by Tess Evans
No. All he can promise her is a new town with new faces. And for how long? Sooner or later they’ll be discovered. Or maybe they’ll move on, never more than one step ahead of their pursuers. So the stable life he had envisaged for her (for them) is receding, and he can’t see a way out. He could take her back and face the consequences, but would her life with Angie be any better for that? In no time at all she’ll be a teenager and then God help her with the men her mother takes up with. No. He’ll have to play this out to the end. Pray that the end will mean Angie meeting some other no-hoper and taking off for good. Is it over-optimistic to imagine that in such an event, he and Rory could return to their old life? The life she (and he) deserve to live? He squirms at how easily he’s been able to sacrifice Angie.
He turns his attention back to the diminutive figure on the step. ‘Stell and Park have all those children. There won’t be room for us as well.’
‘Can we come back for a holiday?’
‘Sure can. Now let’s get ready. First we’ll run Rusty and Min back to Rabbit’s.’
They have almost finished packing the car. Five minutes later and he’d have missed the call. It’s Bree. ‘I know I said I wouldn’t ring again, but I wasn’t sure you’d get the newspapers out there.’
George closes his eyes. Please. Not another problem.
‘It’s your photo. They’ve Photoshopped it.’ George nods rather than speaks and Bree feels the need to ask if he’s heard of Photoshop. He has. (It came from spending time at the school.)
‘So they’ve got photos of what you would look like with a beard and a different haircut and a shaven head . . . and are you there, George? One of them looks a lot like you did when you left the caravan park.’
George manages to hide his panic. Just. ‘Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll bear that in mind.’
‘A lot like you. You’ve got to be careful – this is serious stuff.’
George puts down the phone. He thought they’d be safer on the road, but after Bree’s call . . . Understanding that he has no choice, he goes back into the house. The Parkers are due back in a couple of days.
He rummages through his bag and finds his fishing hat, pulls it low over his eyes and looks in the mirror. He fingers the collar of his polo shirt. He’s always worn a shirt with a collar, once a symbol of the line he liked to draw between his working self and his home self. As time went by, it became the way he dressed. Maybe Angie noticed this quirk. Maybe the police are already issuing a statement to that effect. He has kept the door to the Parkers’ bedroom closed, but this is an emergency, so with a shamefaced apology to the absent couple, he rifles the drawers for collarless T-shirts. He takes four, the oldest he can find. Two are plain white and baggy. The other two are captioned – It’s Always Beer O’clock and Sydney Olympics 2000, the latter with a picture of the Harbour Bridge and what could possibly be a wombat. He prepares to write a note of apology but stops himself in time. Instead, he puts on the Beer O’clock T-shirt and bundles child and dogs into the station wagon.
Rabbit asks no questions. It’s clear that, apart from Park, he prefers animals to people. Rory (George is proud of her good manners) holds out her small hand. ‘Thank you, Mr Rabbit for helping me with Richie Dog.’
‘I’ll be buggered. You’re a funny kid, that’s for sure. Wait.’ He turns back to his shed then emerges with a strange contraption which he hands to the puzzled child. ‘Yabby catcher. Designed it meself. Never know when you might need one.’
Even as they thank him, he has returned to his shack and is closing the door.
George is carrying the last of their stuff to the car when the phone rings again. This time it’s Stella. ‘Everyone here is talking about that program. They reckon the police are on their way from Melbourne – CID by the sound of things. The local police have already questioned us.’
George hadn’t considered what effect the program might have had on his neighbours from the Red Dolphin and hesitates before asking. ‘You didn’t believe all that rubbish – you know, about – about me?’ Not only does he need to know they won’t give him up, but that there are ordinary people, good people, who believe in him.
‘I was a primary teacher before I had all these kids. Kept up my quals and did some training in the – um – subject at Armidale Uni. So I watched you together and had a little chat with Rory after you told us she wasn’t yours.’
George gives a kind of yelp.
‘Don’t take it personally. We’d only known you five minutes. We liked you, but we had to be sure. You don’t really think we’d help you if we had any doubts about—’ She’s still avoiding the word. ‘—about that sort of thing.’
