The Patterson Girls Page 4

  ‘Maybe a couple,’ she said. ‘The way Madeleine and Abigail were drinking, they’ve probably polished one off already.’

  He chuckled and Lucinda kissed him on the cheek and then she and Mrs Sampson went through to the kitchen to beg Rob for some ingredients.

  Madeleine, Charlie and Abigail were in their parents’ bedroom staring into the walk-in robe. They hadn’t been together in their parents’ room for years and the last time they were even in the house was for Mum’s funeral, so going into this very personal space felt like an invasion of privacy. But they’d turned the storage cupboard upside down and still hadn’t uncovered the decorations so they’d headed in here to look in their mum’s other hiding spot. It had been a big joke in their teens that Mum still thought she had a place they didn’t know about to hide Christmas presents. Worst kept secret ever.

  ‘Should her clothes still be here?’ Abigail asked.

  Her shaky question tore Madeleine from her memories. It wasn’t only the wardrobe; the whole room looked as if Mum still slept here every night. Her pink fluffy slippers were on the floor beside the bed and a book lay splayed open to the page she must have been reading the night before she died—a rural romance with a hot bloke and a windmill on the cover. Madeleine’s heart spasmed at the sight.

  ‘It hasn’t been that long. Only six months.’ Charlie moved to put her arm around Abigail, her eyes still focused on Mum’s side of the robe.

  Madeleine also felt transfixed, staring at the outfits, many of which she recalled Mum wearing during their Skype conversations. It didn’t feel that long ago. She rubbed her arms, which suddenly felt shivery despite the early evening South Australian heat.

  ‘Yes,’ Abigail mused, ‘but wouldn’t it depress him seeing her stuff everywhere he looked? It can’t be healthy. What do you reckon, Madeleine?’

  She shrugged, wishing she had a definitive answer. ‘Grieving is an individual process. Having her clothes here probably makes him feel like she’s still close. He may not be able to bear the thought of sorting through them just yet.’

  ‘I guess.’ Abigail sniffed. ‘I can’t believe she’s gone. I just wish—’

  ‘I know,’ Madeleine and Charlie said at the same time.

  Madeleine tried to swallow the lump in her throat. She’d felt the same way when she’d received the horrid phone call telling her that Mum had been stung by a bee at the Meadow Brook school fête, had an allergic reaction, gone into anaphylactic shock and died before anyone could call an ambulance. At fifty-eight years, Annette Patterson had been too young to die, far too full of life, and her oldest daughter hadn’t been prepared. No one had even known Mum was allergic to bees, and anyway, what was a school without an EpiPen floating around in this day and age? Didn’t these kinds of nightmares happen to other people? They were the stuff of page ten newspaper articles, stories she read about and brushed aside just as quickly. But to happen to them? The thought of never being able to ask Mum’s advice again or simply hear her voice made Madeleine feel like she was underwater and running out of breath. She shook her head as memories of that awful day flashed back—she’d taken the call at work, on the ward, and had gone immediately into shock. Thankfully Hugo had looked after her, ushering her into his office where he’d conjured a stiff drink from Lord knows where and then taken it upon himself to book her a flight home.

  If it wasn’t for him and Celia she didn’t know how she’d have gotten through that day, nor the six months that had followed. Before she realised it, tears were streaming down her face.

  ‘Oh Madeleine.’ Abigail wrapped her arms around her and laid her head on her shoulder. Within seconds Madeleine felt her sister’s own tears sopping through her shirt. She patted Abigail’s back and tried to blink away her emotion—she was the oldest, supposed to be the strongest, she hadn’t even cried at the funeral—but when Charlie joined them, wrapping her arms around the both of them, she lost any chance she had of winning the battle. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep and a therapeutic morning run, she’d be strong for everyone.

  The three of them sank to the floor in a sobbing mess and that was where Lucinda found them a few minutes later.

  Lucinda paused in the doorway to her parents’ bedroom and stared at her sisters, wrapped in each other like some kind of messy knot. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Madeleine cry—maybe it was in primary school—and she almost felt like an intruder. Part of her wanted to rush over and drop to the floor beside them, to cling to her sisters and take the comfort she very much needed, but there was the worry that if she started crying, she’d never be able to stop. And not just because she was missing her mum. The other option was playing the bad guy, telling them to get their act together before Dad found them like this. But suddenly she didn’t want to burden them with her worries about their father. She’d grill Mrs Sampson a little more first, watch him like a hawk herself and then come up with a game plan.

