Текст книги "On the Jellicoe Road "

Автор книги: Melina Marchetta

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Jellicoe Road

Melina Marchetta

For Daniel

and

for Max

Contents

Prologue

My father took one hundred and thirty-two minutes to die.

Chapter 1

I’m dreaming of the boy in the tree and at…

Chapter 2

When it is over, when I’m the last person sitting…

Chapter 3

The territory wars have been part of the Jellicoe School’s…

Chapter 4

Jonah Griggs.

Chapter 5

He went missing on one of the prettiest days Narnie…

Chapter 6

The boy in the tree in my dreams comes calling…

Chapter 7

The next afternoon I walk to Clarence House to find…

Chapter 8

She stood at Webb’s door: Tate, with the wild hair…

Chapter 9

I’m riding as fast as I can. The faster the…

Chapter 10

I’m dreaming. I know I’m dreaming because I’m in a…

Chapter 11

It is dark, surreally dark, and I’m hanging upside down…

Chapter 12

Over the weekend Ben gets word through Raffaela that the…

Chapter 13

Three things happen in the next week that keep us…

Chapter 14

The look on the constable’s face said it all to…

Chapter 15

It’s peaceful like this, on my back. A loving sun…

Chapter 16

By the second day of the holidays everyone has left…

Chapter 17

On one of those days during the holidays when they…

Chapter 18

On the last day of the holidays, Santangelo sends word…

Chapter 19

I go to see Santangelo’s dad at the police station.

Chapter 20

Finally we came to an agreement about the Club House…

Chapter 21

One day Tate was there, a ghost of Tate, sitting…

Chapter 22

Somewhere on the highway to Sydney I begin to cry…

Chapter 23

“Taylor Markham?”

Chapter 24

During this time I start to get to know my…

Chapter 25

There is a sick feeling in my stomach when we…

Chapter 26

Aftermath. Everyone uses it all the time so I get…

Chapter 27

And life goes on, which seems kind of strange and…

Epilogue

He sat in the tree, his mind overwhelmed by the…

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Praise

Other Books by Melina Marchetta

Credits

Copyright

About the Publisher

Prologue

My father took one hundred and thirty-two minutes to die.

I counted.

It happened on the Jellicoe Road. The prettiest road I’d ever seen, where trees made breezy canopies like a tunnel to Shangri-la. We were going to the ocean, hundreds of miles away, because I wanted to see the ocean and my father said that it was about time the four of us made that journey. I remember asking, “What’s the difference between a trip and a journey?” and my father said, “Narnie, my love, when we get there, you’ll understand,” and that was the last thing he ever said.

We heard her almost straightaway. In the other car, wedged into ours so deep that you couldn’t tell where one began and the other ended. She told us her name was Tate and then she squeezed through the glass and the steel and climbed over her own dead—just to be with Webb and me; to give us her hand so we could clutch it with all our might. And then a kid called Fitz came riding by on a stolen bike and saved our lives.

Someone asked us later, “Didn’t you wonder why no one came across you sooner?”

Did I wonder?

When you see your parents zipped up in black body bags on the Jellicoe Road like they’re some kind of garbage, don’t you know?

Wonder dies.

Chapter 1

–TWENTY-TWO YEARS LATER—

I’m dreaming of the boy in the tree and at the exact moment I’m about to hear the answer that I’ve been waiting for, the flashlights yank me out of what could have been one of those perfect moments of clarity people talk about for the rest of their lives. If I was prone to dramatics, I could imagine my sighs would have been heard from the boundaries of the school to the town down below.

The question begs to be asked, “Why the flashlights?” Turning on the light next to my bed would have been much less conspicuous and dramatic. But if there is something I have learned in the past five years, it’s that melodrama plays a special part in the lives of those at the Jellicoe School. So while the mouths of the year twelves move and their hands threaten, I think back to my dream of the boy, because in it I find solace. I like that word. I’m going to make it my word of the year. There is just something about that boy that makes me feel like I belong. Belong. Long to be. Weird word, but semantics aside, it is up there with solace.

