this close to another person, a child that she loved. They were a team. It was the two of them against the world.
The year Tom turned five, there was more pressure from her family. ‘You have to stay in one place now Tom’s starting school,’ her sister said. ‘He needs stability. Come home.’
She considered it. She imagined Tom back in her home town in Queensland, in the local school, playing alongside the sons and daughters of people she’d been to school with herself. Her thoughts stopped there. Each of those sons and daughters and their parents knew it all. From the first day Tom set foot in the playground their story would follow him. Poor tragic Tom, born the day his father drove into a truck and killed himself.
‘Nick didn’t do it deliberately, Nina. It was an accident,’ Hilary said when Nina tried to explain her feelings.
‘It doesn’t matter. I hate that gossip about me and I don’t want it for Tom.’
‘Then do whatever you need to do,’ Hilary said, finally. Nina kept moving, three times in Tom’s first three years of school. Not far each time, just to towns two or three hours away, but each move felt necessary. The school mothers always started to get too curious. She’d tried just not mentioning Tom’s father, but there was always one who asked. Was she divorced? Separated? If she finally said that he had died, even more questions would follow. ‘I’d rather not talk about it,’ she’d end up answering, knowing it sounded stuck-up but preferring that to telling the truth.
Tom had also started asking questions. He’d always known his father was dead, but it was only when he started school that it became a constant talking point. ‘The other kids have all got dads and I haven’t. Why not? Why did he die? Did the vet put him down?’
Nina related that particular conversation to Hilary one night after Tom had gone to bed. At least she knew what had sparked Tom’s question. One of the teachers had told her the news that day of the school cat’s untimely death.
‘It’s healthy that he’s asking questions, Nina. It’s a good thing. So did you tell him everything, at last?’
Nina hesitated before answering. ‘Nina?’
‘I changed the subject.’
‘You changed the subject? The subject being the truth about his own father’s
death? Nina, you have to stop lying to him.’
But she’d had to lie to him, from the very beginning, for both their sakes. Not that everything she said had been,a lie. Since the day he was old enough to understand, she’d told him the true things too, over and over again: how wanted he was, how much she and Nick had loved him from the moment they knew she was pregnant. What a punctual baby he had been, arriving right on time. But she hadn’t been able to stop there.
She’d told Tom how excited Nick had been that day in the delivery room. That his father had helped cut the umbilical cord, that Nick had been the one to shout - yes, shout - at the top of his voice, ‘It’s a boy!’ the moment Tom was born. Shout so loudly that her parents outside had been able to hear it! She’d told Tom how much Nick had loved holding him, playing with him, bathing him, dressing him. How Nick used to sing him to sleep. How good he had been at changing Tom’s nappies. How he used to get up two or three times a night just to check his little son was sleeping well. How his favourite thing to do after work was sit out on the verandah of their small house, put his feet up on the rail and nestle his baby son against his chest, telling him in the most serious of voices everything that had happened at work that day. ‘You were a great listener even back then, Tom,’ she’d tell her son.
She told him it was Nick who bought him his first football the year he turned one; his miniature cricket bat and ball set for his second birthday; the little bike with trainer wheels for his third. The child-size football jumper with his name on the back for Christmas that same
The year Tom turned five, there was more pressure from her family. ‘You have to stay in one place now Tom’s starting school,’ her sister said. ‘He needs stability. Come home.’
She considered it. She imagined Tom back in her home town in Queensland, in the local school, playing alongside the sons and daughters of people she’d been to school with herself. Her thoughts stopped there. Each of those sons and daughters and their parents knew it all. From the first day Tom set foot in the playground their story would follow him. Poor tragic Tom, born the day his father drove into a truck and killed himself.
‘Nick didn’t do it deliberately, Nina. It was an accident,’ Hilary said when Nina tried to explain her feelings.
‘It doesn’t matter. I hate that gossip about me and I don’t want it for Tom.’
‘Then do whatever you need to do,’ Hilary said, finally. Nina kept moving, three times in Tom’s first three years of school. Not far each time, just to towns two or three hours away, but each move felt necessary. The school mothers always started to get too curious. She’d tried just not mentioning Tom’s father, but there was always one who asked. Was she divorced? Separated? If she finally said that he had died, even more questions would follow. ‘I’d rather not talk about it,’ she’d end up answering, knowing it sounded stuck-up but preferring that to telling the truth.
Tom had also started asking questions. He’d always known his father was dead, but it was only when he started school that it became a constant talking point. ‘The other kids have all got dads and I haven’t. Why not? Why did he die? Did the vet put him down?’
Nina related that particular conversation to Hilary one night after Tom had gone to bed. At least she knew what had sparked Tom’s question. One of the teachers had told her the news that day of the school cat’s untimely death.
‘It’s healthy that he’s asking questions, Nina. It’s a good thing. So did you tell him everything, at last?’
Nina hesitated before answering. ‘Nina?’
‘I changed the subject.’
‘You changed the subject? The subject being the truth about his own father’s
death? Nina, you have to stop lying to him.’
But she’d had to lie to him, from the very beginning, for both their sakes. Not that everything she said had been,a lie. Since the day he was old enough to understand, she’d told him the true things too, over and over again: how wanted he was, how much she and Nick had loved him from the moment they knew she was pregnant. What a punctual baby he had been, arriving right on time. But she hadn’t been able to stop there.
She’d told Tom how excited Nick had been that day in the delivery room. That his father had helped cut the umbilical cord, that Nick had been the one to shout - yes, shout - at the top of his voice, ‘It’s a boy!’ the moment Tom was born. Shout so loudly that her parents outside had been able to hear it! She’d told Tom how much Nick had loved holding him, playing with him, bathing him, dressing him. How Nick used to sing him to sleep. How good he had been at changing Tom’s nappies. How he used to get up two or three times a night just to check his little son was sleeping well. How his favourite thing to do after work was sit out on the verandah of their small house, put his feet up on the rail and nestle his baby son against his chest, telling him in the most serious of voices everything that had happened at work that day. ‘You were a great listener even back then, Tom,’ she’d tell her son.
She told him it was Nick who bought him his first football the year he turned one; his miniature cricket bat and ball set for his second birthday; the little bike with trainer wheels for his third. The child-size football jumper with his name on the back for Christmas that same
Similar Books
