then. I’ll do the talking. I’m your lawyer.’

‘Christ’s sake,’ muttered Harper, pressing the button for the window.

‘Good morning, Officer,’ said Cynthia. ‘Is there a problem?’

‘Morning, ladies. Can I see your licence, please,’ said the officer to Harper.

Harper shot Cynthia a look. ‘As you can likely see, Officer, by the use of our makeshift L-plates,’ Cynthia nodded at Harper, ‘my friend here has had some difficulty. She was unwell and recuperating at our house. Her family took her suitcase home, including her handbag with her wallet and licence, and the L-plates she usually uses were in her family car. We are on our way to her home. So, I’m afraid she doesn’t have her licence handy.’

‘I see.’

‘Obviously, I will vouch for her,’ said Cynthia.

‘Is that so?’ The officer sighed.

‘It is,’ said Cynthia.

He alternated his gaze between Cynthia and Harper.

‘I can only assume,’ said Cynthia sternly, ‘by the look you’re giving us and by the tenor of that remark that you doubt the veracity of what I’m saying. I can assure you, Officer, it is the truth. I understand that Harper will need to visit the police station and provide proof of her identity and licence very soon, but at present, she has none of that with her. You’re welcome to see my licence, though, if you wish.’

‘I do wish,’ said the officer, looking at her with a pained expression.

Cynthia handed him her licence.

He took it back to his car and after what felt like an eternity, he returned and handed it back to Cynthia. He looked at Harper. ‘What’s your full name, Miss? I’m issuing you with this infringement notice for not carrying your licence. There’s a fine too. And you’ll need to provide a copy of your learner’s.’

Cynthia slowed her breathing—in, out; in, out—while he finished writing up the paperwork.

‘Now, please swap drivers, ladies. And remove the … L-pages.’

‘I’m not a lady,’ muttered Harper as the policeman walked away. She wound up the window. ‘Well. This is fucking perfect.’

‘Don’t worry. We’ll go and get your test done now.’

‘It’s Saturday. They won’t be open.’

‘On Monday morning then, first thing. That gives you plenty of time to do the practice tests. I expect they’re online.’

‘I had plans this weekend!’

‘And now they’ve changed. You need to study for the test. It’s not difficult.’

‘They’ll see the date of the notice was before the date I got my licence!’

‘We’ll just claim an administrative oversight. I’ll deal with it. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of the fine too.’

Harper stared at her. ‘I’d forgotten you were like this.’

‘Like what?’

‘Bossy.’

‘I’m not bossy.’

Harper gave a disbelieving little laugh. ‘Yes, you really are.’

‘I’m just trying to help.’ Cynthia felt a strange hot feeling behind her eyes as she walked around and got into the driver’s side. It was unnerving, the effect Harper and her potty mouth seemed to have on her.

Harper stared ahead. ‘Let’s get this party shopping done.’

‘Yes, let’s.’ Cynthia pulled out onto the road.

‘You’re bat-shit fucking crazy, you know that?’ said Harper.

‘What?’

‘That poor policeman. Did you see his face?’ Harper giggled.

Cynthia opened her mouth, then closed it. But something welled up in her too; a ridiculous, overwhelming sense of hilarity. What was wrong with her? She had lied! To the police! She never lied. A bubble of a laugh escaped. Then a gulp, and then, before they’d hit the turnoff to Burnie, she and Harper were both laughing so hard she wondered if she might actually be losing her mind.

15

ALFIE

NOW

We are at Aunty Rainn and Uncle Simon’s place at the end of the town. Granny Pen says Uncle Simon is ‘new on the scene’. They got married two years ago and according to what Granny Pen told Mum when I was not supposed to be listening, Aunty Rainn got her claws into him at a meditation retreat and made him move here from Hobart and buy her this nice house. The best features of the house are that it’s near the beach and you can see down the road and into the cemetery.

Mum and Granny Pen and Aunty Hilary and Mum’s cousin Harper, who is Aunty Rainn’s daughter but grew up in Granny Pen’s house half the time, are drinking champagne. Aunty Rainn is drinking green juice and saying things that might be a bit mean, but in a nice voice. For example, she just said to Harper, ‘Did you really wear that to work, darling? Of course you need to explore your own style, but very few people have the bottom for jeans that tight.’

‘Thanks, Mum,’ Harper said, as if it was a compliment. I think there was a criticism of Harper’s bottom in that statement, although it looks like a normal bottom to me.

And then Aunty Rainn commented on the interesting health choices of the others. ‘You should all try my juice, you know. It’ll take years off your age. I’m living proof.’

I want to say that you can’t reverse ageing unless you are in a sci-fi movie. In a sci-fi movie you can do anything you want. Also, the green juice tastes disgusting. Aunty Rainn tried to make me drink it. I asked for lemonade instead when Mum wasn’t listening, and Aunty Rainn said it was poison (which everyone knows it isn’t). She gave me oat milk that I tipped down the sink when she went outside.

Uncle Simon looks up from the couch. He seems friendly and is very quiet. He has large round glasses and reads a lot. He smiles at me and goes back to reading, which is a relief. I would prefer not to talk at the moment as I need thinking time. I have progressed the plan.

Operation Tadpole: Phase Two

When we were coming back from the beach Harper told me there’s a track at the end that goes right up to that house on the headland. From the intelligence I’ve got so far, this is where Julian might live, or where he used to live. I know this because I casually said to Harper, ‘So, I heard there’s a guy called Julian who used to know my mum. Do you know his address?’

Harper did a sort of gagging thing which made me think she swallowed her spit too quick, then she said, ‘Up there.’ And this is the crazy thing: she pointed to this huge old house she had just told me was the place where she worked. The odds of Harper working at my possible father’s house and discussing it with me in the sentence before I bring up the question about which house he lives in have got to be … well, they have to be low, statistically. There are too many variables for me to work it out properly.

So, I said to Harper, ‘Can you walk there, if you want to?’ And she said there was a walking track from the beach up the hill that goes right into the garden of the house. Shebang! I wanted to slap my knees and say Alfred Edward Deegan Bains, you are a LEGEND, but instead I acted cool as a cucumber and said, ‘Oh. It must be nice to walk on the beach and be able to collect shells on your way to work and you could also catch crabs.’

Harper said that catching crabs was about her least favourite thing to do and she took measures not to let crabs anywhere near her. I didn’t ask what the measures were, though. I figure she just needs to work on her technique so the claws don’t get her. Also, I was focusing on the house and the track up from the beach and didn’t have time to discuss crustaceans.

Back to: Operation Tadpole: Phase Two

Hilary is now opening a second bottle of champagne and said we might as well stay for dinner and she’ll shout the takeaway food, which Granny Pen seemed surprised about and whispered to Mum that usually with Hilary it’s like getting blood out of a stone. I will look up that meaning later. Anyway, a storm is coming so they’ve moved inside. Rainn said if they were going to stay, they should order the food now, and then she said she had to go out somewhere and left in her car. I asked Mum if she’d put a movie on for me, and she asked Harper to help. Harper puts on the second Harry Potter film, which I’ve seen but I act excited about it. When she goes back out to the kitchen, I wait a minute then follow her out. I creep past Simon, who remains focused on his book, and I leave a note for Mum inside her handbag and sneak out the front door and down the road to the beach. The wind is pretty strong now, but it’s not raining. It’ll take me fifteen minutes to run along the beach and climb the hill to the big house. Maybe eighteen minutes if the sand resistance is sub-optimal. When I get there, I will casually ask about Julian. If he doesn’t still live there they might have a forwarding address. Then I will run back, and we won’t even be at the scene where Harry’s chasing Malfoy for the snitch on his broomstick, plus I don’t think the food will have arrived because Mum takes ages to pick dinner.

Thinking through the details of Operation Tadpole: Phase Two, I know there is risk. Mum checks on me all the time, but since we came to stay with Granny Pen it feels like she’s got someone else to help her carry her load of worry, so she’s only worrying half as much. Also, when she drinks champagne she partially forgets to worry about me. I calculate I’ve got at least forty to forty-five minutes before she comes into the TV room.

When I hit the beach, the tide is already pretty high and coming in fast, but I’m faster. Mikey O’Connor always tells me I run like a gumby. But he’s wrong. I run like the wind.

16

CYNTHIA

NOW

When Cynthia considered Patrick’s request that she calculate the length of fairy lights required to sufficiently light up nearly fifty mature Manchurian pear trees along their driveway, and then source the right ones (of a quality to satisfy Patrick’s rather finicky standards), then organise one of the gardeners or perhaps an electrician to come out and install them with their ladders and electrical bits and pieces and so on before the party, she had watched his car drive through the paddock gate and decided that her filing tray needed urgent attention.

She pulled out another pile of documents and listened to the ocean crashing against the rocks. A storm was coming. The roof over the conservatory would be rattling soon enough. On stormy nights her boys used to say it was ghosts, and sometimes Cynthia did feel something when she was alone in the back part of the house; a sort of cold spectral presence; an understanding that something had happened here, something violent and unresolved during its two-century history. She wondered if that made her ridiculous; one of those mad women who liked to revel in the dramatic, misty edges of possibility. She hoped not, but she had never spoken of it, especially not to Patrick. But why shouldn’t there be spirits? And more here than anywhere? This house, this whole region, had a bloody history.

Cynthia lifted another file and, as she opened it, the doorbell clanged. She froze. Who would be calling at this time? It was still light, despite the grey storm clouds gathering, but the sun was about to set. Too late for a drop-in visitor. And Patrick had driven across to Julian’s cottage to clear his head, so it couldn’t be anyone for him.

She sighed and pushed herself up, knees groaning, and walked down the hall. There was a moment, as she opened the door, where time seemed to slow and split, as if it had an inkling that something big was coming and the time gods were giving her an extra moment. And yet the sight of a small, dishevelled boy with ocean blue eyes and a smattering of freckles across his button nose—panting heavily as if he’d just finished a race—seemed such an improbable occurrence that no amount of time could have prepared her. The child’s face was indelibly printed on her mind.

‘Yes?’

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I’m just wondering, I know this might not be the right house …’ The boy looked around as he caught his breath, almost as if he was looking for all those other houses he could have chosen up on this remote promontory, far away from the town. ‘I was passing by, really, and I wondered if Julian lived here?’

Dread shot through Cynthia like electricity.

The boy took his hands off his hips. He swiped the back of his hand under his nose. ‘I mean, sorry if I’m bothering you. But if he did, then, if possible, I’d like to chat to him about some business.’

‘No.’

His eyes widened.

‘He’s … he’s not here.’ Cynthia tried to swallow, but her mouth was sticky and dry.

The boy bounced his head slightly, up and down, as if conversing with himself. ‘If you don’t mind,’ he looked up, ‘I’d like to leave him a note. For when he comes back?’ He checked his watch and then looked at her closely.

Her stomach lurched. Behind him, the wind was driving through the trees in angry, hissing whispers. The houses on the distant headland sparkled like false little diamonds in the evening light. Still the boy was staring. He’d asked her something else.

‘What?’ she said.

‘Could I come in for a minute? To write something down for him.’

She turned, heard his footsteps follow her across the vast entrance hall. In the kitchen she pointed to the table. ‘Do you need a pen or paper?’

‘A pen, please.’

She handed him one and from his pocket he pulled a tiny notebook. His thin little body bent over the table and his left hand curled around the pen. She watched, entranced. The delicate, familiar jawline. The translucent skin. He kept writing, turning the pages, looking up at the wall, staring down at his page, beginning again. At last he stopped, considered his work, read back over it.

‘Could I have an envelope?’ He began removing the pages from his notebook.

Cynthia hurried to the office and returned with an envelope.

‘Thank you very much.’ He slid the pages in and sealed it. Then he wrote something on the front and back and handed it to her.

Cynthia knew she had been a terrible mother to her boys. Love wasn’t the problem. It was not knowing what to do at any given time. How to react. Now, it seemed she’d make a terrible grandmother too. In messy scrunched letters she read the words: to Julian on the front. She turned it over: from Alfred Bains.

‘Thank you for the envelope. If you could pass that on, I’d really appreciate it. I have to go.’ He hurried to the front door.

Cynthia stood with the envelope burning the skin between her thumb and finger like a fiery dart. She heard a tugging sound, then a furious repetitive clicking. The boy was struggling with the latch. She went to him and undid it and as he ran out, he said, ‘Thanks again,’ and galloped into the garden. For a moment, her mind was blank. She shook herself from her stupor and followed him around the corner. He was nowhere to be seen. The stretch of lawn was empty. Had he gone around the garage to a waiting car? The driveway was also empty. The clouds were now ominously grey across the bay where the ocean curled around the promontory and dipped into the elbow of the township below. From where she stood, she could see across the oceans; she could see the entire world from here. But no little boy. Where was he? How did he come?

She glanced across the garden towards the beach path. But the tide was right in. Something niggled at her. Sand. There was sand on his shoes, messy sprays of it on the kitchen tiles. She was running before she registered thought. Across the lawns, over the wood-chipped paths of the vegetable gardens, across the promontory and through the spiky grasses bent sideways by wind that threatened to uproot them. The angry crash of the waves below sent up a fine warning spray of salt. She stumbled as the darkness gathered around her, disguising the dips and ridges of the hillside.

The beach gate at the top of the steps was open, swinging in the wind. She pulled it closed behind her and took the steps as quickly as she dared. The tide thumped and crashed only metres from her feet, and as she paused, looking along the hairline crack of beach towards town, a wave surged ahead of the tideline onto the remaining strip of dry sand. It smashed against the steep face of the dunes.

‘Alfred?’ She wrenched off her shoes and took the final timber step onto the sand. If he’d attempted to walk, he might be all right. Yes, yes. Although, the dunes were tall at this end and they gave way to enormous rocks further on that formed a pointed barrier into the sea. Perhaps he had scrambled across them and made it down the other side? He might be walking through the flatter dunes that would take him into the tourist carpark. Cynthia looked up at the steep pitch of the dunes above her. A barrier had been built recently to stop tourists ruining the precious flora. He couldn’t have gone that way.

The huge rocks further along the beach were ominous sentinels, partly submerged. Those rocks still visible were being lashed by the sea. He’d have to be very athletic to have made it across them. And very lucky. Any of those waves could sweep a small boy off and into the washing machine tide below. She edged along the lip of sand between the steep, grassy hill and the ocean. The cold edge of a wave splashed over her feet making her gasp. She flattened her body into a small gap where the hill receded.

‘Hello.’

Cynthia shrieked. Alfred was nestled into the cove.

‘Sorry I scared you,’ he said. ‘The sea is amazing, but I’m a bit worried the tide is too high for me to walk back so I was going to come back through your garden and walk along the road, if that’s all right.’

‘Yes.’

He walked in front of her and ran up the steps. At the top he waited. When Cynthia reached him she was puffing.

He nodded at the beach. ‘I shouldn’t be surprised about the height of this tide. Recently I’ve been to the beach twice at this time of day, and I know that the amplitude varies throughout the month with the phases of the moon. It alters the gravitational pull.’ He shrugged. ‘But sometimes nature’s power surprises you, doesn’t it?’ He tipped his head to the side, waiting.

‘Yes, it does.’

When they reached the front garden, Alfred said, ‘Thanks. I have to get going. I’m late.’ He ran towards the road.

‘Stop!’ cried Cynthia.

He turned.

‘It’s getting dark and it’s two kilometres to town. Let me drive you.’

‘I’m not supposed to get in cars with strangers.’

‘I’m not really a stranger.’

‘Aren’t you?’

‘I know your grandmother, Penny. And Rainn. Your mum is Emilia, isn’t she? I know your family.’

‘Oh. You knew who I was?’ He seemed to weigh this up.

‘Well, I … I guessed. I’m on a committee with Penny. And Rainn.’

‘Oh. Okay.’

Cynthia watched as he tried to wipe the sand off his feet before getting into the back seat of the car. ‘Have you got your seatbelt on?’

‘Yes.’

They drove down the hill in unbearable silence.

‘My name is Cynthia, by the way.’

‘You can call me Alfie.’ As they headed down the driveway, he swivelled his head to look back up the hill. ‘There’s a car pulling up near your garage.’

‘That will be Doctor Pat. My husband. He’s come through the paddock.’

‘What sort of doctor is he?’

‘A GP. A family doctor.’

‘That’s a useful person to have for your family.’ He swivelled back around. ‘Do you think you’d be able to give that letter to Julian quite soon?’

Cynthia swallowed, indicated, turned onto the main road.

‘Also, would you mind not telling anyone about it. My mum might get mad at me for doing things without her approval.’

‘All right.’ Cynthia let her palpitating heart settle and with it came a beam of clarity. ‘Would you like to ring your mother to tell her you’re okay?’

‘No, thank you. Given the speed limit here and lack of traffic, I predict we will be back at Rainn’s house in approximately two and a half minutes. There’s still a chance Mum may not have realised I’m gone, so the benefit of ringing her to make her feel better by giving her two minutes of extra knowing-time that I’m safe isn’t worth it, if I can get away with her not knowing I left the house at all. It’s a cost–benefit analysis.’

‘Oh, right.’ Cynthia turned onto Allen Street. ‘Alfie, could I ask you a personal question?’

‘Sure.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Nine years and eleven months and two days.’

‘I see.’

‘It’s number six, up there ahead on the left.’

She parked outside Rainn’s lovely green house that sat on the rise in the shadow of the Rock.

Alfie unbuckled his belt. ‘Nice to meet you, Cynthia.’ He hesitated. ‘Do you know where my Granny Pen lives?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, if you happen to see Julian but he can’t get in touch with me, and you could get a message to me, privately, that would be extremely good.’

She averted her eyes, fixing them on the delicate curve of his hand on the door.

‘If you like,’ he continued, ‘I can teach you how to make invisible ink. That way, only I could read your note.’

‘Ah.’

‘Maybe you can give me your email address and I’ll send you the website that shows you how to make it. You can’t email me back, though, or Mum would know I was talking with a semi-stranger.’

Cynthia reached into the glove box and found her business card.

‘Thanks. See you later.’ He ran up the front stairs and inched the doorknob around then poked his nose inside before disappearing into the house.

Cynthia wondered what she had just done.

He was definitely her grandson.

And she was perhaps the worst grandmother in the entire world.

17

ALFIE

NOW

It’s been one week since I left my letter at the house on the hill for Julian. He has not replied. On Tuesday I emailed Cynthia, giving her the website link showing the recipe for invisible ink. I asked Granny Pen if I could collect the mail, but nothing’s come so far. First, I worried Cynthia hadn’t been able to make the ink, but a person who owns such a fancy house and has a business card that says tax consultant and corporate advisory services is obviously not stupid. So, my guess is she hasn’t seen Julian and has no information on when he’s coming back.

I suspect I could be friends with Cynthia. Most adults get weird about the way I talk, but she acted like everything I said was normal. I’m sort of disappointed she didn’t write to me even if there was no news about Julian. We could have been secret pen pals.

Mum’s in Hobart for a job interview, so I’m staying with Granny Pen on my own for two nights. When I was meant to be in the bath, I heard Granny Pen telling Aunty Hilary and Aunty Rainn that Cynthia is a cold fish, but I’m having trouble working out this metaphor. In my experience, cold fish is what makes adults go bonkers for sushi, and they’re always happy to have it. With Mum’s laptop gone, I have to time my internet searches for when Granny Pen is not in the same room as her old desktop computer.

Granny Pen said to Aunty Rainn, ‘Poor Doctor Pat. It’s hard for him to get any time to himself because everyone stops him on the street to ask him medical questions or chat to him because he’s so nice. It must be so hard to find any peace.’ Aunty Rainn told her he nips down to Julian’s cottage to get away from things. I’m guessing Doctor Pat is an introvert like me, who needs to spend time on his own to find relief from annoying fans.

Current situation with Operation Tadpole:

1. Cynthia and Doctor Pat and Granny Pen know something about Julian’s actual house, which is not the big house on the hill, but another house nearby. Doctor Pat goes to sit in it. Cynthia has not reported anything, but I am checking the mailbox twice a day now. I have worked out that Cynthia and Doctor Pat are Julian’s parents.

2. When Mum left for Hobart, I asked Granny Pen about Julian. She said in a weird voice, ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t say. I really don’t know exactly what I can tell you, darling,’ then she said, ‘Let’s do another jigsaw,’ and then, ‘Would you like some ice cream?’ Classic diversion techniques. I have crossed her off the list of potential sources of information.

3. Due to Cynthia being incommunicado, my next best source of information is Doctor Pat. Granny Pen thinks he’s really nice, so this is positive.

4. Best opportunity to interview Doctor Pat (due to the fact that Granny Pen’s farm is 3.2 kilometres out of town) is to require medical assistance.

Doctor Pat is the only doctor in Beggars Rock so when Granny Pen was in the milking shed, I googled ‘how to make yourself sick’. There are many idiotic websites about this. The number of people who put their opinions onto the world wide web without thinking how stupid it makes them seem is flabbergasting. After sifting through loads of them, I have worked out the best way to fake a fever, plus make it seem like I vomited or even how to actually vomit.

The upside to my plan is Mum being away. She would guess I was faking. The downside is that it’s April Fools’ Day and it’s possible that trickery and deception are at the front of Granny Pen’s mind. But I think she’ll believe me. Also, seeing as how Granny Pen raved about Doctor Pat for ages when I asked about the quality of medical care in the local area, she might enjoy the opportunity to watch him in action.

18

PENNY

NOW

Penny picked up the phone’s handset, then placed it back in its cradle for the third time. The wall clock read 9.47 pm. If she called Emilia now, it would worry her for no useful reason. She was at least a five-hour drive away and had her job interview in the morning. No good would come of this urge to share the worry. Penny’s mother used to say, A worry shared is a worry halved, but that was patently stupid. It probably doubled the worry because it gave you someone to examine it with from every angle so you could worry about it in more detail.

She gnawed at the edge of her fingernail. So peculiar that Alfie had seemed fine when Emilia phoned at dinner time.

In the dim light, Alfie lay still in bed, staring back at her.

He lifted his arm and handed her the thermometer. ‘It’s still forty degrees,’ he said.

If it had been one of the sheep, she wouldn’t be so worried. A sheep’s normal temperature was thirty-nine degrees. She’d had that same thermometer up Pandora’s bottom only last week when the poor thing had been found huddled in the bottom paddock, her fleece caught on a fence.

‘I feel terrible, Granny Pen,’ Alfie murmured weakly.

Penny’s pulse quickened. What if it was meningitis? What if, at this very moment, the lining of his brain was swelling? He might be about to have a seizure. He might sustain irreversible brain damage.

‘I’ve got a terrible headache.’ Alfie’s eyes drooped.

Oh god. It was definitely something serious. Emilia would never forgive her if she didn’t do the right thing. He could die in his sleep and her poor girl would be left to grieve her only child. She would never recover.

‘Darling, I’ll get you another cool face washer and ring the doctor.’

‘Okay. If you think that’s best, Granny Pen.’

Penny marvelled at what a trooper he was. She could not have asked for a better patient.

Nineteen minutes later, a car pulled into the driveway. A minute after that Pat Heston-Blaise stood on the porch with a medical bag in his hand, wearing rumpled pants and a pullover, but still remarkably handsome for a man of sixty-five.

‘Hello, Penny.’

She ushered him inside and noticed his hair was standing up in a tuft at the back. It was sweet and unbearable. She must have gotten him out of bed.

‘So sorry to get you out this late, Pat.’ She lowered her voice. ‘And sorry Emilia hasn’t responded to you about the meeting Cynthia suggested. I did encourage her to.’

‘He’s our family too, Penny.’ Pat sighed. ‘I’ve been so keen to meet him—though not necessarily in these circumstances. Is he all right?’

‘He’s running a fever of about forty degrees. The paracetamol’s not touching it. He has a headache and feels nauseous. I was worried it might be serious. I’m so out of practice, and Emilia is away.’ Penny’s hand fluttered to her chest. ‘Shall I show you through?’

‘Of course. Does he know about me being his grandfather?’

‘I …’ Penny took a deep breath. ‘Emilia hasn’t confirmed Julian is his father. So he doesn’t know anything.’

Pat gave a disbelieving shake of his head. ‘Come on then.’

Penny led him to Alfie’s bedside. ‘This is Doctor Pat, Alfie. He’s going to check you over.’

Pat moved a chair next to the bed. ‘So, young Alfie, is it?’ he said kindly. ‘I’m Doctor Pat.’

‘Hello,’ said Alfie, looking immediately perkier.

In a perfect imitation of Donald Duck, Pat croaked, ‘Lovely to meet you, Alfie. I hear you’re not feeling too good.’

‘That’s an impressive impersonation of a cartoon character I once saw on television. I can’t recall which one.’

‘Donald Duck at your service. What seems to be the problem?’

‘I feel nauseous and have a febrile sweat that might indicate flu plus a moderately bad frontal headache.’

‘Hmmm, that’s no good. No good at all.’ Doctor Pat’s normal voice had returned.

Penny was a little ashamed that Alfie hadn’t giggled at Pat’s wonderful bedside duck performance. Then she felt ashamed for being ashamed of Alfie. Pat wasn’t to know he was reading about pneumatic chemistry.

‘Would you mind if I turned on the light so we can have a better look at you?’

‘No, I don’t mind,’ said Alfie. Then he looked at Penny. ‘Granny Pen, could I please have a cold glass of water with ice in it. This one’s too warm. Also, I might need some privacy to talk to Doctor Pat, man to man.’

‘Oh. All right.’ Penny walked to the kitchen, puzzling over what sort of male complication Alfie was embarrassed to talk about. Did meningitis do something to your testicles? She sloshed some water into a glass, added ice, then tiptoed back. From outside the bedroom she heard Alfie say, ‘It’s more of a personal nature.’

‘I see,’ said Pat.

‘I’m not really too sick. But I wanted to meet you because I think you know a man called Julian, who may be related to me.’

Penny’s stomach curdled.

After a time, Pat said, ‘Well, yes.’

‘That’s great. Could you give me some information? About where he lives, or his phone number? I need to get in touch with him.’

Penny edged to the doorway and peeked around the corner. Pat lifted his hand and put it on Alfie’s.

‘This is a difficult situation, Alfie. I agree it’s information you’re entitled to, but this is something we need to talk about together with your mum or Gran around. And in the daytime. Shall we make an appointment to get together with your mum when she gets back?’

‘No, thank you. I don’t think that’s advisable.’

‘Why not?’

‘Julian makes her cry. I heard Granny Pen and Mum talking about Julian the other night and Mum started crying, and then later when she came to bed, she didn’t stop crying for ages. He makes her sad. Which is understandable if he dumped her or something like that, so she has a broken heart.’

Pat made a sound, possibly meant to be a word, but it came out like a confused sigh.

‘I don’t like to upset her,’ continued Alfie. ‘But it’s possible he’s my father, and I think it could be beneficial to meet. On both sides. Adults tend to like me better than kids, so he might enjoy getting to know me.’

‘I’m sure anyone would be pleased to know you, young man.’

‘Not anyone. Lots of kids think I’m a total tosser.’

‘That’s rather an adult word,’ said Pat.

‘Technically, I don’t think it’s swearing. Loser is another one that gets used a lot about me. Knobhead is quite popular too.’

‘Goodness me,’ said Pat. ‘They don’t sound like nice kids. I hope your friends tell those other kids to take a hike.’

‘I don’t have friends.’

‘That can’t be right,’ said Pat.

Silence settled and Penny tried to hold her breath as she retreated back behind the door.

‘There’s Kevin,’ said Alfie. ‘He’s really nice. But he’s back in Ireland.’

‘You’ve been living in Ireland?’

‘We lived in Dublin for seven hundred and seventy-four days. Before that we lived in Perth. The Australian city, not the central Scottish one.’

‘Well,’ Pat said after some thought, ‘maybe you can FaceTime Kevin until you make some new friends.’

‘I don’t think so. When Kevin went into rehab they told him to stay off the internet, so he avoids technology, except for email.’

‘Your friend was in rehab?’

‘It was ages ago. We met him because he used to know Mum’s friend Eddie. Kevin thinks Aussies are cool because Eddie was the coolest guy he ever met, so he basically extrapolated that to all Australians.’

‘So, Kevin was—’

‘Kevin’s great. Mum told her friend Aoife that Kevin’s definitely a good guy and hasn’t snorted anything for years. He used to look after me on Saturdays when Mum was working. Once he took me to this cool part of Dublin with heaps of graffiti on this overpass. We hung out with the monks and you get free lentils under the bridge where the homeless people sleep.’

A jolt of horror tore through Penny.

‘Really?’ replied Pat, slowly.

‘The lentils were disgusting but I didn’t want to offend anyone so I threw them in the bin when Kevin wasn’t looking.’

Penny hurried into the room. ‘Here’s your water, darling.’ She glanced at Pat who stared at her, lips parted. She went to the far side of the bed and began fussing with Alfie’s bedcovers. ‘What do you think, Pat? Will he need some other medicine?’

Pat got out his stethoscope and listened to Alfie’s chest then placed a digital thermometer to his head. ‘His temperature has come down.’ He got out a disposable tongue paddle and a torch. ‘Can you open your mouth for me, Alfie and say “arrrrr”?’ Pat peered down his throat. ‘Good lad.’

Pat turned to Penny. ‘I think he’ll be fine but call me if he gets worse.’

‘Oh, good. Yes.’

‘Alfie, I’d like to continue our discussion further. Perhaps your granny can bring you up to our house tomorrow for morning tea. What do you say, Penny? Scones and tea?’

‘Oh, ah, I think the vet is coming, and I’m busy in the dairy, but I can—’

‘Great,’ said Pat. ‘I’ll confirm a time.’ He turned to Alfie. ‘Bye-bye, Alfie. Nice to meet you. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘All right,’ said Alfie. He smiled. ‘Thank you for your medical assistance.’

‘My pleasure, young man. We won’t let anything bad happen to you again.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Alfie.

‘You’ll be fine, Alfie,’ said Penny, ushering Pat out. Her heart was clattering. What had she done? There was sure to be some good explanation about this Kevin. But now Pat would think Emilia was a terrible mother.

She yanked open the door. ‘Thank you for coming.’

Pat gave her one of those looks, as if silently mansplaining all the ways in which she was an actual, fully-fledged idiot. She suddenly found herself irritated by him.

‘You need to bring that boy up to our place, Penny,’ he said. ‘You know it’s the right thing to do. He’s Julian’s son, without a doubt.’ He looked past her shoulder, then his face seemed to collapse. ‘Please. She has no right to keep him from us.’

Penny gave a curt nod and watched him walk to the car. How on earth was she going to tell Emilia? What if she’d done the wrong thing by calling Pat? What if her girl packed her bags then left the country again and took Alfie with her?

19

CYNTHIA

NOW

Cynthia turned on the oven, a headache worming its way from the back of her neck to her left temple. A tension headache, she decided. Pat had invited Penny and Alfie for morning tea and had asked her to cook scones. And since she had not told Pat about Alfie’s visit to the house last week, and did not know how to cook scones, she had ample reason to be tense.

Look at YouTube, Pat suggested when she reminded him she couldn’t cook scones. That’s how he’d learned to adjust the brake cable tension on his pushbike. Besides, Mrs Slip used to whip up a batch in under five minutes, he’d said. Simple. Cynthia knew better than to contradict him. She had to conjure up some hot scones and that was that, but for some reason the idea of baking the damn things felt like being dropped at the base of Mount Kilimanjaro in a bathing suit with a guidebook printed in Ancient Greek. She sat at her computer until she found a video.

Forty-five minutes later, Cynthia peered into the oven at the knobs of rising dough pushing themselves together like proper scones. Look! she thought. I made these for you, Alfie! Then she remembered she wasn’t meant to have met him and hoped the boy was a good enough actor to keep their secret safe.

Patrick appeared twenty minutes later, smiling. ‘Where will we set up for morning tea?’

‘I thought the conservatory?’

‘Excellent. Still some nice morning sun in there. What can I take in?’

‘Oh … some plates and knives for the scones. I’ll get a tray.’

The doorbell rang and Cynthia froze. They were early. As Patrick headed down the hall the house phone rang. Cynthia hurried to pick it up. ‘Hello?’

‘Cynthia?’

‘Yes, who is this?

‘It’s Emilia.’

Cynthia’s stomach gave a small flip. Emilia sounded exactly the same, even after all these years.

‘Hello. What can I do for you?’

‘Are my mother and son up at your house?’

‘Er … well, Patrick asked them here, yes.’

‘I don’t want him up there. Pat has no right to see him, or any rights over him at all.’

Cynthia felt the reedy strain in Emilia’s voice. It was edged with hostility, which was so unlike her.

‘I’m not sure why you wouldn’t want your mother to visit us,’ she replied, feigning ignorance.

‘Cynthia, don’t do this. I tried to ring Mum just now but she didn’t pick up, and I can see from the location on Alfie’s iPad they’re there. Tell Mum to ring me straight away. My son isn’t community property.’

‘I see.’

‘See what? Send them home!’

Cynthia looked around and lowered her voice. ‘Emilia, please calm down. I’ll pass the message along, now I’m sorry, but I have to go.’ She dropped the handset into the cradle and hurried into the kitchen, scooping up the scones. As she approached the conservatory, she tried to get her thoughts straight.

‘Hello.’ Penny was standing stiffly next to Patrick and Alfie. The boy was beaming at Cynthia.

‘This is Alfie,’ said Penny with a pained half smile. ‘Alfie, this is Cynthia.’

She and Alfie stared at each other, and Cynthia tried to convey the importance of his silence. She deposited the scones onto the table and put out her hand. ‘How nice to meet you, Alfie.’

He searched her face, then after an interminable minute that was likely only a second, he put his hand into hers. ‘Nice to meet you too, Cynthia,’ he said, gravely. ‘I enjoy making new acquaintances. Are you the same?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she lied.

His eyes sparkled.

‘Excellent!’ said Pat. ‘Will we sit and have some scones? Cynthia’s not got much experience making them, but she might surprise us.’

‘So, Alfie young man,’ Pat continued after they settled into the armchairs, ‘I’m thrilled you could come and visit. How are you feeling today?’

‘Fine, thank you,’ said Alfie. ‘I think it was a mild viral illness. It’s gone now.’

Pat smiled. ‘Good news! Now, why don’t you tell us all about yourself?’ He sat forward on the wicker chair, happy for the first time in months.

‘I’m nine. Almost ten. And I’m an Aries although I’m on the cusp of Taurus and I was born a week before my due date, so there might have been some astrological mix-up there. I tend to be assertive, a good organiser and optimistic, which is typical Aries, but then I’m also quite predictable and like routine, so that’s a bit Taurean.’ He sat back and stubbed the tip of his shoe on the tiles.

‘Is that so?’ said Pat.

‘Yes.’ Alfie nodded. ‘For example, I’m happy to eat spaghetti Bolognese every day, but Mum says we have to have vegetarian at least twice a week. Which is fine, because I like plain pasta and it reduces the cow farts that cause global warming.’

‘Language, Alfie,’ spluttered Penny.

‘Farts?’ repeated Alfie, frowning.

Penny nodded.

‘Mum says farts are natural and it’s fine to use that word. I can say “flatulence” if you want, but “farts” provides more clarity. Flatulence can also mean someone who speaks pompously. I prefer to be clear in my meanings.’

‘Quite right,’ said Pat. ‘Farts it is then!’

Alfie looked around, as if measuring the mood of the room. ‘It’s not surprising I have Taurean personality traits. Being on the cusp.’

Patrick’s eyes flicked sideways towards Cynthia, uncomfortable, she could see, while the conversation hovered in this alien territory. She smiled encouragingly at him. If he’d ever turned his mind to it, she knew Pat would say he didn’t believe in the zodiac or star signs. Palm readers were right up there with vegans and parking inspectors on his list of world’s biggest idiots.

‘We don’t know much about star signs,’ said Cynthia.

‘They’re interesting. Mum and I like numerology as well.’

‘Oh?’ said Patrick. ‘Excellent. I like numbers too, but I’m more of a history buff myself.’

‘Chaldean numerology originated in ancient Mesopotamia. If you like history, you’ll find the history of numerology interesting. Mum bought me a book about it.’

Patrick dipped his head, in a small double take. ‘We must be kindred spirits then. We both like numbers and history.’

He gave Cynthia a look; a satisfied vindication. Our grandson’s mother might be problematic, but he’s terrific.

Penny’s phone buzzed in her handbag. She got it out and frowned as she read the text. ‘I’m very sorry, Pat, but we have to be getting home. Come on, Alfie.’

‘Really?’ asked Pat. ‘We were getting on so well, weren’t we, young man?’

Alfie nodded vigorously. ‘Can’t we stay for longer?’

Penny glanced at her phone again.

‘Come on, Penny, our children used to be married. Surely, that makes us family?’ said Pat.

‘My mum was married?’ asked Alfie.

‘Yes,’ said Pat. ‘Our son Julian used to be married to your mum.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Penny, holding the phone to her chest. ‘But your mum texted to say she’d prefer you weren’t here, Alfie.’

Alfie’s eyebrows furrowed in annoyance. ‘When can I meet him?’ he asked. ‘Julian, I mean. Because I have questions.’

There was a long silence.

‘What sort of questions?’ asked Cynthia.

Alfie hesitated and looked meaningfully around at the three of them. ‘About my paternity.’

Penny’s phone began ringing. She glanced at the screen then lunged across the table and grabbed Alfie’s hand. ‘We have to go. Now. Sorry.’ She pulled him up. ‘Thanks for the tea.’

And before Cynthia could speak, they were gone.

20

CYNTHIA

ALMOST ELEVEN YEARS AGO, MAY

Cynthia brought the soup tureen to the dinner table and placed it next to Pat. ‘Your favourite,’ she said. ‘Chicken and mushroom.’

‘Delicious!’ At the other end of the dining table, Cynthia’s brother-in-law rubbed his hands together. ‘Nice and hearty for such a god-awful day. Can’t believe you didn’t order better weather for our birthday, Pat.’

George Heston-Blaise, renowned corporate lawyer, fraternal twin to Patrick, lover of red wine, antique clocks and beautiful women, was visiting from Hobart to celebrate his and Pat’s birthday. On his arm was a twenty-something female accountant by the name of Morgan, apparently the new fiancée. Apparently pregnant, too, which gave Cynthia pause, for no good reason she conceded to herself, except that her husband and his twin were turning fifty-five today.

Ned and Noah sat across from Morgan, neither speaking much. Cynthia wondered if they were considering their new cousin floating about in the womb of the girl opposite, who they might have gone to school with if they’d lived down south.

Tonight, Ned was in black and Noah in blue—two tall, gangly, otherwise identical creatures who were excessively kind and highly intellectual. On nights like this when their social awkwardness was writ large, Cynthia adored and despaired of her twin sons in equal measure. The problem was, they were far too much like her.

She ladled the soup and Emilia passed the bowls down the table. Emilia had been so quiet tonight. She could barely lift her eyes to a conversation. Cynthia was concerned, though over recent months Julian had brushed aside Cynthia’s gentle probing. The appearance of a pregnant woman tonight couldn’t have helped Emilia’s mood. Since the loss of their baby, things hadn’t been right between Emilia and Julian. It was more than a shared sadness. Julian seemed extra protective and Emilia overly distant.

‘This is really tasty, Cynthia. What a great cook you are,’ said Morgan, taking another spoonful.

‘She doesn’t cook much, so you’ll be lucky if it doesn’t poison you!’ Pat laughed, squeezing Cynthia’s hand to prove how good-natured the joke was. She winced, tried to smile. Pat and George didn’t seem to notice any strain. They commandeered the conversation for the whole table, taking turns at telling stories, filling wine glasses and reminiscing over their childhood.

After the main course of roast lamb, Emilia helped clear the table. She stacked the dishwasher carefully, avoiding Cynthia’s gaze.

‘You seem a bit flat tonight, Emilia. You must go to a doctor if you feel a bit low. Or perhaps Pat can prescribe something?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘I’m sure there’ll be another baby. You’re so young and you’re both healthy.’

Emilia said nothing and Ned came into the kitchen with the gravy boat and condiments, hair askew, shirt untucked, a pained expression on his face. ‘Need a hand with dessert?’ But he wasn’t looking at Cynthia. His eyes were firmly on Emilia.

‘Thank you, Ned. It’s birthday cake and berries.’ Cynthia pointed to the cake stand where a cheesecake she’d ordered was covered in cream and chocolate swirls. Ned didn’t seem to hear her.

Julian appeared and pinned Ned with a hostile glare.

‘I’ll take this in.’ Ned picked up the cake and left the room.

‘Julian,’ Cynthia began carefully, ‘I was suggesting to Emilia she might visit a doctor if she’s not feeling up to things. Medication can help after a loss. I was reading about it.’ As soon as the words left her mouth Cynthia knew she should have waited for a better time. But there was never going to be a good time and Emilia couldn’t go on like this. It had been nearly eight months now since that terrible evening she and Pat had found Julian sobbing in the hospital carpark and Emilia recovering from emergency surgery in the labour ward.

Emilia left the kitchen and Cynthia sighed.

‘Leave it, okay, Mum? She doesn’t need you adding to it. She’s fine.’

‘She is anything but fine. She’s lost her spirit.’

Julian looked momentarily weary. ‘She’s my problem, not yours.’

‘She’s not a problem, darling. She’s a woman who’s had a loss, and maybe she needs to see someone to help her get through it.’

Julian made an irritated huffing sound.

‘I know a counsellor in Burnie who was recommended for one of the teenagers on the mentoring program. I think Ned and Noah know her husband.’

‘Leave it! The twins are half the bloody problem,’ hissed Julian. ‘She’s always over at their house hanging out with them as if I’m not enough for her. She acts as though they’re her best mates. As if she’s not married to me.’

Cynthia saw a flash of the injured child she’d once known. The face he used to pull when he didn’t get the prize in pass the parcel, or when he lost a tennis game to a club rival.

‘Oh, Julian.’ She suppressed a smile. The idea that the twins were any threat to him was so fanciful. ‘She needs someone to talk to when you’re at work. She has so few people around her. She barely goes out. It’s healthy if she has some friendships. And they’re good boys. They’d be lovely company for her.’

‘They’re grown men.’

‘Rubbish. They’re the twins. They’re being kind. Nothing bad could ever come from a friendship with your brothers.’

21

ALFIE

NOW

I can’t think properly. My head feels soggy and black, like a liquorice torpedo after someone has sucked off all the sugar. Mum has kept her whole life from before I was born a secret. Her family, her marriage to Julian and the fact that, timing wise, it’s most likely he’s my father.

I’m sitting at Granny Pen’s dining table with both hands on my head. It doesn’t help that she’s put a plate in front of me containing a hard-boiled egg chopped in half. I don’t believe in hard-boiled eggs. There’s something gross about them, as if you’re proud of murdering the poor baby chicken embryo that might have grown up if you hadn’t stolen it from its mother.

When I say this to Granny Pen, she gets a funny look on her face. ‘I don’t have roosters, Alfie. They can’t be fertilised without roosters, dear.’

She looks at me as if I didn’t realise this, which I find insulting since I am actually very smart. I know this because even though Mum wouldn’t let me read the report from the educational psychologist, I did anyway. Mum thinks that me knowing my IQ is 158 will be detrimental to my normal development. She thinks I’ll fit in better with kids my age if I never find out how smart I am. Well, Mum, that horse has bolted (Kevin liked that saying a lot).

A lifetime of having to keep my hand down in class because Mrs O’Flannery says, ‘Not you, Alfie. Anyone else know the answer?’ or Caleb Hansen throws an eraser at your head and calls you nerd-features, or Mr Pippin says, ‘Stop showing off, boy,’ in an annoyed voice, makes you pretty aware that your brain works differently from other kids’ and that they can be very rude about it. And there is often one especially rude ignoramus in the group who takes action on top of the mean words. They might trip you over in the tuckshop line or pretend to whisper a secret in your ear then fill your eardrum with masticated cheese or pull your shorts down in the playground. Mum says these people have sad and difficult home lives, but I don’t see the correlation. Mum prefers to give other people the benefit of the doubt, but I don’t. I’ve tried and it failed.

Mum is due to arrive home any minute, and I am ready to shoot all of my many doubts at her. Mum and I are on a paternity-question collision course and it seems to me that the petri dish story about the PhD guy with the blue-eyed sperms is about to crash.

After we left Sommersby House, I asked Granny Pen why we had to leave without having any scones. She said Mum had rung and said she wanted me home. Then I asked about Julian and she still refused to tell me anything. For all I know he found another wife and has lots of children who could be my half-brothers and half-sisters. I could have an almost nuclear family. I could have a proper other life out there. I would be the oldest of a bunch of kids; the big brother who could help babysit and could read to them and teach them how to remember two hundred digits of Pi by using a special song I made up. We could play Minecraft and make cakes and design a cool device to stop the erosion in Granny Pen’s back paddock where the stream overflows near the shepherd’s hut. We could be friends.

