‘What time are you going to Dad’s?’ I ask, joining him on the lawn, where he’s faffing with the fluffy boom microphone. ‘I thought you were going soon.’
He adjusts the height of the mic’s pole, frowning in concentration. ‘I was hoping to do some more recording before I head off. When’s the next bus?’
‘Six forty.’ The bus stop is only a street along, but Rufus still hasn’t packed his bag. He has no concept of time, just like his dad.
‘Ah, okay. It’s just this is quite urgent.’
He’s been home from college for more than an hour and of course he’s trying to do it now, ten minutes before his bus. ‘Here, give me that.’ I sigh. ‘Go and get your stuff and I’ll do it for you. You’ll miss the bus otherwise.’
He hands me the pole. ‘Thanks, Mum.’ He smiles ruefully. ‘I’ve only got night sounds.’ He winces at the high-pitched shriek of a far-off child and laughs. ‘But Icould do with more stuff like this.’ He throws up his arms as though to encompass the cacophony that makes up this summer evening on a Thursday: the buzz of a lawnmower, an aeroplane overhead, the tinkling of cutlery, the sizzle of a barbecue, the splash of a paddling pool, the low murmur of conversation and the excitable squeals of children playing.
‘No problem, I’ll do my best. Remember Bess is coming this weekend. She won’t want to miss seeing you so make sure you’re around a bit on Saturday, won’t you?’ He’s called my mum by her Christian name since he could speak as she always refused to be called Nan or Gran. Says it would make her feel ancient, and I don’t like to break it to her that, at seventy-one, she’s not exactly a spring chicken even if her partner Mick is nine years her junior.
‘Sure.’ He unravels the tape deck’s strap from around his neck. When he’d first brought it home we’d laughed at how archaic it was, how it reminded me of the one I had in the early 1990s when I used to record the Top 40 every Sunday night.
I take it from him, surprised again by its bulk. ‘God, can’t they at least get some more up-to-date equipment at that college?’
He helps thread the strap over my shoulder. He’s shot up in the last year and towers above me now. ‘I know, right. And they’ve only got, like, five, so we have to share them. Harrison’s group are having it next. I promised him I’ll be done with it by Saturday so he can use it.’
‘Lucky them.’ I reach up to kiss his head, resisting the urge to hug him so tightly he’s forced to stay with me. Ismile to hide the sorrow that has lately been sitting just below the surface. ‘Now go, or you’ll miss the bus.’
He waves as he does a backward jog across the lawn then darts into the house. I can hear him thundering up the stairs, Phoenix chasing him, thinking it’s a game. A few minutes later he calls goodbye and I hear the front door slam behind him. For a few beats all is silent, then Phoenix trots out to greet me and I bend down to cuddle him. ‘He’s gone, I know,’ I say quietly, into his fur. Then I stand up, leaning on the boom mic. Right, I can’t wallow. I might as well get on with this. I clamp the headphones over my ears and fiddle with the dials, like Rufus has shown me, and press record. I move across the sun-bleached lawn, nearly tripping over Phoenix, who is running in circles around my legs, as I point the mic towards the cloudless sky. The microphone instantly picks up the amplified sounds of a clunky piano, the slam of a car door, the low thrum of drum and bass, and … something else. Voices speaking in hushed, urgent tones.
‘… I don’t know, Mari …’
‘You promised me you’d take her. I’ve got everything ready. The room …’
‘I know … but … after what happened before … should we really try again?’
They’re coming from the direction of next door. Marielle and Henry. I lower the microphone, mortified that I’m picking up my new neighbours’ private conversation, and move towards my back gate, determined to put distance between the microphone and where they might be.
I can see their upstairs window is slightly ajar, and a shadow moves behind the glass. They must have gone intothe house. I move further back so that I’m almost in the bushes. When I think I’m far enough away not to pick up any more of their conversation I tentatively raise the mic again.
‘… we have no choice …’
Damn it, I can still hear them. I press stop on the tape deck so I’m no longer recording.
‘…You said you’d see this through to the end. You promised. And you know what I think about broken promises, Henry?’
‘Marielle, please …’
‘It’s not going to go away. And I’m not going to forget about it. This has to happen as we planned. It’s the only way.’Her voice takes on a high-pitched, almost wheedling tone, at odds with the strong, independent woman I had taken her to be.‘I don’t know what I’ll do if you break your promise, Henry. I don’t know how I’ll live …’
She sounds genuinely upset and I’m flooded with shame. God, is my life so boring that I have to get my excitement from listening in on someone else’s private conversation? I’m just about to lower the microphone when Henry says something that makes me freeze.
‘It’s too risky. We could get caught, Mari.’
‘We didn’t last time.’
My pulse quickens. Getting caught doing what?
Their voices are replaced by a rustling sound. Slowly, I turn and look up at their house, and see Henry moving at the window. Shit, has he seen me? I lower the boom mic with a prickle of unease and, head down, I hurry back into my kitchen.
What on earth are they planning?
3
NATALIE
