by Isla Evans
She had a tapestry of memories from that time, but two in particular stood out. The first was the night before the funeral, when she and Angie had sat together in their bedroom and talked until the early hours of the morning, just as they had as girls. But this time there had been no smothered giggles, only a hoarse conversation of loss punctuated by ready tears. And Angie, who was then midway through her business degree, told of her decision to move in with her mother’s sister in Ballarat for a while. To get away from it all, and maybe learn more about that side of the family.
Then she had gone on in a half-embarrassed whisper, not quite making eye contact, to tell of the fantasy she had developed in the three days since her father’s death. That at the funeral, now only hours away, she would feel a hand on her shoulder and would turn, only to be enveloped within the arms of her mother. Returning to the fold when she was needed the most. Kate could still see Angie’s face clearly as she had said this. Pale, with red-washed eyes and a sheepish smile that already acknowledged the inevitability of disappointment.
The second memory was of the weekend after the funeral, when she had come back to keep her father company. The house had been so incredibly empty. Each room larger than it had ever seemed before, and more stifling. Just her father left behind, working all hours in the garden to avoid spending time inside. And for the first time Kate learnt that the absence of a voice has an echo of its own.
She stared out at the backyard, remembering how it had been and realising that as empty as it had seemed then, it was now infinitely worse. A small starling swooped over the back fence and flew up to the washing line, where it settled on one of the sagging wires, looking beadily down into the weeds. Kate watched it for a while as she wondered whether, as in Angie’s case, the echo was even louder when there was ambiguity surrounding the absence. Like with her mother. How on earth must that feel? At least with Kate’s mother she had known exactly what had happened and, because her father had so many stories, it had been almost like she was still there. Or at least would have been if she could. But to not even know whether your parent was alive or dead, or even whether they paused, every now and again, and spared a moment to think about you. To have such obscurity shadowing your childhood, and then still never have it resolved.
Slowly, as she mused over this, the nucleus of an idea formed and then gradually enlarged. Kate’s eyes widened. It had been there all along – a full-blown mystery with all the trimmings. Angie’s mother. The actual disappearance, framed by the past and the future. Maybe told from the perspective of a relative, or just an onlooker, or even a child. She could use the structure to build a fictional story, or go for broke and make it factual all the way through. Regardless, she now had her idea. And it was inspired.
Furthermore it had been Angie herself who had suggested that Kate write about what she knew, maybe even find, somewhere, the hint of a mystery. And there it was – tailor-made. She grinned at the irony and then the grin faded as a worm of doubt raised its head. But would Angie be in favour? Or would she flatten the proposal at the outset? Kate thought about their argument yesterday, when she had angrily thrown at Angie the very idea that she was now exploring seriously. But then she had used it as a weapon, almost unthinkingly, and it had not been so much the concept as the intent that had been designed to wound. Surely Angie would have recognised that? Because why, after all, would she object to having her mother’s story investigated? Maybe she would still get that hand on her shoulder, even after all this time.
Nevertheless, after some thought, Kate decided that she would keep it to herself for now. The story might turn out to be a dud, in which case there was no point concerning Angie at all. And besides, even though she was quite sure her cousin would not object, Kate simply didn’t want to take the risk. So she’d first do some preliminary research, start to understand the background, and then present Angie with her discoveries and ask permission to continue. After that, and only after that, would she begin the actual writing. Develop the story-line, build the book. And she knew, already, that she’d found exactly what she needed, and it was going to be great.
NINE
Dear Dad, I’m excited. I’m very excited! Which has made me realise that I haven’t been really excited about anything for a long time. It feels almost clumsy! What frustrates me, though, is that if I had started writing this a year ago, I could have just come to you for information, but I’ve left it too late. Typical. Or maybe it would never have occurred to me then? Anyway, I still haven’t decided how to write it – as a pseudo-memoir? A tragic romance? A mystery? I keep seeing lines, like: From where she sat, amongst the radishes, she could see the roofs of both houses and knew she had a choice to make. Smoke rose from a chimney, wafting across the sky in what seemed a beckoning gesture. Was that a sign?
