Sargasso, p.26
Sargasso, page 26
I pause there, and then I backspace and take out that last sentence because it could be open to interpretation. But then my words feel inadequate, so I add, Give my love to the girls. And Joe. xx
The girls are the other nurses, and Joe is the handyman/porter. It’s rather a pathetic response but I press send before I change my mind.
Before I lose my nerve I phone Kelly. It is 4.32 pm. 432! Not an inconvenient time to phone. Almost the end of the working day.
‘Hannah.’
‘Hey, Kelly.’
‘What’s the matter, Hannah?’ She sounds tired. ‘I’m in the middle of something.’
‘It’s Friday afternoon,’ I tell her, wondering if she ever winds down.
‘I know.’
‘The house plans—’ I hate asking a favour but I have no option. ‘Do you think you could get them from Tristan and post them to me?’
‘Why do you need them?’
‘Could you,’ I repeat, ‘get them from Tristan?’
She sighs as if I have asked her for the moon. ‘I don’t know. I’ll try. I’ll certainly tell him you need them—’
‘No, don’t do that—’
‘Why not?’ She pauses. ‘It might be a good thing if he goes down there and meets Flint. I’d like to know what he thinks of the man.’
I’ve been working away at a mark on the countertop while I listen, and I’ve rubbed so hard I’ve almost taken the skin off my finger.
‘I don’t want him to do that,’ I say, sucking on it.
‘Why not?’ she says again. ‘You don’t want to see Tristan, is that it?’
She waits but I can’t think of a comeback.
‘Are you still in love with him?’
‘No,’ I tell her, ‘I’m not.’
‘I think you might be.’
‘You wish.’ I wasn’t going to ask her but I need to change the subject. ‘You don’t know where Dad is buried, do you?’
‘Gosh, Hannah, that’s going back a long time. I was at boarding school. I didn’t go to the funeral—’
‘I know you didn’t—’
‘Well, you can’t expect me to remember stuff that happened when I wasn’t there.’ Then, ‘Sorry,’ she says, ‘I have to go.’ And disconnects.
*
When I get back upstairs, Flint puts down his roller.
‘Got my apple?’
Blast. I smile weakly. ‘I forgot.’
‘Hannah, I only asked you for one thing.’
He looks at me with suspicion. ‘You were a long time. What else did you do while you were down there?’
‘I had a text message.’
‘And?’
‘Some old guy I know died.’
I kneel on the floor and pick up my paintbrush.
‘And …’
‘And what?’
‘What else did you do? It couldn’t have taken all that long to reply, hmm?’
I come clean. There’s no point trying to draw this out any longer. ‘I phoned Kelly.’
‘What for?’
I glance up. He hasn’t touched his roller. He’s concentrating on me.
‘To ask her to get the house plans. To post them to me. I want to know where these graves are.’
He descends the ladder. I think he’s going to fetch his forgotten apple and I begin to paint the skirting board.
But he halts beside me. ‘Has she got them?’
I think about lying, about saying Yes, Kelly’s got them, but I don’t like untruths between us. ‘No.’
‘Who—’
‘Tristan. Tristan has them. I told you the other day. They’re on top of a filing cabinet in his apartment.’
‘Why?’
Now I look up at him. His face is severe with anger. ‘Because I left them there, Flint. Because I used to live with—’
I stop because he’s put up his hand to silence me.
‘That was stupid, Hannah, really stupid. Now we’ll have him turning up here.’
With the brush in one hand, I look at his boots. This is an odd time to think of it, but it reminds me of when we were children, and I had to kneel in front of him and apologise. This time, however, I know what I’m expressing regret for.
‘I’m sorry.’
He doesn’t move away. He’s frozen.
For a moment time stands still, only it doesn’t. Can’t. It never stands still. Somewhere it is always ticking, always moving forward. Relentless.
I wait to see what he will do next, say next. A small part of me is afraid. I remember how angry he used to get, slashing at stuff with his hand, kicking at tree roots. And I am close to his boots.
