Gift of the Gab (4 page)

As I ran home, trying to keep tears out of my eyes so I didn't crash into trees, I knew exactly what I wanted Dad to do.

I wanted him to get a microscope and a bloodhound and a team of private detectives and come up with some evidence of his own.

Evidence to prove he didn't use too much spray when I was inside Mum.

Evidence to prove he didn't make my throat turn out crook.

Evidence to prove he didn't kill Mum.

‘Dad,' I wanted to beg him after I burst into the house. ‘Prove they're wrong. Prove you didn't do it. Please.'

But I couldn't.

He was sitting at the kitchen table, shoulders slumped, staring at a slice of toast. He'd probably been there since the TV people left this morning.

He looked so unhappy I couldn't make him feel worse.

How would he have felt, his own daughter demanding proof and not trusting him?

So I just clenched my guts into a small tight knot and said, ‘I know you didn't do it, Dad.'

He hugged me so tight that the fringe on his shirt left little dents in my cheek.

‘I'd never do anything to hurt you, Tonto,' he whispered.

He hugged me for so long that Claire got worried about dehydration and made us a cup of tea.

It was a kind thought, but I needed more than tea.

What about Mum? I wanted to ask, but I couldn't.

And then, when Dad had wiped his eyes and built up his strength with a cuppa and a mouthful of toast, he told me without being asked.

His evidence proved everything I wanted it to prove, everything I needed it to prove so our lives could go back to being the same.

Except that by the time Dad had finished, my life had changed totally and completely for ever and ever.

I'm lying here on my bed and my brain feels like someone's been bashing it with the wardrobe.

It's in shock.

It can't take everything in.

Perhaps if I start at the beginning and go through it all again slowly, it'll cope better.

First Dad opened his cardboard expanding file, the one he keeps all his Carla Tamworth fan-club newsletters and other important documents in. It was already on the kitchen table instead of under the bed where he usually keeps it.

‘This,' he said, ‘was my bible.'

He slid a crumpled piece of paper across the table to me. It was covered with numbers written in biro, dirty thumbprints and what looked like a couple of squashed flies.

‘This was given to me fifteen years ago,' said Dad, ‘by the top agricultural chemical bloke in the state.' He took the piece of paper back and smoothed it out carefully, eyes shining like it was a satin shirt he'd found in the two-dollar bin at the op-shop.

‘Every squirt of spray I used in those days,' said Dad, ‘I bought from Stan. And I stuck to his instructions like it was the holy book.' Dad pointed to the numbers on the paper. ‘How much. How often. How much water to mix in. Look, he even wrote down how thick my rubber gloves should be.'

Claire was standing behind Dad, rubbing his shoulders.

‘Those old-time salesmen really knew their stuff,' she said. ‘It was their whole life. My dad sold stationery. He could name eleven different types of paper clip.'

I was so relieved to see Dad's evidence I wanted to snatch the piece of paper and cover it with kisses.

I didn't, partly because of the squashed flies and partly because there was something really important I had to ask Dad.

I took a deep breath.

‘Dad,' I said, ‘how did Mum die?'

I first asked him that when I was seven and he held my face gently in his hands and said, ‘Peacefully, soon after you were born.'

I didn't ask for more details because he was crying at the time and I didn't want to upset him more.

Also I had a terrible suspicion her dying might have had something to do with me being born, so I didn't want more details in case they upset me more.

Now, suddenly, this arvo, I did want more details.

Dad was looking pretty strong, staring at that piece of paper, and I felt he could probably cope.

Boy, was I wrong.

He shut his eyes and his shoulders slumped even lower.

‘Jeez, Tonto,' he said with such tiny hand­movements it was like he was whispering, ‘I've done a terrible thing.'

I stared at him in panic.

Oh no, I thought. Please don't say you were so besotted with love for Mum that you forgot to check your bible and you accidentally mixed up a lethal dose of spray and a cloud of it floated into the house while Mum was only wearing undies.

Please don't say that.

Dad took a very deep breath, then sighed and let his hands drop onto the table.

Claire hugged him and stroked his hair.

‘Tell her,' she said quietly to Dad. ‘You'll have to sooner or later.'

Dad nodded.

He looked at me and his face was scared.

Then he got up from the table and went out of the kitchen and I heard him go into his bedroom and open the wardrobe.

