by Joy Dettman
And the final paragraph: Her nephew was in the process of selling up the last of his interests in Australia.
Lorna rose from her chair, the blood leaving her brow, her cheeks, to centre in her blob of battle-scarred nose.
‘That fool does not know who he is dealing with,’ her teeth spat. ‘Pack for two days, Duckworth. We are going to Woody Creek.’
Amber may have near forgotten answering to her former name; she hadn’t forgotten Woody Creek, and in the process of carrying two meals from kitchen to dining table, the shock of that name almost caused a disaster. She spilled gravy, lost a pea or two, but managed to get those plates down, then hid her face for minutes while cleaning up the spilled gravy and hunting down spilled peas.
A civil little woman, the neighbours, the minister and his wife said of Miss Duckworth. Few had little to say to her and not one of them would have believed she’d spent sixteen years in an asylum for the criminally insane. Amber had never been insane. She’d had unrealised expectations of life, and when life had refused to pay its dues, like a cornered rat, she’d become a little vicious.
She was content in Kew, Lorna’s loyal guide dog, her reader/navigator/cook/cleaner, and companion who never said no. And she must. She could not accompany Lorna to Woody Creek.
Or could she? What was the likelihood of anyone recognising her after all this time? In 1946, Amber Morrison had worn her beige-blonde hair shoulder length, had clothed herself in beige suits, beige frocks, beige hats and gloves – a camouflage for her true colours, Norman had once commented. Elizabeth Duckworth dressed in soft blues, lilacs; her silky white hair was worn short, curly. She dressed well. For the first time in her life, she could afford to dress well. She paid no rent. Lorna supplied the majority of the food they ate, and for this, Amber, as wily as a rat in the snake pit, measured each reaction, censored every word, ever alert for slips.
‘Woodscreek? I don’t believe I’ve heard the name before, Miss Hooper.’
‘Woody Creek,’ Lorna’s teeth snapped. ‘My sister and I were raised there. My fool of a brother still resides there with the Morrison trollop – in my father’s house, I might add.’
She’d mentioned her fool of a brother previously. Miss Duckworth had never met Jim Hooper, but Amber knew him well.
‘Do they have children, Miss Hooper?’ she asked now.
‘A daughter, who my brother had the good sense to remove from the trollop’s influence. She’s being educated at the college my sister and I attended,’ Lorna said, and again she loaded her dentures with food. Not a pretty sight: a featherless vulture with a damaged beak, swallowing what it could rip from a swollen carcass. ‘My sister, Margaret, adopted their bastard son. You’ve met him.’
Amber placed her fork down to listen. She’d met Lorna’s nephew, but had been unaware that he was the son of Norman’s stray. She watched the dentures fight another load down, waiting for further information, but Lorna turned the conversation to the pittance in interest she might expect to receive per annum on a thirty-thousand-dollar investment, which, according to her, would be hard-pressed to cover the cost of ever-increasing land rates and electricity.
A viperous woman, Amber thought. Her benefactor absorbed information as a python absorbed a goat; and a week, a month or a year later, she could spit out the skin and bones of it intact.
‘Is there a train service to Woody Creek?’ Miss Duckworth asked.
‘Humph,’ Lorna replied. She refused to mix with the masses on public transport. ‘I’ll speak to my solicitor on Monday. We’ll leave on Tuesday.’
‘I feel I must express my concern for your sight, Miss Hooper, and the distance.’
Lorna’s eye specialist had suggested she sell her vehicle. Her optician had seconded the motion. Both were male. Lorna had little respect for a male’s opinion.
‘If my brother will not act on his own behalf and prevent the sale of our father’s land, then he may be encouraged to act on his daughter’s behalf.’
His daughter. The words reached down to the place of Amber’s anger. Sissy should have borne his daughters.
Had Sissy married, borne children? Was she back in that town?
She’d recognise her mother, short hair or long, beige or blue frock. As would Maisy.
Memories are long in Woody Creek, Amb, Maisy had written.
Norman’s stray would recognise her.
