by Ilsa Evans
For someone who remembered little of the weekend, she certainly had the details to hand. ‘But I thought you said she and my father were an item?’
‘No, dear. I said your father was in love with her. I doubt she was an item with anyone. Bit of a tease, was Dallas.’
‘I see,’ I said again. ‘Can I ask you about the day she disappeared? Anzac Day 1970?’
She squeezed the dough until it oozed fatly through her fingers, and then began working it once more. ‘I’ll try my best. But, as I said …’
‘Yes, I know. It’s a long time ago. There was a march that year that finished at the cenotaph.’ I phrased my question carefully. ‘Do you remember who was there that day?’
‘Well, everyone of course. Just about the whole town. Except your mother. I’m pretty sure that was when she opened her little bookshop.’
‘The Fletchers wouldn’t have been there, would they? The Queenscliff couple?’
‘Certainly not. No reason for them to be. Not their town.’
I sighed silently. It would have made everything so much easier. ‘I believe Uncle Jim went to help Yen afterwards, with the shop. Did he just, well …’ I smiled, to soften my next words ‘… leave you stranded then?’
‘Certainly not,’ she said again, but this time she clipped the words firmly. A rather plain grey cat came slinking in from the lounge room and rubbed itself against the legs of my barstool. ‘He wouldn’t do that. I had my car. I would have helped, naturally, but not in my … the way I was.’
I watched as she rolled the dough out thinly and then began adjusting the machine. The sound of a clock ticking from the lounge room punctuated the silence. There should have been children tumbling through this house, a dozen of them, plus grandchildren, hanging out for homemade pasta. Not just one homely cat. ‘Where’s Uncle Jim?’
‘Out the back, gardening.’ She gave me a sharp look. ‘And I don’t want you bothering him with all this, dear. He’s already upset enough about everything going on. Although so pleased to have your father home, of course. We all are. As I’m sure you girls are too.’
‘Oh, yes. Ecstatic. Just one more thing, Rita. Do you remember anyone from around that time who was an artist? Rex Fletcher, perhaps? Uncle Jim? Or my father?’
She looked surprised at the question but gave it some thought. ‘No, not that I can think of. Certainly not your uncle or your father. Neither of those two have an artistic bone in their body. Here, look at this.’ She wiped floury hands on her apron and then pulled a scrap of cardboard from among the papers at the end of the bench. It was a golf-scorecard with a series of pencilled notations and then a very odd-looking, almost octagonal smiley face in one corner. ‘Your father did that the other day. See what I mean?’
I did indeed. I turned the card over and was delighted to see, scribbled across the back in rather infantile handwriting, the words Got me, you canny Aussie bastard! My visit may not have yielded a wealth of information, but it had confirmed one thing: my father had not written the letters to Dallas.
‘D’you know, I remember now.’ Rita was holding the flattened dough aloft. It was tissue-thin, almost sheer. ‘Grace June Rae used to teach a painting class up at the community centre. Still lifes, I seem to remember. Bowls of fruit, that type of thing.’
Somehow I couldn’t see Grace June Rae sketching a somnolent, naked Dallas Patrick. But then I also couldn’t see this woman before me, in her flowery, floury apron, playing Whose Turn Next? with my father and Paul Patrick Senior and the man who had owned those elderly brown loafers. I couldn’t see any of it, not the bits I knew or the bits I didn’t and certainly not all those in between.
*
I passed the entrance to the motel on the way back to town and, on a sudden whim, made a left turn into the sweeping driveway. It was impossible to know whether Clare Fletcher was still in residence, as I didn’t know which was her car, but Amy Stenhouse’s small white sedan was still parked neatly outside number twenty-one.
It seemed remarkable that so much had happened in the past few days that the stalker-ish behaviour of this woman had been pushed to one side. Perhaps we had all been playing the waiting game. Amy was waiting for the legal system to deliver her a winning hand, Lucy was waiting for fate, and I was waiting for her to lay eyes on her child and fall in love. That, I was hoping against hope, would change everything.