For a sec I thought he was going to hide in it. When a pet cockatoo I used to have ripped Erin's room to shreds before she was born, I felt like spending the rest of my life in my wardrobe. I would have done if the cocky hadn't ripped it to shreds too.

Dad came back into the kitchen.

He was still looking scared and he was carrying an old cowboy-boot box.

‘Rowena,' he said, and took another deep breath.

I took one too.

He only calls me that when things are really serious.

‘Rowena,' he went on, his voice wobbling, ‘I haven't told you the truth about how Mum died.'

I tried to swallow but my mouth felt drier than an over-sprayed paddock.

Dad took the lid off the boot box and lifted out some old newspaper cuttings. He put them on the table. I studied them, desperately hoping I wouldn't see any words like ‘lethal dose of spray' or ‘only wearing undies'.

The cuttings were yellow and the print was faded. For a sec I thought that's why I couldn't read them. Then I realised they were in a foreign language.

‘Rowena,' said Dad, ‘Mum was knocked down by a car in France.'

I stared at him.

‘France?' I said, once my hands had regained the power of speech. ‘France the country?'

‘We were on a trip,' said Dad quietly. ‘Me, Mum and you. Two months after you were born. We were staying in an old town with narrow streets. A car was going too fast . . .'

He stopped.

I felt like I was trying to breathe under stewed apples.

‘The car hit her,' he whispered. ‘It hit her and didn't stop. She was killed.'

His hand was trembling as he touched a blurry photo of Mum in one of the cuttings.

Claire was biting her lip and stroking his hair.

I just sat there, stunned, my whole life changed.

How could he do it?

How could he lie to me all this time?

After a bit, another question forced its way into my thoughts.

‘Did they catch him?' I asked.

Dad shook his head.

‘Some people reckoned they knew who it was,' he said. ‘A local. But there was no proof. And you know how overworked police are in country towns. And anyway, what did it matter, she was dead. I was just so grateful it wasn't worse.'

I didn't understand.

Wasn't worse?

‘How could it have been worse?' I yelled so loudly I knocked over the tomato sauce.

His eyes suddenly filled with tears.

‘She could have been holding you,' he said. ‘I was holding you, but she could have been.'

He put his arms round me and I started crying too.

After a while I pulled away.

‘Why didn't you tell me?' I asked.

Dad stared at his hands.

‘You were a kid,' he said, ‘and . . . and I didn't want you brooding about it all. I just wanted you to be happy.'

Then Claire put her arms round us both and murmured something to Dad about a tape.

Dad took an old walkman cassette out of the boot box and handed it to me.

‘I recorded this in France,' he said. ‘The day before Mum was killed.'

I stared at the tape.

For a sec I thought it was going to be Dad singing.

Then Claire explained.

Which is how come I'm lying here on my bed holding a tape of my mother's voice.

A voice I've never heard.

All my life I've tried to imagine it. A warm, soft, gentle voice. A strong, cheeky, laughing voice.

A loving voice.

And now, when at last I'm able to hear it, I'm scared.

But I'm going to do it now.

I'm putting the tape into my walkman.

I'm switching it on.

Now I understand.

Now I know why Dad's nuts about Carla Tamworth.

One of Australia's top country and western singers sounds just like my mum.

Except my mum's got a better voice.

I can't stop saying it.

My mum.

Singing just for me. Well, that's what I'm pretending.

The tape's pretty confused at first. Just heaps of loud voices talking over each other in French. That must be why Dad's never given me the tape before. It would have been a total and complete giveaway about France.

There's loads of clinking. Sounds like they're in a pub. Either that or an apple-sauce bottling factory.

Dad drops the tape player at one point and says ‘poop' and spends ages fiddling with the microphone.

Then a man makes an announcement in French and people clap. Either that or the place has got a tin roof and it starts to rain.

Then Mum starts to sing and the place goes quiet.

I'm not surprised.

She's brilliant.

She sings a country and western song about a dingo trapper who breaks his leg in the desert. He can't walk so his faithful old dog drags him back to town. It takes a week because the dog is caught in a dingo trap and she's got to drag that too.

There's a bit the trapper says in the chorus that gets to me every time.

‘I know you love me

I know you're doing your best,

That's why I'm not angry

You've got my head in an ants' nest.'

