by Emily Madden
He didn’t get a chance to answer. A moment later Rosie was whisked away to the morgue, totally unprepared for the sight of Maggie’s body.
When Mike had told her Maggie had been run over, it never occurred to her the amount of damage her daughter would’ve suffered. The right side of Maggie’s skull was all but squashed. Rosie felt her knees buckle.
‘Ms Hart, I know this is distressing, but we need you to confirm. Is this your daughter? Is this Maggie Reid Hart?’
Rosie lifted her hand to her mouth. It was trembling. It was the first time she’d heard Jack’s name said out aloud in over twenty years. It took her back to that fateful day, the day she’d lost Jack and Jimmy and her whole world had been ripped apart.
‘Ms Hart? Did you hear me? Do you want me to repeat the question?’
Rosie heard, but her mind was already plummeting back to the past. Back to the day when her world had come crashing down.
* * *
July 1967, Snowy Mountains
After coming up empty in Tumut, Jack convinced Rosie to have a short rest before they drove on through Talbingo, Kiandra, Rhine Falls and then on to Cooma. The town was larger than they’d expected, which would make their task all the more difficult. They were looking for a needle in a haystack.
‘We drove straight past them,’ Rosie mused as she looked around the near-empty main street. They walked past Mack’s Commonwealth Store—Merchant and General Shopkeeper on the corner of Bombala and Sharp streets, down past Centennial Park and the Visitor’s Centre. It looked idyllic, all that snow, but it only heightened her anxiety. Somewhere out there in the harsh snow was her son.
‘We’ll find them.’ Jack grabbed her hand and gave her a reassuring squeeze. She wished with all her heart that she believed him, but her stomach churned with worry, her mind crowded with every single dire possibility.
‘What if he’s taken him away? Oh, Jack, what if he’s taken him back to England!’
A look flashed across Jack’s face that suggested he had thought the same.
‘We can’t think like that. Let’s start at the police station. Hopefully, we can get some help there.’
The police station and courthouse were on Massie Street, a short walk, but snow flurries were beginning to fall, so Jack drove.
‘What can I help you with?’ the burly man behind the counter asked.
‘We’re looking for my son,’ Rosie managed through chattering teeth. Despite the coat and gloves, she was still cold. Her heart was thundering, the sound reverberating against her ears.
Jack took over, telling the constable the situation, how Tom was given access to Jimmy with the promise of returning him a week after.
‘So, let me get this straight.’ Constable Daley pursed his lips and shifted his gaze from Jack to Rosie, then back to Jack. ‘You’re not the boy’s father,’ he stated, the tone sounding like an interrogation. She could be imagining it all. The policeman simply could be asking routine questions, assessing the situation.
‘No, I’m not Jimmy’s father.’
‘And you, Mrs Fuller, you allowed Mr Fuller to take your son, I presume?’ His glasses were pushed halfway down his nose and the way he peered at her left no doubt in her mind. He was most certainly questioning her.
Rosie felt annoyance bubbling. ‘Yes, Constable Daley, I allowed Tom to take Jimmy, and we agreed he would return him by Sunday evening.’
‘Perhaps you misunderstood the arrangement, Mrs Fuller.’
His presumptuous nature raised her hackles. ‘No, Constable, I did not misunderstand the arrangement. And for your information, the name is Ms Hart, not Mrs Fuller. Tom and I haven’t been together since he was sent to jail eight years ago. He was released not long ago and apparently has a job working on the Snowy Hydro.’
It was the word jail that changed Constable Daley’s tone, and within minutes a manhunt was underway.
The weather was fierce, but so was Rosie. Jimmy was out there and she wasn’t going to stop until she found him. Three days after searching, with no leads, the police scaled back their pursuit.
That night as they drove into Cooma, Rosie could tell that even Jack was losing faith.
‘Maybe we should take a break for a day or two,’ he suggested.
‘No,’ Rosie declared. ‘We don’t stop until we find them.’
‘Rosie, we’ve been on the road for almost a week. You’ve barely eaten or slept. You need to rest.’