I had a choice. I could confront Amy Stenhouse, let her know that I knew she was here, but then I ran the risk of giving her ammunition to use in court. Particularly if I lost my temper. After all, she wasn’t actually doing anything illegal. By the same token, I heartily disliked the idea of her being allowed to continue standing on the chair in the bathroom, peering through the window for the first sign of a labouring Lucy to be led from the house. And then what? Would she hightail it over to the hospital, settle herself in the waiting room, be among the first to see the baby?
I slid down in my seat, thinking carefully. Strategy was not usually my strong suit, but needs must when the devil drives. I pulled out my mobile and flicked through the contacts until I found Ashley Armistead. This time he answered. ‘Hey there, I was going to ring you tonight. No can do on the magazine, I’m afraid.’
‘Why on earth not?’
‘Not sure. Eric’s digging his heels in.’ He laughed. ‘I don’t think he likes you.’
‘The feeling is mutual. Hmm, what about if I traded something?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like the name of someone who has been keeping an eye on the front of my house for the past week or so, and would have seen Rex Fletcher go inside – alone or not?’
Silence stretched. ‘Rex Fletcher committed suicide. There’s no doubt there.’
‘No, but there is doubt over that note. Perhaps someone came along later, and left it?’
‘Why the interest in the magazine?’
‘I’m not a hundred percent sure,’ I said honestly. ‘But if I find anything, I’ll pass it on straight away. So it’s really a win-win deal.’
He laughed again. ‘Actually, I think it’s called withholding information. Leave it with me.’
I hung up, checking the phone for any messages from Lucy that might have snuck through without the usual notification. Then I sat with the phone in my lap, feeling very Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps I should get one of those hats.
Five minutes later the phone rang, startling me out of a semi-daze. It was Ashley.
‘Okay. It’s not really a magazine, as such. More of a leaflet. Published by an organisation called The Friends of Ballarat and titled What’s on in Ballarat – Autumn 1970. Okay, so now who’s your witness?’
‘Hang on.’ I thought about this. ‘Autumn starts in March.’
‘Excellent observation.’
‘Yes, but I thought it was the date of the magazine that established the date of death?’
‘Don’t know where you got that,’ said Ashley promptly. ‘No, it was the receipt in her purse. Two bottles of milk plus a Barney Banana ice-cream, all purchased on 25 April 1970. Now, who’s your –’
‘I doubt I’m going to be able to access that leaflet online or anything. I’ll need you to scan a copy and send it through to me.’
‘Okay.’ He sighed, but I suspected that he had anticipated this request. ‘But it’ll have to wait till tomorrow. Now, the witness please?’
‘Amy Stenhouse. She’s currently a resident at the motel across the road from my house. Room number twenty-one. She only found out two weeks ago that her son is the father of Lucy’s baby. She’s already filed an injunction to stop any potential adoption. She has a clear view from her bathroom window and has been spying on us for the past week, if not longer. She’ll deny this, but you can dust the window ledge for prints if you need to.’
‘Good god.’
‘See?’ I said accusingly. ‘You should be thrilled I’m not pushing you to get more involved with my lot. Who’d want all that on their plate?’
‘I would,’ he said softly
, just before hanging up.
Chapter Twenty-seven
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‘Bloody, bloody hell!’ Lucy stretched her legs out and stared balefully at the hard, high mound of her belly. ‘When is this going to happen?’
‘A watched kettle never boils,’ I said sanctimoniously.
‘Okay, I’m not watching.’ She put a hand over her eyes and then groaned as she swung her head from side to side. She uncovered her eyes. ‘Get out, get out, get out!’
‘Maybe a hot bath,’ suggested Kate. She had a laptop in front of her and seemed to be researching ways to bring on labour. So far her suggestions had included pineapple, castor oil and red raspberry leaf. Separately and together.
It was late afternoon on Monday and the three of us were sitting in Lucy’s lounge room. The objective had been to keep her company, take her mind off the situation, but instead we had simply borne witness to the most remarkable change in personality. Over the course of the past twenty-four hours, my patient, compassionate, selfless daughter had turned into the mother-to-be from hell. Like a Bridezilla, but with no wedding in sight.
