The Good Daughter Read Online Free PDF

gold packet of Benson and Hedges.
    ‘You’ll have to promise not to tell, though. I’m meant to have given up.’
    She offers the open pack and Rebecca takes one, unsure whether to say thank you. Mrs Kincaid takes a cigarette for herself and then draws a long black cigarette holder from the money belt. ‘Smells it otherwise,’ she explains, wriggling her fingers in the air.
    She comes close, leaning in to light Rebecca’s smoke. At this proximity Rebecca sees Mrs Kincaid’s red nostrils, the flushed skin, puffy eyes, and there’s a banked-up, nasal quality to her voice – her tongue sounds thick in her mouth. It’s the kind of congestion that comes from prolonged crying. Mrs Kincaid’s gaze comes up, knowing she’s been caught. She smiles ruefully and keeps on with the line of conversation.
    ‘Ben doesn’t like me smoking, and Zach hates it. I’d quite hoped to have a child like you – sneaking out for a smoke. But no such luck. Now I know you’re here I’ll have to make this my stop.’
    She lights her cigarette, draws in hard on the slim plastic end of the holder. She looks surreal in her sporty clothes, under the mountain ash, with her 50s movie prop.
    ‘I should have had a daughter,’ she says. ‘I don’t think I’m a terribly good son mother – do you know what I mean? Women with sons always seem to be so … busy, industrious, at the school doing things, not a minute to spare.’
    Smoking in Mrs Kincaid’s company is proving difficult. Rebecca can’t concentrate on the conversation and smoke at the same time. And the brand of cigarettes is stronger than she’s used to – she’s feeling light-headed, like a ten-year-old taking her first puff in the presence of teenagers.
    ‘I’ve seen you at the school,’ Rebecca manages.
    ‘But not being industrious, I can assure you. Plenty of minutes to spare.’
    They’re quiet for a moment. A gentle afternoon breeze has picked up and is rustling the leaves of the gums. Magpies warble to one another from either side of the road and smaller birds flitter between the trees and hop around like little rodents in the undergrowth. The dogs are making the most of their freedom and are down at the bus shelter, cocking their legs, kicking up leaf litter.
    It’s a weird situation – the beat-up car, the two of them, smoking, Mrs Kincaid’s tear-stained face, the memory of Zach in Rebecca’s head. Not what Rebecca expected today, the day proving to be one out of the box, as though tonight she can expect a call from her real father.
    ‘Zach’s like his father at that age,’ Mrs Kincaid says, as though that’s what they’d been talking about. She pulls a used tissue out of the top of her bra and wipes her nose. ‘I remember seeing Ben at sport meets – cross-country running, long-distance. He was a very good runner. Like Zach.’ She turns to look at Rebecca. ‘Have you seen Zach run?’
    ‘I’m not much into sports.’
    ‘He’s very good. He has that build. But not for much longer.’ She pats her upper arm and shoulder. ‘They fill out, no longer able to keep up with the skinny ones, and probably not as interested any more. Then it’s cricket.’ She draws in deeply on her cigarette, and blows it out in a steady stream in front of her. ‘Although Zach plays football – you must have seen him play football?’
    ‘Not really.’
    ‘He plays centre … or what do they call it? Ruck? The one at the ball-up in the middle?’
    ‘I have no idea.’
    ‘No,’ Mrs Kincaid says, smiling, ‘me neither.’ She flicks her ash. It rolls across the car bonnet. ‘See – I needed a daughter. My house is devoid of anything female. Even the cat is a tom. Surrounded by a million pregnant ewes, though …’ She looks around, through the trees, out across the paddocks. ‘Not terribly inspirational … to some I suppose. Not your place though, your place is lovely.’
    Rebecca coughs up a white plume of smoke.
    ‘Inspirational,’ Mrs Kincaid says.