The night passes over, as nights will do, helped along by Cal’s naturally outgoing persona and lashings of fine food and drink.
We eat at the big pine dining table, Cal only sipping his wine as he has to drive, me guzzling the cider while Martha looks at it longingly. If she’d been a normal 16-year-old, maybe I’d have let her have one, or watered some wine down for her. But she’s not a normal 16-year-old – she’s a 16-year-old who has passed out in her own vomit several times, and who has a tendency to drink herself into oblivion. I don’t blame her for this – if I was Martha, I’d undoubtedly be even worse – but I also remain aware of it.
I can tell Cal notices that subtle underplay; her gazing at the chilled beer, and looking at me, and me shaking my head slightly. He doesn’t mention it, which is wise, but I know there might be questions later. That’s okay. He’s her father, I tell myself, and he’s entitled to know what’s been going on – so far he’s only been on the edge of her world, seeing what she wanted him to see, limited to the small rectangular shape of her laptop screen. Now, he’s here, in real life, sitting at her dining room table – which makes it all very different.
For the time being, though, most of the questions are coming from her. Martha quizzes him about his life, his family, Australia. He tells us about his early years, in Canada, before his dad, an engineer, moved them all to Sydney. He tells us about his sister, Ronnie, and his brother, Jay, and his work on the farm in New South Wales. He tells us about the seven squillion acres he manages, and the animals that live there, and describes its combination of isolation and beauty so well I feel like I’m almost there.
He tells us about surfing, and his travelling, and his time doing jobs that seem to range from lifeguard to barman to sorting out scrap metal at a rubbish dump. He’s an interesting man, and Martha has an expression of near-wonder on her face.
That tiny spark of jealousy I felt earlier is still there, but I stamp it down. There’s no way I can compete with this man, and more to the point I shouldn’t even try – he’s her biological relative, he’s handsome and funny and smart, and he’s crossed the known world rescuing orphaned turtles and diving for pearls and living in fishing villages in Asia. He even delivers bloody babies, as I know first hand.
He’s also, I realise, coming into her life at a time when she desperately needs someone new. Someone who will give her hope, and offer her potential. I’m sad that it isn’t me, but it was never going to be me, was it? I know her too well. I’m too much part of the past; I know her flaws, and love her anyway – but none of that seems very important when you’re a teenager. It’s only when you’re older and wiser that you realise how precious that particular combination is.
So, I resign myself to being the frumpy old woman who washes Martha’s socks, and cooks her food (badly), and bosses her around. To being taken for granted, resented, and ignored. In short, I resign myself to the fate that mothers the world over have had to endure for millennia.
On the other hand, Cal is fresh and new and exciting. He hasn’t ever had to scream at her to get out of bed, or been called in to see her head teacher, or caught her weeping in her sleep. As a result, she’s loving every minute of him being there – and I need to let her.
She’s more animated than I’ve seen her since Kate died, chattering away and waving her hands as she talks. She’s enjoying herself, and not even noticing it. This might only last a few weeks – if he goes back to his real life – or it might last forever. Who knows? But for now, I have to just sit back, and let it unfold, and enjoy seeing the old Martha return, even if it is only for a limited run.
Eventually, as time wends its way towards midnight, I raise my eyebrows and point at my watch. She rolls her eyes, and does a dramatic teenaged sigh, but does at least stand up. She yawns, and covers her mouth with embarrassment – shamefully caught out being human.
“I know, I know …” she mutters, stretching her arms into the air. “It’s a college night, and I need to get to bed.”
She gazes at the table, which is scattered with used plates, and empty glasses, and haphazardly angled cutlery, looking as though someone has emptied a dishwasher on top of it in an act of guerrilla warfare.
“Shall I … I don’t know … help you clear the plates away or something?”
I’m so shocked by this that I lean back in my chair, as though I’ve just been blasted with an unreality ray. Martha, not only noticing the mess, but volunteering to help tidy it away. Trying to be a good girl, or at least do a passable impression of one.
I glance at Cal, who obviously doesn’t realise that this is an unusual turn of events, and grin. I’m so tempted to say yes, trap her in her own fictitious version of herself and make her do the lot – but even I’m not that evil.
“Nah, it’s okay,” I say, giving her a raised eyebrow to let her know this has all been noted and filed away for future mockery, “I’ll sort it. That’s what tomorrow’s for. Get yourself off to bed.”
She stands and looks at Cal for a moment before she leaves the room, and there is a slightly awkward sense of hesitation – like she’s not sure if she should give him a kiss or a hug or something. Either would be weird, but somehow she’s right – it feels even weirder to simply walk out of the room after spending your first ever actual, real-life face-time with your own father.
