Home For Christmas (7 page)

Layla shook her head. ‘It was more than that. Whatever made him angry with his mum, he feels responsible for it. He was mortified that he’d lost his temper and sent such a horrible email, yet I got the impression he felt guilty too, for causing the problem in the first place. Whatever the problem was.’

Carise eyed her over the rim of her cup. ‘You could ask him.’

‘I could. I’m not sure I want to.’

Carise tsked. ‘I know you better than anyone else on this planet. If you didn’t want to, we wouldn’t still be sitting here talking about it.’ She reached over and touched Layla’s arm. ‘Whether you like it or not, there’s something between the two of you. I want it to be something good. You deserve to be happy.’

Layla’s cup clanked down onto her saucer as her eyes brimmed with tears. ‘You know what, Carise. I want that too.’

Hey Tate
,

I didn’t get a chance to say it last night (that operator sure kept us to time) but I enjoyed talking to you
—
I must be an auditory person because hearing your voice reminded me there’s a living breathing being at the end of these emails
.

We all have our bad days, and I’m sure you see things I can’t even comprehend. I am sorry I upset you. I think of my mum (who never saw any of my saleable artwork) and I assumed your mum would be the same kind of mum. You know, if you want to talk about it, I always check my email during the day
.

Layla

Layla
,

Thanks for understanding
.

How bizarre? For the first time she was hearing the email in Tate’s deeply timbered voice. She started again.

Thanks for understanding. It’s more than I deserve, and as I said last night
—
you’re a better friend than I’ll ever hope to be
.

I’ll be honest. My mum has lots of problems and doesn’t think she’s responsible for any of them. My dad leaving, hooking up with losers, being broke because she spends all her money on booze
—
none of it is her fault. Her attitude is her own worst enemy
.

I’ve done the best I can for her, but she makes the same mistakes time and time again. I’m trying really hard not to be her, to think things through and know the consequences of my actions. What really sucks
—
she’s supposed to be my mum, yet I’m the responsible adult. That’s what had me fired up yesterday. She expected me to bail her out of another bad situation
.

I was angry with myself too. I forced myself to say no to her and that’s not easy, even though I know it’s the right thing to do. There are some things that can’t be fixed, and no matter what I do, it’ll never be enough. Yesterday was the final straw
.

I’ve got a big dose of winter cabin fever. It’s freezing here, and the sunshine is so weak. I swear, when I get home, I’ll never complain about the heat in Townsville ever again
.

Hope you are well. How are your sculptures coming along? I liked the photo you sent
.

Tate

Hey Tate

Can anyone have a decent conversation via email? I much prefer to talk. Thanks for sharing about your mum. Your situation is different to how I grew up. I can’t even imagine how hard it must have been. I miss my mum every single day. It’s hard for me to understand how a mother could do that and I don’t know what to say. Other than anytime you want to talk, please email me
.

You’re a great guy. I hope your mum will come to realise that and recognise what she’s lost by not having you in her life. She might change. You never know
.

Right now I’ve got a cold war happening at work. My nurseryman isn’t happy that I’m doing Valentine’s and Mother’s Day and he’s gone from dire predictions of ruin every two minutes to complete silence. It’s unnerving. Awkward too, because I’ve had to give him the ‘I’m not interested’ speech and I think he heard it all bar the bit where I said I wasn’t interested. I’m dreading Valentine’s Day in case I get a surprise gift. Last thing I want is to lose his expertise with the trees and I have no idea where his head is at right now
.

Take care
.

Layla

Layla didn’t shut down the computer straight away after she’d sent her email. Instead she sat, staring at her desktop. The wallpaper was her favourite photo, a star trail, taken far away from the city lights.

When you looked at it, the arcs of the travelling stars formed perfect circles around the south pole, which sat an inch above the horizon. Except it wasn’t the stars that were travelling. It was the Earth. The first time she’d seen the photo, she couldn’t understand how that could be. It was only after she’d done some research and asked lots of questions she’d understood it.

