CHAPTER 17
Bradford
As it turns out, the family only has to wait a week before they fly out to Italy. Apparently, they could either do it now, or they’d be waiting months. It’s a mad scramble for them, but they seem to cope. Gabriela and Bruno are both back at work for a couple of days, fitting in the travel plans and preparation whenever they have time. They never fail to lavish me with gratitude for everything I’m supposedly doing, but it’s nothing, really. I look after the boys. I tidy up here and there. I try not to step on Valentina’s toes. She’s very gracious, and I like to think it’s because I know my place. Her family and her home are her raison d'être . Nonna holds her head high with good cause.
On the final morning before their evening departure, Valentina is out with Gabriela and Bruno. Everything is packed and ready to go. Stefano and Marco are bored, having come for Brendan’s morning walk then watched TV for an hour or so. I wander into the kitchen and rummage through the cupboard for some flour and baking powder. I know there are eggs and milk and butter in the fridge. There’s also some cream and sour cherry jam.
“What are you doing?” It’s Marco, loitering by the breakfast bar.
“I’m going to make scones. Maybe they’ll like some when they all get back.”
“Nonna doesn’t make scones,” he says.
“That’s good then. Nonna makes all her things so well that I’d never be able to match up. At least if it’s something different, maybe it’ll be OK.”
“Can I help?”
Well, blow me down with a feather. “Sure.” I check behind the pantry door, but there are only frilly aprons on the hooks there. Glancing back at Marco, I decide that would be cruel. I’m wearing the only one that doesn’t look like it belongs on a granny. “We won’t make you put on one of these. A little flour won’t hurt. But wash your hands first, because we have to do this all with our fingers.”
While he’s at the sink, I crouch down and try my best to see the temperature dial on the oven. At home, I have little raised nub things glued at 180 and 200 celsius, put there by an occupational therapist. No such luck here, so I have to squat and squint. “We need to cook these fast with the oven really hot.”
“Why?”
“So they don’t end up all rock hard and flat.”
Setting up two bowls, I show Marco how to scoop and scrape the measuring cup for the flour. “That’s good mate,” I say, even though he’s getting more flour on the counter than in the bowl. “Now we have to rub in the cold butter.”
“Can I have a go?” I glance up to see Stefano standing nearby. I nearly have to physically restrain my jaw from dropping.
“Yeah, sure. Here, have mine.” Passing him my bowl, I turn back to Marco. “OK. Plop the chunks of butter in the flour, just like this.” I drop in a few cubes, letting the boys do the rest. “Now, I’m just gonna show you how to mix it properly. Only a little bit, though. You can do the rest.” Digging my hands into Marco’s bowl, I demonstrate the rolling technique. “Try not to do it too much. We just want to squoosh the butter into the flour till it looks like crumbs.”
Both boys look so engrossed in the exercise, I overlook the chunks of butter still left there. “That’s excellent. Can you guys fetch the eggs and the milk?” With their backs turned, I’m able to quickly obliterate the residual lumps in their dough. After the boys have finished cracking the eggs and we’ve fished out the stray bits of shell, I talk through how to beat them with Stefano while I’m helping Marco measure out the milk. Once again, there’s a sizeable mess on the counter, but they’re both having fun. I can always clean it up later.
When both bowls have been mixed, I demonstrate how to pack the dough together. “Remember, we only want it to come into a ball. We don’t want to knead it like bread, or the scones will be hard.”
Rolling and cutting is the bit they like best. Stefano seems to be taking great care to make the scones as perfect as possible with the flour-dipped drinking glass. After getting the boys to glaze the finished tray with the pastry brush, I hold it with Marco as he slides it onto the hot oven shelf. “Nonna never lets me do this,” he says.
“Yeah, well it’s our little secret. It’s OK, because I’m helping you.” I wink at him, and Marco seems pleased with our clandestine little pact.
Turning around, I’m floored to see Stefano wiping down the bench, cupping his hand at the edge to catch the excess flour. I can’t help but smile at the bits he’s missing. I’m too busy bursting with pride to worry about the spillage. “OK, guys. They’re gonna be baking for about twenty-five minutes. Do you want a drink or something? I’m gonna whip the cream while we wait.”
“Can I do it?” says Stefano.
Wow. “Um, OK. I might have to tell you when to stop, though.”
“Why?” This comes from Marco.
“Well, when we beat cream for too long, it turns into butter.” Neither of them look like they believe a word I’m saying. “You’re gonna have to trust me on this, guys. Someday, when we have a bit more cream, I’ll show you how to make butter.”
“Can we can we can we?” The excitement on Marco’s face hits hard. It’s so long since I’ve felt that kind of joie de vivre. Well, outside of the bedroom, at least.
