Starting from Scratch Read online

  Beyond the gardens are native trees—wattles bursting with new yellow baubles and bottlebrush bushes with vibrant red flowers. When I reach the riverbank, I follow the path. River red gums, many of them decades old, march either side of the river.

  The water flows slowly because the levels are low.

  The river needs water. So do the wetlands.

  Matts wants to join the committee. His profile and expertise would be an advantage. But…

  I’ve left my past behind me.

  I lean against a river red gum. The trunk is smooth and cream coloured, but the bark at my feet will be countless shades of brown. The flowers on the gums are coin-sized clusters of fluffy white spikes with lime and yellow centres. Gus used to bring his great-niece April to the river in the holidays, and they’d fish at this spot. She’s getting married at the end of October and has asked me to help with her flowers. I’m making Gus a gum blossom for his lapel, and will attach a matching flower to the front of April’s card. As I pluck a leaf from the tree, I hear rustling behind me. Four kangaroos bound through the undergrowth. When the leader stops, the others stop too. Only fifty metres away, they stand tall in silhouette, their heads and bodies upright, their tails flat to the ground.

  ‘Are you out for a late-night hop? Stay away from the roads.’

  The roos are beautiful but unsettling. I turn and walk away from the river, carefully putting one foot in front of the other as I follow the path to the gardens and the neat rows of shrubs that circle the cenotaph. The main street glows in the distance, as does the pub. The road that leads to the schoolhouse is just out of sight. I skirt around the straw-mulch edges of the rose beds.

  One door bangs and then another. A ute is parked across the road from the pub. It’s large and black, with six seats in the cabin, a covered tray, fog lights on the bull bar and searchlights on the roof racks. The engine roars to life. Beams from the headlamps stretch down the road and across it.

  They swallow me up.

  What about the kangaroos?

  ‘No!’

  I was too young to have learnt how to drive when I came to Horseshoe. Ma and Pa offered to teach me after my seventeenth birthday, but they were busy with the store, and Pa drove a truck then anyway. When I wasn’t at school or at the farmhouse, or travelling to Canberra to see Mum and Gran, I was busy with the horses at Kincaid House.

  Hugo and Jet had learnt to drive on their family’s farms. Getting a licence to drive on the roads was easy for them, as was driving long distances on difficult roads. They’d pick me up when I needed a lift and they never made me feel guilty about it.

  When I left Horseshoe to go to university in Armidale, I was eighteen. Mum died the following year and it took another year before I worked up the courage to get behind the wheel. My driving instructor, a retired steelworker originally from Wollongong, was called Lucky. He was a small wiry man with a very big heart and the patience of a saint. He taught me how to drive competently.

  Pa Hargreaves helped me find a small car in Dubbo but I only drove it occasionally. I hardly ever drove at night. I didn’t drive in high winds and dust storms, or misty early mornings. I rarely drove when it rained. And I avoided taking passengers unless they were like Gus who, besides humming occasionally, listened to the radio and rarely ever talked. I didn’t break the rules and I never got a ticket. Soon enough I was home again in Horseshoe. I kept the car but walked whenever I could.

  Late last year, on a Saturday night after trivia, I drove Gus home like I usually did. His property is barely twenty minutes from the town. It was only ten o’clock.

  Everybody knows you have to watch out for wildlife at night. Kangaroos and wallabies, possums and wombats run across fenced and unfenced roads. They get spooked when they see lights and then they stop dead.

  I’d dropped Gus off and turned left to return to the loop road. I was ten minutes from Horseshoe and on the crest of the hill when my sight was obscured by a solid black form and—

  I screamed. A thump. Broken glass.

  A kangaroo on the bonnet of my car. Her head was thrown back and her body was twisted.

  Lifeless eyes.

  I’d thought about how desperate Mum must have been to leave her room at two in the morning to pick up pills from a dealer she didn’t know outside a nightclub the coroner said she’d never been to before. I hadn’t thought about the last few seconds of her life.