So, I refused to talk to Granny Pen the rest of the way home. She kept blabbering on about stupid activities such as going for a swim at the beach or making a hideout in the garden or helping her cook something for dinner, but I did not give in and talk to her. I did not give her the satisfaction of thinking it was okay to keep me from the truth. I am very unhappy at her and at Mum and at this Julian guy. I am mad at them all. I have rights.

‘What about something different from Bolognese tonight, Alf? We could have steak.’ Granny Pen turns her head to me as she says this, then returns her eyes to the road. I stay silent.

We pass a paddock with some black and white cows standing in it.

‘They’re Belted Galloways,’ says Granny Pen, as she sees me looking. ‘Aren’t they lovely?’

I think about the cows. They provide us with steak and Bolognese mince. I decide I am now a vegetarian. They are sentient beings too, same as me. They have needs and wants and rights but we slit them open and gobble them up without a thought as to whether they are okay with that. If I were a poor old cow on the way to an abattoir, I’d be pretty angry about people making decisions for me, and taking away my freedoms and ruining the nice home life I had with lots of other cows in the paddock having a good old discussion as we chew our cuds about the microbial content of the grass we’ve been eating lately and how the run-off from the rivers is making it taste bad, and how human beings are big, fat, mean idiots who trash the environment then murder us and then add tomato sauce and garlic.

I am disgusted that I have been eating meat all this time, which is why I said I needed a vegetarian lunch. I am now a vegetarian—and vegan on the days Granny Pen serves boiled eggs. Also, I am on a mission. I will find my dad. Granny Pen is now blabbing on about eggs and protein and cows, while she sits opposite me at the table all calm and happy. What she doesn’t understand is Newton’s third law: for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. When Object A (Granny Pen) exerts a force on Object B (me), Object B creates an equal and opposite force on Object A.

Granny Pen goes into the kitchen and I get out my notebook.

Q: What is the opposite of a lie?

A: The truth.

Q: What is the opposite of calm and happy?

A: Fury.

22

PENNY

NOW

Penny swabbed Lilibet’s udder with cleaning solution and attached the milking cups. She gave the sheep a little pat. ‘How’s that baby growing?’ she murmured. She was confident that all the girls would be pregnant. In return for a continuous supply of feta cheese to go in Len Priddle’s medal-winning spanakopita, she had borrowed his ram and put him in with the girls for a few weeks starting on Valentine’s Day. Hopefully Brutus had done his job and she’d have a lovely lot of lambs in the springtime. Birth, new life, raising offspring. It all came with its problems and complications.

She guided Edna into the headlock next to Lilibet’s and fixed it in place. ‘There you are, my lovely. Your favourite breakfast.’ Edna nibbled at the mix in the trough and Penny fitted her cups and sat back on her stool, watching the milk flow from the clear tubes and up into the huge metal bucket attached to her machine. She usually found it calming, this part of her day, forty minutes of one-on-one time with the sheep. Her twelve milking girls were calm and well trained, and they seemed to enjoy this part of their mornings as much as Penny usually did. But today she couldn’t shake a feeling of concern. This morning there had been raised voices and so much angst.

‘Why do I have to do it?’ Alfie had demanded over breakfast.

‘It’ll be good for you, Alf,’ said Emilia.

Penny had continued chopping up the enormous pile of her neighbour’s apples she’d found in a crate on her doorstep this morning, while keeping one eye on her grandson. His fists were clenched. Emilia had dark rings under her eyes and a voice full of resignation.

‘So what?’ he said.

‘It’s good for your coordination and ball skills. And you’ll meet other kids, buddy.’

‘I have no requirement for ball skills and no interest in tennis. I’m not doing it.’

Emilia sighed. ‘Just because you don’t want to do something, Alf, doesn’t mean you don’t have to do it. Sometimes you just have to do stuff.’

Alfie began to tap his toe on the ground repeatedly. Tap, tap, tap, like the satisfying sound of Penny’s car indicator.

‘That logic would follow if I was lost in the bush with nothing to eat except witchetty grubs,’ he said eventually. ‘If I was starving in that potentially fatal situation, I would have to eat them. But in this situation, there is no emergency, so I don’t have to do anything. I could spend my day doing things I’d prefer, instead of something that will make me unhappy. I could do things that would be stimulating for my brain.’

‘Your brain is fine. It doesn’t need any more stimulation.’

‘That’s a poor parenting attitude,’ said Alfie with a disappointed air.

Alfie had been like this since yesterday, when Emilia had returned from Hobart and refused to talk about Julian. ‘We were married. We broke up,’ was all she would say. Penny wondered why she didn’t tell him the truth. Guilt, she supposed. She cut a brown spot out of an apple and glanced across at her daughter. Emilia’s face was tight with frustration.

‘Alf, I’m doing my best,’ said Emilia, ‘so leave the parenting crap out, okay? Tennis is good for you. It’s social. You need to make some friends.’

Penny jumped in. ‘You’ll meet some lovely children there. My friend Nancy’s grandson is going. Johnny. I’m sure he’s a nice boy.’

Alfie glared at her then turned back to Emilia. ‘Unless the other kids who signed up for tennis are also disinclined to stand in the hot sun and whack balls at each other pointlessly, then I don’t see how we’re going to find common ground. You always tell me to look for common ground when looking for friendship. You’re making it harder for me to find friends by putting me in a group of sporty kids who won’t like me anyway.’

‘You’re going,’ said Emilia. ‘We’ve paid two hundred and ten dollars for the week. I can’t get the money back, so you can’t back out now. Sorry, kiddo.’

Alfie sniffed and crossed his arms. ‘That logic is also flawed. It’s a sunk cost. You can’t get your money back whether I go or don’t go. So, me going doesn’t impact on our financial future one way or the other, but me going does detract from my happiness. So how is that helping either of us?’

‘Gran paid for it,’ said Emilia. ‘Don’t disappoint her.’

‘Oh, no, no, it won’t disappoint me. I mean—’ But Emilia’s warning look silenced Penny.

‘Get your runners on, Alf.’

Alfie stomped down the hall. A door slammed.

Penny finished slicing an apple. ‘Would you like a cup of tea before you go, sweetheart?’

‘No, thanks,’ said Emilia. ‘It starts in half an hour. We should head over to the tennis club to finish the paperwork.’

‘Right. Do you think he’ll go?’

Emilia shrugged then headed to the bedroom and muffled voices drifted up the hall. When they left, Alfie dragging his new tennis racquet along the ground, Penny had a flash of painful memory. Of Emilia, thirteen and hormonal, throwing her softball glove across the room, breaking a vase and screaming, ‘I’m not going to the game and you can stick that softball up your bum!’ Penny shook herself from the memory of this morning’s row, and detached the cups from Edna and Lilibet. They walked obediently into the pen with the other sheep and she shut the gate behind them.

When Penny came in for lunch, Emilia was at the table staring at her laptop.

‘Did you hear back about the job interview, Em?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Would you like me to pick up Alfie from tennis camp? It’s a one o’clock finish, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, yeah, sure. Thanks.’ Emilia looked at her watch and frowned distractedly.

‘Great. Let’s have a quick sandwich before I go.’ Penny opened the fridge. ‘I suppose you and I will have to eat all this ham now that Alf is vegetarian.’

Emilia said nothing. There was a heaviness about her, and Penny didn’t know how to reach her. ‘I’m sure Alfie will be having a good time. Ken who runs the club is lovely. Alf might have even made a new friend today.’

‘Probably not.’

Emilia must have caught her surprise, because she said, ‘I told you, he’s not good with other kids, Mum.’

‘Why is that, do you think?’

‘I don’t know. I suppose he puts them off. Tells them things he thinks they’d be keen to know and invariably they don’t care, or he says it in a way that makes them feel stupid. He struggles to understand why nobody is interested in his obscure topics of conversation.’

Emilia’s eyes welled up and Penny so wanted to stroke her hair and give her a hug, but Emilia wouldn’t like it. She placed a sandwich in front of her. ‘I’m still pleased you’re both here.’

Emilia gave a faint smile.

‘Really, I am. And I know it’s hard. Single parenting is really, really hard.’

Emilia nodded.

‘We’re here to help.’

‘We?’

‘He has other grandparents, Em,’ Penny said carefully. ‘Doesn’t he?’ Emilia was silent. ‘Pat and Cynthia would love to be involved. Obviously, I’ll do whatever I can, but they could be a backup. And financially they might help with the burden more than I can. For schooling and other costs. They’re not short of a penny. If you let them lend a hand, I’m sure he’d benefit. And Pat’s such good company—he’d be a good male role model for Alfie.’

‘Mum …’ Emilia’s voice was steely.

‘I’m sorry I took him there the other day, but I didn’t think it would be a problem.’

‘I don’t want them anywhere near him.’

‘Why not?’

Emilia stood. ‘If you don’t respect my parenting, I’m not staying.’

‘No! Please, sit down. I’m going to get Alfie. I won’t say another word about it. I promise.’

Penny picked up her keys from the sideboard with a shaky hand. As she drove into town, there was a pain in the centre of her chest, right under her breastbone. If there was one thing the last ten years had taught her, it was that unhappy thoughts could morph into physical symptoms like unwanted magic tricks. Regret had a way of percolating, and on some mornings the pain would pin her to the bed; would make getting up to milk the sheep a crushing impossibility, although somehow, she would make herself. No, no, no. She was not going to lose Emilia again, and losing Alfie would be too much. Her feelings for her grandson were sometimes mercurial and awkward but they felt all-encompassing. She would have to go along with whatever Emilia wanted. She pulled up outside the tennis centre ten minutes early. The courts were empty and the place looked deserted. She hurried out of the car, spotting two figures next to the entry gates, one small, one tall. As she approached, Alfie ran towards her.

‘Gran! You’re late! It finished at twelve thirty.’

‘Oh, darling! I’m so sorry!’ The man waved at her as he disappeared inside the complex. Alfie tore past her to the car. She hurried to catch him. ‘Was it fun? Did you meet some new friends?’

‘It was great, Gran! Yes, I did.’

‘Oh, Alfie, that’s wonderful!’ Penny felt her chest soar with clean, clear oxygen. The relief. ‘Maybe tomorrow you might play at somebody’s house for the afternoon. Or they could come to our place. Who was your favourite person in the group?’

‘Everyone was nice, Gran. I didn’t have a favourite.’

Penny smiled to herself. The benefits of tennis. Penny had loved tennis, had spent her youth travelling through Tasmania, playing in weekend competitions, buoyed on by her father’s encouragement while enduring the tight-lipped disapproval of her mother, who had thought Penny should stay home and study more, or at least take more care with her appearance in case university wasn’t an option. Had Penny’s own mothering been tarnished with similar ideas? Had she wanted Emilia to try harder to save her marriage because what she really believed was that being married and blessed with financial certainty was much easier than being poor and single, even if the man in question wasn’t perfect? Because let’s face it, what man was?

Alfie was staring out the passenger window. Brick houses gave way to sweeping green paddocks where the farms met the ocean. Living here could work for him. There were nice, down-to-earth children happy to include a young stranger in their lives and make him welcome. Beggars Rock was a terrific place to raise a family. If Emilia’s Hobart job didn’t pan out she knew he’d do well here. ‘Well, no hurry, darling. Friends with everyone is fine, Alfie. And tomorrow will be even better.’

23

ALFIE

NOW

Mum is tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, half-smiling, as if she has a secret.

‘Can you drop me near the sign there, Mum?’

‘Mmm?’

‘Pull up there, behind that red car.’

‘It’s not a parking area.’

‘I’ll jump out, you don’t need to come in.’

‘But …’

I have rehearsed this next bit. I am relying on Mum remembering her own parenting strategy of encouraging independence. Also, her desire to remain empathetic and keep communication lines open and recognise the stages of childhood.

‘Mum, it’s embarrassing. I’m nearly ten! I don’t need my mother to walk me into tennis camp every day. The other kids don’t get their mums to do it. Yesterday they just got dropped off.’ I scowl, to underline the importance of child–parent separation. We are currently in Stage Four of the Six Stages of Parenthood, where the parent is grappling with how involved to be in their child’s life and when to step in, or when to encourage and step back. Today I am encouraging the step back. I found a paper open on Mum’s Google Scholar page by someone called Galinsky. It was interesting reading.

Mum’s hand is resting on her seatbelt holder, as if she is deciding whether to dash in with me, even though she’s double-parked. I have played my hand quite well, but to hammer it home (one of Kevin’s favourite sayings) I plead, ‘Pleeease, Mum. You’ll just humiliate me, which will not do anything for my new friendships.’

She smiles. ‘Sure, honey. Okay. Well, have a great day. Gran will collect you at twelve thirty. Make sure you reapply the sunscreen at morning-tea time.’

‘Okay. Thanks, Mum.’ I get out of the car with my tennis racquet and bag containing my drink bottle, a packet of Tiny Teddies and some chopped apple. Even my morning tea is embarrassing, but today it won’t be an issue. I turn around. Mum is waiting and I raise my hand to wave, and we have a sort of stare-off. She is waiting for me to go into the tennis club and I am waiting for her to go. It can only go one way. Eventually I’m proved right as Mum shakes her head and drives slowly out of the carpark. I take a few steps towards the tennis centre entrance then stop and pretend to do up my shoelace, and from the corner of my eye Mum slows even more but then she keeps driving because a car is behind her. At the T-junction she turns right and takes off. A warm glow burns in my chest.

I keep my head down, fiddling with my shoelaces as another tennis kid walks past me into the clubhouse. I recall from my unenjoyable morning yesterday that his name is Bradley and he is very coordinated. He wasn’t rude and seemed okay although he loves sport, so I guessed we had nothing in common. This was confirmed when he said he plays Grand Theft Auto, which is entirely unsuitable for his eleven-year-old developing brain.

After Bradley disappears, I make sure the coast is clear then shove my tennis racquet underneath a hedge, sling my backpack onto my back and head to the carpark exit. I run along the road, past the cemetery and take the path down the hill towards the beach. It’s overcast but the sea is blue and calm, and the tide is high, but beginning to turn.

As I run, my backpack bangs against me. I slow down as I pass a family with small kids who are racing in and out of the ocean. The mum is wearing a long skirt tucked into her undies so it falls to her knees in big bunches. She has long hair and smiles at me and I nod but don’t smile back in case she thinks it’s an invitation to talk to me and ask my name and other stuff. Also, stranger danger. I walk quickly past and hope she’s returned her attention to the proper supervision of her children, given that they are young and not very waterproof if they fall over. I start to run again.

It takes about eight minutes to get to the end of the beach and reach the steps that lead up to Cynthia and Doctor Pat’s house. I wait to catch my breath and look around at the ocean. There are small blue jellyfish left by the tide and also some shells I could add to my collection, but time is limited so I leave them.

I climb to the top of the stairs. This time, I am astonished by the huge cream house. Last time I was here from this angle it was evening and I was in a real hurry. And when I visited with Granny Penny it was also different. From the road you come upon the gardens and tall trees and the house doesn’t stare at you like it does from the beach side. Now, the house looks as if it has something to say. As if it is important that I listen. I put my bag on the ground and give it my full attention. ‘What is it?’ I ask. The house is silent. Obviously. But there is something in the way the wavy glass patterns of the windows shine and in the erect bearing of the chimneys. There is something in the old stone and the funny layers of brickwork and the big open mouth of the verandah. I think it is welcoming me. I think it knows that I am the son of Julian.

I am standing next to a brick shed inside the fence, when a gust of wind bangs the gate shut behind me. I jump and my whole body feels like lightning has gone through it. I wonder if ghosts live here. I’m quite interested in the supernatural. Given that I am a believer in science you might think this is an anathema, but if it was good enough for great scientists like Sir Isaac Newton to believe in some mystical stuff, then who am I to argue?

I pick up my backpack and walk to the front door. I have a sick wobbly feeling in my stomach and ignore it, knowing it is just anxiety trying to get my attention.

I ring the doorbell and step back, putting my hands in my pockets to show I am relaxed and non-confrontational. I don’t really mind who answers. Doctor Pat will be happy to see me—after all, he’s the one who was keen to spend time with me. Cynthia might be worried about me appearing without an adult, but I can appeal to Cynthia’s logical side. She’s a sensible woman. I heard Aunty Hilary saying these exact words to Granny Penny. ‘Cynthia’s a sensible woman.’ Anyway, I would expect my paternal grandparents to be sensible, logical people, given that these are dominant traits in my own makeup. Genetics is winning the nature–nurture debate these days.

I wiggle my fingers in my pocket and decide to wager a bet on my success: left hand Cynthia, right hand Doctor Pat. I shake them randomly and spring out some fingers: three fingers come out on the left hand—so, sixty per cent chance of success if it is Cynthia. Four fingers come out on the right hand: eighty per cent chance of success if it is Doctor Pat. I may have subconsciously favoured Doctor Pat, but I’ll handle either scenario. I hear footsteps. I make my face relaxed and smiling, then hold my breath. Operation Tadpole is properly on the move.

24

CYNTHIA

NOW

‘Alfie?’ said Cynthia, opening the door.

‘Hello, Cynthia.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’m hoping you’ll invite me in. I like hot chocolate, if you have it.’

Cynthia tried to think. This was not good. If Alfie had appeared, again, without an accompanying adult on her doorstep, there was no way his mother knew he was here.

‘Or a glass of water will be fine,’ said Alfie. ‘Or nothing. I have my drink bottle with me.’ He shrugged his backpack off his shoulder and held out the drink bottle. ‘Mum thought if I was off on a walking adventure to give me more confidence and to get to know the area better and look at local landmarks, I should at least have water and snacks.’

‘Right.’ Cynthia sighed.

‘And according to the tourist information brochure, Sommersby House is one of only a few heritage-listed houses built before 1850 on the north-west coast of Tasmania. That makes it interesting. And a local landmark. And I have my mother’s permission to look at landmarks.’

‘I see,’ said Cynthia. ‘Perhaps you had better come in. It might be a good idea, though, for me to check that your mother’s all right about your presence at this particular landmark.’

‘She is,’ said Alfie. He tipped his head to the side. ‘She said that this is where the heritage committee will host the big party and it has loads of history I could benefit from finding out about, and as long as she didn’t have to come with me it was fine. She seems to have something against being here personally, which might be on account of her historical relationship with Julian. Maybe it has sad memories for her or something.’ He paused, then brightened, ‘But she was fine for me to come.’

In the distance the church bell rang, a faint, pointless effort at appeasing the heavens. Bruce Watson, the pastor, had begun ringing it every morning, in keeping with whatever past tradition he’d unearthed in the church documents last year after a wall collapsed, revealing a secret chamber. His new bell-ringing vigour was annoying church neighbours and some days Cynthia sided with them. It was only nine am and the day was already derailing with a clanging certainty. ‘Come through.’ She led the boy into the kitchen.

‘Could you tell me about Julian?’ asked Alfie, before she’d had a chance to decide her next move.

Cynthia flinched. She needed to check with Emilia. Where did I leave my phone? ‘What would you like to know?’

‘Well, at some stage we should discuss how I can get in touch with him and any genetic issues that might affect me in the future, but we could start with other things if you prefer. For example, is he interested in space? Or ocean science? Or maybe animals?’

‘Animals? Like dogs?’

‘Yes! Dogs are very positive. Dog ownership leads to better cardiovascular outcomes. And they have advanced olfactory receptors too. They can sniff out diabetes and cancer. Does he have a dog?’

‘No.’

‘Do you?’

‘No.’

‘Oh.’ He looked disappointed. ‘You look healthy so I wouldn’t worry. I’m more interested in gorillas anyway. For example, did you know that humans have three times as many neurons as gorillas? It’s to do with the stem cells. This might apply to other hominoids too. I’m not sure.’ Alfie looked thoughtful and they sat in silence for a moment.

‘I always wanted to travel to Africa, to see gorillas in the wild,’ said Cynthia, the thought floating up from a long-forgotten chamber of her mind.

‘Like Jane Goodall? The anthropologist?’

‘Well, yes. Not to work with them, but to see them up close. That would be fascinating.’

‘Me too,’ said Alfie. ‘And chimps. I’d like to see them hunt a colobus monkey and eat it.’

‘Good heavens,’ said Cynthia.

‘They prey on the colobus for food, and it reinforces social status. For the chimps that catch them, I mean.’

‘I thought chimpanzees were vegetarian.’

‘A common misconception.’ Alfie smiled, and it seemed to Cynthia he did so with a forbearance that had been learned from long experience.

‘Let’s ring your mother,’ she said, spotting her phone on the sideboard.

‘If you don’t mind,’ Alfie said, ‘I’ll talk to her. She seems to have something against speaking with you or Doctor Pat.’

Cynthia had no doubt this was true. She frowned and handed him the phone. He dialled a number. ‘Mum, yes, it’s Cynthia’s number … No, I’m having hot chocolate.’ There was a pause, then he said, ‘Track me on Life360. I promise I’ll be back by twelve. Okay … Bye.’

As Cynthia reached out to take the phone, he ended the call. ‘How is she tracking you?’

‘My iPad’s in my backpack.’

She considered him carefully, noticing the curve of his ears, the tilt of his chin, so similar to her own boys at that age. ‘Cars,’ she said.

‘Julian likes cars?’

‘Old cars. Yes.’

‘Vintage cars you mean?’

‘Of a sort, I suppose. Cars from the fifties and sixties. When you yourself are born in an era, you don’t feel it’s that vintage.’

‘Does he drive one?’

Cynthia was silent, her mind in a fug as she sat mesmerised by the small, perfect face in front of her.

Alfie spoke again. ‘What does he like about them?’ There was an intensity to his gaze, even though his feet could barely touch the floor and he wriggled on the chair to find a comfortable position.

‘I’m not sure,’ she said eventually. ‘I suppose it’s their aesthetic. And their simplicity. The nature of the engine and the romance of it. But I’—she stopped to catch a jagged breath—‘I never asked.’

‘Why not?’

Cynthia looked at the boy; the earnest face with its puckered brow. As if he was trying hard to understand why she had been such a disinterested mother.

‘I don’t know.’

There was a long silence until he offered, ‘You were possibly giving him space to explore his identity without interference. It’s an important aspect of parenting.’

For the third time in a week, Cynthia had the urge to weep. She wanted to stop the feelings, to stop the pain, or at least curl up and cry for what she had lost, and for this boy, who really must be her grandson and who would be far too easy to love.

‘Alfie, I’m afraid I have a conference call in a moment.’

‘For work?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s okay. I was just going anyway. I’ve made you upset.’

‘You … you didn’t.’

‘It’s interesting, isn’t it,’ he said with a sad smile, ‘how adults say things they don’t mean? It’s obvious I upset you. Could you give me Julian’s telephone number, though, then I’ll get going?’

‘I’m … I wasn’t upset.’

‘Maybe you didn’t realise you were. But I think you were going to cry. Which is why I’m terminating this visit. I hope we can get together again when you feel better. If I can ask about Julian with advance warning, maybe there are things about him that will make you happy? For example, his favourite food or what he thinks about the disappointing state of Australia’s recycling programs. Or wolf spiders. That kind of thing.’

‘Oh,’ said Cynthia.

‘Can we make an appointment?’

‘I …’

‘How about nine fifteen tomorrow morning?’

‘Tomorrow? All right.’

‘And may I please have that phone number? I could call him, and I’d be very respectful. And if he has another family I wouldn’t interfere. I’d be an excellent big brother. And if he didn’t want to meet me straight away, we could just establish a rapport on the phone.’

Cynthia brought her fingertips to her lips. She wouldn’t be the one to tell him. She wouldn’t do it. This was Emilia’s fault. And Pat’s! ‘I’m sorry, but we’re out of contact. I can’t help you with that.’

He stared at her, and behind his deep blue eyes she saw a thousand possibilities being considered. ‘I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.’

He got off the stool and Cynthia followed him.

‘See you later, Alligator.’

And from somewhere deep within came her response: ‘In a while, Crocodile.’ She closed the door. Julian used to say that very same thing. In the kitchen she slid onto a chair and thought of the things she had done wrong that had caused her life to turn out like this. And all of the things she should have done in the years since, to make them right.

25

NOAH

ALMOST ELEVEN YEARS AGO, JUNE

Noah pulled up outside Julian and Emilia’s house. He was reluctant to get out, but his father had seen him when he was testing for chemicals in the creek and asked him to drop off a new fitting for Julian’s hot water system.

He put the box on the front porch and stood, contemplating whether to knock and say hello. A feeling came over him, a cold premonition. He closed his eyes to get a grip. It was a normal Saturday afternoon; Julian would be at the football club.

Emilia had dropped in to the shed twice this week. Yesterday, when he came home, she was there with Ned, drinking beer at five o’clock, talking about Ned’s travels in Ireland, and this guy who’d been his best mate, the best friend he’d ever had. She spoke about her months as an au pair in New Zealand the year after she finished school. Noah hadn’t seen her so animated for a long time. A glimpse of the sweet Emilia again. Ned seemed happier too.

‘Noah?’ Emilia opened the door and a foolishness washed over him for not knocking or making any move to go.

‘Dropping this off for Julian.’ He pointed to the box at his feet.

‘Come in. Come and have a drink.’

‘Better not. Things to do.’

‘Please?’

She seemed so hopeful, fingering the medallion at her throat. His eye was caught by a bright purple welt, a heavy bruise wrapped around her wrist. She saw him looking and pulled at her sleeve.

‘I guess I could have one drink.’

The cottage was set on the flat below Sommersby House, which was hidden by the hill and some bushland between them. Their parents had given this cottage to Julian when he married. The lawn rolled straight onto the beach, and through the living room’s big picture windows he saw only verdant green grass, the blue of the ocean and a sky full of billowing clouds. He stared out, then realised maybe he was being rude. Emilia was watching him and he felt too large and clumsy in this stylish space. He shoved his hands in his pockets.

‘Beer? Wine? Or maybe a gin and tonic?’ offered Emilia.

‘Milk would be fine.’

‘Oh, okay, sure.’ As she opened the fridge, she said, ‘What’s Ned doing today?’ and Noah heard a forced casualness in the question.

‘He’s working up around Yorkey’s Head. No reception there.’

Her shoulders relaxed a little.

They sat with their milk and white wine, and Noah was overwhelmed by her fragility.

‘What did you do today?’ he asked.

‘Not much. Some study.’

‘I thought you finished the science degree.’

‘I’ve started on a graduate diploma.’ Emilia hadn’t gone back to work after the miscarriage last year. He supposed it was because she was too sad. Losing a baby at six months pregnant must have been really hard.

Noah nodded. ‘What in?’

‘Biotechnology. My first subject is Fundamentals of Molecular Biochemistry. It’s interesting.’

He smiled, sipped his milk and looked out the window.

‘I hate it here,’ she whispered. ‘I want to get away. Make a new start. Julian won’t listen. He wants to prove to your dad that he can run both the farm and the businesses.’

‘He’s always wanted Dad’s approval. That’s the way he is.’

‘I know.’

When she reached for her glass, Noah noticed she used her left hand and kept her right arm beneath the table. Strange, since she was right-handed. ‘What did you do to your wrist?’

‘Nothing,’ she said quickly, looking down at her lap. ‘A dumb accident.’

‘Around your wrist? How?’

‘Seriously, it’s too boring to talk about. Let’s have some cheese and crackers. I’m starving.’ She crossed to the kitchen and began opening various packets with her back to Noah. He was baffled about how she could have suffered such an injury. She must have jammed her wrist.

‘Here we go.’ Emilia placed a platter between them.

Noah picked up some cheddar and a cracker. The crunching as he chewed was so loud and dispiriting, it felt as if Emilia was being forced to watch him undress. She kept glancing at her phone and then out the window. He took another cracker. He wasn’t hungry but felt obliged because Emilia didn’t touch a thing.

26

CYNTHIA

NOW

‘Hello, Cynthia.’

‘Hello, Alfie. Why don’t you come in?’

‘Okay.’ Alfie ducked beneath her arm.

‘Let’s go to the conservatory. Would you like a drink?’

‘No, thank you. I have my drink bottle.’

She led him through the kitchen where Harper was washing up. Harper saw Alfie and looked momentarily startled. ‘What are you doing here, Alf?’

He was jiggling the backpack he’d removed from his back, not meeting her gaze. ‘I’m having a meeting with Cynthia about this and that.’

‘Your mum okay with it?’

‘We rang and checked yesterday,’ said Cynthia. ‘Did you get specific permission again today, Alfie?’

‘I’m always very specific,’ said Alfie.

Harper eyed him sceptically and he said, ‘You look very nice in those jeans, Harper. They suit your figure.’

She guffawed and said, ‘If only I was ten,’ then turned back to the dishes.

In the conservatory, Cynthia settled onto the wicker lounge. ‘Well, this is very nice.’

Alfie took the chair opposite. He was similar to her own boys at the same age, yet more earnest. More delicate. She had the feeling that if she reached out to touch him, he might not even be there.

‘What should we discuss?’ asked Alfie. ‘For us to get to know each other?’

‘Perhaps you could tell me about your favourite subjects at school.’

‘Boring.’

‘Do you like reading?’

‘Yes.’

‘Me too,’ said Cynthia. ‘I enjoy murder mysteries. You?’

‘No, I don’t.’ Alfie looked thoughtful. ‘I don’t read much fiction. I prefer science, but I’m open to suggestions if there’s a particular murder mystery you want to recommend.’

Cynthia blew out her cheeks. This was the most unusual conversation she’d had in a long time. At ten years old, her boys had been playing at the beach or building hideouts on the hill, hadn’t they? She couldn’t remember. It was so very long ago. She’d been so busy, and they so self-sufficient.

Alfie was frowning. ‘I’m not like other kids my age.’

‘That’s a relief,’ said Cynthia. ‘I’ve never been good at talking to children your age. You seem a very nice boy, though, and I’m sure we can find something in common. What about music?’

‘I like Johann Sebastian Bach.’

‘So do I!’ said Cynthia.

‘He was orphaned when he was about my age,’ said Alfie. ‘Both his parents died within a year.’

‘Oh. How sad.’

‘It was more than three hundred years ago and it probably wasn’t a big deal. Life expectancy was less than forty back then.’

‘Still,’ said Cynthia.

‘It didn’t stop him, did it? Just goes to show, you can definitely succeed in life without much parenting.’

Cynthia hesitated. ‘Good parenting is helpful, though.’

‘I guess so. My mum’s a pretty good parent. Are you a good one?’ Alfie opened his backpack and took out his drink bottle. The suddenness of his question, and his look as he put the bottle to his lips and waited, made Cynthia feel dizzy.

‘No. Not really.’

‘Why not?’

‘I … I don’t think I learned how to do it properly.’ Cynthia looked down. ‘Truly, they should give you a handbook.’

‘That would be sensible.’ He kicked his shoe on the ground. ‘I enjoy modern music too.’

He was handing her a lifeline and Cynthia wanted to hug him.

‘Like Beyoncé and Jay Z,’ he continued.

‘What sort of music do they make?’

‘Mostly rap, I guess. Some hip hop. I can show you.’

‘How?’

‘On your computer. On YouTube. If you want me to.’

‘All right then.’

She led him to her study and watched him find a track online and they listened to the thrumming base beat and some terribly crude lyrics.

‘There’s a lot of swearing in there,’ Cynthia said eventually. ‘Is that suitable?’

‘Mum doesn’t mind. She says as long as I don’t sing the words myself, then it’s okay to listen because that’s what the real world is like and you can’t hide from it.’

‘She has a point,’ said Cynthia carefully.

‘She doesn’t let me watch M-rated videos, though. Or R.’

‘I should think not.’

Alfie regarded her. ‘What’s your favourite food?’

‘Salmon on poached eggs,’ said Cynthia without thinking.

‘Mine is cucumber sushi.’

‘Good choice. Healthy. It seems neither of us has a sweet tooth then.’

‘Does Julian have a sweet tooth?’

Cynthia sank back into the office chair. Alfie was looking at her so intently she wanted to cry.

‘Well, as it happens, yes. When he was little, I would buy him white chocolate. Every day we had a secret from his dad. If he emptied his lunchbox and helped with the dishes, he was allowed four squares of white chocolate. Pat didn’t believe in sweets, but’—Cynthia stared out the window—‘Julian’s love for white chocolate made me break the rules.’ Cynthia was taken back to an image of his eager face as he hurried to unwrap the remainder of the white Cadbury she kept stashed in the bottom drawer of her desk. The twins didn’t know about it either. It was only between her and her youngest son.

‘Mum says white chocolate’s not even chocolate.’

Cynthia laughed. ‘She and Julian would have disagreed on that point.’

‘Is Julian nice?’

‘Of course,’ said Cynthia quickly.

‘Why did they break up then?’

Cynthia looked into his sparkling eyes. ‘Sometimes it happens that two nice people don’t get along anymore. You must have found that with your own peers?’

‘Not really. The people I don’t get along with are usually not nice people.’

‘How so?’

‘Some are rude and intolerant. Others are ignorant, and if I accidentally say something that makes them feel bad about that fact it can make them mean. Mum says the word ignorant sounds hurtful all by itself, but it only means they don’t know something, which I am not saying is their fault, it’s just a fact.’ He shrugged. ‘When ignorant is the correct term, I don’t see why I shouldn’t use it.’

‘You have a point.’

‘But the nice people I do know get along with most other people. In my opinion.’

‘Hmm, well, in marriage it’s a bit different.’

Alfie considered this. ‘I’ll have to take your word for it. I’m not in a position to judge.’ He paused. ‘Would you take me up the mountain on the chairlift?’

Cynthia almost said it. No. Why would we take the chairlift up when we have perfectly good legs?

Instead, she said, ‘It’s not really a mountain. We call it the Rock. Have you walked up it yet?’

‘Yes. Mum and I did it the other day. It was good, but Mum didn’t have money for the chairlift, and I would love to have a go on it.’

Cynthia registered her unease. Her breath felt forced in her chest. She’d only been on the chairlift once, decades ago. She’d never taken the boys on it. Not once when they were in primary school, nor as teenagers. Not even when one of them had pleaded. Not when they had railed about how their stupid parents were the only ones who had some dumb idea that only tourists took the chairlift to the top of the Rock and locals wouldn’t lower themselves to do it, or at least, the Heston-Blaise family wouldn’t.

‘You can see the Rock from here, you know.’ She unlocked the study door and they stepped out onto the verandah.

Alfie clambered onto the wall. Hydrangea bushes billowed over its top, thick with blue clouds of flowers. They looked in silence. At the far end of the beach a rock rose, as if from the water—a huge, dark Christmas cake–shaped rock, a miniature mountain, so remarkable that even now, as she took it in, Cynthia couldn’t believe this was her view. At its base, on one side, was the village: tiny houses resembling a swathe of pale cake crumbs. The wind gusted, lifting Alfie’s hair and tugging at Cynthia’s skirt.

‘You can hardly see the chairlift,’ he said. ‘I really want to go on it. Can we?’

‘Yes.’

She’d always wanted to say yes. Why hadn’t she? Why had she let Pat bully her about it, just because he had a silly idea there was a divide between tourists and locals? He’d always said it laughingly—Of course we’re not going to take the bloody chairlift; chortle, chortle. How absurd to want to do something so common, and so commercial; to not use your legs to climb the rock as nature intended—what laziness. Pat had been just as immoveable about McDonald’s. No occasional, easy Happy Meals for the Heston-Blaise boys. Not a chance. Not even once. Appalling stuff. So Pat had always said as he ruffled their heads and sent them off to the beach or towards the fruit bowl. And so she’d been forced to tell them, over and over, for their whole goddamn childhoods.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’d love to take you on the chairlift. What a good idea.’

27

ALFIE

NOW

‘Hello, Cynthia,’ I say.

‘Hello, Alfie.’

‘Are you ready?’

‘Yes.’

Cynthia takes me to the kitchen table where she has spread out her map. She points to a pink Post-it note.

‘We’ll start with Hedley’s Ruin around the point. Patrick thinks it was a watchtower, built around 1840, but it’s crumbled and falling down now.’ She moves to the next pink Post-it note. ‘Then here, we can see a lovely arched bridge from 1855. The rivulet runs through it down to the ocean. It’s very pretty and most of the tourists miss it because it’s tucked away behind Worm’s Bend. The boys used to play there quite a bit.’

‘That sounds interesting. I borrowed Mum’s laptop to research the history of Beggars Rock. I saw it in there. And I saw your house too. It’s famous.’

‘Yes, it has rather a chequered history, doesn’t it?’

‘Checkered? Like the game checkers?’

‘No, no. It means good and bad. It was built for a rather awful man. His convict labourers left a beautiful legacy, with this building, but he was cruel.’

‘History is full of despots,’ I say.

Cynthia half-smiles and says, ‘I can show you where local Aboriginal people used to shelter too, if you like. There are caves.’

‘Okay.’

Cynthia seems tired today. Yesterday she was properly smiley, when we went on the chairlift. She seemed to enjoy it as much as I did, and I had a good time walking around the Rock at the top with her. She told me about the endangered pinwheel snail that lives there. When I met Mum outside the tennis camp afterwards, I told her I wanted to go up the Rock again, because there are many things of scientific interest there and she and I had only scratched the surface on our previous walk. I reminded her about the pinwheel snail sign we had seen and Mum joked about how she stepped on one and it made her shoe disgusting. ‘I don’t think so, Mum,’ I told her. ‘It only measures one millimetre across. Also, if you squashed one, you’d be breaching the 2019 Threatened Species Protection Order that makes it illegal to kill them, so I really hope you didn’t.’ She frowned, so I added, ‘The shell of the pinwheel snail that lives on the Rock is the only one that spirals to the left in all the snail species in the whole world.’

Mum raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m proud of you for sticking with tennis camp, Alf. Isn’t it funny that sometimes things you think will be hard turn out to be enjoyable?’

‘I suppose so,’ I said. I think Mum’s change of subject was a psychological tactic. She was trying to make me remember my original feelings on tennis camp, so that next time something unpleasant like tennis camp comes up I’d be reminded of how my thought processes (about it being boring, dumb and horrible) were incorrect, and that she had been right all along to make me do pointless ball games. I let her ramble on about it for a while. No point causing unnecessary stress by telling her I’d been spending tennis camp time with my forbidden grandmother who is teaching me about the interesting old structures around Beggars Rock. In my view, spending time with the elderly and studying history is a far superior use of time when compared to playing tennis. But I’m pretty sure Mum wouldn’t see it like that.

Cynthia says to me now, ‘Right, off we go then. Let’s start on Raven’s cliffs. It’s not far on foot via the bush path, but it’s pretty overgrown these days. We’d never get through. We can drive the long way around that will take us closer to Hedley’s Ruin. I think you’ll find it interesting.’

I buckle up and Cynthia drives out of the garage and takes a right, down a narrow dirt road that follows the fence line. We come to a sharp bend, where the road seems to end but she keeps going over the grass.

‘Raven’s cliffs are renowned in these parts. There’s an inlet, where the ocean comes in below the cliffs and smashes against the rocks. It’s a very beautiful place. Scenic but dangerous.’

I am about to ask a question when she stops the car. ‘Right-o. On foot from here, young man.’ So I jump out.

Ahead, there is a row of huge old trees across the paddock that are swooshing in the wind and making a really big noise which mingles with the crash of the waves below. So, when I ask Cynthia, ‘Where’s the watchtower?’ I don’t think she hears me. She is looking towards town where there are rows of houses near the cemetery. The Rock is in the background. It’s an extinct volcano and from here looks like a mini version of Uluru, the famous rock in central Australia. It’s really weird to see a huge flat-topped rock bursting out of the ground.

She starts striding towards the trees. I hurry to keep up. This paddock must have had cattle in it because there are big, swirly dried cow pats you have to watch out for. When we get around the trees, the edge of the cliff face juts out to where there is a small crumbling building. Next to it is a sort of tower, although the top level must have fallen off, because at the bottom are piles of rocks that the grass has grown over.

‘Is this on your land?’ I ask.

‘Yes, technically.’

‘Cool.’ I run towards the tower and Cynthia yells, ‘Don’t go close!’ I keep on running and, when I reach it, I go around the front where the cliff begins to fall away. I hear Cynthia call, ‘Come back, Alfred!’ but the wind makes everything loud, so I pretend not to hear. A rusty fenced-off bit has some broken gravestones inside it. They are so covered in black stuff that, even if I went up close, I doubt I could read them. Weeds are growing over everything and the wind makes me shiver, even though I’m wearing a jumper. Cynthia catches up to me. ‘Be very careful here,’ she says. ‘This is Hedley’s Ruin.’

‘Okay.’

‘The gravestones are his family. Samuel Hedley came here in the 1850s. He was one of the last transported convicts and, when he got his ticket of leave, he built this cottage. He was a stonemason.’

‘Did he build the tower too?’

‘Yes.’

‘He must have been an amateur then, seeing as it’s falling down.’

‘The storms here can be pretty powerful,’ says Cynthia. She looks out to sea. ‘If you promise to be careful, I’ll show you something else.’

‘I promise.’

She walks towards the cliff face, which was not what I was expecting. Further along there are some rocks below the ledge and an overgrown path that takes you down the front of the cliff. We push through some spiky bushes and step over tree roots and big rocks that might be granite. Cynthia is going very slowly. She probably has osteoporosis which makes your bones break if you fall over, so she has to be extra careful at her age. Mrs Teale from across the hall in Dublin had it and one day Mum had to call an ambulance when she fell over in the bin room and broke her femur.

I look down. There’s a rocky beach below us and a sort of platform in an inlet where the rock sticks out into the water. When we reach the bottom, I look behind and up. The path has disappeared and I am happy Cynthia is here. I suppose she knows about some special markers such as a log or an interesting-shaped rock that shows the beginning of the path. Mum has always told me the Australian bush is a dangerous place for people who don’t pay attention.

‘There’s a cave along here,’ says Cynthia. ‘There are remnants in there that show Aboriginal people used it.’

‘What sort of remnants?’

‘Middens. Formations built up over thousands of years from people eating shellfish and discarding the shells.’

We get to a really huge high rock with a shelf jutting out and Cynthia says, ‘I can’t climb over that one, but you could give it a go and you should be able to see the cave entry from the other side. It’s below and to the left.’

I scramble up the really steep rock face, then I half slide down the other side. Above the tideline is a hole about two metres high. Really big pebbles and rocks crunch under my feet. I poke my head into the mouth of the cave and it smells damp and maybe like animals have pooped in it.

After a while, my eyes get used to the dark and I can see it runs from one side of the cliff face through to the other and there is light at the end, as if it’s a tunnel. I go in a bit deeper and my feet slide on the rocks, and its colder, even though I’m protected from the wind. I look up and notice clumps of tree roots are growing through the ceiling, like stringy beards of stalactites. I slide into a crevice and look up at another rock shelf just above my head. ‘This is amazing!’ I call out to Cynthia, but I doubt she can hear me, even though my voice echoes. The rock face could be bouncing the sound waves in the wrong direction. Also, she is possibly a bit deaf due to her age. I explore further in and get a foothold into the rock and try to climb up into another hole in the wall but can’t do it. On one side an area looks paler. When I get close, I see it’s like a grey hill of sand, but there are lots of tiny bits of broken shells that have crusted along the rocks and now feel like part of the cave.

I’m coming back here. This is a place where a boy could live, and if I bring supplies, I could make it very comfortable. I could read and think.

Cynthia is calling something out. When I climb back over the rock and reach her, she says, ‘Time to go. The tide is on the way in and, in this weather, when it’s this rough, the water gets like milk down here. All white and frothy. Very dangerous.’

‘Okay.’ I make sure to look around for markers in the landscape. ‘That was awesome.’

‘Did you see the middens?’

‘I’m not sure. There was a sort of sand hill with shell bits through it.’

‘Yes, that’s a midden. There are plenty around here. Fascinating, isn’t it? To think of those families sheltering and working and eating here for tens of thousands of years.’

She finds the path, and I notice a large bush there with berries on it. It is larger than any of the others and I take a good note of this. I look around to remember the exact part of the cliff where the path begins. A boy has to pay attention; he has to have his wits about him for other occasions, when he’s alone in the wilderness. Everyone knows a successful mission is all about careful preparation.

28

PENNY

NOW

Penny hovered next to Rainn who was arranging cakes according to colour-coded price stickers. ‘Remind me why we’re having this cake stall today instead of tomorrow?’ asked Penny. ‘If we set up at the soccer grounds tomorrow, we would get all that trade from the juniors’ gala day. Wasn’t that the idea?’

Rainn flicked her hair over a shoulder as she unloaded a box full of pink macarons wrapped in clear cellophane packets and tied with red bows that Deidre Pullinger had just delivered. Deidre had provided specific instructions on what to charge, though Rainn was now pricing them just as she pleased.

‘Today’s better. The flower farm is having an open day,’ said Rainn. ‘I’ve asked them to put a sign up about the cake stall. We’ll get heaps of overflow customers that way, and then the committee can take any leftovers to the soccer fields tomorrow.’

‘Isn’t five dollars too low for a packet of four macarons?’ asked Penny. ‘They look very delicate. Deidre said twelve dollars, didn’t she?’