We’ve just finished setting up the platter of scones when Bruno and Gabriela arrive with Valentina in tow. “Nonna!” Marco barges towards his grandmother, who looks momentarily surprised. “We made scones with Bradford. We even beat up the cream but we couldn’t make butter today but Bradford’s gonna show us how to do it next time.”
Valentina looks amused but doubtful. Glancing over Marco’s shoulder at our beautifully-fluffed creations, she stares at me with her eyebrows raised. “How you manage this?” she says. “They never do it for me.”
***
Later on, as the family are waiting for their flotilla of taxis, Bruno and Claudio carry the mountain of bags downstairs while Gabriela is getting the boys ready. I’m busy doing dishes in the kitchen when I hear footsteps behind me. Wiping my hands on a tea towel, I turn and see it’s Valentina. She’s standing there all dressed up, clutching onto what I imagine is her best handbag. Her lips are taut as she studies my face.
“You know, Bruno is my only son,” she starts. “I always wanna see him get married. Of course is not gonna be a girl, but he need a good man. I know he never gonna marry that party boy of his. But you…” She stops for a moment, her jaw tightening. “You know the meaning of family.” Reaching out, she delicately pats my arm. “You think about it.” After giving me a small nod, she turns and departs with regal poise.
Bruno and I get the last taxi. With my bag stashed in the back and Brendan stashed at my feet, I know it’s time to go back home and face the music. After two weeks away, I’m dreading it. Bruno holds my hand the whole journey.
“I’m gonna miss you, Harry ,” I say, as we reach the international airport turnoff. “We’ve never really been away from each other since we met.”
Bruno doesn’t answer straight away. I turn and look at him. His face is in a visible state of turmoil. My stomach ties in knots. Did I go too far?
“Bradford, I need to tell you something. And I don’t want you to get upset.”
Oh, God. I feel sick.
Bruno squeezes my hand and turns to face me. “I didn’t want to say anything to you because I know how hard all this shit is with Jarrod.” He takes a deep breath, then launches into it. “Brie and I have split up. Nothing’s wrong, we just know it’s over. We’ve known it for a long time. As soon as I get back from Italy, I’m moving into the rumpus room at Mum’s. Brie is already in the process of putting our place on the market.” He looks into my eyes, his forehead wrinkled with intensity. “I know it’s not a good time for you, but I will wait . As long as it takes.”
I’m absolutely gobsmacked. It’s an info dump, but it’s like Bruno’s handing it all to me on a silver platter. My brain is in overdrive. Thoughts are shooting around my skull, bashing into the inside edges and changing direction at the speed of light. I have to get rid of Jarrod. I have to find the guts to kick him to—
“You’re gonna have to get out now.” The taxi driver’s voice pierces my stunned silence. Glancing around, I see we’re in the congested dropoff zone. Traffic is banking up behind us.
“I’ll text you as soon as we touch down in Singapore,” Bruno says.
“Yes, yes. Please do.” I’m gaping. I need to say so much to Bruno. I need to tell him how over the bloody moon I am, but it’ll have to wait.
Leaning across, he mashes his lips into mine. “We’ll talk soon,” he whispers. I don’t even get to reply. My hand feebly travels down his back to his arse as he turns and hoists himself out of the rear door. The moment Bruno slams the boot, the taxi’s off again, leaving him behind. I try to see out of the back window, but it’s in my blindest spot. Why the hell didn’t I say something?
***
Back at my apartment, I’m faced with destruction. I stand there, slack-jawed at the wasteland around me. There’s crap everywhere. The place stinks of smoke. Of rotten food. There are empty plates and beer bottles and cups full of half-drunk coffee with cigarette butts in them. There are cigarette butts scattered through the mountains of mess all over the floor. The kitchen is a bomb zone. I tentatively step into my bedroom and I’m hit with havoc. Someone has been sleeping in my bed. Drinking in my bed. Smoking in it. I nearly scream as I find my piano open, with drinks sitting on the bare wood next to the keyboard. Plates on top of it. Cigarette ash and sticky wet patches over the damn keys.
I’m beyond livid. Working from room to room, I take photos of everything, then send them one by one to Jarrod’s phone number. There’s no way that piece of trash is gonna deny any of this. It takes me all afternoon and well into the evening to clean it up. I don’t even open Jarrod’s bedroom door till I’ve finished. As predicted, it’s just as foul as the rest of the place was. I’m done with him. He’s turned my home into some debauched drug-addled hovel. A bloody squat.
