After Read online

  To Professor J.V. Rosenfeld

  —an extraordinary man.

  Thank you!

  Special thanks:

  Karen, Andrew and all at black dog books.

  What a team!

  Esther Crowley, Bruce and Courtney

  —my trusted first readers.

  Paul Stanislawski for sharing

  his knowledge and skill so generously.

  CHAPTER 1

  I watched the old woman smooth down the purple doona. Her words rattled around my head.

  Clean linen.

  Comfortable.

  Your mother’s bed.

  The word ‘mother’ hung in the air.

  The old man in the doorway cleared his throat. ‘Here are your bags, Callum.’

  Callum? No one—not even Franger, my old principal—called me Callum. I was CJ. CJ Alexander.

  I repeated the only word I’d said since they’d picked me up at the Millington train station two hours ago. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Right, Patricia, let’s leave him to settle in,’ said the man.

  The woman looked me up and down. ‘The wardrobe’s empty,’ she said. ‘So are the drawers. We’ll be in the kitchen.’

  ‘Thanks…’ What did I call her? Grandma? Gran? Nan? It was all too hard. As I eased the door shut behind them, an ache settled in my chest. I dumped my stuff on the bed and unzipped the duffle bag. The smell of home filled my head, sparking memories.

  Mum’s brittle chatter while she sat on my bed, watching me pack.

  Her hands fumbling to unbuckle her seatbelt in the five-minute parking bay at Southern Cross Station.

  Mum’s partner, Christos, squeezing my shoulder and saying, ‘It’s just for a while, mate, just until things blow over.’

  Mum’s hand suspended in the air, a drowning woman’s wave for rescue instead of a mum’s goodbye wave.

  I unpacked, wondering if Mum felt as alone as I did. Bags empty and shoved in the bottom of the wardrobe, I flopped on the bed and turned on my iPod. To stop the memories crowding in on me, I relived every kick and dribble of that last game of soccer I played with Nic.

  A hand gripped my shoulder, making me jump. When I opened my eyes, my grandmother was standing over me, frowning.

  ‘I did knock,’ she said, watching me take out my earbuds. ‘That’s far too loud. You’ll damage your hearing.’ She looked around the room. ‘All unpacked?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Good. You must be starving. We’re having chops and vegies for dinner.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘We normally have leftovers on Saturdays, especially during footy season.’

  Was I meant to say something?

  After a moment, she continued. ‘Well, wash your hands and we’ll see you in the kitchen. You do remember where the bathroom is?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  She nodded and left.

  I waited until the sound of her footsteps faded before stepping across the hall into a bathroom so white it reminded me of a TV commercial for bleach. There were no piles of discarded clothes, frayed towels or mould above the shower here. Just white towels, white soap, white tiles, white toilet and white curtains. I felt grungy and out of place.

  To avoid making anything dirty, I stuck my hands under running water and dried them on my jeans, then wandered down the corridor.

  When my grandparents had showed me around earlier, I hadn’t taken much notice. Now, walking down a hall wider than my bedroom at home and longer than our entire house, I checked the place out. The place where Mum grew up. It was huge and flash, but not marble and gold flash like Nic’s place. It was flash in a quiet way—a cream way.

  The walls, carpet, even the lamp on the hall table, were cream and the paintings—a bark hut, cattle grazing under gum trees and vases of flowers all in gold frames—were more like photographs than the artwork I was used to at home. The carpet was cream too, and thick, not like the carpets at home, which were threadbare in patches.

  The other thing I noticed was the silence. Well, not total silence—a clock ticked somewhere—but silence compared with home. There was no buzz, no sound of traffic, tram bells dinging, sirens wailing or people shouting. There was no noise to help me forget.

  ‘Lost?’ asked my grandfather, standing at the end of the hall, arms folded.

  My face flushed. ‘Nah.’

  I followed him through the family room to the kitchen where the pine table was set with three place mats, knives, forks and spoons. Two mats had wine glasses in front of them. I sat at the spot with a regular glass My grandmother placed a plate of food in front of me—brown meat curled like the letter C and edged with fat, carrots sliced like match sticks, puckered peas and a pile of mashed potatoes.

