Nest (30 page)

She found it. Three layers down; she had to select digital. Now it tuned itself, with a low hum, running through the whole frequency range. It was taking its time.

The ABC was back. She sat on the floor, cross-legged in front of the screen, as the lead-in music ended.

Mathew Fergusson was twenty-two and had lived in the neighbouring town with his uncle, Callum Fergusson, fifty-nine. Mathew had left the area shortly after Caitlin disappeared. That should have been a red flag. The presenter cut to a journalist outside the courtroom, with the news that the uncle had not only been charged as an accessory to Caitlin’s murder but for the murder of Michael Wade. The picture they showed on screen was Michael’s last school photo, his grin almost as silly as her own that year. Michael had always been able to make her laugh, but not now. She wiped her face on her napkin. Of course he was dead, she had known that for most of her life – but now something else filled the space once occupied by hope. Grey over yellow.

Jen sipped her wine. She muted the sound for the rest of the news, staring at the blur of faces and places going by.

The more in-depth coverage on the
7.30 Report
said the Fergussons had been attached, for a time, to one of the Brethren
communities in the hills. The uncle had had a relationship with a woman there, with whom he had a child, and dropped off the grid for several years after Michael’s disappearance. Another red flag. He had later left the community, raising his nephew after his sister had died, while his own son had stayed on with his mother and the Brethren. None of it made any sense. There was no mention of previous convictions, police suspicions. Would the nephew have gone down the same path if he had chosen to stay with his own father?

She switched the television off. It would be months, at least, before all those questions were answered. She sat for a moment staring at the blank screen, feeling the sudden quiet. Emptiness. A boobook called, so loud it must have been perched on the gutter.

She padded out to the kitchen, filled the kettle, returned it to the hob and flicked the gas. Insects threw themselves at the light. She must have left a window ajar somewhere. She leaned on the kitchen bench, watching the undersides of moths, and bumping beetles, waiting for the water to boil. She considered, for a moment, calling Henry, but decided against it.

It was still outside, as if a blanket of relief had been thrown over her forest. She chose a Sleepytime Tea from the box, removed its paper seal, and hung the little sack over the edge of the mug. She was tired enough, but her mind was turning circles all the same.

G
len had offered to pick her up and she had accepted. He was bringing Phil, too, who was up from Sydney. There was to be a bit of a gathering, Glen said. They wanted Jen to go, but she wasn’t sure about the idea of an impromptu school reunion tacked onto the memorial.

Michael’s father’s family was to fly in from Tasmania, but she hadn’t heard anything about his mother.

A thrush sang for her from the rose gum outside the bathroom, an aria of notes and intonations delivered with some volume. She wiped away a tear at the joy the bird delivered through song. Tears would not do if she was to wear the make-up she had dug out. She patted her eyes with a tissue.

She had washed her hair, and forced a comb through it, delivering a handful of grey and brown to the bin. She pulled it back, off her head, and tied it up with a band almost out of stretch.

It was going to turn out a nice day, the cloud drifting off and sun slanting in. She tried to think of Michael as she had known him, without sadness.

The service lacked the immediate grief of a funeral. There was not much black; it was a warm day, after all. Nor was there the organised colour coding of Caitlin’s memorial. Jen hadn’t recognised many of her classmates at first, and those she did she thought much changed. Time was unkind; most of them grey and heavy. But as they came up one by one and spoke to her, the years seemed to drop away, and they were the people she had always known. Older, sure, and with adult children and second marriages and jobs she may not necessarily have anticipated, but the same people. By this age, life had thrown most people a curve ball or two, so there was not the jostling for most successful or best preserved.

In some ways, they knew each other better than anyone, growing up together in this place. They had all been through this thing, this defining thing, together.

She had recognised Glen’s wife, Karen, straightaway, and his daughter. Sarah looked exactly as Karen had at her age. Glen’s genes hadn’t had much of a look-in.

The big surprise was Phil. He had never been anything special, looks-wise, and had cruised along doing the minimum. Until she had left in grade nine, anyway. In maths, he had always sat behind her, his long legs reaching under her chair. Always chatting and joking. In the end he had become a bit annoying, or she had thought so at the time. All he really did was stay steady, while she was intent on her own private shipwreck.

He had matured into a handsome older man, tall and still slim. He had a way of looking right at you, while you spoke, though he had to bend his head down a little to do so. His eyes,
behind round glasses, reminded her of those of a robin – much larger, of course. But perhaps it was just the yellow in his checked shirt, and the neat grey of his jacket.

Henry was there, too, with Kay. Wearing his suit. He made his way through the crowd. ‘Hey.’

‘Henry, this is Phil,’ she said. ‘We went to school together.’

Henry shook Phil’s hand, nodded.

‘Pleased to meet you, Henry,’ Phil said. ‘I hear it’s been a tough year.’

Henry shrugged.

Jen put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Henry’s going to St Albans next year, to do their arts program,’ she said.

‘That’s quite hard to get into,’ Phil said.

Henry grinned. ‘Jen helped me,’ he said. ‘She’s helped me a lot.’

The music from inside the church swelled, the doors opened and people began to file in.

‘Should we?’ Phil said, and offered her his arm.

Jen smiled. He hadn’t learned those manners around town. Glen had said he was a widower now, but she hadn’t wanted to ask any questions. She sat in the second row, behind Michael’s family, and between Phil and Glen. They each gave her plenty of space on the pew, not moving even when people started pushing up along the rows. Michael’s mother turned and smiled. Jen did her best to smile back.

