Eloise Read online

  ‘Okay,’ I sighed. ‘We’ll see what we can do.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Bettina sniffed.

  ‘Though you shouldn’t get your hopes up. We probably won’t be able to help.’ I scratched my head. ‘Talking to dead people? I wouldn’t know where to start.’

  ‘With a séance,’ said Peter, promptly. ‘I told you.’

  ‘Yeah, but what is a séance? Exactly?’

  ‘It’s … well, it’s where you sit around. In a circle,’ Peter replied.

  ‘And do what?’

  A pause. Someone’s shoe went sailing over our heads, followed by screams of outrage.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Peter admitted at last. ‘Hold hands, I think.’

  ‘We’ll look it up,’ I declared. ‘Do some research. Don’t worry, Bettina.’ I nodded at her, and she blinked back at me. ‘We’ll do our best.’

  Then the line began to move, and we all climbed onto the bus. Peter and Michelle and I aren’t natural pushers and shovers, so we didn’t manage to bag any seats together. I ended up sitting beside Tammy Ng, with Michelle just behind me. Peter was stuck next to some Year Four kid, and Bettina, poor thing, had to sit next to my brother. (My brother is not someone you want to sit next to on a bus trip, because he simply won’t keep still, wriggling about as if his pants are on fire. Mum used to think he had worms all the time, but we’ve come to realise that it’s not worms. It’s just Bethan.) Anyway, thanks to the seating arrangements, nothing more was said about the Exorcists’ Club on that trip.

  Michelle and I, however, get off at the same bus stop. That’s why we were able to come to an agreement about Bettina’s problem before we finally parted. I told her that I would see what I could find out about séances, and that I would even ask Delora Starburn for advice. Delora is the psychic who helped us to get rid of Eglantine. ‘Delora,’ I said, ‘would probably know something about séances.’

  ‘But if she tells me that we shouldn’t be messing with spirits of the dead,’ I added, ‘then we’ll stop. I mean it, Michelle. What happens if we call up this ghost, and it won’t go away? You’ve never lived in a haunted house. You don’t know what it’s like.’

  ‘Okay,’ Michelle agreed. ‘If it’s dangerous, we’ll stop.’

  ‘The same thing with exorcisms. You told me the priest in that movie got killed, trying to exorcise a demon. I don’t want that happening to any of us.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Michelle ‘It’s all right. We won’t do anything stupid.’

  She sounded suspiciously meek. But by that time we had reached her turn-off, so I couldn’t press her for a ‘cross-my-heart’ promise. I could only shoot her a stern look, and wave her goodbye.

  Seven minutes later, I was walking through my front door, with Bethan trailing about ten metres behind. He likes to pretend that we’re not related when we’re walking home from the bus stop (because a lot of his friends live nearby). Some sisters might be offended by this, but not me. In a funny kind of way, he’s even doing me a favour, especially when he’s been chucking water bombs about, or trying to kickbox lampposts. When that happens, he’s as big an embarrassment to me as I am to him.

  Put it this way: we have an understanding.

  ‘Hi, Mum!’ I shouted, as I banged into the kitchen – and stopped short.

  There, sitting at the kitchen table, was my dad.

  My real dad.

  Let me explain, because I know this is a bit complicated. I’ve had a couple of ‘dads’ since my real dad left, though I never called any of them ‘Dad’ (if you know what I mean). First there was Simon, who moved in for about two years. I don’t remember him very well. Now there’s Ray, who’s lived with us since I was six. I like Ray. Mum met him when she was modelling for a life-drawing class. He buys me books for my birthday, and always knocks before entering my room.

  When I walked into the kitchen, Ray was on his feet, leaning against the fridge with his arms folded. My mum was perched up on the high stool, looking worried.

  Dad didn’t look worried. He looked tired and messy, but not worried. I recognised him instantly from the photo beside my bed, even though I hadn’t seen him since … well, since I was four. He’s been living in Thailand, you see. Usually, when he sends a photograph, it shows him wearing shorts and a singlet, maybe a hat – once a sarong – and with a bristly beard. It was strange to see him dressed in long, baggy pants (khaki-coloured) and a knitted jumper. It was even stranger to see him at all, in the flesh.

