by Claire McNab
Chapter Twelve
For Sybil, Monday mornings at school after a perfect summer weekend always had a certain depression about them, and this one was par for the course. The two days spent in the peaceful calm of Barbara’s friendship receded like a dream as she walked in to hear Terry exclaiming, “Jesus! It’s the bloody swimming carnival tomorrow! If there’s one thing I hate, it’s wet, screaming kids.”
“You don’t seem very keen on dry, screaming kids, either,” observed Edwina, who, extraordinarily, was knitting.
“Getting ready for winter?” said Sybil, looking at the red wool. She bent over as Edwina gave a confidential nod.
“Diet,” said Edwina softly. “Got to do something with my hands, or I eat.”
“Good luck.”
“I’ll need it.”
“What are you two whispering about?” said Lynne.
“You,” said Edwina. “That should make you happy.”
Lynne’s vitriolic retort was prevented by Alan’s entry with the schedule of duties for the next day’s swimming carnival. “Now look,” he said to the murmurs of protest, “it’s only once a year and it’s for the good of the school. I know it can be inconvenient, but we just all pull our weight and it will be a great success.”
“You have clichés for breakfast?” inquired Edwina.
Alan ignored that. “And it’s very fair. The Physical Education Department drew lots to determine which teachers had to travel to the Warringah Swimming Center on a bus.”
“I’ll bet not one of the PE staff got bus duty,” said Pete, reading the list. He grunted. “Well, Lynne, you and I are awfully lucky. We get a whole bus of kids each.”
“Let me see that!” Lynne looked furious. “I particularly told them I didn’t want bus duty. I have to get the catering for lunches done. If you want to eat, one of you had better do my duty for me.”
“I’ll do it,” said Sybil.
Alan shook his head. “No you won’t,” he said. “I’ve arranged with Mrs. Farrell for you to take the day off. She agrees you’ve been under a tremendous amount of strain in the past couple of weeks, and it’s a perfect opportunity to let you have an extra break.”
“Wonderful!” said Lynne. “I’m feeling the strain, too. Do I get some time off?”
“Oh, don’t be so selfish, Lynne,” said Pete in an unexpected attack. She glared at him as he continued, “Syb’s had a much worse time than any of us, so leave her alone. And you can stop bitching about bus duty. I’ll find someone to do it for you.”
Terry drew Sybil aside. “I’ve got a Shooting Association meeting tonight. I can’t get to your place till late, probably after eleven.”
“Terry, I’m tired after the weekend. Let’s leave it until tomorrow.”
“Okay,” he said reluctantly. He took her by the elbows, “And Syb, I want to talk about moving in with you.”
Sybil looked at his opaque dark eyes. I could beat you over the head with a club, she thought, and I’d still never get through to you. “I’m willing to talk about it, if you insist, but it’s impossible.”
“Why? There isn’t anyone else.”
“There is.”
She felt wryly amused at his astonishment.
As soon as she had a break, Sybil rang Carol, using the phone in Alan’s office so she wouldn’t be overheard. Although Carol sounded reserved, she said quite readily, “Yes, I’ll come and see you. What time?”
“If I leave straight after the last lesson, I’ll be home by four at the latest. Could you meet me then?”
Carol’s voice was faintly amused. “You’re keen,” she said.
“Yes.” Sybil let the silence stretch for a moment, then said, “Could you park in the Singleton’s place, behind me, and come in the back way? They’re away for a week, so you can park in their carport. The reporters were waiting in the street for me when I left this morning, and I’m sure you don’t want to see them any more than I do.” Suddenly she felt prickly and dissatisfied. “Carol, are you sure you want to come?”
“I’ll see you about four,” said Carol.
• • •
Bourke rubbed his sweaty hands with a handkerchief and glared at the ancient fan, whose whirling blades created an extraordinary humming clatter as they stirred the heavy hot air. “Why don’t they air-condition suburban police stations?” When Carol raised an eyebrow at his irritation, he sighed and said, “This is driving me mad. You know, it’s bloody impossible to keep track of every kid who ran a message for a teacher the day Pagett died. And it’s such a long shot, Carol.”