‘Fuck your hot bath,’ snapped Lucy. Her face immediately crumpled. ‘I’m sorry, Kate. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Yes I do.’ She lifted her head to glare at her belly. ‘Get out of there, you goddamned little parasite!’
Quinn’s excitement over her impending aunt-hood had not lasted the distance. Neither had that of Red, who arrived after lunch on Sunday, danced attendance for a few hours, and then departed cheerfully back to Melbourne. Meanwhile, Quinn had graduated from shrill demands that she skip school on Monday to an early, and eager, departure from the happy home this morning. Upon arriving back and discovering that nothing had happened yet, she had thrown herself on the mercy of her sister Scarlet, who had taken her over there for the evening.
‘It says here that, um, nipple stimulation often works.’ Kate kept her eyes on the laptop, flushing. ‘Just saying.’
‘Don’t look at me,’ I said smartly. This statement was totally superfluous as neither of them were looking anywhere near me. In fact, they seemed to be making a point of it. I had thought that Kate might have departed by now, but it appeared she had settled in for the duration. Everybody else acted as if this was totally normal; that a person could come along to a barbecue to meet their brother’s prospective in-laws, and then finish the evening at his sister’s house next door. And never leave.
I glanced over at Lucy, somewhat startled to see that she was now massaging her own nipples. She did not seem to have a very gentle touch.
‘Well, that just hurts!’ She dropped her hands. ‘And now my fingers have fucking cramp as well. Great.’
I rather envied Petra, who had made her trip to Queenscliff today. I suspected that her prompt departure, and anticipated late return, were due in no small part to the brief two hours she had spent in Lucy’s company the evening before. This had been to report that little was accomplished by the trip to Ballarat. Paul Patrick had been well enough to receive visitors, but had nothing of consequence to add except that ‘she was a frigid bitch who got no more than she deserved’. The upside was that Margie had shown her the family photo albums, which included baby pictures of Paul Junior, but the downside was that she was now concerned about latent hereditary traits. In this case, the apple didn’t need to just roll a little away from the tree, it had to be packaged and exported and prevented from any further contact.
‘What about a walk?’ said Kate, with exaggerated jollity. Without moving her body, Lucy swivelled her head slowly towards this new friend. She looked like she was auditioning for a role in Rosemary’s Baby meets The Exorcist.
‘That’s an excellent idea.’ I jumped to my feet. ‘Best-case scenario is that it gets things moving, and worst case is we just get out of this house for an hour.’
‘No-one said you had to stay.’ Lucy’s head swivelled in my direction. ‘Like, I’d hate to be putting you out or something.’
‘Enough already. We get it. Come on.’ I waved towards Kate. ‘Grab her other arm.’
‘I don’t wanna go for a walk,’ moaned Lucy, nevertheless putting her arms out. We grabbed one each and hoisted her upright. Her skin was clammy with frustration.
Kate slid thongs onto Lucy’s feet while I grabbed my sunglasses and mobile. Fortunately I was dressed once more in my exercise gear, which was so comfortable I had decided it was my go-to outfit. Richard White was no longer parked outside my house, having delivered his piece on a current affairs program aired on Saturday. It had been followed up with an extended article in yesterday’s newspaper, titled Murder: In the Street with No Name. Both segments were big on atmosphere and short on substance. Indeed, more time was spent on my missing street sign than on either death, and the only footage had me looking more mentally challenged than furtive.
It was a warm day, with a blustering northerly breeze that swirled through the trees lining our lane. Clouds crowded the sky, puffy and white with seal-grey silhouettes. Lucy, who was wearing a white cheesecloth top and lilac cheesecloth pants, actually fluttered as she walked. I gave a friendly wave towards the rear of the motel rooms, although I was not sure if Amy Stenhouse was still in residence or not. We turned right, heading over the uneven ground in the direction of the oval. Lucy walked slowly, grimly, with Kate hovering by her side.
‘What a lovely day,’ I said brightly.
Lucy sent me a look of disgust. ‘With this wind?’
‘At least it’s not raining.’
‘That’ll come,’ she said, casting an irritated glance at the sky. ‘I wanna go home.’
