The Mistake

by Wendy James

  ‘My instinct is that this will move pretty swiftly. I imagine that your nurse friend must have gone straight to Community Services to check their records, though it’s a complete mystery to me why she decided to get involved. Was it something you said? You definitely didn’t tell her about the matron?’ Jodie avoids Angus’s eye when she replies.

  ‘All I said was that I’d arranged the adoption after I left. But she, well, she was very concerned when I told her – she offered to help me find her, to reconnect. I think she said she had some contact in the department, someone who could help me bypass all the red tape. I kept telling her that I wasn’t interested, that I didn’t want to meet her, but I think she was probably … trying to help.’

  ‘Oh, God save us all from helpful social-worker types. Anyway, someone at Community Services would have discovered that there was no record of any adoption, and then no registration of the birth, no Medicare notification, and they’ll have sent the file to the police. They’d have no option.’

  ‘The police where?’ Angus’s voice is brisk, businesslike. ‘If it’s here, maybe I can talk to Don?’

  ‘Actually, I imagine it would be the police nearest to – where is the hospital? Greystanes, maybe? And then on to the detectives at their local command, rather than here. It’ll come under their jurisdiction, because that’s where the cri— … where it all took place.’ He pauses. ‘But Don could still be useful. Any contacts you have could be useful. The city detectives will have to liaise with the cops here, if they need to do interviews, I’d imagine. So, if you can get onto Don in, say, the next few days and tell him what Jodie’s told us, prepare him – that’ll all help. Then when they get in touch he won’t be surprised, and you can perhaps, well, you can ask him if he could arrange to have the initial interview here, rather than at the station.’

  ‘Here? Why? What difference will that make? Do we really have to have the police here? Won’t … won’t people talk?’ Angus’s distaste is obvious.

  ‘It just means that she’ll have the advantage – you’ll be on your own territory. If it’s at the station, in an interview room, you’ll feel much more intimidated, even if they tell you that it’s just a conversation and not an official interview. Here at home you can ask them to sit down, offer refreshments even – and then ask them to leave whenever you’re ready.’ He gives Angus an inscrutable look. ‘But you’re going to have to get over worrying about people talking, Angus. It’s going to happen.’

  ‘I suppose. But surely we can try and keep it as quiet as … You know I’m due to stand for mayor this year, and it would be an absolute disaster if —’ He breaks off, embarrassed, as if wondering about the relative significance of this particular concern.

  ‘Mate. Angus.’ Peter’s voice is gentle. ‘It’s going to be a complete PR catastrophe – there’s no avoiding it. You need to prepare yourself.’ A slight pause, then he pushes on, ‘You might need to pull out of the running if it comes to that. But – and this is what I’ve been trying to suggest – what if we don’t just sit and wait for the blade to fall. Why not make it public ourselves? Make an onslaught on the media before they can make an onslaught on you.’

  ‘What?’ Angus sounds shocked. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘This is what I meant about remaining one step ahead. I think we’d be smarter to actually release the story ourselves. Before the police, or the authorities make it public. That way we can control the release of the information: say that you’ve begun a private investigation, that you’re actively looking for the child yourselves, perhaps realising after all these years, that something wasn’t quite right, that you’re concerned for her wellbeing. Maybe you should even offer a reward.’

  ‘A reward?’ Angus looks slightly sick.

  ‘Not too much. Fifty grand or so for information leading to the discovery of the whereabouts or positive identification, etcetera.’

  ‘Oh, God.’

  There’s a long silence. Jodie refills her wine glass, drinks deeply. She is over it all now, would like nothing more than to take herself to bed, to leave them to discuss her future without her. Jodie finds it hard to connect with anything they’re saying – the conversation is swirling around her like faint, far-off music.

