The Family Tree (16 page)

T
he entrance to the under-the-house area was festooned with spiders' webs, but fortunately none seemed to house any still-living occupants. Kate flicked on the light and then, using a twig, wound the more
obvious webs up like fairy floss and flung them away before continuing. The area was in the front of the house, predominantly beneath the main bedroom and lounge room, and alongside the garage. Particle board had been installed to separate this high-ceilinged section from the remainder, where the ground sloped dramatically upwards. At the same time Sam had also concreted it, so that it now formed an easily accessible, large and very functional storage area.

Over the years, it had become the repository for all the flotsam and jetsam spun from their lives. But last year an enormous clean-up had taken place and now everything was either boxed or stacked neatly along the interior wall of the area, with bicycles and other wheeled toys hanging from hooks set into the overhead joists. Leaving ample room for the household of goods that had arrived after June.

It was towards these goods that Kate was now moving, picking her way carefully past the concrete stumps of the house. The furniture was stacked at the far end, wrapped in plastic sheeting; a dimly-lit mountain range of odd shapes and sizes. Slightly more uniform was the brickwork-stack of tea-chests and boxes that lined the wall to her left. Kate stopped at the point where the stack began and manoeuvred a tea-chest off the top row, lifting it down to floor level.

She had been putting this task off ever since she realised the necessity of it. Possibly the only reason she was finally here now was that, having had to come over to Lysterfield for Sam's paperwork and then for the invited dinner, it was difficult to justify
not
doing it.

So Kate took a deep breath and levered the cardboard flaps open with a spray of dust. She retrieved a spiral notebook from within. Each of the notebook pages was numbered, in Oscar's meticulous handwriting, with every number corresponding to a box. Then underneath was printed a list of contents right down to the incidentals, such as
stationery oddments
and
ugly white eggcup with scalloped edge
.

The vast majority, including the
ugly white eggcup with scalloped edge
, was destined for the local charity shop. But last June neither Kate nor Angie had been up to the task of sorting so, rather than risk discarding something sentimental, Sam and Oscar had simply packed the entire
contents of the house and stored the lot. And Kate knew she had Oscar to thank for the fact that everything was so beautifully itemised. If it had been up to Sam, she would now have had to trawl through each box, and each memory. Instead, she had merely to consult the notebook, which itself was included in the contents for box number one, and her search was finetuned considerably.

Kate ran her thumb quickly down each list of contents, flipping pages until she reached box number six, which contained
assorted paperwork from James's desk
. She made a mental note and then continued until she came to
manilla concertina file
in box twelve and then, finally,
shoebox with papers from Frank's wardrobe
in box sixteen.

Kate moved slowly down the row of boxes, checking the numbers that were marked boldly with texta on the sides. Number six was one of the smaller boxes and was, of course, securely wedged into the centre of a stack. Kate had some difficulty extricating it, especially as it was heavier than it looked, and then even more difficulty rearranging the others without it. Finally she wiped a grimy hand across her forehead and then, with her foot, pushed box number six in short dusty bursts until it was midway to the doorway.

Box number twelve was on a top row so Kate lifted it down and thumped it onto the dust-strewn concrete. She stared at it for a while, wishing she had kept the spiral notebook out so that she could read what else was in the box. Then at least she could have been prepared if the file was tucked beneath something that would bring memories crashing down around her, like a favourite book, or his bone-china coffee-mug, or that chequered dressing-gown.

‘Hey! Whatcha doing?'

Kate jerked her head rapidly towards the doorway, straining a muscle in her neck. Leaning in with a hand on either side of the frame was Jacob, his features unreadable with the sunlight at his back.

‘Would you stop
doing
that!' she snapped, massaging the base of her skull.

‘What'd I do?'

‘Sneaking up on me! Giving me such a fright!'

Jacob stepped inside. He was grinning. ‘Who me? Never.'

‘Humph,' retorted Kate, displaying a fine grasp of riposte as her scowl slowly slid into a grin itself. She turned her head as far as it would go to the left, and then the right, and felt the muscle loosen with relief. ‘You'll regret it when I have a heart attack and you have to look after me while I recuperate.'