George can’t help being hurt, but has to acknowledge that he’d have done the same thing himself had their positions been reversed. ‘I know what you mean,’ he says. ‘But what they’re saying – it’s killing me. You’re a good person, Stell. What would you do?’
He can hear her breath, a deep inhalation. ‘I think you should go back and clear your name. You can’t keep her from her mother forever.’
‘I can’t – I just can’t. I told you. She’s not a fit mother.’
‘But she is her mother. She’s a bit older now. And maybe wiser.’
‘Not exactly a rolled-gold guarantee. Thanks for the advice, Stell, but we’re moving on.’
‘Fine. We won’t say anything about where you’ve been. But bear one thing in mind, George. When you’re making these big decisions, Rory’s needs should be front and centre.’
‘It’s never been any other way.’
George closes the door on another chapter of his life, an interlude, really. One which, until last night, had shown him other possibilities for childhood. He pauses and looks across the paddocks and thinks of the narrow streets and mean, tumbling house he grew up in. Water under the bridge. He bundles a skittish Richie into the back of the station wagon, checks Rory’s seatbelt and takes off down the dusty track. It is probably just the sun glare, but he can’t for the life of him see the road ahead.
The trip is taking a lot longer than he’d anticipated. The road is dodgy and he hasn’t banked on a kid and a dog needing toilet breaks, food-and-drink breaks or just breaks. It seems that Richie can’t stand being in the car for more than half an hour at a time. His displeasure is evident in a cacophony of barking that upsets Rory and drives George crazy.
‘Rabbit says dogs need to run.’ Rory pouts when he refuses to stop for a fourth time. ‘You’re just mean and we both hate you.’
‘Too bad.’ George, his nerves already on edge, turns up the radio so he can’t hear all the kerfuffle in the back. ‘We’ll stop when I’m good and ready.’
After about twenty minutes or so, he relents and lets them loose in a park in a town so small he’d missed it on the map. A young woman with a child in a stroller sits down beside him on the park’s only seat. ‘Big day on the road?’ she asks him, indicating his loaded car.
‘Yeah. Just passing through. Have to let them burn off some energy.’
She begins to unbuckle her child. ‘Tell me about it. This is my youngest. I’ve got two more at school. One eight and one nearly seven – the same age as that poor little girl who was kidnapped in Melbourne.’ She places the child on her knee and puts on a pair of velcro-fastening sneakers. ‘There. Let’s hope they get him. Hell’s too good a place . . .’
Thank God she’s been looking at the child the whole time. If she’d looked at him, George is sure those photos would have given him away. ‘Can’t be too careful,’ he manages to croak, pulling his hat further down over his eyes. Standing up (not too hastily, he hopes), he checks his watch. ‘Nice talking to you but we got a few k’s to go yet.’
‘Safe journey.’
By four o’clock he realises that he’s a long way short of his planned destination and decides to stop at the next town. He hasn’t driven so far in a day for years and his back is aching and his temper short. They drive past a sign indicating that Rainbow Creek is o
nly five kilometres down the road. Five, four, three, two . . . The end is in sight. For today at least.
‘You can’t wait until we get to a motel?’
‘Noooo. I got to go now.’
George pulls over on the outskirts of town. ‘Quick. Hop behind those bushes.’ While he waits, he reads the sign. Unaware that they are about to harbour a fugitive, Rotary, Lions and the population of one thousand and twenty welcome them to Rainbow Creek.
Still rattled by the two phone calls, he sends Rory into the newsagency to buy a paper. Several versions of his face are on page two. Bree’s right. He can only hope that the hat and T-shirt will fool them and wonders if he should shave his beard – leave a moustache, maybe.
‘Hurry up, Poppy.’
There are two motels in town and he chooses the Outpost Inn because the sign says ‘Pets Welcome’. An added bonus is a pool.
‘You don’t have a credit card?’ A young woman with sceptical eyebrows examines the fifty-dollar bills like an archaeologist with a collection of exceptionally baffling artefacts.
Stell had prepared George for this and he’s word perfect. ‘My father never had a credit card and did very well for himself, as it happens. And as for me, I’ve got along just fine without.’