Cal correctly assesses all of this, and holds his hand up for a high five. She slaps his palm, and grins at him.
“You do know that’s really lame, don’t you?” she asks, hands on hips.
“Not where I come from, mate,” he answers quickly. “It’s the very cutting edge of social interaction. See you tomorrow?”
She nods, shrugs as though she doesn’t mind either way, and struts out of the room. I listen to her clomp up the stairs in her Doc Marten’s, and wait until her bedroom door slams behind her before turning back to Cal.
He’s staring up at the ceiling, as though he’s trying to see through it.
“Don’t tell me you’ve got X ray vision on top of your other super powers,” I say, standing up and starting to clear the table. I’d told Martha I’d do it tomorrow, but as I’m now feeling slightly freaked out by being alone with Cal, this seems as good a time as any.
Cal immediately gets up to help, scraping food and stacking dishes with the simple efficiency of a man used to looking after himself.
“No super powers at all, Zo,” he replies, shortening my name in a way I usually find annoying – but as he’s Australian, I’ll let him off. “I’m just … I don’t know. A bit knocked for six by her, I suppose. And feeling stupid as well – I don’t know why I waited so bloody long.”
I nod, and finish off the dregs of my cider before taking the glass and the salad bowl through to the kitchen. Waste not want not.
“I know. It must be very strange for you. But … well, you’re here now, aren’t you?”
He follows me through into the other room, approximately seventeen plates balanced on one long arm, and helps me rinse them off before stacking them in the dishwasher. It feels odd to have help with these boring and mundane tasks. Odd, and nice.
“Yeah, I’m here now,” he says, leaning back against the counter and gazing around the room. “How did that go, do you think? I thought it was okay, but let’s be brutally honest – I barely know the girl.”
I grab another cider from the fridge, and think about my words as I pour it out. It’s good stuff – I must thank Scrumpy Joe next time I see him.
“I’d say it went brilliantly,” I reply eventually, offering him a bottle of water, which he takes and absent-mindedly opens. “Based on my extensive knowledge of the magnificent creature that is Martha, I’d rate that a ten out of ten on the success scale.”
“Yeah?” he says, his face cracking into a huge grin as he speaks. I realise then how nervous he’s been, which is only natural. He’s hidden it well, but seeing how relieved he is now makes him seem so much more human. He’s not a super hero after all – he’s just a man, with flaws and vulnerabilities and tender spots, just like the rest of us.
“Yeah. Come on. I can finish the clearing tomorrow. Let’s go and chill out for a bit before you leave. I’m sure you have questions.”
He nods, and we move into the living room. He mooches around for a while, looking at the shells and the books and smiling sadly at the framed photo of me, Martha and Kate on the shelf, before settling down in one of the chintzy armchairs opposite me. He makes it look small, with his long legs spread out in front of him, his Timberland boots massive against the polished floorboards.
“I’m sorry I didn’t know her better,” he says, gesturing to the picture. “Kate, I mean.”
“Some people would say you knew her intimately …” I reply, smiling.
“Right. But that was … God, it was one night. And it was so long ago. I mean, I always remembered her – she was so full of life, so much fun – but … well, it wasn’t a serious relationship, was it? And she never seemed to want one. Not with me, at least, which I don’t blame her for – I was a 19 year old boy who was permanently drunk. Young, dumb, and full of rum, as the old saying doesn’t quite go.
“She never shut me out of Martha’s life – I’ve always been grateful she even tracked me down to tell me, I’d have been none the wiser if she hadn’t bothered – but it was always made clear that I wasn’t needed either. When I was younger, in all honesty, that was a bit of a relief – I was just a kid myself, wasn’t I? Took me longer than your average idiot to grow up, as well. But now … well. Now, I’m not a kid any more. And I want to get to know Martha, do what I can to help her, be around for her for as long as she needs me.”
I nod, and sip, and realise that I am a bit drunk. Maybe more than a bit. I tell myself to get a grip – that this is a situation that needs some clarity and clear-headed thinking. I need to be wise and strong and sensible and say the right thing.
“How did you get that scar on your face?” I say, instead. Oops.
He laughs, and shakes his head. I didn’t intend to ask, but he actually looks grateful for the distraction. Maybe he wasn’t ready for a big, deep conversation either. He strokes the scar thoughtfully. It runs from the side of his eye to just above his jaw, noticeable but not disfiguring, well healed over, showing whiter than the rest of his sun-kissed skin.
“Ah,” he replies. “That’s quite the story. It was a shark attack.”
He might be Australian, but something in his tone makes me doubt the veracity of that particular comment.
“It wasn’t though, was it?” I say, pointing at him accusingly.
“Damn. Rumbled. Bar fight with Russell Crowe?” he asks, looking hopeful.
