by Gill Paul
* * *
Two weeks after she’d left, Val realized that Nicole hadn’t once asked after her daddy. She hadn’t wondered why they were living in a new apartment or when she would see him again, but seemed perfectly content with their altered living arrangements. She had already made friends at her new school and came home requesting her own skipping ropes to practice with.
“Charlie Chaplin went to France, to teach the ladies how to dance . . .” she chanted, a jump for each syllable, and Val laughed. She knew Nicole didn’t have a clue who Charlie Chaplin was.
Peggy came to visit and reported that Tony had been around their house a few times accusing her of aiding and abetting Val’s getaway and demanding to know where she was.
“Fortunately I’m a world-class liar”—she grinned—“and Ken can’t stand the bloke, so he’s backing me up.”
“Thanks, Pegs. I’m sorry he’s bothering you. I suppose I’ll have to call him soon. He has a right to know his daughter is safe.”
“He should bloody well pay you some money to look after her, cheap bastard,” Peggy said fiercely.
“We’re just settling in. I’ll deal with that when I have the strength for a battle.”
On Saturday afternoon, she took Nicole to a kids’ playground near their apartment. Straightaway Nicole called in greeting to a couple of girls who were hurtling down the slide, skirts flying up to reveal skinny tanned legs and white cotton knickers. Although the slide was higher than any Nicole had been on before, she rushed to join them with a shriek of excitement. Val resisted the urge to run and catch her at the bottom. She didn’t want to make her look babyish in front of her friends, but held her breath until Nicole slithered to a graceful halt and gave her a triumphant grin.
On the road outside the park there was a phone booth, and Val counted the coins in her purse then made a spur-of-the-moment decision to call Tony. After seventeen years of marriage, she owed him that. Keeping her eyes fixed on Nicole and her friends, she dialed the number, sick with nerves.
“It’s me,” she said when he answered. “I just wanted to let you know that your daughter and I are safe. I’m sorry I told you I was leaving in a note, but I was worried you would try to stop us.”
“Where are you?” he asked, and she couldn’t read his tone. Was it concern?
“We’re still in Sydney. I’ve got a flat. Look, I’m sorry, Tony, but we both know that neither of us was happy in our marriage. It was only after Dad died that I took a step back and realized that this is it—you only get one life.” She had rehearsed these words so often in her head that now she blurted them out, wanting them all to be said before he began to argue back. “We got married too young and I loved you at the time—I really did—but we married for the wrong reasons and it’s not been working for a while. I’ve been miserable and I’m sure you have too. Thing is, we’re both young enough to try again, and I hope we can find happiness next time. When we get divorced, that is . . .” Her voice trailed off at the long silence on the other end of the line.
“Divorce?” he said, his voice as cold as steel. “Over my dead body. You get back to this house right now, you bloody bitch. You’re lucky I haven’t called the police to have you arrested for abducting my daughter. What makes you think you can get away with this? You’ve got another man, haven’t you? You’d never be brave enough to do this on your own—”
Val made a snap decision and hung up. The sound of his voice disappeared midsentence. If only she had been able to switch it off so effectively before. She pictured his rage. Knowing him, he’d hurl the telephone across the room. That made her smile, although her hands were shaking. It felt empowering to have that control.
Nicole waved from the top of the slide and let go, her long hair flowing in a shiny curtain behind her.
* * *
Just opposite the office block where Val worked there was a dark-green-painted building with the sign Henry Trotman & Son, Family Solicitors. Underneath, in smaller letters, it said Divorce, Child Custody, Property, Wills, then First Consultation Free. She stood in the doorway, staring at the smart reception area with its leather chairs and paintings on the wall. The receptionist caught her eye and smiled, and that helped make up her mind. She pushed open the door.
“I’d like to make an appointment for a consultation. The free one, that is. If I can.” She cursed herself for being so timid.
“Of course. Let me check the diary.”
The receptionist had been so warm, and had seemed so sympathetic, that Val had been expecting the same from the solicitor. Instead, when she arrived for her appointment with Mr. Trotman (the son), his manner was businesslike and formal. He didn’t look at her directly but focused his attention on the notes in front of him or the cup of coffee at his elbow, into which he laboriously stirred two sugar cubes.
“Your husband has a right to see his daughter. You must make arrangements for access immediately, or it could make a judge look unfavorably on you,” he said after hearing her story. Val’s spirits plummeted.
“But Tony is violent. He’s been violent toward me for years and he had started to hit our daughter. She’s only five.” Her voice rose, sounding squeaky and, to her ears, unconvincing.
Mr. Trotman picked up his pen. “Do you have proof of that? Were the police called? Does your family doctor have a record of your injuries?”
Val rubbed her left wrist. “He broke my wrist once, but he told the hospital it was an accident. I’ve never told the police or our doctor.”
“Any relatives who can back up your story? Your daughter’s teachers, perhaps?”
Val lowered her head, shook it slowly.
“We can’t sue for divorce on grounds of his violence without proof, but we could try to insist that your daughter’s access visits are supervised. Is there a family member or friend who would do that?” He narrowed his eyes and she could tell he was assessing her, judging how reliable she seemed.
