by Evans, Ilsa
Chapter Three
I saw your picture on your blog and I think you look real hot for a middle-aged broad. Plus your head looks like it’s covered in pubic hair. I like that.
We covered Anna Funder that afternoon, a recent winner of the Miles Franklin Award and the writer of brick-sized tomes. The choice received a mixed reception with about half the book club members adoring, and a matching number abhorring. There did not seem to be any in between. A truce was eventually called and we moved on to general criticism of some prize committees for prioritising prose over plot. This being a particular dislike of mine, I was kept happily occupied until the group broke up just before closing time. We chose local history or memoir for the following week, individual choice, in honour of the commemorations. Which was when I remembered Petar Majic.
‘One more question, out of left field. Does anybody know anything about our illustrious founder having a partner? Petar Majic? Maybe a little bit behind the scenes?’
‘He was gay?’ asked Elsa Poxleitner, pausing as she stacked chairs against the wall.
I frowned. ‘Who said he was gay?’
‘You said he had a partner. That’s like saying he’s gay.’
‘Really?’ asked Karen Rawlings, who worked at the community centre. ‘So when you asked me to partner you in tennis last week, you were letting me know you’re interested?’
‘Certainly not!’ Elsa took a step backwards, as if Karen might be overcome with desire. ‘I don’t do that sort of thing! I have a husband!’
‘But not a partner? Sounds like repressed sexuality. You need to spread your wings.’
‘Fighting. Visual. Images,’ said Lyn Russo, rather amusingly for her. She turned to me. ‘So I hear that your Quinn and my Griffin have become something of an item.’
I smiled noncommittally. That must be the Griffo of the texts. I tried to remember what Griffin Russo looked like but could only recall a knobbly-kneed boy with a perpetually damp nose. I hoped that the latter at least had been rectified in the intervening years.
‘He was murdered, you know,’ said Betty Rawlings, Karen’s mother, who was sitting solidly in one of the only two chairs that remained unstacked. Beside her Grace June Rae nodded agreement.
This got everybody’s attention, even Elsa Poxleitner, who was still protesting her heterosexuality. I frowned. ‘I thought he fell off his horse. Who would have killed him?’
Betty glanced towards the door, as if the murderer might be listening. ‘Some other bloke. I suppose the one that came over with him, from wherever they came. Everyone knew. Two men go for a ride, only one comes back. You do the maths.’
‘I hate maths,’ said Lyn Russo. ‘Nasty stuff. Never use it.’
I was still frowning. ‘But that doesn’t make it murder. It still could have been an accident. Besides, who told you this?’
‘My nan. She wasn’t the type to exaggerate.’ Betty paused to nod approvingly. She rose slowly to her feet. ‘Called a spade a spade, she did. She had it from her mother.’
‘Calling a spade a spade?’
‘No, the stuff about the murder.’
‘Can’t remember who I heard it from,’ mused Grace June Rae. She stared at the ceiling for a moment and then pointed a finger at me. ‘And that dog you said was the Caldwell one wasn’t. Took my sign down and threw it out, now I have to make another.’
I blinked. ‘Oh, sorry. It just sounded like –’
‘Doesn’t mean it is.’
‘Go on then, Mum,’ said Karen, putting her mother’s chair away. ‘Give us the gory details about this murder.’
‘I already told you. They went for ride and the Majic bloke got done. That’s it.’
‘Okay.’ Karen laughed. ‘God, you really made that come alive, didn’t you? Come on, I’ll give you a lift home.’
As if this was a cue, everybody began exchanging farewells and filing through the doorway. I put out my hand to stop Betty Rawlings as she passed. ‘Do you know if this story had any evidence, any witnesses? I mean, why did people think it wasn’t an accident?’
‘I’m not altogether sure, love. All’s I know is that my grandmother used to say it was over a woman. I didn’t take much notice. If you’re interested, though, I can ring my cousin Bernie; she’s got a memory like a steel trap. She might remember more of what our nan was on about. I’ll let you know.’
