PAISLEY

BUNDANOON, AUSTRALIA, PRESENT DAY

I study him, this man: my father. We sit, the cafe table between us, and sip our coffees with a guardedness that borders on paranoia. Neither of us knows quite what to say to break the stilted silence.

I go first.

‘I wanted to talk to you about Mum,’ I venture softly, licking the froth of milk from my lip. ‘I’m worried about her. She’s obsessing over tarot cards and I don’t think that’s really all that helpful.’

My father smiles. He is quite handsome when he smiles. Sometimes I can see why my mother fell for him.

‘She’s definitely one of a kind, your mother.’ He nods. ‘I have spoken to the local constable and she has promised to go and speak with the Hoopers and try to interview the boy. The police haven’t taken any of the other complaints seriously. They’re just copycat, attention-seeking locals trying to drum up some hysteria. I’m looking at encouraging Kirsten to offer to close up shop and leave town. If she’s charged she’ll be out of work, and even if she isn’t, business will be badly affected.’

‘But if she leaves that makes her look guilty,’ I protest. ‘She wants her name cleared not be banished from her shop and home under a cloud of shame. That’s my house too! I don’t want to move again.’

We drift back into a pensive silence and I watch the passing parade of shoppers down the main street.

‘How are you coping at school?’ he asks. ‘Kids being okay? No bullying or getting a hard time of it?’

I shrug. ‘The kids aren’t too bad,’ I answer. ‘There’s one jerk but he’s nothing I can’t handle. The parents in Bundy are a different matter. They’re worse than the kids and someone spray-painted something awful on Mum’s shop. I got rid of it before she saw it.’

‘This sort of thing brings out the worst in people,’ he agrees. ‘It’s not unlike the old witch-hunts. One accusation can trigger an epidemic fuelled by fear. Contagious hysteria.’

The waitress brings my slice of cake: chocolate mud cake. It’s as heavy as a brick and so dark it’s almost black.

‘Does your mother have a special friend?’ my father asks awkwardly. ‘I just wonder if she has someone supporting her. I mean, other than you. Although I’m sure you’re being a real strength to her. Someone … special?’

I look up at him sharply, a mouthful of chocolate cake sitting in the side of my cheek. I wonder at the trickle of interest and can hear some discomfort in his voice, as if the discovery of a boyfriend might be a barb.

‘No,’ I mumble around the cake. ‘Mum has lots of acquaintances, people in the town who like her and have tea and stuff with her but not really anyone that she’d call a best friend. They’ve all disappeared. Dumped her. As far as support goes, I’m it.’

He nods. ‘You should come to Sydney and visit sometime,’ he says, stirring a sachet of sugar into his double-shot latte, without looking up at me. ‘If you want to. No pressure.’

I swallow the sugary mess in my mouth and blink, buying time before I find an answer without sounding cold.

‘Maybe,’ I say. I think back to the ghosts of visits past. My father and I would sit in enforced company wondering what to talk about. He was always half at work, speaking with clients at all hours of the day and night on the weekend and more than once he’d had to race off to file something at court or bail out a client from police custody, leaving me alone. His new wife, Antoinette, was French and did little to conceal her disregard for me. I was in the way and never really welcome.

‘How is … um … Oliver?’ I wait but my father does not respond. I look up at him and see that he is looking at the table, while he distractedly stirs his coffee for the umpteenth time.

‘Well, you see, Paisley,’ he says in a low and measured voice, ‘I’m on my own. Antoinette took Oliver back to Paris and I haven’t seen them for nearly two years. One year and eight months to be exact.’

I whoosh in a gulp of air to help me process this information. The new wife left him? Left him? It looks like my father might be about to cry. I sense his pain and am surprised to realise that it is one of the first times I have witnessed any emotion from him.

‘So what’s the plan with Mum?’ I ask, changing the subject, steering us out of the uncomfortable fog that hangs between us.

‘Honestly, Paise, I don’t think it will get to court,’ he says. I am relieved to hear it. ‘And if you have another issue like the graffiti, don’t wash it off. Call the police. That’s vandalism and harassment.’

I nod and realise he’s right. That would have been the best thing to have done.

‘But Mum won’t move or consider shutting up shop, and while I don’t believe in all her mumbo jumbo,’ I say, licking the last of the chocolate off my fingers like a toddler, ‘I do think she has the right to operate her shop and live in her own house and not be bullied out because of some bigoted old cow.’

My father grins broadly. ‘You’ve got your mother’s fire in you,’ he says, and he says it like it’s a good thing.

‘You do believe Mum, don’t you?’ I ask suddenly, the thought coming at me unbidden. ‘I remember once you told me that you didn’t care whether your clients were innocent or guilty, as long as they paid their fee they were as good as one another. You do believe Mum is innocent, don’t you?’

He flinches and gives a contorted look. ‘That was the wrong message to give you,’ he admits. ‘A foolish and immature defence-lawyer thing to say. I have probably defended and kept many guilty people out of gaol and that doesn’t always sit well with me but let’s not go there now. Bottom line is that I do believe your mother is innocent. No matter what happened between us and how things turned out, I know she is a good and decent person and would never hurt or betray anyone.’

‘But she left you,’ I say, watching him, gauging his reaction. ‘She left you before I was even born. She did that to you. Aren’t you the least bit angry with her? Or hurt?’

His face softens, the lines around his eyes melting a little and he runs a hand through his fair hair.

‘Yes, Paisley,’ he says, leaning in toward me, taking my hand in his, which feels supremely weird. ‘I was very hurt and I always thought she’d come back. For ten years I thought she’d come back. But she didn’t and I don’t blame her for leaving me. I cheated on her and broke her heart and I think that’s what drove her into all that new-age crazy stuff. I hurt her and I’ve never ever forgiven myself for that.’

I look down at his hand on mine and feel a sharp pain under my chin that heralds tears, but I bite down on my bottom lip to push it away. I look back up at my father and see that his eyes are glassy.

‘I didn’t know that,’ I say in a whisper. ‘She’s never told me that. She’s never said a bad word about you.’

‘That’s what I mean, Paisley,’ he answers. ‘She’s like that. She told me that she forgave me but that she couldn’t live with me without trust. She told me that she needs trust like she needs air and my selfish act had suffocated her. Now she’s being betrayed again by people she trusted. Your community. And I know that it is the one thing she can’t deal with.’

‘Why did Antoinette leave you?’ I ask.

‘Well, in a karmic turnaround, she left me for another man.’ He gives a sad smile of resignation. ‘She took Oliver on a holiday and never came back. Just sent me a text that it was over.’

We order another coffee and drink in silence, lost in our thoughts.

When we do leave and go back out on the street, Dad holds me tight and lifts my chin up so that I am looking into his square face.

‘You be there for your mum and I will do everything in my power to help her,’ he says. ‘I love you both very much and want nothing more than for you to be happy. That’s why I haven’t hassled you to come and visit. I didn’t want to make you do it if you didn’t want to. But I’m different these days, Paisley, and now I only work part-time. I’ve learned that there are more important things than work. And I would love you to come and visit.’

I watch my father drive off in his black sports car and realise that he is the loneliest man I have ever met. I think to myself that maybe I will go and visit him sometime. Perhaps under the stiff collar and crisp suit there is a person worth getting to know. He is, after all, half of me, so he can’t be all bad.