Randall hadn’t been gone two minutes, before Margaret, who was no lady when it suited her, took the opportunity to vent the hatred and scorn which previously found outlet in sly put downs. This is Eloise, our colonial friend.
‘You can’t imagine we would allow our son to ruin his career by marrying a common little upstart like you? You’re getting on a plane back to Australia and never contacting him again. We’ll make sure of it.’
The accusations turned ugly. ‘How do we know it’s our son’s child? Jemima swears she’s seen you with other men. Jemima and her friends will soon let James know you’ve been playing around behind his back.’
‘No, no! That’s not true. It’s James’s baby,’ I croaked.
‘Who do you think he’ll believe? Oh no, we’ve got plans for our son and they don’t include you!’
Randall arrived back shaking his head in sorrow. James, he reported, was horrified by the news and needed time to come to terms with it. He suggested I return home and he would follow later when he cleared some business matters and sorted things out at Cambridge. We’d decide what to do then.
Even I, the dippy, ever-hopeful innocent, recognised the brush-off. Any confidence our relationship would recover after our argument and his ten days of silence evaporated like mist in the indescribable pain of betrayal. Ill and heartbroken, I became putty in the expert hands of his parents. I should have refused to go until I could talk to James face-to-face. But then, remembering his rejection, would coax myself into believing it had all worked out for the best, including my fairytales, carefully constructed to protect Ally—or myself.
My eyes flew open. Had my mobile vibrated? I flipped open the cover and shaded the screen. No missed calls. I forced back tears of disappointment. ‘She’ll be home when I get to Brisbane. It will all have been a mistake,’ I told myself, clinging to a fragile control.
Perspiration prickled under my armpits. I kicked off the blanket and switched on my reading light. 5 am, with an hour left to travel. Bracing myself against the movement of the coach, I staggered to the toilet. My frightened eyes stared at me in the minuscule mirror, tangled hair falling out of its customary knot. My mouth, a blotchy red gash in the harsh light, bore testimony to every one of my forty-five years. Tears trickled down my cheeks.
As a very small child I had attended church, but only because Mother wanted to show off her extensive number of flowered hats and play the organ for the service. Incongruous, when I remember that she left my father for another man when I was five, but there in the lurching, smelly toilet cubicle of the coach, I prayed for Ally’s safety, hoping God would overlook my tendency to talk to Him only when I needed something.
At the Transit Centre, I fell weeping into my god-daughter’s arms. Pam stuffed me into her car and drove straight to her flat in the West End. I listened closely while she told me everything which had occurred, from the moment they realised Ally had gone missing on the Friday night.
‘Aunt Eloise, you need to have a hot shower and get into bed. If there’s any news I’ll wake you. You can’t do anything now, you’re too tired. Would you like some tea and toast?’’
I nodded gratefully. There was a lot of her mother in practical Pamela. ‘Yes, thank you. I’ll pop into the shower first.’
When I got back to the guest bedroom I asked about the concert the night before and how they coped without Ally. Pam’s face showed intense strain.
‘They announced Ally was ill and got the soprano Jacqueline Mabardi in. You remember Jacq, don’t you?’
‘Yes, of course.’ I met the gorgeous opera singer, a guest of one of the musicians, at a meet the orchestra party a few weeks previously.
‘Did it go well?’
‘Yes, Jacq was fabulous. She got a standing ovation at the end.’
Ever pragmatic, after a slight pause, she pre-empted my question. ‘Now, Aunt Eloise, try to rest. And no, Ally didn’t ring while you were in the shower, I promise you.’
