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‘Have you even met Sybella?’ he asked. They both shook their heads. ‘When was the last time you saw Abagail?’
‘Oh, let’s see. Before Sybella was born, I think about ten years ago.’
Ten years?
‘And why are you here now after all this time?’ Nothing made sense. These people who called themselves parents hadn’t seen their children for years and now surfaced without warning and wanted to turn their lives upside down? His anger simmered below the surface, ready to explode, like mini darts from the pores of his skin, but he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing him lose control. He ground his teeth together and curled his fingers in and out.
His mother delivered three cups of tea and sat at the table like they were having a civilised afternoon catch up. Somehow, he didn’t think the tea would cut it. It was her who spoke first.
‘Sybella is a child born of sin, a bastard, born without the support and love of married parents and not aware of God’s love. She needs to learn the scriptures and lessons of the Bible to be welcome into God’s arms and not repeat the sins of her mother.’
Caleb took a sip of tea that scolded his throat on the way down. It was exactly the jolt he needed to prevent the vitriol spewing from his mouth. He willed himself to stay calm, but it was bloody hard.
His mother wasn’t finished. ‘We’re much more established now. Our accommodation is clean and comfortable. We have running water and our own bathroom. Unlike years ago, we were not equipped to keep a family in the Philippines. It was too remote but now we’re in a proper town with a school and church, shops and other families.’
Ah, there it was. So, they did hold a semblance of guilt. It pleased him. No doubt, God forgave them for the sin of abandoning their children. He chanced a look at his father who sipped his tea unperturbed by his wife’s harsh words.
‘You’ve been baking,’ he gestured to the oven. ‘Abagail said you were a cook.’
That made him sound like someone out the back of the local chippie, or gulp, in the school tuckshop.
‘Any chance we can have a slice with our cuppa?’
‘No. They’re for a festival in town next week.’
His father nodded, disappointed, searching the kitchen for another source of snack.
‘Abagail was your daughter and a grown woman and a wonderful person and mother. At the age of eighteen you left her to raise a teenager when it was not her responsibility and she did a great job.’ His mother went to interrupt, but he held up his palm. ‘She did a fantastic job; it was me who stuffed up and made her life difficult. She moved to this town and made a life for herself and her daughter and was an important member of this community. She died of breast cancer, and you didn’t return for her funeral or send flowers or make an appearance for your granddaughter then. It was the people of this town that supported her during her illness and cared for her daughter until I arrived. They are now supporting me. You’ve done nothing.’
His mother shifted in her seat, shuffled her feet. Caleb imagined the defences forming: it was God’s will they had to help other people; they were chosen; the plight of others could not be ignored. He’d heard them all before and he wouldn’t listen again today. Thankfully his father said nothing but looked to his mother for guidance. ‘We have a right to know our granddaughter,’ she said.
‘Yes. But not to right any wrongs you say her mother committed or to convince an innocent child she entered the world in sin. That’s, that’s despicable.’ He paused. ‘Your job is to love her as grandparents dote upon a grandchild, nothing more, nothing less. If you can’t do that, you need to leave.’
His skin rippled with tension and with the oven set to hot, the room was oppressive and starved of oxygen.
‘We are entitled to see the child.’
‘Yes, Father, you are.’
‘We’ll let her decide.’
‘Decide what?’ he asked his mother.
‘Whom she’d like to live with.’
‘She’s five!’ he exclaimed, and his father jumped.
The oven timer went off. Beep. Beep. Beep, breaking the tension. Caleb rose, removed the three dishes from the oven and placed them onto the bench. The aroma of baked strawberry blanketed the kitchen, a sugary vanilla heaven. He heard his father inhale heavily.
With his back still to them and holding the benchtop for support, he said, ‘I’ll collect Sybella from school and bring her home. I’ll tell her you’re here and that you wish to meet her. I’ll relocate to the pub temporarily and you can stay here and spend time together, get to know her.’ He turned to face them. ‘Do not brainwash her with your God-fearing ways. If you do, you’ll no longer be welcome.’
‘Caleb, why are you staying at The Belle?’
Jacqueline entered the community hall for the last festival committee meeting. Twenty or so people gathered, much less than his previous presence had garnered. Had his charm worn off? Bridie ignored him, but at Jacqueline’s words, she paused with her cup under the urn, mid-stream. Her head tilted towards them waiting for the answer.
Caleb set out the pink macarons on the white plate. It had dramatic effect and he liked it.
‘Did you make these?’ Jacqueline swiped one, ruining his artistic display of the French biscuits.
