The Cuckoo's Child by Margaret Thompson Read Free Book Online Page B

reminded Neil. “He’s the one who’ll have to let us know where he is when he gets settled.”
    Neil nodded. “You’ll get to Disneyland,” he said to Daniel.
    Friday night we spent at the Sylvia Hotel on English Bay. It was a wild night, I remember. I felt a childlike contentment listening to the wind tugging at the long strings of the creeper covering the hotel walls, rattling the windows, heaving the lights of the freighters lying at anchor in the bay up and down. We speculated about Jerry’s whereabouts; surely not even he, reckless though he could be, would risk the open water in those conditions?
    â€œHe’ll be tucked up in the lee of an island somewhere, never fear,” said Neil. “He probably set off early because he knew there was dirty weather coming. He’s not a fool.”
    The morning sky was a raw, cheerful blue as if a brand-new one had been installed to replace the one tattered beyond repair the night before. It was still windy, but playful now, the sort of wind that makes dead leaves hop and hats leap off heads.
    â€œGrand day for a game,” Neil said approvingly.
    It gets hard, now.
    Neil left Daniel and me at the aquarium and went off well before the game to meet the rest of the Gibsons team at Brockton Oval. I promised we would be there to watch. He liked to know we were there among the onlookers, cheering him on, not that he ever seemed to do anything very heroic, apart from hurling himself at opponents’ legs and breaking his collarbone. I was never like some of the wives and girlfriends, avid groupies forever cutting sandwiches in the clubhouse while their menfolk sang dirty songs at the tops of their lungs in the showers. I put in an appearance and cheered when Gibsons scored, but I always carried a book in my pocket. I did that day. Oliver Twist. I never have finished it.
    Daniel and I worked our way through the aquarium galleries, enchanted by the eerie beauty of the lives behind the glass. We watched, hypnotized, as transparent jellyfish pulsed across a tank, impelled by a stream of bubbles from a hidden aerator. Daniel found the tube worms edging out to wave their plumes, then darting back out of sight in sudden panic, hysterically funny. Neither of us much cared for the moray eel, sliding as if oiled from his hole, launching his mouthful of needle teeth at any movement, but we loved the octopus, obligingly showing us the suction cups on his tentacles in action as he glided down the glass, and marvelled at the diversity of the reef fish.
    I never wanted to spend too much time with the orcas, but Daniel insisted. It made me sad, watching the black-and-white shapes swimming round and round their pool, heaving themselves up and thundering back into the water, to screams of delight from the audience. Even Daniel looked thoughtful.
    â€œThey don’t have much room, do they, Mum? Couldn’t they make them a bigger tank?”
    â€œI don’t think they could ever make one big enough,” I said. “They had the whole ocean, once.”
    Daniel looked uncertainly at me, checking my mood. “Is it time to go?” he asked. “Let’s go.”
    By the time we had walked over to Brockton Oval and made our way to the familiar navy-and-white uniforms, both teams were warming up. Neil saw us and waved, but someone passed him the ball at that moment, and he was off running. Others spread out across the field, yelling at him to pass.
    The game started. Daniel soon tired of standing still and watching. From the pockets of his jacket he dragged out Tigger, his stripey black-and-brown stuffed dog, the little yellow bulldozer, and the old Hot Wheels car minus a wheel that always accompanied him. He settled to road construction on a patch of bare earth some distance from the sideline under a small stand of trees. I sat on the grass near him and opened my book.
    The sun was warm, lulling. It muted the shouts and grunts of the players,