The Good Daughter Read online

  ‘I’ve refused to give her any more,’ his father is saying. ‘I’m not giving her another cent. He’s an adult, and I’m sick of his smarmy smile every time I see him. I’d rather everyone knew, so they’d stop introducing us. He holds out his hand every time to be shaken, you know – smug grin on his face, knowing I can’t ignore him.’

  ‘How could you keep this from me?’

  ‘It was there if you looked.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In bills, in phone calls, in rumours, in the feeling between you and her the times you went off to her bloody courses. If you want to be shocked and hurt, that’s fine – if that’s how you want to play it – but with me, don’t bother. I’m not having you act like it’s a bolt out of the blue. To your friends, fine, but not to me.’

  ‘What about Zach?’

  ‘I won’t let it affect him.’

  ‘How am I meant to look Kara in the eye next time I see her?’

  ‘I don’t know, Joanne. Perhaps you could keep with the vague tripped-out look you’ve been using for the last twenty years?’

  ‘Why are you talking to me like this? How would you react if I told you I had an adult son and I’d been giving his mother money every week?’

  ‘Well, there you go. How do you know I paid her weekly?’

  ‘I … guessed.’

  His father scoffs and shakes his head. ‘Right. I didn’t really expect you to be rational about it; I’m not telling you for you to understand. It happened before you and I were together – we weren’t even dating. The farm and properties are set up through the company and he can’t touch them. The money I’ve given them is no big deal – most of it the accountant has managed to put through as a tax write-off, anyway. You’re not going to fall apart over this. The last thing we need is you spinning off into one of your depressions.’

  His mother says, ‘Kara Claas … ?’

  ‘Don’t even think of making it about that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it was before we were together. It’s none of your business.’

  ‘None of my business?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  They fall silent. Zach feels under his hand the smooth wooden back of the chair he is holding, and in his face, on his bare chest, are soft gusts of cool night air. He breathes open-mouthed, watches his parents’ silhouettes and listens to the lonely chirp of a single cricket.

  ‘Do I open my eyes to one thing or to everything?’ his mother says.

  His father pushes to his feet and Zach’s heart lurches; he can’t move though, can’t drag himself away. He watches his mother lean back in the chair, lift her face in defiance.

  ‘How many things am I not allowed to spin off into a depression over? Are you going to explain everything to me in simple terms?’

  His father says, ‘Would you like me to? Because I will if you want me to.’

  ‘No,’ she says softly, ‘no thanks.’

  ‘I didn’t think so.’

  There is another pause, maybe as long as the first one, but by now Zach’s blood is thick in his veins, his head is full of air, time seems altered. He can’t say how long it is before his father says, ‘Your timing’s right out, Joanne, if you’re thinking of finding some fucking gumption.’

  4

  Rebecca wakes to silence. No clanging and bashing over at the shed, no power drills starting up, no engine revs or ratchet sounds. There’s a cool breeze through the window, birds twittering in the hakeas, far-off bleating, a tractor running somewhere and smells of dry grass and barren earth slowly heating up. It’s midday. She throws back the covers with resolve, but then sits peering bleary-eyed around her room. First days of holidays are almost always about cleaning the house, and the prospect of that is daunting.

  She gets up, walks outside to let the dogs out. The sun is blinding in the front yard. She tiptoes down the path, her hair messed up, dressed in an oversized T-shirt and skimpy knickers.

  The dogs are desperate to get out. They whine behind the mesh and push past her when she slides the latch. In the carport they’ve turned over both buckets of water and torn up one of the foam dog beds. Too groggy to deal with it, she turns and picks her way back up the path. Halfway up the porch steps she sees a male figure standing by the side gate. Although she recognises the stance and outline as Zach’s, there’s still a split-second in which her chest contracts and her heart jump-starts into a rapid beat. Her fear quickly settles though, and is replaced with a different type of anxiety: it’s an effort not to bring her hand up and smooth down her hair, check that her T-shirt is covering her underwear.