  The driver who hit her was an American tourist. He’d left Sydney at two in the morning to attend an Anzac Day service at the War Memorial. The lights were green as he approached an intersection in Kingston. When he saw Mum bent double in the middle of the road, he put his foot on the brake, but it was too late.

  Last year I was forced to face the facts.

  The kangaroo died a violent death.

  And so did my mother.

  I had a few panic attacks after I hit the kangaroo, but I haven’t had any since I saw the psychologist. I coped reasonably well when Pa and I went to Dubbo in the van. I’ve even been thinking about contacting Lucky in the hope that more driving lessons might help me face my fears.

  I don’t remember sitting down, but now I’m aware of everything. The roughness of the stones, the stringy dry grass, the coldness of the earth. As I get to my feet, I wipe my hands on my jeans. ‘Ow!’ I’ve grazed my palm again. Did I drop to the ground so quickly?

  I make my way to the kerb and look right, left and right again—slowly and seriously like a five-year-old might. Walking up the footpath, taking one cautious step at a time, is like wading through treacle. My throat is scratchy and tight and hurts when I swallow.

  ‘Over there!’

  The grey nomads I saw earlier are gathered on the footpath outside the pub. Matts, also on the footpath but further away, is walking quickly towards them. When the man in the tartan cap points to me, Matts breaks into a run and crosses the road diagonally. As soon as he reaches me, he grips my shoulders tightly and peers into my face.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘What?’ I croak.

  ‘You screamed.’

  ‘No, I—I’m okay.’

  He runs his hands down my arms to my elbows. He grips them like he has to hold me up.

  Is he holding me up? My heart is hammering. My legs are shaking.

  The man in the cap catches up. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I …’ My teeth are chattering so violently that I’m scared I’ll bite my tongue.

  ‘Sapphire,’ Matts says, squeezing my arms even tighter. ‘What?’

  I shake my head. ‘It was the ute. I wasn’t expecting the lights.’ I take a deep breath as I look from Matts to the other man. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Matts’s hands slide down my arms to my wrists. He turns me so I’m facing him straight on. ‘Something happened.’

  ‘Forget it, please.’

  His hands slip further, trapping my fingers and stinging my palm. When I wince he loosens his grip, but only for a moment. He cups my hands and lifts them, resting them between us. He’s wearing a T-shirt under his hoodie. His hands aren’t warm, but they’re warmer than mine.

  ‘You’re shaking,’ he says.

  I lower my eyes. ‘I’m cold, that’s all.’

  He’s on the high side of the footpath, even taller than usual. As if he reads my mind, he bends his knees so we’re the same height. He stares into my eyes. ‘Don’t lie to me, Sapphire.’

  ‘Think what you like.’

  The older man puts his hand on my elbow. ‘You’ve had a shock, my dear, whatever the cause, and you’re as white as a sheet to prove it. Where do you live? Come to the pub while we see about getting you home. There’s a log fire in the lounge.’ He takes out his phone. ‘Can I call someone to meet you there? Do you have family close by?’

  ‘I—’ I shake my head again. ‘Thank you, but—’ When I pull my hands free of Matts’s, I bump against the man.

  He threads his arm through mine. ‘Steady, now.’

  ‘I don’t live far
away. I’m fine to walk home.’

  The man tightens his hold and waves to his friends, indicating they go inside the pub. ‘Let’s walk together.’

  Matts walks stiffly by my other side as the man, Gerry, chats about his itinerary and names towns from here to Darwin that he and his friends are planning to visit. By the time we reach the top of the hill, my legs almost feel like my own again.

  ‘Thank you very much, but I’ll be fine from here.’ I let go of his arm. ‘See the signs? That’s where I live.’

  ‘At the school?’

  ‘I teach there, but live next to it.’

  ‘Are you a local girl?’

  ‘I spent my last two years of school living here, and came back permanently after uni.’

  ‘It’s a welcoming town.’ He smiles. ‘We’re reluctant to move on tomorrow.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to come back again—in summer next time.’

