Into My Arms Page 22

  31

  From a distance, the Christmas decorations on the museum looked like some sort of tropical fungus, thought Arran. A tinsel-based mould, maybe, originating from the festive excesses of Federation Square, spreading its tendrils all over the city, entombing buildings, clogging tramlines . . . The idea made him smile. Lots of things did these days. He checked his watch. One thirty. He’d made good time from the office, but then the roads were always quiet on Christmas Eve, most people having knocked off at midday and rushed away for some last-minute shopping or an early drink.

  A shout went up from the lawn at the far end of the building. Arran peered across the gardens flanking the museum, through the trees green as traffic lights. Yes, that was Ben’s group. He could see Ben himself, standing beside a rubbish bin that was substituting for stumps, umpiring an impromptu cricket game. The enormous multicoloured cube of the Children’s Gallery hovered behind him, framing the scene, its vivid panels as enticing as an advent calendar or a freshly wrapped present.

  That reminded him . . . Arran reached into his pocket. The package was still there. He’d have to give it to Zia privately, away from the group, so it didn’t look like favouritism. He didn’t favour Zia, he told himself, it was just that Zia had less than the other boys he’d since introduced to the drop-in centre. He was looking forward to seeing all of them, to hearing how they were and their plans for the summer, but it was Zia he had met first, Zia who had needed the most from him, Zia whom he still thought of frequently, wondering how he was doing.

  Ben spotted him approaching and left the game, an arm raised in welcome. Arran jogged the last twenty metres and pulled him into a bear hug.

  ‘Whoa!’ said Ben, fighting his way out. ‘Good to see you too. Thanks for coming.’

  ‘Sorry I wasn’t here to cook the sausages,’ said Arran.

  ‘There’s still some burnt ones left, I think, but you better be quick. Plenty of salad though.’

  ‘Funny, that,’ said Arran, smiling. ‘I don’t know why you bother providing salad for a group of teenage boys. Meat, bread and Coke—that’s all they want.’

  ‘I live in hope,’ said Ben as they walked back to the game. Arran studied him covertly. It was getting on for two years since they’d been to Syria together, and they’d caught up every few months since then, but the closeness he’d felt to Ben on that trip had never really been repeated. Had it even been real, Arran wondered, or was it simply brought on by their circumstances, by sharing a common mission, working together in a foreign land? Yet it had seemed genuine, had felt true, somehow. A month or so after they’d got back, Nell had even talked about getting Ben involved with their family again—Ben’s family too, Arran reminded himself—but as far as Arran knew nothing had come of it. Ben was friendly enough, but there was a distance to him, a sadness. Arran had never seen him laugh again like he had that day in the courtyard of the Grand Mosque.

  ‘What are you doing for Christmas?’ he asked casually.

  Ben shrugged. ‘Nothing much. Getting organised for the camps. They start early January.’

  ‘Cheat! CHEAT!’ A cry went up from the cricket game, twelve aggrieved faces turning towards Ben. ‘Sanjeev’s out,’ insisted one of them. ‘He says he’s not, but he is.’

  ‘Are you out?’ Ben asked Sanjeev, who was standing nonchalantly in front of the rubbish-bin stumps, preparing to bat again.

  ‘No way,’ he replied. ‘They missed by a mile.’

  ‘Did not!’ cried a boy in slips, sweat-streaked and angry. ‘We got you fair and square.’

  Ben held up his hands. ‘San, you’ve been in for a while now—how about someone else has a go? You can bowl,’ he added to pacify the boy. ‘Now, who hasn’t had a shot?’ he asked, looking around. ‘Zia, what about you?’

  Zia stood up from the grass on the sidelines of the pitch, haphazardly defined by jumpers and drink bottles waving shyly when he spotted Arran. He seemed to have grown at least half a foot since Arran had last seen him, and his upper lip was smudged as if someone had doodled on it in charcoal. How long had it been? Arran wondered. September, maybe, August at the most. He almost didn’t recognise him.

  Zia took the place of the reluctant Sanjeev and watched as the ball was bowled, eyes fierce with concentration. As it came towards him he lifted his bat over his shoulders, nearly knocking over the rubbish bin, then swung at it wildly, arms outstretched.

