Ocean Child

by Tamara McKinley

  ‘We wouldn’t want to sully her privacy,’ drawled Dolly.

  ‘Fair go, Miss Carteret, Ma was only doing what she thought best. She’s not like that, really she’s not.’

  ‘I can’t say I shan’t be relieved to get out of this hovel,’ she replied, ‘and the thought of a warm bed and a hot water bottle is absolute bliss. But Lulu and I are going nowhere tonight. She just isn’t well enough.’

  Joe was alarmed. ‘What’s the matter with her?’

  ‘She walked too far in the heat,’ Dolly explained, as she drew a pack of cigarettes from her pocket. ‘It’s her heart, you know,’ she said, eyeing him over the flare of the lighter.

  ‘Her heart?’ This was getting worse and worse, and he was mortified to think that her accommodation and the exchange they’d had that afternoon could have had anything to do with it.

  Dolly snapped the lighter shut and put it in her pocket. ‘Lulu was born with a heart defect. She spent a lot of her childhood in hospital, and although it has improved somewhat as she’s got older, she’ll probably be on medication for the rest of her life. Today’s events haven’t exactly helped.’

  Joe glanced towards the window, but it was impossible to see anything past the flickering kerosene lantern. ‘I’ll fetch the doctor.’

  ‘She’s already refused to see him.’ Dolly took his arm and led him down the steps. ‘She’s asleep,’ she explained, ‘and I don’t want to disturb her.’

  ‘But she should see the doctor,’ he insisted. ‘What if she gets worse during the night?’

  Dolly eyed him thoughtfully as she leant against the utility and smoked her cigarette. ‘Perhaps it wasn’t awfully wise to put us down here in the first place,’ she mused. ‘Did you and Lulu talk about that this afternoon?’

  ‘It was mentioned,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘I thought as much.’ She dropped the half-smoked cigarette and mashed it into the ground with her shoe. ‘I’ve known Lulu since we were at boarding school, and although she’s very good at masking her feelings, I always know when she’s been upset. She might not have shown it, but she took this –’ she waved an imperious hand towards the shack – ‘as a personal insult because of who she is.’

  Joe was held by the accusing glare. ‘She made me aware of that,’ he admitted guiltily.

  Dolly regarded him in silence. ‘I’m glad you’re suitably chastened,’ she said coolly. ‘Lulu can be stubborn, and her pride has been knocked, so it will probably take some persuading to get her to move into the house

  She pulled her many cardigans more closely around her narrow chest and climbed the step to the veranda. Turning at the door, she smiled. ‘Don’t bother about supper. Lulu won’t want to eat, and I’ve got a bottle of champagne and a box of chocolates to keep me company.’

  Joe was left standing in the darkness, staring at the closed door.

  *

  He slammed through the screen door and into the chaotic kitchen. Molly’s hair was sticking out in damp coils from her sweaty face as she hurried from stove to table to linen cupboard. The dogs were getting under her feet as they joined in the chase, and Dianne added to the confusion by hovering in the way as condensation from the boiling saucepans ran down the windows.

  Molly had an armful of sheets and pillowcases and didn’t see him as she rushed towards the spare bedroom. They collided in the doorway.

  ‘Whoa there, Ma,’ he said, rescuing the tumbling linen. ‘There’s no rush.’

  ‘They’re not coming?’ She wiped her hot face on a tea towel, her expression hopeful.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, and went on to explain.

  Molly dumped the linen into Dianne’s arms, ordered her up to the spare room and sat down hard in the nearest chair. ‘I remember now,’ she said. ‘The baby was born early and not expected to live.’ Her expression hardened as her thoughts returned to the past. ‘It was said Gwen hoped she would die. She didn’t want a baby, let alone one that was damaged – it would make it harder to get it adopted, and therefore interrupt her social life.’

  She gave a sigh and fingered her hair off her face. ‘Gwen never even went back to the hospital to check on her. But that little mite was far stronger than anyone bargained for and she survived.’

  ‘And Gwen’s aunt adopted her?’

  Molly shook her head. ‘Not at the beginning – she wasn’t around then. Gwen’s mother refused to have the poor little thing farmed out to strangers and took over her care, but she never formally adopted her.’ She rose wearily and began to lay the table. ‘I wish I’d remembered all this before,’ she sighed.

