Graham wrongly assumed by keeping his sign-off casual he might spare Ruby some measure of pain and heartbreak. The opposite was true. Ruby was devastated. Had the whole relationship, their kindred affinity, been nothing more than a passing fling? She might have accepted an outpouring of never-to-be-realised passion and regret. She could have lived with a Shakespearean tragedy, acknowledging the insurmountable obstacles preventing their love. But a cheery ‘never mind’ was too inconsequential to be borne. Ruby locked herself away in her respectable bedsit. After two months, her meagre savings had dwindled and necessity forced her out into the world—necessity and the rather large matter of her pregnancy, which was daily growing more unavoidable.
Herself an only child, Ruby moved back into the family home, where the frosty air of censure regarding her predicament was much the same as the frosty air of censure that had pervaded her entire upbringing. Ruby returned to work at the first available opportunity, hoping to escape her old bedroom and make monetary amends for her disgrace and inconvenience. Her parents took baby Carol into their care during school hours, and administered to her with the bare minimum required before it could officially be termed neglect.
Now, three decades later, Lynne Bishop appeared intent on sticking her finger in the wound and wriggling it around to feel the gore. ‘I was quite friendly with Graham, me and David,’ she added. ‘Did you know Graham separated from his wife? Not long after you left, actually. He remarried, less than a year later, isn’t that just typical.’
Ruby received the news like a football pitched at her chest, the offence swimming out through her body in waves. All this time, she’d imagined Graham pining away for her, his stringbean spouse lording it over him. Now she discovered he’d broken free of his marriage and, rather than track her down, a feat that would have required simply turning up on her doorstep, he’d fallen in love with another.
In order to fan what little flame of self-respect remained, Ruby feigned indifference. She gave a slinky shoulder shrug. ‘I better be moving along. I’m shopping with a friend. We’re meeting for a bite to eat.’
Lynne, still in thrall to the coincidence, took hold of Ruby’s arm. ‘Which restaurant?’
Ruby’s lips twitched. ‘Actually, it’s the McDonald’s. We’ve a little girl with us.’
Lynne laughed. ‘But that’s fantastic. My David’s waiting there for me now. It really is such wonderful value for money.’
Lynne persisted in clinging to Ruby’s arm, as if to ensure she didn’t abscond. She swept her along the pavement, weaving through the various obstacles planted by retailers in the hope of snaring passing foot traffic, until they reached the highway. They waited at the traffic lights. Across the road, the tawdry bungalow, clad in a postmodern hotchpotch of materials, stared mournfully at the passing cars beneath its ubiquitous yellow trademark.
They pushed through the heavy swinging door and into the restaurant. Ruby looked around for her companions, disorientated by the atmosphere: lurid lighting slipping and bouncing off smooth, coffee-coloured surfaces, tinny music competing for air space with the echoes from staff and diners—why was everyone shouting? She eventually spotted Angela’s cashmere back and neat silvery chignon. Izzy was riding high on the facing seat, up on her knees, her expression obscured by the giant plastic cup she was sucking from. She spied Ruby approaching and threw a hand into the air to draw her attention.
‘Someone’s pleased to see you,’ Lynne commented. ‘Is she from a son or a daughter?’
Ruby considered assigning the girl to Angela, but in a wave of covetousness conceded Izzy was her daughter’s child.
Lynne pointed to an elderly man sitting by a window overlooking a rainbow-coloured plastic playground. David Bishop had the completely nondescript air of men his age, with thinning hair and a slack paunch. Ruby wouldn’t have recognised him even if they’d been close in their day. She wondered if she’d still know Graham, uniformed in plaid shirt and chinos, jawline softened into complacency, eyes liquefied behind Coke-bottle lenses. She gave a warning grimace to her table in passing, Angela employing her periscope neck to watch Lynne steer Ruby across the tiled floor.
