To: Sapphie, Cassie, Luke, Gus, Matts
From: Chambers
Great work on the press releases and other information, ably led by Sapphie and Cassie. Sapphie—as arranged I’ll call early tomorrow morning (Thursday) to finalise the roll out.
From: Matts
To: Sapphie, Chambers, Cassie, Luke, Gus
Sapphie—others in the group are getting through on your phone. I am not. Please call.
My foot doesn’t hurt when I wear boots and keep to level ground, so after I call Mr Chambers, I walk slowly to the farmhouse by road. I could drive. Yesterday I borrowed Pa’s van. I sat behind the wheel and fought my anxiety all the way to the end of the loop road and back again. I don’t imagine I’ll be driving at night anytime soon, but one day I will.
Mum wouldn’t want me to run scared. She did enough of that for both of us.
The farmhouse looks much the same from the outside, but most of the furniture and equipment, the desk, filing cabinets, boots and hats and halters and bridles and saddles that were stored in the hallway and office, have been taken to the youth centre. Edward Kincaid has given me permission to keep my horses on his land at Kincaid House until I find somewhere else, and I can store their gear in Jet’s shed. Gus’s working bee, his annual community project where we help each other out, is a big December event. When I told him the farmhouse had been sold to my father, he cussed and cursed for an hour. And then he pulled out his small spiral notebook and wrote my name on a list.
‘Don’t see why Beresford-Brown should get the lot,’ he said. ‘You’ll be wanting your flower bench and mirror and your other odds and ends for when you find another place. We’ll move them to my shed.’
I’ve packed all my crepe paper—the scores of rolls and scraps I kept in the bookcase—into containers. I’ve stored my glues and scissors and wires as well. The boxes will take up all the living space in the schoolhouse, but I want to have them close. I flick through one of Gran’s exercise books. She wrote in pencil to record the patterns she thought she’d use again, but she rarely referred to her notes. She’d either remember what she’d done the first time around, or decide to try something new. She liked to make flowers she’d never made before. ‘Look, Sapphie,’ she’d say, peering at the petals through her glasses. ‘The perfect imperfections.’
Inge seemed to be perfect. She never raised her voice. She was modest and kind and thoughtful. She always kept fresh flowers on her dining room table.
I move Gran’s books aside and put my phone on the bench. I pull up a hardback chair and find Matts’s number in my list of missed calls.
‘Sapphie.’ He doesn’t exactly bark my name, but it’s close.
‘I’m sorry.’
Silence.
‘Are you still there, Matts?’
‘Hold on.’
There are muffled voices in the background. Is he in a meeting with the Water Resources minister? Or an environmental lobby group? Or farmers, irrigators and organic crop producers? The UN High Commissioner?
‘I can call back.’
‘No.’ A door clicks shut. ‘What the fuck, Sapphie?’ Louder now.
‘Shout at me then.’
‘I never would.’
‘I know …’ The box of tissues I used when Jet was here is on the bench. I pluck two and wipe my cheeks. ‘I know that.’
Silence again.
‘Matts?’ I sniff. ‘Are you still there?’
‘Are you crying?’
‘A bit.’
‘That’s unfair. Fucking unfair.’
‘I’m—’ My voice breaks. ‘I don’t want to hurt you again.’
He sighs so loudly that I hear it. ‘Has your father upset you?’
‘Nothing new.’
‘Have you injured yourself again?’
‘No.’
‘Why are you crying?’
When I fold the tissues and put them on the table, it not only reminds me of Gabriel’s handkerchief. It reminds me of the tissues I gave Matts at Inge’s funeral. And the tissues he wanted to give me at Mum’s.
I shudder a breath. ‘I wish you were here.’
He mutters under his breath. ‘Saturday, Sapphie. My flight leaves Canberra at five. I won’t get to Horseshoe much before eight.’
‘April’s reception ends at seven.’
A breeze skitters under the windowpane. The tissues lift and fall to the floor.
