For all they had been through, the years of abuse, the nine months of legal process, perhaps it was the judge’s final instructions to the jury that made the difference in the end. Of course, they would never know what had gone on inside the heads of twelve strangers, nor why they decided that Bianca’s word had more veracity than Jackson’s, but as far as a summation of the case went, Christina could not have said it better.
Justice Grainger concluded by saying, ‘The experience of the law confirms that complaints are often not made directly after the sexual assault, especially in the case of children. The prosecutor in her address to you has put forth an argument that the complainant was young, confused, had feelings of guilt about the acts and felt compelled to protect her mother’s interests. It has been said that the defendant used his position of power within the household as a tool of coercion and his considerable wealth to buy the complainant’s silence. All these suggestions may explain the delay between the crimes being perpetrated and the reporting of said crimes, but there may well be other reasons. Experience has shown that it is not uncommon for such a delay and the law requires me to say that the delay in and of itself does not necessarily mean that the allegations are false.
‘The defendant has chosen not to take the stand in this case, as is his right. The complainant has shown great bravery in placing herself within the courtroom where she has been subjected to a thorough and vigorous interrogation. It has been an emotional and stressful time for all concerned. However, it my duty to warn you that in order to reach a guilty or not guilty verdict, the jurors must satisfy themselves that behind the emotion the criteria for conviction have been met.’
The jury took one day to deliberate and return a guilty verdict. Justice Grainger made arrangements for a sentencing hearing and rose to leave the court.
Buttoning his coat, Jackson cleared his throat. ‘Your Honour, I’d just like to say a few words to my family before . . .’
The whole room stilled. Justice Grainger looked at the bailiff and said, ‘Do we have security?’ and then left the court.
Jackson was cuffed and taken away. This time he left the courtroom by the back door.
chapter thirty
Christmas Day
The sun rose in a clear blue sky with a latent energy warning of the sizzling day to come. Christina awoke to hear rustlings in the kitchen and Mary-Lou’s distinctive laugh.
Last night had been a warm reunion of old friends. Mary-Lou arrived with just Maddy as the older girls had boyfriends and a fiancé’s families to visit. Brian was rostered on but would arrive the day after Boxing Day. They had inserted the leaves into the dining table and sat along its length in the candlelight, a cool breeze running through the room, every door and window open to scatter the last of the day’s heat. So much French champagne with which to wash down platters of fresh oysters, salmon carpaccio, a salad of octopus and Rosa’s agnolotti of spinach and ricotta. If that were not enough, there were plates layered with freshly steamed crayfish and bowls of herb butter. It was a glistening cornucopia, a feast fit for a king or a welcoming banquet for a returning daughter who had not returned.
Were it not for Della and Mary-Lou, Christina would have left the table but they sat either side of her and laid her plate with a choice of delicacies – an oyster here, a pillow of agnolotti there – enticing her as if she were a recalcitrant toddler who must be tricked into doing what is good for them. The champagne achieved what they could not, numbing the pain enough for her to be generous towards Mr Graukroger in a way she did not feel. He had brought fragrant apricots from his trees and they sat in a bowl on the sideboard, scenting the room whilst he sat in her father’s chair. Rosa glowed in the candlelight and for that Christina was glad. Understanding her mother’s past had given her a new admiration for Rosa. Even when it battered her with its relentless cruelty, Rosa had never allowed life to defeat her.
Christina swings her bare feet onto the floor, the timber cool beneath her toes. The morning light is creeping over the hills and outside the garden is blanketed with dew. She spies Rosa, her arm threaded through Della’s, on their way to pick roses for the table before the rising sun steals their sweetness.
Christina stretches out the kinks of sleep. On the chest of drawers lies the transcript. She notices that the top layers have curled in the humidity, as if well thumbed by nature. Last night Della told Mary-Lou that Christina had it, shared the story of Sarah Plummer’s unexpected visit, and Mary-Lou asked Christina the same question: ‘Do you think you’ll read it?’ Christina dismissed her with a wave of the hand. Now, in the cool morning light, she wonders why she bothered holding on to it. It has sat there for over twelve months. She’s had ample time to read it if she chose but she did not. Christina can guess why. Knowing every tiny detail of what happened to Bianca won’t help her heal. It won’t bring her understanding and it won’t bring them closer. She can see that now. Perhaps she might be better taking a leaf out of Rosa’s book and leaving the past where it belongs.