Aunt Sophie turned up just in time, on Maeve’s arm. They tottered to seats on the other side of the church.

The minister had a pleasant voice, for which she was thankful, because he spoke a lot. Michael’s father, in a suit rather tight about the middle, acknowledged the community for its support, the police, his family. Someone read a poem by
Wilfred Owen, the war poet. No one had approached her to see if she would like to speak. Although she would probably have refused, it would have been nice to have been asked. Perhaps she could have recited a few quotes from
Rocky,
and made people laugh, but more likely it would all have fallen flat. Or she would have fallen flat herself.

The light came in all colours through the stained glass. At the end they stood, as one, to say a prayer for Michael and missing children everywhere. All down the rows, they held hands, schoolchildren again. The words, and the warmth of the men beside her, were too much and she cried. For Michael.

Aunt Sophie found Jen afterwards and wrapped her in a parent’s embrace.

‘Thanks for coming,’ Jen said.

‘I wouldn’t have missed it,’ Aunt Sophie said. ‘It was a lovely service, don’t you think?’

‘It was,’ Jen said.

Glen made his way through the crowd. ‘We’re going up to the hotel for a drink,’ he said. ‘Maybe a meal. Would you like to join us?’

Jen looked at Aunt Sophie.

‘Karen can drop you both home if you prefer,’ Glen said.

‘You should go, Jenny,’ Aunt Sophie said. ‘Maeve’s cooked us something, and she and I have some catching up to do.’

‘Okay,’ Jen said.

Glen smiled. ‘That’s sorted then.’

Aunt Sophie leaned in to kiss Jen’s cheek. ‘I might drop in on my way home tomorrow?’

‘Do,’ Jen said. ‘I’ll bake something.’

The sun was shining, scrubwrens chirruping in the church hedges. Mowers hummed all over town, reining in the summer’s growth now that it had slowed.

Phil was leaning on the open door of the ute, watching a flight of black cockatoos lope pass. He turned and smiled. ‘I’ve missed those,’ he said.

She slid onto the bench seat, between the two of them again.

‘Whoa,’ Phil said, at first sight of the pub. ‘That’s quite an upgrade.’

‘Three mill,’ Glen said, and reversed into a shady park. ‘They have proper bands there now and everything.’

She let the men lead the way into the bar, where ten or fifteen of their classmates were already clumped together.

Phil turned. ‘Can I get you a drink, Jen?’

‘Schooner of Gold, please.’

A slight shift of his eyebrows suggested surprise. What should she have ordered? A glass of white wine?

‘Glen?’

‘Schooner,’ he said.

Jen scanned the crowd. ‘Karen’s not coming up?’

Glen shook his head. ‘Taking Sarah home. She’ll come and get us later.’

‘What did you think of the service?’ she said.

‘Good,’ he said. His eyes were a little red. ‘Great to have so many of us there.’

‘Yes,’ Jen said. ‘He would have liked that.’

Phil returned with their beers. A middy for himself.

‘Cheers.’ They clinked glasses.

‘To Michael,’ Phil said.

‘To Michael.’

‘You’re a brave man ordering a New in this town,’ Glen said.

Phil held the beer up. ‘You can tell by looking at it?’

‘Saw the barman’s face,’ Glen said. ‘And his hand on the tap.’

‘They wouldn’t have it if they weren’t prepared to serve it.’

Glen turned away to talk with his football pals, more gut than muscle these days.

‘Glen said you live in Sydney?’ Jen said.

Phil nodded. ‘Have done since I left, except for a stint in the Blue Mountains.’

‘Do you like it?’

He sipped from his beer. ‘Not much. But my work has been there. And my daughter’s in her final year of school. I felt like I had to stay put when her mother died. Keep as much as I could the same.’

‘She’ll appreciate that. Later, I mean.’

‘Do you get down to Sydney at all?’

‘No.’

His eyes crinkled at the corners. Amused at her country ways, perhaps. ‘My daughter wants to go to uni in Brisbane,’ he said. ‘To do astrophysics of all things.’ He smiled. ‘So I’m looking at moving back this way.’ He watched her over his glasses.

‘And what’s your work?’ she said.

Glen turned, as if to catch the answer, though surely he already knew.

‘I lecture at Sydney Uni now. But I’m an ornithologist by training,’ Phil said.

Jen had to concentrate on keeping her face blank and her hand tight around the slippery glass. ‘Really?’

He grinned. ‘I gather you’re still quite fond of birds yourself.’

Glen manoeuvred back between them. ‘Phil here paid a visit to the gallery yesterday,’ he said.

Phil had gone quite pink about the cheeks.

‘Oh?’

‘I went to your exhibition,’ he said. ‘It was wonderful to see so many pieces, and the sense of development over time.’

She smiled. ‘Including one of yours on loan, I understand. Thank you.’

‘Another beer?’ Glen held up his empty glass.

‘Sure,’ Phil said.

‘Jen?’

‘Please.’

They watched Glen’s back as he threaded his way to the bar.

Phil cleared his throat. ‘Jen, I’m sorry I wasn’t a better friend back then.’

Jen filled her mouth with beer, swallowed it. ‘But you were.’

J
en heard the car turn in and for a moment thought she had forgotten Henry’s visit. She put down her pencil and focused on the world. It was Monday, and Henry didn’t come for classes anymore. She pushed her chair back from the desk and stood. A policeman was walking down the path, hat under his arm, a yellow package in the other hand.