Focus! I have to get my story straight for the authorities.
‘Hello?’ I say hesitantly when someone takes my call at the station. I wave Justin in over the threshold, shut the door behind him and follow him as he threads his way carefully past the boxes of Cam’s things, like he’s stepping through a minefield. To be fair, he might be. We make it into my 1940s-inspired lounge room – fireplace, bookshelves, old-fashioned armchairs, magazine racks bursting with notebooks and novels – and Grace couldn’t be more delighted to see who the penguins have dragged in.
She ends the call with her Defence contact, beams at Justin and readjusts her entire demeanor as I gather myself and attempt to sound more like the experienced academic fundraiser that I am in my day job. Less criminal.
‘My husband was obsessed with military history,’ I begin, by way of setting the scene for the constable. ‘He died two years ago, and I haven’t been able to bring myself to clear out the things in his study yet . . .’
‘Ma’am, you’ve phoned the Monaro Police,’ the officer says, interrupting story-time. ‘Is this a prank call?’
‘Oh, no,’ I gush. ‘I wish it was! Not that I’d do that, obviously. I absolutely value the work you do.’
Grace shakes her head and sends me hand signals to get on with it. It’s all right for her; she’s not the one confessing.
‘It’s just, well, a funny situation, really,’ I say, even though there’s nothing remotely amusing about it. ‘Essentially, my five-year-old son found a grenade in his deceased father’s study and now I’m holding it in my hand.’
I usually say ‘dead’。 Not ‘deceased’。 Not ‘late’。 Not ‘passed’。 Once, in a stressful social interaction, I described Cam as having ‘left’ Charlie and me, only to have a woman trash talk him for ditching us.
There’s a moment of silence while the police officer processes my story, during which I worry that Justin might have stopped breathing.
‘Would you mind holding?’ the officer says, and I’m switched to smooth jazz, which seems at odds with the nature of our call.
‘Grace, this is my neighbour, Justin,’ I explain brightly, as if we’ve all run into each other at the theatre. ‘Justin, this is—’
I can’t finish, because a more senior police officer comes on the line now.
‘Ma’am, did you say your husband was in the military?’
‘No – he was an English professor.’
There’s a sigh. ‘So, not a trained weapons expert, then?’
I see what they’re getting at, but Cam wasn’t stupid. This whole thing is a massive misunderstanding on the part of Grace’s overzealous Defence friend.
‘My husband’s specialty was medieval literature,’ I inform the officer. The shelves behind us are chock-full of hundreds of books that can back up my claim. ‘But when Cam collected this stuff, it was only ever from reputable sources. I’m sure it’s just a replica. We’re only phoning it in because my friend put a photo on Facebook and had an urgent call from a weapons engineer in the sandpit.’ I feel immensely official, using that term.
It’s like we’re living on the set of an action flick. Privately, I’m thrilled to be providing Justin with such Class-A entertainment on his first day in the neighbourhood. Now that he’s over the initial shock, I can tell he’s invested. His brown eyes are bright with adrenaline.
‘Do you think you could possibly leave the device somewhere out of the reach of children?’ the officer asks.
Mother of the year.
‘We’ll have the bomb squad out to you shortly, and some personnel from unexploded ordnance in Defence.’
I glance out the front window, as if the squad will miraculously appear – SAS plunging into my azaleas from helicopters overhead – even though I’m yet to confirm my address. And that’s when I notice my boss, Hugh, in his unmissable, steel grey Audi sports coupé swinging confidently into my drive.
Bloody brilliant.
2
I pass the grenade to Justin so I can deal with Hugh. Even though I’m ninety-nine per cent certain it’s nothing to worry about, I haven’t handed over something so gingerly since the first time I offloaded a sleeping Charlie into Cam’s arms in the maternity ward. Back then we were tentative. Protective. Terrified that we’d somehow drop him. Instead, it was Charlie and me who somehow dropped Cam.
Grace seems more ruffled by my boss’s impending visit than she is about the bomb. I wish I could shovel the inevitable awkwardness out of her path, but all I can manage under pressure is an apologetic smile and a wordless promise to debrief later, as she rounds up Charlie’s shoes and jacket, suddenly motivated to evacuate.
I throw open my front door just as Hugh is about to knock. He’s standing there, looking like he’ll never be adequately compensated for what he’s had to endure in the four years since he hired me as a senior alumni giving coordinator at the university.
‘Rough day?’ he enquires. I could fire back the same question, except I know I am part of his problem. There’s been another data breach at the university, so the internal servers are down and he’s carrying the briefing papers for our meeting in Cairns tomorrow afternoon with regional CEOs and scientists about an upcoming fundraising campaign. We would have had more time to prepare if I hadn’t taken today off on personal leave, but I feel so guilty travelling for work as a sole parent, I stayed here to keep things calm on the home front leading into my departure. Suffice to say that plan is not going well. And now I feel bad that Hugh has driven so far out of his way. This juggle!
‘It’s a bit of a story . . .’ I begin. It always is. And I’m starting to feel claustrophobic in all this fleece. Anyone would, surely, with an impending visit from the bomb squad, so I secure the hem of my T-shirt with one hand and whip the Oodie over my head with the other. It catches on the pencil in my hair, so I spin to face the garden briefly while I free it with two hands, in case the T-shirt rides up, which it does.
By the time I turn back to face Hugh, shaking out the mess of curls that fall over my shoulders like I wanted them to earlier, he has made himself comfortable, leaning his six-foot-two frame against the iron verandah railing. The paperwork is pressed to his chest by casually crossed arms, while he settles in for the details. I note that his blue eyes have dulled to that deep grey, the way they always do when he’s exhausted. Also noteworthy is the loosened tie, top shirt button undone, and thick, dark hair recently raked through, possibly in frustration, likely about me. I bet he’s been tweaking our departmental project plan, lightening my load by taking on more of the stakeholder engagement himself. And I suspect I’m about to push my ever-patient boss beyond what has historically been a very high threshold for my wild excuses.
‘Are you going to tell me this story, Kate? Or am I waiting for an interpretive dance?’
‘Is that the cops?’ Justin calls from the lounge room, not having mastered my art of breaking things delicately. Momentary surprise flashes across Hugh’s face at the sound of his voice. My own expression mimics Charlie’s when I catch him in the biscuit tin before dinner, even though Cam is the real culprit here, surely, for dying on me, leaving loose ends.