Читать книгу Until Death - Sandy Curtis - Страница 9

Libby buttoned her blouse. In spite of careful washing and drying, the grass stain on the shoulder still remained, dark against the pale blue fabric. She looked down at her pants. They'd cleaned up well, but her sneakers looked incongruous against the elegant style. Not that it worried her. Fashion had never been something she cared about. She bit her lip. Another thing that had caused dissension between her and her mother.

She usually didn't bother much about make-up, either, but the mirror above the old cedar chest of drawers told her it would help disguise the paleness of her cheeks, the dark shadows under her eyes, and the purple of the bruising. Not that she could do much about it at the moment.

They caught a bus into the city. Libby sat at the window, looking out at older-styled homes overshadowed by high-rise apartment buildings, then shops spruced up with Christmas decorations. Carols jangled into the cacophony of constant traffic, and the crowds rushed and flowed in a never-ending stream.

Christmas. She hadn't even thought about it. In the past five years she'd spent every alternate Christmas with her mother's family, suffering the rituals that had lost all spontaneity, the traditions that meant a dinner table piled with more food than was comfortable to eat, and attendance at a church service in order to be seen rather than pay homage to the child born in a stable. Her discontent with this way of life had led to her studying welfare at university and working for a charity group that helped Mexican immigrant workers. The latter had precipitated her big fight with her mother. A safe desk job that was seen to be 'doing the right thing' was fine in her mother's eyes, but getting 'down and dirty with the peasants' was a definite social error.

Sharing Christmas with those workers had been an unexpected bonus for Libby. Generous in spite of their poverty, or perhaps because of it, she thought later, they had shared not only their food, but their love and laughter with her, and she'd felt the glow of unconditional acceptance that she used to know with her father.

Conor's hand folding over hers and his sympathetic whisper 'It'll be all right, we'll find him' made her realise her melancholy thoughts must have shown on her face. She looked down at their hands, his long fingers covering her small ones, and felt a warmth and safety that eased the pain inside her, and created a startling awareness of how good his skin felt on hers. A week ago she would have pulled her hand away, but now she savoured the feeling, desperately in need of touch, of reassurance ... and something else she didn't want to acknowledge.

The Title Deed to Conor's land was spotted with age, but Libby breathed a sigh of relief as she saw her grandfather's name listed. Finding him had become her focus; knowing she could trust him was the only sureness in her present confusion of half-remembered nightmares.

'The previous owners purchased the house from him,' Conor said, 'so that will make it easier to trace. I'll phone the real estate agent they used and see if she knows where they were moving after they sold to me. Don't worry,' he reassured Libby, 'we'll find him. But in the meantime we'd better buy you some new clothes.'

Libby's hand rose self-consciously to the stain on her blouse. 'It'll just be a loan, Conor, I'll pay you back as soon as I can.' As soon as this nightmare is over.

They stepped from the coolness of the bank onto a crowded pavement. The heat hit them like a blow.

'Up to the Queen Street Mall,' Conor said, taking her arm. 'I've heard some of my Asian students talk about buying their clothes there, and you're certainly the same size.'

Although Conor urged her to buy more clothes, Libby insisted that she only needed a change of clothing, an extra top, and a pair of sandals. She purchased toiletries, and some aspirin for her headache that refused to go away. She was grateful it hadn't escalated into a migraine. But the constant noise bothered her, and it wasn't long before Conor noticed.

'I'll find a phone book and call the real estate agent,' he said, 'and then we'll have lunch. Do you mind walking a few blocks?'

'Not so long as it's to somewhere quiet.'

She waited while Conor found a telephone book and made two calls, acutely aware of the sound of voices and footsteps bouncing off the tiled floor in the adjoining food court. Conor didn't say a word when he finished, just guided her gently out of the building. Four blocks later they walked into the Botanic Gardens. Enormous trees overhung the paths that meandered through thick grass and varied shrubs, offering a cool shelter from the heat. As the quiet seeped into her being, Libby noticed no-one was hurrying. Family groups picnicked, workers ate their lunches, and from several hundred metres deeper into the gardens, a children's choir sang carols. But in comparison with the raucous recordings in the shops, these pure, lilting voices seemed almost soothing.

The path led to an old low-set Federation-style cottage converted into a restaurant, with a wide covered verandah added out the front. A young waitress greeted Conor and showed them to a corner table for two on the verandah.

'The real estate agent had sold the previous owners another house, so he was able to give me their address,' Conor said after they ordered. 'I phoned them but there was no answer. I'll keep trying, though.'

'Thank you,' Libby said. It felt weird sitting in such pleasant surroundings discussing how close they were to finding her grandfather, while her mother's body, for all she knew, could still be lying on the cold tiles of their foyer.

A movement on the path below caught Libby's eye. A large crow walked along the path, hopped up the stairs, then flew onto the wooden verandah railing. One bright eye watching Conor, he edged cautiously up to their table. With a swift movement, he pecked a sugar sachet from the bowl, and jumped back to the path with his booty. Libby turned at Conor's low chuckle. 'Watch him now, Libby,' he told her. The crow beat the sachet on the concrete, the white grains spilled out, and with quick taps he devoured his sweet prize.

'Does he do that all the time?' she asked.

'Max has developed a taste for sugar since he discovered table crumbs were easier to catch than insects.'

'Sounds like he's a local identity.'

