Lola's Secret
Page 26
‘And you’ll still send me a photo of your Christmas Day outfit, Lola, won’t you?’
‘Of course I will,’ Lola promised. ‘Don’t I always?’
It was tricky enough taking the photo. In previous years she’d had Bett or Carrie handy to be the photographer. Today she made two attempts using the camera’s remote button and managed a photo of the carpet both times. Eventually, she took a photo of herself in the mirror. It wasn’t perfect – the camera in front of her face spoiled the effect slightly, but she knew Ellen would get the general idea. Lola was very proud of today’s outfit. If she’d known Mrs Kernaghan’s email address, she’d have been tempted to send the photo to her too. She’d taken her inspiration from Mrs Kernaghan’s window display, after all. In terms of the colour scheme, at least.
She was wearing a long floating green satin skirt on which someone – not her – had embroidered red stars. She’d teamed it with a multicoloured chiffon overshirt and a very large, very long silver scarf that she’d tied as a belt. She had green bangles on one arm, red ones on the other, flashing Christmas wreath earrings and a seasonal necklace made of Christmas decorations looped together into a three-strand necklace. It was her jaunty Santa hat that set the whole outfit off, though, she knew.
‘I’ve toned down my look this year,’ she wrote to Ellen in her email. ‘No point pushing out the boat when I’m the only one here. Wait till you see what I’ve got planned for New Year’s Eve!’ She followed Luke’s written instructions, downloading the photo from her camera to the computer, and then attaching it to her email. ‘Off you go,’ she said aloud, pressing ‘send’.
Nothing happened.
‘Off you go this time,’ she said again.
Still nothing.
She checked the cable. Fine. The connection. Not fine. Drat, she thought. Of all days for the internet to go down. She really wanted Ellen to see the photo today.
What could she do? She didn’t want to ring Luke, even though she knew he was home in Clare with his mother. Not on Christmas Day. Even computer whizkids needed one day off a year. It might be easy to fix but it could also be tricky, and she knew Luke wouldn’t leave without sorting out the problem. No, she didn’t want him using up hours of his day on her.
She went to the office and tried the motel computer. The same problem. Was it something to do with that fierce wind? Perhaps the email and the photo were having trouble flying through the air or whatever it was they did to get around.
No matter, she decided. She had another computer trick up her sleeve. She also had the keys to Jim’s car. She was a good driver, despite what people thought about women of her age still having licences. Besides, hardly anyone would be on the roads this time of the afternoon on Christmas Day. She also had the keys to the charity shop. The internet connection there was very reliable. A much better setup than her own, too. She might even watch a few YouTube clips of old musicals once she’d sent her photo off to Ellen. That always cheered her up. Not that she needed cheering up. She was absolutely fine. Not in the least bit lonely.
Not in the least. And she’d only checked her mobile phone for messages a few times. Six, at the most.
The main street was almost empty. There was only one car parked at the northern end. It was very, very hot, she realised. Even if it hadn’t been Christmas Day, the temperature would have kept people inside and off the road. She could see mirage-like shimmers on the asphalt ahead. The trees lining the street barely gave off any shade. She drove on past the shop and around the corner to the coolest spot she could find. She could be inside for an hour or so, depending on what clips she found on YouTube. She didn’t want to come back to a baking car.
The Santa hat she was wearing wasn’t great at keeping the sun off her face. She kept her head down and stayed close to the cool of the buildings as she hurried towards the front door of the charity shop. The display area was still empty, but the sign asking for donations had been replaced with dozens of A4 sheets of paper covering the front door and the entire window, all bearing the same two words. ‘Thank You.’
She went inside and shut and double-locked the door behind her. Not that anyone would be trying to get in, but it was a habit she’d developed whenever she was in the shop on her own after closing time, counting the day’s takings. It was already warm inside, after only a day without the airconditioning being on. The shop was closed now until the new year.
