‘Aren’t you going to ask her who everyone thinks did it?’ I say.
‘I need to make my own enquiries, not be influenced by small-town gossip, Miss Bennett. Policing today is based in science, forensics, special tools and equipment. You’d know all about that with your background in corporate communications.’
‘Special tools and equipment?’ I ask.
He has the grace to colour a little. ‘Reconnaissance. I can’t reveal my source for obvious reasons. Rest assured I have my finger on the pulse of this town.’
‘Never mind all that,’ I say, suddenly impatient. ‘This is serious. This is arson, vandalism, destruction of private property and attempted murder! I want some action. I want an AVO out against the lunatic!’
There is a long intake of air through the constable’s teeth as he considers this possibility. ‘The courts would need a strong body of evidence to support any charges etcetera against the lunatic in question. He’s a bit of a slippery customer.’ He pauses. ‘I mean, did you actually see Mr Leeton start the fire?’
‘No.’
‘Miss Bennett, I think you need to decide whether you want revenge – as in punishment – or if you want Leeton out of your hair, so to speak. If it’s the former, you’ll probably be seeing a good deal more of Mr Leeton than you’d care to. And even if you were successful in the courts, there are plenty more Leetons where he came from.’
‘Well, I obviously don’t want to bring the wrath of the Leetons down on me, but —’
‘Why don’t you go and see Mrs Leeton, then?’ says Joy with the arch of a brow.
‘His wife?’
‘His mother.’
Todman Thompson nods his support for this plan. ‘Certainly, realistically, that would be a positive move in the right direction to get some closure on this and allow us to all move on. So, I’ll just make a note here that that’s the line of enquiry we are pursuing right now.’ He scribbles away for a moment. ‘Perhaps if you and Mrs Leeton can resolve this we should keep it at a more informal level.’ He rips the page out of his notebook and screws it up.
‘Todman, I think you should eat that to be safe,’ says Joy, compressing a smile.
Unsmiling, he balls it up and drops it into his pocket. When he’s gone I ask Joy, ‘Is he really a policeman? That was absolutely pathetic.’
‘He’s also president of the Young Liberals. I think he’s planning to get into politics when his whiskers come through,’ she says as she clears away the cups. ‘Wouldn’t want to fall out with the Leetons, I shouldn’t think.’
‘So I have to go and see his mother? You’re serious? Is she the Leeton matriarch?’
‘Let’s just say that she’s a woman who knows how to carry a grudge and has a very long memory. Pretty tough. She had a bit of a row with one of her boys one day – they were up Marfield way – and she made him stop the truck and she got out and walked home. I don’t know how far that is, but they reckon it took her about five hours. If anyone can handle her boys, she can.’
Mrs Leeton lives in a little fibro cottage near the shops in Duffy’s Creek. It has a sign out the front: Craft for Sale. Entry is via a gate and through the carport, which contains a gallery of clay pots made to look like faces; pottery cats and pigs; little baked clay signs with ‘Mum’s cooking, keep your distance’ and the like. There is a bell and a sign: Ring for Attention. In my nervousness I do, several times.
Finally, the screen door at the back of the house opens and a woman sticks her head out. ‘It’s six o’clock – I’m done for the day. Yer cuttin’ into me drinking time now.’
‘Mrs Leeton?’
‘Yeah?’ She comes out onto the step and we regard each other for a moment. Easily over seventy, her hair is permed and bleached to a mustard frizz. (I do hope Leonie is not responsible.) She’s wearing glossy purple short pyjamas covered in bright pink teddies atop withered legs, skin as slack as tree bark. Her feet are lizard-like – toes splayed and gnarled, nails like claws, etched with what appears to be seventy years of accumulated grime.
‘I’m Adrienne Bennett.’
She looks me over. ‘What kin I do for yer, girl?’
All my years of creative propositions, corporate cajoling and artful negotiation have been leading to this moment, but this time the stakes are real.
‘You’re an artist?’
Her furrows regroup to form a smile. ‘I am. Would yer like to see me studio?’ She tilts her head towards a shed at the back of the yard.
‘I would love to.’
‘Just hang on.’ She ducks inside and is back in a moment with a bottle of Bailey’s and two glasses, half full of ice.