  Joe rescued the saucepans that were in danger of boiling dry. He shared his mother’s regret, and hoped this would be the end of any hostility. And yet he had a nagging sense that having the two of them in the same house wouldn’t be all sweetness and light. Tomorrow could prove very awkward.

  *

  ‘You’ve got a visitor, Mum.’ Vera Cornish stood in the doorway, stolid and stoic in headscarf, wrap-around florid pinafore, lisle stockings and sensible shoes. Her expression was disapproving as always.

  Clarice put down her newspaper. ‘I am not your mother, Vera. Please address me as either Lady Pearson, or Madam.’

  ‘Yes, Mum. Shall I show …im in then?’

  It was obvious Vera would have no truck with changing a lifetime of bad habits, so it was pointless to argue further. ‘Who is this visitor?’

  Vera squinted at the calling card. ‘Major Bertram Hopkins,’ she recited.

  It told Clarice nothing at all, and as Vera seemed in a hurry to escape the drawing room, she had better take a look at this mysterious visitor. ‘Show him in,’ she commanded. ‘and don’t bother about tea unless I ring for it. He probably won’t be staying.’

  Vera stomped out into the hall, and Clarice waited.

  *

  ‘Lady Pearson … ?’ The dapper man in the tweed suit appeared in the doorway rather uncertainly. Vera had obviously stranded him in the hallway.

  ‘Major Hopkins, do come in.’

  She weighed him up as he made his way across the worn Turkish rug. He was tall, his figure robust, the moustache rather fine. There was a twinkle in his eye she found attractive, and when he smiled he showed a healthy set of teeth. His suit was of good-quality cloth and cut, and he carried a bowler hat, briefcase and tightly furled umbrella which Vera should have relieved him of.

  ‘Delighted to meet you, Lady Pearson,’ he said as he shook her hand.

  Clarice dipped her chin in acknowledgement and silently indicated where he should sit. He seemed respectable enough, and knew his manners, and she waited for him to settle. ‘What can I do for you, Major?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘It is a rather delicate matter, Lady Pearson, and I hope you will forgive me for intruding upon you like this.’

  Clarice sighed. ‘If you have come to sell me something, then I’m afraid you will be disappointed. There are far too many returned servicemen eking out a living by selling door to door, and I prefer to make my contributions directly to the appropriate charities.’

  ‘I retired from the army many years ago, and have been gainfully employed ever since,’ he replied. ‘It is this employment which brings me here today.’

  ‘And what is it you do?’

  ‘I work for companies and private individuals in matters that require discretion and tact.’ He smoothed his moustache and said proudly, ‘In short, Lady Pearson, I am a private investigator.’

  Clarice raised her eyebrows. ‘Goodness me!’ she said. ‘I never expected to have a real Sherlock Holmes in my drawing room.’

  He smiled. ‘I don’t profess to have his skills, Lady Pearson, and real life is far more complex than anything penned by Arthur Conan Doyle.’

  Clarice was impressed despite her reservations and rang the bell to summon Vera. ‘I’m most interested to hear the reason for your visit, Major Hopkins.’

  He was reaching into his briefcase when Vera stuck her head around the door. ‘You
want tea, Mum?’ At Clarice’s nod she slammed the door, her heavy tread echoing down the hall and into the kitchen.

  Clarice fluttered her hands, disconcerted by Vera’s behaviour and the major’s look of astonishment. ‘My housekeeper is not yet conversant with the etiquette of the drawing room,’ she said hurriedly, ‘but it’s so hard to get servants these days …’ She trailed off, aware that she was twittering like a demented hen.

  ‘It is a problem faced by many in these difficult times,’ he murmured as he pulled a sheaf of papers from the battered leather briefcase. He placed the papers on the seat next to him and folded his hands on his knees. ‘As I said, Lady Pearson, it is a delicate matter.’

  ‘It had better wait,’ she said hastily, as Vera crashed through the door with the trolley and steered it towards them.

