Nest (23 page)

Miss Hanaford, her name had been. ‘Was that something you and Jen decided early on?’

Craig shrugged. ‘I guess if it had been important, it would have come up.’

B
y the time she emerged from the trees, the sun was dropping from the sky and there was a council officer reclining in her chair at the campsite. ‘Hey, there,’ he said, from behind dark aviator glasses. For a moment she thought she was back in the States and he might add ‘little lady’.

‘Can I help you?’

‘Yes, you can, as a matter of fact,’ he said. ‘Do you have a permit?’

‘A permit for …?’

‘To camp here, Ms Anderson.’

She slipped out of her pack and dropped it on the ground between them, a strap flicking his boot. He knew perfectly well she didn’t have a permit; he had already run her rego number and checked back with council. Officious little prick.

‘I thought this was a public camping area?’

‘The public camping area is by the car park, as the signs indicate. Or further along, at Tallowwood. And to camp there, you still need a permit.’

‘I didn’t realise. Sorry,’ she said. ‘It was a last-minute thing, not very well planned.’

He made a point of looking over her gear and rather immaculate camp. ‘It’s a hundred and fifty dollar on-the-spot fine for camping without a permit,’ he said.

‘Ah.’

‘Out of interest, where did you sleep the last few nights?’

Jen crossed her arms.

‘I was here until dark yesterday afternoon,’ he said.

How dedicated, for him to come all the way back out here today to check on her. ‘I slept rough,’ she said. ‘Up in the gorge. I got a bit lost and left it too late to make it back to camp.’

He looked over her pack again, but his face remained blank. ‘When were you planning on heading out?’

‘Now,’ she said. The serenity had been spoiled by this snoop in uniform.

‘In that case, I’ll leave you to pack up,’ he said, extracting himself from her chair. ‘You can apply for a permit online,’ he said. ‘Takes five minutes.’

‘Thanks.’

S
he unpacked the Hilux, hanging the tent, sleeping bag and treeboat over the line to air. Another cloudless sky – warm day and cool night, just the way she liked it.

She undressed, put on a load of washing and ran a shower. As much as she had enjoyed bathing in the river, hot water and soap were delightful. She shampooed and conditioned her hair, washing the last of the camping smells down the drain. The windows of the bathroom fogged with steam. Though not before she caught sight of a koala’s bottom in the grey gum overhead.

There was a message from the gallery owner, chasing her bio for some promotional material. The machine said it was Tuesday when she had called. But when was Tuesday?

She opened up the laptop. Waited. Friday, the calendar said. There was an email from Aunt Sophie. Hoping she was okay. Apologising. Four days ago. Jen scrolled down. Nothing else worth looking at.

She opened the bio she had spent days fiddling with, all those careful sentences detailing her professional achievements and family connection to the area. She selected the text and pressed
backspace – on purpose for once. She stared at the blank page. She had a great deal in common with that page. Jen Blank.

She tapped her fingers on the desk. Looked out the window at the warm brown trunks. Imagined herself swinging from a branch again. Free as a bird. Finally, she typed a sentence:
Jen Anderson is a local artist with a particular interest in birds.
She copied and pasted her major achievements from her résumé. That would have to do.

The birds were making such a fuss off the deck it could only mean one thing. Snake. Jen leaned out over the railing. The Lewins and white-naped honeyeaters were flying about, dipping and calling. A baby python wound its way up a tree, thinking itself well-camouflaged and obscured by vines, but the birds were sounding an early warning for all to hear. ‘Snake, snake!’ Other species understood the snake alarm, and frogs and bandicoots and so on would have already tuned in and taken off to make their families safe. She felt a little sorry for the snake, with his specially designed camouflage, who thought himself a master of stealth; how did he ever manage to catch a feed?

She poured a glass of wine and sat out on the deck with the birds. It was the shrug that made her wild. Craig had been quite cheerful on the way home from the barbecue, droning on about some new abseiling gear Ken had shown him, and ideas for their next big trip. If he noticed she was quiet, he chose not to acknowledge it, or perhaps that was why he was so chatty. She had forgotten she’d said she would drive, and having had several too many wines, was also keeping her eye out for police.

He was right. They hadn’t discussed it. Not since early days, and none of that had been very realistic. Still, she fumed. That
shrug. As if it was nothing. That he would presume to speak for her in front of their mutual friends. It was always the woman people judged when a couple decided not to have children; she was the one going against biology. Against nature.

It was as if a door had been opened and a light had come on. She saw his arrogance after that, all that she had been blind to. He probably wondered at her new-found prickliness – insisting he do more of the housework, or snapping whenever he made a sexist remark or put some tedious triathlon on the television without asking – but she had just been trying to find spaces to assert herself in.

‘S
orry about last time,’ she said.

He looked over his glasses, typing straight into his tablet, or whatever he called it. Prescribing her a tablet might be more productive. ‘Everything all right?’

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I went camping. Just lost track.’

‘How long were you away?’

‘A few days.’

He wrote that down. ‘And how was that?’

‘Camping?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. It was good to get away.’

‘How long had it been?’

‘A few years,’ she said.

His hands paused.

‘Seven,’ she said. Though it was closer to ten.

‘The first time on your own?’

