A Place of Her Own

by Deborah O'Brien

  ‘To sell it. I need the money to pay off my credit card. The car repairs have pushed my debt sky-high.’

  ‘Aren’t they covered by your insurance?’

  ‘I can claim for the accident at Cockatoo Ridge. But not the graffiti. I’m not covered for malicious damage.’

  Angie’s flashbacks were becoming so invasive that she decided to make an appointment at the Millbrooke Counselling Service, whose sole practitioner was Samantha Tibbett. She had finally come to terms with revealing her secrets to someone she knew. After all, it wasn’t much different from seeking the local doctor’s advice on gynaecological matters and then socialising with him at a dinner party. Doctor Smythe had learnt to partition his work from his personal life. It was something you had to do in a small community, if you were party to confidential information. Jennie was in the same situation. For a woman who had been effusive about her dating escapades, she was admirably tight-lipped when it came to her job.

  On the designated day Angie turned up, anxious for the counsellor to provide a remedy. Perhaps a bullet list containing ‘Things to Do’. Instead, Samantha posed a collection of odd questions Angie couldn’t answer with ‘Yes’, ‘No’ or even ‘Sometimes’.

  The worst one wasn’t a question at all: ‘Tell me how you’re feeling.’

  ‘Helpless, angry, stupid, ashamed.’

  ‘So you’re feeling powerless about what happened?’

  ‘You can say that again. Now, can you tell me how to get rid of the horrible memories?’

  ‘It’s not my job to tell you what to do, Angie. You need to find the way for yourself. I’m just the facilitator. I provide a safe environment in which you can heal.’

  This woman was sounding remarkably like Blake with all that talk about finding the way for yourself.

  ‘But you must know the answers.’

  ‘Each person has their own unique issues. It takes time. I can’t simply write a prescription and push you out the door. Initially I’d like to see you once a week, then we can move to every fortnight or perhaps even monthly.’

  ‘I want it to be over by Christmas.’

  ‘You can’t set arbitrary deadlines, Angie. It’s over when it’s over.’

  ‘How will we know when that is?’

  ‘You’ll know.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘It will be when you feel strong again.’

  21 REVELATIONS

  Mark Miller was Angie’s campaign manager. He was part of a political lineage going back to James Miller MP, great-­grandson of Captain Alexander Miller, the founder of Millbrooke. Mark knew about things like letterboxing, street stalls and doorknocking.

  ‘Personal visits are the key,’ he said. ‘If the homeowner’s out, leave a note in the letterbox.’

  Mark even suggested an ‘Afternoon Tea with the Candidate’ to take place at the Manse, with refreshments courtesy of Angie’s painting class. They placed an invitation in the Gazette and seventy-five people turned up. In the second-last week of the campaign a town meeting was held at the School of Arts. All six candidates were allocated five minutes to state their case. FOTE members filled the front row. At seven o’clock sharp, the general manager approached the lectern.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen of Millbrooke, just a few housekeeping issues before we hear from the candidates. Firstly, please note the fire exits.’ He pointed to the double doorways at the sides of the auditorium. ‘And I’m sure I don’t need to remind you to be polite and listen to others in silence.’

  ‘He sounds like a school principal addressing an assembly,’ Jennie giggled. ‘If I’m not careful I might find myself on detention.’

  The general manager must have heard her because he shot a dirty look in the direction of the front row and continued tersely, ‘Remain seated at all times. And don’t heckle.’ He peered directly at Jennie over his glasses. ‘Anyone disturbing the meeting will be asked to leave.’

  ‘Doesn’t he realise this is Millbrooke?’ laughed Narelle. ‘Heckling is in our DNA.’

  ‘Shush,’ said Moira. ‘They’re about to start.’

  The speakers were called up to the lectern in alphabetical order, which meant Angie went last. When her turn came, there was loud applause from FOTE.

  ‘I’m no politician,’ she began.

  ‘All the better,’ came a shout from the audience. It was Narelle. Then she added: ‘Never vote for a politician – you’ll only encour­age them.’

