Jessica

by Bryce Courtenay

  Now, as she recalled the images of her childhood and Joe’s careful tuition, Jessica realised that she too had developed an acute sense of observation and a detailed recollection of events. She began to understand that Solly Goldberg was mining what was already within her and that in his own way, he was trying to restore her hope and renew her self-confidence.

  Solly would encourage Jessica to hear the voices in her stories, but she now understood that Joe had taught her to see the pictures as well, to recall movement and colour, to note gesture as well as intonation, to see what differed from the commonplace and to seek the meaning within everything. ‘Girlie, everything means something in nature. Everything has a purpose in the bush. While people waste time and energy feeling sorry for themselves, the rest are out there trying to find a feed.’

  Joe had not been educated by book-learning like Moishe, nor was he a gregarious storyteller and man of the world like Solly Goldberg, but her father had used his eyes and his patience to seek the truth in things. And in this respect he was more than a match for both Solly and Moishe. But what Solly added was that he gave Jessica back a sense of her own worth.

  Jessica would later understand that Moishe, with his books and his earnest talk which she only half understood at the time, taught her to question authority and to beware of those restricting notions that passed for conventional wisdom in society. But it was Solly Goldberg, the custodian of merriment, who taught her to laugh again, and who gave her the courage to fight and not to give up hope. He encouraged her to speak out and not to be afraid of making a fool of herself. The big bear of a butcher who waddled like a penguin and sweated like a working dog was the only one who kept Jessica sane while she fought to survive the horrors of the mental asylum.

  It was while telling Solly the story of Billy Simple’s trial that Jessica had a truly inspired idea. She was recounting the incident when she had gone to see ‘Liquid Lunch’, the barrister who was appointed by the Crown to defend Billy Simple. She was explaining to Solly how she’d confronted him at breakfast in his hotel to beg him to help Billy, when it suddenly struck her that she should write to him — write a letter to Richard Runche KC and beg him to help her! The more Jessica thought about this idea the more appealing it seemed. At the end of Billy’s trial Richard Runche had presented his case with great eloquence, so why couldn’t he do the same for her? Her hope was that in the period since Billy Simple’s trial the lawyer hadn’t gone down for the count to the claret bottle — while her fear was that he might have forgotten her.

  At the conclusion of the story of Billy Simple’s trial, Solly Goldberg looked at Jessica and said, ‘So Moishe tells me you have asked him to go to Long Bay Prison, to find where is the grave of Mr Simple?’

  ‘Oh, Mr Goldberg, I’d like so much to see it!’ Jessica exclaimed, then she announced, ‘When I get out I’m gunna get him a gravestone.’

  Solly remained silent, not looking at Jessica. ‘What’s the matter?’ Jessica asked, thinking she must have said something to upset him. ‘Don’t Jews have gravestones? ‘

  Solly looked up slowly. ‘My dear, there is no grave.’

  ‘But there must be! They must have buried him somewhere!’

  ‘You know what is a no-person, Miss Bergman?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When a man is a murderer he is made a no-person, he got no coffin, he got no grave.’ ‘That’s silly — he must have.’

  ‘They make for him a shroud and they take up the paving-stone in the jail and dig a hole.’ He paused. ‘You know what is quicklime?’ Jessica nodded. ‘They put in this hole the body and pour over quicklime, then they put back the paving-stone.’ Solly looked at her, forcing himself to continue. ‘There is no more Billy Simple. They don’t put a name by his grave, they don’t tell where is his grave, not even his family, he is a no-person — gone, finish, kaput.’

  Jessica remained for some time with her head bowed, quietly sobbing. ‘I am so sorry. I am so sorry,’ Solly kept saying. ‘Moishe, he don’t want to tell you.’

  Finally Jessica looked up. ‘I’ll make him a gravestone anyway, a cross, by the creek back home, under the big river gum. Yellow-belly swim there and it’s quiet, it don’t have to have his body underneath. Billy will know it’s there for him — that we done it for him, Jack and me.’

  Solly looked pleased at this notion. ‘So why not?

  I got a Mr Gravestone Chicken Shopper, a good man don’t poke the chickens, don’t look down the tukis, I ask him nice to make for you this gravestone.’ Then he grinned. ‘Mind, I don’t know how he goes mit Jesus crosses.’