By the time Christina emerges from the bathroom, Rosa is busy at the kitchen table trimming roses. Della is brewing coffee. Alongside the roses is a loaf of pane di casa and Mary-Lou is beating eggs with cream. They have co-opted Izzy and Maddy into squeezing oranges for juice, and some of Mr Graukroger’s beautiful apricots have been pureed, blushing a sinful pink in a jug.
‘Happy Christmas, darling!’ Della kisses her cheeks.
Mary-Lou shrieks and rushes to retrieve a bottle of champagne and four chilled glasses from the fridge. In moments, there are apricot bellinis and Mary-Lou delivers hers with a kiss, ‘Merry Christmas, CC!’
Maddy smiles, rolling her eyes at her mother’s theatrics.
‘Merry Christmas, Iz, Maddy,’ Christina says. ‘Are you having one?’ but both girls say it is too early in the day for them. Christina thinks it is too early in the day for her as well but there is no point arguing with Mary-Lou.
The hours fly by in a rush of preparations. Christina is grateful for the busyness. If it were only her and Rosa, she would wallow. Thinks again how perceptive it was of her mother to ensure they have no space to dwell. The children set the table under Rosa’s instruction. The women fuss in the kitchen.
‘Tony’s gone exploring,’ Della says. ‘I made him take his mobile phone in case of snakes.’
‘If it’s snakes he wants,’ Christina replies, ‘he need only look under the verandah.’
Della shudders and returns to scrubbing potatoes.
There is the smack of hands. ‘It has to be perfetto,’ she hears Rosa scold. Tom and Maddy lay damask tablecloths over the long table. Izzy washes and polishes the good silverware. Christina washes last night’s glasses and more platters that Rosa thinks they might need. Della moves on to podding peas.
As the sun peaks over the roof, the smell of slow-roasting veal wafts through the house. Mr Graukroger arrives and helps Tony sharpen the knives. As the kitchen clock pushes towards two, they assemble in front of their designated places at the dining table, all of them bar one. Rosa insists on serving the first course herself, but allows Della and Mary-Lou to deliver them to the table. Lunch will begin with bowls of stracciatella, the Italian egg-drop soup, and antipasto. With a start, Christina notices that Rosa reserves a bowl with a tea towel over it to keep it warm. If her mother knows Bianca is coming, Della and Mary-Lou would know too. Surely there’d be the crackle of a secret in the air but all the air is heavy with is heat.
Behind the chatter and laughter, Pavarotti warbles his way through Italian carols and popular hits. Right now it is ‘Tu scendi dalle stelle’. The loss of Massimo sits low in her chest. Christina raises her glass in a private toast to her father. At the far end of the table, Rosa raises her glass too.
They are clearing the plates after crisp-skinned quail, dropping them into a sink of sudsy hot water, when Della yells from outside, ‘Someone’s coming.’
Christina pull
s open the lace curtain at the kitchen window. Della is right. A blue van has pulled up at the front gate. A man gets out and opens it, an unseen person drives through. Stopping to let the man hop back in, the van trundles past the lucerne paddocks. Of course the geese have heard the low whine of the engine as it labours up the drive. They stir from under the hydrangeas. Christina wipes her hands on a tea towel, drops it on the kitchen bench and goes outside. Shielding her eyes, she tries to see who is in the van, but with the light bouncing off the windscreen, the occupants are unidentifiable. That doesn’t stop her hoping, of course it doesn’t. Hope is all she has left.
It’s a funny-looking van. If it were not for the paintwork, it could pass for a run-of-the-mill delivery van except one with a giant sunrise painted along its side. There are palm trees and a dolphin leaping out of an aqua sea. Seagulls fly across the roof and, as it faces up the hill, she sees clown fish swimming around the grille. It lurches to a stop and the geese cluster around. The driver’s window winds down and a hand appears, shooing the geese away saying, ‘Piss off, you idiots.’ Christina smiles, she’d know that voice anywhere.
