The room went still, staring at Alastair’s serene, elderly face.
‘Yes, my husband has faecal incontinence,’ Florrie said sourly, adding her confession to the list. ‘And we don’t have sex anymore either, just in case you’re wondering.’
‘Bathroom’s that way,’ Tansy said, pointing across the room.
‘Mum.’ Jordan, standing now, demanded that Florrie focus on him.
‘Do you want to come with me?’ Alastair asked Amy, holding out his hand.
‘Okay,’ she said, and they tottered off together to take care of the situation in their pants.
There was a pause then and collective deep breathing as everyone corralled their emotions. Rose sniffed and wiped her nose.
‘What’s the matter, Rose?’ Tansy asked, feeling some pressure lift off her now that the focus had been shifted to the others as well.
‘I have a confession too,’ Rose said, tears welling up now. She sat gingerly on the padded armrest near Enid. ‘Sam wants a divorce,’ she whispered.
‘Why?’ Enid screeched. ‘He can’t. You’ve been married in a Catholic church.’
‘Because I had an affair,’ Rose said, and then broke down into sobs.
‘Oh, Rose. How could you?’ Enid scolded.
‘Is this why you’ve been avoiding me?’ Tansy asked.
Rose pinched the top of her nose and shrugged, deflated, while Enid continued to chastise her.
‘The reason we haven’t told anyone about the baby yet,’ Jordan shouted, his hands clenched at his sides as he attempted to cut through the clamour. Florrie was now actively performing ‘lion’s breath’ yoga exhalations, making roaring noises as she stretched up high then flopped to the floor. But Jordan was determined to get his mother’s attention, and continued loudly, ‘We had the early genetic tests done and it looks like the baby might have Down syndrome.’
Florrie snapped up tall where she was standing near the wall. ‘What?’
‘We didn’t want to do the amnio due to the risk of miscarriage, and’—Jordan’s voice wavered—‘we didn’t want anyone to try to talk us into ending the pregnancy.’
Tansy gaped at him, and she wasn’t the only one. Naturally, the room erupted into questions and expressions of sympathy and tea making, and all of the waves Tansy had made in her family’s little pond were forgotten for the rest of the afternoon, along with everyone else’s personal dramas. Still, Enid had left that evening with Finlay, clearly happier to be in the company of her Catholic ship–jumping husband than her lying and scheming daughter.
Now, Tansy wiped her sandy hands and pulled out her phone to check the time. Toronto was thirteen hours behind, making it ten o’clock at night for Dougal. She missed him fiercely; wondering if he was still awake, she tapped out a quick text to see if he would answer. But after a few minutes of waiting, with no response, she gave up.
Dancing across on the wind came the ubiquitous ‘Greensleeves’ music of an ice-cream truck as it rumbled into the reserved space next to the beach, just a short walk from where she sat. After everything that had happened yesterday, and with all the lingering uncertainty about what was to come, today suddenly seemed like a good day to indulge in an ice cream—a double chocolate-dipped cone, with sprinkles, nuts, whipped cream and extra chocolate on top.
29
Sitting at his desk, George drew bubbles around names on his notepad and joined them with dots, soft lines or hard lines, each one indicating a degree of connection.
It had been three days since he had received the results of the tests on the dead priest, and he’d barely slept since. His mind whirred with possibilities, and the excitement of uncovering a new layer of mystery kept a constant flow of energy through his belly.
Hilda wasn’t entirely impressed with his ebullience. ‘It’s macabre,’ she’d said, squinting behind her turquoise-framed glasses. ‘I mean, do you necessarily want to uncover more evils in the past?’
Initially, George had been taken aback by her response. For so long now he’d been slogging away on these cases with no real light at the end of any tunnels; rather, it was like chasing shadows in the dark and slamming face first into brick walls. There was rarely any actual evidence other than testimonies, and many of those were shaky. To have real, hard evidence in his hand? It was delicious, actually. He had even developed a sliver of respect for Blaine Campbell, a man he’d thought vulgar with his hunt-to-kill attitude.