  They sat in silence as she clattered the cups and saucers and laid out a plate of sandwiches and a chocolate cake on to the low table between them. ‘Is that all, Mum? Only I’ve got a bird in the oven, and it ain’t …appy.’

  Clarice caught the major’s eye and bit her lip. ‘Thank you, Vera. You may go,’ she said unsteadily. She lifted the heavy silver teapot, found her hand was shaking and put it down again. ‘Oh dear,’ she said with a nervous laugh, ‘she is quite a card, isn’t she?’

  His eyes twinkled as he nodded and took over the teapot. ‘I think Vera is missing her vocation. She should go on the stage.’

  They settled down to drink their tea. ‘You were saying … ?’ she prompted minutes later.

  ‘In my capacity as a private investigator, I am often asked to follow people and record where they go and who they meet and so on.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Sixteen years ago I was employed to make an annual visit to Sussex and report on the progress of Miss Lorelei Pearson.’

  Clarice’s teacup rattled against the saucer and she put it down. A chill ran up her spine as she stared at him. ‘You have been watching Lorelei? For sixteen years?’ she breathed. ‘But why? Who ordered this?’

  ‘My orders came from a firm of London solicitors. Here is their card.’

  She eyed the heavily embossed business card and was none the wiser. ‘What have they to do with Lorelei?’ she demanded.

  ‘It is probably best if I go back to when I first started my annual trips down here.’ He swallowed nervously, no doubt quailing in the beam of Clarice’s glare. He picked up the sheaf of papers. ‘These are copies of all the reports I made over the years. They are innocuous, as you will see when you read them – merely dealing with her health, her schooling, her welfare, her hobbies and talents.’

  Clarice took the papers and set them aside. She was too stunned and angry to read anything now. ‘Go on,’ she said ominously.

  ‘There were photographs as well, but I didn’t keep copies.’ He hurried on, clearly discomforted by Clarice’s lowering silence. ‘I made my last visit here in February. My employers had informed me that she would soon be receiving a letter and I was to keep watch and see if she replied to it.’ He eased his collar with a finger. ‘Her reply was duly posted, and the second letter arrived several weeks later along with the proof of ownership for Ocean Child.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘I have contacts at the post office, Your Ladyship.’

  ‘Go on,’ she said imperiously.

  ‘It wasn’t hard to keep track of her after that second letter arrived, and my last assignment was to see her off at the Port of London.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I had come to grow quite fond of Lorelei over the years, and looked forward to my annual trips. I was delighted she appeared so well after her ill health as a child – she’s turned into a very beautiful and talented young woman.’

  ‘You’re nothing but a voyeur.’ Clarice rose in fury.

  He shot to his feet, the briefcase sliding to the floor and spilling yet more papers and files. ‘No, no, Lady Pearson, I assure you – it was nothing like that.’

  ‘I think you’d better leave,’ she said with dangerous calm.

  ‘Please hear me out; it’s important. I think Lorelei has been drawn into something that might harm her.’

  Clarice sank back into the chair as the strength drained from her legs, the colour from her face. ‘What do you mean?’ she whispered.

  ‘Someone is playing a devious game with your ward, Lady Pearson.’ He gathered up the spilled files. ‘I have many contacts all over London, and I managed to get hold of these.’

  Clarice watched, stunned by the turn of events and chilled with fear as he sorted through his documents and selected a thick file.

  ‘These are the communications between a firm of solicitors in Brisbane and the London office that employed me. They begin sixteen years ago and continue until Lorelei set sail for Australia.’

  Clarice eyed the folder, the dread growing.

  He selected a much slimmer folder. ‘These are letters purporting to come from the same source, and are signed with the same name.’ He offered them to her. ‘They appeared to be genuine, but I had my doubts. I had a friend who is an expert in such things take a look at them. He confirmed they are very well-executed forgeries.’

  Clarice struggled to keep her wits about her. She drank the last of her tea and tried to gather her thoughts. ‘The first set of letters from Brisbane,’ she rasped through a tight throat, ‘what do they contain?’

  ‘Instructions to the London solicitors to hire a private investigator and send regular reports on Lorelei Pearson. Mr Carmichael was most insistent that—’

  ‘Mr Carmichael? The same Mr Carmichael who appears to have bought my ward a colt?’

