Stolen Child

by Laura Elliot

  The floor was steady yet I walked carefully from her showroom. It was filled with delicate, brittle creations that would shatter if I made a wrong move.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Carla

  Five Years Later

  After three long and tedious flights, Carla finally landed in Melbourne airport. She moved in a daze through the passport channel, knowing that within the next few minutes she would exit into the arrivals hall and see her husband for the first time in a year. She was relieved that the glass stallion had survived the flight in one piece.

  At the Finest Crafts Exhibition she had recognised the seahorses immediately. Initially she had turned away, unable to watch them swaying in a kaleidoscope of coloured glass, then stopped, undecided. She was joining her husband in Australia and that meant letting go of the past. The stallion had attracted her attention. Such energy etched into every line of its design, its blindness only adding to its determination to clear the way forward. The man who sold it to her had lines around his eyes. White lines against a ruddy skin, as if he spent his life outdoors, squinting into the sun.

  A woman in the passport cubicle examined her passport then handed it back without a flicker of emotion. No one cast a sideways glance in her direction as she walked towards the luggage reclaim area. She was alone in a crowded space, flowing through the indifference of others. No wonder Robert did not want to leave. Her hands shook as she waited for her luggage. She steadied them on the handle of the trolley. Like the prisoner who learns to love his cell, she was falling into freedom, terrified by the open vista before her.

  Robert looked slim, tanned and fit. The bagginess around his eyes had disappeared. His complexion was clear. He had slotted effortlessly into this continent of tall, outdoor people. Their eyes locked when she emerged into the arrivals hall, the same direct, searching glance that once sealed their future. By the time she reached him, his face was flushed and raw with longing. They clung together, mumbling unintelligible endearments into each other’s ears.

  He drove confidently from the airport, obviously familiar with the route. She smelled his aftershave, a hint of something citrus, and longed to touch his face again. He was nervous; there were little signs she had forgotten, the way he rapped his fingers on the steering wheel when he stopped at traffic lights, the anxious way he cleared his throat when they fell silent, his sideways glance, speaking of pleasure to come. She asked about his work. As always, he remained vaguely informative. She wondered how he enjoyed being back again on the dark side of the city streets.

  ‘I saw you once on O’Connell Bridge.’ She was surprised to hear herself blurting it out after so many years. ‘I thought you were a junkie at first.’

  ‘I wondered.’ He braked at traffic lights. ‘Why did you never mention it?’

  ‘I thought you’d be annoyed with yourself.’

  ‘I’d have had little to worry about.’ He caught her hand and pressed it against his cheek. ‘Jesus Christ, Carla, I missed you so bad it never stopped hurting.’

  His skin was as smooth as she remembered. She wondered how long it would take to reach his apartment. Her body ached for him. She was alive in a way that had not seemed possible an hour ago. He brought her hand down to his crotch. She felt his hardness and laughed as he quickly accelerated when the light turned green.

  ‘What if the law finds out you’re breaking driving regulations?’ she said as she was jerked back against the seat.

  ‘Fuck the law,’ he replied and grinned.

  ‘I will,’ she promised. ‘Just drive a little faster.’

  It was good to laugh and tease each other. To run from the car, abandoning her luggage, and slam the door closed on the world outside. She had a brief impression of a tidy living room then she was pulled behind him down a narrow corridor and into a bedroom with a king-sized bed.

  He lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed, laid her down on the duvet, a masculine duvet with a red and black zigzag pattern. They did not remove their clothes. No foreplay or lingering kisses. Their mouths were hard and searching, his hands seeking her panties, pulling them to one side and her body, wet and eager, arched towards him. It was so familiar yet so strange to be in his arms again, as if something broken was being repaired, only the edges were too jagged ever to match perfectly again. It did not matter. He groaned loudly as he plunged inside her, and the cry she uttered tore against her throat. She wondered if it was agony or ecstasy that caused her to writhe and shudder and bite down on his lip. It seemed, in that instant of capitulation, as if only the taste of his blood would ease her longing.

