She recognised lots of the photos. Sebastian was famous for raiding cupboards and photo albums on visits home and taking whatever he wanted. He said it was because he was the product of a broken home, that he was psychologically disturbed and in constant need of reassurance and familiar objects around him.
He amazed her, how matter-of-fact, even jokey, he was about it. She remembered the time of the divorce with only a tight feeling in her chest. She’d known of course that her parents weren’t happy together. There’d been no way of not knowing. Creative people like her parents had found creative ways to abuse and insult one another.
There were several photos of the two of them, though none together. The ones of her father looked recent. She looked at them closely. She hadn’t seen him in the flesh since she was eight years old.
Her idea of him had constantly changed since that time, influenced by whatever she was reading or watching. As a child, she’d thought of him as an Uncle Quentin-type distracted scientist character from the Famous Five books. The missing Mr March from Little Women. The absent father in The Railway Children.
The real Laurence Devereaux had an oval-shaped face, grey curly hair and enquiring eyes. Sebastian was very like him. Sylvie had often been told how like Sebastian she was.
Which meant she was like her father too.
4
By the end of the first week of her trial run, Sylvie had learned one new thing about herself.
She was no good at relaxing.
She’d walked into the city centre every day, via the Botanic Gardens, taking a different path each time to get to know her way around. She’d contacted five real estate agents to get an idea about current rents in nearby suburbs. She’d rung three temp agencies, emailed her CV and Sydney references to them all, done face-to-face interviews with two, a phone interview with the other one and was now on call for work with all three.
She’d asked herself a hundred questions and had a head full of possible answers. If I stayed here permanently, which suburb would I live in? What work would I do? Would I make any friends? Where would I eat out? Where would I stop for coffee after work? Where would I have long Sunday breakfasts? Where would I shop? Go dancing? See films? Underneath all of them was one big question: Would I be the same person I am in Sydney?
Sebastian rang to see how she was getting on. He was on location in an old country mansion halfway between Melbourne and Adelaide, working on a period drama. He was appalled when she told him what she’d been doing.
‘What happened to the holiday? You’re there to take some time out too, remember, not launch yourself on a full-scale reconnaissance mission.’
‘It’s a trial run. I’m trial running.’
‘You’re like an athlete on steroids. Slow down, would you? You have to have a gap in your life if you want something new to come in. Have you read a book? Watched a film? Listened to some calming music?’
‘I haven’t had time.’
He laughed. ‘Then make time. And will you promise me something?’
‘Depends.’
‘Be home tomorrow between noon and one.’
‘Why?’
‘Just promise.’
She did as she was told. She got up early the next day, went to the shops down the road and bought all the ingredients for a leisurely holiday-type breakfast: fresh orange juice, warm croissants, ripe peaches and two newspapers. She read them from front to back. She took out the folder Sebastian had left for her, labelled Possible Leisure Activities and Cultural Pursuits for Sylvie in my Absence. There were theatre programs, cinema schedules, opening times for the nearby swimming pool, library, gym and video store, all with Post-it notes and comments attached. She made a list of things she’d like to see.
Tucked underneath them all, she found an old-fashioned luggage label. ‘Pin this to your clothes every time you go out’, he’d written on another Post-it note. The label read: My name is Sylvie. I live on Marne Street, South Yarra. I am lost. Please look after me. She grinned as she attached it to her red denim jacket, feeling like Paddington Bear.
By eleven o’clock she was fidgety. At work by this time, she would have made twenty phone calls, sent thirty emails, filled a dozen orders and probably booked her mother or sisters into either a restaurant, a beautician or their latest fad, Club Dance, a mid-morning exercise class in a nearby nightclub. Sylvie had read the brochure as she booked her sisters in for a six-week course. For a small fortune, they were being promised new levels of fat-burning and mood-lifting. When Sylvie wondered out loud if this was just a clever way of using the club during daylight hours, she’d been subjected to eye-rolling and accusations of being so pedestrian.
