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Hearing her mother mutter the name of the town in that matter-of-fact way reminded her how much Terri had chosen not to share. She’d never described the farm, or the work she’d done there. She’d never talked about Trevor.
Certainly said nothing about the accident.
She wasn’t here to get angry about that. ‘Yes.’ She reached over and held her mother’s hand. ‘What happened, Mum? The accident which killed Trevor—my father. The inquest. Why did you skip town?’
Her mother picked up a teaspoon and gripped it with both hands. ‘Skipping town is what I do, sugarplum. You know that. Bad shit happens to Foxes … and when it does, Foxes try their luck elsewhere.’
Kirsty sighed. ‘I used to believe that when I was little.’
‘I know you did.’
‘When really, you were just running away.’
‘You don’t understand.’
‘I understand perfectly well. Don’t you think that’s exactly whatI’vebeen doing the last few weeks? But I’m not you, Mum. I can’t live that way. It’s …’ The epiphany she’d had filled her with calm. ‘It’s not healthy.’
‘I’m sorry, Kirsty. I’m weak. I know that.’
‘I’m not blaming you, Mum. I just want to know the real story. What happened whenyouwent to Clarence? Tell me.’
‘Okay. Well, I was young. I’d just finished school and I applied for a job as a fruit picker because it sounded adventurous, and a long way from my parents who were old-fashioned, as you know. I got a job in Coffs Harbour packing bananas, which was okay untilI discovered how many spiders love living in banana plants. The packers lived in dormitories on the plantation, and because we got accommodation and food, we didn’t get paid very often. It took about a month to get an envelope of cash in my hand, but the second I got it, I took off. Bought a motorbike on the cheap from a backpacker who was heading home to England, and I hit the highway.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Nineteen, and dumber than a donut. I didn’t have a motorbike licence, and the guy I bought it from gave me a half-hour lesson that didn’t include how to avoid hazards on the road. I punctured a tyre somewhere between Halfway Creek and Grafton and started thumbing for a ride. Guess who pulled over and offered me—and my bike—a lift?’
Here it began, the chance meeting—luck, or fate, as her mum would say—that had ended more than three decades later with her, Kirsty Fox, finding theDoreen Anne. ‘Trevor Bluett.’
‘Yes. Trev, he called himself. He’d been at a bachelor and spinsters ball somewhere way west, and his girlfriend had dumped him for a bloke who wore cufflinks.’ Terri smiled. ‘He was so sore about that. Like, if he’d only thought to be wearing cufflinks himself none of his heartbreak would have happened. Anyway, by the time he offered me a lift he’d been singing along to Meatloaf and crying for about ten straight hours.’
Road-trip cryfest. Well, she could understand that, too. ‘How did a hitchhike turn into a relationship?’
Terri swilled the last of her tea around in her cup, inspected the dregs, then tossed it into a clump of lavender. ‘I had nowhere to go. He said I could camp out at his parents’ dairy farm for a little while if I was willing to help with the milking. I was angry with the world, and he was sweet and heartbroken. We … each needed something, and so we clung to each other, I suppose.’
‘This isn’t sounding like a love story, Mum.’
Her mother frowned. ‘If you want a love story, you’re talking to the wrong person.’
‘That’s … pretty sad, Mum.’
‘I guess it is. Maybe that’s why I’ve had my problems.’
Kirsty took a breath then launched in. ‘You mean, with the pokies.’
‘And the rest.’
Yes, she supposed the rest did amount to quite a lot, too. The evictions from home when the rent money had been turned into tokens and poured into a slot. The string of men who’d never quite turned out to be the love of her mum’s life. The lost jobs, the rehab, the community service order after the rates money went ‘missing’ from her job at West Franklin Council.
The broken arm of her eleven-year-old daughter.
‘How long had you been at the farm when the accident happened?’
‘Not long. Three months, perhaps? The Bluetts had an old caravan in a paddock behind the house and they let me stay there. Trev moved in with me, which his parents were pretty dirty about. They didn’t approve of me.’
‘But Trev must have.’
‘Sure. His parents were old school. Church on Sunday, washing on the line every Tuesday and Thursday … and I’m pretty sure he’d have ended up exactly the same if he’d lived, but back then, he was chafing a little. Moving into the caravan with me—the drifter with the rose tattooed on her ankle and the spiked-up hair—he was looking for a little independence, I guess.’