  He nodded.

  ‘And the second set?’

  ‘Also purporting to be from Mr Carmichael, but they are much more recent – and as I said before they …’

  ‘I heard you the first time,’ she snapped impatiently. ‘What did these letters contain?’

  ‘They carried instructions regarding the letters from Tasmania, Lady Pearson. Whoever sent those instructions seemed to know the contents of the letters from Joe Reilly, and insisted she should be followed even more closely once they had arrived.’

  Clarice tried to assimilate what she’d heard, but her brain simply refused to comply.

  Major Hopkins sank back as if exhausted. ‘Telegrams were sent back and forth once I’d discovered she was leaving for Australia, and I have copies of them here.’ His smile was wry. ‘Solicitors keep a copy of everything, so it wasn’t difficult to get hold of them.’

  ‘And exactly how did you manage that?’

  He reddened. ‘I have contacts who have certain … useful skills,’ he murmured.

  She understood and eyed him sternly. ‘I see. And what did these telegrams say?’

  ‘The man purporting to be Carmichael wanted to know the date of her sailing, the name of the ship, ports of call and if she was travelling alone.’

  ‘Thank God she isn’t,’ Clarice breathed.

  ‘Have you heard from her since she left?’

  She nodded. ‘She arrived safely, was having fun and seemed very happy.’ Clarice fell silent, recalling the letters and postcards she’d almost learnt by heart. Lorelei was clearly enjoying her adventure, and had given no hint of anything amiss.

  She looked back at the major, her thoughts troubled. ‘Lorelei has always been very protective of me – as have I of her. So I doubt she would write anything in her letters that might cause me to worry.’

  ‘Do you have any inkling as to who the original Carmichael could be?’

  Clarice hesitated, unwilling to voice her suspicions. ‘None at all,’ she said.

  The sharp eyes seemed to bore into her. ‘That’s a shame, Lady Pearson, because if we could discover who he is, then we might have a chance of understanding why someone else should use his name and interfere with his earlier instructions.’

  She realised the major was far more astute than she’d first credited, and because he seemed as concerned as she over Lorelei’s safety, she decided
to be honest with him. ‘Any suspicions I may harbour will be of no help,’ she said quietly, ‘for I have no name, and no face to put to them.’

  Chapter 10

  Lulu realised she had surprised Dolly by agreeing, without argument, to move up to the homestead. There were lots of reasons behind it, but the main one was the chance to show the Reilly woman she could be gracious in accepting her invitation and the tacit apology that went with it.

  She was sitting on the veranda drinking her second cup of morning tea and listening to the beautiful dawn chorus as the birds flitted through the trees and swooped over the babbling river to drink. The early sunlight sparked diamonds on the water, but had yet to warm the shadows beneath the surrounding trees, which was why Lulu was warmly dressed. Evidence of the night frost remained in the grass, but she hadn’t noticed its chill, for Dolly had, at some point, almost buried her in blankets.

  Dolly appeared in the doorway, nursing a cup of evil-looking Camp Coffee. Too much champagne and chocolate, combined with a bad night’s sleep, had left her looking frazzled. She squinted into the sun. ‘What’s making that heavenly sound?’

  ‘It’s the butcherbirds and magpies,’ murmured Lulu. ‘Glorious, isn’t it?

  They listened in awe to the rich, melodious piping that was interspersed with the musical ‘Kar-week, week-kar,’ of the currawongs, and the chortling of a nearby kookaburra.

  ‘Rather puts our English songbirds in the shade, doesn’t it?’ Dolly stretched and yawned. ‘I have to say, that was the most ghastly night, but the dawn chorus certainly makes up for it.’

  Lulu was about to reply when the sound of engines muffled the birdsong. The two utilities bounced up the track towards them, the dogs in the flatbeds running back and forth, tails wagging, tongues lolling.

  ‘G’day.’ Joe climbed down with a wary smile and slammed the door. ‘I hope you’re feeling better, Lulu?’

  ‘A good night’s sleep always does the trick,’ she said lightly.

  His gaze lingered for a moment as if in doubt. ‘I’ve brought Bob along to help with your luggage. Are you ready?’