He’d been in Melbourne for five years when his father drowned. He’d had no intention of returning to Queenscliff and his mother hadn’t asked him to, at least not in words. When it became clear that she wasn’t coping, he’d told himself that he need only come back for a few months, to see her on her feet again.
‘The sea took him,’ his mother used to say. She never said drowned; always ‘the sea took him’. She lived with her back resolutely turned towards it, but refused to sell the house and move. Chris hatched plans, applied for country stations, cajoled, persuaded and demanded, all to no avail. Fiona Blackie had possessed the intense stubbornness of the weak.
No body had been found; no grave to tend. Instead, this huge and terrifying ocean. His mother had not been religious, not in any way that Chris considered normal. Yet her duty of keeping vigil had been carried out with a dedication that was almost mystical.
All of which brought him more or less here, to his own avoidances and fears, to the flat, marshy expanse of Swan Bay, weeds that could hold a body down, if, that is, a body happened to be silly enough to venture into it.
Chris knew he never would. He’d never had that kind of recklessness, even as a child. When he’d fought with other boys it had been because he had no choice. Yet here he was, contemplating the ignominy of such an end, compared to that of his father, who’d died a hero’s death.
Chris followed the shoreline, keeping his eyes down. At low tide, mud and rotting seagrass formed a kind of path. Water birds were feeding way out on the horizon. If he kept going, he would pass below Anthea’s flat, where the land rose creating a mix between a sand dune and a crumbling cliff. He thought of that other cliff, on the ocean side, bordered by sandhills where he’d found Margaret Benton’s coat, and the path to the lighthouse, where Camilla had seen the murdered woman, and had heard her scream.
As a boy, long, solitary after-school explorations had taken Chris to the town’s boundaries and around them time and time again. Once he’d found a tiger snake’s skin and taken it home. His mother had refused to let him keep it in the house. Only hunger dragged him back from these expeditions, knowing the exact form of his mother’s reproach, reciting the words now with a bitterness that made him shake.
His father’s shift work had meant that he was often out in the evenings. Chris walked on, the exact taste in his mouth of how he’d dreaded going home, and how his hunger always got the better of him.
He kept on walking, overcoming a hurdle, notching up a success that no one would ever know about besides himself. The flat bay, the stink of rotting weeds, made his stomach turn. He could see no beauty in it anywhere.
He rounded a pile of broken rocks and came face to face with Ben, wearing a parka with the hood pulled up. As soon as the boy spotted Chris, he whistled loudly. A collie came running, and Ben put him on the lead.
‘About that fight over the barbecues, Ben,’ Chris said without preamble, ‘was anybody else involved?’
Ben fiddled with his collie’s lead in order to avoid looking up. ‘You mean, like other campers?’ he asked in a voice that was barely audible.
‘Anyone at all.’
‘Well, like, there were these guys and they both reckoned they got there first.’
Chris nodded, and took Ben quietly through the details before repeating his question. ‘Anybody else?’
‘The others just wanted to stay out of it.’
‘What about Mrs Benton? What was she doing at the time?’
‘Mrs - ?’ Ben repeated, but seemed unable to get his tongue around the name. He scratched his head. Chris waited. Finally, the boy said, ‘She tried to stop her husband from losing his temper. But it was too late.’
‘Did you see where Mrs Benton went after your father sorted out the argument?’
‘She left. With her husband.’
‘Straight away? They’d have to pack. And what about their evening meal?’
‘I dunno. I - I did see her talking to someone later on that night.’
‘Another woman? Do you know her name?’
Ben shook his head.
‘Do you have any idea what they were talking about?’
‘You mean like, was I listening?’
‘I thought, if Mrs Benton was upset, she might have - ’
‘I don’t reckon she was that upset. She didn’t show it anyway.’
‘Where were the two women when you saw them talking?’
‘Mrs Benton went back to her cabin, then later on I saw this other lady going in.’
‘Thanks Ben,’ Chris said. ‘You’ve been helpful.’
‘Is that all?’
‘For the time being.’
‘You haven’t found that camel?’
‘No.’
Penny invited Chris to take a seat in the office. In answer to his inquiry, she looked annoyed, but did as he asked and took down the big reservations folder.
The argument over the barbecues had taken place on a Wednesday. The Bentons had booked till the following Saturday, but had left on the Thursday morning.
‘How did they pay?’ Chris asked.
‘By credit card.’
‘In advance?’
‘Yes. Everyone has to pay in advance at that time of year.’
‘Did they ask for a refund?’
‘I don’t think I was in the office when they dropped their key off. They may have asked Alex. There’s nothing written here. I’m sure he wouldn’t have given it to them.’
‘Ben told me he saw Margaret Benton talking to another guest the night her husband got into a row. Do you know who that might have been?’
Penny pursed her lips then said, ‘It might have been Mrs Desmain.’
When Chris asked for Mrs Desmain’s contact details, Penny swung the book around and he copied them.
‘Did he kill her, that husband of hers?’
‘I don’t know,’ Chris said. ‘What was Margaret Benton like?’
‘I never had anything to do with her. Well, apart from once when she came to ask me about the washing machines.’
