by Robert Gott
‘And Ros. Pinshott underestimated Ros.’
Ros put her head around the library door and said that she was taking Helen up to bed. The brandy, she said, had disagreed with her. Both Tom and Joe knew that Helen would hate feeling that being sick might be seen by them as being weak and female. To spare her this, Tom said that he was about to go home anyway, and Joe said that he was more than ready for bed.
No one slept well that night, and Joe barely slept at all. Over and over again, he put his hand up to his throat; each time he took it away, it was shaking.
THE FOLLOWING DAY, Helen wanted to stay home with Ros, but Ros insisted that she go to work.
‘I’m fine, darling. Maybe if I’d killed that dreadful man I’d have lost more sleep. As it is, he might limp for the rest of his short life. They will hang him, won’t they?’
‘Probably. He might make an insanity defence, but I don’t think that will wash. I just don’t think you should be here on your own, Mum.’
‘Don’t be silly. I have a lot to do. I have to get the blood out of the rug, for a start.’ She smiled. ‘That’s false bravado, but I would actually like to potter about here by myself. If I get lonely or jumpy, I’ll pop next door. I’ll do that anyway. Barbara must have heard the gunshot last night. The least I can do is liven up her day.’
Reluctantly, Helen agreed to treat the day like any other. Joe, too, insisted on going to work, and they drove into East Melbourne together. Before they got there, Helen pulled the car over. She turned to Joe, and her eyes filled with tears.
‘I thought you were going to die last night, Joe. Every time I think of you, standing there, with that rope around your neck, I want to be sick.’
Joe reached across and put his hand on Helen’s shoulder.
‘I would never, never have walked up those stairs and just jumped over the edge. I wouldn’t have let it happen; you wouldn’t have let it happen, and Ros didn’t let it happen. We were all buying time.’
‘What if Tom hadn’t smashed that window?’
‘You know what I believe, Helen, what I truly believe? I believe you would have done something extraordinary.’
Helen felt her chest heave, and surrendered to a racking sob. With her eyes streaming and her nose running, she was unable to say a word. Joe, taken aback by the effect his words seemed to have had, and certain that Helen wouldn’t appreciate him seeing her in such distress, offered to drive the rest of the way. He could watch the road while Helen composed herself. She agreed with a nod, and they changed places.
When they reached the office, Helen gave no indication that she was embarrassed by her tears. The telephone rang as soon as they were inside the door. Helen answered it, glad to delay an examination of Joe’s words, but confident now that she might be able to express her feelings for him without suffering a humiliating rebuff.
It was Inspector Lambert. Walter Pinshott was expected to live, although his running and jumping days were over. He’d be interviewing him at his bedside later that morning. Anthony Prescott hadn’t been informed of this new development, and neither had the press. On an impulse, Helen asked Titus if he and Maude would like to come around that night for dinner. He agreed. She then telephoned Clara and invited her, and asked Joe to telephone Tom and invite him. It suddenly felt important to Helen that all the people who’d come through this investigation should get together. She rang her mother with the news that she’d be cooking for seven instead of three, and asked if she could cope with this. Ros was unfazed. In fact, she was happy. She’d head out to the butcher’s immediately. This would certainly take her mind off the horrors of the previous evening.
There was no time to talk to Joe. He had to leave to continue the surveillance he was doing. Helen’s mood was buoyant, and Joe noticed this. On his way out, he poked his head around her office door and asked, ‘You know Clara really well. If I asked her out to the pictures, do you think she’d say yes?’
Helen, who’d been smiling at him, kept the smile in place. She said nothing. She just shrugged. No words would come. Joe took the shrug to be a simple, ‘I don’t know,’ and left.
TOM MACKENZIE SHAVED for the second time that day, and ironed his shirt and a dark-blue linen jacket. He decided against wearing a tie. He wanted to look neat, tidy, and well put together. He was having dinner with Helen Lord, and with five other people, it was true, but he hoped that he might get an opportunity to speak with her alone.
Over dinner, Titus told them as much as he felt able to about the progress of the case. Now that it had moved beyond investigation into prosecution, he was constrained as to details, especially given that everyone at the table, apart from Maude, would be called on to give evidence. This constraint also applied to information about Adelaide Matthews. If she pleaded guilty, it would be a simple matter of sentencing. If she claimed she was of unsound mind, Clara would have to be called.
A toast was raised to Ros, who insisted that people should stop making a fuss. Throughout the meal, Helen looked at Joe from time to time and saw that his eyes were directed at Clara. She contrived to meet with Clara in the kitchen, on the pretext of clearing the table before dessert. She pressed her mother’s shoulder — and Ros understood that she was to keep her seat — and denied Maude’s offer of help.
‘Joe is going to ask you out, Clar.’
‘Oh, fuck. You’re not serious.’
‘He’s hoping you’ll say yes.’
‘Honest to God, Helen, I was starting to like him, but that man is so fucking dumb.’
Helen had thought she might cry when talking to Clara. She didn’t.
‘And speaking of not paying attention, Helen, what are you going to do about Tom Mackenzie?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He hasn’t taken his eyes off you all evening. He’s like a lovesick puppy.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘You and Joe have one big thing in common, and it’s the thing that will probably bring you together. You’re each as blind as the other. You’re both stumbling around in the dark, or at any rate staring stupidly in different directions. Eventually, you’re bound to bump into each other.’
She hugged Helen, and when they’d separated she said, ‘I’m tempted to say yes to Joe just so I can set him straight.’
Helen looked appalled.
‘Oh, don’t worry. I won’t do that. But Helen, when you’ve dashed poor Tom’s hopes, don’t give up on Joe.’
There was the sound of conversation and laughter from the dining room.
‘If I’ve learned one thing out of all of this, Clar, it’s that I’m much, much stronger than I thought I was, and much stronger than you think I am.’
‘Oh no, Helen. I’ve never doubted your strength. Never.’
Acknowledgements
WHEN YOU WRITE a book there’s no one looking over your shoulder. If there is, you need to reassess your situation, and maybe call the police. When the book has been written, however, writers need a Roman legion of people to get it between a beautifully designed cover. These are the people I need:
First and foremost, a great publisher. I have one in Scribe, and my gratitude is boundless, and includes Henry Rosenbloom, who edited this book and who has taken Scribe to remarkable heights.
I also need early readers who will tell the truth. Helen Murnane is first among these. I have relied on her judgement for many, many years. If she says take that bit out, out it goes. The friendship of other writers is precious, so thank you Jock Serong, Sulari Gentill, Emma Viskic, and Tony Thompson. Thank you Jo Canham, whose bookshop, Blarney Books and Art, has become one of Port Fairy’s true treasures. Thank you Jon Gray for your gorgeous covers; it is a privilege to have your name on my book. Lastly, thank you to my parents, my mother, Maurene, and my late father, Kevin. Books mattered to them and my reading was never censored, despite a tendency towards the louche and tasteless as
a teenager.
