Spinning Around (28 page)

Then he came back, looking embarrassed.

‘I put 'em in me bag,' he muttered. ‘I was gunna talk about 'em at lunchtime.'

Matt's bag is a kind of floppy, brown suede facsimile of a briefcase. A briefcase but not a briefcase, if you follow me. It perfectly suits Matt, who's a corporate cog but not a corporate cog.

From its scuffed and battered depths he produced a postcard and some papers. The papers had been sent by a local real estate agent. There was a letter, addressed to me, explaining that I had requested the enclosed details about rental accommodation in the area. There was also a collection of listings: units for rent, houses for rent, townhouses for rent. It took me a moment to recall that I had, indeed, asked for this material. So much had happened since.

‘Oh. Right,' I said.

‘So what the hell was that all about?'

‘Oh . . .' I put the papers on the table. ‘It was . . . I was in a bit of a panic. I thought that if you were going to . . . you know . . .' I could hardly force the words out. ‘If you were going to leave, we might have to sell the house.'

‘For Chrissake, Helen.'

‘I freaked. What do you expect?'

‘And that? What's that?'

The postcard depicted Sydney Opera House on the front.

On the back, I recognised Miriam's handwriting, and my heart skipped a beat.
Helen
—
please don't be angry
, it said.
Will call
.
Lots and lots of love
,
x x x

The postmark was a local one. The date was Tuesday.

‘Who sent this, if it wasn't some bloke?' Matt inquired.

‘Miriam, of course.' I spoke dully. ‘Didn't you recognise the writing?' I wondered if I should be passing this piece of correspondence on to the people at the Pacific Commercial Bank, then dismissed the idea. Miriam's message had obviously been mailed at Sydney airport, or somewhere close by. It offered no clues as to Miriam's whereabouts. ‘Maybe she didn't sign it because she was trying to cover her tracks. In case someone was monitoring my post, or something.' I could no longer guess what Miriam's motives might have been. I didn't know what was going on inside her head, any more. ‘I wonder why she sent it?'

We both fell silent. After a while, Matt got up and filled the electric kettle.

‘What will you do if she does call?' he asked quietly.

‘I don't know.' Frankly, I had other things on my mind.

‘At least she seems to care what you think about her,' Matt remarked. ‘I guess that's something.'

‘I guess.' The postcard went on the table. ‘Are you making tea?'

‘Do you want some?'

‘I'd love some.'

Down came the mugs—his and mine. Out came the sugar bowl. The milk. The tea bags. I watched Matt as he performed those familiar tasks, fumbling a little over actions that should have been smooth and fluid. His hands shook. He dropped a teaspoon.

The beer, I thought, is getting in his way.

‘So you thought this postcard was from Jim McRae?' I eventually queried.

Matt grunted.

‘Why, though? You hadn't even seen Jim when the post came . . .'

‘Nick turned up this morning about ten.' Matt folded his arms and propped his hip against a cupboard, waiting for the water to boil. He confessed that Nick had appeared at the house, briefly, to pick up some equipment. ‘Something about an inside job at Marrickville. Under cover,' Matt continued. ‘But he had to stop for a yak, and he told me about your visitor yesterday. Your friend Jim.' Matt lowered his eyes. ‘I didn't even know you
had
a friend called Jim,' he added.

‘Oh, Matt.' I was truly sorry. ‘It was the first thing that came into my head. I couldn't tell Nick that he was a private detective— can you imagine?' Even as I spoke, I could feel the hot blood rushing to my cheeks. ‘Anyway, what business is it of Nick's, for God's sake?'

‘He was just shootin' his mouth off. Said he felt sorry for you yesterday, with people traipsing in and out. Him and Mike and the guys from the bank and “your friend Jim”. I think he was more interested in the guys from the bank than anyone else. Maybe he's worried that we're defaulting on the renovation loan, or something.'

‘But how did he know that they were
from
a bank? It's not like they went out back and introduced themselves!'