“You said any pupil leaving the school grounds has to have a permission slip from a teacher.”
Bourke nodded. “Yes, and senior students on the gates collect them at recess and lunchtime. I’ve got two officers interviewing the seniors, but the kid could have been sent out during class time.”
“Then the important thing would be whose class the student came from, wouldn’t it?”
Bourke made a face at Carol. “So what if we find out? It’s not enough to prove anything for sure.”
“Another brick in the wall,” said Carol, “and every brick counts.”
Sybil was home before four. She felt restless and unsettled—she ached to see Carol, but dreaded what she might say. She stood just inside the glass doors waiting for her, and when Carol drew up her skin prickled with excitement and fear. She watched Carol unhurriedly climb out of her car, stand as if deciding what to do, then turn towards the house.
Sybil opened the door before Carol could knock. “I thought for a moment you weren’t going to come in,” she said. Why can’t I play hard to get? she thought. Before Carol could reply she continued hastily, “Let me get you a pair of shorts and a top. We can go for a walk, or a swim, if you like.”
Carol’s voice was cool. “No. Reporters might be a problem.”
“Carol, is something wrong?”
“It’s just that I’m tired, and. . .”
Sybil met the direct green eyes, thinking, this is when she says goodbye Sybil—been nice to know you. “And what?”
“And the last thing I need in my life at the moment is you as a complication. Sybil, do you understand?”
Ignore it, thought Sybil, and the words will go away. “You’re the only person who calls me Sybil, everyone else calls me Syb.”
Carol gave her a faint smile. “That must be a thrill for you,” she observed, opening her briefcase. She handed Sybil an envelope and a letter, both in a protective plastic sheath. “Ever seen anything like these before?”
“Yes, somewhere.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know—in one of those leather writing cases—do you know the sort I mean?”
“Yes. What color was it?”
“It was red leather, I think. I’m sorry, I can’t remember where I saw it.”
“Who did it belong to? A woman?”
“Possibly. I just have a sort of mental picture of the red leather, square white envelopes and sheets of heavy writing paper.”
“It’s not unusual stationery,” said Carol.
“No, but you asked me if I’d seen anything like it, and I have. I can’t remember where, though.”
“Read it,” said Carol.
It was the last letter Mrs. Farrell had received. Carol watched Sybil’s eyes traversing the lines, stopping and rereading. With an expression of distaste she handed it back. “Who wrote it?”
“We don’t know. Do you recognize the printing?”
“No, but of course it’s disguised, isn’t it?”
Carol nodded. “Yes. Probably done left-handed.” She glanced at Sybil’s fingers. “Or, in your case, right-handed.”
“You don’t think I wrote it? Carol, you can’t!”
“I don’t think you wrote it. It’s almost certain the murderer’s responsible. That’s just one of a series Mrs. Farrell has been receiving for months. All the others were on the subject of Bill Pagett and his sexual activities.” She put the le
tter and envelope back into her briefcase. “You were mentioned several times,” she added.
“Why me?”
“That’s the important question, isn’t it?”
What in the hell do I say to that? thought Sybil. Aloud she said, “Can’t we get out of here? Drive somewhere and then walk?”
“Okay, lend me something to change into. We’d better use my car—your numberplate is far too well known, now.”
As they walked to the gate in the back fence leading to the Singleton’s house, Carol said, “Where’s Terry?”
“I’m seeing him tomorrow. He’s got a meeting tonight, and I told him I was going to bed early.” She looked sideways at Carol. She hadn’t meant it that way, but it sounded like an invitation. She was alive with irritated energy. “Can I drive?” she asked as they reached the car.
Carol handed her the keys and settled into the passenger seat, saying, “Where are we going?”
