Only We Know Page 12

  Sam took a deep breath. ‘Is he? He doesn’t look a day over seventy-five.’

  The conversation went around like that for half an hour. Sam heard all the old stories again. The histories of the families who’d settled this half of the island. Stories he’d heard when he was a kid and lately every time he came back to visit. His father had dementia. He’d known it before he’d driven over this time. Had known it for a good twelve months. That’s what was making this trip so burdensome.

  Charlie nodded his head to the front door. ‘So tell me about your wife. What’s her name?’

  Sam debated in his head for two seconds about whether it was worth correcting him. ‘Her name’s Calla. I met her on the boat a couple of days ago. I’m just helping her out.’

  Helping her out? Was that what he was doing? He remembered her words with a wry smile: You’re a firefighter with some kind of professional-hero complex who goes around butting in to everyone’s business and trying to rescue people.

  That wasn’t what was going on here. The thing brewing between them wasn’t about a hero complex or a job. It was about a man and a woman and sex. It was about the dance two people did before deciding whether they were going to give in to nature. Sam knew he was right there, in that place in his head. And in his jeans. And if Calla’s reaction by the kitchen sink was anything to go by, she was there too.

  The front door opened with a creak and Calla emerged backwards, holding a tray with a plate of biscuits and three steaming cups on it.

  Sam jumped up to hold the door open. She didn’t meet his eyes.

  Charlie winked at his son. ‘She’s a looker, all right. All that red hair.’

  ‘It’s red, all right.’

  When he spoke, Calla stumbled and the cups clinked against each other.

  Sam leant in. ‘I’ll take it,’ he said and reached for the tray.

  ‘No need. I’ve got it.’ Calla turned to Charlie. ‘Thought you might want another tea. And some biscuits.’

  ‘Look at that. Room service.’ Charlie took an Anzac biscuit and his fresh cuppa. ‘Cheers; thanks, love.’

  Sam took the two other cups and cocked his head. ‘Here, Calla. Why don’t you sit down?’

  ‘I’m happy to stand.’

  ‘Please,’ Sam said. ‘Get a load off and drink your coffee before it gets cold, although I know that’s how you like it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Calla said. Her lips curved in a smile but she didn’t look at him. Sam leant against a veranda post.

  ‘Your mother was a looker, Sam, just like this girl. Did I ever tell you the story of how we met?’

  Charlie’s face lit up and his eyes almost disappeared into the sagging wrinkles of his face. Or maybe he’d closed them to conjure the memory. It had been so many years since Sam had seen the old man smile that he couldn’t be sure. Charlie had an Islander’s face, whipped by the sun and the wind his whole life.

  ‘It was 1963 and there was a bloody great big carnival at Penneshaw.’ Charlie leant back in his wooden chair and gripped his cup. ‘People came from everywhere, from the island and from Adelaide and even Sydney for it. There were famous visitors too. There were so many people they had them camping on the oval. It was a national spear-fishing competition, that’s right. There was a beach sprint and I won that. Crikey, I could go like the clappers back then. It was the first day of the carnival and your mother turned up from Adelaide in an orange swimsuit and she won the beach-girl contest. That night, there was a dance at the Penneshaw Hall and I was the first one to ask her to dance. You know, we danced so hard that night, all of us young fellas, that the new jarrah floor collapsed?’

  Calla brushed her curls away from her face, and Sam could see that her eyes were shimmery with tears. ‘What was her name, Charlie?’

  ‘Jean. Her name was Jean.’ Charlie turned to her. ‘Did I ever tell you the story of how we met? It was 1963 …’

  The ocean and the mainland had disappeared in the darkness by the time Calla unlocked the door to the holiday cabin. Sam followed her inside with weary footsteps and she went into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

  They’d spent the rest of the day with Charlie and, as the sun had set, they’d made him an early dinner, and then driven away with a promise to be back in the morning. There had been no point trying to pick his brain that afternoon. As the sun had started to fade in the western sky, he had only become more confused. Sam and Calla had exchanged glances when he started the fourth recital of how he’d met Sam’s mum. They’d easily, without any words exchanged between them, come to a mutual understanding that any questions about Jem would have to wait. And no words had to be exchanged either, about the fact that Sam would take Calla back to the cabin at Penneshaw for the night and stay there with her. Sam could easily have slept at his father’s house, in one of the twin singles still set up in the second bedroom, but there was nowhere for Calla to sleep, and it was ridiculous for him to drive back and forth in the dark.