She traced a finger around the arc. Tate’s relationship with his mother was the same. She didn’t understand it. His dad obviously wasn’t in the picture, so his mum had been solely responsible for nurturing that precious little life. And she hadn’t.

How could anyone do that to a child?

He’d mentioned booze.

Did Tate’s mother have an alcohol problem?

An image of old Peter Vanderstein, the local Gibbs Bay drunk, flashed into her mind. As schoolgirls, they’d all avoided cutting across the local caravan park, even though it was the quickest way home, in case they ran into Old Peter, who stank of beer and cigarettes, and was always muttering under his breath.

She’d been scared of him, although looking back now he’d been pretty harmless. His focus had been where his next drink was coming from. A frown marred her brow. Was that what Tate’s mother was like?

What would that sort of upbringing do to a child?

She started searching online, stunned to discover there were literally hundreds of websites with information on children of alcoholic parents. She clicked into the first one and found likely characteristics. Responsible for others, hard to express emotions, perfectionism, isolation, compulsive behaviours — the list went on and on.

Tate definitely had the first one, but what about the rest?

Bile soured the back of her throat and she shivered, rubbing her arms. Snooping didn’t sit well with her. Abruptly, she closed the window and went back to staring at the star trail.

***

The sun was peeking over the horizon the next morning when Layla pulled on her runners and whistled for Whisky. She stopped by the business garden, out the front of the packing shed, and snipped off a few roses and some greenery and pulled them together into a nosegay. Then she loaded Whisky into the back of the ute and set off for the cemetery.

Her parents rested together, right near the back boundary fence, and Ben was one row in. She stopped by his memorial first and bent down to clear the fallen leaves from the stonework.

‘Hey Benny.’ For some reason she always used his childhood nickname when she came up here. ‘You’re not going to believe this. I’m talking to a soldier from Afghanistan. His name’s Tate. He’s nice, and he’s funny. And he’s different from anyone round here, and I really like him.’ She straightened the bouquet of artificial red poppies that always sat on his grave then moved on to her parents’ grave.

The newness of the details on her father’s side of the headstone was in stark contrast to the slightly softer, mossy texture of her mother’s. It had been ten years. And no matter the time that had passed it still hurt every time she read her father’s carefully chosen words to commemorate the life of his one true love.
Cherished wife and mother. Taken too soon. Always in our hearts
.

‘Hi Mum and Dad.’ Her voice seemed unnaturally loud. ‘I miss you.’ She cleared more fallen leaves then laid the posy of roses onto the stone. ‘I wanted to let you know I met a man. Online. Which is probably making both of you roll over in that grave, but… Anyway, I wanted to let you know. Dad, I know you always worried I was too picky, and I’d end up with no one, but I like this one.’ She straightened up. ‘Mum, I wish he could have met you. He would have loved you.’

She spent a few more minutes in the quiet of the cemetery, then headed back to the ute. She grabbed her phone and logged into email.

Hey Tate

Are your ears burning? I’ve just put some flowers on my parents’ grave and told them that I met someone online. You have been officially introduced to my parents (and to Ben). They seem to like you
. Hope you have a great day at work today. I’m off to the production shed now for more smiley-faced flowers. Valentine’s Day production is looking good
.

Layla

PS: BTW did I tell you I have a dog? His name is Whisky (because he’s brown, not because I drink it), he’s a cattle-cross-rescue and has reached the mature stage of life. He loves riding in the ute. Some days we go cruising so I can watch him grin. The slobber on the back window is horrendous
.

‘Come on, Dougie.’ Tate threw his mate’s helmet across to him. ‘You might have all day, but I don’t. I want to get out there before all the good stuff’s gone.’

Dougie shook his head. ‘I can’t believe you, man. You’ve turned into Romeo.’

‘Fair go, I’m not that bad.’

