The Sun in Her Eyes (8 page)

‘I remember when he used to let us play in it as kids.’

‘I remember that too,’ he says fondly as he starts up the ignition. I avert my gaze from his toned, tanned arms. ‘I’ll have to take you for a spin in it
sometime.’

I try to ignore the thrill that his comment spikes.

We park as close as we can to Botanic Park, which adjoins Adelaide’s beautiful Botanic Gardens. Ethan told me earlier to bring a jacket, but he said he’d sort everything else. I
spent most of this afternoon with Dad in the Rehab Ward, so I appreciated not having to think about anything organisational.

Yesterday he went to the toilet by himself, which was an incredible achievement. He’s still suffering from hemiparesis – weakness – on the right-hand side of his body, but with
help from a walking aid he can go a small distance on his own.

His doctors think that he might be able to return home by next weekend. The thought makes me feel both elated and terrified in equal measure. I think, for once, Liz and I might be on the same
wavelength.

It’s only seven thirty when Ethan and I arrive at the park, and the film starts closer to nine, so we find a decent position about halfway back from the screen and lay out a rug. Ethan has
brought two fold-up chairs and a blanket for later when it’s cold, plus a picnic basket crammed with cheeses, crackers, grapes, salads and two roasted, chilled quails.

‘Wow, you’ve gone all out,’ I say with amazement.

‘Mum helped me pull it together,’ he admits. ‘She does this sort of thing well.’

‘Aah, bless her,’ I say with affection.

‘They both said to give you their love.’

He pulls out a bottle of red from the wine bag.

‘What have you got there, then?’ I ask cheekily, not recognising the label from where I’m kneeling.

‘2012 vintage.’ He passes over the bottle for me to have a look. ‘It’s one of ours. Bloody good year.’

‘
Lockwood House Apple Acre Shiraz
,’ I read aloud. There’s a silver star at the top right-hand side of the label. ‘This won an award?’

He nods. ‘Silver Award at last year’s Royal Adelaide Wine Show.’

‘Wow. That’s amazing. You’ve changed your labels,’ I note. ‘They’re cool.’

They used to be red with swirly gold writing, but this is simple and stylish, with a black, modern line drawing of an apple tree on a cream-coloured label.

‘Only for that one,’ he says, taking the bottle back from me. ‘I’m still working on Dad with the others.’ He cracks the top open. ‘Still working on moving
everything else to screw-cap, too, but Dad loves good old Portuguese bark.’

I presume he’s talking about the cork.

‘Why did he let you have your way with this one, then?’ I’m intrigued.

‘Apple Acre Shiraz has been sort of a project of mine,’ he replies, pouring two glasses. ‘You remember our old apple orchard?’

‘Of course. I nearly broke my arm once, climbing those trees to get an apple.’

‘They were few and far between,’ he agrees, his lips twitching as he hands over a glass. ‘I’m driving home, by the way, so I’ll only have one.’

‘Christ, I’ll be off my face again.’

He grins and continues. ‘Well, a few years ago when I was still at uni, I had all the apple trees cleared. They were old,’ he says dismissively, and I get the impression he’s
had to defend himself in the past. ‘Anyway, I planted Shiraz vines and we had our first crop in 2010.’

‘Wow. I am so impressed.’

He grins at my reaction. ‘By the way, Mum asked if you’re free next Wednesday for dinner?’

‘Ooh, yes, definitely.’

The sun is shining golden yellow through the trees, turning their branches into silhouettes as we tuck into the picnic Ethan has brought.

‘Thank you so much for doing this,’ I say gratefully. ‘It’s good to have something to take my mind off things.’

‘How’s it all going with Len?’

I fill him in on his latest progress, including the fact that Dad might be coming home in time for next weekend.

‘That soon?’ Ethan says. ‘Will you be able to cope?’

‘I hope so. Liz wants to keep working if she can, so I’m going to be around for Dad in the daytime and she’ll take over in the evenings.’

I know from my research that many people have to leave their jobs and become full-time carers when a loved one has a stroke. They’re no longer the wife, the husband, the daughter, the son.
Professionals in the medical industry simply refer to them as the ‘carer’. Liz and I have both already been assigned the title. I’m trying not to feel too freaked out about
it.

‘That sounds pretty full on,’ he notes with empathy.

‘It could be, but he’s desperate to get out of hospital.’