It took more time than would be considered polite, and a painfully awkward prompt from Lynne, explaining that Ruby was Graham’s old flame, before David could be bothered to feign recognition. After that, it was inevitable that Lynne corralled them all into sitting with one another. Ruby was only thankful that Izzy obligingly abandoned the adults to explore the playground. It spared her having to witness her grandma lying through her teeth about her husband (long since deceased: ‘It’s all right, I’ve moved on’) and terribly overworked daughter.
Angela, having supported her friend throughout the charade, lending sympathetic murmurs and subject-changing enquiries, began ragging on Ruby the moment she was belted into the Winnebago. ‘Lynne and David.’ She mimed a look of woe. ‘And their sons: Huey, Louie and Dewey. And that matching skirt and blouse! She looked like she walked off the set of Midsomer Murders.’ Angela whinnied at her hilarity. Ruby smirked self-consciously.
Izzy sat between them, ears poised, face quizzical, bright freebie figurine clasped protectively in her greasy fist. ‘Are they really called Huey, Louie and Dewey?’
‘No, dear,’ Angela answered. ‘Their names were Good, Better and Best.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Bernard called Eucalypt Press and asked to be put through to Margot Manningham. A girl with the voice of a preschooler informed him that Margot was in a program meeting. When Bernard gave his name and number he thought he heard her gasp. No doubt his name had become synonymous with the devil down there. They probably had a poster-sized picture of him at which they liked to throw darts on Friday afternoons.
—It’s Margot returning your call.
—Thanks for getting back so soon.
—What can I do for you, Bernard?
—My recording should be wrapped up by the end of the week.
—Is that so?
—It is. I was hoping you’d take it upon yourself to call off the hounds.
—If you’re referring to Skelter and Jones, I’m afraid it’s out of my hands.
—Could you at least ask them to stop sending me intimidating letters?
—By which you mean official legal documents?
—Yes, Margot. Will you ask them to stop sending me official legal documents, which happen to intimidate the pants off me?
—You’re way over deadline, Bernard. It’s not just a case of handballing the reading to us now.
—I had migraines.
—You never mentioned this problem to us before.
—They came on during the reading.
—What are you saying?
—I’m saying that I developed migraines while trying to read Voss out loud.
—Are you trying to conceive a counter claim?
The thought had never occurred to him.
—Because I might ask if the migraines weren’t brought on by your car accident?
—Or perhaps the readings caused the migraines which caused the accident?
—Do you intend going down this path, Bernard?
—Maybe.
Bernard was halfway through his last serve of muesli and contemplating the prospect of rationing when someone pounded on his front door. He assumed Jessica Madden was getting in early on the morning’s invasion of privacy.
‘Bernard! Open up, would you?’
He swivelled in his chair to see Jim at the French doors, the second-to-last person he wanted to invite into his home. His relief that it wasn’t the last made him rise and unlatch the kitchen doors.
‘About time.’ Jim toppled past him into the kitchen. ‘Didn’t you hear me knocking?’
‘I was trying to ignore it.’
His visitor appeared to accept this logic. He plonked into Bernard’s chair, pushing away the half-eaten bowl of muesli. ‘I’d love a cuppa while you’re up.’
Bernard filled the kettle enough fo
r two. Drawing attention to Jim’s rudeness would only invoke a wave of protestation. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Rosehip tea.’
‘Don’t have any.’
‘Camomile.’
‘Nope.’
‘Peppermint.’
‘Next.’
‘Green.’
‘Pick again.’
‘For fuck’s sake!’ Jim shouted. ‘What are you having?’ ‘Coffee.’
‘Decaf? No, don’t bother answering. Do you have anything caffeine free?’
‘I’ve got water,’ Bernard offered.
‘I’ll have a hot chocolate, if it’s not too much trouble.’
‘It is actually.’
But he was already at his pantry, ferreting around among the ancient cooking ingredients for a box of cocoa. He extracted a crusty box of Bournville, its expiration date some three years prior. Bernard examined the box, hoping it would remind him how the hell to make hot cocoa, at the same time wondering if he should mention about the caffeine.
‘There’s just enough milk for hot chocolate. I’ll do it, if you nip down to the supermarket later and bring back some more.’
