The Making of Christina

by Meredith Jaffe

  Christina so wished Bianca were still small enough to curl up on her lap. Days when her head nestled in the curve of Christina’s shoulder and her little heels bumped against Christina’s shins. But apart from three nights ago, when the truth was raw, Bianca had avoided any physical contact. Christina had tried. At first to embrace her, later an offer to brush her hair, and it ripped her from gullet to jugular that Bianca shrank from her touch.

  ‘When you were little, I always bought you one of these when you were . . .’ She trailed off. The right word for how Bianca was feeling eluded her. Miserable? Sick? All the choices were woefully inadequate. She whipped the lid off the white cardboard box.

  Bianca stared at the slab of vanilla slice. Her smile was so small it made Christina’s heart ache.

  She pushed the box across the desktop, ‘Why don’t you have some?’ Vanilla slice was hardly one of the five food groups but it was a start. That was all Christina wanted, to make a start.

  Bianca picked up a flake of fallen pastry, no bigger than her fingernail. Christina watched her flick the icing sugar off with the tip of her tongue and nibble at the sliver. When she was done, she dusted her hands along her pants and resumed staring out the window.

  That was it? There was a time her auburn-haired beauty would have demolished an entire vanilla slice in three bites. This wispy creature did not seem to have the energy. ‘Do you want to climb back into bed and I’ll make you a hot chocolate?’

  ‘I’m not sick, Mum,’ Bianca snapped.

  ‘I know, sweetheart. I can’t . . .’ Christina raised her hands, helpless, let them fall to her side. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Outside, soccer players ran up and down the field. Valley View pressed its advantage against the visitors in black and gold. As the ball hit the back of the net, the crowd rose as one in a frenzied cheering. Christine yearned to be in their midst, lost in the spirit of school sports, houses and points. Instead, she studied the curve of Bianca’s spine.

  ‘I met with DS Rushmore yesterday,’ she said.

  Bianca remained silent.

  It was a loaded question but she had to ask. ‘Did you like her?’

  ‘Yeah, she’s nice.’

  ‘Oh.’ That made sense. Anne Rushmore would be kind to Bianca – supportive, informative, someone to rely upon. After all, Bianca had done nothing wrong. ‘She really wants to help you but her hands are tied until you make a decision.’

  A storm started blowing in off the mountains, bending the row of poplars surrounding the oval sideways and turning the spectators’ umbrellas inside out.

  ‘It wasn’t s’posed to happen like this,’ Bianca whispered.

  Christina held her breath.

  ‘All I wanted to do was finish school and go away to uni. I never meant to tell anyone.’

  The horror welled in her mouth.

  ‘I’ve ruined it for everyone.’ Bianca buried her face in her sleeve.

  ‘No, sweetheart, you’re wrong. You haven’t ruined anything.’ Christina laid her hand on Bianca’s shoulder but when she flinched, Christina let it drop to her side.

  ‘There’s no point lying, Mum.’

  ‘I’m not lying.’

  Bianca’s head shot up. Anger had turned her eyes dark. ‘You love Bartholomews Run, the whole lady of the manor thing.’

  ‘That’s unfair, Bee. I’ve worked my guts out to make a beautiful home for our family to share.’ Her choice of words was tactless but before she could restate their lives in more accurate terms, Bianca attacked again.

  ‘Remember when Jackson bought the Rolls Royce?’

  Christina rubbed her forehead, felt her headache returning.

  ‘Jackson put on that fake English accent and you sat there in the front seat waving like royalty, like you were somebody special.’

  ‘We were joking, Bianca.’ Only now, she agreed, it wasn’t funny. Christina took a deep breath. Was this the future of their relationship? Reinterpreting every little gesture and word in the search for meaning. Not hard to do really, given the truth had painted their lives at Bartholomews Run in a different hue. But Christina feared that going down this path would surely destroy them. She couldn’t bear that. ‘Please stop this, Bee. You’ve every right to be angry with me but I’m trying to help. Please just . . .’

  Bianca lunged at her, screaming. ‘Pretend it didn’t happen? Sorry for upsetting your perfect world, Mum.’ Hatred contorted her beautiful face. She drew her arms across her chest. ‘I wish I’d never told you.’