‘I’ll rest when we find Jimmy.’ As for food, she had no appetite anyway. While Jack didn’t push her on resting, he did insist they eat at the pub. And because he was watching her like a hawk, she forcefully shovelled in the roast beef and baked potatoes he’d placed before her, each forkful feeling more torturous than the one before. Somehow, she made it through half of her meal before knowing there was no chance she could have another mouthful.
‘Rosie, are you okay?’ Jack asked.
A wave of nausea rolled through her. ‘I think I ate too much.’
‘Honey, you’ve barely touched your food.’
Pushing away her plate, she dashed to the bathroom, making it into the first stall in the nick of time. While her stomach felt slightly better afterwards, lethargy consumed her. Rosie’s limbs felt as heavy as lead. She caught sight of her reflection in the bathroom mirror and was alarmed. She was pale, her vacant eyes sunken and rimmed with dark shadows. It was as if she had aged a decade with each day Jimmy had been missing. She fluttered her eyelids closed, just for a brief moment, and felt the sting and grittiness.
Rosie splashed her face with cold water and dried it with a paper towel. Maybe Jack was right. Maybe she could do with some rest. As she walked back to the table, she noticed a man sitting in her seat. Whatever he was saying had Jack’s attention, and as she drew near, she saw that he was writing on a piece of paper.
‘Jack?’ When he looked up, Rosie saw something in his eyes that had been missing for days. Hope.
‘This is Len Collins,’ Jack introduced the man who stood and shook her hand.
‘How do you do, Missus?’
‘I’m … fine,’ she said, even though she was anything but.
‘Len has a cabin just outside of town.’
‘It’s in Bombala, Missus, actually more towards Gunningrah,’ Len elaborated.
‘Len thinks that Tom might be at the cabin with Jimmy.’
Rosie felt her heart kick-start.
‘I met a man a couple of months ago when he started working on the Hydro. He said his name was James. Anyway, a few weeks ago, he was on his way to Sydney to pick up his son, started asking about how easy it would be to stop by in Canberra to get them some passports. He wanted to take his son back home for a visit.’
Dread filled the pit of Rosie’s stomach. She had feared that Tom might pull such a move, and how had she forgotten that his given name was James? Both he and Jimmy had the same name—James Thomas Fuller—but since he’d always gone by the name Tom, it had allowed them to call their son Jimmy, after him and after her mother’s brother. ‘What has this got to do with the cabin?’
‘I was getting to that.’ Len nodded to the scrap of paper in front of him. ‘James knew about my cabin. I only use it now when I go trout fishing. There’s a decent stream nearby and a dam on the property. He asked if he could take his boy there, maybe take him fishing before they left. Thought it was a nice thing for a father and son to do. I’ve done it so many times with my boys over the years.’
Rosie’s heart was in her throat. ‘You think they’re still there?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Len said. ‘He didn’t say how long he wanted to stay, but my guess is if he had any inkling you may come looking for him, he and the boy would be long gone. But just in case there’s a chance he’s still there, you might want this.’ Len slid the paper across the table and Rosie could see it was a map. ‘I would come with you, but my missus is sick as a dog at home. If you’re thinking of heading there, you’d better go soon. It’s about an hour and a half
out of town, and once you turn off the highway, those unsealed roads can get a little hairy. I’ll leave it up to you to decide if you go now or leave it to tomorrow.’
Rosie’s hand shook as she looked up from the scrap of paper and met Jack’s gaze. This was their best chance of finding Jimmy, and perhaps their last. No words were needed. They both knew that tomorrow could be a little too late. Jack scraped back his chair and stood. ‘I’ll get the car.’
* * *
They sped out of town, past Rock Flat, down to Ando, before turning towards Gunningrah and then on to Bungarby. By the time they had turned off the Snowy River Way, the afternoon light had begun to fade and the roads became gravelly and rough. Outside, the branches swayed violently as the wind howled through the trees as Jack carefully navigated the road while Rosie kept a sharp eye for the turn-off to Richardson Road. When she spotted it, her hands gripped her seat. ‘There it is!’
