Lapse, page 6
Rowan cleared his throat. She waited, sensing he would fill the silence if she kept quiet and didn’t push.
‘I dunno what he does for a crust now, but he was a chippie, worked for himself. Had a car accident. Took to drinking pretty heavy. Lost his business.’
She heard him take a drag on a cigarette and the soft pop of his lips releasing the smoke.
‘It was a bad one. A bloke called Steve Mason was killed,’ he said.
Mason. Where had she heard that name before? That’s right, the Masons owned a big dairy farm north of Katinga. Harry Mason, Jenny’s nephew, had played on the wing for the first few games before she’d dropped him back to the reserves.
‘Oh, yes. Jenny Rodham was a Mason, wasn’t she?’
‘She might’ve been. There were lots of Masons. Steve was the youngest. Jack runs the property now.’ He paused again, and she waited. ‘Yeah, I think there was a sister, Jenny. Works in the bank, married Trev Rodham.’ Another pause. ‘Steve was dead in the driver’s seat. Family claimed Frank was driving, had too much to drink, put Steve in the driver’s seat to cover it up.’ There was no emotion in his voice, no blame. Clearly Rowan was not a willing participant in the shift and grind of tensions and history underpinning life in this small town.
Clem sensed that Rowan was nearing the boundary where harmless chat tipped over into an emotional no-man’s-land, a place he did not care to visit. She ignored it, pushed on.
‘So was he ever charged?’
‘Nah.’
‘Must have been a terrible time for everyone.’ Emotion again, risky. Rowan gave a noncommittal grunt. Okay, too far, she thought. Back to the facts. ‘And where’s he at now?’
‘Well, I know he drinks a helluva lot more these days, now his wife and kids have shot through. There were a lot of ’em, too.’
‘Kids, you mean?’
‘Yeah. Bloody house full of rug rats. I reckon what he doesn’t drink goes on child support.’
Clem immediately thought of Cranfield’s shiny new ute.
Clementine shoved the last piece of roast lamb into her mouth. Damn, this woman can cook, she thought. And she’d never been partial to gravy, but Trev was clearly some sort of culinary genius.
He was leaning across from his chair at the dining table, pointing his fork at the TV. ‘So you see how the whole team pushes back in defence, and you get a kind of wall across halfback?’ The Cats were due to play the Bursley Tigers next week and Trev had driven all the way, two hours, to Bursley to record the Tigers’ last game. It was amazing what these Katinga folk would do to support their team.
‘Yeah, I see it. But look how slow they’re getting in the last ten minutes of the quarter. They don’t have the fitness to keep it up for the full twenty-five minutes. That’s when we’ll sting them. Play steady and tight in the first part of each quarter, stick to our zones, not run ourselves ragged chasing the man, use the width of the ground. Then we bust them open, straight up the corridor, run like mad, two and three at a time taking the ball up.’ She’d had too much red wine, spouting off like a garden hose.
Clem scooped the last forkful of crispy-skinned roast potatoes into her mouth and looked around the room. It was just like she’d imagined it would be, jammed full of dated furniture, tacky ornaments on lacy doilies and crocheted cushion covers. Jen had told her about her mum and grandmother, how she couldn’t bear to part with all their things after they’d passed. The kitchen had recently been renovated, though, with Miele appliances and lots of stainless steel—the sort of clash you’d never see in Potts Point. Her mind wandered back to her flat on the seventh floor with its minimalist style, everything white other than the pistachio green carpet in the bedrooms, so soft and deep beneath her bare feet.
Trev turned off the video as Jen took the empty plates into the kitchen. He brought the open bottle of red over from the sideboard, topping up Jen’s glass and hovering over Clem’s. She waved him away and poured herself a water from the jug in the centre of the table.
‘Don’t mind me, folks, but I’ve got to put my feet up.’ Jen sank into a brown suede armchair and pressed a button on the side. The chair reclined, raising her chubby legs up to horizontal. She kicked off her shoes with a loud sigh and let them fall to the floor. Trev had picked up the newspaper and was reading the back page through the bottom of his bifocals.