  Bianca’s misery struck Christina like a hand to the chest. She fell back a step but she would not walk away from Bianca knowing she was in so much pain – pain she could neither reach nor remedy. Walk away and she risked losing Bianca; a chunk carved out of her own body gone forever.

  ‘What he’s done to you is against the law. There are no ifs or buts about it. I understand that you don’t feel comfortable sharing the details with me . . .’

  ‘I can’t. It’s too disgusting,’ Bianca sobbed.

  A door slid closed in Christina’s mind as if she were hiding a tumbling pile of clothes in a hall closet. She would deal later with the images Bianca’s words threw at her. ‘You don’t have to press charges just because DS Rushmore says so.’

  The detective’s startling recitation of the facts made Christina think there was every reason not to. One in ten. The odds were not in their favour.

  After all Bianca had been through, formalising the charges opened up a whole other set of challenges. Christina believed Bianca had suffered enough. ‘We can leave. Find somewhere to live where no one knows us.’ The idea overtook her. If Bianca said yes, they could run away today before Jackson returned. A headstart would make all the difference.

  ‘No!’ Bianca’s whole body clenched. ‘My friends are here. This is my last year of school. I don’t want to start all over again. I don’t think I could do it.’

  Bianca’s rejection threw her. ‘But once people find out . . .’

  ‘Phoebe knows.’

  Christina flinched at the mention of Phoebe. She was torn between being angry at Phoebe for staying quiet and understanding her decision to respect Bianca’s confidences. She watched Bianca closely as she asked, ‘When did you tell her?’

  ‘A couple of weeks ago.’

  And Phoebe had told her she’d known all year. Bianca’s version seemed more likely.

  ‘I told her not to tell anyone,’ Bianca added.

  Christina pressed her fingertips to her brow. ‘If you want to stay, we will.’ Though the wisdom of Bianca’s choice defeated her. How to manage Jackson, pretend nothing had changed, protect Bianca. It was nigh on impossible to keep a secret in a small town. She thought again of Phoebe, felt a flutter of panic in the light of Bianca’s vulnerability.

  Bianca burst into tears and rushed to the bathroom.

  Christina stared at the slammed door. She was not leaving on this note again. This time she would wait Bianca out. She grabbed the doona and shook it out before smoothing it into the corners of the bed. She threw the mascara-smeared pillowcase in the laundry basket and replaced the cover, resting Bluey Baa-Baa against it. Lastly, Christina hung Bianca’s dressing gown on the hook inside the wardrobe then sat on the visitor’s chair to wait.

  When Bianca did emerge from the bathroom, Christina was surprised to see she had changed into her uniform. ‘You’re going to class?’

  Bianca stood in front of the mirror and brushed her hair. ‘I’ve got double photography and I have to talk to my teacher about my major work.’

  Christina tried to hide her confusion. ‘Well that’s great, sweetheart.’ The speed with which Bianca travelled from one emotion to the next made her head spin.

  Bianca concentrated on plaiting her hair, threading a navy ribbon through the elastic, and avoided catching Christina’s eye in the mirror.

  She wa
ited until Bianca had finished before asking again, ‘Will you talk to DS Rushmore?’

  ‘I don’t even want to think about it, Mum. I’ve gotta go.’ Scooping her books off the desk, Bianca disappeared down the hall. No farewell kiss and no definitive answer. Christina accepted that it was Bianca’s choice. Pressing charges was a potential hornet’s nest. Not pressing charges meant they had to act before Jackson returned at the end of the week. She left via the kitchenette, leaving the vanilla slice on the bench for hungry mouths. It was time to talk to Mrs Hardcastle.

  Christina did not have to wait long. Mrs Hardcastle appeared at her office door and, though surprised at Christina’s presence, quickly ushered her inside.

  Christina paraphrased her conversation with Bianca. Outlined her concerns of the consequences should Bianca decide to press charges. ‘I still think our best option is to leave Bartholomews Run. Obviously neither of us can live there any more. But Bianca’s now saying she wants to stay here at Valley View. I’m not sure where that leaves us.’