‘Mia told me you’d locked yourself away in your high tower. Isn’t she a cow? She kicked me out for watching TV too loudly. Honestly, I had the volume as low as it would go. It was practically mute, only dogs could have heard it. She was working on her jewellery. Apparently I was breaking her concentration.’ Jim pulled a grimace of implausibility. ‘What are you doing over there?’
‘Fixing your cocoa.’
‘Why didn’t you bung it in the microwave?’
Bernard poured the hot milk into a mug and set it before his guest.
‘Honestly, you’re like a fifties housewife,’ Jim remarked. ‘Have you been paying attention, Mrs Cleaver?’
‘You were fighting with Mia.’
‘Right. I was watching the Morning Show: Mary-Anne was wearing this hideous canary-yellow button-down dress and I was trying to give an accurate description. Mia went absolutely mental.’ Jim took pause to slurp his cocoa. ‘She must have her period or something.’
Bernard smiled; Mia would be pleased to know Jim imagined it still possible.
‘She told me she’d had enough of my mooching and that if I wanted to mope around all day I should come over here and we could do it together.’
Bernard hoped Jim hadn’t taken her at her word.
‘She has no idea what it’s like to be depressed. Just because she’s got her shit together. She has no clue what it feels like to feel nothing.’ He took another slurp. ‘I’m empty, Bernard.’
‘You seem angry to me. Maybe Mia’s helped after all.’
‘True, Mia makes me mad. Lucas pisses me off too; and as for that ridiculous kewpie doll Cherise, always telling me to buck up—I’ll buck her up, I’ll buck her right up!’ He blew his nose and tossed the tissue on the table.
Bernard composed a mental reminder to don dishwashing gloves when binning the evidence.
They spent the next hour comparing notes on their misery. There were a number of similarities: they both had difficulty sleeping; a disinclination for going out in public; a general feeling of hopelessness accompanied by a pessimistic outlook; a lack of motivation; and a despairing attitude toward the future.
‘You want some of my medication?’ Jim offered. ‘I have a fabulous doctor. He gives me whatever I want, and when it’s not working he tells me to double it.’
‘Sounds dangerous. I’ll stick with red wine for now.’
There was a knock at the door. They looked toward the hallway. ‘Maybe it’s Mia,’ Jim whispered.
‘Come to beg our forgiveness? Afraid not—she has a key.’
The knocking resumed.
‘For Christ’s sake, go answer it. I can’t bear the suspense.’
Bernard dragged himself up to open the door.
A policeman in white and navy stood blocking out the sun. ‘Mr Barkley—’
‘Who is it?’ Jim shouted from the kitchen. ‘Are they cute?’
‘I just have a question or two, to follow up on—hello there …’
Bernard didn’t have to turn; he could feel Jim’s breath on his neck.
‘What can I do for you, officer?’ Jim barked.
‘Ah, as I was saying to Bernard, I just have a few questions …’
‘Do you have a warrant to enter this property?’ Jim jostled Bernard out of the way.
‘I don’t want to search the place, I just wanted to—’
‘Ask questions. Well, I’m sorry, you can’t ask my client anything unless you come back with a warrant—either that or you take him down to the station and charge him.’
Bernard stepped around Jim. ‘What did you want to ask?’
The policeman rummaged in his top pocket. He removed a notepad, opened it and began to flip through the pages. ‘Ah, let’s see, you reported an accident …’
‘What do you need to know?’
‘As you’re probably aware we’ve had some witnesses come forward who claim you appeared to be intoxicated on the day of the accident.’
‘Ha,’ laughed Jim, ‘my client never drinks. He’s a teetotaller, is that right? No, he’s an abstainer, it’s part of his religion. What religion are you again, Bernard?’
‘Agnostic.’
‘So there you have it.’ Jim wiggled his flattened palms, impersonating the scales of justice.
‘Is that true?’ the officer asked.
‘Not a word of it,’ Bernard sighed, ‘except for the agnostic part, but keep that under wraps, I do some appearances for local churches.’