He and Rory spend the next couple of hours in the pool, and when it’s cooler, take Richie for a long walk. There’s nowhere much to go. The highway bisects the main street and the rest of the town consists of a small grid of residential streets, a red-brick school, a service station and a sports oval with a modest playground. They see only two other people (also walking their dogs), who look at them with no more than idle curiosity and say g’day as country people do. When they get back they eat in their room, ordering from the room-service menu. What with petrol and all, it has been a fairly expensive day and George drifts in and out of sleep, attempting to calculate how long his supply of cash is likely to last.
The next morning, just before six, he tells a sleepy Rory that he’s going to check the car. He slides behind the wheel and turns on the radio. He’s expecting it, but jumps when he hears his name. ‘Police are still seeking the whereabouts of the missing six-year-old child who is believed to be in the company of George Colin Johnson, a retired pensioner from a northern suburb of Melbourne. It is now believed that they may be interstate. There have been possible sightings in a number of cities, including Adelaide and Newcastle, but all have so far been discounted. Police are encouraging the public to ring Crime Stoppers with any information.’
The next voice is strangely familiar. ‘Our best hope remains with the public and we ask that you contact us with any information, no matter how slight. We have spoken to his known associates and believe that they know nothing of his whereabouts.’
‘That was Detective Inspector Harrop of the Melbourne CID. In other news . . .’
When had they started to use his middle name? They only do that with criminals, don’t they? What’s more, when had his friends become ‘known associates’? He imagines poor Shirl – indignant, mortified and tearful – showing them the letter that proves Angie left Rory in his care. At least he hopes that’s what she’s doing. And what about Redgum? Mr and Mrs Nguyen? Maybe Ms Hamilton, panicking at the thought that she’d invited him into the school. They all suffer, are all tarnished by their friendship with him. He turns off the radio, deciding that he won’t listen to it again. It’s a wilful throw of the dice. If fate means him to survive this ordeal, well and good. If not, he’s tried. And it’s all for Rory. He must never lose sight of that.
19
Neither child nor dog wants to get into the car. Over breakfast, George had made a sudden decision to head for Newcastle – a diversion from his original plan, but if there have been ‘sightings’ there already, maybe people will be reluctant to come forward again in case they make fools of themselves. In the past, George was never known for his cunning. With George, what you see is what you get. That’s what everyone used to say. Being a fugitive – does that foster a criminal way of thinking?
‘Just get in,’ he tells Rory. ‘Richie won’t get in without you.’ The dog, nose on paws, hindquarters in the air, is mounting a one-dog mutiny. Exasperated beyond endurance, George kicks out at him, barely connecting, but the animal jumps in and glowers at him as he shuts the door.
‘I’m never ever speaking to you again,’ Rory says. ‘People who kick dogs are like – murderers or crooks or . . .’ Overcome with his cruelty, she is lost for words and begins to cry. ‘I want to go home. I don’t want to be on holidays anymore.’
Dismayed, George gets in beside her but she shrinks away. ‘I’m sorry, love. I really am. Poor old Richie. It’s not his fault. Or yours. I’m just a bit tired and cranky.’ He turns her chin so she’s facing him. ‘Forgive me?’
‘You’ll never kick Richie ever again?’
‘Cross my heart.’
‘And we can go home – back to Mercy Street?’
A secret thrill quells his earlier despair. For Rory as for him, Mercy Street is home. She has no idea how much he wants to be home, too. He pats her hand. ‘Not right away, love. But we will as soon as we can. I promise.’ He becomes aware of the sawing in her chest. ‘Get your puffer. Calm down, there’s a good girl. Use your puffer.’
She takes it from her backpack and puts it to her mouth. Her eyes, wet from the recent tears, look over it at her Poppy.
‘Hold it firm. That’s right.’ George’s voice is gentle. ‘We’ll take it easy today. I’ll stop at the first nice place we find after two o’clock.’ He hesitates. ‘You’re not cross with me anymore, are you?’
She snuggles up to him. ‘I only get cross when you do something naughty. But I love you just the same.’
She’s too young for irony but George has to grin. How many times has he said that to her?