  When it was over, they lay, limbs coiled, too exhausted to move. Eventually the phone roused them from their stupor. She rolled away from him as he sat up on the bed and cleared his throat before speaking.

  ‘Yes, she’s here.’ He moved his shoulder, only a fraction but she noticed, and that gesture, even if she had not heard the voice at the other end of the line, would have been sufficient for her to know the identity of the caller.

  ‘We’d like that…but not tonight. Carla’s absolutely jetlagged.’ He smiled down at her and winked. ‘Yes, it was a long flight. But you’re very kind. I’ll tell her.’

  ‘Sharon?’ she asked when the call ended.

  He lay back down and drew a sheet over them. ‘The one and only.’

  ‘How is she?’ Carla kept her voice neutral.

  ‘In love,’ he replied and laughed. ‘She moved in with her boyfriend a few months ago.’

  She tried to decipher the sound – relief, envy, or simply pleasure that his friend was happy?

  When he had first arrived in Melbourne, Sharon had introduced him to her circle of friends. They had accepted his past without being shackled by the publicity that had haunted him in Ireland.

  ‘I’ve found myself again,’ he said. ‘Today is what matters to these people, not what went before.’

  Tomorrow Carla would meet some of his friends and she too would understand what it was like to walk free from the lens of a camera. Then they would leave Melbourne and fly to Brisbane. He had worked out the itinerary for their holiday: a tour of the Gold Coast then a flight to Cairns where they would explore the Great Barrier Reef.

  Robert turned into an estate of detached houses, each one individually designed and surrounded by large gardens. For an instant Carla did not recognise the attractive woman who answered the door. Sharon had grown her hair long and dyed it blonde. She had gained weight, not a lot, but enough to round her figure and make her look a little less like one of the lads.

  ‘Welcome…welcome.’ She led them outside to the terrace where a group of people were already assembled. Lights hung from trees, candles flickered on the table. Carla was introduced to the other guests. Some were Irish, the rest Australian. She could tell by the height and sturdiness of the men that they were probably in the police force. She was not so sure about the women. Sharon, accompanied by her boyfriend, Harry, a tall, thin Englishman with sloping shoulders, emerged from the kitchen with wine and beer.

  ‘Food will be ready shortly,’ she announced and handed Robert a bottle of Victorian Bitter without asking what he wanted.

  ‘Wine or beer?’ she asked Carla, who accepted a glass of white wine. She sipped the wine and answered the obligatory questions about her flight, the connections, the delays she experienced, the food and films. Apart from Sharon, only one of the women in the group belonged to the force, a slightly built woman, whose parents, she told Carla, were originally from Thailand. She quickly lost interest in Carla when the men began to talk about work. The other women, who had formed a book club the previous year, began to discuss their latest read, The Conversations at Curlew Creek.

  Sara, an Irishwoman sitting next to Carla, asked if she was familiar with David Malouf’s work. Carla shook her head and sank back into the shadows. The night was balmy. She was content to simply observe.

  ‘You should read him,’ advised Sara. ‘There’s quite a strong Irish element to C
onversations. The lawmaker and the lawless. Both sides of the same coin.’ She laughed and flicked her hand towards the men. ‘Thankfully, we sleep with the law.’

  ‘I’m from convict stock and proud of it,’ said Kerry, an Australian woman sitting opposite Carla. ‘Both sides. I traced my ancestral line all the way back to West Kerry and Mayo. I’m writing my thesis on it.’

  ‘What did they do?’ Carla asked.

  ‘She stole a sovereign from her employer,’ replied Kerry. ‘And he was a sheep smuggler who didn’t run fast enough. She was transported first and he followed two years later. They married in New South Wales and had twelve kids. I have copies of the marriage and birth certificates. Amazing, every one of their kids survived.’

  ‘Have you ever been to Ireland?’ Carla asked.

  ‘Next year, I hope. I’d like to find their homesteads.’

  ‘You’ll probably find them buried under Bungalow Blitz,’ warned Sara.

  Sharon bustled between them with a bowl of salad and slices of home-baked soda bread.