Somewhere in that hazy world of neither here nor there, I’ll be hanging off that tree, legs hooked over the branch, hands splayed, grabbing at air that is intoxicating and perfumed with the sweet smell of oak. Next to me, always, is that boy. I don’t know his name, and I don’t know why he comes calling, but he is there every time, playing the same music on one of those Discmans for tapes from the eighties, a song about flame trees and long-time feelings of friends left behind. The boy lets me join in and I sing the same line each time. His eyes are always watery at that point and it stirs a nostalgia in me that I have no reason to own, but it makes me ache all the same. We never quite get to the end of the song and each time I wake, I remind myself to ask him about those last few bars. But somehow I always forget.

I tell him stories. Lots of them. About the Jellicoe School students and the Townies and the Cadets from a school in Sydney. I tell him about the war between all three of us for territory. And I tell him about Hannah, who lives in the unfinished house by the river at the edge of the Jellicoe School, and of the manuscript of hers I’ve read, with its car wreck. Hannah, who is too young to be hiding away from the world and too smart to be merely organising weekend passes for the kids in my dorm. Hannah, who thinks she has me all worked out. I tell him of the time when I was fourteen, just after the Hermit whispered something in my ear and then shot himself, when I went in search of my mother, but got only halfway there. I tell him that I blame the Cadet for that.

The boy in the tree sobs uncontrollably when I tell him about the Hermit and my mother, yet his eyes light up each time I mention Hannah. And every single time he asks, “Taylor, what about the Brigadier who came searching for you that day? Whatever became of him?” I try to explain that the Brigadier is of no importance to my story, that the Brigadier was just some top brass, high up in the army, who had been invited to train the cadets that year, but the boy always shakes his head as if he knows better.

And there are times, like this time, when he leans forward to remind me of what the Hermit had whispered. He leans so far forward that I catch his scent of tea-tree and sandalwood and I strain my ears to listen so I will never forget. I strain my ears, needing to remember because somehow, for reasons I don’t know, what he says will answer everything. He leans forward, and in my ear he whispers…

“It’s time!”

I hesitate for a moment or two, just in case the dream is still floating around and I can slip back into it for that crucial moment. But the flashlights hurt my eyes and when I’m able to push them away I can see the ignorant impatience in the faces of the year twelves.

“If you want us to scare you, Taylor Markham, we’ll scare you.”

I climb out of bed and pull on my jumper and boots and grab my inhaler. “You’re wearing flannelette,” I remind them flatly. “How scared should I be?”

They walk me down the corridor, past the senior rooms. I see the other year-eleven girls, my classmates, standing at their door, watching me. Some, like Raffaela, try to catch my eye, but I don’t allow it to hold. Raffaela makes me feel sentimental and there is no place in my life for sentimentality. But for just one moment I think of those first nights in the dorm five years ago, when Raffaela and I lay side by side and she listened to a tale that I have no memory of today about my life in the city. I’ll always remember the look of horror on her face. “Taylor Markham,” she had said, “I’m going to say a prayer for you.” And although I wanted to mock her and explain I didn’t believe in anything or anyone, I realised that no one had ever prayed for me before. So I let her.

I follow the seniors down two flights of stairs to a window that is supposedly the least conspicuous one in the House. I have actually mastered the climb down from my own window but have never dared to tell anyone. It gives me more freedom and means that I don’t have to explain my every move to the year-seven spies in the dorm. I started off as one of those. They hand-pick you young out here.

A thorn presses into my foot through the soft fabric of my boot and I let it for a moment, pausing until they push me forward. I walk ahead, allowing them to play out their roles.

The trail that leads to the meeting hut is only distinguishable in the pitch black by the sensation of soft dirt under my feet. In the darkness, one of the seniors stumbles behind me. But I keep on walking, my eyes closed, my mind focused. Ever since they moved me from the communal dorms to my own room in year seven I have been trained to take over, just like the protégés in the other Houses. Five years is a long time waiting and somehow during that time I got bored. So as we reach the hut and enter and I feel the waves of hostility smack me in the face, I begin to plan my escape from Jellicoe. Except that this time I will not be fourteen and there won’t be a Cadet who tags along. There will just be me. According to Dickens, the first rule of human nature is self-preservation and when I forgive him for writing a character as pathetic as Oliver Twist, I’ll thank him for the advice.

Candles illuminate the canvas-covered dirt floor where the seniors from all the Houses sit with their successors, waiting for the verdict.

“This is officially the passing-on ceremony,” the one-in-charge says. “You keep it simple. It’s not a democracy. Whoever’s in charge rules. They can only be superseded if five of the six House leaders sign a document deeming him or her incompetent. The one-in-charge has final say in what gets traded with the Cadets and the Townies. He or she, only, has the right to surrender to the enemy.”