  ‘Zia!’ Ben called out, laughing. ‘It’s cricket, not baseball.’

  The ball hit the bin with a thump and Zia put down the bat and smiled.

  ‘Do you want to have another go?’ asked Ben.

  Zia shook his head. ‘Let Farid. He’s been waiting for ages. I’d rather talk to Arran.’ He ambled over as his younger brother hurried to replace him.

  Arran held out his hand. ‘Good to see you,’ he said. ‘Great that Farid’s here too. How long’s he been coming?’

  ‘Just this term,’ Zia said. ‘He likes it. He makes Ben bowl to him on the basketball court whenever he can.’

  Arran chuckled. ‘And Ben would, too. Farid’s always been nuts about cricket, hasn’t he?’ They watched as the boy struck a delivery smartly, sending the ball skipping along the grass towards the Children’s Gallery.

  ‘Four!’ Ben yelled.

  ‘He has,’ Zia said, settling himself back on the ground. Arran sat down beside him. ‘I’m getting better at the Aussie Rules though. I’m going to try for the school team next year.’

  ‘That’s great,’ Arran said warmly. ‘You’ll really be one of us then, won’t you?’ He reached into his pocket. ‘Hey, I brought you something for Christmas. I didn’t know Farid was here, or I would have got him a present too.’

  Zia opened the small parcel quickly, then turned the gift over in his hands. ‘It’s a phone,’ he said. ‘Thank you, but I can’t—’

  ‘It’s prepaid,’ Arran interrupted. ‘I know you can’t afford it—that’s why I got it. All the other kids seem to have one, and now your English is so much better . . . It’s so you can ring your friends without your father complaining, or call your mother occasionally, instead of having to wait for her to call you. I can help you put the numbers in it, if you like. There’s twenty dollars’ credit a month, right through until next Christmas. It’s not much, but . . .’

  ‘Thank you, Arran.’ Zia dipped his upper body briefly in gratitude. ‘Could I call Habib?’

  The question surprised Arran. Why hadn’t he thought of that? ‘Probably not,’ he said. ‘It would use up all your credit. But he could call you, maybe, if he had access to a phone.’ Arran titled his head back and gazed up at the blue sky, with a few white clouds drifting across. Somewhere in Syria, Habib must be spending his days under a similar sky. ‘I wanted to ask you about Habib,’ he went on. ‘Is there any news? Have you heard from him lately?’

  ‘A few letters, when he can. I don’t think he can ring. Maybe he doesn’t know the number.’ Zia fiddled with a shoelace. ‘It’s a long process, isn’t it? Like the application for the visa. Everyone keeps telling us to be patient. Mainly people who don’t have to wait for anything.’

  ‘And Iman?’

  Zia’s face clouded. ‘Nothing. Not since he and Habib separated in Turkey, but that’s years and years ago.’ He was silent for a moment, then looked up. ‘My father has a good job now though. A better job,’ he amended. ‘He is in an office, not the supermarket. He says people are nicer to work with than boxes.’

  Arran smiled. ‘That’s great news! So he’s home in the evenings? You must be pleased about that.’

  ‘I am, yes.’ Zia nodded allowing himself a small smile. ‘Farid is too. We didn’t like being alone overnight. I had to call you once, do you remember?’

  ‘I do. That was a tough time for you. And what about your mum?’ He shouldn’t be doing this at a picnic, Arran realised. He should have called on the Vasseghis, made a proper appointment, not ambushed Zia when he was meant to be having fun. He might as well have brought a clipboard w
ith him.

  ‘She is better.’ Zia was plucking at his shoes again. ‘A little. She gets up now most days. She talks to us when we visit. She looks at Farid’s pictures.’

  ‘She’s not back at home though?’ May as well finish what he’d started.

  ‘No. Not yet. It would be too lonely during the day, when we are all out. She is better with the women. They do weaving together. Termeh, kilims—cloth, prayer rugs. It’s good for her.’ Zia shrugged and stretched his hands out in front of him. ‘Having Habib and Iman back would also be good for her.’

  Arran mumbled his agreement.