  Sam had enjoyed the drive into the night, being with Calla in the warm cocoon of the car. She’d been quiet, contemplative. They’d talked for a little while about nothing much, the danger of kangaroos in the dark, the stars, but Calla had grown drowsy and had fallen asleep ten minutes after they’d turned on to the main road, her head against the window, her fingers clasped together in her lap. Sam turned the music off, listened instead to the soft sound of her breathing. He liked being able to look at her without her knowing he was. While he kept a keen and careful eye on the road ahead, and his lights on high beam, he snuck a glance every minute or so. She was snuggled inside her coat, the sleeves long, almost down to her fingers. Her flaming hair was all around her face, her lips parted slightly as she breathed. He wondered if he should make up a story and tell her that she snored. He wanted to tease her some more, hear her laugh, see her cheeks flush. She rose to the bait every time. And she gave as good as she got. When she turned the tables and teased him, her chin lifted, her eyes narrowed, and she tried really hard to hide a smile but couldn’t manage it.

  Who was this woman? She’d walked into his father’s house that day and taken over without either him or Charlie realising it. She’d been kind, considerate and, most importantly, subtle. She’d taken one look and known what needed to be done. Not to mention she’d had Charlie eating out of her hand. She seemed to know exactly what to say and do to make the old man comfortable.

  Sam dropped his car keys onto the kitchen bench with a jangle, put a bag of shopping alongside them and went straight for the bottle of wine. He twisted off the cap, found two glasses and poured generously.

  He heard the bathroom door close and Calla joined him. She stood on the other side of the kitchen bench and yawned.

  ‘Here,’ he said and handed her a glass.

  ‘Thanks.’ She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘So … I’m allowed to drink now?’

  He smiled. ‘You were right. You weren’t concussed.’

  She gasped in mock horror. ‘That kills you, doesn’t it? Being wrong about something.’

  ‘I like to be pleasantly surprised every now and then.’

  They looked at each other. Drank some wine. Outside, the wind had picked up and was rattling the sliding door.

  ‘Sam,’ Calla said after a long pause. ‘I need to talk to you about Charlie.’ She put her glass down on the bench.

  He knew what was coming. Knew she’d seen things that he hadn’t wanted to. ‘Yeah, I know. But can we eat first? I’m starving.’

  ‘Me too, but there’s nothing to eat. We may have to get takeaway. Is there takeaway here?’

  ‘No need for that. I stopped in at the supermarket on our way here. You were still fast asleep. Stayed that way the whole time.’

  Calla’s face was a question waiting to be asked. ‘What did you get?’

  ‘Steak. Salad,’ Sam said. ‘Does that meet with your approval?’

  Calla rested her elbow on the bench and her chin in her hand. ‘Sounds awesome.’

  ‘
Wait until you taste it. The boys at the station line up for my steak.’

  Calla pulled out a barstool and sat down, watched Sam unpack the ingredients from the bag and deposit them on the bench with a flourish. She was quite relieved they weren’t reliant on her culinary skills for sustenance. She didn’t possess any. Whatever passion she had was reserved for her canvases, not the kitchen. While he worked, chopping up cucumber and tomato, cubing a block of feta cheese, Calla gave in to the moment.

  So she was stranded a long way from home. She couldn’t do anything about that right now but she could allow herself to enjoy the food fortune of having a handsome firefighter make her dinner. So, he was pretty good to look at. She’d noticed that the first time she’d seen him with her glasses on. He was tall and strong and she already knew from seeing it with her own eyes that he was one of those men who could save your life if it happened to need saving. And she didn’t mean the emotional kind — who needed a man for that? Sam was a man who would cut you out of a crashed car, run into a burning house to find you or bring you back to life if you were near death.

