I lay looking up at the dream-catcher, trying to figure out why Hank would encourage me to come here then withhold information from me. It made no sense whatsoever, if I was honest with myself. I was glad Hank had levelled with me, obviously, but all the same thought it best to rely on myself for the next part. I planned to make some calls in the morning and move this situation along, hoping to attract no more flaky people in the process.
I lay back with my hands behind my head thinking about Anaya again, wondering when I would see her again. Then I thought about my real mother and wondered if she had a suntan like me. Somehow, despite the load on my mind and the strangeness of the evening, I drifted off.
The morning started the same way as the day before. Pattana brought me a drink, tea this time, while Hank chanted away upstairs. She asked me about my dreams again, but this time I had nothing to report.
‘Your mind,’ she said, tapping her temples, ‘too busy with all the other things you worry about just now.’ Then she ruffled my hair, and left ahead of Hank for work.
I got up quickly as soon as the door closed and sneaked into Hank’s study without touching my tea. I tried his filing cabinet but it was locked, so I started looking around for a key, all the time keeping track of the chanting, ready to race back through at any break in it. I ran my hand along the top of the door frame and knocked something off that fell onto the ground behind the cabinet. I crouched down and slipped my hand in between it and the wall and scrabbled about as best I could. I found the key and quickly opened up the cabinet. The orange folder lay flat in the top drawer under other paper stuff. Hank went on upstairs.
‘Nam you ho rangy kyo.’
I could see the notes Hank had made about the phone conversation. He had scribbled my name over and over in pencil; next to it was written ‘Ferny Hills’, the area we had talked about. And the words ‘Mary, sister of mother’ written next to a question mark. So far, from what I could see, Hank had told me everything he knew. The chanting stopped suddenly and a door closed upstairs. I took the piece of paper, put the folder back in the cabinet and shut the drawer, being careful to lock it. But before I had a chance to put the key back on top of the door frame, the phone rang in the study, making me jump. I closed the door and ran back to my bedroom. I could hear Hank moving down the stairs to answer it.
‘Kerry!’
‘Coming!’ I shouted, breathless from the adrenalin. I walked back through with my tea, trying my best to appear casual.
‘It’s your friend, Jim.’ Hank looked at me, and mouthed was I OK, to which I nodded and smiled.
I took the phone. ‘Hey, Jim, how are you?’ I could hear traffic from where Jim was calling.
‘Yeah, good, good. How’s you, more to the point?’ It was good to hear his familiar voice.
‘Yeah, better thanks, but I’ll tell you everything when I see you, yeah?’
‘You sure now? You sound odd.’ I had my eyes on Hank who stayed in the study, which made me nervous in case he tried to look for his key.
‘No, I’m not, just at someone else’s house, you know?’
Hank turned round at that point.
‘Well, listen, we’ve made an early start so we’ll be in Brisbane in a couple of hours, OK?’
‘How’s Scotty?’
‘He’s a pain in the arse again, so – much better. Dropping him at a friend of his up there. He wants to stay there until he’s all fixed before he heads back down the coast.’
‘So what’s the plan?’
‘We’ll be staying at the One World backpackers’, on Highgate Hill. From around, let’s say, twelve – OK?’
‘Sounds good. OK, see you soon.’
‘Yeah, take care and good luck.’
‘Thanks, Jim.’ I put down the phone.
‘Is that your friends arriving, then?’ asked Hank, opening some mail.
‘Yep, so I’ll be meeting up with them today and staying where they are.’
‘Shame, feel as though we were just getting to know one another.’
‘Yeah, I know, but I’ll be in the city for a while, so I’ll drop by, OK?’
‘Sure, sure, that would be good. What are you going to do about the other stuff?’
‘Don’t know just yet, have a think. I’ll let you know later, yeah?’
‘Yeah sure, but, Kerry, I think you should have a think about everything, talk to your friends. Don’t rush into anything, you with me?’
