The Making of Christina

by Meredith Jaffe

  chapter nineteen

  The thin envelope from the Heritage Council arrived in the mail. Christina was so nervous her chest hurt. She couldn’t bring herself to open it when she collected it from the post office box – what if the answer was no? She waited until she had returned home. Whatever the answer, she didn’t trust herself not to burst into tears on Kitchener’s main street.

  Arriving home to an empty house did nothing to help. She wished Bianca or Jackson were here to share this moment, to commiserate or congratulate as the circumstances demanded. But Bianca was probably slouching around the senior girls’ dormitory gossiping over packets of chocolate biscuits, and Jackson was cocooned in a first class berth jetting somewhere between Hong Kong and Hanoi.

  Six years work. Christina told herself that whatever the Heritage Council’s decision, she had solved a mystery and brought to light an important part of Australian art history, not to mention recovered valuable works. Those facts would not change if the Heritage Council had rejected her application.

  Steeling herself, Christina tore open the envelope. When she had read the letter, she slumped against the wall. The Heritage Council wanted to send an inspection team to verify the claims with a view to offering preliminary listing approval.

  Christina rang Bianca’s mobile but she didn’t answer. Jackson’s flight was still midair so it was pointless ringing him. She was alone in her excitement. Leaving the chill of the hexagonal room, she sought the warmth of the kitchen. Outside, the weather had worsened. She drank a coffee watching the winter storm rail against the mountain like an angry spouse. Christina loved this kind of weather, as long as she was snug and cosy inside with a roaring fire and a good book.

  The thought must have jinxed her because suddenly the house descended into darkness. Grabbing a torch from the kitchen drawer, she went into the mudroom and dressed in her Driza-Bone, beanie and wellies. She trudged around the outside of the house to the porch and reset the circuits. She tried the power but the electricity flicked off again. The rain lashed at her as she tried each set of circuits one at a time, trying to isolate the power failure. She wondered if it was just Bartholomews Run or whether the whole mountain had blacked out. Her mobile rang reminding Christina she’d left it on the kitchen bench. There was no point rushing to answer it, she’d never get there in time, especially in the dark.

  It started ringing again as soon as it had stopped. Christina continued working her way through the sections of the house. Divided into two rows, the circuit board had twenty-four different circuits in all. Christina completed a random check, growing convinced that it wasn’t her circuits that were the problem.

  Back in the mudroom, Christina shivered as she peeled off layers, water puddling around her numb feet. She’d ring Stan in the morning. No one should be out on a night like this.

  Her mobile rang again. Cursing Bianca’s timing, Christina slipped across the kitchen floor, towelling water from her hair. She got to the phone just as it went to voicemail. Christina listened to the message. It wasn’t Bianca, it was Mrs Hardcastle.

  ‘Ms Clemente, I am sorry to trouble you at such a late hour but I need a word with you regarding Bianca.’

  Christina hit redial. ‘Yes, I’m here, Mrs Hardcastle,’ she rushed out, dropping the damp towel on the kitchen bench.

  ‘Ah, Ms Clemente, I’m sorry to trouble you on such an unmerciful night but I would appreciate it if you could pop by my office this evening.’

  Christina glanced at the kitchen clock. It had just gone seven but she’d dealt with this woman for enough years to know what ‘pop by’ meant.

  ‘Why? What’s wrong?’ she said, bouncing on her toes trying to restore the blood flow.

  ‘Bianca is fine.’ There was a distinct pause as the woman chose her next words with care. ‘She is in a rather sensitive predicament that would benefit from immediate attention.’

  Alarmed, Christina asked, ‘Has she broken something?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. We can discuss the matter when you arrive.’

  Standing in the dark silent kitchen Christina felt an acute sense of her aloneness. Jackson always teased her about how she worried over every tiny detail but seemed oblivious to the bigger picture. She grabbed the keys and ran through the pelting rain to the car.

  Fear rode with her as she drove blind through the dark countryside. The Range Rover skidded on the slick tarmac and the pummelling rain rendered the windscreen wipers useless. No one in their right mind would be out on a night like this – unless it was an emergency.

  And it had to be an emergency. There was no mistaking Mrs Hardcastle’s tone.