'He'll eat cake out of your hand if you don't make sudden movements.'

'Conor, why are you helping me?'

Her question took him by surprise. He wanted to tell her the truth, but that was impossible. Besides, his initial reason had changed. Now he wanted to help her because she needed him, he had come to care about her, and he'd realised that nothing he did now could make up for the past.

'Perhaps I like a challenge,' he teased. 'And seeing the look on your face when Max stole the sugar was worth battling the Christmas crowds.' For an instant she looked puzzled, then she smiled, and Conor felt something spiral up inside him and stop his breathing.

By the time they arrived back at Conor's house, the humidity had increased and the southern sky was dark with storm clouds. Libby felt the oppressive atmosphere crush her.

'Why don't we have a cold drink under the Poinciana tree?' Conor suggested as he opened the windows. No breeze broke the intensity of the heat, but at least the house wasn't as stuffy. Libby wondered if it was only the threat of rain that gave her a sense of foreboding, and made her feel as though the walls were closing in on her.

'I'd like that,' she replied. 'A juice will be fine.'

The poinciana tree was laden with red and white flowers and formed a cool canopy above their heads. Libby gazed at the backyard as she sat at the sturdy wooden table. Vegetable gardens marched in ordered rows, and a huge mango tree dominated one corner. Conor placed a glass of orange juice on the table in front of Libby, then sat down and took a long swig from a stubby. Beads of sweat trickled down his throat as he gulped, and Libby felt a strange sensation as she watched them disappear into the vee of his white shirt. She gripped her glass to stop her fingers from following their need to trace the path of those beads, down to ...

'Do you recognise anything in the backyard, Libby?'

She blinked at his question. 'The mango tree.' She raised her eyes to the branches above. 'And this one. It was always big, but when you're only twelve most trees look that way. I used to climb it and jump down into my grandfather's arms. He'd catch me and swing me around and we'd laugh. He had blue eyes, like my father, and they twinkled in the same way.'

'And you loved him.'

'Yes. And I lost him.'

'Why?'

'Because I thought my father had betrayed us.' She saw the questioning look in Conor's eyes, sighed, and continued. 'When I was thirteen I got sick at school. The principal phoned my mother, and she left work to pick me up and take me home. When I walked past my parents' bedroom I glanced in ...' she paused, remembering the shock, the horror, she had felt, 'and saw my father on the bed with another woman. Their clothes were strewn everywhere and they hadn't even pulled back the covers, and ...'

'What did your mother do?'

'She pulled me away and closed the door. The next day we flew to the States.'

'And your father?'

'I heard him pleading, later that night, saying it hadn't been planned, it wasn't an affair. The woman was a client and he'd been showing her over his factories when he remembered he'd left the sales proposal for her in the home office. She followed him in, and kissed him and ... He kept telling Mom how sorry he was but she refused to listen.' She looked pensively at Conor. 'Was your father always faithful to your mother, Conor?'

A bitter smile quirked his mouth. 'In the bedroom, yes. But there are other ways to deceive in a relationship, Libby.'

She digested his answer, then spoke slowly. 'I blamed Dad for many years. Then, when I was at college and listening to the family stories of the girls I shared with, I realised that my parents were simply incompatible. My father was a passionate, demonstrative man, and I began to see that no matter how much he had loved my mother, she could never have satisfied him sexually.'

'Children don't always see what goes on in their parents' bedroom,' Conor said, then finished off his beer.

'A lot of nights during my childhood were spent listening to my father pleading with my mother to be more affectionate. Sometimes he would end up yelling that if she only believed in sex for procreation then she should have let him know that before they married. So although I couldn't condone what he did, I gradually came to understand why he did it.'

'But you never attempted to contact him?'

'I thought he'd wiped his hands of us. When I found out I was the sole heir in his Will, I flew to Sydney. My mother came later. I cleaned out my father's desk at home, and I found letters he'd written but never posted, asking us to forgive him. And I hated myself for not coming back and seeing him before he died. I always thought that one day I'd do just that, but he had a massive heart attack and died within an hour. So I never got the chance.'

'But he obviously loved you, or he wouldn't have left his estate to you.'

'Money doesn't matter to me, Conor. It made my mother happy, but I'd trade it all to be able to change those years when I believed Dad didn't love me.'

Love. The word hit Conor with more force than he believed possible. And the longing in Libby's voice echoed in his heart.

That night Libby put on the T-shirt Conor had loaned her, switched the bedside lamp to dim, and wondered if sleep would claim her. The cotton shirt smelled clean and fresh, but she wished it didn't. She wished it smelled of Conor. As disorientated as she had felt when he'd carried her from the bathroom, somehow it had registered that she'd liked the smell of him.

Only one nightmare disturbed Libby's sleep, and it coincided with the storm that lashed the house for twenty minutes before rumbling seawards. She woke to a day that was just as steamy as the one before, but now she had the first faint stirrings of hope that the day would bring something positive. She showered and put on her new clothes, folding up the hems on her pants so they wouldn't catch on her sandals. If Conor had a needle and thread, she decided, she would sew them up so they looked neater.

Conor was already in the kitchen when Libby walked in. He finished cutting mango into two bowls, then turned towards her. The serious look on his face warned her that her hopes were soon to be dashed.

'I'm sorry, Libby,' he said gently, 'but the news isn't good. I phoned the previous owners this morning, and ... your grandfather is dead.'