by Isla Evans
‘Oh, yes. He was always a card, that one.’ Auntie Faye’s face wreathed with a fond smile, as if the mere possession of a single eye was the epitome of amusement in itself. ‘She should have just married him in the first place, saved a lot of bother. You see, he’d pop it out when he’d had a few drinks and put it in your glass. You’d pick it up and it’d be floating there, staring at you! Oh, you’d nearly die of fright!’
‘I can imagine,’ replied Kate with sincerity.
‘Lost it when he was just a boy. One of those kiddie air rifles. You know, the ones where they always say to be careful, otherwise you’ll lose an eye? Well, young Thomas was the proof in the pudding, so to speak.’
Kate sipped at her now tepid coffee while she threaded these discoveries together and then tried to determine any loose ends. She looked across at Auntie Faye, who seemed to be rather lost in thought. ‘Did you ever know my mother?’
‘Your mother? Hmm . . . well, just a bit. Met her once or twice.’
‘What was she like?’
For the first time Auntie Faye appeared reluctant to hold forth. She busied herself with topping up her coffee and then glanced at Kate as if hoping she wouldn’t be still waiting for an answer. ‘Well . . . I don’t know that I could really comment, honey. I only met her a few times.’
‘But you must have formed an impression at least?’
‘Hmm. Let me see . . . well, she was very neat,’ said Auntie Faye slowly. ‘Oh, and she was always busy. Even when she was sitting down she’d be fidgeting away and you could tell she was thinking of what was next. Lively! That’s a good word for your mother. Lively. Wish I could tell you more but you see I’d hate to give you the wrong notion about your own mum. Not when I’d only met her the few times.’
Kate smiled her appreciation, even as she recognised that the older woman’s reluctance spoke as much, if not more, than words could have. Another one who didn’t like Rose Kimber.
‘Now your father I knew quite well,’ continued Auntie Faye with more enthusiasm. ‘Lovely man. We were all quite surprised when he got married, always thought him more the bachelor type. Bit shy, liked his own company.’ She paused, and then smiled. ‘You used to call me Attila the Bum, you know. When you were little. Oh, you could be a bit of a terror.’
Kate grimaced. ‘Sorry.’
‘Not a problem. I always thought Frank put you up to it anyway. He never really forgave me for knowing about the affair. Which was a bit hypocritical given the way that man carried on. More coffee, honey?’
‘Do you mean – no thanks,’ Kate put a hand over her mug. ‘Do you mean that Uncle Frank was also being unfaithful during the marriage?’
‘God, yes! That man couldn’t help himself! Never should have got married in the first place. I think he only did it because he had this competitive thing going with poor Thomas. And with James, for that matter. Probably would have cuckolded him too if it hadn’t been for the fact that Rose was such a . . .’ Auntie Faye petered off and then cleared her throat. ‘Such a virtuous woman, is what I meant. Lively, too.’
‘Yes, we’ve established that,’ replied Kate dryly.
‘Would you like more trifle, honey? You’ve hardly touched yours.’
‘No thanks, I am absolutely full.’ Kate patted her stomach to underline her words. ‘Thank you so much for the lunch.’
‘It was my pleasure. We should do it more often. After all, when was the last time I saw you?’
‘I’m not sure. It must –’
‘Melissa’s graduation probably.’ Auntie Faye started stacking the trifle dishes back onto the tray. ‘Too long. It’s my fault as well, though. You see, I’m getting lazier as I get older. Should make the effort to go down to Melbourne more often.’
‘Yes, you should.’ Kate surprised herself by meaning it. Even if she had never been as close to Angie’s aunt as Angie herself had, the woman was still a link to the past. There weren’t many of them left now.
‘And I will.’ Auntie Faye stood up with the tray and smiled down at Kate, who immediately rose too.
‘I’d better leave you to it. And thanks again. I really enjoyed myself.’
‘So did I. If it wasn’t for the fact I have my pottery class this afternoon, I’d be trying to persuade you to stay longer.’
Kate slung her handbag over her shoulder and then opened the French doors for the older woman to pass through. A wall of cooler air immediately engulfed her and it felt wondrous. ‘Can I at least help you with the dishes?’