  ‘Angels on horseback for starters,’ she announced as Harry leaned forward and placed a large platter on the table. ‘Hold onto your cutlery for the main eats.’

  She was flushed and a little breathless as she stood back from the table and clapped her hands. ‘Eat and enjoy,’ she ordered and gave Robert’s arm a brief squeeze.

  Was their relationship as platonic as he claimed, Carla wondered. Was it possible to be so close to someone and not have occasional desires, especially when they shared so much in common? With three glasses of wine inside her, and a companionable buzz of conversation around her, it was not a question to be tackled at the moment. She was enjoying the evening. Kerry’s convict relations had lost their Irish families yet had managed to build a new future. That was the answer: moving forward. In this new world there was nothing to slap her in the face and demand sorrow. They could have more children. She allowed herself to feel Robert’s conviction. Across the fluttering candle flame, she caught his gaze. He smiled, as if linked to her thoughts, and lifted a bottle of white wine, poured it into the glasses as he moved around the table. Sharon had prepared lamb. The smell of garlic and rosemary wafted across the terrace as she emerged with it from the kitchen. Harry followed with bowls of baked potatoes.

  He sat beside Carla and talked about the reef where he regularly snorkelled among the shoals of multi-coloured fish and the wavering banks of coral. He planned to honeymoon there later in the year.

  ‘How long have you been in Australia?’ Carla asked him.

  ‘Eleven years. Where does time go?’ He leaned closer and lowered his voice. ‘We’re all hoping you’ll settle here.’

  ‘I haven’t made up my mind yet.’ Carla also instinctively spoke more softly. She was aware of Sharon standing in the doorway, a bottle of wine in one hand, her arm raised against the door frame. She was silhouetted in the light from the kitchen, the outline of her legs visible through the transparent material of her skirt.

  Harry whistled and shouted, ‘Go, girl, go!’ as Sharon jutted her hip provocatively before disappearing back into the kitchen.

  ‘It’s a good life here,’ he said. ‘We all settle in the end.’

  ‘I have family in Ireland—’

  ‘We all have family back home. But a man needs a woman out here. Robert’s waited a long time for you to join him.’

  It was a warning, discreetly given, and Carla gave a slight nod in acknowledgement.

  Robert trailed his fingers along the back of her neck. His fingers were icy from the bottle.

  ‘We’ll eat and run,’ he whispered. Her skin tingled. She raised her shoulder in acknowledgement.

  Three weeks of swimming and lovemaking lay ahead. Long, relaxing lunches, romantic dinners, their hired car eating up the miles, music playing too loud, drowning out the need to ask the inevitable question. They would not mention Isobel’s name. They would not think about tomorrow. They would gave themselves over to pleasure and clasp it savagely, selfishly from each other. They would explore the Great Barrier Reef, holding hands under water, weightless and adrift in that silent world of perpetual movement.

  They were relaxing on the deck of a cruiser, returning from a snorkelling trip to the Barrier Reef, their legs dangling over the edge of the bow, when the sky darkened. Clouds bunching on the horizon broke apart and hurtled towards them. The boat rocked and the easy-going motion of a few minutes earlier was replaced by more turbulent waves. As sheets of rain slanted across the sea, passengers hurried under the canopy for shelter.

  ‘Get under cover.’ Robert got to his feet and stretched his hand down to her. ‘This will be a beast when it hits.’

  She ignored his outstretched hand and gripped the railing. ‘You go,’ she shouted back. ‘I need to be by myself for a little while.’

  ‘I’ll stay with you,’ he shouted. The rain flattened his hair and ran in rivulets down his cheeks.

  ‘No!’ The wildness of the storm had entered her. ‘You heard me, Robert. I want to be alone for a while.’

  He hesitated; then, reading her expression, turned and hurried under shelter with the other passengers.