‘I see it,’ Jack murmured as he slowed the car and turned, and Rosie held her breath as they barrelled towards the cabin.
Silhouettes of birds flew across the dusky sky as the vanishing light cast long shadows. It was another ten minutes before it came into view, a tiny speck of yellow against the dark-emerald rugged ranges.
‘He’s there.’ Rosie almost wept with relief when she spotted the low amber glow. ‘We’re not too late.’
Jack accelerated, but it still seemed that time was moving at a snail’s pace. When they left Cooma, Jack told her that Len had overheard him asking the barman if he’d seen a man and a young boy around who were not locals. ‘He recognised the name James Fuller.’
‘I can’t believe I didn’t think of using his full name.’ The only time she’d heard Tom referred to as James Fuller was during their marriage ceremony and when she had to fill out Jimmy’s birth certificate and passport.
‘It doesn’t matter now. We’ve found them. It’ll all be over soon,’ Jack said, then slammed his foot on the brake and they both rushed out, running up the porch.
‘Jimmy! Jimmy!’ Rosie pounded on the door, her heart thumping just as loudly.
‘Fuller, we know you’re there, open up!’ Jack bellowed. When there was no answer, he rattled the doorhandle, and to their astonishment, it opened.
Jack raced inside the tiny cabin, Rosie quickly behind, only to find it empty.
‘Where are they?’ Rosie was beside herself.
The cabin’s fireplace was well lit and the small wooden table was set for two. The sound of screeching tyres and gravel answered Rosie’s question.
They both bolted out the back door in time to see red tail-lights.
‘I’m going after them,’ Jack yelled, already on the move.
‘Not without me, you’re not!’ Rosie protested.
‘No, there’s a phone here. Len said he had one put in. Find it and call the police.’
‘Wait, Jack!’ Rosie gripped his hand desperately. ‘Promise me you’ll bring my boy back.’
He looked her dead in the eyes. ‘On my life, Rosie.’
Jack fulfilled his promise, but not in the way that Rosie had hoped. Afterwards, she would look back on that last moment and realise that a part of her had known. There was a strange sense of foreboding as Jack drove away that she would never see him or Jimmy ever again. Not alive at least.
Tom had driven his car straight into the dam, and Jack had jumped in to save Jimmy. By the time the police found them, they were both dead. Tom’s body wasn’t found. It was assumed he had died trying to escape. The chances of him surviving were virtually impossible.
‘It’s not called Coffin Dam for nothing,’ Constable Daley informed her.
It was of small comfort, but at least she wouldn’t be called to identify his body.
She buried her son and the love of her life in a small cemetery in Cooma. She didn’t want to have them sent to Sydney. The thought of having them so close to her would have only heightened her pain.
The days and weeks that followed were a blur. For a few blissful seconds each morning, Rosie forgot. But then, the dread would set in and she would squeeze her eyes shut and pretend it hadn’t happened. She tried to hold on to the denial for as long as she could, because the reality was too much to bear.
A month after losing them, Rosie discovered she was pregnant. The news was bittersweet.
Part of her thought had she not allowed Jimmy to go with Tom, she and Jack would’ve been celebrating. They finally would have the family they had long craved for. But she also knew that Tom was a man who thrived on revenge and despair. He wouldn’t have stopped until he’d succeeded in hurting her.
At least the hurt had come with a cost. His own life.
When Maggie was born, Rosie was determined to do what she had failed with Jimmy. She would protect her.
Her mind drifted to the day of their fight—the one that had caused Maggie to move out.
‘Is it the fact that I’m in Kings Cross or that I’m simply not under your control?’
Somehow, over the years, the protection had morphed into overbearingness. When it became clear that her daughter was exceptionally bright, Rosie had pushed her and she’d kept pushing until she had driven Maggie away for good.
Maybe if she had told Maggie about Jack and Jimmy years ago, she wouldn’t be burying another child while holding the hand of a little girl who would grow up without her mother.
The wake was a small affair. Many of Maggie’s fellow university friends were present, as were some of her colleagues.
‘Your daughter would’ve made a great doctor,’ Jeremy, the registrar who worked with Maggie, told Rosie as he left. ‘She had so much potential.’