‘I warned that boy the day my sister died that I’d reveal his whereabouts to the trollop should he ever attempt to sell my father’s land. He’s known me long enough to know I keep my word,’ Lorna said, her words accompanied by the toss of the vulture’s featherless head and a tap of her talon on her empty plate.
Amber rose to remove the plate and to fetch the treacle pudding and custard. Only one serve. She placed it before her benefactor, then again took her place at the foot of the table, her mind searching for excuse as to why she could not accompany Lorna to Woody Creek. Watched Lorna’s dessert spoon dig into the pudding, watched her throat as she swallowed.
‘The traffic is increasing each year–’
‘We will leave at daylight, and I am more than familiar with the route.’ Lorna swallowed another mouthful of pudding. ‘We will obtain accommodation at Willama – a neighbouring town. You will remain there while I take care of my business.’
At last, Amber filled her fork. Willama was thirty-odd miles from Woody Creek, too far away in ’46.
Her mutton casserole had grown cold. No matter. She’d eaten worse.
*
They left Melbourne before seven on the Tuesday morning, Amber afraid of the early traffic, Lorna afraid of nothing. They broke their journey at a roadhouse, where they ate a second breakfast while Lorna rested her eyes. She drove on along country roads, keeping her speed down to a comfortable twenty-eight miles an hour. A tractor, going about its morning business, passed them on a straight stretch. They had a frustrated tail of ten cars where the road twisted between hills.
But they got there, secured two rooms at a motel close to the centre of town, then walked down to Willama’s main restaurant for lunch. It was little changed since the last time Amber had eaten there, with Sissy, Margaret and Lorna the day they’d ordered Sissy’s wedding gown. Memories. This town was full of them, though no longer the same town.
At one thirty, Amber, seated well forward, looking left, looking right, sighted the Woody Creek signpost. She vacated the passenger seat, leaving her benefactor to drive on alone while she walked back to Willama’s centre. She’d noticed a big Woolworths store close by the restaurant. Lorna refused to set foot in their stores, or in Coles. Amber enjoyed wandering their aisles.
*
At fifteen minutes past two, Lorna parked her car in Hooper Street and walked down the brick path she knew so well, to the veranda she’d worn out with her morning constitutionals. The floorboards had been replaced. She was confronted by a modern security door. It galled her that she couldn’t get at the heavy brass knocker. A doorbell on her left. She chose not to ring it, but with the side of a closed fist hammered on the metal mesh.
The trollop opened the inner door, and was about to close it when Lorna stated her business.
‘I have been in recent contact with your bastard son,’ she said. ‘I wish to speak to my brother.’
Inside, a key turned, then the trollop disappeared.
*
Lorna was seated in the sitting room when Jim joined her. Not Jenny. She stood in the passage, within hearing range but out of sight. She heard Lorna enquire after Gertrude’s health, and for an instant believed that the black-clad hag had lost her mind. Granny had been dead for almost twenty years.
‘She’s well,’ Jim said.
Trudy, originally registered as Gertrude Maria, had been Trudy Juliana since her adoption.
‘You told Jen that you’ve seen Jimmy,’ Jim said.
Jenny held her breath for Lorna’s reply.
Not the right reply.
‘Our father’s property is t
o be placed on the market,’ Lorna said. ‘His will stipulates that the family farm is never to be sold. I intend to stop the sale. You have funds at your disposal?’
‘Sufficient for our needs,’ Jim said. ‘When did you see Jimmy?’
Lorna scoffed. ‘My recent contact has been through Atkinson, who also informed me that my funds are to be further limited. I spoke to my solicitor yesterday, who assured me that Gertrude, being your legitimate issue, has a greater claim to our father’s estate than a possible grandson born out of wedlock. I expect you to join with me in a suit to prevent the sale of the land – if not for your own benefit, then for the benefit of my niece.’
‘Where is Jimmy living?’
‘The irresponsible fool calls himself Langdon. He inherited Langdon Hall, my mother’s family property. It was a crumbling wreck when I was there in ’52,’ she scoffed.