‘She’s clueless,’ sniffed Rainn. ‘Quick sales are what we need. Not leftovers.’

‘You said you’re taking leftovers to the soccer ground. Tomorrow.’

‘I’m not. I’m going to Launceston. We can’t all swan around on the weekend for charity purposes.’

‘Oh.’ Penny didn’t dare ask what was so important in Launceston.

She straightened the line of mint-chocolate slices and began counting out the float. They were under a small tent, on the grassed area in front of the meeting hall. This was Rainn’s ‘marvellous new idea’ that she’d gushed about when she called on Wednesday: a wonky tent on the deserted main street on a sleepy Friday.

A pair of tourists strolled over and one commented on the delicious-looking cakes before walking on.

‘What time’s the open day at the flower farm begin?’ asked Penny, checking her watch. She had dropped Alfie at tennis camp at nine am and hurried straight here, lest she incur her sister’s wrath at being late or lazy.

‘Oh, ten, I think. Don’t worry, we’ll be busy soon enough. The Little Fat Cat gets busy at morning-tea time and we’ll head off their customers and steal their trade.’ Rainn withdrew a gold tube from her bag with a flourish and swiped bright pink lipstick across her lips without a mirror. ‘Where’s Hilary? She said she’d be here.’

‘Probably grabbing a coffee,’ said Penny, who hadn’t been able to raise Hilary on the phone earlier and had gone around to find her still in her nightgown and groggy with sleep. Something was up but Penny wasn’t saying anything just yet. Rainn only gave credence to concerned conversation if the concerns were about her.

‘Oh, look. Here’s Pat,’ said Rainn. ‘Isn’t he thoughtful to check on our progress?’

Pat came from the direction of the medical surgery. It must be a slow day, Penny assumed, seeing as Pat was the only GP in Beggars Rock.

‘Hello, ladies.’ He smiled widely. ‘How are sales?’

‘Non-existent so far,’ said Penny.

‘Oh, don’t you fret,’ said Rainn. ‘I suspect we’re about to make our first sale. If I know one thing, it’s how to match a good man with a good sweet.’ She gave Pat a satisfied smirk and flicked her hair. ‘What can I offer you, Doc? We have something for every taste.’ She blinked at him slowly, and it occurred to Penny that Rainn was flirting. She flamed with embarrassment. What on earth did her sister think she was doing?

‘Some of those shortbreads, I think,’ said Pat. He handed over a fifty-dollar note. ‘Keep the change. It’s for a good cause.’

Such a good man, thought Penny. Her sister was a disgrace, trying to wangle her way into his sights.

‘How’s our boy?’ asked Pat, turning his gaze to Penny.

‘Sorry?’

‘Emilia’s boy.’

‘Alfie? He’s … He’s fine. He’s at a tennis camp this week. He’s really enjoying it.’

Pat leaned closer. ‘Could you talk some sense into Emilia, Penny? We need to spend time with him. Get to know him. It’s only right.’

‘I … um. She—’

‘Of course you can talk to Emilia, Pen.’ Rainn handed over the paper bag full of shortbreads. ‘She’s your daughter. And Pat is Alfie’s grandparent as much as you are. Emilia is either being overprotective or plain vindictive keeping him away from his grandfather.’

‘No, she’s not!’ snapped Penny.

‘I’ve had some legal advice,’ said Pat calmly. ‘My brother—you know he’s the attorney-general?—anyway, he has a friend, a lovely chap in Launceston, who I’ve spoken to. Top family lawyer. I’m off to see him in person tomorrow. If Emilia doesn’t start seeing sense about Alfie, we might have to do things the hard way.’ Pat gave Penny a disappointed shrug.

‘No, that’s … no. You can’t do that!’ She had a frightening urge to slap his face. It would be her fault if things went that far. Emilia would blame her. She would take Alfie and disappear. Everyone would lose him. ‘You stupid man!’

‘Penny!’ snapped Rainn. ‘Apologise to Pat. That’s horrible. He’s done nothing to you and is the only one acting rationally here.’

Penny spluttered, taking a step backwards.

Rainn slid a sideways glance at Pat and glared at Penny. She continued, ‘I’m simply being reasonable. Poor Pat. Can’t you see? You’re keeping him from his grandson.’ She reached across and put a hand on Pat’s arm, and Penny could see it then. See the intimacy in the tilt of her head; in the way he didn’t flinch at her touch. His torso was leaning ever so slightly towards her and when Rainn slid her hand down his arm, she let her fingers touch him a moment too long before letting go.

Penny’s revulsion was like a kick in the gut. ‘I will not be preached at by you, Rainn. You of all people! You have no moral compass. And as for you, Pat’—she looked at Rainn then back to Pat, and almost felt pity—‘I thought you had better sense.’ She hurried to her car. At the footpath she stopped. Damn. She took a deep breath, lifted her chin and went back to the stall. Rainn raised an imperious eyebrow but Penny pushed past her and took the sponge cake she’d reserved earlier for Alfie’s afternoon tea.

‘That’s fourteen dollars,’ said Rainn, holding out an indignant hand.

‘Take it out of the money you owe me for last week’s vegetable box.’ Penny stepped over the empty crates and marched off, wishing she could see Rainn’s reaction to this act of defiance: the first time Penny had ever demanded the never-ending little loans and generosities be paid back. Rainn used her constantly. Well, this was the end of it! She clenched the steering wheel. Pat Heston-Blaise, for goodness sake! Was there no end to her sister’s poor behaviour and traitorous morals? They were both married.

Lincoln had always protected Penny against the worst of her sister’s excesses when he was alive: the drunken rages when she would turn up at midnight demanding to see little Harper, asleep with Emilia in their shared bedroom; the thoughtless, hurtful comments about Penny’s ‘boring little life’. Even though she’d been managing her sister on her own for the past twenty years, she missed Lincoln’s calming presence today.

She closed her eyes and let the rage wash over her until a cold clarity began to settle. If she lost Alfie and Emilia now, she’d have no one to blame but herself.

29

NOAH

NOW

Sophie stared at Noah with such an odd intensity he was certain he’d said something ridiculous. Possibly even offensive. He’d been explaining the endogenous markers for calculating apparent fish digestibility.

She was frowning. Was he frowning too? Someone once told him he looked permanently gloomy.

‘I meant your suit,’ she said. ‘For the wedding. When I asked about your day, babe, what I meant was, did you get the suit organised? I wasn’t asking about your review of a research paper about fish diets.’

‘It was more to do with gastrointestinal evacuation, really.’ But when her jaw tightened, he said, ‘Sorry. Yeah. The suit.’ He should have organised the suit. Where was he going to find one? ‘Couldn’t you get one in Melbourne for me?’

‘You’ve left it too late, babe. You need to get it fitted so we’ll have to find one in Launceston. Or you could get one in London, although you’d have to get straight on it when we arrive.’

Sophie raised her hand at the waitress who was fiddling with her phone behind the bar. ‘Excuse me,’ she called. The girl looked up. ‘We need the bill, please.’

Noah pushed back his chair and stood up, his fork clattering to the floor. He bent to retrieve it and caught his forehead on the corner of the table.

‘Ooph!’ said Sophie, as if she’d witnessed the embarrassing stumble of a drunk.

He rubbed at his head. ‘Back in a minute. Just need a tinkle.’

On the way home, Sophie was silent. They’d been on a long hike the day before, fifteen kilometres near Cradle Mountain. He figured she must still be tired. As they entered the driveway, the headlights illuminated some markers in the ground.

‘What are they?’ she asked.

‘I was staking out where to put the house. I talked to that builder from Devonport and he’s happy for me to project manage from London if we want to get started.’ The full moon was luminous, and shards of silvery yellow glittered across the black water ahead of them.

‘Maybe we should make the whole thing smaller than we talked about,’ she said. ‘More of a cottage.’

‘Oh,’ said Noah. ‘Right.’ He’d always thought the architect’s design was twice as big as it needed to be, so the idea was fine by him. ‘What are you thinking? Same style?’

‘Yeah, but smaller. We might want to buy a place in London, so we don’t want to build something so big that we feel obliged to come back all the time. This might end up as a holiday house.’

‘You want a house in London?’

‘Well, if we like London, or decide on Melbourne as a base down the track. Or we could get a place on the Mornington Peninsula. I could commute to the city.’

‘Why Mornington?’

‘There’s bush there for you. And cool country properties. Arabella and Steve are thinking of buying this amazing house near Portsea with a cliffside plunge pool. It was featured on the cover of Belle.’

His confusion must have shown because she said, ‘Babe! What’s that look for?’

‘What would I do for work in Mornington?’

She gave him a playful shove. ‘There are plenty of furry critters that need to be managed there too, babe. You could get a job with whatever the local government agency is over there, and manage some sort of program.’

A numbness settled through Noah. It was as if Sophie was plotting out their marriage on the wrong map. Or was it him? He supposed there were plenty of jobs in natural resource management all over the country that he’d find fulfilling, although he’d never pictured settling down anywhere other than here. He went inside, pulled off his boots and tried not to think about it.

‘Babe,’ said Sophie, coming inside, ‘you left me out there in the dark!’

‘Oh. Sorry.’ Noah had avoided the intricacies of love for most of the last decade and knew he wasn’t good at it. Since Ned died, he’d been mostly on his own. He’d never wanted children anyway, so teaming up with someone who might then want a family seemed selfish when compared to, say, saving the critically endangered handfish found only in Tasmania, which had a good chance of dying out if people didn’t stop doing idiotic things to the waterways.

Nope. Children were not for him. And as for love, the only woman he’d ever loved vanished before their embryonic love affair had really started. Noah had spiralled down so badly after Ned’s death that he’d felt he didn’t deserve her, didn’t deserve anything, after what he’d let happen.

He heard Sophie in the bathroom. She’d be in there a while, he knew, using a bag of products bigger than the shelf on the wall could hold. He’d met Sophie at his father and uncle’s joint birthday bash three years ago. He was standing in the Sommersby House kitchen nursing a beer, wondering how long before he could leave. He was also pondering whether the salmon ceviche he’d been offered was farmed or wild—considered briefly the level of PCBs and dioxins the party guests were now probably ingesting—when a woman had appeared and smiled at him. She was so sparkly and pretty that when she said hello, he had looked over his shoulder to check she wasn’t talking to the chef. Because in Noah’s (admittedly shallow) experience with the opposite sex, women like her did not speak to men like him.

‘I’ve been looking for you,’ she’d said that first night, smiling. ‘I’m Sophie. Your uncle said I’d find you hiding in here.’ She was a lawyer from Melbourne, a family friend of his uncle.

A sound jolted Noah out of his thoughts, and he realised he’d forgotten to pay the restaurant bill after returning from the loo. Sophie must have paid. Were they meant to take turns, or didn’t that apply now they were engaged? She had a good job, so he’d always thought it odd how she waited for him to pay.

She stood in the bedroom doorway considering him. ‘Babe, can we go through the spreadsheet for the wedding? I’ve confirmed that the flowers will only be about twelve thousand now.’

‘Twelve thousand?’

‘Yeah. I asked the florist to cut back on the arrangements around the pendant lights, but I’m still going with a grounded floral nest for the photos near the old barn. Did you see those pictures I emailed?’

‘But twelve thousand dollars? For flowers?’

‘Romance and Roses are the best in the business. And the flowers set the whole tone.’ She sounded a bit irritated. ‘We have to organise things now because I’ll be too busy when we get to London.’

‘That’s a lot of money for flowers,’ he ventured.

‘It’s not as if we can’t afford it, sweetie.’

‘Maybe we should do something small, instead. Save the money and elope. We could go to Port Douglas and get married on the beach. There are fancy hotels there. And some great walks.’

‘Port Douglas?’

‘In north Queensland.’

‘I know where Port Douglas is.’

That was a grimace, he thought. A definite grimace. Why would anyone grimace about Port Douglas? It had an excellent crocodile park and they could snorkel on the outer reef. Plus, he knew she’d like those walks in the Daintree Rainforest. But he didn’t feel brave enough to say these things as she stood there, looking cross and young without her makeup.

‘We’re honeymooning at Lake Como, babe. It’s booked. We can’t cancel the wedding venue now; we wouldn’t get our money back.’

He nodded and she squeezed his hand. ‘There are great walks in Italy, babe. We’ll have so much fun. Plus the amazing food and wine. And it’s closer to London, so better for breaking up the jet lag before I’m back at work.’

He tried to smile. What he really wanted to do was pull out his dinghy and take his telescope out onto the still black ocean and look at the stars. But Sophie would expect sex. Not that he was opposed to it. He liked that she told him what she wanted him to do. And she was very athletic, and yet, sometimes, being under the stars felt infinitely preferable.

‘Your dad popped over today,’ she said. ‘He suggested we come early before the centenary party and have a drink with them.’

‘Okay. He could have texted me.’

‘Maybe he wanted company. He’s such a nice man. We had a great chat. He was really helpful when I asked his opinion on the seating plan for your side of the family.’ She tipped her head to one side. ‘He’s worried about you. Without Ned to be your best man, and now, with Julian—’

‘Julian was never going to be my best man.’

‘Why not?’

He shrugged.

‘Oh, babe.’ Sophie gave a little smile. She picked up the family photo on the mantelpiece that was taken at the same party where they met; an evening, as Noah recalled, that included a terrifying lingerie model Julian had dated for a few weeks.

‘You look a bit like Julian, but skinnier.’ Sophie looked him up and down, then back at the photo. ‘I never really noticed before. Although, you have smaller eyes and your nose is aquiline, whereas his is more classic. And there’s no similarity in dress sense!’ She laughed, and maybe he looked offended because she said, ‘Babe, you’re hot too! Just in a different way.’

Julian’s wardrobe was always carefully curated. Noah didn’t care about clothes. He only ever wore khaki shorts or jeans and a polar fleece to go out at night.

‘I’m so angry with him,’ he said, turning from her gaze, awkward about his mixed feelings for his younger brother. ‘With Julian, I mean.’ The thought had just clarified in him. Noah had always taken his brother’s selfishness for granted. Now, suddenly, he wanted to shake Julian, for his behaviour, for what his recklessness had done, to their mother and to the women he’d strung along after Emilia left him. Emilia. The news of her arrival back in town had unsettled him. Everything in his life had come undone the last time he saw her. He supposed he’d let her down too, back then. ‘I don’t even know why I’m feeling like this.’ He sighed. ‘Julian and booze were always best friends. Why would I have expected anything to turn out differently?’ He sat heavily on the bed.

‘Party boy, huh?’ said Sophie and she looked at the photo again and raised her eyebrows.

‘More like … alcoholic.’

Sophie regarded him for a long moment. ‘Let’s go to bed.’

30

CYNTHIA

NOW

‘Right,’ said Cynthia. ‘Are you feeling competent to drive yourself to the cottage to clean?’

‘I don’t have my licence, remember?’

Cynthia swiped the air. ‘It’s on our property. You don’t need it. The only issue is when you get past the second paddock, there’s a steep dip in the road and a low patch at the bottom which will be waterlogged. Be careful not to get bogged. It’s always a nightmare after rain.’

‘Okay then, no.’

‘No?’

‘No, I do not feel like driving myself,’ said Harper. ‘You can drop me there. You said the house hasn’t been cleaned in months. You won’t have to hurry back, it’ll take hours.’

‘You need to have more confidence, Harper.’

‘No, I don’t. I’m very confident. I happen not to enjoy driving, and you’ve described shit conditions and I’m likely to ruin your fancy car and then you’ll blame me. I’m good at foreseeing bad employment situations. I’ve had heaps of experience of things going to shit.’

Cynthia folded her arms across her chest. ‘Why are you really on extended leave?’

‘You don’t want to know,’ muttered Harper.

‘All right, tell me another time. I’ll drop you down but I have to be back soon for a conference call.’

They drove in what would have been companionable silence, except that Cynthia could feel her chest constricting. She’d avoided Julian’s house for months. She pictured him so often, there in the house alone, or briefly with some young woman who’d inveigled her way into his life for a few weeks. Her son, who should have been in the city enjoying his youth, but who had come home after university and only a year in sales at a big agricultural multinational, to run the farm at his father’s request. And to be closer to Emilia. They’d married quickly, seemed to adore each other, until things had gone wrong. Then Emilia left, and Cynthia’s beautiful boy had been too broken to make it on his own, or too proud to see he wasn’t cut out to be a farmer, or too stubborn to quit and go back to the city.

He drank to excess, more and more over the years, matched only by his appetite for a revolving door of unsuitable women until Cynthia had raised it—the women and the drinking—and he’d called her a controlling bitch and refused to speak to her for days. Cynthia tried to breathe out slowly, guilt gnawing at her. Depression had floored her for years after his birth, right from that first day. Her love for the twins when they were born had been immediate, but with Julian—with the arrival of another son, a third screaming baby only twelve months later—she couldn’t quite find any love. She knew she’d overcompensated for this lack by spoiling him, but wasn’t that what good mothers did? They told their children they were wonderful, special. So, she’d done that too, because in the void that had swallowed her for those first years it felt like it might be enough, to pretend that she felt those things. To pretend she felt anything at all.

‘I might book my flight today. So we should talk about a finishing date,’ said Harper.

Cynthia’s thoughts lurched back to this new crisis: Harper’s announcement this morning that she was going back to Melbourne. Cynthia had offered to increase her pay, but Harper seemed intent on leaving. It really made no sense for her to leave until she got her licence. A few more months—free driving lessons and good pay.

Julian’s house came into view and Cynthia saw the end of Patrick’s four-wheel drive sticking out of the carport on the far side of the house. Odd.

She knew he often came here to write his historical account of Beggars Rock, a book he wanted published one day. Still, today was a workday and he should be at the surgery. She turned off the ignition. Harper looked at her.

‘Patrick’s here. He might be … writing. We shouldn’t disturb him.’

‘But you said today was the only day I had free to do this before the party. I can save the vacuuming until he goes. The rest won’t make much noise.’ Harper opened the car door. ‘I’ll go check.’

She was gone before Cynthia could protest, dropping the bucket of cleaning products on the porch and disappearing inside. The house would be thick with dust. It was odd Patrick hadn’t asked for it to be cleaned earlier. But now that Cynthia thought of it, Mrs Slip had mentioned the cottage before she left. Yes, she’d been planning to slot it in. It couldn’t be too grotty, then, if Mrs Slip had given it a once-over last month. She opened her car door and hurried across the grass. The front door was ajar, but Patrick wasn’t at the table with his laptop. ‘Harper?’

A noise came from the hallway. ‘Oh, Harper, I was going to say, Mrs Slip must have done the cottage. Look. It’s not too bad. Where’s Patrick?’

‘Let’s go,’ said Harper.

‘Oh. Well—’

Harper spun Cynthia around. ‘Let’s go.’

Cynthia allowed herself to be propelled back to the car. She sat in the driver’s seat, a sick knowledge pinning her hands to the wheel, her feet to the floor.

‘I’ll do it tomorrow,’ said Harper. ‘Patrick didn’t want to be disturbed. You were right.’ She stared ahead.

‘Was he alone?’

‘Yes.’

Cynthia allowed the silence to settle. ‘You’re a good person, Harper.’

‘Let’s go.’

‘Who was it?’ asked Cynthia.

‘What?’

‘The woman. Please tell me.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I have a right to know.’

‘Fuck’s sake.’ Harper gave a sigh as if the weight of the world was crushing her. After a long beat she said, ‘I can’t tell you.’

‘You think it better I don’t know? That ignorance is somehow bliss? I’ve lived that life. I don’t think I can anymore.’

Harper sniffed.

‘Please?’

‘I can’t tell you because I don’t know her.’

‘Oh,’ Cynthia whispered. After a minute she pressed the start button and began reversing.

‘Fuck her,’ said Harper.

Cynthia laughed, a small explosion of fury. She put the car in drive, allowing the engine to rev loudly; allowing her thoughts to wander across the headland, across to the cottages that lined the foreshore where this woman must live.

‘But mostly, fuck him, if you don’t mind me saying,’ said Harper.

Cynthia expertly navigated the rocky road and turned to the house. ‘Have you ever loved, Harper? I mean, really been in love?’

‘Once.’

‘What happened?’

‘He lost the plot. Couldn’t get his head straight. So I left.’

Cynthia parked and they listened to the mechanical whir of the garage door descending.

‘Do you like gin?’ asked Cynthia.

‘Sure.’

‘Excellent.’ Cynthia opened her door. ‘I try very hard not to drink alone. It should be a course of last resort.’

31

NOAH

ALMOST ELEVEN YEARS AGO, AUGUST

Noah turned his ute towards the highway as he pondered the pelagic birds of the north-west coast and whether he should take on a job he’d seen advertised to manage a monitoring program. It might be interesting. His phone beeped with a message from Harper.

Lou dropped me at your place. Where are you? Beer?

He texted back: 5 mins away

Noah turned right and headed up the hill towards the cape, happy at the idea of seeing Harper for a beer. Sometimes she drove him mental with her banter, but deep down he liked it. He didn’t have to try with Harper. She saw him as he was; knew him to the core.

Pulling off his muddy boots, Noah went into the kitchen—the room was empty. He could hear music, coming from behind his bedroom door. Then he heard her call out, ‘In here.’ It didn’t occur to him to wonder why she’d be in his room with music playing, and so when he opened the door, the last thing he’d expected to see was her naked on his bed, propped up on both pillows. She stared straight at him and he felt his whole head heating up. She had tattoos on her stomach, and a neat patch of black pubic hair he saw, before he whipped his eyes away, shocked he’d violated her privacy. What was she doing? He felt stirrings in his groin. His face must be as red as a tomato.

‘Well, say something!’ She wriggled her bottom up and pulled at the edge of the blanket. ‘Or let’s get in. It’s bloody cold on top!’

‘I …’ he swivelled back towards the kitchen, in case an audience had magically appeared as witness to this terrifying, exhilarating event. ‘I …’

‘Get in!’

‘I can’t. I … what about Ned?’

‘He’s in Launceston.’

‘What would he think?’

Harper pushed herself up on her arms and crossed her legs. Her breasts were perfect, and he tried not to look at them; tried to look at her face.

‘I don’t know,’ she said, carefully. ‘And I don’t care. I like you.’

He couldn’t think and felt himself growing hard, excited. His breath was shallow.

‘You don’t pick up on any of my signals, so this was the only way to make it clear.’

‘You’ve been giving me signals?’

Harper rolled her eyes. ‘For years.’

He blinked, made his eyes stay on hers. He stepped into the room and looked at her stomach. The tattoos were of birds: a peregrine falcon, a shy albatross and a short-tailed shearwater. His favourites. Harper pointed to the shearwater. ‘I got this one after that night on the Rock two years ago when I was back for Christmas. Remember? You told me how, when you were a kid, you loved going there in breeding season. Even though they stink.’

Noah remembered. He remembered Harper lifting her T-shirt to show where she wanted to get a tattoo; remembered being overwhelmed at the sliver of lacy black bra she had revealed. Ned had been getting them drinks and Noah had been embarrassed that he’d been shown something so forbidden, something that existed outside their trio.

Now in the bedroom, he reached down and traced the line of the bird. She put her hand on top of his and moved his finger to the peregrine falcon below it, let it linger there, then gently dragged it lower. He looked up and, as they stared at each other, he could feel a sensation he’d never had before. A warm longing to kiss her. A yearning with his whole body. A knowledge that he’d been hiding his feelings for years because he’d assumed they’d be one-sided, and a disbelief that she wanted him now.

‘Holy shit!’

Noah jumped backwards and spun around to see Ned in the doorway. Harper scrambled to pull her jacket across her chest. ‘Fuck off, Ned!’

But Ned was already gone.

‘Sorry,’ whispered Noah. He wanted to reach out and hold her; to say sorry a thousand times that her bravery had been trampled on. Ned’s ute engine sounded from outside, then the noise receded and disappeared.

‘Well,’ said Harper, ‘that was fucking awkward.’

Noah wanted to say, ‘Take my hand and do whatever you were going to do with it.’ He wanted to close the blinds and get under the covers with her and never leave. Instead, he reached out and pulled the doona up to cover her shoulders and keep her warm. ‘I need to go and explain to him.’

He got into his car, lowered his head on the steering wheel and tried to think where Ned would go to let off steam with the knowledge that Noah, his twin, his other half, his closest friend, had destroyed a decade-long trio of friendship with his own selfish needs.

32

PENNY

NOW

‘Hilary?’ Penny knocked again. ‘Hil, are you in there?’

The door opened and Hilary stood before her, bright and sparkling—pink hair, red scarf, a garish shade of salmon on her wrinkly, grinning lips.

‘Pen! Sorry about earlier, I had a dreadful night’s sleep. I was woken by some randy teenager beeping his horn and revving his engine at two am. Remember those good old days?’

‘I was worried about you. Thought you were coming to help set up the cake stall.’

‘Don’t panic,’ said Hilary. ‘I’ve redeemed myself with our little sister. I helped her pack up a couple of hours ago. Plenty left over, though.’

Penny felt a wave of weakness course through her. ‘I had a run-in with her this morning, Hil. I’m not taking it anymore. She’s a spoilt brat and I’ve had it.’

‘Okay. So, what’s new?’

‘I think she’s sleeping with Pat Heston-Blaise and supporting his crusade about seeing Alfie and I can’t bear it!’ Penny slapped the bench. ‘I’m—’ She took a shuddering breath, tears welling, ‘I’m so sorry I ever let them know about Alfie or took him to that house! Emilia’s so angry and if she finds out Pat’s seeing a lawyer to get some sort of custody she’ll leave and I’ll be alone again!’

Hilary put her arm around Penny’s shoulder and walked her to the couch. ‘Sit.’

She made tea and put a cup for Penny on a coaster on the mahogany coffee table. ‘Right. Let’s think. Pat’s going to a lawyer?’

‘Tomorrow.’

Hilary had both hands together as if in prayer. She was staring at the floor. At last she said, ‘Is Rainn really bonking Pat?’

‘I think so, from the way she was with him. You know what she’s like. She must have bedded half the town by now, so why should he be immune?’

‘Silly girl,’ said Hilary, vaguely. She continued to stare at the fireplace and Penny wondered what she was going to come up with. Hilary could usually be relied on in a time of crisis. It was her unexpected superpower. Underneath the frivolity, she was in fact very sensible. She steepled her hands again and tapped the tips of her fingers together slowly. ‘We need to see Cynthia.’

‘But you don’t talk to Cynthia.’

‘It’s not that I don’t talk to her. It’s that I haven’t had anything to say to her for forty years since she married my boyfriend.’ Hilary gave a wry smile. ‘But I’m happy to talk to her now. Anyway, I think I got the better end of the deal by escaping Pat. Don’t you?’

‘I suppose so.’ Penny frowned. ‘If he is being unfaithful. But’—she hesitated, her once good opinion of Pat still wrestling with her anger at him—‘Rainn is very persuasive, I mean he wouldn’t have stood a chance once she set her sights on him, would he? Can we blame him for it? She’s probably revving him up about custody of Alfie too. You know she loves drama.’ A fresh bout of tears welled in Penny’s eyes.

‘Piffle,’ said Hilary. ‘Pat’s had plenty of affairs. Open your ears, Pen. He’s a serial offender.’

‘Pat?’

‘Good grief, woman. Are you that naive?’

‘I’m not naive.’

‘It’s not a bad thing. It’s rather sweet. Except at times your belief in other people’s good natures will get you nowhere. Pat’s a bastard. Always has been. Not going to change.’ Hilary paused, then said, ‘Close your mouth. You look like a gasping fish.’

‘But what will visiting Cynthia do? She’s not going to admit anything, is she? She likely supports the idea of a lawyer too.’

‘I’m not sure what it will do, but I’m quite sure Cynthia has never stopped feeling guilty about how she treated me, and we can use that to get her talking. Anyway, she might need us. Come on,’ said Hilary. ‘Pat will be at the surgery, so she’ll be alone. I’ll get my handbag.’

‘Now?’ Penny stumbled as she got to her feet. ‘We can’t—I mean, what are we going to say? And why would she need anything from us?’

‘Stop that banging!’ hissed Penny. ‘If Cynthia’s at the back of the house it will take a while. Don’t be so impatient.’

Hilary turned towards the gardens and drank in the spectacle. ‘Bloody gorgeous up here, isn’t it?’

‘Shhhh, I hear footsteps.’

The door opened to reveal Harper—cropped hair, jutting cheekbones and those huge, long-lashed eyes that always reminded Penny of a cow. The girl’s physical beauty prompted a sharp gasp. Unlike Rainn, though, she moved through the world without relying on her appearance, so it was never the first thing that came to mind until she was in front of you again. It had always been like this with Harper. So unexpected, almost jarring, not least when she opened her mouth and all the world’s profanities might be unleashed in one loaded sentence.

‘Good god!’ said Hilary. ‘Harpy, what are you doing here?’ She pulled Harper into a fierce hug. Once Hilary let her go, Penny said, ‘She’s working here, silly. She told us the other night.’

‘She didn’t tell me,’ said Hilary.

‘I’m heading back to Melbourne in a few days.’ Harper smiled and stepped backwards. ‘You want to talk to Cynthia?’

‘We sure do,’ said Hilary as Penny said, ‘Well, if she’s available.’

‘I’ll let her know. Did you want to wait here?’

‘We’ll come with you.’ Hilary followed Harper down the hall, and Penny baulked at her audacity but followed anyway.

‘So, you’re working for Cynthia? Doing what?’

‘Bit of everything really.’

‘You should come over for dinner,’ said Penny. ‘Spend some more time with Emilia before you leave.’

‘Maybe,’ said Harper. ‘Cynthia’s keeping me busy getting ready for this party next weekend. The centenary thing.’

‘Yes, everyone’s busy with it,’ said Penny. ‘The premier is coming!’

‘That dickhead whose party supports more native forest logging down the west coast. Great.’ Harper rolled her eyes then called over her shoulder, ‘Cynthia, you’ve got company,’ then waved to them. ‘I’d better keep going.’

‘See you at the centenary party.’ Hilary gazed thoughtfully at Harper’s retreating figure, then murmured, ‘She’s been drinking.’

‘Has she?’ whispered Penny.

Cynthia appeared. She looked from one to the other warily. ‘Hello, Penny. Hilary. This is unexpected.’

‘Hello, Cynthia.’ Hilary gave a wide smile. ‘Great to see you.’

Cynthia’s face was impassive. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘A drink would be good. Something alcoholic preferably.’

‘Hil!’ hissed Penny.

‘Good-o. Come through to the study. Harper and I were just having a gin and tonic.’

Penny felt a headache coming on. It was three pm on a weekday.

Cynthia ushered them into a room, towards an old leather Chesterfield lounge with a mohair throw on the arm. Penny perched on one end and Hilary sat back, moving the cushions to get comfortable. Cynthia picked up a bottle of gin and made two fresh drinks. ‘If you need ice, I can get some from the kitchen.’

‘No need,’ said Hilary, magnanimously. ‘We’re easily pleased.’

‘So, what can I do for you?’

‘Your husband says he’s getting legal advice about formal access rights to Alfie. And this is not what Emilia wants. I thought a chat might be the best way forward.’ Hilary took her glass from Cynthia. The difference in their jewellery was stark. Cynthia’s engagement ring was an enormous sapphire surrounded by diamonds, with several other diamond rings butted up against each other. Hilary had an inch-thick green resin band on her middle finger.

‘What does Alfie think?’ asked Cynthia. ‘We know the best interests of the child are paramount in these situations. Has anyone asked him?’ She took a large swig, draining her glass then refilled it.

‘His best interests might not necessarily coincide with what he wants,’ said Hilary.

‘True. True.’ Cynthia sipped thoughtfully.

Penny was confused about what was happening. Her sister and Cynthia were both ignoring forty years of enmity and the huge fat elephant in the room that was sprawled out between them.

‘We don’t know for sure Julian is Alfie’s father,’ Penny piped up.

Cynthia and Hilary looked at her.

‘If you say so,’ said Cynthia. ‘But it’s probably best we agree he is.’

‘That makes no sense,’ Penny said. ‘If he’s not the father, why would that be best?’

Cynthia downed half her gin. ‘Trust me, Penny.’

Hilary held out her glass. ‘Top up, Cyn?’

‘Good lord, what is wrong with you two?’ Penny glared at her sister. ‘She stole your boyfriend!’

‘In 1980,’ said Hilary. ‘It was a long time ago.’

‘You can have him back if you like,’ said Cynthia, mildly.

‘No, thanks.’

‘Alfie’s a lovely boy.’ Cynthia stared out the window. ‘Very intelligent. And insightful too. Picks up on threads of facts you don’t even realise you’ve mentioned. Time and again.’ She shook her head, as if she could scarcely believe Alfie and his threads.

‘You’ve barely met him,’ said Penny. ‘How would you know?’

‘He’s been here nearly every morning this week,’ said Cynthia, frowning.

‘No, he hasn’t,’ said Penny.

‘Told me he had Emilia’s permission,’ said Cynthia uncertainly.

‘He’s been at tennis camp!’ said Penny. ‘Between nine and twelve thirty every day.’

‘Oh,’ said Cynthia. ‘Right.’

‘Has he truly been here?’ Penny asked.

‘Possibly?’ said Cynthia.

‘Little rascal.’ Hilary grinned.

She and Cynthia both laughed.

‘It’s not funny!’ Penny fumed. ‘He could have been kidnapped! If he walked here alone, a paedophile could have kidnapped him on the road!’

‘He came up the beach path,’ said Cynthia.

‘It’s been high tide in the mornings!’ said Penny. ‘Even more unsafe! And paedophiles enjoy the beach too, you know. Don’t go imagining they only stick to the roads.’

‘No doubt you’re right, Pen. I’m sure the beach-loving community of Beggars Rock has a couple of deviants in the mix. But it seems he was fine.’ Hilary accepted her newly filled glass from Cynthia.

‘High tide is much earlier than nine at the moment,’ offered Cynthia.

‘Are you both insane?’ Penny swung her head from one to the other. ‘Cynthia’s been illegally spending time with him. Without his mother’s permission!’

‘Well, I wasn’t to know,’ said Cynthia. ‘And I haven’t told Pat. Don’t worry.’

‘Why wouldn’t you tell Pat?’ asked Penny. ‘It’s Pat who’s wanting to spend the time with him. He’s the one wanting this stupid lawyer involved!’

‘Exactly,’ said Cynthia. ‘I don’t approve of the lawyer at all.’

Penny sank back into the couch.

‘Nice gin,’ said Hilary. ‘Where’s it from?’

‘We have a secret gin still,’ said Cynthia. ‘In the shed. Pat’s pride and joy. The one thing he’s good for.’

‘That’s a little cruel. He’s good at a lot of things,’ said Penny.

‘Is he? You try being married to him.’ Then Cynthia sat back down on her chair and let out a sob.

33

PENNY

NOW

‘Alfie’s been lying to me,’ said Emilia, her expression somewhere between outrage and bewilderment.

‘Lying about what, exactly?’ ventured Penny, putting knives and forks on the table and picking up the empty salt shaker.

‘He only went to tennis camp on the first day. Since then he’s been bunking off.’

‘Gracious me,’ said Penny, but her attempt at surprise sounded hollow.

‘I’m furious,’ said Emilia. ‘Anything could have happened.’

‘Don’t be silly, Em.’

‘What if he’d been injured in a ditch, or hit by a car?’

‘Darling, don’t be so dramatic. Beggars Rock is very safe.’ Penny hadn’t considered those particular dangers. The paedophiles had seemed so much more obvious.

‘Mum! Are you even listening to me? He’s been on his own. Unsupervised!’

‘Yes, sorry. Did he tell you what he’s been doing?’

‘I haven’t asked him yet. I only just found out.’

‘Mmmmm.’ Penny put the plates on the table and considered her options. ‘If I tell you what I learned a little earlier today, will you promise not to be mad with him?’

‘What? No. Mum, tell me!’

‘Please promise, darling, I couldn’t bear it. With him or me.’

Emilia sighed. ‘All right. What was he doing?’

‘Visiting Cynthia.’

‘Cynthia?’ Emilia’s eyes narrowed.

‘She thinks he’s extraordinary.’

A fleeting look of what might have been grief crossed Emilia’s face. ‘Why didn’t she ring me? How dare she.’

‘He told her you’d allowed it.’

‘Of course I hadn’t,’ snapped Emilia. ‘How could she believe that?’

‘He’s persuasive, sweetheart. Apparently, he even faked a phone call to you.’

Emilia plonked the sauce down on the table. ‘Why was he there?’

‘He wanted to know about Julian.’

Emilia hesitated. ‘What did they do?’

‘They went up the Rock one day. On the chairlift.’

‘Of course they did. Good old bloody Cynthia, buying her way into his heart.’

‘That might not have been her intention.’

Emilia sighed.

‘She wants him in her life. Is that so bad?’ When Emilia said nothing, Penny continued. ‘She and Pat both seem keen.’

‘I’m not letting Pat near him.’

‘He’s all right. Perhaps a bit misguided.’ Penny thought of Rainn and her magnificent breasts displayed so prominently earlier in the day. ‘He’s just a man. They’re all a bit hopeless.’

Through the window they watched Alfie remove his boots. He opened the back door and hesitated, as if sensing the mood of the room.

‘Why don’t you wash your hands, Alfie, and then we can eat,’ said Penny, hurriedly. She brought the vegetarian hotpot to the table.

When Alfie returned, Penny was quick to fill the silence. ‘How was your day, Alf?’ She spooned some rice onto his plate, and he stared at it. He pushed the vegetables around until they began to disintegrate.

‘This is what being a vegetarian looks like, Alf,’ said Emilia. ‘Want to change your mind?’

Penny felt a little wounded. She’d followed the recipe from the CWA Cook Book to the letter.

‘No. This looks edible.’ Alfie shovelled in a mouthful.

‘Apparently,’ said Emilia with faux brightness, ‘Alfie didn’t think your investment in improving his fitness and coordination with tennis camp was a good idea, Mum. Nor the possibility for new friendships. So he didn’t bother going.’ She stabbed a bean with her fork.

‘Oh.’ Penny tried to look surprised. ‘You didn’t go, Alfie?’

‘I got an email,’ said Emilia, ‘from the club, inviting the parents to join their kids for regular lessons during term time, so I emailed back and said how much Alf had enjoyed the week, but we couldn’t commit to anything at the moment. Can you imagine how surprised I was when the coach rang to say Alfie hadn’t been to classes since Monday?’

Alfie stared at his lap. Penny wanted to reach out and hug him.

‘Apparently,’ continued Emilia, ‘the coach received an email from me after the first session saying Alfie had decided not to continue.’ She pinned her gaze on Alfie. ‘Can you imagine how awful that was to hear? How worried it made me? And now I hear you’ve been sneaking off to Cynthia’s!’

There was a thick silence.

‘All’s well that ends well,’ muttered Penny.

‘I told you I didn’t want to go,’ said Alfie.

‘You can’t lie to me like that, Alf! How can I keep you safe if you lie to me? Haven’t we always had a good relationship? Without lies? We don’t lie!’

‘You lie!’ Alfie dropped his fork with a clatter and both women startled. ‘You lied about my father! You lied about not having family! You lied about everything!’ He pushed his chair back and stood, face ablaze. ‘I want to know about Julian. I want to know about my dad!’

Emilia and Alfie stared at each other across the table.

‘You need to tell me where he is and organise a meeting with him. I have rights!’ Alfie was quivering with rage.

Emilia’s mouth opened then closed.

‘Tell me why he’s stopped talking to his parents and where he is,’ he said. ‘There are ways to contact missing people. Even if he’s got another family. Even if he has loads of other kids. He’d still want to know me.’

Emilia closed her eyes. ‘I’m sorry. But there’s not much to tell,’ she said quietly. ‘We were married. I left him and moved away. That’s it.’

‘Everyone says I look just like him! You’re still lying to me!’

‘Alf—’ began Emilia.

‘I know he’s my father!’ Alfie slammed his fist onto the table and a splatter of sauce flew off his plate and hit Emilia’s face.

She blinked, then stood up. ‘He …’ She wiped three fingers across her cheek and looked down at her hand. ‘You need to stop, Alfie,’ she whispered.

34

ALFIE

NOW

I am enjoying the silence. It’s good to practise silence. It’s good for your mental health and it helps your parasympathetic nervous system do whatever it’s supposed to do. Something with food digestion, I think. And since I ate a large serve of Weet-Bix an hour ago, my system is thanking me for not talking to Mum. I am giving her the silent treatment. This is an enhanced version of the usual silent treatment. I call it the ‘AEDB Special’. This stands for Alfred Edward Deegan Bains and then add ‘special’ because then it’s a noun and easier for referencing. The AEDB Special is where I pretend Mum doesn’t exist, unless it benefits me. For example, at the supermarket when she asked if I wanted to go in, I got out of the car and followed her, because she is feeling guilty about the continued unconscionable hiding of information about my father, which means she is less likely to remove blocks of chocolate or jelly snakes from the basket before she pays. This obviously benefits me.

After she pays, I follow Mum back to the car to dump the groceries. ‘I need to go to the bakery. Coming, Alf?’

I go, because I am also partial to the chocolate croissants at the Beggars Rock bakery, and you never know how lucky you’re going to get with the AEDB Special. As we pass the post office, Mum stops suddenly, and I nearly run into her.

She says, ‘Hello,’ as if she’s surprised to see someone, and in front of us is a small woman and a tall man wearing khaki shorts, a matching crumpled shirt and workboots. I look away because I am not in the mood for conversation, and when I look back, the tall skinny man is staring, as if I have a huge snot ball on my face. His hair is shaggy, and he hasn’t shaved for a few days. He continues to stare so I hold out my hand as Mum taught me. ‘Good afternoon. I’m Alfred Bains.’ He keeps staring and so the woman (who has lovely brushed black hair and better manners) puts her hand out and laughs for no reason as I shake it. ‘Aren’t you the cutest! My name is Sophie St James, soon to be Sophie Heston-Blaise, although I haven’t quite decided whether to change it when Noah and I get married. What do you think? Which sounds better?’

‘Sophie St James has pleasing alliteration. Plus, it means you can retain your whole identity, which is a significant factor seeing as how important feminists died fighting for the right for you to do it.’

‘Oh! Aren’t you heaven!’ She nudges the man who I presume is Noah who she is going to marry. He has poor social skills, but I try not to form a rigid opinion about him before I have all the facts.

‘I’m Emilia,’ says Mum and the man says, ‘Sorry. Sophie, this is Emilia.’

‘So, congratulations,’ says Mum. ‘You’re getting married?’

‘You must be the only one in Beggars Rock who doesn’t know,’ says Sophie. ‘We’re off to London soon to start my new job, but we’ll be back here a few weeks after we leave to get hitched, then back to London again! The whole thing is exhausting.’ She grins and holds out her hand to show a ring with a sparkly stone. ‘Do you like it? I chose it myself. Noah has no idea about fashion or diamonds.’ She giggles again and elbows him as if she’s telling a joke and Mum says, ‘It’s gorgeous.’

‘One point nine carat, VVS1.’

‘Goodness,’ says Mum. ‘Lovely.’

I wonder what the woman is talking about. She takes her hand away from Mum’s face and everyone is silent. She looks at me again. ‘So, what grade are you in at school, sweet cheeks?’

‘I’m hoping to go into Year Seven or Eight when I go back to school. I’ve learned the whole primary school curriculum already, so it makes no sense to stay with my age cohort, but Mum thinks I’m too young for high school even though I can do at least Year Nine level maths and English.’

‘Gosh. You look far too young for Year Five, even,’ she says.

I sense that Sophie St James and I have nothing in common. Shaggy Noah is staring at me.

‘So, Noah, I hear you finished your PhD. Congratulations,’ says Mum and I hear in her voice that she is really pleased for this guy and his PhD.

‘My very own Doctor Heston-Blaise,’ giggles Sophie.

Mum smiles. ‘What was your thesis on?’

‘Oh, the physiology of ectotherms and the influence of temperature on feeding habits, sort of. It was a bit niche.’

‘Interesting,’ says Mum.

‘I mainly studied how the—’

‘Noah!’ Sophie says, elbowing him again and laughing weirdly. ‘Don’t bore them!’

‘Terrestrial ectotherms?’ I ask.

‘Yes, and some aquatic. I was looking at diurnal species mainly.’

Sophie St James says, ‘Lord, save us.’

Noah looks at her.

She shakes her head, as if he’s a silly kid then asks, ‘How do you guys know each other?’

‘Emilia was married to Julian,’ he says.

‘Oh, my god.’ The woman’s face scrunches up as if she’s constipated. ‘I’m so sorry about your ex-husband, Emilia. It was so tragic.’

‘What happened to him?’ I ask.

Mum has gone as white as an arctic fox. After a while she says, ‘Alfie, I’d like you to properly meet Noah Heston-Blaise, Julian’s brother. Noah, this is my son.’