She placed a pillow over my knees and balanced a tray on top. My gaze flickered around the room behind her, lighting on the china fawn I’d given Pam for her sixth birthday, a book for Christmas the year she passed her first music exam. How I wished Ally was still that young and in my protective custody. Oh God, please, where is she? As Pam turned to leave the room, a thought occurred to me. ‘Do you think she might have gone home for some reason and be hiding there? Perhaps she’s had a nervous breakdown …’
She stared at me as though I lost my senses, which I had. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Maybe she’s back at the house—’
‘Aunt Eloise, I’ve already been there with the police late yesterday. We’ve rung all her other friends and our orchestra manager went over there when she didn’t show up for the one o’clock rehearsal just to make sure she hadn’t had a fall or gotten sick. Brie and I drove all around in the early hours of this morning and went back there several times, in case she’d gone home while we were driving. I’m so sorry,’ she added, her eyes filling with tears. She came over and put her arms around me. We clung together, weeping with fear and tiredness.
Then Pam’s mobile jingled madly from the kitchen. A frisson of excitement shot through me. Perhaps it was Ally? My hopes collapsed when Pam announced that Jessica wanted to borrow some sheet music. As I forced down the food, more buried memories leaped out of my Pandora’s Box of a brain, relentlessly dragging me back to that dreadful day of betrayal.
James’s parents, playing good cop, bad cop to perfection, got me out of England within forty-eight hours. Margaret, snarling like a mad wolf, stood guard over me to make sure I packed and wrote the right notes to my friends and workplace, while Randall went off to make arrangements for my departure. All pretence of empathy vanished along with my hopes for the future. They were like barracuda circling a goldfish.
God only knows what they told the university, but my immediate boss sent a glowing reference and work record by courier. Randall arranged for my return ticket to be upgraded to first class on the next flight available on the following day, and they gave me an international banker’s draft for fifteen thousand pounds.
I spent the journey back throwing up in the toilet after I used all the sick bags available and cowering in my seat, terrified, humiliated and sweating under a blanket. Aerophobia is the bane of my existence.
The hours and then days waiting for James to call dragged me further into despair, but always hoping that he had changed his mind and wanted us. I became increasingly desperate. The flat, emotionless voice of Directory Services advised that his phone was disconnected and the new number registered as silent. The family business office refused to accept any calls from me and the staff, at first kind, turned nasty after about the fifth time I telephoned.
University Administration wouldn’t give out private phone numbers. A woman, with whom I had always enjoyed a good relationship, eventually advised me that the Dean’s office had ordered that I was not to be accommodated in any way. Never mind strings: good cop Randall had yanked twine.
The so-called mutual friends we made were uncommunicative. I suspected Jemima, who was so spiteful and sly that everyone kept on her “good side,” had trashed my reputation very effectively. My former flatmates moved on during the time James courted me, so it was useless trying to contact them. My letters were returned, intercepted by his parents. Heartbroken, I finally acknowledged that James was finished with me and turned my energy to building a secure future for my child.
During the last twenty-six years, I have sometimes read snippets about his career in magazines and business periodicals. Photos of him smiling at concerts, on the polo field and at the opera, wife cleaved to his side, appeared from time to time. When he was widowed ten years previously, I’d been tempted to contact him, but pride came to the fore. Why be a glutton for punishment?
I should have told Ally the truth about who he was and the circumstances of her birth, but I lied and even gave her a photo of a stranger who happened to be standing in
front of a building and looked at me as I clicked the shutter. He accepted my abashed apology with charm. Later, I even made up a name for him so when the time came, it was easy to concoct a sad, dramatic story of his death to hide my humiliation and prevent her contacting James or his family. Why should they get to know her now when they hadn’t wanted to before, I reasoned.
James domiciled in Brisbane, alternating between the UK and Australia attending to business interests, which included the Pacific Orchestra to which Ally was temporarily contracted. I’d written his phone number in the centre page of my address book and sometimes allowed my mind to wander into the realms of ‘What if I picked up the telephone and called him? What’s the worst that could happen?’ He’d just hang up.
How long do the police search when someone goes missing? A week? A month? Maybe James could persuade the Commissioner of Police to make sure the search continued, or he might hire a private detective to do things the police couldn’t. What I’d sowed, I had to reap, no matter the cost. Feel the fear and do it anyway.
I threw the bedcovers aside, padded to the telephone and dialled with trembling fingers before I could renege, yet again. The sound of his warm, cultured voice almost broke my nerve. I took a deep breath.
