The room was the same. It was as if Maggie had never left. The carpet glowed with warm colours against the polished floor she’d spent so many hours scrubbing. The desk was just as broad, just as bare, the walls decorated only by a crucifix. The tall, elegant windows she’d washed more times than she could count still glittered in the sun behind the lacy curtains. The Reverend Mother’s grey eyes were just as mean.
‘Margaret Finlay. I can’t say it’s a pleasure to see you again after your disgraceful behaviour.’
Maggie gritted her teeth and glared back. ‘The feeling’s mutual,’ she said coldly. ‘I had hoped I’d never have to come here again, but you have something that belongs to me, and I want it back.’
The eyes were flint, the dislike clear in every inch of that bony face. ‘You came here with nothing. You left with nothing. It is as it should be.’
‘There is a letter from my father,’ said Maggie firmly. ‘And my birth certificate. Give them back and I’ll never bother you again.’
The Reverend Mother eyed her for a long moment, her thoughts inscrutable behind the grey mask of contempt. She finally pulled out a drawer and tossed the letter on to the desk before leaning back in her chair, arms folded in the depths of her black habit.
‘The birth certificate,’ demanded Maggie as she picked up the letter.
‘Still arrogant, I see,’ snapped the old nun. ‘What right do you have to come in here making your demands?’
‘The right to what is mine. Hand it over.’ Maggie was breathing hard and she wondered if the old bitch could hear the thud of her heart drumming against her ribs. For the sound of it filled her head and pulsed in every fibre of her being.
The elderly nun rose majestically from her chair. She was thin to the point of emaciation, the black habit emphasising the narrowness of her girth as she slowly made her way to a row of shelves. Long, bony fingers tapped along the lines of boxed files, came to a halt and plucked one from the rest. She carried it in grim silence to the desk and sat down. ‘How old are you now?’
‘Eighteen,’ she replied. ‘Old enough to marry and to go to work – but only if I have that certificate.’
The eyes drifted over her before returning to the file on the desk. ‘Your arrogance will be your downfall,’ she said as she opened the file. The gaze that once again drifted to Maggie’s face was bright with a new kind of malevolence. ‘But then that is hardly a surprise to those of us who know your background.’
Maggie gritted her teeth and refused to rise to the bait. She would not allow this vicious old cow the satisfaction of knowing just how accurately each barb found its target.
The fingers plucked through the papers, lifting out one and then another. The box file was slammed shut and put to one side. ‘Your father left these in our safekeeping with strict instructions they were not to be handed to you until after his death.’ The grey eyes bored into Maggie. ‘As you are eighteen and he’s not been heard from for over three years, one assumes he’s dead.’
Maggie reached for the slip of paper.
The Reverend Mother flicked it out of reach. ‘This is your birth certificate,’ she said. ‘And this,’ she picked up the second piece of paper from the desk and waved it in Maggie’s face, her eyes gleaming with spite. ‘This is your adoption certificate.’
*
Sam had fired up the generator and was switching on the lights and preparing the dining room when Giles came clattering through the side door demanding a stiff whisky. ‘Bit early, mate. Sun’s barely up.’
‘I don’t care,’ muttered Giles through chattering teeth. ‘I need a drink.’
Sam eyed him for a moment before going into the bar and pouring him a double. Returning to the hatch, he placed it on the counter. ‘You right, mate?’ The Englishman looked green around the gills and was shivering fit to bust.
‘Been swimming,’ muttered Giles. ‘Got chilled.’
Sam raised his chin and his eyebrows, but said nothing. If Giles wanted to take a swim in the middle of the bloody night, who was he to complain if he got cold and needed a drink to warm him up?
‘I’d better get dressed,’ mumbled Giles as he drained the whisky and collected his towel. ‘I hope breakfast won’t be long. Got a real appetite this morning.’
‘So do I,’ growled Sam. ‘There’s no flamin’ sign of Maggie, despite her promising to come in today, and Lila’s refused to come into work until her daughter gets better.’
