Page 39 of Summer, in Between
‘Mr Lightwood is my dad, or was, since he’s long dead, the old bastard.Call me John.’
‘Nice to meet you, John.’
‘And this here is the missus, Paul’s mum, Lorraine.’
I turn, and leaning against the kitchen bench with a cleaning cloth in her hand, stands a woman slight, even without considering her in comparison to the magnitude of her husband.She moves around the bench and takes my hand.
‘Welcome to our home, Catherine.I’m sorry it’s such a mess, we weren’t expecting company.’She nods pointedly at Paul.
‘It’s Cat, Mum, and we’re just popping in.I’ll have a quick shower, and we’ll go.You okay?’
‘Of course, she is,’ his dad says.‘Lorraine, put the kettle on.What’s your poison, love?’
‘A water would be great, thank you.’
‘I’ll be two minutes.’Paul’s voice is low as he brushes past me and heads back down the hall.
‘What are you two kids up to?’John settles his enormous frame into a chair at the table ‘Sit, sit, make yourself at home.’
‘Well, we’re going to the city to pick up my books for school.’I sit on the edge of one of the timber dining chairs, its back hard against mine.‘The first half of my books didn’t arrive, and now they’ve sent me the wrong ones.’
‘You’re still at school?’Paul’s mum places a glass of water on a coaster of garishly bright coloured shells and slides it before me.
‘Yes, my last year.Year Twelve.’I say my school’s name and the thin lines of her eyebrows raise.
‘Fancy,’ she says.‘The boys went local, and they did just fine.’
‘No point spending all that money on tradies,’ John says.‘Jeez, that seems like a long time ago, doesn’t it, love?’
‘A lot’s happened.’Paul’s mother stares down at her hands, gripped as if locked in prayer.
‘You live nearby, love?’John asks.
‘No, we live in Batter’s Cove.’
‘What does your old man do, love?’
‘He’s a builder.You might know him.Michael Kelty?’
‘Mick Kelty’s your old man?That high end job?Thank him for taking on our dickhead.I don’t know your dad well, but I’ve only heard good things.’
‘Well, that’s a relief,’ I say.‘You’re a tradie too, is that right?’
‘Yep, a sparky.I’m the smart one.’I can’t even begin to imagine Paul’s dad moving through the roof spaces of a house, let alone fitting through a manhole.‘Hang on, Mick’s married to that lady architect, that right?You going to follow in the family business?’
‘No, Dad says if I go into construction, he’ll disown me.’I grin.‘I’m going for either law or medicine.’
‘Law or medicine,’ Paul’s dad whistles.‘Hear that, love?Our boy’s landed himself a future doctor or a lawyer.Not bad for a dumbarse, hey love?’
I blush.If only he knew I was a future doctor or lawyer that his son didn’t want to kiss.
‘Cat, are you ready?’Paul’s in the doorway in jeans and a white t-shirt, his hair damp.
‘May I use your bathroom?’I ask Paul’s mother.
‘What lovely manners.It’s the third door on the right.’
There’s a doll on top of the toilet wearing a bright red dress, another southern belle, this one hiding a spare toilet roll under her abundant skirt.The sink is a traffic jam of soap, and the hand towel is covered with embroidered roses.I’m too scared to use it so I shake the water off my hands and dab off the excess on the underside of the embroidery.I return to the living room.