  Standing in front of the microphone, Angie tried not to blush. Then she told the story of Amy and Charles and what they meant to her. ‘There are stories like this connected to every old building in Millbrooke. Let’s keep the stories intact. Let’s preserve what we have left of the past before it’s too late.’

  From the back of the room came a shout of ‘Hear, hear!’ The voice was male and melodious. She knew instantly who it was.

  The next day Richard was starting up the ute for yet another trip into Millbrooke, when he noticed a red warning light on the dashboard. It didn’t take long to uncover the problem – a broken fan belt. He didn’t have any spares. Cursing under his breath, he headed back to the house.

  ‘Diana, do you mind if I borrow your car? The fan belt’s had it. I’ll have to go into town and pick up a new one.’

  She was sitting at the kitchen table, applying nail varnish. ‘The keys are in my handbag – it’s upstairs in the bedroom,’ she said, preoccupied with painting a perfect top coat.

  ‘Thanks.’ He was already making for the stairs, climbing them two at a time. Her bag was sitting on the side table. He hated searching a woman’s handbag, but he had no choice. Hers was chock-a-block with girlie things – lipsticks, emery boards, little phials of perfume – which he removed one by one from the dark silken recesses of the bag. But where were the keys? Unzipping the side pocket, he placed his fingers inside. ‘Shit!’ he cried as something sharp cut his skin. Carefully he removed a pointed screwdriver, which looked remarkably like the one that he’d recently noticed was missing from his favourite set. He’d searched for it everywhere, to no avail. What was Diana doing with something like that? It wasn’t as though she was a DIY kind of person – quite the opposite. He turned the bag upside down, allowing the remaining contents to fall onto the bed. The keys were right at the bottom. As he sucked the blood from the cut on his finger, he continued to wonder about her having the screwdriver. He took it into the kitchen, placed it on the table and, more out of curiosity than anything else, asked, ‘What were you doing with this?’

  Diana glanced up from her wet nails. When she saw the metal object in front of her, she almost jumped out of her chair, knocking over the bottle of nail varnish as she did so. ‘I . . . it . . . oh, this bloody nail polish – it’s spilt all over the table.’

  Richard fetched a damp cloth from the sink and began mopping up the pool of sticky maroon liquid that resembled congealed blood. When he looked across at Diana, her face was flushed.

  ‘It’s all your fault,’ she said, sounding like a naughty child.

  ‘What’s my fault?’ he asked, trying to scrub off the vestiges of nail polish still adhering to the tabletop.

  ‘If you hadn’t been cheating on me with that blonde slag, it would never have happened.’

  ‘I haven’t cheated on you, Di,’ he said firmly. ‘Ever. In fact, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me, Rich. I saw the letter you sent her – Dearest One and Your Devoted Suitor.’

  It took him a few seconds to catch on. ‘Do you mean the photocopy on my desk? How could you have thought it was a modern letter? Surely you noticed the flowery language.’

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘It looked like your writing.’

  Richard shook his head wearily. ‘The letter dates from the 1870s. “Dearest One” is Amy Duncan and “Your Devoted Suitor” is Charles Chen, the owne
r of the emporium. I found the original in an old chest of drawers.’

  She was silent for a moment, considering his words. Then she said defiantly, ‘I saw the way you looked at her that day at the markets. And I saw the two of you sitting together in the café.’

  He swallowed hard. Was she referring to Angie? No, it couldn’t be. Angie was a brunette, not a blonde.

  ‘She’s young enough to be your daughter, for heaven’s sake,’ she continued.

  ‘Diana, you’re not making any sense.’

  ‘You know very well who I’m talking about. The fat accountant.’

  What kind of surreal fantasies had Diana been weaving in her head? ‘Heavens above, I’m not interested in Jennie! She’s in love with Mark, and he and I are mates.’

  Richard glanced idly at the screwdriver lying on the table, and suddenly everything fell into place. He felt so sick he thought he was going to throw up. ‘You were responsible for the graffiti on Jennie’s car, weren’t you? And you sent her the texts. I don’t know how you could have got things so wrong.’