‘Your son,’ he repeats, as if he hadn’t worked that out, almost as if he’s stupid, which is unlikely if he’s completed a doctoral thesis on diurnal ectotherms.

‘What happened to Julian?’ I ask again, and in my stomach, a huge batch of butterflies has started flying around.

‘He was in an accident,’ says Noah, looking between me and Mum.

‘Apparently,’ says Sophie. Mum and Noah both swivel super-fast to look at her. From this I deduce she is saying something they don’t want her to say. Then, as I open my mouth to gain clarification on various fronts, Mum says, ‘He was in a car accident, darling. I was going to tell you but was too sad to talk about it. I’m afraid he died.’

My head starts to feel pixelated like when the TV screen goes weird in a storm. ‘When?’

‘In October,’ says Sophie. ‘It was a lovely funeral. There were hundreds of people there. Even the attorney-general.’

My heart is flipping as fast as the wrist of the guy at Pancake Kingdom in Dublin where we used to go on our birthdays. I feel my eyes getting hotter, but I won’t cry here. I look right at Mum and say, ‘That was only six months ago.’ I let this sink in. ‘Until six months ago, I could have met Julian.’ Mum stares back at me, begging me with her eyes not to make a scene. But I can’t do it. Something is burning inside me. I begin running. I run as hard as I can, past the bakery and the council carpark, past Doctor Pat’s surgery and The Little Fat Cat, until I reach the base of the Rock. I stop to catch my breath where the walking track begins and the chairlift drops off, and where the sky above feels as distant and unreachable as my father. Then I begin to climb.

35

NOAH

ALMOST ELEVEN YEARS AGO, AUGUST

Noah had driven around for an hour looking for Ned and found him at Tilly’s Beach. A small fire burned in the darkness towards the point and nobody other than an escaped prisoner or his twin would choose to sit there and suffer the brutality of the glacial Bass Strait wind in the middle of a Tasmanian winter.

Noah walked up the beach, the blistering breeze burning his face. When he reached the fire, he sat down. Eventually he said, ‘I didn’t know she was going to be naked. I—’

‘I really fucked that up for you. Sorry, mate.’

‘No, I’m sorry, I just …’

‘I knew she liked you.’

‘Did you?’

‘Yeah, since Year Twelve. She pretty much admitted it to me. We’ve both been waiting for you to catch up.’

Noah looked at his brother through the dim, flickering light.

‘Obviously, there was no wish on my part for you to hurry or anything,’ said Ned. ‘Who would I hang out with then?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Three’s a crowd, brother.’ He poked at the flames with a stick. ‘Anyway, it’s fine. I’ve got myself someone.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. Think I’m in love. It must be love, ’cos it feels like shit.’ He stabbed at the sand with his stick. ‘Everything’s shit.’

Noah bore the long silence that followed; he couldn’t ask. He didn’t want to hear because deep down, he knew. He wrapped his arms tighter around his chest.

‘You don’t have to be out here. Why don’t you come back and we can cook dinner? I’ve been looking for you since you left. I’m starving.’

‘Idiot. Why’d you come after me? You should be back there enjoying yourself.’

Noah sighed. ‘Come on.’

‘I’m not coming, Noah. It’s a small house, mate. Go put Harper out of her misery. Go home.’

Noah slapped his brother’s arm. A ridiculous, fluttering feeling rose up inside him, as if maybe he did have a chance with Harper. Maybe they could be something. He closed his eyes; could see her tattoos and her smooth belly. He had a sensation that his whole chest was on fire. Harper had slept with plenty of guys, and he was inexperienced. He wasn’t sure if he would disappoint her as a lover; if their friendship could exist in a different form. And how would it work with Ned?

Neither moved. Noah watched the waves roll up and back by the light of the fire; the noise and movement mesmerising despite the frigid air.

Ned’s phone beeped and he turned the lit screen away, but Noah had glimpsed the name.

‘I’ve got somewhere to be,’ said Ned. ‘Go home, Noah.’ He pocketed the phone and gave a smile that Noah knew wasn’t happiness. It was confusion and pain. He didn’t know what to say. Ned had often made bad choices. It was almost as if he saw Noah make the good ones and decided to balance the scales by doing the opposite. If Ned was going where Noah thought he was, there would be no coming back. He wanted to stop him, but he didn’t dare. To give voice to such betrayal was impossible. And what if Noah had it wrong?

‘Follow me back, Neddy?’ he pleaded.

Ned looked away. Noah forced himself to walk slowly back up the beach, hoping Ned would follow. He needed Ned not to go to Emilia. He needed him to make a good decision. The consequences of the bad one would be unthinkable.

36

PENNY

NOW

Penny approached her daughter cautiously. She put her hand on her forearm. ‘Are you all right?’

Emilia shrugged.

‘I know I haven’t always given the best advice,’ began Penny, haltingly, ‘but perhaps you should go in to him. He’s just found out that his father is dead. It’s a devastating thing for anyone to hear, even if he didn’t know him.’

Emilia was silent.

She tried again. ‘I could make hot chocolate for you to take in?’

‘Why didn’t you ever email me? Those first months after I left. Before I began to write to you.’

Penny sank onto the couch next to Emilia. ‘What do you mean? I didn’t know where you were. How could I?’

Emilia looked confused. ‘I emailed you. A fortnight later. With a new Hotmail account.’

‘No.’ Penny’s heart raced. ‘No, you didn’t.’

‘I did. I couldn’t understand why you didn’t reply. I assumed you were too angry with me.’

‘Darling,’ beseeched Penny, ‘of course I would have replied. But I didn’t get it! I was out of my mind with worry! Ned was dead and you left town on the same night. Harper rang me days later to tell me you were safe. That you’d disappeared intentionally. But still nothing from you. It was the worst time of my life. It made no sense. No sense at all!’ Penny’s anger, dormant for so many years, broke through from wherever she had buried it in her psyche. ‘I was out of my mind!’

Emilia slumped. ‘I’m sorry, Mum. Maybe it went to your junk folder.’

Penny looked into her lap, unable to bear it, and when Emilia reached over and took her hand, they sat silently. She had been desperate to contact Emilia all those years ago, quizzing Harper endlessly, only to be told that Emilia was safe and had gone to the mainland to start a life on her own. Penny’s search had taken her to Melbourne to meet with Emilia’s cousins on Lincoln’s side, and to follow up her daughter’s old school friends. She had rung everyone she could think of. But eventually, when nobody knew where her daughter was, and Harper had assured her that Emilia just needed time away to be on her own, Penny had resigned herself to waiting. A birthday card had arrived, then one for Christmas, but neither had a return address. She asked Harper to pass on messages to Emilia, begging for her return. Eventually, Harper admitted that Emilia had essentially cut ties with her too; had left Melbourne to start afresh.

Penny had thrown herself into farm work, but in the early pre-dawn darkness of those first years she would wake, abuzz with terror, flooded with torturous imaginings about her daughter’s fate. And she was hurt too. Why was Emilia intent on leaving behind her whole life? Leaving Julian was one thing, but cutting out family made no sense. And at the back of Penny’s mind, with Ned’s death on the same night her daughter had fled, fear had festered; angst that the two events were somehow related. But for all the months and years she had troubled over this fact, she could never find a way to bring them together.

Emilia squeezed Penny’s hand. ‘I don’t know what to tell Alf, Mum. I don’t think Julian was his father.’

‘So you’ve said,’ Penny murmured, thinking of the flings Emilia had mentioned. But it was so clear that Alfie was a Heston-Blaise. He had Julian in him to the very core.

Penny peered towards the hallway, making sure small ears were still out of range. She wanted to help without pushing too hard. ‘Em, if you don’t know who exactly his father might be—I mean, if you don’t know their identity or how to contact them—and if Julian is the most likely candidate, it might make sense to go along with it being Julian. Don’t you think? Alfie would have more family then. More grandparents to help you raise him. A more solid sense of where he comes from.’

Silence.

‘I mean, he looks exactly like Julian,’ said Penny.

‘Does he?’

‘Yes! Whenever he smiles, I get that lovely sense of Julian being in the room.’ Penny thought now that perhaps this was part of the joy she felt with Alfie; gaining a glimpse of the old Julian they loved.

Poor Julian had spiralled downwards after Emilia left him, which had possibly, in the end, led him to driving himself into the tree on the bend at Blackadder Pond. Allegedly. Nobody liked to say it out loud, but the lack of brake marks and the speed at which he’d ploughed through Niall Pederson’s fence did not scream ‘accident’. It was a bad corner, though, and Pat had petitioned the council to have the speed limit reduced, so nobody liked to speculate openly about Julian’s motives. Maybe he really had just been popping out to buy mustard for the family’s steak dinner.

‘I see nothing of Julian in him,’ said Emilia flatly.

Penny wondered how that was. Did genetic recognition—the sense of comforting familiarity in Alfie’s features—depend on a willingness to see it? Penny had loved Julian dearly; almost as a son. So warm and clever. He really cared for her, and with no man about to do some of the heavier farm work, he’d often completed jobs around the farm for her. He brought flowers on her birthday and fixed her computer issues whenever she asked. She’d adored him.

‘Perhaps it’s his nose,’ said Penny now, trying to bring her daughter along, trying to put her finger on exactly what made her think of Julian’s features. Was it Alfie’s translucent, lovely skin? His freckles perhaps? The thick sandy hair?

‘I know you were grieving when you left, after the pregnancy loss.’

‘I didn’t lose the pregnancy,’ Emilia said, tightly.

‘You know what I mean.’ Penny thought of Emilia’s late-stage miscarriage and her grief. Penny’s own sadness welled inside her. It had been a terrible time. ‘It was hard for you both. I know you were beside yourself. And poor Julian suffered so much.’

‘He suffered?’ Emilia’s eyes glittered. She was as still as ice.

Penny was pinned by her daughter’s stare and she began filling with a certainty that she had said something, done something terribly wrong. Fear gripped her.

‘I mean, of course, the pain of losing the baby was worse for you, darling. Of course it was! You were the mother.’

‘I hated Julian,’ spat Emilia with cold, simmering rage.

‘Darling,’ said Penny, feebly, ‘losing a pregnancy is so hard. You couldn’t help your feelings.’

‘I lost a child.’ Emilia’s eyes shone. ‘I was twenty-six weeks pregnant and he shouldn’t have died. He was a person, Mum, not a pregnancy. A properly formed, fully feeling baby. A boy.’

Penny hung her head. ‘I’m sorry, darling. Of course he was.’

‘You have no idea.’

‘Darling, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, but I do understand. I lost babies too, I told you. Before you were born. Not so far along, but it’s devastating when nature steals them from you. It’s unbearable.’

Emilia’s head was in her hands. ‘You have no idea,’ she repeated. But there was a steely edge to her voice now and Penny began to panic. She needed to cool her down. To retreat. Was this what caused her to flee in the first place?

‘No, I really don’t. You’re right, darling.’

‘How could I stay?’ Emilia looked pleadingly at Penny, her eyes bright with tears. ‘How could I stay, when I had that one, perfect chance to go?’

37

ALFIE

NOW

Statistically, I am at much greater risk of turning out to be a bad or hopeless and unsuccessful person if I don’t have a father. For example, I am twice as likely to be obese or to drop out of high school. I am four times at greater risk of poverty and seven times more likely to become pregnant as a teenager. Obviously that last one is N/A personally, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t count. It just means my mother is lucky I’m not a girl.

Anyway, not having a dad can work out to be pretty bad. My future prospects are in great jeopardy, even though I am not currently obese or poor or pregnant. I am currently dropped out of school, but that is only while the school holidays are on and until we decide where we are going to live. I investigated home schooling, but Mum says I need socialisation with the other kids at school, which really means she wants free babysitting.

Furthermore, having a father with high involvement in child rearing is correlated with excellent sociability, higher confidence and better self-control. I do have quite high self-confidence, but the sociability rating is low. Maybe between one and two. I am not good at sociability. This is Mum’s fault for denying me a father. The self-control factor is hard to judge. I’m okay usually, although I did slam Granny Penny’s door when I lost my temper at Mum. But I feel this doesn’t count. Most people would be driven to madness at door-slamming level when lied to their whole life about their paternity. And I can confirm that I am extremely and furiously boiling mad. Mum should not be let off the hook too easily–that’s obvious. Julian might have been a horrible husband, but I don’t think it was up to Mum to decide if he would have been a horrible father and definitely not her decision to take prophylactic steps against him ever getting to find out if he was.

Below are examples of how this debacle (aka my mother) has ruined my life, by examining possible skills and hypothetical capabilities of Julian that point to him potentially being a good father, even if he was a terrible husband:

General Skills | Good Father Skills | Good Husband Skills
Bring flowers | | ✓
Bring chocolates | ✓ | ✓
Say ‘You look nice in that dress’ | | ✓
Do the ironing | | ✓
Collect tadpoles and watch them turn into frogs | ✓ |
Fly kites | ✓ |
Go to the science museum | ✓ | ✓
Read a bedtime story | ✓ |

Below is a Venn diagram of the overlapping bits of being a good father and a good husband.

As you can see, the only overlapping bits are bringing chocolates and going to the science museum. Anyone would like those two things. The rest is very separate.

Mum thinks she can cover all the bases for parent input success without help. But she can’t. I am entitled to a father. However, being Mr Pragmatic, my boiling madness has simmered down and I realise I will have to compile an information file about my father, to ensure my future success as a human. I will need to research. I will insist on proper access to Cynthia and Doctor Pat and work out what my father would have wanted me to do to turn out to be amazing.

I will research everything about Julian that was ever known. He liked old cars, but he might have also liked to build stuff such as computer models, or kites. Mum isn’t interested in aerodynamics and ignores the necessary ingredients for success in kite-flying by saying things like, ‘Just throw it up in the air and see how it goes!’, while clapping her hands and grinning like a weirdo. This is a method for complete or partial failure. She is often unprepared like that.

Julian, on the other hand, might have been the kite-flying champion of north-west Tasmania. He would probably have considered wind speed and direction and kite models appropriate for the conditions. We could have built the kites together. Bow kites, delta kites, foil kites. Any type he wanted! I have never made a kite, but I have read about doing it. Also, he might have bred rare frogs. There are so many things I might have hypothetically missed out on.

I close the notebook. I think about going out to the lounge room now and demanding Mum take me to Sommersby House, but my stomach goes weird and sick. Instead I decide to email Cynthia as soon as Mum is away from her computer. I am pretty sure she will help me to find out all the things about Julian that will allow me to complete Operation Tadpole. Then I am going to take positive action. I will find out where he is buried and I will visit my father’s grave.

38

CYNTHIA

NOW

‘Okay,’ said Hilary, wriggling back onto the sofa. ‘So what’s the problem?’

She was sitting opposite Cynthia, in her office, wearing the most outrageous ensemble of blue and yellow and pink. A stretchy, printed fabric that clung to all the wrong places and had almost made Cynthia reach for her sunglasses when Hilary had arrived. It was simply marvellous.

‘I need to talk to someone I can trust,’ Cynthia said. ‘I need this to go no further.’

‘That sounds ominous. Can I get some whisky in this coffee if it’s going to take more than ten minutes?’

‘Oh, of course.’ Cynthia leaned into the hallway. ‘Harper? Harper?’

Harper appeared, looking irritated. ‘What?’

‘Whisky is needed,’ said Cynthia. ‘Can you get a bottle of single malt from the guest quarters? Patrick finished the bottle in the living room last night.’

‘Hello, Harpy,’ said Hilary.

‘Hello, Aunty Hil.’

‘Drinking too much, is he?’ asked Hilary, after Harper left. ‘That never bodes well.’

Cynthia sighed. ‘You can hardly talk.’

‘Course I can’t.’ Hilary waved an impatient hand at her. ‘But I have extenuating circumstances. Booze is my only pleasure at the moment. It even trumps sex, and that’s saying something.’

‘I’ve always preferred alcohol to sex, but I’m not you.’ Cynthia regarded her old friend. Beneath the colour, and the cheery bravado, she seemed frail. ‘Is everything all right? Health wise?’

Hilary pursed her lips and made a shrugging motion, as if she could barely be bothered to talk about it. ‘Cancer,’ she said. ‘An absolute prick.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry. That’s awful.’

Hilary waved her hand. ‘Whisky helps.’

‘What kind of cancer?’

‘Breast. With optional extras. Bone, liver. Everywhere by now, I suppose. It’s a bastard toad of a disease as it turns out.’

Cynthia whispered, ‘I’m sorry. I’ve really missed you.’

‘Me too. Forty fucking years. Over a man.’

The fact lay silently between them.

‘Whisky as ordered.’ Harper appeared, proffering a bottle.

‘You’re an angel,’ said Hilary. ‘Top me up, darling.’ She held out her mug. ‘Right to the top.’

‘Are you driving?’ asked Cynthia.

‘Harper is,’ said Hilary. ‘She can drop me home in my car and walk back. Good exercise for young legs.’

‘I can’t,’ said Harper. ‘I don’t have my licence.’

‘You have your learner’s now,’ said Cynthia.

‘The supervising driver has to be sober,’ said Harper.

‘Rubbish!’ said Hilary. ‘I’ll do the gearstick; you do the wheel.’

‘I’m not driving a manual!’ Harper dumped the whisky bottle on the desk.

‘For a modern woman you are very buttoned up,’ said Hilary. ‘I should take you under my wing, while I still have one.’ She lifted her bare arm and wobbled the soft flesh beneath.

‘I’m fine as I am, thanks,’ said Harper.

‘You’ll be sorry you said that when I’m gone.’

Harper guffawed, but Cynthia felt all the energy rush out of her. As if someone had pulled the plug. She’d only just gotten Hilary back. The prospect of losing her was terrible.

‘Could you give us a minute, Harper?’

‘As many as you like.’

‘Tell me your problem,’ said Hilary, taking a large sip when Harper had gone.

Cynthia felt bile rising in her throat. Her head throbbed. She closed the office door.

‘I thought you said Pat was out,’ said Hilary.

‘He is.’

‘Arsehole. I can’t believe he was shagging someone on your own property.’

Cynthia should have kept her mouth shut yesterday. That was the gin for you. She had told the whole story of finding Pat and a woman in Julian’s cottage. Then the story of how someone had been egging their house repeatedly. It was probably the previous lover he’d extricated himself from, which made her worry about his choices. Was her husband really attracted to grown women who were so juvenile? And although she’d willingly confided in Hilary, and—more concerningly—Penny, she still felt shame at the idea of it being known. What if it came out? Facing Pat, with the truth of his affairs an open sore between them, would be unbearable. How did one continue on the path of perfect deception when everything was on display? ‘I suspect it’s his way of coping with Julian’s death,’ she said, ‘seeking comfort, so to speak. I’ve been keeping busy in other ways. It’s unthinkable otherwise, if you stop and let it catch you.’ She winced and blinked hard.

‘It’s not fair,’ said Hilary. ‘Your boys dying so horribly. None of it. But that bastard is no good for you, Cyn. You’ve got to leave him.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Why?’

‘I …’

‘Why did you refuse to come to my hotel this morning? Surely there was less of a chance of Pat knowing you’re meeting me if you came into town, rather than me coming here?’

‘He’s in Launceston today. It was better to come here. People might have seen me in town.’

‘So what? You were visiting a friend.’

‘People like to gossip.’

‘Nobody gives a hoot.’

‘Someone would have mentioned it to Pat.’

‘Why does that matter?’ asked Hilary.

‘We’re a tight team and now Julian’s gone, well, he’s more protective.’ Cynthia turned away. A tidal wave of grief rose up in her. ‘He thinks it’s better to be just us. Not to have too many friends.’

‘How many friends do you have?’

Cynthia’s chest was so very tight. It was hard to breathe some days, since Julian’s car crash. It came over her, this sensation of being crushed. Of needing to fight for breath. ‘Let’s leave it.’

‘Darling,’ said Hilary gently, crossing to Cynthia, ‘you need friends. You can’t let him control your life.’ She pulled Cynthia into a hug.

It had been so long since Cynthia had been held properly. She let the warmth of it settle, the scent of Hilary’s floral perfume mingled with something else, the smell of sickness perhaps, or age. She clung to her.

‘Right.’ Hilary let go and then pulled Cynthia down next to her on the couch. ‘Enough about him then. Tell me about this problem.’

Cynthia said, ‘Alfie isn’t Julian’s.’

‘But he and Julian look so similar.’ Hilary nodded at a photo of Julian as a child on Cynthia’s desk. ‘The resemblance …’

‘I can’t go into it, but let’s say I’ve got it from a good source. Still, Pat thinks he is, and he’s insistent on getting legal rights to see Alfie. He’s decided that if Emilia doesn’t allow us regular overnight visits, he’s going to bring proceedings in the Family Court.’

Hilary took a deep sip of her drink. ‘Can grandparents get access rights?’

‘Pat says there’s a precedent for it. Especially since Julian is no longer with us. He’s had legal advice from the best. He’s very well connected.’

‘Can’t you tell him the truth? That Julian isn’t Alf’s father?’

‘No! I mean, he … I couldn’t do that to Emilia.’

‘You couldn’t protect Alfie from that dickhead husband of yours by telling the truth?’

Cynthia sighed. She was now sorry she’d mentioned Pat’s affair. It only made Hilary more set against him. ‘Emilia won’t want me to say anything.’ Cynthia looked out the window to the distant chairlift. ‘And I love having Alfie in my life. He’s wonderful.’

Hilary poured more whisky into her mug. ‘You could spend time with Alfie either way, if you stay in Emilia’s good books. Not that you are at the moment since she heard about his secret visits.’ Hilary gave her a stern look before continuing. ‘But the real question is, which is the lesser of two evils? You telling a truth that Emilia might want kept secret, or Pat dragging Emilia through the courts and getting his mitts on Alfie? Is that what you’re trying to work out?’

Cynthia took the mug from Hilary’s hand and took a sip. Everything felt confused. ‘I can’t leave Pat,’ she said quietly. ‘Not if there’s a chance he gets partial custody of Alfie. If I’m here I can at least make sure Pat doesn’t try to make him into someone he’s not. To make him tougher. Like he did to Julian, forcing him into football and boxing and so on. And insisting the boys board at the grammar school when they were barely ten. That’s Alfie’s age.’

Julian had cried through their first dozen weekly phone calls and it had shredded Cynthia’s heart. It had been easier with the twins—they had each other. She felt the longing for her lost mothering days. For her baby boys.

‘Why are you asking me about all this? You know my first allegiance will be to Emilia—what’s best for her and Alf.’

Cynthia looked back at her dear, old friend. ‘I know. I just needed to talk to someone.’

‘Who’s the potential other father?’ asked Hilary, sitting up suddenly in her chair. ‘Alfie has a right to know his father, and his father to know him.’ She paused, then added. ‘If he’s not a dickhead. Dickheads should have no rights.’

Cynthia smiled.

‘Who is he?’

‘I can’t tell you who he is. Who I think he is. Not without Emilia’s permission.’

Hilary heaved a sigh. ‘Maybe we can leverage Pat’s affair. Tell him to drop the lawsuit, or I post details of his lover-boy shenanigans on the Beggars Rock Community Facebook page.’

‘No!’ Cynthia’s heart raced. ‘Whatever you do, do not do that!’

‘You’re no fun.’

Hilary thought for a moment. ‘All right, what say I confront him with our knowledge of the affair? Tell him to leave Alfie alone, or else. I have a vintage samurai sword I could bring along, to show him I mean business. I don’t know how to use it, but I could practise.’

Cynthia laughed. ‘Honestly, I’ve missed you.’

‘Me too,’ said Hilary. ‘You have no idea how much.’

‘What am I going to do?’

Hilary turned to her. In a plum, crisp voice, as if Cynthia were a schoolgirl in need of clear direction, she said, ‘You go and talk to Emilia. She’s the one who should be making these decisions. Don’t you agree?’

Cynthia remembered this about Hilary. Her bossiness; her need to direct when she had the upper hand in the morality stakes.

Then Hilary’s face softened. ‘Please. Just have a chat with her. No harm can come of that.’

‘I can’t.’ Cynthia sighed. ‘There’s something you don’t know.’ She got up to pour herself a glass of whisky. ‘Something I should have done and didn’t a long time ago. I let her down badly. And I’m so very ashamed.’

39

CYNTHIA

ALMOST ELEVEN YEARS AGO, JULY

There was nothing else for it. She would have to go down to Julian and Emilia’s cottage. Cynthia sat on the bench in the mudroom and put on her gumboots. The paddocks were soggy with the endless rain they’d been having and the thrumming on the roof had only added to her frustrations.

Why her daughter-in-law refused to confirm she would be coming to dinner tonight was beyond her. She knew Emilia had been depressed for a while, but she had seemed better lately. Every Tuesday night, when they ate together, she seemed to be improving: returning to life. But for some reason Emilia didn’t understand the importance of this dinner. Julian needed to impress the board of Taslife Agriculture, and partners (mostly wives, apart from Cynthia, a board member in her own right) were an integral part of the corporate schmoozing process.

On the other side of the house, Mrs Slip had set the formal dining-room table for sixteen. The caterers were coming in an hour and Cynthia needed to get to the dry cleaners to collect her dress. She really didn’t have time to hold up Emilia’s end of the bargain.

Pat had always known what was required whenever Cynthia had to attend these awful affairs. He knew how to put on a good show. He was the people person and at dinners he came into his own; the only parts she enjoyed were the spreadsheets and corporate strategising—she was more than aware of the benefits of having a partner like Pat to do the rest.

But Emilia was different. Such a sensitive soul. Not ready for all this, Cynthia supposed. She suspected Emilia had stopped seeing the psychologist. She got into the car and wondered how to tackle this. Perhaps she should speak to Penny so she could then have a mother–daughter chat with Emilia.

As she reached the bottom of the second paddock, the wheels of Cynthia’s four-wheel drive lost traction and she began to slide down the hill. She let the car have its way, corrected it at the bottom and accelerated precisely as she reached the edge of the mud. She must remind Julian to put down some gravel.

The cottage emerged through the rain. Its grey weatherboards blended perfectly against the slate of the ocean and the wide silver sky. This dinner couldn’t have been at a worse time. If the rain didn’t stop the Taslife group might get stuck at the flood-prone Beggars Rock intersection.

She squelched her way across the grass and knocked, then opened the door. ‘Emilia? It’s Cynthia.’ She brushed the damp off her hair and peered into the gloom.

She sighed, removed her gumboots and walked in. ‘Emilia?’ The living room was empty. She walked down the hall. The bedroom door was ajar, the bed unmade. The bathroom was deserted too. She bent to retrieve a damp, fallen towel and spread it along the rail. Back in the kitchen, she turned on the light to lift the gloom and flinched at the tower of dirty dishes and abandoned teacups. She lifted her head to the picture window and looked out. On the beach, a solitary figure was staring out past the horizon, rain pattering around her.

Cynthia grabbed her gumboots, pulled up her hood and hurried across the lawn.

‘Emilia?’ She stepped carefully across the dune grasses until she was a few metres away from her daughter-in-law. ‘Emilia?’ she said again, gently.

The girl turned and looked at her a little blankly. ‘Oh, sorry. Sorry. Didn’t hear you.’ Then her face froze, stricken at her own error, her forgetfulness, and she looked away.

It was too late. Cynthia had seen. She put out her hand and clasped Emilia’s arm and was rewarded with a wrenching pull as Emilia moved away, up the beach.

‘Emilia!’

The girl kept walking, even though the sand near the high tide mark was a narrowing strip and a frothy film of waves was racing towards them.

‘Emilia, please.’ Cynthia tried to run, but her feet were loose in the boots. She was losing ground until, unexpectedly, Emilia stopped and Cynthia covered the space between them.

‘What happened?’

‘I fell,’ said Emilia.

‘I see.’

‘Sorry, I can’t come to the dinner tonight.’

Cynthia turned the girl towards her. She regarded the bruising, the darkening cut across her lip. She reached out and brushed a wet clump of hair from Emilia’s face then tucked it behind her ear. The girl looked away and all Cynthia wanted to do was cry. She stared at the ocean; felt the force of the waves crashing down. Gently, she took Emilia’s arm. ‘We need to get you out of these wet clothes,’ she said. ‘Come on, now.’

In the house she sent Emilia to the bathroom. ‘A hot shower is what you need. I’ll bring some pyjamas.’

She looked around in her son and daughter-in-law’s bedroom. It smelled sour, of dirty sheets and unopened windows. She rifled through the drawers until she found something that looked like pyjamas. At the bathroom door she knocked. ‘I’ve left a fresh towel and clothes out here.’

The sound of the shower running was all she could hear. She went back to the bedroom and opened the windows. She stripped the sheets, found a fresh set in the linen press and made the bed. She gathered dirty clothes and moved shoes to the cupboard. She put on a load of washing then started on the dishes, trying to ignore the knot of fear and anger that was unravelling inside her. She understood now; she had failed. She stopped, one hand around a bowl, the other with a cloth beneath the suds. A wave of impotence pinned her there until noise from the bedroom jolted her. Emilia was under the doona, wet hair soaking the pillow, facing away from Cynthia.

‘Would you like something to eat?’

‘No. Thanks.’

‘Right.’ She hovered at the end of the bed. ‘I’ll say you have the flu. There’s a nasty one going around.’

Cynthia made some herbal tea, hoping Julian wouldn’t walk in. She placed the tea on Emilia’s bedside table with some paracetamol and water. What else could she do? ‘I’ll bring you some groceries tomorrow,’ she said. ‘You rest now.’

Cynthia wished she could crawl into the bed and disappear too. She adjusted the doona, waited until she thought Emilia was sleeping.

As she drove back to Sommersby House she thought how her best efforts at mothering, her efforts to shield her boys from the world’s crudity and cruelty hadn’t been enough. A wave of unease gripped her as she remembered the night ahead. She must find an alternative dress, offer the finest champagne and interesting conversation. She must help her damaged son to shine.

40

CYNTHIA

NOW

The car climbed the driveway, a slow silver bullet between the trees as Cynthia prepared herself.

Emilia parked by the rose beds and climbed out. She looked around slowly, taking in the front garden.

‘Hello, Emilia,’ said Cynthia, noticing how thin she was. And as she approached, Cynthia was caught off guard by the hint of Alfie in her fine features.

‘Hi.’

‘Thank you for coming.’

‘Happy birthday,’ said Emilia, looking behind Cynthia’s shoulder towards the house.

Emilia had been told Pat wouldn’t be here, but she seemed nervous. The same taut nervousness she’d always had. It felt so familiar and Cynthia was struck with a wave of sadness.

‘You remembered my birthday?’

‘Of course.’

‘Thank you.’ Cynthia smiled. ‘Will we sit in the garden? It’s such a lovely day.’

‘Wherever you like.’

Cynthia gestured to the summerhouse and they began to walk. ‘I wanted to apologise,’ said Cynthia. ‘About having Alfie here when you didn’t know. It was wrong of me not to double-check you’d given permission.’

‘Yes. It was.’

‘And …’ Cynthia was wrong-footed now. Emilia had always been so obliging. So keen to please. In the past she would have reassured Cynthia. ‘I wanted to say, what a wonderful boy you’ve raised. And on your own. It must have been difficult.’

In the silence that followed, Cynthia felt graceless somehow, bumbling, as she did sometimes in social situations where she hadn’t met the people before. There was still no reply, so, awkwardly, she lurched at the issue Emilia was waiting for. ‘Pat is seeking access rights. He believes Alfie is Julian’s.’

Emilia made a short, unhappy sound and then said tiredly, ‘I’m sorry about Julian.’

Cynthia tried to convey her gratitude for the comment with a small smile, but Emilia appeared far away. They had stopped by a large elm tree, where the view of the ocean was vast. It was the only place that could hold the weight of all that had happened. And she supposed Emilia could feel its comfort too. They stared in silence and after a time Cynthia tried again. ‘Pat wants Alfie in our lives.’

‘Pat’s not getting near him.’

Cynthia cocked her head. What did the girl believe about Pat? Had Julian spoken badly about his father? Pat had adored Julian; he’d always boasted to people about his youngest son—raved about his sporting prowess, his academic and business accomplishments. But in private, Pat might have been either loving to him, or cool and removed—it depended on whether Julian had met expectations. Pat rarely bothered with the twins; he saw nothing of himself when he looked at them, but Julian was his mirror.

‘There’s something I want to ask you, Emilia. I’m not meaning to judge, but to work out how we should all proceed.’

Just as Cynthia was formulating her precise words another engine roared up the driveway, and Emilia looked towards the front of the house.

‘Don’t worry. It won’t be anything.’

‘It might be a birthday delivery you need to sign for,’ said Emilia, wearily. ‘Don’t let me stop you.’

Cynthia wanted to object, to say, ‘Nobody sends me gifts, ignore it,’ but it felt churlish, so she said, ‘Let me just see who it is. I won’t be a moment.’

‘Happy birthday, Mum.’ Noah lifted something wrapped in a tea towel from the passenger seat of his ute and brought it to her.

He was dishevelled, even more than usual, and as he proffered the bundle to Cynthia she noted, with some amusement, that it was a cake, still in the tin he’d baked it in. It was warm to the touch.

‘Thank you, Noah.’

She looked back over her shoulder. ‘I was …’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t stop, and we can’t come for dinner tonight,’ Noah cut in. ‘I’ve got this meeting about the conservation order the government’s debating next week. I’ve got to put in a submission.’

‘Of course,’ said Cynthia. ‘No problem.’

‘And I know Dad wouldn’t have organised a cake.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out a jar. ‘Here’s the frosting. It was too hot to ice it, sorry. I got the timing wrong and I’ve promised to help a guy tag some fish in the traps in the Mersey River at eleven. I can’t be late.’ He looked around, distractedly, as if he might already be late and the fish data might vanish into thin air.

‘Thank you, darling,’ she said, but Noah was looking past her.

‘Hello, Noah.’ Emilia was smiling.

‘Hello.’ Noah’s eyes scanned the garden. With his wild hair and unshaven stubble, he was something between a mad professor and a rangy, blue-eyed Steve Irwin. ‘Where’s your son?’

‘With Mum.’

‘Was he okay, the other day? I was worried when he ran off.’

‘He’s fine. Thanks.’

Noah shoved his hands into his pockets. ‘It’d be good to meet him again.’ He searched Emilia’s face. ‘He seemed like a good kid.’

Emilia nodded but didn’t speak.

Noah said, ‘I have to go.’ He bent down, all six foot four of him, and hugged Cynthia. ‘Happy birthday, Mum.’

As he sped off down the hill, Cynthia’s heart was thudding. She placed the cake and jar of icing onto a small garden table. ‘Has Noah heard much about Alfie?’

‘Nothing. He met him for a minute the other day, in the street, that’s all.’

Cynthia took a breath, knowing she might only have this one chance. ‘If Alfie were to have the possibility of someone who could be a father figure for him, it would be a shame to keep the truth from him.’

Emilia glared, but Cynthia hurried on, sensing time was short. ‘Especially if the man in question was such a good man. A man who would only have his best interests at heart.’

Emilia searched Cynthia’s face.

‘I would support you,’ said Cynthia. ‘I would do anything you needed me to. I’d be on your side.’

‘What do you mean?’ Emilia put her palm to her forehead and rubbed, a peculiarly childish mannerism. ‘You need to stay out of it.’

‘Things were complicated back then. Difficult. I wasn’t thinking straight after Ned died.’

‘I have to go.’

‘Thank you for coming.’ Cynthia followed her past the dahlia beds. ‘And please think about it. Patrick won’t stop, you know, unless he knows the truth. He’ll start court proceedings for access to Alfie. Is that what you want?’

‘Who are you to give me advice?’ Emilia frowned, incredulous. ‘You couldn’t understand what I was living through. I won’t be judged for what I did back then.’

‘My dear,’ Cynthia reached out and touched Emilia’s arm, ‘I know exactly what you were living through. And I’m so sorry.’

Emilia opened her car door, but Cynthia hurried on. ‘I know that when you’re first in love, it’s easy to forget that you matter too. The making excuses … it becomes … ingrained. You think they’ll change. But I know now, they never change.’

Emilia turned and there was such venom in her eyes that Cynthia stepped backwards. ‘I believe you, Cynthia,’ she hissed. ‘So why did you let it go on when you knew? Why didn’t you do more to help me after what he did to me? To my baby?’ She looked around at the house then, and all around the garden. Then her eyes landed back on Cynthia. ‘Why are you even still here?’

41

CYNTHIA

ALMOST ELEVEN YEARS AGO, AUGUST

They had spent the day with Pat’s Rotary Club cronies and their wives, and Cynthia had felt it had been too much. Too much alcohol. Too much talk and effort. And now this.

She’d always told herself she’d been lucky to have boys. To be free of the expectation of raising girls safely, into sensible women. But perhaps she’d been wrong. With girls she might have talked about things. She might have helped them understand there are boundaries never to be crossed; loyalties that cannot be broken, no matter the circumstance.

The wine was making her head hum; her thoughts whisper like ghosts. She wasn’t sure what made her get out the torch and walk towards the cliff. Perhaps it was mother’s intuition. Perhaps a knowledge that her child needed her, and the edge of the rocky, windy promontory on which the house was perched had always been Ned’s place.

When Emilia had called looking for Ned—crying, saying he had fought with Julian, that she was worried about the state he was in—Cynthia understood that things had changed. Emilia must know she suspected their affair, but it was as if she didn’t care anymore, and if that were the case, the situation was dire. Who knew what Julian would do? But one thing was certain: he would expect loyalty from his parents if the affair was out; he’d demand outrage. He’d always been the favoured cherub. They had all been guilty of creating Julian. Herself, Patrick certainly, even the twins had doted on him as boys. The school community, the whole town had participated in the making of their breathtaking, brutal little narcissist.

Cynthia had felt the torment in Emilia’s voice right down the phone line, although she had barely said a word in return, lest Pat overhear. Ned had always loved the girl, ever since they were teenagers. To a mother, the longing in his eyes had been hard to ignore, but he must have stepped over the boundary now, and she was afraid this was the end of the brittle egg that had been their family life. The end of the simmering resentment glossed over with booze and family bonhomie and feigned harmony. If it was cracked open, there could be no way back.

An hour had passed after the phone call, and she’d folded the washing, sorted something for Pat’s dinner then, unable to quell her angst, she had phoned Noah. He’d sounded distracted. Said he’d found Ned at Tilly’s Beach warming himself by a fire. She’d driven to the beach. No fire. No Ned.

Pat hadn’t seen him, and she didn’t explain why she was looking. Then, finally, she’d thought of the cliff. She stopped at the gate next to the little brick gatehouse and unlatched it. The evening was perfect; cold and clear now the wind had died down. The moon so round, so large and light and perfect it felt like a movie set. She swatted away overgrown bushes and headed towards the cleared part of the point. ‘Ned?’ She cupped her hands to her mouth. ‘Ned!’

She walked closer to the cliff face, between the spiky lomandra and the dune grasses, pondering, as she always did, the movements of the tide. ‘Neddy?’ Ahead of her in the shadowy darkness, a person was standing at the edge, bent at the waist, hands on knees. ‘Ned?’ She hurried across the sand and the figure morphed into her middle son. Only twenty-three minutes Noah’s junior, but always the middle babe in her heart. She stopped. He was too close to the edge, a steep drop into the ocean below.

‘Ned, are you all right?’

She sank to her haunches at his side. ‘Darling?’

He looked at her, hair a tangle, his face smeared with grief.

‘Emilia called me. She was worried about you,’ Cynthia said, her hand on his arm.

‘She can’t stay there with him. She needs to be with me. He treats her like dirt.’

She wanted to say, ‘Neddy, darling, it will be all right,’ as she would have when he was small. But no words would come.

‘What can I do?’ he looked at her, hollowed out with fear and heartbreak.

‘There’s nothing you can do. She has to do it.’

‘She won’t. She’s scared of him.’

‘You can’t do anything, Ned. She’s an adult; they’re married. You need to stay away.’

He looked out at the ocean. ‘I can’t do this anymore.’

Anger flared in Cynthia, raw and hot. ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

He slumped to the ground, head to his bent-up knees, and began to cry. Cynthia put her arm across his long, lean back, soothing him in firm circular strokes. ‘You’ll find someone else.’

‘He’s trapped her!’ Ned shuddered beneath her palm. She smelled whisky or some other alcohol.

Cynthia was afraid. Ned had returned from Ireland changed; his moods erratic and often bleak. She’d wondered if he needed some sort of help or counselling. He was a grown man, though, so it didn’t seem her place to suggest it.

‘You’ll feel better tomorrow.’ Cynthia rubbed smaller circles on his back. ‘You’re tired and it’s been a shock.’ He shrugged his shoulder as if to rid himself of her touch. Cynthia coaxed. ‘Come on, Ned. I’ll make you a warm drink. Let’s get you into your old bed. You’re tired, darling. Please.’

Eventually he let her pull him up. She grasped his arm and led him back towards the house. Light twinkled from the windows and a shiver ran through Cynthia. For a fractured moment it felt like a malevolent lighthouse; a false beckoning. A warning sign into the blackness of the ocean. She wished she could love the house as Patrick did, but the only good part of the house was her sons. Tonight, one of them would be under her roof again and she would find comfort in it. She must invent a story for Pat, so it didn’t seem strange that Ned was there.

‘Stay the night,’ she said.

‘No. I just need to think.’

Cynthia would persuade him. She’d sit with him. Tomorrow he would be okay. She knew from long experience that a new day always brought the promise of something better.

42

ALFIE

NOW

Hilary opens the door and looks at me as if I’m an interesting insect specimen. ‘Come in,’ she says.

Mum is on the step behind me, her hands on my shoulders. ‘I should be finished by four and back by five. Thanks, Aunty Hil. You’re a star.’ Then Mum says, ‘Be good, Alf. And don’t ask Hilary to buy you lollies. Your teeth will rot.’

‘Unlikely in the space of one day,’ I say.

‘Touché,’ says Hilary, and makes one of her eyebrows go up like it’s hooked on a fishing line. We wave goodbye to Mum.

‘Well,’ says Hilary, as she picks up some pill packets on the bench.

I wait to see what else she is about to say, but maybe she’s forgotten the rest of the sentence.

‘Well, what?’

‘Well, what are we going to do today, young Alfred?’

‘I have several suggestions. But I would like a hot chocolate first, if that’s available.’

She raises one eyebrow again and it looks like she has coloured it in because a brown smudge is over the edge and the other eyebrow looks darker. ‘No chocolate here. We can go to The Little Fat Cat. Would you like that?’

‘Yes, please,’ I say and give her my best smile and she does the eyebrow thing again but she kind of squeezes her lips up too, so I’m pretty sure I’m winning her over.

‘I’ll just finish putting my face on. Give me five minutes.’ She goes upstairs and I head to the fridge, wondering what part of her face she still needs to put on. Inside are two bottles of pink tonic water and some disgusting-looking cheese with mouldy blue lines in it. There is a mini bottle of milk too, which I feel like drinking, but it might be all she has for her cups of tea, and Mum says if you drink the last slurp of milk that was allocated for a woman’s cup of tea she might conceivably lose her mind, depending on what sort of day she’s having. I’m not sure about Hilary’s day so far, but I think about the wobbly smudge on her eyebrow and close the fridge door.

‘Right.’ Hilary reappears in a red beret with a bright green swirly patterned scarf around her neck that’s the same colour as the stuff you throw up when you run out of food to throw up and your stomach is scraping the bottom of the barrel.

‘Nice scarf,’ I say.

‘Thank you. I got it at the Red Cross shop in Hobart. Two dollars.’

‘Excellent value for money.’

‘You and I are going to be soulmates, Alfred.’

Outside Hilary stops and looks at the sky. ‘Do you think we’ll need a brolly?’

‘Nimbostratus,’ I say. ‘I predict rain.’

She goes back inside and returns with a stripy umbrella. ‘We can share it. Best to be safe. These hot pants get a bit see-through when they’re wet.’

She pats herself twice on the bottom.

‘They are very unusual pants,’ I say.

‘Flaming hot, baby!’ She laughs as if she told a funny joke.

At The Little Fat Cat, Hilary orders us takeaway. She gets a double-strength latte and I get a large hot chocolate with a marshmallow. The man goes to put the plastic lid on but I shake my head. ‘There are more than five thousand coffee cups disposed of every minute in Australia. It’s very bad for the environment.’

‘The lids are recyclable,’ he says.

‘The local council’s recycling program isn’t very good. I’ve been researching it. It’s bad enough we’re consuming these non-recyclable cups.’

‘Shit,’ says Hilary. ‘Bad parenting by me. We should have had them here.’

‘Or brought keep cups,’ I say. ‘But we can sit down for the next one.’

We walk onto the street. Hilary asks, ‘Where to now?’

I take a deep breath. ‘Let’s go that way. It might be nice to look at the graves in the cemetery. For the history.’ To my surprise, Hilary nods, as if this is an excellent idea. This is why I like her.

