Bright Air - Barry Maitland [2]
‘Oh, that case. How terrible. He looks as if he’s discussing it with the dog.’
‘Could be. They have a lot in common. The same sense of humour, for instance—the judge likes to hide the dog’s rubber bone, while Socrates steals his gloves. And though the judge spends his time wrestling with complex moral issues while Socrates can’t spell cat, I’m not sure that there’s such a fundamental difference between them, actually.’ I stopped abruptly, realising that of course it was Luce who’d taught me to think like that.
‘Actually.’ She grinned. ‘You’ve become English, Josh.’
I shrugged. ‘Cheers. So what are you up to these days, Anna?’
She was a manager at an aged-care nursing home out at Blacktown, she said. I found it hard to imagine this. The four-year gap was shrinking again while we talked, the physical differences fading as I tuned in to the Anna I’d last known, a 22-year-old student.
‘Must be a responsible job, I suppose?’
‘Fairly.’ She frowned, creases forming between her dark eyebrows. ‘They … need a lot of help, our clients.’ The way she said it sounded almost like a penance. ‘And how about you? How was London?’
I took a deep breath and did my best to be entertaining without going into too much detail. ‘It got pretty intensive towards the end,’ I concluded. ‘Good money, you know, but pressure, and hellish hours. After four years I felt I needed to come back, at least for a while.’ I thought I sounded reasonably plausible, becoming a better liar with practice.
‘Well, you’ve had lots of responsibility too. Can I have some more wine?’
It suddenly occurred to me that she was anxious, hesitant about bringing something up, and I thought I knew what it was, the same unspoken thing that had been preoccupying me ever since I’d first caught sight of her.
I stood up to fill her glass, and then, as if it had just occurred to me, said, ‘You know, I was devastated not to make it back for Luce’s service. There was a mix-up with your message—I’d moved to a new address and by the time it reached me the date had passed and there didn’t seem any point in flying back. I’m sorry. It must have been terrible.’ I realised I was asking her to forgive me.
‘Yes,’ she said simply. ‘It was.’ I gathered that not only was she not going to make it easy for me, but that this wasn’t what she’d come about.
‘Her father took it hard, I suppose.’
‘He didn’t show much, but, yes, I think so.’
‘I … I wrote to him, but I didn’t get a reply.’
‘I don’t think he replied to anyone.’
‘Ah.’ Although the activity of refilling our glasses meant I hadn’t had to meet her eye, I was acutely aware of her watching me closely, as if straining for a false note. I found I couldn’t think of anything more to say.
Finally she spoke. ‘Haven’t you been reading the papers, Josh?’
‘Not much; I’ve made a point of avoiding them for as long as I can. Why?’
‘About Curtis and Owen?’
I shook my head, intrigued, wondering how they might have got into the news. ‘What have they been getting up to?’ I said with a laugh.
She didn’t smile back, but looked down and traced a finger around the base of the glass. ‘A couple of weeks ago I got a phone call from Suzi.’
‘Owen’s wife? Oh yes? How are they both? Any more children? I didn’t keep in touch.’ In fact I hadn’t kept in touch with any of them.
‘I did, with Owen and Curtis. We used to catch up from time to time. They still went climbing together.’
‘Really?’ I gave her a look, which she avoided.
‘Yes. They’d gone to New Zealand for a week. Suzi had just heard that there’d been a bad accident on Mount Cook. Curtis was killed.’
I felt the impact of the words like a physical blow, wiping the stupid smile off my face, pinning me back in my chair. ‘Curtis? Dead?’ An image of him came vividly into my mind, red curls spilling out from under his climbing helmet, a big cheeky grin on his face.
Then I remembered I had noticed a newspaper item, not long after I’d got back: two Australian