  As Gerry walks away, Matts moves closer. My heart rate increases again. When he took my hands on the footpath, I didn’t object. I take a jerky step backwards and cross my arms.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘You thought I needed help.’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘I … maybe.’ I look over his shoulder. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Why did you scream?’

  ‘I told you already. Forget it.’

  ‘You were hiding in a tree a month ago. Do I forget that too?’

  ‘That was different.’ I uncross my arms and then cross them again. My hand stings. ‘We need to talk about the committee, Matts.’

  He looks towards the schoolhouse. ‘Tonight?’

  Hugo will be in front of the television by now. Without knowing our history, he’d take Matts’s side and laugh at my objections.

  ‘Tomorrow after school would be better.’

  ‘I’ll be in Armidale tomorrow and Saturday. I could see you early on Sunday.’

  ‘Eight?’

  ‘Seven.’

  I push my hands deep into my pockets. My fingers are so cold that they hurt when I bend them. ‘Nothing will be open.’

  ‘I’ll come here.’ He walks three steps and then he turns. Even in the dimness, I make out his frown. ‘Sleep well, Sapphire.’

  Sapphire Beresford-Brown. Sapphie Brown.

  How long will he be here? A month? A few months?

  How can I trust him?

  How can I keep him out of my life?

  CHAPTER

  14

  ‘Look, Miss Brown!’ Mary runs across the playground on Friday morning, her school bag bouncing on her back and a drawstring bag swinging from her wrist. She skids to a stop in front of me. ‘I brought some real ones! Please, Miss Brown. Can we make them this afternoon? Can you show me what to do?’

  I’m holding an armful of folders, a mug of tea, six lost property items and a laptop. ‘Good morning, Mary. You can tell me what you’d like to make when we get into the classroom.’

  She tosses a plait over her shoulder. ‘Did you sleep in?’

  By the time I returned home from the horses this morning, it was almost eight o’clock. It’s only eight-thirty now, but school starts at nine. I haven’t set up the classroom yet.

  ‘Yes, because I had trouble getting to sleep last night. Can you take my laptop while I unlock the door?’

  Mary throws her schoolbag on the ground but hangs on to the drawstring bag, following me inside and putting the laptop on my desk at the front of the room. She jumps from foot to foot as I dump the rest of my things next to the laptop and sit in my chair.

  ‘Let’s see, then.’

  When she releases the string and tips the bag upside down, three long, leafy stems fall in a clump on the table. ‘You said we could make flowers in craft,’ she says. ‘Can we make these? I’ve seen you do them before.’

  ‘My grandmother taught me how to make them.’ I unravel the stems. ‘August is early for bougainvillea. This is lovely.’

  ‘It grows on the shed at home. Dad had to get on the ladder because all the red flowers were at the top.’

  I touch the papery crimson surfaces. ‘The bright parts are called bracts, Mary. The flowers are the tiny white blossoms in the middle.’

  ‘Dad hates the spikes.’

  ‘It will be good to have a real sample to work from.’ I point to the paint-spattered trestle table at the back of the room. ‘Put the stems in a vase of water, and sit them over there. Take care not to scratch yourself.’

  She grins. ‘You’ll get to look at bougainvillea all day.’

  It wasn’t long before Inge died that Matts and I sat side by side at her dining room table to do our homework. Matts had moved a vase of bougainvillea, vibrant scarlet bracts with tiny white flowers, to my side of the table, because he’d insisted that, as he was thirteen, he needed more room than I did. When Inge walked into the room and saw what Matts had done, she moved the flowers back to the centre.

  ‘Beauty is precious,’ she said softly, her hand on Matts’s shoulder. ‘We must keep it close. I have told you this before.’

  A look passed between them. Matts opened his mouth as if to argue before shutting it again. He rearranged his books to accommodate the flowers. ‘Yes, Äiti.’

  ‘I can make flowers just like that,’ I piped up. ‘Gran taught me.’

  ‘Bougainvillea?’ Inge said. ‘You must show me how it is done.’

