Clementine forced her eyes open. Through the crack in the curtains she could see the bare branches of the plum tree in the backyard against the pale hues of dawn. Such cold winters—probably only three degrees outside. The folds of her doona felt extravagantly warm. She snuck her fingers out just enough to pull the covers up over her nose.
She had woken twice during the night, each time replaying the scene in her head. Something about Clancy’s story didn’t stack up. What was it? She searched her memory. Was it the way Clancy had muttered his wife’s name, like he didn’t want to mention her? Or maybe his eyes, darting all around? He hadn’t looked at her once as they spoke. Maybe something to do with Indigenous culture, she thought. But then, when she made that lame comment about putting family first, his eyes had landed right on her.
Family first. How dare she speak of family after what she’d done? She shuddered and rolled over on her side, taking care to keep the doona over her shoulders. The cockatoos in the mountain gums were getting up a screeching chorus outside.
What was she going to tell the team? Shit. Her stomach lurched. What the hell would she say? She should have tried harder—for the team’s sake, at least, and Mrs Lemmon’s. God, for the whole bloody town. A kid with that much talent—the best coaches would have challenged him, persuaded him to stay.
A kookaburra let out an exuberant guuguubarra, the morning air carrying the echo back to her from the escarpment on the other side of the valley.
Oh, for God’s sake, why are you comparing yourself with the best coaches? She sighed. Stay out of it, Jones. Keep your head down, and people will leave you alone. That’s the plan. The football is just something to keep you from going crazy, nothing more. Bloody hell, don’t start believing the Jesus comments.
She gazed up at the white meringue of plaster cornice framing the ceiling. Pieces were falling away, exposing the pulpy greyness underneath. She’d planned to paint this room but hadn’t got around to it. There was so much that needed doing around the place, and she’d only scratched the surface. She’d made an energetic start, replacing the guttering and painting the kitchen, but then the place started to grow on her. The faded carpet and scuffed timber hallway spoke of the people who had lived here before her. Were they like her? Had they been hiding? Or just keeping to themselves up here in the hills? She had felt the warmth of their company, the glide of their hands on a worn doorknob, a reverberation of voices when she turned on the shower. It had stripped away her modernising zeal.
She threw the covers off and swung her legs out of bed, peeking behind the curtains to observe the whole of the new day. Pocket was bounding after a galah that had landed in the backyard. She’d chosen him as a six-month-old puppy from the Earlville pound. Spiky black fur stuck up higgledy-piggledy along the ridge of his back, white chest dappled with enough flecks of black to make it grey. He had some cattle dog in him, a touch of border collie—a bit of this, a bit of that. It didn’t matter, he’d made her smile, and the cottage was different, lighter with his presence.
She padded down the icy floorboards in the hall to the bathroom, fluffy dressing-gown wrapped tightly around her waist. Hot water took ages up here, not like her flat in Sydney. She waited until the last moment to drop her dressing-gown and step in. By the time she’d emerged from the shower, the decision was made—a quick conversation with Clancy couldn’t hurt. She would stop at his place before training on Thursday.