Fairway to Heaven Page 4

  A clunk from the rear makes me jump.

  Seb’s milk bottle has fallen from his fingers and landed on the floor. A quick head-check shows me it’s empty and Seb’s fast asleep, cheek tucked into the headrest.

  Dear little boy.

  I lean my head back, getting comfortable, settling in to what I always called the rhythm of the road.

  Jack is in my head for a while, but not too long.

  ***

  Seb sleeps for two hours and when he wakes, sweat plasters his hair to his temple. He yawns, stretches, rub his fists in his eyes, stretches again.

  ‘Hey, buddy. Are you thirsty?’ I have water in a spouted cup and his favourite twisty straw. He takes it from me but it only lasts a few sips. He blows through the straw instead, making the water bubble before he throws it on the floor.

  ‘I’ll take that as a no.’

  Seb pulls at the black belts strapping him in and starts to cry. I’ve passed Bunbury, I’m not far from Capel. By my calculations, that puts me about twenty minutes from the shack.

  Biscuits buy his silence for five of those minutes, but once they’re gone, his face screws up tighter than before and tears leak down his reddened cheeks.

  I really don’t want to stop. We’re so close. If I get him out of the car I’ll just have to strap him in again. ‘Hang on, Sebby, we’re almost there buddy.’

  My backside aches, and the sunshine I’ve loved for almost three hours is at the wrong angle now, way too bright. There’s a headache trying to stow-away in my skull.

  ‘Are you sick of being in the car, Seb? I’m sick of driving.’

  He screams at the window.

  I tell him about the beach, and seagulls, and fish and seaweed…and seagulls again, and none of it makes any difference. He gets angrier and sadder. I don’t blame him.

  We’re at Busselton now, on the outskirts. I can’t remember if the speed limit sign said sixty or seventy kilometres. My speed arrow nudges sixty-six. I also can’t remember how far along Bussell Highway I need to go before the turn-off toward the shack and the sea. This town has changed so much I can’t get my bearings. Somewhere in the last eight years, sleepy Busselton woke up.

  ‘We’re so close, little man, hold on,’ I plead, willing the traffic lights to stay green, praying for free-flowing lanes, no traffic snarls, no hold-ups.

  Every tear makes it worse.

  Finally, there’s a sign on the left of the highway that I recognise. It’s for the caravan park that sits a few hundred metres further along the road from the Culhane’s shack. I indicate into the right-hand lane and slow, waiting to turn. Seb has screamed himself hoarse. Hiccupping sobs shake his small frame. Each sob is like a nail in my spine.

  Turning right, I enter a bitumen road that divides a row of seventies-style brick and tile houses, all with manicured lawns and garden beds of colourful roses. Those houses haven’t changed, even if the town has.

  Skateboards, surfboards and bodyboards vie for space on garden paths. BMX bikes lean against walls and veranda posts, helmets dangle from the handlebars.

  I brake at the T-junction where the coast road stretches left and right along the foreshore. I can’t see the millpond of Geographe Bay. It’s hidden by dunes and a row of peppermint trees that sway in the breeze.

  I turn left, driving slow. There are no cars behind me and none on the quiet road. I pass a couple of kids on bikes with towels slung over their shoulders.

  The old fishing shacks are gone. Instead, I’m driving past architect-designed, two-storey mansions with entire walls of glass fronting, manicured lawns, and outdoor kitchens that shine with stainless steel.

  Leaning forward, I rest my forearms across the steering wheel, peering at all the palaces. There’s the track to the beach, cutting through the dunes on my right. The shack can’t be much further. Memory is all I have to rely on and everything is so different.

  I remember the Culhane’s beach house as all picture-postcard charm: a neat white weatherboard house with a red roof, set way back from the road and flanked by a grove of mature peppermint trees. There were always cicadas chirping, and the soothing wash of distant waves.

  And there it is. It’s not as pretty as it is in my memory. It looks like no one has stayed here for a very long time. Even so, right now it feels like a palace to me.

  I made it. ‘We made it, Seb. We’re here!’

  Slowing even further, I drive over the cracked concrete kerb onto a sandy goat track that is losing its fight to repel the coastal scrub. The track runs beside what used to be a rough lawn large enough to host our games of cricket and frisbee and football, then it disappears behind the shack where we always used to park. It’s a sad excuse for lawn now. It’s sparse dry sand and the only thing tough enough to thrive in it is the weeds. The bushes bordering the lawn are straggly and blown in the shape of the prevailing winds.

