‘Bruno says you’re helping the police.’
‘As much as I can.’
She looks towards Bruno, who is explaining to Julianne that the first fossil records of the rose date back 35 million years and Sapho wrote ‘Ode to a Rose’ in 600 B.C. calling it the queen of flowers.
‘How does he know stuff like that?’ I ask.
‘He says the same about you.’
She looks at him fondly. ‘I used to love him, then I hated him, and now I’m caught between the two. He’s not a bad man, you know.’
‘I know.’
33
Cars are parked in the driveway and on the footpath outside the Wheeler house. Darcy is welcoming the mourners, taking coats and handbags. She looks at me as if I’m coming to rescue her.
‘When can we leave?’ she whispers.
‘You’re doing great.’
‘I don’t think I can handle much more of this.’ More guests are arriving. The sitting room and dining rooms are crowded. Julianne takes hold of my left hand as we skirt the clusters of mourners, weaving between outstretched cups of tea and plates of sandwiches and cakes.
Ruiz has found a beer.
‘So you want to hear about Darcy’s father?’ he asks.
‘Have you found him?’
‘Getting closer. His name wasn’t on her birth certificate, but I got confirmation of the marriage. Parish records. Wonderful things.’
Julianne gives him a hug. ‘Can’t we talk about something else?’ ‘You mean like pensions,’ Ruiz says playfully, ‘or maybe mergers and acquisitions.’
‘Very funny.’
She punches him playfully. Ruiz takes another swig of beer, enjoying himself. I leave them talking and go looking for Darcy’s aunt. She’s directing traffic in the kitchen, waving plates of sandwiches through one door and collecting empty dishes through another. The benches are covered with food and the air is thick with the smell of cakes and tea.
Kerry Wheeler is a big woman with a Spanish suntan and heavy jewellery. The expanse of skin below her neck is mottled and lipstick has smeared in the corners of her mouth.
‘Call me Kerry,’ she says, pouring boiling water into a teapot. The steam has flattened her perm and she tries to make it bounce again by flicking it with her fingers.
‘Can we talk?’ I ask.
‘Sure. I’m dying for a fag.’
She pulls a packet of cigarettes from her handbag and a large glass of white wine from a hiding place behind the biscuit jars. She takes them outside, down three steps, to the garden.
‘You want one?’
‘I don’t smoke.’
She lights up.
‘I hear you’re famous.’
‘No.’
She exhales and watches the smoke dissipate. I notice the purple veins on the back of her ankles and raw skin where her high heels have been rubbing.
‘Couldn’t wait for that funeral to end,’ she says. ‘Felt cold enough to snow. Crazy weather. I’m not used to it any more. Too long in the sun.’
‘About Darcy.’
‘Yeah. I meant to say, thanks for looking after her. It won’t be necessary any more.’
‘You’re going back to Spain.’
‘Day after tomorrow.’
‘Have you told Darcy?’
‘Going to.’
‘When?’
‘I just buried my sister. That was my first priority.’
She pulls her jacket closer around her chest; sucks on the cigarette. ‘I didn’t ask for this, you know.’
‘Ask for what?’
‘Darcy.’ The wine glass clinks against her teeth. ‘Kids are difficult. Selfish. That’s why I don’t have any.’ She looks at me. ‘You got children?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you know what I mean.’
‘Not really.’ I speak softly. ‘Darcy wants to go to ballet school in London.’
‘And who’s going to pay for that?’
‘I think she plans to sell this place.’
‘This place!’ The big woman laughs. Her teeth are yellow and dotted with fillings. ‘Bank owns “this place”. Just like the bank owns the car. Bank owns the furniture. Bank owns the friggin’ lot.’
She belches into her fist and flicks the cigarette butt into the garden where it bounces and sparks. ‘My sister- the big shot businesswoman- writes a will when there’s nothing to bloody give away. And even if there is something left when I sell this place, young missy is too young to inherit. I’m her legal guardian. Says so in the will.’
‘I think you should talk to Darcy about Spain. She won’t want to go.’
‘Not her decision.’
She rubs her heels as if trying to restore blood flow to her feet.
‘I still think you should talk to her.’
A ravelled silence and a sigh. ‘I appreciate your concern, Mr O’Loughlin.’
‘Call me Joe.’
‘Well, Joe, we all have to make compromises. Darcy needs someone to look after her. I’m the only family she’s got.’
I can feel myself getting annoyed. Angry. I shake my head and press my hands tighter into my jacket pockets.
‘You think I’m wrong,’ she says.
‘Yes.’
‘That’s another advantage of being my age- I don’t have to give a shit.’
As soon as I enter the house Julianne senses something is wrong. She looks at me questioningly. My left arm is trembling.
‘You ready to go?’ she asks.
‘Let me talk to Darcy first.’
‘To say goodbye.’
It’s a statement, not a question.
I look in the lounge and the dining room, the front hallway and then upstairs. Darcy is in her bedroom, sitting at the window, staring at the garden.
‘You hiding?’
‘Yep,’ she says.
The room is full of music posters and stuffed toys. It’s a time capsule from Darcy’s childhood, which seems incredibly distant. I notice scraps of torn paper on the floor and a pile of condolence cards stacked haphazardly on the bed. Someone has opened them quickly, without care.
‘You’ve been reading cards.’
