Tutankhamun was nearby, keeping an eye on things, while Jet, typical glamour boy that he was, had wandered off to the greenest part of the paddock to nibble on the grass.
Angie was in the last aisle of the supermarket when she spotted Diana peering into the refrigerated cabinet holding gourmet cheeses and dips. Quickly Angie turned her trolley and escaped into the next aisle, but not before noticing Diana’s cheeks were swollen and her eyes had the look of a startled kangaroo. No doubt she’d had some cosmetic procedures done in preparation for her cruise. She remained a person whose sense of self-worth was predicated on her looks. That explained the constant quest for new cosmetic treatments to allay the inevitable.
For her part, Angie joked about the signs of wear and tear: laugh lines around her eyes, wrinkles on her forehead, skin texture which was no longer baby-smooth. But it didn’t matter that she wasn’t in mint condition any more. Over the past half century she had acquired a rich history – like the Old Manse she lived in, and the town of Millbrooke itself – and it showed on her face.
Anyway, if you were the mother of two twenty-something boys, why would you want to look thirty-five?
Yet in spite of everything, Angie felt a certain empathy towards Diana. Hadn’t they both been victims of the same man? Weren’t they both in therapy as a result? Not that Diana knew about Angie’s incident. That remained top-secret. Nevertheless, from Angie’s viewpoint, it was a bond of sorts. Even if Diana was a ‘bitch’, as Moira had once so charmingly put it, she felt obliged to give her some leeway. Who knew whether she was born a narcissist or her experiences had made her one? No doubt Blake would have an opinion, but Angie had no intention of encouraging him to use Diana as a case study.
When it came to her own encounter with Mr Goodmann, she wondered whether she could ever tell her elder son. He had said that coming forward was a helpful thing to do, but would he think the same way if he knew the victim was his own mother?
Later Angie met Richard at the emporium gallery. Under his supervision the workers had removed the modern counter and kitchen fittings and suddenly the space looked much bigger.
‘Have you got time for a cuppa?’ Richard asked, indicating a Thermos.
‘I certainly do,’ said Angie. ‘In fact, I’ve brought some Danishes from the bakery.’
They sat on canvas director’s chairs and ate the pastries from paper bags.
‘Diana’s leaving on Friday for her cruise,’ Richard said between mouthfuls. ‘I’m going to drive her to Sydney.’
‘I hope she’ll be all right on her own. What did her therapist say?’
‘Thinks it’s a good idea. A controlled step towards independence. And it’s not as though she’ll be set loose without any resources. They’ll keep up their sessions via the internet.’
‘This therapist, it’s not Samantha Tibbett, is it?’
‘No, it’s a woman in Granthurst.’
‘Good,’ said Angie, concealing her relief. She wouldn’t want to run into someone she knew in Samantha’s waiting room. ‘By the way, Richard, how can Diana afford this luxury cruise? It must be costing a fortune.’
‘She has the rent from her townhouse and I’m helping her out a bit.’
The way he said ‘a bit’ suggested ‘a lot’. But it was his money after all, and ‘helping out’ obviously assuaged his sense of responsibility for her. Angie wasn’t going to play devil’s advocate if it meant six whole months without Diana.
Angie’s appointments had been extended to every fortnight. Although Samantha hadn’t said so outright, Angie was aware that the longer intervals indicated a perceived improvement. Yet she didn’t feel much better. Flashbacks cast shadows over her days, while nightmares tainted her nights.
‘If you could have anything in the world, Angie, what would be most important to you?’ asked Samantha one hot January afternoon.
Angie speculated for a while, before answering, ‘A safe haven.’
‘Tell me more about that.’
Angie had noticed Samantha was never in any hurry for her to respond. She didn’t seem to mind periods of silence – achingly long pauses in which the refrigerator gurgled, Angie’s tummy rumbled and Samantha would adopt an anticipatory expression that suggested her eventual response would be an epiphany. It never was.