  And she found all of that a total turn-on.

  Was she letting down her defences and falling for the professional hero, after all?

  No. She wasn’t that shallow and, despite her accusations, neither was Sam.

  There was something else. Her body already knew it and she wondered if her head would figure it out soon. There was an indefinable connection between them that had flared almost the first time they’d met. It was attraction, sure. But there was more to it. It was in the way he’d patiently listened to his father during the afternoon, smiling and asking the same questions with quiet politeness. They way he’d looked at her whenever Charlie assumed she was his wife. The way he’d just decided to make her dinner without even asking.

  Especially the way he’d just decided to make her dinner. For the second night in a row.

  ‘Tell me something, Calla.’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Why is it that you barely had any food but you seem to be so well stocked with wine?’

  ‘Because my priorities are in the right order. It was, naturally, the first thing I packed.’

  Sam laughed at her. ‘You didn’t think you’d be able to buy wine on the island?’

  ‘I couldn’t take a risk, not when it comes to the essentials.’ Calla reached for the bottle and filled her glass to the brim. What the hell if it was about four standard drinks? She lifted it and held it towards him.

  ‘Cheers, big ears.’ And she took a huge mouthful.

  After dinner, they talked politely about Sam’s childhood on the family farm. The weather. The state of the dirt roads and the battle the islanders had waged for years to get them sealed on the western end. Once the dishes were done — Calla had volunteered again because Sam had cooked again — she found a second bottle of wine and they retreated to the twin sofas. One of them sat safely on each, away from each other. The easy flow of the conversation — and the wine — had made Calla loose, less cautious, comfortable enough to try and dig a little deeper under the façade of the hero firefighter she’d inadvertently come to be sharing a cabin with.

  She watched as Sam leant towards her and filled her glass, the bouquet wafting up to her. She breathed it in. ‘Sam, can I ask you that question now, about your father?’

  He met her eyes and the open softness in them created a surge of tension in her chest. Maybe he’d realised too that they were sharing more than stories. They were getting to know each other’s secrets.

  ‘I know he’s going downhill. You don’t have to tell me that.’

  ‘Do you think Charlie’s memory has got worse since the last time you were here?’

  Sam propped his socked feet on the coffee table, relaxed back into the sofa, rubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw. ‘Yeah, it definitely has.’

  His voice seeped inside Calla, as thick and sweet as honey. There was a huskiness to it, a lived-in quality, as if it had grown ragged barking commands at junior firefighters and shouting at people in emergency situations to remain calm. It was the kind of voice that could get you to do almost anything.

  ‘I have to admit, I don’t normally talk to him as much as I did today. For the past year or so I’ve flown over, filled up the fridge and the cupboards, had a row with him about moving into a nursing home, and then flown back to Adelaide with steam coming out of my ears at how stubborn he is. And as you can see, that’s been a huge success so far.’

  ‘I can understand why he might not want to leave. It’s so beautiful there. And he has the dogs as well.’

  ‘It’s beautiful, but it’s a burden.’ A shadow crossed Sam’s face.

  ‘He’s probably lived there his whole life, right?’

  ‘Nearly. Mum and Dad moved up to Roo’s Rest the day they got married, and built the place together. It was the only family home I ever knew.’

  ‘Sam … I hope you don’t mind me saying but, whether it’s intentional or not, things are starting to slip. The place looked tidy enough, but the kitchen … It’s what happens to oldies, especially when their sight isn’t the best. They miss things.’

  Sam swirled the wine around, tried not to look at Calla. She hadn’t meant to embarrass him, talking about his father this way.

  ‘Thanks for doing that. Cleaning it up the way you did.’

  Calla shifted, propped her elbow on the backrest of the sofa and rested her head in her hand. ‘I didn’t want to make him look careless or helpless. But—’ She hesitated. ‘Everything was dirty, as if a fine layer of oil had been sprayed over the cupboards, the stove, the bench tops. He’s probably been frying everything and forgetting to clean it.’

