Black Painted Fingernails (8 page)

A month after Cardigan left town, Sophie’s dad asked her to go out with him early on a Sunday morning, when the boys were still asleep. He placed a hessian bag between them on the car seat before slowly reversing out of the driveway.

On the north side of town were orchards, rows of peach and pear trees, with signs on the fence every hundred metres warning that trespassers would be prosecuted. Sophie and her dad left the car near an irrigation drain, not bothering to lock up. A scare gun on a timer fired every few minutes to spook the birds.

‘Reckon we’ve got a recipe for peach pie at home, Soph?’

Sophie grinned. ‘We made peach cobbler at school this week for the fete. Mrs Johnstone reckons her husband will buy the lot.’

‘That’s nice of him.’

‘Nah, he’s a greedy bastard.’

‘Soph, don’t swear.’

‘Okay, he’s a greedy peach cobbler-eater.’

The gas gun fired, followed by a squawk of parrots. Sophie remembered the ingredients: butter, sugar, flour, baking powder . . . and peaches, lots of peaches.

Sophie’s father jumped over the fence, put his boot on the top wire and held it down for her. She stepped lightly across, then whistled at the weight of fruit on the trees. Her father reached up and tested one for ripeness. He picked it and held it to his nose, then passed it to Sophie. She felt its soft warm fur and longed to take a big bite, imagining the juice dribbling down her chin.

‘Go on, Soph. There’s plenty more.’

‘But it’s stealing, Dad.’

Her father winked and picked another one. ‘Bert Guthrie and me have an understanding.’

They sat under a tree, savouring the aroma of ripe fruit, enjoying the warmth of the sun. When she finished the peach, Sophie licked her fingers and buried the stone in the ground, wondering if a tree would grow.

‘Dad, why did Mum leave?’

Silence, then the gun repeated.

‘Why does anyone leave?’

‘She had
us
, Dad!’

‘She reckoned it wasn’t enough, Soph.’

‘How much did she want?’

Her father’s voice was suddenly tired. ‘She said she was leaving the marriage, not the family.’

‘What the hell does that mean?’

‘Soph, please.’

‘Don’t you ever get angry about it, Dad?’

‘Yeah, when I think about it.’ His mouth curled downward. ‘So I don’t.’

‘I want to find her and tell her I hate her. Shout it in her face.’ Sophie dug her heels into the soft ground and pushed the dirt away. ‘The only thing is . . . I’m forgetting what she looks like.’ She bit her lip. ‘All I remember clearly is her hair in braids and the sunspots on her arms.’

‘I remember her eyes . . . looking straight through me. As if I didn’t . . .’ Sophie’s father shrugged and stared at his hands, the thick knuckles, the fingernails chewed down to the skin, gripping the hessian bag. ‘I’ve gone over it a million times. I prefer to concentrate on what I have got.’ He reached for her hand. ‘If you find her one day . . .’

‘What, Dad?’

‘Tell her I hate her too.’

Sophie wondered if she’d ever have the guts to go searching for her mum. Whether she could stand looking at her, after all these years, without slapping her. But what would be the point of that? There’d be no chance of a future with someone who could do that to her children.

At least Cardigan was forced to leave her. She remembered Cardigan’s dad and wanted to cry.

She thought instead of Cardigan and his soft lips and wondered how once you’ve felt something like that, you could ever stop wanting it. She wished Cardigan would come back and find her on the hill on Saturdays. She was sick of watching every boy in town chase after a football, wrapping their muscly arms around each other in that creepy embrace.

Sophie looked at her father, with his sad eyes and those big hands holding the bag.

It could all end tomorrow.

And then what have you got?

A devotion to gardening. A peach cobbler baked with extra sugar and a sprinkle of cinnamon. The thrill of stealing fruit.

‘You should find someone else, Dad.’

He looked at his daughter with her long legs like a racehorse’s, her gangling thinness, her wild hair and her steady gaze. He noticed Sophie’s black nail polish. ‘Where did you get that from?’

‘Aunt Sasha sent it.’

‘That bloody bohemian. She dresses like a gypsy!’

‘Dad! She’s your sister.’

‘I guess you’re only young once, hey, Soph,’ he laughed.

‘Yeah, and you’re old forever, if you don’t do something.’

The gun thundered. Sophie’s dad held out his hand and pulled her upright. ‘Come on, Soph. Old man Guthrie owes me a bagful.’

We walk out of the pub after eating our weight in hot chips. The storm has washed the streets clean. My car is speckled with raindrops. Before I start the engine, I say, ‘I’ll check into the room, Sophie. You stay in the car until I get the key. And this time, can you just be my sister?’

‘The truth factory . . .’

‘. . . can be suspended for five minutes, please?’

‘It’s more fun my way.’

‘Only for you.’

We drive west down Main Street to The Pines Motel, where a neon sign blinks on the roof and fairy lights decorate the lone cypress pine at the entrance. I pull up a few metres past the reception door, so they can’t see my car. Sophie feigns getting out. ‘It’s not my problem if they have dirty minds,’ she says.