Richard of Murrumbidgee House makes a sound as if he’s holding back a laugh. I don’t know whether it’s because he’s sure the job is his or because he is laughing at the idea that anyone would ever surrender to the enemy, but the sound grates on me.

“The important thing is to never give anything away,” the one-in-charge continues, “especially not to teachers or dorm staff. Every time your dorm co-ordinator calls a meeting, just sit there and look like you’re taking in every word but don’t let them ever understand what goes on around here after hours.”

“Which is?” Ben Cassidy asks politely.

“I beg your pardon?” says one of his seniors.

“Well, what exactly does go on here after hours?”

“What are you getting at?” the senior persists.

Ben shrugs. “Everyone’s always going on about what goes on after hours but nothing actually seems to go on at all, except maybe meetings like this.”

“Then to begin with,” the one-in-charge says, “don’t discuss these meetings.”

“Well, it’s not as if they don’t know what’s going on,” Ben continues. “This one time I was with Hannah and we were eating her scones and she was asking me one hundred and one questions, as per usual.” He looks around at the other protégés as if we’re interested. “She makes them herself. Hmm hmm. Beautiful. Well, we got to talking and I said, ‘Hannah, you’ve lived in this house ever since I’ve been here and it’s got the best bird’s-eye view of all the Houses, so what do you think goes on here out of school hours?’”

“That’s a great question to be asking someone who’s constantly speaking to the principal,” Richard says. “You’re a stupid prick, Cassidy.”

“We didn’t have much to choose from,” the leader of Clarence House says, sending Ben a scathing look and whacking him across the back of the head. Ben looks resigned. In year seven he got bashed up at least once a month, mostly by his seniors. He’d go visit Hannah, which I found irritating because he had his own adult looking after his House and the one thing I hated in year seven, after living with Hannah in her unfinished house for the whole year before, was sharing her with the rest of the school. The revelation that she’s a question-asker is even more irritating. Hannah never asks me anything.

“What type of scones?” I ask him. He looks up at me, but his senior whacks him again.

“Okay, I’m over this,” Richard says impatiently. “Can we just get to the point?”

Those-in-charge look at one another and then back to us. And then at me.

I hear the curses instantly, the anger, the disbelief, the hiss of venom under the breath of almost everyone in the room except the seniors. I know what is about to be said but I don’t know how I feel. Just numb like always, I guess.

“You’re not a popular choice, Taylor Markham,” the one-in-charge says, cutting through the voices. “You’re too erratic, have a bad track record, and running off with one of the enemy, no matter how young you were, was bad judgement on your part. But you know this place inside out and you’ve been here longer than anyone else and that’s the greatest asset anyone can have.”

One of my seniors nudges me hard in the ribs and I guess I’m supposed to stand up.

“From this point on,” the one-in-charge continues, “we answer no questions and offer no advice, so don’t come to find us. We don’t exist anymore. We go home for study tomorrow and then we’ll be gone and our role here is over. So our question is are you in, or do we give this to our next candidate?”

I didn’t expect a question or an option. I would have preferred if they just told me to take over. There is nothing about this role that I desperately want. Yet being under the control of any of the protégés in this room for even the slightest moment is a nauseating prospect and I know that if I’m not in charge I’ll be spending many a night on surveillance, freezing my bottom off in the middle of the bush.

When I’m ready, I nod, and the one-in-charge hands me a purple notebook and a thick crisply folded piece of paper, which I suspect is the map outlining who owns what in the territory wars. Then the year twelves begin to leave and, like all things insignificant, the moment they’re gone it is like they never existed.

I sit back down and prepare myself for what I know is coming. Five House leaders ready for a battle. One common enemy. Me.

“You don’t want this. You never have.” I think the comment comes from the leader of Murray House, who has never really spoken to me. So the idea that he thinks he knows what I want interests me.

“Step down and the five of us will sign you out,” Richard says, looking around at the others. “You’ll be put out of your misery and we’ll get on with running the underground.”

“Richard’s got some great ideas,” the Hastings House girl explains.

“You don’t have the people skills, Taylor.”

“And you never turn up to meetings.”

“And not once did you gather intelligence against the Cadets last year.”

“You spend too much time in trouble with Hannah. If she’s on your back, she’ll be on ours.”