  ‘Would you? Would you really?’ Jessica cried. ‘When I get out I’ll save up the money.’ ‘So we make an arrangement.’

  ‘An arrangement?’ Jessica looked doubtful. ‘You mean you’ll lend me the money?’ She shook her head vigorously. ‘Nah, I couldn’t. What if something happened and I couldn’t pay yiz back?’

  Solly Goldberg smiled. ‘An arrangement is not a lend, Miss Bergman. We make an arrangement to give back what we owe you.’

  ‘You don’t owe me nothing, Mr Goldberg.’

  ‘Maybe you don’t think so, but Mrs Goldberg she don’t agree. She owes you her boychick, Moishe the Communist, no less.’ He paused and smiled at Jessica. ‘Not lend, my dear, give, compliments Mrs Goldberg! You must tell me the words we put on the Jesus cross.’ Jessica burst into tears and hugged Solly Goldberg. Later she would realise that it was the first time she had touched another human being in a loving way since she’d embraced Mary Simpson after the birth of her baby.

  When Moishe next visited Jessica she asked him to make inquiries as to the whereabouts of Richard Runche KC, and then she’d waited impatiently all week for him to return.

  Moishe had little trouble tracing the infamous circuit court barrister, who was still to be found in Wagga scrounging the odd brief from the Crown and between times slowly drowning in cheap claret. When he came back to Jessica with this news, Moishe had also brought along pen and ink, a tablet of blue paper with a matching envelope which he’d correctly addressed and to which he’d affixed a postage stamp of the right denomination. ‘Will you help me, Moishe? I ain’t too good at writing stuff,’ Jessica asked him.

  ‘You write what you want, Jessie. Write it in your own words, and I’ll fix it up for you,’ Moishe counselled.

  Jessica spent the following week painstakingly writing a letter to Richard Runche KC and Moishe corrected her spelling and punctuation. He possessed a beautiful copperplate hand and Jessica wanted him to write the letter, thinking it would impress the barrister no end. But Moishe was wise enough to know that it would be more meaningful to the barrister in Jessica’s somewhat childish script and with her own heartfelt words. To this end he had conscientiously kept her letter intact. Jessica wrote several versions until she had one that contained no crossings out. She mailed it with great hope in her heart, kissing the letter several times before dropping it into the pillar box at the porter’s gate. It was a letter which had cost her many tears, and many long nights in thinking over all that had happened to her.

  The Hospital for the Insane Callan Park Sydney 6 October 1918

  Dear Mr Runche KC,

  You have probably forgotten who I am, so maybe I should remind you. I was the young girl who saw you one morning at breakfast in your hotel at your table behind the ferns, and asked you to help Billy Simple the murderer. You probably remember him by his real name, William D’arcy Simon. He was the one who killed Mrs Ada Thomas and her two daughters at Riverview Station. You proved it wasn’t done in cold blood, which is what the prosecution wanted the jury to think, though the judge and the jury wouldn’t listen and gave him the death sentence. Do you remember me now?

  I was very proud because you gave Billy his dignity so he could die with his head held up high.

  Now I am in trouble, which will take quite a long time to explain to you, so
I hope you will forgive me and not think I am wasting your valuable time.

  What Fm going to say may seem a bit loony, especially when you see the address above, but I have been put in here against my wishes by my mother and sister because of my baby.

  I will begin at the beginning. After Billy’s trial I fell pregnant and my parents didn’t want to know because I wouldn’t tell them who the father was. They kept me locked away so nobody knew. When people asked, they said I was sick with a nervous breakdown, and that I must have quiet and rest and see nobody.

  Then my sister, Meg, wanted to marry Jack Thomas, the son of Mrs Thomas who was murdered, and she tricked him into marrying her before he went off to the war, saying she was pregnant by him. But it turned out she wasn’t.

  I’ve since worked out what must have happened. Jack Thomas must have said that if Meg had a son, he would inherit Riverview if Jack died in the war. So she pretended she was pregnant, stuffing things under her dress so it would look like a baby was growing inside her. My mother was also in on it, and everyone who saw Meg at St Step hen’s every Sunday thought she was pregnant. She even knitted things for the baby she wasn’t having.

