Trust (18 page)

By the time he got back, fabulous smells were emanating from the kitchen, and he panted straight through the living room, past Seb and Stella-Jean haranguing each other about some adjustment to the Christmas tree, to find his mother-in-law standing in the kitchen, a fresh apron around her middle, basting the turkey.

‘Jean!’ he said, giving her lined cheek a kiss. ‘Merry Christmas. You look like an ad for a 1950s housewife. Why didn’t I marry you instead of a career woman?’

‘I was a career woman too, young man,’ she smiled. ‘Don’t tell me
you
don’t take women’s careers seriously either? My daughter assured me times have changed!’

‘’Course I take women’s careers seriously.’ Jean opened the oven door and he hefted the heavy baking dish back in. ‘Just not as seriously as their cooking, that’s all.’

Jean picked up a wooden spoon and smacked at him playfully; Gerry pretended to duck. They both knew Gerry had nothing but admiration for his mother-in-law, who’d worked so hard, kept the family going, despite an invalid husband and a younger daughter who — well, the less said, the better.
And maintained her sense of humour
, he thought.
What a trouper.

Tigger biffed his head against Gerry’s shin. ‘P’rrow,
p’rrow
!’ the cat said urgently. Gerry looked down and saw that strands of green tinsel had been looped around his furry neck.

‘Okay, I’m phoning the RSPCA,’ he called toward the living room. ‘You do know there are laws against decorating companion animals at Christmas, Stella?’

‘Leave Tigger’s necklace alone, it suits him!’ Stella-Jean yelled back. ‘Jeejee, don’t let Dad take it off.’

Jean gave Gerry a sweetly rueful smile. ‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t
dare
disobey my granddaughter. Not when it comes to matters of style.’

‘Style – is that what you call it? Watch out, Jean, she’ll have you in a set of gilded reindeer antlers any minute.’ He gave his mother-in-law a second peck on the cheek. ‘Well, I’d better get myself freshened up for the day’s proceedings, eh?’

Opening of the presents always took place while lunch cooked, with places assigned by long custom. Gerry sat on the couch next to Susanna, who was wearing a pair of dangly red earrings Stella-Jean had made; Jean, divested of apron, was in one armchair and Angie in the other; Seb was on the floor by the tree, poised to begin handing out the parcels in their brightly coloured paper, with Stella-Jean and Finn hovering. Gerry let it all wash over him, genially semaphoring delight at the socks Seb gave him and Stella-Jean’s vintage shirt. Susanna’s present was a genuine surprise, and a great one too: the tennis racquet he’d had a covetous eye on for months.

‘It’s perfect, Suze,’ he said, standing to heft and twirl it. ‘How did you know I was after this one?’

‘I got a bit of advice from someone in the know, didn’t I, Seb?’

‘Welcome back to A-grade, Pop,’ said Seb. ‘And thanks for these!’ He flapped the envelope containing the gift Gerry always bought: tickets for the two of them to the men’s semifinals and finals of the Australian Open at the end of January, both the singles and doubles.

‘Another few years, you could be playing there yourself,’ Gerry told him. Seb rolled his eyes, but he went on, ‘No, seriously. Your game’s getting better all the time; once you’re set up with the right partner, you’ll be cooking with gas.’

‘Maybe,’ said Seb, removing the tinsel from long-suffering Tigger’s neck and replacing it with a new black cat collar. Stella-Jean, watching with pursed mouth, nodded her approval.

Finn, after early signs of pending over-excitement, was now engrossed in the geometric puzzle someone had given him. Angie was spraying herself with perfume. Jean made a little speech thanking everyone for following her request and donating to NGOs on her behalf: a goat in Mozambique, a pig in Cambodia, a midwife’s equipment in Ethiopia. ‘I feel like a very rich woman!’ she concluded, and they all clapped, though Gerry wasn’t sure what it was they were applauding, exactly. Didn’t matter; all in the spirit of the thing.

A whoop of excitement came from the verandah, and Stella-Jean staggered back into the room carrying a sewing machine in its case, having followed a thread, spooling from its miniature parcel under the tree, out to where the machine had been concealed. State-of-the-art, apparently; her grandmother had arranged its purchase from a friend at the retirement village. ‘Absolute bargain,’ Susanna murmured in Gerry’s ear. ‘Mum says Betty’s eyes just aren’t up to sewing any more.’ Gerry kept to himself the observation that maybe Betty should have figured that out before she got a brand-new machine.