  But I had been warned. Several times, during his monthly phone calls, Dad had mentioned that he wanted to come home. He had even written to Mum about it. She had told us (in the special voice she uses when she talks about my dad) that he wanted to visit us, and was interested in having us visit him, too, but that it would be entirely up to my brother and me. It would be our decision. ‘I’m quite happy for you to get acquainted with him,’ Mum had announced. ‘He is your father, after all, though he hasn’t exactly put much effort into it lately. He does say, however, that he regrets not working on his relationship with his children, so perhaps he’s trying to do the right thing. Disperse the negative chi, so to speak. Anyway, as I said, it’s up to you.’

  So it wasn’t as if I hadn’t been notified. The trouble was, I hadn’t believed that my father would actually show up. Not really. When I was little, I must have been told a thousand times that I would be seeing him soon; that he would be sending money, so I could fly to Thailand; that he would be coming home for Christmas; that we would all go on holiday together, Bethan and Dad and I. He always used to say things like that, and it never happened. He would phone me, and send me presents, and sometimes even write me letters, but he would never appear.

  And now suddenly, out of the blue, he had.

  ‘Alethea,’ he said, rising from his chair. ‘Hello, sweetheart.’

  Alethea. That’s my name – Alethea Gebhardt. It was Dad’s idea, though Mum was happy about it because she’s a bit of a hippy, at heart. However, she now calls me ‘Allie’, like everyone else around here, and it’s only Dad who insists on using my full name.

  Not that I mind my full name, exactly, but … oh, I don’t know. It sounds like something out of The Lord of the Rings, or a Star Wars movie. And everyone thinks I’m weird enough as it is.

  ‘Hello, Dad,’ I said cautiously, stiffening up as he hugged me tight. He smelled funny, like one of Mum’s incense sticks.

  ‘Where’s Bethan?’ he asked, releasing his grip, and I gestured over my shoulder.

  ‘Coming,’ I replied. ‘He’s coming.’ Then I wriggled out of Dad’s embrace and chucked my bag on the floor. ‘Um – can I have a drink?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Mum, slipping down from her stool. But it was Ray who opened the top cupboard for me, and pulled out a glass. Mum added sarcastically: ‘Your father’s just dropped in, as you can see. Perhaps he didn’t realise that Ray would be home sick, today.’

  Ray coughed into a handkerchief as he poured me an orange juice; he had a terrible cold. Normally, he’s very neat and well groomed. In fact, you wouldn’t think that he was an artist, because he wears glasses, and cuts his hair short, and irons his jeans as well as his shirts, and takes a briefcase to his drawing job at the Department of Forestry. That day, however, he looked creased and tousled – rather like my dad, actually, except that he’s not as tall or as hairy as my dad.

  ‘I’m glad we could meet, at last,’ Ray said mildly, wiping his nose. ‘Ah. That sounds like Bethan, now. We’d better break out the Anzac biscuits.’

  Poor Bethan. He really blew it, because he didn’t recognise Dad at all. He pounded in, made straight for the biscuit barrel, and began pleading for something to drink. He barely glanced at Dad. When Dad said ‘Bethan’, he had to say it twice before my brother turned around, wide-eyed, his mouth full of biscuit.

  ‘It’s your dad, Bethan,’ Mum sighed. ‘Your dad’s dropped in.’

  Chewing, Bethan stared at Dad. Then he said: ‘Oh.’

  ‘How are ya,
mate?’ Dad asked gently. ‘How’s school?’

  ‘Okay,’ Bethan replied, spraying crumbs. He shot me an apprehensive look. I could tell that he was dying to get away.

  ‘How would you feel about coming out to dinner with me?’ Dad inquired, adding: ‘Both of you? We could go anywhere you wanted.’

  ‘You mean McDonald’s?’ said Bethan, brightening. We never go to McDonald’s; Mum doesn’t believe in it.

  ‘Oh … ah … well, I don’t think so,’ Dad stammered, and Mum cut in.

  ‘Not McDonald’s, Bethan. You know that.’

  Bethan’s face fell. I said: ‘So we can’t really go anywhere we want?’

  ‘Anywhere but McDonald’s,’ Dad amended.

  ‘Burger King?’

  ‘Well … yes, I suppose so, but –’

  ‘Pizza Hut?’