‘Yep.’ I smiled and nodded, trying to get us both out of the study. ‘I’d better get my stuff together.’ As I walked towards the door, the phone rang again, giving me just enough time to slip the key up on top of the door for the second or two Hank had his back turned. I smiled and walked out.
Hank drove slowly into town with some boring Jim Reeves’ cassette blaring. Still, I was happy to have music as a way of avoiding much talk with him. We reached the backpackers’ where he had agreed to drop me and we pulled up outside.
‘Now, Kerry, I mean it, if there’s anything you need and I mean anything, you know where to find me.’ He pulled up the handbrake and patted my thigh twice.
‘Thank you, Hank, for all your hospitality. Please say thanks to Pattana, won’t you?’
‘I will, love, look after yourself, and good luck round the houses.’
I dragged my folder and bag out from the back seat and got out, leaning in through the window for the final goodbye.
‘Listen, before I head back down to Sydney, I’ll drop in and see you and Pat and let you know how things are.’
‘I’d like that very much, Kerry, and do you know what?’
‘Oh God, what now?’
He laughed. ‘No, don’t worry, nothing bad. I’ve decided after all this that I’m going to talk to Pat about everything.’
‘I think that’s a good thing, well done.’
‘You reckon?’ He winked.
‘Definitely.’
‘You see, Kerry, we were meant to meet for a reason. Guess this must be part of mine.’
I winked back and patted the roof as he drove off tooting.
I found a pay phone with a phone book not too far from where I was and began calling the Duffys as a starting point, just to make sure. The first two, a Mr and Mrs N. Duffy and a Mr D.M. Duffy didn’t answer; the third one, a Miss R. Duffy, was an old woman, just like Hank had said.
‘Hello, sorry to bother you but I’m looking for a Mrs Madeline Duffy, formerly Madeline Thomson, or her sister Mary someone.’
‘No, there’s no Mary or Madeline here. Just me.’
‘OK, well, thanks all the same.’
Then it came to me, and I cursed myself for not acting on it sooner. I had in all my time here failed to follow any leads as far as RSLs went. I remembered Barbara and Norman, the old couple I had encountered when I first began selling, who first told me about the Royal Servicemen’s Leagues that were all over Australia. If my mother had settled here with an ex-servicemen, then surely they were members of one in Brisbane.
I abandoned the Duffy list in favour of directory enquiries, which I hoped would supply me with the numbers of all Brisbane RSLs.
‘You kidding?’ said the whiney Australian voice on the other end. ‘Do you know how many RSLs there are here?’
‘How many?’
‘Well, we have two hundred and fifty sub-branches alone in Queensland. That’s bowling clubs, social clubs, the lot. It’s a massive organisation throughout the whole of Australia.’
I felt overwhelmed. ‘OK, how many social clubs in Brisbane only?’
‘Forty.’
I sighed. ‘Look, give me the first four.’
I took them down and hung up. I panicked. There was no time to go through everything I needed to in the few days I had in Brisbane. I thought about staying on after the others had gone but couldn’t bear the idea of trying to find another job and place to live, and new friends and all that stuff, although I was sure I could have stayed on with Hank and Pat.
My mind raced ov
er what to do next. I thought about asking the entire group to take, maybe, so many phone numbers each and go to separate booths and make the enquiries. My fate plan was wearing thin; it looked like hard work ahead, and hard work was and always had been my enemy.
I didn’t know why I’d asked the operator to give me four numbers, rather than three or six or any other amount; maybe it was because it seemed not too many to ask for on the call, but enough to work with; but mostly I think it was because my grandfather’s birthday was on the 4th November.
I lit a cigarette and tried the first two. On the first call, I tried out an Australian accent.
‘Oh yeah, hello, love.’ I deepened my voice and used ‘love’ to sound older. But the man on the other end seemed a lot older, which made me feel that my use of ‘love’ was inappropriate.
‘Yes, I’m wondering if you can help me, I’m trying to track down an old school friend called Madeline Thomson, that’s her maiden name, but I can’t remember her husband’s first name so I can’t find her number, but her married name is Duffy.’
