Mercy Street

by Tess Evans

  ‘The what?’

  ‘No Jail for George. The one on Facebook.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m not very good with computers. My wife . . .’

  ‘Not even Facebook?’ Maria looks at Paula in dismay. ‘We’ve had over six thousand “likes”.’

  The women explain that their mission is to keep George out of jail and they want him to assist with daily (at least daily) tweets to keep up interest in the cause. ‘After all,’ Maria says, ‘you’re the victim here. All you did was try to make a little girl’s life easier. You sacrificed your peaceful retirement to take on a difficult child and . . .’

  They didn’t understand. ‘It was no sacrifice,’ he says. ‘I love her.’

  ‘Wonderful. All you need to do is tweet that sort of thing. And how Angie deserted her.’

  But George will not be persuaded. ‘I wouldn’t want you to think I’m ungrateful,’ he says, ‘but I’m too old for this Twitter thing. Besides, I’ve already decided not to make any public statements – on my solicitor’s advice.’ This is true, as it happens, and it’s proved to be a godsend. He doesn’t have the energy to argue.

  ‘Traumatised,’ the women agree as they walk back to their cars. Maria’s son-in-law knows someone who works at Channel 5. ‘We need to counter all that rubbish Channel 14 are putting out,’ she says.

  A few days later, Angie’s grandmother appears. (The whole world, it seems, knows his hiding place.) George takes a step back and she smiles faintly. ‘Don’t worry. I’ve come to say I’m sorry. Bree told me where you’re staying.’

  Still doubtful, George ushers her in. The flat is small, the furnishing minimal and impersonal. They stand. He hasn’t offered her a seat, and waits instead for her to speak.

  ‘I’d love a cuppa.’ She peers past him to the kitchenette.

  George makes the tea in silence and brings in two mugs, which he puts down on the dusty coffee table. ‘No biscuits,’ he says, but doesn’t apologise.

  She indicates his book lying on the couch. ‘I see you enjoy Biggles. I’m rereading the Billabong series. There are some books you can enjoy, whatever your age.’

  George unbends a little. ‘Classics,’ he says. ‘Not just for kids.’

  Gran (he’s fairly sure he doesn’t know her name) takes a sip of tea. ‘I hope you’ll understand my behaviour at the hospital. There was so much in the press . . . And the police kept on questioning Angie about your . . . suitability. I have to admit I thought the worst and it nearly broke me. The only thing that kept me going was the thought of making you pay.’ She gazes out the window and speaks as if to herself. ‘You see, when Angie and Rory came to live with me, I believed that I could save at least one generation, maybe even two.’

  George is listening intently. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I could never control Rosemary. That’s my daughter – Angie’s mother. A wilful child, if ever there was one. She ran away at fifteen and had Shiloh to some mongrel who left her high and dry three days after she came home from hospital. Angie was born fifteen months later – a different father, of course. I begged Rosemary to move back in with me, and she did for a bit, but she was off again in a matter of weeks.’

  This woman has been grieving for years, George thinks.

  The hand holding her mug is thin and trembling slightly. ‘I hardly saw my granddaughters as they were growing up, but when Rosemary and that brute of a stepfather threw Angie out, she came to me.’

  ‘And you took her in.’

  ‘We were managing – I was even getting closer to Angie, then I had to go into hospital for bypass surgery. I’d only been home a couple of weeks when they left.’

  ‘Just when you needed help.’

  ‘I don’t blame Angie. She was very good for a while, in her own way. Rory was a cranky baby – kept her busy.’

  ‘She told me you were too frail to have a screaming baby in the house.’

  ‘She may well have thought that. Or she might have become tired of me telling her what to do. Or maybe it was a combination of both.’ She puts down her mug. ‘Rory is my last chance to give a child the right sort of life. I see now that’s what you wanted, too, and I’m sorry about what happened at the hospital. I’m not saying you did the right thing, mind . . . if anything had happened to her . . .’ She’s looking at him straight. He likes that in a woman. ‘But what you did was understandable. I just wanted to tell you that.’