  ‘What else was I to think?’ she said defensively. ‘You’re always disappearing into town. And you’re not interested in me any more.’

  ‘Even if it were true, Di – and I assure you it’s not – you can’t go around doing things like that.’

  Tears were spilling down her face, making rivulets through the layer of make-up coating her skin. ‘You’re not going to tell the police, are you?’ she sobbed. ‘You can’t tell anyone about this, Richie. If it came out, he’d . . .’ She stopped abruptly, but he could sense she was frightened.

  ‘Calm down, Di. Even if the police found out, you wouldn’t go to jail. It’s a first offence. The magistrate would probably give you a fine. He might even let you off altogether.’

  ‘But it would be in the papers, wouldn’t it?’ Her voice had taken on a hysterical edge. ‘He’d find out where I was living.’

  ‘He? Who are you talking about?’

  Her whole body was shaking. Richard placed his hand gently on her shoulder. ‘Who are you afraid of, Di?’

  The answer was barely audible. ‘Geoff.’

  ‘Geoff. You mean the solicitor? Are you frightened of ghosts?’

  ‘He’s not dead,’ she whispered. ‘I just wish he was.’

  ‘Not dead? But you told everyone you’re a widow. That he died from a heart attack.’

  ‘I lied.’

  ‘You’re not still married to him, are you?’

  ‘We’re divorced. He thinks I’m on a cruise.’

  ‘But why are you hiding from him, Di?’

  When she didn’t answer, he patted her hand in what he hoped was a comforting fashion. ‘I’ll make you a hot cup of tea – lots of sugar – and then we’ll talk.’

  Angie had employed a local girl to help out in the mornings, until her arm was fully healed. Even though she could do most things herself, making a bed was still an effort. The slat beds and heavy pillow-mattresses she’d bought for the guestrooms were blissfully comfortable to sleep on, but difficult to lift. That made tucking in sheets and folding mitred corners impossible.

  Not long after her helper had left for home, there was a knock at the front door. It was Richard, looking sheepish.

  ‘Come in. Would you like a cuppa?’

  ‘If you’re making one for yourself.’

  ‘It’s no trouble at all.’

  Angie made a pot of lapsang souchong and offered him pine­apple cake, which he declined. ‘There’s something I have to tell you, Ange.’

  ‘Sounds serious.’

  ‘I’m afraid it is. I need to talk to you about Jennie and everything that happened . . .’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It was Diana. She did all of it. The texts and the graffiti on the car.’

  ‘Diana? That doesn’t make sense. She barely knows Jennie.’

  ‘Diana thought we were having an affair.’

  ‘You and Jennie?’ Angie coughed as her mouthful of tea went down the wrong way.

  ‘She found a copy of Charles’s love letter to Amy in my office and thought I’d written it.’

  Angie was silent while she processed the implications. Then she said, ‘That’s bizarre. Anyway, if you had written that letter, it would only indicate you were in love with someone else. It wouldn’t implicate Jennie.’

  ‘But there was a voicemail. The one you sent from Jennie’s mobile.’

  Suddenly Angie could see Jennie’s pink, jewelled case, could feel the phone against her cheek.

  ‘You said something about making arrangements and considering options. Diana rang back and got Jennie’s message bank.’

  ‘I feel ill,’ said Angie, as a wave of nausea rose from her stomach.

  ‘Do you want a glass of water?’

  ‘No, I’ll be okay in a minute.’

  ‘You mustn’t feel guilty about what happened to Jennie. You couldn’t possibly have known Diana was unstable. I didn’t either. Not until earlier this morning.’

  Angie shook her head. ‘Only someone who’s really sick could behave that way.’

  ‘Diana’s so needy, you see. So . . . insecure.’

  ‘You’re not making excuses for her, surely?’

  ‘No, but you have to understand where she’s come from, how she’s been hurt. Her father deserted the family when she was seven and she’s been searching for a father figure ever since, someone to keep her safe. When she met me, she thought she’d found that person, but I couldn’t live up to her expectations. She desperately wanted to have a family of her own, and it didn’t happen. There was nothing wrong with Diana, the doctors told us. The problem was mine. So I threw myself into my work and left Diana to grieve, I suppose.

