‘Cleo Portland,’ she tested the moniker under her breath. It sounded good.
With her dress on and her hair sprayed, she fastened the strappy sandals on to her feet and stood to admire herself in the full-length mirror. She ran her hand over her stomach, liking the feel of it, slender and flat, a woman who knew how to look after herself.
Bernie’s whistle from the doorway made her giggle like a teen.
‘Oh, stop it, you!’ She batted away his whistled compliment.
‘You look knock-out!’ He breathed heavily, walking forward with that look in his eye that told her if time were not so pressing and her dress not so expertly ironed, he would lower her down on the bed right there and then. And with his tanned skin looking good against his white shirt, she’d let him.
‘Seriously,’ he whispered against her neck, holding her against him, ‘you do something to me . . . you always have, and I have to admit, knowing I’m the only man who has ever known the delight of you, Winnie, it’s a very attractive thing.’ He gently bit her shoulder.
‘How lucky are we, Bernie? After all these years . . .’ She let the thought trail.
‘I don’t know what I’d do without you, Win.’
‘You don’t have to worry about that. I’m not going anywhere.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘Now come on, Cleo’s picking us up any minute and we need to lock up.’
‘Hope she’s okay.’ He pulled away. ‘I keep thinking about when you had our kids and it was hard to watch and not be able to help more.’
‘Oh, you poor thing, was it hard for you having to observe all that?’ she gently mocked, running her hand over his face. ‘You weren’t even at the business end!’
‘You know what I mean.’ He caught her wrist. ‘When the woman you love is in distress or pain, you feel so helpless.’ He shook his head.
‘Long time ago.’ She reached for her wrap and raffia bag from the chair and popped her lipstick and scent into it. ‘Long time ago.’
‘I’ve put the cake by the front door – we can’t forget it!’
‘No, of course, good thinking. Did I mention the woman who made it had a cake on Gardeners’ World? She’s practically famous.’ Winnie liked to think her cake was good enough to be presented on the BBC.
‘You did.’ He smiled.
The sound of three horn beeps could be heard from the driveway. She rolled her eyes. ‘Even the way he beeps the horn irritates me.’
‘He’s a good man, and he’s Cleo’s choice. Soon to be father of your grandchild.’ He kissed her lightly.
Thanks for reminding me . . . This she kept to herself as she followed him out of the bedroom door.
Bernie turned back to face her, halting on the landing, ‘Did you see the letter from the council about the tree?’
‘What letter about what tree?’
‘I’ll take that as a no.’ He continued down the stairs. ‘Hand-delivered. I only skimmed it, but they’re saying they might need to take down one of the four oaks. Decay apparently, dangerous or something, but someone’s assessed it as in risk of falling. Can you imagine? That’d do some damage! You wouldn’t want to be underneath it when it went.’
Winnie faltered on the stair and held the banister. ‘They can’t do that! They absolutely cannot do that!’ Her thoughts tumbled, as her heart rate rose rapidly. They would become a laughing stock! How could you boast of living in Four Oaks when there were only three? The very idea! Not to mention what it would do to house prices. Four Oaks without its landmark, its mascots? The idea left her cold.
‘Let’s not worry about it tonight. Anyway, I’m sure it won’t come to that.’ Bernie waited for her at the bottom of the stairs and reached for her hand.
She nodded, hoping to God he was right.
CHAPTER THREE
CASSIAN KELLEWAY
Cassian Kelleway, seated in the back of his dad’s Mercedes, studied his hands. His fingers were overly long, but his skin smooth and nails a good shape. His dad’s hands, in contrast, were scarred, with veins bulging on the back, unsightly clumps of hair sprouting above his knuckles – and there was an indent in his thumb, the result of a bike chain incident in his youth, the telling of which had made Cassian feel a little sick. He might grow old and ugly, but he hoped his hands would stay this way. After all, they would touch the skin of someone he loved, shake hands with strangers, make a home, paint pictures, hold babies . . . who knew what else? Not that he could paint. He smiled now at the thought of his crappy child-like artwork being hung anywhere.
His sister, watching him with a sideways stare, sighed loudly, and he curled his fingers away. His phone beeped and he flicked off the volume button, putting it face down on his leg. It might be another girl sliding into his DMs. It happened daily, either girls from school or randoms who simply liked the look of him on social media. He cringed on their behalf, finding it hard to feel flattered. He never responded and was quite bemused by the fact they seemed to believe a compliment about his hair, face or body might be enough to lead to something more. It was, in his view, a little clichéd, a little sad, a little desperate. Although a small part of him admired their confidence. He should be so bold.
They stop-started in the traffic. How he hated the weighted silence inside the car. Other than the fan of the air conditioning humming loudly, there was nothing. He swallowed the lump that rose in his throat, keeping it all at bay. Unsure how to mourn all they had lost. He thought about the journeys they had taken in and around Melbourne, different people in a different time. Quite unrecognisable now. His parents in their sunnies, the radio tuned to Gold, roof down, laughing at everything and anything, making stupid jokes, singing along, planning what they’d do when they got to St Kilda, what they’d eat when they got home . . . It was like they lived in a bubble of happiness, a permanent holiday, and he had thought that was the way it would always be.
His distress at having to leave the country he loved was exacerbated not only by all that he would miss, but at the very fact that he had not seen it coming. Remembering even now, over three years later, the sensation in his gut that he was spinning, confused, scared. It had been, and still was, a shock.
‘It’s green, you old arsehole!’ His dad’s words drew him sharply from his thoughts, shattering the quiet, but not in any way that Cassian had hoped. ‘What’re you waiting for, a written invitation? Go! Go! Go! You moron!’ He then made a shooing motion with his hands, calling and gesturing to the car in front who had slowed a little. His dad’s words and volume made Cassian’s stomach shrink.
His dad was now breathing loudly through his nose and his mum stared out of the side window with her precious handbag on her lap and her fingers over her mouth, as if deep in thought. Which was probably accurate. He knew they had a lot to think about. His musings, however, were now quite straightforward as his stomach growled, prompting a more immediate consideration.
Chicken Parmigiana or lasagne, not sure what I’ll order. I like both . . . Did I have breakfast? Can’t remember. What have I eaten today? Tuna and sweetcorn sandwich for lunch, not much else. I won’t have dessert, but I might have garlic bread and there’s bound to be cake . . . Yes, I’ll have some cake; Nan will want me to taste it. I hope she doesn’t start going on about Gardeners’ World again and just lets us enjoy it – as if anyone cares! God, I’m starving . . . I’ll see Jake later. Do I have any chewing gum? I can’t go socialising if I stink of garlic!