Having waited the requisite amount of time, Samantha tried again: ‘It seems to me that you place great emphasis on the idea of having a bolthole. Could you elaborate on that concept?’
That was the other thing Samantha liked to do – frame her interrogation in the manner of an essay question.
‘Well, I remember coming here for a girls’ weekend – it was a few months after my husband died – and I saw the tourist poster saying: “Escape to Historic Millbrooke”. I suppose that’s what I did. Not so much escape as seek a refuge.’
‘Would I be correct in saying you see the place itself as being an agent for healing?’
‘I suppose I do.’
‘When you visualise this place of healing and refuge, what do you see? Close your eyes and describe it to me.’
Obediently Angie closed her eyes. As an artist, she was good at visualising.
‘I see a town nestled in a valley, surrounded by hills, like the walls enclosing a medieval fortress.’
‘What else?’
‘There are people inside the town going about their business, looking after each other. I can see all my friends, the people I trust.’
‘That’s good. Your friends are important resources. Anything else?’
‘Old buildings. Streets of them. They give me a sense of stability.’
‘Are there places other than Millbrooke that you view as being safe?’
‘I can’t think of any. Perhaps my old house in Sydney. Until my husband’s heart attack.’
‘And what places would you deem unsafe?’
‘Do you mean specific names?’
‘If you like.’
Angie’s first thought was Flynns Bay. But she didn’t dare say it. Not even to Samantha. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘Angie, can you see any limitations to using an actual place as your safety mechanism?’
Angie had to think about that question.
‘Let me put it another way. Could somebody like your abuser operate in a town like Millbrooke?’
Angie was about to say ‘No’, when she recalled that Geoff Goodmann’s grooming of Diana had begun right here in Miller Street. Not necessarily the physical abuse or even the blatant emotional control. But the nurturing phase – listening to her problems, assessing her vulnerabilities, ingratiating himself with her, running his charm campaign. Then Angie thought of something else. Perhaps he had abused his first wife too. Was that why she had disappeared interstate with the children? To escape him?
‘So, Angie, could an abuser go undetected in Millbrooke?’
‘I think he could,’ Angie answered, ‘if it were psychological. But people in this town would pick up on physical abuse. They’d notice a black eye or bruises on someone’s arms. And they’d ask questions.’
‘What if she told everyone she’d had a fall?’ asked Sam, glancing quickly in Angie’s direction. ‘Or if the injuries were hidden? What if he hit her where it wouldn’t show?’
When Angie didn’t answer, Samantha prompted her. ‘Can a place, even an idyllic one like Millbrooke, guarantee your safety?’
‘Probably not.’
‘Tell me more about that, Angie.’
‘Well, I suppose if you count on a place to keep you safe, the feeling isn’t transportable.’
‘Exactly. Can you think of ways in which that feeling of safety could be with you wherever you went?’
‘You could employ a bodyguard.’
Angie knew it was a glib reply. The hint of a frown crossed Samantha’s brow before she resumed her usual conce
rned expression.
‘Can you expand on the idea of a portable safety mechanism?’
It was essay time again. After thinking about it for a while, Angie said: ‘If you felt safe within yourself, you wouldn’t have to rely on external factors.’
‘So what you’re saying is that the sense of feeling safe must be part of you.’
Samantha was paraphrasing. You could play this game indefinitely, rewording each other’s sentences.
‘And how would you go about internalising your safe haven, Angie?’
‘Can’t you tell me the answer, Sam? After all, you’re the person with the diploma.’
‘And you’re the person with the problem.’
Chastened, Angie answered, ‘I think it might involve building my inner resources.’
‘What kind of resources?’
‘Resilience and self-confidence.’ That was an easy one. Samantha used those abstract nouns all the time, like a mantra.
‘Tell me what confidence means to you, Angie?’
‘Not feeling scared or helpless.’
‘You know a lot about confidence, don’t you?’
