Taking a Chance

by Deborah Burrows

  ‘Yes, ma’am, I’m American.’

  ‘Lily likes Americans, she told me she did. Have you seen my Lily?’ The look now was one of hope, anticipation.

  ‘No, ma’am. I haven’t seen her.’

  Mrs Carter’s face became vague again, and sad. ‘Lily likes Americans,’ she said.

  ‘Have you heard from her at all?’ I asked, and her gaze swivelled around to me. ‘I heard that she’d written a postcard to you.’

  ‘I killed the white hen,’ she repeated. ‘For the feathers.’ She appeared confused, and her eyes were vacant. ‘Lily didn’t like that and she went away.’

  ‘Please have some cake, Mrs Carter,’ I said. ‘And some tea.’ I managed to smile at her. Obediently she picked up the piece of cake and took a bite. And she drank the tea. But she didn’t say much else, and nothing that she did say made sense. After a while she got up and wandered off, still clutching her envelope of feathers.

  ‘Get a photograph,’ said Johnny. ‘You need a photo of her.’

  I looked at him in amazement. ‘I can’t. Johnny, I just can’t.’

  He shook his head, picked up the camera and went after her.

  ‘Poor Agnes,’ said the waitress, who came over to collect the cups and plates once she’d left. ‘Looks like it’s one of her bad days. Losing Billy was the last straw. She gets the pension from the government, but the orchard is just about derelict now. And the house is in a terrible state. It’s no wonder Lily left.’

  Johnny’s face was grave when he returned. ‘I got your photo,’ he said.

  We were both quiet as we walked slowly back to the car.

  Then we had an argument.

  ohnny wanted to drive to the artists’ commune, so that I could interview the Lorrimers about their daughter Susan and he could ask about Lena and Rick Henzell. I was tired and upset and the last thing I wanted was to force myself on worried parents. He said that I’d never be an investigative reporter if I let such scruples get in the way of the story and I should have got the photograph of Mrs Carter before I even asked her any questions. I told him I didn’t want to be an investigative reporter, I was perfectly happy with what I did.

  He made a snorting sound and rolled his eyes. ‘Fixing up hats and showing women how to do their hair? That’s what you want to do? You’re smart, you can write. Why don’t you spend your time doing something worthwhile?’

  ‘It is worthwhile.’ I was really angry now, although I couldn’t help wondering if I agreed with him. ‘The women enjoy reading it. Why is that any less important than what you do?’

  His expression echoed Evie’s look when she was annoyed, lip curled and eyes half closed.

  ‘Because it isn’t as important. That’s self-evident.’ He shook his head. ‘Sure, writing a women’s column like yours is worth doing; your readers really like it and you do it well from what I’ve seen, but you’ve got the ability to do so much more, Nell. You can make a difference here. You may be able to find those girls, reunite them with their parents. You can make folks aware of the human cost of this war by writing about that miserable woman. You can really touch lives.’

  ‘I hate it,’ I said bitterly. ‘Making a sensation of Mrs Carter’s tragic life. It’s horrible.’ I glared at him. ‘We already know the human cost of this war. We’ve all got boys overseas fighting, or we know people who have.’

  Now he was a picture of affronted dignity. ‘I’m sorry you feel that way. I happen to believe in what I do. Mrs Carter is a tragic figure, sure. But you’re wrong, Nell. She wants you to write about her loss, to mark the passing of her three sons. She wants to let the world know what she personally has given to this war.’

  He shook his head, and ran his hand through his hair, rumpling it into boyish disorder. I longed to brush it off his forehead, which may have made my voice sharper than usual.

  ‘We’re just exploiting her loss for our own purposes,’ I said.

  ‘Writing about her is not exploiting her. If you manage to shame that daughter of hers into coming home, then you’ve made a difference. Sometimes we reporters can make a difference.’

  ‘You’re not here to make a difference. You just want to get that woman out of gaol.’

  As soon as I said it I wished I could take it back. I sounded jealous, and I had no right to be jealous of Lena Mitrovic, or of any woman Johnny Horvath might have feelings for. But jealousy was there, needle-sharp and very real. I forced myself to look at him, meet his gaze. And I hoped that what I felt wasn’t apparent in my eyes.