  Choosing to retreat, she escaped quietly and headed back into the kitchen where she found Mrs Sampson slicing up the vegetables with a sharp knife. Her hackles rose, but she caught herself before saying anything. The woman was only trying to help. She grabbed another chopping board, knife and started on the carrots before Mrs Sampson could get to them. Between them, the capsicum, broccoli and cauliflower were all diced to an inch of themselves before they heard the other girls arguing in the lounge room.

  ‘At it already, I hear.’ Mrs Sampson chuckled. ‘The only time I ever heard Annette complain about you four was when you were at each other’s throats. I know what she meant. My boys used to lay into each other.’

  ‘Yes, I remember.’ Lucinda smirked. But right now she could cope with her sisters’ bickering a lot more than touchy-feely sharing moments. Moving over to the stove, she poured some oil into a pan, waited for the sizzle and then threw in the chopped onion.

  Within seconds of the aroma drifting out to the rest of the house, Madeleine waltzed into the kitchen, heading for the near-empty bottle of wine first, topping up her glass and then acknowledging Mrs Sampson.

  ‘Well, hello there.’ She beamed a tipsy smile and threw one arm around the housekeeper.

  ‘Hello, Madeleine.’ Mrs Sampson kissed her on the cheek. ‘Good to see you. Any jet lag yet?’

  Madeleine lifted her glass. ‘I’ll worry about jet lag and hangovers tomorrow.’

  Lucinda rolled her eyes as Madeleine crossed over and peered into the pan. ‘That smells good, little sister.’

  ‘It’s just onion,’ Lucinda snapped, thinking it would have been nice if her sisters had offered to help. They hadn’t known that Mrs Sampson would be here, but since Abigail and Madeleine were the ones to decide they’d rather eat in the house than the restaurant, one of them could at least clear and set the table.

  Madeleine took a long sip of her wine and leant back against the kitchen bench to watch. ‘You’ll make someone a good mum some day.’

  Lucinda bristled. Shouldn’t Madeleine of all people know that not everyone found it easy to breed? If she didn’t feel like such a failure, maybe she’d be able to open up about her troubles and ask for some sisterly, or at least medical, advice.

  ‘What are Abigail and Charlie up to?’ Mrs Sampson asked, perhaps sensing Lucinda’s irritation.

  ‘Abigail got it in her head we needed to put up the Christmas tree, so we found the decorations and now she’s busy directing Charlie where to put everything.’ Madeleine didn’t elaborate or share what else had happened during their quest.

  That annoyed Lucinda—like her sisters had a secret they didn’t want to share. She tried to laugh alongside Mrs Sampson’s warm chuckle, but it didn’t quite eventuate.

  Oblivious, Madeleine dug her phone out of her pocket and started checking her emails or something. She laughed and smiled in a manner that looked out of place on someone usually so straitlaced and efficient.

  ‘Message from a beau?’ asked Mrs Sampson.

  Madeleine looked horrified and
put her phone away. ‘As if. Anyway, fill me in on the local gossip,’ she demanded.

  Lucinda supposed she should be grateful that Madeleine and Mrs Sampson didn’t feel the need to lure her into conversation. The way she felt right now, she was liable to snap at anything her older sister said. Silently seething, she moved around them as she proceeded to make the sauce and throw on the pasta. While it cooked, she poured herself an extra large glass of wine, deciding that today, and maybe even all this week, she’d forget about trying to eat healthily and stay off the vino. What was Christmas without a few drinks?

  Besides, with Joe at work over two and a half thousand kilometres away, she was unlikely to hit the baby jackpot even if she was smack bang in the middle of her cycle.

  The door from the motel opened and Dad appeared, carrying two bottles of wine and wearing a smile that looked as if it cost him an effort. ‘Something smells good.’

  ‘It’s Lucinda working her magic,’ Madeleine said, putting her wine down on the bench a moment to go over and take the bottles from him. ‘Everything okay in the motel?’

  He nodded. ‘Where are the others?’

