by Marele Day
‘Anything in the cupboard?’ I asked.
‘Nothing much. Have a look.’
It contained a few rusty oarlocks, tools, lengths of wire, and other odds and ends that always seem to end up in sheds but serve no discernible purpose. I moved around, just to be thorough, but there didn’t appear to be anything in here that might help me find Madalena.
I wondered how Madalena felt about the river, whether discovering her brother the way she did had left its scars. ‘Did Madalena use the boat?’
‘Yes. Sometimes. For a long time after Roberto died Arturo wouldn’t let her anywhere near the water. When he was home, he wouldn’t let her out of his sight. She thought It was because he blamed her for it but it wasn’t true. He just didn’t want to lose her the same way. I told him he had to stop this. The doctor even told him to relax, get a hobby. Go fishing, that’s what the doctor advised,’ she said with a touch of irony. ‘So, we started to go in the boat again. Madalena got bored quickly with the fishing but she liked the boat. She would sit there, trailing her hand in the water. Dreaming whatever children dream. Sometimes she and I would make up stories about bushes and trees on the other side. You know, if you look hard they make animal shapes. But then Arturo would tell us to be quiet, we were scaring the fish,’ Rosa smiled. ‘I don’t know why it would make a difference, the fish back in those days would practically jump on the line. Now Arturo leaves them alone. He doesn’t come home, always at work.’ Rosa laughed derisively. ‘It’s better that way. When he comes home he drinks grappa and gets angry. So I go and see Anna. She likes the company, her husband is away a lot.’ Yes, and I knew where.
‘What work does your husband do?’
‘He has the restaurant, La Giardinera in Leichhardt. And he has other properties.’
The trip down here hadn’t yielded any material clues about Madalena but it had told me quite a lot. We came out of the shed and Rosa closed the door behind her.
‘Please find my daughter,’ she said suddenly. ‘If she doesn’t want to tell us where she is, if she doesn’t want to come home … I will accept it. I just want to know she is all right. I just want to know she’s … alive.’
We walked back up the 230 steps in silence. They were every bit as bad as I thought they’d be.
SEVEN
Danny, you’re joking. We may as well take it out to a field and shoot it.’ My mechanic had phoned, to talk about the Daimler. The more Danny worked on the car the more he found. It wasn’t just the gasket anymore, it was going to require a major overhaul. Danny had promised the Daimler would be ready today, I had already returned the hire car. I felt stunned, as if I’d gone to the doctor with a sore throat and been told I had cancer. ‘It’s going to cost you a packet if you want to get it passed rego. However, if you sell it to me …’
Danny had made the offer before. He’d buy it from me for a few thousand dollars, do it up, with all the trims, and bring it back to original condition. Then he’d sell it to a collector for ten times as much.
‘I’ll think about it, Danny.’ Mina was selling the house, maybe it was time for me to sell the car.
‘Serious?’ I told him I was. ‘Great. What are you doing for wheels in the meantime? I can lend you a car if you like.’ This was the first time he’d ever offered me a replacement vehicle. All generosity now that I was saying I’d think about it instead of a straight-out no.
‘I should be OK for a day or two. You’ll at least have the Daimler running by then, won’t you?’ I hinted. ‘I want to take it for one last drive.’
I felt virtuous going to Rookwood Cemetery by train, as if I was on a pilgrimage. The way to the cemetery is lined with businesses making a living from the dead—Andrews Memorial Co; Italian Monuments: All Welcome; Star Memorial: Modern, Traditional and Special Ethnic Designs in all Cemeteries; and one of my personal favourites—Monumental Masons, great name for a rock band. As I walked along I could see the headstones lined up in the yard waiting to be delivered. All the dates were recent, within the last month. Down the street was Pleasant Stay Motor Inn, and Globe Memorial, specialising in Monuments and Lettering, Marble and Granite Work, Kitchen Bench Tops.
I turned the corner, crossed the road and entered the clay-coloured gates. In black letters on a gold plate it said: ROOKWOOD NECROPOLIS. The city of the dead. From the sandwich shop across the road the smell of onions and beetroot wafted.
