17
I ’M putting on my seatbelt when Paul puts his hand on mine.
‘Listen, Cat. My house, my family, they’re not like yours.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing. I’ll be as quick as I can.’
In town, we pull up in front of a weatherboard house. There’s a white picket fence with a gate underneath a rose-covered archway. Paul leads me up a path flanked by roses in bloom. I reach to sniff one and find it’s unscented. Paul opens the front door and calls out.
‘Mum, Dad?’
We move towards the sound of a television at the end of a hallway with doors on either side. I glimpse a perfectly made bed drowning in throw cushions and porcelain dolls. Paul takes my arm, and his palm is hot and sweaty through my sleeve.
‘Look who’s decided to grace us with his presence, love,’ says a deep voice as we enter a living room.
Paul’s dad, I assume, is in a pale yellow and beige tartan recliner, feet extended, in front of a TV sitting within a huge entertainment unit.
Every shelf is filled with hundreds of ceramic figurines.
There are cartoon characters next to southern belles, queens and princesses next to horses.
‘Mum, Dad, I’d like you to meet someone,’ says Paul. ‘This is Cat.’
The recliner lurches forward so fast I’m surprised it doesn’t tip, and a huge hand is advancing towards me. I accept it and my hand disappears. He’s massive; taller even than Paul, and twice as wide. His frame fills the room, but his smile is genuine. He rocks on his feet, his hands on his hips.
‘So, you’re the reason this idiot has been smiling so much, then, are you? Nice to meet you. Cat, is it? That short for Catherine?’
‘Nice to meet you too, Mr Lightwood.’
‘Mr Lightwood is my dad, or was, since he’s long dead, the old bastard. Call me John.’
‘Nice to meet you, John.’
‘And this here is the missus, Paul’s mum, Lorraine.’
I turn, and leaning against the kitchen bench with a cleaning cloth in her hand, stands a woman slight, even without considering her in comparison to the magnitude of her husband. She moves around the bench and takes my hand.
‘Welcome to our home, Catherine. I’m sorry it’s such a mess, we weren’t expecting company.’ She nods pointedly at Paul.
‘It’s Cat, Mum, and we’re just popping in. I’ll have a quick shower, and we’ll go. You okay?’
‘Of course, she is,’ his dad says. ‘Lorraine, put the kettle on. What’s your poison, love?’
‘A water would be great, thank you.’
‘I’ll be two minutes.’ Paul’s voice is low as he brushes past me and heads back down the hall.
‘What are you two kids up to?’ John settles his enormous frame into a chair at the table ‘Sit, sit, make yourself at home.’
‘Well, we’re going to the city to pick up my books for school.’ I sit on the edge of one of the timber dining chairs, its back hard against mine. ‘The first half of my books didn’t arrive, and now they’ve sent me the wrong ones.’
‘You’re still at school?’ Paul’s mum places a glass of water on a coaster of garishly bright coloured shells and slides it before me.
‘Yes, my last year. Year Twelve.’ I say my school’s name and the thin lines of her eyebrows raise.
‘Fancy,’ she says. ‘The boys went local, and they did just fine.’
‘No point spending all that money on tradies,’ John says. ‘Jeez, that seems like a long time ago, doesn’t it, love?’
‘A lot’s happened.’ Paul’s mother stares down at her hands, gripped as if locked in prayer.
‘You live nearby, love?’ John asks.
‘No, we live in Batter’s Cove.’
‘What does your old man do, love?’
‘He’s a builder. You might know him. Michael Kelty?’
‘Mick Kelty’s your old man? That high end job? Thank him for taking on our dickhead. I don’t know your dad well, but I’ve only heard good things.’
‘Well, that’s a relief,’ I say. ‘You’re a tradie too, is that right?’
‘Yep, a sparky. I’m the smart one.’ I can’t even begin to imagine Paul’s dad moving through the roof spaces of a house, let alone fitting through a manhole. ‘Hang on, Mick’s married to that lady architect, that right? You going to follow in the family business?’
‘No, Dad says if I go into construction, he’ll disown me.’ I grin. ‘I’m going for either law or medicine.’
‘Law or medicine,’ Paul’s dad whistles. ‘Hear that, love? Our boy’s landed himself a future doctor or a lawyer. Not bad for a dumbarse, hey love?’
I blush. If only he knew I was a future doctor or lawyer that his son didn’t want to kiss.
‘Cat, are you ready?’ Paul’s in the doorway in jeans and a white t-shirt, his hair damp.
‘May I use your bathroom?’ I ask Paul’s mother.
‘What lovely manners. It’s the third door on the right.’
There’s a doll on top of the toilet wearing a bright red dress, another southern belle, this one hiding a spare toilet roll under her abundant skirt.
The sink is a traffic jam of soap, and the hand towel is covered with embroidered roses.
I’m too scared to use it so I shake the water off my hands and dab off the excess on the underside of the embroidery. I return to the living room.
‘I have one word for you, Paul Lightwood. Jailbait. Mark my words.’ Paul’s mother has her finger in the air, her lips pressed.
‘Mum! Relax, there’s nothing happening. I told you. She’s the boss’ daughter.’
‘That’s exactly right, Paul. She’s the boss’ daughter. You remember that.’
‘Calm down, love, they’re all right. Look how happy she makes your son. If he had a tail, he’d be wagging it.’
Paul spots me in the doorway, his face as red as the toilet doll’s gown.
‘I’ll see you later, Mum. Dad.’
‘Nice to meet you both.’ I give a strange wave that’s more like jazz hands.
‘You’re welcome any time, love, maybe get this big dickhead to bring you over on Sunday for dinner? What do you say?’
‘That sounds like a plan, Mr Lightwood, thank you.’
‘I told you, none of this Mr Lightwood rubbish.’
‘Okay, thanks, bye.’
Paul practically drags me down the corridor by the hand.