‘Lubrication,’ she says with a crooked grin, showcasing an array of teeth worn to stumps, several missing in action.
She dusts off a chair for me in the shed, a filthy mess of clay and old rags, half-made pots, broken pots, yellowing newspapers and, taped to the walls, hundreds of pictures torn from magazines of urns, bowls, pots and ancient artefacts. She fills the greasy-looking plastic glasses to the brim with Bailey’s and hands me one.
‘I’ve had five kids, got eighteen grandkids – they give me a lotta pleasure, but I tell yer, they bring me a lotta fucking grief too.’ She pats her potting wheel fondly. ‘This one, she brings me nothing but joy. It’s me passion.’
I nod and sip my drink. I have no idea where to go from here.
‘You got a passion?’ She crunches on a piece of ice.
I have to think for a long time about this. My instinct, or maybe it’s just my habit, is to be glib. Make her laugh and deflect the focus from myself. In the face of her honesty, that seems like a cheap trick. One of many at my disposal.
‘I’ve discovered, only in the last few days, that I am passionate about my grandparents’ farm. My farm. I’m passionate about the olives, the apple tree, even that funny old house. I’ve discovered that I was born in that house. It would break my heart to see it all go up in flames.’
Mrs Leeton looks at me hard. ‘It’s good to have a passion. Keeps yer going through a lotta heartache. I knew your aunty, you know. When we was kids. Had a bit of a fist-fight with her once.’ She laughs. ‘Up at Deakin’s waterhole there. Said the wrong thing – probably called her a wog or something – and suddenly whammo! She laid into me. She was quite something. You’re the spittin’ image of her.’ There is respect in her eyes, almost admiration. ‘So you’re a local girl, eh?’
She shows me her latest creation – a vase that is almost elegant. She tells me about the clay she uses, brought to her by her sons, the by-product of various diggings. As I make to leave she puts a restraining hand (almost as lizard-like as her feet) on my arm, goes to a shelf at the back of the shed and brings me a figure of a woman moulded in clay. It’s about a foot tall and has little detail; it’s more the flow and suggestion of a woman. It’s beautiful.
‘Take this and put it near yer front door. It’ll bring yer luck, you’ll see. Darryl’s my naughty boy. I’ve broken a few wooden spoons on his bum.’ She gives me a shrewd grin. ‘I might just have to break another one on him if he don’t behave himself. He loves his mum, but.’ She smiles her ragged smile.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
‘There’s always a drink on here ‘round six,’ she says, patting my arm. ‘Remember me to Rosanna when you see her next.’
On impulse, I ask her for directions to Deakin’s waterhole.
I park the ute near the bridge as instructed and walk along the bank of the creek on the high side. The low side is a stony beach populated by rocks of every size, round and pale like balls of dough. The water, a hundred shades of emerald, is clear in the shallows and deep green in the middle of the basin formed at the bend in the river.
A rope is there, looped around the branch of a huge gum. It must be an updated version, made of a thick nylon, like climber’s rope. I’m alone and there are a dozen reasons not to do this. But I strip off to my bra and knickers, pull myself up the rope a little, push myself off from
the tree and swing out across the water. It takes three attempts before I have the courage to let go and drop into the chill waters of the unknown.
Fourteen
FOR THE LAST few months of Rosanna’s pregnancy Isabelle wrote to Jack every week. Her letter was waiting for him every Friday when he arrived home from work. He had become one of her set chores. She kept him informed about the weather, mild for this time of year. The crocuses were up early and they had planted the basil for summer. Rosanna was well. No mention of visitors, no mention of cushions. Jack felt as though he was in exile. Why had he ever agreed to this foolish plan? The answer was anger. He had agreed in anger. And he was still angry.
When Rosanna’s time drew near he took his annual leave and, without telling a single person he was about to become a father, set off for the farm.
Unsure as to whether he should knock or not, he opened the front door of the cottage to find Rosanna alone. She lay propped up with cushions on the couch, her hands resting on an enormous belly. She wore a crimson dress, her hair fell about her shoulders and she looked like a beautiful ripe piece of fruit or the native queen of some exotic tribe.
Before he knew what possessed him, he knelt at her side, took her hand and kissed the palm.