‘Only if you survived,' replied Jacob, a little too matter-of-factly for his mother's liking. ‘Anyway, so what
are
you doing?'

‘Just looking for some stuff.'

‘In
Grandpa's
things?'

‘Yes. Some papers I need . . .' Kate trailed off for moment and then she looked back up at Jacob. ‘Listen, want to give me a hand?'

‘Not really.'

‘Well, you can anyway. It won't kill you.'

‘That's the last time I come investigate when I hear noises.' Jacob frowned at her accusingly. ‘This is what you get when you try to do the right thing.'

‘Good god, Jake! I'm not asking you to build the Taj Mahal,' snapped Kate crossly. ‘I only want you to get a couple of things out of a couple of bloody boxes. You won't even raise a sweat!'

‘Why didn't you just say so, then?' Jacob's voice immediately became, for him, relatively cheerful. ‘Whatcha want me to do?'

Kate closed her eyes and counted to ten quickly. Then she took a deep breath and opened them again, only to find Jacob looking at her expectantly. She took another breath and then spoke evenly: ‘I'd like you to find box sixteen and look through it till you find a shoebox full of papers. Then put that box back neatly and look through this one here,' Kate kicked a foot at it. ‘And find a manilla concertina file.'

‘A what what?'

‘A manilla concertina . . . just look for something that might hold papers.'

Jacob looked at her curiously. ‘So what's all this in aid of anyway?'

‘A bit of research, that's all,' said Kate airily. She moved past Jacob and started pushing box number six up to the doorway, leaving skid marks
of dirt across the concrete. Outside it was far warmer than it had been under the house, and by the time Kate had half carried, half pushed the box down to the driveway and manoeuvred it into the back seat of her car, her face was shiny with perspiration.

Back under the house again, she took a moment to enjoy the lower temperature and the feel of it tightening her skin. Further up, Jacob had already located the shoebox and was now squatting down, methodically removing items from number twelve. He glanced up as he heard his mother approach.

‘Hey, do you reckon I could use this lamp?' Jacob carefully held up the green banker's lamp. ‘It's just going to waste down here.'

Kate stared at the lamp. ‘I don't know. You might break it.'

‘I'd be real careful. Promise. It reminds me of Grandpa.'

‘Oh.' Kate glanced at her son but he was gazing at the lamp, almost reverently. ‘Well, I suppose so. But you
must
be careful.'

‘Yeah, no problem.' The reverent expression disappeared instantly. He laid the lamp down across the shoebox and then continued taking items from the box, clearly enjoying himself. Next was the two-pronged brass candelabra that used to sit on top of the lounge room bookshelf, and then the square carriage clock that sat by it, with the minute hand that had to be tightened every few months, otherwise it would dangle loosely at half-past whatever. Unable to move forward at all.

As he removed each item, Jacob glanced up at his mother with a smile that spoke of shared reminiscences.
Remember where Grandpa had this? Or that?
Kate smiled back, tightly. Siren-like, the memories beckoned with promised warmth, but the thickness of her pain kept them at bay. She massaged her temples lightly. Jacob laid the carriage clock gently by the banker's lamp and then pulled out the medi-alert that she had given to her father. It fitted in the palm of his hand and he stared at it for a moment before laying it aside. Then he drew a stack of framed photographs from the box. He rocked back on his haunches and grinned at her as he lifted the first photograph and examined it. She could see that it was the sepia-toned portrait of her paternal grandparents that had
always sat, with a collection of other framed photos, by her father's bed. In the room at the end of the passage.

‘I'm going back,' said Kate suddenly. ‘Could you just bring the things in with you when you're finished?'

Jacob held the photo up. ‘I was going to ask you . . .'

‘Later, okay? I really need a shower.' Kate gave him another tight smile and then left before the questions started. Because it was just too damn hard to find the answers.

‘Can someone pass the salt over?'

‘How do you know you even
need
salt?' asked Shelley, looking at Jacob's plate critically. ‘You haven't tasted anything yet.'