  George inclines his head. ‘Thanks. It was natural – what you did. Not knowing me and being her great-grandmother and all.’ He hesitates. ‘Have you heard of a group called No Jail for George?’

  ‘The one on Facebook?’

  Was he the only dinosaur left in the world? ‘That’s the one. They want me to tweet stuff. You know, about what happened. I think they’re good people, but I’ve always been a private sort of bloke. And I don’t want to trash Angie. She’s had a tough trot, one way and another.’

  The woman regards him with genuine respect. ‘There’s another group called Mothers for Jeannie. I’m going for custody and they’ve come out in support.’

  ‘Custody. You’ll take care of Rory?’

  ‘And Angie, too, if she’ll let me.’

  She picks up her handbag, smiling as George pretends to duck. ‘One more thing – do you know where her dog is? She’s pining for him dreadfully.’

  He’s hurt. Not pining for me, then.

  Reading his expression, she puts a hand on his arm. ‘Of course she misses you, too. A lot. But you must realise it’s impossible at the moment.’

  No contact. A condition of his bail. His instinct had been (still is) to confront Angie, to explain to Rory why he had to go, make some arrangement – it couldn’t be too hard. But he’s law-abiding by nature and his one transgression has left him with no options.

  ‘Richie – I left him with the motel receptionist at Owens Gap. God knows where he is now.’ He thinks for a moment. ‘Tell you what. I’ve got a mate who might be able to drive up and get him if I can contact the woman I gave him to.’ He knows he can do this. He has guarded that scrap of paper with her phone number like it was a cheque for a thousand dollars. Mortified by his plight, he looks away. ‘Can’t go meself. Judge said I have to stay in Melbourne.’ Suddenly angry, he strikes the door with his fist and the woman jumps in alarm. ‘Sorry. Sorry,’ he says. ‘It’s just that I’m not a criminal. A fool, maybe. But not a criminal.’ His anger dispels as swiftly as it had come. He feels very old. ‘Anyway, I’ll give her a call and let you know.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She puts out her hand. ‘I’m sorry for taking up so much of your time, Mr Johnson.’

  ‘George,’ he says.

  ‘Jeannie.’

  ‘Give Rory my love, Jeannie. Always.’

  ‘I will, George – and good luck.’

  22

  As the date for the trial approaches, George finds it more and more difficult to concentrate. His thoughts are erratic and slide away or crumble when he tries to hold on to them, shape them into coherence. He watches his hands shake as he pours his tea. It no longer matters. All he wants is to stay cocooned in his tiny flat where those who come are on his side. (More or less. The solicitor is paid to be on his side and Shirl has again begun to gnaw at the issue like Richie worrying a bone.)

  Mr and Mrs Nguyen come bearing green tea and chocolate teddy bear biscuits. They greet him with customary politeness and talk of trivial things that assume mass and dimension because they are part of a life he can no longer share. We cut back your roses yesterday. They hand him some blooms wrapped in newspaper. Smiling, he finds an empty coffee jar in the back of the cupboard and puts Pen’s roses in water.

  Autumn leaves are falling. My wife is painting the colour. Mrs Nguyen looks modestly at the carpet.

  Then the information that pierces the thin membrane of his hard-won equilibrium. ‘Rory’s gran brought her to visit us. To meet her Richie dog.’ He can see them trying to read his face. ‘She happy with her gran.’

&nbs
p; Of course he wants her to be happy. He does. So why does the news make him so unhappy? He smiles as he knows he should. Lucky children are fleet of foot. Move lightly. Peel off one life then glide away without a backward glance. That’s how the smart ones survive.

  But I can’t shake off the past so easily, George thinks, showing his teeth as he hoists his lips into a smile. It has burrowed into my bones. It’s who I am.

  The Nguyens are waiting. ‘Rory’s happy – that’s the most important thing,’ he says, knowing that however painful, he’s telling them the truth.

  For the duration of the trial, there are no earthquakes, no terrorist attacks, no political exposés. Shane Warne’s Twitter account is strangely silent and there’s not even a Grand Final or Ashes Test to divert the press.