  ‘They’re putting up the Christmas tree.’ When Dad didn’t say anything, Madeleine looked worriedly to Lucinda and Mrs Sampson and then back to him. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘I haven’t had the time. I’ll go freshen up before dinner.’

  ‘And I’m going to see my other girls,’ Mrs Sampson said as she bustled after him.

  Lucinda watched Madeleine frown as they made their way out of the room. Mrs Sampson turned into the lounge room, but Dad didn’t even pause to look as he made his way down the hallway and into the bathroom.

  ‘I’m concerned about him,’ Madeleine admitted.

  ‘Me too,’ Lucinda said, feeling a rare moment of affinity with her sister and relieved to be able to say so. ‘But it’s normal for him to be lost and still sad, isn’t it? I know I am.’

  Madeleine sighed. ‘Yes, but there’s a fine line between grief and depression.’

  Chapter Three

  Although Charlie and all her sisters had made the trek home for Mum’s funeral, they’d been far too busy making arrangements, helping Dad with the motel and gracefully accepting sympathy from locals to sit down and eat a meal together.

  ‘Do you realise this is the first time we’ve all eaten together since …’ Abigail stopped without finishing her sentence.

  No one said anything as chairs scraped back against the linoleum and Charlie snuck a glance around the table. It was plain from their expressions that they’d all been thinking along the same lines.

  This was one of the ‘firsts’ experts referred to when they spoke about grief. Mostly they talked about the first birthday, first anniversary of death, first Christmas and so on, but Charlie reckoned the little occasions like this one were even harder. She swallowed as she sat down in the seat that had been hers for as long as she could remember. Dad was at the head of the table, Abigail was next to Charlie and Madeleine was sitting on the other side of the table. Lucinda was busy at the kitchen bench, where Mum had stood for so many years, serving the pasta. Mrs Sampson was in Mum’s seat.

  Usually confident and cheerful, the older woman looked uncertain tonight. ‘Maybe I should leave you all to it,’ she said, starting to stand.

  ‘No,’ Charlie protested. ‘It’ll be good to have you here.’

  ‘Yes,’ Madeleine agreed. ‘You were as close to Mum as any of us.’

  Dad remained quiet but the decision had been made. Wanting to deflect the attention from Mrs Sampson, Charlie looked to Lucinda. ‘Do you want any help with that?’ Once again, they’d left her to play Mum while the rest of them laughed and squabbled as they unpacked the decorations in the other room.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ she replied, but Charlie thought her voice sounded tight.

  ‘We’ve been putting up the Christmas tree, Dad,’ Abigail said, an obvious attempt to make conversation. ‘I rescued the angel Madeleine made in kindy; she wanted to throw it out. Remember how much Mum loved that angel?’

  Dad smiled sadly and nodded slowly before taking a sip of his wine.

  ‘It’s ghastly.’ Madeleine made a face that echoed her words. ‘The only place for it is the bin.’

  Charlie smirked. Ghastly was an apt word to describe the angel made with paper doilies, plastic cups and about a tonne of glitter. Although to be fair, it wasn’t any more horrendous than the pieces the rest of them had made in primary school. Pieces that had been their mother’s pride and joy, no matter how much they’d begged her to get rid of them.

  ‘Maybe we should take a vote.’ Abigail looked to the end of the table. ‘Do you think it’s time for a new angel, Dad?’

  ‘Whatever you girls want.’

  Charlie caught Abigail’s eye across the table. The look on her face told her she too was worried about Dad’s behaviour.

  ‘So who’s up for going to the Christmas Eve service tomorrow night?’ Abigail asked brightly. It was something Mum had forced them along to every year and which they’d all complained about from an early age, although secretly Charlie suspected none of them hated it as much as they made out.

  Madeleine rolled her eyes.

  Lucinda, arriving at the table with two bowls laden with steaming pasta, said, ‘I think that’s a lovely idea. Will you come, Dad?’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘You’ll be going, won’t you Mrs S?’ Abigail asked.

  Mrs Sampson seemed quieter than usual and Charlie guessed it was because she didn’t want to intrude on this family time. She wanted to say something to remind her that they all saw her as family anyway, but Lucinda placed a bowl each in front of Dad and Madeleine.

  ‘Have you got anything special planned for tomorrow night in the motel?’ she asked, trying again to lure him into conversation as Lucinda went back for the other bowls.