Kate hit save and then took a deep breath as she pushed her chair back from the desk. It had been a week since she had come up with her brilliant idea and she had been unable to move much further than just the essence. A phone call from the main publishing company she freelanced for had forced her to prioritise a backlog of work and it had taken her all this time to work through it.
The only day she took off was Friday, when she babysat Emma at the Lysterfield house and worked her way through Sam’s paperwork instead. At least that meant meeting up with Sam himself, and whilst their scrupulously polite conversation hadn’t repaired any bridges, it had at least retained the connection. But it took all her willpower not to straighten the cushions or at least unload the dishwasher.
She had also managed to renew connections with her sons, as both Jacob and Caleb had been sprawled across the lounge room floor when she arrived, playing some strange 3-D game on the Playstation. One which apparently required frequent yelling, the occasional muttered obscenity and a large amount of fist-pumping.
Nor, as with all their disagreements, was there much effort required to mend fences with Angie. There was too much history between them to let a few harsh words do a lot of damage. Kate just made an especially nice meal for the following evening and slid an apology into the conversation relatively quickly. Then they moved smoothly on, chatting about children and life in general. The one thing they hadn’t touched on, mainly because Kate hadn’t raised it, was her epiphany.
This in itself had been quite frustrating. Because she would have loved to discuss it with Angie. But the worm of doubt ensured her silence. She simply couldn’t take the risk, small as it might be, that Angie would refuse permission.
But this morning marked the end of her frustration. With all extra commitments taken care of, she was now able to start her research. She began by making a list while drinking her morning coffee. Avenues of exploration, directions of research, people to question. A priority, she decided, were names. All she had at the moment was Sophie Painter, but she also needed a maiden name, in case she had reverted, and also the real name of That Bugger she had run off with.
Accordingly she spent some time at the computer, first checking that the name of Sophie Painter didn’t appear anywhere in cyberspace. Once she had established that it didn’t, Kate turned to title searches to best discover the identity of That Bugger. However, as the land had been subdivided, this proved rather complicated. Finally, after a few frustrating phone calls, she contacted a firm which specialised in title search and commissioned them to do it for her.
There was one obvious place to start looking for background information but the thought brought with it a mix of feelings. Excitement because she would definitely find some clues; dismay because it would be a long and dirty job; and trepidation because it meant facing something she had been putting off since last June. Which was going through all of her father’s worldly goods and possessions.
It wasn’t just his possessions, either. When her uncle died, his furniture and personal effects had simply remained in place. Nobody had ever asked or offered to change matters and it wasn’t as if her father needed the space. It had simply been understood, tacitly, that every
thing would be sorted after his death, when she and Angie would be equal beneficiaries. So, after the events of last June, came the distress of not only clearing out his bedroom, but also Uncle Frank’s, which was a virtual time capsule.
Oscar and Sam had done most of the work, packing and storing everything under the Lysterfield house for the time being. And, except for the desk that Kate had recently extracted, that’s where it all remained. She knew she had a choice now. Move forward, face a few demons and hopefully get some results, or forget about the whole thing right now. If she made up her mind quickly, she could even phone the title-search firm to cancel her payment.
Kate sat up and massaged her neck. The truth was there was no choice. It had been so terrific to stumble across a concept that actually excited her, there was no way she was giving that away at the first hurdle. She would just have to rely on motivation to help her get through. Tomorrow, or maybe even the following day. But definitely one day this week. Definitely.
Later that day, while passing the lounge room window with her third cup of coffee, Kate happened to glance out and see the elderly lady from next door setting out on another walk with her dog. To postpone returning to her computer, where she was trying to establish a half-fleshed family tree, she leant on the back of the lounge chair and watched the pair walk briskly up the driveway and turn right towards the little park at the end of the road.