  ‘I happen to believe “that woman” is innocent.’ He took a breath and visibly calmed down, flicking a glance to the car. ‘Look, I don’t want to push you into anything you’re uneasy about. What say I take the car to the commune and ask my questions? You have some more tea, or I’m sure the Reverend and Hilda would be happy to offer you hospitality while I’m gone.’

  I looked around us. The afternoon was drawing in and there was no longer any heat at all in the sunshine. Now I felt like a fool. It was ridiculous to be jealous of Lena. I had to calm down and get on with the story; I could deal with my feelings for Johnny later. I knew part of the problem was that the meeting with Mrs Carter had distressed me so much, and I tried to explain that to him.

  ‘I’m sorry I was so emotional,’ I said. ‘It was my first interview of that sort, and it really upset me. Four of my cousins are in the services and Aunty and I live in fear that a telegram will arrive saying one of them has been injured, or worse. Talking to Mrs Carter made me realise that Mick, Frank, Charlie and Dan . . . I’m just so scared for them, Johnny. It’s always there, that fear, but usually I’m able to push it aside. Talking to Mrs Carter . . .’

  The angry look was gone from his brown eyes.

  I realised that I hadn’t mentioned Rob.

  ‘And Rob, too, of course,’ I said hastily. ‘All right. I’ll go with you to the artists’ colony.’

  ‘Thanks. I get enthusiastic when I’m on a trail, and I guess I forgot that this is all new stuff for you. The reader has to identify with the parents’ need to have their girls home safely; Mrs Carter is terrific, but we also need Susan’s parents’ views.’

  It all sounded rather calculating to me, but I wasn’t a Pulitzer Prize winner. He opened the passenger-side door and I got back into the car. Johnny went through the rigmarole of checking the water tank, pouring more charcoal into the hopper and lighting the charcoal-burning contraption. Then he started the car and we headed off down the road that led to the commune.

  We were the only vehicle on the road, which wound its way past smallholdings and orchards and through thick forest. The sun was low and cast long shadows on the gravel road in front of us. Although Johnny was a good driver, we skidded on the gravel a couple of times and the corrugations in the surface meant that the noise of the wheels was irritatingly loud. After driving for about fifteen minutes we saw a sign at the side of the road which simply read, THE COLONY.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Johnny, twisting the wheel and turning off onto a narrow laneway.

  ‘Let me do the talking at first,’ he said. ‘They may not want to talk to us right away, but I’m used to convincing people they should.’

  He nodded towards a small huddle of timber houses in front of us. ‘There it is.’

  As we pulled into an open area at the side, a handful of people came out of the cottages to see what was making all the noise.

  Johnny got out of the car, and came around to open my door. As I got out, I saw a distinguished-looking man walk towards us, rubbing his hands on a stained handkerchief. He was around forty, dark-haired and slightly built, and he had a narrow moustache. I thought he looked European. It was something in the careless elegance with which he wore the shabby but well-cut suit, or perhaps the world-weariness in his pale blue eyes. Despite the hasty rubbing with the handkerchief, there was still some paint on his hand as he held it out to Johnny.

  ‘I am Walter Kauffman,’ he said in accented English. ‘Can I help you?
’

  ‘John Horvath,’ replied Johnny, taking his hand. ‘This is Miss Eleanor Fitzgerald. We’d like to speak to Mr and Mrs Lorrimer. We’re reporters, doing a feature on the missing girls and we want to talk to them about Susan.’ Mr Kauffman’s face closed up in a frown, but Johnny went on in a mild, reasonable voice. ‘With a bit of luck it’ll convince Susan and Lily to come home, or at the very least get someone who has seen them to report their whereabouts to Child Welfare.’

  ‘We are not fond of reporters here,’ Mr Kauffman said. ‘Not after Rick Henzell’s death and Lena’s trial.’

  Johnny nodded sympathetically. ‘We’d just like a word with the Lorrimers. Could we at least find out if they want to talk to us?’ He looked at Mr Kauffman intently and said, ‘I knew Lena Mitrovic in Melbourne. I’m not convinced by the verdict.’

  Mr Kauffman shook his head slowly, watching Johnny. ‘Nor am I,’ he said. ‘But I can give you no alternative theories.’

  A couple had come from a house to our right and were walking towards the car, anxiety evident in the hesitation of their steps. Mr Kauffman turned to them. ‘They are reporters,’ he said, gesturing to us. ‘They want to ask you about Susan. You do not need to speak with them if you do not wish to.’

