Lost Girl

by J. C. Grey

  ‘How old was Evelyn when you knew her?’

  ‘A few months after I started going up there with my father, she had her nineteenth birthday. Big bash. I remember all the flowers Dad had to cut for the house. He wasn’t happy about it, claimed it ruined the garden.’ Sanders voice had taken on a dreamy quality as though he had time-travelled back fifty-plus years. ‘Miss Evelyn let me have a glimpse of the house the day before the party. I’d never seen anything like it—it was all sparkling glass and gleaming floors, streamers and so many flowers it smelt like a meadow.’

  ‘It’s a little different now,’ I remind him, intrigued, although it does not explain his eagerness to see me leave. ‘What happened?’

  He shakes his head. ‘This was early fifty-eight, I think. All I knew at the time was that the house was full of lights and flowers and glamour one day, and then suddenly Evelyn was gone—like a fairy tale had ended with no happily ever after.’

  ‘You never saw her again?’ I asked.

  ‘At first, I thought it was my fault. That I’d done something but my father wouldn’t explain.’

  ‘What did her parents do after that?’

  ‘The St Johns stayed on a few years before moving to the Blue Mountains. We heard he died soon after and I don’t think she outlived him by much. They seemed very old to me when my dad worked for them, but I think Evelyn had come late to them in their forties, so they would have been in their sixties I suppose.’

  ‘But what happened to Evelyn?’ I ask. ‘There must have been talk.’

  ‘No one in the town spoke about anything else for weeks,’ Robert Sanders says, looking at the floor. ‘Had she married against her parents’ wishes? Had she died? I didn’t understand it all, but I remember that everyone thought it must have been something shocking to pitch the house into such despair. Then word spread that Evelyn had gone to college in England and that was that.’

  ‘Your father must have known something. Was he still working there?’

  Sanders nods. ‘He was kept on to do the gardens almost until the St Johns left but he was always tight-lipped.’

  I wait for him to continue but he seems to have forgotten I am there, caught up in the past. There is nothing creepy about Robert Sanders now, just weary and faintly maudlin.

  ‘Does this have something to do with the house?’ I prompt.

  ‘What?’ He jumps as if startled.

  ‘You were going to tell me about the house.’

  He shrugs. ‘It was never the same afterwards, as though Evelyn’s departure ripped all the life from it.’

  ‘But people must have lived there since the St Johns moved out.’

  ‘Not really. People have taken on the place. No one’s lasted for more than a few weeks that I know of, and there’s been no one at all for the best part of thirty years now.’

  ‘But why?’ Frustrated at his vague conclusion to the story, I am not prepared to settle for anything less than a real answer.

  ‘Last couple took it on with big plans to turn it into a boutique hotel. First day in there, one tradesman trips and falls from a first-floor window. Everyone else walks off the job and the couple can’t get anyone else to work there. Next thing I heard they had financial trouble, then she had a breakdown, and they cleared out. The bank foreclosed and that was that.’

  ‘Wow!’ I’d asked for an answer and I’d got it. ‘Maybe they were just unlucky. Accidents and illness happen.’

  ‘It wasn’t the only unfortunate incident at that place, believe me.’ He glances at his watch and I realise it is almost dark outside.

  ‘Well, thank you for explaining.’ I pull open the door. ‘But I’ve been there for months now without anything … any harm.’

  ‘All that means is that it hasn’t happened yet.’ He shrugs and turns the door sign to CLOSED. ‘You take my word for it, miss. There’s something wrong with that house. You need to get out while you can.’

  I am thinking of his last eight words as I step through the door. He is closing it behind me and I put out a hand to stop him for one final question.

  ‘The workman, the one who fell. What happened to him?’

  Sanders’ mouth turns grim. ‘He never walked again.’

  I stare at him, and am still in shock long after he has closed the door in my face.

  Fifteen

  July last year …

  I am alone at the beach shack on a grey afternoon. The wind is up and large breakers are smashing into the ocean beach. Above, seagulls wheel and cry.