A loud bell rings as I open the reception door. The far wall is lined with butcher-shop calendars and clippings from the local paper. A teenage girl smiles from one photo, under the heading of
Local girl wins sports award
. The office smells of beeswax and disinfectant.

A woman bustles out from behind a screen. She wears black-rimmed glasses and has a silver cross around her neck. She can barely control a frown when she sees me at the counter. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Hello, I’d like a room, please.’

She stares past me to the carpark and opens the reception book, running a finger down a list of vacant rooms.

‘How many people?’

‘One . . . I mean two.’ I stammer.

‘So, what’s it to be?’ Her voice is thin and tight. ‘A single or a double?’

‘I need . . . I’d like two beds, please.’

She quickly glances outside again. ‘That’s eighty dollars, including breakfast.’ She checks the clock above the door. ‘And we’d prefer payment tonight – now.’

She swipes my credit card and watches closely as I sign my name, flipping the card to check the signature. She puts the key on the desk and reaches below to a bar fridge for a small carton of milk, placing it next to the keys. ‘No animals allowed in the room.’

‘I’ll leave the crocodile in the car.’

‘The what?’

I pick up the keys and milk before she has a chance to snatch them back.

‘No smoking or loud music, either,’ she adds.

‘In the room? Or anywhere?’

Sophie would be proud.

The woman touches the cross around her neck and walks behind the screen without saying another word.

My footsteps crunch on the gravel path outside. I open the car door. ‘Hey, Sophie, I just met a . . .’

The car is empty.

My fingers grip the handle. I count to five, ten, twenty, waiting for her to appear, a sweeping dress from beyond the pine tree, the wind whistling appreciatively.

No Sophie.

A red traffic light, a vacancy sign, a mute garden gnome, my reflection in the car window.

No Sophie.

In the carpark are late-model sedans with interstate number plates, an old van with children’s bikes strapped to the rear, two dusty four-wheel drives and my conspicious BMW.

No Sophie.

It’s quiet enough to hear myself sigh. I let the car idle into the parking spot near the swimming pool and switch the engine off. The lights die, and I’m left alone with a lingering smell of soap and blackberries.

It takes me three attempts to open the motel door with the bent key, my hand shaking. The bedside lamps spill a milky weak light and the fridge coughs and splutters.

A water stain stretches across the burgundy carpet from one wall to the door. I kick off my shoes and flop down on the bed. There’s a Bible under the lamp with a red cover and gold embossing. On the inside cover is a stamp reading
Property of The Pines Motel.

Maybe Sophie found another ride. Somebody at the pub, when I was in the toilet: one of the pool players, a truckie driving all night?

I jump off the bed and walk barefoot out to the car. The breeze cools the sweat on my forehead as I listen to the tramping of cattle penned in a truck parked across the road. I reach inside the glovebox for the mobile. The screen tells me there are three missed calls from home. Mum couldn’t wait until I stopped for the night.

Back in the room, I toss the phone on the bedside table, deciding to ring Mum and Dad tomorrow morning before driving to Hillston.

Then I flop on the bed and stare at the door, hoping for a knock, or to hear Sophie turn the handle and waltz back in.

Silence.

I grab the Bible and throw it with all the force I can muster against the door.

The bedside phone rings. I glance quickly at the Bible, splayed open, its pages twisted. A disapproving voice cuts in before I have a chance to speak. ‘There’s a woman here for you. A
young
woman, at reception.’

I rub my eyes and stand.

‘She claims to be your sister. Her name is . . . Sophie. She wants to know your room number. She
should
know the room number.’

I hear Sophie’s voice in the background.

‘She now claims she walked into town before you checked in. For food. Is this your sister,
Mister
Spalding?’

I walk across and kick the Bible into the corner. ‘Yes, she’s my sister. My big sister.’

The phone goes dead in my hand.

In the bathroom, I splash water over my face. My rumpled reflection grins inanely back at me from the mirror. Sophie’s back, and casting spells. I quickly tuck my socks into my shoes and toss them under the bed.

There’s a soft knock at the door.

Sophie enters wearing a white scarf tight around her tornado of hair, tied in an outlandish bow under her chin. She’s carrying a plastic shopping bag from which she unpacks a carton of orange juice, dip, a packet of corn chips, a box of chocolates and a bottle of soda water. ‘I thought we could have a picnic and watch old movies.’

She puts the juice in the fridge and removes her scarf, shaking her hair free and holding the cloth away from her, like a soiled handkerchief. ‘It cost two dollars. I thought it would make me look more . . . sisterish. It didn’t work.’ She notices the Bible on the floor. ‘Were you praying for my return, James?’

Sophie reaches into her handbag and pulls out a bottle of Johnnie Walker.

‘The rewards of my last job.’

The rich aroma of whisky flushes the staleness from the room.

