Rosa-Marie's Baby

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Everything okay, Tania?’ asked Les as Mrs Settree stopped in front of him.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Mrs Settree. ‘I didn’t say anything about the paintings. I said you were looking for an old map.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Les. ‘Okay. Let’s go and throw a few double OP rums down our throats. Arhh, arhh, me heartys,’ he growled.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ said Mrs Settree. ‘But I’d like a nice gin.’

  Les escorted Mrs Settree up the stairs and through the doors. There was a bar and food servery on the right, with model boats and ship’s lanterns and wheels round the walls, that looked a little crowded. To the left was a smaller, quieter bar with a covered-over pool table, a fireplace in the corner and tables and chairs next to several windows offering a nice view of the street. Les sat Mrs Settree down at a table two back from the fireplace.

  ‘What would you like, Tania?’ he asked.

  ‘A gin and tonic please,’ she answered. ‘Is that all right?’

  ‘It sure is.’

  Les walked over to a bar panelled with red cedar and ordered a pot of Carlton light and a double gin and tonic. He smiled at the other people round the bar while he waited, then took the drinks back to the table and sat down.

  ‘Well cheers, Tania,’ he said, clinking her glass.

  ‘Yes. Cheers … Les,’ she replied.

  Les took a sip of beer and put his glass down. Mrs Settree had a swallow of gin and gave several blinks.

  ‘Ooh, this is lovely,’ she said, putting her glass down. ‘Just what the doctor ordered.’

  ‘Yeah. Me too,’ said Les, taking another sip.

  Mrs Settree had another mouthful of gin. ‘What I can’t understand, Mr Norton,’ she said, ‘is why Father Shipley erased his name from the front of the canvas. And why he hid the paintings?’

  ‘Oh, probably for safekeeping or something,’ said Les. ‘Who knows? Things were different in those days.’

  ‘And what did you say the address was on the back? A magazine?’

  ‘Yes. My mother used to be an illustrator on it. She must have left the paintings there and … somehow they finished up down here.’

  ‘Who was Emile?’ asked Mrs Settree.

  ‘A friend of Mum’s,’ answered Les. ‘Another artist.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Les finished his beer and was surprised to see Mrs Settree finish her gin and tonic at the same time. ‘Would you like another one?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Mrs Settree took her handbag and went to stand up. ‘I’ll get them.’

  ‘No. Let me,’ said Les. ‘After what you’ve done, the least I can do is shout you a couple of drinks.’

  ‘Very well, Mr Norton. If you insist. Thank you.’

  Les got two of the same and when he returned, noticed Mrs Settree’s face was starting to get a bit of a glow up. He put the drinks on the table then sat down and clinked Mrs Settree’s glass again.

  ‘Well, at least you’ve got your paintings, Mr Norton,’ said Mrs Settree. ‘Your family will certainly be so proud of you.’

  ‘Yes,’ smiled Les. ‘I can just see the look on one particular person’s face when I walk in now.’

  ‘What will you do with them? Just hang them?’

  ‘Oh yeah. One for me. The rest for the others.’

  ‘How many paintings are there?’ asked Mrs Settree.

  ‘Six,’ replied Les. ‘Three are Mum’s. And three are by other artists.’

  ‘And are you still going to unwrap them back at the orphanage first, Mr Norton?’

  ‘Reckon,’ said Les. ‘After all your help, you deserve to be there for the unveiling.’

  Knowing the nature of Rosa-Marie’s paintings, especially ones they were going to burn, Les regretted having said that. But it was a bit late now. And if Mrs Settree got blown away by the contents, there wasn’t much he could do. He only hoped it didn’t affect a home-cooked meal that night.

  ‘Angie would like to see them too,’ said Mrs Settree.

  ‘Yes. Your daughter’s a painter, too, I believe,’ said Les. ‘What’s she like?’

  Mrs Settree smiled. ‘I don’t know a great deal about art, Mr Norton,’ she replied. ‘But she’s different. Very … colourful. And she has her own style.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Les.

  ‘That’s Angie’s studio out the back. She lives in it and guards it like Fort Knox. She hardly ever lets anyone in there.’

  Les raised his glass. ‘Secretive creativity.’

  ‘Yes. That’s my Angie. God love her.’

  ‘Your little guardian angel.’