  Marc doesn’t know I’m here today, a mohair blanket wrapped around me as I stand out on the deck. The beach is deserted; even walkers and paddlers are in short supply on a day as bleak as this. On the drive up here it rained fitfully, and the dark, heavy clouds threaten more before the day is done.

  Not that Marc knows it yet—as my period is not officially due for another couple of days—but our two months reprieve before we decide what to do next is over. In truth, it has been more punishment than reprieve, made worse by the fact that we haven’t spoken of it since we made the agreement. I assume he is waiting for me to let him know when our situation changes or perhaps he simply does not know how to raise such a charged topic. I have some sympathy there.

  The spotting I have had today at least puts an end to the charade our marriage is becoming. If you’ve ever wondered about the married-five-minutes couples whose dream wedding is really the beginning of the end, then wonder no more. It can happen all too easily when your bond is made of velcro, fast to seal and just as fast to break.

  My bag sits in the room behind me. I’m not sure where to go, only that I am going. Although I am not certain how Marc will react—he may be glad to wash his hands of the whole disaster our marriage has become—I fear that he will take this badly. McAllisters don’t fail (and they definitely don’t do something as tacky as divorce) and, even though the blame largely rests at my door, Marc cannot escape all responsibility.

  Why did he have to want a baby so much?

  Sylvie, two years younger than Marc, has had her second—a boy. I suspect that Marc went to see his new nephew without me. At least, I found an order for a large stuffed bear on his tablet when I was snooping. What excuse would he have made for my non-appearance, I wonder.

  Busy with my glamorous career—that seems to have ground to a halt since I finished Ina’s apartment—or with glamorous friends, I suppose. But it can’t have escaped anyone’s notice that we have not been seen together for weeks now. I know there must be talk, but I cannot find the energy to care.

  Actually, that’s not true. I wish I didn’t care because it is exhausting and confusing and, yes, sometimes downright scary. I’m not sure what Marc is thinking anymore. For all I know, he thinks he is protecting me from unnecessary pressure by keeping me away from mothers and babies. But secrets other than my own are what I most fear.

  Rather than abating as evening approaches, the wind becomes more frenzied and a frond is torn from the Canary Island palm next door. Despite its porous wood, it comes crashing to the ground, and I jump. It is the signal for me to go. I can’t stay here all day prevaricating and staring at a windswept beach. The only reason I am here at all is that I sometimes think better up here than in the city.

  A note, short and sweet, lies on the kitchen bench in Marc’s apartment. It just says that I am taking some time to myself, but he can read between the lines well enough. Any legal action I will leave up to him to put in train given that I have nothing except the car. If I were a better person I would leave it behind, but I am not.

  I had thought to stay with Claire for a while but her apartment is mostly given over to studio space; the living area is tiny. In any case, I know what she will think of my decision to call time on my relationship with Marc, whom she really likes. Brendan will just curse the fact that he will no longer be able to gaze on Marc’s biceps at will.

  So, this is it. I leave my key in the kitchen drawer for Marc to find, and when the door shuts I am locked o
ut of the house I slaved and sweated over.

  After all, it is easy enough. I have done this before, although the last time I left my life was not in an Audi but on the six twenty-five train from Bathurst. There is some comfort in the familiarity of the leaving ritual, though—the planning, the packing, the writing of the note, and most of all in leaving failure behind like a snake shedding its skin.

  That last time, after I left Bathurst, I slept rough outside Central Station on a sultry, thundery night, and then found a cheap share-house the day after. My options are broader this time. I could afford a good hotel, but not for long, so instead I find a bland motel room and take it for a discounted weekly rate. My first act when inside the room is to chop off my long hair. With my ragged crop and watery, pink eyes, no one will recognise me as Sydney’s It Girl now.

