I'll make one for the boys too if it's okay. I'm sure Mr T will enjoy a good natter and seeing that your okay. Silly old man. His rambling will take your mind off things pet.'
Hope closed the door and leant on the vanity staring into the mirror. She looked a mess. Her face streaked with tears and mascara, her eyes red and her hair everywhere but where she had pinned it. She almost cried again when she realized that all her make up was downstairs in her en-suite. This was the bathroom that Ben and guests used. She pulled herself together and ran the cold water tap, holding her hands underneath and swishing the cool, refreshing water again and again over her face.
When she had done this a dozen or so times she groped for the hand towel and brought it to her face, rubbing briskly to wipe away the streaks of mascara and blush that ran down. Then she unpinned the remainder of the hair that had managed to stay pinned, letting her long, auburn locks fall freely about her shoulders. The thick. dark red hair framed her naked face. Highlighting her big, green eyes and doing a wonderful job in deflecting from her now pink, freshly scrubbed face.
Hope even managed a small laugh at herself. She was still conscious about how she looked, even in her misery. It was important to her. As important as all that time ago when, at around 16, she had finally blossomed. The 'plain and sensible face' (her mother's words again) had transformed and she had become aware of both her unusual beauty and the power that it gave her. Her exotic looks giving her an escape from her dreary and miserable world.
She could lose herself again reminiscing, she realized, but she had to get back. Back to Mrs T and the boys. Good, she was still in control.
Coming out into the kitchen she could smell the coffee as it dripped through the filter and into the glass jug. Mrs T was finishing the last of the breakfast dishes and Hope could see that outside on the table the wine bottle and glasses had been replaced by a sugar bowl, milk jug and a plate of biscuits. Mrs T had removed all the evidence bless her.
She gave Mrs T a hug and kiss on the cheek.
'Thanks Mum, I love you.' She couldn't remember ever saying this to her own mum.
'And wouldn't I be proud if I were? Of course with a beautiful face like yours I very well could be'. Mrs T laughed at her own joke and continued. 'My we don't often see you with that gorgeous hair all down and no make-up. And don't you look even more beautiful?'
Another hug and another kiss. The storm finally broke outside and the rain came in torrents lashing the trees and drenching the dry ground in it's fury.
'Not a moment to soon hey Ben?' Mr T and Ben came into the kitchen brushing drops of rain off themselves. Ben dropped his school bag on the floor and walked towards his mum. She looked beautiful he thought. He knew that she was still a little drunk but he knew that for the first time in weeks she had made an effort to sober up before he got home. He knew that Mrs T was largely responsible, but he was mature enough to understand that his mum had taken the first hard step.
He held out his arms and walked to her, wrapping her into him.
'It's going to be alright mum.'
Six
The storm was in full swing by the time the train pulled into Michael's station. He could see the other kids ahead racing up the stairs, keen to get across the highway and under the cover of the shop awnings. He walked his usual pace, the rain soaking him. He was in no hurry to get home.
He had hated it since the day they had moved there. It was the summer before he started high school. As usual he had spent the whole day at the beach with his friends. He had lived all his life by the beach and couldn't remember a day when he hadn't been in the surf, or clambering over the rocks when the sea was too rough to swim or surf. The beach had been his refuge from the continual arguments between his parents, the bullying by his older brothers and the silent sneaking around when his father's temper flared into violence and anyone who got in the way copped his fists or belt or whatever was handy.
Earlier that summer, a week before Christmas, his mother had left, taking his younger sister with her. No note, no goodbye. Michael had been old enough to know that she wasn't coming back. He didn't blame her for leaving. He had seen her punched and kicked and dragged around the house too many times to blame her for finally standing up for herself and leaving. He blamed her for not taking him with her.
His father had spent all of Christmas and New Year on a drunken rampage. What his mother hadn't taken of her belongings were tossed out into the front yard over the first few days and Christmas Eve had been spent watching his father raving drunkenly around the yard before setting fire to the pile of clothing and books his mother had left. Michael had spent most of the next weeks staying at his friends house after that incident.
Three weeks after his mother left Micheal had come home to find a 'For Sale' sign on the house. Two days later the house was packed up and Michael had been sent with the removalist van to the new house, later to be joined by his two older brothers and his father.
It was miles from the beach in a suburb he had never even heard of. The house was a dump and plonked right next to a busy highway. The only consolation was that it looked across the highway and railway to the National Park. If he looked far enough, beyond the smokey green haze of trees young Michael knew that his home and his beloved beach were there.
Michael pushed the broken gate open and walked across the concrete path and up onto the front verandah, finally out of the driving rain. He dried himself as best he could and removed his school shoes before going inside. He knew better than to leave wet trails or muddy footprints on the worn carpet inside. He would only have to clean it up or risk a backhander from his dad if he got home and found any mess.
He walked into the lounge room and said hello to his brother. His brother finished work early on Fridays and, as usual, was sprawled out on the sofa with a can of beer watching the TV and pulling bongs. The house stunk of marijuana but he was used to that. He opened the window and went out into the kitchen to do the same. His father didn't care about the smoking but Micheal knew he would fly off the handle if he came home and the house stunk. His two brothers pretty much did what they wanted. They were both big enough to take on their father, and had on more than one occasion.
That had left Michael to replace his mother as his father's punching bag. He had learned quickly to keep things the way his father wanted. Housemaid at thirteen and still housemaid now he was seventeen. His brothers, already working when his mother had left, did as little as they had to, happy to let Michael do everything for them. At first they had persuaded him with the threat of a 'brotherly beating', then they had started giving him a few dollars each week for his trouble, lately they had let him have a few cones with them once their father was drunk enough not to care what was happening or was out of the house.
'Bring us another beer Mickey'. His brother shouted down the hallway. Micheal tossed his bag into his room and came back via the kitchen with a beer in hand. He took the bong his brother offered and lit it, holding the pungent smoke in his lungs for as long as he could before exhaling. He liked the feeling getting stoned gave him. It made everything seem so much better, so much funnier, and so much easier.
The first time he had tried it, his sixteenth birthday present from his brothers, he had thought he was going to die. The smoke had made him cough until he thought he was going to choke. His eyes watering and his mouth drying while his brothers and their mates watched and howled with laughter. When he had finally stopped coughing he had rushed to his bedroom, terrified that his father would bust him and beat the crap out of him. He had lain on his bed for what seemed like hours with his head spinning and his heart thumping as the walls of his room kept attacking him until he had passed out. Now he was used to it. Now he let it take him away from the shit that was his home life.
Micheal finished another cone and was already succumbing to the the fuzzy euphoria that came with it. He got up slowly and the room went spinning slowly around. He smiled a white, toothy grin at his brother and headed for the kitchen. From the cupboard under the sink he pulled out a bucket, a bottle of bleach and a pair of gloves. He