  ‘My little guardian angel,’ nodded Mrs Settree. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without her.’

  Les asked Mrs Settree one or two things about the orphanage before they finished their drinks, then Mrs Settree made a trip to the Ladies and they walked out to the car. Les was going to put the radio on, but he changed his mind. Minutes later they were out of Apollo Bay and on their way back to Lorne.

  Les was almost jumping out of his skin as he cruised along with the ocean on his right. But he drove slowly and kept himself alert, carefully steering the Mitsubishi around any hairpin bends. The last thing he wanted, after all the trouble he’d gone to, was an accident and the car bursting into flames with thousands of dollars’ worth of paintings in the boot. Les didn’t feel all that good inside, telling poor Mrs Settree a heap of lies. But when he sent her down a big fat cheque, Les felt that would make up for any minor indiscretions on his part. Les was whistling softly to himself as he pulled over to let a young bloke in an old hotted-up black Kingswood roar past, when he noticed Mrs Settree had suddenly gone very quiet. He glanced across and she was totally expressionless, just staring out the windscreen at the road ahead. Les manoeuvred his head around, had a good look and noticed tears were streaming down her cheeks. Ohh yeah, thought Les. Good old gin. The world’s happiest drink.

  ‘Are you all right, Mrs Settree?’ he asked quietly.

  Mrs Settree gave her head a tiny nod. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

  ‘You’re crying, Tania.’ Les found himself quite concerned. Mrs Settree didn’t just have the sniffles. Tears were pouring out of her and in between sobs her thin shoulders would shudder under her cardigan.

  ‘What’s the matter, Tania. I didn’t say anything to upset you, did I?’

  ‘No. It’s not your fault, Mr Norton,’ cried Mrs Settree. ‘It’s just that driving past where the orphanage used to be. It brought back all the terrible memories.’

  ‘Shit! I’m sorry, Tania,’ said Les. ‘I wasn’t watching and I took a wrong turn.’

  ‘Please don’t blame yourself, Mr Norton. You’re kind.’ Next thing Mrs Settree turned to Les and completely broke up. Tears poured down her cheeks and sobs racked her poor skinny body. ‘Oh, Mr Norton,’ she wailed. ‘They beat me there. They beat me so bad. They were so cruel to me. Oh, I’m sorry, Mr Norton,’ howled Mrs Settree. ‘But they were.’

  ‘That’s all right, Tania,’ soothed Les. ‘Let it all go.’ He took his hanky out and handed it to Mrs Settree. ‘Who beat you?’

  Mrs Settree dabbed at her eyes with the hanky. ‘The nuns. The nuns beat me.’

  ‘The nuns?’ said Les. ‘The nuns beat you?’ said Les. ‘I …?’

  ‘They beat me. They whipped me. They made me sleep in the toilets with all the smell.’ More violent sobs racked Mrs Settree’s body. ‘They poured buckets of urine over me. They locked me in closets. I had to sleep out in the rain and cold. I slept in filth with the animals. They starved me. When it was hot they locked me in the toolshed without any water. And I was just a little girl,’ cried Mrs Settree. ‘A poor little girl.’

  ‘Shit!’ said Les. Mrs Settree’s description of life at the orphanage was quite graphic and he found himself getting stirred up. ‘The low rotten bastards,’ he growled. ‘That’s bloody awful.’

  ‘All the beatings they gave me,’ sobbed Mrs Settree. ‘When I got married and my husbands beat me, I didn�
�t know any better. I thought it was the way life was. Until Angie told me I didn’t have to take it.’

  ‘Good for bloody Angie,’ said Les.

  ‘But Sister Manuella was the worst,’ sobbed Mrs Settree. ‘She beat me with a strap once and I couldn’t sit down for almost a week. She broke coathangers on me. Rulers. Punched me. Dragged me down the stairs by my hair. I had so many bruises.’

  ‘Sister Manuella?’ said Les. ‘Mrs Totten said she was the one who got her neck broken when the orphanage burnt down. Is that right?’

  Mrs Settree turned to Les and for a brief moment a fierce gleam shone through the tears in her eyes. ‘Yes. That was an unfortunate accident. Wasn’t it.’

  Norton’s eyebrows rose. ‘Yes. I imagine it was.’ He slowed down for a hairpin bend, then put his foot down as the road rose above the ocean. ‘So why did the nuns beat you all the time, Tania?’

