The door opened. “Really,” George was adamant. “I have to insist …”
“Give me a minute.” Quickly closing the file, she replaced the books. He must not guess what she’d found.
“So you didn’t find anything.”
“No,” she lied. “There’s nothing here to help me here.”
“I’ll see you out.”
The front door had closed behind her and the passage lights had been extinguished before she reached the front gate. She hadn’t copied the information she needed. She didn’t need to. The words were burned into her brain.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Thank you.” Paying off the taxi, she ascended the shallow front steps of the Calthorpe Clinic.
To arrive at this point had taken time, time she bitterly resented. First the phone calls to Barbara, who was eventually persuaded to cover for her should anyone ask where she was. Then the fabricated story that her sister was unwell and needed help, followed by the familiar routine of domestic instructions for Flo and regretful apologies to Jess. Skilfully honed, deception was a well-practised habit.
Flying out from Belleville she’d arranged the flight to Sydney, and the interview, from the safety of Melbourne. This, too, had taken deeply resented time. She’d also laid a false trail by warning Barbara, still on the Gold Coast. Should Jake or the children phone, she was holidaying with her. Not for a moment had she considered confiding the truth of her mission to Barbara; her sister had been happy to believe she was off to yet another illicit rendezvous. Should Jake decide to interrogate Barbara, and should Barbara give in to him as she usually did, that would be all he’d learn.
The foyer, hushed and shadowed and tastefully uncluttered, was furnished with thick grey carpet, rose-grey papered walls and softly illuminating ceiling lamps. Spacious and subtly scented, it immediately communicated confident professionalism; and unmistakable affluence. Patently calculated to sooth and reassure, its single effect on Gail was to intensify impatience.
At the reception desk a sleekly tailored young woman, after checking the appointment roster, smiled a benign welcome. “Mrs Campbell? Doctor is expecting you.”
The punctuality of uncommon sensitivity? Or the power of the Campbell name? If so, there should be no surprise. Jake Campbell’s influence was widespread.
The receptionist ushered her into a calculatedly reassuring office, furnished in the same thick carpet, rose-grey walls, sedate lighting and subtle perfume. At the windows were rose velvet curtains and, arranged to one side around a low mahogany coffee table, were rose-cushioned grey leather armchairs.
“Mrs Campbell!” White-haired and suave, Doctor Alistair Freeman was already rising from his chair behind a broad mahogany desk. Hand outstretched, he greeted her. “You’ve had a long journey. Would you care for anything? Tea? Coffee?”
“Nothing. Thank you. I had a break at the airport.”
His firm handshake contradicted the unctuous comfort of the room. “Sit! Sit!” He indicated one of the armchairs, waited until she was seated, settled himself into the other and set a manila file on the table. She placed her handbag beside it.
Manicured fingers tapping the file, his direct eyes invited communication.
She accepted. “You received my letter, Doctor?”
“Of course. Tell me … how may we help you?”
His unanticipated deference was discomposing. She’d prepared for the opposite. She’d steeled herself to withstand stone walls, locked doors, the screams of unseen patients and the obstruction of a dour medical practitioner.
The psychiatrist was perceptive. “We’re not what you expected?”
“Hardly,” she welcomed the question. “I expected … I’ve never been in an asylum before.”
“We try.” He surveyed the studied comfort of his office. “Although, of course, you will be aware that the term asylum has fallen into disrepute?”
“Of course,” she flushed.
“This,” again he contentedly surveyed his room, “it’s not mere window dressing, do you see. The suites. Would you care to inspect them? Our day room?”
“My time is limited.” Needing to regain lost ground, she pointedly looked at her watch.
“Of course.” Perfect white dentures gleamed. “Perhaps another time?”
She did not answer directly. “You got my letter?”
“You want to know about Richard Campbell. Your brother-in-law.”
Not trusting her voice, she nodded.
“Mrs Campbell, I’m sorry. You’ve come a long way. It’s regrettable you didn’t check before you left. I did write.”
“My time is limited.” She steeled herself to convey long-practised impersonal interest. “I’m afraid it was impossible to wait for your reply.”
“Richard is no longer here.”
Unflinching, she replied, “I would have been surprised if he was.”
“Oh?”
“It’s been a long time. As a matter of fact …” Steady. Steady …
The handsome grey head professionally waited.
“I’m sure you will understand, Doctor. The family …”
“Ah yes. They kept in touch, as I remember. His mother – the elder Mrs Campbell – she visited regularly.”
Amy!
Composure was impossible. She must conceal her distress. Not possible either. She left the table, walked quickly to the window and stood looking out at the magnificent view. In the distance, purple mountains punctuated the cloudless sky. Close by, silver gum trees shimmered in the burning noon light. She saw nothing. A fleeting movement attracted attention.
A sun-hatted gardener, working in the garden immediately beneath the window, was looking at her. Smiling broadly, as though he knew her, he doffed his hat and returned to work. Was he one of the inmates?
The psychiatrist was patient.