  ‘She comes over for dinner twice a week,’ Zia went on. ‘I cook. I’m a much better cook now. I haven’t burned myself in ages.’ He grinned suddenly, white teeth gleaming against his dark skin, and Arran thought how handsome he was becoming. Were the girls at school getting interested? He wondered what Mrs Vasseghi would think about that.

  ‘What are you doing over the holidays?’ he asked. ‘Are you going on one of Ben’s camps? They sound like fun.’

  ‘No. I have to be home for Farid, while my father is at work.’

  ‘Farid could’ve gone too, you know. He’s old enough. He’d probably love it—all those outdoor activities.’

  Zia stared ahead at the cricket game. Farid was still in; he was tapping his bat impatiently as he waited for the bowler. ‘We don’t have the money. Baba gives us twenty dollars a week. I didn’t want to ask him for more.’

  ‘Zia, I could’ve helped,’ Arran said, frustrated. ‘The agency could have sponsored you—you and Farid. You should have asked me.’

  A cry went up and the kids sitting watching the game jumped to their feet and ran onto the pitch.

  ‘My team is into the field,’ Zia said and stood up.

  ‘Fielding,’ Arran corrected. ‘Hey—what about tomorrow? Do you have somewhere to go for Christmas Day? Why don’t you come to lunch with my family? Skye would love to see you again.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Zia, moving away. ‘Baba has the day off. We are picking up Madar and going to the beach. Farid wants to swim.’ He held his new phone to his ear, turning back to Arran. ‘Please say hello to Miss Holt for me. Or maybe I’ll call her instead.’ He laughed and ran off, putting the phone carefully in his pocket. Arran lay back on the lawn smiling. The cheeky bugger.

  Arran pushed open the door then took off his shoes, lining them up with the others on the porch. He’d been surprised and a little affronted when John first asked him to do that, but now he understood. It wasn’t like living in the squat. The terrace was lovely, and John took pride in it. He had bought and then renovated it all by himself.

  ‘Six and a half years,’ he’d told Arran on their first real date, at a Vietnamese restaurant on Victoria Street, almost shouting to be heard over the clamour from the kitchen. ‘I was always up a ladder, or on a scaffold—I started to feel like Michelangelo.’

  Arran had laughed, but later, when he saw it, he understood just how much love had gone into the house, how much time and effort and money. He’d never been asked to remove his shoes in any other place he’d lived, but then he’d never lived anywhere where the cornices were hand-painted, where the hall runner came from Iran, and not Ikea.

  As Arran came into the kitchen John was at the island bench, methodically laying out circles of pastry.

  ‘I thought we’d have gyoza tonight. Dumplings.’ He wiped his hands on a tea towel. ‘Something nice and simple while it’s just us, before all that heavy stuff tomorrow.’

  Arran leaned across and kissed him, astonished anew by all he had somehow tumbled into: John, John’s cooking, this house, their bed, his own toothbrush in a cup in the mosaic-tiled bathroom. These days, he never thought of Mark except to wish that he could see all this, where Arran lived now, how loved and happy he was—see it, and then have the door closed in his face.

  ‘That doesn’t look simple,’ Arran said, inspecting John’s preparations. ‘My idea of simple is ordering pizza.’

  John laughed. ‘These will taste far better, I promise. Plus the delivery boy’s much cuter.’

  The gyoza were good, light and yet filling, exactly the right consistency. Arran finished his meal and sat for a moment, suffused with contentment, then pushed his chair back from the table and began to clear the plates.

  ‘Leave them,’ John said, pouring himself a second glass of wine. ‘I want to talk to you.’

  Arran’s stomach sank. In his experience, this sort of statement never heralded good news. He sat back down.

  John picked up his glass and swirled it gently, the ruby liquid catching the light of the fading evening. ‘You love your niece, don’t you?’ he began uncertainly, gazing into the wine. ‘And that boy you were telling me about that you saw today. Zia.’

  Arran nodded. ‘Sure.’

  ‘You’re fabulous with my nephews too, you really are. They think you’re great.’

  ‘They’re good kids,’ Arran said simply. Where was this heading?

  John took another sip, then looked up. ‘How would you feel about having one of our own?’ he asked.

  The antique clock on the bookcase chimed, eight rich notes hanging in the dusk.

  ‘Are you serious?’ said Arran.