  ‘They said I was evil,’ replied Mrs Settree. ‘And I had the devil in me. They said my mother was a witch. And I was going to burn in hell.’

  Norton turned slowly to Mrs Settree. ‘What did you just say? The nuns said your mother was a witch?’

  ‘Yes. All the time,’ sobbed Mrs Settree. The tone in her voice now sounded like a little girl talking. ‘Sister Manuella even made me wear a witch’s hat and sit on a broomstick in front of all the other children. She wouldn’t even let me go to the toilet. And when I’d wet myself she’d rub my face in it. Even the other children cried. Oh, it was so horrible.’

  Les was trying to keep his eyes on the road and look at Mrs Settree at the same time. ‘Tania,’ he asked. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ sobbed Mrs Settree. ‘The nuns kept it a secret from me. But I think I’m around fifty.’

  ‘Fifty,’ said Les.

  ‘I think so,’ sniffed Mrs Settree. ‘I’m not really sure. But I do know one thing. I know what my real name is,’ she said, a hint of triumph in her voice.

  ‘Your real name?’ said Les.

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Mrs Settree. ‘I’ve always been called Tania. But when the Walmsleys adopted me, one of the nuns told my foster parents that when my mother left me at the orphanage, she gave them an envelope with some money in it. And a note that said, Please look after Tanybryn.’

  ‘Tanybryn?’ said Les.

  ‘Yes. And Sister Manuella said it was an evil name. And changed it to Tania.’

  ‘Did you ever find out who your mother was, Tania?’ asked Les.

  Mrs Settree shook her head and dabbed at her eyes with Norton’s hanky. ‘No. But I think she must have come from around Apollo Bay. Because Tanybryn’s a little hamlet not far away. It’s very pretty. I sometimes go out there and just sit.’ Mrs Settree turned to Les. ‘And often, it feels like my mother’s there. Watching over me.’

  Les drove on in silence till he found a space at the side of the road and pulled the car over. Mrs Settree looked up through her tears.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.

  Les stared at Mrs Settree for a moment trying to find the right words. ‘Tania,’ he said. ‘I know this is a pretty lousy time to be telling you this. But I haven’t been completely honest with you.’

  ‘Oh?’ Mrs Settree looked genuinely surprised. ‘You haven’t?’

  Les shook his head. ‘No. I haven’t. And fair dinkum. I’m really sorry.’

  ‘What …?’

  ‘Tania. You told me Father Shipley kept away from you. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Mrs Settree. ‘He used to avoid me, for some reason.’

  Les reached over to the back seat and got his overnight bag. He sat it on his lap and took out the book on Rosa-Marie Norton. Inside the pages was a copy of the letter Warren had brought home from Bondi post office. He opened it up and handed it to Mrs Settree.

  ‘Tania,’ said Les. ‘I want you to read that. Then I want you to have a look at this book. But read the letter first. Okay?’

  ‘All right, Mr Norton,’ said Mrs Settree, looking a little mystified behind her bloodshot eyes. ‘If you insist.’

  Mrs Settree dried her eyes, then adjusted her glasses and began reading. Les pulled out from where he’d parked and drove on in silence, staring impassively at the road ahead. His mind was working overtime, and if he was right, everything had suddenly turned pear-shape. Les drove on, and the further he went, the more numbed he felt. Mrs Settree finished the letter and, still holding it open in her hands, turned to Les.

  ‘This letter, Mr Norton,’ she said in a puzzled tone. ‘It’s … it’s quite remarkable. But I don’t quite understand what it’s got to do with me.’

  Les found himself searching for the right words again. ‘Mrs Settree. Warren, the bloke I live with, brought it home from the post office. It had been lost in the dead letter office for years. But because my name’s Norton, I finished up with it.’

  Les told Mrs Settree the truth. How he got the letter, and borrowed the book from the local library and found out how much the paintings were worth. Then, without telling Mrs Settree about what happened in Melbourne, told her how he decided to come to Lorne to see if he could find the paintings. And after lying through his teeth to almost everybody he’d met, found them with her help.

  ‘So Rosa-Marie Norton wasn’t your mother?’ said Mrs Settree.

  ‘No, she wasn’t,’ confessed Les.

  ‘Oh? I don’t quite know what to say, Mr Norton.’

