Page 27 of Pas de Don't
“I’m sorry,” he sighed. “You’re right. Let’s just pretend it never happened.”
Heather couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t make this worse, so she just nodded. Thankfully, Marcus saved her by gesturing toward the door.
“I should get going,” he said, and she nodded in agreement and opened it for him.
“I’ll see you Monday morning,” she managed as he sidled past, and she barely heard his reply before she shut the door, leaned her back against it, and slid down to sit on the floor.
Pretend it never happened. Sure, she could do that.
Chapter 8
Just before four the next afternoon, Marcus got off the 139 bus in front of the Harbord Returned Servicemen’s League and made his way down the hill towards his childhood home. It was a trip he’d made hundreds of times, thousands, maybe, but lately the destination had begun to feel a little like an entirely different suburb than where he’d grown up. The old RSL club had been razed a few years ago and resurrected as a gleaming five-storey behemoth with a gym, a spa, and four different restaurants. Above the dog-friendly outdoor beer garden were several floors of apartments for the retired fifty-five-plus crowd, and Marcus didn’t want to think about how much those units cost. Then again, as he paused on the cliffside and gazed over Freshwater Beach, he had to concede that waking up to a view like that would be worth a small fortune.
And that’s what people were paying for houses in this neighbourhood these days. Marcus shook his head at the modern minimalist white compound that had replaced the small brick house where a family friend had once lived. It looked like the paint hadbarely dried. A few doors down was another old brick home with a second storey under construction, house wrap rippling in the wind. Tomorrow morning the contractors and their crews would return, and the street would be full of battered utes and the sound of power tools—the sound of Marcus’s childhood. His dad had had a battered white ute, complete with a scruffy Heeler mix named Pip. She’d been an impressively sedentary animal—she would’ve made a useless cattle dog—but his dad had loved her from the moment he set eyes on her at the pound. He’d loved this neighbourhood too, with its laid-back, beachy atmosphere and its small brick and fibro homes.The closest thing to heaven, that was what his dad had called Freshwater Beach.
The wind clawed at Marcus’s hair as he made his way downhill. Even with the cold gusts buffeting him sideways, he felt stable and strong, despite gripping his cane a little harder than usual. It had been a bit of a comedown to put the boot on this afternoon after spending the morning walking carefully around his apartment. But Shaz had said yesterday he still had to wear it any time he left the house, and he wasn’t brave enough, or stupid enough, to disobey her.
The sounds of Freshwater Beach wafted to him on the salty air. He could picture the beach perfectly, on the other side of those houses, the way the dark waves rolled in steadily, reliably, their deep blue giving way to a warm teal as they approached the sand. The way they crashed on the beach and dissolved into fizzing white foam, which stretched back from the shore like fragile lace before disappearing into the pale green shallows. Seagulls picked their way along the beach, scavenging for abandoned chips, unbothered by the occasional jogger padding along the denser sand near the water’s edge. Even on a windy winter day like today, there would be surfers out, left to their own devices to stay between the red and yellow flags while one or two surf lifesavers sheltered in the little hut on the grassy dunes at the back of the beach. And even though the cafes wouldn’t be packed with sweating, sun-pink beachgoers,Marcus knew the kiosk inside the surf club would still be serving up hot coffees and toasted cheese sandwiches from inside their cramped kitchen.
He hurried, aware he was late. After all these months, he still hadn’t gotten into the habit of leaving himself more time to get around. When he turned onto his old street, sweating lightly against his T-shirt and hoodie despite the brisk breeze, Marcus saw Davo’s own white ute—freshly washed and not even a little bit battered—already parked outside the house.
Marcus let himself in through the front gate, noticing that the front fence had some thick vines growing on it that he hadn’t seen there before. The grass inside the gate, which his dad had taken so much care to mow every second Saturday afternoon, was looking a little overgrown too, and as Marcus made his way carefully over the uneven paved path to the front door, he could see weeds sneaking up between the rough grey stones.
The little gold sign next to the front door was still shiny, though. When they’d moved in a few years before Davo was born, his parents had named the little brick house Sand Castle, a sly joke about how small it was, and a nod to the beach just down the road. Lots of old Sydney houses had grandiose names etched on old-fashioned signs, but theirs was the only one he knew that was mostly in jest. One of his childhood chores had been to polish the sign once a week, and his mum had taken over the task once he’d moved out.