  ‘Check out the neighbours, mate.’ I let out a whistle. A two-storey chateau throws a blanket of shade over the Culhane’s sand and weeds, darkening the low front porch and its timber steps.

  I drive carefully past the house, concentrating on staying in the wheel ruts that mark the soft sand. There’s a patch where I think I see tyre tracks, but it must be a trick of my tired eyes and the shadows.

  Seb starts whimpering again.

  ‘Hold on, little buddy. Hold on.’ Please, hold on.

  Clearing the rear corner of the cottage, I nose my car behind the house, and then I stomp on the brake so hard the seatbelt near cuts me in half.

  Two towels wave at me from the clothesline.

  There’s a late-model black Pajero with silver roofracks parked near a ramshackle iron shed. I don’t recognise the car, but I’d know that number plate anywhere.

  BC-1983.

  Brayden is here.

  Chapter 4

  My car shimmies to a stop.

  I look at the house, the black car, the shed, and back again. Other than those two waving towels, there’s no sign anyone is around.

  But two towels?

  Brayden’s never lacked for female company. He’s hardly likely to come all this way for a romantic weekend alone. Maybe if I reverse straight back the way I came, I can slip away before I’m seen? Before I ruin his dirty weekend.

  Or romantic weekend, of course.

  Then Seb lets out his loudest wail yet. In the rearview mirror, his cheeks are red cherries. The front of his shirt is soaked at the collar.

  Teeth. He’s teething.

  We can’t stay in the car any longer, it isn’t fair. I have to let him out. I twist the key, and my car shudders itself still.

  I open my door to a hit of salt-scented beach. For one beautiful second my brain sighs in pleasure, and then I’m out and around the car, reaching for my son.

  Tears flood his neck. His chin is slippery with a mix of snot, tears and dribble. I cuddle him close to my chest, bouncing him in the cooling breeze, wiping at his face with the falling-apart tissue that’s been stuffed in my bra. I’m close to crying myself.

  Why didn’t I pull into one of the rest stops along the highway? I should have stopped, somewhere, anywhere, on the side of the road.

  ‘Sorry, little man,’ I shush him.

  Balancing Seb on my hip, I grab the nappy bag from the passenger footrest and sling it over my free shoulder.

  When I first saw his car, I hoped Brayden wasn’t here. Now I’m hoping he is inside. I need the toilet too, and I don’t fancy ducking behind the shed to pee if the house is locked, or changing Seb’s nappy on the front seat of my car.

  ‘Jennifer?’

  I whip toward his voice. My tummy does this liquid slosh, like a water balloon bouncing, until my torso aligns with my spinning head, and I see him.

  Brayden.

  ‘Hi,’ I say. It sounds dreadfully inept.

  There’s him: Bare-foot, unshaven, and he still looks like sex on legs.

  Then there’s me: travel-weary, toddler screaming, a snail-trail of snot and dribble on my co
llarbone.

  It’s no contest.

  ‘Emmy didn’t think anyone would be here. I’m so sorry. I hate to barge in on you like this.’

  ‘Hi yourself. You’re a surprise.’ He descends the ramp. The steps bow under his weight and the entire house complains. ‘You’re hardly barging. I’ve never seen anyone take that driveway so slow, and don’t blame Em. She doesn’t know I’m here. What are you doing here anyway?’

  Seb is all huge blue eyes, his attention captured by this big, broad stranger. For the moment at least, he’s forgotten his sore teeth, and that’s a blessing.

  ‘I’ve — ’ I break off. I’ve what exactly? Come to get away. Come to recharge my batteries. Come to escape my two-timing ex. ‘I’ve come for the weekend.’

  Brayden steps lightly off the bottom step. He’s wearing a blue-checked shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbow — unbuttoned — over a white T-shirt with a faded yellow Corona logo. Charcoal-grey shorts finish just above his knees.

  I’ve forgotten how overwhelming he is. I’m tall, but there’s so much of him to go round. It’s a bit like watching Thor, but without the hammer.

  I heft Sebby higher on my hip. ‘Sebastian, this is Brayden. This is Aunt Emmy’s big brother.’