The first set of graves along Necropolis Drive were old, nineteenth century graves overgrown with dry weeds. Some of them were caving in, their headstones fallen over, the bricks surrounding them sinking into the ground as rain and scorching sun altered the shape of the landscape. Even though I knew I wouldn’t find my father in this part of the cemetery, occasionally I looked at the graves as I passed by. Sarah Vickers, died 11th Dec, 1885. Aged two months. There were a lot of baby graves from that era.
The road curved round to more recent times, affording an overall view of weathered headstones, large and small, in a field of yellow daisies and purple native flowers. Beyond that the trees on the park-like area of the cemetery pushed into a hot, bright blue sky with a smear of vapour too thin to be called cloud. I trudged along in the heat, waving away a halo of flies.
By the time I got to the twentieth century I was forgetting about the joys of public transport and wishing I’d taken up Danny’s offer of a car. I didn’t even have my mobile phone with me to call a cab. I hadn’t thought I’d need a mobile phone in a cemetery. Rookwood covered 312 hectares and by the end of the morning I must have walked over every centimetre of it.
The death certificate told me that Guy was at Rookwood, but not the specific location. The city of the dead divided up according to religion—Catholic, Church of England, Independent, Jewish, Greek Orthodox. It was itself a smaller version of the living city. Old, dilapidated parts of town, trendy inner city areas with rows of graves close to each other like rows of terrace houses, sprawling suburbs with elaborate headstones, neat, uniform black granite with white writing, some structures that looked like miniature castles for the ghost to roam at night, messages and goodbye wishes of every kind engraved into the stone, crucifixes, cherubs, gold roses. There was even a Chinatown with a distinctive green and red pagoda at the entrance and Chinese ideographs etched in gold on the pink-brown artificial marble headstones. Other graves in Chinatown were surrounded by white pillared fences. Chinatown had the best views. From here you could see back to the city—arc of the Harbour Bridge, the cluster of tall buildings, small and insignificant from this distance.
As I made my way to the Catholic information office I passed a row of identical graves—grey stone, crucifixes on top and full-length crucifixes on the tombs themselves. Something about it reminded me of knights and the crusades. These were the graves of Catholic clergy, a community of brothers, together in death as they had been in life.
In the office they looked up the date of burial but they couldn’t find my father’s name. They looked a few days either side but he did not appear in their records. ‘Are you sure he’s buried in this section?’ they asked. No, I wasn’t sure. Sorry, but they couldn’t help me. I’d have to try one of the other religions.
‘Isn’t there a central computer? Don’t you guys interface with the other religions?’ The heat was making me short-tempered. ‘What about the World Council of Churches?’
I trudged off, waving flies from off my face. I tried the Church of England, the Independents, the Greek Orthodox. I was hot, thirsty and sweaty. I wouldn’t have minded lying beneath a cooling slab of marble myself. Three-quarters of a million bodies out here. I must have walked by all of them.
It wasn’t till I was unsuccessfully walking away from the Jewish section that I came across the sign to the Crematorium. My last resort. I trudged up the road.
There were birds twittering and the opulent, velvety smell of rose bushes. There were curved brick walls with name plaques, highrise dwellings compared to the sprawling suburbs of graves. Past the walls I saw the roses
themselves, luscious and pink. Sturdy, handsome plants, the pride of any gardener. Each of them bore a plaque in remembrance of a loved one. Some of the best blood and bone in Sydney fertilised those rose bushes. They formed part of an ordered Mediterranean-style garden with trees, bushes and little paths leading to a central fountain. Squatting on the rim of the fountain, dipping its beak into the water, was a fat black raven.
The Mediterranean theme was continued in the portico, potted plants and flagstones of the crematorium office and chapel complex. There were rest rooms, a Coca-Cola machine and, joy of joys, a water fountain. Outside the west chapel entrance was a party of elderly gents with so many medals and RSL badges on their lapels it made their suits lopsided. Suits, despite the weather. But then they’d probably come in airconditioned cars. The women in the party wore their best summer dresses.