Voices in the background.
‘I have to go,’ he says.
Matts might be older and physically stronger, Mum would remind me, but he needed someone to watch out for him in the same way he watched out for me.
My mother kept Inge’s secret. Should I?
April’s wedding is held at a church a few kilometres out of town. On an adjacent parcel of land is the reception venue, a large barnlike structure with gardens of native trees and shrubs. The barn is crowded with people and music and movement. Most of the guests are standing now, laughing and talking as they wait for the final dances. The DJ, jumping around on a raised platform at the rear of the parquet dance floor, turns up the volume. Hugo drapes an arm across my shoulders.
‘Anyone swiped right yet?’
I smooth down my new dress, dark blue, short sleeved and slinky. It falls demurely to my knees, but there’s a split to the thigh on one side.
‘You’re drunk, Hugo.’ I elbow him in the ribs. ‘Stop leaning on me.’
He peers at my sneakers. ‘You been working at the farmhouse?’
‘I hurt my foot, remember?’
He grunts. ‘Gus said you gotta move out.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘You okay?’
Matts was supposed to see my father yesterday, but he didn’t call last night or this morning. He hasn’t called tonight. Maybe, like me, he’s waiting until we see each other in person.
I still haven’t decided whether to tell him about Gabriel.
I shake my head. ‘No, I’m not okay.’
‘Your father’s an arsehole. And I’m not drunk.’
‘So why are you leaning on me?’
He doesn’t answer, just looks pointedly over my shoulder to the dance floor. I follow his gaze to …
‘Is that Patience Cartwright?’
‘Unless she’s got an identical twin I don’t know about.’
Patience is ethereally lovely, like a storybook fairy with wavy blonde hair. She’s dancing with a group of women, but even in heels she’s the smallest by far.
‘She’s back?’
He drops his arm. ‘Not for long.’
‘Hugo? You can’t possibly still—’
He looks down at his shoes. ‘Don’t want to talk about it.’
I touch his hand. ‘I’m sorry.’
His smile goes nowhere near his eyes. ‘You did a good job on April’s head thing.’
‘It’s called a crown.’
‘Whatever.’
April, the crown of twelve old-fashioned roses pinned to her short curly hair, holds Ranjit’s hands and smiles into his eyes as they cross step, sidestep, gallop, slide and spin to a folk dance. Gus stands on the edge of the floor, clapping and tapping his foot. The gumnut buttonhole sits neatly on his lapel, the fringes of the flower bright against the blue.
Mary darts in front of me, holds out her dress and curtseys. ‘Dance with me, Miss Brown! It’s the last dance!’
‘I’d love to, Mary.’ I straighten her wattle coronet, at an angle because she’s tugged her braids loose. ‘But I’m supposed to rest my foot. School starts again next week.’
I wait until April and Ranjit have waved goodbye to their guests before I follow Gus out to the carpark. He’s arranged a lift to our homes with his neighbours, but I ask them to let me out of their car at the bottom of the hill near the park.
‘You sure, Sapphie?’ Gus asks.
I push up the sleeves of my cardigan. ‘I’ll enjoy the walk.’
I’ve only just crossed the road from the park when I see Matts on the footpath outside the pub. He’s wearing a dark-coloured hoodie and his arms are crossed. The grey-haired man he’s talking to has his back to me, but when he squares his shoulders, he’s easy enough to identify.
My father slices his hands through the air. Matts shoves his hands into his side pockets. His back is straight, his chin is up. As soon as he sees me, he spins away from my father and runs across the road. I’d imagined throwing myself into his arms and kissing his mouth and—
As he steps onto the kerb, I take a backwards step. ‘Why is Robert here?’
Matts glances at my hands, so tightly clenched that my nails dig into my palms. He lifts an arm and drops it. He looks into my eyes. Can he see the shades?
Sapphire, cobalt, indigo, navy.
Bruised.