Matt shrugged. ‘Well, you've said it before,' he pointed out. ‘They hear things, those builders.'

‘Bloody stickybeaks!'

‘Will I have a word with 'em?'

‘No, no.' I was too tired to maintain the rage. ‘Don't piss them off. We can't afford to do that.'

‘They're not gunna sabotage the work, Helen.'

‘I know. But I have to live with them. I couldn't do it, if there was an atmosphere. Here—let me do that. You're spilling it everywhere.'

‘Sorry.'

‘It's all right.'

‘I'm a little bit rooted.'

‘I know.'

‘That's why I caught the cab home. I didn't know if I could drive.'

‘Sit down, Matt.'

He sat down, and I gave him his tea. Then I sat down opposite him. He was drying off, I noticed; his chest hair was no longer visible through the fabric of his shirt.

‘So what happened tonight, exactly?' Despite my fatigue, I knew that everything would have to be thrashed out before we went to bed. While the kids were still asleep. ‘You went to a bar with Ray, and Jim followed you there?'

‘I freaked,' Matthew admitted, not looking at me. ‘First Nick mentions this “Jim” character, then I get the mail, then I see you with a bloke who's all over you, and then when I ring you, all I get is a lie about lunch with some
woman
—'

‘Sorry.'

‘—so I completely lose it, I can't even face going home without a drink, and Ray comes with me, and we talk, and next thing I know there's your friend the hand-kisser, hangin' around near the loos.'

‘I can't believe you saw him.'

‘I saw him, all right.'

‘But Stuart said he was good. He can't be very good if you saw him.'

‘I guess he didn't know I'd recognise him. Neither of you saw me at lunchtime.'

‘That's true.' All the same, I wasn't impressed. ‘So then what happened? Nothing bad, I hope.'

‘Oh, I bailed him up.' Matt began to scratch at the tabletop with his fingernail. ‘I lost it, a bit.'

‘Oh, Matt.'

‘I didn't hit him, don't worry.' He flashed me a dark and complicated look, which I ignored. ‘He didn't get hurt.'

‘It's you I'm worried about. You can get arrested for brawling in pubs.'

‘Well I didn't. I didn't brawl. I told him to leave my wife alone, or else.'

‘You're kidding!'

A giggle escaped him. ‘It was the beer talkin',' he observed, and I eyed him doubtfully. This was the side of Matt that I wasn't very familiar with—the tattooed, pub-crawling, pig-shooting side—and it made me anxious.

‘He used to be a copper, Matt.'

‘He's still smaller than I am.'

‘So what did he say?'

‘He told me who he was, and why he was there.' Matt fixed me with another intent look over the rim of his teacup. ‘He said you should probably call him.'

‘Mmph.'

‘Don't you want to call him?'

‘Not particularly.' I sipped my tea and cleared my throat, avoiding my husband's eye. ‘I think he's a bit of a creep. He was all right at first, but then that hand-kissing business . . . I don't know.'

‘Do you want me to call him?'

‘Please,' I said, before adding: ‘If you can be civil.'

‘I can be civil.'

‘Just tell him that we don't need his services any more.'

‘I'll do that,' Matt agreed softly. ‘And I'll tell him that we never did.'

We never did. I gazed at Matt, sitting there in his clammy clothes, and realised suddenly that he was, indeed, mine. That slick black hair, curling damply at the ends; those big, bony hands with their reddened knuckles and hairy wrists; that lopsided, gap-toothed grin—all mine. Those tatts were mine, as was the history behind them. I still had first dibs on his spicy pork chops, his old flannelette pyjamas, his encyclopaedic knowledge of popular music, his first-class driving skills, his stories about culling kamikaze roosters, his effortless ability to make the kids laugh—his past ten years, in fact. And his immediate future? It too belonged to me.

Well, perhaps not entirely to me.

‘So what's the deal with Josephine?' I asked, and he groaned.

‘I dunno.' He shook his head. ‘God, Helen, I just—I'm so sorry.'