  The rain gathered force against the speed of the cruiser and needled her face, forced her eyes closed, whipped her hair into drenched tendrils. She must look crazy, she thought, the only person on deck, a demented figurehead at the bow of the cruiser as it ploughed onwards through the squall. She gripped the rail tighter as the anger she had controlled for so long lurched through her. She screamed into the wind, screamed at Robert for turning his back on their daughter, preferring to believe that she was dead rather than live with the pain of not knowing. Her throat hurt but still she continued to scream. The wind carried her voice over the bow and dashed it against the waves. The rain stopped as suddenly as it started. Raindrops glistened on the rails, water ran from the deck. Her anger passed with the same speed. Robert ran towards her with a towel.

  ‘My crazy mad fool,’ he said, knowing that her decision had been wrestled from the turbulence of the storm.

  ‘Do you despise me for running away?’ he asked when they were in bed that night.

  She shook her head. To stand in judgement and apportion blame was to hang one more weight around her neck.

  ‘I could never despise you, Robert,’ she replied. ‘I fully understand why you left.’

  ‘Do you understand enough to stay here with me?’

  ‘Isobel’s alive,’ said Carla. ‘I can’t stop trying to find her.’

  ‘She’s gone from us.’ He spoke so quietly she had to lean forward to hear him. ‘Dead or alive, it no longer matters.’

  ‘Yes, it matters, Robert. It matters more than anything else.’

  ‘More than our happiness?’ he demanded.

  ‘Come back to Ireland with me,’ she pleaded. ‘We can start again, have another child.’

  ‘Another child would live in her shadow,’ he said. ‘It could never be otherwise with you.’

  ‘You think I’m obsessed?’

  ‘I think you’re in love with a memory. There’s nothing for either of us in Ireland.’

  ‘Except hope,’ she replied.

  ‘Platitudes, Carla. I can’t live with them any more. I’ve found my own reality here. I’ll never stop loving you. But I’m prepared to settle for less.’

  They made love gently then, afraid any sudden movement would break the fragile peace they had reached with each other. She had no memory of sleeping but she must have drifted in and out of oblivion, waking to touch him, or he, equally restless, reaching towards her. Three days later she returned home.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Susanne

  You’ve been so excited since Joey arrived. He swaggered through the airport, his rucksack sitting lightly on his shoulders, and danced on the spot in mock-alarm when he heard your shrieks. Corrine and Jack followed with their daughters. Joey is staying at Rockrose for the duration of their holiday.

  It’s strange, h
aving a boy in the house. He’s boisterous, abrasive almost, with his clattering boots and awkward hands that seem incapable of touching anything without knocking it over. He’s tall for a fourteen-year-old, moody at times, and his hair, like David’s, needs sheep-shears to keep it under control. Perhaps he doesn’t shout, yet his voice reverberates through my head. He is constantly on the move and gets restless if we’re not going somewhere, doing something.

  Miriam has taught him to blow glass, shapeless pieces, of course, but she believes he has a natural talent. He wants to visit Leamanagh Castle where the blind stallion once lashed his hooves so violently that the grooms had to barricade themselves from him. You want to see the castle too. You are his echo, his shadow, his adoring younger sister, fiercely jealous of Leanne and Lisa. We’ll go there on Sunday and drive on to Lake Inchiquin for a picnic.

  Yesterday, we brought him to Lahinch for the surfing. He rode his surfboard over the rollers, cocky and assured as he crested ashore. He showed you how to belly-ride your own small surfboard. I could hear your triumphant yells above the crash of waves.

  You both turned to watch a windsurfer in a black wetsuit skim across our line of vision. He tilted the rig and worked the board so that he became part of the great curving wave carrying him onwards. When he collapsed his rig on the sand, Joey sauntered towards him. I wanted to dry you off but you followed like a puppy at his heels. Joey and the windsurfer ignored you. He has David’s habit of gesticulating when he speaks and it was obvious they were talking about the waves. You drew a circle around them in the sand and wrote your names. Joy/Joey.

  A small boy toddled towards you. You shovelled sand for him, built a sandcastle, both of you collecting shells to decorate the turrets. You ran back to me and rummaged in my beach bag for your polar bear and showed it to the boy, placed it on the top of the castle. The man finished talking to Joey and scooped the child in his arms. A woman, who was lying on a rock, an open book across her face, sat up and held out her arms for the boy.