  My grandfather sat at the end of the table. My grandmother sat opposite me. I lifted my knife and fork and tried to figure out what to eat first.

  The old man cleared his throat and said, ‘We’ll say grace before we start.’

  I put my cutlery back on the table. While he rattled off a prayer so fast I could only make out a few words—receive, lord and grateful —I concentrated on the blue jug filled with white daisies in the middle of the table. Mum always had flowers on the kitchen table, usually flowers she’d picked from bushes hanging over the footpath.

  ‘Start, Callum,’ said the woman.

  ‘How’s your room?’ the man asked.

  ‘Yeah, good.’ I stared at the meat, wondering how to tackle it.

  ‘Tomato sauce?’ The old man lifted a glass jug. ‘Your grandmother made it. Best I’ve tasted.’

  She didn’t look up.

  ‘Mum makes tomato chutney.’ The word chutney stuck in my throat, thick and biting. I doused the meat with sauce. The sound of the ticking clock messed with my head. ‘Do you grow tomatoes, ummm…?’

  ‘Call me Pat, Callum.’ The woman’s eyes were like Mum’s.

  ‘Pat? He will not call you Pat. He’s our grandson.’ The man glared at the woman. ‘Call me Grandpa, Callum. And call your grandmother Nan.’

  The woman tutted.

  After dinner, Grandpa tucked the newspaper under his arm and strode to the family room. I helped Nan clean up.

  ‘Remember, glasses and mugs in the top tray, plates, facing this way, in the bottom,’ said Nan, ‘and knives always go in blade down.’

  She closed the dishwasher and led the way to a leather lounge in the family room.

  ‘What do you usually watch, Callum?’ asked Grandpa, sitting in a recliner. His glasses were perched on the tip of his nose and the newspaper was spread across his lap ‘Whatever.’

  Nan frowned. ‘Not familiar with that one.’

  I chewed the inside of my lip. ‘Chris likes the ABC.’

  Grandpa looked up from his paper. ‘Chris?’ The air around him was heavy with unasked questions.

  I pushed Mum’s warning about not mentioning her, home or Chris from my head. ‘Christos—Chris. Mum’s partner. He’s an art lecturer at the university.’

  ‘Have they been together long?’ Grandpa folded the newspaper in half once and then in half again.

  ‘Since I was in Year Four.’ I stared at my hands curled like slater beetles in my lap

  Nan shook her head and reached into the basket beside the couch. She pulled out coloured thread and material stretched across a wooden circle. Grandpa harrumphed and pressed the button on the remote control. The news theme filled the room. Unasked questions and the stories of death and disaster on TV weighed down on me. As I wedged myself in the corner of the lounge, the phone rang.

  ‘That’ll be your mother,’ said Nan, not moving. ‘Or someone for your grandfather.’

  ‘You get it, Callum,’ said Grandpa, nodding to the phone on the kitchen bench.

  It was an effort to get to my feet to answer
it.

  ‘How was the trip?’ said Mum, in a fake cheery voice. I pictured her sitting on the bench, the cord of the phone looping from the wall.

  ‘Boring.’

  ‘How are … they?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘You left your jacket on the back seat. Chris found it after the train—’

  ‘Can you bring it up?’

  Mum sighed. ‘CJ, you know I can’t—’

  ‘But it’s okay for you to send me here?’

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Don’t what?’

  ‘Provoke me. We’ve been over this a hundred times. This is how it has to be. For your own good,’ said Mum.

  ‘Right. I’m here for me. Gotta go.’

  ‘CJ. Wait.’

  I pressed the end-call button and placed the phone in its cradle. I stuck my head into the family room. ‘I’m going to bed.’

  Nan frowned. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Yep. Just tired.’

  Before either of them answered, I took off to my room. Mum’s old room.

  CHAPTER 2

  BEFORE…

  Sprawled across the lounge chair, legs hanging over the armrest, CJ balanced an empty cereal bowl on his lap.

  ‘Can you feed the chooks, CJ? The scrap bucket’s overflowing,’ said his mother, stuffing a sketchbook into her tote bag. ‘And bring the washing in if it looks like rain.’