Still, he could see where Hilda was coming from, and he toned it down in front of her and especially if he thought the kids might overhear. He did pause to wonder if he was beginning to lose his humanity in this quest. He didn’t actually want to end up like Campbell, desensitised and clinical, forgetting why he had joined the force in the first place—to serve people, not processes. At least, that was why George had joined up; he couldn’t speak for Campbell.
But it was hard to contain his excitement, especially given the new leads he’d uncovered since Monday. Well, they weren’t new, exactly; they were names that had cropped up in some of the many testimonies he’d taken from people who’d claimed the dead priest had abused them. Some of the claims came from as far away as Longreach. A few weeks ago he’d sent out letters to all of the people named, just covering his bases in case he needed to call on them. And now he was drawing connections, webs that held the whole story together, with Father Peter Cunningham hanging like the black spider in the centre of it all.
The names were of nuns, sisters who had been serving at the time of Cunningham’s employment in the church. Just yesterday he’d flown to Roma, which was a five-hour drive west of Brisbane, to see Sister Sarah Townsend, now in her mid-seventies and living with her extended family in a sprawling homestead on a cattle property the size of a small country. Two women who had provided testimonies had said they’d told their teacher at the time, Sister Sarah. She was officially retired from teaching but was still a member of her order and served in her community, still tending to the poor and disadvantaged, assisting them with job placements and food drives, and was a loud advocate for women’s rights and protection in isolated rural towns. She went out with the flying doctor once a month, offering counselling and support, and was a guest teacher with the School of the Air.
Sarah Townsend was a spry woman, with a sun-weathered face that had seen a good deal of skin cancer treatment, given the amount of discoloration and white and brown spots he could see in the shade cast by her Akubra. But she walked confidently, strongly. A woman of the land through and through. When he arrived she was standing on the wide verandah of the homestead, a mug of tea in her hand, dressed in trousers, a long-sleeved shirt and classically Australian stockyard boots. The cattle were being mustered today, and from the other side of the square green oasis that surrounded the stately, immaculately kept old building came the sounds of stockmen whooping and dogs yapping. Red dust swirled in the air, along with the scent of dried cow manure.
She’d greeted him with a firm handshake and introduced him to a few family members, including her older sister, who was president of the local branch of the Country Women’s Association, and a grandniece with a baby in her arms, moving slowly in a rocking chair and swatting at flies that circled the babe’s head. Then she’d ushered him inside to the air-conditioned office, all dark wood and high-backed chairs.
‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ she said, sitting opposite him. A tall bookcase rose behind her, groaning under a collection of books covering topics from cow handling to needlepoint and rural accountancy. He flicked his eyes over them, longing to browse the titles, but he had no time to waste; he was flying home that afternoon and they had a lot to get through. Sarah sat tall and straight, no sign of arthritis or weakness of any kind. No sign of slowing down at all.
‘Thank you for seeing me at such short notice,’ he said, taking out his notebook and clicking his pen, then setting his phone to record.
‘Not at all. I’m pleased you’re here. We should have spoken a long time ago.’ Her voice fal
tered just a fraction as she gazed out the window and off into the distance, her eyes taking on the same lost look he’d seen on so many of his subjects’ faces.
He waited a beat, allowing her to summon up the memories she needed. And when she was ready—a moment signified by a breath in and a direct gaze—he began. ‘Tell me everything you can about your time in the church during the years that Father Peter Cunningham served.’
And she did. She skipped around a little, from her early days in the convent and her expulsion—her word—out to Longreach, before describing the grievous time she spent serving alongside the corrupt priest. She conveyed her extreme distress at being bound by the policy of silence, explaining her terror of excommunication and her agony over having to keep the secret, and the searing guilt that would follow her to the grave.
George listened, nodding, trying not to judge her, trying not to condemn her. They were different times. And from what he’d heard from so many others, even those who’d tried to do the right thing had been shut down and silenced. There was no reason to believe that she would have had any more success.