Clem sat opposite Jen in a vintage armchair covered in a faded pink floral fabric. On the walls around the room were a collection of photographs. On the shelf beside her was a large, wooden-framed picture of a group of teenagers in a paddock, clustered around a tractor, the girls in hand-knitted jumpers and 1980s-style high-waisted jeans—Jen and her siblings—next to it, in a smaller frame, another of a young man, probably Steve, the youngest brother. Then Jen’s two kids in their school uniforms, all gap-toothed smiles and freckles, a wedding photo from the seventies—the men in frilly shirts, hair ballooning out over their ears, a flower girl in the front who may have been Jen—and a portrait of two women with Jen’s eyes—her nan in the purple pillbox hat and her mum in a wedding gown?
It was so long since she’d spoken to her own family. Clementine had emailed her parents after she got out, just to let them know she was safe and she was going to start again somewhere. They didn’t even know where she was. It hurt to think about it as she sat there, in someone else’s home, with the warm currents of their family history sloshing around the edges of the room, lapping gently around her feet.
She closed her eyes for a second, took a deep breath in. Time to get down to business.
‘So, Jen, tell me, how long have you been club treasurer?’ she said, easing into the conversation.
‘Oh gawd, too bloody long. Must be coming up to ten years next year.’
‘That’s dedication. And how many of those with Gerard as president?’
‘Almost two years now. This is his second season,’ Jen eased the angle of the backrest down a little, closed her eyes. Her plump form seemed to be completely at one with the chocolate-brown suede.
‘He’s not a local, is he?’
‘No, city boy.’ Her eyes snapped open. ‘What’s this? Twenty questions or something?’
‘I just find the Holts intriguing—you know—El Presidente and the first lady of Katinga.’
Jen laughed. ‘I’ll do you a deal,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you about the Holts and anyone else you’d like to know about in this town—but only if you’ll tell me about Clementine Jones.’
‘I guess that’s only fair,’ she said. She’d planned for this eventuality, and after downing two glasses of red, it felt like it was now or never.
Jen smiled like the cat who’d got the cream, and launched forth.
‘Well, Bernadette was a Walker. Wealthy squatters, been in this country for generations. They own a couple of sheep properties and got into property development—shopping centres and unit blocks, that sort of thing—and a fancy homestead out west of Echuca. When the GFC arrived, they took a hit, I heard, sold off a fair bit of property.
‘So anyway, Bernadette went to university in Melbourne—got her degree and a fiancé, Gerard. I don’t know much about his background, but I’ve always had the impression that marrying into the Walker family was a healthy step up for him.’
Clem nodded, not that Jen needed any encouragement.
‘They have a son, Nathan, but no one ever sees him anymore. He tried to commit suicide a few years ago. It was during the drought, and we’d had a bad run of that sort of thing—mostly farmers blowing their brains out. Dreadful times.’ Jenny shook her head sadly. ‘Apparently Nathan’s an addict. Shocking, that ice stuff, truly shocking,’ she said. ‘Or was it heroin? Thank God our two aren’t into any of that drug culture, isn’t that right, love?’
‘Oh my word, love, my word,’ said Trev, his voice gentle, like purring. He was doing the crossword now.
Clem felt her mouth drying out as the Holts’ hidden pain spread across the room. She picked up her glass. ‘Just getting another water, Jen—would you like one?’
‘Oh God no, bring me that wine bottle, Jones—I’m not driving tonight!’
Jen’s laughter followed her to the kitchen. She filled her glass and came back out to the dining room, picked up the wine bottle and refilled Trev’s and Jen’s glasses before settling herself into the old armchair.
‘Thank you, my dear, and good health to us all!’ Jen raised her glass and took a sip. ‘So here’s what I know about Gerard. He moved here with Bernadette when she got the state manager job about five years ago. He’s very well connected, so I believe, and I reckon he’s played a big part in Bernadette’s success. Workaholic, does a lot for the community too. Not so sure about their marriage, though. I’ve heard a few things over the years…’
‘Oh, really?’
‘Just gossip, I’m sure. But Bernadette, so I hear, has a roving eye,’ said Jen, giving Clem a conspiratorial wink. She hardly took a breath before rattling on. ‘So anyway, Bernadette started with CTS straight out of university, worked her way up, got Gerard a job there at some stage. I believe she’s got her eye on one of the top jobs at head office in Sydney. They say she could be CEO one day, and a good thing too—God knows we need more women at the top in this world, especially people like Bernadette. I’ve seen her in action at some of the Women in Business functions in Earlville, and she’s amazing—a natural leader. A lot of the young women look up to her—probably the blokes too, for that matter—and the numbers the Victorian division has produced over the last couple of years are phenomenal. She’d be turning heads at head office, that’s for sure—in more ways than one, I’d bet.’ She chuckled to herself.