‘Hello James? This is Eloise McFadden.’
CHAPTER 6
God’s Punishment.
Ally
Sunday: dawn.
Let me out let me out let me out…
I’m lying halfway off the stretcher. The metal is cutting into my spine. It’s an effort to haul myself against the wall, to press my aching body against the timber. A faint light comes from the window. I look around. The gaunt, bareness of the room is threatening because it appears not important enough to bother painting. By definition, the content–currently, myself–is not worth anything either. My throat hurts, bringing memories of crying and pounding on the door for what seemed like hours. I clasp my hands and wince because they are so sore.
I will get out. I’m a strong girl. I try to do some gentle stretching exercises. Have to keep supple.
Sunday. ‘Bloody hell, the concert.’ The words croak out of my throat, startling me. The police, my friends–are they looking for me? I’d need to be dead to dump a concert, for God’s sake. I feel like something the cat dragged in then rejected. I’m freaking out. These–people–actually know who my father is! And the one person I thought I could trust lied.
I didn’t hear the door open. How long has he–Scarpia– been watching me?
I lunge at him, but he’s no fool. He pushes me violently; my back smashes into the wall. Before I can get my breath, I slide halfway to the floor. Then he drops a newspaper onto the stretcher. I push myself up then start pacing backward and forward in a series of arcs across the corner. Must keep him away from the window.
‘What’s the matter? Not game to take me on?’
‘I’ll take you on any time, Ally!’ he replies, flicking his tongue in and out of his balaclava, like a lizard.
‘In your dreams.’
He chuckles. ‘You’re gunna find out just how much we can sell you for soon sweetheart!’
Ignore him. I pick up the paper and pretend to read the front page.
‘You might need these.’ He fishes my reading glasses case out of his shirt pocket and holds it out to me. Thank God. I snatch it out of his hand.
He giggles. ‘Your father’s gunna to have to come up with three million dollars for you!’
‘Three mill–’
They’re kidding themselves. Why would he pay for a daughter he’s never met, especially three million dollars? Don’t panic. Scarpia’s mouth curls as he watches my pathetic attempt at nonchalance.
‘Not so mouthy now, are we? He’s got forty-eight hours from when we make the phone call tonight and you better hope he doesn’t tell the police, because if we’re in danger, you’re in more. That’s a promise.’ He makes a pistol with his hand.
‘It’s Sunday and you’re only demanding a ransom now? Of course they’ve told the police I’m missing. I didn’t show up for the concert, for God’s sake.’
‘Yeah, we thought about that, but the longer we keep you outta the loop, the more likely they’ll think you’re being carved up. Wouldn’t want to have a finger or two go missing, would we?’ His voice is soft, the tone gentle. He glances down at my hands; I whip them behind my back. Oh, my God. Nooooooooooo. Not my fingers. Cold seeps through my body. I feel dizzy. He’s winding you up. He wants you to go berserk, so cool it, stupid.
He laughs, eyes twinkling in the holes of the balaclava and snatches my left hand in a vice-like grip. A twitch of his wrist and I’m forced to face him. I try to slap him, but he blocks easily.
‘You’re hurting me, let go!’ Sweat breaks out all over my body. He pulls playfully on my fingers, singing the words in a ghastly parody of the nursery rhyme:
‘This little fingy went to market, this little fingy stayed at home. And this little fingy went wee wee wee, all the way to the slaughterhouse! How’re ya gunna play four-fingered, Ally?’
He wants you to cry.
His black eyes glint through the eyeholes in his balaclava, indicating his immense enjoyment of my situation. I can’t let him see the effect of what he is saying is having on me. Nausea threatens to engulf me. I try for a matter-of-fact tone, tugging my hand away. He releases me and steps out of kicking range.
‘The police will find me.’
‘No, they won’t. Not here, sweetheart. This is the last place they’ll look for you, believe me,’ he crows.
‘For three million dollars, you wouldn’t want to damage such valuable goods by–cutting me up.’
‘As long as we get the money, we don’t care what shape you’re in if they get you back.’ He beams like a satiated leopard.