‘I know it was your busiest time.’
‘Run off my feet. And thank goodness for it, because look at this.’
‘It’ll pick up, Penny. Don’t worry. Did you see Margaret Benton talking to other campers, other guests?’
‘I know you’re trying to build up a background, but - ’
‘But what?’
‘Well, they came from Swan Hill. They went back there, didn’t they? That’s where she was killed.’
Chris did not attempt to respond to this. When he asked Penny if she’d seen the couple leave, Penny shook her head.
‘Don’t be too hard on Ben,’ she said.
‘What’s Ben done?’
Penny said firmly, ‘Nothing wrong, so far as I know.’
Chris gave her a searching look. When it was clear she wasn’t prepared to say anything more, he thanked her and wished her good afternoon.
Chris phoned Mrs Desmain from the station, feeling lucky that she seemed willing to talk. She’d only met Margaret Benton at the caravan park, hadn’t known her before, and they hadn’t spent much time together, just half an hour or so in the laundry one morning.
‘She didn’t have the right change, and I was able to help her out.’
‘What sort of washing did Mrs Benton have?’
‘Well, the usual things. There was one thing I noticed. A yellow cardigan. Nice, it was. I said the machine might be a bit hard on it.’
‘What happened on the Wednesday night?’
‘We were having a barbecue tea. I’ve got two little kiddies and my youngest - he’s only seven, but his father was showing him how to cook the sausages. I guess you’ve heard about the argument - that’s why you’re ringing me?’
Chris said that he had.
Mrs Desmain’s account tallied with what the McIntyres had said.
‘What did Mrs Benton do when the argument broke out?’ Chris asked.
‘She tried to ca
lm her husband down, but she wasn’t having much success. Then Alex came over and had a go at him.’
‘Did you see where Mrs Benton went?’
‘Not then, I didn’t. We finished our tea, and my husband took the boys to the games room while I did a bit of cleaning up. Then, when I was on my way back, Margaret came to the door of her cabin. I could see that she’d been crying. I went inside and we talked for a few minutes. I asked if there was anything I could do, but she said there wasn’t. She said they’d have to leave in the morning.’
‘Did you see any signs that Jack Benton might be violent towards his wife?’
‘Beat her up, you mean?’
‘I’m not making suggestions, Mrs. Desmain. I’d just like you to cast your mind back and tell me what you remember.’
‘I was upset when I heard she’d gone missing, and then when her body was found - I mean, it wasn’t as though we were friends or anything, but I felt upset. I never saw any signs of violence. Maybe she was the sort of person who hates a fuss. That husband of hers was the opposite. The more noise he made the happier he was. I do remember her saying to me that they wouldn’t get in anywhere else without a booking. Not over the Christmas break.’
‘Did you see Mrs Benton again?’
‘No, I didn’t. It was a lovely day the next day. The weather hadn’t been too good, but that morning was lovely. We got up early and took the boys to the beach. I remember looking over to the Benton’s cabin, and that big car of theirs was gone.’
‘Did any of the other campers talk about the argument?’
‘Not to me. Well, we weren’t the Bentons’ neighbours. Maybe they talked about it. And they were a lot older than we were. We tended to mix more with other parents of young kids. The Bentons had never had children.’
‘Did Mrs Benton tell you that?’
‘It was when we were in the laundry. There was a little girl there with her mother. About the same age as my Josh. I could tell by the way Margaret looked at her that she had no kids of her own. And then she said how lucky I was to have Josh and Nathan. I must say, I felt a bit taken aback because I hadn’t realised she’d noticed. They weren’t in the laundry with me.’
‘She knew their names?’
‘Oh, no. “Two great kids”, she said.’
SIXTEEN
Anthea spent Sunday morning cleaning her already spotless flat.
She looked across at her neighbour’s garden. The weatherboard walls, painted white, were thick with vines, as was the fence that separated his cottage from the units. A man was living in the cottage on his own. At least she’d only seen a single man, sturdily built, with a self-sufficient air.
The cottage was tiny. Anthea couldn’t imagine that it contained more than three rooms, at the most. The pear and apple trees were in flower, or trees that she guessed were pear and apple. The plain concrete surrounds of the units were easy to keep clean and involved practically no maintenance. Anthea found herself regretting that the fruit blossoms did not blow her way.
With the last of her boxes unpacked, her rooms looked spartan, as though something was missing. Not something, but someone, thought Anthea. Other tenants had pot plants on their balconies. She could buy a pot plant. She could buy twenty pot plants. Tears came to her eyes.
Her neighbours in the units were quiet and hadn’t bothered to make her acquaintance. Anthea missed her boxes, missed staring past them to the view outside. As long as they’d remained, they were a testimony to her hope that her stay in Queenscliff would be temporary.
Graeme’s absence hit her doubly. It would have been better if he’d never come. He blamed her for ruining the one weekend he’d set aside for her. In any approach she made from now on, she would have to deal with that. Yet whatever else happened, she knew that she was not prepared, ever again, to accept the way that Graeme brushed aside her working life.