Returning to the chair, she asked, “Richard was here – how long?”
He flipped quickly through the file at his fingertips. “Five years plus. Not quite six. A long time. However, in those days it was not unusual.”
Jess would have been starting school.
He closed the file. “Are you quite sure you won’t have something?
Tea? Coffee?”
Careful. careful. This one knew the mind’s tricks. Any concession, even the most innocuous, and he’d be seeing things no one should see. He probably already was. “Thank you. But no.”
“As you will. Though I have to say, Mrs Campbell, I’m afraid I do find myself somewhat confused. I don’t understand the purpose of this visit. To come so far. What is it you expect of us?”
To be where he’d spent those years. To feel his presence. To know he lives. “They told us he died.”
He was not surprised. “It happens. Especially in those times. Folk were less tolerant.”
“It’s diabolical!”
Again not commenting, he leaned back in the comfortable chair and clasped his manicured hands on the open pages of the tantalising file.
She sat ramrod straight, and still. She should leave, but her legs would buckle.
“I’m very sorry, Mrs Campbell.” He was sympathetic. “We have nothing to offer you. Your journey is wasted.”
The smug grey walls closed in. “Surely … surely … he keeps in touch?”
Leaving his chair, he fetched a carafe and glasses from the cabinet behind his desk. “You really should take some refreshments. A glass of water at the very least.”
The iced water opened her constricted throat.
The psychiatrist re-seated himself. “I’m so very sorry we can do nothing to help,” he soothed. “You seem to be experiencing a significant degree of stress. Are you sure?”
“Does Richard Campbell keep in touch with you?”
“Even if he did, I could not release confidential information.”
“So he doesn’t.”
“No, he does not. Richard left here fifteen years ago. There has been no correspondence from us, or from him to
us, since that time.”
“What about references?” Strength and self control were returning. “You must have referred him to someone. For follow-up care. Medication?”
“I cannot help you, Mrs Campbell. Any further information will have to come from your mother-in-law.”
She ached to reopen the file on the table between them.
The psychiatrist placed a firm white hand on it. “I presume you and your mother-in-law are not on the best of terms?”
“You could say that.”
“I really am sorry. My hands are tied.” He stood.
She did not move.
“I really do wish I could help.”
Perhaps he meant it? Steadily, she asked, “Have you been here a long time?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You’ve seen many changes.”
“You’re a determined woman, Mrs Campbell.” Smiling surrender, he returned to the armchair. “You really should make an attempt to talk with your mother-in-law. Surely things can’t be so bad.”
“My father-in-law is dying. She has her hands full.”
“Ah! I didn’t know. I have to admit that alters things.” He reopened the file. “You should know that I remember Richard very well.”
“Surely everything’s not confidential? How was he after the lobotomy?”
“You know about that!”
“How was he?” If revelation of her personal concern would break through to him, it was what she would do.
“You have to understand – in those times surgical intervention, in this case lobotomy, was somewhat liberally undertaken. It was widely hailed as the new wonder cure when all else failed.”
“How was he!”
“Please. Please, you must not further distress yourself.” Barely raising his voice, he called, “Janet!”
The door to his office was immediately opened by the receptionist.
“Ah! Janet. Please bring us coffee. And a little something to eat.”
“I really don’t …” Again she protested, but superficially.
“I think you should.” He settled back in the chair, crossed one tailored knee over the other, and set the file on his lap.
She wanted to scream. “The lobotomy operation,” she breathed.
“Janet won’t be long. We’ll talk when you feel a little more relaxed.”
“I’m not one of your patients, Doctor.”
“Of course not.”
What would move him? What would move the guardian hand from Rick’s file?
Momentarily reappearing, the receptionist placed a silver tray, a silver pot, fine china and slim cheese biscuits on the low mahogany table. The psychiatrist set the file back on the table, poured coffee, offered sugar which she refused, and proffered biscuits which she refused.
“They are delicious,” he set the tray within easy reach. “A little food after your flight.”
“How was Richard after the lobotomy?”
Hesitating for a moment only, he set aside his cup. “After the procedure Richard was as expected.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He was docile.”
“You mean he had no more fits?”
“You’ve obviously done your homework.”
“I tried. It’s all jargon.”
“I’ll make it simple for you.”
“Please do.” She was brusque.
“As I said – Richard was docile. There was no dangerous behaviour, no violence. A not unexpected outcome was his inability to feel deep emotion. The highs and lows had evened out, as it were. In many ways, Richard became a child, an extremely passive child.”
Her heart was breaking.
“There was no further violence, no seizures,” he sighed. “Within obvious limitations, Richard was at peace. He was happy.”
“Within limitations.”
He was uneasy. “Surely, Mrs Campbell. Limitations are the nature of the procedure. The desired outcome.”
Profound sadness fought all but uncontrollable rage.
“The procedure was controversial,” he frowned. “Even then, so many years ago. It’s since fallen into disrepute. Not merely by reason of the after-effects. It was inherently very dangerous. As for the after-effects – I’m afraid they were too frequently most distressing.”
