Her words have come out in such a rush, he can hardly understand what she’s telling him. He can’t imagine how she lives with such uncertainty. Although to be betrayed by the person who’s supposed to protect you – he has some understanding of that one. But in the face of what she’s just told him, he feels inadequate. He frowns. ‘I wish there was something I could do to help.’
‘You are helping,’ she whispers. ‘Just talking to you helps.’ She blinks at him. ‘I’ve never told anyone before.’
‘I’m glad you did.’
‘Not too much information?’ She sounds hesitant.
He shakes his head. ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’ He wishes he could find something better to say, something that would explain how honoured he is that she’s chosen to confide in him. This is why writing songs is so much easier, he thinks. The melody is a way of sounding out the unspoken, the part of the story lyrics can’t reach.
The street lights flicker off.
‘I didn’t realise it had gotten so late.’ She rubs her eyes. ‘I need to get home, take a shower.’ She twists her hair into a long tail and pushes it over her shoulder. ‘I have to go to work.’
‘I’ll walk you back.’
‘It’s nearly daylight. Quicker if I go by myself.’
‘I want to make sure you get home safely.’ He raises his eyebrows at her. ‘Think you can trust me now?’
She lets her hands rise and fall, and yawns.
‘Can’t you call in sick or something?’
She shakes her head. ‘It wouldn’t feel right.’
He feels a sudden stab of something that feels like homesickness. ‘Cat?’
She twists around, her face expectant.
‘I’m … I’m glad I met you.’
She gives her gap-toothed smile, ducks her chin and walks on, hands in her pockets.
As they head away from the coast, each new street is more down-at-heel than the last. Shabby houses, bins on their sides with rubbish spread over the pavement. Empty lots fenced off with wire. A heavy dog with a blunt head barks at them from the end of a chain. Graffiti sprawls across walls.
‘It seems worse than it is,’ she says. ‘But be careful on your way back.’ She grins. ‘Luckily, you don’t look like a tourist. You forgot your velour tracksuit.’
She stops outside a small clapboard house. Bright geraniums spill from pots lining the steps. He doesn’t want her to go. He pushes a strand of honey hair back from her face. ‘You’re beautiful,’ he says.
She blushes, glances away.
A screen door opens and a pale, frowning woman stands in the doorway in a long lacy dressing gown. She wraps it closer as she peers at them suspiciously.
‘Damn,’ Cat hisses under her breath. ‘My mom.’
Sam smiles at the woman and puts up his hand in greeting. ‘Good morning,’ he calls.
‘Hey, Mom.’ Cat leaves him, climbing the steps towards her mother. ‘Sorry if you were worried. My friend just walked me home.’ She pauses, as if considering whether to introduce him. ‘This is Sam,’ she says quickly. ‘He’s from England.’
‘Young man.’ The pale woman stares at him. ‘No gentleman brings a lady home at this hour.’
‘Mom,’ Cat hisses.
He opens his mouth to explain, apologise, but Cat gives him a warning look, mouthing See you later, as she hurries her mother into the house. The door swings shut behind them. Sam stands for a moment, feeling the small shock of her mother’s words, the sudden loss of Cat. He stands taller. He’s confident that he can overcome her mother’s prejudice. He’s always been good with mothers.
He’s whistling ‘Morning Has Broken’ as he retraces his steps, longing to collapse into his bunk, to close his eyes and go over the details of the evening, remembering every moment, recalling every curve and plane of her face, every nuance of her expression. Waiting at a stop light, the whistle falters on his lips. He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. Why on earth did he lie about his parents? It was a sudden impulse, the words out of his mouth before he could stop them. And she needs to know about Lucinda. But it’s okay, he reasons; it’s not too late to put it right.
NINE
Cat, March 1983
Mom’s hair falls around her shoulders. Her gown gapes, showing bird-thin collarbones. She blocks my way to the stairs like a gatekeeper to the underworld. I knew that if she saw Sam, she’d add up his tattoo and earring and scruffy clothes and come up with the wrong answer.
‘Can we not do this now?’ I ask wearily, knowing she’s going to insist that we do. ‘I have to get ready for work.’
She doesn’t move. ‘Who is he?’ Her face is tense. ‘What are you doing with a man like that?’ She peers at me. ‘Have you been with him all night?’
‘We were just walking and talking. I lost track of time. He’s a singer from England.’ I rub my knuckles over my brow. ‘He hasn’t done anything wrong. And the way he looks … it’s just … fashionable.’
‘Fashionable?’ She spits the word out. ‘Looked like he’d crawled out of a dumpster. A man like that – he’ll be on drugs.’ Her mouth twists. ‘Catrin, I know that sort … he’ll drag you down.’
‘You don’t know anything about him. He’s going back to England soon. I’ll probably never see him again. But right now, he’s the first good thing to happen to me.’ I pause. ‘Anywhere.’
‘Well, my goodness, if he’s just passing through …’ Her voice has softened. ‘What’s the point in seeing him again?’
I am so tired my eyeballs feel as if they’ve been rolled in salt. Nausea thickens my throat. ‘Mom, please don’t try and persuade me out of this. I’m going to meet him again. You can’t stop me. I’m not a child.’
She lets out a sound halfway between a sob and a gasp. Her hand presses against her heart. ‘I have a pain – right here.’
Gently, I take her hand from her chest and rub it between my own. ‘We’ve been to the doctor. He said your heart was as strong as a twenty-year-old’s. You’re just tired. I promise, there’s nothing to worry about. Go back to bed.’ I brush past, catching a mouthful of her sour breath as I climb the stairs.
‘I didn’t figure you for a fool,’ she shouts after me.
I don’t have the strength to pronounce words any more. ‘Mom,’ I whisper. ‘Please. It’s my life.’
‘Just remember, I warned you.’ Mom jabs at her loose hair with twiggy fingers, sniffs, and gathers the trailing hem of her gown to mount the stairs after me. ‘Don’t come crying to me when he lets you down.’
‘Sam isn’t Dad.’
Shock darkens her eyes. She flinches as if I’ve struck her.
Dad comes barrelling out of their bedroom. ‘Jesus Christ! Can’t a man sleep in his own home?’
Defeat lurks in the lines on his forehead, in his thinning rumpled hair and bloodshot eyes. He’s spent all night losing at whatever game he thought he’d get lucky playing.