The passenger door opens and out climbs the man. He wades unconcerned through the flock of grubby geese towards the rear of the van. The windscreen fills with Bianca’s bottom as she crawls through to the rear space. Christina hears the creak of the boot opening, comfortable laughter and talking. That’s what keeps her here on the step instead of running towards the van, catching her first desperate glimpse of her daughter in almost twelve months.
Bianca emerges around the side of the van. If it were not for the timber post, Christina might have sagged to the ground. This tall brown girl walks towards her with a confident lope. She is wearing cut-off jeans, a man’s shirt knotted at the waist. Around her neck is a collection of beaded necklaces, shells, silver charms knotted onto leather. Her ears are pierced all along their delicate shell, each hole connected by a tiny golden chain. But it is her hair that shocks Christina most. Replacing her glorious chestnut mane is a writhing mass of Medusa dreads restrained by a colourful scarf. As Bianca walks towards the verandah, her hair comes alive as beads wink like tiny eyes.
She slouches on one hip. Her hand strays to her mouth but she recognises the childhood habit and lets it drop saying, ‘Merry Christmas, Mum.’
Christina cannot recognise this young woman before her. She has been nursing a memory of Bianca for all these months. Yet that Bianca has disappeared. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she says, ‘Merry Christmas, sweetheart.’
The man appears around the side of the van and Christina realises he is not a man at all, he is just a boy. He wears blue jeans, a crisp white T-shirt, Dunlop volleys and a patch of beard as slim as a finger beneath his bottom lip.
Bianca reaches out and takes his hand in hers. ‘This is Gijs.’
Christina nods, unable to speak.
‘Bella Bianca. Benvenuti a casa! Buon Natale.’ Gripping the railing, Rosa rushes down the steps, almost tumbling into Bianca. She wipes her hands on her apron and grasps her granddaughter in both arms. Shameless tears pour down her cheeks. Bianca grins at her nonna, apologising in a glance to Gijs, whose rather ordinary face is transformed by a smile into handsomeness.
A jumble of Italian erupts from Rosa. She cannot stop touching Bianca, praising how well she looks, how glad she is that she has made it home for Christmas.
‘I would never miss Christmas, Nonna. I promised, remember?’ Bianca introduces Gijs to Rosa and she clasps him to her bosom, already accepting him as part of the family.
‘Come. Come,’ Rosa urges, clutching their hands. ‘Get out of this sun. You must be thirsty? Are you hungry? We’re having veal.’ Rosa presses the children towards the house, past Christina and up the stairs.
Christina watches them go. The screen door wheezes shut. Della stands in the shade, wiping her hands on a tea towel. Here comes the sound of Izzy and Maddy squealing an enthusiastic welcome. Perhaps it is the sun, but Christina has a sudden rush of dizziness. She stumbles towards the cool of the verandah. The geese are smarter than she. They have squatted under the van where they bicker and jostle for the shadiest positions.
Della sits beside her, flings a casual arm around her shoulder. ‘She looks great, doesn’t she? Very sassy and sure of herself.’
Images of this new Bianca flash through Christina’s mind: the hair, the jewellery, the grey eyes rimmed in kohl, the thickly mascaraed lashes. She’s filled out too.
‘Gijs is a boy.’
Della raises an eyebrow.
Christina laughs, realising Della has no idea what she’s talking about. She explains. ‘We thought he was a she because Bianca met her, him, teaching English in Costa Rica.’ She remembers the postcard where Bianca said that she and Gijs had camped out in the jungle on the Estrella River. With a jolt, she realises, ‘They’ve slept together.’
‘You can tell that already?’ Della clasps a hand to her breast, feigning shock.
‘They’ve had sex,’ she grabs Della’s arm. ‘Bianca’s had sex.’ From the look on Della’s face Christina sees she doesn’t understand the importance of this. How could she? In her safe affluent world, whether her daughter has had sex is neither here nor there. After all, Izzy is eighteen; if she has sex and who she chooses to have it with is entirely her concern. But that Bianca is so obviously sleeping with this boy, has brought him home for Christmas, travelling in a hippie van barely big enough to contain their long limbs – it means something.