  At the intersection, she watched the convoy of semitrailers burn down the highway, trucking fresh produce to the Sydney markets. She tapped an impatient rhythm on the steering wheel, waiting for a break in the flow. When one came, she floored it. The chrome grille of a Mack truck descended on her, its horn blasting, the flaring headlights bleaching her hands the colour of bone. Christina licked the sweat from her top lip. Jackson would be proud of her. He always said she drove like a granny.

  When she was twelve, Bianca had been representing Valley View at the annual interschools equestrian event. Sugar had refused the triple jump, sending Bianca sailing over the top. She’d broken her arm in the fall. Back then, the school’s instructions had been to head straight for the base hospital and meet Bianca there.

  Christina checked the clock on the dashboard. Even in this weather she’d be at the school in twenty minutes. Last year one of the seniors had ended up at Kitchener police station with a fake ID, a six-pack of vodka mix and a small amount of dope. But Bianca would never make such a blunt statement.

  She plunged off the highway, following the snaking road along the valley floor and up to the school. She crunched over speed humps before pulling into the car park with a hard yank of the handbrake. Bursting from the car, Christina sprinted towards the senior girls’ dormitory. Head down in the torrential rain, she barrelled into somebody standing in the shadows of the portico and sent them both stumbling. She reached out to steady the other woman, an apology rushing to her lips. Mrs Hardcastle seized Christina by the elbow, steering her away from the dormitory and towards the administration block, with the words, ‘This way if you please, Ms Clemente.’

  Once inside the sanctuary of her office, Mrs Hardcastle let go of Christina’s arm and disappeared into her private bathroom. She returned with a plush white towel that she handed to Christina before sitting on a chair opposite the Chesterfield sofa. The headmistress tucked her legs to one side, smoothed the pleats of her skirt and indicated that Christina should sit too.

  As she towelled her dripping hair, Christina regarded the mellow leather of the sofa then her dirty jeans and muddy boots. She felt like a street urchin granted a royal audience.

  Drawing breath, Mrs Hardcastle began, ‘There is no easy way to say this, Ms Clemente, so forgive me for being blunt.’

  Despite her warning, the headmistress paused and studied Christina’s face with the same intensity she had the first time they had sat across from each other in this room. Back then, without uttering a single word, Mrs Hardcastle had made it clear that Bianca’s acceptance into Valley View was as much an assessment of her family as it was of her.

  ‘As you know, Bianca shares a room with Phoebe Kennedy,’ she continued. ‘She says Bianca has been out of sorts for days now, going to bed early, sleeping in. Phoebe says she’s been preoccupied.’

  ‘She has insomnia, it catches up with her.’

  Mrs Hardcastle fluttered her hand, acknowledging a fact she knew only too well. ‘However, this evening Bianca was unable to keep her dinner down and rushed from the dining room in tears. Apparently she became quite hysterical. Phoebe called the head of house, Mrs Dalrymple, who tried to calm Bianca and ascertain the problem.’

  Christina realised she was punctuating every sentence the headmis
tress said with a nod, like one of those bobbing glass birds that were all the rage when she was small. She concentrated on staying still.

  ‘I must impress upon you that until tonight no one was aware that anything was amiss. Bianca is a fine girl and a modest and decent student.’

  Christina waited. She itched to shake Mrs Hardcastle until her elegant chignon unravelled.

  ‘I am genuinely surprised to be having this conversation about a girl like Bianca. Of all my students she is not the one I would expect . . .’ Mrs Hardcastle trailed off, perhaps realising she had drifted away from the subject. With a tilt of her chin, she squared up to Christina. ‘The truth of the matter is that Bianca has informed us that she is, or rather she believes she is, pregnant.’

  The image of some boy slithering over Bianca in a dirty gasping coupling wrenched at Christina’s guts. ‘I don’t understand. Are you saying she has . . . Why do . . . Who do you think it is?’

  ‘At this point we cannot be certain.’

  Christina went to speak but the headmistress interrupted her with practised firmness. ‘Bianca won’t answer questions but she’s adamant that she is pregnant.’

  Christina tried to swallow the rough lump stuck in the back of her throat. ‘But she’s only a child. She can’t be.’