It felt nice to be there on her own, she realised, as she turned on the computer, heard its familiar hum and watched the screen come to life. Yes, the internet was working fine here. She quickly connected the camera, downloaded the photo and sent her email off to Ellen. That should give them something to laugh at if there’s any tension there at all, she thought.
She’d just logged out of her email account and was about to go onto YouTube when she heard something. A noise out the back. There was only a small walled yard there, where they kept spare cardboard boxes and the shop’s mop bucket and rubbish bin. She stood up and peered through the little window that looked into the yard. The gate in the wall was moving.
‘Who’s there?’ she called, her voice barely a whisper. Another banging noise. The gate moved again. As if someone was on the other side of the wall, trying to kick their way in.
To where? To here? To the shop? But why on earth would someone do that? On Christmas Day? There was nothing here to steal. All the money was gone, banked on Christmas Eve. There were just a few racks of second-hand clothes, a couple of shelves of old books and DVDs.
And a full computer setup. A computer. A camera. A colour printer. A scanner.
She heard voices.
Her hands started to shake. Whoever was outside wouldn’t expect anyone to be there. They’d have chosen this lazy hot time on Christmas Day for exactly that reason. But how would anyone have even known it was here to steal?
The answer came to her immediately. Mrs Kernaghan’s TV segment. She had sat in front of the computer, proudly demonstrating what a state-of-the-art setup they had. She’d actually used the term ‘state-of-the-art’. None of them had thought for a moment it would make them a target. They were a charity shop. Who would steal from a charity shop?
The voice came from just outside the window. ‘Hurry up, mate.’
She had to hide. She couldn’t stop them. Once she would have tried. Grabbed something, a broom, an umbrella, tried to scare them off that way. But she was old. She was frail. Where could she go? What should she do? Ring for the police? There wasn’t time. She could see them both now, two young men, inside the yard. They were starting to force open the door to the shop itself.
She only had a minute, less. Quick, Lola. Quick. Think. The changing room. It had a door, a lock. They wouldn’t expect anyone to be in there. They wouldn’t even look, would they?
They wouldn’t hurt her if they did find her, would they?
She got herself into the changing room and locked the door only seconds before she heard the back door fly open. It slammed against the wall. ‘Fucking hell. Keep the noise down,’ she heard one of the men say. The same voice? A third voice? Were there more than two of them?
‘Jesus, look at it. This must be worth a fortune.’
‘We’ll find out,’ the other said.
‘It’s still on.’
‘Just pull out the plug.’
‘Someone’s left a handbag behind too.’
‘Grab it.’
Lola started to shake even more. Why hadn’t she picked up her handbag? Her mobile phone was inside it. Her camera. The keys to the car. The keys to the shop. The keys to the motel. She nearly called out. Please don’t take my keys. She didn‘t. She held her breath. They were quiet now, busy. She heard the computer being dismantled, shoved into cardboard boxes. She’d heard them drag several inside. The leftover cardboard boxes from the Christmas appeal. She heard the back door and back gate open, shut, open again as they went in and out. They were quick. Efficient. Go. Go, get out, leave. Please, just take it, just go, just go …
‘Jesus, mate. Get out of there. Someone will see you.’
‘It’s Christmas Day. No one’s around. I need some new clothes. Give us a minute.’
‘It’s second-hand crap. Get out of there.’
Lola was now shaking so violently her teeth were chattering. How could they not hear her? She couldn’t control it. Not just her hands, her whole body was trembling. She was so scared. Scared they’d find her. Scared what they’d do if they found her. She started to pray, to God, to Mary, to baby Jesus, to all the saints, to her parents, to her ex-husband, to everyone she could remember. Help me, help me, help me. Go, please go. Go. Take everything you want. Just go. She heard the back door slam. Heard something else screech shut in the backyard. The gate. It was strong, made of steel. They must have forced it open and forced it shut again. A moment later, their car started. It had a noisy exhaust.