‘Thanks.’ I watched her stocky figure make its way up the aisle, past Sharon who was putting away the A-frame board. I thought of Mate Dragovic, coming all the way from the Ukraine with Petar Majic, jumping ship, prospecting for gold, striking it rich. And then finally, maybe, murdering his best friend. A man betrayed, a mate who wasn’t, a woman who had disappeared. Beloved indeed.
*
Three hours later and I was still thinking about Mate Dragovic, but now I was sitting at my kitchen bench and dressed in tartan pyjamas. The story, with its intrigue and romance and potential betrayal, had captured my imagination. But I was also being a little pragmatic, as these elements meant it was shaping up as fodder for an excellent column and, moreover, one that I could use to spruik the upcoming celebrations, thus fulfilling my duties both as columnist and useful citizen.
I had reclaimed Abracadabra from Quinn, who was watching anime cartoons on her computer, and now had it propped open at the photo of Petar and Mate, paying a little more attention to the latter on this occasion. It was difficult to tell with their square, bulky suits, but he looked a little slimmer than his friend, less muscular. His skin was also lighter, as was his hair, which made the dark eyebrows seem like brushstrokes across the photo. Beneath these brows, his eyes were pewter marbles, meeting mine with an intensity that made it hard to believe he had been dead for about a hundred and fifty years.
I got up to make myself another coffee and then returned to the bar stool, swinging idly as I pictured the fatal scene. The two men arguing over Beloved and then leaping astride their horses to ride furiously through the bush, scrubby grasses whipping their legs, hooves thudding against the dusty earth. Finally they come to a halt, sliding off to continue the argument as if it had never paused. The horses stand behind them, eyes wide with exhaustion, flanks shiny with sweat. Accusations are flung as the two men circle slowly, their jealousy given impetus by the fear – stomach-clenching, heart-stopping – that Beloved may choose the other. Moments later they close in, and moments after that one lies dead.
I met Mate’s eyes again and knew that this was not premeditated, that as soon as the deed was done he would have given anything to take it back. Even his own life. And in a way he had, banishing himself from all that was familiar. I got up to fetch the phone book from the dresser, flicking it open to check for Dragovics in the area. None. Did Beloved leave with him? Perhaps that was why she had also become a ghost, leaving only a word on a gravestone that was itself short-lived.
The phone rang just as I shut the phone book. I let it ring for a while, hoping Quinn would pick up the extension, but then finally plucked the handset from its cradle. It might be one of the girls. ‘Hello?’
‘Nell. How are you?’
I stilled, gripped the phone a little tighter. ‘Darcy.’
‘Guilty as charged.’ He paused, as if realising the inappropriateness of this last comment, and then went on with a rush. ‘I, um, need to talk to you. Is now a good time?’
‘As good as any.’
‘Well, what it is … look, I hope you don’t take this the wrong way. I mean, I think I’ve been pretty good about everything, and I know you’ve had the girls staying off and on, and of course Quinn’s there for another few years. I wouldn’t even be going down this path now if it weren’t for … circumstances. Beyond my control, you see.’
‘Darcy, what on earth are you talking about?’
‘The house. It’s about the house.’
My breath stilled in line with my body. ‘What about the house?’
‘I, um, think it’s time we talked about how we’re going to work this.’
He cleared his throat. ‘Move forward, you know.’
‘Are you talking about selling the house?’
‘Of course not. Well, not necessarily. After we get it valued, you could always buy me out. If that’s what you prefer.’
I gazed at my curled fingers, the knuckles ivory. ‘That would mean a hefty mortgage.’
‘You’d get a bigger share than me, naturally. Because of Quinn. So even with a mortgage, you’d have sizable equity.’
‘Oh, terrific. Love a bit of sizable equity. Quantity over quality I always say.’
There was silence for a moment and then Darcy sighed. I could see him as clearly as if he was sitting on the bar stool beside me, closing his eyes against my intransigence, taking a deep breath of patience. I even knew exactly what he would say next. Something like ‘Nell, there’s no need for sarcasm.’
‘Nell, there’s no need for sarcasm.’
