Marshmallows for Breakfast (18 page)

“No, I haven't finished work yet.” I was going nowhere near them for the next few hours.

Kyle's eyes darted from Summer to Jaxon to Gabrielle who had gone back to her desk and was concentrating very hard on replacing her purse in her bag. It was dawning on Kyle that a wicked thing had been done to him in those ten minutes they'd been away. That he was going to have to deal with the mother of all sugar rushes this afternoon.

“Are you sure you can't come home yet?” Kyle asked, desperately.

“Nope,” I replied and stepped forward, picked up one of the blazers that had slipped out of his arms and lay it on top of his pile again. I went to Summer. “I'll see you later,” I said, stroked the silky black strands off her face, pressed a kiss onto her clammy forehead. I went to Jaxon. “I'll see you later.” I pressed my lips onto his forehead. I turned to Kyle and said, “See you later.”

“Are you going to kiss Dad see you later?” Summer asked, causing Kyle to flush a gentle, dark pink.

“No, I don't kiss daddies,” I told her, ignoring the silence from the adults.

Gabrielle started coughing, theatrical, loud spluttering with the word
bullshit
woven just audibly among each cough.

“Right, come on you two, we're leaving,” Kyle said. The chaos circus began to retreat, with Kyle calling, “Nice to meet you,” at Gabrielle. And, “See you soon,” at me. The door shut behind them, the clattering that had brought them here, taking them away again.

I remembered ten minutes later that I didn't get my watch back. Which meant that at some point in the near future it would be gracing Summer's wrist.

SOFT-BOILED EGG & SOLDIERS

CHAPTER 15

W
e are not driving up to central London on a Saturday,” I said. “Not when there's a perfectly good train system in operation.” I pointed out the front window of the Gadsborough house, vaguely in the direction where I imagined the train station was.

My landlord raised an eyebrow at me.

“All right, not when there's a train system in operation,” I corrected. “If we're going to drive into London today we might as well fly to Hamburg because it'll take less time.”

“Hamburg?” he replied.

“You know what I mean. I don't know what your problem is with public transport, but it's silly. Especially when we've got to get up to town with the kids. Have you heard of traffic? And have you tried parking up there? You'll have to take out a second mortgage just to be able to afford a couple of hours. Let's just get the train.”

Summer and Jaxon were sitting on the sofa, ready for our trip to the British Museum. They each wore their multicolored backpacks, inside which they each had a bottle of water, a piece of fruit, a packet of crisps, scarf, hat, gloves, waterproof mac, coloring books, pens and a reading book. Jaxon had packed Garvo's water bowl, Summer had packed Hoppy. Their denim jackets were done up. I was ready, too, my backpack filled with the essentials. The only person holding up proceedings was their father. The man with the
public transport phobia. Well, as I said, driving into the city center wasn't going to happen on my watch.

Kyle looked thoughtfully at his children, his expression anxious, like fingers worrying at a loose piece of thread. It was genuine concern about using public transport, not simple snobbishness or a quirk of his personality. “All right, compromise,” he said. “How about I drive us to a train station nearer central London and we get a train from there.”

It wasn't perfect, but I had a feeling this was a huge concession on his part; it was the proverbial gift horse and I shouldn't even glance near its mouth area. “Deal.”

“Are we going?” Summer said, her face lighting up as though she'd been ready for an adventure before, had been ready and willing and more than able and it'd never materialized.

“Yup, after a fashion, we're going,” I replied.

“Really?”
Jaxon asked cautiously, incredulously.

“Unless you don't want to?” I asked them.

In unison, for that's how Jaxon and Summer seemed to do most things, they leapt off the sofa. “We do!” they cried. “We do!”

“I'll get my coat.” Kyle said.

The journey into London was uneventful, of course. Jaxon, who was obsessed with steam trains, was just as excited about going on a modern train. He'd never been on a train before. I'd thought he was going to pass out with excitement the way his little body trembled and he kept bending down to whisper his observations into Garvo's ear. Summer was unbothered by the train ride; she grinned because she was going away from Brockingham.

They sat on seats facing each other and stared out of the window in quiet awe. Kyle stuck his head in an architecture magazine for most of the way.

Once we'd left the house, the kids divvied us up—Jaxon
took me, Summer took Kyle. Jaxon sat next to me and took my hand when we went down into Charing Cross underground to get to Russell Square and didn't let go, Summer did the same with her dad. The four of us walked through the entrance of the British Museum and my heart started to do a little dance of excitement. I loved the museum, loved seeing our history and prehistory unfolded, laid out for us to see. It'd been my idea to come up here instead of doing the shopping on Saturday afternoon because I wanted to take advantage of living in England again. It was to my eternal regret that I didn't get to see Uluru before I left Australia, to see the monolith that held the ancient history of the first Australians up close, and I wasn't making the same mistake again.

An hour or two later and the thrill hadn't worn off for any of us. We wandered from cavernous room to cavernous room, exhibit to exhibit, holding our breath at what we might see next: the proud sarcophagi with their painted faces and bodies, the intricate coins and materials from ancient Africa, the pots and jugs from ancient Greece.

We broke off for lunch and sat outside on the picnic blanket I'd brought in my backpack and ate the chicken salad sandwiches I'd packed. (I knew the kids were hoping for a Smiley Smiler meal because we were up to something different, but just like not driving into town on a Saturday, it wasn't going to happen on my watch.)

As I rifled in my bag for Wet Ones to wipe their faces, Kyle produced a camera from his bag. “OK, photo time,” he said and grinned at them. Summer immediately brushed her hands over her hair to smooth it down. Jaxon twisted his lips together to the side and put his head down, showing his father the top of his head as the thing to photograph.