  So they concentrate on the trial, and it’s as if banality is a seasonal hazard. There is no drama and certainly no unforeseen revelations. When questioned, Angie is sullen and uncooperative and the cameras have to make do with shots from outside the court – George in his suit and tie, Angie with her gran. At first Shirl was good for a pithy quote, but as the trial progresses, she sweeps past, looking to neither right nor left.

  In the absence of real news the media spend their time crossing to a reporter outside George’s house, or the steps of the Supreme Court and even Rory’s school, until Ms Fontana threatens to call the police.

  Despite some tempting offers for a photograph, Rory is nowhere to be seen.

  George pleads guilty. That’s his instruction to his solicitor and he brooks no argument. ‘I took her,’ he says, again and again. ‘It’s as simple as that.’ It isn’t, of course, but he refuses to discuss it. Despite the consequences, he can’t stomach the thought of Rory being called as a witness. (Although there was never any suggestion that she would be.) He sees her, small and scared, in a room full of strangers with fusty wigs and black gowns, hovering like crows. You must tell the truth, they threaten the cowering child. And what truth are they seeking? What questions will they ask? He can’t bear the thought that a child would be asked to condemn her own mother. But, worse, what does Rory think of her Poppy George now? He’d left her, after promising he’d stay. Unwilling to face an accusation of betrayal, he stands by his guilty plea.

  And, anyway, what could he say under oath? How much of what he did was for Rory and how much for himself? He is still not capable of answering this question with any certainty.

  So the arguments are mainly in mitigation. It is noted that George did return Rory voluntarily, although, as the prosecutor points out, this was as a result of her illness. There is no evidence to suggest that he would have returned her had the asthma attack not occurred, she concludes.

  He put her health above his own needs, George’s barrister responds. More like a caring relative than a child abductor.

  Shirl, Redgum, the Nguyens, Stella, Park and even Shirl’s Bill and Marianne all attest to his good character.

  Angie is allowed a victim statement and reads one workshopped by the convenor of ‘Women for Angie’. ‘When I came home to find my daughter had been abducted,’ she reads, ‘I was dev-devasted. I took care of her for five years and when George agreed to mind her while I looked for work, I was relieved and happy. I thought I could trust him, but he let us down. And when I knew he’d taken her, I couldn’t stop crying in case he hurt her. The shock made me sick – ill.’ She looks at the prosecutor with real dislike and strays from the script. ‘But I don’t want George to go to jail. He’s too old for all that.’

  Justice Clements is a formidable figure, wearing her authority as one born to uphold the law. Her voice, however, is mellifluous, and as she reads her judgement George is beguiled by the sound and finds it difficult to concentrate on the substance. Surely such a voice – cool and harmonious – can only speak of the beautiful and the good. How could such a voice pronounce a prison sentence?

  She’s a softie, his barrister had said with some scorn. You’ll get a suspended sentence for sure.

  ‘. . . So the defendant, George Johnson, acted in what he believed were the child’s best interests.’ Hearing his name, George pulls back his shoulders and listens more carefully. I did. I did act in her best interests. He glances around the courtroom, impressed with what he sees and hears. Justice will find a way. He’s always believed that.

  ‘However, though entering a formal guilty plea, at no time has Mr Johnson acknowledged an understanding of his wrongdoing. While taking account of his age and his previously unblemished record, I am cognisant of the fact that the law, and indeed the community, hold the abduction of a child to be a serious crime, warranting a stern penalty. I therefore sentence the defendant to five years’ imprisonment with a minimum of two years to serve.’

  George’s dismay is manifested in that awful roiling of his guts. All he wants now is to get out of the courtroom, out of sight, in case he disgraces himself. He looks across at his little band of supporters, then bows his head as he is led from the dock.

  Angie leaves the courtroom and, guided by her solicitor and her gran, pushes her way through the crowd. Gran seizes her arm with grim displeasure. ‘I hope you’re satisfied, young woman.’

  ‘What?’ Angie flops into a waiting taxi and looks belligerently out at the melee on the footpath. ‘Why is everyone blaming me?’