And they had it.
James Morrison Langdon, Langdon Hall, Thames Ditton, England.
The envelope was addressed that night, the letter written. Not an easy letter to write, and perhaps too long. When it had been festooned with airmail stickers and was gone from their hands, Jenny wished it back.
‘I shouldn’t have said . . .’
‘It was a perfect letter, Jen. It’s up to him now to make the next move.’
*
Waited for him to make the next move.
Waited for months.
Waited for the letter to return.
They saw Israeli commandoes liberate one hundred and three hostages held by pro-Palestinian terrorists in Uganda; saw the American spacecraft Viking 1 land on Mars. They saw the advertising of cigarettes banned on radio and television. They saw Vern Hooper’s land sold to the Jenner brothers; saw Pastor Doug Nichols appointed governor of South Australia, the first Aborigine to hold a vice-regal office. They saw random breath testing introduced to Victoria, in an attempt to get drunk drivers off the roads.
Saw another Christmas, and looked for a Christmas card from England. They’d settle for a Christmas card.
No card.
Nothing.
‘It’s time to let go, Jen.’
‘Tell me how and I will.’
Nineteen seventy-seven began with a rail disaster in the Blue Mountains. It was followed by the kidnapping of a teacher and nine schoolchildren. At the same time, the Queen and Prince Philip were on their way across the ocean to celebrate their silver jubilee.
That’s life. Good or bad, it goes on and on.
KIDNAP
They came in the night, five days before the Christmas of ’77. They came silently. Robin had his own room now, a big boy’s room. He didn’t wake. Bowser didn’t alert the house. Dear, laughing, friendly Bowser, never destined to become a watchdog, lay on the back porch in a pool of blood, his head near severed.
Robert found him. He covered him with one of his own blankets before rousing Cara. It was she who found Tracy’s bed empty. It was she who found the screen removed from Tracy’s bedroom window, that window open and a circle cut professionally in its glass.
They’d been so safe in Ferntree Gully. For most of this year, they’d felt safe. Tracy’s adoption would be finalised in a month or two.
And Tracy was gone.
Cara’s scream woke Robin. He saw the empty bed and ran for the back door. Robert caught him before he reached the bloody porch, so he ran for the front door, unlocked it. He climbed over the front gate and ran out to the street, calling his sister’s name. Cara, pyjama clad, unlocked the gate and ran after him, calling his name. Robert dialled triple zero.
Neighbours who occupy safe suburban courts know their neighbours; and when a quiet household alters its early-morning habits, neighbours peer between venetian blinds, from behind closed bedroom curtains. When they see a pyjama-clad woman and her little boy barefoot in the street, the boy calling his sister’s name, they know why.
The woman from Number Eight, her hair in plastic rollers, the man from Number Five in his dressing-gown, opened their front doors.
Robert walked out to the footpath. ‘The police are on their way,’ he called. The woman with her hair in rollers hurriedly donned her dressing-gown, hid her curlers beneath a scarf, and crossed over the road, where the male and two half-grown boys from Number Three joined her.
Robert told them his granddaughter had been taken from her bed sometime between midnight and seven. He was grey-faced and trembling.
Cara had Robin’s hand, was drawing him resisting back towards Number Seven, but he pulled away to search the next-door neighbour’s yard, still calling ‘Tracy’.
‘The police are on their way. They’ll find her,’ Robert said. The woman with rollers went next door to fetch Robin. ‘Come home with me, love, and have breakfast with Jack,’ she said.
But Robin wanted to find his sister, and refused to stop calling or searching until the police came.
‘Go with Mrs Macy,’ Robert said.
Robin went, but unwillingly.
A male and a female constable now in charge, the neighbours returned to their fence lines. Minutes later, a second police car arrived carrying two more men in blue.
‘Raelene King and Dino Collins,’ Cara howled to them. ‘They killed our dog. They’ll kill Tracy. Raelene King and Dino Collins. They cut a hole above the lock in her bedroom window.’