‘She’s on the beach with Olivia,’ said Giles as he turned away and headed for the stairs.
‘What the bloody hell’s she doing on the flamin’ beach at this time of the flamin’ morning?’
‘Who knows?’ said Giles. He grinned as he turned on the bottom step. ‘But it looked to me as if they could be there for some time. They were deep in conversation.’
‘I’ve got a hotel to run,’ snapped Sam as he slammed through the hatch. ‘Bloody women,’ he muttered under his breath as he went storming through the side door and out into the yard. ‘As if they don’t have all flamin’ day to yarn, they gotta do it all bloody night as well.’
*
Olivia knew her face was ashen, for she’d felt the colour drain as Maggie talked. ‘Adopted?’ she breathed. ‘You were adopted?’
Maggie nodded. ‘Turns out I was left at that convent when I was barely a week old. The Finlays adopted me soon after.’ She scooped up a handful of sand and let it sift through her fingers as she stared out to sea. ‘And I never knew. Mum and Dad never said a thing, never even hinted I wasn’t their own.’
She turned to Olivia, the pain stark in her face. ‘Why, Olivia? Why did they let me go on thinking I was theirs?’
Olivia swallowed the hard lump in her throat. This was crazy – the whole scenario like something out of a bad dream. ‘Perhaps they loved you so much they were afraid of losing you,’ she said finally. ‘Perhaps they didn’t want you to find your real parents, because they were frightened you would stop loving them.’
Maggie nodded as she sifted another handful of sand. ‘Maybe,’ she murmured. ‘But surely it was better to say something, than for me to find out in such a horrible way?’
Maggie would never realise how deeply Olivia understood her pain. Would never know how much the story was affecting her. ‘I’m sure they would have told you in time,’ she said gently. ‘It’s just that circumstances got in the way.’
‘You’re right,’ she sniffed. ‘And I know they loved me – even poor old Dad. He just couldn’t cope after Mum died, and he was only doing what he thought was for the best.’ She gave a snort of laughter. ‘He took me back to the place he’d found me. How was he to know what a hell it was?’
Olivia swallowed again. The question was burning to be asked – but did she want to hear the reply? Could she take on board the implications of the answer if it proved as she suspected? She looked away from Maggie and realised she was jumping to conclusions. So many years had passed since Maggie’s unfortunate birth – of course there was no connection. She was being ridiculous, her judgement impaired by her own circumstances.
*
Sam stomped down the sandy lane, and was in the process of cutting through the alley between the beach houses when he heard the last part of the women’s conversation. It pulled him up short.
His bad mood was swept away as he realised he must not risk being seen. Must not let them know he’d overheard part of what was obviously a very serious conversation. Yet he was intrigued, for this intimate exchange had echoes of one he’d had not so long ago – and he needed to know more if he was to put the pieces of the puzzle together.
The sun was rising fast now, chasing away the shadows, bringing the first swarm of flies to flit and dance around his sweating face. Sam flattened his back against the wall of the house and unashamedly listened in.
*
‘Why did you lea
ve it for so long before coming here?’ asked Olivia. ‘People move on, change houses, change their names, even. It was one hell of a task after all these years.’
Maggie looked at her face and wondered mildly why it appeared so strained. She shrugged. ‘Things weren’t as easy back then as they are now,’ she said with a calmness that belied the inner turmoil. ‘I had no money, no work, and the only transport I had was an ageing horse and wagon. Dirranbandi is hundreds of miles south of here.’
‘You could have written,’ said Olivia.
Maggie nodded. ‘I thought about it. Even sat down and drafted a letter out, but I never sent it.’ She fell silent, her thoughts churning. ‘I thought the personal approach would be better,’ she said finally. ‘A letter can be ignored, thrown away. I would stand a better chance if we met face to face.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Besides, I wanted to see this woman. Needed to face her and find out what made her give me away like that.’
She fell silent again as she remembered the urgent need to travel north to find this so–called mother who’d left her to the mercy of that bitch Reverend Mother.
