The Other Side of Summer (8 page)

THREE MONTHS LATER

‘Je m’appelle Summer. J’habite à Melbourne. J’ai une sœur et un père et un chien jaune et brun. Elle s’appelle Bee.’

‘Formidable, Summer! Maintenant, Becky, s’il vous plaît …’

Becky Wong, the girl next to me, took her turn. Only fifteen minutes to go until the last lesson of the last day of the week was over. I scanned the room and calculated that it was safe to zone out, because by the time Madame Dufour had listened to every student, the bell would ring.

I couldn’t wait to get out of there. The boxes we’d packed in London all those weeks ago had arrived by
ship and been cleared through customs: finally we’d have our old stuff back. I pictured it bursting out of the boxes like party poppers, landing in all the wrong places. I only really wanted one particular thing. Dad said that Gran had promised it had made the container along with all our other stuff. But of course I didn’t trust what Gran said anymore. I still hadn’t spoken to her – or to Mum – since we’d left.

Becky nudged me to show me a secret thumbs up inside her stretched-out jumper sleeve. She smiled with clear brown eyes that looked like they never cried. When Madame had sprung the speaking test on us just now I’d written out the answers for her. Becky was always nervous in this class and often asked for my help. French was the only subject I
could
help her with. It was everything else about this school that seemed like another language.

‘Do you want to hang out after?’ Becky whispered.

‘I can’t,’ I whispered back instinctively. This bit was always awkward with Becky. I’d managed to put most people off but she was slow to get the message.

‘Do you have to help your dad again?’

‘Yep. Every Friday.’

That was a lie. I didn’t spend any time with Dad at all. I think Wren and I were free range again but it was hard for me to tell because I didn’t have anywhere
I wanted to go. Becky was sweet and from the way she spoke about her parents – as though she actually got on with them – I knew she’d still like me if I kept giving that excuse. And I couldn’t help wanting Becky to like me. She was funny, always sort of nervous and full of energy. In another life we’d have been friends, but we were just friend
ly
, and that was different. It was an adjective. ‘Friend’ was a noun, solid and true.

Australia was so much more complicated than it had looked on TV. I was swamped every single day by information that was probably in everyone else’s DNA. Everything seemed new, from calling crisps chips to how many states and territories there were.

On my first day I wasn’t the only one who looked new and terrified. Sameena, who had come from India, started on the same day. We’d had to stand up in class and introduce ourselves.

Sameena had stumbled through her story with bits of English, smiling the whole time. Her parents were studying here and they would only be in Australia for a year. Then they’d go home. She made that word sound beautiful, with a whispery ‘h’ and a hard ‘o’ and a stretched-out ‘m’. She said she wanted to make the most of being here.

When it was my turn to speak I kept it as bland as possible. ‘Dad was born here. It seems really nice.’

Everyone.

The wind had changed and I was stuck like this. I couldn’t be like Sameena, even though I knew deep down that she had it right. We always smiled at each other but we didn’t have a special new-kid bond. Because to me she looked like part of things now. Sometimes I felt ashamed of being this miserable, but still I kept my head down at school and ran back to our house, to my own room, as soon as the bell rang. That feeling would be even stronger after tomorrow when I’d filled the room with my old things. And that one, single, most precious object.

Finally French was over and school was out for another day. We spilled out of every classroom like polystyrene balls escaping out of a beanbag, skittering in all directions. There were over a thousand students here and I was learning how to fit in on the surface: long hair in a high ponytail, ribbon optional, and a blue-and-white checked dress worn as short as you could get away with. The boys wore grey shorts and the older ones looked like a strange mix of boy and man, with hairy legs and massive black shoes the same size as Dad’s.

I couldn’t help picturing Floyd walking down these corridors with me. He’d have found a way to make the uniform cool. People would have followed him. They always did.

The crowd noise grew as we went past the metal lockers. The glass cabinets of sporting trophies were next, and then the school photos from years stretching back to the days when Dad was a kid. This was his old school. I think I was supposed to feel some sort of connection because of that, but I didn’t.

The school motto was ‘Kindness, Industry, Knowledge’. Here’s how I saw it: kindness meant saying no
politely
to every invitation, industry was working hard to stay out of everyone’s way, and knowledge was that I’d never, ever fit in.

Wren fell into step beside me.

‘Text from Dad,’ she said. ‘We’re having dinner next door.’

‘Again?’

‘Guess so.’

‘No way, I’m not going. Sophie drives me crazy.’ Wren’s elbow delivered an instant dead arm, and I noticed the lanky figure on her other side: Milo, Sophie’s big brother. He had an earphone in the ear closest to us and gave me a crooked half-smile. I figured he hadn’t heard me.

The sea of students washed me closer to the school exit. I couldn’t wait to breathe again.