  Then Pete turns to Angus again. ‘Look, I know this is difficult to contemplate, but this is as much for Jodie’s sake as anything else. We’ve got an opportunity now to make her appear to be nothing more than a concerned mother, searching for news of a child that she reluctantly relinquished years ago. We have to try and make the story work for Jodie – the court of public opinion is probably more crucial than any court of law, and it can be a very, very tough one. If we leave it to the police to make all the initial statements she’ll end up looking a lot worse, believe me. But if we’re proactive – if we play the media before they can play us – well, we have a chance. We’ll make a public plea – play up Jodie’s youth, her vulnerability, her lack of support, the absence of good advice. She can give a press interview or two, maybe even television. We have to make it a sympathetic story: a young mother, despairing, penniless, without a friend in the world – and then make it apparent that she’s now genuinely grieving the loss of that child, would like to be reunited … It’ll work. The fact that the matron has died is a mixed blessing – at least she can’t refute anything Jodie says.

  ‘I know it sounds cynical and opportunistic. But the alternative … the alternative is that Jodie’ll become a kind of latter-day Lindy Chamberlain. And you know what the press did to her. She’ll be tried and convicted and hung in the first five minutes. The public aren’t necessarily going to know that the police have begun their investigation – not if we get there first. And if we play our cards right it’ll look like the police are helping you with your investigations, rather than the other way around.’

  ‘And what if it backfires? What if the media think that we’re covering our arses? What if that nurse speaks to them, tells them how it all came to light? Tells them that Jodie’s initial instinct was to lie?’

  Peter shrugs. ‘It’s going to be a shit fight, Angus. There’s no getting around it. But at least we can have the first word. That’s got to count for something.

  ‘The first thing we need to do is to place an advertisement, discreetly, in all the major newspapers. A few regionals. Maybe some of the women’s magazines – New Idea, Woman’s Day. Elsa Mary, is that what you called her? Elsa Mary Evans. It’s possible that we’re being presumptuous, that the police won’t investigate – but I doubt it. However you look at it, there’s still a missing person. Even if it goes no further, it’s not going to hurt, is it – it’ll just be the cost of the ads. And if there is any sort of investigation, it’s still not going to hurt. It will look, at least, like you’re honestly concerned, that you’re not interested in covering up, or denying anything.’

  ‘But there’s no way of knowing.’ This is not an objection from Angus, but a query. ‘Say someone does appear? What then? Her identity would have to be proven, wouldn’t it? She’d have to undergo DNA tests, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes. And there’s the toe-webbing – syndactyly, did you call it? She’d still have it, presumably – or it could have been surgically corrected, I suppose. And you would have had a heel prick test done on the baby, surely. The Guthrie test? It can be used to conclusively establish identity, though obviously we have Jodie for that, anyway.’

  Jodie tries to focus. Did the baby have that done? She can clearly remember Hannah and Tom having the test, the way her own heart felt pierced as the tiny new foot was pricked and squeezed, the shocking red blot on the card. But that baby, Elsa Mary – she didn’t know, couldn’t remember. She had probably left it to Sheila or one of the other midwives. Just one of the essential experiences of motherhood – like the bathing, the feeding, the changing, the nursing – that she had deliberately avoided.

  She can’t tell whether Angus is excited or appalled. ‘So there will be a way – a definitive procedure – to test anyone who
comes forward? God, how awful. But I guess that will simplify things, won’t it?’

  ‘Well, it’s not exactly going to simplify things, Angus – the situation will always be very complicated. But you’d better pray that someone does come forward, that she can be positively identified as being Elsa.’ It sounds like a warning; Peter’s gaze is fierce, his jaw tight.

  ‘Otherwise?’

  ‘Otherwise … Who knows?’

  Jodie catches Pete giving Angus an odd, imploring look. Angus’s eyes widen, then his expression becomes suddenly bland. He yawns, stretches, gets to his feet, gives Jodie a sympathetic grin.

  ‘Jodie, darling – you look half dead.’ He holds out his hand and she takes it, noticing how her fingers unfurl, relax in his warm clasp. ‘Why don’t you go to bed?’ He pulls her up gently, propels her with a firm hand in the middle of her back towards the kitchen. ‘Pete and I are going to have coffee and sort through a few more details.’

  She takes a few unsteady steps, then turns back. ‘It’s going to be all right, though, isn’t it? I’m not going to be … charged or anything?’ It’s an effort now to get the words out clearly, to stop them sliding away from her. Angus is back beside her almost immediately. He grips her by the shoulders, his fingers strong, painful. ‘It’s going to be fine, Jodie. There won’t be any charges. I promise.’

