Jeanie – Ann – was driving over from Gore and would meet us for lunch at a little café Francesca had chosen. She said, laughing a little, that her mother was shy of big cities and preferred somewhere quiet. A garden setting. A back street. I thought of lively little Jeanie hiding her identity all these years. Repressing her outgoing nature. It seemed all out of proportion. I suspected that a reclusive life had become ingrained – a habit that needed breaking. This meeting would be a start, I felt. I was as excited as Francesca that morning. The three of us together!
We broke off our tour. Francesca wanted to keep the winning installation a surprise for later. Her boyfriend Carl had won some valuable sculpture prize and Francesca was all lit up with the news.
‘Now we can afford to move in together!’ she said, her dark eyes full of happiness, ‘A real flat, not a student’s squat. And a buyer for my work! I’m just so excited! You’re a doll, Elena!’ She took my arm and we danced along to the car in the highest of good spirits.
Ann was there already, out in the garden of the café, smiling to see us so full of ourselves. Francesca ran to her mother, hugging her wildly. ‘I passed, I passed! My designs got a B plus! I got my diploma!’
Ann cried out with pleasure and held her excited daughter. ‘Wonderful, wonderful! You clever thing.’
They were such a happy pair. I hadn’t even thought to ask about pass or fail. Soon Francesca remembered me and introduced us properly. I played my part, shaking Ann’s hand, trying not to smile too broadly.
Ann nodded, still beaming, tears in her eyes. ‘Fran has talked about you,’ she said. ‘I hope she has thanked you for your support.’
Her voice, quiet and pleasant, held just the right balance of friendliness and formality. She must be very used to acting a part to do it so well. I was a little taken aback, I suppose.
‘Shall we sit?’ said my dear old friend, smiling. ‘I’ve ordered champagne to celebrate.’
The last time I had drunk champagne was with her in front of her own fireplace, at Gore, but no hint of that meeting, no flicker of complicity crossed her face. I had to match her composure, but it cost me dearly. I was bursting to sing and dance. To celebrate not only the exam result, but our being here together.
‘And Carl won the sculpture prize!’ shouted Francesca. ‘We’re rich!’
Ann frowned a little at that. ‘I thought your boyfriend was Anton?’
‘Oh Mum,’ Francesca laughed too loudly – I think the champagne was having an instant effect – ‘I told you about Carl. Anton was ages ago.’
Ann rolled her eyes at me and we both laughed. I ordered a delicious beef stew with little potatoes rolled in butter; the others ate salads. A salad on a crisp spring day seems a complete waste of time to me, but we all enjoyed ourselves. By the time the champagne was finished, Ann and Francesca were sufficiently relaxed to forget their figures and order apple pie and cream along with me. A wonderful hour or two, there in the sun, camellias and rhododendrons blooming in a riot around us. Everyone happy. Calm before the storm.
Francesca told us about a scare she’d had a couple of days back. Coming back to her flat late, she thought a man was following her. She’d turned one way and then another but the man made the same turns.
‘I wasn’t really scared,’ she said, looking anxiously at us for approval, ‘I know how to look after myself. But it sort of gets to you, you know, and you stop being sensible.’
Ann spoke rather sharply. All her lightness gone in a flash. I could see how precious her daughter was. ‘What did he look like? Did you know him?’
‘Oh Mum,’ Francesca spread her hands – a light little shrug that I had seen Jeanie make many times in the past, ‘it was dark. Some sad old man in a raincoat. I think he was bald.’
‘Francesca, sweetheart,’ Ann spoke quickly, more terrified, I think, than her daughter, ‘you mustn’t go wandering around at night alone. Promise me.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Francesca laughed, all cheerful again. ‘I know Dunedin like the back of my hand. The centre is full of student squats. Carl lives upstairs in an empty old bank in Rattray Street. He sleeps in the bank vault can you imagine! I just ducked in there. Disappeared down the alley and slept there the night. That old man would have no idea where I went. Never saw him again.’
I praised her for her bravery and quick thinking, but Ann seemed quite thrown. She put her hand over her daughter’s and held it as if to guard her from evil.