‘Oh yeah, and how can I help?’
‘Sorry, yeah, I think she may be a member there. I moved away a long time ago when we were first married.’
‘And her husband was in the forces, you say?’
‘Yes, he was, but it’s the name I’ve forgotten and I’ve lost touch with our other friend.’
‘What’s your name?’
I looked outside for clues, and saw a Sue Ryder charity shop across the road. ‘It’s Kerry Ryder.’
‘Hang on, Kerry; I’ll see what I can do.’ He went away for a minute then returned. ‘Nope, sorry, can’t help. Had a look at the members’ book and there are no Duffys and I can’t help you with the maiden name, sorry.’
‘OK, thank you all the same.’
I hung up and tried the next one, which was an answerphone; I didn’t leave a message. Then I called the other two, going through the same routine as the first, but with no joy, as they too reported having nobody by that name. Then I gave up on that approach.
I decided to go back to the name pages in the book and exhaust that before trying again with the RSLs, which would have to be done another day when I could sit down somewhere comfortable and get through all the calls. Then I came across a club listed as ‘Ferny Hills British Working Men’s Club’.
My heart was thumping. This would be an extremely long shot to some people, but to me, it felt like the next piece of the puzzle, and that it was all falling nicely into place. I dialled. It rang twice before a woman answered.
‘Ferny Hills.’
‘Hello, is the manager or club secretary there, please?’
‘Hang on.’ I could hear the phone being put down on the table. I hadn’t exactly worked out what I was going to say, so this gave me some time.
‘How can I help?’ said an older man’s voice.
‘Hello there, my name is Sue Cook’ – a mixture of Sue Ryder and Captain Cook, which I’d thought of at the last minute – ‘and I’m looking for an old friend of mine, Mary. Except I know her and her sister Madeline from their maiden name, which is Thomson. Do you know either of them at all?’
‘We’re not at liberty to divulge information about our members, I’m afraid.’ The man sounded officious. ‘And I certainly wouldn’t have a clue what our members’ maiden names were.’
‘Of course not, I wouldn’t expect you to. I’m an old school friend and we’ve lost touch. I have something very dear to her that I know she would love to have passed on to her.’
‘Well, like I said, I can’t see how I can be of any help to you, Miss.’
‘Do you have many Marys as members?’
‘I honestly couldn’t say.’
‘Could you have a look, please? I’ve come all the way from Scotland to find her.’
He laughed a little, which made me feel more hopeful.
‘We have only got three Scottish couples that I know of, and two Geordies.’
‘Sorry?’ I interjected immediately. ‘Geordies, you say?’
‘That’s right. But not a Mary. Patsy and Ken.’ He spoke slowly, reading from a list I presumed. ‘Have been members for years, they are from Newcastle; then we have a Margaret and James, they’re from Newcastle too.’
I would have to trust my instinct on this one, for all this time I was convinced that given how uptight and pushy this Mary character was, she was probably not using her real name. Perhaps she was using her middle name, but even if that was confirmed to me, it would be useless without her married name. I decided to stick my neck out and have one last try.
‘That’s Margaret and Neil Black, right?’ I’d just seen the name Black & Sons on a van passing by outside.
‘No, Brotherstone,’ said the man, falling directly into my trap.
‘Listen, I must have it all wrong, I’m sorry, but thank you so much for your time.’
‘All right then,’ he said.
‘Bye now.’ I slammed down the phone and thumped the glass shouting ‘Yes!’, causing two passers-by to stare in.
Even if this wasn’t her, and I had no concrete reason to believe it was because she wasn’t even a Mary, but, at the very least, it was a couple from Newcastle, and I reckoned they would all stick fairly close together and would more than likely know the Mary I was looking for.
Must be nearly eleven. Jim and the others would be arriving shortly. I tore the page from the phone book, which consisted of only two Brotherstones, then jumped in a cab and headed downtown to Highgate Hill, to check in to the One World backpackers’.