Bingo. I transferred the phone to my other hand and flexed my fingers, almost welcoming the dull throb that surged down to the tips.
‘Did you really think that I could afford to just go on? With all my equity tied up there?’
‘No, of course not.’ But even as I answered, I knew that wasn’t the truth. ‘I suppose I thought that you’d have the decency to leave things as they are until your youngest daughter was through school. Given it was you,’ I swallowed the brittle bitterness of this last word, ‘it was you who shot through. You who swapped your family for a chunk of mutton dressed as lamb. You who left the fucking house in the first place.’
‘Mum?’
I looked up to see Quinn standing in the doorway, staring at me.
She took a step forward. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘Everything’s fine, really. Nothing to worry about.’ I mustered a smile as I slid off the stool. ‘But I’ll just take this conversation outside, okay? Back in a minute.’
‘Is that Dad on the phone?’
‘Back in a minute, okay?’ I gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze as I passed. Darcy had gone quiet and I hoped, for one vicious, self-indulgent moment, that he felt guilty. I shut the front door and walked down towards the car before lifting the phone again.
‘Was that Quinn? Is she all right? Is she still there?’
‘Yes. Yes. No.’
‘Don’t call Tessa names, she doesn’t deserve it. I expect better from you.’
‘Are you kidding me?’ Hot tears instantly burnt my eyes, blurring the line between anger and pain. ‘Are you kidding me?’
Silence stretched once more. ‘Can’t we at least be civil? Surely this isn’t the way you want to play it.’
‘I’m not the one who’s trying to sell up.’ I closed my eyes, willing the throbbing to ease.
‘I’m not trying to sell up. I’m trying to explore options. Trying to move forward.’
‘Yeah, you said that before.’
‘Look, there is an alternative.’ Darcy spoke slowly now, as if unsure whether to continue. ‘I suppose I could buy you out.’
I leant against the car. ‘And what? Live here with … her?’
‘Nell, don’t be like that. It might be the best thing, when you think of it.’
‘No.’ I spat the word. ‘Besides, I thought you were settled up there. Having a new start and all.’
‘We’re moving back. Closer to family.’
I stared past the car to the tangle of bushes that edged the road. ‘Closer to family. So what’s brought this on? Why the change?’
He was silent for a long time, his breathing punctuating the seconds as they slid past. ‘Tessa’s pregnant.’
‘Tessa’s pregnant,’ I repeated, but the words still didn’t make sense. And then they did.
‘I’m sorry, Nell. Really. It wasn’t planned. But you can see how she’d want to be close to her family at a time like this. And I miss the girls.’ He sighed to underline this last word, throw me a bone. ‘Although could you do me a favour? Could you not tell them yet? We’ll be there for the festival and I want to tell them then. Face to face. It’s only right. I’ll need to talk to you, too, about making things official. Um, you know, getting divorced.’
The words were like little missiles, each bruising as it made contact. I held the phone away, stared at it. Darcy’s voice was tinny now, but continual, a steady unending stream of explanation and rationalisation that I simply didn’t want to hear. I pressed end and the silence was blissful. Tessa was pregnant. At forty years of age. With her short skirts, snug tops and charitable cleavage exacerbated by a sway back, causing belly and boobs to sally forth like the prow of a ship. All of which my husband had felt compelled to christen in his own inimitable way.
I was now over it. That is, I would always be bitter because there was no doubt Darcy had done me a great wrong and it had hurt, massively, but I no longer felt trapped by what had been lost. No longer treading water, hoping he would realise his mistake and come back, begging for forgiveness. But just because I was no longer in that place, it didn’t mean I didn’t want him to be. My favourite fantasy featured Darcy, felled by the enormity of what he had tossed away, pleading with me for a second chance. Or a third, or fourth, or whatever it was. Like Sandy from Grease, but unfortunately without the skin-tight black number and the requisite body, I would raise one stiletto-shod foot and push him away.