Maybe there was something to it. She was on her own, in Melbourne, it was light outside and she was sober, but too bad. She found a Best of the 80s CD in Sebastian’s large collection. From what she’d seen, all her neighbours left for work early, so she hoped for no complaints. She pushed back the furniture in the living room, turned the music up loud and danced to Dexy’s Midnight Runners’ ‘Geno’ and Spandau Ballet’s ‘Gold’. Midway through a Duran Duran song, the polished floorboards gave her an idea. She took off her sneakers and started sliding from room to room in her sock-covered feet. She changed CDs, finding Ravel’s ‘Bolero’ and turning that up full blast as well. She did both Torvill and Dean’s actions, making herself laugh. She and Sebastian had loved floor-skating as children, until Fidelma laid carpet in the hallway and main rooms. The dust coming up through the floorboards made her sneeze, she’d said.
Sylvie hadn’t heard from her mother since leaving Sydney. She’d almost rung her four times. Each time she’d stopped. Fidelma was probably still at her coastal retreat. With Ray. Painting. Meeting her dealer. There was the shimmer of hurt that her mother hadn’t rung to see how she was getting on, but it was a feeling she’d become used to over the years. It wasn’t malice on Fidelma’s part, as Sebastian had pointed out. It was absentmindedness. It still hurt.
As she slid to a halt near the answering machine in the hall, the light was flashing. Two messages. She hadn’t heard the phone ring over the music. She pressed the button.
‘Great-Aunt Mill calling, Sylvie. I’ve had a marvellous idea. Would you please start keeping a note of some handy household hints for me? All tried and tested. I’m getting forgetful so I think the best thing is to tell you when I think of them. Carla next door says I should buy one of those Dictaphone gadgets but I thought, no, that’s silly. I can tell you and you’re young and you’ll remember for me. Denture-cleaning tablets are ideal for bleaching white table linen. So simple, isn’t it? Thank you, Sylvie. No need to call back.’
The second message was from her sister Cleo. Her voice filled the hallway.
‘Hi, Seb. Hi, Sylvie. Hope Melbourne’s good. Sylvie, I can’t find that dry-cleaning anywhere. We’re back in Sydney for an opening night and I need my blue dress. Where did you put it?’
Sylvie hadn’t put it anywhere. In the flurry of packing and getting ready to leave, she’d forgotten to get it. Oh, bloody hell. She could call a courier and ask them to collect it and drop it around to Cleo. They should be able to give it to her without the docket. She’d ring them first and —
She stopped. Or she could ring Cleo back and tell her she was sorry, she’d forgotten, but perhaps Cleo could collect her own dry-cleaning.
She dialled the number before she lost her nerve. She could almost hear her heart beating. Voicemail, please, voicemail. Her plea was answered. ‘Cleo, it’s Sylvie.’ Her voice was croaky. She gave a little cough. ‘Hi, all’s great here. Sebastian’s apartment is beautiful. The weather’s good. Um, your dry-cleaning —’ About to back down and say she’d organise it from there, she had a vision of Sebastian frowning at her, mouthing, ‘Don’t let them bully you. Stand up for yourself.’ She stood up straight. ‘I’m sorry, but unfortunately I didn’t get time to collect it. The docket’s in the in-tray on the desk in the studio. Hope your holiday’s going well. See you.’
>
She had to stop herself phoning back and apologising again. She went out for a walk around the block, away from the temptation. When she got back fifteen minutes later, there was another message.
She pressed the button. Cleo, again. ‘Hi, Sylvie. Thanks for letting me know about the dry-cleaning. What a complete bloody pain in the backside. We’re only in town for a few hours and I haven’t got time to visit the dry-cleaners. I thought I could trust you to do that before you left.’ A sigh. ‘All right, look, don’t worry about it, I’ll do it myself. See you.’
Any mood-lifting the dancing had done was wiped out.
At exactly noon, the doorbell sounded. A tall, thin, red-haired woman about her own age was at the front door, dressed in a strappy top, skinny jeans and heels. Sylvie barely had time to say hello before the other woman started talking.
‘Sylvie? Of course you’re Sylvie, who else? I’m Leila, Seb’s neighbour across the courtyard.’ She glanced down and her lips twitched. ‘I like the name tag. Has it come in handy?’