  The next day was a Saturday, and I knew that Matts, who didn’t rate my flowers, would be at a football match with his father. Dad dropped me off outside the house, and a gardener recognised me and led me through the security gates. When Inge finally answered the doorbell, she looked different than usual because her long fair hair was loose. I wanted to tell her that she looked like Rapunzel, but I held my tongue. Think before you speak. My father’s constant admonishment rang in my ears. Maybe Inge didn’t want to look like Rapunzel?

  Inge kissed one cheek and then the other and then the first one again, like she always did. ‘Good morning, my little Sapphire.’

  I must have looked like Mary often does, jumping from one foot to the other in excitement. ‘I came to show you how to make the flowers!’ I raced past Inge and flung open the doors to the dining room, stopping short when I saw a man leaning against the table. His suit was dark against the brightness of the vase of bougainvillea behind him.

  ‘Buenos días,’ he said, straightening.

  Inge came up behind me. ‘This is Sapphire,’ she said quietly. ‘Today she will make me flowers. Bougainvillea.’

  ‘Like these?’ He pointed to the flowers on the table. Only he couldn’t point properly because he only had a thumb on his hand. He crouched down low and smiled into my eyes. ‘I do not believe it.’

  I held out my supplies. ‘I can teach you too if you want me to.’

  When Inge put an arm around my shoulders, I smelt her perfume. It was the same one Mum always wore. She squeezed gently. ‘We will show Gabriel another time.’

  By the time she returned and sat next to me at the table, her hair was neatly tied up in the chignon she generally wore. I’d brought a small tablecloth from home and I spread it out before setting out paper and scissors, glue and wire.

  ‘What lovely paper,’ Inge said.

  ‘It’s called maroon,’ I said. ‘But you can use other colours too, like fuchsia and coral and salmon. Everyone thinks the coloured parts are the flowers but they’re not.’

  Inge watched me all morning, and we were both still sitting at the table when Matts and his father came home. Inge held out her arm and beckoned them in.

  ‘Look, Leevi, Matts, how clever Sapphire is.’

  My paper bougainvillea was barely distinguishable from the real ones in the vase. Mr Laaksonen, who was a number of years older than Inge, graciously complimented my artistry, but when Matts rolled his eyes, a blush warmed my face. I hurriedly pushed the flowers across the table.

  ‘You can keep them,’ I told Inge, looking anywhere but at Matts as
I scrambled to my feet, stuffed my supplies into my bag and pushed the chair against the table. ‘Mum said I have to be home for lunch. I’ll call and ask her to pick me up.’

  I was dialling the landline when Matts touched my arm. ‘I’ll walk with you.’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ I said.

  ‘Give me the phone, Kissa.’ When I handed it to him, he placed it firmly in the bracket. ‘I like to walk you home.’

  Matts walked me home last night.

  It wasn’t surprising that I was anxious after the meeting. I want to join your committee. I wasn’t expecting to see the kangaroos or the lights. I didn’t have a chance to breathe deeply or rationalise or do any of the things I have to do to ward off a panic attack.

  I kneel as I sweep crepe paper scraps from the floor near the trestle table. Making the shapes exactly the same size isn’t as important with bougainvillea as it is with other plants, but that’s not something Archie wants to know about. His concentration is fierce as he traces around the templates and follows the pencil lines with scissors. Mary and Amy stand either side of him and press the bracts into shape with their thumbs.

  ‘You’ve done so well today,’ I say. ‘Next week, I’ll show you how to make the flowers.’

  Mary sighs. ‘I wish we could do this every day.’

  When I clap my hands, the children mimic the rhythm. Ahmed and Moses, identical eight-year-old twins with big brown eyes, put down their scissors and glue.

  ‘The bell will ring soon, so it’s time to clear our desks. Who’s looking forward to the weekend?’ I laugh when a sea of hands pops up. ‘As you tidy, tell the other children at your table what you’re most looking forward to.’

  Ahmed raises his hand. ‘What are you looking forward to, Miss Brown?’

  ‘I …’ When my smile disappears, I force a new one. ‘Going to the farmhouse tomorrow, and spending the day with my horses.’