  ‘I’m not getting any younger. Next year I’ll be forty.’ John leaned back in his seat. His eyes were bright; as he lifted his glass again his hand trembled slightly. ‘I know we haven’t been together that long, but we’re good, aren’t we? It’s something I’ve always wanted, that I thought you might want too.’

  Arran swallowed. He wanted to reach across and hug John; he wanted to jump up on the table and dance a jig. ‘I do,’ he said instead. ‘I do. I adore Molly, but I always thought that’d be as close as I got. I don’t have the money for surrogacy, for a start, and now that there’s laws against it—’

  ‘We won’t need a surrogate. You know my friends, Mardi and Erica? You met them at the barbecue on Anzac Day. Mardi called in, last week, while you were at work. They want a baby too. They can’t use IVF—they’re looking for a donor.’

  ‘Just some sperm?’ Arran asked suspiciously.

  ‘No,’ John said, then conceded, ‘Well, yes, sperm, sure. They need that. But she said they’d be happy for us to be involved with the child, if there was one, that maybe we could share custody once it got past the breastfeeding stage, that kids need dads too, not just mums . . .’ He ran his hands through his hair. ‘Look, we’d have to nut it all out, of course, maybe get something legal drawn up. I’m not saying it’ll be easy—but they’re good people, Mardi and Erica, and they like you. Others have done it like this. Why not us?’

  A warmth went through Arran that was more than the afterglow of a good dinner and excellent wine, as filled with promise as the gold-streaked twilight beyond the dining room windows. He reached across the table and took John’s hands. ‘I’ve only got one question,’ he said, pausing for effect. ‘Mardi came around last week. Why’d you wait so long to tell me?’

  ‘I wanted it to be tonight,’ John said. ‘Silly, isn’t it? But it just felt right.’ He raised Arran’s hands to his mouth and kissed them gently, knuckles first, then the fingertips. ‘Merry Christmas, Arran,’ he murmured, his head bent. ‘Merry Christmas.’

  32

  ‘OK, Luca, your turn. What did you like most about today?’

  Ben poked at one of the logs on the fire, sending up a shower of sparks. The January air was warm, almost cloying. They didn’t need a campfire, but the kids had begged for it, for marshmallows to toast and potatoes wrapped in foil, for ghost stories told while they clutched each other and hunched their backs against the dark. Everything, he imagined, that they’d seen on TV or in the movies but had never experienced for themselves. How could he deny them? This was what the week was supposed to be about, after all. You couldn’t have a campfire on the eighteenth floor of a housing commission flat.

  ‘I liked the abseiling the best,’ Luca began, his face animated in the flicker
ing light.

  ‘No way. You were shit scared!’

  ‘Daniel!’ Ben cautioned. ‘Enough with the language. And it’s Luca’s turn now. You’ve had yours.’

  ‘I was not scared!’ Luca protested. ‘I was just making sure that Sanjeev was all the way down before I had my go. That’s what Sally told us to do.’

  ‘You’re quite right, Luca,’ Sally said, leaning into the circle. ‘It is a bit scary at first though, isn’t it? Just that moment when you put all your weight on the rope, before it catches . . .’

  ‘Yeah,’ Luca conceded, glancing across at Daniel as if daring him to comment again. ‘And you don’t know if it’s going to hold you. I know you said it would, but you don’t know it will, if you get what I mean.’

  Sally nodded. ‘That’s why I love abseiling. It’s great when you’re doing it, but there’s always that moment of fear when you start. It’s the fear that makes it so exciting, I think.’

  All the kids were nodding, Ben noticed. Sally had been a real find. When he’d first had the idea of running some camps for his drop-in group over the summer it had been Arran who suggested he get some help; Arran who’d realised that an outdoor education student might do the job cheaply, for the experience, and would come with both skills and equipment Ben didn’t possess. Sally had been the first person to answer Ben’s ad in the student newspaper. She was two years into her degree, she’d told him over the phone. She could run rock climbing and abseiling, if that was any use. Ben hadn’t actually envisaged much more for the week than hiking and fishing, maybe a bit of canoeing if he could hire the boats. Yes, he’d said, sitting up at his desk and reaching for his pen. Yes, that would be very useful indeed. He’d hired Sally on the spot.