  Surprisingly, Christmas Eve was always one of their busiest times in the motel restaurant. Many locals came for pre-midnight service dinner and drinks and in the past Mum and Dad had often hired a band for the evening. But Dad shook his head. ‘Nah, didn’t get round to organising anything. And besides, we’re not very busy this year.’ Then he went back to his pasta, pushing the fork around the plate but not actually putting anything in his mouth.

  Lucinda looked to Abigail as she finally sat down next to Madeleine. ‘Pity you didn’t bring your violin. You could play a few tunes.’

  ‘Oh, yes, that would be lovely,’ remarked Mrs Sampson.

  ‘Fuck, can you imagine?’ Madeleine snorted at the same time. ‘A violin would make Christmas carols sound like a funeral march.’

  Abigail glared at Madeleine and then spooned the first mouthful of pasta into her mouth. She moaned in appreciation, then promptly changed the subject. ‘Wow, this pasta is better than my favourite Italian restaurant in London. You are a domestic goddess, sis.’

  Lucinda half-laughed. ‘Don’t know about that.’

  ‘I bet Joe thinks so,’ Charlie said, kind of wishing he was here. She’d always liked her brother-in-law. He had a mellow, fun-loving temperament that seemed to rub off on everyone around him and she felt like they could all do with a dose of mellow right now.

  ‘Nothing I cook could ever compare to Rosa,’ Lucinda said, an edge of bitterness in her voice. Picturing Lucinda’s Italian mother-in-law, Charlie thought maybe she was lucky she hadn’t found anyone to enter into the institute of marriage with yet.

  ‘I guess that’s true.’ Abigail sighed. ‘Remind me never to marry a man whose mum cooks better than me.’

  ‘That rules out pretty much every man on the planet,’ said Madeleine, laughing.

  Abigail stuck her tongue out at Madeleine but there was a twinkle in her eye.

  ‘Girls,’ Dad said, his tone both warning and amused. ‘Can you be nice to each other for five minutes?’

  ‘No,’ Abigail and Madeleine said in unison.

  ‘Of
course we can,’ Lucinda promised at the same time, but awkward silence followed. The dynamics were all wrong without Mum sitting alongside them at the table. Even Mrs Sampson’s usually chirpy presence did nothing to allay the melancholy mood.

  ‘So,’ Charlie said when she could no longer stand it. ‘I’ve started teaching hula-hooping classes at the Brunswick Senior Citizens’ Centre.’

  Dad didn’t appear to hear, but Mrs Sampson smiled again and her sisters all stared at her as if she said she’d just announced she’d volunteered to go on the space mission to Mars. Charlie wished she’d kept her mouth shut.

  ‘That’s nice,’ Lucinda said after too long. Charlie reckoned Lucinda didn’t really understand her any more than the other two. Madeleine and Lucinda were too conservative and although Abigail had her music, her tastes were highbrow. She’d rather slit her own throat than listen to the reggae music Charlie liked. And their tastes weren’t just different when it came to music.

  ‘And are you still working at the café as well?’ Lucinda asked, at least trying to show an interest.

  Charlie nodded. Addicts of caffeine, her sisters had always been far more comfortable talking about her café job than they were about her passions for things like tarot cards, sculpture and aromatherapy. Sometimes she wondered if she was adopted. If Mum hadn’t read her horoscopes everyday, Charlie would have been certain.

  ‘Is that hot guy still working there?’ Abigail asked.

  Charlie rolled her eyes. A while back she’d sent a Facebook request for her sisters to like the café page and Abigail had messaged immediately asking who the bloke with the shaved head, rocking body and tattooed arms was. ‘Yep. Unfortunately he’s happily dating one of the waitresses.’

  Abigail shrugged. ‘What about you, Charles? You seeing anyone?’

  ‘Not at the moment. You?’ Charlie turned the limelight back the other way. ‘Or are you too busy working as usual?’

  ‘Actually, there’s something I need to …’ Abigail straightened but then went quiet. Charlie and the others, even Dad, looked up at the way she said that one word. It sounded … significant, like she was about to deliver an important announcement. Charlie noticed her hand was shaking slightly, which was very un-Abigail-like. Must be serious.