‘Tell me about the different nuns you served with, the priests, the bishops, the altar boys, the . . .’ he swallowed, ‘the victims.’
There were tears. There were always tears. George couldn’t say he was used to them, but on his good days he felt some sort of peace with this process—the letting go. And tears were inevitable.
Over the years, George’s understanding of this whole sordid, tragic mess had changed. The original brief for this investigation was to bring to light everyone who had covered up these crimes. And he’d been prepared to rage against them all. But he now knew it was so much more complicated than that. What he’d come to understand was that there were so many victims in this horrid web of crimes, beyond those directly abused. There seemed to be an endless line of secondary and tertiary victims. And Sarah was one of them, bullied, harassed and threatened into silence. Forced to bear the cruel weight of her secrets because the power of the patriarchal institution in which she was employed, and of the patriarchal society in which she’d lived, which had offered her little protection outside the walls of the church, was simply too great.
He passed her a box of tissues that was sitting on the desk, then popped out of the room to politely enquire if someone might bring them tea. The friendly grandniece came shortly afterwards with a tray bearing a full matching set of teapot and cups and saucers as well as fresh scones and cream.
After a few sips of tea, colour returned to Sarah’s face and the slight shaking in her hands subsided. She sniffed away the last vestiges of emotion.
And that was when she began to talk about the letters. The years and years of letters between her and Sister Maria Lindsey of the Brisbane convent. George leaned forward in his chair, his heart nearly bursting out of his chest, almost afraid to ask.
‘Do you by any chance still have these letters?’ he said, his throat turned sandpapery with anxiety and anticipation.
She waited a moment as if considering. ‘Yes. I do.’
Now here he was at his desk, the letters beside him in the tattered grey shoebox where Sarah had stored them for so long, and a notepad in front of him. He’d been up all night reading. And one thing was clear—he had to talk to Maria Lindsey immediately.
His phone rang and he picked it up. ‘George Harvey speaking.’
As if God had been listening to his thoughts, an elderly woman’s voice spoke in his ear. ‘Officer Harvey, my name is Maria Lindsey. I received a letter some weeks ago . . .’
‘Yes, Ms Lindsey. I know who you are,’ he said, stunned.
There was a pause at the end of the line. ‘Well, good—ah, it’s just that. . .’ She hesitated as if searching for words. He waited. ‘I intended to come and see you, because I’ve got something important I have to tell you. I got in my car and turned the key, but nothing happened, and I called the RACQ but they said, well, it’s going to be expensive, and the thing is—’
‘Where are you?’ he interrupted, standing up and searching for his car keys. He didn’t have a system for his keys—you’d think at his age he would have it sorted by now—and was forever looking for them, under papers, in the drawer, in his pants pocket.
‘I’m just outside Eudlo on the Sunshine Coast. I work at a place called Honeybee Haven. Do you know it?’ Her voice was tentative.
‘Give me the address. I’ll be there in an hour and a half.’
Tansy hadn’t slept much last night and found herself awake at dawn. She decided to pick up coffees and croissants and take them around to Jordan and Katarina’s place to surprise them. Toby was an early riser so she knew they’d all be up.
They were still in their dressing-gowns, early morning children’s television distracting Toby. Jordan welcomed her into the house, both of them smiling sheepishly after the huge outpouring of confessions two days ago, and Katarina clapped her hands at the sight of the pastries.
‘I hear congratulations are in order,’ Tansy said, passing Katarina the ham and cheese croissant and a warm foaming cappuccino.
‘Thanks,’ she said, biting tentatively into the flaking pastry, her brow furrowed. ‘I’m sorry we didn’t tell you earlier. I feel bad about that. But with everything you’ve had going on with the possible pregnancy and Dougal leaving, it just didn’t seem like the right time.’
‘Don’t be silly. It’s your right to keep your secret as long as you like.’ Tansy reached into her bag and pulled out a small gift in brown paper, tied with a white bow. ‘And this is for the newest member of your family.’