It was ten minutes before she could move. Another five minutes before her hands stopped trembling enough to open the small flimsy lock that had kept the changing room door shut. If they had tried it, if they had pushed it even slightly, it would have opened. The thought of being found so easily, the thought of them pushing back the door and seeing her there, in the corner, set off more shaking. She had to hold onto the door, the racks, take support from wherever she could to make her way across the shop to the back room where there was a chair. She nearly fell twice. Her legs could barely hold her up. She had to get out of there. She had to ring someone, anyone.
She couldn‘t. They’d taken her bag and taken her phone. There wasn’t a landline in the shop.
She’d have to go out on the street, flag someone down.
She couldn’t open the front door. She’d double-locked it. The keys were in her bag.
She tried to bang on the door, get someone’s attention that way. She was still shaking so much she barely made a noise.
She tried to tear at the signs covering the front window, the signs saying ‘Thank You’ over and over again. She’d helped tape them up herself. She couldn’t seem to tear any of them off. Her hands were useless.
Outside, the street was quiet. No cars, no people. It was Christmas Day. Everyone was at home.
She’d have to use the back door. She went out into the tiny yard. It had to be forty degrees or more out there, the temperature heightened by the white paint on the walls. The door to the shop slammed behind her as she went out. She tried the gate. It wouldn’t budge. Whatever they’d done when they kicked it open and kicked it shut would need more than her strength to fix.
Stay calm, Lola. Stay calm. Go back inside and think. Stop shaking and think.
She pulled at the back door. Pulled again. It was stuck. No, it couldn’t be. Again, and again. The handle was so small, and her hands were now sweating so much she couldn’t get a grip on it. She took off her hat, the ridiculous Santa hat she was still wearing, and tried using that. It just slipped off the handle. She kicked the door with her sandalled foot. She did nothing but hurt her toe.
She was stuck in the yard. In the sun.
‘Help!’ she called. ‘Please, someone. Help me!’
Who would hear her? The shops on either side were shut for two days.
‘Help! Please! Can anyone hear me?’
How could they? There was no one nearby to hear.
‘Please! Someone! Anyone! Help me!’
The only sound was the cicadas, tick-tick-ticking in the heat.
Chapter Nineteen
Moonee Ponds,
Melbourne
The noise in the living room had reached ear-splitting levels. There was a game of chasey going on, the four children weaving their way at high speed between the dining table, the sofa, out the back door into the garden and then onto the deck, coming perilously close to knocking over the card table laden with drinks each time. In the kitchen, a group of women were laughing over a bottle of prosecco while they mixed salads. At floor level, two toddlers were taking it in turns to pick up blocks of Lego and throw them at each other. Outside in the barbecue area, three men were in charge of cooking the plates of marinated fish and chicken.
In a comfortable armchair at the end of the open-plan kitchen and living room, an elderly man sat back, eyes closed, oblivious to the noise and the chaos around him. He had his iPod plugged in, with the soothing tones of Bach beautifully blocking out the squeals, the shouts, the running feet and the slamming of the back door as the twenty members of his family went in and out, sending in a blast of Christmas Day heat each time.
Fifteen minutes earlier, his daughter had asked if he’d like anything: a glass of wine, a beer, some sparkling water?
‘Water would be lovely, thank you, cara.’
She’d gone over to the kitchen to get it, got caught up in a conversation with her sister and two sisters-in-law and forgotten about him, he realised now. No wonder. She’d been flat-out busy all day. All week, in fact. It was no easy feat to cook Christmas lunch not just for her own family, and for him, but her husband’s extended family as well. She’d been making lists and muttering to herself for days now. He’d get the water himself. He’d been waited on hand and foot enough as it was.
‘You all spoil me,’ he’d said to her earlier when she settled him in his favourite chair and made sure he had the latest edition of Il Globo to read.
‘You’re our dad. It’s our job to spoil you.’