“I’m here, sorry I’m late,” he called, pushing open the unlocked front door and slipping inside. He heard a single bark from the back of the house, and then Davo’s glossy red kelpie, Banjo, came trotting down the hallway to investigate the new arrival.
The familiar smell of home enveloped Marcus as soon as he shut the door behind him, a mix of eucalyptus floor disinfectant and his mother’s sweet floral perfume. The piney scent of his father’s aftershave, which used to waft from the bathroom and down the hall, was gone, replaced by another, less comforting odor: the sharp smell of the essential oils his mum rubbed on her joints when herpain got especially bad. The house was quiet, and he could hear his mother’s voice and Davo’s deep rumble floating down the hallway.
“Hello, darling,” his mother said with a smile as he entered the kitchen, Banjo trailing behind him. The back of the house got all the sun, and the pale pine table gleamed in the light that streamed in through the wide windows.
“Don’t get up,” he said quickly as she moved to stand. Ignoring him, she rose from the chair—slower than Marcus had seen her move in a while—to give him a hug. She pressed her cheek against his chest, and he dropped a kiss onto the top of her grey bob. He had outgrown her during a growth spurt when he was about fourteen, and had hoped he would keep getting taller, but he’d topped out at just under six feet. He’d been disappointed at the time, but it turned out to be the perfect height for ballet. Davo, on the other hand, towered over the entire family at six-foot-five, just like he did now as he, too, stood to greet Marcus.
“How ya goin’?” Davo asked, giving Marcus a nod and a brief clap on the shoulder.
“Yeah, not bad,” Marcus said as Davo headed for the fridge. He pulled out a beer—his mum must have bought a six-pack of Davo’s favourite, because she didn’t keep beer in the house for herself—and held it up to Marcus.
Marcus shook his head. “Nah, I’m right. Just water, thanks. Haven’t been drinking since the surgery.” He left it at that, as though he were abstaining to speed his recovery. In truth, he would have loved a cold Carlton, but since he wasn’t in class and rehearsal all day, he couldn’t afford the calories. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to tell Davo that.
Davo gave a characteristic shrug and pulled a glass from the cupboard, and Marcus was surprised to notice a few greys at his temples. Davo was pale and freckled like their dad had been, with dark hair and watery blue eyes. Marcus, meanwhile, had always taken after their mum.“How is it?” Leanne gestured at his boot. She had settled herself back in her usual seat at the kitchen table,her back to the windows. Marcus noted that both he and Davo had defaulted to their habitual places, the ones they’d sat in for dinner thousands of times as kids. At the head of the table, a fourth chair sat empty. Marcus stared at it for a moment, remembering. Then he looked away, cleared his throat, and answered his mother’s question.
“It’s getting there,” he replied, nodding his thanks to Davo as he plopped down a glass of water in front of him. Davo sat, leant back in his chair, and nursed his beer in silence. Marcus patted Banjo’s velvety ears for a few seconds before she settled at Davo’s feet. “I’m only in the boot when I’m out and about now, and I’m allowed back in company class next week.”
“That’s wonderful news,” Leanne said, looking relieved. “And I hear there’s an American star joining the company. Heather something?”
Marcus coughed in surprise and narrowly avoided spraying water across the table.
“Yeah,” he gulped as his mum watched him curiously. “Heather Hays. From New York. She’s here to danceGiselle, I think.”
“Is that the one with the swan?” Davo asked dismissively, the last word loaded with derision.
“Swan Lakeis the one with the swan,” Marcus answered dryly. “Giselleis peasant boy meets peasant girl, boy turns out to be a duke who’s engaged to a duchess, girl goes mad and dies of heartbreak.”
“Sounds like a laugh riot.” Davo shrugged, and Marcus tightened his grip on his water glass. Typical Davo, he thought. He never missed a chance to remind Marcus of how little he thought of ballet.
“But that’s just the first act, right?” Leanne jumped in, her voice not quite bright enough to defuse the tension. “She comes back as a ghost.”
“Uh, yeah, she becomes one of these ghosts who trap men in the woods and force them to dance until they die. But she saves the duke, because she loves him.”
