Truly Madly Guilty (33 page)

chapter sixty-six

Another rainy morning. Another talk to a group of elderly people. Clementine’s eyes felt hot and dry as she drove into the car park of the community hall where the Hills District Retirees Association held their monthly meeting. She’d been up most of the night with the word ‘separate’ going round and round in her head, until finally she’d sat up, found a notepad and a pen and wrote in it:
I’m worried that my marriage is over.
Because wasn’t there some research that suggested the act of writing down your worries reduced stress? In fact, it was shocking to see it written down so baldly like that. It hadn’t helped her stress levels at all. She had torn out the sheet of paper and ripped it up into tiny pieces.

When Vid, Tiffany and Dakota had left last night after their unexpected visit, Clementine had felt almost cheerful. There had been a definite sense of relief: the slip-sliding feeling of release after a fearfully anticipated event had finally taken place. The
idea
of seeing Vid and Tiffany had been so much more traumatic than the reality. All their qualities had become exaggerated in her memories of that night when in fact they were just ordinary, friendly people. Tiffany wasn’t quite as sexy as Clementine remembered. Vid wasn’t quite as charismatic. They didn’t have special hypnotic sexual powers. And poor little Dakota was just a kid who had been carrying around a terrible burden of guilt that had not been hers to bear.

But it was immediately clear that Sam didn’t feel the same way. As soon as they’d left, he’d turned on his heel and gone straight into the kitchen to pack the dishwasher. He’d refused to talk about anything except the ongoing administration of their lives: he was taking Holly for her taekwondo class before school, she would transfer some money onto the credit card, they didn’t need to worry about dinner tomorrow night because they were going to Clementine’s parents’ house. Then off they’d gone to their separate beds. It had occurred to her during the long night that she and Sam already
were
separated. People could legally separate and live under the same roof. That’s exactly what they were doing.

It was a relief when her alarm had gone off and she could give up trying to sleep. She’d got up and done her audition practice, and then she’d had an early morning lesson with thirteen-year-old Logan, who she had been teaching for the past two years and who didn’t want to be there but smiled so politely at her as if he did. Logan’s music teacher had told his mother that he had talent, and that ‘it would be a crime not to foster it’. Logan
was
technically proficient but his heart was with the electric guitar. That was his passion. As Logan had played that morning, dutifully following every one of Clementine’s instructions, she’d found herself wondering if that was how she sounded to Ainsley when she practised her audition pieces. What was that awful word she’d used?
Robotic
. Should she tell poor little Logan he sounded robotic? But what would be the point? She bet he didn’t sound robotic on his electric guitar.

Now it was only eleven thirty and she felt like she’d been up for hours.

Because she had in fact been up for hours, she reminded herself as she put up her umbrella to walk through the crowded car park.

‘Where’s your violin, dear?’ asked the head of the Hills District Retirees Association when Clementine introduced herself.

‘My violin?’ said Clementine. ‘I’m actually a cellist but, um –’

‘Your cello then,’ said the woman with a little roll of her eyes to indicate Clementine’s unnecessary attention to petty detail: a cello was just a big violin, after all! ‘Where’s your cello, dear?’

‘But I’m not playing the cello,’ said Clementine uneasily. ‘I’m a guest speaker. I’m doing a talk.’

She had a moment of sudden terror. She was doing a talk, wasn’t she? This wasn’t a gig? Of course it wasn’t. She was doing a talk.

‘Oh, are you?’ said the woman disappointedly. She studied the piece of paper in her hand. ‘It says here you’re a
cellist.
We thought you’d be playing for us.’

She looked at Clementine expectantly, as if a solution might present itself. Clementine lifted her hands. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m doing a talk. It’s called “One Ordinary Day”.’

For God’s sake.

She felt exhausted. Was there really any point to all this? Was she actually helping or was she just doing it to make herself feel better, to pay her penance, her dues, to even things up on the universal scale of right and wrong?

The community talks had all come about because she’d been trying to redeem herself in her mother’s eyes. A few days after they’d brought Ruby home from hospital, Clementine had been having a cup of tea with her mother and she’d said (she could still hear the reedy, self-conscious tone with which she’d spoken) that she felt she should do something to raise awareness of how easily an accident like this could happen and make sure no one else made the same mistake she had made. She felt she should ‘tell her story’.

She’d meant she should write one of those touching ‘please share’ Facebook posts that would go viral. (She probably would never have got around to doing even that.)