‘You don’t have to hang out with Soph tonight,’ said Wren. ‘Does she, Milo?’ Wren really had dialled the sisterly hatred back to almost zero, and held it there.

‘Course not. But my mum can be persuasive …’

Milo was awkward, with hair black as a raven’s all swept forward onto his pale face. I liked him. He was kind, he spoke softly and seemed to live in his own space, like I did. It didn’t surprise me: his parents were horrible. I’d overheard them in the garden once, when I’d been sitting in the lemon tree. Mr Witkin was complaining about something Milo had or hadn’t done and then out of the blue he’d said, ‘Why’d you have to name him after a bloody chocolate drink anyway, Jules?’ And she’d whispered back, only it was so loud and low it was more like a growl, ‘He’s not on the spectrum because of his
name
, Michael. Maybe if you were a better father …’ And from then on I understood that Milo wasn’t ‘normal’ enough for his family. Mr Witkin probably wanted a tough, sporty boy for a son. He’d have loved Floyd. Instead, the Witkins acted like they’d adopted my dad.

‘So just hang out with us, Summer,’ said Wren.

I never thought I’d say this but I hated the change in her. It felt like another betrayal. At least she was still the
same to look at. Still had the most messed-up hair you’d ever see, like someone had dumped a laundry basket of black clothes upside down on her head.

In the middle of my thoughts, my eyes caught on someone that made my heart snag. A woman right down the other end of the corridor. It was Mum, side-on. It was Mum! She was talking to Mr Connolly, the principal. Mum! She was here! Why was she here? How did she …? What did she …? It didn’t matter. I walked faster, kicking the heel of a girl in front.

‘Ow! Careful!’ The girl’s ponytail caught me in the face as she gave me a dirty look.

I started to say sorry but the only word in my head was ‘Mum’ and out it came.

‘What?’ said Wren. ‘What about Mum?’

I ignored her. Mum was in
my
sights, not hers. I had to get to her first. People’s heads were getting in the way. I couldn’t get past the crowds.

Then Mr Connolly turned and walked away and, with her head bowed, Mum walked towards us. I held my breath.

Even after the moment I knew it wasn’t her.

Even after I’d rapidly counted every single difference between this woman and my mum.

Even after she’d looked straight into my eyes and away again.

Wrong eyes, longer chin, too pale. Not Mum.

I breathed out, and hoped I’d got away with the stupid mistake apart from a funny look from Wren. This wasn’t the first time it had happened. I’d seen her many times. Gran and Mal, too. I’d seen kids from my old school, cousins we hadn’t visited in years, old teachers, friends of Wren’s and Floyd’s, the woman from the corner shop … They were flesh and blood ghosts. In supermarkets, on the tram, in the background of a news story on television. It hit me the same every time: that heart-soaring moment of possibility – it’s really them;
it is!
– followed by reality sinking in like water into sand.

It scared me, how much I’d hoped this woman was Mum. I felt stupid for letting the anger go like a helium balloon. But I grabbed the string again and held it even tighter. People weren’t reliable. My own eyes weren’t reliable. I just had to hope that the one thing I could depend on, the Ibanez Artwood, would make it to this side of the world.

Saturday morning dragged on as I waited for the van to arrive. Dad went out for an early run with Julie Witkin, which he now did three times a week even though he’d never exercised once in my whole life. It was no wonder he didn’t mind spending time with her, the way that woman fussed all over him. He was looking fit and healthy again, but that didn’t make it any easier to see them running off down the street, side by side.

After his run, Dad got into his suit and went to work his usual half-day Saturday, showing a bunch of nosy people around houses for sale. I wondered about the family living in our house back home. In my mind I furnished it with our things again – the rug was back
in its place, the curtains were hung, all our treasures were on display – and I hated to think of the new people poking around, living our lives.

Wren was on Dad’s laptop at the dining room table. ‘Another parcel came for you, by the way,’ she said. There was a small brown pillow-shaped package on the kitchen bench.

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Aren’t you going to open it?’

‘Later.’

This brought the number up to three. Three unopened parcels from Mal, stuffed into my bottom drawer like secrets.

‘How is she?’

‘Who?’

‘Mal, you dork.’ She laughed. ‘Who else?’

‘She’s fine. Like you care, anyway.’

Wren stopped typing for a moment, then started up again. ‘Stop pacing, Summer. The van’ll be here when it’s here.’

‘You can’t stop me from walking in my own house. Anyway, what are you doing, writing a book?’ I said, sarcastically.

‘It’s an email.’ She paused, as if she’d forgotten which words to use. ‘To Mum, actually.’

My stomach dropped. ‘Since when do you do that?’

‘Since about the whole time we’ve been here.’ Wren sighed and typed another sentence. ‘You’re the only one who doesn’t, Summer.’ Another sentence. And another.