‘For his sake, I hope your cooking has improved since we were teenagers.’

I smack him on his arm.

‘I’m just kidding,’ he replies gruffly. ‘You know, my uncle Henry had a stroke about ten years ago, and the thing that helped with his rehabilitation was
shoot-’em-up video games. Something about helping his hand-to-eye coordination, I think.’

‘That makes sense,’ I reply with a nod. Anything that encourages my father to use his hand muscles is good.

‘I can dig out my old PlayStation if you like,’ he offers. ‘I’m sure it’s in a box at the top of a cupboard somewhere.’

‘That would be great, thanks.’

I don’t really know if Dad is a shoot-’em-up video games sort of person. Liz certainly isn’t. But anything’s worth a try.

I breathe in deeply, inhaling the scent of recently cut grass and eucalyptus trees. The warmth from the day has almost left the damp ground, but not quite. The sun continues to sink further
behind the park’s trees, casting an orange glow across a chunk of the sky. I look overhead where it’s still blue to see that the first star has come out. This is the most content
I’ve felt in days. No, weeks.

‘You want a top-up?’ Ethan asks.

‘Go on, then. It’s delicious,’ I tell him as he pours more wine into my glass. ‘So, tell me about Michelle,’ I prompt.

‘Not much to tell. She’s just a girl I met at a bar a month or so ago. Went out a couple of times. I don’t know.’ He shrugs. ‘Don’t think I’m ready to
start dating again.’

‘Was she getting too clingy?’

They usually do, where Ethan’s concerned. Yes, kettle calling the pot black, I know.

He gives me an inquisitive look. ‘Yeah, she was, as a matter of fact.’ He pauses. ‘What about you? Who’s Zara?’

I stiffen at his question.

‘You asked Ned about her on the phone,’ he reminds me.

‘Oh! Oh, right. She’s sort of his boss,’ I reluctantly reveal. ‘They go out sometimes.
Networking
,’ I add, raising my eyebrows.

‘You think she’s got the hots for him?’

‘I’m
sure
she has,’ I reply with certainty. ‘He’s often coming home late, stinking of her fags. I think she took up smoking when she split up with her
husband. They were only married for a few weeks.’

‘She sounds like a catch,’ he says sardonically, adding after a moment, ‘You’re not worried about him, are you?’

‘No. Only her.’ I shake my head, trying to seem confident.

‘You guys are cool, A,’ he tells me calmly, tugging a grape off the bunch he brought. ‘Everyone could see how besotted Ned was with you at your wedding. I’m sure
you’ve got nothing to worry about.’

I’m not that comfortable with this topic of conversation, so I say thanks and leave it at that.

Perhaps Ethan won’t be that comfortable talking about his soon-to-be-ex-wife, either, but I broach the subject, regardless. ‘When did you and Sadie split up?’

‘12th August, last year.’

‘You remember the exact date?’

‘It was Penny’s eighth birthday,’ he says flatly.

‘Oh.’

He grunts. ‘She hates it when I call Penelope Penny.’

‘I think it sounds sweet.’

‘She hated a lot about me,’ he adds drily.

‘Who called it off?’ I dare to ask.

‘It was pretty mutual in the end.’ He takes a gulp of his wine and stares across the park at the sunset. I study his profile: his green eyes reflecting the orange light, his straight
nose, the dusting of dark stubble gracing his strong jaw.

‘I’m sorry it didn’t work out,’ I say quietly. ‘How are the girls?’

‘Rachel doesn’t really understand, but Penny is finding it hard, asking a lot of questions, which is really stressing Sadie out.’

‘I bet.’ I feel a rare pang of pity for Sadie.

He sighs heavily. ‘I don’t want to bore you with the ins and outs.’

‘You can talk to me any time,’ I say firmly, making him glance my way. ‘I know Josh and Tina are a bit caught in the middle, so honestly, I mean that.’

‘Thanks, A,’ he says softly, making my heart melt with the look in his eyes. I remind myself of my earlier pep talk.

‘You’re welcome,’ I say brusquely, looking down at the mess we’ve made. ‘Shall we clear some of this away before it gets too dark to see?’

‘The physiotherapist said it’s a nice idea,’ I tell Ethan a couple of days later. We’re on the phone discussing his PlayStation suggestion.

‘Cool. I’ll have a look for it. Hopefully Sadie hasn’t thrown it out,’ he adds drily. ‘She made me pack it up a few years ago.’