Since Craig. ‘Yes.’

He typed. Left one of his little pauses. ‘And how did your trip to see your aunt go?’

Jen frowned at the artwork opposite the clock. A bright abstract print. Just what you’d expect in a shrink’s office. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘She’s getting old.’

‘How does that make you feel?’

‘Old.’

He had stopped typing. It was encouraging, really. She had always suspected he was actually emailing his lover, not listening at all to her whining. ‘Did you stay with her?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Just tea and cupcakes.’ The bowl of green apples in the middle of the side table was the best thing about the room. What would he do if she walked over and picked one out to eat? ‘And calvados.’

He smiled. ‘Calvados?’

‘The apple liqueur.’

‘I know the stuff,’ he said. ‘It’s quite a long drive just for tea and cupcakes, isn’t it? Even with calvados.’

She picked at a thread sticking out from the seam of her pants. ‘I asked some questions,’ she said. ‘Something I’d come across. It turns out that my father is not my father.’

He typed. More quickly – or so it seemed.

‘My mother had an affair with her sister’s boyfriend. My aunt’s boyfriend.’

‘Your aunt told you this?’

She nodded.

‘Do you think your father knew?’

‘He found out,’ she said. ‘The man – my real father – came to town.’ Stan the man.

His fingers moved over the screen but made no sound. ‘And where does this leave you, Jen?’

‘I guess it explains a few things,’ she said.

‘Such as?’

‘Why my father left.’

‘And how do you feel about that now?’

She swung her legs, in the hot seat. The man was just too damn neat and controlled, always pushing at her. ‘It’s better than not knowing,’ she said.

‘What about when your aunt told you – how did you feel?’

‘Angry.’

‘Tell me about that,’ he said. ‘Angry at who?’

‘Everyone! My aunt. My mother. My father. The other man.’ Her real father.

‘Why your mother?’

‘She lied,’ she said. ‘I felt
sorry
for her. They all lied, for years and years. My whole life was a lie.’ She was a damn cuckoo, raised by others out of some weird sense of obligation.

‘All of it?’

‘Yes.’

‘You have strong memories of your time with your father. Does this change any of that?’

Jen began to sniffle and reached for a tissue from the box in front of her.

‘Does knowing this change that?’

She blew her nose. ‘Yes! He’s not even my father.’

‘Isn’t he? He raised you. Loved you,’ he said. ‘You loved him.’

Great. Now tears were streaming down her cheeks. And he just sat there in his neat fucking silence. ‘He still left me. Changed his mind when he realised I wasn’t blood.’

‘It sounds like he left the relationship with your mother. I imagine it would have been difficult for him.’

‘And never contacted me again.’

The shrink put down his tablet. ‘We don’t know what happened,’ he said.

She shrugged.

‘What about your biological father?’ he said. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Stan Overton.’

‘Do you want to get in touch with him?’

Jen shook her head.

‘Why is that?’

‘He didn’t try particularly hard, either,’ she said. ‘Having split everything apart. I’m done chasing after people.’

He paused, lowered his voice. ‘It’s pretty tough for you to find this out now.’

Jen felt more sorry for the little girl she had been. So trusting. So stupid.

‘It’s a lot to process. But I’m pleased you went camping,’ he said. ‘I think that was important.’

She wiped her nose.

‘How are things going for the exhibition?’

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’ve been working on another new piece. A painting.’

‘That’s great,’ he said. ‘Especially with all this going on. Tell me about it?’

‘It’s a self-portrait,’ she said. ‘Of sorts.’

‘Have you done anything like that before?’

‘No,’ she said.

‘Interesting.’

His smile didn’t reveal exactly what was interesting, but a smile was as good as it got in this room.

‘When do you think you’ll finish?’

‘This week,’ she said. ‘If it stays fine.’

‘I’m impressed,’ he said. And then the pause. ‘Is that an okay place to end up for today?’

Jen shoved her tissue in her pocket and stood. He held the door open in a way that meant she had to pass close by his arm, in a without-touching hug. ‘Take care,’ he said.

She paid, and took two red frogs from the white bowl on the way out. At the rate he was charging, he could afford to give away a few lollies, the sugar hit no doubt intended to counter the trauma of the session.

She chewed. Sucked the last of them out of her teeth. When they were children, she and Michael had dissected red frogs at the kitchen bench, giggling, even though they weren’t meant to touch his mother’s knives.

Michael had never had to grow up and do the real thing, in high school, laying out poor frogs on the lab bench and making their legs twitch.

He’d never had to grow up at all.

‘I
have to put together a portfolio. For my application to the creative arts program,’ Henry said.

‘Okay.’

‘Mum said you might be able to help me,’ he said. ‘Like what should go in it and stuff.’

‘It’s really just a selection of your work,’ she said. ‘But I can show you mine, if you like.’

‘Okay.’

‘Well, it’s in my studio, leaning against the other side of the drawing desk. Black.’

She sipped her tea, cold now. Somewhere above them a catbird called,
heeear-I-aaam
. Jen searched the treetops for the telltale patch of green, usually perched on a horizontal branch.

The boy returned with the portfolio and placed it on the table with more reverence than was warranted. She wiped off gecko poop and a layer of dust and insect crud.