I well remember the arrival of Eloise twenty six years ago on a bright, sparkling morning in early September. Out to sea the white caps danced and black Wild Pony Rock glittered in the sun like a large, jet bead on my mother’s evening gown so long ago.
I had gone down to the wharf to supervise loading my completed paintings for the trip to the mainland for an exhibition in the city gallery. I was standing with some neighbours clustered around the company office, as the ferry docked, scraping its ramp on the concrete slipway.
I noticed the small, auburn-haired woman because she had trouble getting her tyres to grip on the wet ramp as she drove off the vessel. Several men rushed gallantly forward and pushed the back of her old, green Mini, as she revved the motor. The tyres spun helplessly against the slippery surface, then grabbed. The car shot up the ramp, les braves gens almost landing flat on their faces.
She pulled up in the car park and came back to shyly thank them, and I heard her asking how to get to Lorne Cottage. Her knights in shining armour were tourists, so they didn’t know where the place was. I stepped forward, introduced myself and invited her to follow me. The lighthouse, my home and Lorne Cottage formed a triangle which was separated from the rest of the island by lines of salt-hardy shrubs.
The cottage had been vacant for a year after the last tenants left. The stale air was suffocating. We pried open the filthy windows with a rusty screwdriver abandoned on the kitchen table. Under the mildewed dustsheets we found enough furniture for Eloise to use, but the cushions on the lounge were cosy homes in which families of mice had established themselves. Their droppings were scattered throughout the cupboards and floors. Cursory examination of the bathroom and toilet sent us reeling back to the kitchen. The one saving grace was the live telephone connection.
‘You’d think the Hansens would make sure it was at least clean before they leased the place,’ I said, disparagingly.
Eloise was made of sterner stuff than initial appearance suggested. ‘Don’t worry, Miss Hird, the rent’s cheap and you won’t recognise the place in a week.’
I helped her cart boxes of groceries and personal effects inside. Refusing my invitation to stay at my house until the cottage was at least habitable, and my offer of help with the cleaning, but accepting my injunction to call me “Georgie,” she rang about three days later and invited me to morning tea.
Eloise gave me a tour of the now sparkling cottage, ending in the kitchen. A plate of hot scones, jam and cream and a pot of newly brewed coffee waited on the scrubbed kitchen table. My dog, Richie, promptly salivated all over Eloise’s slacks, grunting his appreciation of a buttered scone and bowl of water.
‘Eloise, it’s beautiful,’ I gushed, admiring the sparkling white cupboards, scrubbed benches and glittering Aga.
‘The work kept me from thinking too much.’ She smoothed her hands protectively over her aproned stomach and I realised she was pregnant. The devastation in her face prevented me from exclaiming with delight.
‘Sit down, love, and tell me all about it.’
Half a box of tissues, a pot of coffee and several scones later, I knew the whole story.
‘So what are you going to do, Eloise? What about your parents? Could they help you?’
She told me then that her mother had taken off with another man when she was a baby and left her with her father, a man too old to bring up a young girl. An uncle and aunt of the same vintage had taken her in after her father died. Apart from some distant cousins, she had no other family.
‘But I’ve got a job at Doctor Williamson’s office on the mainland and I’m intending to open negotiations to buy this cottage. I’d like to bring up my child here on the island. ‘Where I won’t get hurt,’ was the unspoken message.
‘Are you going to keep trying to contact James?’
‘I will not give up. I need to hear from his own lips that he doesn’t want me and the baby.’
She’d spent a lot of money phoning people in England whom she thought were friends, but who hung up on her. One woman who worked with her at Cambridge, perhaps kinder—or guiltier—than the others, finally advised her that the Dean of James’s School had ordered the staff not to give her any information. Evidently daddy’s money and influence cast a wide net. Having exhausted every avenue, Eloise finally threw in the towel.
‘That’s the end of it,’ she announced.
‘What are you going to tell your child about him?’ I asked, curiously.