“West Head. Is that okay?”
“Why not?”
The traffic was reasonably heavy until they took the turning at McCarr’s Creek into Ku-ring-gai National Park. She stopped to pay the ranger at the entrance, then settled down to the smooth uninterrupted drive along the bushland peninsula. The road dipped and curved through the grey-green vegetation, slabs of rock glistened with seeping water, birds soared in the updrafts and the shadows of clouds chased themselves over gum trees and native bushes. Every now and then they caught a glimpse of a vivid blue sliver of water. Sybil finally broke the silence. “Why did you get divorced?”
Carol let her breath out in a long sigh. “I don’t particularly want to talk about it.”
“Oh great!” said Sybil. “Your whole career is making people answer questions, but you get a bit shy when you’re in the hot seat.”
“All right, Sybil.”
“Carol, I’m only asking because it’s important for me to know.”
Carol made no further comment, but told the story with unemotional economy as though she wanted to get the task over and done with. She had met Justin Hart while studying at Sydney University, and, attracted by his formidable mind and legal talent, had married him. In due course she produced a son, David. Because they both had demanding and time-consuming careers, they lived, in the main, separate lives. Perhaps they would have continued reasonably happily, had Carol not fallen in love with a woman. “I knew at some level that I was attracted to women, but it wasn’t a problem until I met Christine. I loved her so much I was willing to put everything on the line for her, and in the end, that’s what I lost—everything.”
Carol and Justin had agreed there was nothing left in their marriage, so they should divorce. Carol hoped to keep custody of David, or at least share him, but she found she couldn’t fight the wealth, influence, and arguments of her husband—wasn’t it best for a child to have a normal background? When he was older would David be happy to find he had a deviate for a mother? Was Carol intending to live with Christine? How would David explain the situation to his friends?
“Now, I would have fought him, openly. Then . . . I was younger, Christine had begged me not to make a scandal—in short, I was persuaded to give David up. And, of course, I’ve regretted it.”
They had reached the spectacular lookout at the end of West Head. Sybil parked the car and twisted around to look at Carol’s face. “Christine?”
“She’s fine. I see her photo sometimes in the social pages, and she always sends me a Christmas card.”
“So it was all for nothing?”
Carol opened the car door. “Nothing?” she said, smiling sardonically. “I learned a great deal about love, life and constancy. Come on, if you want to have a walk, let’s walk.”
It had been an extraordinarily tense afternoon, with both of them avoiding the subject of their relationship. They had walked, gazed at the beautiful view over Lion Island and Broken Bay, watched the yachts tacking against the breeze and, in unspoken agreement, talked about safe things—music, films, books. Now that they were back inside Sybil’s house, the physical longing that had dogged Sybil all weekend suddenly became too much to bear.
“Carol. . .”
“I don’t want to do this.”
Sybil pushed her gently back against the wall, put a hand on either side of her head, and began to kiss her—slowly, deeply, feeling her excitement rise as Carol began to respond.
Carol turned her head away. “Remember, you think this is unnatural.”
Sybil, slipping her hands under Carol’s shirt to circle her back, said, “I’ve changed my mind.” Her tongue found the hollow of Carol’s throat. I wish there were some way I could say I love you without sounding like an adolescent fool, she thought. Aloud she said, “Come to bed.”
“Sybil, this is stupid and dangerous.”
Sybil slid her fingers up under Carol’s bra and caressed a nipple. “Don’t you want this?” she said against Carol’s mouth.
“Yes, I want it now . . . it’s afterwards.”
Carol caught her breath as Sybil began to unzip her denim shorts. She put her hands over Sybil’s. “Afterwards, it isn’t worth it,” she said.
Sybil pulled her hands away and began to push the shorts down. Carol groaned as Sybil’s fingers slid between her legs.
“It’s not fair,” she gasped, “you’ve found my weak point.”
Sybil knelt, and began to melt her with the soft, insistent pressure of her tongue.