‘Oh, Jack!’ She laughed and ruffled his hair. ‘Bella! Jack has arrived.’ He leapt to his feet. Isabelle came quickly into the room, untying her apron as she walked.
‘Hello, dear,’ she said, offering her cheek for his kiss.
‘You look well,’ said Jack to Rosanna. He turned to Isabelle. ‘You’ve done a good job.’
‘Thank you for coming,’ said Isabelle, as though he were a helpful neighbour. ‘It could be any day …’ She was watching to see where he stood on this now.
‘I know. I understand.’
‘Good. Let’s eat, then – dinner’s all ready. We were just waiting for you.’ Jack and Isabelle helped Rosanna off the couch and they all sat down at the table. The meal was as awkward as any Jack had ever known. He was reminded of the early days of eating with the Martinos when he felt like a curiosity. Now he was a curiosity in his own mind; the man who sat down to dinner with his wife and his lover.
‘So,’ said Jack, in an attempt at conversation. ‘Girl or boy?’
‘I think it’s a girl,’ replied Isabelle.
‘What about a wager, Jack?’ Rosanna asked as she lazily forked up her food.
‘All right, two quid it’s a boy.’
‘Make it worth my while! How about ten?’ she said with a sly smile.
‘All right, ten.’ He held Rosanna’s gaze as though some secret message had passed between them but she looked down, intent on her food. ‘So, no doubt you two have discussed names?’
Rosanna smothered a yawn and leant back in her chair. ‘Hardly – there’s nothing to discuss. It’s either Adriana or Francesco.’
‘Adrienne or Frank,’ corrected Isabelle. ‘We don’t want to saddle the child with the past.’
Rosanna shrugged. ‘It’s the saddle that helps you stay on the horse, Bella.’
It was early October and the weather was cold with clear bright skies. Rosanna seemed content to wait out her time despite her isolation. She slept, tended the garden, checked her traps for rabbits and occasionally walked in the olive grove alone. Isabelle guarded her carefully, caught the bus into the village every few days (wearing her cushion, Jack presumed) and bought essentials. They ate mostly from the garden and had still managed to keep the roadside stall stocked up with vegetables over winter.
They kept the gate locked to discourage visitors. A friend and neighbour, Joy Oldfield, had come back repeatedly to see Rosanna, not put off by Isabelle’s excuses.
‘She probably thinks you’ve murdered me,’ said Rosanna. ‘Good ol’ Joy, she’ll get to the bottom of this mystery and bring my killer to justice.’
Isabelle had been nervous and insisted they both hide in the bedroom when next she knocked at their door.
On Jack’s second night at the farm, Isabelle slipped into bed beside him and he wondered if she was under instructions from Rosanna. He turned over and went to sleep. He was woken around midnight by a shout from Rosanna and leapt out of bed. He ran into her room, flailing about for the light string, swearing all the while. Finally, it was in his grasp and he gave it a tug. Rosanna sat up in bed clutching her belly. Her eyes were closed, against the light or in pain he couldn’t tell. Her mouth was wide open but no sound came out. After a moment she flopped back on her pillow.
‘My waters must have broken while I slept. The pains are coming so fast.’ She sounded frightened.
Isabelle stood in the middle of the room, looking dazed. She clutched Jack’s arm. ‘What do we do? The hospital —’
Rosanna started to gasp. ‘Forget the hospital! Jack, drive down and get Joy. She’s a nurse, she can help.’
‘No!’ Isabelle’s hands flew to her mouth. ‘Can’t we do it without her?’
‘Bella, please – Joy is a good friend. She’ll be fine. Please get her, Jack. Hurry!’ She clasped her stomach and let out a low moan that sent Jack flying out of the room.
If Joy was surprised at the turn of events she said nothing. She took charge, sending Isabelle back and forth on errands and urging Rosanna on. Jack, pacing the hall in his role as expectant father, had to smile as he heard all Franco’s old expletives revisited.
Finally Rosanna’s bellowing, singing and wailing stopped and there was silence. Jack stood waiting.
‘You owe me ten quid, Jack Bennett!’