Sebastian’s label was still pinned to Sylvie’s jacket. She hurriedly unpinned it, realising she’d also been for a walk around the block wearing it. ‘It’s a joke, I promise. Seb’s idea of a joke, at least.’
‘What’s got into him lately? I spent a day last week with a Post-it note saying “I’m a monkey, give me a banana” on my back. He thought it was hilarious.’
‘I’m so sorry. We thought the electric shock treatment was working.’
Leila smiled again, a dimple appearing in her cheek. ‘Time to up the voltage, I think.’ She took an envelope out of her bag. ‘He asked me to drop this in to you today.’
Sylvie glanced at it, front and back. No clues there. ‘Thanks very much.’
‘Seb says you’re down for a few weeks or maybe longer, is that right? Fancy a drink or something some night?’
‘I’d love that, thanks.’ Leila reminded Sylvie of someone. Pippi Longstocking, she realised, one of her favourite childhood book characters. She warmed to her even more. ‘Would you like a coffee or something now?’
‘Normally, yes please. I live on coffee. But I’m running late for an audition.’ She pulled a face. ‘I’m up for a part in one of the soaps today, hence this charming outfit. Another time maybe?’
‘That’d be great, drop in any time. And good luck with the audition.’
‘I need it, believe me. See you!’ With a cheery wave, she was down the stairs and away.
Leila’s visit cancelled out the effect of Cleo’s phone message. Envelope in hand, Sylvie turned on the music again and went for a final slide around the apartment. As Talk Talk’s ‘It’s My Life’ came to an end, she arrived in the kitchen, took out a knife and carefully slit open the envelope.
Inside was a sheet of fax paper. On it, four lines in Sebastian’s handwriting. Not last-minute instructions about the house-sitting. Nor tips about good restaurants or cafés or job websites or house agencies.
Sylvie smiled. It was something even better.
By mid-afternoon, the kitchen table was littered with scraps of paper covered in scribbles. There was a pile of books on the floor. Sylvie was on the phone.
‘I can’t figure it out, Seb. You have to give me a clue.’
It had taken her an hour to get hold of him. It was a bad line. ‘Sorry, no can do, Miss Devereaux,’ he said, his voice breaking in and out. ‘It’s a treasure hunt, not a treasure-handed-to-you-on-a-plate.’
‘But I can’t decipher the riddle. And I’ve been through every book on your bookshelf.’ She’d opened every single one and there were no slips of paper to be found.
‘That’s cheating going straight to the books. You’re supposed to look when you’ve deciphered the title, not flick through willy-nilly.’
‘I was getting desperate. We can change the rules, can’t we?’
‘The rules are set in stone and shall be forever more. Apart from the fact I had to fax this starter clue down to Leila, but these were extraordinary circumstances. Anyway, who said anything about my bookshelf?’
‘Where else should I look for a book? In the fridge?’
‘Oh, you wit. There are other places for books, you know.’
‘Libraries, you mean? You want me to go to the library?’
He lapsed into a Scottish accent. ‘Och, pet, there are other places than libraries.’
Scottish. When had she heard a Scottish accent recently? Donald in the bookshop. ‘The bookshop? Do you mean your friend’s bookshop?’
‘Is that the time? Got to go, Sylvie.’ He hung up.
She pulled on her sneakers, picked up her bag and jacket and set off. The area already seemed familiar. Quiet roads lined with elegant stone houses beside modern apartments, all leading to the long shopping street. The sky was blue, but there was an autumn crispness to the air and a few brown leaves crunching underfoot.
As she walked, she thought back to the first of Sebastian’s treasure hunts, a present for her eighth birthday. She remembered it so clearly, the one lovely thing in a time of turmoil. For the months beforehand, the mood in the family house had been an unhappy one. Her parents always seemed to be fighting. Odd things started happening. Sylvie’s favourite painting of a small boat, an inheritance from Fidelma’s grandmother, disappeared off the living room wall. So did the gold lamp in the hallway. Her father started staying out all night, coming home as Sylvie was on her way to school. He left one night with a suitcase. That time he didn’t come back for a week. Her mother was either crying or angry all the time. She stayed in bed or sat on the back verandah. She rarely went into the studio. If she did, her paintings were angry splashes of colour, dark lines, fierce shapes.
