‘I have a grenade,’ I blurt, holding up the evidence for Justin to scrutinise more closely. As distractions go, it’s a precision strike. He seems bamboozled. ‘But it’s okay!’ I rush on. ‘A friend of a friend knows a military weapons expert. I’m sure she’s overreacting – but now Defence is intrigued, and half of Facebook is onto me, so I’m going to have to follow through and get the police involved.’
It’s too much information, far too soon. Justin looks both alert and alarmed, as well as romance-novel-cover hot, but I don’t have the bandwidth to develop a crush right now.
Cam would have found this whole situation riotous. He’d have dined out on the story for years. Did I tell you about the time my wife caused a global security incident with a replica grenade I picked up at a militaria emporium in Vietnam?
‘It’s not mine!’ I explain quickly to Justin. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not a terrorist.’
I can hardly wait for Grace to dissect this conversation later. I know she’ll want to coach me on my sub-standard banter. Look, Kate, the main thing is to avoid giving him the impression that this is a hostage situation . . .
Justin stares at me as I place my phone down on one of Cam’s boxes, put it on speaker and click on the number for the local police station. What with him looking so spectacular and eyeballing me so intently, I briefly wish I did look a bit more DTF. But there’s no time for regrets. I try to pull the pencil out of my hair in case I need to write instructions, but it’s stuck in a knot of curls and now I’m just yanking knotty hair instead of allowing it to tumble dreamily over my shoulders like it would if I was anyone but myself.
Focus! I have to get my story straight for the authorities.
‘Hello?’ I say hesitantly when someone takes my call at the station. I wave Justin in over the threshold, shut the door behind him and follow him as he threads his way carefully past the boxes of Cam’s things, like he’s stepping through a minefield. To be fair, he might be. We make it into my 1940s-inspired lounge room – fireplace, bookshelves, old-fashioned armchairs, magazine racks bursting with notebooks and novels – and Grace couldn’t be more delighted to see who the penguins have dragged in.
She ends the call with her Defence contact, beams at Justin and readjusts her entire demeanor as I gather myself and attempt to sound more like the experienced academic fundraiser that I am in my day job. Less criminal.
‘My husband was obsessed with military history,’ I begin, by way of setting the scene for the constable. ‘He died two years ago, and I haven’t been able to bring myself to clear out the things in his study yet . . .’
‘Ma’am, you’ve phoned the Monaro Police,’ the officer says, interrupting story-time. ‘Is this a prank call?’
‘Oh, no,’ I gush. ‘I wish it was! Not that I’d do that, obviously. I absolutely value the work you do.’
Grace shakes her head and sends me hand signals to get on with it. It’s all right for her; she’s not the one confessing.
‘It’s just, well, a funny situation, really,’ I say, even though there’s nothing remotely amusing about it. ‘Essentially, my five-year-old son found a grenade in his deceased father’s study and now I’m holding it in my hand.’
I usually say ‘dead’. Not ‘deceased’. Not ‘late’. Not ‘passed’. Once, in a stressful social interaction, I described Cam as having ‘left’ Charlie and me, only to have a woman trash talk him for ditching us.
There’s a moment of silence while the police officer processes my story, during which I worry that Justin might have stopped breathing.
‘Would you mind holding?’ the officer says, and I’m switched to smooth jazz, which seems at odds with the nature of our call.
‘Grace, this is my neighbour, Justin,’ I explain brightly, as if we’ve all run into each other at the theatre. ‘Justin, this is—’
I can’t finish, because a more senior police officer comes on the line now.
‘Ma’am, did you say your husband was in the military?’
‘No – he was an English professor.’
There’s a sigh. ‘So, not a trained weapons expert, then?’
I see what they’re getting at, but Cam wasn’t stupid. This whole thing is a massive misunderstanding on the part of Grace’s overzealous Defence friend.
‘My husband’s specialty was medieval literature,’ I inform the officer. The shelves behind us are chock-full of hundreds of books that can back up my claim. ‘But when Cam collected this stuff, it was only ever from reputable sources. I’m sure it’s just a replica. We’re only phoning it in because my friend put a photo on Facebook and had an urgent call from a weapons engineer in the sandpit.’ I feel immensely official, using that term.
It’s like we’re living on the set of an action flick. Privately, I’m thrilled to be providing Justin with such Class-A entertainment on his first day in the neighbourhood. Now that he’s over the initial shock, I can tell he’s invested. His brown eyes are bright with adrenaline.
‘Do you think you could possibly leave the device somewhere out of the reach of children?’ the officer asks.
Mother of the year.
‘We’ll have the bomb squad out to you shortly, and some personnel from unexploded ordnance in Defence.’
I glance out the front window, as if the squad will miraculously appear – SAS plunging into my azaleas from helicopters overhead – even though I’m yet to confirm my address. And that’s when I notice my boss, Hugh, in his unmissable, steel grey Audi sports coupé swinging confidently into my drive.
Bloody brilliant.
2
I pass the grenade to Justin so I can deal with Hugh. Even though I’m ninety-nine per cent certain it’s nothing to worry about, I haven’t handed over something so gingerly since the first time I offloaded a sleeping Charlie into Cam’s arms in the maternity ward. Back then we were tentative. Protective. Terrified that we’d somehow drop him. Instead, it was Charlie and me who somehow dropped Cam.
Grace seems more ruffled by my boss’s impending visit than she is about the bomb. I wish I could shovel the inevitable awkwardness out of her path, but all I can manage under pressure is an apologetic smile and a wordless promise to debrief later, as she rounds up Charlie’s shoes and jacket, suddenly motivated to evacuate.
I throw open my front door just as Hugh is about to knock. He’s standing there, looking like he’ll never be adequately compensated for what he’s had to endure in the four years since he hired me as a senior alumni giving coordinator at the university.