  In bed Jodie lies awake for what seems like hours, the room spinning in sync with her thoughts. She wonders at her husband’s apparent loyalty, his certainty, his faith in her and in the future. Wonders whether it’s genuine; whether it can last.

  7

  The panic had set in as he read the nurse’s letter, but had become so severe, so overwhelming, that he had only managed by a supreme act of will, to sit and listen to his wife’s account, her revised account, of the adoption. He had escaped as soon as he could, running from the room as if pursued by devils, and the symptoms had taken longer to subside than usual; it had been a full ten minutes – interminable, inescapable – before his heart stopped racing, his breathing returned to normal. Nausea had followed this attack and he’d had to lie down on the office floor, hoping that the churning in his gut would cease without him actually having to throw up. He had tried to think about the contents of the letter, to consider what should be done, could be done, as he lay there, but it had been impossible to focus properly on anything other than his own physical symptoms. When the worst of the churning had ceased, and he could get to his feet without vomiting or worrying about passing out, he had called Peter. But this had been out of an urge to be seen to do something, to show Jodie that he was in control, rather than because he had any particular faith in Pete’s expertise.

  But it had been a good decision, a perfect decision – he had been pleasantly surprised, even impressed, by his friend’s lightning-quick lawyerly reflexes. Despite their long friendship, their parallel careers, he’d never actually seen Peter in action professionally, had assumed that his work persona would be as laconic and dryly humorous as his social persona. He hadn’t expected this transformation into a polished but unsmiling – almost dour – legal virtuoso. Even Pete’s tendency to plan for the worst – which in other circumstances might have appeared extreme – had seemed merely precautionary, prudent.

  After Jodie floats off to bed, clearly smashed, her eyes glazed, face glowing rosily, Angus opens another bottle of wine, persuades a half-reluctant Peter that this is a better idea than coffee, that he can afford to stay longer. It is past midnight, but Angus – as is common after an attack – is wired. He won’t be able to sleep for a few hours yet, and although he will regret it in the morning, he knows that a few more glasses of red will help vanquish the inevitable insomnia.

  The men take their drinks outside to the front verandah, as far from Jodie and Angus’s bedroom as possible. There are cane chairs, a table, but they lean against the verandah rails, sipping their drinks. It is midsummer, but cool and clear; a half moon low in the sky, and a slight breeze makes the swings in the park across the road sway eerily in the bluish light.

  Angus speaks first. ‘Thanks, man. I appreciate it. I couldn’t have … I just couldn’t think.’ He shrugs, stuck for words.

  Pete sighs, shakes his head. ‘Fuck, Angus. This is, well, to say it’s unexpected is an understatement. It’s fucking crazy. When I first got here, I was stunned. I didn’t know what to say. Poor Jodes. But she seems amazingly calm, really. Considering.’

  ‘To be honest, I think she’s got no idea of how serious it is. All she’s worrying about is the illegal adoption business, the trouble she could get into over that. I really don’t think it’s even occurred to her … What it might mean if this child doesn’t turn up. I guess it’s a complete long shot, but it really could happen, couldn’t it – she could actually end up being charged with …’ He can hardly bear to think the word, let alone say it.

  ‘If the child doesn’t turn up? Mate, it’s not that much of a long shot – it’s a distinct possibility. Anything could happen – you know that. And I haven’t said much about it – but I have a bad feeling that this is going to be a big story. The media will go apeshit with the whole missing baby, hidden life thing. That’s why I think it’s vital that we try and get public opinion onside from the get go. Trust me: public opinion is going to count for something here.’

  ‘Jesus. Shit. This is nuts.’ Angus drinks deeply from his glass, pours more.

  ‘You really didn’t have a clue? She never told you anything?’ Peter sounds genuinely curious.

  ‘Nothing. I mean she told me about the baby a few weeks back, after she met up with that woman. But she just told me what she told her – that she’d had it adopted out.’

  ‘So she lied to you, too?’ Angus hasn’t had time to process the fact of her lie, but right now it seems understandable, and inconsequential.

