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‘I’m Jacqueline Kennedy,’ she laughed, ‘yes, just like the first lady, I’m the first lady of Bellethorpe. The mayor, that is. Welcome to town,’ and she handed over a tray of chocolate brownies, the plate still warm.
She bustled past him without an invitation and headed straight for the kitchen where Caleb heard the rattle of cups and the rush of the tap and the incessant talking. ‘I can’t thank you enough for helping out at school this morning. That’s what it’s like around here, we all pitch in. But all the better that you’re actually a chef. Well, I fancy! Too good for the canteen of course, but the thing is, poor Polly is out for the week, sick, you see, with a stomach bug. We’re always stretched to get the help we need, and given you’ve recently arrived, and I assume you haven’t made many arrangements yet, can you help this week? Here’s the roster.’
Caleb arrived in the kitchen and put down the brownies. In one hand she shoved a cup of instant coffee and in the other, the piece of paper.
‘You won’t be alone. There are other volunteers,’ she said and took a sip of her own drink. ‘And agreeing to cook for the festival, you’ve made quite the splash into town.’
The taste of the bland, watery instant burned as it slid down his throat. It tasted vile but the heat warmed his insides and he immediately felt better.
‘I can see you need some time to sort yourself out, and as you can imagine I have a million things to do. But please sing out if you need anything and the school will see you tomorrow.’ With that Jacqueline patted him on the shoulder and left.
Caleb’s head spun. This town was something else. He slumped back into the sofa and held the warm cup in his hands. Awake now, he took a moment to examine the room. It was simply furnished but oozed warmth and comfort. It was nothing like his top floor apartment in Sydney with its clean lines and white walls. Here the coloured throws and cushions complimented the lounge which faced a traditional fireplace with stone columns on each side topped with a timber ledge.
Photo frames were displayed on a round silky oak table in the corner with a white vase filled with coloured flowers. The photos were of Sybella with a gummy grin and bright baby eyes. While being chic, the room was also worn and ordinary. But he could picture his sister here. Another shooting pain zoomed across his chest.
His phone buzzed from somewhere and he searched his pockets. The hum sounded nearby, and he moved the cushions of the couch and pushed his fingers in the crevices before retrieving it. His stomach churned as he checked the screen. Marco, his business partner, again. Another missed call and message. He swiped out and the news flashed up. He hated that bloody function. If he wanted the news, he’d read the paper or put on the television. Too late, top story and it was still all about him.
Another knock landed on the door. Jeez, these people didn’t leave you alone, did they? But before he could react, the door swung open and Sybella raced in, dumping her school bag in the hall before rushing over to him.
3
Like a little whirlwind, the five-year-old wrapped herself around his torso. ‘Uncle Caleb, you forgot to pick me up from school again!’ she squealed, pulled back and punched him on the arm.
Shit! He was seriously failing at this parenting gig.
He hung his head, reeling from the embrace and fought the urge to have the waif-thin girl back in his arms. He hadn’t had a soul-crunching feel-good hug in ages, and it felt amazing. It’d be weird right, to drag the kid back in for another one. Instead, he collapsed into a heap onto the couch from her light-weight box. Sybella giggled and pummelled him in the chest with closed fists. The force was like a massage against his skin, but he made the appropriate wounded noises.
Bridie wandered into the room and offered a diminutive wave, ceasing their antics.
‘You here again?’ he didn’t mean to sound unkind.
‘’Fraid so. I was at school anyway. I can pick Sybella up anytime, it’s no trouble.’
Was he supposed to thank her for interfering?
‘Mummy never forgot to pick me up from school,’ Sybella said, her lip wobbling.
‘But it’s across the road and around the corner, can’t you walk home by yourself?’ he asked.
‘I’m five!’ she shouted, ‘and mummy would carry my bag and sometimes we’d buy ice-cream.’ She stamped her foot.
He was readying his reply when Bridie jumped in. ‘Well, let’s get some afternoon tea now then. Lucky, because I stopped at the shop and I might just have some vanilla ice-cream. Oh, and strawberries, of course. How about we have ice-cream and berries?’
‘Yum!’ Sybella jumped up and down on the spot. Okay, lesson number one: you could bribe the kid with food.
‘Sybella why don’t you take this bag for me and head to the kitchen?’ The girl dutifully obeyed.
With her gaze steady on him, Bridie walked over and collected the empty whiskey bottle stashed in the corner crevice of the couch and in a rather robotic manoeuvre with a straight back and dead-pan face, deposited it into her leather handbag without uttering a word.
Caleb swivelled his head left and right for further evidence of his day. There was only the one bottle; he sighed. Clatter came from the kitchen, and he wandered in. Bridie handed him a fizzy orange drink and his eyebrows rose in question. She pointed to the counter and the open packet of Berocca. He nodded and sipped. This woman had a knack for ordering him around. And for having everything at her fingertips.
Sybella served up bowls. ‘Want some Uncle Caleb?’
‘Absolutely, yes please.’ Sybella beamed and he melted a little bit like the ice-cream.
They sat down at the simple timber table and ate. ‘These berries are delicious, some of the best I’ve had.’
Sybella giggled. ‘What?’ he asked.