It suddenly occurred to Kate that a good source of information would be contemporaries of Frank or Sophie or even That Bugger, who could perhaps fill in some of the background. School photos would be of no assistance because, even though she knew both Frank and her father had attended local schools, class photos of the time did not include the names of students. And the odds were fairly good that That Bugger had possessed both eyes as a youth, so he wasn’t likely to stand out. Other records, such as town meetings or sporting clubs, would contain many names, but no clue as to whether there was a connection. It would be different if they’d any hobbies, but all she knew for sure was that her Uncle Frank would get dressed up every now and again to, as he used to put it, ‘go hit the town’.
But it may not even have been his town he was hitting. The local area hadn’t exactly been known for its nightlife, even when she had been a teenager. So it was more than likely Uncle Frank had been venturing further afield, going to pubs or clubs or local dances; an anonymous man in a crowd looking for a good time. As for her own father, his social life had ended with the death of her mother. He’d say, with a smile, that she had ruined him for anyone else, but because of the smile, and the matter-of-fact way he spoke, Kate never truly grasped the tragedy behind the words until she was much older.
For a moment, she stared blankly at the flickering sunlit patterns across the lounge room floor and thought about her father, living for forty-three years after the love of his life had died. Forty-three years. Raising a child alone, never really going out, never really moving on. Just going to bed each night alone, through the doorway at the end of the passage. She shook her head to put an end to this line of thinking.
Instead she turned back to his elusive peers, who would have spent their childhoods in the shadow of the Second World War. Where did one go to look for the elderly? Retirement homes, or bowling clubs, or bingo? Perhaps she could infiltrate, ideally by ingratiating herself with someone of the right age group. Kate grinned – the answer was right in front of her. Or at least would soon be right in front of her, walking briskly down the driveway with a well-behaved cocker spaniel on a lead. Kate estimated that the elderly lady from next door would be in the right age group and, even if she herself was a dead end, she seemed to have a lot of visitors; surely one of them might know something. Or know of somebody else. And so on.
There was a slight risk that starting her enquiries so close to home, in fact right next door, would mean it got back to Angie sooner rather than later, but that was a risk Kate thought worth taking. She could always claim to have just been making polite conversation that was misunderstood. And now was as good a time as any.
Still deep in thought, she left the unit and walked slowly up the driveway. It was a gorgeous summery day, with very few clouds and absolutely no breeze at all, just steady sunshine. When she got to the row of letterboxes, she shaded her eyes and looked up the road in the direction of the park, but the woman was nowhere in sight. How far could someone of that age walk? And, more to the question, how long could she stand there before her contrived casualness turned into suspicious loitering?
A car could be heard approaching from the opposite direction but Kate didn’t pay much attention until it slowed to pull into the driveway behind her. She turned, out of curiosity, and was somewhat surprised to see Shelley’s Astra come to a halt next to the letterboxes, its engine idling. The front passenger door opened to reveal the blonde girl from the front unit, Bronte.
‘Hi . . . um, Kate,’ grinned Bronte as she got out, clearly pleased at her recall.
‘Hello.’ Kate nodded briefly at Bronte and then turned her attention to the car, where Shelley, with one hand on the steering wheel, was leaning across the front passenger seat and smiling up at her mother. Kate glanced into the back seat where Emma and Bronte’s daughter Sherry lay sprawled in their car seats, both fast asleep with sweat-slicked hair clinging to their foreheads.
‘We’ve just been to the zoo,’ said Shelley by way of explanation. ‘Long day.’
‘Sure was,’ agreed Bronte, rather superfluously, as she opened the back door and unstrapped her daughter, gently lifting the baby out of her seat. Sherry stiffened and her eyes flew open for a second, before slowly closing again as she settled koala-like against her mother’s chest.
‘What about you?’ asked Shelley curiously. ‘What are you doing skulking out here? Touting for business?’