Sophie opens the corn chips and pours them onto a plate next to the dip, then unwraps the chocolates and arranges them on the silver foil. She places everything between me on the bed and her on the chair. She lifts her legs and rests her feet on the mattress. Her toenails are painted black. She checks the TV guide, and flings it disdainfully into the corner with the Bible. ‘Let’s turn off all the lights and draw the curtains so it’s dark, like we’re camping in the forest. We can tell stories, with the Scotch to keep us warm.’

This morning I was driving west to six weeks of lonely work in a school with a dusty playground and a pot-holed car park. Now, I’m romping through the imaginary woods with a woman whose last name I don’t know.

Sophie gets up to switch off the lights. Her silhouette draws the curtains. She walks to the foot of the bed.

We both speak at once.

‘Me first?’ she says.

‘You first,’ I say.

‘Truth factory, James?’

‘Always.’

‘It’s not pretty.’

‘I won’t tell a soul.’

Sophie takes a swift hit of whisky. ‘I was eighteen and still living at home. I’d finished school and, yes, I could have gone to university, but there was Dad and my two brothers. I stayed home looking after three men, three boys . . .’

She shifts uncomfortably. Her head is bowed.

‘. . . until one night.’

My hands clench. ‘Sophie, you don’t have to—’

‘It’s . . . it’s time I told someone.’ She reaches for a chocolate and her laugh sounds forced. ‘Chocolate makes everything easier.’ She takes her time eating it, as though considering whether to go on. ‘One night, it was stinking hot in my room. All I could hear were mosquitoes buzzing through the screen and the hum of the neighbour’s air-conditioner. Even with the window open, there was no air, and the sweat was just trickling off my body.’

She sighs, unable to stop the story unfolding. ‘I slept badly. In the morning, I woke to a sound just like the air-conditioner, only closer.’

She takes a sharp breath. ‘Leaning over me is my brother,
filming
. He’s fiddling with the lens, zooming in for a close-up. He’s so involved, he doesn’t see I’m awake.’

I shake my head involuntarily, not wanting to hear what happened next.

Sophie’s voice is low, measured. ‘I pretended to be asleep, trying to decide what to do. And then I felt his breath. His hand touched my breast!

‘I jumped up . . . and smacked him as hard as I could in the nuts. He dropped the camera. It bounced on my bed and I grabbed it, wanting to kill him. I
swear
I could have killed him. I hurled the camera on the floor. A piece shattered and stabbed him in the shin. He’s holding his balls, doubled over in pain, screaming at me for breaking his camera! My sixteen-year-old baby brother.’

From next door, I hear water running, a woman’s high-pitched scream on the television, the dull thud of shoes tossed on the floor.

In this room there’s only our breathing and the quiet fog of whisky.

‘I’ve never told anyone about it. About what a prick my brother is.’

Sophie picks up the plates and puts them on the bench. She goes to the bathroom, switches on the light, turns back to say something, but stops herself. She walks to the single bed and picks up the towel, clutching it to her chest. ‘I need a shower.’

There’s a knock in the pipes as she turns on the taps. I imagine her scrubbing the thick knotty hair, the spray channelling down her spine, shivering at the memory, despite the warm water.

My mobile rings.

I answer without thinking. ‘Hello.’ My voice is a whisper.

‘Where
are
you, James?’ Mum doesn’t need to whisper. ‘I’ve been worried sick. Didn’t you notice all the missed calls on your phone?’

Silence.

‘James?’

‘I’ve . . . been held up, Mum.’

I bet she’s gesturing for Dad to bring her a drink.

‘How’s Dad?’

‘He’s fine. Where are you?’

‘I’m . . . I’m not there yet.’

Sophie opens the bathroom door and peeks out. Inadvertently I shake my head and she gently closes the door, exiling herself to the bathroom.

‘Which town, James?’

‘I dunno. What the hell does it matter, Mum?’ I can almost feel her flinch at the end of the line. ‘I’ll be in Hillston tomorrow.’

I picture Sophie standing in the bathroom at the sink.

The words tumble out of me. ‘I’m just giving someone a lift home. It’s not far out of my way.’

There’s an audible gasp down the line.

‘Please don’t say a word, Mum. I’m – I’m doing it anyway. I’ll get to the school on time.’

‘Are you all right, James? Have you been—’

‘What? Drinking? I’m going now, Mum. I’ll call you after my first day at school.’

‘But . . .’

‘I’m fine, Mum.’

My hands are shaking as I turn off the mobile. I know she’ll worry, but I have no choice. The decision was made for me the moment Sophie came back and told me the story of her brother.

A picnic in the dark deserves a lift all the way home.

Hillston and the primary school fade into the shadows of this room.

I strip down to my boxers and slide under the sheets. Tomorrow, I’ll phone the school and make an excuse. Car trouble.

Sophie pads into the room wearing the black dress. She climbs into her bed and tries to take it off under the sheets. She swears, jumps out of the bed, pulls her dress over her head and then hops back in.

‘Goodnight, James, who makes phone calls late at night.’

‘Goodnight, Sophie with the black fingernails.’