  Sam smiled, just a little. ‘He liked meeting you.’

  Calla felt the heat in the moment and was suddenly skittish about so many of them with Sam in the one day. She tried to shrug off his compliment. ‘Who wouldn’t? I’m adorable. And your father is an outrageous flirt.’

  ‘Charlie always did like a beautiful woman.’

  ‘And I can see where you get your charm from. He’s been alone a long time, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What happened to your mum?’

  ‘She died of breast cancer. Four years ago. I think that’s why the old man doesn’t want to leave the house. They never spent a night apart during their whole marriage, except when she was away for treatment. Can you believe that?’

  Calla’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Oh Sam. That’s so sad. Were they happy, your parents?’

  Sam stopped to think about her question. It looked to Calla as if he’d never wondered about his parents’ marriage before, which gave her the answer she was after. Children know when their parents are unhappy. It seeps into every conversation, every meal, every word. She knew how unhappiness poisoned the very DNA of the way a family worked; twisted every gathering and every memory. She felt a stab in her heart. She hadn’t known families could be any different until high school, when she’d started staying over with friends and felt the camaraderie and ease in those homes. And that’s when the heartbreak of her own family’s dysfunction had hurt her even more.

  ‘I think they were. Can’t say I noticed anything when I was a kid. I was happy; we had a happy family. And then—’ He stopped, averted his eyes. Stared at the wine, took a swig. ‘How can you know from the outside of a marriage if it’s good or not, even your parents’ marriage? And anyway, I left twenty years ago. Who knows what happened in that little house after I was gone?’

  ‘Is that when you went over to Adelaide?’

  Sam nodded.

  ‘And then you became a fireman?’

  ‘No, I went to uni first; got a science degree. I applied to the fire service after that.’

  Her desire to know more about this man pulled her up. She didn’t want to be fascinated by him, but it was already too late.

  ‘Do you like your job?’

  ‘Yeah, I do.’

  ‘You must see some horrib
le things,’ she said quietly. ‘Like yesterday, for example.’

  ‘Nah.’ He shook off her question, met her eyes with a smile. ‘It’s mostly rescuing cats from trees and posing for the firefighters’ calendar.’ She noticed that his smile quickly faded.

  ‘Sure it is.’

  ‘So, what about you? What do you do for a gig back in the real world?’

  ‘I run art workshops for kids in primary schools. I teach them to draw and make things. Be creative. Draw. Paint pictures. Create mosaics, that kind of thing.’

  Sam studied her and she felt a blush in her cheeks at the intensity of his gaze. ‘You’re an artist. Just like Jem.’

  ‘No, not like him at all. I teach it, but I’m no good at it.’

  Sam looked taken aback. ‘What are you talking about? How can you teach it and not be good at it?’

  ‘That painting of his you bought today? That’s a million times better than I will ever do, and Jem never even studied. He must have got it from Mum, that talent. I went to uni for three years, beat my head up against a brick wall every day, and I’ve ended up about one quarter as good.’ Or maybe no good at all. Calla tried to hide the embarrassment in her own admission, feeling foolish for sounding so petulant.

  ‘I’d like to see your work one day.’

  Calla swallowed. She hadn’t exhibited in years and really only painted for herself. It helped her relax, like some people cooked or jogged. The painting was what she’d always loved. The creating. Not the scrutiny and the criticism. ‘It’s nothing special, really. It’s just a hobby.’

  ‘I’m no critic, but I like what I like. And I like your brother’s painting of my dad. Why don’t we take it with us tomorrow and show him? See if it helps him remember? We can drive out there again after breakfast. He might make more sense in the morning.’

  Sam stood, unfurled his long arms and long legs, stretched his arms up high, and yawned. ‘I’m hitting the sack,’ he said. ‘This morning person is buggered.’

  Calla rose to her feet too. The floor was cold under her socks and she looked down to her toes, wiggling them for warmth. When she looked up, Sam was next to her, looking down at her. Calla held her breath at the suddenly serious look in his eyes.