‘Believe me, if it had been possible I would have walked all the bloody way. I wanted answers. But most of all I wanted to tell her just what kind of life she’d abandoned me to. I wanted to hear her apologise.’
Olivia remained silent, but Maggie thought she could see the pain in her eyes, the questions she wanted to ask, the fear of the answers. Maggie took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She didn’t want to hurt Olivia, but she deserved to know the truth. Perhaps, once she’d told her everything, she could truly start again. For once aired, the anguish would no longer be secret – would no longer have the power to wound.
‘I managed to get work on some of the sheep and cattle stations as I headed east to the coast. I cooked – it was about all I was good at – that and housework.’ She laughed. ‘Good grounding for Sam’s hotel, though.’
‘We all pick up skills through life, that come surprisingly handy at times,’ murmured Olivia.
‘Like yesterday, with your nursing.’
‘Mmmm.’ Olivia was staring out to sea, watching the sun creep slowly above the horizon.
Maggie dug her hands in her pockets as she paced back and forth in the sand. She was too restless to sit, too on edge to appreciate the glorious sunrise. ‘I was in Sydney when the war broke out. Work wasn’t a problem then, and I got a job in a clothing factory. We started out making suits and dresses, and then got a contract for making army uniforms. The pay was good, the company lively and I settled down for the duration.’
She kicked at the sand with her toes. ‘I liked Sydney. It was always busy and bustling, and then of course there was the sea. I couldn’t get enough of it, and used to spend hours cycling to one or another of the beaches.’ She grinned down at Olivia. ‘Bit like you really.’
Olivia smiled back, but Maggie could see it was forced, for it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Where there should have been warmth was a sense of separation – a guarded distance as if she was afraid of what she might hear. She swallowed. Her revelations would strike Olivia hard – but surely the truth was better than a life–time of lies and secrets?
‘The war ended and I’d saved a fair amount of money, so I caught the train and came up north. It was easy to find the town, and the house, because the address was on my birth certificate. All I needed now was for my mother to still be there. It was a long shot, but I had to give it a go.’
‘And was she?’
Maggie stilled and stared out to sea. ‘She was there all right,’ she said softly.
*
The house looked as if it had been freshly painted, and it gleamed cheerfully in its red and white. Maggie unfastened the gate and closed it behind her. Her heart was hammering against her ribs and her hands were sweaty as she walked up the rickety stone path to the front verandah and knocked on the screen door.
She stepped back as the woman came down the short hallway to the door. She was of the right age, but was she the woman she was looking for? Maggie took in the slender frame in the expensive dress that to Maggie’s expert eye had been purchased in Sydney. She noticed how the blonde hair had been styled in lustrous waves like Betty Grable’s, and how the make–up was perfectly applied. This was a woman more at home in the city than on the beach, and Maggie wondered why she chose to live here in Trinity.
‘Yes?’ The smile was pleasant, but Maggie noticed the long red fingernails tapping with impatience on the doorframe.
‘My name is Maggie Finlay.’ Maggie’s voice was rough with emotion and she tried to clear her throat.
The light brown eyes were wary and the fingernails drummed just that little harder on the doorframe. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met.’ The cold–eyed woman blocked the way into the house. ‘What do you want exactly?’
Maggie rustled around in her handbag that always had too many things stuffed in it, and pulled out her birth certificate. She took a deep breath, and was almost stifled by the rapidity of her heartbeat. ‘I’m your daughter,’ she rasped.
The colour drained behind the mask of make–up and the long nails ceased tapping on the frame. ‘Is this some kind of sick joke?’ she snapped. ‘I have no daughter.’
Maggie was not to be put off. ‘Then how do you explain this?’ She thrust the birth certificate in the other woman’s face.
The eyes narrowed as they quickly scanned the worn document and the hand reached out to rip it from Maggie’s fingers. ‘You’ve made a mistake,’ she snapped. ‘I’m not your mother.’