“I could find someone,” she said.
“The problem is that in New South Wales it is well-nigh impossible to get divorced without what we call ‘proof of fault’ if the other party does not consent. And from what you say, your husband wants you back, so that could be a sticking point.” He put his pen down and Val panicked as she sensed him giving up on her.
“Will Tony have to pay maintenance for Nicole even if we’re not divorced? I’m struggling to manage.”
The solicitor stuck out his lower lip, considering. “Certainly we could try. Is your husband well off?”
“Yes, not bad. We have a three-bed house in Croydon Park.” She stopped, hating to use the word “we.” “My father died at the end of last year and his house sold for eighty thousand dollars, so surely I am entitled to my inheritance at least?”
At last Mr. Trotman seemed interested. “When did the sale go through?”
“Just last month,” Val told him. “I was the sole heir.” He made a note and Val guessed he could sniff a way of getting his fees paid.
“Do you have a copy of any of the documentation? In particular, I need what is called a grant of probate. Could you get your hands on it?”
Val knew that Tony kept all the papers to do with the estate in his desk at home. “I could try,” she said, biting her lip.
“Must have been a fancy house,” the solicitor continued. “Where did your father’s money come from? Did he have any other assets—investments, perhaps? It’s worth finding out.”
Val was stumped. Where had her father’s money come from? She had always assumed he must have inherited it, because she had never known him to work. She couldn’t remember him being interested in anything except the church, his daily Russian newspaper, drinking, and going for solitary walks.
“I guess he came from a wealthy family,” she offered. “But I’m not sure.”
The solicitor frowned, and she could imagine what he was thinking: organized crime, drug trafficking.
“He filled out tax returns,” she said quickly, hoping to di
spel this notion.
“But he didn’t have any profession?”
Val sat back in the chair, mouth open. It had never occurred to her to ask where her father’s money came from. They didn’t have the kind of relationship in which she felt she could question him. He always snapped that it was none of her business if she asked anything about his past. It wasn’t as if he splashed cash around, but he clearly wasn’t short. He must have brought money from Russia with him, but how did he make it there? It was too late to ask now. Perhaps it was just something she would never know.
Chapter 20
Sydney, April 1974
VAL ARRANGED TO MEET PEGGY AT A COFFEE SHOP in The Rocks. “Save The Rocks” banners hung on every building, because local residents were struggling to stop developers from moving in on this prime waterfront real estate between the Opera House and Darling Harbor. Val had seen pictures in the papers of stalwart protesters being dragged away by police after they tried to block new building works.
“They’ll never win, will they?” Peggy sighed, joining Val at a table near the window. “Big businesses always get what they want.”
“I don’t know . . . From what I read, the protesters seem to have a lot of public support.”
Peggy shook her head. “They’re letting it happen by the back door: evicting the public housing tenants then leaving buildings empty so they get run-down and have to be demolished. It’s a losing battle if you ask me.” She arranged some shopping bags at her feet. “So tell me: what’s happening with you?”
Over coffee, Val explained what the solicitor had said, and Peggy huffed her indignation.
“Why should Tony have access to his daughter? He never paid attention to her when she lived with him, except to yell at her for something or other she’d done wrong.”
Val agreed, but said, “I have to be seen to be reasonable in the eyes of the law. He is her father.”
Peggy tutted. “Well, I guess I can put up with a couple of hours at his place one Saturday afternoon to supervise a visit. I bet he won’t offer me so much as a glass of water. He’s convinced I’m to blame for you leaving.”
“I know it’s a lot to ask, but if you get a moment . . .” Val explained where the probate document was likely to be, in the top left-hand drawer of Tony’s desk. “Don’t worry if you can’t. I don’t want to make the afternoon any more awkward for you than it will be already.”
Peggy grinned. “It will be my pleasure. I always fancied a life of crime, and I can’t think of a better cause.”
* * *
When she was told that she was to visit her father, Nicole protested. “Do I have to, Mom? Cheri is having a tea party in her yard.” Cheri was one of the older girls across the road, part of the skipping group.
“He’s missing you and is dying to see you,” Val urged. “It will be fine. But remember: don’t tell him the name of your new school or the road where we live. We need to keep them secret for now. You understand about secrets, don’t you?”
Peggy beeped her car horn outside and Val led Nicole downstairs, giving her a tight squeeze before opening the door to help her into the front seat. Nicole moved slowly, obviously reluctant.
“We’ll be back at five,” Peggy called. “You put your feet up and don’t worry. I can handle him.”
Val cleaned the bathroom, scrubbing the ancient tiles till they were a much paler shade of beige than before, then she polished the fronts of the kitchen cupboards and mopped the wooden floor. What if Tony kidnapped Nicole and ran off with her? What if he hurt her? What if Nicole accidentally revealed their address? All kinds of things could go wrong. Her chest felt so tight she could hardly breathe, and she yanked at the neckline of her T-shirt, stretching the fabric. She hated to imagine Nicole in that house. She wasn’t safe there. Her daughter had long forgotten the knife rap on her knuckles, but Val knew that she herself never would, because that cracking sound of metal on bone had been the death knell for her marriage.