Seb was now distributing, frisbee-style, Angie’s identical presents. She had given each member of the family a CD:
Hold On To You
:
Four Songs of Praise by Gabriel McHale
, whose soulful photo graced the cover. ‘Gabriel composed every song,’ Angie announced, beaming. ‘And he plays the guitar, of course – and, ah, if you look at the credits, you’ll see
my
name. I’m one of the backup singers!’

Susanna, making enthusiastic noises, jumped up from the couch and began pressing one button after another on the CD player she’d never got the hang of. Gerry put his copy aside, not bothering to unwrap it. He saw Stella-Jean catch her brother’s eye, then glance meaningfully toward the rubbish bin in the kitchen, flicking her wrist as though to say,
You reckon I could piff it in from here?

‘Very thoughtful, Ange,’ said Gerry. ‘You’ve single-handedly quintupled the guy’s Christmas sales.’

His sister-in-law shot him that death-ray look again. ‘This CD is already selling
hundreds
of copies. And
these
ones are all individually signed, if you care to notice.’ Susanna got the CD player working and the room was filled with slow guitar chords and a warm tenor voice.

‘I thought I’d been left alone

Thought I’d no one to call my own …’

Jean said, ‘Your friend has a very nice voice, Angela,’ and Susanna murmured agreement. The chorus began and Angie sat up very straight, eyes bright with excitement, as the women’s voices joined Gabriel’s:

‘I will hold on to you

And to your soul, it’s true …’

Unable to stomach it, Gerry got up quietly and went out to the kitchen. He lifted a corner of the muslin covering Jean’s glazed ham, staring at the thick, cross-hatched skin studded with peppercorns. Or were they cloves? The treacly song continued, dripping infuriatingly note by note into his brain. He moved things around on the bench without any purpose.
How long does this go on for?
Another sappy verse, and then at the second chorus Angie could contain herself no longer and started singing along.

‘You’ll sit right by my throne

You’ll never be alone

Because I’ll … hold on … to-oo you …’

Gerry could see her through the opening between the two rooms, and she could see him too, though no one else could. He lifted his face toward the ceiling, throat long, and began to soundlessly imitate a dog baying at the moon. Angie’s voice,
ooh-yoooh,
broke off abruptly and he turned away, laughing to himself.

The moment the song finished, Angie turned the CD player off.

‘That was really lovely, Ange. I’m so thrilled!’ Susanna said.

‘Dad! Last presents!’ yelled Stella-Jean. It was family tradition that everyone had to be in the room for the unwrapping of each gift. Gerry came back to his seat and watched Finn savaging a piece of the bright paper he had laboured so hard to colour, to get at whatever was within.

Gerry noticed that Angie was still standing by the CD player, with her arms crossed and a face like thunder. Seb, in charge of distribution, picked up a final parcel. ‘Here, Ma, lucky last’s for you.’

Susanna read the little card, smiled at her mother and carefully unwrapped the rectangular parcel, revealing several sketchbooks of various sizes, along with drawing pens, pencils, and a set of water-colours. She knew at a glance that all these materials were of the highest quality. Jean must have visited a good art supply shop, asked for advice, spent quite a bit of money. ‘Thank you so much, Mum,’ she said, with a heartfelt smile.

‘For your exhibition, Susie,’ Jean said. ‘The beautiful pictures you’re going to make.’

‘So,
now
you’re recognising Susanna’s talent,’ said Angie suddenly, her voice hard and penetrating. Everyone jumped.

‘What on earth do you mean, Ange?’ Susanna asked.

Angie was staring at their mother with angry eyes. ‘It was
you
who talked her out of art school,’ she said. Jean’s face had frozen. ‘It was you who made her go into teaching. She could have been a brilliant artist if it wasn’t for you!’

‘Don’t
say
that!’ cried Susanna, distressed. ‘I never —’

‘Let’s not get carried away, Ange,’ Gerry drawled. ‘
Brilliant artist.
’

‘And you!’ Angie rounded on him furiously. ‘Did you ever encourage her? No. You’d rather have a
ping-pong
table.’

‘That’s quite enough,’ said Jean in a steely tone.

‘Ping-pong!’ cried Seb, jumping to his feet. ‘What a great idea. Come on, you guys.’ He jerked his head at Stella-Jean, who hauled Finn up with her, and the three of them skedaddled down the hallway. The adults were left, vibrating with tension, around the festive tree.

