Sweet Home Summer Page 4

  ‘Mum! Keep your eyes on the road.’ The hairpin bends of the mountain pass had always made her nervous. ‘Have you got false eyelashes on? And what’s with the tan?’ she asked to distract herself.

  ‘They’re both the latest thing from Revlon,’ Mary said batting her lashes.

  She took her position as a Revlon Consultant very seriously. Isla wished the same could be said of her driving.

  ‘And you’re as bad as your father telling me how to drive. Trust you to bring up Sheree’s knickers, Isla. That was years ago and anyway I don’t know why she was so bothered, she still has trouble keeping the bloody things on according to my hairdresser, Marie.’ Her face grew pensive. ‘I wonder if Sheree was the one Marie’s ex–hubby was up to no good with, she’d never say if she was. What do you reckon on the cut she did me? I thought it was on the short side and your dad said I looked like one of those sheep that shed their wool sporadically of their accord.’ She frowned and her hand flew up to the back of her newly shorn head to pat it.

  Isla bit back a giggle; her dad could never be called a charmer. It was embarrassing the way he’d squeeze Mum’s bum in public, but that he was also kind and generous and loved the bones off his wife, there could be no doubt. Besides, she thought looking at her mum properly, the back was indeed a little short. The top bit was still as full and curly as ever. Isla’s earliest memory was of her mother looking like an alien, porcupine with a headful of heated rollers. Looking at her now, she reminded her of someone, who was it?’

  ‘Mum! I’ve got it you look like—’

  ‘Like Olivia Newton-John when she sang Physical. That was the photo I took in to show Marie.’ Mary’s face was alight with hope. ‘That was one of Olivia’s timeless looks, in my opinion. It never gets old.’

  ‘Um … oh yeah.’ That hadn’t been what she had been about to say. God help her, her mother had been a fan of Olivia’s since her Grease days. There was no chance of her ageing as gracefully as her idol though, Isla thought with a fond sideways glance. She wouldn’t put it past her to start wearing a headband and leotard to that dancing in the dark thing she reckoned was the new Zumba.

  Nothing ever changed in Bibury, and where once it had irritated Isla, now she found the idea of returning to all that sameness comforting. Marie had been cutting hair in Bibury since she was a baby and Sheree must be well into her sixties by now. Age, it would seem, hadn’t managed to slow down Shag-around Sheree, as she was known at the Pit, or her free and easy ways.

  ‘The garage was broken into last month.’

  Ben’s garage? Isla was suddenly wide awake.

  ‘They made off with cigarettes. The police caught the little buggers, apparently just kids passing through from Greymouth.’ She made a tut–tutting ‘what are the youth of today coming to’ sort of noise.

  Isla’s shoulders relaxed on hearing no one was hurt. The memory of the time Ben had broken his ankle attempting to rollerblade around Bibury High’s netball courts at her insistence flitted before her. He’d been stoic not wanting her to worry as he sat where he’d crashed to the ground. She’d seen the pain in his eyes though. It had hurt her as much as him while she sat squeezing his hand waiting for the O’Regan kid who’d been kicking a ball about nearby to fetch Ben’s dad. A trip to Greymouth hospital had followed, and he’d wound up in surgery, a plate and screws being placed along the back of his shin bone to hold the shattered bones together. He’d said it was worth it to have her at his beck and call for the weeks after as he sat propped up on his bed, foot elevated. She’d tossed a grape at him when he said that and he’d reached out and pulled her to him for a kiss. They’d only broken apart upon hearing his mother’s exaggerated throat clearing from the doorway. Isla shooed the image away; had she really once been that young and carefree?

  She closed her eyes, ignoring her mum’s questions as to what her plan was now she was back. The simple answer was she didn’t have one. She felt like the prodigal child. The Andersons would be pleased to know she’d remembered at least one parable from all those Sunday school classes they’d taken her to. Giving up on getting a reply, Mary moved on to other topics, and Isla found herself drifting off despite her mum’s chatter. She was woken with a sharp elbow to the ribs.

  ‘Isla, we’re home, and your dad’s going to dislocate his shoulder if you don’t give him a wave back. He finished early so he could be home to greet you.’

