Inbetween Days (20 page)

‘Have you ever been down a mine shaft?'

‘Of course. You think I stopped at licking bricks?' He laughed, then turned serious. ‘Have you ever thought about getting out of this town? New horizons and all that?'

‘Nope,' I said. ‘My horizon is right there. Same place it's always been.' I pointed to the thin wash of pink in the sky, to the west.

‘Well, that's only because you're sitting still.' Jeremiah swayed and inhaled, close to my ear.

‘Are you sniffing my hair?' I teased.

‘What? No!' He shook his head, shuffled further away.

‘What does it smell like?' I pressed. ‘Apples and cinnamon? Vanilla? Does it smell like raspberries?'

‘I was
not
smelling your hair.'

‘I used a bath bomb this morning,' I said. ‘It was called Tutti Frutti but I thought it smelled more like bubble gum.'

‘Did you wash your hair with it?'

‘Of course not. It was a bath bomb.'

‘Then why would your hair smell like bubble gum?'

‘I'm just saying. So, you didn't get a whiff of blood orange, or grapefruit? I know…sandalwood. And lilacs. Frankincense and myrrh.'

‘I don't even know what those things smell like. Olfactory sense is linked to—'

‘I must say, I'm disappointed.' I sighed theatrically. ‘You're supposed to notice these things. “Oh, she smells of pine needles and fresh air, sunshine and bliss, musk and debauchery.” You don't have to say it aloud but you can think it.' I sniffed the skin inside my forearm. ‘What's the point of all our lotions and potions?'

Jeremiah squirmed. ‘Roses?'

‘Roses are common. Roses are granny's house and big knickers on the washing line.'

‘How about frangipani?'

I pulled a face. ‘I smell like frangipani?'

‘Well, no, not really. But at least I know what it smells like.'

‘Oh, never mind.' I leaned closer to Jeremiah and looked down. The ground was blurred and far away. I refocused on his face. He wore a baffled expression. ‘I'm just teasing you,' I said. ‘I fully expected you'd say my hair smelled like hair.'

‘This is all incredibly complicated,' he said quietly and screwed up his nose. ‘I suppose I would rather tell her how she makes me feel.'

‘How does she make you feel? You can practise on me.' I laughed and folded my hands in my lap.

Jeremiah looked away. ‘I would tell her that I like her hands,' he began. ‘I would tell her that I don't like to be touched, but her hands are the exception. I don't like to be made fun of—and she's done that, many times, either implicitly or overtly—but I would take her ridicule over her not knowing I existed, any day. I'd confess I don't like being wrong about anything but I hope I'm wrong about her—she's not right for me, I know that, but I want her anyway. I would tell her that being back here is only bearable because she's here too and, for the first time ever, I don't want to leave. I wish I knew how to tell her how I feel without bringing on an ending of some kind, but I know it's inevitable. And I would tell her I understood if she told me she didn't feel the same way.' He folded his hands in his lap, too, but he stared at mine. ‘That's how she makes me feel.'

I looked over my shoulder. Our shadow-selves were merged on the screen, though we were more than two feet apart. I understood what he was asking. I had an out: I could go on, pretending ‘she' was not me—make fun of him, as he'd pointed out so gently, and leave things the way they were.

He wasn't the one I'd pick. But I wanted so, so badly to be adored. To patch up the hurt with something new.

‘This is going to make things incredibly complicated,' I said primly.

‘You're telling me,' he replied.

We bumped teeth and my lip bled. It wasn't great, not the first time. But we didn't have to make it perfect. We just had to make it work.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I saw Pope in town a few days later. I was going to look after Mr Broadbent—I felt guilty about letting Alby down and I needed the money. Mads dropped me off on her way to an afternoon shift at the pub.

Pope was standing by his car outside the bakery, looking bewildered, as if Main Street was far too much civilisation for him. At least he'd survived the storm.

‘How are you?' I said. ‘Tried the Bushman's pie? The apricot strudel is pretty good, too. Avoid the Cornish pastie—it tastes like parsnip and toenails.'

‘You haven't been up for a while,' he said. ‘I find myself looking forward to our odd conversations. I was craving human contact of the deranged variety but then some old guy in a bathrobe flashed me and ran off down the street.' He patted his pockets, looking for something. ‘So, yeah, I'm good.'