  He opens the gate and some of the dogs bring up their heads and bark.

  Rebecca says, ‘What are you doing here, Kincaid? I’m not even out of bed yet.’

  ‘These dogs gunna bite?’

  A couple of dogs run over and mill around the gate.

  ‘They’ve switched to daytime mode,’ she says. ‘They react favourably to light.’

  He eases through the gate, looks down as the dogs sniff at his pants and workboots. ‘Shouldn’t you call them off or something?’

  ‘I didn’t know you were scared of dogs.’

  ‘Yeah, well, there’s friggin 500 of them.’

  ‘Six actually, but I can see how you’d make the mistake.’

  The banter between them is unchanged and a comfort, a habit, but more awkward than usual considering what they were doing last time they were together. Rebecca holds a hand to her chest and bunches her T-shirt in her fist. She stands with her legs crossed, feeling every inch the second-class citizen.

  ‘Jeez, Bec, is this how you welcome all your visitors? Nice to see you’ve decked yourself out for the day.’

  ‘You know what – if I didn’t know better I’d say you’ve got it bad for me, Kincaid.’

  ‘I wouldn’t get too excited, Toyer.’

  He’s dressed in green work pants and a faded flannelette shirt. A sheen of sweat covers his forehead. He has the same lifted chin as she has, the same half-smile and cocky stare. They’re pretending the bus thing didn’t happen, but at the same time it’s real between them, the reason for all this – a stupid thing to try and ignore.

  ‘Heard your father pulling out this morning,’ he says. ‘He driving interstate?’

  ‘What time were you up?’

  ‘Some of us have to work over the holidays.’

  ‘Well, aren’t you a hero.’

  He tips his head, pulls a face. ‘Yeah, I guess I am.’

  But Rebecca sees now there’s a dull quality to his gaze – not up to the verbal back-and-forth today, not into it. He licks his lips, squints and peers off around the yard.

  ‘You know, it’s illegal or whatever to have this many dogs. All the farmers want to shoot them.’

  ‘We lock them up at night. They stay in the yard during the day.’

  ‘First sheep to go down and you’re gunna have every local out front with rifles loaded.’

  ‘They’re not going to take down a sheep.’

  By his side is the heeler-kelpie cross. He holds out his hand for the dog to sniff. ‘You gunna invite me in or what?’ he says, still looking down at the dog.

  Rebecca glances at the house and tries to recall how she left it last night.

  ‘I haven’t …’ she begins, but changes tack mid-sentence, ‘Well, I guess I have to, now you’ve turned up like some lovesick puppy. I’m gunna have a shower though – so you’ll have to make your own coffee.’

  ‘I don’t drink coffee,’ he says as he follows her inside.

  She feels him looking at the backs of her legs.

  ‘Well, cordial like Mummy makes, or chocolate Quik or whatever.’

  The shower is a blessing: it saves her from having to watch him look around the house. She knows he’s out there walking from room to room, frowning at the things he doesn’t understand or relate to – the diff housing on the laundry floor, the oil-stained towels draped on door knobs, the torn vinyl,
dirty foam, the stack of Playboy magazines on the kitchen dresser.

  By the time she comes out, he’s done all his snooping and is looking at least partway comfortable – sitting on the arm of the couch, flicking through a truck magazine.

  He says, ‘What sort of truck has your old man got again?’

  ‘Kenworth.’

  She’s put on shorts and a singlet top, left her hair out to dry naturally – he gives her the once-over. It’s the schoolyard look, how his mates look at her if she passes, and a reminder of what’s really going on here. When his eyes meet hers he drops his gaze. She sees again there’s something different in his face today – he’s here, but not necessarily for the reasons she thinks. For the first time she’s seeing him with something weighing on his mind.

  He says, ‘You ever been driving with him?’

  ‘When I was younger. I think it’s a father/son thing – I can’t really see the appeal.’