‘It’s good for Katinga too,’ Jen said. ‘Not just our profile, but when CTS are doing well there’s more jobs. It’s taking a while to absorb the job losses at the mine, but people are gradually getting work on the farms or in the other businesses around town that feed off CTS. I mean, the rains have helped her financial results, that’s true, but all of the eastern states have had decent rain these last two years too and our Bernadette is still kicking butt compared to New South Wales and Queensland. Oh, and of course every time a farmer wants to invest something back into the farm—a new tractor, new fencing or whatever—well, they borrow, don’t they! And who doesn’t love to see the bank doing well, hey?’
Jen laughed so hard she snorted red wine out her nose. Clem couldn’t help but laugh too. Trev just gave a wry smile and kept scratching away at the crossword puzzle, apparently used to Jen cracking herself up with her own jokes.
‘Ah, Jen,’ said Clem. ‘I’ve been needing a good laugh, what with the Clancy thing and everything,’ she sighed. ‘Speaking of Clancy—do you know much about him?’ she asked, casually—hoping Jen would continue on.
‘No, I don’t know much about the Plains mob. They tend to stick to themselves, and not many of them apply for bank loans.’
‘And the Wakelys—what’s their story?’
‘Hey, hang on a minute, girl, my turn to ask you a question,’ Jen snapped.
‘No way. You have to answer all mine first. You should have read the small print before you accepted the deal.’ Clem didn’t have a sister but she was sure this was the silly banter they would have enjoyed. It was different with her brother. He was so much younger, she’d sort of protected him and mothered him all those years really—it got in the way of just letting it all hang out.
‘Bloody hell, are you a lawyer or something? Sheesh.’
Clem’s heart skipped a beat, but she needn’t have worried. Jen took a swig of her wine and put it down on the table by her elbow. ‘Well, here you go, but this isn’t for free—it’s your turn after this.’ She shook her finger at Clementine. She clearly had no idea how close she’d come to the truth.
‘Yes, yes, of course—just get on with it, will you?’ Clem said, curling her legs up underneath her. The odd clutter of furniture felt warm, like a nest formed by a line of women through the generations, each reaching their arms out and around her. She took a deep draught of the water to wake herself up—she must be on her guard, her turn was coming up soon.
‘So, the Wakelys,’ Jen said. ‘Well, Johnno Wakely’s worked his whole life at CTS. Married to Janine for thirty years before she passed. Only three years ago now. Very sad. Brain tumour. And young Todd, he’s been a bit lost since he lost his mum. He’s an only child. They’d tried for years before they had him. IVF and all. Then, after Janine died, Todd started hanging around with a pretty unsavoury crowd from Earlville. I’m not sure whether he’s still involved with them, but he was part of a nasty incident a couple of years back.’
‘The attack on the boys from the Plains?’ Clem asked.
‘Yeah, that’s right. Todd and a few others were charged with assault—had to go to court. They got off, but it was a bad time around here. Really awful. A lot of tension, bad blood. I don’t think it’s ever really gone away, to be honest, just simmering in the background.’
Jen reached for the glass of wine. ‘So, my lady, your turn. Shall we start with where you grew up?’
Clementine sat up a little straighter. Well, here goes: the price of knowing is to be known. She rested her glass on the shelf beside the photo of the Mason siblings and started on the make-believe tale she’d been crafting all day, ready for this moment.
She thought of the little house in western Sydney, and her bedroom, the same room she’d slept in for twenty-two years before she left for her inner-city corporate life. ‘Well, nowhere in particular, really. We moved around a lot. Dad was in the air force. Mostly Queensland, I suppose you’d say. Townsville, then Oakey, west of Brisbane, back to Townsville, Williamtown near Newcastle for a short bit, then up to Darwin, and then Oakey again.’
It felt easy, the lies crawling out like cockroaches from behind a fridge.
‘So where’s the family now?’