‘I used to be a confident person.’
‘You’ll find it again. You’re already tapping into it. Coming here was a big step. But you can’t rely on me to fix things. Ultimately, it’s up to you, Angie.’
Angie smiled. ‘A friend of mine says that. And it annoys the hell out of me. We can be at an emotional crossroads, and he’ll say: “It’s up to you, Ange.” ’
‘What kind of person gives others the power to make their own choices?’
‘Someone who’s flexible and open-minded, I guess.’
‘What else?’
‘Someone who doesn’t try to impose himself or his views on you?’
‘Exactly. This friend of yours sounds like a good person.’
At Easter Jennie and Mark were married in St John’s Church, Millbrooke. It was one of those churches that city folk are wont to book for romantic country weddings. Golden sandstone blocks, whimsical gargoyles and a castellated turret. Angie and Narelle wore pink taffeta and chiffon, as chosen by Jennie. Although Narelle grumbled about fairy floss and froth, the dresses weren’t as over-the-top as might be imagined. Neither was Jennie’s white gown with its swansdown trim. In fact, everyone said she looked beautiful and they meant it. What’s more, the strapless design revealed a milky cleavage and pristine arms, free of eczema.
Two weeks later, Angie received an email from the newlyweds. The attached photos made her cry. Jennie and Mark had visited Charles Junior’s grave at Noreuil. For some reason, Angie had expected a vast cemetery like Villers-Bretonneux. Instead, it was just a small plot in an obscure village. All the same, the graveyard at Noreuil was the resting place of one hundred and eighty-two Australians – more than the total population of the village itself, either then or now. As she looked at the neat rows of crosses set in an idyllic French landscape, Angie felt strangely reassured. With its gently rolling hills and lush green pastures, Noreuil might have reminded Charles of home. Then again, in 1917 it might have been a desolate landscape scarred by bomb craters.
Owing to Jennie’s wedding, the painting ladies had postponed their ‘Heroes of Millbrooke’ exhibition until the Queen’s Birthday weekend. Angie was secretly relieved. Following November’s incident in Flynns Bay, she hadn’t felt much like painting. And although she was running her classes again, she had found it difficult to be inspired by anything.
But Jennie’s email from Noreuil had given Angie an idea. She intended to paint a full-length portrait of Major Charles Chen. She knew the face by heart. It was so much like his father’s – full lips, chiselled cheekbones, skin the colour of rich clay soil and those unforgettable amber eyes. She would model his stance on the marble soldier atop the granite plinth at the western end of town, but minus the gun, of course. The DSO would be pinned to his jacket. In the background there would be a verdant Millbrooke landscape which might equally be Noreuil.
When Angie phoned to make her next appointment, Samantha said: ‘How about six weeks’ time?’
‘Six weeks?’ queried Angie.
‘If you need me in the meantime, you have my number. But I don’t think you will. Now go out there and enjoy your life.’
As Angie put the phone down, the second line of Walt Whitman’s couplet came into her head.
Now, Voyager, sail thou forth, to seek and find.
24 EPIPHANY
Although Geoff Goodmann couldn’t dominate her daytime thoughts any more, Angie spent her nights running and hiding, barricading doors, boarding up windows and waking exhausted – the victim of a nightly horror movie starring Geoff Goodmann. The woman who used to love her sleep now dreaded going to bed.
One morning, after a particularly graphic nightmare, she went down to the Millbrooke Community Bank and retrieved the memory stick from her safe deposit box. Back home, she made herself a strong cup of tea and looked at the images for the first time since November. They were worse than she remembered. As she examined the pictures of her own bruised skin and half-closed eye, a question began to niggle at her. What if he’d found a new woman? Another Angie or even a Diana, needy and vulnerable. Perhaps he’d already taken her to lunch at the Verona or served her soft-shell crab at his invisible table. Charmed by the good guy persona, the new woman would never suspect it was the start of a systematic program of emotional abuse leading sooner or later to the physical kind.