‘Certainly not. You’re a guest.’ Auntie Faye carried the tray through to the kitchen and then returned, empty-handed. ‘And now I’m going to give you a present to take back with you.’
With some apprehension Kate followed Auntie Faye back through the lounge room and up to the front door, where a small semicircular hall table hugged the wall. Auntie Faye bent down with a grunt and then straightened, holding out a garden gnome. ‘I made her myself.’
‘Why, thank you,’ Kate took the gnome and stared down at it. ‘Her?’
‘Of course. Can’t you see the eyelashes?’
‘Now that you mention it. Yes, I can.’
Auntie Faye smiled proudly as she reached out one finger and traced it along the black, spider-like marks that adorned the area above each of the gnome’s beady eyes. ‘Hand-painted.’
‘Really? Amazing.’
She opened the door and then preceded Kate out onto the small porch, peering upwards. ‘Doesn’t look like we’ll ever get rain, does it, honey?’
Kate shook her head, staring up at the blue, cloudless sky. Then they walked companionably down the driveway and towards the kerb. Hugging her gnome awkwardly, Kate dug around in her handbag and eventually came up with the car keys. She unlocked the door and then turned back to Auntie Faye curiously. ‘Would you mind if I ask you one more question?’
‘Ask away.’
‘Well, it must have been hard for you too. I mean, Sophie was your sister.’ Kate stared down at the gnome’s eyelashes, feeling discomforted about what she was about to ask. ‘So . . . do you miss her?’
‘Miss who?’
‘Your sister.’
‘My sister?’
‘Yes, your sister. Sophie.’
Auntie Faye frowned, clearly confused. ‘Why would I miss her?’
‘Well, because she left.’ Kate stared at the older woman. ‘You know, shot through. With Thomas Painter.’
‘Oh, I see!’ Auntie Faye’s face cleared and she laughed. ‘I’ve given you the wrong end of the stick, haven’t I? I don’t miss Sophie at all, honey, because I’m never given the chance to!’ Still laughing, she pointed over Kate’s shoulder and then waited until Kate turned. ‘I’ll tell you a secret. See that road over there? Well, you head down it about three miles and then turn left by the milk bar and Sophie’s house is the fourth on the right. So, you see, how can I miss her? I see the woman every other day!’
FIFTEEN
Dear Dad, remember those little diaries that Angie and I would get each Christmas? With the tiny little locks and the keys that could be used to open any of them, if you just jiggled them a little. And remember when I was about ten or eleven and I used my key to open Angie’s and then made notes in the margins as a sort of critique? Like boring, and if you hate me so much, why don’t you just run away? I got in so much trouble. You even made me leave my own diary on the kitchen table for anyone to read if they wanted. And you said that everyone is entitled to some secrets. It’s a basic human right. Only now am I beginning to realise how serious you were.
Kate arrived home early afternoon on Sunday. She hadn’t really planned on getting home so early but simply ran out of things to do. After leaving Auntie Faye’s, she had followed the older lady’s directions to see for herself. It was a very ordinary-looking house, made of red brick and with striped awnings pulled all the way down to keep out the heat. Confirmation rested with the garden gnome that squatted next to the letterbox, clearly a close relative to the one now
in the back seat. Hot and sticky, Kate sat in the car for almost twenty minutes while trying to come to terms with the news. Nobody either came or went. The entire neighbourhood remained quiet and peaceful and immobile. An extremely unlikely setting for a mystery novel, especially given that this discovery should qualify as the climax. I’ll tell you a secret . . .
After she finally left, Kate drove into Ballarat itself and found a public bathroom where she splashed water on her face and reapplied some foundation. Then, rather distractedly, she played tourist for the remainder of the afternoon, browsing the shops along the main street and buying herself some supplies, like a book and some paracetamol. Eventually she went back to the car and headed out of town, driving aimlessly down the Midland Highway while she replayed the lunchtime conversation over and over again like a cassette tape. She arrived in Geelong just as the sun was casting the horizon in a fiery glow that promised yet more sunny weather for the following day, and found a motel with a pleasant view of Port Phillip Bay.