Jack opened the door. The bedroom was in chaos and there was hardly room to move. Rosanna’s mattress had been pulled onto the floor and bloodied sheets and towels were piled in one corner. A half-empty bottle of brandy sat on the bedside table. Propped up on pillows in Isabelle’s bed, Rosanna looked exhausted but elated at the same time, wearing nothing but a sheet and a huge smile. There in her arms was his daughter, dark hair smeared to her head, mouth open in a silent scream.
Joy quickly put the metal bucket she was holding aside, covering it discreetly with a towel. She crossed the room to the bed and pulled up the eiderdown, tucking it around mother and baby.
Isabelle sat silently at the end of the bed. Her face was ashen and she seemed not to notice that she still had a bloodstained sheet tied as an apron around her waist. Joy handed her the bottle of brandy from the bedside table and, with an almost indiscernible nod of acknowledgement, Isabelle unscrewed the top and took a swig. She looked up at Jack with a wan smile.
‘Bella, take Adriana,’ said Rosanna. ‘Let Jack hold her.’
‘Adrienne,’ corrected Isabelle sharply.
Joy gave her a long look, and finally turned to Jack. ‘Congratulations,’ she said.
The newborn slept almost constantly over the next few days, as did Rosanna. Isabelle administered to Adrienne, bathed her in an old tin bath on the kitchen table, changed her clothes a dozen times a day and brought her to Rosanna’s breast for feeding. However, she never smothered the tiny face with kisses in the way that Rosanna did. Isabelle seemed a little afraid of the baby; always anxious that she was warm enough but not too hot, fed but not overfed, tired but not over-tired. Rosanna took little interest in the bathing and clothes-changing. Instead she sucked the baby’s toes, murmured to her in Italian and promised to take her swimming in the river as soon as she was awake long enough.
Jack hung around the house like the family dog usurped by the new baby. There was little or no opportunity to be alone with Rosanna. Breast-feedings seemed to take up much of her time and he was not permitted to witness these. Isabelle told him that they would wean little Adrienne as quickly as possible and then they could go home as a family. The very thought of going home as a family filled him with dismay and he doubted his ability to pull it off.
From where Jack stood the immediate future looked like an impenetrable thicket. He had gone up to the town hall and registered Adrienne Isabelle Bennett but he was resistant to actually telling people. He
couldn’t seem to shake off the sense of unreality about the situation, as if it were a practical joke and they would all be found out at any moment. ‘Joke’s over, everyone – it was just a cushion!’ Prompted by Isabelle, he finally sent a telegram to his parents, relieved not to have to break the news personally. Adrienne was so like Rosanna with her dark hair and eyes that it seemed impossible that his mother wouldn’t put it together.
A week passed, Rosanna began to wean Adrienne and the work increased with bottles to sterilise and milk to warm. Isabelle, always fond of routine, slipped easily into feeding by the clock and weaning by the book. She changed the baby prior to every feed, waited with a warmed bottle in her hand for the chime of the clock to signal the hour before inserting the teat in the baby’s mouth, seemingly impervious to her shrill cries of hunger.
Together she and Rosanna hand-washed the nappies, tiny singlets and matinee jackets, all made by Isabelle over the winter months. They hung them on the long line that stretched the length of the garden and propped it up to catch the breeze.
The November days drifted, long and warm, into early summer. Jack worked in the garden every day. He went to the river, where he lay under the shade of the paperbarks on a flat rock as white as bone and daydreamed a dozen different scenarios for his life. He waited for Rosanna. The thought of leaving her alone in the house, alone in her bed, drove him quite wild. It made no sense to him, his place was here. He would talk to Isabelle. He would tell her things had changed. The day of their departure grew ever closer and still he didn’t find the words to tell her.
The night before their leaving Jack lay awake listening to the sounds of the night and Isabelle’s even breathing. He heard Adrienne stir in her bassinette, now in the living room, as Isabelle was determined that she would no longer be fed in the night. The stirrings turned to whimpers and little cries and he heard Rosanna tiptoe down the hall. He slipped out of bed and pulled on his trousers and shirt.
Rosanna sat out on the verandah in a wicker chair. She had lit a candle in a jar on the table beside her. She started when she saw him; her blue cotton robe was open at the front but she made no effort to conceal her exposed breast where the baby suckled, wrapped in a rug.
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