Rosie thanked him for his words, feeling her heart break every time she was reminded how wonderful Maggie was.
Maggie was smart, beautiful and funny. She was a loyal friend, a loving mother and she was going to be a doctor. Rosie had missed it all—blinded by her need to protect her and unrelenting fear that she would lose her the way she’d lost Jimmy.
And the irony was that in the end, she’d lost her anyway.
‘Rosie, I’m tired.’ Brianna, still unaware of the enormity of the situation, climbed onto Rosie’s lap, eyes drooping.
‘You can sit with me and have a nap, would you like that?’
Brianna nodded sleepily and started sucking her thumb. It reminded her of how Maggie used to do the same thing as a little girl. Rosie always would tell her to stop, that it would ruin her teeth. Regret stabbed at her. She didn’t tell Brianna to stop. Instead, she stroked her golden curls. ‘You can call me Gran if you like; what do you say?’
Brianna simply nodded, and a minute later she was sound asleep.
Half an hour later, Brianna was still asleep and the room was empty except for Brianna, Mike and Rosie.
‘I think it’s best if you allow Brianna and me some time to get to know each other.’
Mike nodded slowly. They both knew what Rosie was eluding to. She wanted Mike out of the picture. Rosie knew that legally, he wouldn’t be able to fight it.
‘You’ll keep me updated on how she is, and if you need anything, I’m here.’
Rosie nodded. It was the least she could do. ‘I promise to keep you informed. I cannot thank you enough for being there for Maggie and Brianna. I’m glad she had a friend like you.’
Mike smiled sadly, pressing a kiss to his forefinger before brushing it against Brianna’s forehead.
Before he turned to leave, Rosie had one last question. ‘Mike, do you know who Brianna’s father is?’
‘Yes, I do,’ he said.
Rosie knew he was waiting for her to ask who it was and for a split second she contemplated it. She rolled the question around her tongue. The thirst for knowledge was tempting. But with knowledge came lies and secrets, and she already was harbouring enough.
‘Ms Hart, would you like me to tell you?’
Her gaze fell on the precious little girl sleeping in her arms. She was her saving grace, her hope.
; Hope was like a feather, and this time, she was going to be everything she should’ve been with Maggie. She would be kind, loving, supportive. She would be Brianna’s feather. She would be her hope.
‘No, Mike, I don’t.’
Maybe with time her pain and regret would lessen. Maybe once the wound healed, all that would be left was a scar, and as long as the scar was hidden, the secret would be safe.
But the problem with scars was that it didn’t take much to open them up again. And once you did, the pain was twice-fold.
Thirty-five
Brianna
Brie stabbed the doorbell of a Victorian terrace in Woolloomooloo and waited. In her hand she held the photo—the one of her mother, herself and the man she believed to be her father, the man who had just answered the door. He was almost thirty years older, but even before she asked the question, she knew the answer.
‘Are you Mike McGee?’
‘Yes,’ he said cautiously.
‘Is this you?’ Brie thrust the photo at him.
‘My God, I haven’t seen this in …’ His gaze skittered from Brie to the picture and back to her again.
‘My name is Brie Hart, I’m Maggie’s daughter.’
‘I know who you are,’ he said, handing the photo back before holding the door open. ‘Come on in. I suspect you have questions for me.’ His manner implied he had been waiting for this day for some time.
Numbly, she followed him down a long hallway with dark polished floors, white walls and abstract paintings. As they passed a living area, Brie hungrily took it in, looking for evidence of family—of a wife, kids, grandkids. But there were no clues. It was tastefully decorated with contemporary furnishings and modish décor. At the end of the house was a white Hamptons-style kitchen with a long island counter in the middle. It was spacious and white without being sterile.
‘Take a seat.’ He gestured to a bar stool. ‘Coffee or tea?’
‘Ah, coffee, thanks,’ Brie said as she pulled out a chair.
‘Latte, cappuccino, espresso?’
‘Latte. Strong. No sugar.’
She sat awkwardly as he made her coffee, itching to ask the question.