It was a relaxing evening but one that was shadowed by a certain numbness. Kate knew that this was a protective device, a sort of anaesthetic that prevented her from fully acknowledging, just yet, that all of the casual understandings hitherto shoring her life were being eroded, one by one. It wasn’t as if she was refusing to face anything, just postponing the inevitable. Instead letting segments drip-feed into her consciousness, so that, every so often, she could shake her head and say Well, isn’t that amazing? rather than dive into the facts and let them consume her.
But the numbness also prevented her from fully enjoying her little holiday, because awareness throbbed just beneath her temples. So that she needed a sleeping tablet to fully switch off on Saturday night, and the next morning, when she sat by the foreshore trying to read her new book, the words blurred together and she had to read each sentence several times. Even then it didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense.
So it was almost a relief to get back to the unit and shut the front door behind her. The phone started ringing almost immediately, so she dropped her things by the foot of the stairs and hurried to pick it up. ‘Hello?’
‘Mum! How come you gave Jacob that lamp?’
‘Pardon?’
‘The lamp!’ repeated Shelley, her voice climbing in pitch. ‘Grandpa’s lamp! It’s on Jacob’s desk!’
‘Well, it was just that he –’
‘You knew I loved that lamp! You knew it!’
The persistent throbbing that had continued behind Kate’s temples fell into rhythm with Shelley’s voice. Stabbing with each emphasis. She sat down on the armrest of the couch. ‘Look, Shelley, actually I didn’t know that you loved the lamp. And it just so happened that Jacob was giving me a hand with some of Grandpa’s things and he saw the lamp there.’
‘But that’s not fair!’
Kate shrugged. ‘He asked if he could have it.’
‘Oh, I see,’ replied Shelley with sarcasm. ‘So all I need to do is ask, is that it? And here was I trying to do the right thing by waiting. Well then, can I have Grandpa’s secretaire, and his armchair, and all of his pictures?’
‘For goodness –’
‘Hang on, I’m not finished. I really like that one of his parents he used to keep next to his bed. And can I also have that grandmother clock he used to have in the hallway, and his dressing-table, and his desk?’
‘This is ridiculous.’
‘So it’s ridiculous when I ask but not when Jacob does?’
‘You’re being incredibly childish,’ snapped Kate, standing up again. ‘So unless you’re going to be reasonable and stop shrieking at me, I’m going to hang up.’
Shelley’s voice dropped to a wail. ‘But can’t you see how unfair it is?’
‘What about his desk set?’
‘What?’
‘His desk set,’ repeated Kate. ‘The maroon leather one that used to sit on his desk all the time. His father gave it to him for his twenty-first birthday.’
‘Really?’ asked Shelley slowly, considerably calmer already. ‘So it’s like a family heirloom? And I could have it?’
‘Yes. It’s in box number six under the house. Don’t make a mess.’
‘Okay. Um, thanks.’ Shelley paused before continuing quickly. ‘And Mum? I’m sorry about before, it’s just I saw the lamp there and I couldn’t believe it. Like, I did love it . . . but it was more having something of Grandpa’s. You know?’
‘Yes, I know. I really do.’ Kate kept her voice flat. ‘Listen Shelley, is your dad back yet?’
‘No, not yet. And now I’m off under the house. Thanks, okay?’
‘Okay. Bye.’ Kate hung up the phone and massaged her temples gently. Her mind flicked up to Eildon, where she imagined the boys packing up the car, or maybe enjoying a last beer. But preferably not Sam, as he would be driving. She hoped that they didn’t leave it too late to hit the road, as the traffic could be heavy.
Kate shook her head and then stood up, stretching. She was surprised to see that Angie wasn’t home, being a Sunday, but not disappointed. Because that was yet another problem. What was she to do with this new information? The first step, obviously, was to process it properly. But then would sharing it with Angie become the second step?
She went through to the kitchen and put the kettle on, then leant against the island bench as she waited for it to boil. The problem was that, until now, she had not really perceived Sophie as a person. There had been no photos of her around the house as she and Angie had been growing up, and no real mention of her in conversations. She was simply a shadowy figure from the past, possessing no real substance other than the fact she had left behind a mystery.