“Oh, darling,” Carol said as her orgasm began.
• • •
Sybil was content. Carol was curled around her, the moonlight made patterns of light and dark on the bed, her body floated in the delicious relaxation that followed passion. She turned in Carol’s arms to face her. “What are you thinking about?” she said.
The planes of Carol’s face were sculptured by moonlight but her eyes were shadowed. “I don’t think you want to know.”
“Tell me.”
Carol released her, turning on her back and gazing up at the ceiling. “I was thinking how I keep on saying we must never do this again, and then I do.”
“We do, Carol. It isn’t just your decision.”
“Sybil, it isn’t going to work.”
“It will if we want it to.”
“You haven’t thought of the difficulties.”
“Carol, of course I have. I’m not a fool. I know there’ll be problems, but so what? It will be worth it.”
Carol turned, leaning on one elbow to look down at her. “You can’t live at this intensity of emotion for very long.”
“I don’t expect to. There’ll be more than this friendship, companionship—someone always there.” Carol sat up, resting her chin on her knees. Her silver was calmly reasonable.
“Sybil, my job means I see people in crisis situations. I know what happens. You met me when you were vulnerable. Now you’ve had your first lesbian relationship. You might go on to have others, you might return to the conventional straight world—”
Sybil interrupted. “I won’t go back, not now.”
“Whatever you do, you have to remember that all this, you and I, happened because your safe world was destroyed and you were frightened and insecure.”
Sybil sat up in turn. “You took advantage of me, did you?”
“In a way, I did.”
“How unethical!” said Sybil mockingly.
Carol swung her legs off the bed. “I’m going,” she said.
Sybil was suddenly furious. “Running away, are you Carol? You can’t stand to be responsible for your own, or anyone else’s emotions, can you? While I was rejecting the feelings we had for each other, that was fine, wasn’t it? You were safe. Now, when I want to accept our relationship, to love you—suddenly you’re rationalizing everything away.”
“I’m not going to argue with you.”
“Why not? Afraid I might win?”
Carol began to dress. “Sybil, let’s cool it for now? Okay?”
“No, it’s not okay.”
&
nbsp; Carol sighed. “Suit yourself.”
“And don’t sigh at me!” Sybil wanted to hit her, anything to get something other than the glassy surface of her indifference. She seized her shoulders. “Carol, I’ve never felt like this before, not with anyone.”
“Don’t mistake sex for love.”
“God! You sound like a nineteen-sixties advice to the lovelorn column.” In her rage she shook her. “It’s a lot more than sex. Come on, Carol, say you love me. You do. You must.”
“What? And join the queue?” She twisted free of Sybil’s hands. “You’re so infinitely desirable, Sybil . . . Terry Clarke follows you around, Bill Pagett couldn’t keep his hands off you, your husband came back from overseas . . .” She shrugged. “Why not put this down to an interesting experience—your little excursion into lesbianism—a harmless little dabble in forbidden sex?”
“You’re deliberately picking a fight, Carol.”
“Why would I bother?”
“To make it easier to leave. To make sure the last memories are sour ones.”
“Sybil, if things had been different—”
“That’s rubbish, and you know it. Why don’t you be honest, Carol? Just say it’s been nice, but I took it all a bit seriously, and you’re sorry if I’m hurt, but that’s the way it is. Have I got the dialogue right?”
“Just about,” said Carol.
Sybil didn’t cry when she had gone, but sat cross-legged in the pool of moonlight on the bed, trying resolutely to construct a world for herself in which there was no Carol.
The clock radio woke Sybil at six-thirty. Half awake, she felt the looming grayness of sadness and disappointment, and then, as she opened her eyes, she unwillingly remembered the night before. She looked at the crumpled sheets and tried to imagine Carol’s naked body curled around her. “I’m not going to cry,” she said to Jeffrey, who was perched on the end of the bed to lobby for breakfast.