“You just don’t give a shit about anyone.”

I block them out and try to go back to the boy in the tree….

“Are you even listening to us?”

“Let’s just take a vote.”

“Five says she’s out and she’s out.”

Back to the tree…inhaling the intoxicating perfumed air and listening to a song with no end and to a boy with a story that I need to understand.

“This is the worst decision I’ve ever known them to make.”

“Everyone calm down. We just vote and it’ll be over.”

“She burnt down the bloody laundry when I was in her House. Who can trust her?”

“They were sultana scones.”

The voice slices through the others and I glance up. Ben Cassidy is looking at me. I don’t know what I see in his eyes, but it brings me back to reality.

“What are you doing, Ben?” Richard asks quietly, menacingly.

Ben takes his time, then looks at Richard. “The one-in-charge gave it to her, so we should respect that.”

“We haven’t agreed that she’s the leader.”

“You need five votes against her,” Ben reminds them.

“Murray? Hastings? Darling?” he says to the others in turn. They refuse to look at me and I realise they’ve rehearsed this. “Clarence…”

“Raffaela reckons we need to get the Prayer Tree,” Ben cuts in before Richard can drag him into it. I can tell they haven’t discussed this with him. He’s considered the weakest link. Except when they need his vote. Big mistake.

“That’s all we want back from the Townies,” Ben mutters, not looking at anyone.

Richard glances at Ben in disgust.

“And of course the Club House is a priority.” Ben starts up again, and I can tell he’s enjoying himself.

Silence. Tons of it, and I realise that I have my one vote that will keep me in. For the time being, anyway.

“Who’s in charge of the Townies this year?” I ask.

I’m staring at Richard. He realises that I’m here to stay and despite the look in his eyes that says betrayal, backstabbing, petulance, hatred, revenge, and anything else he’s planning to major in, he lets me have my moment.

“We’ll find out sooner or later,” he says.

But I like this power. “Ben?” I say, still staring at Richard.

“Yes?”

“Who’s in charge of the Townies these days?”

“Chaz Santangelo.”

“Moderate or fundamentalist?”

“Temperamental, so we need to get on his good side.”

“Townies don’t have a good side,” Richard says.

I ignore him. “Is he going to be difficult?” I ask Ben.

“Always. But he’s not a thug,” Ben says, “unlike the leader of the Cadets.”

“Who?” Richard barks out.

I see Ben almost duck, as if a hand is going to come out and whack him on the back of his head.

“First thing’s first. This year we get the Townies on our side,” I say, ignoring everyone in the room but Ben.

The chorus of disapproval is like those formula songs that seem to hit number one all the time. You know the tune in a moment and it begins to bore you in two.

“We’ve never done that,” Richard snaps.

“And look where it’s got us. In the last few years, we’ve lost a substantial amount of territory. It’s been split up between the Cadets and Townies. We haven’t got much left to lose.”

“What about the Prayer Tree?” Ben asks again.

“The Prayer Tree is not a priority,” I say, standing up.

“Raffaela reckons the trade made three years ago was immoral,” he argues.

I try not to remember that Raffaela, Ben, and I spent most of year seven together hiding out with Hannah. I can’t even remember Ben’s story. Heaps of foster parents, I think. One who put a violin in his hands and changed his life.

“Do me a favour,” I say to him, a tad on the dramatic side. “Don’t ever bring morality into what we do here.”

Chapter 2

When it is over, when I’m the last person sitting on the canvas-covered dirt floor, when the candles have burnt out and the sun has come up, I make my way towards Hannah’s house by the river. Hannah’s house has been unfinished ever since I can remember. Deep down I think that’s always been a comfort to me, because people don’t leave unfinished houses.

Working on her house has been my punishment ever since I got to this place six years ago. It’s the punishment for having nowhere else to go in the holidays or breaking curfew or running away with a Cadet in year eight. Sometimes I am so bored that I just go and tell her that I’ve broken curfew and she’ll say, “Well, no Saturday privileges for you, Taylor,” and she’ll make me work all day on the house with her. Sometimes we don’t say a word and other times she talks my ear off about everything and nothing. When that happens, there’s a familiarity between us that tells me she’s not merely my House caretaker. In that role she works out rosters, notifies us of transfers between Houses or exam schedules or study groups or detentions. Sometimes she sits with the younger kids and helps with homework. Or she invites them to her house and makes them afternoon tea and tells them some bad news, like a grandparent being dead or a parent having cancer, or makes up some fantastic story about why someone’s mother or father couldn’t come that weekend.