‘Is she working? Is she still an addict? Does she need help? What do we have to do?'

‘Nothing.' He set his cup down. ‘I mean, you don't have to do anything. It's my problem.'

‘If it's your problem, Matt, then it's my problem too.'

‘No,' he said firmly, shaking his head. ‘No, see—that's the thing. I didn't want you to have to cope with this girl. This girl . . .' He faltered, lost for words. ‘She's trouble,' he finished.

‘How?'

‘Oh . . .' More furious head-scratching. ‘Look, she reckons she's gettin' it together—she's got a job in a tobacco shop, some bloke she's livin' with—but I dunno. I dunno.' Tentatively, Matt tried to express his feelings on the subject of his daughter's character. Jo worried him, he said. Her mother was a head case; there was no doubt about that. A bit scatty, a bit paranoid. Given to unreasonable and somewhat obsessive behaviour. At the same time, though, you could see why she'd pretty much given up on Josephine.

‘Jo's robbed her. Jo's attacked her. I mean, they must set each other off, big time. Megan might have fucked the poor kid over, once or twice, but not . . . I mean, not deliberately.' Though Matt has never been much good at articulating his perception of social contracts or personal relationships, I could see what he was getting at. ‘It's just the way she sees the world,' Matt went on, his brow furrowed. ‘It's all a pitched battle for her, you know? She should never have had a kid. And Jo—she's a bloody terror with Megan.'

‘Which doesn't necessarily mean she'll be a terror with you,' I pointed out.

‘N-n-o-o . . .' Matt sounded unconvinced. ‘But she's got it all worked out, Hel. She reckons I owe her. Well, I guess I do, in a way. She wants money. She wants support—'

‘How much money?' I wish I hadn't jumped on that, because Matt winced, and looked away.

‘Coupla hundred. So far,' he replied. ‘I told her she ought to go to rehab, and she wants me to pay for that. I had a word with Megan about it, but she jumped down my throat. No help there.'

‘Oh, Matty.' All at once I felt so sorry for him. No wonder he'd been on edge. It sounded like a nightmare.

It also sounded ominous. Very, very ominous. I pictured guilt trips, ugly relapses, emotional labyrinths. I pictured financial crises. I pictured midnight phone calls, bedraggled waifs on the doorstep, and frantic visits to police stations. But I had to be careful about what I said.

‘So . . . what do you want to do?' I inquired cautiously, and he took a deep breath.

‘Well, first off, she's not comin' here.'

‘Really? But—'

‘Nah.' Another firm shake of the head. ‘Not yet. Not until I'm good and sure she's not gunna come back and strip the place when we're out, some time. It could happen.'

‘Oh, Matt,' I said sadly. ‘You think so?'

‘It happened to Megan. You can't be too careful. Not with junkies. I used to live with one.'

‘But some of them sort themselves out, don't they?'

‘I guess.' His tone wasn't confident. ‘Anyway, she's not really interested in you. Or the kids. She's interested in what she needs, and she reckons she needs me.'

I could imagine. Big, gentle, genial Matt, with his rackety past and respectable job, his troubled conscience, his easy and expansive charm, his good credit rating, his new-found sense of responsibility (engendered and nurtured by two small offspring) . . . oh yes, he was a perfect father figure. Reasonably reliable but not overly uptight. Responsive but not controlling.

What more could a needy teenaged troublemaker want?

‘Um . . . I think you should try to help her, Matt,' I declared. ‘I think you're right about that.'

‘Yeah.' He sounded resigned.

‘You can't just walk away.'

‘No.'

‘The thing is, though . . .' Dear oh dear, I didn't want to come across as aggressive, cold-hearted and territorial. I could understand his position. Nevertheless, there was a point that had to be made. ‘She sounds like she's going to want a piece of you, sweetie,' I ploughed on. ‘And fair enough, because she is your daughter. Only, if her mother's like she is, and Jo's got all these problems—'