‘Not the truth, that’s for sure.’ She was silent for a moment and I could sense her mind galloping into the future. ‘I shall say he died before he or she was born, before we were able to marry and that he was an only child and had no relatives. That’ll keep him—or her— from searching, I hope. I may reveal the truth one day but for now … and please, don’t ever tell anyone about what I’ve told you?’
I had many friends, but Eloise, the daughter I denied myself, crept into my heart. “They “say it takes a village to raise a child. Eloise’s other close friend, Rosalind Miller and I are Ally’s godmothers. Pam, Rosalind’s daughter, stayed with Eloise more often than not because her mother was a nurse who worked night shifts at the general hospital on the mainland.
In spite of the absence of fathers—Rosalind was also a single mum—I believe I’m safe in saying the girls had a wonderful childhood. When they graduated from the New South Wales Conservatory of Music, we three women stood in the university auditorium and made exhibitions of ourselves, clapping and jumping up and down with excitement. We waited with bated breath for news of their exam results and travelled to all the piano and musical competitions which the girls entered.
After the girls began to achieve some success, we ran in and out of music shops making sure their latest recordings were put in suitably prominent positions. If they weren’t, we had lady-like tantrums.
Eloise almost fell to pieces last Saturday afternoon when Pam rang to tell her Ally was missing. She met me at the door, hands shaking like leaves. We held each other in terror. It was all I could do to get her organised with her bag packed, bus ticket booked and onto the water taxi.
I have tramped over to the cottage for the last three days, feeding her cats, dog and hens and checking on her three cows. The wind’s been blowing something terrible up from the Wild Pony, worse than we usually get for this time of year.
And now I know Ally’s been kidnapped for ransom. Three million dollars. Eloise swore me to secrecy. I asked if they’d been to the police, but the kidnappers threatened Ally’s life if they did. She asked me if I’ve ever told anyone the name and whereabouts of Ally’s father.
Terrified, I lied.
Sometimes I drink too much; loneliness is everything it’s cracked up to be. I can abstain, often for months at a time, but sooner or later I relapse. Then came the night I have never forgotten.
I was lying in bed with my lover, delighted because he spoke about the possibility of his leaving his wife and coming to live on the island. He asked me if Eloise would sell her cottage to him. I assured him she was there to stay and he said he’d heard Ally play in a big concert once, and how much he admired her talent.
Of course, I allowed my big mouth to blab all about her and Eloise. To my shame I remember him asking where Ally’s father was and my loose-lipped reply. God, I feel terrible. If I could only take back every word I said that night. I would go to the stake rather than hurt either of them, but now I have to ask myself if he told anyone. Or does he know more than he should about what’s happened to Ally?
I see him at night or when I go to the city galleries to supervise the hangings of my paintings. He comes to the northern coast regularly, but not even Eloise knows we’ve been having an affair for almost two years.
Sometimes he frightens me, but I admit I am addicted to him. He has a way of looking at me out of the corner of his eyes when he’s displeased and I feel a hint of danger closing in like a storm cloud, but I pretend, just for a short time, that I am loved and desirable even at my age
.
I realised what I’d done after I sobered up, but it was too late. Except for that once I’ve not breathed a word. I begged him never to tell anyone and he vowed he would forget I ever spoke of it. When he comes tonight, I’m going to find out if he kept his promise.
CHAPTER 15
COURIER MAIL
Townsville Bulletin, 17. 11. 2010.
WELL KNOWN ARTIST FALLS TO DEATH
The body of Georgie Hird, 63, was found washed up on rocks below Wild Pony Rock on Masters Island early this morning.
It is thought Miss Hird, who was a well-known Australian painter, fell to her death sometime during the night.
Police are appealing for anyone who saw Miss Hird late on Monday afternoon or evening to come forward.
CHAPTER 16
Repercussions
Eloise
Tuesday: 7.30am.
The screaming woke me.
I hit the floor running, panic-stricken as I plunged into the kitchen, literally skidding to a halt. Pam was pointing to something in the newspaper which was spread open on the table. White-faced, her lip-sticked mouth twisted down at the corners, tears spilled down her cheeks and her mascara ran in rivulets. She looked like a clown.
I froze. No, not Ally!