Even though they have reached the highway, the kilometres no longer slip by. It’s like driving through sludge. Too tired (and not confident enough) to pass, George sits behind a truck and is overtaken by any number of impatient drivers. He checks the rearview mirror. Here’s another one, sitting on his tail, horn blaring. George sweats and squints and tries to roll his shoulders. He’s getting past this sort of driving.
They stop for morning tea (an ice-cream for Rory; coffee for George). They stop twice more to give Richie a run. The dog obviously isn’t one to hold a grudge and fetches his beloved tennis ball with the joy of a prison escapee.
They are only an hour or so beyond their last stop when George is suddenly aware of the frantic tooting of a car and the long, drawn-out blast of a truck’s horn. Christ almighty. He’s drifted onto the wrong side of the road. In his panic, he swerves, almost over-corrects, and when he pulls up on the blessedly firm shoulder, his hands are locked to the wheel, while witnesses to this sobering drama drive on, cursing him for propelling them all so close to the abyss.
‘Is this it?’ Rory must have been asleep, but Richie’s barking is hysterical.
‘Not yet.’ George’s voice comes from way back in his throat. ‘Poppy just needs to stop for a bit.’
Rory seems to sense something’s wrong and, instead of setting up the usual whining, sits quietly, her fingers reaching through the grille to reassure Richie. ‘Good dog,’ she whispers. ‘Quiet now. Good dog.’
How long has he been here, hands on the wheel? Only minutes, surely (five, ten?), but it seems like hours. He shakes his head to marshal his thoughts. They clatter and clunk but won’t come together. He rests his forehead on his fingertips. Steady, George – think. But it’s too hard. All he knows is that, while he’s in no fit state to continue driving, they can’t stay here. The map shows that they are only ten kilometres from the middling town of Owens Gap, so taking a swig of water, he adjusts his seatbelt. Thank God for seatbelts. In the old days they’d have gone through the windscreen, stopping so suddenly. ‘Nearly there.’ He sounds more assured than he feels. If he had his druthers, he’d never drive on a highway again, but what choice does he hav
e? ‘When we get to Owens Gap, we’ll have some lunch and find a place to stay.’ He only hopes the town is large enough to have accommodation, because ten kilometres is his absolute limit. And it’s barely eleven a.m. At this rate, Newcastle might as well have been the moon.
George pulls into the first motel they see, and after turning on the television and air conditioner, flops back on the bed. ‘We’ll get some lunch soon,’ he promises. ‘See if there’s a can of soft drink in the fridge. You can have that with your apple.’
An hour and a half later he’s woken by an impatient shake. ‘Poppy. I’m hungry. When are we going to get lunch?’
Lunch is a pie and chips, eaten on a seat under a tree at the local cricket ground. The snack she’d had earlier must have taken the edge off Rory’s professed hunger because she leaves most of her pie and picks desultorily at her chips. The obliging Richie polishes off the remainder of the pie and capers around, ready to play.
George proffers the car keys. ‘Do you want to get his ball?’
‘No.’
He looks at her, surprised. ‘You don’t want to play with Richie?’ She shakes her head and he notices the sharp contrast of her freckles against the pallor of her skin. He puts his hand on her forehead. ‘Hot?’ Of course she’s hot. It’s at least thirty-five degrees out here.
‘Can we go back?’
George is confused. ‘Back where? To the farm?’
‘No. Just to our motel. I’m tired.’
‘Not a problem. It’ll be nice and cool in there. You can watch a bit more telly.’
Richie can’t believe that they’re leaving a park without a game of fetch, but it seems that he’s hot too, so with no more than a formal objection, he jumps into the car.
They stop at a newsagency on the way back, so George can buy a newspaper. He glances quickly at the headline – Rabbitohs Coach Sacked. Chagrined, he turns to page two. Surely a missing child is more important than a football coach. There it is on page three – thank God, no photos, but a column and a half saying that police are following a number of leads. He doesn’t believe that for a minute. As long as his friends hold true, there can be no leads. It seems that he’s home free. But where is home now? And what price freedom? At this point, he doesn’t care. All he knows is that he’s earned the right and he’ll never give her up.