  Mrs Lorrimer was a striking woman of around forty, with beautiful chestnut hair that curled around her pale face like a Pre-Raphaelite fantasy. Her body was sturdy, but shapely. I thought that she must have been an artist’s model at some stage, she was so lovely.

  ‘Why are you asking about Susan?’ she asked in a shrill, frightened voice. ‘Have you found her? Is she all right?’

  Mr Lorrimer was a heavy-set man in his forties with small, shrewd eyes and a carelessly shaven face. His hands were huge, with thick stubby fingers. Like Mr Kauffman’s hands, they were stained with paint. He was holding on to his wife’s arm.

  ‘What do you know about Susan? Tell us. We’re mad with worry about her.’

  Johnny explained briefly about the article, made it clear that it was going to be written no matter what, but it would be better if they gave us their side of the story. He was obviously experienced in dealing with reluctant interviewees.

  Mr Kauffman’s face showed his uncertainty. ‘Do you think that such an article will really help to get Susan to return?’

  ‘I couldn’t say,’ admitted Johnny. ‘But nothing else has worked. It can’t hurt.’

  ‘Come inside,’ said Mrs Lorrimer, with a quick glance towards her husband. ‘And you, Walter. Of course we’ll talk to these people. We’ll do anything that might help to get her back safely.’

  I was right about Mrs Lorrimer being an artist’s model. Paintings of her in various stages of dress and undress were hung on the walls around us. There was Mrs Lorrimer draped over a couch, Mrs Lorrimer stretched out on a rumpled bed, Mrs Lorrimer drying herself after bathing, Mrs Lorrimer dressed in a slip, rolling down her stockings. Her body was spectacular. Johnny looked at the paintings with obvious appreciation, but I was slightly embarrassed that they should be on display. I wondered how Susan had liked seeing her mother’s assets flaunted for any visitor to view. I concentrated on looking at a painting of a young girl I assumed was Susan, because she had the same wild curly hair as her mother. She was quite pretty, with broad features and a nice smile.

  ‘Do you have any idea where Susan might be?’ Mrs Lorrimer was gazing at Johnny, desperation evident in her eyes. ‘How can she be supporting herself? She’s not . . . It’s a tough world, Mr Horvath. I know that better than a lot of people, and I’m terrified for her.’ She pulled her hands into fists and pressed them together, before letting them fall loosely onto her lap. ‘Do you have any idea where she could be?’ she repeated.

  ‘No. We don’t,’ said Johnny. ‘But it would help us if we knew why she ran away. Do you know why she did?’

  Mr and Mrs Lorrimer exchanged glances, then both looked at Mr Kauffman. I wondered if they knew more than they were prepared to tell us.

  ‘It was a combination of things, we think,’ Mr Lorrimer said. ‘She was the only child in the colony, and she felt neglected sometimes. Everybody else here has their work and their commitment to socialist ideals. It was fine when she was young – she was only seven when we came here, and it was like heaven to a girl from the city. But as she got older she seemed to grow bored.’ There was a quick, mirthless grin. ‘She told us often enough that she was, anyway.’

  ‘She became very friendly with Lily Carter over the past couple of years,’ put in his wife. ‘Lily has a shocking home life. You know about her mother?’

  We nodded. ‘We met her this afternoon,’ I said. ‘Poor lady.’

  ‘Poor lady indeed,’ said Mrs Lorrimer. ‘But poor Lily, too. It meant that home was hell for the girl. She used to spend a lot of time here. We didn’t mind, of course, although I worried sometimes about what sort of influence she was on Susan. Lily’s rather a . . .’ She hesitated.

  ‘She is a tough sort of girl,’ put in Mr Kauffman. ‘Brash.’

  ‘Lily had to grow up too quickly,’ said Mrs Lorrimer, throwing him a frown.

  ‘I hear that Rick’s death hit her and Susan very hard,’ I said.

  ‘He was very handsome,’ said Mrs Lorrimer. ‘You know teenage girls and their crushes. He wasn’t . . . He was a louse to Lena, actually.’

  ‘I tried to talk to him, to stop him from playing the field quite so openly,’ said Kauffman. ‘Rick just laughed at me. He almost drove Lena to despair.’