I noticed the refreshing drop in temperature as soon as I entered the office.
‘What can I do for you?’ said the pleasant chap at the counter.
‘I’m looking for my father. For his remains,’ I corrected myself. I gave him the necessary details.
He opened a big register, looking up briefly at the sound of someone coming in the door. Being a person who always wants to know who is standing behind me, I turned to have a look. A sober-looking man in dark glasses and driving gloves, with some paperwork in his hand. The driver of the hearse that had just pulled up in the driveway.
The man behind the counter was turning pages and repeating softly to himself, ‘Third, third.’ I was following as best I could. In my job you get pretty good at reading things from all possible angles, even hand-written material as the entries in the register were. But the way he was holding the book, I could only see the first couple of lines. ‘Yes, here we are. 3rd May.’ I saw his eyes move down one column then the next. He started to shake his head then he stopped. ‘Valentine. Guy Valentine?’
I don’t know which came first, the rippling feeling in my chest or the tears in my eyes. Hearing this man say his name, like a small dense bubble bursting in my face. The man behind me was getting impatient. He had business to attend to. ‘Yes,’ I said briskly, ‘that’s right.’ He gave me the relevant coordinate points.
‘Thanks.’ I walked out into the heat again, crossing in front of a woman and two children who were heading for the RSL party. The boy and girl had identical silky red hair. They were wearing baggy shorts and cool sleeveless tops, the spitting image of the woman. Daughter and grandchildren of the deceased. Everything shifted out of focus for a moment, then I saw the scene with crystal clarity. It was me and my children heading towards that group of people. Guy’s funeral. Here, now. Everyone gathered, his buddies, his daughter, grandchildren. Sad occasion, they were murmuring, great bloke. And Brian was making a eulogy. Except … these people were complete strangers and my father had been dead for years.
I made my way through the rose garden to the wall. ‘In loving memory of Walter, loved husband of Kathleen …’ I continued along, looking at the bricks.
GUY VALENTINE, 25 APRIL, 1985. It was down low to the ground, I had to bend to read it. There was no loving memory engraved on this one. I put my hand on the plaque, felt the coldness of the metal. I’d walked all over the city of the dead looking for my father. And now I had found him. His ashes in this wall of ashes, of people who in life may have been rich, poor, famous, happy, sad. I pressed my fingers on his name. In loving memory. When I took my hand away my moist fingers had left traces in the film of dust.
EIGHT
I don’t know what it was about the Anna Larossa case, but I couldn’t seem to get away from it. Here I was back in Strathfield, but not outside the Larossa house. Outside Madalena’s school. I was sitting in a borrowed Mazda. After Rookwood I’d decided to take up Danny’s offer of a car. I mean, who’s ever heard of a PI getting around on public transport? Danny had a range of cars at his disposal. He’d offered me the sleek black 1965 Valiant with purple Gothic trim, but I settled on the more modest Mazda.
I’d only ever run away from home once. The issue was broad beans. I emptied the contents of my sock drawer into my school bag. ‘I’m going to find Dad,’ I’d shouted at Mina, ‘he wouldn’t make me eat those beans!’ I stormed out of the house, all set for adventure. Imagine what a good omen I took it to be when I spied a bright, shiny five cent piece lying in the middle of the footpath. Decimal currency had only just come in then and all the coins were brand spanking new. I felt like Dick Wittington going to London where the streets were paved with gold.
I didn’t get to London, I only got as far as the corner store. I spent ages looking at the big jars of lollies. Then, and I recall this moment as being my first experience of logical reasoning, I considered my situation. I was leaving home, I didn’t know where my next meal was coming from, so I’d better spend that money wisely. I would forgo the lollies and buy something more sustaining.
‘A packet of chips, please,’ I said, holding my five cents up to the counter.
I scoffed the lot, sitting at the bus stop, before Mrs Papadopoulos came by in her car and offered me a lift home. I had to take up the offer, she knew I wasn’t allowed to catch the bus by myself.
When I snuck back in, Mina was watching television as if nothing had happened. When the first ad break came on she said, ‘Your dinner’s in the oven. If you’re still interested.’