  Then I had my baby on Christmas Eve and my father, Joe Bergman (you might remember him), had a heart attack and died the next day. And at the funeral at St Stephen’s my mother made the vicar announce to one and all that Meg had given birth to a boy, saying that my baby was Meg’s and that Meg gave birth prematurely on Christmas Day due to the shock of my father’S sudden death.

  This was when I made my wrong move, Mr Runche. I screamed and screamed and attacked my mother in front of everyone who’d come to the funeral. So they restrained me and my mother said it was because of my nervous breakdown.

  When my hysterics wouldn’t come good I was taken to the lock-up at Narrandera and my mother and the vicar — his name is Reverend Mathews, M.A. Oxon. — swore in a statement that I was suffering from a nervous breakdown and was having delusions.

  My mother said in the report that the baby wasn’t mine and I had gone over the edge with jealousy about my sister having a baby and not me. The vicar said he knew Meg was pregnant and that I was not well. They both signed the paper to commit me, saying they were afraid I would attack the baby.

  So they brought me here to Callan Park in Sydney, but they didn’t give me a proper examination, only one doctor saw me. His name is Dr Warwick, who was drinking brandy when he examined me on New Year’s Day. I didn’t have the strength to answer any of his questions, but I told him they’d stolen my baby. I could see he didn’t believe me and later I thought I should have asked him to examine me so he could see I was telling the truth. But I didn’t know then that you could tell if someone’s just had a baby.

  So Dr Warwick took the decision to commit me just because of the report. He said I had to have a second examination by the Medical Supervisor, but that I had to wait till he came back from the Christmas holidays. I never did see him and I am still waiting after three years for that examination. I am hoping that you can help me in my terrible situation. I am desperate and definitely not insane! I have never been put in a wetpack or restrained in a strait-jacket or locked up in solitary since coming here. The Ward Matron says if I am insane then she is the Queen of Sheba, but she says she can’t do nothing for my situation and only takes orders from her superiors. I have been lost in the red tape, she says.

  Please, Mr Runche, could you write to the authorities to look into my case? I know I am not important and just a poor girl from the bush and I don’t even have any money to pay you. But I know you have a good heart and are the best at asking questions because I saw what you did for Billy Simple and how you spoke up for him against the odds.

  Hoping to hear from you soon.

  Yours faithfully,

  Jessica Bergman.

  Nearly two weeks passed and, while Jessica had not expected a quick reply from the barrister, she was beginning to despair that Richard Runche KC had ignored her letter. It was therefore with some surprise when she was summoned to the reception parlour, to see the barrister seated in one of the old leather club chairs. In the big scuffed chair he appeared to be even shabbier than she could recall.

  He was wearing the same dark, worn-out suit, greasy tie with stained celluloid collar and white shirt much in need of laundering. His skin was pale, with the exception of his nose which had blossomed even more with blueish-looking veins, his eyes were red-rimmed and rheumy and his thin hair stood every which way, as though he’d just awakened after a restless night and not attended to his toilette. Which was quite true, of course. Richard Runche KC was nursing a fearful hangover as usual and had slept seated in a second-class carriage most of the way from Wagga.

  The scruffy barrister sat with his legs together, quiet as a tally clerk waiting to be interviewed, with his battered hat resting on his lap. But he seemed to recognise Jessica the moment he saw her approaching and rose to his feet, his hat rolling from his lap to the floor.

  Jessica hastened to retrieve it, though Liquid Lunch seemed not to notice and moved forward with his hand extended so that, as Jessica bent down to pick up his hat her head banged into his stomach. ‘Oh, dear, have I messed up things already?’ he said, concerned. Then, when Jessica rose and their eyes met, he smiled. ‘Ah, there you are. How very nice to see you again, my dear Miss Bergman.’

  Jessica smiled and thanked him most sincerely for coming and then suggested they go for a walk in the grounds. In greeting Richard Runche she realised how much confidence she’d gained from her friendship with Sally Goldberg.

  ‘Walk?’ The barrister seemed surprised at the idea, but then added quickly, ‘Can’t say I do much walking these days. Damned good idea, though.’ She handed him his hat. ‘Ah, where did that come from?’ he asked, again surprised, then in a slightly more earnest voice inquired, ‘I don’t suppose there’s a pub nearby, give the walk a solid purpose, eh?’