Each time I play it my chest goes all tight with love for her.

I've had to stop playing it, partly because my chest's hurting and partly because I don't want to wear the tape out. It's got to last me for the rest of my life.

Erin's just started crying in her room.

I reckon she's going to have a voice just like Mum's.

I wish it could have been me.

I wish I could have had Mum's voice.

Instead of just a mouth-organ.

But I'm not going to think about that because I've got something much more important to think about.

Somewhere in a village in France is the bloke who killed my mum.

Free and alive and unpunished.

I've got to think how I can change that.

I've got to think how I can get to France and find him and prove he did it and bring him and his car to justice.

It won't be easy.

I'm lying here thinking of all the practical parts of it and I feel like my head's in an ants' nest too.

But one thing's for sure.

I'm going to get the mongrel.

I lay awake for hours wondering how a person with ninety-seven dollars in her savings account can get to France.

A garage sale?

A raffle?

A bank loan?

Trouble is, I can't tell anyone why I need to go. People just don't buy raffle tickets or give bank loans for missions of revenge.

Plus Dad wouldn't let me go. He hates me missing school. And he obviously thinks bringing a murdering hit-and-run driver to justice is too dangerous or he'd have done it himself.

At 2 a.m. I still hadn't solved the problem of how to get to France so I got up for a dig. I have some of my best ideas while I'm digging.

Except this time I didn't get to do any.

I'd just collected the spade off the verandah when Dad appeared wide-eyed at the back door.

‘Rowena,' he said. ‘No.'

He lunged towards me and grabbed the spade.

‘You don't have to do that,' he said. ‘I admit it. Mum isn't buried in the town cemetery, she's buried in France.'

I stared at him in horror.

His body sagged inside his Carla Tamworth pyjamas.

‘Mum's grave here is just a pretend one,' he said miserably. ‘A kind of memorial. I'm sorry, love.'

I felt sick.

All these years I've been visiting the wrong grave.

Then I stared at the spade in Dad's hands and felt even sicker.

He thought I was going to dig up Mum's grave to see if it was real.

‘Dad,' I said weakly, ‘I was only going to dig a sandpit.'

I took him down the garden and showed him.

There was an awkward silence. I could tell Dad was embarrassed he'd thought I could do such a thing. But grown-ups never really know what kids are capable of. Specially when it comes to catching hit-and-run drivers who've killed their mums.

‘Dad,' I said, ‘I want to go to France to visit Mum's real grave.'

I was telling the truth. I do want to visit it. I want to cut the grass on it and put fresh flowers on it and kneel down on it and tell her I've dealt with the mongrel who killed her.

Dad crouched down in the moonlight and studied the hole.

‘Good-sized sandpit,' he said.

‘Dad,' I said, sticking my hands in front of his face. ‘Please. Take me to France.'

‘It'll need a fair whack of sand,' said Dad.

I grabbed him and shook him. He grasped my hands and held them tight.

‘Not now,' he said. ‘One day, but not now.'

I tore my hands free.

‘Why not now?' I demanded.

Dad hugged himself even though it wasn't the slightest bit cold. Maybe polyester satin pyjamas aren't as warm as they look.

‘I can't afford it,' he said, ‘and you've got school and I've got to deal with these TV clowns and Erin's too young to travel and . . .'

I interrupted him.

‘You took me to France when I was as young as Erin,' I said.

Sometimes parents dig holes for themselves that are even bigger than sandpits.

Dad sighed.

‘That was different,' he said. ‘Mum's mum was living in Canada. You were her first grandchild. She sent us plane tickets so we could take you over there to show her. Mum arranged for us to stop off in France on the way back cause I'd never seen my grandfather's war grave.'

‘So,' I said, ‘you know how it feels to really want to see a grave.'

‘I didn't want to see it,' he said. ‘Mum made me.'

I was very close to hitting him with the spade.

‘Tonto,' he said, ‘I do know how you feel, but it's just not possible now. We'll go in a year or two, cross my heart and hope to get blue mould.'

‘It's not fair,' I said bitterly.

But actually I wasn't that bitter because Dad had just given me another idea.

I know how I can get to France.

It won't be easy and I'll have to wag school tomorrow, but if I can pull it off I'll be on the plane in a week.