The screen door wheezes. Bianca comes out holding two flutes of champagne. Della flicks her tea towel over her shoulder and makes noises about gravy and steaming the peas. She squeezes Bianca’s arm as she passes but says nothing. Bianca takes her spot on the step next to Christina, handing her one of the glasses.
‘Hey,’ Christina manages. She cannot believe how Bianca glows. For twelve months she has fretted over her daughter’s fragile mental state, whether she was recovering. She is struck afresh by Bianca’s vitality.
‘Hey.’ Bianca runs her finger through the condensation on her glass.
‘You made it then.’
Bianca darts a glance at her. ‘I said I would.’
Christina nods. Yes she did. And Christina was too afraid to believe. Faith, Mama, she says to herself. She searches for something neutral to say. ‘So Gijs is a boy.’
Bianca’s forehead wrinkles up. ‘Yeah?’
‘It’s just that Nonna and I have been getting your postcards and wondering who your new friend was. We thought he was a girl. It’s hard to tell with a name like that.’
Bianca covers her laugh with her free hand. ‘He’s Dutch, Mum. Gijs is from the Netherlands.’
Christina pretends to be huffy. ‘Well I know that now.’
Bianca mistakes her tone, rushing out, ‘Don’t be cross.’
Christina places a hand on Bianca’s thigh. ‘I’m not. I’m surprised, that’s all.’ Surprised, too, that Bianca does not flinch at her touch.
Into the perfect blue sky a single fluffy cloud floats, as if painted by a whimsical child. Christina watches it pass and waits for Bianca to say more about this boy. When it is obvious no more is forthcoming, she says, ‘Are you . . . going out together then?’
Bianca studies a wide cuff she wears on her wrist. It has a crudely drawn creature that could be a man or a woman or neither. Its arms loop around and hold its breasts. It wears a cap like a beret or it could be its hair, Christina cannot tell. Bianca sees her looking and explains, ‘It’s the goddess of fertility. Gijs bought it for me.’
Which she guesses is Bianca’s way of answering the question. Christina tries a different tack. ‘So is he staying in Australia long?’
Bianca catches one of her dreadlocks in her fingers and feathers it across her lips. Christina waits, longing to reach across and remove the hair from her hands like she did when she was a child. But she is not sure
of Bianca any more. There is something about her, from her hair to her jewels to the taut calf muscles that makes Christina feel her daughter’s presence here is tenuous.
‘Gijs is travelling through Australia for a few weeks. Then he’s planning on going to New Zealand for a bit. He has to be home by the summer, when uni starts.’
Christina smiles to hide her relief.
‘I’m going with him.’
Her smile falters. Bianca stares at her, willing her to comprehend that what she says is important.
‘To New Zealand?’ Christina suggests, hoping this is all Bianca means.
An impatient flick sends Bianca’s dreads clacking. ‘No, I mean I’m going back to the Netherlands with Gijs. To live.’
A groan rushes out of her before she can stop it. As if winded, Christina lies with her head on her knees, her ears filled with a whooshing sound. ‘When?’ she mumbles.
Bianca’s voice is small. ‘Probably the end of April, maybe May.’
Christina pulls herself upright. ‘No, I mean when are you leaving here?’
Bianca turns away and fiddles with her hair. The sun sinks in the sky and bathes them in golden light. Bianca is a bronzed goddess, fearsome and beautiful all at once. ‘In a day or two, maybe,’ she says.
Christina feels the enormity of this news swell within her. ‘So soon?’
‘We’ll travel for a bit while we still can. Once Gijs is back home, he’ll have to knuckle down with uni and work and stuff.’
‘Stuff?’
Bianca puts her untouched champagne down and walks down the steps. The geese lift their heads, honking softly, an inquiry not a threat. She turns, her dreads fanning out around her and settling over her shoulders. She is slouching on one hip again, half turned towards Christina, half towards the van. ‘I’m pregnant.’
The Making of Christina Page 32