“How?”
“Much of his memory had been lost. His ability to relate was affected. Although a rehabilitation programme was put in place, the prognosis was that he’d never recover to anywhere remotely approaching the degree required to function in the business world. There was significant reduction in the sense of personhood, in his sense of ‘I’. Again, programme outcomes are unknown to me. Do you see?”
“You sent him out into the world like that?”
“Of course. He was a most likeable young man. No longer a threat to others. Or to himself. Capable of a simple level of self care. He was assessed as being able to manage quite nicely in a sheltered communal situation. He …”
“Where?”
“The shelter?” Leafing through the file, he placed a finger on the entry. “See here? Dayley House.”
He’d located what she needed, but the notes were a blur.
His finger ran down the page. “As you see – it’s since been closed. After that, I’m sorry, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“What about their records? Would they have where he went?”
“In his situation, it would be mandatory.”
“Where do I find them?”
“You would need access to the Health Department. Social Services, perhaps. I believe Dayley House was Federally funded. It could be a complicated search.”
Impatient to leave, she thanked him and started for the door.
“Mrs Campbell …” He paused in the open doorway. “Please. You concern me. This quest of yours. You seem …”
“How do I seem, Doctor!”
“Of course,” he retreated. “I’m sure you know what you’re doing.”
She crossed the hushed foyer, descended the shallow steps, and followed the path that traversed the lush green lawn to the distant gates. In her haste, she hadn’t called for a cab.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Gail! Where the hell have you been?” On the other end of the telephone, Barbara was unusually disturbed.
“What’s wrong?”
“Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to get you for hours!”
“Sorry,” she apologised. “I’ll be staying over.”
“Whoever he is, forget him!”
“Another day. I’ll only be …”
“Gus died,” Barbara quickly interrupted. “Jake’s expecting you on the next plane home.”
“Does he know I’m not there!”
“For God’s sake, Gail! Your father-in-law’s just died! Get back there!”
“I can’t! I have to …”
“Get back home! I told Jake you’re out shopping. I couldn’t get you. He didn’t believe me.”
“You don’t understand.”
“For Christ’s sake, Gail,” Barbara warned. “Go home. Or I’ll tell Jake where you are.”
“Tell him.” It was no longer important. She was leaving him.
“You’re out of your mind!”
“It’s over, Barb. I might as well make the break now.”
“So break with him. Go back to your new man down there. But right now, get your arse back there with your family.”
Go back to your new man? She should end the deception, tell Barbara why she was really here. If she knew the truth, she might tell the Campbells. She might also attack them. It was too early. The full truth was not yet clear.
“Gail …?” Barbara urged. “Tell me you’re on your way.”
“I can’t go back. Not yet.”
“What about the kids? What about Jess?”
Jess would need her. The Dayley House records, if they still existed, would still be available in another week; if they weren’t a dea
d end. Or merely another step in what could prove to be a long search.
Jake Campbell ushered his wife and children through the crowd standing on the newly-mown lawn of the red brick Church of England. On this scorching afternoon the locals had, as always, turned out for the funeral of a member of an early settler family.
The three arms of the media, the property of one family, were out in force. Though differing in form, the theme would be uniform. The Campbells were revered pioneers, Gus a respected citizen who’d be sadly missed, his wife an admired and much-loved matriarch, and Jake a man of widespread influence. Gus Campbell’s funeral was a main attraction. Professionals, politicians, ex-diggers in tight-fitting uniforms, farmers and friends, social butterflies, and ‘the family’ were inspected by sometimes envious eyes.
Exiting the black mourning car, courtesy Belleville Funerals, Jake ushered his family through the wide-open front doors and down the central aisle between appropriately sorrowful faces. Arriving at the church front he and his family settled into the pew immediately behind his mother, his sister, and her family. Immediately behind Jake and family, were Ryan and his estranged wife.
Amy and Phoebe, both wearing black, were kneeling in prayer. Phoebe’s two teenage daughters exchanged whispered conversations with Jess and Alison in the seat behind them. In due time the Vicar appeared, the ritual began, the hymns were sung, the prayers were prayed, and the eulogies recited.
Amy endured the lengthy ritual with typical fortitude. Head bent and body rigidly upright, she appeared to concentrate on the fulsome words of the pious hypocrite who was praising a man he’d seldom seen. Until, as the coffin was hoisted onto the shoulders of six veterans, she momentarily crumpled into Phoebe’s waiting arms.
The ceremony had passed as slowly as all the other interminable hours since she’d left the Calthorpe Clinic and the aborted attempt to find the Daley House records. All that mattered was getting back to Sydney again. Not Gus’s death, not Amy’s stoicism. Not even her children’s shallow distress at the loss of a grandfather they’d seldom seen and knew little about. Nothing intruded below a superficial surface which saw her walk, talk, dress, eat, sleep, and obey according to momentary expectations.
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