In the cemetery, we sit on the wooden bench and look at the ocean while we drink. After a while I walk around to look at the fading inscriptions on the old stones. All the headstones are turned to the ocean, so it’s a bit like they’re passengers on a bus, driving forward. Lots of them are hard to read, they’re black from algae or almost worn away. I do a reconnaissance of the western corner looking for a new grave with my father’s name on it. I hear Hilary call me. ‘Come and look at this one.’ When I reach her, she points at two blackened headstones next to each other, one with two names on it. ‘It looks like a grandfather, father and son all called Alfred.’

They are from 1836–1896, 1859–1888 and 1884–1888. The middle Alfred died a month after the third one, who was only four. Clearly neither of them had the staying power of Alfred Number One.

‘I wonder if Alfred Two died of a broken heart,’ says Hilary. ‘If the younger one was his son.’

‘I doubt that’s medically feasible,’ I say. ‘There’s a baby over there who died on the same day as her two-year-old brother in 1894.’

‘Mmm,’ she says. ‘Wonder what they died from.’

‘Might have been cholera, or yellow fever or pneumonia,’ I say. ‘They were the most common childhood illnesses causing death in the late nineteenth century.’

‘Morbid little guy, aren’t you,’ says Hilary, like it’s an actual solemn truth. She looks at me the way people sometimes do—a mixture of annoyed and confused and impressed; as if she wants to be scratching her head about the unlikelihood of me knowing about historical fatal diseases. Which is weird because they even cover that stuff on Horrible Histories on TV. It’s not rocket science.

I shrug. ‘I like history.’

‘Maybe it was an accident in a horse and cart,’ she says, after a while. ‘If they died the same day.’

‘That would make sense,’ I agree. ‘Or a house fire.’

Hilary sips her coffee and says, ‘Sit with me and tell me your favourite bit of history. I’m feeling a bit peaky today.’

I want to keep searching for my father’s grave, but I do as she asks, because I have been taught to respect the elderly, plus she doesn’t look like she’s in peak health. ‘Okay, I say. Do you want to hear about the Great Fire of London?’

‘Absolutely. What’s the most interesting fact you know?’

I stare out at the ocean and sift through all the very interesting facts about the fire. ‘It started accidentally in September 1666, in a bakery on Pudding Lane, but everyone wanted to blame someone so they found this French guy called Robert Hubert and he admitted to arson because they tortured him. So then they hanged him.’

‘Oh,’ says Hilary.

‘Yeah. He didn’t speak much English either, so he probably didn’t understand the charges. It was a beat-up.’ Hilary’s perfume is strong and smells like lavender. Her coffee cup tips in her hand and begins to drip then the whole cup tips forward and lands on the grass, splashing my ankles. The coffee is cool by now, but Hilary has slumped forward and her face has gone a weird colour between white and grey except for her orange lips. She wheezes something I don’t understand.

‘Hilary? Are you okay?’ I jump up and stand in front of her, but her head is bent over now. She slides down on the seat and then falls forward. I grab her and push her back, so she falls sideways on the bench and then she seems like she’s asleep, and something rushes through me that’s thick and fast and jittery.

‘Hilary?’ I shake her shoulder, but she’s non-responsive and her mouth falls open. ‘Hilary!’

43

ALFIE

NOW

‘I’m not afraid of death,’ I say.

‘Of course not, dear,’ says Granny Pen. ‘And I’m sure Hilary won’t die. I imagine she’ll come out of hospital and live a few more years yet. But what a shock for you. You were very brave.’

‘I only got help. That’s not brave.’ We are on Granny Pen’s back patio, looking across the grass to the sheds. I feel alone even though Granny Pen is trying to force me into a boring conversation. Feeling alone is not the worst. I’m used to it.

‘Well, I think it’s brave,’ says Granny Pen.

‘Will you miss Hilary when she dies?’

Granny Pen doesn’t say anything but when I look up, she has watery eyes.

‘Yes, I would miss her very much,’ she says. ‘She’s my big sister. There’s nothing in the world as special as a big sister.’

‘Only if the big sister is a nice person.’ I don’t get any pleasure in pointing out the flaw in Granny Pen’s statement, given how sad she seems, but it’s hard to let an overstatement like that slide by. For example, my observation of Meg in my class in Ireland was that her big sister Clodagh was a horrible sadist. She did heaps of mean things to Meg. Once she took a photo of Meg’s bum and showed it to her whole class on her mum’s iPad. She would have been hard for a younger sister to love, in my opinion.

‘Yes,’ says Granny Pen. ‘Hilary’s a good one.’

‘She’s honest too,’ I say. ‘Everyone else lies to me, but Hilary doesn’t.’

‘Oh, Alfie, that’s not true.’

‘That’s also a lie.’ I look Granny Pen right in the eyes, and she looks down.

‘Why do you say that, Alf?’

‘Something doesn’t add up about Hilary. You’re not telling me things.’

Granny Pen purses her lips then blows out a breath. ‘Hilary has breast cancer. They aren’t sure she’ll recover from this latest setback.’ She stares out at the sheep that have wandered around the corner of the shed and are nibbling the grass.

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Has it metastasised?’

She frowns. ‘Yes.’

‘Not good,’ I say. ‘Father McGinty who ran our school church had lung cancer and it metastasised right through him. He dropped dead in the clergy-house toilet, and they had to cut the door off to get his body out.’

‘Oh, dear.’

‘Mum’s friend Aoife said he was found there with a bottle of altar wine. She said he drank it to take the edge off, because alcohol is a painkiller. She knows heaps about church because she goes every week and also because she’s a florist and gives them a discount on the altar bunches.’

‘Did you go to church in Ireland?’

‘No. Mum doesn’t believe in God. She says it’s difficult to see the evidence for it.’ I kick the mouldy bricks until there is a bright orange patch in the shape of a crescent moon. ‘I’m probably going to be a Buddhist.’

‘Really?’

‘I’m not afraid of death because in Buddhism you’re reborn. You shouldn’t worry about Hilary. She’s a nice person. I’m sure she’s got lots of good karma around her, so she’s probably going to be reborn into a positive realm when she dies.’

‘Oh, Alfie.’ Granny Pen sounds croaky, which is likely because she feels emotional about her sister. She moves to the huge brick fireplace at the edge of the patio, which we sometimes sit around at night-time. There is a stack of wood underneath one side which has a bench at the top, and a pottery urn glazed with lots of bright colours. She lifts the lid on the pottery urn. From inside it she takes out a clay piece which is flat, like a piece of toast. She reads from it. ‘“To love is to see yourself in another, and to be seen right back.” Aunty Hilary made this for me. It’s very precious. I see myself in you, Alfie. Except I’m not as brave as you.’

‘You choose how you are,’ I say. Suddenly I can’t stand it. Why do people think things have to stay the same, when it’s obvious they don’t need to? If you want to change and be braver, you have to take the bull by the horns. ‘I’m going for a walk. I need to think.’ I feel everything shooting up inside me, like boiling lava. Nobody in the world understands a single thing that matters to me. Nobody sees anything the way it really is, and most of the time I feel like no one is listening and I’m the only one who knows what’s going on. There is a whole world of lies and loneliness and I’m in the middle of it. I’m used to it, but that doesn’t mean I can’t try to change it. I really want to have a brother or sister, or someone to hang around with and talk to about important things: for someone to see me and for me to see myself in them right back, just like the clay toast thing says. All I want is a friend, and I don’t think that’s asking for too much in the scheme of things.

I push down the barbed wire of the fence and step through. I start walking across the paddock and don’t even look where the sheep poo is. I don’t stop when I hear my name. I keep walking and the paddocks disappear and the only thing in front of me is the grey of the new night-time sky.

44

CYNTHIA

NOW

‘Our grandson is extraordinary,’ said Patrick. ‘Truly extraordinary!’ He was shaking his head as he poured a whisky at the kitchen bench.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Cynthia.

‘He ran into the surgery today when someone he was with collapsed. Used the term “vasovagal episode” completely accurately. I asked him afterwards what he’d meant. He knew it exactly.’ Patrick took a deep sip of his drink.

‘Who was it?’ asked Cynthia, sharply. ‘Penny? Emilia?’

‘No,’ said Patrick. ‘And you know I can’t tell you.’

‘Patrick! Who was it? Was it Hilary? It wasn’t Hilary, was it?’

Patrick stared at her, a tightening around his jaw. Cynthia realised her mistake.

‘I … spotted her in town. Is she all right? What happened?’

‘She’s in hospital. And don’t ask me anymore.’ He picked up the remote control.

Cynthia’s hands gripped the kitchen bench. The timer went off to signal the broccoli was done. She needed to serve dinner, but she had to see if Hilary was all right.

She went to her study, hoping Patrick wouldn’t notice. She dialled Hilary’s mobile twice, both times it went to voicemail. She dialled Penny.

‘Yes, hello?’

‘Oh, Penny, it’s Cynthia. I’m so sorry to bother you at dinner time, but I heard Hilary had been feeling unwell and wanted to check she was all right.’

There was silence.

Cynthia blurted, ‘I mean, it’s only that she’s not answering her phone.’

‘She’s in Burnie hospital. She’s very ill. They told me she has cancer and it’s spread.’

Cynthia sank into her office chair. ‘That’s awful. I … well, give her my love. Perhaps I’ll visit tomorrow.’

‘She looks terrible,’ said Penny, her voice thick. ‘They don’t know if she’s going to come out.’

Cynthia’s hands began to shake. ‘I’m so sorry. I have to go.’ She hung up and stared at the wall. She heard her name being called, twice, three times. Footsteps.

‘What are you doing? It’s dinner time,’ said Patrick.

She stared at him, but there was nothing. No feeling.

After a silent beat, then another, he turned. ‘I guess I’ll serve up then.’

They ate in silence. Cynthia knew this was punishment. He cut his chicken carefully, adding the broccoli, dipping it in gravy. He chewed meticulously, then took a sip of his wine. She could feel the anger emanating from him, through his pores. He’s still handsome, she thought vaguely. She wondered when it had worn off: the surprise at his looks, the genuine love and attraction she’d felt for him. It had taken some time.

She had doted on Patrick for the first few busy years of their marriage; he run ragged by constant, gruelling shifts as a hospital intern, she a keen young lawyer. When the boys had arrived, she had still cared for him, for the father he was, though the affairs had started by then. She supposed she had still felt a taut band of conflicted hope tethering them right up until that awful day; the day he made her promise to be silent about what Julian had done. They had found their son sobbing, incoherent in the hospital carpark late at night, as Emilia was recovering from an emergency caesarean. I didn’t mean to do it, he told them. He was so, so sorry. If only the baby would be all right, he’d never hurt her again. It was just that Emilia had said such terrible things. Made him so angry that he couldn’t help it.

That was the day that Cynthia had seen her husband properly. The day their son showed himself to be the worst version of his father. Twelve years ago. It had taken quite a while, then, as it turned out.

Now, she said, ‘What if Alfie turns out not to be Julian’s?’

Patrick paused, his knife deep in the chicken breast, but he didn’t look up. She had the urge to push—she knew what was coming and she wanted it. She wanted to hurt him before he hurt her. ‘If Emilia was seeing someone else back then? What then? Could we still have Alfie in our lives?’ She wanted this clarity. This confirmation that Patrick was what she knew him to be: obsessed by his lineage, immoveable, proud. She wanted him to say it out loud, so he could hear himself. Fear was humming through her jaw, clenching at her throat. ‘She was seeing a lot of the twins back then. You couldn’t blame her if she strayed; she was depressed.’

The slam was hard and shocking, palm on timber, plates rattling. ‘Stop!’ he roared.

There you are, she thought.

He pushed his chair back and it fell, as did her napkin. She bent to retrieve it and her head was reefed backwards as he grabbed her hair. ‘Stop it, you silly bitch!’ She fell, her spine cracking as her bottom hit the floor and he yanked again. Then he stormed from the room. Cynthia was still; wrapped in a cocoon of pain and adrenalin. Every part of her alert and, at the same time, switched off. After an age she opened her eyes, untensed her shoulders, took some air into her lungs. Why did she push for that? Why couldn’t she just get on with things? She tried to get up, then gasped as pain shot down her leg. She tipped to her side and onto her knees, pulled herself onto a dining chair. She looked at the abandoned dinner plates, tried to summon the energy to clear the table, but didn’t have it.

She made her way through to her office, poured a triple nip of whisky and drank it straight. She locked the door then eased herself onto the couch and lay beneath the mohair throw, waiting for sleep. She thought about Hilary and, as her mind began to float, she wondered whether there was some ruinous force inside her too. Some malignant growth that would take her out of this world with her friend, and she and Hilary could go somewhere lovely together in the afterlife. A cottage perhaps, with a library, and two comfortable armchairs, and a selection of tea. Her sacrum throbbed; her head throbbed. She felt sleep coming and wished it would hurry. She wished this damned centenary party would be over so there were no obligations to keep her here. Noah would be in England soon, and she hated this house, with its ghosts and its dark history, glossed over by her husband in his quest to be part of its grand colonial story.

The face of the boy slipped across her mind. Sparkling eyes, sweet freckled nose, lips moving constantly with questions. Perhaps he wasn’t hers to love, no matter how much she might have wished it. And anyway, she didn’t deserve him. Two of her boys were gone now. What was to stop a third being stolen if he remained in her orbit? She wasn’t good for anyone. She’d been a terrible mother. No doubt she’d make a terrible grandmother too. She couldn’t have another death on her conscience. What if the next one was Alfie?

45

PENNY

NOW

Penny tossed the food scraps into the pen and rinsed the bucket. ‘Morning, ladies,’ she said as the chickens darted across the dirt to the pile of bread crusts and dinner scrapings and crushed eggshells. She listened to their throaty cooing and clucking as they pecked and squabbled. Into the scrap bucket she placed four warm brown eggs from the laying box and headed back to the kitchen. ‘Morning, Em. Couldn’t you sleep?’

‘Not well.’ Emilia was absently dunking a teabag up and down in her mug.

Penny had heard her footsteps in the hallway at three am as she lay worrying about Hilary in the hospital.

‘What’s on your mind?’

‘I went to see Cynthia.’

Penny tensed, although she was unsure why. Perhaps it was the reminder of Pat’s legal challenge. Although Cynthia always put her on edge, even if Penny now realised at least some of Cynthia’s aloofness was a protective shell she’d had to grow after all she’d suffered.

‘Oh?’

When Emilia didn’t elaborate, Penny said, ‘I hope Alfie slept all right. He seemed so upset last night. Hilary collapsing must have been an awful shock.’

Emilia trudged past her and got the milk from the fridge. ‘Want some in your tea?’

‘Yes, thanks.’

‘I haven’t slept.’ There was a hollow quality to Emilia’s voice. A wavering threat of tears. ‘Harper’s starting to get fed up with me. She says I need to be straight with Alf.’ Emilia heaved a sigh. ‘She’s right. I need to tell him who his father is. I’m pretty certain it’s not Julian. He’s only an outside chance at best. I was seeing someone else.’

‘Oh,’ breathed Penny. Her mind hummed. Her fear, her gnawing concerns about his parentage were founded then. And it seemed Emilia had fabricated the story of the random, drunken one-night stands to put Penny off the scent. A new person was about to arrive in their lives.

‘I need to talk to someone.’

‘Who? The man? I mean Alf’s father,’ stammered Penny.

‘It’s complicated. I just need to talk to someone about Alf before I tell him anything.’

‘Who to?’ Alfie was in the hallway, rubbing his eyes. In his soft blue flannelette pyjamas with his sandy hair standing up on one side and his narrow, bare feet pale against the floorboards, he looked like a delicate angel.

Emilia was half out of her seat. ‘Alf?’

‘Who are you going to talk to about me?’

She sank back into her chair. ‘A man.’

Alfie frowned. ‘What do you mean?’ he said, as if he were a small confused child. A regular boy, who didn’t know half the dictionary and every second fact on the internet.

‘Can you come and sit here, darling?’ Emilia patted the chair beside her.

Alfie sat across the table.

Emilia said, ‘I need to tell you some things.’

Penny hadn’t yet lit the fire, and Alfie looked hunched, as if the night-time chill had frozen him. She draped a blanket from the arm of the couch around his shoulders and wondered if she should leave; if this was private between mother and child. But she decided this was not a moment to be generous. It was her child here too, in pain, and she might be needed. The thought was unwieldy, and it caught in her chest as she perched on the edge of the couch, watching and waiting, not daring to breathe too loudly lest she interrupt her daughter’s delicate reckoning with the past.

‘I was in an unhappy marriage when I became pregnant with you, Alfie. Julian and I had been married a few years, and at first we were happy, but things didn’t work out after a while.’

Alfie pulled the blanket around his shoulders.

‘I had another baby before you were born. But something happened to him. I was six months pregnant and … he didn’t make it. He was stillborn.’

‘He died inside your uterus?’ asked Alfie, with a curious precision.

‘Yes.’ Penny heard the catch in Emilia’s voice. Perhaps sharing this news with her nine-year-old son might be too much of a burden. Children didn’t need to hear these things, but maybe it was time this truth was exposed to the light.

‘It’s something I don’t like to talk about,’ continued Emilia, ‘but I want to tell you the truth, as much as I can. I was angry and very sad after that, and Julian and I were both unhappy. We stopped being nice to each other. We fought a lot. Sometimes grief can make people mean.’

Alfie watched his mother with his wise, questioning eyes, as if he knew it wasn’t his turn to speak yet. But inside that angelic head, Penny knew he was lining up a raft of questions.

‘I don’t want to be horrible about Julian because he isn’t here to defend himself, but he wasn’t very kind to me after our baby died, and I stopped loving him. But we stayed living together. We were both grieving for your little brother, William.’ She whispered the name and then paused. ‘There was a person back then who was kind to me, and he cared a lot about me. I needed a friend, and we were such good friends, but I ended up thinking I was in love with him. We were … well.’ Emilia took a deep breath. ‘I was confused and grieving and scared that Julian would find out about him. So I left Tasmania and, later, I discovered I’d fallen pregnant again, with you.’

‘From Julian?’

Emilia cleared her throat. ‘I don’t think so, Alf. But I can’t be one hundred per cent sure who your father is.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I think I know, but I can’t be sure.’

‘You mean I could have been created from sexual intercourse with the other man?’ asked Alfie, considering her earnestly. ‘But also maybe from Julian?’

‘Well …’ said Emilia.

‘Is this appropriate, dear?’ muttered Penny.

‘Anyway, I didn’t know what to do,’ Emilia hurried on. ‘I wanted to leave Julian and maybe even be with this man, but there were many reasons why that couldn’t happen. I was unsure about what to do, how I could get away from Julian.’

‘Why couldn’t you come and stay with Granny Penny? The spare room is big enough.’

Emilia lifted her head to look at him. ‘Once before that, I did come to see Granny Penny. I told her I couldn’t stay with Julian. That I needed to leave him, and I needed help.’

Alfie nodded.

‘But I didn’t tell her how bad things were, and even though she loved me, she also loved Julian, and she thought I should stay; that I hadn’t given the marriage enough of a chance to work out. She worried that my grief from losing William was making me confused. So when I found out I was pregnant with you, I thought if I told her the truth, she’d be angry with me. Which was silly, I know.’ Emilia dipped her chin. ‘I should have been honest with her. But I was afraid and very ashamed. And I didn’t give her the chance to help me properly.’

Penny felt her heart thumping. Her own failings rattling in her chest. Why had she been so dogged? She had known Emilia was depressed. Properly depressed. But she had been so certain that, with the right medication and counselling, Emilia and Julian would be able to mend their marital fences. Although, she conceded quietly to her own conscience, when Emilia had asked her for money to leave Julian, she had been in debt from extending her overdraft to build the milking shed. She’d had nothing to spare. Had that stopped her from helping her daughter? She’d also been confused that Emilia didn’t have access to funds, despite the luxurious lifestyle she and Julian enjoyed. Perhaps her own fears that if Emilia ran away, she would end up living a life of financial struggle had clouded her judgement. Penny understood the gruelling reality of being poor. But surely that couldn’t have been it?

‘Anyway,’ said Emilia, ‘a few weeks later, I left town. Left Tasmania.’

‘I suppose you didn’t want Julian to find out your stomach was getting bigger because then you might have to tell him the truth about having illegal sexual intercourse with the other guy.’

‘I guess,’ said Emilia tiredly. ‘Although it wasn’t illegal.’

‘I thought when you got married you signed a contract,’ said Alfie. ‘If you don’t do the contract properly, isn’t it illegal?’

‘It’s not that type of contract.’ Emilia gave a wistful smile.

‘So, you ran away when I was a tiny embryo?’

‘Yes. And you are the best thing that ever happened to me.’ She reached across the table and took his hand. ‘You’re my absolute joy, Alf. I don’t regret anything about having you.’

Alfie looked out the window. The sun was now throwing rays across the dining-room table.

‘So, who is the other guy?’ he asked, shaking Emilia’s hand off his own.

‘I’ll tell you, sweetheart. But I need time. There are some issues to resolve.’

‘Why does it always have to be what you want?’ Alfie glared at her. ‘You’re talking about my possible father.’

‘Because it’s only fair to everyone. I need you to … Just give me some time, okay?’

‘What about what’s fair to me? I’m the one who has rights.’

‘Of course you do.’ Emilia nodded. ‘But I can’t tell you his name today. I need a few more days to work things out. Granny Penny doesn’t even know who he is.’

Alf flicked Penny a look. ‘That’s not fair.’

‘Alf, please.’

‘International Convention on the Rights of the Child. It’s in the United Nations! I have a right to know my identity and family!’

‘Alf—’

His eyes filled with tears, and his whole face was ablaze with consternation. ‘Article eight,’ he said. ‘Or maybe it’s nine! I can’t remember.’ Then a great sob escaped him.

‘Darling!’ Emilia attempted to scoop him into her arms, but Alfie pushed her away and ran down the hall.

At the bedroom door he stopped. ‘I only want to know his name!’

46

CYNTHIA

NOW

Hilary was propped up in the hospital bed, looking withered and frighteningly ill. Without her makeup her pallor was almost grey. An oxygen tube rested under her nostril, an IV tube was taped to her papery hand and Cynthia wanted to weep. A soft beeping sound came intermittently from another machine by the bed with a complex digital display. The room smelled of antiseptic and thwarted hope.

Hilary’s eyes opened slowly. Her pink hair was splayed in a halo around her head on the crisp, white pillowcase. It was oddly touching. ‘Hello,’ she croaked, then grinned.

‘Hello, you,’ said Cynthia, gathering herself. She pulled an armchair from the corner and manoeuvred it carefully past the machine so she could sit. She took Hilary’s free hand and was surprised it was warm. Through the window, the dusk was gathering and, in the hallway, the sound of the catering trolley intermingled with footsteps, a quiet laugh and muted conversation.

‘Thought I’d pop in to give you these.’ Cynthia pulled two mini bottles of whisky from her jacket pocket. ‘Not sure where you’re going to stash them, but they might improve the tea they serve here.’

‘You’re a wonder woman.’ But Hilary could barely lift her head, and Cynthia realised she had underestimated things. For some reason, she hadn’t allowed herself to believe what Penny had said about Hilary’s prognosis. In her mind’s eye, Hilary was indefatigable. A colourful force of nature. An audacious, ribald Mae West—‘When I’m good, I’m very good, but when I’m bad, I’m better’—a line she’d often tossed around in their early friendship.

She was dying, Cynthia realised now. The world was suddenly too large; too grisly and dark. ‘Well, what are friends for?’ she managed to say. ‘Patrick told me you were here.’

Hilary eyed her tiredly. ‘You’re worth ten of him. You know that?’

‘Let’s not.’

‘If I’m your only friend, then I have a responsibility to speak up. I’m not going to be around forever, so you need to start listening.’

‘He’s my husband. We took vows,’ said Cynthia, squeezing her hand carefully.

Hilary tried to push herself further up the bed, and Cynthia stood and hovered, unsure of how to help. She moved the trolley table that held an uneaten dinner and a cup with a straw. ‘Would you like some water?’

Hilary ignored her and seemed to rally. ‘Get rid of that bullshit Catholic guilt, will you? He’s bad news. I should have told you right at the beginning.’

‘What do you mean?’

Hilary blinked at her sorrowfully. ‘Does he hurt you? I had a glimpse of it, you know. The week before he started chasing you.’

Cynthia took in the skeletal outline of Hilary’s body beneath the covers and fixed the thin cotton blanket that was threatening to slip onto the floor.

Hilary pointed to the water and Cynthia put the straw to her lips.

‘I was flirting with some other guy,’ said Hilary, still holding the straw. ‘Harmlessly. But later Patrick brought it up, gripped my arm so tight it left a bruise. He just lost it. The change in his eyes … and then he slipped back into being all lovey-dovey. After that he felt me withdrawing, and I think he realised he couldn’t control me. Then he went after you, and I should have stopped him, but I was angry. With both of you.’

Cynthia smoothed down a tuft of Hilary’s hair that was standing straight up, like candy floss. ‘I’m sorry.’ But it was inadequate. What she had done to Hilary, her closest friend, had been unforgivable. She had tried so hard to block it out, to imagine that her life had only begun when Patrick came along. She remembered how sick she’d been with love in those first months and years. How compliant she’d become. She closed her eyes, remembering one of their early dates—the last time she had ever worn trousers in public until she hit her forties.

She had stood in front of the mirror in her share-house bedroom and considered her new green cord flares. She looked good; had barely eaten all week so that helped. She hadn’t even been hungry since their first kiss.

She applied some dark lipstick then wiped it off and tried a paler shade of rose. She picked up Lynn’s eyeshadow then put it down. Since Patrick had shown an interest in her, she’d begun worrying about her image.

Through the door, Lynn called to her. ‘Cyn? You want some chicken before you go out?’

‘No, I’m going to eat with Patrick.’

‘Ooooh. Lover boy!’ Lynn giggled and it made Cynthia’s whole body swim with joy, that someone would say the word lover in the same breath as the word Patrick. On Thursday, she’d barely taken a bite in front of him at the bistro, and he’d leaned forward and whispered, ‘Are you okay? You’re not eating.’

‘I’m fine.’ She’d smiled coyly and felt as if she was a movie version of herself. Outside looking in, as if hovering on some precipice. Afterwards they walked along the river and he said, ‘Cynthia Laylor, I think I want to marry you.’

An inky stain had moved through her, like blood: equal delight and terror, that he might mean it, or that he might not. She’d given a little laugh, to account for the possibility he was joking, and to show her lightheartedness if he was. He’d squeezed her hand and she felt he might be serious and a buzzing sound in her ears grew so strong it reminded her of being smacked across the head as a ten-year-old for telling her mother she wasn’t going to sing in the church choir, and nothing she could do would change her mind. Although it turned out she’d been wrong.

She could barely believe a boy like Patrick would consider someone like her: Catholic and from the wrong side of the tracks. Everyone on campus knew of the Patrick Heston-Blaise. Those few friends she did have were starting to notice her absence now that she’d met him. Not that she had many, now that she’d stopped talking to Hilary.

‘Cyn? Lover boy’s here!’

Cynthia hurried down the hall. Patrick’s sideburns were golden against his tan. His beauty made her blush. ‘Come in. Oh, I mean, will we go out or stay in, do you think?’

He grinned, stood back and held her at arm’s length, looked at her pants. ‘You’ve covered up those gorgeous legs. It should be a crime.’

Her stomach clenched, even though his eyes were dancing. ‘I can change?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing about you I’d change. Wear a dress next time.’ He kissed her lightly. ‘Let’s go to Mona’s for pasta.’

Now, Hilary was regarding her with something that might have been frustration.

Cynthia said, ‘I just need to get this centenary party off my plate. Then I can think about it all. And you need to get better.’

‘You have to leave him, darling,’ said Hilary, tiredly.

It was unfathomable, Cynthia thought, how in the space of a few days, a friendship could reinsert itself into the abyss of her loneliness. How unspeakable ideas could be spoken.

‘Sleep now,’ said Cynthia. ‘You look so tired.’

‘I’m deathly tired. All the time. But it seems to me we’ve been brought back together for a reason. And while I’m still needed, I intend to stick around.’

47

CYNTHIA

ALMOST ELEVEN YEARS AGO, JULY

Cynthia slowed as she approached the driveway of Sommersby House. Julian’s ute was pulled over on the muddy verge opposite. It was slightly askew, as if he’d pulled up unexpectedly. Rain, so much rain. Thankfully it had stopped, but for how long?

Perhaps she could be of some use to Julian—if a fence was down and some cattle had escaped. As she drew closer, his passenger door was flung open, and a young woman stumbled out and slammed the door. She caught Cynthia’s eye, and appeared startled to see her. It took a split second for Cynthia to realise two things: the woman was Harper, and she was crying. As these unlikely facts jostled in her mind, Julian pulled out, accelerated hard and his ute roared over the hill towards town.

Harper strode off in the same direction. Cynthia watched in her rear-view mirror as the girl slipped then stumbled in the mud on the edge of the deserted road. She reviewed the possible scenarios, and none felt good. For a moment she watched the dormant rain clouds above her until tiny flecks of water began to hit the windscreen. Then she made a U-turn and chased Harper. She opened the passenger window.

‘Harper, would you like a lift?’

‘No, thanks.’ Harper kept striding.

‘It’s beginning to rain again. Come on, you need to get out of this cold and wet. Let me drive you.’

‘No.’

‘Harper, don’t be silly.’

Harper stopped.

‘Please, get in.’

The girl sighed and climbed into the car.

‘Is everything all right?’ asked Cynthia.

‘Yep.’

Cynthia glanced at Harper’s lovely profile. ‘It’s patently not, Harper. You’re crying. My son has driven away, seemingly angry. He left you stranded without a jacket. There is a problem.’

‘Why ask then? If you know already?’

‘Tell me if I can help.’ Cynthia wondered sometimes at the wisdom of having agreed to the mentoring role for Harper eight or nine years ago. Cynthia knew that the mother, Rainn, was a hopeless alcoholic and Penny Bains, not yet part of her own extended family at that stage—Emilia’s marriage to Julian still being some years away—had taken her in but was struggling after her husband’s tragic farm accident. The girl was being shuttled back and forth between Penny and Rainn. Cynthia had known Penny back then of course—it was a small town. And in their younger lives they had known each other through Hilary, Penny’s sister. Poor Penny wouldn’t have stood a chance against a tearaway like Harper.

Harper slumped in her seat. ‘I’m fine. Sorry. I’m in a bad mood.’

‘Are you staying with your mother at the moment? Or with Penny?’

‘Mum. I’m only home for a week.’

They drove to town in silence and Cynthia pulled up outside Rainn’s dilapidated little house. The grass was overgrown and in a corner of the garden was a large broken pot full of empty bottles. ‘Thanks.’ Harper put her hand on the door handle.

‘I really mean it,’ Cynthia said. ‘If I can help, please tell me.’

‘Can you lend me a couple of thousand bucks?’

‘What for?’

‘I can’t tell you.’

Cynthia caught her eye but Harper looked away. It was as if they were back at the beginning of their relationship again, where Harper could barely hold eye contact and Cynthia had to teach her the rules of social interaction that she herself had been forced to learn to get ahead in the corporate world. ‘Are you in trouble?’

Harper gave a startled laugh, then opened the door.

‘Are you pregnant, Harper?’

Harper turned slowly to face Cynthia, narrowed her eyes and stared.

Cynthia didn’t look away. ‘Is the money for a termination?’

‘What does it matter why I need the money? I just need it. Isn’t that enough?’

‘And the father of the child is my son?’

Harper gave a disgusted grunt.

Cynthia thought, That was a yes. ‘I won’t pay for that,’ she said. ‘But I promise to help in any way I can.’

‘I’m not pregnant for god’s sake. I just need some money,’ snapped Harper.

‘I won’t help take a life.’

Harper considered her carefully. She raised an appraising eyebrow. ‘I thought you were a feminist.’

‘I certainly am a feminist! But I believe God wants every child to have a chance. And I won’t be party to harming a living soul.’

‘I told you, I’m not pregnant,’ Harper said again, wearily.

‘What’s the money for then?’

‘For a friend.’

‘And why do they need the money?’

Harper sighed. ‘Sorry I asked. I’m not pregnant, so don’t concern yourself.’

Cynthia grabbed Harper’s arm as she moved to get out. ‘I don’t want you to feel like you’re alone.’

Harper sat with her back to Cynthia, one foot out the door. ‘We’re all alone, Mrs H.’

48

CYNTHIA

NOW

‘Thank you,’ said Cynthia. ‘I appreciate it.’ She headed up the driveway, leaving the electrician and his young assistant, or at least a ladder holding the bottom half of him—the top half currently lost among the yellow and red leaves of one of her pear trees—to their job. They had promised they would be finished stringing fairy lights in all forty-eight trees by tonight, ready to test: a sparkling avenue of welcome for their party guests. Patrick would be thrilled.

A neat pile of linen tablecloths sat on the laundry bench, ready for the gala. Boxes of glasses were stacked four high. Garden lanterns on metal spikes leaned against the bench. So much work for one grandiose event. Cynthia leaned against the bench and a wren at the window caught her eye. It flitted between the drooping stems of a large fuchsia. Her attention was snagged by something across the orchard, near the back path to the beach gate. Harper was talking to someone. Was it Emilia? The woman was slight and fair, and her hands moved in a way that made Cynthia think she was upset. Cynthia had a sudden understanding she shouldn’t be seeing this. This was private and her presence would not be welcome. Her phone rang. She plucked it from her pocket and put them out of her mind.

‘Stay for the weekend then.’ Cynthia fiddled with a clean pile of tea towels. She didn’t want to beg, but the thought of Harper abandoning her felt like one extra unacceptable outcome. ‘After the party I’ll be fine for a while.’

Harper was staring at the iron.

‘Harper?’

‘I’ve got some stuff to sort out, back in Melbourne.’

‘What sort of stuff?’

‘Work stuff. I’ve been trying to decide what to do, about a problem I had. My paid leave’s not going to last forever. I need to go back and sort it.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘Nothing interesting.’

Cynthia remained in the doorway as Harper continued folding clothes.

‘I had a shitty boss, all right? I brought a sexual harassment claim against him.’

‘I see,’ said Cynthia. She folded her arms.

‘I slept with him once, then when I didn’t want to do it again, he got nasty.’

‘I’m sorry. That’s unfortunate. And all too common, I’m afraid.’

‘Yeah, well. I was pissed off that I didn’t get the promotion I’d earned. He gave it to this pin dick of a guy who couldn’t organise an orgy in a brothel. Then this other loser took credit for a big project I ran and spread rumours about me, and my boss encouraged him. I had no choice in the end.’

‘That’s awful.’ Cynthia felt Harper’s anguish. She thought about her own experiences. Years of putting up with the boys’ club, the snide remarks, the small exclusions, the ‘otherness’ of being an intelligent, capable woman in business, among variably talented men who would all climb the ladder before her. That much was a given. It had barely been noticeable at first—the casual misogyny—so used to it had she been, growing up. But in her forties and fifties, she had seen it with new eyes.

‘What’s the current situation?’ she asked Harper. ‘Has the claim been resolved?’

‘They’ve agreed to pay me out.’

‘Just like that?’

‘No. After a year of back and forth. It’s been totally shit. But it means I will have a deposit to buy my own place. In Melbourne.’

‘And you’re happy about that?’

Harper began stacking clothes into the basket. ‘About the money, I’m happy. I’m not ecstatic about the rest of it. I’m not allowed to tell anyone what happened, and I have to withdraw my complaint.’

‘They want you to sign a non-disclosure agreement.’

‘Yeah.’

‘They’re buying your silence.’

‘If you say so.’

‘How do you feel about that?’

Harper flashed a look at Cynthia but said nothing.

‘Why are you here, Harper? Back in Beggars Rock?’

‘I needed time to work out what to do.’

Cynthia pulled at her bottom lip between her thumb and forefinger. Years ago, she had been in Harper’s confidence. Helped her through several difficult times when others turned against her. The town liked a scandal, they liked to talk, and a beautiful rebel like Harper was perfect fodder, though back then at least, the girl had been her own worst enemy. She seemed to attract trouble.

‘You can sign it from here. I can witness it.’

‘I need to go back.’

‘In my view, you shouldn’t sign it. You should make them accountable. Take them to the tribunal.’

Harper slumped. ‘I don’t have the money, or the energy to see it through.’

‘I can help.’

‘You can’t fix everything, Cynthia. I know you mean well, but did it ever occur to you I can solve this for myself?’

‘Sometimes an older, wiser head is useful.’

In the hard look Harper gave her, Cynthia saw her own failings; saw everything she should have done, long ago, and hadn’t.

‘You don’t always have the answers,’ said Harper.

‘When you left town years ago, you promised me you’d make the most of the opportunities you’d been given. You said nothing would stop you. Why let them win?’

Harper eyed Cynthia carefully.

‘I’ll help you,’ Cynthia continued. ‘You can stay here and work out your next steps. But make them accountable. Work from here—set up your own business if you like. IT consulting. There’s a huge call for it. Do something that uses that amazing brain, but don’t let those men silence you.’

‘What happened to, “This town isn’t big enough for someone with aspirations, Harper?” What happened to, “A girl needs to find her place in the world, away from small-town gossip?”’

Cynthia flinched at the sing-song anger in Harper’s voice.

‘That is what I once thought. But’—Cynthia worked to articulate her own confusion—‘this is a good small town. There’s gossip, yes. But there are good people here. And you have so much to offer. You told me you’re an introvert at heart. That you were sick of the city. That you loved the beach and the bush. What’s stopping you from staying?’

Harper shook her head.

‘You have so much to offer this place. Bring your new ideas. You’re so bright, Harper. We need people like you.’

‘I’m cleaning toilets.’

‘And I thank you for it!’ cried Cynthia. ‘But you’re only doing that because I wanted you to work for me. Because I wanted your company. And you’re such good company.’

Harper’s lips parted, but she said nothing.

‘I’m simply saying,’ Cynthia continued, ‘you could be anything. Don’t let them silence you with that NDA.’

Harper shoved some dirty towels into the washing machine. Cynthia knew she should let her be, but there was something magnetic about Harper, so brittle and brave, she didn’t want to leave. She wanted to be someone who was confided in. Someone who could be relied on.

‘You were talking to Emilia earlier.’

‘Mmm,’ Harper clicked the washing machine door closed and spun the dial.

‘What has she told you about Alfie?’

‘It’s not for me to say.’

‘It looked like you were arguing.’

‘No. I was just letting her get things off her chest. She’s done it all on her own until now, so I’m just trying to be supportive while she works shit out.’

‘I want to help her too.’

Harper flinched. ‘Let’s not talk about it, okay?’

‘I … sorry.’ Cynthia deflated. She was traversing the terrain of friendship poorly, as usual. But this time, she didn’t want to fail. Harper brought something out in her she couldn’t quite fathom. She longed for her to stay; a feeling she didn’t understand, but it was so present and real. Perhaps it was her second chance.

‘I didn’t mean to push. But if you could stay for the gala, I’d be so grateful.’

‘I can’t believe you want me around at all.’

‘Don’t be silly, Harper. You’re a good person. You deserve to have whatever you want.’

‘I reckon your memory’s going, Cynthia.’ Harper’s eyes were suddenly bright and hard. ‘You judged me bloody harshly, back before Ned died. As I remember it, you thought I was screwing Julian behind Emilia’s back and had gotten myself up the duff.’

Cynthia blanched. She recalled the worry that day had caused.

‘I know you didn’t believe me back then,’ Harper said, ‘but it wasn’t what you thought. That money wasn’t for me.’

‘Oh, please—’

‘It was for Emilia.’ Harper’s words were bullets. ‘It was so she could get away from that controlling, nut-job son of yours.’

49

CYNTHIA

NOW

Cynthia sat bolt upright, the doona clutched to her chest. There was a noise, high pitched and distant. A whistling. Was it a mosquito? Or something out on the ocean? In the blackness, its quiet regularity frightened her. She glanced at the clock: 2.23 am.

Outside, the waves crashed against the rocks, a reminder that she was exactly where she was meant to be, and yet a worm of fear had begun in her chest. In the fog of her mind, the sound was a cry. A whistling cry for help. It was the sound of Ned.

She shook herself. Yes, this house had ghosts, but not Julian’s. Not Ned’s. How many convicts had died here? Were they flogged? Tortured or starved to death in the freezing winds with no comfort, no mother to love them? This house was malevolent. She hated that it was built on the blood of petty thieves transported for stealing bread to fend off starvation. She was not sure why they were celebrating anything here. She was gripped by the wrongness of it.

She felt she heard the voices of the local Aboriginal people, raped and tortured by those same dead convicts, or their bosses. How far from where she slept were those poor people slaughtered? She could not bear such bleak thoughts, and so willed another, less violent one: Alfie, away for all those years. Had he needed her? Had he been safe?

Cynthia wanted to kneel and pray; to pay penance. She wanted to believe in God again, to have the hum of comfort as the rosary beads slipped through her fingers; to say, ‘God, I believe. Can I have them back now? You took my boys. That wasn’t right.’

The noise fluttered and hummed. She tried to follow it; to block out the mire of her guilt about Emilia, about Harper. Her sanctimonious judgements and failings. She registered that her shoulders were cold. She was naked, a rare luxury she wallowed in after Patrick required sex. To allow herself to feel the crisp warm sheets against her skin all night long. A treat for bearing the duty. She was emboldened by the sheets’ caress.

In the soup of bedroom blackness Patrick rolled over. The bedsheets scuffled, the noise waned, then after a moment it was there again. A whistling sound. In and out.

Cynthia reached for her phone. She turned on the torch, knowing Patrick would not wake. He slept with the dead. She watched his chest, his face as it rose and fell; listened as the faint whistle rose and fell. There was something in his nose and with each exhale she saw it, a tiny ball of snot caught in his nasal hairs, whistling for its release.

She turned off the phone and wondered how long she could keep going.

50

ALFIE

NOW

Reasons Why Knowing my Father is Time-Critical

1. Climate Change

2. Better Grades at University

I am finishing this week’s letters to organisations about the infringements of my rights. Today I am focusing on climate change. Having a sustainable climate is my right according to the UN Committee on the Rights of the Child.

I’ve just started a letter to the woman who runs the post office, suggesting more efficient heating options instead of the air-conditioning unit that blows most of the heat out the door. We all have to do our bit to reduce fossil fuel use. I pointed out to the post office woman that unusual storm activity due to climate change has caused lots of king tides around Beggars Rock recently. If beaches wash away, towns can flood and the refugee crisis will only get bigger. Nobody wants that on their conscience, so I suggested she invest in geothermal ground source heat pumps or install solar panels and change to radiators.

The other day I made Mum take me to a climate rally at Boat Harbour Beach. It was organised by a group called Mothers for Climate Action. There were only seven other people at it (three women and four little kids), but Rome wasn’t built in a day. One woman gave me a bag of home-grown apples and Mum got a brochure, so I signed her up to their Facebook page.

The principal reason climate change relates to urgently knowing my father is that I found a study linking stress to the onset of premature puberty. I am very stressed about climate change. Also, puberty is a critical phase in a boy’s development and requires father–son bonding.

In ten days’ time, I will turn ten. It is recommended in multiple parenting resources that by the time a child turns ten, parents should have begun discussions about puberty, sexuality and menstrual care. This has not occurred. The menstrual care information can wait, because when I find a girlfriend, she can tell me what I need to know to care for her. But the other stuff is urgent, and with no known father and only ten days left to get up to speed on things, the clock is ticking.

My research says that the first sign of puberty for males is that your testicles get bigger. I have not noticed this yet, but maybe there is a device to measure such things. If I had access to my father, he would know about this. He would carve out precious time from his work schedule to go on father–son puberty discussion walks on the beach with me, while Mum made the picnic to take to a prearranged location for afterwards.

I found another study that said boys who grow up with a single mother tend to get lower grades at university. Ergo, the blueprint for prevention of university failure is finding my father.

Living with so many concerns about my future is exhausting.

Operation Tadpole: Phase Three

- Do absolutely everything necessary to find out the categorical truth about my father’s identity.

- Covertly obtain adequate supply of cream biscuits to allow for all eventualities.

- Obtain ziplock bags to maintain freshness of cream biscuits.

51

NOAH

NOW

Noah chopped beans and carrots for the stir-fry. Sophie was at her laptop, tapping away. She worked hard; only stopping for yoga classes or bushwalks on weekends and, when she was in her apartment in Melbourne at least, trips to the kitchen to defrost gourmet frozen dinners.

He wished she’d eat more fresh food and, while she was here, he was happy to cook and improve her microbiome with a rainbow of vegetables.

‘Don’t go slipping any of those disgusting fermented pickles into that stir-fry,’ said Sophie, sipping her wine.

‘Live probiotics die if they get hotter than forty-six degrees. There’d be no point wasting my sauerkraut.’ Noah smiled at her.

‘Oh,’ she said, and her face was suddenly hard to read. ‘Well, good.’ She took another sip. ‘When we get to the UK, you can be in charge of the cooking. I’ll be in charge of cleaning.’ She grinned. ‘I’ll hire the cleaner.’