  Mrs Hardcastle pursed her lips. ‘She is sixteen, Ms Clemente. You may find it incomprehensible but it is, unfortunately, entirely within the realms of possibility.’

  She wasn’t stupid. Teenage girls fell pregnant all the time. But Bianca wasn’t that kind of girl. She didn’t even have a boyfriend.

  Shifting in her seat, Mrs Hardcastle said, ‘Valley View takes a serious view of our students’ mental and physical health, Ms Clemente. Therefore I should advise you that I have asked Dr Connelly to come to the school this evening.’ The headmistress held up her hand. ‘I appreciate that I failed to consult you but under the circumstances I decided to sacrifice the formalities for the sake of timeliness.’

  Christina nodded, acknowledging more than anything how thoroughly Mrs Hardcastle had wrested control.

  ‘At the very least,’ the headmistress continued, ‘Dr Connelly will be able to ascertain if indeed Bianca is pregnant or,’ she added with delicacy, ‘if she requires other medical assistance.’

  ‘What do you mean? You said she wasn’t hurt.’ Panic ballooned in Christina’s chest.

  ‘There are no signs Bianca is hurt and, from the little she’s told us, it’s impossible to know precisely what has occurred. Experience tells me that in difficult circumstances it is wise not rule any possibility in or out of the equation.’

  With those words, Mrs Hardcastle rose. ‘Perhaps you would like to see her now?’

  Indicating Christina would find her in her office, Mrs Hardcastle left her outside Bianca’s room. Christina waited until the confident form of the headmistress rounded the corridor and disappeared. The floor was quiet except for the sound of a girl singing in the shower some doors down. The smell of toast lingered in the kitchenette. Unlike the junior school, with its camp camaraderie and shrill volume that continued until lights out, the seniors’ house had a calmness that reminded Christina of a convent.

  She slipped inside the room. The only light came from a thin strip beneath the bathroom door. From under the doona came a muffled snivelling. She tiptoed over to the bed and peeled it back. Bianca lay there, curled up in a ball, her cheeks shiny with tears. The sight made Christina’s insides ache. Smoothing the damp curls from her daughter’s face, she whispered, ‘Sweetheart, it’s Mum, I’m here now.’

  At her touch, Bianca buried her head in the pillow, sobbing, ‘I’m so sorry, Mum.’

  Christina frowned. ‘Sweetheart, you’ve nothing to be sorry for.’ That gaping sense of inadequacy that overtook her whenever Bianca was sick or sad struck her now. She began rubbing circles around Bianca’s back, hoping it helped, but it only made Bianca howl even louder.

  ‘I’ve ruined everything.’

  Christina paused. ‘Sweetheart, this is not your fault.’

  Lifting her head, Bianca wailed, ‘I don’t want to have the baby.’

  Christina clutched Bianca to her chest and absorbed every shuddering breath as her own. Rocking her, she stroked Bianca’s hair and wished away her pain. ‘Sssh, sweetie, sshh. There are ways of dealing with this. It’ll be all right, I promise.’

  But as she rocked and soothed her little girl, Christina longed to ask her how they had come to be in this place. She was holding a young woman with secrets and Christina had no idea why Bianca had locked her out. She was considering how to ask this when Dr Connelly appeared in the doorway.

  Trisha Connelly reminded Christina of one of those ageing Balmain hippies. The doctor went in for long flowing skirts in rich velvets, fiddly earrings and ballet flats. Years ago, when they were new to the area, she’d taken Bianca to see Dr Connelly for a sore throat. The doctor’s brusque judgement of Bianca’s tonsils, inferred, to Christina’s mind at least, that her daughter’s illness was somehow her fault. Angry and humiliated, she never returned to that surgery and ended up seeing the semi-retired Dr Angus on Railway Parade, who preferred to smile and fuss over his patients rather than condemn them.

  ‘Ms Clemente,’ Dr Connelly offered a silver-ringed hand for her to shake. ‘Mrs Hardcastle has explained everything.’

  The doctor’s words sent the unwelcome thought skidding across Christina’s mind that there was more to this than the headmistress and the doctor were telling her.