Maggie stuffed the precious document back in her bag. ‘I think you are,’ she retorted. ‘I’ve asked around and it’s too much of a coincidence for there to be two women who lived in the same house and have the same name.’
There was a long silence in which Maggie felt the chill of the woman’s scrutiny as it trawled over her.
‘What exactly do you hope to gain by coming here with your revolting insinuations?’ The voice had a steely edge, and the mouth thinned to an unattractive red slash in the pale face.
‘I want the truth,’ replied Maggie with honest simplicity. ‘I want you to admit you’re my mother, and I want to know why you left me in that God awful place where I was abused and mistreated. I also want to know who my father was.’
The woman snorted as she reached for the slender red box of Craven A cigarettes in her pocket. She took her time to light one, and then blew a stream of smoke to the roof of the verandah. ‘The convent obviously didn’t teach you any manners,’ she said finally.
Maggie leaped on the words. ‘So you admit it, then?’
The woman stared at her for a long, still moment before she nodded. ‘It was the best place for you in the circumstances.’
Maggie’s heart was thudding so painfully she wondered if she would fall down in a faint on this woman’s doorstep. ‘Why?’ she persisted. ‘You’re obviously rich. Why couldn’t you have brought me up?’
The red lips slithered one over the other as the light brown eyes glistened. ‘Because I didn’t want to,’ she replied. ‘Because I was glad to be rid of you.’
The words tore through Maggie and she had to clutch the wall to stop from falling. Black clouds swirled, blotting out the sunlight, making it hard to focus on the woman in the doorway.
‘You said you wanted the truth,’ came the sibilant voice through the haze of anguish. ‘You said you wanted answers.’ Her perfume was cloying as she leaned towards Maggie. ‘But I think you’re beginning to realise the truth isn’t very pleasant. Want me to go on?’
Maggie stared at her wordlessly. She felt like a butterfly caught in the sticky web of some exotic spider.
The voice was soft and venomous as the spite spilled between those red lips. ‘I didn’t want you – never wanted you. You were a mistake. An abortion would have been preferable.’
Magg
ie couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. She could only stare in fascination into those light, golden eyes and wonder at this woman’s cruelty. She wanted to scream a denial. Wanted to lash out and inflict the same hurt she was experiencing. Wanted to run as far as she could from this spiteful, vindictive woman who could never possibly call herself a mother. Yet she remained on that doorstep as if turned to stone.
‘I was walking back from a dance,’ said the pitiless voice. ‘I was alone, because my friends all lived in the opposite direction. We lived in Melbourne then – not here, in this dump.’
Maggie watched as she smoothed back a pale gold wave of hair with a steady hand, patting it in place with those long, polished talons. The bitch was actually enjoying herself, she realised in awe.
‘I didn’t know there was an escaped lunatic on the run from Cairns. Didn’t know the police had been hunting for him for weeks, or that he’d made his way south.’ Her eyes grew cunning as she leaned forward and Maggie could feel her warm spittle against her face. ‘He came out of nowhere and grabbed me. Dragged me into the bushes and raped me.’ She stood back again, her top lip curled in disdain. ‘You are the result.’
The trembling began in Maggie’s toes and travelled all the way up until she found it almost impossible to speak. ‘Thanks,’ she said finally, her voice gruff with emotion. ‘Thanks for letting me see what you really are behind all that powder and paint. I don’t have to fantasise any more.’
Maggie turned and walked down the path. Leaving the gate unlatched and creaking in the breeze, she walked away. It would be the last time, she vowed, that she would talk to Irene Stanford.
*
Olivia saw the pain in Maggie’s eyes and reached out to console her. She knew all about Irene’s ability to cower, to almost hypnotise her victim into acquiescence. ‘Oh, Maggie, I’m so very sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t know. I had no idea of any of this.’
Maggie stood stiffly in Olivia’s embrace. ‘Why should you?’ she said. ‘I’m just so sorry I’ve landed you with it all.’
Undercurrents Page 18