  ‘Hi, mate,’ Brayden says, and his hand swallows Seb’s fist and half his arm in a shake.

  Seb’s eyes open even wider, and he smiles.

  Then this mass of man reaches for me. ‘It’s good to see you, Jenn. You look great.’

  There’s an awkward moment where he has to dodge my son to press a kiss on my cheek. I get a hint of chocolate on his warm breath, and something jelly-sweet I can’t place, before his whiskers tickle my skin and make me shiver.

  ‘Sorry.’ He stands back, pinching his beard where it glistens gingery-gold at his jaw. ‘It takes some getting used to.’

  ‘Kissing a man with a beard is like eating a peach through a blanket,’ I say, without thinking.

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’ Then he really looks at me, turning me inside out with those Viking-blue eyes. ‘How are you, Jenn? It’s been a long time.’

  Three years and about, oh two months. ‘I’m good,’ I say automatically, bumping Seb higher.

  ‘Which one shall I take?’ he asks, and before I can answer, he wraps his hands around Sebby’s ribs and lifts him. Without my ballast, I almost tip like the proverbial teapot.

  From his vantage point, Seb’s head swivels to make sure I’m coming too.

  ‘We won’t stay long. If I can just use the toilet and I need to change his nappy.’ I fall in behind as Brayden turns for the stairs.

  ‘Stay as long as you like,’ he says, over his shoulder.

  I pull a face. It doesn’t take much imagination to picture the girl waiting in the beach house right now. If she heard his invitation, I bet she’s cursing the ground I walk on. I bet she doesn’t want me to stay as long as I like.

  My son’s hand stretches to Brayden’s whiskers. At the last minute, Brayden shakes his head like a burly bear, making Seb snatch his fingers into his belly and giggle. Two seconds later, those tiny fingers creep out again. Brayden plays the game.

  Like Emmy, he’s good with kids. There were always youngsters running around their parents’ place. Don and Lottie Culhane have generous hearts and they’ve often given refuge to troubled kids. A lot of those foster kids — teenagers now — still come to the Culhanes’ to share lunch on Christmas day. It’s one big extended, happy family.

  I wait while the two of them ascend the stairs, unsure about whether those steps will take our combined weight. Brayden asks Seb if he likes making sandcastles. ‘And what about chasing seagulls? Do you like that too, mate? Can’t let seagulls steal all the chips.’ Then the screen door squeaks open and the shack absorbs them.

  I take a last gulp of ocean air before I start the climb.

  Inside the house, it’s warm but not stuffy. I’d expected it would take a few hours of airing to rid it of that shut-up feeling, but Brayden has done that already. I wonder how long he’s been here.

  There are coffee cups and plates, rinsed but not washed, stacked at the side of the kitchen sink. On the laminated countertop, a white plastic chopping board is sprinkled with breadcrumbs and tomato seeds, a tub of butter beside it. A jar of peanut paste hasn’t been returned to to the pantry.

  ‘Sorry about the mess,’ Brayden says.

  ‘You weren’t expecting company.’ Not my company, anyway.

  I drop the nappy bag at my feet and take a proper look around.

  The Culhanes transported this house here when they bought the block in the late eighties. It came from a sheep farm somewhere north-east of Perth and I think Emmy told me it began life as shearers’ quarters.

  It has two main bedrooms, one at the front off the lounge and one at the back, off the kitchen. The couch unfolds into a sofa bed, adding to the sleeping options. There is one bathroom, two toilets, a laundry, and the kitchen has a breakfast nook set into the window.

  Low cupboards make window seats in that breakfast nook. We used to sit on them while we ate our toast or cereal because there were never enough of the green swivelling kitchen chairs to go round.

  Even the old clunky lime-green Kelvinator refrigerator is still there with Mrs Culhane’s list of beach house instructions on the front. It says things like: no cleaning fish on the porch; wipe out the fridge when you leave; make sure all doors and windows are locked; last person out please turn off the water at the meter.

  I don’t need to read that list. I remember it by heart.

  A box of chocolates is on top of the fridge, and as I see it, something clicks in my brain. That’s the scent I caught on Brayden’s breath. Turkish Delight. His favourite. Mine too.