Sylvie’s birthday arrived. There was the present of a jigsaw puzzle, unwrapped, but no party and no cake. Her mother told her she was sorry, but she couldn’t manage it. Vanessa and Cleo were otherwise occupied. Already a tight duo, they spent most of their time in their shared bedroom talking make-up and fashion, or out with their friends. There was no point asking them to help her make a birthday cake. Sebastian returned home late that night from an interstate theatre camp. He noticed there were no party leftovers. She heard him go in to their mother, heard raised voices. ‘She’s only a little kid. Couldn’t you have done something special for her?’ She didn’t hear her mother’s reply.
The next day Sylvie woke to find an envelope with her name on it at the end of her bed. A sheet of paper was inside. She opened it. It was Sebastian’s writing.
A chair that grows wings?
Lands of pixies and elves?
If you want the next clue,
Better Look on the shelves!
It took her nearly an hour to figure it out. Sebastian wouldn’t help. ‘It’s a treasure hunt, Sylvie. You have to work it out.’ She eventually realised what it meant. A chair with wings. The wishing chair. It was the name of one of her favourite Enid Blyton books. She found it on her bookshelf. She looked at the front cover, on the back. No clues there. She flicked through the pages. There, tucked in the middle, was another slip of paper. On it, two sentences of jumbled words:
og ot het ozo. Kool ta eth gritse.
It took her an hour to figure them out, too. ‘Go to the zoo? Look at the tigers?’ she asked Sebastian. ‘Is that what it says?’
‘If that’s what it says, then we’d better do it. Come on.’
They caught the ferry across the harbour and then a bus to the top of the hill. At the zoo, in front of the tigers’ enclosure, he gave her another slip of paper. It told her to go to the café. They had chips and an ice-cream, as directed. Another slip of paper. To the harbour for another ferry ride, to Manly this time. Another slip of paper. To a bookshop. There behind the counter was a parcel with her name on it. Five Enid Blyton books. It was the best birthday of her life.
Until they got home that night and heard the news. Their parents were getting divorced.
Things grew worse. She heard her mother talking to her friends in her studio, using
words she didn’t understand. Division of assets. Maintenance payments. Custody battles. As a child, she’d thought they were saying custardy. Fighting over custard? Why would they do that? Sebastian explained it to her. The family was going to be divided up.
The idea terrified her. ‘I want to be with you, Sebbie. Wherever you are.’
‘Sylvie, it won’t be up to me.’
‘Please, Seb. Please let me go with you.’
She was taken into an office, a room with a high ceiling and five red chairs. A woman behind a desk asked her in a kind voice where she would like to live. She didn’t have to think twice. ‘I want to be with my brother.’
‘And if your brother was living with your father?’
‘I want to be with my brother.’
In the end it didn’t matter what she said. The judge decided. Sebastian was going to live with his father in Melbourne. Laurence Devereaux had been appointed to a position in the English department at Melbourne University. Fidelma was given custody of her three daughters, Vanessa, Cleo and Sylvie Devereaux. Case closed.
The day at the courtroom was the last time she’d seen her father. He’d come over to her and leaned down as if he was about to speak. Sylvie’s mother took the top of her arm in a tight hold and pulled her away. There had been a bruise there the next day.
Sylvie reached Donald’s bookshop, nestled between a French bakery and a wine shop. The front windows featured beautifully displayed books and posters. An old-fashioned bell sounded as she pushed open the glass door.
Without Sebastian sweeping her along beside him, she had more time to look around the shop. Pale wood shelves, a skylight, the walls painted calm colours, each section clearly marked: fiction, non-fiction, Australian, new releases, poetry, classics. Two tables at the front of the shop featured staff picks, recently reviewed titles and special promotion titles. To the side was a children’s section divided not into fiction or non-fiction but into subjects: cats, dogs, trains, trucks. Classical music played softly. The whole shop smelt of coffee. Towards the back was a small café with three tables, armchairs and a compact coffee-making machine, the shelf above it lined with colourful cups and large glass jars filled with biscuits. There were half a dozen customers browsing the shelves and book tables.
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