I planned to drop the keys and go, but the receptionist remembers me from the day we had lunch and insists on letting Josh know I’m there.
“Hey, Greer. What are you doing here?” He’s a little hesitant as he comes out into reception, dressed in his usual long t-shirt and jeans. He has a lot more colour in his face today, and I don’t mean the wicked bruise that’s now spread across the whole right side of his forehead and down his cheek.
For a moment, we both stand awkwardly. I’m remembering the cross words we had last night. By the look on Josh’s face, and the tentative way he greeted me, he’s remembering too.
“You left your car keys at my place.” I hold the keys out to him.
“Oh, thanks. I’ll go down tonight and pick it up.” He takes the key, careful not to touch my fingers as he does.
“No need. I picked it up this morning. It’s in the garage at your building. Oh, and your wetsuit is in the boot. You’ll need to hang it up. It’s still pretty soggy.”
“You picked up my car?” His surprise is obvious, and it makes me a little sad that he doesn’t expect anyone to do anything nice for him.
“Yeah. Well, you’ll need it to go and see your mother, and I thought maybe you wouldn’t be up to driving yet. Anyway, it’s there when you need it. I hope that’s okay?”
“I can’t believe you went to so much trouble. No, wait. I can. That’s exactly the kind of thing you’d do. Thank you.”
“No problem.”
Josh puts his hand on my arm and steers me away from the reception desk, away from flapping ears. “Greer, listen. I’m sorry about last night. I was feeling shitty, and I took it out on you. And that’s not okay. I’m sorry.”
I can’t help myself. I lean over and hug him. “It’s okay, Josh. I know you weren’t feeling great. I get cranky when I’ve got a headache too. I get it.”
His whole body stiffens at my touch. But it only takes a second before I feel him relax and hug me back, burying his face in my hair and breathing deeply. He feels so good I can’t bring myself to let go, despite the fact we’re in the reception area of his work. Eventually he pulls back, and his eyes are sad.
“I don’t deserve how kind you are to me. You know that, right?”
“Well, I think you’re wrong, Josh. You deserve all the kindness.” And I know we both mean what we say.
The problem will be getting him to believe me.
Chapter Eleven
Josh
Branchesscrapeatthesides of my car as it bounces and jolts down the narrow, rutted dirt track, causing me to wince more than once. I’m not particularly car-proud, except this one is only a few weeks old, and I can almost feel the scratches on the paintwork.
If I didn’t know better, I’d assume this was an unused trail leading nowhere. But within a few hundred metres, the track opens out to a small clearing in the centre of which sits a tiny, slightly dilapidated timber cottage. The back of the house faces the track, seeming to tell anyone inadvertently stumbling upon itvisitors are not welcome. Which is, in fact, true, although I imagine the original reason for placing the cottage this way was to maximise the breathtaking view of the Jamison Valley, which opens up beyond the clearing.
I sit in the car for a few minutes studying the house, which apart from the occasional paint job, hasn’t changed much in the twenty odd years my mother has lived here. Even though she must certainly have heard the car approach, it wouldn’t occur to her to rush to the door to greet her son. Most likely she’s too absorbed in her work. As usual. It’s an interesting contrast to Greer, who seems to be able to manage being absorbed in her work, yet still have time for the people she loves. Maybe I’ve hit on the difference there. Love. I’m not sure if it’s a word my mother understands.
I left work early to drive up here, and the late afternoon light is golden and warm, in counterpoint to the welcome I expect.
The old screen door screeches with rust and bangs woodenly against its frame when I enter the house and head down the shotgun hallway to the covered verandah at the front, which is my mother’s studio. Totally absorbed in her work, she barely glances up, angling her cheek slightly for my kiss and murmuring what might have been, ‘hello Joshua’. By my reckoning, we haven’t seen each other in over three years, when she happened to visit London for an artist’s retreat and she spared me time for a coffee. Three years, and this is all she can manage. There really is no hope for me with the genetic legacy my parents have handed down. Whether it’s nature or nurture, I missed out on both fronts.
“What do you think?” she finally asks, sitting back from her work and tipping her head to the side, considering. My mother is tall and rail thin with porcelain skin and cropped, dark brown hair. She’s beautiful and looks nowhere near old enough to have a son my age. She’s wearing her trademark black pants and shirt under an ancient, clay-smeared calico smock.
“It’s excellent, Helen.” I don’t know what else to say. It’s a lump of wet clay on a wheel. It does have an elegant shape, I suppose.
“I’m trying some new techniques. You can make some tea while I clean myself up if you like.”
Finally, she spares a glance for me. Noting the still-fading bruises around my eye caused by my brush with the tree, she lets out a deep sigh I recognise right away as disappointment.
“Aren’t you a little old to be getting into fights?” It’s amazing how with one sentence she can reduce me to a small boy again. Alone and unloved. I focus on the shark cage I’ve spent my whole adult life building around myself and let it deflect the barb.
“Actually, not that it matters, but it wasn’t a fight. A tree fell on me. It’s a long story. I won’t bore you with it.” I know full well she won’t ask for details, and I’m not disappointed as she turns away and begins soaping her hands and arms in the clay-stained sink mounted in the far corner of the verandah.
Tea mugs in hand, I find my mother perched on the bush rock steps leading down from the verandah, the Jamison Valley spread out in blue-grey splendour before her. From this spot you can neither see nor hear any signs of human habitation. No power poles, no drone of cars, no roads scarring the bush. Nothing but the heavy stillness of the waiting air, cracked by the occasional cry of a bird. Filled with the hum of the cicadas and the earthy scents of eucalyptus and sun-warmed fallen leaves.