‘How about we go as far as that statue over there,’ suggested Kate, pointing to the cenotaph, ‘and then come back?’
Lucy wrapped her hands beneath her stomach, as if support was needed to prevent her toppling over. She continued methodically, one foot after the other, her eyes on the goal. If I had suggested walking all the way to the cenotaph, no doubt she would have refused, but it seemed that Kate had her uses. My mobile pinged and I slowed to read the message. Attached is magazine as requested. Sorry it took so long. Ash. I felt a flicker of annoyance at the brevity, but the feeling was quickly outweighed by curiosity. I tapped on the image and immediately my phone filled with the autumn 1970 edition of What’s on in Ballarat. It was mostly black and white, but with the occasional splash of colour that almost looked hand-painted. The first page consisted largely of an editorial, which was difficult to read on my mobile, and the next featured the Ballarat Begonia Festival and an array of photos showing luscious blooms and smiling families. It was difficult to determine which was more spectacular, the flowers or the beehive hairdos.
‘If you’re not going to walk, then neither am I,’ announced Lucy, stopping abruptly.
Kate took her arm encouragingly. ‘Hey, we’re almost there!’
‘Look, I’m moving. Come on.’ I started walking again, still scrolling through the pages. Who would have thought there was so much happening in Ballarat in autumn 1970? Lakeside markets and footraces and a canoe race and a library amnesty and a double-page spread previewing the new Sovereign Hill tourist attraction due to open that November. I flicked through, my impatience building, and very nearly missed it. I blinked as I stared at the tiny image, and then used my fingers to enlarge it. There was no doubt. It was the pair to the sketch that was even now in my study at home, the main difference being the sitter now had her back turned, her face invisible. But there was the same spare pencil-work, the same lovely, languid lines, the same sensuality.
I brought the screen back to size and squinted to read the accompanying text. The artist was anonymous, the drawing titled Lost Love, and it had been entered in the Ballarat Amateur Art Show, where it, along with the others, could be seen on display at the art centre until May. With my heart rate picking up even further, I e
nlarged the picture again, searching for a signature. I was fairly sure there was something in the lower right corner, but I had to amplify it so much that it pixelated into confusion. I would have to wait until I could transfer it to the computer. I looked up. ‘Well, I’ve had enough. What about you two?’
‘Finally!’ said Lucy, immediately turning. Beside her, Kate gave me a disappointed look.
The wind was in our faces on the way back, something that always sounds a lot more pleasant than it is. It had picked up also, blustering like a grumpy uncle. I set the pace, all the while wondering how I was going to pass this news on to Ashley without alerting him to the fact that I had, indeed, withheld evidence. If the police had had access to the sketch, then no doubt they would have made the connection also. I reached the corner of my property well in advance of the other two and then waited impatiently so I could tell them that I would catch up with them next door in a few minutes. Lucy was breathing heavily, which prevented her from objecting to this plan.
I let myself into a house that smelt surprisingly pungent. The reason for this was most likely the large kidney-shaped puddle by the sliding door, with the culprit making himself scarce under the couch. I made some half-hearted bad boy noises, threw paper towel on top and then disappeared into my study to transfer the file over to my main computer. Here I was able to select the image and enlarge it, then compare it with the one that lay on my desk. There was no doubt that they were drawn by the same person.
I took a deep breath and then zeroed in on the bottom right corner. It pixelated into a thousand tiny little grey-white boxes but this time it slowly resolved. I found myself leaning in, my breath caught in my throat, until two looping initials emerged: C.F. I stared, unable to make the leap at first, and then my mouth fell open.
Clare Fletcher. It hadn’t been Rex Fletcher, or my father, or any of the men. And suddenly it all made sense. This had been why my father had seen her as terribly unhappy in her marriage, and why Rita had seen her as a tease and her husband as just frigid. This was why they had been so desperate to keep the affair a secret, and why Dallas had been so uncertain about leaving. This was why she had thought she might lose her children. A lesbian relationship in 1970 would have taken a great deal of courage. What had her note said? She was unable to hide any longer, unable to deny her love. To thine own self be true.
