Chapter 1 #2
“In winter?” Finlay said. “And then there’s rain. And sunburn. Besides that we’d probably starve to death. Of course, Mum would have been reported to the authorities long since, and be in prison for child neglect. Then you’d never see her.”
Skylar laughed again. “Well, that got dark quickly. I’ll keep my job, thanks, and keep reading you a story at night, George. And Granddad’s here, isn’t he? You’re not as neglected as all that.”
“I just thought it would be nice,” George said with a sigh. “It’s a pity we don’t have a dad. Then he could be the one who went to work.”
“Maybe,” Finlay said. “My dad just buggered off.”
“Language,” Skylar said.
Finlay sighed. Her children were constantly sighing these days. When had she become so exasperatingly clueless? “Mum. Everybody says that. It barely counts.”
“It counts to me,” she said. “Imagine if you say that in class, and your teacher says, ‘Who’s your mum, again?’ How will I ever hold up my head after that?”
Finlay said, without much listening to her, “Anyway, Mum worked even before your dad died, George, so what’s the difference? We’re poor, that’s all. Poor as church mice.”
“We are not poor as church mice,” Skylar said. “We have a house, don’t we? Very few mice are homeowners.”
“Excuse me,” Finlay said. “I sleep in a storage loft? We have one toilet?”
“And yet you continually declare your aversion to sleeping in the bedroom with George and giving Olive the loft. Also, we have two toilets. The one in the shed counts.”
“Oh, yeh,” Finlay said. “Because I want to go to the toilet in a shed.”
“When you’re desperate you do,” she said. “Olive, go fetch Granddad and tell him pancakes are ready.”
Olive didn’t answer. She was reading. “Olive,” Skylar said. “Calling Olive. Come in, Olive.”
“Never mind,” Finlay said. “I’ll do it.” He sighed. “I’m used to it.”
“I’ll never be,” Skylar sang, “your beast of burden.” And laughed. What else could you do?
She did take them to the beach after that.
The water was getting a bit chilly in late April, but swimming in it certainly woke you up.
Of course, once you got home and got cozy with a cup of tea, it made you want to fall asleep again.
She had her lessons planned for tomorrow—when you’d taught Year One for ten years, you tended to know how—but she really should check for parent emails one last time.
There was always at least one who needed calming, the day before.
There were three, in fact. She wasn’t proud that she skipped the first two and began with the one that had “Zane Mahuta” in the Sender line.
She hadn’t met him—his grandmother did the drop-offs and pickups—but she’d seen him on the telly enough times, and once, memorably, on the side of a bus in his undies, with his arms folded.
He had excellent arms. She supposed he needed them for all that tackling and so forth.
Also a very broad chest. And a tribal tattoo up his right arm that she’d happened to notice extended over one extremely muscular shoulder.
She’d feel guilty for objectifying him, but fantasy sex was the only kind she had, and a woman needed material.
The email was not about how he’d seen her photo on the school notice board and been unable to stop thinking about her beauty. It consisted of three sentences.
One of the rats died. I’ll replace it. Please advise procedure. Zane Mahuta
He gave his telephone number.
She didn’t need to call. She’d just email him back. Perfectly simple.
How was Georgia, though? She was a sensitive one. It would probably be good to find that out. Also to ask about the health of the other rats. She wouldn’t be allowed to date a pupil’s parent anyway, so that had nothing to do with it.
It was only polite.
Zane climbed off the table and told the physio, “Cheers.”
“No worries,” Dave said. “Keep working that tight hammie.”
“Gotcha,” Zane said, shutting the door behind him. Three voicemails, his phone said. He’d been in there one hour. One.
The first was from Georgia. “Um, Dad? What if the other rats are sick, too? They seem sad. Do you think they have depression? And maybe we should’ve dug a grave for Gladys.
She was a very nice rat. We should have a tangi and put a cross on her grave and sing a song.
Could we get her out of the bin and do that?
Maybe the other rats could come outside in their cage for it.
Rats are very intelligent. Maybe they were just biting her to try to wake her up.
Do you think we can have the tangi when you come home?
And could we maybe drive to Ms. Fairburn’s house and show her the other rats? Because what if they die before to—”
The recording cut off. Time expired. He played the second voicemail. Scarlett.
“Dad? Georgia is, like, really sad about the rat. She’s getting a complex, I think.
Nan says not to worry, but she’s just sitting on the bed sort of hugging herself and looking at the other rats.
Did you find out about getting another one?
Maybe Nan and I could go get it with Georgia, and she could, like, pick it out. Anyway. Call me and tell me, OK?”
Third voicemail.
“Mr. Mahuta, this is Skylar Fairburn, Georgia’s teacher. I’m responding to your email. You’re all good, rat-replacement-wise. I’ll take care of it. If you have questions, give me a call back. Otherwise, I’ll see Georgia tomorrow.”
The tone was brisk. It wasn’t the tone. It was the voice. It was low. Husky. A little breathy. If you ignored the dead-rat subject matter, you could’ve been listening to one of those sexual-tension scenes, the kind that told you there was going to be sex in this film.
I definitely need rat advice, he told himself, and sat on the bench in the changing room to ring her back.
“Hello?” Yes, that was her. Low. Husky. Breathy. All that.
She’s probably forty-five years old, he told himself. Also, he clearly needed to get laid more. “Yeh,” he said. “Zane Mahuta here. About the rat. Dead rat, I mean.” Oh, he was smooth.
“Yes,” she said. “I was sorry to hear that. No worries, it happens. Rats only live two to four years. Was Georgia very upset?”
“Well, yeh. Crying and so forth. I put it in the bin, but she wants me to take it out again and have a tangi for it. Kids, eh. Also, the other rats ate it a bit, so you may hear about that. Could be a discussion topic.”
“Oh, dear.” She was laughing a little, and that laugh sounded choice.
“Yes, they do that. They eat and even bury their dead pack members so they don’t draw predators.
It’s actually a pretty interesting behavior, and that’s part of having classroom pets, giving kids the opportunity to talk about these things in a lower-stakes way. ”
“Not sure Georgia thinks of it as lower-stakes,” he said. “Gladys was apparently a family member. Didn’t realize I’d adopted three more kids, but there you are. I now have ratty children. She may be up all night watching the survivors for signs of disease.”
She was laughing again. It was pretty flattering. “Well, I’ll have a look at them tomorrow, and I’ll have a chat with Georgia, too. I don’t suppose you’ll be the one bringing her.”
“No. My grandmother.”
“Ah. Maureen.”
“Yeh. I’d bring her myself, but—”
“No worries,” she said. “Everybody has obligations. Well, nice to virtually meet you, Mr. Mahuta. And good luck with Georgia tonight.”
She rang off. Pity he couldn’t take the kids in tomorrow and see if the face matched the voice.
On the other hand, she probably was forty-five.
Wearing a cardigan with bobbles, with reading glasses on a beaded chain.
He’d already had one disappointment this weekend.
Losing to the Crusaders never felt good.
He needed a girlfriend, was what. One who wasn’t put off by a man with three kids, one of whom would stare balefully at any new woman and send out clear “we don’t need you” vibes.
Scarlett did have a way of torpedoing his love life.
Not to mention that his house held not only three children and two rats, but also one grandmother. And that he had to be in bed by ten.
A girlfriend who didn’t ask much, then. If such a person existed.
There was a reason he met most of his female companionship in bars.