“Fat Russell Crowe, or Gladiator Russell Crowe?”
“Gladiator. Definitely. Will you settle for that?”
“If I have to,” I answer, smiling. “Maybe you’ll tell me the real story some time.”
“Maybe I will. Especially if I’m ever here and not driving. That cider looks tempting …”
I swish it around in the glass, taunting him with its fizzy amber glory, before gulping some down in a manner that can only be described as deeply childish.
“So,” I say, when I’m finished winding him up. “How long do you think you’ll be around?”
“I honestly don’t know. I can be flexible. At least a couple of weeks, but I can stay longer. I’m … look, I know you’ve been around forever, and I don’t want to step on your toes here. But I also don’t want to be the crap dad, trying to cram a lifetime into a fortnight. She seems … okay? Considering.”
I let out a small ‘ha!’ noise, and put the cider down on the side table. It doesn’t seem appropriate to have the next stage of this conversation while guzzling booze.
“She’s … better than she was,” I say, screwing my face up as I try and find the right words. “But she’s not okay, Cal. Not at all. The old Martha was … well, she was a handful, don’t get me wrong. A lot of spirit, a lot of character. But after Kate … things spiralled. Drinking. Hanging round with a new crowd. Smoking. Dabbling in drugs. Staying out all hours. She changed – and don’t get me wrong, I understand why she changed. She lost her mum, and got me instead – and I’m not being down on myself here, but I’m a pretty shoddy second best, to be honest. That’s why we moved here.”
“I got that impression when we spoke on the phone,” he replies, leaning forward in interest. “It’s one of the reasons I decided to come.”
“I know, and I appreciate that. Don’t worry about stepping on my toes – this does all feel a bit weird, but what I feel doesn’t matter. It’s Martha that matters. And although things here are improving, to be frank I need all the help I can get. If we work together, this could be good for her, I think. I hope.”
He nods, and thinks it through. He’s handling this well, considering everything I’ve just told him about his daughter – but he seems like a sharp guy, with plenty of experience of the world, so it probably doesn’t come as much of a shock. Teenagers probably face the same temptations in Australia, but with less rain.
“Yeah. That sounds about right. We’ll work together, and see if we can’t just turn things around for her. I won’t over-step, and you can tell me if I do … I’m desperate to know more about her. To talk to her. To be in her life. But I’m also conscious that if I push too hard, she might back right off, like a nervous calf.”
A spluttering laugh escapes me at that one.
“More like a nervous kangaroo,” I say. “One that can punch your lights out without a second thought. But … yeah, you’re right. Is that why you sat and let her quiz you all night?”
“It is. I know she was putting a front on, but she must have been nervous. Weirded out by me being here. She’s gone through a lot of change, and I didn’t want to overload her, come across as the heavy-handed dad – because I have no right to do that anyway.”
“It was the right call,” I agree. “She doesn’t respond well to heavy-handed anything. So … look, let’s just play it by ear, okay? Stay in touch. Have secret meetings. Code words. Whatever.”
“I like that idea,” he says, standing up and stretching. Looks like it’s time for him to go, and it’s definitely time for me to try and sleep off the cider.
He walks towards the door, grabbing his jacket on the way.
“Where’s your cowboy hat?” I ask, trailing after him to see him out.
“Oh … well, I left it in the car. Thought it was all alien enough without going full-on wild west around her. That can be our code word, okay? If ever you think I’m stuffing up, tell me to put my cowboy hat on.”
“What if you already have your cowboy hat on?”
“Tell me to take it off. We’ll improvise. Maybe I’ll get some new hats. I always fancied a fez, or a sombrero …”
We’re both smiling by the time he’s standing in the doorway. Both trying hard to navigate our way through a new and difficult situation.
It’s cold outside now – autumn is well and truly starting to kick in – and I shiver a little. The sky is inky black, dotted with glittering stars that shine and sparkle so much more vividly than they do in the city. It’s so much quieter too – no car horns or wailing alarms or drunk people singing in the street. Just the distant sound of cows in the field, nocturnal animals rustling in the undergrowth, and the gentle tinkle of the water feature in the middle of the green.
He pauses, and looks down at me. His hair is haloed around his head, and his eyes are dark and shining in the moonlight. I’m not quite sure how to leave this, feeling much as Martha must have done earlier – like it’s been too significant to ignore, but not enough to merit a hug.
Cal sticks to his tried and tested method, and holds up his hand for a high five. I slap his palm, and he catches my hand in his, squeezing my fingers a little as he says goodbye.
I watch him walk away, boots crunching on the gravel as he heads for his car, and realise that I feel a bit strange. A bit giddy. A bit uncertain. A bit … warm.
It must be the cider, I tell myself, as I close the door behind me.