The policeman nodded and ran his pen across his pad. ‘We tracked your movements back to …’
‘The winery,’ Bernard offered. ‘Tenterfield Estate.’
‘I spoke to a bloke there …’
‘John,’ Bernard suggested.
‘That’s it. He said you had a few drinks but couldn’t say how many, and that you ate a big lunch.’ He read from his notebook. ‘Three courses it says here, yada, yada, yada …’ He skimmed through the next few pages. ‘Ah, says here you were there for around three hours and that you were able to conduct business at the end of the meal.’ He flipped a page. ‘Also says you had a strong coffee.’
‘Which proves nothing,’ declared Jim.
The officer flicked a disgruntled glance his way. ‘Would you say you were under point-o-five at the time of the accident, Bernard?’
‘I would say that, yes.’
‘How do you account for the witnesses’ statements …’ He flipped back through his notebook.
Bernard saved him the trouble. ‘I had just been thrust headfirst into an airbag—I may have been somewhat bewildered, wouldn’t you think?’
‘Touché!’ Jim clapped emphatically.
‘This is not a bloody competition,’ the officer snapped. ‘I’m not against Bernard, I happen to like Bernard. I thought he was a bloody good news presenter and I was very disappointed when they sacked him.’
‘Thank you.’
‘My pleasure. I’m not the bad guy, I’m just doing my job. Is that all right with you, whoever you are?’
‘I’m a very close friend of Bernard’s.’
‘Of my ex-wife, actually.’
‘He’s been very depressed of late, thankfully he has me to talk to, don’t you, Bernard?’
The idea of Bernard having only this lunatic as a confidant appeared to distress the lawman. ‘Tell you what,’ he offered, ‘you don’t have to worry about any of this business. There’s nothing we can pin on you without having breathalysed you at the scene.’
Bernard smiled as he began shutting the door. ‘Thanks, I’ll be sure to let the press know you were hassling me.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Izzy stood in front of the heater rubbing a towel over her wet hair. She gave a little screech of surprise to see her face appear on the telly. Angela looked up from her nailfile to see what the matter was.
/> ‘It was me,’ Izzy said, pointing at the screen. But already her picture was gone, replaced by another news item: an old man talking to camera over his picket fence.
‘What did you see?’ Angela asked.
Izzy couldn’t be sure now if the image was actually of her. ‘There was a photograph of me, I think. In my school uniform.’
Ruby stopped chopping vegetables in the kitchen. ‘You must have been mistaken.’
Izzy felt a wash of trepidation roll over her. In the background, the old man’s scratchy voice was still complaining about the rip-off merchants. ‘Maybe,’ she conceded.
Angela spun around, trapping Izzy in her bruising stare. ‘Was it you or wasn’t it?’
Izzy had a hunch where this was leading. She began back-pedalling. ‘Um, no, I don’t think so. I’m not sure.’
Angela spared a scandalised look at Ruby before returning to Izzy. ‘Why would you be on TV?’
Izzy felt the coarse mat beneath the soles of her feet, its mean itch creeping up her ankles. Ruby came out from around the kitchen bench. Now Izzy had to contend with both women’s stares. She sucked in her stomach till it felt like the muscles were pressing against her back.
‘What did your mother say on the phone?’ Ruby asked.
Izzy let her head drop and dangle for a moment. ‘I don’t remember.’
‘Tell us!’ Angela demanded.
Izzy cringed—where were the tears when you needed them? She addressed her plea to Ruby. ‘I wanted to be with you—to stay with you …’
‘Did Carol say it was okay?’
‘I wanted to have a little holiday …’
But Izzy was no longer the focus of their concern. Before cutting to the weather, the newsreader did a quick round-up of the day’s top stories, first among them, the report of a girl taken by her grandmother from a caravan park in Ballarat.
‘Mother of god!’ Angela cried, letting the nailfile drop from her fingers. She reached out to Ruby. ‘You have to call her! You have to fix this! Explain what happened. She must be worried sick.’
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