  Isla waved back at the burly man in the t-shirt and stubby shorts who stepped forward to wrap his daughter in a bear hug the instant she got out of the car. And when he boomed. ‘You found yourself then,’ she was too knackered to say anything but, ‘Yup Dad I did.’

  Mum had been busy redecorating, Isla noticed as she stepped through the front door. The three-bedroomed house had been built when Isla and Ryan were small, and it had a brick exterior with dormer windows upstairs. It sat on a sloping large part of a quiet street with her dad’s workshop off to the side.

  ‘Do you like the colour scheme?’

  It was black and white and blingy but it suited her mum down to the ground, she thought, glancing over at her dad who looked a little at odds standing under the chandelier in the living room.

  ‘I told her we don’t live in a high-class brothel, but she wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘I don’t know how you’d know what the inside of a high-class brothel looks like and you’ve nothing against bling when it comes to that bike of yours. Honestly, Isla, make sure you put your sunglasses on when he drags you out to look at it. He’s been pimping it up.’ She wagged a finger at her husband. ‘Your dad here thinks he’s the star of Easy Rider.’

  Isla smiled listening to the banter; it was good to be home.

  She managed to have a few bites of the bacon and egg pie (that she knew fell on page ninety-four of Edmonds Cookery Book) that her mum put on the table for lunch before pushing her plate away. Mary made coffee and then plonked a big heart-shaped box of chocolates down on the table.

  ‘My Valentine’s Day present,’ she said, smiling at Joe before jumping and slapping his hand away when he reached towards her. ‘You got yours this morning; you can go and tie a knot in it thank you very much.’

  Isla told them to cut it out when there were children present, slipping easily back into a long-forgotten role as she helped herself to a chocolate. Hopefully, it would give her enough of a sugar hit to get through the afternoon. She’d forgotten Valentine’s Day had just been, not that the day held any significance for her this year. Her body clock was up the wop, and she stifled a yawn as her dad moved on to his three favourite topics, his new Toyota Hilux Ute, his Harley and his veggie patch. She would dearly love to crawl into her old bed, seeing the shape of the spiky cabbage tree leaves through the curtains as she’d done as a kid and sleep for the next twelve hours solid. Isla knew she’d be wide awake in the middle of the night if she did that, though. Besides, she couldn’t take herself off to bed as much as she might want to because she had someone important to go and see.

  Isla was perched in the passenger seat of her dad’s Hilux with a bunch of carrots in a plastic bag on her lap. Apparently, Joe had had a bumper crop this year. She refused to look in the direction of the Robsons’ garage as her dad drove past and wanted to slap his hand like her mother had done earlier when he waved over to Ben.

  ‘He’s a worker that Ben, you could’ve done a lot worse than him Isla. He’s been stepping out with the new school secretary, a pretty lass she is too. I have to say, it came as a bit of a shock to hear Violet McDougall was retiring though. We thought she’d be carried out of the school in a box. She wants more time to devote to her Scottish dancing while she can still kick her legs up, apparently. Your gran reckons she’s finally given up on snagging Principal Bishop. Yep, sorry to say you missed the boat with Ben there, love,’ he finished helpfully.

  ‘Thanks for that, Dad.’ She could almost feel Ben’s eyes burning into her willing her to look at him, as she kept her eyes fixed on the road ahead. Or perhaps she was
being fanciful. Either way, she had no doubt he’d known she was arriving home today thanks to the Bibury bush telegraph. She wondered if he’d changed much, it had been years since she’d last seen him. The last time had been when she’d flown home for her grandfather’s funeral. Isla, already grieving, had felt like she was talking to a stranger as he passed on his condolences.

  Maybe his hair was thinning, and he’d gotten paunchy. What would he think of her when he saw her properly? She didn’t think she’d changed much apart from wearing her hair shorter these days, so it sat on her shoulders and not halfway down her back. It was darker too thanks to the tint her hairdresser had put through it, telling her it would off-set her olive skin tone. She hadn’t put on weight though, no chance of that with Toad’s constant passive aggressive remarks.