  ‘I’m not allowed to leave the grounds, sir,’ Jessica apologised.

  ‘No, no, quite,’ Richard Runche agreed. ‘Pity though, you look as though a small tincture of Bombay gin might do you the world of good, young lady.’ He sniffed and looked about him, taking in the drab green walls and polished wooden floor. ‘Miserable sort of place, eh?’

  Once outside, her guest placed his hat back on his head and, blinking uncertainly in the sharp light, took Jessica’s arm. ‘Now, you must tell me everything, young lady.’ He stopped suddenly and pointed to the trees. ‘Good God, those are not English oaks, are they? Yes, by Jove, they are — how very remarkable!’

  Jessica led him to the nearest park bench situated under a large shady oak tree and they settled down to talk. For the hour that followed Richard Runche questioned Jessica closely, as he wanted to know every possible detail. Jessica agreed that she would tell him everything but the name of the father of her child.

  ‘You do realise, Jessica — I may call you Jessica, may I?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well then, Jessica, you do realise that your refusal to say who the father is puts serious doubts on your claim. You say you gave birth to a child but you will not name the father. Does that not seem to substantiate the story your mother has given the authorities, to support the notion of an imagined child?’

  ‘Please sir, Mr Runche, I swore I’d never tell nobody and I never will.’ Richard Runche was about to remember the stubborn streak in Jessica.

  He then made her tell him about the circumstances of the birth, urging her to leave nothing out. As she talked she could sense the barrister found it difficult to imagine that she’d given birth to her child sitting in the creek up to her waist in water. ‘Good gracious, are you sure?’ was all he’d said at the conclusion of her story about the birth of her son, Joey.

  ‘You can ask Mary, Mary Simpson — she saw me straight after, when she come from the Lutheran Church Christmas party for her kids,’ Jessica
protested. ‘Mary Simpson? She witnessed the birth?’

  ‘She come just after and took care of me.’

  ‘Can I speak to this Mary Simpson? How do I contact her?’ the barrister asked.

  ‘She’s Aboriginal, from the Wiradjuri tribe. You could find her easy enough, they’re the local blacks.’ ‘Aboriginal? ‘

  ‘Yes, she’s my friend, she knows I had the baby. She’ll tell you straight off, swear it on a stack of Bibles.’

  Richard Runche sat back and brought his hands together, bringing the tips of his fingers to his lips, making a small whistling sound. ‘My dear Jessica, the word of an Aboriginal woman against two white women — against your mother and sister — would be unlikely to succeed in court. So far, we have no case.’

  ‘But it’s true, I swear it’s true!’ Jessica cried. ‘You must see that, you must believe me, Mr Runche, sir!’

  The barrister sighed. ‘Let me review what you’ve just told me, Jessica. Let me show you how a judge might see it.’ He cleared his throat and began to enunciate, ticking the various points off on the fingers of his left hand.

  ‘You say you were pregnant to a man you won’t name.

  The doctor who pronounced you pregnant is deceased and appears to have kept no records. The woman who can verify that you had a child while sitting waist-deep in water is an Aborigine of no fixed address. A tribal woman, whose testimony may not even be acceptable in a court of law and whose word is unlikely to be taken against that of your mother and sister. Your father, whom you say took you to the doctor who pronounced you pregnant and who saw your child on Christmas Day, is dead.’ He changed hands, ticking off the remaining points on the fingers of his right hand. ‘The congregation of St Stephen’s church is, I imagine, prepared to swear to your sister’s pregnancy, backed up by the vicar, the Reverend Mathews, a man of God. Furthermore, you were witnessed to have protested after the announcement by the vicar of the birth of what was, as the congregation had every right to assume, the expected and slightly premature outcome of your sister’s pregnancy. You claimed the newborn child belonged to you and proceeded, in front of a hundred or more witnesses, to physically attack your mother on the sad occasion of your father’s funeral.’ He paused, again pressing the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. ‘And, not to put too fine a point on it, my dear, you reside at present in a lunatic asylum.’ Richard Runche looked sternly at Jessica. ‘Do I make myself clear?’