  ‘Yeah. But I can’t if it rains when I’m at soccer training.’

  Maeve groaned. ‘I forgot about soccer training. Text me when you get there, okay? And when you get back home.’

  ‘Are you serious, Mum?’ said CJ, swinging his feet to the floor. ‘I’m not a little kid.’

  ‘Just humour me, okay?’ said Maeve, kneeling in front of the coffee table and flicking through the ceramic bowl filled with shells and pebbles. Strands of hair had escaped from her plait.

  ‘So, what’s up?’ asked CJ.

  ‘I can’t find my rose quartz pendant and the tram leaves in ten minutes.’ Maeve stood and faced the mantelpiece. ‘There!’ She tied the leather thong behind her neck. The crystal rested beneath the hollow of her throat.

  ‘What’s the deal with that?’ asked CJ, nodding at the pendant.

  ‘Rose quartz reduces stress, and it’s good for self-confidence and creativity. I need all the help I can get today.’ Maeve reached for the bag she’d left beside the coffee table.

  CJ scoffed. ‘You seriously believe a pink rock—’

  Maeve shot him a dirty look.

  CJ raised his hands. ‘Sorr-rry.’

  Maeve slung her bag over her shoulder and frowned. ‘CJ, are you sure you’re okay about this?’

  He groaned. ‘Mum, I’m okay about your new job at the uni, and before you ask, again, I think you’ll be great and no I don’t think anyone will care that Christos is an art lecturer there. Now get out of here, or you’ll miss the tram.’

  She glanced at her watch. ‘Be safe, CJ, and make sure you check the chooks’ water.’

  ‘See ya.’ CJ picked up his phone and sent Nic a text.

  ‘Free. B at skate park in 10.’

  CHAPTER 3

  Curled under the doona, I stared out the window into the black night. A bird called in the distance. Its stuttering cry made me shiver.

  I reached for my iPod but changed my mind, leaving it on the bedside table. Instead I listened to the rumble of the TV down the hall. The phone rang. Part of me hoped it was Mum calling back, but most of me, the angry part of me, hoped it wasn’t.

  Mum said the space and quiet here would give me a chance to heal and regroup. Heal and regroup—if I heard those words again I’d smash something. But not my iPod—that was the only thing she’d let me bring from home. And she’d acted like it was some huge, generous act on her behalf. If she was serious about me being here to ‘heal’ she’d have let me bring my phone, computer, bike or my skateboard.

  Being here had nothing to do with me healing. Mum had dumped me, banished me, because she hated me like everyone else.

  ‘Callum?’ said Grandpa, knocking on the door. I heard the swish of the door over the carpet.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and slowed my breathing.

  ‘Are you awake?’

  Slow, deep breaths.

  Grandpa sighed.

  I kept my eyes closed, even when I heard the door close. My hands ached from squeezing them into fists.

  I stood on the edge of a rocky cliff, wearing my soccer uniform, even my boots. I could smell seaweed and taste salt on my lips. Nic stood beside me, smiling.

  Far below, the waves smashed against rocks. Nic’s smile morphed into a frown, then a snarl. He reached out and shoved me. I lurched forward.

  Falling. Falling. Arms and legs flailing in the air.

  The waves sucked back from the shore, exposing jagged rocks.

  I gasped and sat up. I must have fallen asleep. Everything was dark. Silent. The caw of a crow broke the spell. I rubbed my sweaty palms on the doona and turned to the window. Outside, the early morning world was inky purple. Birds bobbed in the bush outside my room. A line of sheep moved ghost-like along the fence separating the garden from the paddock.

  Nan was peeling potatoes at the sink, listening to a guy on the radio talk about outback Australia. ‘Good morning, Callum. Or should I say good afternoon?’ she said, turning off the radio.

  I glanced at the clock above the stove. It was only 11. At home I sometimes slept until after midday on a Sunday. ‘I had a shower. And I made my bed.’

  Nan harrumphed. ‘What do you have for breakfast?’

  Organic yogurt and organic fruit, or homemade organic muesli and vegetable juice. On special occasions, we had ricotta pancakes and fruit salad.

  ‘Whatever.’