The woman enters and puts something on the floor, then pauses. I feel her ferocious glare, but keep my focus on the man, remembering the suspicions which danced around my mind like demons throughout the long night. Leave it, Ally. Don’t provoke him.
I take the option of prodding the crocodile with a stick. ‘Someone had to put you up to this. Who was it a member of the orchestra?’
His eyes flicker. ‘Whatever turns you on, babe, but it won’t matter too much who it was in the end,’ he promises, laughing at the expression on my face. My fear is obviously hilarious.
Scarpia gives me a convivial wave as they whisk out the door. Unpainted splinters of wood prick my bare skin as I lean against the wall, breathing heavily. The packet of sandwiches they left holds no interest for me right now, because all I can think about is losing a finger.
Or more.
They had to know where I would be on Friday night in order to grab me. Of course, someone helped them. I may have been pointed out innocently or did Scarpia and that cow of a female go to a concert? Is that how they identified me? But how did they know about my father? Do they know him? Or someone they know has to be privy to mum’s secret. Georgie or Aunt Rosalind? They would never betray us, never. So, who else did she tell? I want to cry. Pull yourself together. Did she tell someone like a solicitor or a doctor, and did he let the cat out of the bag? This is doing my head in; I’ve got to let it go for now.
The paper is my only contact with reality. I should be grateful, but it’s been given with the intention of taunting me.
CARPENTER CANCELS CONCERT screams the headline at the top of the main column. Apparently a disaster was averted by pianist, Lyn Donovan, who took my place for the first half of the concert. The inference is that after the massive publicity hype, the audience was let down by my non-appearance. Tears well up in my eyes. How can he? I’ve only missed one concert before when I had appendicitis, performed with a raging temperature–London, in the throes of pleurisy, Paris and a broken love affair.
Forget it, you drongo, and get back to work.
I’d dragged at the corner of the grill on and off most of the night trying to loosen the screws. The edge of the screen bit into my hands
making them bleed and breaking my fingernails. The glass is too dark for anyone to see me from outside, but there’s only a great big lawn between this building and a clump of gum trees about a hundred metres away. Exhaustion flows over me; I can’t stand any longer…
Ally! Ally, come here! Jess runs in front of me, wearing a paper bag over her head. I laugh and race across the rocks, waving to the boats out at sea. We chase each other around the base of the lighthouse. Laughter drums in my ears, bounces off the sand. Screaming with excitement we run toward the rock, which rears high above the surf.
My mother stands behind me. ‘I told you not to go near the Wild Pony, Ally! When will you listen to me?’
The kid hovers nearby, clasping his little hands in supplication, curly brown hair tossing in the sea breeze. ‘Please don’t make me, Ally! Please don’t make me.’
‘Cowardy, cowardy custard! Ya guts are made of mustard! Go on, I dare you to climb it!’ we chant.
I pick up a boat lying in the sand nearby and start smacking him in the face—
Tears stream down my cheeks. I struggle to sit up, draw my legs to my chest and wrap my arms tightly around them. Cut the self pity, Ally. I force my hands to stretch, pushing away the withdrawal symptoms from not following my practice program. There’s a saying in the music world, and it’s true. If you refrain from practising one day, you will hear the lack. Two days and your colleagues will note it, but three days and your audience will too.
Two days–and how much longer will I be here? I can’t bear to think about it. My cammie stinks from the dried blood. My thoughts drift like scarves floating in the wind, and a long-ago conversation pops into my head. Pam, Jess and I were sitting in a coffee shop after a lecture one afternoon when Pam asked, ‘What would you do differently, if you could live your life over?’ We laughed and made asinine remarks, but now the comment has relevance.
Masters Island kids were a law unto ourselves. I wish I could return to the times we had, playing pirates–old Mr Appleton’s walking sticks made great swords–running races along the beach, being towed along by the ropes which we secured to our family dogs’ collars. How many times have I implored God to take me back to before that time at Wild Pony Rock? The one thing I wish I could change–
The Naked Room Page 4