‘You’re wrong, Angie. I know you mean well but you’re wrong,’ said Susanna, trying to make her voice firm.

‘She’s talking complete rubbish, is all,’ said Gerry. ‘But what else would you expect from someone who thinks Adam and Eve rode around on dinosaurs?’

Very clearly and deliberately, Angie said, ‘You don’t deserve to be married to my sister, you pig.’

‘Stop! Don’t
fight
,’ Susanna cried, waving desperate hands at both of them. ‘It’s Christmas.’

‘Do you
want
to upset Susanna?’ Jean asked her younger daughter forcefully. ‘Is that what you want?’

‘Hmmm … What Angie wants.’ Gerry leaned back on the couch, knees wide, arms folded. ‘I probably shouldn’t say this, but isn’t the answer obvious? Anything she can get! You know, Ange,’ he said, feigning a conversational tone, ‘I’m trying to remember if I’ve ever known you to do anything but take, take, take. Even when Davey the Leprechaun was alive, you were round here every second day with your hand out.’

‘My husband was a better man than you by far!’ she said, face vixen-sharp. ‘You always despised him, just because he was a carpenter and you’re a big-deal architect.’

‘No,’ said Gerry. ‘I despised him because he was a junkie. He didn’t last long as a carpenter after you —’

‘
Don’t!
’ Susanna cried.

Suddenly Angie snatched up her bag. ‘I know none of you understand this, let alone
care
, but I’m going to tell you anyway. My life is guided by the knowledge that Jesus Christ was born this day for all mankind, and that he died for us too, so that we might know eternal life. That
I
might have eternal life. And now, I’m going! Because I
can’t be
with people who don’t share that faith.’

‘Angie, darling, don’t go!’ Susanna made to jump up from the couch but Gerry placed one hand firmly on her shoulder, pressing her back down. ‘We’re your
family
. Please, stay!’

‘Don’t fucking plead with her!’ said Gerry.

‘Gerry!’ said Jean sharply. ‘Have
neither
of you got any manners?’

Gerry and Angie both ignored her, glaring at each other, eyes hot with a hatred neither had allowed themselves to voice before.

‘You know what you are, Gerry Visser? You’re a great big bully. You bully everyone around you. But you’re not going to bully me!’ At the hallway door, Angie turned, snapping, ‘God forgive you,’ before disappearing with a swirl of pink dress toward the games room.

‘Oh, remembered you’re a Christian, have you?’ Gerry, standing now, flung at her back. Susanna let out a cry of anguish and made to follow her sister but Gerry said, ‘No! Let her get the boy and go, if that’s what she wants to do. You are
not
going after her.’ He towed his wife by the wrist into the kitchen, and kept going out to the backyard.

Jean was left sitting alone and still in her armchair, but in a moment Angie was back, propelling a stricken-looking Finn before her. Stella-Jean, behind them, cried, ‘Wait, wait, let me get his presents!’ and scrambled on the floor gathering his books, toys, T-shirts and shoving them into a plastic bag. Angie didn’t even slow her stride, passing through the living room without a glance at her mother. Jean rose and held out her hand to Stella-Jean for the bag.

‘I’ll talk to her,’ she said firmly. ‘You stay here please, Stella-Jean.’

Jean hurried toward the car. ‘Angie!’ she called, and Angie, who was sitting with her hands on the steering wheel and the engine running, waited for her mother to give the bag to Finn, in the back seat. She could have driven away then, but she didn’t.

‘Come back inside,’ said Jean, bending to the open driver’s window. ‘At least have the courtesy to come back and apologise to your sister.’

‘Oh, this is
my
fault, is it?’ Angie cried. ‘What about
him
?’

‘Gerry didn’t start that, miss.’

Angie gave a screech of frustration. ‘You’ve never taken my side, have you? Not once. You never cared about me, you never listened to me.
You never loved me
.’

Sternly, her mother told her, ‘Angie, that’s just not true.’

‘Say it then. Say it! Say you love me.’

Jean closed her eyes momentarily. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I love you.’

‘Say it like you mean it,’ Angie cried with passionate heat. ‘You don’t
mean
it. You don’t!’

Jean stepped back a pace from the car window, face set. ‘Grow up, Angela, for heaven’s sake.’

Angie glared furiously at her, rammed the car into gear, and drove off.

FIFTEEN