  A shadow crossed Nan’s face. She put two slices of white bread into the toaster. ‘There’s orange juice, butter, jam and honey on the table.’ She flicked the switch on the radio and peeled some pumpkin.

  I ate toast and jam while the guy on the radio raved on about some place called Bourke. As soon as I finished my breakfast, I escaped my grandmother’s silence to the family room. I watched a footy show, flicking from station to station during ad breaks, listing what I could have been doing at home.

  Hang out at the skate ramp behind the library. Ride down to the boatsheds. Touch up the deck design I created last week on the computer. Download new music for my iPod. Check MySpace, just in case someone had sent me a message—not that anyone had for months.

  Not think about Nic.

  From the kitchen, meat sizzled, kitchen pots clanged and water swished in the sink.

  ‘It’s all happening in here,’ said Grandpa, walking into the kitchen. ‘How are you, Callum?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘How was training, Jim?’ asked Nan.

  Training? What sort of training would Grandpa do at his age? Bowls?

  ‘Not bad. Macka’s corkie hasn’t come good.’

  How would you cork a thigh bowling?

  ‘Doesn’t look like he’ll be right for Millington next week.’

  ‘Oh well,’ said Nan, as though she wasn’t interested.

  ‘How long till lunch?’ asked Grandpa.

  ‘Another half hour,’ said Nan. She must have opened the oven because the sizzling became louder.

  ‘Have I got time to check the trough at Swampy’s?’

  ‘Sure.’

  I heard the hiss of a whisper.

  ‘Coming for a drive, Callum?’ asked Grandpa.

  I stared at the TV. ‘No thanks.’

  ‘The fresh air will do you good,’ said Nan.

  Something about her voice told me there was no point in fighting. With a sigh, I trudged to the kitchen.

  ‘No longer than half an hour, Jim, or lunch will spoil,’ said Nan.

  Dried grass and mud, scrunched-up paper and empty Coke cans littered the bench seat and floor of Grandpa’s ute.

  ‘You could give it a clean when we get back,
’ said Grandpa, turning the key, which he’d left in the ignition.

  ‘Maybe.’

  Grandpa drove past the cypress trees where two tan-and-black dogs were tied up. Both barked like crazy. One strained on its chain. The other leapt onto the semicircle tin shed that must have been its kennel.

  ‘Are they always chained up?’ I asked.

  ‘They get let off for a run every day. Know what they are?’

  Did he think I was stupid?

  ‘Sheep dogs. Kelpies.’

  ‘That’s right. The one on the kennel, Star, is the youngest. I’ve had Jilly for eight years.’

  I nodded.

  Grandpa drove past a huge corrugated tin shed surrounded by wooden rails. ‘I built that woolshed nearly 50 years ago. The original shed was the other side of the farm. You can earn yourself a few dollars if you’re here for shearing or crutching,’ said Grandpa.

  ‘What’s crutching?’

  ‘We shear the dags off the sheep’s legs and bum to stop fly strike.’

  Fly strike? I kind of laughed.

  Grandpa set his grey eyes on me. ‘A sheep with an arse full of maggots eating it alive is no laughing matter.’

  I gritted my teeth and stared straight ahead.

  Grandpa turned off the gravel and followed ruts in the grass. We jolted around the paddock, past a dam, a windmill and more groups of cypress trees. Grandpa said they were windbreaks, protection for the sheep. He stopped at a double gate and a mob of sheep charged towards us.

  ‘What’s up with them?’ I asked.

  ‘They think we’re going to feed them.’

  ‘Are they, like—’

  Grandpa’s laugh was harsh. ‘Dangerous?’ My face burned.

  ‘Want to open the gate?’

  I eyed the sheep.

  Grandpa cleared his throat. ‘Actually, this gate’s tricky.’

  He strolled to the gate and pushed it open, waving his arms at the sheep. They stood their ground for a moment, then skittered backwards.

  Even though the sheep had taken off, I let him close the gate after he’d driven through.

  ‘Always leave gates as you find them,’ he said, steering across the paddock to a cement thing by the fence. Everything he said seemed forced.

  Beyond the fence were silver ferns and tall gums. It reminded me of the place we went on school camp the year before at the Grampians.