‘Every time you say her name you remind me of a Cadbury Creme Egg. Hard shell and all soft and gooey on the inside.’

Tate cuffed him lightly on the back of the head. ‘Always good to know what you think.’

‘Dude, at least I’m thinking.’

Tate shrugged into his vest. ‘Right now I’m thinking if you don’t get moving, I’m not going to get what I want. And that’s going to go bad for you.’

‘Alright,’ Dougie grumbled.

Tate dragged his mate across to the gate where the jewellery caravan had pulled up, Layla’s email fresh in his mind. ‘Valentine’s Day is around the corner and I need to get something. Some bloke Layla works with has the hots for her. I don’t think she likes him, but he’s got all the time in the world to go shopping and buy her something. I’ve got today.’

They got the okay to leave the compound and signed out. Dougie checked their route, signalled the all-clear then they quick-marched across to the van. ‘Keep your shirt on. I know how important this is to you. We’ll get something.’

Tate didn’t answer. His eyes were firmly fixed on his goal.

He ended up choosing earrings. Inky sapphires with a flash of green that hung on dangly gold hooks. He threw a glance over his shoulder at Dougie. ‘Nearly there.’ He pulled his wallet out and handed over his money, watching closely as the seller wrapped the earrings. The rumour mill was full of stories of people being ripped off and the last thing he wanted was for Layla to be unwrapping an empty parcel.

Pop
.

The donkey started, jerking the caravan forward a few paces, leaving the three men exposed. The jeweller, first to react, dropped to the ground, gems spilling around him. Tate dived for the cover of the caravan.

Pop. Pop
.

Heart surging, he spun around to see Dougie’s slow motion fall to the ground. ‘No,’ he roared, watching the ominous dark stain spreading across his partner’s vest. ‘No. No. No.’ He darted over and dragged Dougie under the caravan where the jeweller was already cowering.

Tate hefted Dougie farther in, behind the cover of the wheels. Damn, he was dead weight. Not good. He eyeballed the jeweller. ‘You hurt?’

The older man, his face ashen, pointed to his sleeve, also red with blood. ‘Not bad. Fix that one.’

‘We stay here. They’ll send a team.’ Tate touched his mate’s shoulder and shook him gently. ‘Dougie, can you hear me?’ The other man groaned but didn’t open his eyes.

His radio crackled to life. ‘Status?’

Tate jammed his thumb on the button. ‘Require urgent assistance on west perimeter. Timms is hit. Twice. Not conscious. Bleeding. Civilian minor wounds. Myself unharmed. We are under the caravan. Repeat, under the caravan.’

‘Okay, stay where you are. The sweep is on the way. We’ll retrieve you once the situation is clear.’

Pop. Tate ducked, despite the cover of the caravan, and prayed the brakes would hold against the spooked mule. ‘Acknowledged.’
Pop. Pop. ‘
We are still under fire and our cover is not secure. The animal is spooked. The van is moving.’

‘Roger that. We have reports of fire from multiple sites. Stay put and we’ll get you out as soon as we can. I’ll get medical on the radio for you.’

‘Acknowledged.’ Tate ignored the jeweller and scrabbled around so he could put pressure on Dougie’s wound. With his other hand he felt for a pulse. It was fast. Was it faint? What had they taught them again? Damn, he couldn’t remember.

Tate’s heartbeat was loud in his ears and he fought the urge to rip his helmet off to get air. ‘Breathe,’ he told himself. ‘Keep breathing.’ He pushed his palm against Dougie’s chest, the sticky dampness warm against his skin. The caravan jerked forward again.

‘Shit.’ He hefted Dougie back under the cover and turned to the jeweller. ‘Can’t you stop it moving?’

The other man shook his head.

‘Can you cut it loose?’

He nodded. ‘Better than dead. You can do?’

‘I need to push here. Can you?’

The other man pushed his hands aside. ‘You do.’