‘Mum and Dad died a while back.’ She sent a silent prayer into the night: So, so sorry, Mum and Dad. ‘I’ve got a brother in Sydney. That’s it really.’ This was the truth, the only truth she had spoken so far.
‘You see him much?’ Jen was letting her ease into her story, leaving condolences for her lost parents for some other time.
‘Nah, we’re not close. We ring each other on Christmas Day—that’s about it.’ Joshua, her beautiful Josh. It couldn’t get much worse from here—no longer even able to acknowledge the people she loved.
‘Hmm, so what brought you to Katinga, Clem?’ Jen said, trying to keep things upbeat.
Clementine was ready for this question, had practised her casual tone all afternoon. ‘I had a shit job in Sydney, working my arse off as a paralegal at a city law firm. The partners were bullies, the pay was crap and I’d had enough, so I just up and left.’
‘Aha! I knew it, from paralegal to famed football coach—it’s all starting to fit together now!’
‘Sarcasm is very unbecoming on you, Jen. I’ll have you know I’m the two-time grand-final-winning coach of the Easton Bay under-sixteens,’ she declared.
‘So is that it? That’s all your experience?’
‘Born into the game, Jen, the whole family lived and breathed it. I was a pretty handy player myself until work got in the way. Anyway, you’re on the committee, you tell me—was I the only applicant?’
Clem remembered when she’d posted the application—it had been a particularly boring day, even for this slow-moving life in the country. It was little more than something to do to pass the time—she hadn’t come close to thinking she might actually get the job.
‘Well, I wasn’t part of the selection process, but…ahem,’ said Jen, clearing her throat. ‘Yes, you were it. Turnover’s been pretty high these last ten years. Lord, the last guy was a complete disaster—hip flask of Jim Beam at every training session!’ she laughed.
‘What’s wrong with that?’ said Clem with mock indignation.
‘Nothing, nothing at all!’ Overcome with laughter, Jen could hardly get the words out. ‘Good lord, there were games I wished I had a whole bottle!’
They chatted about the series of coaches that had passed through the Katinga Cats’ revolving door until finally Clem saw an opportunity to excuse herself.
‘Well, Mrs Rodham, it’s almost eleven, and I think that’s enough questions for one evening.’
‘Fair enough, as long as there’ll be a part two to the life and times of Clem Jones? You haven’t tried Trev’s lasagne yet.’
‘It takes a lot to coax me from my hilltop lair.’ Clem eased her way out of the chair and picked up her bag. ‘But if Trev’s lasagne is anything like his gravy, then maybe I will,’ she lied.
CHAPTER 10
The magnificence of the mountain forest on the drive home from the game felt all the sweeter after the team’s victory. Only three points in it, wobbly without Clancy and against a mediocre team in the Tigers, but a win was a win. Trev had given her a full-on bear hug when the siren sounded. She’d mentioned him in her post-game speech: ‘And to Trev Rodham, genius-of-the-week award. Wonder why our strategy worked up the corridor at the back end of each quarter? Thank Trev, who drove all the way to watch the Tigers and record their game last week. Bloody legend, Trev.’ Everyone had cheered, and Trev, standing there in his camel-coloured duffel coat, looked as chuffed as if he’d just invented the paperclip.
The players had been exuberant. The tiny seed of hope they’d held in their chests had sprouted leaves. At the end of the game, the sheds were crammed with people as they’d belted out the team song. Mrs Lemmon had held Clem’s hand the whole way through, chirping away in her quavering little soprano.
The win had propelled the Cats to third on the ladder with still one more week of the home-and-away season before the finals—time enough to get Clancy back.
A wombat trundled across the road up ahead, not even bothering to speed up in the headlights. She slowed as its round bottom disappeared into the undergrowth, then planted her foot down hard on the last of the straight stretches before the climb up Katinga Hill. A rabbit dashed out from the right, leaping into the headlights. She gasped but held the wheel firm, kept driving straight. They said swerving was dangerous. The bump was hardly noticeable. She checked the rear-view mirror—little more than a smudge on the road in her tail-lights. She was thankful—a quick death, no need to stop and make sure of it. Something else in the mirror. A glimpse of headlights at the start of the long straight stretch behind her. She checked again—definitely headlights. It was rare to see any cars on this road, especially at this time of night. Must be her neighbour, Jim, from the sheep property next door.