  ‘If you really want to, Alethea, but there are other kinds of food in the world besides American junk,’ Dad pointed out. ‘There’s a great place in Newtown, near where I’m staying, and it has a kind of smorgasbord of Indian food. Chicken tandoori and naan bread, lentils, curry puffs … you can choose whatever you want. I’m sure you’d like it.’

  Again, Bethan and I exchanged glances. Then we shook our heads. Mum had tried to make us eat curry in the past. It had burned our tongues.

  ‘No,’ we chorused.

  ‘Thai, then. I know all about Thai food. I know just what you’d like.’

  ‘We like kebabs,’ I said cautiously.

  ‘Lebanese? All right. We’ll try something along those lines.’

  In the end, we went to an Egyptian restaurant, where they served a kind of lamb stew, which was all right, and okra, which wasn’t. We went that night, even though it was a school night; Mum said that she didn’t mind, if we didn’t mind. I thought it was the right thing to do. Bethan liked the idea because he expected an Egyptian restaurant to have life-sized mummies (or photographs of mummies) as part of the decoration.

  He was very disappointed when we arrived, because there wasn’t a mummy to be seen. Just hieroglyphs painted on the walls, and a cat sculpture near the window.

  There weren’t any other people eating there, either. Dad suggested that it was perhaps a little early.

  ‘So,’ he added, ‘I guess you must be wondering why I’ve shown up like this, out of the blue? Must be a bit of a shock?’

  ‘Sort of,’ I mumbled. Bethan just stared blankly. The thing about Bethan is, he doesn’t really give much thought to the adults in his life, or why they do what they do. He’s interested in football and skateboarding and karate and magic tricks and horror stories and kickboxing. Everything else, he pretty much ignores.

  Most eight-year-old boys are like this, in my experience. At least, Bethan’s friends certainly are.

  ‘The thing is, I’ve been on a long search for meaning,’ my dad said. ‘That’s why I went to Thailand in the first place. I wasn’t easy in my mind about a lot of things. I had a lot of questions that hadn’t been answered here in Australia, and I think I was lost. Confused. You know, my upbringing was very strict, I had a lot of issues that I hadn’t resolved, and I felt stifled, and angry – angry at myself, really, though I took it out on other people, like your mum, for example … It wasn’t right. I know that now. I had to come to terms with myself, get in touch with myself, and that’s what I’ve been doing, all these years …’

  Dad explained that he had learned all sorts of things in Thailand, like how to meditate (properly), how to relate to other people, how to be honest with himself as well as others. Most importantly, he had learned how to recognise his own faults.

  ‘I realised that when I left you kids here in Australia, I had cut off something vital within myself. It was like cutting off a leg or an arm. At the time, I didn’t understand, but I was damaging all of us. And I’m sorry.’ Dad reached across the table. ‘I’m sorry, kids. I’ve come back to say I’m sorry.’

  It was very confusing. On the one hand, I felt like crying. On the other hand, I knew exactly why Bethan was squirming in his seat beside me. Bethan hates it when things get ‘heavy’. You should see him whenever Mum tries to explain how precious we are to her – he goes as red as his hair.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I mumbled.

  ‘No, it’s not,’ Dad declared. ‘It’s not all right. I cast you out of my life, effectively, and that was wrong. I have to correct that mistake. You are part of my life and you’re going to be part of my life. I won’t shut you out any more.’

  Then the food arrived. As well as the lamb stew and the okra, there was something made out of chickpeas and something made out of spinach. Dad didn’t eat the lamb: he said he was a vegetarian. He also said that he would be importing Thai fabrics and leathergoods into Australia while he put together an ‘exhibition’. Dad’s a photographer, you see: he takes ordinary photos, which he calls ‘business’, and photos that he turns into screen-prints and collages and ceramic plaques, which he calls ‘art’.

  ‘I have a friend named Matoaka, and she’s a fabric artist,’ he told us. ‘She works with silk, and she’s been helping me transfer my images onto silk. It’s very effective. She’s very talented.’

  ‘Is she from Thailand?’ I asked.

  ‘Well – no, originally she’s from Brisbane. Though she has lived in Thailand for several years.’ Dad cleared his throat. ‘As a matter of fact, she’s come back to Australia, too. We’re living with a friend of hers, in Newtown.’