  ‘That Tim was bloody useless. I told you that time and time again, but would you listen? Nope, you take after your Gran in that respect. She never listens either,’ her dad said, as though reading her mind. ‘I could never trust a man who uses moisturiser and puts more crap in his hair than your mother.’ His tone softened. ‘I can’t pretend that I’m not happy you broke things off with him and to have our girl home of course.’ He patted Isla’s knee, and she gave him a watery smile, relieved that they’d reached Gran’s.

  ‘It’s been painted!’ The last time she’d seen the weatherboard house where, growing up, she’d spent as much time as her own home, it was beginning to show the telltale signs of the harsh coastal climate. Now it stood out like a gleaming pearl amongst the street full of other weatherboards that had all lost their lustre.

  ‘Ryan and I got stuck in when he was home last. We thought if the old girl sees sense and decides to sell, then it’s one less thing to worry about. Your mum and I tried to talk her into putting it on the market after she had that fall but I never met anyone as pig-headed as Bridget Collins. She’ll miss the boat I reckon. Property prices have gone down enough since the mine closed.’ He turned into the drive and sounded the horn. Isla couldn’t help but grin, as the Dukes of Hazzard, General Lee’s Dixie tune announced their arrival. He was such a petrol head, her dad.

  ‘Gran! It’s me,’ Isla called, pushing open the door. Joe brought up the rear carrying her cases. She shook her head at the foreignness of leaving your front door unlocked as she stepped inside. It was shadowy in the hall despite it being high summer. This was thanks to the rich Rimu wood panelling that adorned the walls. Her dad deposited her worldly possessions (at least, until the rest of her belongings that Maura had kindly agreed to box up and ship arrived) in the spare room before kissing her.

  ‘I’ll leave you to have a catch up with the old girl. It’s good to have you home Isla.’

  ‘It’s good to be home, and the hat and boots look great Dad.’

  ‘Why thank you, lil’ lady,’ he drawled tipping his new Stetson before strutting out the door in his cowboy boots.

  She wondered if he’d sleep with them on recalling how she’d felt like the perfect daughter, being the one to bring his boyhood dream to life.

  Before she’d left the States, she’d walked into the LA stockists of the Stetson brand. Her jaw was agape as she’d stood gazing at the different designs. A cowboy hat was a cowboy hat, wasn’t it? Except for when it happened to be a Stetson, it would seem. She’d gravitated towards a traditionally styled hat called the Rustler. Lifting it off the wall, she’d inspected the hat for a price and spotting it; Isla truly did feel as if she was having an out of body experience. She whistled between her teeth, a cool two hundred and seventy dollars for a flipping hat! Dad had better remember which one of his two offsprings it was who’d fulfilled his dreams when he sat down to write his will, she’d thought, marching over to inspect the boots.

  Isla would have loved to have blamed the state of her nerves on the price of the Stetson hat and the matching cowboy boots (which, by the way, had cost her the grand total of five hundred and fifty dollars, a sum she still hadn’t quite come to terms with) but she couldn’t. The trigger had in fact been a conversation with Toad that had been so ridiculous she’d nicknamed it Banana Gate. The screenplay of their exchange ran through her mind once again like a scratched DVD as she stood in the doorway:

  ‘Hey, hun, did you know bananas are fattening?’ Tim was leaning against the doorway, watching her with a faintly amused expression playing across his handsome face.

  Isla jumped. ‘Oh hi, you frightened me! I didn’t hear you come in.’

  ‘I’m on target for this month, so I thought I’d knock off early and head down to the gym.’ His brown eyes flickered towards the fruit she was holding, and a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. He was a cat playing with a mouse.

  Isla stared at the banana recalling those horrible flickering ads that popped up on the internet unbidden. The ones that featured a banana and a fat belly and tempted you to click to find the holy-grail to losing that wobbly belly. ‘I, uh, I assumed being fruit it was good for me.’ Why was she explaining herself? It was just a banana for goodness’ sake, hardly a king-size block of chocolate and so what if it was? She was a grown woman, not a naughty kid pilfering food before dinner. He couldn’t tell her what she should and shouldn’t eat, and she was hardly overweight, so why did she feel like she was doing something wrong? ‘It’s going soft, it needs to be eaten.’ The words continued to burst forth, an unstoppable explanation like popcorn from its kernel.