Noah pushed the vegetables around in the pan. He’d only ever lived with Sophie for a couple of weeks or a month at a time. Mostly she came down to Tasmania because her work was more flexible. She was based in Melbourne, which had never bothered him. He was used to being on his own, and Zoom was an okay way to have a relationship. It was how Sophie raised the prospect of marriage, quite early. When she kept on mentioning the idea, he supposed he’d just gone along with it. Then one day she’d asked, ‘So, are we engaged then?’ and he’d nodded. He didn’t mind the idea. She was fun, and there was security in being with someone who was good at things he wasn’t good at. And the sex was nice. The nights did get lonely, and filling some of them up with Sophie was quite an eye-opener.

‘Want some wine?’ Sophie topped up her glass.

‘Not tonight,’ he said. ‘Early start.’

‘Live a little, Noah.’ Sophie came around the table and leaned against the benchtop. ‘Be brave!’

He thought about this for a minute. Julian had liked adventure. Before he’d married Emilia, he’d go off travelling to faraway places, where he’d drink wine and sail yachts and come home tanned and happy. Julian would have encouraged Noah to drink the wine and grasp this London opportunity with both hands, as if moving across the world and leaving behind the bush and his bumper potato crop were small, inconsequential things, easily forgone in the face of such a life-changing opportunity.

Noah hated change. He didn’t see the point of it if you were happy. But Sophie wanted it. And getting married to someone meant that as long as you were together, you had to put them first.

‘Soph, when your contract ends in London, will you consider setting up a firm locally, or is there a firm in Burnie that does corporate stuff?’

‘Burnie?’

‘Or Launceston if you’re happy to commute. You could stay away for a couple of nights midweek and work partly from home, couldn’t you?’ He threw in some coriander. ‘I mean, we’ll only be in London two or three years, so don’t you need to plan ahead for this stuff?’

‘Of course.’ She smiled slowly. ‘Although, No-ee,’ she said, using the awful pet name she had for him, ‘in three years I’ll be thirty-five, and I might need a little bit of, you know, time off. I might not want to work away.’ She looked at him like she did when she wanted him to go into town and get her ice cream.

‘I know you said you didn’t want kids,’ she continued, ‘but I know I can convince you otherwise.’ She gave a small laugh, and as she looked at him from under her eyelashes, he tingled with fear.

He realised the capsicum had started to burn and he lifted the pan. ‘But you said you didn’t want kids either. You said …’ he wondered whether he’d properly remembered their talk about children. His father had always said that he and Ned missed things. Didn’t read the room. ‘I won’t change my mind.’

‘Yes, you will. I just know it,’ she said lightly. ‘And maybe we should do IVF to freeze some embryos soon anyway. That way we can put the prettiest, healthiest version of my DNA under lock and key until my career’s sorted. Then we can decide to start at any time.’

Confusion overtook him; a disorienting sense of being in the wrong place without any knowledge of how he got here. He turned off the cooker and placed the pan back down then stared at the charred mess. He went through the motions of getting out bowls and forks and remembered to find the glasses Sophie liked. He scraped the stir-fry into the bowls and dished out the rice and said quietly, keeping his eyes on the wilted snow peas, ‘I really won’t change my mind, Soph. I’ve never wanted children. What if they inherit something from me, I mean …’ he looked down. ‘I just can’t do it.’

‘You’re not your brother, Noah. You’re not Ned.’

Noah kept his eyes closed. He thought of Ned in his last moments, the same DNA, the same sensations as Noah would have had as he took his last breath. That was the problem. He was his brother.

52

NOAH

ALMOST ELEVEN YEARS AGO, AUGUST

When Noah returned to the cottage, Harper was cooking eggplant and tofu. She had three places set at the table. He stood in the doorway, thinking of Ned and his little fire on the freezing beach, but then an image of the birds inked on Harper’s skin was all he could see. He wanted to run his hands across her belly, pull her to him and not think anymore. Instead he said, ‘That smells good.’

She considered him. ‘Are we okay or not?’

‘Yeah. Of course.’

‘Good, because I’m not in the habit of undressing for men and having them turn me down and then cooking them dinner anyway. You need to know I wouldn’t do this for anyone else.’

‘Right.’

She began plating the food. ‘Ned coming?’

‘Not sure.’ He sat down at the table.

‘Hope not.’

‘Yeah. Me too.’ Although he did want Ned to come home, because the alternative was to worry about him. When Ned had been overseas, Noah had taken months to feel all right on his own. On the weeks Harper had returned to Beggars Rock for holidays she’d almost filled the void. But not entirely. Without Ned he moved uneasily throughout the days. Mild yearning mixed with a gratitude that he could finally experience life on his own terms created a kind of hollow paradox that he couldn’t explain.

Harper put down the pan. ‘Let’s eat and then you can take off my clothes.’

He nodded, felt himself begin to burn with his need for her. She put her finger beneath his chin, lifted his face until he was looking at her, then leaned down and kissed him. Everything melted away and Noah put his hand in her hair and his other hand around her waist and kissed her back. She pulled away. ‘If we don’t eat this tofu now it’ll taste like shit.’ She sat opposite him and grinned. He grinned back and forked some tofu onto his plate. He’d always liked that Harper was so practical.

Noah finally gave up on sleep. Barely breathing, he lowered his feet to the floor. It felt strange being naked as he got out of bed. He gently laid the blankets back on top of Harper, marvelling at the bare skin of her shoulder. He pulled on his pants and crept out of the bedroom, smiling.

He’d been lying awake, alternating between joy and anxiety. They had had awkward and then really great sex, but afterwards, he hadn’t heard Ned come in and he’d been too scared to check his phone in case the screen light woke Harper. Now, he crept through the dark kitchen and peered through Ned’s door. The bed was empty.

He checked his phone. Nothing. He thought of the worried phone call from his mother earlier in the evening. Had Ned gone to see Emilia, knowing Julian would be out at the footy club? Noah hadn’t shared his suspicions about Ned and Emilia’s affair with Harper. It would have been a betrayal of Ned, even though he knew Harper wouldn’t judge either of them. She might even cheer. Since Emilia and Julian’s wedding, Harper barely spent time with her cousin. Her undisguised dislike of Julian had inevitably driven a wedge between them.

Noah lowered himself onto the couch, a sick fear settling over him. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make out the open bottle of white rum on the table. Harper had poured huge slugs into their glasses, squeezed in lime and added soda water and toasted ‘our future awesome life together, including lots of hot sex in random places’, and Noah had smiled and been very happy to toast that idea. He got up now and wondered if another drink might make him sleepy and take his mind off his brother. He shuffled around the table in the dark and poured himself a good nip. The liquid burned, but it felt good to experience the discomfort; for his world to feel different today than it had yesterday. Today he was a different person. A man with a woman who loved him. A beautiful woman with a potty mouth who liked tattoos and birds.

He texted Ned. You ok? Where r u?

He put down the phone and a cinema of images ran through his head: Harper, leaning over him, her breasts round and firm, the birds luminous on her skin. Harper, kissing his hand, pulling it to her face. He pulled a blanket over himself and closed his eyes letting the images take over, half-waiting for his phone to light up with a message from Ned. When he felt himself falling asleep on the couch, he was hard again with his need for Harper. But he wouldn’t wake her. He’d lie here a bit longer and dream of her instead. In the morning he would see her face, and that made him smile.

53

ALFIE

NOW

The car bumps and rumbles through the floor, as if Mum has driven onto a rougher road. Granny Pen’s picnic blanket smells like dung and is itching my face. But I can’t risk scratching in case Mum turns and sees the blanket moving. I am also concerned that the cream biscuits in my pocket have disintegrated because I am jammed against the seat bracket behind Mum’s seat, but I realise this should be the least of my concerns at present.

We stop and I try hard not to noisy-breathe. Mum says I noisy-breathe when I’m nervous. I don’t usually believe her but I’m now at a critical point in Operation Tadpole and can’t afford to rely on my own judgement too much in case it’s biased.

I wait for the car door to open but Mum isn’t moving. When I quizzed her on the timeline of when she was going to speak to the person who needed to be spoken to before she could tell me the identity of my other possible father, she said, ‘Soon’. Luckily, I was on high alert for ‘soon’, and I managed to sneak into the car in time. Mum’s notorious for providing vague information when she wants to put me off the scent.

I really need to stretch. Just when I might bust from being scrunched up, the car door opens, I hear Mum get out and the door slams shut. My stomach is full of bees. After a minute I stretch out and wriggle upwards to bring my eyes to the edge of the window. I am facing a road and a paddock full of what might be grass but is probably some sort of crop because it’s too long and even to just be grass. There is no house in sight. I twist my body and move behind the other seat and lift my head again. In front of me, the ocean is amazing. It is deep blue and goes right to the edge of the world, although this is obviously an optical illusion because the world is a sphere.

Mum has parked near a woodpile, where there are some raised vegetable beds and a large shed. She is staring at the shed. When Mum told Granny Pen she was going to see this particular nameless person to tell him about me, I made two decisions. First, that I would give myself temporary permission to consider this person the most likely of my two possible fathers, seeing as how he has the benefit of being alive, and how he and my mother really liked each other at my conception date, so he would be the preferred scenario. Second, I will need to research DNA tests. After all, it’s not hard to be definitive about these things in this day and age and I only require one of the possible fathers to be alive to take the test. By process of elimination, his result would be enough. But covertly attending this meeting seemed a sensible backup plan.

However, I didn’t expect they would be meeting at a shed. Usually these important, life-changing events happen somewhere like coffee shops or parks. In the movies, it might be at the top of an American monument such as the Empire State Building. But I suppose that’s the movies for you.

So here we are, at the critical moment, with no American monument, a huge shed and no man in sight. Mum knocks on the door of the shed, which is a proper house door painted green. It opens and she disappears inside. I slump down, disappointed I can’t see the man’s face when he learns the earth-shattering news that he potentially has a practically teenage son. If you were going to point out that I am still nine years old for another one week and two days, I should mention that my reading age is in the adult range already, so I figure that averages things out.

I’m settling into thinking about this (because I assume Mum will be ages answering questions about my development and personality) when I hear voices. I dive back across the car and pull the blanket over me just as someone, who I presume is Mum, gets in. She slams the door and then I hear a sound, like she’s slapping the wheel. She reverses erratically, although this might be just how it is experienced from my position in the footwell, and then takes off at an inadvisable speed. It doesn’t feel consistent with statistics on the average driving speed of nearly middle-aged women drivers. This is proper speeding. Going this fast, in this position, is exhilarating, so I am fine with it. Although if Mum knew I was in the footwell with my neck in a weird position, I am certain she would moderate her speed. This is why it’s good to do things your parents don’t know about—new experiences in your formative years can have a significant impact on tastes and future choices. I may end up being a race car driver because I enjoy this sensation, whereas if I had followed the rules, I would never have known this. I take this as a win, even though I have not yet sighted a father.

I wonder if my mother’s new propensity for speed has been brought about by increased serotonin and dopamine in her brain caused by pleasure at seeing my probable father, or whether it might be related to a release of adrenalin and cortisol instead, caused by anger at him for some reason. I mull this over for a while.

We turn sharply and stop and Mum gets out. She slams the car door and I think, Bingo! I have been trying to figure out where my probable father’s shed-house was located from the length of the drive—six minutes and forty-two seconds there; five minutes and forty-five seconds on the return leg. Then I get it—the flower hut. When we were parked near my probable father’s shed there was a hut opposite the driveway entrance with a decorated sign. I’ve seen it before, when Granny Pen stopped at the flower farm. It’s at their gate and they have a trust system where you put five dollars in the nailed-down tin, and you take one bunch. At the time I was concerned that people might take two bunches and not leave enough money, thereby defrauding the farmer who has overheads to pay for from the look of those big tractors. Now, though, I am not at all concerned about the farmer.

I am solely concerned about how to access Mum’s computer to google the address of the flower farm without Mum finding out.

54

PENNY

NOW

‘Mary and I will pop over and pick them up on our way home from town.’

Penny balanced the phone on top of the medical kit. She thought about the boxes of centenary merchandise to be sold tonight at the gala, piled high against one wall in her living room. She dabbed antiseptic on the wound she had just stitched on Winifred’s ear. The sheep bleated.

‘What did you say?’ asked Eloise.

Penny half-shouted. ‘I might be able to fit them all into my car.’ The idea of half of the merchandise subcommittee arriving in her lounge room to collect boxes and provide silent judgements on her general clutter made her wince.

‘Don’t be silly. We’ll be there in half an hour. I need to drop you a box of onions anyway and pick up those cheeses you promised me.’

‘All right, see you soon. Bye.’ Penny patted Winifred and released her from the trimming stand then followed her past the pens that needed mucking out. She opened the gate. The sheep bleated, then wandered towards the other girls grazing on the far side of the paddock.

Penny glanced at her watch. Emilia should be home soon. She wondered if Alfie would still be asleep. She’d poked her head in earlier, and he was dead to the world under the blankets. Eloise and Mary would want to see Alfie in the flesh, to lay eyes on this mystery child of Emilia’s—suspected grandson of Cynthia and Pat. She put away her medical kit, washed her hands in the trough, wiped her feet on the grass to remove most of the dung and walked back towards the house. In the eastern paddock she noticed Travis’s blue ute driving down the fence line. Checking the irrigation, probably. She silently sent up a thank you to Lincoln for sending Travis to her. Now that he leased most of the farm, her finances were much more dependable. And it freed her up to focus on refining her sheep’s cheese; a hobby that meant she always had plenty to barter with her neighbours.

Inside, she began clearing the table and looked up as Emilia came in with a box of groceries.

‘Hello, darling.’

‘What’s wrong, Mum? Are you all right?’

‘Yes, fine.’ She rearranged her face, angling for a smile. ‘I was just going to tidy up a bit. You’re right, I do need to declutter.’ Penny gathered a pile of old magazines and dumped them in the recycling bin. ‘There!’ She stood, hands on hips, fighting an immediate urge to retrieve them.

Emilia gave her a small smile.

‘Did you … go and see the man?’ asked Penny, hesitantly. ‘About Alfie?’

‘I tried, yesterday. But he was out.’

‘Oh.’ Penny tidied some piles of paperwork on her desk. She joined Emilia by the sink and was overwhelmed suddenly by her proximity to this person she loved more than anyone, and a desire to hold on to her and never let go. ‘I feel bad, you know, darling. I should have helped you more back then. I … well, I just thought there was such a good chance you and Julian would get through it.’

Emilia’s face was inscrutable. The silence continued until Emilia said, evenly, ‘He was violent, Mum. That’s why William died.’

Penny stared, then slumped against the bench as the truth arrived with a punch to her gut. How badly had she let her daughter down? Violent. It was inconceivable, and yet, it suddenly made sense. Penny should have asked more questions, instead of taking the high road. It’s only been a few months since your baby died, Em, she had said. Time will heal. You need to give the marriage time. And she had believed it. Marriage was for life, not just for the good times! Bowing out at the first hurdle was ridiculous, she had said. In the heat of their argument, she’d called her daughter ridiculous. The horror of it crawled across her skin.

The image of Emilia standing in that same spot a decade earlier, waiting for Penny to guess at the truth was unbearable. She put her arms around her daughter.

Emilia squeezed her and stepped away. ‘Let’s not talk about it, okay? I’m here now. Where’s Alf?’

Penny swallowed. ‘He’s still asleep I think.’

Emilia raised her eyebrows in surprise. She went to the bedroom and returned a moment later. ‘He’s not in there. The bed was stuffed with pillows. When did you last see him?’

‘Oh.’ Penny’s mouth went dry.

‘What time, Mum?’

‘Maybe an hour ago? He said he was going to watch a film or go down to the creek to look for yabbies after a nap. But I thought he hadn’t gone yet.’

‘You said he could go to the creek on his own?’ Emilia looked at Penny as if she’d just announced she’d joined a nudist colony.

‘Yes,’ Penny said, uncertain now. She had an urge to run her thumb over the crevice between Emilia’s eyebrows.

‘You stay here,’ said Emilia. ‘I’ll take my phone. Ring me if he comes back to the house.’

‘But, darling, he can swim, can’t he?’

‘He’s not a strong swimmer. And who knows if there are hazards in that creek, Mum. Jesus! Anything could have happened!’

‘But at his age you spent whole days down there without supervision.’

‘I had Harper, Mum! I was never alone.’

‘Yes, you were.’ Penny remembered it clearly. Didn’t she?

‘Well, if I was, it was a different time. Parents were negligent back then!’

‘I … you …’ but Penny couldn’t think. She couldn’t quite understand what she’d done wrong. Didn’t (almost) ten-year-olds go off to explore on their own? Maybe she had been negligent. She’d been too busy working back then to worry about much at all. There was no time for it. Lincoln wasn’t a natural farmer and it was Penny who’d worked to keep the place afloat. And anyway, wasn’t that the problem with modern parenting? Too much physical and emotional investment in every tiny thing; although she herself had been awfully worried about Alfie roaming around town last week. ‘If he stuffed something in the bed,’ she said, ‘I suspect he was going somewhere he wasn’t meant to. I already said he could go to the creek, so why would he pretend to be asleep if he was allowed to go there?’

‘Have you got a better idea of where to start looking?’

The door slammed and Penny’s hand began to shake. Through the window, she watched the retreating figure of Emilia running across the grass.

Penny wanted to run too. Instead she rang Rainn and left a message to call if she saw Alfie. She darted around the house, calling Alfie’s name. In the front garden, she ran towards the hedges, shouting louder now, in case he was hiding, her panic rising. A car appeared in the driveway and Eloise and Mary got out.

‘Hello, Pen. Got those boxes ready?’

55

ALFIE

NOW

The flower farm is only four kilometres from Granny Pen’s farm by road, on a ridge called Helen’s Cape. If I go across the paddocks, I can get there in less than two kilometres. Timing is critical. I have less freedom this week. Tennis camp week seems like a distant dream. Ideally, I would have taken Mum’s old bike that she found in the shed for me, but Granny Pen hasn’t fixed the tyres yet.

I have two things in my favour today. Mum is going to the hairdresser at 1.30 pm and that’s when Granny Pen checks the sheep, so my absence will not be noticed if all goes to plan. While I was eating my cheese sandwich at lunch, I yawned fourteen times. Both Mum and Granny Pen said I had been staying up too late and needed an early night, and I didn’t agree with them, but didn’t disagree either (straight out agreement would have raised suspicion).

Mum drove off two minutes ago and Granny Pen says now, ‘Are you sure you know how to work the video machine, Alf? Your Mum said you’ve never had one before.’

‘That’s because we had Netflix. But it’s under control,’ I say. ‘I googled it.’ To prove the point, I insert the video cassette into the machine. The video is Top Gun, and although it’s not rated for my age, Mum said I could watch it while Gran is doing farm jobs because I would appreciate the aeronautics.

As soon as Granny Pen gets on her quadbike, I run to our bedroom to arrange pillows under the blankets to approximate the shape of a pre-pubescent boy. Then I tilt the blinds for dimness, shove my map and cream biscuits in my pocket, and run outside and out the front gate. There are no cars on the road because Granny Pen’s farm is at ‘the arse end of nowhere’, according to my mum when she was talking to Aoife on FaceTime. At the top of the lane, I turn left and run along the boundary of the paddock that is currently planted with potato plants that are beginning to turn yellow. At the junction of the next road I wait in the bushes until there is no traffic and then I run across and into the next paddock. This might be my potential father’s property, I’m not sure, but the flower farm should be another two paddocks over. I’m breathing hard by the time I spot the flower hut. I step through the fence and get back onto the next dirt road and run at a medium pace to make sure I am not too breathless when I arrive. I hear an engine behind me and slow to a natural walking pace. A farm ute slows too, and an old man says through his window, ‘You all right, little fella?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ I say, trying to convey my complete satisfaction with everything.

‘Need a lift?’

‘No, thank you.’

The man rubs his chin, looks ahead, then nods. ‘Right you are.’ He drives off slowly. When he reaches the flower hut he turns right and goes up their driveway. Not my paternal grandfather then, I presume, or any other relative visiting my father.

I reach the flower hut and enter the driveway opposite. Near the shed-house with the green door, I stop to appreciate the view of the ocean. The significance of the landscape here is not to be taken for granted. For a boy who spent his last two years in inner-city Dublin, I can tell you, this is a very unexpected scene, even when you expect it.

After I have caught my breath and paid appropriate attention to the view I walk towards my probable father’s shed-house door and knock three times.

‘Oh, hello. It’s you.’ The woman who answers the door is Sophie St James with the sparkly ring. This is unexpected. Also, that statement confirms my first impression of her as someone I would have nothing in common with. You have to agree, ‘it’s you’ is not very illuminating given that ‘you’ could literally be a reference to me or every other human on the planet.

‘Hello. Is the man of the house here? I assume that would be Noah Heston-Blaise, seeing as how you’re engaged to him.’ A weird feeling comes over me as I start to think about the significance of shaggy Noah being my possible father.

She laughs. ‘The woman of the house not good enough for you, then, huh? Aren’t you a funny poppet!’

‘It’s important I speak with him. I don’t have much time.’

Something in Sophie St James’s face changes. She must be responding to the seriousness in my voice.

‘What about?’

‘It’s private.’

‘Well, I might be able to get him for you, but I can’t until you give me more information. I don’t appreciate time-wasters.’

‘I’m not wasting time. It’s urgent business.’

‘Why?’

I think quickly. If this woman is going to be my stepmother, we need to forge a relationship. I need to bring her into my circle of trust. She’s a lynchpin in the big game, as Kevin would say.

‘He’s biologically important to my future.’

She looks at me as if I just spoke Swahili (I can speak seven phrases in Swahili, so it’s not out of the question). I look at my watch. Granny Pen might finish in the paddocks soon.

‘He’s most likely my father.’ I give her an extremely serious look, befitting such a statement.

‘No.’ She is shaking her head. ‘He’s not.’

I take a deep breath. It’s not her fault she’s having trouble with this. ‘He doesn’t know about me yet. He’s been deceived by my mother for nearly ten years. It’s concerning, I agree. Plus, there have been’—I think about the multiple possible sperm scenarios—‘complicating factors.’

Something about the way Sophie St James moves her body to fill up the door alerts me to a problem. She folds her arms across her chest. ‘He hasn’t got any children.’

‘He most likely has. It’s not ideal, I know. He has missed many years of my upbringing. But if you could please get him quickly, I can make an appointment to go through the whole story at a later time.’

Sophie St James looks as if I’ve just asked her to eat cow poo. I push on. ‘My mother explained she thought she was in love with him, and it was a difficult time due to her having lost a previous pregnancy that was from her now deceased husband Julian, and so conceiving a child wasn’t their intended outcome from the sexual intercourse.’

She still has the cow poo look.

‘But sometimes these things just happen,’ I add, in case she’s not keeping up. I look past her shoulder, then I notice the time on my watch. Time is running out.

‘Noah doesn’t want kids,’ she says calmly. ‘So, if he doesn’t want them with me, the woman he loves and would be intending to have them with if he did want them, he certainly isn’t going to want you, who he didn’t intend to have, and whose mother he didn’t actually love.’

‘I—’

‘So you need to leave now, and don’t come back.’

I can’t understand why she’s closing the door, and I can’t see because suddenly my eyes are fuzzy and wet, which is so dumb, because I know Noah would be interested to know about me. But something in her face looked so certain and all of a sudden I am doubting the merits of what I have just done, and from a distance I hear myself noisy breathing, and all I want is to be back at home, but I’m not even sure where that is.

‘Caesars Palace!’ I say, but there’s no one to hear me.

56

NOAH

NOW

Noah stopped his ute to pull some mail out of the old milk-can letterbox. As he was getting back in, a movement caught his eye. Across the road, sitting on the bench inside the flower hut, was a child. A boy. His arms were around his knees, pulled against his chest. He was staring at Noah.

Noah nodded. ‘Hello.’

Some instinct flickered in his brain. Something wasn’t right, and this thought mixed with the dawning recognition it was Emilia’s boy, Alfie. They stared at each other silently.

The boy slowly stood, wiped his palms on his pants and said, ‘I came to talk to you.’

Noah felt his heart speeding and slowing, making him feel light-headed. The boy’s eyes were as bright as stars. His face was a picture of consternation and as he spoke to Noah, it felt as if his words were coming from far away.

‘Did you ever want to have children?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

Noah’s mouth was parched. The boy was so beautiful, with his dirt-smeared, delicate features and piercing stare. It was as if he could see beneath Noah’s skin. ‘Don’t know.’

‘I think we’re related, whether you like it or not.’

‘Where’s your mum?’

Alfie shrugged, his face wearing his disappointment, as if Noah had failed a test.

‘Do you need a lift home?’

‘I don’t get in cars with strangers.’

‘Right. Good.’

Alfie rubbed his hands on his pants again. ‘I read about crotalines. Pit vipers mostly. The mothers care for the newborn snakes right up until they shed their skin, even though the mother hasn’t eaten for months and months. Did you know that?’

Noah shook his head. He wanted Ned here, to listen to this kid.

‘I thought you’d be interested because they’re terrestrial ectotherms where the dads aren’t around, and the mums do everything.’

Noah was in some kind of trance. He wanted to watch the boy all day. His long lashes, eyes rimmed red from crying. He wanted to scoop him up. The boy broke his gaze and, after what felt like millennia, said, ‘I thought you’d be interested, but it doesn’t matter.’ He began to walk away.

‘Stop. Please! I am interested.’ Noah followed, then he froze. Would he scare the kid, chasing after him? Was it inappropriate for a man to follow a boy, even if it was to keep him safe? He wanted to talk to Emilia. He wanted Ned to talk with Alfie about snake-parenting habits. Ned had loved snakes.

Noah heard a car coming from around the blind bend at the end of the paddock. ‘Careful, mate!’ he called out.

The car appeared and slowed to a stop. Alfie stopped too. Noah ran towards him.

Emilia got out and looked from Alfie to Noah. She said something to Alfie, and he got into the car. Then Emilia walked towards Noah, frowning, and he had to look away, to take a deep breath. He thought back to the days after she’d left Beggars Rock; to the sobbing phone calls about Ned. All those times when she wouldn’t say where she was, no matter how much Noah had begged. He’d been pressured by Julian, and by his father. Find out where she is! Get her home! How could she abandon the family when she’s most needed?

‘I came to see you yesterday,’ she said. ‘But your fiancée said you were away.’

‘Yeah.’ Noah tried to get air into his lungs. ‘I was out at Marrawah. Doing stuff for a project monitoring the devil population.’

She nodded. ‘So, now you’ve properly met Alfie.’

‘Yeah.’ Noah wanted to say, He’s beautiful. He’s amazing! Instead he said, ‘He likes snakes.’

‘He likes animals of all kinds, same as his dad.’

Noah tipped his head. ‘Julian?’

‘No.’

He let this knowledge sink in. ‘You’re sure?’

‘I’m almost certain he’s Ned’s.’ She shrugged. ‘I miss him. Every day.’

‘Yeah.’ He pressed his lips together, glanced over her shoulder towards the car. ‘Me too.’

‘I’d take it all back in a blink, if I could. Except maybe I can’t say that. Because I have Alfie.’

Her eyes filled with tears. Noah wanted to cry too. His chest was hard and heavy. They were the two people who had loved Ned most. They’d both let him down. Emilia swivelled her head to look back at the car. ‘He wants to know who his dad is.’

Noah nodded. ‘It’s only fair. But it’s … I mean—’ He stopped, took a deep breath. ‘Is that a good idea?’

57

PENNY

NOW

Penny let out an enormous sigh of relief as Emilia’s car pulled up, and Alfie emerged from the back seat. His face was smeared with dirt and his eyes were red and puffy.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Penny. ‘What happened?’

‘Nothing to worry about, Mum. He’s fine.’ But Emilia didn’t meet her eye as they headed past her and down the hallway. The bedroom door closed. Penny could hear snippets of conversation and wished she could be included; she needed to redeem herself. For losing Alfie today, and Emilia a decade ago.

When Emilia appeared in the kitchen, Penny asked, ‘How is he?’

Emilia began cutting cheese and putting it on crackers on a plastic plate. ‘He’s angry with me.’

‘Why?’

She sighed heavily. ‘Why do you think, Mum? He’s got a bee in his bonnet about finding out who his father is.’

There was almost eye-rolling as Emilia said this; a disdain for Penny’s worry. For Penny’s years of fear and sleeplessness as she lay ruminating over whether Emilia was all right, if she was being cared for. If she was even alive when it would be months to see if her annual birthday or Christmas card would come.

‘And he has every right to know. Why can’t you be bloody honest for once in your life!’ It came out in a surge of pent-up anger, so fierce that Penny was shocked at herself. ‘Sorry. I’m sorry.’

Emilia was still, eyes wide. She took a breath and her face crumpled. Penny wrapped her arms around her daughter as Emilia cried and cried. Penny stroked her hair, tried to say something soothing, wished she could take away all the pain.

‘I can’t be sure who his father is, Mum. It’s most likely Ned Heston-Blaise.’

Penny’s hand froze on Emilia’s back. Her thoughts clamoured. Such a betrayal of Julian. His brother.

‘I want to be honest with him, Mum, but I needed to tell Noah first. It’s his twin. He should know. But he’s getting married and leaving for England, so maybe that was pointless anyway.’

‘You want Noah to be in his life, sort of like a father?’

Emilia shrugged.

‘So, his father was Ned?’

‘Yes.’

But Penny saw in her daughter’s eyes a tiny hesitation; a fleeting expression of doubt.

‘There’s the smallest chance he could be Julian’s, but I don’t think so. So, maybe I tell Alfie it was definitely Ned.’

‘Emilia, that makes no sense.’

‘Why?’

‘You can’t decide based on what you’d prefer or what’s convenient. Alfie needs the truth.’

Emilia remained silent.

‘Did you talk to Noah?’

‘Briefly.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He said he wanted time to think about it. He said it was up to me what I told Alf and that he was going to talk to his parents.’

‘What will he tell Pat and Cynthia?’

‘I don’t know, Mum. I guess he’ll tell them Alfie is their grandson, one way or the other. We didn’t get that far.’

‘But did he want to be involved with Alf?’

‘Maybe. We didn’t go into it. Alf was waiting in the car. Anyway, how can Noah help if he’s not here? He doesn’t need that burden if he’s living overseas.’

‘Alfie could never be a burden.’ Penny glanced at the clock. Soon she was due at Sommersby House. The committee was meant to be finishing the set-up before the gala event started.

‘In my opinion you should trust Alfie, Em.’ Alfie was no ordinary child. Emilia had been clever too. Perhaps not on Alfie’s level, but so much smarter than Lincoln or herself. They hadn’t quite known where she came from. And Penny had tried to hide things from her, to let her be a child a bit longer, but it had driven them apart. Everything Penny did back then seemed to push Emilia further away and make her doubt herself and doubt Penny. Hiding things did no good. ‘Let him know the truth, even if it’s hard.’

‘The truth is that Ned is likely his father, Mum. And I killed him. You think Alfie wants to hear that?’

‘Don’t say that! Emilia. No! What are you talking about?’

‘It was my fault, Mum, and no amount of sugar-coating will ever change that.’

58

NOAH

ALMOST ELEVEN YEARS AGO, AUGUST

A loud noise, and Noah woke with a start. He sat up in the dark, wondering what time it was, and why he was sleeping on the sofa when he had a sudden recollection that Harper was in his bed, naked.

The fire had burned down to embers. He squatted, nudged the orange remnants of the coals until they flared and caught. He added sticks then a fresh log. He saw with relief that Ned’s door was now closed and realised that Ned’s return must have woken him. He checked his phone: almost ten thirty. Headlights appeared on the driveway and Noah opened the front door with an awful foreboding. Emilia peered at him, assessing which twin he was. ‘I need to speak to Ned.’

She slipped past him and knocked tentatively, then opened Ned’s door.

Noah stayed by the fire, coaxing the log into life. He wanted to get back into bed with Harper, but something was wrong. Everything was wrong if Emilia was here now, going into Ned’s bedroom. Something had changed and he was unnerved.

He could hear murmurings from Ned’s room. A muffled cry, and Noah wanted to go to his brother but he remained where he was.

A few minutes later, Emilia emerged. ‘I’m leaving town,’ she said. ‘I wanted him to know. It’s not him I’m leaving, but … I’ve got to get out of this place. I can’t …’ she squeezed her eyes closed. ‘I can’t be here anymore. It’s killing me. And it would never work, him and me.’ She stood on tiptoe and hugged Noah. ‘Please make him see. It would never work. You need to make him see.’

She ran out to her car and soon her headlights disappeared behind the tree line.

Noah hovered in the doorway of Ned’s bedroom. ‘Neddy, you okay?’

In the light of a small lamp he could see Ned sitting on the edge of his bed, slumped over, head in his hands.

Noah’s own heart splintered into the icy night air. ‘How could she leave Julian for you, Neddy? That’d be madness.’

‘She could. She wants to. I know she does.’ Noah sat on the bed, cold settling through him. They sat side by side for a while until another noise crashed into the silence; the noise of a roaring engine. Ned hung his head as they waited for the inevitable. Only a few minutes older than Ned, but all his life, Noah had been the protector. He couldn’t leave Ned to do this alone.

A moment later Julian was in the house, in the bedroom. He hauled Ned up by his shirt, and the room filled with the scent of beer and rage.

Julian screamed into Ned’s face, ‘Where is she? Where’s my wife?’ He was spitting, panting, ‘Fucking leave us alone!’ He pushed Ned back onto the bed and stumbled backwards.

‘She hates you!’ Ned spat the words at his brother.

Julian slid down the wall, drunk. ‘What the fuck would you know?’

‘You treat her like shit, Jules. You fucking control her.’

‘Shut up!’

‘She’s left you because you’re an arsehole. She loves me!’

‘Where is she then, mate? If she loves you so much? You’re a fucking loser if you think she’d choose you.’

‘What the fuck sort of man doesn’t give his wife any money? Checks her phone constantly? Tracks her? She hates you, Jules.’

‘What sort of man sleeps with his brother’s wife? Creeps into his house, fucking creeps around like a thief, weaselling his way in when my wife’s grieving? When she’s got no fucking clue what she’s doing because she’s on that many pills she can’t even remember to buy groceries?’

‘You hurt her!’ screamed Ned.

Julian wheezed then began to sob. He put his head between his hands. ‘I didn’t mean to. When we lost the baby, I didn’t mean to.’

Noah crossed the room and dropped to his knees. ‘Jules, it’s okay.’

‘It’s not fucking okay!’ Ned glared as Julian’s shoulders shuddered beneath Noah’s hand. Ned grabbed a jacket and, as he turned to go, Julian spoke. ‘She said she was embarrassed about what she’d done with you. As if she loves you, Ned. Jesus Christ.’

Ned and Julian locked eyes, years of rivalry and the fraught entanglements of brotherhood hovering between them. The room was thick with fury and heartbreak. Ned crossed to his drawers. He took out a sheaf of papers tied with string, dropped them into Julian’s lap. ‘She wrote these to me.’ Then he picked up his jacket and left.

Julian stared at the letters. Noah moved to get up, to follow Ned, but Julian grabbed his arm. ‘Don’t go. My head feels like it’s exploding.’ He tugged at Noah’s arm. ‘Please, Noah. Please don’t leave me. I can’t be on my own.’

59

NOAH

NOW

‘Zip me up, babe, will you?’ Sophie was in a tiny blue dress with shoestring straps. It hugged her curves like cling wrap. Noah tugged and the zip closed grudgingly. She stepped into some vertiginous green high heels and flicked back her hair.

‘What do you think?’ She twirled, eyes on the mirror, turning this way and that, peering closely to remove what might have been an eyelash.

‘You look really nice.’

‘No-ee!’

He flinched, confused by the irritation in her voice.

‘Nice?’ she said.

‘Um, lovely. Really lovely.’ He was so tired. Everything was a puzzle with Sophie. He was terrible at human puzzles. The jigsaw kind was fine.

‘I look sizzling hot!’ She jutted one hip forward and he gave her a smile. ‘That’s what you meant, wasn’t it?’

‘Yeah. Of course.’ He was preoccupied with Alfie, and his sad eyes. His disappointed face when Noah had given the wrong answers to his questions.

‘Babe, what’s wrong? You don’t seem yourself.’ Sophie rubbed his arm and smiled at him. ‘Something’s up. What is it?’

Her lips were a perfect cupid’s bow beneath a button nose, features he once imagined might only be found on an American cheerleader. Sophie was going to be his wife. This thought startled him. How did they get here? Why did she even like him? They had so little in common, apart from both being vegetarian and a love of bushwalking.

‘There’s something I need to tell you.’

‘What?’ She frowned.

He looked down at his boots.

‘Babe, what is it?’

He took a deep breath. ‘I know I said I didn’t want kids, but—’

‘You’ll like the ones we have. Other people’s kids are hideous.’ She gave a small laugh but seemed to regard him warily.

‘Right. Well, I might have a … a nephew, but—’

‘Nephew?’

‘You remember that boy we met on the street with Emilia? Julian’s ex-wife.’

‘Yeah.’ She sounded hesitant.

‘Well, he might be Ned’s.’

Sophie made a huffing sound and looked surprised, pleased almost. ‘Ned’s?’

‘It’s likely.’

‘You want to explain?’

Noah exhaled. He wanted Ned to be here. He wanted to be talking to Alfie; to be having conversations about animal habits. To see his brother in the face of the boy.

‘Look, it’s complicated. Emilia’s trying to figure it out too. But what if he’s Ned’s? It means, biologically speaking, he might as well be my son. I mean, Ned and I had the same DNA. He might need me around.’

Sophie took his hands. ‘That’s …’ she shrugged and frowned. ‘Wow,’ she said finally.

‘Wow, what?’

‘It’s hard to take in, that’s all. Emilia’s not certain he’s Ned’s?’

‘She thinks he is.’

Sophie seemed suddenly tired of the conversation. He tried to understand how this would make her feel but was distracted by her eyelashes. They were extremely long today. Much longer and fluffier than usual.

‘This whole thing is so wrong,’ she said, fiddling with her engagement ring. ‘Have you talked to your parents about it?’

‘Not yet. I thought I’d try to talk to them tonight.’

‘Maybe you should think this through. Emilia was still with Julian when she got pregnant, right?’

‘Sort of, but she left at about that time.’

‘You can’t humiliate your parents by claiming he’s Ned’s if you don’t know for sure.’

‘I—’

‘Just say he’s Julian’s. That makes everyone happy.’

‘But …’

‘Don’t look so confused. It’s easy. Surely Julian left some money. Your grandfather’s money was divided between the three of you, wasn’t it? I bet probate isn’t through yet on Julian’s will. The kid would inherit millions. That would solve a lot of problems.’

‘Soph, I can see you’re trying to help, but—’

‘But what, babe? It’s obvious. He gets a legitimate father and a fortune. And really nice grandparents who can still hold their heads up in town. Imagine if you say he’s Ned’s. How’s that going to make them feel? They’ve lost two sons. You want them to lose a third because he turns out to be an arsehole who goes around ruining the good names of his dead brothers?’

‘Soph! That’s hardly fair!’

‘What did Julian ever do to you that was so bad? You didn’t even help him when he needed you.’

‘What?’

‘You told me he was an alcoholic. Did you ever step in and say, “You need to go to rehab, Julian?” Did you ever do the loving thing?’

‘No, but Jules wouldn’t have—’

‘It would have been hard, but that’s what someone who cared about him would have done.’

Noah rubbed his hand across his face.

‘Your dad is hurting, Noah. His son drove himself into a tree. Now you want to hurt him again by telling him Alfie belongs to Ned? He won’t get to grieve either of his sons in peace. Instead you’ll leave him with an image of his sons’ orgies with Emilia.’

‘What are you talking about? That’s awful! You can’t—’

‘I’m playing devil’s advocate, babe,’ said Sophie, calmly. ‘People are going to think it, so you have to be a step ahead when you’re planning how to message this thing.’

When he didn’t say anything, she gave a disappointed shrug.

‘Julian didn’t drive into the tree on purpose,’ he said. ‘He wouldn’t have done that to Mum, knowing what she’d been through already.’

‘Oh, open your eyes, Noah. You’re the one who said he was an alcoholic. You think he was happy with his life? Everyone says Emilia ruined him when she left. It was all downhill from there.’

‘It wasn’t her fault. She had to leave. He treated her badly.’

‘While she was sleeping with his brother.’ Sophie sniffed. ‘Sounds like she was the paragon of virtue.’ She rifled through her jewellery box for earrings. ‘Anyway, you can hardly be much influence from England. We’ll be there for years. Even if you want some sort of quasi-parent role, which is absurd. An absent parent is worse than no parent at all. I should know.’ She met his eyes in the mirror, then put her fingernail to the edge of her mouth, fixing some invisible spot. Her lips were red and full. Perfect.

‘Two or three years in London. That’s what we agreed,’ said Noah. ‘It’s not that long. I can travel back every few months. He could come over to us in school holidays.’

‘And what if I make partner after three years and they sponsor us to stay? I’m not turning down a million-pound-a-year job to come back here, am I?’ Anger flickered into something else in Sophie’s eyes and she looked away. She picked up her perfume, sprayed her wrist then dabbed her neck.

Noah’s chest was tight. Didn’t she like it here? What did she even mean—stay in London? He couldn’t speak. The air was sickly sweet. He needed to get out.

‘Give him the fairy tale, Noah. He’s a cute kid. He deserves a handsome, charismatic dad who died tragically in an accident and left him loads of money.’ She paused, tilted her head to one side. ‘You’ve got to admit, the timing of Emilia’s return is a bit suspicious; the Julian scenario probably works best for everyone.’

She smacked her lips together and turned to lay her palms flat on Noah’s chest. ‘You need to get ready for the big party. Go on.’

Noah trudged to the bathroom and closed the door with a careful click. He turned the lock and closed his eyes, his forehead pressed to the mirror. He pictured the faces of his parents and wondered if Sophie, with her skewed logic and twisted reasoning, might be right. Would it be better for Alfie if Julian was considered to be his father?

60

NOAH

NOW

The party was starting in an hour. Noah walked around the back of Sommersby House and into the kitchen. The French doors were open and he stood listening to the muffled sounds of conversations coming from out near the marquee; the bustle and buzz of activity before the big event.

Cynthia appeared in the kitchen and smiled. ‘Noah. Great. I’ve got some tables that need to be moved.’

‘Can I talk to you for a minute, Mum?’

‘Er, I’m—’

‘Cynthia?’ A loud female voice echoed towards them.

‘In here.’

A middle-aged woman appeared. ‘Oh, hello, Noah!’ She beamed at him and Noah remembered, after an uncomfortable blank moment, that she was Eve Swindon who owned the pub.

‘Let me take those. Thanks, Eve.’ Cynthia took the box from Eve’s hands. ‘I just need to help Noah with something, and I’ll be back to set out the glasses.’

‘Right-o.’ Eve bustled away and Cynthia beckoned Noah into the closest room—Patrick’s office—and shut the door.

‘What is it?’ asked Cynthia.

How to begin? The parts of their lives involving Emilia and Ned had been so painful that they had coped by not talking about them. Burying feelings of despair, loss and anger beneath a sheen of civility and sustained activity. Julian’s grief over Ned had made him louder, more manic. He drank more. Their mother worked harder and withdrew. Their father worked, cycled, played golf, chaired meetings.

Now, Noah stuttered over his thoughts. ‘Alfie. Emilia’s son. I need to talk to you, and Dad, about … him.’

His mother’s face was still, but her eyes darted about. It meant she was nervous; when he was growing up she had often been like that, leaping ahead in her mind to find suitable paths through the maze of their father’s domineering affability.

‘When she left, she was pregnant,’ said Noah.

Cynthia gave a slight nod.

‘It’s possible he belongs to Ned,’ said Noah.

Cynthia said nothing.

‘You knew?’

‘I guessed.’

Noah couldn’t read her. He tried to think this through. ‘He needs to be in our family.’

‘Your father is seeking a custody arrangement. On the basis he was Julian’s.’

‘You can’t let Dad be … you can’t let him—’

‘Noah.’ Cynthia placed her hand on his cheek and closed her eyes. ‘We can talk about this later. We have a house full of people.’

‘Dad can’t be a big part of his life, Mum. He’ll destroy the best of him. Ned wouldn’t …’ But he couldn’t find the words.

Cynthia searched his face. ‘Ned’s gone, Noah.’

He frowned. Why was she saying this to him of all people? He felt his brother’s absence, lived it, more than anyone. Half of him was gone too.

‘Ned is not here to be his father,’ she said.

‘Neither is Julian.’

‘Exactly.’

Noah wasn’t sure what she was trying to tell him. He wanted the best for the boy. He wanted to give him the world. ‘Has probate gone through on Julian’s will?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Maybe that’s for the best then. If Alfie can have the money.’

‘You think Emilia’s here for the money?’

‘No.’

‘No,’ said Cynthia. ‘I don’t expect she is.’

