‘Regan,’ Dan had said, interrupting his brother, ‘you and Layla can come move in with me, we’ll find a place together. How does that sound? Would you like that?’
The worry and fear had been instantly erased from Regan’s face. In their place had been relief. And for the first time in a long, long while, Dan had felt trusted again.
Once again the three Kelly children had been living at home, and everyone doted on the baby. Dan had applied for a permanent job while working the night shift in the warehouse of a cannery in Broadmeadows. He’d been scouring the job classifieds in the newspapers and on the net. It felt as though he’d written hundreds of application letters, he’d been upfront about his past, had acknowledged the spottiness of his work history in Scotland, all that cash-in-hand work, the volunteering for disabilities services, and had written briefly but honestly about his criminal conviction and sentence. Few responded; only a couple of agencies even bothered to call him in for an interview. And then one morning he had come in from work to find his sister reading through yet another of his job applications as she fed Layla, the little creature sucking sturdily.
Regan placed the printout down on the table, watching him as he filled the kettle. ‘Dan,’ she said, ‘why don’t you put in a mention about the swimming?’
‘What would that have to do with getting a job?’
‘It could be really useful. It certainly proves you can commit. And who knows, they might want you to take some swimming classes. You’d be great at aqua therapy.’ Regan was nodding purposefully, her voice peremptory and increasingly excited, so much so that her nipple dislodged from Layla’s mouth. ‘Honestly, you should think about being a sports therapist.’
Before Dan could answer, the baby had started to wail. Regan tried to put Layla back on the breast but she would not be appeased.
Dan tickled her tummy and stroked her hair, but the crying continued. There was the sound of the key in the door; their mother was home. She came rushing in and reached out for her grandchild, saying, ‘Let me show you.’ Regan passed the baby up to her mother, who cooed and cuddled and kissed and tickled Layla, and soon the baby’s sobs had subsided and been replaced with gleeful gurgling. Over his mother’s shoulder Dan had looked at his sister and searched her face: sleep-deprived, weary, inscrutable.
In the end, it had been his swimming experience that had got him the job. Noah, the earnest absent-minded man who interviewed him, had asked whether Dan would be prepared to develop a swimming and aqua therapy program, and Dan had answered enthusiastically. The interview went for forty minutes, and at the end of it Dan had walked out, dazed, into the neighbourhood he’d never visited until then; broad-trunked European trees lined the main avenue, the sky was clear, the sun was high in the sky, affording him an unimpeded view down a valley to the cobalt and silver silhouettes of the mountains on the horizon. Everywhere he looked, down the small streets, in the alleyways, the shopfronts were covered in Vietnamese writing, while other windows were painted with red and blue Chinese characters. He had walked into the first place he’d come to, and ordered three main dishes from a menu half written in English, half in Vietnamese, had eaten till he thought his belly would burst. As he finished his meal, he had come close to praying that he’d get the job and that he, Regan and Layla could move here, where the worlds of Asia and Australia seemed to collide and merge and be transformed into something close to an idyll.
‘Box Hill,’ his father had said that night, raising an eyebrow. ‘That’s pretty middle class, isn’t it?’ and Dan had replied, simply, ‘Yeah, maybe, but I really like it.’
Noah had called him the next day. Dan had got the job.
He opened the squeaking gate and bent down to stroke the cat that was stretching out on the sunlit steps. Regan opened the front door, as if she’d been waiting for him. Layla was in her playpen, and music was softly calling from the small stereo on top of the fridge. It was old-school soul, Otis Redding plaintively, thrillingly crooning that he’d been loving her too long; old-school rhythm and blues, thought Dan, the music our parents loved, the music all of us have returned to.
Regan asked him if he wanted something to eat and he shook his head. He didn’t think he could keep anything down today. He was nervous, shaky; his skin tingled. It was more than just nerves. It was real fear, it was anticipation and dread.
‘I’ve got your suit ready.’ Regan held up the trousers and matching jacket that she’d found last week in the Savers store. She’d also ironed his white shirt. He thanked his sister, leaning down to kiss her cheek, then brushing a finger across his lips and gently grazing his niece’s brow. He walked out the back to his bungalow, the air bruisingly crisp. He carefully laid the clothes on the bed and turned on the heater. He sat, placing his hands on his knees, staring straight ahead. The old soul music was still encircling his memory and it stayed with him as he took a moment of peace.
Dennis had found them the house. It belonged to an elderly couple who were retiring to Tathra, up on the New South Wales Far South Coast. Dan’s father had agreed to serve as their removalist. Dan’s father had always loved that part of the coast and it hadn’t taken much for Dennis to convince him to make the long-haul trip. The woman had offered Dennis and Neal coffee before they started loading the truck, and it was then that the man had mentioned that they were looking for tenants.
‘My cousin would be perfect,’ Dennis had replied, so eager to tell them about Dan that the words were jumbled in the mash of tongue, lip and saliva. ‘He’s got a job just down the road.’
The old couple were none the wiser but Dan’s father had understood and told them about Regan and Layla and Dan, and asked what the rent would be.
Having the bungalow attached, that small space apart, was what had made it perfect for Dan. Which was why Dennis had been so eager and so excited on seeing the house; he knew, he understood.
Dan showered, shaved, and dressed quickly. He pulled out the full-length mirror nestled behind the desk, wiped the dust off with a rag. He couldn’t quite recognise the man staring back at him in the unfamiliar dark suit, the slightly pudgy man with the furrows at the corners of his mouth, the man who was no longer the boy. He took off his jacket and stood side-on; his shirt seemed to billow above the belt, so he tucked it in again. He wished he had gone to the barber; his hair seemed too long and was uneven at the sides, making his head appear lopsided. He shrugged. It is who you are, he told the mirror, standing so close to the glass that a small mist formed then swiftly dissolved. He put his jacket back on and headed for the tram.
Walking up the drive past the wrought-iron gates with their elaborate crest, he found himself automatically heading for the Great Hall, as if he were still the young boy in the striped blazer running up the drive. Only at the last moment did he veer back and make his way to the other side of the quadrangle: the service was of course going to be held in the college chapel. Heavy fat clouds hung low in the sky and there was a light drizzle falling. Dan walked up the steps to the chapel. A man holding a clipboard nodded as Dan approached. ‘Are you here for the service?’ The man peeled off a four-page photocopied sheet and handed it to Dan. There was the date of birth, the date of death, and there was the picture of the Coach, not smiling, staring defiantly at the camera, as if challenging the world.