  The motel in Frenchs Forest is a strangely utilitarian, characterless place to ride out the emotional collapse that comes with a relationship breakdown. It has a pool, where in the first few days I swim despite the weather, sometimes twice a day, until my muscles ache and my head is empty. Then, I can’t even swim as fatigue envelopes me like a fog, muting the outside world. Day might as well be night. Even when the motel manager insists my room be cleaned, I sit by the pool in my pyjamas until the maid is finished.

  My phone has been switched off all this time, but I know from overhearing a TV talk show when I was paying for my third week, that my absence has provided rich pickings for the gossip vultures.

  Rumours are growing that It Girl Emerald Reed-McAllister has abandoned her husband, the investment guru Marc McAllister, and is currently in LA hunting for an agent to help launch her Hollywood movie career. Did you see that coming, Tory?

  As Tory responds with a laugh that her celebrity crystal ball is in for repair, the clerk swipes my card with no idea the bedraggled creature in front of him is the subject of the on-screen speculation.

  I shuffle back to my room, leaving the TV experts to agree that even La La Land would certify me for leaving a husband as gorgeous, talented, connected and wealthy as Marc.

  Days and weeks blur into more days and weeks. I survive on little more than what the mini-bar holds until my stomach begins to rebel at the unrelenting diet of salt, sugar and alcohol. I throw up two days in a row and have to go to the vending machine in reception for orange juice. While I am there, the clerk asks me to pay another week’s rent. It’s then that I notice the date and realise I have been here almost six weeks. I will have to move on soon.

  Back in the room, I have had only a few mouthfuls of juice before I vomit again. While I am heaving over the toilet, the significance of the date blindsides me. My period is almost two weeks late. I cannot understand how this could be until I remember that my last one as I was leaving Marc never amounted to much more than a bit of spotting.

  Despite my misery, I am tempted to howl with ironic laughter at the suspicion that the very thing that drove me to leave when I did was actually the only reason I would have stayed.

  Present day, early morning

  I am dreaming, a fragment of fact giving birth to a tangled fantasy. Marc is there, in a tie I never would have chosen, telling a TV interviewer he can’t have a baby because he’s about launch a Hollywood career. At the news, the Australian stock market crashes, causing pandemonium.

  Can you laugh in your sleep? I think I do at first. It is ridiculous, and I am laughing and trying to untwist the truth and tell everyone what is really happening. No one pays any attention and I realise I am just a poster on the wall—me and a giant strawberry. I cry out, trying to escape but I am held back from reaching Marc by Yvette in a jaunty security officer’s cap, saying, ‘But we don’t know where you’ve been!’

  Something soft is against my face, dabbing at my eyes. A voice says ‘blow’. I do as told, blowing loudly into the tissue, and realise I’m awake and the night is pitch black.

  They say what the dark takes from your sight it adds to your other senses. Mine are on full alert. My own breath is deep and ragged, as it is when you’ve had a good crying jag. But there’s another breath, light, its rhythm a counterpoint to my own. My mysterious housemate is here again, and I can see nothing. The hairs on my neck stand on end, and fear tangles with my grief. But there is no sense of malice or evil intentions, so I reach out.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I murmur, not wanting to scare it away. ‘Mine’s Em.’

  There is nothing but the breath, yet I get the sense it is listening.

  ‘I won’t hurt you,’ I add, in case the stranger is scared.

  As I wait for an answer, I feel the soggy mess of a paper tissue in my right hand. It is the first time I have dreamed and cried in weeks. Perhaps I disturbed the unseen one.

  ‘I’m sorry if I woke you up. I had a bad dream.’ I squeeze the tissue. ‘Did you bring this to me?’

  Silence.

  ‘Are you … are you Evelyn?’ It’s a stab in the dark, and there’s a gusty out-breath in response.

  ‘I mean no harm. Did something happen to you? You can tell me if you want.’

  I tune my ears to catch the next breath, but it doesn’t come. I hear the door handle move and the click of the door closing.

  ‘Wait! Evelyn!’ Bolting up, I reach for the lamp and almost send it crashing. By the time I right it and switch it on, the room is empty except for me.