‘Oh Mum,’ said Francesca, smiling at me, in a way apologising for her mother’s anxiety. ‘Don’t worry. I’m a big girl now.’
‘No you’re not. Not if you wander alone at night.’ She spoke too strongly. I thought it strange, and I think Francesca did too. Ann should have praised her daughter as I did.
The afternoon was a complete contrast to the morning’s light-hearted tour. It started well enough. Ann loved Francesca’s exhibit; was quite knowledgeable about processes and dyes and full of questions. She weaves herself it seems, and had an opinion on all the fabric designs. Francesca opened like a flower to her mother’s praise, and rattled on about her plans and ideas. All Ann’s anxiety disappeared while we were in that part of the exhibition.
But then, when it seemed that Carl’s installation was in a different part of town and that we must walk a few blocks, Ann dug her toes in.
‘You two go and see it. I need to get back home.’
Francesca sighed. ‘Come on Mum, it’s not far. You’ll be amazed.’ I think she was used to her mother’s sudden mood swings; used too, to persuading her out of them.
But this time Ann would not be persuaded. She pleaded the long drive back, the hungry donkeys, her own tiredness. None of it made much sense to me. She had come especially, after all, to spend time with her daughter. I began to suspect that Ann – Jeanie – had developed some kind of anxiety syndrome, perhaps caused by all this subterfuge. She seemed to have an exaggerated perception of a need for secrecy. Her actions were not quite rational. Neither Francesca nor I could jolly her into staying.
Ann gave her daughter a quick hug, pushed a little wad of dollar notes into her hand. ‘Bring your Carl out to the house. You’ll both need a break after all your work. Come out soon.’ She turned smiling to me. ‘It’s been so nice to meet you.’ And walked off quickly to her car.
She couldn’t get away quickly enough. That’s how it seemed.
Francesca felt it too. ‘Maybe school’s getting on top of her,’ she said. ‘She’s the one who needs a break. Carl and I’ll go out next week and pamper her.’
I had to wonder about her Carl when we arrived at his macabre installation. He’d set it in the disused cellar of the old distillery – a damp, dark place, which he had done his best to make even more sinister. Above the basement was a room designed, I suppose, to be a replica of a display of sweets. Boxes were laid out with sugary looking treats inside, but when you looked closer, the sweets were pink sugary rats dusted with icing sugar. Disgusting. Francesca was full of the hidden meaning, the skill of the execution, but I couldn’t get past the rats. They were so realistic.
Then down we went, down wet dark brick steps, to the basement. A rank mist hovered down there, very gothic. Cleverly engineered but not pleasant. I was reluctant to go further, and anyway the steps were difficult for someone of my size, but I persevered for Francesca’s sake. Suddenly she shrieked out and raced ahead of me. A body lay face down in a tank of some liquid from which rose this mist.
‘Carl, Carl!’ Francesca screamed. ‘Someone help!’ She turned an anguished face up to me. ‘Carl’s drowned.’ I hurried to help her. The basement seemed empty except for us. We both dragged at the dead weight of the body, getting thoroughly drenched in the process. Suddenly our body stirred, heaved and came grinning to life. Carl removed the breathing straw from his mouth and stood, dripping and triumphant, to face us.
‘Oh boy,’ he puffed. ‘That carbon dioxide mist is no fun to breathe.’
The stupid idiot. He could have reall
y drowned breathing that stuff. Francesca was in floods of tears. ‘What do you want to do that for? I thought you were …’
‘Hey hey!’ Carl grinned sheepishly. He put a long arm around her and explained the significance of shock — how it can heighten awareness. As if we didn’t know! He was rather sweet in a gangly sort of way, but definitely macabre in his tastes.
He found a rag for Francesca’s tears and helped me brush water from my coat. I’m afraid the shock tactics had dampened my enthusiasm for his message, whatever that was. The exhibition was now taking second place to my concern over the effect of carbon dioxide on a good leather coat. He led us further in to the basement where dark shapes loomed – a strange, twisted distillery. Carl pointed to a fellow in the shadows who seemed to be inspecting the innards of one of the shafts. ‘I couldn’t shock him though,’ he laughed. He just thought I was a dummy and walked on past. I nearly did suffocate that time.’