  The jail is low security, but at first they have to keep George away from the other prisoners. It seems that there are one or two who, believing him to be a paedophile, are out to teach him a lesson. He’s scared, and lies in his single cell staring at the door, which is flimsier than he would like. He has been through the humiliating procedure meted out to an incoming prisoner and feels he has lost something important on the way.

  So he lies in his cell and broods. At times, his bitterness is excoriating. Angie. Why couldn’t she have left well enough alone? And how long would it be before she set off again in search of more ‘fun’?

  On his better days, he thinks, At least they’ve given custody to Jeannie. She’s a woman to reckon with, is Jeannie, and he’s confident that she’ll never let Rory out of her sight. George takes some comfort in this thought and his anger cools. What’s the point? What’s happened has happened, and there’s nothing he can do about it now.

  In time, he is given a job in the prison library. He finds it congenial and the prisoners who borrow books seem to accept him. Some of them are professional people. With all those advantages, why would they knowingly break the law? He supposes they have their reasons, just like him. In here, he’s lost the right to judge.

  He has regular visits from all his friends, but not from Angie or Rory. He wonders if Angie feels any remorse for the part she played in his downfall. Jeannie thinks she might, but George is not so sure. As for Rory – he doesn’t want her to see him locked up like a common felon.

  When he can bear it, he looks into his conscience, trying to plumb the truth of his actions. There are times when all he can see is green, sludgy pond water, weedily opaque to his questing eye. But sometimes, when the water is clean and clear, he can explore the things that lie at the bottom. Love, for instance. Had his love for Rory been selfish? Of course, he admits as he stares into the bright waters. All love has an element of selfishness – that need the lover has for the presence, for the esteem, for the total commitment of the beloved. This isn’t new to him. He’d loved Pen, couldn’t imagine life without her, but in the end it took his best love to let her go.

  So George does his two years minimum and is released into a largely indifferent community, returning to Mercy Street not quite the same man as the one who left. He goes for a drink with Redgum; has his morning tea with the Nguyens; both welcomes and resists visits from Shirl and Bree. It’s all much as it was before, if only he can avert his gaze from the vast reality of absence.

  Then, after a few weeks, Jeannie rings to arrange a visit with Rory. The solid, self-imposed order of his days is, after all, a chimera, easily vanquished by the magical uttering of her name. He prow
ls around the house, looking for things to do. Practical things that will keep him busy. He tidies her already tidy room, oils the swing, loads the fridge with Choc Wedges. Perhaps he should have bought chocolate teddies. He goes to the shops a second time and, along with the teddies, buys a cake for Jeannie’s morning tea. He pauses at the bookshop. Rory would be too old for their favourite picture books now, and the saleswoman (a new one) recommends the latest fantasy novel. ‘It’s the first of a trilogy,’ she tells him and he makes a mental note to look out for the sequels.

  He returns home later than he meant to, and before he can regain his equilibrium, they arrive. Opening the door, he doesn’t know what to do, what to say. Rory is taller (almost as tall as her grandmother) and it seems that she’s grown up a lot in the nearly three years since he last saw her. She is almost, but not quite, a stranger. He scans her face for the sullen little waif she once was, and sees his own trepidation reflected in her eyes. It’s comforting to know that she’s feeling awkward, too.

  ‘How’s your mum?’ he asks.

  ‘Okay. Mum’s okay.’

  She’s coming into focus. ‘And Richie?’

  ‘Good,’ she says. ‘We got him back – he’s good.’

  Jeannie rolls her eyes but says nothing.

  Rory steps into the house and walks down the hallway, peering into her old room and then into the kitchen, before sitting on the sofa (bereft of protective covers).

  ‘You went away,’ she says, ‘when I was in hospital. You promised you’d stay.’

  Jeannie frowns. ‘I told you. I told you he had to go.’

  The young girl looks at him with a clear, green gaze. And offers her words like a gift. ‘I’ve still got Slipper Dog.’ The pause is minimal. ‘Poppy George.’