‘I wasn’t talking about Emilia. It’s Alfie. They’ll need a house of their own. An education. Emilia doesn’t have much. It doesn’t seem fair.’

Cynthia nodded. ‘We need to care for him. How best we do that is the question.’

Noah tensed, waiting to see if she had the answer. She opened her mouth, but without warning the door was flung open. Pat stopped, frowned. ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he said to Cynthia. ‘I need you out there. What’s going on?’

‘Nothing,’ said Cynthia. ‘Let’s finish preparing then we can have a drink before the guests arrive.’ Her eyes were pleading with Noah, and usually that would have been enough. He’d seen his mother smooth things over his whole life, walk on eggshells around his father to keep the peace.

A desire to steer the ship straight into the storm overcame Noah; a wilful crack in his usual temperance. ‘We were talking about Alfie.’

Pat frowned. ‘It’s hardly the right time.’

‘It never will be, Dad. I need you to know, Julian isn’t—’

‘I don’t have time for this.’ Anger was brewing in Pat’s face. Noah could at least read this. He’d spent his childhood avoiding these exact moments.

‘Dad, you need to listen.’

The air was thick between them, and Cynthia hovered nervously.

Noah said, ‘Ned was in love with Emilia. It wasn’t his fault. He—’

Pat raised his palm. ‘If you’re about to tell me Ned bedded that little slut, I don’t need you to spell it out. Yes, Ned ruined his brother’s marriage. It was obvious what was going on. Do you think I’m blind?’ Flecks of spittle landed on the floor. Pat’s barely contained fury showed in the white patches on his knuckles, curled tightly around a roll of paper. ‘Ned is dead. We’ve all suffered because of his weakness. But I won’t have Julian’s name ruined because you want to tell everyone that Alfie is Ned’s. Why would you ruin the memory of Julian for that? What’s the point? You’re a selfish bastard if you think that’s going to do any good. Even the boy’s mother isn’t doing that, and nobody ever accused her of being sensible.’ His lips curled and he gave a huff of amused condescension. ‘So, what does that make you?’

He looked pointedly at Cynthia. ‘I’ve got a large function that has taken a year of my time to organise starting in about thirty minutes. I’d appreciate some help.’

She nodded.

‘Stop being a martyr, Noah. And put on some decent clothes. Why that gorgeous woman wants to marry you, I have no idea.’ Pat marched out leaving the door wide open.

61

ALFIE

NOW

‘I’m ready.’ I walk into the living room wearing my best jeans and jumper. Granny Pen stops rummaging in the cupboards and turns to face me. Mum stares from the sofa.

‘Are you coming to the gala party?’ asks Granny Pen.

‘No, he’s not,’ says Mum, looking at me with her cross face. ‘I was going to come with you, Mum, but I’ve cancelled Alfie’s babysitter now, so we’ll be staying here. You weren’t feeling well, Alf. That was a miraculous recovery.’

‘I didn’t think children were allowed at the party,’ says Granny Pen.

‘That’s obviously not applicable in my case,’ I say. ‘And I’m feeling much better now.’ I open my eyes wide and smile so they can see my healthy pallor and positive demeanour. I do feel fine plus I need to go to the party. There will be important people there and Operation Tadpole is not over. Not even close. Nobody has yet owned up to anything and I need to speak to Cynthia. She knows more than she’s saying, and she’ll probably be on my side if I get the chance to talk to her alone. Plus, I need information for my dossier.

‘Perhaps Zoe could still come to babysit?’ says Granny Pen to Mum. ‘Maybe they could go into town to get some hot chips. She has a car.’

‘I’m not letting an eighteen-year-old P-plater drive him around town. Are you out of your mind, Mum?’

‘That’s sensible parenting, Mum,’ I say. ‘I’ll come with you to the party instead. I’m a Heston-Blaise after all, so I’m sure Noah and Doctor Pat and Cynthia would want me to be there.’

Granny Pen looks surprised.

‘Obviously we don’t know for sure if my father was Noah or Julian, but we can work it out later.’

‘Noah?’ says Granny Pen, frowning at Mum.

I look at the clock. ‘Aren’t we meant to be there soon?’

Granny Pen jumps like a startled cat. ‘Oh! I am. Committee members are due there at five. I have to scoot.’

I feel like my chance might be disappearing. ‘We need to go to the party too, Mum. You should be proud of me for facing up to these things. It isn’t easy to find out about your potential fathers, or that one of them is dead.’ For a second, I think this might be pushing it one step too far. Mum is still angry at me for running off, but Mum doesn’t really have a leg to stand on, with all the lying she’s done throughout my entire life.

Granny Pen is hesitating, looking between me and Mum. ‘I’ll just go and get changed.’ She picks up a pile of clothes and heads towards her bedroom. Now that she’s gone, it’s possible Mum will yell at me, but instead she looks at me for ages.

‘Fine. We’ll go. But don’t go around spouting off about all your potential fathers. It doesn’t look good.’

‘All my potential fathers? I thought it was only Julian or Noah.’

Mum’s face goes all shifty. The air between us feels thick, but I don’t look away.

She looks at her wrist and scratches at it. ‘You won’t like the food tonight, so you’d better have a bowl of pasta before we leave.’ She puts a saucepan of water on to boil.

I decide it was a slip of Mum’s tongue about all the potential fathers. ‘Good idea.’ I keep my face normal, pretending I am not excited. Sometimes successful parent–child interactions are like poker. You can’t acknowledge when you’re winning, or you might blow the whole thing up.

I bend down to get the grater out of the cupboard. ‘I’ll do the cheese.’

62

NOAH

NOW

Out on the point, enveloped by the sound of crashing waves, Noah let his thoughts melt away. The breeze was cool, the twilight a balm for his confusion. When he opened his eyes, though, his thoughts tumbled back to his mother’s inscrutable expression, his father’s anger. He felt a sick anticipation about the party, not least because his mother had mentioned that Harper was coming. Apart from the brief encounter in his parents’ kitchen on his birthday, he hadn’t seen Harper since a month after Ned’s funeral. Ten long years.

If Ned were still here the three of them would likely slip off together halfway through the party. Or maybe not. Maybe in the decade that he’d never been around for, Ned would have become the responsible adult his father hoped for. As it was, Noah carried those expectations alone. He tried but mostly failed to be the person his father wanted. It had never felt like an attainable goal. The perfect son for Pat had been Julian, or at least the potential of Julian as a very young man. But things had gone awry and sent Julian on a trajectory out of Pat’s reach, as if his wet clay sculpture—his near masterpiece—had fallen on the floor and lost its shape, never to be remoulded into that almost perfect figure.

As Noah stood in the dark, a tang of salt spray in the air and the lights of Beggars Rock twinkling on the other side of the bay, it occurred to him again that Julian had been struggling for a long time before his accident, and that he really should have done more to help. A sharp pain caught in his chest; the failure, twice, to be there for his brothers. He twisted his head as a sharp sound crackled through the bushes—a wallaby or quoll. He watched the shadowy depths of the scrub wondering if the creature was watching back.

Once, in their early twenties, he and Ned had taken ecstasy. On that night he had experienced an all-consuming feeling of joy; a realisation he was at one with everything around him. He was a mass of cells, a warm ball of energy in harmony with every creature, every other cell on earth—and he’d been frightened at how good it had been. He promised himself never to do it again. Made Ned promise too, but both of them knew Ned would go back for more. Noah was happy enough glimpsing something real and attainable during that euphoric night. Something he could move towards without the danger of drugs. But Ned hated waiting. He was similar to Julian in that way; the wanting, the needing to go straight after what felt good.

It was the boy who was causing this displacement, this melee of feelings. His appearance felt like a miracle. As if all the mistakes he and his brothers had made were right in front of him yet transformed into something perfect, and Noah was the only one of them left to see. Alfie’s eyes had an energy about them, a depth that made the hairs on Noah’s arms stand on end. He was everything lost and everything still possible. He was beautiful and true and Noah knew from that one, drug-fuelled night nearly fifteen years ago that maybe you only get one chance at perfection. He was afraid of walking away from Alfie, but afraid that if he didn’t, he might not be up to the task.

63

ALFIE

NOW

There’s an old swing set at the edge of Cynthia’s garden. It’s lit up by some fairy lights twisted through the big trees. On the way up to Sommersby House, there were about fifty other trees along the driveway with fairy lights too. It was dusk when we came, and now that it’s properly dark I want to go to the front because it would look amazing. But I don’t move. I don’t want Mum to come back and find me gone, seeing as how she’s only had one glass of champagne so far and she doesn’t reduce her focus on parenting responsibilities until at least two glasses.

Doctor Pat hasn’t seen me yet and is surrounded by some men and I’m not sure if he would appreciate an interruption. Mum has gone to the toilet, and I’m here with a fizzy drink. I don’t usually get to drink them, but the choices were lemonade or soda water or orange juice, and I only drink apple as far as the juice family goes. The lemonade makes me burp. It feels like ants are running around inside my nose.

Harper comes out of the marquee. She is wearing nice black trousers and a fancy black shirt and is lighting a cigarette. ‘Shit,’ she says, when she sees me.

‘Hello, Harper.’

‘Don’t tell Aunty Rainn you saw me smoking, squirt. Okay?’

‘Why not?’

Harper breathes in really deep then blows a cloud of smoke back over her shoulder. ‘Because she’s a pain in the arse about it and I have to put up with her for another two nights since I changed my flight to stay for this friggin’ party.’ She looks over her shoulder at the marquee. ‘I’m going to hide up in the back corner of the garden so she doesn’t spot me. Catch you later.’ She walks towards the back fence near the ocean then Noah suddenly comes out of the darkness and they both stop and look at each other. Noah puts his hands in his pockets and Harper blows smoke sideways and they start talking, and she must have forgotten to hide from Rainn’s vicinity because they keep talking, even though anyone from the marquee could see Harper’s smoke clouds if they look out.

I’m about to walk to the swing set when an unknown man comes out of the marquee. He’s around middle-aged, considering the average life expectancy of a man in Australia is approximately eighty-two years and he looks halfway there. He is reading his phone while walking towards me, and before I can dodge the big spiky bush behind me or open my mouth to warn him, he bumps into me.

‘Oh! Sorry!’ He grins as if it’s the best thing to happen to him all day.

‘Apology accepted.’ I put out my hand as Mum insists I do with strangers. ‘I’m Alfred Edward Deegan Bains. But you can call me Alfie.’

‘Right. Well, Alfred Edward Deegan Bains, that’s a pretty great name.’ He cocks his head to one side and gives me his very wide smile again.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Oh, sorry, yes, I’m Pete. Pete Silverton. Peter Vernon Silverton, but I don’t tend to use the Vernon.’

‘I completely understand.’

‘You do?’

‘It’s not been a popular name, particularly in literature. Vernon Dursley in Harry Potter. Vernon God Little—although he wasn’t really the bad guy, but you know what I mean.’

Pete Silverton cocks his head to the side. ‘Do you often read Booker Prize–winning novels?’

‘I didn’t read it. Mum did and she gave me the synopsis. She said it wasn’t appropriate for me, but I’m obsessed with schoolyard murders, so I made her give details.’

‘I’ll remember that if I ever see you in the schoolyard. I’m the new deputy head at Beechley High. I teach science too. I moved here in January.’

‘We just moved here as well. Although we got here in March.’

‘Well, seeing as I’m an old hand compared to you, welcome to Beggars Rock.’ He smiles again.

‘I’d really like to go to high school at Beechley. I’m interested in mechatronics, so I’d like physics and computer studies.’

He raises his eyebrows. ‘How old are you?’

‘Ten. Nearly.’

‘Not long then. Sounds as if you’ll love it.’

All of a sudden I feel really, incredibly tired. As if I can’t continue this conversation’s natural trajectory about how I’m ready for high school now, only to have another adult tell me I’m too young. Pete Silverton must read thoughts or something, though, because he moves on to a brand-new topic.

‘What do you like to do, Alfie? In your spare time?’

‘Lego. And reading. And investigating the truth.’

‘The truth, hey? Is there always only one truth, do you think?’

Pete is looking at me as if he’s genuinely interested. ‘My friend Kevin says the truth depends on your belief system. He thinks something is true if it lines up with what you believe in, after looking at all the facts.’

‘Ah,’ says Pete. ‘The coherence model of truth. Interesting.’

‘But I think the truth is the truth,’ I say. ‘Things are what they are. Doesn’t matter whether someone believes it or not. Some people think the world is flat, but that doesn’t make it true.’

‘I guess it’s true for them,’ says Pete, smiling again.

‘But they could be proven wrong, with science.’

He tips his head to one side. ‘Science is very handy, yes.’

I can see Mum over his shoulder, talking near the tent. ‘Are you married, Pete Silverton?’

He frowns. ‘Single, I’m afraid, for the last three years.’

‘How old are you?’ Mum is walking quickly towards us. His frown has turned into a weird sort of grimace, like he wants to ask me a question. I’m running out of time so I head this off. ‘You asked me my age before, and I told you. Quid pro quo.’

‘Fair enough. I’m forty-one.’

Bingo, Alfie! Pretty much exactly middle-aged. ‘What’s your opinion about increasing the taxes paid by big corporations and giving more tax help to blue-collar workers?’ I half-whisper this as Mum is nearly behind him.

‘Um, okay. Fine. Good idea.’ He squints at me exactly as Mum arrives. He gives her that enormous smile and she smiles back, which is a good sign. She says, ‘Hi,’ then, ‘Alfie, the speeches will start soon. We should go in.’

‘This is Pete Silverton, Mum,’ I say. ‘He’s forty-one.’ I turn to him, ‘This is my mum, Emilia Deegan Bains. She’s thirty-five and also single and she is interested in the politics of the socialists in Scandinavia. She likes dark Lindt chocolate balls, in case you ask her on a date and want to bring a successful gift.’

‘Alfie!’ Mum sort of laughs but gives me the stink eye. I knew she’d be annoyed—she always is when I introduce her to a potential new stepfather for me. Last time she made me promise never to do it again after she found out her date thought Donald Trump was an excellent president, which is the opposite to Mum’s view. How was I supposed to know? The guy drove an electric car and said he was an atheist. So I’ve changed my approach, which explains the question about taxes. And I have a good feeling about Pete Silverton. But even if I didn’t, it wouldn’t matter. I have to find her someone to talk to so I can disappear for a while. I need to get into either Cynthia’s or Pat’s office to dig through their drawers. There should be photographs. I might find out more about Noah, and maybe some proof he’s my father. It’s possible there are big similarities between us at the same age. Same for Julian. I might read old school reports, or letters they wrote. But unless I find Mum someone interesting to talk to, I won’t get very far.

I move towards the tent and they both follow. ‘Would you like something from the bar, Pete Silverton? I think my mum was about to get a drink.’

He gives me that smile again. ‘How about I go and get them then.’

‘Okay, she’ll have the champagne, as long as you’re paying. Otherwise, the cheapest white wine on the menu, please. Right, Mum?’

Mum doesn’t say anything but she flicks a weird look at Pete.

‘Luckily for both of us, it’s free,’ he says.

‘Champagne would be great, thank you, Pete,’ says Mum.

He goes off and I say, ‘He seems very nice. I need the loo. Which way is it?’ Even though I know where it is.

She raises an eyebrow. ‘Past the kitchen on the left. Want me to show you?’

‘No, thanks. I’ll find it.’

‘Alfie?’

‘Yeah?’

She looks at me, eyes narrowed, mouth twisted to one side. It’s her I’m onto you, young man glare. Then she says, ‘I’ll be right here. Don’t be long.’

I am fully aware that Mum smells a rat. I don’t care. I smell one too, and my rat is way bigger. Mine is like the giant Gambian pouched rat I saw on YouTube. They get trained to sniff out land mines and tuberculosis from lab samples, just so they can have a nibble of banana from their handler. My giant rat is a force for good too. I’m not going to find tuberculosis or land mines, but my rat and I are going to win this battle. The success of Operation Tadpole depends on it, and if all I get at the end is a banana nibble, that’s okay, as long as I find out the truth about my father. I don’t care about anything else.

64

PENNY

NOW

So far everything had gone to plan. When the premier arrived, Pat introduced him to the entire committee. They knew each other from university days, which didn’t surprise Penny. For all she knew, the premier had been on Pat’s old football team, or at his fancy private school. That was how it was with old Tasmanian money.

Outside, under the marquee, everyone had enjoyed the finger food. Penny was now sending out the waitresses—four high school girls with a startling number of piercings—with dessert.

A curated playlist of classical music was being piped through speakers while the musicians took a break. Soon it would be time for speeches. A photographer was snapping small groups of people and writing down names. She’d have to ask for copies for the historical society newsletter.

Rainn lingered near the fireplace at the side of the kitchen. As Penny handed a tray of dessert bites to one of the young waitresses, she caught Rainn watching, trance-like, from across the room. Her sister was resplendent in a floaty, floral dress that made no allowance for the cool weather. It hugged her waist and cleavage and she radiated beauty. It must get tiresome, people always looking at you.

She took a plate of dessert to her. ‘Rainny?’

Rainn’s expression was artificially bright; something was wrong. Penny had seen her in enough terrible moments to know her sister had a rare ability to wire her emotions together in public. It was the actress in her, honed and practised.

Rainn gave her a brief, dismissive smile. ‘Mmmm?’

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Penny.

‘What could be wrong?’

It was the condescending half smile that did it. Penny was practised too, she realised. A practitioner in reading her sister’s excellent deceptions. She’d only had two champagnes, but it was enough that she didn’t care if she sounded like a nag.

‘Something’s wrong. Out with it.’

Rainn sighed and pulled her into a corner. ‘You think you know me, Pen, but you don’t. I haven’t been happy for ages with Simon. He’s hard to live with.’

‘Why?’ asked Penny, truly wanting to know, given her radar had been so wrong with Emilia. Was he treating Rainn badly?

‘He’s, oh—I don’t know—dull. Unable to give me what I want. He’s just boring!’

‘Boring?’ Penny echoed. ‘Boring?’ Anger flared in her, the heat of contempt coursing through her veins.

Rainn suddenly looked uncertain. ‘Yes.’

‘You’re telling me that you’re here, at the biggest event in the town’s history, looking lost and broken, because your lovely, considerate husband is too boring for you?’

‘Well—’

‘You’re having it off with Pat Heston-Blaise because Simon’s boring?’ A pulse thrummed in Penny’s neck.

‘Keep your voice down!’ Rainn hissed. She dragged Penny out the side door, her thumb digging painfully into Penny’s elbow.

Penny inhaled sharply. ‘You are the most selfish woman I have ever known. You’re a conceited hussy!’

Rainn gave a dismissive swipe of her hand. ‘Whatever. Just keep it down. You’re embarrassing yourself. I thought I could confide in you.’

‘Of course you can confide in me! But give me something worthy of my time. Something less inane and pathetic.’

‘Pat’s now fucking Leela Davidson. Will that do?’

‘What?’

‘He’s not returning my calls.’ Rainn sniffed. ‘I know he’s been seeing her. I followed them. I’ve been replaced.’ Her eyes filled with tears.

Penny sighed. ‘I see.’ All these competing emotions, all this drama. What on earth was Pat doing? Had he always been so awful? She hadn’t believed Hilary when she’d said those things about him. She’d thought Rainn might be a one-off and that it was Rainn’s fault. Perhaps Pat had needed a shoulder to cry on, after his shattering year. But Hilary must have been telling the truth about his serial womanising. Why had she been so quick to lay all the blame on Rainn? What did that say about her?

‘You followed them?’ Penny’s brain was finally catching up. Hopefully Rainn wasn’t turning into one of those bunny boilers. She wouldn’t put it past her.

‘Three times. He takes her to Julian’s house, and late one night into the surgery. It’s very uncomfortable on that examination table the way he likes it, I can tell you.’ Rainn fiddled with a fingernail then looked up. ‘Why are you looking at me like that? Don’t be such a prude.’

Penny walked numbly back to the kitchen and filled a mug from an open bottle of wine. She took three large gulps to banish the unwelcome mental image of Pat’s naked buttocks in his consulting room. And then the realisation struck her—the man was an utter sleazebag. Perhaps that was why his wife kept to herself so much. If Rainn and Hilary and now she knew that Pat was a cad, then others must too. Cynthia must know people were talking about her husband’s antics behind her back. It would be Penny’s worst nightmare. She found herself with a newly uncomfortable sensation: a deep sense of sympathy for Cynthia. That poor woman. Two sons tragically taken but also, this.

65

CYNTHIA

NOW

Amid the buzzing swell of conversations in the marquee came an unmistakable sound amplified through the speakers: the clinking of a spoon on glass. Patrick was on stage.

Cynthia sipped her drink, her first for the night. Deep breath. She wanted to relax, but seeing her husband up there made her tight with apprehension. Why, she couldn’t exactly say. He was an excellent public speaker, and everything had been planned to a tee.

She noticed Patty Peel at the edge of the stage, sitting on the seat of her walking frame next to her daughter, Sally. Patrick grinned at the crowd like an American talk show host and the waves of chatter slowly ebbed.

Patty Peel and the new chap, the deputy principal of the local high school (Paul? Peter?), had been chosen to share the stage with Pat and the premier. It had been Lucy Perkins’ idea—the oldest and newest residents of Beggars Rock would speak for a minute or two about living in this unique place. Where was that teacher fellow? Cynthia craned her neck. Lucy was in charge of getting them onto the stage.

‘Good evening, everyone!’ Patrick scanned the crowd expectantly as the chatter ceased. ‘A huge welcome to all of you. And welcome to Sommersby House. First, I’d like to introduce Mandy Burgess who will give a welcome to country.’

Pat gave the microphone to a woman from Smithton who spoke about the Palawa who had lived on the north-west coast for tens of thousands of years. As the minutes ticked by, only Cynthia would have detected the glint of irritation beneath Pat’s smile. He hated sharing the limelight and, beneath it all, she knew he found this part of proceedings an unnecessary distraction. Mandy Burgess’s words were warm and inclusive, mentioning the unique properties of the extinct volcano that was the Rock and how the animal and birdlife gave this place a special heart. Given that the evening was largely to celebrate a white man’s ascendance to rule land that had been savagely stolen from her forebears, Cynthia marvelled at how gracious she was.

‘Thank you, Mandy. Mr Premier, distinguished guests, fellow committee members of the Beggars Rock Historical Society, members of our terrific community—welcome everyone to this special centenary celebration of the election of our very own Beggars Rock local, Mr Joseph Fleming, who on this day one hundred years ago became Prime Minister of Australia.’ Applause began, but Patrick held up his hand and continued. ‘Joe Fleming was widely regarded as one of the best leaders in the history of our nation, and not only did he prove what Tasmanians are made of, he showed the world what this wonderful town is capable of producing!’

There was an eruption of applause.

‘As you know, tonight we are honoured to have as our special guest Tasmania’s current premier, Mr Henry Lewisham. Henry and I have known each other for many years, and he was only too happy to join us on this momentous occasion. Beggars Rock was a hub of commerce for the new colony of Van Diemen’s Land two centuries ago, and this very place was the home of the man who was in charge of the company who largely controlled the entire north-west of our great state back then.’

Cynthia sipped her champagne, well knowing how thrilling this moment was for her husband, and how uncomfortable for her. Yes, they owned the most historically important house in the region; yes, they had returned it to its former glory, ensuring every lintel, every cornice, every rock in the drystone walls that surrounded the old stables and edged the manicured gardens had been restored. But the man who had commissioned this home in the 1840s had also overseen a shameful era in their history. Every time Pat gloated—albeit in his charming and self-deprecating manner—about their home and their dedication to maintaining it for future generations, a small part of her cringed.

Applause erupted again and the premier climbed onto the stage. He thanked the committee and the town for ensuring the heritage significance of Beggars Rock was recognised, and he talked about Prime Minister Joseph Fleming, who had been born in a tiny cottage on their very own main street. Then, after a few more words, Patrick joined him and they ‘unveiled’ the man of the moment, Joe Fleming, by projecting a photo onto the screen at the rear of the stage. It showed Patrick and the premier on either side of the new bronze statue of Joe Fleming located in a garden bed on the main street. A lump of metal—albeit beautifully sculpted by a local artisan before being cast—that had cost tens of thousands and taken years of fundraising.

Rapturous applause filled the marquee and Cynthia gulped the rest of her champagne. Mrs Peel was now being helped off her walking frame and onto the stage by the new teacher. The old woman grasped the microphone. ‘I was born here, and I’ll die here,’ she croaked, rather more loudly than Cynthia had expected. ‘I’ve told my boy, Shane, I want that plot in the cemetery right up the top corner next to the fancy Wellesley family and I don’t care that Mayor Smith says it’s taken. I reckon with all the fish I gutted down at the wharf freezing my tits off when you lot were in nappies, I earned that view.’ Laughter fluttered through the crowd.

Cynthia reached for a fresh glass of champagne. Patrick, his jaw tight from smiling, said in his most charming voice, ‘Mrs Peel, you are a wonder! And to finish, what’s your most vibrant memory of Beggars Rock?’

She moved her jaw about and for a terrifying moment, Cynthia thought she was taking out her teeth. Instead she said, ‘You think Joe Fleming’s the bee’s knees because he got to be prime minister. Well, it’s true, he knew how to shoot a wallaby and clear a bush block, so he was a capable fella. But I remember waitressing some big dinner party when I was young. He invited all them bigwig ministers and businessmen into town, here.’ Mrs Peel paused. ‘He asked my name when I served the pineapple upside-down cake, and at the end of the dinner he thanked us staff, using our names. Except he called me Mary instead of Patricia. I’ll never forget it. Mary. They’re not even similar.’ Mrs Peel was now staring into the distance. ‘Mary …’ she said in wonderment. ‘Such a plain name and I was the prettiest. You couldn’t forget me.’

Patrick gently prised the microphone from her grip, patting her arm. He guided her towards her daughter at the side of the stage and handed the microphone to the teacher. ‘Hello everyone, I’m Pete Silverton. Mrs Peel, you’re a hard act to follow.’ He was smiling sincerely at her. ‘Since I barely knew anything about Joe Fleming before I arrived in Beggars Rock in January, I’d say your few words are far more interesting than mine could ever be.’ The crowd gave an appreciative cheer.

‘I’ll keep it brief. Thanks for such a fantastic welcome since I arrived from Melbourne. You’re a friendly bunch and, having travelled a fair bit, I have to say that you live in what might be the most beautiful part of the world.’ Another cheer went up.

‘I’m excited to get to know you all and the kids from Beechley High.’ He paused, then scanned the crowd, stopped, nodded, then continued. ‘But I’ve been invited to speak as the newest newcomer to town under false pretences.’ The crowd quietened at this unexpected turn.

‘Earlier tonight I met the most recent newcomer to Beggars Rock, and I have to say, I haven’t come across such an interesting person for a long time. He’s smart, he’s articulate and he’s someone you want to know. So if Patrick doesn’t mind, I’d like to invite onto the stage a young man by the name of Alfie Bains. Your newest Beggars Rock resident.’

The crowd clapped and Cynthia’s heart clenched. What was the man doing? Asking a nine-year-old to come up on stage? Did he expect poor Alfie to speak?

Alfie bounded up the stairs and Patrick’s face froze, but then he smiled and put his arm around his grandson. Her husband was an excellent actor. Pete Silverton handed Alfie the mic.

‘Hello, I’m Alfred Edward Deegan Bains. My mum grew up here and we are probably going to live here now but we haven’t completely decided.’ He gave a hesitant half smile.

‘Tell me, Alfie,’ Patrick said, ‘how are you liking our lovely town so far?’

‘It’s very interesting. You have some unique animal species I’d like to study.’

The audience laughed and Patrick nodded. Cynthia could almost see his chest swelling with pride as he said, ‘For those of you who don’t know, Alfie is my grandson and we’re so proud to have him back where he belongs. Anything else you’d like to add, my boy?’

Alfie frowned, then chewed his bottom lip. ‘Yes. I think it’s unfortunate we’ve added one more public statue of a man to Australia’s already unbalanced proportion of statues representing men. Did you know that in Australia there are more statues of animals than there are of women?’ Alfie regarded Patrick with wide-eyed seriousness. Pat’s mouth opened but nothing came out.

Alfie continued. ‘I think only around four per cent of statues are women, which is a bit misogynistic. Also, there are hardly any statues of First Nations people.’

‘I …’ For the first time in Cynthia’s memory, Patrick was seemingly stuck for something to say.

Alfie put the microphone closer to his mouth. ‘And also, Prime Minister Fleming had a clever wife who was the first female member of parliament in Australia, and that was after she’d had twelve kids, and so her pelvic floor would have been shot because my mum says hers was shot after only one kid …’ Alfie’s next words were drowned out by laughter, and he looked with mild bemusement out at the crowd.

Patrick was reaching for the microphone. He gave Alfie’s scalp a vigorous rub. ‘Well, we certainly have an outspoken newest resident to Beggars Rock! And such big concepts for such a small boy! His mother’s raised quite the character and he’s just as smart as his father.’ Patrick forced a laugh now, his eyes laser-focused on Emilia who had made her way to the front, only a few metres from Alfie. People were following Pat’s gaze. ‘I know Julian would have loved to have been here to help his son gain a bit more perspective on world affairs. Julian would have been so proud of his boy. Wouldn’t he, Emilia?’ Patrick held her gaze and Cynthia could almost see the blood draining from Emilia’s face. The audience fell quiet, knowing from the weeks of gossip since Emilia’s arrival that there was at least some ill-feeling between the families. Every eye in the room, including Alfie’s, was fixed on Emilia. After a long beat she gave the slightest nod.

Alfie’s face dropped. He looked in confusion between Pat and his mother, then his eyes searched the crowd and landed with obvious discontent on Cynthia. She knew what he was asking. He wanted the truth and, somehow, he knew this public declaration by Patrick was not it. He understood his search was being thwarted, right before his eyes, and now his mother was complicit. Cynthia could see the thoughts spinning inside Alfie’s head. You are lying. You are all lying to me. None of you are telling me the truth. Cynthia couldn’t move or blink; her heart torn by his distress. She wanted to hug him, tell him everything; instead, she looked away.

Alfie pushed past teacher Pete and ran off the stage. At the edge of the marquee, there was a drinks table where Cynthia stood, and next to her was a gap between a pole and the canvas. Alfie ducked around a couple in front of her and she caught his eye. Tears glistened on his face. He bolted past, knocking glasses off the table, then squeezed through the gap and out into the night.

66

PENNY

NOW

No wonder Alfie was upset. He was well able to recognise he was being publicly patronised, and Pat had humiliated him. How dare Pat guilt Emilia into saying Julian was Alfie’s father. It was preposterous. What if he wasn’t?

From her position behind a speaker, Penny had watched Emilia chase after Alfie. The crowd had been quickly distracted from the spectacle by the lively swing music and a few brave couples had taken to the floor.

Nobody paid Penny any attention. Conversations swirled in and out of her hearing.

That boy … so funny … his mother ran off leaving poor Julian … But didn’t he put Pat in his place … a bit of a brat … his grandchild … I hear she had an affair …

Penny’s anger simmered. The gossip would be endless. Pat’s ego had taken a battering when Alfie challenged him about the statue. And when you thought about it, they probably should have a statue of the wife, Edna Fleming. That poor woman—left alone to raise twelve children and still energetic enough for a parliamentary career! They should have made her a bust from gold!

The band began playing a jazz number and a woman next to Penny pulled her reluctant husband to his feet and joined the growing throng. Others drifted to the bar then out onto the lawns, lit from a dozen old elm trees strung with fairy lights. Pat and the premier and a couple of other older men came into view as another group moved away. They were holding out glasses to a waitress who was filling them with red wine.

Penny had no formed intention of speaking to the men, but that third mug of wine after her chat with Rainn now filled her with a righteous sense of outrage. Pat was so insufferably self-important. The cheek of him to treat her grandson so poorly when the boy had simply pointed out some obvious (and misogynistic!) facts.

Penny picked up a glass of white from the bar then pushed into the circle of men. Pat stopped speaking, mid-sentence, startled. For a fraction of a second there was an awkward silence, then Pat smiled. ‘Penny, how lovely of you to join us. You’ve already met the premier; Henry, you remember my colleague on the committee, Penny Bains. And these two gents are Gregory Pinder and Harvey Wong, from the tourist board.’

‘Hello,’ she said, barely looking at them. She turned to Pat. ‘I’ve been thinking about those statistics …’ She paused and took a large gulp of wine. Through a gap in the men’s shoulders she spied Noah. Such a sweet boy. (She’d found him fixing her fence last month where two sheep had gotten out. They weren’t even neighbours, or even that friendly. He’d found them wandering and brought them back. He was about to drive off when Penny had found him, without even telling her he’d fixed it.)

‘Statistics?’ prompted Pat, making Penny jump.

She gulped her wine then realised with disappointment the glass was now empty.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘The statistic Alfie mentioned about hardly any women being made into statues in Australia. I mean, it’s reprehensible, isn’t it? You know what they say, “Children can’t be what they can’t see.”’ She looked into the depths of her glass then at the premier, who was smiling at her as if she were a child.

‘Well, perhaps you could write a letter of complaint to the premier.’ Pat caught the eye of the tourist board men and they chortled. Penny’s ire flared. The premier, however, appeared to ignore Pat and give Penny’s statement serious consideration. Until she saw it. A sideways glance at the men. It was a reprimand, but not a serious one. It said, Stop it, you daffy old bastards. It was a chummy, old-school-tie, elbow-nudge of a look. The premier was on duty, and he needed to do the right thing. Later, gents, later we can all laugh about it. But not in front of her.

One of the other men beckoned to the wait staff and they held out their glasses again. The girl filled them, then turned to Penny.

‘Was yours riesling, Penny?’ the premier asked. ‘A riesling here, please,’ he demanded. Then to Penny, ‘It’s certainly something to consider. If those statistics are right, then we need to look into it.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Pat, turning on his solicitous face.

‘Why were you so rude to Alfie then?’ Penny looked at Pat while holding out her glass to the girl.

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Pat.

Penny sensed someone at her side.

‘Don’t call her silly, Dad. She’s right. You were condescending. You upset him.’

Pat hesitated, then said to the men, ‘This is my son, Noah.’ He turned back to Noah. ‘I’m sincerely sorry if I upset him. It was unintended. He’s a young lad who’s lacked a strong guiding hand, but we’ll soon sort that out, now that he’s home where he belongs.’

Penny blew her lips out in disgust. ‘That boy has been raised with love. That’s all that matters!’

‘Perhaps we can discuss this later. Noah, why don’t you show Penny your dance moves? It seems to be hotting up out there.’ Pat waved in the vicinity of the dance floor.

‘I don’t dance,’ said Noah.

‘Neither do I.’ Penny’s anger ballooned at this casual effort to be rid of her. ‘And how dare you force my daughter into publicly agreeing with you that Alfie is Julian’s son when that’s unlikely!’

‘Penny, this is neither the time, nor the place.’ Pat took her elbow and turned her away.

She shook it off. ‘This is the perfect time,’ she said. ‘I’m not saying he’s not your grandchild, only that the parentage may not be exactly as you hope. And if that’s the case, it’s Alfie’s information to know, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of. If Ned and Emilia were in love and accidentally conceived a child, then you just need to get your stuffy old head around it and come to the party!’ She swallowed a gulp of wine and wiped a splash from her chin.

‘Don’t you dare make public slurs about my sons,’ Pat fumed. ‘Neither boy is here to defend himself, and that silly twit of a daughter of yours is clearly unable to tell herself the truth, let alone anyone else. She deserted her husband when he needed her, a husband who adored her, and I will never forgive her for that. It’s her fault both my boys are in the grave and you bloody well know it!’ His face was puce. The other men had stepped back but were trapped by the bar.

‘Dad. Enough.’ Noah stepped forward. A head taller than his father, wild springy strands of hair jutting out disobediently, he stared down at Pat in total calm. ‘That’s incredibly unfair. Emilia is not the reason they’re dead. And if you need someone to blame, the person to blame is me.’

67

NOAH

ALMOST ELEVEN YEARS AGO, AUGUST

An unfamiliar sensation warmed Noah as he peeled open his eyes. Skin; a body against his back. An arm was slung across his hip and he closed his eyes again. Harper.

After Ned had taken off, Noah had driven Julian home; his brother was far too drunk to be behind the wheel. Noah made him drink some water and waited until he was asleep. Then he’d driven to the beach to see if Ned had gone back there, but the beach was empty, the fire burned out. Most likely he was out somewhere on the coast path, thinking. Maybe he would end up at their parents’ place. Or maybe he’d found Emilia after all, convinced her that he should leave town with her. None of these outcomes felt good but after an hour of looking, Noah had abandoned his search and driven home. Ned’s bedroom was still empty, and Harper still asleep in Noah’s room, despite the raised voices of earlier.

Now, his mind thick with sleep, the morning light trickling in, he inched his way up to sitting. Harper murmured and turned over. Her breath returned to an even, heavy rhythm as she slept on. He stared, unable to believe his luck as he took in the curve of her lashes, her beautiful face.

He reached out carefully and looked at his phone screen. Eight missed calls from Ned. He dialled his voicemail, listened to the voice of his twin. The phone clattered as it hit his bedroom floor.

68

ALFIE

NOW

Inside Cynthia’s brick shed at the bottom of the garden, I pull my emergency kit out from behind the bag of fertiliser. It contains my headtorch, my compass, a notebook and pen, insect repellent, sunscreen, a water bottle, cream biscuits, a can of spaghetti (with a pull top), a fishing reel, a can of sardines (for bait), three pairs of clean underpants, a small packet of tissues, ten band-aids, a booklet titled ‘Interesting Facts about Bhutan’, my dharma chakra that Kevin gave me when we left Ireland and a picture of Mum and me playing chess. I thought I had covered most bases, but now I wish I had packed a spare jumper, because I took mine off inside the marquee and it’s cold and spitting rain.

I heave the bag onto my back and close the shed door. The thing you realise as you age is that adults don’t necessarily act like adults all that often. You would think, as a rule, people with fully formed frontal lobes would be aiming for consistency and reliability and truthfulness. But as I approach my second decade, I’m learning to lower my expectations.

Most times, I am as considerate as possible to others, just in case I take up Buddhism in the future and discover that karma gets backdated. But I am no longer going to prioritise the emotional needs of others over my own, even if Mum’s brain will foreseeably combust from the panic I am about to cause.

I check the coast is clear then step across to Cynthia’s back garden gate that leads to the headland. I walk across the spinifex grass where the light reflected from the trees in her garden has almost disappeared. It’s black out here and the music and party noise blow away in the wind. My eyes are gritty and blurred, and my chest feels squashed. I take some slow breaths. There is no point saying ‘Caesars Palace’. There is no point in relying on anyone. At the edge of the cliff, I squat down and wipe my eyes and say a small mantra. Then I disappear.

69

CYNTHIA

NOW

Cynthia strode out onto the lawn and noticed movement at the far end. As she hurried towards the fence, a couple who had been smoking near her dahlia beds smiled and began hurrying towards the marquee. It was beginning to rain.

The perimeter gate at the end of the garden was open. Beyond it, near the cliffs she could make out the fruitless glow of a phone torch. She heard a high-pitched voice.

‘Alfie! Where are you? Alf! Answer me!’

‘Emilia? Did he go out this way?’

‘What if he’s gone over?’ Emilia’s voice was panicked, confused. ‘Where is he?’

‘The beach?’ Cynthia gestured to the entry point for the steps that Alfie had taken the first time he came to visit.

‘The tide’s in. He couldn’t go that way.’ Emilia was breathy, as if she might soon hyperventilate. ‘Alfie Edward! Alfie? Where are you?’ But her cry fell flat against the vast, black expanse of ocean.

‘Or perhaps the hill path.’ Cynthia turned to the narrow, hidden trail on their left. She thought, briefly, that Emilia knew this path, had walked it when she and Julian had lived in the cottage on the other side of the promontory. They must have done it more than once, surely? Although perhaps not. It was treacherously uneven, rocky and thick with overgrown vegetation. Lately, unused and neglected, its entry point was hard to spot.

Emilia swung the phone around but it barely lit a metre ahead. ‘Alfie!’ she yelled into the bushes, then to Cynthia, ‘Why would he go there? It’s dark! How would he even know about it?’

‘We need proper torches,’ said Cynthia, calculating their next moves. The boy was in danger out here on the cliffs. The rocks were slippery and a frightening thought began to niggle. She pulled apart the bushes that hid the path and stumbled as Emilia pushed past her.

‘Alf!’

‘Stop, Emilia! We need a search party. Torches. You’ll fall in those shoes.’

Emilia slowed, cupping her hands to her mouth. ‘Alfie! Where are you?’

The faint music from the garden tumbled together with Emilia’s fearful calls. Cynthia hurried back through the gate. From beneath a floodlit tree, Noah appeared.

‘Mum? Where’s Alfie? Did Emilia find him?’

‘We don’t know which way he went, but we need to stop her. She’s trying to take the cliff path towards Julian’s,’ said Cynthia urgently. ‘But we need torches and—’ She gasped. ‘I showed him Bluerock Cave the other day. Told him there was a path through the bush. What if he’s trying to get through?’

‘Shit.’ Noah looked past her shoulder. He ran to the gatehouse shed, although Cynthia knew he had not set foot in it since the night Ned died. Some essential part of Noah had died that night too. He was a twin, and without his twin, he felt only half alive. He had told her this one night, months after they buried Ned, when they had sat together in the garden. ‘It was never meant to be like this,’ he had said, so bleakly she felt he might crumble before her eyes. ‘It’s not just meant to be me.’

Now Cynthia yelled, ‘What are you doing? Noah?’

Noah was holding a solar lantern from next to the gatehouse door. He emerged from within, a coil of rope around his shoulder. ‘Get some torches,’ he said. ‘And get Harper. She’s the only one who knows the path as well as I do.’

70

CYNTHIA

ALMOST ELEVEN YEARS AGO, AUGUST

The first trill of a bird told her it was almost morning. Cynthia sat up. She had lain awake for hours, her head full of distressing thoughts: Julian and Emilia; Ned, who she had left last night in the huge attic bedroom that had been converted for the twins when they were young boys.

She shrugged on her dressing gown and made tea in the pot. Ned was an early riser and a creature of habit. Even with a hangover, she suspected he would be awake. Balancing the two mugs, she climbed the treacherous narrow stairs to the attic and tried to avoid the creakiest of the boards.

She dipped her head to avoid a beam and, squinting through the gloom, noticed the covers of Ned’s bed were rumpled. She continued down the centre of the room, avoiding the steeply sloping ceiling on each side. The bed was empty.

Cynthia placed Ned’s tea on the dressing table. She took a sip of her own and stared out the window at the rising sun. She should have closed the blind. He might have slept on. Although, perhaps he’d gone home. He was a grown man, after all. Twenty-six. It sometimes shocked her that the boys were grown up; that she’d been mothering for such a long time and still hadn’t got the hang of it.

There was a soft buzz. On the bedside table a phone screen lit up. She reached for it and her foot knocked something. An empty bottle clanked on the boards and rolled, stopping at the edge of the rug. Vodka. She stood it up, then stared at the phone. Ned must have left it behind, which was odd. He was so attached to the damn thing.

The message on the screen was from ‘Em’. Cynthia blanched. She pressed the screen and entered his passcode—Charles Darwin’s birth year he’d laughingly admitted, when she teased him once about evolution and the advent of the mobile phone—and the messages between them opened. She scrolled up and began at the first in the string of messages, sent at around midnight from Ned to Emilia.

Where are you?

I’m not coming back.

I’m coming with you. Are you heading to Devonport? The ferry?

You can’t come. Please Neddy.

I love you.

Where r u?

Em? I’ll go anywhere. I don’t care about any of his shit. Where r u? xxx

You’ve got to tell me where u r. We can live on the mainland. Please! Xx

Pls!!! I love you more than anything! Where r u??????

It can’t work. Don’t text me anymore.

I know you’re just saying that. Where r u???

I’ll come anywhere. xxx

I’m going alone. I don’t love you.

You don’t mean that.

Emi! Please! I know you don’t.

I mean it. It’s over Ned.

Then this one, sent after a silence of two hours.

I’m sorry

The heavy feeling in Cynthia’s chest became a prickling fear. Where was Ned? Her mug clattered onto the bedside table. As she ran down the stairs her nightgown threatened to trip her. She checked the guest bedrooms, the library, her study, the front patio where they had sometimes sat to welcome the dawn when the children were young. She ran across the garden, towards the cliffs. Her slippers must have fallen from her feet and her bare soles caught the spikes of grass and the cold squelch of sand. Nobody was at the cliffside. The place where Ned had sat last night was empty.

Seagulls wheeled in the sky above, the tide rumbled below, cold wind whipping at the waves. But there was no sign of Ned. She walked to the edge and looked down. Nothing. She retraced her steps, noticing the mad beating of her heart as she stood at the gate leaning on the post, hoping he had gone home, but fearing he had taken the bush track across the headland to Julian and Emilia’s house. Should she follow? Maybe she was too late already. She couldn’t let Pat become involved. He would never forgive Ned.