During the next couple of hours, the physical pain of missing Nicole was so great that it made her wonder yet again how her own mother had left her all those years ago.
Peggy pulled up at five minutes after five, honking cheerfully. Nicole seemed subdued when she emerged from the car, but cheered up immediately when Val said she could run across to Cheri’s yard, where she could see the tea party was still under way.
Peggy heaved an oversized shopping bag from the back seat and winked. “Wait till you see what I’ve got.”
“Did you find the probate?” Val breathed, following her upstairs.
“I told him I was going to the loo and sneaked into his study. I didn’t dare stop to look through all the papers in the drawer, so I just scooped up everything, then I hid my bag by the front door and grabbed it as we were leaving.” She opened the bag and tipped a huge pile onto Val’s table. “There you are.”
“Christ!” Val exclaimed, eyes wide. “He’ll be furious. You’d better warn Ken that he might pay you a visit.”
“Ken could take him anytime.” Peggy laughed. “Don’t worry about us.”
Val started to flick through the documents: valuations, legal letters, tax forms . . . It looked dull, but it was exactly what she needed. Several were in Russian. “Scott” was the surname her father had chosen when he moved to Australia, but she didn’t know his Russian name, and it was hard to tell from these papers.
“Thank you!” She hugged Peggy with feeling. “I owe you big time. If you ever need me to turn to crime to help you, just ask.”
After Peggy went home, Val shoved the papers to one side and heated a can of spaghetti for Nicole’s supper.
“How was your dad?” she asked as they ate. “Did he play with you?” He never used to, but she hoped that as a weekend dad he would make a bit more effort.
Nicole shook her head. “We watched Skippy on TV, then Auntie Peggy played Snap with me. Mom, can we get a TV? Please?”
Val sighed. “One day, sweetie. When Mommy has a bit more cash.”
Once Nicole was tucked up in bed, Val returned to the pile of papers. The probate document was near the top, attached by a paper clip to the form Tony had filled out requesting it. She noticed that the grant was in both their names, not just hers. Maybe that was the way it worked when you were a married couple, but it annoyed her all the same. Tony had barely known her father.
She flicked further through the pile: correspondence with the tax office, with the estate agent who had sold the house—and then her eye was caught by a brightly colored Chinese stamp with pictures of smiling workers and a Communist-style logo. It was a letter, addressed to her, that had come all the way from China. The handwriting was neat and the envelope had been opened. Tony had obviously read it and decided not to pass it on.
Val pulled the letter from the envelope and scanned the first few lines: Can it really be you? After all this time? I am overwhelmed with joy to hear from you. She clutched her throat and turned the pages over to check the signature: Your loving mother, Ha Suran.
She dropped the letter onto the table and covered her face with both hands, so overcome that it was several minutes before she could read the rest: When your father sent me back to Manchuria, my heart broke in two. He knew I could never raise the fare to return to Australia as I was penniless and my family is very poor. I wrote hundreds of letters but never received a reply, and I guessed he must be keeping them from you.
Val was stunned at the cruelty of this. What if Tony snatched Nicole and never let Val see or hear from her again? The pain would be unbearable. Why had her father done that to Ha Suran—and to her?
Ha Suran did not explain why she had been sent away, but she did ask dozens of questions about Val’s life. Was she married? Did she have children? Where did she live? Could she send a photograph? Was she happy? She longed to know that her little girl was doing well.
Near the end of the letter, she wrote that she did not want to cause alarm, but that her health was poor and she did not expect to live
much longer. She wrote that Val should not be sad, because now she could die happy knowing that her daughter was safe.
Coming on top of all the other revelations, this knocked the wind out of Val. Her mother was alive, but might not be for long. What was wrong with her? She tried to calculate how old she must be: much younger than her father, so probably only in her sixties. Far too young to die.
It seemed unlikely that Ha Suran would be able to come to Australia, so Val decided there and then that she and Nicole would have to go to her. She couldn’t let her mother die without seeing her again and asking all the questions she had been unable to ask her father. But the only way she could afford it would be by getting her hands on her father’s inheritance—money that should be hers by right.
Chapter 21
MR. TROTMAN LOOKED THROUGH THE PAPERS VAL had brought, his expression giving little away. There was a valuation of the antiques she had taken to the dealer, including the old camera and the Russian icons; statements from three bank accounts containing almost a hundred thousand dollars among them; half a dozen stock certificates; and, among everything else, a receipt for a safe deposit box in a city-center bank.
“Do you know what was kept there?” he asked Val.
She glanced at it and shook her head. “No idea.”
“Perhaps you should ask. It doesn’t look as though your husband has got around to checking it. Have you been in contact with him?”
“I let him see his daughter for a supervised visit,” Val said. “We made the arrangements by phone.”
“And he was happy for you to take these documents? These are originals, not copies.” He frowned. “He’ll need them to finish winding up the estate.”
“It’s my money, though, isn’t it?” Val asked. “My father left his belongings to me, not Tony. He couldn’t stand Tony and tried to talk me out of marrying him. I should have listened . . .”
Mr. Trotman was emotionless. “As a married couple, any inheritance is jointly owned.”
