by Susan Duncan
‘As far as I knew, Emily never had two coins to rub together.’
Mr Sly remains silent, uninvolved in family drama. He closes the file. Folds his hands on top of it, signalling there’s no more business to be done. Kate glances at her watch. The wrapping up of the final details of Emily’s life has barely taken ten minutes. Her mother would have been outraged by the lack of flourishes and rigmarole, the rigorous attention to details unembellished by colourful asides. She would have said yes to the coffee, refused a biscuit and requested cake. Chocolate was her preference. It made her feel happy, she said. She would have taken two small bites. Left the rest. Then she would have embarked on a long account of the deceased’s life, or more accurately, her role in the deceased’s life. The reading of Gerald’s will had turned into a circus, Emily giving an award-winning performance of a grieving widow, switching on tears as easily as a light. By the end of it, Kate, who never uttered a word throughout the whole shabby show, saw that the solicitor couldn’t work out whether to applaud or commiserate.
‘By the way, you don’t happen to know how Emily came to use this firm, do you?’ she asks.
‘We’re one of three recommended by the retirement village. Does it matter?’
‘Not at all,’ she replies quickly. ‘It’s just … I was wondering … Well, if there’d been a long association. Whether she kept old documents here, you know, such as birth and wedding certificates. For safekeeping, I mean.’ She is tempted to tell him about Emily’s deathbed (as it turned out) confession. How somewhere deep in a past that Kate, and presumably Gerald, knew nothing about, Emily had given birth to a son and then – for all she knew – abandoned him. Her mother’s periodic disappearances, which she’d put down to illicit affairs, could have been about the boy. Maybe he’d been institutionalised for some reason. Perhaps if Mr Sly searched Emily’s file one more time, he might find a clue so Kate could nail the ghost and move on. Her thoughts remain unuttered.
‘This probably sounds odd, but there are huge gaps in my knowledge of my mother’s life. I’m trying to unravel a few, er, complications she left behind. You’re sure there’s not another file lurking out there in one of those huge stacks …’
‘We have the current will and a copy of her earlier will. Nothing else. Is it possible your mother used the services of two solicitors at some time?’
‘I doubt it.’ Emily would resent paying one bill, forget two. How rude, she’d explode whenever one popped up in the mail. Queen Emily. Bestowing favours. Her fingers holding the request for money like a bag of dog poo before flicking it towards her husband.
‘Yeah, well, it was a long shot.’ Kate reaches for her handbag. ‘So it’s all a mystery then.’
‘Lawyers tend to be incurious. It’s often a mistake to know too much about your clients.’ He smiles to show it’s a joke. ‘Probate usually takes from one to three months, if anyone wants to challenge the will …’
‘Challenge?’ Kate asks, too quickly.
‘As a general rule, only children and grandchildren have grounds, although theoretically anyone can challenge. In your case, there shouldn’t be any problems. Expect a cheque around late April. Sorry I can’t be of more help.’
Kate turns back at the door, her hand already on the knob. Now is the time to mention a half-brother, she thinks. ‘I’m curious. When does time run out on challenging a will?’
‘Once probate is settled, it’s very difficult to revoke the terms.’
On a street thick with exhaust fumes and rushing lunchtime crowds, the noonday heat hits Kate like a blow. She leans against the gaudy underwear shop window, her eyes adjusting to sharp sunlight. Feeling frazzled and confused, she ducks into a dimly lit and smelly basement pub next door, compelled by a force she can’t define. She orders a cognac for the first time in her life. A tired barmaid, either drug or alcohol affected, pours what Kate recognises as a cheap brandy into a shot glass and slams it on the counter.
‘Fifteen bucks, love, on the nose.’ The woman sways slightly. Kate fishes in her bag, looking around the room. Furtive men in raincoats – or the equivalent.
‘Oh hell.’ She pushes a twenty over the counter, sculls the drink and flees. Outside on the street, she puts together the lingerie shop and the bar. If it’s not a front for a brothel, her name’s not Kate Jackson. Her stomach feels like it’s on fire. Her mouth is raw. Too late, she realises she’s just done exactly what her mother would have done in the same circumstances. Feel good? Order a brandy? Feel bad? Order a brandy. Feel hot, cold, happy, sad – order a brandy. Does anyone ever travel a long way from their original DNA?