She whispered slowly and carefully, as though she wasn’t sure of the words needed to convey the dreadful news. ‘Georgie’s dead. Georgie. Is. Dead.’
‘Georgie? How? What happened?’
Pam slumped into a chair. I picked up the paper, frantically searching the columns until I found it. My lips stiff with disbelief, I read the notice aloud.
It wasn’t possible. Only three days ago she had shovelled me onto the bus amid exhortations to ring her the instant we had news. Shaking my head, I re-read the short paragraph, but it didn’t make any more sense the second time. Georgie, my friend and sister of my heart—dead.
Pam sat like a statue, tears running down her face and dripping onto the front of her t-shirt. I felt numb. I didn’t know what to do next because everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. I went to the instant hot water dispenser, checked the liquid level and turned it on. My hands jerked like a marionettes; my icy feet clung to the tiles like the suckers on a gecko’s pads. My nightie flapped around my knees, reminding me that I was about to catch cold.
Get dressed.
I went to the bedroom and picked out the first garments which came to hand. Shock kept grief at bay, but deep down, my reaction was one of guilty relief that it wasn’t Ally who was dead. My hands shook so badly, it took two tries to get toothpaste onto my brush. Most of it dropped into the hand basin. What was I going to do? It was all too much.
Dead. Why? The report didn’t make sense. There had to have been a mistake. Deep breaths.
Pam was talking on the telephone when I got back to the kitchen. I busied myself making tea and toast as she told her mother everything. ‘Okay, will you? Thanks, Mum.’ She put the receiver down. ‘Aunt Eloise, Mum got home last night. It was almost too much for her, my telling her about Ally and then Georgie…she didn’t hear the news this morning. She was devastated.’
Pam’s face twisted with grief. ‘She said she’ll get the water taxi to the island, go to your house and look after everything there for as long as it takes. She’s going to ring if she gets any news today, but if not, she’ll definitely call you tonight on your mobile. And you need to ring the police and tell them she’s taking Rory to your house,’ she finished, referring to Georgie’s geriatric spaniel whom I’d promised to look after in the event of anything happening to Georgie. The laughter we shared as we made the arrangement assured me at the time that this would never happen. How many times have people said “famous last words”?
‘Thank God your mother’s home,’ I said, opening my arms to hug Pam. We cried again, then wiped our eyes and made coffee. Pam had planned to go shopping with Jess in the city, but rang and cancelled the arrangement.
‘What did she say when you told her about Georgie?’ I asked.
‘She was very shocked of course, but it’s strange…she sounded…well, if I didn’t know better, I’d say she was frightened, but why would Georgie’s death scare Jess?’
Neither one of us felt like eating, but we forced down a piece of toast and gratefully drank our coffee. ‘You will stay here in Brisbane, Aunt Eloise?’ Pam inquired. ‘You’re welcome to stay with me as long as you like.’
‘Thank you, dear. I appreciate the offer. Your poor mother will have to bear this on her own unfortunately. And I need to make a phone call. I’ll take it outside where I can get a good signal.’ I took my mobile phone off its battery charger and went out onto the balcony overlooking the back yard. James took an age to answer and when he did, I lost it again.
‘Georgie. My friend, Georgie. She’s dead,’ I bawled.
He had to raise his voice above my sobs. ‘Christ, Eloise, that’s terrible. What happened?’
‘She fell over a cliff on Masters Island and landed on the rocks.’ Getting into an explanation about Wild Pony Rock was more than I could manage right then.
‘When?’ he asked urgently.
‘Last night. It was in this morning’s paper.’
He didn’t waste time with questions. ’Are you at Pamela’s unit? I’ll come to you.’
‘But we agreed to keep your identity a secret for the time being,’ I reminded him.
‘Forget it, Eloise. It’s going to come out anyway, sooner or later. I’ll be there in about three-quarters of an hour,’ he said briskly and hung up. I snapped the cover shut and went back inside.
‘What could have possessed Georgie to go to Wild Pony Rock after dark? It’s a most unlikely thing for her to do,’ I mused. Suicide? Anyone less likely to do that than Georgie I’ve yet to meet.