  Zach closes the magazine and leans forward to put it on the coffee table.

  ‘I suppose,’ Rebecca says, ‘if I was a son I’d be following in his footsteps.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘You gunna work on the farm when you finish school?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m meant to be getting a trade first. Dad says a trade helps on the farm, and makes you appreciate being self-employed. I guess I’ll do it. Maybe carpentry. What are you gunna do?’

  In a persistent habit from childhood, Rebecca interlinks her fingers and bends them back and forth, twists them in front of her.

  ‘I’m going to get a job and save up enough to go to NIDA.’

  ‘What’s NIDA?’

  ‘National Institute of Dramatic Arts.’

  ‘Oh,’ he says, a flat quality to his voice, another box he’s slipped her in to. ‘You want to be an actress.’

  ‘Not necessarily, just something in the industry.’

  ‘My mum studied art,’ he says, offhand. ‘She still paints sometimes. Over in the hayshed.’

  ‘Really? What sort of things does she paint?’

  ‘I don’t know … Surrealist stuff.’ He brings up his hand and makes a self-conscious sweeping action in front of his face. ‘Colours and … shapes. She won’t show it. Says it’s too personal.’

  ‘Do you like art?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Maybe carpentry is really an outlet for your creative side.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘Do you want something to drink?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  A dog comes in the front door and sits on the mat to scratch itself. A couple of willie wagtails flit in through the window and perch on the ledge; they twitter, disappear in a flash of black and white. What should be a pleasant reminder of nature only has Rebecca breaking out in a prickle of sweat.

  ‘Do you want to come into my room?’ she says. To stop her hands fidgeting she folds her arms across her chest. ‘We can put some music on. What do you like?’

  He doesn’t move. She thinks he might stand and announce he’s leaving – a bad idea coming, too unsettling to see the step down he has to take to accept her. She wishes he hadn’t come. She’d said his house, not hers. She’d pictured time together by the river, or walking in the paddocks, not time spent here. It’s all the stupid shame and embarrassment she knows she shouldn’t feel. It’s the bitter taste of resentment in the back of her throat. The same resentment she knows chewed her mother up, ate into every part of her like the cancer and made her eagle-eyed and fork-tongued. She doesn’t want to be like that. It’s tough, though – a real struggle with Zach’s good breeding so evident in everything about him. Pedigree seems to ooze from his skin.

  ‘Midnight Oil,’ he answers belatedly. ‘Or AC/DC.’

  This time when he follows her he walks closer. She feels his gaze heavy over her hair and her shoulders, almost as though he feels resentment of his own.

  Zach has long limbs, not yet filled out or muscled. His back and chest are pale, with dark moles in what seem like predesignated spots – on his shoulder blade, high on his chest, on his lower back, spaced and perfectly placed, as though his artist mother had drawn them on. He has dark pubic hair that runs in a thin line up to his navel, soft brown hair beneath his armpits, narrow hips, a hollow stomach, big hands and bony wrists. Feet and legs she can’t say – his pants stay mostly twisted and bunched around his thighs, and then around his ankles. He doesn’t like to be naked, she can tell. What some boys would have taken advantage of – an empty house, no chance of being sprung – leaves him still reserved. The kiss, when it comes, is more or less a disco pash, perhaps a bit more urgent considering the circumstances.

  He pushes her back on the bed, lies on top of her, has her smiling beneath his lips because it is so back seat of the car, so rushed. She closes her eyes and waits for some degree of arousal to come over her; nothing does.

  He touches her, and she ends up against the wall in an effort to make him touch her more gently. Pressure in general he seems mixed up with – his hands hover over the places she wants him to touch and don’t touch the places they should. What is nice, if nice is the right word, is his arousal. He is like he was on the bus: excited but with the brakes applied, held back by inexperience.

  Sex by numbers, dot to dot, is what it is like under him – fingers inside her, tongue in her mouth, hand on her breast, erection pressed against her leg. Not that she minds. The general sense is that they have a job to do, a hurdle to get over. At least he’s aroused.