  ‘But I do know whose mother she was,’ said Les.

  ‘Whose?’ asked Mrs Settree.

  Les looked directly at Mrs Settree. ‘Yours.’

  ‘Mine?’ gasped Mrs Settree. ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘Tania. Put the letter away,’ said Les. ‘And open up that book. To page six, I think.’

  Mrs Settree neatly folded the letter then picked up the book on Rosa-Marie Norton. ‘My goodness,’ she said. ‘Look at this cover.’

  ‘Yes. She was one wild artist all right,’ said Les.

  Mrs Settree turned to page six and spread the book open. ‘Dear me!’ she said. ‘If these are her paintings, she was more than wild.’

  ‘Yeah. But have a look at the one with the baby and all the bunnies and things.’

  Mrs Settree perused the pages from behind her glasses. ‘Oh, this one is quite nice,’ she said.

  ‘Yes it is,’ agreed Les. ‘Now have a look what it’s called.’

  Mrs Settree squinted at the photo in the book then slowly turned to Les. ‘Tanybryn?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Les. ‘That painting was Rosa-Marie Norton’s secret tribute to you. The daughter she left behind.’

  ‘Nooooo,’ said Mrs Settree.

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Norton emphatically. ‘She didn’t come to Melbourne to have an abortion. She was too scared of getting blood poisoning again. She came down and put on an exhibition. Then she came to Apollo Bay to have you.’

  ‘Me,’ blinked Mrs Settree.

  ‘Yes you,’ said Les. ‘Christ! It all adds up. The nuns knew who your mother was and took it out on you. Shipley must have known, too, and that’s why he kept away from you. He might have even thought you were his daughter. Then there’s the name. Tanybryn. Rosa-Marie grew up down here, and the place probably meant something to her. She would have known a local doctor who’d deliver her baby on the quiet. And she’d have known about the orphanage. So she left you there without knowing what a bunch of bastards the nuns were. Rosa-Marie and Emile had blackmailed Shipley at one time. And that’s why Emile sent the paintings to him. Which is why Shipley hid them so well. He couldn’t bring himself to destroy them. But he was terrified somebody would find them and connect them to him. Rosa-Marie died not long after that. So did Emile Decorice. And nobody would have known nothing. Only for that letter arriving at my place. And me, being the scheming low bastard that I am, always on the hunt for an easy dollar, I came down here looking for them. And ended up finding them.’

  Mrs Settree stared at the photo of Tanybryn. ‘Mr Norton. This is just unbe
lievable.’

  ‘Unbelievable?’ Les looked at Mrs Settree. ‘It’s more than that. It’s horrible. Because even though it breaks my bloody heart to tell you this, Tania, those paintings in the boot belong to you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Les laughed derisively. ‘Wouldn’t it give you the shits.’

  Mrs Settree shook her head. ‘This is all too much for me,’ she said, and closed the book.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ said Les.

  Mrs Settree stared at the book cover then turned to Les. ‘Is there a photo of Rosa-Marie Norton in here?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah. On the second page,’ said Les.

  Mrs Settree opened the book again and her bloodshot eyes almost bulged through her glasses. ‘Oh my God!’ she cried. ‘Is that her?’

  ‘That’s her,’ said Les. ‘Rosa-Marie Norton. The Witch of Kings Cross.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ Mrs Settree closed the book and fell back against the seat. ‘I think I’m going to faint.’

  ‘There’s a bottle of mineral water in my bag,’ said Les. ‘Have a drink.’

  Mrs Settree’s hands were shaking that bad as she got the bottle out, she could hardly get the cap off. She gulped some down and patted at her chest then cautiously opened the book again and took another look at the photo.

  ‘And that’s Rosa-Marie Norton?’ said Mrs Settree softly.

  ‘Yep. That’s her, Tania,’ said Les. ‘Your dear sweet mother, Tania.’

  ‘Oh my good God!’ said Mrs Settree. ‘Oh my God! This is all too much for me.’

  ‘Yeah. Your mother was a bit out there,’ agreed Les. They went round a bend and Les recognised a familiar part of the road. ‘Anyway. We’ll be back at the orphanage soon,’ he said. ‘And we’ll unwrap the paintings and see what we’ve got.’ Les gave Mrs Settree a sickly smile. ‘What you’ve got.’