I laughed before I realised what he meant. ‘Which way did he go?'

He jabbed a thumb east, which I suspected already. ‘Another guy's gone after him—and a woman, brandishing a broom.'

I nodded.

‘None of this is surprising to you, is it?'

‘Not really, no.'

He smiled. ‘Excellent.'

‘Why is that excellent?'

‘It means I haven't gone completely mad.'

‘Oh contrary,' I said. ‘It just means you're becoming a local.'

‘
Contraire
,' he said.

Astrid came out the front of Bent Bowl Spoon and rubbed out the old specials on the sandwich board. It was bad timing. Pope saw her, too, and of course she looked like an album cover with her Sunsilk hair and hitched skirt and her battered cowboy boots.

‘Your friend's waving,' Pope said, raising his own hand.

I scowled and kicked a tyre. ‘We're not friends.'

‘There you go again,' he said. ‘Look, I've got to go.' He slid into the front seat and turned the engine over. It sputtered and caught, belching a cloud of black smoke.

Astrid stared at us, shielding her eyes from the sun.

I lingered, waving at the car until it disappeared. Astrid didn't know everything about me anymore. I waited at the top of the steps. Alby and Mrs Gates hauled Mr Broadbent back home between them, their elbows locked with his. He looked like a prisoner.

‘How far did he get?' I asked.

‘Pretty far,' Alby puffed. ‘He's had some training lately.' He glared at me.

Mrs Gates offered Mr Broadbent's elbow.

I took hold of him. ‘What if we take him for a walk every now and then? Maybe he needs more fresh air.'

Mrs Gates snorted. ‘He needs more trousers. I have to be off. I've got a client over the basin.' She nodded at me. ‘We need to freshen up that colour before somebody shoots you for a fox.'

‘Thanks, Marie,' Alby said.

‘Anytime, Albert.'

A wheezing sound came from Mr Broadbent's throat.

‘Is he choking?' I said, trying to pinch his mouth open.

‘He's laughing,' Alby said. ‘He's got a taste for it now, no thanks to you.'

We wrestled Mr Broadbent inside and settled him in his chair. He dropped into it like a fallen kite. I draped a blanket over his knees and turned on the TV.

Alby gathered his wallet and keys. ‘He's eaten. I should only be a couple of hours. Think you can handle it this time?'

‘I'm a good girl,' I reminded him.

Mr Broadbent watched him leave, eyelids drooping.

I opened up the blinds and let the late-afternoon sunlight pour in. The only place open was the salon—no wonder he was always searching for a way out.

A small sound. I turned around. So much for sleeping. Mr Broadbent reached under the table, pulled out the Jenga box and set it on his lap. He shook it.

‘Faker,' I said.

He gurgled. His eyes crinkled at the corners.

I set up the tower four times. Four times he knocked it over. But on the fifth, he carefully pinched one piece at the bottom and slid it out, leaving the tower standing.

I clapped.

He stuck the piece between his lips, like a cigar.

‘Now you're going backwards,' I said. ‘Come on, we were making progress.'

I took the piece away. He flapped his hands so I gave it back. This time he held the piece differently, as if it was a pencil; he drew shapes in the air, withdrew another three pieces and lined them up on the table, slowly pushing them around with his forefinger as if they were letters on a Ouija board. I watched, fascinated, waiting for a pattern to emerge. He did the same thing for forty minutes—there was no pattern, just an obsession with pushing the blocks around.

Fed up, I went to the kitchen to make myself a mug of coffee. It was almost five, well past crazy hour. Alby's kettle was old and shrill; clouds of steam misted the glass. I wrote Luke's name in the condensation—then crossed it out and wrote a looping
J
instead. I rubbed that out, too, as if someone was looking over my shoulder. Over the last two days Jeremiah had called twice and left messages, one on the machine and another with Trudy. I couldn't help feeling as if I needed to stop thinking about Luke before I called him back. And I couldn't stop.

The kettle screeched. I switched it off at the wall. As the whistle faded I heard another noise, like streamers flapping in a breeze. Mr Broadbent wasn't in his chair; the front door was still closed and latched.

‘Where are you?' I called. ‘What are you up to now?' The sound stopped.