Absent parents aren’t a rare thing around here, probably because a tenth of the students are state wards. The Jellicoe School is run by the state. It’s not about money or religion but it is selective, so most of us are clever. The rest are a combination of locals or children of alternative environmentalists who believe that educating their children out in the bush is going to instil a love of nature in them. On the contrary, most of the students run off to the city the moment year twelve is over and revel in the rat race, never looking back. Then there are those like Raffaela, who is a Townie and is out here boarding with the rest of us because her parents teach at Jellicoe High School in town and they thought it would be better for her not to have to deal with that. Richard’s parents are embassy staff who live overseas most of the time, but his grandparents live in the outer district of the area so it seemed like the best option for him.

I don’t know where I fit in. One day when I was eleven, my mother drove me out here and while I was in the toilets at the 7-Eleven on the Jellicoe Road, she drove off and left me there. It becomes one of those defining moments in your life, when your mother does that. It’s not as if I don’t forgive her, because I do. It’s like those horror films where the hero gets attacked by the zombie and he has to convince the heroine to shoot him, because in ten seconds’ time he won’t be who he was anymore. He’ll have the same face but no soul. I don’t know who my mother was before the drugs and all the rest, but once in a while during our splintered time together I saw flashes of a passion beyond anything I’ll ever experience. Most other times she was a zombie who would look at me and say things like, “I didn’t name you. You named yourself.” The way I used to see it was that when I was born she didn’t take time even to give me an identity. Of course there’s a story behind it all and she’s not that cut-and-dried evil, but my version keeps me focused. Hannah, of course, knows one of the other versions, but like everything, she keeps it a mystery.

Usually, especially these days, we seem to be angry with each other all the time, and today is no different.

“Transfers,” she says, handing me the sheet. I don’t bother even looking at it.

“My House is full. No more transfers,” I tell her.

“There are some fragile kids on that list.”

“Then why transfer them to me?”

“Because you’ll be here during the holidays.”

“What makes you think I don’t have anywhere to go these holidays?”

“I want you to take them under your wing, Taylor.”

“I don’t have wings, Hannah.”

She stares at me. Hannah’s stares are always loaded. A combination of disappointment, resignation, and exasperation. She never looks at anyone else like that, just me. Everyone else gets sultana scones and warm smiles and a plethora of questions, and I get a stare full of grief and anger and pain and something else that I can never work out. Over the years I’ve come to accept that Hannah driving by on the Jellicoe Road five minutes after my mother dumped me was no coincidence. She has never pretended it was, especially during that first year, when I lived with her, before I began high school. In year seven, when I moved into the dorms, I was surprised at how much I missed her. Not living in the unfinished house seemed like a step farther away from understanding anything about my past. Whenever I look for clues, my sleuthing always comes back to one person: Hannah.

I take the list from her, just to get her off my back.

“You’re not sleeping.” Not a question, just a statement. She reaches over and touches my face and I flinch, moving away.

“Go make yourself something to eat and then get to class. You might be able to make second period.”

“I’m thinking of leaving.”

“You leave when you finish school,” she says bluntly.

“No, I leave when I want to leave and you can’t stop me.”

“You stay until the end of next year.”

“You’re not my mother.”

I say that to her every time I want to hurt her and every time I expect her to retaliate.

“No, I’m not.” She sighs. “But for the time being, Taylor, I’m all you have. So let’s just get to the part where I give you something to eat and you go to class.”

At times it’s like sadness has planted itself on her face, refusing to leave, an overwhelming sadness, and sometimes I see despair there, too. Once or twice I’ve seen something totally different. Like when the government sent troops overseas to fight, she was inconsolable. Or when she turned thirty-three. “Same age Christ was when he died,” I joked. But I remember the look on her face. “I’m the same age my father was when he died,” she told me. “I’m older than he will ever be. There’s something unnatural about that.”