Wrenching his wardrobe door open, I drag out two suitcases. I empty his drawers and pull everything off his coathangers, stuffing whatever will fit into one suitcase. I go to his bedside table and pack everything there into the other suitcase. In the bottom drawer, I see a metal box. I don’t wanna touch it; I’m pretty sure I know what’s in there. Searching in one of the suitcases I’ve just packed, I pull a clean sock over my hand. I carefully open the box, and lo and behold, it’s full of the fruits of Jarrod’s trade. I don’t even need to rifle through it—fits, glass pipes, dozens of little bags of white crystallised stuff—they’re all boldly on display.
When Jarrod’s suitcases are full, I drag them out to the edge of the lounge room near the hall. Then, I sit on the couch with Brendan, staring at my phone, willing Bruno to call me. I don’t know how long it takes to get to Singapore, but it can’t be too much longer, can it?
Eventually, the door opens and Jarrod barrels down the hall, nearly running into the suitcases. “What the fuck is this,” he snaps, glaring up at me.
“It’s your stuff. Trashing my home was the last straw, Jarrod. Take the cases and get out of here.” My heart is beating hard and fast, but I’ve never felt so driven in my life.
Jarrod laughs out loud. “I already told you. I’m not fuckin’ going anywhere. ”
I stand up, my face on fire. “I’m serious, Jarrod. Get the FUCK OUT!”
Jarrod momentarily reels. He’s never heard me talk like this. I’m not sure I ever have, either. Quickly, he takes stock of his surprise and leers over at me. “Just try and make me.”
“I found your stash. I’ve called the cops and told them where it is.” I’m bluffing, but Jarrod’s eyes go wide as saucers. “Go on, you better grab it and bugger off before they get here.”
He darts into the bedroom, then reappears with his precious box, which he stuffs into one of the cases. Suddenly, the lights are out and the room is plunged into darkness. “You little piece of SHIT!” he snarls, his voice rising. There’s a series of crashing sounds and something hard connects with my face, sending me falling backwards into the wall behind me. I don’t even realise what’s happened; it’s like the pain takes a good second or two to register. Putting my hand to my face, I feel the warm slippery moisture of blood. It’s my good eye. He’s punched me in my good eye. And those ugly rings he wears have cut deep into my socket.
Over yonder, I hear my phone beep with a text message, then another. I’m scrambling to get up off the floor, but I’m in a daze. I feel Jarrod’s fingers slide gently under my chin and tilt my head upwards. For one brief moment I think he’s inspecting the damage he’s done to my eye. All too late, I realise his caring touch is a trick when I hear the familiar sound of facial recognition unlocking my phone.
“Give it to me!” I yell, leaning forward and flailing my arms around in the pitch dark trying to grab onto his legs. But he’s too quick for me.
“‘ I never would have got through these last weeks without you.’ ” Jarrod’s voice is trilling away in its snarkiest sing-song tone. “‘ Please give us a chance. I love you so much, Bradford.’ ”
There’s a huge smashing sound on the wall that can only be my phone. A swift kick hits me right in the middle of my guts, making me cry out and double over. At the sound of my wailing, Brendan starts to bark as loud as he can.
“Shut up,” Jarrod roars. “SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
Brendan’s barks change into gut-churning yelps. I can hear the thumping sound of Jarrod laying into him.
“NO! PLEASE DON’T DO THIS!” My appeal to Jarrod’s sense of decency falls on deaf ears. The noises Brendan is making frighten the hell out of me. Groping around on the bookshelf to my left, I try desperately to find something. Anything. My hand lands on a hard object. It’s a candle holder that Summer bought me. Thick crystal set on a heavy stone base. Grabbing it in my fist. I hurl it high in the direction of Jarrod’s rage.
“YOU FUCKING CUNT!” he roars. It’s worked. He’s left Brendan alone. But another fist connects with my eye in exactly the same place as before. This time it’s harder and my head smashes into the wall behind me. I’m briefly shocked by the dull clunking noise it makes, before the massive ache wells up inside my skull.
There’s no time to think about that, though. I’m crawling on the floor, desperately reaching out to try and find Brendan. I can’t see a thing at all, but I can hear rustling down the hall and the front door slamming. My head begins to throb hard. I’m becoming dizzy. I struggle to sit up. I cannot pass out. I cannot pass out. There’s a scraping sound, and a furry head slides onto my thigh with a whine. Brendan’s been trying to get to me. He’s been trying to help.
The world caves in around me as I realise nobody is going to find us. We’re going to die here. Filling my lungs, I start to scream. I think I’m forming the word ‘help’, but I’m not sure. Over and over I make the most ear-splitting sounds I can. My head is going to explode. I have to stay conscious. I have to try my best, but I c—