  The headmistress’s expression was all sympathy. ‘Well as it happens, we – we being Bianca, myself and her head of house Mrs Dalrymple – had a meeting to discuss Bianca’s options going forward,’ she said, offering Christina a glass of water from a jug on her desk.

  Bianca had neglected to mention that.

  ‘Bianca has settled into the routine of boarding very well. She has a strong support network and between her studies and her extracurricular activities, she is kept busy.’ The headmistress paused.

  Mrs Hardcastle’s words made Christina feel the slight of that. That Valley View had succeeded where she had failed.

  ‘Under the circumstances, Bianca is coping extremely well. If she changed to full-time boarding rather than weekly between now and when she finishes her HSC, including school holidays,’ the headmistress emphasised the last, ‘then that effectively alleviates the problem of where she will live. I appreciate, however, that leaves you in a difficult position.’

  The year ahead stretched out in front of her. Bianca might be safe at school but where could Christina go? Her gut reaction was to get as far away from Bartholomews Run as possible, but not alone. She tried to tell Mrs Hardcastle this. ‘I don’t think –’

  ‘A lot of students leave their horses here over the term breaks. Licorice could board here, for free of course, and in exchange Bianca can help out in the equestrian centre, exercising horses and whatnot. Bianca is very much in favour of the idea.’

  It was the final cut. Bianca had found a way to ensure she never had to return to Bartholomews Run. Christina imagined Bianca’s sense of relief. Valley View would provide her sanctuary. She wished her own options were so clear. When she thought of her beautiful house all she saw was a gilded cage.

  ‘Except, Mrs Hardcastle, it all depends on whether Bianca decides to have Jackson charged. It’s all very well if she does, but if she refuses, Bartholomews Run will no longer be our home. Under the circumstances, I will need to move far from here. How then will I protect her?’ The impossibility of their choices curled tight inside her.

  Mrs Hardcastle nodded, continued at a brisk pace, ‘Which leads nicely into the next point. As part of resolving Bianca’s living arrangements the conversation flowed onto this issue of whether she wanted to formalise her complaint against her stepfather. It cast the matter in an entirely different light when Bianca knew her safety was no longer compromised. An appointment has been made for this afternoon.’ Mrs Hardcastle checked her watch. ‘In fact, she is on her way to Kitchener police station as we speak intending to provide a full statement to the police. It’s a big step, I know, but Bianca is a very brave girl.’

  Bianca had said she was going to see her teacher about her major work. Before Christina could reflect further on that, her phone beeped. It was DS Rushmore, and Christina too was summonsed to Kitchener police station to make a formal statement.

  ‘I know this is hard,’ the detective said afterwards as she steered Christina out through the security doors, ‘but I agree with Mrs Hardcastle. In the long term it will be for the best if Bianca stays at the school. It may be some weeks before we are ready to make an arrest. There is always a risk she will let something slip that may jeopardise the investigation.’

  Christina wasn’t convinced. ‘Of course Bianca’s needs are paramount but it doesn’t resolve the issue that Jackson will be suspicious if Bianca is suddenly at school full-time.’ Although the thought of Bianca ever having to step foot inside Bartholomews Run again was equally as horrifying.

  Anne Rushmore paused to consider this. Already used to her long silences, Christina waited. Finally, she said, ‘Bianca is due home Friday, correct?’

  Christina nodded.

  ‘And Mr Plummer is due home tomorrow.’

  Christina started. Tomorrow? Was tomorrow Thursday? It had come around so quickly. Just the thought of it made panic flutter in her chest.

  ‘Tell you what, make her excuses this weekend. We’ll see how we go from there.’

  chapter twenty-four

  Thursday morning, Christina woke before the birds. She curled up on the window seat and wrapped her cardigan around her. The early morning chill seeped into her bones, only her fingers warm as she sipped her third cup of coffee. So caught up had she been these last few days with Bianca that she hadn’t allowed herself to dwell upon Jackson. But with Jackson due home within hours, a rush of feelings flooded her. Bianca was safe for now, but what about her? DS Rushmore had tried to reassure Christina that as long as she acted normal, in the short term she’d be fine. The detective had forbidden her to ring anyone. Not her parents, Della or Mary-Lou, especially not Jamie. And so she was trapped. How was she supposed to act normal when she didn’t feel safe?