Francesca looked over at the man. She grabbed at Carl’s dripping arm and whispered, ‘Don’t look now but I think it’s the man who was following me.’
‘I wouldn’t think so,’ he replied, peering. ‘He’s been down here for ages, inspecting the works. Quite a nice old fellow, asking all about me and my work. I think he might be a critic. He wanted to photograph me against that distilling tube. Come and meet him.’ He led his reluctant girlfriend deeper into the gloom. I stayed where I was, anxious to return to daylight and normality.
I heard his words though. Soft and pleasant, but I’ve heard that blank, calm tone before. It belongs to the clinically disturbed. No mistaking that.
‘How do you do, Francesca. I’ve been longing to meet you. Longing.’
‘I don’t think …’ she began, but he stepped close, peering into her eyes. He came too close, one hand reaching towards her face. She recoiled. Carl pulled her away, but the man turned quickly to stay close to her; spoke with quiet force.
‘Don’t be afraid. I don’t want to alarm you. I believe, you see, that I may be your father.’ He clung to her arm. I could see that it hurt from the way she dragged at it.
Carl looked over to me for help, his face a mask of dismay. I was fearful myself, surrounded by those dark shapes. A dead opossum swung inside a tube just above my head. Sound effects of bubbling and groaning murmured in the background. It would seem Carl had created the perfect scene for an assault. I thought for one quick moment that he had done just that; the whole scene another sinister gimmick. Carl’s anguished look put me right. This was real.
I used my voice as a weapon. ‘Excuse me,’ I boomed at full throttle, ’the lady does not want your attentions, sir.’
The roar echoed off the damp walls – surprisingly effective. The man reacted violently, jumped back as if he’d touched an electric wire. His nerves must have been stretched to breaking. I strode forward, trying to look confident and in charge. ‘Get her upstairs,’ I whispered to Carl, ‘and call the police. This man is mad.’
Carl hesitated, looking from me to the man. I thought he was suitably worried about me, but it turned out he feared the man might destroy his installation! I shoved Francesca in the right direction and the boy stumbled up behind her.
‘I’ll be back in a moment!’ he shouted from the top of the steps, ‘Don’t leave him alone!’
I stood facing the madman, blocking his way for a moment, intending to follow immediately; not worried, to be honest, about protecting the work.
We recognised each other at the same moment. He had lunged forward and sideways, trying to side-step my useful bulk, but, instead, crashing into a great copper pipe which boomed like a gong. Surrounded by clashing echoes we stood face to face. His look was one of hectic triumph. I suppose mine was quite the opposite.
‘Yes,’ he whispered, his face pale and glistening in the dim light, the sound effects moaning and hissing an accompaniment. ‘Yes. So I am right all along. Well then, Elena, Jeanie’s friend.’
I said nothing, trying to think what my reaction should be. Where it would all lead.
‘She’s my daughter, isn’t she?’ he whispered. ‘You and Jeanie have hidden her from me all these years. My own daughter.’
‘Stuart,’ I said as firmly as I could, praying that someone would come to rescue me from this quagmire, ‘she is not your daughter. Believe me. Not. Your. Daughter.’
‘How can you know that?’ He smiled his disbelief, a grimace which betrayed his uncertainty.
I tried to keep my voice level, to pierce the armour of his self-delusion. ‘That girl is in no way related to you. I know absolutely who her father is. Absolutely. You must stop pursuing Ann Hope and her daughter. You have no claim. Do you understand? You are not the father.’
‘I could be!’ His voice became truculent, his eyes intense. ‘You don’t know, you stupid cow, what went on between me and my wife.’
‘She is not your wife.’ But it was clear that I was making no impression; simply provoking his madness.
‘Get out of my way!’ he shouted suddenly. ‘You are keeping me from my daughter!’ He shoved at me hard. I fell against some piece of metal and again the gong sounded, clanging louder this time. Goodness knows what I destroyed.
He ran past me and up the steps into the arms of someone – a tutor maybe, or passer-by. I heard him protesting innocence, a case of mistaken identity, his voice suddenly calm and rational, the wretch.