Pam shook her head in bewilderment as she stacked our breakfast crockery into the dishwasher. ‘I don’t understand. Georgie hates Wild Pony Rock. You can’t get her to go there in daylight, let alone at night. Ever since that child fell off the rock—you know, when we were twelve.’ She referred to an incident which, even now haunts Ally.
Detective Senior Sergeant Prescott was my only contact in the police force and might be able to find out what had happened on the island. I ratted around in my handbag and found the card which she had given me. Was it only yesterday when she and sergeant “whatever-his-name-was,” interviewed me? My heart pounded as I tapped out her phone number. If she knew the terrible secret James and I were withholding, she would be less than impressed.
Keeping my voice as steady as possible, I told her about Georgie’s death—she hadn’t seen the report in the paper—and asked her about finding out whether the Townsville police knew why she died. Then I told her how surprised I was by Georgie being at Wild Pony Rock.
‘Have you any reason to believe it wasn’t an accident?’ she asked.
‘No, I haven’t. But Georgie loathed Wild Pony Rock. She wouldn’t even go near it during the day,’ I explained.
‘Hm…’ I could hear pages rustling.
‘I’ve got it.’ There was a moment of silence before she continued. ’I see. Well, I can certainly contact Townsville CIB. It is possible someone has come forward with information by now. I am sorry, Ms Carpenter, you’ve got more than enough to bear. Were you very close to this lady?’
I took a deep breath, choking back sobs. My eyes filled again. ‘She is—was the closest friend I have.’
‘Oh dear, that’s so sad. ‘Look, I’ll get on to it now and phone you back. Are you still at Ms Miller’s place?’
I said I was and she hung up. My legs and arms trembled; I almost tottered to a chair. Pam bustled into the room. ‘Mum should be on her way to the water taxi by now. We’re running out of milk and bread. We need something for lunch, some ham perhaps.’
I reached for my handbag. ‘Pam, I’m giving you money for my share of the expenses—no, don’t get all proud on me. You can’t afford to keep another mouth and I’m very glad to be here. You’
re a great comfort to me.’ I whipped out my purse, extracted a hundred dollars and stuffed it into Pam’s reluctant hand. ‘That’ll help to go on with.’
‘But Aunt Eloise, I earn good money—’
‘So do I, Pam. Now, no more nonsense.’ I glanced at the clock. ‘And while you’re out, the bottle shops will be open, so get a decent bottle of wine. We need it today.’
A watery smile crossed her face. ‘I might get two. After all, a visitor is coming to lunch.’
She had been shocked and more than a little annoyed with me when I confessed to the deception I’d fostered all these years. But Pam is the kindest girl and readily forgave me after I told her the story of what happened before Ally was born. I hadn’t, however, revealed James’s identity. She was bursting with curiosity, but she would not ask questions. Unlike most children, she never hunted for birthday or Christmas presents, picked them up from under the tree or scratched at the paper. Ally and I are scratchers and shakers, but Pam saved surprises for the appropriate time. It drove us mad.
Gathering up several shopping bags tossed onto a pile of magazines by the door, she advised that she would only be ten minutes, waved and left. A few minutes later, I heard her elderly Renault start up and scoot out of the driveway.
Basil Brush, Pam’s cat, twirled around my ankles. I picked him up and buried my face in his thick fur. Grief and rage swept over me again, as I clasped his portly body against me, seeking comfort. First Ally, now this. Oh Georgie, what happened? Suicide? Not in a million years.
An idea too awful to contemplate popped into my mind and refused to go away. What if she had lied to me when I talked to her on the phone? Did she tell someone who Ally’s father really is, and—
When I asked her if she had ever broken her promise, she said ‘No,’ but in retrospect, was there an infinitesimal hesitation before she answered? The telephone rang. I unhooked the cat from my sweater and put him, protesting, into a chair.
‘Ms Carpenter, I’ve spoken to my counterpart in Townsville, and I’m sorry to have to tell you, Miss Hird’s death was not an accident,’ said Susan Prescott.
The Naked Room Page 10