  ‘Oh.’ So Dad had a girlfriend. I wasn’t really surprised, though he hadn’t mentioned her before.

  ‘She wants to meet you kids very much,’ Dad continued. ‘She wants to cook you dinner, some time on the weekend. How about Friday night? Or Saturday? Probably Friday.’

  Bethan shrugged. I grunted. I also made a mental note: no meeting of the Exorcists’ Club on Friday night.

  ‘Do you kids know Newtown at all? It’s an interesting place. Very vibrant. Very questing. A bit exhausting, sometimes – the energy isn’t completely aligned, I would say – but if you have to live in the city, there are worse places. Personally, I’d prefer something up north, on the beach, but we haven’t got that far with our arrangements.’ Dad saw that Bethan wanted to say something, and smiled at him. ‘What’s up, mate?’

  ‘Can I have ice-cream?’ Bethan wanted to know, I kicked him. ‘Please?’ he added.

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure.’ Dad peered around, but the menus were stacked on the other side of the room. ‘They probably have baklava,’ he said.

  ‘Ice-cream would be better.’

  ‘Do you think so? Have you ever tried baklava? I think you’d like it.’

  He was wrong, actually. Bethan tried the baklava, and didn’t like it. (I did.) But, as I said to Bethan later, we had to give Dad a chance.

  After all, he didn’t really know us. Any more than we knew him.

  CHAPTER # three

  The next morning, as we walked to the bus stop, Bethan didn’t lag behind me. He wasn’t trying to pretend that I didn’t exist. Instead of dawdling ten paces to my rear, dragging a stick along a fence or snapping agapanthus flowers off their stalks, he hurried to catch up, his overloaded bag bouncing around on his back.

  ‘Hey,’ he panted.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hang on.’

  ‘Your shoelace is undone.’

  He’s still not very good at tying shoelaces, so they’re always coming undone. I didn’t bother to wait, of course; normally he doesn’t want me to. But this time was different.

  ‘Stop!’ he yelped.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because!’

  I stopped. I waited. At last he joined me, looking red in the face. I regarded him curiously.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked. He hadn’t been in trouble that morning. We hadn’t been fighting. He wasn’t interested in any of my possessions. Why did he particularly want to talk to me – and on our way to school? Our bus stop was only down the street; one of his friends might see him in conversation wit
h a big sister. ‘Are you feeling sick?’

  ‘You know how Dad’s come back?’

  Ah. So that was it. I’d been thinking about Dad myself, as a matter of fact. Quite a lot.

  ‘What about it?’ I said cautiously.

  ‘Well … does that mean we’ll have to go and live with him?’

  You won’t believe it, but that possibility had never even occurred to me. For a moment I stood staring at him, with my mouth hanging open. Then I swallowed.

  ‘No,’ I replied.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  I wasn’t, to tell you the truth, but I didn’t want Bethan to worry. When Bethan worries, he tends to play up. Besides, I knew that Mum would never let us move away for good. The most she’d put up with would be the odd visit. Maybe once a month?

  As Bethan skipped ahead of me, his concerns laid to rest, I wondered if I should ask someone about shared living arrangements. Not Michelle; she didn’t have to worry about her father. He had disappeared before she was born. And Peter’s parents were still married. He wouldn’t know anything.

  I didn’t really want to ask Mum. If I did, she would fret, and want to talk and talk about it all.

  But I probably wouldn’t have any choice.

  ‘So, did you ring Delora?’ was the first thing Michelle said when I arrived at the bus stop. It took me a moment to remember who Delora was. My head was full of other things.

  ‘Uh – no.’ I had forgotten all about my promise. ‘Something came up. Sorry.’ I was about to explain, but decided not to. There were people around, the bus was about to arrive, and anyway, it was a funny situation. I had to think about it before I discussed it. I wanted to work out how I felt.

  Michelle, I knew, thought my dad was like her dad. She didn’t have any patience with either of them. She would probably say that I should tell my dad to piss off.

  I wasn’t sure if I wanted to hear her say that. In fact, I didn’t feel like talking about Dad at all. The whole subject was too difficult. So I shoved it to the back of my mind.