Then there was that time in year eight when the Hermit whispered something in my ear and then shot himself and I ran away with that Cadet and the Brigadier brought us back. I remember the Brigadier’s hard face looked as if he was trying with all his might for it to stay hard. Hannah didn’t look at him and I remember it took a great effort for her not to look at him. She just said, “Thanks for bringing her home,” and she let me stay at her unfinished house by the river. She held on to me tight all night because somewhere in the town where the Brigadier found us, two kids had gone missing and Hannah said it could have easily been me and the Cadet. They found those two kids weeks later, shot in the back of the head, and Hannah cried every time it came on the news. I remember telling her that I thought the Brigadier was the serial killer and it was the first time I saw her laugh in ages.

Today there is something going on with her and I can’t quite figure it out. I glance around the room, noticing how tidy it looks. Even her manuscript seems shuffled neatly in a pile in one corner of the table. She’s been writing the same novel ever since I’ve known her. Usually she keeps it hidden, but I know where to find it, like those teenage boys in films who know where to find their father’s porn. I love reading about the kids in the eighties, even though I can’t make head or tail of the story. Hannah hasn’t structured it properly yet. I’ve got so used to reading it out of sequence but one day I’d like to put it in order without worrying that she’ll turn up and catch me with it.

She sees me looking at the pages. “Do you want to read it?” she asks quietly.

“I don’t have time.”

“You’ve wanted to read it for ages, so is it okay to ask why not, now that I’m offering?”

“That’s new,” I say to her.

“What’s new?”

“You asking me a question.”

She doesn’t respond.

“You never ask me anything,” I accuse.

“Well, what would you like me to ask you today, Taylor?”

I stare and as usual I hate her for not working out what I need from her.

“Do you want me to ask where you’ve been all night? Or do you want me to ask why you always have to be so difficult?”

“I’d prefer that you asked me something more important than that, Hannah!”

Like how am I supposed to lead a community? I want to say. Or what’s going to happen to me this time next year? Am I just going to disappear like our insignificant leaders did last night? And where do I disappear to?

“Ask me what the Hermit whispered in my ear that day.”

I can tell that she’s stunned, her hazel eyes wide with the impact of my request. She takes a moment or two, like she needs to catch her breath.

“Sit down,” she says quietly.

I shake my head and hold up the list she gave me. “Sorry, no time. I’ve got fragile kids to look after.”

When I get back, classes have just finished and everyone’s making their way back into their Houses. Jessa McKenzie is sitting on the verandah steps. Despite her being in year seven and in Hastings House, somewhere in my worst nightmare she’s become surgically attached to me and nothing, not anger, not insults, not the direst cruelty can dislodge her.

“Don’t follow me. I’m busy.” I keep walking. No eye contact because that will encourage her. That someone can want something out of another person who gives absolutely nothing in return astounds me. I want to say to this kid, “Get out of my life, you little retard.” Come to think of it, I have actually said that and back she comes the next day like some crazed masochistic yo-yo.

“They reckon the Cadets are arriving any minute and that this time they mean business.” Jessa McKenzie always speaks in a breathless voice, like she hasn’t stopped speaking long enough to take a breath her entire life.

“I think they meant business last year when they threw every bike in the school over the cliff.”

“I know you’re worried as well. I can tell you are,” she says softly.

My teeth are gritted now. I’m trying not to but they grit all the same.

I get to the front door, dying for an opportunity to shut it in her face, but Jessa McKenzie still follows, like those tenacious fox terriers that grab hold of the bottom of your pants and tug.

“The kids in my old dorm are scared, you know,” she explains. “The year sevens?” As if I’ve asked a question. “It’s because the older kids are going on about the Cadets coming and how bad it is. I think you should speak to them, Taylor. Now that you’re leader”—she leans forward and whispers—“of the Underground Community.”

My hand is on the door, almost there, almost…but then I stop because something lodges itself in my brain like a bullet.

“What do you mean ‘in my old dorm’?”

She’s beaming. Freckles glowing.

I look at the transfer paper in my hands and then back at her. I open it slowly, knowing exactly whose name I’m about to see there, transferred to Lachlan House. My House.

“You have no idea how much I can help,” she says. “Raffaela thinks I’ll be better off in the senior rooms than the dorms.”

“What would Raffaela know?”

“She reckons she can work out where the tunnel is,” I hear Raffaela say behind me.

“My father used to say…”

But I’m not listening to what Jessa McKenzie’s father used to say. I’m sandwiched between my two worst nightmares.

“Congratulations,” Raffaela says, “although I think Richard and the others are already organising a coup.” Raffaela always has this weight-of-the-world, old-woman thing happening.