  So she believes herself responsible when things start to go wrong.

  The reality is she is shut up tight – mind, body, soul, her eyebrows drawn in, mouth pressed into a thin line, frowning even harder as he puts his weight between her legs, tries to push inside her. It’s no wonder she looks up to see him staring down at her, the sleepy look gone from his face, able to focus, his breath coming short and sharp. She has to suck in her cheeks to try and wipe the grimace from her face. Sorry is probably not what you’re meant to say to a man at the moment of penetration.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says.

  He withdraws.

  ‘No, Zach, I want you to.’

  But he is pulling up his pants, reaching for his shirt.

  Fair to say he runs. What she does get to see of his face is a strange softness around his mouth, a vague look in his eyes, confusion. She has the impression he will get out of view of the house and stop to catch his breath, gather his thoughts, but he isn’t going to do it in front of her.

  They speak briefly in the kitchen. He runs a hand through his hair and mutters something about getting back, his father thinking he’s at the dam checking the pump. She wraps her arms around herself and nods.

  ‘If it’s hot tomorrow,’ she manages, ‘do you want to meet at the swimming hole?’

  ‘I might have to work,’ he says.

  5

  If the Kincaid property is big and rambling – kilometre-wide tussock-filled gullies, a blue sky from one horizon to the other, nothing to break your line of sight – then the homestead is perfectly positioned in the centre of it. The house is airy, with wide verandas, spacious rooms, everything clean and managed. The garden is neat and free of weeds, the winding paths topped up with white pebbles, the birdbath scrubbed, pristine – no algae in the water, no slime or the presence of anything remotely organic.

  A farm has very little to do with nature, Zach has decided. It’s unnatural in fact, and his father runs a particularly tight ship. Zach likes to think of the farm as homogenised instead of harmonised. It seems to him his father is the only organic and animate thing on it – everything else is fake.

  He arrives back to hear his father’s raised voice in the kitchen.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing! You’re on the phone to her? What is that? Explain to me the sense in that! And you wonder why I didn’t tell you – well, it was exactly for this reason. You’re a self-fulfilling prophecy, Joanne, an absolute fucking nut!’

  His mother says something Zach mis
ses. His father’s voice lifts another octave. ‘Well, it wouldn’t take much, would it!’

  A cupboard door slams and there is the clink of cutlery being tossed in a drawer.

  His mother rallies. ‘You’re the one shouting. You’re the one following me around.’

  ‘You’re on the phone to her the minute I walk out the door!’

  ‘She’s my friend. I was asking her why she didn’t tell me. We weren’t talking about you, we weren’t talking about him, we were just … I was just …’

  ‘You don’t know what you were doing – you’ve got yourself confused with one of your daytime soaps. Do you need me to write it on the fridge for you? Don’t ring her, don’t talk to her, don’t talk to him. Should I make it into a little mantra for you to chant while you do the housework?’

  ‘Stop it. Stop talking to me like this. You can’t expect me not to talk to her.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I expect.’

  ‘We live in the same town, we have the same friends – I have to clear the air.’

  ‘Clear the air?’ His father’s voice is breathless with disbelief. ‘How do you think you’re going to clear the air? What are you going to say to make it comfortable next time you sit around sipping herbal tea? She understands better than you. She hasn’t ever told you because she knows it’s a pointless exercise. You falling around in tears, trying to patch things up, clear the air, only makes it worse.’

  ‘Why do you talk like you know her?’

  ‘I do know her.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘No-one expects you to understand.’

  ‘Does she speak civilly to you?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t she?’

  ‘I thought …’

  ‘Don’t think too hard, Joanne, the tablets don’t allow for that.’

  ‘Do you like her?’

  There’s a pause. His father’s voice grows faint, as though he’s turned away or bent to retrieve something.

  ‘Did you like her at the time?’ his mother asks.