I checked the bedrooms: both empty, beds made, matching sets of striped pyjamas folded on the pillows. On the other side of the flat, a long hallway led to the bathroom and toilet. The toilet door was closed but he wasn't there. I whipped back the shower curtain in the bathroom. Not there, either.

I was frantic—I'd only left him for a few minutes. I rattled the lounge-room windows and checked the pavement below, looked under the beds and the kitchen table, behind the couch, the bedroom curtains and doors.

On my second lap I heard the flapping again.

‘Ready or not, here I come!' I called.

A throaty gurgle came from behind the door to the linen cupboard.

I'd passed it before, assuming the space behind was too small for a grown person. Inside, it was the size of a large walk-in pantry.

‘Gotcha!'

Mr Broadbent was sitting on the floor, a plucked and withered bird in a nest of black film tape. He met my eyes for a split second and went on with his ritual; his fingers found the end of a fresh spool and pulled, feeding the tape through his hands, adding another layer to his nest.

‘Stop,' I said. I squatted down and held his hands until they were still. ‘Alby's going to freak.'

I let go of his hands. He immediately picked up another black case and struggled to open it. When I tried to take it away he flapped and bit my arm.

‘Shit.'

I left him there, unravelling tape. In the hallway, I slid my back down the wall and sat with my arms around my knees. How many had he unwound? It would take me ages to clean up the mess. The tapes were probably ruined forever, but he was having such a fine time. I'd never seen his hands move so smoothly, so delicately and knowingly and lovingly—no, I
had
seen it before.

I showed Alby the mess Mr Broadbent had made and he just shrugged—it happened all the time, he said. He usually rewound the same few ruined tapes. It kept his father busy and it spared the other tapes, the ones stacked along the top shelf, from destruction.
The other tapes.
When Alby ushered Mr Broadbent back into the lounge room, I climbed the shelves and grabbed the four nearest tapes. I wrapped them in my jacket, smuggled them out of the flat, and ran to Jeremiah's house.

‘Where's the fire?' he said, rubbing his eyes, as if he'd just woken up.

I smiled and opened my jacket. He let me in and we sat at the breakfast bar in Meredith's kitchen, examining the tapes.

‘What, you just took them?' Jeremiah said.

‘There were hundreds. Four won't be missed.'

‘Why didn't you ask Alby about them?' Worry lines creased his forehead.

‘You're the one who said this was a covert operation.'

‘These are all Japanese monster movies,' he said, turning the cases over in his hands. ‘They're really old.'

‘Will they work?'

He pinched the end of a tape and held it up to the light. ‘We won't know until we try.'

‘We could steal Mr Broadbent,' I said. ‘He knows how.'

‘Stealing tapes is one thing,' Jeremiah said, frowning. ‘You're nuts, but I admire your enthusiasm.'

‘I'm serious.'

‘He's senile, isn't he?'

‘His hands know what to do.'

‘I like your dress,' he said, and glanced at my bare legs. ‘I think this is only the second time I've seen you wear one.'

Caught off-guard, I smoothed the blue strappy dress to cover my knees. ‘I borrowed it from Trudy.'

Jeremiah backed his chair away. ‘I called you,' he said. ‘Your sister said she'd pass on the message. Did you get it?'

‘No,' I answered instinctively. Then I confessed. ‘Yes. She told me.' I grappled with several excuses and discarded all of them.

Jeremiah monitored my expression. ‘You don't have to lie,' he said. ‘I called. You got the message. You didn't call back. You've filled the gap in my logic.' He got up and pushed his chair under the counter. ‘Look, I'm no good at trying to read body language and subtext or between lines—all that guff. Just tell me up front, okay? Now, do you want a drink? Would you like something to eat?'

‘I'm sorry…I would have…'

‘I changed the subject. It's terribly rude to change it back.' He flashed a smile that let me off the hook. ‘Shall I put the kettle on or do you want something else?'

We sat in the lounge room and he turned on the television. He made us both coffee but we let the cups go cold on the table. It seemed as if we'd slipped down a gear and that was fine by me; we were back to easy silence and respectable space. We watched
Dune
followed by
Alien
and ate a packet of chips. I spouted animal trivia, none of which was news to him. Part of me wanted to kiss him again without thinking too hard about it but another part told me to hold back.