But her mother had been thrilled. ‘What a wonderful idea!’ Clementine could do talks to community groups, mothers’ groups, associations – they were always looking for guest speakers. She could ‘partner’ with a first aid course provider like St John Ambulance, hand out leaflets at the end, maybe offering a discount on a course. Pam would set it all up. She had all the contacts. She had a wide circle of friends who belonged to caring community groups across Sydney. They were always desperate for guest speakers. She’d be like Clementine’s ‘agent’. ‘This could save lives, Clementine,’ Pam had said, with that familiar evangelical look in her eyes.
Oh God
, Clementine had thought. But it was too late. As her father would say, ‘The Pam train has left the station. Nothing can stop it now.’

She
did
feel it was the right thing to do. It was just that it was hard to fit the talks into an already crammed life, especially when she was driving all over Sydney to do them in between gigs and teaching and school pick-ups and audition practice.

And then there was the fact that she had to relive the worst, most shameful day of her life.

‘This is a story that begins with a barbeque,’ she said today to the members of the Hills District Retirees Association, who were eating lamb with gravy and roast potatoes and peas for lunch as she spoke. ‘An ordinary neighbourhood barbeque in an ordinary backyard.’

You need to make it a story, her mother had told her. A story has power.

‘We can’t hear you!’ called out someone from the back of the room. ‘Can you hear her? I can’t hear a word she’s saying.’

Clementine leaned in closer to the microphone.

She heard someone at the table nearest the lectern say, ‘I thought we had a violinist coming today.’

Beads of sweat ran all the way down her back.

She kept talking. She told her story as cutlery scraped against plates. She gave them facts and figures. A child can be submerged in ten seconds, lose consciousness in two minutes and sustain permanent brain damage in four to six minutes. Nine out of ten children who have died in the water were being watched by adults. A child can drown in as little as five centimetres of water. She talked about the importance of first aid training and how thirty thousand Australians died of cardiac arrest every year because there was no one around with the basic CPR knowledge to save their lives. She talked about the wonderful work that CareFlight did and how they were always grateful for donations.

When she’d finished, the president of the association gave her a box of chocolates and asked her fellow members to join her in a round of applause for their very interesting guest speaker today. Very informative, and thank goodness her daughter was all recovered and maybe next time Clementine could come and play her cello for them!

Afterwards, as she was heading for the door, her dress damp against her back, a man approached her, wiping his mouth with his napkin. She steeled herself. Sometimes people couldn’t resist coming up afterwards to tell her off, to inform her that she should never have taken her eyes off her toddler.

But as soon as she saw the man’s face she knew he wasn’t one of those. He was the other sort. He had the relaxed authority of someone who had once been the boss, but the bruised eyes of someone who had suffered a devastating loss. It was a look around the eyes like fruit that has gone soft and is close to rotting.

He had a story he needed to share. It was her job to listen. This was her real penance.

He would probably cry. The women didn’t cry. Elderly women were as tough as nails but it seemed that men got softer as they aged; their emotions caught them off guard, as if some protective barrier had been worn away by time.

She braced herself.

‘My grandson would have been thirty-two this weekend,’ he said.

‘Ah,’ said Clementine.

She waited for the story. There was always a chain of events that had to be explained: if this
hadn’t
happened, if this
had
happened. In this case it had all started with a broken phone. His daughter’s downstairs phone was broken, so she ran upstairs to answer it, and at that moment the next-door neighbour knocked on the front door and got talking to his son-in-law, and in the meantime the little fella got outside. He dragged a chair over to the pool gate. There was a tennis ball floating in the pool. He was trying to get to the ball. He liked playing cricket. Was pretty good at it too. He was a little pocket rocket. Couldn’t sit still. You wouldn’t have thought he’d be big enough to drag that chair but he did it. Determined.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Clementine.

‘Well, I just wanted to tell you that you are doing a good thing,’ said the man. He hadn’t cried, thank God. ‘Raising awareness. It’s a good thing. Makes people think twice. Families don’t get over it when something like this happens. My daughter’s marriage broke up. My wife was never the same again. She was the one on the phone, you see. Never forgave herself for ringing at that time. Not her fault, of course, or the neighbour’s fault, just bad luck, bad timing, but there you go. Accidents happen. Anyhow. You did a good job today, pet. Spoke very well.’

‘Thank you,’ said Clementine.

‘You sure you don’t want to stay and join us for dessert? They do a very tasty pavlova here.’

‘That’s nice of you,’ said Clementine. ‘But I have to go.’

‘No worries, off you go, I’m sure you’re busy,’ said the man. He patted her on the arm.

She headed towards the door, released.