Katarina took it, her eyes welling. ‘Thank you.’ The bow pulled undone easily and inside the wrapping was a collection of organic cotton singlets and socks in whites and pale yellows. ‘They’re beautiful,’ she said, cooing and holding a wee singlet against her belly, imagining the little person who would come out into it.
‘You’re due in November, aren’t you? I figured it will be so hot then that he or she will be hanging around a lot in a singlet and nappy.’
‘Toby was a winter baby,’ Jordan said. ‘And we were terrified he was going to freeze. Even if he did manage to sleep for a few hours at night we were up every hour checking he wasn’t cold or in case we’d overheated him. We were forever wrapping and unwrapping him and turning the heater up or down.’
‘A summer baby will be a nice change,’ Katarina said, one hand worrying at her hair. ‘Gosh, I should probably look in the mirror. I must look a fright with bed hair.’
‘You look beautiful,’ Jordan said, and touched her face.
‘Oh, aren’t you the charmer,’ Tansy teased.
He went off to get ready for work. The two women sipped their coffees and picked at their croissants and Katarina slowly began to talk about the baby, the tests, the emotional roller-coaster they’d been on, her fears for her baby, her fears for her marriage, her fears for her career, and underlying it all her profound faith that despite all the possible challenges of a Down syndrome diagnosis, this baby was a gift and they were blessed.
Tansy listened, and let her cry, and let her laugh, and let her feel the excitment of a new life coming into their family. She squeezed her hand, and assured her she’d do everything she could to help them.
She’d made the right decision about not having a baby with Dougal. It meant she’d have extra love to share with this new one. She could pour all of her mothering into being the best aunty the world had ever seen. For this one, for Toby, and for baby Hamish too, not to mention Rose’s children. Aunties and honorary aunties were so important in the world. She’d grab that role with both hands. It would be great. Better than great. She’d get to do all the fun stuff and pass the babies back when they were screaming. She’d be the one they’d run to when they hated their parents.
Now, back at home, she calculated that it was eight pm in Toronto, the perfect time to phone Dougal and tell him everything.
He answered on the second ring. ‘Hello, my darling,
’ he sang, his voice brimming with delight.
‘Well, that’s some welcome!’ She laughed. ‘You’ve had a good day?’
‘Ah, it was fine. But I was just about to call you. I’ve got something exciting I need to tell you.’
‘So do I. But you start.’ Her heart swelled with hope. ‘Are you coming back to Australia?’ She didn’t want to leave here. This was her home; she loved it. It might be expected of young people to be willing to simply uproot and move to the other side of the world, but Tansy wasn’t like that. Old before her time, possibly. But she was settled here. Happy. And now she wanted to be here for Jordan and Katarina and their baby, and to be more involved with Rose and her children—they would need her now more than ever—and for Belle and Hamish too. She missed Dougal terribly and wanted him back home as soon as possible.
His enthusiasm faltered. ‘No, sorry. It’s not that.’
‘Oh.’ Her heart plunged. ‘No, sorry, of course. I just . . . that would have been great. But go on, please, tell me your news.’
‘Okay.’ She heard him breathe in. ‘So I’ve made a decision.’
‘Mmm?’
‘I want to have a baby with you.’
Tansy did the clichéd movement of the gaping goldfish. ‘Why?’ she finally managed to say.
‘Because . . .’ She heard his voice deflate. He’d been so sure that his news would make her happy. ‘That’s what you want, isn’t it?’ he said, confused.
‘I did want that.’
‘Did?’
‘It’s just that I realised it wasn’t fair to you and I’d just been struck with momentary baby madness. I think I can be happy without having children, like I always thought I could, and I shouldn’t be asking you to completely change now, just because I’m turning thirty and feeling the pressure of the clock running down.’ She laughed lightly.
‘But I . . .’ Dougal murmured, frustrated. ‘That’s sweet of you, and mature and generous, and I’m touched you would think that. But I don’t want to lose you.’
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