  Trisha Connelly got straight to the point. ‘Hi, Bianca. Mum’s told you why I’m here tonight, has she?’

  Bianca mumbled a reply.

  ‘We need to have a bit of a chat and I’d like to have a feel of your tummy and do a couple of tests. Do you want Mum to stay whilst we do that?’

  Bianca shook her head at the floor.

  Just a heartbeat, that was all the time it took to register what remained unsaid.

  Strangling the rejection that rose in her throat, Christina kissed Bianca’s head and whispered, ‘I’ll be in Mrs Hardcastle’s office when you need me, sweetheart.’

  Outside, Christina strained to catch the doctor’s words, but her voice was a murmur and the inquiring stare of a passing student sent her scurrying away.

  In the headmistress’ office were a tray of sandwiches and a pot of tea but no sign of Mrs Hardcastle. Christina poured a cup and stirred in plenty of sugar and milk, her mind seething with possibilities. Finding a thread of reason through the tangled mess was impossible and she longed, how she longed, for Jackson to be here. He was the crisis manager not her, but she knew the first thing he’d say would be, ‘Pull yourself together.’ He would be firm, logical and uncompromising. In his absence, she must demand to know who the culprit was and ensure this student owned up to his actions.

  The problem was, which boy? She was sixteen but Bianca had never had a boyfriend. As friends, yes, but no one she mooned over or whose name she enclosed in a love heart in the margins of her Biology notes. Bianca and her friends took selfies of themselves and their horses. Boys were lame or losers, even the ones at pony club. Christina stared out over the deserted quadrangle, every corner floodlit and glistening with rain. How then did Bianca fall pregnant?

  The jingle of Dr Connelly’s bangles interrupted Christina’s thoughts. A thousand questions crowded her mind but the doctor veered off towards the sofa and collapsed into the cushions. Mrs Hardcastle wandered in and acknowledged Christina with a thin smile, before busying herself pouring tea.

  Fortifying herself with a slurp of black tea, the doctor fixed Christina with a piercing stare and said, ‘Well I’ll cut to the chase. Bianca’s not pregnant.’

  Christina’s cup clattered to the saucer. ‘Oh thank God! Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. The urine test was negative and the internal examination confirms that. I’ve taken bloods as a
precaution but I don’t expect to be wrong.’

  Burying her face in her hands, Christina took deep calming breaths. Alone, she would have shed tears of relief, but not with the headmistress and the doctor as witnesses.

  Dr Connelly slurped more tea. ‘I’ve given her a sedative. She’s overwrought and needs to rest.’ The doctor’s gaze narrowed. ‘Bianca says she doesn’t sleep much.’

  Re-gathering herself, Christina said, ‘She suffers from insomnia.’

  ‘How long has this been the case, Ms Clemente?’

  Christina went to put her cup and saucer on the coffee table and accidentally sloshed tea on the leather sofa. Embarrassed, she hurried to fetch a handful of tissues from a box on the table. ‘Oh I’m so sorry, Mrs Hardcastle, this will mark. It was very clumsy of me.’ She dabbed at the dark stain spreading across the cushion.

  Relieving her of the damp tissues, the headmistress said, ‘Let’s worry about that later, Ms Clemente,’ and offered a reassuring smile before disposing of the sodden clump in the wastepaper basket.

  ‘Ms Clemente?’

  Startled, Christina found Dr Connelly staring at her. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I said, how long has Bianca suffered from a disrupted sleeping pattern?’

  Why did the doctor choose those words, as if Bianca had a long-term illness and she’d failed to recognise it. ‘On and off for years.’

  Dr Connelly raised her eyebrows. ‘Can you be more specific?’

  ‘Um, since thirteen, fourteen maybe? I can’t remember the exact dates. Our GP says it’s the change in hormones.’ From the tray she selected a sandwich she had no intention of eating, just to avoid Trisha Connelly’s intense gaze.

  ‘There’s something else,’ the doctor leaned towards her, ‘Bianca thought she was pregnant because she hasn’t had a period for three months.’

  ‘That’s not unusual at this age though, is it?’ Christina had read an article about that at the hairdressers.

  ‘If a girl has an eating disorder or is chronically underweight, no.’