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Back The Ringmaster Save as PDF
Chapters (73)
  1. Cover
  2. The Ringmaster
  3. Contents
  4. Prologue
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. 55
  60. 56
  61. 57
  62. 58
  63. 59
  64. 60
  65. 61
  66. 62
  67. 63
  68. 64
  69. 65
  70. 66
  71. Epilogue
  72. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  73. Copyright

‘You don’t need to do that. We’ll be fine. Stephen and Sheryl are here, thank heavens. Sheryl’s been great, explaining what’s going on to me.’ Of course Saint Steve and Saint Francis Sherylgale would be there. Fortunately for Mum, Steve had married her perfect daughter – a nurse and devoted mother of her grandchildren. Not like her wayward one doing a man’s job. How could I ever compete? I sighed, the weight of the day descending on me like a vanload of unexpected relatives at Christmas.

‘I can be there tomorrow morning, Mum.’ I’d go home, try and get a few hours’ sleep, then set out early, five o’clock.

‘No, don’t you worry, you don’t need to do that.’ There she went again. I knew damned well if didn’t go I’d be forever reminded of my lack of support when they needed me most. I was on a hiding to nothing.

‘What’s wrong? Do they think it’s his heart again?’

‘That’s part of it, but they think there maybe something else.’

‘What kind of thing?’ I asked.

‘They want to do some more tests, they want to fly him over to Dunedin.’

Shit, it must have been serious if they were going to do that. The hospital in Invercargill could handle most things.

‘What kind of tests?’ I asked. I heard her talking to someone in the background.

‘Look, Sam, I’ve got to go. Steve needs his phone back to call the babysitter. I’ll ring you tomorrow.’

Before I had a chance for a ‘But…’ or a ‘Take care’ or a ‘Love you’, she’d hung up, leaving me standing in the bathroom, clutching wet toilet paper and feeling utterly alone.

39

It was Saturday morning, and I was feeling the effects of the night before. None of my cruddiness was due to alcohol. The wine was too good and there hadn’t been enough of it for that, more’s the pity. The news of Dad being ill, on top of destroying elephants, flaming circuses and too many dead people, had left me feeling like I’d had the life sucked out of me leaving a pale-faced shell of a thing doing an impersonation of Sam Shephard. And a piss-poor one at that.

There had been no point in getting up at a sparrow’s fart and driving to Invercargill. Dad might be transferred here and Mum’s ‘I’ll ring you’ had put her firmly in the controlling seat, while ensuring she could still play her trump ‘You’re-never-there-when-I-need-you’ card. She was ever the master at these games.