Before going over to the fridge he took a moment to take in the whole scene around him. To think he was responsible in some way for all of these people being gathered here today, all from different countries and backgrounds, here in Australia. The idea of it overwhelmed him sometimes. They’d done a count one day, his daughters and his sons-in-law, and they’d got to nine, nine countries represented in some way in just his one family. Italy, of course, through him and his ancestry. His wife too, God rest her soul. But after that, the Lombardis had turned international. His oldest daughter, Italian-born and raised, had gone travelling after university and while in France, met a young man studying winemaking. An Australian, of Hungarian and Spanish descent. His other daughter had stayed closer to home, but married a Swedish man working nearby, whose father was from Stockholm but whose mother was German. It had continued into the next generation too. His oldest granddaughter, half-Italian half-Australian in ancestry, now completely Australian in accent, was dating a Vietnamese man she’d met at university. His grandson was engaged to a young New Zealander. And somehow, all of them, every branch of his large family tree, had ended up living here in Melbourne, within twenty kilometres of each other. The Italian side coming through, his daughter always said. We stick together. Family is everything.
He’d never have thought, all those years ago when he returned to Italy, that he would be back here. It was like he’d been given four lives, he often thought. His first twenty-four years in Italy. Ten years in Australia. Italy again for nearly forty years. And now back in Australia again.
His daughter Rosie, now in her early fifties, had moved here with her Australian winemaker husband soon after they were married. Her two children had been born here. She’d begged him to come and join her family after her mother died. ‘Please, Papa, while you’re still young enough. If you wait any longer, you’ll be too old to enjoy it when you get here. You used to love Australia, didn’t you? You’ll love it again.’
He had loved it. It had been filled with good memories for him. Sad times too. But precious ones. Work he had done. Places he had seen. People he had met. A woman he had loved.
He’d spent a lot of time in recent months thinking back over those days in Melbourne. His daughter had taken him on a day trip down through Brighton and so many memories had returned as they had coffee at one of the beac
hside cafes. He’d almost spoken to Rosie about that time, but he’d stopped himself. He knew from experience that his daughters didn’t like to think of him as having had any romantic life at all before he had met their mother.
He wondered whether all this memory-revisiting was part of growing old or a subtle hint that the end was nigh? He hoped not. He was only eighty-three. He ate well, exercised as much as possible, worked outdoors in the garden when he could. Sudden cardiac arrests or road accidents aside, he might have another decade ahead of him.
If he didn’t die of thirst now, that was. He glanced over. His daughter was still laughing, standing at the bench with a glass in one hand, a salad fork in the other. He reached beside him for the stick he needed to use more and more, and made his way over to the fridge.
She spotted him. ‘Papa! You’re banned from the kitchen. Back to your chair!’
‘Banned from the kitchen, not from the fridge. A glass of water isn’t out of the question, surely?’
‘Oh, God. I forgot. I’m sorry. Here, let me get it.’
He touched her cheek. ‘I can manage a glass of water for myself, cara.’
The fridge door was covered in bits of paper, postcards, work rosters, swimming pool opening hours, all secured by colourful magnets. As he opened the door to get the bottle of water, one of the magnets fell off, sending a flutter of paper towards him.
He started to reach down and was beaten to it by his daughters. He managed to retrieve two pieces of paper himself, without too much groaning, and made a show of pinning them back on the fridge, making a mock bow when the women congratulated him far too effusively. He was beginning to think his family regarded him as a useless old pet.
He did manage to get to the fridge magnet on the floor before them. Rosie collected them, insisting that travelling friends send her the most outlandish ones they could find. This one was from Munich, an over-sized stein of beer, three sausages and what was supposed to be sauerkraut but looked more like slugs in a bowl. Putting it back on the fridge, he noticed his own name on one of the slips of paper stuck there. Underneath, two other names, with phone numbers beside them. Lola. Luke.