‘Tom,’ he said suddenly.

She turned back, steeled herself. Here it came.

His eyes filled with tears. Overflowed. ‘The little fella’s name. In case you wondered. His name was Tom.’

All the way home she cried: for the little fella, for the grandmother who’d made the phone call, for the grandfather who’d shared his story, and for the parents, because their marriage hadn’t survived, and because it seemed like Clementine’s marriage wasn’t going to survive either.

chapter sixty-seven

It was early Thursday evening when Tiffany walked into the living area and saw Dakota sitting cross-legged on the window seat. She was reading a book in a little circle of lamplight, the blue fluffy blanket over her legs, while raindrops slid down the window behind her. Barney was curled up in her lap. Dakota was absent-mindedly caressing one of his ears as she read.

Tiffany caught herself just in time from exclaiming, ‘You’re reading!’ and said instead, ‘You’re … there!’

Dakota looked up from her book quizzically.

‘I didn’t know where you were,’ said Tiffany.

‘I’m here,’ said Dakota. Her eyes returned to her book.

‘Yes, you are.’ Tiffany backed away. ‘Yes, you are definitely here … there.’

She found Vid sitting at the kitchen table with his laptop watching a ‘masterclass’ on making the perfect tempura batter. He was officially obsessed after last night’s dinner which had sent him into rhapsodies.

‘She’s reading again,’ whispered Tiffany, pointing over her shoulder.

Vid gave a cursory thumbs-up and kept looking at the screen.

‘You fry by sound, not by sight,’ he said. ‘Interesting, eh? I have to listen.’ He put his hand to his ear to demonstrate.

Tiffany sat down next to him and watched the chef demonstrate how to ‘gently stretch’ a shrimp.

‘It was good we went last night,’ she said.

Vid shrugged. ‘They were strange. They didn’t say anything. Silent.’

‘That’s because you didn’t give them a chance to speak,’ said Tiffany. When Vid got nervous he talked. Last night he hadn’t appeared to draw breath for the entire ten-minute duration of their strange little visit.

It was only the three children who had behaved normally. Holly and Ruby had been thrilled to see Dakota, and had dragged her off to see bedrooms and toys and everything else in their house. ‘This is our fridge,’ Holly had said. ‘This is our television. That’s my mum’s cello. Don’t touch it! You’re not allowed to touch it under any circ-an-chance.’

In the meantime, the four grown-ups had stood in a strange, awkward foursome in the living room. Sam avoided all eye contact with Tiffany, as if it were illegal to look at her. Everything about him seemed clenched.

‘They never even offered us a drink!’ said Vid. He couldn’t get over that. He’d be offering drinks during an earthquake.

‘Yeah, well,’ said Tiffany. ‘They didn’t want us there.’

‘Hmmph,’ said Vid. ‘The little girl looks good. Very healthy. Rosy cheeks. We should have all been happy. Celebrating.’

‘I think they blame themselves,’ said Tiffany.

‘But she’s fine, she’s perfect, she’s beautiful!’ said Vid robustly. ‘Thanks to Erika and Oliver. All good. No need for the glum faces. Shh, now, I’m trying to concentrate on my tempura.’

‘You’re the one talking.’ Tiffany flicked his neck with her fingertip as she stood up. He slapped her bum in return. She went to the sink to get herself a glass of water and stood watching Dakota read. She felt immensely pleased with herself, like she’d pulled off a difficult deal. Visiting Clementine and Sam had been exactly the right thing to do. Socially awkward but absolutely the right thing for her family.

Last night, while they’d been standing in the hallway about to leave, and Vid was talking on and on about spotted gum floorboards, Clementine had pulled Dakota aside, taken her hand and placed it between her own in an almost ceremonial way and said, ‘Your mum told me you felt bad about what happened to Ruby at your place. Dakota, I forbid you to feel bad for another minute, for another second, okay? It was my responsibility.’

Tiffany had expected Dakota to say nothing, to just nod dumbly, but to her surprise Dakota had spoken up, clearly, although her eyes had stayed fixed on her trapped hand.

‘I should have told you I was going inside to read my book.’

‘But, see, I
knew
you’d gone inside,’ said Clementine. ‘I knew the moment you went inside, because your mum told me, so that had nothing to do with … anything! You weren’t their babysitter! When you’re older, you probably will do babysitting, and you’ll be very responsible, you’ll be wonderful, in fact, I know it, but my girls were
not
your responsibility that afternoon. So, you must promise me you won’t worry about this anymore, because …’ Clementine’s voice had momentarily wavered. ‘Because I just can’t bear it if you feel bad about that day too. I honestly cannot bear it.’