The police wanted to go inside. Cara wanted them to get back into their cars and hunt that feral bitch and her mongrel mate down, wanted them to shoot them with the guns they carried on their hips. It was Robert who led them inside, explaining Raelene King’s connection to Tracy.
Nothing more to be seen on the street, the neighbours sat down to their breakfasts.
‘She’s the natural mother of the child?’ the older of the men in blue asked.
‘Is it natural to break your baby’s arm?’ Cara howled.
There was nothing natural about murdering a beautiful friendly dog. The police lifted the bloody blanket, replaced it too slowly. Cara saw Bowser’s dead eyes, his open mouth, the blood. In such circumstances, the death of a dog is neither here nor there to a policeman. They didn’t know he’d been more than a dog, he’d been Bowser, Cara’s dog, and she had to bury him. They wouldn’t let her bury him.
‘We’ll look after him for you, Mrs Grenville.’
Then the questions began, and Cara was crying, out of control. She’d been answering questions for three years; fighting a mindless system that allowed those who abused their babies between flogging their wares on street corners to dictate the lives of those babies.
She watched Robert search the high cabinet to the left of the stove, looking behind headache pills, throat lozenges, bandaids and sundry until he found his out-of-date bottle of Valium. Out of date or not, he had the cap off and a pill in his mouth before Cara slapped the bottle from his hand.
‘Don’t you try to hide from this, Daddy!’
He washed it down, then picked up the bottle and spilt pills, found the lid hiding beneath the fridge door. Cara walked away from him to the police now studying the window and the hole cut in its glass.
‘You might like to dress, Mrs Grenville,’ the female officer suggested.
Cara looked down at her pyjama top, one button missing, and nothing beneath that top. Turned on her heel and went to her bedroom to stare at her reflection in the mirror. Jenny’s face looked back at her. Today, she hated that face; hated Jenny for doing the things she’d done, for living the life she’d lived, and for her happily-ever-after with the man she loved, and her name on two kids’ books. Hated her more for Raelene. Blamed her for Raelene.
Blame helps when there is no help.
She clad herself in the jeans she’d worn yesterday, in the light summer shirt she’d worn yesterday, slid her feet into sandals, combed her hair, then went out to more questions.
Told them again of her baby’s broken arm, of the magistrates, of mindless laws that had refused to allow her to take her two children to a place where they’d be safe. Told
them plenty they didn’t need to know, but nothing that might help them find Tracy. And she was already dead anyway. In her heart, in her bones, in her stomach, Cara knew they’d cut her tiny throat as they’d cut Bowser’s.
Robert, calmed by his out-of-date pill, answered their questions. ‘We heard nothing. If the dog had barked, we would have heard him.’
And they were taking Bowser away.
‘This is his home!’ Cara howled. ‘I’ll bury him in his garden.’
‘He’ll be returned, Mrs Grenville. Try to remain calm. Did the natural mother have a relationship with her daughter?’
‘If breaking her arm and giving her nightmares qualifies, then yes, she had a relationship,’ Cara yelled.
‘She saw her mother on average twice a year, though not in the last twelve months,’ Robert, retired school principal, said, in control now. ‘In July, her natural mother signed papers releasing Tracy for adoption.’
Cara left him to it. He knew the details. He’d stood at her side through the last years of it.
She went to the refrigerator and stood looking into it, unsure of why she’d opened it. Or maybe she knew. There was a bottle of vodka in the door shelf, beside the bottles of milk. Sun a long way yet from the yardarm, but she removed it, poured a dash into a glass and drank it. Her empty stomach didn’t like it; perhaps her head would.
The glass in hand, she stood listening to the questions, to Robert’s replies.
‘I went to bed sometime after ten. My daughter would have been in bed by twelve.’
His daughter had spent five hours last night attempting to find the life and times of a youthful Matilda Robertson, in love with her soldier boy. Robert had escaped from his mother at seventeen to join the army. He’d been helpful last night in filling in many details of that era, that war.