‘I just know, okay?'

‘Here you go.' Caleb picked up the salt shaker and tossed it underhand across the table, a spray of salt marking its flight path. Jacob caught it deftly and flicked a sneer across at his sister. She, however, was now staring at her plate in horror.

‘You idiot! Look what you've done! You've got salt all over my food!'

‘Come on, Shell,' said Sam mildly. ‘There's barely anything there.'

‘There's enough! Do you
know
how much fluid retention salt causes?'

‘Pity it doesn't cause verbal retention,' muttered Jacob, liberally sprinkling salt over his meal, and the area surrounding his plate.

‘You think you're
so-oo
smart, don't you?'

‘That's enough!' Sam banged a fist down on the table and glared at his offspring. ‘Christ, I am
sick
of you two!'

‘Quite like them myself,' commented Caleb. Then he grinned. ‘You know – U2, the band? Get it?'

Kate didn't bother responding. She turned to Shelley. ‘Apart from the fact this is getting
very
old for the rest of us, have you ever asked yourself what sort of example you're setting for Emma?'

Shelley opened her mouth, and then closed it as she glanced across at her daughter, who was sitting next to her in the highchair and watching
Sam's clenched fist with fascination. Sensing everybody's attention, she lifted up her own hand, made a fist and then thumped it down on the tray several times. The sound it made was nowhere near as loud as Sam's, but it clearly met her expectations because she chuckled gleefully. As she raised it once more, Shelley leant over and took her daughter's hand, spreading out the fingers with some effort.

‘No, Emma. No banging. No.'

‘God, they copy things quickly, don't they?' asked Caleb cheerfully.

Shelley picked up the bowl of roughly chopped vegetables that was on the table near Emma and held it up. ‘Dinner, Em? Yum, yum.'

Kate watched with a mix of frustration and fondness as Shelley started to feed the baby, pausing every so often to take a mouthful of her own meal. They were all seated in the dining room, which in itself was a fairly rare occurrence nowadays. While sit-down meals had been the norm as the children were growing up, over the years they had gradually been replaced by a type of counter service. Where dinner was announced, and collected, and spirited away. Then once a week Kate would demand the return of her crockery from various rooms and the dishwasher would groan under the weight of the load. She knew it wasn't terribly family friendly, or even very hygienic, but it was easy. And sometimes easy was all she had.

But Sam had excelled himself tonight. Not only had he managed to gather everybody together, but the meal itself was delicious. Fettuccine with a garlicky tomato sauce and slivers of parmesan, a tossed salad with Italian dressing, and an alfoil-wrapped loaf of garlic bread, dripping with melted butter. The airconditioner hummed steadily in the background, taking the edge off what had been a very warm day.

‘So what's it like living with Auntie Angie, Mum?' asked Caleb, tearing off a piece of garlic bread. ‘Must be like being a kid again, hey?'

‘Not quite.' Kate smiled at the thought. ‘She was easier to push around then.'

‘I can't imagine her like that,' said Shelley. ‘I mean, at the shop she's so organised and in charge.'

Sam grinned across the table at Kate. ‘I think it was more a case
of your mother
thinking
she was pushing Angie around, when really Angie was just smiling and nodding, then doing exactly what she wanted anyway.'

‘True.' Kate returned the grin, and it felt personal. Like it was saying much more than just the words being uttered.

‘So how's the writing going then?' asked Sam casually.

‘Good, good. Getting there.'

Caleb looked at her. ‘What're you going to write about? Us?'

‘You can write about me if you like,' suggested Shelley generously, winding fettuccine around her fork. ‘You know, girl desperately seeks meaning in life.'

‘But girl limited in choices due to earlier impregnation,' added Jacob.

Shelley bounced up out of her chair and jabbed her fork in his direction, pasta sliding off onto the table. ‘Christ, I've
had
it with you!'

‘Enough!' snapped Sam, although his glare was centred on Jacob.

‘Well, this is fun,' commented Caleb. ‘We should do it more often.'