Angie printed out the images from the USB and placed them in a large envelope, along with her medical reports and X-rays. Then she closed the front door and marched down Church Lane to Miller Street. The police station was just around the corner in a wide-fronted nineteenth century house with a wraparound verandah. Behind an old cedar counter Sergeant Ken Peters was working at his computer. He looked up as she approached.
‘Angie, nice to see you. Are you here on mayoral business?’ Before she could reply, he continued, ‘It’s about the stop sign, isn’t it?’
Millbrooke had a single stop sign at the intersection of Park and Goldfield roads. It was the cause of considerable controversy in the town. Half the residents wanted it removed; the others were demanding the installation of stop signs at every intersection.
‘No, actually, Ken, it’s something else.’
As Ken Peters fixed his faded blue eyes on hers, she felt a stream of sweat running down her back like the worst kind of hot flush. Suddenly all the reasons not to come forward were crowding into her head. It wasn’t just the scandal and publicity associated with a court case, but the prospect of her sons learning about the assault and Richard finding out about Geoff.
She cleared her throat. ‘Actually, I’m here about the proposed crossing in St John’s Street. The traffic committee is going to discuss it later this week.’
‘Yes, I received the agenda. You didn’t need to come up here in person, Angie.’
‘I just wanted to keep you in the loop, Ken.’
‘Well, I appreciate that. The previous mayor never set foot inside this police station. Even when he had something to complain about, he always had the general manager send me an email.’
Angie smiled politely and said nothing. She had a policy never to discuss Bob Brannigan, except in confidence with Richard. When Ken offered her a cup of tea she declined. ‘Thanks, Ken, but I’d better be going.’
With the sealed envelope still tucked tightly under her arm, Angie headed out the door. After she arrived home, she steeled herself for one more try. From her purse she retrieved Martin Delamont’s card. Taking a few deep breaths – in through the nose, out through the mouth – she keyed in the number. After the eighth ring she heard:
‘Goodmann and Partners. Kim speaking.’
Damn. Instead of Martin’s direct number, she’d rung the reception desk by mistake. Just hearing Kim say the name w
as enough to make Angie feel ill. She disconnected the call and dropped the phone on the floor as if it were covered in toxic chemicals. With the silver device lying abandoned on the rug, Angie rushed to the bathroom and vomited into the toilet.
It was only the end of May, but the Millbrooke winter had already set in. As Angie boiled the kettle, she could feel a chilly morning draught wrapping itself around her legs. Where was it coming from? That was the problem with rambling, old houses – there were tiny gaps you could never seal. The sound of the phone made her forget the cold. It was Blake.
‘Hi, Mum. How are you?’
‘I’m good. What about you and Sophie?’
‘Yeah, we’re great.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it.’
‘And how are things with you and Richard?’
‘Just fine. Actually I’m expecting him any minute now. He’s bringing some pastries for breakfast.’
‘Any developments on the romance front?’
Angie flushed red with embarrassment. ‘I understand that you’re only trying to be helpful, Blake, but this isn’t something I wish to discuss, particularly with my son.’
‘It’s just that you’re not getting any younger, Mum. You don’t want to end up a sad, old lady full of regrets.’
‘I really don’t want to talk about it. Anyway, Charlotte and Jerry managed perfectly well in a platonic relationship.’
‘Charlotte and Jerry? Do I know them?’
Just at that moment Angie heard Richard’s ute pulling up in the drive.
‘Must go, Blake. Richard’s just arrived with the pastries. Talk to you soon. Bye.’
When Richard knocked at the back door, she hoped he wouldn’t notice the blush on her face, but he seemed to have other things on his mind.
‘Hi, Ange,’ he said, giving her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek and placing a large white bag, smelling of warm puff pastry, on the kitchen table. ‘I heard some bad news when I was in town. Jim Holbrook passed away.’
A Place of Her Own Page 27