When I got there, it was teaming with new arrivals, plus a group of school children from Japan. Enthusiastic, cheerful, bronzed Scandinavian types lingered in the reception area. I got the attention of a bloke behind the desk and explained to him my friends were on their way to check in, and as I was ahead of them could I leave my bags. He checked the list of names on the counter and confirmed with me that a Mr Crown and four others had reserved space there.
A traveller returned a map to reception that read Brisbane Suburbs on the front, so I asked him if I could look at it. I traced the area of Ferny Hills with my finger, and then jotted down a couple of streets in my notebook, including the one with the club in it. Map concentration was an entirely new area for me, and I struggled with concentration of any kind. But I was becoming obsessed with the idea that I must track down my mother a.s.a.p., as though my sanity depended on it.
‘That’s all right, we have plenty. You can take that if you like,’ said a man with cropped hair and a bandana saying ‘One World’ across it.
I thanked him and stuffed it in my pocket, then wrote a note for Jim, which I left with the guy, and hailed another cab. I’d never had so many cabs in one day, but I didn’t care; besides, I always had the Tampax machines as back-up.
My note read:
Dear Jim,
Hope you are well. Found fantastic area called Ferny Hills, great for selling. Gone ahead of you, meet me on the corner of Ferguson Ave and Spring Street at two, please. Any problems, or if you can’t make it, will meet you back here at four! Use this number as a base if we lose touch.
K x
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
* * *
THE MOMENT I walked into Weaver Avenue, I felt all eyes upon me. There was no evidence of this, of course, but it was my feeling. I felt nervous and conspicuous, as though I looked like a girl searching for her mother, hiding behind the pretence of selling paintings, with a beaten-up face that was so obviously not acquired through a white-water-rafting incident. It felt as if the way I walked or what I wore told them my story.
I was heading for Mr and Mrs N. Brotherstone of 15 Weaver Avenue. I thought about Dennis Weaver, the seventies cowboy detective Sam McCloud, as I climbed the uphill path to the front door. I knocked at the fly screen; I could smell warm food and cleanliness.
Outside were two enormous flowerpots with children’s shoes leaning against them. Were these the shoes of my young blood
relatives? If so, then they were the first things I had ever seen of my real family in my life. And if they were indeed the shoes of the children of Mr and Mrs N. Brotherstone, and Mary Brotherstone was my auntie, then what would that make me to the children? And how would I be explained to them? I would be their great-aunt, I supposed, or was it a cousin thing? I wasn’t sure. They were girl’s shoes, perhaps belonging to a ten-year-old. Ten years ago I was fourteen, dying to be eighteen so I could look up my adoption records.
I was nervous and my mouth was dry. I felt quite sick as I knocked, but the moment I did, I sensed it was quiet inside the Brotherstones’ house, and that perhaps no one was home. I had, after all, been standing on the step for a few minutes, staring at the shoes and gathering the courage to knock.
‘Hello there, are you all right?’
I jumped. An elderly man with a sunhat on leant over the fence to my right.
‘Sorry, no, I’m OK.’ I was startled.
‘I didn’t mean to frighten you. Are you looking for anyone?’
Great – this was all I needed.
‘No, thanks. I’m travelling around showing some paintings.’
‘You’re what, dear?’ He leant in closer, cupping his hand at his ear.
‘Paintings. I’ve been here before and I’ve been asked to come back.’ I hadn’t used that one for a while.
‘No, don’t need anything.’ The guy was deaf and struggled with everything I said. I didn’t want to hang around on the doorstep having an extra loud conversation for all to hear, so I decided to grab the bull by the horns.
‘OK. Do Mary and her husband – whose name I’ve forgotten – live here?’
‘WHO?’ he bellowed.
‘MARY?’ I bellowed back. Surely if Mary, or whoever she was, was nearby, then she would now hear me.
‘Sorry, love, haven’t got my hearing aid. Yes, Mary and Neil, they’ll be back shortly, I expect. Can I help?’ He strained further.
He was only being neighbourly but I wanted to tell him to fuck off for the time being.
The Naked Drinking Club Page 32