I put down my brush.
I rise until I am looking into his face. His skin is ashen, his nostrils dilated, his body rigid. He’s not keen on meeting Tristan—that’s an understatement. Or is it that he’s not keen on me seeing him again?
‘Flint,’ I murmur.
I keep looking at him. I don’t let my eyes leave his. I reach for the clenched fist at his side and gently unbend his fingers and with my other hand I trace the hard line that is his mouth.
‘Flint,’ I say again.
His fingers relax and entwine with mine. His face softens and his eyes flicker.
I put one hand on the warm nape of his neck and ruffle his hair and I draw his face to mine and still I keep looking at him and saying his name and then I kiss him.
He is a little slow to respond and I move my tongue against his and gently press myself against his rigid frame and then I curl a strand of hair between my fingers until it is taut like fishing line.
‘Ow,’ he says against my mouth. ‘Let go.’
‘No.’
‘Hannah,’ he groans. He jerks his head and my hand falls away and he pushes his fingers under my shirt and fumbles for the button on my shorts at the same time as he forces me up against the wall and we kick over the tin of paint and it goes everywhere, but we are oblivious.
*
Afterwards we lie quietly on the floor—away from the paint—exhausted by our passion.
It’s intimate, our lovemaking, and animal-like. Wild. We bite each other and cry out. Always. But we are never selfish. We never stop loving one another.
He’s dozing, cradled in my arms, when I gently rock my hips against his.
‘Do you remember when we were children?’ I say. ‘Lying, like this, under the stairs?’
He smooths the damp hair back from my forehead.
‘How could I forget?’
‘What happened that night? What did I do wrong?’
‘You were just a girl, Hannah.’
‘You were young, too.’
‘I was a teenager, you weren’t.’
‘So?’
He turns his face from mine.
‘Did you … did you want me?’ I tease gently. ‘Did you have an erection?’
‘Hannah!’
‘Why can’t I know?’
‘You were a child!’ he admonishes me. ‘It isn’t appropriate.’
I bury my face in his neck in embarrassment. Maybe he’s right. Maybe this whole conversation is a bit off. I think back to that night, to everything going from bad to worse. My lies to Dad … the forlorn little boat aground on the beach … never seeing Flint again … moving back to Melbourne and all the sorrow that ensued.
I look up. ‘But why did you … did you leave me?’
I stumble over my words, my eyes filling with tears. So many times I’ve asked myself what might’ve happened had he not left me.
‘You pushed me away. All you could think about was your father.’
‘Did I?’ I don’t remember doing this; I only remember Flint never coming back. ‘I didn’t mean to, you know. I-I didn’t—’
‘Shh,’ he says, kissing my forehead. ‘Don’t dwell on it, Hannah. We’re together now, that’s all that matters. And I love you, I love you so very much.’
He rolls off me, dozes beside me, our legs still tangled up.
‘Flint?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Flint, do you want a baby?’
He jerks his head up. ‘What?’
‘I mean, not now, but some day … Do you?’
‘No.’
‘No? Just like that, no?’ I pause. ‘You mean it’s not something you’ll even consider?’
His body stiffens alongside me. Extricating his legs, he rises from the floor and begins to pull on his shorts.
‘I don’t want children, Hannah. End of story.’
‘Oh.’ If I sound disappointed, I am. I didn’t think it would be something he’d refuse to even discuss.
He looks across at me, and my lip starts to wobble, tears springing anew to my eyes.
‘Oh, Hannah,’ he says.
I nod dumbly. ‘I didn’t think … didn’t think you’d—you’d refuse …’ I can’t finish.
He sighs. Bends his head. ‘I can’t have children. I thought you knew that.’
‘But there are treatments—’
‘Hannah, just leave it, okay?’
‘But Flint—’
‘Hannah!’ he shouts at me.