Anthea crossed the road and stood looking out over the seagrass meadows. They were golden-green, with the faintest of blue washes over them, the water darker in the channel, where the tide was coming in. Once she’d tried walking along the edge of the seagrass, and had been startled by the way her feet sank into it, how the mud squelched up and covered her shoes.
She spotted the Bar-tailed Godwits. After she’d first noticed the thin, delicately shaped birds, she’d looked them up on a tourist guide listing features of Swan Bay. The name had amused her and she’d thought it might amuse Graeme as well. ‘Godwit’, and then to cap it off, ‘Bar-tailed’. She had thought she might invest in a pair of binoculars. She had gone so far - the foolishness of it gripped her - to imagine Graeme with his eyes fixed to binoculars, remarking, ‘Look at that!’
The small migratory waders would not fulfil their function as providers of amusement, and were suddenly dear to her because of this.
Anthea had stocked up so well in anticipation of Graeme’s visit that she wouldn’t need to do any grocery shopping for the next two weeks. She made herself some lunch, choosing from amongst her delicacies those that would go off soonest. Then she checked the Geelong hospital’s visiting hours and decided she would pay Camilla a visit.
Anthea felt no particular emotion on entering a hospital. The smell caused her heart to beat faster, but she supposed that this was true for many people. She’d stopped at a roadside stall and bought some flowers. She buried her face in them for a moment before making her way to an inquiry counter.
Camilla was sitting up in bed, looking uncomfortable, her broken leg covered by a green cotton blanket. She smiled when she recognised Anthea, and pointed to a shelf above the bed, which held an empty vase. Then she touched her mouth lightly with the fingers of her right hand, and shook her head apologetically.
Anthea found a tap and filled the vase with water, no longer nervous that she’d have nothing to say to a woman who could not reply. She wished she’d thought to drive by Camilla’s house on the way, so she could assure her that all looked to be in order.
Camilla took up a notepad and pen.
‘Have you found Riza?’
‘No,’ said Anthea, ‘unfortunately.’
‘How is Julie?’ was Camilla’s next question.
‘Not so good.’
Camilla nodded - a small, economical gesture. She’d had her hair cut. It was neat and fitted her head like a silver-grey cap.
‘Can I get you anything?’
Camilla indicated a drinking glass and jug of water on top of a chest of drawers. Anthea half filled the glass and, while Camilla drank, moved the chest so that it was closer to the bed.
‘Where were you going when you fell and broke your leg?’ she asked.
‘To Riza’s paddock.’
‘What were you going to do there?’
‘Watch.’
‘In the middle of the night?’
‘Riza was stolen in the middle of the night.’
‘How do you know?’
Camilla shook her head and looked confused.
‘Did you see anyone?’ asked Anthea
Camilla shook her head again.
She hated being trapped in hospital, she wrote. She had to get away.
Anthea frowned. Camilla tried to make her expression reasonable and to focus on the young policewoman’s questions. Another drawing. That might be better than words.
Camilla drew the lighthouse with fog swirling around it. She drew herself in the bottom corner of the page, remembering a summer morning and a woman’s cry. She pencilled in a figure in a black coat, with a blank, white face.
Anthea sat with her hands folded in her lap, knowing that she must be patient, schooling herself to it.
Camilla handed the sketch to Anthea, who studied it, then began asking questions, gently and carefully. It had been between Christmas and New Year, Camilla wrote, one of those summer fogs that descended without warning. She hadn’t followed the woman, or seen where she’d gone. She’d stayed by the lighthouse for a while, and then turned for home. She was sorry. She knew she should have gone to th
e police.
Having done her best to apologise, Camilla leant back and closed her eyes.
Anthea reached out and gave her hand a squeeze. She said she had to go, but she’d be back to visit later.
Anthea stopped by the nurse’s station on her way out to mention the chest of drawers and ask that water be left within the patient’s reach. The nurse on duty eyed her grumpily and blamed the cleaners.
On her way back to Queenscliff, Anthea hummed a song from Priscilla, Queen of the Desert and smiled to herself, reflecting on how little it took to give a person the illusion of travelling towards a brighter future. She’d left Chris a voicemail message, wondering how he was spending his Sunday. Working in the garden would be her guess.
Anthea’s phone rang when she was nearly home and she pulled off the road to answer it. Chris was pleased that she’d been to see Camilla, and agreed that it had probably been Margaret Benton on the cliff path. When Anthea offered to bring the drawing over straight away, he said there was no need for that. Tomorrow would be fine.
Anthea had a bad moment, opening the door. Her clean flat, which should have made her feel a certain pride - at least she wasn’t living in a slum like Julie Beshervase - was loud in its emptiness. The silence hurt her ears.
Exhausted but unable to sleep, Camilla replayed sequences in her mind.
Her night-time walk to Riza’s paddock returned as though every move she had made was magnified.
A rustle in the undergrowth could have been a bandicoot, but was more likely to have been made by a bird. Frogs called from the dam. A yellow glow behind the hill came from the farmhouse. The surf, always louder in the dark, had filled Camilla with a wild gladness, as though Riza had been found and was safe and well.
Through a Camel's Eye Page 8