  Well, not quite empty. The stuffed bear from the library is sitting at the end of my bed. He has a note pinned to him, the corner of a yellowing exercise book page.

  Dunt be sad. I can be yure frend.

  Tentatively, I reach for the bear and detach the note, hold it as though it might disappear after its author. Now I know for certain that the apparition is a child, but I am none the clearer as to his or her identity.

  Is it Evelyn the child reaching out? Had she died a beautiful, unhappy teen and then reverted to her happier childhood?

  Someone has to know. Robert Sanders for one. He might have been unexpectedly forthcoming at the hardware store but there is something he isn’t telling me, I am sure of it. Local newspapers and local records, too, might yield something. There is no town hall in Lammermoor, but I’ve passed a tiny library, which may have microfiche or digitised newspapers from past decades.

  And, most of all, there is the house. I suspect that the house has not yet given up even a fraction of the secrets it keeps.

  Even though I don’t expect to sleep any more tonight with plans and possibilities flying through my mind, eventually I start to drift off. A sound makes me jump. It is my phone. Before I can stop myself, I am reading Marc’s text.

  Hi, gorgeous girl. Woke up dreaming of you.

  I write back: A night for dreams. In mine, you were exchanging the ASX for Hollywood. The stock market crashed.

  Not going anywhere, Em. I’m right here.

  Calm, steady Marc. He will always stand his ground, and he deserves a woman with the same kind of strength. She is not me and probably never will be.

  The tears threaten again but I ruthlessly push them back as I try to formulate a reply that captures the emotional war going on inside me. After six attempts, I give up, unable to find the right words although my feelings are so overwhelming it does not seem impossible that he might be able to sense them from Sydney. Perhaps he will try again with something that leads us out of the minefield. I wait for a time but there is no text message.

  A little later, because I cannot stand the thought that our tenuous reconnection was no sooner forged than lost, I text: You’re far more than I deserve.

  Throughout the day, while I am at the upholsterer’s to choose fabric for the couch and agree a price for the job, and then in the garden, I check my texts for new messages. But my phone remains silent.

  August last year …

  Hetty’s opens for coffee during the day before it transforms into a bar-bistro at night. It has lots of slender palms in large pots and ceiling fans, still today, that make me think of somewhere more exotic than Surry Hi
lls. Marc waits for me at our usual window table, a long black already in front of him. When our eyes meet through the window, he raises a hand to the barista to order my espresso.

  ‘Hi.’ I manage a brief smile. My mouth feels tight and I realise I haven’t smiled in a while.

  ‘Hi.’ He reaches over as I sit and tugs the blunt ends of my hair. ‘Interesting.’

  ‘You can say it. I look like crap.’ I don’t intend to be antagonistic. I think it’s a defensive thing.

  ‘That’s impossible. Thank you for … contacting me.’

  ‘Don’t be polite, Marc. And by the way you look like shit too.’

  He does, comparatively, although you have to look closely. As usual, he’s dressed immaculately for the office, although his tie is a little loose around his neck, but there are lines around his eyes and mouth that weren’t there a few months ago. Tellingly, the devil in his dark eyes is missing. He looks deadly serious.

  ‘I’ll fight you,’ he says, dropping his voice but its quiet intensity is enough for the barista to hesitate before delivering my coffee.

  Of course he will and I don’t blame him. He has worked hard for everything he has. Why would he just let some fly-by-nighter take a sizeable chunk of his assets? But even though I have sometimes taunted him with the idea I might be a gold-digger, the thought that he might actually believe it makes me feel a little sick.

  I wait until the barista has departed before replying. ‘Believe it or not, I’m not after your money.’

  ‘I’m not talking about money. I mean divorce, assuming that’s what this little meeting is all about. I can’t stop you but I’ll fight you every fucking inch of the way.’

  From behind the coffee machine, the barista’s head jerks our way in the quiet space. It’s probably only the fact that we are regular customers that prevents her from coming over to see what’s up.