  ‘Anyway, she was desperately lonely, living in a town she didn’t like. Then she had an affair with the local solicitor. Not Jim Holbrook, the one before him. She got pregnant and they ended up moving to the coast and getting married. Turns out he was a control freak. Violent. A wife-basher. She’s been terrified of him for years. He’s her constant nightmare.’

  Angie felt the nausea returning. She swallowed hard, took deep breaths.

  ‘I’m sorry. This story is upsetting you, isn’t it, Ange?’

  ‘No, not at all. Diana’s case is completely different.’ She prayed his antennae were facing in the opposite direction.

  ‘So what happens now?’ she asked, steadying her voice.

  ‘I’ve convinced her that she needs help. We’re going to the GP tomorrow to get a referral to a therapist. And I’ve asked her to move out. There’s an unoccupied flat above one of the shops in the main street. She can stay there for the time being.’

  ‘But shouldn’t you tell the police?’

  ‘What good would that do, Ange? Diana’s so fragile and Jennie’s not herself either. To have something like this made public wouldn’t help either of them. Anyway, I promised her I wouldn’t tell anyone.’

  ‘But you told me.’

  ‘I know I can trust you.’

  ‘What’s to stop her continuing her hate campaign against Jennie?’

  ‘She won’t.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Because she understands that I’ve never had any romantic interest in Jennie. And I’ve assured her that as long as she promises to behave herself, I’ll make sure she’s safe.’

  Angie sighed loudly. She didn’t trust Diana. After a moment she said, ‘If she’s moving into a flat, I gather the relationship is over.’

  ‘It was never going to work second time around. It just took me a while to realise it. Besides, I’m in love with someone else.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Angie flatly. Was she supposed to be happy for him that he’d found his true love? Well, she wasn’t; in fact, she was bloody jealous. ‘You’d better not tell Diana about t
his other woman or she might find herself the new target of Diana’s jealousy.’

  ‘I don’t intend to tell her. I haven’t even told the woman in question. Anyway, it’s purely platonic. Non tangunt et amant.’

  Angie scoured her brain, searching for a possible candidate. Was it a local? Or perhaps someone he’d met at an architectural conference? Trying to sound breezy, she said, ‘So, who’s the lucky lady, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  Richard grinned at her. ‘It’s you, Ange.’

  Angie was so shocked by his apparent declaration of love that she didn’t know what to say. Was he joking? Just in case he was, she acted as though the words had never been spoken, even though her heart was thudding inside her chest. Taking her lead, Richard finished his tea and said, ‘I’d better be going. I don’t want to be away too long. You won’t tell Jennie about Diana, will you?’

  ‘Not as long as she sees a therapist on a regular basis,’ Angie replied, wondering if it wouldn’t be better to force Diana to make restitution for her actions, even if it were only a face-to-face apology. ‘But, Richard, if she gets up to anything else, no matter how minor, all bets are off.’

  When Richard left, Angie went straight to her laptop and connected to the internet. She didn’t need to look up non and amant – they were easy. It was tangunt that she didn’t understand. Finally she found the entire phrase – a Latin motto from the 1600s. After she read the translation, her heart was aflutter:

  Not touching yet loving nonetheless.

  During the week leading up to the council election Jonathan Taylor ran a lift-out in the Millbrooke Gazette – ‘Spotlight on the Candidates’. Like the five other aspirants, Angie was allocated a quarter-page article, complete with Mark Miller’s photo of her. Despite Angie’s warnings to leave her in her original condition, she suspected Mark had done a little airbrushing. Her teeth were unnaturally white and her face looked like Diana’s – not a single line or hollow.

  Millbrooke resident, Angie Wallace, owner of the Old Manse Bed and Breakfast, is standing as an independent candidate on a heritage ticket. She is actively supported by Friends of the Emporium (FOTE), a local group lobbying for the preservation of Millbrooke’s historical buildings, including the original Chen Emporium currently being used as a café and soon to become a function centre.