I stared at the back of the laptop, wondering at Wren’s words to Mum and Mum’s back to her. I knew Dad and Wren had been Skyping Mum and Gran, but I thought that’d be just ‘What are you doing?’ and ‘What’s the weather like?’ I’d left the room every time and no one had ever tried to force me back in. (And what did that say?)

‘I don’t get you, Wren. When did you become so
nice
? Mum didn’t want us. Have you forgotten already?’

Wren gave me a sour look but it quickly melted. ‘She does love us.’

‘If you say so.’ I swallowed a lump in my throat and walked out of the room, straight out of the front door and onto our porch.

I hadn’t cried in ages. Now I was, it felt disappointing, like tripping over after being so careful. There’s nothing new to cry about, I told myself, but I still couldn’t stop.

The warmth of the sun on my face made me feel even sillier and more alone. Everything that was beautiful out here, like the multi-coloured autumn leaves that had landed in the front garden or drifted onto the
porch, made my feelings ugly. My tears flowed freely, as if crying was just a basic, disgusting bodily function that would happen whether I wanted it to or not.

I tried to breathe deeply and wait for it to pass.

Lots of people had benches on their front porches here but I’d never seen anyone sitting on one. The dog was sprawled on ours now. I sat down in the tiny space left beside her. Stupid, giant creature.

Moments later she licked the side of my hand twice. I ignored her. She licked me in the same spot again and when I took my hand away she snuggled in closer and lay her head in my lap. Her ears twitched. I went to push her off but she whined very quietly. So I put my hand lightly on top of her head. Straight away Bee shifted so that my hand was now under her chin. I scratched her there and she closed her eyes and made such a funny grunting noise that I laughed out loud. She looked at me with only one eye as if to say
keep scratching
. She was leading me, teaching me her language. Finally she put her head down on my lap again and both of her big brown eyes flicked up to meet mine. Then I saw the wisest, most wonderful creature in the world. Bee. How had I ignored her for so long? I felt like the worst human being ever. I’d barely looked at her in three months and yet here she was offering me love. This beautiful dog that I’d wanted so much.

Maybe it would be okay to let myself love her back a little bit. I bent over and pushed my nose into the warm fur on the back of her neck.

‘Bee,’ I whispered. ‘Hello.’

Later, I was in the front garden teaching Bee tricks. She was a fast learner if I showed her first, which is why we were both lying on our backs in the sunshine when the van finally arrived. I sat up and crossed my legs, too nervous to face this moment: would the Ibanez Artwood be missing, or damaged, or could I dare to hope? Bee sat right behind me and my head rested against the warm fur on her chest. We watched Dad direct the boxes inside.

The last object the delivery man carried out of the van was fat with bubble wrap. I got up and a second later so did Bee.

‘That one’s for me,’ I said to the man.

‘Can you manage it?’ he said, handing it over.

‘Of course I can,’ I snapped. ‘Sorry, I mean, thank you.’

It took ages to unwrap because I couldn’t use scissors or a knife just in case. When Wren held up two chipped mugs she’d unpacked, I got even more worried. But finally it was out, and it was as perfect as the last time
I saw it. I suppose that if you can survive a bomb, you can survive anything. A tiny part of me softened towards Gran for making sure it got here.

Wren and Dad stayed inside the house sorting through the boxes. They were getting excited about where to put everything. I didn’t want to watch them try to slot our old life into our new one. I had what I needed.

The porch bench was my new favourite spot and Bee agreed. She sat right beside me, which was just as well because the guitar was still too big for me and I needed to rest my arm on her back to hold it comfortably.

I hope you’re going to play this time, Summer.

Floyd was back. I felt scared and excited, and some how shy.
I’ve been waiting and waiting, Floyd. I missed you so much.

I’m here now. Come on, play.

But Milo was in his front yard shooting hoops. I wasn’t ready to play my brother’s guitar in front of other people. For now I was happy getting used to the feel of it again. So I sat on the bench with Bee and the guitar, watching Milo. In between missing his shots, Milo started to shoot me a question or a comment over the low fence.

‘Must be good to have your stuff back.’

‘It’s the best.’

Milo bounced the ball and tried to run but tripped over and landed heavily on his side.

‘Ouch. Are you okay, Milo?’

‘No damage.’ He got up, laughed goofily and started bouncing and shooting again. Or trying to. He had the right clothes for basketball – bright blue and shiny – and I could tell he was concentrating to get his moves right because when he’d go to take a shot his tongue would poke out and he’d frown. But his arms and legs were long and loose like a little kid’s drawing and his feet moved as if his shoes were filled with sand. Out of the last ten balls he’d only got one in.

Who’s he?

Just one of Wren’s friends.

Wren and this guy? Wow, I’d never have guessed.

Not like
that.

You sure?

Milo’s next shot hit the roof of his house. He flinched and shook his head.

‘Do you even
like
basketball?’ I said.