*
The sound of a vehicle in the driveway the following morning alerts me. I glance at Flint. We’re working in the kitchen. Sanding down the patio doors.
‘That’ll be Tristan, most probably. What are you going to do?’ I add, when he doesn’t say anything.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Are you going to come out and say hello?’
‘Hell, no—’
‘But why not?’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘Well, he might come into the kitchen, be prepared for that.’
‘No, he won’t.’
He works vigorously against the wood again, his back leaning into it, not looking at me. ‘You won’t let him. You’ll talk to him in the driveway. He’s not to come in, do you understand?’
Putting down my sanding block I take a deep breath. I remember the hurt, stunned expression on Tristan’s face the last time I saw him. I’ve adjusted to our separation but I’m still not ready for a face-to-face.
I check my reflection in the glass of the microwave, pushing my hair behind one ear, and Flint notices. His hands are still as he stares. I don’t want to glance back at him. I am frightened by what I might betray.
I open the front door. Tristan is kneeling beside Kotteb’s grave. My heart lurches, and I haven’t even made eye contact.
‘Hey,’ I say unsteadily.
‘Hey, yourself.’ He straightens the rough little cross with one hand. He’s carrying a sheath of red roses.
‘I miss Kotteb,’ he tells me. He rises then, holds the flowers out to me. ‘Here, these are for you.’
‘Thank you.’ I have to accept them, what else can I do? It’s a generous gift. There must be twenty buds, at least. Beautiful buds. They would’ve cost a fortune.
He’s wearing stone-coloured chinos and one of his good, casual white shirts, which is unlike him. I was sure that if he came down he would take the opportunity for a surf. He’s dressed up for me, I realise stupidly.
I wait, nursing the roses, while he dusts off his hands, his mouth in a strained grimace as if it pains him to be here.
‘D-did you bring the plans?’ I say, not meaning to start out so directly.
His eyes skitter away. ‘Is that all you care about?’
‘No. You know it isn’t.’
‘The plans are in the car.’ He makes no move to get them. He’s stiff, waiting for me to ask him in. And all the time he looks away from me, up at the roofline, then down the beach track, shading his eyes from the sun.
‘Shall I get them?’ I say, putting the flowers down in the portico.
He turns and holds out the remote and I hear the locks pinging. ‘Front seat.’
The WRX is spotless inside. No beach sand, no damp towels. Or discarded T-shirts. In spite of the lingering fragrance of flowers, I smell cigarettes. He’s smoking again.
He’s right behind me as I straighten up. I catch a whiff of aftershave, my favourite one.
I hold the file to my chest—a barrier between us.
‘Why do you need them?’ He straightens his hair with his fingers.
‘There’s something I want to look at.’
‘Oh?’
Unlike Flint, he seems genuinely interested. And I think why shouldn’t I show him? He might have some ideas. I open the file on the car’s bonnet, and riffle through it until I find the plans.
There are three or four waxy pages, all folded up, and it takes a little while to get them out and spread them. Fortunately, it’s a calm day and there’s no wind.
Tristan helps by holding down the corners of the plans.
‘This is the rooftop,’ I say, talking more to myself, trying to get my head around the lines and rectangles, and the distress of seeing Dad’s signature at the bottom of the page.
‘And this is the second floor.’
I shuffle more papers.
Of course the one I want would be last, but finally I have it in front of me. I stretch my hand across its surface, smoothing it, and stop in the corner where Tristan’s hand waits to pin it down. He puts his hand on top of mine. It’s warm and familiar.
‘Don’t.’
‘Do you want me to take my hand away?’
‘Yes.’ I swallow. And he lifts his palm.
‘This is the ground floor,’ I tell him. ‘I’m looking for graves.’ The talking helps to calm me.
‘Graves?’
‘Apparently my father is buried here, on the property, near some graves.’
He brushes a fly from his face.
‘I know it sounds strange,’ I say.
