The Cuckoo's Cry by Caroline Overington

Author:Caroline Overington [Overington, Caroline]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2021-09-30T16:00:00+00:00

It has been our pleasure to serve you. Thank you for the smiles, the jokes. It’s amazing how we’ve all pulled together.

We will be back. And we hope to see you on the other side.

The message was optimistic, but Jackson had felt a sense of dread. He had no way of knowing what the future held. In the meantime, he would be at home every day. That would take its toll. He’d worked since the age of fourteen. It was a source of pride to him, the fact that he’d always worked. And before COVID, they’d been going so well – plenty of bookings for the accommodation and for the restaurant. Plenty of positive feedback online.

Jackson had cried in Danielle’s arms, saying, ‘I loved it. And now it’s gone.’

‘It’s gone for now,’ she said, reassuringly.

But for the first time in years, Jackson was now waking with absolutely nothing to do. No milk order to place. No tables to repair. No staff to interview. The journey down to Bondi to see Don was in that sense welcome. Jackson continued on down Campbell Parade, across O’Brien Street, towards Mitchell Street.

For the first time since he could remember, he did not struggle to find a parking spot. The streets truly were deserted. Before long, he was up on Don’s porch, with Danielle’s key in his hand, wondering whether to use it. This hadn’t ever been his house. This had always been his father-in-law’s house. He’d therefore never just sauntered on in. Now he was just turning up, and during a pandemic too.

What was he going to say?

Don, I’m sorry to tell you this, but your daughter is suspicious of this young woman here.

On what grounds? Instinct. And sure, Danielle’s instincts were usually pretty good, but she was also feeling guilty. Also, this girl was saying she was Don’s granddaughter, same as Amy and Emma.

Danielle’s nose might be a bit out of joint about that too.

But Jackson didn’t think that Danielle had nothing to worry about either. Some years after Pam died, Jackson had been sitting with Don in the garden behind the house at Mitchell Street, enjoying some beers on a summer’s evening. Where had Danielle been? Maybe she’d gone down to the ice-cream parlour with the girls. In any case, they’d started talking about stocks and bonds and banks, and how safe they were, and Don had confided, ‘I don’t keep everything in the bank. I keep some cash in the roof.’

Jackson hadn’t been entirely sober – Don hadn’t either – but he’d straightened up enough to say, ‘You’re keeping cash in the roof, Don?’

There was a pause, during which a smiling Don seemed to be enjoying having divulged this secret.

‘Yep. Not through the ceiling. Any burglar is going to find something that you’ve stashed in the ceiling. I keep cash in a suitcase under the tiles, next to the chimney above Danielle’s old room. In the actual roof, not the crawl space.’

‘Jesus, Don. Is that safe? How much are we talking about?’

‘Enough to keep me going probably as long as I live.

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