  ‘Well, it wasn’t really lying, I suppose, just —‘

  But Pete isn’t interested in his rationalisation, and interrupts: ‘It’s almost beyond belief – that she would keep something like this to herself all these years. Makes you realise, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Eh? Realise what?’ Angus slurs the words, hit with a sudden surge of tiredness.

  ‘How fucking mysterious people are. You’ve known her all this time, you’ve been as intimate with her as anyone could ever be, and she’s never told you … something so important. So huge. And whatever happened, she’s had to live with it. For more than twenty years. Alone.’

  ‘Yeah, well, we know what happened, mate – she told us everything. I mean, I know it was wrong – and bloody stupid – but she was young. Afraid. She had no one to help her. And she didn’t hurt anyone.’

  ‘But we only have her side of the story.’ Pete gulps his wine, avoiding meeting his friend’s eyes.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Angus is suddenly wide awake again, his words snappy, defensive.

  ‘We only have Jodie’s word for all this, Angus. You do realise that. Whatever happens legally, you’re probably never going to be certain. Unless the girl actually emerges.’

  ‘Unless she emerges? Oh, fuck.’

  ‘Exactly. See? You’ve got no happy alternative. This is really going to complicate your life, mate. Either you’ll end up with a stepdaughter that you never wanted or knew about, or you’re going to spend the rest of your life wondering where she is.’ He pauses, looks down at his glass. ‘And wondering whether Jodie knows a whole lot more than she’s saying.’

  Angus feels a rush of anger welling, then feels it dissipate just as suddenly, extinguished by another wave of fatigue. There’s no point, anyway, in challenging Pete’s blunt observations. This is how he is, how he’s always been, no malice intended. He gives a shiver, rubs his arms. ‘Jesus. It must be all of ten degrees. Fucking Arding. Whatever happened to summer?’

  ‘Do you love her?’ Peter almost mutters the words, as if he’s embarrassed to be asking.

  Angus responds in a heartbeat. ‘Of course I love her. She’s my wife.’

/>   ‘Then here’s my advice to you – lawyer to lawyer. And friend to friend.’ His voice was louder now, firmer.

  ‘What?’

  ‘If you do ever start wondering, just leave it, mate. Don’t ask. Whatever you do, just don’t ask.’

  His mother had warned him off Jodie at the outset. Back when Angus and Jodie were first going out, back when it was nothing more than a teenage fling, his mother had, in her usual brutal way, advised him against the connection.

  ‘There’s no doubt that she’s a pretty girl, Angus, and from all accounts she’s bright enough – she’d have to be to get that scholarship. But …’ and here her voice takes on what he always thinks of as her diamond tone – sharp and brilliant, slicing effortlessly through his own convictions, his desires,… ‘She’s not exactly one of us, is she, dear?’

  He could laugh, should laugh, because it is a joke, surely – his mother’s insistence on there being a ‘them’ and an ‘us’. Such old-fashioned distinctions in this day and age. The nineteen eighties, he would love to remind his mother, and not the eighteen nineties. But he says nothing, dares not be too open in his defiance.

  She has buttered him up with the offer of a beer, a cigarette, if he’d like (after all, he’s a man now, with a man’s appetites as well as a man’s responsibilities); he should have been prepared, known what was coming. But instead of walking out in a huff, or better yet, actually defending his girlfriend, he listens, smiling uneasily as she conducts a lengthy and vicious deconstruction of Jodie’s character, her potential and – most significantly – her background.

  ‘Have you met the mother, dear? I haven’t myself – though I probably wouldn’t know her if I fell over her; they live out at Milton, don’t they? Not in Arding – but I’ve spoken to Nancy Butterly about her, and as you know I respect Nancy’s opinions on these matters absolutely. She’s been working at Grammar for so long – she’s an old girl herself, of course – and she was saying that she would never, ever have let the girl in if it had been up to her – on account of the mother. Which says something, don’t you think, Angus? Nancy’s a very – how shall I put it? – she’s a very egalitarian sort of person. No one could ever call her a snob,’ here she waves her hand dismissively, ‘although if anyone does have cause to think well of herself it’s Nancy Butterly.’