This fantasy had been given impetus last Christmas, when news arrived that the fledgling relationship was on the rocks. Darcy even came for Christmas dinner, alone, and it had been so much like old times that I felt sure it was just a matter of time. I even nipped in the bud an unfolding relationship of my own with a detective from Bendigo, because the timing just didn’t seem right. Now it seemed that I wasn’t the only one whose timing was off. Tessa was pregnant. They were going to have a baby.
The phone rang again and I grabbed it up, sure that it was Darcy again, ringing to say that it had all been a mistake. ‘Hello?’
‘Nell, it’s Sam Emerson here. From the Historical Society.’ Sam’s voice came in rush, the words tripping over each other. ‘I’m there now, at Sheridan House, and boy do we have some news for you!’
‘You do?’
‘Absolutely! And I thought I should ring because, well, you and your daughter were the ones who set this in motion. Nell, this is huge. Huge!’
I tried to muster up some interest. ‘About Petar? Or Mate?’
‘About all of them. Including the woman who had the gravestone inscribed. And the Sheridans.’
‘The Sheridans. Of course.’
Sam paused, as if puzzled that his news was not being greeted with more enthusiasm. ‘Perhaps this is a bad time. Are you free tomorrow? Can you pop down? How about the morning?’
‘You can’t just tell me?’
‘No. I want to see your face. I’ll show you the photo and we’ll see if you can work it out. It was right in front of us, Nell, can you believe it?’
‘At least give me a clue.’
Sam chuckled. ‘Well, let’s see. How about the fact that the woman never left Majic at all? That she lived here for the rest of her life.’
‘So she didn’t run off with Mate?’
‘No, and that’s part of what we discovered. See, it would have been highly unlikely for her to have run off with Mate.’ He chuckled again, as if the idea was somehow amusing. ‘Highly unlikely indeed.’
I smiled, despite myself. ‘Then I look forward to hearing the rest tomorrow. And thanks.’
‘No, thank you. If it weren’t for you and Quinn, we wouldn’t have started down this path. I can’t believe we never did! What negligence! What complacency! We should be hung, drawn and quartered!’
‘Oh, I think there’re plenty who deserve that more than you, Sam. See you tomorrow.’ I hung up, lowering the phone to my side. It was difficult to invest in someone else’s tragic romance when my own was about to bear fruit. In seven or eight months. I turned to gaze towards the house, tracking my eyes from the russet roof tiles to the deep eaves shading coffee-c
oloured tumbled brick. The massive fir by the chimney, which we had planted the first weekend we moved in, the red bottlebrush that delivered at least one bee sting every year, the pressed concrete driveway that he had wanted and I hadn’t, and about which I’d been right, with its edges already crumbling into the garden beds.
My chest felt heavy yet hollow. Twenty-six years of memories crammed into one quarter-acre block. Wonderful images, tumbling with vibrancy and warmth. And about one thing I was sure: he might get the divorce and the new life and the new partner and the new baby, but the memories, and the house, were staying put.
Chapter Four
You seem to have the uncanny ability to write about exactly what is going on in my life. It’s a little scary, to be honest. I find myself saying ‘yes, yes, YES!’ while reading the column, and I probably sound like Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally. No wonder the neighbours keep giving me odd looks.
I dropped Quinn off at school in the morning and headed into town with the intention of grabbing some groceries and then catching up with Sam Emerson before returning home for the rest of the day to knock off a new column. However, Quinn’s insistence on arriving with ample locker time, and the lack of queues at the supermarket, meant that I found myself parking at Sheridan House at eight-forty am. The car park was as deserted as the supermarket, but within minutes an old but beautifully restored Ford Falcon pulled in. Willy Akermann emerged so I joined him as he strode towards the centre.
‘Nice car.’
‘It’s Leisl’s pride and joy. And what a pleasant surprise to see you here again. Two days in a row! Unless …’ He slowed to stare at me. ‘Nothing wrong is there?’
For an oddly malleable second, I was tempted to take this question literally. Which would be like opening Pandora’s box, only with more profanity. I swallowed, fixed a smile on my face. ‘No, nothing wrong. I’m meeting Sam Emerson but I’m a bit early.’