Tiffany saw Dakota stiffen, repelled by the level of raw, grown-up emotion in Clementine’s voice. Clementine released her hand and in that instant you could almost see Dakota make a decision: a decision to accept absolution and be a kid again.

And now she was back reading.

Dakota had told Tiffany that she’d given up reading as ‘a punishment to herself’ because that was her most favourite thing in the world. ‘Were you going to give up reading
forever
?’ Tiffany had asked her, and Dakota had shrugged. She had also admitted that she’d destroyed her copy of
The Hunger Games
because that was the book she’d been reading when Ruby nearly drowned. Tiffany had considered telling her that she really shouldn’t destroy her possessions – books cost money, money didn’t grow on trees, etcetera – but instead she said, ‘I’ll buy you another copy,’ and at first Dakota said quietly, ‘Oh, that’s okay,’ but when Tiffany pushed, she said, ‘Thanks, Mum, that would be great, because it was actually an awesome book.’

Now Tiffany watched her turn the page, deep in her own world. To never once say a word about how she was really feeling for all those weeks, while her secret guilt festered. Jesus, she’d have to watch that kid like a hawk. She was like Tiffany’s sister Louise, who ‘ran much too deep’ as their mother said, while Tiffany presumably ran much too shallow.

The doorbell rang.

‘I’ll get it,’ said Tiffany, unnecessarily, as it was clear neither Vid nor Dakota was moving.

She felt a sense of déjà vu. Dakota lying on the window seat. The doorbell ringing. The morning of the barbeque.

‘Hi there, I’m –’ The man on the doorstep stopped. His gaze travelled a straight line down Tiffany’s body. She wore yoga pants and an old T-shirt, but the man was looking at her like she was wearing her schoolgirl outfit from her dancing days. Tiffany jutted one hip and waited it out (enjoyed it, to be frank, she was in a good mood).

His eyes returned to her face.

That’ll be ten bucks, buddy.

‘Hello,’ said the man, clearing his throat. He was in his late twenties, very fair, and he was blushing. It was adorable.
Okay, you can have it for free.

‘Hi,’ said Tiffany huskily, making eye contact, just to see if she could make him blush more, which, yes, it seemed she could. The poor man was crimson now.

‘I’m Steve.’ He held out his hand. ‘Steve Lunt.’ He was a little posh. One of those carefully enunciated voices you felt compelled to imitate. ‘My uncle, my great-uncle, Harry Lunt, lived next door.’

‘Oh, right.’ Tiffany straightened as she shook his hand. Shit. ‘Hello. I’m Tiffany. We’re very sorry about your uncle.’

‘Well, thank you, but I actually only met him once, as a child,’ said Steve. ‘And to be honest, he scared the life out of me.’

‘I didn’t know he had family,’ said Tiffany.

‘We’re all in Adelaide,’ said Steve. His colour had returned to normal now. ‘And as I’m sure you’re aware, Harry wasn’t exactly sociable.’

‘Well,’ said Tiffany.

‘We were Harry’s only relatives and my mother did her best, but it was really just the odd Christmas card and phone call. Poor Mum would sit there while he bellowed abuse at her.’

‘We, all the neighbours, we felt terrible that it took so many weeks before we, before we realised …’ Tiffany stopped.

‘I understand you found his body,’ said Steve. ‘Must have been upsetting.’

‘Yes,’ said Tiffany. ‘It was.’ She remembered throwing up into the sandstone pot. What had happened to that pot? Would this poor man be responsible for it? ‘I feel bad that we didn’t keep more of an eye on him.’

‘I doubt he would have welcomed anyone keeping an eye on him,’ said Steve. ‘It if makes you feel better, he apparently told my mother you were nice.’

‘He said we were
nice
?’ Tiffany was astounded.

Steve smiled. ‘I think the exact words he used were “nice enough”. Anyhow, I just wanted to let you know that we’ll be doing a bit of work on the place before we put it on the market. Hopefully there won’t be too much noise or disruption.’

‘Thanks,’ said Tiffany. She did a rough calculation on the value of Harry’s place. Maybe she should make an offer? ‘I’m sure it will be fine. We’re early risers.’

‘Right. Well. Good to meet you. Better get back to it.’

Tiffany closed the door and thought of Harry’s vulnerable bent back as he’d shuffled across the lawn to his own place. She remembered the fury in his eyes when he’d shouted at her, ‘Are you stupid?’

It was interesting that fury and fear could look so much the same.