  ‘Make sure you stick to normal routines,’ DS Rushmore had reminded her when she had called last night. ‘But if anything Mr Plummer says or does alarms you, ring my mobile.’

  Putting her cup on the bench, Christina wandered through the empty house. She ran her fingers along the wooden dados, pressed against the walls and inhaled the limey smell of paint. It brought back memories of those mornings of hot tea and homemade cake, the whistling duets of Stan and Col, the joy, love and hard labour invested in breathing life back into the old house.

  In the hexagonal room, her notes and photocopies marched around the walls, marking Christina’s pyrrhic triumph in securing heritage listing for Bartholomews Run. She had captured the story of those long-ago people caught up in a sexual maelstrom whilst, under the very same roof, she remained ignorant of an even viler crime. The restoration firm had rung to say they had finished repairing the unnamed painting of Genevieve and would she please call to make an appointment to inspect the work. Christina had deleted the message. In the harsh glare of the last few days, the fate of Bartholomew Rivers’ paintings had faded in importance. In the end, her passion and commitment had been at the expense of the reality unfolding around her. For years, no one but she had truly cared about the history of this house and now it had extracted its price. If she hadn’t been so obsessed with a dead painter, none of this would have happened, of that she was sure.

  For the first time in a week, Christina showered in the ensuite off the master bedroom, opening the windows to freshen the air. She made up the bed with fresh sheets, which Jackson would expect, even though she had not slept in this room since that night. She dressed in clean jeans and shirt. Rummaging around in the bathroom cabinet, she found a tub of expensive eye balm hidden at the back. She dabbed it under her eyes and waited for the miracle of dark-circle removal, anti-ageing and rehydration. Smearing the last of a tub of night repair cream over her skin, Christina glanced in the mirror and glimpsed the painting.

  The day she’d taken DS Rushmore on a tour of the house, Christina had looked at Sophia with fresh eyes. How many times had Jackson told her she reminded him of Sophia? It wasn’t true, of course, it never had bee
n. That titian hair, the youth. Peel back the layers and beneath the skin of the man she loved was an animal. A vile wave of rejection rose inside her and she only just managed to reach the toilet before she heaved all that ugliness into the bowl. Clinging to the rim of the seat, she howled and felt the wrench in her guts as the love, trust and belief in Jackson slithered out of her.

  Christina sank to the floor, the tiles cool against her cheeks. How was she supposed to face Jackson today and pretend life was the same as the day he left? How was that possible? Then she saw Bianca’s crumpled face, heard her weep for what she had endured, and hauled herself to her feet. The eye balm was no match for the ravages of emotion. She put in some eye drops, hoping they would reduce the puffiness and red lines that inscribed her grief. Even cleaning her teeth twice did not disguise the distinctive odour of vomit. Rosa would tell her to chew on fennel seeds. The thought made her retch.

  Standing at the lounge room window, she waited for Jackson. Every instinct was to flee. If her voice waivered or she could not look him in the eye, Jackson would confront her. He had an overdeveloped awareness for when things were not right. Now she knew why. At the sound of tyres crunching on gravel, Christina scurried to the lounge and arranged herself in a casual pose. She raised the Rural Advocate in front of her face and dug her elbow into the couch to stop the trembling. As his footsteps grew louder, she took a deep breath and prayed to the God she did not believe in.

  The door flung open and Jackson thrust his arms in the air bellowing, ‘Hi, honey, I’m home!’ Grinning his naughty schoolboy grin, he abandoned his coat and luggage and beckoned Christina for a hug.

  She lowered the paper and forced a smile. Cold fingers squeezed her heart tight. ‘Hello, stranger.’

  Christina stood. Steeling herself, she stepped into his arms. She closed her eyes as his fingers found the familiar crevices of her body.

  ‘I missed you,’ Jackson murmured into her hair.