“Come on, Jax, head up,” Kyle encouraged.

Slowly he raised his head, allowed his father to see his
eyes. Kyle used his hand to try to hurry me into the frame. I didn't move. “Kendra,” he said, exasperated. “Get closer to the kids, you're out of shot.”

“No,” I replied, “you don't want a picture of me.”

“Er, yeah, we do.”

“Seriously, you don't. I hate myself. In pictures.”

He lowered the camera, his forehead corrugated with a frown. He was trying to work out if there was some story behind my aversion to being in front of the camera and there wasn't. I simply didn't like to see my likeness, not in mirrors, not in photos. In my head, in my imagination, I knew what I looked like. When I saw a reflection or a picture of myself, that image was invariably shot to pieces and as much as possible I liked to keep that image intact. The idea that other people would look at my picture was even worse than me looking at me. I hated the idea of them looking at me when I wasn't there. The thought of them taking a photo and examining the lines and curves, the blemishes and faults that made up who I was without me knowing about it upset me. I hated the idea of someone doing that.
Hated
it.

“How about I take a picture of the three of you?” I said to change the emphasis from me to them. “Camera?” I held out my hand for the slim silver gadget.

He handed it over, shifted to be beside his children. Summer leaned in towards her dad; Jaxon, who suddenly wasn't camera shy, knelt up and then leaned his elbow on his dad's knee. Through the small square viewfinder I stared at them. They looked as though it had only ever been the three of them.

I clicked three pictures of them like that, clicked another one with Summer climbing onto her dad's back and Jaxon lying across his dad's lap. Clicked another one with Jaxon on his dad's shoulders, another with Summer on her dad's
shoulders. As I captured them in lots of different freeze-frame moments, I wondered if being edited out was what happened when you went away under a cloud or of your own volition; whether the waters closed quietly behind you, as though you hadn't even made a splash, as though you hadn't been there at all. Because taking photos of the Gadsboroughs now, it was hard to imagine that Ashlyn, their mother and wife, had ever existed.

In Regent's Park, Summer and Jaxon lost their inhibitions and went wild.

They ran over the grass like two caged animals released into their natural environment for the first time. Summer's hair flowed behind her as she ran, a breeze ruffled Jaxon's locks as he chased after his sister. Their legs pumped, their faces glowed, they were unrecognizable. They were different people from the ones I'd been spending time with. These two were free. Free to be children. Free to run and jump and laugh.

Their father, sitting low in his seat beside me on the bench, watched with a grin on his face. A transformation had come over him. His troubles had faded away and watching the kids had replaced his worries with joy.

Summer and Jaxon had taken to racing each other from one tree to the next, even though at their age, with their similarities in weight, height and build, it was a pointless exercise. They were always neck and neck. Kyle laughed out loud when they both reached for the rough brown bark of the latest tree at the same time. It was an easy laugh that would touch and melt even the hardest of hearts. He continued to laugh as they turned around to race the other way.
He should laugh more often,
I thought. The way the lines on his
face softened and his eyes lit up took years off his face and posture. He was light and happy and youthful. He, too, was free.

“Remember that time we went to Brighton—” he said, shifting in my direction. He stopped short as soon as his eyes settled on me. We hadn't been to Brighton. Clearly that was a memory from a box he wanted to dust off, open up and explore with his wife. With Ashlyn. He was a little disappointed that it was me instead of her. Kyle's gaze trailed down my face, over my black eyes, my small broad nose, my lips, then back up to my eyes.

His eyes went to my hair, lingered there. “You've got—” He reached out, plucked a piece of grass from my hair, the tips of his fingers briefly brushing my left temple in the process. He showed it to me before letting it float away on the breeze.

“Thanks,” I said.

In silence Kyle scanned my face again. For a few moments he didn't seem to know what to say now that he'd remembered who he was with. “Who's this guy you were in love with?” he asked unexpectedly. “Just interested, as a friend.” Since the whole unfortunate incident with the kiss we'd avoided all such conversation.

“He's in Australia. It wasn't an ideal situation. The being in love part wasn't a problem; everything else was. Which is why I came back. A little necessary distance, you know.”

He nodded, he knew.

This was my chance to ask about Ashlyn—one personal revelation for another.

“You must miss your wife very much,” I said to him before I lost my nerve.

He nodded a little, moved his line of sight back to the children. “I suppose I must,” he said, an edge of darkness to his tone. He clearly didn't want to talk about his wife.

“The other week, when I was out shopping with the kids, they …” I forced myself to keep talking. He may not want to discuss her, but if I didn't ask now, I may never ask. “They mentioned that Ashlyn was ill?”

Every muscle in his body tensed as he jerked himself upright, his features suddenly sharpening, his breathing shallow but quietly heavy in his upper chest.

“They said she was sick and it made both you and her upset?” I pressed on. “Is it, well, serious?”

“Depends what you mean by serious,” he said levelly, his body still rigid, his features still set.

I said nothing, waited patiently for clarification.

“Ashlyn's not sick,” Kyle eventually continued. “Although, I suppose that depends on who you're talking to. But she's not sick in the sense that you mean.” A haze came over his eyes. “The thing of it is …” Kyle's voice was as soft as silk, as gentle as the touch of butterfly wings. He seemed to deflate a little, as though finally giving himself up to whatever was burdening him.

“Ashlyn isn't sick,” he said quietly. “My wife's an alcoholic.”

ORGANIC WHOLE-GRAIN
CEREAL & ORGANIC SOY MILK