As Bronte chortled appreciatively at her friend’s humour, Kate looked at her daughter narrowly and then gestured downwards at her T-shirt and baggy tracksuit pants. ‘That’s right. But I’m targeting those with a fetish for slobs.’
‘Well, I don’t think you’ll find them around here, dear,’ said an elderly voice from behind Kate. ‘Not really the ideal area.’
Kate took a deep breath and slowly turned around. Her target stood underneath the shade of the wattle tree, smiling broadly. As Kate had assumed, she was around the right age group, with short white hair and pouchy jowls, which looked out of context with her very thin build. The cocker spaniel stood by her side and, although it was panting, it seemed to be grinning at her discomfiture too.
‘Hi, Mrs Jarvis,’ said Bronte in a low voice so as not to wake her sleeping baby.
‘Hello, Bronte. You’re looking well as always.’ Mrs Jarvis turned back to Kate with interest. ‘And you must be Angie’s cousin, Kate? Moved in next door?’
‘Exactly,’ replied Kate rather stupidly.
‘Lovely to meet you.’ Mrs Jarvis gave another genial smile all around and then set off down the driveway, the spaniel trotting along at heel.
‘And I’d better be off too,’ said Shelley. She jumped out, leaving the car idling, and unhooked Bronte’s car seat. Then she carried it up to the unit and left it on the porch. Bronte followed, sending a wave towards Kate as she left. Emma slept on in the car, her face flushed.
Shelley ran back and clambered into the car again. She leant over and waved at Kate cheerfully. ‘See you Friday, Mum.’
Kate frowned, but before she could ask what she meant, Shelley had straightened up in her seat and was reversing out of the driveway. She pulled into the road and drove off with a slight crunching of her gears. Kate winced, then glanced quickly down the driveway, but Mrs Jarvis was long gone. She cursed, under her breath, and childishly scuffed a foot against the ground with irritation. Not only had she missed her opportunity, but the woman probably thought she was some sort of deviant. Kate took a deep breath and then checked her letterbox so that the whole thing wasn’t a complete waste of time. She fished out an elastic-banded bundle of letters a
nd started walking back towards her unit, slapping them against her thigh in irritation.
As she neared the end of the main driveway, where the concrete narrowed and veered off towards the corner unit, Mrs Jarvis’s front door suddenly opened and the elderly woman came out, walking quickly towards Kate with a smile.
‘Went right past the mailboxes and forgot to check mine!’
Kate laughed politely while she tried to think of a good conversational gambit.
‘And I didn’t introduce myself properly before either, did I?’ Mrs Jarvis stopped by Kate, still smiling. ‘The name’s Dawn Jarvis. And I know you’re Kate. Well, it’s very nice to have a new neighbour. We’re such a settled bunch here that it doesn’t happen too often.’
‘Oh, you’ve been here long?’
‘Long enough. And they’ll only be taking me out in a body bag, believe me.’
‘I’m sure that won’t happen,’ said Kate, trying to be courteous.
Mrs Jarvis looked at her. ‘Well, unless some vampire gets me and I become the walking dead, then it’ll have to. Because, believe me, I ain’t leaving here alive.’
‘Oh.’
‘But the chances are probably slim about the vampire.’ Mrs Jarvis paused, seemingly rather disappointed. ‘I mean, even if one happened by, he’s not likely to go for me when he’s got young Bronte nearby, or even you. Much nicer necks all round.’
‘Um. Thanks.’
‘And he’d probably give up anyway because my veins are notoriously hard to reach. The nurse down at the health centre always has a dreadful time getting my blood. They’ve all sunk, see. My mother was the same. So it’d definitely be your necks on the chopping block, so to speak.’
‘Oh.’
‘Don’t look at me like that, dear,’ Mrs Jarvis laughed, her jowls quivering, and laid a hand lightly on Kate’s arm. ‘I’m not crazy. Just watch too much Buffy, that’s all. You know, “Buffy the Vampire Slayer”. A veritable font of information, that show.’