A surge of wind hit her back. The door of the gatehouse scuttled then flew open, the sound of the metal handle on the brick wall reverberating like a shotgun. She lifted her hand to close the door, except something had fallen onto the concrete inside. An old chair lay there, its back facing her, four feet pointing to the centre of the dark space where a shadow hovered above. Cynthia looked up at the same time her legs gave way and her breath stopped. She scrambled on her knees across the floor, screaming but nothing coming from her mouth. There was nothing except an explosion in her head, a cyclone of terror as she threw herself upwards and put her arms around his knees and pushed his bare feet, still warm, his shins and thighs upwards, heaving with a strength that would move a mountain. But she had to let go, to get the chair and set it right and as she desperately tried to lift him, to hold up her dead son in her arms, she screamed and screamed and later, after she had sat on Ned’s childhood bed and hidden away his phone and the terrible messages on it, Pat would tell her that when he found her, she was screaming at God. Screaming and swearing at him and demanding that he must take her too.

71

NOAH

NOW

Noah ploughed through the undergrowth, the narrow sandy track almost covered now by encroaching bushes and leaf litter. Overhanging branches sprang at him, but he barely noticed, one arm holding up the lantern, the other out in front, pushing aside gnarly vegetation, cobwebs, shadows.

The boy wouldn’t stand a chance out here. Could he really have come this way?

The path dipped and disappeared from sight at various points where bushes joined overhead and raised roots and bandicoot holes beneath his feet threatened to trip him. The smell of salt air mingled with the earthy damp scents of eucalyptus. Branches snapped, then ahead, Noah heard a sudden thump. He stopped. Something was crashing through the bush.

‘Alfie! Alfie?’

The noise receded to his left; a pademelon or some other creature disturbed in its foraging. The noise of the ocean surrounded him, competing with the jagged puffs of his breath. He listened a moment longer, then kept pushing ahead, the spikes of the saw-tooth banksia slicing at his hands, the rope slung across his chest catching on sticks, breaking branches. Some deeply entrenched map in his brain was guiding him; memories of a childhood spent exploring had been hardwired, so that he moved by intuition in the dark. Two teenage boys and later, with Harper, claiming this path, claiming the rocks and the cleared point where they’d talk and play cards; claiming the cave, where they’d climb onto the ledge and eat whatever Noah had remembered to bring, or hand a bottle around if Harper had brought one. But only if the tide was low; if the weather was good. They knew the perils of being out here on an angry night like this.

More quickly than Noah expected, the ocean path opened to a clearing. The promontory ended, curving back in and rolling down to paddocks, so that he found himself in the middle of his parents’ farmland. A flash of lightning; in the distance, the outline of Julian’s house, and closer, Hedley’s Ruin. Below it, where the curve of the coastline scooped back in to rocky beach, he glimpsed the ocean raging and receding against the cliffs that obscured the entry to Bluerock Cave.

He climbed through a barbed wire fence that lay a few metres beyond where the bushland stopped. He ran then clambered downhill across the rough, wet grass, sliding as the hill dropped away. At the other side of the paddock he continued running, ducked through another fence and skirted some rocks at the edge of the cliff. He slowed, looking for the cave path that would take him down the cliffside. He realised he must have missed it, as he was now too close to the ruin, which was lit briefly again by lightning. He turned back, looking for the rock markers below, almost impossible without a good light. It took another few minutes to find the overgrown path, and he had to concentrate on following it as the rain began to fall properly. Thunder rumbled above him, water pattering, then pelting, turning the hillside path to gritty mud. He slid, rocks crunching beneath his feet as he pushed through the final spiky tea-tree bushes and reached the shoreline.

He swiped the rain from his eyes and nose. The tide was high, waves surging against the rocks, the foamy liquid dragging at his feet before slipping back into blackness. He pitched the lantern towards the large rock that protected the cave entrance behind it. The rock was twice his height with a small patch of soil atop that held, against all the odds, a single banksia tree. He wedged his boots into the cracks, pleased now he’d forgotten his dress shoes. His grip would be solid. He needed both arms to pull himself up on the slippery surface, so he tucked the lantern under one arm and began to climb.

At the top of the rock he fixed the rope around the banksia’s gnarly old trunk then he stood and stared. A break in the clouds, a sliver of moonlight, but it revealed nothing he wanted to see. At the mouth of the cave below, the waves raged, white and frothy almost up to the height of its entrance. Between Noah and the cave, a whirlpool of deadly foam circled in, swirling at the rock face, smashing against it, before launching into the air. In slow motion, it receded, leaving the sand briefly on display, a false patch of land, a quiet moment, before surging in again.

Surely it was impossible for Alfie to have made it through a gap in the waves and scrambled up the rocks and into the cave before the water coursed back in to drown him. Noah threw the end of the rope down the side of the rock and put down the lantern, knowing he would need to jump and sprint with both hands free to pull him to safety on the other side. He would use his phone as a light if he made it.

He crouched, waiting for the next break in the waves. He turned his head, swiping at the freezing raindrops and blinked. A light. There was a tiny point of light beneath the rock shelf on his left. He blinked again, tried to make sense of it. ‘Alfie?’

He scrambled across the rock and dropped to his stomach, pulled himself beneath the shelf then straightened up into a large void. He pulled his phone from his pocket, fumbling for the torch app. ‘Alf?’

‘Yes.’ The boy held a headtorch under his own chin; a ghostly angel. They stared at each other, then Alfie said, ‘Cynthia told me it was like milk, but I didn’t believe her.’

The sound of the rain echoed inside the rock chamber and Noah took a deep breath and released it. He wiped his face; marvelled at how protected it was in here, how he’d forgotten about this part of the cave system.

‘The sea, I mean,’ said Alfie, as if Noah wasn’t keeping up. ‘I think it looks more like cream than milk.’

‘Yeah. It’s hard to believe.’

‘I cut myself,’ said Alfie.

Noah took his proffered hand and shined his phone at it. ‘Nasty. Does it hurt?’

‘A bit.’

‘Keep some pressure on it. Maybe use your shirt.’

‘I have a band-aid. But I might need you to do it.’ He dug in his bag and held one out.

Noah wiped his hands on his pants, unpeeled the band-aid and carefully wrapped the finger. The boy was shivering so he pulled off his jacket and wrapped it around him.

‘Usually I’m better prepared,’ said Alfie.

Noah nodded and checked his phone reception—one bar. He sent a text to his mother, asking her to drive to the ruin and pick them up at the top.

‘Want to talk?’ asked Noah. There was silence, but it didn’t feel strained.

The rain pattered, and beneath that was the roar of the waves. Noah felt the rightness of it, although his chest was still buzzing with adrenalin.

‘Maybe,’ said Alfie, eventually.

‘What do you want to talk about?’

Alfie put his torch into his lap, and in the darkness, Noah could barely make him out. ‘I’m sick of adults acting as if they own the rights to information.’

‘Okay.’

‘I don’t know you well, so I don’t know if I can trust you. But if we’re going to talk, I would prefer it if you didn’t tell me any lies.’

‘Fair enough.’

There was another silence. This one felt endless, though Noah had never been good at talking for the sake of it. The cold suddenly hit him, a shaft of wind against his wet back.

‘When I grow up and get a good job,’ Alfie said eventually, ‘I would like to buy Mum and me a house next to the ocean. You were lucky to grow up here.’

Noah felt a tight urge behind his eyes. Everything felt heavy. ‘Things aren’t always as good as they look from the outside. Having money, a big house, it doesn’t really make you happy.’ A sudden memory came to him, Ned in this cave, a box of chalk, pink and white, drawing onto the rock face. Ned laughing at Noah’s stickman artworks. Noah had been happy then.

‘I didn’t say money made you happy,’ said Alfie, ‘but it’s better than being poor. We’ve always been pretty poor. Although Mum says most of the world has less than us, so I’m not allowed to whinge. But I don’t recommend being poor, especially during the Irish winter when the heating really needs to be on but Mum gives you a hot water bottle instead.’

Noah’s heart wanted to break. He wanted to find Emilia and shake her and say, Why didn’t you write? Ask me for money? None of it was your fault.

‘I’m sorry that you didn’t have any backup. We’re your family. We should have been there for you.’

‘My mum has lied to me my whole life. I didn’t know I had a family here. I was angry at her when I found out.’

‘Don’t blame her, Alfie. Some things happened here that hurt her a lot.’ Noah was choosing his words carefully, aware he had promised not to lie, and knowing that, in any case, he had no real answers for the boy.

‘Why did she come to see you the other day? Is it because you’re my actual father?’

Noah forced himself to slow his mind, to allow the past in. From what Emilia had said, she’d discovered she was pregnant a month after Ned died, in Melbourne. She’d considered a termination but couldn’t go through with it. The idea of refusing to keep what was likely Ned’s baby, the only piece of Ned the world would still have, had been too much.

Noah had the eerie sensation that his twin brother was here with him, right next to him. His face tingled at the thought. ‘I had another brother called Ned. But nobody talks about him.’

‘Why not?’

‘I think we’re all afraid to because after he died we knew we should have looked after him better.’

‘Why did he need to be looked after? Was he a kid?’ asked Alfie.

‘No.’ Noah took a deep breath. ‘Do you know about depression, Alfie?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, Ned was diagnosed with depression. He had some experiences that affected him very badly. It made him vulnerable, I guess.’

‘Was he one of my possible fathers then?’

‘Only your mum can tell you that but, yeah, I think Ned was most likely your father.’ Noah waited, barely wanting to breathe in case he interrupted Alfie’s train of thought.

‘What happened to him?’

‘Ned really loved your mum and she really loved him, but one night something happened between them, and I guess he thought she didn’t love him anymore. He couldn’t keep going.’

‘What happened?’

Noah paused, unsure of how much to say. ‘Ned’s judgement was clouded by the depression. Then some things happened. It was too much for him. He … took his own life.’

‘Suicide?’ said Alfie, curiously.

Nestled into the darkness, Noah felt strangely sheltered from the world. And although he wasn’t sure what he should say, he’d started now, and this boy seemed wiser than his years.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Was I already born then?’

‘No.’

Alfie tapped at the rock in front of him. ‘You must have been extra sad when your other brother died too then. Being an only child isn’t that great.’

Noah looked up to the shadowy dips and bulbous formations on the ceiling of the cave, as if drips of molten wax had turned to rock. They cast eerie shadows in the dim light. He wondered how Emilia had raised this extraordinary boy on her own. ‘It was bad when Ned died,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to see my friends. Or anyone. I stopped going out. Then Julian … when his car ran off the road. I didn’t think it could happen again, not to both of them. But Julian was angry with the world. I guess it made him drive too fast. He wasn’t good on his own.’

From outside the rock shelf came a sound. Then a call, ‘Hello? Noah? Alf?’

‘Hello? We’re under here,’ yelled Noah, peering beneath the gap.

A torch beam pointed at them, then Harper slithered through.

‘Alf!’ She crawled towards him and hugged the boy hard. She sat back and wiped the rain off her face. ‘Bloody hell, Alfie, your mum’s having conniptions, thinking you were shark food! I remember now why I’m never having kids.’

‘Hello, Harper,’ said Noah.

She shined her torch at him. He shrank, but knew he deserved whatever Harper threw at him. He’d been the worst version of himself after Ned died, and she had been left to grieve alone. It wasn’t only Ned who abandoned her.

‘Harper loved Ned too,’ said Noah, looking at Alfie. ‘They were good friends. The best of friends.’

Harper’s nostrils flared. ‘But I was pissed off at him. For years. Doing what he did.’ She twisted her mouth to one side. ‘Now I just miss him.’

Harper lowered her torch and held Noah with her eyes. It made him hopeful. Maybe she’d forgiven him for the way he shut himself off after Ned died. He’d ignored her calls, hating himself for that one night of happiness with her when Ned had needed him; had been calling him, leaving messages, over and over. He told himself back then that she was to blame. But now he realised how stupid he’d been.

When he looked at Alfie, he wondered if the past could become something else if you let it. Maybe things could change. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

Harper shrugged. ‘Noah and Ned were the best friends I ever had.’ She took a jelly snake out of her pocket and offered it to Alfie.

‘Lucky you still have Noah, then,’ said Alfie, biting the head off the snake. ‘One friend would be enough for anyone.’

72

ALFIE

NOW

‘Mum?’

‘Yes, buddy?’ Mum is tucking in the doona so that my legs are straight and tight. She plonks herself down as if she’s as heavy as osmium. Osmium (Os) is twice as heavy as lead (Pb). They really need to update that expression, in my opinion.

‘Noah told me that he and Julian had another brother called Ned. He said Ned’s probably my father.’ I hold my breath, hoping Mum won’t tell me to go to sleep, on account of it being nearly midnight and way past my bedtime. And also, on account of the fact that she has so far evaded all opportunities to tell me about Ned, so I suspect this topic is off limits.

She nods. I wait, happy that she has finally given me this information, but sad that he is dead, and I can’t meet him. To be fair, I am no further behind than I was a couple of days ago, when I thought Julian was my best bet in the father department. Him also being dead was a total spanner in the works, as Kevin would say. The only good thing is that I’ve had time to get used to the idea of having an identified person as my potential father but also knowing that the identified person was dead. This meant I could adjust my expectations of the father–son relationship possibilities. Not down to zero, exactly. But maybe somewhere between 2 to 3 on a scale of 1 to 10. I have a good imagination so there were always some possibilities there.

Anyway, now, with Ned being dead too, it is basically different brother, same scenario.

‘I was in love with Ned,’ says Mum, sadly. ‘He would have thought you were the ant’s pants.’

‘Okay.’

She looks away. ‘I love you, Alfie Edward.’ She squeezes my hand then stands up and leans in the doorway.

‘Mum, Noah only said that Ned was most likely my father. And you said the other day you couldn’t be one hundred per cent sure who my father was.’

She sighs and looks hard at me. ‘I’m pretty sure it was Ned, mate.’

I chew the inside of my cheek until a piece of skin works its way off. ‘I wish we could ask at least one of my possible fathers to do a DNA test. But I guess if they’re both dead it’s too late. I think you need them to spit in a tube.’ I’m kind of mad about this. My imaginary father–son relationship is definitely going to suffer if I can’t focus on one brother or the other. Plus, there are bigger issues here. How can I complete my family tree without precise information? If I have children, they would want to know the name of their grandfather. I myself am very interested in correct data for these things.

‘Hmmm.’ Then after Mum’s stared at the carpet for ages she says, ‘You could probably ask Noah for some spit.’

73

CYNTHIA

NOW

Cynthia sank to the top step on her porch and considered what Alfie had told her. She moved her gaze from his abandoned bicycle on the lawn to his face. ‘I see.’

‘And Mum said that seeing as how Noah is going to live in England, it wasn’t fair to insist on him having a role in my life, because he has his life planned out. And also, I think she knows his fiancée hates me.’

Cynthia frowned and wrapped her dressing gown tightly around her as the wind whipped across the porch. ‘Why do you think Sophie hates you?’ She spotted an empty beer can on the lawn.

‘Because when I told Sophie that Noah might be my father, she told me to go away and that he didn’t want children.’

Cynthia tried to process this information. ‘Why did you think Noah was your father?’

‘It was a case of mistaken identity at that point. But Sophie was mean about it.’

‘Oh.’

‘And Mum is refusing to take me to the airport, which is also mean and unfair. I don’t see why Noah’s feelings are more important than mine.’

Cynthia’s head hurt. She had barely slept. Once the party clean-up had finished at two am she had lain in bed thinking about how things might work with Alfie.

And then, at dawn, that very person was clanging the doorbell. He was lucky Pat slept so heavily and she was already awake. He had pressed a folder into her hands, copies of scientific articles about monozygotic twins that he’d printed off in Penny’s living room, in the pre-dawn darkness.

Alfie had explained to her, very sweetly as if she may not realise, that when the zygote had split to form two babies in her uterus, they retained the same genetic material.

‘So, actually,’ he said, peering at her hopefully, ‘even though it’s bad that Ned isn’t here, Noah is technically, biologically, also my father. Most likely. And I need a father.’

She tried to smile through her exhaustion. She had no idea what to say. She supposed he had a point, and he was so honest when the rest of them were so afraid to be honest. He was perfect.

‘Cynthia, we understand each other, don’t we?’

‘Yes, Alfie, perhaps we do. But I’m not sure I’m the one who should be helping you at this point.’

‘I thought grandmothers were the people you came to when your mother was being unreasonable.’

‘Well, yes.’

‘So now I need your help. I really, really need to talk to Noah. Can’t you please drive me to the airport? Don’t you want to say goodbye to him? He’s your child and he’s going to live on the other side of the world where you won’t be able to hang out together. I’m sure my mum would want to say goodbye to me at the airport in that situation.’

Cynthia did feel terrible she hadn’t driven them, but Noah had been insistent—You’re hosting a huge party the night before, Mum. We can grab a cab. Noah and Sophie had needed to be in town just after six am for what she presumed was a seven am flight. It was a thirty-minute drive to the airport.

‘I need to ring your mum, Alfie. She’ll be worried.’

Alfie gave a huff. ‘Do it from the car on the way to the airport. She’ll still be asleep anyway.’ He looked up again. ‘Please, Cynthia? He’s my dad. Genetically speaking. Probably. A real, living dad. But what if his plane crashes and he dies and then all my potential fathers would be dead.’

Cynthia’s heart lurched at the idea. Her hand began to shake as she put the folder down.

‘Sorry,’ said Alfie. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’ He looked crestfallen.

Since Julian’s death, Cynthia had worried endlessly about Noah. Lead weights in her stomach, painful interminable fears as new and ever more morbid possibilities opened up in her mind about ways she might lose her one remaining boy. Maybe she needed to think less and act more.

‘Let me get dressed,’ she said. ‘Stay here. Don’t move an inch.’ As she walked to the stairs, she dialled Emilia’s number. It went to voicemail.

In the car, Alfie checked the dashboard clock. ‘My watch says it’s a minute later than your clock. So if we use your clock, you’re going to have to increase your speed by …’ he paused, and Cynthia supposed he was doing some sort of complex calculation in his head, ‘I can’t figure it out. I’m too nervous.’

‘Why are you nervous? Noah thinks you’re tremendous.’

‘Does he?’

‘I believe so. He seems different since you arrived. I haven’t seen him like this for years. His heart seems to have lifted.’

‘My heart has lifted too,’ said Alfie. ‘Even if he’s not my dad, he’s the same as my dad, basically, isn’t he? So, I can know things about Ned by getting to know Noah.’

Cynthia wanted to cry; a well of emotion out of nowhere, which seemed self-indulgent. She was no good to the boy if she was going to fall apart.

‘I’m dialling your mother,’ she said. The phone went to voicemail again. She left a message saying Alfie was safe and well and to please call her back.

‘Mum says it’s not too risky if you go only four kilometres over the limit. They don’t book you for less than five.’

Cynthia considered speeding. She was usually terrible at breaking rules, although since Harper had come back, there had been a departure from her lifetime of virtuous rule-following. She once thought this part of her character was so ingrained, she sometimes wondered if she had Danish heritage. Apparently, the Danes were the most unwavering race of rule-followers in the whole world, and one of the most satisfied, according to a recent survey. It wasn’t surprising they were satisfied—she herself was a fan of their lovely dark rye bread, and their royal family seemed pleasingly progressive too. Perhaps that’s where she could go when she left Patrick. The thought hit her like a truck. Leave Patrick. There it was again, but it was the ‘when’ not the ‘if’ that surprised her. She eyed the speedometer and put her foot down.

It was only five minutes more to the airport, but the dashboard clock was ticking ominously close to seven am. Even if they made it, Noah and Sophie would be in the plane on the tarmac, belts buckled. Plus, she wasn’t sure of the exact flight time. Maybe it was earlier than seven am. Young people were so casual these days about getting to places on time, and it was only the domestic leg of their flight after all. There might only be ten or fifteen people on the twin-engine plane, so the queue would be non-existent.

‘We should make it,’ said Alfie, worriedly.

Cynthia’s phone rang, the number on her screen was Emilia’s.

‘Don’t answer it!’ said Alfie.

She hesitated and put her hand back on the wheel, swerved past the airport gates and towards the terminal. ‘I won’t be able to park right at the entrance. Will I drop you out front?’

‘I can’t go in by myself. I’m only nine. What if I get lost?’

The fear seemed so at odds with the boy’s usual modus operandi, and the airport so small, Cynthia laughed. She pulled in at the two-minute drop-off zone outside the entry doors and turned off the engine. ‘Come on then.’

Alfie grinned.

They hurried across the pavement and through the doors just as a sound began to fill the air: the escalating hum of a plane readying for take-off. Through the huge plate-glass windows opposite, a small plane was turning at the end of the runway. They watched, entranced, as it roared back down the runway and took flight, above the fence, across a smattering of houses before ascending into the dusty grey sky.

Cynthia looked away, wanting to avoid the disappointment on Alfie’s face. The man on the check-in counter smiled. A woman at the other end of the room fiddled with her phone screen. A janitor pushed a cleaning cart into the toilets. Otherwise, the building was empty.

Cynthia hesitated, then gently draped her arm across the top of Alfie’s back. Shame swept over her. How dare she bring Emilia’s boy here to break his heart further? How dare she ignore Emilia’s call? What sort of grandmother was she? Or mother for that matter? What sort of mother let her beautiful only living son move to the other side of the world without waving him off?

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

Alfie didn’t move. His gaze was fixed on the sky. Cynthia wanted to wrap him up and protect him from all the hurts in the world.

‘Hello,’ came a voice from behind them, so out of place, yet so familiar.

She jumped and turned. A loud intake of breath came from Alfie.

There, unshaven, hair askew, backpack straps pinching at his crumpled shirt and standing in front of them in his best boots, was Noah.

74

CYNTHIA

TEN YEARS AGO, MARCH

Cynthia could see that the call was from reception.

‘Hi, Cynthia, it’s Ellie. There’s a woman here who wants to see you. She doesn’t have an appointment.’

‘I’m due in a meeting in a few minutes. What’s her name?’

‘She wouldn’t give it. She only said you’d definitely want to see her.’

Cynthia sighed. She hated surprises. ‘Is the front conference room free?’

‘For a few minutes.’

Cynthia hung up and tucked a folder and her Filofax under her arm. In reception, she acknowledged Ellie with a nod. Across the room a woman was sitting. She had short, blonde hair and was leaning forward, head between her hands. When she looked up, Cynthia froze.

‘Emilia?’

For a long, silent minute they stared. The austerity of the foyer—its silver lift doors and white walls—contrasted with Emilia’s bright, floral dress, causing a fissure in Cynthia’s composure. The dress protruded from Emilia’s stomach in the manner of a maternity outfit, and this fact rumbled through Cynthia’s mind and closed at her throat.

Cynthia pointed to the reception meeting room and whispered, ‘Come through.’

Emilia said, ‘I’m sorry to intrude.’

Cynthia sank into the leather chair at the end of the room.

‘I need your help,’ continued Emilia.

The mound of Emilia’s dress was all Cynthia could see.

‘When I left …’ She looked past Cynthia’s shoulder to the view of neighbouring skyscrapers. It seemed to take an enormous amount of strength for Emilia to start again and when she did, she sounded exhausted. ‘I was pregnant.’

Over the line of frosted glass behind the girl, Cynthia could see a group of suited men gathering in reception. ‘A child should know its father.’

‘I think it’s Ned’s,’ said Emilia and she dropped her head, as if the burden of the words was too much.

Grief prickled at Cynthia. Unease. Fear.

‘I’m so sorry, Cynthia. I loved him.’

A flare of anger burned in Cynthia, then left as quickly as it had come. She’d known about their affair and done nothing. She put her folder and Filofax on the table and bit her lip. ‘You said you needed help.’

There was a steeliness to the way Emilia stood now. She had once had a quiet determination about her, before she married Julian, though Cynthia hadn’t seen it for years. Emilia spoke quickly, as if she’d rehearsed the words: ‘I’ll need time off work. And I need to move out of my share house, pay a bond and a month’s rent in advance. And I need a cot, a pram and supplies.’

‘You need to organise a divorce from Julian. You’ll be entitled to a settlement.’

‘I can’t.’ Emilia looked away. ‘Cynthia, you know what he did. Please don’t pretend. And you can’t tell him you saw me. He’d find me. You can’t tell Pat, either. I’ll never forgive him for making me stay silent about what Julian did to me, to William, and,’ she was trembling, ‘he would tell Julian where I was. You know he would.’

A wellspring of grief rose inside Cynthia. A dozen thoughts jostled for space in her brain. Her unborn grandchild; Pat’s control of their money; Julian’s violent temper; Emilia’s safety; Ned’s baby. ‘Of course I’ll help you. But if I can’t let Pat know, that makes things more difficult. I have some funds in my mother’s name that I control, though. Write down your bank details and I’ll transfer them. Every so often I can send a little more. Leave me your email details too, to contact you. I’ll set up a Hotmail account so we can be in touch.’

She saw the relief on Emilia’s face, then a small smile.

‘Thank you.’

‘It’s the least I can do,’ said Cynthia.

There was a knock and a man poked his head in. ‘Hi, Cynthia. I have this room booked from eleven. Nearly finished?’

‘Two minutes, Andreas.’

Cynthia didn’t want the meeting to end. She wanted to sit with Ned’s baby and feel its beating heart through the garish floral dress. ‘Your mother has been out of her mind, according to Pat. You haven’t been in touch?’

‘I sent her an email. And a letter.’

‘Does she know about the baby?’

‘No. Please don’t tell her. She’s not good with secrets. She’s terrible. She’d have to tell someone and news would spread. And she loves Julian. She’d never believe what he’s capable of.’

Cynthia closed her eyes, but Emilia continued. ‘If Julian finds out, I’m scared of what he’d do.’

Perhaps her fears were valid, Cynthia conceded. What would Julian do if he found out his brother had impregnated the woman he loved? He owned? What would Pat have done to Cynthia in that scenario? It didn’t bear thinking about.

‘All right.’

Emilia scribbled on a piece of paper and held it out. ‘Thank you, Cynthia. I wasn’t sure how I was going to manage.’

‘You broke Ned’s heart, you know.’ She let the girl feel the weight of her words. Feel the truth. But it was too much, and really, Cynthia knew better than anyone that survival was a lonely pursuit, and the girl was about to become a parent, and lonelier still. She waited until Emilia looked up. ‘But you had no choice. And for that I really am sorry.’

75

ALFIE

ONE YEAR LATER

The rumbling of the waterfall about fifty metres away is soothing. I spread out the picnic blanket next to the one that Pete has already laid out under a big eucalyptus tree, facing the rock shelf. I calculate the area needed for a party of eight people plus a newborn baby to have adequate personal space while seated, yet still feel connected enough to chat about the rainforest around us and the most important thing today, which is my eleventh birthday.

I put eight paper cranes around the blankets at 1.3 metres apart and put a rock on one wing of each crane to hold it down. I did a ninth one for Hilary and left it with her this morning. Mum says it’s a shame to have done so much origami only to make people pull them apart to read the questions written inside to test their knowledge of the Tarkine Rainforest and its various endemic species that are also endangered. Inside Hilary’s crane I wrote: Genus: Hilary Hotpants; Species: Homo Sapien; Status: Extinct. I sellotaped it to her headstone so it wouldn’t blow away. She would have appreciated the joke.

I don’t agree with Mum that it’s a shame that people have to deconstruct my cranes. It’s weird how Mum forgets to apply her own logic to herself, given how she just spent two hours decorating my birthday cake and in about five minutes we will have masticated then swallowed what she had carefully crafted into a laptop (my present this year, and also an easy-level recipe in Granny Pen’s cake-decorating book). Destruction of Mum’s cake is pretty much the same thing, except with the origami deconstruction we aren’t breaching dietary guidelines for sugar intake.

Mum and Pete are carrying the esky out of the car. Mum smiles at him and he gives her a wink. Mum smiles a lot these days, in between vomiting. You wouldn’t think these things go together, but that’s early pregnancy for you. It also means that Pete is continually cleaning out the fridge because Mum says everything in it smells rotten. I think he’d do anything for Mum, because it’s obvious he feels guilty about her doing the vomiting due to their joint efforts at creating the foetus. Mum says early pregnancy is hard work for a woman, but overall, with Pete’s constant fridge cleaning and supermarket visits for cans of beetroot and pickled gherkins for Mum, it works out about even.

Pete was promoted to school principal a few weeks ago when the old school principal ‘left under a cloud’. This is a new euphemism I have discussed with Kevin on FaceTime. He’s back online these days, so we chat every week. He already knew the saying, but I explained that in this case it meant the principal crashed his car through the wire at the end of the public tennis courts when he had a blood alcohol level of 0.13, which is exceedingly illegal.

Pete is most likely an excellent school principal, although he is still in training. He was an excellent deputy principal and when I started there a year ago, he organised for me to go up from Year 7 to Year 9 classes for maths and science. So, now that I’m in Year 8, I go up to the Year 10 classes. The older kids know me now and are usually nice. Some of the fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds think it’s weird having an eleven-year-old in the class, but I help with their equations, and they give me lollies. Quid pro quo.

Marvin pushes his glasses up on his nose. ‘Want some gum?’ He hands me the packet, but I refuse because it’s banana flavour. He looks at the waterfall and says, ‘If I get a leech on me today I am going to scream.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘Noah has a special technique for removing them.’

Marvin is my best friend. He’s twelve and also ‘grasshoppered’ with me, but only for maths. Marvin is what our school psychologist called ‘twice exceptional’—which means he is highly gifted but also has learning disabilities. He has inattentive ADHD and dyslexia. This makes it hard for him to focus in class but he is super smart. Marvin is teaching me his favourite World War I stories. One is about a carrier pigeon called Cher Ami who saved nearly two hundred American soldiers by flying an urgent twenty-five-mile mission with her leg shot off and a bullet in her chest. There seems to be some confusion about the gender of Cher Ami, and let’s just say, Marvin has strong opinions on the topic. The stuffed carcass of Cher Ami is at the Smithsonian Museum in Washington, DC, but he carries a photo of that bird around in his pocket for easy reference.

Noah and Harper pull up in the parking area. Harper gets Arlo out of his car seat. Arlo is only ten weeks old. Mum says he is about the cutest little brother I could have asked for. For the first month he looked like a scrunched-up Yoda, but his physical appearance is improving and hopefully he’ll enjoy having a big half-brother to learn from when he starts being interesting.

The scan said Mum and Pete are having a girl, so it will be cool to observe my half-siblings of different genders so close in age, although obviously, they won’t be half-siblings to each other.

Noah comes over and hands me a parcel. He smiles and says, ‘Happy birthday, mate. Had to think long and hard about this one.’

I grin and sit on the grass and rip open the packaging. I look at the contents, puzzled. Several sticks, a packet of joiners, some colourful fabric like on the sails of a boat, some fishing line. There is a scroll of paper tied with a ribbon. I undo it.

‘Sorry, my writing’s a bit messy,’ says Noah.

But it’s easy to read. It says ‘Instructions’ underlined at the top then there are hand-drawn diagrams.

‘Cool!’ I say.

Mum is making weird cooing sounds at Arlo, who is wriggling against Harper’s chest. ‘What is it, Alf?’

‘It’s a kite kit!’

‘I cut the components out so we’re ready to go,’ explains Noah. ‘Penny said we could borrow her sewing machine to make it.’

Granny Pen says, ‘Absolutely.’

‘Thanks, Noah!’

‘Harper helped,’ he says.

‘Thanks, Harper!’

‘Can’t wait to see if it flies,’ says Granny Pen, who seems less worried about everything these days. She sold her farm and bought a cottage in town with a garden. She plays bridge every week and is also helping Roger, her next-door neighbour, sort out his garden. This involves a lot of cups of tea on Roger’s verandah, though his garden does seem to be improving.

Granny Pen turns to me suddenly. ‘Every day you’ve been in my life, it’s become better and better, Alf. You make me very happy.’

Mum smiles. ‘We’re a lucky family.’

Marvin says, ‘I wonder if your happiness can grow exponentially.’

‘Don’t think so,’ I say. ‘You’d need to measure happiness by looking at it on a population level. Not just in our family.’

‘Can’t you look at one person’s happiness growth?’

‘Not really. One person’s happiness can’t be measured in units. If you’re looking at exponential as a concept, it’s data that needs to increase in units at the same rate over a period of time. So I don’t see how that could work for happiness.’

‘You never know,’ says Mum. ‘The possibilities of happiness are endless, Alf.’

‘Endless is different to exponential, Mum. And I doubt it’s endless either. Digits of Pi are an example of endless.’

Cynthia interrupts. ‘Remember what we talked about, Alfie? About appreciating another person’s idea? If the words encompass a thought process that matches their intended meaning but isn’t entirely correct, it may still have merit. Insisting on accuracy can inhibit social connection.’

‘Yeah. Okay,’ I say, flicking a leaf off the blanket. Cynthia and I are smoothing out my need to correct people.

Cynthia has moved to Burnie, which is about an hour away. She likes the anonymity of a bigger town but she’s still close enough to see me every Saturday, which she says is her favourite day of the week. Sometimes we go on excursions to museums or interesting historical sites, or the library. Last school holidays she took me to Melbourne for five days and we visited the State Library of Victoria, which ticked all our boxes. It has great architecture, cool artworks, excellent resources for research, books (obviously) and Ned Kelly’s armour on display. She said it was the best holiday she’d ever had, and I agreed.

Doctor Pat technically still lives at Sommersby House. After Cynthia left, he got mad that he was left to manage the property on his own. Apparently, Cynthia had always organised loads of maintenance and farm management stuff and he didn’t realise it was so time consuming, so then he decided to retire so he could sort it all out. About a week after he retired, though, Doctor Pat had a big haemorrhagic stroke, which is basically blood exploding in your brain. Now he’s in a wheelchair and can’t speak properly. He’s got severe aphasia, which is a problem with his language because the frontal lobe in his brain got really banged up from the blood vessel busting open.

For a while he was probably lonely as well as sad, but then Aunty Rainn started visiting him in the rehab hospital. Noah isn’t sure he likes her company that much, but Doctor Pat can’t really say anything about it, can he? And I think it’s very kind of her to help out. She got a divorce from Uncle Simon and now visits Doctor Pat twice a day and makes him drink green juice for breakfast and is very strict with his exercises. He’s allowed to go back to Sommersby House soon, as long as someone is living there with him to give him a hand, so it’s just as well Aunty Rainn is so kind and volunteered.

Granny Pen gives Arlo a kiss and sniffs his head and says, ‘He’s such a dote.’ It’s good Granny Pen and Harper are friends again because on Tuesday they had a blue. Granny Pen said to Harper, ‘You have to feel a bit sorry for poor Sophie,’ which made Harper mad. I’m guessing what Granny Pen meant was that it might be sad for Sophie St James to know that Noah and Harper created a foetus only four weeks after Noah told Sophie he didn’t want to marry her anymore.

When Granny Pen said that about Sophie, Harper didn’t know I was behind the sofa reading a book. She told Granny Pen she’d been waiting half her life to make babies with Noah, and she didn’t see why she should feel sorry for a bare-beavered milksop like Sophie St James. When Granny Pen said, ‘Be nice, dear,’ Harper said, ‘No, I won’t. Anyone who tells a nine-year-old boy to piss off because their father wouldn’t want to know him is a sorry-arsed fuck-face who deserves to burn in hell.’

Harper has obviously given the topic some deep consideration.

Now, Noah smiles at me from across the picnic blankets. He has fetched Harper some new breast pads because she told us her boobs were leaking like a tap. She hands Arlo to Mum who jiggles him up and down which helps get the wind out. A few days ago, Cynthia asked Mum if she had any names picked (for her and Pete’s foetus) and Mum says they are thinking about Aoife (which is pronounced Ee-fa) or Saoirse (pronounced Sir-sha) for a girl. Granny Pen said they were both terrible choices because no Australian will know how to pronounce them, and Mum laughed.

Cynthia asked why Mum has a particular preference for Irish names, and Mum said, ‘They were the women I relied on most when I was in Ireland. They were angels.’

I never did tell you why we went to Ireland for those 772 days, but I might be running out of time. Mum is lighting the candles on my home-made laptop, and everyone begins singing ‘Happy birthday’ and even Kevin is singing on FaceTime from Dublin in a different time zone. He says that now I’m growing up, I’m starting to look like his dear old mate, Eddie. Mum admitted that Kevin’s friend Eddie was actually Noah’s twin brother, Ned, whose real name was Edward, and that’s why she named me Alfred Edward. Kevin was Ned’s best friend for the year he spent in Ireland, back before I was even conceived.

Noah and Kevin have become good online friends now after I introduced them. Noah taught Kevin some more Aussie sayings, so now when we’re on FaceTime and Kevin’s hungry he says, ‘I could eat the crotch out of a low flying duck,’ and then he laughs and laughs, even though you’re not meant to laugh at your own jokes. And even though it’s not really a joke. He just loves Aussies.

Mum lights the last candle and I get my home-made candle snuffer out of my backpack which minimises the transmission of pathogens for when the song finishes, and I’m required to extinguish the flames.

I will finish by saying that Ireland was a long and complicated story, although you could probably sum it up in three words: vegan dog poop. And if I had to give a few more details, I’d say the microbiome of an English Mastiff and a start-up biotech company that wanted to develop dog pellets out of mycoprotein from fungus. Did I forget to mention that Mum ended up getting her Master of Biotechnology from Trinity College in Dublin and graduated top of her class, which accounts for the Irish location part of the story? Well that, plus the fact that my father told her that was the place where he felt like he properly belonged, and she thought maybe she’d feel the same way. But the dog poop/fungus food part of the story came before that. Ireland just gives the story some international intrigue. Anyway, it was all very interesting, and cold, but I’ll save the rest of that story for another time.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The township of Beggars Rock has been heavily inspired by the delightful fishing village of Stanley on the north-west coast of Tasmania, close to where my mother grew up and I once lived as a child. The Rock in this story is inspired by Stanley’s famous ‘Nut’, which is indeed an extinct volcano that rises, quite startlingly, from the ground right at the edge of the ocean. At its base is a beautiful cemetery and a platform for viewing the fairy penguins that come in at night from the ocean to roost. There is a chairlift that will take you to the top. Walking around the Nut is a fascinating way to spend an hour and to learn about the shearwater (mutton bird) population that use it as a roosting site during their migration. It provides spectacular views across the countryside.

Sommersby House is loosely based on a heritage-listed mansion called Highfield House, built in the 1830s for the use of the Chief Agent of the Van Diemen’s Land Company. It is perched on a windy promontory above Stanley and is now a tourist attraction of architectural and historical significance. The north-west coast was an area of Tasmania where colonisation and the frontier wars had a particularly devastating effect on the local Palawa population.

I changed the name of Stanley to Beggars Rock to allow for fictional leaps, but the beauty of the countryside and the landscape around the town in this book is very much based on reality.

Joseph Lyons, the tenth Prime Minister of Australia from 1932 till his death in 1939, was born in Stanley in 1879. His wife, Dame Enid Lyons, was the first woman to be elected to the Australian House of Representatives in 1943 and to serve in the federal cabinet in 1949. She and Joseph had twelve children. The Joe Lyons Cottage is now a museum on the main street of Stanley and is filled with artefacts, photos and historical documents that bear testament to the life of this fascinating family.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

In 2021, I began plotting a creepy murder mystery as I stood at the top of the Nut in Stanley, among the hemlock plants. But not long after, as I hurtled towards my fiftieth birthday and the lockdowns continued, I suddenly felt the need to spend time writing a book that would make me smile. It so happened that I’d previously written a scene that wouldn’t leave me alone—a woman answers her farmhouse door to a boy, and neither she nor I knew who he was. The scene had been stuck in my head and the possibilities for this boy intrigued me. And they made me smile.

So many generous and talented people helped me turn that scene into a book. A huge thank you to Lisa O’Donnell and Simon Ings, who thoughtfully talked me through that writing U-turn. Your advice and tutelage got this book started. And to the brilliant Laura Barnett, your expert guidance and enthusiasm helped me finish it. To the Six-Monthers—one and all—thank you for your encouraging feedback and camaraderie, particularly to Bronwyn Rivers for your support throughout.

To the gorgeous Wild Writers, who critiqued early extracts, helped with synopses, propped me up with tea and bubbles, and pretended to be interested, even when it was boring: Jane, Kinchem, Tanya, Lynn, Rachel, Geraldine, Nel, Kathryn, Karen, Annabel, Simone, Stephanie and Jodi, what a fabulous bunch of scribes you are.

To my devoted co-creator Sammy Jenkins; from day one when we climbed the Nut, right through to the final draft, you provided expert psychological character profiles, entertaining plot ideas and endless encouragement. Thanks for laughing at me when I try to have a serious meltdown. The world would be infinitely better if everyone had a big sister like you.

I’m incredibly grateful to those lovely people who read parts of or the whole manuscript and gave feedback: Katie Clutton, Meg Jenkins, Matt Bennett, Lisa Godeby, Sarah Hawthorn, Jan Sadler and Lisa Ireland—thank you!

To my heavenly mum Helen Clutton, for promptly reading every new chapter and always saying wonderful things. Mum, we finally got here. Woohoo! To Daddy Cool, Greg Clutton, I’m sorry I ditched, ‘We’ve got a live one here, Chiza’, from the book, but thank you for that phrase and for everything else. When the grown-ups believe in you, the stars are the limit.

Writing a book partly narrated by an adult male and a child protagonist were challenging firsts for me. When I added identical twins into the mix, another layer of research was needed. To my dearly loved identical twin cousins, Missy Bennett and Becky Thomas, and Alice Wade and Hannah Sadler, our ‘Twin Times’ WhatsApp group was a source of hilarity and insight; thank you for your honesty. Also, for the read-throughs, bushwalks and help in writing scenes. North-west Tassie gals are the best and sorry I still can’t tell you apart. Jan and John Sadler for your hospitality, farming information and guided bushwalks to amazing hidden caves of north-west Tassie, thank you both.

To Stephen Barnett, when I needed to dial up a rare genetic disorder to fit some weird tangential subplot I was digging myself into, thanks for finding me the one that fitted; and for not batting an eyelid when it didn’t end up in the book. Also, for the excellent medical and other edits and the Donald Duck impersonations; Rappa, you’re a keeper.

To Marian and Paul Shanahan, thank you for introducing me to your hilarious milking goats and for showing me how to make feta cheese. To Cressida and Michael Cains, your incredible Pecora Dairy sheep milk operation is a wonder; thanks for all the information. Any errors in Penny’s sheep shenanigans are because a goat ate my notes.

To my lovely niece, Isabelle Lewis-Bryant, I’m grateful for your thoughtful insights. To Margot for your sensitivity read and enthusiastic comments, thank you. To my friend Emma Elizabeth, for the best kitchari and all the support, I love our writing chats. To my original writing cheerleaders, Fiona McIntosh, Cathie Tasker and Emily Gowers, your faith in my writing got me here. To the Debut Crew 2025, thanks for providing such warm support and endless chat about all the things we needed to learn. We have a lot of books to buy! And to anyone else I haven’t named who was saved in my acknowledgements document before the file got corrupted, you are not forgotten. Please accept this case of wine and a lifetime supply of fairy floss. You’re a legend.

We writers are a hopeful bunch. Without a contract, there are no guarantees that anyone will read the words we optimistically wrangle, page after page, year after year. After all that help from so many people, Alfie was still just an oversized manuscript in my laptop and a hope in my heart. Then arrived my phenomenal agent, Melanie Ostell. Your magic red pen and your absolute faith in this manuscript made my hope into reality. What a ride it has been! Thank you for your editing, insight, skilled advocacy and sheer hard work. To the team at Allen & Unwin, especially my publisher Annette Barlow. Thank you for fostering Alfie and for your brilliant suggestions and stewardship. You are gracious and kind and it’s a joy to work with you. To my perceptive and endlessly patient editor Christa Munns, copyeditor Deonie Fiford and proofreader Pamela Dunne, it’s so exciting when clever, capable people sort everything out for you. Thank you for your lovely feedback, skilful input and careful management of the whole shebang. I do love a good edit! To the publicity and marketing team, especially Shannon Edwards and Bella Breden, thank you for waving your magic wands and making it all happen. To Hazel Lam—I love your beautiful cover! And to cartographer extraordinaire, Grace Lewis—thanks for doing clever arty things to Alfie’s map. You are all generally excellent humans.

Finally, to my family, who suffered and celebrated with me from beginning to end; to Justin, the ballast during the storms I conjure; your unwavering interest in this weird world of writing and publishing floors me and I love that you make me feel much more talented than I am. Of all the lucky days in my life, the one when you showed up to my party in shorts is a standout. And finally, to my remarkable children, Henry, Grace and Georgie, this book is about many things, but one of them is mothering and the fierce highs and lows it can bring. It’s been an enormous privilege mothering you three. With all my love, this book is for you.