With a whole bag of chips sitting heavily on my stomach, the last thing I wanted to do was eat dinner. But as she seemed prepared to forget my little temper tantrum, how could I refuse? ‘Hmm, thanks Mum, don’t mind if I do.’
I could see the plate through the glass in the oven door. The chicken leg was still there, and the carrots and mashed potato. But the broad beans had gone. In my haste to get the door opened I burnt my hand. I stood in the kitchen flicking my hand back and forth, my lips tight, face squeezed up, trying to suppress an outcry of pain.
‘Oven’s still a bit warm,’ my mother’s voice wafted in. ‘You’ll probably need to use the gloves. They’re on the bench.’ How did she know—could she see through walls?
I turned on the tap and stuck my fingers under the stream of water. ‘Just getting a glass of water.’
I came back into the lounge room and forced the dinner down.
It wasn’t till we were doing the washing up that she said, ‘And where were you going to start looking for your father?’ At the same time she handed me a plate to dry.
‘Oh. Look in the phone book, I guess.’
‘And what if you didn’t find him there?’ I don’t know if it was her tone of voice or the actual questions, but I was beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable.
‘I dunno.’ I shrugged my shoulders, hoping she’d take the hint, and spent a lot of time wiping the same plate. But it played on my mind. After, when I’d had a bath and put on my pyjamas and was snuggled up in bed, I asked her: ‘Why doesn’t he ever come to see us?’ And Mina told me.
This is what I was thinking about as I sat outside the school waiting for Kerry to appear. The visit to Madalena’s house, the family background, the robbery which looked like Madalena coming back for money and personal items—the more I was convinced that she hadn’t been abducted, she’d left of her own accord. And if this was the case, her friends would be more likely to know where she was than her parents or teachers. Whether the friends were prepared to tell an adult what they knew was another matter. Amongst themselves kids share confidences and sometimes break them, but they rarely betray each other to an adult. After all, this was the generation they were going to have to live with in the outside world. I wanted to get to know Kerry, from a distance, before I talked to her.
The school was a stately sandstone building like a huge manor house. It didn’t exactly frown, but you did get the feeling it was watching to see that you behaved yourself. Even the fact that this was the last week of term and it would soon be child-free didn’t lighten its mood. I looked at my watch—3.20 pm. In five minutes the school day would be ov
er. Some early leavers, for the variety of mysterious reasons kids are let go early, had already started trickling out. I was sitting at the exit closest to the train station. There’d probably be about five hundred girls coming through these gates in a minute, but that didn’t bother me. I knew which one I was looking for.
Out they came, the five hundred, all looking like soft little canaries in their grey and yellow uniforms. Twittering like canaries as well. Lebanese girls, Indians, Chinese, Korean, Italian. An Anglo girl with dyed red hair wasn’t going to be that difficult to find.
Almost every girl in the school must have passed through that gate before I saw Kerry and her group sauntering across the well-manicured grounds. There were five of them and Kerry was the tallest. She had long bronzed legs, set off by yellow socks, and carried herself well. The other girls were hanging on her every word, but she didn’t give a shit.
The group got closer to the gate, walking along, suddenly bursting into laughter and putting their hands up to their faces. They came out and turned in the direction of the station, oblivious to everything around them. They were in Year 10, they’d had four years of walking this exact same path. They looked like they could have done it blindfolded.
I didn’t really want to cruise down the street following a group of schoolgirls in my car, so I got out and continued on foot. I followed them into Strathfield Plaza. There were lots of schoolkids in here, boys and girls licking recently purchased icecreams and chomping into battered saveloys, doing wonders for their pimples.
One of Kerry’s group broke off and lined up in the icecream shop. The rest of them hung around looking idly in the window of a boutique. It was all there again, all that stuff from the seventies we laughed so much about in the eighties. The crocheted vests, the platform shoes and even, God forbid, the flared trousers. ‘That’s cute,’ said a girl with a pudgy face and well-shaped eyebrows. Kerry stuck out her bottom lip as she considered the black crocheted vest.