She thinks: Seventy thousand dollars? There’s got to be a catch. Nothing to do with Emily is ever clear-cut. There’ll be a debt somewhere. An Emily-created catastrophe that will emerge one day – probably quite soon – and take every penny, and probably more, to put right. She grabs hold of anger like a lifeline, burying what she doesn’t even realise is grief and loss under a blanket of rage and confusion.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to the great, big, fabulous Pittwater community who make my life richer in every way, every day. Thanks, too, for letting me write about you all with such good grace, humour and generosity of spirit. Apologies too, if my memory has failed me here and there. When there is so much wonderfulness, moments can blur a little despite the best intentions. Thanks to Caroline Adams, my friend, dog walking partner and brilliant agent, who not only nursed this project from a vague idea to the finish, but whose sage and canny advice made the process one of lighthearted fun – tempered by a cool eye for the details. My mother, Esther, deserves a special thank you for not flinching from my exposure of some of her more memorable times. Her response, when she read the manuscript, was typically to the point. 'Don't change a word. And thank God you didn't turn me into a wimp.' Thanks to Peter Martin who kindly assessed the 'cringe' moments in the manuscript and made wise recommendations about potential family sensitivities.Thanks to Maggie Tabberer, a fabulous, compassionate and earthy dame who is an inspiration to us all, and who made time to read Salvation Creek despite a hectic schedule. Thanks for the kind words, Maggie. And thanks also to William McInnes, a great actor, terrific writer and best of all, a lovely, laconic bloke who knows who he is and never loses sight of what matters in life, for his support. Thanks to the whole team at Random House but especially Fiona Henderson, Katie Stackhouse (whose uncle is Stacky – an amazing coincidence), and book editor Jo Jarrah, whose eye and ear saved me time and again.Thanks too, to Bob's children, who have shown me nothing but warmth and kindness even when it must have been incredibly tough for them. Then there is Bob . . . who quietly encouraged, endlessly supported and finally cajoled, until the manuscript was finished. 'Have a go,' he said when I muttered vaguely about doing a booklet on Pittwater. 'You've got to take a risk sometimes.' Under Bob's coaching, I finally understood the nobility of trying instead of fearing failure. A recipe for life, really, isn't it? For the rest, I hope the book manages to express my gratitude to family, friends and colleagues who stuck around for the down times as well as the up.Thank you. You are all the very best.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Susan Duncan spent her childhood in country Victoria where her father was supply officer for Bonegilla Migrant Camp. The first full sentence she uttered, according to her mother, was 'Mama mia,my tooter's kaput!' Fractured English, German and Italian picked up from happily running wild around the camp.
When she was nine, the family moved to Melton, near Melbourne, to run a country pub. She was never taught to pull a beer because her father didn't believe in women behind the bar, but she learned the words to just about every sing-a-long song from World War I onwards and will still launch into 'Danny Boy' with the least encouragement.
After completing her secondary education at Clyde, Woodend, a girls' boarding school where there was as much emphasis on teaching good manners as maths, she quickly quit university to take up a journalism cadetship on a trade fashion magazine before join
ing The Sun newspaper in Melbourne.
After a twenty-five year career that spanned radio, newspaper and magazines, including editing two of Australia's top-selling women's magazines, she woke up one morning and chucked in her job. The decision to drop out came after the deaths of her husband and brother within three days of each other.
She thought abandoning the rat race would be easy: find a country cottage in a small town and follow a different path. But without a family or a job to define her idea of herself, she struggled to understand who she was and where she belonged. Grief, loneliness and being needy blurred even the sharpest line between understanding what was right . . . or very wrong. For a while, she was headed for disaster. Then she took a chance and risked everything on one last role of the dice.
By every rule in the book, it was a gamble that should have failed. And it nearly did. But somehow, out of the terrible mess she'd created, she found a wondrous new world and an unexpected life. She also discovered that not only is it never all over until the last breath fades away, it quite simply gets better and better. All you have to do is . . . survive.