Therefore it had been relatively easy to begin the research into her story, because that’s all it was – a story, which was missing an end. As relevant as a host of other tales that had grasped her imagination, like whatever happened to the little French dauphin, or to Anastasia, the tragic Russian princess. But now it was so much more. Sophie was a real woman, living a real life. She was a silly girl who had been swept off her feet by an older man, she was a wife who had fallen again for her first love, and she was a sister who couldn’t lie well. Then she was a young mother, giving up her only child through guilt and duress, and a woman who had been forced to start all over again. She had lived an entire life between then and now, so that her story had no end, and no part where everything could be tied off neatly and given closure.
Kate made her coffee and took it, with her laptop, upstairs to her bedroom. There she methodically entered all of the newly discovered facts into her research file. There were several things she should have asked Auntie Faye but hadn’t thought to. Like, was Thomas still alive? Had the union between him and Sophie been happy? Kate found herself sincerely hoping that it had been. Sophie deserved at least that much.
‘Been home long?’
Kate glanced up at Angie and nonchalantly closed the laptop. ‘A while. I didn’t even hear you come in.’
‘I’m not surprised. You looked like you were in another world. I take it the writing’s going well?’
‘Not bad.’
‘Well, tear yourself away and come downstairs.’ Angie’s eyes were smiling. ‘We’re having champagne. I’ve got news.’
‘What news?’
Angie’s eyes smiled even further. ‘Come down and I’ll tell you.’
Kate followed her cousin downstairs curiously. Her pillow and overnight bag were still piled in the foyer, with the garden gnome lying on top. Angie glanced at it on her way past and grinned. ‘Auntie Faye must have liked you. She doesn’t give those away lightly, you know. So, did you enjoy yourself?’
‘Actually, yes. Apart from the heat, and the food.’
Angie opened the fridge and drew out a bottle of champagne. ‘Don’t tell me she gave you her chicken noodle and seafood soup?
‘Is that what it was?’ Kate sat down on a dining room chair and shook her head. ‘No, it couldn’t have been. There wasn’t a noodle
in sight.’
‘She drains them out first. Just uses the stock.’
‘Then why on earth doesn’t she simply use chicken stock in the first place?’
‘Says it doesn’t taste the same.’
‘That could only be a plus.’
Angie grinned at her and got two champagne flutes out of the high cupboard. Then she levered the champagne cork out carefully and poured the frothy liquid into the glasses. She carried them over to the table and passed one to Kate. ‘Ta da!’
‘Okay then, what’s the big news?’
Angie sat down and took a sip of her champagne. ‘Patience, m’dear. Patience.’
‘Sometimes I think you haven’t grown up at all,’ Kate laughed. ‘You used to do exactly the same thing then, too. Make me wait whenever you had something to say.’
‘I’ll give you a clue. What are you that I’m not but would like to be?’
‘This sounds more like a Dr Seuss riddle.’ Kate took a sip and gave it some thought. ‘Um, married to Sam? Grey-haired? Wrinkled?’
‘You found one grey hair last year and haven’t had another since. That doesn’t qualify. And I’m fond of Sam, but no thanks. As for wrinkles, I’ve got my own.’
‘Okay, I give up. What am I that you’re not?’
‘A grandmother,’ answered Angie, her grin becoming smug.
‘A grandmother!’ repeated Kate with surprise. ‘Since when have you wanted to be a grandmother?’
‘That’s not the point.’ Angie waved a hand impatiently and then raised her eyebrows. ‘Come on, where’s your thought processes today? Don’t you get it?’
Kate frowned, and then her face cleared. She stared at her cousin. ‘Melissa?’
‘Yep.’
‘Oh my god, Ange! Congratulations!’ Kate suddenly hesitated. ‘It is congratulations isn’t it? I mean, it’s not . . .’
‘No, it’s very much planned, apparently. Not that she’d told me they were trying.’
‘So tell me all about it.’ Kate leant forward. ‘When’s it due? Are they going to get married? What’s going to happen with her job?’