  Mrs Lorrimer blushed. ‘Lena was very unhappy,’ she said. ‘He made her life merry hell. I could understand her wanting to kill him, but not the way she did it.’

  ‘You have no doubt that Lena killed him?’ Johnny sounded almost disinterested. I knew better.

  She raised her eyes, surprised. ‘Oh yes. Who else could it be?’

  Mr Lorrimer was lighting a cigarette. He said, ‘My feeling is that Lily wanted to get away from her mother and she convinced our Susan to go with her.’

  ‘Susan wrote us a postcard,’ said Mrs Lorrimer.

  She went over to a small roll-top desk under the window, opened it and removed a card which she handed to Johnny. It depicted the Swan River as seen from Kings Park. On the back was written, in a round, childish hand, ‘Dear Mum and Dad, I’m fine. I’m with Lily and we’re having a grand time, so don’t worry. Love, Susan.’ The postmark was the Perth GPO and dated 29 May 1943. A week after the girls had disappeared.

  ‘I always assumed that Susan would think it was an adventure for a while and then she would come home,’ said Mrs Lorrimer. ‘But it’s been nearly six weeks.’ Her voice rose, she bit her lip and looked down.

  ‘We might not be the best parents, but we love Susan very much,’ said Mr Lorrimer. ‘If you find her, please try to convince her to come home.’

  We asked if they had a photo of the girls, and Mrs Lorrimer went to the desk again. She returned with a photograph of two girls sitting under a tree, laughing. Susan looked just like her painting. Lily Carter was a pretty girl with black curls and dark eyes set in a heart-shaped face.

  ‘This is a year old. Lily’s hair is longer now,’ said Mrs Carter.

  We drove slowly down the gravel road back to Richmond, as the light faded around us and the shadows lengthened into darkness. When we arrived in the main street it was lit up in a way that Perth hadn’t been for more than a year now, because the blackout didn’t apply this far from the ocean. Johnny parked the car across the road from the Richmond Hotel.

  ‘Let’s have a drink and then some supper before we head back to the city,’ he said.

  Although I murmured assent, he didn’t make a move to leave the car, which left us sitting too close together in an increasingly uncomfortable silence. I could make out the movement of his chest with each breath, hear each inhalation and exhalation. As the silence dragged on I wondered what I would do if he tried to kiss me. Part of me hoped that he would but, when he twisted towards me as if to say something, I instinctively drew b
ack. He became very still, then abruptly turned away. He got out of the car and came around to open my door. I noticed that he was avoiding my gaze. This was getting very awkward.

  The Richmond Hotel had obviously been built in the twenties, in the gabled mock-Tudor style that had been so popular then. It was slightly shabby, smelled of beer and tobacco and needed a good clean. The carpet was sticky underfoot. A dinner menu was written in chalk on a blackboard behind the bar counter. Earlier in the year the maximum prices of meals served in hotels and boarding houses had been fixed by the government, but I doubted that had much effect on this hotel, as it was unlikely to have ever charged more than four shillings for a meal. The options were meat in various forms with two vegetables and mashed potatoes. Johnny ordered steak and eggs and I asked for a beef pudding. Country fare for a chilly evening.

  While we waited to be called into dinner we sat in a couple of dusty armchairs in the lounge bar among the dusty potted palms and pretended that the awkward moment in the car had never happened.

  ‘Do you think we’ve got enough material for the article?’ I asked.

  He made a careless gesture with his hand. ‘It depends on whether we find out more about Susan and Lily’s whereabouts. I’m interested in what Evie can tell us. I’ll see if Gleddings can lend me the car next week, in case we need to come back here. Can’t be Monday, because I’m booked to go to some special dance that night.’

  I took in a quick breath. ‘Oh, are you going too? The Independence Day Ball, at the Embassy Ballroom?’

  Now he was grinning. ‘Looks like it’ll be more fun than I thought.’

  I grimaced. ‘The Marvel is a major sponsor of the “Adopt-a-Digger Appeal” which has organised the thing. I’m one of the hostesses. We’re supposed to make sure that lonely servicemen have dancing partners.’

  ‘I can’t promise you a dance, but please sit some dances out with me. I’m awful lonely, ma’am.’

  ‘Hah,’ I said. ‘I don’t think that’s the case.’ I made a face at him.

  It was time to change the subject. ‘Tell me about Chicago. How is it different from Perth?’