  Mrs Culhane’s shell collection spills over a three-level shelf tacked above the microwave. That’s one thing that’s changed — more shells. Otherwise, the brownish carpet is more worn, and the curtains are a faded shade of creamy yellow. That’s it. In eight years, that’s all I can see that’s different.

  ‘Nothing’s changed,’ I say, looking at him. Except he has, he’s cut his hair. It’s still long and thick, but I’m not sure he could catch it in a pony-tail anymore.

  ‘It could do with a coat of paint. The folks don’t want to spend any money on it.’

  ‘The value is in the land, not the house,’ I say, my eyes on the lines where they etch the corner of his eyes and his mouth. Those lines are new.

  Brayden cocks an eyebrow at me. ‘I forget you’re in real estate.’

  ‘Not in real estate, I just write about it.’ What does he see when he looks at me?

  ‘Sell it. Write about it. Same thing.’ Brayden puts Seb on the floor. My son wanders through the interconnecting doorframe and into the lounge.

  ‘Is there anything he can get in trouble with in there?’ A blonde hiding in the front bedroom?

  Brayden shrugs. ‘We sold the Ming vase, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘I should tell you right now, Seb doesn’t abide by the laws of you break it, you bought it.’

  He laughs, and the sound warms my toes. That hasn’t changed, either.

  ‘Do you mind if I change Seb’s nappy here?’ I ask.

  He waves his hand. ‘Be my guest.’

  Unzipping the nappy bag, I rummage through it for wipes and a nappy. When I find them, I go hunting for Seb. He’s in the front room, about to pull tissues out of the box on the coffee table.

  I lay him on the carpet, peel off his wet nappy, dump it in a nappy sack, lift his bottom and put on a fresh one. It’s a quick change. Before I was a mum, I’d never changed a nappy. Now I could do it in the dark. Brayden’s in the doorway, watching. I can see feet, long toes, and the solid muscle of his calves. His foot taps a couple of times in the corner of my vision.

  ‘So how’s life with Tiger Woods, Jenn?’ He drops Jack into the room, like a cat might toss a dead rat across the floor.

  ‘I wish Jack was Tiger Woods,’ I say,
with a lightness I don’t feel, smoothing Velcro tabs across Seb’s tummy. ‘Then I could replace the Ming vases my son breaks.’

  Tugging a T-shirt over Seb’s head and Thomas Tank Engine shorts up his stumpy legs, I let him loose.

  He heads for the tissue box.

  ‘How ’bout I take that, young man.’ Brayden’s hand descends, and he lifts the box to a high shelf on the bookcase. From the look in Seb’s eyes, it’s like a giant crane just stole his fun.

  I get up with the wet nappy swinging in the bag in my hand.

  Through the front window, there’s a patch of bright orange gazanias in the weeds on the opposite side of the road. They’re dancing in the breeze and it’s as if the grass is on fire.

  When I turn back, I catch Brayden’s gaze on my face. The breath bumps in my throat and it takes me a moment to find something to say.

  ‘What about you, Brayden? What have you been up to?’

  His eyes slip away. ‘Not much. Work. Airports. Airports. Work. You know the drill.’

  ‘I do.’ I smile as I say it, but Brayden’s smile in return doesn’t reach his eyes. That’s when I realise the lines on his face aren’t all age-related. He’s exhausted. ‘You look tired, Bray.’

  He rubs the back of his neck. ‘Yeah, I’m on extended leave. Got a couple weeks off.’

  ‘Sorry I rocked up to spoil your fun. We’re not staying.’ I wave the nappy sack in my hand. ‘Soon as you tell me what I can do with this, I’ll get out of your hair.’

  ‘Where will you go?’

  There’s a question. “Somewhere cheap” springs to mind. ‘We’ll find a hotel or something.’

  ‘You’re welcome to stay here. There’s plenty of room and Mum keeps all the linen stocked up. It’ll be fun to have company. You’ll help take my mind off… things.’

  ‘But, you’re expecting… other company, surely?’ A blush creeps into my cheeks. ‘I mean… at some stage. Aren’t you?’

  Finally, he gets my drift.

  ‘I’m not expecting any guests, I promise. So stay. It’ll be fun. It’s not like we haven’t shared this place before.’ He shifts the tissue box another shelf higher and taps the bookcase, as a thought occurs to him. ‘What about you, though… you’re not expecting… anyone, to be joining you, are you?’