I’m running over everything I see on the plan: the kitchen, the library, the staircase leading up to Dad’s studio, but there’s nothing. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to indicate graves.
‘Is the house haunted?’ Tristan asks.
I glance at him. ‘No. Why? Do you think it might be?’
He steps back and looks away.
‘That time you came,’ I say quickly. ‘That time when you ran inside and looked as if you’d seen a ghost, what happened?’
‘I don’t want to say.’
I fold up the plans, following the creases.
‘You don’t want to say because you’re scared of frightening me?’
I reach for the file on the roof, but he gets to it before me, and when he passes it he hangs on, forcing me to look at him. He’s concerned; I see it in his eyes.
‘I won’t be frightened. I’ve lived here all my life.’
‘Some of your life. You lived with me, remember?’ He blinks rapidly. ‘Or have you forgotten? We were happy, Han.’
He lets go of the file. I open it and shove the plans back inside.
‘Well?’ I say.
‘Well, what?’
‘What happened?’
‘Something was moving in the trees.’ He points to the thicket. ‘There. In the undergrowth. It was big … crashing around.’
‘Was it a wallaby?’
He gives me a withering look. ‘No.’
‘So it looked like something?’
‘No, I didn’t see it. I only heard it. But something was … was …’
‘Was what?’
‘Odd. I felt strange … Sad. Actually I felt like shit. I got into the car like I was going to go home. And then I told myself I was being an idiot and got out again. It was bizarre.’
‘Did you go into the thicket?’
‘Of course not. Are you crazy?’
I lift the file and stash it under my arm, but it’s too cumbersome. I bring it back out, hold it across my chest again, and stare into the thicket beyond his car. It looks harmless. Ordinary. Scrub, lantana and weeds, eucalypts and wattle.
I turn back to find Tristan staring at me. I gaze down the dusty driveway. We say nothing. I’m afraid to be the first to move, to speak.
‘Th-thanks for coming,’ I say at last.
‘Hannah,’ he says, low-voiced. He’s taken the car keys from his pocket and is clenching and unclenching his hand around them. ‘Remember when I asked you to come home for Christmas … Remember I told you I wanted to go away?’
I nod, not sure where he’s going with this.
‘I was going to take you to Paris. There’s a little café in Montmartre in the shadow of the Sacré-Coeur, where they serve croissants and cognac, and out the back there’s an archway with a lattice gate leading to a rose garden—’
Paris. The world tilts.
‘I was going to ask you to marry me.’
He murmurs something in French, then. I don’t know what it is because he’s talking too quickly and moving on, not giving me a chance to absorb what he’s said. A chance to respond. I am still stuck at Paris. Caught in a pew of the Notre Dame, cycling along the banks of the Seine, strolling down the Champs-Élysées.
‘Come to lunch?’ he asks.
‘No,’ I murmur, answering mechanically. ‘I can’t.’
‘So you do want to come.’
He steps closer. A faint whiff again of aftershave. Of cigarettes, jarring me to my senses.
‘You’re smoking again.’
‘What did you expect?’
He puts up a hand to touch my face. I step back.
‘I just want you to be happy, Hannah.’
I should walk away, to the portico, to the front door. Close it behind me.
‘Tell me you’re happy with him— Are you? This Flint,’ he says when I don’t respond and I catch a note of disparagement. Throwing caution to the wind now, his eyes are holding mine, no sliding away.
‘Can I meet him? Is he inside?’
‘No—’ I turn. Stride towards the house. ‘No, you can’t,’ I say over my shoulder.
I don’t look back until I’ve opened the door and stepped inside, remembering, too late, the roses.
He stands where I’ve left him. Staring at me. Then, abruptly, he moves and gets into his car.
I close the door and sag against it, shutting my eyes, steadying my heart.
Paris. I was going to ask you to marry me.
I hear the Subaru accelerate as it turns onto the coast road. Second gear into third gear. Third into fourth. And finally, with a roar of anger, fourth into fifth.
46
________
Now