‘I hate it, but I hate Dad going off at me even more.’ He sent a worried glance towards his house.

‘You should just tell him.’

‘Yeah? Maybe. It’s easier to go along with a few things. I have my own stuff.’

‘Like what?’ I pictured him in a dark room playing a complex strategy game on his computer. He had that look about him.

‘I draw.’

Oh. I’d read him the wrong way. Drawing was the thing he and Wren had in common. That and the fact that they were both really clever. In the past Wren had always used her brain just to score points. Part of me was tempted to tell Milo what she was really like. It didn’t seem fair that she’d reinvented herself.

‘What do you draw?’

‘Landscapes … people … I go to the creek with a sketchpad quite a lot. I can think better there. You should check it out, Summer.’

His tone made it seem like more than just a throw-away thing to say. ‘What do you mean,
I
should?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Why should
I
check out this creek?’

‘Don’t worry about it, Summer. You don’t have to. I just thought … I was just trying to be … Because you seem …’

‘What?’ I snapped. ‘What do I seem?’ It felt like things had been decided about me and what I was like. I didn’t even know what a creek
was
.

‘Hey, doesn’t matter,’ and he started his awkward bouncing again.

I knew I was being horrible but I couldn’t stop. ‘Tell me. You started this.’

Milo put the ball under his arm. ‘The creek is a special place. Kind of spiritual. It always helps me when I’m feeling … the way we feel sometimes.’ He used his hand to indicate ‘we’, as in him and me.

‘What’s the way “we” feel?’

He rested the ball on the fence. ‘Like we don’t belong here. You know, like we landed in the wrong life.’

His words were uncomfortably close. ‘Is that what you feel like, then?’

‘Sometimes.’ He looked back at his house and then at my feet as if the next bit was too much to say to my face. ‘I have to keep what I’m good at a secret. Because I know they’re looking for it, and it’s driving them mad not finding it.’

I got it. If Milo’s parents knew how smart and talented he was, they’d make a huge deal out of it. They paraded Sophie around like a show dog.

‘The creek’s far away from everything that makes the wrong kind of noise. It’s just you, some trees, rocks, water. If the wind’s on your side you can’t even hear the freeway. It’s like being nowhere, in a good way.’

‘What would I do there? Just sit? I don’t draw like you. I’d feel like an idiot.’

He shrugged. ‘Take Floyd’s guitar. Play it to nobody.’

My eyes stung when he said my brother’s name.

‘Wren said the guitar means a lot to you.’

I’d never imagined that Wren would talk about me.

‘Wren hates it when I play,’ I said, half-heartedly because she’d never once complained about it in Australia, though she’d done it plenty of times back home.

Milo did his usual gangly shrug with joints made of string. ‘She definitely didn’t say
that
.’ He bounced the ball again, went for a shot and missed.

At that moment, our door opened and Wren appeared on the porch. She smiled crookedly at Milo as if she’d forgotten how. He did the goofiest salute you could ever imagine, and I felt something completely unexpected: jealousy.

‘This must be for you,’ Wren said, passing me some sheet music stapled in one corner, with a message at the top.

I tried to take it but she wouldn’t let go. ‘Give it!’ I snapped.

‘Say thank you, then.’ She gave me surrender hands and an eye roll, then waved to Milo and went back inside.

Without another word, Milo picked up the ball and disappeared through his front door.

The sheets were photocopied ones, and there was some handwriting along the top which hadn’t quite
come out but was obviously Floyd’s. He always wrote in capitals because, like Dad, his handwriting was just scribble.

‘THESE ARE FOR YOU. LEARN THEM IN ORDER. WE’LL PLAY THEM TOGETHER ONE DAY.’

I swallowed hard and read them again. The first song was ‘Let It Be’ by The Beatles. I could remember being really young and watching Floyd sit on the coffee table performing this one for the whole family for the first time. Dad had been so proud because he’d been the one who’d told Floyd about The Beatles.

Why didn’t we find these earlier, Floyd? Where were they? When did you plan on giving them to me?

I can’t answer everything. Does it matter, now that you have them?

Yes … No … I don’t know.

My mind was swimming as I flipped through the pages. There were five songs to learn.

You wanted me to come busking with you. We would have done that together, wouldn’t we?
Wouldn’t we,
Floyd?

I jumped when Milo came back out of his house. For a second I thought I might have been talking out loud. But he didn’t say anything. Instead, from over the fence he held out a map he’d drawn for me. I couldn’t believe that’s what he’d gone inside to do.

‘Here. So you can get to the creek,’ he said, and he left again without giving me a chance to say ‘sorry’ and ‘thank you’.

The map looked like something out of a fantasy book, with detail and shading and tiny old-fashioned handwriting like I’d seen in Wren’s copy of
The Hobbit
. I looked from the map to the songs and shivered, as if a message had bypassed my brain and gone straight to my nerves.