‘I do apologise,’ he said. ‘I thought she was my daughter, you see. I’ve been searching for her mother, and thought I had found a link.’ A self-deprecating little laugh. I could have throttled the man, but was still struggling to disentangle myself from unmentionable bits and pieces.
Francesca’s uncertain voice echoed down the stairwell. ‘But you’re not … My father is Italian …’
With relief I heard a voice of authority. Carl must have raised a policeman. By then I had made it up those damn steps. My arm was hurting like hell, broken I suspected.
‘No, no,’ said Francesca, ‘it’s alright now. No I don’t want to lay a charge. All a mistake.’
‘Well I do,’ I said firmly. ‘This man has assaulted me.’
Stuart Roper shot me the most malignant look. In the ordinary daylight he seemed smaller, scruffier. His coat was stained. He needed a haircut. The policeman led him away. I could hear him patiently protesting innocence until he was out of earshot.
I rang Jeanie from hospital. The injury was not too serious; a clean break of the fibula. But I certainly made the most of it to the police. They said Stuart had some kind of record and were holding him while they checked.
Jeanie (I wasn’t going to call her Ann any more; she needed to acknowledge the truth now and so did my brother – for Francesca’s sake if not their own) listened to my story in silence. Left the silence hanging after I’d finished.
‘You knew about Stuart, didn’t you?’ I guessed.
Silence.
‘You have to tell Francesca, Jeanie. That wretched man is claiming to be her father. He could put doubts in her mind.’
Silence.
‘Jeanie, you’ve become too tied up in the lie. It’s damaging your life and it could damage Francesca’s. Surely it would be safer for her to know about her Samoan heritage?’
A groan down the line.
‘He’ll come back you know. If they let him out he’ll come back. I’ll do what I can, but the man is mad. Delusional. And able to disguise it. He is a danger to you and your daughter.’
I needed to be with her, to help her cut the ropes she had bound around herself, but I couldn’t drive and I had meetings scheduled in Wellington. And the matter of Teo.
‘This is what I plan to do,’ I told her. ‘Teo is in the country with his wife. She’s ill and is having tests. I’m going to talk to him.’
‘It’s no use,’ Jeanie said in a flat voice. ‘That would be no use.’
She was so negative! My friend had disappeared down some black hole of despair.
I tried to jolly her along. Teo was not
a monster, I said. If he knew there was a threat to Francesca, he could surely be persuaded to make some kind of acknowledgement.
‘He wouldn’t,’ said Jeanie, her voice hardly audible. But did I detect a glimmer of hope?
‘Let me try at least,’ I said.
‘Alright,’ she whispered. ‘Thanks Elena.’ There was a pause and I heard that sort of sob, or groan again. ‘It’s all a big mess,’ she said. ‘Sorry to be so useless.’
That was better. I promised to keep in touch, and to try to see Teo in the next day or two.
‘We’ll sort it out,’ I said. ‘Remember the Women’s Committee play? We can manage anything together!’
She laughed a little at that I think.
‘What can Stuart really do?’ I asked. ‘If he comes around again with that paternity nonsense, you can always get a DNA test you know. That’d soon settle matters. Francesca has a Samoan father. I’d stake my reputation on it.’
She made a sort of gasp, which I hoped was laughter.
Poor old Jeanie. She’d been on her own too long. Time for my brother to take responsibility.
We walked in a little garden in the grounds of the clinic where Ma‘atoe was having treatment. The tests had proved positive. Teo looked drawn. He was fond of his wife. She was having a bad time, he said. The chemo affected her will to fight the disease, he said. It was worse for her, he thought, than for many of the palagi patients. I questioned him about the prognosis. It wasn’t good. She had let the lump go too long. And there were secondary tumours already appearing in other parts of her body.
‘She wants to come home,’ he said. ‘I doubt the treatment can do anything more than prolong her discomfort. Could you speak to the doctors?’
I promised to do that. Teo also wanted to know whether I had accepted the position in Apia. ‘If you were back home,’ he said, ’you could oversee matters. It would be a comfort to have family involved. She would like that, I know.’
Inheritance Page 20