  Tim shrugged. ‘Hey, it’s your call. It’s just that I thought we’d agreed on you wearing the red dress to the awards dinner this Friday night.’

  Isla knew the red dress didn’t leave much room for movement. She also knew that the last time his advertising firm had been up for an award he’d had Tori on his arm. Tall, skinny, beautiful Tori, who’d turned heads. He’d dropped his ex into the conversation when he’d asked her what she was going to wear, adding that he thought her red dress was a show stopper. The awards mattered to him. She would be the trophy on his arm, not the fat cow that showed him up. Tori had always made an effort when things mattered to Tim and so should she, she decided, putting the banana back in the bowl. She wasn’t hungry anymore anyway. She had that horrible sick, bloated feeling again that always assailed her after conversations like this. Now, he looked like the cat that got the cream as he turned away.

  The sun was streaming in through the window as she watched him disappear down the street, gym bag slung casually over his shoulder, oblivious to the fact that tears were running down her cheeks.

  Now, she shook her head. Toad was the past and this was her present. She focussed on her dad swaggering to his Ute and grinned involuntarily. The cowboy ensemble was money well spent. Her hand hovered over the lock. What was the point? She knew she wouldn’t be the one to change the habit of a lifetime. Gran was as stubborn as a toddler who refused to stop sucking her thumb. Isla’s mum had often told Isla in exasperation that this was a trait that had skipped a generation bouncing directly from grandmother to granddaughter. ‘You two are peas in a pod,’ she’d say, shaking her head. ‘I might as well bang my head against a wall when it comes to trying to make the pair of you see sense.’ Isla and Bridget would grin at each, co-conspirators.

  She stood in the hallway with its dust motes and red Axminster carpet that did nothing to lighten the hall. Gran was fond of saying it had cost a fortune but would see her out. Isla let the familiar surrounds wash over her. It was like stepping inside a time capsule and she knew, were she to push open the door to the living room, she’d find it just as it had been the day she’d told her Gran that she was leaving New Zealand.

  It would be the same with her gran’s bedroom, she thought, unable to resist a peek. She pushed the door to her left open and blinked at the sudden light. Her eyes settled on the colourful quilt spread neatly over the bed. Her gran’s mother had stitched it for her and Grandad as a wedding present. For the sake of her gran’s seventy-something back, she hoped the mattress wasn’t the same one that had serviced their forty-odd years of marriage
. Isla frowned, something was missing. The black and white photo of her grandparents on their wedding day was no longer hanging on the wall above the bed. In its place was a watercolour of what looked like Arthur’s Pass. Perhaps it had been too painful a reminder to have it there after Grandad passed, Isla mused.

  On the wall to the right of the old dresser drawers were the silver framed baby portraits of her mum and Uncle Jack. As a child, Isla had found it so hard to equate the bonny baby in her frilly dress with her ever unpractical and bossy mum. She supposed that was normal; it was hard to imagine one’s parents having ever been small and vulnerable.

  Isla’s nose twitched as she tiptoed out of the room. Freshly baked scones! Gran could be a bite at times, and she wasn’t one for public displays of affection. Her way of showing she loved you was not with grand gestures or declarations, but with her home-baking. As a child, Isla had loved those afternoons spent perched at the old Formica-topped table, with a plate of hot buttery scones between them. It was Gran who had taught her to bake too. Those times had been their special times. She’d been able to talk to her about everything until the day she decided to leave Bibury.

  Chapter 5

  Isla followed her nose to the kitchen, feeling like that child who’d popped in on her way home from school all over again. She called over the top of the radio talkback discussion being broadcast on the old transistor radio on the kitchen windowsill, ‘Gran, it’s me. And I haven’t come empty-handed. I bring you the last of the carrots from Dad’s garden.’

  The old woman’s back was to her as she busied herself up at the bench buttering the scones. Isla could see steam rising and blobs of golden butter melting into them, and her stomach involuntarily rumbled, despite not long having had lunch.

  ‘We don’t have any of that plastic rubbish they call spread in this house,’ Bridget was fond of saying. Now, she stopped what she was doing and, turning around, wiped her hands on her apron. The Union Jack was emblazoned on the front of it, a Christmas present from Isla’s first year in London. It looked at odds with her blouse and slacks.