I can just imagine Ethan as an early twenty-something, playing video games when he should be changing nappies.

‘I’ll head over tomorrow when the kids are at school,’ he says. ‘I can help you set it up tomorrow night, if you like.’

‘That’d be fantastic, thank you.’

‘God,
Medal of Honour
,’ he says fondly, like he’s talking about an old friend. ‘Your dad will love that one. You’re a World War Two soldier, fighting off
the Nazis.’

‘I hope this is a game you can play solo.’ Can’t say the idea of it appeals to me.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ he brushes me off. ‘But it’s more fun with two. Don’t worry, I’ll just show you how to play so you can teach him.’

‘Okay. If you’re sure.’

‘I don’t mind a bit.’

On the contrary, I have a feeling he’s looking forward to it.

Liz isn’t too enamoured with our plan when I fill her in the following evening. Ethan will be with us within the hour.

‘I was planning on downloading some games onto his iPad,’ she says crossly. ‘Do we really need a pile of video games in here, messing up the living room?’

‘His physiotherapist said it could help,’ I remind her. ‘Anything is worth a go, right?’

She frowns. ‘We need a bigger house. You know, we still have a whole bunch of boxes of yours that need sorting out. Why don’t you look at those while you’re here?’

‘Where are they?’ I ask.

She gets up abruptly from the sofa. We ate dinner in front of the telly, both of us too tired to talk after going back and forth to the hospital today. Liz has also had to fit work in, as well
as coming in this afternoon for a family meeting. We met with Dad’s multi-disciplinary team to start planning his return home next week.

I wearily follow her down the corridor, through the kitchen and into the utility room, where she reaches up to open a high cupboard. We crane our necks to stare up at the cardboard boxes crammed
into the space amongst cobwebs and who knows what else. I don’t much fancy putting my hands up there.

‘You’ll need to get the ladder from the garden shed,’ she states. We’re both a little on the short side. ‘But watch out for spiders,’ she warns. ‘I
haven’t used it for ages.’

Fabulous. There’s something to look forward to.

She leaves me to it, returning to the living room to watch telly. For someone who’s supposed to be an intellectual, she doesn’t half watch a load of crap.

Despite my absolute lack of enthusiasm for creepy-crawlies, I’m intrigued to discover what’s inside the boxes, so ten minutes later I find myself dusting them off and carrying them
one by one into my bedroom. I sit down on the floor and lean up against the bed. There are four in total, medium-sized. I didn’t take much with me when I left Adelaide to go backpacking
around Europe at the age of eighteen. Mum was born in Britain so I have a British passport as well as an Australian one, but Dad only told me this after I turned seventeen, along with the fact that
an inheritance from Mum had been put into a trust fund until my eighteenth birthday. Knowing this, I had a whole year to plan my escape. It was one of the longest years of my life. Sadie was
already on the scene so Ethan had gone AWOL from our friendship, and Liz and I were fighting tooth and nail. Looking back, I think it was probably one of the longest years of her life, too.

I had every intention of returning to Australia after my travels, but I fell head-over-heels in love with London and became consumed with the idea of living and studying there. I hadn’t
shown any interest in university when I was still at school, but I changed my mind completely. The next three years were some of the best of my life. Numbers had always made sense to me, so I chose
to do a maths degree, followed by a teacher training course. I wanted to follow in my Dad’s footsteps – he may have lived on the other side of the world, but teaching somehow brought me
closer to him. I got a job at a secondary school, and though the pay was dire, I adored it. Soon afterwards, I met Ned.

I saved up to visit Dad every two to three years while I was away, the last time being for our wedding. He never came to England, much as I begged him to seek therapy for his flying phobia.
Sometimes I wonder how Mum used to feel, never being able to travel with him, to take him home. Did she feel trapped in Adelaide? In London, I somehow felt closer to her, too, breathing the air
that she once breathed, faintly polluted as it was.

I wish I’d known her. I wish I’d known her better. But all I have is a collection of bleached-out memories.

The first, heaviest, box contains stacks of musty-smelling books, textbooks and schoolwork, some dating back to my primary school years. I flick through a couple of papers and stumble across a
short play that I wrote when I was fourteen. Nell, Tina and I performed it at drama club and I giggle as I skim-read the odd piece of dialogue.

I will never forgive you for this, as long as I live!

Numbers were my thing. Words were not.